by Rex Stout
"What about the grass around the hose and the pick handle?"
"We sent the pick to Albany for laboratory inspection. There were a few, kind of clots, we found in the grass, and we sent them too. We won't know until tomorrow."
"They'll report human blood, and then what? Will you still waste time blathering about Clyde approaching the bull with a meal of anthrax, and the bull, after consuming it, be- coming resentful and goring him?"
"If they report human blood that will add weight to your theory, of course. I said I'd cooperate, Wolfe, I didn't agree to lap up your sarcasm."
"Pfui." Wolfe shrugged. "Don't think I don't understand your position, sir. You are fairly sure there has been a murder, but you want to leave a path open to a public pretense that there was none, in case you fail to solve it. You have made no progress whatever toward a solution and see no prospect of any, and you would abandon the attempt now and announce it as accidental death as a result of malicious trespass, but for me. You know I am employed by Mr. Osgood, who may be obstructed but not ignored, and you further know that I have the knack of arranging, when I do make a fool of myself, that no one shall know it but me."
"You make…" Waddell sputtered with anger. "You accuse me of obstructing justice? I'm the law officer of this county-"
"Bah! Swallow it, sir! You know perfectly well Clyde Osgood was murdered, and you descend to that gibberish about him poisoning that bull!" Wolfe halted abruptly, and sighed. "But there, I beg your pardon. I have forfeited the right to reproach even gibberish. I had this case like that, complete-" he showed a clenched fist "-and I let it go." The fist popped open.
"You don't mean you know the mur-"
"I mean I was lazy and conceited. You may quote that. Forget my dispraise, it was beside the point; you do your best. So do I. That's the devil of it: my best wasn't good enough this afternoon. But it will be. Drop all notion of filing it as an accident, Mr. Waddell; you may as well close that path, for you won't be allowed to return by it…"
Soon after that McMillan and Captain Barrow had re- turned, and they had all left, after Wolfe had arranged for McMillan to pay us a visit at 9 o'clock that evening.
During dinner Wolfe wasn't talkative, and I made no special effort at conversation because he didn't deserve it. If he wanted to be charitable enough to concede Waddell a right to live, I wouldn't have objected to that, but he might have kept within bounds. Decorum is decorum. If he wanted to admit he had made a boob of himself and prattle about forfeiting rights, that was okay, but the person to admit it too wasn't a half-witted crime buzzard from the upstate sticks, but me. That's what a confidential assistant is for. The only thing that restrained me from letting my indigna- tion burst into speech was the fact that I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.
McMillan was punctual. It was 9 on the dot, and we were sipping coffee, when a maid came to say he was below. I went down and told him that Wolfe calculated there might be more privacy if he didn't object to coming upstairs, and he said certainly not. On the upper landing we ran into Nancy and he stopped for a couple of words with her, having, as he had observed the day before, known the Osgood youngsters since they were babies.
Wolfe greeted him. He sat down and declined coffee. Wolfe looked at him and sighed. I sipped coffee and watched them over the rim of the cup.
Wolfe said, "You look tired."
The stockman nodded. "I'm about all in. I guess I'm get- ting old. Scores of times I've stayed up all night with a cow dropping a calf… but of course this wasn't exactly the same as a cow dropping a calf."
"No. Its antithesis. Death instead of birth. It was obliging of you to come over here; I dislike expeditions at night. In my capacity as an investigator for your friend Mr. Osgood, may I ask you some questions?"
"That's what I came for."
"Good. Then first, you left Mr. Pratt's terrace yesterday afternoon with the announced intention of telling Clyde not to do anything foolish. Miss Osgood has told me that you called Clyde from the car and conversed with him a few minutes. What was said?"
"Just that. I knew Clyde had a streak of recklessness in him-not bad, he wasn't a bad boy, just a little reckless some- times-and after what he had said to Pratt I thought he might need a little quieting down. I sort of made a joke of it and told him I hoped he wasn't going to try to pull any Halloween stunt. He said he was going to win his bet with Pratt. I told him there was no way he could do it and the sensible thing was to let me go and arrange with Pratt to call the bet off. He refused, and I asked him how he ex- pected to win it, and of course he wouldn't tell me. That was all there was to it. I couldn't get anything out of him, and he went and got in his car." "Without giving you the slightest hint of his intentions."
