The Madman Theory

by Jack Vance writing as Ellery Queen

  No one said anything. Then Buck jumped to his feet, tramped off into the darkness, and presently could be heard breaking dead branches for firewood.

  “That’s a real moody fellow,” said Kershaw. “He fools you. Most of the time you think he doesn’t have a care in the world, then you look at him and suddenly you don’t know what he’s thinking.”

  Genneman remarked, “Buck is the best natural salesman I’ve ever seen. Probably because he doesn’t care whether he sells or not.”

  “He knows the business inside and out,” said Vega. “He’s ideal for Madison.”

  Buck came back with an armload of wood and refueled the fire. The campfire across the lake had dwindled to a spark. The camper himself could no longer be seen. The five men sat by the fire in near silence for almost ten minutes.

  Genneman said suddenly, “By golly, I’ve got an idea for a new layout.”

  Retwig looked at the big man with interest. “Mountains?”

  “Yep. Big rocks, canyons, some lakes, a forest, maybe a mine; in fact, what about a whole process? The gondolas take ore to a recovery plant, flat cars take ingots away.”

  Retwig considered. “A possibility. If I were doing it, I’d omit the mine and the mill.”

  “You guys and your model railroads,” Kershaw said in a voice of deep disgust. “Talk about real worlds. How can grown men play with toys?”

  Retwig puffed placidly at his pipe. “It’s a cheap way to play God.”

  “It’s harmless,” said Genneman. “I enjoy it. But it’s not cheap.”

  “You change your layout too often, Earl,” said Retwig in mild rebuke. “You’ve never yet finished one.”

  “I’m careful not to,” said Genneman. He rose and stretched. “I’m going to turn in. Tomorrow’s going to be rough.” He glanced once more across the lake and went to his sleeping bag.

  The others sat staring into the fire, each absorbed in his thoughts. Then, one by one, they went off into the darkness, leaving the fire to flicker out.

  When the five men woke up the next morning the ground was covered with frost. As before, Myron Retwig was first out of the sleeping bag. He seemed in no hurry to rebuild the fire. One by one the others joined him. Genneman pointed across the lake. “Whoever was there is gone.”

  Retwig nodded. “He was gone when I got up.”

  Genneman shook his massive head. With tousled hair and unshaven cheeks he looked more leonine than ever. “Funny,” he muttered.

  Breakfast was not companionable. Later, Genneman snapped at Kershaw, who had taken a long time assembling his pack. For a moment Kershaw seemed on the verge of snapping back. But he restrained himself.

  The party set off up the trail, soon leaving Persimmon Lake behind. Buck James, bringing up the rear, paused to make a survey of Persimmon Flat before moving on through the trees. Kershaw, just ahead of him, asked, “See anybody?”

  “No one at all.”

  The trail swung around a spur and came out on a mountainside. There was snow and scree high above and a stream running through a belt of trees far below. The mountain itself was all but naked rock, clothed here and there with sand or rubble, and a few stunted cedars and pine which somehow had found footholds.

  Ahead Lomax Falls appeared, plunging two hundred yards to a little meadow walled by trees. A few minutes later they reached the meadow. Genneman jumped the stream, followed by Retwig, Vega, Kershaw and James. For a few hundred feet the trail passed through the forest. Genneman stepped out into a small clearing, and something exploded in the stillness. Earl Genneman fell twitching to the trail, his head a red, spouting mess.

  CHAPTER 2

  Someone gave a thin wail of horror; all dropped flat on the trail.

  Each heard a sound or sounds which he afterward described differently. Buck James was the first to rid himself of his pack; Myron Retwig did the same seconds later. Together they sprang, crouching, for the cover of the trees. Sheltered, they looked at each other. Retwig’s owlish placidity was gone; he moved with feline alertness. Buck was white as a death’s-head, his eyes the color of cocktail olives.

  They listened. All they could hear was Bob Vega’s whimper of horror.

  Buck peered cautiously around the tree trunk. Seeing nothing, he slipped forward to the protection of another tree, with Retwig close behind. The ground sloped rapidly and became barren mountainside. Ahead the strip of forest continued. If anyone had fled, it was into the shadow of these dark firs.

