Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

That last was an interesting thought and Ehrengraf might have pursued it, but he had other things to pursue. “My client,” he said. “Ethan Crowe.”

“That warthog.”

“You dislike him?”

“Stupid question, Mr. Lawyer. Of course I dislike him. I wouldn’t keep putting the wind up him if I thought the world of him, would I now?”

“You blame him for—”

“For me being a cripple? He didn’t do that to me. God did.” The volleyball head bounced against the back of the wheelchair, the wide slash of mouth opened and a cackle of laughter spilled out. “God did it! I was born this way, you chowderhead. Ethan Crowe had nothing to do with it.”

“Then—”

“I just hate the man,” Mayhew said. “Who needs a reason? I saw a preacher on Sunday-morning television; he stared right into the camera every minute with those great big eyes, said no one has cause to hate his fellow man. At first it made me want to retch, but I thought about it, and I’ll be an anthropoid ape if he’s not right. No one has cause to hate his fellow man because no one needs cause to hate his fellow man. It’s natural. And it comes natural for me to hate Ethan Crowe.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“I don’t have to meet him.”

“You just—”

“I just hate him,” Mayhew said, grinning fiercely, “and I love hating him, and I have heaps of fun hating him, and all I have to do is pick up that phone and make him pay and pay and pay for it.”

“Pay for what?”

“For everything. For being Ethan Crowe. For the outstanding war debt. For the loaves and the fishes.” The head bounced back and the insane laugh was repeated. “For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too. For Tippecanee and Tyler Three.”

“You don’t have very much money,” Ehrengraf said. “A disability pension, a small income.”

“I have enough. I don’t eat much and I don’t eat fancy. You probably spend more on clothes than I spend on everything put together.”

Ehrengraf didn’t doubt that for a moment. “My client might supplement that income of yours,” he said thoughtfully.

“You think I’m a blackmailer?”

“I think you might profit by circumstances, Mr. Mayhew.”

“Fie on it, sir. I’d have no truck with blackmail. The Mayhews have been whitemailers for generations.”

The conversation continued, but not for long. It became quite clear to the diminutive attorney that his was a limited arsenal. He could neither threaten nor bribe to any purpose. Any number of things might happen to Mayhew, some of them fatal, but such action seemed wildly disproportionate. This housebound wretch, this malevolent cripple, had simply not done enough to warrant such a response. When a child thumbed his nose at you, you were not supposed to dash its brains out against the curb. An action ought to bring about a suitable reaction. A thrust should be countered by an appropriate riposte.

But how was one to deal with a nasty madman? A helpless, pathetic madman?

Ehrengraf, who was fond of poetry, sought his memory for an illuminating phrase. Thoughts of madmen recalled Christopher Smart, an eighteenth-century Londoner who was periodically confined to Bedlam where he wrote a long poem that was largely comprehensible only to himself and God.

Quoting Smart, Ehrengraf said, “ ‘Let Ross, house of Ross, rejoice with Obadiah, and the rankle-dankle fish with hands.’ ”

Terence Reginald Mayhew nodded. “Now that,” he said, “is the first sensible thing you’ve said since you walked in here.”

A dozen dayslater, while Martin Ehrengraf was enjoying a sonnet of Thomas Hood’s, his telephone rang. He took it up, said hello, and heard himself called an unconscionable swine.

“Ah,” he said. “Mr. Mayhew.”

“You are a man with no heart. I’m a poor housebound cripple, Mr. Ehrengraf—”

“Indeed.”

“—and you’ve taken my life away. Do you have any idea what I went through to make this phone call?”

“I have a fair idea.”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through?”

“A fair idea of that as well,” Ehrengraf said. “Here’s a pretty coincidence. Just as you called, I was reading this poem of Thomas Hood’s — do you know him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A sonnet called Silence . I’ll just read you the sextet—

“Don’t you think that’s marvelously evocative of what you’ve been going through, Mr. Mayhew?”

“You’re a terrible man.”

“Indeed. And you should never forget it.”

“I won’t.”

“It could all happen again. In fact, it could happen over and over.”

“What do I have to do?”

“You have to leave my client strictly alone.”

“I was having so much fun.”

“Don’t whine, Mr. Mayhew. You can’t play your nasty little tricks on Mr. Crowe. But there’s a whole world of other victims out there just waiting for your attentions.”

“You mean—”

“I’m sure I’ve said nothing that wouldn’t have occurred to you in good time, sir. On the other hand, you never know what some other victim might do. He might even find his way to my office, and you know full well what the consequences of that would be. Indeed, you know that you can’t know. So perhaps what you ought to do is grow up, Mr. Mayhew, and wrap the tattered scraps of your life around your wretched body, and make the best of it.”

“I don’t—”

“Think of Thomas Hood, sir. Think of the true silence.”

“I can’t—”

“Think of Ross, house of Ross, and the rankle-dankle fish with hands.”

“I’m not—”

“And think of Mr. Crowe while you’re at it. I suggest you call him, sir. Apologize to him. Assure him that his troubles are over.”

“I don’t want to call him.”

“Make the call,” Ehrengraf said, his voice smooth as steel. “Or your troubles, Mr. Mayhew, are just beginning.”

“The most remarkablething,” Ethan Crowe said. “I had a call from that troll Mayhew. At first I didn’t believe it was he. I didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded so frightened, so unsure of himself.”

“Indeed.”

“He assured me I’d have no further trouble from him. No more limousines or taxis, no more flowers, none of his idiotic little pranks. He apologized profusely for all the trouble he’d caused me in the past and assured me it would never happen again. It’s hard to know whether to take the word of a madman, but I think he meant what he said.”

“I’m certain he did.”

They were once again in Martin Ehrengraf’s office, and as usual the lawyer’s desk was as cluttered as his person was immaculate. He was wearing the navy suit again, as it happened, but he had left the light-blue vest at home. His tie bore a half inch diagonal stripe of royal-blue flanked by two narrower stripes, one of gold and the other of a rather bright green, all on a navy field. Crowe was wearing a three-piece suit, expensive and beautifully tailored but in a rather morose shade of brown. Ehrengraf had decided charitably to regard the man as color blind and let it go at that.

“What did you do, Ehrengraf?”

The little lawyer looked off into the middle distance. “I suppose I can tell you,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “I took his life away from him.”

“That’s what I thought you would do. Take his life, I mean. But he was certainly alive when I spoke to him.”