Эллери Куин - The Madman Theory

“That’s my thought, too,” said Bigelow. “Good luck, Omar.”

“It’s past the luck stage — I hope.” Collins went outside. “Let’s get moving.”

The helicopter rose, swung east to the road’s-end, then north above the Copper Creek Trail. Suggs Meadow passed below, and Dutchman’s Pass, and Persimmon Lake. Ahead, Lomax Falls made a soft white line down the gray of the hillside. Into the meadow dropped the helicopter.

Collins and Phelps climbed out, then Kerner and Easley with sleeping gear and equipment bags.

An hour later the helicopter took off with Collins and Phelps in it. Collins had posted Easley and Kerner at what he considered optimum vantage; then, dangling in a bosun’s chair, he had taken the shotgun back down to the clump of pines in which he had found it.

The helicopter returned to Cedar Grove. Collins called Bigelow. “I’m back. Any developments?”

“Nothing out of line. The Corvair has entered the park. I’d say you got back just in time. Is the helicopter out of sight?”

“It’s in a meadow a hundred yards from the road. It can’t be seen. I don’t think it would register, anyway.”

“Maybe not. But we can’t be too careful.”

“Right. Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait. I’m going up to road’s-end and see what happens. I’ll call again as soon as there’s action.”

In a ranger pick-up, Collins and Phelps drove to the parking area at the end of the road. They got out and walked back among the trees, where they could see and not be seen. The time was now four thirty — late afternoon.

Twenty minutes passed. Then a black Corvair sedan came quietly up the road. It turned into the parking oval, made a slow circuit, then another, as if the driver were uncertain.

“Suspicious,” muttered Collins. “Every car’s being checked.”

The black Corvair made a third swing and finally parked. The occupant alighted, rummaged in the back seat, slipped on a light pack, stepped out in the open, made a furtive inspection of the area, and set out up the trail.

Collins and Phelps watched the figure disappear among the trees. “There goes a killer,” said Collins softly. “At large. Just like a wild animal. Ever seen one before?”

“No,” said Phelps. “It’s a peculiar sensation.”

Collins nodded. “Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait. At the earliest the payoff will be tomorrow night. More likely the morning after that. We may as well relax.”

Collins spent the night at Phelps’ cottage on the bank of the Kings River. For dinner he was served delicious trout, with lemon butter and new potatoes.

After dinner he played Monopoly with Phelps, Mrs. Phelps, and their teenage children. Afterward, at the children’s urging, he recounted some of his exploits as a police officer. At midnight they all went to bed.

In the morning he ate a breakfast of hotcakes and bacon and eggs, thinking of Easley and Kerner, who would be making do with cold corned beef and dried apples — they would hardly dare light a fire. Collins chuckled and accepted another mug of coffee.

During the day he paid another visit to road’s-end, to make sure that the black Corvair was still there. He was of two minds about keeping watch all night. Phelps dissuaded him. “It’s a day’s hike in. And something less than a day’s hike out, not to mention a rough two hours or so at Lomax Meadow. Add one sleeping period, and it works out to tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“You’re probably right,” said Collins, “but I don’t want to miss the boat now. Not that it would make any difference in the long run, if Kerner and Easley function as they’re supposed to.”

“I’ll have one of my men up here tomorrow morning at, say, six o’clock. He can keep an eye on things till we arrive. There’s no problem, because we can always call ahead to stop the car at the park entrance.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Collins. “Although I hate to impose on your hospitality.”

“Don’t mention it. The kids are thrilled.”

The day passed, and the night. At eight the next morning, after breakfast, they drove back to road’s-end. The black Corvair was there. “Nothing moving,” said the ranger whom Phelps had assigned to watch the car.

“It won’t be long,” said Phelps. “You’d better stick with us.”

Nine o’clock passed, ten o’clock...

Down the trail came a gaunt figure, stumbling with fatigue, but with an expression of satisfaction on his face. He went to the Corvair, opened the back door, threw in his pack, started to open the front door.

Collins came up beside him. “Hello, Buck. What are you doing here?”

Buck James jerked around, jaw sagging. He forced a grin. “It’s the inspector. I might ask the same of you.”

“I asked you first.”

“Oh, I had a few days free. I thought I’d visit old scenes, and all that. Just curiosity, you might say.”

Collins snapped a handcuff on James’ left wrist. James jerked back only to bump into Phelps, who seized his right arm and held it while Collins snapped on the other handcuff.

The young man looked at his bonds in injured innocence. “What’s the meaning of this? Can’t a man take a hike without being loaded with gyves?”

“You’re something in the nature of a special case,” said Collins. “You’re under arrest. The charge — murder of Earl Genneman, Steve Ricks and Molly Wilkerson.”

Buck James swallowed. “You’re not serious?”

“Do you think I got up this morning at six o’clock for fun? Before we start back to Fresno, I better look you over. A man of your talents might be concealing an A-bomb or something.”

But Buck carried nothing but a hunting knife. Collins appropriated it.

Buck’s voice broke slightly. “You make these fantastic charges, without rhyme or reason. Without proof.”

“I think the photographs of you climbing down the hill after that shotgun will convince most jurors.

What did you do with it, bury it? We’ll dig it up. Into the car with you. Where are the keys?”

“On the floor under the mat.” Buck James thoughtfully climbed into the back seat. Collins got in beside him. Phelps drove.

“This is fantastic,” said Buck. “How in the world could I shoot Earl? I was the last in line; the shot came from the trees.”

“I’ll tell you how you could shoot Earl. All you needed was some strong cord, two clothespins, a shotgun, and a boulder weighing fifty pounds or so. I’ve found all but the boulder.

“You drove up here early Wednesday, hiked in until you found a place where your scheme would work. One clothespin held the other open, with the jaws clamping the trigger and trigger guard. You wanted to give Earl both barrels, so you connected the triggers and locked them together. Then you led one line to the trail and arranged it so you could give it a quick yank. This yank would snap off the first clothespin; the second clothespin would jerk the trigger; Earl would have his head blown off. Another line ran back and over the slope, where it was tied to the boulder. The gun was supported on a branch, maybe weighted down. When it went off, it shot apart a cord holding the boulder, which pulled the gun and the rest down the mountain. And all you’d had to do was give your string that one yank when Earl stepped into range.”

Buck crouched on the seat. He looked for all the world like a trussed-up wolf.

“Yes, Buck, my boy,” said Collins, “we’ve got you cold. If you turn your head you’ll catch a last glimpse of Copper Creek Trail. Take a good look. You can remember it as you sit in that chair in the gas chamber.”

On his return to Fresno, Collins telephoned the Gennemans in San Jose. The houseboy answered, and Collins asked to speak to Mrs. Genneman.