Date: 2015-09-22 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Mystery & Detective; Police Procedural; Traditional
Description: Inspector Omar Collins tracks a mad killer through California’s Sierra Nevada mountains in this classic novel from the legendary mystery author. A party of backpackers hikes along the silver strand of the river, in awe of the overwhelming beauty of King’s Canyon. They are amateur hikers, coworkers at a chemical lab who came from Fresno to heed the call of the wild. They have endured blisters, bug bites, and sunburn, but no discomfort can prepare them for what comes next. The peaceful silence of nature is shattered by a shotgun blast. When the echoes fade, there is a dead man in the canyon. The
Publisher: Open Road Media

PATHWAY TO DEATH

The trail swung around a spur and came out on a mountainside. Ahead Lomax Falls appeared, plunging two hundred yards to a little meadow walled by trees. A few minutes later the five men reached the meadow. In the lead, Genneman jumped the stream, followed by the others. For a few hundred feet the trail passed through the forest. Genneman stepped out into a small clearing, and something exploded in the stillness. Someone gave a thin wail of horror. Four men dropped flat to the ground. But for one man it was too late to find shelter. Earl Genneman fell twitching to the trail, his head a red, spouting mess. . . .

THE MADMAN THEORY

By

Ellery Queen

A SIGNET BOOK

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

TIMES MIRROR

All characters in this story are fictional, including those represented to be public officials, and are neither based on nor intended to bear any resemblance to actual persons. All names, addresses, automobile license numbers, and telephone numbers are similarly fabrications and were designed to have no counterparts in real life.

Copyright, ©, 1966, by Ellery Queen

All rights reserved

Published by arrangement with Manfred B. Lee and Frederick Dannay

SIGNET TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

REGISTERED TRADEMARK MARCA REGISTRADA

HECHO EN CHICAGO, U.S.A.

Signet, Signet Classics, Mentor, Plume and Meridian Books
are published by The New American Library, Inc.,

1301 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10019

FIRST PRINTING, OCTOBER, 1975

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

CAST OF CHARACTERS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CAST OF CHARACTERS

SERGEANT EASLEY—He couldn’t understand why he got the tough jobs while his boss did his sleuthing in night clubs at the taxpayers’ expense.

INSPECTOR OMAR COLLINS—All he wanted was to finish the case fast and get home to his bride. But the killer had other ideas.

ROY PHELPS—Why did people have to pick his park for a murder? Especially one like this, that wasn’t even wholesome and outdoorsey.

EARL GENNEMAN—An honest and successful businessman, devoted husband and indulgent father; who but a madman would hate him enough to want to blow his head off?

MYRON RETWIG—Genneman’s best friend. He looked like an old-time Prussian general, but his hobby was playing with toy trains.

BOB VEGA—The manager of one of Genneman’s subsidiary companies. He was too busy juggling wives, ex-wives and wives-to-be to have time to juggle the books.

BUCK JAMES—Genneman’s star salesman—the engaging, personable type who usually marries the boss’ daughter.

RED KERSHAW—Genneman’s shiftless brother-in-law—he dabbled in horses and women, but murder was too rich for his blood.

POLICE CAPT. BIGELOW—All his men loved him. He never interfered with their work—as long as he got the credit for it.

OPAL GENNEMAN—Genneman's wife, the woman who had everything—but the one thing she didn't need was a dead husband.

JEAN GENNERMAN—Genneman's lovely stepdaughter, and closer to the murdered man than his own son.

EARL, JR.—Genneman's son. He wasn't even a shaving off the old block—just a teenage beatnik with a chip on his shoulder.

LORNA COLLINS—Inspector Collins' curvaceous bride. Her fried chicken tasted like cardboard, but the rest of her attributes were top drawer.

STEVE RICKS—A cowboy musician in a cheap honky-tonk. He wound up riding the rails— with no hands.

J. K. MANSFIELD—His name was on the check that identified Ricks. But what were the "Services rendered?"

MRS. RAMON MENDEZ—She spotted Ricks’ missing car and noticed the driver resting before he disappeared. Too bad she didn’t know what strenuous activities he’d been engaged in.

MOLLY WILKERSON—Ricks’ girl friend. She was a broad with principles. She wouldn’t protect anyone she thought was crooked—unless the price was high enough.

BELVA DIDRICK—Steve’s married playmate. He told her about the practical joke he was playing, but even he couldn’t tell her the name of the fall guy.

CHAPTER 1

At nine o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, June 16, three men arrived at the Fresno airport: Dr. Albert Koster, assistant to the Fresno County Coroner; and Sergeant Easley and Detective Inspector Collins of the Sheriff’s office. Koster, a small oval sort of man with a waxen scalp and hornrimmed glasses, carried a black case. Sergeant Easley was almost as bald, but he was rectangular, with the patient look of a butcher’s block. Inspector Omar Collins, the tallest of the three, was spare in the flanks, with coarse black hair, a broken nose, gloomy eyes, and a quality of unpredictability that made people shy away.

The three men walked out on the field to a waiting helicopter and climbed into the cab.

Collins spoke to the pilot with a studied politeness which suggested that his natural tendency was less social. “How much did they tell you?”

“I gather we’re flying into the back country to pick up a corpse.”

“Right. You’ve got gear for the job?”

“A tarp. Rope.”

“That should do it. We’ll stop at a place called Cedar Grove to pick up a ranger. He’ll take us into the mountains.”

“I know where Cedar Grove is. No problem there, we just follow Kings Canyon. What happened? Somebody fall off a cliff?”

“Somebody had his head blown off,” Sergeant Easley said. “The rangers think there’s a maniac loose.” Inspector Collins looked at him, and the sergeant grinned uneasily.

“That’s rough country behind Kings Canyon. I’ve been in there before.” The pilot looked over his shoulder. “Everybody tied down? Here we go.” He started the engine, set the blades whirling, and the airport fell away. The city of Fresno spread below, a thing of white and tawny blocks and slabs. It dissolved into the heat-haze. The Sierra Nevada was a blur along the eastern skyline, more felt than seen.

Orchards, vineyards, housing developments tailed off into alfalfa fields, which turned into dry pasture. The foothills began to swell and loom, until they became the spurs of the Sierra Nevada. Eucalyptus and live oak gave way to manzanita and pine, then to fir and redwood. Kings Canyon opened before them: a glacial trough a mile wide and a mile high, with the Kings River a silver trickle on its floor. The helicopter flew east, between granite crags.

Presently the pilot pointed to a sprinkle of flecks, just visible beneath the trees. “Cedar Grove.” He swung the helicopter in a semicircle and descended. The wheels touched ground. The motor died, leaving a throbbing silence.

A pair of park rangers hurried toward them. The older one, a man of forty with a ginger mustache, wearing a whipcord jacket over his Forest Service uniform, introduced himself. “You’re the police? I’m Roy Phelps, Park Superintendent. This is Head Ranger Joe Johnson. You arrived quicker than I expected.”

“Once in a while we stir ourselves,” said Inspector Collins. “Anything new since you called in?”

“Nothing. I’ve sent out an alert to fire lookouts and such, but I can’t imagine what good it will do. We have two or three thousand square miles of mountain back in there if anyone wants to hide.”

“No one saw the killer, I take it.”

Superintendent Phelps shook his head. “The shot seems to have been fired from ambush, from a distance of maybe fifty feet.”

“The rest of the party,” said Head Ranger Johnson with a dry smile, “did not exactly rush forward to capture the guy who fired the shot.”

“Where are they now?” asked Collins.

The park superintendent jerked his head toward a long cabin with walls of simulated brown logs. “They’re in the station, not saying much. Still in shock, I guess. They’ve had a rough time.”

Collins considered for a moment. “I’d better talk to them before we go in after the body.”

Phelps squinted up at the sun. “I suppose another few minutes won’t make much difference. Still, I’d like to get the dirty work over with as soon as possible.”

“The body won’t go off by itself,” said Collins. “And if I know what’s happened I’ll know better what to look for.”

Phelps acceded, a bit ungraciously, and led the march to the ranger station along a neat gravel path between white-washed rocks. They climbed three steps to a porch and entered a waiting room separated from an office by a counter.

Here sat four men. Inspector Collins looked them over, reflecting that this was hardly a typical group of outdoors men. He said, in the polite voice that so contradicted his broken nose and moody look, “I’m Omar Collins, from the Sheriff’s office. Sergeant Easley, Dr. Koster. We’re on our way in for the body, but before we go I’d like some idea of what happened.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then one of the four men straightened in his chair, sighed, and in a weary voice began to speak.

Myron Retwig was research director for Pacific Chemicals; Earl Genneman owned most of Genneman Laboratories, Incorporated. They were the oldest members of the party and the only two who professed a previous acquaintance with the sport of back-packing. Together they had conceived and planned the trip, which was to have taken them on a loop of approximately fifty miles through some of the wildest and most beautiful mountain scenery in California. The other three men involved were Bob Vega, manager of Westco Pharmaceutical Supply, a subsidiary of Genneman Laboratories; Buck James, a Westco salesman; and Red Kershaw, Earl Genneman’s brother-in-law. At noon on Saturday, June 13, the five had made rendezvous in the bar of the lodge at General Grant National Park, a few hundred yards from the General Grant redwood, the tallest tree in the world.

Myron Retwig had arrived at the lodge the evening before and had taken a cabin for the night. He was about 55, short, thick through the chest and shoulders, with owl-eyes in a weathered face. His hair was gray and cropped; with a monocle Retwig could have attended a masquerade as an old-line Prussian army officer.

At ten minutes before noon Saturday, Retwig entered the lodge and seated himself in the cocktail lounge. He was the only patron. The bartender served him a bottle of beer, and Retwig sat motionless except for raising and lowering the glass, acts he performed with military precision.

At noon Buck James appeared—the youngest man in the party, and certainly the most engaging in appearance. His eyes were lake blue, his hair was a curly light brown; he had the lanky muscularity of a basketball player, a clear skin, an artless manner. Young James obviously found life pleasant, with no problems that wit and charm could not dissolve. He greeted Myron Retwig with an airy wave of the hand; Retwig nodded with restraint. It was all the same to Buck James. He seated himself and signaled the bartender. “On time to the second,” he said in a complacent voice. “Hard to do better than that, eh?”

Retwig inspected him with a scientist’s detachment. “What time did you leave?”

“About nine. Kept up a brisk pace, of course. Do you know, when you take down the top of these old Thunderbirds, you wring out another five miles per hour? Something to do with wing-span ratio, or the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Einstein would know. Too bad he’s dead.”

Retwig considered the proposition. “I should think,” he said, “that you’d run into precisely the opposite effect.”

The bartender brought Buck James a bottle of beer. Dismissing the aerodynamic properties of the Thunderbird, Buck filled his glass with a flourish. “Here’s to a memorable trip—if I survive it!”

Myron Retwig joined the toast with the merest quiver of a smile.

“You’re healthy as a colt.” He appeared to enjoy the figure of speech. “Young and healthy as a colt. You’ll breeze right through it. You brought all your gear?”

“I brought just what Earl told me to bring: sleeping bag, air mattress, etcetera, to the letter. Except boots. It’s like swimming in an overcoat. I can’t see walking in boots.”

Retwig shrugged. “Boots have prevented many a sprained ankle.”

“My ankles are great. They’ll be going years after the rest of me gives out. Apropos of ankles, here’s my boss. I speak in loose terms, of course.”

Bob Vega peered rather tentatively into the bar, saw Retwig and James, and came forward with a wide grin of relief. He settled gratefully into the padded chair, as if here was an environment with which he knew he could cope. With his black hair, sallow skin, long face, and fragile bone structure he had the look of an aging Castilian dancer. He ordered a martini, leaned back, shot his cuffs. “Here we are. What’s the next step?”

“We wait for the others,” said Retwig.

“Certainly, certainly,” said Bob Vega. “I’m in no hurry.”

Buck James chuckled. “Red was drunk when he agreed to make the trip; he may have forgotten all about it.”

Bob Vega nodded seriously. “He isn’t the sort of fellow you’d expect to find walking fifty miles into the mountains.”

“Nor I,” said Buck. “I’d drive if I could.”

“Luckily impossible,” Myron Retwig remarked. “No motorized vehicles are allowed on the back trails.”

“That seems unreasonable,” said Vega.

“It’s the lure of the primitive,” mused Buck James. “The call of Mother Nature . . . That sounds Freudian. I retract it.”

Vega looked puzzled, Retwig stolidly sipped his beer. “I’m sure it’s beautiful scenery,” said Vega. “And it certainly does one good to get away from business!”

“You make everything so complicated,” said Buck. “I’m going because Earl ordained it. It’s as simple as that. The only way to score with the boss.”

“There must be cheaper ways. I’ve already spent a hundred dollars, and we haven’t even paid for our food.”

“A hundred dollars?” asked Buck. “For what?”

“My pack-frame cost forty-two dollars. Sleeping bag, twenty-five. Boots, twenty-eight. Thermal underwear, ten. Air mattress—”

“You could have rented the frame,” said Retwig. “Sleeping bags sell from five dollars up.”

Vega made a grandiose gesture. “What’s money? I always spend more than I make.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes after twelve. Earl is bringing Kershaw, which is probably why they’re late.”

“Is Kershaw really coming?” Retwig asked. “I thought it was all a drunken joke.”

“It takes two to joke,” said Buck. “Red told Earl he could out-walk, out-run, out-climb him. He was going to fell trees with a blow of his fist, chase bears, stare down rattlesnakes. Earl didn’t laugh.”

Retwig gave his head a disapproving shake. “It’s not the best approach to a pack trip. For either of them.”

“Red doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” growled Retwig, “provided we don’t try to be heroes. I plan to take it easy, and I’m sure Earl does also.”

“Here they are now.” said Vega.

Two men had entered the bar. Earl Genneman was big and large-featured, with brown-blond hair so crisply glistening it seemed almost to crackle. Red Kershaw, a step or two behind, walked with a slight limp and a droop to his shoulders; he was tall and loose-jointed, with a moony Celtic face and mouse-colored hair. Genneman wore whipcord breeches, a red and green plaid shirt, well-used boots. Kershaw, as if to show his disdain for the proceedings, wore cigar-colored slacks, shiny with long use, a tan sports shirt, and a two-tone jacket. Genneman radiated ponderous strength; Kershaw carried himself with the cautious bravado of a man determined to be surprised by nothing.

They joined the three at the table, and the bartender brought a new round of drinks. “So far so good,” said Genneman. “Everybody present and accounted for.” He drank half a glass of beer at a gulp, leaned back. In repose his eyes were sleepy-lidded, and his mouth had a half-humorous twist. He roused himself to look around the table. “Everybody has his gear?”

He was answered by an affirmative murmur.

“I’ve got our grub in the car,” said Genneman. He brought out a notebook. “All dehydrated; all expensive. For the five of us it comes to seventy-six dollars and a few odd cents: fifteen bucks apiece is close enough. Suppose I collect right now and get it over with.” He took money from each of the four. “Now we’d better review the itinerary, so everybody knows what to expect.”

Genneman brought from his pocket the official folder distributed by the rangers at the park entrance. “We’ve all got one of these. Right?” He opened the folder to the map, spread it out on the table. “Here’s our route: up Copper Creek Trail to Dutchman’s Pass, past Lomax Falls, Barney Lakes, down through Aspen Valley, and so forth. Tonight we’ll camp here, on Suggs Meadow, which won’t give us any trouble. Tomorrow we’ll plan to make an easy eight miles, and camp at Persimmon Lake. Thereafter we’ll go as far as we can comfortably.” He looked from face to face. “Everybody happy?”

“Happy, no. Resigned, yes,” said Red Kershaw.

Genneman turned and inspected Kershaw with a quiet smile. Kershaw saw that he had made a mistake.

Genneman said, “I thought you were the man who walked a hundred miles in two days.”

Retwig frowned and sat up in his chair, but said nothing.

“Actually,” said Kershaw, “it was dancing. Not that it makes any difference. They’re both done with the feet.”

“Excuse me,” said Buck James. “I’m puzzled. You danced a hundred miles in two days? How was that? And why?”

“It’s no mystery. I was a great dancer in my day. I entered the Dance-a-thon at the county fair. We figured the number of laps, counted extra for dipping, sliding, sashaying around, and came up with a hundred miles. We took second place—won twenty-five dollars. I was a real swinger in those days.”

“Who came in first?” asked Buck mischievously. “Earl?”

“Ha,” said Genneman.

“No, sir. I don’t think Earl could cut the mustard. As I recall, a skinny little guy and a big fat dame won. They did the Charleston the last time around. If I’d had that female air-mattress to hold on to, I could have won myself.”

Genneman set his beer glass down with a rap. “We’d better make up our packs and get going.”

“The cabin is mine until two o’clock,” said Retwig. “We can work in there.”

The group assembled in Retwig’s cabin. Genneman laid the food out on the bed: various parcels and envelopes of astonishing lightness. “Dehydrated food, the greatest invention of the century. Look at it: bacon, eggs, soup, hash, steak, vegetables, coffee. All we need is water. I used to hike in the days when a pack was a pack. Now everything is lightweight, and I like it. After you’ve carried an ounce ten miles, it weighs a pound.”

Bob Vega looked at his suitcase uncertainly. “I brought a few extra clothes—”

“Leave them. Every ounce counts.” Genneman noticed young James putting on a pair of Oxford-type work shoes with white rubber soles. He stared in amazement, eyebrows bushing out over his eyes. “Buck! You’re not planning to wear those things? You need boots.”

“Not me. You don’t like weight hanging around your neck, I don’t like it on my feet.”

“What if you sprain your ankle.”

Genneman gave his head a quick decisive shake. “When you’re depending on your legs to get you into the mountains and out again, you don’t take chances.”

“Everybody takes chances,” grinned Buck. “Kershaw might start dancing and fall into a lake. Nobody’s carrying life preservers.”

“Let’s be serious,” snapped Genneman. “Spraining an ankle on a loose rock is a real danger. Since you don’t have any experience—”

“I’ve walked here and there,” said Buck airily. “Look at these heels.”

“The Sierras aren’t the Wisconsin woods. This is rough country!”

Buck brought out the official park brochure. He read: “ ‘In the event of serious emergency, helicopters are usually available for rescue duty. In general, helicopters sent in to pick up persons for other than a life or death emergency must be chartered at the rate of one hundred and fifty dollars per eight hours.’ In other words, if I break my ankle, I don’t need to hold the rest of you up. Just send in the helicopter when you get back to civilization.”

Genneman stared at Buck a long ten seconds. Then he turned away. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

“I’ve been warned all my life,” said Buck. “But I’m sane, healthy, practical, courageous—”

Genneman forced a laugh. “One thing for sure, you’re articulate. I shouldn’t complain; who ever heard of a tongue-tied salesman?” Genneman turned away to make up his own pack, while Bob Vega shook his head in disapproval at Buck’s obstinacy over the boots.

The five men took their packs to Genneman’s big white Buick station wagon, then went into the restaurant for lunch. “Eat hearty while you can,” said Genneman. “You’ll be doing your own cooking for a week.”

“That I don’t mind,” said Red Kershaw. “But I’ll miss the candlelight and wine.”

“What about the whisky and the gin?” asked Genneman. “Think you can stand it?”

Kershaw rubbed his chin. “Be nice if one of you fellows cached liquor along the trail.”

The crack appeared to amuse no one.

“Just thought I’d ask,” said Kershaw.

After lunch the five climbed into the Buick, and Genneman drove into the vast glacial gorge which was Kings Canyon. Granite cliffs reared over the road; peaks soared to a neck-craning altitude. Thirty miles from the lodge they passed the Cedar Grove Campground and Ranger Station; after another six miles the road ended at a turn-around and parking area. From this point trails led off into the High Sierra, to north, south, and east.

Genneman parked and locked the car, and hid the keys inside a bumper-guard. Each man strapped on his pack, effecting a curious change in his appearance. Earl Genneman became a burly cinnamon bear; Retwig a finicky and fastidious gnome. With a white sweatshirt slung loosely over his pack-frame Buck James appeared more debonair than ever. Bob Vega walked about as if his feet hurt, while Red Kershaw seemed bemused by the astonishing set of circumstances which had brought him to his present predicament.

Genneman pointed to the Forest Service sign which read: COPPER CREEK TRAIL. “There it is, me buckos. Take your last look at civilization. Anyone want to back out?”

No one spoke, although Kershaw and Vega looked wistfully toward the station wagon.

Genneman said in brassy good cheer, “Everybody champing at the bit, eh? Let’s get going while the mood lasts.”

“Allons, mes enfants!” said Buck James.

In single file the group marched up the Copper Creek Trail.

For two hundred yards they walked across a dry meadow, in and out of the shade of towering cedars.

The sun, almost directly overhead, drew forth odors of cedar, fir, tarweed and sage. Before the group had walked a hundred yards they began to perspire. Kershaw, behind Retwig, called ahead. “Hey, Earl, I’m dying of heat! This long underwear is frying me.”

Genneman looked incredulously over his shoulder. “You’re not wearing it now!”

“Certainly,” snapped Kershaw. “You gave instructions to keep the packs down; why carry something when you can wear it?”

Retwig said, “If I were you I’d take it off. If you sweat too much you’ll get sick.”

“I’ll do that,” said Kershaw. “Somebody relieve me of this pack.”

Ten minutes later the group moved forward again. “It’s better,” said Red Kershaw. “But still not good. Somehow I’d pictured things differently. A pack horse with buckets of ice and champagne.”

“Save your breath,” said Genneman. “Here’s where we start going up.”

