Defender of the Innocent: The Casebook of Martin Ehrengraf (7 page)

“The argument,” Ehrengraf prompted.

“Oh, I don’t know how it got started,” Protter said. “One thing led to another, and pretty soon she’s making a federal case over me and this woman who lives one flight down from us.”

“What woman?”

“Her name’s Agnes Mullane. Gretchen’s giving me the business that me and Agnes got something going.”

“And were you having an affair with Agnes Mullane?”

“Naw, ’course not. Maybe me and Agnes’d pass the time of day on the staircase, and maybe I had some thoughts on the subject, but nothing ever came of it. But she started in on the subject, Gretch did, and to get a little of my own back I started ragging her about this guy lives one flight up from us.”

“And his name is—”

“Gates, Harry Gates.”

“You thought your wife was having an affair with Gates?”

Protter shook his head. “Naw, ’course not. But he’s an artist, Gates is, and I was accusing her of posing for him, you know. Naked. No clothes on.”

“Nude.”

“Yeah.”

“And did your wife pose for Mr. Gates?”

“You kidding? You never met Gretchen, did you?”

Ehrengraf shook his head.

“Well, Gretch was all right, and the both of us was used to each other, if you know what I mean, but you wouldn’t figure her for somebody who woulda been Miss America if she coulda found her way to Atlantic City. And Gates, what would he need with a model?”

“You said he was an artist.”

“He says he’s an artist,” Protter said, “but you couldn’t prove it by me. What he paints don’t look like nothing. I went up there one time on account of his radio’s cooking at full blast, you know, and I want to ask him to put a lid on it, and he’s up on top of this stepladder dribbling paint on a canvas that he’s got spread out all over the floor. All different colors of paint, and he’s just throwing them down at the canvas like a little kid making a mess.”

“Then he’s an abstract expressionist,” Ehrengraf said.

“Naw, he’s a painter. I mean, people buy these pictures of his. Not enough to make him rich or he wouldn’t be living in the same dump with me and Gretch, but he makes a living at it. Enough to keep him in beer and pizza and all, but what would he need with a model? Only reason he’d want Gretchen up there is to hold the ladder steady.”

“An abstract expressionist,” said Ehrengraf. “That’s very interesting. He lives directly above you, Mr. Protter?”

“Right upstairs, yeah. That’s why we could hear his radio clear as a bell.”

“Was it playing the night you and your wife drank the boilermakers?”

“We drank boilermakers lots of the time,” Protter said, puzzled. “Oh, you mean the night I killed her.”

“The night she died.”

“Same thing, ain’t it?”

“Not at all,” said Ehrengraf. “But let it go. Was Mr. Gates playing his radio that night?”

Protter scratched his head. “Hard to remember,” he said. “One night’s like another, know what I mean? Yeah, the radio was going that night. I remember now. He was playing country music on it. Usually he plays that rock and roll, and that stuff gives me a headache, but this time it was country music. Country music, it sort of soothes my nerves.” He frowned. “But I never played it on my own radio.”

“Why was that?”

“Gretch hated it. Couldn’t stand it, said the singers all sounded like dogs that ate poisoned meat and was dying of it. Gretch didn’t like any music much. What she liked was the television, and then we’d have Gates with his rock and roll at top volume, and sometimes you’d hear a little country music coming upstairs from Agnes’s radio. She liked country music, but she never played it very loud. With the windows open on a hot day you’d hear it, but otherwise no. Of course what you hear most with the windows open is the Puerto Ricans on the street with their transistor radios.”

Protter went on at some length about Puerto Ricans and transistor radios. When he paused for breath, Ehrengraf straightened up and smiled with his lips. “A pleasure,” he said. “Mr. Protter, I believe in your innocence.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been the victim of an elaborate and diabolical frame-up, sir. But you’re in good hands now. Maintain your silence and put your faith in me. Is there anything you need to make your stay here more comfortable?”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Well, you won’t be here for long. I’ll see to that. Perhaps I can arrange for a radio for you. You could listen to country music.”

“Be real nice,” Protter said. “Soothing is what it is. It soothes my nerves.”

A
n hour after his interview with his client, Ehrengraf was seated on a scarred wooden bench at a similarly distressed oaken table. The restaurant in which he was dining ran to college pennants and German beer steins suspended from the exposed dark wood beams. Ehrengraf was eating hot apple pie topped with sharp cheddar, and at the side of his plate was a small glass of neat Calvados.

