Early the following afternoon Collins got back to Fresno headquarters. Captain Bigelow was out to lunch, and Collins went to his own office. There was little of interest in his mail until he came to the last letter in the box. As he read it, his mouth spread wide in a grin. He laid the letter reverently on the table beside the shotgun and the bottle of whisky.
Bigelow looked in through the open door. “You’re back.” He noticed the shotgun on Collins’ desk. “What’s this?”
“I went up for a bottle of whisky, I find the whisky, I find the shotgun. The gun that killed Earl Genneman.”
Bigelow was impressed. “Where’d you find it?”
“Way down the hillside, almost in the valley.” Collins described his adventure. “My legs still wobble, and I ache all the way up the back of my neck from that horse.”
“The main thing is you found the gun,” said Bigelow. “What are all these strings? And clothespins? Somebody hang out a wash?”
“I never thought of that,” said Collins dryly. “Here — look at this.” He gave Bigelow the letter.
Bigelow read and grunted.
“So now we know who killed Genneman, how, and why.”
“But can we prove it? Not too much of this will hold water in court.”
Collins nodded. “Even before I got this letter I had a pretty good idea whom we were looking for. I think I’ve figured out a way to make it stick.”
“How’s that?”
“First, we call the group together for a briefing. That’s what we call it. Actually, we try to goose somebody into acting. If it works, we’re home. If it doesn’t, then we’ve got to figure out something that will.”
“It’s your case,” said Bigelow. “You’ve done wonders, Omar, and I’m going to see that the sheriff knows it.”
Collins looked at the captain in amazement. Bigelow seemed perfectly sincere. “Why, thanks, Captain. Thanks very much,” said Collins. He looked at his watch. “As for that ‘briefing’ — what about tonight? Can we mount an operation so soon?”
“The sooner the better, before somebody else gets knocked off.”
“That’s my feeling. There’s one ‘somebody else’ right now whose life is hanging by a thread.”
Chapter 15
In the Genneman living room Myron Retwig, Redwall Kershaw, Buck James, Bob Vega, Opal Genneman, Jean Genneman and Earl Genneman, Junior had gathered. For the most part they sat in silence. There was an atmosphere of strain, which Collins encouraged by standing in a corner with Captain Bigelow and whispering.
Finally Collins turned to the group. “This is my superior, Captain Bigelow. He had some business in San Jose, so he thought he’d drop by with me tonight.
“We’ve been investigating, and uncovering a fact or two, and since I know you’re all concerned, I thought you might like to hear a summary of what we’ve been doing.” He looked around with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “This is just a briefing session. I don’t plan to perform any dramatic acts, like suddenly pointing a finger and arresting one of you. I wish I could! This is a very confusing case, and we’re far from out of the woods. And, of course, I’m hoping to turn up a few more items of information, if any occur to you. In fact, before I start, does anyone have anything to tell me?”
Once again he studied the semicircle of faces. Earl Junior sat there smirking. Buck James, close by Jean Genneman, stared back with something like defiance while Jean herself frowned down at her hands. Myron Retwig, in a big overstuffed chair, gazed ruminatively at the ceiling. Red Kershaw looked worried; Bob Vega, wearing a gray silk Italian suit, sat tilting his head this way and that. Opal Genneman’s face was expressionless — it was impossible even to guess at her thoughts.
“All of us want to see these murders cleared up, and it might be just some trifle that would turn the trick. For instance, there’s a mysterious white Ford Galaxie hardtop, license LKK-3220, in the picture. Does anyone have knowledge regarding this car?”
Myron Retwig spoke in a voice merely curious. “How does the car enter the case?”
Collins chose his words carefully. There was an extremely fine distinction between saying too little and too much. “I’ll have to go into some background to answer. The police naturally are forced to work methodically. We have to comb the ground for every bit of information. We’re pluggers. Sooner or later we consider every possible angle to a case — maybe a few impossible ones.
“You people have noticed that, when you enter the park, you receive a receipt for your fee on which is noted your license number. We made a list of such numbers and checked every car which entered the park during the week previous to the murder. One of these cars was registered to a Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach, who denied ever setting foot in the park. Another was registered to Steve Ricks of Fresno. Steve Ricks was killed on the night of Tuesday, June 16, and his body flung into a boxcar. We identified him without too much trouble; we have a few tricks of the trade we don’t talk about too much. Right, Captain?”
“Right,” said Bigelow.
“Naturally we investigated Steve Ricks to a fare-thee-well. We know more about Ricks than his own mother. We found that on Friday, June 12, he drove a white Ford, license LKK-3220. Evidently this particular car is involved in the murder, which is why I asked my question. Is that clear, Mr. Retwig?”
“Quite clear, thank you.”
“We traced Ricks to San Jose and certain of his hangouts, notably a place called Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret, on Latham Avenue. Some of you people may know it. At Smoky Joe’s, Ricks met Mr. Kershaw here, through one of Mr. Kershaw’s ex-wives. Now the story becomes blurred. Apparently Ricks was hired for two hundred dollars — a hundred down, a hundred later — to help play a trick on someone in the camping party. So much Steve confided to a friend. Unfortunately, he did not name the person who hired him to play the trick. In any event we can definitely rule out Ricks as the murderer of Mr. Genneman — even though Ricks was the man who came behind you gentlemen on the trail. This is absolutely definite; we have ironclad proof of it.
“So this is about where we stand. Someone — either Steve Ricks or the murderer — drove a rented white Ford with faked plates up into General Grant Park on Wednesday, June 10. I personally feel that it was the murderer. Since he described Persimmon Lake to Ricks, we know that he was familiar with the country, at least as far as Lomax Falls. Why he should have made a previous trip up the trail is a puzzle: perhaps to scout out a good place for an ambush.
“I’m likewise perplexed by the ease with which he made his escape. I’ve got a notion he slid down the mountainside, gun and all. The next few days I’m tied up in court on another case, but early next week I hope to make a careful inspection of the whole area, including the valley below. Maybe I’ll find some traces... Well, we’ll see what we see.”
Collins again paused for breath. Was he laying it on too thick? He went on, to avoid placing undue emphasis on the shotgun. “As to motive, we’re in the dark. We simply don’t know who had it in for Mr. Genneman, or why. As of now we seem to have come to a dead end. Unless we can find some evidence at the scene of the crime we may have to go back to the theory of a maniac — and nobody wants that, especially the rangers. Well, that’s my report. If any of you have any ideas, I’d be happy to hear them.”
Earl Junior formed a short word with his mouth, which Collins chose to ignore. “Anybody have any questions?”
No one had any questions.
“In that case,” said Collins, “the party’s over. In a week or two I hope to have more news for you. Good night.”