Some Buried Caesar by Rex Stout ~ 1939. This edition: Contained in All Aces: A Nero Wolfe Omnibus, Viking Press, 1958. Hardcover. Also published as The Red Bull in some editions. 153 pages.

My rating: 8/10.

*****

What with the immense number to choose from, with over seventy novels and novellas to the author’s credit, I’m nowhere close to having read all of Rex Stout’s clever and generally complicated tales starring private investigator Nero Wolfe (the more than slightly eccentric orchid aficionado, world-class gourmet, and superior thinker, with a most well-functioning brain residing in a body famously weighing, as we are often informed, a full one-seventh of a ton – a much rarer bulk back in the 1930s when Wolfe was created by Stout than we are used to today; I am quite sure I have seen a few gentlemen of this poundage and beyond in our nearest large city, though Wolfe would no doubt eschew the shopping mall food courts where many of my sightings have take place) and his trusty Man Friday – as well as Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday – Archie Goodwin. (Note to eagle-eyed readers and red-pencil holders, please forgive this complicated run-on sentence. I bemuse myself sometimes … punctuation scattered at will, stream-of-consciousness posting going full speed ahead …)

I am going to assume everyone reading this is at least generally familiar with Nero Wolfe, by reputation if not from personal experience, and from his rock solid position in the American mystery fiction canon, so I won’t go into too much background detail. Suffice it to say the Nero Wolfe is a superior thinker, doing all of his detective work sitting down, usually with eyes closed after a gourmet meal created by his private chef, Fritz. (Shades of Hercule Poirot’s “little grey cells”, but infinitely more cerebral, if that is possible.) Live-in employee Archie is the legs of the outfit, and, frequently, the eyes, ears and hands as well, especially when a female client calls. While Wolfe has a definite misogynist streak, Archie appreciates all things feminine, though he doesn’t allow a pretty figure and face to distract him from his duties. Well, most of the time, that is …

One thing for certain about Nero Wolfe is that he strongly dislikes having to leave his comfortable 4-story brownstone house in New York. He strongly distrusts the internal combustion engine, and assumes the worst of any vehicle, ascribing a sentient malevolence to the machinery, which mistrust is occasionally borne out, as in Some Buried Caesar. We are rather shocked to realize that not only is Nero Wolfe out and about in a car, but that the occurrence has satisfied his deepest misgivings, and the vehicle has indeed been involved in a crash. Archie is, as always, the narrator of the tale.

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 grip 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.”

Did you catch the obscure word  in this passage? Reading Rex Stout is an education all in itself, if you stop to take the time to investigate Nero Wolfe’s arcane terminology. I’ve never come across this one before: plerophory. According to my highly intellectual (ahem) search for a definition (I Googled it), plerophory means “a fullness, especially of conviction or persuasion; the state of being fully persuaded.”

All right, digressions aside, and on to the story. I’ll try to be as concise as possible. (The nice thing about writing up a post about a mystery novel, in my opinion, is that the reviewer shouldn’t really give too much away, so as to preserve the pleasure of discovery for those new to the tale.)

After crashing their car, Archie and Nero head off cross country to look for assistance. (They’re on their way to the big state fair, with a collection of rare albino orchids which Wolfe is planning on showing.) Crossing a pasture, they are distracted by a shouting man brandishing a shotgun, and, moments later, a large and very irate Guernsey bull.

The bull in question is the key player in the mystery to follow. He’s a prize herd sire raised by a neighbourhood farmer from a pup (okay, calf) and purchased by the present owner, entrepreneur owner of a highly successful restaurant chain, for the unheard-of sum of $45,000, as a publicity stunt. The bull is destined to be killed and barbecued and served to a large party of prominent people who are preparing to converge on the country estate in a few days. Needless to say, there is an upswelling of outrage among the farmers of the area, that an animal of such value as a breeder should be sacrificed at such a whim.

The plot gets really messy (literally) when the son of the next-door estate holder, a vocal opponent of the prospective barbecue, who has just advanced a $10,000 bet to the effect that the bull will NOT be killed and eaten, is found dead on the ground in the pasture being pushed around by the bull. Ah – but did the bull actually kill the young man? Nero Wolfe, reluctant witness to the scene, thinks not, and details his reasons.

