The Madman Theory Read online

  Collins walked around the layout, fascinated. As a small boy he had owned an oval track, a transformer, an engine and four cars; he had built cardboard tunnels and mountains out of pillows.

  “Yoshiro—he’s our gardener—loves the layout as much as Earl did,” said Mrs. Genneman. “I don’t know what .will become of it now. Maybe Yoshiro will want to keep it up. He’s spent years on the rock-work and those little trees.”

  Of course! thought Collins. The landscaping was Japanese. He looked the layout over with new comprehension. The mountain was Fujiyama, the waterways arms of the sea. There were three villages and a roundhouse on the layout, all of Japanese architecture. Opal Genneman called Collins’ attention to a track on a trestle that led to the wall and disappeared in an aperture. “That leads to the bar. Earl would bring friends out here, send a train into the bar, and it would come back with a load of drinks. Earl was just an overgrown boy.” She nodded slowly. “One would never have known it, meeting him casually. He seemed so hard-driving, practical. Yet when you got to know him, he was the soul of modesty and generosity.”

  They returned to the living room. She asked diffidently, “Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea? Or a cocktail? I think I’ll have one. What about you, Inspector?”

  “Thank you, yes,” said Collins. “Just between us, it’s strictly against regulations.”

  “I won’t snitch. What would you like?”

  “Scotch and soda.”

  Mrs. Genneman touched a button; the houseboy appeared and received instructions.

  “There’s a question I have to ask,” said Collins. “It’s a prying sort of question, and I’ll apologize in advance—”

  “Did Earl have any girl-friends?” Mrs. Genneman shook her head. “I suppose it’s not impossible that he overstepped the bounds once or twice. If he did, and I rather doubt it, it was meaningless. He was really the most affectionate of husbands.”

  “The children got on well with him?”

  “They’re hardly children any more. Little Earl—Earl Junior—is a senior at high school; Jean is just about to graduate from Stanford. She wasn’t Earl’s daughter, you know, but she might just as well have been. They were extremely fond of each other. Little Earl—well, he has a great deal of Earl’s stubbornness and I’m sorry to say there’s been friction. The usual things: automobiles, spending money, late hours. The two weren’t really the pals they might have been. It’s too bad, because of course they were basically fond of each other.”

  “Where are your son and daughter now?”

  “It seems heartless,” said Mrs. Genneman, “but Jean is taking a final examination. I assure you it’s not from lack of feeling. Final examinations are elemental forces, and everything else has to give way.”

  “More power to her,” said Collins, “if she’s able to concentrate.”

  “I think it’s her way of taking her mind off things. Little Earl is somewhere around. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Later, perhaps. I’m mainly interested in learning who could profit from your husband’s death.”

  “I can’t think of anyone. I inherit the estate, of course. But I had everything I wanted, and my husband, too . . .”

  She looked away. Collins said, “There’s been a suggestion that certain ex-employees might have held a grudge against him.”

  “You’re thinking of poor Langwill, in the penitentiary. I don’t see how even he could hate Earl. It wasn’t Earl’s fault that he stole codeine and barbiturates and amphetamines.”

  “What of your brother? How does he fit into the scheme of things?”

  “Redwall?” Opal was clearly surprised at the question. “You mean into the business? He’s not interested in that kind of work. Redwall is like an old-time troubadour—carefree and irresponsible. No, I think he’s very happy where he is, if he can keep out of trouble.”

  “Is he trouble-prone?”

  She shrugged. “The way any non-conformist would be. He’s only my half-brother, by the way—my father’s son by his first marriage. I think he inherited some of his mother’s unfortunate traits.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, to be candid, Redwall drinks far too much. In fact, he was smashed when he agreed to accompany Earl on the camping trip. He’d never have considered such a thing sober.”

  “And Bob Vega—what’s your opinion of him?”

  “I’ve met Bob, of course, and he’s very polite, very much the gentlemen. Earl always said he was a careful manager. That’s all I know about him.”

