AUTHORS Michael Sutton and Anthony Singleton described this as a

''wicked comedy.'' I found it an uneasy hybrid -- a rich farce

sandwiched between indigestible wedges of nostalgia.

Three successful writers of the gentlemanly detective fiction of the

1920s and 30s meet in their London club, the Murder League. They recall

the old days, lament their passing, and then decide not just to conceive

but to commit one last perfect crime, dash and to blazes with the

consequences. Pat to hand comes a victim: the tabloids term him the

Baker Street Bludgeoner. Their trained minds instantly focus on a

suspect.

Donald Sinden's character dreams of the activities of his ace

detective -- a one-legged midget. June Whitfield, the Agatha Christie of

the trio sits placidly knitting. Frank Middlemass, a lovely blundering

old buffer, regales them with the powers of ''the venom of a Tasman

tarantula.''

Even given such talents the preliminaries make heavy-going.

The middle act, however, redeems it -- farce of split-second timing

made funnier by the genuine quality of the characters' bumbled details.

Picture the clever Miss Whitfield in a too-tight evening dress on a sofa

practising poses to seduce the victim. Mr Sinden stands behind, hidden

by a screen, waiting to administer chloroform. Miss Whitfield moves at

the vital moment, gets the dose, staggers, lands back at the other end

of the sofa just as the wobbling screen has been repositioned and gets a

second dose. Momentum is sustained as the Bludgeoner is dragged into a

gorilla outfit and hauled up on top of a cupboard. Fishing line is

fixed, ropes rigged, a chandalier lowered, and the plotters retreat

behind the locked door -- the perfect crime!

Sadly that's the end of the fun. The final act is all twists and

turns, tying up the plot but never recapturing zest.