Nero Wolfe Quotes

We are all vainer of our luck than of our merits.

[A] pessimist gets nothing but pleasant surprises, an optimist nothing but unpleasant.

Nothing is more admirable than the fortitude with which millionaires tolerate the disadvantages of their wealth.

I try to know what I need to know. I make sure to know what I want to know. (Nero Wolfe)

I will ride my luck on occasion, but I like to pick the occasion.

Genius is fine for the ignition spark, but to get there someone has to see that the radiator doesn't leak and no tire is flat.

Afraid? I can dodge folly without backing into fear.

A man may debar nonsense from his library of reason, but not from the arena of his impulses.

Women don't require motives that are comprehensible to my intellectual processes. (Nero Wolfe)

No man was ever taken to hell by a woman unless he already had a ticket in his pocket or at least had been fooling around with timetables.

In a world that operates largely at random, coincidences are to be expected, but any one of them must always be mistrusted.

There are two kinds of statistics, the kind you look up and the kind you make up.

As I understand it, a born executive is a guy who, when anything difficult or unexpected happens, yells for somebody to come and help him.

Being broke is not a disgrace, it is only a catastrophe.

What the tongue has promised, the body must submit to.

If one kiss screwed up our friendship,” he whispered, “what the hell did we just do?

If getting on the ground is what keeps those good things in my life, then fine. But I will not crawl, I absolutely will not beg. 　　Stupid wolf!

Frankly, I wish I could make my heart quit doing an extra thump when Wolfe says satisfactory, Archie. It's childish.

To assert dignity is to lose it.

Only the man that knows to little, knows too much." Nero Wolfe

You’re still the best kisser.” “You make me want to be.

I stole a kiss and whispered, “I’ve never had anyone in my corner before. I like it.” “Me too.” A spark of mischief flashed in her dark eyes. “You know what else I like?” “What’s that?” Her hand slid down to grab my ass. “Being naked with you.

Wolfe was drinking beer and looking at pictures of snowflakes in a book someone had sent him from Czechoslovakia... ...Wolfe seemed absorbed in the pictures. Looking at him, I said to myself, "He's in a battle with the elements. He's fighting his way through a raging blizzard, just sitting there comfortably looking at pictures of snowflakes. That's the advantage of being an artist, of having imagination." I said aloud, "You mustn't go to sleep, sir, it's fatal. You freeze to death.

You can't dance cheerfully. Dancing is too important. It can be wild or solemn or gay or lewd or art for art's sake, but it can't be cheerful.

More people saying what they believe would be a great improvement. Because I often do I am unfit for common intercourse.-Nero Wolfe in "Blood Will Tell

Chili is one of the great peasant foods. It is one of the few contributions America has made to world cuisine. Eaten with corn bread, sweet onion, sour cream, it contains all five of the elements deemed essential by the sages of the Orient: sweet, sour, salty, pungent, and bitter.

Enforced courtesy is worse than none.

Of course, a hole in the ice offers peril only to those who go skating.

I knew how to use a dictionary, and if I was going to be spending time around Nero Wolfe, I would have to buy one."-Archie Goodwin in Archie Meets Nero Wolfe

It strikes me, sir, that you are nearing the point where even a grateful American might tell you to go to the devil.-Nero Wolfe to an FBI Agent

The avoidance of idiocy should be the primary and constant concern of every intelligent person," - Nero Wolfe

Mrs. Rachel Bruner: [trying to goad Wolfe] I thought you were afraid of nobody and nothing. Nero Wolfe: [unruffled] I can dodge folly without backing into fear.

She turned back to me, graceful as a big cat, straight and proud, not quite smiling, her warm dark eyes as curious as if she had never seen a man before. I knew damn well I ought to say something, but what? The only thing to say was “Will you marry me?” but that wouldn’t do because the idea of her washing dishes or darning socks was preposterous.

No man should tell a lie unless he is shrewd enough to recognize the time for renouncing it, if and when it comes, and knows how to renounce it gracefully.

Yeah. I'm the fly in the soup. I don't like it any better than you do. Flies don't like being swamped in soup, especially when it's hot.

When I consider myself superior to anyone, as I frequently do, I need a better reason than his skin.

Wolfe could get sentimental about it if he wanted to, but I don't like any stranger nosing around my private affairs, let alone a nation of 130 million people.-Archie Goodwin

I have undertaken to to find an explanation for something that can't possibly be explained-Nero Wolfe

Holmes is depressed. Poirot is vain. Miss Marple is brusque and eccentric. They don’t have to be attractive. Look at Nero Wolfe who was so fat that he couldn’t even leave his New York home and had to have a custom-made chair to support his weight!

Nothing is simpler than to kill a man; the difficulties arise in attempting to avoid the consequences.

I understand the technique of eccentricity; it would be futile for a man to labor at establishing a reputation for oddity if he were ready at the slightest provocation to revert to normal action.

Nothing is obvious in itself. Obviousness is subjective.

To pronounce French properly you must have within you a deep antipathy, not to say scorn, for some of the most sacred of the Anglo-Saxon prejudices.

Dignities are like faces; no two are the same.

Courtesy is one's own affair, but decency is a debt to life

If you collected all the good faith in this room right now you might fill a teaspoon.

Is this Nero Wolfe’s house?” The voice got me one-half awake. “Yes. Archie Goodwin.” “This is Sarah Jaffee. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Goodwin, did I wake you up?” “Not quite. Go ahead and finish it.

He looked in her eyes, and she wondered if she made a good decision starting something like that with a guy like Nero. She knew he was like a wolf. The man was definitely an animal, and he looked at her only as food. Yet that excited a small part of Elle, and that was what scared her the most

And what thoughts or memories, would you guess, were passing through my mind on this extraordinary occasion? Was I thinking of the Sibyl's prophecy, of the omen of the wolf-cub, of Pollio's advice, or of Briseis's dream? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my three Imperial predecessors, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, their lives and deaths? Of the great danger I was still in from the conspirators, and from the Senate, and from the Gaurds battalions at the Camp? Of Messalina and our unborn child? Of my grandmother Livia and my promise to deify her if I ever became Emperor? Of Postumus and Germanicus? Of Agrippina and Nero? Of Camilla? No, you would never guess what was passing through my mind. But I shall be frank and tell you what it was, though the confession is a shameful one. I was thinking, 'So, I'm Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I'll be able to make people read my books now. Public recitals to large audiences. And good books too, thirty-five years' hard work in them. It wont be unfair. Pollio used to get attentive audiences by giving expensive dinners. He was a very sound historian, and the last of the Romans. My history of Carthage is full of amusing anecdotes. I'm sure that they'll enjoy it.

