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  Rex Stout

  REX STOUT, the creator of Nero Wolfe, was born in Noblesville, Indiana, in 1886, the sixth of nine children of John and Lucetta Todhunter Stout, both Quakers. Shortly after his birth, the family moved to Wakarusa, Kansas. He was educated in a country school, but, by the age of nine, was recognized throughout the state as a prodigy in arithmetic. Mr. Stout briefly attended the University of Kansas, but left to enlist in the Navy, and spent the next two years as a warrant officer on board President Theodore Roosevelt’s yacht. When he left the Navy in 1908, Rex Stout began to write free-lance articles, worked as a sightseeing guide and as an itinerant bookkeeper. Later he devised and implemented a school banking system which was installed in four hundred cities and towns throughout the country. In 1927 Mr. Stout retired from the world of finance and, with the proceeds of his banking scheme, left for Paris to write serious fiction. He wrote three novels that received favorable reviews before turning to detective fiction. His first Nero Wolfe novel, Fer-de-Lance, appeared in 1934. It was followed by many others, among them, Too Many Cooks, The Silent Speaker, If Death Ever Slept, The Doorbell Rang, and Please Pass the Guilt, which established Nero Wolfe as a leading character on a par with Erie Stanley Gardner’s famous protagonist, Perry Mason. During World War II, Rex Stout waged a personal campaign against Nazism as chairman of the War Writers’ Board, master of ceremonies of the radio program “Speaking of Liberty,” and as a member of several national committees. After the war, he turned his attention to mobilizing public opinion against the wartime use of thermonuclear devices, was an active leader in the Authors’ Guild, and resumed writing his Nero Wolfe novels. Rex Stout died in 1975 at the age of eighty-nine. A month before his death, he published his seventy-second Nero Wolfe mystery, A Family Affair. Ten years later, a seventy-third Nero Wolfe mystery was discovered and published in Death Times Three.

  The Rex Stout Library

  Fer-de-Lance

  The League of Frightened Men

  The Rubber Band

  The Red Box

  Too Many Cooks

  Some Buried Caesar

  Over My Dead Body

  Where There’s a Will

  Black Orchids

  Not Quite Dead Enough

  The Silent Speaker

  Too Many Women

  And Be a Villain

  The Second Confession

  Trouble in Triplicate

  In the Best Families

  Three Doors to Death

  Murder by the Book

  Curtains for Three

  Prisoner’s Base

  Triple Jeopardy

  The Golden Spiders

  The Black Mountain

  Three Men Out

  Before Midnight

  Might As Well Be Dead

  Three Witnesses

  If Death Ever Slept

  Three for the Chair

  Champagne for One

  And Four to Go

  Plot It Yourself

  Too Many Clients

  Three at Wolfe’s Door

  The Final Deduction

  Gambit

  Homicide Trinity

  The Mother Hunt

  A Right to Die

  Trio for Blunt Instruments

  The Doorbell Rang

  Death of a Doxy

  The Father Hunt

  Death of a Dude

  Please Pass the Guilt

  A Family Affair

  Death Times Three

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  The World of Rex Stout

  Copyright

  Introduction

  First I want to talk a little about Rex Stout. When I, as a Bantam Doubleday Dell author, volunteered (begged, actually) to do an introduction for one of the books in this edition of Stout’s works, I did so for one main reason—I owe a lot to Rex Stout (and Wolfe, and Archie); and since it’s impossible to repay the debt, I’d like at least to acknowledge it.

  I’d read some Sherlock Holmes as a kid, and I watched a lot of tough private eyes on TV. But I didn’t really get hooked on mysteries until I was twelve years old. And no, it wasn’t Stout who first got me, it was Ellery Queen. But I ran into the problem that plagues all true mystery fans—I read faster than my favorite author could write. When Queens grew hard to come by, I turned to my mother, the other mystery junkie in the family, and said, through pangs of withdrawal, “Who else is good?” She told me her own favorite was Rex Stout. I didn’t have anything to lose, so I plunged in. I started slowly, with novelettes reprinted in Howard Haycraft anthologies: “Die Like a Dog” and “Instead of Evidence.”

  Wow.

  King Rex had joined the Queen. I mean, even as a kid I could see Stout’s genius, and I could see that the genius resided in the creation of Archie Goodwin. Nero Wolfe was great, but great as he was, he was a master detective, and I’d seen a lot of those before. Wolfe might have been an updated Mycroft Holmes.

  But, my youthful self judged (and I’ve never found a reason to change my mind), this Goodwin character was something new. He was a Watson in that he told the story and was frequently left panting behind in the great man’s tracks, but there was nothing worshipful about him. He was a tough guy, but unlike too many tough guys, he had no chip on his shoulder. He could work for a man he acknowledged to be his mental superior without having to shelve his own sense of self-worth. He knew what he brought to this particular partnership. In fact, Archie’s deflations of Wolfe are what make Wolfe a human and (dare I say it?) lovable figure, rather than the off-putting freak he might have been if a lesser author had given him a lesser sidekick.

  I may have grown to resemble Wolfe, but I always identify with Archie.

