Murder at the Gallop. A body lies on the floor. A little to one side, on all fours, crouches a fat old bloodhound. Its ears are pendulous, its muzzle is prominent, its bloodshot eyes stare dolefully out of enormous pouches. "Dead!" the bloodhound woofs with astonishment, and then, with a dramatic flourish of its dewlaps, the comical creature rears up on its skinny hind legs and goes waddling off on the scent of the killer.
The dear old dog, as connoisseurs of screen comedy will quickly surmise, is Britain's Margaret Rutherford (TIME, May 24), a 71-year-old crock of charm who, pound for...
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