Collins nodded slowly. “It’s the Land of Oz, by golly. I haven’t thought of it for—well, a long time.”
“I probably know more about Oz than any man alive. The research I have put into this project, the money I’ve spent! And here it all is. The Land of Oz. The blue Munchkin country, the yellow land of the Winkies, the red Quadling country, the purple Gillikin country, the Emerald City at the center. There’s the Tin Woodsman’s castle, and there’s the palace of Glinda the Good. Notice the cottage where Tip lived with Mombi the Witch. There’s Foxville, and Bunbury, and Bunnybury. Over there is the Nonestic Ocean—I’m sorry I don’t have room for the islands of Pingaree, Regos, Coregos and Phreex. Below is the Deadly Desert and the Land of Ev. The Nomes work underneath the mountains; in the crags live the Whimsies, the Growleywogs and the Phanfasms. I’ve used the O’Neill illustrations faithfully. In fact the only false note is the railroads themselves. Baum would have disapproved. Still, they’re the excuse for all this, and I’ve kept them in character.”
He went to a panel, touched switches. From below came a faint whirring, and Oz-type locomotives tugged Oz-type cars through the landscapes. In the mountains directly below, a small gray mining mole hauled gondolas heaped with sparkling crystals from the Nome caverns, dumped them into a hopper, returned within the mountain to reappear with a new load. Green trolley cars traversed the avenues of the Emerald City.
“There’s a lot I had to leave out,” said Retwig. “I don’t intend to put any more work into it. If my sons want to take over they’re welcome. They don’t show too much interest, but maybe their children will enjoy it.” He shrugged, touched switches. The trains halted; the fountains stopped playing before the palace of Glinda the Good; the lights went out in the Emerald City.
The two men returned to the great hall. “Let me mix you another drink,” said Retwig.
Collins held out his glass, and watched as Retwig poured whisky. Could a man who had lavished such labor upon a fairy tale employ somebody to blast the head off his best friend? Collins suddenly felt like drinking all of Retwig’s whisky.
“Among Mr. Genneman’s papers I found this number.” Collins showed Retwig the number Molly Wilkerson had called. “I can’t identify it, and no one answers. Is it familiar to you?”
“Not offhand. I’ll look in my book.” Retwig went to a desk, checked through a leather-hound notebook. “Sorry, No number like that here.”
Collins returned the paper to his pocket. “What’s your private theory of this case?”
“I don’t have any.” Retwig spoke softly. “In my position it’s better not to think too much.”
Collins did not press for an explanation. He thought he saw a glimmer of Retwig’s meaning. He finished his whisky, thanked Retwig for his cooperation, and departed the mansion on the hill.
Collins drove back toward San Jose via Stevens Creek Road. At Los Robles Boulevard he turned south, and a few minutes later he pulled up before the Genneman mansion.
Jean answered the door, transparently expectant. Her face changed when she saw Collins. “Oh, Inspector. Come in.”
Collins had not appreciated what a fine figure she had. Her hair had been cut short, and scrubbed and brushed till it glistened. She looked almost beautiful.
“Mother’s upstairs in the shower,” Jean said airily. “Stinker’s out somewhere, so temporarily I’m in charge. Is there anything I can do?”
“One or two things,” said Collins. “Have you remembered anything about Steve Ricks?”
“No.”
“Ever hear of a Molly Wilkerson?”
“No again. Who are these people?”
“They’re involved in the case,” said Collins. “Ricks was killed last Tuesday, either as a result of killing your father, or because he knew who did.”
“How horrible!”
“But if you don’t know these people, then you don’t know them. May I ask a personal question?”
Jean’s face became wary. “I suppose in your business you’re obliged to do that —”
“Are you going to marry Buck James?”
Jean flushed. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you marry him before?”
She hesitated; her eyes flicked away.
“Did your stepfather object?”
“Definitely not!” she snapped. In a quieter tone she went on, “It’s complicated. Buck is a complicated man. I’m a complicated woman. I can’t explain easily. It’s got something to do with the range and overlap of our personalities.” She gave Collins an intimate smile, as from one complicated person to another.
“I think I understand,” said Collins, although he did not understand at all. “Actually, I dropped in to talk to Earl Junior.”
“He went off with one of his cronies. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
Collins asked questions for another ten minutes, fishing here and there, but he learned nothing he did not already know. He took his leave, drove to a service station, and called the number 363-2210.
There was still no answer.
The time was five o’clock. He looked in his notebook for the address of Redwall Kershaw, consulted the city map, turned north toward Santa Clara, and a few minutes later pulled up before a building on Eagle Avenue. It was a green stucco four-plex; Kershaw rented the upper left apartment.
He had apparently just got home—when he opened the door, he was still wearing his hat.
“Come in, come in,” exclaimed Genneman’s brother-in-law heartily. “Welcome to my abode. I was just planning a pre-dinner slug of schnapps. Would you care to join me, or are you here on official business?”
“It’s official business,” said Collins in a neutral voice. “But first, do you mind if I use your telephone?”
“Be my guest, Inspector.”