All there was to it, he was in a panic. He was scared stiff that any minute a fact might come bouncing in that would force him to send me down to Cramer bearing gifts, and there was practically nothing on earth he wouldn't rather do, even eating ice cream with cantaloupe or horseradish on oysters.

Wolfe: 'Our next step is obvious, but it must wait...' Archie: It was nice to know the next step was obvious, but it would have been even nicer to know what it was.

When we turned right on Thirty-fifth Street our suffix came along. By the time we rolled to the curb in front of Wolfe's house there wasn't even hyphen between us.

This is the unluckiest day I've had since my rich uncle changed doctors.

As long as I live I'll never forget the time he had a bank president pinched, or rather I did, on no evidence whatever except that the fountain pen on his desk was dry. I was never so relieved in my life as when the guy shot himself an hour later.

If your ego is in good shape you will pretend you're surprised if a National Chairman calls you to tell you his party wants to nominate you for President of the United States, but you're not really surprised.

Everything about her, the way she walked, the way she stood, her eyes and mouth and whole face, seemed to be saying, without trying or intending to, that if you happened to be hers, and she yours, life would be full of pleasant and interesting surprises.

I suspected the movies, considering her cheap crack about me being a ten-cent Clark Gable, which was ridiculous. He simpers, to begin with, and to end with no one can say I resemble a movie actor, and if they did it would be more apt to be Gary Cooper than Clark Gable.

He was as indignant and irritated as if he had been served a veal cutlet with an egg perched on it.

If you want to be contentious wait until you learn what you have to contend with. It works better that way.

Invade a man’s privacy and then put the burden on him.

War doesn’t mature men; it merely pickles them in the brine of disgust and dread. Pfui!

The trouble with an alarm clock is that what seems sensible when you set it seems absurd when it goes off.

No man was ever taken to hell by a woman unless he already had a ticket in his pocket, or at least had been fooling around with timetables.

It would take an extremely unattractive person to think of that." --Nero Wolfe, on the plot of "Cordially Invited to Meet Death" by Rex Stout, p. 159 of 192

...if he had married Mrs. Albert Grantham for her money I freely admit that no man marries without a reason and with her it would have been next to impossible to think up another one....

Man's brain, enlarged fortuitously, invented words in an ambitious effort to learn how to think, only to have them usurped by his emotions. But we still try." -- Nero Wolf in Death of a Dude.

The adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, a team generally regarded as seeking justice, can be compared to the adventures of Rex Stout's two most famous characters, Nero Wolf and Archie Goodwin.

I wouldn’t use physical violence even if I could, because one of my romantic ideas is that physical violence is beneath the dignity of a man, and that whatever you get by physical aggression costs more than it is worth.

Yes, I said something to him, and then I cooled him off.” “Cooled? By what process?” “I knocked him halfway across Broadway and took my wife.” “You did?” Wolfe scowled at him. “What’s the matter with your brain? Does it leak?

She had been a pleasant surprise. From what her father had said I had expected an intellectual treat in a plain wrapper, but the package was attractive enough to take your attention off of the contents....she was not in any way hard to look at, and those details which had been first disclosed when she appeared in her swimming rig were completely satisfactory.

Wolfe scowled at her. I could see he was torn with conflicting emotions. A female in his kitchen was an outrage. A woman criticizing his or Fritz’s cooking was an insult. But corned beef hash was one of life’s toughest problems, never yet solved by anyone.

He wrote short and he wrote often, which tended to obscure the fact that he wrote well. Unless it leads to obscurity, brevity is rarely praised (or employed) in the journals of, ah, serious literary criticism, and frequency is often equated with frivolity.

I had been wrong about him Tuesday when I figured that he had always been fifty years old and always would be. He had already put on at least five years, and he had shrunk. Instead of tagging him a neat little squirt I would now call him a magnified beetle.

Probably my conception of a widow was formed in my early boyhood in Ohio, from a character called Widow Rowley, who lived across the street. I have known others since, but the conception has not been entirely obliterated, so there is always an element of shock when I meet a female who has been labeled widow and I find that she has some teeth, does not constantly mutter to herself, and can walk without a cane.

Shucked and boiled in water, sweet corn is edible and nutritious; roasted in the husk in the hottest possible oven for forty minutes, shucked at the table, and buttered and salted, nothing else, it is ambrosia. No chef's ingenuity and imagination have ever created a finer dish.

Fritz was standing there, four feet back from the door to the office, which was standing open, staring wide-eyed at me. When he saw I was looking at him he beckoned me to come, and the thought popped into my mind that, with guests present and Wolfe making an oration, that was precisely how Fritz would act if the house was on fire.

His reaction was humane, romantic, and thoroughly admirable. As if we had rehearsed it a dozen times, he arose without a word, got his hat and stick from a nearby table, came and gave me a pat on the shoulder, growled at the audience, “A paradise for puerility,” and turned and headed for the door. I followed. No one moved to intercept us.

Wolfe regarded him. “Either, sir, you’re an ass or you’re masquerading as one. When there is evidence that you have murdered, there will be not a suspicion but a conviction. If I had evidence that one or more of you is guilty I wouldn’t sit here half the night, inviting you to jabber; I would phone the police to come and get you. Have you anything to say?

Subtlety chases the obvious up a never-ending spiral and never quite catches it.

He’s sick.” “What with?” “Sitzenlust. Chronic. The opposite of wanderlust.

everything from war to picnics depends on the weather, as Wolfe remarked

...it is our good fortune that the exigencies of birth and training furnish all of us with the opportunities for snobbery.

cream is put in a cardboard container, and the container is put in a carton on a bed of dry ice, and chunks of dry ice are packed on both sides of it and on top.

