Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

Collins jumped to his feet and threw more fuel on the fire. The thought was uncomfortable up here.

Suddenly Collins thought he saw why Lomax Meadow had been the scene of the crime; and if this was so, then there was only one person... Collins grinned now, a humorless grin that showed his teeth. What of the previous visit to Persimmon Lake and Lomax Meadow? He tested the question against his suspect and found no disjuncture. Motive? Collins’ grin faded. Why had Earl Genneman been killed?

He got up and began to pace back and forth. First thing, visit Lomax Meadow. He might find what he sought. If he did not, then his theory of the case must remain strictly theory. And the murderer might well escape.

Collins walked down to the lake to wash his face. The fire, with no one sitting beside it, was a lonesome sight. A breath of icy air came down from the snow. Collins shivered and walked back to the fire. For another ten minutes he sat there, then undressed and zipped himself into his sleeping bag.

The night passed. Collins awoke several times to stare up at the stars.

The morning was bright and cold; he lay in the sleeping bag until the sun was fairly up in the sky. At last he dragged himself from the sleeping bag, dressed, built a fire, fixed bacon and eggs, fed the horses grain.

At nine o’clock he broke camp and rode north along the trail. About ten o’clock he saw Lomax Falls ahead and came into Lomax Meadow.

He dismounted and tied the horses to a tree.

The area was as he had recalled it: a pleasant little flat bisected by Lomax Creek, with a strip of forest pressing in upon the trail to the north. Except for the hushed roar of the waterfall, the meadow was quiet.

He walked slowly up the trail and came to the clearing where Earl Genneman had lost his life. The stain still showed dark in the dirt, and Collins’ neck prickled as if a shotgun were aimed at it.

He stood for a moment where Genneman had stood, and looked toward the clump of four cedars from which the gun had been discharged. Then he walked to the clump of cedars, and beyond, to where the mountain fell away to the valley floor.

Collins looked down with distaste. It was a long way to the bottom. He tied a handkerchief to the limb of a bushy fir, then began scrambling down the slope, keeping as nearly as possible directly below the handkerchief.

The mountainside was bare and barren, with coarse sand or loose pebbles occasionally layered over the granite. Rarely a stunted tree had secured a roothold. For the most part the mountain was exposed to the glare of the sun. There might be rattlesnakes among the rocks; it would be unpleasant to be bitten so far from the trail.

Down, down, down — always below the white speck of handkerchief. The descent was hard work; the climb back would be worse.

He came to a little clump of pines growing from bare rock. Below him, to Collins’ dismay, the mountainside became cliff, dropping almost sheer to the valley floor three or four hundred yards below. To get to the valley floor meant a long traverse along the steep mountainside. His theory at this moment seemed bootless... It was at that moment, looking at the base of the pines, that he noticed what seemed to be a crooked stick about three feet long.

There was the shotgun.

Collins descended the last few feet. He looked cautiously over the verge of the rocks far below. Then he picked up the shotgun.

It trailed three lengths of cord. One, of light strong fishline, was tied to a pair of clothespins. The second was also of fishline, and was tied to the trigger guard. The third cord looped through a hole in the stock, and this was soft-braided nylon — very strong and elastic. This last cord dangled over the edge of the cliff and was about fifty feet long. The end was frayed, broken off.

Collins examined the shotgun, an inexpensive 12-gauge, double-barrel model which might be bought from any mail-order house for fifty dollars. Both barrels had been fired. Collins was not disposed to sneer at the quality of the weapon. It had done its work, and Earl Genneman was as dead as if he had been killed by a two thousand dollar Purdey.

The inspector wrapped the cords around the gun. Now the long climb back. It would be hot, and hard on his legs. The little white speck of handkerchief seemed a long, long way above.

He flung himself down in the meadow beside Lomax Creek and drank, then rolled back in the tar-weed. His legs were numb, his hands scraped; his face was lobster-red from sunburn. Never in his recollection had he felt so tired. But he was far from unhappy. He had the shotgun. He knew how Earl Genneman had been killed, and it had not been by a homicidal maniac — unless all murderers were, by definition, unbalanced.

Collins groaned and sat up. He must mount his horse and return down trail. He consulted his watch. It was already almost one o’clock. He would be riding until long after dark.

Early the following afternoon Collins got back to Fresno headquarters. Captain Bigelow was out to lunch, and Collins went to his own office. There was little of interest in his mail until he came to the last letter in the box. As he read it, his mouth spread wide in a grin. He laid the letter reverently on the table beside the shotgun and the bottle of whisky.

Bigelow looked in through the open door. “You’re back.” He noticed the shotgun on Collins’ desk. “What’s this?”

“I went up for a bottle of whisky, I find the whisky, I find the shotgun. The gun that killed Earl Genneman.”

Bigelow was impressed. “Where’d you find it?”

“Way down the hillside, almost in the valley.” Collins described his adventure. “My legs still wobble, and I ache all the way up the back of my neck from that horse.”

“The main thing is you found the gun,” said Bigelow. “What are all these strings? And clothespins? Somebody hang out a wash?”

“I never thought of that,” said Collins dryly. “Here — look at this.” He gave Bigelow the letter.

Bigelow read and grunted.

“So now we know who killed Genneman, how, and why.”

“But can we prove it? Not too much of this will hold water in court.”

Collins nodded. “Even before I got this letter I had a pretty good idea whom we were looking for. I think I’ve figured out a way to make it stick.”

“How’s that?”

“First, we call the group together for a briefing. That’s what we call it. Actually, we try to goose somebody into acting. If it works, we’re home. If it doesn’t, then we’ve got to figure out something that will.”

“It’s your case,” said Bigelow. “You’ve done wonders, Omar, and I’m going to see that the sheriff knows it.”

Collins looked at the captain in amazement. Bigelow seemed perfectly sincere. “Why, thanks, Captain. Thanks very much,” said Collins. He looked at his watch. “As for that ‘briefing’ — what about tonight? Can we mount an operation so soon?”

“The sooner the better, before somebody else gets knocked off.”

“That’s my feeling. There’s one ‘somebody else’ right now whose life is hanging by a thread.”

In the Genneman living room Myron Retwig, Redwall Kershaw, Buck James, Bob Vega, Opal Genneman, Jean Genneman and Earl Genneman, Junior had gathered. For the most part they sat in silence. There was an atmosphere of strain, which Collins encouraged by standing in a corner with Captain Bigelow and whispering.

Finally Collins turned to the group. “This is my superior, Captain Bigelow. He had some business in San Jose, so he thought he’d drop by with me tonight.

“We’ve been investigating, and uncovering a fact or two, and since I know you’re all concerned, I thought you might like to hear a summary of what we’ve been doing.” He looked around with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “This is just a briefing session. I don’t plan to perform any dramatic acts, like suddenly pointing a finger and arresting one of you. I wish I could! This is a very confusing case, and we’re far from out of the woods. And, of course, I’m hoping to turn up a few more items of information, if any occur to you. In fact, before I start, does anyone have anything to tell me?”