The Diehard (13 page)

“I would think it would be obvious,” Mulheisen said. “Mrs. Clippert was killed in the course of a burglary; Mr. Clippert had once seen and talked to the perpetrators of an earlier attempted burglary. It is conceivable that the earlier burglars could be the same ones who later broke into his house. Beyond that, we're assisting upstate officials in their investigation of a series of burglaries that occurred in the same area as Clippert's Jasper Lake house, at about the time he met these men. Since he is a lawyer, and an officer of the court, I'm sure he would be happy to cooperate in this investigation, despite the fact that earlier he helped to conceal a crime.”

Ferman sighed. Nodding at Clippert, he said, “Very well, ask your questions.”

“Who were the burglars?”

“I only recognized one of them,” Clippert said, “and I don't remember his name, if I ever knew it. Actually I didn't even
recognize him, at first. But he recognized me, he said, and mentioned an incident from a few years ago and then I recollected him. He didn't mention his name, however, and I didn't think to ask it.”

“What was the earlier incident?” Mulheisen asked.

“Uh, an auto accident,” Clippert said. “Just a minor thing, really. I had bumped into his car at an intersection, here in Detroit. I had been drinking a bit, I suppose. Rather than go to a lot of trouble with insurance companies and police reports and so on, I offered the fellow some money. Fifty dollars, I think it was. There was very little damage to his car, and it was clearly my fault. He was good enough to accept the money and go on his way. I figured I had avoided a ticket, and it could have cost me fifty anyway, to say nothing of bad publicity, so the man was doing me a favor. So, now I returned the favor, that's all.”

Mulheisen shook his head. “You don't seem to like to report things to the police, do you? When was this accident? Where did it take place? Were there any witnesses?”

Ferman intervened at this point. “Mr. Clippert is being cooperative, Mulheisen. I don't see any need for this kind of bullying.”

“Oh, that's all right, Homer,” Clippert said. “I don't mind answering these questions. It happened three years ago, I think in March. Jane was with me at the time. We were coming from a party at a friend's house, quite late. I was driving a Buick at the time, and if you want to check with Al's Collision, I think you'll find that I had some front-end repairs done on the Buick.”

Mulheisen puffed on his cigar. “Okay. I'm glad you're being cooperative, Clippert. But this story sounds pretty vague to me. What did this guy look like, for instance? It could help us in the upstate burglary investigation.”

“Oh, he was young, in his twenties. A kind of short stocky guy, with short blond hair.”

“What did the other burglar look like?”

“About the same as the other guy, in age, also short, only he was dark and, oh yes, he had a mustache.”

“I'd like you to look at some mug shots, Clippert, to see if you can recognize these fellows. It could be very important. Also, I'd like to know if you are willing to sign a formal statement to the effect that what you've just told me about this incident—including
the auto accident—is true, and that it was a voluntary statement made in the presence of your attorney.”

“I'll be glad to cooperate,” Clippert said.

For another hour, with the assistance of a stenographer and a typist, they labored over the statement which was then signed and witnessed. Mulheisen gave a copy to Ferman.

Clippert was ready then to look at the mug shots.

“One other thing,” Mulheisen said. “Do you know a man named John Byron Wienoshek?”

Clippert stopped at the office door and looked puzzled. “You mentioned that name last night, on the telephone,” he said. “I don't believe I know the fellow.”

“Think carefully,” Mulheisen said. “You were in the Air Force, for instance. Could you have known him there?”

“It's possible,” Clippert said, “but I don't recall him.”

“How about an Airman Wienoshek whom you were appointed to defend in a court-martial at Lockbourne Air Force Base in 1962, a charge of attempted burglary?”

Clippert clapped his hand to his head. “Oh, yes! Of course. How could I have forgotten? I won that case. My God, that's ages ago, just before I got out of the service. But what about him?”

“Attempted burglary,” Mulheisen said. “I thought he might be the man involved in your burglaries, but he doesn't resemble the description you gave at all. Still, he could be the man involved in the burglary in which your wife was killed.”

Mulheisen stood up then and said good-by to the two men. “Sergeant Maki will help you on the mug shots,” he said. “As for me, I've got a luncheon appointment.”

