“Maybe I shouldn’t have dragged you out of bed,” Wainwright said. “No marks on the body. No sign of violence. Sam thinks he drowned.”
“I know he drowned,” Baxter said sourly.
“You won’t know until you do an autopsy,” Wainwright said.
“He drowned,” Gellman said. “My God, Captain, can’t you let it go at that? That’s bad enough. We never had a drowning in the pool before.”
“Who is he?” Masuto asked.
Wainwright looked at Gellman, who spread his hands and shook his head. “That’s it.”
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“We don’t know who he is,” Gellman replied.
“Isn’t he a guest?”
“No. At least, we don’t think so.”
“The daytime room clerk ain’t here yet,” Comstock explained. “He lives in Pasadena, and he’s on his way. But Sal Monti, who runs the parking and who’s got a damn good memory, says he’s never seen him before. Now that don’t mean that he couldn’t have got out of a car and come into the hotel when Sal’s back was turned. You know how heavy the traffic at the front gets around five o’clock. But if he came in as a guest with luggage, Sal would have remembered him.”
“Do you suppose you can finish these speculations without me?” Dr. Baxter asked. “I’d like to get a little sleep.”
“Did you call for the wagon?” Wainwright asked him.
“I’ll do it on the way out.”
“And what time will you have the autopsy report?”
“When I’m finished!” Baxter snapped, then picked up his bag and strode out.
“Where are his clothes?” Masuto asked.
Again Wainwright looked at Gellman, who shook his head. “We don’t know. No sign of them.”
Masuto pointed to the dead man’s nose. “He wore glasses. There are the marks. Eyeballs enlarged. He was nearsighted, I’d guess. And there’s the mark of a watchband on his left wrist. Any sign of the glasses and the wristwatch?”
“No.”
Watching Masuto thoughtfully, Wainwright asked, “Anything else, Masao?”
“He wasn’t Jewish.”
“How the hell-?” Comstock began.
“He’s not circumcised, Fred,” Gellman explained.
“Go on, Masao.”
“Just a few observations that may not mean a thing. He’s soft, no sign of physical labor.” He picked up one of the dead man’s hands. “The nails are cut but not manicured. That’s unusual for a guest of his age here in this hotel.” He pushed up the man’s lip to reveal, among his other teeth, a bridge with a molar of dull gray metal. “I’d guess that isn’t American dental work. He may be a foreigner.”
“For God’s sake,” Gellman said, “I don’t want you to try to make something of this, Captain. A man drowned. Let’s get the body out of here before the guests wake up, and leave it at that.”
“Al, you know better,” Wainwright said. “Who is he? Where did he come from? How did he drown-if he did? My word, for a man with his fat to drown in a swimming pool-that’s not easy.”
“Who discovered the body?” Masuto asked.
Detective Beckman came in at that moment with the day desk clerk, whom Gellman introduced as Ira Jessam. Jessam was forty or so, thin, dark, intense, and very much disturbed by the sight of the dead body.
“Take a good look at him, Mr. Jessam,” Wainwright told him, “and tell us whether you ever saw him before.”
It was obviously painful for Mr. Jessam to stare at the corpse, more, Masuto suspected, because the man was naked than because he was dead.
Jessam shook his head.
“You never saw him before?”
“He didn’t register. That’s all I can say. I can’t possibly keep track of who goes in and out of the hotel, and anyway there’s more than one entrance. But he didn’t register while I was on duty.”
“All right, Jessam,” Gellman said. “Go home and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, or today.”
“Not much use in going home now. I think I’ll just lie down in the office-if I may.”
“Be my guest.”
“I’d still like to know who discovered the body,” Masuto said.
“Tell him, Beckman,” said Wainwright.
“It’s the goddamndest thing. According to the night operator, the call came from room three-twenty-two. The room is registered to a guy by the name of Jack Stillman, out of Vegas. He’s a booking agent. The call came at exactly two forty-nine, and the operator switched it to the front desk. Now that room overlooks the pool, and the caller tells Frome-he’s the night clerk-that there’s a body floating in the pool. Frome calls Freddie here”-indicating the security chief-“whose room is on the ground floor off the pool area, and Freddie goes in in his pajamas and drags the fat man out-”
“Which is by no means easy,” Comstock observed.
“For God’s sake, Freddie,” Gellman said, “find a sheet or some towels or something and cover him up.” And to Wainwright, “Where the devil’s that ambulance? I want him out of here before any of the guests wake up.”
“It’s coming.”
“But now,” Beckman said, “we come to the cute part. Both the night operator and the night clerk swear that the call was made by a woman.”
“Oh?” Masuto was intrigued.
“Not hysterical. Very cool, very calm. Speaking softly. She talks to the operator first. Then to the front desk.”
“What did she say?”
Beckman got out his notebook. “Says to the operator, There’s a body floating in the pool. Where, asks the operator? In the swimming pool. The operator says, My God, I’ll give you the front desk.”
“The operator’s a good girl,” Gellman said. “Very steady.”
“This woman. What did she say to the night clerk?”
“Same thing. Exactly.”
“Did he ask who she was?”
“She hung up.”
“And room three-twenty-two?”
“I just got down from there when you arrived, Masao. This Stillman guy claims he was asleep. Alone. That’s what makes it cute.”
“Now look,” said Gellman, “this isn’t as crazy as it sounds. I know Stillman. He always stays here when he’s in L.A. Last month he married Binnie Vance, the dancer. It’s his third marriage. All she has to do is find out that he’s shacked up with a dame and the shit hits the fan.”
“Did you look through his room, bathroom, closets?” Masuto asked.
“What am I, an amateur?”
“Could she slip out of the hotel without being seen?” Masuto asked Gellman.
“I suppose so. Service entrance in the basement. It’s bolted on the inside.”
He looked at Beckman. “Did you check the bolt?”
“I just got down from the room when you arrived.”
“Do it now.”
Beckman left. “If she came in her own car,” Masuto said, “she wouldn’t know where the jockey parked it. If she came with Stillman, she’s on foot.”
“Where’s the phone?” Wainwright demanded.
Gellman pointed to the pool office. A moment later, they heard Wainwright telling the central office to put out a call for any woman on foot. “Give it to L.A.P.D. too,” he told them. “She may be a fast walker.” He came back as Beckman reappeared.
“The bolt was open,” Beckman said.
“I’m going home and get some sleep,” said Wainwright. “You take it from here, Masao. And for Christ’s sake, if he drowned, he drowned.”
“Of course, Captain.” Masuto was opening the lockers. “Take that row, Sy,” he said to Beckman.
“What the hell are you doing, Masao?”
“He hid his clothes, his glasses and his wristwatch, and then he decided to drown.”
“You know what he’s after,” Gellman sputtered. “He’s determined to make something of this. God almighty, a man drowns, he drowns.”
“Maybe. Every locker, Sy,” Masao said to Beckman.
Gellman turned desperately to Wainwright. “Masao’s the boss. It’s his case now. I’m going to sleep. Anyway, we won’t know how he died until Doc Baxter does the autopsy. Why don’t you get some sleep yourself, Al? Good night, gentlemen.”
Gellman followed Wainwright out of the dressing room. Masuto and Beckman went through the lockers. The lockers were there for the convenience of the hotel guests, and none of them were locked. The search turned up a number of bathing suits, male, some sunglasses and a wristwatch, all of which Fred Comstock took into his custody. They tried the ladies’ dressing room next, and the results were equally uninspiring.