 My name's Regan. I work for Anthony J. Lyon, Detective Joe. They call me The Lion's Eye. Jeff Regan, Investigator, starring Frank Graham as Regan, with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. So stand by for mystery, suspense and adventure in tonight's transcribed story, all his sisters and his cousins and his uncles and his aunts. His name was Powerhouse Pratt. He probably shot more people, solved more crimes, chased more crooks than all the detectives, police forces and FBI's in these United States. And you could follow each and every one of his daring exploits in the comic section of a Sunday paper. Only trouble was Powerhouse was just a funny paper character. The artist who drew him was another case. He didn't shoot anybody, couldn't solve anything and was buried in death threats up to his ears. It all began, not on a bright Sunday morning while reading The Funnies, but on a dull and smoggy Thursday while entering The Lion's Office. My boss, Anthony J, was hanging up the phone with a look of utter confusion on his face. When he saw me, however, he quickly covered it with a broad and cheery smile. Jeffrey, my boy, I'm glad you got here. Bad news, Lion. Uh, no. Of course not, Jeffrey. We have a client. But you aren't sure. Of course I'm sure. I just talked to Mr. Finneas on the phone. He wants you to come right out. Oh, Mr. Finneas is the new client. Mr. Harold Finneas. His address is right here, Jeffrey, so you just run right out there and talk to him. Just a minute, Fatso. Mr. Finneas must have said why he wants a detective. You know, Jeffrey, I'm very busy, very, very busy. You just talk to Mr. Finneas. I'm sure he'll explain everything. Lion, I don't talk to anybody until everything is clear first. Come on, let's hear it. Jeffrey, Mr. Finneas has a, well, a unique problem. That is, the way he explains it is, oh, very well, I'll tell you, but you aren't going to like it. Already I don't like it, so you haven't got a thing to lose. Jeffrey, Mr. Finneas says his life is in danger. He, uh, he says that every morning when he wakes up, he, uh, he finds himself dead. What? That's what he told me, Jeffrey. I'm sure of it. That's just what he told me. Like I said to myself this morning, it's a perfect day for the beach. Jeffrey, this man's life is in danger. Besides, he said he was mailing us a check for $50. In other words, you gave him a verbal contract to handle the case. Uh, well, uh, you see, he said, uh, and then I said, uh, oh, Jeffrey, it has something to do with those cartoons he draws. You see, Mr. Finneas is a cartoonist. That's so this man doesn't need a detective. He needs a straight jacket. He needs $50 worth of detective service. Now get out there and see what's wrong with him. Well, I can wait for the gas bill and the electric bill and the office bill in my face. And I agreed to meet our new client, Mr. Finneas. The address was Third Street, Santa Monica, three blocks from the ocean. By the time I got out there, the fog was so thick you could serve it for cake frosting. I sliced my way up to the house, which turned out to be big, old, and divided into four separate units. The mailbox said Finneas was an apartment three upstairs left. When I stepped inside to the hallway, it was so dark I needed a match to find the stairway. I dodged furniture, burned mattress, and eased my way along the ancient carpet. I was just starting up the stairs. She was tall, pencil-thin, and hawk-faced. She stood in a doorway candle in hand and the yellow flame danced across her eyeballs. Where do you think you're going, Mr. Finneas? Upstairs, Finneas's place. You from home? From where? Home. Uh, no. No, I'm not. And why you see in Harold? Look, lady, he's sent for me. Maybe he needed somebody to turn on the lights. The lights are busted. That's why they ain't on. They're busted. All right, I'll tell him. See you around. Hey, wait a minute, you. Harold's working up there. He ain't got no time for salesmen, you hear? Yeah. Yeah, I hear. Thin hawk-faced woman drifted back into a dark doorway like a wavering strip of fog that had somehow gotten indoors by mistake. And I climbed the stairs. At the top, I reached an up on the panel door. Okay, Murdoch. Reach and reach high. Eddie, put the cuffs on him. Murdoch, what's what you're doing? Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. There, there. Cross with me once more and I'll... Oh. Hiya. Your name, Finneas? Yeah, yes, I'm Finneas. And I'll bet you're Mr. Regan, the lion's eye. Well, that takes care of the two of us. Now, where's Murdoch? Well, he's just an imaginary character, Mr. Regan. He's in the comic strip I'm drawing. Look, look, right there on my drawing board there. You see? I see. The fat one, that's Murdoch. He was a crook. He's dead now. The tall man with the felt hat, that's Powerhouse Pratt. Powerhouse Pratt? Don't tell me you haven't heard of him, Mr. Regan. Gee whiz, Powerhouse Pratt is carried in the comic section of over 300 newspapers. Well, I sleep late on Sundays. Oh, but gee whiz. Powerhouse Pratt? Gosh, I thought everybody knew Powerhouse Pratt, crime beater. I'll cheer up, Finneas. Nobody appreciated Rembrandt until after he was dead. Oh, Mr. Regan, you shouldn't have said that. You just shouldn't have said that. Oh, sorry, Finneas. Uh, suppose you tell me about your life being in danger. Oh, gee, sure is. Somebody wants to kill me. The lady downstairs? Tall, thin woman hiding behind a candle. Oh, you mean Aunt May. Oh, gee, that's silly, Mr. Regan. Aunt May wouldn't hurt a flea. How about people? Mr. Regan, Aunt May is my relative. I won't let you talk about her that way. Okay, my apologies to your relatives. Go on. Well, it's this way, Mr. Regan. Every morning when I wake up, I find myself dead. Oh, it isn't so funny as you think. No, indeed. You see, it started a week ago when I got up early and looked over the drawings I'd made the night before. And? And the last panel of the drawings was me. A picture of me lying face down in the picture. Dead. If the cartoon showed a figure lying face down, how did you decide it was supposed to be you? Across the back of the man's suit was printed F-I-N-I-A-S, Phineas. That's me. A remarkable deduction. Continue, Dr. Watson. So it's been that way every morning for a week. Me waking up, walking over to the drawing board, finding another picture of me. Dead. It's getting monotonous, to say the least. Here. Here, here's one of them. Look. That's your story, huh? Well, sure. Gee, Mr. Regan, you believe me, don't you? Suppose we get back to the lady in the candle. Who else lives here beside her? Well, there's Aunt May and Uncle Fred in the downstairs apartment on the left. And there's Cousin Sue in the downstairs apartment on the right. Then there's Aunt May's sister and her husband upstairs here, across the hall. They're all your relatives? Yes, I guess so. Except maybe if you count Cousin Sue, she's a relative by marriage. What do they do? Do? For a living. Oh, well, they're all retired, except Cousin Sue. She works part-time in a department store in Santa Monica. Just one more, Phineas. Are you married? Well, I'm sorry you asked me that. I was married. Divorced. Yeah, yeah. I guess I am. Or I will be. It takes a year, you see, and a year won't be up for another eight days. Okay, Phineas, do you know of anyone who might want to kill you? Kill me? Mr. Reagan, who would want to kill me? Harold Phineas, cartoonist supreme, creator and originator of Powerhouse Pratt crime theater, gave me his former wife's address. That turned out to be six blocks away near Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica. I drove through Morfog and arrived at the stucco apartment five minutes later. Mrs. Harold Phineas opened the door. Yes. Could I talk to you a minute, Mrs. Phineas? Yes. Yes, come in. Uh, my name's Reagan. I'm private detective. I know. Oh, Phineas phoned you. Yes, he phoned. I'm afraid you won't be able to help much unless you stop crying. Yes. Yes, I'll stop. Good. Do you know anyone who might want to kill your ex-husband? No. No, I don't. You sure of that? Yes. Yes, I'm sure. Okay, Mrs. Phineas, who? I won't tell. You'd rather see your ex-husband dead, is that it? Oh, no. Name? Sue Hitchcock. Sue Hitchcock. Cousin Sue. Dear, dear cousin Sue. Downstairs, right? Cousin Sue. A cheap, conniving, scheming little proc-side blonde, if I ever saw one. You think she'd kill your ex-husband? She'd do anything she took a fancy to. From home, Mr. Regan, from home. Where is home? A little town outside Des Moines, Iowa, where they all come from. All his sisters and his cousins and his uncles and his aunts. Yeah, sounds like you and