“Pretty hard to confuse with a green ’54 Plymouth,” said Easley. “What should I do next? Nothing is working out for me.”
“Where’s that list we drew up?”
Easley produced the list. Collins studied it. “Point one: landlord and neighbors. Nothing there. Two: Ricks’ car. We’ve got that, we know where he bought it. Three: service station where he got his gas. Nothing on this yet. Four: Sullivan and Kerner can’t find any trace of Ricks in the park. Scratch this one. Five: the Clover Club. I want to try again, there may be more there. Six: the check for thirty-two dollars. Jake Mansfield; that we know. Seven, the murder weapon. Pretty hopeless. Eight: where did Steve get loaded aboard the boxcar? You might look into that. Find where access to the yard is easiest. It’s probably not far from where his car was found. Nine: the camping equipment. That’s taken care of. Ten: Ricks’ family. Bigelow has contacted them; we can let this go for a while. Eleven: bank accounts, debts. The hundred-dollar bill. You might go down to the Sunset Nursery, ask around there some more. Somebody might remember something. Twelve: the shotgun.”
“The landlord says Steve never owned a shotgun,” said Easley.
“Nothing looks very hot. Try the Sunset Nursery, then see if you can figure where he got loaded aboard the boxcar. Ask around the neighborhood, look in the ditch for Steve’s hands.”
Easley left for the Sunset Nursery; a short time later Collins set out for San Jose.
He arrived a few minutes past five. At the main Western Union office he hired a messenger, to whom he gave explicit instructions. Then, with an hour or two to kill, he drove past Genneman Laboratories, Incorporated: a row of glass and concrete structures that Collins had expected; Genneman must have been several times a millionaire. But who profited by his death? Not Opal, who had had everything and appeared to mourn her husband deeply. Not the children, who were neither better nor worse off than before. The fact, thought Collins, was that Genneman’s death seemed to help no one. If the inquiry into Steve Ricks trickled out, he’d set an accountant to looking over the Westco books and inventory. Not impossibly Bob Vega, Buck James, Red Kershaw, or all three had been finagling with the stock.
Collins filled up at a Mexican restaurant, then drove south along Latham Avenue through the gathering dusk. Ahead he saw a big square sign in red tubes and yellow bulbs:
SMOKY JOE’S
DOWN HOME CABARET
Collins parked, looked up and down, crossed to the phone booth near the entrance, made his preparations. Then he went into the bar, took a seat in a dim corner, and settled himself to watch and wait.
He spotted Molly Wilkerson working tables at the far side of the cabaret. She wore a skin-tight black skirt and a white jersey blouse split down the front. Her bleached hair soared high. Collins watched with the intensity of a cat at a mousehole. Molly certainly knew her way around the customers. Those who impressed her as big spenders she served with dainty little flourishes and a view down the split blouse. Those whom she took to be cheap Johns received quick processing: drinks slapped down, money collected, the dime tip pocketed, and off again with a flirt of her tail.
The orchestra took an intermission. One of the guitarists came into the bar: a man of thirty-five with bony features, sea-blue eyes, pale hair, and an expression of untroubled innocence. Collins signaled; he approached. “I wonder if you know Steve Ricks,” Collins asked. “I understand he played here a few times.”
“Sure I know Steve. Nice fella.”
“When was he around last?”
“Best part of a month. He give me a tip on a horse; I didn’t bet. The horse paid 15 to 1. I just about like to die.”
“Would that have been two weeks ago?”
“Yeah. Just about two weeks.”
“Did Steve play with the band that night?”
The guitarist tilted his blond head back in an easy laugh. “No, Steve was busy bending the elbow and making out with the girls. His friend was drunk. I never saw a man so drunk.”
“Oh? Who was the friend? Incidentally, have a drink.”
“I never say no. Bourbon and soda. Who was Steve’s friend? That I don’t know.”
“What did he look like?”
“I hardly noticed him. Man, was he smashed. A stretcher case. I seen drunks and I seen drunks. They all look alike.”
