I guided her to the divan, turned off the TV, faced her. She sat quietly, staring at me from the wide eyes. And what eyes they were. Big and dark, a melting, golden brown. Eyes like hot honey, eyes that sizzled. Plus flawless skin, smooth brow and cheeks, lips that looked as if you could get a shock from them. It was a disturbingly familiar face, too, but I couldn't remember where we had met. I said, "Do we know each other, Miss"? "No, I remembered reading about you in the papers and that you lived here, and when it happened all I could think of was" -- This time she stopped the rush of words herself. "I'm sorry. Shall I go on"? She smiled. It was her first smile. But worth waiting for. "Sure". I said. "But one word at a time, O.K."? She was still hugging the stained coat around her, so I said, "Relax, let me take your things. Would you like a drink, or coffee"? "No, thanks". She stood up, pulled the coat from her shoulders and started to slide it off, then let out a high-pitched scream and I let out a low-pitched, wobbling sound like a muffler blowing out. She was wearing nothing beneath the coat. She jerked the coat back on and squeezed it around her again, but not soon enough. There had been a good second or two during which my muffler had been blowing out, and now I was certain I'd seen her somewhere before. "I forgot"! She yelped. "Oh, do forgive me. I'm sorry"! "I forgive" -- "That's what started all the trouble in the first place. Oh, dear, I'm all unstrung". "You and me both, dear. Haven't we haven't I seen you. I mean, surely we've" -- "You may have seen me on TV", she said. "I've done several filmed commercials for" -- Then it hit me. "Zing"! I cried. "Why, yes. And you recognized me"? "Yes, indeed. In fact, I was watching you on that little seventeen-inch screen when you rang my bell. Man, you rang -- it was in color, too, Miss, and Miss? What's your name, anyway? Ah, you were splendid". I sat by her on the divan. "Splendid. In a waterfall and all that". "That's the last one we did. That was a fun one". "I'll bet. It was fun for me, all right. I don't mean to pry, but do they hide the swimsuit with the bubbles? I mean: Is advertising honest? "It depends on who does it. I never wear anything at all. It wouldn't -- wouldn't seem fair, somehow". "I couldn't agree with you more". "I really do have something important to tell you, Mr. Scott. About the murder". "Murder? Oh, yeah", I said. "Tell me about the murder". She told me. Zing was the creation of two men, Louis Thor and Bill Blake, partners in zing! , Inc. They'd peddled the soap virtually alone, and without much success, until about a year ago, when -- with the addition of "SX-21" to their secret formula and the inauguration of a high-powered advertising campaign -- sales had soared practically into orbit. Their product had been endorsed by Good Housekeeping, the A.M.A., and the Veterinary Journal, among other repositories of higher wisdom, and before much longer if you didn't have a cake of their soap in the john, even your best friends would think you didn't bathe. My lovely caller -- Joyce Holland was her name -- had previously done three filmed commercials for zing, and this evening, the fourth, a super production, had been filmed at the home of Louis Thor. The water in Thor's big swimming pool had been covered with a blanket of thick, foamy soapsuds -- fashioned, of course, from zing -- Joyce had dived from the board into the pool, then swirled and cavorted in her luxurious "bath" while cameras rolled. The finished -- and drastically cut -- product would begin with a hazy longshot of Joyce entering the suds, then bursting above the pool's surface clad in layers of lavender lather, and I had a hunch this item was going to sell tons and tons of soap; even to clean men and boys. Joyce went on, "When we'd finished, Lou -- Mr. Thor -- asked me to stay a little longer. He wanted a few stills for magazine ads, he said. Everybody left and I stayed in the pool, then Lou came back alone and leaped into the pool too. And he didn't have any clothes on". "He didn't"! "Yes, he didn't. Did, I mean". She paused. "Did leap into the pool, and didn't have anything on. Anyway, it was evident what he had in mind". "You got away, didn't you"? "Yes. He caught up with me once and grabbed me, but I was all covered with zing -- it's very slippery, you know". "I didn't know. I wouldn't have the stuff in the house. But I'm pleased to hear" -- "So I just scooted out of his clutches. I swam like mad, got out of the pool, grabbed my robe, and ran to the car. The keys were still in it, and I was miles away before I remembered that my clothes and purse and everything were still in the little cabana where I'd changed". She'd driven around for a while, Joyce said, then, thinking Louis Thor would have calmed down by that time, she'd gone back to his home on Bryn Mawr Drive, parked in front, and walked toward the pool. While several yards from it, still concealed by the shrubbery, she'd seen two men on her left at the pool's edge. She went on: "A man was holding onto Lou, holding him up. Maybe Lou was only unconscious, but right then I thought he must be dead. The man shoved him into the water, then ran past the cabana. There's a walk there that goes out to Quebec Drive. I was so scared well, I just ran to my car and came here". "You know who the other man was"? "No, I never did see his face. I didn't