Lawrence Block: The Ehrengraf Obligation

Ehrengraf shook his head. “You don’t owe me a cent,” he insisted. “I took your case out of a sense of obligation. And your lady friend is quite correct—I am not a charity case. Furthermore, my expenses on your behalf were extremely low, and in any case I should be more than happy to stand the cost myself.”

“Well, if you’re absolutely certain—”

“Quite certain, thank you.” Ehrengraf smiled. “I’m most satisfied with the outcome of the case. Of course I regret the loss of Miss Littlefield’s mother and brother, but at least there’s a happy ending to it all. You’re out of prison, you have no worries about money, your future is assured, and you can return to the serious business of writing poetry.”

“Yeah,” Telliford said.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not really. Just what you said about poetry.”

“I suppose get back to it sooner or later.”

“Don’t tell me your muse has deserted you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the young man said nervously. “It’s just that, oh, I don’t really seem to care much about poetry now, you know what I mean?”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

“Well, I’ve got everything I want, you know? I’ve got the money to go all over the world and try all the things I’ve always wanted to try, and, oh, poetry just doesn’t seem very important anymore.” He laughed. “I remember what a kick I used to get when I’d check the mailbox and some little magazine would send me a check for one of my poems. Now what I usually got was fifty cents a line for poems, and that’s from the magazines that paid anything, and most of them just gave you copies of the issue with the poem in it and that was that. That sonnet you liked, ‘On a Train Through Kansas,’ the magazine that took it paid me twenty-five cents a line. So I made three dollars and fifty cents for that poem, and by the time I submitted it here and there and everywhere, hell, my postage came to pretty nearly as much as I got for it.”

“It’s a scandal.”

“But the thing is, when I didn’t have any money, even a little check helped. Now, though, it’s hard to take the whole thing seriously. But besides that, I just don’t get poetic ideas anymore. And I just don’t feel it.” He forced a smile. “It’s funny. Getting away from poetry hasn’t been bothering me, but now that I’m talking with you about it I find myself feeling bad. As though by giving up poetry I’m letting you down or something.”

“You’re not letting me down,” Ehrengraf said. “But to dismiss the talent you have, to let it languish—”

“Well, I just don’t know if I’ve got it anymore,” Telliford said. “That’s the whole thing. I sit down and try to write a poem and it’s just not there, you know what I mean? And Robin says why waste my time, that nobody really cares about poetry nowadays anyway, and I figure maybe she’s right.”

“Her father’s daughter.”

“Huh? Well, I’ll tell you something that’s ironic, anyway. I was having trouble writing poetry before I went to jail, what with the hassles from Robin’s old man and all our problems and getting into the wine and the grass too much. And I’m having more troubles now, now that we’ve got plenty of money and Robin’s father’s out of our hair. But you know when I was really having no trouble at all?”

“When?”

“During the time I was in jail. There I was, stuck in that rotten cell with a lifetime in the penitentiary staring me in the face, and I swear I was averaging a poem every. My mind was just clicking along. And I was writing good stuff, too.” The young man drew an alligator billfold from the breast pocket of the velvet jacket, removed and unfolded a sheet of paper. “You liked the Kansas poem,” he said, “so why don’t you see what you think of this one?”

Ehrengraf read the poem. It seemed to be about birds, and included the line “Puppets dance from bloody strings.” Ehrengraf wasn’t sure what the poem meant but he knew he liked the sound of that line.

“It’s very good,” he said.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like it. And I wrote it in the jug, just wrote the words down like they were flowing out of a faucet, and now all I can write is checks. It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is,” said Ehrengraf.

It was a little over two weeks later when Ehrengraf met yet again with William Telliford. Once again, the meeting took place in the jail cell where the two had first made one another’s acquaintance.

“Mr. Ehrengraf,” the young man said. “Gee, I didn’t know if you would show up. I figured you’d wash your hands of me.”

“Why should I do that, sir?”

“Because they say I killed Robin. But I swear I didn’t do it!”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I could have killed Jan, for all I knew. Because I was unconscious at the time, or in a blackout, or whatever it was. So I didn’t know what happened. But I was away from the apartment when Robin was killed, and I was awake. I hadn’t even been drinking much.”

“We’ll simply prove where you were.”

Telliford shook his head. “What we can’t prove is that Robin was alive when I left the apartment. I know she was, but how are we going to prove it?”

“We’ll find a way,” Ehrengraf said soothingly. “We know you’re innocent, don’t we?”

“Right.”

“Then there is nothing to about. Someone else must have gone to your house, taking that fire axe along for the express purpose of framing you for murder. Someone jealous of your success, perhaps. Someone who begrudged you your happiness.”

“But who?”

“Leave that to me, sir. It’s my job.”

“Your job,” Telliford said. “Well, this time you’ll get well paid for pour job, Mr. Ehrengraf. And your system is perfect for my case, let me tell you.”

“How do you mean?”

“If I’m found innocent, I’ll inherit all the money Robin inherited from her father. She made me her beneficiary. So I’ll be able to pay you whatever you ask, eighty thousand dollars or even more.”

“Eighty thousand will be satisfactory.”

“And I’ll pay it with pleasure. But if I’m found guilty, well, I won’t get a dime.”

“Because one cannot legally profit from a crime.”

“Right. So if take the case on your usual terms—”

“I work on no other terms,” Ehrengraf said. “And I would trust no one else with your case.” He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs for a moment before continuing. “Mr. Telliford,” he said, “your case is going to be a difficult one. You must appreciate that.”

“I do.”

“I shall of course do everything in my power on your behalf, acting always in your best interest. But you must recognize that the possibility exists that you will be convicted.”

“And for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Such miscarriages of justice do occasionally come to pass. It’s tragic, I agree, but don’t despair. Even if you’re convicted, the appeal process is an exhaustive one. We can appeal your case again and again. You may have to serve some time in prison, Mr. Telliford, but there’s always hope. And surely you know what Lovelace had to say on the subject.”

“Lovelace?”

“Richard Lovelace. Born 1618, died 1657. ‘To Althea, from Prison,’ Mr. Telliford.

Telliford shuddered.

“‘Stone walls and iron bars,’” he said.