A desk sergeant pointed to a hallway and told him to knock on the third door on the right. He did and entered the office of Lieutenant Bud Murphy, a young detective with a shiny bald head and beady brown eyes. He was in his shirtsleeves and wore his shoulder holster and service revolver under his left arm.
“The Paul Drury murder is your case?” said Murphy, unable to conceal how impressed he was.
“You know how it is,” said Columbo. “I just happened to be the man available.”
“Is there some way we can help you?”
“Well, yeah. I’m lookin’ for a guy. Virgil Menninger.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“No,” said Columbo. He shook his head. “What he is…? How would ya say this? He’s a cover for me. Like, an excuse to come to Las Vegas. I do wanta ask him a coupla questions, but what I’m really interested in is the Sclafanis.”
Detective Bud Murphy nodded. “So are we. So’s the FBI. So’s the Gaming Commission. We haven’t found a thing. There was a lot of skimming going on around here twenty-five years ago, but even that wasn’t proved against the Sclafanis. I wouldn’t want to vouch for them, but we don’t have anything on them.”
“Does Menninger work for them?”
“I can find out in a sec.” Murphy picked up a telephone, punched in a number, and spoke briefly to whoever had answered. He turned back to Columbo and said, “Used to work at the Piping Rock. At the Sands now. Also clean.”
“The Sands… I’m gonna pretend I don’t know that.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“Not till they figure out who I am.”
“Got it. Lieutenant Columbo. Look, it’s great to meet you. I’m on duty all night. Give me a buzz if you need me.”
2
Piping Rock was not one of the very biggest, most luxurious hotel casinos in Las Vegas. It was smaller than the best-known hotels. Its stage did not feature the major stars who appeared on the stages of hotels like Caesars Palace or Bally’s; nor did it promise the cuisine or the sumptuous appointments of those hotels. It was, on the other hand, a solid, well-maintained, flourishing establishment, busy twenty-four hours a day.
Columbo had left his raincoat in his room and arrived at the Piping Rock wearing a dark-gray suit. It was only when he was inside the hotel that he noticed he had tied his necktie wrong, thin end hanging below fat end. Well… couldn’t change it now. He lit a cigar and stood in the lobby, getting his bearings.
To the left of the lobby was a dark bar. He could hear music from there. Likely as not, that was the bar where Bobby Angela was singing when she met Drury. He decided to walk in there, to check it out, just to see what kind of place she had worked.
The bar was dark, as he had judged from outside. The only light not on the stage was the dim yellow light over the cash register. A single spotlight on the ceiling glared down on the young woman singing on the little stage, and in its cold light her skin took on a bluish-pink glow. She was attractive. She sat on a stool, wearing black velvet pants and nothing above. She clutched a microphone in both hands.
She was singing “Memories” from Cats, backed by a guitar and an electronic keyboard.
Columbo stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender was quick to bring it and to hand him a bill for four dollars. Columbo frowned over it and handed him four-fifty.
The young woman had a good voice, he judged, and she sang “Send in the Clowns” from A Little Night Music, then “Music of the Night” from Phantom of the Opera before she took her bows to good applause and left the stage.
“Don’t I remember Bobby Angela used to sing in this room?” Columbo asked the bartender.
“One time, yeah.”
“I thought so. Friend of the boss, wasn’t she?”
The bartender shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, that sure is a talented young woman that’s singin’ now. I don’t get in often, but I’m glad she’s the one on the stage when I did get in. It sure is good to be back. Bobby Angela’s dad used to work here. Is he still around, d’ y’ know? I got acquainted with him when—”
“Never heard of him,” said the bartender.
“Yeah. Well, he’s prob’ly moved on,” said Columbo. “So… guess I better get some chips and try my luck.”
He used his VISA card to buy a hundred dollars’ worth of chips, resolved to cash in ninety dollars’ worth. If they played pool for money in a casino, he would be willing to try his skill. At casino tables, skill had nothing to do with winning. The casino would not cheat. It didn’t have to. The odds determined whether or not the house would win in the long run—and it always did. An occasional player might win, but house versus players, the house never lost.
