 My name's Regan. I work for Anthony J. Lyon Detective Bureau. They call me The Lion's Eye. Sunday at 8.30 and CBS brings you 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, gentlemen prefer horses. Like they say in the racing form, it was a clear day, track fast and a field of seven. Any way you looked at it, the smart money was on the Steven's entry. Except for me, I had a hot tip from a guy named Crenshaw, a jockey who finished in a dead heat, with a bullet. I walked into the lion's office that Tuesday afternoon. His hands were folded across 200 pounds of chest and he wasn't being too particular about the cigar ashes on his vest. It was an expensive cigar, kind he lit up on his birthday, new years, and at funerals. Well, well, well, come in, come in, Jeffrey, my boy. This is a fine day, a very fine day. Yeah, I can tell by the smell. Dollar cigar? 50 Cent, they were out of my usual brand. Ah, price of ropes gone up. Who cares? Today we're living off the fat of the land. Today we're having champagne and caviar. Figuratively, of course. Yeah, sounds like fancy figures. Who furnished them? Who? Who but our new client, Jeffrey, today you and I have the pleasure of serving a young man named Boots Crenshaw. How's that again? The Boots Crenshaw. I just want to be sure. Oh, the name. It is a little odd. You see, Boots was quite a noted jockey several years ago, retired, moved to Los Angeles. Now he needs our help. How much? $100 worth coin of the realm. What a day. A hundred bucks will buy a lot of help. That's the beauty of it. He doesn't need a lot. It's so simple. We do practically nothing. Yeah, I'll bet. All you do is run down to his hotel and talk to him. The Francesca on East 8th Street. What he wants is so childishly simple, I won't even bore you with the detail. Look, General, if it's that simple, maybe you'd better hire somebody on day rates to handle it. I don't know a thing about horses. Exactly. That's why you're ideal for the job. Because I don't know anything about horses? That's right. You see, Jeffrey, my boy, although Boots Crenshaw is an ex-jockey, he says there's only one thing in life he can't stand. Don't tell me. You guessed it, Jeffrey. Horses. I should have seen it from an outside bet right there, but I played it for a sure thing. I drove down Main to 8th and East until I spotted the Francesca Hotel. Three floors of cracked plaster and a fire escape. It was old when Santa Anita was an onion patch. I parked around the corner and went in. A desk clerk with empty eyes and no teeth gave me 307. I went up, tripped on a hole in the carpet and knocked. Three minutes later, the door opened wide enough for one eye to look out. You Crenshaw? Long shot. Where's Crenshaw? What a tip. I already lost. I'm looking for Boots Crenshaw. Who? I told you. Oh, I mean if Boots was in, who would I say wanted him? Look, he sent for me. I... Sure. Who? Okay, I'm Regan. Did he say Regan? Yeah, Regan. Well, let him in. Come in. Come on in, Regan. I've been expecting you. He wasn't. Long shot? He's the cautious type. Ain't that right, Longshot? Yeah, cautious. Regan? Long shot. Long shot, Regan. He's the guy to call the lion's eye. Have a chair, Regan. Have a chair. Thanks. Well, the lion tells me you got a problem. Maybe yes, maybe no. That's what I hired you to find out. Oh, you're the curious type, huh? Well, it's maybe not that simple. How do you want me to give it to you? You're calling it. Just line him up at the barrier. Oh, you already know I'm an ex-jack. Yeah, lion said. Well, then I'll start there. Up to five years ago, I was doing all right. I could boot him home with a bust of him. Then one day at the fairgrounds, I took a spill. Bad. The doc salted it away for six months in the hospital, and then ended up by telling me I don't ride no more. Well, it's tough on a guy who's been a jock all his life. Longshot'll tell you how Longshot. Yeah, tough. Anyhow, after I get out, I bum around the world for a while, but my dough runs out. So me and Longshot gets an idea. Yeah, idea. Know what the idea was, Regan? No. What was the idea? Simple. All me and Longshot knows his horses. Horses? So we decide to sell tips. Great idea. Oh, but that's not all there is to it. We sell special tips. Yeah, special. Yeah, 100 bucks a throw. But get this. You get your money back if our pick don't come in. You don't need any private eye. No, no, really, Wikes. The big spenders go for it. Oh, sure, we have to pay back a lot of times but we got enough winners to keep going pretty well. Up to a couple of weeks ago. When your horses stop coming in? Oh, the horses do fine, but there's one spender, my number one customer. We depend on him. And poof, all of a sudden he disappears. Yeah, poof. I am beginning to talk my language. I don't mean you, Longshot. Oh, sorry. So I look for the missing customers. Is that it, Boots? Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, that's it. What do I do when I find them? Just find out about them, you know, who he is. Who he is? Yeah. You don't know who he is? He's a steady, always sends his chauffeur in with it, though. A guy named Mike. Mike says to spend his name as McMillan. Yeah, McMillan. Yeah, but you don't believe it. Oh, sure, all these are good customers, Regan. I don't want to lose them. Maybe what you really want is the connection between this McMillan and the spill you took back at the fairgrounds. Oh, there ain't no connection. I didn't say that. You get me all confused. Me too. You spent a half an hour giving me background that led to nothing. That was a reason. Oh, no! It's like a string of Chinese firecrackers. Oh, I'm giving it to you straight. You got to believe me, Regan. You got it. Uh-uh, Boots. My fee says I got to find your man. But believe me? Nope. Nothing says I got to do that. I got up and walked out, leaving Boots Crenshaw and his friend Longshot looking at each other like bewildered kids after an unloaded gun went off. And I had two things. A chauffeur named Mike and a spender who probably wasn't named McMillan. I headed down the stairs toward the postage stamp lobby. That's when something caught my eye. She was tall, slim, and blonde, but didn't come out of a bottle. She was looking at me for some reason and what she saw made her cry. Wait a minute, wait, wait! What? What do you want? Well, you were looking at me, remember? What? That's not true. Well, then you need bifocals. I thought you were someone else. Oh, sure. You're a mistake. See you around. Oh, Mr. Regan. Wow. Now we're getting acquainted. I was outside the door. I heard your name. I'm his wife. Crenshaw's? Yes. What does Boots want with you, Mr. Regan? What did he tell you? Nothing. But he must have told you something. Well, only about McMillan. McMillan? You don't know McMillan. No. Oh, Mr. Boots. Regan Boots is in some kind of trouble. I've been scared stiff. If you know what it is. I don't. But maybe you can help. Look, there's a bar across the street. I got a clean handkerchief. Let's talk. She didn't say anything, but I got the answer from her eyes. I held the door open for her, and we walked out onto the sidewalk. It was a cinch. Boots Crenshaw wasn't worth all those tears, but his wife kept on shedding him anyhow. At least until we got to the crosswalk at the corner. That's when something else happened. The blue convertible came cruising by looking for a place to park. Shover driven. It paused, then disappeared around the corner. The girl flinched. Had to choose between Mrs. Crenshaw or the convertible. The way she stared told me to choose the car. It took me five minutes and a walk around the block to locate it. The uniform and putties were gone, so I slipped into the driver's seat. Blue and gold everywhere. Blue paint, blue upholstery. Gold steering wheel and knobs. I reached down for the registration. I didn't expect it to say McMillan. I didn't expect what I got either. Saving the trouble, people. It says Mike Johnson, 15 Windmill Road, Pacific Palisades. I should have looked in the rear vision mirror. He was in the back. So, uh, so you like the car, huh? It's nice. Maybe you'd like to have one like it someday, huh? I'll wait for the 51. Oh, this one's nice. Notice the seats. Foam rubber, real leather. I don't like the color. Do 110 with no strain. Well, I'll get out and you show me. No! You better try driving it. Too late. Some other day. You ain't heard my sales pitch yet. Look in that rear vision mirror again. That heater didn't come with it. No. A gun is my sales persuader. Now, I think you do want to drive it after all, don't you, people? He moved up front beside me. I drove. He headed me out Lakewood Boulevard. It was dark before we passed the airplane plans. And then just when I decided I was going to end up off the end of some pier, he had me turn into the oil fields. He picked a side road that was just two tracks in the goo. Then the ride was over and we pulled up in front of a backdrop of pumping oil wells. Okay, people. Stop here and shut it off. Like I said, drives nice, huh? Doesn't use this much oil. Oh, none at all between changes. I made you come here just so we can talk. It's a story of your life, maybe. Story? No, I'm just going to tell you one little thing then, Saul. You want a guess? Sure. You're going to tell me who pays you and what for. You talk awful, tough, awful long. What's McVillain got on Boots Crenshaw? Get out. Why the buildup of the $100 tip? I said get out. Okay. Okay. Now walk a little ways. That's far enough. Wait a minute. Okay, people. How do I get it in the back? Told you I wanted to tell you just one thing and here it is. Boots Crenshaw doesn't want your help. Lay off. I waited for the shots. They didn't come. By the time I turned around, the baby blue convertible