by Rex Stout
Osgood snarled, "I told you, Wolfe. Listen to the damn fool-Look here. Carter Waddell! Now I'll tell you some- thing-"
"Please, gentlemen!" Wolfe had a palm up. "We're wasting a lot of time." He regarded the District Attorney and said patiently, "You're going about it wrong. You should stop squirming and struggling. Finding yourself confronted by an unpleasant fact… you're like a woman who conceals a stain on a table cover by putting an ash tray over it. Ineffectual, because someone is sure to move the ash tray. The fact is that Clyde Osgood was murdered by someone with that pick, and unhappily your function is to establish the fact and re- veal its mechanism; you can't obliterate it merely by invent- ing unlikely corollaries."
"I didn't invent anything, I only-"
"Pardon me. You assumed the fictions that Clyde climbed the fence into the pasture and obligingly stood in the dark and permitted himself to be fatally pierced by a clumsy pick. I admit that the first is unlikely and the second next to in- credible. Those considerations occurred to me last night on the spot. As I said, by the time I reached the house I had satisfied myself as to how the crime was committed, and I am still satisfied. I don't believe Clyde Osgood climbed the fence. He was first rendered unconscious, probably by a blow on the head. He was then dragged or carried to the fence, and pushed under it or lifted over it, and further dragged or car- ried ten or fifteen yards into the pasture, and left lying on his side. The murderer then stood behind him with the pick and swung it powerfully in the natural and ordinary manner, only instead of piercing and tearing the ground it pierced and tore his victim. The wound would perfectly resemble the goring of a bull. The blood-spurt would of course soil the pick, but not the man who wielded it. He got the tie-rope from where it was hanging on the fence and tossed it on the ground near the body, to make it appear that Clyde had en- tered the pasture with it; then he took the pick to the con- venient hose nozzle, washed it off, returned it where he had got it,, and went-" Wolfe shrugged "-went somewhere."
"The bull," Waddell said. "Did the bull just stand and look on and wait for the murderer to leave, and then push the body around so as to have bloody horns? Even a rustic sheriff might have noticed it if he had had no blood on him at all."
"I couldn't say. It was dark. A bull may or may not attack in the dark. But I suggest (1) the murderer, knowing how to handle a bull in the dark, before performing with the pick, approached the bull, snapped the tie-rope onto the nose ring, and led him to the fence and tied him. Later, before releasing him, he smeared blood on his horns. Or (2), after the pick had been used the murderer enticed the bull to the spot and left him there, knowing that the smell of blood would lead him to investigate. Or (3), the murderer acted when the bull was in another part of the pasture and made no effort to manufacture the evidence of bloody horns, thinking that in the excitement and with the weight of other circumstances as arranged, it wouldn't matter. It was his good luck that Mr. Goodwin happened to arrive while the bull was satisfying his curiosity… and his bad luck that I happened to arrive at all."
Waddell sat frowning, his mouth screwed up. After a mo- ment he blurted, "Fingerprints on the pick handle."
Wolfe shook his head. "A handkerchief or a tuft of grass, to carry it after washing it. I doubt if the murderer was an idiot."
Waddell frowned some more. "Your idea about tying the bull to the fence and smearing blood on his horns. That would be getting pretty familiar with a bull, even in the dark. I don't suppose anyone could have done it except Monte Mc- Millan… he was Monte's bull, or he had been. Maybe you're ready to explain why Monte McMillan would want to kill Clyde Osgood?"
"Good heavens, no. There are at least two other alterna- tives. Mr. McMillan may be capable of murder, I don't know, and he was certainly resolved to protect the bull from molesta- tion-but don't get things confused. Remember that the mur- der was no part of an effort to guard the bull; Clyde was knocked unconscious not in the pasture, but somewhere else."
"That's your guess." "It's my opinion. I am careful with my opinions, sir; they are my bread and butter and the main source of my self- esteem."
Waddell sat with his mouth screwed up. Suddenly Osgood barked at him ferociously:
"Well, what about it?"
