The Madman Theory

by Jack Vance writing as Ellery Queen

  “People would ask her name and she’d say ‘Mrs. Kershaw.’ They’d right off say ‘Gesundheit!’ and laugh fit to die. It got on her nerves. It’s never bothered me any.”

  Collins grunted. “The fact remains that Genneman was murdered, and Ricks was murdered, and so far as I know you’re the only connection between the two men. You’ve got to figure in this business, Kershaw.”

  “No, sir!” exclaimed Red, aghast. “You’re wrong! I’d never raise a hand against anybody. Steve Ricks might have been chicken, but he was Richard the Lion-Hearted compared to me!”

  “I didn’t accuse you of murder,” said Collins, “I said you were involved. The question is—how? Who else among Earl Genneman’s friends knew Ricks?”

  “Nobody I know of. But I see what you mean. It’s a real mystery.”

  “It certainly is.” Collins stepped out of the car. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  He went to the booth and dialed the Genneman residence. Opal Genneman answered. She sounded listless.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Genneman, but I’m still gathering information.”

  “I don’t mind, Inspector.”

  “I want you to think back to the night of June 6— the Saturday before the pack-trip. Did you receive a telephone call from anyone asking for a ride home? This would be quite late that night.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Opal Genneman. “What night are you talking about again?”

  “Saturday night. Or, more accurately, Sunday morning at about two a.m. Did you get a phone call around that time?”

  “Let me think . . . No, I’m sure not. Earl and I didn’t get home till quite late. What kind of call would this be?”

  “From your brother, wanting a ride home. He was too drunk to drive. We’re trying to find out how he got home.”

  Opal Genneman’s voice became hostile. “I can’t see how this is relevant to your investigation—”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Genneman, it is.”

  “—but in any case neither Earl nor I went out for Redwall.”

  “What of Jean, or Earl Junior?”

  “Jean was at Palo Alto, and Little Earl has no license—in fact, he doesn’t drive.”

  Collins was surprised. “He doesn’t drive at all?”

  Opal seemed confused, or perhaps embarrassed. “He’s only sixteen.”

  “Strange,” said Collins. “Most sixteen-year-olds know how to drive.”

  “Not little Earl.”

  “And Jean was at Palo Alto?”

  “Yes, at her sorority.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Genneman.”

  Collins returned to the car. “No one at the Genneman house took you home. It must have been someone else.”

  “I can’t figure it. Steve probably put me in a cab . . .”

  Collins was abysmally dissatisfied. “Think,” he urged Kershaw. “How could Steve get to know Earl Genneman? Had he ever visited you at the Genneman house?”

  “Believe me, Inspector, no such connection existed. Steve Ricks never even knew I was related to Earl, and Earl never knew I associated with a guitar player. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Why would Steve want to follow you or Earl into the mountains?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  This was the best Collins could do. Somewhere the linkage existed—at some point, the lives of Steve Ricks and Earl Genneman touched each other. The closest approach seemed to have been the early morning hours of Sunday, June 7, when Ricks might have telephoned the Genneman house. And Collins could not rid himself of the feeling that Molly Wilkerson knew perfectly well who had called for Red Kershaw.

  He started the car, took Kershaw back to his apartment, then returned to Fresno.

  CHAPTER 10

  On Monday morning Collins was summoned to the office of the sheriff, where he found Captain Bigelow. The conference lasted forty minutes and pleased no one, especially Bigelow.

  Collins and Bigelow continued the discussion in Bigelow’s office. “There’s something here that’s staring us in the face,” Bigelow said, his handsome face dour. “I feel it looking at me.”

  “I’ve been over it a dozen times,” said Collins. “Our only glimmer of a case is against Kershaw. His motive? I don’t see any. Maybe he was jealous of Genneman. Jealous enough to hire Ricks to kill him? And then kill Ricks? I can’t buy it.”

  “There’s the book Ricks was running. Suppose Genneman bet a wad on a long shot that came in? So that it was cheaper to kill him than pay him?”

  “Genneman didn’t play the ponies. He never took a chance in his life.” Collins shook his head. “Nobody seems to have wanted Earl Genneman dead, but someone blew his head off. For no reason.”

