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. There's a thing about Broadway, it mixes well with the sunlight. On a noonday of summertime, the concrete strikes silver glints, the mob is nicely proportioned with silken ankles and doxhunts and windblown hairdos, and an organ grinder plays background music for the big grin and the clown's funny nose. At headquarters, I stood watching it, pushing away the time for the filling out of my routine reports. The diversions were down there in the streets, the girl in the yellow silk dress she wore, both knowing about summer and loving the feel of it. Then I heard two things, the sigh that came from me and the phone ringing that came from the phone. Danny Clover speaking. Did you do what I told you? Who is this? Did you do it Mr. Clover? I don't understand, who am I talking to? I wrote you a letter about Stephen Courtney. But Stephen Courtney's dead. Yes I know he's dead. What's the matter with you? Everybody knows he's dead. What's your interest in Courtney? Who are you? Can't you see it doesn't matter who I am? Can't you understand? Stephen Courtney? Hello? Hello? Hello? He was murdered. It started that way, the anonymous call, impossible to trace, the sifting through the dust of a man's death. Stephen Courtney's dying had for a moment upset the delicate balance of many worlds, a finance of corporate bodies of dynasties in oil and steel, the breeding of racing horses. The decay that for months had wasted his body had forced him finally down to the level of all old men who must die. The headlines wept, the commentators lamented, the memos came down from chairman of boards, there'd be a minute of silence for the death of Stephen Courtney. But now it was spoiled, now a voice cried murder. The policeman must listen. In the records bureau I found Stephen Courtney's death certificate, cause of death heart failure, date of death June 16th. Attending physician Dr. Arthur Fulbright. In his office Dr. Fulbright was poised, curious and annoyed. Permit me to understand, you're questioning my diagnosis of the cause of Steve Courtney's death. We can put it that way if you want. And what do you base this sudden presumption? You have a right to know on a phone call. From whom? Another doctor? Some quack who wants to destroy my reputation, chooses to degrade me by having me questioned by the police. It came from a woman. Who? She didn't say, all she said was Stephen Courtney was murdered. That's preposterous. Steve Courtney died last week as I had expected him to die of a coronary disorder. He knew he would die of it, as I knew it, his family, his servants, his enterprises. But you'll fill me in now doctor because I wasn't that privileged. The newspapers had it for months. Our old Steve was bedridden. Now he had chosen me as intimate friend to be his attending physician. Now I kept him by sheer know-how from death's door. Still he died. There are things in heaven and earth. Yeah, tell me about his dying. Normal. I had a call from his estate on Long Island. I cancelled all other calls, went out there, found old Steve lying sprawled on the floor dead, peacefully dead. You said he was bedridden. Why was he... Why was he on the floor? I confess the question occurred to me at the time, but then I rejected it. Like everything else, old Steve chose his own way of dying. Describe it to me exactly how you found him. I have. He was sprawled in the middle of the room. He had knocked over a radio and a... Hmm. That's strange. What is? The radio. What left explicit instructions was nothing of the sort was to be in the room with him. Too exciting. Now what do you know? Old Steve defied me. Yeah, I guess he did at that. Sometimes it slips out of our hands, doesn't it doctor? It took about an hour to drive to Long Island in the estate of Stephen Courtney, and enough time driving through the estate to make an observation. The grass is always greener in a rich man's backyard, and plants that are only supposed to grow in the tropics will blossom on Long Island as long as they're nurtured by thumbs turned green by association with money. The plentiful potentially of the hibiscus beds told me he didn't know whether there was anyone in the house or not, but he was a man of the heart. He was a man of the heart. He was a man of the heart. He knew whether there was anyone in the house or not, but try at the track he said. Yeah, the racetrack way down there. Miss Lilla would probably be there. She always was. Then some more of the tour to the private track of the late Stephen Courtney. When I got there, the decor was still intact. A golden girl riding a black racing stallion, and a man leaning over holding a stopwatch. He did fine, Miss Lilla, just fine. Whoa, Sun Prince. Steady boy. Steady, that's the boy. How did he do, Joseph? 