Broadway is my beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway is my beat, with Larry Thores, Detective Danny Clover. There's a special moon over Broadway. It dips low and mixes with the laughter of a clack of heels and the light flung downwards in the spectaculars. And occasionally people notice it and squeeze somebody's hand, point at it, wink at it, and walk into whatever shadow they've planned for the night. The moon holds briefly, rides its long, slow curve across town, then drives the river. Broadway's happier. But where I was, in the land of the tenements, the district of the wrath and the low rents, the moon completes its transit rapidly. That's why the light had to be furnished by the city. Specifically, the spotlight in the squad car parked in the alley, cutting the darkness out of the backyard. The smoke from Detective Muggerman's cigarette curls up into a G-point, too. Right there, Danny. Uh-huh. Died not too long ago. Could be suicide, you think? No, no I don't. This girl fell or was pushed. Neck broken, see? The attitude of her body. Yeah, I saw it. That's why I said maybe suicide. Women don't pick backyards or tenement houses, Muggerman. They register in high-class hotels or find a bridge, you know that. Yeah, most of them, Danny, not all. And take a look. Bruises on the floor. Here, look here, bruise. Another one here. Uh-huh. This girl died instantly. These bruises were from a beating. Then she got thrown, huh? I'd say so. Who is she? I can't tell, no identification, Danny. I'd say she was about 22, huh? 22. What? Nothing. But take care of the technical boys when they get here, Muggerman. I'll get back to you later. And the rows of Maseruite windows, like yellow posters, piled one on top of the other against the foot-dried tenement walls. And centered in them, the leaners upon sils, the man whose arm warms the bare shoulders of the woman at his side. The kids leaning far out, shrinking to each other across the littered yard, littered now with a new refuse. The dead girl with the black hair, broken, thrown away. And finally the shroud over her that draws the curtain on the spectacle. It turns out the 20-watt bulbs in tenement galleries. Then the nighttime, used up by the seekers of their private dead, the men and women beckoned out of sleep to identify the girl lying in the morgue. And while rubbing sleep out of their eyes, they tell you they don't know her, have never seen her. The halting, dragging parade of lost faces. And then the one the storm touches, the one you won't easily forget, the one who looks at the girl and knows her and tells her. Well, she went out last night, early, said she'd be back in a little while. Who is she, Mr. Carter? Eleanor, that's Eleanor. And someone you've known long, a friend of? My wife. Eleanor's my wife. May I sit down, please? Is it all right if I sit down? No, of course. On that bench against the wall, Mr. Carter. Can I get you something, a glass of water? You understand I'll have to ask. You know something? I didn't know that she was gone all night. I woke up this morning and she wasn't beside me. That's the first I knew. And I reported to the police and they asked me to describe her. And I did in detail. They said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. And I said, please come down. You! No righting! No righting around my work area! I have permission. And I've got a scheduled approach. See the sign the front office pinned on my denim? It says, develop that final assembly. And you see this yellow rim around the sign? That means I'm the pusher and attention must be paid. I'll pay attention, Miss Faff. I promise. Mrs. Mrs. Faff, I'm working at it for no hanky-panky, huh? I wouldn't think of it. Hey, they sent you to me for work? I got news for you to break your heart. This morning I can use you. That bank with a work commission from in front of it, you take that one. Too dirty your hands a little in honest toil. Let me try to explain it to you, Mrs. Faff. I'm from the police. Oh, from the police? So that'll prevent you from picking up a few parts-time nickels? I'd like to talk to Al Martin. Al Martin. A worker who don't show up for work. You mean Al Martin hasn't shown up this morning? Not a telephone. How much can they demand from a woman? Fella fabs, stop crying. Huh? Al Martin has no gr... Where? All right, so I sent some boys down to mop him up. You want a job with a poor lady, Mr. Police? Take mine. Well, it's in good health. Martin? Drunk. Drunk as a skunk in Patty's Bar on Night Avenue. Keep pushing, Mrs. Faff. I'll go get Martin for you. My pleasure. What? Al Martin is here. Since last night. You'll need a drink to make you as equal, honest you will. You'll need a carload. Where is he? Here. Bend your nose to the crook of my long, slender finger. Now glance