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

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “For a price,” I added, a bit more confident without Adonis in the room.

  “Yes,” Gurstwald said, loosening his scarf. “For a price. I am a businessman. So is Mr. Hughes. He was interested that we might form some kind of cooperative venture when the war begins. I must admit that, though I do not approve of what is happening in my country, I have certain misgivings about actually contributing arms to the United States in case of war. My position, you understand, is quite delicate.”

  “Certainly,” I said, accepting a large glass of cola from Adonis. The ice cubes crackled and I took a gulp. It was Royal Crown, but I didn’t complain. “You live out here because you don’t want to attract attention.”

  “Precisely,” he sighed, pleased that I understood. “Various countries and corporations try to get me to cooperate with them, but my position is quite delicate, as I said, so I try to keep to myself, protected to a degree.”

  “Including a payoff to the Mirador cops to discourage strangers,” I tried, gurgling RC.

  “You had an encounter with our police,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry, but you understand.”

  “Clearly,” I said. “Now, what did you see, if anything, at Hughes’ last week?”

  Gurstwald clasped his hands, bit gently into his lower lip and said, “Nothing. Precisely nothing except that Mr. Hughes seemed particularly disturbed after dinner. Everyone else was delightful.”

  Maybe Gurstwald had seen nothing, but I wondered. I wondered just how delightful Major Barton had been. I also wondered what was bothering Anton Gurstwald. It might be just what he said, but it might be something else.

  “Good enough,” I said, finishing the RC.

  “Another,” said Gurstwald with a phony smile.

  “No thanks, but I’d like a quick word with Mrs. Gurstwald.”

  Gurstwald got up quickly, and the red returned to his face.

  “But she can tell you nothing,” he chuckled nervously. “She noticed nothing. And she is resting.”

  “O.K.,” I said, getting up, determined to talk to Mrs. Gurstwald, “I’ll stop by and see her after I talk to the servants at the Hughes house.”

  “That won’t be possible,” Gurstwald said emphatically. “She will be busy all day.”

  “Right,” I sighed in resignation. “It’s a long ride, but I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “I do not think you should disturb Mrs. Gurstwald at any time,” he said with heavy Germanic emphasis.

  “Right,” I winked. “I’ll just tell Mr. Hughes you wouldn’t let me talk to her.” I started toward the door with my back to Gurstwald, who had a hurried conversation in German with Adonis.

  “Mr. Peters,” Gurstwald said, “perhaps Mrs. Gurstwald can give you a moment or two now, but I tell you she knows nothing.” The enormous shrug of his shoulders made me want to hear that nothing.

  Gurstwald hurried out of the room, leaving me with Adonis, who gave me a quick, artificial smile and then simply watched me to be sure I didn’t steal a wicker chair.

  About five minutes later, Gurstwald returned with Mrs. Gurstwald who looked like an Olympic ski champ. She was almost as tall as I was and had short, curly blond hair. She was well tanned, perspiring, and wore a white tennis suit, which was strange attire for someone who was resting. I guessed she was around thirty. Her teeth were large and white and her handshake gentle but firm. She was definitely pretty in a healthy milk-ad way, and something was on her mind.

  “My dear,” Gurstwald said, leading his wife into the wicker-and-flowers room, “this is Mr. Peters, and he is investigating some possible wrongdoing at Mr. Hughes’ house when we were there last week.”

  “I see,” she said, with less of an accent than her husband, but an accent nonetheless. It was a toss-up as to which of the pair was the worst actor.

  “I have told Mr. Peters that we saw nothing suspicious,” Gurstwald said, rubbing his hands together. “Everyone was very compatible.”

  “Very compatible,” she echoed, looking at me.

  “Well,” said Gurstwald, “you have it. I’m sorry we could give no more help.”

  Politeness had gotten me nowhere, and I was convinced there was somewhere to get with the Gurstwalds. My initial idea had been just to contact possible suspects and get some kind of feeling about them. The feeling I got from the Gurstwalds was that nerves were crying to be prodded.

