Some Buried Caesar

"I know. Clyde wasn't caught doing that." Wolfe sighed. "That seems to cover it. Pratt, McMillan, the nephew, the niece. Miss Rowan… and on motive you offer no indict- ment. I suppose, since this place is at a distance of only a mile or so from Mr. Pratt's, which might fairly be called propinquity, we should include those who were here. What about Mr. Bronson?"

"I don't know him. He came with Clyde and was intro- duced as a friend."

"An old friend?"

"I don't know."

"You never saw him or heard of him before?"

"No."

"What about the people employed here? There must be quite a few. Anyone with a grudge against your son?"

"No. Absolutely not. For three years he more or less super- vised things here for me, and he was competent and had their respect, and they all liked him. Except-" Osgood stopped abruptly, and was silent, suspended, with his mouth open. Then he said, "Good God, I've just remembered… but no, that's ridiculous…"

"What is?"

"Oh… a man who used to work here. Two years ago one of our best cows lost her calf and Clyde blamed this man and fired him. The man has done a lot of talking ever since, denying it was his fault, and making some wild threats I've been told about. The reason I think of it now… he's over at Pratt's place. Pratt hired him last spring. His name is Dave Smalley."

"Was he there last night?"

"I presume so. You can find out."

I put in an oar: "Sure he was. You remember Dave, don't you? How he resented your using that rock as a waiting room?"

Wolfe surveyed me. "Do you mean the idiot who waved the gun and jumped down from the fence?"

"Yep. That was Dave."

"Pfui." Wolfe almost spat. "It won't do, Mr. Osgood. You remarked, correctly, that the murderer had brains and nerve and luck. Dave is innocent."

"He's done a lot of talking."