“Let’s go take a look.” said Collins. “Come along, Easley; get some exercise. You’re growing fat in the public service.”
At the north end of the lake, near an outcrop of rock, they found a bed of fresh ashes. Collins and Easley inspected the terrain; again no material clues. No paper, no discarded articles, nothing that might have retained fingerprints.
They walked around the site in widening spirals, until at the lakeshore Collins came to an abrupt halt. Here, in a patch of mud, was a half-obliterated footprint. Easley puffed back to the helicopter for his case, while Collins took a sample of the lakeside mud as well as the dirt around the campfire. Easley returned and set about making a plaster cast, while Collins stood looking here and there, pondering the curious circumstances. Why had the lone man followed so cautiously and then allowed himself to be seen? For the second or third time Collins considered the possibility of a murder-conspiracy among James, Kershaw, Vega and Retwig, but he dismissed it again as improbable.
The plaster cast solidified; Easley wrapped it in cotton and packed it in his case. With nothing more to be seen, photographed, or sampled, they returned to the helicopter, the motor roared, the blades buffeted the air; Persimmon Lake became a chilly blue oval below.
Dutchman’s Pass and the gleaming snowfields approached, receded. The helicopter drifted down Copper Creek Canyon toward the gash of Kings Canyon. Copper Creek Trail angled and jerked down the mountainside, at last unkinked and led into the parking area.
The helicopter settled on the meadow. Collins, Sergeant Easley, and Superintendent Phelps alighted; the helicopter with Dr. Koster and the body of Earl Genneman rose once more and flew off down the valley toward Fresno.
On a bench in front of the ranger’s cabin sat Myron Retwig, Buck James and Bob Vega. Retwig and James were reading the Los Angeles Times, bought at the nearby grocery store. Vega sat stiffly erect, morose and preoccupied. Red Kershaw, it developed, was inside asleep.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Collins. “A case like this inconveniences everyone. I’ll be a few minutes with Superintendent Phelps, then I’ll talk to you, and you’ll be free to go.”
Retwig examined him with owlish detachment. “What, if anything, did you learn?”
“Very little beyond what you told me.”
Retwig folded his newspaper. Neither Buck nor Vega had anything to say. Collins and Easley went into the cabin, to the private office at the side of the waiting room.
Phelps already sat at the telephone, listening to reports. He hung up and said to the inspector, “Nothing. We’ve checked departing cars, found six men driving out alone. None remotely connected with the case. I’ll have a written report in an hour or so.” He pulled thoughtfully at the corner of his mustache. “I must say I incline to the madman theory. I can’t believe a sane man would follow Genneman two days into the mountains to kill him.”
“It all depends,” said Collins. “If someone wanted to kill Genneman badly enough, two days or ten days would mean very little.”
Phelps swung around in his chair to look up at the wallmap. “Even a madman would have to enter the park somewhere. Unfortunately there are dozens of ways in and out. Some very inconvenient, of course. A man could come in at Cedar Grove, cross the entire Sierra, and come out at Lone Pine or Independence. He could hike north into Yosemite, or south into Sequoia. He could abandon the trail entirely, follow one of the rivers and leave the park without so much as a thank you.” The superintendent frowned peevishly. “In which case we lose him entirely.”
“All we can do at the moment,” said Collins, “is work on what we know. To start with, we’ll assume the killer is the man who followed the party up Copper Creek Trail. Do you keep a record of the cars entering the park?”
“Well, in effect. The entry permits include the license number of the vehicle, and we retain a carbon. I’ll have a list of the licenses made up for you.”
“That would be a help,” nodded Collins. “Let’s see... Today is Tuesday. The Genneman party started up the trail Saturday afternoon, and the man was seen behind them on the same day. So we’d want the cars that entered Thursday, Friday and Saturday. No, let’s go back another day, to Wednesday, just to be safe. Another thing — a real long shot: the cars in the parking area at road’s end.” He turned to Sergeant Easley. “You’d better attend to that, Rod. Mr. Phelps can lend you a car. Drive up to the parking area, check the cars parked there. It’s possible the man who was just behind Genneman’s party is still in the mountains. If so, his car will still be in the parking area.”
Phelps tossed the sergeant a set of keys. “My pickup is around in back.”
Easley departed, and Collins followed. In the waiting room he found Red Kershaw, yawning in an orange canvas campaign chair.
Collins took a seat beside him, pulled out his notebook. “A few things I want to get straight. As I understand it, you are Mr. Genneman’s brother-in-law?”
“I’m his wife’s half-brother,” said Kershaw. “That makes me his half-brother-in-law, I guess.”
“Your address?”
“1220 Eagle Avenue, Apartment 4, San Jose. It’s a kind of glorified motel, but it’s close to where I work.”
“Where do you work?”
“Montebello Fields. I’m what they call ‘Assistant Track Secretary’, but it’s a case of long title and short pay.”
“I see. Exactly what do you do at the track?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. I’m a sort of do-everything guy. During the season I handle registrations, check horse identifications, warn trainers not to hype the nags — that kind of thing.”
“Oh? I thought the saliva test caught that.”
“Not so you could notice it. There’s drugs and drugs. If the trainer can find somebody to supply him he’ll have his horse bouncing down the track like a kangaroo.”
“And it’s your job to police this?” Collins sounded unconvinced; in Red Kershaw he sensed no fanatic preoccupation with right and wrong.
“I do my best,” said Kershaw modestly. “If I can’t catch a man in the act, I’ll bet on his horse, and lower the odds.”
“I see. Well — you work at Montebello Fields. How close were you to Earl Genneman?”
“We got along pretty well. I drop by the house once or twice a week. It’s safe to tell you this now, because Earl is dead. His wife — Opal, my sister — loves the horses. She used to bet out of sheer foolishness, and she was losing her bra. It was only a matter of time before Earl was bound to catch on. I’d drop by and help her out a bit, so she’d at least break even.”
“I take it Mr. Genneman disapproved of horse racing.”
“He disapproved of all gambling. In some ways Earl was a very strict man. If you dealt with him straight, he was easy to get on with. But once you tried to fool him — look out!”
“What about his wife’s betting? Suppose he’d found out?”
“He’d have—” Kershaw stopped suddenly. He blinked, then nodded. “He’d probably have just laughed it off. Especially if Opal could prove she wasn’t losing a lot.”
“And she wasn’t?”
“Definitely no. Not on the bets she placed through me.
“What about you? Do you consider it legitimate for an employee of the track to bet on the horses?”
“Why not? It all goes into the percentage. Besides, how could you stop it?”
“Who do you think shot Genneman?”
Red Kershaw shook his long, pale head. “I haven’t any idea.”
“Do you know of any enemies — business, personal?”
“He fired four men from managing Westco. One is in jail right now for high-grading barbiturates. I guess you’d call these guys enemies. I don’t think they’d want to shoot him, but who can tell? Or suppose some hopped-up kid gets sore because Earl turned him off — see what I mean?”