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, it's the glittering center of a glittering universe that's propped against the shadows.
And it's desolation, a gaudy room with a lion in its teeth.
And the lion's in gorgeous technicolor, the screaming of trumpets and the dancing on the streets.
And there's silence, too.
So still, so empty, you can hear a teardrop.
Whatever it is, it's Broadway, My Beat.
After midnight, Broadway is a place that pulls up stakes.
Wives lead husbands home to their cages.
Bartenders sweep up the sawdust and a few drunken clowns.
A tired voice invites you to a sideshow.
And you keep walking.
And then a voice calls your name.
Hey, Danny! Wait a minute, Danny! Danny!
And it's the voice of Maxie Stern, manager of the most colossal, most stupendous, most nothing movie crib on Broadway.
Danny, come quick, huh? Real quick.
Hi, Maxie.
Hi, Danny. Come quick, please, huh?
What's the matter? Somebody doesn't like the picture?
Worse than that. He's sitting in a loge and he won't go home and the picture is long since over.
Maybe he's waiting for the prices to change.
I don't think so, Danny.
No?
No, I think the gentleman who was occupying my loge is dead.
Come quick, huh, Maxie?
Yeah. The way we discovered him, Danny, is one of my charwoman who sweeps out the dump, the theater, was sweeping out the loge.
This gentleman she can't politely budge, so she calls the private.
Huh?
A nasha who's at the bottom of the rung of success.
The private calls the corporal. The corporal calls...
Oh, nuts. Finally gets the head asher and he calls me.
And I verify their opinion that the loge seat is dead.
But this I have to have official, so I called you.
Where is he?
Up these Persian carpeted stairs, Danny. Thirty dollars a square yard.
Wait, Danny. Danny, I'm out of breath.
Where is he?
In here. Through this Renaissance door that opens out onto a luxurious loge.
Hi, Danny. I'm glad Maxie found you.
Danny, I took the liberty of first calling our house doctor, Dr. Jeffrey Connor, the house doctor.
It's all right, Maxie. Why are you glad Maxie found me, Doc?
Because this man's been poisoned.
Oh?
Dilated pupils, tinge of blue on his lips, all the usual symptoms.
Suicide, maybe?
Maybe, but I hardly think so.
People don't take poison and go to a movie. Not this poison. The pain is excruciating.
How long has he been dead?
I'd say an hour, maybe two.
Well, he must have cried out. He must have made some...
The picture's hilarious, rib-tickling. It's a comedy, Danny.
Maybe the other schmoes and the loge thought he was laughing.
Some people laugh in such a way, you know.
Yeah. Let's see who he is.
Wallet, name stamped in gold. Sherman Gates.
Cigarettes. Hotel key. Carnegie Hotel.
And his umbrella, Danny. Lying wet on the carpet.
A man commits suicide in a loge, Danny?
Suicide or murder, I had to know which.
So I had a call to make.
The Carnegie Hotel on Second Avenue was an institution that had never received an endowment.
But its educational possibilities were infinite.
The signs walking up the steps from the street made you know that.
You could hold a séance with Madame Astarte, seventh daughter of the moon.
You could buy magic tricks from Professor Novotny.
When that was over, you could buy a Swedish massage from a brother and sister team.
At the top of the steps was a man seated behind a cage.
He was looking down at a glossy magazine. I looked down at him.
He kept looking and I kept looking.
I got tired first, so I rang the bell on his desk.
I heard you when you hit the third step coming upstairs. That's a loose one.
Then why don't you pay attention to me?
Paying attention to something else right now, Mac. You want to see?
See what?
This magazine. Get it every month.
Here, look. Picture of Phyllis in again this month, wearing a hat.
First time I ever saw her wearing a hat.
Last month it was stocking. Cute, huh?
All I want is some information.
About Phyllis? Oh, I can't do that. I wish I could.
But we can both dream, can't we?
Information about a guest, Sherman Gates.
You got the information. He was a guest.
He's dead.
People die.
Say, who are you that wants to know what you want to know?
I'm Danny Clover, police.
Oh, so I'm Lee Crandall, clerk. So?
So what about Sherman Gates?
He was a guest who guested at room 12 down the hall.
