The Ehrengraf Defense

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“Mrs. Culhane,” Martin Ehrengraf said. “Do sit down, yes, I think you will find that chair comfortable. And please pardon the disarray. It is the natural condition of my office. Chaos stimulates me. Order stifles me. It is absurd, is it not, but so then is life itself, eh?”

Dorothy Culhane sat, nodded. She studied the small, trimly built man who remained standing behind his extremely disorderly desk. Her eyes took in the narrow mustache, the thin lips, the deeply set dark eyes. If the man liked clutter in his surroundings, he certainly made up for it in his grooming and attire. He wore a starched white shirt, a perfectly tailored dove gray three-button suit, a narrow dark blue necktie.

Oh, but she did not want to think about neckties—

“Of course you are Clark Culhane’s mother,” Ehrengraf said. “I had it that you had already retained an attorney.”

“Alan Farrell.”

“A good man,” Ehrengraf said. “An excellent reputation.”

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