The four men came along the trail. Phelps stepped into the little clearing. “Bang!” shouted Collins. Phelps dropped, avoiding the clotted blood on which flies were feasting.
Collins took his imaginary shotgun, retreated through the trees, and regained the trail a hundred yards north. He returned to find the others still cautiously reconnoitring the forest. “That’s enough,” said Collins. “Did anyone see me?”
Only Phelps, playing Genneman, had done so. “Frankly, though I was looking for you. I wouldn’t have seen you otherwise.”
“Well,” said Collins dubiously, “that seems to be the story.”
He went back to examine the four young cedar trees. The limb was rather low to make a comfortable gun-rest. Of course, the killer would not have worried about mere comfort. Perhaps he had been a short man.
Another thing, he thought. There was very little room to maneuver. With a shotgun resting on the low branch, the killer, stooping or squatting to aim, must have been crowded back into the foliage. Unless he had allowed the gun barrel to show . . . Once again Collins examined the cedars, hoping to find a hair, or thread or wisp of fiber, but without success. He returned to the trail.
Phelps looked at him quizzically. “Well, what do you make of it?”
Collins gave a grunt. “About the same thing you do. I want to locate the man that came up-trail behind Genneman’s party.”
“Anything more you want around here?”
“No.”
Phelps kicked loose sand over the blood. Then they walked back to the helicopter.
The motor roared, the blades swung, the helicopter eased up and away from Lomax Meadow, and Earl Genneman began his journey home in a manner he would certainly have deplored.
Persimmon Lake was only two miles distant; they barely had got up into the air, it seemed, than they settled again on the flat. This was a different type of landscape entirely: a valley surrounded by snow-covered peaks, almost treeless, with the blue oval lake at its center.
Phelps led the way to where Earl Genneman and his party had camped, the site marked by the ashes of their campfire.
“As best I can gather,” said Phelps, “the lone man had his camp around the shore at the northern end of the lake. That’s how Mr. Retwig describes it, and he seems pretty observant.”
“Let’s go take a look.” said Collins. “Come along, Easley; get some exercise. You’re growing fat in the public service.”
At the north end of the lake, near an outcrop of rock, they found a bed of fresh ashes. Collins and Easley inspected the terrain; again no material clues. No paper, no discarded articles, nothing that might have retained fingerprints.
They walked around the site in widening spirals, until at the lakeshore Collins came to an abrupt halt. Here, in a patch of mud, was a half-obliterated footprint. Easley puffed back to the helicopter for his case, while Collins took a sample of the lakeside mud as well as the dirt around the campfire. Easley returned and set about making a plaster cast, while Collins stood looking here and there, pondering the curious circumstances. Why had the lone man followed so cautiously and then allowed himself to be seen? For the second or third time Collins considered the possibility of a murder-conspiracy among James, Kershaw, Vega and Retwig, but he dismissed it again as improbable.
The plaster cast solidified; Easley wrapped it in cotton and packed it in his case. With nothing more to be seen, photographed, or sampled, they returned to the helicopter, the motor roared, the blades buffeted the air; Persimmon Lake became a chilly blue oval below.
Dutchman’s Pass and the gleaming snowfields approached, receded. The helicopter drifted down Copper Creek Canyon toward the gash of Kings Canyon. Copper Creek Trail angled and jerked down the mountainside, at last unkinked and led into the parking area.
The helicopter settled on the meadow. Collins, Sergeant Easley, and Superintendent Phelps alighted; the helicopter with Dr. Koster and the body of Earl Genneman rose once more and flew off down the valley toward Fresno.
On a bench in front of the ranger’s cabin sat Myron Retwig, Buck James and Bob Vega. Retwig and James were reading the Los Angeles Times, bought at the nearby grocery store. Vega sat stiffly erect, morose and preoccupied. Red Kershaw, it developed, was inside asleep.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Collins. “A case like this inconveniences everyone. I’ll be a few minutes with Superintendent Phelps, then I’ll talk to you, and you’ll be free to go.”
