 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 transcribe story titled, There's Nothing Like a Pork Shop When Supper Rolls Around. It took a heap of threatening notes to make Buddy Huckle afraid and we had plenty of threatening notes in this one. Individual words cut from poems and pasted on plain white paper to create a message of death. If you enjoy poetry, you hate Huckle and everyone connected with this case enjoyed poetry. Maybe it has something to do with the dictaphone that wound up telling too much and a leggy blonde that told too little. It was three in the afternoon when I checked in with my boss, The Lion, at the Detective Bureau. Somehow he looked different. Jeffrey, my boy. Then I saw he was wearing a flowing black tie. Listen to this, Jeffrey. Where's your cape, Fatso? Listen. Listen to the exhortation of the dawn. Look to this day for it is life, the very life of life. In its brief course, Lyon. Poetry? You, Lion? Well, just because you have no appreciation of the finer things in life, Jeffrey, doesn't mean that I... Who's poetry? Mine, of course. You, the head of a detective agency? Writing poetry? A man who appreciates the beauty of the universe, the richness of living... What's in it for you? The... What do you mean by that, Snidermar? What do you get out of writing this poetry? I reap calm. Peace, my boy. How much money? Now look here, Jeffrey. How much? Ten thousand dollars, if I win. Win what? Well, our new client told me about the contest, my boy. There's a ten thousand dollar prize for the poem, which, in the opinion of the judges... Ah, I thought. Okay, Lyon, who's the new client? Buddy Huckle, the poet. America's bard laureate. What's Huckle Buck's trouble? No, no, no, Buddy Huckle. It seems someone is trying to intimidate him. He keep him from creating more poetry. Where do I find this bard? At his office. Office? Well, he has to work someplace. Now, you get right down to this address and do what you can. Did he pay you? There was a check for two hundred dollars. Buddy Huckle is solvent. For an artist, that's suspicious. Do a good job, my boy, and the Lyon detective agency might turn up in his memoirs. If I expected to find Buddy Huckle writing poetry in a hidden nook, I was in for a surprise. His office was on the Miracle Mile, brand new building, all glass and angles and curves. I checked the address the Lyon had given me just to make sure. This was it. I squeezed into the loose site elevator with salesmen, briefcases, secretaries, and a temperature of a hundred and ten. Up in his office, there was a small desk and a little man behind it. Maybe fifty with a pink seamless face and short white hair like popcorn glued to a billiard ball. May I help you, sir? You're Buddy Huckle? Just a moment while I staple these poems. My name's Regan. I'm from the Lyon Detective Bureau. Oh, yes, Mr. Huckle told me you were coming. Would you sit down? I purchased that chair from the estate of H. W. Longfellow. Where is Mr. Huckle? Just a moment while I... Use the stapler. Yes. Yes. Oh, that's Mr. Huckle now. Yes, sir, Mr. Huckle? How many are you lying low? Yes, sir, Mr. Huckle. Morning behind schedule today. Coming, Mr. Huckle. A little man grabbed at a stack of stapled poems made for the inner office. His arms and legs working like a crabs. When he disappeared into the inner office, I took a look around. Hung on the wall was a certificate of merit from the amalgamated advertising agencies of America. Made out to Buddy Huckle. It read in gold leaf, Your poems move merchandise. There was a stack of magazines on Laszlo's desk. I reached for one and was about to open it when Laszlo reappeared from the inner office. Yeah, dear, dear, such a busy day. When can I see the poet? Soon, soon. Oh, you disturbed my stapler. Oh, well, I must have done that when I picked up this magazine. Yes, a wonderful magazine. Mr. Huckle contributes to it regularly. Uh-huh. Folk stuff. Yes. Oh, Mr. Huckle again. Yes, sir? Is that Regan in Lytlow? Yes, Mr. Huckle. I may go right in. Well, yes, but don't take too much of Mr. Huckle's time. He's a very busy man. I found Buddy Huckle seated behind a bluish cast aluminum desk. Very utilitarian. Utility, Mr. Regan. No, Fru Fru here. Buddy