December 23, 1972
Los Angeles International Airport
Los Angeles, California
The tall, elderly-looking man sat at the bar, a glass of straight Kentucky bourbon in front of him. He was distinguished-looking, wearing a dark gray three-piece, double-breasted suit of a cut once popular in the fifties, with a crisp white dress shirt and a dark green bow tie. The old-fashioned outfit, along with his short neat graying hair, made him somewhat conspicuous against the background of colorful, flamboyantly-dressed younger people of this equally flamboyant time in history—a time that he didn't find particularly appealing in the slightest.
His flight back to Portland, Oregon was scheduled to leave in ninety minutes, but that wasn't nearly soon enough to suit him. He hated being outside of Portland these days, but when duty called he had no choice but to answer and do whatever was needed of him. He fought the urge to touch the tightly closed and locked leather satchel lying across his lap. Instead, he took an anxious sip of the whiskey and checked the time again on the large wall-clock behind the bar.
"Uh, excuse me, sir? Mr. Jenkins?"
The old man twisted around on the barstool, startled and instantly wary; behind him stood a much shorter man who was the very embodiment of the word "shabby". He wore a cheap grayish-beige two-piece suit that had clearly come off the rack at least a decade ago. He wore it with a dingy white shirt and the saddest-looking brick-red necktie the old man had ever seen. All of this was topped by an even more pathetic beige raincoat that had certainly seen better days. An unlit, half-smoked cigar was clamped between the first two fingers of the man's left hand.
"Are you Mr. Galeas Jenkins, sir?" the man asked lazily, his voice gravelly and thick with an accent that sounded like it originated in one of the rougher boroughs of New York City. Jenkins peered down at the short man through narrowed eyes, sweeping the stranger from the top of his shaggy black head to his scuffed brown leather shoes.
"I am," he snapped, irritated, "Who wants to know?" The younger man, seeming to take no notice of Jenkins's brusqueness, put his free hand into the pocket of the tired raincoat and pulled out a small folder of well-worn black leather. He flipped it open and held it up so that Jenkins could see it clearly: A shiny brass police badge and an identification card bearing the little man's photograph and credentials.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir; I'm Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD, Homicide Division," the man rattled off in a monotone voice. Jenkins glanced up from the badge and caught the policeman watching him closely with sharp, inquisitive brown eyes. Well, one sharp brown eye, anyway; the other was obviously a prosthetic, though how a policeman was allowed to serve with only one good eye he couldn't even begin to guess. Regardless, centuries of practice reading people told him at once that this scruffy little creature was far more shrewd than he was portraying himself to be.
"Homicide?" Jenkins echoed and fixed an appropriately confused, slightly alarmed expression onto his face. "I'm afraid I don't understand." Columbo closed the folder and slipped it back into his pocket.
"Your name came up in an investigation, I'm afraid, sir, and then we did some checking and found out that you were flying out of LAX today, so I hurried on down here to try and catch you before you boarded the plane. I believe you knew a Mr. Charles Saint John Kara…Kora…" The policeman held up the hand holding the cigar. "Hold on just a minute, sir, please—"
The little man began patting various parts of his body, then shoved his empty hand into an outer pocket of the raincoat to produce an worn scrap of paper. "Mr. Charles Saint John Care-ra-dock," he read carefully from the scrap, then glanced up at his audience. "I believe you knew him, sir?" Jenkins winced at the grating, phonetic pronunciation of the name. With a sour scowl, he pulled a beautiful fountain pen from his own suit coat as he plucked a cocktail napkin from a nearby rack.
"Charles St. John-Caradoc, Lieutenant," he firmly corrected the other man as he wrote the correct pronunciation of the name on the napkin, a teacher correcting a particularly slow-witted pupil. "And it's pronounced 'SIN-jin Ca-RAH-dohk'." He finished writing and handed the napkin over to Columbo. He looked at the napkin, his eyes widening in surprise.
"'SIN-jin Ca-RAH-dohk'," he repeated slowly, taking his time with each syllable, then looked up, a thoughtful expression coming to his care-worn face. "What is that, Polish?"
Jenkins stared blankly at the rumpled man, momentarily baffled by the unexpected question. "What? No! It is not Polish!"
Columbo shrugged and crammed the napkin into a random pocket of his raincoat. "I guess it really doesn't matter now, though, does it, sir? So I assume, then, that you knew the man, sir?"
"Yes, Lieutenant," Jenkins answered testily, "I knew the man! What of it?"
