The Diehard (8 page)

Twelve

The funeral was held at Trinity Lutheran Church, a Gothic pile on Gratiot Avenue. There were over a hundred mourners, many of them looking warm and comfortable in mink. Clippert sat austerely alone in the front. The casket was black and silver and was closed. Mulheisen spotted Lou Spencer among the mourners and approached her after the ceremony.

She was properly somber, but her expression lightened when she saw Mulheisen. “I haven't heard from you, Sergeant,” she said.

“I thought it was ‘Mul,’ “ he said. “I didn't want to rush you off your feet.” He looked around at the crowd that had come out of the church. Arthur Clippert was moving among them, accepting condolences and shaking hands. Occasionally he offered his cheek to the peck of what was apparently an old friend of his wife's family.

“Do you know all these people?” he asked Lou.

“Not all of them,” she said. “They're mostly lawyers and socialites. Not many politicians. I guess they're afraid of the press associating them with someone who is involved in a scandal.”

“So far he hasn't been very involved,” Mulheisen said. “See anybody here who was, or might have been, a lover of Jane's?”

Lou looked at him in amazement. “God, you are a pig,” she
said, then smiled. “Just like you fascists, trying to make me into a running dog. Get the innocent to do your dirty work.”

“Innocent, are you? I'll bear that in mind. By the way, why is there no burial service? I take it we're just supposed to leave.”

Lou nodded. “It's rather unusual. I assume it has something to do with the police.”

“No,” Mulheisen said. “The coroner has released the body. I'll have to check it out. What time is it, anyway?”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “Almost lunchtime,” she said.

“Well, we all have to eat, don't we?”

“Life goes on,” she said.

“I don't suppose you would care to join me?”

“Did you bring your lunch?” she said. “We could sit in the car.”

“No, I was thinking more like Coney Islands, downtown.”

She laughed. “Fine. I'll just go say a word to Arthur.”

“Say hello for me,” Mulheisen said. “I'll be with you in a moment.”

Mulheisen went inside to where the coffin still sat before the altar. A group of young men in dark suits were obviously waiting for the crowd to clear before removing the casket to the hearse that waited at the steps of the church. Mulheisen walked over to them and chatted for minute, then left. As he went down the steps of the church toward Lou, his eye caught Arthur Clippert's. Clippert nodded grimly and turned away.

Since she had her own car, Mulheisen arranged to meet Lou at Pinky's, a pleasant little restaurant out on Jefferson, near the Belle Isle Bridge. The restaurant was located in an old house that was reputed to have been a whiskey smuggler's joint back during Prohibition. Then, during World War II, someone had told little Mul that Nazi POW's trying to escape into Canada had been caught in the house. He remembered riding by the place on the Jefferson Avenue streetcar, on his way to the ball game with his father, and thinking with delight, “Right there! Nazis!” It was a notion that still delighted Mulheisen.

The restaurant was unpretentious, the food was good, and it was one of Mulheisen's favorite places. When they were seated in a little room upstairs, Mulheisen told Lou the supposed history of
Pinky's. She laughed and said she had never heard that and doubted it was true.

“I like the part about the Nazi hideout best,” he said.

“I'd have thought you would go for the smuggler story,” she said, “being an intrepid sleuth, and all that.”

“Nah. By the way, how was your conversation with Clippert?”

“Rather sad, actually. He was very calm and cool. I thought he'd be a little broken up, at least. But not Arthur. The man is like polished chrome, one of those brilliant sculptures by Brancusi.” She seemed annoyed.

“How's that?”

“Well, he's very beautiful and all that, but when you look closely all you see is your own reflection.”

“You had an affair with him, didn't you?” Mulheisen said.

Lou blushed, then she was defensive. “So what if I did? Anyway, it wasn't really an affair. I simply went to bed with him. A single occasion.” As she talked on, she dropped her defensive tone and became more speculative. “It's that gorgeous surface. It's very attractive.”

“Perhaps women just like to look into mirrors,” Mulheisen said wryly.

