Some Buried Caesar (16 page)

“He’s dead.”

“What killed him?”

“Anthrax.”

“Indeed. That’s a disease, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s sudden and terrible death. Technically it’s a disease, of course, but it’s so swift and deadly that it’s more like a snake or a stroke of lightning.” The stockman snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

Wolfe nodded. “I knew of it, vaguely, in my boyhood in Europe. But wasn’t Caesar healthy this morning? When did you observe symptoms?”

“With anthrax you don’t observe symptoms. Not often. You go to the pasture in the morning and find dead cattle. That’s what happened at my place a month ago. It’s what happened with Caesar at 5 o’clock this afternoon. One of Sam Lake’s deputies went down to the far end of the pasture, where I had him tied behind a clump of birch, and found him keeled over dead. I had gone to Crowfield to see Lew Bennett. They phoned me and I came back out, and Pratt and I decided to come over here.”

Osgood’s scowl had got adulterated some more. I didn’t know then that the sound of the word “anthrax,” with the news that it had struck within a mile of his own herd, was enough to adulterate any man’s scowl, no matter what had happened to him. Wolfe turned and said brusquely:

“Mr. Pratt. I’d like to buy the bull’s carcass. What will you take for it?”

I stared at him, wondering if whatever had jolted him had thrown him off balance. Pratt stared too.

Osgood blurted, “You can’t buy an anthrax carcass. The state takes it.”

Pratt demanded, “What in the name of God do you want it for?”

McMillan said sourly, “They’re already there. A member of the State Board was at Crowfield, and he got there as soon as I did, with a dozen men. Why, what did you expect to do with it?”

Wolfe sighed. “I suppose Mr. Waddell has told you of my demonstration of the fact that Clyde Osgood wasn’t killed by the bull. The absence of blood on his face. I wanted the hide. Juries like visual evidence. What is the member of the State Board doing with his men? Carting it away?”

“No. You don’t cart it away. You don’t want the hide either. You don’t touch it, because it’s dangerous. You don’t bury it, because the spores live in the soil for years. You don’t even go close to it. What the state men are doing is collecting wood to pile it around the carcass for a fire.” McMillan slowly shook his head. “He’ll burn all night, Caesar will.”

“How did he get it? I understand you delivered him to Mr. Pratt last Friday. Did he bring it with him from your place?”

“He couldn’t have. It doesn’t wait that long to kill. The question of how he got it … that’s one thing we came over here to discuss.” McMillan faced Osgood. He hesitated a second and said, “Look here, Fred, say we sit down. I’m about played out. We want to ask you something.”

Osgood said curtly, “Come to the veranda.”

I controlled a grin. By gum, he wasn’t going to
have a mud lark sitting within his walls. They all moved, Wolfe followed, and I brought up the rear, after a glance to see that Nancy was just getting up from her chair and Bronson was no longer visible through the French window. I requested her not to forget to ask the servants what Wolfe had told her, and she nodded.

When I got to the veranda they were seated in a group in the wicker chairs and McMillan was telling Osgood, “We all want it cleared up and that’s why Pratt and I came over here. Waddell will be along pretty soon. Someone had an idea, it doesn’t matter who, after Caesar was found dead, and we thought it was only fair to tell you about it before it is followed up. If you want to know why I came to tell you … I came because everybody else was afraid to. It’s Waddell’s job, or Sam Lake’s, not mine, and it will be up to them to investigate it if they decide to, but they asked me to come and discuss it with you first. Pratt offered to come, but we knew how far that would get and it might even lead to some more violence of which we’ve had plenty, so I came, and he came along with what I would call good intentions … he can tell you—”

Pratt began, “The fact is, Fred—”

“My name’s Osgood, damn you!”

“All right. Take your name and stick it up your chimney and go to hell.”

Osgood ignored him and demanded, “What do you want to discuss, Monte?”

“About Clyde,” McMillan said. “You’re going to be sore naturally, but it won’t help any to fly off the handle. The fact is that Clyde was in that pasture. What for? Waddell and Sam Lake, and Captain Barrow of the state police, admit that Nero Wolfe’s reconstruction
of it is possible, but it’s hard to believe, and one reason it’s hard is that if somebody did all that, who was it? That’s chiefly what has them stumped.”

“Not unique,” murmured Wolfe.

“Do you claim the bull killed him?” Osgood demanded.