"He was murdered night before last, sir, that's what." Jenkins paused in the act of putting his pen back into his pocket and looked directly into the smaller man's face, suspiciously.
"Murdered," he echoed tonelessly, then sat up straight on the barstool. "Yes, of course—you did say that you were with Homicide. You're certain it was murder, then?" Columbo set his cigar-laden hand on the empty stool next to Jenkins. He leaned forward so as not to be overheard by others in the bar.
"Oh, there's no mistaking it, sir," Columbo growled soberly. The small man's eyes never left the older man as he spoke. "His entire head is missing, you see." Jenkins stared back.
"His...head, is missing...?" he repeated, his voice low and wary. Columbo shook his messy headful of thick, black hair and clucked his tongue. He held up both hands in a gesture of capitulation.
"To be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Jenkins—I've been in Homicide for a long time, now, but I have to admit it, sir—I've never seen anything like this before in my entire life! Never! Here's this man, his head is missing, and we can't find it anywhere!" He raised a finger to emphasize his point.
"But here's the real kicker, sir—there's hardly a drop of blood to be found anywhere!" He then spread his hands wide as he continued speaking. "Just a few splatters, that's it. If somebody's head gets cut off, we'd expect to find a lot more blood than just a few little splatters, sir, a lot more!" He leaned forward again conspiratorially. "Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions, sir?"
Jenkins, momentarily disoriented by how casually the policeman talked about such a brutal death, quickly pasted a shocked expression onto his weathered face, nodded at the barstool next to him in invitation.
"Of course, Lieutenant, please—have a seat," he said, mentally scrambling to decide if the small man was really just that clever or just that clueless. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Oh, no, no, not for me, thank you, anyway, sir," Columbo answered cheerfully, then groaned softly in relief as he slipped onto the barstool. "Oh, that feels good, my dogs have been barking all day! I'm afraid I can't, I'm on duty, you see."
"Of course," Jenkins replied noncommittally and took a large sip of his drink. In the meantime, Columbo again dug through several pockets, rambling about his wife and how she was forever having to remind him to make sure he had everything he needed for work that morning before he left the house but that he always seemed to manage to forget something or other despite her best efforts. He finally tugged a small black flip-top notebook free of his coat's inside breast pocket. After a few more seconds of digging and mumbling, he also managed to produce a pencil stub. He licked the lead tip as he settled onto his stool and opened the notebook.
"Now, sir—you were at Mr. St. John-Caradoc's house the other night; could you tell me, please, sir, what time you arrived?"
"I arrived at precisely nine-thirty," Jenkins answered crisply. Columbo grunted in satisfaction as he scribbled in the notebook.
"And you're sure about the time?"
"Yes. That's what time our appointment was for, and so that's the time I arrived."
"Oh, I'm glad you mentioned having an appointment, sir!" Columbo smiled as he glanced up at the older man. "That's how your name came up, I saw the Mr. St. John-Caradoc's calendar in his office. And what time did you leave, sir?"
"Around ten o'clock, I think, maybe ten-fifteen." Columbo stopped writing and looked up.
"You think? You're not sure, sir?" A warning flag raised itself in Jenkins's mind.
"No, I'm not sure," he replied guardedly, "Why?" A sheepish look fell over the policeman's face.
"Oh, well, I'm sure it's nothing, sir," he answered laconically, his eyes dropping to the floor between them momentarily as he spoke before he looked up again. "But it just seems odd to me that you would remember the exact time when you arrived, but then you can't remember the exact time when you left, that's all. It's just an odd little thing, I know, sir, but sometimes it's those odd little things that can make or break an entire murder case..."
"Are you accusing me of murder, Lieutenant?" Jenkins blustered, point blank. Columbo leaned back a bit on the stool and blinked, in genuine or feigned surprise Jenkins couldn't tell.
"Oh, no, sir!" the detective began fervently, his voice then slipping into one of calm reassurance as he waved a careless hand in dismissal. "No, not at all! I'm just asking questions right now, sir. Just asking questions. Because it looks like you were the last one to see Mr. St. John-Caradoc alive, that's why I'm asking you all these questions. I'm just working out a timeline, that's all, sir. You can appreciate that, I'm sure?"
"Very well, Lieutenant," conceded Jenkins tautly. He surreptitiously glanced at the clock over the bar; he still had forty minutes until his flight would begin boarding. The lieutenant glanced down at the scribbles he'd made earlier in the notepad.
