Some Buried Caesar (3 page)

“Baloney,” said the girl. “You’ve already disobeyed orders. Why didn’t you shoot when they opened the other gate? You’ll be court-martialed. Why don’t you shoot now? Go ahead and blow him off that rock. Let’s see you.” She got impatient again, to me, and scornful: “Do you want your friend rescued or not?”

I unhooked the gate and swung it open. The bull, quite a distance away, turned to face us with his head cocked sidewise. Dave was sputtering and flourishing the gun, but it was obvious he could be ignored. As the car passed through—it was a big shiny yellow Wethersill convertible with the top down—I hopped in, and the girl called to Dave to get the gate shut in a hurry. The bull, still at a distance, tossed his head and then lowered it and began pawing. Chunks of sod flew back under his belly.

I said, “Stop a minute,” and pulled the hand brake. “What makes you think this will work?”

“I don’t know. We can try it, can’t we? Are you scared?”

“Yes. Take off that red thing.”

“Oh, that’s just superstition.”

“I’m superstitious. Take it off.” I grabbed the collar of it and she wriggled out and I stuck it behind us. Then I reached under my coat to my holster and pulled out my automatic.

She looked at it. “What are you, a spy or something? Don’t be silly. Do you think you could stop that bull with that thing?”

“I could try.”

“You’d better not, unless you’re prepared to cough up $45,000.”

“Cough what?”

“$45,000. That’s not just a bull, it’s Hickory Caesar Grindon. Put that thing away and release the brake.”

I looked at her a second and said, “Turn around and get out of here. I’ll follow instructions and tease him down to the other end along the fence.”

“No.” She shifted to first and fed gas. “Why should you have all the fun?” The car moved, and she went into second. We jolted and swayed. “I wonder how fast I ought to go? I’ve never saved a man’s life before. It looks from here as if I’ve picked a funny one to start on. Should I blow the horn? What do you think? Look at him!”

The bull was playing rocking horse. His hind end would go down and then bob up in the air while he lowered his front, with his tail sticking up and his head tossing. He was facing our way. As we passed
him about 30 yards to the left the girl said, “Look at him! He’s a high school bull!” The car came up from a hole and nearly bounced me out. I growled, “Watch where you’re going,” and kept my head turned toward the bull. He looked as if he could have picked the car up and carried it on his horns the way an Indian woman carries a jug. We were approaching the boulder. She pulled up alongside, missing it by half an inch, came to a stop, and sang out, “Taxi?”

As Wolfe stepped carefully down from the peak of the boulder I got out and held the door open. I didn’t offer to take his elbow to steady him because I saw by the look on his face that it would only be lighting a fuse. He got to the edge of the boulder and stood there with his feet at the level of the running board.

The girl asked, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

Wolfe’s lips twitched a little. “Miss Stanley? How do you do. My name is Nero Wolfe.”

Her eyes widened. “Good lord! Not
the
Nero Wolfe?”

“Well … the one in the Manhattan telephone book.”

“Then I did pick a funny one! Get in.”

As he grunted his way into the convertible he observed, “You did a lot of bouncing. I dislike bouncing.”

She laughed. “I’ll take it easy. Anyway, it’s better than being bounced by a bull, don’t you think?” I had climbed to the back of the seat, since Wolfe’s presence left no room below, and she started off, swinging to the left. I had noticed that she had good strong wrists and fingers, and with the jacket off her arms were bare and I could see the rippling of her forearm muscles as she steered expertly to avoid hummocks and
holes. I glanced at the bull and saw he had got tired of playing rocking horse and was standing with his head up and his tail down, registering disdain. He looked bigger than ever. The girl was telling Wolfe, “Stanley would be a nice name, but mine is Caroline Pratt. Excuse me, I didn’t see that hole. I’m nothing like as famous as you are, but I’ve been Metropolitan golf champion for two years. This place seems to be collecting champions. You’re a champion detective, and Hickory Caesar Grindon is a National champion bull, and I’m a golf champion …”

I thought, so that accounts for the wrists and arms, she’s one of those. When we got to the gate Dave opened it, and closed it against our tail as we went through. She eased it along under the trees, with overhanging branches trying to scrape me off, and finally emerged onto a wide graveled space in front of a big new concrete building with four garage doors at one end, where she stopped. Dave had come hopping along behind us, still lugging the gun, and the girl in yellow slacks was sauntering our way. I vaulted over the side of the car to the gravel. The golf champion was inquiring of Wolfe if she could drop him somewhere, but he already had his door open and was lifting his bulk to descend, so she got out. Dave bustled up to Wolfe and began to make demands in a loud voice, but Wolfe gave him an awful look and told him, “Sir, you are open to prosecution for attempted murder! I don’t mean the gun, I mean jumping off that fence!” Then Wolfe walked around the rear of the car and confronted his rescuer and bowed to her:

“Thank you, Miss Pratt, for having intelligence and for using it.”

“Don’t mention it. It was a pleasure.”

He grimaced. “Is that bull your property?”

“No, he belongs to my uncle. Thomas Pratt.” She waved a hand. “This is his place. He’ll be here shortly. Meanwhile … if I can do anything … do you want some beer?”

“No thanks. I do want beer, but God knows when I’ll drink beer again. We had an accident. Mr. Goodwin was unable to restrain our car—I beg your pardon. Miss Pratt, this is Mr. Goodwin.”

She politely put her hand out and I took it. Wolfe was repeating, “Mr. Goodwin was unable to restrain our car from crashing into a tree. After inspecting the damage he claimed he had run it over glass. He then persuaded me to trespass in that pasture. It was I, not he, who first saw the bull after it had emerged from behind the thicket. He boasted complete ignorance of the way a bull will act—”

I had known when I saw his face as we approached the boulder that he was going to be childish, but he might at least have saved it for privacy. I put in brusquely:

“Could I use a telephone?”

“You interrupted Mr. Wolfe.” She was reproving me. “If he wants to explain—”

“I’ll show you the phone.” It was a voice behind me, and I turned. The girl in yellow slacks was there close. I realized with surprise that her head came clear to my chin or above, and she was blonde but not at all faded, and her dark blue eyes were not quite open, and one corner of her lips was up with her smile.

“Come on, Escamillo,” she said, “I’ll show you the phone.”

I told her, “Much obliged,” and started off with her.

She brushed against me as we walked and said, “I’m Lily Rowan.”

“Nice name.” I grinned down at her. “I’m Escamillo Goodwin.”

W
olfe’s voice came through the open door, “What time is it?”

After glancing at my wrist watch where it lay on the glass shelf I walked out of the bathroom, holding my forearm steady and level so the iodine would dry where I had dabbed it on. Stopping in front of the big upholstered chair he was occupying, I told him:

“3:26. I supposed the beer would buck you up. It’s one of your lowest points when you haven’t even got enough joy of life to pull your watch out of your pocket.”

“Joy of life?” He groaned. “With our car demolished, and those plants in it being suffocated …”

“They’re not being suffocated. I left the window open a crack on both sides.” I tilted the arm, watching the iodine, and then let it hang. “Certainly joy of life! Did we get hurt when we had a front blowout? No. Did the bull get us? No. 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 modern 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 meaning of
ipso facto
. Unless ‘prat’ is your invention—”

“No. Shakespeare used it. I’ve looked it up. I never invent 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 business 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 himself 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 corner 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.