“Pepsi,” the woman said.
“Pepsi it is, then.”
Mary Nelle Fiske came over and sat down on the next stool. She was a cute kid, as Columbo thought of her. He guessed she was eighteen, nineteen at the most. She was pretty in no particularly distinctive way. Her dishwater-blond hair was thick and curly. Her face was square. Her body was lush.
“Miss, my name is Columbo. I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department, Homicide Division.”
“Freddy told me you talked to him at noon.”
“Hey, I’m sorry if I made him late. You know how it is. I’m investigating a murder.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“I know you don’t.”
“Is Freddy in some kind of trouble?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. But he’s a witness, you know, and I have to find out what I can about him. Just routine investigating, y’ know.”
“Freddy’s a nice guy,” Mary Nelle said simply and sincerely.
“I got that impression.”
“A real nice guy,” she said, a note of sadness coming into her voice.
Columbo ran his hand through his hair and nodded. “I get the idea some way that you and Freddy have got a problem. Some kinda personal problem that may be none of my business. Uh, coffee? Or a Pepsi? Or a sandwich, if you like. I—”
“Pepsi,” she said to the woman behind the counter. She turned toward Columbo. “Yeah, a problem. The usual problem. Nothing special. It happens to everybody, I guess.”
“What’s that, Miss?”
Mary Nelle drew a deep breath, then showed Columbo a wan smile. “What else? I’m pregnant.”
“Aw… well. That’s not so bad, is it? Or is it?”
“It wouldn’t be so bad except for one little thing. Freddy is married to somebody else.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah. She’s not a nice girl, Lieutenant Columbo. He and I could be so happy. But… She wants money. To let him go. A lot of money. And people like me and Freddy don’t have that kind of money.”
Columbo nodded. “I see your point. Hey, uh… Would you like half of a nice grilled cheese sandwich?”
XXI
1
SATURDAY, APRIL 22—4:25 P.M.
Erika grabbed Grant’s hands and clutched them tightly. “Hey, man! I can’t stand this! You gotta get me outa here. I can’t take it any more!”
Grant glanced at the guard who was watching. “Kid… I told you. You agreed. You’ve got to take if for a while. This is what’s worth money. Hey. The million-dollar deal! It’s almost in the can. Calm down. I know it’s hell. But that’s what’s going to buy the sympathy that makes your story worth all the money you can use for the rest of your life.”
“I don’t want the money. I want out.”
Grant wet his lips with his tongue. “Erika… You can’t get out. I can’t get you out. Face it. You did kill Len. The only way you can get out is by the trial and acquittal.”
“Months…” she sobbed.
“Followed by the whole rest of your life, living at ease, with security and comfort. It’s what we agreed to. You can’t lose your nerve. You don’t dare.”
“Do you promise me I’m going to be acquitted?”
“I promise you. Listen, I’ve been working. You let that desk clerk have a good look at you, so he’d be a witness for the prosecution. Well, he’s not going to be any good now. In the first place, he sold his story. Then yesterday he told a private investigator of mine that he wasn’t so very sure after all that the woman he saw was you. My guy got that on tape. If they use him as a witness—”
“Too much depends on Sonya and Freddy.”
“Columbo interviewed both of them. They did alright. They’ll be okay. When you add to that that they’ve got no witness that puts you at the scene, they’ve got no gun, they’ve got no fingerprints—”
“Has anyone said anything about the money Len gave me?”
Grant shook his head. “We’ll call it a loan. You asked him for a loan. He was, after all, the father of your child. He felt sorry for you and gave you the money. You called him on the phone and asked for it, and he told you to stop by the house on Thursday evenings when his wife would be out playing bridge. He gave you the money in cash because he didn’t want her to see canceled checks.”
Erika nodded. “Okay. I’ll sticky to that story. No matter what.”
2
7:49 P.M.
Columbo glanced around the Pacific Club. He had come in with Adrienne, and he grinned at her and said, “This sure is some elegant place. My! More like where you’d expect to find a man like Grant Kellogg. I mean, to find him here instead of in a bowling-alley bar”.
