The Diehard (19 page)

A .45 automatic came through the doorway and Service stepped back, out of view.

“My money!” said a voice, tight with controlled fury. “You've got my money! You son of a bitch.” The hand with the gun came up and the finger tightened. Service kicked the door.

KABLAM!

The shot spun Wienoshek around and he fell down against the far wall. Even before he hit the floor, Service had his .38 out and put two fast rounds through the opening where Clippert should have been.

It was very fast, but Clippert was not there. He had fallen backward into the hallway, then scrambled to his feet and ran down the hallway to the end. A door slammed.

Service looked at Wienoshek. “You all right?”

Wienoshek was dazed, then got to his feet. He got out the .44. “I'm all right,” he said. “He just burned me.” He eased his overcoat off, still holding the .44. There was a hole in the sleeve of his suit coat and blood was seeping.

“You sure you're all right?”

“I'm all right,” Wienoshek said coldly. “But he's not. He's dead.”

“He's at the end of the hall,” Service said. “You better be careful.”

“I'll be careful.”

“Wait a minute,” Service said. “Let's think this out.”

“Nothing to think about,” Wienoshek said.

“Yes, there is. He's trapped himself, but he won't be easy to get at, and we can't leave him there.”

Wienoshek stepped to the door. “I'll get him out.”

“What are you going to do? Walk down there, kick the door down and then put on a lot of weight in a hurry when he unloads that clip on you?”

“So what's your idea?”

Service looked around. “I'm thinking maybe that room is like this one. Empty. He won't have much to hide behind. I'll cover you from here. You work down to that door, room by room. Then I'll put a couple shots through his door. I have a feeling he'll shoot back. When he does, you should get a good idea of where he is. Then you open up on him.”

“And if we don't get him?”

Service smiled. “Why then, I think that cannon of yours could probably remove the hinges on that door and then the lid will be open on his casket.”

“Right,” Wienoshek said.

“Get going,” Service said. He dropped to his right knee and sighted in on the end door as Wienoshek slipped by him and made for the next room.

Twenty-eight

The farmer was absolutely right, Mulheisen saw. There was the stone fence, then came the iron gate with its rock post that had “Valhalla” engraved on it. The gate was open and tire tracks led inside. Mulheisen turned into the gate and stopped. Within fifty feet there was a new Chevrolet Blazer, buried in the ditch. Just beyond it was an International Scout, also stuck. Mulheisen stopped right where he was and got out.

It was after four and starting to get dark already. The lane stretched up before him, curving away, lined by barren Lombardy poplars on either side. The snow was deep and in it were the tracks of three people. The shadows in the tracks were blue.

Mulheisen zipped up the parka and hurried on. He had the .38 in his pocket, in his hand. As the sun faded, the wind rose, and it made his eyes tear.

He was just around the first bend and had caught sight of a large stone-façade house when he heard the first shots. He jumped behind the nearest tree and thought, I'm a sitting duck.

The house was still three hundred yards away. It was very large, an old-fashioned-looking house. It would be called rambling. It had a faced fieldstone front, with a roofed porch. The porch ran right across the front and around one side. There was a second
story with a big slope-roofed dormer. From his position, Mulheisen could see the newer section on the rear of the house, with a high wooden fence that probably enclosed the swimming pool.

On the other side of the lane was a stone fence. It ran on up toward the house, then angled off across the field. Mulheisen figured it could shield him until he was close enough to the cover of the fence around the pool. From there he ought to be able to get right up to the house. He ran across the lane and dove over the fence, burying himself in deep snow.

He moved along the fence, struggling through the deep snow in a stoop. He was sweating inside the parka by the time he reached the wooden fence around the pool.

He heard a couple more shots from inside the house. They must be shooting at each other, he thought. Mulheisen followed the fence around the pool area until he came to some outbuildings, a barn and stables, a large garage. From there he was able to slip comfortably around to the back of the house.

The back door was locked. It was locked and it wasn't going to be opened without a lot of noise. What he needed now, he thought, was the Big Four. Honcho Noell would go through that door like butter and the rest of them right behind him, Stoner rifles cooking. But . . . he was alone.

He got down in the snow and crawled, the .38 out in his bare hand and freezing. What a deal, he thought, crawling through snow, a houseful of guns waiting.

About halfway around the house he paused at a basement window. He looked inside. There was a storage room there, with cans of paint on shelves and boxes stacked in a corner.

Here's where I go in, he decided. He wrapped the gun in a glove and punched the window in. The glass fell on the concrete floor with a tinkle, but there wasn't much noise, and besides the door to the room was closed. He didn't think they would hear it upstairs. He cleaned the rest of the glass out and started to crawl through, when he realized that his parka was too bulky. He took off the parka and shivered.

