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!”
“You can't talk to me like that, Mulheisen,” Clippert shrieked.
“He's nuts,” Wienoshek said. “The bastard'll sit in there till we all freeze.”
“You're probably right,” Mulheisen said, “but I have to try.
“Okay, Clippert,” he yelled, “it's time. Time to quit acting like a punk and start acting like a man.”
“What would you know about it, Mulheisen?” Clippert answered.
“I'll tell you what I know,” Mulheisen snapped back, “you killed your wife, you double-crossed all your buddies, and now you're hiding in a room waiting to get your ass blown off!”
“I didn't kill my wife!”
“You had her killed. It's the same thing. If you ask me, it's worse. You couldn't do your own dirty work. You're a goddamn coward, Clippert!”
“I'm a coward? I'm a coward?” Clippert shrieked. “I'll show you who's a coward!”
With that there was a terrific crash and the door to the end room splintered.
Mulheisen snapped on the light in his own room and leaped across the hallway into the security of darkness, using the light from the room he had just left to get a fix on Clippert. He saw immediately what had happened.
Clippert was tangled up in the wreckage of the shattered door. It had not simply flown open when he charged it because it was a door that opened into the room, not into the hall. Clippert struggled with the splintered frame, tearing his clothes and waving the .45 wildly.
Mulheisen stepped forward swiftly and slashed at the weaving face with his pistol butt. The butt caught Clippert across the bridge of the nose and he fell backwards into the end room, crashing onto his back.
A second later, Mulheisen heard crashing noise in the lighted room and tinkling of glass. He raced back to the room in time to catch Wienoshek in the act of crawling through the broken window onto the roof of the porch.
“Hold it!” he shouted.
Wienoshek stopped, one leg out the window. He stared at the pistol in Mulheisen's hand with frustration, then he gave it up. “Damn,” he said. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“Get in here.”
They went into the end room and turned on the light. Clippert lay on the floor, groaning, his hands to his battered and bleeding face.
“Face the wall, hands outstretched,” Mulheisen snapped at Wienoshek. The man obeyed calmly. Mulheisen kicked Clippert viciously in the ankle.
“On your feet,” Mulheisen rasped. Clippert got up slowly, still clutching at his face. Mulheisen seized him by the shoulder of his overcoat and slammed him face forward into the wall across from Wienoshek. Clippert yelled with pain. Mulheisen hammered him across the back of the head with his left forearm.
“Shut up! Get your arms up. Higher! Get those feet spread!” He kicked Clippert's feet farther apart. The man was braced against the wall now, his head hanging. Drops of blood spattered on the polished hardwood floor. Mulheisen patted him down quickly.
He had the two men covered nicely now. He found Clippert's automatic where it had fallen and kicked it into the closet. He pulled out the .44 that he had taken from Wienoshek earlier and threw that into the closet with the automatic and closed the door.
Mulheisen stood back from the men and tried to calm his heavy breathing. When he was more relaxed he began to consider what came next.
“Is the phone connected, Clippert?”
“Service cut the line when we came in,” Wienoshek said.
“Nice, real nice,” Mulheisen said. “All right, that settles it then. We walk.”
They collected Wienoshek's overcoat and Mulheisen's parka and set off. He marched the men in front of him, hands in their coat pockets. The lane was snowy and cold. It was well below zero, but at least there was no wind. Fortunately it was a clear night with a half-moon and a sky bristling with stars. The
y could see well enough.
The Powerwagon was gone, of course. Mulheisen cursed Service from the bottom of his heart. Not only had Service hotwired the Powerwagon, but he had disabled the other two vehicles, smashing the distributor caps and removing the rotors. They had a longer walk yet ahead of them.
The men gave Mulheisen no trouble. They stepped briskly along, their shoulders hunched against the cold and hands jammed deep in their pockets. It was three miles to the farmhouse where Mulheisen had stopped for directions. By the time they got there, their faces were numb and their feet were like blocks of ice.
Mulheisen had never felt so exhausted.
The Last Chapter
The prisoners sat at the kitchen table while Mulheisen talked to the county sheriff on the telephone. The farmer's guests, at Mulheisen's request, stayed in the living room but the entryway was crowded with faces and there was a lot of conversation.
The farmer's wife pressed food and coffee on her three unexpected visitors. Mulheisen accepted coffee and was grateful when the farmer got out a dusty, half-full bottle of bourbon from a top cupboard shelf and poured a generous portion into the coffee. Clippert would take nothing. He sat staring at the floor, occasionally fingering his broken nose with hesitant fingers.
Wienoshek was not so shy. He readily accepted a large plate of sliced turkey with warmed-up gravy and dressing. He talked cheerfully to the farmer as he ate, enjoying the audience that hung out of the living-room entryway.
“This guy's one hell of a cop,” he told them, gesturing toward Mulheisen. “You should have seen him. A regular Wyatt Earp. Hey, anyone got a cigarette?”
“Shut up, Wienoshek,” Mulheisen said.
When they had finished their coffee, Mulheisen herded his prisoners into a bedroom. He sat by the open door, covering them. They sat on opposite sides of the bed. Wienoshek smoked a cigarette. The farmer's wife had bandaged his arm wound, which turned out not to be serious, although he had lost a good deal of blood. It didn't seem to bother him.
While they waited for the sheriff, Wienoshek chatted. “Where did you get that parka, Mulheisen?”
“Air Force.”
The Diehard Page 21