The news people were so focused on the celebrities that they failed to notice Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD, Homicide, standing at the rear of the crowd, wearing a short wrinkled raincoat and smoking a cigar.
“We’ve got serious problems, and we’ve gotta talk,” said Bell to Tim and Alicia as they left the mausoleum. “I flew over to talk to Phil yesterday. Where’d Columbo get his name? He doesn’t like it a little bit that this LA homicide dick mentions his name in connection with Paul’s death.”
“Who could have given Columbo the name?” asked Alicia. “We know damned well none of us did it. Who the devil has he been talking to?”
Bell glanced over his shoulder at Bobby Angela and Jessica O’Neil. “He’s talking to everybody. Old girlfriends—”
“What could they know?” asked Alicia. “Paul didn’t know Phil. What could he have told them about Phil?”
“I don’t know,” Bell grunted. “But Lieutenant Columbo asked me if I knew the name Phil Sclafani. It wasn’t a social question, for damned sure.”
“If you’re talking to Phil, send him word,” said Alicia. “The word is, cool it! If I didn’t tell Columbo about Phil—and I sure as hell didn’t— and you didn’t tell him about Phil—and you sure as hell didn’t—then he doesn’t know anything about Phil and is just playing games. I warned you about this guy Columbo. He’s not as dumb as he looks. Not as dumb as he acts.”
“Yes, he is,” said Tim. “Dumber.”
“He’s gotta be under pressure,” said Bell. “Pressure’s on him from downtown. Paul was killed Wednesday night. This is Saturday, and LAPD hasn’t come up with anything. Paul was a public figure. The public wants to know who killed him.”
“The news media want to know. It’s not the same thing,” said Alicia.
“The pressure is just the same, or worse,” said Tim. “I’m telling you. Columbo is grasping.”
“He’s grasping too damned close,” said Bell. “Speaking of—”
Columbo, still hanging respectfully back, only nodded at the three mourners when their eyes met his. Bell broke away from Alicia and Tim and walked toward Columbo.
“Lieutenant! We haven’t set that dinner date for you and Mrs. Columbo.”
“That’s right, we haven’t, sir. But I mentioned it to her, and she’s sure lookin’ forward to that. I hope it’s not disrespectful for me to be smokin’ a cigar here. I didn’t think about it. A funeral— But you probably know how it is with me. I get so wrapped up in what I’m thinking about that I— Well… that’s my problem. This is a sad occasion.”
“It’s good of you to be here,” said Bell.
“Well, you never know what you’ll see at funerals. I try to stay way back and just watch from a distance, but sometimes you do see things that tell ya somethin’. People have ways of revealin’ themselves at funerals.”
“Did you see anything today. Lieutenant?”
“No sir, I didn’t. It’s a shame, though, that there’s no family, isn’t it? Or maybe it isn’t. Nobody to be really devastated.”
“Tim and Alicia and I are going to have lunch, Lieutenant. Why don’t you join us?”
“Oh, I guess I’ve bothered you people too much already.”
“We’d love to have you,” said Bell.
“Well…”
“Come in my car,” said Bell. “I’ll bring you back here to pick up yours later.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir. When you drive a car like mine, you don’t leave it around places. I can meet you somewhere.”
“All right. Do you know where the Bel Air Country Club is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As soon as you can be there. Lieutenant.”
2
“I don’t know why you had to do this,” Alicia complained to Bell as they sat down in the lounge where great glass sliding doors gave them a view of the first tee. “If you think you can play games with this man, you’re wrong.”
Bell looked across the room, where Tim was returning from the men’s room. “We were worried about Tim losing his nerve. Are you losing yours?”
“I’ve got a hell of a lot at risk.”
“I told you before, don’t lose your nerve. That’s the only way we can lose this game. Columbo can’t really focus on us till he finds the motive, and he’s not going to find the motive.”
“He’s focused on us already.”
“Suppose he is. He can’t prove anything.”
Tim sat down. “The detective is here. I saw him talking to the parking-lot boy about that car of his.”
“Probably telling him to take special care of it.”