"Now, can I ask why you were at Mr. St. John-Caradoc's house that night, sir?" Jenkins looked away to take a casual sip of his drink before answering.
"It was a business call, Lieutenant," he answered simply, and said nothing more. There was an awkward silence for several seconds until Columbo realized that the old man wasn't going to elaborate.
"A-a-nd…what kind of business would that be, sir?" he prodded patiently.
"Books," Jenkins answered. There was another labored silence.
"Books, sir?" Columbo repeated flatly.
"Books, Lieutenant." The policeman pursed his lips and dutifully wrote "Business—books" in the notepad.
"And so you were at Mr. St. John-Caradoc's house the evening before last to buy books? Sell books…?" The hand holding the pencil made a circular motion in the air as he spoke. Jenkins took another sip of bourbon, delaying his answer as he tried to calculate how much Columbo already knew.
"Buying," Jenkins finally admitted. Columbo nodded and made another note, his lips pursing. He kept his eyes on the paper as he continued his questioning.
"And how many, exactly, were you buying, Mr. Jenkins? One book? Several books?" Something in the detective's voice warned Jenkins to tell the truth.
"Just one."
"I see, sir." Another notation was made in the little book. "And what was the title of that book, sir?" The old man scowled down at the tousled head.
"Does it really matter, Lieutenant?" he shot back tartly, "I never actually spoke to the man, you know. I rang the bell, waited around fifteen minutes but he never answered, so I left. End of story!" Columbo gave him a lopsided smile of sympathy.
"It's just for my report, sir," he hurried to assure the older man, "I just like to include all of the facts whenever I type up my reports. I'm just funny that way, I guess." He held his arms up and shrugged, then chuckled softly. "Drives my wife crazy, sometimes. Drives my Captain crazy, too, truth be told!"
"I'm afraid it doesn't have a real title, Lieutenant," Jenkins cut in quickly before the annoying man could go off on another tedious tangent, "It's simply an ancient text from Chile. An old codex stolen during the Spanish Conquest." An unsettling glitter came to the lieutenant's eye as he met Jenkins's irritated gaze.
"Is that so, sir?" he asked with amusement, "That wouldn't be the codex known as the Fray Angelico Codex, would it, sir?" Jenkins, caught completely off guard by the little man's unexpected knowledge of arcane Pre-Columbian texts, stiffened at once. He forced himself to relax and cocked his head, birdlike, as he peered down into the detective's one good eye.
"The Fray Angelico Codex? I…don't…think I've ever heard of that before now…?" Jenkins's brow furrowed in feigned puzzlement, while his heart raced in his chest. Columbo looked down at the little notebook and loudly flipped a couple of pages upward as he searched for something.
"Ah, here it is!" he finally exclaimed, throwing his hand into the air in triumph. "'A late-Fifteenth Century Incan book of demonology and magic, saved from destruction by Fray Angelico Bartolomé de Avalos, a Spanish priest sent to what we now call Chile as a missionary to the conquered Incans'," he read slowly from his notes, squinting as he sought to decipher his own handwriting. He looked up from the notebook and waited, a slightly smug smile on his lips.
"You clearly know more about this situation than you've been letting on, Lieutenant," Jenkins said coolly, unamused to have been caught so unawares. Columbo shrugged again.
"We-e-ll, to be honest with you, sir, I did do a little bit of research last night and this morning, Mr. Jenkins," he confessed, almost embarrassed. He referred again to his tattered notebook. "This Fray Angelico was one bad apple, as it turns out, I'm afraid," he murmured in the low tone of one sharing a secret with another. He fixed his eyes on the old man as he continued. "To put it all into a nutshell—he seems to have understood what the codex was for and he stole it in order to use it for his own selfish purposes."
Jenkins stared back blankly. The satchel on his lap suddenly felt very heavy and cutting off the circulation to his legs, and it was all he could do not to lay his hand over it protectively, lest the infuriating detective see and become even more suspicious.
"And what purposes could those possibly be, Lieutenant?" Columbo leaned in closer and his one natural eye suddenly flashed with unexpected anger, though there was no change in his amicable tone.
"Turns out he was in Chile to get rich quick just as much as the conquistadors were, Mr. Jenkins. Terrible man, just terrible!" He waved the cigar-laden hand in a gesture of broad dismissal, shaking his dark head as he did so.
