The Howard Hughes Affair

me a warm, friendly greeting.

I offered to get them drinks. He refused, but she said she’d like something mild. I got her something mild while everyone watched Siegel make shots on the table where Martin Schell’s body had been stretched out a day ago with a knife in it. Someone in the room had done it, but I couldn’t tell from their faces.

Toshiro refilled several glasses and gave me a “what’s up” look. Trudi pulled herself away from Anton, who had plunked himself down in a corner chair to sulk. Pretending to admire a picture of a dead salmon near my head, she whispered.

“I was worried about you,” she said. “What happened to your head?”

“I started the war with Germany early and became one of the first victims,” I whispered, smiling across the room at Norma Forney. Rathbone had taken up a cue and was playing billiards with Siegel and holding his own.

“I don’t understand,” she said, and the look on her face made it clear she didn’t.

“Did you know Barton was dead?” I said. “Have you noticed he’s not at our little party?”

She looked around.

“They killed him?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Whoever he was stealing those papers or things for?” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “I think I’ll find out tonight.”

“Please be careful,” she said, touching my shoulder as she turned. It was a good solid touch and reminded me once again what a firm woman she was. She joined her husband, and people started to look at their watches.

About nine, Hughes showed up, looking neat but not comfortable. He gave the group a boyish grin, which he then cut off, and carefully avoided shaking hands. I had noticed that before. Maybe it was part of his plan for staying clean.

Twenty minutes later we were all having dinner. Toshiro served, and Norma Forney did most of the talking, asking questions of Rathbone, who told stories about making David Copperfield and The Adventures of Robin Hood. He told about his years building his reputation as a Shakespearean actor and the current identity problem he was having with Holmes. He talked about his little daughter Cynthia and did a hell of a good job of putting an impossibly tense group at ease. No one talked about the murders, the plans or the reason for the get-together. Bugsy Siegel told about how he had lost thousands of dollars earlier in the year in an attempt to extract vitamin A from sharks’ livers.

Anton Gurstwald said nothing and looked at his plate. Hughes watched whoever spoke with complete attention, but showed no emotion and rarely responded.

After the fruit cup, while Toshiro was clearing the table, I stood up and asked Hughes if I could see him for a moment in the hall. Rathbone had already agreed to talk softly so we could be overheard. I excused myself and Hughes followed me into the hall. I purposely pushed the door so it wouldn’t quite close, and it cooperated by swinging back open about half a foot.

“I don’t know why he wants me to meet him at midnight,” I told Hughes, “but that’s the way he wants it. Says it’s safer that way.”

“It’s up to you, Peters,” Hughes said, which wasn’t much of a line, but it was enough to let me go on.

“His name is Brecht or something like that,” I said. “And he says he knew the Schells and has some information, knew them back in Berlin in ’33. I don’t think it’s much, but we don’t have much to follow up. I set it up at NBC back in Los Angeles. Rathbone arranged for us to use Studio B so we could be alone. He’s afraid of going to a private place.”

Logic might have dictated that a radio studio at night in 1941 might be a rather private place, but my murderer didn’t know too much about NBC or radio stations.

“Well, good luck,” said Hughes. “Sure you don’t want one of my men to go with you?”

“I’m sure,” I said. “He said I should come alone, and alone I’m going.”

The conversation in the dining room had stopped, so it was a good bet they had all heard our little show. I didn’t know how Rathbone rated our acting. I thought I was somewhere between a Republic serial and a Universal B feature. Hughes was about high-school theater. If I was right about my killer, that would be good enough.

I drove back to Los Angeles slowly with plenty of time before midnight.

Lowell Thomas said Japan’s reply to the U.S. demand for an explanation of troop buildups was “unsatisfactory.” The Japanese had said their troop movement was to counter Chinese movements. Thomas gave the odds as 60–40 that we’d be at war with Japan in a few days.

I turned off the radio, leaned over to check on my.38 in the glove compartment and gulped a few more of the magic pills from Dr. Parry. The Hughes party would break up early, according to our plan, to give the killer plenty of time to get to Los Angeles. The possibilities were that the killer would wait outside NBC and try to get Brecht before he came in. Since Brecht was not coming at all, the killer might get tired of waiting and either give up or come in, thinking that Brecht might have gotten past unseen. Another possibility was that the killer wasn’t falling for this and I’d spend some cold hours in an NBC studio.

I was confident who the killer was from Brecht’s identification of the guest’s photo, but I had no evidence. An attempt on my life would probably qualify as pretty good circumstantial evidence, and that would probably be enough to break down the killer’s story.

I pulled into the parking lot around 11:30. The tires crunched against the pebbles and sent them pinging inside the fenders, triggering a shock wave through my sore cranium. I considered taking a few more pills but decided against it.

Rathbone had arranged for the side door to be open for me. Security at night, he had said, was nil. A confident grin and a wave could get one past the night guard, and there were plenty of other ways into the building which could be found by an enterprising detective or murderer.

I went in and found my way to Studio B, where I had watched Rathbone and Nigel Bruce rehearsing for the show they would be doing live on Sunday. I remembered that Sunday would be the next day, and I vowed to listen to the show if I was alive.

While pondering and waiting, I thought about buying Christmas presents for my brother’s kids. I wondered what one bought for a two-month-old baby girl.

It was then that the bottom of my foot began to itch. This was followed by the other events with which I began this tale, events which left me standing face-to-face with a killer who was holding a large handgun with a correspondingly large silencer.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stood among the broken discs of yesterday and today, looking into the barrel of that gun and feeling no satisfaction at having trapped the killer. My curiosity was satiated, but my life, justice and Howard Hughes’ peace of mind had very poor prospects at the moment. I was least worried about Howard Hughes’ peace of mind and justice.

“Well, what now Trudi?” I said.

She had closed the door, and far off somewhere I could hear the music of a big band, probably Woody Herman, bouncing gaily.

Trudi Gurstwald had changed from her dress to a khaki hiking suit.

“Now,” she said softly, “I must kill you.”

“A little talk first,” I asked, “for the sake of our recent love?”

“I really meant that in your office,” she said. “I wasn’t trying…”

“I thought you were trying pretty hard, and I’ll bet you say that to all the boys, and I mean all the boys.”

I would have been better off keeping my mouth shut, but a bleeding foot, a sore head and the prospect of death do strange things to a man, if you are willing to consider my membership in the human race.

“I must be quick,” she said. “The noise …”