Huckle had been handsome, but now he was a gross 40. His over-large face hung in little white puffs, damp looking. Your turn, Mr. Regan. You don't get a work done sitting in the sun. Over Huckle's desk hung the motto, drive. Regan, I can give you three minutes. You're playing for it. Regan, I like you. Thanks, thanks. You're a utilitarian. No Fru Fru. What's the matter, Huckle? Little white box on the desk. Huckle was dying. His lips gathered blue patches around the edges. His huge head rolled weak. I opened his desk and found a small white box. Inside there were pills as big as bullets. I shot one into his gaping mouth when he swallowed. In moments his body firmed and he seemed to have come out of it. Hard attack, Regan. Nothing happened all the time. Drive myself too hard. That's all right. I've got money. It makes nice salad. You've given me a poem. You use a dictaphone? Of course. Did you think I wrote poetry with a quill pen and all vink? I'm vital. Money ain't salad. Money ain't salad, neighbor. It won't help you when you're down. There's nothing like a pork chop when supper rolls around. So spend your wealth, but not your health. Live wisely. Take a tip. For money sure ain't salad. It sure won't cure the grip. Signed buddy, Huckle. America's barred lorry. Exactly. $100 a lion. Who's giving you trouble, Huckle? No, no. Take a look at these. Poison pen notes. Nasty business. Paste up letters. No one's handwriting appears, so you couldn't check a typewriter. Very smart. All these words came from my published poem. Individual words cut out of the poems, then pasted on a plain piece of white paper so they form a message. Read that one. One more poem with a chuckle and death will take you, Huckle. Oh, crude poetry. Rank imitation of my product. And someone's threatening your life. Trying to scare me into not competing in this year's Hotchkiss Award for Time Capsule Poetry. Time capsule poetry? Yeah, the winning poem is placed in a time capsule and buried for posterity by Hotchkiss University. To win means nationwide publicity, and, of course, a $10,000 prize. Yeah, lion tobey. Uh, you have any idea who might want to stop your... You're creating? No. That's why I'm paying your agency. Who publishes most of your stuff? I have a contract channeling my efforts into Folk Stuff magazine. Okay, Huckle, if you need me, call me at Folk Stuff magazine. Wait, wait, wait, Reagan. Yeah? Reagan. I'm scared. He was scared. But it didn't stop his reaching for the dictaphone when I left. I'd given him another idea for a poem when I said I was going to check Folk Stuff. The magazine was located out in the acute section of Westwood. The building was three stories high and constructed to look like Paul Bunyan. The elevator operator said... Howdy, neighbor. ...and took me to the editorial offices. I expected to see old Father William behind the editor-in-chief's desk. But what I found was young, blond, formed by a strict diet and exercise, dressed by Vogue, and had a voice like a warm night. Come in, Mr. Reagan. Uh, the secretary said I'd find the editor-in-chief in here. Sit down, Mr. Reagan. I'm the editor-in-chief. Yeah. My name's Julie. If you're a writer, Mr. Reagan, I'll publish you. Well, that's not what I had in mind. Then perhaps we might do a manuscript together. That's nice, but... I'll just turn on the phonograph. I hope you like American folk music. Love it. Get so lonely working up here in Paul Bunyan. We can be lonely anywhere. People think me unapproachable. I surprise them. Sure, lady. Now, about Buddy Huckle. Oh, him. Come to think of it. Maybe I'd rather hear about you. How come? All this? Why I'm in charge of a folksy magazine? Something like that. There's money in folks, Mr. Reagan. I bought out this magazine when I learned how many folks there were in America. Do the, uh, folks know about you? We don't have many folks out here in California. Mostly the sophisticated type, Mr. Reagan. The kind that would take advantage of a girl if they were left alone with her. Uh-huh. But I see you want to get back to Buddy Huckle. Yeah, I had that in mind. What do you want to know? Do you know anyone around here that would like to see Huckle stop producing poetry? Practically all of us feel