The guitarist talked on, describing drunks he had known, their particular and peculiar habits. Collins learned no more about Ricks. The guitarist returned to the stand.
Collins watched the time carefully. At five minutes to nine he went outside to the phone booth to get his apparatus going. Then he returned to his place at the bar.
At nine o’clock the Western Union messenger entered. He went up to a waitress, was directed to Molly, and handed her a letter.
Molly went to the side of the room and opened the letter. She withdrew a five dollar bill, at which she stared in surprise. Then she read the letter. Collins knew the contents; he had written it himself:
Dear Molly:
This five will have to do; I can’t go any more at just this time, being strapped and with many expenses. But I definitely want you to keep my name out of things. I understand the cops are going to crack down hard and talk about an accessory-to-murder rap. Don’t pay any attention. They may rave and threaten, but don’t let it worry you; they can’t do anything. I know I got a good friend in you, and that you wouldn’t let a friend in for trouble. I’m flying over to Honolulu for a week or two; it’s something I’ve promised a certain somebody a long time, which is why I’m strapped. You know how it is. Incidentally, if you ever call me again, use the pay phone; they may tap your line trying to learn my name.
Collins watched with a faint grin as Molly read the letter. When she had finished, she turned an unbelieving look at the five dollar bill and re-read the letter. Her sharp chin thrust forward. For a moment she stood by the wall in thought, then she turned and marched through the bar, passing not six feet from Collins. Her teeth were glittering in a grimace of anger.
Molly marched out to the phone booth.
Collins rose and went to the door. The woman had her back turned. He walked over to his car.
Molly dialed a number, waited impatiently, then spoke with vehemence. She hung up, flung open the door, and strode back inside the cabaret.
Collins waited five minutes, in case she thought of another phone call. Then he strolled over to the booth. From underneath the shelf he detached the small tape-recorder he had stuck there, switched it off, and took it back to his car.
He rewound the tape and listened to the playback. First he heard the scrape and rattle of Molly’s entry into the booth, the thud of the doors closing. Coins clinked; the double gong of the ten-cent register sounded, followed by a series of clicks.
After a pause came the faint rasp of a voice. Molly spoke: “Look here. This is you-know-who.” The other voice rasped in query.
“It’s Molly, if you’ve got to have it in black and white. I just got your letter and, boy, you couldn’t be more wrong! If you think you can give me a measly five-buck payoff to cover up for you, my friend, you are so far off base I could die.”
The voice rasped in wonderment. Molly warmed to her subject. “The nerve, five bucks, while you go merrily off to Honolulu with some floozie, and my feet hurting so I can hardly stand it jumping these tables. I’m telling you, bud, that crummy five-spot isn’t even a teaser. It’s an insult. What do you take me for, some stupid little jerk?”
The voice at the other end of the wire expostulated. Molly ignored the protests. “You’ll have to do a whole lot better, my friend, because I’m nobody’s patsy. And don’t think I’m not watching out for myself, because I am. I hope I make myself clear? I mean, don’t get any ideas.”
There was a thud as Molly viciously hung up the receiver, the rattle of the door, then silence.
Collins played the tape once more. Then pleased with himself, he started back to Fresno.
CHAPTER 9
Col
lins could well have taken Sunday off except for curiosity, which all night had visited him with near-physical pangs. So now, at nine thirty, with the laboratory deserted, he re-recorded the tape from the portable recorder into an Ampex at fifteen inches a second. Then he played back the tape at three and three-quarter inches per second, the sounds reduced four octaves in pitch. The door-closing became a groan. Molly’s change being placed on the shelf made a sound like far-off cowbells. Two deep reverberations echoed and boomed as she dropped the dime into the slot, some seconds later there came a noise like a stick on a picket fence, followed by tunk tunk tunk.
“Three,” said Collins, and made a note.
Presently another rattle, then tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk.
“Six,” said Collins.
And next: “Three.”
Finally he had the number which Molly had dialed. 363-2210.
