Havana Lee

Whistler, son-ad-bye, the United States' care forces in Europe. I'm the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by my... I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows.

Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Tonight, it's the Whistler Strange story, the Havana League, While Havana's tourists were at play on that cool summer morning, a meeting was taking place behind the panel glass doors of the Cuban Sugar Growers Association.

To Clifford Fargo, a handsome man in his early 30s, it was no ordinary meeting of the plantation owners, because Chris knew that a life hung in the ballot. And then at last, the board has examined the books, Mr. Fargo, and has heard the auditors report.

There will be no doubt that $40,000 is missing from funds that were entrusted to you to equip and supply our sugar control laboratory. No, sir. No, no, no. Ordinarily, we would turn the matter over to the police immediately, but since you come from such a respected family and you work with us as being excellent, we are going to

be lenient. We are giving you 60 days, Mr. Fargo, 60 days in which to raise that money or be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. It all started so innocently, didn't it, Cliff?

With a few turns of the roulette wheel, as you tried to keep up with the playboys of Havana's international debt. And now you face disgrace and jail. Your mind whirled like a dynamo, as you seek a way out.

And then you try to escape your own thoughts, as you've managed to do on other occasions, by going fishing. You hire Jose and his two-masted scowl, don't you, Chris? And leave for a weekend cruise down the Caribbean.