Over My Dead Body by Rex Stout

And here we are at the seventh Archie Goodwin novel (feat. Nero Wolfe), Over My Dead Body. All things considered, this is not my favorite in the series, though I admit to reading it at least bi-annually. It should be noted that "not my favorite" roughly equals a grade of B-.

This is the first time we get a feel for Wolfe's politics (and can guess at Stout's), although it's difficult to discern everything Stout's trying to say because of my lack of knowledge about politics in the area around Montenegro pre-World War II. One day I keep telling myself that I'm going to look into that and see just how much Stout reflected reality, but today is not that day.^*

A woman who claims to be Wolfe's long-abandoned daughter shows up looking for help in a case involving some missing diamonds. Until he can determine whether she is who she claims, Wolfe has to step in to assist. Just as things look like they're settled on that account, someone is killed in a less than normal fashion. Of course. This sets off a case of multiple homicide and international intrigue, involving more than one European power, the NYPD and the FBI. Not to mention, we learn a little about Wolfe's past, which is definitely more than a little interesting.

There are some truly funny moments in this one, and some very clever work by Stout, Wolfe and Archie. But...I dunno, it doesn't totally work for me, dawg. Still, a Wolfe novel is like pizza and that other thing...even when it's not great, it's still good.

A couple of lines worth repeating...

[after escorting an FBI agent from the house] "You see what happens," I told him bitterly. "Just because you rake in two fat fee and the back account is momentarily bloated, in the space of three weeks you refuse nine cases. Not counting the poor little immigrant girl with a friend who likes diamonds. You refuse to investigate anything for anybody. Then what happens? America gets suspicious because it's un-American not to make all the money you can, and sicks a Senior G-man on you.."

[Fritz] was stiffly formal, as was his invariable custom when there were ladies present, not form any sense of propriety but from fear. Whenever any female, no matter what her age or appearance, got inside the house, he was apprehensive and ill at ease until she got out again.

"I carry this fat to insulate my feelings. They got too strong for me once or twice and I had that idea. If I had stayed lean and kept moving around I would have been dead long ago."

^* Assuming I keep at this, fifteen entries from now, we'll get another crack at this region, and I feel much more confident about what's going on there.