meet a bald-headed man sitting on some seaweed who you will think is William Beebe but who- will begin talking to you in Russian. Not understanding Russian, you will take it for granted that you get the idea, but will discover to your horror that he was talking about something else. Give me the other hand to compare.'
Jimmy Pratt, meanwhile, was haranguing his uncle. '… and you sit there and let him call you trash! I'd have liked to smack him! I would have smacked him-'
'Now, Jimmy.' Pratt waved a hand. He chuckled. 'You wouldn't smack an Osgood, would you? Take it easy, son. By the way, since you seem to be feeling belligerent, maybe you'd like to help out a little with that bull. I'm afraid we'll have to keep an eye on him all night. How about a little sentry duty?'
'Well, sir…' Jimmy looked uncomfortable. 'The fact is… I've already told you… I don't approve of that. It seems to me a bull like that… a champion and so on…'
'You wouldn't like to help us guard him?'
'I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me out of that. Uncle Tom.'
'All right. I guess we can manage somehow. – What's your feeling about it, Mr. Wolfe? Haven't I got a right to eat my own bull?'
Wolfe obliged with a philosophical lecture on written and unwritten law, degrees of moral turpitude, and the extravagant enthusiasms of bovine genetics. It sounded quite instructive and elevated the tone of the gathering to a plane high above such petty things as smacking an Osgood or eating beef- steak or winning a $10,000 bet. When he had finished, he turned to me with a suggestion: since he had accepted Mr. Pratt's kind invitation to dine there, a change of linen would be desirable, and the luggage was still in our car out by the roadside. Jimmy offered his services, but Caroline insisted it was her job, since it was she who had contracted to drive us to Crowfield, so I followed her from the terrace, across a wide lawn, around some shrubbery and flower beds, and down a path which took us to the graveled space in front of the garage, where a big sedan was parked near the yellow convertible. I stooped to peer under the trees to where I had caught a glimpse of a high long mound of freshly dug soil, with picks and shovels leaning against it. I had noticed it previously, as we drove by in the convertible after escaping from the pasture, but had not then realized its significance.
'Pit for the barbecue?' I inquired.
Caroline nodded. 'I think it's pretty awful, but I couldn't very well refuse uncle's invitation to come up for it. Get in.'
When she had swung the sedan around and had headed down the drive I said, 'I ask this because it's none of my business. I'm interested in human nature. Which is it, ad- vertising, or a Bronx cheer for Father Osgood?'
'I don't know. I'm thinking about something.'
So I held myself aloof. The sedan emerged onto the high- way and turned left, and in half a minute was swinging around the curve which I had seen from the other direction during my survey of the surroundings after the accident. In the other half of the minute she had arrived at the scene, spun the wheel with her strong wrists, done a U, and pulled up directly behind the relic. I got out. The angle of the low evening sun made long soft shadows with trees and telephone poles on the green of the pasture. Across its expanse, on the other side, I could see the top third of Monte McMillan above the fence, his face turned our way, and moving along this side of the boulder, with slow imperial tread, looking bigger than ever, was the bull. I had to admit he was a beaut, now that I could take an impersonal view.
There were two suitcases, two bags, the sprayer, and the crates of plants. After I got them all transferred I locked the car up again, took another glance at the bull who was soon to be served at 450 bucks a portion, and climbed in beside Miss Pratt. Still aloof, I didn't say anything, but sat quietly and waited for the spirit to move her. After a minute she moved, but only to turn her head to look at me.
'I want to tell you what I was thinking about.'
I nodded politely.
'Lily Rowan.'
I nodded again. 'She calls me Escamillo. She told me that you and she are going to the fair tomorrow, and suggested that she and I might have lunch together.'
'What did you tell her?'
'I told her I couldn't on account of my table manners. I
don't like hitch-lunchers.'
Caroline snorted. 'She wasn't trying to hitch. She would pay the check. She's rich. Very. Maybe millions, I don't know, anyway plenty. She's a vampire. She's dangerous.'
'You mean she bites you in the neck?'
'I mean what I say. I used to think the talk about some woman being dangerous, you know, really dangerous, was romantic hooey, but it isn't. Lily Rowan is one. If she wasn't too lazy to make much of an effort there's no telling how many men she might ruin, but I know of at least three she has played the devil with. You saw Clyde Osgood today. Not that Clyde was ever one of nature's noblemen, but he was doing all right. He's just my age, 26. The Osgoods have owned this county for generations, they still have a couple of thousand acres, and after Clyde finished at college he buckled in and handled things for his father, who was away most of the time doing politics and things. People around here say he was really showing some sense. Then during a trip to New York two years ago he met Lily Rowan, and she took a fancy to him and got a spell of energy at the same time. She did worse than bite him in the neck. She swallowed him. Then last spring she spit him out again. That may not be very elegant but can you describe the activities of a toad with elegance? Clyde hasn't returned to the country; he hangs around New York and tries to see her or tries not to see her. I don't know what he's doing up here now. Maybe he knew she was coming.'
She stopped. I remarked, 'And that's what you were thinking about.'
'No, that only leads up to it.' She frowned at me. 'You're a detective. That's your business, isn't it?'
'Yep, 24 hour service.'
'And you… you keep things confidential?'
