 My name is Regan. I work for Anthony J. Lyon, Detective Bureau. They call me The Lion's Eye. Jeff Regan, investigator, starring Frank Graham as Regan with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. So stand by for mystery and suspense and adventure in tonight's transcribed story. If I knew you were coming, I'd have wrecked a train. The letterhead said, Hardingstone Railroads Associated, Fairfield Hardingstone III President. When you turned out they owned less than a mile of track, there was no passengers, and you couldn't even buy a ticket to Pomona. It was a one-man corporation with a one-track mine. But before it was over with, all the competition was dead. I made the mistake of showing up at my boss, The Lion's Office, too early on Tuesday. He was holding a letter. From the look on his face, you could tell in another ten minutes he'd have run out to handle this case himself. Hardingstone Railroads Associated, Fairfield Hardingstone III. Name of a new wonder drug, Fatso. Gevry. Oh, don't be ridiculous. That's a man's name. Fairfield Hardingstone III, President of the Harding... I got it the first time. Yeah, but Gevry, you don't understand. This is a letter from Mr. Hardingstone himself. He wants to hire our agency. He's our client, my boy thee, Mr. Hardingstone. Sorry, Fatso. I never heard of him. You haven't? I'm still singing the adjacent to Peek and Santa Fe. Oh. You haven't heard of him either. No. But that doesn't mean he isn't an important client, Gevry. He'd just take a look at that letterhead, not printed ingrained. You run your finger over it. And with a name like that... Okay, Fatso, we got a client. We do what for how much? He doesn't say, Gevry. Mr. Hardingstone merely requested we send an investigator to his home as soon as possible. He says it's urgent, and he encloses a check for $100. That helps. Helps, my boy. We're in clover. When a big industrialist like Hardingstone hires us, we're in. You handle this case right, and the next thing we know, we'll be hearing from General Motors. Matter of fact, I got a letter from him yesterday. You did? Yeah, something about, uh, would I mind making another payment, please? All right, Regan. You make jokes about it, but I'm telling you this is our big chance. Now get out there and see Hardingstone. Tell him we guarantee our service. Convince he be hired the right agency. Oh, and, uh... Something bothering you, Fatso? Well, as long as you're talking to him, Gevry. See if he has any good tips on the market. I left Anthony J. Lyon digging through the stock market reports in the morning papers. It was essentially was counting future shares of Hardingstone railroads. The letter to Lyon gave me said nothing, all right, except that Hardingstone lived in Chevy at Hills just off Motor Avenue. I fought traffic all the way out to Olympic and pulled up in front of a brick mansion just after one o'clock. It took me five minutes to make the hike from the street to the front door. I rang and waited. Yes, sir. Mr. Hardingstone in. I beg your pardon, sir. Fairfield Hardingstone III. Oh, yes, sir, of course. He's downstairs in the game room. You may go right down if you wish. Thanks. Uh, sir, there's just one request. Huh? Treat him gently, sir. Mr. Hardingstone is in very poor humor today. Instead of getting better, it got worse. I followed the butler's nod and walked down the thickly carpeted stairs into the basement. Only it wasn't a basement the way you think of basements. It was mahogany-paneled walls, paintings in gilt frames, not copies, originals, and indirect lighting throughout. Over against the far end of the room stood a table the size of a tennis court. On it, trains, all kinds of trains, electric trains, all scale model stuff. And in front of a master switchboard flashing five different colors of lights, stood Mr. Fairfield Hardingstone III. Age 12. What you are about to see is a duplication of the famous wreck of the Long Island Railroad, which occurred several years back. A step closer, please. If you will notice, the engineer of the train does not see the red warning signal up ahead. His approximate speed is 70 miles an hour, and he's approaching a dangerous curve. Now, he's coming closer. The signal flashes steadily, but he ignores it. The train nears the bend. The engineer moves the throttle up faster. The turn is coming. 