Some Buried Caesar (15 page)

“If I told you about Bronson—” She stopped to control her voice. “I can’t. I promised Clyde I wouldn’t.”

“Clyde is dead. Come, Miss Osgood. We’ll learn it anyhow, I assure you we will. You know that.”

“I suppose … you will.” She sat down abruptly, buried her face in her hands, and was rigid. Her muffled voice came: “Clyde! Clyde!”

“Come.” Wolfe was sharp. “Who is Bronson?”

She uncovered her face slowly, and lifted it. “He’s a crook.”

“A professional? What’s his specialty?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know him. I only met him a few days ago. I only know what Clyde—”

She stopped, and gazed at Wolfe’s face as if she was hoping that something would blot it out but knew that nothing would. “All right,” she said. “I thought I had enough guts, but apparently I haven’t. What good will it do? What good will it do you or dad or anyone to know that Bronson killed him?”

“Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Bronson murdered your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Indeed. Did you see it done?”

“No.”

“What was his motive?”

“I don’t know. It couldn’t have been to get the money, because Clyde didn’t have it.”

Wolfe leaned back and heaved a sigh. “Well,” he murmured. “I guess we must have it out. What money would Mr. Bronson have wanted to get, and why?”

“Money that Clyde owed him.”

“The amount being, I presume, $10,000. Don’t ask me how I know that, please. And Bronson was insisting on payment?”

“Yes. That was why he came up here. It was why Clyde came, too, to try to get the money from Father. He had to pay it this week or—” She stopped, and stretched out a hand, and let it fall again. “Please,” she said, pleading.
“Please
. That’s what I promised Clyde I wouldn’t tell.”

“The promise died with him,” Wolfe told her. “Believe me, Miss Osgood, if you weren’t bewildered by shock and grief you wouldn’t get values confused like this. Was it money that Clyde had borrowed from Mr. Bronson?”

“No. It was money that Bronson had paid him.”

“What had he paid it for?”

He pulled it out of her, patiently, in pieces. The gist of the story was short and not very sweet. Clyde had shot his wad on Lily Rowan, and had followed it with various other wads, pried loose from his father, requisitioned from his sister, borrowed from friends. Then he had invited luck to contribute to the good cause, by sundry methods from crackaloo to 10-cent bridge, and learned too late that luck’s clock was slow. At a time when he was in up to his nose, a Mr. Howard Bronson permitted him to inspect a fistful of real
money and expressed a desire to be introduced into certain circles, including the two most exclusive bridge clubs in New York; Clyde, with his family connections, having the entree to about everything from the aquarium up. But Clyde had needed the dough not some time tomorrow, but now, and Bronson had given it to him; whereupon Clyde had mollified a few debts and slid the rest down his favorite chute, before dawn. Following a lifelong habit, he had confided in his sister, and her horror added to his own belated reflections had shown him that in his desperation he had taken an order which no Osgood could possibly fill. He had so notified Bronson, with regret and the expressed intention of repaying the ten grand at the earliest opportunity, but Bronson had revealed a nasty streak. He wanted the order filled, or the cash returned, forthwith; and a complication was that Clyde had rashly signed a receipt for the money which included specifications of what Bronson was to get for it. Bronson threatened to show the receipt to the family connections. Bad all around. When Clyde decided, as a last resort, on a trip to Crowfield for an appeal to his father, Bronson’s distrust of him had got so deplorable that he insisted on going along and he couldn’t be ditched; and Nancy had accompanied them for the purpose of helping out with father. But father had been obdurate, and Monday it was beginning to look as if Clyde would have to confess all in order to get the money, which would be worse than bad, when on Pratt’s terrace luck reared its pretty head again and Clyde made a bet.

Wolfe got all that out of her, patiently, with various details and dates, and then observed, having finished the second bottle of beer, that while it seemed
to establish Bronson as a man of disreputable motives it didn’t seem to include one for murder.

“I know it,” Nancy said. “I told you he couldn’t have done it to get the money, because Clyde didn’t have it, and anyway if he had had it he would have given it to him.”

“Still you say he did it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw Bronson follow Clyde over to Pratt’s place.”

