The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty

by Taraborrelli, J. Randy

  Buying the Town House

  It’s a pretty good-looking building,” Conrad Hilton was saying. “I think I want it. What do you think?”

  “Well, how much is it?” asked his friend and adviser Arthur Foristall, who would go on to become Hilton’s public relations strategist. He was a valued member of his board of directors.

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” Conrad said.

  It was a brisk day in January 1942 and Conrad and Arthur were at Conrad’s new huge Spanish-style home on Bellagio Road in Beverly Hills. His estate wasn’t overwhelming in scope, but was still impressive and rich-looking; it spoke to the success Conrad had recently achieved. The two men were sitting in the study, a place where many memorable moments had already unfolded, whether it was a discussion about an important real estate purchase or a powwow with his sons about a problem in school, or maybe a discussion with them about the importance of prayer and the value of hard work. Whatever it was, if it merited a spirited dialogue, Conrad’s study—the true inner sanctum of the home—was always the place for that to happen.

  And what a study it was! He had come a long way. It was obvious that a great deal of care had been taken to make this space, a large room with dark wood ceiling beams and highly polished hardwood floors that were partially covered with expensive Moroccan rugs, as comfortable as possible. The centerpiece of the room was a massive stone fireplace and wooden mantel, upon which were carefully placed family photos in gold and silver frames. On an antique wooden table in the middle of the room sat an enormous bowl of fresh fruit. This display was replenished thrice daily; no piece of fruit was ever allowed to sit for more than a few hours. There were also huge bowls of colorful flowers on other occasional tables in the room, lending the premises a scent that wasn’t exactly masculine but was clean and fresh just the same. The walls were painted a soft buttery yellow.

  Conrad’s large desk, made of rare and expensive agarwood, sat against one wall with a bank of three upholstered leather chairs facing it for the purpose of business meetings. However, for more personal moments with family and friends, the seating area in front of the fireplace—a pair of overstuffed sofas and matching chairs, each covered in cream-colored linen, with an antique coffee table and two end tables—was the preferred area of relaxation. The room always had a soft glow to it from period lamps in which Conrad preferred using amber light bulbs for a sense of tranquility, even during the day. Two of the four walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling African blackwood shelving, in which many hundreds of books were organized without their jackets for a uniform appearance. Conrad was a stickler for making certain that his books, many of which were extremely expensive and rare first editions, were stacked in an orderly manner. Only the same size books were to be situated next to each other. For instance, large coffee-table books were not to be placed among smaller ones. Also, everything was to be placed in strict alphabetical order by the author’s name. However, true to the paradoxes of his personality, Conrad was not an avid reader. He practically never read books! On some of the tables in the room were stacks of magazines, everything from Life to Time, Newsweek, Esquire, and Paris Match—which he also wasn’t known to read—as well as the latest important publications about real estate and the hotel business, which he did enjoy. There was also a stack of Weird Tales comic books, which belonged to Barron.

  In the corner of the room sat a small Philco television set, a carved wooden cabinet about three feet tall with a six-inch screen in its center, six control knobs, and one small speaker. This was an unusual luxury for the times; American TV had just debuted in 1939. However, the set in the Hilton study was relatively useless since most stations had gone dark in 1942 because of the war. There was an occasional broadcast, but no one ever seemed to know when it would happen or for how long. One would turn the set on, and if anything but static showed up on the screen, it was considered a nice surprise. “It’s just a glorified table with some sort of small window in it,” Conrad would joke of the TV set that sat unplugged in the corner, one of just roughly 10,000 in the entire United States.

  He had made it to the big time. This estate was really the high life, a far cry from any other place in which Conrad had ever lived, and for that matter, from any place he had ever even imagined living. His mother couldn’t quite comprehend how far her son had come in such a short time, and when she would come to visit she would spend hours just walking around the estate in wonderment. His siblings had the same reaction. No one could believe how well Conrad had done for himself, yet somehow it all made perfect sense just based on what was known of his personality, his character, his temperament. He had earned his success, and he, along with everyone else in his life, was happy about it. But he couldn’t bask in his victory for long; he was much too busy.

