Some Buried Caesar (19 page)

“I may as well—”

“Shut up!” Wolfe’s lids quivered as he opened his eyes. “You’re making a mistake. A bad one. Listen to this. You were demanding immediate repayment of your money. Clyde, unable to raise the sum in New York, came here to appeal to his father, and you were in such a hurry, or mistrusted him so greatly, or both, that you came along. You wouldn’t let him out of your sight. His father refused his appeal, since Clyde wouldn’t tell him what the money was needed for—to save the Osgood honor would be correct phrasing—and you were ready to disclose the facts to the father and collect your debt direct from him. Then Clyde, in desperation, made a bet. He couldn’t possibly win the bet and pay you for 6 days, until the week expired, and what acceptable assurance could he give you that he would win it at all? Only one assurance could have induced you to wait: a satisfactory explanation of the method by which he expected to win. So he gave it to you. Don’t try to tell me he didn’t; I’m not a gull. He told you how he expected to win, and the steps he proposed to take. Very well, you tell me.”

Bronson shook his head. “All I can say is, you’re wrong. He didn’t tell—”

“Pfui. I’m right. I know when I’m right. Beware, sir.”

Bronson shrugged. “It won’t get you anywhere to keep telling me to beware. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“Did Clyde Osgood tell you how and why he expected to win the bet?”

“No.”

“Or what he intended to do at Pratt’s or whom he expected to see there?”

“No.”

“You’re making a bad blunder.”

“No, I’m not. I may be getting in bad with you, but I can’t help it. For God’s sake—”

“Shut up. You’re a fool after all.” Wolfe turned and snapped at me: “Archie, get that paper.”

He might have prepared me by one swift glance before putting it into words, but when I complained to him about such things he always said that my speed and wit required no preparation, and I retorted that I could put up with less sarcastic flattery and more regard for my convenience.

On this occasion it didn’t matter much. Bronson was about my size but I doubted if he was tough. However, it was a murder case, and Wolfe had just been insinuating that this gentleman had been on the scene of hostilities with a club in his hand, so I got upright and across to his neighborhood quick enough to forestall any foolish motions he might make. I stuck my hand out and said:

“Gimme.”

He shook his head and got up without haste, kicking
his chair back without looking at it, looking instead at me with his eyes still steady and clever.

“This is silly,” he said. “Damned silly. You can’t bluff me like this.”

I asked without turning my head, “Do you want it, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Get it.”

“Okay. —Reach for the moon. I’ll help myself.”

“No you won’t.” His eyes didn’t flicker. “If you try taking it away from me, I won’t fight. I’m not much of a coward, but I’m not in condition and I’d be meat for you. Instead, I’ll yell, and Osgood will come, and of course he’ll want a look at the paper that’s causing the trouble.” He smiled.

“You will?”

“I will.”

“Back at you. If you do, I’ll show you how I make sausage. I warn you, one bleat and I’ll quit only when the ambulance comes. After Osgood reads the paper he’ll offer to pay me to do it again. Hold that pose.”

I started to reach, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t try a dive with his knee up, and without flashing a flag. He was fairly quick, but I side-stepped in time. It wasn’t absolutely essential to punch him, but a guy as tricky as he was needed a lesson anyway, so I let him have it, a good stiff hook that lifted him out of his dive and turned him over. I was beside him, bending over him, by the time he got his eyes open again.

“Stay there,” I told him. “I don’t know which pocket it’s in. Do you think you can remember that? If so, gimme.”

His hand started for his inside breast pocket, and I reached in ahead of him and pulled out something that proved to be a handsome brown leather wallet with a
monogram on it in platinum or maybe tin. He grabbed for it and I jerked away and told him to get up and sit down, and backed off a little to examine the loot.

“My word.” I whistled. “Here’s an accumulation of currency out of all proportion. A couple of thousand or more. Pipe down, you. I don’t steal from blackguards. But I don’t see … ah, here we are. Secret compartments you might say.” I unfolded it and ran my eye over it, and handed it to Wolfe. “Return the balance?”

