Some Buried Caesar (11 page)

“All right. I’ll pay for it. What is it?”

“Well.” Wolfe pursed his lips and half shut his eyes. “Clyde Osgood did not enter the pasture voluntarily. He was unconscious, though still alive, when he was placed in the pasture. He was not gored, and therefore not killed, by the bull. He was murdered, probably by a man, possibly by two men, barely possibly by a woman or a man and a woman.”

Nancy had straightened up with a gasp and then sat stiff. Osgood was gazing at Wolfe with his clamped jaw working a little from side to side.

“That …” He stopped and clamped his jaw again. “You say that’s the truth? That my son was murdered?”

“Yes. Without a guaranty. I sell it as an opinion.”

“How good is it? Where did you get it? Damn you, if you’re playing me—”

“Mr. Osgood! Really. I’m not playing, I’m working. I assure you my opinion is a good one. Whether it’s worth what you’re paying for it depends on what you do with it.”

Osgood got up, took two steps, and was looking down at his daughter. “You hear that, Nancy?” he demanded, as if he was accusing her of something. “You hear what he says? I knew it, I tell you, I knew it.” He jerked his head up. “Good God … my son dead … murdered …” He whirled to Wolfe, opened his
mouth and closed it again, and went back to his chair and let himself down.

Nancy looked at Wolfe and asked indignantly, “Why do you say that? How can you know … Clyde was murdered? Why do you say it as if … as if you could know …”

“Because I had arrived at that opinion, Miss Osgood.”

“But how? Why?”

“Be quiet, Nancy.” Osgood turned to Wolfe. “All right, I’ve got your opinion. Now I want to know what you base it on.”

“My deductions. I was there last night, with a flashlight.”

“Deductions from what?”

“From the facts.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “You may have them if you want them, but see here. You spoke of ‘these damn fools here’ and called them a pack of cowards. Referring to the legal authorities?”

“Yes. The District Attorney and the sheriff.”

“Do you call them cowards because they hesitate to institute an investigation of your son’s death?”

“They don’t merely hesitate, they refuse. They say my suspicions are arbitrary and unfounded. They don’t use those words, but that’s what they mean. They simply don’t want to pick up something they’re afraid they can’t handle.”

“But you have position, power, political influence—”

“No. Especially not with Waddell, the District Attorney. I opposed him in ’36, and it was chiefly Tom Pratt’s money that elected him. But this is murder! You say yourself it was murder!”

“They may be convinced it wasn’t. That’s quite
plausible under the circumstances. Do you suggest they would bottle up a murder to save Pratt annoyance?”

“No. Or yes. I don’t care a damn which. I only know they won’t listen to reason and I’m helpless, and I intend that whoever killed my son shall suffer for it. That’s why I came to you.”

“Precisely.” Wolfe shifted in his chair again. “The fact is, you haven’t given them much reason to listen to. You have told them your son wouldn’t have entered the pasture, but he was there; and that he wasn’t fool enough to let a bull kill him in the dark, which is conjectural and by no means a demonstrated fact. You have asked me to investigate your son’s death, but I couldn’t undertake it unless the police exert themselves simultaneously. There will be a lot of work to do, and I have no assistance here except Mr. Goodwin; and I can’t commandeer evidence. If I move in the affair at all, the first stop must be to enlist the authorities. Is the District Attorney’s office in Crowfield?”

“Yes.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest that we see him. I engage to persuade him to start an investigation immediately. That of course will call for an additional fee, but I shall try not to make it extravagant. After that is done we can reconsider your request that I undertake an investigation myself. You may decide it isn’t necessary, or I may regard it as impractical. Do you have a car here? May Mr. Goodwin drive it? He ran mine into a tree.”

“I do my own driving. Or my daughter does. I don’t like going back to that jackass Waddell.”

“I’m afraid it’s unavoidable.” Wolfe elevated his bulk. “Certain things must be done without delay, and they will need authority behind them.”

It turned out that the daughter drove. We found Osgood’s big black sedan parked in a privileged and exclusive space at one side of the Administration Building, and piled in. I sat in front with Nancy. For the two miles into Crowfield the highway and streets were cluttered with the exposition traffic, and although she was impulsive with the wheel and jerky on the gas pedal, she did it pretty well. I glanced around once and saw Wolfe hanging onto the strap for dear life. We finally rolled up to the curb in front of a stretch of lawn and a big old stone building with its status carved above the entrance: CROWFIELD COUNTY COURT HOUSE.

