The Diehard

by Jon A. Jackson

  “You mean they do specialized kinds of work,” Lou said. “They're categorized. You don't see them pulling a routine shift like any other detective. A social worker might be a man or a woman, it doesn't make any difference. But a detective is a man, and then there are women detectives who do special things.”

  “Something like that,” he said, forking bacon and eggs into his mouth.

  “I think a woman would make a very good detective,” Lou said.

  “Maybe.”

  “I imagine that we women are very interested in personal things, in the nature of relationships. It seems to me that apart from economic pressures and social conditions, it is human relationships that are at the source of problems that develop into crimes.”

  “Sounds like a theory,” Mulheisen said. He sipped his coffee. “But I agree with you. I believe that.”

  “And then, of course,” she went on, “there's all that stuff about women's intuition. I imagine that good detectives are intuitive as well.”

  “Intuitive or imaginative,” Mulheisen said, “I'm not sure how you would define it, if you had to. But now that we're talking about intuition and human relationships, what do you think it may have been in Arthur Clippert's relationship with his wife that led him to kill her?”

  “I'm not sure that he did,” Lou said.

  “But if he did? If he arranged to have her killed?”

  Lou ate for a moment and chewed, then drank some coffee. “Jane had one quality,” she said, “that could have gotten to Arthur. She was proud. If she was in danger of losing Arthur, I don't think her pride would permit it. I think she would do almost anything to hold on to him.”

  “That's not what Clippert suggested. He said that she didn't mind his having a mistress.”

  “That's possible, I guess, but I doubt it. I remember with the ski instructor, Dieter, even after she got over the romance and wasn't seeing him anymore it still irritated her to see him flirting with some new young thing. She even ran one of Dieter's girl friends down on the slopes. Jane swore it was an accident, but I'm not sure it was. Of course, that was ages ago, when she was only seventeen. Maybe by now she wouldn't take someone like Shirley Carpenter seriously, but I still think it would bother her if Arthur was getting too independent.”

  “Independent of her, or her money?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Her, her influence. If he was involved in the Fidelity Funding fraud it was quite a coup for him,” Lou said. “I mean, aside from its criminal aspects it was a spectacular bit of wheeling and dealing, and so far Arthur seems to have come out of it smelling like a rose. On top of that, it looks like he got more money than even her father did . . . that's assuming that Arthur was involved at all.”

  “Poor little rich girl,” Mulheisen said.

  “Yes. She had pride, but I don't think she ever felt secure. Maybe that's why she liked older men.”

  “Ah yes,” Mulheisen smiled, “The older-man syndrome. I remember I asked you what your feelings were toward the aged.”

  Lou sat back in her chair and smiled. “I haven't made up my mind. I've heard so much about their lack of stamina. You know, all that stuff about once a night, once a week . . .”

  “It's still only nine o'clock,” Mulheisen said, looking at the kitchen clock. “We've got a long day ahead of us, marooned in the storm. And I'm a little tired from all that fruitless shoveling. I was thinking I might retire for a bit.”

  “Now that's what I mean about old men,” Lou said. “Just when you think they want to get it on, they talk about taking a nap.”

  Later they worked on the picture puzzle. The outside pieces were all done, and part of the Grand Canal itself. Neither had gotten very far on the sky.

  Snow fell and the wind drove it in level sheets. One or the other of them would remark, looking up at the windows from time to time, “Look at that snow!” They snacked on cheese and wine, they drank some calvados and Mulheisen smoked his Havanas. Sometimes one of them would wander off to read, or to make a phone call—Lou to assure her family that she was all right, Mulheisen to see what was doing at the precinct. It was an excellent day.

  For dinner, Mulheisen outdid himself with baked pork chops and boiled potatoes, while Lou made a green salad. After that they watched television for a bit, worked on the puzzle, and talked a great deal about who they were, and what they liked, and what they didn't like.

