just had news of some prey that might be pounced on for
dinner. By keeping on one edge we avoided jostling.
Charles E. Shanks wasn’t anywhere in sight around the
orchid display, but Raymond Plehn, who was showing
Laeliocattleyas and Odontoglossums, was there. It was the
first we had seen of him, though of course we had looked
over his entry, which wasn’t in competition with ours. The
building, with its enormous expanse of tables and benches ex-
hibiting everything from angel food cake to stalks of corn
14 feet high, seemed to have about as many afternoon visitors
as usual, who either hadn’t heard the news from the Holstein
shed or were contrary enough to be more interested in flowers
and vegetables than in corpses.
Wolfe exchanged amenities with Plehn and then he and
I got busy. One of our 18 plants had got temperamental and
showed signs of wilt, so I stuck it under the bench and covered
it with newspaper. We went over the others thoroughly,
straightening leaves that needed it, re-staking a few, and
removing half a dozen blossoms whose sepals had started to
brown at the tips.
“On the whole, they look perky,” I told Wolfe.
“Dry,” he grunted, inspecting a leaf. “Thank heaven, no
red spider yet.—Ah. Good afternoon, Mr. Shanks.”
At 4 o’clock the judges came, with retinue and scale sheets.
One of than was a moonfaced bird from the Eastern States
Horticultural Society and the other was Cuyler Ditson, who
had been a judge several times at the Metropolitan. The pair
started to squint and inspect and discuss, and a modest
crowd collected.
It was such a pushover, and was over and done with so
soon as far as the albinos were concerned, that it seemed
pretty silly after all the trouble we had gone to, even though
Wolfe got the medal and all three ribbons, and all Shanks
got was a consoling pat on the back. But they both knew
how it would look in the next issue of the American Orchid
Gazette, and they knew who would read it. Shanks was dumb
enough to get mad and try to start an argument with Cuyler
Ditson, and Raymond Plehn gave him the horselaugh.
When the judges left the crowd dispersed. Wolfe and
Plehn started to exercise their chins, and when that began I
knew it would continue indefinitely, so I saw myself con-
fronted by boredom. Wolfe had said that when the judging
was over he would want to spray with nicotine and soap, and
I dug the ingredients from the bottom of one of the crates,
went for a can of water, and got the mixture ready in the
sprayer. He did a thorough job of it, with Plehn assisting,
put the sprayer down on the bench, and started talking shop
again. I sat on a box and yawned and permitted my mind to
flit around searching for honey in an idea that had occurred
to me on account of one of the questions Wolfe had asked
Bennett. But I hoped to heaven that wasn’t the answer, for if
it was we were certainly out on a limb, and as far as any
hope of earning a fee from Osgood was concerned we might
as well pack up and go home.
I glanced at my wrist and saw it was 10 minutes to 5,
which reminded me that Lily Rowan was coming for orchids
at 5 o’clock and gave me something to do, namely, devise a
remark that would shatter her into bits. She had the appear-
ance of never having been shattered to speak of, and it seemed
to me that she was asking for it. To call a guy Escamillo in
a spirit of fun is okay, but if you do so immediately after
he has half-killed himself hurdling a fence on account of
a bull chasing him, you have a right to expect whatever he
may be capable of in return,
I never got the remark devised. The first interruption was
the departure of Raymond Plehn, who was as urbane with his
farewells as with other activities. The second interruption
was more removed, when first noted, and much more irritating:
I saw a person pointing at me. Down the aisle maybe ten paces
he stood pointing, and he was unquestionably the lanky straw-
handler in overalls whom I had last seen in the Holstein shed
three hours previously. At his right hand stood Captain Bar-
row of the state police, and at his left District Attorney
Waddell. As I gazed at them with my brow wrinkled in dis-
pleasure, they moved forward.
I told Wolfe out of the comer of my mouth. “Looky. Com-
pany’s coming.”
Apparently they had figured that the cow nurse would
no longer be needed, for he lumbered off in the other di-
rection, while the other two headed straight for their victim,
meaning me. They looked moderately sour and nodded curtly
when Wolfe and I greeted them.
Wolfe said, “I understand you have another dead man on
your hands, and this time no demonstration from me is re-
quired.”
Waddell mumbled something, but Barrow disregarded
both of them and looked at me and said, “You’re the one I
want a demonstration from. Get your hat and come on.”
I grinned. “Where to, please?”
“Sheriff’s office. I’ll be glad to show you the way. Wait a
minute.”
He extended a paw at me. I folded my arms and stepped
back a pace. “Let’s all wait a minute. I have a gun and a
license. The gun is legally in my possession. We don’t want a
lot of silly complications. Do we?”
WOLFE said sweetly, “I give you my word. Cap-
tain, he won’t shoot you in my presence. He knows
I dislike violence. I own the gun, by the way. Give it to me,
Archie.”
I took it from the holster and handed it to him. He held
it close to his face, peering at it, and in a moment said, “It’s
a Worthington .38, number 63092T. If you insist on having
it. Captain—illegally, as Mr. Goodwin correctly says—write out
a receipt and I’ll let you take it from me.”
Barrow grunted. “To hell with the comedy. Keep the
damn gun. Come on, Goodwin.”
I shook my head. “I’m here legally too. What are you
after? If you want a favor, ask for it. If you want to give
orders, show me something signed by somebody. You know
the rules as well as I do. In the meantime, don’t touch me
unless you’re absolutely sure you can pick up anything you
drop.”
Waddell said, “We know the law some, in a rustic sort
of way. A murder has been committed, and Captain Barrow
wants to ask you some questions.”
“Then let him ask. Or if he wants a private conference
let him request my company and not yap at me.” I transferred
to Barrow. “Hell, I know what you want. I saw that ape
that came in with you pointing me out. I know he saw me
this afternoon alongside a pile of straw in the Holstein shed,
talking with two acquaintances. I also know, by public rumor,
that a dead man has been found under a pile of straw in that
shed with a pitchfork sticking in him. I suppose it was the
same pile of straw, I’m lucky that way. And you want to
know why I was there and what I and my acquaintances were
talking about and what was my motive for sticking the pitch-
fork into the man, and the doctor said the man had been dead
two hours and six minutes and will I therefore give a timetable
of my movements from ten o’clock this morning up to 2:37
p.m. Right?”
“Right,” Barrow said agreeably. “Only we’re more interested
in the dead man’s movements than we are in yours. When did
you see him last?”
I grinned. “Try again. I abandoned that trick years ago.
First tell me who he is or was.”
Barrow’s eyes weren’t wandering from my face. “His name
was Howard Bronson.”
“Ill be damned.” I screwed up my lips and raised my
brows’ in polite surprise. “Clyde Osgood’s friend? Identified?”
“Yes. By Osgood and his daughter. When did you see
him last?”
“At ten-thirty this morning, as he got out of Osgood’s
car in front of the hotel. Miss Osgood and Mr. Wolfe and
I went on in the car.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Never saw him before Monday afternoon.”
“Any intimate relations with him?”
“Nope.”
“Any close personal contacts with him?”
“Well-no.”
“Well what?”
“Nothing. No,”
“Any financial transactions? Did you pay him any money
or did he pay you any?”
“No.”
“Then will you explain how it happens that an empty
brown leather wallet found in his pocket was covered with
your fingerprints, inside and outside?”
Of course the boob had telegraphed the punch. If he
hadn’t, if he had fired that at me to begin with, he might