Twenty

In the morning the sun was shining. It had been that way every day this week. He woke up and looked out the window and was surprised again. It wasn't that he didn't expect the sun to be shining. Consciously, he knew it was right. But something in the back of his mind told him it was wrong.

Well, this is Florida, he told himself. I've been living in Ontario too long.

So he got up and dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and thin slacks and wore dark glasses when he went out. He drank the freshly squeezed orange juice, ate a big breakfast, and read the
Miami Herald.
He didn't like the
Herald.
The funnies were in the wrong place and he didn't like the looks of the sports page.

In the afternoon he went to the race track and lost money. At night he went to the dog track and lost money. It didn't bother him; he still had a lot left.

He would go downtown and buy a Detroit newspaper and sit on a park bench to read it. Then he would throw it away. He didn't want anyone to see him reading a Detroit newspaper.

At other times he walked along the beach in sandals and Bermuda shorts. He stopped to look at the dried-out Portuguese man-of-war that had washed up on the beach. An old black man
was raking the sand, raking away the man-of-wars. He stopped to talk to the old man. They were almost the only people visible on the beach, although the weather was very fine and the sea was warm.

The old man said that he was from Jamaica, but that in order to get into the United States he had to move to Canada first. He had lived in Toronto, he said. He hadn't liked it. After a while they had let him come to the States and he came directly to Miami.

“Toronto no damn good, mon,” the old man said. “No sun. Cloudy all day.”

The big man said he understood, but all the same he liked it in Toronto, himself.

The old man smiled. “Maybe it's okay, mon. But too damn cold.”

That afternoon the man bought himself a paperback copy of Byron's poetry. He put on swim trunks, covered himself with suntan lotion, and settled in a lounge chair by the big hotel pool. He drank gin and tonic and read the poetry, surrounded by elderly Jewish women. They wore swimsuits that were too youthful for them. They noticed him and thought he looked sexy. They were intrigued by the fact that he was big and rough looking, yet he was reading poetry. Some of them asked the waiters who he was.

“Mr. Gordon,” they were told. “He is registered as George Gordon, of Chicago.”

The name meant nothing to the ladies. But he must be rich, they thought. This is a rich hotel. He is a rich tough guy who reads poetry, they told each other. They supposed that a man who read poetry was sensitive, no matter how tough he looked.

Mr. Gordon
was
sensitive. He was sensitive to heat. He disliked the hot Miami sun. And he was sensitive to another kind of heat. The kind that is known as the Heat.

At about four in the afternoon, Mr. Gordon became very sensitive to the Heat. He felt restless. He looked around frequently. There was nobody there, just old ladies with blue hair and dark glasses. Very few men, except for the cabana boys and the waiters. He supposed the men were either dead or still working themselves to death in New York.

Mr. Gordon was restless and felt out of it. I should be working, he thought. Other men are working, but I have nothing to do.

And then he saw the Heat.

He was short and stocky with thick black hair and wore a tiny swim suit. He came out by the edge of the pool and removed his sunglasses. He took off his sandals and left them with his sunglasses and towel. He dove into the pool and swam back and forth the length of the pool with powerful strokes. He was the only person in the pool. The ladies watched.

He got out of the pool and swept his wet black hair back with both hands. Then he put on his glasses and looked around, hands on hips. Little droplets of water gleamed on his very muscular torso. He had at least the beginnings of a tan, unlike Mr. Gordon, who had put his shirt on to keep from getting sunburnt.

Mr. Gordon watched him over the edge of his book.

The man strolled along the pool and flopped into a lounge chair next to Mr. Gordon.

“Whew,” the man said. “Out of shape.” He slapped his stomach, which was so flat and muscular that it almost didn't seem to have skin on it.

He beckoned to the waiter and ordered a vodka and tonic. Then he leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Ah, that sun. That's great, isn't it?” There was nobody else near them, so Mr. Gordon had to assume that the man was talking to him.

Mr. Gordon grunted something that may or may not have been agreement.

“Just think of those poor saps up north, slogging through the snow,” the man said. “That makes this even better.”

Mr. Gordon grunted again.

“Now this is the way to spend Christmas,” the man said. “Don't you agree?”

Mr. Gordon lowered his book and looked with his dark glasses at the dark glasses of the man. The man looked at him.

“It's all right,” Mr. Gordon said.

“All right? It's better than all right. It's terrific!”