“I’d buy that car from him if he’d sell it. That old Peugeot’s a collector’s item.”
When Columbo, having declined to check his raincoat, came to the table and sat down, Alicia said, “Charles was telling us that your car is a collector’s item.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, ma’am. All I know is, it’s gonna have a hundred fifty thousand miles on it one of these days, and you don’t see many cars showin’ that much mileage. Of course, I’ve taken good care of it…”
“Wouldn’t you like to check your coat?” Tim asked.
“That’s a good idea. But I got somethin’ in my pocket I want to show you.”
He took out the little recorder/player again and pressed the play button. "Hi. This is Paul. Make a point of calling me first thing in the ay-em, please. Kind of important.”
People at nearby tables turned and stared, wondering why they were hearing a snippet of tape apparently from a telephone-answering machine. Some of them knew Charles Bell and recognized two of his guests, but they seemed to wonder who the odd little man with the tape player might be.
“McCrory’s tape…” Alicia whispered.
“Do any of you hear anything strange in that?” Columbo asked. “The voice? The words?”
“That’s Paul,” said Tim. “That was how he talked, the way he worked. He often left us messages like that. Where’d you get that one?”
“From his lawyer,” said Columbo.
“Does it have any significance?” asked Bell.
“It might. It just might. Y’ see, Mr. McCrory’s answering machine says it received this message at eleven forty-seven, but the medical examiner has conclusive evidence that Mr. Drury could not have been alive after eleven-fifteen, eleven-twenty at the most.”
“I didn’t know medical examiners could fix time of death with that much precision,” said Bell.
“Mr. Drury had just finished a meal. The state of the food in his stomach—that is, how much it was digested—fixes the time of death very precisely. We know he finished his dinner no later than a quarter to eleven. Miss Bergman remembers the time. Mr. Conte, the owner of La Felicita, is very certain of it. So there’s a strange conflict between the evidence of the tape and the evidence from the autopsy. I mean, I think it’s a strange conflict. It kept me awake last night, wonderin’ how there could be that much discrepancy between what the tape says and what the autopsy says.”
“Autopsy!” Alicia shuddered. “You mean that body we just put in a vault was—”
“Yes, ma’am. A very thorough autopsy had been performed. It always is when a person has been murdered.”
“Are you saying. Lieutenant,” asked Tim Edmonds, “that three days after Paul was killed we still don’t know what time he was killed?”
“Oh no, sir. We know what time he was killed. Between eleven and eleven-twenty.”
“Then what about the tape?” asked Alicia.
“I don’t think the tape is very reliable evidence, ma’am. There are always ways to fake tapes.”
“Eleven-fifteen… ” muttered Tim.
“Right,” said Columbo. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “That’s when… lemme see, here. That was when you and Mrs. Drury were at Blocker Beach.”
“Does this promote Tim and me to the top of the list of suspects?” Alicia asked.
“Oh
no, ma’am. I guess I’m so used to this business that I forget how things I say can frighten people. No, ma’am. You’re no more suspected than you were before. Like I said, there’s a very big list of suspects.”
“Let me add a—”
Bell was interrupted by a waitress who came to take a drink order for the new man who had joined the party at this table. Columbo ordered a Scotch.
“Do you like Glenfiddich, Lieutenant?” Bell asked.
“I’m not sure I ever had it, sir.”
“Make his Scotch a Glenfiddich on the rocks,” said Bell. “Make it a double, since he’s behind us, and you can bring the rest of us another round. Lieutenant Columbo, I’d like to add a suspect to your list if I may.”
“Always glad to have another suspect, sir.”
“Really? Well, I’m surprised you haven’t focused more on the people who threatened Paul.”
“I haven’t done that, sir, because whoever killed Mr. Drury knew a lot about his personal habits and had a plastic card to get into his house. It doesn’t look like he was killed by a stranger.”
“Let me tell you about someone who might have had a card. Does the name Virgil Menninger mean anything to you?”
“No, sir. I can’t say it does.”
“Virgil Menninger,” said Bell, “is the father of Barbara Menninger, better known as Bobby Angela. On a Paul Drury Show one night last year, Bobby Angela accused her father of having abused her as a child. I mean, she accused him of incest. He was furious. He called and threatened to kill the girl and Paul, too. He’s called several times since, when he was drunk. And he could have had a card. Not likely, but possible.”
“Why would he have a card?”
“Paul gave cards to his girlfriends,” said Alicia. “Karen Bergman has a card, undoubtedly—though I’ve never seen it. Jessica O’Neil had one. Bobby Angela must have had one. And if she had one, her father could have gotten access to it.”
“What does this man do for a living?” asked Columbo. “And where’s he to be found?”
“He works in the casinos in Vegas,” said Tim. “He plays the guitar and wanted to be a country-and-western singer. He’s worked as a table man for several of the casinos. He’s had some trouble, been in jail.”
“I’ll run him through Records,” said Columbo. “‘Virgil… ’ Could anybody lend me a pencil?”
“See anything on the menu that appeals to you. Lieutenant?” asked Bell.
“What do you recommend, sir?”
“The seafood salad is good.”
“Ah, that’ll be fine. That’ll be very nice.”
The waitress returned with their drinks, and Bell ordered lunch. Bell asked Columbo what he had done in New York.
“Oh, I come from the city, Manhattan: the part close to Chinatown. Very ordinary family. Very ordinary. Big family. I have five brothers and a sister. I was an ordinary kid. I guess my two great interests in life when I was a kid were pinball and pool. When I started goin’ around with the future Mrs. Columbo, she told me I had to make somethin’ of myself if I wanted to marry her. When I got out of the army, I studied for the police exam and got myself on New York’s Finest. Twelfth Precinct. A good old Irish sergeant took a liking to me and taught me. I came to Los Angeles to visit an uncle. My uncle used to play bagpipes with a Shriners band. He made me a pitch to stay here. I applied with LAPD, and here I am; been here ever since. I guess I’m a lucky man. I love my work. Not many of us get to make a livin’ doin’ what we love to do.”
Alicia said her own background was not very different from Columbo’s. She was from the Lower East Side. Her family was Greek. She, too, had grown up in an extended family, with two grandparents and an aunt living in the family apartment, together with her own parents, two sisters, and a brother. She had worked her way through CCNY, as a waitress, also as an occasional figure model for art classes. Her degree was in drama and television production. She had married Graham shortly after she graduated and divorced him two years later. Then she had come to California.
Tim was Californian born and bred, as Bell was Texan. Both of them had inherited money.
“Alicia has never been to Europe,” said Tim. “I’m going to take her there on our wedding trip.”
“Oh, are you two getting married?” asked Columbo. “That’s great. Congratulations.”
Alicia, who by now was all but finished with her lunch, put down her fork. “We’ve made no announcement yet,” she said firmly. “It’s known around, but it’s still confidential.”
“Your secret is safe with me, ma’am.”
She stared at him for a moment, running her tongue around inside her mouth, cleaning her teeth. Then she lit a cigarette. “Columbo, you’re a sketch,” she said. “Churchill spoke of a modest man with much to be modest about. You’re a modest man with no reason for modesty. I’d hate to be a criminal with you on my trail.”
Columbo shook his head. “All I do, ma’am, is do my job the best I can.”
“Don’t overlook Karen Bergman, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t be surprised if when we come up with a will, he left little Karen some money. Anyway, the last woman he was with was always the one with the least affection for him.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. That’s an interestin’ point. And, uh, I think it’s time I went along. I’m sure you have things to talk about. Look, uh… let me put down some money, here. I shouldn’t let you people buy my lunch.”
“No way. Lieutenant,” said Bell. “Forget it. We’re grateful for your hard work. Here you are, working on a Saturday. We’re grateful to you.”
“Well, thank ya awful much. I really ’predate it.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “Gee, I guess I never did check my coat. Anyway… Thank ya again.”
“Good luck. Lieutenant,” said Tim. “We hope to see you again soon—and hear you tell us you’ve cracked the case.”
