“What’s wrong with the alibi witnesses? Have you filled Dunedin in on this?”
“Haven’t got it nailed down yet, Cap’n. But Fred Mansfield needs money awful bad. Also, Sonya Pavlov spent the small hours of Friday-Saturday night in Mr. Kellogg’s apartment. When I got the facts, I’ll give ’em to the DA.” Sczciegel grinned. “Spent the night—? Columbo, you’re—” He shook his head. “I won’t even ask how you figured that one out.”
4
10:23 A.M.
Columbo sat on an orange fiberglass chair in an office at Sybil Brand Institute. He’d taken a cigar from his raincoat pocket, then realized the rule forbade smoking. He had brought with him a copy of PROBE, and it lay on the table before him. He read some of the stories—about appearances by Satan in West Texas, in which the demon corrupted young people by compelling them to listen to endless hours of rock-and-roll music; of a creature from outer space who had carried a Mississippi woman to another galaxy and returned her, after his race had subjected her to an exhaustive physical and mental examination and then displayed her naked in a zoo for a week; of a woman who had spotted a slender and youthful Elvis in a supermarket and persuaded him to acknowledge that he was indeed Elvis Presley but swore her not to reveal that he was about to announce a concert tour…
“Lieutenant Columbo?”
“Yes, Ma’am. You’re Margaret Phillips?”
“That’s me.” The woman sat down. She was an attractive blond, maybe forty years old, in the uniform of a guard. “They said you wanted to see me.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Lieutenant… The inmates in here are supposed to call me ‘ma’am.’ I’d just as soon you didn’t. I’m Peg.”
He grinned and nodded. “Okay. It’s a habit. You’re not the first woman to tell me not to call her that. Anyway, you may or may not be able to help me a little. It’s an off chance.” He shrugged. “If it works— Anyway, have you seen this?”
He handed her the tabloid, and she turned immediately to page three. She smiled and shook her head.
“Is that her?” he asked. “Are those really pictures of Miss Björling?”
Peg Phillips turned up her hands. “How could I tell? Pictures…”
“Well, you might be able to. Y see, I asked for whoever had put Miss Björling through a strip search, once or more than once. You might have seen something—like a birthmark, a mole, or a scar—that would tell you whether or not those pictures are really of Miss Björling.”
“You think maybe they’re not? And is it important? Has it got to do with—?”
“Well— There’s something very strange about her case. Her lawyer is selling her story for every dollar he can get out of it. Which may not mean anything but that he’s mercenary, and so’s she. Or maybe it does mean somethin’. I wondered if you’d see anything about those pictures that might tell you the body is not hers.”
“Faked, you mean?”
Columbo shrugged. “Could be.”
The jail guard frowned over the pictures. She hesitated for a long moment. “Well… You may have a point. Uh… Miss Björling doesn’t have any scars or birthmarks or moles. But she’s got—”
“I know this is embarrassing,” Columbo suggested. “Not for me it isn’t. But— Would I ever have to testify to this?”
“No. Just for information.”
Peg Phillips shook her head. “Not her body. Her head on the body of another woman, a model. Look. Her nipples. Little bitty wrinkled fellas, with dark buds that stand up. Erika Björling’s are big and smooth and shiny. No buds. I mean— Hell, I’ve seem ’em four or five times. We do strip-search prisoners. We have to, y’ know. You wouldn’t believe what they try to bring in, and where they try to hide stuff.”
“This has been very helpful. I can’t tell ya how helpful.”
“Anytime, Lieutenant.”
5
12:11 P.M.
Columbo and Adrienne had picked up hot dogs from a cart vendor and walked out on a pier. The wind was picking up, and the sea was restless.
“I love to look at the ocean,” he said.
“You and Dan would like each other. He loves to look at the ocean.”
“I like lookin’ at it better than touchin’ it.”
Adrienne laughed. “That’s how I am about snow. I like to look at it; it’s beautiful; but don’t ask me to go skiing. Even Dan wants me to go skiing. No way.”
