I've read several of Helen Reilly's stories featuring Inspector McKee of the Manhattan Homicide Squad, and this particular one does not fare so well when compared to the others. It would have been a much better book had we had more of McKee and his detectives, and less (much less) of naive, dim-witted, self-absorbed Gabrielle Conant, who spent just about the entirety of the book lying to the police, hiding evidence, not reporting bodies she trips over and deluding herself. Eventually, justice is served (after all, this is not a modern book)but no thanks to Miss Conant. Personally, I think McKee should have charged her with felony cluelessness. Still, the book is an enjoyable read for any fan of classic post-war mysteries, and the depth and quality of Reilly's writing does much to help the reader overlook the sometimes frustrating plotting.