  Assured that no one stood nearby with gun poised for a second shot, Retwig ran back to where Genneman lay, half on his side. He peered into the ghastly ruin of a face. Genneman was dead. Retwig rose and returned to the grove. Buck was studying the ground. “He stood about there.” Buck pointed to a little copse. “You can see some footprints. He must have laid the gun down on that branch.”

  Retwig motioned him back. “Let’s not tramp up the area. The police, or rangers, or whoever handles things will want to study all this.”

  They went back to the trail, Kershaw, his back to the body, stood with tears streaming down his face. Vega was crouched by the side of the trail, scanning the hillside, mouth open.

  Retwig said in a low voice, “We’ve got to notify the authorities as quickly as possible.”

  “Who would do a thing like this?” asked Kershaw. “He must be some kind of lunatic! It couldn’t have been a hunter.”

  Bob Vega kept whimpering, “Oh, Lord, what a terrible thing. What a terrible thing!”

  Kershaw peered along the trail. “I have a queer feeling somebody’s standing close by. Watching, maybe picking out his next target.”

  There was no sign of movement in the trees ahead, or along the precipitous mountainside above them.

  “That was a shotgun,” muttered young James. “It must have been buckshot.”

  Vega said in a hurried voice, “We’re none of us safe. We’d better get the hell out of here.”

  “What about poor Earl?” demanded Kershaw. “We can’t leave him lying here in the trail!”

  “We can’t carry him out,” argued Buck.

  “Here’s what we can do,” said Retwig. “We can wrap Earl in one of the tube-tents and hang him under a tree. He’ll be—at least he’ll be off the ground.”

  “But why? I can’t understand why,” protested Kershaw. “It’s got to be a madman.”

  “Somebody who followed us in,” said Vega in a hiss so sibilant as to be almost feminine.

  “Let’s get to work,” said Retwig shortly. “The police can figure out who did it and why. That’s what they’re paid for.”

  Gingerly the pack was removed from Genneman’s body. Retwig and Buck did most of the work. From the pack they took the tube-tent and a spare shirt with which they covered the shattered head. Now came the stomach-turning job of pulling Genneman’s bulk into the tube. This was accomplished by lifting his legs, slipping the plastic under his hips, then tugging and sliding him back into the tube. Tied at both ends, the tube was dragged underneath a stout fir, and after much effort suspended from a branch ten feet from the ground.

  Then the four men started south along the trail, the way they had come.

  Back along the mountainside, up over the saddle, and down into Persimmon Flat, with Persimmon Lake gleaming in the center. Buck James, who was in the lead, turned to Retwig. “Do you think we’d better look over that camp across the lake? Maybe we might learn something.”

  “Leave it for the police,” advised Retwig. “They won’t want us tracking all over the place.”

  So they continued, past their own campsite of the night before, up over Dutchman’s Pass. Now the trail led downhill. With no need for rest-halts they went down at least twice as fast as they had come up. Still, it seemed an interminable trek to Suggs Meadow, the first night’s camp. They reached it at dusk.

  At the stream they paused to rest and to take stock. Retwig said, “It took us about three hours to make it up from the car—” He stopped short. “The car! Damn it, it’s Ea
rl’s car and he’s got the keys in his pocket.”

  Red Kershaw said wearily, “He put the keys in the bumper-guard. I saw him do it.”

  “It might be dangerous traveling the trail by night,” Vega said dubiously.

  “Not that dangerous,” said Buck. “There’s starlight. I’ll lead the way, if you like. I’m for going in.”

  “That’s my feeling,” said Retwig. “Everybody feel up to it?” He glanced at Kershaw and Vega.

  “I’m game,” mumbled Kershaw. “I don’t want any part of these mountains.”

  Vega nodded dumbly.

  “I didn’t think of it till now,” said Kershaw in a sick voice. “Somebody will have to call Opal and break the news.”

  “Let’s get going,” said Retwig brusquely. “The longer we wait the darker it gets.”

  Once more they set out, aching with fatigue, back and forth down the switchback. In daylight they might have negotiated the distance in an hour; in the dark, it took them two.