“Indeed. Last night?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

The bag was open now, and most of the beans gone. She dumped the rest: “It was around 9 o’clock, maybe a little later. When I left mother’s room I came downstairs to look for Clyde, to ask him why he had made the bet with Pratt. I was afraid he was going to try something wild. I found him out by the tennis court, talking with Bronson, and they shut up when they heard me coming. I said I wanted to ask him something and he came away with me, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. I told him I was pretty sure I would be able to get the money through mother, and reminded him that he had sworn to me he would stop acting like a fool, and said if he did something else foolish it might be the finish of him. I told him things like that. He said that for once I was wrong and he was right, that what he was doing wasn’t foolish, that he had turned over a new leaf and was being sensible and practical and I would agree with him when I found out about it, but he wouldn’t
tell me then. I insisted, but he was always stubborner than I was.”

“You got no inkling of what he had in mind.”

Nancy shook her head. “Not the slightest. He said something about not interfering with the barbecue.”

“Give me his exact words, if you can.”

“Well, he said, ‘I’m not going to harm anyone, not even Monte Cristo, except to win his money. I’ll even let him have his damn pot roast, and he won’t know the difference until after it’s over, if I can fix it that way.’ That’s about it.”

“Anything else about the barbecue or the bull or anyone at Mr. Pratt’s place?”

“No, nothing.”

“You left him outdoors?”

“I did then. I came back to the house and ran up to my room and changed to a dark-colored sweater and skirt. Then I came down and left by the west wing because the veranda lights were on in front and I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t know whether Clyde intended to go anywhere or do anything, but I was going to find out. I couldn’t find him. Beyond the range of the veranda lights it was pitch-dark, but I made a tour and looked as well as I could, and listened, and there wasn’t a sign of him. The cars were in the garage, and anyway if he had taken a car or one of the farm trucks I would have heard it. If he was up to anything it could only be at Pratt’s, so I decided to try that. I went past the kennels and the grove and through a gate into the meadow, which was the shortest cut, and across another field to the end of the row of pines, the windbreak—”

“All this in the dark?” Wolfe demanded.

“Of course. I know every foot of it, this is where I
was born. I can find my way in the dark all right. I was about halfway along the windbreak when I saw a glimmer of a flashlight ahead, and I got careless and started to trot, because I wanted to get closer to find out if it was Clyde, and I stepped into a hole and tumbled and made a lot of noise. The flashlight was turned towards me, and Clyde’s voice called, and I saw it was no use and answered him. He came back to me, and Bronson was with him, carrying a club, a length of sapling. Clyde was furious. I demanded to know what he was going to do, and that made him more furious. He said … oh, it doesn’t matter what he said. He made me promise to go back home and go to bed—”

“Again without divulging his campaign.”

“Yes. He wouldn’t tell me. I came back home as I had promised I would. If only I hadn’t! If only—”

“I doubt if it would have mattered. You have enough distress, Miss Osgood, without trying to borrow. But you haven’t told me yet why you think Mr. Bronson murdered your brother.”

“Why … he was there. He went to Pratt’s with him. He’s the kind of man who would do anything vile—”

“Nonsense. You had no sleep last night. Your mind isn’t working even on the lowest level. Do you know when Bronson got back here?”

“No. I was on the veranda until Dad came—”

“Then there’s a job for you. You’ll be better doing something. Find out from the servants if anyone saw him return, and let me know. It may save some time.” Wolfe pushed his lips out, and in again. “I should think Mr. Bronson would be a little apprehensive about
your disclosing his presence at Pratt’s last night. Have you any idea why he isn’t?”

“Yes I have. He … he spoke to me this morning. He said he had left Clyde at the end of the windbreak, where the fence is that bounds our property, and come back here and sat out by the tennis court and smoked. He said he thought my father was mistaken, that the bull had killed Clyde, and that everyone else would think so. He showed me the receipt Clyde had signed and given him, and said he supposed I wouldn’t want Clyde’s memory blackened by such a thing coming out, and that he was willing to give me a chance to repay him the money before going to my father about it, provided I would save him the annoyance of being questioned about last night by forgetting that I had seen him with Clyde.”

“And even when further developments gave you the notion that he was the murderer, you decided to withhold all this to protect your brother’s memory.”

