The Madman Theory

by Jack Vance writing as Ellery Queen

  “I can’t think of anyone,” said Myron Retwig promptly.

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “A number of people had no particular liking for him. Enemies? I don’t think so.”

  “Did he play around with women?”

  “If he did, he was extremely discreet.”

  “Meaning yes?”

  Retwig shook his head. “It means that I don’t know. I suppose it’s not impossible. He was a virile man.”

  “You worked for him at one time?”

  “Yes. I was offered an opportunity at Pacific Chemicals and accepted. As of now, however, I’m once more working for Genneman Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Eh? What’s this?”

  “I telephoned Mrs. Genneman an hour or so ago. She asked me to take charge of the business. I agreed to do so.” He smiled dryly. “I suppose you could consider that a motive for murder.”

  Collins shook his head. “My thinking doesn’t leap around quite like that,” he said in a wry tone. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to think. What’s your opinion, Mr. Retwig?”

  “It seems a cliche to postulate a madman, but for the life of me I can’t make a more reasonable suggestion . . . Well, yes, I can, too. Is it possible that the killer shot the wrong man? Suppose he expected another party to come by his ambush, with another man in the lead?”

  “Conceivably,” said Collins, “but unlikely. We can’t let ourselves be hypnotized by the man who came up the trail behind you, but he’s certainly our basic suspect. And such being the case he’d hardly make the kind of mistake you suggest.”

  “Unless he were hired to kill and made contact with the wrong party. If I were you I’d check to see if another party of five set out on Copper Creek Trail.”

  “I can’t dismiss your theory out of hand,” said Collins, “because I don’t have a theory any more convincing to put in its place . . . You’ve known Earl Genneman a long time?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “He had a harmonious family life?”

  “I would say so. There’s recently been a certain amount of friction with his son.”

  “What of his stepdaughter?”

  “They got along very well. Jean wanted to come on this particular trip, but Earl wouldn’t allow it. Possibly because Buck would be along.”

  “Why would that interfere with her coming?”

  Myron Retwig raised his gray eyebrows. “It’s a delicate matter. But you might as well know. The two were engaged to be married. The arrangement, so I am given to understand, was terminated—on his initiative, not hers. I suspect that Earl didn’t want to expose her to a possibly humiliating situation. Jean, who has no guile and no self-consciousness, wouldn’t consider such a possibility.”

  “It might be uncomfortable for James as well,” suggested Collins.

  “True enough. Earl did the right thing.”

  “And how does Mr. Kershaw fit into the situation?”

  Retwig smiled thinly. “He comes and goes. The children like him. Opal does what she can for him. I was surprised to learn that he was joining the pack-trip.”

  “He doesn’t seem the type,” Collins agreed, and rose. “You people are free to return to your homes. All of you brought your own cars?”

  “All except Red Kershaw. He rode up with Earl. I suppose he can drive Earl’s car back to San Jose.”

  “That solves one problem. Oh, I’d appreciate your communicating with me at the Fresno County Sheriff’s office if any further ideas occur to you. And please tell the others the same.”

  Collins stood in the doorway as the four men got into Earl Genneman’s white station wagon.

  Kershaw drove, Vega sat beside him, James and Retwig in the rear seat. The car moved off down the road and was soon lost to sight.

  Collins sat on the front bench. Two hundred yards through the trees he could glimpse children playing on the white sand beach that fringed Kings River.

  Phelps came to join him. “What do you think now?”

  “I don’t like the madman theory, but it’s the only one that makes any sense. There aren’t any hermits living out in the wilds?”

  Phelps grinned. “We call them fire-lookouts. They wouldn’t shoot anyone, except possibly someone with a Roman candle.”

  “The state I’m in now, I’ll give any theory serious attention.”

  A dark green pick-up pulled up in front of the cabin; a ranger jumped out with an envelope for Phelps. “License numbers, sir, covering Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. We’ve arranged each day’s take in order.”