  In the evening the snow seemed to diminish, but the wind was still very strong. Snow covered the driveway completely. It was a rural house, with trees that hid the nearest neighbors’ houses even in good weather. Now they seemed in the midst of a northern forest, alone and safe and snug.

  “The only thing we lack is a fireplace,” Mulheisen said. They were on the couch, listening to some old Stan Getz records.

  “That would be a bit too much, maybe,” Lou said.

  Mulheisen knew what she meant. He kissed her. And then he realized that she was crying.

  “What's wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said. “It's been a nice day, that's all.”

  Mulheisen grimaced. He felt nervous. “Would you like to talk?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “Sociology and crime and sex and love and history?”

  She laughed and said, “Let's go to bed.”

  While she was in the bathroom, Mulheisen undressed and sat on the edge of the bed, distracted. He was thinking about Clippert. He suddenly had a powerful urge to telephone Clippert, to make contact with him, to be sure that he was there. He could think of no pretext. He couldn't just call him up, he felt, and say, “Hi, Clip, just thought I'd check and make sure you were safe and sound.”

  Lou came back into the bedroom, wearing Mulheisen's robe again.

  “How would you like to call up Arthur Clippert?” he asked her.

  She looked at him in surprise, then a touch of fear. “Call him up?” she said. “You mean, right now?”

  Mulheisen was embarrassed. But he persisted. “Why not?” He tried to sound nonchalant, but knew he didn't sound that way at all. “You could wish him a Merry Christmas.”

  “Why do you want me to do this?” she asked.

  “I just want to know if he's home,” he said. He knew that it was more than that. It was more than a callous willingness to use her. There was something perverse in it, as well. Perhaps something perverted, even. He wanted to hear her talk to her former lover.

  “You're a calculating bastard, aren't you?” Lou said.

  “Don't do it, then,” he said, an edge of anger in his voice.

  “I'll do it.”

  He looked at her carefully. “I've got the number here, someplace,” he said.

  “I know the number,” Lou said. She went to the telephone by the bed and sat down, crossing her bare legs. It was a movement so casual, so intimate somehow, that he cursed himself for having asked her in the first place.

  He watched as she dialed the number swiftly and surely. She waited. After several seconds she looked up at him, frowning. After several more seconds she held out the phone to him. He listened to ten unanswered rings, counting them silently. Then he set the phone back in its cradle.

  “He's not there,” he said.

  Mulheisen walked away from the bed. He stood by the window and looked out into the storm. He wore only patterned shorts and his hands were on his hips. His pistol lay on a small table next to the window, along with binoculars and the book on Christopher Columbus. Absentmindedly, he picked up the .38 and hefted it. He pursed his lips and whistled very softly.

  “What's that?” Lou asked. She sat on the bed still, by the telephone.

  “What?” he said, startled.

  “That tune. What is it?”

  “I don't know . . . an old nursery tune.”

  “How does it go?” Lou asked.

  Mulheisen set the gun down on the table and came back to where she sat. He took her by the shoulders and brought her to her feet. She came into his embrace and he sang softly in
to her hair, tunelessly:

  “The north wind shall blow,

  And we shall have snow.

  What will the robin do then, poor thing?”

  He released her. She turned back the covers and then undid the belt of the robe. She let the robe fall. She was very beautiful, he thought.

  In bed, she crooned the rest of the rhyme for him:

  “He'll sit in the barn,

  To keep himself warm,

  And tuck his head under his wing, poor thing.”

  Her hair spread softly across his chest. It was dark, and they listened to the snow ticking against the windows.

  Twenty-four

  Mulheisen sat up in bed. “This won't do,” he said. “I've got to call in. I've got to know what's going on.”

  Lou did not say anything.

  The telephone rang. Mulheisen snatched it up.

  A voice said, “Sergeant Mulheisen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Listen.”

  Mulheisen listened. There were clicks, then a series of low buzzes.

  “What the hell?” Mulheisen said.

