Broadway's My Beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the
lonesomest mile in the world.
Broadway's My Beat, with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover.
Broadway takes its night time out of the river.
The autumn mists rise from the water, scurl down the furious avenues of the city, and
moisten the shadows.
And for an instant, Broadway is stunned.
Night has come too swiftly.
And suddenly November, and the people of the time clock go home to dinner in darkness.
And I watched it from my window at headquarters, the crowd, fragments breaking off here and
there to try its luck in this doorway and that.
Wipe my hand across the frosting glass and considered it.
That's why I didn't hear the man when he came in.
Huh?
The man's lying dead.
Who are you?
What are you talking about?
I'm Finch, room service, Hotel Haddon, Finch.
What are you trying to tell me about him?
He's a good man.
Tell me about a man lying dead.
In the penthouse, Hotel Haddon, I walked in to deliver the drinks, noted that the drapes
were drawn, noted that the spread had not been drawn back, noted that he hadn't taken
off his shoes, and noted that he was dead.
How could you tell?
He didn't move when I tapped him on the shoulder.
He didn't breathe, either inhale or exhale.
That's being dead.
Had you notified the manager?
Did you hear me say I did that?
No, but...
No, of course you didn't.
I am reporting it directly to the police, so it will be on the records that I found the
man.
Finch found him.
Finch.
F-I-N-C-H.
Alan Finch.
You'll tell the papers that.
Danny Clover speaking.
From aside, Danny.
Call just came in.
Where?
Penthouse, Hotel Haddon.
You gonna take it?
Right away to Taglia.
Finch.
F-I-N-C-H.
Alan Finch.
Don't forget it.
What do you want?
Oh, it's you, Danny.
I'm glad it's you.
Makes you happy, huh, Marl?
Yeah, come on in.
That comic on television, he kills me.
You ever watch him, Danny?
Uh-uh.
You should, you should.
Look, look at him.
He kills me.
Where is he, Marl?
The dead one?
He's in the bedroom.
Come on, I'll show you.
If you could tear yourself away from the comic.
Ah, Danny, don't be like that.
How many laughs does a house dig get in a day?
I mean, for free.
There he is, Danny, on his 20-bucket-day bed.
Shut the door.
The television is for free, too, Danny.
In every room, we can cop a look in between, you know.
Shut the door.
Whatever you say, Danny.
Who was he?
Here, I'll hold up his head so you can look at him.
Looks different, huh?
We've been waiting a long time to see him like this, huh, Danny?
Johnny Hill.
The same.
The same picture, but the same.
Johnny Hill.
Tell me about it.
A lady was bidding a gentleman good night at the door.
While lost in a kiss, she heard shot.
She told me so in the form.
Did she see anyone leave this apartment?
Uh-uh.
It was all too frustrating.
She didn't see a thing because her eyes were filled with tears, she told me.
Boyfriend scurried away, didn't want to get caught in a mess, the lady wept.
Any ideas, Marl?
On who put so many holes in him?
Uh-uh.
Except everybody who ever wanted Johnny Hill dead.
Johnny Hill.
King of the Chicago hooligans.
Wanted for all the small print in the book.
Who was to put the finger on who wanted him dead?
Look, Marl.
I wanted it, you wanted it.
Who didn't want it, Danny?
Tell me so I can get him a free room in this classy free bag.
After that, there wasn't anything much.
Marl said he was going back and look at the comic, except now the comic was through and
there was a cowboy instead, which was even better, Marl assured me.
And when the boys from technical came, they were on Marl's side.
When I asked everybody why the cowboy carried three guns, they sneered at me.
So I left.
Then it was legwork.
Find out why a hoodlum from Chicago had come to New York to die.
Ring doorbells.
Ask a man in a midnight blue dinner jacket what he knew about the death of Johnny Hill.
And have him back into five more midnight blue dinner jackets.
Alibis.
Then the nightclub circuit.
Start where the cover charge is $10 and the upholstery genuine and ask questions and get
no answers.
Then to the joints of plastic leather and no dance floor and no minimum and get no answers.