He eased through the window and dropped down to the concrete floor, gun in hand. He went out the door and into the basement. The basement was not finished, though it had several rooms
similar to the one he had just left. Ducts radiated out from an old furnace. He shivered and wished that the furnace were on.

As he crossed the concrete floor he heard footsteps overhead and then, he couldn't be sure, but it sounded like someone went out the front door.

Mulheisen went up the stairs cautiously and opened the door that led into a large kitchen that had a red tile floor. The door to the dining room was open, and he crossed over to it. The room was empty. He went from there to a hallway that led past the living room, past something that might have been a parlor but now was a kind of music room with a piano in it and some bookshelves, a television. There was another room, apparently a den, with more bookshelves and another television. Beyond that was a bedroom. All the rooms were empty.

BOOM! It was the roar of a Magnum. It came from upstairs.

Well, that's it, Mulheisen told himself. They're playing upstairs. There was nothing for it but to go up.

The stairs were wide and solid. They did not squeak. There was a carpet runner, with iron rods holding it in place at the base of each step. At the top of the stairs there was a hallway about twenty feet long, with several oak doors opening off it. Mulheisen lay flat against the stairs and stuck his head around the corner of the hallway, just at floor level.

“No!” screamed a voice from the end of the hall.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The shots tore through the end door, flew down the hallway and smashed into the wall, knocking plaster down. Mulheisen ducked his head back down and around the corner.

After a moment, he peeked out again. He was just in time to see a large man ease out of the third room, a .44 in his right hand. He recognized him. It was Wienoshek!

Wienoshek moved quietly along the hallway, flattened against the wall but not making any sliding noises. He carried the gun forward, confidently. He slipped into the next room. It was the last room before the end of the hall, right next to the end door itself.

Wienoshek had not looked behind himself as he went. That seemed significant to Mulheisen. It suggested that Wienoshek knew there was no one behind him.

So, he thought, there's someone in that last room, and Wienoshek's after him.

He waited to see if anyone else showed, but there was no sound. He made up his mind and stepped into the hallway, staying close to the wall on the same side as the room that Wienoshek had gone in. He moved quickly along the hallway, stepping into each doorway as he went and stopping to look around and listen. In one room there was a man's overcoat crumpled on the floor, but nothing else. All the rooms were empty but one, which had several mattresses stacked against a wall and the frames of beds similarly stacked.

He slipped out again and went to the room just next to the one Wienoshek had entered.

“Clippert!” he heard Wienoshek yell, “come on out of there! We'll make a deal!”

The answer was three shots through the door. They hit about where the other shots had hit and there was now a splintered hole in the door panel, three inches wide and running vertically along the grain of the panel for a foot or so.

Wienoshek's head showed out the doorway and Mulheisen could see him peering into the end room, his head moving sideways and up and down, as if trying to see where Clippert had positioned himself. Then they both heard a click and the clatter of an empty cartridge clip falling to the floor. Another series of clicks told them that the clip had been replaced, no doubt by a full one, and the slide was racked back to load and cock the pistol.

Wienoshek ducked back into his room and was silent. Mulheisen waited in his cold room, shivering. It must be ten below zero, he thought. He peeped out of his doorway, watching for Wienoshek to appear.

And then he heard Clippert. He was talking to someone, it seemed, but Mulheisen could not make out what he said very well. Clippert's voice sounded strange, excited and rasping. Then he laughed. Mulheisen decided he had flipped out. The voice swore violently.

“. . . then the tough get going,” Clippert was ranting. “You're goddamn right! Ha ha! Can't go round ‘em, go right through the
bastards! Have to go it alone, by God! Always did! The ol’ Flying Clipper!” He laughed again and swore.

Mulheisen shuddered.

KABLAM! Another shot tore out the center panel of the door. Mulheisen ducked back into his room and suddenly he was sweating. But not for long. The cold came back. He noticed then that it was getting quite dark. Soon it would be very dark and all the problems would be compounded. He peeped out his doorway again.

Wienoshek eased out of his doorway. Mulheisen could see that he'd been hit in the left arm by a bullet. There was a large bloodstain on the suit coat.

Wienoshek's right arm came up, bearing the .44. He aimed through the shattered center panel of the door.

Mulheisen took three quiet steps down the hallway, not disturbing Wienoshek's concentration. He laid his .38 next to Wienoshek's left ear.

Wienoshek froze. The .44 wavered and then was lowered. Nothing was said. Mulheisen reached out and took Wienoshek by the left arm. He drew the man completely out of the doorway and walked him backward, quietly along the hallway until they reached his room and stepped into it.

Wienoshek stood calmly in the room, still with his back to Mulheisen, the hand carrying the .44 hanging down at his side. Mulheisen gently took the big pistol from the man's hand and tucked it into the band of his trousers, keeping his own revolver on Wienoshek all along. Then he stepped back from Wienoshek and spoke quietly to him.

