The Big Book of Rogues and Villains

by Otto Penzler

  “No. I’ll continue my drinking at home. I’m expecting a guest who’s usually thirsty.”

  “Ah. Tough luck. Well, in that case I’ll pick up my bag and meet you in the parking lot. You know my car.” Jimmy smiled brightly. “To show you I’m not angry, I’ll even let you pay for the drinks. You can call it taxi fare to your apartment on your income tax.”

  “Thank you endlessly,” Kek said politely. He grinned at the other and raised his hand for the waiter.

  In the parking lot Jimmy tossed his bag, camera, and raincoat into the rear of his battered Volkswagen, and somehow managed to squeeze himself behind the wheel while Kek got in the other side and pulled the door shut. Jimmy released the clutch with his normal exuberance and they roared from the drive, turning into the traffic heading for the city. Kek kept his heels pressed tightly against the floorboard; Jimmy had a tendency to brake at frequent and inexplicable times.

  He swooped around a truck laden with lumber, passed between two motorcycles racing with each other, and turned to Kek, grinning cheerfully. “Hey? Did you see my new camera?”

  Kek refused to take his eyes from the road. “I didn’t notice.”

  “It’s a beauty. I finally got a decent Graphic Super Speed 45 from the skinflints in the New York office. It used to take two porters to carry the ancient monster I had.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. And a lovely camera it is, too.”

  “Why? Did you get some good pictures in Marseilles?”

  “Sure. Of the town in general plus a couple of good shots of the docks.” Jimmy grinned. “I get sent off on these idiotic assignments and I’m supposed to cable back something that sounds like I know what I’m doing. Which is usually difficult.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, my friend, assignment cables cost money, so my dear editor tries to economize. Net result: confusion. Half the time I have no clue of what they want me to do. However, by also cabling some decent pictures, and filing enough ‘alleged’s’—and keeping my fingers crossed—I manage to keep the brass from adding me to the unemployed.”

  Kek smiled. “You mean your editor is that easily satisfied?”

  “Who? My editor?” Jimmy stared at his passenger as if he were mad; traffic zipped by as his attention was diverted. He looked back to the road just in time to neatly avoid a head-on collision with a three-wheeled camionette. “I said I managed to avoid being fired. My dear editor wouldn’t be satisfied with an exclusive scoop on the secret formula for Beaujolais de Texas.”

  “Whatever that is.”

  Jimmy grinned. “In the bars I patronize, it’s the name given to Coca-Cola.” He suddenly braked, swung into the Avenue de Neuilly, and jammed down on the accelerator, all, seemingly, in the same motion. “And in case you want to know the reason for this long dissertation, I’ll tell you. I need some news.”

  Kek glanced at him. “Why tell me?”

  “Because things happen to you, my friend. Or you make them happen.” He spun the wheel without slackening speed; they shot around the Porte Maillot, nearly hitting an old man on a bicycle. Jimmy selected the Allée des Fortifications and raced on. His eyes came around again. “How about breaking down and giving me something I can use?”

  Huuygens smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

  “I wish you would,” Jimmy said, and sighed. “I like Paris, and I’d hate to be transferred.” He thought a moment. “Or fired.” He swung into the Avenue du Maréchal Favolle, cut between a station wagon and a speeding car, and slammed on his brakes, slewing to a squealing halt before Kek’s apartment. “Voila, m’sieu.”

  Kek climbed out and retrieved his briefcase, then leaned in at the window. “Jimmy,” he said thoughtfully, “have you ever throught of doing a piece on the dangerous driving here in Paris?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I know French drivers are the worst in the world,” he said sincerely, “but you’d never convince my editor. He lives in Jersey.” He raised a hand. “Well, ta-ta. And don’t forget I need some news.”

  “I won’t,” Huuygens promised. He watched Jimmy shoot into traffic, narrowly missing an irate cabdriver, and then turned with a smile into his apartment building.

  His smile disappeared as soon as he entered the cab of the elevator, the little old man who operated the lift opened his mouth to greet him, but one look at the rigid features and he closed it again. Kek left the elevator at his floor, unlocked his apartment door, and closed it behind him. He dropped his briefcase on a chair and crossed the dim room to the balcony, throwing open the doors there, stepping out.

  The view overlooking the Bois de Boulogne was lovely, with the stained tile roofs and their multiple searching fingers of chimney pots lost in the shimmering haze of distance beyond the green cover of the forest. The scented breeze brought with it the sharp, impatient blare of automobile horns, mixed with the delighted screams of playing children, and the admonishing cries of their exasperated nursemaids. He looked down. Below the balcony in the shadow of the tall apartment building, a small sidewalk cafe served as an oasis for the weary stroller; the colorful umbrellas, seen from above, gave it the appearance of a fanciful garden planted with careless geometry beside the river of asphalt that flowed past.

  Paris! he thought, leaning on the filigree railing. A sardonic grin crossed his lips. Where else in the world could I enjoy noisy automobile horns or screaming children? Or rides with drivers like Jimmy Lewis? Or the personal attention of every customs inspector in town? The thought made him grimace; he glanced at his watch and straightened up. Anita was due in a very few minutes, and she was almost never late.

