“The same kind of thing she would always do, except on a smaller scale. I tried to keep it on a small scale. After all, nobody was paying her a fortune to do a show. But”—he shook his head grimly—“That was something else about Regina. She didn’t care how much she spent, if she got what she wanted. She spent more than she made. She lost money on the show. She came up with the extra money: $40,000. She called it an investment.”
“She had that much money?”
Fletcher nodded. “And it wasn’t the last time she would make up a loss.”
“What was she spending all that money for?”
“Musicians. Lighting. Sound equipment. Backup dancers. The whole works.”
“Isn’t it unusual for the performer to be paying for things like that?” Columbo asked.
“Regina offered herself as a packaged show. Clubs and arenas couldn’t just hire Regina. They bought the packaged show. As time went on, it got fantastically expensive. When she came to me, her package was too small for me, as I’ve mentioned. She became the biggest thing I ever did. They’re rare. Lieutenant. Regina. Michael Jackson. Madonna.”
“Why’d she become such a big success?” Columbo asked.
“Two reasons,” said Fletcher. “She used money and… and her special power of‘persuasion’ to get people to work for her. Mickey Newcastle is a dopehead bum today, but he was a major rock star ten or twenty years ago. Regina couldn’t read music. Mickey could and did. He gave up whatever was left of his own career to promote hers. It’s not too much to say that Regina was Mickey Newcastle reincarnated. She paid him, sure. But she ‘persuaded’ him, too. Bob Douglas is the finest electronic music man in the business. Kurt Deutsch designed the laser light show that went on behind Regina. He’s another genius. And so on.”
“Talented people were willing to work for her,” said Columbo. “Did she pay generously?”
“Very generously. More and more, over the years. But she left bodies scattered over the landscape.”
“Uh… What do you mean by that, sir?”
“She hired the best she could get. But nobody had any job security. They had to understand there was no such thing as gratitude, no such thing as loyalty. If a man or woman was doing a great job but Regina spotted somebody she thought could do it better… good-bye. Severance money, sometimes, but no thanks. Even guys she’d ‘persuaded’—just ‘goodbye.’ ”
“So some people hated her?”
“You better believe it. For example— It looked like she was just wearing ordinary underwear on stage. No way. Edith Goldish designed that stuff. Edith designed her stage undies for three years. One day a guy who called himself ‘Mister Don’ got to her. He showed her a line of scanties, and the next day he was her designer. Edith got the word when she showed up at a production meeting with some things she’d put together, and somebody told her Regina didn’t want to see them—or her. She didn’t even have the decency to meet with Edith and give her the word.”
“We were talking about her first shows,” said Columbo, “and you said there were two reasons why she was a success from the first. What was the other reason?”
“She had a finely honed instinct for treading the fine line between raunchy fun and offensively obscene. Hell, Lieutenant, any girl can go on stage, flash her crotch—or pretend to—and tell dirty jokes. Regina didn’t get to be a mega-star that way. There was a lot more to a Regina performance than that. I said she had no talent except for self-promotion and so on. Actually, she did. She had a talent for showing a little more skin than most performers would dare show, for snapping out one-liners nobody else would touch, and for singing utterly outrageous lyrics, while making it all seem good clean fun: just naughty, no more. She knew she couldn’t sing worth a damn and couldn’t dance at all, and she knew audiences knew it, too; but she made them all believe the whole show was just one hell of a good time. And you know something, Lieutenant?” Fletcher’s voice broke, and he ran his hand across his face. “It… was.” Columbo stared at the raw fish, the fiery horseradish, the ginger, and the pickled rice on his plate. He chose a bit of the rice wrapped in seaweed. He let Fletcher have a minute to collect himself.
“I’m going to miss her,” Fletcher said quietly.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to tell you something else. I don’t think the old man who lived in her house was her grandfather.”
“I wondered about that,” said Columbo.
