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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 he was recognized throughout the state as a prodigy in arithmetic. Mr. Stout briefly attended the University of Kansas, but he 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 freelance articles and worked as a sightseeing guide and an itinerant bookkeeper. Later he devised and implemented a school banking system that 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 from 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 Erle 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 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-eight. 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

  The Hand in the Glove

  Double for Death

  Bad for Business

  The Broken Vase

  The Sound of Murder

  Red Threads

  The Mountain Cat Murders

  This book is fiction. No resemblance is intended

  between any character herein and any person,

  living or dead; any such resemblance is

  purely coincidental.

  TOO MANY CLIENTS

  A Bantam Crime Line Book / published by arrangement with

  The Viking Press, Inc.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Viking edition published October 1960

  Bantam edition published March 1962

  Bantam reissue edition / April 1994

  CRIME LINE and the portrayal of a boxed “cl” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1960 by Rex Stout.

  Introduction copyright © 1994 by Malcolm Forbes, Jr.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: The Viking Press, Penguin USA, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76819-3

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Introduction

  We are entering an era when the already considerable appeal of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe mysteries will grow exponentially. This new age is symbolized by the microchip, which is extending the reach of the human brain the way machines extended the reach of human muscle during the industrial revolution. We will be reminded as never before that the source of all wealth and progress is the human brain, not material things. This has always been true, but the microchip will make it so plain that even the most obtuse will have to acknowledge it.

  In ages past, wealth was thought to lay in material things: armies, gold, jewels, land, and, until a little over a century ago, slaves. You can’t touch and feel software the way you can a slab of steel or a bar of silver. Yet in the hands of daring entrepreneurs these pieces of plastic can create riches beyond the imaginings of even the greediest Croesus. They enabled a poor southerner, Sam Walton, to storm and humble the seemingly impregnable corporate fortresses of Sears, K Mart, and others. The secret of Wal-Mart’s success was using sophisticated inventory software that enabled it to respond immediately to marketplace changes and to simplify magnificently the layers of middlemen between stores and suppliers.

  The information age will change our lives as dramatically as did the machine age. This era is emasculating centralized bureaucracies, giving unprecedented powers to countless millions of individuals. It will also make possible a cultural renaissance. The coarsening of American life over the past half-century will begin to be reversed. With high-definition, interactive television on countless thousands of channels, we will be able to nurture interests—music, books, collecting, movies, golfing, carpentry, etc.—in a way that is utterly impossible with today’s boob tube, where viewers are reduced to couch potatoes watching channels that can achieve profit-sized audiences only by appealing to
the lowest common denominator.

  What does all this have to do with obese, orchid-loving misogynist Nero Wolfe and milk-drinking, smart-alecky Archie Goodwin?

  More than you might imagine. What better symbol of the power of the mind, of intellectual capital, than Nero Wolfe? Centuries ago his corpulence would have made his stay on earth a short one. He couldn’t hunt or physically joust with his foes. Today, increasingly, mind matters more than matter. Wolfe’s ability to fight crime with his intellect will be less “fictional” in the information age. And as technology empowers individuals, readers will better appreciate Wolfe’s determination to make the universe revolve around him and his unalterable daily schedule instead of around the agendas of others. The time of top-down, military-style corporations, schools, and governments is coming to a close.

  But Wolfe’s continued appeal will be based on more than his intellect. He is cultivated. He has taste. He is educated. He has standards; perhaps not always “politically correct” but deeply felt. His misogyny may offend some, yet most women will appreciate his impeccable manners and his unwillingness to behave like a dirty old man. In short, Wolfe has character and integrity. And as these virtues enjoy a revival—which they will, thanks in no small part to a high technology that shatters the passivity-inducing, take-it-or-leave-it dominance of network TV—his popularity will grow. He stands as a rebuke to today’s moral relativism.

