Some Buried Caesar (18 page)

Wolfe sighed. “At least he might have. Let’s say his proposal 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 Wednesday, 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 explode 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 obliterate 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 proposal 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 yourself 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.” Wolfe’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 satisfactorily 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 insulting 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?”

“I’m 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 evidence of her past she could purify herself and perhaps some day be worthy of me. Caroline killed him to practise her follow-through. Jimmy killed him to erase Lily’s past, making twice for that one motive. Pratt killed him to annoy Mr. Osgood. 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 occurred to me that I might as well make arrangements in case of a prolonged session, so I went to the kitchen first and abducted 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.”

H
e sat in the chair McMillan had vacated and continued to look tolerably amused. Wolfe, immovable, 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 indignation? Let me suggest … we won’t really need finesse. I know a little something about you, I’m aware of your resources, 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 investigation of a murder, and I also have a suggestion to make regarding one of your projects—the one that brought you here. Regarding the murder—”

“Perhaps we’d better take the last one first and get it out of the way. I’m always open to a reasonable suggestion.”

“As you please, sir.” Wolfe’s lips pushed out, and in again. “You have a paper signed by Clyde Osgood. You showed it to Miss Osgood this morning.”

“A receipt for money I paid him.”

“Specifying the services he was to perform in return.”

“Yes.”

“The performance of which would render him likewise a blackguard … in the estimation of his father.”

“That’s right.”

Wolfe stirred. “I want that paper. Now wait. I offer no challenge to your right to expect your money back. I concede that right. But I don’t like your methods of collection. You may have a right to them too, but I do not like them. Miss Osgood aroused my admiration this afternoon, which is rare for a woman, and I want to relieve the pressure on her. I propose that you hand the paper to Mr. Goodwin; it will be safe in his custody. Within 10 days at the outside I shall either pay you the $10,000, or have it paid, or return the paper to you. I make that pledge without reservation.” Wolfe aimed a thumb at me. “Give it to him.”

The blackguard shook his head, slowly and positively. “I said a reasonable suggestion.”

“You won’t do it?”

“No.”

“The security is superlative. I rarely offer pledges, because I would redeem one, tritely, with my life.”

“I couldn’t use your life. The security you offer may be good, but the paper signed by Osgood is better, and it belongs to me. Why the deuce should I give it up?”

I looked at Wolfe inquiringly. “I’d be glad to undertake—”

“No, thanks, Archie. We’ll pass it, at least for the present. —I hope, Mr. Bronson, that your antagonism will find—”

“I’m not antagonistic,” Bronson interrupted. “Don’t get me wrong. I said I’m not a fool, and I would be a fool to antagonize you. I know very well
I’m vulnerable, and I know what you can do. If I make an enemy of you I might as well leave New York. I’ve only been there two months, but if you wanted to take the trouble to trace me back I don’t deny you could do it. You wouldn’t find that a cell is waiting for me anywhere, but you could collect enough to make it damned hard going … too hard. I’ve had a bad break on this Clyde Osgood thing, but I can try again and expect better luck, and God knows I don’t want you hounding me, and you wouldn’t go to the expense and trouble just for the fun of it. Believe me, I’m not antagonistic. You have no right to get sore about my not surrendering that paper, because it’s mine, but otherwise I’m for you. If I can help any I will.”

“No finesse, Mr. Bronson?”

“None.”

“Good. Then tell me first, where were you born?”

Bronson shook his head. “I said help you, not satisfy your curiosity.”

“You’ve admitted I can trace you back if I care to take the trouble.”

“Then take the trouble.”

“Very well, I’ll be more direct. Have you ever handled cattle?”

Bronson stared, then let out a short laugh and said, “My God, must I take it back about your not being a fool? Do you mean to say you’re trying to fit me in that thing?”

“Have you ever handled cattle?”

“I’ve never had the slightest association with cattle. I know where milk and beef come from only because I read it somewhere.”

“Where is the club you were carrying last night
when you accompanied Clyde Osgood to Pratt’s place?”

“Club?”

“Yes. A rough club, a length of sapling.”

“Why … I don’t think … Oh yes. Sure, I remember. It was leaning up against a shed as we went by, and I just—”

“Where is it?”

“You mean now? After all—” “Where did you leave it?”

“Why … I don’t … Oh! Sure. When we got to the fence, where the trees ended, Clyde went on and I came back. He took the club with him.”

“What for?”

Bronson shrugged. He had himself collected again. “Just to have it, I suppose. I notice you carry a heavy walking stick. What for?”

“Not to knock myself unconscious with. Did Clyde ask for the club? Did you offer it to him?”

“I don’t know. It was quite casual, one way or the other. Why, was he knocked on the head? I thought he was killed with a pick, according to your—”

“You’re supposed to be helping, sir, not chattering. I need the truth about that club.”

“You’ve had it.”

“Nonsense. You were obviously disconcerted, and you stalled.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “If you don’t want my antagonism, beware. This is the most favorable chance you’ll have to tell the truth, here privately with me in comparative amity. Isn’t it a fact that you yourself carried the club to Mr. Pratt’s place?”

“No. I didn’t go there.”

“You stick to that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“I warn you again, beware. But say we take that, for the moment, for truth, tell me this: why was Clyde going to Pratt’s? What was he going to do there?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did he say he was going to do?” “He didn’t say.”

Wolfe shut his eyes and was silent. I saw the tip of his index finger making little circles on the arm of his chair, and knew he was speechless with fury. After a minute Bronson began: