The Madman Theory

by Jack Vance writing as Ellery Queen

  He signaled Mansfield, a fleshy man wearing tight black trousers, an imitation suede sports shirt, and a turquoise and silver neck ornament.

  Mansfield incuriously approached. “Hi, friend. Was you waving to me?”

  “I’m trying to get in touch with Steve Ricks. Lefty said you were the man to ask. But come over to the table; I’ll stand you a drink.”

  “Words I like to hear,” said Mansfield. He followed Collins quickly.

  Collins performed introductions, signaled the waitress. “Two more of the same for us, and whatever Mr. Mansfield wants.”

  “Call me Jake. I’ll have Scotch on the rocks. Double, if the gentleman’s good for it.”

  “Sure,” said Collins expansively. “When a man has money it’s his duty to spend it.”

  “Me, too,” said Jake Mansfield. “But with me the project’s still in the talking stage. You know Steve?”

  “I know his ex-wife. Ricks is behind on his alimony.”

  Mansfield looked uninterested. “With Steve that’s the way it would be, all right. Too bad you wasted the drink, sport. I don’t know where he is.”

  “I looked for him last weekend,” said Collins. “I thought he played with your group.”

  Mansfield nodded. “He’s not a bad guy. Got a nice personality. He didn’t make the scene last week—let on he was sick, but looked pretty healthy to me.”

  “He didn’t say where he was heading over the weekend?”

  “Nobody tells me anything. I’m the boss. Cheers.” He raised his glass, swallowed two thirds at a gulp. “You a lawyer?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to him. Does he have a girl friend?”

  “Nobody special. See that little redhead over there? Steve’s been playing around with her. That’s her husband, that big boy in the red shirt. He’s a truck driver. Maybe that’s why Steve didn’t come around last week. He’s got a real good survival instinct. Wished I had it. My life has been one sorry mess.” He finished his drink and glanced thoughtfully at Collins, who signaled the waitress.

  “Something a little funny about this,” said Jake Mansfield. “I still think you must be a lawyer. Or a process-server?”

  “Not so you could notice it,” Collins laughed.

  “You got a way about you like the cops on TV. They come out on top every time.”

  Collins smiled wryly. “On TV.”

  “Look at Ody over there. The bouncer. Wouldn’t think he’s a cop, would you? Half a ton of blubber. How he keeps the peace! Give Ody your lip and his backside blots out the ceiling. ’Scuse me, Miz Collins. Well, here’s cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Collins. “I’d surely like to talk to Steve.”

  “Can’t help you, my friend.” Mansfield rose. “I got to go back to the stand. Come back tomorrow night and hear a real band. This is just a pick-up group.”

  “Maybe we’ll do that.”

  “Thanks for the lousy Scotch.”

  For another twenty minutes Collins sat brooding, the highball warming in his hand. Lorna sat by him in quiet empathy. Suddenly he turned an interrogative look at her. She nodded, picked up her purse, and they left.

  On the following day Steve Ricks’ car was found by the city police; more accurately, it was brought to the attention of the city police by a Mrs. Ramon Menendez, who lived in a square yellow cabin under two fig trees on Matthews Avenue, an unpaved lane six blocks from the Santa Fe yard. According to Mrs. Menendez, the car had been parked on Matthews Avenue Tuesday night. She had paid no particular attention to it; many of the neighborhood youths owned just such jalopies. Some time during Thursday night the car was stripped, probably by some of the self-same teenagers, and Mrs. Menendez had telephoned the police.

  The discovery was reported to the Sheriff’s office, and Inspector Collins came out to investigate. With its tires removed, the faded, dented car looked like a cripple.

  Collins walked around it while Wilson, the fingerprint man, investigated the interior. Wilson pointed to a smear on the plastic seat. “Looks to me like blood.”

  Collins nodded without any great interest. “It figures. Can I look in the glove compartment?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The glove compartment yielded nothing of interest. Collins snapped it shut, went to the rear of the car, pried open the trunk. Here he found a cheap suitcase containing a rumpled black and white sports shirt, several packets of guitar strings, as many prophylactics, and a bottle of mouthwash.