  “It has to be Ricks,” said Bigelow in a voice of spurious conviction. “Then he got killed for his pains.”

  “It looks that way,” said Collins. “But I don’t believe it.”

  “What of Buck James? What does he gain?”

  “He loses a good job in Wisconsin. But he gets to marry Jean Genneman, which is better. Still, he could have married her, anyway.”

  “There’s Genneman and Jean, his stepdaughter. How did they get along? Bad? Good? Real good? If you know what I mean.”

  Collins nodded. “Nobody’s hinted anything like that. Of course, stranger thing’s have happened. In that case James might have had the old man shot out of jealous rage.”

  “There’s always this Retwig character.”

  “You’d doubt it if you saw his model railroad layout. But sure—could be.”

  “Bob Vega—maybe he isn’t the paragon Genneman thought him.”

  “According to all reports Genneman didn’t need to think—Genneman knew. He kept a close eye on the books.”

  “A man that wants to connive, he’ll connive,” said Bigelow. “Where drugs are concerned, I trust nobody.”

  Collins made a few more notes. “Here’s what I’ve got. First, the Westco outlet in Madison. Maybe it was a hoax, and Buck James in a fury hired Ricks to blow Genneman’s head off. Second, Bob Vega’s income and his expenses. Also the Westco books and warehouse inventory. Third, the circumstances of Retwig’s departure from Genneman Laboratories. Fourth, Jean Genneman and her ex-boy friends. Last year she went on a hiking trip with Earl Genneman. Who else came along? Where did they go? Fifth, does Opal Genneman have any boy friends? Sixth, does Earl Junior drive, or doesn’t he? If not, why not?” Collins put down his notes. “That’s the lot.”

  Bigelow stared into space. “The Wilkerson woman claims she went home before Steve Ricks and Kershaw left the cabaret,” he said thoughtfully. “Can you make inquiries among the personnel?”

  “I can make the inquiries, but it’s been a long time ago.”

  “Tackle it, anyway,” said Bigelow. “Let’s do something, even if it’s wrong.”

  Collins, thinking of the drive to San Jose, looked down at his notes. “What of these other angles?”

  “Put Easley to work on them.”

  Collins found the sergeant at his desk. He had nothing to report. “I’ve talked to the Sunset Nursery people and the Clover Club. Everybody says the same thing: Ricks was good-natured, lazy, not above cutting corners, but harmless.”

  “You never found out where he bought his gas?”

  “No. I gave up on that.”

  “Where is Ricks’ car?”

  “In the garage.”

  “Let’s take a look at it.”

  Ricks’ old Plymouth, in the gray light of the garage, looked more shabby and disconsolate than ever. Collins opened the left front door. Sergeant Easley uttered a soft curse. “I never thought of that.”

  Collins studied the yellow and red service record stuck to the door-frame. “Christy’s Shell, 3600 Garfield.” He looked at Easley. “Did you hit that one?”

  Easley shook his head. “I never got that far out.”

  “Let’s go,” said Collins.

  “I’m Christy,” said the thin man with the th
in hair. “What can I do for you?”

  Collins flipped open his wallet. “Inspector Collins, Sheriff’s Office. This is Sergeant Easley. We’re making inquiries about Steve Ricks.”

  Christy’s expression became appropriately doleful. “I read about Steve in the newspapers. Terrible business. Who did it?”

  “I understand he traded with you.”

  “He worked for me odd times, when I got in a jam. And I sold him his gas at cost.”

  “When did you sell him last?”

  “Hold on a minute.” Christy went to take care of a customer; Collins and Easley waited. At last the man returned. “It was the Thursday before he was killed. He come in for gas. Smoking a cigar, driving a big new car, sitting on top of the world.”

  “A big new car? What make?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Could it have been a Ford Galaxie?”

  “Yes, I’d agree to that.”

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  “Not too much. I said, ‘Looks like you’re doing good,’ or something along those lines. He said, ‘I can’t complain.’”