“Poof. It's not just that. He has a great act. He can seem deeply interested for minutes at a time, I mean interested in
you.
”

“But it's not so, is it?” Mulheisen said.

She shook her head. “No. Not at all. But he fooled me, for a few hours. But before the night was over I was furious with myself. I think he could have had the decency to play out his game, but perhaps I wasn't accomplished enough for him. Just another scalp, I suppose.”

“You might have been lucky,” Mulheisen observed. “How do you suppose it was with Jane? Not that you were thinking of Jane at the time, obviously.”

Lou colored. “You cops are pretty tough on us poor sinners,” she said. Then she laughed. “I deserve it, of course. And yes, I did consider myself lucky, thinking about it later. I imagine it could be pretty tough on a woman who loved him, and was able to convince herself that he cared for her.”

“Might even be a motive for murder,” Mulheisen said, “for the woman, I mean. Not for him, unless . . . unless he was very tired of her and she had some means, some lever to hold him to her.”

“What?” she said. “You mean money? He has plenty.”

“Plenty as far as I'm concerned,” Mulheisen said, “but maybe he wanted a lot more.”

“I don't buy that,” she said. “Arthur may be a prick, but I don't think he would kill for an inheritance.”

“No,” Mulheisen said, “especially since I've found out that he will not inherit her anticipated fortune.” He told her about the Ducks Unlimited provision of the will.

Lou laughed.

“It's no joke,” Mulheisen said. “I suppose he could take the will to court, but now I guess he won't have to. Jane's life was insured for a million dollars.”

Lou looked serious. “Uh-oh,” she said.

“Yeah,” Mulheisen said, and fell silent.

Their lunch came and they talked of lighter things. Mulheisen began to feel very pleased with himself. He had eaten well, he had his second bourbon and water, and he was sitting in the old Nazi hideout with a pretty woman who was also amusing and evidently liked sitting here with him.

“I feel sorry for Arthur,” she said suddenly.

“Don't,” Mulheisen said. “He's got problems, but he can take care of himself.”

“Oh, it isn't just that,” she said. “I don't know how much those problems are of his own making. I don't believe, for instance, that he was really involved in that Fidelity Funding scandal—it's not his style. He's more of a loner—”

“The eternal halfback,” Mulheisen said, interrupting some-what peevishly. “Except that the halfback who looks so gorgeous down there, making fools of the downfield tacklers as he scampers for a touchdown, has to have some hard-working blockers before he can step out and strut his stuff. Well, it looks like he has some mighty good blockers now. He's in the backfield and streaking. The only question is, now that he has outrun his blockers, can he make
it? And if he does, who gets the six points? Clippert, or the home team?”

“That's just it,” she said, “he's all alone. He always has been, or thought he was, I guess. That's what I saw, of course, his coldness and aloofness. I mean, after we . . . Anyway, lots of people are isolated, but most of them know it. They struggle against it. But I'm not sure that Arthur does know it. I think he really believed that he was a one-man show. And Jane was so selfless, once she found the man she wanted, anyway . . . I'm sure she must have buffered him and helped him, and probably didn't let him know it. And he wouldn't notice, of course. But now, he'll have to face it.”

“He won't be as alone as you think,” Mulheisen said.

“What do you mean?”

“Something different than you do. You're talking about emotional isolation, I take it. That's one thing. There is also physical isolation. And that's one thing he's not going to have much of, whether he knows it or not.

“Incidentally, I found out why there was no burial service. The ‘remains,’ as the undertaker's boys put it, are to be held in storage until spring, at which time they will be removed to the Clippert estate in Jasper Lake and interred in a, quote, ‘suitable memorial,’ end quote, which Clippert is planning.”

“That seems rather sweet,” Lou said.

“Perhaps. I've always been suspicious of monuments, myself. Who do they really honor?”

“You're just suspicious by nature,” Lou said. “Maybe that's why you're so good at what you do.”

Mulheisen leaned across the table and did his best Bogart imitation. “Baby,” he said, “you don't know
how
good.”

