The Howard Hughes Affair: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Four)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Holmes,” he said, “had a little trick which I have learned. He withheld obvious information and disclosed things in an order designed to surprise his audience. My wife called me and told me someone had called and mentioned Hughes and that she had told him I was rehearsing. The only contact I have had with Hughes in the last three years was at his home last week. He talked about the war and seemed particularly agitated. When I saw you sitting in the audience, clearly a man who has known violence in his life as evidenced by your visage, I began to put things together. You are not a policeman or you would have so announced yourself. You did not rush over here. Hence, my life was in no danger. So I took a few chances and sounded a bit like Holmes. I amuse myself at it occasionally. Would you care for a cup of coffee or tea?” I said yes, and he guided me into a lounge with leather chairs where a couple in their early 30’s were whispering in the corner. The woman was hiding tears and the man pretending he had not seen us.

  Rathbone and I went to a table, and he disappeared for a few minutes to return with two cups, one with tea, and one with coffee.

  “You drink coffee normally,” he said, “but today you are quite willing to drink tea.”

  “How did you know?” I said, drinking the tea while he took the coffee.

  “Elementary My Dear.…”

  “Peters, Toby Peters.”

  “Peters,” said Rathbone. “You paid particular attention when Mr. Knox read our commercial for cold tablets, leading me to think that you had a cold or feared one. Then as we walked here it was quite evident that you held yourself a bit erect as if you had a tender back, possibly a cold in your lower back. If I may add, the condition of your clothes indicates that you are not particularly wealthy. Therefore, you need the money Hughes is paying you and probably have a fear of growing ill and not being able to collect it or do your job. Like most Americans, you equate tea with healing and believe it has some kind of medicinal effect. Therefore…”

  “Thanks for the tea,” I said. “Let’s talk about the Hughes party.”

  “Gladly,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Hughes is an odd creature and rather commanded me to show up at his party, which almost decided me not to go, but he called personally and said it had something to do with the war effort. I’ve been working particularly hard to get Americans to support the British effort. I know what the Germans can do. I was in the last war you know, and I have a rather vicious scar on my leg where the barbed wire caught to prove it. I also have the memory of my brother John, who died in that war, and my mother, who never recovered from the shock of John’s death and died soon after. Be patient with me Mr. Peters, I have a fondness for detail, but you’ll see it all has a point in the end.”

  I started to protest, and glanced at the couple arguing in the corner. Rathbone continued with his voice lowered.

  “I watched Von Richtoffen and Goering destroy one of our planes in a field in France one afternoon. I saw… well, never mind. I’ve had premonitions from time to time. Had one just before John died, and I have had one for the past week. My feeling is a particularly ominious one. Do you believe in premonitions, Mr. Peters?”

  I drank my tea, accepted a refill from Rathbone and shrugged.

  “I believe in what I feel and what happens,” I said. “I believe in right now, not yesterday. Yesterday’s memories are filled with regrets and tomorrow doesn’t look too good. Right now I’ve got a hot cup of tea in my hand. I’m doing a job I know, and I like it just fine. Premonitions are fine with me, Mr. Rathbone.”

  “Basil, please,” he said with a smile.

  “Basil. I have all I can do to handle facts and follow up ideas one at a time until they lead me somewhere or nowhere. What I do doesn’t take a lot of brains, as my ex-wife reminded me tonight, and it doesn’t take premonitions or deductions, just a lot of talk, some hard knocks and time.”

  Rathbone scratched the back of his neck and went for another cigarette. He smoked Dominos.

  “Well, Mr. Peters…”

  “Toby,” I said, evening up the first-name game.

  “Toby. I seem to have caught you on a difficult day. Would you prefer to continue our discussion tomorrow? I have rather a light schedule this week, though next week I start shooting another film.”

  I laughed, but it was a short laugh.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll get professional again. Hughes thinks someone tried to steal plans for a couple of his planes at that dinner party. Did you see or hear anything that would support that belief? Any strange behavior by the guests? Any strange guests?”

