The Diehard (7 page)

The third shot slammed him onto his back into a shallow ditch. He lay there, trying to clear his vision. He looked up and saw nothing. The sky was a gray overcast so solid and of such a texture that there were no features to it, no seams. It looked like there was nothing there. For a great second he lay on his back, as alive as he had ever been. Then he arched his back, as if to breathe. And then he wasn't there at all.

Byron looked around him. There were no cars on the perimeter road, nobody in sight over the flat fields, nothing but crows flapping toward a patch of woods. The airliners landed and took off. A brightly colored pickup truck drove toward the GCA shack a mile away. The wind swept debris against the fence.

Byron began to strip Elroy naked in the snow. Methodically he removed the overcoat, shoes, socks, pants, underwear. He took the remaining money and the jewelry and put them in the pockets of his leather jacket. He went back to the car and got the little Pan-Am bag. He put all of Elroy's things in the bag.

The little man now lay completely naked, his eyes staring at the gray sky, his mouth open. It began to snow, just a few thin flakes that fell into the open mouth and melted. There were three dark holes in the chest and stomach. Byron knelt beside the body and formed the limp right hand into a fist. He laid the .44 Magnum next to the fingers and pulled the trigger. The fingers flew away. He did the same to the left hand. With his remaining bullet he shot away the lower half of Elroy's face.

He picked up the overcoat and the airline bag and walked back to the cab. He drove off toward the airport.

Ten

The room was white and brightly lit. There were no shadows and the walls were marred by black smears.

It was a rectangular room with a high ceiling. The only door was short, a door for midgets. It was held shut by a magnet and had a shallow depression for a handhold, allowing it to be pulled open from the inside. There was a slit in the door, through which those on the outside could peer to see if the room was occupied.

In addition, there was a gallery that looked onto the room from ten feet up. It was screened with heavy wire.

“Takes longer and longer to get warmed up, these days,” Arthur Clippert yelled. His voice echoed and boomed, distorted by the horrible acoustics of the court and partially drowned by the rubbery
barong
of balls hitting the wall.

“What?” said the younger man, loudly.

Clippert repeated his remark and the young man nodded. It was not clear if he really understood. Clippert continued to cuff and chase an energetically rebounding black ball. He noted with satisfaction the spread of dark sweat on his thin leather gloves. The younger man seemed quite warmed up and even anxious to start. Clippert ignored him. He whipped the little ball around the court
with graceful ease and power, setting up rebound shots, leaping for high shots, getting more and more limber. At last he felt ready.

The air was scented with the odor of the two men already. “Low man on the wall?” Clippert said to his younger opponent. The words blurred, but the other nodded. Clippert braced his right foot against the base of the rear wall, stepped forward and delivered a smooth, sweeping sidearm pitch. The ball struck the front wall just a fraction of an inch above the floor and sizzled back toward them.

“Damn,” the younger man said. He didn't really try to beat the throw, making a perfunctory toss that bounded off the front wall at least a foot higher than Clippert's had. “You're up,” the young man said.

Clippert went to the serving lane that was painted in red on the smooth floor. He dropped the ball with his left hand and as it bounced his right hand came through and whipped it against the forward wall. It was a high shot, seemingly lazy, that hit on the left, but it came out with power and glanced off the left wall, hit just short of the rear wall and rebounded with a short quick pitch.

The young man was ready and relayed the shot forward. Clippert took the shot on the rebound and drove high again, to keep his opponent in the rear court. This time his shot came back high and the young man had to return it high.

Clippert waited calmly for the rebound. He was bent low, facing the back wall with one hand stretched out behind him and the other on his knee for balance and to insure that he would be down low enough. He timed his swing perfectly, cupping the ball an inch from the floor and following through with a skimming, powerful sweep.

The ball never got an inch off the floor and smacked into the forward wall just above the point where it met the floor. It did not rebound so much as simply roll back out. There was no chance for a return.

“One-oh!” Arthur shouted. He returned to the serving lane, bouncing the ball as he went.

An hour later they were stripping off their sweaty gear in front of their lockers. “Your problem,” Clippert told the young man, “is you just don't have a killer shot. You have a good left hand, you've
got reach and range, good legs"—he glanced down ruefully at his own exhausted forty-year-old legs—"you've got a great sense of where the ball is going to be, good hand-eye coordination, but where's the old kill shot? Hunh, Bob?”

