Not Quite Dead Enough
Page 1
REX STOUT
Not Quite Dead Enough
A NERO WOLFE MYSTERY
Introduction by John Lutz
BANTAM BOOKS
NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND
Contents
Introduction
Not Quite Dead Enough
Booby Trap
Introduction
Archie’s in the army.
He’s Major Archie Goodwin now, and the urbane but reclusive three-hundred-pound master detective Nero Wolfe is emerging from his West 35th Street brownstone with regularity to train with his chef, Fritz Brenner, for some future combat envisioned by Wolfe.
When Major Goodwin calls at the venerable brownstone, he’s told that Wolfe and Brenner are out walking, as they are every morning these days, in an effort to toughen themselves and to sweat some weight off the corpulent Wolfe. They are by the river, where, a shocked Archie is told, Wolfe “obtained permission from the authorities to train on a pier because the boys on the street ridicule him.”
When Wolfe and Fritz return Archie ruefully observes them eating an unappetizing breakfast of prunes, lettuce, and tomatoes. The regimen seems to be working, at least in the mind of Wolfe, and the astounded Archie is told that next week the two intend to begin running.
But beyond these strange circumstances, not much has changed in the universe of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. The war years didn’t slow the remarkable Rex Stout’s prolificity or ingenuity. Quite the contrary. The patriotic Stout was the host of three radio programs during the war, and served as chairman of the War Writers’ Board. He was also president of Friends of Democracy, 1941-51, the Authors’ Guild, 1943-45, and the Society for the Prevention of World War III, 1943-46. When it came to serving his country, both during and after World War II, this amazing author was busier than the marines. Yet somehow during the war years he found the time and talent to create four novels, The Broken Vase, Alphabet Hicks, Black Orchids, and Not Quite Dead Enough.
In the latter, the hugely overweight Wolfe might be training for physical rough stuff, but Archie, assigned by the army to obtain Wolfe’s help, realizes it’s Wolfe’s brain and not brawn that would best serve the cause. So, after some neat maneuvering by the shrewd and supremely competent Archie, the two complementary characters are at it as always in Not Quite Dead Enough, Wolfe the lazy, unparalleled genius in his comfortable West Side brownstone, Archie the affable, energetic, and resourceful legman working the streets of Manhattan and environs.
The familiar cast of satellite characters also appears. There are daring and dangerous Lily Rowan, still trying and sometimes succeeding in manipulating Archie by his heartstrings, and the intrepid, antagonistic, and usually one-step-behind Inspector Cramer, who isn’t at all agreeable to Wolfe and Archie meddling in New York Police business, especially if that business is a homicide investigation.
This investigation is already complicated by the oddball tenants of an apartment building with a rooftop pigeon coop, folks described by even the worldly and tolerant Archie as “the goofy assortment of specimens.” Inspector Cramer would much rather that Wolfe and Archie weren’t part of the mix.
While the mood and tempo of Not Quite Dead Enough is, I am happy to report, representative of the Wolfe body of work, and it is a book that exists despite the war rather than because of it, the novel also provides some interesting glimpses into New York life and attitudes in the tumultuous early forties. Who better as a tour guide for this time travel to the war years than the masterful, patriotic, and indefatigable Rex Stout, through his wonderful creations Wolfe and Archie?
All of the Nero Wolfe novels are cleverly and tightly plotted, smooth, stylish, and generously peppered with wit and insight. Wolfe and his live-in confidential assistant Archie are in many ways direct opposites: Wolfe is essentially cerebral, engaging in little physical activity and absorbed in his hobbies of orchid growing, reading, eating fine food prepared by Fritz, and drinking (beer and more beer). And, of course, occasionally solving crimes. Archie has a sharp and retentive mind, but he’s more the physical type, needing to roam and be among the common man and woman in bustling and raucous New York, while Wolfe needs to spend hours alone in his office or his plant rooms among quiet, exotic orchids. The obese Wolfe is in his fifties, and the trim and handsome Archie is in his thirties, causing at times a clash of generations as well as one of personalities. But wry observations and acidic remarks aside, the two have affection and respect for each other, personally and professionally.
I’ve long been an avid fan of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe novels. I admire Stout’s fascinating characters, his innovative plots, the subtle but complete and totally believable world he created. He made it seem easy, and I know it isn’t.
The New York of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin still exists between the covers of Stout’s books, waiting for us to enter. For that we should be grateful, because it’s a place worth visiting, where calm reasoning (Wolfe) and dogged determination and physical energy (Archie) ultimately bring desired results. Though it’s a delicate balance to be sure, Stout’s New York is a city where order still outweighs chaos, while perhaps in the New York of the nineties it’s become the other way around.
Not Quite Dead Enough is quintessential Nero Wolfe. The fact that it is set on the World War II home front only adds to its solid sense of place. Stout skillfully weaves us into that not-so-long-ago and still familiar prenuclear era that was governed by simple, important principles and the obvious necessity of national survival.
