The Madman Theory (9 page)

About his background Ricks had never been explicit. He had seemed to be unmarried. His previous jobs and occupations were legion. According to him, he had sold cars, tended bar, worked in a service station, picked apricots, grapes and peaches, worked in packing sheds, dealt poker at gambling clubs, run the chuck-a-luck cage at a Las Vegas resort. As a bookmaker, he claimed to have lost nine thousand dollars on one race and won ten thousand on the next. By and large the verdict of his fellow-workers was favorable: Steve Ricks had been a blow-hard and no-good, but there were also tales of sharing his lunch with a nursing mother-cat. Collins heard nothing which might have served to link the life of Ricks with Earl Genneman's.

Returning to headquarters, Collins took Ricks' workboots to the laboratory, together with the samples of mud and dirt he had collected along the Copper Creek Trail. “What I want to know,” he told Otto Kalisher, the technician, “is this: did these boots walk through this dirt or step in this mud?”

Collins asked when he could have a report, but Kalisher would make no definite commitment. “I'm up to my ears. Likely tomorrow morning. Say ten o'clock.”

Collins had to be content, although he itched with impatience. Had Ricks followed Genneman to Persimmon Lake and beyond? Then what? Had he shot Genneman? But they seemed to have inhabited different worlds. Or had Ricks been
hired
to shoot Genneman? Collins shook his head. What he knew of Ricks, of his easy life, his impudence, his braggadocio, made it hard to picture him as a paid assassin. But Collins had been wrong many times in his career and he seldom trusted his intuition. If Otto Kalisher declared that Ricks had stepped in the mud of Persimmon Lake, had scuffed his boots in the dirt of Lomax Meadow, then he must alter his thinking. But there was a top tempting simplicity to the theory that Ricks had been hired to kill Earl Genneman, and then had himself been killed, perhaps to forestall blackmail.

Returning to headquarters, Collins found Easley at his desk, receiver to his ear, checking out the last few license numbers of the list supplied by Superintendent Phelps. He finished his call and drew a line through one of the few uncancelled names on the list.

“No leads,” he told Collins. “We're down now to about a dozen parties who seem to be off on vacations.”

“Give it a rest,” said Collins. “This Ricks business is the hottest thing we've got going.”

Easley stretched his heavy arms. “What do you have in mind?”

Collins took the yellow pad and the pencil. “If Kalisher says Ricks was on the Copper Creek Trail, we've got something. Until then …” As he talked he scribbled notes. “First, the landlord. I've talked to him without much luck. A vague old bird. Maybe you can scratch up something he never thought to tell me.”

“Maybe so,” said Easley. “I'm a pretty vague bird myself.”

“Landlord and neighbors,” said Collins. “The usual drill: who were his friends, when they saw him last, the routine. Second, where is Ricks' car? A '54 Plymouth coupe, license—you've got it somwhere. I'll call the city police and put it on the hot list. In the meantime, we can check where he bought it. If he got credit, whom did he give for references? Third, where did he buy his gas? He used to work in a service station—he might have got chummy with the attendants. Fourth, we want some pictures of Ricks blown up from the photos hanging on his walls. Then Sullivan or Kerner or both can take them into Kings Canyon and circulate them around the campgrounds, the grocery story—everywhere Ricks might have shown himself. We want to know if he came in alone, talked to anyone, where he went when he left. Someone might have seen him start up the trail or come back down. Fifth: the Clover Club. Ever hear of it?”

“Sure. It's a joint on Morgan Street. One of these Okie hangouts. It gets pretty wild on occasion.”

“Steven Ricks played in the orchestra there on weekends. If he went up into the mountains he must have told the bandleader something. Probably the same story he told Delucci at the Sunset Nursery. I'll check that one out myself.”

“Something I've noticed,” complained Easley. “Whenever there's overtime, sitting around a night club, with drinks on the taxpayers, it's always the big shots that take over the investigation and never the sergeants. How come?”

