McCrory laughed. “That’s thoughtful of you. Lieutenant,” he said. “Have a seat.”
“If y’ don’t mind, I’d like to stand here and look at your fish tank. Those fish sure are beautiful!”
“When things get tense, I turn and watch the fish,” said the apple-cheeked lawyer. “It’s therapeutic.”
“I bet it is.”
“Well. What can I do for you?”
Columbo broke himself away from the aquarium and sat down facing McCrory’s desk. “Something very peculiar has come up. The medical examiner checked the contents of Mr. Drury’s stomach and is scientifically certain the man died within half an hour after he finished his dinner. I’ll be checkin’ the restaurant, too, but Miss Bergman says they left there as early as a quarter to eleven—anyway, before eleven for sure. He sent her home in a cab. The doctor is very positive. You see the problem.”
“How could he have called me at eleven forty-seven? Hmm? There’s the4problem.”
Columbo nodded. “Is there any way somebody could have tampered with your machine and set the time on it wrong?”
“Someone would have had to come into my office after I left here Wednesday afternoon, set the time wrong, then come back before I came in yesterday morning and set it back again.”
“There’s no way to tamper with it by telephone? Y’ know you can change some things on those machines by calling in and beeping codes.”
“You can’t change the time. Lieutenant. Not without coming in and doing it. Not on this machine.”
“No…”
McCrory smiled and shrugged. “Of course, I could have done it, to make an alibi for myself or somebody else.”
Columbo shook his head. “No… for that to work, Mr. Drury would have had to cooperate by calling in here and leaving that message. It’s hardly likely, is it, that he’d help you make an alibi for his murderer?”
McCrory smiled and shrugged. “No way. Not the Paul Drury I knew.”
“Okay. Yesterday you told me Mrs. Drury may be mob-connected. I’m going to ask you to be more specific.”
“I said I couldn’t prove it.”
“I don’t ask ya to prove anything, sir. And I’ll keep what you tell me confidential. But I’d like to know if you had anything specific in mind.”
“Paul told me she was cozy with a Mafioso in Las Vegas. He didn’t like it.”
“Was this during their marriage?”
“Partly. Sometimes she went to Vegas when he couldn’t or wouldn’t go. That really upset him.”
“Why’d they get divorced, sir?”
“Things like that. Plus, he was seeing another woman.”
“Jessica O’Neil.”
McCrory smiled and chuckled. “You don’t miss much, do you, Lieutenant?”
“It’s the only way I can possibly succeed in my work, sir—just plug away, plug away, and be thorough. I read a lot about detectives who figure things out by being brilliant, and I’ve known a couple or three who can do that; but me, all I can do is work hard, find out all I can, and, like you say, don’t miss much. Does the name Philip Sclafani mean anything to you?”
McCrary’s smile broadened into a grin. “I’m damned glad I didn’t kill Paul and have you on my case,” he said. “Yeah, Sclafani’s the name Paul mentioned.”
“You got any idea why this fellow Philip Sclafani would want Mr. Drury killed?”
“No. After Paul and Alicia were divorced, she saw Sclafani openly, and Paul knew it. He was going to Vegas to see Bobby Angela, and Alicia’d fly over with him and see Sclafani openly. Paul called him a ‘greaseball scumbag’ and things like that, but I don’t think there was ever a confrontation between them.”
“Well… I’m taking too much of your time, Mr. McCrory. I’m just still puzzled about the time of that telephone call. That’s a big conflict in the evidence.”
“I can’t explain it. Lieutenant. I wish I could.”
“Thank you so much for your time, sir. I’m very grateful. I hope I won’t have to bother you again.” Outside the office, Columbo pulled his cigar from his raincoat pocket, then stared at it for a moment, remembering he was about to get into an elevator. He returned it to the pocket. He’d light it out on the street.