the relatives don't get along, Mrs. Phineas. Get along. I told Harold it was them or me, Mr. Regan. He chose them. Well, she'd said Cousin Sue. By the time I got back to Third Street in the Phineas Clan, the damp night fog was turning into rain. The dark house rose in front of me like a lost ship adrift on a glassy sea. I moved slowly up the front walk, feeling my way toward the darkened house. I made the stairs on three matches, then the hallway. Then the door, downstairs right. And before I could knock... I really wouldn't want you to catch cold. Please do come in, Mr. Regan. What was standing behind a candle in front of me was small, slim and willowy. Slow eyes that fluttered and reached out to you and fluttered back just in time. She was dressed in a robe that fit like tights on a ballet dancer. The hair wasn't peroxide blonde. Red. I said I heard your footsteps outside, Mr. Regan. I knew you'd have to talk to me. Harold Phineas seems to have told everybody. Harold loves his relatives, Mr. Regan, especially his cousins, Sue. Somewhere I got the idea you were a blonde. That was yesterday. Cigarette? Yeah. Yeah, thanks. No, we won't need the candle. Nobody heard of electricity around here? They went out at noon. The lights, I mean. No one seems able to fix them, do you mind? Well, I hate to try dominoes in this light. Jeff, you and I don't need to play dominoes. You don't mind if I call you, Jeff, do you? Look, your cousin upstairs, Phineas. Somebody's interested in making his bed into a slab. Let's talk about that. It's an interesting topic, Jeff. Only don't put any faith in it. Oh, you don't believe him? Cousin Sue's from home, Jeff. These death threats. That's for Yoko's. Oh. You've been around, is that it? All around. Phineas's ex-wife has other ideas. Like what? Like you. She's jealous. Just plain jealous. I could wrap Phineas around my earlobes anytime I felt like it, and she noted. Only, uh, you have other interests. Sure. Why not? The adventures of powerhouse crack crime, Peter, don't amuse me, Jeff. I'm just insurance. Insurance? The family and I have a working agreement. I keep Phineas in line, and we all eat. Off Phineas. That makes the cost of looking at you come pretty high, especially to Phineas. Jeff, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Cousin Sue doesn't have to depend on Harold Phineas for romance. Just remember that. Cousin Sue... Jeff! Later, lady. Later. I moved out of the room double time. Lights or no lights, I stumbled upstairs where the shots had come from. I hid the top of the landing in the door to Harold Phineas' room. It was open. Inside, two candles gave enough light to show a chair upside down, a drawing board on its side. I moved in slowly. On the floor, in the center of the room, a pile of Sunday funny papers. And underneath, very still, the form of a man, his arms and legs protruding. Harold Phineas. Oh! They didn't give me that time, Mr. Regan. I guess they didn't give me that time. It started when a cartoonist phoned my boss the lion that his life was in danger. His name was Harold Phineas, and he was creator of that all-American comic strip character known as Powerhouse Pratt, crime beater. Only when I showed up at the Phineas Place in Santa Monica, I found a house loaded with relatives, a sobbing ex-wife and a sultry redhead affectionately known as Cousin Sue. I was ready to let Powerhouse Pratt take over until somebody fired two shotgun blasts at my client Phineas. They missed. She couldn't prove it by Phineas. They tried to kill me, Mr. Regan. Somebody tried to kill me. Since they weren't shooting at flying saucers. Oh, you got to do something, Mr. Regan, right away. I don't like being shot at. Maybe we ought to consult Powerhouse Pratt. He's a demon for clues. This is no time to be funny. Powerhouse Pratt is just a figment of my imagination, and my imagination isn't working right now. Oh. Well, from the looks of that buckshot in the wall, I'd say your attacker fired from right here by the door. Yeah, that's right. That's just the way it was. The door opened, and then this person shot at me, and I fell down. And you couldn't see who was behind the shotgun, huh? I told you several times, Mr. Regan. I just couldn't see anything. Just this figure in the dark and then the gunshots. It could have been anybody. We'll call