17 passengers killed. 42 injured. The engineer and fireman both dead. You see the folly of blind speed, of course. You always do this? It amuses me. By the way, I don't believe I caught your name. Reagan. Oh, yes, of course, the lion's eye. Glad you came right out. My name's Hardingstone III. Must you remind me? Not being the sign of a wealthy family without attaching that stigma. You wanted a detective. Naturally. Mr. Reagan, what do you know about murder? Get to the point, Fairfield. Yes, yes, of course. I should have known you wouldn't be interested in this subtle approach. It's about my mother. Next week she's being married. I intend stopping her. Your father's dead? He died six years ago. I barely remember him. Ah, he was in railroads? No, my father was a lawyer, Mr. Reagan. He defended the criminally insane. We don't discuss him in this house. How does that check with your mother? I sometimes think she doesn't remember father any better than I do. However, that's not what I call you here to talk about. Mr. Reagan, my mother is about to marry a man named John Kilpatrick. Like my father, he's a lawyer. Only you don't like him. Precisely. To use a somewhat childish term, he's a jerk. Also, if your mother marries him, he might interfere with the pleasures of one Fairfield Hardingstone III. Mr. Reagan, you're a man after my own heart. What I want you to do is simple. Check every angle regarding this man, Kilpatrick. Explore his past. Somewhere you'll find something. And if I don't, if I give him a clean slate? Kilpatrick has been in South America a number of years. I think one of the reasons he returned is that he was broken, came back to marry mother and the family fortune. For a hundred bucks, I tail him. Wrong. You don't tail him at all, Mr. Reagan. In fact, I want you to go right into his office and see him, tell him who hired you and why. He'll like that. You can't talk it out of him, scare it out of him, is that it? It's like the stationery my mother had made up for me a couple of years ago, Mr. Reagan. Across the top it says Hardingstone Railroads Associated. My dear mother thought it was very cute. But you'd be surprised at some of the answers I get to my letters. Maybe I wouldn't. Hey, Fairfield, you paid your hundred, you get your money's worth. Oh, don't rush off, Mr. Reagan. There's one other little item. I want you to run upstairs and tell mother about my little plan. What? What's good enough for the bridegroom? What's good enough for the bride, eh, Mr. Reagan? I left the young Mr. Hardingstone setting up the trains for another great crash and headed up the stairs. I was beginning to wonder just how bad the land detective agency needed the hundred dollars. The answer? Bad enough to talk to the mother. The butler gave me a solemn nod as I went upstairs to the second floor. Top of the landing I turned and gave the butler a solemn nod. It was getting to be a game. Only the game was over fast and I hit the top of the stairs. What do you want? Mrs. Hardingstone in there? She most certainly is young man and God bless you if you plan to go in there. That bad, eh? Oh, terrible, very terrible. The poor woman is losing her mind, I'm sure of it. That's why you're quitting? I've been here just over six years, Mr. and that's long enough. I quit. And if you're smart, you'll leave before everybody loses their mind. The round frowning grey-haired woman stomped off down the stairs. In front of me, the open door to Mrs. Hardingstone's room. I thought about the $100 check. Thought about it again. Looked at the open door and peeked in. Well, you're Dr. Martin's new young assistant. Please do come in, doctor. She was propped perfectly in the oversized bed. Satin covers, satin cushions, pillows, radio, ashtray, water picture, thermometer, hot water bag, ice bag, cold tablets, headache tablets, vitamin pills. And on a silver tray, one crisp golden brown piece of dry toast. Mrs. Fairfield Hardingstone II was 40, gold ringlets, pink hair ribbon and a smile. Painted in place. Well, don't just stand