Some Buried Caesar

Wolfe squirmed in his chair, which was after all eight inches too narrow, and continued, "It is an interesting ques- tion whether rapid and accurate brain work results from superior equipment or from good training. In my case, what- ever my original equipment may have been, it has certainly had the advantage of prolonged and severe training. One re- sult, not always pleasant and rarely profitable, is that I am likely to forget myself and concentrate on problems which are none of my business. I did so last night. Within thirty seconds after inspecting the bull's clean face, I had guessed at a possible weapon. Knowing where it was, I went and in- spected it, and verified my guess. I then returned to the house. By the time I arrived there I had reached a conclusion as to how the crime had been committed-and I have not altered it since."

"What was the weapon? Where was it?"

"It was rustic too. An ordinary pick for digging. In the afternoon, in an emergency created by the bull-preceded by Mr. Goodwin's destruction of my car-1 had been conveyed from the pasture by Miss Pratt in an automobile. We had passed by an excavation-the barbecue pit as I learned after- wards-with freshly dug earth and picks and shovels lying there. My guess was that a pick might have been used. I went with a flashlight to see, and found confirmation. There were two picks. One of them was perfectly dry, with bits of dried soil clinging to it, and the other was damp. Even the metal itself was still damp on the under side, and the wooden han- dle was positively wet. There was no particle of soil clinging to the metal. Obviously the thing had been thoroughly and recently washed, not more than an hour previously at the outside. Not far away I found the end of a piece of garden hose. It was connected somewhere, for when I turned the nozzle a little, water came. Around where the nozzle lay the grass was quite wet when I pressed my palm into it. It was more than a surmise, it was close to a certainty, that the pick had done the goring, got deluged with blood, been carefully washed with the garden hose and replaced on the pile of excavated soil where I found it."

"You mean-" Frederick Osgood stopped with his jaw clamped. His clenched fists, resting on his hams, showed white knuckles. He went on, harshly, "My son… was killed like that… dug at with a pick?"