  The buzzes were interrupted by another click, then a sleepy voice said, “Hello?”

  “Hello,” Mulheisen said.

  “Hello,” a third voice said.

  “Hello,” Mulheisen said.

  The third voice seemingly ignored Mulheisen, and went on to say, “Mr. Clippert?”

  “Who is this?” Clippert said.

  “You know who this is.”

  “What do you want?” Clippert said guardedly.

  “I want to talk to you. About some business.”

  “Business?”

  “It's about money.”

  “I see,” Clippert said. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Florida,” the voice said.

  “Well, I'll have to get back to you. There's a blizzard going on up here. Everything is shut down. I can't get out.”

  “I heard about the blizzard. You'll be able to get out tomorrow. Call me tomorrow. It's important, Mr. Clippert.”

  “I don't want to call you,” Clippert said. “I don't think that is a good idea. We'll have to think of something else.”

  “So? Think of something.”

  “Hmmmm.” That was Clippert. There was silence on the line. “How about if you call me again?”

  “This number?”

  “No. I don't think that's a good idea. Let's see . . . you could call me at my office, in a day or two . . . no, that won't do, either.”

  “I've got to go now. You think of something. I'll call again.”

  “When?”

  “I don't know.”

  There was the sound of two telephones hanging up, then another couple of clicks. A dry voice said, “This conversation originated in Miami, Florida, at 9:47 P.M., Eastern Standard Time, December twenty-fourth.” The line went dead.

  “Thanks,” Mulheisen said into the darkness.

  “Who was it?” Lou asked. “The precinct?”

  “No.” He got up to dress in the dark.

  “Is anything wrong?” she said. “Where are you going?”

  “We might be on to something,” Mulheisen said. “I'm going downstairs to wait.”

  “I'll come, too,” Lou said. She turned on the light and they both stood foolishly in its brightness, squinting. She put on his robe again and followed him downstairs.

  He went into the living room and found the bottle of calvados and poured himself a couple of fingers. “Want some?” he asked her.

  “No, thanks. I'll make some coffee.”

  He lit a cigar. The unfinished picture puzzle was on the floor. Mulheisen sat down cross-legged in front of it and studied the puzzle.

  Lou came back into the room from putting water on. She sat down next to him and leaned against him.

  “I have to wait now,” he said.

  She picked up a piece of pale-blue sky that had a tiny gold part. The gold part was the edge of a cornice on a palazzo that stood on the Grand Canal.

  “You don't mind if I wait, too?” she asked.

  He smiled. “No.”

  Together they fitted another ten pieces before the telephone rang again. Mulheisen took it on the wall phone in the kitchen.

  “Sergeant Mulheisen?” asked the dry voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Conversation number two.”

  Clickclick, buzzzzzz, buzzzzzzz, click. “Hello?” It was Clippert.

  “Clippert? I got a plan. I want you to talk to a friend of mine.”

  “Hello,” said a new voice. “Mr. Clippert? Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm a friend of your friend. He says you are having some difficulty making connections. I understand the problem.”

  “Put Byron back on,” snapped Clippert.

  “Uh-oh,” the third man said, “you made a boo-boo, there. Shouldn't mention names on this phone. It probably won't make any difference, but maybe you'll be more careful from now on. I'm not the law, Mr. Clippert, if that's what is bothering you. If I were, you wouldn't be talking to my friend right now. But here, let our mutual friend reassure you.”

  “Clippert? This guy's all right.”

  “How do I know that?” Clippert said angrily. “For all I know he's some cheap hood and you're cooking up dangerous plans. Dangerous, Byron. Get that?”

  “I get it,” Byron said. “But you better get wise. You don't have any choice in this. You better listen to my friend.”

  The third man came back on the line. “He's right, Mr. Clippert. You don't have any choice. But let's not discuss this on this phone. The problem is communications, right, Mr. Clippert?”

  “What do you suggest?” Clippert asked.