  “Thanks, Walt. Don’t go just yet—I may have a little job for you.” Phelps turned to Collins. “You plan to check on each of these cars?”

  “Correct.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Phelps indicated the nearby campground. “We can look over the cars here and in the other campgrounds, and eliminate the obviously improbable.”

  Collins hauled himself to his feet. “Let’s take a look.”

  They crossed the road to the cedar-shaded campground. Among the trees stood tents, with cars parked nearby.

  They walked from car to car; when Phelps identified a car as having entered on one of the four critical days Collins inspected its interior, peered into the corresponding tent and queried owners. In this way twelve numbers were expunged from the list.

  Sergeant Easley had returned from the parking area with notes on the fourteen cars he had found parked. Of these fourteen, only seven proved to have entered the park during the critical period, and the remaining were at least temporarily dismissed from consideration.

  At the Cedar Grove Trailer Park and Public Camp Grounds #2, the process of elimination continued; then Phelps drove Collins and Easley to the General Grant Camp Grounds, where further cars were stricken from the list.

  The time was now four-thirty. Collins telephoned headquarters for transportation back to Fresno, then he and Easley visited the cocktail lounge where, three days before, Earl Genneman, Bob Vega, Red Kershaw, Buck James and Myron Retwig had rendezvoused. The bartender remembered the group but had noticed nothing unusual.

  An hour later the patrol car arrived; Collins and Easley climbed in and were conveyed back through the forest of giant redwoods, down the mountainside, and over foothills where scrub oak now cast long shadows across the valley, and into the warm summer evening.

  CHAPTER 4

  On Wednesday morning Collins wrote a laconic report of the murder and took it into the office of Captain Bigelow. Much to Collins’ relief, Bigelow was out and he was not subjected to one of the captain’s “analyses” of the report. Bigelow was a hard man to work under; he had a manner of quick decision that impressed his superiors but strained the fortitude of his subordinates. Bigelow’s offhand suggestions, delivered in staccato, the subordinate could either heed or ignore. In either event Bigelow took credit for success and masterfully rebuked failure.

  Collins had learned to maneuver. His strategy took one of two forms: he wrote his reports either in excessive detail, noting every contingency, possibility and qualification, so that of necessity Bigelow was at a loss to add anything new, or in such succinctly general terms that Bigelow could not understand them.

  In his report on the Genneman murder Collins used neither tactic. It was an ideal case for passing the buck, but this was an impossible feat—Captain Bigelow’s instincts for dodging were as sensitive as the antennae of a moth. So Collins merely had noted all the facts known to him, in the hope that a latent pattern would show itself. It did not.

  After placing the report in Captain Bigelow’s IN basket, Collins crossed the hall to the main office. Sergeant Easley was on the phone checking out those automobiles at road’s-end whose owners’ names he had been able to read from the registration certificates. The list of license numbers provided by the rangers had been sent to the Highway Patrol and would presently be returned with notations regarding car and ownership. Even as Collins looked over the information Easley had as
sembled, the list came back now including not only license registration but make and year of the vehicle and the owner’s name and address.

  Collins pressed two clerks into service. “We’re looking for a man who made a pack-trip into the mountains back of Cedar Grove. He probably arrived in one of these cars, and we want to find out which.” Then he returned to his own cubbyhole and tried to sort out the facts of the case.

  There were a number of possibilities to consider. The crime might be the work of a psychopath. If this could be demonstrated, any details involving Earl Genneman’s friends and enemies were probably irrelevant.

  Collins made a note: Escapees—mental institutions. The words made him grimace with disgust. He was going to have to do better than that for Captain Bigelow.

  He jotted down another note: Inquire from Phelps regarding other recent traffic over Copper Creek Trail. Inquire if anyone has seen evidence of psycho in area. He thought a few minutes and added: Inquire at grocery store in area as to prospectors. So much for the madman.

