 If you're looking for a murder, I know a guy who can get it for your wholesale. This is another in the adventures of America's fabulous freelance insurance investigator, Johnny Dollar, starring Charles Russell. At insurance investigation, Johnny Dollar is only an expert. At making out his expense account, he's an absolute genius. Expense account submitted by special investigator, Johnny Dollar. Two West Coast underwriters, San Francisco branch, attention Bradford L. Coates, general manager. The following is an accounting of my expenditures during my investigation of the little man who wasn't all there, or in most cases there at all, or the unpaid premium payoff. Expense account, item one. Three cents, postage due on your air mail special delivery letter containing said assignment. I can just hear you dictating it. Take a letter to Johnny Dollar, you'll find his address in the files. Dear sir, better make that dear dollar, and close fine copies of letters received by us from one Mr. James Yarbo, period. This man's wife was insured with our company until recently. One day before her death, her period of grace and an unpaid premium ran out, we canceled her policy in the amount of $20,000. Her husband Yarbo first made every effort to collect, then threatened us. Since then, we've received enclosed series of letters intimating without confessing that he's had a hand in the accidental death of at least 12 of our policy holders to date. The police have been working on it, but are getting nowhere. If you are available, please come immediately. Yours very truly so. Expense accounts, item two, $176.87. Airfare, Hartford to San Francisco. Item three, 540. Cab fare, airport to your office. Dollar, glad you got him. You've no idea what a mess is open. Okay Mr. Coats, okay, don't get excited. We'll nail this guy before you run out of policy holders. Well, the dozen he's apparently done away with already, of course, is darn near quarter of a million. You've got to move fast, Dollar. The man is a homicidal maniac. Yeah, but a smart one, though. He's put just enough in those letters that he sent you to let you know that he's working on a grand scale revenge against your company. But, he leaves out just enough so the law can't lock him up. He's had perfect alibis in every case. Look, Mr. Coats, tell me, have all these deaths been local right around here? No, they've been all over California. Well, one other thing, the method. From this list you gave me, Mr. Yarbo seems to have a preference for killing people through the noisy and gory method of fake automobile accidents. Yes, very true. But what about this last one, airplane crash? That was a $30,000 loss to us. Just think, our poor innocent policy holder flying around and then his engine quit. Thanks to a man he's never even seen. Tell me, Mr. Coats, just how difficult would it be to get a list of your California policy holders, names and addresses, you know. Why, that would take days, but goodness gracious, man. You can't hope to keep an eye on them all. Besides, the minute you went off the job, it struck again. That's a preposterous idea. Well, cut time. Look, I don't want the list. I was just wondering how Yarbo got it. Oh. Now, so far you've given me nothing to go on. I'd like you to add two things to that. Yarbo's home address and a $50,000 life insurance policy made out to me. What on earth is that for? Well, look, in the first place if we're going fishing for Mr. Yarbo, I might as well be the worm. In the second place, if I should get gobbled up in a line of duty, that $50,000 life insurance would make several attractive young ladies of my acquaintance very happy. Not mind you as happy as I can make them by remaining alive. Expense account item four, $30. Rental of limousine complete with chauffeur. I figured if I was riding the trouble, I was riding in style. So I started on a house-to-house survey. You might say knocking at death's door. What is it, the police? Oh, I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. T and Ellie, but I'm from the insurance company. Oh, yes. It'll only take a moment. One question about your son. Oh. Poor Andrew. What do you want to know about my poor son? He'd drive away in his automobile. That's all. I've never seen him in life again. Yes, I know. Tell me, Mrs. T and Ellie, did you ever hear your son mention a man named Yarbo? Yarbo? Yeah. Yarbo? I don't know about no such Yarbo. Not please. Please don't leave me. There was so much sadness in my house. Mr. Dykes? Yes. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm from the insurance company about your son's plane crash. Oh. I thought all those details had been taken care of. But just one thing, Mr. Dykes. Did your son ever mention a man named Yarbo? Yarbo? Yeah. That's an unusual name. I'm sure if he had, I would have remembered. Okay, sir. I'm sorry to bother you. And thanks. Yes, sir. May I help you? Yes. I'd like to have a word with Mrs. Weatherly. I'm from the insurance company. Well, sir, Mrs. Weatherly has been indisposed, not receiving visitors. What is it, Brian? How do you do, Mrs. Weatherly? My name is Johnny Dollar. Oh, dear. You may go, Brian. Oh, I'm ashamed to let you see me in this condition, Mr. Dykes. Just ashamed. But you understand. I do indeed. Well, bad enough. The accident, I mean. But... No. If Harvey had to get himself in an awful big accident. Oh, yes. Yes, it was very unthoughtful of him, Mrs. Weatherly. Would you mind answering one question? Well, if I can. Did your husband ever mention a man named Yarbo? Well, no. No, he never mentioned a man named Yarbo. But neither did he ever mention Mrs.... I tried to have a dozen of the other beneficiaries left behind by Mr. Yarbo's list of victims. All I got out of it was a very watery afternoon. The tears were falling like monsoon time in Burma. But of information, I got none. This brought me a right smack up to a point I didn't want to have to reach. The point of contacting Mr. Yarbo in person. At 8.30 that night, I took a plan on Yarbo's house on Lombard Street. At 11.30, I saw the lights go out, as did Yarbo. He was a little guy, stooped over like he was looking for cigarette butts on a sidewalk, needing a haircut and through a type wearing a long black overcoat. But worst of all was the little satchel he was carrying. Items like this always set off a chain reaction in my imagination and I could just see him on his way to atomizing the Oakland Bay Bridge, thus causing the biggest automobile accident in history. I very cleverly forced my way into the house by breaking a first floor window, reaching in and opening same. The Cyclops eye of my flashlight started picking up information on the subject of Mr. Yarbo immediately. The room I had entered looked like the hobby lobby of an English Bobby, a crime museum if I ever saw one, on one wall a gun case, another a crime library, and scattered around the room a grizzly collection, ranging from blood-stained hatchets to shrunken heads. But the most surprising criminal curio of all stood right behind me. Mr. Yarbo, complete with little black bags. Well, well, I must say the current second-story man dresses well, but I must also say you, my man, must have the old masters of the art turning in their graves. For you young man are a heavy-fingered bungler. Sure, let's have a better look at you. Now that flashlight, I'll feel better after you've dropped it. Hey, what am I doing? You're not even pointing a gun at me. Don't feel too comfortable. You are well-covered from many points. A step from you in any direction may detonate any number of explosive devices. Why not depict this joint of burglar? I feel like a city councilman playing a crawl in the White House. You seem more the kind of a guy who's working for instead of on. What's your racket? Racket! You were in a racket, my little friend. My pastime is a science. Yes, I take it you are impressed with my collection. Who wouldn't be? Well, if you're interested, come here. About those booby traps. Oh, yes. Note well the design, the rug, the large roses. Avoid stepping on them for the time being. Oh, great. I was in here stumbling around in the dark. May your good luck continue. But look here in this case, the small vial on the right that was perloined for me to order from the famous black museum in Scotland Yard. That little vial once rested in the case of the fabulous murderer, Dr. Cripplin. And there, beside it, that lock of hair that is from the head of the second victim of the noted mass murderer, Neil Creev. And up there, look up there, the hanging noose over the mantle from that one swung the body of the notorious western bad woman Fanny Turner. Oh, how's chances for running this place for Halloween? Well, all right. And since you no longer seem interested in playing the part of a bungling burglar, then I assume that I am also free to discontinue my pose as a victim of your disguise. Mr. Johnny Dollar. Oh, looks like the chips are down and I'm the fish. Yes. And there are a lot of other fish in your sea, Mr. Dollar. There are a lot of boys and eels. That's what you are, the lot of you. Parasites, gambling on death, and they're not paid when you lose. Listen, Mr. Yarbo, you're placing a big hunk of blame where it doesn't belong. You're confused about this. Confused? Yes. When your wife's insurance premium was overdue, you were allowed a 30-day period of grace. And