Opinions, from experts, cost money.

Pessimists have only pleasant surprises.

As I trotted down the hall, Fritz was holding the street door open and three people were entering in the shape of a sandwich – a dick, Zorka, and another dick.

What that bird would have done with a couple of Martinis under his fur would have been something to watch from an airplane.

Certainly, certainly.” Irby sure was anxious to please. The dewdrops on his freckled cupola might have been glued on.

It is indubitable that Carol Mardus was the mother of the baby left in Mrs. Valdon’s vestibule and that she was gravely disquieted to learn that I knew it and could demonstrate it.

Wolfe grunted. “That’s admirably specious, but drop it. I give you my word that I haven’t the faintest notion of who killed Ellen Tenzer.” Cramer eyed him. “Your word?” “Yes, sir.

No. The morning will do. You’re impetuous.” He looked at the wall clock. Fritz would come any minute to announce dinner. “Can you get Saul now?

No man with any sense assumes that a woman’s words mean to her exactly what they mean to him.

[T]he human equipment includes, for instance, a capacity for personal affection and a willingness to strangle selfish and predatory impulse with the rope of social decency.

To drink champagne with a blonde at one elbow and a brunette at the other gives a man a sense of well-being, and

He threw up his hands and waved them around, and shook all over, and laughed as if he never expected to hear a joke again and would use it all up on this one.

being out on bail is good for the ego. It gives you a sense of importance, of being wanted; it makes you feel that people care.

To anyone seeing him but not knowing him, Saul Panzer was nothing but a little guy with a big nose who never quite caught up with his shaving.

As sure as my name is Archie and not Archibald, I would have shot that goddamn orangutan dead in his tracks.

This,” Herb said, “is the acme. The absolute acme. Why don’t we just pull up to him and ask where he’s going?

I think the police and the FBI are quite capable of sacrificing the rights of a private citizen to what they consider the public interest.

He growled. “You know quite well that that locution is vile.

Can Mr. Wolfe help it if an attractive young fellow insists on coming to cry on his shoulder?

The avoidance of idiocy should be the primary and constant concern of every intelligent person. It is mine. I am sometimes successful.

Well, go on. I don’t answer questions containing two or more unsupported assumptions.

But Mr. Cramer,.” Wolfe protested, “is it my fault if destiny likes this address?

I followed the pavement a little over a mile and then turned left again onto a dirt road. It was as narrow as a bigot’s mind, and I got in the ruts and stayed there.

Few of us have enough wisdom for justice, or enough leisure for humanity.

You are so engrossed in the fact that you are oblivious to its environment

In a world of cause and effect, all coincidences are suspect.

Do you play Scrabble?" Wolfe shook his head. "I don't play games. I like using words, not playing with them.

When, sometime around my fortieth birthday, I was struck by the urge to try to write a novel, I was vastly comforted to learn that Rex Stout didn’t write his first Nero Wolfe tale until he was forty-seven, and that he proceeded to write them right up to his death at the age of eighty-eight. It was considerably less comforting to learn that he typically completed a novel in thirty-eight days, and that he always got it right on the first try. P. G. Wodehouse once said, “Stout’s supreme triumph was the creation of Archie Goodwin.” That’s how I’ve always felt about it, too. When I returned those first Rex Stout books to my librarian, I said to her, “Do you have any more of these Archie Goodwin stories?” She smiled, I recall, and said, “Why, yes. Dozens.

I got the address from her, and by good luck it wasn't Bucyrus, Ohio, but merely Brooklyn. Whatever else you want to say about Brooklyn, and so do I, it does have one big advantage, it's close.

Though I suppose you’ve changed your mind, now that there’s a woman sleeping in your bed—” “Nonsense. My bed—” “You own all the beds in this house except mine, don’t you? Certainly it’s your bed.

Third, I understand the technique of eccentricity; it would be futile for a man to labor at establishing a reputation for oddity if he were ready at the slightest provocation to revert to normal action.

It was quite conceivable that Miss Tenzer had aroused in some man, possibly Richard Valdon, the kind of reaction that is an important factor in the propagation of the species; in fact, in more men than one.

When I told [Lily Rowan] I wouldn't be able to make it to the Polo Grounds tomorrow, she began to call Wolfe names, and thought of several new ones that showed her wide experience and fine feeling for words.

Is all this necessary?” Bowen wanted to know. “Perhaps not,” Wolfe allowed, “but I’m exposing a murderer and claim a measure of indulgence. You must have expected to spend hours here. Am I tedious?” “Go ahead.

A pig whose diet is fifty to seventy percent peanuts grows a ham of incredibly sweet and delicate succulence which, well-cured, well-kept and well-cooked, will take precedence over any other ham the world affords.

I saw them. It was impossible to snitch a sample." He grunted, lowering himself into his chair. "I didn't ask you to." "Who said you did, but you expected me to. There are three of them in a glass case and the guard has his feet glued." "What color are they?" "They're not black." "Black flowers are never black. What color are they?" "Well." I considered. "Say you take a piece of coal. Not anthracite. Cannel coal." "That's black." "Wait a minute. Spread on it a thin coating of open kettle molasses. That's it." "Pfui. You haven't the faintest notion what it would look like. Neither have I." "I'll go buy a piece of coal and we'll try it.

They say it works sometimes, but even if it does, how could you depend on anything you got that way? Not to mention that after you did it a few times any decent garbage can would be ashamed to have you found in it.

I gathered that with the men the consensus was that women were okay in their place, which I guess was the way cavemen felt about it, and all their male descendants. The question was, and still is, what’s their place?

Of course the Times tried to insist on speaking with Wolfe. When the last trumpet sounds the Times will want to check with Gabriel himself, and for the next edition will try to get it confirmed by even Higher Authority.

I looked at the woman next to Bernard Quest on his left. She was middle-aged, with a scrawny neck and dominating ears, and was unquestionably a rugged individualist, since no lipstick had been allowed anywhere near her.

