The Howard Hughes Affair: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Four) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

the Gurstwald place. For another dime, he told me how to get to Hughes’ house after I gave him the street number. The big Mexican in the cowboy hat had stepped out of Hijo’s, put a toothpick in his mouth and started across the street toward us, neatly circling the car door. He was either heading for the kid and me or the empty stores behind us.
    I started for the car.
    “Hey,” said the Mexican, pointing at me with his toothpick. “You. What you doin’?”
    “I’m getting in my car and heading for the Gurstwald place,” I explained. “What are you doing?”
    The Mexican came right at me out of the sun, and I could see the badge on his shirt for the first time.
    “I think you better answer me,” he said. “What are you bothering the kid for?”
    “Shit,” I sighed as quietly as I could, but he had good ears.
    “Who you callin’ shit?” he demanded.
    “No one,” I said. “I’m not looking for trouble. I’m just visiting some local residents.”
    “We don’t get many visitors,” he said, putting one hand on the fender of my Buick to keep the car from going away till he was ready.
    “I can see why,” I said opening my door. He kept his hand on the fender.
    “Good,” he said. “Just do your visiting and drive on through when you’re done.”
    I turned the motor over and shook my head.
    “That’s too bad,” I said. “I was thinking of picking up a few pounds of live bait.”
    The Mexican tipped his hat back and bit a small chunk off his toothpick. Then he examined what was left of the wood and spoke.
    “Better to forget the bait than be it,” he said softly.
    “Didn’t I see you in a Republic Western a few years ago?” I said seriously.
    “I think I don’t like you,” he replied, spitting out the toothpick.
    The kid had been watching us with such interest that he forgot about scratching the dirt from his neck.
    “I don’t argue with people who carry guns,” I said. “Now if you’ll just remove your hand, I promise to treasure the print and never clean it.”
    I swerved past the cat on the door and watched the Mexican deputy and the little kid grow small in the rear view mirror. I thought I saw a figure come out of the police office, but it might have been someone coming from the “bate” shop or “Hijo’s”. Whoever it was, I could do without further Mirador hospitality.
    The Gurstwald home was about two miles back on a paved road on a cliff over the ocean. It looked like it had a few dozen rooms. It certainly had a large brick wall around it with a heavy metal gate. It seemed an unnecessary precaution, since no one could find the place and no one seemed to live anywhere near it. The Gurstwalds valued their privacy.
    I parked at the side of the gate and walked towards it. A well-built young man with short blond hair, wearing denims and a blue cotton shirt with long sleeves rolled up to show his muscles, stood on the other side.
    “My name’s Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters.”
    The young man nodded, opened the gate and motioned for me to move ahead of him up the gravel path. I moved.
    “Nice place,” I said.
    “Yes,” he said, adding nothing. I shut up and walked to the door. He opened it and I stepped in. He stayed behind me.
    There was a stairway in front of us and a man descended, wearing a scarf and lounging jacket. He had grey hair cut almost to the scalp, and he must have been somewhere in his sixties. He was either wearing a fat jacket or he could have done with the loss of thirty or forty pounds.
    “Mr. Peters,” the man said with a distinct German accent. “In what way can I serve our Mr. Hughes?”
    He shook my hand amiably and indicated a room to his right. I went in, followed by Gurstwald and the blond with the muscles. The room was bright and looked out on a flower garden. I had expected something dark and somber with pictures of the Black Forest on the wall. Instead, I found a thick white carpet and yellow wicker furniture.
    I sat in a chair with a