He made a couple phone calls early in the day through my switchboard.
Went out, didn't come back.
Putting two and two together, I'd say the latter was because he's dead.
Am I helping?
What about the two phone calls?
I'm being a citizen like all get out. I got them right here.
Right here someplace.
Yeah, yeah, here they are.
Thanks.
Don't mind if I use your phone, citizen. I know you don't.
Not for a dime, I don't.
Sergeant, Tataglia speaking.
Danny Clover, I want you to check two phone numbers for me, Tataglia.
Here are the numbers. Give me the names and addresses to go with them.
Yes, Danny.
Plaza 79970.
And Regent, Regent 41098.
You got that?
Yeah, I got it.
Good, I'll call you back.
Here's your dime.
Thanks. Now I guess you want to look at Mr. Gates' room, huh?
Yeah, I want to do that.
When you're finished, I got something to show you.
More art studies to fill us?
Uh-uh.
Broken Down Dentist once left a stack of National Geographic here.
Maybe a guy like you gets his kicks from stuff like that.
It made him happy to say that, and he was being a good citizen, so I let him be happy.
The room of Sherman Gates, guest, deceased, revealed a bed and a table, beat up, broken down.
Not much else. Mr. Gates' other suit and a change of underwear.
I leafed through the National Geographic to give Tataglia time to check on the phone numbers.
I learned little known facts about the Pygmy people of Mozambique, then called headquarters.
Two phone numbers. One listed to Irene Vincent in the East 60s.
The other, a photographer's shop on 10th Avenue.
It was midnight and neither place answered my call, so I waited till the next morning.
Called in person.
Something I can do for you?
Yeah, there is. I want to ask you a few questions.
Oh, good. About a camera?
This one takes wonderful pictures of the whole family.
I don't have a family. Questions about a photographer.
Oh. Well, we've got some wonderful brochures here.
The tricks of all great photographers. Wee Gee Lou, Jacobs Jr., Steichen...
Not about them. About Sherman Gates.
Gates. Gates. Gates. Don't know him.
If he were a photographer of note, I'm sure I'd know him.
This photographer was also a customer. Try that.
Gates, huh?
Gates. Sherman Gates.
Sherman Gates.
I'll give you a big fat clue. He called you yesterday.
Gates.
Maybe I ought to rack your brain for you.
Gates, of course! He called me yesterday.
Maybe you'll have a better memory if I tell you I'm from the police, Mr.
Quimby. Junious Quimby.
There's nothing wrong with my memory. I just told you, Mr. Gates called me
yesterday afternoon.
What did he call about?
About the usual thing.
Like?
Were his pictures ready?
And were they?
No.
What did you tell him?
I told him no.
I mean, when did you say his pictures would be ready?
Today. This morning.
Now?
Now.
Get them. I'm calling for them.
It's irregular, you know.
I know. Get them.
Why does Mr. Gates call for them himself?
He's dead. Now get them.
Of course. They're right here.
In this drawer.
Here they are.
In this envelope.
Yeah, thanks.
What do you know?
Cats.
Pictures of cats.
Aren't they lifelike? So real.
Here, pussy, pussy, pussy.
I'd never heard a man say that to a picture of a cat before,
so I tiptoed out, pointed myself to East 60th Street,
and took off.
Irene Vinson's apartment house was fashionable.
It had a fashionable doorman accoutre'd in dawn pink,
standing under a fashionable moss green canopy.
And his fashionable eyes were the color of dead fish
as he took my name, my occupation, my sex.
Took them over to a lavender phone,
spoke them in a shocked voice,
arranged me in an elevator, pushed a button,
and washed his hands of me on the 10th floor.
I lit a cigarette and saw Irene Vinson waiting for me in her doorway.
She didn't leave much breath for smoking.
Come in, Danny Clover.
Yeah, thanks.
He is frightful, isn't he?
Who?
The doorman.
I hate snobs, don't you, Danny?
If you say so.
You hate snobs?
Then why are you calling on me?
A man named Sherman Gates.
You know him?
If you say so.
He called you yesterday from the Carnegie Hotel.
So he did.
He died last night in a movie.
So he did.
I read it in the paper.
They say if I'd be suicide.