"I'm a Catholic," he went on, pronouncing the word as "cat-lick". "And so I take that kind of thing very personal. Priests are supposed to be better than that, they're supposed to be role-models. They're supposed to be looking out for the downtrodden and the poor." The detective peered intently up at his silent, stone-faced audience. "Are you Catholic, Mr. Jenkins?"
"I don't see how that's germane to your investigation, Lieutenant—but yes, I am Catholic, actually," Jenkins answered, allowing his voice to betray his impatience. But Columbo merely smiled and looked down as he flipped several more pages of his tiny notebook.
"I thought so, sir; you got that look." Jenkins frowned at the small man.
"And what look would that be?" he sneered.
"Oh, I don't know—maybe 'look' isn't the right word," Columbo answered absently while he studied a scrawl-filled page. "Maybe 'feeling' is a better word—you give the feeling of being a Catholic. A good Catholic, that is." Jenkins opened his mouth to deliver the sharp, sarcastic answer that was perched on the tip of tongue, but Columbo looked up from his notes at that exact moment and directly into Jenkins's narrowed eyes.
"How much, exactly, did the Metropolitan Public Library pay for that codex, if I can ask that, sir?" Jenkins's mouth snapped shut and he leaned back on the barstool as if he'd been struck, astonished. The detective's eyes never wavered as all humor left them and filled with intense interest. "You do work for the Metropolitan Public Library, don't you, Mr. Jenkins? In New York City?"
"How do you know that?" Jenkins demanded shortly, his shock quickly giving way to anger. The detective chuckled softly and turned his head to look out at the concourse of the airport, filled with people hurrying to and from gates in the pre-holiday rush.
"Like I said before, sir—I did some research," he answered cagily. He turned his attention back to Jenkins. "My wife has a lot of family back east, in Chicago." Jenkins stared down at him, then gave a tiny, helpless shake of his silver-white head. It was becoming difficult to keep up with this man and his non-sequiturs. Columbo adjusted his seat on the barstool.
"A couple of years ago we went to Chicago to visit some of my wife's relatives," he went on conversationally, "And my wife wants to do some sight-seeing while we're there, you know, and while her and her sisters and their kids are looking around one of the museums, I duck into a bar for a quick beer. 'Cause it gets pretty hot out there in Chicago in the summer, right?" Jenkins slumped on his stool.
"I really don't care what the weather is like in Chicago, Lieutenant!" Jenkins barked. Columbo raised his hand as he lowered his head in acknowledgement.
"Sorry, sorry!" he conceded immediately, "My point is this: I met a fella in the bar, a newspaper reporter, his name's Kolchak—that is Polish, by the way, lots of Polish people in Chicago. Anyway, he tells me that he writes articles for the Independent News Service. And he told me all about this place that he's heard about called the Metropolitan Public Library." He dropped his hand and unabashedly met the old man's steely gaze.
"And you know what? According to this guy, Kolchak, the Metropolitan Public Library actually houses a collection magical artifacts and books, to keep them safe from anyone who might want to use them to do bad things." Columbo wrapped his arms loosely around his body and leaned forward dramatically before continuing.
"He also mentioned that there was a man who works for the Metropolitan Public Library, a very tall, old man with white hair and who's a snappy dresser. Only he isn't a normal man." His heart pounding, Jenkins kept his face blank as he slowly leaned forward with equal drama toward Columbo.
"And how, exactly, is he not normal, Lieutenant?" Columbo didn't even blink.
"He's an immortal knight from the Court of King Arthur," he answered bluntly, his expression and tone dead serious. Columbo leaned back on his stool and chewed thoughtfully on the cheap cigar, his sharp eyes remaining on Jenkins as he waited for a reaction.
Alarm bells were going off so loudly in Jenkins's head that he was certain the scruffy little man sitting in quiet triumph in front of him could hear them. Even so, Jenkins only leaned back on his own barstool in mimicry of the detective and stared at Columbo for a long time. He then threw his silvery head back and burst into laughter.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant!" he said, gasping for air, "But I can't believe that you would actually take such a ridiculous tale as that so seriously, especially about such a well-known institution as the Metropolitan Public Library!" He dug into his trousers pocket for his handkerchief and made a show of wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes with it.