there, doctor. Do something. Take my temperature or something. I'm afraid I'm not the doctor, Mrs. Hardingstone. Of course, when Dr. Martin said he couldn't come, that he was sending his assistant. You're not the doctor. No, my name's Regan. Regan, Regan. Oh, I know you'll forgive me, Mr. Regan, but just what do you specialize in? I'm a detective, Mrs. Hardingstone. Oh, I see. No, I don't see a detective. Well, that is something, isn't it? I could hardly ask you to treat my sacroiliac. No, could I? Now, look, lady, your son hired me. He asked me to come up and talk to you. Talk to me? Oh, dear, Mr. Regan. What shall we talk about? John Kilpatrick. Oh. You're marrying him next week. Yes, yes, I am. Providing, of course, my sacroiliac is better. Providing, of course. John is a fine man. He's very sincere. He loves me. Fairfield has no right to resent my marriage. Do you hear no right to talk? He thinks maybe Kilpatrick's marrying you for your money. Something like that. Well, suppose he is. After all, I'm not getting any younger. And there's my illness. I do need someone to look after me, Mr. Regan. Even if the price is high? Besides, the trip will do me good. What trip? Well, John and I will sell him to South America together on our honeymoon. I have the tickets right here beside me. See? And your son stays here. Fairfield doesn't want to go. Poor dear boy. He's over beyond his years. He changed him. He completely changed him. What changed him? Mr. Regan, I can't bear to discuss it. I'm a sick woman. You see, a very sick woman. It's all been too much for me. Too much for a very sick woman. Ms. Haringstone sniffled about her high blood pressure, met her low blood pressure, met her asthma, and her sacroiliac. When she asked me to take her temperature just to be sure of them, I knew it was time to leave. And now, sympathetically, borrowed back my damp handkerchief and silently stole away. But if I put her to the stairs, I got something else. The round gray-haired woman who had seemed leaving Ms. Haringstone's room. Just to keep things normal, she too was sniffling. Regan, what will become of her? I don't know about you, but I'm going to try fresh air. Oh, I don't mean to impose on you this way, but the boy, the poor dear boy. The poor dear boy? You mean little fair for you? And none other, that the poor soul should be brought up in these circumstances. Well, just to fill me in, who are you and what are these circumstances? My name is Mrs. Dee. I'm the housekeeper. I've been here for six years, ever since poor Mr. Haringstone passed on. God bless your soul. You like Mr. Haringstone, the second that is. Oh, a fine man he was, oh, a very fine man. Tell me, Mrs. Dee, what do you think will kill Patrick, the bridegroom to be? They're two of a kind, him and her. It's fitting they should wed. And that is that. I'm leaving tomorrow. Oh, poor dear little Fairfield. Poor, poor... She was gone. Gone with her wet napkin and sad eyes into the pantry. Getting so moist inside the house, an umbrella salesman could have made a fortune. I got out fast into my car and drove down to Hollywood. Look at a phone book gave me John Kilpatrick, attorney of law, tap building. Ten minutes later, I'd waited through three secretaries and reached the inner, inner Zankton. The man across the desk was tall, thin, stashed, beady-eyed. He was Kilpatrick. Sit down, Mr. Regan, do. Sit down. Thanks. I think I may as well be frank with you, Mr. Regan. I know why you are here. Mrs. Haringstone phoned you. Yes, yes, she did. Oh, why the sad look? Oh, it's... It's about Fairfield, Mr. Regan, your, uh... your client. The kid? Yes. Poor dear child. What's this poor dear child routine? Everybody treats him like an executive with ulcer. Mr. Regan, I suppose it's going to be my unpleasant duty to inform you. You see, we of the family don't like to think about it. About what? Fairfield Haringstone killed his father. What? It's true. An accident, mind you. Fairfield had been given a chemistry set for Christmas. That was six years ago. Well, he was quite enthusiastic. He liked it a great deal, except it... he mixed things. Poisons. And put some in his father's coffee. As a boyish prank, mind