One
\"A good night for murder，\" said young Hoddy Forrest in as lugu-
brious a voice as he could summon. He dangled brown legs over
the balustrade of the terrace and looked out at the still， evening
waters of the Sound. Silence on the terrace behind him was disap-
pointing; there was only Aunt Chrissy， sitting stiffly upright in a
wicker chair nearby， her high-nosed face imperturbable as usual.
Even the way her slim feet were planted together on the flagstone
terrace suggested ice dignity. She didn t lift one of her carefully
arched eyebrows but she had the ears of a cat， so she must have
heard him but did not comment upon his ominous observation. He
would have liked some sort of reaction to his deeply dramatic
tones. He liked to think of himself in turn a poet rnanqu~ or an
actor manque. His sister， Meade， was likely to say a little crisply
that he was manque， all right， and needn t brag about it. Meade
was twenty-three; Hoddy was nineteen， going on twenty， and he
had dramatic news for her. But Andy wouldn t wait very long;
Hoddy swung his bare legs and dirty tennis shorts back over the
balustrade and as he did so the door to the house opened; there was
the clink of bottles and glasses and Meade emerged， laden with a
tray of cocktail materials. Hoddy was not lacking in chivalry; he
went to take the tray from her hands.
\"Thanks，\" said Meade， who was， he reflected briefly， even to
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