They had done what they could the night before, with the State Police still there; with the photographers from Life, attending a party not anticipated, busy with cameras. Nobody had tried to stop the photographers, not even the police. The flashing of bulbs had become part of a turmoil so complete that no aspect of it could be separated out, dealt with. Most of the turmoil had had to do—and still had to do, for that matter—with the sale.
The decision to call it off had been made quickly. But, looking back on it now, sitting in front of the telephone, her hands on the desk idle, it seemed a little odd that it had had to be made at all. Margaret Landcraft was dead. That her sale could go on without her—setting aside all thought of propriety—was inconceivable. Wade had said that at once, but Harvey had hesitated for a moment. He had agreed, but he had pointed to the problems.
Months before, the sale had been announced in the Aberdeen-Angus Journal; had been advertised there, and in the Texas Livestock Journal, the Breeder-Stockman and other trade papers; had been fitted into its proper place in the procession of eastern sales scheduled for September and October. And, while Deep Meadow Prince bellowed, men from as far away as Texas, and from Missouri and Iowa, from Florida and Maryland, were checking in at sales headquarters in White Plains. There might be fifty of them there, and more on the roads in cars. It was not a matter, and Harvey Landcraft pointed this out, of hanging up a sign saying, in effect, “Closed for the day.”
Many of those at the pre-sale party had been still there when Mrs. Landcraft was found dead in the stall, and when the decision to call off the sale had been reached. They had been told; it was to be hoped that most of them had been able to understand, although that was not entirely certain. Cattle people are hearty, and not a few drink heartily at parties held before sales. And there had been—Wade said, from long experience—a specially festive atmosphere about this party, which was also a little in honor of Deep Meadow Prince, most honored that year of Aberdeen-Angus bulls. Glasses had gone up and down rather frequently, as was to be expected.
A great many people had, in short, come, or were coming, a long way to buy the sons and daughters of the international grand champion. Harvey pointed this out as something which required consideration. “We can’t, with her dead,” Wade had said, and Alec Ballard, called into the brief conference, had agreed, had added, “Specially dead this way, Mr. Landcraft. It’s not so good, you know.” Harvey Landcraft had looked quickly at the big farm manager, then, and had said, after only a moment, “Yes. See what you mean, Alec.”
They had sent what telegrams they could, then. In the morning, before Evelyn Merritt—who had planned to stay the night in any case, and had not, with so much to do, thought of leaving—had awakened, Wade had driven off to White Plains and the sales headquarters. And Harvey had come into the breakfast room where Evelyn and Bonita were eating little, and had said, “Can you girls take over the telephones? They’ll be ringing.”
They had been ringing—the line to the house; the line listed as “Deep Meadow Farm—Barns,” now switched to ring in the office in the house. Calls on the house telephone were, for the most part, to express sympathy, to suggest that “help” always so quickly, if so vaguely, offered under such circumstances. Those Bonny took. The calls Evelyn answered were, for the most part, less personal—could be answered, “Yes, it is off, I’m sorry to say. No, there isn’t any new date yet. It hasn’t been decided.”
For all their efforts, fifteen or twenty were not reached, and came to the sale—came for the luncheon which was to have preceded it at one. Alec Ballard had taken care of those, seeing them fed, apologized to, promised prompt, and individual, notice when a new sale date was decided upon; taken, when they asked, to see the bull whose fame had turned to notoriety. But they had gone now, and the telephone rang less frequently.
Wade came into the room and stood behind her, put hands on her shoulders and drew her back against him. His hands seemed to rest her. He leaned down and kissed her forehead; he said, “Good girl.”
“Finished at White Plains?” Evelyn asked, and he said he had. His voice lacked vibrancy; it was a weary voice.
“Harv back yet?” he asked.
Harvey Landcraft had been making those arrangements required by death, violent or peaceful. Evelyn did not know whether he was back; she had not seen him. But he came in, then, and Bonita was with him. Harvey said, “The police are back again, for some reason. Their car’s parked in the turnaround.”
“Yes?” Wade said. “What do they want now?”
His voice seemed, to Evelyn, sharper than it had been, the dull notes of fatigue lessened.