“I don’t claim anything.” McMillan lifted his sagging shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, Fred. I told you I came to see you because the others, except Pratt, were afraid to. I don’t claim anything. What they say is this, that the main difficulty with supposing that Clyde climbed into the pasture himself was to try to figure what for. I said myself this morning that it was dumb as hell for anybody to imagine that he went in there to get the bull, because that would have been plain crazy and Clyde wasn’t a lunatic. What could he have intended to do with him? You can’t hide a bull in a barrel. But when Caesar was found dead of anthrax … it was Captain Barrow who suggested it first as a possibility … that might account for Clyde entering the pasture. As you know, anthrax can be communicated subcutaneously, or by contact, or by ingestion. If Caesar was fed something last night, something that had been activated … well …”

Involuntarily I hunched forward and drew my feet under me, ready to move. Frederick Osgood was stiff, and his eyes glassy, with cold rage. His chronic scowl had been merely funny, but he didn’t look funny now. He said in a composed and icy tone:

“Look out, Monte. By God, look out. If you’re suggesting that my son deliberately poisoned that bull …”

McMillan said gruffly, “I’m not suggesting anything. I’ve told you I came here as a messenger. The
fact is, I wanted to come, because I thought you ought to be warned by a Mend. Waddell’s attitude, and Captain Barrow’s, is that it was you who insisted on an investigation, and if there is any part of it you don’t like you’ve got yourself to thank for it. Anyhow, they’ll be here any minute now, with the idea of finding out where Clyde had been the past few days and whether he had access, or could have had access, to any source of anthrax.”

“Anybody who comes here—” Osgood had to stop to control his voice “—with that idea can go away again. So can you. It … it’s infamous.” He began to tremble. “By God—”

“Mr. Osgood!” It was Wolfe, using his sharpest tone. “Didn’t I warn you? I said annoyance, intrusion, plague. Mr. McMillan is perfectly correct, you have yourself to thank for it.”

“But I don’t have to tolerate—”

“Oh yes you do. Anything from inanity to malevolence, though I doubt if we’re dealing with the latter in this instance. I don’t know Captain Barrow, but I can see Mr. Waddell, like a befuddled trout, leaping for such a fly as this in all innocence. It is amazing with what frivolity a mind like his can disregard a basic fact—in this case the fact that Clyde was not killed by the bull. I entreat you to remember what I said about our needing Mr. Waddell. It is really fortunate he’s coming here, for now we can get information that we need without delay. If first you must submit to an inquiry which you regard as monstrous, you will do so because it is necessary. They represent authority … and here they are, I suppose …”

There was a sound of wheels crunching gravel, and a car swung into view on the drive and rolled to a stop
at the foot of the veranda steps. First out was a state cossack in uniform, a captain, looking grim and unflinching, and following him appeared the district attorney, trying to look the same. They came up the steps and headed for the group.

I missed that battle. Wolfe got up from his chair and started off, and, seeing that he had his handkerchief in his hand, I arose and followed him. With a nod to Waddell as we passed he went on, entered the house, stopped in the main hall, turned to me and told me to wait there for him, and disappeared in the direction of the library. I stood and wondered what was causing all his violent commotion.

In a few minutes he came back looking disgruntled. He frowned at me and muttered, “Entirely too fast for us, Archie. We are being made to look silly. We may even have been outwitted. I got Mr. Bennett on the telephone, but drew a blank. Did you bring a camera along?”

“No.”

“After this always have one. Take a car and get over there. Someone there must have a camera—the niece or nephew or Miss Rowan. Borrow it and take pictures of the carcass from all angles … a dozen or more, as many as you can get. Hurry, before they get that fire started.”

I made myself scarce. It sounded fairly loco. As I trotted out to where Osgood’s sedan was still parked, and got in and got it going, my mind was toying with theories that would account for Wolfe’s sudden passion for photography, but I couldn’t concoct one that wasn’t full of holes. For instance, if all he wanted was to have it on record that the bull’s face was comparatively clean, why pictures from all angles? I devised
others, wilder and more elaborate, during the four minutes it took to drive to the highway and along it for a mile to Pratt’s place, but none was any good. At the entrance to the drive a state cop stopped me and I told him I was sent by Waddell.

I parked in the space in front of the garage, alongside the yellow Wethersill standing there, and jumped out and headed for the house. But I was only halfway there when I heard a call:

“Hey! Escamillo!”