Retwig examined him with owlish detachment. “What, if anything, did you learn?”
“Very little beyond what you told me.”
Retwig folded his newspaper. Neither Buck nor Vega had anything to say. Collins and Easley went into the cabin, to the private office at the side of the waiting room.
Phelps already sat at the telephone, listening to reports. He hung up and said to the inspector, “Nothing. We’ve checked departing cars, found six men driving out alone. None remotely connected with the case. I’ll have a written report in an hour or so.” He pulled thoughtfully at the corner of his mustache. “I must say I incline to the madman theory. I can’t believe a sane man would follow Genneman two days into the mountains to kill him.”
“It all depends,” said Collins. “If someone wanted to kill Genneman badly enough, two days or ten days would mean very little.”
Phelps swung around in his chair to look up at the wallmap. “Even a madman would have to enter the park somewhere. Unfortunately there are dozens of ways in and out. Some very inconvenient, of course. A man could come in at Cedar Grove, cross the entire Sierra, and come out at Lone Pine or Independence. He could hike north into Yosemite, or south into Sequoia. He could abandon the trail entirely, follow one of the rivers and leave the park without so much as a thank you.” The superintendent frowned peevishly. “In which case we lose him entirely.”
“All we can do at the moment,” said Collins, “is work on what we know. To start with, we’ll assume the killer is the man who followed the party up Copper Creek Trail. Do you keep a record of the cars entering the park?”
“Well, in effect. The entry permits include the license number of the vehicle, and we retain a carbon. I’ll have a list of the licenses made up for you.”
“That would be a help,” nodded Collins. “Let’s see . . . Today is Tuesday. The Genneman party started up the trail Saturday afternoon, and the man was seen behind them on the same day. So we’d want the cars that entered Thursday, Friday and Saturday. No, let’s go back another day, to Wednesday, just to be safe. Another thing—a real long shot: the cars in the parking area at road’s end.” He turned to Sergeant Easley. “You’d better attend to that, Rod. Mr. Phelps can lend you a car. Drive up to the parking area, check the cars parked there. It’s possible the man who was just behind Genneman’s party is still in the mountains. If so, his car will still be in the parking area.”
Phelps tossed the sergeant a set of keys. “My pickup is around in back.”
Easley departed, and Collins followed. In the waiting room he found Red Kershaw, yawning in an orange canvas campaign chair.
Collins took a seat beside him, pulled out his notebook. “A few things I want to get straight. As I understand it, you are Mr. Genneman’s brother-in-law?”
“I’m his wife’s half-brother,” said Kershaw. “That makes me his half-brother-in-law, I guess.”
“Your address?”
“1220 Eagle Avenue, Apartment 4, San Jose. It’s a kind of glorified motel, but it’s close to where I work.”
“Where do you work?”
“Montebello Fields. I’m what they call ‘Assistant Track Secretary’, but it’s a case of long title and short pay.”
“I see. Exactly what do you do at the track?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. I’m a sort of do-everything guy. During the season I handle registrations, check horse identifications, warn trainers not to hype the nags—that kind of thing.”
“Oh? I thought the saliva test caught that.”
“Not so you could notice it. There’s drugs and drugs. If the trainer can find somebody to supply him he’ll have his horse bouncing down the track like a kangaroo.”
“And it’s your job to police this?” Collins sounded unconvinced; in Red Kershaw he sensed no fanatic preoccupation with right and wrong.
“I do my best,” said Kershaw modestly. “If I can’t catch a man in the act, I’ll bet on his horse, and lower the odds.”
“I see. Well—you work at Montebello Fields. How close were you to Earl Genneman?”
“We got along pretty well. I drop by the house once or twice a week. It’s safe to tell you this now, because Earl is dead. His wife—Opal, my sister—loves the horses. She used to bet out of sheer foolishness, and she was losing her bra. It was only a matter of time before Earl was bound to catch on. I’d drop by and help her out a bit, so she’d at least break even.”
“I take it Mr. Genneman disapproved of horse racing.”
