Some Buried Caesar

"And even when further developments gave you the notion that he was the murderer, you decided to withhold all this to protect your brother's memory."

"Yes. And I wish I had stuck to it." She leaned forward at Wolfe, and a flush of determination showed faintly on her cheeks. "You got it out of me," she said. "But what Clyde wanted most was that Dad shouldn't know about it. Does Dad have to know? Why does he? What good will it do?"

Wolfe grimaced. "Can you pay Bronson the $10,000?"

"Not now. But I've been trying to think of a way ever since Bronson spoke to me this morning… didn't Clyde win his bet with Pratt? Surely he won't have that barbecue now, will he? Won't he owe the money?"

"My dear child." Wolfe opened his eyes at her. "What a remarkable calculation. Amazing. It deserves to bear fruit, and we must see what can be done. I underestimated you, for which I apologize. Also I think you deserve to be hu- mored. If it is feasible, and it should be, your promise to your brother shall be kept. I have undertaken a specific com- mission from your father, to expose the murderer of his son, and I should think that can be managed without disclosing his contract with Bronson. That's a superb idea, to collect from Pratt to pay Bronson. I like it. By winning his last wager your brother vindicated, as far as he could, all his previous sacrifices in the shabby temple of luck. Magnificent and neat… and fine of you, very fine, to perceive the necessity of completing the gesture for him… I assure you I'll do all I can-"

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!"