The Diehard (10 page)

Mulheisen leaned across the desk and helped himself to the Canadian. He took out a cigar and lit it.

Joyner made a face, then called in his secretary. A half-hour later the statement was ready and Mulheisen had a signed copy.

“Thanks a lot, Joyner. You've been very helpful. I'm going to ask you not to say anything about this to Clippert. It's probably not relevant to my investigation anyway. If it does turn out to be relevant, I may ask you for a formal statement to be made in the prosecutor's office. I'll let you know. And thanks for the whiskey. Cheers!”

The irrepressible Joyner even smiled and raised his glass as Mulheisen left. “Merry Christmas!” he called out.

Sixteen

The traffic on the way back into Detroit was not cheering. A heavy snow had begun to fall and it was being ground into a sticky mush that built up under windshield wipers. Cars slithered into intersections like spooky forwards at a face-off at Olympia. The comparison amused Mulheisen at first, then irritated him. It would be a while before he would have the leisure to go to Olympia. He wondered if Lou liked hockey. Living in New York, she was probably a Ranger fan, he thought.

It was early afternoon but as dark as twilight. Mulheisen thought he ought to call on Clippert again. It would be interesting to get his version of the unreported burglary. The idea cheered him. The case was looking up. One of the murder weapons could now be traced to a man, or men, who had at least a passing acquaintance with Clippert. That was very interesting indeed. Almost enough to get a warrant, Mulheisen thought. Just one coincidence too many. But he was in no hurry to pull Clippert in. As long as Ayeh kept him in sight he'd be safe enough.

Mulheisen stopped at Eight Mile Road and called in to the precinct. “Ayeh check in yet?” he asked the desk man.

“This Mul? Yeah. He's downtown at Clippert's club. Evidently his man is playing handball. I got the address.”

“Handball? Man oh man, if he isn't Mr. Coolbones. Well, I think I'll just drop down there and talk to him.”

The desk man gave him the address and then said, “Oh yeah, your two favorite bird dogs are back. They want to talk to you.”

“Put them on,” Mulheisen said.

Jensen's voice came on the line. He had a very loud voice. Mulheisen had to hold the receiver slightly away from his ear. “Mulheisen? We found the stuff.”

There was silence. Mulheisen waited. Just like Peter Jensen, he thought. Jensen was a meanie. A square-faced man with a brush cut that accentuated a brutal face. He was good at forcing things out of people with his direct, challenging look and blunt questions that only thinly veiled a hint of violence. But then, once he had the information, it was your turn to dig it out.

“Okay, Jensen,” Mulheisen sighed, “what stuff are you talking about?”

“The burglary stuff. We found it in a pawnshop in Hamtramck. The stuff from what's-his-name, wait a minute"—Jensen was evidently consulting a notebook—"from a Mr. Emil Earle's cabin at Black Beaver Lake. One portable GE TV . . . wait, I take that back. The TV wasn't there anymore. It was sold, but the pawnshop guy remembered it. And one Kenmore electric steam iron, one General Electric toaster, one Sunbeam electric mixer—”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” Mulheisen said. “So you found the stuff. How did you know it was Earle's?”

“That was easy. Mr. Earle is one of those identification freaks. He has a Dymo labeler and he put his name and address inside everything where it wouldn't be found unless you took the thing apart. Too bad more people don't do that.”

“Yeah, too bad,” Mulheisen said. “What about the guys who hocked the stuff? Did you get a description?”

There was a pained silence. Mulheisen realized that he had offended Jensen. Sometimes that seemed like a very easy thing to do, as if the granite façade of Jensen was only a highly sensitive film, perhaps but a micro-millimeter thick.

“We got the descriptions,” Jensen said, in a resigned voice. He seemed to be saying, “I know we're just dummies, Bud and me, and
that it's the smarty-pants, like you, who really solve crimes, not poor old shitkickers like me and Bud.”

“Descriptions? So there were two of them? Good, good. I suppose one was a little skinny guy?”

“That's right,” Jensen yelled. “And the other guy was big. Mutt and Jeff. Anyway, that's what the proprietor remembers. The little guy was skinny and looked like a drowned rat. The big guy had a pitted face, like he had smallpox once, and he was a cab-driver.”

“How does he know he was a cabdriver?” Mulheisen asked.

“Cause they drove up in a cab. Also, the big guy wore one of them caps that snaps down on the bill and on the cap he had a union badge.”

“Maybe the little guy just came there in a cab,” Mulheisen suggested.