Osgood, climbing out, spoke to his daughter: “You go on home, Nancy, to your mother. There was no sense in your coming anyway. I’ll phone when there is anything to say.”

Wolfe intervened, “It would be better for her to wait for us here. In case I take this job I shall need to talk with her without delay.”

“With my daughter?” Osgood scowled. “What for? Nonsense!”

“As you please, sir.” Wolfe shrugged. “It’s fairly certain I won’t want the job. For one thing, you’re too infernally combative for a client.”

“But why the devil should you need to talk to my daughter?”

“To get information. I offer you advice, Mr. Osgood: go home with your daughter and forget this quest for vengeance. There is no other form of human activity quite so impertinent as a competent murder
investigation, and I fear you’re not equipped to tolerate it. Abandon the idea. You can mail me a check at your convenience—”

“I’m going on with it.”

“Then prepare yourself for annoyance, intrusion, plague, the insolence of publicity—”

“I’m going on with it.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe inclined his head an inch toward the lovely but miserable face of the daughter at the steering wheel. “Then you will please wait here, Miss Osgood.”

I
n all ordinary circumstances Wolfe’s cocky and unlimited conceit prevents the development of any of the tender sentiments, such as compassion for instance, but that afternoon I felt sorry for him. He was being compelled to break some of his most ironclad rules. He was riding behind strange drivers, walking in crowds, obeying a summons from a prospective client, and calling upon a public official, urged on by his desperate desire to find a decent place to sit down. The hotel room we had managed to get—since we hadn’t arrived Monday evening to claim the one we had reserved—was small, dark and noisy, and had one window which overlooked a building operation where a concrete mixer was raising cain. If you opened the window, cement dust entered in clouds. There was nowhere at all to sit near our space in the exhibits building. At the Methodist tent they had folding chairs. The ones at the room where we had gone to meet Osgood, where Wolfe had probably expected something fairly tolerable, had been little better; and obviously Wolfe regarded the District Attorney’s office as a sort of forlorn last hope. I never saw him
move faster than when we entered and a swift glance showed him there was just one upholstered, in dingy black leather, with arms. You might almost have called it a swoop. He stood in front of it for the introduction and then sank.

Carter Waddell, the District Attorney, was pudgy and middle-aged and inclined to bubble. I suppose he did special bubbling for Osgood, on account of sympathy for bereavement and to show that the 1936 election had left no hard feelings, not to mention his love for his country of which Osgood owned 2000 acres. He said he was perfectly willing to reopen the discussion they had had earlier in the day, though his own opinion was unaltered. Osgood said he didn’t intend to discuss it himself, that would be a waste of time and effort, but that Mr. Nero Wolfe had something to say.

“By all means,” Waddell bubbled. “Certainly. Mr. Wolfe’s reputation is well known, of course. Doubtless we poor rustics could learn a great deal from him. Couldn’t we, Mr. Wolfe?”

Wolfe murmured, “I don’t know your capacity, Mr. Waddell. But I do think I have something pertinent to offer regarding the murder of Clyde Osgood.”

“Murder?” Waddell stretched his eyes wide. “Now I don’t know.
Petitio principii
isn’t a good way to begin. Is it?”

“Of course not.” Wolfe wriggled himself comfortable, and sighed. “I offer the word as something to be established, not as a postulate. Did you ever see a bull kill a man, or injure one with his horn?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“Did you ever see a bull who had just gored a man or a horse or any animal? Immediately after the goring?”

“No.”

“Well, I have … long ago … a dozen times or more, at bullfights. Horses killed, and men injured … one man killed.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “Whether you’ve seen it or not, surely you can imagine what happens when a bull thrusts his horn deep into a living body, and tosses, and tears the wound. While the heart of the victim is still furiously pumping. Blood spurts all over the bull’s face and head, and often clear to his shoulders and beyond. The bleeding of a man killed in that manner is frightful; the instant such a wound is made a torrent gushes forth. It was so in the case of Clyde Osgood. His clothing was saturated. I am told that the police report that where he was killed there is an enormous caked pool of it. Is that correct? You acknowledge it. Last night Mr. Goodwin, my assistant, found the bull turning Clyde Osgood’s body over on the ground, with his horns, without much force or enthusiasm. The natural supposition was that the bull had killed him. Not more than fifteen minutes later, when the bull had been tied to the fence, I examined him at close range with a flashlight. He has a white face, and there was only one smudge of blood on it, and his horns were bloody only a few inches down from the tips. Was that fact included in the police report?”