The little lawyer was just preparing to take his first sip of the tangy apple brandy when a familiar voice sounded beside him.

“Ehrengraf,” Hudson Cutliffe boomed out. “Fancy finding you here. Twice in one day, eh?”

Ehrengraf looked up, smiled. “Excellent pie here,” he said.

“Come here all the time,” Cutliffe said. “My home away from home. Never seen you here before, I don’t think.”

“My first time.”

“Pie with cheese. If I ate that I’d put on ten pounds.” Unbidden, the hefty attorney drew back the bench opposite Ehrengraf and seated himself. When a waiter appeared, Cutliffe ordered a slice of prime rib and a spinach salad.

“Watching my weight,” he said. “Protein, that’s the ticket. Got to cut down on the nasty old carbs. Well, Ehrengraf, I suppose you’ve seen your wife-murderer now, haven’t you? Or are you still maintaining he’s no murderer at all?”

“Protter’s an innocent man.”

Cutliffe chuckled. “Commendable attitude, I’m sure, but why don’t you save it for the courtroom? The odd juryman may be impressed by that line of country. I’m not, myself. I’ve always found facts more convincing than attitudes.”

“Indeed,” said Ehrengraf. “Personally, I’ve always noticed the shadow as much as the substance. I suspect it’s a difference of temperament, Mr. Cutliffe. I don’t suppose you’re much of a fan of poetry, are you?”

“Poetry? You mean rhymes and verses and all that?”

“More or less.”

“Schoolboy stuff, eh? Boy stood on the burning deck, that the sort of thing you mean? Had a bellyful of that in school.” He smiled suddenly. “Unless you’re talking about limericks. I like the odd limerick now and then, I must say. Are you much of a hand for limericks?”

“Not really,” said Ehrengraf.

Cutliffe delivered four limericks while Ehrengraf sat with a pained expression on his face. The first concerned a mathematician named Paul, the second a young harlot named Dinah, the third a man from Fort Ord, and the fourth an old woman from Truk.

“It’s interesting,” Ehrengraf said at length. “On the surface there’s no similarity whatsoever between the limerick and abstract expressionist painting. They’re not at all alike. And yet they are.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“It’s not important,” Ehrengraf said. The waiter appeared, setting a plateful of rare beef in front of Cutliffe, who at once reached for his knife and fork. Ehrengraf looked at the meat. “You’re going to eat that,” he said.

“Of course. What else would I do with it?”

Ehrengraf took another small sip of the Calvados. Holding the glass aloft, he began an apparently aimless dissertation upon the innocence of his client. “If you were a reader of poetry,” he found himself saying, “and if you did not systematically dull your sensibilities by consuming the flesh of beasts, Mr. Protter’s innocence would be obvious to you.”

“You’re serious about defending him, then. You’re really going to plead him innocent.”

“How could I do otherwise?”

Cutliffe raised an eyebrow while lowering a fork. “You realize you’re letting an idle whim jeopardize a man’s liberty, Ehrengraf. Your Mr. Protter will surely receive a stiffer sentence after he’s been found guilty by a jury, and—”

“But he won’t be found guilty.”

“Are you counting on some technicality to get him off the hook? Because I have a friend in the District Attorney’s office, you know, and I went round there while you were visiting your client. He tells me the state’s case is gilt-edged.”

“The state is welcome to the gilt,” Ehrengraf said grandly. “Mr. Protter has the innocence.”

Cutliffe put down his fork, set his jaw. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps you simply do not care. Perhaps, having no true financial stake in Arnold Protter’s fate, you just don’t give a damn what happens to him. Whereas, had you a substantial sum riding on the outcome of the case—”

“Oh, dear,” said Ehrengraf. “You’re not by any chance proposing a wager?”

M
iss Agnes Mullane had had a permanent recently, and her copper-colored hair looked as though she’d stuck her big toe in an electric socket. She had a freckled face, a pug nose, and a body that would send whole shifts of construction workers plummeting from their scaffolds. She wore a hostess outfit of a silky green fabric, and her walk, Ehrengraf noted, was decidedly slinky.

“So terrible about the Protters,” she said. “They were good neighbors, although I never became terribly close with either of them. She kept to herself, for the most part, but he always had a smile and a cheerful word for me when I would run into him on the stairs. Of course I’ve always gotten on better with men than with women, Mr. Ehrengraf, though I’m sure I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Indeed,” said Ehrengraf.

