Some Buried Caesar (20 page)

The corner of her mouth went up. “This is a public exposition. I paid my way in. You’re an exhibitor. Go ahead and exhibit. Show me.”

“Not exhibitionist. Exhibitor. Anyway, I’m only an employee.” I took her elbow and eased her across the aisle. “Mr. Wolfe, you know Miss Rowan. She wants to be shown the orchids.”

He bowed. “That is one compliment I always surrender to.”

She looked him in the eye. “I want you to like me, Mr. Wolfe. Or not dislike me. Mr. Goodwin and I are probably going to be friends. Will you give me an orchid?”

“I rarely dislike women, and never like them, Miss Rowan. I have only albinos here. I’ll give you orchids at 5 o’clock, after the judging, if you’ll tell me where to send them.”

“I’ll come and get them.”

The upshot of that was that she went to lunch with us.

The Methodist tent was fuller than the day before, probably because we got there earlier. Apparently Mrs. Miller had no off days, for the fricassee with
dumplings was as good as the memory of it, and, thinking it might be my last appearance among the devout, I permitted myself to run the meal in two sections, as did Wolfe. He, as always in the company of good food, was sociable and expansive. Discovering that Lily had been in Egypt, he told about his house in Cairo, and they chatted away like a pair of camels, going on to Arabia and making quite a trip of it. She let him do most of the talking but made him chuckle a couple of times, and I began to suspect she wasn’t very obvious and might even be smooth.

As I put down my empty coffee cup Wolfe said, “Still no Bennett. It’s 1:30. Is it far to the cattle sheds?”

I told him not very.

“Then if you will please find out about him. Confound it, I must see him. If he can’t come at once, tell him I’ll be here until 3 o’clock, and after that at the exhibit.”

“Right.”

I got up. Lily arose too, saying that she was supposed to be with Mr. Pratt and Caroline and they were probably looking for her. She left the tent with me, whereupon I informed her that it was now working hours and I would be moving through the throngs too energetically for pleasant companionship. She stated that up to date she had failed to detect any taint of pleasantness in my make-up and would see me at 5 o’clock, and departed in the direction of the grandstand. My errand was the other way.

They were going strong at the judging lot. I was pleased to note that Guernseys were evidently a more popular breed than Belted Swiss or Ayrshires, as the crowd was much larger than it had been 2 hours earlier.
Bennett was within the enclosure, along with judges, scorekeepers and cattle with attendants. For a second my heart stopped, as I caught sight of a bull I would have sworn was Hickory Caesar Grindon; then I saw he was a lighter shade of tan and had a much smaller white spot on his face. I maneuvered around to the other side where the crowd wasn’t so thick, and stood there, and when I felt a pull at my sleeve I thought for an instant that Lily Rowan had tailed me.

But it was Dave, dressed up in coat and pants and shirt and tie, and a shiny straw hat. He cackled: “Didn’t I say you like to be around where things is goin’ on? First I seen you. Was you here when them derned fools put down Bella Grassleigh for that Silverville cow? Her with a barrel more like a deer than any good milker I ever saw.”

“Good God,” I said, “that’s the worst I ever heard. I just got here. I don’t suppose … well, I’ll be derned. There’s our friend Monte McMillan.”

“Yep, I drove him in this morning.” Dave shook his head. “Poor old Monte, got to start practically all over again. He’s got it in mind to do some buyin’ if prices is right, to build up another foundation. You wouldn’t have thought a year ago …”

I missed the rest because I was diving under the rope. Bennett was momentarily disengaged, standing mopping his forehead, and I made for him. He blinked at me in the sunlight and said he was sorry, he hadn’t been able to make it. I told him okay, that was forgiven, but couldn’t he come to the Methodist tent right now. Impossible, he said, they were judging Produce of Dam and Breeders’ Young Herd simultaneously.
There was nothing he could tell Nero Wolfe anyway. And I didn’t belong there in the enclosure—

I got a little peremptory: “Wolfe’s working on a murder, and he says he needs to see you and can’t make another move until he does. Are you primarily a citizen and a friend of Fred Osgood’s, or a sergeant at arms in a cattle tribunal? If you think justice among the cows is more important …”

He said he wasn’t a particular friend of Osgood’s, who as far as he was concerned was merely a member of the League, and that he would be at the Methodist tent, no fooling, within half an hour.

