Death of a Dude

Chapter 6

The Monroe County Register, eight pages, was published in Timberburg once a week, on Friday afternoon, and copies of it arrived at Vawter’s in Lame Horse around five o’clock. At the cabin we were usually willing to wait until Saturday to get our copy, or even Monday or Tuesday, but that Friday I was at Vawter’s when it came, not by accident, and I got two extra copies. At five-thirty Wolfe and I were in his room discussing an item on the front page which said:

County Attorney Thomas R. Jessup announced today that he has arranged with Nero Wolfe, the internationally known private detective, and his confidential assistant, Archie Goodwin, to act as special investigators in the inquiry into the murder of Philip Brodell of St. Louis, a guest at the ranch of William T. Farnham, near Lame Horse, on July 25th.

Asked by a Register reporter if he expected Wolfe and Goodwin to get evidence that would strengthen the case against Harvey Greve, who is in the county jail charged with the murder, Jessup said, “Not specifically or necessarily. If I considered the case against Greve to be weak he wouldn’t have been charged and held without bail. It is simply that I learned that Nero Wolfe was available, and this case has aroused intense and nationwide interest, and I felt that the people of Monroe County, the people of the entire State of Montana, would expect me to use the services of such an outstanding investigator as Nero Wolfe if that was possible, and it was.”

The county attorney added, “Wolfe and Goodwin will of course be under my supervision and control. There will be no additional expense to the county, since they ask no fee, and any evidence they secure will be scrutinized and checked by my office. If they find no new evidence no harm will be done. If they do find new evidence, and my office finds it to be valid and material, I think the people of Monroe County will agree with me that they have rendered us a service.”

Asked if he was aware that it is generally known that Archie Goodwin, who is a guest at the cabin of Miss Lily Rowan, owner of the Bar JR Ranch, has been trying to find evidence that would weaken the case against Greve, not strengthen it, the county attorney stated that the personal opinion or interest of Archie Goodwin, or of anyone else, would not be permitted to affect the performance of his duty.

“What I want,” he said, “and what the people of Monroe County want, is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Asked by a Register reporter if he had been consulted about the entry of Wolfe and Goodwin into the investigation, Sheriff Morley Haight said, “No comment.” Further questions got the same reply. “No comment.”

Nero Wolfe, reached by telephone at Miss Rowan’s cabin, where he is also a guest, would say only that he would say nothing because he thought it proper that all information about his participation in the case should come only from County Attorney Jessup.

Word of this development came just as we were preparing to go to press, and we’re giving ourselves a pat on the back at being the first paper in the country to get it into type. It isn’t often a weekly gets a national scoop. We’re sending five copies of this edition to the Library of Congress. Hang onto yours. It may be worth money some day.

Reading it, Wolfe had made a face several times, but in our discussion of it he had criticized only two words. He said “sleuth” was a vulgarism, and “supervision” was jugglery. But he admitted that everybody knows that if an elected person means everything he says he’s a damn fool, so there was no argument.

There had been an argument the previous evening when Jessup had phoned to say he had decided that it would be in the public interest to accept our offer to assist him in the investigation, and we could get our credentials at his office at eleven o’clock in the morning, and Wolfe had said I would go for them. I was a little surprised that Jessup hadn’t said that Wolfe must come too, but probably he was afraid that he would try to talk him into letting us go through the file, which hadn’t been mentioned. The argument had come afterward between Wolfe and me. I had said that my first stop after getting the credentials would be the Presto filling station for some conversation with Gil Haight, and he said no, and I said that aside from the chance of starting something I wanted the satisfaction of seeing his face when I flashed the credentials on him.

“No,” Wolfe repeated, emphatic. “His alibi can be attacked only through the men who support it, and that can wait until there is nothing better to do.”

“For me,” I said, “there’s nothing better to do than telling Gilbert Haight I’ve got some questions and asking him if he would prefer to go to the county attorney’s office to answer them. So that’s what I’ll do.”

“I said no.”

“But I say yes, and the question is what I do.”

A confrontation. Our eyes were meeting. Mine were just the eyes of a friendly equal who knew he had a point so there was no use squabbling, but his were narrowed to slits. He closed them long enough for a couple of good deep breaths, then opened them to normal. “This is the eighth of August,” he said. “Thursday.”