Then to the dives of the open collar and the biggest beer in town for a dime.
And in one of them, there's a man, his name is Benny Fane.
He's not happy.
Go away, Benny.
What's the matter with you, Benny?
Nothing.
You used to help us out.
What happened?
I'm not stooling no more.
That's all.
Go away, Benny.
Because you don't want to tell me about Johnny Hill?
Yes, go away.
Suppose the boys around got to know you used to work for me, Benny.
What about Johnny Hill?
Yesterday.
That's when he hit town.
Where'd he go?
There's people watching us.
There's nobody watching us.
Where'd he go?
He checked in at the Haddon.
They went to where they all go, Benny, the Griffin Club.
Please go away, Benny.
That's all you know?
I swear on the Mrs.
The Mrs. is doing time at the State Reformatory.
Yeah, but she'll be out in 10 years.
The Griffin Club, Benny.
The Griffin Club was a polite brownstone mansion that peeked at the park through white lace
curtains, needle pointed with aqua-gryphons.
Its decor, late prohibition.
Its membership, lovely ladies and equally elegant gentlemen.
Their amusement, conversation of latter-day hooligans who have become quality folk.
I knew that because when I walked in, the tinkle stopped.
The whisper of silk took over, and I was looked at as if I were a cheap wine spilled in the
fawn-colored rug.
A lady rose quickly to wipe away the stain I was making in their drawing room.
I'm afraid you've made a mistake.
We are only for members.
We suggest the wise, right, Donnie?
Don't you know me, Betsy?
You're full of them, aren't you?
Mistakes.
I'm Mrs. Crane, vice president in charge of accepting and rejecting.
Oh, sure you are, Betsy.
All right, so I know you.
You're running out of your class, aren't you, Donnie?
I don't think so.
Johnny Hill made me a member.
Having a lovely time till you walked in, you turned it sour.
But I recall that's the way you are.
I said Johnny Hill and you didn't even drop your fan.
Drop it, Betsy, so I'll have to pick it up for you.
He's in Chicago.
Uh-uh, in the morgue.
But you know that, don't you, Betsy?
He finally made it.
I'm glad for Johnny.
You'll tell him.
Before that, he did all the normal things for him.
Checked in at the Haddon penthouse, came here, then back to the Haddon.
Died in his bed.
Normal for Johnny.
I'll tell my friends how it was.
Thanks, Danny.
They've been itching to know.
And you'll tell me the things that Johnny did here, won't you, Betsy?
Old times' sake.
Grab a handful of canapes, Danny.
Take some to your friends.
Because we're through reminiscing.
Wait, I'll get you a brown paper bag.
I couldn't go without you, Betsy.
You've got nothing.
Not on me, not on the club.
Only a murder of Johnny Hill.
You know how these things work, Betsy.
We hold you on suspicion.
A day, a month, as long as you want.
What happens to your vice presidency then?
It took me a long time.
It's mine.
No part of it belongs to anyone else.
Sure, think how hard you worked for it, Betsy.
I rocked myself to sleep thinking about it.
All right.
Johnny came in here about four o'clock last night.
Alone?
For a while alone.
For about an hour, he nibbled at the caviar, the entertainment.
Then he got bored.
Called Nick Joyner.
Nick was here?
Johnny called him, didn't he?
Johnny calls, people come.
Used to.
They played cards, then something must have happened because they started calling each
other names.
So I called Johnny's boy to break it up.
He came, he did.
Johnny's boy, who is it now?
Harry Bishop.
Where?
1923 East 47.
I've been awfully good to you, Danny.
It didn't cost you a cent.
Not a penny.
Glitch it close to you, because that's all you get.
Goodbye forever, Danny.
Yeah?
You Harry Bishop?
Let's go inside.
Let's go, Harry.
You sound like law.
Uh-uh, law.
Later, law.
The mood will come to me and I'll call you.
I said inside.
Inside.
Better.
You got a permit for this gun?
Gun Harry on the bed.
Holy smokes, a gun.
