Some Buried Caesar

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 -”

“No. Shakespeare used it. I’ve looked it up. I never invent unless -”

There was a knock on the door, and I said come in. A specimen entered wearing dirty flannel pants and a shiny starched white coat, with grease on the side of his face. He stood in the doorway and mumbled something about Mr. Pratt having arrived and we could go downstairs when we felt like it. Wolfe told him we would be down at once and he went off.

I observed, “Mr. Pratt must be a widower.”

“No,” said Wolfe, making ready to elevate himself. “He has never married. Miss Pratt told me. Are you going to comb your hair?”

We had to hunt for them. A woman in the lower hall with an apron on shook her head when we asked her, and we went into the dining room and out again, and through a big living room and another one with a piano in it before we finally found them out on a flagged terrace shaded with awnings. The two girls were off to one side with a young man, having highballs. Nearer to us, at a table, were two guys working their chins and fluttering papers from a brief case at each other. One, young and neat, looked like a slick bond salesman; the other, middle-aged or a little past, had brown hair that was turning gray, narrow temples and a wide jaw. Wolfe stopped, then in a minute approached nearer and stopped again. They looked up at him and the other one frowned and said:

“Oh, you’re the fellows.”

“Mr. Pratt?” Wolfe bowed faintly. “My name is Wolfe.”

The younger man stood up. The other just kept on frowning. “So my niece told me. Of course I’ve heard of you, but I don’t care if you’re President Roosevelt, you had no business in that pasture when my man ordered you out. What did you want in there?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you go in there for?”

Wolfe compressed his lips, then loosened them to ask, “Did your niece tell you what I told her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she lied?”

“Why… no.”

“Do you think I lied?”

“Er… no.”

Wolfe shrugged. “Then it remains only to thank you for your hospitality - your telephone, your accommodations, your refreshment. The beer especially is appreciated. Your niece has kindly offered to take us to Crowfield in your car… if you will permit that?”

“I suppose so.” The lummox was still frowning. He leaned back with his thumbs in his armpits. “No, Mr. Wolfe, I don’t think you lied, but I’d still like to ask a question or two. You see, you’re a detective, and you might have been hired… God knows what lengths they’ll go to. I’m being pested half to death. I went over to Crowfield with my nephew today to take a look at the exposition, and they hounded me out of the place. I had to come home to get away from them. I’ll ask a straight question: did you enter that particular pasture because you knew that bull was in it?”

Wolfe stared. “No, sir.”

“Did you come to this part of the country in an effort to do something about that bull?”

“No, sir. I came to exhibit orchids at the North Atlantic Exposition.”

“Your choosing that pasture was pure accident?”

“We didn’t choose it. It was a question of geometry. It was the shortest way to this house.” After a pause Wolfe added bitterly, “So we thought.”

Pratt nodded. Then he glanced at his watch, jerked himself up and turned to the man with the brief case, who was stowing papers away. “All right, Pavey, you might as well make the 6 o’clock from Albany. Tell Jameson there’s no reason in God’s world why the unit should drop below twenty-eight four. Why shouldn’t people be as hungry this September as any other September? Remember what I said, no more Fairbanks pies…” He went on a while about dish breakage percentages and new leases in Brooklyn and so forth, and shouted a last minute thought about the lettuce market after Pavey had disappeared around the corner of the house. Then our host asked abruptly if Wolfe would like a highball, and Wolfe said no thanks he preferred beer but doubtless Mr. Goodwin would enjoy a highball. Pratt yelled “Bert!” at the top of his voice, and Greasy-face showed up from inside the house and got orders. As we sat down the trio from the other end came over, carrying their drinks.

“May we?” Miss Pratt asked her uncle. “Jimmy wants to meet the guests. Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Goodwin, this is my brother.”

I stood to acknowledge, and became aware that Wolfe was playing a deep and desperate game when I saw that instead of apologizing for not raising his poundage, as was customary, he stood too. Then we sat again, with Lily the blonde doing a languid drape on a canvas swing and a beautiful calf protruding from one leg of her yellow slacks.

Pratt was talking. “Of course I’ve heard of you,” he was telling Wolfe. “Privately too, once or twice. My friend Pete Hutchinson told me that you turned him down a couple of years ago on a little inquiry he undertook regarding his wife.”

