Stout Stuff

By Allen J. Ouellette

This little book is a tribute to Rex Stout, the creator of the Nero Wolfe series 48 novels and some three dozen or more novellas. Nero Wolfe is an unlikely detective:
He rarely leaves his residence, a brownstone in Manhattan.
He weighs a seventh of a ton.
He drinks a lot of beer.
He helps prepare gourmet meals with Fritz Brenner, his Swiss Chef.
He has a full-time assistant, Theodore Horstman, whose only function is to pamper the
thousands of orchids in his plants room above his residence.
He refuses to take any case involving marital difficulties, and he will not accept any simple tailing jobs.
He insists that clients understand that when they hire him to do a job, he insists on a free rein.
His leg man, the one who reports the particulars to Mr. Wolfe and, of course, to us is Archie Goodwin. Archie has a near-perfect memory, and a comfortable, breezy writing style.

Murder in terms of Death involves almost all of the characters we have come to expect when Mr. Wolfe and Archie agree to investigate the death of Meredith Yare, a well-known Shakespearean
performer, hired by Bucky Minster, the president of the Manhattan Broadcasting Corporation, and a local group led by Lily Rowan. Ms. Yare was temporarily sharing an apartment with Marilyn Maven,
a TV news analyst working for the MBC. Ms. Maven discovers the body and is an early suspect.

Wolfes suspicions lead him to send Saul to Oregon, where he reports on a previous murder involving other Shakespearean actors. There is a strange connection to Othello and Iago and an aspiring
actor hoping to play Edmund in The Tragedy of King Lear. Wolfe explains it all in the final meeting with his clients, of course.

In Archie and Nero Learned to Talk Like Me we meet an aspiring writer who explains almost all there is to know (he thinks) about Rex Stouts writing and why Nero Wolfe isnt listed In the
Manhattan phone directory.

In What I learned at the Brownstone, we learn why Rex Stout can be listed as one of the finest mystery writers of the past century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493157402

Allen J. Ouellette

Allen J. Ouellette is a retired federal officer. He was born in a bilingual community in northern Maine. He was an adjudications training instructor at federal training centers in Georgia and in New Mexico. He worked in Europe before retiring to Larchwood, IA. He and his wife have three children.

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Copyright © 2014 by Allen J. Ouellette.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 01/14/2015

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Contents

Introduction

Murder in Terms of Death

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Nero and Archie Learned to Talk Like Me

What I learned at the Brownstone

Once again for Memere and Pepere and Grammy and Grampy and

Alice and Eric and Aimee and Peter and Emily and Luke and Ethan.

. . . . and, of course, Rex Stout.

Introduction

Imitation may, indeed, be the sincerest form of flattery. But flattery wasn’t what I had in mind when in a frivolous bit of self-entertainment, I started Murder in Terms of Death. Mostly what I had in mind then was something to demonstrate how irritating it is to me to hear people overuse the asinine neologism in terms of. I was prompted to do this after watching a particularly agonizing news show hosted by an otherwise astute news analyst. She shall remain nameless, but even the casual reader is likely to recognize her when she shows up at Wolfe’s door.

I found myself smiling at the inevitable scowl on Wolfe’s face when I imagined the scene as Rex Stout might have done it. There would have to be some subterfuge, of course, before Archie let her in—that being part of the Stout formula—and I found myself looking at her through Archie’s eyes. And so I wrote the first few lines. Then I wrote the next few lines, and then the next—this was getting serious—and then I found myself becoming Archie. I was no longer writing fiction, I was reporting what Archie and I were experiencing. I learned that the story I eventually came up with didn’t have to be elaborate. Plotting was not Mr. Stout’s strong suit, and it isn’t mine. For Mr. Stout what came first were the clever characterizations and the sly humor in Archie’s reporting.

That’s the first thing I learned at the Brownstone on my way to an affirmed appreciation of the writer’s craft as it was practiced by Rex Stout. First I’ll let my ersatz Archie tell the story. Then I’ll let my fictitious avatar tell his story. Then I’ll give you my take on the Stout Stuff.

Allen Ouellette

December, 2013

January, 2015

Murder in Terms of Death

Chapter 1

It was exactly the kind of day I dread with him. As sunny as he usually isn’t in the mornings, rainy days make him that way all day long. He had settled himself into the only chair he’s comfortable in, put down the little book he was reading, and started on the afternoon mail.

"What this?’ he asked.

It just came in, I said.

I can see that, he said. But why? Did you order this? We’ve discussed this several times. We are inundated with unsought solicitations. Surely we need not seek more of the same. Send it back.

That’s puerile, I said. He had used the word to describe something I’d said just the day before, and I wanted him to know that I knew what it meant. Just because you don’t care to read it doesn’t mean the postman has to carry it back. That’s puerile.

If you mean that my objection to this invasion of my privacy is childish, you are clearly in keeping with the contents of this solicitation, which is an offer to subscribe to a publication that consists mostly of young women posing in various stages of dishabille. Now that would be puerile. Send it back.

