THE DOORBELL RANG – Rex Stout

I made one mistake, as Archie Goodwin might have said. To himself, of course, never to his boss—at least not without putting an ironic spin on it in the hope of being sufficiently artful to mitigate his shame with an ambiguous grunt from Nero Wolfe instead of Wolfe's otherwise definitive pfui. As I have already admitted to you straight out I made the mistake it would be folly for me to try to put any sort of spin on it so I shan't, as, again, Goodwin might have put it.

My mistake? I picked the wrong mystery to read for Rex Stout Week on Patti Abbott's Friday's Forgotten Books blog feature. Oh, the one I read was a Rex Stout mystery alright—Over My Dead Body—and it was a good one. Just the wrong one, which I discovered afterward while reading some bio information on Mr. Stout. What I learned was that of the seventy-some mysteries featuring Goodwin and Wolfe (he wrote others, as well, in his prolific career) the one I should have picked for Rex Stout Week was his most controversial. Here's what Wiki says about it:

Stout was one of many American writers closely watched by J. Edgar Hoover's FBI. Hoover considered him an enemy of the bureau and either a Communist or a tool of Communist-dominated groups. Stout's leadership of the Authors League of America during the McCarthy era was particularly irksome to the FBI. About a third of Stout's FBI file is devoted to his 1965 novel The Doorbell Rang.

Rex Stout 1931

Perhaps you can understand my explosive “pfui!” when I read that last sentence. Wouldn't anyone have uttered such an expletive combining surprise and total disgust had they been in my place? Having just finished reading a Rex Stout mystery other than The Doorbell Rang for a special occasion without first having read the bio? Who among you reading this now would not immediately have fetched and devoured The Doorbell Rang to learn what all the hoohah had been about? Be honest now! Anyway, that's precisely what I did, and it is why you are reading this flummery instead of some other about Over My Dead Body, which, as I've mentioned, is also good. Damned good, if you will. I have yet to read a Rex Stout mystery that isn't.

So what can I tell you about The Doorbell Rang you might not already have guessed just knowing it irked the FBI, that obviously Wolfe and Goodwin deeply irk the fictional FBI and, in particular the man all special agents were known in real life to refer to in hushed tones as The Director? Consider this exchange between Goodwin and Wolfe's gourmet chef, Fritz Brenner:

I picked up the fork. “You know what the FBI is.”

“But certainly. Mr. Hoover.”

“That’s what he thinks. On behalf of a client we’re going to push his nose in. Just a routine chore, but he’s touchy and will try to stop us. So futile.” I put a bite of cake where it belonged.

“But he—he’s a great man. Yes?”

“Sure. But I suppose you’ve seen pictures of him.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of his nose?”

“Not good. Not exactly épaté, but broad. Not bien fait.”

“Then it should be pushed,” I forked sausage.

Rex Stout didn't just push noses in his novels. During World War II he wrote anti-Nazi propaganda and conducted more than 60 broadcasts on a CBS program called Our Secret Weapon. After the war he was active in a group called United World Federalists, drawing the ire of Martin Dies, chairman of the House Un-American Activities Committee. After Dies called him a Communist, Stout is said to have responded, "I hate Communists as much as you do, Martin, but there's one difference between us. I know what a Communist is and you don't."

Rex Stout 1975

The title. Your curiosity would not be untoward to wonder what in hell it means. I can tell you this: it, the title, comprises the very last sentence in The Doorbell Rang. Neither my nose nor imagination was pushed the least little bit to deduce, with undoubtedly startling accuracy, who did the ringing. So, I daresay, with yours.

Speaking of noses, I've gone and poked mine into The Doorbell Rang's only one-star Amazon “reader review,” which says simply, “I [sic] childish screed against the FBI. Typical liberal crap. Stout must have been senile.”

Clicking on the reviewer's name, Frank J. Habic, of Osprey, Florida, I learned this was the only review Amazon has credited to Mr. Habic for anything, ever. I left a tongue-in-cheek comment saying, “You forgot to add 'Special Agent (ret.)' to your name.” I posted the comment yesterday, and immediately began keeping an eye out for ensembles of fedoras, dark glasses, cheap suits, and shiny black shoes.