“Yes. And I wish I had stuck to it.” She leaned forward at Wolfe, and a flush of determination showed faintly on her cheeks. “You got it out of me,” she said. “But what Clyde wanted most was that Dad shouldn’t know about it. Does Dad have to know? Why does he? What good will it do?”

Wolfe grimaced. “Can you pay Bronson the $10,000?”

“Not now. But I’ve been trying to think of a way ever since Bronson spoke to me this morning … didn’t Clyde win his bet with Pratt? Surely he won’t have that barbecue now, will he? Won’t he owe the money?”

“My dear child.” Wolfe opened his eyes at her. “What a remarkable calculation. Amazing. It deserves
to bear fruit, and we must see what can be done. I underestimated you, for which I apologize. Also I think you deserve to be humored. If it is feasible, and it should be, your promise to your brother shall be kept. I have undertaken a specific commission from your father, to expose the murderer of his son, and I should think that can be managed without disclosing his contract with Bronson. That’s a superb idea, to collect from Pratt to pay Bronson. I like it. By winning his last wager your brother vindicated, as far as he could, all his previous sacrifices in the shabby temple of luck. Magnificent and neat … and fine of you, very fine, to perceive the necessity of completing the gesture for him … I assure you I’ll do all I can—”

He broke off and glanced at me because a knock sounded at the door. I lifted from my chair and started across, but it opened before I got there and two men entered. I halted, slightly popeyed, when I saw it was Tom Pratt himself and McMillan. Behind them, catching up with them, hustled a middle-aged woman in a black dress, looking indignant, calling to them something about Mr. Osgood not being in there, they should wait for him in the hall.…

Then affairs began to get simultaneous and confused. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Howard Bronson standing at one of the French windows, looking in, and saw that Wolfe had spotted him too. At the same time a purposeful tread sounded from the hall, and then Mr. Frederick Osgood was among us, wearing a scowl that beat all his previous records. He directed it at Pratt, ignoring inessentials. He stood solid and enraged three feet in front of him, glaring at him, and spoke like an irate duke:

“Out!”

McMillan started to say something, but Osgood exploded at him: “Damn you, Monte, did you bring this man here? Get him away at once! I don’t want his foot on my place—”

“Now wait a second, Fred.” McMillan sounded as if he wasn’t brooking anything much either. “Just a second and give us a chance. I didn’t bring him; no, but we came. There’s hell to pay around here, and Pratt doesn’t like it any better than you do, and neither do I. Waddell, and Sam Lake with a bunch of deputies, and a herd of state police, are tearing things apart over there, and if there’s anything to be found we hope they find it. At least I do; Pratt can do his own talking. But in my opinion there’s going to have to be some talking. Not only on account of Clyde, but on account of what happened an hour ago.”

McMillan paused, returning Osgood’s gaze, and then said heavily, “Caesar’s dead. My bull Caesar.”

Pratt growled, “My bull.”

“Okay, Pratt, your bull.” McMillan didn’t look at him. “But he’s dead. I bred him and he was mine. Now he’s lying there on the ground dead.”

O
sgood’s scowl had got adulterated by a touch of bewilderment. But he exploded again: “What the devil do I care about your bull?” He transferred to Pratt: “You get out of here. Get!”

He was turned, and so were the others, by Wolfe’s voice booming across the room. “Mr. Osgood! Please!”

Wolfe had left the comfortable chair and was approaching. I saw by the look on his face, knowing it as I did, that something had jolted and irritated him almost to the limit, and wondered what it could be. He joined the circle. “How do you do, gentlemen. Mr. Pratt, it is a poor return for your hospitality if I’ve offended you by renting my services to Mr. Osgood, and I hope you don’t feel that way about it. Mr. Osgood, this is your house, but however you may resent Mr. Pratt’s entering it, surely you can bottle your hostility for the present crisis. I assure you it’s highly desirable. He seems to have brought vital news, with Mr. McMillan—”

Osgood, glaring at Pratt, rumbled, “You dirty abominable mud lark!”

Pratt, returning the glare, growled, “You goddam stuffed shirt!”

Fair enough, I thought, for a duke and a millionaire. Wolfe said, “Pfui. What if you are both right?—Mr. McMillan, please. What’s this about the bull?”