``I forgive --.''

``That's what started all the trouble in the first place. Oh, dear, I'm all unstrung.''

``You and me both, dear. Haven't we & & & haven't I seen you & & &. I mean, surely we've --.''

``You may have seen me on TV,'' she said. ``I've done several filmed commercials for --.''

Then it hit me. ``ZING!'' I cried.

``Why, yes. And you recognized me?''

``Yes, indeed. In fact, I was watching you on that little seventeen inch screen when you rang my bell. Man, you rang -- it was in color, too, Miss, and & & & Miss? What's your name, anyway? Ah, you were splendid.'' I sat by her on the divan. ``Splendid. In a waterfall and all that.''

``That's the last one we did. That was a fun one.''

``I'll bet. It was fun for me, all right. I don't mean to pry, but do they hide the swimsuit with the bubbles? I mean: Is advertising honest?

``It depends on who does it. I never wear anything at all. It wouldn't -- wouldn't seem fair, somehow.''

``I couldn't agree with you more.''

``I really do have something important to tell you, Mr. Scott. About the murder.''

``Murder? Oh, yeah,'' I said. ``Tell me about the murder.''

She told me. ZING was the creation of two men, Louis Thor and Bill Blake, partners in ZING! , Inc.. They'd peddled the soap virtually alone, and without much success, until about a year ago, when -- with the addition of ``SX-21'' to their secret formula and the inauguration of a high-powered advertising campaign -- sales had soared practically into orbit. Their product had been endorsed by Good Housekeeping, the A. M. A., and the Veterinary Journal, among other repositories of higher wisdom, and before much longer if you didn't have a cake of their soap in the john, even your best friends would think you didn't bathe.