It is in this place and time that Wolfe and Archie must cope with one of the most ancient, persistent, and horrible problems plaguing the human race—not war, but murder. Despite their opposing outlooks and their sometimes acerbic banter, these two very different men, united in a common purpose, know and understand each other well. And they know that as a team they are the best.
Millions of readers over six decades have concurred.
I think you’ll agree with their assessment.
—John Lutz
Not Quite Dead Enough
Chapter 1
We swooped down and hit the concrete alongside the Potomac at 1:20 p.m. on a raw Monday in early March.
I didn’t know whether I would be staying in Washington or hopping a plane for Detroit or Africa, so I checked my bags at the parcel room at the airport and went out front and flagged a taxi. For twenty minutes I sat back and watched the driver fight his way through two million government employees, in uniforms and in civies, on wheels and on foot, and for another twenty minutes, after entering a building, I showed credentials and waited and let myself be led through corridors, and finally was ushered into a big room with a big desk.
It was the first time I had ever seen the top mackaroo of United States Army Intelligence. He was in uniform and had two chins and a pair of eyes that wasted neither time nor space. I was perfectly willing to shake hands, but he just said to sit down, glanced at a paper on top of a pile and told me in a dry brittle voice that my name was Archie Goodwin.
I nodded noncommittally. For all I knew, it was a military secret.
He inquired acidly, “What the hell is the matter with Nero Wolfe?”
“Search me, sir. Why, is he sick?”
“You worked for him for ten years. As his chief assistant in the detective business. Didn’t you?”
“All of that. Yes, sir. But I never found out what was the matter with him. However, if you want some good guesses—”
“You seem to have done pretty well with that mess down in Georgia, Major Goodwin.”
“Much obliged, sir. Speaking of Nero Wolfe—”
“I am about to.” He shoved the papers aside. “That’s why I sent for you. Is he crazy?”
“How long have you been a major?”
“Three days.”
He pronounced a certain word, just one word, very snappy.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He nodded curtly, to signify that that was settled for good, and went on. “We need Nero Wolfe. Not necessarily in uniform, but we need him. I don’t know whether he deserves his reputation—”
“He does,” I declared. “I hate to admit it, but he does.”
“Very well. That seems to be the prevailing opinion. And we need him, and we’ve tried to get him. He has been seen by Captain Cross and by Colonel Ryder, and he refused to call on General Fife. I have a report here—”
“They handled him wrong.” I grinned. “He wouldn’t call on the King of China even if there was one. I doubt if he’s been outdoors since I left, two months ago. The only thing he has got is brains, and the only way to go is to take things to him: facts, problems, people—”
The mackaroo was shaking his head impatiently. “We tried to. Colonel Ryder went to try to get him to work on a certain matter of great importance, and he flatly refused. He’s no fascist or appeaser, according to his record. What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing sir. Nothing like that. He’s probably in a bad mood. His moods never are anything to brag about, and of course he’s dejected because I’m not there. But the main thing is they don’t know how to handle him.”
“Do you know how to handle him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go and do it. We want him on a day basis under Schedule 34H. We want him immediately and urgently on a matter that Colonel Ryder went to him about. Nobody has even been able to make a start on it. How long will it take you?”
“I couldn’t say. It all depends.” I stood up with my heels together. “An hour, a day, a week, two weeks. I’ll have to live in his house with him as I always did. The best time to work on him is late at night.”
“Very well. On your arrival, report to Colonel Ryder at Governor’s Island by telephone, report progress to him, and tell him when you are ready for him to see Mr. Wolfe.” He got up and offered me a hand, and I took it. “And don’t waste any time.”
In another room downstairs I found they had got me a priority for a seat on the three o’clock plane for New York, and a taxi got me to the airport just in time to weigh my luggage through and make a run for it.
Chapter 2
All the seats were taken but one, the outside of a double near the front, and I nodded down at the occupant of the seat next to the window, a man with spectacles and a tired face, stuffed my hat and coat on the shelf, and lowered myself. In another minute we were taxiing down the runway, turning, vibrating, rolling, picking it up, and in the air. Just as I unfastened my seat belt, dainty female fingers gripped the seat arm, a female figure stopped, and the profile of a female head with fine blond hair was there in front of me, speaking across to the man with spectacles:
“Would you mind changing seats with me? Please?”
Not wanting to make a scene, there was nothing for me to do but scramble out of the way to permit the transfer. The man got out, the female got in and settled herself, and I sat down again just as the plane tilted for a bank.
She patted my arm and said, “Escamillo darling. Don’t kiss me here. Good heavens, you’re handsome in uniform.”
“I haven’t,” I said coolly, “any intention of kissing you anywhere.”
Her blue eyes were not quite wide open and a corner of her mouth was turned up a little. Viewed objectively, there was nothing at all wrong with the scenery, but I was in no frame of mind to view Lily Rowan objectively. I have told elsewhere how I met her just outside the fence of an upstate pasture. The episode started with me in the pasture along with a bull, and the situation was such that when I reached the fence considerations of form and dignity were minor matters. Anyhow, I got over, rolled maybe ten yards and scrambled to my feet, and a girl in a yellow shirt and slacks clapped her hands sarcastically and drawled at me. “Beautiful, Escamillo! Do it again!”