The trail veered against the mountainside and climbed by sweeps and switchbacks through patches of sun and scarcely less bright shade. Genneman and Retwig walked without effort. Red Kershaw wheezed and complained. Vega picked his way delicately, as if to spare his expensive new boots; Buck sauntered along in the rear.

Genneman set an easy pace, and where the trail became steep he called rest-halts every hundred yards. “The first day is the worst,” he told the sweating Kershaw and Vega. “Don’t despair just yet.”

“Look at the magnificent scenery,” Vega told Kershaw. “You won’t see anything like that at the race track.” And indeed, from where they sat they could see far up the valley, until interlocking spurs and ridges blurred into haze. “I’m enjoying every minute of this, Earl, though I had no idea we’d be climbing so fast.”

“We’ll be going up the rest of the day and part of tomorrow,” said Genneman. “We’ll make Suggs Meadow tonight without any trouble.”

Red Kershaw mopped his forehead with a red bandana handkerchief. “What do you keep staring at?” he asked young James. “You act as if something’s after you.”

“It might well be. Ten minutes ago I saw somebody coming up the trail behind us. He should have passed us by now.”

“You’re seeing things,” said Kershaw. “Those loose shoes drain the blood from your head.”

“Except that I saw him, too,” said Bob Vega. “Coming up the slope. A single man.”

Genneman studied their back-trail. “Just one man?”

“That’s all I saw,” said Buck James.

“Damn unusual for a man to go camping by himself.”

“I’ve done it,” said Myron Retwig. “And enjoyed it very much. It’s a completely different experience from going in a group.”

“I can imagine,” said Kershaw. “There’s less bitching. More of nature’s music.” Wearily he rose. “I’ve been in some fantastic scrapes, but never did I expect to be performing like this. Who brought the whisky?”

“Along about our fifth day we’ll pass Whisky Lake,” said Genneman with a grin. “Can you hold out till then?”

“I might just camp there a while,” said Red Kershaw reverently.

The group continued up the trail. It kept zigzagging in long curves up the mountain, tending always to the northeast and Dutchman’s Pass. The mountainside was barren, its underlying rock close to the surface; and now that the sun was westering, its light glanced off the slope instead of burning directly down. Back, forth, back, forth swung the trail, sometimes hacked into mountainside, sometimes built out on a rampart of stacked rocks.

Resting in one of the infrequent patches of shade, Genneman turned to look down the slope. Almost a quartermile of trail lay in full range of vision. “You fellows were having hallucinations. There’s nobody behind us on the trail. Not unless he’s moving a lot slower than we are, which is hard to believe.”

Buck shrugged; Bob Vega looked dubiously down toward the valley. “Where are we?” asked Vega.

Retwig studied his topographic map. “As I see it, we’re here.” He indicated a spot with a pine needle.

“In about half a mile we cross this stream. Suggs Meadow is another two miles.”

They presently found themselves in a densely wooded canyon through which a small stream flowed. They drank and hurried on, now anxious to reach Suggs Meadow. The trail rose in a long slant, without switchbacks, finally breaking over a rocky ridge into a green meadow ringed by tall firs. The surrounding mountains were dark on the lower slopes; only the westward-looking peaks caught sunlight.

“We’re the only ones here,” said Genneman. “It’s still pretty early in the season.”

“Even in the middle of July you won’t find many backpackers on this trail,” said Retwig. “It’s too hard and too long.”

“My aching back,” was Kershaw’s comment.

They came down into the meadow, dropped their packs with relief, rubbed their shoulders where the straps had chafed. Half an hour later the plastic tube-tents had been set up, sleeping bags unrolled, air-mattresses inflated. Retwig appointed himself cook, to no one’s objection. He built a fire, arranged stones to support pots, set water to boiling, and presently from packets of unpromising appearance and insubstantial weight produced mushroom soup, stew, and coffee.

Twilight darkened the meadow; the five men sat around the fire. Retwig smoked a pipe, Vega a pencil-thin cigar, Kershaw a cigarette. Neither James nor Genneman smoked. After a while the talk petered out, and Vega limped off to bed, followed by Kershaw and James. Genneman and Retwig sat by the fire half an hour longer. Finally Genneman rose, stretched. He went to the stream, brushed his teeth, washed his face. Returning to the fire, he stood looking around the meadow for a moment, then he went to bed, too, leaving Retwig by the fire. A half hour later Retwig followed suit.

The fire became coals. It went dim.

Time passed. The clearing was dark and quiet except for the sounds of sleep. The summer constellation passed overhead and dipped into the west. The crickets became still; there was complete silence.

The eastern sky grew gray, the meadow light. Almost as the first red ray struck the mountaintops Myron Retwig emerged from his tent. He swung his arms briefly, dressed, and started a fire. Then he visited the stream, where he made his ablutions, and hauled water back to the fire. By the time he had deflated his air-mattress and rolled his sleeping bag, the water was boiling. He made himself a cup of coffee.

Young James arose, then Genneman, then Bob Vega, and finally Red Kershaw, who complained of the temperature extremes of the mountains. “Either you roast or you freeze stiff. I don’t know which is worse.”

“It averages out to absolute comfort,” Buck James told him.

“That may be so,” Kershaw retorted, “but my skin can’t figure like that. And while I don’t consider myself a drinking man, a shot or two of good whisky does wonders toward improving the climate.” He rubbed the stubble of his chin. “Somebody was going to produce whisky, I forget just who. It’s like a dream . . .”

“Here,” said Retwig, “have a cup of coffee. It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”

They stood gratefully around the fire for a moment or two, then went down to the stream. When they returned Retwig had breakfast ready: chunks of compressed bacon, scrambled eggs, and applesauce. As they ate, Retwig pointed toward the south.

“Somebody is camping just over the ridge. See the smoke?”

Buck said, “You have good eyes. I can’t see it.”

“It’s there. Just a wisp.”

Genneman tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “Let’s get moving. We want to make Persimmon Lake by evening.”

“If it means walking, I’m against it,” said Kershaw. But he put on his pack good-naturedly enough, and presently the five men left Suggs Meadow.

The trail once again rose, though in a somewhat gentler slope.

At noon they reached a ridge which afforded a spectacular view over a great valley to the north. For a brief period after that the trail descended, then it cut back on itself and rose sharply toward Dutchman’s Pass. Lungs ached and hearts pounded in the thin cold air. Banks of snow lay on the granite slopes; immense peaks and harsh spires thrust into dark blue sky; it was impossible not to feel awe at the sheer elemental clarity of their surroundings.

At two o’clock the trail slanted through Dutchman’s Pass across fields of snow blazing in the sunlight. At three it passed between a pair of astonishing needles of granite; from there it descended to Persimmon Flat, in the center of which lay Persimmon Lake, an irregular oval perhaps five hundred yards across. While camp was being set up Retwig tried the lake for trout; and in an hour he caught fourteen, which he fried for dinner. Afterward, as the group sat around the fire watching dusk reflected in the lake, even Red Kershaw acknowledged beneficial aspects to the situation. “I don’t say all this is making me a nobler man, but there sure aren’t many temptations to succumb to.”

Bob Vega agreed wistfully. “I wonder what Lila is up to.”

“You should have brought her along, if you can’t trust her out of your sight.”

Vega smiled sadly. Earl Genneman said, “My daughter wanted to come. She’s a good hiker, too; she’d keep up with any of us.” He looked sidewise at Buck James. “What’s the trouble between you two? Don’t you want to marry the boss’s daughter?”

Buck for once looked uncomfortable. “Oh—things will probably work themselves out. We’ve got a few differences of opinion.” He sat up, tossed a rock toward the lake. “Who’s for a swim?”

Genneman refused to be sidetracked. “Such as what?”

“One thing and another. She won’t live in Wisconsin.”

“Nonsense,” declared Genneman. “She’s never mentioned that to me.”

“Why don’t you send Bob here back to Madison? He has more experience; he’d be far more competent at running a new plant.”

“Here!” protested Bob Vega. “I can’t go running back to Wisconsin. All my family, all my wife’s family lives in San Jose.”

“Not to mention all your ex-wives and their families,” grinned Red Kershaw.

“I couldn’t begin to think of moving to Madison,” declared Vega peevishly. And he told Buck: “It’s your hometown; you go.”

Genneman surveyed Vega with his lids half-closed, so that he looked remarkably like Josef Stalin. Then he turned to Buck, who flipped another rock toward the lake. “If all you’re worrying about is Jean, she’ll go to Wisconsin fast enough. She’d be a fool not to— and she’s no fool.”

Buck glumly picked up another pebble.

“It’s time for you to start knuckling down,” said Genneman. “You’ve had it too easy, Buck. Westco-Wisconsin is a challenge, but it’s also a real opportunity.”

“No question of that. I’m not afraid of the job, and I know the territory. But . . .”

“But what?”

“They don’t have things like this in Wisconsin.”

“It won’t be forever. You get Westco-Wisconsin going well, keep your nose clean, don’t rob your future father-in-law, stay away from the goof-ball trade, and you’ll be sitting pretty.”

“I realize this. I just wonder whether—well, whether I deserve it,” young James said lamely.

‘“Deserve it’?” Genneman’s roar of laughter shattered the dusk. “I never thought I’d see you become self-effacing. Well, well, well.”

Retwig pointed with his pipe. “Look. Across the lake.”

About two hundred yards off, a campfire flickered. Barely visible, a shape crouched beside the fire.

Genneman jumped up, staring through the darkness. “I wish I’d brought my binoculars.”

For half a minute he watched the orange flicker and the shape beside it. Then, slowly, he seated himself once more.

Tonight no one was in a hurry to retire. The sky was absolute black, spangled with stars that reflected, star for star, in the mirror of the lake. “Yes,” said Genneman heavily, “sometimes you come up here to these mountains and it seems a crime to go back. You wonder which is the real world.”

“Essentially,” said Retwig, “both are real worlds.”

“We’d starve up here,” said Buck James shortly.

“The world of nature here is a single world—I mean, all of us react to it in about the same way. But the other world—well, there are as many worlds as there are people. In the mountains we don’t have differences; in a sense, we’re all brainwashed by this environment. Down below we keep trying to force our world on one another. The result—” Retwig shrugged. “It’s better this way.”

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 Earl’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 neck. 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.”

The four men came along the trail. Phelps stepped into the little clearing. “Bang!” shouted Collins. Phelps dropped, avoiding the clotted blood on which flies were feasting.

Collins took his imaginary shotgun, retreated through the trees, and regained the trail a hundred yards north. He returned to find the others still cautiously reconnoitring the forest. “That’s enough,” said Collins. “Did anyone see me?”

Only Phelps, playing Genneman, had done so. “Frankly, though I was looking for you. I wouldn’t have seen you otherwise.”

“Well,” said Collins dubiously, “that seems to be the story.”

He went back to examine the four young cedar trees. The limb was rather low to make a comfortable gun-rest. Of course, the killer would not have worried about mere comfort. Perhaps he had been a short man.

Another thing, he thought. There was very little room to maneuver. With a shotgun resting on the low branch, the killer, stooping or squatting to aim, must have been crowded back into the foliage. Unless he had allowed the gun barrel to show . . . Once again Collins examined the cedars, hoping to find a hair, or thread or wisp of fiber, but without success. He returned to the trail.

Phelps looked at him quizzically. “Well, what do you make of it?”

Collins gave a grunt. “About the same thing you do. I want to locate the man that came up-trail behind Genneman’s party.”

“Anything more you want around here?”

“No.”

Phelps kicked loose sand over the blood. Then they walked back to the helicopter.

The motor roared, the blades swung, the helicopter eased up and away from Lomax Meadow, and Earl Genneman began his journey home in a manner he would certainly have deplored.

Persimmon Lake was only two miles distant; they barely had got up into the air, it seemed, than they settled again on the flat. This was a different type of landscape entirely: a valley surrounded by snow-covered peaks, almost treeless, with the blue oval lake at its center.

Phelps led the way to where Earl Genneman and his party had camped, the site marked by the ashes of their campfire.

“As best I can gather,” said Phelps, “the lone man had his camp around the shore at the northern end of the lake. That’s how Mr. Retwig describes it, and he seems pretty observant.”

“Let’s go take a look.” said Collins. “Come along, Easley; get some exercise. You’re growing fat in the public service.”

At the north end of the lake, near an outcrop of rock, they found a bed of fresh ashes. Collins and Easley inspected the terrain; again no material clues. No paper, no discarded articles, nothing that might have retained fingerprints.

They walked around the site in widening spirals, until at the lakeshore Collins came to an abrupt halt. Here, in a patch of mud, was a half-obliterated footprint. Easley puffed back to the helicopter for his case, while Collins took a sample of the lakeside mud as well as the dirt around the campfire. Easley returned and set about making a plaster cast, while Collins stood looking here and there, pondering the curious circumstances. Why had the lone man followed so cautiously and then allowed himself to be seen? For the second or third time Collins considered the possibility of a murder-conspiracy among James, Kershaw, Vega and Retwig, but he dismissed it again as improbable.

The plaster cast solidified; Easley wrapped it in cotton and packed it in his case. With nothing more to be seen, photographed, or sampled, they returned to the helicopter, the motor roared, the blades buffeted the air; Persimmon Lake became a chilly blue oval below.

Dutchman’s Pass and the gleaming snowfields approached, receded. The helicopter drifted down Copper Creek Canyon toward the gash of Kings Canyon. Copper Creek Trail angled and jerked down the mountainside, at last unkinked and led into the parking area.

The helicopter settled on the meadow. Collins, Sergeant Easley, and Superintendent Phelps alighted; the helicopter with Dr. Koster and the body of Earl Genneman rose once more and flew off down the valley toward Fresno.

On a bench in front of the ranger’s cabin sat Myron Retwig, Buck James and Bob Vega. Retwig and James were reading the Los Angeles Times, bought at the nearby grocery store. Vega sat stiffly erect, morose and preoccupied. Red Kershaw, it developed, was inside asleep.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Collins. “A case like this inconveniences everyone. I’ll be a few minutes with Superintendent Phelps, then I’ll talk to you, and you’ll be free to go.”

Retwig examined him with owlish detachment. “What, if anything, did you learn?”

“Very little beyond what you told me.”

Retwig folded his newspaper. Neither Buck nor Vega had anything to say. Collins and Easley went into the cabin, to the private office at the side of the waiting room.

Phelps already sat at the telephone, listening to reports. He hung up and said to the inspector, “Nothing. We’ve checked departing cars, found six men driving out alone. None remotely connected with the case. I’ll have a written report in an hour or so.” He pulled thoughtfully at the corner of his mustache. “I must say I incline to the madman theory. I can’t believe a sane man would follow Genneman two days into the mountains to kill him.”

“It all depends,” said Collins. “If someone wanted to kill Genneman badly enough, two days or ten days would mean very little.”

Phelps swung around in his chair to look up at the wallmap. “Even a madman would have to enter the park somewhere. Unfortunately there are dozens of ways in and out. Some very inconvenient, of course. A man could come in at Cedar Grove, cross the entire Sierra, and come out at Lone Pine or Independence. He could hike north into Yosemite, or south into Sequoia. He could abandon the trail entirely, follow one of the rivers and leave the park without so much as a thank you.” The superintendent frowned peevishly. “In which case we lose him entirely.”

“All we can do at the moment,” said Collins, “is work on what we know. To start with, we’ll assume the killer is the man who followed the party up Copper Creek Trail. Do you keep a record of the cars entering the park?”

“Well, in effect. The entry permits include the license number of the vehicle, and we retain a carbon. I’ll have a list of the licenses made up for you.”

“That would be a help,” nodded Collins. “Let’s see . . . Today is Tuesday. The Genneman party started up the trail Saturday afternoon, and the man was seen behind them on the same day. So we’d want the cars that entered Thursday, Friday and Saturday. No, let’s go back another day, to Wednesday, just to be safe. Another thing—a real long shot: the cars in the parking area at road’s end.” He turned to Sergeant Easley. “You’d better attend to that, Rod. Mr. Phelps can lend you a car. Drive up to the parking area, check the cars parked there. It’s possible the man who was just behind Genneman’s party is still in the mountains. If so, his car will still be in the parking area.”

Phelps tossed the sergeant a set of keys. “My pickup is around in back.”

Easley departed, and Collins followed. In the waiting room he found Red Kershaw, yawning in an orange canvas campaign chair.

Collins took a seat beside him, pulled out his notebook. “A few things I want to get straight. As I understand it, you are Mr. Genneman’s brother-in-law?”

“I’m his wife’s half-brother,” said Kershaw. “That makes me his half-brother-in-law, I guess.”

“Your address?”

“1220 Eagle Avenue, Apartment 4, San Jose. It’s a kind of glorified motel, but it’s close to where I work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Montebello Fields. I’m what they call ‘Assistant Track Secretary’, but it’s a case of long title and short pay.”

“I see. Exactly what do you do at the track?”

“Well, it’s hard to say. I’m a sort of do-everything guy. During the season I handle registrations, check horse identifications, warn trainers not to hype the nags—that kind of thing.”

“Oh? I thought the saliva test caught that.”

“Not so you could notice it. There’s drugs and drugs. If the trainer can find somebody to supply him he’ll have his horse bouncing down the track like a kangaroo.”

“And it’s your job to police this?” Collins sounded unconvinced; in Red Kershaw he sensed no fanatic preoccupation with right and wrong.

“I do my best,” said Kershaw modestly. “If I can’t catch a man in the act, I’ll bet on his horse, and lower the odds.”

“I see. Well—you work at Montebello Fields. How close were you to Earl Genneman?”

“We got along pretty well. I drop by the house once or twice a week. It’s safe to tell you this now, because Earl is dead. His wife—Opal, my sister—loves the horses. She used to bet out of sheer foolishness, and she was losing her bra. It was only a matter of time before Earl was bound to catch on. I’d drop by and help her out a bit, so she’d at least break even.”

“I take it Mr. Genneman disapproved of horse racing.”

“He disapproved of all gambling. In some ways Earl was a very strict man. If you dealt with him straight, he was easy to get on with. But once you tried to fool him—look out!”

“What about his wife’s betting? Suppose he’d found out?”

“He’d have—” Kershaw stopped suddenly. He blinked, then nodded. “He’d probably have just laughed it off. Especially if Opal could prove she wasn’t losing a lot.”

“And she wasn’t?”

“Definitely no. Not on the bets she placed through me.

“What about you? Do you consider it legitimate for an employee of the track to bet on the horses?”

“Why not? It all goes into the percentage. Besides, how could you stop it?”

“Who do you think shot Genneman?”

Red Kershaw shook his long, pale head. “I haven’t any idea.”

“Do you know of any enemies—business, personal?”

“He fired four men from managing Westco. One is in jail right now for high-grading barbiturates. I guess you’d call these guys enemies. I don’t think they’d want to shoot him, but who can tell? Or suppose some hopped-up kid gets sore because Earl turned him off—see what I mean?”

“It’s something to look into.” Collins made a note. “Apparently he got on well with Bob Vega.”

“Bob has outlasted every man that’s ever worked for Earl. He’s a real careful manager. In fact you could call him a bunny except where the ladies are concerned. There Bob throws caution to the winds. I don’t know how many times he’s been married—I doubt if he knows himself. Anyway, Vega’s energy is pretty well sopped up by his wives and ex-wives and wives-to-be. He doesn’t have time for juggling the accounts.” Kershaw spoke in a tone of amiable contempt, as if any ordinary man would find the time.

“Who else would want to shoot Mr. Genneman beside his ex-managers? What about his main business, Genneman Laboratories?”

“No dice. That runs like a big clock. Earl’s only problem there was what to do with all his money.”

“He and his wife got along well?”

“Certainly.”

“As I understand it, he has a son and a daughter. “What of them?”

“Son and stepdaughter. Earl Junior is in high school. A funny kid, I can’t make him out. Jean is Opal’s daughter by her first husband—a real nice girl, a senior at Stanford. She and Buck James got some kind of off-again, on-again thing going. In fact, she introduced Buck to Earl, and Earl put him to work. Buck seems to have done pretty good. Earl was buying a drug company back in Wisconsin just to put Buck in charge of it, or something on that order; I never did get it straight.”

“What about the Westco salesmen? Did they finagle with drugs, like the managers?”

“I never heard of anything along those lines. Westco has two other salesmen besides Buck, and they’ve been with the company for years, through manager after manager.”

Collins frowned. “Do you seriously mean that each of the previous managers at Westco dealt in illegal drugs?”

“One of them did for sure. He’s in jail. Another one did, but Earl couldn’t prove it. There was a big shortage in the barbiturates. The man broke a window and called it robbery. Earl fired him. The first one Earl fired on sheer hunch, and sure enough, the books were cooked. I forget all the ins-and-outs.”

“And how does Mr. Retwig fit into the picture?”

“He’s an old friend of Earl’s. In fact, he used to work for Genneman Laboratories. Three or four years ago some other outfit hired him out from under Earl’s nose.”

“That didn’t bother Mr. Genneman?”

“Hell, no. Myron said he’d stay if Earl wanted to meet the other people’s offer; Earl wouldn’t do it. So Myron left. But they both go in—went in—for model railroads. I guess you’d have to say Myron Retwig was Earl’s best friend.”

Collins made more notes. “That seems to cover things pretty well. You can’t guess the identity of the man who followed you up the trail?”

Red Kershaw shook his head. “I owe people money, but that’s collecting the hard way. Besides, it was Earl Genneman he got mad at and shot, not me.”

“Perhaps you’d step out and ask—oh, Mr. James to step in.”

