The Forlorn Lady

Being a private investigator means two things. You can be sure you'll run into trouble, and you can never be sure you'll get out of it. Not much you can do about it, I guess, except...

like Jimmy always says. Walk softly, please, Detroit. And now, Peter Troy investigates... the love-lorn lady. Love makes the world go round, said the man, and I'd hate to argue about that. It could be, love does make this tired old planet revolve, but personally, I wouldn't be at all surprised if one day it brought the world to a dead stop. One thing I'm sure of, it brings some folks

to a dead stop, and I mean dead. For if love often urges folks to make great sacrifices, it sure enough also gives some others a terrible yen for murder, as any history book or dime novelette can demonstrate. Like for instance the thing that happened to a character by the name of David Murray, a nun to savory jerk who ran of all things, a Lonely Hearts Club.

He had the Lonely Hearts game sewn up. By day he ran the club for those unfortunate people who need someone else to find mates for them. And by night he ran his own private Lonely Hearts club in which he shared himself out among a number of dolls with whom he was apparently quite a hit.

Until one certain night. Now don't be that way darling. You know there's nobody else but you. What's her? No don't be silly. She doesn't mean a thing to me. Well, I'm telling you now, aren't I?

Of course I do. All right, then I love you. How's that? I love you. I love you. I love you. Madly, uncontrollably without ceasing. I love your eyes, your lips, your... Oh, oh, oh. Somebody at the door, just to say darling.