  Conrad Hilton picked up the phone and dialed “O” for the operator. “Ma’am, I’d like to make a long-distance call to New York City,” he said before giving her the number. He was calling his old friend Arnold Kirkeby in the Big Apple. Ten minutes later, the phone rang; it was the operator. She had completed the call. “So, my friend, how much do you want for the Town House?” Conrad asked when Kirkeby came on the line.

  “Well, come up with an amount, Connie,” Kirkeby said. “Just don’t embarrass yourself or me by making it too low.”

  Hilton took a deep breath, smiled at Arthur Foristall, and took the plunge with a figure that was less than he expected Kirkeby to accept. “Tell you what,” he said, his southwestern drawl more pronounced than ever, as was usually the case when he was trying to be polite, “I can probably give you, say, $750,000.”

  On the other end, Kirkeby laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he told Conrad. “Nine-fifty. That’s what I want for it, $950,000.”

  “Are you joking?” Conrad asked. “I was just there, Arnie. The place is a ghost town. It’s deserted. I think I can maybe bring it back to life, but even I can’t perform miracles. So, who knows? If you don’t sell to me, who’s going to want it?”

  That was true, Kirkeby had to admit. The building was all but empty. “Fine, then,” he said, now sounding frustrated. “Nine, then. You can have it for $900,000. That’s it, though,” he warned. “That’s my lowest figure.”

  “Eight,” Conrad countered without hesitation. “I think eight is a nicer number, Arnie. I have always liked the number eight. So, let’s say eight, shall we?”

  “Good God, Connie,” Kirkeby exclaimed. “All right, look, eight and a half. That’s the best I can do for you. And only for you because we’re friends. So take it or leave it, Connie.”

  “Okay, tell you what. Let me think it over,” Conrad said. “Very nice talking to you, Arnie. Say hello to the wife, will you?” After hanging up the phone, Conrad looked at Arthur Foristall and gave him the thumbs-up. “But let’s have ol’ Arnie sit for a moment and wonder what’s going to happen next,” he said with a devilish grin. “Why ruin the suspense, right?” He then rose and went to the corner of the room, where he poured two glasses of sherry from a carafe on an end table. He handed one to Arthur. “To the Town House,” he said, clinking his friend’s glass. “Yes,” Arthur agreed. “To the Town House.”

  The backstory of how Conrad made his most significant Los Angeles purchase to date is an interesting one. During the third week of January 1942—right after Conrad returned to Los Angeles after having visited his mother in Texas and then his brother in Florida—Arnold Kirkeby mentioned to him that he might be interested in selling one of his major holdings, namely the Town House. It was a thirteen-story brick structure of luxury apartments, mixing Mediterranean revival and art deco styles of design at the corner of Wilshire and South Commonwealth in the Westlake district of Los Angeles.

  Actually, Conrad had first become aware of the hotel in 1937 when he was invited by the movie actor and astute businessman Leo Carrillo to his estate in Santa Monica Canyon. Built in 1929 by the oil-rich, socially prominent Edward L. Doheny family from architect Norman W. Alpaugh’s bluepri
nts, this prestigious property, which faced beautiful Lafayette Park on one side, had, as a result of the Depression, fallen on hard times. Was Conrad interested? Of course he was interested, he told Kirkeby. However, he wanted to do an inspection of the hotel first, which he did when he got back to Los Angeles.

  The Town House, a striking structure with stately palm trees on its perimeter, made quite an impression on the tony boulevard with its upscale restaurants and department stores. However, when Conrad went inside and started asking around, he found that it was practically empty—another sign of the times. People were scared. The Japanese had gotten a little too close with their bombing of Pearl Harbor. There was fear that if they’d managed to devastate the country’s naval fleet in Hawaii, perhaps the California shores were next. As a result, the economy in Los Angeles had never been weaker. The only bright spot was the burgeoning film industry, which continued apace its full-on film production despite the loss to the war effort of some of its major talent, from directors like Frank Capra, John Ford, John Huston, and William Wellman to stars like Carole Lombard, Jimmy Stewart, Tyrone Power, Clark Gable, Leslie Howard, and Robert Taylor.

