: Rex Stout
: How Like A God
: Hard Case Crime
: 9781803364872
: 1
: CHF 8.90
:
: Krimis, Thriller, Spionage
: English
: 320
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
STAIRWAY TO HOMICIDE In the shadowy stairwell of a New York City brownstone, a man stealthily begins to climb. In the pocket of his coat, a loaded revolver. At the top of the stairs, a woman he intends to kill. But who...? This extraordinary novel by Rex Stout, the legendary creator of Nero Wolfe, is a psychological thriller like none you have ever read. As William Sidney climbs the stairs, you'll dive deep into his troubled past, uncovering scandalous secrets and deceptions. And all the while, step by creeping step, he draws closer to a shocking act of violence... Unpublished for more than 50 years, HOW LIKE A GOD is the earliest masterpiece by an author who would later be named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America and become world famous for creating one of the most enduring characters in the mystery genre.

Rex Todhunter Stout (1886 - 1975) was an American crime writer, best known as the creator of the larger-than-life fictional detective Nero Wolfe and assistant Archie Goodwin. The Nero Wolfe corpus was nominated Best Mystery Series of the Century at Bouchercon 2000, the world's largest mystery convention, and Rex Stout was nominated Best Mystery Writer of the Century. Rex passed away in 1975.

II


Just what is it you expect to accomplish? One of your favorite and best-articulated beliefs is the futility of anything we may do to other people. The things that are done to us are the only ones that matter, especially the things we do to ourselves. Of course our own acts mostly have a rebound, but not this fatal act you are now considering, knowing all the while that it cannot be consummated.

All the futility of Jane’s thrusts at you, for instance, did not arise from your antagonism and parade of independence. The futility was inherent in the material she was trying to work with. The question of motive need not enter. What considerations moved her are entirely beside the point as far as you are concerned.

The fact is that she is the woman for you. This is true in spite of society’s traditional attitude, first brought to you the day that red-haired boy (whose name you have forgotten) taunted you with being tied to your sister’s apron strings. And later shouted at you incessantly from across the street until the shocked neighbors made an issue of it:

“He drinks his sister’s milk, he drinks his sister’s milk, he drinks his sister’s milk!”

Very well, tied to your sister’s apron strings. That is worse then than being tied to the ribbons of Erma’s rue de la Paix robe de nuit, or chained with steel to the black and impenetrable armor of the woman upstairs? Bah. The world of course is thinking of incest and hasn’t even the courage to say so. The concern is authentic, physiologically, but who is talking of physiology? Not you. You are not responsible for what you may or may not have dreamed as an infant and a boy, but you know what you think as a man, and when you say that Jane is the woman for you, you mean that all the security and peace you have ever known, all the gentle hours of content, all the exciting assurances that the world was made for you too, have come from the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice. Anyone who tries to translate that into that which may be bought at any street corner for two dollars has very little to do.

But you’ve never thanked her for it, and it has always been futile. The time you went home from Cleveland for your things, having definitely agreed with Dick, Jane listened quietly to your grandiose plans and exaggerated enthusiasm, along with the rest of the family. She gave you your father’s old place at table that evening, and you noticed that your mother accepted the arrangement calmly and even with a mild pleasure, because it was Jane’s.

The following morning Jane came into your room while you were packing.

“Bill, I’m afraid you’re being driven into this by your feeling that you’ve got to do something for the family. You shouldn’t, really you shouldn’t. The store’s doing better than ever and I’m honestly having a lot of fun with it. You must come down this afternoon and see all the new stuff I’ve got. The fountain is a peach. I’m only twenty-five, and you don’t need to think I’m going to get covered with moss. The way this town’s growing we can sell the store for a lot of money in a few years.”

You wouldn’t admit anything. Superficially you were offended.

“Gosh, you might think I was taking a job cleaning streets. This is the real thing, Jane. Five thousand a year for a man of my age isn’t to be sneezed at.”

“It’s not your li