That was Lily. One thing had led to another. Several others. Until finally…
But now—
She squeezed my arm and said, “Escamillo darling.”
I gazed straight at her and said, “Lookit. The only reason I don’t get up and ask one of our fellow passengers to change seats with me is that I am in uniform and the service has notions about dignity in public places, and I know quite well that you are capable of acting like a lunatic. I am going to read the paper.”
I unfolded the Times. She was laughing in her throat, which I had once thought was an attractive sound, and she arranged herself in her seat so that her arm was against mine.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I wish that bull had got you that day three years ago. I never dreamed, when I saw you tumbling over that fence, that it would ever come to this. You haven’t answered my letters or telegrams. So I came to Washington to find out where you were, intending to go there—and here I am. Me, Lily Rowan! Escamillo, look at me!”
“I’m reading the paper.”
“Good heavens, you’re wonderful in uniform. Very rugged. Doesn’t it impress you that I found out you were taking this plane and got on before you did? Am I a smart girl or not?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Answer me,” she said with an edge to her voice.
She was capable of anything. “Yeah,” I said, “you’re smart.”
“Thank you. I’m also smart enough to know that your being mad at me because I said that Ireland shouldn’t give up any naval or air bases is phony. My father came here from Ireland and made eight million dollars building sewers—and I’m Irish and you know it, so your going sour on me on account of that is the bunk. I think you think you’re tired of me. I have palled on you. Well?”
I kept my eyes on the paper. “I’m in the Army now, pet.”
“So you are. Haven’t I sent you forty telegrams offering to go and be near you and read aloud to you? Thinking you might be sick or something, haven’t I been three times to see Nero Wolfe to find out if he was hearing from you? Which reminds me, what the dickens is the matter with him? He refuses to see me. And he likes me.”
“He does not like you. He likes no woman.”
“Well, he likes my being interested in his orchids. And besides, I wrote him that I had a case for him and would pay him myself. He wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone.”
I looked at her. “What kind of a case?”
A corner of her mouth went up. “Like to know?”
“Go to the devil.”
“Now, Escamillo. Am I your bauble?”
“No.”
“I am too. I like the way your nose twitches when you smell a case. This is about a friend of mine, or anyway a girl I know, named Ann Amory. I was worried about her.”
“I can’t see you being worried about a girl named Ann Amory, or any girl except one named Lily Rowan.”
Lily patted my arm. “That sounds more like you. Anyway, I wanted an excuse to see Nero Wolfe, and Ann was in trouble. All she really wanted was advice. She had found out something about somebody and wanted to know what to do about it.”
“What had she found out about who?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. Her father used to work for my father, and I helped her out when he died. She works at the National Bird League and gets thirty dollars a week.” Lily shivered. “Good lord, think of it, thirty dollars a week! Of course that’s no worse than thirty dollars a day; you couldn’t possibly live anyhow. She came and asked me to send her to a lawyer and she certainly wa
s upset. All she would tell me was that she had learned something terrible about someone, but from several things she let slip I think it’s her fiancé. I thought Nero Wolfe would be better for her than any lawyer.”
“And he wouldn’t see you?”
“No.”
“Ann didn’t mention any names at all?”
“No.”
“Where does she live?”
“Downtown, not far from you—316 Barnum Street.”
“Who is her fiancé?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Lily patted my arm. “Listen, you big rugged hero. Where shall we have dinner tonight? My place?”
I shook my head. “I’m on duty. Your attitude on bases in Ireland is subversive. For all I know, you’re an Irish spy. I regard you as irresistible, but I’ve got my honor to think of. I warned you that day in the Methodist tent that my spiritual side—”
She cut me off and so it went. So it went for another hour, until we touched ground again at LaGuardia Airport. I wasn’t able to duck her there. For the sake of decorum I split a taxi with her to Manhattan, but in front of the Ritz, where she had her own tower, and where I knew she would be disinclined to tear up sidewalks. I got myself transferred to another taxi with my bags and gave the driver the address of Wolfe’s house on 35th Street.
In spite of the encounter with Lily, as I rolled downtown and then turned west, I’m here to tell you it was okay with me. I don’t know why it seemed as if I’d been away a lot longer than two months, but it did. I recognized stores and buildings, as if I owned them, that I didn’t remember ever bothering to look at before. I hadn’t sent a wire because I thought it would be fun to surprise them, and naturally I was looking forward to seeing Theodore up in the plant rooms with the orchids, and Fritz in the kitchen stirring things in bowls and sniffing and tasting, and Nero Wolfe himself seated at his desk, frowning at a page of the atlas or maybe growling at a book he was reading— No, he wouldn’t be in the office. He didn’t come down from the plant rooms until six o’clock, so he would be up there with Theodore. I would say hello to Fritz in the kitchen and then sneak up to my room and wait until after I heard the elevator descending, bringing Wolfe down to the office.