According to one review, Garden runs on passion, avarice, ambition and horse-racing. It also runs on pure 1930s octane, because this is a classic house-party murder mystery, that staple of the Golden Age. As befitting a Philo yarn, of course, it’s a very Manhattan house-party, with an actress and a socialite on hand, and a bookie on the telephone. There’s also a losing bet on the ponies, and an ensuing suicide…but Philo, natch, is not sure just who pulled the trigger. A joy, as always, for readers who delight in Philo’s spectacular brand of awfulness–is there anyone snootier’ Snobbier’ More taken with himself’–but also for fans of the Impossible Crime.