Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“Listen Peters, I don’t care what the world thinks of me. I do things for myself. Why should I care what the masses think when I don’t care what individuals think about me? I’ve been alone since I was a kid and my parents died. I’ve been surrounded by people who wanted one thing from me, money. When people know I’m Howard Hughes, they fawn or gawk and I can’t live my life.”

“So you live it better when you spend most of it creating elaborate ways to hide?” I said. “The more you make a thing about secrets and hiding, the more people want to find out your secrets and see what you’re hiding. I make my living finding secrets. I’ve seen it.”

“That’s my concern,” he said placidly.

“Maybe you like being known as the man with secrets,” I said. “The man nobody knows.”

Hughes looked at me solemnly.

“What are you so angry about?” he said.

“Well, maybe I’m a little angry because I have a hole in my head, which I got working for you, and you didn’t even notice. Maybe I’m a little angry because three people have been killed in the last few days, probably because of you and your damn stolen plans, and you haven’t shown the least bit of interest in any of them.”

Hughes looked at me woodenly. I had shouted loud enough for him to hear clearly.

“In a sense, you’re right,” he finally said. “But tell me the truth, do you really care about who killed them? One of them apparently tried to kill you. One kidnapped and beat you. The other one, Barton, you didn’t even know.”

“I care,” I said. “They were human beings, part of the same fraternity I’m in and I think you may be in. If one of us dies by a bullet, a knife or a gun, it shows how easy it is for any of us to go. We have to respect lives, all lives.”

“What about the lives of people who take lives?” he said with more curiosity than emotion.

“I deal with that when it comes up or leave it to other people,” I said.

“It’s up right now in Europe,” he said. “And it will be up in the Pacific in weeks.”

“And you care?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It interests me. Peters, we’re not going to agree on this, so suppose you just tell me what you want done tonight and we’ll do it. I respect professionalism. You’re a professional. Let’s leave it at that.”

Hughes was beginning to remind me of a manufactured robot with a little record inside. There was no way of getting inside the shell of the man. He was a walking cliche, but in addition to that cliche he was also a man who knew how to get things done and had the guts to get them done. I gave up.

“I want the murderers,” I said. “You want your plans. I think someone did take them, and I have a plan to try to get them back. You go ahead with your dinner party, and after dinner, you and I meet in the hall off the dining room to talk privately. I tell you something and take off, something that gets the murderer to follow me.”

“You’re convinced whoever took my plans will be at the dinner,” he said.

“I’m convinced whoever committed murder will be at the dinner,” I corrected.

“How do you know they’ll hear you talking to me?”

“Simple,” I said. “People have to speak up to you anyway because of your hearing problem. I’ll exaggerate a bit.”

I half expected him to lay out some protest about his inability to hear, but he didn’t.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” he said. “You might get yourself killed.”

“And you’d never find out about your stolen plans.”

“I’m not that unfeeling, Mr. Peters,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do.” He turned to his papers, ending our conversation, and I went out in the hall. I made my way to the billiard room and hit the balls around for about an hour till my head started to throb. I ignored the blood stain in the middle of the green felt. Then I wandered into the kitchen to find Toshiro and Nuss-the-cook. Nuss was awake and reasonably sober. He sang loudly while he cooked, mostly Nelson Eddy songs. I preferred him dead drunk. Toshiro set the dining room table, explaining that Hughes had ordered new dishes and silverware for the night.

“He doesn’t like to use dishes other people have used,” Toshiro explained. “He said it’s unclean.”

“If you’re Howard Hughes, you can afford new plates every meal,” I said.

“Yeah,” Toshiro went on setting the table, “but when you have our Nuss as the cook, forget about cleanliness. If Hughes took one look at him working in the kitchen he’d order out for burgers.”

At 7:30, the first guests, Norma Forney and Benjamin Siegel, arrived. Norma had on a white dress and black belt, and Bugsy wore a modified tux with a white carnation. He smiled and took my hand after Toshiro let him in.

“Everyone will be here,” Siegel said confidently. “Which means the Germans, Gurstwald and his wife. Germans can be tough to convince. Norma was a little tough to convince too.”

We had moved into the billiard room, where Siegel began to play like a semipro.

“Ever been in Germany, Mr. Siegel?” I asked innocently.

“Never,” he said, lining up a shot.

“You, Miss Forney?”

She looked at me over a drink Toshiro had brought her.

“When I was but a youth,” she said lightly, “I went to school in Berlin. I had thoughts of being a doctor, but Hitler came along and I sold a few short stories to the New Yorker and…”

The doorbell rang. In a few minutes, Basil Rathbone was escorted into the room. We had “good evenings” all around and some pleasant chat until he could get me aside.

I briefed him on everything that happened, including the identification by Gunther Wherthman of the message in blood.

“Of course,” said Rathbone, “I should have guessed. Just like Study in Scarlet , but there the message in German and in blood was designed to throw the police off the trail. In this case, I think it has more significance. Whatever it means, we can be sure the butler didn’t do it. He himself was killed.”

Rathbone’s words sent a chill down my back. He had dropped into place the one thing that had confused me. I was certain now who had killed all the three men in three days, and it didn’t give me a hell of a lot of pleasure.

The Gurstwalds came last, even though they had the shortest distance to come, no more than half a mile. He was red-faced and silent, giving Siegel glances that should have turned the mobster to ice, but Siegel enjoyed it.

“Good to see you,” said Siegel, taking Gurstwald’s reluctant hand. “Glad you could make it.”

“I am here under protest,” Gurstwald fumed. Trudi tugged at his arm to keep him in control. She was wearing a fluffy green dress, a delicate thing that didn’t hide the firmness of her body. She stayed near Gurstwald and gave 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.