The Madman Theory

Chapter 9

Collins could well have taken Sunday off except for curiosity, which all night had visited him with near-physical pangs. So now, at nine thirty, with the laboratory deserted, he re-recorded the tape from the portable recorder into an Ampex at fifteen inches a second. Then he played back the tape at three and three-quarter inches per second, the sounds reduced four octaves in pitch. The door-closing became a groan. Molly’s change being placed on the shelf made a sound like far-off cowbells. Two deep reverberations echoed and boomed as she dropped the dime into the slot, some seconds later there came a noise like a stick on a picket fence, followed by tunk tunk tunk.

“Three,” said Collins, and made a note.

Presently another rattle, then tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk.

“Six,” said Collins.

And next: “Three.”

Finally he had the number which Molly had dialed. 363-2210.

He returned to his office, looked through his notes. Nowhere did he find such a number. He picked up his phone, dialed the San Jose exchange, then 363-2210.

At the other end of the connection the bell rang, but no one answered. Collins hung up.

Bigelow appeared in the doorway, resplendent in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and gray silk tie. Collins had telephoned him the night before about the success of the ploy, and curiosity evidently had been eating at Bigelow, too.

“On my way to church,” the captain said rather sheepishly, looking away from Collins’ raised eyebrows. “What did you make from the tape?”

Collins tossed him a sheet of paper. “That’s the number.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know yet. Nobody home.”

“It might be a business number.”

“I don’t think so. Molly called in the evening.”

“True. You’d better make another trip up to San Jose. Then when somebody answers the phone, you’ll be on the spot to ask some questions.”

“That makes sense,” said Collins hollowly. “I might as well move to San Jose. I practically live there now.”

“It’s a nice climate,” said Bigelow, so soberly that Collins looked at him. What did he mean by that?

“I’ve pulled Sullivan and Kerner out of the park,” said Bigelow. “They didn’t get a nibble in the campgrounds. Too many people coming and going.”

“It was an off-chance,” said Collins defensively. “It might have paid off big.”

“Oh, I’m not knocking the idea,” said Bigelow. “In fact, do you have any others?”

“Just this telephone number, which I’d call our best lead so far.”

“I agree,” said Bigelow magnanimously. “Well, I better get going. The wife and kids are waiting outside.”

Collins arrived at San Jose shortly after one. He lunched at a drive-in, then crossed the street to a service station phone booth and dialed 363-2210. No answer.

He looked through the directory, checking every name and institution associated with the case.

Earl Genneman was listed once, Genneman Laboratories was listed again, and Jean Genneman also had a listing. None of these was 363-2210.

Myron Retwig had a listing, also Pacific Chemicals. Neither was 363-2210.

Red Kershaw had a listing.

Robert Vega and Westco were listed.

None was 363-2210.

Buck James was not represented in the directory. But James had already, at Cedar Grove, given his number to Collins. It was not 363-2210.

Collins dialed Myron Retwig’s home number. Retwig answered, and Collins asked if he had a few minutes free. Retwig said he did, and gave directions how to reach his home.

He lived on the summit of a hill west of San Jose, the Coast Range bulking up behind. His house was an enormous three-story box, with a high mansard roof broken by dormers and chimneys at either end. A copse of tall black cypresses at the rear comprised the landscaping; there was no trace of a garden.

Retwig answered the door in tan trousers and a faded blue work-shirt. With his round brown face, stiff gray hair and owlish look, he seemed not so much the owner of the house as its gardener or handyman.

He took Collins in. The place was furnished with heavy, comfortable furniture: leather chairs, an ancient leather-upholstered sofa, a massive table supporting a two-foot globe. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. Retwig said by way of explanation, “I’m alone today. My wife is in San Francisco, my sons are at Monterey for the regatta. Is it too early for a drink?”

“I wouldn’t say so.”

Retwig went to a cabinet, mixed a pair of highballs. Over his shoulder he asked, “How is the investigation coming?”