[for more Friday's Forgotten Books see the listing on Patti Abbott's unforgettable blog]

Executive Pink (exerpt)

The Sting

Guests are filling the place up now. It’s funny the attraction Hollywood has for people - even the real people that Hollywood people pretend to be. A dozen Medal of Honor winners would hardly draw the likes of both House Speaker Edith Glick and House Majority Leader Gus Rosenow and Sen. Jay C. Tillers and Edna Usher and the Vice President and Sen. Bart Gladstone and…Bart Bullshit is here? Why that sure as hell is him, and that’s Crowell Kenyon pushing him in a wheelchair. Well, shit, will wonders never cease. But of course. The old lecher wouldn’t miss a chance to try and pinch Lorelei Walquer, death bed or no. I suppose I gotta give the fat prick some credit for gumption.

My kids’d be here, too, under normal circumstances. As it is, they don’t even know Lorelei Walquer is in town. The President’s nanny is tending them and has instructions to keep them away from the West Wing, no matter what.

So which TV crew is Lorelei’s? There is quite a pile of them gathering in front of the colonnade, but I should be able to recognize one or two of our villains if they look anything at all like the photos I studied. Trouble is, all the men are wearing hats, or caps or bandannas - not because it’s sunny, which it has become, which is why I’m wearing my faded black Leon Russell cap (visor forward), but because it’s fashionable. I am not being condescendingly judgmental of them. Simply stating a fact. I assume they’re the same bunch that routinely attends White House press events and their heads are covered, always, as they are now whatever the weather, outdoors or in.

My watch says three o’clock. This is it. Any minute now. My god, here comes the President. Adele is with her. I should be with her, too. They came out of the Colonnade Door precisely seven steps from where the dais and bank of microphones are set up. [sustained applause] And there’s a group right behind them. I see Lorelei. [applause continues] She’s wearing white pants. God, I love white pants on women. Don’t know why. Just do. Her blouse is black. Great combination. Hair is kind of piled in back. Parted a little left of center over her forehead. Devastating. Thank god she’s wearing shades. I’ve been worried about the danger of looking in her eyes. Now I won’t have…

Jayzuz, something’s wrong! Roger Ashmore is supposed to be with the decoy van, but he’s up there with Lorelei. He looks funny. I’m, what, ten feet from the dais and it looks like…oh, shit. Ashmore’s wearing the girdle! Something is wrong. WARREN! GODDAMMIT, WARREN, WHAT’S HAPPENING?”

People all over the garden are yelling FREEZE! and DON’T MOVE! Where the hell are Warren and Rose? This is totally out of control.

“OOOF! Get off me, god damn you!”

“It’s all right, sir, it’s Special Agent McClean. Just stay down..”

“What the hell’s happening, Orlo? Where’s Bob…where’s your boss?”

“I’m not permitted to say, sir. But you know he’s supposed to be with the President. I’m assigned to you right now, but if it looks like the President needs help I’ll be following my secondary assignment, sir, and I’ll have to go to her.”

“Well you damned well better, Orlo. Protecting the President is your primary assignment. Always has been, always will be.”

“Strategically, yes, you are correct, sir. But this is a tactical assignment, and until I learn differently I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“Not going to argue with you, Orlo. You have the gun. Just don’t freak when you hear me talking to myself. I’m wired. Transmitting to a tape recorder in my office. Historical record, you see.”

“I see, sir. You go right ahead, sir. I won’t pay it no mind.”

“OK.” Ashmore’s face has gone almost as white as Lorelei’s pants. A couple of men wearing reversed baseball caps are moving from the press area toward the dais. They’re reaching into their vests. Guns? No doubt. Orlo McClean is raising his pistol toward the two men. He’s holding it with both hands. I think he’s going to shoot.

“Wait, Orlo! Follow the script!”

“Can’t do that, man. Looks like the script’s been tossed out. [UNGH] Orlo’s just collapsed in front of me. Someone’s grabbing my shoulder from behind. “What…”