Harvey Landcraft shrugged; said he didn’t know.
“Apparently they’re down at the barns with Ballard,” he said. “Looking at the scene, probably.” He paused. “Why I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Everybody at Carmel seemed—satisfied.”
“Satisfied?” Bonita said, “Isn’t that a—a funny way of putting it?”
“Come off it, Bonny,” her husband said. “You know what I mean. That they’ve all the facts, have finished with the formalties. The funeral whenever we wish—that sort of thing.”
Bonny said, “Oh, of course.”
“But now they show up here,” Wade said.
“I suppose they have to make out forms,” Bonita said. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’m tired and tired and tired,” she said. “Would it be—oh, improper or anything, if I went to sleep somewhere?” She turned to her husband. “We’re not driving back today?”
Harvey Landcraft shook his head. He looked at his brother.
“Things to talk over,” he said. “Where we—”
He was interrupted. A maid was at the partly opened door, tapping on it.
“There’re some men,” she said. “Mr. Crowley and another man. They’d like to see Mr. Landcraft.” She looked from one to the other of the tall men. “Either Mr. Landcraft,” she said. “Mr.. Crowley’s the State policeman who was here last night—one of them.”
“Damn,” Harvey Landcraft said. He looked again, quickly, at his brother, and Wade briefly lifted his heavy shoulders.
“Take them into the library,” he said. “We’ll have to see them, I suppose. Go take a nap if you want to, Bonny.”
But Bonita shook her head.
“You know,” Bonita said, “I don’t think I’m really sleepy. I think—” She paused, looked down at Evelyn, still sitting at the desk. “I think we might tag along, don’t you?” Bonita Landcraft said.
There was a note in Bonita’s voice. Evelyn looked at her, and Bonita, just perceptibly, lowered white lids over brown eyes, just as imperceptibly nodded as she did so. “Don’t you, Evvie?” Bonny Landcraft said, and what was in her voice was a kind of insistence. But then Bonny smiled suddenly, lightly. “Form the old hollow square,” she said.
But the lightness was not real; not real as the insistence had been. They were to form the “hollow square” which Bonny thought so highly of. To form it against—against what? And it was then, for the first time, that Evelyn Merritt realized that now the four of them were united as they had not been before—united as—well, as Deep Meadow Farm, the Deep Meadow Herd; united in ownership and in responsibility.
“All for one and one for all,” Bonita said, wearing quotation—as so often she did—as a kind of mask.
Evelyn turned and looked up at Wade Landcraft, still standing behind her.
“It does come to that, I suppose,” Wade said. “Harv and I—you and Bonny—” He paused. He smiled. “We own a lot of cattle,” he said, and then, as if it were part of the same thing, “She was so damn alive!”
Evelyn reached up both her hands to cover his on her shoulders.
But that, she thought, will have to come later. There will be time—quieter time—to remember how alive Margaret Landcraft had been. Now Evelyn pressed the hands under hers, pushed them gently, stood up.
“All they want is to get things squared away,” Harvey Landcraft
said. “Got so many lines to fill in on a form, probably.” He looked at Bonita. “You and your hollow squares.”
“Hang together or assuredly all hang separately,” Bonita said. “B. Franklin.” She considered. It was all very light now. “Approximately,” she said.
But it seemed to Evelyn that still, under the lightness, Bonita was drawn tight—too tight. Well, they all were; no doubt they were all showing it. They had reason enough to be.
“They will be sending out a posse,” Wade said. “Come on, if we’re all going.”
They all went. There was no sign in the library that a posse had been contemplated by the two men there. The younger man, in uniform, was looking out a window, and seemed to be watching a thrush which ran, twinkling on tiny legs, in search of worms. The older, heavier man was looking at the titles of books on the shelves against one of the walls. (The books, Evelyn remembered, were chiefly concerned with animal husbandry.) Why, Evelyn thought, it’s Ray Crowley, and then Crowley turned.
“Hello, Ray,” she said and the State trooper smiled for an instant like the boy she had gone to high school with, but then adopted formality and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Merritt.” But the smile was still in his eyes, for all that. Perhaps, she thought, a State trooper doesn’t use first names on duty.