What do you say, Miss Vinson?
Oh, I don't think so.
Sherman wouldn't commit suicide, not that way.
Tell me about Sherman, Miss Vinson.
Oh, Sherman was 100%, Danny.
All boy, all star.
High school track, beef club, cheerleader.
A devil with the girls.
I was in love with Sherman once.
100%.
When was that?
Too long ago.
When I was a little girl in Iowa.
When little girls fell in love with little boys like Sherman.
And he called you yesterday?
Why?
He wanted a date.
The flame was flickering, he said.
That's the way Sherman talked.
You gave him the date?
Of course.
It platters a girl, Danny, when an old love comes out of Iowa and asks for a date.
Where'd you go?
What did you do?
In detail.
Mm-hmm.
In detail, we went to Geno's, had a few drinks.
Left Geno's, had an argument.
Oh, that should interest you, Danny.
It does.
Well, it was about a cat.
A cat rubbed itself against the leg of Sherman's tuxedo,
and Sherman kicked the cat in the face.
So we argued.
And?
So I took a cab home, threw my umbrella in the tub to dry off,
took my clothes off, gotten to...
Oh, Irene, the drinks are ready.
Haven't you finished with the police, my dear?
Oh, I think so, Joseph.
Danny, this is my fiancée, Joseph Dorcas.
Danny Clover.
How do you do?
Mr. Dorcas...
I think he's dropping, Mr. Clover.
You'll want to know if I knew of Irene's going out with Sherman Gates.
I hadn't thought of it, but it'll do.
I knew about it, Mr. Clover.
Irene has full personal freedom until we're married.
You've read of our marriage?
I'm afraid not.
It's been in all the columns.
A winter romance, they call it.
That is my part of it.
Nice phrase, isn't it?
I told you, Joseph, they're only little dogs barking.
You mustn't let them hurt you.
You see why I love her, Mr. Clover?
And in two weeks, she'll be mine.
And then, Irene, no more jaunts to Ioway to see your mother.
No more evenings with callow youths like this Gates fellow.
No more.
Shh, darling.
You're embarrassing Danny Clover.
They clinched.
And I got out of there.
I checked in at headquarters, grabbed a cup of coffee,
and then went back to a man named Quimby,
who had pictures of cats for a dead man who hated cats.
Oh, I see you're back.
You remember me, huh?
Of course. You said you were a policeman.
You told me that this morning.
Right. I'm a policeman.
And I'm still working.
I got some new questions to ask you, Mr. Quimby.
Please ask them in a hurry.
I got some pictures in the tank.
This won't take long.
Those pictures you gave me this morning.
Mr. Gates' pictures?
Those.
Are you sure they were the pictures he left to be developed?
Am I sure? What do you mean, am I sure?
I mean, are you sure?
Of course I am. Now, if you'll pardon me...
One more thing.
Please, those pictures in the tank, they'll spoil.
All right, but hurry up back.
I'll only be a minute.
Just look around. Browse.
Quimby, what happened?
He tried.
He really did try to tell me what happened,
but he couldn't.
He'd never be able to.
I hurried over to the open door, which led to the alley.
Empty.
The sound of a car starting off,
a car driven by a killer,
suddenly made the whole place empty.
Empty except for one thing.
One single and shining fact.
The dead man in the loge wasn't a suicide.
He'd been murdered.
Now he had company.
You are listening to Broadway's My Beat,
starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover.
A whale of a Christmas present for a few moments brain scratching.
Could be, there's $54,000 in the Sing It Again jackpot now.
$25,000 of it in cold hard cash, and the rest in wonderful prizes.
Sing It Again is heard for a full hour every Saturday night
on most of the same CBS stations.
In the afternoon, Broadway is a place of regret.
It's the interval between the furtive lunch hour and Quiddick time,
the longest five hours in the world.
And it happens five days a week.
It's also the time to dust the coconut husks at papaya stands,
to dodge the cloak and suitor for whom nothing exists
except the clothing rack he's pushing.
And it's the time for window shopping.
For me it was a time for homework,
and headquarters is where I study.
There's a sergeant there who helps me.
His name is Tartaglia, and he tries real hard.
Or as he puts it, I try real hard, Danny.