She was dressed casually again, in tight, faded jeans and a sweatshirt. She enjoyed her hot dog. She enjoyed oysters on the half shell, and caviar, but she relished a cart-boiled hot dog smeared with yellow mustard.
“Need some information,” said Columbo.
“Here I thought you invited me for a romantic lunch because—”
“Adrienne… Serious. I got something interesting. I’ll tell you what it is, but you can’t use it. Okay?”
“I never violated your trust before, did I?”
“You sure didn’t. Well… Look. Those pictures of Erika Björling, in PROBE. They’re fakes. I mean, for sure. That’s not her. That’s her face on some other woman’s body. Don’t ask me how I know.”
“God, I wouldn’t want to know!”
“The point is, that newspaper prob’ly paid good money for those. And other good money for the Logan interview. I wonder what the top dog at PROBE would think—might maybe do—if he found out he’d been snookered.”
Adrienne smiled slyly. “The point is, how do we let him know?”
“I was thinkin’ about that. I figured you prob’ly know who’s the publisher.”
6
1:45 P.M.
Standing at the big window in Adrienne’s living room, Columbo stared at the enviable view she had of the coast and the Pacific. He had her portable telephone in his hand and listened to her as she called an office in New York.
It was not easy for anyone to get through on the telephone to Harry Gottsman, the reclusive publisher of PROBE, but her name cut through some levels of corporate bureaucracy, and finally the notorious publisher of the scandal-sheet tabloid came on the line.
“Gottsman speaking.”
“I guess I don’t need to introduce myself, Mr. Gottsman. You wouldn’t have taken my call if you didn’t recognize my name.”
“I’ve heard your name, Miss Boswell. Interested in coming to work for me?”
Adrienne chuckled. “I think I’ll pass up that privilege for the moment. On the other hand, if it’s an offer, I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Anytime. Listen. Tell me what you’re making, and I’ll better it.”
“That’s an intriguing proposition, Mr, Gottsman.”
“I bet you got a different proposition in mind. Why’d you call? If I’m not being too blunt.”
“You’ve been snookered. I thought you might like to know. I thought maybe also, if I tell you how you’ve been snookered, you might be willing to share a bit of information with me.”
“Journalistic courtesy,” said Gottsman, a barely subdued laugh in his voice.
“We got a deal?”
“Tell me how I’ve been snookered.”
“Your pictures of the topless Erika Björling. Doctored photos. Her face. Not her body.”
A silence followed.
“Got me, Mr. Gottsman? I can prove it.”
“How can you prove it?” His voice had hardened. Adrienne winked at Columbo, who had come into her office with the wireless telephone and was watching as well as listening. “How can you? And what you plan to do about it?”
“What I plan to do about it is nothing. I’m giving you information. You give me some. We never talked to each other.”
“All right. What you want to know from me?”
“Who tipped you that Logan claims he saw Erika Björling in his motel the night of the Wylie murder. Incidentally, he’s backing off on that story. He told an assistant district attorney he could have been wrong.”
“Backing— Alright. How do you know the pictures are fake?”<
br />
“Don’t ask me for more, but the tip comes from somebody who’s seen the beauteous Erika in the altogether more than once, and swears that’s not her body. It seems, Mr. Gottsman, that she has certain specific bodily characteristics that are not matched in the photographs.”
Again, a silence on the line. Then— “You say you don’t plan to tip this?”
“What good would that do me? It’s okay with me if you run pictures of the semi-nude Erika Björling. What I want to know is, who told you Logan would claim she was at the King’s Court Motel the night of the murder?”
“Who the hell do you think?” Gottsman asked. “The same son of a bitch who sold me fake pictures!”
“And that person is?”
“Grant Kellogg!”
XXIII
1
TUESDAY, APRIL 25—9:43 A.M.