“Who rides a cab to hock a toaster? Besides, the big guy stood around in the store while the little guy made the deal, but the proprietor remembers that the big guy was listening pretty closely and then they went out together, talking. The proprietor got the feeling that they were buddies.”

“Did he notice what company the cab was from?”

“No,” Jensen said.

“Well, then, we know what we have to do, don't we?”

“Yah,” Jensen said. “We hit the cab companies.”

“Give the description and also you might ask if any of their drivers have quit suddenly, in the last few days. How many companies are there, anyway?”

“Maybe a dozen or so.”

“Hmmmm.” Mulheisen was standing outside and snow was building up on his shoulders. “Okay, here's the program. Get that pawnshop guy in and have someone start him on an Identi-Kit picture of the two guys. In the meantime, you and Field start on the companies that are on the east side. I'm on the northwest side right now, so I'll start on this side of town. Now, put the desk back on the line, will you?”

Mulheisen told the desk sergeant that he wouldn't be seeing Clippert after all. Instead, he'd be canvassing west-side cab companies
and he would call in if he found anything. He hung up and checked the Yellow Pages for the addresses of taxicab companies.

It was one-thirty when he started and almost dark by the time he had worked his way down to the Detroit River. He was exhausted by the snow, the traffic, no lunch and the negative head-shakes he had received. The last place he went was called Dixieland Cab Company and the offices were located in an old warehouse near the Ambassador Bridge. The visibility was so bad that the big bridge disappeared into fog and snow about a hundred yards out in its arc toward Canada.

There was nobody around but a dispatcher. He was a fat black man with a shiny face and was smoking the biggest, most carbon-encrusted pipe that Mulheisen had ever seen. The bowl of the pipe looked as big as a baby's head.

“Must take strong jaws to hold that stove all day,” Mulheisen said.

“Sure do. Sometime I wake up grinding my teeth,” the dispatcher said.

“I'm looking for a driver, a tall fellow with a pitted face, wears a brown workman's cap. He may have been missing for the last few days. Since about the eighteenth.”

“That's ol’ John,” the dispatcher said. “He tooken off again.”

“Does John take off like this often?” Mulheisen asked.

“Once in a while. He like to go on a little stumble, time to time. Always takes a few days to get him back. Most of the time, though, he drink so damn much gin it seem like it keep him sober. I told him ‘bout that gin, I said, ‘That shit'll kill you, brother,’ but ol’ John, that's his water.” The fat man took the pipe from beneath his teeth and poked at it with a small metallic device. He puffed happily, sending billows of foul smoke up in the little office.

The radio crackled. “Dixie One, where was that Grand Avenue call?”

“That is
Grant
Avenue,” the dispatcher told the microphone. “That's gee-ahruh-ayuh-enn-tee. As in toenail. Numma one-niyun-fo-six.” There was some ten-four chatter, and the fat man turned back to Mulheisen.

“John's not a bad guy,” he said. “Purty smart boy, only he
kep’ off that gin. This time I think he gitten fired, though. Didn’ bring back his vehicle. He usually purty good ‘bout that.”

“Let's see his employment record,” Mulheisen said, showing the badge.

And there it was, complete with a photograph taken by the Detroit Police Department. John Byron Wienoshek, aged forty-three, address: The St. Martin Hotel, Windsor, Ontario. Mulheisen handed the file back to the dispatcher. “I won't need it,” he said. “Thanks. Why hasn't your employer reported the missing cab?”

The dispatcher shrugged. “Ain't my business. Mr. Shapiro, I think he like John. Says John is a cultured man, down on his luck. He almost fired him last time he tooken off. But ol’ John, he don't give a shit. He always say he lookin’ for a job when he found this one.” The man chuckled and shook his head as if in admiration. “Quite a character, ol’ John. What's our John done?”

“We need to find him,” Mulheisen said, “for questioning in a very serious matter. If you hear from him, or anything about him or the missing cab, I want to know immediately. And I have to warn you not to inform Wienoshek that we want him. Just call me at this number, or if I'm not there, call this number.” He gave the dispatcher his own and McClain's numbers.

The dispatcher looked at the slip of paper and puffed on his huge pipe. “Yeah, I knowed he was in trouble when that other guy came lookin’ for him. Somethin’ wrong with that dude.”

“Somebody else looking for Wienoshek?” Mulheisen was puzzled. “What did he look like?”

“White dude, about fifty-five, dark hair. Come in here a couple of hours ago. First he said he lookin’ for a job, then he ask if anybody quit lately, or didn't show up. I told him ‘bout John. After that, no more bullshit about lookin’ for a job. He wanted John's address.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“Why not? Ain't top secret. Said he was a ol’ buddy of John's. He went outa here like his pants on fire.”