had disappeared behind some pretty black oil wells. It took me an hour and a half to walk back to the Boulevard and get your ride to my car. And it took another hour to buck the evening traffic out to Pacific Palisades. Fifteen Windmill Road was Spanish and set way back behind a mailbox with no name. But it could support a lot of $100 tips. I pushed the bell and tried to figure out what I'd say when someone answered. That turned out to be no problem. Yes. Wow. Hello, stranger. Come in. Come in out of the fall. She was small and compact and brumette. She wore black horn-rimmed glasses, but it didn't get in the way. You could say the same for the sweater she was wearing. Well, I said come in. Yeah, yeah, you did. Thanks. It's damp tonight. I don't like to keep people standing on the doorstep. You're real thoughtful. There's a warm fireplace in here. You'd like the fireplace? Sure. We can talk better in there. You do want to talk about something, I suppose. Lead the way. There. That's better, isn't it? My name's Gloria. Mine's Regan. What are you selling, Mr. Regan? Cadillacs. We already have two. This one's baby blue. Oh, you've met Mike. I sure have. Is he in trouble again? I'll talk to his boss about that. Mr. Stevens? I was told it was McMillan. No. There's nobody named McMillan here. This is the Stevens place. Who are you? I told you. No, no, I mean to the boss. I'm the secretary. I take dictation. Yeah. What do you want, Mr. Regan? I'll tell the boss. You couldn't wait for him. Oh, when's he due back? What did you say? That's no answer. Okay. So he won't be back for several weeks, I thought. You thought wrong, lady. This is business. About that fireplace. So long, lady. Yeah. I'll tell Stevens you're called. By the time I got back out to my car, the fog was really thick. I drove and thought about that name, Stevens. I wasted some time finding a real estate office. It was open late. The secretary was right. Stevens did own the house. I spent the drive downtown thinking the whole thing over. It was past 11 when I got back to the Francesca Hotel for another go at Boots Crenshaw. He was in bed, but he didn't get up to answer the door. He wouldn't be answering any more doors. He was sprawled across the covers, face up. In one hand he had his riding silks I'd seen tacked up on the wall. But this time I really noticed him, the color. They were baby blue and gold. This is CBS and you are listening to Gentlemen Prefer Horses. Tonight's adventure with Jeff Regan, investigator. It began when an ex-jockey who sold tips hired me to find out what happened to one of his best customers. He said the customer's name was McMillan, but a brunette secretary said it was Stevens. It wouldn't matter to the ex-jockey anymore. When I went back to his hotel to tell him he was in bed. Not asleep. Dead. He was holding on to baby blue and gold shirt. The silks he'd worn in his last race. I called the police and a tall nervous lieutenant showed up. Your name? Regan. His name? Boots Crenshaw. What's he to you? Corpse. Tell me. Okay, he was a client. I'm with the line agency. Here. Regan, license. Uh-huh. Okay. He, uh, didn't pay his fee. Oh, you don't think I killed him? Just thought I'd ask. You got your answer. You carry a gun? Sometimes. Uh-huh. I'll keep it for you. Uh, I got a license for that. Sure. Tell me more. All right, he was an ex-jockey. He sold tips, hired me to find out why his best customer quit buying. Customer's name? McMillan, he said. Find him? No. They're doing good. The jockey had a partner. His name was Longshot Coy. This even gets better, Regan. What else? I'm not a fat guy in a blue and gold Cadillac. I met Crenshaw's wife. They didn't give me anything. You travel fast. I get paid for it. Your story's lousy, Regan. It's my story. Okay, I'd run him in. Um, wait a minute. Oh. Now there's more, huh? No. Look, I phoned you. Call Anthony J. Ly and my boss. He'll check the story. Okay, gum shoe. We'll try that for a while. Stay close. Um, my gun. Later. Maybe. Okay, I'd let him go. I headed outside for fresh air. But I didn't get far. A little guy buried in a big overcoat sidled up next to me. Hey, Regan, I gotta talk to you. Surgeon. It was long shot coy. Somewhere underneath that upturned collar. He stuck with me, returned down the block, away from the speed lights. When he grabbed my arm. Listen, Regan, I didn't kill boots. I came in and found him that way, so help me. He was just a couple of minutes ago, maybe 15 or 20. The cops are gonna make me the favorite, Regan. I'm not even an entrant. I'm listening. I heard the shot. I was coming up the stairs. I heard it one shot, then I found him dead. See anything? Whoever did it got away. Well, why didn't you call the cops? Me there practically when the shot was fired. The room clerk would tell him I'd gone up. I'd be a cinch to take the rap. Well, the room clerk is gonna tell