The Madman Theory

Chapter 10

On Monday morning Collins was summoned to the office of the sheriff, where he found Captain Bigelow. The conference lasted forty minutes and pleased no one, especially Bigelow.

Collins and Bigelow continued the discussion in Bigelow’s office. “There’s something here that’s staring us in the face,” Bigelow said, his handsome face dour. “I feel it looking at me.”

“I’ve been over it a dozen times,” said Collins. “Our only glimmer of a case is against Kershaw. His motive? I don’t see any. Maybe he was jealous of Genneman. Jealous enough to hire Ricks to kill him? And then kill Ricks? I can’t buy it.”

“There’s the book Ricks was running. Suppose Genneman bet a wad on a long shot that came in? So that it was cheaper to kill him than pay him?”

“Genneman didn’t play the ponies. He never took a chance in his life.” Collins shook his head. “Nobody seems to have wanted Earl Genneman dead, but someone blew his head off. For no reason.”

“It has to be Ricks,” said Bigelow in a voice of spurious conviction. “Then he got killed for his pains.”

“It looks that way,” said Collins. “But I don’t believe it.”

“What of Buck James? What does he gain?”

“He loses a good job in Wisconsin. But he gets to marry Jean Genneman, which is better. Still, he could have married her, anyway.”

“There’s Genneman and Jean, his stepdaughter. How did they get along? Bad? Good? Real good? If you know what I mean.”

Collins nodded. “Nobody’s hinted anything like that. Of course, stranger thing’s have happened. In that case James might have had the old man shot out of jealous rage.”

“There’s always this Retwig character.”

“You’d doubt it if you saw his model railroad layout. But sure — could be.”

“Bob Vega — maybe he isn’t the paragon Genneman thought him.”

“According to all reports Genneman didn’t need to think — Genneman knew. He kept a close eye on the books.”

“A man that wants to connive, he’ll connive,” said Bigelow. “Where drugs are concerned, I trust nobody.”

Collins made a few more notes. “Here’s what I’ve got. First, the Westco outlet in Madison. Maybe it was a hoax, and Buck James in a fury hired Ricks to blow Genneman’s head off. Second, Bob Vega’s income and his expenses. Also the Westco books and warehouse inventory. Third, the circumstances of Retwig’s departure from Genneman Laboratories. Fourth, Jean Genneman and her ex-boy friends. Last year she went on a hiking trip with Earl Genneman. Who else came along? Where did they go? Fifth, does Opal Genneman have any boy friends? Sixth, does Earl Junior drive, or doesn’t he? If not, why not?” Collins put down his notes. “That’s the lot.”

Bigelow stared into space. “The Wilkerson woman claims she went home before Steve Ricks and Kershaw left the cabaret,” he said thoughtfully. “Can you make inquiries among the personnel?”

“I can make the inquiries, but it’s been a long time ago.”

“Tackle it, anyway,” said Bigelow. “Let’s do something, even if it’s wrong.”

Collins, thinking of the drive to San Jose, looked down at his notes. “What of these other angles?”

“Put Easley to work on them.”

Collins found the sergeant at his desk. He had nothing to report. “I’ve talked to the Sunset Nursery people and the Clover Club. Everybody says the same thing: Ricks was good-natured, lazy, not above cutting corners, but harmless.”

“You never found out where he bought his gas?”

“No. I gave up on that.”

“Where is Ricks’ car?”

“In the garage.”

“Let’s take a look at it.”

Ricks’ old Plymouth, in the gray light of the garage, looked more shabby and disconsolate than ever. Collins opened the left front door. Sergeant Easley uttered a soft curse. “I never thought of that.”

Collins studied the yellow and red service record stuck to the door-frame. “Christy’s Shell, 3600 Garfield.” He looked at Easley. “Did you hit that one?”

Easley shook his head. “I never got that far out.”

“Let’s go,” said Collins.

“I’m Christy,” said the thin man with the thin hair. “What can I do for you?”

Collins flipped open his wallet. “Inspector Collins, Sheriff’s Office. This is Sergeant Easley. We’re making inquiries about Steve Ricks.”

Christy’s expression became appropriately doleful. “I read about Steve in the newspapers. Terrible business. Who did it?”

“I understand he traded with you.”

“He worked for me odd times, when I got in a jam. And I sold him his gas at cost.”

“When did you sell him last?”

“Hold on a minute.” Christy went to take care of a customer; Collins and Easley waited. At last the man returned. “It was the Thursday before he was killed. He come in for gas. Smoking a cigar, driving a big new car, sitting on top of the world.”

“A big new car? What make?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Could it have been a Ford Galaxie?”