“ ’Lo, Ray,” Wade Landcraft said, “what brings you here again?”
The broad-shouldered, heavily built man had turned from the books and was looking at them. He had a square face. Perhaps, Evelyn thought, a little oaken. But the face was pleasant enough, and he spoke pleasantly enough.
“I’m afraid I do,” Heimrich said, and said who he was. “Sorry it’s necessary, just now but—well, there’s a lot of routine, naturally.”
They waited. Harvey lighted a fresh cigarette, lighted one for Bonita.
“They like things neat,” Heimrich said, not identifying the they. (As how could he? Things were neat enough for anybody, or almost anybody. He wondered whether this would be mentioned.)
“At Carmel,” Harvey Landcraft said, “everybody seemed to think things were neat enough, captain. Anything we can tell you, of course, but—” He ended with a shrug. He looked at his younger brother.
“Sure,” Wade said. “But I don’t know what, either. Prince turned mean suddenly and—well, you know what happened.” His eyes narrowed momentarily. “There wasn’t anything neat about it, captain,” he said.
“Now Mr. Landcraft,” Heimrich said. “I do realize how you’re feeling, how you all must be feeling.” He looked at them from very blue eyes. “I realize this is an intrusion.”
“But?” Harvey said.
“We like to have things clear,” Heimrich said.
“A bull turns mean and kills somebody,” Harvey said. “I’d think it clear enough.”
“Oh yes,” Heimrich said. “But—why, Mr. Landcraft? He seems to be very gentle.”
“Don’t tell me,” Bonita said, “that you’ve been questioning Prince.”
Heimrich smiled faintly at that. They’re all very tired, he thought. It’s natural they should be. All on edge. It showed in the nervous smoking of all but the girl with deeply red hair.
“In a way,” he said. “In a way Mrs. Landcraft. You are Mrs. Landcraft?” Bonita nodded. “And you’re Miss Merritt,” Heimrich said, and Evelyn nodded. “Mr. Ballard took us down to the barn, showed us the bull, let us push him around—that is, pat him. He seemed very—placid. A little cat brushed against him, and he didn’t mind.”
“He likes the cat,” Wade said. “He’s used to the cat.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “He was used to your mother, Mr. Landcraft. Liked her probably.”
“Sure,” Wade said. “All the animals—”
“Wait a minute,” Harvey said, and Wade waited. “What’s so unusual about a bull going bad, captain? Hell—they’re famous for it. Half the cartoons you see show a bull chasing somebody.”
But Wade shook his head, and Heimrich, who had seemed about to answer, looked at him.
“You see what he means,” Wade told his brother. “You know something about Angus, don’t you, captain?”
“Well,” Heimrich said, “I’m learning. Mr. Ballard was helpful. Very helpful.”
“Good,” Wade said. “He told you the champ’s never been mean. That Aberdeen Angus—well, that they’re friendly creatures, most of them. And—what else, captain?”
“About that,” Heimrich said. “That this bull is well trained—halter trained, he said, I think. Used to being handled, groomed. Doesn’t even mind having his hair curled.” Heimrich smiled faintly. “Has been shown a good many times, with a lot of people around, probably and—well, didn’t make any false moves.”
“That’s right,” Wade said.
“A gentle bull,” Heimrich said. “That—well, that bothers me, Mr. Landcraft. Bothers me a little. Why? Mr. Ballard thinks your mother must have done something to annoy him. Annoy him a lot. But—she was with the animals a good deal, wasn’t she? Knew how to handle them?”
“As well as the herdsman,” Wade said. He paused. “All right,” he said. “It puzzles me too, captain. We’ll never know, I’m afraid. I suppose she must have done something.”
“What sort of thing would you guess, Mr. Landcraft?”
Wade shrugged. He said it was hard to guess. He said, “With a big animal like that, things a small animal would mind—a dog or a cat say—he wouldn’t notice had happened, probably. Of course, if he were cut or something—I don’t know. Or if there was a wound and somebody tried to treat it he might get—jumpy.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “The only trouble is—Mr. Ballard says he hasn’t noticed anything wrong with the bull.”
“Then it’s got me,” Wade said.
