Mr. Lockridge goes his own pleasant way ignoring modern times (or its casualties, like the restaurant so prominently featured here) and this one deals with the suicide? murder? of a successful novelist found in a Greenwich Village apartment although she really lived at the Algonquin hotel. There's a red-bearded young man and her brother and her publisher and her agent to be suspiciously considered and to give you a view of the literary lowlife (well before Clifford Irving). He gives his olderfangled audience the benefit of a different and not very demanding story each time in a habitat they think they recognize or would like to.