“The Lieutenant is out on assignment, sir. Can anyone else help you?”
“Who’s in charge of the Regina investigation? This is Johnny Corleone, her houseman.”
“I’ll connect you with Sergeant Zimmer, sir.” Usually, Sergeant Zimmer knew how to contact Lieutenant Columbo, even though he violated every rule of the Los Angeles Police Department by running around in his personal car, with no radio. About 8:40, both of them came to the door.
Johnny made a point of appearing in his black bow tie, white shirt, and black slacks: his uniform as Regina’s houseboy. “I called you, Lieutenant… Sergeant… because something very odd has happened.”
Columbo pulled his cigar—not one of Steinberg’s, but one of his own—from between his lips and dropped it in his raincoat pocket. “Somethin’ odd?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Signor Savona has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes, sir. I went out to dinner last night. I was… upset. You can understand that, can’t you? I got back about midnight and went to bed. When I got up this morning, ordinarily I would first have checked in on Miss… On Regina. Well, there was no point in knocking on her door. So I went and knocked on her grandfather’s. He was usually awake by, say, seven-thirty. He didn’t answer. I tried his door. You know, you’re always concerned about a man his age. The door was unlocked, so I went in. Not only was he gone, he was packed and gone. His clothes, his other things, all gone. I didn’t call the police until eight because I figured you wouldn’t be on duty much before then. I thought you ought to know before anybody else heard about it.”
Columbo reached for his cigar, looked at it for a moment, and dropped it back in his raincoat pocket. “You say his things are gone. What’s gone?”
“What do you want to talk about?” Johnny asked. “His clothes. His… toiletries. He left a few clothes. But he took most of his things, as if he didn’t expect to come back.”
“How old is he?” Martha asked.
“In his eighties, I guess,” said Johnny. “And he was not very strong. I don’t see how he could—”
“You were gone how long?” Columbo asked. “Four hours?”
“Longer than that. I went to a restaurant in Santa Monica where they serve good Italian food. I had a couple of drinks, an antipasto, pasta, wine, dessert, and coffee. Afterwards, I stopped in a bar where there was a show. With the driving, I guess it was close to six hours. When I got in, I took a shower and went to bed. I don’t know if he left while I was out or while I was asleep.” Columbo nodded. “So… Signor Savona. You figure he couldn’t have left by himself? Somebody had to have helped him?”
Johnny nodded. “I don’t see how he could possibly have left the house himself, with all his things.”
Part Two
Six
1
Martha and Columbo walked through the house. A surprise: they found Mickey Newcastle still living there. He explained that he would be leaving this morning. He did have a place of his own.
The rooms the old man, Vitorrio Savona, had occupied were as Johnny Corleone had described them: empty of most of his clothes.
Columbo stood in the sitting room. He had reached into his raincoat pocket and taken out a hard-boiled egg, which he frowned over and peeled, then took a bite. “Do you see somethin’ odd about this, Martha?” he asked.
“I think the whole damned thing’s odd,” she said.
“Yeah, but— Look around. Now, the old man lammin’ would have packed his clothes, his toothbrush and shaving stuff, and so on, right? But his magazines and newspapers? I know he had some. I saw them here yesterday. But look— Nothin’. Why, you figure, would he pack up and take last week’s , last month’s Playboy? And where’s yesterday’s L.A. Times? I saw them layin’ around here.”
“It is odd,” she said.
“Let’s get the fingerprint boys in here and check the place over. I’d like to lift a set of prints and run them through the FBI files, just to be sure Vittorio Savona was Vittorio Savona.
“This place is too tidy," Columbo said. “It’s like the way they clean up a bedroom after somebody dies.”
2
Columbo found Johnny in the kitchen.
“Uh, Mr. Corleone—”
“Johnny.”
Columbo nodded. “I wonder if you’d mind giving the medical examiner a sample of your blood. I hate to ask, but it’s just routine, y’ understand. We’re gonna ask the same of everybody who was in the house the night Regina died.”