Personnel of Sybil Brand Institute stood behind the lights and cameras and watched the drama being taped for television. The prisoners in four cells in the reception area had been moved to a holding pen, as if they were on their way to court. One cell had been swept of all litter, and the graffiti had been scrubbed from its walls. A prisoner who had served in the United States Marine Corps had earned extra television privileges by making up the cot in the tight, determinedly neat military manner. Two cameras sat on pedestals. Lights stood on tripods. Microphones in dishes were aimed at the cell.
When everything was ready, Erika was brought in and locked in the cell—locked lest she accidentally shove the door open while she was being interviewed. She wore blue dungarees and white rubber-and-canvas shoes. She had applied a little pale-pink lipstick and submitted to a dusting with powder and a little penciling of her eyebrows.
The director was a hyperactive young man with a yellow mustache. “Okay,” he said to Erika. “You’re a pro. I don't have to tell you how to do it. Don't shift your eyes. The audience can't be allowed to guess that you’re taking any direction. When I want to give you a signal, I'll step behind Veronica, so it will look like you’re keeping your eyes on her.”
Veronica Drake was the interviewer. She was a striking woman with spray-sculptured hair, glossy brushed-on lip color, and intense blue eyes. She was wearing a dark-blue dress with gleaming brass buttons and a skirt three inches above her knees. The preliminaries had been taped earlier, or would be taped later, and she began simply by walking up to the cell door and saying—
“This cell, nine feet long by six feet wide, is the present home of glamorous television personality Erika Björling. She has agreed to an exclusive jail interview with American Chronicle, and the Los Angeles women’s prison, the Sybil Brand Institute, has also extended its gracious cooperation. Erika… good evening.”
Erika rose from the cot and stepped over to the bars. “Let's get something out of the way first,” said Veronica Drake. “Did you kill Tim Wylie?”
Erika shook her head. “No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“Then being in here has to be a terrible ordeal for you.”
Erika gripped a steel bar in her left hand and with her right wiped a tear from her cheek. “Yes. It's unbelievably horrible.”
“You’re not saying that the personnel of this jail treat you cruelly?”
“Oh, no. They just do their jobs. In fact, they've been kind to me. But they can't let me out.”
The interview went on like that for about ten minutes. Erika wept and talked about the agony of confinement. Prompted by Veronica Drake, she described a strip-search, told how it felt to be handcuffed, talked about the meals she ate, talked about her job sorting laundry, described the panic she felt each time she woke in the night and remembered she was locked in. She ended the interview by saying she would rather die than be convicted and face the prospect of life in prison.
American Chronicle paid one million dollars for that interview. It would be broadcast the next evening.
2
10:18 A.M.
Columbo rapped on the glass with a quarter. He rapped again. Then again. When he was about to give up and leave, a man emerged from somewhere inside the closed bowling alley and came to the door. He shook his head and pointed at the sign saying the place was closed. Columbo showed his shield.
The man unlocked and opened the door.
“Columbo, Sir. Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD Homicide. You are—?”
“Hupp. Mace Hupp. I own this place.”
“Yes, Sir. You’re the man I came to see. Can I come in?” The man shrugged and pushed the door wide open. He was a man of fifty years, as Columbo judged. He judged also that not many years ago, this Mace Hupp—whose name was Mason Hupp, actually—had been a handsome man and a lady-killer. Now he had an interesting, engaging face marred only by prominent teeth that needed a dentist’s attention. His dark hair was turning gray. He smiled. The smile was one of genuine amusement, but also of total cynicism. He was a man who had seen something of the world and maybe didn’t like it too much.
Jesús Ruiz had done a background check on Hupp and reported that he did not actually own Ten Strikes. It was owned by a corporation that employed him as a front man. He was a bowler and pool player with enough of a name to attract customers to the big alley.
“Sure. C’mon in. You’re investigatin’ the Wylie murder, right? I don’t know the first thing about it.”
Columbo looked around. Ten Strikes was a much bigger place than he’d thought, since his attention before had been focused exclusively on the lounge. There were twenty alleys.
Hupp noticed him staring at the alleys. “You bowl, Lieutenant? A lot of guys from the Department do. I get a lot of cops come in and bowl.”
