The Madman Theory

Chapter 7

1818 Haddock Drive turned out to be one in a row of green stucco cabins on a street behind a new shopping center. When Collins rang the bell a slatternly girl of seventeen or eighteen, quite clearly pregnant, peeped out through the screen door. She denied all knowledge of a Rupert Marvell. She and her husband had resided at the address for seven months and had no idea who was the previous tenant. She referred Collins to the manager at 1800 Haddock and closed the door.

Collins walked along the line of cottages to 1800, distinguished by the sign MANAGER: Clyde Hixey. He rang the bell; a portly white-haired man wearing tight jeans appeared. Collins displayed his badge and inquired about Rupert Marvell.

Hixey went back into the cottage for his records. He returned to the porch with a large canvas-bound ledger. “I seem to remember the name. Rupert Marvell, at 1818 from March of last year through September. Paid his rent, made no trouble. A friendly man — musician, as a matter of fact.”

“He played professionally?”

“Yes, indeed.” Hixey pointed across a stretch of open land to the avenue running parallel to Haddock. “You see that Smoky Joe’s sign over there on Latham Avenue?”

“Yes.”

“He played there for several months, which is why he found 1818 convenient.”

“You remember any of his friends?”

“Can’t say I do. Once in a while there’d be another musician in to visit him, but they never made a lot of noise.”

“You don’t have any forwarding address?”

“He didn’t leave any. Don’t believe he knew where he was headed himself.”

Collins produced a picture of Steve Ricks. “Ever see this fellow?”

Hixey inspected the picture dubiously. “Those fellows all look more or less alike... He does seem familiar. Offhand I’d say I’d seen him. What’s your interest in Marvell, if I may be so curious?”

“I’m trying to learn something about the other man, the one whose picture I showed you.”

“Well, you ask over at Smoky Joe’s. For all I know Marvell still works there.”

Collins drove around the block and parked before Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret, only to find that it did not open until 5 p.m. He went into a nearby bar, ordered a bottle of beer, and sat pondering. There was about the case a lack of outline, a vagueness that irked him. He had no real suspect for either crime, no trace of motive...

The bartender directed him to an outdoor pay booth near the entrance to Smoky Joe’s. Collins finished his beer, secured change, left the bar, and ensconced himself in the booth. He arranged his change, brought forth his notebook, and set to work. He called Opal Genneman, Myron Retwig, and Bob Vega. None admitted acquaintance with Steve Ricks or Rupert Marvell; none recognized the names. Buck James was playing golf with Jean and could not be reached. Red Kershaw was also out of range.

Irritably, Collins left the phone booth. The connection must exist in a more indirect manner. It had to exist. If not, his entire theory of the case was a dud. Which it well might be, he told himself glumly.

Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret had now opened its doors, and Collins went in. The exterior was rough redwood, decorated with wagon wheels and ranch brands. Flanking the entrance were posters advertising Billy Wiggs and the Down Home Boys, with Dody Watkins and Sonita Armstrong, and photographs of the entertainers in their regalia. The Down Home Boys wore levis, vests, and ten-gallon hats; Dody Watkins was dressed as a cowgirl in boots, chaps, and a jacket of fringed buckskin; Sonita Armstrong wore tight moleskin trousers and a silk blouse.

Collins seated himself in a booth across from the bar. A waitress appeared, a beefy woman in a black skirt and red blouse on which was embroidered the head of a long-horn steer. Collins asked for the manager, and the waitress gave him a sharp look and went off to the kitchen. The manager came at once: a thin, fidgety man with tousled blond hair and a boyish expression.

Collins identified himself. “You’re the manager? Or owner?”

“I’m Joe Philbrick, owner, manager, bottle-washer, fall-guy, the works. What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble. I’m trying to get information about a man named Steve Ricks. He had a friend who used to work for you — a musician by the name of Rupert Marvell.”

“Rupert Marvell? He played with our last house band. That would be three months ago. I think he’s in Texas now.”

Collins grimaced and brought out the photograph. “This is Ricks. A guitar player.”

