His tongue probed at a favorite molar. He looked away from her out the window, at the snow falling on Detroit and Canada. He put the cigar in his mouth and noticed that it was out.
“I have to go,” he said. “No offense.”
He picked up his overcoat and hat and walked out. She was still standing by the window, hands on hips. In the corner, the blue lights of the Christmas tree blinked on and off.
Twenty-two
Mulheisen came down the elevator nervous and dissatisfied. He had just turned down a proposition and he didn't know why. That was the trouble, he thought, I don't know why I do anything. He had been aroused. It wasn't as if he was getting a lot lately. And it wasn't because he was so ethical. Shirley Carpenter was just about his speed, too.
It was the room, he thought. Too many vibes, too many changes, as Ayeh would put it. He had started out doing a normal, if informal interrogation. Somehow, the light in the room, the whiskey, the woman herself, had changed all that. He had become almost drowsily comfortable. And then she had turned on the electricity with that straightforward offer. It was too much.
But more than that, she had aroused him and, in doing so, had reminded him that there was another woman around. Lou Spencer.
He suddenly realized that for a couple of days now, he had wanted to see Lou, to talk to her. What he wanted to tell her was what everyone wants to tell those who are important to them: Who I am. The trouble was, Mulheisen didn't know.
He dialed her number from the pay phone in the lobby. “Busy?” he said.
“Yes. I've been out in the mobs, shopping, and now I'm wrapping presents.”
“Damn. I forgot. Today's the twenty-third, almost the last day. And I didn't get anything for Mother.”
“Dear old Mom,” she said. “Breaking her heart again, eh? Is that what you called to tell me?”
“No,” he said, “I just called to tell you that I just got a terrific proposition and I turned it down.”
“Proud of yourself, are you?” she said. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
“I thought you might come to dinner tonight.”
“Where?”
“At my house,” Mulheisen said.
“To meet your mother, you mean?”
“No. Mother's gone to Miami.”
There was silence on the other end and Mulheisen cursed his rashness. He was a fool, he decided—at least he knew that much about himself.
“I'm not sure I know you that well,” Lou said, finally.
“As a matter of fact, I meant to tell you that, also. I mean, that I don't know myself that well, either. That's one of my problems.”
“And you thought I might tell you who you are?” she said.
“Mmmm . . . yeah, well . . . what do you think?”
“You're Sergeant Fang,” she said.
“How did you find that out?”
“I called the precinct to see why I hadn't heard from you,” she admitted. “The desk sergeant referred to you as Fang.”
Mulheisen suddenly felt elated. It was the holiday season after all. “ ‘Tis the season to be jolly,” he said. “I can cook a steak. I have wine and booze. I won't bite.”
There was another long silence and Mulheisen's spirits drooped. Then, “All right. Pick me up at eight.”
With a light heart, Mulheisen called the precinct and chewed Sergeant Dill's ass for referring to him as Fang.
“I thought it was your girl friend,” Dill said. “She sounded like she knew you real well.”
“I don't have a girl friend,” Mulheisen said.
“You don't? Sorry. Sorry on both counts,” Dill said. “Anyway, you're supposed to get your ass over to the U.S. Attorney's office, pronto.”
Mulheisen went nowhere “pronto.” He drove slowly, mulling over what he would tell Lou. He would tell her that he was contrary, that he sometimes appalled himself with his compliant nature, that he often thought he was full of crap and then the next day knew he was dead right about everything. It was a burden to be so indeterminate, so changeable, inconstant even.
Now, a man like Clippert, he would always know who he was. He would have no doubts. He might be dead wrong, but he would never know it about himself. So, he thought, it ends up that Clippert knows less about himself than I do. Only, in terms of conscious behavior, Clippert seemed to know himself better. He was in for a big shock, Mulheisen thought.
