Some Buried Caesar

by Rex Stout

  Lew Bennett was saying, "Mr. Cullen's in a hurry to get back, and I'm confident, Mr. Pratt, you'll appreciate what he's doing as well as we do. You won't lose a cent. It will be a happy outcome-"

  "I want to say it's a damned outrage!" It was Cullen, glowering at Pratt. "It ought to be actionable! Where the devil!"

  "Excuse me," Bennett put in hastily. "I've been all over that aspect of it, Mr. Cullen, and if Mr. Pratt doesn't see it our way… he just doesn't. It's quite useless… what I mean to say is, thank God you've come to the rescue." He turned to Pratt. "The arrangement is simply this, that Mr. Cullen has generously agreed to take Hickory Caesar Grindon."

  Pratt grunted, then was silent. After a moment he asked sullenly, "What does he want with him?"

  Bennett looked shocked. "He has one of the finest purebred Guernsey herds in the country."

  Cullen growled, "You understand, Pratt, I don't need him. My senior herd sire is Mahwah Gallant Masterson who has 43 A R daughters. I have three junior sires who are lined out. I'm doing this as a favor to the breed and to the National Guernsey League."

  Bennett said, "About the arrangement. Mr. Cullen is quite correct when he says he doesn't really need Caesar. He is acting very generously, but he isn't willing to pay you the sum you paid McMillan. I know, you've told me you offered it and you paid it and you're satisfied, but the fact remains that $45,000 is a terrific price tor any bull. Why, Coldwater Grandee himself sold for $33,000 in 1932, and great as Caesar is, he isn't Grandee. In 1932 Grandee had 127 A R daughters and 15 A R sons. So the arrangement is this: Mr. Cullen will pay you $33,000, and Monte – Mr. McMillan will return $12,000 of the sum you paid him. You'll get all your money back. It can be paid now with Mr. Cullen's check, which I guess you know is good, and there'll be a truck here before dark to get Caesar. Mr. Cullen wants to show him at Crowfield Thursday, if he can be got in shape. I hope he's not upset. I understand you've got him in a pasture."

  Pratt turned on McMillan. "You told me this noon that you regarded the deal as closed for good and you wouldn't be a party to any effort to cancel it,"

  "I know I did." McMillan couldn't keep his hand from trembling a little as he put down his drink. "They've been riding me… they've been… I'm an old Guernsey man, Mr. Pratt."

  "You should be ashamed to admit it!" Cullen exploded. "They should expel you from the league and freeze you out! Pratt doesn't know any better, he has that excuse at least. But you haven't! You knew what was going to happen to that bull before you sold him!"

  "Sure." McMillan nodded wearily. "It's easy for you to talk, Mr. Cullen. What have you got, a couple of billion? What I had, after what the depression did to me, was my herd and nothing else. Just my herd. Then the anthrax came, only a month ago, and in one week what did I have? What did I have left out of my Hickory herd? Four calves, six cows, one junior sire, and Caesar. What could I do with Caesar under those conditions? Live on his fees? Where would that get me? I couldn't even buy grades to breed him to, let alone purebreds. I knew no stockman could pay high enough for him, so I sent telegrams offering him to a dozen of you gentlemen breeders, and what did I get? You all knew I was out on a limb, and the best offer was $9000! For Hickory Caesar Grindon, Then Mr. Pratt shows up and he tells me straight what he wants to do with Caesar, and of course I knew it was impossible, even in the fix I was in, but it was a temptation, so to get rid of him I set a figure so high it was ridiculous. $45,000" McMillan picked up his glass, looked into it, and put it down again. He said quietly, "Mr. Pratt took out his checkbook and wrote out a check and I took it. It wasn't you, Mr. Cullen, who offered me $9000. As I remember it, your offer was $7500."

  Cullen shrugged. "I didn't need him. Anyway, as it stands now, you'll be getting $33,000, or rather keeping that out of what Pratt paid you. Under the circumstances, McMillan, you may consider yourself damned lucky. What I'm doing is in effect philanthropy. I've had my superintendent on the phone, and I'm not even sure I want Caesar's line in my herd. There have been better bulls than Caesar before now, and there will be-"

  "No bull of yours, damn you!" McMillan's voice shook with rage. "You damn lousy amateur!" Abruptly he stopped himself, looked around at the faces, and slowly drew the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he leaned toward Cullen and said quietly but pointedly, "How do you like that? Who are you to make side remarks about any bull or any cow either? Let alone Hickory Caesar Grindon! Caesar was the finest bull, bar none, that ever got on the register!"