“Depends on what you like,” Mr. Gordon said.

The boy came back with the man's drink and Mr. Gordon asked for another gin and tonic. “Make it a double,” he said.

The man sat up and held out his hand. “Service,” he said. “Joe Service, at yo’ service.” And he laughed.

Mr. Gordon took the man's hand, briefly. “Hello,” he said. He looked intently at Service and thought, This is the Heat. He was certain of it. But he was a strange kind of Heat. Mr. Gordon couldn't quite put his finger on it. But there was something wrong. For one thing, the guy was too small to be a cop.

“What's your name?” Service asked.

“Gordon.”

“Gordon what?”

“George Gordon,” the big man said, reluctantly.

“Gordon,” Service said, “that's funny.”

“Funny?”

“Sure. Your name is George Gordon and you're reading Lord Byron.”

“So what?”

“So, that was his real name.”

Mr. Gordon felt cold. “What do you mean?” he said slowly, “his real name?”

“Byron's real name. His family name. George Gordon, Lord Byron. See, his real name was George Gordon and then when he inherited the title he became Lord Byron.”

Mr. Gordon relaxed slightly. “I see. I guess I knew that but it slipped my mind.”

Service sipped his drink. “Oh, that's all right,” he said. “Most people don't know that. It's the same with movie stars. How many people know that Roy Rogers’ real name is Leonard Slye?”

“Leonard Slye?” Mr. Gordon smiled, despite himself.

“That's right,” Service said. “And you know who Cary Grant used to be?”

“No.”

“Get this. Archibald Leach!”

“You're putting me on,” Mr. Gordon said.

“No, I'm not,” Service said. He spoke with sudden intentness.

Mr. Gordon just looked at him, waiting.

Service laughed. “Lots of people change their names, these days,” he said. “All kinds of people. Show business people, people
who are running away from another life. Why, I even knew a farmer, in Iowa, who changed his name.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. He was a Bohemie. A Bohemian. Lots of Bohemians in the part of Iowa I come from. Anyway, this farmer's name was Someshit. Well actually, it was Zumcek, Z-U-M-C-E-K. Really, it should be pronounced ‘Zumchick,’ but everybody called him ‘Someshit.’ “ Service laughed. “So, old Someshit goes to probate court and tells the judge he wants his name altered. Get it? All-turd. Ha ha ha hahahaha.”

Mr. Gordon stared at Service. He did not smile.

Service flopped back in his wooden lounger, still laughing. “Oh, it's a pretty bad joke, I guess. Sorry about that.”

Gordon was amazed. What the hell is this? The Heat makes jokes?

Service took a long drink of his vodka and tonic. “Ah, that's great,” he said. Then, “Yeah, lots of people change their names. Especially writers. You know that guy David St. John, wrote a whole bunch of spy novels? He was really E. Howard Hunt, the Watergate guy.”

“You know a lot about names,” Mr. Gordon said. “How about your own? Service? Is that for real?”

“Yeah, but, there too, it's been changed. My grandfather was named Guido Surface, pronounced ‘sir-fah-chee,’ “ he explained. “He came over on the boat and he wanted to go into the restaurant business. So he figured that ‘Service’ would be a good business name. Or else he just didn't like the way the immigration people pronounced his real name.”

Mr. Gordon downed his gin and tonic and ordered another double.

“Names fascinate me,” Service said. “Now, you take a name like, say, Wienoshek. The average person looks at that name and thinks, Wieno? Like wiener? Or maybe they think, Wino? Actually, I imagine that wiener is closer to the origins of the name. It probably comes from Wien, which is German for Vienna. That's the origin of wiener, you know. Vienna sausage—wiener sausage. Maybe this Wienoshek's ancestors came from Vienna, originally, before they moved to Czechoslovakia.”

“Names are beginning to bore me,” Mr. Gordon said. “What else are you interested in?”

“I'm much more interested in money,” Mr. Service said.

Mr. Gordon shrugged. “So is everybody.”

“Especially twenty million bucks,” Service said.

“Twenty million? Like you say, it's interesting.”

“Yes,” Service said. “Twenty million. You know what I do for a living, Mr. Gordon? I'm a finder. Somebody wants to find something, or somebody, they come to me. I'm good at it. Usually, I get a flat fee. I don't mind telling you that my fee is higher than the fee paid to any other man in my profession. But sometimes I work on commission. Especially if I'm looking for lots of money. Then I have a sliding scale.”

