Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
The (KINDA)(SORTA)Super-Heroic
Legacy of Ralph Dibny: THE
ELONGATED MAN
[ Part Four]
Various DC Comics scripters have advanced the notion, over the years, that Ralph [Elongated Man] Dibny is better than fair-to-middlin' in the ol' Sherlock Holmes department; some even going so far as to aver (somewhat grandiosely, in your Bat-besotted Unca Cheeks' resolute opinion) that he is only a notch ot two below the high-water mark established by Gotham City's own Batman, in said regard.
Hogwash. 
Ralph Dibny is, most assuredly, up to putative "snuff" whenever the conundrum in question involves (say) which inheritor bumped off the rich old dowager; or (again, say) the whos and hows behind a particularly ingenious bank robbery; no doubt about that, by golly, by jingo...
... but: c'mon, now. :-)) Can you even imagine
what Gotham City would be like, if it was this guy regularly matching
wits with the evil, stone brilliant likes of the Joker, or Ra's
al Ghul, f'chrissakes...?
Nonetheless: during the well-executed tenure of his DETECTIVE COMICS back-up berth, in the 1960's...
... the ductile Mr. Dibny: he did piece hisself together a neat
little whodunnit or three, back in the storytelling day.
"The Man Who Hated Money" [DETECTIVE COMICS #347; January, 1966; author unknown; Carmine Infantino, artist] opens up with a sequence in which Silver City disc jockey Flip Phillips is held up at gunpoint in an alleyway by a masked gunman. [See page reproductive, below]
"Cool that trigger finger, man!" the sweating Maynard G. Krebbs lookalike stammers at the grinning holdup artist. "You can have anything I own... outside my life!"
Upon liberating his terrified victim of the latter's lawful lucre, however: said robber does not pocket dem ol' greenback dollahs, and dart away into the anonymity of the shadows...
... but, rather -- snarling: "I hate money, pal! I hate it worse than anything!" -- shreds the proffered largesse into half a hundred itsty- bitsy, teensy-weensy pieces (!!).
"Like, crazy, folks!" Phillips later informs his listening audience. "That's just how it happened! That far-out crook actually jigsawed my long green! Now, why'd he do a kooky thing like that?"
The following morning: Sue Dibny -- patient and long-suffering wife to husband (and big, overgrown spandexed kid, if truth be known) Ralph -- espies an attention-snaring headlinee in the newspaper, over breakfast; cocks one elegantly arched eyebrow; and phones down to the hotel desk.
"Desk service?" she purrs. "Please send a bellboy right away. We're checking out."
"What gives, honey?" a perplexed Ralph inquires, over a cup of coffee. "I thought you wanted to look over the historical sights in town?"
"Page Eight; Column One," Sue mutters, lobbing the offending newspaper in her hubby's general direction whilst moving with implacable purpose towards their luggage.
"A robber who tears up money and throws it away?" the ductile half of the detecting duo exclaims, quickly skimming the printed particulars. "A thief who hates the loot he steals? What in the world -- ?"
"There it goes," a bleakly bemused Sue observes, as her husband's patrician proboscis begins to waggle back and forth like unto the dorsal of a sexually excited porpoise; "... mystery-scenting time! Which means we're on the move again!"
(... and your stern and remonstrative Unca Cheeks would just like to go on
the record -- here and bloody now -- that said little idiosyncratic "character
trait" is easily, hands down, one of the eight or ten all-time grossest
in all of recorded mainstream comics history; right up there with, say, Doctor
Octopus' disgusting little "habit" of picking his nose with those mechanical
tentacles, whenever [he thinks] no one is looking; or that... that thing
Jay [Flash] Garrick used to do with live chickens, and that funky metal
chapeau of his. I'm just sayin', here, is all.)
Checking in with the officers on duty at the Silver City police station, Ralph is amazed to discover that the cash-loathing cutpurse has struck yet again; this time opting for wiggy local avant garde artist (Jesus whack me with a stick if I lie) Hannibal Holiday.
(We can tell he's The Real Deal, artist-wise, see; because our high-
falutin' Hannibal is gadding about -- in public, mind -- a paint-spattered
smock; a long, foppy cravat wound 'round his neck; and a beret about
which even fabled french ham Maurice Chevalier might think twice
before donning, beyond the forgiving environs of a child's birthday party.)
His story is absolutely identical in the particulars to that of disc jokey Phillips -- masked gunman; machete'd monies; etccetera -- in every way, save for the additional aside on the former's part that Holiday should tell anyone who will listen that [Pick One]:
A.) "Ha-ha-ha! I hate money! Pass the message along!"
