The Diehard (12 page)

He couldn't worry about them, he decided. He had other things to worry about. He had things to do. You have to do it alone, he told himself.

He went upstairs, taking the .45 with him.

Nineteen

Precinct Inspector Buchanan was the commander of the Ninth Precinct. He was short, just meeting the Department's physical standards. He was slender and handsome, with silky black hair. He reminded Mulheisen of a seal. Mulheisen could not imagine Buchanan as a young patrolman, but like everyone else, Mulheisen included, Buchanan had come up through the ranks. He did not like Mulheisen.

Buchanan had a theory that Mulheisen was independently wealthy and had secret but loyal connections with the very highest figures in police and political hierarchy in Detroit and the state. It was true that Mulheisen had some old friends through his late father, the water commissioner. His father had been an absolute Democrat, a solid party worker for fifty years. But the wealth and influence was all in Buchanan's mind.

“Why is he still a goddamn sergeant?” Buchanan would demand of his lieutenant of detectives, Johnson. Johnson would shrug.

“He won't take the exams,” he would say. “No ambition, I guess.”

Buchanan could never figure that one out. “Why the hell isn't
he downtown, at least, instead of out here in the Ninth? How come we're stuck with him?”

“He was here when I came,” Johnson would say. “I guess he likes it.”

“He's got pull,” Buchanan would insist. “Anytime McClain wants him, off he goes. He practically works for Homicide. And if I say anything, the chief just looks at me. Oh, to hell with it. Just keep him out of my hair.”

Thus Inspector Buchanan was surprised to see his most independent detective in the precinct by eight o'clock. Not only that, he was wearing a coat and tie. Despite having had only four hours of sleep, Mulheisen looked alert and purposeful. He bared his fangs at Buchanan in what passed for a Mulheisen smile and sailed on down the grimy corridor to his tiny office.

A little later, having received his reports from his lieutenants and shift commanders, Inspector Buchanan stopped in at Mulheisen's office.

“Say, Mulheisen,” he smiled, “I'm off to my morning meeting with the bureau chiefs downtown, and so forth. I wonder if you have anything to report on that Indian Village affair?”

Mulheisen puffed on a cigar. “Getting close, Inspector,” he said. “I'm sure McClain can fill you in. But I can ease your mind on one thing.”

“What's that?”

“The culprit was not what some of the boys around here have taken to calling
Americanus Alabamus.
”

Buchanan knitted his smooth and handsome brow. “I don't follow.”

“No race problem,” Mulheisen said.

Buchanan brightened and smiled. He left for downtown with his driver, feeling quite cheerful.

Mulheisen was reading Clippert's file when the telephone rang. It was the dispatcher from Dixieland Cab.

“Is this Sergeant Mulleye—what's that name again? Mul—Mil—”

“Mulheisen.”

“That's it. I called cause you said, if I heard anything. About that cab. Ol’ John's cab.”

“What about it?”

“We found it.”

“Where?”

“Airport parking lot. Metropolitan. They called up. They been noticin’ it. But no sign of ol’ John.” The dispatcher chuckled. Mulheisen could hear the man's pipe burbling like a stream. “I just betcha ol’ John took a fare out there and the guy musta bought ol’ John a drink and next thing you know ol’ John wakes up in some gal's apartment and can't remember where he lef’ the cab. Mister Shapiro pissed. He say ol’ John fired, this time.”

“They say how long it's been there?” Mulheisen asked.

“They didn't have the ticket on it,” the dispatcher said. “But they figure it's been there three or four days.”

“Where's the cab now?”

“Still there.”

“Good,” Mulheisen said. “We're going to have to borrow it for a day or so. I don't want anyone going near that cab. This is a homicide investigation. If Mr. Shapiro is upset, you tell him to check with Lieutenant McClain, at Homicide. I'll let you know when you can pick it up.”

Mulheisen went down the hall and found Jensen and Field. He told them to get the lab onto the cab, then go out to the airport with their photographs of Wienoshek and Carver. They were to question the airline personnel again and check passenger lists for both names for every day since the Clippert murder.

At nine o'clock, Arthur Clippert appeared with his lawyer. The lawyer turned out to be none other than Homer Ferman, a nice fat man who was approximately the hottest criminal lawyer in the city. Mulheisen had seen him in action more than once and was impressed.

“So nice to see you, Mul,” Ferman said, shaking his hand and exuding great warmth. “How have you been? I hope the holidays aren't killing you like they're killing me.”