He returned to his office, looked through his notes. Nowhere did he find such a number. He picked up his phone, dialed the San Jose exchange, then 363-2210.
At the other end of the connection the bell rang, but no one answered. Collins hung up.
Bigelow appeared in the doorway, resplendent in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and gray silk tie. Collins had telephoned him the night before about the success of the ploy, and curiosity evidently had been eating at Bigelow, too.
“On my way to church,” the captain said rather sheepishly, looking away from Collins’ raised eyebrows. “What did you make from the tape?”
Collins tossed him a sheet of paper. “That’s the number.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know yet. Nobody home.”
“It might be a business number.”
“I don’t think so. Molly called in the evening.”
“True. You’d better make another trip up to San Jose. Then when somebody answers the phone, you’ll be on the spot to ask some questions.”
“That makes sense,” said Collins hollowly. “I might as well move to San Jose. I practically live there now.”
“It’s a nice climate,” said Bigelow, so soberly that Collins looked at him. What did he mean by that?
“I’ve pulled Sullivan and Kerner out of the park,” said Bigelow. “They didn’t get a nibble in the campgrounds. Too many people coming and going.”
“It was an off-chance,” said Collins defensively. “It might have paid off big.”
“Oh, I’m not knocking the idea,” said Bigelow. “In fact, do you have any others?”
“Just this telephone number, which I’d call our best lead so far.”
“I agree,” said Bigelow magnanimously. “Well, I better get going. The wife and kids are waiting outside.”
Collins arrived at San Jose shortly after one. He lunched at a drive-in, then crossed the street to a service station phone booth and dialed 363-2210. No answer.
He looked through the directory, checking every name and institution associated with the case.
Earl Genneman was listed once, Genneman Laboratories was listed again, and Jean Genneman also had a listing. None of these was 363-2210.
Myron Retwig had a listing, also Pacific Chemicals. Neither was 363-2210.
Red Kershaw had a listing.
Robert Vega and Westco were listed.
None was 363-2210.
Buck James was not represented in the directory. But James had already, at Cedar Grove, given his number to Collins. It was not 363-2210.
Collins dialed Myron Retwig’s home number. Retwig answered, and Collins asked if he had a few minutes free. Retwig said he did, and gave directions how to reach his home.
He lived on the summit of a hill west of San Jose, the Coast Range bulking up behind. His house was an enormous three-story box, with a high mansard roof broken by dormers and chimneys at either end. A copse of tall black cypresses at the rear comprised the landscaping; there was no trace of a garden.
Retwig answered the door in tan trousers and a faded blue work-shirt. With his round brown face, stiff gray hair and owlish look, he seemed not so much the owner of the house as its gardener or handyman.
He took Collins in. The place was furnished with heavy, comfortable furniture: leather chairs, an ancient leather-upholstered sofa, a massive table supporting a two-foot globe. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. Retwig said by way of explanation, “I’m alone today. My wife is in San Francisco, my sons are at Monterey for the regatta. Is it too early for a drink?”
“I wouldn’t say so.”
Retwig went to a cabinet, mixed a pair of highballs. Over his shoulder he asked, “How is the investigation coming?”
“Not too badly,” said Collins. “Cases like this are solved by hard-nosed plugging.”
Retwig nodded. “This is true in almost any endeavor.”
“There’s been one interesting development,” said Collins with an air of candor. “It concerns a certain Steve Ricks. Is that name familiar to you?”
Retwig considered carefully. “It is, in the sense that you already have asked me the same question. Otherwise, to the best of my knowledge, I have never heard the name.”
Collins nodded, as if Retwig had uttered a profound truth. “I hoped that you might have remembered a reference to him. We have reason to believe that he’s linked with Mr. Genneman.”
Retwig made no comment.
“Jean Genneman seems to recall the name,” mused Collins. “But she can’t remember from where.”
“It’s not an unusual name.”