  “One other matter, Mrs. Genneman. I understand young Buck James was engaged to your daughter?”

  “Yes.” Opal Genneman’s lips tightened. “Something came up between them —I don’t think Buck wanted to get married right away. I’ve never got the right of it, but I know that Jean was badly hurt. Buck must be out of his mind. He’ll never do better, and probably a lot worse.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t interfere. The children’s lives are their own.” She turned at the sound of the front door. “That must be Jean now. Jean?”

  Jean Genneman appeared in the archway—a tall blond girl with a fresh face, pleasant to look at, and a supple figure.

  “Hello, dear,” said her mother. “How was the final?”

  “Terrible. I botched it.”

  “Oh. Well, under the circumstances . . .”

  Jean came forward. She seemed nervous. Mrs. Genneman said, “This is Inspector Collins of the Fresno County Sheriff’s Office. My daughter Jean.”

  She stared at him a moment. “Who did it? Do you know?”

  Collins shook his head. “I’m working on it. I’ll know eventually.”

  Just you tell me who he is. I’ll shoot him myself!” Jean drew a deep breath. “I can’t understand it, I simply can’t. It must have been a psychopath.”

  Collins studied her. “Someone followed the party into the mountains, someone who seemed to know their itinerary. That’s the man we’re looking for.”

  “And no one saw him?”

  “James caught a glimpse of him. So did Vega. At the second night’s camp everyone in the party saw him from a considerable distance.”

  “And Earl didn’t recognize him?”

  “Apparently not.” Collins looked at his watch. “Your son is upstairs, I think you said?”

  “Yes, in his room.”

  “I wonder if I could speak to him? Alone.”

  “Of course,” said Opal Genneman, rising. “Excuse me.” She left the room.

  Collins turned to the girl. “I’m trying to find a motive for the murder. One of the first things we think of is whether there’s a woman involved. Do you know of any, Miss Genneman?”

  Jean laughed—a harsh, unconvincing sound. “You think a jealous husband shot Earl? Forget it. Earl wasn’t the type.”

  “By any chance had he interfered in your romance with Buck James?”

  Jean laughed the same unpleasant laugh. “Yes, he interfered. He did everything he could to encourage Buck. Do you know how much he paid Buck? A thousand a month, plus commissions. Buck makes more than Bob Vega. That’s hardly the kind of interference that leads to murder.”

  “You can’t think of anyone, then, who might have wanted Mr. Genneman out of the way?”

  “No.” Jean jumped up. “Here’s Junior. I’ll leave you two alone.” And she slipped out of the room. A girl of character, thought Collins, and intelligence. And some bitterness.

  Earl Genneman, Junior, was a youth of seventeen or so, thin to the point of gauntness, wearing tight blue levis and a plaid shirt. He had a sharp chin, a big nose, and small red eyes. He was in the process of growing a beard. He strolled in with a truculent air.

  “Take a seat. I’m Inspector Collins, investigating your father’s death.”

  Earl Junior slumped on the sofa, fished in his pocket, brought forth a cigarette, and insolently tapped it on his knuckles.

  “Now tell me,” he said, “how I’m driving another nail into my coffin. All you squares do.”r />
  “Including your father?” asked Collins.

  “All right, including my father!” The red eyes stared in a suffering sort of way. “Who cares about lung cancer? Hell, if I’m alive when I’m thirty, I’ll kill myself.”

  “The man who killed your father was really doing him a favor?”

  Earl Junior gave a contemptuous grunt.

  Collins asked curtly, “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  The boy considered this. Collins watched him dispassionately. Small chance for comradeship between son and father. Earl Junior finally gave his reply. “Nope.” His tone mockingly said that he knew a great deal more than he was admitting. Bravado, Collins decided—sheer orneriness—and he rose.

  “So long, sonny.”

  In the foyer he waited for Mrs. Genneman to come out of the library. She seemed distant, even cool. He pretended not to notice, promised to keep her abreast of developments, and left.

