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.   Introduction by Diane Mott Davidson   “It is always a treat to read a Nero Wolfe mystery. The man has entered our folklore.”— The New York Times Book Review   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.” — The New York Times Book Review Rex Stout (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. Chapter One 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. He murmured, “Thank God,” as if it came from his heart. I demanded, “What?” “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.” “Whim hell. Do you know what happened?” “Certainly. I said, whim. Go ahead.” “What do you mean, go ahead?” “I mean go on. Start the confounded thing going again.” 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. “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.” “How long will it take you to fix it?” “I can’t fix it. If I had a nail I wouldn’t even bother to bite it, I’d swallow it whole.” “Who can fix it?” “Men with tools in a garage.” “It isn’ t in a garage.” “Right.” He closed his eyes and sat. Pretty soon he opened them again and sighed. “Where are we?” “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–” “Archie.” His eyes were narrowed at me. “Please save the jocularity. What are we going to do?” 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.” He merely repeated, “What are we doing to do?”