Ehrengraf for the Defense (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.”

* * *

An 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?”

* * *

Miss 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.”

* * *

Several 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.”