Waddell nodded at him, and then unscrewed his mouth to mutter, "Of course." He got up and kicked his chair back, stuck his hands in his pockets, stood and gazed at Wolfe a minute, and then backed up and sat down again. "Goddam it," he said in a pained voice. "Of course. We've got to get on it as quick and hard as we can. Jesus, what a mess. At Tom Pratt's place. Clyde Osgood. Your son, Fred. And you know the kind of material I have to work with-for instance Sam Lake-on a thing Hke this… Ill have to pull them away from the exposition… I'll go out and see Pratt myself, now…" He jerked himself forward and reached for the telephone, Osgood said to Wolfe, bitterly, "You see the prospect."
Wolfe nodded, and sighed. "It's an extraordinarily difficult situation, Mr. Osgood."
"I know damn well it is. I may have missed the significance of the bull's face, but I'm not a fool. The devil had brains and nerve and luck. I have two things to say to you. First, I apologize again for the way I tackled you this afternoon. I didn't know you had really earned your reputation, so many people haven't, but I see now you have. Second, you can see for yourself that you'll have to do this. You'll have to go on with it."
Wolfe shook his head. "I expect to leave for New York Thursday morning. Day after tomorrow."
"But my God, man! This is what you do, isn't it? Isn't this your job? What's the difference whether you work at it in New York or here?"
"Enormous; the difference, I mean. In New York I have my home, my office in it, my cook, my accustomed sur-' roundings-"
"Do you mean…" Osgood was up, spluttering. "Do you mean to say you have the gall to plead your personal comfort, your petty convenience, to a man in the position I'm in?"
"I do." Wolfe was serene. "I'm not responsible for the posi- tion you're in. Mr. Goodwin will tell you: I have a deep aversion to leaving my home or remaining long away from it. Another thing, you might not think me so petty if you could see and hear and smell the hotel room in which I shall have to sleep tonight and tomorrow night… and heavens knows how many more nights if I accepted your commission."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Everything imaginable."
"Then leave it. Come to my house. It's only sixteen miles out, and you can have a car until yours is repaired, and your man here can drive it…"
"I don't know." Wolfe looked doubtful. "Of course, if I undertake it I shall need immediately a good deal of informa- tion from you and your daughter, and your own home would be a good place for that…"
I stood up with my heels together and saluted him, and he glared at me. Naturally he knew I was on to him. Machi- avelli was a simple little shepherd lad by comparison. Not that I disapproved by any means, for the chances were that I would get a fairly good bed myself, but it was one more proof that under no circumstances could you ever really trust him.
9
WITH NANCY still chauffering, we drove to the hotel for our luggage, and then had to leave town by way of the exposition grounds in order to give the orchids a look and another spraying. Shanks wasn't around, and Wolfe made arrangements with a skinny woman who sat on an upturned box by a table full of dahlias, to keep an eye on our pots.
Driving into Crowfield that morning, Caroline Pratt had pointed out the Osgood demesne, the main entrance of which was only a mile from Pratt's place. It was rolling farm land, a lot of it looking like pasture, with three or four wooded knolls. The stock barns and other outbuildings were in plain view, but the dwelling, which was all of half a mile from the highway, was out of sight among the trees until the pri- vate drive straightened out at the beginning of a wide ex- panse of lawn. It was a big old rambling white house, with an old-fashioned portico, with pillars, extending along the middle portion of the front. It looked as if it had probably once been George Washington's headquar
ters, provided he ever got that tar north.
There was an encounter before we got into the house. As we crossed the portico, a man approached from the other end, wiping his brow with his handkerchief and looking dusty and sweaty. Mr. Bronson had on a different shirt and tie from the day before, and another suit, but was no more appropriate to his surroundings than he had been when I first saw him on Pratt's terrace. Osgood tossed a nod at him, then, seeing that he intended to speak, stopped and said, "Hullo."
Bronson came up to us. I hadn't noticed him much the day before, with my attention elsewhere, but I remarked now that he was around thirty, of good height and well-built, with a wide full mouth and a blunt nose and clever gray eyes. I didn't like the eyes, as they took us in with a quick glance. He said deferentially, "I hope you won't mind, Mr. Osgood. I've been over there."
"Over where?" Osgood demanded.
