 My name's Regan. I work for Anthony J. Lyon International 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 story of a thousand violins almost. It began with a lovesick violinist whose mash notes all sounded off key. Then I met a long-haired violin maker and his daughter, a girl with ambitions to play the harp. Only the prize guy was the one with a gun. He fixed it so I ended up playing second fiddle to a corpse. It was the kind of a day that when there's nothing left to do, you go get a haircut. So I settled down in Sam's barbershop up the street and waited for my number to come up. Instead, I got a cloud of three-for-a-dime cigar smoke. Anthony J. Lyon, my boss, puffed in. Aha! So there you are, Jeffrey. I've been looking all over for you. Well, keep looking, Fatso. I'm in the chair next. Your haircut? Oh, that can wait, Jeffrey. We've got a new client. You want a detective or a sheepdog? It's very funny, Jeffrey. I'll admit you could stand some trimming around the ears, but today I've agreed to help our client. He gets a trimmin'. Jeffrey, how can you say such a thing? We must get back to the office at once. Mr. Rome is waiting. Mr. Rome? It's Charles Rome. A young violinist, very talented. Sure. Hey, that makes us brothers. Brothers? What honor are you talking about, Jeffrey? Both long hairs. Come on, Fatso. I told Sam I'd be back later for the haircut. Lyon and I walked around the corner to our office. Mr. Charles Rome was waiting all right. Tall, thin, blond guy with long, skinny fingers that tapped along the edge of his chair. He was maybe 23. On the floor beside him was a black violin case. He looked nervous. Well, well, Mr. Rome, I told you I'd locate him right away. Hey, Mr. Rome, my number one operative, Mr. Regan. Uh, oh, how do you do, Mr. Regan? Hi. Hey, Jeffrey, Mr. Rome here would tell you his problem and I'm sure you can help him. Okay, Rome. Start at the top. Uh, yes, sir. Well, uh, you see, Mr. Regan, it's about Tina. My fiance, she, uh, returned my ring. At your problem? Well, there's more. When Tina did that, she wouldn't tell me why. But I'm sure she still loves me, Mr. Regan, I'm sure. Another guy? Oh, no, no, nothing like that. She loves me, I tell you. Okay, take it easy. There's one thing I ask, Mr. Regan, follow Tina, talk to her, find out, but that's all. What? Uh, Jeffrey, Mr. Rome has already discussed this with me. He, uh, he's especially anxious that we limit the case to the girl and no one else. You must promise, Mr. Regan, that there may be others, but you're to pay no attention to them, just the girl. What are you selling, Rome? Jeffrey! Listen, Lyon, I'm tired of buying half-big stories from any client with a fee. There's more than I wanted. Well, I can't tell you any more than that, Mr. Regan, it's Tina, I'm worried. That's the truth, Jeffrey, our client. Okay, okay, our client. Only one of these days we're gonna know what we're getting into first. All right, Paganini, where do I find the girl? The tall, skinny guy wrote out an address on the back of a sheet of music paper. It turned out to be a small shop, cracked white plaster, tiny black sign over the door out on Sensor Boulevard, Lanier's Music Appreciation Shop, and violin repair service. I parked the car and went in. It was old violins all over the place, strings, bows, rosin, busted bridges, pieces of wood, jars of varnish. Amidst the debris sat a little man behind the battered counter. He was sad-eyed, curly-haired, and 60. His fingers were carefully fitting two pieces of wood together. He didn't look up when I came in. There was a bell on the counter. Uh, uh, oh, a customer, please forgive me, but that's why I have the bell. I don't hear so good and sometimes I'm too deep in my work. You're Mr. Lanier? Yes. Antonio Lanier. It was a raconata, but you see, the name Lanier, it's a much more American. Is your daughter in? Tina? Well, Tina, she's, uh... Hey, Tony, leave this for Nick, huh? Nick? Oh, yes, yes, Nick. Yes, I'll leave it for him. Tell him it's a good fiddle and I want it fixed right. You got that? Uh, sure, sure, I got that. It will be fixed. Okay. You were gonna tell me about Tina. Well, senor, I don't know why it is you wish to see her, but if it's not too important, I suggest some other time. Reason? Well, it's a something private. Also, senor, Tina's not Tina. She's not returning from her harper lesson. Harp? Yes, she's studying with the great Robert O'Langer. He's very fine. Oh, Tina! I'm going to my room, father. Tina, come here. I must talk with you. It's no use, father. Nice girl, Tina. Oh, senor, please, you mustn't