“Well, you certainly have it, Mr. Clippert,” the young man said. He flushed, uncertainly. “I, uh, no offense, sir,” he stammered.

Arthur wadded up his damp socks and tossed them into the locker. He banged the door shut and smiled grimly at the young man. “That's all right, Bob. You'd be surprised how these days the most innocent words take on added meaning. It confronts a man at every turn.”

The two walked toward the showers, naked except for towels over their shoulders. “You seem to be bearing up awfully well,” the young man said. “Everyone at the office thinks so.”

“Do they?” Clippert seemed pleased. He stood under the roaring hot shower, allowing the stinging rain to soothe away the aches. “Well, you know what they say,” he shouted. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

A half-hour later the two men stood fully dressed in the bitter cold wind outside the Club. Their hair was still damp and seemed likely to freeze if they continued to stand there. Clippert winced and turned up his collar.

“Are you coming back to the office, Mr. Clippert? I can give you a lift.”

“No, thanks, Bob. I have my car. Anyway, I won't be in the office this afternoon. Tell Miss Carpenter that I'll give her a call with instructions.”

“Certainly, Mr. Clippert. When would you like to play again?”

Clippert looked at the young man and took him by the shoulder, affectionately. He was a good-looking fellow and reminded Arthur of himself at twenty-five. The boy was a real asset to the firm, Arthur thought. A damn good record in law school, and besides, a varsity football player at Arthur's old university. Not an All-American, as Arthur had been twenty years earlier, but Arthur conceded that it had been easier in his time. It had been a time of amateur sport. Today, everyone was a pro.

“Come on, I'll buy you a drink, Avery,” Clippert said. They walked down Cass Avenue, hunched up in their overcoats. The first place they came to was a quiet neighborhood bar, but Arthur stopped in the vestibule. The place looked too dingy to him. They went back out and walked an extra block down to a cocktail lounge on Grand Circus Park.

“It's been rougher than you can perhaps imagine, Avery,” Clippert said. They had not removed their overcoats, but merely unbuttoned them and stood at the bar, sipping bourbon and water.

“Just the constant harassment of the federal authorities and the threat of indictment would be bad enough. But I can handle that. This thing with my wife, though . . . it's not just her tragic loss, but now I no longer have anyone to turn to for support and . . . well, comfort.” He shuddered, either from the memory of her brutal death or from the strongly mixed whiskey.

He remembered something. “Incidentally, you can tell the kids at the office that we'll be closed on the day of the funeral.”

“When will that be, Mr. Clippert?” Avery asked.

“I'm not sure. As soon as the coroner's inquest is finished and the body is released. A few days.

“It's curious,” he went on, “but the death of my wife seems to have worked against me. At least in the minds of some people. There seems to be an inevitable suspicion and prejudice that develops against the husband of a woman who dies . . . like Jane did. As if I killed her! Or at least, that I wasn't there to protect her.”

“But that's ridiculous,” Avery protested.

“I know, I know.” Clippert waved a hand. “I try not to think about it. God knows, I wish I had been there. It's a heartbreaking thing. But do you know the really funny thing? Some of the fellows in the business community who used to be my great good friends now seem distinctly cool toward me. I don't think it's the possibility of the indictment. They wouldn't let that bother them, if it was just that. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Avery nodded seriously.

“If it was just that . . . hell, those guys know that an indictment is only an indictment. It isn't a conviction. And I haven't even been indicted!”

“I don't think you will, now, do you, sir?” Avery said. “I
mean, if they had anything against you, wouldn't they have indicted by now?”

“I don't know, Avery. But God knows, I had no part in that mess at Fidelity Funding. I had no idea what was going on. I believe those people deliberately used my position and reputation for integrity as part of their front.”

The young man was embarrassed, but he responded earnestly, “I believe you, Mr. Clippert. We all do.”

“Thank you, Avery. Thank you. And I wish you would thank everyone at the office for me.” Clippert drank his whiskey and made a circular “fill-'em-up” motion to the bartender. “The police were over last night,” he said.

“Oh,” Avery said.

“Oh, they were polite enough, I guess,” Clippert said, “but I could tell they were just itching to tear into me, especially the one guy. He's some kind of hotshot detective, I guess. He was suspicious, I could tell.”

“Suspicious of what, for crying out loud?” Avery said with youthful indignation.

“It's their job,” Clippert said. “But it doesn't make things any easier. I'm so sick of cops and investigators, and—” He stopped himself, realizing that he must sound as if he was ranting. “Things are piling up, Bob. I have to fight. It's the only way I know.”

