The Madman Theory (13 page)

The voice at the other end of the wire expostulated. Molly ignored the protests. “You'll have to do a whole lot better, my friend, because I'm nobody's patsy. And don't think I'm not watching out for myself, because I am. I hope I make myself clear? I mean, don't get any ideas.”

There was a thud as Molly viciously hung up the receiver, the rattle of the door, then silence.

Collins played the tape once more. Then, pleased with himself, he started back to Fresno.

9

Collins could well have taken Sunday off except for curiosity, which all night had visited him with near-physical pangs. So now, at nine thirty, with the laboratory deserted, he rerecorded the tape from the portable recorder into an Ampex at fifteen inches a second. Then he played back the tape at three and three-quarter inches per second, the sounds reduced four octaves in pitch. The door-closing became a groan. Molly's change being placed on the shelf made a sound like far-off cowbells. Two deep reverberations echoed and boomed as she dropped the dime into the slot, some seconds later there came a noise like a stick on a picket fence, followed by
tunk tunk tunk
.

“Three,” said Collins, and made a note.

Presently another rattle, then
tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk
.

“Six,” said Collins.

And next: “Three.”

Finally he had the number which Molly had dialed. 363–2210.

He returned to his office, looked through his notes. Nowhere did he find such a number. He picked up his phone, dialed the San Jose exchange, then 363–2210.

At the other end of the connection the bell rang, but no one answered. Collins hung up.

Bigelow appeared in the doorway, resplendent in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and gray silk tie. Collins had telephoned him the night before about the success of the ploy, and curiosity evidently had been eating at Bigelow, too.

“On my way to church,” the captain said rather sheepisly, looking away from Collins' raised eyebrows. “What did you make from the tape?”

Collins tossed him a sheet of paper. “That's the number.”

“Who is it?”

“I don't know yet. Nobody home.”

“It might be a business number.”

‘I don't think so. Molly called in the evening.”

“True. You'd better make another trip up to San Jose. Then when somebody answers the phone, you'll be on the spot to ask some questions.”

“That makes sense,” said Collins hollowly. “I might as well move to San Jose. I practically live there now.”

“It's a nice climate,” said Bigelow, so soberly that Collins looked at him. What did he mean by that?

“I've pulled Sullivan and Kerner out of the park,” said Bigelow. “They didn't get a nibble in the campgrounds. Too many people coming and going.”

“It was an off-chance,” said Collins defensively. “It might have paid off big.”

“Oh, I'm not knocking the idea,” said Bigelow. “In fact, do you have any others?”

“Just this telephone number, which I'd call our best lead so far.”

“I agree,” said Bigelow magnanimously. “Well, I better get going. The wife and kids are waiting outside.”

Collins arrived at San Jose shortly after one. He lunched at a drive-in, then crossed the street to a service station phone booth and dialed 363–2210. No answer.

He looked through the directory, checking every name and institution associated with the case.

Earl Genneman was listed once, Genneman Laboratories was listed again, and Jean Genneman also had a listing. None of these was 363–2210.

Myron Retwig had a listing, also Pacific Chemicals. Neither was 363–2210.

Red Kershaw had a listing.

Robert Vega and Westco were listed.

None was 363–2210.

Buck James was not represented in the directory. But James had already, at Cedar Grove, given his number to Collins. It was not 363–2210.

Collins dialed Myron Retwig's home number. Retwig answered, and Collins asked if he had a few minutes free. Retwig said he did, and gave directions how to reach his home.

He lived on the summit of a hill west of San Jose, the Coast Range bulking up behind. His house was an enormous three-story box, with a high mansard roof broken by dormers and chimneys at either end. A copse of tall black cypresses at the rear comprised the landscaping; there was no trace of a garden.

Retwig answered the door in tan trousers and a faded blue work-shirt. With his round brown face, stiff gray hair and owlish look, he seemed not so much the owner of the house as its gardener or handyman.

