Some Buried Caesar (22 page)

At 4 o’clock the judges came, with retinue and scale sheets. One of them was a moonfaced bird from the Eastern States Horticultural Society and the other was Cuyler Ditson, who had been a judge several times at the Metropolitan. The pair started to squint and inspect and discuss, and a modest crowd collected.

It was such a pushover, and was over and done with so soon as far as the albinos were concerned, that it seemed pretty silly after all the trouble we had
gone to, even though Wolfe got the medal and all three ribbons, and all Shanks got was a consoling pat on the back. But they both knew how it would look in the next issue of the American Orchid Gazette, and they knew who would read it. Shanks was dumb enough to get mad and try to start an argument with Cuyler Ditson, and Raymond Plehn gave him the horselaugh.

When the judges left the crowd dispersed. Wolfe and Plehn started to exercise their chins, and when that began I knew it would continue indefinitely, so I saw myself confronted by boredom. Wolfe had said that when the judging was over he would want to spray with nicotine and soap, and I dug the ingredients from the bottom of one of the crates, went for a can of water, and got the mixture ready in the sprayer. He did a thorough job of it, with Plehn assisting, put the sprayer down on the bench, and started talking shop again. I sat on a box and yawned and permitted my mind to flit around searching for honey in an idea that had occurred to me on account of one of the questions Wolfe had asked Bennett. But I hoped to heaven that wasn’t the answer, for if it was we were certainly out on a limb, and as far as any hope of earning a fee from Osgood was concerned we might as well pack up and go home.

I glanced at my wrist and saw it was 10 minutes to 5, which reminded me that Lily Rowan was coming for orchids at 5 o’clock and gave me something to do, namely, devise a remark that would shatter her into bits. She had the appearance of never having been shattered to speak of, and it seemed to me that she was asking for it. To call a guy Escamillo in a spirit of
fun is okay, but if you do so immediately after he has half-killed himself hurdling a fence on account of a bull chasing him, you have a right to expect whatever he may be capable of in return.

I never got the remark devised. The first interruption was the departure of Raymond Plehn, who was as urbane with his farewells as with other activities. The second interruption was more removed, when first noted, and much more irritating: I saw a person pointing at me. Down the aisle maybe ten paces he stood pointing, and he was unquestionably the lanky straw-handler in overalls whom I had last seen in the Holstein shed three hours previously. At his right hand stood Captain Barrow of the state police, and at his left District Attorney Waddell. As I gazed at them with my brow wrinkled in displeasure, they moved forward.

I told Wolfe out of the corner of my mouth. “Looky. Company’s coming.”

Apparently they had figured that the cow nurse would no longer be needed, for he lumbered off in the other direction, while the other two headed straight for their victim, meaning me. They looked moderately sour and nodded curtly when Wolfe and I greeted them.

Wolfe said, “I understand you have another dead man on your hands, and this time no demonstration from me is required.”

Waddell mumbled something, but Barrow disregarded both of them and looked at me and said, “You’re the one I want a demonstration from. Get your hat and come on.”

I grinned. “Where to, please?”

“Sheriff’s office. I’ll be glad to show you the way. Wait a minute.”

He extended a paw at me. I folded my arms and stepped back a pace. “Let’s all wait a minute. I have a gun
and
a license. The gun is legally in my possession. We don’t want a lot of silly complications. Do we?”

W
olfe said sweetly, “I give you my word, Captain, he won’t shoot you in my presence. He knows I dislike violence. I own the gun, by the way. Give it to me, Archie.”

I took it from the holster and handed it to him. He held it close to his face, peering at it, and in a moment said, “It’s a Worthington .38, number 63092T. If you insist on having it, Captain—illegally, as Mr. Goodwin correctly says—write out a receipt and I’ll let you take it from me.”

Barrow grunted. “To hell with the comedy. Keep the damn gun. Come on, Goodwin.”

I shook my head. “I’m here legally too. What are you after? If you want a favor, ask for it. If you want to give orders, show me something signed by somebody. You know the rules as well as I do. In the meantime, don’t touch me unless you’re absolutely sure you can pick up anything you drop.”

Waddell said, “We know the law some, in a rustic sort of way. A murder has been committed, and Captain Barrow wants to ask you some questions.”