The casino seemed like an acre of room.
The carpet was red. The tables were green, like so many pool tables, which Columbo wished some of them were. Conversation around them was hushed, as players concentrated on the games. They resented shrieks of joy or howls of despair—which were rarely heard.
They were all kinds of people: slender young men in bankers’ suits, looking as if they had come out from Wall Street as soon as the market had closed yesterday afternoon; Marlboro man types in blue jeans and checkered shirts, conspicuously not what they dressed to be; Ma and Pa from Indiana, in polyester, her glasses hanging from a chain, his rimless, obsessively intent on the table and their chips; sugar daddies giving juvenile chippies a taste of the big life; narrow-eyed careful gamblers, aware of the odds and still somehow convinced they could beat them, watching, studying, and moving; daughters of fortune, watching for the chance to attach themselves to a winner, knowing he had to be a winner at something else to have the money to come here; and first-timers—soldiers on leave, truck drivers—who had saved -for this great, great adventure, young mothers determined to win their way out of… out of whatever, optimists, näifs, suckers.
Columbo had seen them before.
The ceiling was smoky mirrors, and Columbo knew very well that supervisors prowled the gloomy catwalks above, looking down through those transparent mirrors, mostly at the table men, watching for cheating, but also at the players.
A table man could not cheat. He would be searched for chips when he left the floor. The only way he could cheat was by declaring a confederate a winner when he had not really won. The men above watched for that. At the blackjack tables, they watched for card counters. Blackjack was played with two or three decks now, to make cardcounting almost impossible. Still, there were a few mathematical wizards who would do it, and when identified they were thrown out of the casinos.
Gaming Commission rules did not allow girl blackjack dealers to work topless. That had been tried many years ago, and the commission had ruled it so distracting to the players that they lost more than the odds would have justified—which the commission ruled unfair. The commission had not ruled it unfair for them to deal blackjack at glass tables, wearing miniskirts and glittery panty hose. Players could stare at the cards or the dealers’ legs—their choice.
Columbo walked among the tables, looking at the players, looking at the games. His twenty five-dollar chips had been handed to him in a little box with a wire handle, and he carried it.
“Carry that for you and bring you good luck,” said a young woman.
He looked at her. She was gorgeous: her hair stylishly coiffured, her makeup studiously applied, her strapless white dress molded to her generous but taut figure. “Uh… sorry, ma’am. That’s a generous proposal, but I’m afraid I could never concentrate on the cards if you were standing behind me.”
“You have to learn to concentrate, cowboy,” she said. “Everything in life depends on concentration.”
She did not press the point further but walked on, leaving him concentrating on his cigar and grinning.
He found a vacant place at a blackjack table and sat on a stool, looking down on the cards, the glass, and the pretty dealer’s shapely legs. She dealt him a ten down and a five up. He took a
hit, was dealt another ten, and lost his five-dollar chip. On the second hand he was dealt a jack down and an eight up and stuck. The dealer had seventeen and paid eighteen. He was even. The third hand he was dealt a six down and a four up. He took a hit and was dealt a three. He took another hit and was dealt a queen. He was out five dollars.
He walked away from the table and around the big room again. The real players, the gamblers who knew where the odds gave them the best chance, were at the blackjack tables and the craps tables. The tourists, those who weren’t at the slot machines in the hall outside, were at the roulette tables.
For a few minutes he stood behind the players at a table and watched them shoot craps. He hadn’t played the game since he was a kid. The action was fast and fascinating, and you could lose all your money without knowing just how and when.
He tried another blackjack table and in the course of a few minutes won fifteen dollars. With a hundred ten dollars in his carrier, he went to the window to cash in.
“Don’t happen to know a guy by the name of Virgil Menninger, do ya?” he asked the cashier. “Used to work here. I’d like to say hello.”
The cashier shook his head. “Never heard the name.”
As Columbo left the casino and returned to the lobby of the Piping Rock, a broad-shouldered man with a butch haircut came up to him. “Would you mind telling me your name, sir?” the fellow said, polite enough.