  Similarly, the Wolfe mysteries will enjoy renewed appreciation for their refusal to pander to baser instincts such as sex and violence. Rex Stout treats the reader as an intelligent being rather than a lustful lout longing for erotic stimulation or thirsting for blood. We will admire as never before the superdetective’s disdain for vulgarity.

  Wolfe, of course, has flaws. Humanizing qualities include his moods—he can go into a funk like the rest of us—and the need for money to maintain his extraordinary life-style. But while he may sometimes stoop to our level, he still manages to awe and inspire us. His girth comes not from potato chips and other junk foods but from a fine appreciation of what a superb chef can create. His obesity softens his snobbery. (And why some brewery hasn’t tempted Wolfe to help give it an upscale image remains a mystery.) Despite his shortcomings, both his mind and, yes, his discipline enable him to perform superhuman deeds.

  Archie Goodwin? He displays another side of intellectual capital—street smarts, or good common sense.

  How would Nero Wolfe, in this age of the microchip, react to personal computers? One might think he would contemptuously dismiss these contraptions. But that would be underestimating our hero. He would rightly observe that they are still not very “user-friendly.” Contrary to expectation, though, he would quickly grasp how useful their information prowess can be. Archie would make full use of them as well, although he wouldn’t employ them with Wolfe’s verve and imagination.

  Too Many Clients highlights some of the special characteristics of a Rex Stout mystery:

  Money. “There was nothing wrong with his long, bony face and broad forehead, but he simply didn’t have the air of a man who might make a sizable contribution to Nero Wolfe’s bank balance.… With no prospect of a fat fee in sight, it was beginning to look as if a trip to the safe deposit box might be called for before the Fourth of July.”

  Eye for telling detail. “Another point against him was that he had no hat. Ninety-eight percent of men who can pay big fees wear hats.… The tops of his sox, gray with little red dots, were down nearly to his shoes.” (This book was written before John F. Kennedy went hatless to his inauguration. His topless example soon made hats old hat.)

  Food. “When we are at table in the dining room for lunch or dinner, any attention of business is taboo.… Wolfe feels strongly that when a man is feeding, nothing should interfere with his concentration on his palate.”

  One can’t imagine many writers today writing a book like Too Many Clients—about the murder of a high-powered, sex-crazed business executive—with Stout’s nonprurient, critical detachment.

  As the high-tech era unfolds, the stock of Stout, Wolfe, and Goodwin will reach new highs.

  —Malcolm Forbes, Jr.

  Chapter 1

  When he had got deposited in the red leather chair I went to my desk, whirled my chair to face him, sat, and regarded him politely but without enthusiasm. It was only partly that his $39.95 suit didn’t fit and needed pressing and his $3.00 shirt was on its second or third day; it was more him than his clothes. There was nothing wrong with his long bony face and broad forehead, but he simply didn’t have the air of a man who might make a sizable contribution to Nero Wolfe’s bank balance.

  Which at that moment, that Monday afternoon in early May, was down to $14,194.62, after deducting the checks I had just drawn and put on Wolfe’s desk for him to sign. That may look fairly respectable, but. What with the weekly wages of Theodore Horstmann, the orchid valet, Fritz Brenner, chef and house steward, and me, the handy man; and with grocery bills, including such items as the fresh caviar which Wolfe sometimes stirred into his coddled eggs at breakfast; and with the various needs of the orchids in the plant rooms up on the roof of the old brownstone, not to mention new additions to the collection; and with this and that and these and those, the minimum monthly outgo of that establishment averaged more than five grand. Also, the June 15 income-tax installment would be due in five weeks. So, with no prospect of a fat fee in sight, it was beginning to look as if a trip to the safe-deposit box might be called for before the Fourth of July.

