by Rex Fat (Carnivorous Plant)
I looked through the one way glass before I answered the door. It was a dame. Right away, I knew that Wolfe would be hacked off. He was always afraid that I would go for a dame, and he would have to find someone else to fertilize his orchid.
She was wearing a frock that had been out of style for two years, and a hat that was simply atrocious. I opened the door.
"I want to see Mr. Nero Wolfe, the famous sissy detective." she said.
"Mr. Wolfe is not a sissy," I replied, "He's a sissy genius. He and Horseman view the orchids from ten to twelve and two to four."
"What the hell do you do for four hours with orchids?" she inquired.
"Pollinate them, I suppose. Look sister, do you want to wait or come back later?" I was getting tired of this rigmarole.
"Look yourself," she replied, "My cat is accused of killing my husband, and I want Mr. Wolfe to help. The Police don't believe me."
"Mr. Wolfe doesn't do cats," I said, "but if you have a nice fat duck, something that could be cooked in orange sauce..."
"Duck!" screamed the young lady.
I had it up to here with hysterical females. Give me a good steady man every time. But I realized what she meant when the hand grenade came crashing through the art nouveau panel in the window.
I jumped to cover her, even if you can't stand broads it looks good in the press to protect them. The explosion blew out the front of the brownstone. I considered calling the fire department, but it was only 2:30 and Wolfe would still be involved with Horseman in the plant room.
"Listen sister, does your cat have hand grenades?" I inquired.
"Cat my foot!" she exclaimed, "They tried to make it look like my cat. That's why I need to see Mr. Wolfe."
"How can you make a cat look like a hand grenade?" I argued, but I got the shock of my life when I heard Wolfe coming down the stairs.
"Since the building is on fire," Wolfe said, "I have abandoned the orchids for the day. We may as well adjourn to the office and discuss this ... woman's ... problems."
Wolfe sat at his desk and rang for Fritz, who brought him an ounce of cocaine and a bottle of ether. As Wolfe began free basing, he asked our client, "Your name, Madame? Quickly, I am getting stoned."
"Rosalyn Rasputin" she answered, "My Husband is ... was ... the president of Freedonia. The liberal faction has murdered him and blamed my cat!"
Wolfe had his eyes half closed. I knew this meant that he was either deep in thought, half way to solving the case, or asleep. I cleared my throat.
"I was just resting my eyes," Wolfe said, "What is the nature of your problem?"
I gave it to him from my shorthand notes. Let some skirt in a secretarial pool do it better, I'll scratch her eyes out.
"Your cat is innocent," Wolfe pronounced, "It was obviously the Duke D'Marmoset who murdered your husband. I must mention that my fee is extraordinary, and if the perpetrator seems to be innocent, we will frame him for it."
"Why, Mr. Wolfe," replied our pretty if female client, "How did you ever figure it out?"
"My dear woman," grimaced Wolfe, did you ever notice the resemblance between your cat and Adolph Hitler?"
"Why, several people have remarked on it ..."
"Have you ever seen them together at the same time?" pounced Wolfe.
"Well, no, but, one's a cat and the other ..."
"The Duke D'Marmoset," interrupted Wolfe, "resembles Adolph Hitler and your cat. Now, if you will invite your cat, the duke, Adolph Hitler and I presume, Archie, some of those nasty heterosexuals from the police department here, we shall have the criminal confess, the cat cough up a fur ball, and we may all view the orchids."
"Does the cat get to view the orchids?" I asked. I love to tease him when he's on a roll.
"Pfui," Wolfe replied, "Nobody gets to see the orchids until I solve the case."
He's cute when he's angry, all seventh of a ton of him.
The Duke D'Mormoset was a feisty little guy, I'll give him that.
Hitler was a calico. The cat was a was a pain in the neck, screaming "Leibenstraum" or something like that, and Ms. Rasputin's husband was obviously dead. Fritz and I propped him up in the red chair, annoying Wolfe immensely. He always wants me to sit in it because it matches my eyes.
Fritz saw to the refreshments, a bale of marijuana for Wolfe, highballs for me, Rosalyn and the cat, a mouse for Der Fuhrer (shaken, not stirred, and still wriggling) and formaldehyde for the late Pres.
"Let us get this over with," Wolfe said, slurping down a bottle of whiskey, "So I can mainline some heroin. Now, Mr. Hitler, do you, or do you not resemble the cat?"
"Meow?" replied Adolph.
"Vas ist lost?" interjected the cat, "Ich bin nicht der katchen!"
"Du Mutter." muttered Wolfe, "Now, Mr. Cat, do you resemble Adolph Hitler? Do you always use the litter box? What were you doing on the fourth of July, 1938?"
