Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“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.