Columbo: The Game Show Killer

by William Harrington

  “Columbo, publicity may be the key to this case.”

  He grimaced and rubbed his right ear. “I guess I’ll have to go see this Peg Brinsley. What can you tell me about her?”

  Adrienne shrugged. “She’s a onetime actress. She has to be, oh, fifty years old. She played ingenue roles in the sixties—in beach films and stuff like that, nothing challenging. She grew out of that kind of thing and found nothing else waiting for her. Before she was thirty she was unemployed but was still something of a Hollywood figure, known around the town. So she exploited her connections and a talent for snooping and writing and managed to syndicate a newspaper column. It was once syndicated in ninety-five newspapers but appears in thirty-two now— and only three times weekly. She has always skirted just around the boundaries of the libel laws. In fact, she’s been sued a number of times. She has a following, though. Some people wouldn’t miss her column. I suppose millions of people.”

  “I guess I’ll have to go see her,” Columbo said unhappily. “Well, let me give you one or two more facts about her. She’s had her face lifted. And when she was in her twenties, she suffered some kind of fever and lost her hair. Under the wig you’ll see her wearing, she’s bald as a cue ball.”

  2

  5:00 P.M.

  Peg Brinsley received Columbo at her Malibu apartment. He was careful to be on time, at the exact hour she had specified.

  She was not wearing a wig and was as bald as Adrienne had said.

  “I’ll talk about my head once, Lieutenant, and then—”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,“Ma’am. That’s none of my business.”

  “Lieutenant. I wear wigs when I go out, so as not to be a public spectacle. I do not wear them in the privacy of my home. They are not very comfortable. So… Don’t try to keep your eyes off my bald head. Stare all you want to. I have long since ceased to be embarrassed.”

  “In point of fact, Ma’am, it’s sort of distinguishing, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

  She laughed. “Come into my living room, Lieutenant. Take off your coat and have a seat. I invited you for the cocktail hour, so what will you have?”

  “A light Scotch and soda, Ma’am.”

  She kept a bar in her living room, complete with a small refrigerator and a score of bottles. He watched her pour his Scotch and a Stolichnaya vodka on the rocks for herself. A silver platter of cheeses and crackers sat on the coffee table.

  Columbo decided Adrienne’s description of Peg Brinsley had been catty and wondered if it were not based on professional jealousy of the woman’s following. He stared at her as she had invited him to and decided her baldness did not detract from the simple truth that she was a handsome woman. Perhaps her face had been smoothed by a plastic surgeon; he was no judge of things like that, seeing only that her features were firm and smooth. She had blue eyes and probably had been a blond. He guessed she paid regular visits to a manicurist and a cosmetician. Her figure was one any man could admire. She was wearing powder- blue silk lounging pajamas. When she brought their drinks and sat down, she opened a lacquered box on the coffee table and took out a pale-green oval cigarette.

  “Care to try one of these?” she asked.

  “Well, no Ma’am, but since you smoke, maybe you won’t mind if I smoke a cigar.”

  “Not at all.”

  He felt that a gentleman should light a lady’s cigarette and was glad to see a lighter on the table.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “Well, Ma’am, I could use some more details on those two names you mentioned in your column about Tim Wylie.”

  “I can’t disclose my sources.”

  “Oh, I understand that. I wouldn’t ask ya to. But it would be helpful to me if you could tell me some facts, like where does Natalie Moore live and when did this happen—stuff like that.”

  “I can give you the addresses and phone numbers of the Moore home and Moore’s business. When did it happen? About a year ago. Natalie was sixteen. Len was almost seventy. I ask you, Lieutenant Columbo, is that grotesque, or is that not grotesque?”

  “I try not to be judgmental, Ma’am, but yeah, I gotta admit, that’s grotesque. Why weren’t the juvenile authorities called in?”

  “Len paid off.”

  “In the case of Eva Cline, I guess I know where I can find her.”

  “She’s shooting a picture right now.”

  “In your column you mentioned motives to murder… uh, Tim Wylie.”

  “Eva’s husband threatened to kill him—threatened him personally, to his face. Arnold Moore threatened him on the phone.”