“Not too badly,” said Collins. “Cases like this are solved by hard-nosed plugging.”

Retwig nodded. “This is true in almost any endeavor.”

“There’s been one interesting development,” said Collins with an air of candor. “It concerns a certain Steve Ricks. Is that name familiar to you?”

Retwig considered carefully. “It is, in the sense that you already have asked me the same question. Otherwise, to the best of my knowledge, I have never heard the name.”

Collins nodded, as if Retwig had uttered a profound truth. “I hoped that you might have remembered a reference to him. We have reason to believe that he’s linked with Mr. Genneman.”

Retwig made no comment.

“Jean Genneman seems to recall the name,” mused Collins. “But she can’t remember from where.”

“It’s not an unusual name.”

“True. Look, Mr. Retwig, I’d like you to talk to me frankly about the Genneman family. In complete confidence, and for the sake of background, what was the state of affairs in the Genneman household?”

Retwig half smiled. “If I say nothing, I obstruct justice. If I talk freely, I become a gossip. You put me in an uncomfortable position, Inspector.”

“I realize that,” said Collins. “I make the request only because it may bring Mr. Genneman’s murderer to justice. Please?”

Retwig deliberated. Then he said, “I can’t tell you a great deal, because there isn’t much to tell. Earl and Opal seemed quite happy together. She was clever enough, or kind enough, to complement him — bring out the best in him. A less understanding and subtle woman might have made Earl’s life hell.”

“How so?”

“Earl was a positive man. He made decisions by a process which represented subconscious but perfectly accurate logic, but which might be mistaken for pigheadedness. Opal understood this.”

“What of Earl Junior?”

Retwig pursed his lips, “I’d say that in that department Earl did as good a job as anyone could. I am not a Freudian, thank God, and I can’t even guess at the shape of young Earl’s thoughts. But it would be wrong to blame the father for the son.”

“They didn’t have a good relationship?”

“I wouldn’t say so, no.”

“Where did Mrs. Genneman stand in all this?”

“In my opinion, Opal has behaved admirably. He may change with maturity, but as of now I consider Earl Junior pretty unprepossessing.”

“I appreciate your frankness,” said Collins. “Now, as to Jean?”

“No mystery there. She’s exactly what she appears: a healthy young woman with a strong personality.”

“She and her stepfather were on good terms?”

“Very much so. Earl gave her the affection he would have given his own flesh and blood. She felt the same toward him.”

“What’s the story between Jean and Buck James?”

“It’s beyond my understanding. Buck was graduated from the University of Wisconsin and came to Stanford for graduate work. He met Jean, they became engaged. Earl approved the match and gave Buck a job with Westco. Then the romance cooled and the two drifted apart. What I suspect is that Jean wanted to get married immediately, whereas Buck wanted to wait until he was independent, or at least out from under Earl’s shadow. He liked and respected Earl — but Earl had a very dominating personality, and if he disapproved of something he did so vehemently, to say the least. Earl was a good friend. He could also be a bad enemy.”

“And you, Mr. Retwig — why did you leave Genneman Pharmaceuticals?”

“For something of the same reasons which, in my opinion, dissuaded Buck from an early marriage with Jean. And because I was offered a more responsible job at more money.”

“But now you’re back working for Genneman Pharmaceuticals.”

“Opal offered me a better job with more money than my job with Pacific; and Earl is no longer around to demoralize me with his off-the-cuff — and accurate — decisions. You see,” said Retwig with a faint smile, “I’m the thinking-man type. I weigh and ponder, I project trends, I calculate probabilities — I eliminate the less promising courses of action and finally arrive at one which I regard as optimum. All that takes time. Earl would reach the same decision in half a second... I explained this to him when I left Genneman Laboratories, and he was greatly amused.”

“I understand you both were interested in model railroading,” said Collins, “that it was the basis of your friendship.”