The ideal human agreement is one in which distinctions of race and color and religion are totally disregarded; anyone helping to preserve those distinctions is postponing that ideal; and you are certainly helping to preserve them.

Well." Wolfe was judicious. "You were not under oath. The police have been lied to informally many times by many people, including me. The right to lie in the service of your own interests is highly valued and frequently exercised.

When an international financier is confronted by a holdup man with a gun, he automatically hands over not only his money and jewelry but also his shirt and pants, because it doesn't occur to him that a robber might draw the line somewhere.

I've always believed in the Nero Wolfe theory of knowledge. You can just sit quietly in your room - according to Pascal, the activity that if practiced more assiduously would free humanity from most of its troubles, but that was before e-mail - and through sheer mental effort force the tiniest snippets of information to yield the entire story of which they are a fragment, because the whole truth is contained in every particle of it, the way every human cell contains our DNA.

... nature has arranged that when you overcome a given inertia the resulting momentum is proportionate. If I were to begin borrowing money I would end by devising means of persuading the Secretary of the Treasury to lend me the gold reserve.

Your presence here, Miss Eads, is preposterous. This is neither a rooming house nor an asylum for hysterical women; it is my—” “I’m not hysterical!” “Very well, I withdraw it. It is not an asylum for unhysterical women; it is my office and my home.

Being a lover of beauty, I permitted myself occasional glances at her profile, and observed that her chin was even better from that angle than from the front. Of course there was an off chance that she was a murderess, but you can’t have everything

Okay, Dolly Brooke killed her because she was going to marry a quote nigger unquote, and how do we prove it?' He frowned. 'I have told you not to use that word in my hearing.' 'I was merely quoting. It isn't - ' 'Shut up. I mean the word 'unquote' and you know it.

Mrs. Jaffee a little earlier. I asked if he was escorting Mrs. Jaffee. “Certainly,” he said virtuously. “She is my client. What’s that noise you’re making?” “It’s something special,” I told him, “and takes a lot of practice. Don’t try it offhand. It’s a derisive chortle.

for the first time in a popular novel I was reading about wrongdoing by the then-sacred institution, the FBI. I was reading open criticism and accusation of J. Edgar Hoover himself. I was reading it not from the typewriter of a young radical but from that of an old novelist.

I have just been explaining to Mr. Anderson that the ingenious theory of the Barstow case which he is trying to embrace is an offense to truth and an outrage on justice, and since I cherish the one and am on speaking terms with the other, it is my duty to demonstrate to him its inadequacy.

He expressed appreciation for the information I provided, taking a dozen pages of notes in his small neat hand, and asking plenty of questions, not to challenge but just to elucidate. He did offer a pointed comment about what he called our dodge with Helmar, with his ward upstairs, and I rebutted.

You’re damn right I would.” Cramer took a step toward the door, remembered his hat, reached across the red leather chair to get it, and marched out. I went to the hall to see that he was on the outside when he shut the door. When I stepped back in, Wolfe spoke. “No mention of anonymous letters. A stratagem?

Archie.” He was gruff. “No man can hold himself accountable for the results of his psychological defects, especially those he shares with all his fellow men, such as lack of omniscience. It is a vulgar fallacy that what you don’t know can’t hurt you; but it is true that what you don’t know can’t convict you.

that the professors are at it again—but then they always are—oh, yes, you can count on the professors. One of them made a speech last night at Boston, and if you have anything left from last week’s pay you’d better hide it under the mattress. He wants us not only to feed and clothe everybody on earth, but educate them also.…

Likewise, the division between popular and serious work was a scheme perpetrated by academics in need of creating a false pantheon of living writers when it became impossible to come up with fresh dissertation topics (to earn degrees and prestige) concerning the writers in the true pantheon, who had been analyzed to exhaustion.

He lowered the magazine. “Archie. You may remember that I once returned a retainer of forty thousand dollars which a client named Zimmermann had paid me, because he wanted to tell me how to handle his case instead of leaving it to me. Well?” He lifted the magazine. He lowered it again. “Please type the report.” He lifted it again.

If you like Anglo-Saxon, I belched. If you fancy Latin, I eructed. No matter which, I had known that Wolfe and Inspector Cramer would have to put up with it that evening, because that is always a part of my reaction to sauerkraut. I don’t glory in it or go for a record, but neither do I fight it back. I want to be liked just for myself.

You know, that idea could be developed into a first-rate little article. Six hundred to seven hundred words, about. The Tyranny of the Wheel, you could call it, with a colored margin of trains and airplanes and ocean liners at top speed—of course liners don’t have wheels, but you could do something about that—if I could persuade you, Mr. Wolfe—

Saul Panzer stood facing the cast, not the audience. There is nothing impressive about Saul. He is undersized, his nose and ears are too big, and his shoulders slant. With Saul a thousand wrongdoers had made the mistake of believing what they saw. He spoke. “I believe this is the way it was Thursday evening when Mr. Wolfe entered. Does anyone disagree?

Wolfe was going on. “I didn’t have a client this morning, or even an hour ago, but now I have. Mr. Rowcliff’s ferocious spasms, countenanced by you gentlemen, have made the challenge ineluctable. When Mr. Goodwin said that I was not concerned in this matter and that he was acting solely in his own personal interest, he was telling the truth. As you may know, he is not indifferent to those attributes of young women that constitute the chief reliance of our race in our gallant struggle against the menace of the insects. He is especially vulnerable to young women who possess not only those more obvious charms but also have a knack of stimulating his love of chivalry and adventure and his preoccupation with the picturesque and the passionate.

How old are you?” That was for my benefit. He had a triple conviction: that a) his animus toward women made it impossible for him to judge any single specimen; that b) I needed only an hour with any woman alive to tag her; and that c) he could help out by asking some blunt impertinent question, his favorite one being how old are you. It’s hopeless to try to set him right.

