Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

I didn’t see how an attempt to kill Mussolini necessarily came under the heading of bad news, but I didn’t want to carry on a conversation with a drunk. I had some numbers to get through and some thinking to do. I had a pile of clues to a murder, but I couldn’t figure them out, and besides I wasn’t being paid to find a murderer. I had suspicious characters all over the place and too damn much information. I wasn’t used to all this information. It probably would have given me a headache even without the lump.

“Was there any good news?” I said.

“Yeah, Mel Ott is going to manage the Giants. Ever see him play? One foot up in the air when he bashes the ball.” Calvin got up to demonstrate Mel Ott’s unique batting style. He hit a triple which further cheered him and he sat again to keep me company. “What you in for?” he said groggily.

“Murder,” I said, closing my eyes. “I gutted three drunks on the Strip last night with my bare hands.” I could feel Calvin rise slowly and move quietly to the far side of the small cell. I slept. This time no dreams, no Cincinnati, no Koko.

I got up because someone was shaking me, a cop. Calvin was snoring away in a second bunk.

“You’re out,” said the cop wearily. “Lieutenant Pevsner wants to see you in his office.”

I got up and told him I’d find my way there. He told me I was getting an escort. Ten minutes later I was going up the steps of Phil’s station in the Wilshire District, past the desk sergeant, up the stairs and through the big sour squad room. I had been accompanied by Officer Rashkow, who said nothing because I said nothing. He left me at my brother’s door and I went in.

Phil was behind his desk, and Basil Rathbone was seated across from him. Rathbone rose.

“Mr. Peters,” he said. “So sorry to hear what happened. I hope you’re all right.” He took my hand and held my shoulder.

“Mr. Rathbone has persuaded Captain Rein to let you go,” said Phil, playing with an Eversharp automatic pencil, which he turned over and over and over. “Mr. Rathbone has also refused to tell us what he knows about this and why he is interested in getting you out. Mr. Rathbone knows we are investigating a murder.”

“I also have no information, Lieutenant,” he said sincerely. “I met Mr. Peters a few days ago when he visited a taping of my radio show. I promised to look him up and discovered when I called his office that he had been arrested. Then I simply made a few calls and …”

Phil kept spinning the pencil and nodding his head to show he understood but he didn’t believe.

“Have it your way,” Phil said. “Toby draws bodies like flies to orange pop. I’d suggest you stay away from him.”

“I shall certainly consider your advice,” Rathbone said as if he fully intended to consider the advice. “Now, if we may …”

Seidman stuck his head in the door before we could get permission or move.

“He’s on,” Seidman said.

“All right, I’ll take it,” Phil sighed, staring at the phone. “You two can go. It’s a friend of mine, a crank who’s been calling every day for the last two weeks to threaten me. It makes my day.” Phil picked up the phone and spoke into it staring at me. “Hello. You are? You are? I am? That’s nice to know. Just keep talking. I know you won’t be on long enough for us to trace, but do you mind if we try, just to keep in practice? Thanks.”

Rathbone, who was dressed in a neatly pressed dark suit and matching tie, made a motion, and Phil put his hand over the receiver.

“Yeah,” said Phil.

“Give me a try with him,” said Rathbone, “maybe I can keep him going long enough for you to trace it.”

“That’s ten, maybe fifteen minutes, depending on where he’s calling from, but he won’t stay on long enough. O.K. Give it a try. What the hell.” He handed the phone to Rathbone, who said:

“This is Basil Rathbone. Yes, the actor. I’m sorry if you think this is a poor imitation. It’s actually me. I happened to be in the Lieutenant’s office when you called, and I’ve never spoken to a lunatic before. My, my, my you needn’t get insulting. I see. And how will you accomplish this? Grisly. But you don’t even know the Lieutenant. How will you be sure you’re not getting the wrong man? Oh, you do. Yes, Yes. That’s a fair enough description. Must you? So soon? Well, if you must. Goodbye.”

Rathbone hung up.

“Couldn’t keep him on,” said Phil.

“No,” said Rathbone,” but I did discover a few things about him that might help you to pick him up. He is a Canadian who has worked for a doctor or in a hospital or is a doctor; and he knew you, I would guess, about ten years ago. I’d suggest you check anyone you put to prison about ten years ago who recently got out and fits that description.”

Phil started to rise from his chair.

“Levine, Edward Levine,” said Phil. “Sent him up for assaulting a doctor in County Hospital where he was working in ’32.” Seidman came back into the office to indicate that they had not traced the call.

“Forget it,” said Phil. “Check on Ed Levine. May have gotten out of Folsom recently. Check his parole officer, find him and pull him in. I think he’s our man.” Seidman nodded and left.

“The voice could be his,” Phil said. “It’s been ten years, but …”

“He have some special fondness for you, Philip?” I said. Phil looked up at me, and I went on. “Some good kidney chops help him confess? Ah, but you were a wild youth.”

“Get out,” he said. Rathbone and I got out. On the way through the station Rathbone absorbed the sight of drunks, looneys, cops and assorted hangers-on lounging around.

“Fascinating place,” he said, as we stepped into the sunlight.

“Fascinating,” I agreed. “How did you know all that stuff about the guy on the phone, Sherlock?”

“If we are to cement this friendship, Toby,” he said with a smile, “please call me Basil. As much as I enjoy the profit of being Sherlock Holmes and am interested in the process, I fear I am, after thirty years as a Shakespearean actor, becoming identified with a character who may overwhelm my career. I’m getting a bit of a taste of how Dr. Conan Doyle must have felt when he tried to kill Sherlock off. I am, however, not at that point. As to the business on the phone back there, I owe it more to being an actor who spends a great deal of time studying voices than I do to a study of Holmes. I knew he was a Canadian because of the way he pronounced “ou” in words like “about,” “out.” Canadians pronounce these two letters as “oo” as in “too.” Of course a small group of Americans in Minnesota do the same, but the odds were numerically with the Canadian. As to the medical knowledge, the gentleman on the phone described what he would do to Lieutenant Pevsner with an anatomical knowledge that would have been the envy of Jack the Ripper. Finally, the man’s description of the lieutenant was easily ten years out of date. He described a man thirty pounds lighter and with hair just beginning to grey. He had not seen his intended victim for about ten years. Then I put it all together.”

“You could have been way off,” I said, letting him lead me to a blue Chrysler at the curb.

“My dear fellow, I could have been entirely wrong,” he admitted. “Holmes, unlike us poor mortals, always had the fortunate protection of Dr. Conan Doyle, who would affirm almost every bizarre deduction the consulting detective made.”

We got in the car and I gave Rathbone Major Barton’s address, after briefing him on what had happened and getting his assurance that he wanted to come along.

“I called you this morning for the express purpose of accompanying you on some of the investigation,” he said. “Tell me, do American police actually beat suspects, or were you simply prodding the Lieutenant out of some long-standing antagonism?”