“He was always there, in the background, her eminence grise. I wonder if he wasn’t the source of the money she used in the early days. When we went to Reno that first time, she couldn’t ‘persuade’ in her suite because he was living there with her. To tell you the honest-to-god truth. Lieutenant, I had the impression she slept with him. He became feeble in the last two or three years, but he wasn’t then. He was a presence. I’m not quite sure what that means, but that’s what he was.”
“Did you ever talk to him?”
Fletcher shook his head. “Never. She told me he didn’t speak English.”
Columbo nodded, but did not tell Fletcher the old man had spoken English to him.
“So the old boy scrammed,” Fletcher said. “I’d like to know what he had to hide. I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it, that he didn’t want you to find out who he is?”
Columbo nodded. “I have to figure that.”
Fletcher was silent for a minute or so, while he savored his lunch. Columbo followed suit.
Then Fletcher spoke. “I’m afraid I haven’t given you anything very specific,” he said. “I thought it would be helpful if I filled you in on some background information.”
“I’m very grateful to you, sir,” said Columbo. “Y ’see, information is the name of my business. The only possible way I can figure out what’s happened in a case is to hook facts together, one and another, and try to make sense of them. I just gotta get together all the facts I can and try to find some pattern in them. We’ve been talkin’ about talent. Me, I don’t have any. I mean, I don’t get brilliant insights. I just have to do it my way, which is to plod along, collectin’ information, until sooner or later some kind of sense starts to come out of it. So any facts you give me are useful.”
“I hope so,” Fletcher said.
“I have to ask you a question, though. Can you account for your whereabouts Thursday night? Say, from midnight on?”
Fletcher grinned. “I’m glad I’m not the guilty person. At midnight I was at The Body Shop, sitting at the bar. I talked to the bartender. When the last show was over, I picked up a young lady named Dawn Breeze, an ‘exotic dancer’ whose real name is Shirley Sheldon. We went to my place. I have a houseboy. Mine’s really a houseboy. He was still downstairs when I came in. He fried some bacon and scrambled some eggs, about one o’clock. Shirley and I ate and then went to bed. I can give you her phone number and address. Okay, Lieutenant?”
“I gotta do my duty, sir.” Columbo returned Fletcher’s grin.
Seven
1
Captain Sczciegel—pronounced “SEE-gul”—stopped by Columbo’s desk. “Catching up on your paperwork?” he asked. The captain was tall, thin, and bald. He was in his shirtsleeves, showing his 9mm Beretta which hung in a holster under his left arm. He stared skeptically into Columbo’s wastebasket, which was half-full of memoranda and directives. “That’s the poop from the group,” he said. “Have you read and absorbed all of it?” Columbo looked up with a sly smile. “Oh, absolutely. Except the directive on how to handle a prostitute in custody—making sure a female officer is called, and all that. In our line of work, you and I, we’re never going to arrest a prostitute. If I ever get one, I’ll handcuff her to something and call in and ask what to do.”
Sczciegel shook his head. “How you going to do that, Columbo? You don’t carry any handcuffs.”
“I lost ’em, and was embarrassed to ask for another pair.”
The captain sighed, but he grinned. “How’d you manage to lose a pair of handcuff's?”
“The corporal—”
“Yeah, but I didn’t get his name. I was kinda busy, y’ see. I’d got the one guy, but he was just one of two who’d killed— Anyway, I never did see those handcuff's again, and I never did get around to pickin’ up another pair.”
“Columbo— Pick up a set of cuff's. Stick ’em in your raincoat pocket. Anyway, I didn’t stop by to talk about handcuffs. What I need to know is, how’s the Regina case coming along? The media gang is really raising hell.”
“Well sir, I suppose I’d have to say slow but sure. Somethin’ very odd has happened in the case. An elderly man lived with her. She told everybody he was her grandfather. Well… yesterday morning the houseboy called to say the old man was gone, disappeared. Martha Zimmer and I looked over his rooms. He was gone, alright. His stuff was gone.”
“He must have left fingerprints, and like.”
