Some Buried Caesar (8 page)

It was after Dave had returned with some rope, and McMillan had gone off with it and come back in a few minutes and said the bull was tied up and we could go ahead, that I became aware that Nero Wolfe had joined us. I heard my name, and turned my head in surprise, and there he was, with his hat on and carrying his applewood stick, peering up at me where I was still sitting on the fence.

“You’re not using that flashlight,” he said. “May I borrow it?”

I demanded, “How did you get here without a light?”

“I walked. I heard shots and wondered about you. As I passed by, Mr. McMillan was tying the bull to the fence and he told me what had happened—or at least, what had been found. By the way, perhaps I should warn you once again to control the exuberance of your professional instincts. It would be inconvenient to get involved here.”

“What would I be doing with professional instincts?”

“Oh. You’ve had a shock. When you regain your senses, be sure you regain your discretion also.” He stuck out a hand. “May I have the light?”

I handed it to him, and he turned and went, along the fence. Then I heard McMillan calling to me to come and help, so I slid into the pasture on stiff knees and made myself walk back over there. Dave had brought a roll of canvas, and Jimmy and McMillan were spreading it on the ground while Pratt and Dave
and Bert stood and looked on, Bert holding the electric lantern.

Pratt said in a shaky voice, “We shouldn’t … if there’s any chance … are you sure he’s dead?”

McMillan, jerking at the canvas, answered him. “You got any eyes? Look at him.” He sounded as if someone had hurt his feelings. “Give us some help, will you, Goodwin? Take his feet. We’ll ease him onto the canvas and then we can all get hold. We’d better go through the gate.”

I tightened my belly muscles again and moved.

We all helped with the carrying except Dave, who went on ahead to get the gate open. As we passed where the bull was tied he twisted his head around to look at us. Outside the pasture we put it down a minute to change holds and then picked it up again and went on. On the terrace there was hesitation and discussion of where to put it, when Caroline suddenly appeared and directed us to the room off of the living room that had a piano in it, and we saw that she had spread some sheets over the divan at one end. We got it deposited and stretched out, but left the flaps of the canvas covering it, and then stood back and stretched our fingers, nobody looking at anybody.

Dave said, “I never seen such a sight.” He looked incomplete without the shotgun. “Godalmighty, I never seen anything like it.”

“Shut up,” Pratt told him. Pratt looked sick. He began pulling at his lower lip again. “Now we’ll have to telephone … we’ll have to notify the Osgoods. All right. A doctor too. We have to notify a doctor anyway. Don’t we?”

Jimmy took hold of his uncle’s elbow. “Brace up, Uncle Tom. It wasn’t your fault. What the hell was he
doing in that pasture? Go get yourself a drink. I’ll do the phoning.”

Bert bustled out as soon as he heard the word “drink.” Caroline had disappeared again. The others shuffled their feet. I left them and went upstairs.

In our room Wolfe was in the comfortable upholstered chair, under a reading lamp, with one of the books we had brought along. Knowing my step, he didn’t bother to glance up as I entered and crossed to the bathroom—we might have been at home in the office. I took off my shirt to scrub my hands and splash cold water over my face, then put it on again, and my necktie and coat, and went out and sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair.

Wolfe let his eyes leave the page long enough to ask, “Not going to bed? You should. Relax. I’ll stop reading shortly. It’s eleven o’clock.”

“Yeah, I know it is. There’ll be a doctor coming, and before he gives a certificate he’ll probably want to see me. I was first on the scene.”

He grunted and returned to his reading. I stayed on the edge of the chair and returned to my thoughts. I don’t know when I began it, since it was unconscious, or how long I kept it up, but when Wolfe spoke again I became aware that I had been rubbing the back of my left hand with the finger tips of my right as I sat staring at various spots on the floor.

“You should realize, Archie, that that is very irritating. Rubbing your hand indefinitely like that.”

I said offensively, “You’ll get used to it in time.”

