Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

“And the actual killer—”

“Will be found, I shouldn’t doubt, in the course of time.” Ehrengraf straightened his tie, a stylish specimen showing a half-inch stripe of royal blue flanked by two narrower stripes, one of gold and the other of a vivid green, all displayed on a field of navy. The tie was that of the Caedmon Society, and it brought back memories. “Some disgruntled employee of the Darnitol manufacturer, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Ehrengraf carelessly. “That’s usually the case in this sort of affair. Or some unbalanced chap who took the pill himself and was unhappy with the results. Twelve dead, plus your wife of course, and a company on the verge of ruin, because I shouldn’t think too many people are rushing down to their local pharmacy and purchasing Extra-Strength Darnitol.”

“There’s a joke going round,” Bridgewater said, flexing his large and sinewy hands. “Patient calls his doctor, says he’s got a headache, an upset stomach, whatever. Doctor says, ‘Take two Darnitol and call me in the Hereafter.’ ”

“Indeed.”

Bridgewater sighed. “I suppose,” he said, “the real killer may never be found.”

“Oh, I suspect he will,” Ehrengraf said. “In the interests of rounding things out, you know. And, speaking of rounding things out, sir, if you’ve your checkbook with you—”

“Ah, yes,” said Bridgewater. He made his check payable to Martin H. Ehrengraf and filled in the sum, which was a large one. He paused then, his pen hovering over the space for his signature. Perhaps he reflected for a moment on the curious business of paying so great an amount to a person who, on the face of it, had taken no concrete action on his behalf.

But who is to say what thoughts go through a man’s mind? Bridgewater signed the check, tore it from the checkbook, and presented it with a flourish.

“What would you drink with veal?” he demanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said the Nuits-St.-Georges would be overpowering with veal. What would you choose?”

“I shouldn’t choose veal in the first place. I don’t eat meat.”

“Don’t eat meat?” Bridgewater, who looked as though he might cheerfully consume a whole lamb at a sitting, was incredulous. “What do you eat?”

“Tonight I’m having a nut-and-soybean casserole,” the little lawyer said. He blew on the check to dry the ink, folded it, and put it away. “Nuit-St.-Georges should do nicely with it,” he said. “Or perhaps a good bottle of Chambertin.”

The Chambertin andthe nut-and-soybean casserole that it had so superbly complemented were but a memory four days later when a uniformed guard ushered the little lawyer into the cell where Evans Wheeler awaited him. The lawyer, neatly turned out in a charcoal-gray-flannel suit with a nipped-in waist, a Wedgwood-blue shirt, and a navy tie with a below-the-knot design, contrasted sharply in appearance with his prospective client. Wheeler, as awkwardly tall and thin as a young Lincoln, wore striped overalls and a denim shirt. His footwear consisted of a pair of chain-store running shoes. The lawyer wore highly polished cordovan loafers.

And yet, Ehrengraf noted, the young man was poised enough in his casual costume. It suited him, even to the stains and chemical burns on the overalls and the ragged patch on one elbow of the workshirt.

“Mr. Ehrengraf,” said Wheeler, extending a bony hand. “Pardon the uncomfortable surroundings. They don’t go out of their way to make suspected mass murderers comfortable.” He smiled ruefully. “The newspapers are calling it the crime of the century.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Ehrengraf. “The century’s not over yet. But the crime’s unarguably a monumental one, sir, and the evidence against you would seem to be particularly damning.”

“That’s why I want you on my side, Mr. Ehrengraf.”

“Well,” said Ehrengraf.

“I know your reputation, sir. You’re a miracle worker, and it looks as though that’s what I need.”

“What you very likely need,” Ehrengraf said, “is a master of delaying tactics. Someone who can stall your case for as long as possible to let some of the heat of the moment be discharged. Then, when public opinion has lost some of its fury, he can arrange for you to plead guilty to homicide while of unsound mind. Some sort of insanity defense might work, or might at least reduce the severity of your sentence.”

“But I’m innocent, Mr. Ehrengraf.”

“I wouldn’t presume to say otherwise, Mr. Wheeler, but I don’t know that I’d be the right person to undertake your defense. I charge high fees, you see, which I collect only in the event that my clients are entirely exonerated. This tends to limit the nature of my clients.”

“To those who can afford you.”

“I’ve defended paupers. I’ve defended the poor as a court-appointed attorney and I volunteered my services on behalf of a penniless poet. But in the ordinary course of things, my clients seem to have two things in common. They can afford my high fees. And, of course, they’re innocent.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Indeed.”

“And I’m a long way from being a pauper, Mr. Ehrengraf. You know that I used to work for Triage Corporation, the manufacturer of Darnitol.”

“So I understand.”

“You know that I resigned six months ago.”

“After a dispute with your employer.”

“Not a dispute,” Wheeler said. “I told him where he could resituate a couple of test tubes. You see, I was in a position to make the suggestion, although I don’t know that he was in a position to follow it. On my own time I’d developed a process for extenuating lapiform polymers so as to produce a variable-stress oxypolymer capable of withstanding—”

Wheeler went on to explain just what the oxypolymer was capable of withstanding, and Ehrengraf wondered what the young man was talking about. He tuned in again to hear him say, “And so my royalty on the process in the first year will be in excess of six hundred fifty thousand dollars, and I’m told that’s only the beginning.”

“Only the beginning,” said Ehrengraf.

“I haven’t sought other employment because there doesn’t seem to be much point in it, and I haven’t changed my lifestyle because I’m happy as I am. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison, Mr. Ehrengraf, nor do I want to escape on some technicality and be loathed by my neighbors for the remainder of my days. I want to be exonerated and I don’t care what it costs me.”

“Of course you do,” said Ehrengraf, drawing himself stiffly erect. “Of course you do. After all, son, you’re innocent.”

“Exactly.”

“Although,” Ehrengraf said with a sigh, “your innocence may be rather tricky to prove. The evidence—”

“Is overpowering.”

“Like Nuits-St.-Georges with veal. A search of your workroom revealed a half-full container of Cydonex. You denied ever having seen it before.”

“Absolutely.”

Ehrengraf frowned. “I wonder if you mightn’t have purchased it as an aid to pest control. Rats are troublesome. One is always being plagued by rats in one’s cellar, mice in one’s pantry, squirrels in one’s attic—”

“And bats in one’s belfry, I suppose, but my house has always been comfortingly free of vermin. I keep a cat. I suppose that helps.”

“I’m sure it must, but I don’t know that it helps your case. You seem to have purchased Cydonex from a chemical-supply house on North Division Street, where your signature appears in the poison-control ledger.”

“A forgery.”

“No doubt, but a convincing one. Bottles of Darnitol, some unopened, others with a single Cydonex-filled capsule added, were found on a closet shelf in your home. They seem to be from the same lot as those used to murder thirteen people.”