4

On Wednesday morning Collins wrote a laconic report of the murder and took it into the office of Captain Bigelow. Much to Collins’ relief, Bigelow was out and he was not subjected to one of the captain’s “analyses” of the report. Bigelow was a hard man to work under; he had a manner of quick decision that impressed his superiors but strained the fortitude of his subordinates. Bigelow’s offhand suggestions, delivered in staccato, the subordinate could either heed or ignore. In either event Bigelow took credit for success and masterfully rebuked failure.

Collins had learned to maneuver. His strategy took one of two forms: he wrote his reports either in excessive detail, noting every contingency, possibility and qualification, so that of necessity Bigelow was at a loss to add anything new, or in such succinctly general terms that Bigelow could not understand them.

In his report on the Genneman murder Collins used neither tactic. It was an ideal case for passing the buck, but this was an impossible feat—Captain Bigelow’s instincts for dodging were as sensitive as the antennae of a moth. So Collins merely had noted all the facts known to him, in the hope that a latent pattern would show itself. It did not.

After placing the report in Captain Bigelow’s IN basket, Collins crossed the hall to the main office. Sergeant Easley was on the phone checking out those automobiles at road’s end whose owners’ names he had been able to read from the registration certificates. The list of license numbers provided by the rangers had been sent to the Highway Patrol and would presently be returned with notations regarding car and ownership. Even as Collins looked over the information Easley had assembled, the list came back now including not only license registration but make and year of the vehicle and the owner’s name and address.

Collins pressed two clerks into service. “We’re looking for a man who made a pack-trip into the mountains back of Cedar Grove. He probably arrived in one of these cars, and we want to find out which.” Then he returned to his own cubbyhole and tried to sort out the facts of the case.

There were a number of possibilities to consider. The crime might be the work of a psychopath. If this could be demonstrated, any details involving Earl Genneman’s friends and enemies were probably irrelevant.

Collins made a note: Escapees—mental institutions. The words made him grimace with disgust. He was going to have to do better than that for Captain Bigelow.

He jotted down another note: Inquire from Phelps regarding other recent traffic over Copper Creek Trail. Inquire if anyone has seen evidence of psycho in area. He thought a few minutes and added: Inquire at grocery store in area as to prospectors. So much for the madman.

The next possibility was the lone camper. He might also be a lunatic, but the important thing was that he had almost certainly set out up Copper Creek Trail on the heels of the Genneman party. What was more, he must be represented by one of the automobiles now being checked by Easley and the two clerks—a line of investigation which was far and away the most likely to yield results. Of course, there was always the possibility that the murderer had entered the park at some other point, made the long hike to Lomax Falls, and set an ambush for Earl Genneman. But such nicety of planning seemed incredible. The madman hypothesis, as it were, made more sense.

What of a shotgun trap, actuated by a trip-wire or some such device? The prime objection to such highjinks was its lack of selectivity: the first person to trip the wire would be killed. So again Collins was brought face to face with a madman. Also, a shotgun trap must necessarily leave behind the shotgun. The survivors of Genneman’s party had found no weapon. (Unless they were in collusion? But, considering the disparate personalities of the group, Collins brushed the possibility aside.)

The man who had followed Earl Genneman and his party up the trail: he must be considered the killer until proved otherwise. And Collins drew a decisive line across the paper.

What could be said of this unknown man?

There was a set of basic alternatives: either he had intended to kill Earl Genneman, or he had intended to kill someone else. On the assumption that he meant to kill someone else—that Genneman’s death was a mistake—then the man who was supposed to have been killed must be identified. Collins made a note: Check on parties using Copper Creek Trail on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, especially for men resembling Genneman.

On the more likely assumption that the murderer made no mistake, that he had meant to kill Genneman—what then?

First: the murderer must have had detailed knowledge of Genneman’s itinerary … Collins checked himself. No, it was perfectly possible that the murderer had merely followed the Genneman party to Persimmon Lake and in the very early morning had gone ahead to wait in ambush. In which case the murderer need only have known generally that Genneman was planning a pack-trip, with perhaps his time of departure.

Collins grumbled a curse. No aspect of the case allowed an unqualified yes or no.

There was another angle to be considered. According to all accounts, Genneman had not acted the part of a man who expected an attack on his life. He had shown no great interest in the news that a man was following the party.

But here lay another paradox: if the lone camper had planned to murder Genneman, why had he camped openly only two hundred yards away? Had something occurred during the night to drive him to desperation?

Collins leaned back in his chair. The first point of business was to identify the camper. He was back to that.

To put the frosting on Collins’ cake, Captain Bigelow appeared in the doorway, frowning down at the report. “I don’t understand this, Omar. It doesn’t add up.”

“How do you mean?” asked Collins. This was the usual gambit.

