{"product_id":"some-buried-caesar-isbn-9780553254648","title":"Some Buried Caesar","description":"An automobile breakdown strands Nero Wolfe and Archie in the middle of a private pasture—and a family feud over a prize bull. A restaurateur’s plan to buy the stud and barbecue it as a publicity stunt may be in poor taste, but it isn’t a crime . . . until Hickory Caesar Grindon, the soon-to-be-beefsteak bull, is found pawing the remains of a family scion. Wolfe is sure the idea that Caesar is the murderer is, well, pure bull. Now the great detective is on the horns of a dilemma as a veritable stampede of suspects—including a young lady Archie has his eye on—conceals a special breed of killer who wins a blue ribbon for sheer audacity.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eIntroduction by Diane Mott Davidson\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“It is always a treat to read a Nero Wolfe mystery. The man has entered our folklore.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A grand master of the form, Rex Stout is one of America’s greatest mystery writers, and his literary creation Nero Wolfe is one of the greatest fictional detectives of all time. Together, Stout and Wolfe have entertained—and puzzled—millions of mystery fans around the world. Now, with his perambulatory man-about-town, Archie Goodwin, the arrogant, gourmandizing, sedentary sleuth is back in the original seventy-three cases of crime and detection written by the inimitable master himself, Rex Stout.“It is always a treat to read a Nero Wolfe mystery. The man has entered our folklore.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eRex Stout\u003c\/b\u003e (1886–1975) wrote dozens of short stories, novellas, and full-length mystery novels, most featuring his two indelible characters, the peerless detective Nero Wolfe and his handy sidekick, Archie Goodwin.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e THAT SUNNY September day was full of surprises.  The first one came  when, after my swift realization that the sedan was still right side up and the windshield  and windows intact, I switched off the ignition and turned to look at the back seat.   I didn’t suppose the shock of the collision would have hurled him to the floor,  knowing as I did that when the car was in motion he always had his feet braced and  kept a firm grasp on the strap; what I expected was the ordeal of facing a glare  of fury that would top all records; what I saw was him sitting there calmly on the  seat with his massive round face wearing a look of relief–if I knew his face, and  I certainly knew Nero Wolfe’s face.  I stared at him in astonishment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He murmured,  “Thank God,” as if it came from his heart.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I demanded, “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I said thank  God.”  He let go of the strap and wiggled a finger at me.  “It has happened, and  here we are.  I presume you know, since I’ve told you, that my distrust and hatred  of vehicles in motion is partly based on my plerophory that their apparent submission  to control is illusory and that they may at their pleasure, and sooner or later will,  act on whim.  Very well, this one has, and we are intact.  Thank God the whim was  not a deadlier one.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Whim hell.  Do you know what happened?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Certainly.  I said,  whim.  Go ahead.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What do you mean, go ahead?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I mean go on.  Start the confounded  thing going again.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I opened the door and got out and walked around to the front  to take a look.  It was a mess.  After a careful examination I went back to the other  side of the car and opened the rear door and looked in at him and made my report.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It was quite a whim.  I’d like to get it on record what happened, since I’ve been  driving your cars nine years and this is the first time I’ve ever stopped before  I was ready to.  That was a good tire, so they must have run it over glass at the  garage where I left it last night, or maybe I did myself, though I don’t think so.   Anyway, I was going 55 when the tire blew out.  She left the road, but I didn’t  lose the wheel, and I was braking and had her headed up and would have made it if  it hadn’t been for that damn tree.  Now the fender is smashed into the rubber and  a knuckle is busted and the radiator’s ripped open.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How long will it take you  to fix it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I can’t fix it.  If I had a nail I wouldn’t even bother to bite it,  I’d swallow it whole.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Who can fix it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Men with tools in a garage.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It isn’ t in a garage.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He closed his eyes and sat.  Pretty soon he opened them  again and sighed.  “Where are we?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Two hundred and thirty-seven miles northeast  of Times Square.  Eighteen miles southwest of Crowfield, where the North Atlantic  Exposition is held every year, beginning on the second Monday in September and lasting–”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Archie.”  His eyes were narrowed at me.  “Please save the jocularity.  What are  we going to do?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I admit I was touched.  Nero Wolfe asking me what to do!  “I don’ t know about you,” I said, “but I’m going to kill myself.  I was reading in the paper  the other day how a Jap always commits suicide when he fails his emperor, and no  Jap has anything on me.  They call it seppuku.  Maybe you think they call it hara-kiri,  but they don’t or at least rarely.  They call it seppuku.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He merely repeated, “What  are we doing to do?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We’re going to flag a car and get a lift.  Preferably to Crowfield,  where we have reservations at a hotel.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Would you drive it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Drive what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The  car we flag.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t imagine he would let me after he sees what I’ve done to this  one.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wolfe compressed his lips.  “I won’t ride with a strange driver.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ll go  to Crowfield alone and rent a car and come back for you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That would take two hours.   No.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shrugged.  “We passed a house about a mile back.  I’ll bum a ride there  or walk, and phone to Crowfield for a car.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “While I sit here, waiting, helplessly,  in this disabled demon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He shook his head.  “No.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You won’t do that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stepped back around the rear of the car to survey the surroundings, near  and far.  It was a nice September day, and the hills and dales of upstate New York  looked sleepy and satisfied in the sun.  The road we were on was a secondary highway,  not a main drag, and nothing had passed by since I had bumped the tree.  A hundred  yards ahead it curved to the right, dipping down behind some trees.  I couldn’t see  the house we had passed a mile or so back, on account of another curve.  Across the  road was a gentle slope of meadow which got steeper further up where the meadow turned  into woods.  I turned.  In that direction was a board fence painted white, a smooth  green pasture, and a lot of trees; and beyond the trees were some bigger ones, and  the top of a house.  There was no drive leading that way, so I figured that there  would be one further along the road, around the curve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wolfe yelled to ask what  the devil I was doing, and I stepped back to the car door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Well,” I said, “I don’ t see a garage anywhere.  There’s a house across there among those big trees.  Going  around by the road it would probably be a mile or more, but cutting across that pasture  would be only maybe 400 yards.  If you don’t want to sit here helpless, I will, I’ m armed, and you go hunt a phone.  That house over there is closest.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Away off somewhere,  a dog barked.  Wolfe looked at me.  “That was a dog barking.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, sir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Probably  attached to that house.  I’m in no humor to contend with a loose dog.  We’ll go together.   But I won’t climb that fence.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You won’t need to.  There’s a gate back a little  way.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He sighed, and bent over to take a look at the crates, one on the floor and  one on the seat beside him, which held the potted orchid plants.  In view of the  whim we had had, it was a good thing they had been secured so they couldn’t slide  around.  Then he started to clamber out, and I stepped back to make room for him  outdoors, room being a thing he required more than his share of.  He took a good  stretch, his applewood walking stick pointing like a sword at the sky as he did so,  and turned all the way around, scowling at the hills and dales, while I got the doors  of the car locked, and then followed me along the edge of the ditch to the place  where we could cross to the gate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was after we had passed through, just as I  got the gate closed behind us, that I heard the guy yelling.  I looked across the  pasture in the direction of the house, and there he was, sitting on top of the fence  on the other side.  He must have just climbed up.  He was yelling at us to go back  where we came from.  At that distance I couldn’t tell for sure whether it was a rifle  or a shotgun he had with the butt against his shoulder.  He wasn’t exactly aiming  it at us, but intentions seemed to be along that line.  Wolfe had gone on ahead while  I was shutting the gate, and I trotted up to him and grabbed his arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hold on a  minute.  If that’s a bughouse and that’s one of the inmates, he may take us for woodchucks  or wild turkeys–”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wolfe snorted.  “The man’s a fool.  It’s only a cow pasture.”   Being a good detective, he produced his evidence by pointing to a brown circular  heap near our feet.  Then he glared toward the menace on the fence, bellowed “Shut  up!” and went on.  