“Right.”

“Your vacation ended Wednesday, July thirty-first. As you know, I brought a checkbook. Draw a check for your salary for a week and a half, which will cover it to the end of this week and put you on a weekly basis as usual.”

I raised one brow, which I often find helpful because he can’t do it. There were angles both pro and con. Con, I knew the people and the atmosphere and he didn’t; and my taking a leave of absence without pay had been by my decision, not by agreement. Pro, his coming to get me back sooner had been by his decision, not by agreement; and while a grand or two might be of no consequence to him it was to me; and the strain of trying to remember to say please was cramping his style. It took pro about a minute to get the verdict. I figured it on a sheet from my notebook — $600 minus federal income tax withheld $153.75, state income tax $33.00, and Social Security tax $23.88 — went and got the checkbook from a dresser drawer, drew a check to the order of Archie Goodwin for $389.37, and handed it to him with a pen, and he signed it and forked it over.

“Okay,” I said, “instructions, please. What’s better to do than riding Gil Haight?”

“I don’t know.” He stood up. “It’s bedtime. We’ll see tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, Friday, the weather horned in. There on the eastern slopes of the Rockies the summer sun bats around.900. There had been only three days in July when you had to bother about a poncho when you saddled your horse. But Friday it was raining, good and steady, when I got up, when I drove to Timberburg, when I got back, late for lunch, and when I drove to Lame Horse a little before five to get the Monroe County Register. I don’t accuse Wolfe of stalling. The credentials, which were “To Whom It May Concern” typed on Jessup’s official letterhead and signed by him — one for each of us — cleared the deck, but I agreed that it was a good idea to wait until the Register had spread the news.

Supper was in the kitchen because it was still raining and the creek terrace was cold and clammy. Lily’s copy of the Register was there on a shelf; presumably she had thought Mimi should know about the new status of two of the guests. The other two guests had seen it; as Wolfe and I entered the kitchen Diana, at the center table, stopped dishing her plate to look at us as if she had never seen us before, and Wade said, “Congratulations! I didn’t realize you were that famous. When does the ball start rolling?”

I told him not until after supper because we never talked business during a meal. We had decided, after I had made the phone call to Saul, not to tell Lily about it. It would have made her uncomfortable to know that the pasts of two of her guests were being investigated by the other two, and if Saul drew a blank she needn’t ever know. I was a little uncomfortable myself, sitting there passing Diana the salt or asking Wade how the outline was going, and probably Wolfe was too. That made no sense, since they knew darned well they would have been Grade A suspects if they had had any motive, but there was one chance in ten million that Saul would not draw a blank, and in that case there would be a behavior problem not covered by Amy Vanderbilt. Meanwhile, as we dealt with the leg of lamb, green lima beans (from the freezer), Mrs. Barnes’s bread, sliced tomatoes, and huckleberry pie with coffee ice cream, I enjoyed watching Diana trying to decide if she should change her technique with us, and if so how. Evidently Wade had decided. For him we were still just fellow guests to discuss things with, like baseball (me) or structural linguistics (Wolfe).

The blaze in the fireplace in the big room had attractions on an evening like that, and the others went there with coffee, but Wolfe and I went to his room, I supposed to consider the better things to do tomorrow. But inside, instead of going to his chair by the window, he stood and asked, “Does Mr. Farnham have a telephone?”

I said yes.

“Will he have seen that newspaper?”

I said probably.

“Call him. Tell him we wish to come and discuss matters with him and anyone else available.”

“In the morning?”

“Now.”

I nearly said something silly. My lips parted to say, “It’s raining,” but I closed them before it got out. People get in ruts, including me. Many a time I had known him to postpone sending me on an errand if the weather was bad, and it took something very special, like a chance to get a specimen of a new orchid, to get him out of the house in rain or snow. But evidently this was extra special — getting back home as soon as possible — and, saying nothing, I went down the hall to the big room and across to the table where the phone was, and dialed a number, and after four rings a voice said hello.

“Bill? Archie Goodwin.”

“Oh, hello again. I see you’ve got a badge.”

“Not a badge, just a piece of paper. Apparently you’ve seen the Register.”

“I sure have. You and Nero Wolfe. Now the fur will start to fly, huh?”