Kershaw went outside, and a moment later Buck James came in. He looked haggard; a sparse stubble of blond beard covered his chin. He seated himself and waited while Collins consulted his notes.

Collins leaned back in his chair. “Do you have any ideas about this case, Mr. James?”

Buck looked up at the ceiling as if sorting them out. “Naturally I’ve been thinking about it. I wind up in the same place every time: it just doesn’t make sense.”

‘‘Do you know of any enemies Mr. Genneman might have had?”

“No.”

“Did he oppose your courtship of his daughter?”

Buck flushed, started to speak, caught himself. Then he said, “He did not oppose my courtship of his daughter.”

As Collins started to ask another question he made an impatient gesture. “I’ll explain the situation once and for all. I was a teaching assistant at Stanford when I met Jean. We became engaged. Earl, far from disapproving, put me to work after I got my M.A. About three months ago Jean and I—well, for one reason and another we called off the engagement. It made no difference to Earl; in fact he was about to put me in charge of a new Westco outlet.

Not that Earl was soft-headed; if I hadn’t cut it he would have fired me, potential son-in-law or no potential son-in-law. That’s how the situation stands as of today.”

Collins opened his notebook. “Your address?”

“2660 Viola Way, San Jose.”

Collins wrote, looked up. “You seem to have been the first one to spot the man who was following you. Can you describe him?”

Buck James shook his head. “I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. The trail swings back and forth up the hill, and I saw him just as he stepped out of sight. He was about—oh, a hundred yards away, too far to make out features. I think he had on tan pants, but that’s all I can tell you.”

“Mr. Genneman didn’t seem worried?”

Buck reflected. “That’s hard to say. Let’s say he seemed puzzled. All of us wondered why the man behind didn’t overtake us. We were just plodding along.”

“What will you do now?” Collins asked suddenly. “This new Westco outlet presumably won’t go through, with Mr. Genneman dead.”

“I’ll probably be going back to school. Maybe law school. I certainly don’t plan to sell drugs the rest of my life.”

“Will you ask Mr. Vega to step in, please?”

Bob Vega came like a man in a dream. He smiled wanly at Collins; a gold tooth glittered with a personality of its own.

“Sit down, Mr. Vega,” said Collins. “I’m hoping we can get to the bottom of this tragedy, and I need your help.”

Vega nodded with dignity as he seated himself. “A thing like this is completely beyond my experience. I can’t understand it, I’m totally confused; in fact, when I think of the whole terrible thing it’s like a nightmare. One minute Mr. Genneman is walking in front of us, the next minute—ugh.” Bob Vega swallowed.

“It must have been pretty bad. As I understand it, you were directly behind him when the shot was fired?”

“No. Earl was first, then Mr. Retwig, then me, then Mr. Kershaw, then Buck.”

“What did you see?”

“Absolutely nothing. There was just this explosion; I was stunned. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“You were probably as intimate with Mr. Genneman as anyone. Did he ever mention anyone who might want him out of the way?”

“No, that’s what’s so confusing. Earl—Mr. Genneman—was a very definite man. Very forthright and emphatic. But he was fair. I certainly have no complaints; he was more than decent to me. I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

“Won’t Genneman Laboratories continue in business, and with it Westco?”

Bob Vega inspected his fingers. “I don’t know. People always need drugs. We supply a staple commodity. But what Mrs. Genneman will do—”

“Does Mrs. Genneman take an interest in the business? Will she be able to take over?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Vega said.

“Thank you, Mr. Vega. Oh, one more thing. Your home address?”

“747 La Crescenta Drive, Cupertino.”

“And your business address?”

“You mean Westco Pharmaceuticals?”

“Do you have any other business?”

“No, of course not. Westco Pharmaceuticals, 1200 Emerson Street, San Jose.”

“Thank you. Would you be good enough to ask Mr. Retwig to step in?”

Myron Retwig came quietly into the room and lowered himself into the chair.

“Where do you live, Mr. Retwig?” asked Collins.

“In the country west of San Jose. The address is 6901 Monterey Road.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Children?”

“Two sons.”

“I’ve asked the others this question and got no very definite answer: Who would want to kill Earl Genneman?”

“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 assembled, 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.”

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.”

“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.”

“And he also plays in an orchestra?”

“Correct. But don’t ask me which or where or why, because I don’t know one note from another. My sister used to play the organ and I had to sit under the bench and push the pumps. That’s a long time back.”

“Do you know any of Mr. Ricks’ friends or relatives?”

“I just don’t know the man that well. What kind of trouble’s he in?”

“I didn’t say he was,” said Collins. “By the way, do you know if he owns a shotgun?”

“I’ve never seen one. Hunted out of season, huh?”

“If he shows up, will you have him give me a call? And perhaps you’d call me yourself.”

“I guess I can do that. I’ll keep my eyes open. What was your name again?”

Collins supplied his name and phone number and departed.

He drove back to headquarters in a gloomy mood. The murder of Earl Genneman was fading rapidly into murk.

In a macabre way, the news received on his return to headquarters gave him satisfaction.

Sergeant Easley greeted him with, “This Steve Ricks we’ve been looking for?”

“What about him?”

“We’re not going to find him. Alive that is.”

Collins waited.

“All the way to Tucson,” said Rod Easley. “Aboard the Santa Fe railroad police found him in a boxcar. He was in bad shape: head busted in, teeth knocked out, hands cut off. Somebody didn’t want him identified?”

“How was he identified?”

“He had money in his shoe. A hundred dollar bill and a check for thirty-two bucks. The check was on a Fresno bank. They called to find if we had a missing Steve Ricks.”

“Sure enough we did,” said Collins. He actually rubbed his hands.

CHAPTER 6

Steve Ricks had been dead approximately two days, according to the Tucson police doctor—since sometime between 6 p.m. and midnight Tuesday. Railroad records indicated that the boxcar carrying his body had left the Fresno yard at 10:20 that night.

Ricks had been killed by blows of a hammer or similar implement. His hands had been crudely hacked off, possibly by an axe or hatchet. The murderer had emptied Ricks’ pockets and broken his teeth further to prevent identification. But he had not thought to remove Ricks’ shoes, and his grisly attempt had gone for naught. The check from the shoe instructed the Bank of America at Fresno to pay $32 to the order of Steve Ricks. It was signed “J. K. Mansfield,” a name not to be found in the local telephone directory.

The murder having been committed within the jurisdiction of the Fresno police, Tucson was returning the body to Fresno. Tucson and Fresno would share the freight cost. The Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad would bear alone whatever expense it had incurred in transporting the body to Tucson.

Collins returned at once to 982A Mulberry Street with a photographer and a fingerprint man. He inspected Ricks’ effects but found very little: a handful of photographs portraying Ricks in navy blues, Ricks playing guitar with a country band identified as Pete Silliman and His Arkansas Stampers, Ricks with his arm around a ferret-faced blond woman, and others of a similar nature. The photos showed him to have been a man of average height, overweight, with a cheerful face, a snub nose, and sandy hair combed in sweeps and waves. Collins estimated his age at thirty. There were several letters from a Mrs. Beulah Ricks in Bledsoe, Texas, apparently the man’s mother, containing nothing which seemed pertinent.

Of one thing Collins was certain: the deaths of Earl Genneman and Steve Ricks were connected. To believe otherwise would be to stretch coincidence. Both killings were characterized by savagery, a ruthless lack of squeamishness.

A thought startled Collins, and he cursed himself for the oversight—even Captain Bigelow would have seen it. A stroke of luck that he had remembered in time, rather than try to explain the lapse to Bigelow later! Steven Ricks’ shoes. Collins already had glanced through the scanty wardrobe: a cheap blue suit, a pair of tan slacks and a brown plaid sports jacket, five or six sports shirts, some neckties, some underwear and socks, two pairs of cowboy boots, a pair of pointed black dress shoes, a pair of tan suede loafers, and heavy work-boots. With care Collins wrapped the boots in newspaper and took them out to his car.

The Sunset Nursery was a sprawling emporium selling everything from potted orchids to garden tractors, firewood, flagstones and cement. Collins talked first to the owner, then to a man named Sam Delucci, the warehouse manager, and then to Ricks’ fellow-employees. He learned that Ricks was older than he had thought, nearer forty than thirty. His job had consisted of loading and unloading trucks, delivering orders of sand, fertilizer, rock, peat moss and the like to customers’ cars in the parking lot. He had worked cheerfully if without any great enthusiasm. His pay had been a dollar and ninety cents an hour. He had been a braggart, with a talented imagination. About a third of his talk had dealt with the big money he had won at Las Vegas or playing the horses, the remaining two thirds celebrated his triumphs on the bandstand and in the bedroom. He had often spoken of plans to organize an all-star band for the purpose of recording his songs, of which he claimed to have composed more than a hundred. Some of these, according to Ricks, had been pirated into smash hits by competitors. He had played on weekends at the Clover Club, on Morgan and J Streets, an establishment he undiscourageably urged his fellow-employees to patronize.

On the morning of Friday, June 12, Ricks had telephoned in to report himself sick with stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. “He laid it on thick,” Delucci, the warehouse manager, said. “Steve wouldn’t just say he was sick and hang up; he had to make like he had bubonic plague mixed with a broken leg and falling hair. He sang one pitiful song, that guy did. I even felt sorry for him. I told him to go to bed, take some aspirin, and come to work when he felt better. I should have known.”

About his background Ricks had never been explicit. He had seemed to be unmarried. His previous jobs and occupations were legion. According to him, he had sold cars, tended bar, worked in a service station, picked apricots, grapes and peaches, worked in packing sheds, dealt poker at gambling clubs, run the chuck-a-luck cage at a Las Vegas resort. As a bookmaker, he claimed to have lost nine thousand dollars on one race and won ten thousand on the next. By and large the verdict of his fellow-workers was favorable: Steve Ricks had been a blow-hard and no-good, but there were also tales of sharing his lunch with a nursing mother-cat. Collins heard nothing which might have served to link the life of Ricks with Earl Genneman’s.

Returning to headquarters, Collins took Ricks’ workboots to the laboratory, together with the samples of mud and dirt he had collected along the Copper Creek Trail. “What I want to know,” he told Otto Kalisher, the technician, “is this: did these boots walk through this dirt or step in this mud?”

Collins asked when he could have a report, but Kalisher would make no definite commitment. “I’m up to my ears. Likely tomorrow morning. Say ten o’clock.”

Collins had to be content, although he itched with impatience. Had Ricks followed Genneman to Persimmon Lake and beyond? Then what? Had he shot Genneman? But they seemed to have inhabited different worlds. Or had Ricks been hired to shoot Genneman? Collins shook his head. What he knew of Ricks, of his easy life, his impudence, his braggadocio, make it hard to picture him as a paid assassin. But Collins had been wrong many times in his career and he seldom trusted his intuition. If Otto Kalisher declared that Ricks had stepped in the mud of Persimmon Lake, had scuffed his boots in the dirt of Lomax Meadow, then he must alter his thinking. But there was a too tempting simplicity to the theory that Ricks had been hired to kill Earl Genneman, and then had himself been killed, perhaps to forestall blackmail.

Returning to headquarters, Collins found Easley at his desk, receiver to his ear, checking out the last few license numbers of the list supplied by Superintendent Phelps. He finished his call and drew a line through one of the few uncanceled names on the list.

“No leads,” he told Collins. “We’re down now to about a dozen parties who seem to be off on vacations.”

“Give it a rest,” said Collins. “This Ricks business is the hottest thing we’ve got going.”

Easley stretched his heavy arms. “What do you have in mind?”

Collins took the yellow pad and pencil. “If Kalisher says Ricks was on the Copper Creek Trail, we’ve got something. Until then . . .” As he talked he scribbled notes. “First, the landlord. I’ve talked to him without much luck. A vague old bird. Maybe you can scratch up something he never thought to tell me.”

“Maybe so,” said Easley. “I’m a pretty vague bird myself.”

“Landlord and neighbors,” said Collins. “The usual drill: who were his friends, when they saw him last, the routine. Second, where is Ricks’ car? A ’54 Plymouth coupé license—you’ve got it somewhere. I’ll call the city police and put it on the hot list. In the meantime, we can check were he bought it. If he got credit, whom did he give for references? Third, where did he buy his gas? He used to work in a service station—he might have got chummy with the attendants. Fourth, we want some pictures of Ricks blown up from the photos hanging on his walls. Then Sullivan or Kerner or both can take them into Kings Canyon and circulate them around the campgrounds, the grocery store—everywhere Ricks might have shown himself. We want to know if he came in alone, talked to anyone, where he went when he left. Someone might have seen him start up the trail or come back down. Fifth: the Clover Club. Ever hear of it?”

“Sure. It’s a joint on Morgan Street. One of these Okie hangouts. It gets pretty wild on occasion.”

“Steven Ricks played in the orchestra there on weekends. If he went up into the mountains he must have told the band-leader something. Probably the same story he told Delucci at the Sunset Nursery. I’ll check that one out myself.”

“Something I’ve noticed,” complained Easley. “Whenever there’s overtime, sitting around a night club, with drinks on the taxpayers, it’s always the big shots that take over the investigation and never the sergeants. How come?”

Collins grinned and returned to the yellow pad. “Sixth, the check in Ricks’ shoe. Thirty-two dollars— for what? Who is J. K. Mansfield? Seventh, the murder weapon. A hammer? A hatchet? Eighth, just where did Ricks get put aboard the boxcar? Ninth, if Ricks went up the Copper Creek Trail, what did he use for camping equipment? Did he rent it, borrow it, buy it? If so, where? Tenth, Ricks’ relatives: who and where are they? Eleventh, does he have any bank accounts? Is he in debt? Is that hundred dollars mad-money that he always carried? If not, where did he get it? Twelfth, the shotgun. Thirteenth, do any of Genneman’s friends or relatives know Ricks? Fourteenth . . . That’s enough for today. I’ve got to get more men on the job. Let’s see now. You take care of the landlord, the neighbors, the gas station, and if you have any time left, telephone around the places that rent out camping equipment. Tonight I’ll look into the Clover Club. That still leaves a lot of work. Maybe I can get a couple more men. First, I better write out a report for Bigelow. He likes everything in black and white.”

“You’re telling me,” said Easley.

The sergeant cleared off his desk and departed to interview James and Lillian White at 982 Mulberry Street. Collins went to his office. He typed:

On Friday, June 12, a vehicle registered to Steven Ricks entered the General Grant National Park. We do not know when this vehicle left the park. It is possible that Ricks followed the Genneman party up Copper Creek Trail. On Tuesday, June 16, between approximately 6 p.m. and midnight, Ricks was killed by blows of a hammer or similar implement.

Collins, reading what he had written, smiled grimly. If Bigelow wanted to leap to conclusions, it was his privilege. He finished:

Investigations into the activities of Steven Ricks during the last two weeks are proceeding at his residence and his two places of work: the Sunset Nursery and the Clover Club, both of Fresno.

The time was five o’clock. Collins walked down the corridor to Bigelow’s office and to his relief found no one behind the desk. He tucked the report into the IN basket and departed.

From headquarters to the Morningside Estates was a drive of twenty-five minutes in the afternoon traffic. This gave Collins time to metamorphose from a police inspector to a suburban home-owner, while his thoughts segued from crime and Captain Bigelow to what might be on the stove for dinner.

He swung through the portals of Moringside Estates, drove out Astarte Avenue, turned into Osiris Way, drove a block, and pulled into his driveway. Merle and Jill, Lorna’s two little girls from her previous marriage, sat on the lawn, blond hair brushed, frocks starched crisp. Seeing, their new stepfather, they jumped to their feet and ran to him.

“Hi, kids,” said Collins in an attempt at a paternal voice. He parked, alighted, his hand behind him. “Daddy Collins!” squealed Merle. “Did you bring us something?”

“Yeah,” said Collins, “I happened to run across a couple of dolls, and thought you two might be interested.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Mommy, look what Daddy Collins brought us! Aren’t they cute?”

Lorna appeared in the doorway. “Daddy, you shouldn’t do things like that. They’ll be expecting something every night.” But she was secretly pleased.

He kissed her. “You’re looking beautiful tonight. As usual.”

“How do we look, Daddy Collins? These are clean dresses!”

“You look like two ice-cream cones.”

They went inside. Lorna brought a pitcher of martinis from the refrigerator; Collins settled into the sofa with a sigh. “This is the life. Relax, man, relax.” He loosened his collar and tie.

“I had no idea you worked under such tense conditions,” said Lorna, stroking his forehead. “Poor dear, was it such a hard day?”

“I’m so tense I’m going to work overtime tonight. At a place called the Clover Club. I’ll need a nifty broad along for cover. What do you say?”

Lorna laughed, then frowned. “What about the children?”

“Morningside Estates has a baby-sitting agency-part of its many services, if you can believe their brochure. One call, and a nice old lady knocks on the door.”

“I don’t have a thing to wear,” wailed Lorna.

“At the Clover Club blue jeans would be fashionable. In fact, I don’t want you to dress up. Tonight, I’m the Omar Collins I used to be when the world was young.”

“Are you very hungry?” Lorna asked, with her disconcerting habit of abruptly changing the subject, as if her mind worked on several levels at once.

“I’m always very hungry. What’s for supper?”

“Something new I thought I’d try. Pork pie with leeks. I hope you like it,” Lorna said anxiously.

“Let me wash up, and I’ll show you!” Inwardly, Collins prayed that it would be more edible than her fried chicken.

The Clover Club during the day was a ramshackle structure running half the distance between I and J Streets, on Morgan. Ten years before, someone had painted the siding cobalt blue, which by now had so cracked and weathered that the previous color—brick red—showed through, creating a rather happy effect.

After sundown an incomprehensible magic transformed the dinginess, bringing wonder and excitement of a garish sort. The red and blue neon sign flashed CLOVER CLUB up and down Morgan Street; in each window burned the multicolored emblems of Lucky Lager, Falstaff, Olympia, Brew 102, Budweiser, and Schlitz; from within came the muffled clatter of many voices, the thump of the bass fiddle, the nasal whine of voices raised in celebration of unrequited love.

There was a cover-charge of a dollar a couple. A sign warned off minors and roving-eyed stags, but in practice both occasionally gained entry with the full knowledge of the huge special policeman. His favorite method of quelling a disturbance was to toss both offenders to the floor and plant his enormous buttocks on them.

The bar occupied one entire wall; along another ran a counter serving hamburgers, pizza, and barbecued ribs. The bandstand jutted out on the dance floor, and when Inspector Collins and his wife arrived, four men stood strutting and swinging in the glare of pink spots: two guitarists, a string bass, and a fiddler who doubled on the drums.

Collins and Lorna found a table. He ordered Bourbon highballs from a waitress who came over immediately.

When she returned with the drinks, Collins asked, “Whose quartette is that up there?”

The waitress looked around as if she were deaf. “Oh, that’s Little Lefty Willis and his Panhandlers.”

“Is Steve Ricks coming in tonight?”

“Steve Ricks? Who’s he?”

“A guitarist. He plays here.”

The waitress smiled perfunctorily. “I don’t keep track of the musicians. I couldn’t—they come and go faster than the customers.” She took Collins’ money and hurried away.

“Let’s dance,” said Collins. “If I want to charge the city for an evening out, I’ve got to produce.”

They danced around behind the bandstand and waited till the number was over. Collins attracted the attention of the violinist. “When does Steve Ricks come on?”

The musician, long, somber and gaunt, shook his head mournfully. “Not tonight. He’s here Friday and Saturday with Jake Mansfield and his bunch. This is Little Lefty and his Panhandlers. I’m Little Lefty.”

“I’d hate to tangle with your big brother,” said Collins amiably. One mystery solved: the identity of J. K. Mansfield. Thirty-two dollars undoubtedly represented Ricks’ wages for a weekend’s work. “The band sounds pretty good.”

“Thanks much. Anything you’d like to hear?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Collins. “But I wonder how I can get word to Ricks?”

“Beats me. Maybe hire one of them sky-writing machines.”

“I’d better talk to Mansfield. Do you know where he can be found?”

“I sure do. That’s Jake playing the guitar—the heavy-set guy. Hang around. We take a break after this number.”

Collins took Lorna back to the table, and they waited while the group sang Rover’s Got a Doghouse in the Sky. The selection received applause. Little Lefty bowed; Jake Mansfield played a quick pizzicato on his Durbro. Collins went back to the bandstand.

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?”

“I want to see Miss Wilkerson,” said Collins.

“She’s not here just now. She ought to be home any time, though.”

Collins looked up and down the road. The girl said. “She won’t let anybody come inside the house while I’m baby-sitting, so you can wait on the steps.”

Collins seated himself on the second step and leaned back on his elbows to listen to the sounds of the neighborhood. From the house next door came the squawk of a television program. From behind him squealed the complaints of a pair of small children and the reprimands of the babysitter. A telephone bell shrilled; Collins heard the baby-sitter’s voice. The sun disappeared behind the eucalyptus across the way.

A black Valiant sedan came down the road and turned into the driveway, and a woman in black slacks and a jade blouse got out. She was tall and lean, with a harpy swiftness of movement, about thirty years old; she had a big nose in a clever face. Her eyes were grotesquely made up; her hair rose in a great sour-looking puff. She surveyed Collins with calculation. “You waiting for me?”

“You’re Molly Wilkerson?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Inspector Omar Collins, Fresno County Sheriff’s Office.”

“What have I done now?”

“Nothing, I hope,” said Collins. “I need information.”

“Just a minute till I send the baby-sitter home. Come in,” she added, as an afterthought.