  “Communications are always problematical in a complex society,” the third man said. “The usual solution is simplification. That is what everybody tells me. But I believe in complication.”

  “Get to the point,” Clippert said.

  “I understand the weather is terrible up there.”

  Mulheisen could practically hear Clippert's teeth grinding.

  “So what?” Clippert said.

  “I hate to tell you this,” the man said, “but you have to go out into the cold night.”

  “What for?”

  “To find a safe phone. A phone booth. When you find one, call this number: 885-5101. It's a Detroit number. When they answer, say, ‘I want to talk about the South.’ Use those words. They'll give you a number where you can reach us again. I'd go right now, if I were you. They know you'll be calling.”

  “What kind of crap is this?” Clippert said. “Code words?”

  The other man laughed. “Well, forget the code words,” he said, “just tell them who you are.”

  “And who are you?” Clippert asked. “How do you fit into all this?”

  “We'll discuss that later. Good-by now, and Merry Christmas.”

  Click. There was a moment's silence, then another phone, presumably Clippert's, was hung up.

  Several more clicks, and the dry voice came on. “The preceding originated in Miami, Florida, at 11:03 P.M., Eastern Standard Time.” Click.

  Mulheisen looked at the kitchen clock. It was almost 1 A.M., Christmas Day. What had taken so long, he wondered? Probably the messages had to go through channels, had to be listened to by various decision-makers. He hoped that they had awakened U.S. Attorney James Clarke Dunn for final approval. Whatever the case, it was clear that Clippert had flown. Of course, he might return home after making his phone call.

  Mulheisen called the precinct. “This is Mulheisen. Who's got the duty tonight?”

  It was Jensen. “Somebody's got to stay,” he said. “I was lying down in the back room. You woke me up.”

  “Sorry,” Mulheisen said. “Look in the telephone directory, the one that has the numerical listings, and tell me who belongs to this number: 885-5101.”

  A minute later, Jensen said, “It's Poppie's Bar, on the east side. You know the joint.”

  “Yes. Carmine
Kusane, right?”

  Jensen did not deign to answer. He assumed it was not a real question, since every cop in Detroit knew who and what Carmine Kusane was.

  “Jensen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can a vehicle move anywhere at all tonight?”

  “The plows are out. They aren't making much progress, though.”

  “Can they get around?”

  “Yeah,” Jensen said.

  “How about a four-wheel drive?”

  “Maybe,” Jensen said.

  Mulheisen sighed. “Okay, thanks, Jensen. Good night.” Jensen hung up before he could get the final words out.

  Mulheisen stood by the kitchen phone for several minutes, not looking at anything. He dialed Clippert's number again. No answer. He hung up, wondering what he would have said if Clippert had answered. It occurred to him that he would have had his conversation recorded by the FBI.

  He walked back into the living room and stood there, staring at nothing. After a while he said, “Who's going where?”

  “What?” Lou asked.

  “In this weather Clippert can't be going anywhere, or at least not far,” Mulheisen said. “So where is he?”

  “I don't understand,” Lou said. Mulheisen told her about the taped phone calls.

  “I think they're trying to arrange a meeting,” he said.

  “It sounds like it,” Lou said. She shook her head sadly. “It's beginning to look like you were right. Arthur is involved with these people.” She stared down at the unfinished picture puzzle. Unthinkingly, she picked up a piece and fitted it into the Turner sky.

  Mulheisen walked about the room, thinking. Occasionally he wandered into the kitchen. Then he would return to the living room, throw himself into a chair and light up a cigar or sip calvados. He didn't seem very aware of Lou. He asked questions out loud, but they didn't seem to be addressed to her. “What's their big hurry?” he wondered. And, “Would they really try to set it up tonight?”

  “The sooner the better, I imagine,” Lou said. Mulheisen looked at her uncomprehendingly. “I mean, it's a perfect opportunity for Arthur to give the police the slip,” she said.