“Maybe. We hope so. Mr. Wolfe and I would like to drop in for a little talk with you and yours — everybody that’s around — if it’s convenient. Especially Sam Peacock. A good way to pass a rainy evening.”

“Why especially Sam?”

“The man who found the body is always special. But the others too — naturally Mr. Wolfe wants to meet the people who saw the most of Brodell. Okay?”

“Sure, why not? Mr. DuBois was just saying he would like to meet him. Come ahead.”

He hung up. Lily, with Diana and Wade, was over by the fireplace with her back to it, watching television, and when I asked if we could take the car to run up to Farnham’s she said of course with no question or comment, and I went to my room for ponchos.

I had never seen Wolfe in a hooded poncho of any color, and the ones Lily stocked were bright red. They were all the same size, barely big enough to take his dimensions, but even so he looked very gay — leaving out his face, which was pretty grim. It was still grim when, leaving the car under the firs at Farnham’s, we splashed around to the front, with a flashlight to spot puddles, and I opened the screen door and knocked on the solid one, which was closed. It was opened by William T. Farnham.

And, after shaking hands with Farnham and getting his help with the poncho, Wolfe put on an act. He always welcomed a chance to show off, but there it served two other purposes: impressing the audience and avoiding shaking so many hands. Besides Farnham there were six people in the room: three men and a woman around a card table over near the fireplace, and two men standing, kibitzing. Wolfe walked over, stopped four paces away, and said, “Good evening. I have been told of you by Mr. Goodwin.” He nodded at the woman. “Mrs. Amory.”

At the man across from her — round-faced, wide-browed, with his balding process well started: “Dr. Robert Amory, from Seattle.”

At the man at her left — late thirties, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, needing a shave: “Mr. Joseph Colihan, from Denver.”

At the man at her right — middle forties, foreign-looking, dark skin, bushy eyebrows: “Mr. Armand DuBois, also from Denver.”

At the man standing behind Amory — nudging sixty, rough weathered skin, thick gray hair, in working Levi’s and a pink shirt with a tear on one shoulder: “Mr. Bert Magee.”

At the man standing back of Colihan, farther off — around thirty, thin scrawny neck, thin bony face, undersized — also in Levi’s, with a shirt that looked like dirty leather, and a red and white neck rag: “Mr. Sam Peacock.”

Farnham, there after disposing of the ponchos, said, “Now I call that a roundup.” Of the six men present, not counting Wolfe and me, he was the only one I would have called handsome — rugged outdoors open-spaces handsome. He asked Wolfe, “How about some wet cheer? Anything from Montana Special to coyote piss, if I’ve got it.”

“He drinks beer,” Armand DuBois said.

Wolfe asked, “What’s Montana Special?”

“Any open moving water but rainwater. Creek or river. Good for you either plain or diluted, but in weather like this it’s better diluted with gargle. Name it. Beer?”

“Nothing now, thank you. Perhaps later. As you know, Mr. Goodwin and I have a job to do. But we’re interrupting a game.”

“Bridge isn’t a game,” DuBois said, “it’s a brawl. We’ve been at it all day.” He pushed his chair back and rose. “We would much rather hear you ask questions, at least I would.”

“I hear you’re tough,” Farnham said, “but you don’t look tough. Of course like the dude said to the bronc, you can’t always tell by appearances. Do you want us one at a time or in a herd?”

“One at a time would take all night,” Wolfe said. “We are officially accredited, but we came to inquire, not to harass. Shall we sit?”

They moved. There were two long roomy couches at right angles to the fireplace, and DuBois and Farnham took the card table and chairs away. Knowing that Wolfe would share a couch with others only if there was no alternative, I brought a chair that would take him and put it at the end of the couches, facing the fireplace, and one for me. They got distributed — Farnham, Peacock, Magee, and Colihan on the couch at our left, and DuBois and the Amorys on the one at the right. As she sat, Mrs. Amory said to Wolfe, “I’m trying to think of something you can ask me. I’m closer to tight than I’ve been for years after this rainy day and I want to see what I’d say.” She put a hand to her mouth to cover what might have been a burp. “I think I’d make something up.”