4
Martha Zimmer was waiting outside La Felicita when Columbo arrived. As Columbo approached her, she pulled off her sunglasses. As usual, she wore a blue blazer and a white blouse over her ample upper figure, with her detective’s badge displayed on the blouse pocket. Today she was wearing a pleated gray skirt. They went inside. He showed his badge and introduced himself to the hostess, and she picked up her telephone and called the owner to come out from his office.
“My, isn’t this a nice place?” Columbo said to Martha as they waited. It was in fact a handsome small restaurant, the kind of place an aggressively urbane man like Paul Drury would have found, appreciated, and patronized. It was Italian in tone, yet determinedly Southern-California-American: dark wood, wrought-iron sconces, fire-engine-red tablecloths, candles inside amber-colored glass.
“I bet the food is better than the decor,” said Martha.
The proprietor came out: a tall, rather suave man with a bushy black mustache.
“I’m Vincent Conte, Lieutenant Columbo. What can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the death of Paul Drury, Mr. Conte. We’ve got just a couple of simple questions. This is Mrs. Zimmer. She’s a detective, too—LAPD.”
“Would you like to sit down in the lounge? Can I offer you a drink?”
“Well, maybe a root beer,” said Columbo.
“I’m afraid we don’t have root beer,” Conte said. “Coca-Cola?”
“Oh, fine. She’ll have the same.”
The bartender had overheard and squirted the two Cokes into glasses, which he brought to their booth.
“Mr. Conte, I imagine you know Mr. Drury ate here and died not long after he left, Wednesday evening.”
“I know. A tragedy. I have lost a friend, too. He dined here once a week, regularly.”
Columbo nodded. “We have conflicting stories about when he left here. Can you tell me what time he left?”
“I can tell you exactly when he left. He asked us to call a cab for his young lady about ten-forty. The cab arrived within five or ten minutes, and they left. I stepped out to see that everything was in order. He put the young lady in the cab and got into his own car. I’d had the valet parker bring it out at the same time when I called the cab. That had to be—”
“A quarter to eleven?”
“Within five minutes of it.”
“What had he eaten for dinner?”
“A specialty we call Pasta Felicita. It is an assortment of shellfish—lobster, crab, shrimp—in a white wine sauce with herbs, over angel-hair pasta.”
“Wine?”
“Montepulciano.”
“Did they eat dessert?”
“No. They ordered coffee but no dessert.”
“How about the young lady, sir. Do you know who she was? Do you know her name?” Martha Zimmer asked.
“Her name is Miss Karen Bergman. She worked for Mr. Drury and had been here with him twice before.”
“Did they argue? Did you see any tension between them? Anything like that?”
“No. I thought them an affectionate couple.”
“Well, that’s very helpful, sir. We appreciate it.”
“Would you and Mrs. Zimmer be my guests for lunch, Lieutenant?”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Conte, but we’ve got things we have to do. Maybe another time.”
“Anytime, Lieutenant. I will be honored.”
5
What they had to do was drive up into the mountains and find a secluded ravine where Columbo could fire a few shots from his revolver, on the sly. He drove the Peugeot, and in half an hour they found a spot they considered suitable: along a small stream, with a steep bank on the other side so slugs could not escape and create a hazard.
M
artha took off her shoes, and waded across the stream to line up half a dozen tin cans she had brought for targets.
Martha had left her blue blazer in the Peugeot, and her own revolver hung in a soft shoulder holster in her left armpit. She remained barefoot because she didn’t want to put on her shoes again until her feet were dry.
Columbo stared at the uneven line of cans, frowning and puffing nervously on the stub of a cigar. “In all my years on the job, in New York and LA, I never fired a single shot. Never drew my gun.”
“You had to qualify with a service revolver to get your shield,” said Martha.
“I got the idea the range officers always took it easy on me.”
“Well, go ahead and shoot a can.”
He had carried the Colt revolver down from the car. He pulled it out of his raincoat pocket and took aim at one of the cans. He pulled back the hammer, steadied his aim, which wavered anyway, and finally pulled the trigger. The revolver barked and jerked, and the bullet kicked out a hole in the bank above the cans—two feet above them.
“Y’ see? I never could get onto this. I never learned to swim, either.”