Mulheisen almost smiled. “How are you, Homer? Have you been representing Mr. Clippert here for long?” Mulheisen was thinking of the fee that Ferman would be getting in the Fidelity Funding case, if that was his as well.

“For many years, Mul,” Ferman said. His voice was deep and
comforting. It always reminded Mulheisen of a wealthy and hospitable innkeeper, somehow. “Art is an old and valued friend,” Ferman said, “as well as a valuable client.” He laughed mischievously and this time Mulheisen did smile.

And then Homer Ferman went to business. “Mr. Clippert is appearing voluntarily, Sergeant,” he said, “and is eager to cooperate with the authorities in any way in the investigation of the death of his wife. Nonetheless, he naturally reserves his right to counsel and reserves the right to remain silent.”

“Naturally,” Mulheisen said. “Sit down, gentlemen. Smoke if you like.” He rummaged in the battered gray desk and produced an ashtray that said “Sinbad's” on it, which he had stolen from that restaurant-bar.

Homer Ferman produced a cardboard package of cigars and offered one to Mulheisen, but when Mulheisen saw what they were he got out his own and prevailed upon Ferman to take one. Clippert lit up a pipe.

“I have a few questions for Mr. Clippert,” Mulheisen said, “and I have some information, which I hope will aid us in apprehending the men behind this homicide. But first, I want to talk about burglary.”

“Burglary?” Ferman said.

“Yes. It's beginning to look to us like Mr. Clippert is burglary prone. Apparently, there was a break-in at his home last night, the second one in a week. During the first one, of course, Mrs. Clippert was attacked and killed. Was anything taken last night, Clippert?”

“Not that I could tell,” Clippert said.

“And during the incident, you fired a handgun, presumably at the intruder. Is that right?”

“I didn't hit anyone,” Clippert said. “There was some damage to my own personal property, and then one of your detectives came in, and he—”

“Yes,” Ferman interrupted, “that's something we want to discuss with you, Sergeant.” He sounded grave and concerned. “Just how did Sergeant Maki happen to be on the scene? Is Mr. Clippert under surveillance?”

Mulheisen exhaled cigar smoke. “Like I say, we think Clippert
is burglary prone. Evidently, someone wants something that he has. Why else two burglaries? What is it they're after, Clippert?”

“I can't imagine,” Clippert said blandly. “I have a few items of value in the house, but nothing exceptional.”

“No moonstone or Maltese Falcon, then?” Mulheisen said.

Neither Ferman nor Clippert smiled.

Mulheisen tapped a finger on the folder that contained Clippert's file. Clippert's name was written boldly on the cover. “And you had an earlier burglary, too,” he said, “not three months ago, at your place up north. But that was never reported. Why is that?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Clippert said.

Ferman had turned to look at his client with evident interest.

Mulheisen was surprised. He had been certain that, despite his injunction, or even because of it, Carl Joyner would certainly have notified Clippert of Mulheisen's visit yesterday, and his discovery of the unreported Jasper Lake burglary. Mulheisen was curious. He could see that Ferman was too. He pressed a button under his desk that lit up a light at the front desk. Almost immediately, his telephone rang.

“Yes?” Mulheisen said.

“Awright, what do you want?” the desk man said.

“Oh?” Mulheisen said. “Ayeh? What does he want? Is it urgent?”

“Send not to know for whom the bell tolls,” the desk man said. “Yeah, he's here. I'll get him. You coming out?”

Mulheisen sighed. “All right,” he said. He hung up. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen. The lieutenant wants to see me. I'll be right back.”

He found Ayeh in the squad room. “Where did Clippert go yesterday?” he asked.

Ayeh opened his notebook. “Up about eight. Left the house at nine. Went to his office. Left the office at eleven and went to his club with a young fellow from the office. Fellow's name is Avery, according to the doorman. They played handball for a couple hours. Left the club at one-thirty and went to lunch together for an hour at the London Chop House. Left the London Chop House at two thirty-seven and Clippert dropped Avery off at the office. Clippert drove downtown to the office of Homer Ferman, his lawyer,
and stayed there till four fifty-five. Walked from Ferman's office, alone, to the Ponchartrain, where he had several drinks and made two phone calls, apparently no answer.

