The Madman Theory (16 page)

Perhaps the owner had wanted his car back, reflected Collins. Or with the transmission threatening to go out, Steve might have considered his own car a safer bet. Possibilities —possibilities of all kinds—but none pointing in the same direction.

Beyond all reasonable doubt the deaths of Earl Genneman and Steve Ricks were linked, and the linkage appeared to be through Red Kershaw. All of which turned the focus of attention back upon Kershaw and his ex-wife, Molly Wilkerson.

What happened next had happened to Collins before—with such peculiar consistency, in fact, that Collins, a hard-headed man, was almost persuaded to telepathy.

The telephone rang: Captain Bigelow was on the other end. His voice was terse.

“Get up to San Jose, fast. The Wilkerson woman is dead.”

11

With Lieutenant Loveridge of the San Jose Police Department, Collins searched Molly Wilkerson's house at 5992 South Jefferson. The Wilkerson woman had been a saver. There were photographs, restaurant menus, matchbox covers, letters, receipts, dance programs dating back to junior high school, check stubs and canceled checks, marriage certificates and divorce decrees, sufficient to fill several cartons.

Collins gave the accummulation no more than a perfunctory glance. “What we want won't be there,” he told Loveridge, a personable young man with china-blue eyes and a bristling mustache.

“Hard to say till we look,” replied Loveridge breezily.

Collins made no reply. He had formed no high opinion of Loveridge's competence, and he suspected that the young lieutenant held similar sentiments toward him.

He went to look behind a cuckoo clock and found only blank wall, then turned to meet Loveridge's quizzical stare. In a measured voice Collins said, “If she were blackmailing someone—which seems probable—she wouldn't leave her evidence just anywhere. She might even have been running a bluff.”

Loveridge shrugged. “There's no evidence that this case and the Genneman-Ricks case are related. Mrs. Wilkerson might have been killed by a mugger or a deviate.”

“It's possible,” said Col'ins dryly, “but not very. Molly was bitter when she couldn't nick Kershaw—until she found out we were interested in who took Kershaw home. I'm betting she tried to cash in once too often.”

“It may work out that way,” said Loveridge indulgently. “But I'd like to see some evidence. So far we're working on sheer speculation.”

Collins sought the kitchen. He looked here and there—among the notes on the bulletin board, into the percolator, the sugar bowl. Then he went into the bedroom to watch Loveridge rummaging through Molly's bureau drawers. “What puzzles me,” said Collins, “is that she was willing to come back alone to this house. No matter how stupidly careless she was, no matter how much she despised whomever she was blackmailing, she'd simply have to be a little nervous!”

“In my mind,” said Loveridge, “this is a strong point against the blackmail theory.”

“Let's go talk to the baby-sitter. What's her name? Rosemary.”

Rosemary Galt was fifteen years old, a chunky little blond girl with a round face and earnest brown eyes who already had given up hopes of beauty. She lived in a small white house a hundred yards down South Jefferson, and she was excited with horror at what had happened to Molly Wilkerson.

Collins took charge of the interrogation; Loveridge stood to the side, hands behinds his back, watching with indulgence. Rosemary's mother, a heavy woman with a putty-colored face, sat impassively on a couch.

“We're trying to find who did this terrible thing to Mrs. Wilkerson,” said Collins. “We hope you can help us.”

“I'll try,” said Rosemary tremulously. “I don't know very much about it.”

Mrs. Galt licked her lips with a big gray tongue. “What happened to her?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“She left the cabaret a little past two in the morning, and went back to the lot where the employees leave their cars. The next morning a janitor found her. She'd been hit from behind with something like a hammer, then shoved into her car.”

“That's awful,” said Mrs. Galt. Rosemary's face quivered. “I knew she was a flighty woman,” Mrs. Galt went on. “I didn't like my girl working for her, but the money came in handy, and she was a kind of a lesson to Rosemary. I used to tell her, ‘Just do your work and don't pay any attention to that woman's bad habits.'”

“Such as what?”

“Oh—drinking, smoking, carrying on. Many times I offered to take the children to church Sunday, but she'd have nothing to do with it. Rosemary, find the swatter and kill that big fly.”

