The Howard Hughes Affair: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Four) Read Free

strong counteroffensive against the Nazis at Rostov, that Rommel was holding the British in Libya, and that F.D.R. saw a crisis in Asia while he waited for the Japanese reply to his principles for peace. “War Clouds Loom in the Pacific,” said the headlines. I turned to the sports section and found that Hugh Gallarnea, the former Stanford runner, had led the World Championship Chicago Bears to a 49–14 win over the Philadelphia Eagles with three touchdowns. Green Bay was still a game ahead of Chicago in the Western Division with a 10–1 record compared to Chicago’s 9–1. I had developed a strong curiousity about Chicago since a recent visit there, and I wondered how anyone could play, or want to play football in a Chicago winter.
    I also discovered from the “Private Lives” cartoon that “Berlin’s most luxurious boudoir belongs, not to a movie star, but to Reinhard Heydrich the cold-blooded killer who governs what was once Czecho-Slovakia.”
    Armed with all this information, I shaved, finished dressing, rinsed out my bowl, pretended I didn’t notice my unmade bed and went into the rain ignoring the twinge in my bad back that promised trouble if the rain kept up.
    Three little girls about eight years old were skipping rope on the porch. I watched them for awhile, waiting for a break in the rain so I could dash to the Buick, tilt my hat back and feel like a detective.
    The girl who was jumping had three teeth missing on top, and her mouth was wide open. The two rope-turners chanted:
     
    Fudge, fudge, tell the judge
    Mother has a newborn baby;
    It isn’t a girl and it isn’t a boy;
    It’s just a fair young lady.
    Wrap it up in tissue paper
    And send it up the elevator;
    First floor, miss;
    Second floor, miss;
    Third floor, miss;
    Fourth floor,
    Kick it out the elevator door.
    Since that was about all I could take from the youth of America on two bowls of All-Bran, I dashed for the car and made it without too much rain damage to my suit.
    Seven thousand Romaine was a big office building, and they were expecting me. A young man who looked like an ex-seminary student with his blond hair parted almost down the middle identified himself as Dean and escorted me up the elevator, commenting on the weather, the misfortunes of war, and our mutual hope for prosperity. I said he was right and followed him past a maze of rooms. Everyone seemed to have been set down in isolated cubbyholes.
    Dean read my mind and kept walking.
    “Mr. Hughes prefers to keep the employees separated so they won’t gossip and they won’t know what each is doing. He believes in keeping company secrets.”
    We went into a large office with a thick, blue carpet and pictures of birds on the wall. There was a bar, table, radio, desk and a hell of a good view. But it looked unused.
    The young guy read my mind again, which was probably what he got paid for.
    “This office is for Mr. Hughes, but he never comes here.”
    “Today is special.”
    He nodded his head negatively.
    “No, today is not special. You are to wait here for a call from Mr. Hughes.”
    “Life’s been threatened and he’s being careful,” I guessed, taking a walk to the window.
    “No,” said the man, his mouth playing with the idea of being amused. “This is Mr. Hughes’ normal procedure.”
    “I see,” I said knowingly.
    Dean checked the unused desk to be sure it was neat. “I don’t know why he does two-thirds of what he does. And I don’t know why he wants to see you.”
    “Terrific,” I said, turning to smile at him, knowing that my smile made me look like an enraptured gargoyle.
    We stared at each other for half an hour and looked at the phone. At noon, a tray of food came in. According to Dean, Hughes himself had ordered my lunch, which turned out to be a salad, a bacon and avocado sandwich on white bread and a big glass of milk. Dean had the same. We ate in silence at a small table, and I felt my mind toying with catatonia.
    “Can I get you anything