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. The day without color is only six hours old, and the restlessness begins to eat at Broadway. The waiting, the longing for the night time begins to gnaw, like hunger, like thirst. Because Broadway's night is a banquet loaded with delicacies. The scarlet wine of neon, the forbidden fruit of a trumpet scream. The lukewarm stew offered on a tin plate through an alley doorway. But Broadway's day, that's the drab time, kid, the empty time. The time of leaning against sun-warmed stone and waiting. And you wait with the rest of Broadway because it'll come. Something will come. And it does. You know that because Broadway nudges you with an elbow, winks, says, follow me, kid, the day has turned bright. And it's not far away where the day is bright, on 39th Street, just off 7th Avenue in the Garment Center. The crowd is already there ahead of you, tooth-picking its last bite of lunch, digesting the spectacle of a man sprawled on the pavement. The dress rack he'd been pushing lay beneath him. There was a scissors in his back. His blood sketched a new pattern on the bright, flowered silk prints. And the man heavy in the shoulders pushing a space into the crowd so you can be close to it, so he can fill you in on it. You got here fast, Danny. I was shown the way. Who is he, Muggleman? His wallet says he's Thomas Hart. Social Security card, YMCA membership, it all says he was Thomas Hart. These people know him. They call him by name. They've been on answer for 20 minutes now, I'd say. Any of them see it happen? No, I asked around. They were all busy. With shop talk, with wife and kid talk, with union talk. First thing they noticed was Sinclair Stylecraft's new sample spring line was spilled in the gutter. They kept the cabs and trucks from running over the dresses. Sinclair what? Sinclair Stylecraft. See? On address labels. Huh? A dress manufacturing place up the street. He worked there. They all told me that, and I didn't even ask. Keep him back, Muggleman. They're waiting for us to act something out. Keep him back. After a while, one of the onlookers glanced at his watch, hurried away. Lunch hour was over, and he'd be the big man around the water cooler this afternoon. Something big just happened to him. He'd seen a man with a scissors in his back. And a girl looked up from the pavement, smiled across the crowd to a boy in a sports shirt, and walked away slowly. And a woman in a youthful hat took her place. In a few minutes, it was all over. Two men threw a blanket over the face of Thomas Hart and carried him away. Music Then, work to do. Thomas Hart worked for Sinclair Stylecraft. Ladies and Mrs. Dresses, down the street. Go there. Four flights up on a freight elevator. Nod to the gray-haired man holding the wheel in a comic book, and get no answer. And through the rows of sewing machines, where a hundred women spend eight hours a day with a dress pattern and a bobbing. Then finally, ushered into the office of the man of destiny for the fourth floor, Mr. Justin Sinclair. Sit down, Mr. Clover, Danny Clover, police. About what happened downstairs? That's right. You want a cigar? Tell me about Thomas Hart. Sure, I'll tell you. You don't mind that I'm smoking, do you? Oh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. What's that supposed to tell me? Look, I've been in business for a long time. A man gets hard driving for a dollar. It takes a time like this to make me know what kind of a man I've gotten to be. I'm not asking you to weep for the boy, Mr. Sinclair. I wish I could weep. That's just what I mean. I've forgotten how. Tommy was a bright youngster. So what if he was pushing dress racks around? I did it once. Tommy was interested. Tommy asked questions about the business. I'm sad, Mr. Clover. Don't laugh at me. I'm more than sad. I'm horrified. Mr. Sinclair. Come in, come in, Stella. Ms. Croft, Mr. Clover. Mr. Clover is from the police. Yes, they told me in the shop a policeman was here. That's why I... I'm glad you did. He wants to know all about Tommy. What do you want to know, Mr. Clover? As much as you can tell me. Mostly why somebody murdered him. Tommy was an errand boy and pushed dress racks. I'm sorry he's dead, but frankly he annoyed me. How? Mr. Clover, come now. Look at Ms. Croft, will you? Just look at her now. I'm looking. Does it annoy you, Ms. Croft? Not yet. If you came into my office and stared at me sitting at my drawing board, then if you grinned, then if you winked... You really couldn't blame Tommy, Ms. Croft. Natural, normal... Don't you do it, Mr. Sinclair. Quite a girl, huh? Quite a young lady. What else about Tommy? Nothing. Not a thing. Me either. All right. Where does he live? I can tell you that. Follow me out. I'll get the address for you from our personnel man. Yes, you'll find