  “Did he mention where he was headed for the weekend?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  “He asked for a fill-up, which he got. There was a noise in his automatic transmission, he asked me if I knew what it was, I told him it sounded like something had come loose and he’d better get it fixed, he signed for his gas and took off, and that was all there was to it. The next thing I hear he’s dead. It sure makes you think.”

  Easley said, “Steve signed for his gas, you say?”

  “Correct.”

  “He has a charge account?”

  “With Shell Oil, not with me. I don’t carry anybody.”

  “Do you still have that slip?”

  “No, sir, I do not. It’s gone into the regional office.”

  “Give us the address. We want to look at that slip.”

  Christy wrote out the address, which Collins tucked into his notebook. “What was Steve wearing? A suit? Work clothes?”

  “I couldn’t say, Inspector. I just didn’t notice that closely. It wasn’t a suit; that I would have noticed. It was probably just pants and a shirt.”

  “Anything else about this car attract your attention?”

  “No, sir. Just the noise in the transmission, which sounded pretty bad. I told Steve he’d better get it looked at before it tore loose and raised general hob.”

  “Steve didn’t talk to you about any friends of his, or what he was doing with himself?”

  “No, sir. I’ve told you everything that happened.”

  Collins and Easley returned to headquarters. Collins got out; Easley continued to the Shell Regional Credit Office.

  Collins went into his office with a sense of achievement. Bit by bit information accumulated—a fragment here, a fragment there. He brought out his notes, located his checklist. First, the new Westco outlet, of which Buck James was to have been manager. Collins wrote a letter to “Chief of Police, Madison, Wisconsin,” requesting all pertinent information regarding Westco and Buck James, a graduate of the University of Wisconsin.

  The next item was the Westco plant in San Jose, its books and inventory—a detail which Myron Retwig would have checked into. A call to Retwig might illuminate the matter once and for all.

  The remainder of his notes dealt with the Genneman family—information to be derived from friends, neighbors, servants, and possibly the Gennemans themselves.

  And last: Molly Wilkerson. Molly must be questioned once more. She had been all too evasive about how the drunken Red Kershaw had been conveyed to his home. Perhaps the surroundings of the San Jose Police Department might soften up.

  His telephone rang. “I found the slip,” said Sergeant Easley. “It’s dated Thursday, June 11. The license number is LKK-3220.”

  “LKK-3220? That sounds familiar. Isn’t that . . . Wait, let me check.” In sudden excitement Collins rummaged through his top drawer and found the list of license registrations furnished by Park Superintendent Phelps. He ran his finger down the list. “Yep. LKK-3220: Nathan Wingate, Redondo Beach. The mysterious Mr. Wingate. Well, well, well! . . . Anything else among the slips?”

  “Nothing much. They’re all for Ricks’ old Plymouth. Four charges at Christy’s, two at San Jose.”

  “Ask to borrow the slips. If they don’t want to let them go, copy the information. Although with Ricks dead they don’t stand much chance of collecting.”

  Collins hung up and slumped back in his chair. More information. It must mean something. What? He went back to the list. Nathan Wingate’s car was a ’62 Dodge. According to the clerk at Bain’s Sporting Goods, the car Steve Ricks had driven was a Ford Galaxie, new or almost new. Someone had used Nathan Wingate’s plates, or more likely had faked a set of plates, which was simple enough to do, by one of several processes. Numbers and letters could be trimmed from old plates and appliquéd on enameled metal. With two sets of stolen plates the letter clusters or the number clusters might be cut out and interchanged. In any event, one point was clear: the ranger at the gate had made no mistake after all. A car, presumably the white Ford, with license plates LKK-3220, had entered General Grant Park on June 10. On June 12 Steve Ricks had driven this car into Christy’s Service Station in Fresno. On this same day, June 12, Ricks had taken his own old car into the park. Why had he not driven the grander Ford?

  Perhaps the owner had wanted his car back, reflected Collins. Or with the transmission threatening to go out, Steve might have considered his own car a safer bet. Possibilities—possibilities of all kinds—but none pointing in the same direction.