  Stout also used Archie’s up-to-date vernacular to put across some very old-fashioned values. “It is most important for you to feel you have earned your fee,” Wolfe says. Or, “I rarely make promises, because I would redeem one, tritely, with my life.” Or Archie will make a remark about racism: “When I feel superior to someone, as I frequently do, I need a better reason than the color of my skin.”

  I spent many happy hours, through adolescence and adulthood, immersed in this stuff and still gladly plunge back in today. Because along with all his other virtues, Rex Stout is the most rereadable author in the history of the genre.

  All of this Stout-Wolfe-Archie exposure at an impressionable age has made indelible marks on my outlook, my patterns of thought, even my style as a writer. Several readers have told me that my first-person style reminds them of Stout’s and that a certain character of mine, to quote one of them, “could be Archie Goodwin’s younger brother.” As far as I’m concerned, that’s the best praise I can hear.

  Now I want to talk a little about this particular book.

  There’s something ridiculous about having a favorite Rex Stout book. The man sustained an amazing level of excellence for such a long time, it seems foolish to single one out. It’s like having a favorite Elvis record.*

  Nevertheless, when I was offered the choice of which book to do, Prisoner’s Base was the one I chose instantly. Why? Because it shows Wolfe and Archie at their romantic (in the swashbuckling sense) best. Because, as in just a few other books (The Silent Speaker, for instance), we have a case that really gets under Archie’s skin. We’ve got the regular gang in top form (although Lily Rowan is, alas, absent), and we have plenty of the Stoutian spear carriers (Dewdrop Irby, Andy Fomos) to bring Wolfe’s New York to life. If you were going to pick one book to introduce a friend to Wolfe, you couldn’t pick a better one than Prisoner’s Base.

  But this book has something else going for it, too: a dazzlingly simple—and simply dazzling—plot gimmick. Great as he was, plotting classic mystery puzzles wasn’t Stout’s strongest suit. But every once in a while he’d come up with a clue for the ages. The League of Frightened Men has a solution like that. So does Prisoner’s Base. I envy those of you who are about to read it for the first time.

  —William L. DeAndrea

  Watertown, Connecticut

  *But of course I’ve got one—“Suspicious Minds” (1968).

  Chapter 1

  In Nero Wolfe’s old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street that Monday afternoon in June, the atmosphere was sparky. I mention it not to make an issue of Wolfe’s bad habits, but because it is to the point. It was the atmosphere that got us a roomer.

  What had stirred it up was a comment made by Wolfe three days earlier. Each Friday morning at eleven, when he comes down to the office on the first floor from the plant rooms on the roof, Wolfe signs the salary checks for Fritz and Theodore and me, hands me mine, and keeps the other two because he likes to deliver them personally. That morning, as he passed mine across his desk, he made a remark.

  “Thank you for waiting for it.”

  My brows went up. “What’s the matter? Bugs on the orchids?”

  “No. But
I saw your bag in the hall, and I note your finery. Straining as you are to be gone, it is gracious of you to wait for this pittance, this meager return for your excessive labors in the week nearly ended. Especially since the bank balance is at its lowest point in two years.”

  I controlled myself. “That deserves an answer, and here it is. As for finery, I am headed for a weekend in the country and am dressed accordingly. As for straining, I am not.” I glanced at my wrist. “I have ample time to get the car and drive to Sixty-third Street to get Miss Rowan. As for pittance, right. As for excessive labors, I have had to spend most of my time recently sitting on my prat only because you have seen fit to turn down four offers of jobs in a row. As for the week nearly ended, meaning that I am dashing off to carouse before the week is out for which I am being paid, you’ve known about it for a month, and what’s here to keep me? As for the bank balance, there I admit you have a point. I’m the bookkeeper and I know, and I’m willing to help. It’s only a pittance anyway, what the hell.”

  I took my check, with thumbs and forefingers at the middle of its top edge, tore it across, put the halves together and tore again, dropped the shreds into my wastebasket, and turned and started for the door. His bellow came at me.

  “Archie!”

  I wheeled and glared at him. He glared back. “Pfui,” he said.

  “Nuts,” I said, and turned and went.

  That was what created the atmosphere. When I returned from the country late Sunday night he had gone up to bed. By Monday morning the air might possibly have cleared if it hadn’t been for the torn-up check. We both knew the stub would have to be voided and a new check drawn, but he wasn’t going to tell me to do it without being asked, and I wasn’t going to do it without being told. A man has his pride. With that between us, the stiffness Monday morning lasted through lunch and beyond, into the afternoon.

  Around 4:30 I was at my desk, working on the germination records, when the doorbell rang. Ordinarily, unless instructions have been given, Fritz answers it, but that day my legs needed stretching and I went. Swinging the door open, I took in a sight that led me to an agreeable conclusion. The suitcase and hatbox could have held a salesman’s samples, but the young woman in the light peach-colored dress and tailored jacket was surely no peddler. Calling on Nero Wolfe with luggage, ten to one she was a prospective client from out of town, and, coming straight from the station or airport, in a hurry. Such a one was welcome.