“He disapproved of all gambling. In some ways Earl was a very strict man. If you dealt with him straight, he was easy to get on with. But once you tried to fool him—look out!”
“What about his wife’s betting? Suppose he’d found out?”
“He’d have—” Kershaw stopped suddenly. He blinked, then nodded. “He’d probably have just laughed it off. Especially if Opal could prove she wasn’t losing a lot.”
“And she wasn’t?”
“Definitely no. Not on the bets she placed through me.
“What about you? Do you consider it legitimate for an employee of the track to bet on the horses?”
“Why not? It all goes into the percentage. Besides, how could you stop it?”
“Who do you think shot Genneman?”
Red Kershaw shook his long, pale head. “I haven’t any idea.”
“Do you know of any enemies—business, personal?”
“He fired four men from managing Westco. One is in jail right now for high-grading barbiturates. I guess you’d call these guys enemies. I don’t think they’d want to shoot him, but who can tell? Or suppose some hopped-up kid gets sore because Earl turned him off—see what I mean?”
“It’s something to look into.” Collins made a note. “Apparently he got on well with Bob Vega.”
“Bob has outlasted every man that’s ever worked for Earl. He’s a real careful manager. In fact you could call him a bunny except where the ladies are concerned. There Bob throws caution to the winds. I don’t know how many times he’s been married—I doubt if he knows himself. Anyway, Vega’s energy is pretty well sopped up by his wives and ex-wives and wives-to-be. He doesn’t have time for juggling the accounts.” Kershaw spoke in a tone of amiable contempt, as if any ordinary man would find the time.
“Who else would want to shoot Mr. Genneman beside his ex-managers? What about his main business, Genneman Laboratories?”
“No dice. That runs like a big clock. Earl’s only problem there was what to do with all his money.”
“He and his wife got along well?”
“Certainly.”
“As I understand it, he has a son and a daughter. “What of them?”
“Son and stepdaughter. Earl Junior is in high school. A funny kid, I can’t make him out. Jean is Opal’s daughter by her first husband—a real nice girl, a senior at Stanford. She and Buck James got some kind of off-again, on-again thing going. In fact, she introduced Buck to Earl, and Earl put him to work. Buck seems to have done pretty good. Earl was buying a drug company back in Wisconsin just to put Buck in charge of it, or something on that order; I never did get it straight.”
“What about the Westco salesmen? Did they finagle with drugs, like the managers?”
“I never heard of anything along those lines. Westco has two other salesmen besides Buck, and they’ve been with the company for years, through manager after manager.”
Collins frowned. “Do you seriously mean that each of the previous managers at Westco dealt in illegal drugs?”
“One of them did for sure. He’s in jail. Another one did, but Earl couldn’t prove it. There was a big shortage in the barbiturates. The man broke a window and called it robbery. Earl fired him. The first one Earl fired on sheer hunch, and sure enough, the books were cooked. I forget all the ins-and-outs.”
“And how does Mr. Retwig fit into the picture?”
“He’s an old friend of Earl’s. In fact, he used to work for Genneman Laboratories. Three or four years ago some other outfit hired him out from under Earl’s nose.”
“That didn’t bother Mr. Genneman?”
“Hell, no. Myron said he’d stay if Earl wanted to meet the other people’s offer; Earl wouldn’t do it. So Myron left. But they both go in—went in—for model railroads. I guess you’d have to say Myron Retwig was Earl’s best friend.”
Collins made more notes. “That seems to cover things pretty well. You can’t guess the identity of the man who followed you up the trail?”
Red Kershaw shook his head. “I owe people money, but that’s collecting the hard way. Besides, it was Earl Genneman he got mad at and shot, not me.”
“Perhaps you’d step out and ask—oh, Mr. James to step in.”
Kershaw went outside, and a moment later Buck James came in. He looked haggard; a sparse stubble of blond beard covered his chin. He seated himself and waited while Collins consulted his notes.
Collins leaned back in his chair. “Do you have any ideas about this case, Mr. James?”
