“Is there a certain kind of person who gets murdered, Sergeant? I didn't know that.”
Mulheisen bared his teeth. It could have been a smile or a grimace. “It's pretty early to make assumptions, Miss Spencer, but at first glance it appears that she was attacked by a person or persons who were interrupted in the course of a burglary.”
“Why, it's practically an accident then!”
“It was hardly an accident that her assailants were in the house,” Mulheisen said. “I mean, she was a wealthy woman and an attractive one. Those are things that might, uh, interest certain types of people. But maybe there were other qualities or aspects to her life that would put a different slant on what happened this morning.”
“That's not very clear,” the woman said mildly.
“Harumph!” Mulheisen cleared his throat, thinking he sounded like Major Hoople. Stop beating around the bush, he told himself. “Do you think she might have had . . . a lover?”
“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, shocked.
Lou Spencer was thoughtful. “I'm not sure,” she said.
“Lou! The idea!” snapped her mother.
The girl ignored her. “I think Jane had changed quite a bit in the past couple years. She struck me as being more withdrawn, quieter. There was a time, though, when she certainly did have lovers. I thought she was rather a sensual woman, Sergeant.”
“Really? Do you happen to know who her, uh, lover might have been?”
“I didn't say she had one—recently, that is. But a woman who looks like Jane always has men hanging around her. Especially if they are lonely, and more especially if they are rich. You know the cliché of busy men's wives.” She caught herself. “Well, I really don't know much about her private life, not lately.”
“Tell me about the past, then,” Mulheisen suggested.
“I think the Sergeant might enjoy a drink, Mother. Whiskey, perhaps?”
“Ah, sure,” Mulheisen said. “Bourbon is fine, with a little ice and water.”
Mrs. Spencer knew her cue and left. Lou began to drift slowly about the room, touching things. Mulheisen watched her with interest. She was an attractive woman, he thought.
“I can't imagine what Jane did in that big house all day,” she said. “She used to read some, the latest novels. She was a good athlete, terrific at tennis.”
“But in the winter . . .” Mulheisen prompted.
“They used to go south, Florida or the West Indies. They have a lovely place up north, though. Not too far from Boyne Mountain, I think. They may have gone there to ski. She was a very good skier in school, in Switzerland. She had her first love affair on the slopes, so to speak. A skiing instructor, naturally. It's appallingly common. He was an older man. At least, that's how we thought of him. Perhaps he was only thirty, but we were just teen-agers.”
“What was his name?” Mulheisen said.
“You can't be serious,” she said. “That was an eternity ago. He was German. I imagine he's still there. It was all over within a few weeks, despite Jane's insistence that she was in love forever and that she would run away to Italy with him. Anyway, that's how she lost her cherry.”
“My, my,” Mulheisen muttered. His mocking tone did not seem to affect the woman's flippant manner. In fact, he could have sworn that her smile was mocking him. He thought that she must think him terribly stuffy.
“Let's see,” she went on, “after Dieter there was a suave Continental type, ‘a real gentleman,’ she called him. She met him in Zurich. An older man indeed. I don't think you'll want his name either. And there was another older man, in London. He even came over to Lausanne to see her. A creepy fellow, lusting after young girls. Just the Humbert Humbert type.”
“What was his name?” Mulheisen said. He took out a notebook and pen.
“I haven't the faintest notion,” Lou Spencer said. She stood by the fireplace, caressing a glass bell that covered an intricate clockwork of gears and balls.
“So she liked older men,” Mulheisen said.
“I never thought of it that way, until this moment, but I suppose that's true. Of course, it's easy to make too much of incidental details. Her husband, for instance, is ten years older than she. Perhaps it all has something to do with her father. He was quite a dynamic character who must have had a tremendous impression on her, especially since her mother died when Jane was just an infant.”
“Did you ever meet her father?”
“Occasionally. He was very busy. He didn't spend much time with Jane. Rather paradoxical, perhaps, to have this powerful father figure that alternately ignores you and then dotes on you. It must be unsettling.”
