Since imitation is the sincerest form of. . . Pronzini, an avid connoisseur-collector of the pulps, perpetuates the genre with his nameless private eye assigned to find a husband with busy hands (another woman in a California motel) and light fingers (an unacknowledged burglary record). There's also a paperback which prods the investigation and dual solution. Pronzini's one of the younger writers of that older form and he hurries his stories along with violence occasionally clouded by a nostalgia for what was or what might have been. Better then, perhaps, but all right for now.