"Right."
Wolfe grimaced. "I hoped you would be able to tell me a little more than that."
"I can't tell you more than what happened."
"Of course riot. But I had that much, which is nothing, from Mr. Waddell, as you told it to him. He is the district attorney. I represent your friend Mr. Osgood. I had rather counted on your willingness to disclose things to me which you might choose to withhold from him."
McMillan frowned. "Maybe you'd better say that again. It sounds to me as if you meant I'm lying about it."
"I do. – Now pleasel" Wolfe showed a palm. "Don't let's be childish about the depravity of lying. Victor Hugo wrote a whole book to prove that a lie can be sublime. I strongly sus- pect you're lying, and I'd like to explain why. Briefly, because Clyde Osgood wasn't an imbecile. I suppose you have heard from Mr. Waddell of my theory that Clyde didn't climb into the pasture, but was put there. I still incline to that, but whether he voluntarily entered the pasture or not, he certainly went voluntarily from his home to Pratt's place. What for?"
He paused to empty his coffee cup. McMillan, still frown- ing, sat and looked at him.
Wolfe resumed, "I risk the assumption that he wasn't merely out for a stroll. He had a purpose, to do something or see somebody. I counted Dave out. Miss Rowan was with Mr. Goodwin. Mr. Waddell tells me that the others, in- cluding you, profess complete ignorance of Clyde's presence on the premises. I find it next to impossible to believe that; the reason being, as I said, that Clyde was not an imbecile; for if he didn't go there to see someone I must assume that his object was some sort of design, singlehanded, against the bull, and that's preposterous. What design? Remove the bull from the pasture, lead him away and keep him hid some- where until the week was up? Feed him anthrax to kill him and render him inedible? Glue wings on him and ride him, a bovine Pegasus, to the moon? The last surmise is no more unlikely than the first two."
"You're not arguing with me," McMillan said drily. "If I set out to try to prove anything I wouldn't know where to start. But about my lying-"
"I'm coming to it." Wolfe pushed at his tray, with a glance at me, and I got up and moved it out of his way. He went on, "Frankly, I am not now dealing with the murder. I haven't got that far. I must first find a reasonable hypothesis to account for Clyde's going there… or rather, let me go back still further and put it this way: I must find a reasonable hypothesis for his evident expectation of winning that bet. Didn't he tell you he expected to win the bet?"
"Yes."
"And he wouldn't tell you how?"
"No."
"Well" Wolfe compressed his lips. "That's what I can't believe. I can't believe that, because he could expect to win the bet only with your assistance."
McMillan stared, with his heavy brows down. "Now," he said finally, "I don't think you want to start talking like that. Not to me. I don't believe so."
"Oh yes I do," Wolfe assured him. "It's my one form of prowess. I do talk. But I mean no offense, I'm speaking only of Clyde's expectations. I must account for his expecting to win that bet before I can approach the murder at all. I have con- sidered, thoroughly, all the possible schemes, as well as the impossible, he might have had in mind, and there is one which appears neat, not too atrocious, and practicab
le though perhaps difficult. I have said he couldn't have expected simply to remove the bull from the pasture, because he couldn't have hid him from the resulting search. But why couldn't he re- move Caesar and put another bull in his place?"
The stockman snorted. "A good grade Holstein maybe."
"No. Humor me, sir. Take my question as serious and answer it. Why couldn't he?"
"Because he couldn't."
"But why not? There were, I don't know how many, Guernsey bulls at the exposition, only seventeen miles away, and cattle trucks there to haul them in. There were some much closer, here at his father's place, within leading distance. Might not one of them, though vastly inferior to the champion Caesar in the finer qualities which I don't know about, re- semble him sufficiently in size and coloring to pass as a substitute? A substitute for only one day, since the butcher was to come on Wednesday? Who would have known the difference?"
McMillan snorted again. "I would."
