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.