As well as the (possibly) murderous bull, there are a pair of star-crossed lovers, an anthrax epidemic, a glorious description of a big state fair, and a second mysterious death – this one by pitchfork, so at least the bull is off the hook. This novel, only the sixth in the Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin canon, also introduces beautiful, witty, and wealthy socialite Lily Rowan, who figures prominently from here on in as our Archie’s soon-to-be close friend and love interest.

This is a classic vintage mystery read. Rex Stout stands alone; he’s in his own class entirely, though sometimes his stuff can be rather hit-and-miss.  Some Buried Caesar, good though it is, is far from my personal favourite of the Nero Wolfes I’ve read (I think The Mother Hunt might get that designation) – but this is an author worthy of exploration for any mystery lover. If your choice of book falls flat, try another; it may take an attempt or two to really get involved in Wolfe’s world, but once you’re won over, you’ll be a fan for life.

And this is what inspired me to pick up this book, after a Rex Stout hiatus of years. My sister, who recently celebrated a milestone birthday, is fond of orchids and has quite decent luck in keeping them happy and blooming, which can be something of a challenge. As a birthday gift, I gave her this handsome Cymbidium in full bloom, and, as I photographed it against the aqua walls of our newly painted enclosed porch, its temporary home awaiting the birthday party, I suddenly thought of orchidphile extraordinaire Nero Wolfe.

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The Man in the Queue by Josephine Tey ~ 1929. This edition: Berkely Medallion, 1971. Paperback. ISBN: 425-01873-3. 223 pages. Originally published as The Killer in the Crowd by Gordon Daviot, and released with the new title under the Josephine Tey pseudonym after author Elizabeth Macintosh’s death in 1959.

My rating: 7.5/10.

*****

This was Josephine Tey’s (to use the author’s best-known pseudonym, though she apparently preferred “Gordon Daviot”) first full-length book, written very quickly, reputedly in two weeks, according to this internet source,  Josephine Tey: A Very Private Person:

Tey started writing almost as soon as she could walk, according to a note from her literary agent, which also states that “writing was always her greatest amusement.” She published short stories and poems during the late 1920s in Scottish newspapers and in the English Review. Her first novel, The Man in the Queue, was published in 1929. It was reportedly written in two weeks for a competition sponsored by the publisher Methuen.

Tey’s first detective novel, The Man in the Queue – dedicated ‘To Brisena, who actually wrote it’ – Brisena was a nickname she gave to her typewriter – was a highly accomplished piece of work for a beginner.   Winning the Dutton Mystery Prize, it was published in 1929 under the pseudonym of Gordon Daviot—the name by which she preferred to be known, in both public and private.

Considering the time in which it was written, and the time frame it was written in, this novel is an accomplished piece of work, though it is far from flawless. I easily forgive the inconsistencies, because the writing is very good indeed, and I love seeing how the author progresses in her novels from the slight occasional awkwardnesses of this one to the sophistication of something like Brat Farrar, which I’ve just read as well, written twenty years later. This was a writer who continually honed and improved her craft; an admirable – and far from universal – thing.

The Man in the Queue starts out in front of popular London theatre, with a crowded line of hopeful people waiting for hours for a chance to see the most popular musical comedy show of the season, Didn’t You Know?, starring the lovely actress and dancer Ray Marcable (say it out loud – yes, it is what it looks like, though I didn’t twig myself until much later on in the story, when it was explained to me) in her last week of appearing in England before setting sail to try her luck in America.