"You are full of surprises, Lieutenant!" he said as the laughter finally died away. "I can't speak to anything your Polish Chicago friend has told you, but I will admit that the Metropolitan Public Library was interested in the codex. As for how much I paid for it—the answer is 'nothing'. By the time I got there the codex was no longer for sale." It wasn't an outright lie, just a slight…reimagining of the truth. Columbo's face quickly broke into a smile, as though pleased by Jenkins's protestation of ignorance. He uncrossed his arms and raised his hands in the air for a moment before letting them drop to his knees.
"Here's what I think happened to Mr. St. John-Caradoc," he started slowly, his tone affable as he suddenly shifted to answering a question no one had asked. Jenkins had to admit that the detective was a sly one as he tried to keep the older man off-balance by continually changing the topic of conversation. "I think Mr. St. John-Caradoc got hold of the Fray Angelico Codex. Because he knew it had the reputation of being like a spellbook, for summoning demons or spirits or something like that from the Incan Underworld. And I think he tried to use the Codex himself to do just that." He adjusted his seat on the stool until he was comfortable again. Jenkins didn't move a muscle.
"And here's the really unbelievable part of this case, Mr. Jenkins," Columbo went on chattily, "Mr. St. John-Caradoc did it!" Up went the hands again, this time in studied astonishment. "He actually called up one of those demons from the Underworld, the Ukhu Pacha!" The hands dropped again, then he lifted the hand holding the cigar and pointed it at Jenkins; it was not lost on Jenkins that Columbo had pronounced the Incan name flawlessly.
"To his great misfortune, though, he did it," Columbo repeated sadly, "Because the creature that he summoned didn't like being summoned—didn't like it at all! It killed Mr. St. John-Caradoc. It took the poor man's head clean off. Wouldn't be surprised if the creature ate it, too, if you'll pardon my language, sir." Columbo picked up a book of matches from the bar, carelessly struck one and relit the cigar. He tossed the burned match into an ashtray, then took a leisurely puff and waited. A coldness filled Jenkins's chest.
"So, let me see if I understand you correctly, Lieutenant," Jenkins replied carefully, "You believe that a mysterious…being…from this Ukhu Pacha place is actually the one responsible for killing St. John-Caradoc." Columbo said nothing, merely raised his hands as if in apology.
"That…is unbelievable, Lieutenant," Jenkins tautly, his eyes never leaving the small man in front of him. "It's even more unbelievable than the tale about a knight of the Round Table working in a major metropolitan library, in fact." He then snorted softly, disdainful.
"I'm surprised a member of the police department would even entertain such wild hypotheses as the ones you've shared with me today!" Jenkins visibly relaxed as he scoffed. "Surely a more plausible explanation is that whoever stole the Codex is responsible for killing St. John-Caradoc? Drug-addled young people, perhaps, or a cult? I've read all about those Manson people that were on the rampage here a few years ago..." A rather shy smile came to the younger man's face.
"We-e-ll, I've been at this job a long time, Mr. Jenkins, a very long time!" he drawled as he scratched the back of his head, then leaned forward again. "I've seen a lotta strange things over the years, seen a lot ways that people've been killed, and like I said earlier—I've never seen anything like this!" He reached to give Jenkins's forearm a quick, fraternal pat, then sat back and placed the cigar between his teeth, gave the guarded man a nod. "I learned a long time ago that it pays to keep an open mind."
"I see," was all Jenkins could think of to say in response to such a bizarre twist in this interview. Again, a smile came to Columbo's lips; this one was unabashedly wolfish, and Jenkins realized the detective was immensely enjoying this whole interaction. Columbo turned and plucked his little notebook and pencil from the bar and shoved them into the nearest pocket of his raincoat.
"Well, as you say, sir—it's just a hypothesis," he said and slid off of the barstool. "But what really bothers me is, we've torn the victim's house apart looking for clues but we've come up with nothing, except for your name, sir. No fingerprints, no shoeprints, no blood trail, no hairs or forensics of any kind. Nothing!" He paused and gave his silent audience a pointed look. "And no Codex." He waited, but still the old man remained silent, a stony, unreadable expression on his face. Columbo shrugged and shook the cigar at Jenkins like a scolding finger.
"I gotta hand it to you, Mr. Jenkins—you're a tough nut to crack!" he said, the words sounding almost like a compliment. "Crazy hypothesis or not, I think St. John-Caradoc used that Codex to summon something he couldn't control, and it killed him. I think someone then came into the house, saw the body, took the Codex and left as fast as he possibly could before anyone—or anything—saw him there." Columbo placed the cigar between his lips and continued speaking around it while he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
"I think whoever took that Codex would have to be someone who knows exactly what it is and how dangerous it can be." After a couple of thoughtful puffs, he removed the cigar and loosely crossed his arms again.
