The Misadventures of Nero Wolfe

by Josh Pachter

“And the poisoned tea, you saw it?”

  “No. But my uncle wasn’t a liar and, if he came to take refuge in this bedroom, it was definitely because he was afraid of something.”

  “Do you possess a key to the laboratory?”

  “No. There’s only one key, and my uncle always carries it with him.”

  Wolfe turned toward me. “Did you find it, Archie?”

  “I found everything, boss. The stolen objects, except for the orchid, were hidden in a hatbox in the quarters of young Saunders.”

  “That’s a lie!” Billy cried. “I protest. This is a setup—”

  The rest was lost in the tumult. Everyone spoke at once, and one of the Saunders ladies—the skinny one—pretended to faint.

  “Silence!” Wolfe ordered. “The record, Archie?”

  “There were four of them, stashed in this photo album.”

  “Four? Interesting. Go to John’s bedroom and play them.”

  “I didn’t see a phonograph in that—”

  “The radio setup must certainly include a turntable.”

  I took the album and went off to do the boss’s bidding. But I didn’t hear much of interest. The first record was blues, with Louis Armstrong on trumpet. The second was a paso doble, the third a Benny Goodman arrangement. I set the needle on the fourth record, and a voice began to speak: “Greetings, dear listeners. Our two hundred and forty-fifth exercise lesson begins now. Take a deep breath in … sigh it out … perfect. Now place your back against the wall and stand on your tiptoes … good. Raise your arms above your head and stretch back until they touch the wall. Very good. Now bend forward, as far as possible. Straighten up, arms touching the wall. Repeat this movement, faster and faster: once … twice … three times. That’s fine. Stand straight, and we’ll try it again: once … twice … three times.”

  Someone pounded on the wall: once, twice, three times. I stopped the record and went back to Wolfe. His audience looked petrified, but Wolfe’s lips were turned up in the fraction of an inch I’ve learned to recognize as his equivalent of a smile.

  “I’m damned if I know what that means,” I said.

  “Sir Lawrence,” Wolfe explained, “placed his back against the wall, in accordance with the instructions he heard from the next room. Put your back against the wall, Archie, at the location where the victim was likely to have stood. Pay close attention—and, above all else, don’t raise your arms. Are you in position? Good. Now raise your head. You’re going to perceive camouflaged by the design of the tapestry a small point that protrudes—”

  He was right. It wasn’t obvious, but I could make out something like a thin nail with its head removed. I reached out—

  “Don’t touch it!” Wolfe barked.

  And then I got it.

  “It’s dipped in poison?” I asked.

  “Yes. When Sir Lawrence raised his arms, the back of his hand was scratched by that point, and death followed within minutes. Curare, I would guess. Go to the door, Archie, and take out your revolver. The assassin is here.”

  My gun in my fist, I watched them from behind, eyeing Wolfe closely.

  “My compliments, John,” Wolfe said. “Your trap was ingenious.” John shifted in his chair, and Wolfe added, “Don’t move. You’ll annoy Archie.”

  “I say,” the reverend stammered, “can you explain—?”

  “It’s quite simple,” Wolfe replied. “Sir Lawrence was in need of funding, but there was no interest in his research. He therefore decided to draw attention to himself by way of a series of simulated attacks. Naturally, John and Isabella were aware of his plan.”

  “Isabella?” I protested.

  “Certainly.”

  “But what about Billy?”

  “Let me speak, Mr. Goodwin,” Wolfe said dryly. “Sir Lawrence’s tenants were not involved. Sir Lawrence chose them because they were so very inoffensive … babes in the woods, if you prefer the idiom. Their statements to the media neither confirmed or disproved anything. And you know the rest. Journalists pounced on the story, which was as every bit as mysterious as Sir Lawrence intended. An elusive criminal had hidden himself in the mansion and survived by stealing food in the middle of the night. Sir Lawrence was in danger. His work was at risk of falling into the hands of thieves. It was thus urgent for any interested party to purchase the rights to his apparatus before it became too late—at, of course, a high price. Perhaps there were offers he rejected. At last, he set up an auction. And John, to further excite public interest in the matter, had the bright idea to attract me to the mansion.”