“Who’s askin’?”
“My name’s Cronin. I’m a security officer for the hotel.”
“All right. I’m Lieutenant Columbo, Los Angeles Police Department, Homicide Squad. Wanta see my shield?”
Cronin shook his head. “Is there something we can do for you, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Well, I’m lookin’ for a fella. Used to work here. Maybe still does. Virgil Menninger. Know him?”
“Is he suspected of murder?”
“Oh no, nothin’ like that. I just wanta ask him a question or two. Strictly routine kind of thing. Just cleanin’ up some loose ends for the record.”
“He used to work here. Works at the Sands now.”
“The Sands… could ya tell me if he left here for his own reasons? Or…?”
“We had a little problem with him,” said Cronin. “Yeah? What was that?”
“I bet you know,” said Cronin.
“Let’s see if I do.”
“He had a daughter, worked here too. One night she went on television in Los Angeles and said that Virgil— Hey. I got this figured out. You’re working on the Paul Drury murder. Am I right, or am I not right?”
Columbo turned down the corners of his mouth, raised his eyebrows, and lifted his chin. “Well… I guess I can trust you, can’t I, Mr. Cronin? Yeah, I’m one of the guys lookin’ into that problem.”
“Okay, the broad went on the Drury show and accused her father of having done bad things to her, if you follow me. Boy, Virgil went nuts! She was singin’ in the lounge, and he went in there an’— Well, the boss had to let him go.”
“The boss bein’…?”
“Mr. Philip Sclafani. Mr. Sclafani’s father is the owner of the hotel.”
“Oh, yeah. Sclafani. From New York originally. I’m from New York myself, Mr. Cronin, originally. I remember hearin’ the name Giuseppe Sclafani when I was a kid. My! He’s still alive and owns this hotel?”
“Like a drink on the house. Lieutenant?” asked Cronin, gesturing toward the lounge.
“A beer,” said Columbo.
“Whatever you like.”
They walked into the lounge, where the topless singer was again performing. She was singing “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.” Cronin led Columbo to a booth far enough from the stage that they could hear each other under the sound of the music. He gave a waitress their order.
“This comes together,” said Cronin. “The show where Bobby Angela accused Virgil Menninger of incest was The Paul Drury Show. Drury was dating the kid. She was only eighteen. He was twenty-five years older than she was. I suppose she told him what her father had done, so he set up a show for her and some other girls to talk about that kind of thing. It didn’t hurt her career, that tearful appearance on the Drury show. It hurt Virgil, for damned sure, and it may not have been true. He— Well, you can see how he’d act. Drury showed up here to pick up the girl after her show in this lounge, and Virgil made a fuss. That’s when Mr. Sclafani told him he’d probably be happier working in some other hotel.”
“He threatened Mr. Drury,” said Columbo. “You can see why I want to talk to him.”
“Sure. Well, you’ll find him at the Sands.”
The waitress hurried back with two beers. Columbo peered past her, at the singer.
“You like Mar Lou?” asked Cronin. “She’s a nice kid. No trouble.”
The two men drank their beer in silence while Mar Lou sang “Song on the Sand,” then “Best of Times” from La Cage aux Folles.
“Well, I suppose I better get over to the Sands and see if I can find our friend,” said Columbo.
“If there’s anything I can do, Lieutenant…”
“Listen, I appreciate it. You’ve been helpful enough tellin’ me where to find Virgil Menninger. That’s helpful, and I do appreciate it. And I appreciate the beer.”
“Anytime, Lieutenant Columbo. Anytime.”
“I guess— Y’ know, there is one other little thing I might ask you, seein’ as how we’re already together and talkin’. I got this obsession with clearin’ up little points. Sometimes I work a day tryin’ to figure out some little thing that doesn’t amount to anything. But I can’t help it. I’ve got this kinda mind that says I gotta get everything straight and can’t just forget the inconsequential stuff. My captain really gets upset about the time I waste that way. Anyway… there’s a story that Mrs. Drury, I mean Alicia Drury, came to Vegas and saw a lot of Mr. Sclafani, the young Mr. Sclafani. Is there any truth in that, Mr. Cronin?”