Downtown was so crowded that Mulheisen couldn't park anywhere. All the parking ramps had “Full” signs at their entrances. Mulheisen cruised round and round the Federal Building for at least fifteen minutes. The streets were slushy and traffic jerked and slid. A number of the giants from the traffic division were lording it about, so Mulheisen finally pulled into an alley and parked behind a horse from the mounted division that was tethered to a drainpipe and had an oat bag on its nose. An officer in riding boots and fur-collared jacked spotted him and came toward him. Mulheisen flashed his badge and the officer waved him on.
U.S. Attorney James Dunn was a man of thirty or so, sitting in his office and wearing an austere blue suit with faint pinstripes. “We've been waiting over an hour, Sergeant,” he said.
Mulheisen shrugged. “I didn't know anything about it until a half-hour ago. I thought McClain would be here.”
“Lieutenant McClain informed us that you would be able to answer all of our questions,” Dunn said. He gestured to a middle-aged man who sat in the corner. “This is the Assistant U.S. Attorney, Brandon Piquette.”
Mulheisen nodded at Piquette. He knew him slightly. Piquette was reputed to be the brains and guts of the federal attorney's office. He came from one of the very oldest Detroit families, dating back to the days when the town was called ville d'Etroit, and was merely a tiny civilian community attached to Fort Ponchartrain. Over a period of twenty years, Piquette had educated and molded a series of federal attorneys who were nominally his superiors. Many of them had gone on to be judges or to take higher positions in the Justice Department.
Mulheisen supposed that Dunn was probably the usual sort of bright and ambitious young man that Piquette had been dealing with for years. He decided to take his cue from Piquette and see what developed here.
What developed was that Dunn scolded Mulheisen for the failure of the city police to cooperate with the federal agencies. Mulheisen accepted this without complaint. Dunn went on to demand the complete files of the police investigation of Arthur Clippert's affairs.
“I'll be happy to tell you anything I know,” Mulheisen said, “and if you want the files themselves, I'm sure that a formal request through the Commissioner will be favorably acted upon. Or you could go to Lieutenant McClain's office and view what he has.”
Dunn looked angry. Piquette intervened. “That probably won't be necessary, Sergeant. We are mainly interested in Clippert's alleged involvement with the Fidelity Funding case, and we thought that your own investigation might have turned up some information that may be relevant. For instance, we see that there have been two break-ins at the Clippert residence, apparently with burglary in mind. Now, it occurs to us that these break-ins may be related to Mr. Clippert's involvement with Fidelity Funding. What do you think?”
“I've been thinking along those lines too,” Mulheisen said, “and in fact, I questioned Clippert this morning with that in mind. But nothing came of it. And we have no other evidence, as far as I know, that points specifically in that direction. All we have is suspicion. I do have some ideas on the subject, if Mr. Dunn would care to hear them?”
Dunn scowled. He tapped a pencil on a yellow legal pad. “All right, Sergeant,” he said, “let's hear your, uh, ideas. As Mr. Piquette suggests, we are interested in anything that will further the interests of justice.”
Mulheisen smiled his long-toothed smile. “For the last few days there has been someone else interested in our murder investigation. I assume that it is not a federal agent, since this man has represented himself variously as a Detroit policeman and as a friend of t
he number one murder suspect, in order to obtain information.”
Mulheisen went on to tell them about John Byron Wienoshek and the “small, dark, Eyetalian” character. Dunn and Piquette assured him that the latter was none of their men.
“What do you conclude from this?” Piquette asked.
“It suggests to me that the Mob is interested in Clippert,” Mulheisen said, “perhaps because rumor has it that Clippert is holding twenty million dollars. That, if true, is a mighty tempting target for the organization. The fact that one of their people is investigating John Wienoshek further suggests to me that the Mob believes that Wienoshek may have stolen the big pot from Clippert. It seems unlikely to me, personally, since Wienoshek doesn't have any kind of reputation for making a score like this. But then, Wienoshek is a peculiar guy. He may have stumbled onto the money by accident, even, during the course of the burglary in which the woman was murdered. Or he may be working with Arthur Clippert himself.”
“I don't follow,” Dunn said.
“Well, we know that Wienoshek, or a partner of his named Elroy Carver, killed Mrs. Clippert. Most likely, it was Carver. We know that he, at least, was at the scene of the murder. And we know that Carver is now dead, apparently killed by Wienoshek.”