judge Tina too quick. She's a sweet girl, a kind girl. It's just that, well, she's not herself lately. How long does she usually stay in there? Who can tell? But tonight, tonight, she will be out. Tonight is the concert and this she does not miss, the Philharmonic, the fine music. What's the girl running from? Please, senor, I'm tired, very tired. Perhaps we'll talk some other time. Please, you must go. The little man hurried out of the room and disappeared behind the same door as daughter Tina had slammed a couple of minutes before. Only when he glanced back at me, there was a different look in his eyes, far away, like if he's looking right through me. Outside, the sun was setting behind a neon sign only. I didn't get to admire the view. A taxi pulled up and a slim, distinguished-looking guy, Gray at the temple, stepped out. He was wearing white tie-in tails, and like everybody else, he carried a violin case. He walked right past me without batting an eye and went into the shop. The taxi drove off and I headed for my car, but when I got there, I had a customer waiting. Only the thing he had in his hand was no violin. It was a knife. You know me? You're the guy I left the fiddle for Nick to fix. That's right, maestro, I'm the guy. Get to the point. You're playing the wrong tune. You can talk plainer than that. Sure, but I'm a musician. I prefer to put my message in my own idiom if you get what I mean. You play the knife? Oh, no, the shiv is just protection. I play the cello, maestro. And I'm telling you to join another orchestra. Tino Leneir doesn't want you hanging around. Ended composition, maestro. The guy with the knife waved a quick downbeat in my direction and disappeared. I headed for home and a shower and some concert-type clothes. No double-breasted suit and a shirt my laundry claimed was white. I just finished a quick shave when I heard somebody playing boy drummer on my door. I opened it. Oh, may I come in, Mr. Regan? Why not? You've got a musician's union card. Charles Roem, double-breasted suit and white shirt, but no violin case sat down. He had something on his mind, but from the look on his face, it didn't add that he was anxious to go into it. I watched the shaving soap off my face and dressed while he sat. That's when I got an idea. You dressed to go out? Why, yes. Concert? Yes, Mr. Regan, how did you know? You and Tino used to go to concerts together. We used to? You're going tonight, hoping to see her. Well, that's true, but Mr. Regan, I came to see you about Tino to talk to you. Go later. Have you got a season ticket? To the concert, yes. Next to Tino, you bought them together. Well, it was before we... OK, I got news for you, Roem. It's going to be a big evening only. You aren't going to be there. But, Mr. Regan, it's my chance to see Tino to talk to her. Yeah, there'll be talk all right, but you won't be in it. But, but... Give me that ticket, Paganini. I got a date with a lady who plays the harp. It was a big night at the Philharmonic. Crowds in mink and earrings start shirts and top hats. And the rest of us in the balcony. I found the seat Charles Roem had bought and settled down to wait for Tino Lanier. Ten minutes later, she showed up. She sat down next to me without looking right or left, and things began to happen. A tall, slim guy gray at the temple's full dress came out on the stage. He took a bow and the audience calmed down. And I recognized him. The guy had seen going into Antonio Lanier's violin shop. I took a quick look at the program, but I didn't need it to know the guy with the baton was Robert Erlinger. Tino's harp teacher. Tino Lanier sat there with her eyes closed and listened to the music. But I had a job to do. I nudged her arm and she turned with a stark, her eyes blinked and she recognized me. What do you want? Talk, sweetheart. Leave me alone. Why did you ditch him? What were you talking about? Charles Roem, your fiance. I won't answer that. You might be smart. I know what's smart. Go away. Quiet, please. Roem's got a right to an explanation. He got his ring back. Who are you anyway? Jeff Regan. I don't know you, Mr. Regan. Leave me alone. Quiet, please. Okay, sister, it's your life. I mean, Roem isn't gonna like it that way. Maybe you'll want to know about the man with a knife at your place. What? Yeah, the little guy who carries a shiv, long, sharp. Charlie Roem might be interested. You saw him? You saw me. I don't like knives waved under my throat. If you won't be quiet, I'll call the manager. Mr. Regan, please. Tell Charles, tell him that I'm sorry. That's all. That's all there