  “The red orchid,” I said.

  “Precisely. It was a clumsy attempt: there is no such thing as a red orchid, so I knew there was deviltry at work. I knew before we left the brownstone that someone was attempting to fool us. I would not have minded if the food had at least been good. But John, who knew that his uncle would keep for himself most of the money that would be paid to him for his invention, had decided to play a different game, with Isabella’s complicity. He recorded an exercise lesson and planted the poisoned nail in the wall of his bedroom. So easily was the trap laid. Isabella had a clandestine meeting with Billy, who had been pursuing her for some time.”

  “You don’t really believe Isabella—?”

  Wolfe didn’t even deign to shrug his shoulders.

  “Billy,” he continued, “would be lured to a rendezvous with Isabella near the kitchen, while John hid the objects he himself had stolen over the preceding days in Billy’s bedroom. This would cause the police investigation to focus on Billy. This morning, Isabella brought the record to her bedroom. She hasn’t had time to destroy it.”

  “But why did John wrap Billy up in the piano cover?”

  Wolfe’s lip twitched in what was for him a kind of cannibalistic smile. “Because he was in love with his cousin and could not resist the chance to hurt his rival.”

  “And you expect me to believe,” I groaned, “that you figured this all out in your bed, without a scrap of evidence?”

  “Ah, the bed,” Wolfe scowled. “It is so hard and so narrow that I couldn’t close an eye. I had all the time in the world for reflecting.”

  I could see that he was steaming and made an effort to placate him. “What gave you the answer, boss?”

  “The duck steps,” Wolfe said. “Since the assassin could not have—”

  There was a knock at the door, and I stepped aside to let William pass.

  “The police are here,” he said.

  “Show them in,” Wolfe said. “And bring beer.”

  The Armstrong Company kept Sir Lawrence’s invention and refused to pay John for it. Wolfe insisted I pay him the three thousand dollars, at the rate of one dollar a week. By the time the debt is cleared, I’ll be eighty-seven.

  One more thing. Unbeknownst to Wolfe, I changed the text of our advertisement:

  “Nero Wolfe Detective Agency. Research and investigations. Success assured. Consultation in the mornings, 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. For men only. If not celibate, don’t bother.”

  Chapter 8 from Murder in Pastiche

  by Marion Mainwaring

  EDITOR’S NOTE: In Marion Mainwaring’s 1955 novel, Murder in Pastiche, or Nine Detectives All at Sea, notorious gossip columnist Paul Price is murdered aboard the RMS Florabunda, which is sailing across the Atlantic with a passenger list including pastiche versions of nine famous fictional detectives. The book—like this one—is divided into three parts, with Part One setting up the murder and Part Three tying up the loose ends. Part Two consists of nine chapters, each zooming in on one passenger’s investigation, each mirroring beautifully the source detective’s style and manner. The cast of characters includes Mallory King (Ellery Queen), Jerry Pason (Perry Mason), Spike Bludgeon (Mike Hammer), Atlas Poireau (Hercule Poirot), Sir Jon. Nappleby (Michael Innes’s Sir John Appleby), and Broderick Tourneur (Ngaio Marsh�
�s Roderick Alleyn) … plus Trajan Beare, a marvelous take on Nero Wolfe. What follows is the first half of the Beare chapter. The complete novel is available in paperback and for Kindle apps and readers, and I recommend it wholeheartedly.

  (from the notebook of Ernie Woodbin)

  Beare was sitting up in bed, in his pajamas, and he was drinking beef tea.

  I reported: “Latitude and longitude about the same, heavy following sea, still foggy, average speed fifteen knots. There’s a movie in the dining saloon at eight-thirty, but I’ve already seen it. Paul Price was murdered last night.”

  I watched his face for a reaction but wasn’t surprised to see none. He just took another sip of beef tea. I went on with the daily bulletin:

  “They don’t know yet who did it. But of course when they come to question me, and they find out you told me to keep Price out of your way by force if necessary—”

  “Ernie. I have asked you before. Please don’t play the clown until we reach shore.”

