“House?” I tried.
“Yes, a bowdy house. Is that how you say it?”
“Well, I don’t but that’s close enough.”
“I was a young girl. I was stupid. I thought it was fun. Music. And the brownshirts spending money. It was during the Depression in Germany too. That must have been when Brecht saw me. I remember him from his poems and plays. I remember once they arrested him for a poem saying Christ wasn’t divine. Maybe that’s when he saw me. I don’t know. Then when Schell saw me at Hughes’ house, he told me I had to get into Hughes’ room and take photographs of any papers there. He had tried but couldn’t get to them. Hughes had never left them alone. If I didn’t, he said, he would tell Anton what I had been. I had nowhere to go, Toby Peters. I couldn’t go back to my father in Germany. He wouldn’t have me.”
I tried to nod sympathetically. As far as I was concerned, she could become Shaharazad and go on till an engineer showed up for work in the morning.
“Well, Schell gave me a small camera. I knew how to use it. I left the party to go up to the bathroom and went into Hughes’ room.”
“And Major Barton saw you coming out,” I tried. “You didn’t see him coming out. You pleaded with him not to tell, told him you would explain and promised sweet nothings. How was he in the dental chair?”
“Major Barton drank too much,” she said softly.
“His loss,” I consoled.
“You told Schell and gave him the camera with the plans?”
“No,” she said. “I kept the camera and told Schell that Barton had gotten it from me. It was the only thing I could think to say to keep it from Schell. I didn’t want him to have it. I didn’t want it turned over to the Nazis.”
“Very noble of you,” I said, moving my sore and bloody foot slowly off the sharp point of a black disc on the floor. “Then I came in investigating everybody at the party, and you knew I would get to Barton soon. So, you got to me first and told me it was you who had seen Barton, not the other way around.”
“Yes,” she said, “but you must believe.…”
“Lady,” I said. “You’ve got the gun. I’ll believe any damn thing you tell me. If you’re going to tell me about the wonders of our moment of love, you might prove it by putting that gun away.”
“I can’t,” she said. “You’d tell.”
“How about if I crossed my heart?”
“How can you keep joking? You are joking, aren’t you?”
“I think so,” I said. “I can’t really analyze what fear does to me. I might even start giggling soon. So, you got to Barton?”
“Yes,” she went on, dropping her gun slightly. “He told me that Schell had come to him and demanded the photographs. Schell offered him a price. Barton said he didn’t tell him I had the camera.”
“That’s why Schell had Barton’s phone number in his wallet,” I added. “Go on.”
“Barton was thinking of going to the Air Force,” she went on, “after you and Mr. Rathbone had been to see him. I arrived at his house when you had left. He was afraid and he had been drinking. I could not appeal to his.…”
“Emotions,” I supplied.
“Yes,” she said, “emotions. So I had to shoot him.”
“And Martin Schell?” I said.
“At first he thought you had gotten the camera from Barton. Then he decided I might have the camera and photographs after all, and he told me to come and see him immediately. I was afraid, but I went. I walked over on the beach. It’s not far.”
“And.…” I urged her.
“I told him I didn’t have them. He hit me and said I had been no good in Berlin and was no good now, and he was going to tell Anton if I did not give him the photographs. I was going to give them, but his face was so twisted. He hurt me. The knife was his. He had taken it out and put it on the pool playing table to threaten me. I grabbed it and stabbed him hard. I am strong.”
“I know,” I said.
“I didn’t mean any of it,” she shrugged. “It just happened. It was Shiksal.”
“What?”
“Fate,” she said. “That’s the English word.”
“And Fate is going to make you put a couple of bullets in me? What about Brecht? He’ll still talk about having seen you with the Schells, or are you planning to find him and put a few bullets or a knife in him? I have a better idea. Why don’t you go to the library and get a Berlin telephone directory from 1933 and start with the A’s and work through the umlauts killing everyone who might have known you?”