is. You sure? Yes, I'm sure. Go away. So my talk with Tina Lanier got me nowhere, except the fact that somebody was putting the screws on somebody else, and it didn't add up to a broken engagement. What it did add up to was a lot of violins. I thought about that as I headed for the little red sign that said exit. I made my way past a couple of frowning ushers to the alley outside. When I got there, it was dark and empty. Me and a couple of bottles and torn ticket stubs. I walked out toward the street and then stopped. Somewhere in that alley was somebody else. Maybe behind the fire escape. Maybe behind a big poster. And then I was sure. OK, maestro. Get your hands off. I told you, maestro. Knife again. Yeah, the shift, maestro. A sharp steel in this blade, and there's enough to make you look like a bag of confetti. What's Tina Lanier to you? It's not your business, maestro. I told you to stay away from it. I told you it was off key. Now I'm going to show you just what a knife is. Get through. The mug folded into a heap on the alley. He could trade in the knife any time. He wouldn't need it where he was going. I headed out of the alley toward where the shots came from. There was a cab driver at the curb waiting for the concert crowd, and I grabbed him. Only he saw nobody and said nothing. The guy who put the slugs in the cello player was gone. I headed back to my car and hopped in. Now I had to have answers and have him fast. Jeff Regan was too close to a killing not to have a lot of it rub off. It was going to be me and a murderer or the police. It started when a lovesick violinist hired the lion and me to find out why his fiance, Tina Lanier, gave him the go-by. But it ended with me and a corpse in an alley beside the Philharmonic Auditorium. The corpse was a mug who wanted me to stay away from Tina. I'd first met him at a violin repair shop out on Sunset. And that's where I was heading now to Lanier's music appreciation shop and violin repair service, owned and operated by Tina Lanier's father. It was close to 9 o'clock when I got out of my car, went inside, and rang the bell on the counter. A medium-sized, sharp-looking character with a pencil-lined moustache came out from the back room. Yes, sir? Lanier in? I'm sorry, sir. The shop is closed for the evening. OK. But tell Lanier I want to talk to him. I'm afraid you misunderstood me. I said the shop was closed for the evening. Look, Mac, this is business, and I don't mean fiddles. I go tell him what I said. Very well, if you insist. Oh, by the way, my name is Nick, not Mac. The suave gentleman named Nick went back through the door. A couple of minutes later, Antonio Lanier shuffled out to meet me. He was wearing an overcoat, and even in the dim light of the shop, you could make out tears in his eyes. You wish to see me, senor? Yeah. I wonder perhaps if you could wait until tomorrow. That's pretty important, Mr. Lanier. Yes, I suppose it is, and you see, I have to go out. It's important, too. Maybe I better tell you something. There's been a murder. Murder? Yeah, a little guy. I saw him in your shop today. He left a violin for Nick. Yes, he has, I know. You know about him? I know he was killed 30 minutes ago, senor. The police telephoned to tell me. You mean Nick? That's correct, senor. The man with the violin is dead, and my daughter. My daughter, Tina, has been arrested for murder. Antonio Lanier walked out of the little shop, and I watched his bent shoulders as he shuffled off down the street. Then I realized what had happened. Tina Lanier had followed me when I left the concert. That meant she'd gotten to the alley just after the shots were fired. She could add the rest easy, a couple of ushers maybe, hearing the shots had run out and found her. That was enough for the police to take her in for questioning. There wasn't much I could do until morning, so I headed home for some sleep. I dreamed about a group of excited figures all talking to each other. Only when I looked closer, they weren't people. They were violins. The next morning I drove down to the police station. Lieutenant Candid, homicide squad, was at his desk. Lanier, girl? Well, I can understand why. Cut it out. I've seen some lookers in that cell, Regan. Remember the Pendleton dame a couple of years ago? Some woman chopped up her husband with an axe. What about Tina Lanier? Remember the Carlton woman back in 39? There was a dame, red hair and green eyes, legs. What was it she used? A letter opener? Ice pick. Oh, yeah, ice pick. Hated to see her at all, Regan. Gas chamber? Not guilty. She's married again, millionaire. Which