“Walked downtown at five forty-five, to J. L. Hudson's, where he purchased several toys in the toy department and had them sent to a Miss Shirley Carpenter, 1296 Seaforth Tower, on Lafayette Boulevard. Made another phone call from the store at six-fifty, apparently connected. Got his car out of the garage and drove to Seaforth Tower. Arrived seven twenty-three, and went up on the elevator, apparently to visit Miss Carpenter. He came out at eleven-ten and drove home. Lights out before twelve, and I was relieved by Maki.”

“Who's the girl?” Mulheisen said.

“She works in Clippert's office.”

“Thanks, Ayeh. Keep on him. I'll try to get you relieved a little earlier tonight.”

Mulheisen had a cup of bad coffee from the urn and then, thinking that Ferman and Clippert had had enough time to confer, he went back. They were standing and smoking.

“Sorry about that,” Mulheisen said. “Sit down.” He sat down himself behind the desk. “Now, what about this earlier burglary?”

Clippert looked at Ferman, then smiled sheepishly at Mulheisen. “I don't know how you found out about that,” he said. “But it's true.”

“When did this happen?” Mulheisen had a pad out, taking notes.

“Oh, let's see. I guess it was about September twenty-fifth, somewhere in there. I suppose I could pinpoint it for you.”

“Do,” Mulheisen said.

“Very well.” Clippert got out a pocket secretary and consulted some dates. “It was September twenty-fifth, a Friday.”

“What exactly happened?”

Clippert looked at his lawyer, then plunged into a narrative about how he had driven up to Jasper Lake to spend a weekend alone, working, and had discovered the burglars in the process of looting the house.

Homer Ferman listened to his client and looked unhappy. No criminal lawyer likes to hear the sound of his client's voice.

“As they hadn't had a chance to actually remove anything,” Clippert said, “I just gave them a good scare and told them to get the hell out. Believe me, they ran.”

“Just a couple of kids, I suppose,” Mulheisen suggested. “Local boys?”

“Ye—uh, no,” Clippert said. It was as if he had wanted to say yes, but reluctantly decided that the answer had to be no. “They weren't kids, really. I don't know where they were from.”

“Well, we'll get back to that in a moment,” Mulheisen said. “Now, you say you were alone. Nobody with you?” He looked pointedly at Clippert.

Clippert broke into a boyish grin. “Well, perhaps I wasn't quite alone,” he said, grinning over his briar pipe. Mulheisen thought he looked like a model in an
Esquire
ad. “There's no point in denying it. I took along a girl, one of the secretaries from my office, to sort of . . . well, you know . . . to assist me, do some typing and take some dictation.”

His grin had given away to a roguish look of amusement. Mulheisen could have sworn that he had winked. “What's her name?” Mulheisen asked.

“Uh, Shirley. Shirley Carpenter. I know what you're thinking, Sergeant.” The roguish smile again. “If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, you're absolutely right. There's no romance, though, not really. Actually, my wife more or less knew about Shirley, though nothing direct was ever said. Jane certainly did not approve, but I don't think she really minded. She could never be jealous of Shirley. If you like, you can verify all this with Shirley.”

“I'll do that,” Mulheisen said. “ Did she witness the burglary scene?”

“No,” Clippert said. “She was in the car. I'd noticed some lights in the house when we drove up and told her to stay put. She may have seen the men as they left, but I doubt it. It was very dark.”

“Then you are the only one who saw the men?”

Clippert nodded. Mulheisen picked up Carl Joyner's affidavit and glanced through it. He looked up at Clippert.

“I have here evidence that you were acquainted with the
burglars. That you recognized them, and that's why you let them go and did not report the crime. What about it?”

Clippert stared at Mulheisen, then he looked at Homer Ferman. “I think I'd like to confer with my attorney before I respond to that.”

“Sure,” Mulheisen said. “I'll get some coffee. You fellows care for some coffee? It's pretty vile.”

They did not want coffee. Mulheisen left, saying he would be just down the corridor. He had a cup of coffee and looked through Sergeant Maki's report. Then he called Shirley Carpenter at Clippert's office and made an appointment to see her for lunch. Since the offices were downtown, he suggested that she meet him at Schweizer's restaurant. “Or I could pick you up,” he said. She quickly said she would prefer to meet him.

Homer Ferman was looking for him, so Mulheisen went back to his office.

“As Mr. Clippert's attorney, Sergeant,” Ferman purred, “I'm not particularly pleased with this line of questioning. Mr. Clippert came down here of his own free will, under the impression that you might have some helpful information about the death of his wife. What is the relevance of this interrogation about an earlier burglary?”