  He came back into the apartment, closing the balcony doors behind him softly, as if reluctant to separate himself from the pleasant and uncomplicated life below, and then crossed to the bar in one corner of the elegant room. Two glasses were taken down from a shelf, inspected, and then meticulously wiped: his day-maid—poor, pretty soul—didn’t consider cleanliness to be a part of housekeeping. He bent and removed an ice tray from the refrigerator hidden beneath the bar sink, placed the cubes in a small silver bucket for readiness, and then took down a bottle of Argentinian brandy for himself and English gin for the lady. And wouldn’t his friends be shocked to see him drink Argentinian brandy in France! Oh, well—they just didn’t know. They also didn’t know the advantages of having friends in the import trade, he thought with a grin, and was just reaching for the Seltzer bottle when the doorbell rang. He wiped his hands on a towel, hung it back in place, and walked to the door, swinging it wide in welcome.

  “Hello, Anita.”

  “Kek! Darling!” The young lady facing him was smiling in unalloyed delight. “How have you been?”

  She came up on tiptoe to meet his height, presenting her lips half-parted, her blonde hair a delicate swirl that hid her beautiful face, her wonderful figure outstretched. Kek embraced her warmly, holding her tightly, feeling her full curves cushion against him, smelling the rich fragrance of her perfume, and enjoying the titillation of his senses fully. Behind them, in the foyer, there was a romantic sigh from the elderly elevator operator peering through a crack in the lift door, a sharp click as the doors were finally and reluctantly closed, and then the grinding whine of cable against drum as the elevator cab began to descend. Kek pulled away from the embrace, grinning broadly.

  “Very good, Anita.”

  Anita made the motion of a curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” She walked quite matter-of-factly into the apartment, fanning herself with one hand. “What a day! I’m dying of thirst!” Her blonde head tipped toward the door in curiosity. “I love these greetings, Kek—and I wish you loved them half as much—but, really! When you called me today, I couldn’t imagine why you wanted me to put on such a show just for the benefit of the elevator operator.”

  “Because he’s new,” Kek said.

  “You mean, you want to break him in properly?”

  Kek laughed. “No. Because I’m sure he’s being paid by the police to keep an eye on
me.” He moved back of the bar, busying himself with their drinks.

  Anita seated herself on a barstool with a swirl of skirt that momentarily displayed long and beautiful legs, set her purse on another, and then reached for the cigarette box. She took one and lit it with a tiny lighter, blowing smoke, and then proceeded to remove tobacco from her tongue with the tip of her fingernail. This normal ritual attended to, she looked at him archly.

  “And if he is being paid by the police, what of it? And why the necessity of a mad love scene in front of him? What are they after you for? Celibacy?”

  Kek laughed again and handed her her drink. They clinked glasses, smiled at each other in true affection, and then tasted their drinks. Kek nodded in appreciation of the heady body of the brandy, and shook his head.

  “No,” he said quietly. “It’s simply that they’re expecting me to have a visit from a lovely lady today, and you’re that lady.”

  “Wonderful! I like being your lovely lady. Only—” Anita took a sip of her drink and set it down “—it would be nice if you didn’t have to be pressured by the police into asking to kiss me.”

  Kek grinned. “They only think they pressured me. Actually, they don’t even think that.”

  “Whatever that means,” Anita said, and looked at him pensively as a further thought struck her. “And just why did the police expect you to have a visit from a lovely lady today?”

  “Because I told the customs that I had brought her some chocolates from Switzerland, and naturally…”

  Anita shook her head disconsolately. “You make less and less sense as you go on, but I suppose I should be used to it by now. And anyway, I’d forgive you almost anything for chocolates. What kind are they?”

  “They aren’t, I’m afraid,” Kek said ruefully. “Or if they still are, by this time they’ve been so mauled, pinched, poked at, X-rayed, and generally examined with the fabled efficiency of the police laboratory, that I doubt if anyone would want to eat them.” He grinned and raised his eyes heavenward. “And may Allah give them sticky fingers for their nasty suspicions!”

  “Amen,” Anita said devoutly, and set her glass down firmly. “And speaking of nasty suspicions, who were you bringing those chocolates back for? Which lovely lady? Because I’m sure it wasn’t me.”

  Huuygens’s eyes twinkled. “Jealous?”

  “Very.” Her violet eyes stared into his seriously.

  “Well,” Kek said slowly, his big hand twisting his glass on the bar to form a series of damp circles, “in this case you needn’t be. Because while I didn’t realize it at the time, it seems I was actually bringing them back for a certain Inspector Dumas. Who, believe me, is certainly no lovely lady.”

  “And why were you bringing them back for this Inspector Dumas?”

  “Because he searched me so nicely,” Kek explained gravely. “Today he was even more careful than usual. Not one single tickle.”

  “Kek Huuygens, you are impossible!” Anita shook her head in exasperation and then immediately brought a hand up to check her coiffure. She saw the expression in Kek’s eyes her gesture had triggered, and suddenly grinned. It was a gamin grin that made her look even younger than her twenty-five years. “Well, at least highly improbable. Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you,” Kek said with exaggerated patience. “You simply refuse to understand. I returned from Switzerland today, as you know, and the customs searched me, became suspicious of my chocolates—which I had brought as a gift for a lovely lady—and took them away.”

