The Madman Theory by Ellery Queen Page B

on vacations.”
    â€œGive 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.”
    â€œMaybe so,” said Easley. “I’m a pretty vague bird myself.”
    â€œLandlord 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?”
    â€œSure. It’s a joint on Morgan Street. One of these Okie hangouts. It gets pretty wild on occasion.”
    â€œSteven 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.”
    â€œSomething 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.”
    â€œYou’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