  He drove to the San Jose Police Department, where a clerk took him to the files. He found no significant reference to the Gennemans, to Buck James, Bob Vega or Myron Retwig. Redwall Kershaw was well-known, with arrests for drunken driving, disturbing the peace, malicious mischief, and illegal possession of drugs.

  Collins read the particulars of the drug charge with attention. Kershaw had been halted on a minor traffic violation near the racetrack. The arresting officer noticed Kershaw kicking parcels under the seat; he investigated and found them to contain unlabeled drugs which turned out to be various illegal stimulants. Kershaw pleaded that he was taking the parcels to a friend and had no notion what was in them but he refused to identify the “friend.” He had escaped lightly for his various derelictions, serving thirty days twice, with a year’s probation on the drug indictment.

  Collins returned to Fresno, arriving late in the evening. He drove directly home—it was a new three-bedroom split-level in Morningside Park, which Collins had bought because he disliked apartments.

  Lorna, his wife of two months, mixed highballs while Collins called headquarters. Rod Easley had gone home; the officer on duty knew of no important developments. Collins hung up and gave his attention to the fried chicken and country gravy on his bride’s menu. He praised them lavishly, having learned his lesson early. The chicken tasted like fried mortarboard, the gravy like unhardened plaster of Paris. It was the appropriate ending to a bad day.

  CHAPTER 5

  On Thursday, June 18, Inspector Collins arrived at headquarters to find Sergeant Easley already at work with license registrations. Collins sat down to help and by noon the job was almost complete. Of the cars which had entered the park during the period under scrutiny, four appeared suspicious.

  First was the ’62 Dodge registered to Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach, with license registration LKK-3220. Nathan Wingate claimed that neither he nor his car had even entered the General Grant National Park. Either Wingate lied, or the ranger had made a mistake noting down the license number, or the license had been faked. The car had entered the park early Wednesday morning—at the extreme edge of the critical period. Collins was not inclined to attach too much significance to this one.

  Next came a ’63 Oldsmobile with license EKY-14, registered to Edgar Hoglund of Bakersfield, already listed on the bulletin as stolen. The car had disappeared from Hoglund’s driveway during the night of Thursday, June 11, and had entered the park Friday. Bakersfield was a long distance from San Jose; the possibility of connection with the Genneman murder seemed remote.

  Third was a ’54 Plymouth coupé, license KEX-52, registered to Steven Ricks of Fresno. He lived at 982A Mulberry Street, a cottage to the rear of 982 Mulberry, the residence of James and Lillian White. According to James White, Steve Ricks had set off alone on the morning of Friday the 12th, his destination unannounced. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. White considered Steve Ricks the type of man to go on a solitary camping trip. They were also uncertain when Steve Ricks had returned. He definitely had not reported for work Monday morning at the Sunset Nursery, his place of employment.

  The fourth car on the list was a ’64 Chevrolet convertible, license AL9-G76, registered to Don Allen Batlow of Chowchilla—in Easley’s opinion the most promising lead to date. Batlow had not been at home; his wife had answered the telephone. Easley had identified himself and asked about her husband’s whereabouts the previous weekend. Mrs. Batlow—in a voice like an overblown oboe—expressed distrust and disapproval, and had refused to answer questions. She suggested that Easley make his inquiries of Mr. Batlow himself; she had supplied his business telephone and demanded to be told the reason for the call. Easley told her that the car driven by her husband possibly had been involved in an accident in Kings Canyon National Park.

  “Impossible,” Mrs. Batlow had said briskly. “Neither my husband nor his car was anywhere near that area.”

  “Exactly where did your husband spend the weekend?”

  “If you must know, he attended a convention in Los Angeles.

  Easley had hung up and tried to call Batlow at his business address. But Mr. Batlow was out; he was not expected back until after lunch.

  Collins went to his office. Almost immediately his telephone rang. The switchboard operator said. “Mr. Don Batlow calling. He wants the officer who called his wife in regard to Kings Canyon.”

  “Go ahead, sir,” said the operator, and a man spoke. “Hello? Who am I talking to?”

