The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson Page A

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 hadpenciled 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