By Sean M. Cogan
From boy bands to the Bard. Quite a
transition for Mr. Cogan's sequel to his first adventure of that heir
to the raincoat, DETECTIVE Columbo (see Bubble Gum Murder, this site).
Appropriate that Columbo the Younger should play a role
in a drama with Shakespearean overtones. Lest we forget the glories of
Dagger of the Mind and its tale of ego and treachery amid the staging
of what the superstitious thespian has come to call "the Scottish
play." And fans of the inimitable Mr. Dawidziak are aware that the
episode we know as An Old-Fashioned Murder originally was to star
Burgess Meredith in a modern retelling of the homicidal tale Richard
III.
Indeed, there has always been a bit of Shakespearean tragedy
in Columbo, from the prideful folly of the Learian bullfighter in A
Matter of Honor and the creepily Oedipal father-daughter relationship
of Butterfly in Shades of Gray. There is even a strong tinge of
Shakespearean comedy in our lieutenant's Puckish innocence and the
always amusing company of supporting players who help guide our sleuth
to the proper solution.
That said, let us raise the curtain on Sean Cogan's latest
tale of murder most foul, complete with balcony scene. After all, as
the guy with the beard said,
the play's the thing...
“She was cruel, clever, and merciless. He was ambitious and without remorse.” I felt a surge of power as I presented the terrifying events to my audience. All eyes and ears were on me. I had my listeners leaning over the edges of their seats.
“He feels a kind of sickness as he takes his first steps toward his kill. He’s taken lives before, but never in cold-blood. Suddenly, he begins to hallucinate. He sees his weapon of choice hovering in front of him, a well-sharpened knife. The vision seems to move ahead of him, guiding him into his victim’s room. He raises the knife…”
I slowly crept toward Jason Reilly, the one member of the crowd who seemed disinterested. He was sleeping on his desk, drool cascading over the edge like Niagara Falls. I lifted his now damp text book and dropped it with a loud CRASH on his desk.
“Murder!”I cried. “Murder most foul!”
“But, sir,” someone interrupted. “Isn’t that a misquotation?”
“A misquotation?”
“That line you just said was from ‘Hamlet’, wasn’t it?”
“You’re correct, Peter,” I said. “I was just trying to illustrate a common theme in several of the Bard’s works. ‘Hamlet’, ‘Julius Caesar’, ‘MacBeth..’ Some people might even consider the suicides in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ to fit. Can anybody explain why?”
Peter Kelly shot his arm up in the air. I waved a finger toward him in acknowledgment.
“They were written during Shakespeare’s tragic period,” said Peter. “Some say that Shakespeare fell into a deep depression during that time. He may have had an almost psychotic fascination with violence, even murder.”
“Nice answer, Peter,” I replied. “But I don’t think that’s correct. Shakespeare’s plays were about life, and death is a part of life. Even murder. Murders are committed now, and they were committed then. It’s just part of reality.”
“So, wait a minute!” cried Jason, finally becoming involved. “Do you mean to tell us you don’t think MacBeth was a psychopath?”
“I don’t think MacBeth was a psychopath,” I said. “Not at first, anyway. True, he was eventually driven mad by power, and it led to his undoing. But it seemed so simple at first. He had the prophecies of the witches, who were so sure the murder would succeed and MacBeth would become king. There was nothing personal about the murder. King Duncan had never done anything against MacBeth. MacBeth actually liked the guy. He thought of the murder as nothing more than a career movement.”
My thoughts suddenly switched to another topic as I spoke. I wonder if the students noticed the almost sociopathic gleam in my eyes.
I looked down at my watch.
“All right,” I said. “That’s it for this class. Be sure to read the remaining portion of ‘The Tragedy of MacBeth’ by our next class together.”
The fresh air hit my face, giving me a new sense of reality I hadn’t felt inside the classroom. I admired the brick structures around me as I slowly walked across the campus of California Centurion University. Located in Los Angeles, CCU attracted a larger percentage of air-headed movie-star wanna-be’s than any other college in the entire U.S. I assumed it hadn’t always been that way, since the university campus had reputedly existed for over a century. Perhaps it was actually intended for students who actually wanted to be decent stage actors. Now it was a refuge for dreamers chasing the same old stupid dreams. The college only had one success story that I knew of, and that was Danny Turcho. If you could call it success. He was in all those macho, shoot-‘em-up action flicks. The ones with mindless plots, or rather no plots at all. Displaying acting talents the university was very proud to bestow on him, I have no doubts.
This was my dream job. Seriously. Sure, the young, feeble minds weren’t a whole lot to mold. But of all the universities in America, public or private, CCU was the wealthiest. This was the place the wealthy and elite of California sent their spoiled brats. The money was evident in the college. It’s architecture. It’s four-story library. It’s five-star gourmet cafeteria. And the notoriously large salary the faculty members were paid, not to mention the exceptional benefits. Only here could an educator achieve the dream of leading the good life.
I had joined the faculty less than a decade earlier. I was new-blood. A young man among the gray-haired dinosaurs they called professors. I worked at a state college in the Midwest before coming to CCU, teaching a major in English. Finally, all of the thesis’s on Shakespearean Literature I wrote paid off. I received an offer from CCU. An offer I could by no means refuse. And as a result, I was the co-director of the college’s Shakespearean Literature department.
Not all was well in this paradise, however. California Centurion University, like all other such facilities, could not escape that cruel beast known as budget cuts. Our finances were shrinking. Two professors had already been removed from the faculty as a result of insufficient funds, and another, fearing she was next, had committed suicide. That is why my heart was full of fear as I entered the dean’s office, as I had been asked to earlier that day.
“Take a seat, Julius,” said Dean Harley Sherman. I did so. Walter Higgins, my department co-director, was already seated. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Sherman, looking across from his chair at Walter and me. “As you both well know, California Centurion University has been suffering from… er… insufficient funding. Due to budget cuts, we’ve been forced to make quite a few… eh… unpleasant changes.” He took a deep breath. “In the past, California Centurion has tried to keep an extensive faculty on board to best administer to the needs of…”
“Cut the crap, Harley,” I interrupted.
Harley looked nonplussed. He stopped and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, Julius,” he said. “There have been complaints that a major in Shakespearean Literature is completely unnecessary. Having two professors to teach such a major is simply… redundant.”
“Redundant?” I spat. “I’m a redundancy?”