“Well, what about other men?” Mulheisen said. “Were there many, over the years?”
Lou Spencer looked rather concerned. “I don't know if I should tell you this. It seems scandalous, even to me. And dangerous, too.”
Mulheisen was interested. “What is it?”
“She told me she used to go into strange bars and pick up men. Total strangers. They'd go to a hotel. It seemed to me like she was taking a terrible chance. I mean, not only VD, but how can you tell what some guy sitting in a bar might do? She laughed at me. She said it was great fun. She really enjoyed the power she had over men.”
“When did she do this? Where?”
“It was when she was at Vassar that she started. She would go to New York to stay with some relative. I think she was twenty-two or -three at the time. And then later, she said she had done it in Detroit, as well as almost every large city she was ever in.”
“Do you think she was still doing it?”
“No. No, I'm certain she didn't, not after she was married. I never knew anything about it, you see, until just a year or so ago. I have to confess, I was shocked. But she just laughed. She said it was a long time ago, before she married Arthur.”
“Maybe lately she had a more steady boyfriend,” Mulheisen said.
“I don't think so. She didn't seem so interested in sex in the last year or so. I don't think she was sleeping with anyone.”
“Including her husband?”
Lou shrugged. “How do I know? I shouldn't be saying all these things. It's just hearsay and speculation.”
“What kind of life did she lead?” Mulheisen wanted to know.
“A rich woman's life. Go shopping, go to the country club, go to dinner, go to South America. I don't know what she did. I don't think she had many friends.”
“Why is that?”
“Most of the women who would have been her friends are married. If you were a married woman, would you want someone who looked like Jane hanging around? Of course,” she added, “if Jane had chosen to be around, I'm sure she would have had more friends. She was a very sweet, thoughtful person.” The woman bit her lip, suddenly, thinking about her friend. She turned her back to Mulheisen and stood against the fireplace.
“Where do you live, Miss Spencer?” Mulheisen asked. “New York?”
“That's right,” she said, facing him again. “I'm a sociological researcher for a large organization there.”
“And when Jane was in town, she'd certainly stop and see you.”
“That's right.”
“How about when Arthur Clippert was in town?” Mulheisen said.
“I don't know what you mean,” she said.
“Well, I mean, if Clippert happened to come to town, alone, would he ever call you?”
“Why should he?” she said.
“Well, you were a friend of his wife's. You said she had seemed changed in the last few months. Maybe he would have noticed it too. Maybe he would be worried. What could be more natural than to turn to an old friend of your wife's if you are worried about her.”
Lou Spencer looked skeptical.
“Or maybe he just wanted to take somebody to dinner,” Mulheisen suggested.
The woman looked at him casually and said, “No.”
Mrs. Spencer returned, followed by the maid who wheeled a trolley on which were bottle
s and ice. The maid poured a bourbon and water for Mulheisen and gave Mrs. Spencer a martini from a shaker. Lou had nothing. The maid left.
“Mrs. Spencer,” Mulheisen said, “did you see much of Mrs. Clippert?”
“Why, no, Sergeant. Not lately. She used to be active in the Institute of Arts, but not recently.”
“How about Mr. Clippert? Ever see him around?”
“Occasionally, at a restaurant or something.”
“With his wife?”
“Well—not usually, no. He's usually with a party of people. Men, mostly. I suppose it's business.”
“Ever see him with a woman other than his wife?” Mulheisen said.
“I beg your pardon!” She looked at Mulheisen frostily.
“Oh, Mother,” Lou said, laughing, “no need to be so uptight. Arthur's a big, handsome man. I suppose it happens sometimes.”
Mrs. Spencer looked very upset. She left the room. Lou turned to Mulheisen, shaking her head. “I shouldn't do that. It's too easy.”
“Children always break their mother's hearts,” Mulheisen said.
“Is that so?” Lou said. “Did you break your mother's heart?”
“Not just my mother's,” he said.