“I advise against it, madam. Mr. Goodwin has informed me thoroughly.” Wolfe sent his eyes around. “I know, from Mr. Goodwin, how each of you spent that Thursday afternoon — what he has been told. I know that all of you, except Mrs. Amory, think it likely that Mr. Greve killed that man. Mr. Goodwin and I think he didn’t. Mr. Jessup, the county attorney, knows that, but he also knows that we don’t intend to try to concoct evidence to support our opinion; we intend only to find it if it exists, and the best place to start is here, with those closest to Mr. Brodell during his last three days and nights. First, Mr. Farnham, a point you can cover best. As you know, no bullets were found, but the nature of the wounds indicated the kind of gun that fired the shots. You own such a gun?”

“Sure I do. So do a lot of other people.”

“Where is yours kept?”

“In a closet in my room.”

“Is it accessible? Is the closet locked?”

“No.”

“Is the gun usually loaded?”

“Of course not. Nobody keeps a gun loaded.”

“Is ammunition accessible?”

“Yes. Naturally. A gun’s no good without ammunition. On a shelf in the closet.”

“Was there, that Thursday, any other gun on your premises — to your knowledge?”

“None that could have done that to Brodell’s shoulder and neck. I’ve got two shotguns and a revolver, and Bert Magee has a shotgun, but that’s all.”

“You told Mr. Goodwin that you and Mrs. Amory spent that afternoon on horseback on what is called the Upper Berry Creek trail. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Most of the afternoon?”

“All of it from two o’clock on.”

“Then you don’t know how your gun spent the afternoon. Anyone could have taken it and used it and put it back. When you next saw it, was it precisely as you had left it?”

“Balls.” Farnham’s voice was raised. “If you ask me, you’re a lousy investigator. If I say yes, it was, then you say the only way I could know it was would be if I went and looked when I knew about Brodell, and if I did that I must have thought that someone that belongs here shot him. You’re not tough, you’re just half-assed tricky.” He got up and took a step. “You might as well beat it. These folks are my guests and my men, and we don’t have to take your brand of crap. Drag it.”

Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “I thought it preferable,” he said, “both for you and for us, to do it this way. To summon you to the county attorney’s office as material witnesses, probably singly, would be a nuisance for me and an inconvenience for you. If you resent my implying that one of the people in this room might have killed Mr. Brodell you’re a nincompoop. Why else would I come here in a downpour? I said I came to inquire, not to harass, but inquiries about homicide are rarely bland. Shall we go on, here and now, or not?”

“That’s not crap, Bill,” DuBois said. “We all think Greve probably killed him, all but Mrs. Amory, but Nero Wolfe is not a gump. As I’ve said before, it seemed to me that the sheriff could have been a little more curious about your gun. He didn’t even look at it.”

“Yes he did.” Farnham was still on his feet. “The next day. Friday afternoon.”

“Well, that was lousy investigating. Sit down and cool it.” DuBois turned to Wolfe. “Do me while he counts ten. Joe Colihan and I were across the river that afternoon with Bert Magee, climbing mountains, so we alibi each other, but we’re close friends and he’d lie for me any day. Harass me. I’ll try to stick it.”

“Later,” Wolfe said. “I haven’t finished with Mr. Farnham.” He tilted his head to look up at him. “We can dispose of the gun, for now, with one question. Did you at any time, after Mr. Brodell’s body was found, thinking it conceivable that your gun had been used, go and look at it and the supply of ammunition?”

“Of course I did.” Farnham sat down. “That night. Anyone with any sense would. To see if it was there. It was, and it hadn’t been fired, and no ammunition was gone.”

Wolfe nodded. “I don’t ask if, when the possibility that your gun had been used entered your mind, the name of an individual entered with it. You would say no, and only you know what happened inside your skull. I do ask: during the three days that Mr. Brodell was here alive had there been any noticeable conflict between him and anyone else?”

“No.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Bill.” Joseph Colihan’s high-pitched voice didn’t go with his broad shoulders and square jaw. “The man wants the facts.” To Wolfe: “Brodell and I had some words the day he got here. Monday. I had been here two weeks and I was riding the horse he had had last year, and he wanted it, and I liked it. When I went out Tuesday morning he had his saddle on it, and I took it off, and he tried to stop me. He swung a bridle at me and skinned my ear with the bit, and I roughed him up a little. After that we didn’t speak, but I kept the horse, so I didn’t have to shoot him. Anyway I’m not a hunter and I wouldn’t know how to load Farnham’s gun. I didn’t even know he had one.”