Wolfe nodded. “I like to interfere with natural processes as little as possible.”

“Suit yourself.” Pratt took a gulp of highball. “That’s my motto. It’s your business, and you’re the one to run it. For instance, I understand you’re a fancy eater. Now I’m in the food business, and what I believe in is mass feeding. Last week we served a daily average of 42,392 lunches in Greater New York at an average cost to the consumer of twenty-three and seventeen-hundredths cents. What I claim - how many times have you eaten in a pratteria?”

“I…” Wolfe held it while he poured beer. “I never have.”

“Never?”

“I always eat at home.”

“Oh.” Pratt eyed him. “Of course some home cooking is all right. But most of the fancy stuff… one of my publicity stunts was when I got a group of fifty people from the Social Register into a pratteria and served them from the list. They gobbled it up and they raved. What I’ve built my success on is, first, quality, second, publicity.” He had two fingers up.

“An unbeatable combination,” Wolfe murmured. I could have kicked him. He was positively licking the guy’s boots. He even went on, “Your niece was telling me something of your phenomenal career.”

“Yes?” He glanced at her. “Your drink’s gone, Caroline.” He turned his head and bawled, “Bert!” Back to Wolfe: “Well, she knows as much about it as anyone. She worked in my office three years. Somehow she got started playing golf, and she got good at it, and I figured it would be good publicity to have a golf champion for a niece, and she made it. That’s better than anything she could do in the office. And better than anything her brother could do. My only nephew, and no good for anything at all. Are you, Jimmy?”

The young man grinned at him. “Not worth a damn.”

“Yes, but you don’t mean it, and I do. Just because your father and mother died when you were young… why I keep spending money on you is beyond me. It’s about my only weakness. And when I think that my will leaves everything to you and your sister only because there’s no one else in sight… it makes me hope I will never die. What do you call it? Immortality. When I think what you would do with a million dollars… let me ask you, Mr. Wolfe, what is your opinion of architecture?”

“Well… I like this house.”

Jimmy cackled. “Ha! Wowie!”

His uncle disregarded him and cocked an eye at Wolfe. “You do actually? My nephew there designed it. It was only finished last year. I came originally from this part of the country… was born on this spot in an old shack. There is absolutely no money in architecture and never will be… I’ve looked into it. Where a nephew of mine ever got the idea…”

He went on and on, and Wolfe placidly opened another bottle of beer. I myself wasn’t doing so bad, because it was by no means pratteria Scotch in my highball, and I had nearly finished my second one, and was so seated that I could take in the blonde on the canvas swing, with all her convolutions and what not. I quit listening to Pratt entirely, and got to wondering idly which was the more desirable quality in a girl, the ability to look as inviting as that stretched out on canvas, or the ability to save a man from a bull, and went on from that to something else, no matter what, when all of a sudden the pleasant sociable gathering was rudely interrupted. Four men came swinging around the corner of the house and tramped across the terrace. With a dim memory of our host’s remark about being hounded around the fair grounds, and a dim idea that the look on their faces meant trouble, my hand was inside my coat touching my holster before I knew it, then I came to and pretended I needed to scratch my shoulder.

Pratt had jumped up and was using all his narrow forehead for a ferocious scowl, facing the intruders. The foremost, a wiry little item with a thin nose and sharp dark eyes, stopped right in front of him and told his face, “Well, Mr. Pratt, I think I’ve got it worked out to satisfy you.”

“I’m already satisfied. I told you.”

“But we’re not.” The keen eyes darted around. “If you’d let me explain the arrangement I’ve been able -”

“It’s a waste of time, Mr. Bennett. I’ve told you -”

“Permit me.” The tone was brusque, and came from a solid-looking bird in a gray sport suit that was a dream, with the fitting accessories, including driving gloves on a warm day. “You’re Pratt? Lew Bennett here has talked me into this, and I have to get back to Crowfield and out again for New York. I’m Cullen.”

Bennett said nervously, “Daniel Cullen.”