your eye along it and back will be Al Martin. In the back booth around the corner through the paper flower drape doorway. Thanks. Hey, don't go yet. I'll give your jigger on the house for taking him out of here. He made trouble? Not trouble, only grief. Oh, last night he was in here wiping his tears on my bar apron. Then he passed out over that table to sleep it off. I come to open the joint in the early morning hours. He's waiting for me. He's still passed out. I'm tired sobering him up. This time you try. Can I go now? I just thought I'd explain him being a defense-waker. He can't afford moods like this at a time like this. This is a time when every man must come to the aid and not go to California. Al. Al, I'm from the police. I want... Al, wake up. Wake up. I shook him. The bottle flipped out of his fingers, fell, rolled on the floor. The jukebox bled and Patty at the bar blew on the glass and polished it. I shook him again. None of it woke him. None of it would ever wake him. A stain of blood under his coat told me that. The paper flowers on the doorway rustled with a new wind. Al Martin was dead. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. The new summer's day is only a few hours old on Broadway, and already the street wads up its screaming and bounces it against the morning. The gutters have been swept down, washed clean. The neon dust has been replaced in the spectacular. The swarm released from the steel trap hurtling and shuffling underground. And the summer's day stretches out before Broadway, languid and empty, waiting to be filled, waiting to be torn apart. At headquarters we didn't have that problem. The day was planned, maybe the night and the days and nights after. All that had to be done was to fill it in with reasons that two people were newly dead in the city. Eleanor Corbett and Al Martin, who had met for a time in the tenement room, then parted, then in another place, in another darkness, sound death, waiting for them. And to help you rid yourself of it, your left hand. Sergeant Protaglia. Danny, I am not in the mood for chit-chat this morning. All right, Gino, any way you want it. The events of the past two days, the murders, have drawn a blind, so to speak, down across my naturally good-natured self. Yes, you say so, Gino. I will not even regale you with the flavor of the Zimmerman buns, now lying in my locker, waiting for my teeth to sink into them. Take it back a notch, Gino. Zimmerman buns. Baked by my neighbor to bake it down the street from me. Mr. Zimmerman, this specialty, Zimmerman buns. Thanks for clearing it up for me. Don't mention it. To work. In a matter of the death of one Al Martin, the murder weapon, a steak knife, is now being handled by the boys in technical. They come up with anything? One dozen assorted fingerprints from the fingers of inhabitants of the bar who have been questioned, recorded, and sent on their way, as not one so far has failed to produce an alibi. Anything else? Established by technical that according to the position of her body in the yard, Mrs. Corbett was pushed out of the tenement hall window after death. Established that Frank Hagan, roommate of Martin, is a man who cannot hold a job. Established? Something else? No. Yeah. A personal question, Danny. How is it a man doesn't know where his wife disappears tonight? I am speaking of Mr. Corbett, Danny. How can a husband not know? Good question, Detective. Why don't I go ask the man such a good question? You don't mind? Of course, without saying. I need an answer to such a thing. Go, Danny. Go already. Oh. Oh, hello, Mr. Corbett. I'm the... Oh, well, come on in, Mr. Corbett. Thanks. You started to say you were busy, Mr. Corbett. Oh, no, no, no. It's all right. In here, in the bedroom. Look, it's a small bedroom, Mr. Corbett. No chairs. If you don't mind, I know it's not made up, but don't sit on the bed. Look, I'll bring you something. No, that's all right. I'll stand right here. I was packing Eleanor's things. Going? No, no. Now, look, don't think I... Well, I know other husbands save their wives' clothes. I'm giving Eleanor's away. I called the Goodwill Mission. They're sending a truck. Just go ahead with your packing. You look nice in this dress. Better do well. Oh, I guess that's no way to talk. You were happy together, Mr. Corbett? Oh, I was proud when I was with her. Maybe there wouldn't be people anywhere around, but people didn't have to see me with it and make me feel proud. Just a touch, and she had beautiful hair. I see. Oh, just beautiful. You should have seen her in there, Mrs. Clover. When she got it, she danced around the room. I watched her. When she got near me, she threw her arms around my neck. She kissed me. I remember because her hair was flying and got between her lips. We laughed. Mr. Corbett? We