  Still, to Conrad, ever the optimist, this state of affairs couldn’t last forever. Again, he wasn’t about to allow a temporary situation to influence what could one day be a profitable idea. He noticed that the area was already beginning to hum with shipbuilding and airplane construction, with workers from around the state and across the country swarming into Southern California like bees to honey to fill the jobs in the defense plants.

  When he got back to California from his trip to Florida, Conrad met Arthur Foristall, who was his spokesman but also advised him on business matters. After talking things over, Hilton called Kirkeby to make his offer. Then came the give-and-take that resulted in Kirkeby’s counteroffer of $850,000 for the purchase of the property.

  “Think he’s had enough time to wonder?” Conrad asked Arthur.

  “Sure,” Arthur said, laughing. “Put the ol’ guy out of his misery now, why don’t you, Connie?”

  Conrad chuckled and picked up the telephone. “Operator, a long-distance call to New York,” he said. Finally, Kirkeby was on the line again. “My friend, you have a deal at eight and a half,” Conrad said. Then, after a beat, he added, “I’ll mail you a check today to bind the deal.” He smiled at Arthur and hung up. “Easiest deal I ever made,” he said. “You know, maybe I ought to do this more often.”

  With just two long-distance telephone calls, he had struck another major deal: Conrad Hilton had just purchased the Town House for $850,000. (Most of this amount would be the profit from his recent sale of the Sir Francis Drake, the storied San Francisco landmark.)

  “Conrad Hilton was able to use certain events to the benefit of his business,” notes Cathleen Baird, former director of the Conrad N. Hilton Archives at the University of Houston. “He realized with the prospect of a possible Japanese invasion—as many people thought—on the West Coast, property value was decreasing, and as a result he was able to negotiate the purchase of the Town House at… you could almost say… a bargain-basement price.”

  As soon as the Town House purchase was complete, Conrad would make significant changes to it, as he always did after buying any property. That was the way he made his imprint on a new acquisition, by personalizing it with his own special touch. To the Town House he added a swimming pool with white beach sand and an expansive tennis court, before ultimately transforming it into a hotel from its former status as an apartment building. (Of course, he also paid for the relocation of the few tenants still living there when he bought it.) It was an immediate success. Whereas its gross profit for 1941 had been $33,000, in 1942 under Hilton’s ownership the Town House as a luxury hotel took in almost $200,000. From that time onward, it always earned at least a quarter of a million in profit. Hilton liked the property so much, he would establish corporate offices there and also provided certain units to friends to stay in when they were in town. It would become a preferred home base for him, his business associates, and any number of relatives.

  Courting Zsa Zsa

  It had been about a month since meeting Zsa Zsa Gabor, and Conrad Hilton couldn’t seem to get her off his mind. This was quite unusual for him. Women ordinarily did not hold his interest for more than a couple of dates, and if they became intimate, that was usually the kiss of death as far as the relationship was concerned. Afterward, he lost interest. He hadn’t yet been intimate with Zsa Zsa, and maybe that’s why he was still hooked.

  When the Town House was finally his, Conrad drove over to Zsa Zsa Gabor’s apartment, picked her up, and took her there. He wanted her to see what he had just acquired, his latest achievement. It was the first time in many years—since his marriage to Mary, in fact—that he would have the satisfaction of sharing with a woman something he was so proud of. Soon the two of them stood in front of the imposing building, she in a fur coat she’d borrowed from her sister, he in a sharp suit with his Stetson hat. In a photograph taken that day, they appear so formally attired, it might as well have been a holiday rather than just an ordinary Wednesday.

  “So what do you think of it?” Conrad asked Zsa Zsa as the two gazed up at the structure. “I just bought it,” he said in his southwestern drawl.

  For a moment, Zsa Zsa seemed speechless. “This is yours now?” she managed to say. “This mah-vellous building is all yours?”

