The Madman Theory

by Jack Vance writing as Ellery Queen

  “Let us be the judge of that,” said Lieutenant Loveridge suddenly.

  She bit her lip. “I suppose it had to come out . . . A year ago Little Earl borrowed a car and had the misfortune to injure an old woman. He became . . . nervous, and he drove away. When the officers finally were able to stop him they claimed he’d been drinking. Little Earl has always denied this. It was a very unpleasant situation, and cost us a great deal of money. He was put on probation on the condition that he not drive until his nineteenth birthday. Naturally, he feels this very keenly. I always thought the penalty was harsh, though my husband never considered it so. He insisted that Earl Junior honor the conditions of his probation.”

  “I see. Well, that answers one question. You don’t think, then, that Little Earl would have driven to the night club to pick up Mr. Kershaw?”

  “I certainly do not.”

  “Is he at home now?”

  “He’s somewhere around—probably up in his room. Shall I call him?”

  “Just one minute. There’s something else I want to know.” Collin’s voice hardened. “Your daughter was engaged to Buck James, and then the engagement was broken. Why was this?”

  Opal Genneman made a helpless gesture. “I’m sure I don’t know. It wasn’t at Jean’s initiative; she’s always been crazy about Buck.”

  “Did it have something to do with Mr. Genneman?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said stiffly.

  “Please, Mrs. Genneman, remember we’re trying to catch a murderer, probably a multiple murderer. We’ve simply got to have all the facts.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re suggesting. Murder or no murder, I won’t allow you to bully me!”

  “If we don’t find out from you, we’ll find out somewhere else. There’s more to this on-and-off engagement than meets the eye.”

  “I’ve told you all I know. If you want further details, you’ll have to question Mr. James.”

  “We’ll do so. Now, if you’ll be good enough, please call your son.”

  “I’m right here.” Earl Junior negligently arose from a large chair at the far end of the room, where he had sat concealed. “What’s on your mind?”

  Collins studied the pallid face, so callow and wise. “You heard your mother tell us that on the night of Saturday, June 6, she and your father were out for the evening.”

  “I heard you.”

  “And you were the only member of the family at home.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did Steve Ricks call the house?”

  “I don’t know Steve Ricks.”

  “Did anyone call, with the information that your uncle needed a ride home?”

  “If anyone did, I slept through it.”

  Collins, assured by the boy’s insolence that no information would be forthcoming, turned back to Opal Genneman. “Mr. Genneman often went on back-packing trips?”

  “Not often. Every year or so he’d get the urge.”

  “He usually went with friends?”

  She shook her head. “Until this year it was always a family affair. Last summer I couldn’t make the trip and Earl and the two children went alone. But before that—well, as I say, it was a regular family affair.”

  “Where did you hike, as a rule? In Kings Canyon?”

  “Oh, no. In Yosemite. Once up in the Yolla Bolly country.’

  Loveridge entered the conversation. “Incidentally, has your daughter ever been engaged before?”

  Opal glanced at him sharply. “No.”

  “No doubt she’s had lots of boy friends?”

  “The usual lot. She’s never been boy-crazy, if that’s what you mean—for which I’m profoundly thankful.”

  Earl Junior gave an offensive snicker, and she flashed him a look of unmaternal dislike. Loveridge glanced at Collins; Collins nodded slightly; and they took their leave.

  CHAPTER 13

  Collins found Captain Bigelow in his office catching up on some paperwork. Bigelow motioned him to a seat. “What’s it look like?”

  “It’s getting thicker by the hour,” said Collins. He told of Mrs. Edna Beachey and the rifled post-office box. “What bothers me is that I can almost see what’s happening—out of the corner of my eye. But when I turn to take a close look, there’s nothing but blur.”

  Bigelow made a series of small restless gestures. “What’s the next move?”

