“His narrative and dialogue could not be improved, and he passes the supreme test of being re-readable. I don't know how many times I have reread the Nero Wolfe stories, but plenty. I know exactly what is coming and how it is all going to end, but it doesn't matter. That's writing.”
PG Wodehouse
For those who have never read a Nero Wolfe mystery, there is great pleasure in store. These idiosyncratic detective stories, set in mid-century Manhattan have style, plotting, atmosphere and panache. But they also set the bar for character, with not one, but two excellent detectives, as different Oscar and Felix. I have read that they were based on Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson (what detective fiction can truly avoid that claim?) but if so, they are more different than similar. Rex Stout gives these two detectives their own universe, with its peculiar rules and conventions that readers of these mysteries come to adore.
In The Rubber Band, these rules are already in full effect. Nero Wolfe’s misogynistic, lazy-persnickety Manhattan brownstone lifestyle becomes so ingrained in your head once you have read these books that you continue to cling to them even when the only rule it consistently adheres to is that its rules are always being broken. This is chronologically the third NW mystery, and most of the elements are already in place – the great man summoning clients no matter how prestigious rather than heaving his bulk out into the world, be they kings of industry or foreign diplomats; making them cool their heels while the genius finishes in his plant rooms once they arrive; the over arching importance of meals, their names thrown off as if I should just know what Chacken Brazilia is; the insulting of people, especially those who come from the 9-5 world of commerce:
“Pleasant afternoon, Archie?”
“No, putrid. I went around to Perry’s office (Company President, Seaboard Products Corporation).”
“Indeed. A Man of action must expect such vexations. Tell me about it.”
“Well, Perry left here just after I came down, but about eight minutes after that he phoned and instructed me to come galloping. Having the best interests of my employer in mind I went.”
“Notwithstanding the physical law that the contents can be no larger than the container.” Fritz arrived with two bottles of beer, Wolfe opened and poured one, and drank. “Go on.”
It is the charm of these books that there are so many aspects to enjoy. It is not just the fencing between the two of them, each quite adept and remarkable, fully developed characters opposing one another, which is enjoyable. And it is not just the use of words like “vexations” in such a biased and determinedly frank statement reflective of Wolfe’s character. But there are several gems of conversational beauty like that last one per book, and they raise the level of simple detective fiction -- not to literature, I would hate to brand it so as it might spoil some of the immense pleasure to be had here -- but to something with a few intellectual teeth anyway.
And of course, one of the cardinal rules: no women in the house, and only at meals if it can’t possibly be avoided. And yet, in this the third novel, a woman is invited to stay despite the fact that the police are searching for her, and she seems to charm the stuffing out of Wolfe despite the fact that her character is undeveloped, seemingly unremarkable. At least in some of the later stories, the women Wolfe chooses to put up with have real character, or Stout is at pains to establish them as interesting in some way – perceptive, charismatic, deadly or compelling. Here we are asked to believe that Wolfe takes her in because Archie likes her looks – and the number of females for whom that holds true in the entire oeuvre would strain the decimal places on your average calculator into a punctuated sentence at least.
Despite the contradictions, The Rubber Band delivers its expected payload of goods, though Wolfe’s lips go in and out (his signature genius-at-work posture) quite a bit more often than in later episodes, where they might be expected to do so once or maybe twice at the outside, and only as a precursor to seminal moments in the story. Then follows the agonizing few hours where Wolfe is directing his other operatives to discover the lynch pin fact without Archie, who is as in the dark as we are, and chafing at it. The plot is like the tangle of wires behind your stereo, and trying to follow just one would take an act of genius – which is what we are there to witness in the denouement, the great unraveling, with the police and principle suspects in attendance, divided among the red and yellow armchairs and the lesser seats according to Archie’s assessment of their merits, according to the sacrosanct (Ha!) conventions of olfe’s world, usually culminating not in an arrest but a climax of sorts; a confession or shooting or escape attempt. Christie likes this method of wrapping up her stories as well, but Poirot was never as exasperating and brilliant as Wolfe despite his mustachios and delicacy and Belgian deference.
This was my third read over the span of twenty plus years, and I suspect I will read it again, just in the way I visit streams where I have already fished too much, knowing where the trout hang out, and what they want to eat before I even begin. But still I enjoy it, even though the mystery has worn off; there is always something new that pops out, and it is as comfortable as spending time again with old friends. I have not outgrown them as we all do some of our favorite books. That is a testament in itself. And who could resist fishing again in a place with such a big fish?