Some Buried Caesar (5 page)

Pratt muttered, “All the commotion.”

Wolfe nodded. “Astonishing. About a bull. It might be thought you were going to cook him and eat him.”

Pratt nodded back at him. “I am. That’s what’s causing all the trouble.”

W
ell, as the Emperor of India would say, that tore it. The children didn’t appear to be shocked any, but I goggled at our host, and I could see by the sudden tilt to Wolfe’s head that he was enjoying one of his real and rare surprises. He also betrayed it by repeating what he had already been told, which was equally rare.

“Eat that bull, Mr. Pratt?” he demanded.

Pratt nodded again. “I am. Perhaps you noticed a pit we have started to dig down by the lane. That’s for a barbecue which will occur Thursday afternoon. Three days from now. I have invited a hundred guests, mostly from New York. My niece and nephew and their friend Miss Rowan have come for it. The bull will be butchered tomorrow. No local man will undertake it, and I’m getting one from Albany.”

“Remarkable.” Wolfe’s head was still tilted. “I suppose an animal of that size would furnish 7 or 800 pounds of edible tissue. At $45,000 on the hoof, that would make it around $60 a pound. Of course you’ll use only the more desirable cuts and a great deal will
be wasted. Another way to calculate: if you serve a hundred guests the portions will be $450 each.”

“It sounds terrible that way.” Pratt reached for his glass, saw it was empty, and yelled for Bert. “But consider how little you can get for $45,000 in newspaper display or any other form of advertising. The radio would eat it up at a gulp, and what do you get for it? Nobody knows. But I know what I’ll get out of this. Do you go in for psychology?”

“I …” Wolfe choked and said firmly, “No.”

“You ought to. Look here. Do you realize what a stir it will make that the senior grand champion Guernsey bull of the United States is being barbecued and served in chunks and slices to a gathering of epicures? And by whom? By Tom Pratt of the famous pratterias! Let alone the publicity, do you know what the result will be? For weeks and months every customer that eats a roast beef sandwich in a pratteria will have a sneaking unconscious feeling that he’s chewing a piece of Hickory Caesar Grindon! That’s what I mean when I say psychology.”

“You spoke of epicures.”

“There’ll be some. Mostly the barbecue guests will be friends and acquaintances and of course the press, but I’m going to run in a few epicures.” Pratt jerked up. “By the way, I’ve heard you’re one. Will you still be in Crowfield? Maybe you’d like to run out and join us. Thursday at one o’clock.”

“Thank you, sir. I don’t suppose Caesar’s championship qualities include succulence, but it would be an experience.”

“Certainly it would. I’ll be phoning my agency in New York this evening. Can I say you’ll be here? For the press.”

“You may say so, of course. The judging of orchids will be Wednesday afternoon, and I shall probably have left for home. But you may say so. By the way, about this bull. I am only curious: you feel no compunction at slaughtering a beast of established nobility?”

“Why should I?” Pratt waved a hand. “They say this Caesar bull has so many A R daughters, that’s the point they harp on. Do you know what A R means? Advanced Register. What a cow has to do to get on the Advanced Register is to produce a daily average of so much milk and so much butterfat over a period of one year. Well, there are over 40,000 A R Guernsey cows in this country, and only 51 of them are Caesar’s daughters. Does that sound as if I was getting ready to barbecue the breed out of existence? To hear that bunch over at Crowfield talk you might think I was. I’ve had over forty telegrams today howling threats and bloody murder. That’s that fellow Bennett; he’s sicked his members on me.”

“Their viewpoint, of course, is valid to them.”

“Sure, and mine is to me. —Hey, you want a drink there, Mr. Goodwin. How about you, Miss Rowan? Oh, Bert! Bert!”