Lou Spencer laughed aloud.
“You seem to have recovered from your shock,” Mulheisen observed.
Lou's face reddened. “It's your fault,” she said.
“Mine?”
“Yes.” She walked toward his chair and settled onto a damask-covered stool near his feet. It was a low stool and her dress was short. It was easier for Mulheisen to look between her legs than not to. He struggled.
She smirked at his embarrassment. “Are you always so stuffy?” she asked.
“I don't think of it as stuffy,” he said.
“What do you think of it as?”
“A job. I don't consider it a game.”
“Oh, sometimes you must,” she said. “Don't you occasionally put people on? Don't you play roles—the tough cop, the kindly cop?”
Mulheisen smiled. “Sometimes,” he said.
“I've heard the role of detective described as a peculiarly interesting and relevant one in terms of modern mythology,” she said.
“Who says?”
“Usually it's a tall boy with narrow shoulders and wide hips,” she said, “and he teaches at the New School.”
Mulheisen sipped his bourbon. “I suppose a young girl hears all sorts of things these days.”
“You would be surprised what a young girl hears,” she said.
“I don't think so,” he said. “My job isn't glamorous, you see, despite what the boys from the New School will tell you. There is a certain sordid reality to it.”
“Still, it must be interesting,” she said. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Sometimes. It wasn't much fun this morning.”
Lou did not flinch. “Are you scolding me, Sergeant?”
“Have you been bad?”
“Lately?”
“Usually.”
“Not in an indictable way, I think,” she said. “There are all kinds of bad girls, though. Jane could be a bad girl at times.”
“How about yourself?”
“Janey and I were friends. We had a lot in common.”
“How about older men?” Mulheisen asked.
“You mean as opposed to young men with wide hips?”
“That's right.”
“Are you going to ask me to dinner, Sergeant?”
Mulheisen sat back in his chair and thought about that one. He had no business asking a woman like Lou Spencer to dinner. His type was more the older and affectionate divorcee who hung out in downtown bars. On the other hand, even a beauty like Jane Clippert had been an occasional bar cruiser. He stood up and drained off his bourbon.
“Have you ever been married, Miss Spencer?”
“No,” she said. She looked up at him from the low stool.
“Why not?”
“None of your business,” she said. “How about yourself?”
“No,” he said.
“Are you queer, or something?”
“Maybe I will ask you to dinner, Miss Spencer.”
She smiled. “My name is Lou. And you are . . . ?”
“Mul.”
“When do we eat, Mul?”
“I'll let you know,” he said, and walked out of the room. The maid waited in the foyer with his coat.
“How do you get along with these people?” he asked her. He regretted the question the minute he spoke it. The maid didn't answer. She helped him into his coat.
Seven
On the afternoon of December seventeenth, another heavy, gloomy snow fell on Detroit and was ground into gray mush by thousands of tires. The mounted cops of the city's one remaining mounted division clopped carefully up Woodward Avenue toward the stables on Bethune Street. The tops of the Penobscot Building, the Fisher Building and the David Stott were lost in the low overcast.
An old Polish woman in Hamtramck, a city completely enclosed by Detroit, was knocked down in an alley. Her grocery cart was dumped and the bread and eggs stomped. She lay in fear while the boys ransacked her purse. They threw it at her and ran away. She felt lucky.
On the west side, the driver of a semi waited for several minutes on McNichols for a chance to turn onto Livernois. Just when it looked like he would make it at last, a young man in a Corvette cut in front of him and stopped for the traffic light. The trucker leaned out his window and shouted abuse at the Corvette. The young man rolled down his window and made an obscene gesture. That was it for the trucker. He climbed down out of his rig. The young man got a pistol out of his glove compartment. The trucker ran back to his cab for his own pistol. The young man leaped from his car and raced across the sluggish traffic of Livernois with the truck driver in hot pursuit.
A squad car skidded to a halt and an officer got out and ran after the two armed citizens, his own .38 in his hand. Officer Duncan, driver of the squad car, noticed another man, apparently a bystander, run after the other three. Officer Duncan radioed for help.
