Columbo: The Game Show Killer Read online

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any pictures of her? I mean, topless or nude. I could pay a good price for those. The TV characters couldn’t broadcast them, but I can publish them, for damned sure.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got some. She’s a little inclined to modesty, but I’ll ask her about them.”

  “I’ll buy those. I’ll pay top dollar. She’s got to have some. She started out as a model, didn’t she?”

  “Let me see what I can come up with.”

  “Okay, Grant. For right now, I’ll taint your witness for you. Keep in touch.”

  XI

  1

  SUNDAY, APRIL 16—7:08 A.M.

  One of Dog’s pleasures was taking his master for a romp on the beach, especially early in the morning. It was then, when there were not many people around, that Dog earnestly tried to teach his master the fundamentals. He showed him how to chase gulls. He showed him how to grab flailing crabs and carry them in his teeth without getting nipped—usually. The technique of chasing at waves rolling in was a little more complex, since he had to judge them carefully and run at them, barking loudly, and retreating at precisely the right moment, lest the annoyed water overtake him and send him rolling up the sand. When it did, he had to show his master how to rid himself of salt water, capering up close so his master could see exactly how to shake.

  All of this his master failed to appreciate. The man in the flapping raincoat, smoking the stub of a cigar, muddleheadedly watched while Dog ran industriously after gulls—and never ran after any himself. He never caught any crabs in his teeth. He stood back from the surf, as if he were afraid of the waves and didn’t want to get wet. The problem was, he didn’t pay attention. The best cavorting a dog could do did not distract the man from staring at young girls naked but for little strips of colorful cloth wrapped around them at odd places for some odd reason. Dog despaired of ever managing to teach his master anything.

  As Columbo despaired of ever teaching Dog anything. He’d often said that Dog knew all he would ever know when he came to live with the Columbos—which maybe was all a dog needed to know. He knew how to drown his fleas in a neighbor’s swimming pool. He knew how to scratch. He knew how to relax.

  One thing about Dog— He lightened a man’s spirits. But he did not distract his thoughts.

  Columbo flipped away his cigar. He dipped in his raincoat pocket and pulled out a hard-boiled egg, which he peeled and began to eat. It would have been nice to have a little salt. It would have been nice to have a cup of coffee. But, then, a man couldn’t have everything.

  His thoughts moved from one thing to another—to Erika Björling’s note and the inconsistency in her statement about when she left her apartment Thursday evening, also to the confident statement of the motel desk clerk that had seen her there, only a couple or three miles from the Wylie home, very near the time when Tim Wylie was shot. On the other hand, where was the Van Gogh that was worth millions? And why did two other valuable paintings remain hanging?

  Maybe he’d focused on the wrong inconsistencies and coincidences. Probably had. But that was the way these things went sometimes. One thing led to another, and all a man could do was follow. Sometimes it was as if the case solved itself, and all a detective had to do was go along. “Say. What kind of a dog is that?”

  He was drawn out of his brown study by the beautiful girl who was asking what kind of dog was Dog. Girls like her were the real reason his uncle had moved to California and then urged him to, years ago. A California beach girl: sun-bleached hair, a deep tan, a terry beach coat open and displaying her tiny red bikini.

  “He’s a basset hound, mostly.”

  “He looks like he’s shrunk inside his skin.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Columbo said.

  “What’s he trying to do?”

  “He’s trying to chase the waves back. He knows I don’t wanta get wet, so he tries to keep the tide from coming in. Never gives up. Oh, he takes good care of me. He thinks I want gulls, so he tries to catch some for me. Never catches any. On the other hand, two or three times he’s brought me crabs. Or maybe they brought me him. I had to pry them loose off him.”

  The girl tilted her head and looked inquiringly at Columbo. “Haven’t I seen you on television?”

  “Afraid you may have.”

  “Yeah… Yeah! The Erika Björling case! You’re, uh, Lieutenant… uh—”

  “Columbo.”

  “Right! Hey! Did she really do it?”