“Neither did I,” DuBois said, “but of course I can’t prove it.”

“Had either of you had any previous contact with Mr. Brodell?”

They both said no. Wolfe’s eyes went to the right. “Had you, Dr. Amory? Had you ever seen Mr. Brodell before he arrived that Monday?”

“I had not.” Amory’s deep full voice would have been just right for Colihan.

“Had you, Mrs. Amory?”

“No.”

He stayed at her. “What was your opinion of him?”

“Of Philip Brodell?”

“Yes.”

“Well... I could make something up for that because you can’t see inside my skull either. But I’m on your side, you know. I don’t think anyone here killed him, why would they, but I’m rooting for you. My opinion of him — you see, we knew he was coming, and we knew he was the father of that girl’s baby, so I had an idea of him before I saw him. You know how a woman’s mind works.”

“I do not. No one does. Why are you rooting for me?”

“Oh, they’re all so cocksure about it. A he-man father and his daughter’s honor, hurray. As for Philip Brodell, I was so busy trying to see what he had that had made it so easy for him to seduce that girl — I suppose you know everybody thought she was what they call a good girl — that I don’t really know what my opinion was. Anyway it wouldn’t help you any, would it?”

“It might if I could get it. One possibility that has been suggested to Mr. Goodwin is that Mr. Brodell seduced you, and your husband learned of it and removed him. That has the attraction that he has no alibi.”

The Amorys had both made noises. His was a scornful grunt, and hers was an amused snort. “Of course,” she said, “the Greve girl would suggest that. Naturally. I doubt if he could have seduced me in three years. But in three days?” She looked at me. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

“I was deciding how to put it,” I said. “The suggestion didn’t come from Miss Greve.”

“I am aware,” Amory told Wolfe, “that anyone remotely involved in a murder investigation must expect impertinences and absurdities, but we don’t have to encourage them. I covered some ten miles up the river that afternoon, and I had no gun, and my wife was with Mr. Farnham, as you know. Neither of us has any knowledge of anything that could possibly be relevant. I live in another state, but investigating procedure is basically the same everywhere in the West, and I’d like to know how you fit in. If a law officer asks ridiculous questions a citizen might as well answer them and get rid of him, but why you? If you told the county attorney something that made him think that man Greve may not be guilty, you should tell us if you expect us to respect your authority. Why did he give you official standing?”

“Disaster insurance,” Wolfe said.

“Insurance? Against what?”

“Against the possibility of a demonstration that I deserve my reputation. You must know, Dr. Amory, that the validity of a reputation depends on its nature. The renown of a champion runner or discus thrower has a purely objective basis — the recordings of stopwatches or tape measures. Consider your own profession. The renown of a practicing physician is partly objective — how many of the people he treats get well and how many die — but there are other factors that can’t be objectively measured. A doctor who has many patients and is trusted and well regarded by them may be disdained by his colleagues. With a professional investigator, his public repute may have very little objective foundation, if any; his admired feats could have resulted exclusively from luck. Take me. Fewer than a dozen people are qualified to say if my reputation has been fairly earned.”

“Archie Goodwin is,” DuBois said.

“Yes, he’s qualified, but he’s biased. An ex parte judgment is always suspect.” Wolfe’s eyes went right and left. “Mr. Jessup was well advised to facilitate my inquiry by giving me a lever. Sensibly, he didn’t try to insist on knowing why Mr. Goodwin and I reject the plerophory that Mr. Greve is a murderer; he knew we would reserve our grounds until we had impressive evidence. As for this conversation, our coming here for some talk, we’re not so naïve as to suppose that anything could be learned by asking you routine questions. Mutual alibis among possible culprits are ignored by a competent investigator. Mr. DuBois. You invited me to harass you. If I do it won’t be by inane questions.”

His eyes took them in again. “There was the chance that meeting you here, together, would give us a hint of frictions that might be fruitful. It’s difficult for five people to live under one roof for three days without getting the skins of their egos scratched. I needed to decide if I should take the time and trouble to spend hours with each of you, tête-à-tête, reviewing every minute, every word spoken, during the three days Mr. Brodell was with you. I doubt it. If, for instance, Mr. Colihan or Dr. Amory heard a comment by one of you, or saw a gesture, suggestive of more knowledge of Mr. Brodell than had been disclosed, would he tell me? I doubt it. I have seen no indication of animus that would move any of you to risk such involvement. If one of you had previous contact with Mr. Brodell, evidence of it probably won’t be found here. It may be necessary to go to St. Louis, his home, or send someone. I hope not.”