“If there's anything I can do,” the young man said.

“No, this is my fight. I don't have anybody blocking for me this time.”

They walked to the parking lot. As they separated, Clippert slapped Avery on the back and said, “Didn't mean to unburden myself on you like that, Bob, but thanks for listening. Take care. See you tomorrow, probably.”

He started for his car, then turned and called back, “And work on that kill shot, boy.”

Avery grinned and waved. Back at the office he told everyone what a hell of a guy the old man was. “When the going gets tough,” he said, “the tough get going.”

Arthur Clippert was in a phone booth, crowded up with his heavy coat, his breath steaming the windows. There was some
change on the shelf before him. He dialed several numbers, occasionally talking to someone, but most often hanging up after several unanswered rings. He finally left the booth, disappointed.

“Gone,” he said under his breath. “But where? And is that good or bad?”

Eleven

The coroner's jury ruled the death of Jane Marie Clippert a homicide by a person or persons unknown. Although the Wayne County prosecutor's office had an impressive quantity of information and evidence, they had nothing to show a grand jury that would point to a specific individual as the perpetrator of the crime.

On December nineteenth, Mulheisen sat in his little office mulling over his copies of the pathology reports on Jane Clippert and the results of laboratory tests on various items found at the scene of the crime. The findings were that Jane Clippert had died of massive internal hemorrhage, due to a knife thrust into the chest cavity. The knife had punctured the left lobe of the lung but had miraculously missed all other organs.

The victim had suffered two bullet wounds, but neither of these were sufficient in themselves to cause death, nor would the severe concussions and broken facial bones have caused death. The pathologist noted that the subject was in excellent health, had not been raped and had never been pregnant. In fact, pregnancy would have been extremely unlikely or even impossible, due to curiously undeveloped ovaries. Probably the subject had irregular or difficult menstrual periods, the report said, and her condition might have
been potentially dangerous, even precancerous, but it had obviously posed no problems to her yet.

No problem, Mulheisen thought, obviously.

Someone knocked at his door. It was a tall, slender man of thirty, wearing a heavy wool suit and vest, topcoat over arm, carrying a briefcase. He was a very serious looking young man with spectacles and thick auburn hair that was cut rather long.

“Sairjeant Moulhaysen?” The brogue was Scots and thicker than honey butter.

Mulheisen was tempted to answer, “Aye,” but instead he said, “That's right. What can I do for you?”

“Inspectorr McClain has sent me. It's aboot the Clipperrt case.” He handed Mulheisen a business card that read, “Alec McKenzie, The Underwriters Life Assurance Company of Canada.”

“ ‘Twas aboot a life insurance policy,” Mr. McKenzie said. “Sairjeant, have ye any evidence that would indicate that Mister Arrthurr Clipperrt was involved in the death of his wife?”

“Not a thing,” Mulheisen said.

“Soospicions, then?”

“I'm suspicious of everyone, including the husband,” Mulheisen said, “but not one item of evidence points to him, at present.”

The man sighed. “In that case, I'm afraid we no longer have any rrright to withhold the benefit.”

“What benefit?”

“The life insurance benefit. Mrs. Clipperrt named her hoosband the beneficiary of her life insurrance policy.”

“How much?”

“One million dollars, Sairjeant. The company prrides itself on prrompt settlement of claims.”

“One million,” Mulheisen said. “Now I find that suspicious.”

“Do you? Ach, but we canna,” the Scotsman said. “ ‘Tis air business, you see. We must pay. Which is not to say that we won't continue to investigate.”

“Who took out this policy?”

“Mrs. Clipperrt, aboot five yairs ago.”

“Wouldn't the premium on such a policy be prohibitive?”

“The premium was near eighteen thousand dollars, annually. You see, Mrs. Clipperrt stood to inherrit more than a million dollars on her thirrtieth birrthday,” McKenzie said. “She was only twenty-five. The premium would have come to ninety thousand dollars. It's nought so foolish in her.”

“Of course, if she died the loss would have been her husband's,” Mulheisen pointed out. “I imagine that when you insure someone for such a large amount, you investigate pretty thoroughly?”

“Aye. I have here a copy of the investigative reporrt. You'rre welcome to it.” He took a manila folder out of the briefcase and slid it across the desk. “We want to cooperate with the police in everry way.”