Collins followed her across the porch into a living room furnished with a television set, an overstuffed sofa, two matching chairs, and two end-tables, each bearing an enormous lamp.

Molly Wilkerson looked into a bedroom where the children were playing. She heard a short recital of deeds and misdeeds, then the girl departed. “Don’t forget I’m working tonight,” Molly called after her. “You be here at eight-thirty.”

“Okay, Mrs. Wilkerson.” The front door slammed.

Returning to the living room, Molly surveyed Collins through careful eyes. “I can’t imagine why you want to talk to me.”

“I’m making inquiries into the death of Earl Genneman.”

Molly lifted her heavy eyebrows. “Who?”

“Earl Genneman, owner of Genneman Laboratories.”

“I wouldn’t know anybody like that.”

“You never even heard the name?”

“Definitely not. Should I of?”

“I thought it possible. Steve Ricks is involved.”

Molly lit a cigarette. “Steve Ricks,” she said. Cigarette smoke drifted up past her face.

Information out of this one was going to be hard to get, thought Collins. “I take it you’ve been notified of Ricks’ death?”

“What?” She seemed genuinely startled.

Collins said gravely, “I’d assumed his friends were notified.”

“Nobody said anything to me.”

“When did you see him last?”

Molly blinked. “How did Steve die?”

“He was murdered. Possibly by the killer of Earl Genneman.”

“You didn’t say Genneman was killed. What’s the connection with Steve?”

“You saw Steve when?” Who was questioning whom? Collins wondered.

Molly took a reflective puff. “Genneman . . . He had a big drug company, you say?”

Something was ticking at the back of Molly’s mind. But she shook her head again. “How could Steve be tied up with a big shot like that?”

Collins thought her perplexity forced. “When did you see him last?”

“Let’s see . . . You know where I work?” She seemed determined not to answer the question. It made him just as determined to get her to do so.

“Smoky Joe’s. You’re a waitress there.”

Molly pursed her lips, gave her head a fastidious shake, stubbed her cigarette out with delicate dabs. A wolverine, thought Collins, half fascinated. “I was born in a high-class family, Inspector. I was never expected to turn a hand for a thing. Then I was forced to make my own living. I just had to do something to keep my children from starving.”

“What about Steve Ricks?”

“Steve—well, he was a man I knew. A lot of fun for the races, the fights, a poker party—not the kind I’d take seriously.”

“Naturally not.” Collins tried to keep the weariness out of his voice.

“Especially after he went to Fresno, to play at that honky-tonk.”

“The Clover Club?”

“That’s the place.”

“And when did you see him last?”

Molly said suddenly, “Oh, two, three weeks ago, something like that.”

Collins sighed. “And what was the occasion?”

“No occasion. He came up on business, dropped by. We talked over old times, had a drink or two, then we went out for a steak. Then I had to go to work.”

“He came to Smoky Joe’s?”

“Oh, yes. He wanted to play at Joe’s bad.”

“He came there often?”

“Not often. I might see him like once a month.”

“He’d come with friends?”

“Once in a while. But don’t ask me who they were, because he never introduced me. Thought ’em too good for me, maybe. And my grandmother from one of the best families in Texas! That’s a fact, Inspector.”

“Of course. Why did Ricks keep coming to the Down Home Cabaret?”

“He was always trying to get on the orchestra.”

“Did he play that last night—sit in with the orchestra?”

“I don’t believe so. To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay much heed. I was rushed as usual. Inspector, if you want to know what work is, you try handling all those tables. It’s a real hassle.”

Collins surveyed her. “Steve Ricks stayed till the place closed?”

“Yes, indeed. At least I think so. I just can’t be sure. He might have left earlier.”

Collins’ suspicions deepened. Molly Wilkerson clearly wanted to tell nothing. “He was alone?”

“I believe he was talking to some friends part of the time. Steve loved to talk. He was a real talker. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.” It seemed a rather belated expression of grief.

“Who was he with that night?”

“I didn’t notice. That was one of our real busy nights. I was rushing around like a mad woman.”

“Mrs. Wilkerson,” said Collins. “Are you trying to tell me that you failed to notice who your boy friend was sitting with?”

“Please don’t yell. My children are in the other room.” She was a slippery customer, all right. “I’m telling you; you can believe it or not. Someday you try it, working thirty-three tables on a busy night—”

“I’d like to remind you that Ricks was murdered. Somebody may go to the gas chamber if we can get the evidence. It’s your duty to help supply this evidence. Now I’ll ask you once again: who was sitting with Ricks the last night you saw him?”

Molly rose, unabashed. “If you think I pay attention to every drunk at every table, you’re crazy.”

“So there were drunks at the table. Who was drunk—Steve? The others?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ve got to get ready to go to work, Inspector.” Molly nodded coldly, and Collins took his leave.

He walked down to the road, glanced back at the house. Molly’s shadow moved across the living room. He ran quietly into the driveway, holding to the shadows beside the house. Just overhead was the open window from which he had heard the ring of the telephone bell.

Molly was already talking, Collins pressed his ear as near the window as he dared.

“. . . asking all kinds of questions about Steve Ricks,” Molly was saying in a portentous voice. “Did you know that Steve was murdered? . . . Well, that’s what this cop said. It’s a fact . . . No . . . He wanted to know all about Steve, who his friends were, and especially who Steve was with two weeks ago at the Down Home . . . I didn’t mention any names. I figured knowledge is money, and it might be worth something to you to be kept out of it . . . Naturally not . . . I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. I’d never protect somebody I thought was crooked. Not unless they paid me an awful lot of money, haha! . . . No, I don’t. I’ll leave it to you; whatever it’s worth . . . That’s okay; all donations gratefully accepted. ’Bye now.”

Collins waited, but the Wilkerson woman made no more calls. When he heard her talking to the children, he walked out and got into his car, where he sat for a moment grinning wickedly. Collins was not one to feel remote from his job. Lies were no novelty, information was often denied him, and such things annoyed him. But not as much as this one.

This was different, a quality of cold reptilian greed; it affected him differently.

He started the car and drove slowly back to South Jefferson and into Bingham Valley Road, then north up Latham Avenue. Ahead a sign burned blue and green: LEO’S FASHION RESTAURANT. It was seven o’clock and he had eaten nothing but a sandwich since breakfast. He parked and went into the restaurant, which was crowded. He gave his name to the hostess and found a seat at the bar. He ordered a bourbon highball.

He thought of Molly Wilkerson and chuckled grimly. The day had not gone badly . . .

He remembered some loose ends and went to the phone booth. First he called Buck James and asked if he were acquainted with Steve Ricks. Buck James claimed no such acquaintance. Collins then checked Red Kershaw’s number in the directory, and dialed, but there was no answer.

He had better luck at the Genneman house. A young, gruff masculine voice, Earl Junior’s, answered.

“Miss Jean Genneman, please,” said Collins.

There was no response. But Collins waited, and presently Jean came to the phone. “Hello?”

Collins identified himself. “I called earlier today, but you were playing golf.”

She seemed embarrassed. “I suppose it seems unfeeling of me, but I was going out of my mind. Buck called and asked if I felt like some fresh air, and it seemed a good idea.”

“Oh, you’ve made up with Mr. James?”

“It’s not exactly the romance of the century,” Jean said in a cold voice. “We’re merely friends. But you didn’t call to ask about my love life.”

“I’d like to know if your father—or anyone else—has ever mentioned a Steve Ricks.”

“Steve Ricks? I don’t believe so. Let me think. No . . . What does he do?”

“He’s a musician. Plays guitar. Cowboy music.”

“He wouldn’t be a friend of Earl’s,” said Jean positively. “Earl wanted to deport all folk singers and cowboy musicians to Russia.”

“Well, keep thinking, Miss Genneman, and if you remember the name Steve Ricks in any connection at all, let me know. It would be a big help.”

“I’ll do my best. Have you learned anything more about who killed Earl?”

“We’re accumulating information. This Steve Ricks matter is part of it. But there’s nothing definite yet. How did you make out in your finals?”

The question seemed to annoy her. She said shortly, “I did okay. Is that all, Inspector?”

“That’s about it for now. Is Mr. Kershaw there?”

“Yes, he’s here.”

“May I speak to him, please?”

Red Kershaw came to the phone and reported no acquaintance with Steve Ricks.

Collins returned to the bar. Peculiar. Why should Jean Genneman resent his asking her about her finals?

He was called to his table.

During dinner and the drive home he pondered the identity of the person Molly Wilkerson had telephoned and presently evolved a scheme to extract the answer. The plan afforded him a degree of acrid amusement. Its principal drawback lay in the fact that it could hardly be put into effect until the following night. In the meantime much might happen. Molly was playing a dangerous game.

CHAPTER 8

The case was heating up. The morning papers covered each of the murders, though making no connection between them. The killing of Earl Genneman inspired the most detailed coverage:

MOUNTAIN MURDERER

STILL AT LARGE

Police Comb Wilderness
for Shotgun Maniac

ran the headline. Below appeared the usual garbled account of developments to date, with a map of the Copper Creek Trail and a statement from Detective Captain Bigelow.

Steve Ricks was given a box at the bottom of the page with what Collins considered an over-optimistic head:

PROBE SLAYING OF FOLK GUITARIST;

POLICE CLOSE TO HAMMER KILLER

The story dealt with the finding of the body, a short interview with Mrs. Ramon Menendez, and a statement from Sergeant Rod Easley. Collins was not mentioned in either of the stories, a fact he noted with a cynical grunt.

He went to Bigelow’s office for a conference. Today being Saturday, Bigelow was anxious to get to the golf course. Collins also had the weekend off, but he was more interested in his scheme for extracting information from Molly Wilkerson before she either collected her hush-money or was killed. He explained his plan and was gratified to see Bigelow grin. “Clever. It may work, Omar. It’s certainly; worth a try.”

At least Bigelow wasn’t one to veto an idea simply because of its unorthodoxy. Or maybe, thought Collins unkindly, he didn’t know the difference.

“Phelps called from the park,” said Bigelow. “His men have made what he calls ‘an informal search’; they’ve checked trails within a thirty-mile radius of Persimmon Lake and found not a damn thing.”

“Steve Ricks is the key to the entire affair,” said Collins. “If we find who killed him and why, we’ll crack the Genneman case. At least that’s my opinion.”

Bigelow nodded wisely. “Has Easley turned up anything?”

“Not much. The landlord paid no attention to Ricks; the neighbors never noticed him except when he practiced his guitar. Easley covered neighborhood service stations but nobody claims to have known him.”

“What about Sullivan and Kerner in the park?”

“Nobody so far remembers Ricks or his car. They’ll need another day or so to finish.”

“And the service station where Ricks used to work?”

“Easley’s looking for it. I’ll mention it to him again.”

Collins returned to his office.

Earl Genneman had been killed by a shotgun blast a day and a half’s hike into the wilderness.

Steve Ricks had hiked the same trail, either independently or following the Genneman party, and on his return to Fresno had been killed. From these events a multitude of theories could be formulated, with insufficient facts to prove anything. Was there another woman in Genneman’s life? His wife appeared to think not; his stepdaughter had also scouted the possibility. Interesting situation with Jean. Almost as if Genneman’s death had been a signal, or had removed a barrier, she and Buck James were back on friendly terms. Had the offer of a managership in Wisconsin been contingent upon Buck’s staying away from Jean? A device to get him out of the way?

Nothing was impossible. Collins drummed on the desk, and reached for the telephone directory. He made a list of establishments which rented camping equipment. Then, procuring a photograph of Ricks from Easley’s desk, he left.

On his third try, at Bain’s Sporting Goods, Collins struck pay dirt. The clerk both remembered Ricks’ face and, after considerable rummaging, found a record of the transaction. Collins examined the slip with interest. It was dated June 12, Friday, the day before Ricks had entered the National Park. There was no notation as to when the equipment had been returned, but the clerk explained that none was usually made.

“What time Friday did he come in?” asked Collins.

The clerk shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“The slip has a number. Would that tell you anything?”

“Maybe so.” The clerk went back to the files, checked slips dated Friday, June 12, noted the lowest number and the highest number extrapolated, “I’d say—just a guess—that he came in about ten o’clock.”

Collins studied the receipt. It noted only a pack-frame and a sleeping bag, and Ricks had paid in advance for one week.

“He also got some dehydrated food,” said the clerk. “I forget just what it was. Seems like it wasn’t very much, but I don’t rightly remember.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He might have. I didn’t pay particular attention; I see twenty people a day like him.”

Collins continued to study the slip; there was a set of numbers at the top. “This must be the number of his driver’s license.”

“Yes. That’s how we keep our customers honest. We don’t lose much gear.”

“Think back a bit. Did Ricks say anything at all about this trip? If he was to meet someone, or where he expected to go?”

The clerk shook his head. “I simply don’t remember a thing he said. I don’t believe he had much to say. Just wanted some gear for a few days in the mountains.”

“Was anyone with him when he came into the store?”

The clerk started to speak, stopped. Then he said, “No, but now that I think of it, he parked in that loading zone across the street. Parking’s real tight around here, and he seemed nervous that he was going to get a ticket. Anyway he kept looking over his shoulder all the time he was in the shop.”

“Anyone in his car?”

“I didn’t notice. I remember, though, the car was a new Ford Galaxie. My father has one just like it, the same color and everything.”

“What color?”

“Off-white, sandy-white, desert tan, whatever they call it. Some fancy name.”

“Well, well. You didn’t by any chance notice the license number?”

“Lord, no.”

“Did Ricks talk to anyone else while he was in here?”

“No, sir. But don’t put too much store by what I’m telling you. I paid the man no attention; he was just another customer. I’m surprised I even recognized his picture.”

Collins returned to headquarters, where he found Sergeant Easley, who reported no success after a morning spent checking service stations. Collins told Easley what he had learned at Bain’s Sporting Goods. “What puzzles me,” he said, “is the new white Ford Steve was driving.”

“Pretty hard to confuse with a green ’54 Plymouth,” said Easley. “What should I do next? Nothing is working out for me.”

“Where’s that list we drew up?”

Easley produced the list. Collins studied it. “Point one: landlord and neighbors. Nothing there. Two: Ricks’ car. We’ve got that, we know where he bought it. Three: service station where he got his gas. Nothing on this yet. Four: Sullivan and Kerner can’t find any trace of Ricks in the park. Scratch this one. Five: the Clover Club. I want to try again, there may be more there. Six: the check for thirty-two dollars. Jake Mansfield; that we know. Seven, the murder weapon. Pretty hopeless. Eight: where did Steve get loaded aboard the boxcar? You might look into that. Find where access to the yard is easiest. It’s probably not far from where his car was found. Nine: the camping equipment. That’s taken care of. Ten: Ricks’ family. Bigelow has contacted them; we can let this go for a while. Eleven: bank accounts, debts. The hundred-dollar bill. You might go down to the Sunset Nursery, ask around there some more. Somebody might remember something. Twelve: the shotgun.”

“The landlord says Steve never owned a shotgun,” said Easley.

“Nothing looks very hot. Try the Sunset Nursery, then see if you can figure where he got loaded aboard the boxcar. Ask around the neighborhood, look in the ditch for Steve’s hands.”

Easley left for the Sunset Nursery; a short time later Collins set out for San Jose.

He arrived a few minutes past five. At the main Western Union office he hired a messenger, to whom he gave explicit instructions. Then, with an hour or two to kill, he drove past Genneman Laboratories, Incorporated: a row of glass and concrete structures that Collins had expected; Genneman must have been several times a millionaire. But who profited by his death? Not Opal, who had had everything and appeared to mourn her husband deeply. Not the children, who were neither better nor worse off than before. The fact, thought Collins, was that Genneman’s death seemed to help no one. If the inquiry into Steve Ricks trickled out, he’d set an accountant to looking over the Westco books and inventory. Not impossibly Bob Vega, Buck James, Red Kershaw, or all three had been finagling with the stock.

Collins filled up at a Mexican restaurant, then drove south along Latham Avenue through the gathering dusk. Ahead he saw a big square sign in red tubes and yellow bulbs:

SMOKY JOE’S

DOWN HOME CABARET

Collins parked, looked up and down, crossed to the phone booth near the entrance, made his preparations. Then he went into the bar, took a seat in a dim corner, and settled himself to watch and wait.

He spotted Molly Wilkerson working tables at the far side of the cabaret. She wore a skin-tight black skirt and a white jersey blouse split down the front. Her bleached hair soared high. Collins watched with the intensity of a cat at a mousehole. Molly certainly knew her way around the customers. Those who impressed her as big spenders she served with dainty little flourishes and a view down the split blouse. Those whom she took to be cheap Johns received quick processing: drinks slapped down, money collected, the dime tip pocketed, and off again with a flirt of her tail.

The orchestra took an intermission. One of the guitarists came into the bar: a man of thirty-five with bony features, sea-blue eyes, pale hair, and an expression of untroubled innocence. Collins signaled; he approached. “I wonder if you know Steve Ricks,” Collins asked. “I understand he played here a few times.”

“Sure I know Steve. Nice fella.”

“When was he around last?”

“Best part of a month. He give me a tip on a horse; I didn’t bet. The horse paid 15 to 1. I just about like to die.”

“Would that have been two weeks ago?”

“Yeah. Just about two weeks.”

“Did Steve play with the band that night?”

The guitarist tilted his blond head back in an easy laugh. “No, Steve was busy bending the elbow and making out with the girls. His friend was drunk. I never saw a man so drunk.”

“Oh? Who was the friend? Incidentally, have a drink.”

“I never say no. Bourbon and soda. Who was Steve’s friend? That I don’t know.”

“What did he look like?”

“I hardly noticed him. Man, was he smashed. A stretcher case. I seen drunks and I seen drunks. They all look alike.”

The guitarist talked on, describing drunks he had known, their particular and peculiar habits. Collins learned no more about Ricks. The guitarist returned to the stand.

Collins watched the time carefully. At five minutes to nine he went outside to the phone booth to get his apparatus going. Then he returned to his place at the bar.

At nine o’clock the Western Union messenger entered. He went up to a waitress, was directed to Molly, and handed her a letter.

Molly went to the side of the room and opened the letter. She withdrew a five dollar bill, at which she stared in surprise. Then she read the letter. Collins knew the contents; he had written it himself:

Dear Molly:

This five will have to do; I can’t go any more at just this time, being strapped and with many expenses. But I definitely want you to keep my name out of things. I understand the cops are going to crack down hard and talk about an accessory-to-murder rap. Don’t pay any attention. They may rave and threaten, but don’t let it worry you; they can’t do anything. I know I got a good friend in you, and that you wouldn’t let a friend in for trouble. I’m flying over to Honolulu for a week or two; it’s something I’ve promised a certain somebody a long time, which is why I’m strapped. You know how it is. Incidentally, if you ever call me again, use the pay phone; they may tap your line trying to learn my name.

Collins watched with a faint grin as Molly read the letter. When she had finished, she turned an unbelieving look at the five dollar bill and re-read the letter. Her sharp chin thrust forward. For a moment she stood by the wall in thought, then she turned and marched through the bar, passing not six feet from Collins. Her teeth were glittering in a grimace of anger.

Molly marched out to the phone booth.

Collins rose and went to the door. The woman had her back turned. He walked over to his car.

Molly dialed a number, waited impatiently, then spoke with vehemence. She hung up, flung open the door, and strode back inside the cabaret.

Collins waited five minutes, in case she thought of another phone call. Then he strolled over to the booth. From underneath the shelf he detached the small tape-recorder he had stuck there, switched it off, and took it back to his car.

He rewound the tape and listened to the playback. First he heard the scrape and rattle of Molly’s entry into the booth, the thud of the doors closing. Coins clinked; the double gong of the ten-cent register sounded, followed by a series of clicks.

After a pause came the faint rasp of a voice. Molly spoke: “Look here. This is you-know-who.” The other voice rasped in query.

“It’s Molly, if you’ve got to have it in black and white. I just got your letter and, boy, you couldn’t be more wrong! If you think you can give me a measly five-buck payoff to cover up for you, my friend, you are so far off base I could die.”

The voice rasped in wonderment. Molly warmed to her subject. “The nerve, five bucks, while you go merrily off to Honolulu with some floozie, and my feet hurting so I can hardly stand it jumping these tables. I’m telling you, bud, that crummy five-spot isn’t even a teaser. It’s an insult. What do you take me for, some stupid little jerk?”

The voice at the other end of the wire expostulated. Molly ignored the protests. “You’ll have to do a whole lot better, my friend, because I’m nobody’s patsy. And don’t think I’m not watching out for myself, because I am. I hope I make myself clear? I mean, don’t get any ideas.”

There was a thud as Molly viciously hung up the receiver, the rattle of the door, then silence.

Collins played the tape once more. Then pleased with himself, he started back to Fresno.

CHAPTER 9

Collins could well have taken Sunday off except for curiosity, which all night had visited him with near-physical pangs. So now, at nine thirty, with the laboratory deserted, he re-recorded the tape from the portable recorder into an Ampex at fifteen inches a second. Then he played back the tape at three and three-quarter inches per second, the sounds reduced four octaves in pitch. The door-closing became a groan. Molly’s change being placed on the shelf made a sound like far-off cowbells. Two deep reverberations echoed and boomed as she dropped the dime into the slot, some seconds later there came a noise like a stick on a picket fence, followed by tunk tunk tunk.

“Three,” said Collins, and made a note.

Presently another rattle, then tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk.

“Six,” said Collins.

And next: “Three.”

Finally he had the number which Molly had dialed. 363-2210.

