Columbo: The Hoffa Connection by William Harrington

Author:William Harrington [Harrington, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780812550788
Google: hRhgHMRMHw8C
Goodreads: 2251471
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 1995-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

3

Bob Douglas’s studio filled a one-time radio studio in Culver City, a facility where famous quiz and comedy shows of the 1940s had originated. The building was ideal for him. It had been built to keep street sounds from intruding on the radio broadcasts, and it was equally good at keeping Bob Douglas’s electronic sounds from escaping to the street. Almost the entire space was filled with electronic equipment, the whole completely mysterious to Columbo. The officious young woman who had made him show identification before she would believe he was a police detective had told him emphatically he could not smoke a cigar in the presence of these sophisticated electronic devices.

“Sort of like a shrine here, hmm?” he asked her. “Have to behave ourselves in its presence?”

“The voltages inside the cabinet attract any kind of dust or fumes, Lieutenant,” she said. “Tobacco smoke collects in the form of a sticky grease, on thousands of components.”

“Like in the lungs, huh?”

She smiled faintly. “Just like that. Anyway, have a chair. Mr. Douglas will be with you in a moment. Would you like me to hang up your raincoat?”

“Oh, no. No, thank ya. It’s my office, ya might say. I mean, I carry a lot of stuff in my pockets.”

“Mr. Douglas will be with you in a few minutes,” she said again.

Columbo stared at a board that must have included a thousand small switches and wondered whatever they were for. Two keyboards were less enigmatic; they made music. But—

“Lieutenant! What can I do for you?”

Columbo’s first reflection on seeing Douglas again was that he and Christie Monroe were just possibly the bestlooking couple he had ever seen. Bob Douglas was an exceptionally handsome man, conspicuously intelligent and personable. If he had a flaw, maybe it was the pride that kept a replica of his Olympic gold medal always visible on his chest—this afternoon under a green shirt unbuttoned just enough to show it.

“Well, sir,” said Columbo, “I don’t like to take your time, but you’re the only one of the people who were in the house that I haven’t yet interviewed privately. I will appreciate your goin’ over with Miss Monroe and giving the blood sample, incidentally.”

“Have a chair,” Douglas said amiably. “Like a cup of coffee? Pepsi?”

“A Pepsi would be nice,” said Columbo.

Douglas picked up a telephone and ordered two Pepsis. “So,” he said. “Do you know who killed her yet?”

“Sir, if I knew I wouldn’t be here botherin’ you.”

“No bother. Can I be of any help?”

“Well, sir, I’m the sort of fella that, when he gets some idea in his mind, he can’t get it out.” Columbo slumped in his chair and grinned and shrugged. “You know how it can be sometimes. Right now, I’ve got two ideas. One is, who was that old man that lived upstairs? I don’t suppose you can shed any light on that?”

“Probably not. He wasn’t her grandfather, I can tell you that. Or if he was, they had an odd, incestuous relationship.”

“How d’ya know?”

Douglas sighed.

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