“Considerate of him,” said Ehrengraf, “to make that phone call.”
“I’ll have to give him that,” the poet said. “And then, before the cops could get there to pick him up, he used the ax to cut through the veins in his wrists and bled to death.”
“And you’re a free man.”
“And glad of it,” Telliford said. “I’ll tell you, it looks to me as though I’m sitting on top of the world. Robin’s crazy about me and I’m all she’s got in the world — me and the couple of million bucks her father left her. With the rest of the family dead she inherits every penny. No more slinging hash. No more starving in a garret. No more dressing like a slob. You like my new wardrobe?”
“It’s quite a change,” Ehrengraf said diplomatically.
“Well, I realize now that I was getting sick of the way I looked, the life I was leading. Now I can live the way I want. I’ve got the freedom to do as I please with my life.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“And you’re the man who believed in me when nobody else did, myself included.” Telliford smiled with genuine warmth. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I was talking with Robin, and I had the idea that we ought to pay you your fee. You didn’t actually get me off, of course, but your system is that you get paid no matter how your client gets off, just so he doesn’t wind up in jail. That’s how you explained it, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s what I said to Robin. But she said we didn’t have any agreement to pay you eighty thousand dollars — as a matter of fact we didn’t have any agreement to pay you anything, because you volunteered your services. In fact, I would have gotten off the same way with my court-appointed attorney. I said that wasn’t the point, but Robin said after all it’s her money and she didn’t see the point of giving you an eighty-thousand-dollar handout, that you were obviously well off and didn’t need charity.”
“Her father’s daughter, I’d say.”
“Huh? Anyway, it’s her money and her decision to make, but I got her to agree that we’d pay for any expenses you had. So if you can come up with a figure—”
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.”
“Oh?”
“I suppose I’ll 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 any more.” 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, 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 any more. 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 any more,” 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 now I’m having more troubles, 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 not 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.”
It was a little over two weeks later when Ehrengraf met William Telliford again. The meeting took place in the jail cell where the two had first made each other’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 ax 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.”