The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson

little evidence of the tragedy that had taken place that morning. They went into the study, a large and handsome room near the rear of the house. The walls were lined with bookcases. A fire burned in a brick fireplace that had a raised hearth.
    Arthur Clippert looked only slightly weakened by grief and shock. He sat in a large chair, smoking a briar pipe, a balloon glass of brandy on a table at his side. The two detectives also held drinks. McClain was sprawled on a black leather couch, but Mulheisen preferred to lean against a bookcase, facing Clippert's chair.
    “You don't have a regular maid,” Mulheisen said.
    “No, just a cleaning lady . . . well, more like a general house-keeper. She cooks sometimes and does things on special occasions. But today was one of her regular days off, unfortunately. If only she'd been here!”
    McClain asked for her name and some particulars. Clippert went on to assure him that she was completely trustworthy.
    “Your wife ever receive any threatening phone calls?” Mulheisenasked. “Or mention any suspicious characters hanging about? Anything unusual at all like that, lately?”
    Clippert puffed on his pipe and frowned. “No, nothing like that. You don't suspect . . . it was some kind of freak? Some sex . . . fiend?”
    “We haven't gotten complete lab reports, yet,” McClain said, “but initial indications are that there was no sexual assault or anything of that kind. We're not thinking anything at all at this point, Mr. Clippert. We're just covering all the bases.”
    Clippert picked up his brandy glass and stared down into it. “She was a hell of a woman, gentlemen. One hell of a woman.”
    His words made Mulheisen uneasy. They had already established that Clippert had left his home well before eight, in order to make the eight-fifty flight to New York. A preliminary report from the pathologists posed some difficulties, in that while the time of death was accurately established as eight fifty-five, it appeared that the fatal wounds had been inflicted more than just a few moments earlier. There was a significant amount of congealing and healing already in progress at the time of death. Obviously, it was possible that Clippert could have left his wife for dead and gone on to the airport. Neither Mulheisen nor McClain believed that that had happened.
    “She wasn't just a woman of uncommon beauty,” Clippert said, “but a woman of integrity and courage. She had a kind of inner beauty.”
    Mulheisen raised an eyebrow and glanced over at McClain.
    “What kind of life did she lead, Mr. Clippert?” Mulheisen asked.
    “It was a happy life, I'd say. Basically a life of leisure, of course. She had many friends, most of them the wives of my friends. I could give you a list. She was not indolent, however. She involved herself in various community projects. She was a sportswoman. We traveled a good deal. In the winter, naturally, she was home more. She liked to read. And she liked to ski. We have a place up north, not far from Boyne Mountain. It's really more of a summer place, belonged to her father, but we used to go there in winter as well, to ski. Sometimes we went out west, to Aspen. Wewere . . . well, we had planned to go skiing in Utah next month, at Alta. She was looking forward to that.”
    “That reminds me,” Mulheisen said, “ah, some of my questions may seem a little, ah, indelicate, but they have to be asked.”
    “I understand,” Clippert said. He smiled encouragingly. “I want you to be able to do the best job you can in catching these—these vermin. So ask ahead.”
    “Well, it's about her inheritance,” Mulheisen said.
    “Oh, yes. As a lawyer, of course, I am quite familiar with these matters. Jane had made a will. Except for some minor bequests I am her sole heir—as she was in mine. She was a wealthy woman. Not a millionairess, but wealthy. In another year or so she would have become quite wealthy, thanks to the provisions of her father's will. But that is