"Granted. You could have mistaken no other bull for your Caesar. But everyone else might easily have been fooled. At the very least there was an excellent sporting chance of it. It is obvious at what point such a scheme might have entered Clyde's mind. Yesterday afternoon he was sitting on the pasture fence, looking at Hickory Caesar Grindon through his binoculars. It occurred to him that there was a bull of similar general appearance, size and markings, either in his father's herd or among the collection at the exposition, which he had just come from; and that accidental reflection blossomed into an idea. Chased away from the pasture, he went to the house and made the wager with Mr. Pratt. Followed from the terrace to his car by you, he called you aside and made a proposal."
Wolfe sighed. "At least he might have. Let's say his pro- posal was that he should, with your consent, remove Caesar and put another bull in his place. He would take Caesar to the Osgood barns. You would, during Tuesday, help to guard the substitute so that no one who would be at all likely to notice the deception would be permitted to approach too closely. With the substitute once butchered, on Wednes- day, the danger would of course be over. On Thursday Mr. Pratt and his guests, with trumpets of publicity, would eat the barbecued bull. On Sunday, with the week expired, Clyde would present Mr. Pratt with irrefutable evidence that it was not Caesar who had been sacrificed and that he had therefore won the bet. Mr. Pratt would of course ex- plode with rage, but in the end he would have to compose himself and admit his helplessness and pay the $10,000, for if the facts were made public the roar of laughter would obliter- ate him. Customers in a pratteria would say, 'Do you suppose this is really beef? It may be woodchuck.' Mr. Pratt would have to pay and keep his mouth shut. He couldn't even take Caesar back, for what would he do with him? Clyde Osgood would get the $10,000, and doubtless a part of his pro- posal would be that you would get Caesar. I don't know how that would work out, since officially Caesar would be dead but there might be a way around that difficulty, and as a minimum benefit you could breed his exceptional qualities into your herd."
Wolfe intertwined his fingers at his abdominal peak. "That, of course, is merely the outline of the proposal. Clyde had probably developed it in detail, including the time and manner of shuffling the bulls. The most auspicious time for that would have been after 1 o'clock, when you would be the one on guard, but you might have refused to involve your- self to that extent; and therefore one possibility is that the shuffling was set for earlier and had actually taken place. Caesar may be alive at this moment. The bull who died of anthrax may have been only a substitute. I offer that only as a conjecture; obviously it is tenable only on the supposition that you agreed to Clyde's proposal and entered into his scheme… and you know more about that than I do. But leaving that entirely aside, what do you think of the scheme itself? Do you detect any flaws?"
McMillan was eying him with a grim smile. He said calmly, "You're slick, aren't you?"
"Moderately." White's eyes closed and came half open again. "But don't make the mistake of supposing that I'm trying to waylay you. I may be passably slick, but my favorite weapon is candor. Here is my position, sir. I can account satis- factorily for Clyde's expectation of winning that bet only by assuming that he concocted such plan as I have outlined. If he did so, you either acceded or refused. In either case, I would like to know what he said. Don't think I am in- sulting you by reckoning that you might have withheld facts from Mr. Waddell. I would myself be reluctant to trust him with a fact of any delicacy. I appeal to you, did Clyde make you a proposal, and did you accept or decline?"
McMillan still wore the grim smile. "You're slick all right. Maybe the next thing is, did I murder him? Maybe I murdered him because he insulted me?"
'Tm never facetious about murder. Besides, I haven't got to the murder yet. I need first to justify Clyde's optimism about his bet, and establish what he came here to do or whom to see. Did he make you a proposal?"
"No." McMillan abruptly stood up.
Wolfe lifted his brows. "Going?"
I don't see much point in staying. I came as a favor to Fred Osgood."
"And as a favor to him, you have no information at all that might help? Nothing that might explain-"
"No. I can't explain a damn thing." The stockman took three heavy steps and turned. "Neither can you," he declared, "by trying to smear any of the mess on me."
He strode to the door and opened it, and it closed after him.
Wolfe sighed, shut his eyes, and sat. I stood and looked at him a minute, detecting none of the subtle signs of glee or triumph on his map, and then treated myself to a healthy sigh and got busy with the trays. Not being sure whether a maid was supposed to be available at 10 o'clock at night, and not liking to dump the trays in the hall, I got them perched on my arms and sought the back stairs. That was a blunder, because the stairs were a little narrow and I nearly got stuck on a turn. But I navigated to the kitchen without disaster, unloaded, and proceeded via the pantry and dining room to the main hall. There was a light in the library, and through the open door I saw Howard Bronson reading a newspaper. No one else was visible, and I completed the circuit back. to Wolfe's room by way of the main stair.
