Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

“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 Morningside 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.”