The Madman Theory by Ellery Queen Page B

curious?”
    â€œI’m trying to learn something about the other man, the one whose picture I showed you.”
    â€œWell, you ask over at Smoky Joe’s. For all I know Marvell still works there.”
    Collins drove around the block and parked before Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret, only to find that it did not open until 5 p.m. He went into a nearby bar, ordered a bottle of beer, and sat pondering. There was about the case a lack of outline, a vagueness that irked him. He had no real suspect for either crime, no trace of motive …
    The bartender directed him to an outdoor pay booth near the entrance to Smoky Joe’s. Collins finished his beer, secured change, left the bar, and ensconced himself in the booth. He arranged his change, brought forth his notebook, and set to work. He called Opal Genneman, Myron Retwig, and Bob Vega. None admitted acquaintance with either. Steve Ricks or Rupert Marvell; none recognised the names. Buck James was playing golf with Jean and could not be reached. Red Kershaw was also out of range.
    Irritably, Collins left the phone booth. The connection must exist in a more indirect manner. It had to exist. If not, his entire theory of the case was a dud. Which it well might be, he told himself glumly.
    Smoky Joe’s Down Home Cabaret had now opened its doors, and Collins went in. The exterior was rough redwood, decorated with wagon wheels and ranch brands. Flanking the entrance were posters advertising Billy Wiggs and the Down Home Boys, with Dody Watkins and Sonita Armstrong, and photographs of the entertainers in their regalia. The Down Home Boys wore levis, vests and ten-gallon hats; Dody Watkins was dressed as a cowgirl in boots, chaps, and a jacket of fringed buckskin; Sonita Armstrong wore tight moleskin trousers and a silk blouse.
    Collins seated himself in a booth across from the bar. A waitress appeared, a beefy woman in a black skirt and red blouse on which was embroidered the head of a long-horn steer. Collins asked for the manager, and the waitress gave him a sharp look and went off to the kitchen. The manager came at once: a thin, fidgety man with tousled blond hair and a boyish expression.
    Collins identified himself. “You’re the manager? Or owner?”
    â€œI’m Joe Philbrick, owner, manager, bottle-washer, fall-guy, the works. What’s the trouble?”
    â€œNo trouble. I’m trying to get information about a man named Steve Ricks. He had a friend who used to work for you—a musician by the name of Rupert Marvell.”
    â€œRupert Marvell? He played with our last house band. That would be three months ago. I think he’s in Texas now.”
    Collins grimaced and brought out the photograph. “This is Ricks. A guitar player.”
    Philbrick examined the photograph. He nodded without enthusiasm. “He sat in with the band once in a while, kept bucking for a job. We never hired him.” He opened his mouth, shut it again, squinted at the picture, gave it a nervous twitch. Collins, recognising the symptoms, waited. Finally the man said reluctantly, “I think he used to go with one of my waitresses. I don’t know if she sees him now or not. He signaled to the beefy waitress in the red blouse, and she came over. Philbrick showed her the photograph. “Isn’t this the guy that Molly sees once in a while?”
    â€œYeah. Steve, I think his name is.”
    Philbrick peered into the cabaret proper. “Where’s Molly? Is she on?”
    â€œIt’s her late night. She don’t come on till nine. Seems like he was in not long ago,” said the waitress. “Two, three weeks. Molly had the rear section, and that’s where he sat, over in the corner by the bandstand with some people. They had a real gay time.”
    â€œI’d better talk to this Molly,” said Collins. “Where does she live?”
    â€œI’ll give you her address,” said Philbrick. He glanced over his