Collins grinned and returned to the yellow pad. “Sixth, the check in Ricks' shoe. Thirty-two dollars—for what? Who is J. K. Mansfield? Seventh, the murder weapon. A hammer? A hatchet? Eighth, just where did Ricks get put aboard the boxcar? Ninth, if Ricks went up the Copper Creek Trail, what did he use for camping equipment? Did he rent it, borrow it, buy it? If so, where? Tenth, Ricks' relatives: who and where are they? Eleventh, does he have any bank accounts? Is he in debt? Is that hundred dollars mad-money that he always carried? If not where did he get it? Twelfth the shotgun. Thirteenth, do any of Genneman's friends or relatives know Ricks? Fourteenth … That's enough for today. I've got to get more men on the job. Let's see now. You take care of the landlord, the neighbors, the gas station, and if you have any time left, telephone around the places that rent out camping equipment. Tonight I'll look into the Clover Club. That still leaves a lot of work. Maybe I can get a couple more men. First, I better write out a report for Bigelow. He likes everything in black and white.”

“You're telling me,” said Easley.

The sergeant cleared off his desk and departed to interview James and Lillian White at 982 Mulberry Street. Collins went to his office. He typed:

On Friday, June 12, a vehicle registered to Steven Ricks entered the General Grant National Park. We do not know when this vehicle left the park. It is possible that Ricks followed the Genneman party up Copper Creek Trail. On Tuesday, June 16, between approximately 6 p.m. and midnight, Ricks was killed by blows of a hammer or similar implement.

Collins, reading what he had written, smiled grimly. If Bigelow wanted to leap to conclusions, it was his privilege. He finished:

Investigations into the activities of Steven Ricks during the last two weeks are proceeding at his residence and his two places of work: the Sunset Nursery and the Clover Club, both of Fresno.

The time was five o'clock. Collins walked down the corridor to Bigelow's office and to his relief found no one behind the desk. He tucked the report into the IN basket and departed.

From headquarters to the Morningside Estates was a drive of twenty-five minutes in the afternoon traffic. This gave Collins time to metamorphose from a police inspector to a suburban home-owner, while his thoughts segued from crime and Captain Bigelow to what might be on the stove for dinner.

He swung through the portals of Morningside Estates, drove out Astarte Avenue, turned into Osiris Way, drove a block, and pulled into his driveway. Merle and Jill, Lorna's two little girls from her previous marriage, sat on the lawn, blond hair brushed, frocks starched crisp. Seeing their new stepfather, they jumped to their feet and ran to him.

“Hi, kids,” said Collins in an attempt at a paternal voice. He parked, alighted, his hand behind him. “Daddy Collins!” squealed Merle. “Did you bring us something?”

“Yeah,” said Collins, “I happened to run across a couple of dolls, and thought you two might be interested.”

“Thank you, thank you,
thank
you! Mommy, look what Daddy Collins brought us! Aren't they cute?”

Lorna appeared in the doorway, “Daddy, you shouldn't do things like that. They'll be expecting something every night.” But she was secretly pleased.

He kissed her. “You're looking beautiful tonight. As usual.”

“How do
we
look, Daddy Collins? These are clean dresses!”

“You look like two ice-cream cones.”

They went inside. Lorna brought a pitcher of martinis from the refrigerator; Collins settled into the sofa with a sigh. “This is the life. Relax, man, relax.” He loosened his collar and tie.

“I had no idea you worked under such tense conditions,” said Lorna, stroking his forehead. “Poor dear, was it such a hard day?”

“I'm so tense I'm going to work overtime tonight. At a place called the Clover Club. I'll need a nifty broad along for cover. What do you say?”

Lorna laughed, then frowned. “What about the children?”

“Morningside Estates has a baby-sitting agency—part of its many services, if you can believe their brochure. One call, and a nice old lady knocks on the door.”

“I don't have a thing to wear,” wailed Lorna.

“At the Clover Club blue jeans would be fashionable. In fact, I don't want you to dress up. Tonight, I'm the Omar Collins I used to be when the world was young.”

“Are you very hungry?” Lorna asked, with her disconcerting habit of abruptly changing the subject, as if her mind worked on several levels at once.

“I'm always very hungry. What's for supper?”

“Something new I thought I'd try. Pork pie with leeks. I hope you like it,” Lorna said anxiously.

“Let me wash up, and I'll show you!” Inwardly, Collins prayed that it would be more edible than her fried chicken.

