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Informationen zum Autor Rex Stout (1886–1975) wrote dozens of short stories, novellas, and full-length mystery novels, most featuring his two indelible characters, the peerless detective Nero Wolfe and his handy sidekick, Archie Goodwin. Klappentext Murder strikes thrice in these three baffling mysteries of crime and detection. First, Rex Stout's great detective, Nero Wolfe, develops an appetite for the sweet taste of revenge when someone slips something most foul into his lunch-in a case motivated by the most "alimentary" of passions. Then, a couturier's beautiful sister uses Archie Goodwin, Wolfe's man about town, as her ready-made alibi-and maybe her fall guy-unless Wolfe can spot the loose ends in a nearly seamless crime. Finally, Wolfe has a run-in with the law after a mysterious old woman leaves a package at the detective's West Thirty-fifth Street brownstone that pits him against a cunning criminal-and the U.S. federal government.Bitter End In the old brownstone house which was the dwelling, and also contained the office, of Nero Wolfe on West 35th Street near the Hudson River, in New York, heavy gloom had penetrated into every corner of every room, so that there was no escaping from it. Fritz Brenner was in bed with the grippe. If it had been Theodore Horstmann, who nursed the 3,000 orchids on the top floor, it would have been merely an inconvenience. If it had been me, Archie Goodwin, secretary, bodyguard, goad, and goat, Wolfe would have been no worse than peevish. But Fritz was the cook; and such a cook that Marko Vukcic of Rusterman’s famous restaurant, had once offered a fantastic sum for his release to the major leagues, and met with scornful refusal from Wolfe and Fritz both. On that Tuesday in November the kitchen had not seen him for three days, and the resulting situation was not funny. I’ll skip the awful details—for instance, the desperate and disastrous struggle that took place Sunday afternoon between Wolfe and a couple of ducklings—and go on with the climax. It was lunchtime Tuesday. Wolfe and I were at the dining table. I was doing all right with a can of beans I had got at the delicatessen. Wolfe, his broad face dour and dismal, took a spoonful of stuff from a little glass jar that had just been opened, dabbed it onto the end of a roll, bit it off, and chewed. All of a sudden, with nothing to warn me, there was an explosion like the bursting of a ten-inch shell. Instinctively I dropped my sandwich and put up my hands to protect my face, but too late. Little gobs of the stuff, and particles of masticated roll, peppered me like shrapnel. I glared at him. “Well,” I said witheringly. I removed something from my eyelid with the corner of my napkin. “If you think for one moment you can get away—” I left it hanging. With as black a fury on his face as any I had ever seen there, he was on his feet and heading for the kitchen. I stayed in my chair. After I had done what I could with the napkin, hearing meanwhile the garglings and splashings of Wolfe at the kitchen sink, I reached for the jar, took a look at the contents, and sniffed it. I inspected the label. It was small and to the point: TINGLEY’S TIDBITS—Since 1881— The Best Liver Pâté No. 3 I was sniffing at it again when Wolfe marched in with a tray containing three bottles of beer, a chunk of cheese, and a roll of salami. He sat down without a word and started slicing salami. “The last man who spat at me,” I said casually, “got three bullets in his heart before he hit the floor.” “Pfui,” Wolfe said coldly. “And at least,” I continued, “he really meant it. Whereas you were merely being childish and trying to show what a supersensitive gourmet you are—” “Shut up. Did you taste it?” “No.” “Do so. It’s full of poison.” I regarded him suspiciously. It was ten to one he was ...