“Oh.” Pratt looked interested and a little awed. “This is an honor, Mr. Cullen. My little place here. Sit down. Have a highball? Jimmy, push up some more chairs. No, you folks stay. Here, Mr. Cullen, meet my niece…” He did introductions all around, including titles and occupations. It appeared that Lew Bennett was the secretary of the National Guernsey League. The name of the big-boned guy with scraggly hair and a big tired face was Monte McMillan. Daniel Cullen, of course, was Daniel Cullen, just as J. P. Morgan is J. P. Morgan. The fourth one, who looked even tireder than Monte McMillan, was Sidney Darth, chairman of the North Atlantic Exposition Board. Bert was called and sent for drinks. Lily Rowan sat up to make room on the swing, and I noticed that Jimmy Pratt copped the place next to her. She looked around at the newcomers as if she was bored.

Lew Bennett was saying, “Mr. Cullen’s in a hurry to get back, and I’m confident, Mr. Pratt, you’ll appreciate what he’s doing as well as we do. You won’t lose a cent. It will be a happy outcome -”

“I want to say it’s a damned outrage!” It was Cullen, glowering at Pratt. “It ought to be actionable! Where the devil!”

“Excuse me,” Bennett put in hastily. “I’ve been all over that aspect of it, Mr. Cullen, and if Mr. Pratt doesn’t see it our way… he just doesn’t. It’s quite useless… what I mean to say is, thank God you’ve come to the rescue.” He turned to Pratt. “The arrangement is simply this, that Mr. Cullen has generously agreed to take Hickory Caesar Grindon.”

Pratt grunted, then was silent. After a moment he asked sullenly, “What does he want with him?”

Bennett looked shocked. “He has one of the finest purebred Guernsey herds in the country.”

Cullen growled, “You understand, Pratt, I don’t need him. My senior herd sire is Mahwah Gallant Masterson who has 43 A R daughters. I have three junior sires who are lined out. I’m doing this as a favor to the breed and to the National Guernsey League.”

Bennett said, “About the arrangement. Mr. Cullen is quite correct when he says he doesn’t really need Caesar. He is acting very generously, but he isn’t willing to pay you the sum you paid McMillan. I know, you’ve told me you offered it and you paid it and you’re satisfied, but the fact remains that $45,000 is a terrific price for any bull. Why, Coldwater Grandee himself sold for $33,000 in 1932, and great as Caesar is, he isn’t Grandee. In 1932 Grandee had 127 A R daughters and 15 A R sons. So the arrangement is this: Mr. Cullen will pay you $33,000, and Monte - Mr. McMillan will return $12,000 of the sum you paid him. You’ll get all your money back. It can be paid now with Mr. Cullen’s check, which I guess you know is good, and there’ll be a truck here before dark to get Caesar. Mr. Cullen wants to show him at Crowfield Thursday, if he can be got in shape. I hope he’s not upset. I understand you’ve got him in a pasture.”

Pratt turned on McMillan. “You told me this noon that you regarded the deal as closed for good and you wouldn’t be a party to any effort to cancel it.”

“I know I did.” McMillan couldn’t keep his hand from trembling a little as he put down his drink. “They’ve been riding me… they’ve been… I’m an old Guernsey man, Mr. Pratt.”

“You should be ashamed to admit it!” Cullen exploded. “They should expel you from the league and freeze you out! Pratt doesn’t know any better, he has that excuse at least. But you haven’t! You knew what was going to happen to that bull before you sold him!”

“Sure.” McMillan nodded wearily. “It’s easy for you to talk, Mr. Cullen. What have you got, a couple of billion? What I had, after what the depression did to me, was my herd and nothing else. Just my herd. Then the anthrax came, only a month ago, and in one week what did I have? What did I have left out of my Hickory herd? Four calves, six cows, one junior sire, and Caesar. What could I do with Caesar under those conditions? Live on his fees? Where would that get me? I couldn’t even buy grades to breed him to, let alone purebreds. I knew no stockman could pay high enough for him, so I sent telegrams offering him to a dozen of you gentlemen breeders, and what did I get? You all knew I was out on a limb, and the best offer was $9000! For Hickory Caesar Grindon. Then Mr. Pratt shows up and he tells me straight what he wants to do with Caesar, and of course I knew it was impossible, even in the fix I was in, but it was a temptation, so to get rid of him I set a figure so high it was ridiculous. $45,000!” McMillan picked up his glass, looked into it, and put it down again. He said quietly, “Mr. Pratt took out his checkbook and wrote out a check and I took it. It wasn’t you, Mr. Cullen, who offered me $9000. As I remember it, your offer was $7500.”

