He rose from his table, walked up behind her, and touched her shoulder. She turned an arch look backward, smiled briefly, shook her head, and turned back to her friend. Collins said, “If you please, ma’am, I’d like to speak to you a moment.”
She turned again, examined Collins with great attention. “Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am. It’s in connection with Steve Ricks.”
“Steve? I don’t know anything about Steve. I haven’t seen him in two or three weeks.”
The woman apparently had not yet learned of Steve Ricks’ death. She was not unattractive, if a trifle plump, more than a trifle overdressed, and over-daubed with cosmetics. Reluctantly she followed Collins a few steps away from her friend, who watched with interest.
“I’m a police officer. Perhaps you’d like to come over to my table for a moment or two.”
“This is about Steve Ricks?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s he done?”
“I’ll tell you if you’ll step over to the table.”
The woman followed him without enthusiasm. Collins seated her, introduced himself. “Your name?”
“Belva Didrick. Mrs. Belva Didrick. What’s with Steve? What did he do?”
“If you’re a friend of Steve’s, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. He’s dead.”
Belva Didrick’s face froze.
“You won’t be brought into the case in any way, Mrs. Didrick,” Collins assured her. “I merely want some information.”
“When did this happen? How?”
“It happened about a week ago, and I don’t know yet who did it. I gather Steve told you his plans for the weekend of June 13 and 14, immediately after the last time you saw him. Exactly what did he tell you?”
Belva Didrick spoke slowly. “It was some wild story... I didn’t hardly believe him; he was always full of nonsense, and this was pretty nonsensical.”
“Yes?”
“This is how Steve told it. Some rich city folk were going on a hiking trip into the mountains—” The woman winced and stopped. “Poor Steve. He’s really dead?”
“Yes, Mrs. Didrick.”
“How did it happen?”
“He was hit over the head.”
“Oh, my!” Mrs. Didrick squirmed in her chair. “He got so much fun out of telling this story. He said he’d promised not to tell no one, but it was too good to keep. One of these city people wanted to play a joke on the others, and he’d hired Steve to follow the group carrying a bottle of whisky. He was to keep behind, just out of sight, until the second night’s camp, which was at a lake. Then Steve was to camp at least two hundred yards from the others. During the night he was to bury the whisky three feet in front of a tall rock at the north end of the lake. Then he was supposed to get up early and come back down the mountain. Steve had it figured that the man wanted to win some kind of bet as to the possibility of producing whisky in the wilderness. He thought it was wacky, but the party involved was going to pay him two hundred dollars, and it made a good story.”
“It’s a good story, all right,” said Collins.
“You don’t believe me?” asked Belva Didrick with a gleam in her eyes.
“I believe you. Did Steve name the man who hired him?”
“No. In fact—” Belva Didrick hesitated.
“In fact what?”
Belva executed an arch little smile. “Nothing, really. Except that Steve was such a terrible flirt... I’d rather thought it was to be a mixed party.”
“It was strictly male.”
“Well, I didn’t know... I can’t believe Steve is dead. It’s a terrible shock.”
“One more question: did you notice Steve driving a new white Ford?”
“Why, yes,” said the truck-driver’s wife. “That Friday night he was driving a new car. It was white, and I’m pretty sure it was a Ford. My husband was out of town, and Steve was nice enough to drive me home. I asked him about the car, but he just acted mysterious.”
“You didn’t notice the registration, or anything in the car which might have indicated who the owner was?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Didrick. Please don’t talk about this to your friends.”
Belva Didrick rose. Apparently she had altered her first impression of Collins, for she walked away very slowly, with an exaggerated swing of the hips. Once she looked back over her shoulder.
Collins poured beer from his bottle and sat watching the bubbles rise. The Didrick woman’s information had merely cleared away some of the underbrush. Collins heaved a sigh. No help for it: he was going to have to climb the Copper Creek Trail to Persimmon Lake and look for the bottle of whisky.
Chapter 14
The morning was clear, almost crisp. A few clouds hung in the west. The vineyards and orchards wore their richest green; to the east the Sierras lofted above the near foothills.
Highway 180 unreeled behind him; the foothills became mountains, the San Joaquin Valley spread below. The first Sequoia redwoods appeared, monsters rearing high above the evergreens. A few miles farther, Collins passed the park entrance.
At the lodge he telephoned Park Superintendent Phelps to request the loan of a horse and camping gear. Phelps suggested that Collins might like the company of a ranger, but Collins declined: he would have more freedom if he worked alone. Phelps instructed him to continue to Cedar Grove, where the necessary equipment would be awaiting him.
At Cedar Grove a ranger was waiting for him. They drove to the stables at the road’s end; one horse was saddled, another loaded with gear. The ranger spoke a few words of advice; Collins changed into suitable garments, mounted his horse, and started up the trail.
He was alone except for the horses. The sun burned hot on granite and sand, drew pungent odors from the fir and pine. The trail rose in switchbacks; the horses ambled along. Collins found himself enjoying the expedition, which from the vantage point of the Clover Club had seemed drudgery.
The morning passed. At Suggs Meadow, where the Genneman party had camped the first night, Collins paused to rest the horses and stretch his legs.
From Suggs Meadow the trail rose once more. The timber grew smaller and more redolent of pitch and resin. The sun passed behind the mountain, the far slope glared bright. Collins rode in shadow tinted with cold blue skylight.
The trail rose above the timberline, passed across barren rock and scree, laced and padded with snow. The scarp reared above, the trail rising to Dutchman Pass at an altitude of 10,390 feet, with snowbanks pressing in. Beyond, the land fell away into a great sky meadow. And there, reflecting the sky, lay Persimmon Lake.
When Collins finally dismounted, it was very nearly six o’clock. He was standing a hundred feet south of Steve Ricks’ camp, and two hundred yards north of the Genneman camp, with a cove of the lake between. There was still an hour of daylight. He unsaddled and unpacked the horses, hobbled them, and gave each a quart of oats in a feedbag. Then he took a folding shovel and set out for the north end of the lake.
The directions, as transmitted by Belva Didrick, were vague. But at the north end of the lake a low outcrop of gray granite humped from the ground. On the side facing the lake, freezing weather had cracked apart the highest section so that it stood like a pointed rock indeed. To the front of it lay an area of coarse sand. Collins stood looking at it, the long low sunlight tracing grotesque shadows across the landscape. He bent and began to dig.
The shovel proved unnecessary; the bottle was barely below the surface. Gingerly Collins brought it forth; there might be other fingerprints than Steve Ricks’ on the glass.
He walked back to his camp, gathered twigs and dead branches, built a fire, heated a can of corned beef hash, fried three eggs, and boiled a pot of coffee.
With twilight came chill. The warmth of the fire was comforting. Collins blew up the air-mattress, unrolled his sleeping bag, then sat with his back to a rock, drinking coffee and staring into the fire. When the murder of Earl Genneman might have been ascribed to a madman, the case was a mess of enigmas, contradictions, blind alleys and paradoxes. No less now. There was no clear-cut motive for the killing of Genneman: he had threatened no one, he was hated by no one, and no one gained by his death. Obviously this absence of motive was illusory; someone had gone to great lengths to kill him, and but for a noise in an automatic transmission the murder would have been blamed upon the faceless man who had followed the Genneman party to Persimmon Lake.