I turned and saw Lily Rowan horizontal, lifted onto an elbow, on a canvas couch under a maple tree. I trotted over to her, telling her on the way:

“Hullo, plaything. I want to borrow a camera.”

“My lord,” she demanded, “am I such a pretty sight that you just have to—”

“No. This is serious and urgent. Have you got a camera?”

“Oh, I see. You came from the Osgoods. Oh, I knew you were there. It’s that yellow-eyed Nancy—”

“Cut it. I tell you I’m serious. I want to take a picture of the bull before they get their—”

“What bull?”

“The
bull.”

“Good heavens. What a funny job you have. No one will ever take another picture of
that
bull. They’ve started the fire.”

“Goddam it! Where?”

“Down at the other end …”

I was off on the lope, which may have been dumb, but I was in the throes of emotion. I heard her clamoring, “Wait! Escamillo! I’m coming along!” but I kept going. Leaving the lawn, as I passed the partly dug pit for the barbecue, I could smell the smoke, and
soon I could see it, above the clump of birches towards the far end of the pasture. I slowed to a trot and cussed out loud as I went.

There was quite a group there, 15 or 20 besides the ones tending the fire. I joined them unnoticed. A length of the fence had been torn down and we stood back of the gap. Apparently Hickory Caesar Grindon had had a ring built around him of good dry wood, in ample quantity, for there was so much blaze that you could only catch an occasional glimpse of what was left of him between the tongues of flame. It was hot as the devil, even at the distance we were standing. Four or five men in shirt sleeves, with sweat pouring from them, were throwing on more wood from nearby piles. The group of spectators stood, some silent, some talking. I heard a voice beside me:

“I thought maybe you might get around.”

I turned for a look. “Oh, hello, Dave. What made you think I’d be here?”

“Nothin’ particular, only you seem like a feller that likes to be around where things is goin’ on.” He pinched at his nose. “I’ll be derned if it don’t smell like a barbecue. Same smell exactly. You might close your eyes and think he was bein’ et.”

“Well, he’s not. He won’t be.”

“He sure won’t.” Silence, while we watched the flames. In a little he resumed, “You know, it gets you thinkin’, a sight like that, derned if it don’t. A champion bull like that Caesar bein’ burnt up with scorn. It’s ignominious. Ain’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes it is.” He pinched his nose again. “Do you read pohtry?”

“No. Neither do you.”

“The hell I don’t. A book my daughter give me one Christmas I’ve read twenty times, parts of it more. In one place it says ‘I sometimes think that never grows so red the rose as where some buried Caesar bled.’ Of course this Caesar’s bein’ burnt instead of buried, but there’s a connection if you can see it.”

I made a fitting reply and shoved off. There was no percentage in standing there getting my face roasted and I wasn’t in a mood to listen to Dave recite poetry.

Up a ways, near the gate through which we had carried the canvas with its burden the night before, Lily Rowan sat on the grass holding her nose. I had a notion to stop and tell her with a sneer that it was only a pose to show how sensitive and feminine she was, since Dave’s olfactory judgment had been correct, but I didn’t even feel like sneering. I had been sent there on the hop with my first chance to get a lick in, and had arrived too late, and I knew that Nero Wolfe wouldn’t be demanding a snapshot of a bull just to put it in his album.

Lily held her hands out. “Help me up.”

I grabbed hold, gave a healthy jerk, and she popped up and landed flat against me; and I enclosed her with both arms and planted a thorough one, of medium duration, on her mouth, and let her go.

“Well,” she said, with her eyes shining. “You cad.”

“Don’t count on that as a precedent,” I warned her. “I’m overwrought. I may never feel like that again. I’m sore as the devil and had to relieve the tension somehow. May I use your telephone? Mr. Pratt’s telephone.”

“Go climb a tree,” she said, and got her arm through mine, and we went to the house that way, though it is a form of intimacy I don’t care for, since I
have a tendency to fight shy of bonds. Nor did I respond to the melting quality that seemed to be creeping into her tone, but kept strictly to persiflage.

Caroline was on the terrace, reading, looking even more under the weather than she had that morning, and I paused for a greeting. I didn’t see Jimmy anywhere. Lily went with me to the phone in an alcove of the living room, and sat and looked at me with a corner of her mouth turned up, as she had the day before. I got the number of Osgood’s place, and was answered by a maid, and asked for Wolfe.