 My name's Regan. I work for Anthony J. Lyon, Detective Bureau. They call me The Lion's Eye. Jeff Regan, investigator, starring Paul DeBovis Regan with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. We'll stand by for mystery and suspense and adventure in tonight's story titled, The Smell of Magnolia. Wellington Butterfield was a songwriter who wrote tone poems with one finger. Using both hands, he was capable of writing even more impressive ditties. The question? Was Wellington Butterfield capable of murder? It began without benefit of overture in the office of my boss, Anthony J. Lyon, one beaming Monday. Anthony J. was on the phone when I walked in. A look on his face said, easy credit terms, no money down. No, no, you won't have to worry about a thing. Not a thing. It just said tight, now send one of my men right out. Yes. Well, thank you, Mr. Butterfield. Good day. Good morning, Jeffrey. You client? Yes, indeed, Jeffrey. The Lion Detective Agency is on its toes as usual. Nothing like an efficient organization, I always say. You'll send one of your men out? I heard that part of it. Well, now, Jeffrey, there might be other men working for me. If business picks up the way it has been, well, I may have to increase the staff. And a secretary, maybe? Jeffrey, what a delightful idea. A thoroughly delightful idea. But first we have to pick up the extra business. Your business? Oh, yes, Mr. Butterfield. I almost forgot. You better run right out there, Jeffrey. His office is in the Johnson Building, Hollywood. Yeah, and a secretary. Lion, did Mr. Butterfield happen to mention why he wanted a private detective? He blinded the lead. That's so, cut it out. Huh? Oh, yes, Mr. Butterfield. Oh, yes, he did say something about a small redhead. Any problem? Let me see. Oh, I've got it. He thinks someone is trying to murder his wife. Jeffrey, what would you say to a cute little redhead? The lion got lost in his dreams of redheads and I drove out to Hollywood and the Johnson Building. Two stories of old stucco covered with more coats of paint than there were tenants. The Johnson Building used to be a movie studio, then studio dressing rooms. Now tiny cement offices with scarlights and battered doors. Every office on the second floor faced onto a passageway without a roof. Pen houses for 25 bucks a month. I went up, dodged the rooftop ventilators, the broken glass from windows that hadn't been repaired since Metro met Goldwyn. Hanging above each office was a shingle. One said no to Republic and music copyist. Another one said artwork, reasonable. Another one said quiet, keep out. The last one down the passageway said Wellington Butterfield. I stood in front of the door and listened. In the Johnson Building, you don't knock, you just walk in. You heard it? Yeah, not bad. Not bad at all. Oh, that's not really my kind of music, honest. But I wanted you to hear something else. You'll like it, Mr. King. Sure, oh, I'm not... Now don't say anything till you hear. Oh, the blue bonnet says blooming in Texas But they won't bloom for me very long She still waits for me, but I'll never see The blue bonnet's blooming down Did you say you weren't Mr. King of King's Music Publishing? My name's Regan, Lyon Detective Agency. Oh, Mr. Regan, I'm glad you came. Want to tell me the story, Wellington? Just call me Wellie, Mr. Regan. My friends call me Wellie. Wellie? Well, sir, it's about Sue. Sue's my wife. Somebody's going to kill her, Mr. Regan. She tell you that? Oh, no, no, sir. You see, I was out at the blue club one night. Sue sings there, and I heard voices from her dressing room. He was saying mean and angry things this man was. Go on. But when I came in, the man was gone and my wife, Sue, Sue was crying. She tell you what the man said? She wouldn't talk about it, Mr. Regan. He just wouldn't talk about it. That's all? Well, finally she admitted that he wanted to kill her. But she wouldn't say who it was. You just got to help her, Mr. Regan. It's all my fault. If anything happens, it's all my fault. Why? Well, you think I like sitting here day after day, writing songs, nobody'll buy while my wife works six nights a week in a nightclub. You think I like that, Mr. Regan? Okay, take it easy, Wellie. She needs watching, Mr. Regan. Lots of watching, and you've got to do it. Okay, I'll watch it. Oh, don't let her out of your sight. Not for a minute. You love her a lot, don't you, Wellie? More than anything in this whole world, Mr. Regan. You don't have any idea who the man was? No, sir, I don't. You sure you're not leaving something out of the story? Mr. Regan at a time like this. Okay, I'll run out there. Mr. Regan, there's just one thing. Don't tell Sue that you're a detective. She wouldn't like that. All that fuss, you know, you understand? Sure, I understand. And you may meet the man that leads the