The Howard Hughes Affair: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Four) (5 page)

After the announcer stepped forward and reminded the dozen people in the audience that “A little cold may be the start of a serious illness,” I vowed to take his advice and buy some Bromo Quinine Cold Tablets. The show came to an end, and the director’s voice came across tinny and cracked, saying, “That’s good enough for day. Thanks Basil, Nigel.”

Rathbone smiled and waved toward the glass partition, and Bruce nodded. A guy in the audience ran up on the platform to help the sound-effects man wheel away his props, and a woman with a script in her hand started to talk to Bruce. Looking less thin than he did in the movies, Rathbone walked directly toward me with his hand outstretched. I would have guessed he was a few years older than I was. His grip was firm and up close he gave the impression of being both agile and solid.

“You must be the man who so urgently has to see me,” Rathbone said as precisely as he spoke on the radio, though a bit faster. “Let me guess what it’s all about. You are a representative of Howard Hughes, conducting some kind of investigation about our dinner last week. Your investigation concerns something violent or potentially dangerous. It does not involve any danger to my person, but it does involve something to do with national security, or at least Mr. Hughes thinks it does.”

Rathbone took out a silver cigarette case, offered me one, which I refused, lit his own and looked at me with some amusement.

“Pretty good,” I said, as Nigel Bruce and the woman moved past us saying good night to Rathbone, “Holmes couldn’t have done it better.”

Rathbone laughed and ushered me out into the hall.

“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

O
n 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.