“Aim with both arms, Columbo. You’re allowed to use both arms. And don’t extend your arms so far your elbows are stiff. Leave a little flexibility.”
“I can use both hands? Awright, then!” He drew back the hammer, aimed again, this time with his left hand locked around his right wrist. The bullet hit the water and threw up a big splash.
“It’s only twenty-five damned feet,” muttered Martha. She pulled her own revolver from her holster. “Look, Columbo. Stand with your feet a little apart, like this.” She fired without pulling back the hammer first. A can leaped in the air. She fired a second shot, and another can leaped.
Columbo pulled out his cigar and threw it away. He mimicked her stance and fired again. His slug kicked a hole in the bank, between two cans.
“Y’ got the elevation,” said Martha. “Now get the windage, and you’ll knock down a can.”
Columbo took the stance again. His tongue came out of one corner of his mouth, and he fired. A can fell over. He’d knocked the sand out from under it.
“The targets at the range are bigger,” he said.
“Yes, and they’re twice as far away.”
He spread his legs and thrust the revolver forward, this time steadying it by closing his left hand around his right and the grip. He tried closing his left eye and sighting with his right, then his right eye and sighting with his left. He pulled back the hammer. He hesitated for a long moment, then fired.
A can leaped, then rolled into the stream.
“Good enough,” said Columbo. “Quit while I’m ahead.”
“One shot out of five? Not good enough. We ought to put at least a box of ammo through that gun.”
“I’d be deaf,” said Columbo as he shoved the pistol into his raincoat pocket. “Anyway, I’ve got to go see Jessica O’Neil.”
“Whatta ya want me to do?”
“Go back to the Drury house with a team and search for a hidden safe. Remember, the guy was clever and may have hid it someplace where nobody would think to look.”
Eight
1
“It’s very nice of you to give me your time this afternoon,” Columbo said to Jessica O’Neil.
“When a police detective comes to your door and sends in word he wants to talk to you about a murder, you make time. Lieutenant.”
“I still say it’s nice of you, ma’am. Some people don’t like to do it.”
“Well… come out on the deck. I’m studying a script. C’mon. We’ll sit in the sunshine while we talk.”
Jessica O’Neil was an unusual actress, according to what Mrs. Columbo had read about her in People magazine and told Columbo over breakfast one morning. Her father was a financier in New York. She was the heiress to a considerable fortune, had studied art at Wellesley, then had come to California and studied acting. She was a painter. Probably the paintings he noticed as they walked through the house were her own work. In appearance she was not unusual. She was just pretty, as he appraised her. She was no great beauty, certainly not a beauty contrived by a makeup artist; she was just a very pretty girl, with a friendly face and dark-brown hair. She was wearing a man’s vest undershirt and a pair of blue denim shorts. He pretended he didn’t notice she was wearing nothing under the shirt. He was not a man to ogle, but he was not blind nor was he indifferent to a woman’s charms, either.
“I’m sorry I’m interruptin’—”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re here about the murder of Paul Drury. That’s scary. I want to see it solved. Can I offer you a drink? I’m having iced tea, but I’ve got just about anything.”
“Iced tea. That’s very nice.”
Jessica O’Neil called into the kitchen as she and Columbo walked toward the deck and told the maid who had answered the door to bring iced tea for the lieutenant.
The redwood deck overlooked a swimming pool on a terrace below, and beyond that it overlooked in the distance the beaches at Malibu and the Pacific beyond. The air was unusually clear that Friday afternoon, but a line of thunderstorms was visible at sea. Rain was likely before evening.
“I saw one of your pictures,” said Columbo. “Really? Which one?”
“Ironweed.”
“Then I have nothing to hide from you, do I, Lieutenant?” she asked with an amused smile.
She referred to the fact that in that picture she had appeared more than briefly in the nude. “Uh
… so, ma’am, I guess you don’t.” He hoped she hadn’t meant to tell him she had noticed his eyes on her undershirt.