Sinclair's stylecraft cooperative, Mr. Clover. Anything at all. Next time, knock soft, mister. You want something from Jonesy, the keeper of the garbage pails, the collector of Renshaw, knock soft. They told me Thomas Hart lived here. Show me his room. Tommy? Tommy's dead. It's been the topic of the day for the tenants, how Tommy's dead. You don't need nobody in his room. Now he's dead. You can't use him. Look closely, Jonesy. This is how a policeman looks who wants something. I don't care what your sickness is. Next time, knock soft. Come on. You knew Tommy? Sure I knew him. He never wrapped his leave-ins in the newspaper, not even a greasy brown paper bag. What else do you need to know about a man? Sometimes you'd open your door and peep at his collars. Sure I peeped. You don't peep when you get the chance. Back off, Jonesy. Who'd you see? Once it was a guy with a dirty white apron and a sack of beer cans. Up these stairs he went whistling. Give me a minute, I'll tell you what he was whistling. No one else? Sure, sure, someone else. With silk stockings and high-strap shoes. But living as I live in a basement apartment, it got away from me before I could see the face. That never took a moment's happiness away from me, not seeing the face. What do I care? Tommy's room. Crummy tenant, wasn't it? Crumbs bring exterminators. Exterminators cost the management money. Take your hands off Tommy's suitcase. Something in this shirt pocket. What? Nose tissues? Tommy was always with nose tissues. I forgot to tell you. Money. 20s, 10s. $500. The holes in there is a wash basin. That calendar you're looking at, I got piled downstairs. You can take your choice. Don't rob a dead man's dreams. There's an address scribbled under the picture. Directions. Let me see, let me see. Out of the way. It's a dress, all right. You think, hmm? Knock soft, Jonesy. You want something, knock soft. Yes? The nameplate on the door says this is the residence of Justin and Elizabeth Sinclair, is that right? No, I'm Mrs. Sinclair. What is it you want? My name's Danny Clover. I'm from the police. The police. You're from the police. Well, come in, please. My husband phoned and said a policeman might be around. Oh my. Girls, girls, we're raided. Oh, I was just fooling. No, Mr. Clover didn't come here to break up our canasta game, did you, Mr. Clover? We're only playing for a 20th. This is Mrs. Westfall, Mrs. Meston, and Miss Natalie. Now, Miss Natalie does our hair after the game. She wins us. Can we talk someplace, Mrs. Sinclair? Of course we can. Deal me out, girls. In here. We'll close the door so we won't be disturbed. Now, now tell me all about it. All right. I came from Tommy Hart's room a little while ago. He had some directions penciled on a calendar. The directions brought me here. Oh, but I don't understand. Tommy's dead. Maybe Tommy scribbled those directions before he was murdered, huh? Oh, of course. Surely. Then Tommy must have been here on some occasion or another. Of course he was. What was the occasion? Dinner. You'd think I'd get someone in to cook dinner, wouldn't you? But I didn't. I never do. I still cook, Mr. Clover, like I did before all this happened. All this, you know, the French provincial furniture and the set of books and sending my son to private school and... When was the last time Tommy was here? Did my husband tell you? Why, it was last night. Just last night, Tommy was sitting in that chair you're sitting in now with that girl draped over him, lighting his cigars and waiting on him hand and foot. What girl did that? The girl Tommy brought with him to dinner. That bleach blonde from the shipping department. In my house, imagine. Why, my husband tolerates it. What was the girl's name? Ginny. Ginny Morrow, I think. She works for your husband? I told you she did, in the shipping department. Checker or something, I don't know. He invited Tommy over because Tommy's bright and maybe someday he could learn the business. But why the girl, I don't know. What else can you tell me about Tommy? He ate everything that was put on the plate in front of him. What else? What else? Mr. Clover, I'm a married woman. I've got a son taller than me and... She took me by the hand to prove it. Back to the canasta table. The son was doing fine, wasn't he, girls? Wasn't he? And her life with Mr. Sinclair was all a girl could ask for, wasn't it, girls? What right had a policeman to come nosing around spoiling everything? The card game, the hairdos, making the canapes grow cold, letting the ginger ale turn flat just because someone stuck a pair of scissors in her husband's errand boy. So I explained the rights of the dead and the girls cried, scooped up the cards, shuffled, re-delt, and I got out. At Sinclair Stylecraft, ladies and missus dresses, a woman finished a seam, took the rimless glasses