  Beyond all reasonable doubt the deaths of Earl Genneman and Steve Ricks were linked, and the linkage appeared to be through Red Kershaw. All of which turned the focus of attention back upon Kershaw and his ex-wife, Molly Wilkerson.

  What happened next had happened to Collins before—with such peculiar consistency, in fact, that Collins, a hard-headed man, was almost persuaded to telepathy.

  The telephone rang: Captain Bigelow was on the other end. His voice was terse.

  “Get up to San Jose, fast. The Wilkerson woman is dead.”

  CHAPTER 11

  With Lieutenant Loveridge of the San Jose Police Department, Collins searched Molly Wilkerson’s house at 5992 South Jefferson. The Wilkerson woman had been a saver. There were photographs, restaurant menus, match-box covers, letters, receipts, dance programs dating back to junior high school, check stubs and canceled checks, marriage certificates and divorce decrees, sufficient to fill several cartons.

  Collins gave the accumulation no more than a perfunctory glance. “What we want won’t be here,” he told Loveridge, a personable young man with china-blue eyes and a bristling mustache.

  “Hard to say till we look,” replied Loveridge breezily.

  Collins made no reply. He had formed no high opinion of Loveridge’s competence, and he suspected that the young lieutenant held similar sentiments toward him.

  He went to look behind a cuckoo clock and found only blank wall, then turned to meet Loveridge’s quizzical stare. In a measured voice Collins said, “If she were blackmailing someone—which seems probable—she wouldn’t leave her evidence just anywhere. She might even have been running a bluff.”

  Loveridge shrugged. “There’s no evidence that this case and the Genneman-Ricks case are related.

  Mrs. Wilkerson might have been killed by a mugger or a deviate.”

  “It’s possible,” said Collins dryly, “but not very. Molly was bitter when she couldn’t nick Kershaw— until she found out we were interested in who took Kershaw home. I’m betting she tried to cash in once too often.”

  “It may work out that way,” said Loveridge indulgently. “But I’d like to see some evidence. So far we’re working on sheer speculation.”

  Collins sought the kitchen. He looked here and there—among the notes on the bullet
in board, into the percolator, the sugar bowl. Then he went into the bedroom to watch Loveridge rummaging through Molly’s bureau drawers. “What puzzles me,” said Collins, “is that she was willing to come back alone to this house. No matter how stupidly careless she was, no matter how much she despised whomever she was blackmailing, she’d simply have to be a little nervous!”

  “In my mind,” said Loveridge, “this is a strong point against the blackmail theory.”

  “Let’s go talk to the baby-sitter. What’s her name? Rosemary.”

  Rosemary Gait was fifteen years old, a chunky little blond girl with a round face and earnest brown eyes who already had given up hopes of beauty. She lived in a small white house a hundred yards down South Jefferson, and she was excited with horror at what had happened to Molly Wilkerson.

  Collins took charge of the interrogation; Loveridge stood to the side, hands behind his back, watching with indulgence. Rosemary’s mother, a heavy woman with a putty-colored face, sat impassively on a couch.

  “We’re trying to find who did this terrible thing to Mrs. Wilkerson,” said Collins. “We hope you can help us.”

  “I’ll try,” said Rosemary tremulously. “I don’t know very much about it.”

  Mrs. Gait licked her lips with a big gray tongue. “What happened to her?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

  “She left the cabaret a little past two in the morning, and went back to the lot where the employees leave their cars. The next morning a janitor found her. She’d been hit from behind with something like a hammer, then shoved into her car.”

  “That’s awful,” said Mrs. Gait. Rosemary’s face quivered. “I knew she was a flighty woman,” Mrs. Gait went on. “I didn’t like my girl working for her, but the money came in handy, and she was a kind of a lesson to Rosemary. I used to tell her, ‘Just do your work and don’t pay any attention to that woman’s bad habits.’”

  “Such as what?”

  “Oh—drinking, smoking, carrying on. Many times I offered to take the children to church Sunday, but she’d have nothing to do with it. Rosemary, find the swatter and kill that big fly.”

  Conversation came to a halt until Rosemary had dispatched the fly. The slaying relaxed her, and her face showed less strain.