“Mr Strong,” Deborah Koppel told me, “is the secretary of our Sponsors' Council.” “Yes, I know.” “Mr Goodwin,” she told him, “has called with a suggestion from Nero Wolfe. Mr Wolfe is a private detective.” “Yes, I know.” Tully Strong smiled at me. With lips as thin as his it is often difficult to tell whether it's a smile or a grimace, but I would have called it a smile, especially when he added, We are both famous, aren't we? Of course you are accustomed to the glare of the spotlight, but it is quite new to me.” He sat down. “What does Mr Wolfe suggest?” “He thinks Miss Fraser ought to hire him to look into the murder of Cyril Orchard.” “Damn Cyril Orchard.” Yes, it had been a smile, for now it was a grimace, and it was quite different. “Damn him to hell!” “That's pretty tough,” Bill Meadows objected, “since he may be there right now.”

Strong ignored him to ask me, “Aren't the police giving us enough trouble without deliberately hiring someone to give us more?” “Sure they are,” I agreed, “but that's a shortsighted view of it The person who is really giving you trouble is the one who put the poison in the Starlite. As I was explaining when you came, the trouble will go on for years unless and until he gets tapped on the shoulder. Of course the police may get him, but they've had it for six days now and you know how far they've got. The one that stops the trouble will be the one that puts it where it belongs. Do you know that Mr Wolfe is smart or shall I go into that?” “I had hoped,” Deborah Koppel put in, “that Mr Wolfe's suggestion would be something concrete. That he had a…an idea.” “Nope.” I made it definite. “His only idea is to get paid twenty thousand dollars for ending the trouble.” Bill Meadows let out a whistle. Deborah Koppel smiled at me. Tully Strong protested indignantly: “Twenty thousand!” “Not from me,” said Madeline Fraser, fully as definite as I had been.