laughed and danced and lay there. Mr. Corbett, did you know where your wife went the night before last, the night she was killed? Of course I did. She went to school. School? What school? Well, my wife was learning ceramics. Her friend next door talked her into going, I didn't want her to go to ceramics. What's that? Ashtrays? But Bernice talked her into going. Why didn't you tell me this yesterday? Because my wife was found in a strange place. My wife was found on the edge of an alley, in a place she should never have been. So I lied. First thing any husband would have done. Do you know what she was doing there? No, and I don't want to know. Even if you find out, I don't want you to tell me. You've got to promise me that, Mrs. Clover. Even if you find out why Eleanor was where she was, don't tell me. I don't want to know. I don't want to know. She finally got her hands away from me from touching my coat and trying to pull out of its fabric the promise he wanted, needed, so the pride could well up inside him once more. I didn't know what. The door I was closing blotted it out. Next door, the girl who asked me in was plain, except for the eagerness in her eyes, except for the hunger in them that waited to feast on the excitement I'd brought into her kinskurt and life. I did my whole room myself, Mr. Clover. We did the whole thing. Well, you should have seen it when I moved in, fair and ugly. I only want you to tell me who... I'm not happy, don't you think? The room, I mean. Right. Happy. I lie awake at nights and I can hear it sing. I mean, inside me it's singing and... You went to school the night before last with Mrs. Corbett. That's the night she was found dead, wasn't it, in that awful place. What happened to her, Mr. Clover? How was she killed? I mean, you know, the papers, they don't always... She'd been beaten, thrown out of a window. That's all the paper said. I thought... Thought what, Bernice? I don't know. Don't ask me. I don't know what I thought. Was it usual for you to go to ceramics class with Mrs. Corbett? Every week. Of course there was this time when she had somewhere better to go. She was very pretty. Where did she go? The secret. She made me swear I'd keep it a secret. Girls like Eleanor always trust me, Mr. Clover. I'm that kind of girl. She went to Al Martin's. Did she tell you that's where she was going? You can tell it now, Bernice. She's dead. It was... It was the only time she ever went there. The only time she ever told me about it, I mean. She said she had to tell him off. He was bothering her. She told you it was Martin's? No. No, she... She didn't say his name. She just said there were two boys living in this room together, and one of them had been making advances, and she wanted it to stop. And why are some people so lucky, Mr. Clover? Me? I take night classes and try to improve my mind, and... Oh, I should have been dead. What a girl like Eleanor. What do you want from me, Clover? Just tell me what you want. I got enough trouble. I gotta have you. What kind of trouble have you got, Frank? I'm 32 years, Clover. My home's a stinkin' room and a stinkin' walkup. I got no job. I once had a friend, but he got stabbed. Now you tell me your trouble will knock our heads against each other and shed tears. How come you're not working? Plenty of jobs run. Sure, plenty. Me, I get qualifications to get the kind of job where they call you boy. My old man was the same way. He filed things in a big office, called him boy, till I noticed the bald head. Then he was called pop. How do you live, Frank? Sometimes I pout, sometimes I write pool balls. My old man drives a long black car. He thinks I'm good luck. Takes me to card games and rubs the back of me hand for luck. Go away, Clover. Leave me alone. I can't do that. You're still my prime suspect. Oh, you think I lied to you? It's been done in murder cases. Like maybe it was the other way around, huh? That's right. Like maybe Eleanor Corbett came to see you and it was Alec that took the walk. And later I killed him, huh? Maybe. Come on. I said come on, Frank. Let's go downtown. All right, all right. Look, Clover, can't this wait till tomorrow? My friend wants me to play lucky tonight. He wins, he slips me a sawbuck. Sometimes he gives me a couple of shakes. Come on. Don't crowd me. Look, I got this one suit. It don't have to be ruined yet. Yeah. Yeah what? Back in your room, Frank. Sure, sure thing, Clover. You'll keep your clothes in this closet, Frank? Me and Al. There it is. The one suit. Al. Mine's on me back. But the combined stripes and unmentionables are in that chest of drawers. You want to look, Clover? Clover did. Frank helped me. He had quite a collection of shirts, monograms, but that's not what I was looking for. Al's shirts were broad cloth and plain, but they didn't