As requested by quite a mixture—the Police Commissioner and two of his deputies, the District Attorney, a bunch of inspectors and deputy inspectors, not to mention Sergeant Purley Stebbins. I’m talking from the private office of the Commissioner—you know it; you’ve been here. After these days and nights of camaraderie with them—is that the way to pronounce it?” “Almost.” “Good. I am held in high esteem by the whole shebang, from Commissioner all the way down to Lieutenant Rowcliff, which is quite a distance. Wanting to show me what they think of me, they are bestowing a great honor on me. Having a request to make of you, they are letting me make it. They’re all sitting here gazing at me so tenderly I’ve got a lump in my throat. You ought to see them.

Fred put vinegar on things, and no man who did that ate at Wolfe’s table. Fred did it back in 1932, calling for vinegar and stirring it into brown roux for a squab. Nothing had been said, Wolfe regarding it as immoral to interfere with anybody’s meal until it was down and the digestive processes completed, but the next morning he had fired Fred and kept him fired for over a month.

Helmar took his time replying. Finally he said, “I’ll reserve my answer to that.” “I doubt if aging will help it,” Wolfe said dryly. “Now that you know that Miss Eads had not gone to Venezuela, and I assure you she had no intention of going, how do you explain her backing out from her appointment with you, her departure, her asking you not to try to find her?” “I don’t have to explain it.

Nevertheless, it was not necessary to assume, as Wolfe had in the case of Viola Duday, that if he had killed Priscilla Eads he had probably done so by contrivance and not by perpetration. In spite of his pure white hair and wrinkled old skin, I would have bet, from the way he looked and moved and held his shoulders and head, that he could still have chinned himself up to five or six times.

Wolfe fluttered a hand. “It was distasteful to me, having to offer to take the money direct from you instead of through Mr. Helmar, but I felt you merited that consideration. I’m glad you contemn it as blackmail, since I like to pretend that I earn at least a fraction of what I collect; but the offer stands until ten in the morning, should you decide that you prefer it to this hide-and-seek.

No, she did not denounce the impostor, but indubitably she made him aware that she knew he was not Eric Hagh. She may have done so merely by the way she looked at him, or she may have asked him some naive and revealing question. In any case, he knew he was in deadly peril from her, and he acted quickly and audaciously—and with dexterity, taking her keys from her bag. No, he is not a bungler, but—

If personal vengeance were the only factor I could, as you suggested, go and stick a knife in him and finish it, but that would be accepting the intolerable doctrine that man’s sole responsibility is to his ego. That was the doctrine of Hitler, as it is now of Malenkov and Tito and Franco and Senator McCarthy; masquerading as a basis of freedom, it is the oldest and toughest of the enemies of freedom.

The police are not witlings; they will know that each of you may have had a private reason for your reserve not relevant to their investigation; but they will also know that if one of you was involved with Carol Mardus regarding the baby, and if you killed Ellen Tenzer, you would certainly have omitted her name from your list and you would not have identified the picture. So they will be importunate with all of you.

She marched across to his desk, extended a hand, and told him cordially, “You look exactly right! Just as I thought! I would—” She broke it off because she was getting a deep freeze. He had moved no muscle, and the expression on his face, while not belligerent, was certainly not cordial. She drew back. He spoke. “I don’t shake hands with you because you might later think it an imposition. We’ll see. Sit down, Miss Eads.

Wolfe scowled at her. I could see he was torn with conflicting emotions. A female in his kitchen was an outrage. A woman criticizing his or Fritz’s cooking was an insult. But corned beef hash was one of life’s toughest problems, never yet solved by anyone. To tone down the corned flavor and yet preserve its unique quality, to remove the curse of its dryness without making it greasy—the theories and experiments had gone on for years.

Despite some initial reluctance to spend a whole book’s worth of time with a man who flirted with misogyny, I took the plunge. Wolfe, after all, had the good sense to live in Manhattan, and besides, you had to like a man who surrounded himself with exotic tropical plants, consumed epicurean meals, and had the chutzpah to make the universe conform to his rules. And when I met Archie Goodwin, his ebullience and his earthy, rakish charm won me over.

His oratorical baritone was raspy and supercilious under the strain. “You say you are not interested,” he told Wolfe, “in the factors of means and opportunity. The motive is palpable for all of us, but it is also palpable that Miss Duday is biased by animus. She cannot support her statement that after June thirtieth my income from the corporation would have ceased. I deny that Miss Eads intended to take any action so ill advised and irresponsible.

He looked at her. That was the first time I had seen him give her a direct and explicit look, and, since she was just off the line from him to me, I had a good view of it. It demolished one detail of his exposition—the claim that a man of his training and temperament couldn’t possibly commit a murder. His look at her was perfect for a guy about to put a cord around a neck and pull tight. It was just one swift, ugly flash, and then he returned to Wolfe.

Minutes later Emerson was taking a crack at another of his pet targets: … they call themselves World Federalists, this bunch of amateur statesmen, and they want us to give up the one thing we’ve got left—the right to make our own decisions about our own affairs. They think it would be fine if we had to ask permission of all the world’s runts and funny-looking dimwits every time we wanted to move our furniture around a little, or even to leave it where it is.

You can’t have women working in an office building after two a.m. unless it’s a public service, but I have to give my clients all-night service, so there on Sixty-ninth Street I’ve got four operators for the three switchboards, and they all live right there in the apartment. That way I can have one at the boards from eight till two at night, and another one from two o’clock on. After nine in the morning three are on, one for each board, for the daytime load.

He straightened up. “Your chief trouble,” he said, not offensively, “is that you think you’ve got a sense of humor. It confuses people, and you ought to get over it. Things strike you as funny. You thought it would be funny to have a talk with Rackham, and it may be all right this time, but someday something that you think is funny will blow your goddam head right off your shoulders.” Only after he had gone did it occur to me that that wouldn’t prove it wasn’t funny.

If he does it right and is lucky, in nine or 10 months he scoops the tiny half-inch seedlings out of the bottle and plants them in community pots. A year later he transplants them to individual three-inch pots and in another two years to 4 1/2-inch pots, and crosses his fingers. Then, five or six or seven years since the day he put pollen to stigma, he sees an orchid no one ever saw before. It is different from any orchid that has ever bloomed, including those in the Garden of Eden.