“It was a mutual interest, certainly. Have you seen Earl’s set-up?”

“Mrs. Genneman showed it to me.”

“What did you think of it?” For the first time Retwig seemed to speak without calculation.

“I said to myself: how I wish I’d had something like this when I was a boy.”

Retwig jumped to his feet. “Take a look at mine.”

He slid back a door, snapped a set of switches. Collins took his drink and followed.

“Up four steps, Inspector. Don’t trip.”

The steps rose to a walkway that encircled a room twenty feet square. The layout occupied the entire floor, with tracks wandering through a miniature landscape. Collins stared in wonder. If Earl Genneman’s layout had been impressive, this was a marvel. There was a central area divided into four sectors, each tinted a different color: purple, yellow, red and blue. At the center was a city of domes, towers and palaces, all fashioned of brilliant green glass.

Retwig watched Collins with a smile. “Do you recognize it?”

Collins nodded slowly. “It’s the Land of Oz, by golly. I haven’t thought of it for — well, a long time.”

“I probably know more about Oz than any man alive. The research I have put into this project, the money I’ve spent! And here it all is. The Land of Oz. The blue Munchkin country, the yellow land of the Winkies, the red Quadling country, the purple Gillikin country, the Emerald City at the center. There’s the Tin Woodsman’s castle, and there’s the palace of Glinda the Good. Notice the cottage where Tip lived with Mombi the Witch. There’s Foxville, and Bunbury, and Bunnybury. Over there is the Nonestic Ocean — I’m sorry I don’t have room for the islands of Pingaree, Regos, Coregos and Phreex. Below is the Deadly Desert and the Land of Ev. The Nomes work underneath the mountains; in the crags live the Whimsies, the Growleywogs and the Phanfasms. I’ve used the O’Neill illustrations faithfully. In fact the only false note is the railroads themselves. Baum would have disapproved. Still, they’re the excuse for all this, and I’ve kept them in character.”

He went to a panel, touched switches. From below came a faint whirring, and Oz-type locomotives tugged Oz-type cars through the landscapes. In the mountains directly below, a small gray mining mole hauled gondolas heaped with sparkling crystals from the Nome caverns, dumped them into a hopper, returned within the mountain to reappear with a new load. Green trolley cars traversed the avenues of the Emerald City.

“There’s a lot I had to leave out,” said Retwig. “I don’t intend to put any more work into it. If my sons want to take over they’re welcome. They don’t show too much interest, but maybe their children will enjoy it.” He shrugged, touched switches. The trains halted; the fountains stopped playing before the palace of Glinda the Good; the lights went out in the Emerald City.

The two men returned to the great hall. “Let me mix you another drink,” said Retwig.

Collins held out his glass, and watched as Retwig poured whisky. Could a man who had lavished such labor upon a fairy tale employ somebody to blast the head off his best friend? Collins suddenly felt like drinking all of Retwig’s whisky.

“Among Mr. Genneman’s papers I found this number.” Collins showed Retwig the number Molly Wilkerson had called. “I can’t identify it, and no one answers. Is it familiar to you?”

“Not offhand. I’ll look in my book.” Retwig went to a desk, checked through a leather-hound notebook. “Sorry, No number like that here.”

Collins returned the paper to his pocket. “What’s your private theory of this case?”

“I don’t have any.” Retwig spoke softly. “In my position it’s better not to think too much.”

Collins did not press for an explanation. He thought he saw a glimmer of Retwig’s meaning. He finished his whisky, thanked Retwig for his cooperation, and departed the mansion on the hill.

Collins drove back toward San Jose via Stevens Creek Road. At Los Robles Boulevard he turned south, and a few minutes later he pulled up before the Genneman mansion.

Jean answered the door, transparently expectant. Her face changed when she saw Collins. “Oh, Inspector. Come in.”

Collins had not appreciated what a fine figure she had. Her hair had been cut short, and scrubbed and brushed till it glistened. She looked almost beautiful.

