Lawrence Block - Ehrengraf Settlement

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

The expression that passed over Ravenstock’s face suggested that it was a pleasure Ehrengraf would have to live without. “She is a beautiful woman,” he said. “And quite a few years younger than I. I suppose there are those who would refer to her as my trophy wife.”

The man paused, waiting for Ehrengraf to comment, then frowned at the lawyer’s continuing silence. “There are two ways to celebrate a trophy,” he went on. “One may carry it around, showing it off at every opportunity. Or one may place it on a shelf in one’s personal quarters, to be admired and savored in private.”

“Indeed.”

“Some men require that their taste have the approbation of others. They lack confidence, Ehrengraf.”

Another pause. Some expression of assent seemed to be required of him, and Ehrengraf considered several, ranging from Right on, dude to Most def .

“Indeed,” he said at length.

“But somehow Alicia caught his interest. He was one of the mob given to loitering in the park, and sometimes she’d walk Kossuth there.”

“Kossuth,” Ehrengraf said. “The Gordon setter?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t own a Gordon. And why would anyone name a Gordon for Louis Kossuth? Our dog is a Viszla, and a fine and noble animal he is. He must have seen her walking Kossuth. Or—”

“Or?”

“I had my run-ins with him. In my patrol duty with the Vigilance Committee, I’d recommended that he and his fellows stay on their side of the street.”

“In the park, and away from the houses.”

“His response was not at all acquiescent,” Ravenstock recalled. “After that I made a point of monitoring his activities, and phoned in the occasional police report. I’d have to say I made an enemy, Ehrengraf.”

“I doubt you were ever destined to be friends.”

“No, but I erred in making myself the object of his hostility. I think that’s what may have put Alicia in his sights. I think he stalked me, and I think his reconnaissance got him a good look at Alicia, and of course to see her is to want her.”

Ehrengraf, struck by the matter-of-fact tone of that last clause, touched the tips of two fingers to the Caedmon Society cravat.

“And the police found evidence of his obsession,” Ravenstock said. “A roll of undeveloped film in his sock drawer, with photos for which my wife had served as an unwitting model. Crude fictional sketches, written in Bogue’s schoolboy hand, some written in the third person, some in the first. Clumsy mini-stories relating in pornographic detail the abduction, sexual savaging, and murder of my wife. Pencil drawings to illustrate them, as ill-fashioned as his prose. The scenarios varied as his fantasies evolved. Sometimes there was torture, mutilation, dismemberment. Sometimes I was present, bound and helpless, forced to witness what was being done to her. And I had to watch because I couldn’t close my eyes. I didn’t read his filth, so I can’t recall whether he’d glued my eyelids open or removed them surgically—”

“Either would be effective.”

“Well,” Ravenstock said, and went on, explaining that of course the several discoveries the police had made put paid to any notion that he, Millard Ravenstock, had done anything untoward, let alone criminal. He had not been charged, so there were no charges to dismiss, and what was at least as important was that he had been entirely exonerated in the court of public opinion.

“So you can see why I felt moved to make a generous donation to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association,” he continued. “I feel they earned it. And I’ll find a way to express my private appreciation to Walter Bainbridge.”

Ehrengraf waited, and refrained from touching his necktie.

“As for yourself, Ehrengraf, I greatly appreciate your efforts on my behalf, and have no doubt that they’d have proved successful had not Fate and the police intervened and done your job for you. And I’m sure you’ll find this more than adequate compensation for your good work.”

The check was in an envelope, which Ravenstock plucked from his inside breast pocket and extended with a flourish. The envelope was unsealed, and Ehrengraf drew the check from it and noted its amount, which was about what he’d come to expect.

“The fee I quoted you—”

“Was lofty,” Ravenstock said, “but would have been acceptable had the case not resolved itself independent of any action on your part.”

“I was very specific,” Ehrengraf pointed out. “I said my work would cost you nothing unless your innocence was established and all charges dropped. But if that were to come about, my fee was due and payable in full. You do remember my saying that, don’t you?”

“But you didn’t do anything, Ehrengraf.”

“You agreed to the arrangement I spelled out, sir, and—”

“I repeat, you did nothing, or if you did do anything it had no bearing on the outcome of the matter. The payment I just gave you is a settlement, and I pay it gladly in order to put the matter to rest.”

“A settlement,” Ehrengraf said, testing the word on his tongue.

“And no mere token settlement, either. It’s hardly an insignificant amount, and my personal attorney hastened to tell me I’m being overly generous. He says all you’re entitled to, legally and morally, is a reasonable return on whatever billable hours you’ve put in, and—”

“Your attorney.”

“One of the region’s top men, I assure you.”

“I don’t doubt it. Would this be the same attorney who’d have had you armed with a sharp stick to pick up litter in Delaware Park? After pleading you guilty to a murder for which you bore no guilt?”

Even as he marshaled his arguments, Ehrengraf sensed that they would prove fruitless. The man’s mind, such as it was, was made up. Nothing would sway him.

There was a time, Ehrengraf recalled, when he had longed for a house like Millard Ravenstock’s — on Nottingham Terrace, or Meadow Road, or Middlesex. Something at once tasteful and baronial, something with pillars and a center hall, something that would proclaim to one and all that its owner had unquestionably come to amount to something.

True success, he had learned, meant one no longer required its accoutrements. His penthouse apartment at the Park Lane provided all the space and luxury he could want, and a better view than any house could offer. The building, immaculately maintained and impeccably staffed, even had a name that suited him; it managed to be as resolutely British as Nottingham or Middlesex without sounding pretentious.

And it was closer to downtown. When time and good weather permitted, Ehrengraf could walk to and from his office.

But not today. There was a cold wind blowing off the lake, and the handicappers in the weather bureau had pegged rain at even money. The little lawyer had arrived at his office a few minutes after ten. He made one phone call, and as he rang off he realized he could have saved himself the trip.

He went downstairs, retrieved his car, and returned to the Park Lane to await his guest.

Ehrengraf, opening the door, was careful not to stare. The woman whom the concierge had announced as a Ms. Philips was stunning, and Ehrengraf worked to conceal the extent to which he was stunned. She was taller than Ehrengraf by several inches, with dark hair that someone very skilled had cut to look as though she took no trouble with it. She had great big Bambi eyes, the facial planes of a supermodel, and a full-lipped mouth that stopped just short of obscenity.

“Ms. Philips,” Ehrengraf said, and motioned her inside.

“I didn’t want to leave my name at the desk.”

“I assumed as much. Come in, come in. A drink? A cup of coffee?”