Conversation came to a halt until Rosemary had dispatched the fly. The slaying relaxed her, and her face showed less strain.

“Did Mrs. Wilkerson ever say she was afraid of any particular man?”

“Not to me,” said Rosemary.

“Ha,” said her mother. “Her afraid of a man would be a sight to behold.”

“Did she ever give you a paper, or an envelope, something like that, to keep for her?”

Rosemary shook her head. “She wouldn't do that. She hardly knew I was there.”

“Did you hear her talking on the phone yesterday, or did she say anything unusual?”

“Well, she seemed kind of excited. Like she was going somewhere special.” Rosemary's eyes widened as she considered the relevance of her remark. She said timidly, “She did talk on the phone to somebody yesterday.”

“Who was it?”

“I don't know.”

“It was a man?”

Rosemary considered. “I can't say for sure. I thought it was a man because she doesn't know any women. Just her sister.”

“That would be Mrs. Donald Beachey, in Santa Clara?” This was information which had been elicited by the city police.

“Yes. That's where she's been staying the past two nights.”

Collins resisted the temptation to glance at Lieutenant Loveridge. “I suppose the children are with Mrs. Beachey?”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, I don't think it was her sister she was talking to. She's got a special way of talking to Mrs. Beachey, kind of snarly and friendly at the same time, like when she's talking to one of her exes.”

“Her what?”

“Her ex-husbands. She'd been married five times, and she used to say she was ready for five more.”

“Rosemary,” chided her mother. “I told you never to listen when the woman talked about things like that.”

“I didn't listen. I just heard.”

“As I understand it,” said Collins, “Mrs. Wilkerson spent the last two nights with Mrs. Beachey, but came here during the day?”

“Yes. She came to get her mail and change clothes and things like that. She never stayed long. Yesterday she came here to get me, I don't know why, and that's when I heard her telephone.”

“Did you hear the conversation?”

“No, sir, I wasn't paying attention. I think somebody asked her if she did something. And she said, ‘Me? Heavens, no!' or something like that. And, ‘I don't know what you're talking about.' That's about all I heard.”

“Did she call anybody by name?”

“I think she mentioned Steve Ricks.”

“You know Steve Ricks?”

“Yes, sir, I know who he is. He asked me to go out with him once. But it was a school night.”

Mrs. Galt nodded approval. “I've always told the girl her education comes first.”

“Very sensible,” said Collins. “Well, back to Steve Ricks. Did he come around to Mrs. Wilkerson's very often?”

“Every once in a while.”

“When was the last time?”

“Gee, I don't really know. A couple weeks ago. It was a Sunday. They were talking about one of her ex-husbands who got drunk the night before.”

“Mr. Kershaw? Red?”

Rosemary nodded. “That's who it was.”

“What did they say?”

Rosemary screwed up her face. “I think she said something like, ‘Well, did you get him home?' And Steve said, ‘Yes, but it was a battle. He was out like a light, all arms and legs.' The reason I heard this is that I was waiting for her to pay me. Then, when I was going out, I heard Steve saying something about a ‘cute trick.'”

“A ‘cute trick'? Was he talking about a joke, or—”

“I really don't know. I was on my way out. I did hear Molly say: ‘Tell me!' coaxing-like, and Steve said, ‘No, I'm not allowed to tell a soul.'”

Up to this point Lieutenant Loveridge had stood quietly, hardly moving a muscle. Now he asked Rosemary, “Who would you say was Mrs. Wilkerson's best friend?”

“Golly,” said Rosemary, “I don't know. She didn't have any woman friends.”

“Didn't she recently give you anything to keep for her, or take care of?”

“No, sir.”

“Or anybody else?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she ever talk about coming into money?”

“Oh, all the time. She wanted to go to Honolulu more than anything, stay at one of the fancy hotels.”

“Who doesn't?” said her mother gloomily.

“Did she ever mention anybody of whom she was afraid?”

Rosemary considered. “She was afraid of her boss. She thought he was going to fire her.”

