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. When the winter moon dips low over Broadway and hides again behind the scudding mists, Broadway is numbed. The year's ending is too swift. There's too much nighttime in December, as if the dimness of the subway had moved one flight up, as if the lights were not quite lights, but yellow things that drain off into shadows. It's a time of the muffler, the hurry up, the time of the wind. The dreams are dying, and it's a long while before April comes again. The place where I was also one flight up above the street of the tired apartment houses and hotels. The avenue leased to anybody on the premise that home is any place where the rent is cheap. Hotel Savannah, the man who walked beside me and explained it all to me. After all, Lieutenant, after all. After all of what? The do not disturb sign has been hanging on the front of the door all day, and here it is almost midnight. So? So, a place like this, rent a room for 350, pull out the old pills, leave the world to its own sorrow. This Savannah's getting quite a reputation for... Oh, this is the room. Now, that's how I found her, right there on the bed. I could tell right away she wasn't a suicide. That bullet hole, no gun. Who is she? Took the room yesterday. Registered as Mary Smith. I keep a straight face as long as the payment is made in advance. Even she didn't have luggage, so what? Quite a few of my friends have not a presentable suitcase to their names. What about her visitors? This is her home away from home. That's our philosophy here at the Savannah. Why shouldn't she have visitors? After did she have any? I don't know. People come and go. A regular little world in itself, this Savannah. I remark this to myself often as I stand at the desk, like I was looking on into a regular little world. That's why I always say... Don't say it, Mr. Burgess. I'll take it from here. And consider the place where a girl lies dead. A room of transients, a cubicle, a lot, it's sold to the passer-through. The mark of their passing, the scars where cigarettes were grounded at the desktop. The hotel stationery, the postcards with the scenes of gaiety tinted in, ink stained, finger smudged, blank. The sign, please turn out lights when departing, leave key at desk. The bed for passing sleep is sold at the current rate. And in it, Mary Smith, dead by violence. Phone it in, check other hotel personnel. Be told for the day she'd been there the girl was quiet, discreet, no trouble at all. Visitors, maybe, maybe not. Policy not to notice things like that. And take it home with you, try to sleep against the image, desolate, lonely. Not quite make it. And welcome the coming of day, somewhere to go, someone to talk to. You have a bad night, Danny. You have the look of someone who has slept with rocks in his bed, head to foot. That's your morning's greeting to me, Sergeant Tateglia. You see? Other mornings you refer to me as Gino. But this morning, Danny, why is this morning different from all other mornings? You got something for me, Gino? It goes without saying, sure I got something. We coded that girl's fingerprints, that Mary Smith, put them on the wire to the chums of the FBI during the night. Had an answer? Those chums of the FBI are veritable joneys on the spot, Danny. You had an answer. On the spot. According to the info, lately come to hand and now contained in my breast pocket, Danny, this Mary Smith was not a Mary Smith. Oh no, not at all. All right, Gino, who was she? A Peg Ramsey, formerly of the Women's Army Corps, which makes her a former white, which makes it easy for our Washington coworkers to check such things as fingerprints flying through the night. Such things as? As what? As the occupation of the deceased prior to safe. This Peg Ramsey, here to fall known as Mary Smith, was a member of the publishing firm Taggart and Ramsey on Lower Madison. It brightens the morning for you, Danny, this info? You tried, Gino, you really did. Thanks. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. Get around to believing it, Mr. Taggart. Miss Ramsey was murdered in a cheap hotel named the Savannah. We want you to help us. What was she doing there? Was she registered? Look, Mr. Taggart. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. Let's try it this way. What did Miss Ramsey do here at your publishing house? At our publishing house, Mr. Clover, Peg is as much responsible for the success of Taggart and Ramsey as I am. Of course, I'm directly responsible for a book club's choosing four of our novels. Peg only had three, but then... Just tell me what she did. Had final say on what we would publish and what we wouldn't, along with me, of course. Also the discovery of talent and so forth and so forth. Friends? The unpublished author in the world. You must understand Taggart and Ramsey enjoys an enviable reputation. We publish stuff that others wouldn't even touch. Of course, sometimes we take a loss publishing literature, but we make up for it. Put out a crossword puzzle book and we're all... Yeah, but what about special