 Johnny Holland. Jerry Holland, Johnny. Tri-mutual insurance limited. Oh, sure, Jerry. How are you? The name Curtis Randall mean anything to you. Uh, the banker here in Hartford? That's the one. He's also one of our big policyholders. At least he was. Oh, what's happened to him? A day before yesterday, the inner friend of his fellow named Byron Peter York. And? And I had some old character in the neighborhood to act as guide. Randall and Peters didn't know it, but the old goat was an alcoholic. So what happened? At the end of the day's hunt, they raised Cain with Curly because he hadn't found them a deer. Curly the name of the guide, huh? Yeah, a thousand. A hundred. Wow. Who's Randall's beneficiary? His hunting companion, Peters. Peters? No wonder you want me to investigate. Johnny. Only this one looks too easy. Wait, Johnny. I'll be right over. Exciting adventures of a man with the action-packed expense account. America's fabulous freelance insurance investigator. Yours truly, Johnny Dollar. And now act one of yours truly, Johnny Dollar. A special investigator, Johnny Dollar. To the tri-mutual insurance company limited Hartford, Connecticut. Following is an account of expenses incurred during my investigation of the hapless hunter matter. Expense account item one, 95 cents for a taxi across town to tri-mutual in the office of Jerry Holland. As they open the door, he might be halfway. Hey, what was the idea of hanging up on me, Johnny? Then when I tried to call you back, you'd left. Well, sure. I figured if this thing only happened a day or so ago, the faster I could get working on it, the better. Well, I'll go along with you, Matt. Where's this man, Peters? In the hospital. Because if anybody should be suspect, he's short. After all, as a beneficiary, what did you say? I tried to tell you on the phone only you hung up. Byron Peters is in the hospital. Where? Over in Kingman, New York. Why? Because he was shot up, too, with that drunken guide when he tried to prevent him from killing Randall. Oh. Then Curly killed himself. Yeah. You know, if you'd stop going off half-copped, you might get somewhere on this case. If it really is a case. Sorry, I guess I jumped to a conclusion before it. You sure did. Oh, half a million is still a lot of money. Sure it is. If you need it. And Byron Peters doesn't? Well, according to the local police chief who called me, it was in Byron Peters' brand new El Dorado that they drove over to Kingman. It was Peters who arranged for the guide's service. It was he who supplied the guns in the quick. OK, OK, Jerry. I'll take your word for it. What hospital is he in over there? Angel of Mercy. It's the only one. Any other information I ought to have? None that I can give you. As I told you, this is just routine because of the money involved, company policy. Of course, for your report, you might try to find out if this old Curly Summers the guide had any reason to have it in for Randall. Randall knew him before, huh? I thought you said Peters arranged for the guide. Well, I guess I did. But now, Jerry. Let me have Peters' home address with you, and Randall's. Sure, why not? And I hope you don't think. Did you know Randall well? Yes. Was he a drinking man? One martini before Denny, that's all. Hey, uh, why? How about Peters? Oh, I don't know. What difference would it make? Oh, just wondered. Don't kid me, Johnny. You've got something of your sleeve. Why, Jerry? Come on now, what is it? You know something about these people that I don't? Not a thing, so help me. But $500,000 is a lot of money. And I tell you that if you suspect Byron Peters, you're crazy. Did I say I still suspect? But the way you've been talking. Did I? Well, no. Well, I do. Sure, with so little to go on, I had no reason at all to suspect Peters. Except for a hunch. But hunches have paid off for me more than once. Expense account item 2380, a tank full of gas for the drive across Route 6 to the New York state line. There, I picked up 9W, then 212 to Kingman. I found the Angel of Mercy Hospital on the way into town. The chief resident physician and Dr. Matthews was completely cooperative. And of no help whatsoever. Quite pointless to see him at the moment, Mr. Donald. Oh, what do you mean, Doctor? Mr. Peters is sleeping under sedation. Oh, I'm afraid the ordeal with the police left him quite exhausted. The police have already seen and questioned him? Yes, and they had no business questioning him so long in view of his condition. Shock, you know. Tell me something. Do they suspect that he killed Mr. Randall too, then wounded himself for an alibi? You mean that you do? Yeah. Do they? No, my boy. You must be joking, of course not. Oh, why not? Whether you realize it or not. And you will, if I permit you to see him, Mr. Peters, see the matter in which he was wounded, see the extent of his wound. I realize what? I asked you a question, Doctor. You will realize how impossible it would have been for him to shoot himself in that fashion, how narrowly he himself escaped death at the hands of that rumb-crazed guy. You're sure, Doctor? Of course I'm sure, and so are the police. Well, where does that leave me? If I may say so, who has egg on your face? Act two of yours truly, Johnny Dollar, in a moment. And now, act two of yours truly, Johnny Dollar, and the hapless hunter matter. A hunting guide had run him up in the little town of Kingman, New York. And according to report, was responsible for the death by shooting of wealthy