the police. No, no, no, no, no, no. Let's don't do that. Publicity. Terrible publicity. I wouldn't want that. It might make Powerhouse Pratt look bad. You'd rather be dead, is that it? No, of course not. That's why I hired you to find out. Whoever shot at you, Phineas, escaped through the room across the hall. I was downstairs. I didn't hear anyone come down. Yeah, but they just couldn't have gone in there. That's my Aunt May's sister's apartment, and they went on vacation. It's locked up. Okay, Phineas. You sit tight. I'm going to check on it. Just the same. You mean you're going to leave me here alone? Either that or call the cops. Stay, but hurry back, Mr. Regan. Hurry back! I left Phineas crumbling in the middle of the room. Outside on the hallway, I lit a match. The door of the apartment wasn't locked. It was open. I went in. Off the back porch, there was a wooden stairway that led down to the yard. Whoever had shot at Harold Phineas had escaped through this apartment into the back yard. And the chances were that was somebody, one of the relatives. I crept slowly down the stairs to the yard. It was like feeling your way into a bottomless pit. The fog and the rain and the night were black curtains circling around you just out of reach. And somewhere in the yard, a man with a shotgun had drifted behind the fog. I reached the bottom of the stairs, turned... Stand where you are! And then out of the same fog, there came two men. One tall and muscular and thick jawed. The other medium-sized and beady-eyed. The one who'd spoken. In his hands, a shotgun. You heard me! Don't move! I'll see if he's got a gun on him, Mr. Hitchcock. He'll have one, all right. Now don't you move, Mr. Yeah, Mr. Hitchcock. He had one. Give it here, Carl. What's your name, Mr? Regan, what's yours? Don't sass me, none. Don't you sass him, Mr. At shotgun, you're carrying. You like to shoot it? It's mine, Mr. I'd do with it, would I please? Like trying to kill people? Hey, who do you think... Shut up, Carl. I'll tell him. Mister, it looks bad you around this yard after shooting. You're carrying the shotgun, Mr. Hitchcock. So, you know my name, eh, fella? How could I miss? You're from home. Hey, well, what does this fellow mean, Mr. Hitchcock? You want to finish his relatives. His Uncle Fred, maybe. Downstairs, left. He knows something, I bet. You know something, mister. You better come with us. The man with the shotgun, Uncle Fred, walked behind me. The big muscular character he called, Carl, led the way. We moved around the house, up the front porch, and in through the door I'd seen the hawk-placed woman clothes. Aunt May's place. Me? Yeah? It's your fella. Found him outside. You did? You know him? Seen him this afternoon. He was bothering cousin Sue, I'll bet. He was seeing Phineas. Oh. You reckon we ought to call the police, May? Yeah, he did the shooting, all right. Doesn't it occur to any of you characters that Phineas might be dead now that those shots might have killed him? If he was hurt, mister, we'd have heard from him. Yeah. A little butt shot never hurt nobody. Where do you fit in? What? Oh, oh, I'm Carl. I'm from home. You, Uncle Fred, where'd you find that shotgun? In the garage. We're always keeping it. Let me see it. Well, what right if... Hey, quiet, Carl. Mister, you're too nosy. I think we'll call the cops. Call them. They'd like to look at that gun and chances are it's been fired. I'm gonna hit him, Mr. Hitchcock. Yeah, maybe that's a good idea. Okay, mister. You got it coming. Thanks for the lead. You shouldn't have done that, mister. Give me that gun, Hitchcock. Now it's my turn to call the cops. I took the gun out of his hands before I knew what had happened. It had been fired when I called the police. Then I headed upstairs to see my client, Phineas, only... I got a surprise. Coming down the stairs toward me was a redhead. Cousin Sue. Mr. Regan. Cousin Phineas has disappeared. I chased up to Phineas' room. It was empty. Closets had been ransacked, drawing board bare. Even the candles had gone out. I lit them and searched. Got nowhere. Then I went back down to the phone and called my boss, the lion. Me, that's all. Got a job for you. About Mr. Phineas, Jeffrey? Yeah, why? Jeffrey, I just found out who our client really is. He draws Powerhouse Pratt crime leader. And he won't let you