when that went by, the policy was canceled. Now, that's not the insurance company's fault. It was your fault. But it wasn't. I gave her the money. She spent it on herself. I didn't made it up. I told them so after she died. I'll show you. I'll show you. Yarbo looked like he was headed to show me the chopping end of an axe laying on top of a small table. I hit him just as he hit the table. As he hit the floor, I noticed what I was standing on. One of those big red roses in the carpet. It hadn't exploded yet, but that was one flower. I wasn't standing around waiting or see bloom. It took a lot of nerve picking up a telephone in that room. But I finally got a good hold on my nerves and a fair hold on an imitation of Yarbo's voice. I took one deep breath and picked up the phone. Yes? Hello, James. This is Martha. I'm at the office. I have good news. Two more. Mr. and Mrs. Granville Moss killed tonight on the Great Highway two miles south of Seal Rock. Eight forty-five tonight. Ran into a post both killed. Insured for a total of 80,000. I gotta go now. Congratulations, Brother Yarbo. Two more at eight forty-five tonight. Who's your new alibi? Me. In just a moment, we've returned to the second act of Johnny Dollar. But first, did you ever think of, and as a comedy word, maybe not, but you'll get a full demonstration on CBS this Wednesday night. There'll be Groucho Marx and his guest on that hilarious quiz you bet your life, for it's the guest who sometimes floor Groucho with their wisecracks. There'll be Bing Crosby in his regular Wednesday night CBS show and his special guest Bob Hope. There'll be George Burns and Gracie Allen and Bill Goodwin. And, and, becomes more filled with comedy when you tell or learn that Lomond Hadner will have their premiere as Wednesday night regular on most of these same CBS stations. Yes, this fall you hear them all on C and B and S. Now with our star Charles Russell, we return to the second act of yours truly Johnny Dollar. Yarbo might have been lying unconscious on the floor, but in that setting I was still afraid of him. I'd looked the place over with a fine tooth comb, only having none, I used my hands. I put the pat test to Yarbo's pocket for a gun. He was unloaded. Then turned my attention to the little black bag he'd been carrying when I saw him leave the house, and which he still had with him when he returned. I hoped it wasn't booby trapped. Opened it and discovered that it was a trap the type my kind of booby stepped into. Inside the bag was a small radio receiver tuned to something I looked for and found in the room, a small radio transmitter of the type formally used in army tanks. Through this, Yarbo had heard me enter his little museum of murder and had returned to catch me in the act of prowling the premises. About then I caught him in the act of coming to. Well, welcome home, Yarbo. Time to get up. I just had a long chat on the phone with Martha. She thought I was you. You think you're very clever, don't you? Martha knows my voice. If she talked to you at all, she didn't tell you anything. Of that I am sure it will save your breath. There is no use you're telling me she gave you any information. Oh, no, you've got me wrong, pal. I only told you Martha called to let you know. I know there is a Martha. I figured it might make you nervous, and nervous men are easy to beat. One nervous man may be easy to beat, but not James Yarbo. The police have tried and they couldn't prove a thing against me. Now, may I have your permission to get up? Yeah, maybe the police haven't been able to get anything on you, but I have something. Attempted murder, the hatchet you went for. The pitiful mistake of a pitifully suspicious mind, I wasn't reaching for that hatchet on the table. I was trying to show you something in the table drawer. There it is, spilled out on the floor. My wife's insurance policy. The one your unscrupulous steaming superiors refused to pay. The vampires? Yeah, look at it. All in order. Much of it in fine print. Fine, just fine. Okay, Yarbo, that did it. Come on, ahead of me. Where are we going? To find some place to lock you up. I was hired to stop you, and until I do, I'm at least going to try and slow you down. Now move. Okay. Put it in the closet. No room here. No window. Yeah, this will do. Go on, get in there. No, no, no, no, not in here. Anywhere but in here. It's a good place. You make us thirsty. No, no, no. This is where my wife died. Not in here. No. Which on the surface may seem to have been a move on the cruel side, but Yarbo was a man obviously off his rocker and I needed him more nervous than I already had him. But he was too nervous to attempt killing any more people. Spends account item five, a nickel, phone call, downtown office, state police. A mister and Mrs. Granville Morse had indeed crashed to their death on the great highway south of Seal Rock at 845, which made the lady with the early telephone news flash, Martha, a gal with whom I wanted an early date. Come on in to the phone. Hello? What is it? Hello, Mr. Coats? What's the matter? First I want to tell you that you just lost two more policy holders. List price? 