Эллери Куин: The Madman Theory

“Excuse me,” said Buck James. “I’m puzzled. You danced a hundred miles in two days? How was that? And why?”

“It’s no mystery. I was a great dancer in my day. I entered the Dance-a-thon at the county fair. We figured the number of laps, counted extra for dipping, sliding, sashaying around, and came up with a hundred miles. We took second place — won twenty-five dollars. I was a real swinger in those days.”

“Who came in first?” asked Buck mischievously. “Earl?”

“Ha,” said Genneman.

“No, sir. I don’t think Earl could cut the mustard. As I recall, a skinny little guy and a big fat dame won. They did the Charleston the last time around. If I’d had that female air-mattress to hold on to, I could have won myself.”

Genneman set his beer glass down with a rap. “We’d better make up our packs and get going.”

“The cabin is mine until two o’clock,” said Retwig. “We can work in there.”

The group assembled in Retwig’s cabin. Genneman laid the food out on the bed: various parcels and envelopes of astonishing lightness. “Dehydrated food, the greatest invention of the century. Look at it: bacon, eggs, soup, hash, steak, vegetables, coffee. All we need is water. I used to hike in the days when a pack was a pack. Now everything is lightweight, and I like it. After you’ve carried an ounce ten miles, it weighs a pound.”

Bob Vega looked at his suitcase uncertainly. “I brought a few extra clothes—”

“Leave them. Every ounce counts.” Genneman noticed young James putting on a pair of Oxford-type work shoes with white rubber soles. He stared in amazement, eyebrows bushing out over his eyes. “Buck! You’re not planning to wear those things? You need boots.”

“Not me. You don’t like weight hanging around your neck, I don’t like it on my feet.”

“What if you sprain your ankle.”

Genneman gave his head a quick decisive shake. “When you’re depending on your legs to get you into the mountains and out again, you don’t take chances.”

“Everybody takes chances,” grinned Buck. “Kershaw might start dancing and fall into a lake. Nobody’s carrying life preservers.”

“Let’s be serious,” snapped Genneman. “Spraining an ankle on a loose rock is a real danger. Since you don’t have any experience—”

“I’ve walked here and there,” said Buck airily. “Look at these heels.”

“The Sierras aren’t the Wisconsin woods. This is rough country!”

Buck brought out the official park brochure. He read: “ ‘In the event of serious emergency, helicopters are usually available for rescue duty. In general, helicopters sent in to pick up persons for other than a life or death emergency must be chartered at the rate of one hundred and fifty dollars per eight hours.’ In other words, if I break my ankle, I don’t need to hold the rest of you up. Just send in the helicopter when you get back to civilization.”

Genneman stared at Buck a long ten seconds. Then he turned away. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

“I’ve been warned all my life,” said Buck. “But I’m sane, healthy, practical, courageous—”

Genneman forced a laugh. “One thing for sure, you’re articulate. I shouldn’t complain; who ever heard of a tongue-tied salesman?” Genneman turned away to make up his own pack, while Bob Vega shook his head in disapproval at Buck’s obstinacy over the boots.

The five men took their packs to Genneman’s big white Buick station wagon, then went into the restaurant for lunch. “Eat hearty while you can,” said Genneman. “You’ll be doing your own cooking for a week.”

“That I don’t mind,” said Red Kershaw. “But I’ll miss the candlelight and wine.”

“What about the whisky and the gin?” asked Genneman. “Think you can stand it?”

Kershaw rubbed his chin. “Be nice if one of you fellows cached liquor along the trail.”

The crack appeared to amuse no one.

“Just thought I’d ask,” said Kershaw.

After lunch the five climbed into the Buick, and Genneman drove into the vast glacial gorge which was Kings Canyon. Granite cliffs reared over the road; peaks soared to a neck-craning altitude. Thirty miles from the lodge they passed the Cedar Grove Campground and Ranger Station; after another six miles the road ended at a turn-around and parking area. From this point trails led off into the High Sierra, to north, south, and east.

Genneman parked and locked the car, and hid the keys inside a bumper-guard. Each man strapped on his pack, effecting a curious change in his appearance. Earl Genneman became a burly cinnamon bear; Retwig a finicky and fastidious gnome. With a white sweatshirt slung loosely over his pack-frame Buck James appeared more debonair than ever. Bob Vega walked about as if his feet hurt, while Red Kershaw seemed bemused by the astonishing set of circumstances which had brought him to his present predicament.

Genneman pointed to the Forest Service sign which read: COPPER CREEK TRAIL. “There it is, me buckos. Take your last look at civilization. Anyone want to back out?”

No one spoke, although Kershaw and Vega looked wistfully toward the station wagon.

Genneman said in brassy good cheer, “Everybody champing at the bit, eh? Let’s get going while the mood lasts.”

“Allons, mes enfants!” said Buck James.

In single file the group marched up the Copper Creek Trail.

For two hundred yards they walked across a dry meadow, in and out of the shade of towering cedars.

The sun, almost directly overhead, drew forth odors of cedar, fir, tarweed and sage. Before the group had walked a hundred yards they began to perspire. Kershaw, behind Retwig, called ahead. “Hey, Earl, I’m dying of heat! This long underwear is frying me.”

Genneman looked incredulously over his shoulder. “You’re not wearing it now!”

“Certainly,” snapped Kershaw. “You gave instructions to keep the packs down; why carry something when you can wear it?”

Retwig said, “If I were you I’d take it off. If you sweat too much you’ll get sick.”

“I’ll do that,” said Kershaw. “Somebody relieve me of this pack.”

Ten minutes later the group moved forward again. “It’s better,” said Red Kershaw. “But still not good. Somehow I’d pictured things differently. A pack horse with buckets of ice and champagne.”

“Save your breath,” said Genneman. “Here’s where we start going up.”

The trail veered against the mountainside and climbed by sweeps and switchbacks through patches of sun and scarcely less bright shade. Genneman and Retwig walked without effort. Red Kershaw wheezed and complained. Vega picked his way delicately, as if to spare his expensive new boots; Buck sauntered along in the rear.

Genneman set an easy pace, and where the trail became steep he called rest-halts every hundred yards. “The first day is the worst,” he told the sweating Kershaw and Vega. “Don’t despair just yet.”

“Look at the magnificent scenery,” Vega told Kershaw. “You won’t see anything like that at the race track.” And indeed, from where they sat they could see far up the valley, until interlocking spurs and ridges blurred into haze. “I’m enjoying every minute of this, Earl, though I had no idea we’d be climbing so fast.”

“We’ll be going up the rest of the day and part of tomorrow,” said Genneman. “We’ll make Suggs Meadow tonight without any trouble.”

Red Kershaw mopped his forehead with a red bandana handkerchief. “What do you keep staring at?” he asked young James. “You act as if something’s after you.”

“It might well be. Ten minutes ago I saw somebody coming up the trail behind us. He should have passed us by now.”