by Josh Pachter
• Alan Vanneman has written several novella-length pastiches that have much to recommend them, but they’re too long to have included here. Vanneman has collected them as Three Bullets, and some careful websurfing should allow you to download them for free, courtesy of Mr. Vanneman.
So there’s certainly more at least tangentially relevant material out there, but in this volume you’ll find what I believe to be the cream of the crop.
As Rex Stout put it in Plot It Yourself: “Any writer that’s any good can imitate a style. They do it all the time. Look at all the parodies.”
That’s excellent advice. So “pfui!” to further comment from me. It’s time to lean back in a red armchair, ring for beer, and commence our journey into the wonderful world of Wolfean misadventures.
Bon voyage!
Herndon, Virginia
March 2020
PART I
PASTICHES
The Red Orchid
by Thomas Narcejac
(translated from the French by Rebecca K. Jones)
EDITOR’S NOTE: Thomas Narcejac, together with his longtime collaborator Pierre Boileau, wrote several dozen crime novels from the early 1950s through Boileau’s death in 1989, including the 1954 thriller D’entre les morts, which was filmed four years later by Alfred Hitchcock as Vertigo. Prior to the beginning of their collaboration, Narcejac wrote numerous novels on his own. And in the late ’40s, he also wrote eighteen pastiches featuring fictional detectives, including Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown, Dorothy L. Sayers’s Peter Wimsey, Leslie Charteris’s The Saint, Ellery Queen’s Ellery Queen … and Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe, which were collected and published as Usurpation d’identité. I’m delighted to open this volume with Narcejac’s Wolfean pastiche, “L’Orchidée rouge.” Written in 1947, it was translated into English and published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine in 1961. What follows is a new translation by Rebecca Jones, who also translated Narcejac’s “Le mystère de ballons rouges” for The Misadventures of Ellery Queen (Wildside Press, 2018).
“You’re mistaken,” Nero Wolfe said. “There are no red orchids.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I assure you that it is red.”
“Impossible!” Wolfe scoffed.
“It’s a Coelogyne pandurata.”
“Your uncle has been cheated.”
“I’ve seen the flower.”
“Well, then, you lie,” Wolfe barked, losing his patience. “Help me, Archie!”
He heaved himself out of his chair and headed for the elevator. Isabella Tyndall ran after him.
“I beg you, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Don’t beg,” I said. “He’s an insensitive monster. If you offer him enough money, then maybe… .”
“Two thousand dollars,” she said.
Wolfe turned back and pointed a finger at her.
“The Coelogyne is pink,” he growled. “I have been trying for two years to breed one in red, and I cannot do it. I refuse to believe that your uncle—”
“You haven’t tried ultrasound,” I protested. “I think she’s telling the truth. And she came here to offer you three thousand dollars … I heard that right, didn’t I, Miss Tyndall, it was three thousand dollars?”
“Yes, yes,” the young blonde stammered, but Wolfe was already boarding the elevator that would take him to the plant rooms.
“Well, then,” I murmured, “he’ll have to decide.”
I was ready to fly to Isabella’s aid. So young, so fragile, so blond, so—you’d have to have the heart of a tiger in the stomach of a whale, like Wolfe, not to be moved by her predicament. I took her hand and invited her to sit.
“Is he angry?” she asked.
“Him? He’s already forgotten you. From nine to eleven every morning, he’s upstairs with his orchids. He thinks he’s God Almighty—only, instead of creating the stars, he invents flowers.”
“Is he a poet?”
What a babe! I sat on the arm of her chair and stroked her hair.
“He’s an executioner,” I said. “He torments flowers because they can’t defend themselves—flowers and young girls. But, as you’ve guessed, I am Wolfe’s guardian angel. He thinks I’m a detective. I’m twenty-eight, a hundred and sixty pounds, with plenty of muscle and a miniature brain. He doesn’t suspect that, under that deceptive exterior, I am a pure spirit. Now don’t worry: I’m going to take your case.”
I leaned down, brushed the nape of her neck with a kiss, and returned to my desk.
“Tell me again, Isabella. I forget everything when you look at me.”
She smiled. “I thought you were a pure spirit?”
“We spirits are enamored with beauty and innocence.”
That smile could blow fuses.
“Shall I begin from the beginning, Mr. Goodwin?”
“Call me Archie. Spirits don’t have surnames.”
“Well, then … I am the niece of Sir Lawrence Tyndall. My uncle is a savant who has been experimenting with ultrasound for the past ten years. He works in absolute secrecy. Glory and honor mean nothing to him, so he has never published his results. No one knows his name. And yet he has developed a simple machine that allows the user to stop engines from miles away. His experiments are conclusive, and my uncle was about to turn his invention over to the proper authorities when the attacks began.” She trembled at the memory.
“Don’t be afraid,” I murmured, not looking up from my notepad. “I’m here. How many attempts were made?”
“Two. About fifteen days ago, a shot was fired at my uncle as he strolled in the park after dinner. The bullet grazed his head. Then, last week, someone poisoned the herbal tea that he drinks every night before bed.”
“What kind of poison?”
