“I don’t claim anything.” McMillan lifted his sagging shoul-
ders. “Don’t get me wrong, Fred. I told you I came to see
you because the others, except Pratt, were afraid to. I don’t
claim anything. What they say is this, that the main difficulty
with supposing that Clyde climbed into the pasture himself
was to try to figure what for. I said myself this morning that
it was dumb as hell for anybody to imagine that he went
in there to get the bull, because that would have been
plain crazy and Clyde wasn’t a lunatic. What could he have
intended to do with him? You can’t hide a bull in a barrel.
But when Caesar was found dead of anthrax … it was
Captain Barrow who suggested it first as a possibility …
that might account for Clyde entering the pasture. As you
know, anthrax can be communicated subcutaneously, or by
contact, or by ingestion. If Caesar was fed something last
night, something that had been activated … well …”
Involuntarily I hunched forward and drew my feet under
me, ready to move. Frederick Osgood was stiff, and his
eyes glassy, with cold rage. His chronic scowl had been merely
funny, but he didn’t look funny now. He said in a composed
and icy tone:
“Look out, Monte. By God, look out. If you’re suggesting
that my son deliberately poisoned that bull …”
McMillan said gruffly, “I’m not suggesting anything. I’ve
told you I came here as a messenger. The fact is, I wanted to
come, because I thought you ought to be warned by a friend.
Waddell’s attitude, and Captain Barrow’s, is that it was you
who insisted on an investigation, and if there is any part of it
you don’t like you’ve got yourself to thank for it. Anyhow,
they’ll be here any minute now, with the idea of finding out
where Clyde had been the past few days and whether he
had access, or could have had access, to any source of an-
thrax.”
“Anybody who comes here—” Osgood had to stop to
control his voice “—with that idea can go away again. So
can you. It … it’s infamous.” He began to tremble. “By
God-”
“Mr. Osgood!” It was Wolfe, using his sharpest tone.
“Didn’t I warn you? I said annoyance, intrusion, plague.
Mr. McMillan is perfectly correct, you have yourself to thank
for it.”
“But I don’t have to tolerate—”
“Oh yes you do. Anything from inanity to malevolence,
though I doubt if we’re dealing with the latter in this in-
stance. I don’t know Captain Barrow, but I can see Mr.
Waddell, like a befuddled trout, leaping for such a fly as this
in all innocence. It is amazing with what frivolity a mind like
his can disregard a basic fact—in this case the fact that Clyde
was not killed by the bull. I entreat you to remember what I
said about our needing Mr. Waddell. It is really fortunate he’s
coming here, for now we can get information that we need
without delay. If first you must submit to an inquiry which
you regard as monstrous, you will do so because it is neces-
sary. They represent authority … and here they are, I
suppose …”
There was a sound of wheels crunching gravel, and a car
swung into view on the drive and rolled to a stop at the foot
of the veranda steps. First out was a state cossack in uniform,
a captain, looking grim and unflinching, and following him
appeared the district attorney, trying to look the same. They
came up the steps and headed for the group.
I missed that battle. Wolfe got up from his chair and
started off, and, seeing that he had his handkerchief in his
hand, I arose and followed him. With a nod to Waddell as
we passed he went on, entered the house, stopped in the
main hall, turned to me and told me to wait there for him,
and/disappeared in the direction of the library. I stood and
wondered what was causing all his violent commotion.
In a few minutes he came back looking disgruntled. He
frowned at me and muttered, “Entirely too fast for us, Archie.
We are being made to look silly. We may even have been out-
witted. I got Mr. Bennett on the telephone, but drew a
blank. Did you bring a camera along?”
“No.”
“After this always have one. Take a car and get over there.
Someone there must have a camera—the niece or nephew or
Miss Rowan. Borrow it and take pictures of the carcass from
all angles … a dozen or more, as many as you can get
Hurry, before they get that fire started.”
I made myself scarce. It sounded fairly loco. As I trotted
out to where Osgood’s sedan was still parked, and got in
and got it going, my mind was toying with theories that would
account for Wolfe’s sudden passion for photography, but I
couldn’t concoct one that wasn’t full of holes. For instance,
if all he wanted was to have it on record that the bull’s face
was comparatively clean, why pictures from all angles? I
devised others, wilder and more elaborate, during the four
minutes it took to drive to the highway and along it for a
mile to Pratt’s place, but none was any good. At the entrance
to the drive a state cop stopped me and I told him I was
sent by Waddell.
I parked in the space in front of the garage, alongside
the yellow Wethersill standing there, and jumped out and
headed for the house. But I was only halfway there when I
heard a call:
“Hey! Escamillo!”
I turned and saw Lily Rowan horizontal, lifted onto an
elbow, on a canvas couch under a maple tree. I trotted over
to her, telling her on the way:
“Hullo, plaything. I want to borrow a camera.”
“My lord,” she demanded, “am I such a pretty sight that
you just have to—”
“No. This is serious and urgent. Have you got a camera?”
“Oh, I see. You came from the Osgoods. Oh, I knew you
were there. It’s that yellow-eyed Nancy—”
“Cut it. I tell you I’m serious. I want to take a picture of
the bull before they get their—”
“What bull?”
“The bull.”
“Good heavens. What a funny job you have. No one
will ever take another picture of that bull. They’ve started
the fire.”
“Goddam it! Where?”
“Down at the other end …”
I was off on the lope, which may have been dumb, but I
was in the throes of emotion. I heard her clamoring, “Wait!
Escamillo! I’m coming along!” but I kept going. Leaving the
lawn, as I passed the partly dug pit for the barbecue, I could
smell the smoke, and soon I could see it, above the clump
of birches towards the far end of the pasture. I slowed to a
trot and cussed out loud as I went.
There was quite a group there, 15 or 20 besides the ones
tending the fire. I joined them unnoticed. A length of the
fence had been torn down and we stood back of the gap.
Apparently Hickory Caesar Grindon had had a ring built
around him of good dry wood, in ample quantity, for there
was so much blaze that you could only catch an occasional
glimpse of what was left of him between the tongues of flame.
It was hot as the devil, even at the distance we were stand-
ing. Four or five men in shirt sleeves, with sweat pouring
from them, were throwing on more wood from nearby piles.
The group of spectators stood, some silent, some talking. I
heard a voice beside me:
“I thought maybe you might get around.”
I turned for a look. “Oh, hello, Dave. What made you think
I’d be here?”
“Nothin’ particular, only you seem like a feller that likes
to be around where things is goin’ on.” He pinched at his
nose. “I’ll be demed if it don’t smell like a barbecue. Same
smell exactly. You might close your eyes and think he was
bein’ et.”
“Well, he’s not. He won’t-be.”
“He sure won’t.” Silence, while we watched the flames.
In a little he resumed, “You know, it gets you thinkin’, a sight
like that, denied if it don’t. A champion bull like that Caesar
bein’ burnt up with scorn. It’s ignominious. Ain’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Yes it is.” He pinched his nose again. “Do you read
pohtry?”
“No. Neither do you.”
“The hell I don’t. A book my daughter give me one
Christmas I’ve read twenty times, parts of it more. In one
place it says I sometimes think that never grows so red the
rose as where some buried Caesar bled.’ Of course this
Caesar’s bein’ burnt instead of buried, but there’s a con-
nection if you can see it.”
I made a fitting reply and shoved off. There was no per-