"I seriously doubt we'll ever find that Codex, or even the person who took it," he said slowly, watching Jenkins closely. "And who knows, sir? Maybe it really never even existed in the first place? You say you never actually saw it, so maybe he was just trying to run a scam on you and the Metropolitan Library." He threw his hands up as if in surrender. "If it is real, though, I just hope that whoever has it makes sure it's kept in a nice, safe place where it can never be used to summon anything ever again." The two men stared at one another in silence for several long seconds. The tension was broken when a woman's soothing voice announced that Flight 1280 to Portland, Oregon was preparing to board at Gate Number 22. Columbo looked up at the ceiling as if he could see the woman speaking and smiled.
"I think that's you, sir," he announced, perking up considerably. He shifted the cigar from his right hand to his left and then stuck his free hand out toward Jenkins. "I hope you have a pleasant trip back to Portland, sir."
"That's it?" Jenkins asked cautiously, not sure what to make of this strange encounter.
"That's it, sir!" the detective announced breezily, and raised his hand in farewell. "Bon voyage!" Jenkins stood up and started to shake the little man's hand, his left hand tightly grasping the well-worn handle of the satchel at the same time.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Jenkins replied shortly. As soon as he let go of the detective's hand, he headed out into the concourse. He turned in the direction of his departure gate and headed off, his long legs eating up the distance. The sooner he was in the plane and in the air, the better. There was something very disquieting about that squirrely little homicide detective…
"Excuse me! Oh, Mr. Jenkins, sir!" Jenkins stopped and spun around at the sound of the voice all but shouting his name. He was not terribly surprised to see Lieutenant Columbo scurrying frantically after him, his right hand waving in the air as he dodged people in the crowded concourse. A few seconds later he slowed to a halt, panting heavily.
"I'm sorry, sir—just one more thing I wanted to ask you about!" he said breathlessly. He lightly laid a hand on the taller man's upper arm as if to support himself until he was able to catch his breath again. "I'm sorry to bother with this, sir, but...could I please see your bag?" Jenkins narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
"My bag?" he repeated shortly, "Why?" Columbo ducked his head, abashed.
"Well, you see, sir, I have a nephew who'll be getting out of college soon and starting a new job—he's gonna be an actuary at a big insurance company here in town, you see—and I want to get him a nice briefcase for his graduation present, and I noticed back there in the bar that yours was a very nice bag, very professional-looking bag. I was gonna ask about it earlier but then, of course I got distracted with the case and I just plain forgot about it until just now." He held out his hands to Jenkins. "Could I just have a quick look, sir? It'll only take a moment, I promise..."
Jenkins swept his eyes over the little man as he weighed his options. There didn't seem to be any other officers in the vicinity, no backup in case Jenkins decided to make a run for it. Columbo's "hypotheses" had been unnervingly accurate, but he still had no hard evidence that Jenkins was involved in St. John-Caraker's brutal demise. And the detective himself was also right in wondering who would even believe his outlandish story.
Unless, of course, he did have some kind of physical evidence, such as Jenkins now carried in his satchel: A certain blood-stained Incan codex stolen by Fray Angelico Bartolomé de Avalos in 1585 from a priest of the god Supay as the poor man lay dying of the smallpox unwittingly brought to the New World by the Conquistadors.
But, Jenkins realized suddenly, Columbo had not presented him with a search warrant. He could, therefore, not open the bag or search its contents without Jenkins's verbal permission. The old man raised his head and smiled as he held out the bag to the waiting officer. "Of course, Lieutenant. Take your time."
Columbo took the bag and turned it over in his hands. He examined the stitching and other detailing, and Jenkins was satisfied to see just the slightest look of disappointment flit across Columbo's face when he realized that the bag was locked—and so could not "accidentally" fall open to reveal its contents to him. With pursed lips, the policeman hefted the bag slightly in his hands, as though gauging its weight.
"This is heavy!" he commented, his natural eye watching Jenkins carefully. "Feels like you got a rock in here or something!" And indeed, Jenkins did, after a fashion; the original box made from stone made specifically to hold the codex. The old man smiled again.
"Just a book I plan to read when I get home," he replied blithely, deftly dodging the full truth again. Another boarding call for his flight sounded overhead, and Jenkins gave the little man an apologetic look.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I really must go now," he said with exaggerated sympathy, but there was a warning look in his dark eyes that was unmistakable. Columbo handed the satchel back to him.
