We delay the start of our scheduled program to bring you a bulletin from CBS News. Washington. The State Department has issued a statement in response to the proposal by Jacob Malik, the Soviet delegate to the United Nations, for a ceasefire in Korea. The State Department said that if Malik's proposal is more than propaganda, adequate means for discussion and end to the conflict are available. The State Department said we are ready to play our part. This bulletin has come to you from CBS News. We now resume our regular program. 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 night time starts at the river before it closes over Broadway. A wind drifts in with the moistened shadows, flings them into the street, flattens them against the gutter, picks a man waiting for a bus and wraps darkness around him. And a light comes on, and another, and down the street there where the crowd has gathered against the traffic signal. High above them a neon sputters, flames. The spectaculars dance. Somebody runs into the street and yells, come on, and everybody does. Night has come to Broadway. And where I was there was a wind. The built-in wind, a thing composed of poor ventilation, tears, shed and unshed, and bottled chemicals. It was the basic ingredient of the city morgue, though not to be found on blueprints or bills of specifications. It was something new to the man walking beside me. This place? This place? Just take it easy, Mr. Larson. I'll tell you something. I guess it'll sound funny. I've read about places like this, and I've closed my mind to what I read. I guess I never wanted to visualize anything. Right here, Mr. Larson. What was your daughter wearing? Mrs. Larson wrote it down for me. You see, I wasn't home when our daughter, when Ruth went to the movies, so Mrs. Larson... Ruth was wearing a skirt and a blouse, pink bobby socks and saddle shoes. I guess you want to know this, too. She was five feet one. She was 14 in May. She had brown hair and brown eyes. And I want you to know, Mr. Clover, I guess all fathers feel the same way. My Ruth was... Well, our friend said she was a remarkable child. She's going... We're going to send it to... Under that sheet? This girl was found in a vacant lot between your home and the theater your wife mentioned when she called. How? I mean... Look, you know where I... Beaten, fractured skull. I have to look, don't I? Yes. If it's your daughter. Ruth's a nice girl. She started to go to parties with boys, and she always gets home by 11 o'clock. She's going to be a dancer. When people come to the house, she dances for them. She's a good person. You see, as I told you... Before... Ruth? Ruthie? Oh, Ruthie. Who did it? What monster? Who? Who? The fury took over. The man trembling with it, shivering with it, scurried from wall to wall. Enraged at the wound the death of his childhood clawed across his heart, torn inside his throat. The helpless, futile rage of the animal whose small range of understanding has been kicked, beaten, thrown against the barbed wall of violence. Not once, not once more did he look at his child. Now try only to wipe out the memory, try to strangle with long ago laughter and sobs that the child had let echo through him. And finally, the collapse, the heap on the concrete floor. And you call quietly to the officer on duty to help you lift the man, carry him to a place where he can sleep away the fury of his dead. Then back to your office and close the door on it. Stand at the window, watching the squalls of the night time wash against it, beat against it. And then stare at the walls. And then hear the door open for it, to let it all in again. Danny? Danny? What do you want? Dr. Sinski's report. He was busy on another. He asked me to bring it to you, so I... Leave it on my desk. All right. You're not gonna look at it, Danny? Why? I know what's in it. I thought I did too, till I glanced it over on the way to your office. You better take a look at it. You're so eager, I don't want to spoil it for you. Tell me about it, Muggerman. Danny... You tell me, huh, Muggerman? We've had other kids... And this one's no different. That all, Muggerman? That's what I've been trying to tell you. This one is different. Just what you saw when you first found her. That's what's in the report. Beaten, skull fractured with the butt of a gun. Nothing else. Then give me a motive. Give me another motive why a 14-year-old child should... Clover speaking. Sergeant Tartaglia at this end. Homicide, Danny. Woman in backyard of house at 1845 West 11. People named Murray. Upstairs wants you on it. Shall I tell him you're agreeable, Danny? Tell him I'm... Bring me a motive, Muggerman. Upstairs wants me to run an errand. She's over here, Mr. Clover. Right here. Dead, beaten. I'd