“Mother’s upstairs in the shower,” Jean said airily. “Stinker’s out somewhere, so temporarily I’m in charge. Is there anything I can do?”

“One or two things,” said Collins. “Have you remembered anything about Steve Ricks?”

“No.”

“Ever hear of a Molly Wilkerson?”

“No again. Who are these people?”

“They’re involved in the case,” said Collins. “Ricks was killed last Tuesday, either as a result of killing your father, or because he knew who did.”

“How horrible!”

“But if you don’t know these people, then you don’t know them. May I ask a personal question?”

Jean’s face became wary. “I suppose in your business you’re obliged to do that —”

“Are you going to marry Buck James?”

Jean flushed. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you marry him before?”

She hesitated; her eyes flicked away.

“Did your stepfather object?”

“Definitely not!” she snapped. In a quieter tone she went on, “It’s complicated. Buck is a complicated man. I’m a complicated woman. I can’t explain easily. It’s got something to do with the range and overlap of our personalities.” She gave Collins an intimate smile, as from one complicated person to another.

“I think I understand,” said Collins, although he did not understand at all. “Actually, I dropped in to talk to Earl Junior.”

“He went off with one of his cronies. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Collins asked questions for another ten minutes, fishing here and there, but he learned nothing he did not already know. He took his leave, drove to a service station, and called the number 363-2210.

There was still no answer.

The time was five o’clock. He looked in his notebook for the address of Redwall Kershaw, consulted the city map, turned north toward Santa Clara, and a few minutes later pulled up before a building on Eagle Avenue. It was a green stucco four-plex; Kershaw rented the upper left apartment.

He had apparently just got home — when he opened the door, he was still wearing his hat.

“Come in, come in,” exclaimed Genneman’s brother-in-law heartily. “Welcome to my abode. I was just planning a pre-dinner slug of schnapps. Would you care to join me, or are you here on official business?”

“It’s official business,” said Collins in a neutral voice. “But first, do you mind if I use your telephone?”

“Be my guest, Inspector.”

Collins went to the phone, started to dial, then stared down at the number in the slot: 363-2210. He turned to Kershaw. “I though your number was—” he began to check his book.

“They changed my number, I don’t know why. I suppose I should have notified you.”

The inspector turned away from the phone, as if he had changed his mind about his phone call. “Do you know a man named Steve Ricks?”

Red Kershaw’s face showed only serenity.

“Steve Ricks, a cowboy guitar player,” Collins said.

Red Kershaw shook his head dubiously. “I meet lots of people; I might have heard the name. Or I might not. It rings no bells.”

“This is important, Mr. Kershaw. Are you absolutely certain you’ve never heard of Steve Ricks?”

Kershaw pulled at his long chin. “Offhand the name doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t lie to me, since this is a case of double murder. It’s not smart to lie in murder cases.”

“Naturally,” Kershaw said.

“I said ‘double murder.’ You didn’t seem surprised.”

“In my business, Inspector, a man is never surprised by anything. Somebody else got killed?”

“This Ricks. The case seems to be tied in with the murder of your brother-in-law. By the way, what were your plans for the evening?”

Red Kershaw glanced sidewise at Collins. “Nothing particular. I was going out for some chow mein.”

“Could you spare me an hour or two?”

“I suppose so,” Kershaw said unhappily. “What did you have in mind?”

“A short ride. I’ll point out somebody for you, to see if you can make an identification.”

“Who is it? I’ve got a few ex-wives I don’t particularly care to run into.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. We can go to City Hall and you could make the identification from a line-up.”

“That’s unnecessary. Let’s get it over with.”

In the car Red Kershaw asked again, “Who is it you want me to identify, anyway?”

“I’d prefer you not to have any preconceptions, Mr. Kershaw.”