  The next possibility was the lone camper. He might also be a lunatic, but the important thing was that he had almost certainly set out up Copper Creek Trail on the heels of the Genneman party. What was more, he must be represented by one of the automobiles now being checked by Easley and the two clerks—a line of investigation which was far and away the most likely to yield results. Of course, there was always the possibility that the murderer had entered the park at some other point, made the long hike to Lomax Falls, and set an ambush for Earl Genneman. But such nicety of planning seemed incredible. The madman hypothesis, as it were, made more sense.

  What of a shotgun trap, actuated by a trip-wire or some such device? The prime objection to such highjinks was its lack of selectivity: the first person to trip the wire would be killed. So again Collins was brought face to face with a madman. Also, a shotgun trap must necessarily leave behind the shotgun. The survivors of Genneman’s party had found no weapon. (Unless they were in collusion? But, considering the disparate personalities of the group, Collins brushed the possibility aside.)

  The man who had followed Earl Genneman and his party up the trail: he must be considered the killer until proved otherwise. And Collins drew a decisive line across the paper.

  What could be said of this unknown man?

  There was a set of basic alternatives: either he had intended to kill Earl Genneman, or he had intended to kill someone else. On the assumption that he meant to kill someone else—that Genneman’s death was a mistake—then the man who was supposed to have been killed must be identified. Collins made a note: Check on parties using Copper Creek Trail on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, especially for men resembling Genneman.

  On the more likely assumption that the murderer made no mistake, that he had meant to kill Genneman—what then?

  First: the murderer must have had detailed knowledge of Genneman’s itinerary . . . Collins checked himself. No, it was perfectly possible that the murderer had merely followed the Genneman party to Persimmon Lake and in the very early morning had gone ahead to wait in ambush. In which case the murderer need only have known generally that Genneman was planning a pack-trip, with perhaps his time of departure.

  Collins grumbled a curse. No aspect of the case allowed an unqualified yes or no.

  There was another angle to be considered. According to all accounts, Genneman had not acted the part of a man who expected an attack on his life. He had shown no great interest in the news that a man was following the party.

  But here lay another paradox: if the lone camper had planned to murder Genneman, why had he camped openly only two hundred yards away? Had something occurred during the night to drive him to desperation?

  Collins leaned back in his chair. The first point of business was to identify the camper. He was back to that.

  To put the frosting on Collins’ cake, Captain Bigelow appeared in the doorway, frowning down at the report. “I don’t understand this, Omar. It doesn’t add up.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Collins. This was the usual gambit.

  Bigelow merely shook his big, commanding head thoughtfully, as if he were seeing several steps beyond Collins’ limited view of the case.

  Collins waited patiently. Presently Bigelow asked, “Are you taking this loony theory seriously?”

  “Right now we’re concentrating on the man who followed the party up the trail.”

  “That’s about the way I’d play it,” said Bigelow, “even though it may turn out to be a false alarm-some guy out for a tramp in the hills.”

  “We’ll know when we find him. What about some help, Captain? There’s going to be lots of legwork on this case.”

  “Use Sullivan and Kerner for now. If you need more help, yell. We’ll want to crack this one. A madman scare, real or not—it’s all the same to the newspapers—could keep a lot of tourists away from the mountains this summer.”

  “We’ll give it our best,” said Collins respectfully.

  “Good boy.” The captain returned to his office.

  Collins looked at his notes, then at the clock. He went back to the main office and told Easley that Bigelow was putting more men on the case. “Make sure they know what they’re doing. I’ll be out the rest of the afternoon.” He looked down at the list on the sergeant’s desk, already marked with Easley’s private symbols. “Anything turn up yet?”

  “Nothing much. There’s this LKK-3220-a ’62 Dodge registered to Nathan Wingate, Redondo Beach. According to the list, the car came through General Grant Gate on Wednesday. Wingate says he’s never visited Kings Canyon in his life. The car hasn’t been stolen, borrowed or bought.”

  “The ranger might have got a number or letter wrong.”

  “Could be,” said Easley, and Collins thought he heard something of the tone he himself used with Bigelow.

