“But it didn’t.”
“He laughed,” Ravenstock recalled, “and said he’d take it away from me, and would stick it — well, you can imagine where he threatened to stick it.”
Ehrengraf, who could actually imagine several possible destinations for the Kestrel, simply nodded.
“And he rushed at me, and I might have been holding a water pistol for all the respect he showed it.”
“You fired it.”
“I was taught never to show a gun unless I was prepared to use it.”
“Five times.”
“I was taught to keep on firing until one’s gun was empty. Actually the Kestrel’s clip holds nine cartridges, but five seemed sufficient.”
“‘To make assurance doubly sure,’” Ehrengraf said. “Stopping at five does show restraint.”
“Well.”
“And yet,” Ehrengraf said, “the traditional argument that the gun simply went off of its own accord comes a cropper, doesn’t it? It’s a rare weapon that fires itself five times in rapid succession. As a member of the Nottingham Vigilantes—”
“The Vigilance Committee.”
“Yes, of course. In that capacity, weren’t you supposed to report Bogue’s presence to the police rather than confront him?”
Ravenstock came as close to hanging his head as his character would allow. “I never thought to make the call.”
“The heat of the moment,” Ehrengraf suggested.
“Just that. I acted precipitously.”
“A Mrs. Kling was across the street, walking her Gordon setter. She told police the two of you were arguing, and it seemed to be about someone’s wife.”
“He made remarks about my wife,” Ravenstock said. “Brutish remarks, designed to provoke me. About what he intended to do to and with her, after he’d taken the gun away from me and put it, well—”
“Indeed.”
“What’s worse, Mr. Ehrengraf, is the campaign of late to canonize Tegrum Bogue. Have you seen the picture his family released to the press? He doesn’t look very menacing, does it?”
“Only if one finds choirboys threatening.”
“It was taken nine years ago,” Ravenstock said, “when young Bogue was a first-form student at the Nichols School. Since then he shot up eight inches and put on forty or fifty pounds. I assure you, the cherub in the photo bears no resemblance to the hulking savage who attacked me steps from my own home.”
“Unconscionable,” Ehrengraf said.
“And now I’m certain to be questioned further, and very likely to be placed under arrest. My lawyer was nattering on about how unlikely it was that I’d ever have to spend a night in jail, and hinting at my pleading guilty to some reduced charge. That’s not good enough.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to skate on a technicality, my reputation in ruins. I don’t want to devote a few hundred hours to community service. How do you suppose they’d have me serve my community, Mr. Ehrengraf? Would they send me across the street to pick up litter in the park? Or would they regard a stick with a sharp bit of metal at its end as far too formidable a weapon to be placed in my irresponsible hands?”
“These are things you don’t want,” Ehrengraf said soothingly. “And whyever should you want them? But perhaps you could tell me what it is that you do want.”
“What I want,” said Ravenstock, speaking as a man who generally got whatever it was that he wanted. “What I want, sir, is for all of this to go away. And my understanding is that you are a gentleman who is very good at making things go away.”
Ehrengraf smiled.
Ehrengraf gazed past the mound of clutter on his desk at his office door, with its window of frosted glass. What struck him about the door was that his client had not yet come through it. It was getting on for half past eleven, which made Millard Ravenstock almost thirty minutes late.
Ehrengraf fingered the knot in his tie. It was a perfectly symmetrical knot, neither too large nor too small, which was as it should be. Whenever he wore this particular tie, with its navy field upon which a half-inch diagonal stripe of royal blue was flanked by two narrower stripes, one of gold, the other vividly green — whenever he put it on, he took considerable pains to get the knot exactly right.
It was, of course, the tie of the Caedmon Society; Ehrengraf, not a member of that institution, had purchased the tie from a shop in Oxford’s Cranham Close. He’d owned it for some years now, and had been careful to avoid soiling it, extending its useful life by reserving it for special occasions.
This morning had promised to be such an occasion. Now, as the minutes ticked away without producing Millard Ravenstock, he found himself less certain.
The antique Regulator clock on the wall, which lost a minute a day, showed the time as 11:42 when Millard Ravenstock opened the door and stepped into Ehrengraf’s office. The little lawyer glanced first at the clock and then at his wristwatch, which read 11:48. Then he looked at his client, who looked not the least bit apologetic for his late arrival.
“Ah, Ehrengraf,” the man said. “A fine day, wouldn’t you say?”
You could see Niagara Square from Ehrengraf’s office window, and a quick look showed that the day was as it had been earlier — overcast and gloomy, with every likelihood of rain.
“Glorious,” Ehrengraf agreed.
Without waiting to be asked, Ravenstock pulled up a chair and settled his bulk into it. “Before I left my house,” he said, “I went into my den, got out my checkbook, and wrote two checks. One, you’ll be pleased to know, was for your fee.” He patted his breast pocket. “I’ve brought it with me.”
Ehrengraf was pleased. But, he noted, cautiously so. He sensed there was another shoe just waiting to be dropped.
“The other check is already in the mail. I made it payable to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association, and I assure you the sum is a generous one. I have always been a staunch proponent of the police, Ehrengraf, if only because the role they play is such a vital one. Without them we’d have the rabble at our throats, eh?”
Ehrengraf, thought Ehrengraf. The Mister, present throughout their initial meeting, had evidently been left behind on Nottingham Terrace. Increasingly, Ehrengraf felt it had been an error to wear that particular tie on this particular morning.
“Yet I’d given the police insufficient credit for their insight and their resolve. Walter Bainbridge, a thorough and diligent policeman and, I might add, a good friend, pressed an investigation along lines others might have left unexplored. I’ve been completely exonerated, and it’s largely his doing.”
“Indeed,” said Ehrengraf.
“The police dug up evidence, unearthed facts. That housewife who was raped and murdered three weeks ago in Orchard Park. I’m sure you’re familiar with the case. The press called it the Milf Murder.”
Ehrengraf nodded.
“It took place outside city limits,” Ravenstock went on, “so it wasn’t their case at all, but they went through the house and found an unwashed sweatshirt stuffed into a trashcan in the garage. Nichols School Lacrosse, it said, big as life. That’s a curious expression isn’t it? Big as life?”
“Curious,” Ehrengraf said.
“Lacrosse seems to be the natural refuge of the preppy thug,” Ravenstock said. “Can you guess whose DNA soiled that sweatshirt?”
Ehrengraf could guess, but saw no reason to do so. Nor did Ravenstock wait for a response.
“Tegrum Bogue’s. He’d been on the team, and it was beyond question his shirt. He’d raped that young housewife and snapped her neck when he was through with her. And he had similar plans for Alicia.”
“Your wife.”
“Yes. I don’t believe you’ve met her.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”