  “My turn to laugh, Toby,” Rathbone laughed. “They were as unlikely a group to gather as Moriarty’s band. Hughes had some idea of starting a coalition of patriots to support his plans for military tooling up. He has a rather boyish charm about him when he wants to, and who knows when I might be working in a movie for him? The Grustwalds were particularly nervous, though. They were tense and while appearing most effusive about Hughes’ ideas, I would say they were the least interested. Their minds were elsewhere. I’m certain Hughes sensed this as well. The Army major was obviously drunk most of the night, despite his attempts to hide it. He functioned as a yes-man that evening for Hughes who, I would guess, found the man a mistake. Let’s see. Most of the talking was done by Norma Forney, a rather caustic woman who writes for Twentieth, I believe. She was the most aggressive person at the gathering and also the least secure. She was witty, defensive and made me most uneasy—almost as uneasy as her escort, Mr. Siegel, whom she introduced as a businessman. I think I’ve seen him before but I can’t put my finger on where. He seemed delighted to be there and worked hard at controlling a life-long lower-class New York accent. Our dress was as varied as our backgrounds. I wore tweeds quite similar to these, Hughes a suit too big for him and Siegel and Gurstwald tuxedoes. Hughes had neglected to tell us what to wear. I saw little of the servants other than a Japanese butler who seemed so conspicuously disinterested in all of us that I decided he was either feeble minded or very interested. Since something happened soon after dinner, presumably the problem which brings you here, Hughes never made his appeal to us. He was obviously distraught, had lost interest in his original idea, and sent us packing. That is about all I can say.”

  “It’s a start,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “We, the guests that is, had pheasant and champagne. Hughes ate a salad and ice cream. He also sat further away from us than we were to each other, leading me to believe that Mr. Hughes has some aversion to people and tolerates them rather than likes them. I rather had the impression that he thought we were unclean and that he didn’t want a great deal of contact with us, which leads me to conclude that he is a precise man. I’d be inclined to take note if a man like that told me something was wrong.”

  I got up, said thanks and Rathbone walked me down the hall toward the lobby.

  “Toby,” he said quietly as we shook hands in front of Clarise and Whannel, “I’m not sure I could be of any help to you, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let me come along with you on some of your investigation. Several reasons. If there is a security issue, I’m interested. I tried to enlist in the British army last year, but they turned me down, too old. Imagine that. I can outduel a twenty-year old. It would also give me some insight, as the resident Holmes, into how a real detective functions.”

  “Sure,” I said, loud enough for Clarise to regain her confidence. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  Rathbone left me and walked back down the hall. I nodded to Whannel and touched the tip of my hat to Clarise. I hadn’t shaken the depression Anne and my back had hit me with. Instead of heading home, I caught the late show at the Hawaiian. Citizen Kane didn’t make me feel any better about myself so I stopped for a hot dog at a Pig ’n Whistle and went home to bed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  On Tuesday morning, I shaved and finished off half a box of Shredded Ralston while Tom Mix’s picture on the box cheered me on. I tried to look like Orson Welles in the breakfast
scene in Citizen Kane, but it was no go with Shredded Ralston. I gave up impressions and I listened to the radio while I got dressed. My back felt better.

  I tried not to pay attention to the war news. The rest of the news was a toss-up. Beau Jack had beaten Mexican Sammy Rivers on a TKO in the third in Brooklyn. Someone had accused LA Chief Deputy District Attorney Grant Cooper of bugging the mayor in City Hall. George Murphy had the flu. We were going to get more rain.

