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afternoon, and the man was seen behind them on the same day. So we’d want the cars that entered Thursday, Friday and Saturday. No, let’s go back another day, to Wednesday, just to be safe. Another thing—a real long shot: the cars in the parking area at road’s end.” He turned to Sergeant Easley. “You’d better attend to that, Rod. Mr. Phelps can lend you a car. Drive up to the parking area, check the cars parked there. It’s possible the man who was just behind Genneman’s party is still in the mountains. If so, his car will still be in the parking area.”
    Phelps tossed the sergeant a set of keys. “My pick-up is around in back.”
    Easley departed, and Collins followed. In the waiting room he found Red Kershaw, yawning in an orange canvas campaign chair.
    Collins took a seat beside him, pulled out his notebook. “A few things I want to get straight. As I understand it, you are Mr. Genneman’s brother-in-law?”
    â€œI’m his wife’s half-brother,” said Kershaw. “That makes me his half-brother-in-law, I guess.”
    â€œYour address?”
    â€œ1220 Eagle Avenue, Apartment 4, San Jose. It’s a kind of glorified motel, but it’s close to where I work.”
    â€œWhere do you work?”
    â€œMontebello Fields. I’m what they call ‘Assistant Track Secretary,’ but it’s a case of long title and short pay.”
    â€œI see. Exactly what do you do at the track?”
    â€œWell, it’s hard to say. I’m a sort of do-everything guy. During the season I handle registrations, check horse identifications, warn trainers not to hype the nags—that kind of thing.”
    â€œOh? I thought the saliva test caught that.”
    â€œNot so you could notice it. There’s drugs and drugs. If the trainer can find somebody to supply him he’ll have his horse bouncing down the track like a kangaroo.”
    â€œAnd it’s your job to police this?” Collins sounded unconvinced; in Red Kershaw he sensed no fanatic preoccupation with right and wrong.
    â€œI do my best,” said Kershaw modestly. “If I can’t catch a man in the act, I’ll bet on his horse and lower the odds.”
    â€œI see. Well—you work at Montebello Fields. How close were you to Earl Genneman?”
    â€œWe got along pretty well. I drop by the house once or twice a week. It’s safe to tell you this now, because Earl is dead. His wife—Opal, my sister—loves the horses. She used to bet out of sheer foolishness, and she was losing her bra. It was only a matter of time before Earl was bound to catch on. I’d drop by and help her out a bit, so she’d at least break even.”
    â€œI take it Mr. Genneman disapproved of horse racing.”
    â€œHe disapproved of all gambling. In some ways Earl was a very strict man. If you dealt with him straight, he was easy to get on with. But once you tried to fool him—look out!”
    â€œWhat about his wife’s betting? Suppose he’d found out?”
    â€œHe’d have—” Kershaw stopped suddenly. He blinked, then nodded. “He’d probably have just laughed it off. Especially if Opal could prove she wasn’t losing a lot.”
    â€œAnd she wasn’t?”
    â€œDefinitely no. Not on the bets she placed through me.”
    â€œWhat about you? Do you consider it legitimate for an employee of the track to bet on the horses?”
    â€œWhy not? It all goes into the percentage. Besides, how could you stop it?”
    â€œWho do you think shot Genneman?”
    Red Kershaw shook his long, pale head. “I haven’t any idea.”
    â€œDo you know of any enemies—business, personal?”
    â€œHe fired four men from managing Westco. One is in jail right now for high-grading barbiturates. I guess you’d call these guys enemies. I don’t think they’d want to shoot him, but who can tell?