bull to the fence and smearing blood on his horns. That
would be getting pretty familiar with a bull, even in the dark.
I don’t suppose anyone could have done it except Monte Mc-
Millan … he was Monte’s bull, or he had been. Maybe
you’re ready to explain why Monte McMillan would want to
kill Clyde Osgood?”
“Good heavens, no. There are at least two other alterna-
tives. Mr. McMillan may be capable of murder, I don’t know,
and he was certainly resolved to protect the bull from molesta-
tion—but don’t get things confused. Remember that the mur-
der was no part of an effort to guard the bull; Clyde was
knocked unconscious not in the pasture, but somewhere else.”
“That’s your guess.”
“It’s my opinion. I am careful with my opinions, sir; they
are my bread and butter and the main source of my self-
esteem.”
Waddell sat with his mouth screwed up. Suddenly Osgood
barked at him ferociously:
“Well, what about it?”
Waddell nodded at him, and then unscrewed his mouth
to mutter, “Of course.” He got up and kicked his chair back,
stuck his hands in his pockets, stood and gazed at Wolfe a
minute, and then backed up and sat down again. “Goddam
it,” he said in a pained voice. “Of course. We’ve got to get on
it as quick and hard as we can. Jesus, what a mess. At Tom
Pratt’s place. Clyde Osgood. Your son, Fred. And you know
the kind of material I have to work with—for instance Sam
Lake—on a thing Hke this … Ill have to pull them away from
the exposition … I’ll go out and see Pratt myself, now …”
He jerked himself forward and reached for the telephone,
Osgood said to Wolfe, bitterly, “You see the prospect.”
Wolfe nodded, and sighed. “It’s an extraordinarily difficult
situation, Mr. Osgood.”
“I know damn well it is. I may have missed the significance
of the bull’s face, but I’m not a fool. The devil had brains
and nerve and luck. I have two things to say to you. First,
I apologize again for the way I tackled you this afternoon. I
didn’t know you had really earned your reputation, so many
people haven’t, but I see now you have. Second, you can see
for yourself that you’ll have to do this. You’ll have to go on
with it.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I expect to leave for New York
Thursday morning. Day after tomorrow.”
“But my God, man! This is what you do, isn’t it? Isn’t this
your job? What’s the difference whether you work at it in
New York or here?”
“Enormous; the difference, I mean. In New York I have
my home, my office in it, my cook, my accustomed sur-‘
roundings—”
“Do you mean …” Osgood was up, spluttering. “Do you
mean to say you have the gall to plead your personal comfort,
your petty convenience, to a man in the position I’m in?”
“I do.” Wolfe was serene. “I’m not responsible for the posi-
tion you’re in. Mr. Goodwin will tell you: I have a deep
aversion to leaving my home or remaining long away from it.
Another thing, you might not think me so petty if you could
see and hear and smell the hotel room in which I shall have
to sleep tonight and tomorrow night … and heavens knows
how many more nights if I accepted your commission.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything imaginable.”
“Then leave it. Come to my house. It’s only sixteen miles
out, and you can have a car until yours is repaired, and your
man here can drive it. ..”
“I don’t know.” Wolfe looked doubtful. “Of course, if I
undertake it I shall need immediately a good deal of informa-
tion from you and your daughter, and your own home would
be a good place for that …”
I stood up with my heels together and saluted him, and
he glared at me. Naturally he knew I was on to him. Machi-
avelli was a simple little shepherd lad by comparison. Not
that I disapproved by any means, for the chances were that
I would get a fairly good bed myself, but it was one more
proof that under no circumstances could you ever really
trust him.
WITH NANCY still chauffering, we drove to the
hotel for our luggage, and then had to leave town
by way of the exposition grounds in order to give the orchids
a look and another spraying. Shanks wasn’t around, and
Wolfe made arrangements with a skinny woman who sat on
an upturned box by a table full of dahlias, to keep an eye on
our pots.
Driving into Crowfield that morning, Caroline Pratt had
pointed out the Osgood demesne, the main entrance of which
was only a mile from Pratt’s place. It was rolling farm land,
a lot of it looking like pasture, with three or four wooded
knolls. The stock barns and other outbuildings were in plain
view, but the dwelling, which was all of half a mile from
the highway, was out of sight among the trees until the pri-
vate drive straightened out at the beginning of a wide ex-
panse of lawn. It was a big old rambling white house, with
an old-fashioned portico, with pillars, extending along the
middle portion of the front. It looked as if it had probably
once been George Washington’s headquarters, provided he
ever got that tar north.
There was an encounter before we got into the house. As
we crossed the portico, a man approached from the other end,
wiping his brow with his handkerchief and looking dusty and
sweaty. Mr. Bronson had on a different shirt and tie from
the day before, and another suit, but was no more appropriate
to his surroundings than he had been when I first saw him on
Pratt’s terrace. Osgood tossed a nod at him, then, seeing that
he intended to speak, stopped and said, “Hullo.”
Bronson came up to us. I hadn’t noticed him much the
day before, with my attention elsewhere, but I remarked
now that he was around thirty, of good height and well-built,
with a wide full mouth and a blunt nose and clever gray
eyes. I didn’t like the eyes, as they took us in with a quick
glance. He said deferentially, “I hope you won’t mind, Mr.
Osgood. I’ve been over there.”
“Over where?” Osgood demanded.
“Pratt’s place. I walked across the fields. I knew I had
offended you by disagreeing this morning with your ideas
about the … accident. I wanted to look it over. I met young
Pratt, .but not his father, and that man McMillan—”
“What did you expect to accomplish by that?”
“Nothing, I suppose. I’m sorry if I’ve offended again. But
I didn’t … I was discreet. I suppose I shouldn’t be here, I
should have left this morning, but with this terrible …with
Clyde dead, and .I’m the only one of his New York friends
here … it seemed …”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Osgood roughly. “Stay. I said so.”
“I know you did, but frankly … I feel very much de trop
… I’ll leave now if you prefer it …”
“Excuse me.” It was Wolfe’s quiet murmur. “You had bet-
ter stay, Mr. Bronson. Much better. We may need you.”
The clever eyes flickered at him. “Oh. If Nero Wolfe says
stay …” He lifted his shoulders and let them down. “But I
don’t need to stay here. I can go to a Crowfield hotel—”
“Nonsense.” Osgood scowled at him. “Stay here. You were
Clyde’s guest, weren’t you? Stay here. But if you want to
walk in the fields, there’s plenty of directions besides the one
leading to Pratt’s.”
Abruptly he started off, and we followed, as Bronson again
lifted his handkerchief to his sweaty brow.
A few minutes later we were seated in a large room with
French windows, lined with books and furnished for com-
fort, and were being waited on by a lassie with a pug nose
who had manners far superior to Bert’s but was way beneath
him in speed and spirit as a drink-slinger. Nancy had disap-
peared but was understood to be on call. Osgood was scowl-
ing at a highball, Wolfe was gulping beer which, judging from
his expression, was too warm, and I had plain water.
Wolfe was saying testily, “My own method is the only one
available to me. I either use that or none at all. I may be only
clearing away rubbish, but that’s my affair. The plain fact
is, sir, that last night, in Mr. Goodwin’s presence, you be-
haved in an astonishing manner to him and Mr. Pratt. You
were rude, arrogant and unreasonable. I need to know
whether that was due to the emotional shock you had had,
or to your belief that Mr. Pratt was somehow involved in the
death of your son, or was merely your normal conduct.”