Rex Stout - Triple Jeopardy (A Nero Wolfe Threesome)

In a definitive series of articles
about Rex Stout and his monumental
creation, NERO WOLFE,
The New Yorker once remarked: Nero Wolfe, the fat
sedentary detective, invented by Rex Stout, is an
interesting fellow because the author is an
interesting fellow.

Nero Wolfe owes his knowledge of practically everything
to the amazing background of his creator
who has been, among other things:
banker, barker, bookworm, bookkeeper, yeoman
on the Presidential yacht, boss of three thousand
propaganda writers in World War II, gentleman farmer,
big businessman, cigar salesman, pueblo guide, hotel
manager, architect, cabinet-maker, crow trainer,
jumping-pig trainer, mammoth-pumpkin grower, politician,
potted-plant wizard, gastronome, president of the
Authors Guild, usher, ostler, and pamphleteer.

Rex Stout is also one of the best mystery writers who ever
lived, and Nero Wolfe is one of fictions truly great
detectives. TRIPLE JEOPARDY is up to their standard.

This low-priced Bantam Book
has been completely reset in a type face
designed for easy reading, and was
printed from new plates. It contains the complete
text of the original hard-cover edition,
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED .

TRIPLE JEOPARDY
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with
The Viking Press, Inc.

P RINTING H ISTORY
Viking edition published March 1952
Dollar Mystery Guild edition published July 1952
Acknowledgment is made to the AMERICAN MAGAZINE , in
which these short novels originally appeared in 19511952.
The magazine title for The Squirt and the Monkey was
See No Evil; for Home to Roost, Nero Wolfe and the
Communist Killer.
Bantam edition published July 1957

eISBN: 978-0-307-75630-5

All rights reserved.
Copyright 1951, 1952, by Rex Stout.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission in writing. For information address The Viking Press, Inc., 625 Madison Avenue, New York 22, N. Y.
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada.

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words Bantam Books and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Printed in the United States of America. Bantam Books, Inc., 271 Madison Ave., New York 16, N. Y.

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O ur nephew Arthur was the romantic type, said Mrs. Benjamin Rackell with the least possible movement of her thin tight lips. He thought being a Communist was romantic.

Nero Wolfe, behind his desk in his outsized chair that thought nothing of his seventh of a ton, scowled at her. I, at my own desk with a notebook and pen, permitted myself a private grin, not unsympathetic. Wolfe was controlling himself under severe provocation. The appointment for Mr. Rackell to call at Wolfes office on the ground floor of his old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street, at six p.m., had been made by phone by a secretary in the office of the Rackell Importing Company, and nothing had been said about a wife coming along. And the wife, no treat as a spectacle to begin with, was an interrupter and a clich tosser, enough to make Wolfe scowl at any man, let alone a woman.

But, he objected, not too caustic, you say that he was not a Communist, that, on the contrary, he was acting for the FBI when he joined the Communist party.

He would have loved to tell her to get lost. But his house had five stories, counting the basement and the plant rooms full of orchids on the roof, and there was Fritz the chef and Theodore the botanist and me, Archie Goodwin, the fairly confidential assistant, with nothing to carry the load but his income as a private detective; and the Rackell check for three thousand bucks, offered as a retainer, was under a paperweight on his desk.

Thats just it, Mrs. Rackell said impatiently. Isnt it romantic to work for the FBI? But that wasnt why he did it; he did it to serve his country, and thats why they killed him. His being the romantic type had nothing to do with it.

Wolfe made a face and undertook to bypass her. His eyes went to Rackell. She would probably have called her husband the stubby type, with his short arms and legs, but he was no runt. His trunk was long and broad and his head long and narrow. His eyes pointed down at the corners, and so did his mouth, making him look mournful.

Wolfe asked him, Have you spoken with the FBI, Mr. Rackell?

But the wife answered. No, he hasnt, she said. I went myself yesterday, and I never heard anything to equal it. They wouldnt tell me a single thing. They wouldnt even admit Arthur was working for them as a spy for his country! They said it was a matter for the New York police and I should talk to themas if I hadnt!

I told you, Pauline, Rackell said mildly but not timidly, that the FBI wont tell people things. And the police wont either, not when its murder, and especially when the Communists come into it. Thats why I insisted on coming to Nero Wolfe to find out whats going on. If the FBI doesnt want it known that Arthur was with them, even if it means not getting his murderer, what else can you expect?

I expect justice! Mrs. Rackell declared, her lips actually moving visibly.

I gave it a line to itself in the notebook.

Wolfe was frowning at Rackell. There seems to be some confusion. I understood that you want a murder investigated. Now you say you came to me to find out whats going on. If you mean you want me to investigate the police and the FBI, thats too big a bite.

I didnt say that, Rackell protested.

No, but clear it up. What do you want?

Rackells down-pointing eyes looked even mournfuller. We want facts, he declared. I think the police and the FBI are quite capable of sacrificing the rights of a private citizen to what they consider the public interest. Our nephew was murdered, and my wife had a right to ask them what line theyre proceeding on, and they wouldnt tell her. I dont intend to just let it go at that. Is this a democracy or isnt it? Im not

No! the wife snapped. Its not a democracy, its a republic.

I suggest, said Wolfe, exasperated, that I recapitulate to see if I have it straight. Ill combine what I have read in the papers with what you have told me. He focused on the wife, probably figuring that she would be less apt to cut in if he held her eye. Arthur Rackell, your husbands orphaned nephew, was a fairly efficient employee of his importing business, drawing a good salary, living at your home here in New York, on Sixty-eighth Street. Some three years ago you noted that he was taking a radically leftist position in discussions of political and social questions, and you remonstrated without effect. As time passed he became more leftist and more outspoken, until his opinions and arguments were identical with the Communist line. You, both you and your husband, argued with him and entreated him, but