I would appreciate it if they would call a halt on all their devoted efforts to find a way to abolish war or eliminate disease or run trains with atoms or extend the span of human life to a couple of centuries, and everybody concentrate for a while on how to wake me up in the morning without my resenting it. It may be that a bevy of beautiful maidens in pure silk yellow very sheer gowns, barefooted, singing Oh, What a Beautiful Morning and scattering rose petals over me would do the trick, but I’d have to try it.

Parker, who was six feet four with nothing to protect his bones from exposure to the weather but tough-looking leathery skin, was so skeptical that at one point I thought he was going to pass, but he finally conceded that the move might be undertaken without undue risk to juridical virtue, to his own reputation, or to his client’s life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. When all details had been settled and money passed—a dollar bill from Sarah to Parker as a token retainer—I got at the phone and dialed a number.

Some chauffeurs of PD cars like to have an excuse to step on it, and some don’t. That one did. He didn’t use much noise, but plenty of gas, and when he was in the fourth grade a maladjusted schoolteacher had made him write five hundred times, “A miss is as good as a mile,” and it sank in. I should have clocked us from 230 West Twentieth Street to 240 Centre Street. As I got out I told him he should have an insurance vending machine, like those at airports, installed on his dash, and he grinned sociably. “Impressed you, did it, bud?

Any company? Or was Olga here?” “No.” I shrugged. “That requires no practice.” I leaned to her a little. “Look, Mrs. Jaffee, I might as well admit it. I’m here under false pretenses. I said we wanted information, Mr. Wolfe and I, and we do, but we also want help. Of course you know of the provisions of Priscilla’s father’s will? Now that she is dead, you know that five people—Helmar, Brucker, Quest, Pitkin, and Miss Duday—you know that they will own most of the Softdown stock?” “Yes, certainly.” She was frowning, concentrating at me.

It was a pleasure to go for that lawyer and usher him in to the red leather chair, but I must admit that physically he was nothing to flaunt. I have never seen a balder man, and his hairless freckled dome had a peculiar attraction. It was covered with tiny drops of sweat, and nothing ever happened to them. He didn’t touch them with a handkerchief, they didn’t get larger or merge and trickle, and they didn’t dwindle. They just stood pat. There was nothing repulsive about them, but after ten minutes or so the suspense was quite a strain.

Wolfe nodded. “That’s a point, certainly, but it’s not inexplicable. Looking at his face, which appears rigid in paralysis, I doubt if he’ll explain for us, not now at least. I offer alternatives: some incident may have alarmed him and precipitated action, or he may not have known that if Miss Eads died before June thirtieth the Softdown stock, the bulk of her fortune, would go to others. I think the latter more likely, since he was offered, through Mr. Irby, a cash settlement of one hundred thousand dollars and wouldn’t even discuss it.

The police will want particulars, since you are the divorced husband, but I’ll leave that to them. One more question, a hypothetical one. If Carol Mardus had a baby by Richard Valdon, conceived in April of last year and born last January, four months after Valdon’s death; and if X knew about it, helped her dispose of it, and later, moved by pique or jealousy or spite, took it and left it in Mrs. Valdon’s vestibule, who is X? Of the men in Carol Mardus’s orbit, which one fits the specifications? I don’t ask you to accuse, merely to suggest.

Pitkin untwisted to his normal position, focusing on Wolfe from under his brows. He sniffed. “You see what I mean when I say that life is nothing but bookkeeping?” Wolfe nodded. “It’s not too recondite for me. How about Miss Eads? Wasn’t her position essentially the same as Mrs. Jaffee’s? Wasn’t she also a parasite? Or had the interest she had recently shown in the business made her an earner?” “No. That was no service to the corporation. It was an interference.” “Then she had earned nothing?” “That’s right.” “And deserved nothing?” “That’s right.

introduced into the English Parliament in 1770. It ran, he said: “All women of whatever age, rank, profession, or degree, whether virgins, maids, or widows, that shall, from and after this Act, impose upon, seduce, and betray into matrimony, any of His Majesty’s subjects, by the scents, paints, cosmetic washes, artificial teeth, false hair, Spanish wool, iron stays, hoops, high heeled shoes, bolstered hips, shall incur the penalty of the law in force against witchcraft and like misdemeanors and the marriage, upon conviction, shall stand null and void.

What does he want?” “To talk with you. Since you don’t like a client horning in on a case, I didn’t press him for particulars.” Thereupon Wolfe paid me a high compliment. He gazed at me with a severely suspicious eye. Obviously he suspected me of pulling a fast one—of somehow, in less than two hours, digging up Albert M. Irby and his connection with Priscilla Eads, and shanghaiing him. I didn’t mind, but I thought it well to be on record. “No, sir,” I said firmly. He grunted. “You don’t know what he wants?” “No, sir.” He tossed the book aside. “Bring him in.

You’ll have your turn,” Wolfe told him. “He can have it now.” Miss Duday was contemptuous. “That’s all I have to say—unless you have questions?” “No. Well, Mr. Helmar? Go ahead.” There was a polite interruption from Eric Hagh. He wanted a refill for his glass, and others were ready too, so there was a short recess. Hagh seemed to have got the impression that we were counting on him to keep Sarah Jaffee company, and I was too busy to resent it, but apparently Nat Parker wasn’t. Wolfe poured beer from his third bottle, swallowed some, and prompted Helmar. “Yes, sir?

Miss Duday is absolutely right,” I told them. “I don’t mean that what she said is right—that I don’t know about—but she was right in saying that if you try to hold out and cover up you’ll just prolong the agony. It’ll all come out, don’t think it won’t, the bad with the good, and the quicker the better.” I looked at the president. “It wouldn’t hurt a bit, Mr. Brucker, if you followed Miss Duday’s example. Where does everybody stand, the way you see it? For instance, this conference you were having. Whose idea was it? What were you talking about? What were you saying?

I don’t ask for a miracle,” Helmar resumed, “but I do need speed, boldness, and sagacity.” He was in the red leather chair beyond the end of Wolfe’s desk, with his briefcase on the little table at his elbow. His voice was a raspy oratorical baritone, hard and bony like him. He was going on. “And discretion—that is essential. You have it, I know. As for me, I am a senior partner in a law firm of the highest repute, with offices at Forty Wall Street. A young woman for whom I am responsible has disappeared, and there is reason to fear that she is doing something foolish and may even be in jeopardy. She must be found as quickly as possible.

The agreements of human society embrace not only protection against murder, but thousands of other things, and it is certainly true that in America—not to mention other continents—the whites have excluded the blacks from some of the benefits of those agreements. It is said that the exclusion has sometimes even extended to murder—that in parts of this country a white man may kill a black one, if not with impunity, at least with a good chance of escaping the penalty which the agreement imposes. That’s bad. It’s deplorable, and I don’t blame black men for resenting it. But you are confronted with a fact, not a theory, and how do you propose to change it?

How do we know that?” Lucy was frowning. “By inference. She did not attach a piece of paper to a blanket with a bare pin and wrap the blanket around the baby. Mr. Goodwin found a tray half full of safety pins in her house. But he found no rubber-stamp kit and no stamp pad, and one was used for the message on the paper. The inference is not conclusive, but it is valid. I am satisfied that on May twentieth Ellen Tenzer delivered the baby to someone, either at her house or, more likely, at a rendezvous elsewhere. She may or may not have known that its destination was your vestibule. I doubt it; but she knew too much about its history, its origin, so she was killed.

He had got a good start on another book, Silent Spring, by Rachel Carson. I stood until he finished a paragraph, shut the book on a finger, and looked the question. “Twenty grand,” I told him. “The DA wanted fifty, so I’m stepping high. One of the dicks was pretty good, he nearly backed me into a corner on the overalls, but I got loose. No mention of Saul or Fred or Orrie, so they haven’t hit on them and now they probably won’t. I signed two different statements ten hours apart, but they’re welcome to them. The status quo has lost no hide. If there’s nothing urgent I’ll go up and attend to my hide. I had a one-hour nap with a dick standing by. As for eating, what’s lunch?

There were several things to chew on, but of course the main one was Bingham’s alternatives. If he had known Carol Mardus as well as he said he did there were just four candidates. Even if he had killed her himself, he would name the ones she would have been most likely to pick if she hadn’t picked him, so it was highly probable that it was one of those four. I stood at a window, and sat at my desk, and stood some more, going over them. Which one? That’s the silliest game of solitaire there is, and we all play it, trying to tag a murderer as one of a bunch from what they said and how they looked and acted, unless you can spot something that really opens a crack. I couldn’t.

You have interrupted me four times, Mr. Cramer. My tolerance is not infinite. You would say, of course, that the message would not be published, and in good faith, but your good faith isn’t enough. No doubt Mrs. Nesbitt was assured that her name wouldn’t become known, but it did. So I reserve the message. I was about to say, it wouldn’t help you to find your murderer. Except for that one immaterial detail, you know all that I know, now that you have reached my client. As for what Mrs. Valdon hired me to do, that’s manifest. I engaged to find the mother of the baby. They have been at that, and that alone, for more than three weeks—Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Panzer, Mr. Durkin, and Mr. Cather. You ask if I’m blocked. I am. I’m at my wit’s end.

Wolfe nodded. “The letter-writer’s arrangement is even more adroit. Not only is there no risk of contact, there is no possible line of approach. But she must be found, and I have considered two procedures. One would be extremely expensive and might take many months. The other would require the cooperation of men who were close friends or associates of Mr. Valdon. From Mrs. Valdon’s suggestions four names were selected: yours. On her behalf I ask each of you to make a list of the names of all women with whom, to your knowledge, Richard Valdon was in contact during the months of March, April, and May, nineteen-sixty-one. Last year. All women, however brief the contact and regardless of its nature. May I have it soon? Say by tomorrow evening?

Do you know that she came here Monday afternoon and spent some hours in this house?” “Yes, I know.” “Do you know what she came for?” “I know nothing definite. I have heard conjectures.” “I won’t ask you from whom or what. I am aware, Miss Duday, that in coming here this evening you people were impelled only partly by the threat of a legal action by Mrs. Jaffee. You also hoped to learn what Miss Eads came to see me for and what she said. I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I have given a complete report to the police, or Mr. Goodwin has, and if they don’t care to publish it neither do I. But I will ask you, do you know of any reason why, on Monday, Miss Eads should have decided to seek seclusion? Was she being harassed or frightened by anyone?” “On Monday?” “Yes.

Then she’s the mother!” “No. For various good reasons, no. I won’t—” “But she knows who the mother is!” “Probably she did. At least she knew where she got it and who from. But she won’t tell because she’s dead. She was—” “Dead?” “I’m telling you. After a short talk with her Friday morning I left to get to a phone and send for help, and when I got back to the house her car was gone and so was she. I spent three hours searching the house. I’m reporting only the details that you need to understand the situation. Ellen Tenzer never returned to her house. At six o’clock yesterday morning a cop found a dead woman in a parked car—here in Manhattan, Thirty-eighth Street near Third Avenue. She had been strangled with a piece of cord. It was Ellen Tenzer, and it was her car. You would know about that if you read the papers. So she can’t tell us anything.

Wolfe grunted. “Unthinkable, Mr. Haft. Maintaining integrity as a private detective is difficult; to preserve it for the hundred thousand words of a book would be impossible for me, as it has been for so many others. Nothing corrupts a man so deeply as writing a book; the myriad temptations are overpowering. I wouldn’t presume—” Fritz had entered with a tray. First the beer to Wolfe, then the brandy to Bingham, the water to Upton, and the scotch and water to me. Upton got a pillbox from a pocket, fished one out and popped it into his mouth, and drank water. Bingham took a sip of brandy, looked surprised, took another sip, rolled it around in his mouth, looked astonished, swallowed, said, “May I?” and got up and went to Wolfe’s desk for a look at the label on the bottle. “Never heard of it,” he told Wolfe, “and I thought I knew cognac. Incredible, serving it offhand to a stranger. Where in God’s name did you get it?