“No. Mrs. Columbo bowls. She’s a member of a ladies’ league. My game is pool.”
“Really? Y’ shoot good?”
“Decent.”
Hupp grinned. “Come over here. I got six tables. Do a little pool business on the side.”
He showed Columbo into a room where indeed six pool tables stood. He switched on the lights.
“My. This is a first-class—”
Hupp racked balls on the first table. “Nine-ball, Lieutenant?”
“That’s my game.”
“Go ahead and break. Ten dollars?”
“Make it one,” said Columbo. “On a policeman’s salary, that’s more the style.”
“Dollar it is. Break.”
Columbo broke the rack and sank the four. He sank the one but missed the two. Hupp bent over the table and smoothly ran the remaining balls. He broke then, made the seven on the break, and again ran out the game.
Columbo grinned, put his two dollars on the table, and shook his head. “I know when I’m overmatched,” he said.
Hupp shoved his two dollars back toward him. “I should’ve told you, Lieutenant. I was California state champion four straight years. Came in third in one national competition, fifth another time. I’d have liked to run the biggest poolroom in Los Angeles, but there’s more to be made with bowling. Keep on shootin’. But no money.” Columbo pushed the two one-dollar bills back to Hupp. “Worth it to see you play,” he said.
Hupp racked the balls again and motioned to Columbo to break. “I bet you got somethin’ in mind. You didn’t come in to play a couple racks of pool.”
Columbo nodded. “I guess the two alibi witnesses that work here work for you.”
“Right.”
“Y’ know anything about them that I ought to know?”
Hupp shook his head. “Sonya’s a good girl. She hired Freddy. I don’t know anything about him. She says he’s okay, he’s okay with me. For a little while I was afraid Sonya was turnin’ tricks—which I couldn’t tolerate—but then I figured out that she wasn’t. She plays the main chance. She has to.”
“Meanin’?”
“Short of money. She’s got a son that’s a wonderful kid. She wants to send him to college, but she can’t afford it. She’d turn tricks if that would get that boy a university education. I’d lend her the money, but—” Hupp s
hrugged. “We all got our problems.”
“Well… It’s been great to meet ya. When I got time, I’ll come in and let you give me some more pool lessons.”
“Y’ ever play straight pool, Lieutenant? Fifty-ball? Hundred-ball? Nine-ball's for television and gamblers. And it's sickening to watch guys come in and shoot eight-ball, which is for children. Straight pool. Call your shot. That's pool.”
Columbo nodded. “I love that. Hardly ever have time for it.”
“You come in mornings before I'm open, and we’ll make time for it.”
“You think I won’t? I will. I’ll be in to play. I’ll call. And, hey, how’d you like to play with a gorgeous red-headed gal that beats me regularly?”
“Bring her, Columbo. I’d love to give her lessons.” Columbo laughed and moved toward the door. “Oh, say. There is one more thing I ought to ask ya. Little thing. It must be good for business to have celebrities like Erika Björling and Grant Kellogg come in. Miss Pavlov always points ’em out to customers, I understand. That attract customers for ya?”
Hupp shrugged. “I never saw Erika Björling here. I understand she came in once or twice before she was arrested. I go in the lounge every half hour or so, to see how it’s going. I never saw her. I did see Kellogg a coupla times. Off the record, he and Sonya— Well. But Erika Björling?” He turned down the corners of his mouth and shook his head. “She never attracted any business here. If she came in at all, it was once or twice. That’s all.”
3
11:26 A.M.
“Hiya,” said Columbo as he walked into the service bay of an automobile agency in Long Beach. “You Gus Schmidt? My name’s Columbo.” He showed his shield. “LAPD homicide.”
The mechanic ducked out from under the Toyota he had up on a rack, and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands before he shook hands with Columbo. “What can I do for you?” He was a tall man, slender almost to the point of emaciation, with a long, pointed chin, a pointed nose, and cheeks sunken under prominent cheekbones. But he had jolly, dancing eyes.
Columbo: The Game Show Killer Page 15