orchestra, Mr. Lytton. Don't you say a word to him. You don't like Lytton? Don't like him? Mr. Regan, I'd like to kill him. Your story was smooth, but mixed up like pancake batter after a bout with a Mixmaster. I left Wellington Butterfield hunched over his piano. Outside, footsteps in the passageway made me turn. Suddenly, moving down the corridor away from Butterfield's window was a tall man in a blue sport coat and gray flannels. He moved not like a man leaving an office, but like a man leaving a keyhole. I started after him. Come in out of the sun, Regan. You might get freckles. Standing in the open doorway on my left, a blonde, a real blonde, real all the way. Either way, you started looking. I went in. My name's William. Your name's Regan. You work for the Lion Detective Agency, and Wellie Butterfield just hired you. Have a cigarette? Thanks. Wellie's office is right across the passageway. It's a hot afternoon. He keeps his windows open. I keep my windows open. Anything else? As a matter of fact, there is. I was about to follow a guy when you opened your door. You wouldn't have been trying to stop me from doing that, would you? Drink? You would. Regan, when you follow people, you find out things. When you find out things, people get hurt. I don't like to see people get hurt. Only in your case, it's too late. That it? You called Butterfield Wellie your friend of his? We're practically related. His wife, my husband. Come again? She caught spying on Wellington Butterfield as my husband. I forgot to tell you my last name, didn't I? It's Lytton. My husband's the orchestra leader at the Blue Club. Change your mind about that drink. Yes. Yes, I changed my mind. All right, Mr. Detective. Drink like a movie hero and say, why is a nice girl like you running a publicity office? Or is that the one? What about Sue Butterfield and your husband, Lill? Let us talk here. My ears may be big, but they're also delicate. Who's out to get Butterfield's wife? Every man within reach. Have you seen him? Mm-mm. Slick, little brunette. Wellowy. Soft like an agnolia blossom. Wise as glowy. Only your husband doesn't think so. I work 40 hours a week, Regan. What my husband thinks hasn't bothered me in over two years. What about divorce? I'm the old-fashioned type. You know, frilly curtains, barbershop quartets, and marries. I believe in all of them. Lytton doesn't. I tried. He doesn't. Why would Lytton want to kill Butterfield's wife? He may be a snake, Regan, but he doesn't crawl that low. You're on the wrong track. It fits that way. The voice Butterfield heard behind the door. I said you're on the wrong track. Maybe you better leave, Regan. I don't want to begin to dislike you. Where was Lytton going when I saw him a minute ago? Out of town. He left for good. He's good. My good. It's toss-up. They begin slow. They end quick. Don't they, Regan? Sue Butterfield, who wants to kill her, Lil? Maybe I do, Regan. The only trouble is I'd have to stand in line. Okay, forget it. Like I said, Regan, maybe you'd better leave. I don't want to begin to dislike you. If Wellington Butterfield was lying, it didn't check with Lillian Lytton. Put both their stories together, and Sue Butterfield looked like a candidate for Miss Mortuary of 1950. There were still two precincts yet to be heard from. Lil's husband and Butterfield's wife. I headed my car for the Blue Club. Middle afternoon as rehearsal time on the strip, it was that way at the Blue Club. The sign outside said Jimmy Lytton in his orchestra, the voice of Sue Butterfield. Inside the orchestra, without benefit of Lytton, he was warming up on what passed for a rumba. I wandered around backstage to the dressing rooms, found a door that said Miss Butterfield and Knot. Yes? She was everything Lil said, even including the magnolia blossom in her hair. Well, don't just stand there. Please come in. I'm Sue Butterfield, but then you probably already know that. My name's Regan. Yes, sir. What did you wish to speak to me about? Your husband, Mrs. Butterfield. Please, call me Sue. Uh, Sue. That's better. He's worried about Wellie. He's worried, Mrs. Bu... Sue, worried about you. About me? Well, that certainly sounds silly. Why on earth would he worry about me? He thinks you're in trouble. Mr. Regan, why are you concerned, Miss? I'm a friend of Wellie's. I see. Well, then, I appreciate your interest, but really, nothing could be sillier. Oh, now I see it. See what? He's worried about Jimmy. Jimmy Lytton. Isn't that ridiculous? Is it? But of course. Jimmy and I are merely close friends. Just because we work together every night on the bandstand is no sign. Well, you see what I mean. Oh, sure. So you see, Mr. Regan, it's all nonsense. Wellington sometimes tries my patience. Well, you shouldn't hate Jimmy. You should pity him. Poor Jimmy is just a lonely, misunderstood man. I'm