Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 06 - Some Buried Caesar Page 2

  There was an enormous boulder, sloping up to maybe 3 feet above the ground, about exactly in the middle of the pasture, and we were a little to the right of that when the second surprise arrived in the series I spoke of. My attention was pretty thoroughly concentrated on the nut with the shotgun, still perched on the fence and yelling louder than ever, when I felt Wolfe’s fingers gripping my elbow and heard his sudden sharp command:

  “Stop! Don’t move!”

  I stopped dead, with him beside me. I thought he had discovered something psychological about the bird on the fence, but he said without looking at me, “Stand perfectly still. Move your head slowly, very slowly, to the right.”

  For an instant I thought the nut with the gun had something contagious and Wolfe had caught it, but I did as I was told, and there was the second surprise. Off maybe 200 feet to the right, walking slowly toward us with his head up, was a bull bigger than I had supposed bulls came. He was dark red with white patches, with a big white triangle on his face, and he was walking easy and slow, wiggling his head a little as if he was nervous, or as if he was trying to shake a fly off of his horns. Of a sudden he stopped and stood, looking at us with his neck curved.

  I heard Wolfe’s voice, not loud, at the back of my head, “It would be better if that fool would quit yelling. Do you know the technique of bulls? Did you ever see a bull fight?”

  I moved my lips enough to get it out: “No, sir.”

  Wolfe grunted. “Stand still. You moved your finger then, and his neck muscles tightened. How fast can you run?”

  “I can beat that bull to that fence. Don’t think I can’t. But you can’t.”

  “I know very well I can’t. Twenty years ago I was an athlete. This almost convinces me … but that can wait. Ah, he’s pawing. His head’s down. If he should start … it’s that confounded yelling. Now … back off slowly, away from me. Keep facing him. When you are 10 feet from me, swerve toward the fence. He will begin to move when you do. As long as he follows slowly, keep backing and facing him. When he starts his rush, turn and run—”

  I never got a chance to follow directions. I didn’t move, and I’m sure Wolfe didn’t, so it must have been our friend on the fence—maybe he jumped off into the pasture. Anyhow, the bull curved his neck and started on the jump; and if it was the other guy he was headed for, that didn’t help any, because we were in line with him and we came first. He started the way an avalanche ends. Possibly if we had stood still he would have passed by, about 3 feet to my right, but either it was asking too much of human nature to expect me to stand there, or I’m not human. I have since maintained that it flashed through my mind that if I moved it would attract him to me and away from Nero Wolfe, but there’s no use continuing that argument here. There’s no question but what I moved, without any preliminary backing. And there’s no question, whoever he started for originally, about his being attracted by my movement. I could hear him behind me. I could damn near feel him. Also I was dimly aware of shouts and a blotch of something red above the fence near the spot I was aimed at. There it was—the fence. I didn’t do any braking for it, but took it at full speed, doing a vault with my hands reaching for its top, and one of my hands missed and I tumbled, landing flat on the other side, sprawling and rolling. I sat up and panted and heard a voice above me:

  “Beautiful! I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”

  I looked up and saw two girls, one in a white dress and red jacket, the other in a yellow shirt and slacks. I snarled at them, “Shall I do it again?” The nut with the shotgun came loping up making loud demands, and I told him to shut up, and scrambled to my feet. The fence was 10 yards away. Limping to it, I took a look. The bull was slowly walking along, a hundred feet off, wiggling his head. In the middle of the pasture was an ornamental statue. It was Nero Wolfe, with his arms folded, his stick hanging from a wrist, standing motionless on the rounded peak of the boulder. It was the first time I had ever seen him in any such position as that, and I stood and stared because I had never fully realized what a remarkable looking object he really was. He didn’t actually look undignified, but there was something pathetic about it, he stood so still, not moving at all.

  I called to him, “Okay, boss?”

  He called back, “Tell that man with the gun I want to speak to him when I get out of here! Tell him to get someone to pen that bull!”

  I turned. The guy didn’t look like a bull penner. He looked more scared than mad, and he looked small and skinny in his overalls and denim shirt. His face was weathered and his nose was cockeyed. He had followed me to the fence, and now demanded:

  “Who air you fellows? Why didn’t you go back when I hollered at you? Where the hell—”

  “Hold it, mister. Introductions can wait. Can you put that bull in a pen?”

  “No, I can’t. And I want to tell you—”

  “Is there someone here who can?”

  “No, they ain’t. They’ve gone off to the fair. They’ll be back in an hour maybe. And I want to tell you—”

  “Tell me later. Do you expect him to stand on that rock with his arms folded for an hour?”

  “I don’t expect nothin’. He can sit down, can’t he? But anyhow, I want him out of there right now. I’m guarding that bull.”

  “Good for you. From what? From me?”

  “From anybody. Looky, if you think you’re kidding …”

  I gave him up and turned to the pasture and called: “He’s guarding the bull! He wants you out of there right now! He can’t pen the bull and no one else can! Somebody will be here in an hour!”

  “Archie!” Wolfe bellowed like thunder. “When once I get—”

  “No, honest to God, I’m telling you straight! I don’t like the bull any better than you do!”

  Silence. Then: “It will be an hour before anyone comes?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Then you’ll have to do it! Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Climb back into the pasture and get the bull’s attention. When he moves, walk back in the other direction, keeping within a few feet of the fence. Was that a woman wearing that red thing?”

  “Yes. Woman or girl.” I looked around. “She seems to be gone.”

  “Find her and borrow the red thing, and have it with you. When the bull starts a rush go back over the fence. Proceed along it until you’re away from him, then get back in the pasture and repeat. Take him to the other end of the pasture and keep him there until I am out. He won’t leave you for me at such a distance if you keep him busy. Let him get the idea he really has a chance of getting you.”

  “Sure.”

  “What?”

  “I said sure!”

  “All right, go ahead. Be careful. Don’t slip on the grass.”

  When I had asked the girl if I should do it again, I had thought it was pure sarcasm, but now … I looked around for her. The one in yellow slacks was there, sitting up on the fence, but not the other one. I opened my mouth to request information, but the answer came before I got it out, from another quarter. There was the sound of a car’s engine humming in second, and I saw the car bouncing along a lane beyond some trees, headed toward the fence down a ways. It stopped with its nose almost touching the fence, and the girl in the red jacket leaned out and yelled at me:

  “Come and open the gate!”

  I trotted toward her, limping a little from my right knee which I had banged on the fence, but the other guy, using a sort of hop, skip and jump, beat me to it. When I got there he was standing beside the car, waving the gun around and reciting rules and statutes about gates and bulls.

  The girl told him impatiently, “Don’t be silly, Dave. There’s no sense leaving him perched on that rock.” She switched to me. “Open the gate, and if you want to come along, get in. Dave’ll shut it.”

  I moved. Dave moved too and squeaked, “Leave that gate alone! By gammer, I’ll shoot! My orders from Mr. Pratt was if anybody opens a gate or climbs in that pasture, shoot!”

  “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.”

  Chapter 2

  Wolfe’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—”