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.”