“True. Look, Mr. Retwig, I’d like you to talk to me frankly about the Genneman family. In complete confidence, and for the sake of background, what was the state of affairs in the Genneman household?”
Retwig half smiled. “If I say nothing, I obstruct justice. If I talk freely, I become a gossip. You put me in an uncomfortable position, Inspector.”
“I realize that,” said Collins. “I make the request only because it may bring Mr. Genneman’s murderer to justice. Please?”
Retwig deliberated. Then he said, “I can’t tell you a great deal, because there isn’t much to tell. Earl and Opal seemed quite happy together. She was clever enough, or kind enough, to complement him— bring out the best in him. A less understanding and subtle woman might have made Earl’s life hell.”
“How so?”
“Earl was a positive man. He made decisions by a process which represented subconscious but perfectly accurate logic, but which might be mistaken for pigheadedness. Opal understood this.”
“What of Earl Junior?”
Retwig pursed his lips, “I’d say that in that department Earl did as good a job as anyone could. I am not a Freudian, thank God, and I can’t even guess at the shape of young Earl’s thoughts. But it would be wrong to blame the father for the son.”
“They didn’t have a good relationship?”
“I wouldn’t say so, no.”
“Where did Mrs. Genneman stand in all this?”
“In my opinion, Opal has behaved admirably. He may change with maturity, but as of now I consider Earl Junior pretty unprepossessing.”
“I appreciate your frankness,” said Collins. “Now, as to Jean?”
“No mystery there. She’s exactly what she appears: a healthy young woman with a strong personality.”
“She and her stepfather were on good terms?”
“Very much so. Earl gave her the affection he would have given his own flesh and blood. She felt the same toward him.”
“What’s the story between Jean and Buck James?”
“It’s beyond my understanding. Buck was graduated from the University of Wisconsin and came to Stanford for graduate work. He met Jean, they became engaged. Earl approved the match and gave Buck a job with Westco. Then the romance cooled and the two drifted apart. What I suspect is that Jean wanted to get married immediately, whereas Buck wanted to wait until he was independent, or at least out from under Earl’s shadow. He liked and respected Earl—but Earl had a very dominating personality, and if he disapp
roved of something he did so vehemently, to say the least. Earl was a good friend. He could also be a bad enemy.”
“And you, Mr. Retwig—why did you leave Genneman Pharmaceuticals?”
“For something of the same reasons which, in my opinion, dissuaded Buck from an early marriage with Jean. And because I was offered a more responsible job at more money.”
“But now you’re back working for Genneman Pharmaceuticals.”
“Opal offered me a better job with more money than my job with Pacific; and Earl is no longer around to demoralize me with his off-the-cuff—and accurate—decisions. You see,” said Retwig with a faint smile, “I’m the thinking-man type. I weigh and ponder, I project trends, I calculate probabilities—I eliminate the less promising courses of action and finally arrive at one which I regard as optimum. All that takes time. Earl would reach the same decision in half a second . . . I explained this to him when I left Genneman Laboratories, and he was greatly amused.”
“I understand you both were interested in model railroading,” said Collins, “that it was the basis of your friendship.”
“It was a mutual interest, certainly. Have you seen Earl’s set-up?”
“Mrs. Genneman showed it to me.”
“What did you think of it?” For the first time Retwig seemed to speak without calculation.
“I said to myself: how I wish I’d had something like this when I was a boy.”
Retwig jumped to his feet. “Take a look at mine.”
He slid back a door, snapped a set of switches. Collins took his drink and followed.
“Up four steps, Inspector. Don’t trip.”
The steps rose to a walkway that encircled a room twenty feet square. The layout occupied the entire floor, with tracks wandering through a miniature landscape. Collins stared in wonder. If Earl Genneman’s layout had been impressive, this was a marvel. There was a central area divided into four sectors, each tinted a different color: purple, yellow, red and blue. At the center was a city of domes, towers and palaces, all fashioned of brilliant green glass.
Retwig watched Collins with a smile. “Do you recognize it?”
The Madman Theory Page 10