“Did Clyde Osgood tell you how and why he expected
to win the bet?”
“No.”
“Or what he intended to do at Pratt’s or whom he expected
to see there?”
“No.”
“Did he make any remark, drop any hint, that led you to
guess?”
“No.”
“You’re making a bad blunder.”
“No, I’m not. I may be getting in bad with you, but I can’t
help it. For God’s sake—”
“Shut up. You’re a fool after all.” Wolfe turned and snapped
at me: “Archie, get that paper.”
He might have prepared me by one swift glance before
putting it into words, but when I complained to him about
such things he always said that my speed and wit required
no preparation, and I retorted that I could put up with less
sarcastic flattery and more regard for my convenience.
On this occasion it didn’t matter much. Bronson was about
my size but I doubted if he was tough. However, it was a
murder case, and Wolfe had just been insinuating that this
gentleman had been on the scene of hostilities with a club
in his hand, so I got upright and across to his neighborhood
quick enough to forestall any foolish motions he might make.
I stuck my hand out and said:
“Gimme.”
He shook his head and got up without haste, kicking his
chair back without looking at it, looking instead at me with
his eyes still steady and clever.
“This is silly,” he said. “Damned silly. You can’t bluff me
like this.”
I asked without turning my head, “Do you want it, Mr.
Wolfe?”
“Get it.”
“Okay. -Reach for the moon. I’ll help myself.”
“No you won’t.” His eyes didn’t nicker. “If you try taking
it away from me, I won’t fight. I’m not much of a coward,
but I’m not in condition and I’d be meat for you. Instead
I’ll yell, and Osgood will come, and of course he’ll want a
look at the paper that’s causing the trouble.” He smiled.
“You will?”
“I will.”
“Back at you. If you do, I’ll show you how I make sausage.
I warn you, one bleat and I’ll quit only when the ambulance
comes. After Osgood reads the paper he’ll offer to pay me
to do it again. Hold that pose.”
I started to reach, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t try a dive
with his knee up, and without flashing a flag. He was- fairly
quick, but I side-stepped in time. It wasn’t absolutely essen-
tial to punch him, but a guy as tricky as he was needed a
lesson anyway, so I let him have it, a good stiff hook that
lifted him out of his dive and turned him over. I was beside
him, bending over him, by the time he got his eyes open again.
“Stay there,” I told him. “I don’t know which pocket it’s in.
Do you think you can remember that? If so, gimme.”
His hand started for his inside breast pocket, and I reached
in ahead of him and pulled out something that proved to be
a handsome brown leather wallet with a monogram on it in
platinum or maybe tin. He grabbed for it and I jerked away
and told him to get up and sit down, and backed off a little
to examine the loot.
“My word.” I whistled. “Here’s an accumulation of cur-
rency out of all proportion. A couple of thousand or more.
Pipe down, you. I don’t steal from blackguards. But I don’t
see … ah, here we are. Secret compartments you might say.”
I unfolded it and ran my eye over it, and handed it to Wolfe.
“Return the balance?”
He nodded, reading. I handed the wallet back to Bronson,
who was back on his feet. He looked a little disarranged, but
he met my eye as he took the wallet from me, and I had to
admit there was something to him, although misplaced; it isn’t
usual to meet the eye of a bird who has just knocked you
down and made you like it. Wolfe said, “Here, Archie,” and
handed me the paper, and from my own breast pocket I took
the brown ostrich cardcase, gold-tooled, given to me by
Wolfe on a birthday, in which I carried my police and fire
cards and operator’s license. I slipped the folded paper in-
side and returned it to my pocket.
Wolfe said, “Mr. Bronson. There are other questions I
meant to ask, such as the purpose of your trip to Mr. Pratt’s
place this afternoon, but it would be futile. I am even begin-
ning to suspect that you are now engaged in an enterprise
which may prove to be a bigger blunder than your conduct
here with me. As for the paper Mr. Goodwin took from you,
I guarantee that within 10 days you will get it back, or your
money. Don’t try any stratagems. I’m mad enough already.
Good night, sir.”
“I repeat … I’ve told you …”
“I don’t want to hear it. You’re a fool. Good night.”
Bronson went.
Wolfe heaved a deep sigh. I poured out a glass of milk,
and sipped, and saw that he had an eye cocked at me. In
a minute he murmured:
“Archie. Where did you get that milk?”
“Refrigerator.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“Yes, sir. There’s 5 or 6 bottles in there. Shall I bring you
one?”
“You might have saved yourself a trip.” His hand dived
into his side coat pocket and came out clutching a flock of
beer bottle caps. He opened his fist and counted them, frown-
ing, and told me, “Bring two.”
AT 10 O’CLOCK the next morning, Wednesday, a
motley group piled into Osgood’s sedan, bound for
Crowfield. All except Nero Wolfe looked the worse for wear—
I couldn’t say about me. Osgood was seedy and silent, and
during a brief talk with Wolfe had shown an inclination to
bite. Bronson no longer looked disarranged, having again
donned the Crawnley suit he had worn Monday, but the right
side of his jaw was swollen and he was sullen and not amused.
Nancy, who took the wheel again, was pale and had blood-
shot eyes and moved in jerks. She had already made one trip
to Crowfield and back, for a couple of relatives at the rail-
road station. The funeral was to be Thursday afternoon, and
the major influx of kin would be 24 hours later. Apparently
Wolfe had changed his mind about immediately relieving
the pressure on the woman he admired, for I had been in-
structed that there was no hurry about telling Miss Osgood
that the paper her brother had signed was in my possession.
Which, considering how I had got it, was in my judgment
just as well.
During the 30-minute drive to Crowfield no one said a
word, except for a brief discussion between Osgood and
Nancy to arrange for meeting later in the day, after errands
had been performed. First we dropped Osgood on Main Street
in front of an establishment with palms and ferns in the win-
dow and a small sign painted down in a corner which said
Somebody or other, MORTICIAN. Our next stop was two
blocks down, at the hotel, where Bronson left us, in a dismal
all-around silence and unfriendly atmosphere that is prob-
ably the chief occupational hazard of the blackguard business.
Nancy muttered at me, “Thompson’s Garage, isn’t it?” and
I told her yes, and three minutes later she let me out there,
around on a side street, the idea being that since there might
be a delay about the car she would proceed to deliver Wolfe
at the exposition grounds, for which I was grateful, not want-
ing him muttering around underfoot.
The hill was $66.20, which was plenty, even including
the towing in. Of course there was no use beefing, so I con-
tented myself with a thorough inspection to make sure every-
thing was okay, filled up with gas and oil; paid in real money,
and departed.
Then I was supposed to find Lew Bennett, secretary of the
National Guernsey League. I tried the hotel and drew a blank,
and wasted 20 minutes in a phone booth, being met with busy
lines, wrong numbers, and general ignorance. There seemed
to be an impression that he was somewhere at the exposition,
so I drove out there and after a battle got the car parked in
one of the spaces reserved, for exhibitors. I plunged into the
crowd, deciding to start at the exposition offices, where I
learned that this was a big cattle day and Bennett was in up
to his ears. He would be around the exhibition sheds, which
were at the other end of the grounds. Back in the crowd again,
I fought through men, women, children, balloons, horns, pop-
corn and bedlam, to my objective.
I hadn’t seen this part before. There was a city of enormous”
sheds, in a row, each one 50 yards long or more and half as