you, poor little fellow, I had no idea what he was doing. Neither did his father, is that it? Mr. Haringstone died a few hours later. The kid took that pretty hard. Sorry. Call it his entire life. I'm sorry. Are you all right, Kilpatrick? Oh, yes, yes, of course. Slight indigestion. Something they served for lunch. They? The Haringstones I lunched there. I had to continue. It was quite a tragedy for the family to face, and that's why I believe you ought to forget this case, Mr. Regan. Look, I'll get you some water. No, no, no. That won't be necessary. You see, Mr. Regan, poor little Fairfield, simply has an overdeveloped... Imagination. He's simply... all... I'll be right back. I rushed out to the water cooler and filled a cup. John Kilpatrick looked worse than a case of indigestion. When I went back into his office, I found him slumped in his chair. But John Kilpatrick had water wooden cure. He was dead. It was three o'clock Tuesday, and John Kilpatrick, attorney-at-law, was dead. He was dead from a very bad case of indigestion brought on by a very bad dose of poison. He'd had lunch at the home of Fairfield Haringstone III, and he was dead. That much police lieutenant Huey Piper was sure of. The more he thought about it, the sureer he became. He and I were driving out to the Haringstone Place in Chevy at Hills at city expense. So, like I say, Regan, he's dead and he's poisoned, then he had lunch with the Haringstones, or, as they say, in Dixie, something he had, no doubt. And you figure that adds up to the kid? Regan, I figure nothing until the final pony crosses the wire. Still, little Fairfield did it before, and he can do it again. Yes, Pa? Yeah, only before it was an accident. This time, it's on purpose. If it was a joke, it was a very unfunny joke, and I'm sure nobody is laughing, least of all the deceased. One, John Kilpatrick. Piper, what do you know about the death of a father six years ago? Nothing. We never knew anything. The kid was playing around with those homemade poisons, and the father turned up dead. What about Mrs. Haringstone? She inherited a fortune. Don't I know it? Still, what can you do when the dame was half off a rocker? Besides, she was even out of town when it happened. No evidence, no proof, no arrest. And the kid took the rap? He wrecks. Oh, don't worry, it was an accident, all right? Nobody had a motive to knock off the old man, except if you want to count the wife. The kid loved him, the servants loved him, everybody loved him. There we are, Regan, stick around. I'll talk about later. I'll be listening. Huey Piper and I went into the Haringstone mansion. He rounded up Little Fairfield and they went off for a talk. Me? I found a telephone in the hallway and put in a call to my boss, Anthony J. Lyon. Me, Fatso, get a pencil. Get it free, I found you! Show us what a sharp detective you are. Yeah, Fatso, as a matter of fact, I did. About the stock market? And that means if we do a real good job on the case, you figure our client, Mr. Haringstone, may let you in for a few shares. Not so big. And I might as well tell you, Fatso, Mr. Haringstone's railroad is a pretty small railroad as railroads go. Well, this one doesn't own a lot of tracks. Look, Lyon, before we invest we got work to do. I want you to check the newspaper files. Everything you can find on Fairfield Haringstone II, our client's father. Check it, Fatso, and call me back with a complete bio. You got that? Fine, Lyon, just check. I hung up and wandered around the huge, silent house. I just made the living room when I stopped cold. Standing very close to a locked door stood the forgotten member of the Haringstone clan. The butler went over. I beg your pardon, sir. What's your name? It's Timothy Richard Nescher, sir. But they called me Casey. Casey? The boy gave me that name, sir, while playing one day with the model trains. We were re-enacting a disastrous crash, and I was... Casey Jones. Yes, sir. You serve lunch today, Casey? Oh, no, sir. Who did? Why, Mrs. D, sir. Mrs. D always serves the luncheon meal. Yeah, maybe I ought to have a talk with Mrs. D. Where is she, Casey? Well, sir, I'd like to accommodate you, but the fact is Mrs. D took bag and