“This is the police, Wienoshek. My name's Mulheisen. Now go over there to that wall and lean against it, feet apart, both hands on the wall. That's it. Get those hands higher.”

Wienoshek was having some trouble lifting his left hand. Mulheisen held his hand in the center of Wienoshek's back, holding the .38 in his right hand. He kicked Wienoshek's feet farther out from the wall and farther apart, so that the man would not be able to move without falling forward. Quickly he shook the man down. He reached for his handcuffs, and then realized that he didn't have any handcuffs.

“All right, Wienoshek, sit down, against the wall, feet straight out in front of you, legs flat on the floor.”

Wienoshek did as he was told. Mulheisen looked at the pitted face with interest. He moved over to the doorway and pulled the door almost closed, so that he could still see the end door. He could hear Clippert still talking to himself.

Mulheisen gestured at Wienoshek's left arm. “He hit you?”

“Yeah,” Wienoshek said.

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Where's your buddy? Mulheisen asked.

“What buddy?”

“The guy who came on the plane with you.”

“Service?”

“Service?”

“That's his name,” Wienoshek said. He spelled it for Mulheisen. “I don't know where he is.”

“Did he come here with you?”

“Aren't you going to read me my rights?” Wienoshek asked.

Mulheisen bared his fangs. “Yeah,” he said, “as soon as I have time. Now tell me about Service.”

Wienoshek looked disgusted. “I think maybe he split. With the money.”

“What money?” Mulheisen said.

“The money Clippert ripped off.”

Mulheisen looked at the man and shook his head. “You're not too smart, are you, Wienoshek? What happened here?”

“Ask my lawyer,” Wienoshek said.

“Aw, c'mon now,” Mulheisen cajoled, “don't be stupid. You've got nothing to gain by clamming up. In case you don't know, we've got us a problem here. You're bleeding pretty hard, it's cold in this house, damn cold, and getting dark. We've got us an armed madman down the hall and miles to go before we sleep. Now open up.”

Wienoshek screwed his face up in a look of disgusted agreement. “Yeah, you're right, cop. What it is, old Goofy down there got the jump on us. We exchanged a few shots and he ran down
the hall. Service was supposed to cover me, while I went after Goofy, but I guess Service decided he'd rather roll.”

“Why didn't you go after him?”

“I didn't know he was gone, till you showed. Then I figured you wouldn't have got to me if Service was still around, unless you nailed him first, and I guess I would of heard something if you'd met up. So I figure he must of give you the slip.”

Wienoshek slumped against the wall. Mulheisen watched him and thought, Now what? Down the hall, Clippert was still talking.

“. . . what's a guy going to do?” he was saying.

“Clippert!” Mulheisen yelled.

Silence.

“Who's that?”

“Mulheisen. I came to help you, Clippert. Put the gun down!”

“What do you want?” Clippert yelled. “You won't help me. Nobody can help me,” he snarled. “I can do it by myself!”

Mulheisen closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. He was beat, he was cold and he was having trouble thinking straight. He glanced up at Wienoshek and was suddenly filled with rage.

“I ought to just shoot the two of you,” he said. “Save everybody a lot of trouble.”

Wienoshek said, “You shouldn't have stopped me from killing the goofy bastard.”

Mulheisen had to concede that Wienoshek had a point there.

“Clippert! I've got Wienoshek.”

Clippert laughed. “Good. You can have him.”

“But the other one got away,” Mulheisen yelled.

“Got away? You let him get away?” Mulheisen could hear the anxiety and concern in Clippert's voice.

“That's right,” Mulheisen yelled, “and he took the money, too.”

“You let him take the money?”

“I couldn't help it, Clippert. He got by me, somehow. He's getting away, right now.”

Clippert let off a volley of curses. “You idiot!” he screamed.

“We've got to get him, Clippert. I can't catch him by myself. I can't leave Wienoshek here. I need your help.”

Silence.

“Clippert! How about it? I can't do it alone. The longer we wait, the farther away your money gets.”

After another long silence, Clippert spoke, this time in a more subdued, cautious voice. “All right. What's the deal?”

“You help me with Wienoshek and I'll help you catch up with the other guy. He can't have gotten far.”

“What happens when we catch him, Mulheisen?”

Mulheisen tried to think of a convincing answer, but the best he could come up with was, “We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

There was no reply from the end room.

“Clippert! Did you hear me?”

“I heard you! It's a trap.”

It was dark in the room now. Wienoshek was just a slightly darker lump. Mulheisen did not like the situation at all. At any moment he could have both these men at his throat.

“Clippert,” he called wearily, “give it up. You've had it. Either you freeze to death in that room or I'm going to blast you. Now get your ass out of there!”