Philbrick examined the photograph. He nodded without enthusiasm. “He sat in with the band once in a while, kept bucking for a job. We never hired him.” He opened his mouth, shut it again, squinted at the picture, gave it a nervous twitch. Collins, recognizing the symptoms, waited. Finally the man said reluctantly, “I think he used to go with one of my waitresses. I don’t know if she sees him now or not.” He signaled to the beefy waitress in the red blouse, and she came over. Philbrick showed her the photograph. “Isn’t this the guy that Molly sees once in a while?”

“Yeah. Steve, I think his name is.”

Philbrick peered into the cabaret proper. “Where’s Molly? Is she on?”

“It’s her late night. She don’t come on till nine. Seems like he was in not long ago,” said the waitress. “Two, three weeks. Molly had the rear section, and that’s where he sat, over in the corner by the bandstand with some people. They had a real gay time.”

“I’d better talk to this Molly,” said Collins. “Where does she live?”

“I’ll give you her address,” said Philbrick. He glanced over his shoulder; the waitress had gone off. “I’m just as happy she’s not here now, to tell the truth. Molly can be a little tough. She’s a good waitress but temperamental — not what you’d call a softhearted gal.”

“She might relax in this case,” said Collins. “I don’t want you to talk about this. Her boy friend was murdered last Tuesday.”

Philbrick blinked. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Philbrick rose rather hastily. “He had it in for me, not me for him. I couldn’t hire him; he was maybe good enough for Fresno, but up here — well, I run a real top place. Next week I’m booking Royal Jenkins, next month we got Big Biedermeier coming in for a week. So don’t put me down on your list of suspects.”

Collins said, “Do you know a man by the name of Earl Genneman?”

“Genneman? Can’t say I do. Is he a musician?”

“Maybe you’ll get me this Molly’s address.”

Joe Philbrick went off and presently returned with a slip of paper. “Molly Wilkerson. 5992 South Jefferson. That’s south about a mile. Keep going down Latham to the third stoplight, make a right onto Bingham Valley Road, go about three blocks, then a left onto South Jefferson.”

“Thanks,” said Collins. “Remember, Philbrick, don’t say anything about Ricks’ being dead.”

“You got my word, Inspector.”

Collins drove south through the waning afternoon. At the third stoplight he turned into Bingham Valley Road, a pleasant country lane lined with enormous eucalyptus trees. To either side were peach and apricot orchards, each with its old white three-story house. Then suddenly the orchards were uprooted and the land scabbed over with sprawling houses of stucco and used brick. Collins found South Jefferson, turned left, and proceeded to 5992: a small white cottage with a screened-in porch fronted by a scarred lawn, a pair of dwarf lemon trees, and a low hedge.

Collins parked in the road. He walked up to the porch and rapped on the screen door. A girl of about fifteen, wearing a yellow blouse and red shorts, opened the front door and called across the porch. “Yes, sir?”

“I want to see Miss Wilkerson,” said Collins.

“She’s not here just now. She ought to be home any time, though.”

Collins looked up and down the road. The girl said. “She won’t let anybody come inside the house while I’m baby-sitting, so you can wait on the steps.”

Collins seated himself on the second step and leaned back on his elbows to listen to the sounds of the neighborhood. From the house next door came the squawk of a television program. From behind him squealed the complaints of a pair of small children and the reprimands of the babysitter. A telephone bell shrilled; Collins heard the baby-sitter’s voice. The sun disappeared behind the eucalyptus across the way.

A black Valiant sedan came down the road and turned into the driveway, and a woman in black slacks and a jade blouse got out. She was tall and lean, with a harpy swiftness of movement, about thirty years old; she had a big nose in a clever face. Her eyes were grotesquely made up; her hair rose in a great sour-looking puff. She surveyed Collins with calculation. “You waiting for me?”

“You’re Molly Wilkerson?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Inspector Omar Collins, Fresno County Sheriff’s Office.”

“What have I done now?”

“Nothing, I hope,” said Collins. “I need information.”

“Just a minute till I send the baby-sitter home. Come in,” she added, as an afterthought.

Collins followed her across the porch into a living room furnished with a television set, an overstuffed sofa, two matching chairs, and two end-tables, each bearing an enormous lamp.

Molly Wilkerson looked into a bedroom where the children were playing. She heard a short recital of deeds and misdeeds, then the girl departed. “Don’t forget I’m working tonight,” Molly called after her. “You be here at eight-thirty.”