baggage and departed less than an hour ago. Maybe the look on my face printed it. But when I turned around, Lieutenant Huey Piper of Homicide was standing at my elbow. Well, well, well, that's very interesting. Very interesting indeed. You have a way of getting very good answers very quick, Regan. I think maybe this man and I will talk together. How, Mr. Butler, let's you and me talk. Piper and Casey moved off into the hallway, and I looked around at the open door to the room Piper had been in. Fairfield Hardingstone III was in there now. I wanted to talk to him. Fairfield, got a minute, kid? Go away. Might help things if we talk. Go away. Detective's job is to protect the client, son. You're my client. All right, I killed him. I killed Mr. Kilpatrick. Is that what you want me to say? I hated him when I killed him, just like I... just like I killed my... my dad. Fairfield. Yes? You didn't kill your father. What did you say, Mr. Regan? When you were six years old, it was an accident. Some people said your father died because of your accident. Yes? Yeah, but it really wasn't like they said. You didn't cause that accident, Fairfield. You had nothing to do with the death of your father. But... But how did you know? They said... They said that because it seemed that way. Maybe your father's death was an accident, and it seemed like you were responsible. I tried to tell him, Mr. Regan. I tried to tell him I didn't do it. I tried. He wouldn't believe me. I thought I wasn't old enough to know what I was doing. But, Mr. Regan, I didn't kill my daddy. I loved him. I loved my daddy. Fairfield, tell me something. That day your father died. Who was here in the house? I don't remember anything about it, Mr. Regan. I don't remember anything. It was a long, long time ago, Fairfield. I know you can't remember very much, but think. Who was here in the house with you? Well... Well, it was Daddy. And me. And Casey. And Mrs. D. And Mr. Kilpatrick. Kilpatrick? What was he doing here? He and Daddy were arguing about something. They argued at the dinner table. Son, are you sure? Yes, Mr. Regan. Okay, we'll try it that way. Now, you stay right here and sit tight. I'll check back with you. Mr. Regan? Yeah? Mr. Regan, do you really believe me? I believed him. Now, I was really beginning to make sense. Sense for the first time. Kilpatrick was there that day, and that meant plenty. And when I checked back with my boss, the lion, it meant still more. All he could tell me was what I already knew. The father was a lawyer, a respected man. Everybody liked him. Put it all together, and it spelled murder. I headed up the stairs, double time. A quick check with Mrs. Hardingstone told me her tickets for South America had disappeared. That did it. Downstairs, Lieutenant Huey Piper was talking with a butler. I grabbed him. No explanation. Just grabbed him and rushed him out to the car. We cut in the siren, and on the way I filled him in. Even with the siren, it took us 40 minutes to make San Pedro. He headed for the ticket office. I took the gangplank looking for the person. Yes, sir? Check your passenger list, will you? I'm looking for Mr. Kilpatrick. John Kilpatrick. Just a moment, sir. Let me see. Just a moment. Come on, step on it. Oh, I have it here. Yes, yes, he's aboard. Mr. John Kilpatrick, yes. Cabin 71, A-deck. Never mind the rest of it. Thanks. It took me another 10 minutes to find it, but when I did, I didn't stop to ring the buzzer. Across the room, sitting casually behind a newspaper, double-breasted pinstripe suit, two-tone shoes, very dapper. Mr. John Kilpatrick? Nope. Mr. Regan. Sure, Mrs. D., your old friend Regan. Your friend's clothes look odd on a female housekeeper. Yes, they do now, don't they, Mr. Regan? But Mr. Hardingstone wouldn't mind. You see, I had to wear them so there'd be no fuss or bother. Yeah, but there's going to be anyway, Mrs. D. They don't like you running away like this. You meant the family? Oh, my, my, Mr. Regan. You shouldn't listen to them. They all hate me since Mr. Hardingstone died poor soul. They've hated me since then. Since you killed Mr. Hardingstone. Why, yes. Did Mr. Kilpatrick tell you? No. No, he didn't. Mr. Kilpatrick hated