  Columbo lifted his eyebrows high and turned down the corners of his mouth. “Kinda looks like she did. It’ll be for a court to decide.”

  “Well… Hey! Like, y’ know, you and your dog are the most interesting people on the beach this morning.”

  “Uh… Well, uh… thank ya.”

  2

  2:11 P.M.

  Columbo stood on the grass on a slope above the funeral chapel, in the shade of a pair of trees. Columbo had chosen today to wear a dark gray suit, and he’d left his raincoat in his car.

  “Columbo…”

  “Adrienne. I figured you’d be here. Famous reporter like you, you oughta be inside.”

  “I don’t much care about being inside. I’d have to listen to the eulogies.”

  “You’re gonna hear ’em out here,” said Columbo. He nodded at the speakers mounted on the walls of the chapel.

  Adrienne was dressed for a funeral: in a black dress, white gloves, and a little black hat with a veil that fell only over her forehead.

  “Where’s Dan?”

  “Not over there,” she said, noticing that Columbo was looking toward the hoard of cameramen and reporters jostling for position. “He’s downtown. At the station.”

  “Writin’ his report?”

  She smiled. “Columbo… Dan doesn’t write. He’s not a reporter. He’s an anchor. His job is to be pretty and sound good.”

  “He’s both of those things, alright.”

  Adrienne squeezed Columbo’s arm. “That’s why I love him, I guess.”

  “Better reason than most,” said Columbo.

  She turned her attention to the limousines arriving at the funeral chapel. “Everybody that’s anybody. That’s one thing Hollywood can still do: stage funerals.”

  The chauffeur-driven cars pulled up, one by one. People got out. Television cameras followed them as they walked into the chapel.

  “Just like Academy Award night,” said Adrienne.

  “Except for the clothes.”

  No flamboyance. The death of Tim Wylie, even though it had been murder, had reminded many people of their mortality. The men especially looked pallid and genuinely depressed.

  The hearse arrived. In recognition of Tim Wylie’s military service, the coffin was wrapped in a flag, and it was carried by soldiers in dress uniform. Other soldiers, men and women, formed an honor guard that snapped to crisp orders.

  When the coffin was inside, a limousine arrived carrying Faye Wylie, who was supported by her daughter as she walked slowly into the chapel.

  “Why are you here?” Adrienne asked Columbo.

  “You’d be surprised at how often a murderer shows up at his victim’s funeral. It’s worked out twice for me, other times for other detectives. You kinda look at the people standin’ around, and you ask yourself why that person is there. ’Course, it doesn’t work so well at a celebrity funeral.”

  Adrienne glanced around. “I recognize professional mourners. See that woman with the purple dress? She’ll cry so hard she’ll break down, and some kind souls will pick her up. Out of those kind souls she gets a drink or three—and sometimes even a dinner. When they carry the coffin out, she’ll collapse. She’ll tell people how well she knew him in the old days. They’ll believe it. They’ll tell their families and friends for years how they helped the woman who was Tim Wylie’s first love.”

  “The average man or woman believes in the tooth fairy,” said Columbo.

  “Are you still convinced Erika Björling did it
?”

  “Between you and me, Adrienne—strictly between you and me—I’m not convinced. Evidence is pilin’ up against her, but some way it’s all too pat.”

  “The letter she wrote to Wylie is pretty tough evidence, isn’t it?”

  Columbo nodded.

  “Seems like an odd thing for him to have left for two months in a drawer in the escritoire. Wouldn’t you think he’d have wanted to hide it where his wife wouldn’t find it? I’d think he’d have wanted to destroy it.”

  “It wasn’t in the escritoire.”

  “The newspapers say it was.”

  Columbo shrugged. “I don’t know where they get that idea. Prob’ly somebody guessed, and the rest of them fell in line.”

  “What about the Van Gogh?”

  “I got a set of high-quality photographs of the Wylie art collection. We’re gonna ask the newspapers to run pictures of that painting, to see if anybody has seen it and wants to come forward.”

