The Howard Hughes Affair: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Four) (12 page)

“You’ve got some inspiration?” she asked. “I could use it. I’m supposed to be adding gags to this script,
The Male Animal
, but I’m not feeling funny. I haven’t felt funny since my gall bladder operation. Tried to make gall bladder jokes. There aren’t any. What can I do for you—quickly?”

Since I wanted to be away from Warner’s as much as she wanted me away, I talked fast, telling her about my investigation of the Hughes’ theft, or possible theft, and left out the two murders.

“Can’t help you,” she said. “I wasn’t even a potential contributor to the festivities, though I probably talked too much. I usually do. I got the reputation that I was a witty kid when I wrote my first and only play. I’ve been trying to live up to it ever since. That is one hell of a burden to carry, Peters.”

“There are worse,” I said. “Then why were you there?”

“I went with Ben Siegel. It was him that Hughes wanted to meet.”

“Why?” I asked.

“If you’re working for Hughes, why don’t you ask him, or is he on his way around the world on a kite?” she said.

“Mr. Hughes doesn’t talk very much,” I said, and she nodded in agreement.

“O.K.,” she said. “Hughes said that when the war broke out, he wanted Ben to organize some friends in Europe to act as a kind of information network. We were going to talk about it that night, but Hughes broke up the party.”

“What kinds of friends does Siegel have in Europe?”

She looked at me as if I were from the hills of Dakota.

“Criminals,” she said, “drug dealers, killers. Bugsy Siegel knows a lot of people.”

“I didn’t know it was that Siegel,” I said.

She gave me a broad fake grin.

“You are one hell of a detective, Peters. Remind me to call you if I ever lose my mind. Now if you’ll let me get back to my nonwork…”

I left, promising that I might be back. She said she was looking forward to it, but her eyes said she wasn’t. You can’t charm them all. I left without seeing a single movie star or anyone I knew, which was fine with me.

My next stop was Bugsy Siegel’s. I had a pair of addresses and some phone numbers. I called the first and got no answer. Then I called the second and got someone with raw fish in his mouth. I said I wanted to talk to Siegel. I don’t know what he said, but he went away, and a few minutes later another voice came on.

“What do you want with Mr. Siegel, and how’d you get this number?”

“I’m working for Howard Hughes, and this has something to do with national security. I’d like to see Mr. Siegel for a few minutes, tonight if possible.”

Someone on the other end covered the mouthpiece, and I could hear muffled voices. Then the talker came back. He gave me the address of a small night club on the Strip and told me to be there at five. I said I would and hung up.

I went to Levy’s Grill on Spring, ordered the brisket special and said sweet nothings to Carmen the cashier while I waited for my order. Carmen was looking very ample and busy. Levy’s was crowded. I hovered near the register eyeing her, the customers and the candy on the counter. I even bought a box of chocolate babies and popped them in my mouth for an appetizer as we talked between customers.

“How about wrestling next Tuesday?” I said.

“I don’t think I’ll feel like wrestling next Tuesday,” she said without looking at me, as she checked the total on the tab before her. The little guy who handed her the check counted off bills without looking at her or me.

“I meant we’d go to the East side and watch them,” I explained.

“I know what you mean,” she said, glancing at me with her soft cow eyes. “Where have you been?”

“Busy,” I said. “Big cases, lots of money. Fame, fortune. I met Basil Rathbone today.”

“You didn’t!” she said, always impressed by movie stars.

“I did,” I said.

“Next Tuesday?” she said. I leaned forward with a pleased nod.

“Dinner and wrestling,” I said.

“All right,” she said. “Now leave me alone and stop trying to look down my dress. I’ve got a job.”

Feeling better, I ate the brisket special, left a big tip and gave Carmen a smile when I paid my bill. Then I headed for the Strip and Bugsy Siegel.

