We read Nero Wolfe because we like a good mystery. We reread him not for the plots, which have neither the human complexity of Raymond Chandler’s nor the ingenuity of Agatha Christie’s, but for the chemistry between the orchid-fancying enfant terrible and his optimistic-cynical amanuensis and all-around dogsbody, and for the insular complacency of life in the old townhouse where world-class meals are served three times daily; the Cattleyas Laelias continue to get on splendidly with the Laeliocattleya Lustre; a peek through the tricked-up waterfall picture in Wolfe’s office may provide a
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