“No. Mr. Veale.”
“I haven’t mentioned anyone named Veale.”
“I have — not by name, by title. The Attorney General in Helena. I have his number. He knows I’m here. Mr. McFarland telephoned him again yesterday, at my request, to tell him I was coming, and I went to see him when I got to Helena. I need to ask him something.”
I was up, getting the knapsack strapped on. I said the car would probably be available, but if not I could borrow one at the ranch, and we moved. Since we were equals I could have demanded to know what he wanted to ask the Attorney General, but it didn’t matter because nothing he asked anybody could have made the situation any worse.
Going back was tougher for him than coming had been, because it was downhill and there were a couple of places where anyone might do a tumble, but he made it without a scratch. The car was there, and I went in the cabin, got rid of the knapsack, went to Wolfe’s room to get a phone number from a slip of paper in a drawer, found Lily on the creek terrace, told her we had an errand in Lame Horse, and asked if the car was free. She said yes and asked if we would be back in time for supper, and I said yes, we were just going to make a phone call which I would tell her about later. Outside, Wolfe had taken the car for granted and got in, which was a little cheeky for a guest, and he was in the front, which was unusual. In his Heron sedan, which I drive, he always sits in the back, where there is a strap for him to grab when the car decides to try climbing a curb or jostling some other car it doesn’t like. I got in behind the wheel and we rolled. As we turned onto the road at the end of the lane a wild animal scooted out from a tuft and bounded hell-bent for the brush, and he asked, “Native hare?”
“That depends,” I said, “on whether a jackrabbit is a hare. I’ve never looked it up, but I will. They are not palatable.” I circled around a rock patch. “The man we’re going to ask to let us use his phone is Woodrow Stepanian. As I reported, he’s one of the few people who thinks Harvey is clean.”
“The Hall of Culture. You told me three years ago that he tried to get you to read Bacon’s essays.”
“I see you brought your memory along. It may come in handy.” I slowed the car to ease down the bank of a gully and climb back up. “He will expect you to shake hands. Everybody you meet out here will, and you’ve got enough built-in points against you without adding another one.”
“I resent any formality requiring bodily contact.”
“Yeah, I know. But what’s one more hardship after all you’ve gone through since yesterday morning?”
He compressed his lips and turned his head to watch gophers diving into holes.
At four in the afternoon on a weekday, in one respect Lame Horse is a big improvement on New York — the parking problem. Except Saturday nights, there isn’t any. When we got out, right at the entrance of the Hall of Culture, Wolfe stood there a minute, swiveling his head for a survey of the surroundings before preceding me inside. We crossed to a table by the wall where a four-sided game of Scrabble was in progress, though only one man was there — Woody — with the names of the four players written on cards by the racks: William Shakespeare, John Milton, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Woodrow Stepanian. I had seen that performance before, with different players, except Woody of course. He rose as we approached, and I pronounced names, and Wolfe took the offered hand like a gentleman. I concede that when he does shake he does it right.
“It is an honor,” Woody said. “I bow to you. Do you play Scrabble?”
Wolfe shook his head. “I don’t play games. I like using words, not playing with them.”
“We came to ask a favor,” I said. “We have to make a private phone call and it could be that the sheriff has a tap on Miss Rowan’s line. She sends her regards. May we use your phone?”
He said yes, certainly, looked down at the Scrabble game, muttered to himself, “Milton’s turn,” and went to the screen door and on out. Wolfe crossed to the desk in the corner where the phone was, and sat on a chair that was fine for Woody but not for him, and I told him to dial the operator and give her the number. He made a face, as always when he had to use the phone, and lifted the receiver.
Since there was no extension for me I can report only one end of the talk. After he told somebody his name and asked for Mr. Veale, and a two-minute wait: “Yes, speaking... No, I’m not in Timberburg, I’m staying at the cabin of Mr. Greve’s employer, the woman who owns the ranch... Yes, Miss Lily Rowan. I have decided that I should communicate with Mr. Jessup forth with, and I need to know if you reached him... Yes, I know, I understand the need for discretion... No, he hasn’t, but he doesn’t know where I am... Yes indeed, and I am obliged to you, and Mr. McFarland will be too.”
He hung up and turned to me and said, “Get Mr. Jessup,” frowned, and added, “if you please.” Being my equal was an awful bother.
Having rung the office of the county attorney in Timberburg four times to try to get an appointment, I didn’t have to look up the number. Standing at the end of the desk, I reached for the phone and dialed and told the female who answered that Nero Wolfe wanted to speak with Mr. Jessup, and in a minute his voice came.
“Mr. Wolfe?”
“Archie Goodwin. Here’s Mr. Wolfe.”
Again I can give only one end: “Mr. Jessup? Nero Wolfe. I believe Mr. Veale has spoken to you of me... Yes, so he told me. I wish to talk with you, probably at some length, and not, I think, on the telephone... Yes... Certainly... I would much prefer today... Yes, I understand that... No, I’m at a telephone in Lame Horse, in the office of Mr. Woodrow Stepanian... No. I don’t. You had better speak with Mr. Goodwin.”
He held it out and I took it. “Archie Goodwin.”
“Do you know where Whedon’s Graveyard is?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll leave in about ten minutes — perhaps twenty — and meet you there. Will anyone be with you besides Mr. Wolfe?”
I said no, and he said all right and hung up. I told Wolfe, “We’re to meet him at Whedon’s Graveyard, which is a little farther from Timberburg than from here. About ten miles.”
“A cemetery?”
“No. A long time ago a man named Whedon got the idea that he could grow wheat there and he tried it, and the story is that he starved to death, but I doubt that. This begins to look interesting. Jessup doesn’t want you to come to his office because the sheriffs office is also in the courthouse.” I looked at my watch: 4:55. “I’ll ring Miss Rowan and tell her we’ll be late for supper.”
While I was doing that, and getting the charges from the operator, he took a look at a few items of cultural material. When we went out I expected to see Woody there, but he wasn’t. He was with a little group in front of Vawter’s, watching a race up the road a little — or rather, a chase — coming this way. A scrawny little guy in Levi’s, no shirt, was loping down the middle of the road, and after him, some ten yards back, was a fat red-faced woman with a long leather strap. As he neared Vawter’s the man yelled at the group, “Rope her! Goddammit, rope her!” He yelled it again when he saw Wolfe and me. When he was about even with us he swerved to the right, stumbled and nearly fell, and headed for a path which curved around the side of a house, with the woman nearly at his tail. She almost had him as they disappeared back of the house.
Wolfe looked at me with his brows up.
“Local routine,” I said. “About once a month. Mr. and Mrs. Nev Barnes. She bakes bread and pies and sells them, and he snitches some of the proceeds and buys hooch from a bootlegger named Henrietta. There’s a theory that the reason she doesn’t hide the jack where he couldn’t find it is that it would gum the act. If he wasn’t lit she would never catch him. The reason he yells ‘Rope her’ is that one time a couple of years ago a cowboy was over by the hitching-rack trying a new rope he had just bought at Vawter’s, and when Nev saw him he yelled at him to rope her, and the cowboy did, and ever since Nev always yells it.”