say her skull had been fractured, Mr. Murray. I don't understand it. I just don't understand it. Tell me what happened. We were sitting in the library. A knock came on the back door. I wanted to answer it, but Beatrice said I looked so comfortable... There was just you, too, in the library. You and your wife. And Sis. Sis? My sister, Claudia. She can't hear anything. She's deaf. She never goes out of the house. I take care of her. Who's in the house with her now? Who's playing that organ? Oh, Sis plays. I see. Go ahead. Well, there was this knock on the door, and Beatrice went to the door... and I heard her talking to someone. At least, I think I did. I want you to know I'm not sure about that. I kept reading, that's all. Sis was practising. Didn't your wife scream? Didn't you hear anything? No, no, no, no, I didn't. I happened to look up my book a little later... after she went to the back door. How much later? Well, I don't know. I looked up and she still wasn't there. She hadn't come back yet from answering that knock on the door. That's right. So I went out back. The back door was still open, but... there wasn't anybody there. I called to her, and then I started toward the alley... and I stumbled. I stumbled over Beatrice... Then what did you do? Well, I called the police, and then I told Sis what had happened. You speak sign language? Yes, I learned it when I was very young so that I could speak with Sis. She's been with me all the time. How long have you been married? Fourteen years. Why, what's that got to do? Happily. Of course, happily. You have any children? No, no, that's something Beatrice and I agreed on. Sis needs taken care of, and Beatrice is always so busy. Busy? Busy doing what? Clubs and auxiliaries, you know. She was well-liked, got things done. She was admired and well-liked. Then who would want to kill her? Nobody would want to kill Beatrice, nobody. Mr. Murray... She was a middle-aged woman, Mr. Clover. Everybody she knew was her friend. She did charity work. People came with troubles. Anybody. She'd help them. Why would anybody want to kill her? What motive would he have? What motive, Mr. Clover? It was there again. What motive? A 14-year-old girl, the loved child of a quiet, nameless family, until a killer had taken the butt end of a gun, beaten their name and their dead child's name into the newspapers that show the trash bin supplied for the purpose by the Department of Sanitation. What motive for that? And for Mrs. Beatrice Murray, admired, liked, charitable, a woman to whom the trouble came, a childless woman who sat in the evening and sewed together the patchwork of her day while her husband read and his sister released the music she couldn't hear. What motive for that brutal death? Because you find no answer, share it with Dr. Sinski, ask the question of him, burden the gentle doctor with it. You put me a question, Danny, that is not strictly in my department or in my education. Mind if I bum another cigarette? Here, up south. Thanks. You've been with us a long time, Doctor. Some of it must have rubbed off. Danny, I deal only in known quantities. You boys bring me the wounds you find, I wash them, bandage them. You bring me the dead, I perform autopsies. Known quantities, Danny. Like I know, like I know my name, your name, that this Mrs. Murray was murdered by the butt of the same gun that hammered away the life of the child Ruth. Why? Tell me why, and I'll go out and buy my own pack of cigarettes. If I had gold, you could have it, Danny, no strings to it. No, for the question you ask, go consult a specialist, a man who puts the microscope of his training to the emotions. The department psychiatrist? Yes, to him. Perhaps he will agree with me, and I'm only an amateur at dabble, mind you, Danny, that this violence, this ugly bestial violence, has been committed by what is called a paranoid. I've read about them, had them screaming in my office. They dream up hates against themselves. For this they kill, an animal, a child, a woman. Excuse me, Danny. Come in, please. Looking for me, Gino? Yeah, Danny, fresh homicide, alley on West 10th. Buckerman's got a squad car... Let me finish my cigarette, Tartaglio. Sure, Danny, sure, if you want. That's finished. A woman, Danny. Yeah, put your flash on her. Hold it, hold it right there. Where's that music coming from? Apartment upstairs, I think. Danny? Danny? The back of her head, it's... Uh-huh, keep your flash still. We've seen it two times already. In a short space, this makes three. It made three. The woman staring into the beam of the flashlight Muckerman held close to her face, staring in the final disbelief that this had happened to her in this place, in this time. She lay in awkwardness, her dress disarranged, her hand where it had frozen trying to straighten the wisp of blood-clotted hair under her black straw hat. The alley wind found the white lace at her throat, riffled it, and the murdered woman made three. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. The Peggy Lee Show bowed in over most of these same CBS stations last Sunday night. Folks who heard it will be back tomorrow for more of Peggy's charm, Peggy's vocals, Peggy's previews of coming popular musical events. Enjoy the Peggy Lee Show for lighthearted summer listening at the Star's Address. The night music of summer spills into Broadway from the scarred throats of the loudspeakers hanging over the record shops, and this summer's kids in the off-the-shoulder cottons and the transparent California sports shirts squeeze each other into the doorways and lap it up. And then someone shrills a new diversion in a new shop window on a new corner, and Broadway's youth rebops on down to it. It's an old ceremony on Broadway, this dancing in the streets, in the sweating barker with a fistful of passes to happy upstairs lands. Just the price of the amusement tax, kid. That's all, too. The girl in the swimsuit lying on the billboard beach, never aging, but old. And the touch of summer's night on your eyelids, that's familiar, too. It's all happened to you before. And where I was, where Muggerman was, it had happened before, too. To a 14-year-old girl named Ruth, to Mrs. Beaters Murray, and now to the woman lying dead in an alley, not feeling the touch of the man who at first timidly and then with effort twisted the purse out of her hand. She was holding on to it so tight, Danny. Open it. So tight. Yeah. Killed the same way as the other two, wouldn't you say, Danny? Uh-huh. Maybe our fair city's being honored with a mad killer, huh? Maybe. Sick man with a grudge against women, even if they're a kid. It's like a... How long does it take to go through the purse, Muggerman? Just sorting the unnecessary stuff, Danny. Tissues, compact, change purse, bobby pins. There's a sale slip for... Let's see. Hold the flash a minute, Danny. Yeah. For Chinaware. Tortoise shawl comb with silver edging. That's all? No identification? Well, I haven't tried this inside flap yet, Danny. Yeah, here it is. New Social Security card made out to... Hold it again. Alma Russell, 4212 6th Avenue. That's around 8th Street, Danny. Maybe she was on her way home, took this alley, cuts through to 6th. Killer knew she took it sometimes, waited for her here, slugged her, made sure she was dead. I've got a confession, Danny. It puzzles me. You alone in the world? Three of them dead. That girl, that woman with her husband and the sister who plays the organ. Now this one. I can understand it if... If what? There wasn't a mark on her, Danny, other than the beating from the gun, but not a mark. When this girl was young... About 25, I'd say. Pretty, neat, clean. I bet she was attractive, sweet. What are you building, Alma? We've had them before, Danny. The guys who wait in alleys go to moving picture houses, talk to little girls. And they're vacant lot. This kind we've had before. And in a way I could understand. But the killer who... You said he was sick. Dr. Szynski called him a paranoid. Whatever they call him, it scares me he's sick. I've got a niece lives three blocks from me with my brother. She's... Funny. You're trying to talk about her like the girl's father did when... Go call them more, Dmykobet. Danny, I thought that it could happen... Go call them. I'll wait for you. And in a little while the young woman who had hugged death in an alley was attended to by gentle people, which is the miracle of violent death in a great city. The intern, the stranger in the white jacket, knelt beside her, shook his head and thought a thought that included both of them. And an ambulance driver looked at her and bit his lip when he put her on the stretcher. Then the alley was no longer remarkable. It resolved back unto itself. Play of refuse, newings, and the shortcut home. It was the end of something or another. For me it was the end of the day, home now in bed. Adjust the mind not to dream. This can be done by a policeman assigned to homicide. Sleep the night through and wake and have the coffee and read the paper and get to work. Go now to the address on 10th Street because a girl named Elmer Russell once lived there. Ring the bell. Adjust your mind again to the fact that you're going to talk about the murder of a young woman at 8.30 in the morning. You from the police? Yes, I am. Come in. In here. Your kitchen. Sit down. Thanks. What's your name? Danny Clover. Mine's Perdon. Ethel Perdon. I'm mine host to the borders. Had your coffee yet, Danny? Uh-huh. Me too. You won't mind if I try making