Why didn’t you shoot when they opened the other gate?
You’ll be court-martialed. Why don’t you shoot now? Go
ahead and blow him off that rock. Let’s see you.” She got
impatient again, to me, and scornful: “Do you want your
friend rescued or not?”
I unhooked the gate and swung it open. The bull, quite
a distance away, turned to face us with his head cocked
sidewise. Dave was sputtering and flourishing the gun, but it
was obvious he could be ignored. As the car passed through
— it was a big shiny yellow Wethersill convertible with the
top down — I hopped in, and the girl called to Dave to get
the gate shut in a hurry. The bull, still at a distance, tossed
his head and then lowered it and began pawing. Chunks
of sod flew back under his belly.
I said, “Stop a minute,” and pulled the hand brake. “What
makes you think this will work?”
“I don’t know. We can try it, can’t we? Are you scared?”
“Yes. Take off that red thing.”
“Oh, that’s just superstition.”
“I’m superstitious. Take it off.” I grabbed the collar of
it and she wriggled out and I stuck it behind us. Then I
reached under my coat to my holster and pulled out my
automatic.
She looked at it. “What are you, a spy or something?
Don’t be silly. Do you think you could stop that bull with that
thing?”
“I could try”
“You’d better not, unless you’re prepared to cough up
$45,000”
“Cough what?”
“$45,000. That’s not just a bull, it’s Hickory Caesar Grindon.
Put that thing away and release the brake.”
I looked at her a second and said, “Turn around and get
out of here. I’ll follow instructions and tease him down to
the other end along the fence.”
“No.” She shifted to first and fed gas. “Why should you
have all the fun?” The car moved, and she went into second.
We jolted and swayed. “I wonder how fast I ought to go?
I’ve never saved a man’s life before. It looks from here as it
I’ve picked a funny one to start on. Should I blow the horn?
What do you think? Look at him!”
The bull was playing rocking horse. His hind end would
go down and then bob up in the air while he lowered his
front, with his tail sticking up and his head tossing. He was
facing our way. As we passed him about 30 yards to the
left the girl said, “Look at him! He’s a high school bull!”
The car came up from a hole and nearly bounced me out.
I growled, “Watch where you’re going,” and kept my head
turned toward the bull. He looked as if he could have picked
the car up and carried it on his horns the way an Indian
woman carries a jug. We were approaching the boulder.
She pulled up alongside, missing it by half an inch, came to
a stop, and sang out, “Taxi?”
As Wolfe stepped carefully down from the peak of the
boulder I got out and held the door open. I didn’t offer to take
his elbow to steady him because I saw by the look on his
face that it would only be lighting a fuse. He got to the
edge of the boulder and stood there with his feet at the level
of the running board.
The girl asked, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
Wolfe’s lips twitched a little. “Miss Stanley? How do
you do. My name is Nero Wolfe.”
Her eyes widened. “Good lord! Not the Nero Wolfe?”
“Well … the one in the Manhattan telephone book.”
“Then I did pick a funny one! Get in.”
As he grunted his way into the convertible he observed,
“You did a lot of bouncing. I dislike bouncing.”
She laughed. “I’ll take it easy. Anyway, it’s better than
being bounced by a bull, don’t you think?” I had climbed
to the back of the seat, since Wolfe’s presence left no room
below, and she started off, swinging to the left. I had noticed
that she had good strong wrists and fingers, and with the jacket
off her arms were bare and I could see the rippling of her fore-
arm muscles as she steered expertly to avoid hummocks and
holes. I glanced at the bull and saw he had got tired of
playing rocking horse and was standing with his head up
and his tail down, registering disdain. He looked bigger
than ever. The girl was telling Wolfe, “Stanley would be a
nice name, but mine is Caroline Pratt. Excuse me, I didn’t see
that hole. I’m nothing like as famous as you are, but I’ve been
Metropolitan golf champion for two years. This place seems
to be collecting champions. You’re a champion detective,
and Hickory Caesar Grindon is a National champion bull,
and I’m a golf champion …”
I thought, so that accounts for the wrists and arms, she’s
one of those. When we got to the gate Dave opened it, and
closed it against our tail as we went through. She eased it
along under the trees, with overhanging branches trying to
scrape me off, and finally emerged onto a wide graveled
space in front of a big new concrete building with four
garage doors at one end, where she stopped. Dave had come
hopping along behind us, still lugging the gun, and the girl
in yellow slacks was sauntering our way. I vaulted over the
side of the car to the gravel. The golf champion was inquiring
of Wolfe if she could drop him somewhere, but he already
had his door open and was lifting his bulk to descend, so
she got out. Dave bustled up to Wolfe and began to make de-
mands in a loud voice, but Wolfe gave him an awful look
and told him, “Sir, you are open to prosecution for attempted
murder! I don’t mean the gun, I mean jumping off that fence!”
Then Wolfe walked around the rear of the car and confronted
his rescuer and bowed to her:
“Thank you. Miss Pratt, for having intelligence and for
using it.”
“Don’t mention it. It was a pleasure.”
He grimaced. “Is that bull your property?”
“No, he belongs to my uncle. Thomas Pratt.” She waved
a hand. “This is his place. He’ll be here shortly. Meanwhile
… if I can do anything … do you want some beer?”
“No thanks. I do want beer, but God knows when I’ll
drink beer again. We had an accident. Mr. Goodwin was
unable to restrain our car — I beg your pardon. Miss Pratt, this
is Mr. Goodwin.”
She politely put her hand out and I took it. Wolfe was
repeating, “Mr. Goodwin was unable to restrain our car from
crashing into a tree. After inspecting the damage he claimed
he had run it over glass. He then persuaded me to trespass
in that pasture. It was I, not he, who first saw the bull after
it had emerged from behind the thicket. He boasted complete
ignorance of the way a bull will act—”
I had known when I saw his face as we approached the
boulder that he was going to be childish, but he might at
least have saved it for privacy. I put in brusquely:
“Could I use a telephone?”
“You interrupted Mr. Wolfe.” She was reproving me.
“If he wants to explain—”
“I’ll show you the phone.” It was a voice behind me, and
I turned. The girl in yellow slacks was there close. I realized
with surprise that her head came clear to my chin or above,
and she was blonde but not at all faded, and her dark blue
eyes were not quite open, and one corner of her lips was up
with her smile.
“Come on, Escamillo,” she said, “I’ll show you the phone.”
I told her. Much obliged,” and started off with her
She brushed against me as we walked and said “I’m
Lily Rowan.
“Nice name.” I grinned down at her. “I’m Escamillo
Goodwin.
WOLFE’S VOICE came through the open door,
“What time is it?”
After glancing at my wrist watch where it lay on the
glass shelf I walked out of the bathroom, holding my forearm
steady and level so the iodine would dry where I had dabbed
it on. Stopping in front of the big upholstered chair he was
occupying, I told him:
“3:26. I supposed the beer would buck you up. It’s one
of your lowest points when you haven’t even got enough joy
of life to pull your watch out of your pocket.”
“Joy of life?” He groaned, “With our car demolished, and
those plants in it being suffocated …”
“They’re not being suffocated. I left the window open a
crack on both sides.” I tilted the arm, watching the iodine,
and then let it hang. ‘”Certainly joy of life! Did we get hurt
when we had a front blowout? No. Did the bull get us? No.