80,000. Oh, how? Never mind that. I've also got something else on the good side. I need your help tonight. Meet me at your office. You and I are going to go looking for a dame named Martha. Martha? Martha who? I don't know, but I hope she works for you. I'll be there in a half hour. Make that 20 minutes and you'll be 10 minutes closer to happy days. The office personnel records of the West Coast underwriters end up not one, but three employees named Martha, which gave me three choices as to who had been supplying YARBO with a list of West Coast policy insurance policy holders. Finding the exact Martha was even easier. On the phone she had told me that she was calling from the office and the night elevator operators in and out books showed the signature of one Martha Kinsey and I just couldn't wait to hear her report. I've got a message from Mr. YARBO. A message from James. Well, what he really wants is to get out of the bathroom. That's why I've got him locked up. Who are you? You want to know who I am? I assume you're the one that told YARBO he could be expecting a call from an insurance investigator named Dollar. Well, that's me. Well, I don't care. James told me girls give out list of names all the time. Sell them for mailing lists. Ten cents a piece. May not be ethical, but it's not against the law. James told me and I believe James. Oh, he's the smartest man I ever knew. He may be the smartest, but he's right in line to be numbered among the deadest. One of these fine mornings, the state is going to give him a cyanide egg for breakfast. What do you mean? You should know. Murder. Execution. Gas chamber. Well, you can't prove a thing. James told me so and he knows. He's smart. I hope he's not smart enough to pick a lock with a bath mat. Now, come on. Sit down. You and I are going to have a nice long talk. We are not. I won't say a thing. I don't have to unless you have a warrant, an indictment, and a court reporter. James told me so. Yeah, I know. He's smart. But no matter what he told you, you're going to tell me a few things. Oh, no, I'm not. Oh, yes, you are. Oh, no, I'm not. Oh, yes, you are. Oh, I was wrong. Martha didn't tell me anything. But her stubborn attitude did. She was in love with Mr. Yarbo, a stupid middle-aged woman having her last fling at romance, doing her best to keep her last chance alive in the person of the man who had made her his partner in crime. As crazy as it was, this grotesque pair of love birds created the only real emotion in the case to date and switched my thoughts from the widely scattered deaths which had brought me into the case and over to the single death of Yarbo's wife. And closed fine a transcript of statement made to me at two o'clock in the morning by the doctor who signed Mrs. Yarbo's death certificate. Gauze of death, cerebral hemorrhage, result of severe fracture of skull, region medulla oblongata, contributing factors woman bathing and bathed up at home, slipped and fell striking head on shower spigot, coroner's finding death due to misadventure, accidental. It took the doctor two minutes to get around to making that statement. I figured it would take Martha at least 30 minutes to get her hair out of her curlers and make herself presentable enough to risk being seen on the street. That left me 28 minutes to get back to Yarbo's house before she did, and I didn't need half that long. In a cab on my way over, I took inventory. One, to date, Yarbo's alibis covering him on all the so-called revenge murders had been perfect. Too perfect. Second, when I first faced Yarbo, he screamed about his wife's death, not in the light of having lost his lady love, but in the light of having lost her insurance money. Just as my third most important conclusion came upon me, the taxi came upon our destination, and I had to go to work. Once inside the little horror house on Lombard Street, I got set for a long search, but it turned out to be a short one and approved two things. Yarbo was not only a murderer, he was as crazy as he'd acted and having kept the evidence around. Okay, Yarbo, come on out. Well, I hope you've enjoyed your waste of time, Mr. Dollar, as I've enjoyed my chance for meditation. You saw Martha, I suppose? Yes, I saw Martha. Bless her sign