B.) "... and I'm going to keep on doing this until the U.S. government listens to me, and starts printing in happy, slappy decorator colors! On octagonal bills! The size of BEDSHEETS -- !"
C.) "I tried making a criminal 'name' for myself last year, as 'The Man Who Hated Condominiums'! You can't even imagine what trying to tear one of those babies in half is like -- !"
D.) [favoring Holiday's latest work-in-progress
with a withering sneer]: "... and you have the unmitigated gall
to call yourself an artiste? PFAH! Where's the elephant
dung? Elephant dung is de rigueur this season, you pig-ignorant
philistine -- !"
Confronted by such a confounding covey of clues as these, Ralph quickly elects to confide the nature of his investigative stratagem with the ever-loyal Sue.
"Honey," the dutiful Dibny informs her; "... we're going on a spending spree! I want to flash a big, fat bankroll... in the hopes that this money-
hating bandit tries to hold me up!"
"What a wonderful idea," an eager Sue assents. "You'll catch the crook... and I'll get the 'reward'!"
[NOTE TO ALL THE LADIES READING ALONG, ON THIS ONE: Lookit... I just
work here, all right? :-)) I support The Friends of Lulu
AND the Women In Refrigerators web site. And I'm old. And
frail. Kammerad! KAMMERAD -- !)
"And so" (the following caption silkily provides) "... while Sue remains in her hotel room after dark, Ralph goes for a stroll that pays off even quicker than he hoped when -- "
"This is a stick-up!" a blandly smug Ralph is informed, at gunpoint. "Any guy that shows off a wad of dough like you deserves to be taken!"
"Obviously, this man has a psychological problem," the man who once dedicated the entirety of his existence to belly-crawling after fleabag carnivals and circuses -- in order to grovel and drool at the feet of sweating, limber older men, mind -- muses, handing over his billfold. "Maybe I can get a hint of what it is, before he goes into his money-
tearing act -- "
"Man," the bandit whistles appreciatively, thumbing through the detective's stash; "... what a haul!"
"Hey!" an aggravated Ralph exclaims, as his assailant dashes off. "What about the money? You're supposed to tear it up -- !"
"Tear up five hundred SMACKEROOS?" the gunman sniggers. "Are you kidding -- ?!?"
Oh, yeah. This guy's in the Batman's weight division,
detective-wise. Yooooouuuuuuuu betcha.
Well: loping after the offending criminal mastermind on elongated legs like some great, angry purple ostrich, Ralph quickly catches up to him (as well as the man's hidden partner); pimp-slapping them both into convenient unconsciousness, for ease of carrying to the nearest constabulary...
... where the thunderstruck detective is startled, in turn, by news of yet a third hold-up at the hands of the (increasingly) notorious money-
hating robber!
Stage actress Rhoda Marr -- accompanied by her current leading man, August Clemens -- tells the following tale of fiscal woe, while a cluster of newspaper reporters lolling about nearby scribble obligingly:
"As you dear boys know," the Tallulah Bankhead wannabe husks; "... our show Heart To Heart opened tonight... to an almost empty house, I might add! And, after the performance -- "
" -- we got into my car," her fellow actor continues, picking up the storytelling thread; "... and there was this masked chap, gun in hand!"
"I hate money, you understand," the robber informs the frankly nonplussed pair, helping himself to their bankrolls. "That's why I must go around tearing it up!"
"HA HA HA!" the berserkoid bandit cackles, fleeing the scene of the crime whilst scattering newly-shredded monies about him. "Soon, there won't be any money left ANYWHERE -- !"
Either this guy is one of the most devious and calculating criminal geniuses ever, in the history of the DC Comics universe entire...
... or else he's Alan Greenspan, working double overtime on
that pesky "inflation" probleo.
The following day -- whilst perplexed hubby Ralph continues his (so far) fruitless sleuthing, re: The Money-Molesting Malcontent -- wife Sue Dibny attempts to amuse herself by taking in an art exhibit, featuring works created by (small world, ain't it?) noted local art crank (and previous hold-up victim) Hannibal Holiday.
"I guess the crowd was drawn to this art show for the same reason I was," Sue ponders, observing the massive and serpentine line of faddists and rubberneckers attending said show, due to artist Holiday's newly- minted notoriety.
Standing in said line, Sue also overhears an increasingly omnipresent Flip Phillips-penned pop ditty -- i.e., "The Man Who Hated Money" -- blaring from a string of successive transistor radios.
"Good idea," she muses; "... putting out a song with that catchy title!"
