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

around the dental chair getting my pants down and her dress up. At one point her breasts battered my head against the head rest and almost knocked me out. I had a fantasy of Trudi Gurstwald going up against Chief Little Wolf at the Eastside Arena and taking him in two falls.
    Making love in a dental chair—if that was what we did—is definitely not recommended for someone with a bad back. It has its rewards, but it also has it consequences. I was exhausted when Trudi Gurstwald gave me a final smile through her tears, kissed my sore mouth and stood up.
    “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
    “My pleasure,” I said, trying to stand up and finding myself pushed back in the dental chair by the pain in my kidney. I pulled my pants on in a sitting position and tucked in my shirt. Trudi looked at me soulfully and I thought she was going to have another attack of emotion. I wasn’t sure I could survive it.
    “Trudi,” I said, pushing myself from the chair and taking her hand before she could take mine or some other part of me. “What did you see at Hughes’ house that night?”
    She looked at me in surprise and straightened her hair and then remembered one of the points of her visit.
    “It was that Army major,” she said.
    “Barton.”
    “Yes, Barton. I went upstairs that night to the—how do you say it politely?”
    “Toilet.”
    “Yes, toilet. Someone was using the downstairs toilet and I saw this Major Barton coming out of a room. The door opened enough so I could see it was an office with papers and drawings. Major Barton was nervous and looked around both ways to see if anyone saw him coming from the room. I was in the …”
    “Toilet.”
    “Yes, I must remember that word. It is awkward to say Powder Room when one doesn’t mean Powder Room.”
    “Major Barton,” I prodded.
    “He looked both ways, closed the door and went down the steps. He had sweat on his head, and he wiped it with his sleeve, though the night was cool.”
    She squeezed my hand and looked soulful again.
    “Anton was afraid I should tell you and he would get involved,” she said. “I had told him. He said it would be the questionable word of two Germans against that of an American officer. But I had to tell you. If someone finds out we knew and said nothing, and it turned out to be important, we would be in even bigger trouble.”
    “Right,” I said. Her eyes were growing moist again and I added, “You’ve been here about half an hour. You’ve got Anton and a cab waiting.”
    “Again soon?” she asked.
    This time I kissed her first.
    “Again soon,” I said and guided her to the alcove, where she tripped against the once-leather-covered chair.
    When she stepped into the hall, I locked the door behind her to keep her from a sudden change of mind. I wasn’t worried about her being attacked by any of the neighborhood bums. She could take care of herself.
    I figured it was about nine and was about to turn on the radio to find out, when the phone rang.
    “Peters,” I said.
    “I say this once,” the voice said in sharp Germanic English. It was a man’s voice and it was not a patient voice. “You cease your current investigation. You cease or soon there will be no Toby Peters.”
    “Shelly,” I said. “Is this your idea of a joke? Your Hitler is as bad as your Clark Gable.”
    “This is no joke,” hissed the voice. “And you would be wise to heed my warning.”
    “I don’t know who’s doing your dialogue, pal,” I said, “but it could use a rewrite.”
    He hung up before I could. I knew it could have been a gag. But I also knew there was a chance that it wasn’t, so I calmly got my things together, put on my jacket, turned out the lights and decided to go home and sleep on it.
    I got as far as the alcove door when I saw the shadow in the pebble glass behind the reversed lettering of Shelly’s and my name. It looked like the shadow’s owner had something in his hand. I stepped back and whoever it was tried the door I