He turned his head and bawled, “Bert!” Back to Wolfe:
“Well, she knows as much about it as anyone. She worked in
my office three years. Somehow she got started playing golf,
and she got good at it, and I figured it would be good
publicity to have a golf champion for a niece, and she made it.
That’s better than anything she could do in the office. And
better than anything her brother could do. My only nephew,
and no good for anything at all. Are you. Jimmy?”
The young man grinned at him. “Not worth a damn.”
“Yes, but you don’t mean it, and I do. Just/because your
father and mother died when you were young … why
I keep spending money on you is beyond me. It’s about
my only weakness. And when I think that my will leaves
everything to you and your sister only because there’s no
one else in sight… it makes me hope I will never die. What
do you call it? Immortality. When I think what you would
do with a million dollars … let me ask you, Mr. Wolfe,
what is your opinion of architecture?”
“Well … I like this house.”
Jimmy cackled, “Ha! Wowie!”
His uncle disregarded him and cocked an eye at Wolfe.
“You do actually? My nephew there designed it. It was only
finished last year. I came originally from this part of the
country … was born on this spot in an old shack. There is
absolutely no money in architecture and never will be …
I’ve looked into it. Where a nephew of mine ever got the
idea …”
He went on and on, and Wolfe placidly opened another
bottle of beer. I myself wasn’t doing so bad, because it was by
no means pratteria Scotch in my highball, and I had nearly
finished my second one, and was so seated that I could take
in the blonde on the canvas swing, with all her convolutions
and what not. I quit listening to Pratt entirely, and got to
wondering idly which was the more desirable quality in a
girl, the ability to look as inviting as that stretched out on
canvas, or the ability to save a man from a bull, and went
on from that to something else, no matter what, when all
of a sudden the pleasant sociable gathering was rudely in-
terrupted. Four men came swinging around the corner of the
house and tramped across the terrace. With a dim memory of
our host’s remark about being hounded around the fair
grounds, and a dim idea that the look on their faces meant
trouble, my hand was inside my coat touching my holster
before I knew it, then I came to and pretended I needed
to scratch my shoulder.
Pratt had jumped up and was using all his narrow forehead
for a ferocious scowl, facing the intruders. The foremost,
a wiry little item with a thin nose and sharp dark eyes,
stopped right in front of him and told his face, “Well, Mr.
Pratt, I think I’ve got it worked out to satisfy you.”
“I’m already satisfied. I told you.”
“But we’re not.” The keen eyes darted around. “If you’d
let me explain the arrangement I’ve been able—”
“It’s a waste of time, Mr. Bennett. I’ve told you—”
“Permit me.” The tone was brusque, and came from a
solid-looking bird in a gray sport suit that was a dream, with
the fitting accessories, including driving gloves’ on a warm
day. “You’re Pratt? Lew Bennett here has talked me into this,
and I have to get back to Crowfield and out again for New
York. I’m Cullen.”
Bennett said nervously, “Daniel Cullen.”
“Oh.” Pratt looked interested and a little awed. “This is
an honor, Mr. Cullen. My little place here. Sit down. Have
a highball? Jimmy, push up some more chairs. No, you folks
stay. Here, Mr. Cullen, meet my niece …” He did introductions
all around, including titles and occupations. It appeared
that Lew Bennett was the secretary of the National Guernsey
League. The name of the big-boned guy with scraggly hair
and a big tired face was Monte McMillan. Daniel Cullen,
of course, was Daniel Cullen, just as J. P. Morgan is J. P.
Morgan. The fourth one, who looked even tireder than Monte
McMillan, was Sidney Darth, chairman of the North Atlantic
Exposition Board. Bert was called and sent for drinks.
Lily Rowan sat up to make room on the swing, and I noticed
that Jimmy Pratt copped the place next to her. She looked
around at the newcomers as if she was bored.
Lew Bennett was saying, “Mr. Cullen’s in a hurry to get
back, and I’m confident, Mr. Pratt, you’ll appreciate what
he’s doing as well as we do. You won’t lose a cent. It will
be a happy outcome—”
“I want to say it’s a damned outrage!” It was Cullen,
glowering at Pratt. “It ought to be actionable! Where the
devil!”
“Excuse me,” Bennett put in hastily. “I’ve been all over
that aspect of it, Mr. Cullen, and if Mr. Pratt doesn’t see it
our way … he just doesn’t. It’s quite useless … what
I mean to say is, thank God you’ve come to the rescue.”
He turned to Pratt. “The arrangement is simply this, that
Mr. Cullen has generously agreed to take Hickory Caesar
Grindon.”
Pratt grunted, then was silent. After a moment he asked
sullenly, “What does he want with him?”
Bennett looked shocked. “He has one of the finest purebred
Guernsey herds in the country.”
Cullen growled, “You understand, Pratt, I don’t need him.
My senior herd sire is Mahwah Gallant Masterson who has
43 A R daughters. I have three junior sires who are lined out.
I’m doing this as a favor to the breed and to the National
Guernsey League.”
Bennett said, “About the arrangement. Mr. Cullen is quite
correct when he says he doesn’t really need Caesar. He is
acting very generously, but he isn’t willing to pay you the sum
you paid McMillan. I know, you’ve told me you offered it
and you paid it and you’re satisfied, but the fact remains that
$45,000 is a terrific price tor any bull. Why, Coldwater
Grandee himself sold for $33,000 in 1932, and great as
Caesar is, he isn’t Grandee. In 1932 Grandee had 127 A R
daughters and 15 A R sons. So the arrangement is this: Mr.
Cullen will pay you $33,000, and Monte – Mr. McMillan will
return $12,000 of the sum you paid him. You’ll get all your
money back. It can be paid now with Mr. Cullen’s check,
which I guess you know is good, and there’ll be a truck here
before dark to get Caesar. Mr. Cullen wants to show him at
Crowfield Thursday, if he can be got in shape. I hope he’s not
upset. I understand you’ve got him in a pasture.”
Pratt turned on McMillan. “You told me this noon that
you regarded the deal as closed for good and you wouldn’t
be a party to any effort to cancel it,”
“I know I did.” McMillan couldn’t keep his hand from
trembling a little as he put down his drink. “They’ve been
riding me … they’ve been … I’m an old Guernsey man,
Mr. Pratt.”
“You should be ashamed to admit it!” Cullen exploded.
“They should expel you from the league and freeze you out!
Pratt doesn’t know any better, he has that excuse at least.
But you haven’t! You knew what was going to happen to
that bull before you sold him!”
“Sure.” McMillan nodded wearily. “It’s easy for you to
talk, Mr. Cullen. What have you got, a couple of billion?
What I had, after what the depression did to me, was my
herd and nothing else. Just my herd. Then the anthrax came,
only a month ago, and in one week what did I have? What did
I have left out of my Hickory herd? Four calves, six cows,
one junior sire, and Caesar. What could I do with Caesar
under those conditions? Live on his fees? Where would that
get me? I couldn’t even buy grades to breed him to, let
alone purebreds. I knew no stockman could pay high enough
for him, so I sent telegrams offering him to a dozen of you
gentlemen breeders, and what did I get? You all knew I was
out on a limb, and the best offer was $9000! For Hickory
Caesar Grindon, Then Mr. Pratt shows up and he tells me
straight what he wants to do with Caesar, and of course I
knew it was impossible, even in the fix I was in, but it was
a temptation, so to get rid of him I set a figure so high it was
ridiculous. $45,000” McMillan picked up his glass, looked
into it, and put it down again. He said quietly, “Mr. Pratt
took out his checkbook and wrote out a check and I took it.