Thirteen

Joe Service was in town. So far, nobody was aware of it. There were people waiting for him at the airport since noon. It was now 11
P.M.
and Joe was downtown. That was the way he worked. Very devious.

The thing was, Joe liked his privacy. But in his business, privacy was a difficult thing to maintain. Too many people were interested in him. They wanted to know where he was all the time. His clients wanted to know more about him; the police were always interested. But so far, nobody knew much except that he got results.

“I don't guarantee,” Joe would say, and then he would deliver.

To look at Joe Service you would think, Here is a city boy, born and bred. He was a short man with heavy black hair and thick eyebrows. He was not handsome, but he wasn't plug ugly, either. He smiled a lot, and that helped. Also, he looked intelligent, and that helped, since a lot of people will forgive homeliness for wit. He looked like he came out of the darkest heart of Brooklyn.

Except that he had such a deep tan. The fact was, Joe did come from Brooklyn, but for a long time he had lived in the mountainous West. Lately, he had a little cabin that was closer to Helper, Utah, than any other place. It was little more than a base camp. All he
did there was practice with a Colt .38 and hike around the mountains. He drove his pickup truck long distances, to Green River to fish, or up to Idaho to hunt. Occasionally his city breeding would assert itself, and then he would drive into Helper to catch the Denver & Rio Grande to Denver or Salt Lake City. If the cabin fever got real bad, he would take the Amtrak to Reno, or even San Francisco. Joe loved trains.

No matter where he went, once a week he called an answering service in one of three cities—San Francisco, Miami or New York. That was how he heard about a job in Detroit. He was ready to work. He called some contacts in New York and Chicago, to get further information about the nature of this Detroit job. And then he was enthusiastic. So he called Detroit and said he would come.

His original plan was to take the train to Salt Lake and fly directly to Detroit, via Chicago. But when he got to Helper, he changed his mind and caught the train east. He fooled around in Denver for a day and took the Amtrak to Chicago.

In Chicago, he called his clients in Detroit and said he would arrive at Metropolitan Airport around noon. He even went out to O'Hare. But there he got hooked into an old familiar exercise of his and wasted a lot of time. He had a drink at one of the stand-up bars and picked out a face that looked like the straightest, most uninteresting guy there. Then he began to follow the man. All over the airport. To the magazine counter, the bathroom, to another stand-up bar. The man never noticed him, although Joe was not exactly an inconspicuous person. At last Joe followed him into the big restaurant and got seated next to him. In ten minutes he had picked out the man's life story. It was a very boring story and had a lot to do with chemical fertilizers and Grandview, Missouri.

So Joe took the Amtrak to Detroit. Now it was eleven at night, instead of noon, and he was downtown instead of at the airport. His deviousness went so far as to allow him to take a cab fifteen miles out to Metro. Once there, it was easy to pretend that he had just gotten off a flight.

He checked his bag in a coin box and strolled around the terminal. By midnight he had figured out who his contact was. A heavy man in a blue overcoat. Joe walked up to him and said, “I'm Joe Service.”

“You're late,” the man said. He was surprised that Joe was so short.

“Been here for hours,” Joe said. “Came in on another flight, from Milwaukee.”

The man shrugged. It was no big deal. He was paid to wait. They went out to a white Continental, which was warm because a driver had been sitting in it since noon. It smelled like a cigar.

On the way to Detroit, the fat man provided Joe with all the information he possessed about Arthur Clippert. He also provided five thousand dollars in cash. A retainer, he said. He also provided a Colt .38 revolver and a box of ammunition. Joe put the money and the weapon in his topcoat pockets.

“We don't expect you to use that,” the man said, “and we want it back.”

Service nodded. “I'd have brought my own, but these metal detectors . . .”

“That's all right. We'll help you all we can, but basically, we hear you like to work alone. That's fine with us. You just do your number. When and if you find the money, though, we want to know about it right away. We want to be there when you pick it up.”

“That may not be possible,” Joe said.