  “Right,” I said, walking toward the hallway. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Like why I make you so nervous you have to concoct a little show of ‘I-saw-nothing’ for my benefit. You’re hiding something, Gurstwald, I can smell it with this bashed nose—the bashing taught it how. I don’t like secrets, and I’m going to find yours if it has anything to do with Howard Hughes.” I turned to watch the effect of my speech on the Gurstwalds. She had almost lost her tan. He was flushing through pink, red and white and he reminded me of the Albanian flag. Or was it Luxembourg? Gurstwald nodded to Adonis, who moved forward quickly to take my arm. I let him. Mrs. Gurstwald hurried out of the room, and Gurstwald slowly regained his normal pinkish color.

  “You have insulted my hospitality, Mr. Peters.”

  “You going to slap me with a white glove and tell me to meet you at the Hollywood Bowl with my seconds?” I said.

  “You are not to bother me or my wife again,” he said, quivering. “You are to stay away from us and not meddle in our affairs. We will have our privacy at any cost.”

  Adonis’ grip tightened.

  “May I take that as a threat?” I asked politely.

  Adonis pushed me toward the door. He was young, strong, and confident and he expected no trouble from me. He was wrong. I turned toward Gurstwald as if to speak and unloaded a left to Adonis’ midsection. The air poofed out of him, and he collapsed, grasping his stomach and trying for air.

  Gurstwald looked angry, then scared.

  “I’ll be seeing you again Anton.”

  I hurried into the hall and out the door. In a fair fight, I might not be a match for Adonis. I didn’t want to stick around for a fair fight with a 25-year-old refugee from a Wagnerian fantasy.

  I slammed the door and started down the path, but a loud whisper stopped me. I debated a run for the car, but curiousity turned me. I didn’t become a pillar of salt. The whisper was Trudi Gurstwald at the corner of the house.

  “Mr. Peters,” she said. “I have something I must tell you. Where can I reach you?”

  “My office is in Los Angeles. The number’s in the phone book under private investigators. I’ll be there tonight.”

  She disappeared and with her my hope of getting Carmen excited at the wrestling matches that night. If Trudi Gurstwald had something to say, it might be worth the loss. I felt pretty good as I jogged the twenty yards or so to my car.

  I caught a few minutes of some soap opera advertising Hormel Chili, which reminded me that I was hungry. I tried to forget it as I continued down the road in the general direction of the Hughes house, according to the directions from the kid in Mirador. It was no more than a mile from the Gurstwald place, which seemed a hell of a coincidence. Hughes’ place was smaller than Gurstwald’s, with a nice lawn and a great view of the Ocean. It was a big red brick lump of a house trying to look like something English. I drove up to the door, got out and rang. It took about thirty seconds for the door to open. The opener was Japanese, in his late twenties and wearing a white jacket.

  “Yes?” he said. I caught no accent in the answer.

  “Name is Peters, I’m working, like you, for Mr. Hughes and I’ve got some questions.”

  “Right,” he said, stepping back so I could enter. “My name’s Toshiro. Mr. Dean called and said we might be hearing from you. Mind if we talk in the kitchen? I was making myself some lunch.”

  I said sure and followed him into the house, down the hall and into the kitchen. He had some onions and tomatoes on a wooden counter and a large can of tuna, half open.

  “Like a sandwich?” he said.

  “I’d lik
e two,” I said.

  He nodded and worked while we talked.

  “Work for Hughes long?” I asked, sitting on a stool near the table.

  “About three weeks,” he answered, opening the can and forking the white chunks of tuna into a bowl. “You like mayonnaise?”

  “Yeah, as much as you can tolerate. You’ve only worked for him three weeks? What about the other servants?”

  “Same,” he said. “Hughes just rented this place to set up a dinner for a guy down the road named Gurstwald who has even less love of company than Hughes. Normally, I’m a grad student at Cal Tech, but I take off every once in a while to make a few dollars. This seemed like a good deal.”

  He held up a bottle of Rainier Beer from the refrigerator, and I nodded yes. So he pulled out one for himself too.

  “Where are the others, the cook and the butler?”