  I went to the hall phone with a pile of nickels, and started calling the people on Hughes’ list. Major Barton didn’t answer. Benjamin Siegel’s butler, who could have used elocution lessons, said “the boss” was out for the day, but he’d leave a message. Norma Forney’s office said she was in a conference, but I could call back. The Gurstwalds were home, and after three minutes, Anton Gurstwald came on the line and agreed to talk to me “if Hughes really thinks it necessary.” I said Hughes thought it was essential, and he grunted and told me to hurry over, since he had work to do in the afternoon. Mrs. Plaut gave me a broad smile as I passed her on the porch and went into the grey morning. It wasn’t raining yet, but it soon would be. The Gurstwalds lived on the outskirts of a town called Mirador, not far from Laguna Beach off the Pacific Coast Highway. Since Hughes’ house, at least the one he had been using for the party, was also in Mirador, I could talk to the Gurstwalds and the Hughes’ servants, thus cutting through five-ninths of my list in one day, which would be enough work to award me the evening off so I could invite Carmen to the wrestling matches at the Eastside arena. There were six matches, with top bill going to Chief Little Wolf and Vincent Lopez. I’d splurge and buy the 75-cent seats and watch Carmen build up to a blood lust, which usually took her about two hours. The prospect cheered me on through Santa Monica, Torrance and Long Beach, where the rain hit fast and hard. By Newport Beach, the rain had stopped and a heavy, humid heat had collapsed on the world.

  I turned off the highway at the Mirador exit and in two minutes found myself on the town’s main street. The street was wide and almost empty. An automobile door of unknown vintage lay in the middle of the street with a grey cat on top of it. The cat was on its back with its paws up, waiting for the sun. A kid sat on one curb watching the cat and me and scratching dirt from his neck. Behind him were four or five stores that looked abandoned. On the other side of the street, two cars were packed in front of three stores, one of which, called “Hijo’s” displayed a bulging live Mexican in a plaid shirt and cowboy hat. He looked at me and not the cat. Next to Hijo’s was a small brick building with a sign in the window saying “Mirador Police.” The windows were blocked by Venetian blinds, but some cops were probably there, because a yellow Ford with a star painted on it was parked in front of the building.

  Two other stores were boarded up, and another store had “Live Bate” hand-painted in green on its window. The green paint had dripped down the B forming a tail.

  I pulled over to the kid with the dirty neck and got out of the car.

  “Know where the Gurstwald place is?” I asked, helping him watch the cat.

  The kid nodded yes. The next job was to get him to share the information. From the smell, I could tell we were close to the ocean. I could also hear the roll of waves in the distance.

  “Think you might tell me?” I said, still looking at the cat. The Mexican in Hijo’s window stirred and got up. I watched him for a few seconds until he looked directly at me, and then I turned my attention back to the cat on the car door. I pulled out a quarter and held it out where the kid could see it.

  “Thirty cents,” said the kid.

  “I can find out for nothing from the cops,” I said. The kid shrugged. He was skinny, dark and dirty, but he had class. He just kept looking at that cat.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s not quibble about a nickel.”

  “We ain’t quibbling,” said the kid. “We’re negotiatin’.”

  I gave him the thirty cents, and he told me how to get to the Gurstwald place. For another dime, he told me how to get to Hughes’ house after I gave him the street number. The big Mexican in the cowboy hat had stepped out of Hijo’s, put a toothpick in his mouth and started across the street toward us, neatly circling the car door. He was either heading for the kid and me or the empty stores behind us.

  I started for the car.

  “Hey,” said the Mexican, pointing at me with his toothpick. “You. What you doin’?”

  “I’m getting in my car and heading for the Gurstwald place,” I explained. “What are you doing?”

  The Mexican came right at me out of the sun, and I could see the badge on his shirt for the first time.

  “I think you better answer me,” he said. “What are you bothering the kid for?”

  “Shit,” I sighed as quietly as I could, but he had good ears.

  “Who you callin’ shit?” he demanded.

  “No one,” I said. “I’m not looking for trouble. I’m just visiting some local residents.”

  “We don’t get many visitors,” he said, putting one hand on the fender of my Buick to keep the car from going away till he was ready.

  “I can see why,” I said opening my door. He kept his hand on the fender.

  “Good,” he said. “Just do your visiting and drive on through when you’re done.”

  I turned the motor over and shook my head.

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “I was thinking of picking up a few pounds of live bait.”

  The Mexican tipped his hat back and bit a small chunk off his toothpick. Then he examined what was left of the wood and spoke.

  “Better to forget the bait than be it,” he said softly.

  “Didn’t I see you in a Republic Western a few years ago?” I said seriously.

  “I think I don’t like you,” he replied, spitting out the toothpick.