“No problem,” said Johnny. “Did you find bloodstains on her? After she’d been in the pool all night?”
“On her terry-cloth robe,” said Columbo.
“Oh. Well, no problem. How do I give this blood sample?”
“One of two ways. If you wouldn’t mind stoppin’ by the county medical examiner’s office— Or we can send somebody out to get it.”
“I’ll go in and give it, Lieutenant. No problem.”
“Maybe you could bring Mr. Newcastle with you. We’d like a sample from him, too.”
“No problem.”
“I’d appreciate it. I see two real expensive Italian cars in the garage. Are those—”
“The Lamborghini was hers,” Johnny said. “The Ferrari is mine. When you said expensive, you said the right word. She gave it to me. As a gift. Can you believe it?”
“Well, sure. Sure, why not? Well, we’ll be on our way. You’ll let me know if you hear anything from Signor Savona? I really wanta know what became of him.”
“Sure thing.”
“Okay. I appreciate it.”
“Anything I can do to help, Lieutenant.”
“Well… Say, that sure is a beautiful watch you got there! Was that a gift, too?”
“As a matter of fact, it was. I imagine you’ve guessed there was something between Regina and me besides the houseboy-mistress relationship.”
“I hadn’t guessed. A watch like that… Would you mind letting me have a look at it?” He extended his hand.
“Not at all.” Johnny pulled off the watch and handed it to Columbo.
He squinted over it. “Vacheron Constantin… I wish Mrs. Columbo could see this. It’s somethin’ special. That was a really generous gift.”
“Regina was a generous person,” said Johnny. “Demanding but generous.”
“Well, thank ya.” Columbo handed back the watch. “I didn’t notice that yesterday morning when we talked. You weren’t wearing it then, huh?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I was sort of rousted out of bed yesterday morning, you remember. I hadn’t shaved either.”
“Oh, sure. So, see ya later.”
3
Standing in the driveway, Columbo talked with Martha.
“I gotta meet with Mr. Fletcher, for lunch. He called and said he wants to talk to me. Invited me to lunch. Ya know who I mean? Joe Fletcher, Regina’s agent. Tell ya what I’d like you to do, Martha. Talk to Immigration and Naturalization. I’d like to see the records on Regina’s entry into this country, also her grandfather’s. Then talk to the Italian consulate. I’d like to know what the Italian police have on Signor Vittorio Savona. If anything.”
Martha grinned. “Great minds run in the same direction,” she said.
4
When Joe Fletcher asked what he would have to drink before lunch, Columbo said that technically he shouldn’t have a drink, since he was on duty. Then he said he supposed a light Scotch wouldn’t hurt anything. He had left his raincoat in the car, rather than check it and take a chance of having someone else handle it roughly and make something fall out of a pocket. He was aware that Fletcher had passed judgment on his wrinkled gray suit—and that the judgment was not favorable.
“I’m glad we encountered each other in the parking lot,” said Fletcher. “Your car fascinates me.”
“It fascinates everybody that sees it. It fascinates me, sir, to be perfectly frank. It was made in France, y’ know. Technically, I’m supposed to drive a cit
y-owned car when I’m on duty, but the City of Los Angeles doesn’t own a car that gives as good service as my car has given me. The way I look at it, when you have somethin’ that gives good service, reliable and all, you should take good care of it and depend on it.”
They had met in the parking lot of a restaurant called Pacific Sun. Fletcher had explained on the telephone that Regina had favored it, and he thought maybe Columbo would like to see it. Its specialty was sashimi and sushi, but teriyaki was also available. Columbo had taken one look around and judged that Pacific Sun was a place for a woman who could afford to give her houseboy a Ferrari automobile and a Vacheron Constantin watch. It was chic and expensive, and it appeared to appeal to men who didn’t wear neckties. His own blue-and-green tie was the only one in the place—and he had tied it as usual with the narrow end hanging below the wide end.