“That’s what’s the oddest part of it. Martha got the fingerprint boys in yesterday afternoon, and they went over the rooms looking for prints. And guess what they found? The only fingerprints anywhere were mine, Martha’s, the houseboy’s, and the maid’s.”
“Yours?”
“On the doorknobs. I had to get in. But everything had been wiped. Like the flush handle on the toilet. Like the water glass on the basin. Everything. Nothing was left in his rooms to indicate who he was. His rooms were like a hotel suite that’s just been vacated by somebody who stayed just one night, leaving nothing behind to say who was there.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that Signor Vittorio Savona was not Signor Vittorio Savona,” said Columbo. “Which then raises the question, if he wasn’t Vittorio Savona, who was he? Also, why was he so anxious we not find out who he was? Also, who helped him? He didn’t clear out his rooms and wipe his prints off everything, plus pack his clothes and leave the house in the middle of the night. He was in his eighties. He had to have help. Somebody besides him didn’t want us to find out who he was.”
“You have to consider the possibility he didn’t leave voluntarily,” said Sczciegel.
“We have to consider the possibility he was carried out dead.”
“Who knows he’s missing?”
“Outside department personnel, nobody but Mickey Newcastle, the houseboy, and the maid—plus, of course, whoever moved him. I’ve been hounded by the news guys, but I haven’t told ’em.”
“Maybe we can keep this quiet a little while, till you get a chance to work on it some more. I’ll have to report it to the chief. But get this part straightened out as fast as you can.”
“If we had another day on it, we might be able to be a whole lot more specific.”
“You got it.”
Columbo stood. “I’m off, then. I’ve got people to talk to.”
“Keep me informed,” Captain Sczciegel said.
“I’ll do that. See ya later.”
Columbo started out of the office, his raincoat flapping around him.
“Uh, Columbo.” The captain raised a finger to stop him and caught up with him. “One little thing, Lieutenant. You haven’t turned in your revolver. Regulations require it. You’ve got to turn in that gun and get the new issue, the automatic. You can have either a Beretta like this one or a Smith & Wesson. But you haven’t turned in the revolver.”
“Well… I haven’t got around to it yet. I’ll—”
“Columbo… Don’t tell me you can’t find your revolver.” Sczciegel wore a lugubrious expression.
“Oh, no, sir. I know where it is. It’s wrapped in a—”
“Bring it in, then. Immediately. Get the new gun. Take it out to the range, practice with it a little, and qualify with it. That’s an order, Lieutenant. I can’t have guys in my division running around without standard-issue sidearms.”
“Yes, sir. Soon as I get the Regina case cleared up.”
“Okay,” said the captain. “As soon as you get the Regina case cleared up.”
2
“Hey, Columbo! Wait up!”
He turned and saw Martha Zimmer hurrying among the parked cars.
“Hiya, Martha. You workin’ on Sunday, too?”
“Oh, no. I just came in to police headquarters to see if I could pick up a bowling partner.”
“I’d be happy to go bowling with ya. Mrs. Columbo just loves to bowl. Of course, she bowls better than I do. She bowls in a league. But if you and your husband would like to—”
“Columbo, I’ve got some news for you. Kind of important, I think.”
He leaned against his Peugeot. “ ’Kay. What ya got?”
“I faxed our request to Immigration and Naturalization, like you said. They came back pronto, a fax that came in while I was in the shower this morning. Regina Celestiele Savona entered the United States on a tourist visa on August 17, 1988. She came in from Milan on an Alitalia flight. Two months later she made application for a work permit, a green card, listing the kind of work she wanted to do as ‘entertainer.’ She got the green card. Three years later she applied for naturalization. In September 1993 she was sworn in as a United States citizen.”
“Vittorio?” Columbo asked.
Martha shook her head. “There is no record of a Vittorio Savona ever entering the United States. The Italian consulate agreed to put in a request for information from the Italian police. I haven’t heard from them yet.”
Columbo pinched his chin. “So who was the man called Vittorio Savona?” he asked rhetorically.