kind of a mother to him. Uh, mother. I like people, Mr. Regan. I don't like seeing them blue. Jimmy is blue so often. Yeah, sure, Mrs. Sue. Thanks. Thanks a lot. And you tell Wellington he should have asked me before spending the money. Spending the money? Oh, yeah. Spending the money to hire a private tech. Bye, Mr. Regan. I got out of there in a hurry. Out the back entrance, under the parking lot, and then I saw him, loose sport coat, gray flandals, getting out of his car, glancing both ways, closing the door. He looked scared, very scared, and his name was Jimmy Litten. Litten? I beg your pardon. You don't remember me? Look, please, I'm in a hurry. I'm late for rehearsal. I'm the guy who was with Wellington Butterfield when you looked in on us. You remember that, don't you? No, please, please. Leave me alone, will you? I haven't done anything. Nobody said you have. I just want to ask you some questions. No. No, no, not now. Some other time, I really can't stay with you. Calm down, Litten. You're getting upset over nothing. Let go of my arm. Now, Litten, it'll go better. I said, Litten, come. It's the way you want to play it. Let me alone. Let me alone. James Litten, dust on his gray flandals, grease on his monogram white sport, shirt, blood on his cheek, running back inside the blue club, trying to restore his ego and the crease in his trousers at the same time. More scared than I thought. Littorette headed back to my car, sat there thinking, but not for long. It came from the blue club, from backstage near the dressing room. I got to the door marked Sue Butterfield, kicked it open. Two people in Sue Butterfield's dressing room, Jimmy Litten, and Wellington Butterfield. Litten was the one on the floor, dead. You don't have to look any further, Mr. Reagan. I killed him. I took the gun out of the little man's hand and felt sick. Then I got up and locked the door. Why did you kill him? Well, it's like I told you, Mr. Reagan, he came in here, he shouted at me, and I saw red. What did he shout at you? Well, it was something nasty, something I'd rather not repeat. For that you killed him? I told you this morning, Mr. Reagan, I told you, I hated him, that I'd like to kill him. Let's try it once more. You came out here to see Sue, your wife. Yeah, I tried, Mr. Reagan. You came to her dressing room and she was gone. Yeah, I tried, Mr. Reagan. And Jimmy Litten burst into the room, he said something, you got mad, shot him. Yes, sir. Where did you get the gun? Well, I told you it was in a dresser drawer. Your wife's gun? Yes, Mr. Reagan. Litten just stood there, while you went to your wife's dresser, took out a gun and killed him. Mr. Reagan, I told you he didn't know what I was getting. You're covering for somebody, aren't you, Wellie? No, sir. You're covering for somebody. It's too pat, too easy, too simple. No, no, no, no. I'm not covering for anybody. Wellie, listen to me. What happened? What really happened? You didn't kill Litten, did you? You're covering for somebody. I killed him. I killed him, Mr. Reagan. Let me alone, Mr. Reagan. Let me alone. Okay, Wellie. We'll call the police. Lieutenant Sanducci came and went and took Wellington Butterfield with him. I waited around for nothing. For a rubber band that quit practicing only long enough for the sound of the police iron to fade like a bad taste in your mouth and then start practicing again. I went to the bar out front and found Sue Butterfield coming in the front door. Still here, Mr. Reagan? I thought you might leave with those police gentlemen. I like to ooze out. Then if you'll excuse me, I have to rehearse. You got a minute? Well, I really have. All right, it will only be a minute, Mr. Reagan. You think your husband killed Litten? Well, it's just like I told you, Mr. Reagan. Wellington should never have hated Jimmy Litten. He should have felt pity for her. You didn't answer my question. Well, Mr. Reagan, you'd hardly expect a wife to think her husband guilty of it. Whatever. Where were you? I beg your pardon. When it happened, where were you? Back stage, changing my costume. For rehearsal? After all, Mr. Reagan, I had to see if it looked all right with a knife. But you didn't use your dressing room. Somebody put my dress in the wrong room. I went there. Alone. Mr. Reagan. In the tone of your conversation. Oh, never mind. Forget it. Well, listen to the way you talk, a person. I said forget it, Mrs. Butterfield. The orchestra's waiting. A slow-eyed brunette drifted down to the band stand like milk leaves in a southern breeze. And then suddenly I couldn't stand the air around the blue club. I drove back to Hollywood. Mind if I come in, Lil? Reagan, I'm sorry about this afternoon. It's okay, Lil. Reagan, something's bothering you. Something you don't like. I know what I can tell. Your husband's dead, Lil. My husband? He was shot