Some Buried Caesar

McMillan started to say something, but Osgood exploded at him: "Damn you, Monte, did you bring this man here? Get him away at oncel I don't want his foot on my place-"

"Now wait a second, Fred." McMillan sounded as if he wasn't brooking anything much either. "Just a second and give us a chance. I didn't bring him; no, but we came. There's hell to pay around here, and Pratt doesn't like it any better than you do, and neither do I. Waddell, and Sam Lake with a bunch of deputies, and a herd of state police, are tearing things apart over there, and if there's anything to be found we hope they find it. At least I do; Pratt can do his own talking. But in my opinion there's going to have to be some talking. Not-only on account of Clyde, but on ac- count of what happened an hour ago."

McMillan paused, returning Osgood's gaze, and then said heavily, "Caesar's dead. My bull Caesar." Pratt growled, "My bull."

"Okay, Pratt, your bull." McMillan didn't look at him. "But he's dead. I bred him and he was mine. Now he's lying there on the ground dead."

11

OSGOOD'S scowl had got adulterated by a touch of bewilderment. But he exploded again: "What the devil do I care about your bull?" He transferred to Pratt: "You get out of here. Get!"

He was turned, and so were the others, by Wolfe's voice booming across the room. "Mr. Osgood! Please!"

Wolfe had left the comfortable chair and was approach- ing. I saw by the look on his face, knowing it as I did, that something had jolted and irritated him almost to the limit, and wondered what it could be. He joined the circle. "How do you do, gentlemen. Mr. Pratt, it is a poor return for your hospitality if I've offended you by renting my services to Mr. Osgood, and I hope you don't feel that way about it. Mr. Osgood, this is your house, but however you may resent Mr. Pratt's entering it, surely you can bottle your hostility for the present crisis. I assure you it's highly desirable. He seems to have brought vital news, with Mr. McMillan-"

Osgood, glaring at Pratt, rumbled, "You dirty abominable mud lark!"

Pratt, returning the glare, growled, "You goddam stuffed shirt!"

Fair enough, I thought, for a duke and a millionaire. Wolfe said, "Pfui. What if you are both right? – Mr. McMillan, please. What's this about the bull?"

"He's dead."

"What killed him?"

"Anthrax."

"Indeed. That's a disease, isn't it?"