off her nose, rubbed her eyes, told me Jenny Morrow, shipping, was on the loading platform having a smoke. You can keep looking at me, mister. The view is for free. Teeth, courtesy Dr. West's Miracle Tough Toothbrush. Hair, courtesy peroxide, 10%. Eyes, cheeks, figure, courtesy Careful Planning. You're Jenny Morrow? For Eugenia. Mom called me Eugenia. Found the name in a book someone threw in the trash can. Dramatic, eh? Some questions I want to ask you, Jenny. Questions about the... You're a policeman, ain't you? Yeah. Tell me about Tommy Hart. Mine hostess of last night blabbed to you, huh? Who cares? How long did you know Tommy? Long enough to slap him a couple of times, slap his mouth. Then he says he'll make up to me. He'll take me to the boss's house for dinner. Big deal. You didn't enjoy it? Here I am practically spilling my life's blood on you and I don't even know your name. Danny Clover. It suits you. No, no, I didn't enjoy the supper, Danny. I got the feeling... Oh, I'm crazy. I'm making it up out of my own head. What feeling, Jenny? You ever had it? The feeling that you've been taken someplace just so as you could insult people with your presence? Just by being in a place you don't belong, it's an insult? Just by being what you are? But Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair invited you, Jenny. Tommy twisted an arm, that's how come I'm invited. Big deal. Tommy did that to you and he's your steady boyfriend? Oh, steady what steady? That Daisy Gopin on Stella the Designer, me? I was the last name on the list. Stella Croft? Stella, the designer of designs. Where is she? By the Pantages Theater on 42nd Street in the third row on the aisle. An arrangement we got with the management so Stella can steal the latest Paris creations from the Parisian actors. Oh, Stella has a life. Maybe it'll come to me someday. I'll work on it. It was a five minute walk to 42nd Street in the Pantages Theater. On the stage, a man in a plaid dinner jacket was having a little trouble hoisting a girl to his shoulders. But when he did, they were fine together, circling faultlessly to the music. By the time I got down front, the man was holding his partner over his head, spinning, smiling and turning red. Stella Croft was there all right, pad and pencil poised, staring at the actors. The dancers bowed. Everybody applauded. Everybody was happy. Not Stella. Stella with a scissor stuck in her side. Lifeless Stella. Dead Stella. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Every Sunday evening, CBS brings you two of its top comedy stars, Jack Benny and Eve Arden. It makes no difference where you live, whom you know, what your job is. Everyone immediately feels at home with Eve Arden's romantic, Harris schoolteacher, and with Jack's careful spending, perennially youthful portrait of himself. CBS cordially invites you to join them this Sunday again, when Eve Arden plays our Miss Brooks on most of these same stations, and Jack Benny and his gang are heard on them all. Now the second act of Elliot Lewis's production of Broadway's My Beat. Of an evening in springtime, Broadway stands on a street corner, sips its penny plane, and counts its blessings. The Yanks, the Giants, the Bums, only a ten-cent subway ride's distance, unusually worth it. There's bottled orange juice from sun-kissed California to be tasted for a nickel, and the rides are getting painted at Coney, and the moon that rocks down over Manhattan in April is a special kind of moon, and the music that lilts from doorways is a special music, and the girls are golden. There's more, too, it blinks around the translocks and demands your attention for ten seconds. Girl, stabbed at the Pantages Theater. Please seek early arrest, especially me. Oh, it's you. I was expecting the Mestens. More canasta, Mrs. Sinclair? More people, dead. The Mestens were coming to console us. They're good at it, make it enjoyable. I don't suppose that's why you came. No. But you want to come into my house and ask your ugly questions. Uh-huh. Just stand right where you are. Justin, that cop I told you about, the one who... Does he have a right to come in? Of course, Elizabeth. Of course. The man has all the rights of the world. Yes, dear. Justin says you may come in. Sit down, Mr. Clovis. Take the world off your back. Sit down and talk to Elizabeth and me. Cigars there at your fingertips. Anything you need, ask Elizabeth for it. Maybe Mrs. Sinclair would like to make you some coffee or a sandwich. Anything that'll take her out of here, huh, Mr. Clovis? Don't be embarrassed. You can talk in front of Elizabeth. She knows more about the man Sinclair than I know. Correct, baby doll? You want to know about Justin's friendship with Stella, is that it, Mr. Clovis? Before the scissors episode, I mean. Well, that's it. I didn't think we'd get