DA DE DAH-DAH! DA DE DAH-DAH! DA DE DAH-DAH-DAAAH! SOUND: A woman's scream. HER VOICE: Who are you? Who are you? SOUND: Footsteps', crash of breaking glass, another scream. ANNOUNCER: If this is your problem--if your privacy has been invaded, your safety threatened, your loved ones frightened--call The Investigators! Let your problem be their problem!. . . . Beamed out over El Paso radios, this commercial ""worked like Edison's lightbulb"" and brought in the Jay J. Armes private investigation agency over 200 calls a month and a sudden wide diversification of the agency's activities, from handling hot-check artists to finding missing persons. Armes, still in his mid-thirties, lives in a mansion, has a private $90,000 gym, a fleet of customized Cadillacs, a great weapons collection he is expert in handling, a Chinese wife, and children. When Marion Brando's son Christian was kidnapped, Armes brought the kid back from the kidnappers' hideout on the Baja peninsula. He guarantees results. He maketh $$$$$. He is regarded by many as the world's greatest in his line. And he has no hands. They were blown off by a dynamite cap when he was ten. By now he can do more with his two highly refined hooks than most can with their hands. He is often shot at. He shoots back through a pistol in his hook. And he talks a beautiful line of top-drawer private-eye tales, best of the season.