He finished a paragraph before he dog-eared a page and closed the book, and sighed. “What is it, temperament? It was a shock, of course, but you have
seen violence before, and the poor monstrosity life leaves behind when it departs—”

“I can stand the monstrosity. Go ahead and read your book. At present I’m low, but I’ll snap out of it by morning. Down there you mentioned professional instinct. I may be short on that, but you’ll allow me my share of professional pride. I was supposed to be keeping an eye on that bull, wasn’t I? That was my job, wasn’t it? And I sat over by the roadside smoking cigarettes while he killed a man.”

“You were guarding the bull, not the man. The bull is intact.”

“Much obliged for nothing. Phooey. You’re accustomed to feeling pleased because you’re Nero Wolfe, aren’t you? All right, on my modest scale I permit myself a similar feeling about Archie Goodwin. When did you ever give me an errand that you seriously expected me to perform and I didn’t perform it? I’ve got a right to expect that when Archie Goodwin is told to watch a pasture and see that nothing happens to a bull, nothing will happen. And you tell me that nothing happened to the bull, the bull’s all right, he just killed a man … what do you call that kind of suds?”

“Sophistry. Casuistry.
Ignoratio elenchi.”

“Okay, I’ll take all three.”

“It’s the feeling that you should have prevented the bull from killing a man that has reduced you to savagery.”

“Yes. It was my job to keep things from happening in that pasture.”

“Well.” He sighed. “To begin with, will you never learn to make exact statements? You said that I told you the bull killed a man. I didn’t say that. If I did say
that, it wouldn’t be true. Mr. Osgood was almost certainly murdered, but not by a bull.”

I goggled at him. “You’re crazy. I saw it.”

“Suppose you tell me what you did see. I’ve had no details from you, but I’ll wager you didn’t see the bull impale Mr. Osgood, alive, on his horns. Did you?”

“No. When I got there he was pushing at him on the ground. Not very hard. Playing with him. I didn’t know whether he was dead or not, so I climbed the fence and walked over and when I was ten feet away—”

Wolfe frowned. “You were in danger. Unnecessarily. The man was dead.”

“I couldn’t tell. I fired in the air, and the bull beat it, and I took a look. I didn’t have to apply any tests. And now you have the nerve to say the bull didn’t kill him. What are you trying to do, work up a case because business has been bad?”

“No. I’m trying to make you stop rubbing the back of your hand so I can finish this chapter before going to bed. I’m explaining that Mr. Osgood’s death was not due to your negligence and would have occurred no matter where you were, only I presume the circumstances would have been differently arranged. I was not guilty of sophistry. I might suggest a thousand dangers to your self-respect, but a failure on the job tonight would not be one. You didn’t fail. You were told to prevent the removal of the bull from the pasture. You had no reason to suspect an attempt to harm the bull, since the enemy’s purpose was to defend him from harm, and certainly no reason to suspect an effort to frame him on a charge of murder. I do hope you won’t begin—”

He stopped on account of footsteps in the hall.
They stopped by our door. There was a knock and I said come in and Bert entered.

He looked at me. “Could you come downstairs? Mr. Osgood is down there and wants to see you.”

I told him I’d be right down. After he had gone and his footsteps had faded away Wolfe said, “You might confine yourself to direct evidence. That you rubbed your hand and I endeavored to make you stop is our affair.”

I told him that I regarded it as such and left him to his book.

A
t the foot of the stairs I was met by Pratt, standing with his hands stuck deep in his pockets and his wide jaw clamped tight. He made a motion with his head without saying anything, and led me into the big living room and to where a long-legged gentleman sat on a chair biting his lip, and letting it go, and biting it again. This latter barked at me when I was still five paces short of him, without waiting for Pratt or me to arrange contact:

“Your name’s Goodwin, is it?”

It stuck out all over him, one of those born-to-command guys. I never invite them to parties. But I turned on the control and told him quietly, “Yep. Archie Goodwin.”

“It was you that drove the bull off and fired the shots?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor! I’m Frederick Osgood. My son has been killed. My only son.”

“Excuse me, I thought you looked like a doctor.”

Pratt, who had backed off and stood facing us with his hands still in his pockets, spoke: “The doctor
hasn’t got here yet. Mr. Osgood lives only a mile away and came in a few minutes.”

Osgood demanded, “Tell your story. I want to hear it.”

“Yes, sir.” I told him. I know how to make a brief but complete report and did so, up to the point where the others had arrived, and ended by saying that I presumed he had had the rest of it from Mr. Pratt.

