Ehrengraf for the Defense (12 page)

“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
day. 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 worry 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 your 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.

“
Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage.

If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above,

Enjoy such liberty.”

Telliford shuddered.

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

“Have faith, sir.”

“I’ll try.”

“At least you have your poetry. Are you
sufficiently supplied with paper and pencil? I’ll make sure your
needs are seen to.”

“Maybe it would help me to write some poetry.
Maybe it would take my mind off things.”

“Perhaps it would. And I’ll devote myself
wholeheartedly to your defense, sir, whether I ever see a penny for
my troubles or not.” He drew himself up to his full height. “After
all,” he said, “it’s my obligation. ‘I could not love thee, dear,
so much, Loved I not Honour more.’ That’s also Lovelace, Mr.
Telliford. ‘To Lucasta, Going to the Wars.’ Good day, Mr.
Telliford. You have nothing to worry about.”

The End

“
Things are seldom what they seem,

Skim milk masquerades as cream.”

—
William Schwenk Gilbert

“What’s most unfortunate,” Ehrengraf said,
“is that there seems to be a witness.”

Evelyn Throop nodded in fervent agreement.
“Mrs. Keppner,” she said.

“Howard Bierstadt’s housekeeper.”

“She was devoted to him. She’d been with him
for years.”

“And she claims she saw you shoot him three
times in the chest.”

“I know,” Evelyn Throop said. “I can’t
imagine why she would say something like that. It’s completely
untrue.”

A thin smile turned up the corners of Martin
Ehrengraf’s mouth. Already he felt himself warming to his client,
exhilarated by the prospect of acting in her defense. It was the
little lawyer’s great good fortune always to find himself
representing innocent clients, but few of those clients were as
single-minded as Miss Throop in proclaiming their innocence.

The woman sat on the edge of her iron cot
with her shapely legs crossed at the ankle. She seemed so utterly
in possession of herself that she might have been almost anywhere
but in a jail cell, charged with the murder of her lover. Her age,
according to the papers, was forty-six. Ehrengraf would have
guessed her to be perhaps a dozen years younger. She was not
rich—Ehrengraf, like most lawyers, did have a special fondness for
wealthy clients—but she had excellent breeding. It was evident not
only in her exquisite facial bones but in her positively ducal
self-assurance.

“I’m sure we’ll uncover the explanation of
Mrs. Keppner’s calumny,” he said gently. “For now, why don’t we go
over what actually happened.”

“Certainly. I was at my home that evening
when Howard called. He was in a mood and wanted to see me. I drove
over to his house. He made drinks for both of us and paced around a
great deal. He was extremely agitated.”

“Over what?”

“Leona wanted him to marry her. Leona
Weybright.”

“The cookbook writer?”

“Yes. Howard was not the sort of man to get
married, or even to limit himself to a single relationship. He
believed in a double standard and was quite open about it. He
expected his women to be faithful while reserving the option of
infidelity to himself. If one was going to be involved with Howard
Bierstadt, one had to accept this.”

“As you accepted it.”

“I accepted it,” Evelyn Throop agreed. “Leona
evidently pretended to accept it but could not, and Howard didn’t
know what to do about her. He wanted to break up with her but was
afraid of the possible consequences. He thought she might turn
suicidal and he didn’t want her death on his conscience.”

“And he discussed all of this with you.”

“Oh, yes. He often confided in me about his
relationship with Leona.” Evelyn Throop permitted herself a smile.
“I played a very important role in his life, Mr. Ehrengraf. I
suppose he would have married me if there’d been any reason to do
so. I was his true confidante. Leona was just one of a long string
of mistresses.”

Ehrengraf nodded. “According to the
prosecution,” he said carefully, “you were pressuring him to marry
you.”

“That’s quite untrue.”

“No doubt.” He smiled. “Continue.”

The woman sighed. “There’s not much more to
say. He went into the other room to freshen our drinks. There was
the report of a gunshot.”

“I believe there were three shots.”

“Perhaps there were. I can remember only the
volume of the noise. It was so startling. I rushed in immediately
and saw him on the floor, the gun by his outstretched hand. I guess
I bent over and picked up the gun. I don’t remember doing so, but I
must have done because the next thing I knew I was standing there
holding the gun.” Evelyn Throop closed her eyes, evidently
overwhelmed by the memory. “Then Mrs. Keppner was there—I believe
she screamed, and then she went off to call the police. I just
stood there for a while and then I guess I sat down in a chair and
waited for the police to come and tell me what to do.”

“And they brought you here and put you in a
cell.”

“Yes. I was quite astonished. I couldn’t
imagine why they would do such a thing, and then it developed that
Mrs. Keppner had sworn she saw me shoot Howard.”

Ehrengraf was respectfully silent for a
moment. Then he said, “It seems they found some corroboration for
Mrs. Keppner’s story.”

“What do you mean?”

“The gun,” Ehrengraf said. “A revolver. I
believe it was registered to you, was it not?”

“It was my gun.”

“How did Mr. Bierstadt happen to have
it?”

“I brought it to him.”

“At his request?”

“Yes. When we spoke on the telephone, he
specifically asked me to bring the gun. He said something about
wanting to protect himself from burglars. I never thought he would
shoot himself.”

“But he did.”

“He must have done. He was upset about Leona.
Perhaps he felt guilty, or that there was no way to avoid hurting
her.”

“Wasn’t there a test?” Ehrengraf mused. “As I
recall, there were no nitrite particles found in Mr. Bierstadt’s
hand, which would seem to indicate he had not fired a gun
recently.”

“I don’t really understand those tests,”
Evelyn Throop said. “But I’m told they’re not absolutely
conclusive.”

“And the police gave you a test as well,”
Ehrengraf went on. “Didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And found nitrite particles in your right
hand.”

“Of course,” Evelyn Throop said. “I’d fired
the gun that evening before I took it along to Howard’s house. I
hadn’t used it in the longest time, since I first practiced with it
at a pistol range, so I cleaned it, and to make sure it was in good
operating condition I test-fired it before I went to Howard’s.”

“At a pistol range?”

“That wouldn’t have been convenient. I just
stopped at a deserted spot along a country road and fired a few
shots.”

“I see.”

“I told the police all of this, of
course.”

“Of course. Before they gave you the paraffin
test?”

“After the test, as it happens. The incident
had quite slipped my mind in the excitement of the moment, but they
gave me the test and said it was evident I’d fired a gun, and at
that point I recalled having stopped the car and firing off a
couple of rounds before continuing on to Howard’s.”

“Where you gave Mr. Bierstadt the gun.”

“Yes.”

“Whereupon he in due course took it off into
another room and fired three shots into his heart,” Ehrengraf
murmured. “Your Mr. Bierstadt would look to be one of the most
determined suicides in human memory.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“But I do believe you,” he said. “Which is to
say that I believe you did not shoot Mr. Bierstadt. Whether or not
he did in fact die by his own hand is not, of course, something to
which either you or I can testify.”

“How else could he have died?” The woman’s
gaze narrowed. “Unless he really was genuinely afraid of burglars,
and unless he did surprise one in the other room. But wouldn’t I
have heard sounds of a struggle? Of course, I was in another room a
fair distance away, and there was music playing, and I did have
things on my mind.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“And perhaps Mrs. Keppner saw the burglar
shoot Howard, and then she fainted or something. I suppose that’s
possible, isn’t it?”