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 recognize 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.
Chapter 5
On Thursday, June 18, Inspector Collins arrived at headquarters to find Sergeant Easley already at work with license registrations. Collins sat down to help and by noon the job was almost complete. Of the cars which had entered the park during the period under scrutiny, four appeared suspicious.
First was the ’62 Dodge registered to Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach, with license registration LKK-3220. Nathan Wingate claimed that neither he nor his car had even entered the General Grant National Park. Either Wingate lied, or the ranger had made a mistake noting down the license number, or the license had been faked. The car had entered the park early Wednesday morning — at the extreme edge of the critical period. Collins was not inclined to attach too much significance to this one.
Next came a ’63 Oldsmobile with license EKY-14, registered to Edgar Hoglund of Bakersfield, already listed on the bulletin as stolen. The car had disappeared from Hoglund’s driveway during the night of Thursday, June 11, and had entered the park Friday. Bakersfield was a long distance from San Jose; the possibility of connection with the Genneman murder seemed remote.
Third was a ’54 Plymouth coupé, license KEX-52, registered to Steven Ricks of Fresno. He lived at 982A Mulberry Street, a cottage to the rear of 982 Mulberry, the residence of James and Lillian White. According to James White, Steve Ricks had set off alone on the morning of Friday the 12th, his destination unannounced. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. White considered Steve Ricks the type of man to go on a solitary camping trip. They were also uncertain when Steve Ricks had returned. He definitely had not reported for work Monday morning at the Sunset Nursery, his place of employment.
The fourth car on the list was a ’64 Chevrolet convertible, license AL9-G76, registered to Don Allen Batlow of Chowchilla — in Easley’s opinion the most promising lead to date. Batlow had not been at home; his wife had answered the telephone. Easley had identified himself and asked about her husband’s whereabouts the previous weekend. Mrs. Batlow — in a voice like an overblown oboe — expressed distrust and disapproval, and had refused to answer questions. She suggested that Easley make his inquiries of Mr. Batlow himself; she had supplied his business telephone and demanded to be told the reason for the call. Easley told her that the car driven by her husband possibly had been involved in an accident in Kings Canyon National Park.