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It was a cold Los Angeles February morning when the telegram arrived on my desk down at police HQ. On the face of it, it told just another LA story: wealthy philanthropist gets threatening note from some two-bit grifter. What made me slump a little straighter in my chair was the name of the pigeon - Freeman Linder, whose wife just happened to shoot herself in the bathtub a couple of weeks earlier.

He wanted me at his cosy country mansion that evening. How could I refuse?

It looked like a short job anyway. Check out the family and staff, get the name of the letter-writer, warn him off, forget about it. I might have known there'd be more to it. They say the hardest crime to crack is the one with no apparent motive. I know better now. The hardest crime is the one that hasn't happened... yet.

The set up, as you could guess dealing with this kind of class, is as cute as Christmas - bright and brassy and all wrapped up in a smart package. I took the time for a short drink and a long study of the file: the telegram, Mrs Linder's farewell note, a matchbook found near the house bearing the phone number Chandler 1729 (could someone be pulling a gag?). There was also a copy of the local newspaper of the day after the apparent suicide and a copy of the Detective's Gazette.

After that I headed up into the hills above Hollywood.

The house was nice in the kind of understated way that whispers "money" so loud your ears hurt. Inside I met the inscrutable oriental butler. Phong, Linder himself, looking nervous and applying himself to a drink with admirable dedication, and Monica the daughter, a good-looking broad who'd probably plug you with a .45 if you called her that within earshot.

When it turned out that the poison pen writer was none other than the late Mrs Linger's former lover, I figured I could take some of the philanthropist's scotch, make my excuses and leave.

Before I got around to part one of the plan. Linder's on the floor bleeding to death, lover boy is caught skulking around the garden and everybody in the house suddenly looks as suspicious as a wedding party at Wrong-Way Wendel's dice emporium.

I'd given myself twelve hours to solve the case. With more than an hour of that time gone, I suddenly realised I'd been looking the wrong way and then found myself the star witness in a murder story that would have reporters trampling old ladies to get in on it.

Like I said, the Linder place is no shack. You could get lost wandering around the closets in there. Bedrooms off corridors, separate bathrooms all over the house, yards outside that end in closed gates and fences, rooms that lead to other rooms and bring you back to where you started.

A wise detective would make a map. I got wise after ending up in the laundry a few times.

Creepy too, wandering around the house, not knowing whether you'd bump into some knife-wielding maniac or hear the crack of a pistol just before the bullet took you between the shoulder blades.

And what a crew of suspects. Strong, silent Phong, who'd been promised wealth in the land of the free and found lots of promises, little freedom and no wealth. Or lover boy with a professed hatred of guns and such an air of innocence I almost believed him. Almost.

And Monica, the bachelor heiress who probably wrestled bears on her weekends off.

Maybe Linder knocked himself off, unable to stand the shame of his errant wife's suicide, setting his rival up for the rap.

Still, snooping around paid dividends - as always - and asking a few tough questions, making easy with Linder's booze, and waving the few clues I had around provided some food for thought.

That false arrest won't look too good on the record though. Luckily I was able to go back and have another crack at it - treading a little more carefully this time.

Of course, I salvaged my tattered reputation and blew the case wide open.

But it took a good deal longer than my original 12 hour deadline.

Guilty as hell. Guilty of purverying another entertaining, funny, addictive adventure. I hope those people at Infocom get everything they deserve.

Whodunnit? There is such a thing as police confidentiality. You should try it yourself, although police pay being what it is, for a small consideration I could be encouraged to squeal.