Joe Fletcher was a flamboyant man. His polo shirt was fire-engine red, his slacks were fire-engine green, his shoes were sandals worn without socks, and he carried a tooled leather handbag. He was probably forty years old, but his hair was already white. It was also fine and moved in any breeze that touched it. His pale-blue eyes were sharp and penetrating.
“Well, Lieutenant,” he said after their drinks had been served, “do you have any idea who killed her?”
“I’ve got an idea or two, but so far nothing’s jelled enough that I’d want to talk about it. Did you know that Signor Savona packed up and left during the night?”
“And went where?” Fletcher asked.
“Nobody seems to know. That is, the houseboy doesn’t know. What’s your impression? Would anybody tell Johnny Corleone? I mean, would anybody take him in on important secrets?”
“I hope you don’t remain of the impression, Lieutenant, that Johnny was just a houseboy.”
“No. He told me he wasn’t.”
“But there’s nothing particularly significant about that,” said Fletcher. “I wasn’t at the party Thursday night, but I’ll wager I could have identified half a dozen men she’d had affairs with. She was not monogamous. She had the morals of a tomcat. It was one way she influenced people. Lieutenant, sex was how Regina said ‘please,’ how she said ‘thank you,’ and how she said ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“What I can’t figure out,” said Columbo, “is the motive. Why would anybody want her dead? Who’s better off for it?”
“That’s a very good point. Lieutenant. If I were you, I’d be looking among strangers. I’d be looking for an intruder. Everyone who was there last night—I can hardly think of an exception—will lose money or a job or both, because she’s dead. I know what it’s going to cost me. I hate to think of it.”
“What do you mean ‘strangers?’” Columbo asked. “What strangers would those be?”
“She was threatened,” said Fletcher. “All kinds of people threatened her: men who claimed they were in love with her, men who claimed she’d made love with them and abandoned them, men and women who said she was a threat to the country’s morals… and so on. I’ve got file boxes full of threatening letters.”
“You take any of that stuff to the police?”
“Three times stalkers plagued us. One of them went to jail. You may remember the case. If I were you, I’d check to see what became of Edgar Bell after he got out of the slammer. He didn’t just think he was in love with her. He was sure she was in love with him, too.”
Columbo scanned the menu. He assumed Fletcher was picking up the tab. He couldn’t put the bill from this kind of place on an expense account.
“Do you like sushi, Lieutenant Columbo?”
Columbo grinned. “I like anything that comes from the ocean. To tell the truth, though, I never tried any of it raw.”
“Don’t let me push it on you, but I’m going to have a sushi assortment.”
“I’ll take a chance,” said Columbo. “You order.” Fletcher nodded and shoved the menu aside. “Lieutenant, I want the murderer caught. To be perfectly frank with you. I’m hoping it was not an intruder but somebody I can sue for what her death is going to cost me.”
“Meaning who?”
“Of the people who stayed overnight, I can tell you that only the Gwynnes have that kind of money. Joshua Records is a big business, even if the loss of Regina damages it severely. You see… They were going to suffer that loss anyway. She was negotiating with another company.”
“I guess Mr. Newcastle is not well off,” said Columbo. “I gather he was dependent on her.”
“He was damn well off once. He spent everything he had on his habit. He’s addicted to speedball, which is a combination of heroin and cocaine, and the stuff is very expensive. He was on a salary with Regina, Incorporated. I know he sometimes took advances on that salary. If she refused him another advance and he was getting the shakes, there’s nothing he wasn’t capable of. You know how those people can be. I guess that’s a point.”
“Mr. Douglas and Miss Monroe stayed overnight,” said Columbo.
“Bob is a genius,” said Fletcher. “He’s got a great future ahead of him, Regina or no Regina. But he’s not worth much now. Christie is what we call a wannabe. She wants to be another Regina. She’d like to be another Madonna. She’d even like to be another Bette Midler. None of that’s impossible, either. She’s got more singing and dancing talent than Regina ever dreamed of. What she lacks is Regina’s instinct for self-promotion—plus Regina’s cold, calculating ability to use people and abandon them. But a good agent can make up for those deficiencies.”