me more than anyone else. It was all his fault, really. Why, I wouldn't have hurt the boy's father for anything in this world. He was good and kind and always nice to me. But you still killed him? It was a mistake, you see. Mr. Kilpatrick came to dinner and told Mr. Hardingstone they should send me back to the home. And, of course, I didn't want that at all. So, I put the poison in Mr. Kilpatrick's cup and then Mr. Hardingstone drank it. Oh, it was all a terrible mistake. Tell me about the home, Mrs. D. Well, you see, I was living at this home and they said I was sick, but I... Well, I... Look, Hardingstone was interested in the criminally insane, so he got them to release you when it was custody. Is that it? Well, I'm afraid you don't understand, Mr. Regan. I'm not insane. It's all those other people. Remember I told you this afternoon that everyone was losing their mind? Isn't it a shame? I think you'd better come back now, Mrs. D. I want to talk to you. About Mr. Kilpatrick's death? Oh, I wouldn't tell him about that, Mr. Regan. Well, then tell me. Mr. Kilpatrick came back from South America, you see. And I knew he was coming to take me back to the home. So, this time when I put the poison in the coffee, I made sure it was Mr. Kilpatrick. And for six years you let that kid think he killed his father? Well, after all, Mr. Regan, if I'd said anything that had sent me back to the home, besides, Fairfield got over it. He's a fine boy now, and he's going to be all right. You'll see. Okay, Mrs. D. We'll go back there now. We'll go back and we'll see now. Oh, no, Mr. Regan. I'm going to South America. I have my ticket. You leave me alone. Mr. Regan, let me alone. Now. You carry a gun. Well, I must protect myself. Like if I were to kill you in self-defense, everyone would understand because you have no right to be here. Drop the gun, Mrs. D. You needn't look at me that way, Mr. Regan. I know perfectly well what I'm doing. I'm not so crazy as they think. You'll see. This time you see. Sorry, Mrs. V. I'm going home now. Lieutenant Piper showed up, and together we escorted the protesting Mrs. D. back to police headquarters. Her next stop from there was the home. The official title of which turned out to be the L.A. County Home for the Metalian Firm. The place she'd left just six years before. Well, the next morning I checked into the home for the tired and aged detectives. The office of Anthony J. Lyon. That turned out to be the worst mistake of all. So there you are, you faker. You imposter, Regan. Hey, what's eating you fat sir? He double-crossing scoundrel, Regan. You knew there was no such thing as Hardingstone Railroads? You knew he'd been hoodwinked. Not at all, Lyon. What do you mean standing there lying to my very face? It just so happens, Regan, I checked the newspapers on Hardingstone. I found out he had a son. That the son's age would be 12 years. Oh, you didn't fool me for long. But, Lyon, I tried to tell you over the phone. Yeah, swindled Rob by a 12-year-old. An Al Capone in knee pants. A gelinger in diaper. Hey, Lyon, Lyon, slow down. Take it easy. I will not take it easy. This boy must be prosecuted, sending us a $100 check with his signature at 12-year-old. Why, it's highway robbery. Except the check is good. I'll call the district attorney. I'll call. What did you say? Fairfield Hardingstone III has his own bank account and a special permission to write checks. Jeffrey, are you sure? Furthermore, since we cleared up two debts, instead of one, he gave me an additional check for $100. Here. Eh, extra $100? Well... Sorry, Fatso. Looks like you just can't prosecute the boy. Prosecute? Prosecute, Jeffrey? Are you out of your mind? You know I wasn't going to prosecute that poor dear boy. Yeah, why didn't you know, Jeffrey? Some of my best friends are children. Jeff Regan, investigator, is written by William Frug and Gilbert Thomas. Produced, directed by Sterling Tracy and stars Frank Graham as Regan with Frank Nelson as Anthony J. Lyon. Original music is by Dick Aron. Jeff Regan, investigator, is heard transcribed each week at the same time over CBS. This is Bob Stevenson inviting you to be with us again. More Jeff Regan, investigator.