“‘Was.’ You think he’s dead?”
Columbo shrugged. “It’s possible. Where did Regina enter? New York?”
Martha nodded. “Kennedy Airport.”
“You don’t suppose… you don’t suppose Immigration and Naturalization could supply us a list of people who came in from Italy through Kennedy on that day?”
“Why not? I’ll ask and let you know what I find out.”
“I ’predate it. I really do. Uh… see ya for lunch?”
“Not if you’re going to Burt’s. I’ve endured that once this week already. The stomach can only stand so much.”
“The finest chili in Los Angeles,” said Columbo. “Ya gotta leam to appreciate the finer things in life, Martha.
3
Joshua and Barbara Gwynne lived in a penthouse so high that they had a view of the Pacific and on clear days Santa Cruz Island. Columbo had smoked about half of one of Mort Steinberg’s fine cigars in the car, and he had stubbed it out carefully and put it in his raincoat pocket before he entered the building, encountered an un-
friendly doorman, and took the elevator to the penthouse.
“You live in an elegant place!” he said as Barbara Gwynne showed him the way to the living room.
“Paid for from the earnings of Regina recordings,” she said, nodding sadly.
“You suffer a terrible loss, then,” said Columbo.
“Oh, yes. I’m afraid we do. Only last Thursday night she had agreed to let us make cuts of the songs from her new show. Now—”
Barbara Gwynne, Columbo observed, was an elegant woman. Late on Sunday morning, she was dressed in a pair of black silk pajamas embroidered with gold thread. She was fully made up, her chemically blond hair carefully brushed. He judged she was… maybe fifty, maybe a year or two older. Her complexion suggested her age. Her skin was thick, evidence of a long-time smoking habit.
“Josh will be out in a minute. At this time on Sunday morning, we usually have Bloody Marys. Will you join us?”
“Technically I’m on duty… But—”
Barbara Gwynne picked up and tinkled a small silver bell. A maid in black dress and white apron appeared. “The Sunday-morning brunch will be for three,” said Barbara. She spoke to Columbo. “
Would you like her to hang up your raincoat, Lieutenant?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, ma’am, I’ve got stuff in my pockets that I might want. Like my notebook and pencil. You understand.”
She nodded. She took a Camel from a box of them lying on a coffee table and touched the flame of a lighter to it.
“Maybe you won’t mind if I smoke,” Columbo said.
“Go right ahead. There are a few places where it’s still accepted, and this is one of them.”
He could testify to it. The elegant apartment stank of cigarette smoke. Columbo pulled out the half-smoked stub of the third of Steinberg’s excellent cigars. He fumbled in his pockets. “Oh, say. Gotta match?”
She snapped her lighter and offered him fire.
“Thank ya, ma’am. A man gave me six just wonderful cigars. I’ve been saving them back and smoking one just once in a while. You know. They’re something elegant you get not very often, and you don’t want to be casual about them.”
“I guess there’s a difference between expensive cigars and cheap,” she said. “Not so with cigarettes. Once you’re addicted, you’ll smoke anything. Anything. One’s the same as another.”
“Never smoked cigarettes,” said Columbo. “I— Oh. Mr. Gwynne. Nice to see you.”
Joshua Gwynne entered the room with the pained air of a man suffering a hangover. He wore a blue silk kimono over white pajamas. “Have you figured out who killed her yet?” he asked.
“No sir, I haven’t. Do you know?”
“If either of us figures it out, you’ll be the first to know,” said Joshua Gwynne, dropping heavily into a chair.
“Well, you might be able to give me some help on it,” said Columbo. “In the first place, would you folks mind giving the county medical examiner samples of your blood?”
“Why would you ask us for a thing like that, Lieutenant?” Joshua asked.
“Well, sir, ya see we found a small bloodstain on the terry robe Regina was wearing. We’d like to match that against the blood of all the people who stayed overnight—plus maybe some others.”
Columbo: The Hoffa Connection Page 8