A FEW minutes before 10 o'clock on Thanksgiving Eve, Howard Hughes pulled an old sweater over the white shirt that he wore open at the neck, donned a fedora and walked to the rear of the penthouse atop the Desert Inn in Las Vegas where he had lived for the past four years. Avoiding the private detectives who guarded the elevator around the clock, Hughes eased his tall, thin frame through a long-unused fire door and walked the nine stories down an interior fire escape to the hotel parking lot. He could be reasonably...
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