Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

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.”