“Now, Julius…”
“So you reduce faculty salary!” I said. “We’re going through some tough times. I’m sure the entire faculty would agree…”
“You know we can’t do that, Julius,” said Harley. “It’s in the constitution set down by the university’s founder. If a teacher’s pay was to be reduced, he or she might lose the incentive to…”
“So, what is this?” I cried. “You’re firing me and Walter? Is that what this is?”
“He warned us about this earlier,” said Walter. “You’ve known for months that the board was trying to reach a decision on this. I had hoped there would be no hard feelings about this, but, they’re keeping me, Julius.”
I started to laugh.
“Is that what this is, then?” I said, still laughing to cover the anger. “Last hired, first fired?”
“Julius, don’t take it this way,” said Harley.
“You’re a great teacher,” added Walter. “I’m sure you could find work someplace else.”
Sure, I thought. Someplace else. Not a place like this. Some place where a teacher’s salary is a real teacher’s salary. Meager. Good bye, good life.
“We just can’t afford to keep both of you,” said Harley. “Walter has a longer history with this college. I must admit, he’s become sort of a fixture here. I’m sorry, Julius, but you have until the end of this term. After that, your connection with this university is history.”
After leaving the dean’s office, I pulled Walter aside.
“I’m sorry, Julius,” he repeated.
“Don’t be sorry,” I hissed. “Do something about this. It came down to you or me. We both know that. But…” Walter started to walk away. I grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him back. “Think about what’s best for the students, Walter. We need some young people on the faculty here. That’s the only way to really reach our students. And I’m the youngest faculty member!”
“You should be happy to make a sacrifice for the good of the college,” said Walter. “Take this like a man.”
Instead, I dropped to my knees and grabbed the hem of his shirt.
“Why can’t you make the sacrifice?” I pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Julius,” said Walter. “I don’t want to lose my job here anymore than you want to lose yours.” He helped me back up to my feet. “I’d kill for this job. And you know you would, too.”
Well, at least he was right about that…
**
I had seen this coming weeks ago, and I had been planning. I had hoped there would be another way. When my final attempt to plead with Walter Higgins failed, I knew I only had one choice. This was a matter of survival. Survival of the fittest. Like Walter had said, it was either him or me.
I was glad that I had decided to only look out for myself when I came to CCU. I hadn’t made any lasting entanglement with my fellow educators. Of course, Walter and I had a certain closeness. We taught the same major, after all. But I considered him a colleague, nothing more. Certainly not what I would call a friend. That would make what I was about to do so much easier.
I had a comfortable home, completely paid for by the college. Another one of the little perks of being a CCU faculty member. I made myself comfortable in my favorite armchair, and then I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Walter?” I got his answering machine. “Walter? This is Julius Ciesel. Please pick up. Come on, Walter! Oh, well. I’m coming over to have a little chat with you. Expect me at about 5:30. Okay? Bye.”
Walter wasn’t picking up the phone like I had planned, but that didn’t really matter. I knew he would be home getting ready for his big date that night. The tenth anniversary of his first date with Juliet Winthrop, the sweet old lady in charge of CCU’s extensive library building. Rumor was the two had met while Walter was doing some last minute research for one of his big lectures. He’d fallen in love with Juliet as she helped him find the books he needed. The two had never settled down, but they still insisted on calling each other by pet names and holding hands like teenage lovers. Pathetic.
Walter Higgins’ benefits outweighed those of many of the teachers due to his seniority. The college enabled him to live in one of the most gorgeous beach houses in California. As I drove up to the beach house, I could see Walter standing out on his balcony, admiring the view of the beach and the waves. Sentimental old fool. He did that every evening.
I pulled into Walter’s driveway, climbed out of my Jaguar, and hit the doorbell. It took a few moments for Walter to come inside and climb down the stairs, but he was at the door soon enough, still trying to straighten the bow tie on his tuxedo.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
“Calm down, buddy,” I said. “Is that anyway to greet your closest colleague?”
“I’m sorry,” replied Walter. “It’s just a big night.”
“Of course,” I said. “When are you expecting Juliet?”
“We’re meeting at Vintino’s at 6:30,” said Walter.
“Good. Then you have a few minutes,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you there are no hard feelings. I’m resigned to my fate now. I thought we could have a drink or two.”
Walter looked at me suspiciously for a moment or two. Smart man. Finally, he stood aside and welcomed me in.
Without waiting for Walter to guide me, I walked straight to the upstairs balcony where I had seen him standing. There was a cold breeze blowing on this Californian afternoon.
“Beautiful view,” I said softly. Taking the cue, Walter stood beside me and resumed his gaze at the beach and the ocean. I stepped back. Looking for appropriate words to give the man a proper sending off, I simply quoted, “All the world’s a stage, and we are merely the players…”
“Huh?” said Walter, suddenly becoming alarmed. I placed my hands on his back and shoved as hard as I could. He simply pushed back against the railing. I hadn’t counted on such a struggle. I tried to shove harder, but he kept resisting. Finally, I raised my elbow and brought it down hard on the back of the old man’s skull, incapacitating him. I then hoisted Walter up and over the railing of the balcony.
I didn’t actually watch Walter fall, but the sound of bones breaking pretty much tipped me off that he had landed. Just by peering over the balcony, I could tell Walter’s neck and spine had snapped.
Putting on a pair of thick gloves, I immediately went back through the house and tidied everything that would have left a hint of my presence. I was even sure to wipe my fingerprints off of the doorbell. I walked over to Walter’s answering machine, and, barely looking, cleared all messages from it. That’s when the phone rang. I hadn’t planned on this at all. I considered letting the machine handle it. That’s what it was there for, anyway. But if no one answered the phone, someone might get suspicious. After a few more rings, I finally answered.
“Walter?” It was Juliet Winthrop. I tried to hide any trace of nervousness, or human accent, from my voice.
“Hello, dear,” I said, making my voice as nondescript as possible.
“Walter, is everything all right?”
“Yes, darling why do you ask?” The woman sounded much more nervous than she should have been.
“I just wanted to know if you were ready for our date yet.” So much for elegance. So much for trust. I guess old Walter hadn’t planned on anything being a surprise. “Walter, you don’t sound yourself. Are you sure everything’s all right?”