He was still dormant. I sat down and yawned, and said: "It is in the; bag. Lily killed him, thinking that by erasing evi- dence of her past she could purify herself and perhaps some day be worthy of me. Caroline killed him to practise her fellow-through. Jimmy killed him to erase Lily's past, making twice for that one motive. Pratt killed him to annoy Mr. Os- good. McMillan killed him because the substitute he brought for Caesar proved to be a cow. Dave killed him-"
"Confound it, Archie, shut up."
"Yes, sir. I'll close it forever and seal the crack with rubber cement the minute you explain at what time and by what process you got this nice little case like that." I doubled my fist, but the gesture was wasted because he didn't open his eyes.
He was in bad shape, for he muttered mildly, "I did have it like that."
"What became of it?"
"It went up in fire and smoke."
"The bull motif again. Phooey. Try and persuade me… and incidentally, why don't you stop telling people that I steered your car into a tree and demolished it? What good do you expect to accomplish by puerile paroxysms like that? To go back to this case you've dragged us into through your absolute frenzy to find an adequate chair to sit on, I suppose now it's hopeless? I suppose these hicks are going to enjoy the refreshing sight of Nero Wolfe heading south Thursday morning with his tail between his legs? Or shall I go on with the list until I offer one that strikes your fancy? Dave killed him because he missed breakfast the day he was fired two years ago and has never caught up. Bronson killed him… by the way, I just saw Mr. Bronson-"
"Bronson?"
"Yep. In the library reading a newspaper as if he owned the place."
"Go and get him." Wolfe stirred and his eyes threatened to open. "Bring him here."
"Now?"
"Now."
I arose and sallied forth. But on my way downstairs it oc- cu
rred to me that I might as well make arrangements in case of a prolonged session, so I went to the kitchen first and ab- ducted a pitcher of Advanced Register Guernsey milk from the refrigerator. With that in my hand, I strutted on to the library and told Bronson I hated to interrupt him but that Mr. Wolfe had expressed a desire for his company.
He looked amused and put down his newspaper and said he had begun to fear he was going to be slighted.
"No sirree," I said. "He'll banish that fear easy."
13
HE SAT in the chair McMillan had vacated and continued to look tolerably amused. Wolfe, im- movable, with his eyes nearly shut, appeared to be more than half asleep, which may or may not have deceived Bronson but didn't deceive me. I yawned. With the angle of the light striking Bronson as it did, his nose looked blunter than it had on the veranda, as if it had at some time been permanently pushed, and his clever gray eyes looked smaller.
Finally he said in a cultivated tone, "I understood you wanted to ask me something."
Wolfe nodded. "Yes, sir. Were you able to overhear much of my conversation with Miss Osgood this afternoon?"
"Not a great deal. In fact, very little." Bronson smiled. "What was that for, to see if I would make an effort at in- dignation? Let me suggest… we won't really need finesse. I know a little something about you, I'm aware of your re- sources, but I have a few myself. Why don't we just agree that you're not a fool and neither am I?"
"Indeed." Wolfe's lids had lifted so that his eyes were more than slits. "Are you really a coolheaded man? There are so few."
"I'm fairly intelligent."
"Then thank heaven we can discuss facts calmly, without a lot of useless pother… facts which I have got from Miss Osgood. For instance, that you are what Mr. Osgood-and many other people-would call an unscrupulous blackguard."
"I don't…" Bronson flipped a hand. "Oh, well. Calling names…"
"Just so. I can excoriate stupidity, and often do, because it riles me, but moral indignation is a dangerous indulgence. Ethology is a chaos. Financial banditry, for example… I either condemn it or I don't; and if I do, without prejudice, where will I find jailers? No. My only excuse for labeling you an unscrupulous blackguard is the dictionary, and I do it to clarify our positions. I'm in the detective business, and you're in the blackguard business… and I want to consult with you about both. I am counting on you to help me in my investiga- tion of a murder, and I also have a suggestion to make regard- ing one of your projects-the one that brought you here. Regarding the murder-"