A black Caddy pulled into traffic behind me with two guys in it. Maybe I was being followed. Maybe I was just jumpy. I decided not to take a chance, so I circled the block twice, and they were gone. At least I thought they were gone, but as I later discovered, even a sharp-eyed investigator like Toby Peters makes mistakes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
was driving slowly down Hollywood Boulevard with an hour to kill when the hour decided it might prefer to kill me. The black Caddy showed up three cars back in the bright sunlight, sending a mirror of buildings and trees back at me and hiding the faces of the two guys in the front seat.

Instead of turning on Sunset I went down Santa Monica Boulevard, picking up Sunset in Beverly Hills and going south toward U.C.L.A. I had an idea of going to Rathbone’s house in Bel Air, but changed my mind. I didn’t know who the guys behind me were, and I didn’t want to lead them to Rathbone. He could think a good case, but I don’t know how he’d handle the pair behind me.

I had a few thoughts about who they might be. They might be cops, but I knew enough about cops to know they didn’t drive Caddys and they didn’t assign two men to tail a private detective about a simple—well, not so simple—murder. They could have been the murderers, which was a more likely possibility since Frye had already tried to kill me. Maybe he had friends who were taking up his unfinished job. It would have been nice to have a little talk with them, if that were the case, and find out what they thought I knew, but I didn’t think friends of Frye would be the talking kind.

There was another possibility. They might have been a pair of Bugsy Siegel’s boys. Norma Forney could have told him about me. He knew I was coming to see him. Maybe he had something to hide about that night at Howard Hughes’; in which case, the gentlemen in the car behind could still want to act more than talk.

Whoever they were, I decided to try to lose them. We had a merry chase. At first I tried to make it look as if I were simply driving around randomly, but my pair of circles around the block at Levy’s Restaurant must have given them the idea that I was on to them.

They stayed close, so I headed for an area I knew—or thought I knew. I went south on Sepulveda past the university, trying to put a little distance between my ’34 Buick and their ’40 Cadillac by going twelve miles an hour over the speed limit for a residential area. It was almost hopeless. When I got within two blocks of my old habitat, now a recently demolished motel-like bungalow, I hit the floorboard and darted past a cement truck that let a blast out of its horn. With the truck between me and the Caddy and a half block between us, I made a blind turn over the curb and into the lot where I had once lived. It was a mess of rubble and rain puddles. The Buick landed hard and something clanked in the trunk. I remembered the groceries and hoped the milk bottle would hold up under the punishment.

With a sharp right and squealing tires, I spun in back truck on the lot. It was full of what looked like my old house, which surprised me because I didn’t think my old house had enough material to fill a bicycle basket.

A couple of gloved workmen heaving debris into the truck stopped to glare at me. I willed them to look somewhere else, but it didn’t matter. The guys in the Caddy must have seen me. They came flying over the same curb I had hit and came down even harder. I put my car in gear with my foot on the brake and gave it a little gas. The Caddy stormed toward the truck, almost hitting one of the workmen, who jumped for his life, abandoning a window frame which came down on top of the Caddy with a thud.

As the Caddy rounded the dump truck, I went to the other side, tearing my Buick for all it was worth, which was probably about fifty bucks, toward Sepulveda. I hit a rain-filled rut, knocked a sink into the sky and barely missed the cement truck that was turning into the lot I was leaving. I headed back north.

The Caddy driver had trouble turning. I could see him in my rear view mirror, trying to make up the ground he had lost. I was well up the street, pounding the steering wheel with the palms of my hands to urge it on to greater effort.

I caught a yellow light at Wilshire with a Red Top Cab between me and the Caddy. I went through the yellow. The cabbie decided to stop. The Caddy plowed into him and I slowed down to turn right at the next corner and lose myself in side streets.

In spite of the car chase, I got to the Sunset address about ten minutes early. Instead of going right in, I found a sandwich joint with a telephone and called Sergeant Steve Seidman.

“Seidman,” I said, hearing someone in the background screaming: “It ain’t fair, it ain’t fair.”

“Speak up,” he said loudly. “We have a customer here who feels he isn’t being given proper treatment.”

“O.K.,” I said. “What can you give me on Bugsy Siegel?”

