Death of a Dude

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I began it “NW” and signed it “AG” not to be different, but from habit. Nearly all of my written communications to Nero Wolfe over the years had been on a sheet of a memo pad, for Fritz to take up to his room on his breakfast tray, or put by me on his desk when he was upstairs in bed and I had returned from an evening errand. They had all begun “NW” and ended “AG” so this did too, though it wasn’t scribbled. It was typed on an Underwood on a table in a corner of the big room in Lily Rowan’s cabin in a corner of her ranch, and it was in the airmail envelope I poked through the slot in the post office in Timberburg, the county seat, that Saturday morning — on a letterhead that had Bar JR Ranch, Lame Horse, Montana in big type across the top. Not as elegant as the one with her New York penthouse address. Below, it said:

When he got it, probably Monday, he would lean back and glare at my chair for a good ten minutes.

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