In addition to the square-jawed Chester Morris, Tomorrow at Seven benefits from what surely must be pulp fiction's most obliging murder victims. You would think that after an ace of spades adorned with an invitation had preceded two or three homicides, potential victims would either gracefully decline or simply fail to show up. But you would be wrong. Instead, everyone, from elderly Oscar Apfel to mustachioed Cornelius Keefe, solicitously keeps his appointment with a mystery killer whose identity, in any case, is fairly easy to spot. Add Frank McHugh and Allen Jenkins as a couple of dopey detectives and you have a typically artificial whodunit, early talkie style.