  Therefore, when the doorbell had rung and, going to the hall for a look through the one-way glass of the front door, I had seen an adult male stranger with no sample case, it had seemed fitting to open the door wide and give him a cordial eye. He had said, “This is Nero Wolfe’s house, isn’t it?” and I had said yes but Mr. Wolfe wouldn’t be available until six o’clock, and he had said, “I know, he’s up in the plant rooms from four to six, but I want to see Archie Goodwin. You’re Mr. Goodwin?” I had admitted it and asked him what about, and he had said he wanted to consult me professionally. By then I had sized him up, or thought I had, and it didn’t look very promising, but time could be wasted with him as well as without him, so I had taken him to the office. Another point against him was that he had no hat. Ninety-eight per cent of men who can pay big fees wear hats.

  Leaning back in the red leather chair with his chin lowered and his intelligent gray eyes aimed at me, he spoke. “I’ll have to tell you who I am, of course.”

  I shook my head. “Not unless it’s material.”

  “It is.” He crossed his legs. The tops of his socks, gray with little red dots, were down nearly to his shoes. “Else there was no use coming. I want to consult you in the strictest confidence.”

  I nodded. “Naturally. But this is Nero Wolfe’s office, and I work for him. If you get a bill it will be from him.”

  “I know.” Apparently that was a triviality. His eyes were intelligent. “I expect a bill and I’ll pay it. I can speak in assured confidence?”

  “Certainly. Unless you’re loaded with something too heavy for me to hold, like murder or treason.”

  He smiled. “Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out. Treason doth never prosper. I am loaded with neither. None of my crimes is statutory. Then in confidence, Mr. Goodwin, my name is Yeager, Thomas G. Yeager. You may possibly have seen or heard it, though I am no celebrity. I live at Three-forty East Sixty-eighth Street. My firm, of which I am executive vice-president, is Continental Plastic Products, with offices in the Empire State Building.”

  I did not blink. Continental Plastic Products might be a giant with three or four floors, or it might have two small rooms with the only phone on the executive vice-president’s desk. Even so, I knew that block of East 68th Street, and it was no slum, far from it. This character might wear a $39.95 suit because he didn’t give a damn and didn’t have to. I know a chairman of the board of a billion-dollar corporation, one of the 2 per cent, who never gets his shoes shined and shaves
three times a week.

  I had my notebook and was writing in it. Yeager was saying, “My phone number is not listed. It’s Chisholm five, three-two-three-two. I came at a time when I knew Wolfe would be busy, to see you, because there’s no point in explaining it to him since he would merely assign you to it. I think I am being followed, and I want to make sure, and if I am I want to know who is following me.”

  “That’s kindergarten stuff.” I tossed the notebook on my desk. “Any reputable agency will handle that for you at ten dollars an hour. Mr. Wolfe has a different approach to the fee question.”

  “I know he has. That’s unimportant.” He waved it away. “But it’s vitally important to find out if I’m being followed, and quickly, and especially who it is. What agency at ten dollars an hour would have a man as good as you?”

  “That’s not the point. Even if I’m only half as good as I think I am it would still be a pity to waste me on spotting a tail. And what if there’s no tail to spot? How long would it take to convince you? Say ten days, twelve hours a day, at a hundred dollars an hour. Twelve thousand bucks plus expenses. Even if you—”

  “It wouldn’t be ten days.” He had lifted his chin. “I’m sure it wouldn’t. And it wouldn’t be twelve hours a day. If you’ll let me explain, Mr. Goodwin. I think I am being followed only at certain times, or that I will be. Specifically, I suspect that I shall be followed when I leave my house this evening at seven o’clock to go crosstown, across the park, to an address on Eighty-second Street. One-fifty-six West Eighty-second Street. Perhaps the best plan would be for you to be at my house when I leave, but of course I shall leave the tactics to you. I don’t want to be followed to that address. I don’t want it known that I have any connection with it. If I am not followed, that would end it for today, and I would call on you again only when I intend to go there again.”

  “When would that be?”

  “I can’t say definitely. Possibly later in the week, perhaps some day next week. I could notify you a day in advance.”

  “How will you go, your car or a taxi?”