“I've spent most of two days getting this thing signed. Now, wait a minute, hold, your horses. When Molly Lauck was poisoned, a week ago today, it looked phony from the beginning. By Wednesday, two days later, it was plain that the cops were running around in circles, and I came to you. I know about you, I know you're the one and only. As you know, I tried to get McNair and the others down here to your office and they wouldn't come, and I tried to get you up there and you wouldn't go, and I invited you to go to hell. That was five days ago. I've paid another detective three hundred dollars for a lot of nothing, and the cops from the inspector down are about as good as Fanny Brice would be for Juliet.
Anyhow, it's a tough one, and I doubt if anyone could crack it but you. I decided that Saturday, and during the weekend I covered a lot of territory.” He pushed the paper at Wolfe. “What do you say to that?”
Wolfe took it and read it. I saw his eyes go slowly half-shut, and knew that whatever it was, its effect on his irritation was pronounced. He glanced over it again, looked at Llewellyn Frost through slits, and then extended the paper toward me. I got up to take it. It was typewritten on a sheet of good bond, plain, and was dated New York City, March 28, 1936:
To MR. NERO WOLFE:
At the request of Llewellyn Frost, we, the undersigned, beg you and urge you to investigate the death of Molly Lauck, who was poisoned on March 23 at the office of Boyden McNair Incorporated on 52nd Street, New York. We entreat you to visit
McNair's office for that purpose.
We respectfully remind you that once each year you leave your home to attend the
Metropolitan Orchid Show, and we suggest that the present urgency, while not as great to you personally, appears to us to warrant an equal sacrifice of your comfort and convenience.
With high esteem,
WINOLD GLUECKNER
CUYLEH DlTSON
T. M. O'GORMAN
RAYMOND PLEHN
CHAS. E. SHANKS
CHRISTOPHER BAMFORD
I handed the document back to Wolfe and sat down and grinned at him. He folded it and slipped it under the block of petrified wood which he used for a paperweight. Frost said:
“That was the best I could think of, to get you. I had to have you. This thing has to be ripped open. I got Del Pritchard up there and he was lost. I had to get you somehow. Will you come?”
Wolfe's forefinger was doing a little circle on the arm of his chair. “Why the devil,” he demanded, “did they sign that thing?”
“Because I asked them to. I explained. I told them that no one but you could solve it and you had to be persuaded. I told them that besides money and food the only thing you were interested in was orchids, and that there was nobody who could exert any influence on you but them, the best orchid-growers in America. I had letters of introduction to them. I did it right. You notice I restricted my list to the very best. Will you come?”
Wolfe sighed. “Alec Martin has forty thousand plants at Rutherford. He wouldn't sign it, eh?”
“He would if I'd gone after him. Glueckner told me that you regard Martin as tricky and an inferior grower. Will you come?”
“Humbug.” Wolfe sighed again. “An infernal imposition.” He wiggled a finger at the young man. “Look here. You seem to be prepared to stop at nothing. You interrupt these expert and worthy men at their tasks to get them to sign this idiotic paper. You badger me. Why?”
“Because I want you to solve this case.”
“Why me?”
“Because no one else can. Wait till you see-”
“Yes. Thank you. But why your overwhelming interest in the case? The murdered girl-what was she to you?”
“Nothing.” Frost hesitated. He went on, “She was nothing to me. I knew her-an acquaintance. But the danger-damn it, let me tell you about it. The way it happened-”
“Please, Mr. Frost.” Wolfe was crisp. “Permit me. If the murdered girl was nothing to you, what standing will there be for an investigator engaged by you?
If you could not persuade Mr. McNair and the others to come to me, it would be futile for me to go to them.”
“No, it wouldn't. I'll explain that-”