forget it for a minute. Yeah, but Jeffrey, don't you realize this is our chance to find out what happened to Powerhouse? What? Well, in last Sunday's paper, Powerhouse disappeared. Completely off the face of the earth. This is our chance to get behind the scenes. Sure thing, lion. Just one catch. Mr. Phineas has disappeared. What? Oh, no, that's terrible. And who will ever find... Lion, cut it out, will you? Run down to the Hall of Records. Check up on an interlocutory divorce decree granted to one Harold Phineas and his wife. Find out when the year's up. You got that? Yes, but Jeffrey, if anything happens to Mr. Phineas, we'll never find out what happened to Powerhouse Pratt. Just think of the millions of children who'll be brokenhearted. To say nothing of Anthony J. Lion. Get busy, Fatso. Ten minutes later, the police came into it. They asked questions, got answers, and drew conclusions. Or, as a Santa Monica detective sergeant named Smathers put it... Attack by a person or a person's unknown, then subducted to place or place is unknown. Reagan, this guy's a famous cartoonist. He has money. So he gets death threats, then kidnapped. All we do now is wait. Sit tight and watch for the ransom load. I mean, I had other ideas. I called the lion back. Phineas hadn't been lying. His divorce was final in eight days. I left Smathers talking with Uncle Fred, Aunt May, Carl, and Cousin Sue. Cousin Sue was doing fine with Sergeant Smathers. Ten minutes later, I was knocking at a door and hoping I'd do as fine with the ex-Mrs. Harold Phineas. Oh. Mind if I come in? Oh. Thanks. Mrs. Phineas, your ex-husband's in trouble. He is? He was kidnapped. He what? No tears. When I saw you this afternoon, you had plenty. Well, Mr. Reagan, I... Your brew's easy, but you heal quick. Yes. Yes, that's it, Mr. Reagan. There's something funny about your husband's disappearance, Mrs. Phineas. Kidnapper seems to have taken clothes and drawings. He did? I mean, they did? Yeah. Kind of odd that a kidnapper would stop for those things. Yes. Yes, it certainly is. Of course, if your ex-husband had been going somewhere, he might have taken them. Well, no, Mr. Reagan, I don't... You see, if a man were pulling out of a tough situation in a hurry, he might stop to grab a shirt or two and let it go at that. Mr. Reagan, if you're going to say that... I am, Mrs. Phineas. Your ex-husband wasn't kidnapped. He sneaked out. He went somewhere in a hurry because he was caught in his own trap. Oh, Mr. Reagan. He wouldn't make good publicity for powerhouse crap, Mrs. Phineas. Papers would play it big. Now, do you want to tell your husband to step out from behind those drapes? All right. Okay, Mr. Reagan. I give up. Arrest may put me behind bars. I deserve it. Oh, Harold, no! Oh, Dorothy! Dorothy! Now, take it easy, both of you. Nobody gets arrested. Not yet, anyway. They don't. Phineas, you made one big mistake. You lied to me. That business about being threatened, the cartoon of yourself lying face down. Yeah, but, Mr. Reagan... You drew your own pictures. Your story was so funny, it smelled halfway to Ocean Park. Yeah, but... But being shot at, it wasn't your idea. That's when you ran. Your idea backfired. I tried everything, Mr. Reagan. I cut off the gas, busted the lights, but they just wouldn't leave. You dreamed up the threat to get rid of your relatives. You wanted your wife back, and she'd said it was her or them. You wanted her. And you only had eight days. I did it for Dorothy. You wanted the relatives to go back home. Especially Cousin Sue. Yeah, they wanted me to marry Cousin Sue, but... But I didn't love her, Mr. Reagan. I tried the power... Yeah, but you didn't threaten them. They're the stubborn kind. That might make them stay longer. So you said your own life was threatened. Indirect scare. Yeah, yeah, that's just what I did. But there's just one thing, Mr. Reagan. Honest, I didn't shoot that shotgun at myself. Yeah, you gave somebody else the idea. As long as you wanted to play target, they decided to help you along. Who? Who? Maybe it's about time you grew up, Phineas. Stick with me and you'll get to meet that somebody yourself. Harold! Phineas turned three shades of red. Kissed his wife goodbye. Kissed her again. Exchanged tears and came quietly. He didn't say anything as we drove back to the house. He said less when we walked in and faced the family. Harold! Family, meet your long lost nephew, Harold Phineas. Say hello, Phineas. Hello. Harold, what on earth is the meaning of this? Scaring us half to death. Well, Aunt May, it's like this. You see? No, I don't see. You owe us an explanation and an apology. Phineas. Yes, Mr. Reagan. This would make hot copy for the papers. The readers of Powerhouse Pratt. Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Reagan. Take your choice, Phineas. You either want your wife or you don't. Mr. Reagan, I... What was that you said, Harold? Well, Aunt May... Either apologize or we leave this very minute. We're going home, Harold, the whole family, unless... Well, then I guess you'd better go, Aunt May. What did you say? You'd better leave. Well, I never... Oh, now, see here. You listen to me. I didn't mind it when you came out to visit me for a month. And I didn't mind when you decided to stay for the fall. I even had the house fixed up when you decided to stay for the winter. Yeah, take it easy there, son. This goes for you too, Uncle Fred. But when you decided to stay for the spring and then another summer... Now, now, Harold, this isn't like you at all, getting picky. I've been supporting the whole gang of you for 11 months now, and I'm sick and tired of it, and I'm broke. Can't beat the whole darn town. You mean you'd let your own kin folks down, son? Harold, we are from home. Yeah, home. You took over my house, spent my money, and ruined my marriage. So you can all go back home. And you can take cousin Sue with you. The only person I'm marrying right now is my wife. So there. I sure was. As for you, you no good little... Now, now, you wait a minute, you little shrimp. Tell her from back home. He got in town yesterday. He came for me. Uh, that's right, shrimp. And I don't like what you're saying about my fiancée. Well, that explains a lot of things. Carl, you're the guy that took that shot at me. You never did like me, and you thought you'd scare me away from cousin Sue. Like I said, a little buckshot never hurt you. Yeah, that's what you think. Boy, you can have a buckshot. Yeah. Yeah. Hey, uh, Mr. Regan. Yeah, Phineas? How come you knew all this? Deduction, my dear Watson. Mr. Regan. You're greater than Powerhouse Pratt. Our old Phineas decided not to prefer charges against Carl, and the family took the hint. The whole clan packed up bag and baggage for a long trip. Not back home. No. Seems Phineas had a sister living in San Diego. The next morning I checked in with my boss, Anthony J. Lyon. He looked triumphant. Hey, Jeffrey! Well, it was just as I thought. Huh? He wasn't kidnapping at all. Well, I'll say one thing for Phineas. He planned it carefully. Lyon, where did you learn about the case? The check there. Just in case. And sure enough, I was right. The newspaper's new Phineas was building up a phony death threat just to get rid of me. If they had the advanced story, Jeffrey. Oh, great. And I promised Phineas I wouldn't let a word of it get out. Bad publicity for the comic strip, Lyon. Oh, nonsense. I won't tell anyone, Jeffrey. You won't tell anyone? What about the other million readers? Well, by the time the papers hit the newsstand, it won't matter anyhow. Everyone will know the truth. Although, I must say, it was pretty clever of me to get it first. Here it is, Jeffrey. Advanced copy. Listen, I'll read it to you. Now, Powerhouse Pratt says, So I cleverly disappeared just when the crooks thought they'd killed me. Actually, I was disguised. Lyon, that's the comic section. But of course, Jeffrey. Where else would I find Powerhouse Pratt? Oh, here we are, right here. Never mind. It curses Powerhouse Pratt. I might have known you weren't really kidnapped. Lyon, never mind. Here's the real clever part. Just as murder tries to flee, Powerhouse Pratt turns suddenly... Hey! Jeffrey! Jeff Regan Investigator is written by William Frug and Gilbert Thomas, produced and directed by Sterling Tracy and stars Frank Graham as Regan with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. Original music is by Dick Aron. Jeff Regan Investigator is transcribed each week at the same time over CVS. Joe Walters speaking and inviting you to be with us again next Sunday at 8.30 for more suspense, mystery and adventure with Jeff Regan Investigator.