He returned to his office, looked through his notes. Nowhere did he find such a number. He picked up his phone, dialed the San Jose exchange, then 363-2210.

At the other end of the connection the bell rang, but no one answered. Collins hung up.

Bigelow appeared in the doorway, resplendent in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and gray silk tie. Collins had telephoned him the night before about the success of the ploy, and curiosity evidently had been eating at Bigelow, too.

“On my way to church,” the captain said rather sheepishly, looking away from Collins’ raised eyebrows. “What did you make from the tape?”

Collins tossed him a sheet of paper. “That’s the number.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know yet. Nobody home.”

“It might be a business number.”

“I don’t think so. Molly called in the evening.”

“True. You’d better make another trip up to San Jose. Then when somebody answers the phone, you’ll be on the spot to ask some questions.”

“That makes sense,” said Collins hollowly. “I might as well move to San Jose. I practically live there now.”

“It’s a nice climate,” said Bigelow, so soberly that Collins looked at him. What did he mean by that?

“I’ve pulled Sullivan and Kerner out of the park,” said Bigelow. “They didn’t get a nibble in the campgrounds. Too many people coming and going.”

“It was an off-chance,” said Collins defensively. “It might have paid off big.”

“Oh, I’m not knocking the idea,” said Bigelow. “In fact, do you have any others?”

“Just this telephone number, which I’d call our best lead so far.”

“I agree,” said Bigelow magnanimously. “Well, I better get going. The wife and kids are waiting outside.”

Collins arrived at San Jose shortly after one. He lunched at a drive-in, then crossed the street to a service station phone booth and dialed 363-2210. No answer.

He looked through the directory, checking every name and institution associated with the case.

Earl Genneman was listed once, Genneman Laboratories was listed again, and Jean Genneman also had a listing. None of these was 363-2210.

Myron Retwig had a listing, also Pacific Chemicals. Neither was 363-2210.

Red Kershaw had a listing.

Robert Vega and Westco were listed.

None was 363-2210.

Buck James was not represented in the directory. But James had already, at Cedar Grove, given his number to Collins. It was not 363-2210.

Collins dialed Myron Retwig’s home number. Retwig answered, and Collins asked if he had a few minutes free. Retwig said he did, and gave directions how to reach his home.

He lived on the summit of a hill west of San Jose, the Coast Range bulking up behind. His house was an enormous three-story box, with a high mansard roof broken by dormers and chimneys at either end. A copse of tall black cypresses at the rear comprised the landscaping; there was no trace of a garden.

Retwig answered the door in tan trousers and a faded blue work-shirt. With his round brown face, stiff gray hair and owlish look, he seemed not so much the owner of the house as its gardener or handyman.

He took Collins in. The place was furnished with heavy, comfortable furniture: leather chairs, an ancient leather-upholstered sofa, a massive table supporting a two-foot globe. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. Retwig said by way of explanation, “I’m alone today. My wife is in San Francisco, my sons are at Monterey for the regatta. Is it too early for a drink?”

“I wouldn’t say so.”

Retwig went to a cabinet, mixed a pair of highballs. Over his shoulder he asked, “How is the investigation coming?”

“Not too badly,” said Collins. “Cases like this are solved by hard-nosed plugging.”

Retwig nodded. “This is true in almost any endeavor.”

“There’s been one interesting development,” said Collins with an air of candor. “It concerns a certain Steve Ricks. Is that name familiar to you?”

Retwig considered carefully. “It is, in the sense that you already have asked me the same question. Otherwise, to the best of my knowledge, I have never heard the name.”

Collins nodded, as if Retwig had uttered a profound truth. “I hoped that you might have remembered a reference to him. We have reason to believe that he’s linked with Mr. Genneman.”

Retwig made no comment.

“Jean Genneman seems to recall the name,” mused Collins. “But she can’t remember from where.”

“It’s not an unusual name.”

“True. Look, Mr. Retwig, I’d like you to talk to me frankly about the Genneman family. In complete confidence, and for the sake of background, what was the state of affairs in the Genneman household?”

Retwig half smiled. “If I say nothing, I obstruct justice. If I talk freely, I become a gossip. You put me in an uncomfortable position, Inspector.”

“I realize that,” said Collins. “I make the request only because it may bring Mr. Genneman’s murderer to justice. Please?”

Retwig deliberated. Then he said, “I can’t tell you a great deal, because there isn’t much to tell. Earl and Opal seemed quite happy together. She was clever enough, or kind enough, to complement him— bring out the best in him. A less understanding and subtle woman might have made Earl’s life hell.”

“How so?”

“Earl was a positive man. He made decisions by a process which represented subconscious but perfectly accurate logic, but which might be mistaken for pigheadedness. Opal understood this.”

“What of Earl Junior?”

Retwig pursed his lips, “I’d say that in that department Earl did as good a job as anyone could. I am not a Freudian, thank God, and I can’t even guess at the shape of young Earl’s thoughts. But it would be wrong to blame the father for the son.”

“They didn’t have a good relationship?”

“I wouldn’t say so, no.”

“Where did Mrs. Genneman stand in all this?”

“In my opinion, Opal has behaved admirably. He may change with maturity, but as of now I consider Earl Junior pretty unprepossessing.”

“I appreciate your frankness,” said Collins. “Now, as to Jean?”

“No mystery there. She’s exactly what she appears: a healthy young woman with a strong personality.”

“She and her stepfather were on good terms?”

“Very much so. Earl gave her the affection he would have given his own flesh and blood. She felt the same toward him.”

“What’s the story between Jean and Buck James?”

“It’s beyond my understanding. Buck was graduated from the University of Wisconsin and came to Stanford for graduate work. He met Jean, they became engaged. Earl approved the match and gave Buck a job with Westco. Then the romance cooled and the two drifted apart. What I suspect is that Jean wanted to get married immediately, whereas Buck wanted to wait until he was independent, or at least out from under Earl’s shadow. He liked and respected Earl—but Earl had a very dominating personality, and if he disapproved of something he did so vehemently, to say the least. Earl was a good friend. He could also be a bad enemy.”

“And you, Mr. Retwig—why did you leave Genneman Pharmaceuticals?”

“For something of the same reasons which, in my opinion, dissuaded Buck from an early marriage with Jean. And because I was offered a more responsible job at more money.”

“But now you’re back working for Genneman Pharmaceuticals.”

“Opal offered me a better job with more money than my job with Pacific; and Earl is no longer around to demoralize me with his off-the-cuff—and accurate—decisions. You see,” said Retwig with a faint smile, “I’m the thinking-man type. I weigh and ponder, I project trends, I calculate probabilities—I eliminate the less promising courses of action and finally arrive at one which I regard as optimum. All that takes time. Earl would reach the same decision in half a second . . . I explained this to him when I left Genneman Laboratories, and he was greatly amused.”

“I understand you both were interested in model railroading,” said Collins, “that it was the basis of your friendship.”

“It was a mutual interest, certainly. Have you seen Earl’s set-up?”

“Mrs. Genneman showed it to me.”

“What did you think of it?” For the first time Retwig seemed to speak without calculation.

“I said to myself: how I wish I’d had something like this when I was a boy.”

Retwig jumped to his feet. “Take a look at mine.”

He slid back a door, snapped a set of switches. Collins took his drink and followed.

“Up four steps, Inspector. Don’t trip.”

The steps rose to a walkway that encircled a room twenty feet square. The layout occupied the entire floor, with tracks wandering through a miniature landscape. Collins stared in wonder. If Earl Genneman’s layout had been impressive, this was a marvel. There was a central area divided into four sectors, each tinted a different color: purple, yellow, red and blue. At the center was a city of domes, towers and palaces, all fashioned of brilliant green glass.

Retwig watched Collins with a smile. “Do you recognize it?”

Collins nodded slowly. “It’s the Land of Oz, by golly. I haven’t thought of it for—well, a long time.”

“I probably know more about Oz than any man alive. The research I have put into this project, the money I’ve spent! And here it all is. The Land of Oz. The blue Munchkin country, the yellow land of the Winkies, the red Quadling country, the purple Gillikin country, the Emerald City at the center. There’s the Tin Woodsman’s castle, and there’s the palace of Glinda the Good. Notice the cottage where Tip lived with Mombi the Witch. There’s Foxville, and Bunbury, and Bunnybury. Over there is the Nonestic Ocean—I’m sorry I don’t have room for the islands of Pingaree, Regos, Coregos and Phreex. Below is the Deadly Desert and the Land of Ev. The Nomes work underneath the mountains; in the crags live the Whimsies, the Growleywogs and the Phanfasms. I’ve used the O’Neill illustrations faithfully. In fact the only false note is the railroads themselves. Baum would have disapproved. Still, they’re the excuse for all this, and I’ve kept them in character.”

He went to a panel, touched switches. From below came a faint whirring, and Oz-type locomotives tugged Oz-type cars through the landscapes. In the mountains directly below, a small gray mining mole hauled gondolas heaped with sparkling crystals from the Nome caverns, dumped them into a hopper, returned within the mountain to reappear with a new load. Green trolley cars traversed the avenues of the Emerald City.

“There’s a lot I had to leave out,” said Retwig. “I don’t intend to put any more work into it. If my sons want to take over they’re welcome. They don’t show too much interest, but maybe their children will enjoy it.” He shrugged, touched switches. The trains halted; the fountains stopped playing before the palace of Glinda the Good; the lights went out in the Emerald City.

The two men returned to the great hall. “Let me mix you another drink,” said Retwig.

Collins held out his glass, and watched as Retwig poured whisky. Could a man who had lavished such labor upon a fairy tale employ somebody to blast the head off his best friend? Collins suddenly felt like drinking all of Retwig’s whisky.

“Among Mr. Genneman’s papers I found this number.” Collins showed Retwig the number Molly Wilkerson had called. “I can’t identify it, and no one answers. Is it familiar to you?”

“Not offhand. I’ll look in my book.” Retwig went to a desk, checked through a leather-hound notebook. “Sorry, No number like that here.”

Collins returned the paper to his pocket. “What’s your private theory of this case?”

“I don’t have any.” Retwig spoke softly. “In my position it’s better not to think too much.”

Collins did not press for an explanation. He thought he saw a glimmer of Retwig’s meaning. He finished his whisky, thanked Retwig for his cooperation, and departed the mansion on the hill.

Collins drove back toward San Jose via Stevens Creek Road. At Los Robles Boulevard he turned south, and a few minutes later he pulled up before the Genneman mansion.

Jean answered the door, transparently expectant. Her face changed when she saw Collins. “Oh, Inspector. Come in.”

Collins had not appreciated what a fine figure she had. Her hair had been cut short, and scrubbed and brushed till it glistened. She looked almost beautiful.

“Mother’s upstairs in the shower,” Jean said airily. “Stinker’s out somewhere, so temporarily I’m in charge. Is there anything I can do?”

“One or two things,” said Collins. “Have you remembered anything about Steve Ricks?”

“No.”

“Ever hear of a Molly Wilkerson?”

“No again. Who are these people?”

“They’re involved in the case,” said Collins. “Ricks was killed last Tuesday, either as a result of killing your father, or because he knew who did.”

“How horrible!”

“But if you don’t know these people, then you don’t know them. May I ask a personal question?”

Jean’s face became wary. “I suppose in your business you’re obliged to do that —”

“Are you going to marry Buck James?”

Jean flushed. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you marry him before?”

She hesitated; her eyes flicked away.

“Did your stepfather object?”

“Definitely not!” she snapped. In a quieter tone she went on, “It’s complicated. Buck is a complicated man. I’m a complicated woman. I can’t explain easily. It’s got something to do with the range and overlap of our personalities.” She gave Collins an intimate smile, as from one complicated person to another.

“I think I understand,” said Collins, although he did not understand at all. “Actually, I dropped in to talk to Earl Junior.”

“He went off with one of his cronies. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Collins asked questions for another ten minutes, fishing here and there, but he learned nothing he did not already know. He took his leave, drove to a service station, and called the number 363-2210.

There was still no answer.

The time was five o’clock. He looked in his notebook for the address of Redwall Kershaw, consulted the city map, turned north toward Santa Clara, and a few minutes later pulled up before a building on Eagle Avenue. It was a green stucco four-plex; Kershaw rented the upper left apartment.

He had apparently just got home—when he opened the door, he was still wearing his hat.

“Come in, come in,” exclaimed Genneman’s brother-in-law heartily. “Welcome to my abode. I was just planning a pre-dinner slug of schnapps. Would you care to join me, or are you here on official business?”

“It’s official business,” said Collins in a neutral voice. “But first, do you mind if I use your telephone?”

“Be my guest, Inspector.”

Collins went to the phone, started to dial, then stared down at the number in the slot: 363-2210. He turned to Kershaw. “I though your number was—” he began to check his book.

“They changed my number, I don’t know why. I suppose I should have notified you.”

The inspector turned away from the phone, as if he had changed his mind about his phone call. “Do you know a man named Steve Ricks?”

Red Kershaw’s face showed only serenity.

“Steve Ricks, a cowboy guitar player,” Collins said.

Red Kershaw shook his head dubiously. “I meet lots of people; I might have heard the name. Or I might not. It rings no bells.”

“This is important, Mr. Kershaw. Are you absolutely certain you’ve never heard of Steve Ricks?”

Kershaw pulled at his long chin. “Offhand the name doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t lie to me, since this is a case of double murder. It’s not smart to lie in murder cases.”

“Naturally,” Kershaw said.

“I said ‘double murder.’ You didn’t seem surprised.”

“In my business, Inspector, a man is never surprised by anything. Somebody else got killed?”

“This Ricks. The case seems to be tied in with the murder of your brother-in-law. By the way, what were your plans for the evening?”

Red Kershaw glanced sidewise at Collins. “Nothing particular. I was going out for some chow mein.”

“Could you spare me an hour or two?”

“I suppose so,” Kershaw said unhappily. “What did you have in mind?”

“A short ride. I’ll point out somebody for you, to see if you can make an identification.”

“Who is it? I’ve got a few ex-wives I don’t particularly care to run into.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. We can go to City Hall and you could make the identification from a line-up.”

“That’s unnecessary. Let’s get it over with.”

In the car Red Kershaw asked again, “Who is it you want me to identify, anyway?”

“I’d prefer you not to have any preconceptions, Mr. Kershaw.”

Kershaw slumped sulkily into his seat. As Collins drove south he began to fidget, and when the car turned into Latham Boulevard he sat swiftly upright, started to say something, then held his tongue.

The sun had dropped behind the concrete walls of the new shopping center when Collins pulled up before Smoky Joe’s.

“You wait here,” said Collins. “I’ll come out with the person I want you to identify. You take a good close look. I want you to be sure.”

Kershaw nodded glumly. “Whatever you say.”

Collins went into the Down Home Cabaret. From the shadowed interior he watched Red Kershaw for a moment. Kershaw was just sitting there.

Collins spied Molly Wilkerson working her station across the room. He moved out to where she could see him, and signaled. She hesitated, then stalked across the room. “I can’t talk to you now.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Wilkerson, this is police business.”

Molly tried to cow Collins with a glare. Collins bore the glare with fortitude. She bit her lip. “Well—I’ve got two orders to get out, then I’ll be with you. What do you want?”

“There’s a man outside I’d like you to meet. After we talk a bit, I want you to tell me confidentially what you know about him.”

“Who is he?” But Collins was silent, and she shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “Just a minute and I’ll be with you.”

Collins went to the door to make sure Kershaw had not decamped. But Kershaw sat in the same position, looking down at his knees.

Molly joined him. She said haughtily, “Let’s get this over with.”

Collins took her out to the car. Kershaw immediately looked at him with the expression of a dog whose master has just stepped on his paw. Molly took one look, gave a sort of whinny, glared at Collins, and began to spread her claws.

“In the car, Mrs. Wilkerson.” Collins held open the rear door. She ungraciously got in. He climbed into the front beside Kershaw, and swung about so that he could watch both.

Kershaw said mournfully, “I thought we agreed to leave my ex-wives out of this.”

Collins grinned. “Mrs. Wilkerson is your ex-wife? I didn’t know that.”

“My second, or was it my third? I forget now. It’s something I don’t like to remember.”

Molly said something impolite under her breath.

“Well, now that I know you two know each other,” said Collins brightly, “let’s talk about Steve Ricks.”

“Steve Ricks?” Kershaw studied the ceiling of the car.

“The Steve Ricks whose name didn’t ring a bell back at your apartment. The Steve Ricks you met here two weeks ago.”

“Oh, that Steve Ricks. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I couldn’t have made it any clearer. I could pull you in right now, Kershaw, on a charge of trying to withhold information—”

“There’s a whole lot of Steve Rickses,” Kershaw muttered defensively.

“I’m talking about the dead Steve Ricks.”

“Don’t say a word!” shrilled Molly. “He can’t make you talk if you don’t want to!”

“Shut up,” said Red. “I haven’t done anything. Why shouldn’t I talk?”

“You were willing to pay Mrs. Wilkerson to keep your name out of it,” said Collins.

“A measly five bucks!” sniffed Molly. Then she glared at Collins. “How did you know?”

“Woman, time and again I told you I didn’t send you no five bucks. I wasn’t going to send you anything.”

Collins asked Molly, “Do you still have that five?”

“I certainly do. I’m going to frame it. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I wrote that letter, and I put in the five to get you sore at Mr. Kershaw. By the way, I want the five back; it’s official money.”

Molly shook her head mulishly. “It’s mine and I’m going to keep it.”

Collins laughed. “How would you like to go to jail for attempted blackmail, conspiring to obstruct justice, and being accessory to murder? Besides, it’s a marked bill.”

Molly promptly dug into her hip pocket and produced the five dollar bill. “And you know what you can do with it!” She started to leave the car.

“Just a minute,” said Collins, “I’m not through with you.” He turned to Kershaw. “What’s your connection with Steve Ricks?”

Kershaw gloomily nodded toward Molly. “That’s the connection.”

“Your ex-wife introduced you?”

“That’s right. Steve was a small-time bookie. He never did very much or very good, but—well, he and I were able to do favors for each other on occasion.”

“Such as?”

Kershaw fidgeted.

Molly laughed. “What he means is that once in a while he’d know when a horse was set for a certain race, and he’d belly up to Steve and they’d make a few lousy bucks together and they’d rejoice like they were real big shots. And there’s some other deals I could mention connected with the races at the county fair, when Red was hired as track steward and Steve collected for the saliva tests. Oh, there was some wonderful things that went on. I could write a book.”

“Don’t pay any attention to her!” Red told Collins anxiously. “This dame’s name is poison.”

‘“So you and Steve had business dealings,” mused Collins. “Did Earl Genneman know Steve?”

“Earl? Hell, no.”

“How do you explain the fact that Ricks followed you all into the mountains, camped at Persimmon Lake, and quite possibly shot Genneman?”

Red Kershaw gaped as if he suspected Collins of losing his reason. “What are you saying?”

“There’s pretty good proof of that.”

Kershaw shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“You mean you didn’t know he was following you?”

“Absolutely not!”

“That’s hard to believe, Kershaw.”

“I can’t help it. Those are the facts.”

“How come you didn’t recognize him at his camp?”

“It was a good way across the meadow. Cripes, I hardly looked at the man. He was just a spot in front of a fire.”

“Why should he want to shoot Earl Genneman?”

“Never in a thousand years. Steve was the biggest chicken alive. He could no more shoot a man’s head off with a shotgun than fly.”

Molly laughed shortly. “Even I’d agree to that. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector.”

“Why else did Steve Ricks go up into the mountains?”

“It beats me,” said Kershaw.

“Did you tell Steve you were going camping?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Pah!” spat Molly. “How would you know? You were so drunk you don’t know what you said.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” Kershaw said weakly. “But if I said something like that while I was drunk, he’d never have believed it. So it amounts to the same thing.”

“How come you were so nervous about your connection with Ricks?”

“I’d hardly call it nervousness,” said Kershaw nervously.

“You agreed to pay Molly to keep your name out of the investigation.”

“I only told her that to get her fangs out of my neck.”

“You son of a bitch,” said Molly.

“I figured Steve was dead. I knew I didn’t have anything to do with it, and I didn’t want to get mixed up in it.”

“Well, let’s have some facts. You last saw Steve Ricks when?”

“About two weeks ago, in Smoky Joe’s.”

“Did you arrange the meeting? Did you have business to talk over?”

“No, it was just chance. He was there and I was there. So we got talking and had a few drinks.”

“What did you talk about?”

“How would he remember?” sneered Molly. “He didn’t know up from down before the evening was through.”

“I must say I overindulged a bit,” said Red. “In fact, Steve had to drive me home.”

Molly spat, “Steve never drove you home! He rode with you, but I wouldn’t let him drive.”

“What did you have to say about it?”

“Because it was my car. I didn’t want it cracked up, the condition you two were in.”

“Where was his own car?” Collins asked. They were talking beautifully.

“He left it at my house,” snapped Molly. “If you have to know.”

“That’s funny,” said Red. “All the time I thought Steve took me home. How did I get home?”

“We wanted to send you home in a cab, only you didn’t have any money in your wallet. We saw a card which said ‘In case of accident notify Opal Genneman’ at such and such a telephone number. Steve said to me, ‘He’s sure had an accident, an alcoholic accident.’ So he phoned your sister.”

Red Kershaw clutched his head. “Oh, God. That means Bad News himself came down and picked me up. I remember vaguely somebody taking me home. But why didn’t I hear about it the next day? Earl wasn’t a man to be charitable in cases like this. Are you sure it was Earl picked me up?”