Kershaw slumped sulkily into his seat. As Collins drove south he began to fidget, and when the car turned into Latham Boulevard he sat swiftly upright, started to say something, then held his tongue.

The sun had dropped behind the concrete walls of the new shopping center when Collins pulled up before Smoky Joe’s.

“You wait here,” said Collins. “I’ll come out with the person I want you to identify. You take a good close look. I want you to be sure.”

Kershaw nodded glumly. “Whatever you say.”

Collins went into the Down Home Cabaret. From the shadowed interior he watched Red Kershaw for a moment. Kershaw was just sitting there.

Collins spied Molly Wilkerson working her station across the room. He moved out to where she could see him, and signaled. She hesitated, then stalked across the room. “I can’t talk to you now.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Wilkerson, this is police business.”

Molly tried to cow Collins with a glare. Collins bore the glare with fortitude. She bit her lip. “Well — I’ve got two orders to get out, then I’ll be with you. What do you want?”

“There’s a man outside I’d like you to meet. After we talk a bit, I want you to tell me confidentially what you know about him.”

“Who is he?” But Collins was silent, and she shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “Just a minute and I’ll be with you.”

Collins went to the door to make sure Kershaw had not decamped. But Kershaw sat in the same position, looking down at his knees.

Molly joined him. She said haughtily, “Let’s get this over with.”

Collins took her out to the car. Kershaw immediately looked at him with the expression of a dog whose master has just stepped on his paw. Molly took one look, gave a sort of whinny, glared at Collins, and began to spread her claws.

“In the car, Mrs. Wilkerson.” Collins held open the rear door. She ungraciously got in. He climbed into the front beside Kershaw, and swung about so that he could watch both.

Kershaw said mournfully, “I thought we agreed to leave my ex-wives out of this.”

Collins grinned. “Mrs. Wilkerson is your ex-wife? I didn’t know that.”

“My second, or was it my third? I forget now. It’s something I don’t like to remember.”

Molly said something impolite under her breath.

“Well, now that I know you two know each other,” said Collins brightly, “let’s talk about Steve Ricks.”

“Steve Ricks?” Kershaw studied the ceiling of the car.

“The Steve Ricks whose name didn’t ring a bell back at your apartment. The Steve Ricks you met here two weeks ago.”

“Oh, that Steve Ricks. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I couldn’t have made it any clearer. I could pull you in right now, Kershaw, on a charge of trying to withhold information—”

“There’s a whole lot of Steve Rickses,” Kershaw muttered defensively.

“I’m talking about the dead Steve Ricks.”

“Don’t say a word!” shrilled Molly. “He can’t make you talk if you don’t want to!”

“Shut up,” said Red. “I haven’t done anything. Why shouldn’t I talk?”

“You were willing to pay Mrs. Wilkerson to keep your name out of it,” said Collins.

“A measly five bucks!” sniffed Molly. Then she glared at Collins. “How did you know?”

“Woman, time and again I told you I didn’t send you no five bucks. I wasn’t going to send you anything.”

Collins asked Molly, “Do you still have that five?”

“I certainly do. I’m going to frame it. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I wrote that letter, and I put in the five to get you sore at Mr. Kershaw. By the way, I want the five back; it’s official money.”

Molly shook her head mulishly. “It’s mine and I’m going to keep it.”

Collins laughed. “How would you like to go to jail for attempted blackmail, conspiring to obstruct justice, and being accessory to murder? Besides, it’s a marked bill.”

Molly promptly dug into her hip pocket and produced the five dollar bill. “And you know what you can do with it!” She started to leave the car.

“Just a minute,” said Collins, “I’m not through with you.” He turned to Kershaw. “What’s your connection with Steve Ricks?”

Kershaw gloomily nodded toward Molly. “That’s the connection.”

“Your ex-wife introduced you?”

“That’s right. Steve was a small-time bookie. He never did very much or very good, but — well, he and I were able to do favors for each other on occasion.”

“Such as?”