  He passed his hand across his mouth again. "Yes, I say 'was', because he's not mine any more… and he's not yours yet, Mr. Cullen. He was a double grandson of Burleigh's Audacious. He had 51 A R daughters and 9 A R sons. I was up all night the day he was dropped – he sucked these fingers when he was six hours old." The fingers trembled as he held them out. "He took nine grands, the last one being at India- napolis, the National, last year. At five shows he has taken get of sire. Twelve of his daughters have topped 13,000 pounds of milk and 700 pounds of butterfat. And you say you're not even sure you want his line in your herd! Well, damn you, I hope you won't get it! At least I won't help you pay for it!"

  He turned to the secretary of the National Guernsey League, Bennett, and said with his chin stiff, "I'll keep my $12,000, Lew. Count me out of your little deal."

  What he got for that was an uproar. Bennett and Darth and Cullen all went for him. It was hard to get details out of all the confusion, but the gist of it seemed to be that McMillan was going back on his word and he couldn't do that, and the honor of the National Guernsey League and of all American stockmen was at stake, and it would put a crimp in the prestige of the North Atlantic Exposition if such a thing happened right next door to it, and McMillan would be keeping $33,000 which was enough anyhow, and so forth and so on. McMfflan sat, looking sad and sore but stubborn, without trying to reply to them.

  They were shocked into silence by an unexpected bomb tossed into the fray by Pratt.

  "Let him alone!" Pratt yelled. "He's out of it anyhow. I don't want my money back from him or Mr. Cullen or anyone else. What I want is the bull, and I've got him, and a bill of sale. That's final."

  They glared at him. Bennett sputtered, "You don't mean that. You can't mean iti Look here, I've told you-"

  "I do mean it." Pratt's wide jaw was set. "I've paid a good price and I'm satisfied. I've made my arrangements and I'm going to stick to them. I've invited a hundred people-"

  "But good God, after what I've…" Bennett jumped up, waving his arms, and it began to look as if I might have to reach into the holster after all. He raved. "I tell you, you can't do iti By God, you won't do it! You're crazy if you think you can get away with it, and I'll see that you don't! There's a dozen members of the league at Crowfield waiting for me to get back, and when they hear what I have to say, there'll be some action taken, don't think there won't!"

  The others were on their feet too. Daniel Cullen rumbled, "You're a goddam maniac, Pratt."

  Cullen grunted, and wheeled. "Come on, Bennett. Come on, Darth. I've got to catch a train." He strode off. The other two followed at his heels. They disappeared around the comer of the house.

  After a silence Pratt's jaw relaxed a little and he looked across at the one who was left.

  "You know, McMillan," he said, "I don't like the look of that fellow Bennett. Nor what he said either. He might even sneak around to that pasture right now, and I'm afraid the man I've got guarding it isn't much good. I know I wasn't supposed to get anything for my $45,000 except the bull, but I wonder if you'd mind…"

  "Sure." McMillan was up, big-boned and lanky. "I'll go take a look. I… I wanted to look at him anyway."

  "Could you stick around a while?"

  "Sure."

  The stockman lumbered off.

  We sat, the nephew and niece looking worried. Lily Rowan yawning, Pratt frowning. Wolfe heaved a sigh and emptied his glass.

  Pratt muttered, "All the commotion."

  Wolfe nodded. "Astonishing. About a bull. I
t might be thought you were going to cook him and eat him."

  Pratt nodded back at him. "I am. That's what's causing all the trouble."

  3

  WELL, AS the Emperor of India would say, that tore it. The children didn't appear to be shocked any, but I goggled at our host, and I could see by the sudden tilt to Wolfe's head that he was enjoying one of his real and rare surprises. He also betrayed it by repeating what he had already been told, which was equally rare. "Eat that bull, Mr. Pratt?" he demanded. Pratt nodded again. "I am. Perhaps you noticed a pit we have started to dig down by the lane. That's for a barbecue which will occur Thursday afternoon. Three days from now. I have invited a hundred guests, mostly from New York. My niece and nephew and their friend Miss Rowan have come for it The bull will be butchered tomorrow. No local man will undertake it, and I'm getting one from Albany.