“What difference does it make?” Molly reached for the door handle. “I’ve got to get back to my tables.”

“It makes a big difference,” said Collins. “Somebody killed Earl Genneman and somebody killed Steve Ricks.”

Molly slowly withdrew her hand from the handle. “You mean that whoever drove Red home . . .”

Collins felt a sense of here we go again.

“Who came from the Genneman house to take Red Kershaw home?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “I didn’t stay to find out.”

“I thought Steve left his car at your house.”

“I didn’t want him coming home with me. He was almost as drunk as Redwall.”

“You didn’t wait to see if I was going to get home?” asked Red incredulously.

“That’s right. And furthermore I didn’t give a damn. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go back inside. I’ll be fired.”

“Go ahead,” said Collins wearily.

Molly jumped out and stamped back into the cabaret.

“There goes Hard-hearted Hannah,” mourned Kershaw. “I was what you’d call a callow youth when I ran into her. Though she wasn’t so mean then as she is now. You’d never guess why she divorced me.”

“Why?”

“People would ask her name and she’d say ‘Mrs. Kershaw.’ They’d right off say ‘Gesundheit!’ and laugh fit to die. It got on her nerves. It’s never bothered me any.”

Collins grunted. “The fact remains that Genneman was murdered, and Ricks was murdered, and so far as I know you’re the only connection between the two men. You’ve got to figure in this business, Kershaw.”

“No, sir!” exclaimed Red, aghast. “You’re wrong! I’d never raise a hand against anybody. Steve Ricks might have been chicken, but he was Richard the Lion-Hearted compared to me!”

“I didn’t accuse you of murder,” said Collins, “I said you were involved. The question is—how? Who else among Earl Genneman’s friends knew Ricks?”

“Nobody I know of. But I see what you mean. It’s a real mystery.”

“It certainly is.” Collins stepped out of the car. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

He went to the booth and dialed the Genneman residence. Opal Genneman answered. She sounded listless.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Genneman, but I’m still gathering information.”

“I don’t mind, Inspector.”

“I want you to think back to the night of June 6— the Saturday before the pack-trip. Did you receive a telephone call from anyone asking for a ride home? This would be quite late that night.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Opal Genneman. “What night are you talking about again?”

“Saturday night. Or, more accurately, Sunday morning at about two a.m. Did you get a phone call around that time?”

“Let me think . . . No, I’m sure not. Earl and I didn’t get home till quite late. What kind of call would this be?”

“From your brother, wanting a ride home. He was too drunk to drive. We’re trying to find out how he got home.”

Opal Genneman’s voice became hostile. “I can’t see how this is relevant to your investigation—”

“Believe me, Mrs. Genneman, it is.”

“—but in any case neither Earl nor I went out for Redwall.”

“What of Jean, or Earl Junior?”

“Jean was at Palo Alto, and Little Earl has no license—in fact, he doesn’t drive.”

Collins was surprised. “He doesn’t drive at all?”

Opal seemed confused, or perhaps embarrassed. “He’s only sixteen.”

“Strange,” said Collins. “Most sixteen-year-olds know how to drive.”

“Not little Earl.”

“And Jean was at Palo Alto?”

“Yes, at her sorority.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Genneman.”

Collins returned to the car. “No one at the Genneman house took you home. It must have been someone else.”

“I can’t figure it. Steve probably put me in a cab . . .”

Collins was abysmally dissatisfied. “Think,” he urged Kershaw. “How could Steve get to know Earl Genneman? Had he ever visited you at the Genneman house?”

“Believe me, Inspector, no such connection existed. Steve Ricks never even knew I was related to Earl, and Earl never knew I associated with a guitar player. It’s as simple as that.”

“Why would Steve want to follow you or Earl into the mountains?”

“I can’t imagine.”

This was the best Collins could do. Somewhere the linkage existed—at some point, the lives of Steve Ricks and Earl Genneman touched each other. The closest approach seemed to have been the early morning hours of Sunday, June 7, when Ricks might have telephoned the Genneman house. And Collins could not rid himself of the feeling that Molly Wilkerson knew perfectly well who had called for Red Kershaw.

He started the car, took Kershaw back to his apartment, then returned to Fresno.

CHAPTER 10

On Monday morning Collins was summoned to the office of the sheriff, where he found Captain Bigelow. The conference lasted forty minutes and pleased no one, especially Bigelow.

Collins and Bigelow continued the discussion in Bigelow’s office. “There’s something here that’s staring us in the face,” Bigelow said, his handsome face dour. “I feel it looking at me.”

“I’ve been over it a dozen times,” said Collins. “Our only glimmer of a case is against Kershaw. His motive? I don’t see any. Maybe he was jealous of Genneman. Jealous enough to hire Ricks to kill him? And then kill Ricks? I can’t buy it.”

“There’s the book Ricks was running. Suppose Genneman bet a wad on a long shot that came in? So that it was cheaper to kill him than pay him?”

“Genneman didn’t play the ponies. He never took a chance in his life.” Collins shook his head. “Nobody seems to have wanted Earl Genneman dead, but someone blew his head off. For no reason.”

“It has to be Ricks,” said Bigelow in a voice of spurious conviction. “Then he got killed for his pains.”

“It looks that way,” said Collins. “But I don’t believe it.”

“What of Buck James? What does he gain?”

“He loses a good job in Wisconsin. But he gets to marry Jean Genneman, which is better. Still, he could have married her, anyway.”

“There’s Genneman and Jean, his stepdaughter. How did they get along? Bad? Good? Real good? If you know what I mean.”

Collins nodded. “Nobody’s hinted anything like that. Of course, stranger thing’s have happened. In that case James might have had the old man shot out of jealous rage.”

“There’s always this Retwig character.”

“You’d doubt it if you saw his model railroad layout. But sure—could be.”

“Bob Vega—maybe he isn’t the paragon Genneman thought him.”

“According to all reports Genneman didn’t need to think—Genneman knew. He kept a close eye on the books.”

“A man that wants to connive, he’ll connive,” said Bigelow. “Where drugs are concerned, I trust nobody.”

Collins made a few more notes. “Here’s what I’ve got. First, the Westco outlet in Madison. Maybe it was a hoax, and Buck James in a fury hired Ricks to blow Genneman’s head off. Second, Bob Vega’s income and his expenses. Also the Westco books and warehouse inventory. Third, the circumstances of Retwig’s departure from Genneman Laboratories. Fourth, Jean Genneman and her ex-boy friends. Last year she went on a hiking trip with Earl Genneman. Who else came along? Where did they go? Fifth, does Opal Genneman have any boy friends? Sixth, does Earl Junior drive, or doesn’t he? If not, why not?” Collins put down his notes. “That’s the lot.”

Bigelow stared into space. “The Wilkerson woman claims she went home before Steve Ricks and Kershaw left the cabaret,” he said thoughtfully. “Can you make inquiries among the personnel?”

“I can make the inquiries, but it’s been a long time ago.”

“Tackle it, anyway,” said Bigelow. “Let’s do something, even if it’s wrong.”

Collins, thinking of the drive to San Jose, looked down at his notes. “What of these other angles?”

“Put Easley to work on them.”

Collins found the sergeant at his desk. He had nothing to report. “I’ve talked to the Sunset Nursery people and the Clover Club. Everybody says the same thing: Ricks was good-natured, lazy, not above cutting corners, but harmless.”

“You never found out where he bought his gas?”

“No. I gave up on that.”

“Where is Ricks’ car?”

“In the garage.”

“Let’s take a look at it.”

Ricks’ old Plymouth, in the gray light of the garage, looked more shabby and disconsolate than ever. Collins opened the left front door. Sergeant Easley uttered a soft curse. “I never thought of that.”

Collins studied the yellow and red service record stuck to the door-frame. “Christy’s Shell, 3600 Garfield.” He looked at Easley. “Did you hit that one?”

Easley shook his head. “I never got that far out.”

“Let’s go,” said Collins.

“I’m Christy,” said the thin man with the thin hair. “What can I do for you?”

Collins flipped open his wallet. “Inspector Collins, Sheriff’s Office. This is Sergeant Easley. We’re making inquiries about Steve Ricks.”

Christy’s expression became appropriately doleful. “I read about Steve in the newspapers. Terrible business. Who did it?”

“I understand he traded with you.”

“He worked for me odd times, when I got in a jam. And I sold him his gas at cost.”

“When did you sell him last?”

“Hold on a minute.” Christy went to take care of a customer; Collins and Easley waited. At last the man returned. “It was the Thursday before he was killed. He come in for gas. Smoking a cigar, driving a big new car, sitting on top of the world.”

“A big new car? What make?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Could it have been a Ford Galaxie?”

“Yes, I’d agree to that.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

“Not too much. I said, ‘Looks like you’re doing good,’ or something along those lines. He said, ‘I can’t complain.’”

“Did he mention where he was headed for the weekend?”

“No, sir.”

“What did he talk about?”

“He asked for a fill-up, which he got. There was a noise in his automatic transmission, he asked me if I knew what it was, I told him it sounded like something had come loose and he’d better get it fixed, he signed for his gas and took off, and that was all there was to it. The next thing I hear he’s dead. It sure makes you think.”

Easley said, “Steve signed for his gas, you say?”

“Correct.”

“He has a charge account?”

“With Shell Oil, not with me. I don’t carry anybody.”

“Do you still have that slip?”

“No, sir, I do not. It’s gone into the regional office.”

“Give us the address. We want to look at that slip.”

Christy wrote out the address, which Collins tucked into his notebook. “What was Steve wearing? A suit? Work clothes?”

“I couldn’t say, Inspector. I just didn’t notice that closely. It wasn’t a suit; that I would have noticed. It was probably just pants and a shirt.”

“Anything else about this car attract your attention?”

“No, sir. Just the noise in the transmission, which sounded pretty bad. I told Steve he’d better get it looked at before it tore loose and raised general hob.”

“Steve didn’t talk to you about any friends of his, or what he was doing with himself?”

“No, sir. I’ve told you everything that happened.”

Collins and Easley returned to headquarters. Collins got out; Easley continued to the Shell Regional Credit Office.

Collins went into his office with a sense of achievement. Bit by bit information accumulated—a fragment here, a fragment there. He brought out his notes, located his checklist. First, the new Westco outlet, of which Buck James was to have been manager. Collins wrote a letter to “Chief of Police, Madison, Wisconsin,” requesting all pertinent information regarding Westco and Buck James, a graduate of the University of Wisconsin.

The next item was the Westco plant in San Jose, its books and inventory—a detail which Myron Retwig would have checked into. A call to Retwig might illuminate the matter once and for all.

The remainder of his notes dealt with the Genneman family—information to be derived from friends, neighbors, servants, and possibly the Gennemans themselves.

And last: Molly Wilkerson. Molly must be questioned once more. She had been all too evasive about how the drunken Red Kershaw had been conveyed to his home. Perhaps the surroundings of the San Jose Police Department might soften up.

His telephone rang. “I found the slip,” said Sergeant Easley. “It’s dated Thursday, June 11. The license number is LKK-3220.”

“LKK-3220? That sounds familiar. Isn’t that . . . Wait, let me check.” In sudden excitement Collins rummaged through his top drawer and found the list of license registrations furnished by Park Superintendent Phelps. He ran his finger down the list. “Yep. LKK-3220: Nathan Wingate, Redondo Beach. The mysterious Mr. Wingate. Well, well, well! . . . Anything else among the slips?”

“Nothing much. They’re all for Ricks’ old Plymouth. Four charges at Christy’s, two at San Jose.”

“Ask to borrow the slips. If they don’t want to let them go, copy the information. Although with Ricks dead they don’t stand much chance of collecting.”

Collins hung up and slumped back in his chair. More information. It must mean something. What? He went back to the list. Nathan Wingate’s car was a ’62 Dodge. According to the clerk at Bain’s Sporting Goods, the car Steve Ricks had driven was a Ford Galaxie, new or almost new. Someone had used Nathan Wingate’s plates, or more likely had faked a set of plates, which was simple enough to do, by one of several processes. Numbers and letters could be trimmed from old plates and appliquéd on enameled metal. With two sets of stolen plates the letter clusters or the number clusters might be cut out and interchanged. In any event, one point was clear: the ranger at the gate had made no mistake after all. A car, presumably the white Ford, with license plates LKK-3220, had entered General Grant Park on June 10. On June 12 Steve Ricks had driven this car into Christy’s Service Station in Fresno. On this same day, June 12, Ricks had taken his own old car into the park. Why had he not driven the grander Ford?

Perhaps the owner had wanted his car back, reflected Collins. Or with the transmission threatening to go out, Steve might have considered his own car a safer bet. Possibilities—possibilities of all kinds—but none pointing in the same direction.

Beyond all reasonable doubt the deaths of Earl Genneman and Steve Ricks were linked, and the linkage appeared to be through Red Kershaw. All of which turned the focus of attention back upon Kershaw and his ex-wife, Molly Wilkerson.

What happened next had happened to Collins before—with such peculiar consistency, in fact, that Collins, a hard-headed man, was almost persuaded to telepathy.

The telephone rang: Captain Bigelow was on the other end. His voice was terse.

“Get up to San Jose, fast. The Wilkerson woman is dead.”

CHAPTER 11

With Lieutenant Loveridge of the San Jose Police Department, Collins searched Molly Wilkerson’s house at 5992 South Jefferson. The Wilkerson woman had been a saver. There were photographs, restaurant menus, match-box covers, letters, receipts, dance programs dating back to junior high school, check stubs and canceled checks, marriage certificates and divorce decrees, sufficient to fill several cartons.

Collins gave the accumulation no more than a perfunctory glance. “What we want won’t be here,” he told Loveridge, a personable young man with china-blue eyes and a bristling mustache.

“Hard to say till we look,” replied Loveridge breezily.

Collins made no reply. He had formed no high opinion of Loveridge’s competence, and he suspected that the young lieutenant held similar sentiments toward him.

He went to look behind a cuckoo clock and found only blank wall, then turned to meet Loveridge’s quizzical stare. In a measured voice Collins said, “If she were blackmailing someone—which seems probable—she wouldn’t leave her evidence just anywhere. She might even have been running a bluff.”

Loveridge shrugged. “There’s no evidence that this case and the Genneman-Ricks case are related.

Mrs. Wilkerson might have been killed by a mugger or a deviate.”

“It’s possible,” said Collins dryly, “but not very. Molly was bitter when she couldn’t nick Kershaw— until she found out we were interested in who took Kershaw home. I’m betting she tried to cash in once too often.”

“It may work out that way,” said Loveridge indulgently. “But I’d like to see some evidence. So far we’re working on sheer speculation.”

Collins sought the kitchen. He looked here and there—among the notes on the bulletin board, into the percolator, the sugar bowl. Then he went into the bedroom to watch Loveridge rummaging through Molly’s bureau drawers. “What puzzles me,” said Collins, “is that she was willing to come back alone to this house. No matter how stupidly careless she was, no matter how much she despised whomever she was blackmailing, she’d simply have to be a little nervous!”

“In my mind,” said Loveridge, “this is a strong point against the blackmail theory.”

“Let’s go talk to the baby-sitter. What’s her name? Rosemary.”

Rosemary Gait was fifteen years old, a chunky little blond girl with a round face and earnest brown eyes who already had given up hopes of beauty. She lived in a small white house a hundred yards down South Jefferson, and she was excited with horror at what had happened to Molly Wilkerson.

Collins took charge of the interrogation; Loveridge stood to the side, hands behind his back, watching with indulgence. Rosemary’s mother, a heavy woman with a putty-colored face, sat impassively on a couch.

“We’re trying to find who did this terrible thing to Mrs. Wilkerson,” said Collins. “We hope you can help us.”

“I’ll try,” said Rosemary tremulously. “I don’t know very much about it.”

Mrs. Gait licked her lips with a big gray tongue. “What happened to her?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“She left the cabaret a little past two in the morning, and went back to the lot where the employees leave their cars. The next morning a janitor found her. She’d been hit from behind with something like a hammer, then shoved into her car.”

“That’s awful,” said Mrs. Gait. Rosemary’s face quivered. “I knew she was a flighty woman,” Mrs. Gait went on. “I didn’t like my girl working for her, but the money came in handy, and she was a kind of a lesson to Rosemary. I used to tell her, ‘Just do your work and don’t pay any attention to that woman’s bad habits.’”

“Such as what?”

“Oh—drinking, smoking, carrying on. Many times I offered to take the children to church Sunday, but she’d have nothing to do with it. Rosemary, find the swatter and kill that big fly.”

Conversation came to a halt until Rosemary had dispatched the fly. The slaying relaxed her, and her face showed less strain.

“Did Mrs. Wilkerson ever say she was afraid of any particular man?”

“Not to me,” said Rosemary.

“Ha,” said her mother. “Her afraid of a man would be a sight to behold.”

“Did she ever give you a paper, or an envelope, something like that, to keep for her?”

Rosemary shook her head. “She wouldn’t do that. She hardly knew I was there.”

“Did you hear her talking on the phone yesterday, or did she say anything unusual?”

“Well, she seemed kind of excited. Like she was going somewhere special.” Rosemary’s eyes widened as she considered the relevance of her remark. She said timidly, “She did talk on the phone to somebody yesterday.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It was a man?”

Rosemary considered. “I can’t say for sure. I thought it was a man because she doesn’t know any women. Just her sister.”

“That would be Mrs. Donald Beachey, in Santa Clara?” This was information which had been elicited by the city police.

“Yes. That’s where she’s been staying the past two nights.”

Collins resisted the temptation to glance at Lieutenant Loveridge. “I suppose the children are with Mrs. Beachey?”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, I don’t think it was her sister she was talking to. She’s got a special way of talking to Mrs. Beachey, kind of snarly and friendly at the same time, like when she’s talking to one of her exes.”

“Her what?”

“Her ex-husbands. She’s been married five times, and she used to say she was ready for five more.”

“Rosemary,” chided her mother. “I told you never to listen when the woman talked about things like that.”

“I didn’t listen. I just heard.”

“As I understand it,” said Collins, “Mrs. Wilkerson spent the last two nights with Mrs. Beachey, but came here during the day?”

“Yes. She came to get her mail and change clothes and things like that. She never stayed long. Yesterday she came here to get me, I don’t know why, and that’s when I heard her telephone.”

“Did you hear the conversation?”

“No, sir, I wasn’t paying attention. I think somebody asked her if she did something. And she said, ‘Me? Heavens, no!’ or something like that. And, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ That’s about all I heard.”

“Did she call anybody by name?”

“I think she mentioned Steve Ricks.”

“You know Steve Ricks?”

“Yes, sir. I know who he is. He asked me to go out with him once. But it was a school night.”

Mrs. Gait nodded approval. “I’ve always told the girl her education comes first.”

“Very sensible,” said Collins. “Well, back to Steve Ricks. Did he come around to Mrs. Wilkerson’s very often?”

“Every once in a while.”

“When was the last time?”

“Gee, I don’t really know. A couple weeks ago. It was a Sunday. They were talking about one of her ex-husbands who got drunk the night before.”

“Mr. Kershaw? Red?”

Rosemary nodded. “That’s who it was.”

“What did they say?”

Rosemary screwed up her face. “I think she said something like ‘Well, did you get him home?’ And Steve said, ‘Yes, but it was a battle. He was out like a light, all arms and legs.’ The reason I heard this is that I was waiting for her to pay me. Then, when I was going out, I heard Steve saying something about a ‘cute trick.’ ”

“A ‘cute trick’? Was he talking about a joke, or —”

“I really don’t know. I was on my way out. I did hear Molly say: ‘Tell me! coaxing-like, and Steve said, ‘No, I’m not allowed to tell a soul.’ ”

Up to this point Lieutenant Loveridge had stood quietly, hardly moving a muscle. Now he asked Rosemary, “Who would you say was Mrs. Wilkerson’s best friend?”

“Golly,” said Rosemary, “I don’t know. She didn’t have any woman friends.”

“Didn’t she recently give you anything to keep for her, or take care of?”

“No, sir.”

“Or anybody else?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she ever talk about coming into money?”

“Oh, all the time. She wanted to go to Honolulu more than anything, stay at one of the fancy hotels.”

“Who doesn’t?” said her mother gloomily.

“Did she ever mention anybody of whom she was afraid?”

Rosemary considered. “She was afraid of her boss. She thought he was going to fire her.”

They drove up Lagua Seca Road, past San Jose, to the residence of Mrs. Donald Beachey, just within the Santa Clara city limits: a comfortable house in a middle-class neighborhood. The lawn was green and mowed; the hydrangeas were trimmed; the beds of lobelia and verbena were cultivated with affectionate care. The contrast with Molly Wilkerson’s desperate way of life was remarkable. It was easy to understand why Molly, when she telephoned her sister, spoke in a half snarl.

Collins and Loveridge walked up the path, crossed a sandstone-flagged patio flanked by century plants, and rang the bell. A short plump woman in skirt and blouse answered the door. Her hair was straight and brown-blonde and she wore it in no particular style. Collins estimated her age at about thirty-five— three or four years older than Molly. Her face was pale; her eyes showed traces of recent tears.

“You’re Mrs. Beachey?”

“Yes.” She looked from Collins to Loveridge and back with a sad expression. “You must be policemen?”

Collins introduced himself and Loveridge. “May we come in a moment?”

Mrs. Beachey backed away from the door. Collins and Loveridge stepped into a living room littered with toys. Mrs. Beachey made an apologetic gesture. “Just scrape things aside and sit down. I suppose you want to talk about Molly. I don’t know much about her private life. She’s always been secretive.”