“And,” Harvey said, “what’s so damned important about it, captain? We know what did happen.”
Captain Heimrich closed his blue eyes.
“Now Mr. Landcraft,” he said. “Probably it isn’t important, naturally. As I said, it’s a matter of—”
“Neatness,” Harvey said. “Can’t all this wait, captain? Assuming you’ve got to get the record so perfect as all this?”
Heimrich opened his eyes. Again he seemed about to say something, but this time it appeared that he interrupted himself. He said, “Yes, Miss Merritt?”
Evelyn looked at him. How, she wondered, did he know that something had—well, call it “crossed her mind.” Instinctively, she said, “Yes what, captain?” and there was surprise in her voice. The surprise was real; it might be, she thought, wrongly interpreted.
“I thought you had thought of something,” Heimrich said, very mildly. “Had you, Miss Merritt?”
She hesitated. Then she nodded. She had—she had forgotten it and it had come back; had come back when they talked of the treating of a wound, of some cut on the animal.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It can’t, if there wasn’t any cut or anything on Prince. And—it’s just an impression anyway, captain.”
“Now Miss Merritt,” Heimrich said. “You may as well tell me.”
“All right,” she said. “An odor. Not strong in the barn with—with the other odors. When I was helping—trying to help Wade and Mr. Ballard—get Mrs.—” She broke off, started again. “Get Mrs. Landcraft out of the stall,” she said. “We thought she was—just hurt a little. We didn’t realize—”
“No,” Heimrich said. “This odor?”
“On the—on her clothes,” Evelyn said, and the whole ugly scene came back, and she stopped again. Heimrich merely waited; the others merely looked at her. “A kind of hospital odor,” she said. “Antiseptic. A kind of—oh, I suppose it’s carbolic, really. Something like that. If she had been putting something on Prince—something that would sting—” She stopped again.
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “That’s interesting, Miss Merritt. But the bull apparently wasn’t hurt. However—did any of the rest of you notice this odor?”
He looked around. H
arvey ground out his cigarette and shook his head. Wade was just taking a new cigarette from a pack, and shook his. “No,” Bonita said. “But I wasn’t there, captain.”
“Probably I was wrong,” Evelyn said.
“Perhaps,” Heimrich agreed. “But—you don’t smoke, Miss Merritt?”
Surprise was spontaneous this time. She shook her head.
“The rest of you do,” Heimrich said. “Smoking a good deal dulls the sense of smell. Or does with some people, anyway. So neither of you”—he nodded toward the brothers—“might have noticed it, particularly if you had been smoking a good deal during the party. You had, probably?”
“I suppose so,” Harvey said. “I don’t remember particularly.” He shook his head. “I don’t see where it gets you, anyway,” he said.
“No,” Heimrich said. “Well, I don’t myself. But—could you ask Mr. Ballard to come up for a minute or two, Mr. Landcraft?” He spoke to Wade. Quickly, the brothers exchanged glances. Why? Evelyn wondered, and Wade Landcraft said, “Sure, if you want him. I’ll call the barn.”
He went out of the room.
“Is there any reason we shouldn’t all sit down?” Bonita said, and turned to Evelyn as she said it. The position was slightly anomalous; in a few weeks—if sense of propriety did not postpone things—this, presumably, would be Evelyn’s house. At the moment it was without a hostess. “Of course,” Evelyn said, becoming hostess pro tem. They sat. It appeared to be by chance that they grouped themselves so that Captain Heimrich was facing the others. Crowley still stood by the window, evidently feeling himself not included in the invitation.
“Oh, sit down, Ray,” Evelyn said.
He sat, then, but on a straight chair.
“I suppose you and your brother will keep on with this,” Heimrich said, his tone that of a man who speaks idly, filling in time. But somehow, Evelyn Merritt thought, the tone doesn’t fit the man.
“We’ll have to talk it over,” Harvey said. “Haven’t got around to it yet.”
“Naturally,” Heimrich said.
“Depends mostly on Wade,” Harvey said. “Be up to him to carry on. I’m no commuter—anyway, it’s a hell of a long commute. Also, I don’t really know a damn about breeding.”
Death and the Gentle Bull Page 5