He took Collins in. The place was funished with heavy, comfortable furniture: leather chairs, an ancient leather-upholstered sofa, a massive table supporting a two-foot globe. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. Retwig said by way of explanation, “I'm alone today. My wife is in San Francisco, my sons are at Monterey for the regatta. Is it too early for a drink?”

“I wouldn't say so.”

Retwig went to a cabinet, mixed a pair of highballs. Over his shoulder he asked, “How is the investigation coming?”

“Not too badly,” said Collins. “Cases like this are solved by hard-nosed plugging.”

Retwig nodded. “This is true in almost any endeavour.”

“There's been one interesting development,” said Collins with an air of candor. “It concerns a certain Steve Ricks. Is that name familiar to you?”

Retwig considered carefully. “It is, in the sense that you already have asked me the same question. Otherwise, to the best of my knowledge, I have never heard the name.”

Collins nodded, as if Retwig had uttered a profound truth. “I hoped that you might have remembered a reference to him. We have reason to believe that he's linked with Mr. Genneman.”

Retwig made no comment.

“Jean Genneman seems to recall the name,” mused Collins. “But she can't remember from where.”

“It's not an unusual name.”

“True. Look, Mr. Retwig, I'd like you to talk to me frankly about the Genneman family. In complete confidence, and for the sake of background, what was the state of affairs in the Genneman household?”

Retwig half smiled. “If I say nothing, I obstruct justice. If I talk freely, I become a gossip. You put me in an uncomfortable position, Inspector.”

“I realise that,” said Collins. “I make the request only because it may bring Mr. Genneman's murderer to justice. Please?”

Retwig deliberated. Then he said, “I can't tell you a great deal, because there isn't much to tell. Earl and Opal seemed quite happy together. She was clever enough, or kind enough, to complement him—bring out the best in him. A less understanding and subtle woman might have made Earl's life hell.”

“How so?”

“Earl was a positive man. He made decisions by a process which represented subconscious but perfectly accurate logic, but which might be mistaken for pigheadedness. Opal understood this.”

“What of Earl Junior?”

Retwig pursed his lips. “I'd say that in that department Earl did as good a job as anyone could. I am not a Freudian, thank God, and I can't even guess at the shape of young Earl's thoughts. But it would be wrong to blame the father for the son.”

“They didn't have a good relationship?”

“I wouldn't say so, no.”

“Where did Mrs. Genneman stand in all this?”

“In my opinion, Opal has behaved admirably. He may change with maturity, but as of now I consider Earl Junior pretty unprepossessing.”

“I appreciate your frankness,” said Collins. “Now, as to Jean?”

“No mystery there. She's exactly what she appears: a healthy young woman with a strong personality.”

“She and her stepfather were on good terms?”

“Very much so. Earl gave her the affection he would have given his own flesh and blood. She felt the same toward him.”

“What's the story between Jean and Buck James?”

“It's beyond my understanding. Buck was graduated from the University of Wisconsin and came to Stanford for graduate work. He met Jean, they became engaged. Earl approved the match and gave Buck a job with Westco. Then the romance cooled and the two drifted apart. What I suspect is that Jean wanted to get married immediately, whereas Buck wanted to wait until he was independent, or at least out from under Earl's shadow. He liked and respected Earl—but Earl had a very dominating personality, and if he disapproved of something he did so vehemently, to say the least. Earl was a good friend. He could also be a bad enemy.”

“And you, Mr. Retwig—why did you leave Genneman Pharmaceuticals?”

“For something of the same reasons which, in my opinion, dissuaded Buck from an early marriage with Jean. And because I was offered a more responsible job at more money.”

“But now you're back working for Genneman Pharmaceuticals.”

“Opal offered me a better job with more money than my job with Pacific; and Earl is no longer around to demoralise me with his off-the-cuff—and accurate—decisions. You see,” said Retwig with a faint smile, “I'm the thinking-man type. I weigh and ponder, I project trends, I calculate probabilities —I eliminate the less promising courses of action and finally arrive at one which I regard as optimum. All that takes time. Earl would reach the same decision in half a second … I explained this to him when I left Genneman Laboratories, and he was greatly amused.”

“I understand you both were interested in model railroading,” said Collins, “that it was the basis of your friendship.”

