We ran into nice people who gave us a swell room with bath to
wash up and served you with cold beer and me with iodine.
And I repeat, if you still think I should have persuaded one
of those Crowfield garages to come and get us and the car, go
down and try it yourself. They thought I was crazy to expect
it, with the exposition on. This Mr. Pratt will be back
any minute, with a big sedan, and his niece says she’ll take us
and the luggage and the plants to Crowfield. I phoned the
hotel, and they promised to hold our room until ten tonight.
Naturally there’s a mob yelling for beds.”
I had got my sleeves rolled down and buttoned, and
reached for my coat. “How’s the beer?”
“The beer is good.” Wolfe shuddered, and muttered, “A
mob yelling for beds.” He looked around. “This is a remarkably
pleasant room … large and airy, good windows …
I think perhaps I should have modem casements installed in
my room at home. Two excellent beds — did you try one of
the beds?”
I looked at him suspiciously. “No.”
“They are first class. When did you say the garage will
send for the car?”
I said patiently, “Tomorrow by noon.”
“Good.” He sighed. “I thought I didn’t like new houses,
but this one is very pleasant. Of course that was the architect.
Do you know where the money came from to build it? Miss
Pratt told me. Her uncle operates a chain of popular restaurants
in New York — hundreds of them. He calls them pratterias.
Did you ever see one?”
“Sure.” I had my pants down, inspecting the knee. “I’ve
had lunch in them often.”
“Indeed. How is the food?”
“So-so. Depends on your standard.” I looked up. “If what
you have in mind is flushing a dinner here to avoid a
restaurant meal, pratteria grub is irrelevant and immaterial.
The cook downstairs is ipso facto. Incidentally, I’m glad to
learn they’re called pratterias because Pratt owns them. I
always supposed it was because they’re places where you can
sit on your prat and eat.”
Wolfe grunted. “I presume one ignorance cancels another.
I never heard ‘prat’ before, and you don’t know the mean-
ing of ipso facto. Unless ‘prat’ is your invention—”
“No. Shakespeare used it. I’ve looked it up. I never in-
vent unless—”
There was a knock on the door, and I said come in. A
specimen entered wearing dirty flannel pants and a shiny
starched white coat, with grease on the side of his face. He
stood in the doorway and mumbled something about Mr.
Pratt having arrived and we could go downstairs when we
felt like it. Wolfe told him we would be down at once and he
went off.
I observed, “Mr. Pratt must be a widower.”
“No,” said Wolfe, making ready to elevate himself. “He
has never married. Miss Pratt told me. Are you going to
comb your hair?”
We had to hunt for them. A woman in the lower hall
with an apron on shook her head when we asked her, and
we went into the dining room and out again, and through a
big living room and another one with a piano in it before
we finally found them out on a flagged terrace shaded with
awnings. The two girls were off to one side with a young
man, having highballs. Nearer to us, at a table, were two guys
working their chins and fluttering papers from a brief case at
each other. One, young and neat, looked like a slick bond
salesman; the other, middle-aged or a little past, had brown
hair that was turning gray, narrow temples and a wide
jaw. Wolfe stopped, then in a minute approached nearer
and stopped again. They looked up at him and the other one
frowned and said;
“Oh, you’re the fellows.”
“Mr. Pratt?” Wolfe bowed faintly. “My name is Wolfe.”
The younger man stood up. The other just kept on frowning.
“So my niece told me. Of course I’ve heard of you, but I
don’t care if you’re President Roosevelt, you had no busi-
ness in that pasture when my man ordered you out. What
did you want in there?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you go in there for?”
Wolfe compressed his lips, then loosened them to ask,
“Did your niece tell you what I told her?”
“Yes ”
“Do you think she lied?”
“Why … no.”
“Do you think I lied?”
“Er … no.”
Wolfe shrugged. “Then it remains only to thank you for
your hospitality—your telephone, your accommodations, your
refreshment. The beer especially is appreciated. Your niece
has kindly offered to take us to Crowfield in your car …
if you will permit that?”
“I suppose so.” The lummox was still frowning. He leaned
back with his thumbs in his armpits. “No, Mr. Wolfe, I
don’t think you lied, but I’d still like to ask a question
or two. You see, you’re a detective, and you might have
been hired … God knows what lengths they’ll go to. I’m
being pested half to death. I went over to Crowfield with
my nephew today to take a look at the exposition, and they
hounded me out of the place. I had to come home to get away
from them. I’ll ask a straight question: did you enter that
particular pasture because you knew that bull was in it?”
Wolfe stared. “No, sir.”
“Did you come to this part of the country in an effort
to do something about that bull?”
“No, sir. I came to exhibit orchids at the North Atlantic
Exposition.”
“Your choosing that pasture was pure accident?”
“We didn’t choose it. It was a question of geometry. It
was the shortest way to this house.” After a pause Wolfe
added bitterly, “So we thought”
Pratt nodded. Then he glanced at his watch, jerked him-
self up and turned to the man with the brief case, who was
stowing papers away. “All right, Pavey, you might as well
make the 6 o’clock from Albany. Tell Jameson there’s no
reason in God’s world why the unit should drop below twenty-
eight four. Why shouldn’t people be as hungry this September
as any other September? Remember what I said, no more
Fairbanks pies …” He went on a while about dish breakage
percentages and new leases in Brooklyn and so forth, and
shouted a last minute thought about the lettuce market after
Pavey had disappeared around the comer of the house. Then
our host asked abruptly if Wolfe would like a highball, and
Wolfe said no thanks he preferred beer but doubtless Mr.
Goodwin would enjoy a highball. Pratt yelled “Bert!” at
the top of his voice, and Greasy-face showed up from inside
the house and got orders. As we sat down the trio
from the other end came over, carrying their drinks.
“May we?” Miss Pratt asked her uncle. “Jimmy wants
to meet the guests. Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Goodwin, this is my
brother.”
I stood to acknowledge, and became aware that Wolfe
was playing a deep and desperate game when I saw that
instead of apologizing for not raising his poundage, as was
customary, he stood too. Then we sat again, with Lily the
blonde doing a languid drape on a canvas swing and a
beautiful calf protruding from one leg of her yellow slacks.
Pratt was talking.” Of course I’ve heard of you,” he
was telling Wolfe. “Privately too, once or twice. My friend
Pete Hutchinson told me that you turned him down a couple
of years ago on a little inquiry he undertook regarding his
wife.”
Wolfe nodded. “I like to interfere with natural processes
as little as possible.”
“Suit yourself.” Pratt took a gulp of highball “That’s my
motto. It’s your business, and you’re the one to run it. For
instance, I understand you’re a fancy eater. Now I’m in the
food business, and what I believe in is mass feeding. Last week
we served a daily average of 42,392 lunches in Greater New
York at an average cost to the consumer of twenty-three and
seventeen-hundredths cents. What I claim — how many times
have you eaten in a pratteria?”
“I …” Wolfe held it while he poured beer. “I never
have.”
“Never?”
“I always eat at home.”
“Oh.” Pratt eyed him. “Of course some home cooking is
all right. But most of the fancy stuff … one of my publicity
stunts was when I got a group of fifty people from the Social
Register into a pratteria and served them from the list. They
gobbled it up and they raved. What I’ve built my success on
is, first, quality, second, publicity.” He had two fingers up.
“An unbeatable combination,” Wolfe murmured. I could
have kicked him. He was positively licking the guy’s boots.
He even went on, “Your niece was telling me something of
your phenomenal career.”
“Yes?” He glanced at her. “Your drink’s gone, Caroline.”