  “The Ford that Steve Ricks was driving seems the best bet,” said Collins. “It’s probably a rented car. It looks to me as if the noise in the automatic transmission cost Steve his life. It made him drive his own car into the park, and that left a record of his license registration. So Steve had to go.”

  After a moment Bigelow said, “You seem to think that whoever shot Earl Genneman—or whoever paid Steve Ricks to do the job—furnished Steve the Ford.”

  “That’s what it looks like. Now if Steve had the car four days—don’t forget the car entered the park on Wednesday—some of his cronies must have noticed. Steve wasn’t the type to resist putting on the dog. He’d have taken his pals for a ride, gone calling on his girl friends.”

  “How could he have done all that if he was up in the park from Wednesday on?”

  “He wasn’t. He was back at work Thursday morning at the Sunset Nursery. The trip on Wednesday could have been at any time, from morning till night. It’s only an hour’s drive. Then he had the car to himself until Saturday.”

  “Well, it’s your case. Handle it the best way you can.”

  Collins went back to his own office. “It’s my case, unless there’s a big blaze of glory,” he muttered to himself, “and then it’s Bigelow’s . . .” He looked at his watch: a quarter to five. He hesitated. He felt like going home, showering, and relaxing over two or three martinis with Lorna. With a groan of self-pity he went out to his car, swung it around, and drove west through the going-home traffic.

  There had been no need for haste: the Sunset Nursery stayed open till 6 p.m. Collins sought out Sam Delucci, the gray-haired warehouse manager, who at first failed to recognize him. “I’m Inspector Collins, Sheriff’s Investigator, still on the Steve Ricks case. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Delucci looked curious. “Never did find who done him in, eh?”

  “What I’m after now is this: during the week of June 6 to June 12, did anyone around here see Steve Ricks driving a new-model white Ford hardtop?”

  “I didn’t, that’s for sure.” Delucci pulled at his bulbous nose. “He drove some old clunker—a kind of greenish color. It sure wasn’t new, and it sure wasn’t white.”

  “Where did he generally park?”

  “Oh, anywhere along the street. There’s always parking space.”

  “So you wouldn’t necessarily have noticed?”

  “Not unless I saw him getting into the car.”

  “Did he have any special friend around the warehouse?”

  “Steve was a goodnatured guy, always joking, but I wouldn’t say he had any real buddies. Why don’t you go around and talk to the men?”

  “What I’d like better is for you to send them over here one at a time. That way I’ll know I’ve talked to everybody.”

  One by one the warehousemen and yard-workers came to be questioned. None had seen Ricks driving a white Ford. None could remember anything specific regarding Ricks’ conduct. The last man Collins interviewed was Delucci’s nephew, a slender, sleek fellow in his early twenties. Did you notice Steve Ricks driving a new white Ford hardtop during the last week he was here?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “Were you friendly with him?”

  “I’m friendly with everybody.”

  “Did Steve say anything about his plans for the weekend?”

  “I wouldn’t say he went into detail.”

  Collins became alert. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I forget how the talk went. I asked him about the place where he played—that’s the Clover Club on Morgan Street. I said something lik
e, ‘I guess you’re really going to knock ’em out this weekend, hey, Steve?’ And he said, ‘Tonight only. I’m taking a little leave of absence over the weekend.’ And I said, ‘that’s going to grieve them Okie Chicks, Steve.’ And he said, ‘Can’t be helped, there’s a new batch born every day; all I gotta do is wait till they seek me out.’ Something like that. Steve considered himself a big ladies’ man—he’d fall all over himself when some good-looking dame drove up. But anyway, I asked him where he was going, and he laughed, like he was thinking of something funny. ‘It’s going to be a surprise,’ he said. ‘A real expensive surprise.’ I asked what he meant but he wouldn’t tell me—just grinned and looked mysterious.”

  “A surprise? Did he say whom he was about to surprise?”

  “No. I actually said, ‘Who you going to surprise, Steve?’ He said, ‘I’m not supposed to tell a soul, and that’s a shame. Maybe next week.’ And that’s all there was to it.”