He nodded, reading. I handed the wallet back to Bronson, who was back on his feet. He looked a little disarranged, but he met my eye as he took the wallet from me, and I had to admit there was something to him, although misplaced; it isn’t usual to meet the eye of a bird who has just knocked you down and made you like it. Wolfe said, “Here, Archie,” and handed me the paper, and from my own breast pocket I took the brown ostrich cardcase, gold-tooled, given to me by Wolfe on a birthday, in which I carried my police and fire cards and operator’s license. I slipped the folded paper inside and returned it to my pocket.

Wolfe said, “Mr. Bronson. There are other questions I meant to ask, such as the purpose of your trip to Mr. Pratt’s place this afternoon, but it would be futile. I am even beginning to suspect that you are now engaged in an enterprise which may prove to be a bigger blunder than your conduct here with me. As for the paper Mr. Goodwin took from you, I guarantee that within 10 days you will get it back, or your money. Don’t try any stratagems. I’m mad enough already. Good night, sir.”

“I repeat … I’ve told you …”

“I don’t want to hear it. You’re a fool. Good night.”

Bronson went.

Wolfe heaved a deep sigh. I poured out a glass of milk, and sipped, and saw that he had an eye cocked at me. In a minute he murmured:

“Archie. Where did you get that milk?”

“Refrigerator.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“Yes, sir. There’s 5 or 6 bottles in there. Shall I bring you one?”

“You might have saved yourself a trip.” His hand dived into his side coat pocket and came out clutching a flock of beer bottle caps. He opened his fist and counted them, frowning, and told me, “Bring two.”

A
t 10 o’clock the next morning, Wednesday, a motley group piled into Osgood’s sedan, bound for Crowfield. All except Nero Wolfe looked the worse for wear—I couldn’t say about me. Osgood was seedy and silent, and during a brief talk with Wolfe had shown an inclination to bite. Bronson no longer looked disarranged, having again donned the Crawnley suit he had worn Monday, but the right side of his jaw was swollen and he was sullen and not amused. Nancy, who took the wheel again, was pale and had bloodshot eyes and moved in jerks. She had already made one trip to Crowfield and back, for a couple of relatives at the railroad station. The funeral was to be Thursday afternoon, and the major influx of kin would be 24 hours later. Apparently Wolfe had changed his mind about immediately relieving the pressure on the woman he admired, for I had been instructed that there was no hurry about telling Miss Osgood that the paper her brother had signed was in my possession. Which, considering how I had got it, was in my judgment just as well.

During the 30-minute drive to Crowfield no one
said a word, except for a brief discussion between Osgood and Nancy to arrange for meeting later in the day, after errands had been performed. First we dropped Osgood on Main Street in front of an establishment with palms and ferns in the window and a small sign painted down in a corner which said Somebody or other, MORTICIAN. Our next stop was two blocks down, at the hotel, where Bronson left us, in a dismal all-around silence and unfriendly atmosphere that is probably the chief occupational hazard of the blackguard business.

Nancy muttered at me, “Thompson’s Garage, isn’t it?” and I told her yes, and three minutes later she let me out there, around on a side street, the idea being that since there might be a delay about the car she would proceed to deliver Wolfe at the exposition grounds, for which I was grateful, not wanting him muttering around underfoot.

The bill was $66.20, which was plenty, even including the towing in. Of course there was no use beefing, so I contented myself with a thorough inspection to make sure everything was okay, filled up with gas and oil; paid in real money, and departed.

Then I was supposed to find Lew Bennett, secretary of the National Guernsey League. I tried the hotel and drew a blank, and wasted 20 minutes in a phone booth, being met with busy lines, wrong numbers, and general ignorance. There seemed to be an impression that he was somewhere at the exposition, so I drove out there and after a battle got the car parked in one of the spaces reserved for exhibitors. I plunged into the crowd, deciding to start at the exposition offices, where I learned that this was a big cattle day and Bennett was in up to his ears. He would
be around the exhibition sheds, which were at the other end of the grounds. Back in the crowd again, I fought through men, women, children, balloons, horns, popcorn and bedlam, to my objective.

I hadn’t seen this part before. There was a city of enormous sheds, in a row, each one 50 yards long or more and half as wide. There weren’t many people around. I popped into the first shed. It smelled like cows, which wasn’t surprising, because it was full of them. A partition 5 feet high ran down the middle of the shed its entire length, and facing it, tied to it, were cattle, on both sides. Bulls and cows and calves. Two more rows of them faced the walls. But none of them looked like the breed I was most familiar with after my association with Hickory Caesar Grindon. A few spectators straggled down the long aisle, and I moseyed along to where a little squirt in overalls was combing tangles out of a cow’s tail, and told him I was looking for Lew Bennett of the Guernsey League.

