Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

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?”