  Finally the trail made its last turn and swung out on the flat. Stumbling, the four men covered the last two hundred yards. Genneman’s big white Buick glinted ahead in the parking area; it grew large and substantial; a mocking symbol.

  The four men dropped their packs with groans of relief. Kershaw found the key and unlocked the car.

  Twenty minutes later they swung into the Cedar Grove compound, dark except for a single light on a pole and a few glimmers from tents among the trees.

  The headlights illuminated a redwood sign: CEDAR GROVE RANGER STATION, a log cabin half-hidden under four tall cedars. Buck James pounded on the door, Retwig at his shoulder. Almost immediately a light sprang up inside. The door opened; a sleepy young man looked out. “Somebody got troubles?”

  Retwig spoke in his careful voice. “One of our party was shot and killed from ambush a few miles past Persimmon Lake.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Inspector Omar Collins, standing in the same cabin at ten o’clock the following morning heard the essential circumstances of the case, mostly in Myron Retwig’s dry monotone. He asked only a few questions: “The shot was fired from the trees—not, say, from the mountainside?”

  “Definitely,” said Retwig.

  “Then where did the killer escape to?”

  “The trees continue along the trail for—actually, I don’t know how far. The forest is rather thick; he could have run north a hundred yards or so and returned to the trail without our knowledge.”

  “He certainly didn’t go down the mountain,” said Buck James. “It’s practically sheer rock.”

  “You were closest to him?” Inspector Collins asked Retwig.

  “I was, as I recall, about ten feet behind him. The others were strung out behind me. I’m not sure in what order.”

  “I was behind you,” said Bob Vega. “Then Red, and Buck was last.”

  “And none of you caught any glimpse of the murderer?” He received a general negative response. Collins turned to Ranger Superintendent Philips. “What steps have you taken so far?”

  “The obvious ones. I’ve alerted the fire lookouts by radio. I’ve ordered a watch on the trails, and everyone coming down from the mountains, especially men by themselves, will be asked for identification and questioned. The park exits will be watched and any single man driving out will also be questioned.”

  “I suppose there’s no point trying to track anyone down?”

  “It would be absolutely useless. An army couldn’t find a man in there who wanted to make himself scarce.”

  Collins turned back to the four men. “We’re going to fly in after the body. I’ll want to talk to you again, so perhaps you’ll all be good enough to wait here.” He received an unenthusiastic assent. “One other matter,” said Collins. “Has anyone notified Mr. Genneman’s family?”

  Retwig gave a curt nod. “I did.”

  The helicopter flew east, up Kings Canyon. Superintendent Phelps said, “We’ll make directly for Persimmon Lake, then follow the trail to Lomax Falls, where they say the shooting occurred.”

  At the road’s end the helicopter swung north and flew up the valley, the Copper Creek Trail a crazy zigzag alongside the mountain.

  Phelps pointed out a wooded notch to the inspector. “That’s Suggs Meadow, where they spent the first night. And see that notch ahead? That’s Dutchman’s Pass.”

  “Do you lose many campers out here?”

  Phelps shook his head. “Most people are pretty sensible. Once in a while somebody gets lost, or breaks a leg. Then we’ve got to go in for them. But that’s about the size of it. We have more trouble keeping the wilderness wild. You’d be surprised at the number of nature-lovers who want to take motorcycles or motor scooters over the trails.”

  “You don’t allow it?”

  “Strictly forbidden.” Phelps blew out his ginger mustache. “Likewise outboard motors, electric generators, and so forth. We even discourage shouting, yodelling, and general raising hell. A man who takes the trouble to hike into the wilderness wants peace and quiet, and he’s entitled to get it.”

  Dutchman’s Pass slid below, snowbanks gleaming; ahead lay Persimmon Lake. Phelps pointed out the trail to the pilot. “The falls are about two miles along. There’s a meadow just this side, where you can put this thing down.”

  “Keep your eyes open,” said Collins. “It’s just possible we might surprise somebody.”

  But the trail seemed empty of life.

  Then they saw Lomax Falls, and the wooded flat below.

