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

treating criminals.”
    Major Barton’s home was in Westwood, a small house set back on an untrimmed lawn. I didn’t know if he was there, but I had gotten nowhere trying to reach him by phone, and Trudi Gurstwald plus his phone number in Frye’s wallet had made him my A Number-One Suspect. It was worth a chance.
    Barton was home. He answered the door himself and he was in-uniform, or at least partly in uniform. His jacket, tie and shoes were not on and I had the impression we had interrupted him while he was dressing. He was about fifty, a little taller than I and working hard to keep his stomach in by will power instead of exercise. His nose had the red touch of a drinker, and his breath confirmed Hughes’ information.
    “Mr. Rathbone,” he said in surprise. “To what do I owe this visit?”
    “Good afternoon, Major,” Rathbone said amiably, “this is Mr. Peters. He is working for Howard Hughes, and he’d like some help with something you may be able to assist him with. May we come in?”
    Rathbone stepped forward the way he did as Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles movie, and I followed behind.
    “I was just on my way out,” Barton said, trying to get ahead of us to cover the mess and bottles in his living room.
    “We won’t take a moment,” smiled Rathbone. “I’m sure you want to cooperate with Mr. Hughes’ emissary.”
    “Of course,” said Barton. “Just give me a minute to finish dressing, gentlemen. Make yourself at home. Have a drink.”
    We went into Barton’s living room, and Rathbone immediately opened a window to let out the stale smell, then sat down comfortably. The room was small, darkly carpeted with a sofa and some chairs. The chairs looked expensive, far from new, and not recently dusted. They were striped black and brown and looked lived in. On the wall was a picture of Napoleon on a horse. The horse was up on his hind feet and Napoleon was looking at me with his sword raised before he joined the battle in the background.
    Barton came back in a few minutes, smelling of Sen–Sen and after-shave lotion. But the alcohol still came through.
    “Mrs. Barton is out of town for a few days,” he said, having a seat. “Please excuse the condition of the house.”
    “This is confidential, Major,” I said, pulling a seat as close to him as I could. “You’re assigned to…”
    “Special duty working with various aircraft manufacturers on proposals for new weaponry,” he supplied. “Hughes Aircraft is one of those manufacturers.”
    “Good,” I said. “Mr. Hughes has reason to believe that something may have been copied at his house the night of the dinner party, something valuable relating to the very weapons you’re talking about. Did you happen to see anything suspicious?”
    Barton thought for a few seconds and then came up empty.
    “Sorry,” he said. “Nothing happened out of the ordinary as far as I was concerned, though Hughes did behave a bit strangely after dinner and put a rather abrupt end to what I thought was going to be an evening of discussion. I think Mr. Rathbone will confirm that.”
    “I confirm your observation about Hughes,” said Rathbone, staring at the man and taking out his silver cigarette case.
    “Major Barton,” I went on, “what would you say if I told you someone in the house that night has told us that they saw you coming out of Mr. Hughes’ study shortly after dinner and that you looked nervous? What would you say?”
    “I’d say they were a goddamn liar,” Barton said indignantly, rising. “I’d say let them say that to my face.”
    “Well,” I said, “maybe we can arrange that. It’s gotten pretty important. You see, a guy named Frye was murdered this morning, and I think it’s related to what happened at Hughes’ house. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Major?”
    Barton flushed and stood up, staring at the impassive Rathbone and at me.
    “What made me think you might know, Major,” I pressed on, “was