Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

“If we don’t find out from you, we’ll find out somewhere else. There’s more to this on-and-off engagement than meets the eye.”

“I’ve told you all I know. If you want further details, you’ll have to question Mr. James.”

“We’ll do so. Now, if you’ll be good enough, please call your son.”

“I’m right here.” Earl Junior negligently arose from a large chair at the far end of the room, where he had sat concealed. “What’s on your mind?”

Collins studied the pallid face, so callow and wise. “You heard your mother tell us that on the night of Saturday, June 6, she and your father were out for the evening.”

“I heard you.”

“And you were the only member of the family at home.”

“That’s right.”

“Did Steve Ricks call the house?”

“I don’t know Steve Ricks.”

“Did anyone call, with the information that your uncle needed a ride home?”

“If anyone did, I slept through it.”

Collins, assured by the boy’s insolence that no information would be forthcoming, turned back to Opal Genneman. “Mr. Genneman often went on back-packing trips?”

“Not often. Every year or so he’d get the urge.”

“He usually went with friends?”

She shook her head. “Until this year it was always a family affair. Last summer I couldn’t make the trip and Earl and the two children went alone. But before that — well, as I say, it was a regular family affair.”

“Where did you hike, as a rule? In Kings Canyon?”

“Oh, no. In Yosemite. Once up in the Yolla Bolly country.”

Loveridge entered the conversation. “Incidentally, has your daughter ever been engaged before?”

Opal glanced at him sharply. “No.”

“No doubt she’s had lots of boy friends?”

“The usual lot. She’s never been boy-crazy, if that’s what you mean — for which I’m profoundly thankful.”

Earl Junior gave an offensive snicker, and she flashed him a look of unmaternal dislike. Loveridge glanced at Collins; Collins nodded slightly; and they took their leave.

Collins found Captain Bigelow in his office catching up on some paperwork. Bigelow motioned him to a seat. “What’s it look like?”

“It’s getting thicker by the hour,” said Collins. He told of Mrs. Edna Beachey and the rifled post-office box. “What bothers me is that I can almost see what’s happening — out of the corner of my eye. But when I turn to take a close look, there’s nothing but blur.”

Bigelow made a series of small restless gestures. “What’s the next move?”

“The Ford that Steve Ricks was driving seems the best bet,” said Collins. “It’s probably a rented car. It looks to me as if the noise in the automatic transmission cost Steve his life. It made him drive his own car into the park, and that left a record of his license registration. So Steve had to go.”

After a moment Bigelow said, “You seem to think that whoever shot Earl Genneman — or whoever paid Steve Ricks to do the job — furnished Steve the Ford.”

“That’s what it looks like. Now if Steve had the car four days — don’t forget the car entered the park on Wednesday — some of his cronies must have noticed. Steve wasn’t the type to resist putting on the dog. He’d have taken his pals for a ride, gone calling on his girl friends.”

“How could he have done all that if he was up in the park from Wednesday on?”

“He wasn’t. He was back at work Thursday morning at the Sunset Nursery. The trip on Wednesday could have been at any time, from morning till night. It’s only an hour’s drive. Then he had the car to himself until Saturday.”

“Well, it’s your case. Handle it the best way you can.”

Collins went back to his own office. “It’s my case, unless there’s a big blaze of glory,” he muttered to himself, “and then it’s Bigelow’s...” He looked at his watch: a quarter to five. He hesitated. He felt like going home, showering, and relaxing over two or three martinis with Lorna. With a groan of self-pity he went out to his car, swung it around, and drove west through the going-home traffic.

There had been no need for haste: the Sunset Nursery stayed open till 6 p.m. Collins sought out Sam Delucci, the gray-haired warehouse manager, who at first failed to recognize him. “I’m Inspector Collins, Sheriff’s Investigator, still on the Steve Ricks case. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah!” Delucci looked curious. “Never did find who done him in, eh?”

“What I’m after now is this: during the week of June 6 to June 12, did anyone around here see Steve Ricks driving a new-model white Ford hardtop?”

“I didn’t, that’s for sure.” Delucci pulled at his bulbous nose. “He drove some old clunker — a kind of greenish color. It sure wasn’t new, and it sure wasn’t white.”

“Where did he generally park?”

“Oh, anywhere along the street. There’s always parking space.”

“So you wouldn’t necessarily have noticed?”

“Not unless I saw him getting into the car.”

“Did he have any special friend around the warehouse?”

“Steve was a goodnatured guy, always joking, but I wouldn’t say he had any real buddies. Why don’t you go around and talk to the men?”

“What I’d like better is for you to send them over here one at a time. That way I’ll know I’ve talked to everybody.”

One by one the warehousemen and yard-workers came to be questioned. None had seen Ricks driving a white Ford. None could remember anything specific regarding Ricks’ conduct. The last man Collins interviewed was Delucci’s nephew, a slender, sleek fellow in his early twenties. Did you notice Steve Ricks driving a new white Ford hardtop during the last week he was here?”

“No, Inspector.”

“Were you friendly with him?”

“I’m friendly with everybody.”

“Did Steve say anything about his plans for the weekend?”

“I wouldn’t say he went into detail.”

Collins became alert. “What do you mean by that?”

“I forget how the talk went. I asked him about the place where he played — that’s the Clover Club on Morgan Street. I said something like, ‘I guess you’re really going to knock ’em out this weekend, hey, Steve?’ And he said, ‘Tonight only. I’m taking a little leave of absence over the weekend.’ And I said, ‘that’s going to grieve them Okie Chicks, Steve.’ And he said, ‘Can’t be helped, there’s a new batch born every day; all I gotta do is wait till they seek me out.’ Something like that. Steve considered himself a big ladies’ man — he’d fall all over himself when some good-looking dame drove up. But anyway, I asked him where he was going, and he laughed, like he was thinking of something funny. ‘It’s going to be a surprise,’ he said. ‘A real expensive surprise.’ I asked what he meant but he wouldn’t tell me — just grinned and looked mysterious.”

“A surprise? Did he say whom he was about to surprise?”

“No. I actually said, ‘Who you going to surprise, Steve?’ He said, ‘I’m not supposed to tell a soul, and that’s a shame. Maybe next week.’ And that’s all there was to it.”

“What day did all this take place?”

“It must have been Friday. He only played two nights, Friday and Saturday.”

Collins shook his head in vexation. “I wish I knew what he was talking about.”

“Sorry, Inspector, I can’t help you.”

“Did he ever talk about any particular girl friend?”

“No. He played the field. He had some chick in San Jose, and I think he was hot for some girl that sang at the Clover Club. Otherwise he took it where he found it.”

Collins returned to his car and, at long last, went home.