around to it so easy, but that's it. You won't mind if I tell him, Justin. Not a bit of it, baby doll. Just hand me a cigar first. Thank you. All right? Thank you, Elizabeth. Any time. Go ahead. Any time, Mrs. Sinclair. This friendship, as you called it? It was you, Mrs. Sinclair. I remember because it surprised me, the name you gave it. You thought it. There was nothing between Stella Croft and my husband Justin except the normal relationship of an employer to his employee. Consultation over dress designs during working hours, approval, disapproval, putting in a production, a countersigning of the weekly paycheck, nothing more, Mr. Sinclair? There was more, she'll tell you. There were the times my husband Justin took her to fashion shows, to dinners for the buyers at expensive places. There was the time of a manufacturer's convention in Atlantic City. Justin called me every morning, every night. Stella was pretty. Some people thought lovely. She brought us customers, made us richer. That was what was between us. That was what was between Stella and my husband. Nothing more. You don't know why she's dead? No, we don't know. But it saddens us, Mr. Cloer. Send him home, Justin, I'm tired. I want to sleep. If the Mestens come, tell them I'm sick. They'll understand. More legwork now. The pinching up of the bits and scraps that people leave behind. Get as many as you can and arrange them chronologically, by emotion, by habit, by appetite. Draw a line, one from the other, and peep at a life now newly dead. For instance, go now to the apartment of Stella Croft. Walk the corridor that once brought Stella home. Turn the knob of her door. The girl in the room was wearing slacks. She watched me close the door and blew a smoke ring from her cigarette. Watched it die. Then she smiled at me. Hi, Danny. What are you doing here, Jenny? Taking the tour. Seeing how a girl lives when she works in the front office of Sinclair Stylecraft. Gosh, quilted blue satin. How did you get in here? Did you see the superintendent downstairs? Did his eyes light up when he saw you? Uh-uh. Jenny, how well did you know Stella Croft? Who gets to know a dame like that if you're another dame? Look, Danny, I'm not the type to be a Pollyanna. My mother told me, Jenny, never be a Pollyanna. Stand on your own two feet. You don't like somebody, don't like them. And that's how I felt about Stella, to a T. Because she had all this because she was going out with Mr. Sinclair? So I was jealous. But this apartment is something to get jealous about. You're going to try your luck with Sinclair? He's already noticed, Danny. The day that I wore that black velveteen with the peasant blouse, he spent practically the whole morning in the shipping department giving me a personal supervisor. You want me for anything more, Danny? No. Just be around where I can find you, Jenny. Oh, sure, Danny. I really would, Danny. I'd drop all my appointments. The apartment looked like Jenny hadn't touched anything. The place was impeccable, slick, like Stella Croft had been. Lacquered furniture, highly waxed, and full-length mirrors. I walked back into her bedroom, around it, fingering this and that. The small intimate souvenirs a girl like Stella collects. Then over to a Pullman closet, opened it, and wondered for an instant why a woman needed so many shoes. Wondered... Wondered why it hurts so much. The brightness of it, the pain, the sharpness slipping so easily into my back. Then gave it up, because I couldn't hold onto it. The The The The The And now the finishing touch, Danny. The claim to fame of Dr. Sinsky. In medical school, it was always commented upon how Dr. Sinsky finished off his handiwork. The bedside manner. I don't need it. Yeah, that's right. You don't need it, Danny. Hold onto something, Danny. It'll hurt. Yeah, yeah, hold onto something, Danny. To me, it's gonna hurt. He held onto something. To me. And it still hurt him. What is it with you, Dr. Sinsky? Maybe you need a refresher course in adult medical education. Unruffle your feathers, Mother Tentacl. I'm all right. Listen to him, Doctor. Last night he got a hole in his back from unsharpened scissors. And this morning he tells me he's all right. What do you say if I go back to my office, Dr. Sinsky? You'll need rest, Danny. I'll bear it in mind. Check me in the morning. You hear, Danny? You hear? Yeah. Debt piles up, doesn't it, Doctor? What, Dad? What are you talking about? I'll count out the times you've eased the pain. I'll let you know. Get him out of here, Gino. Yeah. Yeah, come on, let's go, Danny. I'll go get permission from the captain to give a sick leave. Then I'll conjure up a squad car. And we'll surprise the Mrs. Sergeant, and we'll have a taglia in the middle of a mozzarella. And then we'll solve our wound together. And then... What made two people