that way. Or maybe kill him? We're all of us capable of murder, aren't we, Mr. Reagan? Works that way. Why do you ask about Buddy Huckle? Not only as a contract with your magazine, you publish all his poetry. There must be some mistake, Mr. Reagan. I don't publish a line of his. I nodded once because of impact. Then I nodded again to say goodbye. I left still nodding to the elevator operator who said... So long, neighbor. Uh, you know anything about Buddy Huckle? Yes, he's doing a big broadcast of an Oklahoma barbecue of Long Beach's night, neighbor. I headed for Long Beach to have a long talk with Buddy Huckle. It was beginning to look like a publicity setup. I found a broadcasting studio on the fifth floor of the Ocean Stone Hotel. Just outside the studio door stood a woman. Middle-aged, her hand gripped in her handbag. That old look of murder on her face. Let go of my arm. What's in the handbag, lady? If you think I'm going to say hairpins, you're nuts. All right, let's take a look. I got a gun. I thought maybe. Let me go. You're looking for someone? Yeah. That loves Huckle. You've been sending him love notes you've cut out of magazines? Who are you? Regan, private investigator. Well, I'm not afraid of you. That's nice. I was Buddy Huckle's wife, Regan. Now he's cut off my alimony, and I'm going in there to shoot him dead. A lot of people in there, lady. Witnesses. Oh. You say you're right. Thank you. You talk me out of it. Goodbye, lady. Goodbye, mister. And thanks. The broadcasting room was a regular hotel room that had been wired for sound. There was a character in a padded suit that kept eyeing a clock and rubbing his moist hands on his sleeves. This must have been the producer. Buddy Huckle was seated at a green top table. His eyes on the papers in front of him. Wasn't quite 10, so I said hello. Hello, Regan. I'm on the air in two minutes. Oh, that's a lifetime, Huckle. If you had a dictaphone, you could make yourself $1,000 in two minutes. Maybe 500. Uh, you don't look scared. Oh. Oh, that. You can forget our little talk of this afternoon. While I was dictating this afternoon, the culprit walked in, Mr. Regan. I found out who it was threatening me, sending me the note. Would you mind telling me who? Nothing to worry about, nothing at all. I don't know why I was so concerned. Just figure your time and make me a refund on my retainer. A certified pleasure. Huh? Quiet, please. We're ready to cut you in, Mr. Huckle. I'm ready, Jard. Okay, stand by. You're on the air in a second. Take my cue. Well, howdy, folks. This is America's bored laureate, Buddy Huckle, talking to you. And, folks, I got a swell little old poem for you folks that I hope your plum going to like a lot. I kind of like to call it Money Ain't Salad. Goes, say, Money Ain't Salad neighbor won't help you when you're down. There's nothing like a pork shop. When stuff rolls around, I couldn't take it. I gently made my way around George, the radio producer, to the door and out. It took me a little time to make my way through the crowd down to the street. And I stood there on the sidewalk for a few moments, wondering about Buddy Huckle. Maybe Huckle wasn't as safe as he thought. That was his business now. And suddenly, high overhead above the sounds in the street, there was a shattering of glass. Screams from the sky. Screams from the street as a figure came hurtling toward the pavement. I jumped. Just in time, the body hit the sidewalk. If you looked hard, you could recognize what was left as Buddy Huckle. The final poetic touch was a framed sign that hit right after the body. On the sign was the model. Drive. This is CBS, and you are listening to tonight's adventure with Jeff Regan, investigator, entitled, There's nothing like a pork chop when supper rolls around. A man's body was spread eagle on a concrete sidewalk. He'd fallen or been pushed from the fifth floor of the Ocean Stone Hotel. The body had belonged to a poet named Buddy Huckle. Very popular guy. His discarded wife had been in the hotel gunning for him, and somebody had been sending Huckle notes threatening his life. Maybe his wife. Now he didn't have to worry about the race for popularity. He was dead. Since all concerned were LA people, homicide