  Collins closed the trunk, and rejoined Wilson. He raised the rear cushion and found only dirt and lint.

  A few minutes later Wilson got out.

  “Get anything?” asked Collins.

  “Not much. Some smears. Two or three prints— maybe.”

  “About what I expected,” said Collins. “But there’s one little thing I see that cheers me up.” He made an entry in his notebook and went off for a talk with Mrs. Menendez.

  She was a short dark woman, speaking accented English. She was excited by the proximity of crime. Yes, she told Collins with flashing hands, she had noticed the car drive into Matthews Street on the night of Tuesday, June 16. The lights had gone past her windows about nine o’clock—she had been expecting her sister to call and had run to the door, only to see the car halt a few feet down the street.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then nothing happen. I see this man sitting in the car, he sit for a minute like he thinks real hard. I notice him because I wonder why somebody want to stop in the middle of the road so late at night. But he don’t look like he was leaving, so I go back in the house. When I go to see again, during the commercial, the car look empty. I could see because the light down by Flora Street is shining through the windshield. Then I see the man. He was sitting real quiet.”

  I’ll bet he was, thought Collins—he was resting after bludgeoning Steve Ricks and heaving him aboard the boxcar. Not to mention hacking off his victim’s hands and knocking out the teeth . . . Funny, now that he thought about it. The murderer had gone to great lengths to hinder identification of the body, yet he had casually abandoned his victim’s car without troubling to remove the license plates or destroy the registration certificate. The madman theory again?

  Collins took his leave of Mrs. Menendez and pondered the matter. The situation was probably this: the identified corpse of Steve Ricks would have led to an investigation in which awkward disclosures might come to light. So it was necessary that the corpse be rendered unidentifiable. By putting it aboard a boxcar, it might even go undiscovered for two or three weeks.

  An automobile was more difficult to dispose of. Why hadn’t the murderer merely left the car in front of 982 Mulberry Street, where it might stand uninvestigated for weeks? Miscalculation? Carelessness? Panic? Probably something of the sort, thought Collins. The murderer had completed his grisly work and wanted only to get back to the world of normalcy; he dropped it off in the first likely looking side street.

  The killer however, had neglected the check in Ricks’ shoe. He had also neglected another detail which might or might not link Ricks to Earl Genneman.

  Wilson had packed his gear and was waiting in the car. Collins joined him and they returned to headquarters.

  In his office Collins looked over the notes he had scribbled the day before. Certain questions had already been cleared up or checked out: items 5 and 6 for instance. The car had been located.

  In the meantime, Kalisher should have a report on Ricks’ boots. Collins called the laboratory and asked his question. Just as Kalisher was answering, Captain Bigelow appeared in the doorway, scowling.

  Collins waved him to a seat, listened to Kalisher’s report, then swung around to face his superior. “That was Kalisher. Steve Ricks is our man. He was up the trail, at least as far as Persimmon Lake. Did he kill Genneman? That I don’t know. So far there’s no sign of the shotgun. We can’t make a gunpowder check of his hands, because his hands are missing.”

  Bigelow nodded ponderously. �
�The question is, did Steve Ricks witness the murder and get killed because of it? Or did Ricks murder Genneman and get it out of revenge? Or was Ricks an accessory in the Genneman murder? Since there’s no link between Ricks and Genneman, it looks to me as if the first supposition is the one we want to hit hard—Ricks the innocent bystander.”

  “It might well be,” said Collins. “I’ve got a few other ideas, Captain. In the first place, Steve Ricks wasn’t the sort to make a one-man pack-trip into the mountains. Some good reason took him up there. Second, I just came back from looking at his car. I noticed something interesting: the chrome frame around the license plate. It advertises ‘George Phipps Ford Agency, San Jose.’ So Ricks either bought his car in San Jose or from a San Jose man. Which means the beginning of a connection.”

  “That makes sense,” Bigelow nodded. “We want to look closer into the background of that car. Somebody should check Sacramento on the registration.”

