Rex Stout

Death of A Doxy

Introduction

The world is much changed since the first Nero Wolfe mystery was published in 1934. We recovered from the Great Depression, fought a World War, eradicated polio, engaged in another, colder war, invented rock music, and put a man on the moon. We became hip, struggled to include the disenfranchised, marched for peace, and learned, painfully, that we – and our leaders – sometimes had feet of clay. It is remarkable that for four decades Rex Stout was able to craft and sustain his series in the midst of this whirlwind of change, his readership growing each year. Even after Stout's death in 1975 readers haunted bookstores in hopes of a continuation of the chronicles of those inhabiting the old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street. The appeal is broader than mere nostalgia. Stout's perception of human nature (and, by extension, Wolfe's) is closer to the mark at times than all our pop psychology. The plots are serpentine enough for the most cerebral reader. And there is action when action is required, not gratuitous but, as Wolfe would say, satisfactory.

Granted, some of Archie's expressions now seem a little dated; no one refers to women as doxies anymore. (In fact, the lines between those women and us have faded and all but disappeared.) If the series is to be criticized at all, it seems most likely that it would, in our atmosphere of political correctness, be accused of blatant sexism. Wolfe's attitude toward women, after all, is quite clear. He is uncomfortable with them. He doesn't trust them: "When [women] stick to the vocations for which they are best adapted, such as chicanery, sophistry, self-advertisement, cajolery, mystification, and incubation, they are sometimes superb creatures." Yet, and this is fascinating, Wolfe's reaction to Julie Jaquette in Death of a Doxy demonstrates anything but sexism.