Waddell frowned some more. 'Your idea about tying the bull to the fence and smearing blood on his horns. That would be getting pretty familiar with a bull, even in the dark. I don't suppose anyone could have done it except Monte Mc- Millan… he was Monte's bull, or he had been. Maybe you're ready to explain why Monte McMillan would want to kill Clyde Osgood?'
'Good heavens, no. There are at least two other alterna- tives. Mr. McMillan may be capable of murder, I don't know, and he was certainly resolved to protect the bull from molesta- tion-but don't get things confused. Remember that the mur- der was no part of an effort to guard the bull; Clyde was knocked unconscious not in the pasture, but somewhere else.'
'That's your guess.' 'It's my opinion. I am careful with my opinions, sir; they are my bread and butter and the main source of my self- esteem.'
Waddell sat with his mouth screwed up. Suddenly Osgood barked at him ferociously:
'Well, what about it?'
Waddell nodded at him, and then unscrewed his mouth to mutter, 'Of course.' He got up and kicked his chair back, stuck his hands in his pockets, stood and gazed at Wolfe a minute, and then backed up and sat down again. 'Goddam it,' he said in a pained voice. 'Of course. We've got to get on it as quick and hard as we can. Jesus, what a mess. At Tom Pratt's place. Clyde Osgood. Your son, Fred. And you know the kind of material I have to work with-for instance Sam Lake-on a thing Hke this… Ill have to pull them away from the exposition… I'll go out and see Pratt myself, now…' He jerked himself forward and reached for the telephone, Osgood said to Wolfe, bitterly, 'You see the prospect.'
Wolfe nodded, and sighed. 'It's an extraordinarily difficult situation, Mr. Osgood.'
'I know damn well it is. I may have missed the significance of the bull's face, but I'm not a fool. The devil had brains and nerve and luck. I have two things to say to you. First, I apologize again for the way I tackled you this afternoon. I didn't know you had really earned your reputation, so many people haven't, but I see now you have. Second, you can see for yourself that you'll have to do this. You'll have to go on with it.'
Wolfe shook his head. 'I expect to leave for New York Thursday morning. Day after tomorrow.'
'But my God, man! This is what you do, isn't it? Isn't this your job? What's the difference whether you work at it in New York or here?'
'Enormous; the difference, I mean. In New York I have my home, my office in it, my cook, my accustomed sur-' roundings-'
'Do you mean…' Osgood was up, spluttering. 'Do you mean to say you have the gall to plead your personal comfort, your petty convenience, to a man in the position I'm in?'
'I do.' Wolfe was serene. 'I'm not responsible for the posi- tion you're in. Mr. Goodwin will tell you: I have a deep aversion to leaving my home or remaining long away from it. Another thing, you might not think me so petty if you could see and hear and smell the hotel room in which I shall have to sleep tonight and tomorrow night… and heavens knows how many more nights if I accepted your commission.'
'What's wrong with it?'
'Everything imaginable.'
'Then leave it. Come to my house. It's only sixteen miles out, and you can have a car until yours is repaired, and your man here can drive it…'
'I don't know.' Wolfe looked doubtful. 'Of course, if I undertake it I shall need immediately a good deal of informa- tion from you and your daughter, and your own home would be a good place for that…'
I stood up with my heels together and saluted him, and he glared at me. Naturally he knew I was on to him. Machi- avelli was a simple little shepherd lad by comparison. Not that I disapproved by any means, for the chances were that I would get a fairly good bed myself, but it was one more proof that under no circumstances could you ever really trust him.
9
WITH NANCY still chauffering, we drove to the hotel for our luggage, and then had to leave town by way of the exposition grounds in order to give the orchids a look and another spraying. Shanks wasn't around, and Wolfe made arrangements with a skinny woman who sat on an upturned box by a table full of dahlias, to keep an eye on our pots.
Driving into Crowfield that morning, Caroline Pratt had pointed out the Osgood demesne, the main entrance of which was only a mile from Pratt's place. It was rolling farm land, a lot of it looking like pasture, with three or four wooded knolls. The stock barns and other outbuildings were in plain view, but the dwelling, which was all of half a mile from the highway, was out of sight among the trees until the pri- vate drive straightened out at the beginning of a wide ex- panse of lawn. It was a big old rambling white house, with an old-fashioned portico, with pillars, extending along the middle portion of the front. It looked as if it had probably once been George Washington's headquarters, provided he ever got that tar north.
There was an encounter before we got into the house. As we crossed the portico, a man approached from the other end, wiping his brow with his handkerchief and looking dusty and sweaty. Mr. Bronson had on a different shirt and tie from the day before, and another suit, but was no more appropriate to his surroundings than he had been when I first saw him on Pratt's terrace. Osgood tossed a nod at him, then, seeing that he intended to speak, stopped and said, 'Hullo.'
Bronson came up to us. I hadn't noticed him much the day before, with my attention elsewhere, but I remarked now that he was around thirty, of good height and well-built, with a wide full mouth and a blunt nose and clever gray eyes. I didn't like the eyes, as they took us in with a quick glance. He said deferentially, 'I hope you won't mind, Mr. Osgood. I've been over there.'
'Over where?' Osgood demanded.
'Pratt's place. I walked across the fields. I knew I had offended you by disagreeing this morning with your ideas about the… accident. I wanted to look it over. I met young Pratt,.but not his father, and that man McMillan-'