“Okay, Mrs. Wilkerson.” The front door slammed.

Returning to the living room, Molly surveyed Collins through careful eyes. “I can’t imagine why you want to talk to me.”

“I’m making inquiries into the death of Earl Genneman.”

Molly lifted her heavy eyebrows. “Who?”

“Earl Genneman, owner of Genneman Laboratories.”

“I wouldn’t know anybody like that.”

“You never even heard the name?”

“Definitely not. Should I of?”

“I thought it possible. Steve Ricks is involved.”

Molly lit a cigarette. “Steve Ricks,” she said. Cigarette smoke drifted up past her face.

Information out of this one was going to be hard to get, thought Collins. “I take it you’ve been notified of Ricks’ death?”

“What?” She seemed genuinely startled.

Collins said gravely, “I’d assumed his friends were notified.”

“Nobody said anything to me.”

“When did you see him last?”

Molly blinked. “How did Steve die?”

“He was murdered. Possibly by the killer of Earl Genneman.”

“You didn’t say Genneman was killed. What’s the connection with Steve?”

“You saw Steve when?” Who was questioning whom? Collins wondered.

Molly took a reflective puff. “Genneman... He had a big drug company, you say?”

Something was ticking at the back of Molly’s mind. But she shook her head again. “How could Steve be tied up with a big shot like that?”

Collins thought her perplexity forced. “When did you see him last?”

“Let’s see... You know where I work?” She seemed determined not to answer the question. It made him just as determined to get her to do so.

“Smoky Joe’s. You’re a waitress there.”

Molly pursed her lips, gave her head a fastidious shake, stubbed her cigarette out with delicate dabs. A wolverine, thought Collins, half fascinated. “I was born in a high-class family, Inspector. I was never expected to turn a hand for a thing. Then I was forced to make my own living. I just had to do something to keep my children from starving.”

“What about Steve Ricks?”

“Steve — well, he was a man I knew. A lot of fun for the races, the fights, a poker party — not the kind I’d take seriously.”

“Naturally not.” Collins tried to keep the weariness out of his voice.

“Especially after he went to Fresno, to play at that honky-tonk.”

“The Clover Club?”

“That’s the place.”

“And when did you see him last?”

Molly said suddenly, “Oh, two, three weeks ago, something like that.”

Collins sighed. “And what was the occasion?”

“No occasion. He came up on business, dropped by. We talked over old times, had a drink or two, then we went out for a steak. Then I had to go to work.”

“He came to Smoky Joe’s?”

“Oh, yes. He wanted to play at Joe’s bad.”

“He came there often?”

“Not often. I might see him like once a month.”

“He’d come with friends?”

“Once in a while. But don’t ask me who they were, because he never introduced me. Thought ’em too good for me, maybe. And my grandmother from one of the best families in Texas! That’s a fact, Inspector.”

“Of course. Why did Ricks keep coming to the Down Home Cabaret?”

“He was always trying to get on the orchestra.”

“Did he play that last night — sit in with the orchestra?”

“I don’t believe so. To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay much heed. I was rushed as usual. Inspector, if you want to know what work is, you try handling all those tables. It’s a real hassle.”

Collins surveyed her. “Steve Ricks stayed till the place closed?”

“Yes, indeed. At least I think so. I just can’t be sure. He might have left earlier.”

Collins’ suspicions deepened. Molly Wilkerson clearly wanted to tell nothing. “He was alone?”

“I believe he was talking to some friends part of the time. Steve loved to talk. He was a real talker. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.” It seemed a rather belated expression of grief.

“Who was he with that night?”

“I didn’t notice. That was one of our real busy nights. I was rushing around like a mad woman.”

“Mrs. Wilkerson,” said Collins. “Are you trying to tell me that you failed to notice who your boy friend was sitting with?”

“Please don’t yell. My children are in the other room.” She was a slippery customer, all right. “I’m telling you; you can believe it or not. Someday you try it, working thirty-three tables on a busy night—”

“I’d like to remind you that Ricks was murdered. Somebody may go to the gas chamber if we can get the evidence. It’s your duty to help supply this evidence. Now I’ll ask you once again: who was sitting with Ricks the last night you saw him?”

