Button, button, who's got the button--on French Lowther's jacket. It's in the hand of his former wife, now a corpse on the golf course, and she's been a generally toxic threat to an entire industrial laboratory although Lowther's mousy wife Jenny (and the reader) has every reason to believe he killed her. . . .Jenny shivers apprehensively throughout the proceedings which are no great shakes but adequate, for the ladies.