“Did she mention that she might be in some sort of trouble?”

Edna Beachey essayed a smile. “She told me nothing. I don’t even know where she was working. I gather it was some night club.”

“Did your sister hint that she might be afraid of anyone, that she had an enemy?”

“No. She seemed quite cheerful except for being short with the children.”

“Did she leave you any message, or letter, to be opened in the event of her death?”

“No. Why should she do anything like that?”

“Well, to be frank, Mrs. Wilkerson may conceivably have been attempting to extort money from a dangerous person.”

Edna Beachey drew a deep breath. “Yes, that would be Molly . . . So that’s why she wanted to stay here.”

“That’s my guess,” nodded Collins. “She never mentioned any names or circumstances which might be relevant to her death?”

“To tell you the truth, Inspector, when Molly came to visit me—which wasn’t often—she talked incessantly. The only way I could keep my sanity was to pay no attention to her.”

“Did she ever mention her ex-husband, Redwall Kershaw?”

“Is that the race-track man? She spoke of him once or twice. Not recently, though.”

“What about a man named Steve Ricks?”

“It seems to me he was one of her beaus. But I never met him.”

“May we look at her room?”

Mrs. Beachey took them to a bedroom with a nice green carpet and curtains of green and white flowered chintz. There were twin beds with blue and green striped spreads, both neatly made. “This is my guest room. Molly’s children slept in the one bed, Molly in the other.”

“Where are her belongings?”

“She didn’t bring very much. Just a few odds and ends. In the closet and the chest.”

In the closet was a large fiberboard suitcase.

“That’s Molly’s suitcase,” said Mrs. Beachy. It’s the only one she brought. The children don’t have much to wear.”

Loveridge tested the suitcase. “It’s locked.” He brought it out, shook it. From within came a rattling sound.

“Do you have a key?” Collins asked Mrs. Beachey.

“No. I can’t understand why Molly would want to lock it. I never pried into her affairs.”

Loveridge brought forth a pocketknife, cut a slit around the frame. The top flapped back. Inside they found a black patent-leather purse and a pair of black high-heeled shoes.

Collins looked into the purse. Within were a lipstick and a long flat key. Stamped on the handle was:

U.S. POST OFFICE

San Jose,

California

1126

“This is what we’re looking for,” said Collins. “At least I hope it’s what we’re looking for.”

“Why in the world would she need a post-office box?” asked Mrs. Beachey.

“We’ll find out in due course. By the way, did Mrs. Wilkerson write any letters while she was here?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

She had nothing more to tell. Collins and Loveridge drove toward the San Jose Post Office.

Loveridge’s manner had become less absolute; he chewed at his mustache in frank puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t she carry the post-office key in her purse with the rest of her keys? Why lock it in the suitcase?”

Collins was thoughtfully silent. Loveridge went on, “As I see it, she wrote the murderer a letter—something like, ‘Dear sir, I know everything. And I will tell the police unless you pay me ten thousand dollars. Send in twenty dollar bills to Henry Jones, P.O. Box 1126, San Jose.’ This way she thinks she’s protected. The murderer can’t identify her, and she doesn’t need to worry.”

“She worried enough to move in with her sister,” said Collins. He ruminated a moment. “You’re probably right about the letter. She couldn’t have known too much, but that wouldn’t prevent her from claiming omniscience. And she would have written: ‘Don’t try any tricks; I have arranged for information to be sent to police in case something happens to me.’ ”

“But where is the information?” demanded Loveridge. “Was she bluffing? Did the murderer know she was bluffing? It’s a strange situation.”

“It’s strange,” nodded Collins. “I’m anxious to see what’s in Box 1126. She might have locked the key in the suitcase for a reason.”

Loveridge’s china-blue eyes bulged with interest. “You mean—”

“A letter addressed to, ‘Henry Jones, Box 1126. If not delivered in ten days, forward to Chief of Police.’ ”

“By golly! I believe you’re right!” Loveridge’s superiority had now dissolved. “Let’s get there!”

The postal boxes, serried ranks of dull bronze and glass, occupied the far end of the post-office lobby and the walls of an alcove. Box 1126 was in this alcove. But it was now an orifice. There was no door on it. The front was gone.

CHAPTER 12

At a window Collins attracted the attention of a clerk. “We’re police officers. What’s the story on Box 1126?”

The clerk surveyed them from below his green eyeshade. “I’ll tell you one thing—it’s a federal offense, and that’s no laughing matter.”

“What happened?”

“Last night someone comes in and jimmies the box door. These doors aren’t built to withstand assault. He’ll regret it, whoever he is. Once the Feds get on a man’s tail, they never let up.”

“What time did this happen?”

“Hard to say. Some time after six, probably.”

“What’s missing? What was in the box?”

“No idea. You’ll have to get that information from the boxholder.”

“No chance of that,” said Collins. “She’s dead. That’s why we’re here. No one witnessed the act?”

“Nobody’s come forward, but it’s hardly likely the crime was seen. It would only take a minute: put one of these new ripping bars into the crack, give a yank, and the door flies open.”

“Who fills the boxes?”

“I do. That’s part of my duties.”

“Do you remember what was in that box?”

“No, sir.”

“Whom was the box rented to?”

“John Anderson.”

“Was anybody hanging around yesterday?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Collins and Loveridge glumly examined the empty box. Collins put his eye to the glass of a nearby box, and with some maneuvering read the address. “ ‘Mr. J. A. Rogerts.’ It can be done.”

“What can be done?”

“What I just did—read an address through the glass.”

Loveridge gave a shrug of incomprehension. They returned to the car.

“It’s pretty clear what happened,” said Collins. “Molly sends an anonymous letter to the murderer—call him X. She instructs him to make payment to Box 1126. X comes down to the post office, with the idea of waiting till somebody comes for mail from 1126. When he gets here he notices a letter in Box 1126. He looks—as I did—to find whom it’s addressed to.

“X goes out, buys a ripping bar or a big screwdriver. He comes back, waits till the coast is clear, pries open the door, gets the letter. He takes it out, reads it. Molly Wilkerson is the blackmailer! He figures he’ll cure her once and for all. He waits for her to leave work and kills her. That’s all there is to it.”

Loveridge nodded sadly. “It could have happened that way, all right.”

“Which means we’re back to where we started—to the murder of Earl Genneman.”

At the City Hall they separated, and Collins went off to find himself a room for the night.

On the following morning they met once more, and Loveridge was briefed on the circumstances of Genneman’s death and the subsequent murder of Steve Ricks. “Steve Ricks and Molly Wilkerson are secondary,” said Collins. “They were killed for the same reason: To protect the identity of Genneman’s murderer. We know why they were killed and how, and it doesn’t bring us any closer to the killer. There’s still a lot to learn—about Genneman’s relations with his family, the state of his finances, the books at Westco, and Buck James and Jean Genneman. What stopped their romance? Why did it start up again as soon as Genneman died? Does Mrs. Genneman have boy friends? How does she get along with Myron Retwig? Friendly? Unfriendly? Extra friendly? How did Red Kershaw get home from Smoky Joe’s?”

Loveridge frowned down at his notes. “Someone must have noticed two men carrying out a drunk. It’s probably not unusual, but the people in the next booth, or one of the waitresses, would have noticed.”

Collins agreed. “It should be checked into.”

“I’ll try Smoky Joe’s tonight. As for the rest—it looks as if some head-knocking is in order. What do you have in mind for yourself?”

“I’m on my way out to Genneman’s house. One or two little points I want to clear up. For instance, why Earl Junior doesn’t drive.”

“He might be an epileptic. Or, more likely, his license was lifted.”

“I’d like to find out for sure. Together with another small matter. He’s an unpleasant kid.”

Loveridge considered. “I’ll come along.”

Opal Genneman greeted Collins and Loveridge with her usual courtesy, though her costume, a smart lavender tweed suit, suggested that she had been about to leave the house. She took them into the living room. “Have you learned anything more about— what happened?”

“It’s a slow business, Mrs. Genneman. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask some pretty personal questions.”

Opal Genneman sighed. “That’s your job, I suppose.”

“I wish everyone felt as you do, Mrs. Genneman. I think I’ve asked you if you knew Steven Ricks.”

“Yes. But I’d never heard of him till then.”

“What about Mrs. Molly Wilkerson?”

“Molly Wilkerson? No, I don’t think so.”

“You’d have known her under a different name. She was married at one time to Mr. Kershaw.”

“That Molly. Oh yes. I know of her.”

“Apparently she tried to blackmail your husband’s murderer. Yesterday morning she was found dead.”

“How awful! How was this Wilkerson woman—” she spoke the name with an effort “—how was she killed?”

“She was struck on the head with an object like a hammer.”

“It must have been a man’s work,” said Opal Genneman, half to herself.

“It takes no great strength to crack a skull, not with the right tool. Most of all, the motive behind your husband’s death puzzles us.”

“Is it possible the murderer intended to kill someone else? That poor Earl just happened to be in the lead?”

“It’s not likely. The murderer had a clear view of the trail.”

“It could be a mistake. Aren’t there such things as deadfalls, or whatever they’re called, that set off a gun when something is stepped on?”

“But it would shoot the first man to come past, whoever he was. Also, the rest of the party searched for a gun and couldn’t find it. Unless we assume conspiracy, we have to fall back on the presence of someone to discharge the gun and remove it afterward.”

Opal Genneman nodded rather weakly.

“Here’s our problem. Molly Wilkerson seems to have suspected the identity of the murderer from the fact that this person met Steve Ricks and Mr. Kershaw at a night club and drove Mr. Kershaw home, on the weekend before the camping trip.”

“You’ve asked me about that. But Earl and I weren’t home, nor was Jean, and Little Earl doesn’t drive.”

“Why doesn’t he drive?” asked Collins casually.

Opal Genneman blinked. “He has no operator’s license.”

“Did he ever have a license?”

“No. He’s only sixteen.”

“He knows how to drive, though?”

“Well, yes. Even I know how to drive.” She voiced an unconvincing laugh.

“Does Earl Junior refrain from driving by his own choice?”

“Well—his father always thought he was too young to drive.”

“Then Mr. Genneman was the real reason Earl Junior had no license?”

“Not altogether.” Mrs. Genneman was now obviously distraught. “I don’t see what this has to do with what we’re talking about.”

“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 like, ‘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.”

“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.

“You don’t believe me?” asked Belva Didrick with a gleam in her eyes.

“I believe you. Did Steve name the man who hired him?”

“No. In fact—” Belva Didrick hesitated.

“In fact what?”

Belva executed an arch little smile. “Nothing, really. Except that Steve was such a terrible flirt . . . I’d rather thought it was to be a mixed party.”

“It was strictly male.”

“Well, I didn’t know . . . I can’t believe Steve is dead. It’s a terrible shock.”

“One more question: did you notice Steve driving a new white Ford?”

“Why, yes,” said the truck-driver’s wife. “That Friday night he was driving a new car. It was white, and I’m pretty sure it was a Ford. My husband was out of town, and Steve was nice enough to drive me home. I asked him about the car, but he just acted mysterious.”

“You didn’t notice the registration, or anything in the car which might have indicated who the owner was?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Didrick. Please don’t talk about this to your friends.”

Belva Didrick rose. Apparently she had altered her first impression of Collins, for she walked away very slowly, with an exaggerated swing of the hips. Once she looked back over her shoulder.

Collins poured beer from his bottle and sat watching the bubbles rise. The Didrick woman’s information had merely cleared away some of the underbrush. Collins heaved a sigh. No help for it: he was going to have to climb the Copper Creek Trail to Persimmon Lake and look for the bottle of whisky.

CHAPTER 14

The morning was clear, almost crisp. A few clouds hung in the west. The vineyards and orchards wore their richest green; to the east the Sierras lofted above the near foothills.

Highway 180 unreeled behind him; the foothills became mountains, the San Joaquin Valley spread below. The first Sequoia redwoods appeared, monsters rearing high above the evergreens. A few miles farther, Collins passed the park entrance.

At the lodge he telephoned Park Superintendent Phelps to request the loan of a horse and camping gear. Phelps suggested that Collins might like the company of a ranger, but Collins declined: he would have more freedom if he worked alone. Phelps instructed him to continue to Cedar Grove, where the necessary equipment would be awaiting him.

At Cedar Grove a ranger was waiting for him. They drove to the stables at the road’s end; one horse was saddled, another loaded with gear. The ranger spoke a few words of advice; Collins changed into suitable garments, mounted his horse, and started up the trail.

He was alone except for the horses. The sun burned hot on granite and sand, drew pungent odors from the fir and pine. The trail rose in switchbacks; the horses ambled along. Collins found himself enjoying the expedition, which from the vantage point of the Clover Club had seemed drudgery.

The morning passed. At Suggs Meadow, where the Genneman party had camped the first night, Collins paused to rest the horses and stretch his legs.

From Suggs Meadow the trail rose once more. The timber grew smaller and more redolent of pitch and resin. The sun passed behind the mountain, the far slope glared bright. Collins rode in shadow tinted with cold blue skylight.

The trail rose above the timberline, passed across barren rock and scree, laced and padded with snow. The scarp reared above, the trail rising to Dutchman Pass at an altitude of 10,390 feet, with snowbanks pressing in. Beyond, the land fell away into a great sky meadow. And there, reflecting the sky, lay Persimmon Lake.

When Collins finally dismounted, it was very nearly six o’clock. He was standing a hundred feet south of Steve Ricks’ camp, and two hundred yards north of the Genneman camp, with a cove of the lake between. There was still an hour of daylight. He unsaddled and unpacked the horses, hobbled them, and gave each a quart of oats in a feedbag. Then he took a folding shovel and set out for the north end of the lake.

The directions, as transmitted by Belva Didrick, were vague. But at the north end of the lake a low outcrop of gray granite humped from the ground. On the side facing the lake, freezing weather had cracked apart the highest section so that it stood like a pointed rock indeed. To the front of it lay an area of coarse sand. Collins stood looking at it, the long low sunlight tracing grotesque shadows across the landscape. He bent and began to dig.

The shovel proved unnecessary; the bottle was barely below the surface. Gingerly Collins brought it forth; there might be other fingerprints than Steve Ricks’ on the glass.

He walked back to his camp, gathered twigs and dead branches, built a fire, heated a can of corned beef hash, fried three eggs, and boiled a pot of coffee.

With twilight came chill. The warmth of the fire was comforting. Collins blew up the air-mattress, unrolled his sleeping bag, then sat with his back to a rock, drinking coffee and staring into the fire. When the murder of Earl Genneman might have been ascribed to a madman, the case was a mess of enigmas, contradictions, blind alleys and paradoxes. No less now. There was no clear-cut motive for the killing of Genneman: he had threatened no one, he was hated by no one, and no one gained by his death. Obviously this absence of motive was illusory; someone had gone to great lengths to kill him, and but for a noise in an automatic transmission the murder would have been blamed upon the faceless man who had followed the Genneman party to Persimmon Lake.

But Steve Ricks had driven his own car through the park entrance, paid his two dollars, and in his innocence identified himself. The error had cost him his life.

Collins looked across the fire at the quart of whisky. There must be a message here, information of some kind. What?

It was ludicrously simple—self-evident, in fact. So obvious that Collins had almost passed it by.

Whoever had instructed Ricks to bury the whisky under the pointed rock must previously have visited Persimmon Lake.

Collins poured out the last of the coffee. Why would anyone conceivably involved have made a previous visit to Persimmon Lake—except to locate the optimum site for ambush?

Collins brooded over the matter while the fire flickered in a breeze. The lake shuddered; the reflection of the afterglow dulled.

The killer had visited Persimmon Lake; he had gone on until he came to Lomax Meadow. Why had he chosen that spot? There was cover in the thick grove of firs and cedar, but along the trail there were dozens of spots where the cover was even denser.

True, at Lomax Meadow the roar of the falls would tend to muffle sounds of flight—but the sound was really not that loud; it was, in fact, hardly more than a murmur. Lomax Meadow seemed far from ideal. The forest here, though dense, was narrow; and it quickly gave way to the mountainside. The murderer would be forced to leave swiftly, unless he counted on caution among the survivors to give him the time he needed . . . A fair enough assumption, Collins decided.

He replenished the fire, and boiled more coffee. The sleeping bag beckoned, but sitting before the fire and watching the twilight fade over the mountains held him fast. His mind wandered at random across the years. Good times and bad, nothing fixed, nothing permanent until the house at Morningside Heights and Lorna.

Had Steve Ricks mused along the same lines as he sat staring into his fire? Probably not, thought Collins. Steve would have been thinking about the two hundred dollars he was earning. He would have been thinking about the Clover Club, maybe working out new tunes in his mind, maybe thinking about Belva Didrick or Molly Wilkerson. One thing was certain—Steve would not have been cogitating the death that was waiting for him three days in the future. Probably when he went to collect his second hundred dollars. Collins grimaced. Poor guitar player. He would have thrown up at what was about to happen to his hands.

Collins jumped to his feet and threw more fuel on the fire. The thought was uncomfortable up here.

Suddenly Collins thought he saw why Lomax Meadow had been the scene of the crime; and if this was so, then there was only one person .. . Collins grinned now, a humorless grin that showed his teeth. What of the previous visit to Persimmon Lake and Lomax Meadow? He tested the question against his suspect and found no disjuncture. Motive? Collins’ grin faded. Why had Earl Genneman been killed?

He got up and began to pace back and forth. First thing, visit Lomax Meadow. He might find what he sought. If he did not, then his theory of the case must remain strictly theory. And the murderer might well escape.

Collins walked down to the lake to wash his face. The fire, with no one sitting beside it, was a lonesome sight. A breath of icy air came down from the snow. Collins shivered and walked back to the fire. For another ten minutes he sat there, then undressed and zipped himself into his sleeping bag.

The night passed. Collins awoke several times to stare up at the stars.

The morning was bright and cold; he lay in the sleeping bag until the sun was fairly up in the sky. At last he dragged himself from the sleeping bag, dressed, built a fire, fixed bacon and eggs, fed the horses grain.

At nine o’clock he broke camp and rode north along the trail. About ten o’clock he saw Lomax Falls ahead and came into Lomax Meadow.

He dismounted and tied the horses to a tree.

The area was as he had recalled it: a pleasant little flat bisected by Lomax Creek, with a strip of forest pressing in upon the trail to the north. Except for the hushed roar of the waterfall, the meadow was quiet.

He walked slowly up the trail and came to the clearing where Earl Genneman had lost his life. The stain still showed dark in the dirt, and Collins’ neck prickled as if a shotgun were aimed at it.

He stood for a moment where Genneman had stood, and looked toward the clump of four cedars from which the gun had been discharged. Then he walked to the clump of cedars, and beyond, to where the mountain fell away to the valley floor.

Collins looked down with distaste. It was a long way to the bottom. He tied a handkerchief to the limb of a bushy fir, then began scrambling down the slope, keeping as nearly as possible directly below the handkerchief.

The mountainside was bare and barren, with coarse sand or loose pebbles occasionally layered over the granite. Rarely a stunted tree had secured a roothold. For the most part the mountain was exposed to the glare of the sun. There might be rattlesnakes among the rocks; it would be unpleasant to be bitten so far from the trail.

Down, down, down—always below the white speck of handkerchief. The descent was hard work; the climb back would be worse.

He came to a little clump of pines growing from bare rock. Below him, to Collins’ dismay, the mountainside became cliff, dropping almost sheer to the valley floor three or four hundred yards below. To get to the valley floor meant a long traverse along the steep mountainside. His theory at this moment seemed bootless . . It was at that moment, looking at the base of the pines, that he noticed what seemed to be a crooked stick about three feet long.

There was the shotgun.

Collins descended the last few feet. He looked cautiously over the verge of the rocks far below. Then he picked up the shotgun.

It trailed three lengths of cord. One, of light strong fishline, was tied to a pair of clothespins. The second was also of fishline, and was tied to the trigger guard. The third cord looped through a hole in the stock, and this was soft-braided nylon—very strong and elastic. This last cord dangled over the edge of the cliff and was about fifty feet long. The end was frayed, broken off.

Collins examined the shotgun, an inexpensive 12-gauge, double-barrel model which might be bought from any mail-order house for fifty dollars. Both barrels had been fired. Collins was not disposed to sneer at the quality of the weapon. It had done its work, and Earl Genneman was as dead as if he had been killed by a two thousand dollar Purdey.

The inspector wrapped the cords around the gun. Now the long climb back. It would be hot, and hard on his legs. The little white speck of handkerchief seemed a long, long way above.

He flung himself down in the meadow beside Lomax Creek and drank, then rolled back in the tar-weed. His legs were numb, his hands scraped; his face was lobster-red from sunburn. Never in his recollection had he felt so tired. But he was far from unhappy. He had the shotgun. He knew how Earl Genneman had been killed, and it had not been by a homicidal maniac—unless all murderers were, by definition, unbalanced.

Collins groaned and sat up. He must mount his horse and return down trail. He consulted his watch. It was already almost one o’clock. He would be riding until long after dark.

Early the following afternoon Collins got back to Fresno headquarters. Captain Bigelow was out to lunch, and Collins went to his own office. There was little of interest in his mail until he came to the last letter in the box. As he read it, his mouth spread wide in a grin. He laid the letter reverently on the table beside the shotgun and the bottle of whisky.

Bigelow looked in through the open door. “You’re back.” He noticed the shotgun on Collins’ desk. “What’s this?”

“I went up for a bottle of whisky, I find the whisky, I find the shotgun. The gun that killed Earl Genneman.”

Bigelow was impressed. “Where’d you find it?”