"Invading Poland." replied the cat. "Death to the Untermenschen! Death to the Gypsies! Death to ... Where do ya'll hail from?"
"Montenagro" replied Wolfe.
"Death to the Montenagreans ... Monetnegros ... Montenegrovilshiks ... People from Montenegro!" exclaimed the cat, "Make the trains run on time!"
"Meow!" exclaimed Adolph Hitler.
"This is tiresome," Wolfe rumbled, "and it is time to View The Orchids. If someone doesn't confess, I'll miss my Ice Cream."
The Duke D'Marmoset took this moment to show his testosterone. "I know who killed President Rasputin!" He exclaimed, "It was ..."
A bazooka missile came through the mirrored door and landed right on Ms. Rasputin. Blamo. The Duke, Ms. Rasputin and the former President of Freedonia were pate'. The cat took off through the smashed mirrored door yelling, "Today the brownstone, tomorrow the world!".
Hitler marked Wolfe's trouser cuff.
"Damn," Wolfe exclaimed, all seventh of a ton of him, "No client, no victim, no perpetrator, no fee!."
"Look, Boss," I said, waving away smoke, although there is no reasoning with him when he's in a tizzy, "I know we really needed that fee, but maybe I can go chase an ambulance or something."
"Pfui!", replied Wolfe, "I spoke too hastily. "We still have a case, if not a client or a victim. Someone threw the hand grenade and launched the bazooka. Find out whom."
With that, he buried his fat face in the Nintendo game at his desk and tried to blow away mutant slime devils from the Arcturus Sector. I knew that there would be no reasoning with him for hours, so I got on the phone.
Since I wanted to dial it, I got off the phone and picked up the receiver. I called Lon Cohen at the Gazette, our tame reporter.
"Oy Vey", he said when he heard my voice, "the Hell do you vant now?"
"Your want ads," I responded. "Did anyone advertise bazookas, in say, the past couple of years?"
"Couple of years?!" He responded.
"We're having gefilete fish tonight at Nero Wolfe's," I interjected, "and you're invited."
"I'll see what I can do." He said, and we rang off. Cute guy.
I went to the kitchen to get a bottle of milk. Fritz was cleaning a length of stove pipe in the sink, and hastily shoved it under the suds. Neat guy. I got a bottle of milk from the refrigerator and sucked on the nipple as I went back towards my room.
I detoured to the plant room, where Horseman was unpacking a shipment of new plants. "What are those, Horseman?"
"Houstmann, Du untermensch, HOUSTMANN!" replied Horseman testily. He is temperamental. "Ah ... das sindt ... ahh ... der pineapples Herr Wolfe ordered, ya, der pineapplen!"
"Kinda hard, small and green, aren't they?" I asked.
"Ahh ... they are shipped in an immature state, Mein Herr." responded Horseman.
"Sorry, Horseman, I've gotta solve some murders, not mess around with pineapples." I said, "See ya later."
I heard him mutter "Untermensch" as I went to my room. Probably a German affectionate term.
After I finished my milk, I grew tired of waiting for Cohen to call back, and sauntered down to the office to annoy Wolfe. He had finished with the Slime Devils and was playing solitaire with the Nintendo.
"This damn machine", Wolfe declared, "cheats. What have you discovered, Archie?"
"I discovered America in 1492," I said, "and the Mississippi in 1640, but I dis-covered my bed last night and I've been there ever since,"
"You twit," remarked Wolfe, "what have you learned about the case?"
At that point the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, since everyone else in the household buys Fuller brushes, vacuum cleaners, encyclopedias and Girl Scout Cookies and charges it to Wolfe.
It was a guy with a package for Horseman. I signed, charged the COD to Wolfe and lugged it up to the plant room.
"Ah, meine Leibechein!" muttered Horseman when he opened the box. It contained six pieces.
"What is this, Horseman?" I enquired.
"Houstmahn. Fertilizer sprayers, Herr Goodwin."
I hefted one. "Hoostman Fertilizer Sprayers? Real cute. A nice round handle, this little rectangular box holds the fertilizer and it comes out this tube?" I pulled the lever, there was a loud noise, and the window of the plant room disintegrated.
"A bit strong, isn't it?" I asked, "You know, these House Fertilizer Sprayers resemble 9mm broom handle Quillers quite a bit."
"Hue (r) sssstmahn." replied Horseman, "Hue (r) sssstmahn."
I wiped the spit off my tie, shaking my head.
The phone rang.
I ran down the stairs and picked the receiver up. Wolfe was listening in from the office. We always eavesdrop on each other.
"Archie?" asked Lon Cohen, "Listen, last week a bazooka was advertised in the paper by an Elmer Fudd. When's dinner?"
"As soon as you get over here with Fudd's address." I responded.