Waddell said slowly, “I don’t remember … no.”

“Then I advise that the bull be inspected at once, provided he hasn’t been already washed off. I assure you that my report is reliable.” Wolfe wiggled a finger again. “I didn’t come here to offer a conjecture, Mr. Waddell. I don’t intend to argue it with you. Often in considering phenomena we encounter a suspicious circumstance which requires study and permits debate,
but the appearance of the bull’s face and head last night is not that, it is much more. It is conclusive proof that the bull didn’t kill Clyde Osgood. You spoke of my reputation; I stake it on this.”

“By God,” Clyde Osgood’s father muttered. “Well, by God. I looked at that bull myself, and I never thought …”

“I’m afraid you weren’t doing much thinking last night,” Wolfe told him. “It couldn’t be expected of you. But it might have been expected of the police by the sanguine … particularly the rustic police.”

The District Attorney, without any sign of bubbling, said, “You’ve made a point, I grant that. Of course you have. But I’d like to have a doctor’s opinion about the bleeding—”

“It was all over his clothes and the grass. Great quantities. If you consult a doctor, let it be the one who saw the wound. In the meantime, it would be well to act, and act soon, on the assumption that the bull didn’t do it, because that’s the fact.”

“You’re very positive, Mr. Wolfe. Very.”

“I am.”

“Isn’t it possible that the bull withdrew his horn so quickly that he escaped the spurt of blood?”

“No. The spurt is instantaneous, and bulls don’t gore like that anyway. They stay in to tear. Has the wound been described to you?”

Waddell nodded. I noticed that he wasn’t looking at Osgood. “That’s another thing,” he said. “That wound. If it wasn’t made by the bull, what could possibly have done it? What kind of weapon?”

“The weapon is right there, not thirty yards from the pasture fence. Or was. I examined it.”

I thought, uh-huh, see the bright little fat boy with
all the pretty skyrockets! But I stared at him, and so did the others. Osgood ejaculated something, and Waddell’s voice had a crack in it as he demanded, “You what?”

“I said, I examined it.”

“The weapon that killed him?”

“Yes. I borrowed a flashlight from Mr. Goodwin, because of a slight difficulty in believing that Clyde Osgood would let himself be gored by a bull in the dark. I had heard him remark, in the afternoon, that he knew cattle. Later his father experienced the same difficulty, but didn’t know how to resolve it. I did so by borrowing the light and inspecting the bull, and perceived at once that the supposition which already prevailed was false. The bull hadn’t killed him. Then what had?”

Wolfe squirmed in his chair, which was after all eight inches too narrow, and continued, “It is an interesting question whether rapid and accurate brain work results from superior equipment or from good training. In my case, whatever my original equipment may have been, it has certainly had the advantage of prolonged and severe training. One result, not always pleasant and rarely profitable, is that I am likely to forget myself and concentrate on problems which are none of my business. I did so last night. Within thirty seconds after inspecting the bull’s clean face, I had guessed at a possible weapon. Knowing where it was, I went and inspected it, and verified my guess. I then returned to the house. By the time I arrived there I had reached a conclusion as to how the crime had been committed—and I have not altered it since.”

“What was the weapon? Where was it?”

“It was rustic too. An ordinary pick for digging. In
the afternoon, in an emergency created by the bull—preceded by Mr. Goodwin’s destruction of my car—I had been conveyed from the pasture by Miss Pratt in an automobile. We had passed by an excavation—the barbecue pit as I learned afterwards—with freshly dug earth and picks and shovels lying there. My guess was that a pick might have been used. I went with a flashlight to see, and found confirmation. There were two picks. One of them was perfectly dry, with bits of dried soil clinging to it, and the other was damp. Even the metal itself was still damp on the under side, and the wooden handle was positively wet. There was no particle of soil clinging to the metal. Obviously the thing had been thoroughly and recently washed, not more than an hour previously at the outside. Not far away I found the end of a piece of garden hose. It was connected somewhere, for when I turned the nozzle a little, water came. Around where the nozzle lay the grass was quite wet when I pressed my palm into it. It was more than a surmise, it was close to a certainty, that the pick had done the goring, got deluged with blood, been carefully washed with the garden hose and replaced on the pile of excavated soil where I found it.”