Lawrence Block - The Ehrengraf Riposte

“You did to him what he’d done to me. Hoist him on his own petard.”

“Let’s say I hoisted him on a similar petard. He plagued you by introducing an infinity of unwanted elements into your life. But I reduced his life to the four rooms he lived in and even threatened his ability to retain those very rooms. That drove the lesson home to him in a way I doubt he’ll ever forget.”

“Simple and brilliant,” Crowe said. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d have saved yourself fifty thousand dollars.”

Crowe gasped. ‘‘Fifty thousand—”

“Dollars. My fee.”

“But that’s an outrage. All you did was write some letters and make some phone calls.”

“All I did, sir, was everything you asked me to do. I saved you from answering to a murder charge.”

“I wouldn’t have murdered him.”

“Nonsense,” Ehrengraf snapped. “You tried to murder him. You thought engaging me would have precisely that effect. Had I wrung the wretch’s neck you’d pay my fee without a whimper, but because I accomplished the desired result with style and grace instead of brute force you now resist paying me. It would be an immense act of folly, Mr. Crowe, if you were to do anything other than pay my fee in full at once.”

‘You don’t think the amount is out of line?”

“I don’t keep my fees in a line, Mr. Crowe.” Ehrengraf’s hand went to the knot of his tie. It was the official necktie of the Caedmon Society of Oxford University. Ehrengraf had not attended Oxford and did not belong to the Caedmon Society any more than he belonged to the International Society for the Preservation of Wild Mustangs and Burros, but it was a tie he habitually wore on celebratory occasions. “I set my fees according to an intuitive process,” he went on, “and they are never negotiable. Fifty thousand dollars, sir. Not a penny more, not a penny less. Ah, Mr. Crowe, Mr. Crowe — do you know why Mayhew chose to torment you?”

“I suppose he feels I’ve harmed him.”

“And have you?”

“No, but—”

“Supposition is blunder’s handmaiden, Mr. Crowe. Mayhew made your life miserable because he hated you. I don’t know why he hated you. I don’t believe Mayhew himself knows why he hated you. I think he selected you at random. He needed someone to hate and you were convenient. Ah, Mr. Crowe—” Ehrengraf smiled with his lips “—consider how much damage was done to you by an insane cripple with no actual reason to do you harm. And then consider, sir, how much more harm could be done you by someone infinitely more ruthless and resourceful than Terence Reginald Mayhew, someone who is neither a lunatic nor a cripple, someone who is supplied with fifty thousand excellent reasons to wish you ill.”

Crowe stared. “That’s a threat,” he said slowly.

“I fear you’ve confused a threat and a caution, Mr. Crowe, though I warrant the distinction’s a thin one. Are you fond of poetry, sir?”

“No.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s no criticism, sir. Some people have poetry in their souls and others do not. It’s predetermined, I suspect, like color blindness. I could recommend Thomas Hood, sir, or Christopher Smart, but would you read them? Or profit by them? Fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Crowe, and a check will do nicely.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Certainly not.”

“And I won’t be intimidated.”

“Indeed you won’t,” Ehrengraf agreed. “But do you recall our initial interview, Mr. Crowe? I submit that you would do well to act as if — as if you were afraid of me, as if you were intimidated.”

Ethan Crowe sat quite still for several seconds. A variety of expressions played over his generally unexpressive face. At length he drew a checkbook from the breast pocket of his morosely brown jacket and uncapped a silver fountain pen.

“Payable to?”

“Martin H. Ehrengraf.”

The pen scratched away. Then, idly, “What’s the H. stand for?”

“Herod.”

“The store in England?”

“The king,” said Ehrengraf. “The king in the Bible.”