steady.”
“An abstract expressionist,” said Ehrengraf.
“That’s very interesting. He lives directly above you, Mr.
Protter?”
“Right upstairs, yeah. That’s why we could
hear his radio clear as a bell.”
“Was it playing the night you and your wife
drank the boilermakers?”
“We drank boilermakers lots of the time,”
Protter said, puzzled. “Oh, you mean the night I killed her.”
“The night she died.”
“Same thing, ain’t it?”
“Not at all,” said Ehrengraf. “But let it go.
Was Mr. Gates playing his radio that night?”
Protter scratched his head. “Hard to
remember,” he said. “One night’s like another, know what I mean?
Yeah, the radio was going that night. I remember now. He was
playing country music on it. Usually he plays that rock and roll,
and that stuff gives me a headache, but this time it was country
music. Country music, it sort of soothes my nerves.” He frowned.
“But I never played it on my own radio.”
“Why was that?”
“Gretch hated it. Couldn’t stand it, said the
singers all sounded like dogs that ate poisoned meat and was dying
of it. Gretch didn’t like any music much. What she liked was the
television, and then we’d have Gates with his rock and roll at top
volume, and sometimes you’d hear a little country music coming
upstairs from Agnes’s radio. She liked country music, but she never
played it very loud. With the windows open on a hot day you’d hear
it, but otherwise no. Of course what you hear most with the windows
open is the Puerto Ricans on the street with their transistor
radios.”
Protter went on at some length about Puerto
Ricans and transistor radios. When he paused for breath, Ehrengraf
straightened up and smiled with his lips. “A pleasure,” he said.
“Mr. Protter, I believe in your innocence.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been the victim of an elaborate and
diabolical frame-up, sir. But you’re in good hands now. Maintain
your silence and put your faith in me. Is there anything you need
to make your stay here more comfortable?”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Well, you won’t be here for long. I’ll see
to that. Perhaps I can arrange for a radio for you. You could
listen to country music.”
“Be real nice,” Protter said. “Soothing is
what it is. It soothes my nerves.”
* * *
An hour after his interview with his client,
Ehrengraf was seated on a scarred wooden bench at a similarly
distressed oaken table. The restaurant in which he was dining ran
to college pennants and German beer steins suspended from the
exposed dark wood beams. Ehrengraf was eating hot apple pie topped
with sharp cheddar, and at the side of his plate was a small glass
of neat Calvados.
The little lawyer was just preparing to take
his first sip of the tangy apple brandy when a familiar voice
sounded beside him.
“Ehrengraf,” Hudson Cutliffe boomed out.
“Fancy finding you here. Twice in one day, eh?”
Ehrengraf looked up, smiled. “Excellent pie
here,” he said.
“Come here all the time,” Cutliffe said. “My
home away from home. Never seen you here before, I don’t
think.”
“My first time.”
“Pie with cheese. If I ate that I’d put on
ten pounds.” Unbidden, the hefty attorney drew back the bench
opposite Ehrengraf and seated himself. When a waiter appeared,
Cutliffe ordered a slice of prime rib and a spinach salad.
“Watching my weight,” he said. “Protein,
that’s the ticket. Got to cut down on the nasty old carbs. Well,
Ehrengraf, I suppose you’ve seen your wife-murderer now, haven’t
you? Or are you still maintaining he’s no murderer at all?”
“Protter’s an innocent man.”
Cutliffe chuckled. “Commendable attitude, I’m
sure, but why don’t you save it for the courtroom? The odd juryman
may be impressed by that line of country. I’m not, myself. I’ve
always found facts more convincing than attitudes.”
“Indeed,” said Ehrengraf. “Personally, I’ve
always noticed the shadow as much as
“An abstract expressionist,” said Ehrengraf.
“That’s very interesting. He lives directly above you, Mr.
Protter?”
“Right upstairs, yeah. That’s why we could
hear his radio clear as a bell.”
“Was it playing the night you and your wife
drank the boilermakers?”
“We drank boilermakers lots of the time,”
Protter said, puzzled. “Oh, you mean the night I killed her.”
“The night she died.”
“Same thing, ain’t it?”
“Not at all,” said Ehrengraf. “But let it go.
Was Mr. Gates playing his radio that night?”
Protter scratched his head. “Hard to
remember,” he said. “One night’s like another, know what I mean?
Yeah, the radio was going that night. I remember now. He was
playing country music on it. Usually he plays that rock and roll,
and that stuff gives me a headache, but this time it was country
music. Country music, it sort of soothes my nerves.” He frowned.
“But I never played it on my own radio.”
“Why was that?”
“Gretch hated it. Couldn’t stand it, said the
singers all sounded like dogs that ate poisoned meat and was dying
of it. Gretch didn’t like any music much. What she liked was the
television, and then we’d have Gates with his rock and roll at top
volume, and sometimes you’d hear a little country music coming
upstairs from Agnes’s radio. She liked country music, but she never
played it very loud. With the windows open on a hot day you’d hear
it, but otherwise no. Of course what you hear most with the windows
open is the Puerto Ricans on the street with their transistor
radios.”
Protter went on at some length about Puerto
Ricans and transistor radios. When he paused for breath, Ehrengraf
straightened up and smiled with his lips. “A pleasure,” he said.
“Mr. Protter, I believe in your innocence.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been the victim of an elaborate and
diabolical frame-up, sir. But you’re in good hands now. Maintain
your silence and put your faith in me. Is there anything you need
to make your stay here more comfortable?”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Well, you won’t be here for long. I’ll see
to that. Perhaps I can arrange for a radio for you. You could
listen to country music.”
“Be real nice,” Protter said. “Soothing is
what it is. It soothes my nerves.”
* * *
An hour after his interview with his client,
Ehrengraf was seated on a scarred wooden bench at a similarly
distressed oaken table. The restaurant in which he was dining ran
to college pennants and German beer steins suspended from the
exposed dark wood beams. Ehrengraf was eating hot apple pie topped
with sharp cheddar, and at the side of his plate was a small glass
of neat Calvados.
The little lawyer was just preparing to take
his first sip of the tangy apple brandy when a familiar voice
sounded beside him.
“Ehrengraf,” Hudson Cutliffe boomed out.
“Fancy finding you here. Twice in one day, eh?”
Ehrengraf looked up, smiled. “Excellent pie
here,” he said.
“Come here all the time,” Cutliffe said. “My
home away from home. Never seen you here before, I don’t
think.”
“My first time.”
“Pie with cheese. If I ate that I’d put on
ten pounds.” Unbidden, the hefty attorney drew back the bench
opposite Ehrengraf and seated himself. When a waiter appeared,
Cutliffe ordered a slice of prime rib and a spinach salad.
“Watching my weight,” he said. “Protein,
that’s the ticket. Got to cut down on the nasty old carbs. Well,
Ehrengraf, I suppose you’ve seen your wife-murderer now, haven’t
you? Or are you still maintaining he’s no murderer at all?”
“Protter’s an innocent man.”
Cutliffe chuckled. “Commendable attitude, I’m
sure, but why don’t you save it for the courtroom? The odd juryman
may be impressed by that line of country. I’m not, myself. I’ve
always found facts more convincing than attitudes.”
“Indeed,” said Ehrengraf. “Personally, I’ve
always noticed the shadow as much as
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