Buck looked up at the ceiling as if sorting them out. “Naturally I’ve been thinking about it. I wind up in the same place every time: it just doesn’t make sense.”
‘‘Do you know of any enemies Mr. Genneman might have had?”
“No.”
“Did he oppose your courtship of his daughter?”
Buck flushed, started to speak, caught himself. Then he said, “He did not oppose my courtship of his daughter.”
As Collins started to ask another question he made an impatient gesture. “I’ll explain the situation once and for all. I was a teaching assistant at Stanford when I met Jean. We became engaged. Earl, far from disapproving, put me to work after I got my M.A. About three months ago Jean and I—well, for one reason and another we called off the engagement. It made no difference to Earl; in fact he was about to put me in charge of a new Westco outlet.
Not that Earl was soft-headed; if I hadn’t cut it he would have fired me, potential son-in-law or no potential son-in-law. That’s how the situation stands as of today.”
Collins opened his notebook. “Your address?”
“2660 Viola Way, San Jose.”
Collins wrote, looked up. “You seem to have been the first one to spot the man who was following you. Can you describe him?”
Buck James shook his head. “I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. The trail swings back and forth up the hill, and I saw him just as he stepped out of sight. He was about—oh, a hundred yards away, too far to make out features. I think he had on tan pants, but that’s all I can tell you.”
“Mr. Genneman didn’t seem worried?”
Buck reflected. “That’s hard to say. Let’s say he seemed puzzled. All of us wondered why the man behind didn’t overtake us. We were just plodding along.”
“What will you do now?” Collins asked suddenly. “This new Westco outlet presumably won’t go through, with Mr. Genneman dead.”
“I’ll probably be going back to school. Maybe law school. I certainly don’t plan to sell drugs the rest of my life.”
“Will you ask Mr. Vega to step in, please?”
Bob Vega came like a man in a dream. He smiled wanly at Collins; a gold tooth glittered with a personality of its own.
“Sit down, Mr. Vega,” said Collins. “I’m hoping we can get to the bottom of this tragedy, and I need your help.”
Vega nodded with dignity as he seated himself. “A thing like this is completely beyond my experience. I can’t understand it, I’m totally confused
; in fact, when I think of the whole terrible thing it’s like a nightmare. One minute Mr. Genneman is walking in front of us, the next minute—ugh.” Bob Vega swallowed.
“It must have been pretty bad. As I understand it, you were directly behind him when the shot was fired?”
“No. Earl was first, then Mr. Retwig, then me, then Mr. Kershaw, then Buck.”
“What did you see?”
“Absolutely nothing. There was just this explosion; I was stunned. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“You were probably as intimate with Mr. Genneman as anyone. Did he ever mention anyone who might want him out of the way?”
“No, that’s what’s so confusing. Earl—Mr. Genneman—was a very definite man. Very forthright and emphatic. But he was fair. I certainly have no complaints; he was more than decent to me. I don’t know what I’ll do now.”
“Won’t Genneman Laboratories continue in business, and with it Westco?”
Bob Vega inspected his fingers. “I don’t know. People always need drugs. We supply a staple commodity. But what Mrs. Genneman will do—”
“Does Mrs. Genneman take an interest in the business? Will she be able to take over?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Vega said.
“Thank you, Mr. Vega. Oh, one more thing. Your home address?”
“747 La Crescenta Drive, Cupertino.”
“And your business address?”
“You mean Westco Pharmaceuticals?”
“Do you have any other business?”
“No, of course not. Westco Pharmaceuticals, 1200 Emerson Street, San Jose.”
“Thank you. Would you be good enough to ask Mr. Retwig to step in?”
Myron Retwig came quietly into the room and lowered himself into the chair.
“Where do you live, Mr. Retwig?” asked Collins.
“In the country west of San Jose. The address is 6901 Monterey Road.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Children?”
“Two sons.”
“I’ve asked the others this question and got no very definite answer: Who would want to kill Earl Genneman?”
The Madman Theory Page 4