“That’s my hope too, sir,” said Columbo as he backed away, shoving the little tape player back into his raincoat pocket. “G’ bye. Oh… ah, just a quick minute. There is one little thing that’s kinda bothered me. Nothin’ important, y’ understand. Just one of those loose ends that’s like havin’ a popcorn hull in your teeth that you can’t get rid of. Y’ know?”
“What is it, Lieutenant?” asked Tim, since Columbo was plainly talking to him.
“Well, sir… you told me you and Mrs. Drury went out to Blocker Beach and were there for— What? An hour? Isn’t that right? And the reason you went there was to have some privacy. But, sir, wasn’t it kinda difficult to find any privacy out there? It’s supposed to be closed at sunset, but the fact is, it’s choked with kids, on the sand, in the water, having a good time. I just wondered about that. One of those little things that bothers me when I can’t understand.”
“In places like that you do have privacy, Lieutenant. Since a hundred people in a hundred cars are doing the same thing— If you see what I mean.”
“Oh. Well, sure, I see what you mean. ’Course. You and Mrs. Drury are adult people with homes where you can have all the privacy you want.”
“Ever hear of doing something romantic, Lieutenant?” asked Alicia. “Try taking Mrs. Columbo out there some evening, for the same reason. It’ll do something for your marriage.”
Columbo nodded and smiled shyly. “Say, I bet it would, at that. Thank ya, Mrs. Drury! Thank ya.”
3
Columbo didn’t have a radio in his car, so he stopped at the country club desk and asked for a pay phone. The woman behind the desk looked him up and down and told him, “Our guests don’t use pay telephones, sir. Telephone carrel number three is not occupied. You may make your call from there.”
Columbo walked inside the little room and closed the door. He picked up the telephone and dialed headquarters. When the operator answered, he asked for Records.
“Records.”
“This here’s Lieutenant Columbo, Homicide. Want ya to run a name for me. Virgil Menninger. That’s with three n's.”
“Hol
d on. Lieutenant.”
He glanced out through the window in the door as he listened to the clerk at Records pecking computer keys. There was an ashtray on the telephone table, complete with a book of the country club’s matches, so he lit a cigar.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yeah…”
“Menninger, Virgil C. How much do you want of this? Born 1950, Texarkana, Texas. Uh… he’s done time in Texas and Oklahoma. Theft, bunko. He’s been arrested in Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Clemente, all on suspicion, dropped. That was suspicion of theft, auto once and theft, bunko twice. Last known address, Las Vegas, Nevada, where he registered for a license to work as a table man in the casinos. That was in November 1986. Clean since then. License granted. Last renewal in November ’92. Okay?”
“You have anything on his daughter? Barbara Menninger.”
“Hang on.”
Columbo smiled at a man staring at him through the door, not sure if he was curious or if he wanted the telephone. The man jerked his head around and walked on.
“Lieutenant.”
“Yeah?”
“Menninger, Barbara aka… Jesus Christ! Also known as Bobby Angela! She’s the—”
“Right. The singer.”
“Born 1973, Waco, Texas. Arrested LAPD, January 3, 1992, drunk and disorderly. Released January 4, no charge filed. No other record.”
“Well, thank ya. That’s very helpful.”
He punched in another number. Captain Sczciegel’s direct line. “How about authorizin’ travel to Las Vegas, Captain? Huh? Well, you know, I thought I’d go over, take in a coupla shows, try my luck at the tables. The Drury murder. That’s what, the Drury murder. Right. Understood. Okay, thanks. I’ll catch a flight, soon as I let my wife know I’m going.”
Ten
1
The Piping Rock Hotel was far too expensive for a man traveling on an LAPD expense account, so Columbo checked into a modest motel on the edge of Las Vegas. By seven or so in the evening he had overcome the airsickness that had threatened him during the short flight—by drinking strong black coffee and eating three hard-boiled eggs in the motel dining room—and was ready to make his first contact in Las Vegas: a courtesy call on the Las Vegas Police.
Columbo: Grassy Knoll Page 12