  The kid had been watching us with such interest that he forgot about scratching the dirt from his neck.

  “I don’t argue with people who carry guns,” I said. “Now if you’ll just remove your hand, I promise to treasure the print and never clean it.”

  I swerved past the cat on the door and watched the Mexican deputy and the little kid grow small in the rear view mirror. I thought I saw a figure come out of the police office, but it might have been someone coming from the “bate” shop or “Hijo’s”. Whoever it was, I could do without further Mirador hospitality.

  The Gurstwald home was about two miles back on a paved road on a cliff over the ocean. It looked like it had a few dozen rooms. It certainly had a large brick wall around it with a heavy metal gate. It seemed an unnecessary precaution, since no one could find the place and no one seemed to live anywhere near it. The Gurstwalds valued their privacy.

  I parked at the side of the gate and walked towards it. A well-built young man with short blond hair, wearing denims and a blue cotton shirt with long sleeves rolled up to show his muscles, stood on the other side.

  “My name’s Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters.”

  The young man nodded, opened the gate and motioned for me to move ahead of him up the gravel path. I moved.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, adding nothing. I shut up and walked to the door. He opened it and I stepped in. He stayed behind me.

  There was a stairway in front of us and a man descended, wearing a scarf and lounging jacket. He had grey hair cut almost to the scalp, and he must have been somewhere in his sixties. He was either wearing a fat jacket or he could have done with the loss of thirty or forty pounds.

  “Mr. Peters,” the man said with a distinct German accent. “In what way can I serve our Mr. Hughes?”

  He shook my hand amiably and indicated a room to his right. I went in, followed by Gurstwald and the blond with the muscles. The room was bright and looked out on a flower garden. I had expected something dark and somber with pictures of the Black Forest on the wall. Instead, I found a thick white carpet and yellow wicker furniture.

  I sat in a chair with a
paisley cushion, and Gurstwald sat across from me in its twin with his hands gently clasping his knees. The muscleman stood behind me. I did not feel comfortable in Mirador. I felt as if I had driven into a foreign country when I left the Pacific Coast Highway, and I wanted to leave that country with everything I had entered with. I decided to be careful and discreet. Sometimes being indiscreet can get a lot done, but the wear and tear on the human body is enormous.

  “I’m an investigator working for Mr. Hughes,” I said, trying to include the silent muscleman in the conversation but finding it impossible with him at my back. I gave up and concentrated on Gurstwald. “He was hoping you could help us with a problem. When you were at Mr. Hughes’ home last week for dinner, did you notice any unusual behavior by any of the guests or servants?”

  Gurstwald looked puzzled.

  “Unusual?”

  “I’ll spell it out, Mr. Gurstwald,” I said leaning forward to show how I was taking him into my confidence. “Mr. Hughes has reason to believe someone in the house that night may have stolen some valuable plans and …”

  Gurstwald’s face turned a bright crimson and he rose slightly from his chair, glancing at the blond behind me.

  “You don’t mean to accuse me of …”

  “No,” I said quickly, having no intention of accusing a man with a bodyguard in the middle of nowhere. “We don’t suspect you of anything. We simply want your help in trying to find the guilty party.”

  Gurstwald calmed slightly and sat down again. He straightened his scarf, took a deep breath and asked if I wanted something to drink. I said I’d like a Pepsi. Gurstwald nodded and the blond disappeared.

  “Mr. Peters,” Gurstwald said, “you’ve been frank with me. I’ll be frank with you. What has Mr. Hughes told you of me?”

  “Nothing,” I said, which was true.

  Gurstwald touched his lower lip with the fingers of his right hand, nodded to himself and spoke, choosing his words carefully.

  “I am in a difficult position, Mr. Peters. My family has been in the munitions business in Germany for almost 100 years. For political reasons, which must be quite obvious to any intelligent man, I broke with my family and moved much of my operation to Mexico about five years ago. The financial loss was tremendous for me, but I could not exist under the Third Reich. There are still many in your government who have difficulty accepting me and my wife, though I have offered to work with your military people in developing certain operations.”