I got outside the ropes again, but instead of beating it I decided to hang around and wait for him. I watched the judging for a few minutes, but couldn’t see very well on account of the mob, and so wandered along in front of the sheds. There was no one around at all, the judging being the current attraction, so naturally I observed the moving object that caught my eyes, especially since the first sight showed me that the object was familiar. It was Nancy Osgood, and the glance she cast behind her as she entered one of the sheds was either furtive or I was getting fanciful. Even if she was furtive it was none of my business, but a detective who minds his own business would be a contradiction in terms, so I slid over to the shed and inserted myself through the door.

She wasn’t within view. There were plenty of cows, black and white this time, and a few visitors further down the aisle, but no Nancy. I strolled along between the rows of hind ends. Toward the middle of the shed there was a partitioned compartment on the left, containing no cow; but an instant’s peep disclosed that it contained three other things: a large pile of
straw with a pitchfork handle protruding from its center, Nancy Osgood, and Jimmy Pratt. I would have passed on, but I had been seen. Jimmy’s voice was gruff and discourteous:

“Well?”

I shrugged. “Well enough. Hoping you are the same.” I started to move on, but his voice came even gruffer:

“Wait and look and listen. The more you see and hear the more you can tell.”

“Don’t, Jimmy.” Nancy sounded very distressed. She turned her eyes, more bloodshot than ever, in my direction: “Were you following me, Mr. Goodwin? What for?”

A couple of passers-by seemed disposed to linger, so I stepped inside the stall to keep it in the family. “Yes,” I told her, “I was. For about 40 seconds. I happened to see you enter this shed looking behind you for bloodhounds, and followed you out of curiosity.” I surveyed young Pratt. “It’s a good thing you’re training for architecture instead of the diplomatic service. You lack suavity. If this is a clandestine rendezvous and you suspected I might report it, it might be better to rub me with salve than sandpaper.”

He reached for his pocket. “Oh, in that case—”

I let him go on. His hand emerged with a modest roll, from which, with unsteady fingers, he peeled a ten. He thrust it at me with an objectionable smile and asked, “Will that do?”

“Swell.” I took it. “Munificent.” My first impulse was to stick it in the pocket of Nancy’s jacket and tell her to buy stocking with it, but at that moment our party was joined by a lanky guy in overalls carrying a pitchfork. With only a glance at us he rammed the
fork into the pile of straw and started to lift the load. I stopped him by shoving the $10 bill under his nose.

“Here, brother. I represent the exposition management. We’ve decided you fellows are overworked. Take this as an expression of our esteem.”

He stared. “What’s that?”

“Don’t try to understand it, just take it. Redistribution of wealth. A form of communism.”

“From the exposition management?”

“Right.”

“I’ll be derned. They must be crazy.” He took the bill and stuffed it in his pocket. “Much obliged to you.”

“Don’t mention it.” I waved airily. He elevated the load of straw, a big one, about one-fourth of the entire pile, above his shoulder with an expert twist, and departed.

“You said salve, didn’t you?” Jimmy Pratt sounded resentful. “How the hell could I know you’re Robin Hood? After what you said about salve, wasn’t it natural to take you for a chiseler?” He turned to Nancy. “He knows all about Bronson and the paper Clyde signed, anyway, since he was there when you told Wolfe. As far as your father hearing about our being together is concerned …”

I was extremely glad he had shifted to Nancy, because it gave me an opportunity I was badly in need of. I grant that I have aplomb, but I’m not constructed of wood, and it still surprises me that nothing on my face gave them alarm. What I had seen was something that had been uncovered by the removal of a portion of the straw. Making a movement, my toe had touched some object that wasn’t straw, and a downward glance had shown me what it was. It was a brown custom-made oxford perched on its heel, an
inch of brown sock, and the cuff of one leg of a pair of Crawnley trousers.

So, as I say, I was glad Jimmy had shifted to Nancy, for it gave me an opportunity to kick at the straw capriciously and thereby get the shoe and sock and trouser cuff out of sight again. Nothing was left visible but straw.