“Speaking of whom, guess who’s sitting at the bar. Is that Grant Kellogg, or is that Grant Kellogg?”
“Not a coincidence,” said Columbo. “The young woman who works in his office said this was where he was going.”
“You going to talk to him?”
“If he’ll talk to me.”
“I’ll go on into the dining room,” she said. “Dan’s waiting for me. I appreciate your time.”
“Well, we were comin’ to the same place.”
“Riding in that car of yours is an adventure I never want to miss.”
“Well, you don’t often see real leather seats in cars anymore.”
She laughed. “Okay, Columbo. I’ll respect your confidence.”
Columbo walked over to the bar. Grant Kellogg was sipping from a martini on the rocks. He wore a handsome double-breasted blue blazer, with gray slacks. Columbo’s collar was unbuttoned, and it seemed appropriate to pull up the knot of his tie. Adrienne had insisted he must check his raincoat. He slapped cigar ash off the lapel of his gray suit.
“Mr. Kellogg,” he said. “I hope I’m not intruding on your privacy.”
“Lieutenant Columbo. Sit down. Whether you’re intruding on my privacy depends on whether you’ve come here to interrogate me.”
“Oh, no, Sir. Nothin’ like that. I’m taking the evening off, so to speak.” He paused and stared for a moment at Emily, the topless barmaid. “Uh… Mrs. Columbo’s gone out to a movie she wanted to see, with some of her friends. I didn’t really want to see it, so—”
“I didn’t realize you were a member here.”
“I’m not, really. I came in as a guest of somebody who is. Miss Adrienne Boswell. Of course, y’ know, when I show my gold shield I can get in anywhere. I try not to take advantage of that.”
“Let me buy you a drink. What’ll you have?”
“Oh, uh, Scotch and soda. A light one. It’s very kind of you, Sir.”
Grant nodded at Emily. Columbo was conscious that he was staring at the girl. “What kind of Scotch would you like, Sir?” she asked.
“Oh, uh… Cutty would be fine.”
“Hold it. Pour Lieutenant Columbo a Glenfiddich,” said Grant.
“Lieutenant Columbo!” Emily glanced back and forth between the two men. “Oh, my!”
“He’s going to give me the third-degree tonight, Emily. He’s the best homicide detective in Los Angeles, and I’m more than a little afraid.”
The girl laughed and turned to the shelf behind the bar to take down the bottle of single-malt Scotch.
“I notice that you’ve checked out my alibi witnesses.”
“Well, yes, Sir. I have to do that.”
Grant nodded. “I realize that only two of them can testify with certainty to the precise time when Erika arrived at Ten Strikes. The others are certain they saw her there, but aren’t as certain of the exact time.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Since the defense and prosecution have to exchange information, I can tell you that your motel clerk has changed his story. Now he’s not sure he saw Erika that night. He says he could have been wrong.”
“He was sure when he talked to me,” said Columbo. “He didn’t have any doubt when that newspaper reporter interviewed him.”
“T
hat’s because he was paid for his story. It wouldn’t have been worth anything if he’d said he wasn’t certain.”
“What I’d like to know,” said Columbo, “is how that reporter, Miss Mahoney, knew about Logan. He called in and asked to talk to the detective in charge of the Wylie murder investigation, and I went out and talked to him. I didn’t tell anybody about that. But she—”
“It’s simple enough, Columbo. Don’t be naive—as if I thought you were. The boy decided that here was a chance to pick up some money. I bet that newspaper paid him thousands of dollars for that interview.”
Emily put a double Scotch on the bar, in a separate glass. She served the soda and ice on the side.
Columbo tasted the Scotch. “My! That’s special! That’s sure some whiskey.”
“Erika’s very unhappy in jail,” said Grant. “She’s pressing me hard to get the case docketed and tried.”
“She’s not the kind of person you expect to find in jail.”