“Why?” Piquette asked.
“It's impossible to say,” Mulheisen said. “Perhaps because Carver had badly botched the killing of Jane Clippert. Perhaps because Carver had something that Wienoshek wanted, like twenty million. More likely, it was simply to get rid of a liability: Carver doesn't seem to have been very competent. He might have seemed a danger to a man like Wienoshek, or Clippert.”
“Are you suggesting that Clippert had his wife killed?” Dunn said. “That's ridiculous.” He threw his pencil down.
“Why would Clippert want to kill his wife?” Piquette asked.
“I don't know. In cases like these, no matter how much we may want to know, we rarely find out why. Our simplest motive here is that Clippert stood to collect as much as two million dollars in insurance, if his wife's death could be made to look like an accident. She was taking a bath at the time she was attacked. A simple blow to the head could have made it difficult for the insurance company to prove homicide.”
“But why would a man who has twenty million kill his wife for a measly two million?” Piquette asked.
“Measly?” Mulheisen said. “Anyhow, does Clippert have twenty million? And if he has it, how much of it is his? All of it? A part? How much? I understand that there are as many as twenty other people involved in the Fidelity Funding scandal.”
“But embezzling is one thing,” Dunn protested. “What makes you think that Clippert would turn to murder, as well?”
“Because I've talked to him,” Mulheisen said. “I'm not a psychiatrist, but I'll say that this man does not know what murder means. Not yet, anyway. All he knows is what he wants, or what is to his advantage. I'm not saying he's crazy, now, but that he's cold-blooded. Maybe it's as simple as that his wife was in his way, she was blocking him from something he wanted.
“Do you remember him as a football player? He was terrific. All he needed was a block and he was gone. He ran away from tacklers. But when there was no block, he ran right over them. They called him the Flying Clipper, but they also called him the Gingerbread Man, because he was so sure of himself. He had no respect for his opponents; he was contemptuous of them.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Dunn said exasperatedly. “Just a lot of speculative psychoanalyzing.”
“I'm afraid Mr. Dunn is right,” Piquette said. “Don't you have something more solid, Sergeant? Is there any reason to believe, for instance, that Mrs. Clippert was involved, or had knowledge of the Fidelity Funding business, and therefore had to be eliminated? Perhaps she had come across some evidence, for instance.”
“You mean like tapes?” Mulheisen said, smiling. “Now you're being speculative, Mr. Piquette. No, I'm sorry, but we have no such evidence. In fact, Jane Clippert is the deepest mystery of them all. I can't figure out much about her at all. Evidently she had become rather reclusive in the last few years, despite the fact that she used to be something of a heller. I've been talking to old friends of hers, well, one of them, anyway, and this friend can't shed much light on Jane Clippert, either.”
Mulheisen shook his head. “It's a sad thing about a case like this. The real victim gets forgotten. Nobody seems much interested in Jane Clippert. Everybody is keyed on the money.”
“I have it,” Dunn said brightly. “She found the money! She wanted to turn it in, but Clippert didn't. He probably couldn't talk her out of it. There was no way out for him. Prison, or get her out of the way.”
Mulheisen looked at Piquette. Piquette's eyebrows barely quivered. Mulheisen looked thoughtful. “That's an interesting theory, Mr. Dunn,” he said, “but it's unlikely that we'd ever be able to prove it. Jane Clippert is dead. That's what is significant, finally.”
Dunn was sobered. He hunched his shoulders resignedly, then let them slump. He turned his chair to look out the window at the falling snow. The Ambassador Bridge, which ought to have been visible from this floor of the building, was a bare trace of an arc.
“Mulheisen,” he said, without turning around, “you're right. Theories don't matter. In the long run, motives don't matter. All that counts is what happened. Jane Clippert is dead. The money is missing from the till at Fidelity Funding. What are we going to do about it?”
“You asked for information and assistance,” Mulheisen said, talking to Dunn's back. “How about a little reciprocity?”