“Guernsey?” He looked contemptuous. “I wouldn’t know. I’m a Jersey man.”

“Oh. Excuse me. Personally, I fancy Guernseys. Is there a shed where they allow Guernseys?”

“Sure. Down beyond the judging lot. He might be at the lot. They’re judging Ayrshires and Belted Swiss this morning, but they begin on Guernseys at 1 o’clock.”

I thanked him and proceeded. After I had passed three sheds there was a large vacant space, roped off into divisions, and that was where the crowd was, several hundred of them, up against the ropes. Inside were groups of cattle, black with belts of white around their middles, held by men and boys with tie-ropes. Other men walked or stood around, frowning at
the cattle, accompanied by still others armed with fountain pens and sheets of cardboard. One guy was kneeling down, inspecting an udder as if he expected to find the Clue of the Month on it. I couldn’t see Bennett anywhere.

I found him in the second shed ahead, which was devoted to Guernseys. It was full of activity and worriment—brushing coats, washing hoofs and faces, combing tails, discussing and arguing. Bennett was rushing back and forth. He didn’t recognize me, and I nearly had to wrestle him to stop him. I reminded him of our acquaintance and said that Nero Wolfe wanted to see him at the main exhibits building, or some more convenient spot, as soon as possible. Urgent.

“Out of the question,” he declared, looking fierce. “I haven’t even got time to eat. They’re judging us at 1 o’clock.”

“Mr. Wolfe’s solving a murder for Mr. Frederick Osgood. He needs important information from you.”

“I haven’t got any.”

“He wants to ask you.”

“I can’t see him now. I just can’t do it. After 1 o’clock … when they start judging … you say he’s at the main exhibits building? I’ll see him or let him know …”

“He’ll lunch at the Methodist tent. Make it soon. Huh?”

He said just as soon as possible.

It was noon by the time I got to our space in the main exhibits building. It was judgment day for more than Guernseys, as 4 o’clock that afternoon was zero hour for the orchids. Wolfe was there spraying and manicuring. The sprayer was a pippin, made specially to his order, holding two gallons, with a compression
chamber and a little electric motor, weighing only 11 pounds empty. His rival and enemy, Shanks, was with him admiring the sprayer when I joined them. I told him the car was okay and named the extent of the damage, and described the plight of Mr. Bennett.

He grimaced. “Then I must wait here.”

“Standing is good for you.”

“And the delay. It is Wednesday noon. We have nothing left but shreds. I telephoned Mr. Waddell. The club carried to Mr. Pratt’s place has not been found, and the police took no photographs of the bull. Pfui. Inspector Cramer’s indefatigable routine has its advantages. Miss Osgood reports that none of the servants saw Bronson return. Our next move depends on Mr. Bennett.”

“He says he has no information.”

“But he has. He is ignorant of its application. Perhaps if you went back and explained? …”

“Not without using force. He says he hasn’t got time to eat.”

That of course silenced him. He grunted and returned to Shanks.

I propped myself against the edge of the dahlia table across the aisle and yawned. Dissatisfaction filled my breast. I had failed to bring what I had been sent for, which was infrequent and irritating. I had been relieved of $66.20 of Wolfe’s money. We were going to dine and sleep that night in a house where family and relatives were preparing for a funeral. Wolfe had just stated that in the murder case we were supposed to be solving we had nothing left but shreds. Altogether, the outlook was not rosy. Wolfe and Shanks went on chewing the rag, paying no attention to the visitors passing up and down the aisle, and I
stood propped, with no enthusiasm for any effort to combat the gloom. I must have shut my eyes for the first I knew there was a tug at my sleeve and a voice:

“Wake up, Escamillo, and show me the flowers.”

I let the lids up. “How do you do, Miss Rowan. Go away. I’m in seclusion.”

“Kiss me.”

I bent and deposited a peck on her brow. “There. Thank you for calling. Nice to see you.”

“You’re a lout.”

“I have at no time asked you to submit bids.”