  “What day did all this take place?”

  “It must have been Friday. He only played two nights, Friday and Saturday.”

  Collins shook his head in vexation. “I wish I knew what he was talking about.”

  “Sorry, Inspector, I can’t help you.”

  “Did he ever talk about any particular girl friend?”

  “No. He played the field. He had some chick in San Jose, and I think he was hot for some girl that sang at the Clover Club. Otherwise he took it where he found it.”

  Collins returned to his car and, at long last, went home.

  “I’ve got to go out again,” he told Lorna. “I swear, as soon as this case is over, I’m going to draw all my accumulated overtime and we’re going to take a week off. Maybe two weeks.”

  Lorna patted his head. “That’ll be the day!”

  Collins drove down J Street, and there was the Clover Club, its colored lights aglitter, its beer emblems urging passersby to slide up on a bar-stool, whereupon all would be right with the world.

  Collins parked and went inside. The club was still quiet; the band had not yet appeared on the stand.

  The huge special stepped forward to collect a fee; Collins showed his badge. He went on into the dim interior, odorous with gin, beer, whisky, damp bar varnish, peanut shells, and stale perfume.

  A few patrons sat at the tables eating spaghetti or barbecued ribs; by the bandstand stood a pair of musicians talking with great earnestness.

  Collins went over to the bandstand. The musicians ignored him with the contempt the performer reserves for customers. Collins waited for a break in their conversation, which concerned an exotic method for stringing a guitar invented by one Slick. At last he found an opening. “What orchestra is on tonight, fellows?” he asked politely.

  “Jake Mansfield and his Floyd County Ramblers.”

  Collins nodded. “You guys must know Steve Ricks.”

  “We knew him when, you might say,” agreed the taller of the two, a man with a gaunt white face.

  Collins showed his badge. “I’m investigating the killing. You know anything that might help me?”

  “That’s hard to say,” said the second man, who had wide nostrils and small eyes. “What do you need to know?”

  “Did you notice Steve driving a new white Ford hardtop the week before he died?”

  “No,” said the short man.

  “Not me,” said the tall man.

  “Did Steve let on where he was going the weekend he didn’t play?”

  “He told Jake he was sick,” said the tall man indifferently.

  “Jake figured he had another gig lined up and was about to fire him,” said the short man. “That’s my understanding. But I don’t really know.”

  “Did Steve have any special friends in the band?”

  The white-faced man picked up his guitar, and strummed a chord or two. “I’ve heard say he’d cut your heart out for a nickel, but he never bothered me.”

  “Did he say anything about surprising anyone, or anything like that?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Who would be his best friend around here?”

  “Hard to say. Nobody.”

  “Maybe you can remember that Friday night.”

  “Two weeks ago? Man, you must take us for one of them mental wizards,” said the short man.

  “One night is like another around here,” said the tall man.

  “This would be the last night Steve was here. Did he do anything unusual?”

  Another man joined the group: a smooth-faced young man with an imposing waxed mustache. He carried a toothpick between his teeth, which he swung about his mouth with astounding virtuosity.

  “Hey, Tex,” said the tall man, “this is the sheriff, or something. He’s looking into how Steve got killed.”

  Tex held up his hands in mock dismay. “Not guilty, Sheriff.”

  “I’m trying to learn what Steve was doing the weekend before he got killed.”

  Tex sucked his toothpick. “He didn’t tell me a thing. But I come in on the tail end of something.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There’s a real swinging mama comes in here two-three times a week. She’s married to a big roughneck, but that doesn’t worry her. He’s a truck-driver, and whenever he makes a long run she comes here stag and Steve tries to show her a time. I don’t know how far he gets, but he sure makes himself popular with this broad.”

  Collins waited patiently; Tex shifted the toothpick across his mouth.