banker Curtis Randall for the wounding of Randall's companion, Byron Peters. But Peters has been a fishery of Randall's half million dollar insurance policy. So naturally, the old bugger suspicion began to gnaw away at the back of my brain. Until that is, I saw Peters, his wounds, the x-rays, and finally talked with Captain McManus at the local police headquarters. Oh, sure, we talked to Peters, Mr. Dollar, but only to find out exactly what happened when he clearly went off his rocker and started spraying lead with his hunting rifle, then shot himself. Then my suspicion that Peters might have done the shooting Well, didn't you see how Mr. Peters was hit by that 30-30? Oh, look, he saw Curley pull the rifle on Mr. Randall and shoot him down. Yeah. Yeah, so he lunged at Curley. Like this. Curley whirled around, pulled the trigger. Yeah. Well, the x-rays I saw. Sure, well, then you know. When Peters lunged at him, the bullet creased his head from the top, went right through the muscles in the back of his left shoulder, and landed in the floor. So it's pretty obvious that Peters couldn't have shot himself. It's impossible. He would have had to have arms five or six feet long to shoot himself on the top of the head at that angle. Hey, when did you first learn about this whole thing, Captain? When Mr. Peters came to, he phoned me from up at Curley's cabin where it happened. I went up there right away. And Curley and Randall were dead. Peters was still lying next to the fireplace where he'd fallen. But if he was able to phone you, he pulled the phone over to him by the cord. Still had a good right hand, you know. Oh, I see. Where were Randall and Curley? Randall by the front door with the bullet in the back of his head. Curley lay between them. Just how much do you know about this Curley character? Well, that's the part I don't understand. Why did it? I heard he was an alcoholic. Sure, he was a town drunk in a harmless sort of a way, except when he'd go off on a rampage and get into a fight or two. But never during hunting season. Well, what did he do? Odd jobs of any kind, most anything. People had always refused to pay him until the job was done to make sure it stays over, huh? Well, at least reasonably sober. And just as soon as he got paid, he'd buy a lot of cheap whiskey and hole up in his cabin. That's where the murder occurred. Yeah, except during hunting season. Then he'd never touch it. He was a good guide, Mr. Dollar. He made a lot of money from the people who came up from New York City and Hartford and such. That's the part I don't understand. He was hitting the bottle during the season. Well, did he ever have any trouble with his clients before? Oh, he'd belly ache about them being so rich when he was so poor, that sort of thing. But he'd have to get awfully drunk. I swear, I don't understand it. Well, look, Captain, I'd like to see the bodies of Mr. Randall and Curly. Are they still hereabouts? Still, well, we're at the car in his office, then let's go, huh? I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for. Maybe that's the reason I found it. At least found something that started that old suspicion bug gnawing away again. Peter's back at the hospital and had a bad powder burn on his forehead next to where the bullet increased him. OK, he had said that Curly the guide pulled the trigger when he lunged at him. Randall, there at the coroner's office, had no powder burns. OK, it was apparent that he had been shot from across the room. But Curly, who was supposed to have shot himself upward through the jaw, also showed no sign of powder burn. Sure, the bullet hole indicated he could have shot himself by holding the gun at arm's length, a 30-30s fairly short, but no powder burn. I said nothing of this to Chief McMannus. Well, it pretty much bears out what Peter's told me and I told you, doesn't it? Curly shot Randall, then Peter's ran himself. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that Randall did the shooting. First, that is. Well, now, Mr. Dollar, say, way, speaking of argument, Peter said that Randall and Curly had a pretty big one. You know, because Curly didn't find him any dare. That's when he started to get drunk and abusive. But as for Mr. Randall. On the other hand, suppose that Peter started the whole thing. Oh, now, look, you know that doesn't make any sense. Then try to kill himself. Well, isn't that what you're saying Curly did? Sure, but that's different. No good old bum realized he'd gone too far. There was no other way out for him. But a man like Peter's with money, everything he wants. Where is this cabinet, Curly's? Well, quite a way. 10, 12 miles. How do I get there? Straight down Parris Street to the mobile gas station. You know where that is? Yeah, I saw them away. OK, you turn left there. Go six miles and take the first right hand road right up the side of Deere Mountain until you get there. OK. Oh, here. Here's the key to it. Oh, good thanks, Chief. I'll see you later. You want me to go along with you? No. According to you, this hunch of mine is all wrong. I'm sure of it. OK, then. I'd better wing it alone. From the outside, Curly's cabin was a shack, nothing more. And there were enough cheap whiskey bottles scattered around the yard to sink a battleship. Inside, however, it was pretty comfortably fixed up. And back into the kitchen sink, I found a case of Prince Francis scotch, nearly full. Had Curly suddenly changed his taste for the better? Or had