  “Yes, sir. It may cramp my style in the investigation, having to play it straight.”

  He looked at me then.

  I nodded. “No kidding. His head was bashed in.”

  Beare let out a sigh. “I cannot pretend any regret. Price was unprincipled, illiterate, and a boor. The press and the nation are to be congratulated.”

  “That’s what the captain thinks, too. When he heard about it, he said, ‘Good.’ He seemed to think that ended the matter. But there are five detectives hot on the trail already—”

  Beare interrupted. “The salmon last night was respectable. For lunch, I will have it again. A clear soup …”

  This meant the matter was ended as far as he was concerned, and I was to shut up. He spent the next four minutes talking about food. I stood it as long as I could and then wandered off.

  The next few hours I just moseyed about, keeping an eye on events. It isn’t often that you get a chance to watch your top professional rivals at work, and I had to admit some of their techniques looked good—like Poireau twirling that mustache and Nappleby spouting polysyllables, and Brody Tourneur always behaving as if he was at a garden party—but after careful study and comparison I decided I’d stick to my own methods, and I still liked Beare’s way of using his eyes and pursing his lips the best.

  Beare never said a word about the murder, and I refrained from heckling him. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t stay as simple as that, and I was right. Not counting the general request for help they’d issued when Price’s body was discovered and the purser pointed out there were professional man-hunters on board the Florabunda, we had three special invitations to join the fun.

  Late the next afternoon, the first officer came up, and we fell to talking. He was about my age, tall for a Limey, with blue eyes and a swell tan, and I’d got the impression that, while his brains might never set the ocean ablaze, he was good company and nice to have on a ship where the captain was balmy and might decide on an all-out effort to break the Atlantic speed record at any moment. I asked him if they’d caught the killer yet, and he said no quite seriously.

  “Mr. Beare is a great detective, isn’t he?” he asked. “One of the best?”

  “The best, I’d say,” I told him, “and he’d agree. He’s a genius. Why?”

  “Well, you don’t suppose—?”

  “If you’re hinting he might like to play cops and robbers, too, it’s no use. He only plays for million-dollar bills.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I didn’t really hope he would. I mean, I’ve heard he’s hard to persuade.”

  “When there isn’t a fee, he’s reinforced concrete,” I said. “Anyway, this time I don’t see why you’d want him. You’ve got enough other guys at work.”

  “It’s only that there isn’t much time, and I thought, the more investigators we have—”

  “Uh-uh,” I told him. “It’s the Law of Diminishing Returns. Could you sail the ship better if you had nine captains?”

  “I see what you mean, Mr. Woodbin,” he said. “It’s bad enough having one Old Man.” He let out a yawn. “I could do with a drink.”

  So we had a drink, and then another. I told him about working for Beare, and about Ohio, where I grew up and which he thought was part of southern California. I set him straight on that, and he told me about the Florabunda. He said life at sea wasn’t fit for a human being, and after one or two more trips he was going to quit and retire to a tropical island he knew about where he could live like a king on ten bob a year. Since at the current exchange rate that meant about twelve cents a month and no income tax, I figured he had a good thing there, but I took him with a grain of salt. I’d heard sailors talk like that before, and in my experience they never quit till they can’t totter across a gangplank any longer.

  That was the first request for help, and I didn’t even bother passing it on to Beare. The second one he knew about for the simple reason that it was delivered to him in person. I was with him when there was a knock at the door, and, thinking it was the steward with his beer, I yelled, “Come in.”

  It was Dolores Despana. She walked right in while I was off my guard.

  Beare glared. He may have recognized her from things I’d said, or he may not. It didn’t matter. What with his general feeling about women—which is not favorable—and his being away from solid ground, I half expected him to say outright to get out, but he only looked at me in a way that meant I was to say it.

  But I ignored him and looked at Dolores. You could tell that two years ago she’d been buying clothes on Fourteenth Street and that one year ago she kept a wad of chewing gum in her cheek, but she was coming along fast and there was certainly nothing wrong with what the eye could see. I said, “This is Miss Despana,” and got her settled in a chair.