“Of course, dear,” I answered. “I just have a little cold. I’ll take some medicine for it right away. Look, I’m going to be a little late for our date. Something unforeseen has come up. In fact, why don’t you come here? Could you meet me at about 7:30? See you then, darling.” That would take care of the body being discovered. No sense in letting Walter just lie on the beach and rot. I hung up the phone.
Next, I walked back out to my car and removed a bag from inside. Taking it into the house, I closed the door behind me, locked it, chained it, and bolted it. I then checked every door and window in the house, making sure they were all securely locked as well. It had to seem impossible for anyone to have entered Walter’s house at his time of death.
While checking the entire house one last time to make sure I had left no telltale traces of my presence, I tripped and bumped into Walter’s writing desk. A drawer opened, and inside I found a small, brightly wrapped parcel. How foolish of Walter to just leave his anniversary gift for Juliet like this! I had planned it to appear like Walter had gotten ready for his anniversary, came out to the balcony to watch for his date, and then clumsily fallen over the railing. He should have the gift with him. I stuck the parcel in my pocket.
I returned to the balcony, closing the doors behind me. I wouldn’t be able to lock those, but that would be acceptable. I opened my bag and removed the contents: a length of rope and a mass of twisted metal, which I combined to form a crude grappling hook. This was the only way out of the building now. I dropped the bag down next to Walter’s body. I then took my shoes off and dropped them down on top of the bag. No leaving distinctive shoe prints along the walls of the beach house for me! I had seen that on too many TV documentaries.
I then placed the metal around one of the side rails and began to rappel down to the beach. At one point, the hook slipped and slid across the balcony, but I was soon safely down on my feet. I gave the rope another tug, and the hook fell down in the sand beside me. I checked Walter’s pulse to make sure once and for all that he was finished. I then slipped the brightly wrapped parcel into his front coat pocket, slipped my shoes back onto my own feet, and slipped the grappling hook back into the bag. Grabbing the bag, I slid across the sand, careful not to leave footprints. I then climbed into my Jag and left behind what I thought was the perfect murder. “Vine. Vida. Vice.”
The next day, the campus was invaded by “trauma counselors.” Several students were more than happy to get out of their classes to be guided through the pain and anguish of losing one of their beloved professors. Even students that never had known Walter Higgins took advantage of the situation. With the counselors came reporters, who flooded the campus anxiously attempting to discover who this dead professor was and how his life had affected the community. I allowed the few loyal pupils I had to sit in their desks and read silently from their text books as I pondered what I had done.
I tried hard not to feel guilt over what I had done. After all, Walter had even said that he would have killed for the job. He was no different than me, then.
After class ended, I left my room for a cup of coffee. When I returned, I was surprised to see a stranger had invaded my turf. A rumpled trench coat was moving back and forth alongside my book shelf.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I was just looking at the books you got here,” said the man in the trench coat. “Some very nice books you got here. Are you Prof. Julius Ciesel?”
“Yes, I am. Which paper are you with?”
“Paper, sir?” the man asked. He was a man in his middle ages with a premature squint and dark, messy hair. His voice was raspy but polite, an irritating combination.
“Which newspaper do you work for?” I asked. “Or magazine. Or tabloid.”
“No paper, sir,” said the man. “I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department. Robbery/Homicide Division, sir. My name’s Detective Columbo.”
“Robbery/Homicide?” I said. I tried to hide the nervousness from my voice. “I understood Walter’s death was an accident. Some sort of fall. That’s what I’ve been hearing all day.”
“That’s what it looks like so far, sir,” said Columbo. “But there needs to be an investigation for this sort of thing. You know, to find out just what caused the professor’s death. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, sir?”
“What kind of questions, detective?”
“Did you know Prof. Walter Higgins?”
“I did,” I said. “He was the co-director of my department?”
“Department, sir?”
“Walter and I taught the same major, Shakespearean Literature.”
“Shakespearean Literature, sir?”
“As in the writings of William Shakespeare, detective.”
“Of course I know who that is, sir,” Columbo replied. “I watched something of his on the TV the other day. There was this guy and this girl, and they do this thing… To be perfectly honest with you, I couldn’t understand it, sir. Not at all, sir. I can understand why you’d need a college course for that.”
I laughed.
“It takes a bit of study to understand the language,” I said. “But when you get through it all, I like to think the works of Shakespeare have very modern relevance. Now, about Walter Higgins?”
“Yes, him, sir,” said Columbo. “Did you see him at all yesterday?”
“I did,” I answered. “We both had a meeting with the dean.”
“And would you mind telling me what this meeting was about?”
“I don’t see why I would,” I said. “We discussed the university’s budget, and we agreed there would need to be some cuts in the department. You know, detective, if I were you I would talk to Juliet Winthrop.”
“Juliet Winthrop, sir?” said Columbo. “Why does that name sound so familiar?” He began a thorough search of his pockets, finally discovering a tiny notepad. Flipping through it, he declared, “Juliet Winthrop. She’s the one that discovered the body.”
“Poor girl!” I said. “She was Walter’s girlfriend. She must be near hysteric.”
“I think she’s taking it really well. Under the circumstances, sir.”
“Talk to her then, detective,” I said. “She can help you much more than I can.”
“I’ll do that,” said Columbo. “Thank you for your help, sir.”
Preparing to leave campus for the evening, I spotted Juliet. My instincts told me I should avoid her, but I knew I couldn’t let myself be controlled by my instincts. MacBeth, the conspirators against Caesar, and the other murderers from Shakespeare’s plays all made the mistake of letting their guilt take control of them and ultimately betray them. I couldn’t let my guilt get in the way. What I had done was no more than a career movement. A matter of survival. I had to act casual.
“I’m so sorry about Walter,” I said, and I tried to put my hand on Juliet’s shoulder. She drew away.
“No, you’re not!” she hissed. “You hated Walter. You hated him because he was going to keep his job and you weren’t. You hated him!”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said. “I know you’re upset about Walter’s accident, but…”
“Walter’s death was not an accident,” insisted Juliet. “I know that.”
I simply shrugged my shoulders and walked away.
When I arrived home, I was surprised to find I had a visitor. Detective Columbo was waiting on my porch, still wrapped in his rumpled old trench coat.
“I hope you don’t mind, sir,” he said. “They told me I could find you here.”
“Not at all, detective,” I said politely. “What can I do for you now?”
“May I come in, sir?”
I obliged. Allowing Columbo to take my favorite chair, I settled on the couch and then respectfully asked him to state his business.
