a question:
“So you don’t know when your brother left the house?
Left here to go to Pratt’s?”
“No.” She stirred a little, and was still again, and re-
peated, “No.”
“That’s a pity. Didn’t he tell you or your mother that he
was going to Pratt’s?”
“So far as I know, he told no one.”
There was an interruption, a knock at the door. I went to
it and took from Pug-nose a tray with three bottles of beer,
felt one and approved of the temperature, and taxied them
across to Wolfe. He, opening and pouring, asked Nancy if
she would have, and she declined with thanks. He drank,
put down the empty glass, and wiped his lips with his hand-
kerchief.
“Now Miss Osgood,” he said in a new tone.” “I have more
questions to ask of you, but this next is probably the most
material of all. When did your brother tell you how and why
he expected to win his bet with Mr. Pratt?”
She stared a second and said, “He didn’t tell me at all.
What makes you think he did?” It sounded straight to me.
“I thought it likely. Your father says that you and your
brother were very close to each other.”
“We were.”
“But he told you nothing of that wager?”
“He didn’t have to tell me he made it, I heard him. He
didn’t tell me how or why he expected to win it.”
“What was discussed as you rode home from Pratt’s yes-
terday?”
“I don’t know. Nothing in particular.”
“Remarkable. The bizarre wager which had just been
made wasn’t mentioned?”
“No. Mr. Bronson was … well, it only takes a couple of
minutes to drive here from Pratt’s—”
“Mr. Bronson was what?”
“Nothing. He was there, that’s all.”
“Is he an old friend of your brother’s?”
“He’s not—no. Not an old friend.”
“But a friend, I presume, since you and your brother
brought him here?”
“Yes.” She clipped it. She was terrible.
“Is he a friend of yours too?”
“No.” She raised her voice a little. “Why should you ask
me about Mr. Bronson?”
“My dear child.” Wolfe compressed his lips. ‘For heaven’s
sake don’t start that. I am a hired instrument of vengeance
…. hired by your father. Nowadays an Erinys wears a coat
and trousers and drinks beer and works for pay, but the
function is unaltered and should still be performed, if at all,
mercilessly. I am going to find out who killed your brother.
A part of the operation is to prick all available facts. I in-
tend to look into Mr. Bronson as well as everyone else un-
lucky enough to be within range. For example, take Miss
Pratt. Did you approve of your brother’s engagement to marry
Miss Caroline Pratt?”
She stared in consternation, opened her mouth, and closed
it.
Wolfe shook his head at her. “I’m not being wily, to dis-
concert you and corner you. I don’t think I need to; you
have made yourself too vulnerable. To give you an idea, here
are some questions I shall expect you to answer: Why, since
you regard Mr. Bronson with loathing, do you permit him
to remain as a guest in this house? I know you loathe him,
because when he happened to brush against you yesterday on
Mr. Pratt’s terrace you drew away as if slime had touched
your dress. Why would you prefer to have the mystery of
your brother’s death unsolved and to leave the onus to the
bull? I know you would, from the relief on your face this
afternoon when your father’s incivility started me to the
door. Why did you tell me that you didn’t see your brother
after dinner last evening? I know it was a lie, because I was
hearing and seeing you when you said it. You see how you
have exposed yourself?”
Nancy was standing up, and the line of her mouth was
thinner than ever. She took a step and said, “My father …
I’ll see if he wants-”
“Nonsense,” Wolfe snapped. “Please sit down. Why do
you think I had your father leave? Shall I send for him? He
intends to leam who murdered his son, and for the moment
all other considerations surrender to that, even his daughter’s
dignity and peace of mind. You won’t get peace of mind by
concealing things, anyway. You must give satisfactory and
complete answers to those questions, and the easiest way is
here, to me, at once.”
“You can’t do this.” She fluttered a hand. Her chin trembled,
and she steadied it. “Really you can’t. You can’t do this.”
She was beauty in distress if I ever saw it, and if the guy
harassing her had been anybody else I would have smacked
him cold and flung her behind my saddle.
Wolfe told her impatiently, “You see how it is. Sit down.
Confound it, do you want to turn it into a brawl, with
your father here too and both of us shouting at you? You’ll
have to tell these things, for we need to know them, whether
they prove useful or not. You can’t bury them. For example,
your dislike for Mr. Bronson. I can pick up that telephone and
call a man in New York named Saul Panzer, an able and in-
dustrious man, and tell him I want to know all he can dis-
cover about Bronson and you and your brother. You see
how silly it would be to force us to spend that time and
money. What about Mr. Bronson? Who is he?”
“If I told you about Bronson—” She stopped to control
her voice. “I can’t. I promised Clyde I wouldn’t.”
“Clyde is dead. Come, Miss Osgood. Well leam it any-
how, I assure you we will. You know that.”
“I suppose … you will.” She sat down abruptly, buried her
face in her hands, and was rigid. Her muffled voice came:
“Clyde! Clyde!”
“Come.” Wolfe was sharp. “Who is Bronson?”
She uncovered her face slowly, and lifted it. “He’s a
crook.”
“A professional? What’s his specialty?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know him. I only met him a few
days ago. I only know what Clyde—”
She stopped, and gazed at Wolfe’s face as if she was
hoping that something would blot it out but knew that nothing
would. “All right,” she said. “I thought I had enough guts,
but apparently I haven’t. What good will it do? What good
will it do you or Dad or anyone to know that Bronson killed
him?”
“Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Bronson murdered your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Indeed. Did you see it done?”
“No.”
“What was his motive?”
“I don’t know. It couldn’t have been to get the money,
because Clyde didn’t have it.”
Wolfe leaned back and heaved a sigh. “Well,” he murmured.
“I guess we must have it out. What money would Mr. Bron-
son have wanted to get, and why?”
“Money that Clyde owed him.”
“The amount being, I presume, $10,000. Don’t ask me
how I know that, please. And Bronson was insisting on pay-
ment?”
“Yes. That was why he came up here. It was why Clyde
came, too, to try to get the money from Father. He had to pay
it this week or—” She stopped, and stretched out a hand, and
let it fall again. “Please,” she said, pleading. “Please. That’s
what I promised Clyde I wouldn’t tell.”
“The promise died with him,” Wolfe told her. “Believe
me. Miss Osgood, if you weren’t bewildered by shock and
grief you wouldn’t get values confused like this. Was it money
that Clyde had borrowed from Mr. Bronson?”
“No. It was money that Bronson had paid him.”
“What had he paid it for?”
He pulled it out of her, patiently, in pieces. The gist of the
story was short and not very sweet. Clyde had shot his wad
on Lily Rowan, and had followed it with various other wads,
pried loose from his father, requisitioned from his sister,
borrowed from friends. Then he had invited luck to contribute
to the good cause, by sundry methods from crackaloo to
10-cent bridge, and learned too late that luck’s clock was
slow. At a time when he was in up to his nose, a Mr. Howard
Bronson permitted him to inspect a fistful of real money and
expressed a desire to be introduced into certain circles,
including the two most exclusive bridge clubs in New York;
Clyde, with his family connections, having the entree to
about everything from the aquarium up. But Clyde had
needed the dough not some time tomorrow, but now, and
Bronson had given it to him; whereupon Clyde had mollified
a few debts and slid the rest down his favorite chute, before
dawn. Following a lifelong habit, he had confided in his
sister, and her horror added to his own belated reflections
had shown him that in his desperation he had taken an
order which no Osgood could possibly fill. He had so notified