him anyway. Yeah. I guess you're right. You didn't just stop me to feel sorry for yourself. No, no, no, no, I guess not. Regan, listen, there's something screwy. Something that don't add up right. The wife. Yeah. How'd you know? What about her? She and boots, they fought. When? Back in Chicago yesterday all the time. Why? The usual reason. Other day. Boots like to play the field. I used to, but not lately. He loves Susan, his wife. He really loved her, Regan. You think she's in it? I don't know. What about the fall? The fall. Fall boots took back at the fairgrounds. Oh, that. Finish it. Oh, you all make mistakes, Regan. Boots threw that race, didn't he? I didn't say that. But the dough he and his wife left town took a tour. Finally wound up in L.A. Boots was hurt bad, Regan. Yeah, but that wasn't part of the fix. I don't know. You're leaving something out long shot. I didn't kill him, honest. I didn't. What do I do, Regan? Go back there and turn yourself in. Take the rap. It'd be a cinch to photo finish with a gas chamber. I can't do it. Regan, I can't. Your choice. Yeah, yeah, I guess it's my choice. I'll see you later, Regan. I gotta think. I gotta think. Long shot koi wandered off in a daze. And I headed back to the bar across in the Francesca Hotel. The phone booth was empty. I called my boss, Anthony J. Lyon, asked him to phone Chicago and dig up everything he could on Boots Crenshaw and Long shot koi. And while he was at it, I told him to check out a man named Stevens. Well, Lyon was going to be busy for a while, so I pulled up a bar stool. Then it hit me. I counted in everybody but the fat guy and the blue and gold convertible. I headed for my car on a hurry. When I was too late. Get in, Regan. I've been waiting for you. He was sitting hunched behind the wheel, watching the fog. The gun in his hand was big and steady. You had to show up sooner or later. Just like Crenshaw. Get in. Regan, I warned you to keep out of this. I told you it was nothing but trouble. You see, I was right. Trouble for you. This time I brought my knuckles, Regan. No answer? Oh, ain't that a shame? When I came out of it, there was me and more fog. And the guy with the brass knuckles was gone. I tried to shake out the fog and get up. On the third try I made it. The street was empty and when I got out, even the damp air smelled good. I made my way back into the bar and found the phone booth and a nickel, the lion answered. Regan, where have you been? It's been over an hour since you called. What did you find out, lion? What did I find out, Jeffrey, my boy? I found out everything. Okay, out with it. No, you'll be proud of me for this. Very well, Jeffrey. I found out Boots Crenshaw was injured on July 13th, 1946. Fairgrounds tracked, seventh race, 100,000 added. He was writing for... The Stephen Stables. Jeffrey, that's true. How did you know? Go on. The name of the horse was Jade Lady, the favorite post-position too. Boots Crenshaw was... Wearing blue and gold, Stables colors. Jeffrey, you're absolutely psychic. Yeah, let me see. Where was I? Oh, yes. The horse fell while pulling away as he came into the home stretch. He was racing on the rail. There were those who said Boots deliberately threw the race. However, the racing steward said it was an accident. Don't stop. Well, Boots was laid up in a Chicago hospital for some time. Eventually, he recovered, left the city with his wife. They traveled extensively and then came to Los Angeles. That's all, Jeffrey. Why did you get on Longshot Coy? No, very little. Unfortunately, it was picked up a couple of times for bookmaking, otherwise, clean records. That finish it? Oh, wait. I almost forgot. There's one thing more. The police have located Susan Crenshaw, Boots' wife. They've arrested her on suspicion of the murder of her husband. That really finishes it. Jeffrey, what do you mean? I mean, the guy we need is Stevens, the owner of Jade Lady. The horse Boots was riding when he took the fall. You think he's behind this, Jeffrey? Well, it makes sense that way. If he crosses up a $100,000 purse, the horse has to be destroyed. Stevens not only loses the race, but some people say Boots framed him. Yes, I see what you mean. So Stevens follows Boots till Los Angeles sets up the contact, then settles the score. Uh, Jeffrey? Yeah? I've got news for you, Jeffrey. Okay, what news? You're sure about Mr. Stevens. Okay, so we're supposed to have left town. You know something different? No, Mr. Stevens did leave town, Jeffrey. Quite some time ago. What are you getting at? In fact, it's safe to say he is not coming back. You see, my boy, your number one suspect, Mr. Stevens, is dead. Good night, Jeffrey. It had to be Stevens. It made sense with Stevens. Time, place, motive, everything. Even the blue and gold car fit with Boots' Crenshaw's riding. Only Stevens was dead. Not fixed it. Somebody was running the Stevens stables, and that somebody was my answer. I headed the car out sunset and didn't spare the horsepower. 