 For your listening enjoyment, John Laund as Johnny Deller. Bradley, Johnny, read any good books lately? And that's a brilliant conversational bit. I'm referring specifically to the books of Martin Veneberg. Veneberg? Is that the novelist who made such a big splash about 20 years ago? The same. The self-starred genius of Chicago's literary who wrote two smash-sellers back in the 30s and hasn't been heard from since. Not until yesterday, that is. And what happened yesterday? Well, at the height of his heyday, he bought a $25,000 paid-up plus policy fund. We had a request from him yesterday asking for some change of beneficiary form. Oh, what's so unusual about that? Now, they accepted his wife's pleasant beneficiary. And the Chicago police had been looking for her ever since Veneberg was murdered last night. Might be a good idea to brush up on my reading as well. Mind if I break in here to ask you a question? Here it is. How much do you know about your United States government? For example, do you know what the work of the Department of Agriculture entails? Somebody, someday, may recommend that the Department of Agriculture be called the Department of General Scientific Progress because employees of this branch of our government have been responsible for the improvement of our shoe leather, our mattress stuffing, and the rubber tires which we put on our automobile. But these improvements are somewhat of a sideline since the main duty of the Department is to assist the farmers of America. Now, back in the days when it was just getting organized and explaining to Congress why it needed more money, the Department of Agriculture, acted only as a sort of clearinghouse for information which farmers picked up and passed on about better ways to grow corn, raised pigs, and so on. Then the farmers began asking questions about getting rid of blights and parasites and other such farming problems, and the Department had to come up with the right answers. That's when the Department began to expand and take a direct part in improving farm operations. As an example of its success in farming improvement, there's the item of egg production. In the past 50 years, the production of eggs has been increased over 300 percent as a result of the expert advice on the feeding and grazing of poultry developed by workers in the Department of Agriculture. Other important developments have been made by the Department's chemists such as the improvement of insect killers, fertilizers, and the discovery of new ways in which to use products which farmers have been growing since the beginning of time. For example, do you know it is now possible to make mucilage from sweet potatoes, paper from corn stalks, paintbrushes from milk, and wood as strong as steel? These are just a few of the advancements made by the Department of Agriculture. Future advancements will add much to our American way of life. Expense accounts submitted by Special Investigator Johnny Dowder to Home Office, Washingtonian Life Insurance Company, Hartford, Connecticut. The following is an accounting of expenditures during my investigation of the frustrated Phoenix matter. Expense account item one, $63.30. Airfare and incidentals between Hartford and Chicago. Expense account item two, $1.20. Cab fare from the Sherman House to the editorial offices of the Daily Examiner. I figured a quick brush-up on Martin Veneberg's recent history might come in handy. But as it happened, I didn't get past the city editor's desk. Sure, you can use the more dollar. Might have a better price. Sure, you can use the more dollar. Might have a better idea for you, though. Oh, yeah? What's that? Have a talk with Richard Hanley. Who is Hanley? Freelance literary critic and columnist. We buy a lot of stuff. He can tell you everything is in the morgue and then some. Sounds like he knew Veneberg pretty well. Yeah, he was his disciple, friend, father-confessor, and psych-affriced social worker, old for 20 years. That sounds like a pretty good recommendation. If he can find Veneberg's wife, she could give you a better one. Oh, how's that? Hanley was her first husband. Expensive item three, one dollar and 35 cents, cab fare to Richard Hanley's modern studio apartment on Elm Street. The severe functional appearance of the studio seemed to be reflected in Richard Hanley. Which Martin Veneberg did you want me to tell you about Mr. Dollar, the man or the writer? There's a difference. As a writer, he'd been touched by the gifts of genius. As a man, he was disillusioned, depraved, contemptible. Would you mind explaining that, Mr. Hamley? In 1933 and 34, he published two of the greatest novels ever written. They burst upon the muck heap of the creative writing of the times like Twin Comments blazing a pathway to the