Did you shoot Johnny Hill with it?
You have yourself a sniff.
See?
Hasn't been used since they mowed down ducks in Lake Michigan.
I duck hunt with a.38.
The ducks appreciate it.
I wonder how that gun got here.
I thought it was in Chicago.
I'll ask you again, Harry.
Did you shoot Johnny with it?
You lost your MIBs.
Johnny was done with a.45.
How'd you know that?
It wasn't in the papers.
Nick carried a.45.
Nick Joyner, the guy who shot Johnny.
You're sure of it, huh?
Johnny was killed with a.45, wasn't he?
That's right.
See?
Nick Joyner.
What happened at the Griffin Club last night?
A card game with peckled cards.
Johnny dropped maybe 50 Gs.
Nick won it with peckled cards.
Maybe Johnny wasn't gonna stand for it.
Maybe Nick beat him to it.
You took Johnny home after the game?
Back to the hat and tucked him in.
Where's Nick?
I'll find him.
That's why the gun, Harry?
You gonna take care of Nick?
Where's Nick?
Leave him to me.
Let's go.
If we go, you're never gonna find Nick.
Come on, Harry.
I'm booking you on a weapons charge.
You're taking me in, huh?
Where is he?
Where else?
Hotel Haddon under an alias?
Of what alias?
Mark or Merkel, something I don't know.
I can save you the trouble, cop.
I owe it to Johnny.
Then you'll be held for homicide.
Uh-uh.
Then you'll have to catch me.
I already did.
Turn off your radio and let's go, Harry.
Imagine Nick Joyner living under an alias.
Merkel.
The things a guy'll go through to get a room.
You didn't know about it, huh, Morales?
So help me, Danny, not till you told me.
This is a big hole.
I can't keep my eye on everything that crawls into it.
So help me, Danny.
All right.
You didn't know.
You think Nick's the one that got to Johnny?
I asked you a several questions.
At least you can do it.
This head?
Yeah, yeah, 1218.
A room reserved for shoe salesmen, usually.
Must be slow in shoes.
Maybe Nick's out.
Maybe he's...
You got a passkey?
Sure, Danny.
I got everything, but maybe Nick's...
What do you say, Danny?
See, Danny, he's out.
Is there another room?
This one with bath.
All rooms with bath.
Nick, I'm sorry to barge in, but guess who?
Hey, Danny's in the shower.
Nick.
Hey, Nick.
Open it, Morales.
Nick.
Nick can't hear you, Maury.
He can't hear anything anymore.
Nick is dead.
You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin and starring
Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover.
How's for trying to sing it again this Saturday night?
$5,000 in cold, hard cash and $10,000 in fine prices are waiting for the CBS listener who
can solve the new Phantom Voice mystery.
Dan Seymour will be on hand with those coast to coast phone calls and Alan Dale, Judy Lynn,
Bob Howard and the Riddlers will be making music.
It's an hour of fun and song to entertain you and perhaps pay off every Saturday night
on most of these same CBS stations.
Here sing it again this Saturday, won't you?
Broadway stands on a street corner and raises its collective coat collar against the coming
of winter's night.
Tries to find warmth in the blaze of neon or in the ashes of a summer night's dream.
For a time, Broadway warms its hands with memory, tasting its glow, watching it flicker,
watching it die.
Then it goes looking somewhere else.
The transloc screams in its ear, murder it screams, gangster dead in swank hotel, Nick
Joyner found dead.
Broadway is happy.
Broadway is daring.
It goes right ahead and accepts the substitute, grins, it found what it was looking for.
And at police headquarters the next day, the probing over the murder of two men, Johnny
Hill and Nick Joyner.
And assisting at the probe, a man with an apple in his mouth.
Mmm, mmm, good.
What, I tell you?
I was merely remarking that this apple is mmm, mmm, good.
Try on a bite, Danny.
Some other time.
Roger.
I'll give you a piece of Mike's paper.
Look for the round the water cooler, Danny.
That way you'll keep cool.
Anything else you're saving for me, Gino?