an hour ago. Your kid? No. No, you're not kidding. I found him in Sue Butterfield's dressing room. Butterfield had the gun in his hand. Really? Yeah, yeah, I know. I told you this morning about my husband and me. You don't have to explain. Let me finish. I told you, Jimmy and I, the way it is, was. I said I stopped caring what he did two years ago. I'm in it, Reagan. I'm not gonna lie to you now. Thanks, Lil. He was smooth and slick and clever. He's dead, let's forget it. I've got to know some things, Lil. It's important that I know. Well, he Butterfield wouldn't kill a man, not even my husband. Well, he worked over there, right across the way from me. I knew him, Reagan. He wouldn't kill a man. I know that. But you just said it. Wellington said, gun in hand, he told me he shot your husband. For 30 minutes, he stuck to it. Isn't there anything you can do, Sure, mix a drink. She mixed a drink, two of them. Lillian Litton, the dead man's widow. And we drank the drinks and talked about everything and nothing and not murder or her dead husband or the little man on the way to the gas chamber, but it wouldn't stay that way. I borrowed Lillian Litton's phone and called the lion. Anthony J. Lyle- Me, Fatso. Jeffrey, I was hoping you'd check in in Mr. Butterfield Call. He what? He called from the police station. Jeffrey, our clients committed murder. That's why I called you. Lieutenant Sanducci told him he could make the call. Mr. Butterfield just wanted to thank you for everything. Is that all? He told me it wasn't your fault that you tried to help him. He said he was getting ready to sign a confession. He didn't tell you anything else, Fatso? No. He sounded so sad, Jeffrey. Why did he kill the man? Later, Fatso. But I thought it was his wife who was in danger. Lyle, and that's it. Jeffrey, what's it? Hang up, Fatso. You're wasting time. The lion was wasting time all right. I told Lyle I'd see her later and head my car toward City Hall. If I push this speed limit, I might get there before Sanducci could have the little man's statement typed up for signature. I got there. What's the hurry? Sanducci did Butterfield's sign yet. No, no, no. Take it easy, Regan. My stand was typing it up. He was getting excited. Butterfield didn't kill that man. I know he didn't. Oh, that's an interesting twist. A man comes to me asking to be locked up by a new savior. What's your evidence? I haven't any. Not yet, but give me time. Time to talk my number one inmate out of a confession. Are you crazy, Regan? Listen, Sanducci, Butterfield is taking the rap for somebody else. He's that kind of a guy. Well, it's a twist, all right. Nice story as I've heard. Give me 10 minutes with him, Sanducci. Just 10 minutes. Give me a chance to get the real story. Regan, you're stepping out of bounds. I know you want to protect the client, but messing with an open in short case is something else. Yes? I got that statement ready for the prisoner to sign, Lieutenant. Oh, good. Bring it in freely. You heard him, Regan. Sanducci, 10 minutes. That's all I asked. Just 10 minutes. Regan, thanks. Thanks a lot. Oh, God, they're watching the line. The turnkey took me to the cell of Wellington Butterfield, and I was on my own. Hello, Mr. Regan. Well, listen, they've got a statement in there. All typed up. Sign it, and you've got a season's pass to the gas chamber. Yes, sir. I know that. Wellie, it's your life. You were alone when you shot Lytton. I told you that, Mr. Regan. Your wife wasn't in that room with you. Leave Sue out of it. You're forgetting something, aren't you, Wellie? Sue was in the room, changing costume when Lytton burst in. She told me that, Wellie. She did? She said she was behind the screen, putting on the dress she was going to wear for the show. How come you forgot that? Well, it must have been a mistake. Sure it did. Your wife told me something else. She said nobody threatened her life. Well, Mr. Regan, I know better. I hurt... Go on. Mr. Regan, I don't like what you're trying to make me say. Then I'll say it for you. You lied. Lied to me about Sue's life in danger. Sure, you overheard a conversation in her dressing room. Well, it must have just left my mind. Sure it did. Your wife told me something else. Sure, you overheard a conversation in her dressing room, but there's nothing wrong with your ears. You knew what they were saying. They? Sue and Jimmy Lytton. Sue was asking Lytton to kill you. You knew that. That's why you hired me to watch her. You loved her too much to turn her over to the police, so you hired me to protect yourself. But that doesn't mean I didn't kill Lytton. Sue will testify it. She saw me do it. How could she have seen you do it when she was behind the screen dressing? Your story so crossed up, Wellie, even you can't make sense out of it. Your wife wanted Jimmy Lytton to get rid of you. He