  “Columbo—”

  “Huh?”

  “I’d like to see that album. More than that, I’d like a man I know to see it. Have you ever heard of Professor Ted Chichak?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Well, we’re talking about the theft of a Van Gogh. There’s no greater authority in this country on Vincent Van Gogh. I think it would be a good idea to let him see the photograph of the missing painting.”

  Columbo shrugged. “Why not?”

  XII

  1

  MONDAY, APRIL 17—9:11 A.M.

  Erika walked with her shoulders hunched forward.

  It was instinctive to walk that way when your hands were fastened at your waist with cuffs and a belly chain. Also she walked with an odd gait, toes pointed out. It was the first time she had ever tried to walk in leg irons, and she was afraid of jerking the chain and tripping.

  Two of the other women on the bus walked the same way, for the same reasons. The other four ambled through the courthouse basement with no apparent concern. For them this was no new experience.

  The guard separated Erika from the others, led her into a small room, and removed her chains. It was a dressing room, with a table and chairs and a mirror. In a shopping bag on the table were clothes for her appearance in court. Grant had gone to her apartment and taken them from her closet. He had brought her everything she had told him to bring, including a hairbrush and a tube of lipstick. She took off her blue dungarees, dressed in her own clothes— a black suit consisting of a knee-length skirt and a jacket over a white blouse—brushed out her hair, applied a modest amount of lipstick, and felt halfway human again.

  Grant was waiting for her in the courtroom. Friendly but business-like, as if there were no personal relationship between them, he took her hand and then pulled out a chair for her at counsel table.

  “Good morning, most famous woman in America,” he whispered.

  “I wish I could give it up,” she said. “I’d rather work topless.”

  “For four hundred a week? I’m already talking to a TV producer who’s using figures like half a million for a jail-house interview.”

  “I don’t know if I can handle this.”

  “You have to handle it. Tim Wylie is dead.”

  “I had no idea what it would be like.”

  “It gets easier. The shock wears off. You settle into a routine. How many clients have I had who went through this? Fifty?”

  “Couldn’t you get me out on bail?”

  “No. For two reasons. In the first place, they don’t let people out who are charged with murder. More important, it would cost us big money. Public fascination and sympathy would diminish to half if you were out on bail.”

  She blinked out tears. “It’s a horrible place, Grant. Full of horrible people.”

  “The judge—”

  The bailiff rapped the gavel, and Judge Alicia Harding entered the courtroom and took the bench. She was a tall, thin woman with black hair. Erika thought she looked severe. Frightening.

  “Good morning, counsel,” the judge said with a perfunctory air, as if she expected the proceeding to bore her. “Good morning, Miss Björling.” She nodded at the prosecution table. “Mr. Dunedin? Are you ready to proceed?” Charles Dunedin rose: a somewhat pudgy young man in a three-piece blue suit. “The people are ready, Your Honor. The matter before the court is a simple case of aggravated murder. The people expect to prove that the defendant, Miss Erika Björling, shot and killed one Leonard DeMoll, popularly known as Tim Wylie. We are in possession of ample evidence to hold Miss Björling on the charge.”

  “Mr. Kellogg, is your client ready to enter a plea?” Grant rose and motioned to Erika to stand beside him. “She is, Your Honor.”

  “Miss Björling, do you plead guilty or not guilty to the charge of murdering Leonard DeMoll, also known as Tim Wylie?”

  Erika’s voice caught in her throat, and it was only on her second try that she managed to murmur, “Not guilty.”

  “Mr. Kellogg, do you want a preliminary hearing on the question of whether or not the people have sufficient evidence to hold Miss Björling on this charge?”

  Grant nodded to Erika to sit down again. “Your Honor, Miss Björling waives preliminary hearing. We also waive the grand jury and ask to proceed on information. We want to get the matter settled as expeditiously as possible, so Miss Björling may be released from jail. I do expect disclosure of their witnesses and other evidence, and we may have to hold hearings on issues that will arise about the evidence.”