I know you do, Tartaglia.
So tell me what you found on Junius Quimby.
Oh, that little photographer was a naughty boy, Danny,
with a record. Not a long one, but naughty.
Pictures, huh? Photographs.
Pictures, Danny. Photographs.
That all?
Yeah. Oh, wait a minute. I almost forgot, Danny.
There's a guy outside to see you.
Joseph Dawkus. Says he's the fiancee of one Miss Irene Vincent.
Show him in, Tartaglia.
Yeah.
Go right in, Mr. Dawkus.
Thank you. Thank you.
Hello, Mr. Clover.
I hope you're not too busy to see me.
Not at all. Sit down, Mr. Dawkus.
Thank you. Thank you.
Mr. Clover, I'll come right to the point.
I'm a very rich man.
I'm happy for you, Mr. Dawkus.
It's a fact that doesn't need a comment, Mr. Clover.
I only tell you that because, well, you should know it.
I'm in a position to buy off any trouble that Irene may be in.
Your fiancee's in trouble?
Yes. She just came back from a vacation with her mother in Iowa.
And since she's back, she's being blackmailed.
Ah-ha. That'd fit.
I don't know how exactly, but it would fit.
I can't guess what you have in mind, but I think I can help you.
Frankly, Mr. Dawkus, I could use a little help.
What have you got to offer?
Some pertinent facts.
Good. What are they?
Well, the day before yesterday, a man called her.
Said he had some information that he was going to take to me.
He was going to take it to me unless Irene paid him $20,000.
What kind of information?
Mr. Clover, Irene swears to me she doesn't know.
She got a phone call from a man.
The man set up a meeting place, but the man never showed up.
Go on.
Yesterday, the same thing. Another phone call. Another man.
And this man didn't show up either.
What else?
About an hour ago, one more phone call.
Still another voice.
This time, the man told Irene to meet him at 1 o'clock tomorrow morning
at the 23rd Street Docks, Hudson River.
Was that all he said?
No, no. He mentioned the names of Junius Quimby and Sherman Gates.
Oh?
He told Irene that what happened to them would happen to her
if she didn't appear with the money.
Does that suggest anything to you, Mr. Clover?
Yeah, it does.
It suggests this third caller is our killer.
He's got some piece of information to blackmail your fiancé.
Some piece of information that belonged to three men.
Now it belongs to only one, the killer.
Well, what shall we do, Mr. Clover?
We'll do this. Tell Irene to get the money and meet the man.
Yes, but...
Don't worry. I'll be there.
Tell her I'll be in the doorway at the port agent's shack.
Tell her to walk past me so I'll know she's there.
But above all, tell her not to talk to me. Got that?
Of course, Mr. Clover. I have it exactly.
At midnight, the 23rd Street Dock is an island torn out of limbo.
The mist, the vapors rising out of the dark river,
the sob of distant turbines,
the almost silent hiss of the sea.
It's all there.
And you stand in dark space at the edge of a universe
and wait and hope you're doing the right thing.
Across oil-black water, you watch an electric sign in New Jersey
arrange itself the numerals of time,
and then a sound brings you back.
It's a simple sound, the sound of a woman's heels on wood.
So you're back and you remember why you're there.
Danny. Danny Clover, are you there?
I told you, don't talk to me. Keep walking.
But I'm frightened, Danny Clover, 100% frightened.
He sees you talking to anyone, he might kill you, like he killed the others.
And remember, talk to him as if you were alone.
No outcry, no hysterics, nothing. Understand?
Now, keep walking.
Danny Clover, here goes a pretty girl.
It's him, Danny. It's him. Get him. Get him.
You fool, I told you not to yell.
You got away, didn't you, Danny?
Yeah, why did you cry out? Why?
Because I'm a girl and girls are unstable.
Are you hurt, Danny? Did he shoot you?
No.
But there's blood on the ground. See Danny Clover?
Danny Clover saw the blood on the ground.
Danny Clover put an idiot named Irene in a cab.
Danny Clover went back to headquarters.
By two o'clock, the orders were out for every drug store, every hospital,
every doctor to be on the lookout for a wounded man.
Then Danny Clover curled up in his swivel chair and fell asleep.
