Lawrence Block: The Ehrengraf Riposte

Martin Ehrengraf placed his hands on the top of his exceedingly cluttered desk and looked across it. He was seated, while the man at whom he gazed was standing, and indeed looked incapable of remaining still, let alone seating himself on a chair. He was a large man, tall and quite stout, balding, florid of face, with a hawk’s-bill nose and a jutting chin. His hair, combed straight back, was a rich and glossy dark-brown; his bushy eyebrows were salted with gray. His suit, while of a particular shade of blue that Ehrengraf would never have chosen for himself, was well tailored and expensive. It was logical to assume that the man within the suit was abundantly supplied with money, an assumption the little lawyer liked to be able to make about all his prospective clients.

Now he said, “Won’t you take a seat, Mr. Crowe? You’ll be more comfortable.”

“I’d rather stand,” Ethan Crowe said. “I’m too much on edge to sit still.”

“Hmmm. There’s something I’ve learned in my practice, Mr. Crowe, and that’s the great advantage in acting as if . When I’m to defend a client who gives every indication of guilt, I act as if he were indeed innocent. And you know, Mr. Crowe, it’s astonishing how often the client does in fact prove to be innocent, often to his own surprise.”

Martin Ehrengraf flashed a smile that showed on his lips without altering the expression in his eyes. “All of which is all-important to me, since I collect a fee only if my client is judged to be innocent. Otherwise I go unpaid. Acting as if , Mr. Crowe, is uncannily helpful, and you might help us both by sitting in that chair and acting as if you were at peace with the world.”

Ehrengraf paused, and when Crowe had seated himself he said, “You say you’ve been charged with murder. But homicide is not usually a bailable offense, so how does it happen that you are here in my office instead of locked in a cell?”

“I haven’t been charged with murder.”

“But you said—”

“I said I wanted you to defend me against a homicide charge. But I haven’t been charged yet.”

“I see. Whom have you killed? Let me amend that. Whom are you supposed to have killed?”

“No one.”

“Oh?”

Ethan Crowe thrust his head forward. “I’ll be charged with the murder of Terence Reginald Mayhew,” he said, pronouncing the name with a full measure of loathing. “But I haven’t been charged yet because the rancid scut’s not dead yet because I haven’t killed him yet.”

“Mr. Mayhew is alive.”

‘Yes.”

“But you intend to kill him.”

Crowe chose his words carefully. “I expect to be charged with his murder,” he said at length.

“And you want to arrange your defense in advance.”

“Yes.”

“You show commendable foresight,” Ehrengraf said admiringly. He got to his feet and stepped out from behind his desk. He was a muted symphony of brown. His jacket was a brown Harris tweed in a herringbone weave, his slacks were cocoa flannel, his shirt a buttery tan silk, his tie a perfect match for the slacks with a below-the-knot design of fleur-de-lis in silver thread. Ehrengraf hadn’t been quite certain about the tie when he bought it but had since decided it was quite all right. On his small feet he wore highly polished seamless tan loafers, unadorned with braids or tassels.

“Foresight,” he repeated. “An unusual quality in a client, Mr. Crowe, and I can only wish that I met with it more frequently.” He put the tips of his fingers together and narrowed his eyes. “Just what is it you wish from me?”

“Your efforts on my behalf, of course.”

“Indeed. Why do you want to kill Mr. Mayhew?”

“Because he’s driving me crazy.”

“How?”

“He’s playing tricks on me.”

“Tricks? What sort of tricks?”

“Childish tricks,” Ethan Crowe said, and averted his eyes. “He makes phone calls. He orders things. Last week he called different florists and sent out hundreds of orders of flowers to different women all over the city. He’s managed to get hold of my credit card numbers, and he placed all these orders in my name and billed them to me. I was able to stop some of the orders, but by the time I got wind of what he’d done, most of them had already gone out.”

“Surely you won’t have to pay.”

“It may be easier to pay than to go through the process of avoiding payment. I don’t know. But that’s just one example. Another time ambulances and limousines kept coming to my house. One after the other. And taxicabs, and I don’t know what else. These vehicles kept arriving from various sources and I kept having to send them away.”

“I see.”

“And he fills out coupons and orders things C.O.D. for me. I have to cancel the orders and return the products. He’s had me join book clubs and record clubs, he’s subscribed me to every sort of magazine, he’s put me on every sort of mailing list. Did you know, for example, that there’s an outfit called the International Society for the Preservation of Wild Mustangs and Burros?”

“It so happens I’m a member.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s a worthwhile organization,” Crowe said, “but the point is I’m not interested in wild mustangs and burros, or even tame ones, but Mayhew made me a member and pledged a hundred dollars on my behalf, or maybe it was a thousand dollars, I can’t remember.”

“The exact amount isn’t important at the moment, Mr. Crowe.”

“He’s driving me crazy!”

“So it would seem. But to kill a man because of some practical jokes—”

“There’s no end to them. He started doing this almost two years ago. At first it was completely maddening because I had no idea what was happening or who was doing this to me. From time to time he’ll slack off and I’ll think he’s had his fun and has decided to leave me alone. Then he’ll start up again.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“I can’t. He laughs like the lunatic he is and hangs up on me.”

“Have you confronted him?”

“I can’t. He lives in an apartment downtown on Chippewa Street. He doesn’t let visitors in and never seems to leave the place.”

“And you’ve tried the police?”

“They can’t seem to do anything. He just lies to them, denies all responsibility, tells them it must be someone else. A very nice policeman told me the only sensible thing I can do is wait him out. He’ll get tired, he assured me, the man’s madness will run its course. He’ll decide he’s had his revenge.”

“And you tried to do that?”

“For a while. When it didn’t work, I engaged a private detective. He obtained evidence of activities, evidence that will stand up in court. But attorney convinced me not to press charges.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“The man’s a cripple.”

“Your attorney?”

“Certainly not. Mayhew’s a cripple, he’s confined to a wheelchair. I suppose that’s why he never leaves his squalid little apartment. But my attorney said I could only charge him with malicious mischief, which is not the most serious crime in the book and which sounds rather less serious than it is because it has the connotation of a child’s impish prank—”

“Yes.”

“—and there we’d be in court, myself a large man in good physical condition and Mayhew a sniveling cripple in a wheelchair, and he’d get everyone’s sympathy and undoubtedly be exonerated of all charges while I’d come off as a bully and a laughingstock. I couldn’t make charges stand up in criminal court, and if I sued him I’d probably lose. And even if I won, what could I possibly collect? The man doesn’t have anything to start with.”