  “Schell, the butler, is out,” said Toshiro, opening the Rainier. “Nuss, the cook, is in, but he got bored and drank himself to sleep. We’re all waiting to be canned and meanwhile collecting our pay for sitting around.”

  I picked wheat bread and Toshiro joined me. We ate quietly for a few minutes and sipped our ice cold beer.

  “I think Hughes really lives in the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said, emptying his beer bottle. “I get a lot of reading done here.”

  “What about the night of the dinner party?”

  Toshiro got us both seconds on the beer.

  “Hughes stayed the day before. Brought a guy named Noah and a couple of well-dressed bruisers. Stayed in his room going over stuff he brought in an old briefcase. Nuss made him an avocado and bacon sandwich for dinner and Schell brought him some crackers and milk around three in the morning.”

  I gurgled some more beer and leaned forward to put some salt on half a tomato I was nibbling.

  “Night of the big blast,” Toshiro continued, “Everything went as scheduled. We actually had a typed schedule right down to when we circulated with drinks.”

  “What’d you make of the guests?” I said. Toshiro shrugged.

  “Money,” he said. “They’ve all got it except maybe that major. He’s got a problem in a bottle. Which reminds me, another beer?”

  I said yes and we downed a third.

  “Well,” he resumed, leaning against the sink, “everything was routine till Hughes went up to his room about an hour after dinner to get something. When he came back, he called the servants into the kitchen, changed the schedule and shuffled the guests out as fast as he could.”

  “How’d they take it?” I burped. “Sorry.”

  “Fine, except the Gurstwalds, but they seemed kind of odd the whole night anyway. Something was eating them. You know. They were just irritable.”

  “They say they had a great time,” I said.

  Toshiro shrugged.

  “Well maybe, I’ve never seen them having a bad time.”

  “You going back to Cal Tech when this job ends?”

  Toshiro raised his eyebrows and carted dishes over to the sink.

  “A guy named Toshiro might have a rough time around the states for a while if Japan gets a war going. I might just be better off getting a job around here and riding it out. Maybe I’ll even join the army. But that would be tough on my parents. We’ve got lots of relatives in Japan.”

  “Where are your parents?” I said.

  “You grilling?”

  “Yeah, I can’t help it.”

  “Parents live in San Diego.”

  I got up and let Toshiro show me Nuss the cook sleeping in his room. His clothes were on and he smelled of wine. He also hadn’t shaved in a few days. Toshiro closed the door behind us as we left.

  “Seems like a decent guy,” Toshiro said leading me to the front of the house. “The butler, however, is not one of my favorite people.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “Don’t know,” said Toshiro, opening the front door for me. “Strong silent type. Looks at everyone like they were ants and he was a big shoe. Not the kind of guy I’d want for a butler, but no one asked me.”

  “Thanks for the lunch and beer,” I said, stepping out into the humidity.

  “Howard Hughes’ compliments. Drop by anytime.”

  The door closed behind me, and for about four seconds I felt swell. At the end of that four seconds I noticed the car parked next to mine. It was the yellow Mirador police Ford. Leaning against it was the Mexican cowboy. Next to him was a wiry little guy in a sweaty lightweight suit who was wiping the sweatband of his straw hat with a moist handkerchief. He looked like he was around forty, and he squinted as if the sun were particularly bright, which it wasn’t. Then he spotted me, put his hat on and gave me a fake grin.

  “Mr. Peters?” he said, advancing on me while the Mexican watched passively.

  “Right,” I said.

  “I’m Mark Nelson, Sheriff of Mirador. You’ve already met Alex, my deputy, which means you are acquainted with the entire constabulary of Mirador.” He chuckled and I chuckled back. Nelson moved to my side and put a hand on my shoulder and his head near mine. He smelled like onions. We walked a few feet from the car while he whispered confidentially.

  “Was a time Mirador looked as if it would be a big resort area,” he said. “Look around at these trees. Listen to the ocean. What has Laguna got that we haven’t?”

  “I give up,” I said.

  “Developers,” he whispered confidentially through his teeth. “People willing to make a commitment to the community. We had a couple of them before the Depression back in ’28, but it fell through. We’ve even got a big hotel almost finished on the beach. Looks just like it did back in ’30.”