When Greasy-face appeared I let him proceed with his function, which I must admit he performed promptly and well. Three highballs were a notch above my ordinary indulgence, but after the blowout and smashup, and the pasture exercise, I felt a little extra would be not amiss. A little fed up with the champion bull, I moved to a chair closer to the champion niece and began to murmur at her. She graciously took it, and after a little I observed the blonde slanting one at me from the corner of her eye, so I
tossed her a grin between murmurs. I could have expanded easily, but my prospect was not in fact at all rosy, since what I had to do before twilight was get Wolfe and the luggage and plants to Crowfield, outride him into a hotel and a room thereof, unpack, find forage he would swallow without gagging, discuss the matter of my inability to restrain the car from crashing into a tree and get it settled once and for all, and probably sit for a couple of hours and listen to him sigh. I was preparing to remark to the niece that it was after five o’clock and if she was going to drive us to Crowfield we had better get started, when I heard a climax being reached by my employer. Pratt was inviting him to stay for dinner and he was accepting. I scowled at him, hoping vindictively that the food would be terrible, for it would only complicate matters and make him almost too much for one man to handle if we got to our destination long after dark. He saw me scowling and let his lids cover half his eyes, and I pretended he wasn’t there and concentrated on the niece again. I had decided she was all right, wholesome and quite intelligent, but she looked too darned strong. I mean a girl is a girl and an athlete is an athlete, though of course there are borderline cases.

In reply to an invitation from Caroline I was explaining that I would love to take her on at tennis if I hadn’t twisted my wrist negotiating the fence, which was a lie, when the second attacking party arrived. Its personnel, as it suddenly made an appearance at the end of the terrace, left it uncertain at first whether it was another attack or not. In front was an extremely presentable number, I would say 22 or 3, wearing a belted linen thing and no hat, with yellowish
brown eyes and warm trembly lips and such a chin. Behind her was a tall slender guy, not much younger than me, in brown slacks and pull-over, and backing him up was an individual who should not have been there, since the proper environment for that type is bounded by 42nd and 96th Streets on the south and north, and Lexington Avenue and Broadway on the east and west. In their habitat they don’t look bad, in fact they help a lot in maintaining the tone, but out in the country like that, still wearing a Crawnley town suit including vest and a custom-made shirt and a Monteith tie, they jar.

The atmosphere they created was immediate and full of sparks. Our host’s mouth fell open. Jimmy stood up with his face red. Caroline exclaimed something. Lily Rowan twisted her neck to see and showed a crease in her brow. The girl got as far as the table which was littered with empty glasses, let her yellowish brown eyes go around, and said:

“We should have telephoned. Shouldn’t we?”

That met denial. Greetings crossed one another through the atmosphere. It appeared that the bird in the Crawnley suit was a stranger to the Pratts, since he had to be introduced as Mr. Bronson. Wolfe and I had our names called, and learned that the girl was Nancy Osgood and the tall slender guy was her brother Clyde. Once more the clarion was sounded for poor Bert, whereupon there seemed to be an increase in the general embarrassment. Miss Osgood protested that they didn’t want to intrude, they really couldn’t stay, they had been to the fair and had only stopped in on their way home, on an impulse. Clyde Osgood, who had a pair of binoculars dangling on a strap around his
neck, gazed down at Pratt in a fairly provocative manner and addressed him:

“We just got chased away from your pasture by Monte McMillan. We were only taking a look at your bull.”

Pratt nodded sort of unconcerned, but I could see his temples were tight. “That darned bull’s causing a lot of trouble.” He glanced at the sister, and back at the brother again. “It’s nice of you children to drop in like this. Unexpected pleasure. I saw your father over at Crowfield today.”

“Yeah. He saw you too.” All at once Clyde stopped talking, and began to turn, slow but sure, as if something had gripped him and was wheeling him on a pivot. He took four steps and was confronting the canvas swing, looking down straight at Lily Rowan.

“How are you?” he demanded.

“I’m fine.” She held her head tilted back to see him. “Just fine. You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m great.”

“Good.” Lily yawned.

That simple exchange seemed to have an effect on Jimmy Pratt, for he took on added color, though as near as I could tell his eyes were aimed at Nancy Osgood, who was passing a remark to Caroline. Caroline was insisting that they stay for a drink. Mr. Bronson, looking a little weary, as if the day at the fair had been too much for him, had sat down. Clyde abruptly turned away from the swing, crossed back over, and got onto the edge of the chair next to Pratt’s.

“Look here,” he said.

“Well, my boy?”

“We stopped in to see you, my sister and I.”

“I think that was a good idea. Now that I’ve built
this place here … we’re neighbors again, aren’t we.”