“No, she’s not. Erika’s a fine woman, one who’s suffered some misfortunes in her life. It’s tough being a woman whose only claim on the world, her only way of making it in this world, is that she’s exceptionally attractive.”
“There’s something I’m gonna have to ask sooner or later, Mr. Kellogg. You may not want to answer. Was Mr. Wylie giving money to Miss Björling?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, she deposited cash in November and January— two thousand dollars, then five thousand. Each time, that came just one day after Mr. Wylie withdrew the same amount from his financial-management account. I just wondered if—”
“Yes, Lieutenant. Loans. Erika needed the money. Badly. She’s been out of work a long time. Len—which was his real name, you know—let her have two loans. He felt sorry for her.”
“Why cash, Sir, if you know?”
“He didn’t want his wife to find out he was giving Erika money. He had her come to the house and pick it up on Thursday evenings, when his wife would be out playing bridge.”
“Both times? Thursday evenings?”
“I told you, Columbo. That’s when his wife would be away from the house.”
“For sure?”
Grant’s face hardened. “I said it. That’s when Faye would be away from the house.”
“Well, it’s very curious. I, uh—” Columbo shook his head. “Little inconsistencies bother me.”
“What inconsistency?”
“Well, Sir, y’ see. Mr. Wylie withdrew five thousand dollars from his account on January 9, which was a Monday; and Miss Björling deposited five thousand dollars in cash on January eleventh, which was Wednesday. And in November, he withdrew money on Friday, November fourth. She deposited the same amount in cash on Monday, the seventh.”
Grant Kellogg grinned and shook his head. “I don’t know what the answer is, Lieutenant. But you’re right when you call it a little inconsistency. I’ll ask Erika about it. Maybe her memory isn’t one hundred percent accurate. You understand, she’s emotionally distressed.”
“Yeah, that’s prob’ly the reason. She’s upset. Anyway, I didn’t mean to cross-examine you. Sorry. This is really good Scotch. I gotta write down the name of it.”
XXII
1
SUNDAY, APRIL 23—10:22 A.M.
Sunday morning he went shopping for a new raincoat. Mrs. Columbo insisted he must. Because he wanted to go alone and not have her pressing him to buy, he slipped away while she was out shopping for the groceries she would need to make the lasagna she was serving to him and their guests for dinner.
He went to an outlet store where he figured he could look and not have to talk to a salesman. It didn’t work that way. They had a steel rack of raincoats, and no sooner had he begun to look than a salesman—a young fellow with bristly hair, wearing a loud checked jacket and a maroon satin necktie—sidled up to him and offered his assistance.
“A new raincoat, Sir? We’ve got some dandies. Some of them on sale. This week only.”
“Well, I’m just lookin’,” Columbo said.
“That one you’re wearing is a veteran. I bet you’ve had good service out of that, for a lot of years.”
“Good service? I mean to tell ya it’s given me good service. You wouldn’t believe.”
“How about a style like this?” The young man pulled a raincoat from the rack. “Handsome, don’t you think? Why don’t you try it on, just for size?”
“Well, I—”
“Let me help you.” The young salesman helped him out of his raincoat and laid it over the rack. “Now try this one. It’s a lighter color, as you can see, and—”
“I don’t know. This color’s gonna show dirt a lot.”
“Maybe a black coat?”
“And I need a lot of room in the pockets. Y’ see, I’m a policeman, homicide investigator, and I carry a lot of stuff in my pockets.”
“Then try this one. It’s very stylish and has big pockets. And, I don’t know… This coat just says policeman. I mean, it just says authority and—”
“Yeah, but the first thing that’d happen, I’d lose the belt. I’m untidy. I… I tell ya, I’m just lookin’. I really shouldn’t take your time.”
The young man stared disdainfully at the stained and tattered raincoat he had put on top of the rack. “You do need a new coat, Sir.”
“Maybe. But it’s like you said, that one has given me a lot of service. I figure it’s got more in it. I just thought I’d look. My wife sent me.”
