Illustrated by REMINGTON At the sound, Henry Ritchie's hand jerked. Most of the martini sloshed out over his robe. He jumped up, swabbing furiously at the spots. "Goddam it!" "Hank!" His wife slammed her book together. "Well, what do you expect? That confounded buzzer—" "—is a perfectly natural normal buzzer. You're just terribly upset, dear." "No," Mr. Ritchie said, "I am not 'just terribly upset, dear'—for seven years I've been listening to that banshee's wail every time somebody wants in. Wel