somebody decided to bait him with it? By the dark stains on the floor, I could see where both Randall and Curly had fallen. Where Peters had gone down, there was also the rifle slug embedded in the floor. And I noticed the angle at which that slug had ended, as though it had been fired from the ceiling, certainly from higher than any normal man could reach. And Curly was only five foot two or three. Then I saw something else, a heavy cord hanging down from one of the rafters above where Peters had lain. It was sprayed at the end as though forcibly broken. Now, suppose someone had hung a loaded rifle there by the trigger so the slightest pull would set it off. It stood under it, holding the muzzle carefully next to his head, to one side, just close enough to. Captain? Yeah, listen, still don't see how you can be. What do you mean? I'm going to use it to hospital here on this party line. I thought you had him under sedation? It would. Well, what happened? Well, he woke up and asked me who it was. I'd been here to see him while he was drowsy. Did you tell him who I was? Yes, and he seemed to drop off again, so I left him on. Doctor? Listen, darling. Yeah, chief. I don't know what it means any more than you to have that isolated cabin. Sure, chief, I'll leave right away. Byron Peters. That's right. Byron Peters. Act three of yours truly, Johnny Dollar, in a moment. And now act three of yours truly, Johnny Dollar, and the hapless hunter matter. He heard by that bullet as you pretended. That's right, darling. Does that help bear out your assertions about me? Not nearly so much as you're coming up here to this cabin, Peters. What's that supposed to mean? You rigged the whole thing pretty well, but not well enough. Why you wanted to get rid of Curtis Randall? I don't know. You're out of your mind. Randall was a friend of mine. You must have had some reason for killing him. Curly Summers murdered Kurt. We had a big argument because he hadn't found us any game. The only reason it got out of hand was because Curly was drunk. On what? On some of that expensive scotch I found in the kitchen. How should I know? Yes. Where did he get that? How should I know? Well, I do. You brought it here to help bolster your phony alibi. To indicate that Curly had it up here, had been hitting it. But you pulled a boo-boo. Why don't you talk sense, detective? Are you trying to tell me, Curly, would ever have stuff like that? Look, look at the old bottle scattered around outside. Cheap rotgut, that's all. What's more, he never touched a drop during hunting season. That's about as thin evidence as you could possibly dig up dollar and you know it. Peters, why did you come up here just now? OK, I'll tell you that, too. Lying there in the hospital, nursing your sore shoulder, you didn't plan on that injury, did you? I told the police. Oh, yeah, sure you told the police. Lying there, you suddenly remember the one thing that could show how you cleverly wounded yourself after you killed Landl and Curly. That piece of cord up on the rafter, where you hung Curly's gun up by the trigger. Dollar. You aimed it carefully along the side of your head, then yanked on it to set it off. Dangerous, but a great alibi. I told the police, the doctor. Curly pulled that trigger when I lunged at him, struggled with him. Little Curly held that gun high enough so the bullet would crease your head from above. I was bent over, lunging at him. And then entered the floor from up here, where this cord is hanging. You're pretty smart, aren't you, Dollar? Curly was supposed to have committed suicide, huh? Yes, he must have, because I heard him shoot himself as I passed out. Oh, sure. The bullet ended his lower jaw when up into his brain. That's right. That meant he had to hold that 30-30 at arm's length. So the muzzle right next to his jaw. That's right. Where it would have left powder burns. But, Peter, there were none. Because you shot him from across the room, the same as you did Randall. Yes. Yes, the same as I'll shoot you. If you can. My right hand is still good, Dollar. And so is the 38. You and your fool insurance company should have left things as they were. Chin up, Dollar. Tell me one thing. Sorry, I haven't got time. When I left the hospital, I made sure I was seen heading for New York. And I carefully set up alibis. You still won't get away with it, you know, any more than you got away with killing Randall. I had until you came along. And I will when I killed you. So if you have nothing more to say. One thing. Why did you kill Randall? You're trying to stall me. Why? All right. Because I forced him to name me and his insurance. I was the only one who knew about some shady operations in his early business career. The old story. That's right. Blackmail. That's why he's been paying me off, supporting me. Until recently? So you're threatening to expose him. No. What would that get me financially? Then tell me that. No. I've got to get out of here to New York. Just one thing more. I don't know why you're trying to stall me, but it's no use. So if you have any prayers, darling. Sure. Sure. That Chief McMahon is standing there in the doorway will slug you before you pull that trigger. Oh, no. Not that old chef's nut. Why not? What? You ass. Oh, no. You dumb. Dollar. I thought I told you on the phone to get out of here. Expensive out total, including gas to get me back to Hartford. $13.13. Remarks? Why? Why don't they ever learn? Yo, it's truly Johnny Dollar.