Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

Argentine marines swooped into the Buenos Aires headquarters of the diehard Peronista labor confederation, in a double-locked room discovered a white-shrouded body laid out on a long table flanked by evergreens. The corpse: none other than Eva Peron, perfectly preserved though three years dead of cancer, whose whereabouts was till now a mystery to Argentina's victorious revolutionaries. With ex-Dictator Juan Peron (the "immortal widower") now in exile, Eva's remains will probably be turned over to her mother for burial at last.

At a Hollywood premiere, grey-templed Cinemale Clark Gable, 54, and his fifth wife, sometime Actress Kay Williams, 37, managed smiles on Kay's first venture in public since she lost the baby she had been expecting next May.

In California's oasis community of Palm Springs, the relatively modest (4,750 sq. ft. of floor space) $650,000 ranch house of Los Angeles Industrialist Robert McCulloch (power mowers, chain saws) was near completion after a year's construction. Big reason for the dream house's high cost: gadget-mad Bob McCulloch's departure from mere reliance on ordinary home appliances into pioneering a sort of householder's pushbutton paradise. Items: 1) beds that spring up and away from walls for easier sheet-tucking, 2) two bars with refrigerated drawers for glassware, perpetually cold ice buckets, automatic bottle-delivery tubes, 3) a tennis court sunken completely below the annoying swath of desert winds, 4) a swimming pool with surrounding tiles refrigerated to prevent hot feet, and at poolside a "spit" that will rotate sunbathers too lazy to turn themselves for an even tan.

After duly stabbing herself to wind up a soaring performance in Madame Butterfly, Hell's-Kitchen-born Soprano Maria Meneghini Callas (TIME, Nov. 21) strode offstage in Chicago's Civic Opera House, applause still caressing her ears. She fluttered straight into an ambush party of eight process servers, who were there to tag her with summonses in breach-of-contract suits brought against her by a Manhattan lawyer. Windmilling in outrage and trilling furiously in English and Italian, Grand Diva Callas erupted: "Get your hands off me! Don't touch me, don't touch me! Chicago will be sorry for this!" As the servers, aghast at having a tigress by the tail, retreated, La Callas, cheered on by theater employees and fans, bared her fangs to cry: "I will not be served! I have the voice of an angel! No man can serve me!" Then she lunged into her dressing room. Long after the platoon of servers had gone, Maria's shrieks were counterpointed by the sound of bric-a-brac smashing against the walls. Next morning Soprano Callas, leaving her summonses behind her, hopped off to Milan. Arriving in sunny Italy, she was still in high-soprano dudgeon. "Those Zulus maltreated me," she caterwauled. "But I don't care a dime what those people say or do!"

The trim queen of modern U.S. racing yachts, Bolero, a 73 1/2ft. yawl seldom out of first place in her class, was sold by the New York Yacht Club's former commodore, salty Multimillionaire John Nicholas Brown (once renowned as "the world's richest baby"), to boat-loving Swedish Shipping Magnate Sven Salen, whose line of six-meter yachts (all christened Maybe) is a perennial threat in Eastern U.S. sailing contests. Price paid for Bolero, Class A winner of the 1950 and 1954 Newport-to-Bermuda races, was undisclosed. Her original cost: $250,000.

A month after she accidentally shot and killed her husband, millionaire Sportsman William Woodward Jr., in their Long Island mansion (TIME, Nov. 7), Ann Eden Crowell Woodward, 39, recovering from shock and a virus infection, was slated for release from a Manhattan hospital this week.

In a California court, Tyrus Raymond ("The Georgia Peach") Cobb, 68, always a crusty gamecock on the baseball diamond, faced a $50,000 personal injuries suit slapped on him by Elbert D. Felts, oldtime Pacific Coast Leaguer, ex-hunting companion and ex-friend of Cobb's. Felts claimed that Cobb, outraged because he had been stuck with a dinner check, attacked him and aggravated an old back injury. The jury, though not exactly swayed by Ty's plea of self-defense (he has had two heart attacks), decided that Felts's injuries did not merit payment of damages, voted (9 to 3) for Cobb.

At a Roman court auction of confiscated goods, Italy's ailing Red Boss Palmiro Togliatti popped up as the only bidder for a treasured souvenir, a ,38-cal. pistol, plus four cartridges (one unfired), the implements of an assassination try made on Togliatti in 1948 by a Sicilian student. Going, going, gone for 97-c-.

Well-tiered Cinemactress Terry (Come Back Little Sheba) Moore, often a headlinemaker because of her delight in sartorial brevity (e.g., an ermine bathing-suit ensemble in Korea in 1953), was "trapped" in an unusually overexposed pose last June by a Turkish photographer in Istanbul. Wailed she then: "A terrible blow -and just when I've been studying Shakespeare four hours a day." Scandalmongering Rave magazine soon got around to handing Terry its "Lady Bum" award for her "hypocritical display of outraged modesty." Last week, feeling degraded and maligned. Terry entered the lists of Hollywood stars tilting with the sewer sheets (TIME, July 11), lanced Rave with a $2,000,000 libel suit.

To help ballyhoo a $50-a-plate benefit for Manhattan's nonprofit Actors' Studio. Cinemactor Marlon Brando, a Studio alumnus, and Hollywood Expatriate Marilyn Monroe, presently a Studio "observer," got together to make an unlikely combination that could be a hilarious bonanza at the box office. Features of next month's Studio soiree: legerdemain by Actor Orson Welles, risque-poetry reading by Playwright Tennessee Williams, "after-midnight" songs by Italy's Cinemactress Anna Magnani.

At a small family dinner in Windsor Castle, Britain's Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh, fresh from a hunting expedition in Bedfordshire, celebrated their eighth wedding anniversary.

Penning a New York Times piece to help mark the celebration of Mozart Year, famed Pianist Rudolf Serkin, 52, gave readers an unwitting hint of when old age sets in for child prodigies: "Love and understanding for Mozart came rather late in my life as a musician. Mozart's music didn't mean much to me until I was about 13 or 14 years old."*

* Serkin's eight-year-old son Peter suffers little from such retarded appreciation of music. Recently, after hearing his father and other musicians repeat the last movement of a Mozart concerto at a chamber-music concert as a joyous encore, Peter worriedly asked Serkin: "Gee, Pop, who goofed?"

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