"I appreciate your time and your cooperation, sir," he said. There was no animosity in his voice at all, but he met Jenkins's unyielding look with one of his own as he spoke. "I just hope that codex is in good hands." Jenkins gave the man a single slow nod, but said nothing. He turned and headed for the security checkpoint, had almost reached the head of the line when he heard that damnable voice again.
"Mr. Jenkins! Just one more thing, please!"
Jenkins spun around, his eyes hard as he stared at the detective ambling toward him.
"What is it now, Lieutenant?" he demanded, bordering on anger. Columbo puffed on the cigar, but it had gone out. He removed it from his lips and crossed his arms as he stared boldly up into the tall man's eyes.
"I found it odd that you didn't even flinch when I said that St. John-Caraker had been murdered," he said flatly, not even trying to disguise his assessing gaze now. "And when I told you how he died—no reaction, except to laugh and tell me I was crazy. Most people would've been at least a little upset to hear something like that, sir. At least, that's been my experience, and I've been at this game a long time. They go pale or their eyes get big or they feel sick or they just can't believe it, something. But not you, sir. You didn't even blink." He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Jenkins's.
"I just wanted you to know that that didn't go unnoticed, sir." Columbo lifted his hand in farewell.
"Have a good trip, Mr. Jenkins!" he said again cheerfully and began backing away from him, a wry, knowing smile playing on his lips. Jenkins stared after the retreating man for a few seconds.
"Good luck with your report, Lieutenant," he called out, his voice icy. The detective raised his hand again, but kept walking. Jenkins turned his back on Columbo and sauntered away, his silver head held high while his heart pounded in his chest.
Columbo turned and began the long walk back to his car. He shook his head as he began absentmindedly patting his pockets in search of his lighter. He had a long night ahead him. His report on the St. John-Caradoc case was due on the Captain's desk first thing in the morning on December 26, and he now had to come up with a plausible, non-supernatural explanation for how a man's head could be bitten off and then the body sucked dry all of his blood like a bottle of beer.
Columbo found the lighter and stopped to light his cigar again, then stood in the middle of the busy concourse, puffing thoughtfully as crowds of harried travelers passed by, some eyeing the odd little man warily as they hurried to their final destination.
This murder did sound like something those crazy Manson kids would've done back in the late 60s. He dipped his head as an idea formed in his mind: Perhaps he could imply that St. John-Caradoc was the victim of a cult? He instantly began shaking his head in dismissal. Homicide Division leaked like a sieve. Word would get out and that would just cause a panic in the city—just like what happened with the Manson kids when they killed all those people in '69.
Columbo sighed and started walking again. He pushed everything about this murder to the back burner of his mind for now. Christmas Day was just around the corner, and they had a house full of family coming over for a late dinner after Midnight Mass. His wife had given him a shopping list as long as his arm that morning of stuff he had to pick up at the market on his way home after work. And she'd take his head off if he didn't bring home every single item on that list, too.
So the report would just have to wait. At least he knew now where the Codex was and that it was going to a safe place, hopefully never to be seen again. He shook his head and laughed to himself about Galeas Jenkins. Columba had, indeed, heard about the Metropolitan Library from his friend in Chicago, but he had no idea whether Jenkins was associated with them or not. But there was just something about that man had made Columbo suspect that he knew far more about this homicide than he was admitting, something well outside the purview of a regular, run of the mill homicide. If the detective had learned one thing in his long and storied career, it was to always listen to his gut.
So Columbo played his hunch. He hinted that he not only knew about the Library, but all about Jenkins as well. "Galeas" was another form of the name "Galahad", the famous knight; how would the old man react to that? It had been all he could do to not whoop with astonished triumph when Jenkins had involuntarily confirmed the detective's hunch with the split-second look of alarm that filled those dark piercing eyes before Jenkins broke into laughter. The entire interview had been a terrific piece of poker playing between the two men, and Columbo absolutely lived for days when a long-shot hunch paid off like that. Pleased with his days' work despite not having a suspect in handcuffs by now, Columbo began smiling, greeting people as he passed them, wishing them a heartfelt "Merry Christmas!"
Maybe after the holidays he'd give his friend, Carl Kolchak, in Chicago a call, see if the newspaperman could tell him anything about this Galeas Jenkins fellow, just to satisfy his own curiosity...off the record, of course.