“You can’t think of any motive—”
“Bob and Christie? No. Well, I suppose there’s one possible motive. For a month or so Regina made Bob her number-one man. She couldn’t get enough of him. He supposed she was in love with him, was making a commitment to him. He was about as naive as a man can get. I’m sure he was terribly disappointed when he found out she’d moved on to somebody else. He should have realized there was always somebody else, even when he was with her every night. I guess he thought she’d betrayed him. I’m sure she hurt him. But that wouldn’t give him a motive to kill her.”
Columbo tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. “Ya never know.”
“Bob came out of it on his feet. He’s got something better. Christie’s a sweet, beautiful girl, and she’s genuinely in love with him. What motive could she have for killing Regina? Only that Regina had hurt the man she loves. No motive, in my judgment. None for either of them.”
“I can’t reach that conclusion so easy,” said Columbo. “In a society where kids kill kids for a gold chain or a leather jacket— Anyway, you understand I have to look at the people who were in the house when she was killed. You say you were not there?”
“I was supposed to be, but I wasn’t. I”—he looked up at the waiter—“Two of my usual.” Then he turned again to Columbo. “I had something better to do that night. When you’d seen Regina naked once, you’d seen all there was.” He sighed. “I said an intruder. Actually, there were a lot of people there who might have wanted to do her harm, even if it cost them something. She climbed over people. She used them and tossed them aside. She was not a nice girl, Lieutenant.”
“How’d she get to be what she was?” Columbo asked. “I asked you to meet with me so I could tell you. That’s really the point. Let’s have another drink.” Columbo had become aware that Joe Fletcher was no inconsequential man. People coming into the restaurant made a point of waving and smiling at him, though no one came near their table. The people who spoke were flamboyant in the same style that he was: men with long hair pulled into ponytails, linen suits, shirts open, gold chains hanging on their bare chests, women with cascading hair or practically no hair at all, in colorful tight pants, some in miniskirts so short their panties showed when they sat down. They were the kind of people who performed at Regina-type concerts, or wanted to. Obviously, Fletcher was a man who had something to do with whether or not they made it.
“I met Regina about eight years ago,” he said. “She came int
o my office and said she wanted me for her agent.” Fletcher shook his head. “Lieutenant, that’s not the way it works. Hell, she’d never performed in public. Not even once. She was unknown. That kind of kid doesn’t come into my office and ask me to be her agent. She had— You couldn’t say she had balls, could you? But she had a lot of nerve, and it took me about five minutes to discover she had gritty determination. The trouble is, so do a lot of kids. That’s not enough. They don’t make it on no more than that.”
“But you did take her on.”
“I took her on. Lieutenant, she had connections. She told me there was a casino hotel in Reno that would book a show, with her as lead singer and dancer. C’mon! An Italian broad with no experience and no obvious talent. But she gave me the phone number of a man who would confirm it. I called him, and he turned out to be the manager of the Rancho Toiyabe Casino Hotel. Well—Reno. Las Vegas it ain’t. Rancho Toiyabe. Caesar’s Palace it ain’t. But it was real. She really had a booking. She’d arranged it herself. What she needed me to do was get her the right kind of contract and help her put together a show.”
Fletcher paused as the platters of sashimi and sushi were put on the table. He lifted his chopsticks and dipped a bit of raw red tuna in soy sauce.
“Uh, maybe you won’t mind if I use a fork,” said Columbo. “I never did get the hang of those chopsticks.”
“Not at all.”
Columbo tried the tuna first. “Say, this is good. My! Ya learn somethin’ new every day. Anyway, you were saying—”
“Even if she did have the booking, I didn’t want her as a client. In all modesty, Lieutenant Columbo, I do bigger things than what she was at that time. I named another agent I thought would take her on. Then I found out something else about her. Regina was persuasive. It’s nothing unusual for young women to— You know what I mean. But she ‘persuaded’ me right there in my office. The girl was an artist. ” He shrugged.
“What kind of show did she do? That first show.”
Columbo: The Hoffa Connection Page 7