  “That’s it,” said Phelps.

  The pilot examined the meadow with a sad expression. “I thought you said there was a place to sit down.”

  “Sure. In that meadow.”

  “I’m glad there’s no wind. We’ve got about ten feet to spare.” He settled slowly. The downwash thrashed through the foliage. The helicopter landed with one wheel in the stream.

  The five men descended and stood in the bright green growth that covered the meadow—tarweed, fern, sorrel, miner’s lettuce, watercress in the stream—while they assessed the dark forest all about. Then they crossed the meadow to the trail. A hundred feet north they found Genneman’s body, apparently as his friends had left it, wrapped in plastic and suspended from a tree.

  Collins, in the lead, said, “Everybody stay on the trail. There just might be tracks.” He proceeded slowly, and stopped where the dust was stained an evil reddish black. He looked about him. Trees grew on both sides of the trail. To the left, after twenty feet, they gave way to the rearing mountainside, its granite glaring in the sunlight. To the right, the trees grew in a belt, perhaps sixty or seventy feet across, extending parallel to the trail. Then the ground sloped sharply and became granite once more, with occasional areas of loose scree.

  From the puddle of dry blood, an avenue about five feet wide led to a copse of four young cedars thirty feet from the trail. The shot which had killed Earl Genneman had obviously been fired from these cedars. There, on a heavy outsprung branch, the shotgun had undoubtedly rested.

  It required half a minute of peering among the tree trunks before Collins could rid himself of the conviction that malevolent eyes watched his every move. He dismissed this fancy impatiently and appraised the terrain. The ground here, yellowish sand and crumbled granite sprinkled with needles, showed no footprints. The four cedars outlined a square, with a small space at the center where a man could stand. Here the ground showed signs of disturbance—a scuffing of needles, a scraping into the dusty gravel. From within the area a waiting man had a view of the trail and could have watched without fear of detection.

  Collins reconnoitered the area with great care, while the others lowered the plastic-swathed corpse and carried it to the helicopter. He went to the edge of the slope and looked down into the valley. Far below a little river ran, among great boulders, trees, vines and scrub. The mountainside offered no cover; the assassin could not have escaped by sliding downhill; he would have been seen—if he could have avoided breaking his nec
k. Likewise he could not have escaped to the south. He would have met the dead man’s companions. A single avenue of escape lay open: north, behind the screen of trees. A few seconds would have been ample. Collins moved north, searching for traces of such a flight.

  Almost at once he found a disturbance among the needles, indentations in the ground. He called Sergeant Easley over, instructed him to photograph the marks, and to look around for others. Collins himself returned to the four cedars from which the shot had been fired.

  He inspected the branch on which the gun apparently had rested. The bark showed a faint bruise or two. Collins cut away a strip of the bark with his pen-knife and dropped it into a cellophane envelope. Then on hands and knees, he scrutinized the ground. But he found nothing remotely resembling a clue. He scooped a sample of dirt into another envelope, and for good measure added a few dead cedar fronds.

  He walked out to the trail and reconnoitred. In a tree a few feet off the trail he found several pellets which had missed Genneman’s head. Sighting back from this tree across the bloodstain on the trail, he once more saw the clump of cedars—corroboration, if any were needed, that there the killer had stood.

  Was it Genneman he intended to kill? Or anyone who came along the trail? Was the motive robbery? Lunacy? Hunger? Was the killer the lone man who had presumably followed the group and camped at a discreet distance across Persimmon-lake?

  Collins closed his mind to speculation, pending more facts.

  Sergeant Easley returned with photographs taken by his Polaroid camera. He had tracked the footprints—if that was what the marks were—back to the trail, where they disappeared. Otherwise he had found nothing of significance.

  Collins summoned Dr. Koster, the pilot, and Superintendent Phelps. “I’ll be the killer. Phelps, you play Genneman. Easley, you bring up the rear. I want you all to go back along the trail, strung out like a group of back-packers. Walk this way. Don’t look at me, but observe whether I’m noticeable. When I say ‘bang’ drop to the ground, and after a reasonable interval come looking for me.”