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aroma of funny cigarettes, one could get arrested for breathing.
    It was a scene out of Our Dancing Daughters, and I half expected to see Joan Crawford doing the Charleston on a grand piano while wiggling out of her panties from beneath her crepe-de-chine gown. What I got, alas, was Binky Watrous.
    “Archy, what are you doing here?”
    “I came for the cuisine. Et tu?”
    “I came to cohabitate.”
    Binky’s statements of fact often defy the snappy retort. This was one of them. “Whose house is this?” I asked.
    “Beats me, Archy.”
    Need I say here that in order to be heard Binky and I, hands cupped about our lips to simulate megaphones, were shouting into each other’s ears?
    “Who invited you?” I asked next, knowing I might as well have asked Binky to define the theory of relativity. Binky has always reminded me of a grown-up version of the child actor Claude Jarman Jr. Limp blond hair, limp blond mustache, and large, limpid eyes not unlike those of the fawn poor Claude toted about in The Yearling. Binky, in fact, could have been cast as both the boy and his pet—an all-time first, even for Hollywood.
    “No one invited me,” came the not surprising answer. “Who invited you, Archy?”
    “Same guy.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Never mind, Binky. Did you just happen to drop in? I mean, it’s a bit off the beaten path for gate-crashing, or were you rowing down Lake Worth when you saw the lights and heard the enchanting music of the Sirens?”
    “Neither, Archy. Hillcrest is the talk of Palm Beach.” Then, after a pause, “With the young set, that is.”
    I am on the good side of forty, by several years, and Binky, I’m sure, is in clear view of thirty. So, if Hillcrest was the talk of the young set, I could have asked Binky Watrous how he heard about it. I didn’t because we would then have to play this painful scene again.
    But mention of the young set did inspire me to look more closely at the boys and girls—gyrating, imbibing, and puffing—now that my eyes had become more accustomed to the lighting that was on par with the radiance of my penlite. They looked barely old enough to drink, let alone gyrate. It all appeared illegal and immoral, but then I’m neither the law nor the guy able to cast the first stone.
    “Fill me in on the talk of the young set,” I shouted at Binky.
    “This is a party house. Something going on most nights of the week. Everything is very loose and no one asks for ID.”
    There was nothing loose about the way these modern-day vamps clung to their Valentinos. “And the booze is compliments of the house?”
    “It’s BYOB, Archy. Bring your own bottle. But the ice is on the house.”
    But not, I was certain, the cannabis and any other mood enhancers being offered to our young set. I did know, from my aforementioned investigation of the place, that Hillcrest had been built many years ago by a man who had made his money manufacturing portable johns. That product’s particular odor, it seems, was destined to haunt Hillcrest. I also knew the man had left it to his wife, who, when her time came, left it to her alma mater.
    Their children contested the bequest, and while school and progeny did battle the house was available on a month-to-month basis with the rent going into an escrow account to be presented to the winner. I also knew the rent was five thousand bucks a month. The present tenant either had a thick wallet or had come up with an odious scheme to pay for his keep.
    All speculation, I know, but I thought it wise to caution my young friend. “I don’t think I would make this place a habit, Binky, unless you enjoy riding in paddy wagons.”
    “You know I’m not into anything heavy, Archy.” Poor Binky was offended.
    “I know,” I assured him, “but guilt by association in a joint like this is still guilt.”
    The G word made Binky wonder, “Are you on a case, Archy?”
    “Actually, I’m looking for Veronica Manning.”
    Binky smiled, revealing a fine set of