No, nothing.
Oh, you mean?
Uh huh.
Oh, you didn't have to mention it, Danny.
I was coming out with it anyway.
I'm sorry.
Ah, you're forgiven.
If I don't forgive you, who should I?
All right, Danny, all right.
In the matter of the killing of Johnny Hill, hailing from Chicago.
You'll tell me, huh?
Well, it goes without saying.
Established by technicals, said Johnny Hill was undone by a revolver caliber.45.
I know that.
They've checked on the bullets.
Found them to stem from a gun owned by Nick Joyner, hailing lately from this city.
That means that...
Oh, permit me to finish your thought, Danny.
That means that without a shadow of a doubt, or as Mike Schreck, the bald-headed miracle
detective from Philadelphia would have it.
I'll tag you.
It means that Johnny of Chicago was undone by Nick of this city because of an argument
over a friendly game of cards.
You know, Danny, Mike Schreck coined a phrase for such cases.
Open and shut.
Ha, that's Schreck.
Now you'll tell me about Nick Joyner.
Oh, I need you to ask.
Nick Joyner was undone by a poison, a title of which can be found in any child's chemistry
magazine.
What else?
Ah, Danny, we found someone who might be sorry Nick is dead.
That's what else.
Who?
His missus, Mrs. Claire Joyner of 902 Benton Road, Forest Hills.
You know, I think I'll pen a note to Schreck about this.
Why?
Oh, it's a riddle to his liking, Danny.
Look, if Nick killed Johnny, who killed Nick?
All Johnny's friends are in the cooler or in Chicago.
That leaves a large question mark.
You know, you don't mind if I write to Schreck about it, huh, Danny?
Bye, Danny.
Can you come back?
Oh, oh, I'm sorry.
Sorry about what?
I thought you were the door to door tea salesman.
The jewel truck is across the street and I was going to tell him.
Who are you?
Danny Clover, police.
Oh, please come in.
In here.
Please sit down.
Thank you.
I'm afraid I haven't very much time.
Nick is...
I know.
I want to see him just once more.
He's at the mortuary.
I feel I ought to see him.
How long has it been since you and your husband lived together?
I don't know exactly how to answer that, Mr. Clover.
A month, a year?
No longer than that.
Once Nick brought home a black gown, strapless and cut.
Well, you know, I put it on.
I looked like a housewife looking ridiculous in a strapless gown.
Nick left then.
He moved out?
No, no, he moved out just a month ago.
It's been three years since he bought me the gown.
You knew about the...
About Nick's business affairs, that he was a thief, that it was a hoodlum.
I knew about that.
It didn't matter?
I'll tell you something, Mr. Clover.
Nick would go out and something would happen to him.
Maybe he'd beat a man with a gun.
He'd come home and stare at me.
He needed me so he could feel ashamed.
You still loved him.
While he was here, I was glad.
He's gone, but I'm not sorry.
Nick wasn't the kind of man who could live very long, but I had him for part of the time
that he did.
Mrs. Joyner and I...
No, please, you understand, Mr. Clover.
Long ago, Nick wanted me to move someplace, you know, Park Avenue, a place like that.
But Park Avenue, well, it was like the strapless gown.
Did you ever meet any of Nick's friends?
Nick didn't have any friends.
He had people he had fun with.
Like who?
So many of them.
Women?
Of course, lots of them.
But he never felt ashamed before any of them.
But wasn't there someone, someone special?
Miss Lisbon was special.
I saw her.
Yes, I saw her walking on Broadway with Nick.
On Broadway, Mr. Clover.
And she only saw Nick.
Miss Lisbon?
Pull that Lisbon.
Nick told me about her.
She stayed at the hotel, hadn't I, I believe?
Maybe she poisoned Nick.
Maybe.
And I'm sorry for her.
She doesn't know what she killed.
The woman turned away from me, walked over to the hall mirror, adjusted a wisp of colorless
hair under her hat, smoothed her gloves, looked once at her face, looked away.
Then walked out for one more time with Nick.
She left the door open.
I closed it for her.