“If it ain't possible, okay. But try to make it possible. We didn't bring you in at this expense, rep or no rep, just to get euchred on the payoff. We want to be there.” The fat man smiled. “See? We trust you, Joe. But we're careful.”

Joe did not smile. “You don't have to trust me. You trust the Big Guy. He knows who I am and so do I. It's how I stay alive.” Then he smiled. “I don't guarantee. I just do my best. Now, what do the cops think?”

The white Continental plunged into the concrete ditch of the freeway system. “Screw the cops,” the fat man said. “What do they know? All they're worried about is his old lady got taken off. We want to know about the money. Everybody knows the bastard is holding, but how much? And where? He could have stashed it in a hundred banks, but we figure it's not too far away, most of it anyway, cause he has to use it. He might even have it in his house.”

“Was that your guys who broke into the house and did the wife?”

“Not us,” the fat man said. “We don't know who, yet. Amateurs. All we know is there was two of them and one of them was a cabdriver, maybe. We'd like to know more about them, but don't waste time on it unless you think that's where the money is.”

Service nodded. “You people weren't into Fidelity Funding, then?”

“More amateurs,” the fat man said. “But they had a sweet deal going. They just didn't know how to keep it going. Too many assholes involved. The word got out. But that computer kid was pretty sharp. We been talking to him. We could use a guy like that. Naw, they blew it, but let's face it, they still managed to rip off the all-time bundle. And they still got it. Question is, for how long?” The fat man spoke authoritatively, like a literary critic who has seen a fascinating but obviously marred work of genius.

“We booked you a room at the Statler, Joe, and we got you a car. We even got you a chauffeur, since you probably don't know your way around town too well. The boss wanted to meet with you, but"—he looked at his watch—"it's late, and you're probably beat. Call this number in the morning.” He handed Joe a slip of paper. “We'll set up a meeting.”

“Thanks,” Joe said.

The Continental pulled off the freeway and turned onto a side street and stopped next to a dark-blue Chevy. The man behind the wheel of the Chevy waved. Joe carried his bag to the back seat of the Chevy. The Continental left.

“You're late,” the driver said. He was a young man. The car was full of cigarette smoke.

“You mind not smoking?” Joe said. “It bothers me.”

“You don't smoke?” the driver said. He weaved quickly through the snowy streets.

“No. Let's go downtown. I want to check out the local talent. You know a place?”

The driver laughed. “Sure do. We'll go to Johnny's. Ginch up the ying-yang.”

“Don't drive so fast,” Joe said. “There's no hurry. And stop at a drugstore. I need some Rolaids.”

“Rolaids. You got an ulcer, or something?”

“Just a bad stomach. I can't stand that airplane food.”

The driver pulled up at a corner drugstore and parked illegally.

“Be right out,” Joe said. He walked in the front door and moved directly toward the pharmacist's counter in the rear, then veered out a side entrance onto the side street and walked quickly away. Within a block he found a cab. He rode it to a bar on the other side of downtown and went in for a drink and to check the telephone directory. He made a call, then called another cab. He rode to a place where he could catch a suburban bus.

An hour later he was comfortably lodged in a motel in Royal Oak. He felt fine. The dodging around was good exercise. He had a safe gun, he had five thousand dollars, and he had a distinct absence of heavy breathing over his shoulder. Now he could work. He called the number the fat man had given him. After the angry noises had died down he explained that he was here to do the job. He would do it his way. Period. If they didn't like it, he would go home. Also, the five thousand dollars was a paltry retainer and he would consider it expense money. For the job, he would work on a straight commission—10 percent of whatever he found. If they didn't like it, they should check with the following number in New York City.

There was a lot more noise about that, but finally it was agreed upon.

Joe slept well. In the morning he started calling taxicab companies, asking for work. A lot of the companies needed drivers, but he was able to eliminate those that didn't. It was a start. Now he would have to go and find out why they needed drivers.

He went to breakfast down the street, at a small workingman's joint called Eat. He saw the headlines:
GANGLAND SLAYING?