finally put Sanducci on the case. When Sanducci finished in Long Beach, we drove back to LA in his squad car. The hearse following us. Facts, Regan. Look at the facts. Facts can lie, Sanducci. What's your theory? You can't convict on theory. Speed it up, Max. We'll never make LA. Okay. What are your facts, Sanducci? Look, fact one. Let me try. Buddy Huckle is dead. Smart boy. Fact two. He fell to his death from five stories up. His former wife was spotted at the scene of the crime. And she was gunning for her former husband, Buddy Huckle. You said so yourself, Regan. What about George, the radio producer? He was still in the studio. Didn't see anything. Step on it, Max. There were no witnesses. There were three. They saw a woman running away from the scene of the crime. You know how witnesses become confused, Sanducci. They may all be wrong. Said woman became lost in the crowd during the confusion. You now have an all-points call out on Buddy Huckle's former wife. The woman is dangerous, Regan. She's armed. Well, didn't the witnesses say they saw anything else? How much you want our witness to see, Regan? Be satisfied. You know the trouble with facts, Sanducci. You gotta stop when you've got all it'll fit. What do you place that motto that came down on top of the body? Give it time. It'll fit. Well, it so happens it came from the wall of Buddy Huckle's office. Look, did you ever hear of planted clothes, Regan? The dame is trying to outsmart us. She planted a sign, tried to throw us off. Come on, right. Have it your way, Sanducci. Hurry up, Max. We gotta get back to LA fast. Hey, why is he slowing down? Regulations. Max doesn't take orders from anybody but me. All right, step on it, Max. I arrived in town the time of night. You think you see figures waiting with knives in every puddle of dark. 3 a.m. First, I had to check with the lion. I made it to his apartment. There was a wafer of light coming from under his door. I walked in. The lion was sound asleep on the couch. A pencil hanging from his mouth. Sheets of scribbled paper on the floor. Come on, lion. Get off it. Hello, public library. Oh, it's you, Jeffrey. Expecting a love bandit? I must have forgotten to lock the door. One world and a lock on every door. Oh, as a matter of fact, I was working on my entry for the Hotchkiss Award for time bomb poetry. Chapsle. Oh, yes. I have it. I have another stanza, Jeffrey. Listen, it is the glory of action. The splendor. Lion, our client is dead. Dead? Oh, that's horrible, my boy. Who in? How? No time for that. Look, I gotta have your help to find Buddy Huckle's former wife. But I'd planned on spending the rest of the night working on my poem. Her first name is Mona. That's all we've got. You've gotta find her while I check on a dictaphone and a blonde editor. One medium-build brown hair. Last seen in Long Beach, wearing a yellow cotton dress, no hat. You're racing the police on this one, Lion. Now, when you get her, hang on, but be careful. She's wanted for murder. The one I needed, there was only one place to go now. The inner office of the late Buddy Huckle. Dark inside the office. Very. The door to the inner office was locked. None of my keys would work, so I used my shoulder. The door gave. And I was in the inner office. I snapped the light sign. Hmm. When a man's just dead and you're in his room, you keep looking around for him. And I was alone. And I saw what I wanted, the dictaphone. I played the wax roll that was on the machine. Sign leave, our laureate Buddy Huckle. I heard a lot of stuff. Poems, mostly. Delivered in his rapid-fire manner. Then I heard myself. You use a dictaphone? Of course. You think I wrote poems? You use a dictaphone? Of course. You think I wrote poetry with a quill pen and maw of ink? Poem. Titled. Money ain't set. I lifted the playback head. For luck, I tried the end of the dictaphone record. This was really good. The sign comes. The silent thrust of death by the temperate blade. Sharp. Sweet sharpness. I refused to read any more of this tribe. That didn't sound like Buddy's rhyming cry-pie type of poetry. I played the very end of the record to get the signature signed Buddy Huckle. But instead I got... You've made me read this, but I won't sign this