101 and two-fists for the fire furlongs. I'll help you down, Miss Lilla. All right. Who's your friend? Your friend. I didn't notice any... Hey, what are you doing here, mister? My name's Danny Clover. I didn't ask you... Hi, Danny. Cool off, Sun Prince, Freddie. What can we do for you, Danny? I'm from the police. Fine. I'm Lilla Courtney. This is Joseph O'Donoghue, our trainer. How do you do, Mr. O'Donoghue? What's the police want with Miss Lilla? Joseph takes care of me. I see he does. The old man said I shouldn't. The old man said that, Miss Lilla. Joseph? That day he died. The next morning from that, his voice said to me, Joseph, you see that Miss Lilla is all right. When did my father tell you that? The morning after he died. Your daddy still talks to me the way he always did. I'm glad. Things like that happen to Joseph, Mr. Clover. Once... Well... No, tell me about it. I once chartered a plane to take some people down to Baltimore last year's pre-miss. Joseph said don't go. A voice came to him while he was sleeping and said, tell Miss Lilla not to go. But I went. The plane crashed. I was the only one who came out of it alive. Even to that... Well, here, feel my knee, Danny. Well... Go ahead. You'll see. The doctor said I'd be a cripple for life. Dr. Fulbright? Oh, you know him? We just met. Don't go back to him, Danny. I think he's incompetent. But he diagnosed your father's sickness as heart disease. I know. Oh, I... I suppose I'm being malicious. Of course, daddy had trouble with his heart. Of course, Dr. Fulbright is competent. What about the radio in your father's room? What did you say, Danny? The radio. Your father wasn't supposed to have a radio in his room. He did on the day he died. He did? Now, I don't understand either. Why are you here? Why is a policeman asking me questions about daddy? Call it routine. Don't talk to him, Miss Lilla. Joseph... I got a feeling about it. I say don't talk to him. Danny... Danny, I'm sorry. I've got to go now. There's some questions, Miss Lilla. You'd better talk to my brother. He's around someplace. Try the house. I just can't talk to you, Danny. You admire our graveyard of dead animals? Oh, yeah. Quite a trophy room. Hmm. Yeah, it's that stuffed specimen you're looking at, Bengal tiger. Huh? Many brave souls lie asleep in the deep Hindu jungle, all because old Steve wanted to bring home a pussycat. Old Steve, your father? My father. Brandy? No. Then you're Berle. Yep. Mother and I got along fine. But old Steve said the boy is hard to handle, so he called me Berle. He thought that would make mother angry. But mother fooled him. She died a long time ago. First of the day, it says here. You know who I am, why I'm here? Oh, the domestic staff is agog with it. A woman called me. Said your father was murdered. It's a free country. They have the vote. They can say people were murdered, even my father. Maybe it proves something. Like what? That the old man was human enough to die when someone killed him. I didn't know that about him. I thought he always picked his own time and place for everything. Then you think he died because he was ready to die. What does it matter? He's dead and I'm rich. We're all rich. It'll be easier if you try to stay sober. Sober. When was that? All right, all right, I'll stay sober. You said you're all rich. Who? Lilla. I watched you from a window. An exciting thing, Lilla, wouldn't you say? Lilla, who else? You wouldn't say. Well, well, there's O'Donahue. He got a big hunk and the cook and the maids and the nurse. And a man an aisle way who shined my father's shoes once. The nurse, who was she? Alice Barnett. Nursed the old man for years. It paid off. Where is she? Who knows? Old Steve dies, nurse he goes somewhere to cry. Leaves this nice big cozy morsel in. No nurse he, anyway. She lived here. Mm hmm. Bed and board and street dresses. Who cares? We do. I'll phone headquarters to find her. Good hunting. O'Donahue, the trainer. He told me your father talks to him even now. My father. Joseph hears voices all the time. About a month ago, he had a three-way conversation with Orville and Wilbur Wright. There was a radio in your father's room when he died. How did it get there? You know, I wouldn't know. But he was dying. Surely you... I was the most unfilial son. Look, why don't you ask Mercy when you find her? See, she knew about things like that. Yeah, you just ask Mercy. I earned this, no? Welcome back to the doldrums, Danny. Huh? I was just leaving headquarters for the day. I thought it would be nice of me to welcome you back to them. The doldrums. What are you talking about, Totaglou? Well, Danny, since you have been cavorting with society and munching scones with the blue bloods, I wondered if you would be the same old Danny. And am I? Did you bring me a