“Sounds like interesting work,” Mr. Gordon said.

“Interesting? Hah! You're damn right it's interesting. It may not look like it, Mr. Gordon, but I'm on a case right this minute.” He laughed. “That's right! Even as I sit here in this lovely Florida sun, drinking vodka.”

Mr. Gordon was restless again. He was also baffled. Was this the Heat, or wasn't it? He drank deeply from his glass of gin.

“Am I boring you again, Mr. Gordon?”

Mr. Gordon did not look at him. He looked across the pool at two blue-haired ladies in bikinis. They didn't look too bad, for sixty-year-olds. Their flesh was still fairly smooth and firm. They didn't look young, but many women in their forties would like to look like that, Mr. Gordon thought. He tried to imagine his old mother in a swimsuit, then pushed the notion out of his mind, embarrassed.

“I wonder how they do it?” he said.

“What? Who?” Mr. Service looked where Mr. Gordon was looking. “Oh, them. Good living. Tennis, masseuses, cosmetic surgery . . .”

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Gordon said. “What were you saying?”

Service laughed and shook his head. “You're too much, Mr. Gordon. Here I am talking about twenty million and you're looking at a couple of old bats in bikinis.”

Mr. Gordon turned and looked at Service. “All right, Service, let's drop the comedy routine. What's your story?”

“Twenty million. Actually, ten percent. That's my fee this time. So I'm really only talking about two million. Fifty-fifty. A million apiece.”

Mr. Gordon frowned. “You're coming in about one-by,” he said.

“One-by?”

“That's radio talk,” Mr. Gordon said. “If you're not receiving a transmission very well, you say it's one-by. Or maybe two-by. If you're hearing it loud and clear, you say it's five-by.”

“Fascinating,” Service said. “I'll give it to you loud and clear, then. I'm talking about a man in Detroit, name is Clippert. Is that five-by?”

Mr. Gordon nodded slightly. “Name's familiar.”

“Yes, the Flying Clipper,” Service said. “Something like twenty million Mr. Clippert has, or had. In cash. Or maybe it's in negotiable bonds. We're not sure.”

“We?” Mr. Gordon said.

“My clients and I.”

“Who are your clients?” Mr. Gordon wanted to know.

“At last,” Service smiled, “some interest. But who my clients are is no immediate concern of yours. Not yet. But I will say that Mr. Clippert is not one of them. Mr. Gordon, my clients are not nice people. Of course, Mr. Clippert isn't so nice himself. Anyway, we figure that the Flying Clipper doesn't really own that twenty million. That twenty million is up for grabs, Mr. Gordon. And that's where I come in. I may be short, but you ought to see me on a jump ball. And I figure you're probably good in the jump circle too.”

Mr. Gordon sat back in his lounge chair. He signaled the waiter for another double gin. “I don't know anything about basketball,” he said, “or any twenty million.”

Joe Service sighed. “All right, here it is. Five-by. About a week ago, somebody—just a couple of snatch-and-grab artists—broke into Mr. Clippert's house. Now maybe they were just after a couple of color televisions. But they didn't take any color televisions. I don't know what they did take. But I do know that Clippert had twenty million. The boys who broke in left the TV's. They also left
a dead woman. Or, to be more exact, they left a woman for dead, only she didn't die right away.”

“Didn't die?” Mr. Gordon was intensely interested. He looked very thoughtful. Then he said, “So what?”

“She lived long enough to walk next door. There's a chance she might have said something before she died. The cops won't say.”

“It doesn't matter,” Mr. Gordon said firmly.

“Possibly not. What matters is twenty million. I want to know where it is. I mean to find out. Now if those boys took it . . . well, actually, only one of them is still alive. If he's got it, the money, we're willing to let him keep a whole million of it for himself. He'll be a millionaire. And he won't have to worry about what the woman said to the cops. We'll help this enterprising lad out of the country, if that's what he wants. We think he's an amateur, see? We think that, left to his own devices, the cops will get him. There's all kinds of cops on this case. Not just Detroit cops. So far, none of the federal agencies seem to have tumbled to the idea that the amateurs may have gotten the money. But they will.