“You’ll have some more tea, Mr. Ehrengraf?”

“If I may.”

She leaned forward, displaying an alluring portion of herself to Ehrengraf as she filled his cup from a Dresden teapot. Then she set the pot down and straightened up with a sigh.

“Poor Mrs. Protter,” she said. “Death is so final.”

“Given the present state of medical science.”

“And poor Mr. Protter. Will he have to spend many years in prison, Mr. Ehrengraf?”

“Not with a proper defense. Tell me, Miss Mullane. Mrs. Protter accused her husband of having an affair with you. I wonder why she should have brought such an accusation.”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Of course you’re a very attractive woman—”

“Do you really think so, Mr. Ehrengraf?”

“—and you live by yourself, and tongues will wag.”

“I’m a respectable woman, Mr. Ehrengraf.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“And I would never have an affair with anyone who lived here in this building. Discretion, Mr. Ehrengraf, is very important to me.”

“I sensed that, Miss Mullane.” The little lawyer got to his feet, walked to the window. The afternoon was warm, and the strains of Latin music drifted up through the open window from the street below.

“Transistor radios,” Agnes Mullane said. “They carry them everywhere.”

“So they do. When Mrs. Protter made that accusation, Miss Mullane, her husband denied it.”

“Why, I should hope so!”

“And he in turn accused her of carrying on with Mr. Gates. Have I said something funny, Miss Mullane?”

Agnes Mullane managed to control her laughter. “Mr. Gates is an artist,” she said.

“A painter, I’m told. Would that canvas be one of his?”

“I’m afraid not. He paints abstracts. I prefer representational art myself, as you can see.”

“And country music.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. You’re sure Mr. Gates was not having an affair with Mrs. Protter?”

“Positive.” Her brow clouded for an instant, then cleared completely. “No,” she said, “Harry Gates would never have been involved with her. But what’s the point, Mr. Ehrengraf? Are you trying to establish a defense of justifiable homicide? The unwritten law and all that?”

“Not exactly.”

“Because I really don’t think it would work, do you?”

“No,” said Ehrengraf, “I don’t suppose it would.”

Miss Mullane leaned forward again, not to pour tea but with a similar effect. “It’s so noble of you,” she said, “donating your time for poor Mr. Protter.”

“The court appointed me, Miss Mullane.”

“Yes, but surely not all appointed attorneys work so hard on these cases, do they?”

“Perhaps not.”

“That’s what I thought.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “Nobility is an attractive quality in a man,” she said thoughtfully. “And I’ve always admired men who dress well, and who bear themselves elegantly.”

Ehrengraf smiled. He was wearing a pale blue cashmere sport jacket over a Wedgwood blue shirt. His tie matched his jacket, with an intricate below-the-knot design in gold thread.

“A lovely jacket,” Miss Mullane purred. She reached over, laid a hand on sleeve. “Cashmere,” she said. “I love the feel of cashmere.”

“Thank you.”

“And gray flannel slacks. What a fine fabric. Come with me, Mr. Ehrengraf. I’ll show you where to hang your things.”

In the bedroom Miss Mullane paused to switch on the radio. Loretta Lynn was singing something about having been born a coal miner’s daughter.

“My one weakness,” Miss Mullane said, “or should I say one of my two weaknesses, along with a weakness for well-dressed men of noble character. I hope you don’t mind country music, Mr. Ehrengraf?”

“Not at all,” said Ehrengraf. “I find it soothing.”

S
everal days later, when Arnold Protter was released from jail, Ehrengraf was there to meet him. “I want to shake your hand,” he told him, extending his own. “You’re a free man now, Mr. Protter. I only regret I played no greater part in securing your freedom.”

Protter pumped the lawyer’s hand enthusiastically. “Hey, listen,” he said, “you’re ace-high with me, Mr. Ehrengraf. You believed in me when nobody else did, including me myself. I’m just now trying to take all of this in. I tell you, I never would have dreamed Agnes Mullane killed my wife.”

“It’s something neither of us suspected, Mr. Protter.”

“It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of. Let me see if I got the drift of it straight. My Gretchen was carrying on with Gates after all. I thought it was just a way to get in a dig at her, accusing her of carrying on with him, but actually it was happening all the time.”