“It’s about Walter Higgin’s death, Prof. Ciesel,” he said. “There are several things bothering me, sir. And I know this may seem awkward, sir, but you struck me as a very, very sharp man. I thought maybe I could depend on you to kind of give me advice and help me straighten this all out.”
“Certainly, detective,” I replied. “Walter was a dear friend of mine. I’d be more than happy to help settle all of this, if only for his sake.”
“That’s very good of you, professor,” said Columbo. “Here’s the thing: I talked to Miss Winthrop, sir, just like you said. She doesn’t think this was an accident, sir.”
“She doesn’t?” I said. “What does she think it was, then?”
“Murder, sir.”
“Murder? But that’s ridiculous!”
“I thought so, too,” said Columbo. “You see, Miss Winthrop based her conclusion on this silly little thing, sir. She called Prof. Walter Higgins right before his accident. She’s convinced that it wasn’t really the professor that answered. She thinks it was someone impersonating the professor, sir.”
“What makes her think that?”
“A pet name,” said Columbo. “You see, a lot of couples have pet names for each other. My wife and I, we have pet names for each other. They’re… Well, actually, they’re kind of personal, sir. But we have them. And the professor and Miss Winthrop, sir, they had pet names for each other.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following you, detective.”
“It’s the way the professor referred to Miss Winthrop on the phone, sir,” said Columbo. “He called her all darling’s and dear’s. Darling’s and dear’s.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Miss Winthrop claims the professor never called her darling or dear, sir,” said Columbo. “He always called her by her pet name.”
“And that was?”
“Teddy bear,” answered Columbo. “The professor always called Miss Winthrop teddy bear.”
“And Juliet is convinced it wasn’t the professor on the phone just because he didn’t call her by this pet name?” I said incredulously.
“That’s what I thought, too, sir,” said Columbo. “But there was something else. Miss Winthrop said that the professor told her he had a cold. Yet, the autopsy didn’t show any traces of any sort of cold medicine in the professor’s blood.”
“Autopsy?” I said. “I thought you could only do autopsies for murder.”
“We can do autopsies anytime we’re not sure of the cause of death,” said Columbo. “And we can look for certain things. Like cold medicine, sir.”
“Maybe Walter never took medicine,” I said. “Maybe he didn’t take his cold that seriously. A lot of strong men don’t. I myself would rather just sit a cold out than take medicine for it.”
“But Miss Winthrop says the professor told her he was going to take some cold medicine right away, sir.”
“To stop her from worrying,” I said. “You know how women get worked up over such little things. You’re married after all.” I stopped talking to take a cigar from the box on my table. I offered one to Columbo. He reached out an accepted.
“Myself personally, I don’t smoke, sir,” said Columbo, “but I’ll take a couple for my uncle the lieutenant. My uncle the lieutenant, he loves his cigars, sir. Now where were we?”
“You were upset because Walter claimed to have a cold yet you found no cold medicine in his autopsy,” I said. “As I was saying, Walter probably just told Juliet he was going to take some medicine to avoid an argument on their anniversary. Anything to keep Juliet happy.”
“I suppose I can understand that, sir,” said Columbo. “But here’s another little thing that bothers me, sir. Walter Higgins claimed he had a cold, yet he toppled over his own balcony, sir. It wasn’t really that warm last night, sir. In fact, for Los Angeles it was rather chilly. What was the professor doing out on the balcony if he had a cold?”
I took a deep drag on my cigar.
“Maybe he didn’t really have a cold, detective,” I said. “Maybe it was just something he said to Juliet while he was on the phone with her. Probably just to buy himself more time to freshen up for their date.”
“That’s probably right, sir,” said Columbo. “Thank you again for all of your help, sir.” We both stood up and shook hands. Columbo was half way out the front door when he turned and came back into the living room.
“There’s one more thing, sir,” he announced. “The answering machine, sir. At the professor’s. It was completely clear, sir. But Miss Winthrop, she says she called the professor that morning to remind him of their anniversary. She says she got the machine and left a message.”
There really was no delicacy in their relationship.
“There’s nothing strange about that,” I said. “Walter must have erased the message. Probably right after listening to it.”
“I don’t know about that, sir,” said Columbo. “Though I suppose it’s different for different people. Some friends of mine, they let messages pile up on their machines for weeks. Some don’t even clear their messages until the little tapes or chip or whatever is almost full.”
“Like you said, detective, it’s different for different people,” I said. “Walter was a very practical man. He probably saw no reason to leave the messages on his machine after he had already listened to them.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right, sir. Thank you again, sir.”
As Columbo walked off, I mumbled softly, “Oh, what fools these mortals be!”
Since the beginning of the Shakespearean Literature department at CCU, it has been a tradition of the university’s to have the department stage a production of one of Shakespeare’s plays for the general public. Walter Higgins had handed me the responsibility of directing a few years back. This year’s production was “Romeo + Juliet.”
Our Juliet was Lisa Lyfe. I couldn’t help admiring her. Not her acting talent. Her other natural gifts. A former high school homecoming queen, Lisa had the body of a Greek goddess. Hey, I was still young!
Unfortunately, with Lisa came Duke Kameron, her Romeo. Of course, Lisa was dating the captain of the university football team. When he wasn’t tackling other dumb jocks at practices, Duke was in my classroom, butchering Shakespeare. Why was he there? My guess was divine punishment against me.
Just looking at Duke made me burn with hatred. Our athletes were leading a fundraising effort to finance the building of a new, state-of-the-art athletics facility. With our terrible lack of funds, no one was leading a fund raiser for the Shakespearean Literature department, or for our Vocal Music and Drama departments, for that matter.
As I was watching Lisa and Duke mangle the classic balcony scene, accepting the fact that there were no potential Laurence Oliviers in my class, Peter Kelly tapped me on the shoulder.
“Prof. Ciesel,” he said, “there’s a man in your office to see you.”
I knew who to expect even before I recognized the trenchcoat.
“By the pricking of my thumbs…,” I muttered under my breath. Aloud, “Detective Columbo. How nice to see you again!”
Columbo was sitting in my swivel chair, a large green book folded over his lap. He was studying it intently.
“Interesting book you got here, sir,” said Columbo.
“That’s my personal scrapbook.” Columbo sat the book on the desk and I glanced at the photographs inside.
“You mean this is you, sir?” said Columbo, pointing to one of the photos.
