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

forward.
    “I mentioned your name,” she said, putting Cronin on her lap for protection, “because they wanted someone who was discreet and reasonable. Fortunately, they didn’t ay anything about intelligence.”
    “You can’t hurt me that way, Annie,” I grinned.
    “I know it,” she said. “I threw you a job because God knows you can always use one. We have nothing to talk about.”
    “We have hundreds of battles, thousands of hamburgers, and years of apologies to talk about,” I said.
    She put the book down, walked to the door and opened it.
    “Don’t you want to hear what Hughes wants?” I said.
    “I want to hear,” she said softly, “but I don’t want to pay the price for it. Your price is always too high, Toby. You can make a person live a century in fifteen minutes.”
    “And you used to love it,” I tried.
    She shook her head.
    “I never loved it. I accepted it. We’ve been all through it, Toby. I’m almost 40 years old. I have no family, no kids. I’ve got a career and some hope. You don’t cheer me up when you come around. You just remind me of everything I’ve missed.”
    “You sent me a perfumed letter,” I said, getting up and moving toward her.
    “I pay my gas bill with perfumed letters,” she said. “I buy it by the box. Come on, Toby, I’ve had a bad day. My feet hurt and I have to look in the mirror soon.”
    “You’re beautiful, Annie.”
    She shook her head and smiled sadly.
    “I’m holding on, Toby,” she said. “I heard someone in the office describe me as a handsome woman today. That depressed me almost as much as this visit is. Please take your needs someplace else. I’m not an emotional gas station that can keep pumping it out.”
    It had gone all wrong, and I was depressed and feeling sorry for her and myself.
    “I tried,” I sighed and went toward the door.
    “Yes,” she said softly, “but did you ever stop to think about what it was you tried and why?”
    I stepped toward her, and she held her hand out looking like Kay Francis. It would have been a great lobby poster.
    “I’ll see you,” I said.
    “Take care of yourself,” she said.
    On the way back to the car, I decided to visit my nephews some time soon. Christmas was on the way. I’d get the boys the Foto-Electric Football game I saw advertised at Robinson’s for $4.95. I’d get my sister-in-law Ruth a jacket from Bullock’s. I’d get Phil a bottle of Serutan with a clipping of the ad that said “I’m 46 but I look and feel younger.” I’d cheer everybody up. I’d be dear old Uncle Toby. Like hell I would. That wasn’t the way to put Anne’s words out of my mind.
    Even Burns and Allen on the car radio didn’t help. Three tacos and a large Pepsi didn’t help. I was getting desperate enough to get to work. I pulled out the sheet from Hughes. The closest person on the list was Basil Rathbone. He lived at 10728 Bellagio Road in Bel Air, which wasn’t too far. I spent a nickel and got Rathbone’s wife on the phone. After I told her Howard Hughes had given me the number, she told me her husband was at NBC rehearsing a radio show. I thanked her, considered myself lucky that I wasn’t too far from NBC and got back in the turtle and head down Sunset.
    NBC looked clean, neat and sterile enough to have been decorated by my former wife. Even the girl at the reception desk looked too clean to be real.
    “Clarise,” I said, leaning over confidentially to read her name tag, “my name is Peters. Mr. Rathbone is expecting me.”
    Clarise examined a skewered spindle of papers in front of her, searching for a note, a hint, a hope, an affirmation. I stood impatiently looking at my watch. My watch told me it was 2:10 in the afternoon or 2:10 in the morning. Neither was within seven hours of the truth. I wound the watch but it didn’t help. Time stood still but Clarise didn’t.
    “For Mr. Rathbone?” she said.
    I looked at the grey-haired guard behind her in exasperation.
    “Look, young lady,”