have what I was looking for either. I didn't need anything but in that room. Then I went to a place that was in the Bowery, the gilth on the window that spelled Goodwill Mission was slaked, and inside the man told me his name and told me that coffee and stew would be served right after the prayer meeting. You don't look like the kind of man who needs a hand. I suspect it. Whoever you want to see, can't you wait until after the prayer? They start in ten minutes. From time to time, Mr. Stantonius, I understand that people call you and have you send around a truck to pick up magazines, newspapers, old clothes. There are many such kind people. Did Mr. Corbett call you? Yes, yes he did. The truck received his donation just a few hours ago. Has it been delivered to you? Well, the truckload is all over there in the corner after the prayers. The men will sort it. Hey, come on, I'll show you. Didn't have such a good day today. Let's see. Yeah, I think this is it. Oh yeah, there's a tag on it from Mr. Walter Corbett. Do you mind opening it, Mr. Stantonius? It'll have to be done anyhow. Ladies dresses. Mind if I look? Pretty dresses. Let's say young women's. Does this look like a young woman's dress to you? Of course not. It's a bad suit coat. We can use that. We'll clean off the paint. Don't bother about it. I'll take it. Thanks, Mr. Stantonius. Oh, you again, Mr. Clover? What now? We'll talk about it inside. I told you I didn't want to know anything more. Ellen is dead. Now just leave her alone. Leave her alone. Let's just go inside, Mr. Clover. I just come back from Ellen's funeral. Very well, come in. Now what do you want? Did you kill your wife? Kill Ellen? Do you mean that? Yes, you do. I can see by your face you mean it. And I thought you were a kind man, Mr. Clover. Well, you're a cruel man. Did you kill Ellen Marks? Is this what happens to people like you? Nice piano, Mr. Corbin. It's paid for. Ellen, I wanted to study music and I bought it for hers. She lost interest in it. Makes the place look homey. That happened that way. I didn't mind. This is a snapshot album. Oh, all my life with Ellen I was in there. Here, now just let me show you something. You remember I told you she had beautiful hair? Just look at that. Unparalleled rockaway. Last year when I took my vacation. Look at that. Look at the sun on it. Then why did you kill her? Why you? You killed her. You make me remember things, good things, and then you say I destroyed them. Are you through in here, Mr. Clover? Are you going to get out now and leave me alone? This is a case of seashells, another memento of your happy life together. Put them down. Put them down. I bought those. I bought those for Ellen. I told her I found them on the beach. But I set away from them. I wanted to... She was so interested in so many things. Sure she was. Al Martin. You followed her to his room, waited outside in the hall. When she left, Al, you slugged her and threw her out of the window. But I loved her. I was... Even when no one was around. Then waited for Al, followed him too to a bar, sat with him, maybe talked to him, stabbed him. But he was never there. I never followed her. I never followed anybody. Mr. Clover, I have a coat out in my car. A man's coat. Yours. The one you sent to the Goodwill mission. What are you talking about? The mission will get it back. They'll have to clean it. But they've got ways to take paint off clothing. Paint? Green paint from the tenement where Al lived. Off the door, off the banister, off something where you struggled with your wife. On your coat. Green paint. You're crazy. I was never there. Green paint on your coat. Oh, yes, I remember. Yes, I did get some paint on my coat. That's why I gave it away, but it wasn't green. It was yellow. That's right. Yellow. The color of the paint in Al's tenement house. The color that's on your coat. I loved Eleanor. She didn't know how much. I tried to tell her, even out in the hallway when she came from Al's room. I tried to tell her. I wasn't angry. I just wanted her to know how wrong she was. She was the one that was angry. I tried to reason with her. And then she slapped me. Eleanor hit me. Eleanor. And that made me furious. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. And then I didn't want her anymore, so I... I threw her away. Broadway's sleeping now. The furious avenue is that the nights are still. Only the sleepwalkers are there. The seekers, the sodden, the huggers, close to nothing at all. It's Broadway. The grotesque, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway. My beat. Tonight on FPN Presents, you've been listening to some of the best in radio drama, with Biber McGee and Molly, and Broadway's My Beat. Join us again Monday evening at the same time, 9 O'clock, when FPN presents Dragnet and Escape.