“I can only do what I can do,” she said helplessly. “If I stop now, Anton finds out. Maybe I go to jail. He would not help if he knew what I had been. No, I must keep going. I’m sorry, Toby Peters.”
“No sorrier than I am, lady,” I said, deciding on a pitiful leap and the hope of a stray bullet. Even if I was lucky, survived the leap and knocked the gun away, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to handle her. She was one tough lady and I was one weak private eye with a half a head and a swollen foot. But what choice did I have?
The question was answered for me by the door flying open and a body leaping into the room. It was a beautiful blur in which a foot licked out, hitting Trudi’s hand and sending the gun flying against the wall. I went down covering my head, expecting the gun to discharge and spit out a silent bullet ricocheting around the little room till it stopped in something solid, like my head, which seemed to hold an unaccountable attraction for projectiles.
Trudi turned, and the blur hit her on the side of the neck. She staggered back and would have been painfully pinned on a turntable if I hadn’t hurried upright to catch her. Her unconscious weight almost dropped us both to the floor, but I managed to put her down more or less gently and hobble to the now harmless Luger in the corner.
“You were just in time,” I said.
“No,” said Toshiro. “I was listening at the door. I could have come in much sooner. I’ve been watching you since you got here.”
I looked at Trudi, whose neck was at a clearly uncomfortable angle. I turned her head and her face went limp.
“To what do I owe this last minute rescue?” I said, sitting on the table in the corner and ministering to my sore leg.
“Curiosity and perhaps a touch of concern for your safety. This has been a difficult experience for me, Mr. Peters,” Toshiro said, stepping forward to look at the foot. “You’d better have a doctor take a look at that. Why are your shoes off?”
“Forget it,” I said. “You were going to tell me about your difficult experience.”
“Right,” said Toshiro. “I’m afraid I’m what you would call a spy. Actually, it didn’t work out quite that way. I mean I wasn’t trained somewhere. My family does live in San Diego. We moved there from Tokyo about five years ago. I’m still a Japanese citizen. Japan is my country. American propaganda to the contrary, Japan is not totally at fault in what is going on. We are not totally innocent either. Well, to make this tale short, certain people from Japan contacted me because I am an aeronautical engineering student and asked me to take this job with Hughes and try to examine his papers if the opportunity arose, or if I could make it arise.”
“And you failed,” I guessed.
“Hell no,” he smiled. “I got a full set of photographs the day before the party and left everything neat and clean. Then those Germans came in and botched up the whole thing. I was afraid the investigation would lead to me.”
A figure appeared in the door with a gun. It was Paddy Whannel, the Scottish studio guard, who looked completely befuddled by what he saw—an unconscious woman on the floor, broken records all over the place, a guy with a bleeding foot and a young Japanese talking calmly.
“What the hell is this?” he said. “Peters, what’s going on?”
“Paddy, my friend,” I said. “I’m just beginning to find out. I suggest you lug the rather sturdy young lady out and tie her up. She murdered a couple of people. Then you might call the police and tell them to come here and pick u
p the more-than-suspect. I’ll explain.”
Whannel pointed his gun at Toshiro.
“Sure you’ll be all right with him?” he said.
“No,” I said, “but I’ll take my chances.”
Whannel holstered his gun and dragged Trudi away. In the hall, her heels made a double track in the NBC rug and we could hear him grunting.
“Doesn’t leave me much time,” said Toshiro.
“No,” I said. “Your plan is to turn the photographs over to the Japanese government, the photographs of Hughes’ plans for the bomber and the D-2 flying boat?
“Yes,” said Toshiro, “but my government won’t be able to do anything with them. I examined the plans carefully. Neither project is the slightest bit practical. The H-l he designed back in ’34 was a masterpiece. I’ve admired it for years, but the two projects he’s planning now are the overweight products of an overworked mind.”
“Then all this killing has been for nothing?” I said, wiping the bottom of my bare foot with Kleenex.
