The Madman Theory by Ellery Queen Page A

pack-trip into the mountains. Some good reason took him up there. Second, I just came back from looking at his car. I noticed something interesting: the chrome frame around the license plate. It advertises ‘George Phipps Ford Agency, San Jose.’ So Ricks either bought his car in San Jose or from a San Jose man. Which means the beginning of a connection.”
    â€œThat makes sense,” Bigelow nodded. “We want to look closer into the background of that car. Somebody should check Sacramento on the registration.”
    Collins pretended to make a note. “Last night I looked into the Clover Club, where Ricks played guitar. The check in his shoe came from the band-leader down there. Easley is making the rounds of Ricks’ neighbors. Sullivan and Kerner are checking out Ricks’ photo around Kings Canyon, to see if anybody spotted him up there. And here’s what else I’ve got in mind.” He read his list of thirteen items aloud.
    â€œJust about covers the matter,” said Bigelow. He pondered a moment. “We could use another man or two on the case. I’ll see what I can do. You better take care of the San Jose end. Something’s got to give somewhere. I don’t suppose there’s been any word from the park ranger? No sign of a maniac with a shotgun?”
    â€œNothing, and I don’t think we’re going to hear anything.”
    â€œWell, let’s see what turns up in San Jose. The case could blow apart any minute.” He left in grandeur.
    Collins telephoned the Department of Motor Vehicles in Sacramento and stated his problem.
    The information was presently forthcoming: the automobile registered to Steven Ricks of 982A Mulberry Street, Fresno, had formerly been owned by one Rupert Marvell, of 1818 Haddock Drive, San Jose. Collins noted name and address, telephoned Lorna to expect him when she saw him, departed the office, and set out north along Highway 99 for San Jose.

7
    1818 Haddock Drive turned out to be one in a row of green stucco cabins on a street behind a new shopping center. When Collins rang the bell a slatternly girl of seventeen or eighteen, quite clearly pregnant, peeped out through the screen door. She denied all knowledge of a Rupert Marvell. She and her husband had resided at the address for seven months and had no idea who was the previous tenant. She referred Collins to the manager at 1800 Haddock and closed the door.
    Collins walked along the line of cottages to 1800, distinguished by the sign MANAGER: Clyde Hixey . He rang the bell; a portly white-haired man wearing tight jeans appeared. Collins displayed his badge and inquired about Rupert Marvell.
    Hixey went back into the cottage for his records. He returned to the porch with a large canvas-bound ledger. “I seem to remember the name, Rupe Marvell he called himself … Yes, here we are. Rupert Marvell, at 1818 from March of last year through September. Paid his rent, made no trouble. A friendly man—musician, as a matter of fact.”
    â€œHe played professionally?”
    â€œYes, indeed.” Hixey pointed across a stretch of open land to the avenue running parallel to Haddock. “You see that Smoky Joe’s sign over there on Latham Avenue?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe played there for several months, which is why he found 1818 convenient.”
    â€œYou remember any of his friends?”
    â€œCan’t say I do. Once in a while there’d be another musician in to visit him, but they never made a lot of noise.”
    â€œYou don’t have any forwarding address?”
    â€œHe didn’t leave any. Don’t believe he knew where he was headed himself.”
    Collins produced a picture of Steve Ricks. “Ever see this fellow?”
    Hixey inspected the picture dubiously. “Those fellows all look more or less alike … He does seem familiar. Offhand I’d say I’d seen him. What’s your interest in Marvell, if I may be so