(Why, oh why does a jaded and cynical, '60's-Top 40-weaned Unca Cheeks
envision this opportunistic little bit of quasi-musical ephemera sounding very
much like some lesser something from the studiedly atonal oeuvres of
-- say -- Gary Lewis and The Playboys; or maybe even John Fred and
His Playboy Band...?)
Opting to take in a quick matinee performance of Rhoda Marr's "Heart To Heart," Sue is confronted yet again by an example of just how very heavily, indeed, The Anti-Money Anti-Social weighs on the minds of the local citizenry.
"Sorry, lady," the theatre's ticket taker offers, apologetically. "There's been a sudden rush for tickets! We've sold out for the rest of our performance!"
It is, therefore, an uncharacteristically glum and grumpy Sue who greets her huntsman hubby, upon his return to their hotel room.
"I just wish that money-hating bandit would hold me up," Sue grouses. "I'd like to be doing as well as his victims!"
(... and this, mind you, is from a woman who's just been treated to
the king mack daddy of all shopping sprees by her endlessly indulgant
meal ticket -- !)
"Honey!" Ralph exclaims, eyes widening in sudden comprehension. "You're an angel! You just solved my mystery for me!"
Now... notice, please:
At no point does (putative) "detective" Ralph Dibny gather up anything even remotely resembling a legitimate, honest-to-Sherlock clue, whilst "investigating" the mystery in question.
To the extent that ANY "sleuthing" (in the traditional and commonly accepted sense of the word) is done at ALL: it is the bored and restless SUE Dibny who does so.
Hold on to that point, friends.
We'll be revisiting it soon enough, come Page Five.
Doing something so indescribably disgusting with his lips that it all but beggars Unca Cheeks' ability to keep from bolting from the room, shrieking like a schoolgirl: Ralph resolves to wrap the case up in his own... ummmmmm... inimitable style. To wit:
" [...] on the stage of the Silver City Theatre -- in the presence
of my invited guests -- the victims of the money-hating robber!"
The silly, showboating goober.
"I've gathered you here together," the now-costumed Elongated Man informs radio personality Phillips; artist Holiday; and stage diva Marr, the following morning; "... to expose the money-hating rob -- "
The sound of a gunshot, from the direction of the manager's office.
Bounding to the rescue, Ralph is confronted by the same two cutpurses as a few evenings before, helping themselves to the theatre's cash receipts.
Even for the (normally) non-combative Ralph... this is pretty much of a "gimme."
The pair don't
even keep him decently occupied for the duration of an entire page.
So: it was actually these two luckless louts who were behind the whole "I-Hate-Money" scam, then... right?
Wrong.
"Actually," a stern and disapproving Ralph lectures, once the maladroit malefactors having been hauled away to the local hoosegow; "... there never was a 'money-hating robber'!"
"He was a creation of Flip Phillips, the disc jockey!" Ralph continues. "He dreamed up the whole thing, to publicize a new song he had written -- 'The Man Who Hated Money'!"
(... which he was playing over his own radio station, an alert and
attentive Unca Cheeks is quick to point out. Which -- correct me if I'm
grazing in the cloven fields of irreversible error, here -- is kinda
sorta illegal, isn't it? Or don't they have "payola" and racketeering
laws on the books, within the DCU...?)
"The story was a fake?" one of the others stammers, goggle-eyed and incredulous.
"... and we fell for it!" another murmurs, bitterly.
"... because you all needed the publicity desperately," a coldly furious
Ralph concludes; "... you [all] decided to pretend that this 'money-hating
bandit' held you up, too!" (Apparently, they don't have radio,
TV or newspaper advertising in this corner of the cosmos, either.)
Okay... admittedly: it's not exactly up there with Rex Stout's IN THE BEST FAMILIES, or Ellery Queen's THE PLAYER ON THE OTHER SIDE...
... but: it was a honest-to-gosh'un mystery --
(... such as it was, anyway...)
-- AND: he did actually manage to crack it, all by his lonesome.
Which is still more impressive, achievement-wise, than whupping up on the sorry, spandexed likes of Captain Boomerang.
I'm just sayin', is all.
Let's look at one more of Ralph Dibny's DETECTIVE COMICS solo puzzlers, before winding up our lengthy Elongated Man retrospective... shall we?
Page Five: comin' right up.
"MORE COMIC BOOKS," YOU SAY...?
The DC Comics Sub-Directory
The Marvel Comics Sub-Directory
The Miscellaneous Comics Sub-Directory
The "Gotta Find That DC Character" Menu
The "Gotta Find That Marvel/Miscellaneous
Character" Menu