Collins went to the phone, started to dial, then stared down at the number in the slot: 363-2210. He turned to Kershaw. “I though your number was—” he began to check his book.
“They changed my number, I don’t know why. I suppose I should have notified you.”
The inspector turned away from the phone, as if he had changed his mind about his phone call. “Do you know a man named Steve Ricks?”
Red Kershaw’s face showed only serenity.
“Steve Ricks, a cowboy guitar player,” Collins said.
Red Kershaw shook his head dubiously. “I meet lots of people; I might have heard the name. Or I might not. It rings no bells.”
“This is important, Mr. Kershaw. Are you absolutely certain you’ve never heard of Steve Ricks?”
Kershaw pulled at his long chin. “Offhand the name doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t lie to me, since this is a case of double murder. It’s not smart to lie in murder cases.”
“Naturally,” Kershaw said.
“I said ‘double murder.’ You didn’t seem surprised.”
“In my business, Inspector, a man is never surprised by anything. Somebody else got killed?”
“This Ricks. The case seems to be tied in with the murder of your brother-in-law. By the way, what were your plans for the evening?”
Red Kershaw glanced sidewise at Collins. “Nothing particular. I was going out for some chow mein.”
“Could you spare me an hour or two?”
“I suppose so,” Kershaw said unhappily. “What did you have in mind?”
“A short ride. I’ll point out somebody for you, to see if you can make an identification.”
“Who is it? I’ve got a few ex-wives I don’t particularly care to run into.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. We can go to City Hall and you could make the identification from a line-up.”
“That’s unnecessary. Let’s get it over with.”
In the car Red Kershaw asked again, “Who is it you want me to identify, anyway?”
“I’d prefer you not to have any preconceptions, Mr. Kershaw.”
Kershaw slumped sulkily into his s
eat. As Collins drove south he began to fidget, and when the car turned into Latham Boulevard he sat swiftly upright, started to say something, then held his tongue.
The sun had dropped behind the concrete walls of the new shopping center when Collins pulled up before Smoky Joe’s.
“You wait here,” said Collins. “I’ll come out with the person I want you to identify. You take a good close look. I want you to be sure.”
Kershaw nodded glumly. “Whatever you say.”
Collins went into the Down Home Cabaret. From the shadowed interior he watched Red Kershaw for a moment. Kershaw was just sitting there.
Collins spied Molly Wilkerson working her station across the room. He moved out to where she could see him, and signaled. She hesitated, then stalked across the room. “I can’t talk to you now.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Wilkerson, this is police business.”
Molly tried to cow Collins with a glare. Collins bore the glare with fortitude. She bit her lip. “Well—I’ve got two orders to get out, then I’ll be with you. What do you want?”
“There’s a man outside I’d like you to meet. After we talk a bit, I want you to tell me confidentially what you know about him.”
“Who is he?” But Collins was silent, and she shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “Just a minute and I’ll be with you.”
Collins went to the door to make sure Kershaw had not decamped. But Kershaw sat in the same position, looking down at his knees.
Molly joined him. She said haughtily, “Let’s get this over with.”
Collins took her out to the car. Kershaw immediately looked at him with the expression of a dog whose master has just stepped on his paw. Molly took one look, gave a sort of whinny, glared at Collins, and began to spread her claws.
“In the car, Mrs. Wilkerson.” Collins held open the rear door. She ungraciously got in. He climbed into the front beside Kershaw, and swung about so that he could watch both.
Kershaw said mournfully, “I thought we agreed to leave my ex-wives out of this.”
Collins grinned. “Mrs. Wilkerson is your ex-wife? I didn’t know that.”
“My second, or was it my third? I forget now. It’s something I don’t like to remember.”
Molly said something impolite under her breath.
“Well, now that I know you two know each other,” said Collins brightly, “let’s talk about Steve Ricks.”
“Steve Ricks?” Kershaw studied the ceiling of the car.
“The Steve Ricks whose name didn’t ring a bell back at your apartment. The Steve Ricks you met here two weeks ago.”
“Oh, that Steve Ricks. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I couldn’t have made it any clearer. I could pull you in right now, Kershaw, on a charge of trying to withhold information—”
“There’s a whole lot of Steve Rickses,” Kershaw muttered defensively.
“I’m talking about the dead Steve Ricks.”
“Don’t say a word!” shrilled Molly. “He can’t make you talk if you don’t want to!”
“Shut up,” said Red. “I haven’t done anything. Why shouldn’t I talk?”
“You were willing to pay Mrs. Wilkerson to keep your name out of it,” said Collins.
“A measly five bucks!” sniffed Molly. Then she glared at Collins. “How did you know?”
“Woman, time and again I told you I didn’t send you no five bucks. I wasn’t going to send you anything.”
Collins asked Molly, “Do you still have that five?”
“I certainly do. I’m going to frame it. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I wrote that letter, and I put in the five to get you sore at Mr. Kershaw. By the way, I want the five back; it’s official money.”
Molly shook her head mulishly. “It’s mine and I’m going to keep it.”
Collins laughed. “How would you like to go to jail for attempted blackmail, conspiring to obstruct justice, and being accessory to murder? Besides, it’s a marked bill.”