scone, Danny? Uh-uh. No scones. Tell me one thing. What about the nurse, Alice Barnett? Did you find her? She is being scarce as a... as a... You didn't find her, huh? As a... as a... Danny Clover speaking. You'd better get up here, Mr. Clover. Who is this? Oh, girl. What's the trouble? It's your business to find out. Get up here. Somebody just got beaten to death. Over here! Over here! He's in there with... Get him out! Get him out! It was a design in horror, done in grotesques. The horse, rearing, screaming, clawing its hooves against the stall. The girl, disheveled, twisted with terror, pleading with it. Tia! Tia, leave him alone! No more! Leave him alone! Tia! Quirrell dazed, helpless, sodden with fright, with drunkenness. The blazing moon setting fire to the web of blood that reached out from under the stall gate. Tia! No more! Tia! Farrell! Help me! Help me get that horse out of there! I can't, I've been trying. I can't. Tia's a good girl. Help me! Help me! All right, don't, don't slap me anymore. All right. I'll open the gate. You grab her mane. Come on. Now! Come on, Tia. There's a good girl. Come on, Tia. I can't hold her. I can't! Let her go! Oh, Joseph. Oh, poor Joseph. Poor dead Joseph. What happened? Lilla, what happened? I don't know. I was coming back from a moonlight ride. I heard Joseph scream. Tia was standing over him when I found him, trampling him with her hooves. I tried to pull her away. I called Burl. We tried. Tia must have kicked him. He fell and then she... till he died. Tia. No, not like that, Burl. Joseph died because he was murdered. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Don't let a rainy day find you unprepared. Start saving for that rainy day right now by buying United States savings bonds. If you hold on to your bonds until they mature, you'll get back $4 for every $3 you invested. Buy United States savings bonds regularly. In June, Broadway bursts out all over. It lulls in the breezes of the air-conditioned movie, compares postcards from the family and the Catskills. It drinks deep of the neon-scented summer air, sighs, and wishes mom and the kids would stay there because Broadway's having a wonderful time. Sixty girls, sixty, will pass a given point at any given hour. The music drifting out of the Diamond Dance Pavilions is like partaking of an open-air band concert. And the drama on the front pages, a movie, a sheer unadulterated drive-in movie. Consider, a tycoon dies, someone calls up, says it's murder. A horse trainer is kicked to death by a horse gone crazy with a gun. The police say it's murder. Where else but on Broadway can you spend a summer in such a way? And in the technical lab, a man in shirt sleeves wipes the sweat off his lips, breathes on a magnifying glass, wipes it on his pants, invites you to hold it to a photograph. Have a look, Mr. Clover. I suppose congratulations are in order. All because you made a lucky guess. Hmm? Come, come. It was only a guess, was it not? You're saying this Joseph O'Donoghue was murdered? Well, anyway, the photographs, my analysis, quite bear you out. They do? Oh, yes. This one in particular. See the back of the photograph? It's quite plain on this one that O'Donoghue was beaten to death, but not by a horse, by a weapon to make it look like a horse. A horseshoe, how bad? But not of the type affected by thoroughbreds, by racehorses, more like one of a truck horse or one that pulls a milk wagon. Ergo, considering the circumstances, my view is the man was murdered by a human wielding a knife. The man was murdered by a human wielding a heavy horseshoe. He... Technical. Conrad speaking. Yes, yes, he is here. Yes, yes, I will tell him. Certainly. There is a woman waiting for you in your office, a Miss Alice Barnett. Lucky guess, huh, Mr. Clover? Yeah, I didn't even have a magnifying glass. Miss Barnett? Yes. We've been looking for you. Yes, I thought perhaps you were. I've come to give myself up. You're the one who called me, who told me Stephen Courtney had been murdered. Yes, I wrote you a letter too, but there must be many things you want to ask me. There are. Why did you hide? Because I was foolish, because I was frightened, because I don't really know. It's all mixed up. You see, Stephen and I were going to be married. Oh? As soon as he got well, it was all planned. It would have been exciting to be married to Stephen. Not for the money, just for Stephen. He was much older. Was he? I loved him, I didn't notice. I see. Why do you think he was murdered? Because it happened on my day off. Because I don't think he would have died if I'd been there. Where were you? In town, shopping, walking in the park, feeding the pigeons, in St. Patrick's for a while. It was quiet there, restful. But no place we can check. No, I don't think so. On your days off, who