Free The Madman Theory by Ellery Queen Page A

with license EKY–14, regstered to Edgar Hoglund of Bakersfield, already listed on the bulletin as stolen. The car had disappeared from Hoglund’s driveway during the night of Thursday, June 11, and had entered the park Friday. Bakersfield was a long distance from San Jose; the possibility of connection with the Genneman murder seemed remote.
    Third was a ’54 Plymouth coupé, license KEX–52, registered to Steven Ricks of Fresno. He lived at 982A Mulberry Street, a cottage to the rear of 982 Mulberry, the residence of James and Lillian White. According to James White, Steve Ricks had set off alone on the morning of Friday the 12th, his destination unannounced. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. White considered Steve Ricks the type of man to go on a solitary camping trip. They were also uncertain when Steve Ricks had returned. He definitely had not reported for work Monday morning at the Sunset Nursery, his place of employment.
    The fourth car on the list was a ’64 Chevrolet convertible, license AL9–G76, registered to Don Allen Batlow of Chowchilla—in Easley’s opinion the most promising lead to date. Batlow had not been at home; his wife had answered the telephone. Easley had identified himself and asked about her husband’s whereabouts the previous weekend. Mrs. Batlow—in a voice like an overblown oboe—expressed distrust and disapproval, and had refused to answer questions. She suggested that Easley make his inquiries of Mr. Batlow himself; she had supplied his business telephone and demanded to be told the reason for the call. Easley told her that the car driven by her husband possibly had been involved in an accident in Kings Canyon National Park.
    â€œImpossible,” Mrs. Batlow had said briskly. “Neither my husband nor his car was anywhere near that area.”
    â€œExactly where did your husband spend the weekend?”
    â€œIf you must know, he attended a convention in Los Angeles.”
    Easley had hung up and tried to call Batlow at his business address. But Mr. Batlow was out; he was not expected back until after lunch.
    Collins went to his office. Almost immediately his telephone rang. The switchboard operator said, “Mr. Don Batlow calling. He wants the officer who called his wife in regard to Kings Canyon.”
    â€œI’ll talk to him.”
    â€œGo ahead, sir,” said the operator, and a man spoke. “Hello? Who am I talking to?”
    â€œInspector Omar Collins.”
    â€œYou called my wife an hour or so ago?”
    â€œSergeant Easley did, on my instructions.”
    â€œMay I ask why?”
    â€œCertainly. We wanted to know why you told her you were headed for Los Angeles and instead went on a pack-trip into the mountains.”
    â€œPack-trip? I never went on any pack-trip. Where did you hear that?”
    â€œWhat were you doing in Kings Canyon National Park?”
    â€œâ€™Isn’t that my private affair?”
    â€œI’ll explain the situation, Mr. Batlow. Your car is one of several which we think might have been involved in an accident. We want to find out for sure. If you don’t satisfy us that you’re not involved, you’ll probably be subpoenaed as a witness.”
    â€œWoof,” said Batlow.
    Collins waited.
    â€œWell,” said Batlow in a reasonable voice, “I assure you I wasn’t in any accident.”
    Collins made a sound of polite skepticism.
    â€œThat doesn’t do it, eh?”
    â€œHardly.”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œWhat you were doing in Kings Canyon National Park, whom you went with, whom you met.”
    Batlow chuckled feebly. “I didn’t meet anybody. I went there because I didn’t want to meet anybody.” He hesitated. “Can I trust you not to blab this all over the lot?”
    â€œThat all depends.”
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t want it to get back to my wife, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œWe’re not