New Hampshire's Senator Charles W. Tobey (see MEDICINE), who had his first big taste of television as a Kefauver crimebuster, was still going strong on the air waves. Last week, after a stint on television as mystery guest on What's My Line and narrator on Crime Syndicated, he turned to radio as disk jockey for a recorded program, laced with Tobey sermonettes and hymns, for Washington's WGMS, and as narrator for a youngsters' bedtime program on WGAY in Silver Spring, Md.
In Korea, the 1st Marine Aircraft Wing enjoyed a pleasant change of scenery with the arrival of Betty Mutton and her U.S.O. troupe. Wearing a duckbill cap and a snug winter jacket, Betty joined the boys in the mess hall where a photographer caught a rare shot of her mobile face in repose. Later, she sang and danced for her hamburger supper with the usual Hutton gusto.
In Cleveland. Composer W. C. (St. Louis Blues) Handy, 78, deplored the musical evils of social equality. Such organizations as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, he said, "are taking the blues away from us . . . They are leading the American Negro away from his real heritage into a bog of pretense and insincerity . . . Too many Negroes today are busy singing and talking five or six languages and turning up their noses at the blues."
Revisions
When Mrs. Eleanor Morgan Satterlee, a granddaughter of J. P. Morgan, died of cancer last year at 46, Park Avenue gossips set up a buzz-buzz over her will. She had bequeathed her attorney, well-to-do Sol Rosenblatt, 51 (Harvardman, General Hugh Johnson's right-hand man in NRA, onetime counsel to the Democratic National Committee), the residuary estate of $200,000. To her favorite psychiatrist, Dr. Richard ("Darling Dick'') Hoffmann, 64, on whom many of the gossips would have bet, she left only an oil painting. Last week in a Manhattan court, Mrs. Satterlee's sister was trying to break the will on the grounds of undue influence by doctor and lawyer. Also, a witness said, the Morgan granddaughter was incompetent, had never been very bright about money, had trouble telling pennies from quarters. By week's end, the gossips and tabloid readers had something more than wills and bills to chatter about. As Lawyer Rosenblatt entered the flossy Park Avenue building where he lives, a gunman ran up out of the night and fired three shots.
Rosenblatt staggered to the ground, a bullet in his thigh. The mysterious attacker jumped into a waiting car and was driven away into the night by an accomplice. Rosenblatt was recovering in a hospital, under the care of a police guard, but neither he nor the cops nor anyone else seemed to have the slightest idea why he had been shot, or by whom—or what connection, if any, the shooting had to the trial.