Lawrence Block - The Ehrengraf Appointment

“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 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—”