Did you shoot at Caesar? Where is he?” I said I didn’t know.
Bert came trotting up with a big electric lantern. Dave ap-
peared out of the darkness, with overalls on top of a night-
shirt, carrying the shotgun. McMillan came back from some-
where and said the bull was up along the fence and should
be tied up before the rest of us entered the pasture, and he
couldn’t find the tie-rope that had been left hanging on the
fence and had I seen it or anyone else. We said no, and
McMillan said any strong rope would do, and Dave volun-
teered to bring one. I climbed up on the fence and sat there,
and Caroline asked me something, I don’t know what, and I
shook my head at her.
It was after Dave had returned with some rope, and
McMillan had gone off with it and come back in a few minutes
and said the bull was tied up and we could go ahead, that
I became aware that Nero Wolfe had joined us. I heard
my name, and turned my head in surprise, and there he
was, with his hat on and carrying his applewood stick, peer-
ing up at me where I was still sitting on the fence.
“You’re not using that flashlight,” he said. “May I borrow
it?”
I demanded, “How did you get here without a light?”
“I walked. I heard shots and wondered about you. As
I passed by, Mr. McMillan was tying the bull to the fence
and he told me what had happened—or at least, what had
been found. By the way, perhaps I should warn you once
again to control the exuberance of your professional instincts.
It would be inconvenient to get involved here.”
“What would I be doing with professional instincts?”
“Oh. You’ve had a shock. When you regain your senses,
be sure you regain your discretion also.” He stuck out a hand.
“May I have the light?”
I handed it to him, and he turned and went, along the fence.
Then I heard McMillan calling to me to come and help, so
I slid into the pasture on stiff knees and made myself walk
back over there. Dave had brought a roll of canvas, and
Jimmy and McMillan were spreading it on the ground while
Pratt and Dave and Bert stood and looked on, Bert holding
the electrice lantern.
Pratt said in a shaky voice, “We shouldn’t … if there’s
any chance … are you sure he’s dead?”
McMillan, jerking at the canvas, answered him. “You got
any eyes? Look at him.” He sounded as if someone had hurt
his feelings. “Give us some help, will you, Goodwin? Take
his feet. We’ll ease him onto the canvas and then we can all
get hold. We’d better go through the gate.”
I tightened my belly muscles again and moved.
We all helped with the carrying except Dave, who went
on ahead to get the gate open. As we passed where the bull
was tied he twisted his head around to look at us. Outside
the pasture we put it down a minute to change holds and
then picked it up again and went on. On the terrace there
was hesitation and discussion of where to put it, when
Caroline suddenly appeared and directed us to the room
off of the living room that had a piano in it, and we saw
that she had spread some sheets over the divan at one end.
We got it deposited and stretched out, but left the flaps of
the canvas covering it, and then stood back and stretched
our fingers, nobody looking at anybody.
Dave said, “I never seen such a sight.” He looked in-
complete without the shotgun. “Godalmighty, I never seen
anything like it.”
“Shut up,” Pratt told him. Pratt looked sick. He began
pulling at his lower lip again. “Now we’ll have to telephone
… we’ll have to notify the Osgoods. All right. A doctor too.
We have to notify a doctor anyway. Don’t we?”
Jimmy took hold of his uncle’s elbow. “Brace up. Uncle
Tom. It wasn’t your fault. What the hell was he doing in that
pasture? Go get yourself a drink. I’ll do the phoning.”
Bert bustled out as soon as he heard the word “drink.”
Caroline had disappeared again. The others shuffled their feet.
I left them and went upstairs.
In our room Wolfe was in the comfortable upholstered
chair, under a reading lamp, with one of the books we had
brought along. Knowing my step, he didn’t bother to glance
up as I entered and crossed to the bathroom—we might have
been at home in the office. I took off my shirt to scrub my
hands and splash cold water over my face, then put it on
again, and my necktie and coat, and went out and sat on the
edge of a straight-backed chair.
Wolfe let his eyes leave the page long enough to ask,
“Not going to bed? You should. Relax. I’ll stop reading
shortly. It’s eleven o’clock.”
“Yeah, I know it is. There’ll be a doctor coming, and before
he gives a certificate he’ll probably want to see me. I was
first on the scene.”
He grunted and returned to his reading. I stayed on
the edge of the chair and returned to my thoughts. I don’t
know when I began it, since it was unconscious, or how
long I kept it up, but when Wolfe spoke again I became
aware that I had been rubbing the back of my left hand with
the finger tips of my right as I sat staring at various spots
on the floor.
“You should realize, Archie, that that is very irritating.
Rubbing your hand indefinitely like that.”
I said offensively, “You’ll get used to it in time.”
He finished a paragraph before he dog-eared a page and
closed the book, and sighed. “What is it, temperament? It
was a shock, of course, but you have seen violence before,
and the poor monstrosity life leaves behind when it departs—”
“I can stand the monstrosity. Go ahead and read your
book. At present I’m low, but I’ll snap out of it by morning.
Down there you mentioned professional instinct. I may be
short on that, but you’ll allow me my share of professional
pride. I was supposed to be keeping an eye on that bull,
wasn’t I? That was my job, wasn’t it? And I sat over by
the roadside smoking cigarettes while he killed a man.”
“You were guarding the bull, not the man. The bull is
intact.”
“Much obliged for nothing. Phooey. You’re accustomed
to feeling pleased because you’re Nero Wolfe, aren’t you?
All right, on my modest scale I permit myself a similar feel-
ing about Archie Goodwin. When did you ever give me an
errand that you seriously expected me to perform and I
didn’t perform it? I’ve got a right to expect that when Archie
Goodwin is told to watch a pasture and see that nothing
happens to a bull, nothing will happen. And you tell me that
nothing happened to the bull, the bull’s all right, he just
killed a man … what do you call that kind of suds?”
“Sophistry. Casuistry. Ignoratio elenchi.”
“Okay, I’ll take all three.”
“It’s the feeling that you should have prevented the bull
from killing a man that has reduced you to savagery.”
“Yes. It was my job to keep things from happening in
that pasture.”
“Well.” He sighed. “To begin with, will you never learn
to make exact statements? You said that I told you the bull
killed a man. I didn’t say that. If I did say that, it wouldn’t
be true. Mr. Osgood was almost certainly murdered, but not
by a bull.”
I goggled at him. “You’re crazy. I saw it.”
“Suppose you tell me what you did see. I’ve had no de-
tails from you, but I’ll wager you didn’t see the bull impale
Mr. Osgood, alive, on his horns. Did you?”
“No. When I got there he was pushing at him on the
ground. Not very hard. Playing with him. I didn’t know
whether he was dead or not, so I climbed the fence and
walked over and when I was ten feet away—”
Wolfe frowned. “You were in danger. Unnecessarily. The
man was dead.”
“I couldn’t tell. I fired in the air, and the bull beat it,
and I took a look. I didn’t have to apply any tests. And now
you have the nerve to say the bull didn’t kill him. What
are you trying to do, work up a case because business has
been bad?”
“No. I’m trying to make you stop rubbing the back of
your hand so I can finish this chapter before going to bed.
I’m explaining that Mr. Osgood’s death was not due to your
negligence and would have occurred no matter where you
were, only I presume the circumstances would have been