They drove up Lagua Seca Road, past San Jose, to the residence of Mrs. Donald Beachey, just within the Santa Clara city limits: a comfortable house in a middle-class neighborhood. The lawn was green and mowed; the hydrangeas were trimmed; the beds of lobelia and verbena were cultivated with affectionate care. The contrast with Molly Wilkerson's desperate way of life was remarkable. It was easy to understand why Molly, when she telephoned her sister, spoke in a half snarl.

Collins and Loveridge walked up the path, crossed a sandstone-flagged patio flanked by century plants, and rang the bell. A short plump woman in skirt and blouse answered the door. Her hair was straight and brown-blonde and she wore it in no particular style. Collins estimated her age at about thirty-five—three or four years older than Molly. Her face was pale; her eyes showed traces of recent tears.

“You're Mrs. Beachey?”

“Yes.” She looked from Collins to Loveridge and back with a sad expression. “You must be policemen?”

Collins introduced himself and Loveridge. “May we come in a moment?”

Mrs. Beachey backed away from the door. Collins and Loveridge stepped into a living room littered with toys. Mrs. Beachey made an apologetic gesture. “Just scrape things aside and sit down. I suppose you want to talk about Molly. I don't know much about her private life. She's always been secretive.”

“Did she mention that she might be in some sort of trouble?”

Edna Beachey essayed a smile. “She told me nothing. I don't even know where she was working. I gather it was some night club.”

“Did your sister hint that she might be afraid of anyone, that she had an enemy?”

“No. She seemed quite cheerful except for being short with the children.”

“Did she leave you any message, or letter, to be opened in the event of her death?”

“No. Why should she do anything like that?”

“Well, to be frank, Mrs. Wilkerson may conceivably have been attempting to extort money from a dangerous person.”

Edna Beachey drew a deep breath. “Yes, that would be Molly … So that's why she wanted to stay here.”

“That's my guess,” nodded Collins. “She never mentioned any names or circumstances which might be relevant to her death?”

“To tell you the truth, Inspector, when Molly came to visit me—which wasn't often—she talked incessantly. The only way I could keep my sanity was to pay no attention to her.”

“Did she ever mention her ex-husband, Redwall Kershaw?”

“Is that the race-track man? She spoke of him once or twice. Not recently, though.”

“What about a man named Steve Ricks?”

“It seems to me he was one of her beaus. But I never met him.”

“May we look at her room?”

Mrs. Beachey took them to a bedroom with a nice green carpet and curtains of green and white flowered chintz. There were twin beds with blue and green striped spreads, both neatly made. “This is my guest room. Molly's children slept in the one bed, Molly in the other.”

“Where are her belongings?”

“She didn't bring very much. Just a few odds and ends. In the closet and the chest.”

In the closet was a large fiberboard suitcase.

“That's Molly's suitcase,” said Mrs. Beachey. “It's the only one she brought. The children don't have much to wear.”

Loveridge tested the suitcase. “It's locked.” He brought it out, shook it. From within came a rattling sound.

“Do you have a key?” Collins asked Mrs. Beachey.

“No. I can't understand why Molly would want to lock it. I never pried into her affairs.”

Loveridge brought forth a pocketknife, cut a slit around the frame. The top flapped back. Inside they found a black patent-leather purse and a pair of black high-heeled shoes.

Collins looked into the purse. Within were a lipstick and a long flat key. Stamped on the handle was:

U.S. POST OFFICE

San Jose, California

1126

“This is what we're looking for,” said Collins. “At least I hope it's what we're looking for.”

“Why in the world would she need a post-office box?” asked Mrs. Beachey.

“We'll find out in due course. By the way, did Mrs. Wilkerson write any letters while she was here?”

“I really couldn't say.”

She had nothing more to tell. Collins and Loveridge drove toward the San Jose Post Office.

Loveridge's manner had become less absolute; he chewed at his mustache in frank puzzlement. “Why wouldn't she carry the post-office key in her purse with the rest of her keys? Why lock it in the suitcase?”

Collins was thoughtfully silent. Loveridge went on, “As I see it, she wrote the murderer a letter—something like, ‘Dear sir, I know everything. And I will tell the police unless you pay me ten thousand dollars. Send in twenty dollar bills to Henry Jones, P.O. Box 1126, San Jose.' This way she thinks she's protected. The murderer can't identify her, and she doesn't need to worry.”