Bigelow merely shook his big, commanding head thoughtfully, as if he were seeing several steps beyond Collins’ limited view of the case.

Collins waited patiently. Presently Bigelow asked, “Are you taking this loony theory seriously?”

“Right now we’re concentrating on the man who followed the party up the trail.”

“That’s about the way I’d play it,” said Bigelow, “even though it may turn out to be a false alarm—some guy out for a tramp in the hills.”

“We’ll know when we find him. What about some help, Captain? There’s going to be lots of legwork on this case.”

“Use Sullivan and Kerner for now. If you need more help, yell. We’ll want to crack this one. A madman scare, real or not—it’s all the same to the newspapers—could keep a lot of tourists away from the mountains this summer.”

“We’ll give it our best,” said Collins respectfully.

“Good boy.” The captain returned to his office.

Collins looked at his notes, then at the clock. He went back to the main office and told Easley that Bigelow was putting more men on the case. “Make sure they know what they’re doing. I’ll be out the rest of the afternoon.” He looked down at the list on the sergeant’s desk, already marked with Easley’s private symbols. “Anything turn up yet?”

“Nothing much. There’s this LKK-3220—a ’62 Dodge registered to Nathan Wingate, Redondo Beach. According to the list, the car came in through General Grant Gate on Wednesday. Wingate says he’s never visited Kings Canyon in his life. The car hasn’t been stolen, borrowed or bought.”

“The ranger might have got a number or letter wrong.”

“Could be,” said Easley, and Collins thought he heard something of the tone he himself used with Bigelow.

“If anyone wants me, I’m in San Jose.”

From Fresno to San Jose is something more than a hundred miles. Collins arrived about two o’clock. At a service station he telephoned the Genneman residence. Mrs. Genneman was at home and would speak to him.

Collins asked directions from the attendant, and ten minutes later he turned into the Genneman driveway. It wound a hundred and fifty feet through lawns and trees, past a swimming pool, then made a loop under a porte-cochere. Genneman had liked bigness about him, and his house was no exception: a huge rambling structure of beige stucco and dark timber with a red tile roof, in the style known as Early California or Mission. If house and grounds were a criterion, Genneman had been a wealthy man indeed.

A Filipino houseboy in white jacket and black trousers ushered Collins into a great beamed living room, where Opal Genneman presently appeared: a tall woman of pleasant good looks. She seemed drained of emotion. She was perhaps forty years old, with dark hair and dark eyes; she wore a tweed skirt with a black sweater, and no jewelry other than her wedding ring.

Collins introduced himself and uttered the usual condolences; Mrs. Genneman nodded mechanically and led him to a sofa. “I’ll be glad to talk to you, Inspector, but you’ll have to forgive me if I sound vague; I feel so detached, rootless … I hardly know what to think. It’s strange being without Earl. He was such a strong, vital man.” Her eyes began to glisten.

“It’s a pity that I’m forced to bother you—”

“You have your duty to perform. I want to help in every way I can … Such a terrible thing; I just can’t believe that a sane human being …”

“Right now we’re in the dark,” said Collins. “Which is why I’m here. Unless the person who killed your husband was an utter lunatic—”

“He must have been!”

“—then he must have had an extremely strong motive for his act. In other words, someone very badly wanted your husband dead. Who, in your opinion, fits that description?”

“I can’t think of a soul.”

“He had no enemies?”

Opal Genneman gave her head a helpless shake. “Everyone has people who don’t like him; that’s only natural. But to kill … to make so many other people suffer …” She smiled forlornly. “The sad truth is that I can’t think of a thing to tell you.”

“Did Mr. Genneman have brothers or sisters?”

“No. He was an only child.”

“His parents are alive?”

“They’re retired, live in Honolulu. I can’t bring myself to telephone them. I know I must. The funeral is Friday.”

“Perhaps Mr. Retwig would call them for you.”

Opal Genneman twisted her fingers together. “I know he would. But it’s my duty—I’ll do it.”

“Mr. Genneman had no business troubles?”

“None whatever. I don’t think he’d ever done better than this past year. He was planning to expand, to become one of the really large pharmaceutical firms.”

“What will happen to the business now?”

“I’ve hardly thought of it. Mr. Retwig has agreed to look after things—I suppose he’ll be general manager, or whatever the title is.”

“Your husband thought highly of Mr. Retwig?”

“Myron was his closest friend. They seemed dissimilar on the surface, but they had a great deal in common. For instance—” She thought a moment, a sad ghost of a smile on her lips. Then she rose. “I’ll show you Earl’s hobby. He and Myron were always trying to outdo each other …”

Collins followed her patiently along a hall and out a side door, then across a lawn to a greenhouse.

