The Madman Theory

by Jack Vance writing as Ellery Queen

  “Did Mrs. Wilkerson ever say she was afraid of any particular man?”

  “Not to me,” said Rosemary.

  “Ha,” said her mother. “Her afraid of a man would be a sight to behold.”

  “Did she ever give you a paper, or an envelope, something like that, to keep for her?”

  Rosemary shook her head. “She wouldn’t do that. She hardly knew I was there.”

  “Did you hear her talking on the phone yesterday, or did she say anything unusual?”

  “Well, she seemed kind of excited. Like she was going somewhere special.” Rosemary’s eyes widened as she considered the relevance of her remark. She said timidly, “She did talk on the phone to somebody yesterday.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It was a man?”

  Rosemary considered. “I can’t say for sure. I thought it was a man because she doesn’t know any women. Just her sister.”

  “That would be Mrs. Donald Beachey, in Santa Clara?” This was information which had been elicited by the city police.

  “Yes. That’s where she’s been staying the past two nights.”

  Collins resisted the temptation to glance at Lieutenant Loveridge. “I suppose the children are with Mrs. Beachey?”

  “Yes, sir. Anyway, I don’t think it was her sister she was talking to. She’s got a special way of talking to Mrs. Beachey, kind of snarly and friendly at the same time, like when she’s talking to one of her exes.”

  “Her what?”

  “Her ex-husbands. She’s been married five times, and she used to say she was ready for five more.”

  “Rosemary,” chided her mother. “I told you never to listen when the woman talked about things like that.”

  “I didn’t listen. I just heard.”

  “As I understand it,” said Collins, “Mrs. Wilkerson spent the last two nights with Mrs. Beachey, but came here during the day?”

  “Yes. She came to get her mail and change clothes and things like that. She never stayed long. Yesterday she came here to get me, I don’t know why, and that’s when I heard her telephone.”

  “Did you hear the conversation?”

  “No, sir, I wasn’t paying attention. I think somebody asked her if she did something. And she said, ‘Me? Heavens, no!’ or something like that. And, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ That’s about all I heard.”

  “Did she call anybody by name?”

  “I think she mentioned Steve Ricks.”

  “You know Steve Ricks?”

  “Yes, sir. I know who he is. He asked me to go out with him once. But it was a school night.”

  Mrs. Gait nodded approval. “I’ve always told the girl her education comes first.”

  “Very sensible,” said Collins. “Well, back to Steve Ricks. Did he come around to Mrs. Wilkerson’s very often?”

  “Every once in a while.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Gee, I don’t really know. A couple weeks ago. It was a Sunday. They were talking about one of her ex-husbands who got drunk the night before.”

  “Mr. Kershaw? Red?”

  Rosemary nodded. “That’s who it was.”

  “What did they say?”

  Rosemary screwed up her face. “I think she said something like ‘Well, did you get him home?’ And Steve said, ‘Yes, but it was a battle. He was out like a light, all arms and legs.’ The reason I heard this is that I was waiting for her to pay me. Then, when I was going out, I heard Steve saying something about a ‘cute trick.’ ”

  “A ‘cute trick’? Was he talking about a joke, or —”

  “I really don’t know. I was on my way out. I did hear Molly say: ‘Tell me! coaxing-like, and Steve said, ‘No, I’m not allowed to tell a soul.’ ”

  Up to this point Lieutenant Loveridge had stood quietly, hardly moving a muscle. Now he asked Rosemary, “Who would you say was Mrs. Wilkerson’s best friend?”

  “Golly,” said Rosemary, “I don’t know. She didn’t have any woman friends.”

  “Didn’t she recently give you anything to keep for her, or take care of?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or anybody else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did she ever talk about coming into money?”

  “Oh, all the time. She wanted to go to Honolulu more than anything, stay at one of the fancy hotels.”

  “Who doesn’t?” said her mother gloomily.

  “Did she ever mention anybody of whom she was afraid?”

  Rosemary considered. “She was afraid of her boss. She thought he was going to fire her.”