“I thought I was in love with Paul Drury,” she said soberly. “In fact, I didn’t just think it; I was—for a time. He was married to Alicia, but that didn’t make any difference. My father warned me about Paul. My father said he was a cheap little adventurer.”
“Did he give you one of those cards that let you into his house?”
“Yes. I still have it. Do you want it?”
Columbo shrugged and turned down the comers of his mouth. “No, it doesn’t make any difference. The codes were changed yesterday.”
“I was in New York when he was murdered. I flew east on Sunday and came back yesterday afternoon—in case you want an alibi for me.”
“I wasn’t goin’ to ask you for one, ma’am. Do you mind if I light up a cigar?”
“Not at all.”
“Gotta match?”
Jessica O’Neil grinned. “When the maid brings your iced tea, I’ll send her in for one.”
“I hate to put people to a lotta trouble.”
“That’s what she does for a living. Lieutenant: runs errands. What can I tell you about Paul?”
“Why don’t you just give me a short account of the relationship. I mean, I don’t have to have details, if you know what I mean. Just tell me the story, sorta sketch it out.”
“I met him at the J. Paul Getty Museum. That would have been in April of 1991. It was a coincidence. I was there. He was there. We recognized each other. We struck up a conversation, and before it was over he asked me to go to dinner with him. We went to dinner that weekend—Saturday night, I think it was. He worked hard all week and was big on weekend dates.”
“Where was Mrs. Drury that Saturday night?”
“In Las Vegas. He resented her leaving him on weekends. That’s what made him feel free to have dates.”
“How long did you continue to have weekend dates with Mr. Drury?”
“A little more than a year.”
“Go on, ma’am. I shouldn’t have interrupted.” Jessica O’Neil sighed. “He was divorced in December of 1991. I thought he’d ask me to marry him then. Or soon. But he didn’t. That’s what broke us up, really. Also, when my father saw that Paul was not going to ask me to marry him, he began to pressure me to break it off.”
The maid brought the iced tea, and Jessica O’Neil told her to bring a lighter.
“What’d
your father have against Mr. Drury, specifically, if you don’t mind sayin’?”
“A whole lot of things,” she said. “You know how it is with men in banking: they exchange information. He’d found out a lot of things about Paul.”
“Like what, ma’am?”
“He said Paul was not securely funded, that he was apt to go bankrupt if any little thing happened. Also, he didn’t like Paul’s chief investor.”
“Charles Bell?”
“Yes. Charles Bell’s father was Austin Bell, who died in 1989. Austin Bell was one of those Texans my father despises: a swaggering superpatriot, member of the John Birch Society and all that. My father met him at least twice. He absolutely detested him. The story is told that Austin Bell funded the training and equipping of Cubans for the Bay of Pigs invasion. Among the last things he did, which annoyed my father, waft make an immense contribution to the Oliver North defense fund—saying Ollie North was one of the last great American patriots. My father loathed Austin Bell. And he didn’t think any better of his son.”
“Is Charles Bell involved in all this kinda stuff?” Jessica O’Neil shook her head. “Not that I know of. Paul didn’t know of it if he was, I can tell you that.”
“Well, I guess a man’s politics—”
“There was more than that,” she interjected. “The word was around in New York financial circles that Austin Bell was a silent partner in some things a Texan might get away with but an ethical New York banker wouldn’t dare touch.”
“Please be specific about that, ma’am.”
“My father believes— I have no idea what the source of his information is. My father believes that Austin Bell was a silent partner of Meyer Lansky’s in the Riviera Hotel in Havana. If he was, he lost a scad of money, because the Castro government confiscated the hotel and didn’t pay a cent in compensation.”
“Lansky’s dead…”
“Meyer Lansky died in 1983. Austin Bell died in 1989. My father believes that any money Charles Bell has is tainted—so any investment in Paul Drury’s business was tainted, too.”
“Isn’t that an odd combination, ma’am?” Columbo asked. “I mean, extreme right-wing politics and a connection with a man like Meyer Lansky?”
Columbo: Grassy Knoll Page 10