"Pratt's place. I walked across the fields. I knew I had offended you by disagreeing this morning with your ideas about the… accident. I wanted to look it over. I met young Pratt,.but not his father, and that man McMillan-"
"What did you expect to accomplish by that?"
"Nothing, I suppose. I'm sorry if I've offended again. But I didn't… I was discreet. I suppose I shouldn't be here, I should have left this morning, but with this terrible…with Clyde dead, and.I'm the only one of his New York friends here… it seemed…"
"It doesn't matter," said Osgood roughly. "Stay. I said so."
"I know you did, but frankly… I feel very much de trop… I'll leave now if you prefer it…"
"Excuse me." It was Wolfe's quiet murmur. "You had bet- ter stay, Mr. Bronson. Much better. We may need you."
The clever eyes flickered at him. "Oh. If Nero Wolfe says stay…" He lifted his shoulders and let them down. "But I don't need to stay here. I can go to a Crowfield hotel-"
"Nonsense." Osgood scowled at him. "Stay here. You were Clyde's guest, weren't you? Stay here. But if you want to walk in the fields, there's plenty of directions besides the one leading to Pratt's."
Abruptly he started off, and we followed, as Bronson again lifted his handkerchief to his sweaty brow.
A few minutes later we were seated in a large room with French windows, lined with books and furnished for com- fort, and were being waited on by a lassie with a pug nose who had manners far superior to Bert's but was way beneath him in speed and spirit as a drink-slinger. Nancy had disap- peared but was understood to be on call. Osgood was scowl- ing at a highball, Wolfe was gulping beer which, judging from his expression, was too warm, and I had plain water.
Wolfe was saying testily, "My own method is the only one available to me. I either use that or none at all. I may be only clearing away rubbish, but that's my affair. The plain fact is, sir, that last night, in Mr. Goodwin's presence, you be- haved in an astonishing manner to him and Mr. Pratt. You were rude, arrogant and unreasonable. I need to know whether that was due to the emotional shock you had had, or to your belief that Mr. Pratt was somehow involved in the death of your son, or was merely your normal conduct."
"I was under a strain, of course," Osgood snapped. "I sup- pose I'm inclined to arrogance, if you want to call it that. I wouldn't like to think I'm habitually rude, but I would be rude to Pratt on sight if the circumstances were such that I couldn't ignore him. Last night I couldn't ignore him. Call it normal conduct and forget it."
"Why do you dislike and despise Mr. Pratt?" "Damn it, I tell you that has nothing to do with it! It's an old story. It had no bearing-"
"It wouldn't account for a reciprocal hatred from Mr. Pratt that might have led him to murder?"
"No." Osgood stirred impatiently and put down his high- ball. "No."
"Can you suggest any other motive Mr. Pratt might have had for murdering your son? Make it plausible."
"I can't make it plausible or implausible. Pratt's vindictive and tricky, and in his youth he had fits of violence. His father worked for my father as a stablehand. In a fit of temper he might have murdered, yes."
Wolfe shook his head. "That won't do. The murder was carefully planned and executed. The plan may have been rapid and extempore, but it was cold and thorough. Besides, your son was not discovered in an effort to molest the bull, remember that You insisted on that point yourself before you had my demonstration of it. What could have got Mr. Pratt into a murderous temper toward your son if he didn't find him trying to molest the bull?"
"I don't know. Nothing that I know of."
"I ask the same question regarding Jimmy Pratt."
"I don't know him. I've never seen him."
"Actually never seen him?" "Well… seen him perhaps. I don't know him."
"Did Clyde know him?"
"I believe they were acquainted. They met in New York."
"Do you know of any motive Jimmy Pratt might have had for killing your son?"
"No." "I ask the same question regarding Caroline Pratt."
"The same answer. They too met in New York, but the acquaintance was slight."
"Excuse me, boss," I put in. "Do I release cats in public?"
"Certainly." Wolfe shot me a glance. "We're talking of Mr. Osgood's son, who is dead."
"Okay. Clyde and Caroline Pratt were engaged to be mar- ried, but the clutch slipped."
"Indeed," Wolfe murmured. Osgood glared at me and said, "Ridiculous. Who the devil told you that?"