  “If anyone wants me, I’m in San Jose.”

  From Fresno to San Jose is something more than a hundred miles. Collins arrived about two o’clock. At a service station he telephoned the Genneman residence. Mrs. Genneman was at home and would speak to him.

  Collins asked directions from the attendant, and ten minutes later he turned into the Genneman driveway. It wound a hundred and fifty feet through lawns and trees, past a swimming pool, then made a loop under a porte-cochere. Genneman had liked bigness about him, and his house was no exception: a huge rambling structure of beige stucco and dark timber with a red tile roof, in the style known as Early California or Mission. If house and grounds were a criterion, Genneman had been a wealthy man indeed.

  A Filipino houseboy in white jacket and black trousers ushered Collins into a great beamed living room, where Opal Genneman presently appeared: a tall woman of pleasant good looks. She seemed drained of emotion. She was perhaps forty years old, with dark hair and dark eyes; she wore a tweed skirt with a black sweater, and no jewelry other than her wedding ring.

  Collins introduced himself and uttered the usual condolences; Mrs. Genneman nodded mechanically and led him to a sofa. “I’ll be glad to talk to you, Inspector, but you’ll have to forgive me if I sound vague; I feel so detached, rootless . . . I hardly know what to think. It’s strange being without Earl. He was such a strong, vital man.” Her eyes began to glisten.

  “It’s a pity that I’m forced to bother you—”

  “You have your duty to perform. I want to help in every way I can . . . Such a terrible thing; I just can’t believe that a sane human being . . .”

  “Right now we’re in the dark,” said Collins. “Which is why I’m here. Unless the person who killed your husband was an utter lunatic—”

  “He must have been!”

  “—then he must have had an extremely strong motive for his act. In other words, someone very badly wanted your husband dead. Who, in your opinion, fits that description?”

  “I can’t think of a soul.”

  “He had no enemies?”

  Opal Genneman gave her head a helpless shake. “Everyone has people
who don’t like him; that’s only natural. But to kill . . . to make so many other people suffer . . .” She smiled forlornly. “The sad truth is that I can’t think of a thing to tell you.”

  “Did Mr. Genneman have brothers or sisters?”

  “No. He was an only child.”

  “His parents are alive?”

  “They’re retired, live in Honolulu. I can’t bring myself to telephone them. I know I must. The funeral is Friday.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Retwig would call them for you.”

  Opal Genneman twisted her fingers together. “I know he would. But it’s my duty—I’ll do it.”

  “Mr. Genneman had no business troubles?”

  “None whatever. I don’t think he’d ever done better than this past year. He was planning to expand, to become one of the really large pharmaceutical firms.”

  “What will happen to the business now?”

  “I’ve hardly thought of it. Mr. Retwig has agreed to look after things—I suppose he’ll be general manager, or whatever the title is.”

  “Your husband thought highly of Mr. Retwig?”

  “Myron was his closest friend. They seemed dissimilar on the surface, but they had a great deal in common. For instance—” She thought a moment, a sad ghost of a smile on her lips. Then she rose. “I’ll show you Earl’s hobby. He and Myron were always trying to outdo each other . . .”

  Collins followed her patiently along a hall and out a side door, then across a lawn to a greenhouse.

  The interior was suffused in a pleasant green light, partly from the ancient panes of glass in the roof, partly from the ferns and orchids along the walls. The greenhouse no longer served its original function. It was almost entirely given over to a model railroad, laid out on a table twenty-five feet long by ten feet wide. The tracks, hundreds of glistening feet of them, ran through a landscape of miniature pines and firs, over ponds and lakes and small swirling rivers crossed by quaint timber bridges. At one end loomed a conical mountain with a white peak. Collins touched the peak. The white stuff was real snow. Opal Genneman smiled sadly. “Earl spent heaven only knows how much money in here. A special refrigerator cools the tip of the mountain. The water in the air condenses, and there is Earl’s snow.”