brings us to Tina Lanier. Yeah, not bad. Not bad at all. Maybe not the fire that Carlton woman had, but not bad. Get to the point, Candid. What have you got on her? She killed a guy, Regan, and we call it murder. There's more. Sure, there's more. There's always more. Like? Like she was found standing over the guy. Guy's name, Joe Fenton, petty crook, knife artist. San Quentin, boy, Regan, did a year in 1945. That's no motive. You know something else? While Fenton was in prison, he played cello with the San Quentin Orchestra. Cute? I'm still listening. OK, how about this? Tina Lanier has been dating Joe Fenton for two months. The boyfriend. What? That's right. Got witnesses for that. Um, what's Tina Lanier to you, Regan? She was engaged to a guy named Charles Roem, client. You betting on him? I'm not betting on anybody. I think you got the wrong customer. Oh, it's a grab job, Regan. Seems like Tina brightened up the place. You understand? Sure, I understand. See you around. Yeah, see you around. That gave me a lead. Joe Fenton, Tina Lanier. I headed for the office of my boss, Anthony J. Lyon. Only when I got there, I got another surprise. Sitting across the desk from him was Antonio Lanier. Violin case under his arm, circles under his eyes. Jeffrey, Jeffrey, I've been looking for you. Mr. Lanier wants to talk to you. Well, that makes us even. Jeffrey, what on earth are you talking about? Mr. Lanier has retained us to clear his daughter, Tina. Mr. Lanier is a client, Jeffrey, a client. Is that right, Lanier? Yes, Mr. Regan. Yes, and that's a correct. Well, then maybe you'd like to talk now. Mr. Regan, I... There's questions, Mr. Lanier, like about Tina. Tina someday is going to be a fine artist. She will be recognized as a totally... Yeah, she stays away from guys like Joe Fenton. Yes. OK, Lanier, one more question. Who's Nick? What? Nick, your helper, the guy Joe Fenton left the violin for. Well, Nick, Nick is just as you say, my help. I hired him several years ago. Jeffrey, why are you questioning our client this way? Because we've got to get facts before we get a total. We were hired to find out why Tina discharges Rome, and now she's got herself booked for a murder she probably didn't commit, and her father expects us to clear her. We can't go into this thing wearing a blindfold. Yeah, but, Jeffrey, aren't we going to help Mr. Lanier? Yeah. Yeah, I'll drop him by his shop. Maybe if he gets his hands on a violin, he'll relax. MUSIC Lanier sat in the front seat as we drove out sunset. He didn't say anything. His tired little shoulders were hunched forward as he stared out of the window, watching the traffic. In front of his shop, he thanked me again and went inside. I started to drive away and then stopped. A cabin pulled up behind me and a tall, thin guy with graying hair stepped out. Under his arm, a violin case. Robert Erlinger, the guy I wanted to have words with. Dr. Erlinger, I presume. Hi, Big O. Pardon? You got a minute? I don't know you. I know you. What is it you want? It has something to do with a murder. Your pupil, Tina Lanier, is on the hook. Yes. As a matter of fact, I was on my way to see Mr. Lanier to express my sympathy and to offer my services in any way. OK. You want to help? A couple of questions. You play the fiddle? Mr. Regan, I play every instrument in the orchestra. Well, then why carry a violin? I was taking it to Mr. Lanier for repairs. Oh, you mind if I look? I don't see what possible interest my violin would hold for you. Well, just let me decide. Very well. The client must ask you not to handle it. It was beginning to make sense. A lot of separate strings like on a violin. Only when you tune them, make the notes fit each other and draw a boast across it, you get music. I headed for the downtown library and found a binding of all the issues of the San Quentin News, the prison paper, for the year 1945, the year Joe Fenton had dropped in. I spent two hours covering every page, and then I had it. The last note, call it the lost chord. But it sang like a canary. I checked for my gun and drove out toward Hollywood. It took me 30 minutes in the nighttime traffic, and then I was there. Yes, so who is it? Regan. Who? Oh, it's you, Senor Regan. I'd like to have words with you, Lanier. Well, Senor, I'm very busy. I'm doing a Russian job. So am I. Is it so? Yeah, it's about Tina. Oh, then of course we will talk, Senor Regan. About Tina, I'm always willing to talk. That'll save us a lot of trouble, Lanier. Yes, yes, so please sit down here. Thanks. You got a little story for you, Lanier. Short story, but it