Are you decent, Danny?
Of course I'm decent. What are you talking about?
There's a lady out here to see you, Danny, from the Salvation Army
with a drum and a cymbal and a tambourine.
What?
Yeah, she says she knows you, has something important to tell you.
Sure in, Sergeant. Sure in.
Yeah.
Go right in, Miss. Miss, uh, ma'am.
Good morning, Danny.
Oh, it's a glorious, glorious morning, isn't it?
Glorious, Opal. How are you?
Glorious.
Why don't you put the drum down? It'll take me a help, Opal.
Sure, sure. Allow me, Miss Opal.
Thank you.
The tagli said you had something important to tell me.
Well, it may be. I don't know.
It just may be important, and then again it may not.
Strange the way things are one way or another, isn't it, Danny?
Tell me anyway, Opal.
Well, last night at the mission, it was my turn of duty, you know,
helping the poor wandering souls who...
What happened at the mission, Opal?
Well, about three o'clock in the morning,
this man came in with a terrible wound in his shoulder.
What terrible wound? I dressed him...
Where is he now?
Well, back at his hotel, I suppose.
The Carnegie Hotel. You see, Mr. Crandall's one of our steadies.
But, Danny, where are you going? I haven't finished.
All right, all right. I'm coming.
Oh, it's you.
Yeah, citizen. It's me.
Come to tell me I'm not much of a citizen no more, huh?
A real bad one. A wounded one, too. Your shoulder hurt?
Some. If I make an effort, it'll still operate.
Don't try. I'm booking you.
We'll take fine care of your shoulder.
I missed everything, didn't I? I missed it all up.
Amateurs oughtn't to play that game. It makes them gun happy.
Uh-huh.
Yeah. I turned all of Phyllis's pictures to the wall.
She isn't proud of me. She looks sad.
Even the one in stockings.
Tough. You ready?
Sure. Can I figure on how long the rap is?
Figure on all the time there is left in the world, so you won't be disappointed.
After all, you killed two men.
Killed two men? What are you talking about?
Sherman Gates, one man. Junious Quimby, one man.
Wait a minute.
Two men.
Wait a minute. You're talking too fast. Words are going by me.
I think I hear, but I don't know what they mean.
Let's go, Lee.
I'm telling you, all I did was try a blackmail stunt. I lost it. That's all.
You're talking for the record now, Lee.
Sure I am, and this is the record.
A letter comes for guest Sherman Gates after he's deceased.
I open it, pictures in it. Blackmail pictures to a guy with brains.
More brains than me.
So you called Irene Vincent?
Sure. Her picture's been all over the paper on account of her marrying that millionaire.
Sure I called her.
Where are the pictures?
Right in my back pocket. They never left there.
I'll take them.
Well, here.
Thanks.
You can't book me for murder. You can't...
Here's a dime, citizen. I gotta call headquarters.
We're going for a ride. You, me, and the pictures.
You sent for me, Danny? I was just on my way home.
I phoned Mrs. Tartaglia.
It's a little early, isn't it, Sergeant?
Well, what with the rain and all, by the time I get through the traffic...
Take off that slicker and stick around a while. I want you to look at a picture.
Okay, Danny.
Well, where's the picture, huh, Danny?
Here.
What do you see, Tartaglia?
Oh, I see a gorgeous dame in a swimming suit by the name Irene Vincent.
I see a guy also in a swimming suit by the name Sherman Gates, deceased.
And they're leaning up against the new Nash. Looks like the 1950 model.
Did I see everything, Danny?
Where are they?
To me, it looks like Miami. I've never been to Miami, but to me it looks like Miami.
Palm trees, oceans, swimming suits.
Yeah. Neat piece of blackmail.
This is the blackmail to be in Miami in the winter?
You can go home now, Tartaglia.
Oh, thanks, Danny. Thanks.
It's because of the rain I'm leaving now.
What do you got there?
The umbrella.
Umbrella?
Yeah, sure. An umbrella, Danny. It's raining outside. Cat and dog.
Umbrella?
Go home, Tartaglia, and tell Mrs. Tartaglia today you did real good.
I want to apologize for Irene's not being here, Mr. Clover.
Oh, that's okay. You're here.
After all, Irene and I are engaged, and the fact that you found me in her apartment shouldn't cause you to lift an eyebrow.
Not the merest wisp of an eyebrow. Maybe you'll react, Mr. Dorcas.
I know why Irene was being blackmailed.
Good for you. So you found the blackmailer.
You understand, whatever Irene did before we were married doesn't concern me.
Oh?
That was a part of her life that I didn't belong in.
It was hers under whatever circumstance she wanted.
What if it happened three weeks ago?
Impossible.
Look at this picture, Mr. Dorcas. Does it tweak you?
I... Irene! Irene, come in here!
Well, you mean you've been out clattering me. Irene's been listening all the time. My, my.
I don't like to subject my fiancé to the police. Now, well, come here, Irene.
Yes, what is it?
A picture. I want you to look at it.
Were you in Iowa three weeks ago, Irene?
I told you I was, dear. That means I was.
Irene, you're not looking at the picture.
I'm looking. It was taken three years ago in Miami before I met Mr. Dorcas.
You're lying, dear.
You're doing just that, Irene. They didn't have 1950 cars three years ago.
They had them just about three weeks ago.
Irene.
So I went to Miami. So what? So what if I did?
Irene, tell us. Tell us what happened the night Sherman Gates died.
I've already done that, 100%.
The part after you left him. Do it again.
All right, I will. I came home in a cab, undressed, went to bed. Happy?
The part about the umbrella. What did you do with it?
Threw it in the bathtub. Happy?
Yeah, but you're not. A guy comes to call for you to take you out for an evening.
He brings an umbrella, like a 100% gentleman.
I know because it was found with his dead body.
Poor him. So?
So you carried an umbrella, too.
When a gentleman carries an umbrella on a date, a girl never does.
But you did. You know why, too.
Throw him out of here, dear.
No, no, I don't want to do that.
Because you knew you were coming home alone, Irene, so you poisoned his drink and left him.
That took care of Blackmiller Number One.
You mean Irene killed someone else?
Did you, Irene? You're both crazy.
Uh-uh. You killed Quimby, too, the nasty little photographer who developed a few extra blackmail pictures for himself and wanted in on the blackmail.
Poor Irene. You're crazy.
But still another man got in on the blackmail, a hotel clerk who opened Sherman Gates' mail and figured you'd been cheating almost up to the altar.
Don't listen to him. Don't listen to him.
So you dreamed up a story, Irene, and told it to Mr. Dorcas here.
A story that made the hotel clerk look like he murdered the other two. He didn't. You did.
Irene. Irene, put down that gun.
Get out of the way. I'll kill him.
Irene, don't. Irene.
You fool. You stupid little fool. I'll take that gun.
I'll kill him.
I said, give me that gun.
That's better. Irene. Irene.
She looked at him and fell suddenly to the floor, took Dorcas' head in her arms and swayed back and forth.
Her eyes filled with the terrible fright you sometimes see in a child.
And it was hard to believe she was a murderer.
But you knew better, so you called headquarters.
And they sent an ambulance and a couple of burly cops.
She was 100% with them, so they gave her the best seat in the paddy wagon.
Broadway looks clean.
It's been washed by the rain. It smells good and everything looks sharp.
Sharp like a knife at your heart.
And you walk against it and it plunges deeper and deeper and deeper.
And finally, there's no pain.
It's Broadway, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world.
Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover and is written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin.
The musical score was composed by Alexander Courage and conducted by Wilbur Hatch.
And the program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis.
The cast tonight included Charles Calvert, Joe Forte, Paul Duboff, Junius Matthews, Mary Jane Croft, Herbert Rawlinson, and Joyce McCluskey.
One step to curing a disease is recognizing it and treating it.
Hate is a disease. It's recognized as such by patriotic citizens who refuse to spread the doctrine of hate by speaking against a fellow American because of his race, color, or religious creed.
The treatment to cure the disease of hate is to accept or reject people on their individual worth and to speak up wherever you are against prejudice and for understanding.
Stay tuned now for Sing It Again, which follows immediately over most of these same CBS stations.
This is CBS where you'll find Broadway is My Beat every Saturday night. The Columbia Broadcasting System.