“Is there any real point in that question?” asked Cronin.
“Not really. I mean, that might have given Mr. Drury a reason to dislike Mr. Sclafani but not the other way around. Right? She’s a suspect, naturally. The wife or ex-wife always is. It’s just one of those things that’s in the file, and I’d like to be able to make a pencil scratch across that page and say to forget it.”
“I’ll ask Mr. Sclafani about it, and you can check with me later if you want to,” said Cronin.
“That’d be very kind of ya. I’d appreciate that. The more sheets in a file you can scratch off with a note sayin’ ‘Never mind,’ the easier the case gets.”
3
At the Sands, Columbo made a direct approach. He walked up to the floor boss in the casino, showed his shield, and asked to see Virgil Menninger. “I’m outside my jurisdiction here, but I’d appreciate any cooperation you might give me.” Ten minutes later he sat down with Menninger in a small office off the casino floor.
Virgil Menninger was six feet four and so skeletal as to suggest that he was heavily addicted to something. He had about him, too, the air of a man who has spent more than a little time in prison: a circumstance that marks a man for life. Columbo guessed that if he rolled back his sleeves he would show red and blue tattoos. His hair was gray, and he wore a white pencil mustache and rimless eyeglasses.
“What’s the beef. Lieutenant?”
“No beef, Mr. Menninger. I’m working on the Paul Drury case and—”
“And I threatened to kill him.”
“You threatened it, but you didn’t do it,” said Columbo. “Wednesday night, when he was killed, you were working as house man at a craps table. Right? You can prove it. Right?”
“As a matter of fact, I can.”
“Sure. I knew you could. ’Course, it’s possible that your daughter killed him—which is what I want to talk to you about.”
“Bobby…?”
“Oh, I don’t think she killed him,” said Columbo, turning up the palms of his hands, shrugging, shaking his head. “But she did
have one of those plastic cards you have to have to get into his house, which whoever killed him had to have, and she doesn’t have an alibi for Wednesday night, the way you have. And I suppose it wouldn’t be too hard to find a motive. Hey. I don’t think she killed him, but I would like to clear up a coupla points.”
Menninger lit a cigarette. He smoked like a convict, holding the butt between his thumb and first two fingers, so as to take no chance of dropping it and being disciplined for littering, and sucking the smoke deep into his lungs in long pulls that would bum the cigarette away in a minute and a half.
“I didn’t do to Bobby what she told on the Drury show. I don’t know what made her talk that way. Actually… actually, hell yes, I know! He came between me and her. Bobby and I traveled around. I brought her up, Lieutenant. I taught her to play the guitar and sing. I’d liked to of done that myself for a livin’, but I wasn’t good enough. She was. I brought her to Nevada when I come. When she was sixteen I named her Bobby Angela and got her a job singin’ and playin’, in Reno. Then I got a job in Vegas and brought her with me. I got her the job at Piping Rock. Then… Drury took her away from me. Permanent. I didn’t kill him, Lieutenant Columbo, but I’m glad he’s dead. I read about his death and saw about it on TV. I’m only sorry he died so easy. I’d have shot him somewheres else.”
Columbo took a fresh cigar from his jacket pocket and reached for the lighter that sat on the desk in this small office. “You get to know the man at all?”
Menninger shook his head. “I saw him around here. We were never formally introduced.”
“Y’ ever meet his wife?”
Menninger grinned. “Alicia? You bet. She never comes here, to the Sands, but she was at the Piping Rock all the time, as long as I worked there.”
“Good friend of the boss?” Columbo asked, lifting his eyebrows and smiling faintly.
Menninger hesitated. “I see what you’re drivin’ at. But you’re on the wrong track, I’d guess. I mean, Phil Sclafani could have any broad in the world. And does. I never saw him with one as old as Alicia Graham… Alicia Drury. Bobby would have been more his style.”
Columbo: Grassy Knoll Page 13