Kershaw fidgeted.

Molly laughed. “What he means is that once in a while he’d know when a horse was set for a certain race, and he’d belly up to Steve and they’d make a few lousy bucks together and they’d rejoice like they were real big shots. And there’s some other deals I could mention connected with the races at the county fair, when Red was hired as track steward and Steve collected for the saliva tests. Oh, there was some wonderful things that went on. I could write a book.”

“Don’t pay any attention to her!” Red told Collins anxiously. “This dame’s name is poison.”

‘“So you and Steve had business dealings,” mused Collins. “Did Earl Genneman know Steve?”

“Earl? Hell, no.”

“How do you explain the fact that Ricks followed you all into the mountains, camped at Persimmon Lake, and quite possibly shot Genneman?”

Red Kershaw gaped as if he suspected Collins of losing his reason. “What are you saying?”

“There’s pretty good proof of that.”

Kershaw shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“You mean you didn’t know he was following you?”

“Absolutely not!”

“That’s hard to believe, Kershaw.”

“I can’t help it. Those are the facts.”

“How come you didn’t recognize him at his camp?”

“It was a good way across the meadow. Cripes, I hardly looked at the man. He was just a spot in front of a fire.”

“Why should he want to shoot Earl Genneman?”

“Never in a thousand years. Steve was the biggest chicken alive. He could no more shoot a man’s head off with a shotgun than fly.”

Molly laughed shortly. “Even I’d agree to that. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector.”

“Why else did Steve Ricks go up into the mountains?”

“It beats me,” said Kershaw.

“Did you tell Steve you were going camping?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Pah!” spat Molly. “How would you know? You were so drunk you don’t know what you said.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” Kershaw said weakly. “But if I said something like that while I was drunk, he’d never have believed it. So it amounts to the same thing.”

“How come you were so nervous about your connection with Ricks?”

“I’d hardly call it nervousness,” said Kershaw nervously.

“You agreed to pay Molly to keep your name out of the investigation.”

“I only told her that to get her fangs out of my neck.”

“You son of a bitch,” said Molly.

“I figured Steve was dead. I knew I didn’t have anything to do with it, and I didn’t want to get mixed up in it.”

“Well, let’s have some facts. You last saw Steve Ricks when?”

“About two weeks ago, in Smoky Joe’s.”

“Did you arrange the meeting? Did you have business to talk over?”

“No, it was just chance. He was there and I was there. So we got talking and had a few drinks.”

“What did you talk about?”

“How would he remember?” sneered Molly. “He didn’t know up from down before the evening was through.”

“I must say I overindulged a bit,” said Red. “In fact, Steve had to drive me home.”

Molly spat, “Steve never drove you home! He rode with you, but I wouldn’t let him drive.”

“What did you have to say about it?”

“Because it was my car. I didn’t want it cracked up, the condition you two were in.”

“Where was his own car?” Collins asked. They were talking beautifully.

“He left it at my house,” snapped Molly. “If you have to know.”

“That’s funny,” said Red. “All the time I thought Steve took me home. How did I get home?”

“We wanted to send you home in a cab, only you didn’t have any money in your wallet. We saw a card which said ‘In case of accident notify Opal Genneman’ at such and such a telephone number. Steve said to me, ‘He’s sure had an accident, an alcoholic accident.’ So he phoned your sister.”

Red Kershaw clutched his head. “Oh, God. That means Bad News himself came down and picked me up. I remember vaguely somebody taking me home. But why didn’t I hear about it the next day? Earl wasn’t a man to be charitable in cases like this. Are you sure it was Earl picked me up?”

“What difference does it make?” Molly reached for the door handle. “I’ve got to get back to my tables.”

“It makes a big difference,” said Collins. “Somebody killed Earl Genneman and somebody killed Steve Ricks.”

Molly slowly withdrew her hand from the handle. “You mean that whoever drove Red home...”