“Way down the hillside, almost in the valley.” Collins described his adventure. “My legs still wobble, and I ache all the way up the back of my neck from that horse.”

“The main thing is you found the gun,” said Bigelow. “What are all these strings? And clothespins? Somebody hang out a wash?”

“I never thought of that,” said Collins dryly. “Here—look at this.” He gave Bigelow the letter.

Bigelow read and grunted.

“So now we know who killed Genneman, how, and why.”

“But can we prove it? Not too much of this will hold water in court.”

Collins nodded. “Even before I got this letter I had a pretty good idea whom we were looking for. I think I’ve figured out a way to make it stick.”

“How’s that?”

“First, we call the group together for a briefing. That’s what we call it. Actually, we try to goose somebody into acting. If it works, we’re home. If it doesn’t, then we’ve got to figure out something that will.”

“It’s your case,” said Bigelow. “You’ve done wonders, Omar, and I’m going to see that the sheriff knows it.”

Collins looked at the captain in amazement. Bigelow seemed perfectly sincere. “Why, thanks, Captain. Thanks very much,” said Collins. He looked at his watch. “As for that ‘briefing’—what about tonight? Can we mount an operation so soon?”

“The sooner the better, before somebody else gets knocked off.”

“That’s my feeling. There’s one ‘somebody else’ right now whose life is hanging by a thread.”

CHAPTER 15

In the Genneman living room Myron Retwig, Redwall Kershaw, Buck James, Bob Vega, Opal Genneman, Jean Genneman and Earl Genneman, Junior had gathered. For the most part they sat in silence. There was an atmosphere of strain, which Collins encouraged by standing in a corner with Captain Bigelow and whispering.

Finally Collins turned to the group. “This is my superior, Captain Bigelow. He had some business in San Jose, so he thought he’d drop by with me tonight.

“We’ve been investigating, and uncovering a fact or two, and since I know you’re all concerned, I thought you might like to hear a summary of what we’ve been doing.” He looked around with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “This is just a briefing session. I don’t plan to perform any dramatic acts, like suddenly pointing a finger and arresting one of you. I wish I could! This is a very confusing case, and we’re far from out of the woods. And, of course, I’m hoping to turn up a few more items of information, if any occur to you. In fact, before I start, does anyone have anything to tell me?”

Once again he studied the semicircle of faces. Earl Junior sat there smirking. Buck James, close by Jean Genneman, stared back with something like defiance while Jean herself frowned down at her hands. Myron Retwig, in a big overstuffed chair, gazed ruminatively at the ceiling. Red Kershaw looked worried; Bob Vega, wearing a gray silk Italian suit, sat tilting his head this way and that. Opal Genneman’s face was expressionless—it was impossible even to guess at her thoughts.

“All of us want to see these murders cleared up, and it might be just some trifle that would turn the trick. For instance, there’s a mysterious white Ford Galaxie hardtop, license LKK-3220, in the picture. Does anyone have knowledge regarding this car?”

Myron Retwig spoke in a voice merely curious. “How does the car enter the case?”

Collins chose his words carefully. There was an extremely fine distinction between saying too little and too much. “I’ll have to go into some background to answer. The police naturally are forced to work methodically. We have to comb the ground for every bit of information. We’re pluggers. Sooner or later we consider every possible angle to a case—maybe a few impossible ones.

“You people have noticed that, when you enter the park, you receive a receipt for your fee on which is noted your license number. We made a list of such numbers and checked every car which entered the park during the week previous to the murder. One of these cars was registered to a Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach, who denied ever setting foot in the park. Another was registered to Steve Ricks of Fresno. Steve Ricks was killed on the night of Tuesday, June 16, and his body flung into a boxcar. We identified him without too much trouble; we have a few tricks of the trade we don’t talk about too much. Right, Captain?”

“Right,” said Bigelow.

“Naturally we investigated Steve Ricks to a fare-thee-well. We know more about Ricks than his own mother. We found that on Friday, June 12, he drove a white Ford, license LKK-3220. Evidently this particular car is involved in the murder, which is why I asked my question. Is that clear, Mr. Retwig?”

“Quite clear, thank you.”

“We traced Ricks to San Jose and certain of his hangouts, notably a place called Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret, on Latham Avenue. Some of you people may know it. At Smoky Joe’s, Ricks met Mr. Kershaw here, through one of Mr. Kershaw’s ex-wives. Now the story becomes blurred. Apparently Ricks was hired for two hundred dollars—a hundred down, a hundred later—to help play a trick on someone in the camping party. So much Steve confided to a friend. Unfortunately, he did not name the person who hired him to play the trick. In any event we can definitely rule out Ricks as the murderer of Mr. Genneman—even though Ricks was the man who came behind you gentlemen on the trail. This is absolutely definite; we have ironclad proof of it.

“So this is about where we stand. Someone—either Steve Ricks or the murderer—drove a rented white Ford with faked plates up into General Grant Park on Wednesday, June 10. I personally feel that it was the murderer. Since he described Persimmon Lake to Ricks, we know that he was familiar with the country, at least as far as Lomax Falls. Why he should have made a previous trip up the trail is a puzzle: perhaps to scout out a good place for an ambush.

“I’m likewise perplexed by the ease with which he made his escape. I’ve got a notion he slid down the mountainside, gun and all. The next few days I’m tied up in court on another case, but early next week I hope to make a careful inspection of the whole area, including the valley below. Maybe I’ll find some traces . . . Well, we’ll see what we see.”

Collins again paused for breath. Was he laying it on too thick? He went on, to avoid placing undue emphasis on the shotgun. “As to motive, we’re in the dark. We simply don’t know who had it in for Mr. Genneman, or why. As of now we seem to have come to a dead end. Unless we can find some evidence at the scene of the crime we may have to go back to the theory of a maniac—and nobody wants that, especially the rangers. Well, that’s my report. If any of you have any ideas, I’d be happy to hear them.”

Earl Junior formed a short word with his mouth, which Collins chose to ignore. “Anybody have any questions?”

No one had any questions.

“In that case,” said Collins, “the party’s over. In a week or two I hope to have more news for you. Good night.”

Collins and Bigelow went out to their car and started back to Fresno. “Well?” asked Collins. “What do you think? Did I lay it on too thick?”

“I wouldn’t say so. If you’d been any less explicit, the message might not have come through.”

“That was my feeling. Well, we’ll see.”

At two o’clock the following afternoon, Collins answered his telephone to hear the even voice of Lieutenant Loveridge. “We’ve got action up here. Just about what you predicted.”

Collins drew a deep breath. “I was afraid I’d muffed it. What’s going on?”

“Subject is proceeding east, driving a black Corvair rented from Hertz. License BR9-019.”

“Got it. Keep well back. Better lose contact than get the suspect wise.”

“We’re using three unmarked cars,” said Loveridge. “Traffic’s heavy; there won’t be any foul-up. They’ll keep in touch by radio, and I’ll keep your office posted.”

Collins notified Bigelow, then telephoned Park Superintendent Phelps. “Inspector Omar Collins here, Superintendent. We’ve got action. I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll meet you at Cedar Grove as arranged.”

“Very well, Inspector. Glad to hear the news.”

Collins went into Bigelow’s office. “I’m on my way.”

“Have a joy ride. I’ll take care of this end.”

Half an hour later Collins and Sergeants Easley and Kerner arrived at the airport. Collins carried the shotgun, with cords and clothespins still attached, in a case. They climbed into the helicopter, which rose and swept off toward the east.

Over the foothills they flew, up toward the forested bulwarks of the Sierra, then along the great canyon of the Kings River, to alight at Cedar Grove.

Superintendent Phelps met the helicopter as he had on the previous occasion. Collins went to the telephone and called headquarters. Bigelow informed him that the black Corvair had reached Highway 99 and was proceeding south.

“We’ll wait here till he turns east on 180,” said Collins, “just to make sure it’s no false alarm. When you get the word, call me at this number.”

“Right. It should be about an hour.”

“Make sure everybody’s careful. One mistake and the whole set-up collapses.”

“I’ll pass the word.”

Collins went outside and sat down on a bench, where he was joined by Phelps. “What’s the situation now?”

“It’s like a funeral procession,” said Collins. “There’s a black Corvair in the lead and a dozen police cars behind. I hope they keep away from the suspect’s rear-view mirror.”

“Why so many?’ asked Phelps. “Isn’t one enough?”

“They keep changing places, passing and dropping back. It’s a good idea unless something goes wrong. In which case I’ve had a helicopter ride.”

Forty-five minutes passed. The telephone inside the cabin rang. Collins sprang to his feet. The ranger within answered and conversed for several minutes. The call evidently was not the one Collins was expecting.

Another five minutes passed before the telephone rang again. This time the call was for Collins. “Get going,” said Bigelow. “It’s definite. One black Corvair turning east on Highway 180.”

“Better hold back the tails. There’s not much traffic, and it must be one highly suspicious driver in that Corvair.”

“That’s my thought, too,” said Bigelow. “Good luck, Omar.”

“It’s past the luck stage—I hope.” Collins went outside. “Let’s get moving.”

The helicopter rose, swung east to the road’s-end, then north above the Copper Creek Trail. Suggs Meadow passed below, and Dutchman’s Pass, and Persimmon Lake. Ahead, Lomax Falls made a soft white line down the gray of the hillside. Into the meadow dropped the helicopter.

Collins and Phelps climbed out, then Kerner and Easley with sleeping gear and equipment bags.

An hour later the helicopter took off with Collins and Phelps in it. Collins had posted Easley and Kerner at what he considered optimum vantage; then, dangling in a bosun’s chair, he had taken the shotgun back down to the clump of pines in which he had found it.

The helicopter returned to Cedar Grove. Collins called Bigelow. “I’m back. Any developments?”

“Nothing out of line. The Corvair has entered the park. I’d say you got back just in time. Is the helicopter out of sight?”

“It’s in a meadow a hundred yards from the road. It can’t be seen. I don’t think it would register, anyway.”

“Maybe not. But we can’t be too careful.”

“Right. Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait. I’m going up to road’s-end and see what happens. I’ll call again as soon as there’s action.”

In a ranger pick-up, Collins and Phelps drove to the parking area at the end of the road. They got out and walked back among the trees, where they could see and not be seen. The time was now four thirty—late afternoon.

Twenty minutes passed. Then a black Corvair sedan came quietly up the road. It turned into the parking oval, made a slow circuit, then another, as if the driver were uncertain.

“Suspicious,” muttered Collins. “Every car’s being checked.”

The black Corvair made a third swing and finally parked. The occupant alighted, rummaged in the back seat, slipped on a light pack, stepped out in the open, made a furtive inspection of the area, and set out up the trail.

Collins and Phelps watched the figure disappear among the trees. “There goes a killer,” said Collins softly. “At large. Just like a wild animal. Ever seen one before?”

“No,” said Phelps. “It’s a peculiar sensation.”

Collins nodded. “Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait. At the earliest the payoff will be tomorrow night. More likely the morning after that. We may as well relax.”

Collins spent the night at Phelps’ cottage on the bank of the Kings River. For dinner he was served delicious trout, with lemon butter and new potatoes.

After dinner he played Monopoly with Phelps, Mrs. Phelps, and their teenage children. Afterward, at the children’s urging, he recounted some of his exploits as a police officer. At midnight they all went to bed.

In the morning he ate a breakfast of hotcakes and bacon and eggs, thinking of Easley and Kerner, who would be making do with cold corned beef and dried apples—they would hardly dare light a fire. Collins chuckled and accepted another mug of coffee.

During the day he paid another visit to road’s-end, to make sure that the black Corvair was still there. He was of two minds about keeping watch all night. Phelps dissuaded him. “It’s a day’s hike in. And something less than a day’s hike out, not to mention a rough two hours or so at Lomax Meadow. Add one sleeping period, and it works out to tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“You’re probably right,” said Collins, “but I don’t want to miss the boat now. Not that it would make any difference in the long run, if Kerner and Easley function as they’re supposed to.”

“I’ll have one of my men up here tomorrow morning at, say, six o’clock. He can keep an eye on things till we arrive. There’s no problem, because we can always call ahead to stop the car at the park entrance.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Collins. “Although I hate to impose on your hospitality.”

“Don’t mention it. The kids are thrilled.”

The day passed, and the night. At eight the next morning, after breakfast, they drove back to road’s-end. The black Corvair was there. “Nothing moving,” said the ranger whom Phelps had assigned to watch the car.

“It won’t be long,” said Phelps. “You’d better stick with us.”

Nine o’clock passed, ten o’clock . . .

Down the trail came a gaunt figure, stumbling with fatigue, but with an expression of satisfaction on his face. He went to the Corvair, opened the back door, threw in his pack, started to open the front door.

Collins came up beside him. “Hello, Buck. What are you doing here?”

Buck James jerked around, jaw sagging. He forced a grin. “It’s the inspector. I might ask the same of you.”

“I asked you first.”

“Oh, I had a few days free. I thought I’d visit old scenes, and all that. Just curiosity, you might say.”

Collins snapped a handcuff on James’ left wrist. James jerked back only to bump into Phelps, who seized his right arm and held it while Collins snapped on the other handcuff.

The young man looked at his bonds in injured innocence. “What’s the meaning of this? Can’t a man take a hike without being loaded with gyves?”

“You’re something in the nature of a special case,” said Collins. “You’re under arrest. The charge—murder of Earl Genneman, Steve Ricks and Molly Wilkerson.”

Buck James swallowed. “You’re not serious?”

“Do you think I got up this morning at six o’clock for fun? Before we start back to Fresno, I better look you over. A man of your talents might be concealing an A-bomb or something.”

But Buck carried nothing but a hunting knife. Collins appropriated it.

Buck’s voice broke slightly. “You make these fantastic charges, without rhyme or reason. Without proof.”

“I think the photographs of you climbing down the hill after that shotgun will convince most jurors.

What did you do with it, bury it? We’ll dig it up. Into the car with you. Where are the keys?”

“On the floor under the mat.” Buck James thoughtfully climbed into the back seat. Collins got in beside him. Phelps drove.

“This is fantastic,” said Buck. “How in the world could I shoot Earl? I was the last in line; the shot came from the trees.”

“I’ll tell you how you could shoot Earl. All you needed was some strong cord, two clothespins, a shotgun, and a boulder weighing fifty pounds or so. I’ve found all but the boulder.

“You drove up here early Wednesday, hiked in until you found a place where your scheme would work. One clothespin held the other open, with the jaws clamping the trigger and trigger guard. You wanted to give Earl both barrels, so you connected the triggers and locked them together. Then you led one line to the trail and arranged it so you could give it a quick yank. This yank would snap off the first clothespin; the second clothespin would jerk the trigger; Earl would have his head blown off. Another line ran back and over the slope, where it was tied to the boulder. The gun was supported on a branch, maybe weighted down. When it went off, it shot apart a cord holding the boulder, which pulled the gun and the rest down the mountain. And all you’d had to do was give your string that one yank when Earl stepped into range.”

Buck crouched on the seat. He looked for all the world like a trussed-up wolf.

“Yes, Buck, my boy,” said Collins, “we’ve got you cold. If you turn your head you’ll catch a last glimpse of Copper Creek Trail. Take a good look. You can remember it as you sit in that chair in the gas chamber.”

CHAPTER 16

On his return to Fresno, Collins telephoned the Gennemans in San Jose. The houseboy answered, and Collins asked to speak to Mrs. Genneman.

“This is Inspector Collins, Mrs. Genneman. I have some news for you. It’s not pleasant.”

“You’ve caught the murderer of my husband.” She was holding herself in tightly.

“Yes. Mr. James.”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Genneman. “Not Buck. Not Buck. Are you sure? Really sure?”

“There’s no doubt about it.”

She was silent. Then she said, “Where is he now?”

“In jail.”

“How can I tell Jean? Her world revolves around Buck. He’s been practically a member of the family . . . I don’t know what I’ll say to Jean.”

“If you like, have her telephone me. I’ll break the news to her.”

“Thank you, Inspector. But I’ll manage—some way.”

At four o’clock Mrs. Genneman and Jean, with Kershaw and Retwig, appeared at the sheriff’s office and asked to speak to Collins. He greeted them with gravity and took them into a waiting room. Mrs. Genneman had been crying; Jean seemed to be ready to blow up.

“Can we see Buck?” demanded Jean. “I want to hear what he has to say. I refuse to believe this ridiculous charge!”

“Miss Genneman, he was caught in the act of retrieving the shotgun. You remember the meeting we had the other evening?”

“Of course I do. And it was inane. You admitted you were all at sea—now this!”

Myron Retwig gave his head a small shake.

Collins said, “The purpose of that meeting was to alarm Buck, make him commit himself. He did. He drove to Cedar Grove, hiked to where your father was killed, climbed down the mountainside, recovered the shotgun, and very carefully buried it. We have the entire thing on film.”

“He was doing it to protect someone else,” stormed Jean. “It’s obvious!”

“Whom was he trying to protect, Miss Genneman?”

Jean bit her lip.

Opal Genneman asked in a wondering voice, “But why should Buck want to kill Earl? It’s senseless. Earl was his benefactor, his future father-in-law . . .”

“Your husband was too much of a benefactor, Mrs. Genneman. You’ll have to face it. Buck James was and is completely ruthless. He attached himself to Jean because of Mr. Genneman’s wealth, he worked hard to be a good salesman because that was the best way to butter his bread. Unfortunately, Mr. Genneman liked him. He wanted to expand Westco Pharmaceuticals, and Buck James was going to manage the new outlet. His first idea was to start a new branch in Portland, and Buck accepted the post with pleasure. Then Mr. Genneman had an opportunity to buy the Midland Drug Company in Madison, Wisconsin, where Buck James had lived and gone to school.. That changed everything for James. First he tried to edge out of the managership of the new outlet. Mr. Genneman wouldn’t listen. As far as he was concerned the set-up was ideal—his future son-in-law working a territory he knew intimately. Then Buck broke off his engagement with your daughter. Why? What was behind his strange behavior? The answer lies in a letter from the Madison Chief of Police. Buck James is already married to a girl in Madison. Furthermore, he worked for her father, at Wisconsin Mill Products Company, and it’s believed that he embezzled a considerable sum of money. On top of that, his wife is a devout Catholic, so divorce is out.

“Buck found himself in an impossible situation. If he refused the Madison managership pointblank, Mr. Genneman’s suspicions would surely be aroused. I understand that once Mr. Genneman got suspicious, he was singleminded to the point of fanaticism.”

“I’ll vouch for that,” said Kershaw.

“He was a bundle of contradictions,” said Retwig. “Completely generous, absolutely relentless. It was a strain to work for him—too much of a strain.”

Jean Genneman sat glaring at Collins.

“Here we have Buck all set to marry Jean and the Genneman money. Then comes the Westco-Wisconsin dilemma. If he accepts and goes to Madison, his goose is cooked. If he refuses, Earl Genneman will make inquiries to find out why, and Buck’s goose is cooked again. The one way to get what he wanted was to kill Mr. Genneman. After which he can marry Jean, and the new Madison outlet can be quietly fobbed off.

“He decides to kill Mr. Genneman on the backpack trip. In such a way as to give him a built-in alibi.

“Then Steve Ricks got into the act. On the night of Saturday, June 6, Mr. Kershaw here got drunk at the Down Home Cabaret in Ricks’ company. About one in the morning Ricks phoned the Genneman house.

“I suspect,” Collins said to Earl Junior, “that you were the one who answered the phone. You told Ricks there was no one home, and you gave him the phone number of James. You seem to get some sort of kicks out of defying authority, Earl—is that why you hate the police and withheld the information from us? You don’t realize by what a thread your life hung. Buck asked you not to say anything about the call, didn’t he? If you’d shown a moment’s hesitation, it’s my opinion he’d have killed you, too.”

Earl Junior said nothing. But his sneer was a little pallid.

“As for Molly Wilkerson, Buck James killed her for precisely the same reason: to prevent the discovery of a link between himself and Ricks, a discovery that would have focused attention on him. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Buck and Steve brought Mr. Kershaw home. Buck probably had been toying with the idea of a mystery man following the camping party, and Ricks seemed a good man for the job, just sufficiently shy of the police to want to avoid involvement. If the police were looking for a mystery man suspected of having shot Earl Genneman, Steve Ricks wasn’t going to claim to be that man.”

Collins rose. “That’s about it. We have all kinds of evidence. As soon as we find where Buck rented the white Ford, we’ll have even more.”

Jean’s face sagged. “How could he have fooled me like that?” she cried, and turned on Collins with a look of sheer loathing. Then she marched from the room, followed by her mother and Myron Retwig. Red Kershaw turned to Collins. “I’m still in shock, Inspector. Think of it! Buck! Walking right behind me up that trail!”

“You’re lucky he didn’t consider you a threat.”

“Me?” Kershaw raised his brows in astonishment. “Why me?”

“Toward the end, when things started to fall apart, he was ready to kill at the drop of a hat, and it was through you that he met Ricks.”

Kershaw said wonderingly, “One man helps another man carry a drunk out of a bar. If you call that a ‘meeting,’ I guess that’s how Buck James met Steve Ricks.”

“That’s how they met, all right. Molly Wilkerson was a witness. First she tried to blackmail you, then she tried it on James. She’d have been safer spitting in a rattlesnake’s face.”

“I still can’t believe it. Buck’s always seemed so level headed . . . Three murders! That’s the work of a madman.”

And Inspector Collins nodded back just as soberly. “Every murderer,” he said, “is a little mad.”©

Table of Contents

- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16