of little soul. Yes, I was sure of Martha. You can say that again. Come on out here. Mr. Dollar, I suppose you are aware that this is the second time tonight we've been guilty of breaking and entering. I am, however, willing to forgive that. Should you come to your senses and decide to go back to Hartford and leave me alone? Uh-uh. Mind treading on the roses in the rug, Mr. Dollar? Sorry, Yarbo, I fell for that gag earlier tonight. People who smile at that joke give me the last laugh. Yarbo, I know exactly what you've been up to and I know why you've done it, but your little war of nerves has got to stop. It will never stop. No one can prove anything against me. I can. I can prove that you haven't done a thing to bring about those accidental deaths you've been taking credit for. Martha has sat down that insurance office and notified you every time there's been an accidental death of a policy holder in this part of the country. Then you've written the company your little letters and gotten your little kicks out of it, right? You have to prove it. You will have to prove it. Don't worry, John. I'm not going to waste a breath proving murders that you didn't commit. But, brother, I'm really going to go to town on the one that you did. Your wife, Mr. Yarbo. That is the most ridiculous statement you have yet made, young man. Look around. You'll take note. I have profited by all the mistakes made by the original owners of these bloody souvenirs from Dr. Crippen on down. You'll see in me the living composite of them all. And I intend to stay that way. Alive. I'm afraid you will, but it's going to be inside an upholstered room. And this is what will put you there. Oh, duh. Yeah, Mr. Yarbo, you carried your little hobby of crime souvenirs too far when you saved this hunk of pipe and the faucet with which you clubbed your wife to death. She slipped and fell. She was in the town. I'm sure the police microscopes were strong argument on that one. Oh, come on. Let's make it easy on each other, shall we? No, no, I didn't do it. I didn't do it. Let go. Let go of me. You have to prove it. Help me, Martha. Help me. Hit him with something. I'd have bet on myself against the two of them if I didn't have to fight while playing hopscotch over those roses in the carpet, about which I still wasn't quite sure. It was touch and go. Martha would try to touch the back of my head with something and I'd go. Do something, Martha. Do something. Something Martha tried to do was pick up a heavy-based urn and aim it at me. She missed. Started to roll across the rosy carpet. When Yarbo saw where I was headed, he wrenched himself loose and dove in the carpet. I dove the other way. He got there just too late. I didn't have to look twice to know he was dead. Fate had called James Yarbo up on his own carpet. When Martha threw that urn at me, it had rolled straight for the only rose in the rug that had been booby-trapped. Which only goes to prove that sometimes the rose by any other name can be anything but sweet. Expense account. Item six. A dollar and 40 cents. Three-month subscription. Love Life Magazine. Sent to accessory to murder, Martha Kinsey. To hatch of a state prison. I figured three months was about all she had. The judges and juries in California being rather efficient that way. Expense account. Item seven. Six bucks. Dinner and diving for pearls in a barrel of blue points at Fisherman's Wharf. Diving for pearls earring which she lost while bending over the barrel trying to see what oysters looked like. Item eight. $176.87. Airfare. San Francisco to Hartford. Expense account total $942.08. Not including defense lawyer fees if you decide to sue me for not being able to add correctly. Sign yours truly Johnny Dollar. Truly Johnny Dollar is produced and directed by Gordon T. Hughes and stars Charles Russell. Script by Paul Dudley and Gildow. Featured in the cast for J. Novello. Martha Wentworth. Paul Dubois, G.G. Pearson and Larry Dobkin. The special music is written and conducted by Wilbur Hatch. Be sure to be with us at this same time next week when another unusual expense account is handed in by yours truly Johnny Dollar. Everyone is concerned about world affairs these days. If we want world peace we'll have to have national peace first. In order to keep America's strength and prestige in order to preserve her freedom we must do away with group prejudice. Let's stop judging people by the color of their skin or the place where they worship and start considering them for what they do. We'll be sure to have a happier world. Stay tuned now for Vaughn Monroe and his caravan following immediately on most of these CVS stations. This is CVS the Columbia Broadcasting System.