“Me and my friends,” I said. “Those are pictures from some of our climbing expeditions.”
“You climb mountains, sir?” said Columbo, obviously impressed.
“Not Mt. Everest or anything like that,” I
told him. “But I do some rock climbing. It’s my hobby, outside of Shakespeare, of course.”
“Of course, sir,” said Columbo, carefully closing the covers of the book.
“You have some more questions for me?”
“Yes, sir, actually,” said Columbo. “There’s something else that bothers me. About the professor’s death, sir. It was something else on the autopsy, sir. You see, the professor landed on his face when he fell. That’s the way he was found, sir. What bothers me is this, sir. During the autopsy, we discovered a large bump on the professor’s head.”
“What’s unusual about that?” I asked.
“It’s like this, sir,” said Columbo. “The bump was found on the back of the professor’s head. Yet he landed on his face, sir.”
“Perhaps he struck his head on the railing as he was falling?” I suggested. Columbo shook his head.
“Nah. I don’t think so. Do you have any other possible explanation? This is really bothering me, sir.”
“Is there any reason the bump had to be caused by the fall?” I asked.
“Not necessarily, sir,” said Columbo. “Though the bump was very recent.”
“Walter was very clumsy,” I said. “We all knew it was dangerous for him to love that old balcony of his so much. There’s at least a million ways he could have received that bump.”
“Could you give me a couple, sir?”
“Of course, detective,” I said. “The sports arena. Walter liked to take walks around the arena, usually with his nose buried deep in one of the Bard’s works. A stray football, perhaps.”
“I’m not so sure, sir,” argued Columbo. I took a moment to think before I spoke again.
“Have you seen Walter’s classroom, Columbo?”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“Then you must have noticed the bookshelves. Three shelves, suspended from the wall, one shelf directly above the other. Walter would often reach for a book on one of the shelves and end up banging his head on the shelf above it. Would that account for the bump on his head?”
“I bet you it would, sir,” said Columbo. “There’s just one more thing, sir.” He walked over to a chessboard I had sitting on a small card table in the center of the room. “Mind if we play a game while we talk?”
“Are you a chess player, detective?”
“I know a little bit,” said Columbo. “The horsies moves in ‘L’ shapes, right?”
“You know what?” I said, pulling a bag of playing pieces out from beneath the table. “How about we play a game of checkers instead?”
Columbo consented and I began to set up the pieces.
“Now, what else can I help you with, detective?” We began to play.
“It’s the professor’s watch,” said Columbo. “Here. Let me show you.” He stood up for a moment and pulled a small plastic bag out of one of his trench coat pockets. As he handed it across to me, I jumped two of his checkers.
“It’s Walter’s Rolex, all right.”
“But it’s broken, sir.” He moved one of his checkers.
“Stopped at the time of death?” I said. “Or are you worried somebody reset the watch to create a false time of death, like in some sort of Agatha Christie novel?”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that, sir,” said Columbo. “Our doctors, they were able to get the time of death down pretty close. But notice how broken that watch is, sir. Now look at this.” I jumped another one of Columbo’s checkers as he handed me another plastic bag. I recognized the brightly colored parcel I had placed in Walter’s pocket inside.
“We found this inside the professor’s coat pocket. From what we know, we assumed it was his anniversary gift for Miss Winthrop. This is what we found inside the package.”
He pulled out another bag.
“Another watch,” I said, peering inside.
“Look at the engraving, sir,” said Columbo.
Etched on the back of the watch were the words: “J. - The ides of March are arrived.”
“I’m not quite sure about that inscription, sir,” said Columbo. “The inscription sounds kind of funny to me, sir. Like it’s from one of those poems of yours. But it talks about March, and I’m assuming it was an anniversary gift from the professor to Miss Winthrop, but isn’t it already April, sir?”
“It’s from Shakespeare,” I said. “Walter was a professor of Shakespearean Literature. And Juliet’s name is taken from a Shakespeare play. Walter probably thought the engraving would be cute.”
“Notice anything funny about that watch, sir?” said Columbo.
“Should I?” I said, spinning the bag so I could see every detail of the watch.
“It’s not broken, sir,” said Columbo. “Not even a scratch, sir. Now, if the watch on his wrist was shattered from the fall, how come this watch, which was right in his coat pocket, sir, is in such fine condition?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Are you sure Walter’s coat couldn’t possibly have cushioned the watch?” I jumped another one of Columbo’s checkers.
“I’m pretty sure, sir.”
“Then it must be the makes of the watches. Some watches are much more durable than others. You know. Takes a lickin’, keeps right on tickin’.”
“You’re probably right, sir,” said Columbo. He brought out a small card.
It showed a colorful business logo and bore the name of Glazer’s Jewelers and Engravers. “We found this in the professor’s home. He must have had the watch made specially as a gift for Miss Winthrop.” He moved another checker. “You know, me and my uncle the lieutenant, we play this game together all the time.” I jumped another one of Columbo’s checkers. “But the thing about my uncle the lieutenant, he cheats, sir.” With that, Columbo proceeded to jump all of my remaining checkers in a single move. He grinned wildly and pronounced, “King me!”
“Do you cheat like your uncle, detective?”
“Who, me? Nah!” said Columbo. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, but this… Well, it’s more personal, sir.”
“What is it, Detective Columbo?”
“You, sir. You know Shakespeare and all that fancy poetry,” said Columbo. “Me, I’m no good with poetry. My wife and I… Well, you see, sir… Our anniversary is coming up, and… Well, I though maybe…”
“That I could teach you some poetry to bring some romance back into your
relationship?”
“Something like that, sir.” I laughed.
“It doesn’t exactly require a college major, detective.” I reached back, pulled “The Condensed Works of William Shakespeare” from my shelf, blew the dust off of the cover, and handed it to Columbo. “Shakespeare’s sonnets are the finest love poems ever written. There’s a few of them in this book. Here. My gift to you.” I smiled as I thought of something else. “Right now I’m directing rehearsals for ‘Romeo + Juliet.’”
“The famous love play?”
“That’s it. As my anniversary gift to you and your wife, I’m going to make sure you get tickets to come see the show. What do you think?”
“Why, thank you, sir. I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, detective, I’d better get back to rehearsals.”
Days passed by without a word from Detective Columbo. I should have been relieved, but it just made me nervous. I remembered that I had decided not to be moved by nervousness or guilt. No poundings of a tell-tale heart for me. I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes MacBeth did. And leading the rehearsals for “Romeo + Juliet” was already enough stress for me.
