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States.”
    â€œMy, you’re giddy this morning,” I said. “What happened? Some crook actually get sent to the slammer?” I pulled a wooden chair over, sat down straddling it and leaned on the back. “Besides, I was not one of the nudists, Captain.”
    â€œGot the reports right here—”
    â€œI was not —”
    â€œSheldon Scott, once again caught with his pants down—”
    â€œNo, that was the other citizens. Me, I was the one who broke it up. Where were you while I was acting as the city’s conscience—”
    â€œYou’re working for the Halstead woman?”
    â€œYeah, that’s why I’m up so early. Lieutenant France told me last night a team was checking the Smiths—the couple who left the party early. They get anything?”
    Sam rubbed his iron-gray hair vigorously. “Doesn’t look like it. Rawlins was out to see them already this morning, just called in. He agrees with Lieutenant France they look clean.”
    Rawlins was a sharp, good-looking lieutenant who worked out of Central Homicide, one of Sam’s top investigators. I not only liked him, but had a high opinion of his ability and judgment.
    â€œWhat was the Smiths’ story?” I asked Sam.
    â€œSimple enough. Wife saw Halstead’s legs sticking out from under some bushes, and thought he was snoozing, or maybe just resting up, so she tickled his feet.”
    Sam scratched his hair, then stuck out his chin—which closely resembles the back end of a dump truck—and scratched under it. “Tickled his feet. What kind of people are these?”
    â€œDarlings,” I said. “So, she tickled his feet. And?”
    â€œNaturally he didn’t let out a giggle or anything. So she gave him a yank.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYes. Grabbed one of his legs and yanked it.”
    â€œYeah, they’re a playful bunch. About then she must have begun getting the impression something was amiss, I’ll bet.”
    â€œIt looks like she figured out all of a sudden he was deader than a mackerel. Well, she didn’t quite faint, found her husband and told him they had to leave right away, convinced him; they hightailed it out, and it wasn’t till they were maybe halfway home—with him chewing the hell out of her, I gathered—that she told him what happened.”
    â€œSounds straight enough. About the way it would’ve happened, I’d guess, if one of those gals stumbled over the dead host. Either that or lots of screaming. So they just forgot about it?”
    â€œSomething like that. Afraid to get involved. After awhile they figured out somebody would find the body before long, and realized they shouldn’t have taken off in such a rush. Might look suspicious; they were involved just by having been there.”
    â€œMust have been about then the Hollywood police drove up to their house.”
    â€œRight. The woman had a small attack of hysterics, almost went up the walls. But Mr. Smith filled the officers in. Same story they got from the wife. Once she came down from the ceiling.”
    Sam scratched under his chin again.
    â€œYou got the Ick?” I asked him.
    â€œIck? What the hell’s Ick?”
    â€œIt’s what you and my catfish have got, I think. If you start breaking out in little white spots, be sure to take some Mercurochrome and raise your temperature ten or fifteen degrees—”
    â€œI am impressed,” he said, “with the sudden deterioration of your brain. I shaved too close this morning.”
    â€œNo, it’s the Ick—”
    He scowled fiercely—which was something, since often when he smiled it was a fierce thing—and pulled a long black cigar from his middle desk drawer. That was ominous.
    Those cigars were dandy cigars just as long as he didn’t light them. But once lit, the odor of decaying mold and flaming skunk gas replaced all oxygen in the near