It was between seven and eight o’clock on a March evening, and all over London the bars were being drawn back from pit and gallery doors. Bang, thud, and clank. Grim sounds to preface an evening’s amusement. But no last trump could have so galvanized the weary attendants on Thespis and Terpsichore standing in patient column of four before the gates of promise. Here and there, of course, there was no column. At the Irving, five people spread themselves over the two steps and sacrificed in warmth what they gained in comfort; Greek tragedy was not popular. At the Playbox there was no one; the Playbox was exclusive, and ignored the existence of pits. At the Arena, which had a three weeks’ ballet season, there were ten persons for the gallery and a long queue for the pit. But at the Woffington both human strings tailed away apparently into infinity. Long ago a lordly official had come down the pit queue and, with a gesture of his outstretched arm that seemed to guillotine hope, had said, “All after here standing room only.” Having thus, with a mere contraction of his deltoid muscle, separated the sheep from the goats, he retired in Olympian state to the front of the theatre, where beyond the glass doors there was warmth and shelter. But no one moved away from the long line. Those who were doomed to stand for three hours more seemed indifferent to their martyrdom. They laughed and chattered, and passed each other sustaining bits of chocolate in torn silver paper. Standing room only, was it? Well, who would not stand, and be pleased to, in the last week of Didn’t You Know? Nearly two years it had run now, London’s own musical comedy, and this was its swan song …

As the theatre doors finally open and the surging queue moves forward, another swan song is played out. A man gently slumps to the ground, having been held up by the press of the crowd. “He’s fainted!” is the murmur from the bystanders, until one of them noticed that between his shoulder-blades gleams the hilt of a silver dagger!

And we’re off. For the man in undeniably very dead indeed, and it appears that he has been so for some time. But who could have stabbed him in front of so many potential witnesses, and why didn’t he cry out? Who is the man, anyway, and why is he carrying no identification? And is that a loaded revolver in his pocket?!

Scotland Yard immediately takes charge, and it is up to Inspector Grant, guaranteed dependable and with a certain flair for successfully solving his cases, to identify the victim and inexorably hunt down the missing killer.

An excellent piece of “Golden Age” mystery writing, chock full of appalling-to-the-modern-sensibility racial profiling and sexist commentary, but great fun to any lover of this most engaging genre. I must say I was completely stumped by the surprise ending; I was completely taken with the huge, stinking red herring which the author paraded about to confuse the plot; I did NOT guess the murderer until the final denouncement and explanation.

Inspector Grant, in his first appearance on the page, is rather Holmesian in style, consulting with the examining surgeon and coming up with some rather surprising assumptions, based on appearances alone. “Scientific”? Oh, dear …

“Can you tell me anything about the dead man himself?” asked Grant, who liked to hear a scientific opinion on any subject.

“Not much. Well nourished – prosperous, I should say.”

“Intelligent?”

“Yes, very, I should think.”

“What type?”

“What type of occupation, do you mean?”

“No, I can deduce that for myself. What type of – temperament, I suppose you’d call it?”

“Oh, I see.” The surgeon thought for a moment. He looked doubtfully at his interlocutor. “Well, no one can say that for a certainty – you understand that?” And when Grant had acknowledged this qualification: “but I should call him one of the ‘lost cause’ type.” He raised his eyebrows interrogatively at the inspector and, assured of his understanding, added, “He had practical enough qualities in his face, but his hands were a dreamer’s. You’ll see for yourself.”

Together they viewed the body. It was that of a young man of twenty-nine or thirty, fair-haired, hazel-eyed, slim, and of medium height. The hands, as the doctor had pointed out, were long and slim and not used to manual work …

Nice “scientific” work, you two. And if you thought this was a little too good to be true, just wait until you read about the assumptions made once the murder weapon is considered…

Very good stuff, in a completely “vintage read” sort of way. A definite must-read for the Tey fan, to track where the author came from, as it were, and to realize the huge strides she made in her writing career. Decidedly decent indeed for a first book; the others only get better.

And here, for your enjoyment and further enlightenment, are some grand reviews by other bloggers:

Fleur Fisher – The Man in the Queue

Stewartry ( A Gold of Fish) – The Man in the Queue

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To Love and Be Wise by Josephine Tey ~ 1950. This edition: Pan, 1973. Paperback. ISBN: 0-330-10381-4. 191 pages.

My rating: 8/10.

*****

Who is the unusual young man who catches Inspector Grant’s attention during a brief encounter at a literary cocktail party? Slender and soft-spoken, rather negligible but for his white-blond fairness, Leslie Searle professes to be a professional American photographer on a private trip to England.

Why has Searle insinuated himself into best-selling author Lavina Fitch’s household, focussing his charm on Lavinia’s niece Liz Garroway, and partnering up with Liz’s fiance Water Whitmore, the well-known radio broadcaster, on a suddenly conceived book project?

