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

I sighed. “I have about one hour between planes. Mr. Rathbone wanted to see me about production of the play. I did not want to see him. Our backers in New York don’t think his name will mean that much to us, and we have an adaptation of The Keys of the Kingdom as a major possibility. Why don’t you just tell Mr. Rathbone that I came by, you did your job and kept me from him, and he can contact me some time about the play. Just tell him it was Mr. Peters from the Schubert’s in New York.”
    I turned to leave. I could have sat down and done some message sending. I could have waited outside for Rathbone to make an appearance. But I hadn’t been able to resist the urge to con my way into NBC. Professional pride.
    “I’ll give Mr. Rathbone your message,” she said.
    I turned to give her a withering stare and a closer examination. She was thin, vacantly pretty with frizzy auburn hair and in some other orbit. I tried another ploy.
    “Where is the regular girl on this desk?”
    Now how a man from Schubert’s in New York would know she wasn’t a regular would have been a reasonable question, but I had gauged Clarise’s vacant look properly.
    “She’s on a dinner break. I’m just taking over for half an hour.”
    I pointed my finger at her and talked through my teeth. Maybe I could reduce her to tears and get back at Annie through womankind in the pathetic form of Clarise.
    “What’s your last name, Clarise?” I said.
    “Clarise Peary. I usually work the telephones on…”
    I wrote Clarise Peary’s name in my expense book right under the nickel I had spent on the call to Rathbone’s house. Clarise squirmed inside her dark blue NBC jacket. I had discovered back in my cop days that people didn’t like having their names written down.
    “Well,” she hesitated, “if Mr. Rathbone is expecting you…”
    “He is not expecting me,” I said, leaning forward, not very proud of myself for intimidating a part-time clerk, “he is anxious to see me while I am not in the least anxious to see him. My time,” I said, noticing again from my watch that time had stopped at two-ten, “is valuable.”
    “Paddy will take you to the studio,” she sighed, looking anxiously at a couple who had come through the main door and were heading for her desk. She clearly feared having to handle two questions at the same time.
    “Thank you,” I said officiously. She smiled, showing a crack in her face powder. The guard with the grey hair nodded and started down the hall toward a door. I followed him. He opened the door and I stepped through.
    “You know,” he said with a faint Scottish accent, “that talk wouldn’t have fooled the regular girl for a second. Schubert’s, hell.” He chuckled.
    “Then why aren’t you tossing me out?” I said, hurrying to keep up with him as we went past glassed-in rooms of equipment and jacketless men with earphones.
    “My name’s Whannel,” he said. “Worked at Warner’s till last year. Got fired for drinking on a job—a job you got me sent on.”
    “I remember,” I said. “Flynn. You and another security guy named Ellis were supposed to watch Errol Flynn. He got you drunk.”
    “And we got canned,” he said, pointing to a thick wooden door. Above the door was a sign reading “On the Air.” The sign was lighted.
    “Then why didn’t you turn me back at the desk out there?”
    “Getting fired from Warner’s was the best thing ever happened to Jack and me. NBC has better pay and hours, and I don’t have to walk all over that damn lot. Be quiet when you go in there. They’re not on the air, just rehearsing. Take it easy.”
    “You too,” I said, and he left me. I walked into the studio as quietly as I could. It was a bigger room than I expected, with a stage and a small darkened space for about 30 chairs. I took a seat in one of the chairs. A handful of people were listening to the rehearsal.
    On the stage was a slightly raised platform with a microphone and two men standing