lousy poem. That was the end of the record. Suddenly, without looking up, I knew there was someone standing behind me. Your Regan. Mona. I saw you earlier. Now I see you again. What are you doing here? I ain't so dumb. I don't know the cops are after me. Well, they probably know you're here right now. I snuck in. You're not going to reach into that purse for your gun again. I hocked it in an all-night joint. Why don't we just sit down quietly and talk, Mona? I ain't so dumb. I don't know what you're trying to do, Mr. What am I trying to do, Mona? I just came here to see if maybe Huckle made out an alimony check for me. Maybe he didn't mail it. That's what I'm trying to do? I need all the money I can get now that the cops are hot after me for something I didn't do. You sure you didn't push Buddy Huckle through that window, Mona? I ain't got the strength. Guess not. I need dough to run away from the cops, Mr. Regan. Maybe you could take my case, huh? I got six bucks for the gun. Well, maybe I can help you, Mona. Look, hold up in the rounder hotel. Give a fictitious name. The police will have to check this office. Gee, you've been real good to me, Mr. Regan. You took my case and here's my six dollars. No, thanks. We'll take it up with the lion later. The lion? Never mind. But find that hotel. I've got to find an editor-in-chief. The phone book gave me Julie's home address. Julie being the editorial brains behind Folk Stuff magazine. It was almost dawn now, but when I rang the doorbell of her swank apartment, I got an immediate response. Come in, Mr. Regan. I went in. You know the police have already come and gone. Yeah, they get around. You're expecting to find something they didn't? Thought maybe. Drink, Mr. Regan. It has been a long night. Say when? Now. Rugged individualist. Decided to do that manuscript with me? Not what I had in mind, lady. Maybe you'll tell me what you did have in mind. You were closer to Buddy Huckle than most people know. Just so so. Huckle had a reputation as a poet. He set you up as editor of Folk Stuff magazine. But you were pretty rich, even for his blood. You know, you're wrong, Mr. Regan. I am. But it makes a good story. More. Why don't you try? Maybe it'll make more sense. The magazine Folk Stuff does belong to me, Mr. Regan. No strings. Although Huckle did like to spend money on women, I wasn't one of them. Sounds good. Go on. Buddy Huckle had a reputation that helped sell my magazine. There was only one thing. He couldn't write poetry. Ah. So when you told me that Huckle didn't write a line that went into Folk Stuff, you weren't lying. Even I couldn't stand his poetry. I made little changes here and there in every line. It gave me a sense of accomplishment. He didn't seem to mind. Well, lady, I guess that's all here. Well, Mr. Regan. Lonely, Julie grabbed my lapels, held me tight and kissed me, but I managed to break away after a while. I had to leave in a line of duty. And the man I had to see was the one that had last seen Buddy Huckle. I had to leave in a line of duty. The man I had to see was the one that had last seen Buddy Huckle alive. George, the radio producer. I reached him at his home. Mr. Regan. You produced Buddy Huckle's broadcast at the Ocean Stone Hotel last night. Lousy show, no fire. Now, but you were the last man to see Buddy Huckle alive. No, there must have been somebody else. You followed Huckle out into the hallway after the lie to the police. You must have seen something. What? I stayed in the studio. George, open up. I don't want to get mixed up in it. All right. I got a police record back in shy, Regan. No deals, but make it the truth. Okay, okay. It was just, I didn't want to get mixed up and no killing. What did you see? I followed the star out of the studio like I always do to tell him it was a great show. Yeah? Only when I opened the door, I saw this little guy pop out of the crowd and plant his two hands against the star. Buddy Huckle. Yeah, and push him through the window. Thanks, George. That's all I need. I tried to step back before I saw it happen. I got a record, Regan. Not all right. A little man, George, that seemed to push Huckle out of the window, could be Laszlo, Huckle's secretary. I checked all morning