Cullen shrugged. “I didn’t need him. Anyway, as it stands now, you’ll be getting $33,000, or rather keeping that out of what Pratt paid you. Under the circumstances, McMillan, you may consider yourself damned lucky. What I’m doing is in effect philanthropy. I’ve had my superintendent on the phone, and I’m not even sure I want Caesar’s line in my herd. There have been better bulls than Caesar before now, and there will be -”

“No bull of yours, damn you!” McMillan’s voice shook with rage. “You damn lousy amateur!” Abruptly he stopped himself, looked around at the faces, and slowly drew the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he leaned toward Cullen and said quietly but pointedly, “How do you like that? Who are you to make side remarks about any bull or any cow either? Let alone Hickory Caesar Grindon! Caesar was the finest bull, bar none, that ever got on the register!”

He passed his hand across his mouth again. “Yes, I say ‘was,’ because he’s not mine any more… and he’s not yours yet, Mr. Cullen. He was a double grandson of Burleigh’s Audacious. He had 51 A R daughters and 9 A R sons. I was up all night the day he was dropped - he sucked these fingers when he was six hours old.” The fingers trembled as he held them out. “He took nine grands, the last one being at Indianapolis, the National, last year. At five shows he has taken get of sire. Twelve of his daughters have topped 13,000 pounds of milk and 700 pounds of butterfat. And you say you’re not even sure you want his line in your herd! Well, damn you, I hope you won’t get it! At least I won’t help you pay for it!”

He turned to the secretary of the National Guernsey League, Bennett, and said with his chin stiff, “I’ll keep my $12,000, Lew. Count me out of your little deal.”

What he got for that was an uproar. Bennett and Darth and Cullen all went for him. It was hard to get details out of all the confusion, but the gist of it seemed to be that McMillan was going back on his word and he couldn’t do that, and the honor of the National Guernsey League and of all American stockmen was at stake, and it would put a crimp in the prestige of the North Atlantic Exposition if such a thing happened right next door to it, and McMillan would be keeping $33,000 which was enough anyhow, and so forth and so on. McMillan sat, looking sad and sore but stubborn, without trying to reply to them.

They were shocked into silence by an unexpected bomb tossed into the fray by Pratt.

“Let him alone!” Pratt yelled. “He’s out of it anyhow. I don’t want my money back from him or Mr. Cullen or anyone else. What I want is the bull, and I’ve got him, and a bill of sale. That’s final.”

They glared at him. Bennett sputtered, “You don’t mean that. You can’t mean it! Look here, I’ve told you -”

“I do mean it.” Pratt’s wide jaw was set. “I’ve paid a good price and I’m satisfied. I’ve made my arrangements and I’m going to stick to them. I’ve invited a hundred people -”

“But good God, after what I’ve…” Bennett jumped up, waving his arms, and it began to look as if I might have to reach into the holster after all. He raved. “I tell you, you can’t do it! By God, you won’t do it! You’re crazy if you think you can get away with it, and I’ll see that you don’t! There’s a dozen members of the league at Crowfield waiting for me to get back, and when they hear what I have to say, there’ll be some action taken, don’t think there won’t!”

The others were on their feet too. Daniel Cullen rumbled, “You’re a goddam maniac, Pratt.”

Cullen grunted, and wheeled. “Come on, Bennett. Come on, Darth. I’ve got to catch a train.” He strode off. The other two followed at his heels. They disappeared around the corner of the house.

After a silence Pratt’s jaw relaxed a little and he looked across at the one who was left.

“You know, McMillan,” he said, “I don’t like the look of that fellow Bennett. Nor what he said either. He might even sneak around to that pasture right now, and I’m afraid the man I’ve got guarding it isn’t much good. I know I wasn’t supposed to get anything for my $45,000 except the bull, but I wonder if you’d mind…”

“Sure.” McMillan was up, big-boned and lanky. “I’ll go take a look. I… I wanted to look at him anyway.”

“Could you stick around a while?”

“Sure.”

The stockman lumbered off.

We sat, the nephew and niece looking worried, Lily Rowan yawning, Pratt frowning. Wolfe heaved a sigh and emptied his glass.

Pratt muttered, “All the commotion.”

Wolfe nodded. “Astonishing. About a bull. It might be thought you were going to cook him and eat him.”

Pratt nodded back at him. “I am. That’s what’s causing all the trouble.”