“I wouldn’t object to spending hours with you tête-à-tête,” DuBois said. “Any time you say.”

“Neither would I,” Mrs. Amory said. “If you—”

“By God, I would,” Farnham blurted. “If you ask me, you’re just a jawbox. The sooner you go to St. Louis the better. All right, you’ve met us. The door’s over there.”

Wolfe nodded at him. “It’s probably only your temperament, but it could be apprehension of what I might expose. Before I leave I must talk with the one man who may say something helpful. But first, Mr. Magee, a routine question for you. You were with Mr. DuBois and Mr. Colihan across the river that Thursday afternoon?”

Bert Magee nodded. “That’s right.”

“All afternoon? Continuously?”

“Yep.”

“What time did you get back here?”

“Six o’clock, just about.”

“You know what I’m after: something, anything, to support my assumption that it wasn’t Mr. Greve who shot that man. Can you help me?”

“Nope. Of course Harvey should’ve shot him, and he did, and I hope they turn him loose.”

“That’s humane but not civilized. Mr. Peacock. I have many questions for you, mostly routine, because I understand you are best equipped to answer them. You were often with Mr. Brodell during those three days?”

Sam Peacock looked even smaller than he was, between those two huskies, Farnham on his right and Magee on his left, and the red and white bandanna didn’t hide his scrawny neck, it called attention to it. His squinty gray eyes darted a glance at Farnham before they went to Wolfe. “Uhuh,” he said. “I guess you could say often. Last year I gave him a fly that got him a six-pound rainbow, and that made me turtle feathers. When he came this year Bill sent me to Timberburg to get him, and the first thing he said, he wanted to know if I had another one corralled.”

“What time did he arrive that Monday?”

“He got to Timberburg on the noon bus, but he had to scare up a pile of things, duds and tackle and I don’t know what all, so we didn’t get here until... I guess it was... what time was it, Bill?”

“Around five,” Farnham said.

“Maybe. I would have said a little later.”

“Were you present when he met the others? Dr. and Mrs. Amory and Mr. DuBois and Mr. Colihan?”

“No sir, I wasn’t. I guess I was in the kitchen eating supper with Bert. After supper Phil asked me to go to the river with him, and I didn’t have to, but I didn’t want to say no, so I went.”

“You called him by his first name?”

“Uhuh. He asked me to even before he got the rainbow. Some do and some don’t.”

“Were you with him on Tuesday?”

“Yes sir, I was.” Peacock sent a glance at Colihan. His tongue was slow but his eyes were quick. “That was the morning there was some trouble about the Monty horse. Phil told me to saddle him and I did, and here comes Colihan, and like he told you, they mixed it some. So I went to the corral and got Teabag for Phil, and we went downriver beyond the flats. All day, we made it back just in time for supper. Phil and the Teabag horse didn’t get along any too good, but I guess I’m telling you more than you want to know. Anyway I told Archie all this.”

Wolfe nodded. “Sometimes he’s careless about details. You couldn’t tell me more than I want to know. Did you see Mr. Brodell after supper Tuesday?”

“No sir, I didn’t. He was played out and anyway I wasn’t here. I was off and around.”

“The next day? Wednesday?”

“Uhuh, that was better. Phil and me left early and went upriver on two laigs apiece. He didn’t get no six-pound rainbow, but he filled a big creel and it was a real good day any way you look at it. Up at the falls he slipped on a rock and got dunked, but the sun soon dried him and no bones was broke. Of course he was draggin’ his ass by the time we saw the chimney smoke comin’ in, and his back hadn’t forgot the day he had spent on Teabag, so when I asked him what he had in mind for the next day he said the way he felt right then he might not get out of bed even for meals. But he did. Next morning Connie told me he had stowed away a stack of ulcer patches and three fish for breakfast.”

“Who is Connie?”

“She’s the cook.”

“He was with you Thursday morning?”

