It is obvious at what point such a scheme might have entered
Clyde’s mind. Yesterday afternoon he was sitting on the
pasture fence, looking at Hickory Caesar Grindon through his
binoculars. It occurred to him that there was a bull of similar
general appearance, size and markings, either in his father’s
herd or among the collection at the exposition, which he had
just come from; and that accidental reflection blossomed into
an idea. Chased away from the pasture, he went to the
house and made the wager with Mr. Pratt. Followed from
the terrace to his car by you, he called you aside and made
a proposal.”
Wolfe sighed. “At least he might have. Let’s say his pro-
posal was that he should, with your consent, remove Caesar
and put another bull in his place. He would take Caesar
to the Osgood barns. You would, during Tuesday, help to
guard the substitute so that no one who would be at all
likely to notice the deception would be permitted to approach
too closely. With the substitute once butchered, on Wednes-
day, the danger would of course be over. On Thursday Mr.
Pratt and his guests, with trumpets of publicity, would eat
the barbecued bull. On Sunday, with the week expired,
Clyde would present Mr. Pratt with irrefutable evidence
that it was not Caesar who had been sacrificed and that he
had therefore won the bet. Mr. Pratt would of course ex-
plode with rage, but in the end he would have to compose
himself and admit his helplessness and pay the $10,000, for if
the facts were made public the roar of laughter would obliter-
ate him. Customers in a pratteria would say, ‘Do you suppose
this is really beef? It may be woodchuck.’ Mr. Pratt would
have to pay and keep his mouth shut. He couldn’t even take
Caesar back, for what would he do with him? Clyde Osgood
would get the $10,000, and doubtless a part of his pro-
posal would be that you would get Caesar. I don’t know how
that would work out, since officially Caesar would be dead
but there might be a way around that difficulty, and as a
minimum benefit you could breed his exceptional qualities into
your herd.”
Wolfe intertwined his fingers at his abdominal peak. “That,
of course, is merely the outline of the proposal. Clyde had
probably developed it in detail, including the time and
manner of shuffling the bulls. The most auspicious time for
that would have been after 1 o’clock, when you would be
the one on guard, but you might have refused to involve your-
self to that extent; and therefore one possibility is that the
shuffling was set for earlier and had actually taken place.
Caesar may be alive at this moment. The bull who died of
anthrax may have been only a substitute. I offer that only
as a conjecture; obviously it is tenable only on the supposition
that you agreed to Clyde’s proposal and entered into his
scheme … and you know more about that than I do. But
leaving that entirely aside, what do you think of the scheme
itself? Do you detect any flaws?”
McMillan was eying him with a grim smile. He said calmly,
“You’re slick, aren’t you?”
“Moderately.” White’s eyes closed and came half open
again. “But don’t make the mistake of supposing that I’m
trying to waylay you. I may be passably slick, but my favorite
weapon is candor. Here is my position, sir. I can account satis-
factorily for Clyde’s expectation of winning that bet only by
assuming that he concocted such plan as I have outlined.
If he did so, you either acceded or refused. In either case,
I would like to know what he said. Don’t think I am in-
sulting you by reckoning that you might have withheld facts
from Mr. Waddell. I would myself be reluctant to trust him
with a fact of any delicacy. I appeal to you, did Clyde make
you a proposal, and did you accept or decline?”
McMillan still wore the grim smile. “You’re slick all
right. Maybe the next thing is, did I murder him? Maybe I
murdered him because he insulted me?”
‘Tm never facetious about murder. Besides, I haven’t got
to the murder yet. I need first to justify Clyde’s optimism
about his bet, and establish what he came here to do or
whom to see. Did he make you a proposal?”
“No.” McMillan abruptly stood up.
Wolfe lifted his brows. “Going?”
I don’t see much point in staying. I came as a favor
to Fred Osgood.”
“And as a favor to him, you have no information at all
that might help? Nothing that might explain—”
“No. I can’t explain a damn thing.” The stockman took
three heavy steps and turned. “Neither can you,” he declared,
“by trying to smear any of the mess on me.”
He strode to the door and opened it, and it closed after
him.
Wolfe sighed, shut his eyes, and sat. I stood and looked
at him a minute, detecting none of the subtle signs of glee
or triumph on his map, and then treated myself to a healthy
sigh and got busy with the trays. Not being sure whether a
maid was supposed to be available at 10 o’clock at night,
and not liking to dump the trays in the hall, I got them
perched on my arms and sought the back stairs. That was a
blunder, because the stairs were a little narrow and I nearly
got stuck on a turn. But I navigated to the kitchen without
disaster, unloaded, and proceeded via the pantry and dining
room to the main hall. There was a light in the library, and
through the open door I saw Howard Bronson reading a
newspaper. No one else was visible, and I completed the
circuit back. to Wolfe’s room by way of the main stair.
He was still dormant. I sat down and yawned, and said:
“It is in the; bag. Lily killed him, thinking that by erasing evi-
dence of her past she could purify herself and perhaps some
day be worthy of me. Caroline killed him to practise her
fellow-through. Jimmy killed him to erase Lily’s past, making
twice for that one motive. Pratt killed him to annoy Mr. Os-
good. McMillan killed him because the substitute he brought
for Caesar proved to be a cow. Dave killed him—”
“Confound it, Archie, shut up.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll close it forever and seal the crack with rubber
cement the minute you explain at what time and by what
process you got this nice little case like that.” I doubled my
fist, but the gesture was wasted because he didn’t open his
eyes.
He was in bad shape, for he muttered mildly, “I did
have it like that.”
“What became of it?”
“It went up in fire and smoke.”
“The bull motif again. Phooey. Try and persuade me …
and incidentally, why don’t you stop telling people that I
steered your car into a tree and demolished it? What good
do you expect to accomplish by puerile paroxysms like that?
To go back to this case you’ve dragged us into through your
absolute frenzy to find an adequate chair to sit on, I suppose
now it’s hopeless? I suppose these hicks are going to enjoy
the refreshing sight of Nero Wolfe heading south Thursday
morning with his tail between his legs? Or shall I go on with
the list until I offer one that strikes your fancy? Dave killed
him because he missed breakfast the day he was fired two
years ago and has never caught up. Bronson killed him …
by the way, I just saw Mr. Bronson—”
“Bronson?”
“Yep. In the library reading a newspaper as if he owned
the place.”
“Go and get him.” Wolfe stirred and his eyes threatened
to open. “Bring him here.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
I arose and sallied forth. But on my way downstairs it oc-
curred to me that I might as well make arrangements in case
of a prolonged session, so I went to the kitchen first and ab-
ducted a pitcher of Advanced Register Guernsey milk from the
refrigerator. With that in my hand, I strutted on to the library
and told Bronson I hated to interrupt him but that Mr. Wolfe
had expressed a desire for his company.
He looked amused and put down his newspaper and said
he had begun to fear he was going to be slighted.
“No sirree,” I said. “He’ll banish that fear easy.”
13
HE SAT in the chair McMillan had vacated and
continued to look tolerably amused. Wolfe, im-
movable, with his eyes nearly shut, appeared to be more than
half asleep, which may or may not have deceived Bronson
but didn’t deceive me. I yawned. With the angle of the light
striking Bronson as it did, his nose looked blunter than it had
on the veranda, as if it had at some time been permanently