stars. For the next 20 years, he drowned that brilliant light in a foul sea of alcohol dissipation and moral dissolution. In short, the Martin Veneberg who was killed last night, Mr. Dollar, was a drunken bum. I was told that you were a friend of Veneberg's. Seems I was misinformed. For 20 years, I've been trying to get that man to write again, write as I knew he could as he'd done before. I nursed him through his alcoholic stupors, counseled him, pleaded with him, even financed him for a year or two. And how did he react? Well, the vows were many, the accomplishments near. Whatever I gave him, he used to state his appetite for dissipation. Well, 20 years is a long time to spend in the face of all that. It's not to mention the loss of your wife. I hadn't contemplated giving him Helene too, Mr. Dollar. Where is she now? I have no idea. I'd finally given up on Veneberg some five weeks ago. I haven't seen either of them since. Well, anything else you can tell me, Mr. Hamley? Any ideas as to who might have killed him or why? No. He had no personal possession, possibly no longer even a talent for anyone to be jealous of. I can't conceive of any possible muckies, Mr. Dollar. Well, there's always that $25,000 insurance policy. I walked over to the Chicago Avenue police station and introduced myself to Lieutenant Borschach, who was in charge of the investigation. Oh, for what it's worth, here's what we got on him, Dollar. Veneberg was killed in the one-room rat-nasty called home by two 25-caliber bullets by the close range. The police has classified the gun for it automatic. The time of death was approximately 11 p.m. last night. Nobody heard the shots. Nobody saw anybody come in or out. Nobody knows any reason why Veneberg should have been killed. Who discovered the body, Lieutenant? A man by the name of Dalton Taller. He seems to be an old friend of Veneberg, strictly a screwball bohemian type, you know? What time did he come across us? 3 o'clock this morning. Unusual hour for him to come calling, wasn't he? Well, not according to Taller. He's doing poems and all. He finished them and tore right over to show them to Veneberg. According to him, the womb of night is the birthplace of genius and time is an artificial dungeon created by benighted Philistines and which to imprison mid souls. Unquote. That's very descriptive, but not very illuminating. No, the same could be said about everything else about this case so far. Until we came across that insurance policy, we had a blank right down the line. You figure that's the motive for Veneberg's murder? That's the only one that he looks close. What about the wife, Elaine? Yeah, that's got us beat, too. As far as we can find out, she disappeared five days ago. Nobody in the neighborhood has seen or heard of her since. We've got an APB out on her, so we'll figure it out later. Anything in Veneberg's recent actions to give us a lead? Well, one unusual thing popped up. I don't know if it means anything, though. Yeah, what's that? We found a nearly new portable typewriter up in his room. Clean oil's ready to go. The neighbors tell us that for the past week, Martin Veneberg has been writing again. Only we couldn't find a scrap or manuscript. Well, there wasn't much more of a voice shock to tell me. Veneberg's history during the past ten years was summed up under police slaughter. A risk for drunkenness, vagrancy, disorderly conduct. And the coroner's jury would write the epitaph. Homicide at the hands of person or persons unknown. I found Dalton Taller, where his landlady said he would be, in Newberry Park, one square block of tired grass and scraggly bushes in the midst of a dreary section of Chicago's near north side. Taller was addressing a couple of dispirited-looking squirrels. Young, you beady-eyed scavengers, seeking the tumourous fruit of the gruber? There are no greenings here to save those unpalatable ones. Scrape from the mould being refuse through the ashes called the mines of man. Do you think the squirrels understand that? Hmm? Oh. Far better, perhaps, than the two-legged, full-of-plasmic dwellers who stow the earth under the guise of homo and sappy. Well, I have to take your word for that, Mr. Taller. And you don't let wrong knowledge of identity which indicates you have the advantage of me, sir. Well, my name is Taller. I'm an insurance investigator. In other words, a brazen deliverer into the secrets of man? I'd like to ask you a few questions about Martin Veneberg. Yes. A final degradation of genius. To be dissected piecemeal upon the cold, impersonal orthopedic slab of a park bench. All I want to do is find out who killed him and why. An impossible task, sir. You ignore the simple fact that Martin Veneberg is not dead. That's not what the police record