  “That it is,” Conrad answered, grinning with pride. If he had hoped to impress her, he had most definitely succeeded.

  “What in the world are you going to do with it?” she asked. “Maybe one day you will let me live here?” she asked, batting her eyes at him.

  “Perhaps,” he said, nodding at her and smiling.

  “Maybe we marry one day?” she said, looking hopeful.

  “Maybe,” he said, gazing at her. She was so intoxicating, he really couldn’t get enough of her and the smell of her French soap. She had such a dazzling smile, such a terrific complexion, such perfect cheekbones, and all with a tight little—and bountiful—package that screamed out sex appeal. She represented his chance for real passion in his life, and he knew it. He wasn’t going to let it go, either.

  Attorney Gregson Bautzer, the friend of Zsa Zsa’s who had been with her when she met Conrad, had warned her, “Don’t ever mention marriage to him. He’s a confirmed bachelor. Mention marriage and you’ll never see him again.” What Bautzer didn’t know is that this enchantress had already mentioned marriage to Hilton, on the night they met, and that he had pursued her anyway, and now seemed interested in a future with her.

  As if making up for lost time in his life, Conrad had begun sending roses to Zsa Zsa every day, followed by regular telephone calls every morning, making it his first duty of the day, much to the chagrin of Eva Gabor, Zsa Zsa’s apartment mate, who as a working actress complained that she needed her sleep. (The two sisters slept in a double bed together in the small, cramped apartment.) Conrad not only took Zsa Zsa to daily lunches but to dinners almost every night. The two would then go out dancing after their meal, hitting all of the hot spots on Sunset Boulevard. He had never been out as many nights during the week at this time in his life as he’d been with Zsa Zsa, and instead of wishing he were home in bed resting for the next day’s work, he was actually enjoying himself. (Again, poor Eva Gabor felt differently, with Zsa Zsa interrupting her much-required beauty sleep by coming home so late at night. Inevitably, Zsa Zsa and Conrad would make out in his white Caddy on the street outside Eva’s apartment, with the lanky Hilton accidentally leaning on the car horn, thereby sending a loud blast of sound throughout the neighborhood. “Oh my God! That clumsy man!” Eva would exclaim. “I can’t sleep at night and I can’t sleep in the morning. Marry him, or I die!”)

  Zsa Zsa enjoyed every moment she spent with Conrad, lavishing him with praise, boosting his ego by her attention, and doing everything she could think of to be a perfect companion for him. Was she really just after his money? Of cour
se she was. “How could I separate him from his money?” she would ask years later. “Would I have been interested in a man twice my age if he wasn’t rich? I don’t think so. Not at that time in my life, anyway. I was young and impressionable and new to Hollywood.” Many decades and many marriages later, Zsa Zsa Gabor would be described as “the most successful courtesan of the twentieth century.”

  Conrad suspected that his great wealth had at least something to do with her fascination. He knew that she wasn’t just some innocent little waif. Even at her young age, she’d had her share of experiences with men of power and affluence. For instance, as a teenager prior to her arrival in the States, he learned, she’d even been romantically involved with Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the first president of Turkey. Married to someone else and now on her way to divorce, she wasn’t exactly inexperienced. “I want a man who is kind and understanding,” she would one day say. “Is that too much to ask of a millionaire?” Conrad was just too swept off his feet by Zsa Zsa to really care whether or not she was just after his money, though. All he wanted at this point in time was Zsa Zsa Gabor, and any notion that she might not be right for him—or that she might have financial motives—he did not take seriously at all.

  A few months after meeting her, Conrad decided to introduce Zsa Zsa to his eighty-one-year-old mother, Mary, who still lived in El Paso. It suggests just how important Zsa Zsa had become to him that he would want his mother to know her. He needed to go to Mexico in order to approve alterations being made to the new Palacio Hilton, an enterprise he would lease and operate in Chihuahua as per a deal he had closed the previous November. (The hotel was set to open in April.) Therefore he decided to stop first in Texas with Zsa Zsa.