  Columbo reached for his raincoat, and Peg Brinsley’s eyes widened as she watched him pull a half-smoked cigar out of a pocket and light it with her table lighter.

  “I know ya can’t disclose your sources, but can you say you’re really sure about these-threats?”

  “Arnold Moore called me and asked me to blow the whistle on Len. He said he’d threatened to kill him but guessed maybe public exposure of his lechery would hurt him more. He offered an interview with his daughter, and photos of her. The next day he called me again and said he’d decided not to go through with it. He asked me to forget it. I asked him point-blank how much he’d been paid. He said nothing, but he wasn’t convincing.”

  “And Eva Cline’s husband?”

  “He threatened Len in public, at a party. He had to be restrained from punching him in the mouth. Plenty of witnesses to that.”

  “You mentioned a conspiracy of silence about Mr. Wylie’s activities.”

  “Lieutenant… Some people become icons. No matter how aggressive news people get, they leave some people alone. That’s true in politics. For example, do you read enough tabloid stuff to know that Marybeth Lane had an illegitimate child last month?”

  Columbo shook his head. “I don’t pay much attention to that kinda stuff. Mrs. Columbo does. She likes the scandal shows, but me—”

  “The name of her child’s father has not been made public. A lot of people in the news business know who it is, but they’re not publishing or broadcasting it. Why not? Because the not-so-proud papa is United States Senator Alexander Douglas. An icon. Nobody wants to bring him down. You see, there is some restraint in the media.”

  “And Tim Wylie—”

  “Was an icon.”

  “Until now. You decided to—”

  “I had to fight to get the column published. Eleven of my newspapers refused to publish it. I’ve had angry phone calls, even on my unlisted number. Telegrams. Faxes. How could I do this to the idol of millions?”

  “You’ve known all this stuff for years, Ma’am. Why did you decide to do it now?”

  “I tried for years to do it. My syndicate wouldn’t run anything negative about Tim Wylie.”

  “You tried… because?”

  Peg Brinsley tossed her head and laughed. “Can’t you guess? I was one of his victims. For about three weeks. My bald head turned him on. He said he loved me. He said he’d divorce Faye and marry me. Then, as suddenly as he fell in love,’ he fell out of it. Off he went, with somebody else. You know how I felt? I felt dirty, Lieutenant. He—” She stopped and ran a hand over her smooth head. “This—” Her voice broke. “This was what he wanted. For the moment. And once he’d experienced making love with a bald woman… What turned him on turned him off.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

  “Drink up, Lieutenant. 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow ye die.’ ”

  “I’ve heard that said, Ma’am.”

  “Let me pour you another one.”

  “Actually, I’ve gotta be goin’. You know, constabulary’s duty’s to be done.”

  “And your wife is preparing a nice dinner.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “Lasagna. It’s one of her specialties.”

  “You live an enviable life.”

  “Thank ya, Ma’am. I think I do.”

  Peg Brinsley nodded. “You go home and enjoy you
r nice dinner.”

  He rose and picked up his raincoat. “I sure do appreciate your help.”

  “Anytime, Lieutenant,” she said warmly. She followed him to the foyer and opened the door. “Anytime.”

  He stepped into the hall and pressed the elevator button. Then—

  “Oh. Oh, say, Ma’am. There is one more little thing I meant to ask. Uh… You comin’ up with these ideas about how other people had a motive to murder Tim Wylie, that’s a good thing for Miss Björling’s defense, wouldn’t ya say?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Right. And your column appeared yesterday. So has Mr. Kellogg called you to get more facts, like I’ve just done?”

  Peg Brinsley tilted her head and smiled. “As a matter of fact, no. He hasn’t. Which is curious, isn’t it? I wondered if you'd ask. You're damned sharp, Lieutenant Columbo."

  "Not really, but— That's interestin' . . . Well, maybe he just hasn't got around to it. Would you call me if he does?"

  "I'll call you. I'll make a point of calling you."

  "I'll be grateful, Ma'am."

  XV

  1

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19—8:22 A.M.

