Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“The antagonism goes back more than forty years,’ I said. “He’s my brother.”

“That explains a great deal,” said Rathbone.

“The answer to your question is, yes, some, maybe most cops do use a little muscle to push a suspect into a confession or get some information. Being a cop is a tough job. I used to be one in Glendale.”

“I see,” he said. “The English aren’t all that less barbaric. I’ll make an anti-Holmesian confession to you. About fifteen years ago in England, I had an excellent manservant named Poole, who was an armed robber by night to supplement his income. He kept it up for some time, and I never suspected the fellow, even when they arrested him and he confessed. When he got out after serving his time, Poole told me that he had received nine lashes of the ‘cat’ for having carried firearms during the robberies. The cat, in case you do not know it, is a wooden handpiece to which are attached nine leather thongs soaked in oil. A prison doctor must be present because a single stroke of the lash can lay a man’s back open to the bone. The lashes, according to Poole, could be given at any time, in any combination. They could pull a man out of his cell after a year at three in the morning, give him two strokes and send him back bleeding for minutes or months to await the rest. They’ve done away with the cat now, but I’ve met many who are sorry about its passing. So, perhaps the English are not so much more civilized than the Americans when it comes to treating criminals.”

Major Barton’s home was in Westwood, a small house set back on an untrimmed lawn. I didn’t know if he was there, but I had gotten nowhere trying to reach him by phone, and Trudi Gurstwald plus his phone number in Frye’s wallet had made him my A Number-One Suspect. It was worth a chance.

Barton was home. He answered the door himself and he was in-uniform, or at least partly in uniform. His jacket, tie and shoes were not on and I had the impression we had interrupted him while he was dressing. He was about fifty, a little taller than I and working hard to keep his stomach in by will power instead of exercise. His nose had the red touch of a drinker, and his breath confirmed Hughes’ information.

“Mr. Rathbone,” he said in surprise. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“Good afternoon, Major,” Rathbone said amiably, “this is Mr. Peters. He is working for Howard Hughes, and he’d like some help with something you may be able to assist him with. May we come in?”

Rathbone stepped forward the way he did as Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles movie, and I followed behind.

“I was just on my way out,” Barton said, trying to get ahead of us to cover the mess and bottles in his living room.

“We won’t take a moment,” smiled Rathbone. “I’m sure you want to cooperate with Mr. Hughes’ emissary.”

“Of course,” said Barton. “Just give me a minute to finish dressing, gentlemen. Make yourself at home. Have a drink.”

We went into Barton’s living room, and Rathbone immediately opened a window to let out the stale smell, then sat down comfortably. The room was small, darkly carpeted with a sofa and some chairs. The chairs looked expensive, far from new, and not recently dusted. They were striped black and brown and looked lived in. On the wall was a picture of Napoleon on a horse. The horse was up on his hind feet and Napoleon was looking at me with his sword raised before he joined the battle in the background.

Barton came back in a few minutes, smelling of Sen-Sen and after-shave lotion. But the alcohol still came through.

“Mrs. Barton is out of town for a few days,” he said, having a seat. “Please excuse the condition of the house.”

“This is confidential, Major,” I said, pulling a seat as close to him as I could. “You’re assigned to…”

“Special duty working with various aircraft manufacturers on proposals for new weaponry,” he supplied. “Hughes Aircraft is one of those manufacturers.”

“Good,” I said. “Mr. Hughes has reason to believe that something may have been copied at his house the night of the dinner party, something valuable relating to the very weapons you’re talking about. Did you happen to see anything suspicious?”

Barton thought for a few seconds and then came up empty.

“Sorry,” he said. “Nothing happened out of the ordinary as far as I was concerned, though Hughes did behave a bit strangely after dinner and put a rather abrupt end to what I thought was going to be an evening of discussion. I think Mr. Rathbone will confirm that.”

“I confirm your observation about Hughes,” said Rathbone, staring at the man and taking out his silver cigarette case.

“Major Barton,” I went on, “what would you say if I told you someone in the house that night has told us that they saw you coming out of Mr. Hughes’ study shortly after dinner and that you looked nervous? What would you say?”

“I’d say they were a goddamn liar,” Barton said indignantly, rising. “I’d say let them say that to my face.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe we can arrange that. It’s gotten pretty important. You see, a guy named Frye was murdered this morning, and I think it’s related to what happened at Hughes’ house. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Major?”

Barton flushed and stood up, staring at the impassive Rathbone and at me.

“What made me think you might know, Major,” I pressed on, “was the fact that Frye had your phone number in his pocket. Why was that?”

“I don’t know,” Barton gasped.

“The police have his wallet with your number in it. They’ll be coming to see you soon themselves.”

“I’ll ask you to leave my house now, Mr. Peters,” he said. “My record and my reputation are enough.…”

“To make a sailor blush,” said Rathbone. “Tell me, Major, why are you still a major at your age? Shouldn’t a West Point man have made Colonel by the age of fifty?”

“How do you know all that?” Barton started.

“Your West Point diploma is on the wall and the year of your graduation, indicating your approximate age,” Rathbone explained. “Could your drinking have something to do with it? You do a very bad job of hiding it, you know. And where, pray tell, is your wife? From the look of this place, no one has taken care of it for some time except a gardener. No Major Barton, I rather fancy your job is not as important as you’ve indicated and that you’ve been given this assignment to keep you from embarrassing superiors or some influential friend who is protecting you. A military classmate, perhaps?”

Barton licked his lips, almost defeated, and Rathbone lit a cigarette, turning his eyes from Barton for the first time. Barton reached for a bottle and poured himself a drink. He didn’t offer us one.

“I can’t tell you anything,” he said. “I’m going to report what I know to my superiors as soon as you leave, and they can do with it what they will. You’ll get no more from me.”

“I think we’ve gotten quite a bit,” said Rathbone. “Perhaps you’ll be more inclined to talk to us after you’ve seen your superiors.”

“Perhaps,” said Barton, “but I doubt it.” He downed his drink and went silent.

Rathbone indicated that we should leave, and we did, but not before we saw Barton pour himself another drink. On the front steps, Rathbone said:

“Sorry about that, Peters, but I couldn’t resist playing Holmes. I quite enjoyed it.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “Except I started to feel like Watson, and that didn’t do anything for my self-image.”

“Well,” he said. “Comfort yourself. Nigel plays Watson as much more of a loveable bumbler than Conan Doyle intended. After all, Watson was very much Conan Doyle-doctor, admirer of ratiocination, solidly built. Our version is a bit more comic. Now I suggest we have something to eat and return in an hour to question Major Barton again, when he has made himself more vulnerable with drink and fear.”