took your place? We had an arrangement with the nurse's registry. I don't know who it was that day. It was usually a different nurse each week. I'll check. Where? On Madison at 49th. It's in the book. You think Stephen was murdered. In your opinion, who would have a reason? Whoever wanted all the money. The money Stephen would have settled on me as his wife. Lilla, Berle, O'Donoghue. But O'Donoghue has been murdered. That makes the jackpot bigger for the rest of you, doesn't it? It does. It means another 50,000 for me. I don't know about the others. Where were you the night O'Donoghue was murdered? At a movie. It's a feeble alibi, isn't it? I'm holding you, Miss Barnett, on suspicion of murder. Miss Barnett accepted it. She folded her hands in her lap and waited patiently until a man in uniform nudged his head through the door, got the signal from me and gave the signal to her. Somehow I got the idea that as long as she would stay in jail, people would spend their time apologizing to her. It was a time for thinking about things. Too many people had been unconcerned about the death of Stephen Courtney. And in the murder of Joseph O'Donoghue, the man who heard voices, there. That was the thing to think about. Somehow the first death necessitated the second. And in the matter of the nurse sent by the registry, that also needed looking into. I did. The receptionist said you were a policeman. That's right. You wish to hire a nurse? Maternity? Your wife? No, it's not that at all. We're conducting an investigation. And you want to see me? That's right. It's about one of your nurses. One of the newer ones, I suppose. If you would have seen the crop that just graduated, that just registered with us. Some of them are pretty. I wouldn't know. I want some information about the nurse assigned to the case of Stephen Courtney. There were several of them. I'm afraid you'll have to help me if you want me to help you. The relief nurse assigned to Mr. Courtney on June 16th, the day he died. Thanks. That's what I like. Now we shall see. Courtney, Courtney. You see, we have them cross-filed. Patient's name, nurse's name, doctor's name, name of the illness. Courtney, Courtney. J. Courtney. S. Samuel. Courtney S. Stephen. Here we are. I said, here we are. Tell me about it. I was never much good with charts. Each little line has a meeting all its own. As you see here, there is no line at all opposite the date of June 16th. So we turn the chart over. Naturally. And we see the reason why written in longhand. On June 16th, there was a phone call from the Courtney household telling us not to send a replacement on that day. Oh, who called and said that? Why, I wouldn't know. For information like that, you'd have to go straight to the source. Naturally. Perhaps if I'm more explicit, Mr. Clover, you'll understand. No one is to go into Miss Lilla's room. Not even the police. Those are your orders, doctor? Precisely mine. Then you won't mind justifying them to the mere police. Justify? What presumption you people have. However, Miss Lilla is quite ill. Psychotic shock. Two people she loved very much are dead. She tried to stave off the inevitable by riding, caretty, etc., etc., but it's caught up with her. Natural in a woman of Miss Lilla's sensitive fiber. Yeah, I guess it is. Doctor, who gave the order that no replacement nurse was needed the day Stephen died? You? I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. No nurse? Well, that's preposterous. Surely not- Get out of here! Get out of here! Why, whatever could that- Psychotic shock, huh? Sensitive fiber, huh, doctor? You're vicious, Pearl. You're ugly and vicious and drunk. Oh, no, little sister. Don't throw anything else. It'll only bring on a relapse. Come on now, poor sick little sister. Out of bed! Leave her alone, Pearl. Are you all right, Lilla? Are you all right, Lilla? Sure you're all right. Everybody thinks you're so sick, little sister. Shut up, Pearl. You can't say that to me. I am the master here now. You, Lilla, oh, Donna, you, oh, Steve. I crack them with- I'm- I'm- I'm- Pearl. Pearl, are you hurt? He'll be all right. Just let him sleep it off. I'm sorry. Sorry you had to see us like this, Danny. It's all so ugly. So like they want us to be in the papers, isn't it? You're not really sick, are you? No, Danny, just tired. I fixed it up with Dr. Fulbright so they'd leave me alone. I don't know doing it this way. Maybe it proves I really am sick. You think? Lilla, listen to me. The day your father died, there should have been a nurse here. Why wasn't there? I don't know. We thought maybe things got all mixed up down at the nurse's registry. No one showed up. Because they were called and told not to. Who did that, Lilla? Someone called it. I don't know. I don't know who it could have