(4 of 10)
Hilton has all the trappings of the very rich, but they hang indifferently about him. He has four cars, a private plane, a pro football team (San Diego Chargers) and a 61-room mansion in Bel Air, Calif., which, with Hearstian grandeur, he has named Casa Encantada. He lives there alone and, with 19 servants at his call, does nothing for himself; he will not even buy his own clothes. While his hotels like to proclaim their appeal to gourmets, Hilton is indifferent to fancy food, preferring to dine on corned beef hash, tuna-fish casserole and tea served in plastic cups ("It's more sanitary."). Though his hotels pride themselves on the original works of art they hang in lobbies and guest rooms (the New York Hilton has 8,500 specially commissioned works), one of the least appreciative viewers is Conrad Hilton. "He wouldn't know a Rubens from a Ribicoff," says an aide. The decor of Casa Encantada gives the total effect of the main lounge of the Queen Mary.
Courtly Charm. Twice divorced, the last time after a tempestuous marriage to Zsa Zsa Gabor ("If I had waited one hour more, I never would have married Zsa Zsa," Hilton regretfully told a friend), Hilton now prefers the company of younger women—mostly airline stewardesses in their early 20s. He treats them with courtly charm, asks nothing of them except that they be attractive and pleasant companions for dinner and dancing. More often than not, he stays home alone and goes to bed after an evening of television. His favorite show is Sing Along with Mitch, and Hilton explains: "I don't sing along, but I sometimes do a little dance." Very conscious of his appearance, he carefully stays a trim 171 Ibs., abhors fat men to the point where he does not even like to do business with them.
Hilton's ego is as big as his house. He keeps the vanity press busy printing books praising himself, and his autobiography, Be My Guest, is in more of his hotel rooms than the Gideon Bible. A Roman Catholic who is relieved to be back in good standing after shedding Zsa Zsa, Hilton constantly composes prayers to the Almighty and has them printed in Hilton employee publications, likes to think that "God is a gentleman." His speeches are sometimes written by a Jesuit Priest, Father Thomas Sullivan of the University of Santa Clara, and at big receptions Hilton does his best to divide his time evenly between the clergy and the pretty girls.
For a man of such feelings, it would not be enough to extend his hotel chain merely for the sake of profit. His international expansion becomes a Hilton plan for world peace in which "people gather together in our hotels and get along with one another." "We think we are helping out in the struggle that is going on in the cold war today with world travel," says Hilton. "These hotels are examples of free enterprise that the Communists hate to see." He likes to say that "we beat Communism into the Caribbean by ten years," and one of his top financial backers, Henry Crown, adds: "We're second only to the Peace Corps."