say. An abysmal conclusion. It might pig me-minded illiterates. A soul such as that of Martin Veneberg can never die. It will rise again from the ashes of its mortal remains like that table-burred phoenix and sore and glorious wings of death are posed. For evermore. Well, let's get back to the police plotter and sort of realism, shall we? Very well, sir. What do you wish from me? Any information you can give me about who might have wanted to kill Martin Veneberg? He's a legion, sir. How's that, Mr. Teller? Any of the incompetent, the jealousy-witten, the hacks who spew out their clumsy, ill-informed words could have killed Veneberg cheerfully out of sheer, frustrated envy. Well, I'm looking for a little more practical motive. What more practical motive could there be, sir? Worldly goods? These he had none. What about his wife? A ridiculous implication. Why? Veneberg Shrine, who was dedicated selflessly to her tireless task of catering to his genius. I can think of 25,000 reasons why she might get tired of it. Sure, you're not referring to that insurance policy. Well, if the fly is motive, the lane's disappeared. Unless she turns up fast with an airtight alibi, it looks pretty bad for her. Yeah, I'd never considered it in that life before. Well, now that you have, how does it look? Would it be of any assistance to her to inform you where she was last night? It might. You realize, of course, that my antipathy towards the minions of the law prevented me from divulging this sooner. But if it might be of possible aid to where was she, shall I? And where she'd been every evening for the past month. Typing manuscripts, sir, at the apartment of Richard Handley. That's right, dollar. Elaine has been coming here evenings to type my column for me. How did you forget to mention that little fact earlier? My attorney was out of town. I wish to consult with him first. What about Elaine or yourself? There have been no official charges made against her, and I've nothing to be concerned about. Mm-hmm. Where is Elaine now? I can tell you only what I just finished telling Lieutenant Bozak over the phone. And what was that? I expect Elaine here as usual at 8 o'clock tonight. No objections if the lieutenant and I are here. Not at all. My attorney will be here, too. You mind telling me what time Elaine left here last night? It was a little past midnight. Are you sure about the time? Just as certain as you are that Jennerberg was killed at approximately an hour before then. Well, he got an alibi already, too. You seem to have thought of everything, Mr. Handley. Under the circumstances, I thought it a reasonable thing to do. Expense account item 4, 65 cents. Cab fare to the Chicago Avenue police station. I just paid off the driver and was heading for the entrance when Bozak came hurrying down the stairs called a squad car parked at the curb. Oh, darling, you got here just in time. Come on, come on, darling. Yeah, sure, Lieutenant. What's up? A brake on the Veneberg case. You picked up Elaine? No, but this might be better. County Hospital, Joe. Some woman took an overdose of sleeping pills with an old picture of Venebergs in her hand. I personally autographed copy of one of his books who's on the bed table beside it. It's not interesting. Yeah, maybe. What are you holding out, Lieutenant? They found a 25-caliber Mareta automatic under his pillow. You know, many great men have attained the highest office in our land, the presidency of the United States. Can you guess the name of this man? He rose to the presidency through successful careers as lawyer, army officer, and statesman. No president Garfield offered him a cabinet position. He turned it down to become a senator from Ohio. Later, as president, he recommended the annexation of Hawaii. But his term expired before the bill could be acted on. He also helped the admission of North and South Dakota, Montana, Washington, Idaho, and Wyoming as states. If you don't have his name by now, here's another clue. In 1890, he signed a bill giving pensions to American war veterans. Who was he? Benjamin Harrison, 23rd president of the United States. His life is part of your American heritage. And now, with our star, John Lund, we bring you the second act of yours truly, Johnny Dower. Out to Wood Street and Cook County Hospital took us approximately 12 minutes. One of the interns on Judy at the emergency entrance gave us a briefing in one of the admissions rooms. He's always gone on her. It isn't much. She only came in about 20 minutes ago. Yeah, we know. Jane Doe, white, female, American, about 30 years of age, reported symptoms, overdose, and barbiturates, stomach, comatose, condition, pulse, respiration, blood pressure, normal. Stomach contents removed, stimulants administered, hypodermically patient, temporarily in 312. There's the highlights, gentlemen. Seem to be a few discrepancies, Lieutenant. Now, the normal person, who's been in the hospital for a long time, seems to be a few discrepancies, Lieutenant. Now, the normal pulse, blood pressure, and respiration, they don't fit in with my ideas about the symptoms of barbiturate poisoning. They very definitely don't. I'd say the odds are about 10 to 1 that the lab report will show stomach contents to be known. Uh-huh. Well, let's have a look at it, all right? Forgive me, Martin. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to do it, Martin. But it's all right now, darling. We'll be together again. Uh, we'd like to ask you a few questions. No. No. Go away. Leave me alone. Please leave me alone. Oh, Martin. Martin, darling. Martin. I'm a police officer, Miss Lieutenant Bozhak. Police officer? And this is Johnny Dollar insurance. I don't care what you are. Now, go away, please. Go away. Leave me here with my memories of Martin. What was Martin Veneberg to you? He was my one and only true love. I worshipped at the shrine of his genius. Life isn't worth living without him. He was the shining beacon that was my one and only guiding light. Are you sure that shining beacon isn't a spotlight at that grind house on North Clark Street? Hmm? What are you talking about? You're a darling, darling, aren't you? The one who was built as a the tempestuous sweetheart of Terpsichorean delight? So what? What's that got to do with my love for Martin Veneberg? You better be able to prove it. What do I got to prove? It's enough for me that him and me were secret lovers. What right have you got to come around crying into a person's secret life? Well, there happened to be a few laws concerning attempted suicide, Miss Darling. Laws? You mean that there's a law? I have to mention a few about filing a false crime report. Now, wait a minute. I didn't do nothing wrong. You better start talking, Miss Darling. That low-down dirty thinking you found me far well. Your press agent? Yeah. It was his idea. I told him it was nuts that we couldn't get away with it, but no, he's got himself delusions. The greatest gimmick since Barnum, he says. So look what happens. I get myself in a jam in this lousy pill factory. I get a wrestle with a stomach pump yet, and for what? What am I going to get out of it now? Probably 30 to 90 days, depending on the judge. Back at the Chicago Avenue station, Voreshark went through the routine on Dolly Darling and her publicity agent, Sam Flywell. It turned out just about as we expected. Well, there it is, darling. Ballistics clears the 25-calibre burrata that he had planted as a prop for the publicity stunt. Any previous arrests? Yeah, a couple of lute performances for Dolly's and old ones for Farwell's, a dissemination of pornographic literature, and salt, no convictions. Veneberg's name doesn't show any of the package shows. Well, it doesn't help much in the little matter of who killed him. And I'm waiting for Helene Veneberg to do that. Expect her to show up at Hanley's tonight? Yeah, it could be. And if she doesn't? Probably got a tail on Hanley. He might lead us to her. If not, our APB will pick her up eventually. Hmm, maybe. You don't sound very convinced. I guess I'm just not the optimistic type. I spent the rest of the day covering the bars, bookie joints, and the soda dives on the near north side that had been notoriously frequented by Martin Veneberg. I wound up in Dalton Taller's neighborhood no wiser than when I started. I figured I had nothing to lose by paying a little social call. I take it, Mr. Taller, that your visit has no connection with whatever impression my... Charm, wit, and brilliance may have had upon you earlier today. Well, maybe you're being too modest, Mr. Taller. Oh, modesty is an attribute only of the mediocre, sir. It is unbecoming in the realm of talent and utterly irreconcilable with the genius. Well, into which category do those poems of yours fall? The poems, sir? The ones you were rushing to Martin Veneberg when you found his body. Oh, they're not worthy of discussion. Insignificant in conception. Pure island realization. I destroyed them. Is that what you did with Veneberg's work, too? Your meaning escapes me, sir. Veneberg was working on something. The first writing he'd done in 20 years. He'd been at it steadily for a week, but the police didn't find a trace of manuscript. What happened to it, Mr. Taller? I trust my impression that you're accusing me of having pilfered it. It's erroneous, Mr. Dollar. You found his body. True. But I found no such manuscript. Well, have it your way. But the police are bound to dig up that manuscript sometimes. Uh, one moment, sir. Yeah? There is something I can tell you. Well, let's