Clyde frowned. He looked to me like a spoiled kid, with a mouth that didn’t quite go shut, and moving as if he expected things to get out of his way. He said, “Neighbors? I suppose so. Technically, anyhow. I wanted to speak to you about that bull. I know why you’re doing it … I guess everyone around here does. You’re doing it just to be offensive to my father—you keep out of this, Nancy, I’m handling this—”

His sister had a hand on his shoulder. “But Clyde, that’s no way—”

“Let me alone.” He shook her off and went after Pratt again. “You think you can get his goat by sneering at him, by butchering a bull that could top any of his in show competition. I’ll hand it to you for one thing, you picked a good one. Hickory Caesar Grindon is a hard bull to put down. I say that not only on account of his record, but because I know cattle … or I used to. I wanted my father to buy Caesar in 1931, when he was only a promising junior. And you think you’re going to butcher him?”

“That’s my intention. But where you got the idea that I’m doing it deliberately to offend your father—nonsense. I’m doing it as an advertisement for my business.”

“You are like hell. I know all about it … from the beginning. It’s just another of your cheap efforts to make my father look cheap—you keep out of this, Sis!”

“You’re wrong, my boy.” Pratt sounded tolerant. “I don’t do anything cheap … I can afford not to. Let me tell you something. I understand the best bull your father’s got is getting pretty old. Well, if your
father came to me and asked for that bull I bought, I’d be strongly inclined to let him have him as a gift. I certainly would.”

“No doubt! A gift!” Clyde was nearly overcome with scorn. “Now I’ll tell you. There was a lot of talk over at Crowfield today. Of course, as a member of the Guernsey League, my father was in on it. He was sure that the plan Bennett arranged with Cullen and McMillan wouldn’t work … he said he knew you since you were a boy and you wouldn’t turn loose. My sister Nancy got the idea of coming here to try to persuade you, and I agreed to come along. On the way we met Bennett and Darth and Cullen going back, and they told us what had happened. I came on anyhow, though it didn’t look like there was much chance of talking you out of it. Now I’d like to make a bet with you. Do you ever do any betting?”

“I’m not a gambler.” Pratt chuckled. “I’m not exactly a confirmed gambler, but I don’t mind an occasional friendly wager. I won a nice chunk on the 1936 election.”

“Would you care to try a little bet with me? Say $10,000?”

“On what?”

They got interrupted. A voice sounded, “Oh, there you are,” and Monte McMillan was coming across the terrace. He sounded a little relieved. He approached Pratt: “They were fooling around the fence on the other side, and I told them they might as well go on, and I wasn’t sure where they got to. Not that I would suspect the Osgood youngsters of stealing a bull …”

Pratt grunted. “Sit down and have a drink. Bert!
Bert!”
He turned to Clyde: “What is it you want to bet about, my boy?”

Clyde leaned forward at him. “I’ll bet you $10,000 you don’t barbecue Hickory Caesar Grindon.”

His sister Nancy exclaimed, “Clyde!” Wolfe’s eyes went half shut. The others made sounds, and even Lily Rowan showed some interest. McMillan, who had started to sit down, stopped himself at an angle and held it a second, and then slowly sank.

Pratt asked quietly, “What’s going to stop me?”

Clyde turned the palms of his hands up. “It’s either a bet or it isn’t. That’s all.”

“$10,000 even that we don’t barbecue Hickory Caesar Grindon.”

“Right.”

“Within what time?”

“Say this week.”

“I ought to warn you I’ve consulted a lawyer. There’s no legal way of stopping it, if I own him, no matter how much of a champion he is.”

Clyde merely shrugged. The look on his face was one I’ve often seen in a poker game.

“Well.” Pratt leaned back and got his thumbs in his armpits. “This is mighty interesting. What about it, McMillan? Can they get that bull out of that pasture in spite of us?”

The stockman muttered, “I don’t know who would be doing it. If there’s any funny business … if we had him in a barn …”

“I haven’t got a barn.” Pratt eyed Clyde. “One thing. What do we do, put up now? Checks?”

Clyde flushed. “My check would be rubber. You know that, damn it. If I lose I’ll pay.”

“You’re proposing a gentleman’s bet? With me?”

“All right, call it that. A gentleman’s bet.”

“By God. My boy, I’m flattered. I really am. But I
can’t afford to do much flattering when $10,000 is involved. I’m afraid I couldn’t bet unless I had some sort of inkling of where you would get hold of that amount.”

Clyde got halfway out of his chair, and my feet came back automatically for a spring, but his sister pulled him back. She tried to pull him away, too, with urgent remarks about leaving, but he shook himself loose and even gave her a shove. He glared at Pratt with his jaw clamped: