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What happened then? Enright's onetime pressagent, Art Franklin, told the story. "It was just automatically assumed by everyone that Herb Stempel was a raving lunatic," said Franklin. Even so NBC was "terrified," and "kept their hands as clean as possible by kicking it under the carpet." At that time (spring 1957) little more than a simple denial from Producer Enright was enough for NBC to announce that its own "investigation had proved Stempel's charges to be utterly baseless and untrue." But P.R. Man Franklin was not so sure of the truthfulness of his client. As he testified: "The client rarely tells you the truth."
"Or Else." If Herb Stempel was hardly convincing when he first blabbed, the public began to listen when his charges were seconded by baby-faced Artist James Snodgrass, 36. Last week Snodgrass dramatically opened a registered letter, postmarked May 10, 1957, which not only gave the questions for the May 13 show (Sample: "What are the names of the Seven Dwarfs?") but also the instructions for painfully spitting out the answers ("Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Happy, pause—the grouchy one—Grumpy—Doc —pause—the bashful one!"). Snodgrass enjoyed winning so much that when he was instructed to fall before the mighty mind of Hank Bloomgarden (who later went on to win $98,500), he crossed up Twenty One, blurted the correct answer. After that show, Associate Producer Albert Freedman hustled up to him and protested "in tears" that Snodgrass "had thrown the budget out of whack."
Indeed, holding down Twenty One's budget was as vital as pushing up its rating. Twenty One's sponsor, Geritol-making Pharmaceuticals, Inc., limited its prize money to $520,000 a year. The producers, Dan Enright and M.C. Jack Barry, 41, were to cover anything over that limit.
A good way to hold down prizes was to restrict the points rolled up by any fixed winner. One indignant Twenty One veteran, greying Mrs. Rose Leibbrand, executive director of the National Federation of Business and Professional Women's Clubs, explained how it was done. Just before showtime Producer Freedman fed her the answers, and a warning: "Just remember not to bid over seven or eight —or else."
"I Botched It Up." The fixed contestants solemnly played along with the cheap little travesty. Labor Organizer Richard Jackman, built up on Twenty One as a workingman's Jimmy Stewart, won $24,500 and pangs of conscience, settled for $15,000 when told by Enright that more "would throw the budget out of whack"; then he had third thoughts, started to sue Enright for the other $9,500, got it. Apple-cheeked Kirsten Falke, then only 16, was picked up for Twenty One's penny-ante sister show, Tic Tac Dough, when she answered a call to audition as a folk singer. This led her to the office of Tic Tac Dough Producer Howard Felsher, who gave her answers and hints that she would get her big chance to sing on the show. "I botched it up," recounted poor Kirsten. She had asked for her categories in the wrong order and pocketed only $800.