  Collins pretended to make a note. “Last night I looked into the Clover Club, where Ricks played guitar. The check in his shoe came from the bandleader down there. Easley is making the rounds of Ricks’ neighbors. Sullivan and Kerner are checking out Ricks’ photo around Kings Canyon, to see of anybody spotted him up there. And here’s what else I’ve got in mind.” He read his list of thirteen items aloud.

  “Just about covers the matter,” said Bigelow. He pondered a moment. “We could use another man or two on the case. I’ll see what I can do. You better take care of the San Jose end. Something’s got to give somewhere. I don’t suppose there’s been any word from the park ranger? No sign of a maniac with a shotgun?”

  “Nothing, and I don’t think we’re going to hear anything.”

  “Well, let’s see what turns up in San Jose. The case could blow apart any minute.” He left in grandeur.

  Collins telephoned the Department of Motor Vehicles in Sacramento and stated his problem.

  The information was presently forthcoming: the automobile registered to Steven Ricks of 982A Mulberry Street, Fresno, had formerly been owned by one Rupert Marvell, of 1818 Haddock Drive, San Jose. Collins noted name and address, telephoned Lorna to expect him when she saw him, departed the office, and set out north along Highway 99 for San Jose.

  CHAPTER 7

  1818 Haddock Drive turned out to be one in a row of green stucco cabins on a street behind a new shopping center. When Collins rang the bell a slatternly girl of seventeen or eighteen, quite clearly pregnant, peeped out through the screen door. She denied all knowledge of a Rupert Marvell. She and her husband had resided at the address for seven months and had no idea who was the previous tenant. She referred Collins to the manager at 1800 Haddock and closed the door.

  Collins walked along the line of cottages to 1800, distinguished by the sign MANAGER: Clyde Hixey. He rang the bell; a portly white-haired man wearing tight jeans appeared. Collins displayed his badge and inquired about Rupert Marvell.

  Hixey went back into the cottage for his records. He returned to the porch with a large canvas-bound ledger. “I seem to remember the name. Rupert Marvell, at 1818 from March of last year through September. Paid his rent, made no trouble. A friendly man—musician, as a matter of fact.”

  “He played professionally?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Hixey pointed across a stretch of open land to the avenue running parallel to Haddock. “You see that Smoky Joe’s sign over there on Latham Avenue?”

  “Yes.”

  “He played there for several months, which is why he found 1818 convenient.”

  “You remember any of his friends?”

  “Can’t say I do. Once in a while there’d be another musician in to visit him, but they never made a lot of noise.”

  “You don’t have any forwarding address?”

  “He didn’t leave any. Don’t believe he knew where he was headed himself.”

  Collins produced a picture of Steve Ricks. “Ever see this fellow?”

  Hixey inspected the picture dubiously. “Those fellows all look more or less alike . . . He does seem familiar. Offhand I’d say I’d seen him. What’s your interest in Marvell, if I may be so curious?”

  “I’m trying to learn something about the other man, the one whose picture I showed you.”

  “Well, you ask over at Smoky Joe’s. For all I know Marvell still works there.”

  Collins drove around the block and parked before Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret, only to find that it did not open until 5 p.m. He went into a nearby bar, ordered a bottle of beer, and sat pondering. There was about the case a lack of outline, a vagueness that irked him. He had no real suspect for either crime, no trace of motive . . .

  The bartender directed him to an outdoor pay booth near the entrance to Smoky Joe’s. Collins finished his beer, secured change, left the bar, and ensconced himself in the booth. He arranged his change, brought forth his notebook, and set to work. He called Opal Genneman, Myron Retwig, and Bob Vega. None admitted acquaintance with Steve Ricks or Rupert Marvell; none recognized the names. Buck James was playing golf with Jean and could not be reached. Red Kershaw was also out of range.

  Irritably, Collins left the phone booth. The connection must exist in a more indirect manner. It had to exist. If not, his entire theory of the case was a dud. Which it well might be, he told himself glumly.

  Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret had now opened its doors, and Collins went in. The exterior was rough redwood, decorated with wagon wheels and ranch brands. Flanking the entrance were posters advertising Billy Wiggs and the Down Home Boys, with Dody Watkins and Sonita Armstrong, and photographs of the entertainers in their regalia. The Down Home Boys wore levis, vests, and ten-gallon hats; Dody Watkins was dressed as a cowgirl in boots, chaps, and a jacket of fringed buckskin; Sonita Armstrong wore tight moleskin trousers and a silk blouse.

  Collins seated himself in a booth across from the bar. A waitress appeared, a beefy woman in a black skirt and red blouse on which was embroidered the head of a long-horn steer. Collins asked for the manager, and the waitress gave him a sharp look and went off to the kitchen. The manager came at once: a thin, fidgety man with tousled blond hair and a boyish expression.

  Collins identified himself. “You’re the manager? Or owner?”

  “I’m Joe Philbrick, owner, manager, bottle-washer, fall-guy, the works. What’s the trouble?”

  “No trouble. I’m trying to get information about a man named Steve Ricks. He had a friend who used to work for you—a musician by the name of Rupert Marvell.”

  “Rupert Marvell? He played with our last house band. That would be three months ago. I think he’s in Texas now.”

  Collins grimaced and brought out the photograph. “This is Ricks. A guitar player.”

  Philbrick examined the photograph. He nodded without enthusiasm. “He sat in with the band once in a while, kept bucking for a job. We never hired him.” He opened his mouth, shut it again, squinted at the picture, gave it a nervous twitch. Collins, recognizing the symptoms, waited. Finally the man said reluctantly, “I think he used to go with one of my waitresses. I don’t know if she sees him now or not.” He signaled to the beefy waitress in the red blouse, and she came over. Philbrick showed her the photograph. “Isn’t this the guy that Molly sees once in a while?”

  “Yeah. Steve, I think his name is.”

  Philbrick peered into the cabaret proper. “Where’s Molly? Is she on?”

  “It’s her late night. She don’t come on till nine. Seems like he was in not long ago,” said the waitress. “Two, three weeks. Molly had the rear section, and that’s where he sat, over in the corner by the bandstand with some people. They had a real gay time.”

  “I’d better talk to this Molly,” said Collins. “Where does she live?”

  “I’ll give you her address,” said Philbrick. He glanced over his shoulder; the waitress had gone off. “I’m just as happy she’s not here now, to tell the truth. Molly can be a little tough. She’s a good waitress but temperamental—not what
you’d call a softhearted gal.”

  “She might relax in this case,” said Collins. “I don’t want you to talk about this. Her boy friend was murdered last Tuesday.”

  Philbrick blinked. “Who did it?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Philbrick rose rather hastily. “He had it in for me, not me for him. I couldn’t hire him; he was maybe good enough for Fresno, but up here—well, I run a real top place. Next week I’m booking Royal Jenkins, next month we got Big Biedermeier coming in for a week. So don’t put me down on your list of suspects.”

  Collins said, “Do you know a man by the name of Earl Genneman?”

  “Genneman? Can’t say I do. Is he a musician?”

  “Maybe you’ll get me this Molly’s address.”

  Joe Philbrick went off and presently returned with a slip of paper. “Molly Wilkerson. 5992 South Jefferson. That’s south about a mile. Keep going down Latham to the third stoplight, make a right onto Bingham Valley Road, go about three blocks, then a left onto South Jefferson.”

  “Thanks,” said Collins. “Remember, Philbrick, don’t say anything about Ricks’ being dead.”

  “You got my word, Inspector.”

  Collins drove south through the waning afternoon. At the third stoplight he turned into Bingham Valley Road, a pleasant country lane lined with enormous eucalyptus trees. To either side were peach and apricot orchards, each with its old white three-story house. Then suddenly the orchards were uprooted and the land scabbed over with sprawling houses of stucco and used brick. Collins found South Jefferson, turned left, and proceeded to 5992: a small white cottage with a screened-in porch fronted by a scarred lawn, a pair of dwarf lemon trees, and a low hedge.

  Collins parked in the road. He walked up to the porch and rapped on the screen door. A girl of about fifteen, wearing a yellow blouse and red shorts, opened the front door and called across the porch. “Yes, sir?”