I crossed to a dark-eyed smooth-skinned creature manipulating a machine bigger than her, and asked where the conference room was, and she pointed to the far end of the room, away from the street. I went there, found a door in a partition, opened it and passed through, and closed the door behind me. The partition was well soundproofed, for as soon as I shut the door the clatter and hum of the big room’s activity became just a murmur. This room was of medium size, square, with a fine old mahogany table in the middle, and chairs to match all the way around it. At the far side was a stairhead. One of the five people seated in a cluster at the end of the table could have been Hargreaves of the 1768 spinning jenny, or anyhow his son, with his pure white hair and his wrinkled old skin trying to find room enough for itself with the face meat gone. He still had sharp blue-gray eyes, and they drew me in his direction as I displayed my case and said, “Goodwin. Detective. About the murder of Priscilla Eads. Mr. Brucker?

I told Archie I’m sorry I’m a little late,” she said. “I didn’t realize he would have to wait there for me.” It was a bad start. Since no client has ever called him Nero or ever will, the “Archie” meant, to him, either that she was taking liberties or that I already had. He darted a glance at me, turned to her, and took a breath. “I don’t like this,” he said. “This is not a customary procedure with me, appealing to a client for help. When I take a job it’s my job. But I am compelled by circumstance. Mr. Goodwin described the situation to you yesterday morning.” She nodded. Having settled that point, having got her to acknowledge, by nodding, that my name was Mr. Goodwin, he leaned back. “But he may not have made the position sufficiently clear. We’re in a pickle. It was obvious that the simplest way to do the job was to learn where the baby had come from; once we knew that, the rest would be easy. Very well, we did that; we know where the baby came from; and we are stumped. Ellen Tenzer is dead, and that line of inquiry is completely blocked. You realize that?” “Why—yes.

Tutt’a un tratto mi accorsi che il cuore mi faceva molto male. Sarei tornata ad alzarmi già domani, con un cuore rianimato, che il dolore riusciva a raggiungere. Tu pensi, Arisbe, che l’essere umano non possa vedere se stesso. – È così. Non lo sopporta. Ha bisogno di una raffigurazione che gli sia estranea. – E in questo non cambierà mai niente? Sempre e solo il ripetersi della stessa cosa? Autoestraneazione, idoli, odio? – Non lo so. Ecco quello che so: ci sono buchi nel tempo. Questo ne è uno, qui e ora. Noi non possiamo lasciare che passi inutilizzato. E qui, finalmente, ebbi il mio «Noi». Quella notte sognai, dopo tante notti desolate e senza sogni. Vidi colori, rosso e nero, vita e morte. Trapassavano l’uno nell’altro, non lottavano tra loro come perfino in sogno mi sarei aspettata. Mutando di continuo la loro forma, di continuo producevano nuovi motivi, che riuscivano incredibilmente belli. Erano come acqua, come un mare. Nel cui centro vidi un’isola luminosa, alla quale, nel sogno – volavo, sì; sì, volavo! – mi avvicinai rapidamente. Che c’era in quel luogo. Quale essere. Un uomo? Un animale? Riluceva come di notte riluce solo Enea. Che gioia.

How do we know that?” Lucy was frowning. “By inference. She did not attach a piece of paper to a blanket with a bare pin and wrap the blanket around the baby. Mr. Goodwin found a tray half full of safety pins in her house. But he found no rubber-stamp kit and no stamp pad, and one was used for the message on the paper. The inference is not conclusive, but it is valid. I am satisfied that on May twentieth Ellen Tenzer delivered the baby to someone, either at her house or, more likely, at a rendezvous elsewhere. She may or may not have known that its destination was your vestibule. I doubt it; but she knew too much about its history, its origin, so she was killed.” “Then you know that?” Lucy’s hands were clasped, the fingers twisted. “That that’s why she was killed?” “No. But it would be vacuous not to assume it. Another assumption: Ellen Tenzer not only did not leave the baby in your vestibule or know that was its destination; she didn’t even know that it was to be so disposed of that its source would be unknown and undiscoverable. For if she had known that, she would not have dressed it in those overalls. She knew those buttons were unique and that inquiry might trace their origin. Whatever she—” “Wait a minute.” Lucy was frowning, concentrating. Wolfe waited. In a moment she went on. “Maybe she wanted them to be traced.

that culture was like money, it comes easiest to those who need it least.

I don’t try to abolish reality by shutting my eyes, nor do I gobble garbage.

Measure your mind’s height by the shade it casts, Robert Browning.

When you once get a reputation, or it gets you, you’re stuck with it for good.

I find it unsettling enough that listeners record concert performances, making permanent what was supposed to be a transitory experience.

I was at the Manhattan Chess Club watching the tournament. Bobby Fischer won his adjourned game with Weinstein in fifty-eight moves. Larry Evans drew with Kalme and Reshevsky drew with Mednis.

The subconscious is not a grave; it’s a cistern.

He dropped sheets on the fire, turned to look at her, and inquired, “Do you use ‘infer’ and ‘imply’ interchangeably, Miss Blount?” She did fine. She said simply, “No.” “This book says you may. Pfui. I prefer not to interrupt this auto-da-fé. You wish to consult me?

At the dinner table, and with coffee in the office afterwards, Wolfe resumed on the subject he had started at lunch—Voltaire. The big question was, could a man be called great on account of the way he used words, even though he was a toady, a trimmer, a forger, and an intellectual fop.

Business is taboo at the dinner table, but crime and criminals aren’t, and the Rosenberg case hogged the conversation all through the anchovy fritters, partridge in casserole with no olives in the sauce, cucumber mousse, and Creole curds and cream. Of course it was academic, since the Rosenbergs had been dead for years, but the young princes had been dead for five centuries, and Wolfe had once spent a week investigating that case, after which he removed More’s Utopia from his bookshelves because More had framed Richard III.

I had a classics professor at the University of Illinois who after giving a reading assignment said, with genuine emotion, “Oh, to be reading Boethius for the first time.” And so I say to you, “Oh, to be reading a Nero Wolfe mystery for the first time.” —Stuart M. Kaminsky

guest is a jewel on the cushion of hospitality.