The woman who had let me in, who might easily have been a female wrestling champion twenty years back, said, “Excuse me, I'm in a hurry,” and beat it on a trot. I called after her, “My name's Goodwin!”but got no reaction.

I advanced four steps, took off my hat and coat and dropped them on a chair, and made a survey. I was in a big square sort of a hall, with doors off to the left and in the wall ahead. To the right, instead of a wall and doors, it just spread out into an enormous living-room which contained at least twenty different kinds of furniture. My eye was professionally trained to take in anything from a complicated street scene to a speck on a man's collar, and really get it, but for the job of accurately describing that room I would have charged double. Two of the outstanding items were a chrome-and-red-leather bar with stools to match and a massive old black walnut table with carved legs and edges. That should convey the tone of the place.

There was nobody in sight, but I could hear voices. I advanced to pick out a chair to sit on, saw none that I thought much of, and settled on a divan ten feet long and four feet wide, covered with green burlap. A near-by chair had pink embroidered silk. I was trying to decide what kind of a horse the person who furnished that room would draw, when company entered the square hall sector from one of the doors in the far wall-two men, one young and handsome, the other middle-aged and bald, both loaded down with photographic equipment, including a tripod.

“She's showing her age,” the young man said.

“Age hell,” the bald man retorted, “she's had a murder, hasn't she? Have you ever had a murder?” He caught sight of me and asked his companion, “Who's that?”