  They drove up Lagua Seca Road, past San Jose, to the residence of Mrs. Donald Beachey, just within the Santa Clara city limits: a comfortable house in a middle-class neighborhood. The lawn was green and mowed; the hydrangeas were trimmed; the beds of lobelia and verbena were cultivated with affectionate care. The contrast with Molly Wilkerson’s desperate way of life was remarkable. It was easy to understand why Molly, when she telephoned her sister, spoke in a half snarl.

  Collins and Loveridge walked up the path, crossed a sandstone-flagged patio flanked by century plants, and rang the bell. A short plump woman in skirt and blouse answered the door. Her hair was straight and brown-blonde and she wore it in no particular style. Collins estimated her age at about thirty-five— three or four years older than Molly. Her face was pale; her eyes showed traces of recent tears.

  “You’re Mrs. Beachey?”

  “Yes.” She looked from Collins to Loveridge and back with a sad expression. “You must be policemen?”

  Collins introduced himself and Loveridge. “May we come in a moment?”

  Mrs. Beachey backed away from the door. Collins and Loveridge stepped into a living room littered with toys. Mrs. Beachey made an apologetic gesture. “Just scrape things aside and sit down. I suppose you want to talk about Molly. I don’t know much about her private life. She’s always been secretive.”

  “Did she mention that she might be in some sort of trouble?”

  Edna Beachey essayed a smile. “She told me nothing. I don’t even know where she was working. I gather it was some night club.”

  “Did your sister hint that she might be afraid of anyone, that she had an enemy?”

  “No. She seemed quite cheerful except for being short with the children.”

  “Did she leave you any message, or letter, to be opened in the event of her death?”

  “No. Why should she do anything like that?”

  “Well, to be frank, Mrs. Wilkerson may conceivably have been attempting to extort money from a dangerous person.”

  Edna Beachey drew a deep breath. “Yes, that would be Molly . . . So that’s why she wanted to stay here.”

  “That’s my guess,” nodded Collins. “She never mentioned any names or circumstances which might be relevant to her death?”

  “To tell you the truth, Inspector, when Molly came to visit me—which wasn’t often—she talked incessantly. The only way I could keep my sanity was to pay no attention to her.”

  “Did she ever mention her ex-husband, Redwall Kershaw?”

  “Is that the race-track man? She spoke of him once or twice. Not recently, though.”

  “What about a man named Steve Ricks?”

  “It seems to me he was one of her beaus. But I never met him.”

  “May we look at her room?”

  Mrs. Beachey took them to a bedroom with a nice green carpet and curtains of green and white flowered chintz. There were twin beds with blue and green striped spreads, both neatly made. “This is my guest room. Molly’s children slept in the one bed, Molly in the other.”

  “Where are her belongings?”

  “She didn’t bring very much. Just a few odds and ends. In the closet and the chest.”

  In the closet was a large fiberboard suitcase.

  “That’s Molly’s suitcase,” said Mrs. Beachy. It’s the only one she brought. The childre
n don’t have much to wear.”

  Loveridge tested the suitcase. “It’s locked.” He brought it out, shook it. From within came a rattling sound.

  “Do you have a key?” Collins asked Mrs. Beachey.

  “No. I can’t understand why Molly would want to lock it. I never pried into her affairs.”

  Loveridge brought forth a pocketknife, cut a slit around the frame. The top flapped back. Inside they found a black patent-leather purse and a pair of black high-heeled shoes.

  Collins looked into the purse. Within were a lipstick and a long flat key. Stamped on the handle was:

  U.S. POST OFFICE

  San Jose,

  California

  1126

  “This is what we’re looking for,” said Collins. “At least I hope it’s what we’re looking for.”

  “Why in the world would she need a post-office box?” asked Mrs. Beachey.

  “We’ll find out in due course. By the way, did Mrs. Wilkerson write any letters while she was here?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  She had nothing more to tell. Collins and Loveridge drove toward the San Jose Post Office.

