within the brownstone. Now that is genius.
A Wolfe continuation that was only a patchwork of preexistent moments in the saga would be tiresome. Still, as in all the stories, enough familiar touches must be given to assure us that this Nero and this Archie are the real thing, not changelings. Fortunately, in forty years’ time (Fer-de-Lance, the first Nero Wolfe mystery, was published in 1934), Nero Wolfe was able to pile on a lot of habits and idiosyncrasies, so Goldsborough could partake freely of them in Murder in E Minor and its sequel, Death on Deadline, without the risk of repeating himself or taxing the patience of his readers.
Proper notice is given to Wolfe’s telltale nonverbal gestures—he nods the proper one-eighth of an inch to acknowledge a visitor; he raises his shoulder a quarter of an inch and lets it drop to register a significant reaction; he sucks in a bushel of air; he buries his face in a book; he glowers or scowls (Death on Deadline is a major scowling case); he traces circles on the arm of his chair with his right index finger; the folds of his cheeks occasionally betray a covert smile; and, when the essential moment arises, he engages in his ratiocinative lip drill. Not surprisingly, Wolfe is an astute judge of, as well as practitioner of, body language. In Death on Deadline he tells Archie: “All those things you refer to as body language . . . are integral to the interrogation process.
Remove the opportunity to witness those reactions and you become a sailor without compass, stars, or sextant.”
Goldsborough does not ignore the Neronian verbal resources—the splendid rolling Johnsonian periodic phrases, the old familiar words, witling, flummox, flummery, and a new one, bavardage. Neronian epigrams, e.g. “Intuition is the partner of introspection,” and his splendid put-downs, e.g. “Archie . . . outrage is among your more churlish emotions,” assure us that Wolfe has lost none of his edge. And there is his scorn for those similes so dear to the Black Mask school. As narrator, Archie shoulders his burden fully—droll, witty, caustic when occasion requires it, amiably self-deprecating, simultaneously scornful (once again Wolfe has to be goaded when stalemated), and admiring in his relations with Wolfe, and ready, at appropriate moments, with apt remarks that show off his knowledge of baseball and poker. On at least one occasion he trades off a Mets game with Lily as a reward for sitting through an evening of culture.
The plant room schedule is adhered to, and the meal schedule. The meals are gourmet feasts. On one occasion Archie taxis home so as not to be denied oyster pie; on another, when he must be elsewhere at lunch time, he has Fritz reserve his portion of sweetbreads. Delectable new dishes are concocted, though why Archie, dining with Lily at Rusterman’s, settles for something as pedestrian as veal marsala is hard to fathom. Despite events of huge urgency, as usual business is not discussed at lunch time. In Murder in E Minor, Wolfe’s fee from one client is a year’s supply of his favorite beer. The gold bookmark is periodically seen. And, mystery of mysteries, clients and visitors, as usual, always find a place to park in front of the brownstone. All the regulars are in place—Lily, Fritz, Theodore, Saul, Fred, Cramer, Stebbins, Rowcliff, and even Geoffrey Hitchcock. In Death on Deadline Bill Gore is briefly acknowledged, though Rex dropped him because “apparently he bored me.” Goldsborough drops him, too. For the same reason, one supposes. But we may need him, now that Orrie is gone.
In addition to the necessary touches, there are some pleasantly surprising ones, quite acceptable though post-Stoutian. On one occasion Wolfe, with evident approval, quotes Dorothy Sayers. He watches The History of the Jewish People on Public Television. He reads some excellent new books, Zdzislaw Najder’s Joseph Conrad: A Chronicle and J. Bernard Cohen’s Revolution in Science, but shudders at a mention of People magazine. He shudders also when he hears that an evangelical minister wants to add the Gazette to his Christian network. At one point he flabbergasts us when he declares: “The monumental misadventures of my life, and I’m chagrined to say there have been a number, all have centered on women.” For amplification we must await further books in the series. Similarly we are left to wonder whether Wolfe ruminates on cases when he is in the plant rooms. He says he doesn’t. Archie thinks otherwise. We do learn, at a mealtime