“A little guy?” Mulheisen couldn't believe it. “A little skinny guy?”

“Naw, he wasn't skinny. Now I think on it, he was kinda well-built fella. Dark, too, like an Eyetalian, or coulda been Jewish.
Real heavy eyebrows. First I thinkin’ he's a workin’ man, but then I see that ain't such a bad suit he wearin’.”

Mulheisen was very interested. “If this man returns, or if you hear from him, try to get his name and whereabouts, will you? It's very important. I'd like to talk to him.”

“Whatever you say, man.”

Mulheisen pulled out a cigar. “Here, give your jaws a rest.”

“Why, thank you, m'man. Much appreciated.” The cigar disappeared into the man's jacket.

Mulheisen stopped to call the Ninth. He left word for Jensen and Field to drop the canvass and the Identi-Kit. It was dark now and still snowing. He called McClain at Homicide and caught him leaving.

“I'll get a bulletin out on Wienoshek right away,” McClain said, “and I'll get his complete record. What are you up to?”

“I'm going over to Windsor, check out his residence,” Mulheisen said. “I suppose you might as well have somebody check the airport and the bus terminal. If he has left town we're kind of late, but there might be someone who remembers him. And now, listen to this.” He gave McClain a quick reprise of his interview with Carl Joyner.

“Aha,” McClain said, “sounds like things are cooking out there. Maybe we should pick the Flying Clipper up.”

“I don't think so,” Mulheisen said. “Arrange for someone to relieve Ayeh, though, will you? He must be dragging ass. We'd better keep a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Clippert from now on.”

“I agree,” McClain said. “What about this other fellow, the one who's asking about Wienoshek?”

“Can't figure it,” Mulheisen said. “Something is up, though. I'll talk to you when I get back from Windsor.”

Traffic across the bridge was awful. It was going-home time for the thousands of Canadians who worked and shopped in Detroit. It was 6
P.M.
before Mulheisen reached the St. Martin Hotel, a quiet, shabby residential hotel that took its name from the side street it was located on.

The tiny lobby was dimly lit and Mulheisen could smell food cooking. A door opened when he rang the desk bell and a middle-aged
bald man came out in suspenders and slippers. There was a noise of plates and children that suggested that it was dinnertime.

Mulheisen was straightforward, explaining that he was from the Detroit police, that he had no authority here, but that he was working on an important investigation. He was sure that the Windsor police would cooperate—if he was forced to call them in. The clerk, Mr. Deavons, didn't argue. He wanted to get back to his dinner.

The first thing he said was that Wienoshek had already had a visitor, two hours earlier. A short, dark man who represented himself as “a friend of John's.”

“I told him what I tell you, Byron is not home and hasn't been for several days. I have no idea where he has gone, but I'm sure he'll return. He always does. His room is paid up.

“Byron has lived here since before I came,” Deavons went on. “He's very kind to the kiddies, always buys them something for Christmas and the birthday. Very polite to the wife. We don't socialize a good deal, only in passing, because he's an alcoholic, you see, which we don't hold against him as long as he behaves himself here, which he always has, you see.

“This other chap, the short man, I have never seen him before. Byron does not often bring friends here, nor do they often visit him, except for Elroy.

“Elroy? Elroy is a quiet, very pleasant little man,” Deavons said. “He was here just last week, visiting with Byron. I believe he has seen hard times. It doesn't do to inquire too closely, is my motto. A man has a right to his privacy. Yes, he's rather a slight chap, dark-haired but not at all like the chap who was here today. Elroy never says much. I don't recall that I ever heard his last name. No, I'm sure I haven't.”

Mr. Deavons said that the other man had not gone up to Wienoshek's room, since Byron was clearly not in. He had left. Deavons agreed to take Mulheisen up to the room, casting a wistful glance backward at the sound of dinner being consumed.

When he opened the door to the room, Mr. Deavons started back in shock. The room was a shambles. Every drawer had been turned out, every book opened and tossed aside. The Murphy bed was pulled down and the mattress slashed open. The pillow had
been slashed as well and feathers floated about in the draft from the hall door. Furniture was turned over. Coffee, sugar and flour had been dumped on the table. Light fixtures had been removed and left dangling.

Mulheisen advised Deavons to call the police. There was no telephone in the room. As Deavons was going out, Mulheisen asked, “By the way, was Wienoshek a Canadian?”

“No,” Deavons answered.

“Why did he live here, then?”