  “And I’m the lovely lady you brought them for.”

  “Right.”

  “I see.” Anita nodded. “And you therefore immediately called me up and asked me to come over and kiss you publicly for the benefit of the elevator operator, just so I could be told that my chocolates were taken in customs. Is that it?”

  “To a large extent—”

  “But not entirely.” Anita crushed out her cigarette, finished her drink, and set down her glass, eyeing him carefully. “What else did you want this lovely lady to do? Because I’m sure it’s more than that.”

  “It is.” Kek finished his drink and set it aside with an air of finality. “I want you to make a delivery for me.”

  “A delivery? From your trip today?” He nodded; she frowned at him uncertainly. “But you said they searched you.”

  “Oh, they did that, all right.”

  “So they took away the chocolates,” the girl said, in a tone that indicated she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. It seemed to her odd, from the story she had just heard, that Kek was not more subdued. “You seem to be taking it rather lightly.”

  “One learns to be philosophical about these things,” Kek said, and smiled faintly. “Besides, the shaving kit was an old one, and the twenty Swiss francs, as the Inspector said, can be charged up to profit and loss. Or, rather, added to my expense account which, plus my fee, will be ten thousand dollars. Ask the man for a check, will you?”

  The girl stared at him. “But you said—!”

  “I said they took away the chocolates,” Kek said gently. “They left me the wrapper. In fact, they practically forced it upon me.” He reached into his briefcase and withdrew the garish paper. “Between the foil and the outer wrapper is the last known page of a particular Bach Cantata, original, in the hand of the master, and worth a great deal of money. Tell the man with a little heat, not too much, the foil and paper come away quite easily. The adhesives chosen were carefully selected; they’ll do the manuscript no harm.”

  The girl looked at him in amazement.

  “Kek, you are fantastic! And just what would have happened if the customs had kept the wrapper? Or thrown it in the wastebasket? I suppose then you would have had to go out and rob a garbage truck!”

  Kek grinned at his associate affectionately.

  “Not exactly rob one,” he said. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time cultivating the driver who hauls away the trash. Fortunately,” he added, patting the wrapper, “we shall not require his services, because I’d much rather spend the time with you….”

  THE MODERNS

  Villain: Martin Ehrengraf

  The Ehrengraf Experience

  LAWRENCE BLOCK

  OF THE MANY SERIES CHARACTERS created by Lawrence Block (1938– ), perhaps the least well-known is Martin Ehrengraf, the lawyer who appears in only a dozen short stories but makes a lasting impression. Eight of the stories were collected in Ehrengraf for the Defense (1994); the complete stories were published as Defender of the Innocent (2014).

  He is a fussy, meticulous little man who has never lost a case, mainly because most of his clients never have to go to trial. His mantra is “All my clients are innocent. That’s what makes my work so gratifying. That and the fees, of course.” He knows perfectly well that few, if any, of his clients are innocent, but his position is if they are not found guilty then, de facto, they are innocent.

  Ehrengraf is strongly reminiscent in style to Randolph Mason, the superb character created by Melville Davisson Post. When the first Ehrengraf story was submitted to Frederic Dannay (half of the Ellery Queen writing team and the founder of the eponymous magazine), he pointed out that Mason clearly was the inspiration, but Block admitted that he’d never heard of the nineteenth-century lawyer. Still, there is no denying that both criminal defense attorneys employ a methodology that has no boundaries to how far they will go to protect their clients.

  Block is one of the most honored mystery writers of all time; a small sampling of his awards include the Grand Master Award by the Mystery Writers of America, four Edgars, four Shamus awards, the Japanese Maltese Falcon (twice), and the Nero Wolfe award. He was proclaimed a Grand Maitre du Roman Noir in France, and is a past president of the Mystery Writers of America and the Private Eye Writers of America.

  “The Ehrengraf Experience” was originally published in the August 1978 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; it
was first collected in Block’s The Collected Mystery Stories (London, Orion, 1999).

  THE EHRENGRAF EXPERIENCE

  Lawrence Block

  “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.”

  “Then why is my innocence a problem?”

  “Ah, your innocence.” Martin Ehrengraf smoothed the ends of his neatly trimmed mustache. His thin lips drew back in a smile, but the smile did not reach his deeply set dark eyes. He was, Grantham Beale noted, a superbly well-dressed little man, almost a dandy. He wore a Dartmouth green blazer with pearl buttons over a cream shirt with a tab collar. His slacks were flannel, modishly cuffed and pleated and the identical color of the shirt. His silk tie was a darker green than his jacket and sported a design in silver and bronze thread below the knot, a lion battling a unicorn. His cufflinks matched his pearl blazer buttons. On his aristocratically small feet he wore highly polished seamless cordovan loafers, unadorned with tassels or braid, quite simple and quite elegant. Almost a dandy, Beale thought, but from what he’d heard the man had the skills to carry it off. He wasn’t all front. He was said to get results.