  Loveridge’s manner had become less absolute; he chewed at his mustache in frank puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t she carry the post-office key in her purse with the rest of her keys? Why lock it in the suitcase?”

  Collins was thoughtfully silent. Loveridge went on, “As I see it, she wrote the murderer a letter—something like, ‘Dear sir, I know everything. And I will tell the police unless you pay me ten thousand dollars. Send in twenty dollar bills to Henry Jones, P.O. Box 1126, San Jose.’ This way she thinks she’s protected. The murderer can’t identify her, and she doesn’t need to worry.”

  “She worried enough to move in with her sister,” said Collins. He ruminated a moment. “You’re probably right about the letter. She couldn’t have known too much, but that wouldn’t prevent her from claiming omniscience. And she would have written: ‘Don’t try any tricks; I have arranged for information to be sent to police in case something happens to me.’ ”

  “But where is the information?” demanded Loveridge. “Was she bluffing? Did the murderer know she was bluffing? It’s a strange situation.”

  “It’s strange,” nodded Collins. “I’m anxious to see what’s in Box 1126. She might have locked the key in the suitcase for a reason.”

  Loveridge’s china-blue eyes bulged with interest. “You mean—”

  “A letter addressed to, ‘Henry Jones, Box 1126. If not delivered in ten days, forward to Chief of Police.’ ”

  “By golly! I believe you’re right!” Loveridge’s superiority had now dissolved. “Let’s get there!”

  The postal boxes, serried ranks of dull bronze and glass, occupied the far end of the post-office lobby and the walls of an alcove. Box 1126 was in this alcove. But it was now an orifice. There was no door on it. The front was gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  At a window Collins attracted the attention of a clerk. “We’re police officers. What’s the story on Box 1126?”

  The clerk surveyed them from below his green eyeshade. “I’ll tell you one thing—it’s a federal offense, and that’s no laughing matter.”

  “What happened?”

  “Last night someone comes in and jimmies the box door. These doors aren’t built to withstand assault. He’ll regret it, whoever he is. Once the Feds get on a man’s tail, they never let up.”

  “What time did this happen?”

  “Hard to say. Some time after six, probably.”

  “What’s missing? What was in the box?”

  “No idea. You’ll have to get that information from the boxholder.”

  “No chance of that,” said Collins. “She’s dead. That’s why we’re here. No one witnessed the act?”

  “Nobody’s come forward, but it’s hardly likely the crime was seen. It would only take a minute: put one of these new ripping bars into the crack, give a yank, and the door flies open.”

  “Who fills the boxes?”

  “I do. That’s part of my duties.”

  “Do you remember what was in that box?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Whom was the box rented to?”

  “John Anderson.”

  “Was anybody hanging around yesterday?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  Collins and Loveridge glumly examined the empty box. Collins put his eye to the glass of a nearby box, and with some maneuvering read the address. “ ‘Mr. J. A. Rogerts.’ It can be done.”

  “What can be done?”

  “What I just did—read an address through the glass.”

  Loveridge gave a shrug of incomprehension. They returned to the car.

  “It’s pretty clear what happened,” said Collins. “Molly sends an anonymous letter to the murderer—call him X. She instructs him to make payment to Box 1126. X comes down to the post office, with the idea of waiting till somebody comes for mail from 1126. When he gets here he notices a letter in Box 1126. He looks—as I did—to find whom it’s addressed to.

  “X goes out, buys a ripping bar or a big screwdriver. He comes back, waits till the coast is clear, pries open the door, gets the letter. He takes it out, reads it. Molly Wilkerson is the blackmailer! He figures he’ll cure her once and for all. He waits for her to leave work and kills her. That’s all there is to it.”

  Loveridge nodded sadly. “It could have happened that way, all right.”

  “Which means we’re back to where we started—to the murder of Earl Genneman.”

  At the City Hall they separated, and Collins went off to find himself a room for the night.