Molly rose, unabashed. “If you think I pay attention to every drunk at every table, you’re crazy.”

“So there were drunks at the table. Who was drunk — Steve? The others?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ve got to get ready to go to work, Inspector.” Molly nodded coldly, and Collins took his leave.

He walked down to the road, glanced back at the house. Molly’s shadow moved across the living room. He ran quietly into the driveway, holding to the shadows beside the house. Just overhead was the open window from which he had heard the ring of the telephone bell.

Molly was already talking, Collins pressed his ear as near the window as he dared.

“...asking all kinds of questions about Steve Ricks,” Molly was saying in a portentous voice. “Did you know that Steve was murdered?... Well, that’s what this cop said. It’s a fact... No... He wanted to know all about Steve, who his friends were, and especially who Steve was with two weeks ago at the Down Home... I didn’t mention any names. I figured knowledge is money, and it might be worth something to you to be kept out of it... Naturally not... I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. I’d never protect somebody I thought was crooked. Not unless they paid me an awful lot of money, haha!... No, I don’t. I’ll leave it to you; whatever it’s worth... That’s okay; all donations gratefully accepted. ’Bye now.”

Collins waited, but the Wilkerson woman made no more calls. When he heard her talking to the children, he walked out and got into his car, where he sat for a moment grinning wickedly. Collins was not one to feel remote from his job. Lies were no novelty, information was often denied him, and such things annoyed him. But not as much as this one.

This was different, a quality of cold reptilian greed; it affected him differently.

He started the car and drove slowly back to South Jefferson and into Bingham Valley Road, then north up Latham Avenue. Ahead a sign burned blue and green: LEO’S FASHION RESTAURANT. It was seven o’clock and he had eaten nothing but a sandwich since breakfast. He parked and went into the restaurant, which was crowded. He gave his name to the hostess and found a seat at the bar. He ordered a bourbon highball.

He thought of Molly Wilkerson and chuckled grimly. The day had not gone badly...

He remembered some loose ends and went to the phone booth. First he called Buck James and asked if he were acquainted with Steve Ricks. Buck James claimed no such acquaintance. Collins then checked Red Kershaw’s number in the directory, and dialed, but there was no answer.

He had better luck at the Genneman house. A young, gruff masculine voice, Earl Junior’s, answered.

“Miss Jean Genneman, please,” said Collins.

There was no response. But Collins waited, and presently Jean came to the phone. “Hello?”

Collins identified himself. “I called earlier today, but you were playing golf.”

She seemed embarrassed. “I suppose it seems unfeeling of me, but I was going out of my mind. Buck called and asked if I felt like some fresh air, and it seemed a good idea.”

“Oh, you’ve made up with Mr. James?”

“It’s not exactly the romance of the century,” Jean said in a cold voice. “We’re merely friends. But you didn’t call to ask about my love life.”

“I’d like to know if your father — or anyone else — has ever mentioned a Steve Ricks.”

“Steve Ricks? I don’t believe so. Let me think. No... What does he do?”

“He’s a musician. Plays guitar. Cowboy music.”

“He wouldn’t be a friend of Earl’s,” said Jean positively. “Earl wanted to deport all folk singers and cowboy musicians to Russia.”

“Well, keep thinking, Miss Genneman, and if you remember the name Steve Ricks in any connection at all, let me know. It would be a big help.”

“I’ll do my best. Have you learned anything more about who killed Earl?”

“We’re accumulating information. This Steve Ricks matter is part of it. But there’s nothing definite yet. How did you make out in your finals?”

The question seemed to annoy her. She said shortly, “I did okay. Is that all, Inspector?”

“That’s about it for now. Is Mr. Kershaw there?”

“Yes, he’s here.”

“May I speak to him, please?”

Red Kershaw came to the phone and reported no acquaintance with Steve Ricks.

Collins returned to the bar. Peculiar. Why should Jean Genneman resent his asking her about her finals?

He was called to his table.

During dinner and the drive home he pondered the identity of the person Molly Wilkerson had telephoned and presently evolved a scheme to extract the answer. The plan afforded him a degree of acrid amusement. Its principal drawback lay in the fact that it could hardly be put into effect until the following night. In the meantime much might happen. Molly was playing a dangerous game.