“I'm sure,” Mulheisen said, dryly.

McKenzie rose from his straight-backed chair. “I must be off. I have an appointment with Misterr Clipperrt.”

“Do you have the check with you?” Mulheisen asked.

“Aye.”

“Uh, could I see it? I've never seen a million bucks before.”

“Surely.” McKenzie extracted an envelope from the briefcase and handed it to Mulheisen. Inside was a draft on the Chase Manhattan Bank for a million dollars. It looked like an ordinary bank draft, made out by a check-writing machine and signed by three officers of the Underwriters Life Assurance Company of Canada. One of the signatures was that of Alec McKenzie.

“Ye might say we're forrtunate, I suppose,” Mr. McKenzie said, retrieving the check, “since she didna die by accident. There's double indemnity for that. Pairsonally, I didna approve of that, but we took it into account, of course, when we calculated the premium.”

“Double indemnity?” Mulheisen said. “If she died by accident the policy would have paid two million?”

“Aye,” the man said gloomily, and left.

The investigation report was quite thorough. It even included reports from Europe. A Swiss investigator had interviewed Jane Clippert's teachers and acquaintances. A British investigator had queried friends in London. There was nothing exceptional in her past. It was noted that she rode horses and skied, and someone had
penciled in a remark that said, “Note policy provisions.” That suggested to Mulheisen that the company had defended themselves against equestrian and skiing accidents.

Other investigators said that she was a very light drinker, a good driver, and did not to their knowledge use narcotics or barbiturates. There was a complete medical history, including a lot of talk about her menstrual problems and whether or not her ovaries were going to cause trouble before she was thirty. Presumably, the company had decided to take a chance. Her family doctor felt that she was a remarkably alert, vivacious young woman with hardly any vices, except cigarette smoking, which was not notably excessive. She did not seem depressed, and he had never prescribed sleeping pills or anything of that kind for her.

Of course, this report was five years old, Mulheisen reminded himself.

There was also an investigation of the beneficiary, Arthur Clippert. This was more interesting to Mulheisen.

A successful man rarely has significant gaps in his personal history, and that history is more readily accessible than the average man's. It was easy to establish and describe Clippert's career and life. He was born in St. Ignace, Michigan, a town just across the Straits of Mackinac. His father was a doctor, now deceased. His mother, also deceased, had a private fortune and was a devoted supporter of the Detroit Symphony and the Metropolitan Opera.

Arthur Clippert graduated at the head of his high-school class and accepted a Regent's scholarship to the University of Michigan (supplemented, evidently, by a football scholarship). He was an All-American football player for three years, and All Big-Ten in hockey, baseball and track. He turned down offers to play professional football and baseball from both of the Detroit teams, as well as the Chicago teams.

He graduated among the leaders of his law-school class and immediately entered the Air Force, where he served three years and was discharged as a captain (reserve). He went immediately into a law firm in Detroit that was headed by a former governor of Michigan and included a member who became a federal judge. After three years he left this firm and entered an even more prestigious one. Within another three years he had left that firm and
opened his own. He was a member of the board of several corporations, including the ill-fated Fidelity Funding. This last association was the only questionable thing in his career.

“Mister Clean,” Mulheisen said to himself. He leafed through the voluminous, meticulous report. He noted the name of the investigator: Larry Edwards, of Standard Enquiry.

“Nice work, Larry,” he said. Then, out of curiosity, he called Standard Enquiry. Mr. Edwards was no longer with Standard Enquiry. After a bit of querulous negotiation with a secretary, he was informed that Mr. Edwards had gone to work for the Detroit Police Department.

Edwards was a member of the Big Four. He had risen rapidly to that position. Mulheisen had heard of him. He was called “Wonny” Edwards. Mulheisen didn't know why they called him that. He got him on the telephone, at home.

“I liked your report on Clippert,” he told him, after explaining why he had called. “Do you remember anything about the man, personally?”

“Let's see,” Edwards mused. “Rich guy, wasn't he? Insuring his wife for a bundle?”

“For a million,” Mulheisen said. “A tall guy, ex-All-American football player, a lawyer.”

“Oh, yeah. The Flying Clipper. Weird.”

“How's that?”

“Well, I did a lot of scouting around before I went to see him. You know, talk to neighbors, old acquaintances, teachers. Everybody tells me what a wonderful guy the Flying Clipper is. So I'm actually looking forward to meeting the guy. After all, he's a famous athlete. I saw him on television when he ran a kickoff back ninety yards against Oregon.

