The Howard Hughes Affair

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.”

“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 like 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.