  “Inspector Omar Collins.”

  “You called my wife an hour or so ago?”

  “Sergeant Easley did, on my instructions.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Certainly. We wanted to know why you told her you were headed for Los Angeles and instead went on a pack-trip into the mountains.”

  “Pack-trip? I never went on any pack-trip. Where did you hear that?”

  “What were you doing in Kings Canyon National Park?”

  “Isn’t that my private affair?”

  “I’ll explain the situation, Mr. Batlow. Your car is one of several which we think might have been involved in an accident. We want to find out for sure. If you don’t satisfy us that you’re not involved, you’ll probably be subpoenaed as a witness.”

  “Woof,” said Batlow.

  Collins waited.

  “Well,” said Batlow in a reasonable voice, “I assure you I wasn’t in any accident.”

  Collins made a sound of polite skepticism.

  “That doesn’t do it, eh?”

  “Hardly.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What you were doing in Kings Canyon National Park, whom you went with, whom you met.”

  Batlow chuckled feebly. “I didn’t meet anybody. I went there because I didn’t want to meet anybody.” He hesitated. “Can I trust you not to blab this all over the lot?”

  “That all depends.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want it to get back to my wife, if you know what I mean.”

  “We’re not concerned with your private life, Mr. Batlow, unless it ties in with our investigation.”

  “I assure you it doesn’t. The facts are these—they won’t get back to Chowchilla?”

  “Just what are the facts?”

  “Well—I took a lady friend into the mountains over the weekend. We stayed at General Grant Lodge.”

  “Her name?”

  “Surely, Inspector, you don’t need that information?”

  “What name did you use at the lodge?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. John Barton.”

  “That’s probably all we’ll need. If not, we’ll let you know.”

  “For heaven’s sake—for my sake—don’t call me at home!”

  Collins made a note beside Batlow’s name on the list: Mr. and Mrs. John Barton, General Grant Lodge.

  What else was there?

  Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach.

  The car stolen from Edgar Hoglund of Bakersfield.

  Steven Ricks of 982A Mulberry Street, Fresno.

  Mulberry Street held a row of
small frame houses, each with its parched lawn and television aerial. 982 Mulberry had a pair of small orange trees and a neat white picket fence as well. A cracked concrete walk led past the house to a small cottage, apparently converted from an old garage. This was 982A, the residence of Steven Ricks.

  Collins rapped at the door. No one responded, and he tried the knob. The door opened. He poked his head inside and saw a combination living room and bedroom. In an alcove was a kitchen; another door, open, showed a bathroom. The room smelled of long-used sheets and unwashed clothes. An electric guitar and an amplifier sat on the floor; beside the studio couch stood a cheap-looking TV-radio-and-record-player, stacked with records. On one wall hung a pair of oil paintings, each depicting a horse looking over a fence; another wall displayed two dozen or so photographs of various hillbilly bands, guitarists, and vocalists.

  Collins sensed that the room had gone unoccupied for several days.

  He shut the door and walked back toward the street. On the rear porch of 982 Mulberry stood a frail old man, seventy-five or so, wearing brown corduroy trousers and a blue cotton shirt. He had been watching Collins’ every move; and now, as Collins came toward him, he retreated to the door of his house.

  Collins displayed his badge. “I’m trying to locate Mr. Ricks. Have you seen him in the last day or so?”

  “What you want with Ricks? What’s he done?”

  “Nothing, so far as I know,” said Collins. “I just want some information from him.”

  “Such as what?” The old man’s eyes glittered. “I know a bit of what’s goin’ on myself. Don’t never think I don’t.”

  “Do you know if he was in the mountains last week, or over the weekend?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Do you know where Ricks is now?”

  “No. He keeps pretty hard hours—plays in a orchestra, comes home drunk. All kinds of goin’s-on back there.” The old man looked feebly defiant. “Long as he pays his rent I can’t help what kind of life he leads.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Sunset Nursery. That’s about ten blocks north.”