I disregarded him and told Wolfe, "Guaranteed. They were engaged for quite a while, only apparently Clyde didn't want his father to know that he had been hooked by a female Pratt who was also an athlete. Then Clyde saw something else and made a dive for it, and the Osgood-Pratt axis got multiple fracture. The something else was the young lady who was outdoors with me last night, named Lily Rowan. Later… we're up to last spring now… she skidded again and Clyde fell off. Since then he has been hanging around New York trying to get back on. One guess is that he came up here be- cause he knew she would be here, but that's not in the guar- antee. I haven't had a chance-"
Osgood was boiling. "This is insufferable! Preposterous gossipl If this is your idea-"
I growled at Wolfe, "Ask him why he wants to wring Lily Rowan's neck."
"Mr. Osgood, please." Wolfe keyed it up. "I warned you that a murder investigation is of necessity intrusive and im- pertinent. Either bear it or abandon it. If you resent the vul- garity of Mr. Goodwin's jargon I don't blame you, but noth- ing can be done about it. If you resent his disclosure of facts, nothing can be done about that either except to drop the inquiry. We have to know things. What about your son's en- gagement to marry Miss Pratt?"
"I never heard of it. He never mentioned it. Neither did my daughter, and she would have known of it; she and Clyde were very close to each other. I don't believe it."
"You may, I think, now. My assistant is careful about facts. What about the entanglement with Miss Rowan?"
"That… yes." As badly as Osgood's head needed a rest, it was a struggle for him to remove the ducal coronet. "You understand this is absolutely confidential."
"I doubt it. I suspect that at least a hundred people in New York know more about it than you do. But what do you know?"
"I know that about a year ago my son became infatuated with the woman. He wanted to marry her. She's wealthy, or her father is. She's a sex maniac. She wouldn't marry him. If she had she would have ruined him, but she did that anyway, or she was doing it. She got tired of him, but her claws were in him so deep he couldn't get them out, and there was no way of persuading him to act like a man. He wouldn't come home; he stayed in New York because she was there. He wasted a lot of my money and I cut off his income entirely, but that didn't help. I don't know what he has been living on the past four months, but I suspect my daughter has been helping him, though I decreased her allowance and forbade it. I went to New York in May and went to see the Rowan woman, and humiliated myself, but it did no good. She's a damned strumpet."
"Not by definition. A strumpet takes money. However… I see, at this poin
t, no incentive for Miss Rowan to murder him. Miss Pratt… it might be. She was jilted, and she is muscular. Mortification could simmer in a woman's breast a long time, though she doesn't look it. When did your son arrive here from New York?"
"Sunday evening. My daughter and his friend Bronson rode up with him."
"Had you expected him?"
"Yes. He phoned from New York Saturday night."
"Was Miss Rowan already at Mr. Pratt's place?"
"I don't know. I didn't know she was there until your man told me last night, when I went over there."
"Was she, Archie?" I shook my head. "No sale. I was working on another case at lunch."
"It doesn't matter. I'm only clearing away rubbish, and I doubt if it amounts to more than that." Back at Osgood: "Why did your son come after so long an absence? What did he say?"
"He came-" Osgood stopped. Then he went on, "They came to be here for the exposition."
"Why did he come, really?"
Osgood glared and said, "Damn it."
"I know, Mr. Osgood. We don't usually hang our linen on the line till it has been washed, but you've hired me to sort it out. Why did your son come to see you? To get money?"
"How did you know that?"
"I didn't. But men so often need money; and you had stopped your son's income. Was his need general or specific?"
"Specific as to the sum. He wanted $10,000."
"Oh." Wolfe's brows went up a trifle. "What for?"
"He wouldn't tell me. He said he would be in trouble if he didn't get it." Osgood looked as if it hurt where the coronet had been. "I may as well… he had used up a lot of money during his affair with that woman. I found out in May that he had taken to gambling, and that was one reason I cut him off. When he asked for $10,000 I suspected it was for a gam- bling debt, but he denied it and said it was something more urgent. He wouldn't tell me what."
"Did you let him have it?"
