Some Buried Caesar/The Golden Spiders (Nero Wolfe)

Product Description

“Nero Wolfe towers over his rivals…he is an exceptional character creation.” —
New YorkerA grand master of the form, Rex Stout is one of America’s greatest mystery writers, and his literary creation Nero Wolfe is one of fiction’s greatest detectives. Here, in this special double edition, the arrogant, gourmandizing, sedentary sleuth and his trusty man-about-town, Archie Goodwin, solve two of their most bizarre cases.

Some Buried CaesarA prize bull destined for the barbecue is found pawing the corpse of a late restaurateur. Wolfe is certain that Hickory Caesar Grindon, the soon-to-be-beefsteak bull, isn’t the murderer. But who among a veritable stampede of suspects—including a young woman who’s caught Archie’s eye—turned the tables on Hickory’s would-be butcher? It’s a crime that wins a blue ribbon for sheer audacity—and Nero Wolfe is the one detective audacious enough to solve it.

The Golden Spiders
A twelve-year-old boy shows up at Wolfe’s brownstone with an incredible story. Soon the great detective finds himself hired for the grand sum of $4.30 and faced with the question of why the last two people to hire him were murdered. To keep it from becoming three, Wolfe must discover the unlikely connection between a gray Cadillac, a mysterious woman, and a pair of earrings shaped like spiders dipped in gold.

About the Author

Rex Stout, born 1886 in Indiana/USA, worked at thirty different professions until he earned enough money to travel. In 1932, he began to write thrillers focusing on the famous detective Nero Wolfe. Nero is a gourmet weighing more than a hundred kilos, and moving as little as possible. Rex Stout finished more than fifty novels and received the “Grand Masters Award”. He died 1975.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

THAT SUNNY September day was full of surprises. The first one came when, after my swift realization that the sedan was still right side up and the windshield and windows intact, I switched off the ignition and turned to look at the back seat. I didn’t suppose the shock of the collision would have hurled him to the floor, knowing as I did that when the car was in motion he always had his feet braced and kept a firm grasp on the strap; what I expected was the ordeal of facing a glare of fury that would top all records; what I saw was him sitting there calmly on the seat with his massive round face wearing a look of relief–if I knew his face, and I certainly knew Nero Wolfe’s face. I stared at him in astonishment.

He murmured, “Thank God,” as if it came from his heart.

I demanded, “What?”

“I said thank God.” He let go of the strap and wiggled a finger at me. “It has happened, and here we are. I presume you know, since I’ve told you, that my distrust and hatred of vehicles in motion is partly based on my plerophory that their apparent submission to control is illusory and that they may at their pleasure, and sooner or later will, act on whim. Very well, this one has, and we are intact. Thank God the whim was not a deadlier one.”

“Whim hell. Do you know what happened?”

“Certainly. I said, whim. Go ahead.”

“What do you mean, go ahead?”

“I mean go on. Start the confounded thing going again.”

I opened the door and got out and walked around to the front to take a look. It was a mess. After a careful examination I went back to the other side of the car and opened the rear door and looked in at him and made my report.

“It was quite a whim. I’d like to get it on record what happened, since I’ve been driving your cars nine years and this is the first time I’ve ever stopped before I was ready to. That was a good tire, so they must have run it over glass at the garage where I left it last night, or maybe I did myself, though I don’t think so. Anyway, I was going 55 when the tire blew out. She left the road, but I didn’t lose the wheel, and I was braking and had her headed up and would have made it if it hadn’t been for that damn tree. Now