Nancy was talking to me: “Perhaps I shouldn’t, after Mr. Wolfe said he would help me, but I met Jimmy this morning and we … we had a talk … and I told him about that paper and Bronson still having it … and he thought he could do something about it and I was sure he shouldn’t try it without seeing Mr. Wolfe first … and we arranged to meet here at 2 o’clock and discuss it …”

I had unobtrusively got myself moved around to where I could reach the pitchfork handle which was protruding erect from the center of the pile of straw. With my eyes respectfully attending to Nancy, my hand idly played with the straw, which is nice to touch, and without much effort it found the spot where the handle of the fork joined the tines. Two of my fingers—feeling with the ends of their nails, which don’t leave prints—explored downward along a tine, but not far, not more than a couple of inches, before they were stopped by something that was neither tine nor straw. I kept the fingers there half a minute, feeling, and then slowly withdrew my hand.

Jimmy demanded, “What’s the use of deadpanning her? Either you and Wolfe are going to act as decent as he talked—”

“Deadpan?” I grinned. “Not on your life. I wouldn’t know about decency, but Wolfe and I always do what he says. But you children are only going to
make it harder by being indiscreet all over the fair grounds. Osgood is a difficult enough client already. For God’s sake postpone this reunion for a day or two. Everybody in the county knows you, and here you stand in plain view. If you’ll do what I say I’ll guarantee that Wolfe and I will be as decent as doves … and Osgood will never see that paper.”

Jimmy was frowning. “Well?”

“Separate. Disunite. Immediately. You go out at the other end and I’ll take her this way.”

“He’s right, Jimmy. It was awfully foolish, but you insisted—”

“Come on, beat it. Ten people have stopped to look in here at us in the last three minutes.”

“But I’ve got to know—”

“Damn it, do what I say!”

“Please, Jimmy.”

He took her hand and looked her in the eye and said her name twice as if he was leaving her bound to a railroad track, and tore himself away. I told her to come on and left the stall and turned right with her, toward the door by which I had entered. Outside I took her elbow and talked as we walked:

“I’ve got work to do and I’m leaving you. You’ve acted like a female nincompoop. It’s true that emotions are emotions, but brains are also brains. To go running to Jimmy Pratt for help when you already had Nero Wolfe’s! You get away from here. I suppose you have a date to meet your father somewhere. If so, go there and wait for him and practice thinking.”

“But I haven’t … you talk as if—”

“I don’t talk as if anything. Don’t worry about how I talk. Here’s where I turn off. See you in kindergarten.”

I left her in the middle of a crowd, thinking that was as good a place as any, and elbowed my way across the current to where I could make better time without displaying any indications of panic. It took less than five minutes to get from there to the Methodist tent. Wolfe was still there, at the table, looking massively forlorn on the folding chair. He had probably never before digested good food under such difficult circumstances.

He frowned up at me. “Well? Mr. Bennett?”

I sat down and nodded and restrained my voice. “I have to make a brief but tiresome report. Item 1, Mr. Bennett will be here in 10 minutes or so. He said. Item 2, I found Nancy Osgood and Jimmy Pratt in a cowshed, discussing means of getting the paper which I have in my pocket. Item 3, in the same shed I found Mr. Bronson lying under a pile of straw, dead, with a pitchfork stuck through his heart. No one knows of the last item but me … or didn’t when I left.”

Wolfe’s eyes went shut, then came half-open again. He heaved a deep sigh. “The fool. I told that man he was a fool.”

I
nodded. “Yeah. You also told him you were beginning to suspect that he was engaged in an enterprise which might prove to be a big blunder. Madam Shasta, in a booth down the line, calls it reading the future and charges a dime for it.” I fished for a pair of nickels and shoved them across at him. “I’ll bite. How did you know it?”

He ignored my offer. “Confound it,” he muttered. “Too late again. I should have phoned Saul or Fred last evening to take a night train. Bronson should have been followed this morning. Once compelled to talk, he would have been all the evidence we needed. I am not myself, Archie. How the devil can I be, dashing around in all this furor … I have that scoundrel Shanks to thank for it. Well.” He sighed again. “You say no one knows it?”

“Correct. Except the guy that did it. I was waiting around for Bennett and saw Nancy enter a cowshed and followed her in. She joined Jimmy Pratt in a stall which also contained a pile of straw. I made it three and we conversed. A cow nurse came and removed part of the straw, exposing a shoe and a trouser cuff.
No one saw it but me and I kicked straw over it. A pitchfork was thrust into the pile, upright, with straw covering it part way up the handle, and I took a sounding with my hand and discovered what its pincushion was. Right through his chest. His pump was gone. I accused Romeo and Juliet of indiscretion and hustled them out in separate directions, and came here.”