“It was a mutual interest, certainly. Have you seen Earl's set-up?”

“Mrs. Genneman showed it to me.”

“What did you think of it?” For the first time Retwig seemed to speak without calculation.

“I said to myself: how I wish I'd had something like this when I was a boy.”

Retwig jumped to his feet. “Take a look at mine.” He slid back a door, snapped a set of switches. Collins took his drink and followed.

“Up four steps, Inspector. Don't trip.”

The steps rose to a walkway that encircled a room twenty feet square. The layout occupied the entire floor, with tracks wandering through a miniature landscape. Collins stared in wonder. If Earl Genneman's layout had been impressive, this was a marvel. There was a central area divided into four sectors, each tinted a different color: purple, yellow, red and blue. At the center was a city of domes, towers and palaces, all fashioned of brilliant green glass.

Retwig watched Collins with a smile. “Do you recognise it?”

Collins nodded slowly. “It's the Land of Oz, by golly. I haven't thought of it for—well, a long time.”

“I probably know more about Oz than any man alive. The research I have put into this project, the money I've spent! And here it all is. The Land of Oz. The blue Munchkin country, the yellow land of the Winkies, the red Quadling country, the purple Gillikin country, the Emerald City at the center. There's the Tin Woodsman's castle, and there's the palace of Glinda the Good. Notice the cottage where Tip lived with Mombi the Witch. There's Foxville, and Bunbury, and Bunnybury. Over there is the Nonestic Ocean—I'm sorry I don't have room for the islands of Pingarees, Regos, Coregos and Phreex. Below is the Deadly Desert and the Land of Ev. The Nomes work underneath the mountains; in the crags live the Whimsies, the Growleywogs and the Phanfasms. I've used the O'Neill illustrations faithfully. In fact the only false note is the railroads themselves. Baum would have disapproved. Still, they're the excuse for all this, and I've kept them in character.”

He went to a panel, touched switches. From below came a faint whirring, and Oz-type locomotives tugged Oz-type cars through the landscapes. In the mountains directly below, a small gray mining mole hauled gondolas heaped with sparkling crystals from the Nome caverns, dumped them into a hopper, returned within the mountain to reappear with a new load. Green trolley cars traversed the avenues of the Emerald City.

“There's a lot I had to leave out,” said Retwig. “I don't intend to put any more work into it. If my sons want to take over they're welcome. They don't show too much interest, but maybe their children will enjoy it.” He shrugged, touched switches. The trains halted; the fountains stopped playing before the palace of Glinda the Good; the lights went out in the Emerald City.

The two men returned to the great hall. “Let me mix you another drink,” said Retwig.

Collins held out his glass, and watched as Retwig poured whisky. Could a man who had lavished such labor upon a fairy tale employ somebody to blast the head off his best friend? Collins suddenly felt like drinking all Retwig's whisky.

“Among Mr. Genneman's papers I found this number.” Collins showed Retwig the number Molly Wilkerson had called. “I can't identify it, and no one answers. Is it familiar to you?”

“Not offhand. I'll look in my book.” Retwig went to a desk, checked through a leather-bound notebook. “Sorry, No number like that here.”

Collins returned the paper to his pocket. “What's your private theory of this case?”

“I don't have any.” Retwig spoke softly. “In my position it's better not to think too much.”

Collins did not press for an explanation. He thought he saw a glimmer of Retwig's meaning. He finished his whisky, thanked Retwig for his cooperation, and departed the mansion on the hill.

Collins drove back toward San Jose via Stevens Creek Road. At Los Robles Boulevard he turned south, and a few minutes later he pulled up before the Genneman mansion.

Jean answered the door, transparently expectant. Her face changed when she saw Collins. “Oh, Inspector. Come in.”

Collins had not appreciated what a fine figure she had. Her hair had been cut short, and scrubbed and brushed till it glistened. She looked almost beautiful.

“Mother's upstairs in the shower,” Jean said airily. “Stinker's out somewhere, so temporarily I'm in charge. Is there anything I can do?”