“Then let him ask. Or if he wants a private conference
let him request my company and not yap at me.” I transferred to Barrow. “Hell, I know what you want. I saw that ape that came in with you pointing me out. I know he saw me this afternoon alongside a pile of straw in the Holstein shed, talking with two acquaintances. I also know, by public rumor, that a dead man has been found under a pile of straw in that shed with a pitchfork sticking in him. I suppose it was the same pile of straw, I’m lucky that way. And you want to know why I was there and what I and my acquaintances were talking about and what was my motive for sticking the pitchfork into the man, and the doctor said the man had been dead two hours and six minutes and will I therefore give a timetable of my movements from 10 o’clock this morning up to 2:37 p.m. Right?”

“Right,” Barrow said agreeably. “Only we’re more interested in the dead man’s movements than we are in yours. When did you see him last?”

I grinned. “Try again. I abandoned that trick years ago. First tell me who he is or was.”

Barrow’s eyes weren’t wandering from my face. “His name was Howard Bronson.”

“I’ll be damned.” I screwed up my lips and raised my brows in polite surprise. “Clyde Osgood’s friend? Identified?”

“Yes. By Osgood and his daughter. When did you see him last?”

“At ten-thirty this morning, as he got out of Osgood’s car in front of the hotel. Miss Osgood and Mr. Wolfe and I went on in the car.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Never saw him before Monday afternoon.”

“Any intimate relations with him?”

“Nope.”

“Any close personal contacts with him?”

“Well—no.”

“Well what?”

“Nothing. No.”

“Any financial transactions? Did you pay him any money or did he pay you any?”

“No.”

“Then will you explain how it happens that an empty brown leather wallet found in his pocket was covered with your fingerprints, inside and outside?”

Of course the boob had telegraphed the punch. If he hadn’t, if he had fired that at me to begin with, he might have been gratified at a couple of stammers and a little hemming and hawing, but as it was he allowed me plenty of time for preparation.

I grinned at him. “Sure I’ll explain. Last evening at Osgood’s house I found a wallet on the veranda. I looked in it for papers to identify the owner, and found it was Bronson’s, and returned it to him. It never occurred to me to wipe off my prints.”

“Oh. You had it ready.”

“Had what ready?” I demanded innocently. “The wallet?”

“The explanation.”

“Yeah, I carry a big stock for the country trade.” I compressed my lips at him. “For God’s sake use your bean. If I had croaked the guy and frisked the wallet, or if I had found him dead and frisked it, would I have left my signature all over it? Do I strike you as being in that category? Maybe I can offer you a detail though. You say the wallet was empty. Last night when I found it, and when I returned it to him, it was
bulging with a wad which I estimated roughly at 2000 bucks.”

At that point Nero Wolfe’s genius went into action. I say genius not because he concocted the stratagem, for that was only quick wit, but because he anticipated the need for it far enough ahead of time to get prepared. I didn’t recognize it at the moment for what it was; all I saw, without paying it any attention, was that, apparently bored by a conversation he had no part in, he slipped the pistol into his coat pocket and picked up the sprayer and began fussing with the nozzle and the pressure handle.

“You advise me to use my bean,” Barrow was saying. “I’ll try. Did you remove anything from the wallet?”

“Today? I haven’t seen it. I only found it once.”

“Today or any other time. Did you?”

“No.”

“Did you take anything from Bronson at all? His person or his effects?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to submit to a search?”

My brain didn’t exactly reel, but the wires buzzed. For half a second five or six alternatives chased each other around in a battle royal. Meanwhile I was treating Barrow to a grin to show how serene I was, and also, out of the corner of an eye, I was perceiving that Nero Wolfe’s right index finger, resting half concealed by his coat on the pressure lever, was being wiggled at me. It was a busy moment. Hoping to God I had interpreted the wiggle correctly, I told Barrow affably, “Excuse the hesitation, but I’m trying to decide which would annoy you more, to deny you the courtesy and compel you to take steps, or let you go ahead
and find nothing. Now that my gun is gone and you can’t disarm me—”

The spray of nicotine and soap, full force under high pressure, hit him smack in the face.