The interior was suffused in a pleasant green light, partly from the ancient panes of glass in the roof, partly from the ferns and orchids along the walls. The greenhouse no longer served its original function. It was almost entirely given over to a model railroad, laid out on a table twenty-five feet long by ten feet wide. The tracks, hundreds of glistening feet of them, ran through a landscape of miniature pines and firs, over ponds and lakes and small swirling rivers crossed by quaint timber bridges. At one end loomed a conical mountain with a white peak. Collins touched the peak. The white stuff was real snow. Opal Genneman smiled sadly. “Earl spent heaven only knows how much money in here. A special refrigerator cools the tip of the mountain. The water in the air condenses, and there is Earl’s snow.”

Collins walked around the layout, fascinated. As a small boy he had owned an oval track, a transformer, an engine and four cars; he had built cardboard tunnels and mountains out of pillows.

“Yoshiro—he’s our gardener—loves the layout as much as Earl did,” said Mrs. Genneman. “I don’t know what will become of it now. Maybe Yoshiro will want to keep it up. He’s spent years on the rock-work and those little trees.”

Of course! thought Collins. The landscaping was Japanese. He looked the layout over with new comprehension. The mountain was Fujiyama, the waterways arms of the sea. There were three villages and a roundhouse on the layout, all of Japanese architecture. Opal Genneman called Collins’ attention to a track on a trestle that led to the wall and disappeared in an aperture. “That leads to the bar. Earl would bring friends out here, send a train into the bar, and it would come back with a load of drinks. Earl was just an overgrown boy.” She nodded slowly. “One would never have known it, meeting him casually. He seemed so hard-driving, practical. Yet when you got to know him, he was the soul of modesty and generosity.”

They returned to the living room. She asked diffidently, “Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea? Or a cocktail? I think I’ll have one. What about you, Inspector?”

“Thank you, yes,” said Collins. “Just between us, it’s strictly against regulations.”

“I won’t snitch. What would you like?”

“Scotch and soda.”

Mrs. Genneman touched a button; the houseboy appeared and received instructions.

“There’s a question I have to ask,” said Collins. “It’s a prying sort of question, and I’ll apologise in advance—”

“Did Earl have any girlfriends?” Mrs. Genneman shook her head. “I suppose it’s not impossible that he overstepped the bounds once or twice. If he did, and I rather doubt it, it was meaningless. He was really the most affectionate of husbands.”

“The children got on well with him?”

“They’re hardly children any more. Little Earl—Earl Junior—is a senior at high school; Jean is just about to graduate from Stanford. She wasn’t Earl’s daughter, you know, but she might just as well have been. They were extremely fond of each other. Little Earl—well, he has a great deal of Earl’s stubbornness and I’m sorry to say there’s been friction. The usual things: automobiles, spending money, late hours. The two weren’t really the pals they might have been. It’s too bad, because of course they were basically fond of each other.”

“Where are your son and daughter now?”

“It seems heartless,” said Mrs. Genneman, “but Jean is taking a final examination. I assure you it’s not from lack of feeling. Final examinations are elemental forces, and everything else has to give way.”

“More power to her,” said Collins, “if she’s able to concentrate.”

“I think it’s her way of taking her mind off things. Little Earl is somewhere around. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Later, perhaps. I’m mainly interested in learning who could profit from your husband’s death.”

“I can’t think of anyone. I inherit the estate, of course. But I had everything I wanted, and my husband, too …”

She looked away. Collins said, “There’s been a suggestion that certain ex-employees might have held a grudge against him.”

“You’re thinking of poor Langwill, in the penitentiary. I don’t see how even he could hate Earl. It wasn’t Earl’s fault that he stole codeine and barbiturates and amphetamines.”

“What of your brother? How does he fit into the scheme of things?”

“Redwall?” Opal was clearly surprised at the question. “You mean into the business? He’s not interested in that kind of work. Redwall is like an old-time troubadour—carefree and irresponsible. No, I think he’s very happy where he is, if he can keep out of trouble.”

“Is he trouble-prone?”

She shrugged. “The way any non-conformist would be. He’s only my half-brother, by the way—my father’s son by his first marriage. I think he inherited some of his mother’s unfortunate traits.”

“Such as?”

“Well, to be candid, Redwall drinks far too much. In fact, he was smashed when he agreed to accompany Earl on the camping trip. He’d never have considered such a thing sober.”

“And Bob Vega—what’s your opinion of him?”

“I’ve met Bob, of course, and he’s very polite, very much the gentleman. Earl always said he was a careful manager. That’s all I know about him.”

“One other matter, Mrs. Genneman. I understand young Buck James was engaged to your daughter?”

“Yes.” Opal Genneman’s lips tightened. “Something came up between them … I don’t think Buck wanted to get married right away. I’ve never got the right of it, but I know that Jean was badly hurt. Buck must be out of his mind. He’ll never do better, and probably a lot worse.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t interfere. The children’s lives are their own.” She turned at the sound of the front door. “That must be Jean now. Jean?”