Finally, I received a phone call. Detective Columbo asked me if I would mind talking to him at his office at police headquarters. I didn’t know what to do but accept his request.
Entering police headquarters, I tried hard to think of myself as a cat among the pigeons rather than a mouse among the cats.
Sitting on Columbo’s desk was a photograph in a dollar store frame. The photo showed an aging man in a cheap gray suit and a familiar rain coat. He bore a resemblance to that actor from “The Brink’s Job” and “Anzio.” This was obviously the detective’s uncle, the famous Lt. Columbo. Standing next to the lieutenant was a blurred figure. I tried to make out features and failed. This must have been the lieutenant’s equally enigmatic wife.
“Thank you for coming here, sir,” said Columbo. “Most people, when they’re asked to come to the station, they expect to see some kind of warrant. But of course, sir, you realize I just asked you to come down here for some of your advice. Because you’re so sharp, sir.” He handed me a pile of black and white photographs.
“What exactly am I looking at?” I asked as I flipped through them.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” said Columbo. “These pictures were taken on the professor’s balcony. The one he fell from. You see those scratches? What do you think might have caused them, sir?”
My heart skipped a beat as I realized those scratches must have been caused when my grappling hook slid across the balcony.
“Just children being destructive,” I said, swallowing hard. “Walter always told me he had young nephews run around his house, wrecking things, making scratches on things with their pocket knives…”
“Those aren’t from a pocket knife, sir,” said Columbo. “I was in the Boy Scouts. I know what scratches from a pocket knife look like, sir.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said.
“I’m sorry to bother you about this, sir,” said Columbo. “But, you see, sir, our investigation has just gone deeper. We no longer accept the idea that the professor’s death was an accident.”
“Why not?” I asked, trying to sound as calm as possible.
“The boys took some measurements, sir,” said Columbo. “It seems the professor, realizing himself how accident prone he was, had the safety rails around the balcony heightened. They were perfectly level with his own center of balance. There’s no way he could have just fallen over those rails.”
“Couldn’t he have flipped over the rails or something?”
“No, sir. Not and land the way he did.”
“Let me suggest the following scenario,” I said. “A roaming thug spies Walter’s beach house. He figures the owner must be wealthy. He gains access to the house, begins grabbing various treasures and shoving them into some sort of bag, and then climbs the stairs to the top floor of the beach house. Once there, he finds Walter on the balcony, the two struggle, and Walter is thrown to his death. Interesting theory, but tell me, detective, was there any sign of break-in?”
“No, sir,” Columbo admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. “In fact, all doors and windows were securely locked when the professor was found. Miss Winthrop, sir, she even said that when she tried the front door, she couldn’t get in. She made her way to the back, checking all possible entrances. That’s how she says she discovered the body, sir.”
“And is it possible that any of those entrances could have been locked from the outside?”
“No, sir,” said Columbo. “It doesn’t look that way, sir.”
“Then what could Walter’s death possibly be besides an accident?”
“That’s another thing I was hoping you could tell me, sir.”
My mind was frantic, panicking, grabbing for ideas. I suddenly yelled out:
“Suicide!”
“What, sir?”
“Just a few months back,” I said, “another one of our professors slit her own wrists when she realized she might be losing her job. Isn’t it possible that Walter could have stood on the railings and thrown himself over?”
“It’s possible, sir,” agreed Columbo. “But usually there’s some indication of suicide. A note or something.”
“But not always, right?”
“No, sir. Not always.”
“It all makes sense,” I said. “Walter had been focusing a lot on Shakespeare’s tragic period lately.”
“Shakespeare’s what, sir?”
“His tragic period,” I said. “’MacBeth’, ’Julius Caesar’, ‘Romeo + Juliet.’ Some say that period represents a fall into a deep depression. It may even suggest an almost psychotic fascination with violence, and even death.”
“There may be something in that, sir,” said Columbo. “Thanks again for all of your help.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, detective,” I said, “I have to prepare my lessons for class tomorrow.”
Back in my office at the university, I tore a piece of paper from my pad and grabbed a stack of magazines. If Columbo needed an indication of a suicide, I’d give him one. Putting on a pair of thick gloves, I carefully cut several letters from the magazines and pasted them onto the piece of paper. I then folded the piece of paper, placed it in an envelope, and taped the envelope under my desk.
I couldn’t keep the magazines. Columbo would return to my office, and being his usual nosy self, he would not be able to miss the gaping holes I had left. I placed the pile of magazines in the trash bin in my office, but then I realized he might peer inside. I took my bin into the hallway and emptied it into the larger bin there. At the bottom of that bin the magazines would rest safely until they were emptied into the dumpster outside and from there emptied into the city garbage dump.
I had no doubt Columbo would soon return. When he did, I would show him my handiwork.
Dress rehearsal for the play was one of the most stressful times of my life. Even more stressful than the murder I had committed. After attempting to end the conflicts between the Montagues and the Capulets (the actors, not the characters. That’s one conflict Shakespeare never planned on being solved.), I realized my two leads were missing.
I found Duke and Lisa in an aisle of the auditorium, happily making small talk with none other than Detective Columbo!
“I was just talking to a couple of your students here, sir,” said Columbo. “What they have to say I think is very interesting.”
“We were just talking about Prof. Higgins,” said Duke. “I was talking about what a great man he was. He even helped support our fund-raiser, right before he died.”
“Our athletic teams have been endeavoring to raise some funds to support a new athletic facility,” I explained to Columbo.
“Anyway,” continued Duke, “Prof. Higgins bought three raffle tickets from me. Right on the afternoon before his accident.”
“They were raffling off quilts,” I said. “The ugliest things you ever did see. I suggested for a prize that those who won the raffle would not have to take one of the things home and the losers could be stuck with them instead.”
Columbo pulled me aside.
“Don’t you find that interesting, sir?” he said. “That the professor would do that right before he died? I mean, you suggested the professor committed suicide, sir, but that doesn’t sound like something a man would do right before committing suicide to me.”
“On the contrary,” I said, “don’t suicides generally try to get all of their finances in order before they die? Make sure all their belongings go to the causes they would want? Wouldn’t it be natural for Walter Higgins to support his favorite charity, our athletes, right before dying?”