And why is Mrs. Garroway, Liz’s super-maternal stepmother, so immediately hostile to the personable and perfectly well-mannered Mr. Searle, and why does the local vicar murmur about other-worldly demons after making Mr. Searle’s acquaintance over a placid dinner?

Walter and Leslie head off on their spontaneously planned canoe trip down the twisting Rushmere River, which they are co-documenting in words and photographs, and all seems well until the night when Walter storms out of the pub where he’s been sitting with Leslie. Laughing off Walter’s departure, Leslie is in no hurry to follow, and when he does leave, he placidly walks down the street and out of the village on his way back to the riverside camping spot. And then he disappears into the night. Leslie Searle is never seen again…

What really happened that night, and what dark secrets are hiding behind the many blank, superficially cooperative faces of so many respectable people? Nothing is as it seems, and Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard has his work cut out in attempting to unravel the mysteries surrounding what may just be an exceedingly well-planned murder.

A most satisfactory vintage mystery story, with a traditionally English countryside setting – though what is it with these (purely fictional, I’m always hoping) sedate British villages and their exceedingly high rates of murder and other such mayhem?!  With its nicely detailed character development, and reasonably believable plot twists, Tey’s novel still stands up well more than a half-century after publication, and will provide an evening or two of diverting reading to the modern connoisseur of the genre. If you have not yet discovered Josephine Tey, I recommend her to you with admiration and enthusiasm.

I frequently find it a lot harder to sensibly talk about why I like a book, especially one I’ve read and re-read numerous times with pure enjoyment, than to pan something I’ve reacted to unfavourably and have no intention of ever reading again, as I did in my last review, of Mary Wesley’s The Chamomile Lawn. So though I’ve spent some time mulling over how best to analyze  the appeal of this author, I will merely say that something about her writing just “clicks” in a deeply satisfying way.

If I can compare Josephine Tey to anyone, it would be Ngaio Marsh at her very best, hybridized with the intellectual superiority of D.L. Sayers. This writer treats her readers as full equals, never for a moment talking down to us, and always assuming we are well able to catch all of the nuances of the characters, settings and plots she has created and presented for our enjoyment.

And Tey has a deliciously sly sense of humour as well, which shows that the author had a very keen observational eye on the society and personalities of her time, much as she seems to have been personally rather reclusive in nature. She did move in some interesting circles – the theatre, literary and upper-class society worlds of her time – though she quite cleverly evaded the attentions of the press once her work became widely popular.

I do admire and enjoy Josephine Tey’s clean, intelligent style, especially in her later books, and I deeply regret that her body of work is so slight. There exist only eight mystery novels, of which To Love and Be Wise is the sixth, as well as several “straight” novels, and a number of stage and radio plays.

“Josephine Tey” is a pseudonym, that of Scottish writer Elizabeth Mackintosh. She also published under the pen name “Gordon Daviot” – several of the novels and the dramatic works originally appeared under this name. This accomplished writer died tragically, much too young, of cancer at the age of fifty-six in 1952. For more information on this famously reclusive writer, check out this dedicated website: Josephine Tey.net

It’s been a few years since I’ve read this particular mystery novel, To Love and Be Wise, but now that I have indulged myself by escaping into her fictional world, and renewing my acquaintance with the most likeable Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard, key investigator in five of the mysteries, I am eyeing the rest of the Teys sitting here on the “special books” shelf with anticipation. Time perhaps for yet another single-author reading jag, now that I’ve gleefully polished off most of the D.E. Stevensons I was saving for a treat for myself during this most hectic time of the year.

I believe that Josephine Tey’s mysteries are being currently reprinted in handsome modern editions, but even if you are unable to find new volumes, her most popular titles are in wide abundance in the secondhand book world.

Edited to add this link to an exceedingly excellent review which I’ve stumbled upon in marvelous serendipity while looking for info on the story around the publishing of Tey’s very first mystery, The Man in the Queue. I beg of you, if you’re interested in Tey, please click over here:  A Gold of Fish – To Love and Be Wise

I wish I could write reviews like this. Thank you, Stewartry ! I anticipate much happy reading as I further explore your EXCELLENT blog!

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