“It usually is,” said Toshiro. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I lifted Mrs. Gurstwald’s camera from her glove compartment before I came in. It probably still has the undeveloped photographs she took of Hughes’ plans. You can have it and give it back to Hughes. That way he’s happy and thinks his plans are safe, my government is happy and no one else gets hurt.”
“And you?”
“I get the hell out of here, go back to my family and drive to Mexico tonight. Then tomorrow we get a flight back to Tokyo. In a few hours all hell is going to break loose in this country, and I don’t want to be here. I’ve got the word that places have already been designated for interning Japanese Americans and Japanese nationals as soon as the war starts.”
“You’re letting your imagination go too far,” I said.
He took a small camera out of his pocket and handed it to me.
“You going to try to stop me?” he said.
“I owe you my life,” I said. “I’ve got a soft head and a long memory. Have a good trip.”
I looked up and Toshiro was gone.
In five minutes, after soaking my leg in cold water in an NBC sink and being interrupted only once by the engineer, who had seen me through the studio window, I found Paddy Whannel and we waited for the police.
It was somewhere about two when my brother and Steve Seidman arrived. My watch said two-twenty. Even a stopped watch has to be right twice a day, someone once told me. Or maybe I read it on the wall of the YMCA toilet.
“They called me at home when they heard your name,” Phil explained, leading me into an office Paddy Whannel provided. Seidman stayed outside. Phil needed a shave. The grey stubble on his chin made him look old and mean.
He closed the door behind us and said, “Explain.”
I explained fast, weaving a tale mostly of truth. I told about Trudi, Martin Schell and Barton. I told him they had tried to steal Hughes’ plans and failed. I didn’t tell him about Toshiro. I suggested he check Trudi’s gun and talk to her. I was sure she’d be willing to talk. He said Seidman was talking to her.
“So she killed the butler and Barton,” Phil said perceptively. “Who killed the guy in Minck’s dental chair?”
“A Nazi who can’t speak English,” I said. “A short guy with a lot of neck. Seidman and the FBI were with him at County Hospital yesterday.”
Phil’s angry look came on fast.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“I have a vast network of spies,” I said, and he moved at me with clenched fists. “For God’s sake,” I yelled, “I’m handing you murderers and spies all wrapped up to give to the FBI, and you want to further cripple a crippled man. Where’s your gratitude?”
He took my face in his big right hand, brought it close to his and then pushed me away. Then he held his hands together to keep them from doing something we would both regret.
“The guy in the hospital was named Kirst,” said Phil. “He’s dead. Got hit by a car. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No,” I said.
“Now, why did he strangle the Nazi in your office?”
“Double-cross,” I said. “Wolfgang Schell wasn’t supposed to kill me. He was supposed to find out how I fit in, but he got carried away and tried to kill me. Kirst tried to stop him, and they had a fight. He pummeled the hell out of Kirst. Some of the wounds on his body didn’t come from that automobile accident.”
“We know,” Phil said suspiciously. “Go on.”
“So, Kirst bled all over the place, got mad and strangled Schell in the dental chair.”
Now if Phil didn’t check blood types, or if the blood types of Kirst and the blood in Shelly’s office matched, everything was fine.
“That is one hell of a story,” Phil sighed.
“You think the FBI will buy it?” I said.
He shrugged.
“How much of it is true?” he asked in an almost friendly way.
“Most of it. Enough.”
“In a way, I don’t give a damn,” he said. “Three Nazis and a drunken Air Force major. Is she a Nazi too?” He pointed to the door, clearly meaning Trudi.
“If you mean a German, yes. If you mean a Nazi, no.”
“They’re all Nazis,” Phil said, simplifying the world like a good cop.
Seidman knocked and came in.
“Well?” said Phil.
“She’s a talker,” said Seidman. “Confessed to two murders, cried, pleaded. Said something about someone hitting her.”
“I did,” I said. “She was going to shoot me. I kicked the gun out of her hand.”
“Night guard out there said something about a Japanese guy,” said Seidman, looking at me. Phil looked at me.
