Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“I don’t get together with people very much,” he said carefully. “But last Monday I had a small dinner for some people who I thought might be of value when the war came. My plan was to organize a kind of lobby to support the projects I think are vital if we are to win that war. We’re already gearing up to munitions work and…” he trailed off, making it clear there were things I didn’t have to know. I agreed with him. There was a lot I didn’t have to know. My specialty was guarding bodies and hotel lobbies, finding runaway wives, husbands, parents and kids, lovers and deadbeats-not spies.

“Hear me out, Peters,” he said with a tone of anger, as my face showed my decision. He was about to say something else when the telephone rang. We looked into each others’ eyes while he talked loudly on the phone, “Right, yes, I’ll be right there. No, I’ll do it.” He hung up and gritted his teeth.

“Peters, I want you to quietly investigate the list of people I am going to give you. They were dinner guests last week at the house I’m using in Mirador down near Laguna. I also have the names of the three servants who were there. I’m sure someone on the night of that dinner went into the study and looked at my plans for the bomber and the transport. My papers were moved. I want you to find out who looked at those papers and if they actually got to copy them.”

I shook my head sadly. He looked at his watch.

“Look,” I said, “You can get a whole agency to work on this. Besides, I don’t think I can come up with anything based on what you’ve got. You’ve got maybes and you want miracles.”

Hughes moved toward the door and past me.

“You were recommended by one of our employees. You check out. No one can buy you off and no one can make you talk. I’ll give you $48 a day plus expenses. Walter Dean at the Romaine Office will be your contact and give you anything you need. Now, it’s either yes or no. I’ve got to get back on the field.”

If he was waiting for me to ask how he came up with a figure like $48, he was going to be disappointed, but he was also a man who knew the price of another man.

“No guarantees and $100 in advance,” I said.

“Ninety-six dollars in advance, two days,” he said.

I laughed and he considered the matter ended because he pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.

On the sheet were typed the names, phone numbers, home and business addresses of nine people, along with the reasons for their being invited to the Hughes dinner.

I started to say something, but Hughes shook his head no.

“You don’t like me, do you, Peters?” he said with his hand on the doorknob.

“-I like your money,” I said.

“My father died when I was a kid,” Hughes said. “He was a tough man, but a man everybody liked. My father knew how to laugh. He was a terrifically loved man. I am not. I don’t have the ability to win people the way he did. I have no interest in studying people. I should be more interested in people, but I can’t. I am interested in science, in nature, the earth. I can work with that. That’s why I need people like you, people who are used to working with emotions and lies. If you have to reach me, reach me through Dean.” He turned and left.

The man called Noah came in almost passing Hughes at the door. Without a word, Noah took out a thick wallet, handed me $96 in various bills and made out a receipt for me to sign.

“We’ll want an itemized bill,” he said.

“That’s what I always give,” I said.

“We know,” he said. “I think he respects you, Peters.”

I shrugged.

“I’m grateful,” I said, counting the money and putting it into my own nearly empty wallet.

“He doesn’t want gratitude,” Noah said, moving to the window to watch Hughes take off into the rain. “I don’t know what the hell he wants. Do you know how many times he’s had that plane up today in this rain? Thirty-five times. He’s convinced there’s something wrong with it that no one else can find. He’s been up for three straight days and nights working on it and he’ll be up and in the air till he’s satisfied.”

“A perfectionist,” I sighed, starting to shiver from being wet.

“No,” sighed Noah. “It’s more like a disease. It itches at him, drives him mad like a song you can’t remember or a name on the tip of your tongue.”

“You’re a philosopher, like Irving Berlin,” I said, moving to the door.

“No,” he said, “a wet, glorified bookkeeper.”

On the way out, I nodded to bodyguards one and two and dashed through the rain to my Buick. Hughes had taken off over me and was disappearing into a bank of dark clouds.

In the Buick, I let out my first groan of the last hour and rubbed the spot far back above my kidney where the pain was worst. Experience told me if I didn’t get out of these wet clothes and stand up or lie flat on the floor within the next half hour, I might not be able to walk for days, but I couldn’t resist a quick look at the list Hughes had given me. I wiped the pain from my brow and pulled the sheet out. The neat list included Basil Rathbone, actor; Anton Gurstwald, chairman of Farbentek of America; his wife, Trudi Gurstwald; Ernest Barton, Major, Army Air Corps.; Norma Forney, writer; Benjamin Siegel, businessman; Toshiro Homoto, houseboy — chauffeur; Martin Schell, cook; William Nuss, butler. All telephone-listed, all addressed, all ready to be investigated, though I didn’t expect to come up with anything except an improved bank account.

I drove back to Hollywood, my rooming house and a shower. The hot water smacked me low on the back for about fifteen minutes while I blew air out of my almost flat nostrils to prove I could still do it. Then I put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and got my back on the faded carpet in my room to stare at the ceiling and wait for the pain to pass.

It was so peaceful I almost fell asleep. After ten minutes, Gunther Wherthman, who had the room next to mine and who had convinced Mrs. Plaut to take me in in spite of my profession, dropped by to keep me company. His visit was formal, as always, and he was too polite to comment on my prone position. So I explained. Our eyes were in reasonable contact, and I didn’t have to raise my voice. Gunther is a midget. We had met when I blundered into the solution to a murder he was accused of. We had been something like friends ever since, ever since being less than a year. Gunther was Swiss, but was usually taken for German, which caused him some difficulty since Germans were not particularly popular in the States in 1941. Since he was a small possible-German, he was especially vulnerable.

Gunther always wore a neat suit and spent most of his time in his room translating books and articles from German, French, Italian, Spanish and Polish into English. Sometimes it paid reasonably well. Usually it was about as lucrative as being a private detective. Gunther didn’t like to talk. I loved talking. We got along great. If someone had burst in on us, we would have looked something like a tableau from a wax museum, me as the corpse on the floor, he as the tiny killer pondering his crime. As it was, Mrs. Plaut did stick her head in, looking for something or someone. Our positions either did not register with her or seventy years of living in Hollywood had prepared her for anything.

“I’ve got a client,” I told Gunther.

“As have I,” he said.

We were quiet for another ten minutes.

“I’m supposed to find some spies,” I said.

“Is there not a government branch that dedicates itself to such matters?” he asked reasonably.

“Yeah,” I said, adjusting a pillow under my knees, “but they don’t think there’s any spying going on.”