At headquarters, there was a file on Paulette Lisbon.
Kansas City, Las Vegas, Chicago, Paris, the Italian Riviera.
The girl who opened the door for me at the hotel hadn't was the sum of all the places
in which she'd been whispered to, clothed in silk.
The sum of all the hands that had stroked the shadows on her throat, the edges of her
mouth.
All there was in the room was Paulette Lisbon.
Thank you.
For what?
For the way you look at me.
I thank you.
Miss Lisbon, Nick.
Nick looked at me like that sometimes.
Other men makes a girl feel good.
I mean, good.
You liked Nick?
Nick brought me pretty flowers.
And these on my neck, on my arm, those boxes on the dressing table.
Sure, I like Nick.
And maybe you'll help us find his killer.
You really want him?
The killer, I mean.
So many people are celebrating Nick's dying all over town.
I know because I've been invited.
You're not going?
No.
No, I think Nick would like me to breathe a little.
After that, I'm on my own.
He told me so lots of times.
He was poisoned.
Maybe you can tell me why.
I can give you a lot of whys, but don't ask me who.
You'd tell me if you knew.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
Who needed him dead?
You, the citizens, the people of the country.
My Nicky was a stain.
That brings us to you.
I needed him alive.
Girl like me doesn't know where her next Nick is coming from.
Would you open it for me, Danny, please?
This robe, the guests might whisper.
Miss Lisbon, I...
Oh, it's you.
I know you.
Come on in, Finch.
You don't keep a promise.
I even spelled my name for you.
What'd you bring me this time, Finch?
Oh, you'd be so pleased, Miss Lisbon.
I stole it from the kitchen.
Uncle Pheasant and his cool wife.
I stole it for you.
There's no charge.
Well, there's some bills on my dresser, Finch.
Help yourself.
Oh, you know I don't do it for that, Miss Lisbon.
You know, he just helped himself to these goods.
Have some, Danny.
It's on the house.
It always is with Finch.
No, thanks.
They killed your Mr. Joyner, didn't they, Miss Lisbon?
Gee, they had to be brave to kill a man like Mr. Joyner.
You like it that way.
You just called me to clean up the mess when you threw it.
Bye, Miss Lisbon.
Oh, there are so many, many kinds.
All different.
You sure you won't have some, Danny?
Funeral feast?
No.
Then throw it away for me.
Will you, Danny, please?
Out the window was fun.
Lots of fun.
Danny?
Oh, hello, Dr. Sinskey.
Come on in.
Oh, what's on your mind?
I got a cigarette, Danny.
Oh, here you are.
Thanks.
Light?
No, I wouldn't think of it.
I carry my own matches.
A very strange thing just happened, Danny.
Oh, like what?
I just finished an autopsy on Johnny Hill.
An autopsy?
What for?
He was shot to death.
What do you need an autopsy for?
Because he wasn't shot to death.
What are you talking about?
Of course he was shot.
Of course he was, with three.45 caliber bullets.
But that's not what killed him.
Look.
Please, Danny, let me have my minute of glory, huh?
Thank you.
I happened to see the photographs taken of Johnny by our boys.
Why I asked myself is this so little blood for a man who's been shot by a large caliber
bullet?
Then at the morgue, I examined Johnny.
Very little blood on his clothes.
So you performed an autopsy.
Just to prove my point.
Johnny was dead before he was shot.
What?
Johnny was poisoned to death with the same poison that killed Nick Joyner.
Know anybody who didn't like those two fellows, Danny?
Here he is, Danny.
Oh, sit down.
Me?
Him.
You leave, Morrow.
Oh, Danny, I lend you my office.
Be polite.
Out.
Okay, okay.
I said you can sit down.
I'm not in the habit of sitting down.
Room service, remember?
Finch.
Room service.
Tell me about yourself, Finch.
I told you.
Room service.
I mean, how you live, your friends, what you do outside of the hotel.
You're interested?
Yeah, I am.
Well, thanks.
Yeah, I tell you.
How do I live?