He spluttered and squeaked and jumped aside, blinded. That was another busy moment. My hand shot into my breast pocket and out again and without stopping for reflection slipped my ostrich card case into the side coat pocket of District Attorney Waddell, who had stepped toward the captain with an ejaculation. Except for that I didn’t move. Barrow grabbed for his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. There were murmurings from onlookers. Wolfe, offering his own handkerchief, said gravely:

“A thousand apologies, Captain. My stupid carelessness. It won’t hurt you, of course, but nevertheless—”

“Shut it or I’ll shut it for you.” There were still pearly drops on Barrow’s chin and ears, but he had his eyes wiped. He faced me and demanded savagely, “A goddam slick trick, huh? Where did you ditch it?”

“Ditch what? You’re crazy.”

“You’re damn right I’m crazy.” He whirled to Waddell: “What did he do when that fat slob sprayed my eyes shut?”

“Nothing,” said Waddell. “He didn’t do anything. He stood right here by me. He didn’t move.”

“I can add my assurance,” Wolfe put in. “If he had moved I would have seen him.”

Barrow glared at him savagely. “You’re so slick you slide, huh?”

“I have apologized, sir.”

“To hell with you. How’d you like to go along to the courthouse with us?”

Wolfe shook his head. “You’re in a huff, Captain. I don’t blame you, but I doubt if it’s actionable. To arrest me for accidentally spraying you with soap would seem … well, impulsive—”

Barrow turned his back on him to confront Waddell. “You say he didn’t move?”

“Goodwin? No.”

“He didn’t hand Wolfe anything?”

“Positively not. He wasn’t within 10 feet of him.”

“He didn’t throw anything?”

“No.”

A dozen or so onlookers had collected, down the aisle in either direction. Barrow raised his voice at them: “Did any of you see this man take anything from his pocket and hand it to the fat man or put it somewhere or throw it? Don’t be afraid to speak up. I’m Captain Barrow and it’s important.”

There were head shakings and a few muttered negatives. A woman with a double chin said in a loud voice, “I was watching you, that spray in your face, it was like a scene in the movies, but if he’d done any throwing or anything like that I’m sure I’d have seen him because my eye takes in everything.”

There were a couple of nervous giggles and Barrow abandoned his amateurs. He looked around, and I felt sorry for him. I still hadn’t moved. There was no place within perhaps 6 feet where I could possibly have hidden anything. In the direction I faced were pots of orchid plants on the benches; behind me was the table of dahlia blooms in vases; both were way beyond my reach. I stood with my arms folded.

Barrow had pretty well regained his handsome and unflinching dignity. He composedly wiped with his handkerchief behind his ears and under his chin
and told me: “I’m taking you to the courthouse for questioning in connection with the murder of Howard Bronson. If you’re still trying to decide how to annoy me, it’ll take me maybe twenty minutes to get a legal commitment as a material witness—”

“Permit me,” Wolfe put in, purring. “We surely owe you some complaisance, Captain, after this regrettable accident. I don’t believe I’d insist on a warrant, Archie. We really should cooperate.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“Go. After all, it is a little public here for a privy interview. I may join you later. —In the meantime, Mr. Waddell, if you can spare a few minutes, I’d like to tell you of a discovery I made last evening, touching both Clyde Osgood and Mr. Bronson. I questioned Bronson for nearly an hour, and I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Well … I was going with Captain Barrow …”

Wolfe shrugged. “Now that Bronson has also been murdered, it is doubly interesting.”

“What about it, Captain?”

“Suit yourself,” Barrow told him. “You’re the district attorney, you’re in charge. I can handle Goodwin.” He sounded as if all he required was a red-hot poker and a couple of thumbscrews. “Shall I go on?”

Waddell nodded. “I’ll be along pretty soon.”

I told Wolfe, “When the young lady comes for the orchids, tell her I’ve gone to pick huckleberries.”

Walking the length of the main exhibits building to the exit, and through the crowds beyond the end of the grandstand, Barrow kept behind, with his left elbow about 10 inches back of my right one, proving that he had been to police school. A patrol car, with
the top down and a trooper behind the wheel, was waiting there. I was instructed to get in with the driver and Barrow climbed in behind. His eyes weren’t leaving me for a second, and I reflected that his hunch that I had something I would like to discard had probably been reinforced by Wolfe’s performance with the sprayer.