I’ve never understood his objection to women in general and especially young ones in various stages of dishabille. I did understand his objection to the invasion of his privacy, but that’s a discussion more clearly appropriate for when we have guests for dinner and business is a forbidden topic. I had prepared a devastating volley, but I never got to fire it. The doorbell rang and I got up to answer it.

You’d recognize her immediately if you saw her on TV, but seeing her standing there in the rain, it took me a second glance. I opened the door and she slipped by me as though she feared someone might see her.

You’re Archie Goodwin, she proclaimed. I have to see Mr. Wolfe in terms of a problem I have.

Her appearance seemed divinely ordained, a perfect opportunity to invade his privacy with a comely female not in any stage of dishabille but well distributed in the black outfit she was wearing. The white blouse was nice contrast to her short dark hair and darker eyes.

He’s busy right now, I said. But he might give you a few minutes before he has to appear at a horticulturist proceeding. That was probably puerile, but I knew he’d be going up to the orchids in another ten minutes. Follow me, I said.

He was looking at a bank statement, and I’m convinced that if the bottom line hadn’t been uncomfortably low, he would’ve refused to see her. As it was, his glance told me he was not happy but would put up with this invasion.

Yes? He frowned.

Before I could introduce her properly, she came forward, extending her hand, and gushed, Mr. Wolfe, I’m so pleased! I’ve been looking forward in terms of meeting you for so long now!

I don’t shake hands, he scowled. His eyes squinted just enough for me to notice. What service do you think I can render?

I’ve not recorded the rest of that conversation because it led exactly where I knew it would when she gushed. It turns out she was wanting her roommate tailed, and he never touches such cases. She started to persist in her pursuit, but when she turned to me for support and found none, she abandoned it.

You’ll pardon me, madam, he said, but I have a prior commitment. He stood, his head nodded an eighth of an inch, and he headed for his private elevator.

My guess was that he would address her as miss, not as madam, but that’s always a touchy guess. I’m not sure which address more correctly reflects his attitude. Older women are almost always madam presumably because of their vintage, but there have been some notable exceptions, and this was one of them. I showed her out and went back to the office.

Promptly at six, I heard his elevator coming down, and carrying several sprays of Miltoniopsis in full bloom, he crossed to his desk. As he always does, he arranged the orchids to best display, checked to make sure his pen was still working, and turned to me.

Archie, before you let that unfortunate creature in, what words did you exchange with her?

That was one of the easiest reports I’ve ever been asked to give since it consisted of fewer than a hundred words. I knew that he wanted it all, words, gestures, inferences, everything. In the Dazy Peret case I had reported several conversations I had had over several days. This report was no challenge. I reported. Do you want me to write that up? I asked.

No, he said. Your obvious attempt to violate my privacy in flummery was appropriately puerile, but you knew she could not possibly deliver herself of anything remotely coherent and couldn’t therefore become a client of some accountability, and yet you led her into this room knowing I would not engage in anything she was likely to propose.

Not so, I protested. How was I to know she wanted her roommate tailed? She didn’t say anything about that until after she offered to shake your hand and you told her to sit down.

Your protestation is again puerile. You knew I would be less than moved by her incoherent use of that useless tautology, the same tautology she repeated to me. Had I been aware of her greeting to you, I would not have been as tolerant of her even if there was the pretext of necessity in your allowing her in.

He had me there. I knew when she said she needed to see him in terms of a problem that he would not be moved. He likes uncluttered language. If ever you need to consult him, don’t tell him anything in terms of, and don’t gush. At least I had nettled his privacy. I busied myself reviewing a bill from Bascom’s, knowing he wasn’t done yet.

He turned to me again. The Greeks have a word for her. In fact, they have several, but it’s difficult to pick the best one. Clearly she fits into several simultaneously—she is attempting to make trivial something of import, or she is doing its opposite by giving something trivial an importance it does not deserve. I am not a dunce. I will not be gulled. Bah!

I had heard all of this before, of course, and he knew it, but he couldn’t leave it at that. It was one of his many peeves, and he has been peeving about it for years. At first I dismissed his complaints as just another eccentricity. Geniuses have their own, and they’re often not what the rest of us consider important. Whenever he heard her or any other newscaster or anybody else on radio or TV say that something was in terms of something else, he’d bristle. He took to counting. Eventually he got me doing it too.

"That’s the fourth in terms of out of that woman’s mouth in the last two minutes! If she has no respect for the language, she should at least show a little for her parishioners. Turn that off!"

You mean, in terms of shutting it down? I grinned.

He glowered at me. The English language is a marvel of man, he said, "and it is an abomination that our public figures use it so badly. Language applied accurately allows us to proceed beyond our prejudices. It’s what binds us together in our humanity. When words are cut loose from their moorings, as they are in the clutter of that woman’s head, they serve only to alienate us from each other. During his entire lifetime Shakespeare’s actual words were heard by very few of his countrymen, but