would not barbecue Hickory Caesar Grindon this week?”
“No. Not then. Not until my daughter told me afterwards
… after Clyde was dead.”
“Didn’t Mr. Pratt tell you on the phone?”
“I didn’t give him a chance. When I learned that Clyde
had been to Tom Pratt’s place and made a bet with him, and
that Pratt had the insolence to ask me to stand good for my
son—what do you think? Was I going to ask the dog for de-
tails? I told him that any debt my son might ever owe him,
for a bet or anything else, or for $10,000 or ten times that,
would be instantly paid, and I hung up.”
“Didn’t your son tell you what the bet was about when
he got home a little later?”
“No. There was another scene. Since you have … you
might as well have all of it. When Clyde appeared I was
furious, and I demanded … I was in a temper, and that
roused his, and he started to walk out. I accused him of be-
traying me. I accused him of arranging a fake bet with Pratt
and getting Pratt to phone me, so that I would have to pay it,
and then Pratt would hand him the money. Then he did
walk out. As I said, I didn’t find out until afterwards what
the bet was about or how it was made. I left the house and
got in a car and drove over the other side of Crowfield to the
place of an old friend of mine. I didn’t want to eat dinner at
home. Clyde’s friend, this Bronson, was here, and my daugh-
ter and my wife … and my presence wouldn’t make it a
pleasant meal. It was already unpleasant enough. When I got
back, after ten o’clock, there was no one around but my
wife, and she was in her room crying. About half an hour
later the phone call came from Pratt’s—his nephew. I went.
That was where I had to go to find my son dead.”
Wolfe sat looking at him, and after a moment sighed.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “I mean it’s too bad that you were
away from home, and weren’t on speaking terms with your
son. I had hoped to learn from you what time he left the
house, and under what circumstances, and what he may
have said of his destination and purpose. You can’t tell me
that.”
“Yes, I can. My daughter and Bronson have told me—”
“Pardon me. If you don’t mind, I’d rather hear it from
them. What time is it, Archie?”
I told him, ten after five.
“Thank you. —You realize, Mr. Osgood, that we’re fishing
in a big stream. This is your son’s home, hundreds of people
in this county know him, one or more of them may have
hated or feared him enough to want him dead, and almost
anyone could have got to the far end of the pasture without
detection, despite the fact that my assistant had the pasture
under surveillance. It was a dark night. But we’ll extend our
field only if we’re compelled to; let’s finish with those known
to be present. Regarding motive, what about Mr. McMillan?”
“None that I know of. I’ve known Monte McMillan all my
life; his place is up at the north end of the county. Even if
he had caught Clyde trying some fool trick with the bull –
my God, Monte wouldn’t murder him … and you say
yourself—”
“I know. Clyde wasn’t caught doing that.” Wolfe sighed.
“That seems to cover it. Pratt, McMillan, the nephew, the
niece. Miss Rowan … and on motive you offer no indict-
ment. I suppose, since this place is at a distance of only a
mile or so from Mr. Pratt’s, which might fairly be called
propinquity, we should include those who were here. What
about Mr. Bronson?”
“I don’t know him. He came with Clyde and was intro-
duced as a friend.”
“An old friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never saw him or heard of him before?”
“No.”
“What about the people employed here? There must be
quite a few. Anyone with a grudge against your son?”
“No. Absolutely not. For three years he more or less super-
vised things here for me, and he was competent and had their
respect, and they all liked him. Except—” Osgood stopped
abruptly, and was silent, suspended, with his mouth open.
Then he said, “Good God, I’ve just remembered … but no,
that’s ridiculous .. .”
“What is?”
“Oh … a man who used to work here. Two years ago one
of our best cows lost her calf and Clyde blamed this man
and fired him. The man has done a lot of talking ever since,
denying it was his fault, and making some wild threats I’ve
been told about. The reason I think of it now … he’s over at
Pratt’s place. Pratt hired him last spring. His name is Dave
Smalley.”
“Was he there last night?”
“I presume so. You can find out.”
I put in an oar: “Sure he was. You remember Dave, don’t
you? How he resented your using that rock as a waiting
room?”
Wolfe surveyed me. “Do you mean the idiot who waved
the gun and jumped down from the fence?”
“Yep. That was Dave.”
“Pfui.” Wolfe almost spat. “It won’t do, Mr. Osgood. You
remarked, correctly, that the murderer had brains and nerve
and luck. Dave is innocent.”
“He’s done a lot of talking.”
“Thank God I didn’t have to listen to it.” Wolfe stirred
in the big comfortable chair. “We must get on. I offer an
observation or two before seeing your daughter. First, I
must warn you of the practical certainty that the official theory
will be that your son did enter the pasture to molest the
bull, in spite of my demonstration to Mr. Waddell. They will
learn that Clyde bet Mr. Pratt that he would not barbecue
Hickory Caesar Grfndon this week. They will argue that all
Clyde had to do to win the bet was to force a postponement
of the feast for five days, and he might have tried that.
They will be fascinated by the qualification this week. It
is true that there is something highly significant in the way
the terms of the bet were stated, but they’ll miss that.”
“What’s significant about it? It was a damned silly—”
“No. Permit me. I doubt if it was silly. I’ll point it out
to you when I’m ready to interpret it. Second, whatever line
Mr. Waddell takes should have our respectful attention. If
he offends, don’t in your arrogance send him to limbo, for
we can use his facts. Many of them. We shall want, for in-
stance, to know what the various persons at Mr. Pratt’s house
were doing last night between 9 o’clock and 10:30. I don’t
know, because at 9 o’clock I felt like being alone and went
up to my room to read. We shall want to know what the
doctor says about the probable time of your son’s death.
The presumption is that it was not more than, say 15 minutes,
before Mr. Goodwin arrived on the spot, but the doctor may
be helpful. We shall want to know whether my conclusions
have been supported by such details as the discovery of blood
residue in the grass by the hose nozzle, and on the pick
handle, et cetera. Third, I’d like to repeat a question which
you evaded a while ago. Why do you hate Mr. Pratt?”
“I didn’t evade it. I merely said it has no bearing on this.”
‘Tell me anyway. Of course I’m impertinent, but I’ll have
to decide if I’m also irrelevant.”-
Osgood shrugged. “It’s no secret. This whole end of the
state knows it, I don’t hate him, I only feel contempt for him.
As I told you, his father was one of my father’s stablehands.
As a boy Tom was wild, and aggressive, but he had ambition,
i£ you want to call it that. He courted a young woman in the
neighborhood and persuaded her to agree to marry him. I
came home from college, and she and I were mutually at-
tracted, and I married her. Tom went to New York and
never made an appearance around here. Apparently he was
nursing a grievance all the time, for about eight years ago
he began to make a nuisance of himself. He had made a lot
of money, and he used some of it and all his ingenuity con-
cocting schemes to pester and injure me. Then two years ago
he bought that land next to mine, and built on it, and that
made it worse.”
“Have you tried retaliation?”
“If I ever tried retaliation it would be with a horsewhip.
I ignore him.”
“Not a democratic weapon, the whip. Yesterday afternoon
your son accused him of projecting the barbecue as an