Jean Genneman appeared in the archway—a tall blond girl with a fresh face, pleasant to look at, and a supple figure.

“Hello, dear,” said her mother. “How was the final?”

“Terrible. I botched it.”

“Oh. Well, under the circumstances …”

Jean came forward. She seemed nervous. Mrs. Genneman said, “This is Inspector Collins of the Fresno County Sheriff’s Office. My daughter Jean.”

She stared at him a moment. “Who did it? Do you know?”

Collins shook his head. “I’m working on it. I’ll know eventually.”

“Just you tell me who he is. I’ll shoot him myself!” Jean drew a deep breath. “I can’t understand it, I simply can’t. It must have been a psychopath.”

Collins studied her. “Someone followed the party into the mountains, someone who seemed to know their itinerary. That’s the man we’re looking for.”

“And no one saw him?”

“James caught a glimpse of him. So did Vega. At the second night’s camp everyone in the party saw him from a considerable distance.”

“And Earl didn’t recognise him?”

“Apparently not.” Collins looked at his watch. “Your son is upstairs, I think you said?”

“Yes, in his room.”

“I wonder if I could speak to him? Alone.”

“Of course,” said Opal Genneman, rising. “Excuse me.” She left the room.

Collins turned to the girl. “I’m trying to find a motive for the murder. One of the first things we think of is whether there’s a woman involved. Do you know of any, Miss Genneman?”

Jean laughed—a harsh, unconvincing sound. “You think a jealous husband shot Earl? Forget it. Earl wasn’t the type.”

“By any chance had he interfered in your romance with Buck James?”

Jean laughed the same unpleasant laugh. “Yes, he interfered. He did everything he could to encourage Buck. Do you know how much he paid Buck? A thousand a month, plus commissions. Buck makes more than Bob Vega. That’s hardly the kind of interference that leads to murder.”

“You can’t think of anyone, then, who might have wanted Mr. Genneman out of the way?”

“No.” Jean jumped up. “Here’s Junior. I’ll leave you two alone.” And she slipped out of the room. A girl of character, thought Collins, and intelligence. And some bitterness.

Earl Genneman, Junior, was a youth of seventeen or so, thin to the point of gauntness, wearing tight blue levis and a plaid shirt. He had a sharp chin, a big nose, and small red eyes. He was in the process of growing a beard. He strolled in with a truculent air.

“Take a seat. I’m Inspector Collins, investigating your father’s death.”

Earl Junior slumped on the sofa, fished in his pocket, brought forth a cigarette, and insolently tapped it on his knuckles.

“Now tell me,” he said, “how I’m driving another nail into my coffin. All you squares do.”

“Including your father?” asked Collins.

“All right, including my father!” The red eyes stared in a suffering sort of way. “Who cares about lung cancer? Hell, if I’m alive when I’m thirty, I’ll kill myself.”

“The man who killed your father was really doing him a favor?”

Earl Junior gave a contemptuous grunt.

Collins asked curtly, “Do you have any idea who did it?”

The boy considered this. Collins watched him dispassionately. Small chance for comradeship between son and father. Earl Junior finally gave his reply. “Nope.” His tone mockingly said that he knew a great deal more than he was admitting. Bravado, Collins decided—sheer orneriness—and he rose.

“So long, sonny.”

In the foyer he waited for Mrs. Genneman to come out of the library. She seemed distant, even cool. He pretended not to notice, promised to keep her abreast of developments, and left.

He drove to the San Jose Police Department, where a clerk took him to the files. He found no significant reference to the Gennemans, to Buck James, Bob Vega or Myron Retwig. Redwall Kershaw was well-known, with arrests for drunken driving, disturbing the peace, malicious mischief, and illegal possession of drugs.

Collins read the particulars of the drug charge with attention. Kershaw had been halted on a minor traffic violation near the racetrack. The arresting officer noticed Kershaw kicking parcels under the seat; he investigated and found them to contain unlabeled drugs which turned out to be various illegal stimulants. Kershaw pleaded that he was taking the parcels to a friend and had no notion what was in them but he refused to identify the “friend.” He had escaped lightly for his various derelictions, serving thirty days twice, with a year’s probation on the drug indictment.

Collins returned to Fresno, arriving late in the evening. He drove directly home—it was a new three-bedroom split-level in Morningside Park, which Collins had bought because he disliked apartments.

Lorna, his wife of two months, mixed highballs while Collins called headquarters. Rod Easley had gone home; the officer on duty knew of no important developments. Collins hung up and gave his attention to the fried chicken and country gravy on his bride’s menu. He praised them lavishly, having learned his lesson early. The chicken tasted like fried mortarboard, the gravy like unhardened plaster of Paris. It was the appropriate ending to a bad day.