“Now that you put it that way, sir,” said Columbo, “you’re probably right, sir. Thank you again, sir, for all of your help. You have been a great help to this investigation. I just want you to know that. I hope this hasn’t been too much trouble, sir.”
“Not at all!” I insisted cheerily. “I’m glad to do whatever I can to assist our police. It’s the noblest profession in the world.”
“I don’t know about that, sir…,” Columbo proclaimed modestly. And with much to be modest about, I thought.
“In fact, I’m going to buy you a dinner,” I said.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that, sir.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to have dinner with a policeman. Right after I finish with this rehearsal. It should just be a few more minutes.”
Two hours later, we were seated at a two-person table at Carter’s, my favorite steak house. I struggled to keep from laughing as Columbo tried to drape his old trench coat across the back of his chair. It dropped. Columbo smoothed the coat out and attempted to hang it back up once again. Again, it fell. Finally, Columbo merely picked up the coat, crumpled it up into a ball, and placed it beneath his chair.
I ordered a glass of fine wine, to which Columbo responded, “Thank you, sir. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just take a cup of coffee.”
Our drinks were brought to the table, and as I went to taste my wine, Columbo brought up the subject of Walter Higgins.
“This whole suicide idea,” said Columbo. “It’s just bugging me, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“I just can’t understand why he would kill himself.”
“Lack of job security,” I said. “I thought I already explained that to you. We already had a professor commit suicide because she thought she was losing her job.”
“But Prof. Walter Higgins wasn’t losing his job,” said Columbo. “You know
that, sir. I talked to Dean Sherman about the meeting you had with him the day the professor died. Dean Sherman, sir, he says it was you who was losing his job. Not the professor.”
“Nothing was definite,” I insisted. “The dean merely suggested there might be some changes in our department. It must have been the uncertainty of those changes that caused Walter to take his own life.”
“Yes, sir,” said Columbo. “I can see how that might lead someone to kill themselves. Or even someone else.”
We were approached by a dirty blonde waitress wearing plenty of lipstick and a tiny black skirt.
“I’ll take two of your choicest steaks,” I told her. “New York strips. Medium well.”
“You don’t have to do that, sir,” said Columbo. “I’d just as soon take a nice bowl of chili.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “You and I are both men, Columbo, and a good man deserves a manly meal. Only the finest for my friend the detective, I say.”
I refused to take my eyes off the waitress as she went off with our orders. I then turned back to the detective. Despite the fact that he was a persistent, irritating, little man, I was beginning to realize there was something strangely likable about him. I was almost able to forget he was a cop investigating a death I had caused.
“You really didn’t need to do that, sir,” Columbo insisted.
“It was my pleasure,” I said. “You deserve it. It can’t be easy to do your job. We should all be buying you police officers steak dinners.”
Columbo laughed.
“It’s not exactly a well respected job,” he said. “We’re really unsung heroes, sir. People don’t like us because we’re all about laws. And laws are rules, really. And nobody likes to be told there not playing by the rules.” He took a sip of coffee and then looked up at me. “Our justice system is really screwy. I’ll be the first to admit that, sir. But the truth is, I like to make sure that I do everything I can to teach people crime doesn’t pay. Because it’s important to play by the rules. I like to make sure I find every clue and follow every lead I can. I like to make sure I have all of the questions an attorney might ask answered, sir. Because once I catch a bad guy, I hate to see him get away.”
For a brief moment, there seemed to be a distinct threat looming in his eyes. When our waitress returned, I wasn’t sure whether I was happier to see her or the two fat, juicy steaks. Columbo and I made small talk through the rest of dinner. Finally, I told him I had work to do back in my office, and I asked him if we could continue our conversation there.
Once we entered my office, I crossed behind my desk. I cleverly staged a trip and fall into my desk. Several items fell to the floor.
“Don’t worry, sir,” said Columbo. “I’ll take care of that for you, sir.”
Columbo disappeared beneath the desk. A few moments later, I heard him exclaim:
“Well, I’ll be! What do we have here? Well, what do you know? He emerged from beneath the desk with my envelope in hand. “Do you know what this is, sir?” I faked surprise.
“I haven’t the foggiest, detective.”
Columbo tore the envelope open and read: “Good bye, unfair, uncertain life. Good bye pity, envy, and strife. I apologize to all whose who I cause pain. But my pain is greater than all would understand. Walter Higgins, Professor of Shakespearean Literature.” Not exactly Shakespeare, but it worked.
“He must have wanted to leave this note with me,” I said. I dropped into my seat. “If only I had discovered this sooner! Perhaps I could have stopped him!”
Columbo looked again at the phony suicide note.
“That’s funny,” he said softly.
“Funny?” I said. “I see nothing funny about it. I’d call it tragic.”
“I meant the note, sir,” said Columbo. “Notice how it’s made from magazine clippings? Very unusual, sir. Most times people use magazine clippings, it’s because they don’t want anyone to recognize their handwriting, sir. But why would it matter if the handwriting was recognized on a suicide note? We both know it’s from the professor. Very funny, sir.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Poor Walter was obviously unhinged.”
“You’re probably right, sir,” said Columbo. “I just get worked up over little things. I like to follow every little lead down until it makes perfect sense to me. I guess it just doesn’t always work that way, sir.”
“Sounds like a sort of neurosis to me,” I said.
“It’s in the genetics, sir. Columbo family trait. Now, if you’ll just let me take this back to the department, sir, I’m sure it will help clear everything up.”
“Of course, Columbo,” I said. “You’ll be here for the play this Friday night, won’t you?” Columbo grinned wildly.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir!”
**
When the curtain closed after the final act of the California Centurion University’s Shakespearean Literature department’s production of William Shakespeare’s “Romeo + Juliet”, I wouldn’t have called the applause enthusiastic. I would have called the applause, if anything, polite.
I wanted to hide beneath my chair in the auditorium, but it was my duty as director to meet-and-greet our audience. Strangers shook my hands and lied about what a great show it was. Dean and Mrs. Harley Sherman were another story.
“If Shakespeare could have seen this,” said Mrs. Sherman, “he would have asked to borrow Romeo’s dagger to stab himself.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Harley?”
“I have to be honest,” said Harley. “That really was a tragedy.”
“ ‘Et tu, Brute?’ “ I quoted comically.
“Better luck next year,” said Harley, patting me on the back.
