The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson Page A

out, now. It's my understanding that her prospective fortune will revert to a kind of charity.”
    “What charity?” Mulheisen asked.
    Clippert smiled grimly. “My wife's father was perhaps a bit eccentric,” he said. “He fancied himself a sportsman. Therefore the bulk of the fortune goes to Ducks Unlimited.”
    “Ducks Unlimited?” McClain said. “What the hell . . .?”
    “It's a nonprofit organization devoted to the conservation and welfare of migratory waterfowl, I believe,” Clippert said.
    There was a moment of silence, then Mulheisen said, “Well, I have to go on with the, ah, difficult questions. Would you characterize your marriage as a happy one, Mr. Clippert?”
    Clippert set his pipe down and picked up the brandy glass again. He swirled the brandy, then sipped. He looked up at Mulheisen and said, “Yes, it was, Sergeant. But let me ask you a question. Are you married?”
    “No,” Mulheisen said.
    “Every marriage has problems, Sergeant,” he said. “Sure, we had problems. But we had, I think, an unusually open and very strong personal relationship. We talked things out. It wasn't always easy. I suppose you're aware that I've had a rather difficult time lately?”
    “How's that?” Mulheisen asked.
    “You haven't heard about Fidelity Funding? I thought everybody had by now, thanks to the media. It's a corporation for whichI was once counsel. Due to a rather spectacular bankruptcy, the corporation and many of the people most prominently connected with it have come under considerable investigation. There's nothing to the allegations, I assure you, at least not as far as I am involved. But, there it is. I don't blame the authorities. It's their function to monitor and regulate this sort of thing. Just as it is your function to find and prosecute the filthy scum who did this terrible thing to my wife.
    “But let me tell you gentlemen, throughout all this difficulty Jane was a tower of strength to me, and it won't be easier now that she's . . . she's gone. So ask your questions. It's just tough for me, that's all. Well, I think I can take it.”
    “I'm sure you can, sir,” McClain said blandly.
    “Was your wife ever involved with any other men, Mr. Clippert?” Mulheisen asked quietly.
    It was obvious that Clippert was fighting to maintain his calm. His face flushed and he glanced over at McClain. He drank off the remaining brandy in his glass.
    “I think I understand the motive for that question, Sergeant,” he said. “But there is only one answer I can, in conscience, give: my wife was a faithful wife.”
    In the car, Mulheisen said to McClain, “A real smoothie, that one.”
    “Pretty smooth yourself,” McClain grunted. “For a minute I thought he was gonna dent those fangs of yours. But you're right. He's too damn smooth.”
    “What do you think,” Mulheisen said, “maybe I ought to have Ayeh keep an eye on him.” McClain agreed.
    On his way home, Mulheisen stopped at the precinct and caught Ayeh before he left. “Just watch the place,” he told the young detective. “When he goes to bed, or it looks like he's in for the night, you can knock off. I'll try to get you some relief, so you can do it in easy shifts.”
    Mulheisen's way home took him by the Spencer place on Lakeside Drive. He thought about Lou Spencer. He wondered if he ought to call her. She had a nice build, all right, he told himself.
    There was another note waiting for him on the refrigerator door, informing him that there was chicken salad, ham and deviledeggs, and that his mother had gone to a meeting and would be home late.
    He made himself a sandwich and opened a bottle of beer. The Detroit News had a front-page story on what they called the “Indian Village Murder.” The reporter had quickly made a connection with the Fidelity Funding scandal, but not in any direct or causatory way. The press seemed to accept the official line of Inspector McClain that the crime appeared to be the work of a housebreaker who