He broke off and glanced at me because a knock sounded at the door. I lifted from my chair and started across, but it opened before I got there and two men entered. I halted, slightly popeyed, when I saw it was Tom Pratt himself and McMillan. Behind them, catching up with them, hustled a middle-aged woman in a black dress, looking indignant, call- ing to them something about Mr. Osgood not being in there, they should wait for him in the hall…
Then affairs began to get simultaneous and confused. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Howard Bronson standing at one of the French windows, looking in, and saw that Wolfe had spotted him too. At the same time a purposeful tread sounded from the hall, and then Mr. Frederick Osgood was among us, wearing a scowl that beat all his previous records. He – directed it at Pratt, ignoring inessentials. He stood solid and enraged three feet in front of him, glaring at him, and spoke like an irate duke:
'Out!'
McMillan started to say something, but Osgood exploded at him: 'Damn you, Monte, did you bring this man here? Get him away at oncel I don't want his foot on my place-'
'Now wait a second, Fred.' McMillan sounded as if he wasn't brooking anything much either. 'Just a second and give us a chance. I didn't bring him; no, but we came. There's hell to pay around here, and Pratt doesn't like it any better than you do, and neither do I. Waddell, and Sam Lake with a bunch of deputies, and a herd of state police, are tearing things apart over there, and if there's anything to be found we hope they find it. At least I do; Pratt can do his own talking. But in my opinion there's going to have to be some talking. Not-only on account of Clyde, but on ac- count of what happened an hour ago.'
McMillan paused, returning Osgood's gaze, and then said heavily, 'Caesar's dead. My bull Caesar.' Pratt growled, 'My bull.'
'Okay, Pratt, your bull.' McMillan didn't look at him. 'But he's dead. I bred him and he was mine. Now he's lying there on the ground dead.'
11
OSGOOD'S scowl had got adulterated by a touch of bewilderment. But he exploded again: 'What the devil do I care about your bull?' He transferred to Pratt: 'You get out of here. Get!'
He was turned, and so were the others, by Wolfe's voice booming across the room. 'Mr. Osgood! Please!'
Wolfe had left the comfortable chair and was approach- ing. I saw by the look on his face, knowing it as I did, that something had jolted and irritated him almost to the limit, and wondered what it could be. He joined the circle. 'How do you do, gentlemen. Mr. Pratt, it is a poor return for your hospitality if I've offended you by renting my services to Mr. Osgood, and I hope you don't feel that way about it. Mr. Osgood, this is your house, but however you may resent Mr. Pratt's entering it, surely you can bottle your hostility for the present crisis. I assure you it's highly desirable. He seems to have brought vital news, with Mr. McMillan-'
Osgood, glaring at Pratt, rumbled, 'You dirty abominable mud lark!'
Pratt, returning the glare, growled, 'You goddam stuffed shirt!'
Fair enough, I thought, for a duke and a millionaire. Wolfe said, 'Pfui. What if you are both right? – Mr. McMillan, please. What's this about the bull?'
'He's dead.'
'What killed him?'
'Anthrax.'
'Indeed. That's a disease, isn't it?'
'No. It's sudden and terrible death. Technically it's a disease, of course, but it's so swift and deadly that it's more like a snake or a stroke of lightning.' The stockman snapped his fingers. 'Like that.'
Wolfe nodded. 'I knew of it, vaguely, in my boyhood in Europe. But wasn't Caesar healthy this morning? When did you observe symptoms?'
'With anthrax you don't observe symptoms. Not often. You go to the pasture in the morning and find dead cattle. That's what happened at my place a month ago. It's what happened with Caesar at 5 o'clock this afternoon. One of Sam Lake's deputies went down to the far end of the pasture, where I had him tied behind a clump of birch, and found him keeled over dead. I had gone to Crowfield to see Lew Bennett. They phoned me and I came back out, and Pratt and I decided to come over here.'
Osgood's scowl had got adulterated some more. I didn't know then that the sound of the word 'anthrax,' with the news that it had struck within a mile of his own herd, was enough to adulterate any man's scowl, no matter what had happened to him. Wolfe turned and said brusquely:
'Mr. Pratt. I'd like to buy the bull's carcass. What will you take for it?'
I stared at him, wondering if whatever had jolted him had thrown him off balance. Pratt stared too.
Osgood blurted, 'You can't buy an anthrax carcass. The state takes it.'
Pratt demanded, 'What in the name of God do you want it for?'
McMillan said sourly, 'They're already there. A member of the State Board was at Crowfield, and he got there as soon as I did, with a dozen men. Why, what did you expect to do with it?'
Wolfe sighed. 'I suppose Mr. Waddell has told you of my demonstration of the fact that Clyde Osgood wasn't killed by the bull. The absence of blood on his face. I wanted the hide. Juries like visual evidence. What is the member of die State Board doing with his men? Carting it away?'
'No. You don't cart it away. You don't want the hide either. You don't touch it, because it's dangerous. You don't bury it, because the spores live in the soil for years. You don't even go close to it. What the state men are doing is collecting wood to pile it around the carcass for a fire.' Mc- Millan slowly shook his head. 'He'll bum all night, Caesar will.'