  I looked around at the trees and listened to the ocean. Then I looked at Alex, who looked at me.

  “There’s a point to all this, isn’t there?” I said, “and I’m going to get it soon?”

  Nelson took his hat off and did some more work on drying the stained hatband of his straw hat.

  “Right,” he said, pointing a finger at me and smiling. “I’ll get there soon. And I’ll try not to bore you. What we have in Mirador instead of fancy resorts and shops with junk, is a handful of people barely making it and another handful of very rich people who like Mirador because it is peaceful and secluded.”

  “Like Anton Gurstwald?” I guessed.

  “Just like Mr. Gurstwald,” he confirmed.

  “And people like Mr. Gurstwald are willing to pay a few extra bucks each month or so to insure that privacy?”

  “You are a smart man,” Nelson said, shaking his head in appreciation. “We’d prefer that people who are not wanted by those who value privacy respect that wish. Now you’ve intruded on one of our leading citizens and assaulted a resident.”

  “I’m also working for another resident,” I pointed out. “Howard Hughes.”

  “Right enough,” said Nelson, “but a man has to make decisions, a sheriff has to make decisions and sometimes they aren’t easy ones. Now Mr. Hughes is really just renting his privacy and he doesn’t pay those few extra dollars to insure it.”

  “He just pays his rent and his taxes,” I said, “and those are supposed to give you some rights without kickback.”

  Nelson shook his head sadly.

  “I believe you are becoming slightly abusive,” he said. “I was hoping we could handle this without abuse. I’m going to have to insist that you leave Mirador and never return.”

  I looked deeply into his very moist grey eyes, and he looked back steadily. I had to give him that. He could hold a gaze with the best.

  “And suppose I don’t give a shit what you insist?” I whispered.

  “Ah, well then, let’s pretend I told you a joke. Here’s the punch line.”

  And I got the punch line from Alex, who has stepped silently behind me. He hit me in the right kidney and sent dry ice up my spine. My bladder, filled with three beers, almost let go, but I held on and slipped to my knees.

  “I got it,” I gasped.

>   “Good,” sighed Nelson. “I hoped you would. Please help the man up, Alex.”

  Alex helped me up and handed me my hat. I staggered, considered hitting Alex with something, ideally with Sheriff Nelson, and changed my mind.

  “Well, it has been nice meeting you, Mr. Peters. Maybe we’ll run into each other in the city some time.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  Alex opened the door of my Buick and helped me inside. Nelson squinted up at the sun and moved to the open window.

  “By the way,” he whispered again, “Alex and I noticed that your car had a little accident, front bumper’s been ripped off by a vandal. Alex stuck it in your back seat.”

  “Thanks,” I said, making a mental note to charge it to Hughes and give him a full account of what happened. “Anything else that might affect my transportation?”

  “No, no,” he grinned, stepping back so I could drive away, “we wouldn’t let anything happen that might prolong your stay in Mirador. Now you know the way out of town, but just in case, we’ll follow behind as an escort.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, trying not to wince from the pain above my kidney. I needed a toilet or a clump of trees fast, but I wasn’t going to find a hospitable place in Mirador.

  The drive back to and through Mirador was uneventful. The kid wasn’t on the curb and the cat was gone, but the car door was still there. There were two more cars parked in front of Hijo’s, but I didn’t pay any attention. I just watched Alex and Nelson in my rear view mirror. They stopped when the street turned to road, and Nelson stuck his hand out the window to wave goodbye.

  I didn’t wave back.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I found a Sinclair station on the highway, told the guy to fill it up and made a Groucho dash to the men’s room. The dash resulted in pain and relief, along with a feeling of satisfaction. I had some decent leads paid for with a firm belt in the kidney. Maybe that evened the score with Fate and the Gods. They let me have a little information and I paid for it in pain. It was a deal the Gods and I had had for almost thirty years, and we both understood it. I would have felt uneasy if things came without a price. I think I inherited that from my father. It was probably the only thing I inherited from the poor guy besides a watch that wouldn’t tell time.