Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

“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 cliché 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.

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.