“But even as she was writing those lines, he was preparing to put the dynamite in her car.”
Ehrengraf went on explaining and Gort could only stare at him in wonder. Was it possible that his own memory could have departed so utterly from reality? Had the twin shocks of Ginnie’s death and of arrest have caused him to fabricate a whole set of false memories?
Damn it, he remembered buying that dynamite! He remembered wiring it under the hood of her Pontiac! So how on earth—
The Ehrengraf Presumption, he thought. If Ehrengraf could presume Gort’s innocence the way he did, why couldn’t Gort presume his own innocence? Why not give himself the benefit of the doubt?
Because the alternative was terrifying. The letter, the practice sheets of his signature, the shoes and slacks and burgundy blazer—
“Mr. Gort? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Gort said.
“You looked pale for a moment. The strain, no doubt. Will you take a glass of water?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Gort lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. “I’m fine,” he said. “I feel good about everything. You know, not only am I in the clear but ultimately I don’t think your fee will cost me anything.”
“Oh?”
“Not if that rotter killed her. Lattimore can’t profit from a murder he committed. And while she may have intended to make Grace her beneficiary, her unfulfilled intent has no legal weight. So her estate becomes the beneficiary of the insurance policy, and she never did get around to changing her will, so that means the money will wind up in my hands. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Amazing.” The little lawyer rubbed his hands together briskly. “But you do know what they say about unhatched chickens, Mr. Gort. Mr. Lattimore hasn’t been convicted of anything yet.”
“You think he’s got a chance of getting off?”
“That would depend,” said Martin Ehrengraf, “on his choice of attorney.”
This time Ehrengraf’s suit was navy blue with a barely perceptible stripe in a lighter blue. His shirt, as usual, was white. His shoes were black loafers — no tassels or braid — and his tie had a half-inch 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. The necktie was that of the Caedmon Society of Oxford University, an organization of which Mr. Ehrengraf was not a member. The tie was a souvenir of another case and the lawyer wore it now and then on especially auspicious occasions.
Such as this visit to the cell of Barry Pierce Lattimore.
“I’m innocent,” Lattimore said. “But it’s gotten to the point where I don’t expect anyone to believe me. There’s so much evidence against me.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
“Yes, but that’s often enough to hang a man, isn’t it?” Lattimore winced at the thought. “I loved Ginnie. I wanted to marry her. I never even thought of killing her.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
Ehrengraf nodded solemnly. “Indeed I do,” he said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I only collect fees when I get results, Mr. Lattimore. If I can’t get you acquitted of all charges, then I won’t take a penny for my trouble.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“My own lawyer thinks I’m crazy to hire you. He had several criminal lawyers he was prepared to recommend. But I know a little about you. I know you get results. And since I am innocent, I feel I want to be represented by someone with a vested interest in getting me free.”
“Of course my fees are high, Mr. Lattimore.”
“Well, there’s a problem. I’m not a rich man.”
“You’re the beneficiary of a hundred-thousand-dollars insurance policy.”
“But I can’t collect that money.”
“You can if you’re found innocent.”
“Oh,” Lattimore said. “Oh.”
“And otherwise you’ll owe me nothing.”
“Then I can’t lose, can I?”
“So it would seem,” Ehrengraf said. “Now shall we begin? It’s quite clear you were framed, Mr. Lattimore. That blazer and those trousers did not find their way to your closet of their own accord. Those shoes did not walk in by themselves. The two letters to Mrs. Gort’s sister, one mailed and one unmailed, must have been part of the scheme. Someone constructed an elaborate frame-up, Mr. Lattimore, with the object of implicating first Mr. Gort and then yourself. Now let’s determine who would have a motive.”
“Gort,” said Lattimore.
“I think not.”
“Who else? He had a reason to kill her. And he hated me, so who would have more reason to—”
“Mr. Lattimore, I’m afraid that’s not a possibility. You see, Mr. Gort was a client of mine.”
“Oh. Yes, I forgot.”
“And I’m personally convinced of his innocence.”
“I see.”
“Just as I’m convinced of yours.”
“I see.”
“Now who else would have a motive? Was Mrs. Gort emotionally involved with anyone else? Did she have another lover? Had she had any other lovers before you came into the picture? And how about Mr. Gort? A former mistress who might have had a grudge against both him and his wife? Hmmm?” Ehrengraf smoothed the ends of his mustache. “Or perhaps, just perhaps, there was an elaborate plot hatched by Mrs. Gort.”
“Ginnie?”
“It’s not impossible. I’m afraid I reject the possibility of suicide. It’s always tempting but in this instance I fear it just won’t wash. But let’s suppose, let’s merely suppose, that Mrs. Gort decided to murder her husband and implicate you.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I’ve no idea. But suppose she did, and suppose she intended to get her husband to drive her car and arranged the dynamite accordingly, and then when she left the house so hurriedly she forgot what she’d done, and of course the moment she turned the key in the ignition it all came back to her in a rather dramatic way.”
“But I can’t believe—”
“Oh, Mr. Lattimore, we believe what it pleases us to believe, don’t you agree? The important thing is to recognize that you are innocent and to act on that recognition.”
“But how can you be absolutely certain of my innocence?”
Martin Ehrengraf permitted himself a smile. “Mr. Lattimore,” he said, “let me tell you about a principle of mine. I call it the Ehrengraf Presumption.”
The Ehrengraf Experience
“Innocence,” said Martin Ehrengraf. “There’s the problem in a nutshell.”
“Innocence is a problem?”
The little lawyer glanced around the prison cell, then turned to regard his client. “Precisely,” he said. “If you weren’t innocent you wouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, really?” Grantham Beale smiled, and while it was hardly worthy of inclusion in a toothpaste commercial, it was the first smile he’d managed since his conviction on first-degree murder charges just two weeks and four days earlier. “Then you’re saying that innocent men go to prison while guilty men walk free. Is that what you’re saying?”
“It happens that way more than you might care to believe,” Ehrengraf said softly. “But no, it is not what I am saying.”
“Oh?”
“I am not contrasting innocence and guilt, Mr. Beale. I know you are innocent of murder. That is almost beside the point. All clients of Martin Ehrengraf are innocent of the crimes of which they are charged, and this innocence always emerges in due course. Indeed, this is more than a presumption on my part. It is the manner in which I make my living. I set high fees, Mr. Beale, but I collect them only when my innocent clients emerge with their innocence a matter of public record. If my client goes to prison I collect nothing whatsoever, not even whatever expenses I incur on his behalf. So my clients are always innocent, Mr. Beale, just as you are innocent, in the sense that they are not guilty.”