  With the hatbox dangling from her hand, she crossed the threshold, brushed past me, and said, “You’re Archie Goodwin. Will you bring my suitcase in? Please?”

  I did so, closed the door, and deposited the suitcase against the wall. She put the hatbox down beside it and straightened to speak.

  “I want to see Nero Wolfe, but of course he’s always up in the plant rooms from four to six. That’s why I picked this time to come, I want to see you first.” Her eyes moved. “That’s the door to the front room.” Her eyes moved again, aimed the length of the hall. “That’s the stairs, and the door to the dining room on the right and to the office on the left. The hall’s wider than I expected. Shall we go to the office?”

  I had never seen eyes like hers. Either they were brownish gray flecked with brownish yellow, or brownish yellow flecked with brownish gray. They were deep in, wide apart, and moved fast.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  That was phony. She must have been used to people, at first sight of those eyes, staring at them; she probably expected it. I told her nothing was the matter, took her to the office and gave her a chair, sat at my desk, and observed, “So you’ve been here before.”

  She shook her head. “A friend of mine was here a long while ago, and then of course I’ve read about it.” She looked around, twisting her head to the right and then to the left. “I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t known a good deal about it, and about Nero Wolfe and you.” She leveled the eyes at me, and, finding it difficult to meet them casually, I met them consciously. She went on, “I thought it would be better to tell you about it first because I’m not sure I would know how to put it to Nero Wolfe. You see, I’m trying to work something out. I wonder—do you know what I think I need right now?”

  “No. What?”

  “A Coke and rum with some lime and lots of ice. I don’t suppose you’ve got Meyer’s?”

  It seemed to me she was crowding a little, but I said sure, we had everything, and got up to step to Wolfe’s desk and ring for Fritz. When he had come and got the order, and I was back in my chair, she spoke again. “Fritz looks younger than I expected,” she said.

  I leaned back and clasped my hands behind my head. “You’re welcome to a drink, even a Coke and rum,” I told her, “and I’m enjoying your company, that’s okay, but if you want me to tell you how to put something to Mr. Wolfe maybe you’d better start.”

  “Not till I’ve had the drink,” she said firmly.

  She not only had the drink, she made herself at home. After Fritz had brought it and she had taken a couple of sips, she murmured something about its being warm and removed the jacket and dropped it on the seat of the red leather chair. Furthermore, she took off the straw thing she had on her head, fingered her hair back, and got a mirror from her bag and gave herself a brief look. Then, with her glass in her hand, and sipping intermittently, she moved to my desk for a glance at the germination cards, crossed to the big globe and gave it a gentle spin, and went to the shelves and looked at titles of books. When her glass was empty she put it on a table, went to her chair and sat, and gave me the eyes.

  “I’m beginning to get myself together,” she told me.

  “Good. Don’t rush it.”

  “I won’t. I’m not a rusher. I’m a very cautious girl—believe me, I am. I never rushed but one thing in my life, and that one was enough. I’m not sure I’m over it yet. I think maybe I should have another drink.”

  I decided against it. I couldn’t deny that the effect Coke and rum had on her was pleasant; it tuned her up and emphasized her charms, which were fair enough without the emphasis. But this was office hours, and I wanted to find out if she had any potential as a client. So I decided to dodge the drink problem with a polite suggestion, but before I had it framed she demanded, “Does the door of the south room on the third floor have a bolt on the inside?”

  I frowned at her. I was beginning to suspect she was something we couldn’t use, like for instance a female writer getting material for a magazine piece on a famous detective’s home, but even so she was not the kind to be led out by the ear and rolled off the stoop down the steps to the sidewalk. There was no good reason, considering the eyes, why she shouldn’t be humored up to a point.

  “No,” I said. “Why, do you think it needs one?”

  “Maybe not,” she conceded, “but I thought I’d feel better if it had. You see, that’s where I want to sleep.”

  “Oh? You do? For about how long?”

  “For a week. Possibly a day or two more, but certainly for a week. I would rather have the south room than the one on the second floor because it has its own bath. I know how Nero Wolfe feels about women, so I knew I’d have to see you first.”

  “That was sensible,” I agreed. “I like gags, and I’ll bet this is a pip. How does it go?”

  “It is not a gag.” She wasn’t heated, but she was earnest. “For a certain reason I had to be—I had to go away. I had to go somewhere and stay there until June thirtieth—some place where no one would know and no one could possibly find me. I didn’t think a hotel would do, and I didn’t think—anyhow, I thought it over and decided the best place would be Nero Wolfe’s house. Nobody knows I came; nobody followed me here, I’m sure of that.”

  She got up and went to the red leather chair for her bag, which she had left there with her jacket. Back in her seat, she opened the bag and took out a purse and let me have the eyes again. “One thing you can tell me,” she said, as if I not only could but naturally would, “—about paying. I know how he charges just for wiggling his finger. Would it be better for me to offer to pay him or to go ahead and pay you now? Would fifty dollars a day be enough? Whatever you say. I’ll give you cash instead of a check, because that way he won’t have to pay income tax on it, and also because a check would have my name on it, and I don’t want you to know my name. I’ll give it to you now if you’ll tell me how much.”