Collins felt a sense of here we go again.

“Who came from the Genneman house to take Red Kershaw home?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “I didn’t stay to find out.”

“I thought Steve left his car at your house.”

“I didn’t want him coming home with me. He was almost as drunk as Redwall.”

“You didn’t wait to see if I was going to get home?” asked Red incredulously.

“That’s right. And furthermore I didn’t give a damn. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go back inside. I’ll be fired.”

“Go ahead,” said Collins wearily.

Molly jumped out and stamped back into the cabaret.

“There goes Hard-hearted Hannah,” mourned Kershaw. “I was what you’d call a callow youth when I ran into her. Though she wasn’t so mean then as she is now. You’d never guess why she divorced me.”

“Why?”

“People would ask her name and she’d say ‘Mrs. Kershaw.’ They’d right off say ‘Gesundheit!’ and laugh fit to die. It got on her nerves. It’s never bothered me any.”

Collins grunted. “The fact remains that Genneman was murdered, and Ricks was murdered, and so far as I know you’re the only connection between the two men. You’ve got to figure in this business, Kershaw.”

“No, sir!” exclaimed Red, aghast. “You’re wrong! I’d never raise a hand against anybody. Steve Ricks might have been chicken, but he was Richard the Lion-Hearted compared to me!”

“I didn’t accuse you of murder,” said Collins, “I said you were involved. The question is — how? Who else among Earl Genneman’s friends knew Ricks?”

“Nobody I know of. But I see what you mean. It’s a real mystery.”

“It certainly is.” Collins stepped out of the car. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

He went to the booth and dialed the Genneman residence. Opal Genneman answered. She sounded listless.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Genneman, but I’m still gathering information.”

“I don’t mind, Inspector.”

“I want you to think back to the night of June 6 — the Saturday before the pack-trip. Did you receive a telephone call from anyone asking for a ride home? This would be quite late that night.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Opal Genneman. “What night are you talking about again?”

“Saturday night. Or, more accurately, Sunday morning at about two a.m. Did you get a phone call around that time?”

“Let me think... No, I’m sure not. Earl and I didn’t get home till quite late. What kind of call would this be?”

“From your brother, wanting a ride home. He was too drunk to drive. We’re trying to find out how he got home.”

Opal Genneman’s voice became hostile. “I can’t see how this is relevant to your investigation—”

“Believe me, Mrs. Genneman, it is.”

“—but in any case neither Earl nor I went out for Redwall.”

“What of Jean, or Earl Junior?”

“Jean was at Palo Alto, and Little Earl has no license — in fact, he doesn’t drive.”

Collins was surprised. “He doesn’t drive at all?”

Opal seemed confused, or perhaps embarrassed. “He’s only sixteen.”

“Strange,” said Collins. “Most sixteen-year-olds know how to drive.”

“Not little Earl.”

“And Jean was at Palo Alto?”

“Yes, at her sorority.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Genneman.”

Collins returned to the car. “No one at the Genneman house took you home. It must have been someone else.”

“I can’t figure it. Steve probably put me in a cab...”

Collins was abysmally dissatisfied. “Think,” he urged Kershaw. “How could Steve get to know Earl Genneman? Had he ever visited you at the Genneman house?”

“Believe me, Inspector, no such connection existed. Steve Ricks never even knew I was related to Earl, and Earl never knew I associated with a guitar player. It’s as simple as that.”

“Why would Steve want to follow you or Earl into the mountains?”

“I can’t imagine.”

This was the best Collins could do. Somewhere the linkage existed — at some point, the lives of Steve Ricks and Earl Genneman touched each other. The closest approach seemed to have been the early morning hours of Sunday, June 7, when Ricks might have telephoned the Genneman house. And Collins could not rid himself of the feeling that Molly Wilkerson knew perfectly well who had called for Red Kershaw.

He started the car, took Kershaw back to his apartment, then returned to Fresno.