Dunn turned around. “What?”
“I think there's a connection between Wienoshek and Clippert. I think Wienoshek and Carver were paid to kill. Somehow, I don't believe that Clippert could lose twenty million to Wienoshek. But Wienoshek, wherever he is, must know by now that Clippert is onto some big money, whether from the insurance or from the Fidelity Funding ripoff. These two men, Clippert and Wienoshek, are tied together for life. Each is dangerous and/or valuable to the other. I can't believe that they won't get in touch with each other.”
“So?” It was Piquette, speaking from his chair in the corner.
“So, I can't get a phone tap. But I know that the FBI can, and does.” Mulheisen waved his hand to indicate that he didn't want to hear Dunn's disclaimers. “Okay, say you don't have a tap on Clippert's phone. But if you did . . . I mean, supposing that the FBI did have a tap, and supposing that they happened to overhear a conversation between Wienoshek and Clippert . . . I'd like to hear about it.”
“No way,” Dunn said, putting his hands flat on the desk.
“I'm not asking for a transcript, or for evidence that would be introduced in court. I won't even say anything about it to the prosecutor, if you don't want me to. I just want to get a line on Wienoshek. I can always say it came from a confidential informer. We've got a warrant on Wienoshek for the murder of John Doe—that's because we still don't have a definite identification of the body that we think is Elroy Carver. Just a little help, if it's available. And anything else you want from us, name it.”
Piquette spoke up. “That's an interesting suggestion. Of course, under the circumstances, it's irrelevant because we have no such information. Nor could we promise to provide it if we had it. But it might be possible to make enquiries along these lines, just to see what develops.”
Mulheisen privately marveled at the ambiguity of the statement.
“And what's to be done about this so-called private investigator?” Dunn asked.
“What can be done?” Mulheisen replied. “As far as I know he's done nothing illegal. The Mob has the right to hire a private eye, if they want. The way I look at it, he's probably trying to trace the shadowy twenty million dollars. The odds are with him, at that.”
“Really?” Piquette said. “Why do you think so?”
“He has special sources of underground information,” Mulheisen said. “He probably has unlimited funds for his search. In a way,
I have to admire his position, as a detective. But most importantly, he is more interested in the money than I am. I want Wienoshek, and then, if it works out that way, I want Clippert. The money is least important to me.”
“I see,” Piquette said. “Also, this private investigator doesn't have to worry about jurisdiction, for instance, and he needn't be bothered by Supreme Court decisions on methods of interrogation.”
Mulheisen agreed.
Dunn stared at Mulheisen for a moment, then turned back to the window. Over his shoulder he said, “We'll let you know if anything develops, Sergeant. Thank you for coming down.” Then, more to himself than anyone else, he said, “God, this snow! It just keeps coming down.”
Mulheisen wished everyone a Merry Christmas and left. He came out of the Federal Building and saw how much snow had fallen in just the hour or so he had spent upstairs. Traffic was a hopeless snarl. He walked down Fort Street to Marvin's Pipe and Tobacco Shop.
He was pleased to find the proprietor, Marvin Berg, behind the counter. Marvin Berg was an enormous man. He weighed over three hundred pounds. He had a great, amorphous, sad face with sagging eyelids and sagging lower lip.
“Fang,” he said slowly, coughing with a gentle liquid sound, “how nice to see you on this joyous occasion. I have your cigars.”
The aisle behind the counter was barely wide enough to permit Berg to squeeze along it, his body brushing both sides. He forced himself down the aisle and into the back room.
Mulheisen saw that Marvin had a new girl working there. This one was small and had dark hair cut as short as boys’ used to be. She had a wicked look. Mulheisen supposed that she would last no longer than most of Berg's girls did. That was due, as Berg himself confessed, to his gross suggestions and lewd behavior. “Hardly any girl is sufficiently depraved these days,” he would complain, “to accept as a lover such a burden as myself. Not that I would dream of mounting the creature. Oh, no indeed, Fang. I have developed a peculiar variety of activities, some of which might even astonish such a one as yourself.”
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