I followed.  The guy kept yelling and waving the gun, and we kept  to our course, but I admit I wasn’t liking it, because I could see now it was a shotgun  and he might easily be the kind of a nut that would pepper us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was an enormous  boulder, sloping up to maybe 3 feet above the ground, about exactly in the middle  of the pasture, and we were a little to the right of that when the second surprise  arrived in the series I spoke of.  My attention was pretty thoroughly concentrated  on the nut with the shotgun, still perched on the fence and yelling louder than ever,  when I felt Wolfe’s fingers gripping my elbow and heard his sudden sharp command:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Stop!  Don’t move!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stopped dead, with him beside me.  I thought he had discovered  something psychological about the bird on the fence, but he said without looking  at me, “Stand perfectly still.  Move your head slowly, very slowly, to the right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For an instant I thought the nut with the gun had something contagious and Wolfe  had caught it, but I did as I was told, and there was the second surprise.  Off maybe  200 feet to the right, walking slowly toward us with his head up, was a bull bigger  than I had supposed bulls came.  He was dark red with white patches, with a big white  triangle on his face, and he was walking easy and slow, wiggling his head a little  as if he was nervous, or as if he was trying to shake a fly off of his horns.  Of  a sudden he stopped and stood, looking at us with his neck curved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I heard Wolfe’ s voice, not loud, at the back of my head, “It would be better if that fool would  quit yelling.  Do you know the technique of bulls?  Did you ever see a bull fight?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I moved my lips enough to get it out: “No, sir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wolfe grunted.  “Stand still.   You moved your finger then, and his neck muscles tightened.  How fast can you run?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I can beat that bull to the fence.  Don’t think I can’t.  But you can’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I know  very well I can’t.  Twenty years ago I was an athlete.  This almost convinces me  . . . but that can wait.  Ah, he’s pawing.  His head’s down.  If he should start  . . . it’s that confounded yelling.  Now . . . back off slowly, away from me.  Keep  facing him.  When you are 10 feet away from me, swerve toward the fence.  He will  begin to move when you do.  As long as he follows slowly, keep backing and facing  him.  When he starts his rush, turn and run–”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I never got a chance to follow directions.   I didn’t move, and I’m sure Wolfe didn’t, so it must have been our friend on the  fence–maybe he jumped off into the pasture.  Anyhow, the bull curved his neck and  started on the jump; and if it was the other guy he was headed for, that didn’t help  any, because we were in line with him and we came first.  He started the way an avalanche  ends.  Possibly if we had stood still he would have passed by, about 3 feet to my  right, but either it was asking too much of human nature to expect me to stand there,  or I’m not human.  I have since maintained that it flashed through my mind that if  I moved it would attract him to me and away from Nero Wolfe, but there’s no use continuing  that argument here.  There’s no question but what I moved, without any preliminary  backing.  And there’s no question, whoever he started for originally, about his being  attracted by my movement.  I could hear him behind me.  I could damn near feel him.   Also I was dimly aware of shouts and a blotch of something red above the fence near  the spot I was aimed at.  There it was–the fence.  I didn’t do any braking for it,  but took it at full speed, doing a vault with my hands reaching for its top, and  one of my hands missed and I tumbled, landing flat on the other side, sprawling and  rolling.  I sat up and panted and heard a voice above me: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Beautiful!  I wouldn’ t have missed that for anything!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I looked up and saw two girls, one in a white  dress and red jacket, the other in a yellow shirt and slacks.  I snarled at them,  “Shall I do it again?”  The nut with the shotgun came loping up making loud demands,  and I told him to shut up, and scrambled to my feet.  The fence was 10 yards away.   Limping to it, I took a look.  The bull was slowly walking along, a hundred feet  off, wiggling his head.  In the middle of the pasture was an ornamental statue.   It was Nero Wolfe, with his arms folded, his stick hanging from a wrist, standing  motionless on the rounded peak of the boulder.  It was the first time I had ever  seen him in any such position as that, and I stood and stared because I had never  fully realized what a remarkable looking object he really was.  He didn’t actually  look undignified, but there was something pathetic about it, he stood so still, not  moving at all.","brand":"Crimeline","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300242444517,"sku":"NP9780553254648","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553254648.jpg?v=1767736903","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/some-buried-caesar-isbn-9780553254648","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}