  The AAA tow truck sat in Columbo’s driveway, just behind his Peugeot. The driver, in white coveralls, shook his head and grinned at the same time.

  “Mister, the only thing I know to do is hook onto this car and drag it to a Peugeot dealership—and I’m not sure there’s one of those in Los Angeles. I’ll have to call in and check. I guess there’s a Saab dealer who services—” Columbo shook his head. He pulled his cigar from his mouth. “Naa,” he said. “Y’ don’t need to tow it in. I know what’s wrong with it and how to fix it, but I haven’t got the tools. I’ve seen it done ten times, and I can show you how. Just get out your metric socket wrenches.” He jammed the cigar back in and drew a mouthful of smoke, which he blew away in the wind.

  The tow-truck driver sighed. “Mister, I ain’t got—”

  “Hey! I don’t mean to throw weight around or nothin’, but I’m a police officer, and I’ve gotta get down to—”

  “You’re a police officer?”

  “Lieutenant Columbo. Homicide. I’m workin’ on the Tim Wylie murder, and—”

  “I saw you on TV!”

  “Yeah, yeah. May have. Look. Y’ see this thingamajig?”

  “That’s the carburetor, Lieutenant.”

  “Right. That’s what they call that. Now, you see that thing there? I can’t turn that with pliers, ’cause it’s down there in that little slot. You gotta use a socket wrench.”

  “And do what?”

  “And turn it. I’ll tell you when it’s enough.”

  The driver went to his truck and returned with a kit of tools. He bent over the fender of the Peugeot and tried sockets until he found one that fit.

  “I always admire good tools and guys who know how to use ’em,” Columbo said. “My wife is always tellin’ me I ought to buy a set of those wrenches so I could do this for myself. But I tell ya. The last time I tried to fix anything mechanical, I lost a screw down inside an electric motor. When I plugged it in again, that screw chewed up that motor somethin’ awful. Mechanical things just defy me.”

  “How you want me to turn this?”

  “Right. Right about a quarter of a turn. Y see, what happens is, in time vibration shakes that whatchamacallit loose, and it turns and—What ya want to do is tighten it. Just snug. One guy broke it off one day. Just snug.”

  “It needs a locknut, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, prob’ly. You wouldn’t happen to have one of those in your toolbox?”

  “Not that’ll fit this.”

  “Okay. That’s enough. It’ll start now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’ll start.”

  “You wanta try it?”

  Columbo shrugged. “Why not?” He sat down behind the wheel, engaged the starter, and the engine sputtered to life. He turned it off and got out again. “Y’ see? It’s just—”

  The driver shook his head. “What I don’t understand is why you try to keep an antique like this runnin’.”

  “Well… Y’ gotta understand. Y’ see, this car’s a French car, and the French really know how to make a car—or did when they made this one. You wouldn’t believe how many miles— I don’t even know how many miles it’s got on it. And it’s got lotsa good miles left in it. When ya got something good, you take care of it, and—”

  “If I were you, Lieutenant, I’d take out my service revolver and shoot it, like a horse that’s—”

  “Well, I can’t do that.”

  “Y’ can’t?”

  “No. Y’ see, they took away our good old service revolvers and issued us these automatics. I can’t figure out how to load and cock the thing, let alone not shoot myself in the foot. Anyway, I couldn’t shoot a good ol’ horse that had given me faithful service. If this car ever gets where it can’t start anymore, I guess I’ll just leave it in the garage, and I’ll go out and sit in it and talk to it once in a while.”

  2

  10:11 A.M.

  Eva Cline swam toward the beach. A following wave caught her, lifted her, and threw her tumbling onto the sand. She scrambled to her feet and ran up the beach. She was naked.

  “Right! Good! Perfect!”

  A girl ran up to Eva and helped her to cover herself with a thick, ankle-length, terry-cloth robe. The electrician turned off the lights. The cameramen checked their cameras to be sure they’d gotten the scene. The director clapped his hands and kept yelling how good it had been.

  “Eva! Eva! One cut. That’s it. We don’t have to do it again!”

  “Thank God for something anyway,” she said. “A girl could drown.”

