“But he won’t be found guilty.”
“Are you counting on some technicality to get him off the hook? Because I have a friend in the District Attorney’s office, you know, and I went round there while you were visiting your client. He tells me the state’s case is gilt-edged.”
“The state is welcome to the gilt,” Ehrengraf said grandly. “Mr. Protter has the innocence.”
Cutliffe put down his fork, set his jaw. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps you simply do not care. Perhaps, having no true financial stake in Arnold Protter’s fate, you just don’t give a damn what happens to him. Whereas, had you a substantial sum riding on the outcome of the case—”
“Oh, dear,” said Ehrengraf. “You’re not by any chance proposing a wager?”
Miss Agnes Mullane had had a permanent recently, and her copper-colored hair looked as though she’d stuck her big toe in an electric socket. She had a freckled face, a pug nose, and a body that would send whole shifts of construction workers plummeting from their scaffolds. She wore a hostess outfit of a silky green fabric, and her walk, Ehrengraf noted, was decidedly slinky.
“So terrible about the Protters,” she said. “They were good neighbors, although I never became terribly close with either of them. She kept to herself, for the most part, but he always had a smile and a cheerful word for me when I would run into him on the stairs. Of course I’ve always gotten on better with men than with women, Mr. Ehrengraf, though I’m sure I couldn’t tell you why.”
“Indeed,” said Ehrengraf.
“You’ll have some more tea, Mr. Ehrengraf?”
“If I may.”
She leaned forward, displaying an alluring portion of herself to Ehrengraf as she filled his cup from a Dresden teapot. Then she set the pot down and straightened up with a sigh.
“Poor Mrs. Protter,” she said. ‘‘Death is so final.”
“Given the present state of medical science.”
“And poor Mr. Protter. Will he have to spend many years in prison, Mr. Ehrengraf?”
“Not with a proper defense. Tell me, Miss Mullane. Mrs. Protter accused her husband of having an affair with you. I wonder why she should have brought such an accusation.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Of course you’re a very attractive woman—”
“Do you really think so, Mr. Ehrengraf?”
“—and you live by yourself, and tongues will wag.”
“I’m a respectable woman, Mr. Ehrengraf.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“And I would never have an affair with anyone who lived here in this building. Discretion, Mr. Ehrengraf, is very important to me.”
“I sensed that, Miss Mullane.” The little lawyer got to his feet, walked to the window. The afternoon was warm, and the strains of Latin music drifted up through the open window from the street below.
“Transistor radios,” Agnes Mullane said. “They carry them everywhere.”
“So they do. When Mrs. Protter made that accusation, Miss Mullane, her husband denied it.”
“Why, I should hope so!”
“And he in turn accused her of carrying on with Mr. Gates. Have I said something funny, Miss Mullane?”
Agnes Mullane managed to control her laughter. “Mr. Gates is an artist,” she said.
“A painter, I’m told. Would that canvas be one of his?”
“I m afraid not. He paints abstracts. I prefer representational art myself, as you can see.”
“And country music.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. You’re sure Mr. Gates was not having an affair with Mrs. Protter?”
“Positive.” Her brow clouded for an instant, then cleared completely. “No,” she said, “Harry Gates would never have been involved with her. But what’s the point, Mr. Ehrengraf? Are you trying to establish a defense of justifiable homicide? The unwritten law and all that?”
“Not exactly.”
“Because I really don’t think it would work, do you?”
“No,” said Ehrengraf, “I don’t suppose it would.”
Miss Mullane leaned forward again, not to pour tea but with a similar effect. “It’s so noble of you,” she said, “donating your time for poor Mr. Protter.”
“The court appointed me, Miss Mullane.”
“Yes, but surely not all appointed attorneys work so hard on these cases, do they?”
“Perhaps not.”
“That’s what I thought.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “Nobility is an attractive quality in a man,” she said thoughtfully. “And I’ve always admired men who dress well, and who bear themselves elegantly.”
Ehrengraf smiled. He was wearing a pale blue cashmere sport jacket over a Wedgwood blue shirt. His tie matched his jacket, with an intricate below-the-knot design in gold thread.
“A lovely jacket,” Miss Mullane purred. She reached over, laid a hand on sleeve. “Cashmere,” she said. “I love the feel of cashmere.”
“Thank you.”
“And gray flannel slacks. What a fine fabric. Come with me, Mr. Ehrengraf. I’ll show you where to hang your things.”
In the bedroom Miss Mullane paused to switch on the radio. Loretta Lynn was singing something about having been born a coal miner’s daughter.
“My one weakness,” Miss Mullane said, “or should I say one of my two weaknesses, along with a weakness for well-dressed men of noble character. I hope you don’t mind country music, Mr. Ehrengraf?”
“Not at all,” said Ehrengraf. “I find it soothing.”
Several days later, when Arnold Protter was released from jail, Ehrengraf was there to meet him. “I want to shake your hand,” he told him, extending his own. “You’re a free man now, Mr. Protter. I only regret I played no greater part in securing your freedom.”
Protter pumped the lawyer’s hand enthusiastically. “Hey, listen,” he said, “you’re ace-high with me, Mr. Ehrengraf. You believed in me when nobody else did, including me myself. I’m just now trying to take all of this in. I tell you, I never would have dreamed Agnes Mullane killed my wife.”
“It’s something neither of us suspected, Mr. Protter.”
“It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of. Let me see if I got the drift of it straight. My Gretchen was carrying on with Gates after all. I thought it was just a way to get in a dig at her, accusing her of carrying on with him, but actually it was happening all the time.”
“So it would seem.”
“And that’s why she got so steamed when I brought it up.” Protter nodded, wrapped up in thought. “Anyway, Gates also had something going with Agnes Mullane. You know something, Mr. Ehrengraf? He musta been nuts. Why would anybody who was getting next to Agnes want to bother with Gretchen?”
“Artists perceive the world differently from the rest of us, Mr. Protter.”
“If that’s a polite way of saying he was cockeyed, I sure gotta go with you on that. So here he’s getting it on with the both of them, and Agnes finds out and she’s jealous. How do you figure she found out?”
“It’s always possible Gates told her,” Ehrengraf suggested. “Or perhaps she heard you accusing your wife of infidelity. You and Gretchen had both been drinking, and your argument may have been a loud one.”
“Could be. A few boilermakers and I tend to raise my voice.”
“Most people do. Or perhaps Miss Mullane saw some of Gates’s sketches of your wife. I understand there were several found in his apartment. He may have been an abstract expressionist, but he seems to have been capable of realistic sketches of nudes. Of course he’s denied they were his work, but he’d be likely to say that, wouldn’t he?”
“I guess so,” Protter said. “Naked pictures of Gretchen, gee, you never know, do you?”