Molly promptly dug into her hip pocket and produced the five dollar bill. “And you know what you can do with it!” She started to leave the car.
“Just a minute,” said Collins, “I’m not through with you.” He turned to Kershaw. “What’s your connection with Steve Ricks?”
Kershaw gloomily nodded toward Molly. “That’s the connection.”
“Your ex-wife introduced you?”
“That’s right. Steve was a small-time bookie. He never did very much or very good, but—well, he and I were able to do favors for each other on occasion.”
“Such as?”
Kershaw fidgeted.
Molly laughed. “What he means is that once in a while he’d know when a horse was set for a certain race, and he’d belly up to Steve and they’d make a few lousy bucks together and they’d rejoice like they were real big shots. And there’s some other deals I could mention connected with the races at the county fair, when Red was hired as track steward and Steve collected for the saliva tests. Oh, there was some wonderful things that went on. I could write a book.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her!” Red told Collins anxiously. “This dame’s name is poison.”
‘“So you and Steve had business dealings,” mused Collins. “Did Earl Genneman know Steve?”
“Earl? Hell, no.”
“How do you explain the fact that Ricks followed you all into the mountains, camped at Persimmon Lake, and quite possibly shot Genneman?”
Red Kershaw gaped as if he suspected Collins of losing his reason. “What are you saying?”
“There’s pretty good proof of that.”
Kershaw shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“You mean you didn’t know he was following you?”
“Absolutely not!”
“That’s hard to believe, Kershaw.”
“I can’t help it. Those are the facts.”
“How come you didn’t recognize him at his camp?”
“It was a good way across the meadow. Cripes, I hardly looked at the man. He was just a spot in front of a fire.”
“Why should he want to shoot Earl Genneman?”
“Never in a thousand years. Steve was the biggest chicken alive. He could no more shoot a man’s head off with a shotgun than fly.”
Molly laughed shortly. “Even I’d agree to that. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector.”
“Why else did Steve Ricks go up into the mountains?”
“It beats me,” said Kershaw.
“Did you tell Steve you were going camping?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Pah!” spat Molly. “How would you know? You were so drunk you don’t know what you said.”
“Well, that’s true enough,” Kershaw said weakly. “But if I said something like that while I was drunk, he’d never have believed it. So it amounts to the same thing.”
“How come you were so nervous about your connection with Ricks?”
“I’d hardly call it nervousness,” said Kershaw nervously.
“You agreed to pay Molly to keep your name out of the investigation.”
“I only told her that to get her fangs out of my neck.”
“You son of a bitch,” said Molly.
“I figured Steve was dead. I knew I didn’t have anything to do with it, and I didn’t want to get mixed up in it.”
“Well, let’s have some facts. You last saw Steve Ricks when?”
“About two weeks ago, in Smoky Joe’s.”
“Did you arrange the meeting? Did you have business to talk over?”
“No, it was just chance. He was there and I was there. So we got talking and had a few drinks.”
“What did you talk about?”
“How would he remember?” sneered Molly. “He didn’t know up from down before the evening was through.”
“I must say I overindulged a bit,” said Red. “In fact, Steve had to drive me home.”
Molly spat, “Steve never drove y
ou home! He rode with you, but I wouldn’t let him drive.”
“What did you have to say about it?”
“Because it was my car. I didn’t want it cracked up, the condition you two were in.”
“Where was his own car?” Collins asked. They were talking beautifully.
“He left it at my house,” snapped Molly. “If you have to know.”
“That’s funny,” said Red. “All the time I thought Steve took me home. How did I get home?”
“We wanted to send you home in a cab, only you didn’t have any money in your wallet. We saw a card which said ‘In case of accident notify Opal Genneman’ at such and such a telephone number. Steve said to me, ‘He’s sure had an accident, an alcoholic accident.’ So he phoned your sister.”
Red Kershaw clutched his head. “Oh, God. That means Bad News himself came down and picked me up. I remember vaguely somebody taking me home. But why didn’t I hear about it the next day? Earl wasn’t a man to be charitable in cases like this. Are you sure it was Earl picked me up?”
“What difference does it make?” Molly reached for the door handle. “I’ve got to get back to my tables.”
“It makes a big difference,” said Collins. “Somebody killed Earl Genneman and somebody killed Steve Ricks.”
Molly slowly withdrew her hand from the handle. “You mean that whoever drove Red home . . .”
Collins felt a sense of here we go again.
“Who came from the Genneman house to take Red Kershaw home?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Molly. “I didn’t stay to find out.”
“I thought Steve left his car at your house.”
“I didn’t want him coming home with me. He was almost as drunk as Redwall.”
“You didn’t wait to see if I was going to get home?” asked Red incredulously.
“That’s right. And furthermore I didn’t give a damn. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go back inside. I’ll be fired.”
“Go ahead,” said Collins wearily.
Molly jumped out and stamped back into the cabaret.
“There goes Hard-hearted Hannah,” mourned Kershaw. “I was what you’d call a callow youth when I ran into her. Though she wasn’t so mean then as she is now. You’d never guess why she divorced me.”
“Why?”
The Madman Theory Page 11