  “Never! Twenty-one guys would have been into the surf to save you! Oh, uh… this is Lieutenant Columbo of the Los Angeles Police. He, uh, wants to talk to you.”

  She grinned at Columbo. “Indecent exposure?” she asked playfully.

  “Nothin’ indecent about it, Ma’am. No. I’m from the Homicide Squad. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a question or six.”

  “Well, come on to my trailer, Lieutenant. Homicide… Sounds ominous. Who’m I supposed to have killed?”

  “I’m working on the Tim Wylie case.”

  “Oh… Poor Len.”

  Eva Cline was a handsome woman who could not escape the adjective “statuesque.” She had light-brown hair, hazel eyes, an exquisitely chiseled face with prominent high cheekbones, a wide mouth, and a figure that was at once generous and yet athletic. Her real name was Evita Klein. She was an Argentine citizen of German extraction and spoke Spanish and German as well as faintly accented English.

  Inside her dressing-room trailer, she poured coffee from an insulated carafe and handed a cup to Columbo without asking if he wanted it.

  “If you want to know if I murdered Len, I was at dinner with friends all evening, at Fonda la Paloma. If you want to know if my ex-husband did it, he was in New York last Thursday evening. Or so I understand; you can check it.”

  “Well, your former husband did express himself pretty firmly about Mr. Wylie.”

  “Yes, he said he’d like to kill him. But I much doubt that he did. He has always been a talker, not a doer. Bluff is his stock in trade, Lieutenant Columbo.”

  “Mr. Wylie—”

  “Was a doer, not a talker. I don’t need to explain what I mean, do I?”

  She grabbed a pack of Marlboros from a table, snapped a lighter, and drew flame into the cigarette. With that, Columbo pulled a cigar from his raincoat pocket. “Uh… Can I have a light?”

  She handed him her lighter. “I think you can probably understand what I’m going to tell you, Lieutenant. I’ve never held and do not hold the slightest resentment against Len: against Tim. He was a kind and tender lover. And I wouldn’t be what I am if not for him. He promised me he would help me in my career, and he did.”

  “So you don’t hold anything against him
at all? But I guess your husband did.”

  “My husband was a jealous fool. He was possessive. He’s a photographer, you know, and got it in his mind that because he got me spreads in Playboy and the like, he owned me. I’d had some small film and TV exposure, but Len arranged real opportunities for me. It was the kind of thing that makes a big difference. There are thousands of us who wait and hope for a break. Len got me mine. I cried some genuine tears when I found out he’d been murdered. Now they say the art is fake— God, Lieutenant, why would anyone want to hurt him?”

  “I thank ya for the coffee, Ma’am. It’s very good. I won’t take any more of your time.”

  “My time is your time.”

  “Well, thank ya again. This investigation has got me chances to interview some famous people.”

  He opened the trailer door and squinted at the Pacific and the waves coming in and breaking. “Did Mr. Wylie ever mention Miss Björling?”

  “He mentioned Tammy. He told me she was his daughter, though he never met her. He told me that in absolute confidence, and I would never have betrayed that confidence, except that it’s now been betrayed in the news. He wept over her, Lieutenant. Can you believe that? I bet that’s a different impression of the man than you’re getting from some sources.”

  “Right… Yeah, I guess that’s right. Well—” He stepped down from the trailer. “Oh. Oh, say, Miss Cline. One other thing. I, uh… Y’ understand, of course, that your former husband threatening Mr. Wylie could be an important point the defense might want to make when Miss Björling comes to trial. Has Mr. Kellogg called you?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, he hasn’t.”

  Columbo nodded. “Well… prob’ly doesn’t mean anything. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if he does.”

  3

  11:49 A.M.

  The store on South Olive Street looked like a place where they wouldn’t object to a cigar, so Columbo walked in, enjoying the last few puffs from the stub. The place was, in fact, a sporting-goods store, where they sold everything from running shoes to handguns.

  For some reason, the boy behind the counter impressed him as a smart aleck. Maybe he wasn’t, but that was how he looked to Columbo. “Is Mr. Moore in?” he asked the boy. The kid was a smart aleck. “Who wants to see him?”