die like that, Gino? Tommy Hart, Stella Croft... Danny, Danny, you disappoint me. You are thinking on your sick leave time. What ties it together, Gino? Danny, if I tell you, you promised to let me manage your sickness. Huh? What ties it is Tommy Hart and the Stella Croft were once married in that place in Maryland, you know, on that quick marriage plan? I ain't making it up, Danny. Muggerman dug it out of the records. It was a secret between you two? Oh, Danny, it don't mean nothing. They got in a know the next day. That unties it. Danny, you're jeopardizing your good home. Danny! Good morning. Yes, sir, can I help you? Hi, Danny. Hey, look at me. I've been looking for you. Since when did they move you out of the shipping department into the reception desk? Since this a.m. I told you. I got supervised into it. Tell Mr. Sinclair I want to see him. Sure, Danny, watch me. What is it, Miss Morrow? There is out here at this moment the gentleman of the police department, a Mr. Danny Clover. Show him in, show him in. Very good. Through that door, Danny. Thanks. Mr. Sinclair, how much of your affairs can you get in order in the next 15 minutes? In my business, we never talk in riddles. It's how much, why, when, things a man can answer. What's on your mind? You, Tommy Hart, Stella. They worked for me, Mr. Clover, and they died. I'm going to pay for their funerals. And I'm going to find out if they had families. They'll be taken care of. We have a fund toward that. Tell the people at headquarters that it might make an impression. Honestly, honestly, now, I don't know what you're talking about. Let's stop kidding each other, Sinclair. You're a man with tastes. You've brought all kinds of women's dresses to a lacquer department, to a little employee who's now your receptionist. From Stella Croft to Ginny Morrow. Better find out if Ginny had a husband. I still don't follow you. Then I'll tell you. It's called the Badger Game. Listen to me, Mr. Clover. You listen to me. Tommy and Stella weren't married. Did you know that? You didn't know it, huh? I thought... I thought the certificate of marriage, the justice of the peace, were married to my... I'll tell you what, I'll tell you. I'll tell you what, I'll tell you. You'll see Ginny and Ginny the next morning. Badger Game. Stella invited you to make a play for her. You bit. Tommy walks in, waves a certificate of marriage. You pay him. Money, invitations to your home. He gets greedier and greedier. So you kill him. I didn't have to. You don't know what it was, Clover. That boy grinning into my face, taking over my house, making me... Make him understand. Make him understand. Mrs. Sinclair, your husband just confessed to killing Tommy Hart. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you kill him? It's all right, Justin. I'm here now. It's all right. You got Tommy out of the way, Sinclair. Why did you kill Stella? Elizabeth. I said it was all right, Justin. And I'll tell you why. Stella knew you killed Tommy. You didn't worry her very much. She just upped the blackmail ante. Sinclair, that's why you killed Stella. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. I gave my home to my husband, to my boy, to my boy's name. Yes, and I stabbed you, too, for what you were doing to us. I killed. I'd kill again. What'll we do about the boy? You didn't think, did you, Justin? You just didn't think when you started it, when you saw that Stella. You didn't think. Please, please. Oh, the boy'll be all right. We have money. More than you had when you started. He'll be all right, Justin. He'll be all right, Justin. He's going to be all right. ¶¶ In the April night, Broadway echoes with sounds heard only in darkness. The whispers that speckle places where there's no sun. There's a touch on your coat, you turn. There's no one, nothing. Only the trail of dust on your shoulder. 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 and Jack Crouchon as Muggavin. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's cast, Irene Tedrow was heard as Elizabeth Sinclair, Herb Butterfield as Justin Sinclair, Sylvia Sims as Ginny Morrow, Mary Shipp as Stella Croft, and Sydney Miller as Jones. ¶¶ If you're in the mood for mysteries, you can try CBS almost any old evening. And there's a top-notch thriller on hand for you. Tomorrow and every Sunday, it's Charlie Wilde. Monday nights, the top Hollywood stars appear in original thrillers on the Hollywood Star Playhouse. Thursdays, there's a swell night for mystery and thrills on CBS. Suspense, Mr. Keen, and the FBI in Peace and War are heard on most of these same stations. Stay tuned now for Sing It Again, which follows immediately on most of these same CBS stations. ¶¶ Joe Walter speaking. This is CBS, where you'll laugh at Jack Benny every Sunday night, the Columbia Broadcasting System. ¶¶