“Yes, I’d agree to that.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

“Not too much. I said, ‘Looks like you’re doing good,’ or something along those lines. He said, ‘I can’t complain.’”

“Did he mention where he was headed for the weekend?”

“No, sir.”

“What did he talk about?”

“He asked for a fill-up, which he got. There was a noise in his automatic transmission, he asked me if I knew what it was, I told him it sounded like something had come loose and he’d better get it fixed, he signed for his gas and took off, and that was all there was to it. The next thing I hear he’s dead. It sure makes you think.”

Easley said, “Steve signed for his gas, you say?”

“Correct.”

“He has a charge account?”

“With Shell Oil, not with me. I don’t carry anybody.”

“Do you still have that slip?”

“No, sir, I do not. It’s gone into the regional office.”

“Give us the address. We want to look at that slip.”

Christy wrote out the address, which Collins tucked into his notebook. “What was Steve wearing? A suit? Work clothes?”

“I couldn’t say, Inspector. I just didn’t notice that closely. It wasn’t a suit; that I would have noticed. It was probably just pants and a shirt.”

“Anything else about this car attract your attention?”

“No, sir. Just the noise in the transmission, which sounded pretty bad. I told Steve he’d better get it looked at before it tore loose and raised general hob.”

“Steve didn’t talk to you about any friends of his, or what he was doing with himself?”

“No, sir. I’ve told you everything that happened.”

Collins and Easley returned to headquarters. Collins got out; Easley continued to the Shell Regional Credit Office.

Collins went into his office with a sense of achievement. Bit by bit information accumulated — a fragment here, a fragment there. He brought out his notes, located his checklist. First, the new Westco outlet, of which Buck James was to have been manager. Collins wrote a letter to “Chief of Police, Madison, Wisconsin,” requesting all pertinent information regarding Westco and Buck James, a graduate of the University of Wisconsin.

The next item was the Westco plant in San Jose, its books and inventory — a detail which Myron Retwig would have checked into. A call to Retwig might illuminate the matter once and for all.

The remainder of his notes dealt with the Genneman family — information to be derived from friends, neighbors, servants, and possibly the Gennemans themselves.

And last: Molly Wilkerson. Molly must be questioned once more. She had been all too evasive about how the drunken Red Kershaw had been conveyed to his home. Perhaps the surroundings of the San Jose Police Department might soften up.

His telephone rang. “I found the slip,” said Sergeant Easley. “It’s dated Thursday, June 11. The license number is LKK-3220.”

“LKK-3220? That sounds familiar. Isn’t that... Wait, let me check.” In sudden excitement Collins rummaged through his top drawer and found the list of license registrations furnished by Park Superintendent Phelps. He ran his finger down the list. “Yep. LKK-3220: Nathan Wingate, Redondo Beach. The mysterious Mr. Wingate. Well, well, well!... Anything else among the slips?”

“Nothing much. They’re all for Ricks’ old Plymouth. Four charges at Christy’s, two at San Jose.”

“Ask to borrow the slips. If they don’t want to let them go, copy the information. Although with Ricks dead they don’t stand much chance of collecting.”

Collins hung up and slumped back in his chair. More information. It must mean something. What? He went back to the list. Nathan Wingate’s car was a ’62 Dodge. According to the clerk at Bain’s Sporting Goods, the car Steve Ricks had driven was a Ford Galaxie, new or almost new. Someone had used Nathan Wingate’s plates, or more likely had faked a set of plates, which was simple enough to do, by one of several processes. Numbers and letters could be trimmed from old plates and appliquéd on enameled metal. With two sets of stolen plates the letter clusters or the number clusters might be cut out and interchanged. In any event, one point was clear: the ranger at the gate had made no mistake after all. A car, presumably the white Ford, with license plates LKK-3220, had entered General Grant Park on June 10. On June 12 Steve Ricks had driven this car into Christy’s Service Station in Fresno. On this same day, June 12, Ricks had taken his own old car into the park. Why had he not driven the grander Ford?

Perhaps the owner had wanted his car back, reflected Collins. Or with the transmission threatening to go out, Steve might have considered his own car a safer bet. Possibilities — possibilities of all kinds — but none pointing in the same direction.

Beyond all reasonable doubt the deaths of Earl Genneman and Steve Ricks were linked, and the linkage appeared to be through Red Kershaw. All of which turned the focus of attention back upon Kershaw and his ex-wife, Molly Wilkerson.

What happened next had happened to Collins before — with such peculiar consistency, in fact, that Collins, a hard-headed man, was almost persuaded to telepathy.

The telephone rang: Captain Bigelow was on the other end. His voice was terse.

“Get up to San Jose, fast. The Wilkerson woman is dead.”