The Big Four were cruising on Seven Mile Road when they heard the call: “Man with a gun, McNichols and Livernois, officer needs assistance.” The uniformed driver of the Big Four's Chrysler put his foot down.
Dennis Noell was the honcho of this crew. He was six-five, two hundred forty pounds and had a nose like the prow of a ship. The whole squad was large and intimidating and they carried an armament of axe handles, tommy guns, a Stoner rifle, sawed-off shotguns, and .44 Magnums on their hips. Noell had the Stoner rifle.
They pulled off Livernois just before McNichols when Noell spotted an officer, gun in hand, running down an alley. Noell didn't see the first two men, but he saw the fourth. That man was following the officer and he had a gun.
“What the fuck?” Noell said. He went after the man. When he hit the alley the cop was gone but the man was running. “Stop!” Noell shouted.
The man stopped and turned. He looked back at Noell. “Put it down,” Noell yelled. He held the Stoner to his shoulder.
The man fired a shot at Noell. That was a mistake.
Noell squeezed the trigger on the Stoner. The automatic rifle had a 30-shot clip of 5.56-millimeter cartridges in it. In just over two seconds the clip was empty. A hail of very high-speed, unstable bullets flew down the alley and cut the gunman to pieces.
The young man lost his pursuers, returned to Livernois and escaped in the Corvette. No one got the license number. The truck-driver was not so lucky. Several officers were waiting for him at his rig. Fortunately, he had a valid permit for his .32 automatic. He was cited for blocking traffic and menacing the public safety.
Officer Duncan was trying to explain to Noell what had happened. “Who is this one?” Noell asked, pointing with the Stoner in one large hand at the crumpled corpse.
“I don't know,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I never saw him before.”
Mulheisen was sitting in McClain's office at He
adquarters. Headquarters was busy. The broad hallways smelled of wet wool. Few people looked happy, including the cops. The police asked parents and sons to step into their offices for a minute; they leaned over counters and asked questions; they walked down the hallways with files in hand, carrying plastic-foam cups of coffee; they said “Hiya, Irv,” and Irv said, “ ‘Lo, Bob, Jim.”
McClain had his giant feet on his desk. The desk was covered with memos and files and letters. The In-Out baskets were jammed. He was listening to Mulheisen tell about his interview with Lou Spencer. “Jesus,” he said, when Mulheisen had finished, “she sounds like a cross between a saint and a nympho.”
“I didn't get that impression,” Mulheisen said. “You're just old-fashioned.”
“Bullshit! Any broad who goes into strange bars cruising is a tramp.”
Mulheisen shook his head. “The Spencer gal seemed to think it was more of a youthful fling, maybe like a young stud who discovers he can score with women so he goes wild for a while. An ego thing. It's like Lou said, she enjoyed her power over men.”
“Lou, is it? Better watch yourself, Fang.” He laughed and sat up, dropping his feet to the floor with a crash. “Okay,” he said, “I'll leave that up to you. I got everything else straightened out. Don't worry about Buchanan. He doesn't know anything and doesn't need to know anything. I'm fronting the whole investigation. Just like always. I talk to the press, I talk to the prosecutor, I talk to the commissioner, the mayor, whoever. You go do your job, but let me know how things are going.
“Now, about this sainted tramp, despite what you say I think I'll have my boys check out her neighbors on strange men coming at odd hours, that sort of thing. And we'll ask around in the bars, see if she was up to her old tricks. I'll let you know how that comes out. You didn't find out what bars she might hang out in, did you?”
Mulheisen shook his head. “Lad, that's a waste of time.”
“So? We'll try it anyway. Listen, Mul, it's important that we score an early bust on this. Clippert is big stuff. And a lot of strange people are interested in what's going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got calls today from the U.S. Attorney's office, from the FBI, from the SEC, from the Michigan Insurance Commission—”
The Diehard Page 4