“Prussic acid.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
“No one. We live close to Lakeville, in the middle of the country. My uncle has no family, except for me and my cousin John. He had to rent out a wing of the manor, because his research has nearly bankrupted him, so now we have several boarders: the Reverend Norton, the Saunders woman and her son and sister.”
“Servants?”
“Two. Old William and his wife. They’ve been with my uncle for more than thirty years.”
“How old is your cousin?”
“Twenty-eight. He’s worked with my uncle since he graduated from college.”
“And the Saunders boy?”
“Billy? Twenty-three. He has cerebral anemia, and his doctors recommended the countryside.”
“He’s in love with you?”
Again that radiant smile. “A little.”
“He’s guilty. It’s all clear to me. We’ll—”
“Mr.—Archie, please. That’s not all. A week and a half ago, some things disappeared from the manor: first a bottle of sherry, then a ham, then, the day before yesterday, a Cheshire cheese.”
“You think someone’s hiding in the house? There aren’t any secret passages or dungeons, are there?”
“Not that we know about. My uncle bought the manor fifteen years ago. It’s an old house, built in 1850, designed to resemble an English chateau.”
“Then the architect must have included some underground chambers and a ghost. We’ll see. Does the press know about all this?”
“Yes, because of the red orchid. When my uncle discovered a way to influence the development and coloring of flowers, he sent an article to the Lakeville newspaper.”
“When was this?”
“Five or six days ago. We told the reporters who came to cover the story about the disappearances, and now we’ve been besieged by a crowd of journalists. That’s why I’m here to beg for Mr. Wolfe’s help. My uncle can’t work.”
“Whose idea was it to come to us?”
“My cousin’s. But he pred
icted that Mr. Wolfe would refuse. He said he hates to travel.”
“Travel? He’s more sedentary than the Empire State Building. You should have called the cops.”
“My uncle would prefer to engage the services of a private detective.”
“Is it Old William who does the cooking?”
“Yes. Why? He’s a very good cook.”
“I doubt it. Does he know how to make Chateaubriand, or braised oysters, or ham with Missouri sauce, or Caribbean turtle? I say nothing, please note, of Zingara sauce or midnight sauce.”
I reached for the bookshelf and pulled out a small volume with a tattered binding.
“Take this, Isabella, and study it. When you can prepare the recipes it contains, I think we might be able to persuade Mr. Wolfe.”
“And your retainer?”
“Three thousand dollars ought to do it … for now. You’ll have to lay in some beer, it’ll have to be iced, and you’ll need an armchair big enough to hold the lower half of his body.”
I took a ruler from my desk drawer and measured Wolfe’s seat.
“Three feet, ten inches,” I said. “Better make it an even four feet. And, most important, his bedroom has to be on the ground floor. Wolfe hasn’t climbed a staircase in twenty years.”
Isabella rose.
“Archie, you are … you are—”
“—an angel,” I said. “Now go. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
I kissed her on the lips before showing her out.
It took me three days to come up with a plan, and Wolfe fired me five times, giving me an hour each time to pack my bags and vacate the premises. Only after I swore that the Tyndall cook was a genius and the road to Lakeville was specially designed for the transportation of fragile foods did he finally surrender, agreeing to brave the unleashed elements—which is to say the bright April sun and a light breeze charged with the smell of the wild. Weighed down by a camel hair overcoat, his neck wrapped in a muffler, his head topped by a sombrero of unusual size, he dragged himself out to the car, where Fritz Brenner, tears in his eyes, was loading suitcases and briefcases.
“I put a snack on the front seat,” Fritz murmured, clearing his throat. “It is duck pâté, turkey with jelly, Neapolitan andouille sausages, some sandwiches with haddock, some with caviar, and some with jam. Wines are in the trunk.”
“Thank you,” snorted Wolfe. “Add a few squabs and a piece of salmon. Perhaps we’ll get there, after all.”
He rolled up all the windows, forbade me from smoking, and reclined, whining, on the vast bench of his Duesenberg Special.
“Goodbye,” he sighed, as I pulled gently away from the curb.
“Three thousand smackeroos, boss,” I said. “That’s worth a little inconvenience.”
“Silence!” Wolfe commanded. “Look straight ahead, Archie, and keep both hands on the wheel.”
Then, already exhausted from his exertions, he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, and I heard no further groans, moans, protests, or complaints. It was in vain that I explained my theory that the Saunders boy had stolen the sherry and the cheese to camouflage his other criminal activity, since Wolfe didn’t deign to respond. At noon, he resigned himself to nibbling four sandwiches, a squab, two sausages, a quarter of a turkey, and some small slices of pâté, but his heart wasn’t in it. I insisted that, after the Chablis, he consent to drinking a bottle of Meursault and a smaller bottle of Tokay. Late in the afternoon, we arrived at the manor via a rutted drive, every jolt of which pulled supplications and sighs from Wolfe’s suffering lips.
“Fill up the tank, Archie,” he whispered, when the car shuddered to a stop at the foot of a dilapidated house. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
“But, boss, won’t you be exhausted?”
“Perhaps. And perhaps I will die, but I will die at home.”
With those words, he hauled himself out of the car, me pushing vigorously from the other side. Sir Lawrence appeared to make our acquaintance. He bade us welcome and asked if we’d had a good trip. I was afraid Wolfe might assassinate him. Then he preceded us into the house.
“Archie,” Wolfe groaned, “you know that I detest porches.”
“It’s only twelve steps,” I observed. “You can do it!”
He shot me a look that would have melted a lightning rod and, gathering his energy, followed Sir Lawrence, who showed us into a large sitting room where the residents of the mansion awaited us. When, looking back on this case, I want to laugh a bit—which hasn’t much happened—I only have to remember its cast of characters: the Saunders sisters, who were so distorted it was like they were reflected in funhouse mirrors, one in height and the other in width; Reverend Norton, who looked exactly like a reverend; Billy, who had his aunt’s nose and his mother’s cheeks; and finally John, very pale, with an attitude so absent we took him for the mansion’s ghost. Wolfe sat in the armchair Isabella pushed toward him and cut through the compliments and grateful expressions with a gesture.
“The Coelogyne?” he demanded.
There was an embarrassed silence, and Isabella folded her hands in her lap. “I was going to tell you, Mr. Wolfe,” she said. “It was stolen this morning.”
“In that case—” Wolfe struggled to rise.
But Isabella, fine girl, had brought him a beer, so the boss settled back into his seat.
“I don’t understand it,” Sir Lawrence chimed in. “The flower was locked in my laboratory, and the thief seems to have come through the wall. I was going to show you the laboratory after dinner. It’s truly impenetrable, and I have the only key. Now, however—”
“Nothing else to report?” I cut him off.
“Not yet,” the scientist said, his tone sinister. “Gentlemen, allow me to take you to your rooms. Dinner will be served in half an hour’s time.”
As soon as we were alone, Wolfe hurled his hat onto the bed.
“Archie, I’m done with you. This absurd journey has been a farrago of wasted time.”
“That’s just dandy,” I said. “You’ll have to advertise for another chauffeur to haul you back to New York. You’ll need one who won’t mind stopping every few miles to buy beer, who’ll crawl through villages in second gear and level crossings in first. One who can help you earn three grand for a couple minutes’ work. You probably ought to—”
“That’s enough,” Wolfe snapped. “You intend me to sleep in this bed?”
“If I pull that sofa up closer on one side and the armchairs on the other, I think—”
“You think?” Wolfe sneered. “And what of the Coelogyne?”
“We can worry about that tomorrow. For now, let’s focus on the Caribbean tortoise.”
Unfortunately, it was clear from the start of the meal that Old William might be a crackerjack gardener, but he was as divorced from the subtleties of the kitchen as an FBI agent from those of tact. He dished up a sort of brined leather that Sir Lawrence assured us with refined politeness was ham, accompanied by some carbonized debris that might once have been kidneys. Wolfe looked like a medical examiner trying to identify pieces of a cadaver. When Williams came in to announce the steak, Wolfe couldn’t contain himself any longer. He laid down his napkin and withdrew without a word.
“Don’t mind him,” I said cheerfully. “He’s always a little distracted when he spots the solution to a mystery, so his attitude right now is very encouraging.” To get a step in front of things, I added, “When he slams doors, it’s because he’s found the key to the riddle.”
At that moment, the dining room door was closed with such violence that the clock stopped. More slamming announced Wolfe’s progress toward his bedroom.
“Well, then,” Sir Lawrence said lugubriously, “I expect there must now be nothing more for Mr. Wolfe to discover.”
The rest of the meal proceeded in a heavy atmosphere. I tried, without suc
cess, to tell some amusing anecdotes, and was relieved when Sir Lawrence invited me to follow him. As we walked, he told me that he had received many letters and telegrams over the last several days, filled with offers and propositions that were driving him nuts.
“Nothing wrong with a little extra wealth,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, and waved me into his laboratory.
I’d expected a hidden lair cluttered with beakers and distillation equipment, but the room was small, plainly furnished, and contained to my surprise only three or four scientific devices, which he ignored.
Instead, he drew my attention to the lab’s security system, an absolutely unpickable Yale lock. Since the door was the room’s only entrance, the theft of the orchid was a mystery. Besides, why would anyone take the flower and leave behind the more valuable apparatus?
“I’d like to see your bedroom,” I said.
He took me there, and I went over the joint in minute detail. I knocked on the walls and found them solid. The window was impregnable. No one could get into this room once Sir Lawrence had locked himself in.
“Once I realized that someone wants to poison me,” the scientist explained, “I abandoned my former bedroom and installed myself here. Now I am sheltered from any danger, with Isabella and John in the two adjoining rooms.”
“You don’t suspect your tenants?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Goodwin. They are above reproach.”
“Do you think someone could be hidden in the mansion?”
“I don’t think anything at all,” Sir Lawrence said dryly. “It’s you and Mr. Wolfe who are here to think.”
“One more question. For reasons nobody’s explained, you’ve had to rent out part of your mansion. Given your cash-flow problem, how are you going to pay my boss three thousand bucks? I don’t—”
