Rex Stout - Some Buried Caesar

The atmosphere they created was immediate and full of sparks. Our host's mouth fell open. Jimmy stood up with his face red. Caroline exclaimed something. Lily Rowan twisted her neck to see and showed a crease in her brow. The girl got as far as the table which was littered with empty glasses, let her yellowish brown eyes go around, and said:

"We should have telephoned. Shouldn't we?"

That met denial. Greetings crossed one another through the atmosphere. It appeared that the bird in the Crawnley suit was a stranger to the Pratts, since he had to be introduced as Mr. Bronson. Wolfe and I had our names called, and learned that the girl was Nancy Osgood and the tall slender guy was her brother Clyde. Once more the clarion was sounded for poor Bert, whereupon there seemed to be an increase in the general embarrassment. Miss Osgood protested that they didn't want to intrude, they really couldn't stay, they had been to the fair and had only stopped in on their way home, on an impulse. Clyde Osgood, who had a pair of binoculars dangling on a strap around his neck, gazed down at Pratt in a fairly provocative manner and addressed him:

"We just got chased away from your pasture by Monte McMillan. We were only taking a look at your bull."

Pratt nodded sort of unconcerned, but I could see his temples were tight. "That darned bull's causing a lot of trouble." He glanced at the sister, and back at the brother again. "It's nice of you children to drop in like this. Unex- pected pleasure. I saw your father over at Crowfield today."

"Yeah. He saw you too." All at once Clyde stopped talk- ing, and began to turn, slow but sure, as if something had gripped him and was wheeling him on a pivot. He took four steps and was confronting the canvas swing, looking down straight at Lily Rowan.

"How are you?" he demanded.

"I'm fine." She held her head tilted back to see him. "Just fine. You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm great. "

"Good." Lily yawned.

That simple exchange seemed to have an effect on Jimmy Pratt, for he took on added color, though as near as I could tell his eyes were aimed at Nancy Osgood, who was passing a remark to Caroline. Caroline was insisting that they stay for a drink. Mr. Bronson, looking a little weary, as if the day at the fair had been too much for him, had sat down. Clyde abruptly turned away from the swing, crossed back over, and got onto the edge of the chair next to Pratt's.

"Look here," he said.

"Well, my boy?"

"We stopped in to see you, my sister and I."

"I think that was a good idea. Now that I've built this place here… we're neighbors again, aren't we."

Clyde frowned. He looked to me like a spoiled kid, with a mouth that didn't quite go shut, and moving as if he ex- pected things to get out of his way. He said, "Neighbors? I suppose so. Technically, anyhow. I wanted to speak to you about that bull. I know why you're doing it… I guess every- one around here does. You're doing it just to be offensive to my father – you keep out of this, Nancy, I'm handling this-"

His sister had a hand on his shoulder. "But Clyde, that's no way-"

"Let me alone." He shook her off and went after Pratt again. "You think you can get his goat by sneering at him, by butchering a bull that could top any of his in show competition. I'll hand it to you for one thing, you picked a good one. Hickory Caesar Grindon is a hard bull to put down. I say that not only on account of his record, but because I know cattle… or I used to. I wanted my father to buy Caesar – in 1931, when he was only a promising junior. And you think you're going to butcher him?"

"That's my intention. But where you got the idea that I'm doing it deliberately to offend your father – nonsense. I'm doing it as an advertisement for my business."

"You are like hell. I know all about it… from the beginning. It's just another of your cheap efforts to make my father look cheap-you keep out of this, Sis!"

"You're wrong, my boy." Pratt sounded tolerant. "I don't do anything cheap… I can afford not to. Let me tell you something. I understand the best bull your father's got is getting pretty old. Well, if your father came to me and asked for that bull I bought, I'd be strongly inclined to let him have him as a gift. I certainly would."

"No doubt! A gift!" Clyde was nearly overcome with scorn. "Now I'll tell you. There was a lot of talk over at Crowfield today. Of course, as a member of the Guernsey League, my father was in on it. He was sure that the plan Bennett arranged with Cullen and McMillan wouldn't work… he said he knew you since you were a boy and you wouldn't turn loose. My sister Nancy got the idea of coming here to try to persuade you, and I agreed to come along. On the way we met Bennett and Darth and Cullen going back, and they told us what had happened. I came on anyhow, though it didn't look like there was much chance of talking you out of it. Now I'd like to make a bet with you. Do you ever do any betting?"

"I'm not a gambler." Pratt chuckled. "I'm not exactly a confirmed gambler, but I don't mind an occasional friendly wager. I won a nice chunk on the 1936 election."

"Would you care to try a little bet with me? Say $10,000?"

"On what?"

They got interrupted. A voice sounded, "Oh, there you are," and Monte McMillan was coming across the terrace. He sounded a little relieved. He approached Pratt: "They were fooling around the fence on the other side, and I told them they might as well go on, and I wasn't sure where they got to. Not that I would suspect the Osgood youngsters of stealing a bull…"

Pratt grunted. "Sit down and have a drink. Bert! Bert!" He turned to Clyde: "What is it you want to bet about, my boy?"

Clyde leaned forward at him. "I'll bet you $10,000 you don't barbecue Hickory Caesar Grindon."

His sister Nancy exclaimed, "Clyde!" Wolfe's eyes went half shut. The others made sounds, and even Lily Rowan showed some interest. McMillan, who had started to sit down, stopped himself at an angle and held it a second, and then slowly sank.

Pratt asked quietly, "What's going to stop me?"

Clyde turned the palms of his hands up. "It's either a bet or it isn't. That's all."

"$10,000 even that we don't barbecue Hickory Caesar Grindon."

"Right."

"Within what time?"

"Say this week."

"I ought to warn you I've consulted a lawyer. There's no legal way of stopping it, if I own him, no matter how much of a champion he is."

Clyde merely shrugged. The look on his face was one I've often seen in a poker game.

"Well." Pratt leaned back and got his thumbs in his arm- pits. "This is mighty interesting. What about it, McMillan? Can they get that bull out of that pasture in spite of us?"

The stockman muttered, "I don't know who would be do- ing it. If there's any funny business… if we had him in a barn…"

"I haven't got a barn." Pratt eyed Clyde. "One thing. What do we do, put up now? Checks?"

Clyde flushed. "My check would be rubber. You know that, damn it. If I lose I'll pay."

"You're proposing a gentleman's bet? With me?"

"All right, call it that. A gentleman's bet."