been, Danny. I told you I don't know. I told you. Try to think, Lilla. Get out. Get out. I can't take anymore. The Look at it, Danny. The boys found it. It's not pretty. A horseshoe nailed to a club. They dug it up back in the far turn of the Courtney track. Might have happened, Danny, the thing that beat a Donahue to death. I'd say so, too, Tugler. You know, it's not enough I'm up to my elbows in the solution to this case with horses. But I had to go to the movies last night. For you. Comes the newsreel and more horses. The running of the Westfall handicap. Nip and tuck, nip and tuck all the way home. Oh, Danny, that Sun Prince. What a horse. Who? Sun Prince, the horse that almost won the Westfall handicap. I'm telling you, I almost had heart failure. Why? Well, look, here was this horse six lengths out in front. He stumbles, throws his jockey. This Westfall handicap. When was it run? Oh, Danny, I can see you are a man who is not smitten by the Bobtails. This handicap was run last Saturday. Let's see. June 16th. Gino, you went and did it. You put two and two together. And I got four, huh? Not only that, Gino, you got a murder. There was no hurry after that. Took my time driving out to the Courtney estate. I didn't even have to go to the house. I saw what I was looking for in a small knoll that overlooked the grounds. Lilla. Lilla holding the reins of a black stallion. Standing against the early evening. A precise composition. Sculpted to catch the eye. It was a flaw to it. Lilla had seen me coming and the pose she'd struck was too steady, too pat. But it held until I walked to her, touched her arm. Oh. You've recovered, Lilla. Not really. Look at me. How do I look? The same. You've got some more clothes on. The last time I saw you, outside of that, the same. I'm glad. But I need this. The quiet, the evening, riding. Do you want to ride with me, Danny? No. I expected you to come. I thought sometime soon you'd come back and use the gamut of let's ride together, Lilla, and I made it easy for you. Now I don't understand you at all. I'm trying to make up my mind about you. Oh, how can you? You're not really trying. Whether a murder becomes you or not. It made me ill for a while you saw that. You're faking, Lilla. It's how you reacted to committing murder. Me? Your father's murder. Adonahues. Oh, you're a fool, Danny. Your father's murder by attending him yourself instead of a nurse. By turning on the radio when his prize horse raced. The excitement when the horse stumbled stopped your father's heart and brought you a lot of money. Is that murder? Because a horse stumbled, because my father's heart stopped, eventually it'll happen to all of us. Adonahue, because you were afraid of him. Because you really believed he heard voices. Because you thought one day your father's voice might tell Joseph who killed him. Ride with me, Danny. No. Come on, Lilla. You're a fool. Son Prince. Get off that horse. Oh, Prince. Kill him. Kill him, Prince. Kill him. The stallion reared high, pawed at the gathering darkness. His jowls flecked with foam. Then a hoof caught me, spun me. And again, I looked up from the ground. He was a monster, poisoned, his hunches. Prince. Prince. And suddenly he lost balance, fell to his back, recovered. And in an instant he was a fleeting shadow. When I got to the girl, when I got to Lilla, she was small, huddled. She didn't move. Only in her eyes was there life. And it held briefly. Then it stopped. When the night turns into Broadway, the streets burst into fragments of electric flame, fling reflections hard into the shadows. It's a piece torn out of a jagged dream, the twisted concrete, the glare that ebbs, then screams again, the faces that dart and waver, and are lost forever. 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 was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. The musical score was composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. Included in tonight's cast were Joan Banks, Mary Lansing, Florence Lake, Frances X. Bushman, Elliot Reid, and Junius Matthews. For more adventures with Danny Clover and Broadway's My Beat, CBS invites you to make a date with them for Monday evening, July 3rd. Yes, after tonight's broadcast, Broadway's My Beat moves to Mondays for the summer, starting July 3rd. Next week at this time, you'll hear the premiere broadcast of a new CBS show called Songs for Sale, featuring Jan Murray, Tony Bennett, and Ray Block's Orchestra. Celebrities from the music world will meet songwriters with unpublished music on Songs for Sale, and you'll find it's full of fun and tunes of all kinds. Be sure to join us Monday, July 3rd, for the next broadcast of Broadway's My Beat. Joe Walter speaking. This is CBS where the Goldbergs are every Saturday night. The Columbia Broadcasting System.
