“What makes this particular ostrich worth that much money?”
“I’m like you, Nick. I don’t ask and they don’t tell.”
“Who’s they?”
“Do you have to know?”
“Sure. What if something happens to you and I’m stuck with the bird on my hands? Gloria wouldn’t welcome it back home.”
“He’s a man named Renny Owlish. A businessman of some sort. We’ve never met, but I’m to phone him as soon as I have the bird and set up a meeting. He already paid me a one-third retainer. Now you know as much as I do. Satisfied?”
“Do you still have the horse van?”
“Of course. I wasn’t about to return it with the job undone.”
Nick thought it over. “It’ll be tougher now that they’re on guard. For that kind of money why don’t you simply drive up to the front door and offer to buy the ostrich? If he’s no good as a breeder, they’d probably sell him for a few thousand at most.”
“I should have tried that in the beginning,” she admitted. “Now that they know about the robbery attempt, they know it’s valuable to someone.”
“They can’t know you were after just one ostrich. They probably think ordinary rustlers were responsible.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Ostrich rustlers?”
“This is the Wild West, isn’t it? Suppose I drive out to see them in my rental car and get the lay of the land. What are their names?”
“It’s Bainbridge Acres, a husband and wife with a few farmhands to take care of the birds. I don’t know their first names.”
“I’ll find out. You rest up. If this doesn’t work I’ll need your help.”
Bainbridge Acres was located near the desert, but with vegetation and a flowing stream sufficient to supply the flock of half a hundred ostriches that raced around flapping their short, underdeveloped wings. The house itself was an adobe ranch sheltered from the sun by a few cottonwood trees near the edge of the stream. Nick parked his rental car out front and went up to the door.
The woman who answered his ring was short and graying. Nick quickly explained that he was from the Animal Protection Establishment.
“The what?” she asked.
“APE. I’m sure you’ve heard of us. We travel around inspecting flocks of farm animals. I was driving by and I detected a problem with one of your ostriches.”
She eyed him through the screen door, unwilling to admit this stranger to her house. But she relented a bit and said, “That would be Oscar. We don’t know what’s the matter with him lately. He’s acting so strange that we gave him a name, Oscar Ostrich. My husband says the gals won’t let him near them. We may have to end up sending him to the slaughterhouse.”
“That would be a shame,” Nick told her. “Perhaps I could examine him.”
“I’d have to ask my husband about that. Wait here a moment.” She disappeared from the doorway and Nick glanced around, taking in the white wicker porch furniture and a stack of American Ostrich magazines.
He was flipping through one of these when a stout man in his fifties appeared in the doorway behind the screen. “Beth says you want to examine Oscar,” he said without preliminaries. “You a vet?”
“No, I’m with APE, the—”
“She told me. Never heard of ’em.”
Nick retreated a bit. “I don’t want to give him a medical exam, just get a closer look at him, learn whatever you can tell me about his ailment.”
The screen door opened and the man extended his hand. “I’m Walt Bainbridge.”
“Nicholas,” Nick muttered.
“Come along and I’ll show him to you.”
Bainbridge led the way off the porch and toward the barn. “Have you and the missus been in the ostrich-breeding business long?”
“Five, six years. The market for ostrich steaks and byproducts really took off around the mid ‘nineties. We were late catching up.”
They paused at a fence near the barn where water and feed were available for the birds. “When did this odd behavior start?” Nick asked. A plane flew low overhead, drowning out his question, and he had to repeat it.
“That happens all the time,” Bainbridge grumbled. “When did it start? Oh, maybe about ten days ago. He was fine until then. He’s still fine, for that matter. It’s the rest of the flock that are acting strange. Of course, ostriches have a reputation of being a stupid bird, but this is going too far.”
“They don’t really bury their heads in the sand, do they?”
“ ’Course not! The head’s often down there nibbling sand or pebbles, or trying to hide from its enemies. But the head is never buried in the sand. They’d suffocate if it was!”
The ostrich in question had wandered over to them as Bainbridge coaxed it with a handful of seeds. Nick sniffed a bit, detecting a slight odor. “Do they always smell like that?”
“Like what? Nose isn’t as good as it used to be. Too many allergies.”
Nick stared into the massive eyes of the ostracized bird. “I haven’t had much experience with ostriches. How do you handle something this large?”
“Very carefully. If they kick you, they could break your leg. Had some dogs out there barking at the birds one night last week, and someone cut through the fence two nights ago but the birds scared him off.”
“Is that so?”
“Somebody’d have to be loony to try rustling ostriches. But next week I’m having some security cameras put in, just in case.”
Nick agreed. “You can’t be too careful. But what about handling them? You have to get your arm around their neck, don’t you?”
“Not just that,” Bainbridge explained. “You have to use a sock, usually one with the toes cut off. I wear it on my arm and when I grab the neck with my right hand I slip the sock off my left arm and over their head so they can’t see. That’s the best way to handle them.”
“Good thing to know.” He watched the behavior of the birds for another few minutes and then said, “That one wouldn’t be good for mating. You should get rid of him.”
“The wife and I talked about it. We might come to that.”
“I could make you an offer right now if you’re interested.”
“Why would you want him if he’s no good?”
“I know of an ostrich study under way at the University of Arizona. Your bird would make a perfect specimen for research.”
The stout man considered his suggestion. “How much?” he asked.
“I think I could go as high as five thousand.”
He considered it, then said, “I’d have to ask the missus.” He turned and went back to the house.
Nick used the time to study the layout of the farm more carefully, in case he had to return after dark. In a few minutes he saw Walt Bainbridge returning. “What did she think?”
Bainbridge shook his head. “Not for any price. He’s Oscar Ostrich to her now, and she’s not selling him for any research.”
“Of course. I understand.”
He drove back to the motel to give Sandra the bad news.
She listened in silence to his report, then tried to stand. “Those pain pills helped. It’s coming along. I can go with you, drive the truck.”
“Not tonight you can’t,” he decided. “Give it another day and we’ll see how you are. I’ll take a room here.”
“You’re welcome to sleep here.”
“Now what would Gloria think about that? I’ll get a room. The place is practically empty.”
“It’s after six. The night manager is probably on duty. His name is Sid.”
“I’ll find him.”
Sid Rawson had just come on duty when Nick found him at the registration desk and took a room two doors down from Sandra. “I’ll show it to you,” Rawson told him. He was a slender man with long tapering fingers that seemed always in motion. “Got any bags?”