The pause was long and “It-ain’t-fair” kept on until there was a sharp crack and then it was quiet.

“Siegel got something to do with the guy we found in your office this morning?” Seidman asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Maybe not. Can you give me something on him to work with?”

“I’m going to have to tell
him
,” said Seidman. “He’s off for the night, but I’ll have to give it to him in the morning.”

“Fair enough,” I said. I held on while Seidman left the phone and turned to find a young woman in a thin coat waiting impatiently for the telephone. She shifted her legs and her coat opened, revealing a tight green sequined gown that caught the light from a Falstaff beer sign. I figured she was a show girl from one of the places on the Strip. She figured I should mind my own business and gave me a look that said so.

Seidman returned to the phone. “I’ll give you the highlights,” he said. “The file’s a few inches thick. Let’s see … born Williamsburg district of Brooklyn, February 28, 1906. Moved from small stuff to heading an east side gang, combination of Italians and Jews, stuck mostly with the Jews. Arrested in 1928 for carrying a concealed weapon. Married to Esta Krakower…let’s see.… He and Meyer Lansky headed a gang that gave Bugs his name because he wasn’t afraid of anything and the other gangs thought he was a little crazy. By the way, he doesn’t like to be called Bugs, which is why we continue to call him Bugs.”

Miss Show Business of 1939 tapped her foot impatiently behind me as if she were about to go into a routine. I imagined her breaking into song, throwing off her coat, leaping on the counter and stepping into the soup of a customer. Seidman went on.

“Feud with the Irving ‘Waxey’ Gordon mob. Lots of shooting. Siegel was almost killed a few times. One time a bomb was dropped on a meeting, and Bugsy got hit in the head by the roof, which contributed further to his ‘Bugsy’ image. Chief triggerman was a nutty little monkey named Abe ‘Twist’ Reles.”

“I’ve heard the name,” I said. Miss Show Business showed me her wrist watch. I admired it and smiled.

“Siegel came to Los Angeles five years ago. New York cops thought he had been sent here by the mob as a West Coast agent. We think he did it on his own. Likes to be seen with celebrities, good friend of George Raft. He lives at 250 Delfern. Classy neighborhood. Has the homes of Sonia Henie, Bonita Granville, Anita Louise and Norman Taurog. Siegel’s house is full of secret panels and rooms. Built them with the place, probably to dive if anyone takes another shot at him. He has unlisted phone numbers which I can’t give you.”

“I’ve already got them,” I said.

“I won’t ask how,” sighed Seidman. “It-ain’t-fair” had started up again slow, but was rising to the challenge. Seidman turned away from the phone and shouted, “Keep that guy quiet” He continued, “Siegel’s a health nut—boxing, running. Thinks he’s a real beauty. Even talks about going into the movies, but he has a big problem. He was indicted almost a year ago for the murder of Harry ‘Big Greenie’ Greenberg, a former friend who he and we thought was going to put the finger on Siegel. Case was so–so. Siegel didn’t pull the trigger himself, but we had enough to lock him up in October last year. He got out in December when the new DA, Dockweiler, decided there wasn’t a case against him.”

“Will you get your ass off that phone?” squealed Miss Show Business in my ear, breaking the illusion of culture and charm she had worked so hard to build up.

“Sure,” I said to her. “Where would you like me to put it?”

“Hey,” grunted Seidman, “I’ve got other things to do.”

“Go on,” I said, turning my back on Show Business, who kicked me in the calf and stamped out of the place. I held back a groan and listened to Seidman.

“Well, a few months ago, the New York D.A. got his triggerman Reles in a corner and he was ready to turn states and pin the Greenie murder on Siegel. Then.…”

“Reles took a dive,” I said, remembering the story.

“Right,” said Seidman, “Shortly after seven in the morning on the 12th of last month, Reles, who had been guarded around the clock by eighteen cops in the Half Moon Hotel at Coney Island, was found dead on a roof extension six floors below his room. The window of the room was open, and from it dangled a makeshift escape line made from knotted sheets and wire long enough to reach the room on the floor below.”