  “At intermission he was over in the booth with her and some chick. I thought I’d drop by and maybe Steve would introduce me to this other gal. Steve was talking and they were listening and laughing. I sat down in the booth. Steve was talking real big, about not wanting ‘the money’ but it was something he just couldn’t miss. Then he said, ‘I shouldn’t have told you, but it was just too good to keep.’ I asked him what was so funny, but he wouldn’t tell me. He just kept putting me off, while the girls kept laughing. So I got miffed and wandered off.”

  “Do you know where this woman lives? The truck-driver’s wife?”

  “I think it’s in a trailer court. I don’t know which one. She’ll probably drop by tonight. She gets lonesome and don’t like to stay home.”

  Collins remembered his previous visit to the Clover Club, when Jake Mansfield had pointed out a woman with a big rough-looking husband. “Is this woman about twenty-five or thirty, not too tall, and with red hair?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Okay,” said Collins, “I’ll wait around. If you see her first, point her out to me.”

  He went to a table, took a seat and ordered a bottle of beer.

  Time passed. Customers entered the Clover Club. Jake Mansfield and the Floyd County Ramblers played and sang a set of five numbers, to which Collins tried not to listen.

  He failed to see the woman enter; but all of a sudden there she was at the bar, talking with animation to a woman in peach-colored slacks. To Collins’ relief she was alone. There would be no truck-driver husband to cope with.

  He rose from his table, walked up behind her, and touched her shoulder. She turned an arch look backward, smiled briefly, shook her head, and turned back to her friend. Collins said, “If you please, ma’am, I’d like to speak to you a moment.”

  She turned again, examined Collins with great attention. “Do I know you?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s in connection with Steve Ricks.”

  “Steve? I don’t know anything about Steve. I haven’t seen him in two or three weeks.”

  The woman apparently had not yet learned of Steve Ricks’ death. She was not unattractive, if a trifle plump, more than a trifle overdressed, and over-daubed with cosmetics. Reluctantly she followed Collins a few steps away from her friend, who watched with interest.

  “I’m a police officer. Perhaps you’d like to come over to my table for a moment or two.”

  “This is about Steve Ricks?”

  “That’s right.”
<
br />   “What’s he done?”

  “I’ll tell you if you’ll step over to the table.”

  The woman followed him without enthusiasm. Collins seated her, introduced himself. “Your name?”

  “Belva Didrick. Mrs. Belva Didrick. What’s with Steve? What did he do?”

  “If you’re a friend of Steve’s, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. He’s dead.”

  Belva Didrick’s face froze.

  “You won’t be brought into the case in any way, Mrs. Didrick,” Collins assured her. “I merely want some information.”

  “When did this happen? How?”

  “It happened about a week ago, and I don’t know yet who did it. I gather Steve told you his plans for the weekend of June 13 and 14, immediately after the last time you saw him. Exactly what did he tell you?”

  Belva Didrick spoke slowly. “It was some wild story . . . I didn’t hardly believe him; he was always full of nonsense, and this was pretty nonsensical.”

  “Yes?”

  “This is how Steve told it. Some rich city folk were going on a hiking trip into the mountains—” The woman winced and stopped. “Poor Steve. He’s really dead?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Didrick.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “He was hit over the head.”

  “Oh, my!” Mrs. Didrick squirmed in her chair. “He got so much fun out of telling this story. He said he’d promised not to tell no one, but it was too good to keep. One of these city people wanted to play a joke on the others, and he’d hired Steve to follow the group carrying a bottle of whisky. He was to keep behind, just out of sight, until the second night’s camp, which was at a lake. Then Steve was to camp at least two hundred yards from the others. During the night he was to bury the whisky three feet in front of a tall rock at the north end of the lake. Then he was supposed to get up early and come back down the mountain. Steve had it figured that the man wanted to win some kind of bet as to the possibility of producing whisky in the wilderness. He thought it was wacky, but the party involved was going to pay him two hundred dollars, and it made a good story.”

  “It’s a good story, all right,” said Collins.