Free The Madman Theory by Ellery Queen Page B

concerned with your private life, Mr. Batlow, unless it ties in with our investigation.”
    â€œI assure you it doesn’t. The facts are these—they won’t get back to Chowchilla?”
    â€œJust what are the facts?”
    â€œWell—I took a lady friend into the mountains over the weekend. We stayed at General Grant Lodge.”
    â€œHer name?”
    â€œSurely, Inspector, you don’t need that information?”
    â€œWhat name did you use at the lodge?”
    â€œMr. and Mrs. John Barton.”
    â€œThat’s probably all we’ll need. If not, we’ll let you know.”
    â€œFor heaven’s sake—for my sake—don’t call me at home!”
    Collins made a note beside Batlow’s name on the list: Mr. and Mrs. John Barton, General Grant Lodge .
    What else was there?
    Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach.
    The car stolen from Edgar Hoglund of Bakersfield.
    Steven Ricks of 982A Mulberry Street, Fresno.
    Mulberry Street held a row of small frame houses, each with its parched lawn and television aerial. 982 Mulberry had a pair of small orange trees and a neat white picket fence as well. A cracked concrete walk led past the house to a small cottage, apparently converted from an old garage. This was 982A, the residence of Steven Ricks.
    Collins rapped at the door. No one responded, and he tried the knob the door opened. He poked his head inside and saw a combination living room and bedroom. In an alcove was a kitchen; another door, open, showed a bathroom. The room smelled of long-used sheets and unwashed clothes. An electric guitar and an amplifier sat on the floor; beside the studio couch stood a cheap-looking TV-radio-and-record-player, stacked with records. On one wall hung a pair of oil paintings, each depicting a horse looking over a fence; another wall displayed two dozen or so photographs of various hillbilly bands, guitarists, and vocalists.
    Collins sensed that the room had gone unoccupied for several days.
    He shut the door and walked back toward the street. On the rear porch of 982 Mulberry stood a frail old man, seventy-five or so, wearing brown corduroy trousers and a blue cotton shirt. He had been watching Collins’ every move; and now, as Collins came toward him, he retreated to the door of his house.
    Collins displayed his badge. “I’m trying to locate Mr. Ricks. Have you see him in the last day or so?”
    â€œWhat you want with Ricks? What’s he done?”
    â€œNothing, so far as I know,” said Collins. “I just want some information from him.”
    â€œSuch as what?” The old man’s eyes glittered. “I know a bit of what’s goin’ on myself. Don’t never think I don’t.”
    â€œDo you know if he was in the mountains last week, or over the weekend?”
    â€œThat I couldn’t tell you.”
    â€œDo you know where Ricks is now?”
    â€œNo. He keeps pretty hard hours—plays in a orchestra, comes home drunk. All kinds of goin’s-on back there.” The old man looked feebly defiant. “Long as he pays his rent I can’t help what kind of life he leads.”
    â€œWhere does he work?”
    â€œSunset Nursery. That’s about ten blocks north.”
    â€œAnd he also plays in an orchestra?”
    â€œCorrect. But don’t ask me which or where or why, because I don’t know one note from another. My sister used to play the organ and I had to sit under the bench and push the pumps. That’s a long time back.”
    â€œDo you know any of Mr. Ricks’ friends or relatives?”
    â€œI just don’t know the man that well. What kind of trouble’s he in?”
    â€œI didn’t say he was,” said Collins. “By the way, do you know if he owns a shotgun?”
    â€œI’ve never seen one. Hunted out of season, huh?”
    â€œIf he shows up, will you have him give me a call? And perhaps you’d call me