trying to find Laszlo, but he disappeared from the face of the earth. Then I got to thinking what kind of a guy Laszlo appeared to be. A thinker. Now, where would a thinker type go to hide if he was afraid of something? Some place familiar to give him a sense of security yet off the beaten path. It hit me. Sure. The public library. And that's where I found him. Two flights below street level in the last reference room. Laszlo. His round popcorn white head was bent over a book. Hanging above his head was the public library sign. Silence. It's you again. Come with me, Laszlo. No. No, you shouldn't take me alive. Stop poking your pocket at me, Laszlo. It's a dueling pistol. It belonged to Edgar Allan Poe and it'll fire again in righteous cause. Yeah, sure. Now, listen, Laszlo, I know you finally blew your top about Huckle's poetry. You sent him those pasted notes threatening his life to keep him from writing anymore. He dictated his poetry. Dictated. It's all over, Laszlo. No, no, no. You can't prove anything. You were seen pushing Huckle to his death. Oh. I just couldn't stand it any longer. Today, after you left, I held this dueling pistol to his head and made him dictate one of my poems for spite. And then I resigned. Go on. He put money ahead of art with his reputation. He was going to win the Hotchkiss Prize without even looking at his work while my poetry would go begging. You realize that I am one of only four men in the world who really understands Gertrude Stein? Go on, Laszlo. I didn't want to hurt him. Just, just, just frighten him into seizing to write poetry. You followed him to the broadcast last night. Yes, it was the last resort. I was going to interrupt the broadcast, tell the world he was an imposter, not a poet. Yeah, but you had the motto from his wall with you. Yes, positive proof of his inartistic approach. His motto was drive. But I couldn't go through with it. I was leaving when... You saw Huckle leave the scene of his latest triumph, the broadcasting studio. This was too much. You killed him. I was blind with rage. In pushing Huckle, you dropped the motto out of the window, huh? I don't know. I, I don't remember. It all happened so fast. Let's forget the dueling pistol, Laszlo. Just come along quietly. No, no, you shan't take me alive. Hand that gun over, Laszlo. No, stand back! The dueling pistol went off in his hand. The bullet cracked the ceiling. I grabbed the gun away from Laszlo. He didn't put up much of a fight. And then I let him from the library as quietly as possible. Sanduci, down at homicide, felt as sorry for Laszlo as I did. I had plenty of time to write poetry and not worry about selling it. State will take care of him. George, the radio producer, got a dressing down for withholding information. And I called Mona to tell her she was no longer under suspicion. And that wrote the end. It was high noon when I checked in with my boss, the lion, at the bureau. He was reciting. Oh, yesterday is but a dream, and tomorrow is only a vision. You still can enter the poetry contest, Fatso? Of course, my boy. The 10,000 is as good as mine. I've just completed my work of art. Okay. How does it go? Oh, it's classic, Jeffrey. Reminiscent of ancient Sanskrit poetry in translation, of course. Well, I've had a hard night, but I'd like to hear it. Well, you've heard most of it. I'll just give you the ending. Go on. And tomorrow is only a vision. But today, well-lived, makes every yesterday a dream of happiness. Oh, that's real fine. Oh, yes. And every tomorrow a vision of hope. Why are you walking around? Oh, just looking, lion. Now you just sit still while I finish. Look well, therefore, to this day, such is the salutation to the dog. What's this in your waist, basket? Nothing, Jeffrey. A library book. Give me that. Oh, no. The cleaning woman must be right there. Look, great poems by unknown poets. Yeah. Well, since nobody claims them, Jeffrey, it would be a shame to see them go to waste. The Investigator is written by William Fruge and Gilbert Thomas, produced and transcribed by Sterling Cracey and stars Frank Graham as Reagan, with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. Original music is by Dick Arant. CBS, The Columbia Broadcasting System.