up this face of mine, do you? I say making up because that's the phrase that's used. How is it that you're expecting the police, Mrs. Perdon? Well, I read the morning papers, don't I? Elmer got killed, didn't she? She lived here, didn't she? So who should I expect? Humphrey Bogart? Eh, how does a lipstick look, Danny? Kissable or otherwise? Eh? Otherwise, huh? Look, Mrs. Perdon, I want you to tell me everything you can about Elmer Russell. Sure, sure. Can you reach that mascara, Danny? Hm? Yeah, right there on the shelf, see? Thanks. About Elmer? A maid. Clean, sweeps, dusts. A Buccaneer. Who'd she work for? Oh, she never said. Quit a job a couple of weeks ago. I think she got another one just the other day. Well, I guess that's the best I can do with my facial equipment. Mirror, mirror on the wall. Ah. What else about her? Well, I don't know what else. She paid board, kept to herself, was no trouble, didn't talk, except a how do you do and a very well thank you. Nice table manners. Broke her bread and never left much crumbs. Nice girl. What about boyfriends? None here in my establishment. All ladies. What happens in the street, I wouldn't know. Help me with my coat, will you, Danny? You going someplace? Well, sure I am. I want to look at Elmer's room. First land and door on your right. You want to talk to me soon again, Danny? Maybe, after I look at Elmer's room. I'll be easy to find. Your place, your morgue. I'm going down and cry for Elmer Russell. Somebody's got to cry for Elmer Russell. Somebody's got to cry for him. Watch her leave for a session of weeping through mascarade eyelashes. The pastime, the protest against her being bitter and lonely and unwanted. And into the dead woman's room, search it. Note its primness, handle the modest belongings of a girl who had washed, dusted, arranged the belongings of other women in other richer rooms. The pile of old magazines, carefully saved on the closet shelf. And on the bed stand, the new ones. The fan magazines, the romances truer than her own because they were printed on slick paper. The dresser, lined with the thin layer of inexpensive underclothes. The wardrobe with the bargain flower prints. The starched maid's uniform, the cloth coat and the moth-proof bag. And that was it, the sum of Elmer Russell's life. And then back to headquarters and the concern of Sergeant Gino Tortaglia for your tiredness, for your paleness. Danny, not that it is mine to meddle, but, well, you should exhibit yourself to the sunshine more. Law on far rockaway on your day off. Gino. Bring cheeks of tan to your cheeks. Bare your pale feet to the vitamin-filled rays of... My pale feet bother you? Nothing whatsoever about your personality bothers me, Danny. It's only that I... I know, Gino. You'd feel better if I got sunburned. Well, it is the fashion of the season. There's a rumor murder is the fashion. Yeah, this also. Three, the members of the opposite sex. Could be so simple. If only somewhere I could find where their lives have been touched by one man, by one killer. Danny, don't whip yourself. I put the boys working on it like you asked. They can't find it either. All they come up with is a reading on a sales slip. Huh? The sales slip you found in the purse of the deceased Alma Russell. It seems the girl bought a teapot from a place called Ivers, paid $200 for it. And this makes a mishmash, upsets your colleagues in the department. Two hundred for a teapot bought by a girl who makes a buck an hour. Doesn't it upset you? Something we can do for you, sir? Yes, there is. I'm from the police. Good. Are we interested in some chinaware today? Yes, we are. I want you to take a look at this. This is a sales slip. What is it? It's for a teapot, one that costs $200. I don't understand why we're lifting our eyebrows, sir. Of course it did. A Stratfordshire teapot on the current market is worth at least that. This sales slip was found on a young lady, a young lady that's been murdered. I see. The young lady happened to have purchased this teapot here. I see. Her name was Alma Russell. I see. How does a dollar an hour maid buy a $200 piece of china? By paying $200 for it. Miss Russell paid exactly that much. Then you remember Miss Russell. Oh, indeed, yes. We sold it to her ourselves about three weeks ago. I remember the transaction well. She'd called the day before to price the teapot. The next day she came in with the money about midday on a Thursday. Unless it was a day off, she was in uniform. Didn't it seem strange that a housemaid... Yes, it did. I might as well tell you. Tell me what? The sales slip says $200. She didn't pay that for it. She paid $190 for it, tax included. We paid the difference out of our own pocket. In the trade, we are known as a sucker for hard luck