  “The people will, I suppose, object to releasing the defendant on any sort of bond, pending trial?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Dunedin.

  “Miss Björling, you are remanded to the Sybil Brand Institute for Women pending trial. You are entitled to go to trial within one hundred twenty days. Since preliminary hearing is waived, the case will now be certified to the Superior Court.”

  The court recessed, and Erika was taken again to the dressing room to change back into her uniform. She was taken to a holding pen; the bus would not return prisoners to Sybil Brand until noon. There, for the first time, she was locked up with a dozen other prisoners.

  “I hope you know how lucky you are, lady,” said a glum black woman.

  “Lucky?”

  “To have a lawyer like you got. Me, I’m on my way. You, you’re gonna walk. ”

  2

  10:35 A.M.

  Professor Ted Chichak was a sandy-haired man of medium build and the general appearance of a matured version of the Irish actor Kenneth Branagh. Columbo and Adrienne met him in his office on the UCLA campus.

  The professor flipped through the dozen 8 x 10 color photographs in the album Columbo had picked up from Victoria Glassman. He shook his head. Then he laughed. “Ridiculous! Did no one artistically literate ever visit that house and view this collection?”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be me, Professor,” said Columbo. “All I know about art is what kind of pictures I like. Why do you say ‘ridiculous’?”

  Professor Chichak regarded his two visitors for a moment, then said, “I tell you what. Let’s take a little drive out to the Getty Museum. I don’t want you to have to rely on just my opinion. I’ll let you see the facts.”

  In the parking lot, the professor stared for a moment at Columbo’s Peugeot. “Why don’t I drive? I know the way.” In the Getty Museum, he led them directly to the gallery he had in mind. He pointed at a painting on the wall, then at a photograph in the album.

  “Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, ‘Entrer en danse.’ On loan from the Museum of Modern Art in New York. The painting. The photograph. Identical, hey? Only not identical. The painting is authentic. The photograph is a picture of a fake!”

  Adrienne drew a deep breath. “Maybe Toulouse-Lautrec did more than one 'Entering the dance’ in this style.”

  “Yes. And maybe VanGogh did more than one ‘Printemps du verger,’ And maybe Picasso did more than one ‘Harlequins nus,’ And here’s a picture of what purports
to be a Roualt. Maybe all these artists did other paintings that could bear these titles. Only they didn’t. Picasso did many saltimbanques, nude and clothed. But all of them varied. This one is identical to the one that hangs in the Picasso Museum in Paris. The ‘Printemps du verger,’ is in the Tate Gallery in London.” Professor Chichak slapped the album. “There are one or two pictures in here I can’t identify immediately, as to where the genuine paintings are; but I can tell you for a certainty: the entire collection is a fake!”

  “Millions of dollars… , ” Columbo muttered.

  The professor handed the album to Adrienne. “The entire collection shown in these photographs is not worth ten thousand.” He shrugged. “Competent fakes are worth something. A thousand each is not an unreasonable number.” He reached for the album and opened it again. “Some of these are not even good fakes. My God! Didn’t anyone ever look at these paintings?”

  Adrienne grinned. ‘There are highly educated people in the film industry,” she said. “Apparently, none of them came to the Wylie house. Or maybe those who saw his fakes were too polite to tell him. Obviously, he didn’t know.”

  Columbo shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not the way of it. He didn’t insure them. He didn’t want appraisers to see them. He—”

  “In this as in much else,” said Adrienne, “the late Tim Wylie was a fraud.”

  3

  12:47 P.M.

  Columbo took the elevator to the fourth floor of the building on Sixth Street. At least there was an elevator, even if its floor was littered with cigarette butts and it was slow and rattly. He pressed the button of apartment 4B, but heard no buzz or ring inside, so he rapped on the door.

  The man who opened the door and stared at him through thick little eyeglasses was hunched and slight and apparently eighty years old or more. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of khaki slacks.