  "Remarkable." Wolfe's head was still tilted. "I suppose an animal of that size would furnish 7 or 800 pounds of edible tissue. At $45,000 on the hoof, that would make it around $60 a pound. Of course you'll use only the more desirable cuts and a great deal will be wasted. Another way to calculate: if you serve a hundred guests the portions will be $450 each."

  "It sounds terrible that way." Pratt reached for his glass, saw it was empty, and yelled for Bert. "But consider how little you can get for $45,000 in newspaper display or any other form of advertising. The radio would eat it up at a gulp, and what do you get for it? Nobody knows. But I know what I'll get out of this. Do you go in for psychology?" "I…" Wolfe choked and said firmly, "No."

  "You ought to. Look here. Do you realize what a stir it will make that the senior grand champion Guernsey bull of the United States is being barbecued and served in chunks and slices to a gathering of epicures? And by whom? By Tom Pratt of the famous pratterias! Let alone the publicity, do you know what the result will be? For weeks and months every customer that eats a roast beef sandwich in a pratteria will have a sneaking unconscious feeling that he's chewing a piece of Hickory Caesar Grindon! That's what I mean when I say psychology."

  "You spoke of epicures."

  "There'll be some. Mostly the barbecue guests will be friends and acquaintances and of course the press, but I'm going to run in a few epicures." Pratt jerked up. "By the way, I've heard you're one. Will you still be in Crowfield? Maybe you'd like to run out and join us. Thursday at one o'clock."

  "Thank you, sir. I don't suppose Caesar's championship qualities include succulence, but it would be an experience."

  "Certainly it would. I'll be phoning my agency in New York this evening. Can I say you'll be here? For the press."

  "You may say so, of course. The judging of orchids will be Wednesday afternoon, and I shall probably have left for home. But you may say so. By the way, about this bull. I am only curious: you feel no compunction at slaughtering a beast of established nobility?"

  "Why should I?" Pratt waved a hand. "They say this Caesar bull has so many A R daughters, that's the point they harp on. Do you know what A R means? Advanced Register. What a cow has to do to get on the Advanced Register is to produce a daily average of so much milk and so much butterfat over a period of one year. Well, there are over 40,000 A R Guernsey cows in this country, and only 51 of them are Caesar's daughters. Does that sound as if I was getting ready to barbecue the breed out of existence? To hear that bunch over at Crowfield talk you might think I was. I've had over forty telegrams today howling threats and bloody murder. That's that fellow Bennett; he's sicked his members on me."

  "Their viewpoint, of course, is valid to them."

  "Sure, and mine is to me. – Hey, you want a drink there, Mr. Goodwin. How about you. Miss Rowan? Oh, Bert! Bert!"

  When Greasy-face appeared I let him proceed with his function, which I must admit he performed promptly and well. Three highballs were a notch above my ordinary indulgence, but after the blowout and smashup, and the pasture exercise, I felt a little extra would be not amiss. A little fed up with the champion bull, I moved to a chair closer to the champion niece and began to murmur at her. She graciously took it, and after a little I observed the blonde slanting one at me from the comer of her eye, so I tossed her a grin between murmurs. I could have expanded easily, but my prospect was not in fact at all rosy, since what I had to do before twilight was get Wolfe and the luggage and plants to Crowfield, outride him into a hotel and a room thereof, unpack, find forage he would swallow without gagging, discuss the matter of my inability to restrain the car from crashing into a tree and get it settled once and for all, and probably sit for a couple of hours and listen to him sigh. I was preparing to remark to the niece that it was after five o'clock and if she was going to drive us to Crowfield we had better get started, when I heard a climax being reached by my employer. Pratt was inviting him to stay for dinner and he was accepting. I scowled at him, hoping vindictively that the food would be terrible, for it would only complicate matters and make him almost too much for one man to handle if we got to our destination long after dark. He saw me scowling and let his lids cover half his eyes, and I pretended he wasn't there and concentrated on the niece again. I had decided she was all right, wholesome and quite intelligent, but she looked too darned strong. I mean a girl is a girl and an athlete is an athlete, though of course there are borderline cases.