Oh, I work eight hours, read a lot, go out to the movies a lot, write letters to newspapers.
They printed some of them.
Spell your name right.
Oh, I have such a simple name to remember.
Maybe that's why everybody forgets it.
What about your friends?
Oh, I've tried that.
People don't measure up.
Does Miss Lisbon measure up?
She's beautiful.
I'd like her to admire me, but it really doesn't matter.
Don't you care what people think about you, Finch?
Used to bother me.
I used to try.
When I was younger, I took physical culture, exercises, and correspondence courses, and
personality, but I never finished.
I don't know.
Somehow.
Well, I don't know.
Now you don't care.
Oh, people are stupid.
They don't know what goes on inside of other people.
Me.
Why are you asking me these things, Mr. Clooney?
Because I admire you.
Oh, thank you, thank you.
Oh, say, let me show you something.
I have it right here in my coat pocket.
It's a letter I'm writing to the Times.
Read it.
Tell me about it.
It's about those two men who were murdered in this hotel.
Society ought to thank whoever did it.
Give them a medal.
Don't you think so, Mr. Clooney?
Think what?
Give them a medal.
Whoever poisoned those two men.
Yeah, that's one way of looking at it, Finch.
You know, Mr. Clooney, you and I think alike.
You can understand a man.
I think we can be great friends.
Uh-huh.
I think I would have hated Nick Joyner myself.
Yeah, that's right.
That's right.
Tell me about it.
Well, if I would have poisoned a big man like Johnny Hill, then if someone would have come
along and taken all the credit for it by emptying his gun into Johnny...
What kind of curries did that take?
Killing a dead man.
Maybe Nick didn't know Johnny was dead.
He probably just thought Johnny was sleeping.
Oh, that doesn't make any difference.
Nick got all the glory for killing Johnny.
And you couldn't stand that, could you?
You wanted that glory.
What's that?
You killed them both, didn't you?
Johnny and Nick.
What's that?
Poisoned Johnny because of how important it would make you feel inside yourself.
You could walk the streets and look at the people and know they didn't know how important
you are.
I didn't say that, Mr. Clover.
And Nick messed it up for you.
So you had to kill Nick.
No, no, no, no.
That's not right, Mr. Clover.
You said they were both poisoned.
How'd you know?
I just found out.
Now listen to me.
You reported the first murder to me yesterday.
You took great pains to give me details.
But you didn't say he was shot because you didn't know he was.
You've got to listen.
No.
You listen to me.
Think about it, Finch.
Alan Finch kills two big notorious gangsters.
But look, Mr. Clover.
Think about it, Finch.
Your picture and all the papers, your name and all the headlines.
Alan Finch.
Not just letters to the editor.
Pictures.
Headlines.
Personal interviews?
About how I did it?
Sure.
Of course.
Maybe a picture of Miss Lisbon and me.
And she'll be crying.
Let's go tell the papers about it, Finch.
Finch.
Alan Finch.
F-I-N-C-H.
Finch.
It's the happy time on Broadway.
It's after the movies.
Nobody wants to go home.
It's a place strung against the night like a phosphorescent valley.
They're heaped here.
The golden girl.
The bright-eyed kid.
The man with the promises.
And the guy who believes him.
It's Broadway.
The gaudiest.
The most violent.
The lonesomest mile in the world.
Broadway.
My Beat.
Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover with Charles Calvert as Tartaglia.
The program is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis with musical score composed and conducted
by Alexander Courage.
Starring in tonight's cast were Howard McNear, Marlo Dwyer, Gigi Pearson, Adrian Martin,
Lou Merrill and Jack Crushen.
We Americans have a valuable heritage, a heritage of individual freedom that includes the freedom
to worship as we wish at the church or synagogue of our own choice.
By attending church regularly, we can gain the moral and spiritual strength to meet the
many problems which confront us today.
Help support your church and attend regularly with your family.
Dan Cumberley speaking.
This is CBS for yours truly.
Johnny Dollar brings adventure Saturday nights on the Columbia Broadcasting System.
Thank you.