  On the following morning they met once more, and Loveridge was briefed on the circumstances of Genneman’s death and the subsequent murder of Steve Ricks. “Steve Ricks and Molly Wilkerson are secondary,” said Collins. “They were killed for the same reason: To protect the identity of Genneman’s murderer. We know why they were killed and how, and it doesn’t bring us any closer to the killer. There’s still a lot to learn—about Genneman’s relations with his family, the state of his finances, the books at Westco, and Buck James and Jean Genneman. What stopped their romance? Why did it start up again as soon as Genneman died? Does Mrs. Genneman have boy friends? How does she get along with Myron Retwig? Friendly? Unfriendly? Extra friendly? How did Red Kershaw get home from Smoky Joe’s?”

  Loveridge frowned down at his notes. “Someone must have noticed two men carrying out a drunk. It’s probably not unusual, but the people in the next booth, or one of the waitresses, would have noticed.”

  Collins agreed. “It should be checked into.”

  “I’ll try Smoky Joe’s tonight. As for the rest—it looks as if some head-knocking is in order. What do you have in mind for yourself?”

  “I’m on my way out to Genneman’s house. One or two little points I want to clear up. For instance, why Earl Junior doesn’t drive.”

  “He might be an epileptic. Or, more likely, his license was lifted.”

  “I’d like to find out for sure. Together with another small matter. He’s an unpleasant kid.”

  Loveridge considered. “I’ll come along.”

  Opal Genneman greeted Collins and Loveridge with her usual courtesy, though her costume, a smart lavender tweed suit, suggested that she had been about to leave the house. She took them into the living room. “Have you learned anything more about— what happened?”

  “It’s a slow business, Mrs. Genneman. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask some pretty personal questions.”

  Opal Genneman sighed. “That’s your job, I suppose.”

  “I wish everyone felt as you do, Mrs. Genneman. I think I’ve asked you if you knew Steven Ricks.”

  “Yes. But I’d never heard of him till then.”

  “What about Mrs. Molly Wilkerson?”

  “Molly Wilkerson? No, I don’t think so.”

  “You’d have known her under a different name. She was m
arried at one time to Mr. Kershaw.”

  “That Molly. Oh yes. I know of her.”

  “Apparently she tried to blackmail your husband’s murderer. Yesterday morning she was found dead.”

  “How awful! How was this Wilkerson woman—” she spoke the name with an effort “—how was she killed?”

  “She was struck on the head with an object like a hammer.”

  “It must have been a man’s work,” said Opal Genneman, half to herself.

  “It takes no great strength to crack a skull, not with the right tool. Most of all, the motive behind your husband’s death puzzles us.”

  “Is it possible the murderer intended to kill someone else? That poor Earl just happened to be in the lead?”

  “It’s not likely. The murderer had a clear view of the trail.”

  “It could be a mistake. Aren’t there such things as deadfalls, or whatever they’re called, that set off a gun when something is stepped on?”

  “But it would shoot the first man to come past, whoever he was. Also, the rest of the party searched for a gun and couldn’t find it. Unless we assume conspiracy, we have to fall back on the presence of someone to discharge the gun and remove it afterward.”

  Opal Genneman nodded rather weakly.

  “Here’s our problem. Molly Wilkerson seems to have suspected the identity of the murderer from the fact that this person met Steve Ricks and Mr. Kershaw at a night club and drove Mr. Kershaw home, on the weekend before the camping trip.”

  “You’ve asked me about that. But Earl and I weren’t home, nor was Jean, and Little Earl doesn’t drive.”

  “Why doesn’t he drive?” asked Collins casually.

  Opal Genneman blinked. “He has no operator’s license.”

  “Did he ever have a license?”

  “No. He’s only sixteen.”

  “He knows how to drive, though?”

  “Well, yes. Even I know how to drive.” She voiced an unconvincing laugh.

  “Does Earl Junior refrain from driving by his own choice?”

  “Well—his father always thought he was too young to drive.”

  “Then Mr. Genneman was the real reason Earl Junior had no license?”

  “Not altogether.” Mrs. Genneman was now obviously distraught. “I don’t see what this has to do with what we’re talking about.”