“So I try to make an appointment. Couldn't get one. Always out of town, out of the country. Well, he's a busy man, and anyway I had other things to do, but then the company started pressing me to wind up the investigation. So I really went after him, and finally I caught him at his summer place, up north. He insists that he can't see me in Detroit. Too busy. But if I want to drive up, it would be all right. What the hell, I got mileage and overtime.”

“Where was this?” Mulheisen asked.

“An old and very fancy resort area, Jasper Lake. It's about a hundred seventy-five miles straight up the center of the state. Anyway, I get there and it's a real mansion. Only he's modernized the back so he can walk right out to an Olympic-size swimming pool. And what do you think? He's lying on a chaise longue, stark naked.”

“You mean you interviewed him while he was naked?”

“Yeah. He was wearing only sunglasses, I remember. Catching a little sun. Not only that, he has this sexy black maid who takes me out there and announces me and he doesn't try to cover up or anything, and she pretends not to notice.”

“Where was his wife?”

“I don't remember. I think he said she was out West, or something. We were alone, except that he'd ring for a drink now and then, which the girl would bring. I had a couple of cold beers.”

“Do you think he was making it with the girl, the maid?”

“Let me get to that. First I want to tell you what he did. All of a sudden, while I'm talking to him, he jumps up and dives in the pool. After a bit it's obvious that he isn't coming out right away, so I end up walking around the pool talking to him while he swims and dives. Finally he hauls himself out and flops down in the chair again, still buckass naked.”

“Did he answer your questions all right?”

“He wasn't friendly, exactly—more kind of annoyed, but determined to get it over with so that the policy would go through.

“Anyway, about balling the maid. She was a number, believe me. But cool as a cucumber. Mr. Clippert is swell, good employer, good pay, so she didn't mind if he went naked, she'd seen men before. He had a cook-housekeeper, too, also black, a real mama. She said Mr. Clippert was wonderful and he didn't mess around with the maid.”

“Hmmmph.” Mulheisen digested this. “What was your general take on him?”

“Clippert? I thought he was an asshole, frankly. But the trip wasn't a total loss.”

“No?”

“Jasper Lake is pretty plush, like I say, and not for the likes of you and me. All real old, elegant joints, plus a few new ones that
are built to look old and modern at the same time—you know, stone and glass and heavy shake roofs. But there's a new subdivision, not far from there. Not bad. I looked around the rest of the weekend and I've been back up since. There's some good bass fishing around that area. So, about a year ago, I bought myself a lot up there. I think I'll put a little cabin on it. Take the wife and kids up, get them out of this town all summer.”

“Where, on Jasper Lake?”

“No, you can't buy into Jasper Lake. I don't think even Clippert could. His father-in-law left them the house. But there's a public access for fishing, on the northern end. No, the place I bought into is a kind of leisure-homes subdivision, that's what they call them. It's called Black Beaver Lake. Do you fish?”

“Yeah,” Mulheisen said.

“You'll have to come up some time,” Edwards said, being polite. Obviously he knew who Mulheisen was, although they had never met, as far as Mulheisen could recall.

“Black Beaver Lake, hunh?” Mulheisen said.

“Right. Funny thing, too. The development company at Black Beaver Lake is owned by a friend of Clippert's. I remember because I interviewed the guy for that investigation and then I came across his name on one of their brochures when I was looking for a lot.”

“Does this guy live up there?” Mulheisen asked.

“He has a place on Jasper Lake, near Clippert. A summer place. Mostly he lives in Bloomfield Hills. Carl Joyner is his name. You'll see his name in the report.”

“Okay,” Mulheisen said. “By the way, Clippert was in the Air Force, wasn't he? Do you remember what outfit? It isn't listed.”

“It's there,” Edwards said. “There's a whole page on that. I had a hell of a time getting the info. I had to go through a buddy of mine at Selfridge.”

“Oh, he was stationed at Selfridge?”

“Clippert wasn't, but you know how it is, a guy in a headquarters office can find out anything if he looks long enough.”

Mulheisen leafed through the report again until he found the page. “Thanks, Edwards. I appreciate this. If you ever need anything from the Ninth, let me know.”

“Sure,” Edwards said.

Mulheisen was about to hang up when he impulsively asked, “Why do they call you Wonny?”

“They used to call me One-Shot, and it got shortened.”