The room rang with earsplitting noise. There was a crashing, jangling sound. A terrific commotion. Then a ringing silence.
I got him! he thought. He crouched on the floor, looking about him, still blinded by the brilliant flash of the shots.
Nothing.
He straightened up, on his knees, and looked around, open-mouthed and staring, the .45 still in his fist.
Suddenly, the front door crashed open. Clippert gawked, whirling to look behind him. A second later there was a smashing of glass in the front window, just a few feet away, and a hand with a gun poked in.
“Hold it!”
Clippert froze.
“Get up,” the voice said, commanding.
Clippert staggered to his feet.
“Drop the gun. Kick it away.”
Clippert stubbed his toe on the heavy weapon, but it slid away from him.
“Where's the light switch?”
“The . . . the door,” Clippert said.
“All right, move to it slowly, I can see you. Move to it and turn on all the switches there. Move!”
Clippert moved carefully to the switches by the door and flicked all three of them. The living room, the entry and the little porch flooded with light. Clippert blinked against the unaccustomed light.
“Step out the door,” the voice snapped.
“Like this?”
“Move!”
Clippert stepped out into the snow, his hands over his head. He shivered in the brilliant light and peered into the darkness. He had never felt so defenseless.
A man appeared out of the darkness wearing a hat and an overcoat. He was tall and skinny, rawboned. He looked more like a cop than anyone Clippert had ever seen.
“Who are you?” the cop asked.
Coldly, Clippert told him.
Someone screamed and screamed at Mulheisen. And then it was the telephone. He sat up and looked with blurry eyes at the glowing of the bedside clock. After four. He had been asleep for just over an hour.
“Wha?” he said to the phone.
A voice heavily laden with resignation said, “Little bit of a problem here at Clippert's place, Mul.”
“Whosis?”
“Maki.” Sergeant Maki of the Ninth Precinct was known on the street as Pivot. He looked like a forty-year-old high-school basketball star, but that wasn't why they called him Pivot. He used to have a habit of wheeling on a tough suspect and belting him. This would happen in the early hours of interrogation. It never happened anymore, but the name was still there.
Mulheisen groaned. Maki waited. Finally, Mulheisen said, “What's the problem?”
Maki explained, finishing, “When I heard the shots I rousted the gun, only it turned out to be Clippert himself.” Maki glanced over at Clippert, who stood glaring by the fireplace, wearing a red velvet robe and holding a snifter of brandy. That corner of the room was a bit messy—the Christmas tree was sprawled on the floor in a tangle of broken limbs and smashed ornaments, plaster was out of the wall.
“He says he heard a burglar, so he shot the hell out of his Christmas tree,” Maki said.
“Any sign of a break-in?” Mulheisen asked.
“Not really,” Maki said. “Coulda been, I guess. He says there's no sign of anything taken. You coming down?”
“Why should I?”
Maki stared at Clippert, an unflinching gaze. “Yeah, well, there's some damage here. A broken window, front door kinda messed up. Clippert's pissed.”
“To hell with him,” Mulheisen said. “Call McClain. Lay on the works, lab, photographer . . .”
“I already did,” Maki said. “McClain said to call you. The lab is coming. Also, Clippert's doctor. He's not hurt, but he may need a sedative, or something. He didn't see the burglar, he says. He thought he did. So he shot the tree with this .45 he's got.”
“Get the gun,” Mulheisen said. “Make sure the lab gets the bullets. Check the registration.”
“It's registered,” Maki said.
“Anything you can take him on?”
Maki shrugged, then realized that Mulheisen couldn't see a shrug over the telephone. “Discharging a firearm within the city limits, maybe?” he said, his voice ripe with irony.
“Okay,” Mulheisen said, “let me talk to him.”
Maki held out the telephone. “You,” he said.
Clippert was outraged. He downed the brandy in one gulp and snatched the telephone from Maki.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“This is Mulheisen. Heard you had another burglary, Clippert.” Mulheisen's voice was calm and relaxed now. He was lying back in his bed.
“Mulheisen, I have a complaint to make. This officer—”
“Clippert! Did you have a burglar or didn't you?”
“Of course I did! And then I was almost shot by one of your men. Not only that, but I suffered gross indignities and he has been insolent. But what I want to know, Mulheisen, is what the hell he was doing here? I didn't put in any call.”
“Why not?”
“Why—I—there wasn't time . . . I—”
“Clippert, it's after four. When your doctor gets there, why don't you take a pill and go to bed. I'll be in my office by nine o'clock. Why don't you be there too?”
“What? I've had about enough of this insolence, Sergeant. I'll be down there, all right, with my attorney. You're going to wish you had never heard of me.”
“Fine. I want to talk to you about a man named Wienoshek.”
“What? Who?” Clippert paused. “I don't know what you're talking about. What is this?”
Mulheisen noticed that some of Clippert's rage had dissipated. “This guy Wienoshek is a burglar,” Mulheisen said.
“Do you think he's the man who broke in?”
Mulheisen laughed. “Could be. See you in the morning. Nine o'clock. The Ninth Precinct, that's on Chalmers. You know where it is? Good. Now let me talk to Sergeant Maki.”
To Maki he said, “Make it sound like I'm sending you off duty. Maybe he'll go for it and run. I'd like to see that. But I doubt it.”
Maki managed a poor smile. “Well, thanks, Mul. Should I split, or just go back to the station?” His smile faded. “Well, at least it's warm there.”
Mulheisen laughed. “That's too good. Keep an eye on him.”
It was after five before Clippert was alone again. The doctor had left some sleeping pills, but Clippert didn't take them. He had another shot of brandy and trudged back up to the guest room. He lay there, thinking about Wienoshek. What could they make of Wienoshek? He finally decided they could make anything they wanted of Wienoshek, it would have nothing to do with himself.
After a bit he forgot about Wienoshek. He became more conscious of the present, of lying in bed. He rehearsed all the events of the past few hours, going over again how he had awakened, feeling the fear again . . .
And then he was really afraid. Pure, mindless terror seized him and he went stiff, shaking. After a few moments the feeling passed and he was limp, with cold sweat all over his body. It's just shock, he told himself, like trembling an hour after a near accident. Then he remembered the .45. Where was it? He had left it downstairs, on the mantel of the fireplace.
He got out of bed and went down to get it. It was still there. He had not turned on the light. Once again he stood in the dark room, seeing only by the faint light of the street, holding the .45. He looked down at it. Then he laid the cool muzzle against his cheek, smelling the cordite of the recent explosions mingling with the scent of the gun oil. He flicked his tongue at the barrel and tasted the metallic tang. He edged the muzzle up to his temple.
This is how you do it, he thought. It's easy. You just pull the trigger, like this . . . his finger tightened against the trigger. He lowered the gun.
It was still snowing. He looked out into the swirling cloud around the streetlight. There were no cars parked but he knew they were out there. Oh yes. They were out there, snow or not. But who? Mulheisen? Wienoshek? Who else? The FBI, the
U.S. Attorney, the grand jury. People. That's all it was. People. They wanted you and fed on you and tore you to bits when you didn't give them what they wanted.
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.”
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