have it. Martin Veneberg was writing. It was being done under conflict with someone. For money. Who was he writing it for? So far, I've been unable to ascertain. But he, uh, he showed me some of it. It was incredible, Mr. Dollar. Badly written. Martin Veneberg was utterly incapable of writing even one inferior line, sir. No, it was the contents to which I refer. Indescribable stint. I still find it impossible to believe. Sir, you took the manuscript and destroyed it. It's what I would have wished to do. Unfortunately, there was no place of the manuscript when I arrived there. Uh-huh. He started writing this stuff just about the time his wife disappeared. Any connection? A definite one, sir. Elaine had stood by him all these years because of her fate, but someday he would write again. Then he began. And she learned what he was doing. It was impossible for her to bear. She left him. I suppose that's why he wanted to take her name for insurance policy. Such, I believe, was his intention? Why tell me all this now, Charlie? It was your reference to the police possibly finding that manuscript. You're hoping that I'll find it first and destroy it? If the rebirth of the soaring phoenix that was Martin Veneberg should be frustrated because of that writing, it would be the most heinous of all crimes, Mr. Dollar. Worse than murder? In my humble opinion, sir. Yes. I called Clark when I left college so I called Lieutenant Vorschach to see if he was ready to keep our appointment with Richard Hanley. We don't have to bother going over there now, Dollar. Why not, Lieutenant? We just found Elaine Veneberg. Yeah, where? In the Chicago River. In her examination show, she died about 12 to 24 hours ago. Well, the time could match pretty closely with Martin Veneberg. Yeah, so could the probable cause of this. What about Richard Hanley? Right now, his other physicians' care broke down completely when they gave him the news. It's possible he did it, of course. Jealousy could give him a pretty good motive for Martin's death. Doesn't tie in with Elaine very well. No. That'll be our headache from now on. Well, at least your job's over. Yeah, it looks like it, but... I'm in no hurry. Oh. You got something on your mind? Two things. A manuscript and a 25-calibre Beretta. Yeah. Well, I think maybe I got the gun figured, so let's try the manuscript first. Well, Veneberg was writing again. According to Toller, it was the kind of literature they sell in back rooms in Dark Alley. Yeah. Toller thinks somebody who peddles that stuff gave him a commitment. Yeah. Yeah, that starts to tie in with a gun flat on its top, isn't it? Somebody knew enough to use the Beretta in the publicity stunt of Dolly Darlings. Even ballistics didn't know the tight gun that had killed Veneberg until maybe an hour before. That's on pornographic literature, Charlie. The missing seems to be a motive. Why don't we drop over to Dolly Dolly Darlings' presage and see if we can find one of them? The offices of Sammy Farwell, publicist, were located on the third floor of an old office building on North Wells Street. They're down that way. Yeah. Police officers, open up! Better break it down. Oh, wait a minute. Welcome to the sacrificial ceremony. Toller, something's burning in our wastebasket. They do not suffer yourselves, gentlemen. It's much too late. The last works of Martin Veneberg have already been reduced to ashes. Where's Farwell? In the inner office, sir. Oh, no need for haste. He's quite incapable of leaving there under his own locomotion. I trust you agree that this is a most ridiculous, but of course, Lieutenant. I must confess, I feel quite proud of myself for what has just transpired. You knew Farwell had killed Martin and Helene? Not his actual identity, no. But there had been word around of a violent disagreement over the unwelcome attentions Martin's sponsor was paying to Helene. It obviously ended in the shooting. Then he disposed of Helene later as a possible witness. Why, didn't you come to the police for this? My dear, Lieutenant, it was only the manuscript that was of concern to me. It was vital that I get to it before you did. And not until Mr. Dollar departed my humble abode did I learn Farwell's identity through the good offices of an old conflare. Sir, you came up here, shot him, and burned the script. In essence, sir, yes. There was a bit of disagreement involving that gun in there. Yeah. No need to appear so discomfort, Mr. Dollar. I would say that old and old and old, when the phoenix does eventually rise from the ashes, he would agree that things have turned out quite well. Five, $19.40. Hotel, Villa, Miscellaneous. Expense account item $6.67.60. Airfare and incidentals back to Hartford. Expense account total $153.50. Yours truly, Johnny Dollar.