25 minutes later, I pulled up in front of the place. The fog was thicker than the hair on a Russian wolf hound. I headed around toward the back of the house. I was almost on top of it when I saw it. The big baby blue convertible, white sidewalls and all, sitting in the driveway. From somewhere behind the car, somebody was coming to meet me. It didn't figure to be a welcoming committee, and the police still had my gun. Suddenly, that somebody was named Mike, and he was diving at me only this time I was ahead, and I stayed that way. It was a gun in his hands. It was pointing in my direction. Only I caught the barrel and bent it back, brought it down in his ear. He lay there peaceful. A halo of fog in his head. I didn't wait because a light flicked on back of the house, and I headed for it in a hurry. I stood looking inside. The room was big and rich-looking, and inside it, there were people, two of them. Through the window, I could see a small guy in an overcoat and a girl with a gun. I didn't wait for an invitation. Drop the gun, lady. Not a chance, Reagan. Shot went high. I dove across the room, tore her long shot, was right behind me on the next one. He was where he shouldn't have been. The bullet grazed his head, and he went down unconscious. By the time she could turn the gun on me, I was there first. Let go! Like you said, lady, not a chance. Reagan, my wrist! Ah. That's the other way, Gloria. You haven't got anything on me. A book for. You can't prove. Did you kill Boots? Easy. Everything fits you that fits Stevens. What do you mean? My answer came out, Mr. Stevens. I was looking for a man. Now that was my mistake. Change it around, call the man Mrs. Stevens, and you come up with the same total. Stevens is dead. Ah, sure, but you're the wife. You've been running the stable. Sure, Mrs. H.V. Stevens. Okay. So what if I am? A little convertible told me you were mixed up in this. Crenshaw's shirt was blue and gold. It spelled fairground, seventh race. A horse named Jade Lady. He threw the race. Yeah, sure. But that wasn't why you tailed him. Yeah. He ran out on you, lady. If you wanted to sew him up, you could have done it after the race. But you weren't interested in a dead horse. You were interested in a live jockey. But his wife, she took him away. She had a lot of nerve. He left Chicago with her. He left me with her hospital bills. Like a woman scorned. So you're caught up with him, tried to force him back. But when he stuck with the wife, you killed him. Long shot Coy was going to be next. You brought him out here to the house. Yeah. Boots and I are two of a kind, Reagan. Dirty little rat could get me off. Never mind. Go on. Phone the police. You know what? I will. You know, it looks like you're entered in a race for the gas chamber, sweetheart. And the way I figure it, you'll finish five lengths ahead. Hell, the cops took it from there. Mike and his boss, Gloria Stevens, joined the patty wagon set. And a young medic slapped some bandages on Long Shot Coy's head. He was like new. Me? I watched the fog settle over the blue and gold convertible. And drove home. The next afternoon, I dropped in on the lion. He didn't look so chipper. The cigar he was smoking was strictly three for a dime. Oh, hello, Jeffrey. Why the long face, General? Hey, Jeffrey, I'm not going to hide it from you. When the truth is hidden, only the liar must suffer. Are you okay? Hey, Jeffrey. Jeffrey, my boy, I lied to you. I did not receive a $100 retainer from Butch Crenshaw. What? You see, Jeffrey, he had such an honest face. Such an innocent look. Dirty crook. You didn't. Yes, Jeffrey, I did. Instead of taking the money, I let him talk me into taking a tip. Extra special tips, I believe he called it. So you didn't collect a now? No, no, I took the tip. After all, he guaranteed to pay me if I lost. How was I to know he was a cheater, carried a blackout? Besides, it was sort of a hunch. A hunch? The horse, Autumn Frolick, he reminded me of my youth. How much did you bet? $10 on the nose. Oh, why did I? Save it, Diane. Did you see the afternoon paper? No, why? First race, Del Mar. Winner, Autumn Frolick. Paid $21 for a $2 ticket. What did you say, Jeffrey? You won. Jeffrey, we're rich. We're millionaires. We're in paradise. Thanks to Boots Crenshaw. Oh, yes, of course. Oh, dear Boots, a fine young man, a good soul. Jeffrey, remind me to write a note of condolence to his mother. Jeffrey, an investigator was written tonight by William Frug, directed by Sterling Tracy and stars Frank Graham as Reagan with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. Original music is by Dick Aron. Jeff Reagan investigator has heard transcribed each week at the same time over CBS. Joe Walter speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.