And now the Whistler's strange story.

Perfect alibi.

Entering the golden sparrow, a cozy little cocktail lounge near the far end of Beverly Boulevard,

private investigator Johnny Seltzer, 30, handsome, off-futty at the moment, found business rather quiet.

He went straight to the bar and ordered a drink.

Clevenom water. I'll mix it.

Right.

Be sure it's bonded.

Bonded it is.

Good.

Johnny carried his drink to the nearest empty table and sat down to think.

Self-centered, cynical,

and in his own estimation, a smooth operator. Many things were on his mind, especially Johnny Seltzer himself. Things aren't going too well for you, are they, Johnny? Tom Silver, founder of the

Silver Detective Agency, has threatened you of dismissal unless you change your ways.

Cease gambling and give closer attention to business.

You stare moodily at the lovely paintings lining the walls.

You suddenly push back your chair,

and walk over to the jukebox at the end of the bar and slide a nickel into the

slot.

We're poor little lands who have lost away. Back at your table and you sip your drink, listen to the music, and sympathize with yourself.

Hello.

Ordinarily, you would welcome the sibilant voice that seems to come from nowhere.

...