“Well… If I can help you further, I’ll be over there. Just let me know.”
2
1:46 P.M.
It was good to have Sunday off, and a nice afternoon nap would have suited. Huh-uh. Mrs. Columbo had a better idea. He should go to the beach, so he’d be out of the house while she was cooking. Okay, it might have been relaxing, except that Mrs. C. insisted she would send along a picnic lunch so he could stay three or four hours, instead of the one early-morning hour he liked to spend with Dog.
Worse than that, she insisted he must wear swimming trunks and actually venture into the water. He did, for about five minutes; but he couldn’t swim and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to, unless he were in the navy. Besides, he sunburned easily and painfully. What was more, the splashing of the waves threatened to douse his cigar. Also, he figured he was a comic spectacle on the beach: a middle-aged guy with something of a paunch, wearing out-of-style boxer trunks and trying to keep his stub of cigar alight—in contrast to the California beach types, all handsome and sleek and in love with sun and sand and water. Except for walking Dog early in the morning, he just wasn’t a beach guy.
Back home in late afternoon, he took the Beretta off the shelf in the hall closet and checked it for rust. It wasn’t rusting. He wrapped it carefully in a towel and put it back. The revolver he’d kept in the closet for many years had been a simple, straightforward weapon. He had understood how it worked. The works of this pistol were hidden inside it. You couldn’t even look at it and tell if it was loaded. Columbo figured the thing was dangerous.
He worked a little on his car, washing it and rubbing down the leather upholstery. There was something a man could find satisfaction in: taking good care of his car.
Then he had to take a shower and dress for dinner. Not only that, he had to slap aftershave on his face. He had to serve drinks and open the wine. And try to keep the conversation off the Erika Björling case.
About 9:30 he excused himself from the party for a few minutes and went to his den. He switched his telephone answering machine to record the two calls he was about to make.
The first number he dialed answered on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Hi. Is Dana home?”
“There’s no Dana here. You must have the wrong number.”
“Oh, sorry. Isn’t this 531-2974?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Well, I’m calling long distance, you see, and I don’t want to dial the same wrong
number twice.”
“I’m afraid that’s your problem. You’ve called a wrong number. Okay?”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you. It’s an imposition to get a wrong-number call on Sunday evening.”
“Okay. But please don’t dial the same number again.”
She hung up.
He dialed a second number.
“This is the law offices of Grant Kellogg. Neither I nor any member of my staff are here right now. Our office hours are from 8:30 to 5:00, Monday through Saturday. If you would like to leave a message, please wait for the beep and then be sure to give your name and number so we can return your call. Thank you for calling.”
3
MONDAY, APRIL 24—9:18 A.M.
Captain Sczciegel had left word for Columbo to come to his office. The captain was grinning broadly when Columbo came in.
“Have a nice day off, Columbo?”
“Super. Oh, yes, Sir. Very nice. And you?”
“I don’t suppose you took any time to carry your Beretta out to the range and get in some practice? No, don’t tell me. I don’t even want to know. Look at this.”
He handed Columbo a copy of PROBE. The headline on the front page was—
ERIKA BJÖRLING TOPLESS!
ACCUSED MURDERESS AS YOU’VE NEVER SEEN HER!
What was promised on the front page filled page three: five photographs of Erika Björling with her breasts bare. They were beach pictures, maybe taken somewhere like St. Tropez. She was topless, but she wasn’t flaunting it.
“It’s a bunch of crap, Columbo. As you know. But it adds to the pressure on us. Dunedin has been on the phone already, wanting to know if we’ve got the evidence that wraps up the case. Do we?”
Columbo shook his head. “Mr. Dunedin knows very well. With what we’ve got, it’s a touch-and-go case. The alibi wit-
nesses that put her in the bar at the Ten Strikes bowling alley at the time of the murder are coming unglued, little by little; but they’re still better witnesses than any we’ve got that puts her in Bel Air at the time of the killing.”
Columbo: The Game Show Killer Page 14