He did not scowl or growl but merely said, “It could be edible.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I have noticed. You haven’t said a single thing, even to me, about the feed, even the griddle cakes from a mass-produced mix or the stuff from the freezer. Obviously you gave yourself your word of honor, probably on your way to the airport, that you would take the insults to your palate without a murmur. I can hear you telling Fritz about it when we get back, assuming we do. I hope they get plenty of trout. What is your honest opinion of the canned consommé?”
I thought it would do him good to get it off his chest, but evidently he didn’t. He said, “You can’t go to St. Louis. You’re needed here.”
“Sure. To crack alibis.”
“Pfui. Have you any comments about last evening?”
“None to add to the one I made on the way back, and the one you made. I still like both of them. I like the way Farnham told you about the mortgage. It could have a bearing. Then the way Sam Peacock tried to slide past that morning when Brodell went for a look at Berry Creek. You had to interrupt him twice, and when you asked if Brodell had mentioned meeting anyone he tugged at his neck rag and said you asked a lot of questions. If Brodell was alive I’d like to ask him about that Thursday morning.”
“Yes. Would Mr. Peacock be available if we went there now?”
“Saturday afternoon, I doubt it.”
“Will he be at that gathering at Mr. Stepanian’s place this evening?”
“He always is.”
“Then we’ll see him there.”
“We? You’re going?”
“Yes.”
My brows didn’t go up; I was too impressed. I just stared.
“I’m thirsty,” Wolfe said. “There are two cans of beer in the creek.”
I rose and went to get them.
Chapter 8
At twenty minutes past five, four of us were sharing the front room at the Greves’ house with the pictures and ribbons and medals — and the silver cup and the saddle. All men. Carol Greve and Flora Eaton, the widow out of luck, were in the kitchen preparing the real Montana trout deal, which was scheduled for six o’clock. Alma was somewhere with the baby. Wolfe and I had arrived at five, and Pete Ingalls and Emmett Lake had been there expecting us, but Mel Fox had been held up by something wrong with a horse and we were waiting for him. Emmett, an old cowhand in his forties who looked the part, had said only two words, “Sit here,” to me, but Pete had said a lot. From his build you would suppose his chief interest was in something that took plenty of muscle, but he was postgraduating in paleontology at the University of California, Berkeley, and this was his third summer at the Bar JR. Wolfe had asked him a question about the demonstrations at Berkeley, starting a run of remarks that would have carried us right up to suppertime if Mel Fox hadn’t stopped it by joining us. Mel said he was sorry to be late and shook hands with Wolfe. He moved a chair up near mine, yanked his Levi’s as he sat, a habit of his, looked at his hands, and said he hadn’t even washed up. He asked if he had missed something he ought to know.
Wolfe shook his head. “We waited for you. I have been here three days, Mr. Fox, and you may have wondered why I haven’t seen you sooner.”
“I guess I’ve been too busy to do much wondering.”
“I envy you. Wondering is about all I have done.” Wolfe sent his eyes right and left to take them in. “Mr. Goodwin has acquainted me with you gentlemen, and if he had included any reason to suspect that one of you shot Philip Brodell I wouldn’t have waited until now to speak with you. I am here in the forlorn hope that one of you knows something, unwittingly, that will supply a suggestion. To try to uncover it by asking you questions would take days. Instead, I ask you to talk. Mr. Fox, you first. Talk about Philip Brodell and his death.”
“I’m not a great talker.” Mel looked at me and back at Wolfe. “I’ve talked it out with Archie.”
“I know, but let me hear you. Let your tongue go.”
“Well.” Mel crossed his legs. “I never traded more than twenty words with Brodell. That was one day last summer. A Sunday morning, I was at Vawter’s getting some things, and he came over and said who he was and said he wanted to buy a rope to take home and it ought to be a used rope, and he wanted to know did I have one I would sell him. I told him I didn’t. I guess it wasn’t even twenty words. Maybe I saw him one or two other times but not to speak to, he was nothing to me. Of course he wasn’t around when it came out that he was the father of Alma’s baby. Then I couldn’t say he was nothing to me, because Alma — well, I pulled porky quills out of her leg when she was only five years old. There was a lot of talk about him then, but mostly I just listened because I didn’t have much to say except I’d like to skin him alive.”
“Then perhaps you should be suspected.”
“Yeah, go ahead. The sheriff did a little.”
“Why did he stop?”
“Because Harvey was just as good as me or better, and he’s got it in for Harvey. And Harvey was out alone that afternoon, and I wasn’t. Emmett Lake was with me right through, and Pete Ingalls too part of the time. The sheriff knew Emmett wouldn’t lie for me because he thinks he ought to have my job.”
“Balls,” Emmett said.
He was ignored. Wolfe asked Mel, “You knew Brodell was back?”
“Yeah, we all did. We heard about it, Pete did and told us, the day after he came, a Tuesday. After supper that night the three of us had a big argument. Pete said we ought to offer to help Harvey and Carol keep an eye on Alma day and night to keep her from seeing him again, and Emmett said we ought to lay off because he might marry her, and I said it was up to her father and mother and we had to just leave it to them unless they asked us. Like every argument I ever had a part of, nobody changed anybody. But Harvey didn’t say anything in the morning and neither did Carol, and it was a working day for all of us, and after supper Pete went off somewhere, and Emmett had a bellyache and went to bed. I told Archie all this.”
“I know you did. The argument was resumed Wednesday evening?”
“Some. We had calmed down a little and we didn’t work up a sweat. Thursday too, we had calmed down even more. Harvey had told me that Carol was sure that Alma hadn’t seen him and wasn’t going to. But like I told Archie, Pete and I were talking about him Thursday after supper, out by the big corral, right at the time he was laying on that boulder with two holes through him. It showed me once more, when I heard about it Friday, that you don’t always know what you’re talking about.”
“How could you? Not only ignorance. Man’s brain, enlarged fortuitously, invented words in an ambitious effort to learn how to think, only to have them usurped by his emotions. But we still try. Please continue.”
Mel shook his head. “There’s nowhere to continue to. I know what you’re aiming at, you want to make it that somebody else shot that Brodell, not Harvey. I’d like that as much as you and Archie would, but if you want to brand a calf that’s hid in the brush, first you’ve got to find him and tie him. What about that Haight kid?”
“Mr. Goodwin has eliminated him.”
“No dice, Mel,” I said. “I spent the morning on him, and he’s absolutely out.”
“Who’s in?”
“Nobody. That’s why we’re here. Mr. Wolfe thought you might have heard something about Brodell that would point.”