Perfect Alibi

The Signal Oil Program. Yes, the Signal Oil Program. The Whistler. That whistle is your signal for the Signal Oil Program. The Whistler. I am the Whistler. And I know many things, before I walk by night.

I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Hmm, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Yes, friends, it's time for the Signal Oil program, The Whistler, rated tops in popularity for a longer period of time than any other West Coast program in radio history.

And Signal Gasoline is top two, tops in quality. It takes extra quality, you know, to give you extra mileage. And Signal is the famous Go Father gasoline. So look for the signal circle sign in yellow and black that identifies independently operated signal stations from Canada to Mexico.

And now the Priscilla Strange story. Perfect alibis. Entering the Golden Sparrow, a cozy little cocktail lounge near the far end of Beverly Boulevard, Private investigator Johnny Selzer, 30, handsome, off duty at the moment found business at a standstill.

He went straight to the bar and ordered a drink. Scotch and water. All makes it right. Old masters, if you have it. Old masters, it is. Good. Johnny carried his drink to the nearest empty table and sat down to sink.

Self-centered, cynical, and in his own estimation a smooth operator. Many things were on his mind, especially Johnny's self-serim self. Things hadn't been going too well for him. Tom Silver, founder of the Silver Detective Agency, had threatened him with dismissal, unless he changed his way.

Seized gambling and gave closer attention to his duties. Staring moodily at the voluptuous paintings lining the walls, Johnny suddenly pushed back his chair, and walked over to the jukebox at the end of the bar, and set a nickel into the slot.