  In reply to an invitation from Caroline I was explaining that I would love to take her on at tennis if I hadn't twisted my wrist negotiating the fence, which was a lie, when the second attacking party arrived. Its personnel, as it suddenly made an appearance at the end of the terrace, left it uncertain at first whether it was another attack or not. In front was an extremely presentable number, I would say 22 or 3, wearing a belted linen thing and no hat, with yellowish brown eyes and warm trembly lips and such a chin. Behind her was a tall slender guy, not much younger than me, in brown slacks and pull-over, and backing him up was an individual who should not have been there, since the proper environment for that type is bounded by 42nd and 96th Streets on the south and north, and Lexington Avenue and Broadway on the east and west. In their habitat they don't look bad, in fact they help a lot in maintaining the tone, but out in the country like that, still wearing a Crawnley town suit including vest and a custom-made shirt and a Monteith tie, they jar.

  The atmosphere they created was immediate and full of sparks. Our host's mouth fell open. Jimmy stood up with his face red. Caroline exclaimed something. Lily Rowan twisted her neck to see and showed a crease in her brow. The girl got as far as the table which was littered with empty glasses, let her yellowish brown eyes go around, and said:

  "We should have telephoned. Shouldn't we?"

  That met denial. Greetings crossed one another through the atmosphere. It appeared that the bird in the Crawnley suit was a stranger to the Pratts, since he had to be introduced as Mr. Bronson. Wolfe and I had our names called, and learned that the girl was Nancy Osgood and the tall slender guy was her brother Clyde. Once more the clarion was sounded for poor Bert, whereupon there seemed to be an increase in the general embarrassment. Miss Osgood protested that they didn't want to intrude, they really couldn't stay, they had been to the fair and had only stopped in on their way home, on an impulse. Clyde Osgood, who had a pair of binoculars dangling on a strap around his neck, gazed down at Pratt in a fairly provocative manner and addressed him:

  "We just got chased away from your pasture by Monte McMillan. We were only taking a look at your bull."

  Pratt nodded sort of unconcerned, but I could see his temples were tight. "That darned bull's causing a lot of trouble." He glanced at the sister, and back at the brother again. "It's nice of you children to drop in like this. Unex- pected pleasure. I saw your father over at Crowfield today."

  "Yeah. He saw you too." All at once Clyde stopped talk- ing, and began to turn, slow but sure, as if something had gripped him and was wheeling him on a pivot. He took four steps and was confronting the canvas swing, looking down straight at Lily Rowan.

  "How are you?" he demanded.


  "I'm fine." She held her head tilted back to see him. "Just fine. You all right?"

  "Yeah, I'm great. "

  "Good." Lily yawned.

  That simple exchange seemed to have an effect on Jimmy Pratt, for he took on added color, though as near as I could tell his eyes were aimed at Nancy Osgood, who was passing a remark to Caroline. Caroline was insisting that they stay for a drink. Mr. Bronson, looking a little weary, as if the day at the fair had been too much for him, had sat down. Clyde abruptly turned away from the swing, crossed back over, and got onto the edge of the chair next to Pratt's.

  "Look here," he said.

  "Well, my boy?"

  "We stopped in to see you, my sister and I."

  "I think that was a good idea. Now that I've built this place here… we're neighbors again, aren't we."

  Clyde frowned. He looked to me like a spoiled kid, with a mouth that didn't quite go shut, and moving as if he ex- pected things to get out of his way. He said, "Neighbors? I suppose so. Technically, anyhow. I wanted to speak to you about that bull. I know why you're doing it… I guess every- one around here does. You're doing it just to be offensive to my father – you keep out of this, Nancy, I'm handling this-"

  His sister had a hand on his shoulder. "But Clyde, that's no way-"

  "Let me alone." He shook her off and went after Pratt again. "You think you can get his goat by sneering at him, by butchering a bull that could top any of his in show competition. I'll hand it to you for one thing, you picked a good one. Hickory Caesar Grindon is a hard bull to put down. I say that not only on account of his record, but because I know cattle… or I used to. I wanted my father to buy Caesar – in 1931, when he was only a promising junior. And you think you're going to butcher him?"