“Never mind Pratt. Your story is that you weren’t there when my son entered the pasture.”

“My story is just as I’ve told it.”

“You’re a New York detective.”

I nodded. “Private.”

“You work for Nero Wolfe and came here with him.”

“Right. Mr. Wolfe is upstairs.”

“What are you and Wolfe doing here?”

I said conversationally, “If you want a good sock in the jaw, stand up.”

He started to lift. “Why, damn you—”

I showed him a palm. “Now hold it. I know your son has just been killed and I’ll make all allowances within reason, but you’re just making a damn fool of yourself. What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you hysterical?”

He bit his lip. In a second he said, with his tone off a shade, “No, I’m not hysterical. I’m trying to avoid making a fool of myself. I’m trying to decide whether to get the sheriff and the police here. I can’t understand what happened. I don’t believe it happened the way you say it did.”

“That’s too bad.” I looked him in the eye. “Because for my part of it I have a witness. Someone was with me all the time. A … a young lady.”

“Where is she? What’s her name?”

“Lily Rowan.”

He stared at me, stared at Pratt, and came back to me. He was beyond biting his lip. “Is
she
here?”

“Yes. I’ll give you this free: Mr. Wolfe and I had an accident to our car and walked to this house to telephone. Everyone here was a stranger to us, including Lily Rowan. After dinner she went for a walk and found me guarding the pasture and stayed to keep me company. She was with me when I found the bull and drove him off. If you get the police and they honor me with any attention they’ll be wasting their time. I’ve told you what I saw and did, and everything I saw and did.”

Osgood’s fingers were fastened onto his knees like claws digging for a hold. He demanded, “Was my son with this Lily Rowan?”

“Not while she was with me. She joined me on the far side of the pasture around nine-thirty. I hadn’t seen your son since he left here in the afternoon. I don’t know whether she had or not. Ask her.”

“I’d rather wring her neck, damn her. What do you know about a bet my son made today with Pratt?”

A rumble came from Pratt: “I’ve told you all about that, Osgood. For God’s sake give yourself a chance to cool down a little.”

“I’d like to hear what this man has to say. What about it, Goodwin? Did you hear them making the bet?”

“Sure, we all heard it, including your daughter and your son’s friend—name of Bronson.” I surveyed him with decent compassion. “Take some advice from an old hand, mister, from one who has had the advantage of watching Nero Wolfe at work. You’re rotten at this,
terrible. You remind me of a second-grade dick harassing a dip. I’ve seen lots of people knocked dizzy by sudden death, and if that’s all that’s wrong with you there’s nothing anyone can give you except sympathy, but if you’re really working on an idea the best thing you can do is turn it over to professionals. Have you got a suspicion you can communicate?”

“I have.”

“Suspicion of what?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t understand what happened. I don’t believe my son walked into that pasture alone, for any purpose whatever. Pratt says he was there to get the bull. That’s an idiotic supposition. My son wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t a greenhorn with cattle, either. Is it likely he would go up to a loose bull, and if the bull showed temper, just stand there in the dark and let it come?”

Another rumble from Pratt: “You heard what McMillan said. He might have slipped or stumbled, and the bull was too close—”

“I don’t believe it! What was he there for?”

“To win ten thousand dollars.”

Osgood got to his feet. He was broad-shouldered, and a little taller than Pratt, but a bit paunchy. He advanced on Pratt with fists hanging and spoke through his teeth. “You damn skunk. I warned you not to say that again …”

I slipped in between them, being more at home there than I was with bulls. I allotted the face to Osgood: “And when the doctor comes his duty would be to get you two bandaged up. That would be nice. If Pratt thinks your son was trying to win a bet that’s what he thinks, and you asked for his opinion and you got it. Cut out the playing. Either wait till morning
and get some daylight on it, or go ahead and send for the sheriff and see what he thinks of Pratt’s opinion. Then the papers will print it, along with Dave’s opinion and Lily Rowan’s opinion and so forth, and we’ll see what the public thinks. Then some intelligent reporters from New York will print an interview with the bull—”

“Well, Mr. Pratt! I’m sorry I couldn’t make it sooner …”