  Beare inclined his head an eighth of an inch and continued to glare. Dolores stared at him and asked, “You’re Trajan Beare?” He didn’t reply, and she answered herself, “Yeah,” in a soft voice, as if she’d heard but hadn’t ever quite believed a man could be that fat. Once she’d got it established that it was possible, she lost interest and said, in a very businesslike way, “You take clients, don’t you? I want you to do a job for me.”

  Beare gave no sign that he heard. I said, “Sorry, but Mr. Beare isn’t taking—”

  But she went right on: “You find out who killed people. I’ve seen about you in the papers. Well, I don’t care about that. I didn’t kill Paul Price, and I don’t care who did. But he wrote a plug for me, and someone stole it.”

  “You want Mr. Beare to find it?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “No. Anyone who’s enough of a stinker to steal it and keep it from me would be stinker enough to burn it up or throw it overboard.” She looked ready to cry. “It would have put me into the big time on Broadway, that plug.”

  Beare spoke at last, frowning. “I don’t follow you, madam. You do not fear being arrested for the murder yourself. You do not wish to have the murderer caught. You consider a search for this document useless. Why do you want to hire me?”

  She eyed him as if he wasn’t as bright as she’d heard. “Publicity,” she said impatiently. “What do you think? You’re a name. If you work on this case as my agent, we’ll both get good press. You can do it on a percentage basis, a percentage of the profits on my next show. This might be almost as good as a plug in Price’s column.”

  At that point, I cut in. Beare looked ready to explode, and I felt about the same. Her thinking Trajan Beare, who charged fees that turned strong bank presidents pale, would do anything contingent on the success of a nonexistent Broadway show was bad enough. But letting him know she was willing to use him as a second-best for Paul Price, who was illiterate, unprincipled, and a boor—I took her elbow firmly and got the door open.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Mr. Beare would love to help, but he’s suffering from mal de mer—that’s Portuguese f
or seasickness—and he might do you more harm than good.” I got her into the passageway and let her go. “One last word,” I said as she flounced. “Just some brotherly advice. Try Anderson. He may not be pretty, but he’s rich and he’s lonesome. Nobody on board likes him very much.” I gave her a big smile and went up on deck for air.

  I didn’t want to discuss the thing with Beare. I knew what he’d say, and anyway I hadn’t made up my mind about Dolores. She could be what she looked like—a gorgeous dumb blonde on the make—but I’d been fooled before, often enough to think twice before deciding.

  That was the second invitation. The third was anonymous and informal; in fact, it was an invitation only if you read between the lines.

  I found it on the floor of my stateroom, in a Florabunda envelope that was gummed shut. Thinking it was a notice, I let it ride until morning, and I could have kicked myself when I slit it open and pulled out a sheet of business paper, typed double-space over all of one side, with a rough torn bottom edge.

  I’d followed things closely enough that I knew what it was, all right, and even though it wasn’t technically any business of mine I got that feeling you get when something breaks in a case. I sat down and began to read it. The first paragraph was the plug for Dolores Despana, and it was just another plug if you didn’t know the story behind it.

  “The de-luscious Dolores Despana has waved bye-bye to Johnny Bull after setting London on fire with the biggest blaze since Ye Olde Incendiary Bombes … her Hot Legs had them drooling … saw her wining in Leicester Square with a certain Marquis of You-Know-Where, and it’s not too far from those white cliffs. But Dolores tells me she’s true to Times Square. And Yours Truly predicts Times Square will be hearing a lot about this gal!”

  Then came a piece of Hollywood dirt, standard Price stuff: “Jackie O’Dair insists it’s still rings on the finger and bells in the steeple for her and Tony. Says Tony is in Mexico vacationing. But Yours Truly saw Tony with ‘friend’ Mae in Paris, and it looks like Lohengrin for him and her. Maybe Tony’s en route to Mexico via the Champs-Elysées. How about that, Jackie?”