backed out. That's why he was so frightened when I saw him. That's why he ran from me outside your office for once he'd gotten in over his head. Sue is not that mean, Miss Regan. She just needs to understand. I heard that once before, but even Jimmy Lytton couldn't take her any longer. He was leaving her cold, so she shot him, and you were taking the rap. The statement, Regan, is ready. You said you'd give me 10 minutes. Regan, you're just making it hard on everybody. There is a very well, but there must be facts. Sanducci, let me read that statement first. Very well, Regan. You read it. Well, Regan, Mr. Regan, please. Regan, you're just obstructing justice. You know I could have you run in. Sanducci, it says here the body was found with bruises about the face, a cut under the eye. That's right, Regan. Butterfield left that part out of it at first, but when we examined that body, he admitted there had been a few blows between them. Oh, that's right, Mr. Regan. I'd forgot that part. Sanducci, Butterfield didn't fight with Lytton. He's lying. Regan, get out of here. Wait a minute. You said he told you they exchanged blows. Did you find bruises or cuts on Butterfield? Well, no. Yet Lytton was beaten about the face. Lytton, a man almost twice the size of Butterfield, is found beaten, but Butterfield hasn't got a scratch on him. So what? That still does not prove it. It proves Wellington Butterfield lied. If he lied, once he lied for all of it. I know, Sanducci, because I'm the guy who gave Lytton those cuts and bruises. Regan, for the last time... Lytton and I exchanged the blows, Sanducci, outside the blue club. It was just after that that Lytton ran inside and was killed. When you found the bruises, Butterfield had to change his story to make it fit. Go on, Regan. He lied again about being alone in the room. He just told me his wife was there with him. That's right, Butterfield. Well, um... Well, yes, sir, Sue was... Sue was with me. How many lies can you take, Sanducci? How many lies before you wake up? This man's covering all the way trying to take the rap. Oh, oh, Regan! For his wife. Mr. Regan, you shouldn't have said that. Had enough, Sanducci? Give me a motive, Regan. Lytton was running around with Butterfield's wife. She fell for him, but then he ditched her. Lytton's wife told me he was leaving town, not with Sue Butterfield, like I thought. Lytton was pulling out alone. I'm still listening. Sue Butterfield wanted Lytton to kill her husband. He turned her down and she couldn't take that. Woman scorned Sanducci. She had to kill him. He could have testified against her. Butterfield, you got anything to say about that? Well, she... Sue loved Lytton. She told me that. She didn't never love me. I tried to be what she wanted. Honest, I did. I tried to write music. It'd sell and make a lot of money, so she wouldn't have to work. It just wasn't my kind of music. I always feel it was my fault. Don't you see? If I'd only have been what she wanted me to be, this wouldn't have happened. Lytton came into the dressing room. He was angry. He blamed Sue for bringing the detective Mr. Regan into it. They said things to each other. Sue shot him. Then you took the gun and made her leave. You took all the guilt, all the blame for everything she was and stood for. Had enough Sanducci. But it was my fault. Don't you see? I've had enough, Regan. I gave a statement. Lillian gave a statement. Sue Butterfield came to jail with a bevy of lawyers. Didn't figure the lawyers do much good. And I was sick of the smell of Magnolia blossoms. Resting, Fatso. Resting and relaxing. Are you still working for the Lyon detective agency, or have you retired from active duty? No, Lyon. The case was only closed a couple of hours ago. Well, at least you could have done his report back to me. After all, I'm interested in the welfare of our clients. Sorry, Fatso. Well, we'll forget it for now. Jeffrey, I have here a Mr. Harrington. He says he wants us to handle his case, and I believe he needs our help. Just a minute, Fatso. Okay, Fatso, shoot. Well, Jeffrey, our client has a most unusual case. It seems he was out driving the other day in his new Nash Rambler. Now, he had the top down, so he didn't notice there was a helicopter flying over him. No, Jim. Sure. Real cute. Like I said, Lill, you make good drinks. Now, our Jeffrey, are you taking all this down? Jeff Regan Investigator is written by William Fruge and William Fifield, produced and directed by Sterling Tracy, and stars Paul Dubov as Regan with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. Original music is by Dick Aron. Jeff Regan Investigator is heard each week at the same time over CBS. Bob Stephenson speaking, inviting you to be with us again next Wednesday at 9 for more suspense and mystery and adventure with Jeff Regan Investigator. Thank you.