“No, sir, he wasn’t. He said he was goin’ to mosey over for a look at Berry Creek and I would set too fast a pace. Then after lunch he said—”

“If you please. How long was he gone in the morning?”

“I’d say two hours, maybe more. Then after—”

“Did he go up Berry Creek, or down?”

“If he said, I didn’t listen. It’s an easy trail over to the bend and then up or down, take your pick. I’d say he didn’t go up to the pool because he didn’t take tackle.”

“Did he mention meeting anyone?”

“No sir, he didn’t.” Peacock tugged at a corner of the neck rag. “You got a lot of questions, mister.”

“I once asked a woman ten thousand questions. That Thursday morning is of interest because apparently it was the only time Mr. Brodell was off alone — except the afternoon. The easy trail to the creek — is it near the road at any point?”

“Uhuh. Where it circles around to miss a climb.”

“So he may not have got to the creek, if he met someone on the road. You spoke with him when he returned?”

“Not when he returned. After lunch.”

“Did you gather from what he said that he had been to the creek?”

“I don’t do much gatherin’ from what a man says. Now if he said he saw a fourteen-inch Dolly Varden in the pool above the bend you might say he had been to the creek, but you got to figure maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. A man can say things like that just because it sounds good. Anyhow we didn’t talk after lunch. I was out by the corral trimmin’ a post and he comes and says he was goin’ up the ridge to get some berries. That was at five minutes after three. Connie says it was five after when he left the house, but I keep my watch right.” He looked at his wrist. “Right now it’s nine minutes to ten.”

“And you didn’t see him again — alive?”

“No sir, I didn’t.”

“Where were you the next five hours?”

“I was around. It took a while to get that post in and then there was a loose shoe on a horse, and a saddle had to have a new cinch, and some other little things.”

“You didn’t leave the premises?”

“Now that’s quite a word, that ‘premises.’ If you mean did I go up the ridge with a gun and shoot Phil, no sir, I didn’t. That wasn’t on my program. Any time Connie had opened the door and yelled for me she’d ’a’ got me.”

“And you saw no one with a gun?”

“That’s correct. That’s a fair statement. The first man I saw was Bill when he come in with Mrs. Amory and I took the horses. I was in my room washin’ up when Bert and his two got in. Right after supper Bill asked me again about Phil but I couldn’t tell him any more than I already had. When the sun was gone we thought we’d better look around and Bill and Bert and me went up the ridge. I knew the spots Phil liked better than they did, so it was me that found him.”

Wolfe turned his head to look at me. His unasked question was, “Has he varied any, with the others present, from what he told you, and if so, do you challenge him now?” I shook my head and said, “Nothing to add, even with credentials.”

He sent his eyes around and told a barefaced lie. “I suppose I should intermit. Before proceeding beyond this preamble I must consult Mr. Jessup; as he said, the inquiry is under his supervision and control. I think it quite likely that at least one of you is withholding material facts, but I doubt if prolonging this through the night will disclose them. An obvious point: you have all been placed, provisionally, for that Thursday afternoon, but where were you that morning during the two hours when Mr. Brodell was off alone?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to send Mr. Goodwin to St. Louis, I need him here, but we shall see.” He got to his feet. “It’s astonishing how frequently grown men, apparently sane, get the notion that they can conceal facts that are easily ascertain-able. I’ll bear in mind, Mr. DuBois, that you have invited harassment, and I may oblige you.”

He moved, and so did I, across to the rack in an alcove for the ponchos and flashlight. They all stayed put, but as I was pulling my hood over, here came Farnham to the rack, and he got a poncho and put it on and went and opened the door. It was pretty late in the day for him to be getting polite, and I supposed he was going out for some little errand, but he came across to the car with us. The rain had let up but there was plenty of drip from the firs. Farnham opened the door of the station wagon for Wolfe to get in, and then he held it open and did his little errand. He spoke. “I don’t want you to get the idea that I have tried to conceal any facts. Some facts are other people’s business and some aren’t. I don’t think anybody around here knows that Phil Brodell’s father has got a mortgage on my place and there’s no reason why they should, but if Goodwin goes to St. Louis and sees Brodell, of course that’s one fact he’ll get, and you might as well get it from me.”

Wolfe grunted. “A substantial mortgage?”

“Goddammit, yes!” He slammed the door shut harder than necessary.