Rex Stout - Three at Wolfe's Door

Three at Wolfe's Door Rex Stout Series:Nero Wolfe [33] Published:1995 Tags:Vintage Mystery

Vintage Mysteryttt

SUMMARY:

Joining Bantam's successful republications of Rex Stout's classic Nero Wolfe novels comes this amazing triple-play, including a deadly dinner party where five femmes fatales come under suspicion; a wandering cabbie with a comely corpse as a passenger; and a rodeo complete with cowboys, cowgirls and a dead millionaire with a fancy lariat for a necktie.

Three at Wolfe's DoorRex Stout Series:Nero Wolfe [33] Published:1995 Tags:Vintage Mystery

Vintage Mysteryttt

SUMMARY:

Joining Bantam's successful republications of Rex Stout's classic Nero Wolfe novels comes this amazing triple-play, including a deadly dinner party where five femmes fatales come under suspicion; a wandering cabbie with a comely corpse as a passenger; and a rodeo complete with cowboys, cowgirls and a dead millionaire with a fancy lariat for a necktie.

3 at wolfe's door

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3 at Wolfe's Door

A NERO WOLFE THREESOME

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by REX STOUT

new york The Viking Press

COPYRIGHT � 1960 BY REX STOUT

PUBLISHED IN 1960 BY THE VIKING PRESS, INC. 625 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK 2,2, N.Y.

PUBLISHED IN CANADA BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED

"Method Three for Murder" appeared serially

in The Saturday Evening Post. � 1960

The Curtis Publishing Company

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

POISON A LA CARTE 3

METHOD THREE FOR MURDER 61

THE RODEO MURDER 125

uooq spsnofa iv g

POISON A LA CARTE

I slanted my eyes down to meet her big brown ones, which were slanted up. "No," I said, "I'm neither a producer nor an agent. My name's Archie Goodwin, and I'm here because I'm a friend of the cook. My reason for wanting it is purely personal."

"I know," she said, "it's my dimples. Men often swoon."

I shook my head. "It's your earrings. They remind me of a girl I Mice loved in vain. Perha if I get to know you well enough-- who can tell?"

"Not me," she declared. "Let me alone. I'm nervous, and I don'r want to spill the soup. The name is Nora Jaret, without an H, and the number is Stanhope five, six-six-two-one. The earrings were a present from Sir Laurence Olivier. I was sitting on his knee."

I wrote the number down in my notebook, thanked her, and looked around. Most of the collection of attractive young females were gathered in an alcove between two cupboards, but one was over by a table watching Felix stir something in a bowl. Her profile was fine and her hair was the color of corn silk just before it starts to turn. I crossed to her, and when she turned her head I spoke. "Good evening, Miss-Miss?"

"Annis," she said. "Carol Annis."

I wrote it down, and told her my name. "I am not blunt by nature," I said, "but you're busy, or soon will be, and there isn't time to talk, up to it. I was standing watching you, and all of a

4 3 at Wolfe's Door

sudden I had an impulse to ask you for your phone number, and I'm no good at fighting impulses. Now that you're dose up it's even stronger, and I guess we'll have to humor it."

But I may be giving a wrong impression. Actually I had no special hankering that Tuesday evening for new telephone numbers; I was doing it for Fritz. But that could give a wrong impression too, so I'll have to explain.

One day in February, Lewis Hewitt, the milh'onaire and orchid fancier for whom Nero Wolfe had once handled a tough problem, had told Wolfe that the Ten for Aristology wanted Fritz Brenner to cook their annual dinner, to be given as usual on April first, Brillat-Savarin's birthday. When Wolfe said he had never heard of the Ten for Aristology, and Hewitt explained that it was a group of ten men pursuing the ideal of perfection in food and drink, and he was one of them, Wolfe had swiveled to the dictionary on its stand at a corner of his desk, and after consulting it had declared that "aristology" meant the science of dining, and therefore the Ten were witlings, since dining was not a science but an art. After a long argument Hewitt had admitted he was licked and had agreed that the name should be changed, and Wolfe had given him permission to ask Fritz to cook the dinner.

In fact Wolfe was pleased, though of course he wouldn't say so. It took a big slice of his income as a private detective to pay Fritz Brenner, chef and housekeeper in the old brownstone on West 35th Street--about the same as the slice that came to me as his assistant detective and man Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday--not to mention what it took to supply the kitchen with the raw materials of Fritz's productions. Since I am also the bookkeeper, I can certify that for the year 1957 the kitchen and Fritz cost only slightly less than the plant rooms on the roof bulging with orchids. So when Hewitt made it clear that the Ten, though they might be dubs at picking names, were true and trustworthy gourmets, that the dinner would be at the home of Benjamin Schriver, the shipping magnate, who wrote a letter to the Times every year on September first denouncing the use of horseradish on oysters, and that the cook would have a

Poison a la Carte 5

foe hand on the menu and the Ten would furnish whatever he desired, Wolfe pushed a button to summon Fritz. There was a little hitch when Fritz refused to commit himself until he had jeen the Schriver kitchen, but Hewitt settled that by escorting him oat front to his Heron town car and driving him down to Eleventh Street to inspect the kitchen.

That's where I was that Tuesday evening, April first, collecting phone numbers: in the kitchen of the four-story Schriver house oh Eleventh Street west of Fifth Avenue. Wolfe and I had been invited by Schriver, and though Wolfe dislikes eating with strangers and thinks that more than six at table spoils a meal, he knew Fritz's feelings would be hurt if he didn't go; and besides, if he stayed home who would cook his dinner? Even so, he would probably have balked if he had learned of one detail which Fritz and I knew about but had carefully kept from him: that the table was to be served by twelve young women, one for each guest.

When Hewitt had told me that, I had protested that I wouldn't be responsible for Wolfe's conduct when the orgy got under way, that he would certainly stamp out of the house when the girls started to squeal. Good lord, Hewitt said, nothing like that; that wasn't the idea at all. It was merely that the Ten had gone to ancient Greece not only for their name but also for other precedents. Hebe, the goddess of youth, had been cupbearer to the gods, so it was the custom of the Ten for Aristology to be waited en by maidens in appropriate dress. When I asked where they got the maidens he said through a theatrical agency, and added that at that time of year there were always hundreds of young actresses out of a job glad to grab at a chance to make fifty bucks, with a good meal thrown in, by spending an evening carrying food, one plate at a time. Originally they had hired experienced waitresses from an agency, but they had tripped on their stolas.

Wolfe and I had arrived at seven on the dot, and after we had fflet our host and the rest of the Ten, and had sampled oysters and our choice of five white wines, I had made my way to the kitchen to see how Fritz was making out. He was tasting from a pot on the range, with no more sign of fluster than if he had

6 3 at Wolfe's Door

been at home getting dinner for Wolfe and me. Felix and Zoltan, from Rusterman's, were there to help, so I didn't ask if I was needed.

And there were the Hebes, cupbearers to the gods, twelve of them, in their stolas, deep rich purple, flowing garments to their ankles. Very nice. It gave me an idea. Fritz likes to pretend that he has reason to believe that no damsel is safe within a mile of me, which doesn't make sense since you can't tell much about them a mile off, and I thought it would do him good to see me operate at close quarters. Also it was a challenge and an interesting sociological experiment. The first two had been a cinch: one named Fern Faber, so she said, a tall self-made blonde with a wide lazy mouth, and Nora Jaret with the big brown eyes and dimples. Now I was after this Carol Annis with hair like corn silk.