"That's me knocking on the door." exclaimed Cohen and hung up.
Cohen showed up, and we began dinner. Wolfe doesn't discuss dinner at business, so we couldn't eat until he had mumbled about the case for forty five minutes. Cohen was hacked that his fish was cold, but he gave me Elmer Fudd's address.
Fudd lived in a cold water walk up. I took the heated elevator instead, and knocked on the door. A scrawny little bald guy answered, holding a shot gun. "Whadda ya want?"
"I was looking to go hunting," I said, "and in a big way. Do you have a bazooka you want to part with?"
"I swold my bazwoka aftew that wascally wabbit gwued a pitcha fwom a peep shwow to the sights!" excwaimed Fudd, "Hit the woad!"
"To whom did you sell it?" I inquired. Wolfe likes me to use good grammar.
"Woo cewtainly have good gwammma," repwied Fudd, "so I'll tell ya. A gwuy named Woostman at a brownstone on 35th stweet."
"Thanks for nothing, pal." I said, and went home.
There had to be three or four brownstones on 35th street, so I did some leg work and found nothing. No guy named Woostman, no brownstones except home, so I went in and look for another bottle of milk, but Adolph Hitler had drunk them all.
Hitler was chasing a mouse across the carpet. "Busy day at the Reichstadt?" I asked, and went to the kitchen where Wolfe was arguing with Fritz about how much tarragon to put in Cow Eyes Cooked In Blood. I love to suck the retinas.
"Point five three grams should be sufficient." remarked Wolfe.
"I have never put less than point five four!" exclaimed Fritz. "If you are such a shit hot cook, why do you employ me? Come to think of it, if you are such a botanist, why to you employ Horstmann to raise orchids?"
"You both have other redeeming qualities." replied Wolfe.
"I hate to bweak, ah break up the Cordon Bleau Cooking School", I interjected, "but this bazooka deal is a dead end. Fudd insists he sold it to a guy named 'Woostman' in a brownstone on 35th street. We are standing in the kitchen of the only brownstone on 35th street."
"Archie." said Wolfe very slowly, "Would you please ask Mr. Horstmann to step into the office? Oh, Fritz, bring me some Valium."
Wolfe sure is a quirky guy. Arguing about dinner one moment, and calling on Horseman about the orchids the next.
"Hey, Horseman, Wolfe want's you in the office."
"Huh oust mahhn, Du untermensch, Huh. Oust. Mahhn."
Horseman strolled into the office. I followed behind to take dictation, fill out the pollination records or beat up someone as Wolfe desired.
Wolfe was holding one of the House Pollinating Machines, and an immature pineapple sat on his desk. A piece of stovepipe leaned against the wall. "Did you really think that you would be successful in an assassination attempt against me, Herr Horstmann?" asked wolfe conversationally.
Horseman's eyes bugged out. "Mein Herr ... Ich bin Svedish. Yo Da Laadie Hoo."
"Do not fabricate, Horstmann, it does not become you." replied Wolfe, swallowing half the Valium. "You were paid by German agents to kill me since Rex Stout has become patriotic in his novels during World War Two. Tell me, how much do they pay you to be a spy?"
"Ah. Actually, Mein Herr, they do not."
"And if I were killed, do you believe that Mr. Goodwin could spell his own name, let alone sign a paycheck?"
"Ah. Yes. Ah. Mein Herr, the Ivebennanass Extremelyis need to be looked to in the plant room. And I must dispose of the immature pineapples and the low quality fertilizing machines."
Horseman turned towards the stairway to the plant room. Wolfe sat back in his titanium chair, the only one that will hold him, and sighed. He pointed the 9mm Broomhandle Quiller at Horseman's retreating back and blew him away with the full clip. "Archie, find me a six foot long trunk."
"They don't make them that big," I replied, "Four feet is the largest manufactured."
"Then buy a four foot trunk, confound it, a hacksaw and a hundred dollars worth of stamps. Address it to the Reichstad, Berlin, Germany."
"The mail doesn't go to Krautland during the war, boss." I reminded him.
"Then buy as many concrete blocks as will fit in a trunk with sawed up human anatomy, get the car from the garage, cut Herr Horstmann up into little bitty pieces and drive to the East river!" exclaimed Wolfe, "And look in the yellow pages for an orchid horticulturist. Preferably not from the Axis countries. Oh, and clean up these obnoxious shell casings."
That's how it happened, Wolfe changed orchid guys, my milk went sour, Adolph Hitler was given to a little old lady in Manhattan, and I committed another felony for Wolfe. But I do that every novel, whether it's an illegal search, beating up on some poor guy, withholding evidence in a murder, or blackmail.
I do it because he's cute and makes lots of money.