“But where is the information?” demanded Loveridge. “Was she bluffing? Did the murderer know she was bluffing? It’s a strange situation.”
“It’s strange,” nodded Collins. “I’m anxious to see what’s in Box 1126. She might have locked the key in the suitcase for a reason.”
Loveridge’s china-blue eyes bulged with interest. “You mean—”
“A letter addressed to, ‘Henry Jones, Box 1126. If not delivered in ten days, forward to Chief of Police.’ ”
“By golly! I believe you’re right!” Loveridge’s superiority had now dissolved. “Let’s get there!”
The postal boxes, serried ranks of dull bronze and glass, occupied the far end of the post-office lobby and the walls of an alcove. Box 1126 was in this alcove. But it was now an orifice. There was no door on it. The front was gone.
Chapter 12
At a window Collins attracted the attention of a clerk. “We’re police officers. What’s the story on Box 1126?”
The clerk surveyed them from below his green eyeshade. “I’ll tell you one thing — it’s a federal offense, and that’s no laughing matter.”
“What happened?”
“Last night someone comes in and jimmies the box door. These doors aren’t built to withstand assault. He’ll regret it, whoever he is. Once the Feds get on a man’s tail, they never let up.”
“What time did this happen?”
“Hard to say. Some time after six, probably.”
“What’s missing? What was in the box?”
“No idea. You’ll have to get that information from the boxholder.”
“No chance of that,” said Collins. “She’s dead. That’s why we’re here. No one witnessed the act?”
“Nobody’s come forward, but it’s hardly likely the crime was seen. It would only take a minute: put one of these new ripping bars into the crack, give a yank, and the door flies open.”
“Who fills the boxes?”
“I do. That’s part of my duties.”
“Do you remember what was in that box?”
“No, sir.”
“Whom was the box rented to?”
“John Anderson.”
“Was anybody hanging around yesterday?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Collins and Loveridge glumly examined the empty box. Collins put his eye to the glass of a nearby box, and with some maneuvering read the address. “ ‘Mr. J. A. Rogerts.’ It can be done.”
“What can be done?”
“What I just did — read an address through the glass.”
Loveridge gave a shrug of incomprehension. They returned to the car.
“It’s pretty clear what happened,” said Collins. “Molly sends an anonymous letter to the murderer — call him X. She instructs him to make payment to Box 1126. X comes down to the post office, with the idea of waiting till somebody comes for mail from 1126. When he gets here he notices a letter in Box 1126. He looks — as I did — to find whom it’s addressed to.
“X goes out, buys a ripping bar or a big screwdriver. He comes back, waits till the coast is clear, pries open the door, gets the letter. He takes it out, reads it. Molly Wilkerson is the blackmailer! He figures he’ll cure her once and for all. He waits for her to leave work and kills her. That’s all there is to it.”
Loveridge nodded sadly. “It could have happened that way, all right.”
“Which means we’re back to where we started — to the murder of Earl Genneman.”
At the City Hall they separated, and Collins went off to find himself a room for the night.
On the following morning they met once more, and Loveridge was briefed on the circumstances of Genneman’s death and the subsequent murder of Steve Ricks. “Steve Ricks and Molly Wilkerson are secondary,” said Collins. “They were killed for the same reason: To protect the identity of Genneman’s murderer. We know why they were killed and how, and it doesn’t bring us any closer to the killer. There’s still a lot to learn — about Genneman’s relations with his family, the state of his finances, the books at Westco, and Buck James and Jean Genneman. What stopped their romance? Why did it start up again as soon as Genneman died? Does Mrs. Genneman have boy friends? How does she get along with Myron Retwig? Friendly? Unfriendly? Extra friendly? How did Red Kershaw get home from Smoky Joe’s?”
Loveridge frowned down at his notes. “Someone must have noticed two men carrying out a drunk. It’s probably not unusual, but the people in the next booth, or one of the waitresses, would have noticed.”
Collins agreed. “It should be checked into.”
“I’ll try Smoky Joe’s tonight. As for the rest — it looks as if some head-knocking is in order. What do you have in mind for yourself?”
“I’m on my way out to Genneman’s house. One or two little points I want to clear up. For instance, why Earl Junior doesn’t drive.”
“He might be an epileptic. Or, more likely, his license was lifted.”
“I’d like to find out for sure. Together with another small matter. He’s an unpleasant kid.”
Loveridge considered. “I’ll come along.”
Opal Genneman greeted Collins and Loveridge with her usual courtesy, though her costume, a smart lavender tweed suit, suggested that she had been about to leave the house. She took them into the living room. “Have you learned anything more about — what happened?”
“It’s a slow business, Mrs. Genneman. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask some pretty personal questions.”
Opal Genneman sighed. “That’s your job, I suppose.”
“I wish everyone felt as you do, Mrs. Genneman. I think I’ve asked you if you knew Steven Ricks.”
“Yes. But I’d never heard of him till then.”
“What about Mrs. Molly Wilkerson?”
“Molly Wilkerson? No, I don’t think so.”
“You’d have known her under a different name. She was married at one time to Mr. Kershaw.”
“That Molly. Oh yes. I know of her.”
“Apparently she tried to blackmail your husband’s murderer. Yesterday morning she was found dead.”
“How awful! How was this Wilkerson woman—” she spoke the name with an effort “—how was she killed?”
“She was struck on the head with an object like a hammer.”
“It must have been a man’s work,” said Opal Genneman, half to herself.
“It takes no great strength to crack a skull, not with the right tool. Most of all, the motive behind your husband’s death puzzles us.”
“Is it possible the murderer intended to kill someone else? That poor Earl just happened to be in the lead?”
“It’s not likely. The murderer had a clear view of the trail.”
“It could be a mistake. Aren’t there such things as deadfalls, or whatever they’re called, that set off a gun when something is stepped on?”
“But it would shoot the first man to come past, whoever he was. Also, the rest of the party searched for a gun and couldn’t find it. Unless we assume conspiracy, we have to fall back on the presence of someone to discharge the gun and remove it afterward.”
Opal Genneman nodded rather weakly.
“Here’s our problem. Molly Wilkerson seems to have suspected the identity of the murderer from the fact that this person met Steve Ricks and Mr. Kershaw at a night club and drove Mr. Kershaw home, on the weekend before the camping trip.”
“You’ve asked me about that. But Earl and I weren’t home, nor was Jean, and Little Earl doesn’t drive.”
“Why doesn’t he drive?” asked Collins casually.