get a good look at him at all, his back was to me, and I was so scared It was just somebody in a man's suit. But I'm sure the other one was Lou". What Joyce wanted me to do was go to Thor's house and "do whatever detectives do", and get her clothes -- and handbag containing her identification. She realized I'd have to notify the police, but fervently hoped I could avoid mentioning her name. Her impact in the zing commercials had led to her being considered for an excellent part in an upcoming TV series, Underwater Western Eye, a documentary-type show to be sponsored by Oatnut Grits. But if Joyce got involved in murder or salacious scandal, the role would probably go to the sponsor's wife, Mrs. Oatnut Grits. Or at least not to Joyce. "And I so want the part", she said. "The commercials have just been for money, there hasn't been any real incentive for me to do them, but in Underwater Western Eye I'd have a chance to act. I could show what I can do". As far as I was concerned, she had already and had dandily shown what she could do. But I promised Joyce I would mention her name, if at all, only as a last resort. Seeming much relieved, she smiled one of those worth-waiting-for smiles, and I smiled all the way into the bedroom. There I got my Colt Special and shoulder harness, slipped my coat on, and went back into the front room. Joyce squirmed a little on the divan. "I'm starting to itch", she said. "Itch"? "Yes, I'm still all covered with that soap. I was loaded with suds when I ran away, and I haven't had a chance to wash it off. Mmmm, it sure itches". "You might as well wait here while I'm gone, so you can use my shower if you'd like". "Oh, I'd love to". I showed her the shower and tub, and she said, smiling, "If you really don't mind, I think I'll get clean in the shower, then soak for a few minutes in your tub. That always relaxes me. Doesn't it you"? "Only when I do it". I shook my head. One of my virtues or vices is a sort of three-dimensional imagination complete with sound effects and glorious living color. "Soak as long as you want, Joyce. It'll probably be at least an hour or two before I can check back with you. So you'll have everything all to yourself, doggone" I looked at my watch. Ten after nine. Time to go, I supposed. "Well, goodbye", I said. "Goodbye. You'd better hurry". "Oh, you can count on that". She smiled slightly. Softly. Warmly. "Don't hurry too much. I'll be soaking for at least half an hour". That was all she said. But suddenly those hot-honey eyes seemed to have everything but swarms of bees in them. However, when there's a job to be done, I'm a monstrosity of grim determination, I like to think. I spun about and clattered through the front room to the door. As I went out, I could hear water pouring in the shower. Hot water. She wouldn't be taking a cold shower. Hell, she couldn't. Bryn Mawr Drive is only two or three miles from the Spartan, and it took me less than five minutes to get there. But the scene was not the quiet, calm scene I'd expected. Four cars were parked at the curb, and two of them were police radio cars. Lights blazed in the big house and surrounding grounds. I followed a shrubbery-lined gravel path alongside the house to the pool. Two uniformed officers, a couple of plain-clothesmen I knew, and two other men stood on a gray cement area next to the pool on my left. At the pool's far end was the little cabana Joyce had mentioned, and on the water's surface floated scattered lavender patches of limp-looking lather. A few yards beyond the group of men, a man's nude body lay face down on a patch of thick green dichondra. Lieutenant Rawlins, one of the plain-clothesmen, spotted me and said, "Hi, Shell", and walked toward me. "How'd you hear about this one"? I grinned, but ignored the question. He didn't push it; Rawlins worked out of Central Homicide and we'd been friends for years. He filled me in. A call to the police had been placed from here a couple of minutes after nine P.M., and the first police car had arrived two or three minutes after that -- 10 minutes ago now. Present at the scene -- in addition to the dead man, who was indeed Louis Thor -- had been Thor's partner Bill Blake, and Antony Rose, an advertising agency executive who handled the zing account. Neither of them, I understood, had been present at the filming session earlier. "What were they doing here"? I asked Rawlins. "They were supposed to meet Thor at nine PM for a conference concerning the ad campaign for their soap, a new angle based on this SX-21 stuff". "Yeah, I've heard more about SX-21 than space exploration lately. What is the gunk"? "How would I know? It's a secret. That was the new advertising angle -- something about a Lloyd's of London policy to insure the secrecy of the secret ingredient. Actually, only two men know what the formula is, Blake and" -- He stopped and looked at Thor's body. I said, "O.K., so now only Blake knows. How's it strike you, foul or fair"? "Can't say yet. Deputy coroner says it looks like he sucked in a big pile of those thick suds and strangled on 'em. The PM might show he drowned instead, but that's what the once-over-lightly gives us. Accident, murder, suicide -- take your pick". "I'll pick murder. Anything else"? "According to Rose, he arrived here a couple minutes before nine and spotted Thor in the water, got a hooked pole from the pool-equipment locker and started hauling him out.