stories about teapots, and Miss Russell had one. You want to tell me about it now or later? Miss Russell was dusting the china at the home of her employer, broke a Stratfordshire teapot, hid the debris, bought another one before the accident was discovered as a replacement. Just one more thing. Did she say who this employer was? She did not. However, there are some regular clients of ours who eat off the stuff. Like who? The Wellands, for example, the Crandalls, the Second and Third, the Murrays, the West... Which Murrays? On West 11th, the Paul Murrays. Are we being helpful? We'll never know how much. Oh, it's you, Mr. Clover. Please come in. Thanks. Mr. Murray... You want to talk to me, don't you? This way, down the hall. Oh, Claudia, that is, sis is practising. We don't want to disturb her through this door. In here, the library. Now, do you know the man who killed my wife? We know the kind of man who killed your wife. Yes? A paranoid. A paranoid? A person who's quick to find a reason to kill, and he doesn't need much of a reason. Just cross him... A crazy man? You could say that. Well, they tell me a lot of crazies are clever, but why come to tell me about it? You should be out looking for the man. I just thought I'd stop by and let you know how we were progressing. I'm busy. Oh? My hobby. Model trains. I was assembling this engine. It's a diesel. Oh. Careful work. Must take a lot of patience. Please, put it down. It's fragile. I don't allow anyone to touch it. All right. I said I'd stop by to let you know how we were progressing. Come back when you can tell me the killer's name. And from what I've been reading, you'd better hurry up. Three killings, indiscriminately, by the same man. By the same man. The way we figured, Mr Murray, is that the killer was really only interested in killing one person. He killed the other two to make it look like what you said. Indiscriminate killings. I, uh, I don't understand. To make it look like murder without a motive, without plan. But there was motive. What motive for killing a 14-year-old girl? None. Part of the plan. And, and, uh, that housemaid? None. But that was the killer's mistake. If he'd killed someone else, I wouldn't be here now. You, you don't know what you're talking about. Aren't you going to ask me why anyone should kill your wife? There was no motive. Like the others. The killer had one. He had a wife. A wife who didn't want the burden of an afflicted sister-in-law. That's only a guess. Did your wife ever complain about your sister? Get out of here. You said your wife was a warm and open-hearted woman. She wanted children, didn't she? You're presumptuous. You're crude. Get out of here. You already had a child in your house. Sis. Your sister. You never let her be anything but a child. I don't have to take these insults. And put that down. Put that train down. You're crazy. Crazy. You broke it deliberately. All that work and you... I'll kill you. I'll kill you. You're a broken toy train. I'll kill you. That's how you're going to convince me you're a madman. I'll kill you. Cop on insanity, please. Stop. You're going to try harder than that. That's right. Settle down. You broke my train. Cut it out, Marty. You're no more crazy than I am. Oh, Sis. Paranoid would have had reason to kill that maid. That 14-year-old girl. You killed to cover up your wife's murder. Oh, Sis. She'll find out what happened. We'll let her know. Sis. Oh, Sis. Oh, my God. Broadway leaps against the night. And the sound it makes is the crash of life deep inside the earth and the hiss of neon, the laugh that screams. They melt together. The sound you get is shock. There's another sound, the tear drop. But no one listens. No one hears. It's Broadway, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway, My Beat. Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thoras, Detective Danny Clover, with Charles Calvert as Tertaglia and Jack Crouchin as Muggavin. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis, and the musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Joseph Kearns was heard as Paul Murray, featured in the cast were Charles Davis, Martha Wentworth, and Harry Bartel. Two styles of music, both tops in popularity, are heard every Sunday over most of these same CBS stations. Guy Lombardo's sweetest music this side of heaven is one. The other is the singing style of Mario Lanza, a new vocal sensation of the airwaves. Enjoy Guy Lombardo and his whale Canadians, and Mario Lanza's show tomorrow night. Stay tuned now for Sing It Again, which follows immediately over most of these same CBS stations. Bill Anders speaking. This is CBS, where you meet Adventure with Charlie Wilde on Sundays on the Columbia Broadcasting System. Music James Gay and Maroon 5
