Collins sighed. “And what was the occasion?”
“No occasion. He came up on business, dropped by. We talked over old times, had a drink or two, then we went out for a steak. Then I had to go to work.”
“He came to Smoky Joe’s?”
“Oh, yes. He wanted to play at Joe’s bad.”
“He came there often?”
“Not often. I might see him like once a month.”
“He’d come with friends?”
“Once in a while. But don’t ask me who they were, because he never introduced me. Thought ’em too good for me, maybe. And my grandmother from one of the best families in Texas! That’s a fact, Inspector.”
“Of course. Why did Ricks keep coming to the Down Home Cabaret?”
“He was always trying to get on the orchestra.”
“Did he play that last night — sit in with the orchestra?”
“I don’t believe so. To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay much heed. I was rushed as usual. Inspector, if you want to know what work is, you try handling all those tables. It’s a real hassle.”
Collins surveyed her. “Steve Ricks stayed till the place closed?”
“Yes, indeed. At least I think so. I just can’t be sure. He might have left earlier.”
Collins’ suspicions deepened. Molly Wilkerson clearly wanted to tell nothing. “He was alone?”
“I believe he was talking to some friends part of the time. Steve loved to talk. He was a real talker. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.” It seemed a rather belated expression of grief.
“Who was he with that night?”
“I didn’t notice. That was one of our real busy nights. I was rushing around like a mad woman.”
“Mrs. Wilkerson,” said Collins. “Are you trying to tell me that you failed to notice who your boy friend was sitting with?”
“Please don’t yell. My children are in the other room.” She was a slippery customer, all right. “I’m telling you; you can believe it or not. Someday you try it, working thirty-three tables on a busy night—”
“I’d like to remind you that Ricks was murdered. Somebody may go to the gas chamber if we can get the evidence. It’s your duty to help supply this evidence. Now I’ll ask you once again: who was sitting with Ricks the last night you saw him?”
Molly rose, unabashed. “If you think I pay attention to every drunk at every table, you’re crazy.”
“So there were drunks at the table. Who was drunk — Steve? The others?”
“I didn’t say that. I’ve got to get ready to go to work, Inspector.” Molly nodded coldly, and Collins took his leave.
He walked down to the road, glanced back at the house. Molly’s shadow moved across the living room. He ran quietly into the driveway, holding to the shadows beside the house. Just overhead was the open window from which he had heard the ring of the telephone bell.
Molly was already talking, Collins pressed his ear as near the window as he dared.
“...asking all kinds of questions about Steve Ricks,” Molly was saying in a portentous voice. “Did you know that Steve was murdered?... Well, that’s what this cop said. It’s a fact... No... He wanted to know all about Steve, who his friends were, and especially who Steve was with two weeks ago at the Down Home... I didn’t mention any names. I figured knowledge is money, and it might be worth something to you to be kept out of it... Naturally not... I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. I’d never protect somebody I thought was crooked. Not unless they paid me an awful lot of money, haha!... No, I don’t. I’ll leave it to you; whatever it’s worth... That’s okay; all donations gratefully accepted. ’Bye now.”
Collins waited, but the Wilkerson woman made no more calls. When he heard her talking to the children, he walked out and got into his car, where he sat for a moment grinning wickedly. Collins was not one to feel remote from his job. Lies were no novelty, information was often denied him, and such things annoyed him. But not as much as this one.
This was different, a quality of cold reptilian greed; it affected him differently.
He started the car and drove slowly back to South Jefferson and into Bingham Valley Road, then north up Latham Avenue. Ahead a sign burned blue and green: LEO’S FASHION RESTAURANT. It was seven o’clock and he had eaten nothing but a sandwich since breakfast. He parked and went into the restaurant, which was crowded. He gave his name to the hostess and found a seat at the bar. He ordered a bourbon highball.
He thought of Molly Wilkerson and chuckled grimly. The day had not gone badly...
He remembered some loose ends and went to the phone booth. First he called Buck James and asked if he were acquainted with Steve Ricks. Buck James claimed no such acquaintance. Collins then checked Red Kershaw’s number in the directory, and dialed, but there was no answer.
He had better luck at the Genneman house. A young, gruff masculine voice, Earl Junior’s, answered.
“Miss Jean Genneman, please,” said Collins.
There was no response. But Collins waited, and presently Jean came to the phone. “Hello?”
Collins identified himself. “I called earlier today, but you were playing golf.”
She seemed embarrassed. “I suppose it seems unfeeling of me, but I was going out of my mind. Buck called and asked if I felt like some fresh air, and it seemed a good idea.”
“Oh, you’ve made up with Mr. James?”
“It’s not exactly the romance of the century,” Jean said in a cold voice. “We’re merely friends. But you didn’t call to ask about my love life.”
“I’d like to know if your father — or anyone else — has ever mentioned a Steve Ricks.”
“Steve Ricks? I don’t believe so. Let me think. No... What does he do?”
“He’s a musician. Plays guitar. Cowboy music.”
“He wouldn’t be a friend of Earl’s,” said Jean positively. “Earl wanted to deport all folk singers and cowboy musicians to Russia.”
“Well, keep thinking, Miss Genneman, and if you remember the name Steve Ricks in any connection at all, let me know. It would be a big help.”
“I’ll do my best. Have you learned anything more about who killed Earl?”
“We’re accumulating information. This Steve Ricks matter is part of it. But there’s nothing definite yet. How did you make out in your finals?”
The question seemed to annoy her. She said shortly, “I did okay. Is that all, Inspector?”
“That’s about it for now. Is Mr. Kershaw there?”
“Yes, he’s here.”
“May I speak to him, please?”
Red Kershaw came to the phone and reported no acquaintance with Steve Ricks.
Collins returned to the bar. Peculiar. Why should Jean Genneman resent his asking her about her finals?
He was called to his table.
During dinner and the drive home he pondered the identity of the person Molly Wilkerson had telephoned and presently evolved a scheme to extract the answer. The plan afforded him a degree of acrid amusement. Its principal drawback lay in the fact that it could hardly be put into effect until the following night. In the meantime much might happen. Molly was playing a dangerous game.
Chapter 8
The case was heating up. The morning papers covered each of the murders, though making no connection between them. The killing of Earl Genneman inspired the most detailed coverage:
ran the headline. Below appeared the usual garbled account of developments to date, with a map of the Copper Creek Trail and a statement from Detective Captain Bigelow.