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. Os-
good 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 con-
fine 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.
AT 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 m. mto 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 ex-
cept 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 …”
We turned. It was a stocky little man with no neck, carry-
ing a black bag.
“I was out when the call … oh. Mr. Osgood. This is
terrible. A very terrible thing. Terrible.”
I followed the trio into the next room, where the piano
was, and the divan. There was no sense in Osgood going in
there again, but he went. Jimmy Pratt, who had been sitting
on the piano stool, got up and left. The doctor trotted over
to the divan and put his bag down on a chair. Osgood
crossed to a window and stood with his back to the room.
When the sound came of the canvas being opened, and
the doctor’s voice saying “My God!” quite loud, involuntarily,
Osgood turned his head half around and then turned it
back again.
Thirty minutes later I went upstairs and reported to Wolfe,
who, in yellow pajamas, was in the bathroom brushing his
teeth:
“Doc Sackett certified accidental death from a wound in-
flicted by a bull. Frederick Osgood, bereaved father, who
would be a duke if we had dukes or know the reason why,
suspects a fly in the soup, whether for the same reason as