The Clover Club during the day was a ramshackle structure running half the distance between I and J Streets, on Morgan. Ten years before, someone had painted the siding cobalt blue, which by now had so cracked and weathered that the previous color—brick red—showed through, creating a rather happy effect.

After sundown an incomprehensible magic transformed the dinginess, bringing wonder and excitement of a garish sort. The red and blue neon sign flashed CLOVER CLUB up and down Morgan Street; in each window burned the multicolored emblems of Lucky Lager, Falstaff, Olympia, Brew 102, Budweiser, and Schlitz; from within came the muffled clatter of many voices, the thump of the bass fiddle, the nasal whine of voices raised in celebration of unrequited love.

There was a cover-charge of a dollar a couple. A sign warned off minors and roving-eyed stags, but in practice both occasionally gained entry with the full knowledge of the huge special policeman. His favorite method of quelling a disturbance was to toss both offenders to the floor and plant his enormous buttocks on them.

The bar occupied one entire wall; along another ran a counter serving hamburgers, pizza, and barbecued ribs. The bandstand jutted out on the dance floor, and when Inspector Collins and his wife arrived, four men stood strutting and swinging in the glare of pink spots: two guitarists, a string bass, and a fiddler who doubled on the drums.

Collins and Lorna found a table. He ordered Bourbon highballs from a waitress who came over immediately.

When she returned with the drinks, Collins asked, “Whose quartette is that up there?”

The waitress looked around as if she were deaf. “Oh, that's Little Lefty Willis and his Panhandlers.”

“Is Steve Ricks coming in tonight?”

“Steve Ricks? Who's he?”

“A guitarist. He plays here.”

The waitress smiled perfunctorily. “I don't keep track of the musicians. I couldn't—they come and go faster than the customers.” She took Collins' money and hurried away.

“Let's dance,” said Collins. “If I want to charge the city for an evening out, I've got to produce.”

They danced around behind the bandstand and waited till the number was over. Collins attracted the attention of the violinist. “When does Steve Ricks come on?”

The musician, long, somber and gaunt, shook his head mournfully. “Not tonight. He's here Friday and Saturday with Jake Mansfield and his bunch. This is Little Lefty and his Panhandlers. I'm Little Lefty.”

“I'd hate to tangle with your big brother,” said Collins amiably. One mystery solved: the identity of J. K. Mansfield. Thirty-two dollars undoubtedly represented Ricks wages for a weekend's work. “The band sounds pretty good.”

“Thanks much. Anything you'd like to hear?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Collins. “But I wonder how I can get word to Ricks?”

“Beats me. Maybe hire one of them sky-writing machines.”

“I'd better talk to Mansfield. Do you know where he can be found?”

“I sure do. That's Jake playing the guitar—the heavy-set guy. Hang around. We take a break after this number.”

Collins took Lorna back to the table, and they waited while the group sang
Rover's Got a Doghouse in the Sky
. The selection received applause. Little Lefty bowed; Jake Mansfield played a quick pizzicato on his Durbro. Collins went back to the bandstand.

He signaled Mansfield, a fleshy man wearing tight black trousers, an imitation suede sports shirt, and a turquoise and silver neck ornament.

Mansfield incuriously approached. “Hi, friend. Was you waving to me?”

“I'm trying to get in touch with Steve Ricks. Lefty said you were the man to ask. But come over to the table; I'll stand you a drink.”

“Words I like to hear,” said Mansfield. He followed Collins quickly.

Collins performed introductions, signaled the waitress. “Two more of the same for us, and whatever Mr. Mansfield wants.”

“Call me Jake. I'll have Scotch on the rocks. Double, if the gentleman's good for it.”

“Sure,” said Collins expansively. “When a man has money it's his duty to spend it.”

“Me, too,” said Jake Mansfield. “But with me the project's still in the talking stage. You know Steve?”

“I know his ex-wife. Ricks is behind on his alimony.”

Mansfield looked uninterested. “With Steve that's the way it would be, all right. Too bad you wasted the drink, sport. I don't know where he is.”

“I looked for him last weekend,” said Collins. “I thought he played with your group.”

Mansfield nodded. “He's not a bad guy. Got a nice personality. He didn't make the scene last week—let on he was sick, but looked pretty healthy to me.”

“He didn't say where he was heading over the weekend?”