The opening of a Nero Wolfe novel is usually a set piece, a ritualistic “feather-duster” scene, containing the obligatory paragraphs defining Fritz’s and Theodore’s roles in the Thirty-fifth Street menage as well as a description of the red leather chair and the immense globe in Wolfe’s spacious book-lined office.
As practiced by Rex Stout, the consummate pro, the detective novel generally begins with the client’s initial visit, scheduled well within Wolfe’s carefully prescribed hours. The client sits in the red leather chair. The client may be telling the truth; the client may be lying. If the client has sufficient financial assets, Wolfe takes the case.
Archie’s playfulness has terrible consequences.
We accept that the writer of amateur-sleuth detective novels has a built-in credibility problem. Why does our hardworking chef, writer, or actor keep stumbling over those unpleasant corpses? Why doesn’t the chef, writer, or actor behave in a normal fashion, i.e., call the police and leave the investigation to them? It’s less obvious that the writer of the professional detective series has her or his motivational problems as well. How does the detective become personally involved in each case? A fictional detective is not a neurosurgeon, for whom emotional detachment might be considered a plus. If she or he is to grasp and hold the reader, even the most curmudgeonly detective must find a reason beyond the check at the rainbow’s end to pursue a case to its conclusion. Generally, it’s Archie, our Everyman on a good day, who provides this sympathy, this bond. Rarely does Wolfe become engaged, much less enraged, by the crime in question.