“Chinese,” I said. “Here visiting a friend or something. Saw the mess and stuck his head in to see if he could help. I didn’t get his name. He gave it. Loo or Chan or something like that.”
“Get out,” said Phil. “Fast before your ass falls off from all the lies. Get out, you shit.” He raged and threw something in my general direction. It was an NBC ashtray. It almost hit Seidman.
I went out and hobbled down the hall as fast as my legs would carry me. I retrieved my shoes from the studio but couldn’t get them on, so I hopped across the parking lot, afraid to step on the pebbles, and got into my car.
Driving to Mirador with a cracked windshield wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve done, but with the help of three more of Dr. Parry’s pills-for-all-ills, I made it by four in the morning.
The front door was answered by one of the two neatly dressed guards. He let me in and followed me up to Hughes’ study. Hughes looked up from his drawings at me as if he had almost forgotten who he was. For some reason, he was wearing his fedora tilted back on his head.
“I’m alive,” I said.
“That’s good, really,” said Hughes with something vaguely near enthusiasm. “Did you find out if they stole any of my plans?”
“Don’t you want to know who murdered three people?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “The less I know, the less people can ask me.”
I pulled the small Leica out of my pocket and threw it to him. He caught it almost as well as Joe Dimaggio.
“What they had is in there,” I said. “They never got to develop it. If you want to develop it, you can just to be sure I’m telling the truth.”
“I will,” he said emotionlessly.
I laughed. “You don’t even know when you’re insulting someone.”
“I thought I was just being practical,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. You’ve done a good job, and you can be sure your bill will be paid in full.”
“And that’s it?”
Hughes had turned back to whatever he was working on.
“You were hired for a job. You were paid for a job. You did the job. I told you I appreciate professionalism.”
I was tempted to tell him the plans in front of him were of no interest to
Japan or probably anyone else, but it wasn’t worth the effort, and I had more work to do, and miles to go.
The bruiser in the flannel suit let me out of the door, and I drove through the first rays of dawn over the ratty main street of Mirador, taking my last look at Hijo’s, the bait shop, the police station and the car door in the middle of the street. I purposely cracked into the edge of the car door, sending it spinning toward the curb. It came to a screeching stop at the door of the police station. I had done my part to clean up Mirador in more ways than one.
I didn’t admire the dawn through my cracked windshield as I squinted my way back to Los Angeles slowly.
It was a strange early morning Los Angeles I seldom saw, with no people on the street.
I stopped for breakfast at a we-never-close place. I still couldn’t get my shoes on.
“What can I get you, Spirit of 76?” said the counter man, looking at my bandaged head and shoeless feet, which brought laughs to some early morning mailmen and a truck driver or two.
“You can get me a cannon for Christmas I can shove in your mouth,” I said and sat at the counter. I didn’t like what I was going to have to do, and I wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
“Hey, I was just kidding,” said the counterman, who looked like a recently converted alcoholic. “The boys can tell you I’m a kidder. Ain’t I, boys?”
The boys agreed he was a kidder, but one of the boys scooted to a stool further from me.
“O.K., Red Skelton, get me a double bowl of Shredded Wheat with what you have passing for cream, and I’ll dump my own sugar on it. And get me a coffee in something like a clean cup.”
“You don’t have to get sore, Mac,” said the counterman, wiping his hands on his apron.
“You’re forgiven,” I said, making a sign like I saw a priest do once in a movie. One of the mailmen thought about laughing, but my mashed face, broken head and ridiculous foot changed his mind. I was really hell on a stool, I was.
I ate the Shredded Wheat and left the counterman a big tip. I’d make a good tale for him to tell the rest of the shift. It was nothing compared to what I could have told him.
I drove the Buick to Al’s garage, but it was Sunday and Al wasn’t there. I left it in the gas station for him with the keys under the front seat. He’d see the windshield and know what to do.
The Howard Hughes Affair: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Four) Page 16