“I’m thinking ‘Henry V’,” I confided in him. As he and his wife moved towards the exits, I spotted Columbo congratulating Lisa and Duke. He walked up to me next, taking my hand and pumping it diligently.
“A tremendous show, sir,” he said excitedly. “I was proud to be here tonight.” I believed he actually meant it. “To tell you the truth, though, sir, I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying. I had to look through that synopsis thing in the program to just figure out what was going on.”
“I’m sure you’re not the only one to feel that way,” I laughed. “Where’s Mrs. Columbo?”
“My wife, sir? Oh, she had to leave during the intermission. Got a call on her phone. Her aunt’s sick and she had to go look after her. You know how it is, sir.” I nodded. “Sir, I need to talk to you about Walter Higgins’ death. There’s just one more thing.”
After the auditorium was emptied, I sat down in the front row and faced Columbo.
“What is it, detective?”
“I was talking to you the other day about what police work was all about. Right, sir? Well, what detective work is about is guessing. Not just wild guessing, sir, but logical guessing. You got to consider all the possibilities. And once you find the right possibility, you have certain experts look into it, just like on the TV, sir. Now, first we considered the possibility that the professor’s death was an accident. That didn’t work out. Next, we considered the possibility that the professor’s death was a suicide. For me, that still didn’t work out. That leaves murder, sir. That still didn’t seem to work out. So we considered the possibilities of that. First, there was the possibility that the killer used a regular entrance. That didn’t work out. All the regular entrances were locked. That left only one possibility. The balcony. The killer had to be a practiced climber, sir.” He paused. “There’s no gentle way to put this, sir. I think you killed Prof. Walter Higgins.”
“You give my play a rave review but you pan me as a human being!” I exclaimed. “I think you’ve got it all wrong!”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Columbo. “Once I narrowed down the possibilities, I had experts take a look at everything. The experts took a look at the suicide note. You know, with the magazine lettering? Well, they found something fishy about it, sir.” They hadn’t found the magazines I’d thrown away, had they? Columbo pulled out the suicide note.
“These cuttings, sir, to you and me they look just like any old cuttings. But there are experts that say the way men cut is as distinct as fingerprints, footprints, or anything like that. There are experts, sir, that can determine scissors used, strength and force of the person using the scissors, cutting styles, silly little things like those, sir. Maybe it’s not really like fingerprints, sir. Actually, I’m told it’s along the same lines as handwriting analysis.” He reached down and picked up a large piece of poster board with gaudy magazine pages glued to it. “This is a collage the professor made before he died, sir. He was going to use it for a lesson. The experts looked at this and the suicide note and said the man who cut the letters out for the suicide note is not the same man who cut the pictures out for the collage.” He then walked to the stage, put down the collage, and then returned to pick up a familiar green book. “You cut out the pictures for your own scrapbook yourself. Correct, sir?”
“I did.”
“The experts looked at this and said the same man who cut out the clippings for the scrapbook just might be the same man who cut out the letters for that suicide note, sir.”
“You think you can convict me with that?”
“I think, sir,” said Columbo, “that it would go best for you if you confessed now.”
“You win, Columbo,” I said, raising my hands in defeat. “Just tell me, what made you so sure this was murder?” Columbo reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch I had placed on Walter’s body.
“This, sir,” said Columbo. “We were all sure this was the anniversary gift the professor got for Miss Winthrop. But the inscription’s all wrong. Remember how we talked about pet names, sir? Well, the inscription was made out to ‘J.’ But why would the professor have it made out to ‘J’ ? He always called Miss Winthrop by her pet name. That seemed odd to me, sir.” He carefully placed the watch on stage. His pile of stage props was forming neatly in front of mine. Columbo then pulled out the business card from Glazer’s Jewelers and Engravers. “I checked with these people, sir. It seems the professor was really into engravings. He ordered two special gifts on the same day. One took longer than the other to prepare. This was it.” He pulled out a cigarette lighter.
“Funny,” I said. “I didn’t think Juliet smoked.” Columbo tossed me the lighter. It was engraved with the outline of a teddy bear. On the teddy bear was the lettering: “What light through yonder window breaks.” I couldn’t help but laugh at Walter’s terrible sense of humor.
“You see, sir, you told me Miss Winthrop’s name was taken from Shakespeare. From ‘Romeo + Juliet’, the play you just did, sir. The quote on the watch wasn’t from ‘Romeo + Juliet.’ It was from ‘The Tragedy of Julius Caesar.’ Then I thought about that inscription. ‘The ides of March are arrived.’ The ides of March, now that’s an actual date. So first I wondered, what happens in March? Then I thought, maybe, it wasn’t a specific date, really. It’s also used as an expression, sir. In that Shakespeare play, the ides of March meant the end of the reign of Caesar. So I thought, maybe, sir, this was the professor’s way of telling the person he was giving the gift to that their time had come and their days of good life were over.”
“Sounds like that could be read as a threat,” I commented.
“I thought about that, too,” said Columbo. “But that would make a lousy gift. And I’ve been talking to people. To Miss Winthrop. To the dean here. Even to the professor’s students. They keep telling me what a great sense of humor the professor had. So I figured the professor was joking around a little with the inscription. You know what I decided that watch was, sir? A retirement gift. Your first name is Julius, isn’t it, sir? Like Julius Caesar, in the Shakespeare play. So, I figure, that watch must have been intended as a retirement gift for you.”
“A friendly gesture on Walter’s part,” I said. “But retirement is too nice of a term for it. Too honorable. Plain and simple, I was getting laid-off.”
“The professor must have known they were planning on firing you for quite a while. Now, I figure the professor was planning on picking up that lighter on the way to his date on the night he was killed. But why was he carrying that watch in his pocket? What would he be doing with your retirement gift on his anniversary? So, I figured, someone else must have put that watch in the professor’s pocket, after the professor was already dead. Someone who found that package, thought it was the professor’s anniversary gift to Miss Winthrop, and felt an overwhelming compulsion to put that package in the professor’s pocket.”
“A murderer,” I said. “Me. Well, Columbo, I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything,” said Columbo, rising and taking center stage. “As a wise man once put it, ‘All the world’s a stage, and we are merely the players. Each has his entrances and his exits. And one man in time plays many parts.’”
I just smiled and applauded. I stood up and cried melodramatically, “‘Then fall Caesar!’ “ I then walked slowly towards the police officers waiting for me in the back of the auditorium, giving Columbo a chance to take his bows.
THE END