Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

“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.

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:

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:

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.”