covers a lot of territory. Yes, I'm listening, Senor. It starts with a guy and his daughter, a violin maker who put a lot of faith in his girl with talent. A guy who'd sell his soul to give the girl everything. Yes, that's it. That's it for who? This guy sold his talent for making violins, sold it for a dough so he could give his girl heart blessings. Maybe. Seems this guy made a mistake once. What's prison for? Mistakes. We ought to make a mistake. Sure. Only the guy I'm talking about made another one. While in prison, he met a couple of musicians in the prison band. They had ideas, used the guy's talent for making violins, phony masterpieces, take regular fiddles and doctor them up, so they look like real dough. You, you know. I know. You sold yourself back up the river, Lanier, for Tina. Yes. Yes, it's true. But Senor, such a talent. Such a talent cannot be wasted. Only Tina ditched a career and a nice guy like Charlie Roem for dough. Your mistake, Lanier. But she was not in her right to mine and she didn't know what she was doing. But you did. You killed Joe Fenton and your daughter is set to take the rap. No. No, I will not let her. Senor, when you came in, I wasn't thinking, thinking all alone with my violins beside me. I had decided Tina will suffer no longer for my mistakes. I'm going to the police. I'm going to tell them everything. I'm going to come. I'm going to tell the police anything, Lanier. Medium-sized guy, pencil-lined moustache, gun in his hand. The guy I'd met the night before in Lanier's shop, Nick. Stay where you are, Regan. You're the other half of the team, you and Joe Fenton. Saw your picture about a half hour ago. That right? Library, back copy of the San Quentin News. Picture of the prison orchestra, you and Fenton and Lanier. That isn't that nice, real nice. My picture in the paper. That's too bad, Erlinga didn't see it. Before he let Tina talk him into bringing his violin here for repairs. Yes. I saw Erlinga's fiddle, a Guarnarius, worth about 50,000. You used it to model from, to have Lanier make the phonies. Erlinga's a dumb cluck. He never knew the difference. Besides, he got his original Guarnarius back. Sure, he's dumb. That way. But so was Lanier. Quiet, easy going, little man. Probably would have lived to a ripe old honest age. You mugs hadn't dropped him. We just told Lanier what kind of a chance a man with a record had. We convinced him, Regan, he was better off using his brain for something lucrative. You mean you blackmailed him? You can call it that. He took persuading, but he's finished now. You just killed a guy. You're the one who's finished. Not yet. Bad timing. Oh, my race. Now we're even. Hello, operator? Police. Lanier's violin shop. Sunset. Bring an ambulance. It took a week to patch up the hole in my arm, but Antonio Lanier wasn't that lucky. He died trying to do something right for his daughter, Tina. And maybe he succeeded. Tina Lanier and Charles Roan dropped into senior a couple of days later. The scared look was out of her eyes, and even with the tears, there was something soft and warm. By the time I was in shape again, I needed a haircut so bad even the dog catcher wasn't interested. And I figured my barber, Sam, could take the full afternoon for the job. What's the matter with you, Jeff? I never seen such a hair and a hair in a safe manner. Busy, Sam. Why do you mean busy? Fellow with a soft job like you guys got no reason not to have his haircut every two weeks, maybe 10 days. Jeffery, Jeffery, here you are. I've been looking all over for you. Hi, you fatso. Jeffery, what's the idea of not showing up at the office? Just because you've got a little bandage on your arm doesn't mean you can take a week off. You gave me the week off. I didn't know. Yes, oh, I did. He caught me in a weak moment. Oh, well, that makes us even. Beat it fatso, I'm getting a haircut. Yes, oh, I see. Needed it, too. Well, when you're finished, Jeffery, I want you to report to the office at once. We've got a client. Client? Yes, big oil man from Texas. Lots of money. Seems as though he met some man on the street one day. And he has words about some oil stuff. Turn the chair around. Oh, thanks, Jeff. That's better, Sam. Well, you got time for shampoo, Jeff? Nothing but time, Sam. Give me the works. Jeff Regan, Investigator is written by William Frug and William Feifeld, produced and 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 each week at the same time over CBS. Bob Stephenson speaking and inviting you to be with us again for more suspense and mystery and adventure with Jeff Regan, Investigator.