friends, Mr. Taggart? Oh, working on the premise that special friends can be special enemies, huh? That happens in our latest mystery, Kill the Murderer Dead. It'll be released for publication in May. Mr. Taggart... We had a very special friend. Who? William Walter. Who is William Walter? A writer. Where do I find him? I don't know. I have no idea. Peg handled him. What made him so special? According to Peg, he was special because he was talent. The once in a lifetime talent. Personally, I've heard that phrase too many times. Last year, after such a talent, we had to publish jumbo crossword puzzle books five, six, and seven in a hurry. And that was the relationship between Miss Ramsey and this William Walter, publisher and writer. Oh, I think more. I think Peg had her times to be a publisher and times to be a woman. It's my belief from observing Peg that she mixed the two up for this boy. What else about this William Walter? He was brought here from North Carolina. Brought here. You mean your firm subsidized him? A writer's dream, but no. He was brought here by a Mrs. Janice Kirk, a self-styled discoverer of talent. You Peg slightly brought him to her with a couple of chapters of a novel. Peg believed in this boy and gave him an advance. And where do I find this Mrs. Kirk? Oh, I can tell you that easily. At the Ruxton Hotel. I've had cocktails with her there. An attractive woman, the way those women from North Carolina can be. Now, will you pardon me, Mr. Clover? And at the hotel, ask for Janice Kirk. Be told she's been seen entering the cocktail lounge. So there, the head waiter raises his eyebrows with an effort, tilts a patrician head slightly to the left. And that way indicates the woman sitting alone, sipping the colorless drink, sipping the colorless music, weaving its frightened way through potted palms. And on her face, the smile of acceptance for the music, for the furtive cocktail time laughter, for the glances of men attached, unattached. Hello there, and all that. Mrs. Kirk? I saw Alec tilt his Roman coin head and that brought you to me. Whatever the reason, I'm glad. It's been lonely. I'm from the police, Mrs. Kirk. You didn't have to tell me that. You could have let me believe you'd walked in here and seen a, well, an interesting face sitting alone with her lost thoughts and you took pity on it. You could have let me believe that. I've just come from Alfred Tigard of Tigard and Ramsey. Alfred, you tell him I'm very disappointed in him. He hasn't asked me to cocktails and, well, it must be hours now. You tell him that. He said you knew Peg Ramsey. Miss Ramsey, I've taken notice of her. Talked to her, I remember. I wouldn't call that knowing a girl. Why did he go and tell you I knew her? She's dead, murdered. She gave her name as Mary Smith and was killed in a hotel room. Why? Didn't she have a home of her own? I didn't mean to say that. Truly, I didn't mean to be flippant over death. Not a death like that. But an empty way to die. Tigard told me something else. I'm sure he did. It was about the boy, wasn't it? He told me about a boy, a young writer, William Walden. William, sweet William, sweet, sweet William. Maybe you can tell me more about him than Tigard did, Mrs. Kirk. Why, no, I can. I know more about him than I know about myself. Wasn't it I that discovered the burning tree of talent in him? Wasn't it I that beat him, tortured him, soothed him till he put it all on paper? Figuratively, that is. I did that to him, figuratively. Wasn't it I that brought him here so his poetry could cry out across your metropolitan skies? Where is he now? I don't know. You said... I said I don't know. First William stayed here, right here in this hotel close to me. He took to living in all kinds of places, dismal places, dirty little finished rooms, and tenement, sordid hotels. He lived high and dry for months so he could taste your city. Then you haven't seen him in a... There is a phone call for you, Mr. Clover. You can take it here. Thank you. Danny Clover speaking. You're warned, Danny, right away. Savannah Hotel. Why, Gino? A boy shot to death in one of the rooms. Savannah Hotel, Danny. The same one... I hate your telephones. They interrupt just when... Something bad's happened, hasn't it? I know it from your face. Something real bad. And I'll tell you another thing, Mr. Clover. I should have kept my big mouth shut about the reputation of the Savannah. Right down here. Same floor, same hallway as the last time I was here. Not only that. Same room. There he is, Mr. Clover. You know who? Yeah. Registered about noon. Gave his name as William Walter. Said he was a writer. First time we ever had a writer. And in the room of transience yet another one sprawled there across the bed, a boy, like a tired puppet discarded. And the bullet hole in his temple gave him another quality. An attitude suddenly and forever caught in an instant of time. And the gun held in his dangling fist. The end of him. The death of William Walter. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. A titled Englishman, wined and dined at a Swank Park Avenue address, is then mysteriously murdered. It takes no less than Mr. Chameleon, master of disguises, to make a dent in the Hand of Fate murder case. Follow Mr. Chameleon on this engrossing police operation tomorrow. Yes, that's tomorrow on CBS Radio. Mr. Chameleon is now hurt at a new time. Sundays on most of these same CBS radio stations. On the eve of the Merry Holidays, Broadway treats itself to a ten-cent sprig of mistletoe, stands under it, watches the women walk by. They hug the warm fur close. Let the December wind riffle it against their mouths, their cheeks. Let the wind breathe them away from you. And for background, the music flowing out of the tinseled metallic throats of loudspeakers. And the kids standing carefully away from the assorted street corner Santa Clauses, eyeing them, studying them, lifting great puzzled eyes to the grown-up who holds their hand. Good, Huckin. Makes your gloves, so find the coin, drop it in the pot, pay off for the year that never was. And in a room again, the place of the dead, be alone with it for a little while. Be alone with the boy with a bullet wound in his temple. The boy would come to the great city with poetry to offer, and in return, had been given this, the end of searching, the end of pain. Be alone with it until Detective Muggerman comes back. I had a little talk with Burgess, the manager, Danny, like you told me. Yeah? Says the boy made a big to-do when he registered. Did Burgess tell you why? Uh-huh. Seems this kid, William Walder, insisted on having exactly the same room where the girl was killed. Manager tried to talk him out of it, offered him other rooms. Kid wouldn't have it any other way. I think I know why. Sure. Boy was a writer. It gives him a right to emotions the rest of us aren't privileged with. That's why he has to die in a room where... You threw him out of it? Yeah. I guess I've been in it too long, Danny. Here's why he wanted this room. Found it in his pocket. Marriage license. I look at it, Danny? Thanks. Hmm. Issued to William Walder and Margaret Ramsey. That'll be Peg Ramsey, the murdered girl, huh, Danny? Yeah. A place like this is probably gonna keep the marriage a secret. Uh-huh. Hey, come over here, Muggerman. Find something else. Here, on the desk. Oh, it's written so fine. Wait, I gotta put on my glasses. Sure, go ahead. Uh, Peg, beloved Peg, all of it is done, finished, for you, now for me. For someone you breathed life into, then dying, took it from him. Done, finished. He wrote this, Danny? We'll check it at headquarters. I think we'll find he wrote it. With a gun in his hand like that, this note, how he insisted on the same room. Suicide, huh? Call it in, Muggerman. Danny? Oh, come on in, Muggerman. Been down a technical? Yeah, for an hour, more or less. Took me that long to get out of Gordon what he knew as soon as I walked in. Guys like Gordon give mothers a bad name. Gave you a rough time, huh? Yeah, had me looking through microscopes, gave me a short lecture on the theory of spectrochemical analysis. Then when I didn't applaud, he got angry. Anyhow, the gun that William Walder allegedly killed himself with also fired the bullet that killed Peg Ramsey. Murder and suicide, huh, Muggerman? I guess so. What do you think? Take a look at this suicide note. I saw it, Danny. Well, I know you saw it, but look at it again. It's a suicide note. Is it? Hmm? Show me where he says he's going to kill himself. Show me where it says that... What is it, Gino? Lady outside to see you, Danny. What lady? Name's Janice Kirk. Show her in. This way to see Danny Klobber. Thanks, that'll be all, Sergeant. Oh, please sit down, Miss Kirk. This is Detective Muggerman. How do you do? I'm going to leave town tomorrow, Mr. Klobber. I see. Yes. This is a lonely city now. I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid of it because so many things, mostly... William Walder? Yes. Oh, I want to say, Mrs. Kirk, how sorry we are. Thank you. Mrs. Kirk, one thing I'd like to ask you. Just what in... The way you said, Mrs., the little glance that just happened between you, you and this other gentleman, the Mrs. means I was once married, my husband is dead. I see. And just what interest I had in William. He was a great writer. I said I was lonely. Now that William's dead, the world's a little bit more lonely, too, though it'll never know it. Just why did you come here? I want to ask something of you, may I? Of course. I brought William here. I want to take him home. I want to bury him. We've already sent notification to North Carolina to his next akin. But in this case, don't you see, it should be me who should take... Well, call it responsibility. Call it whatever. I'm sorry, Mrs. Kirk. Until we hear from the next of kin, we have no authority... I loved him. Is that what you wanted to hear me say? Go ahead, exchange glances again. Stick a little bit behind your hands. Mrs. Kirk, what the lieutenant said simply means it. Very well, you see, it really makes no difference at all. And for a moment, consider her fury at being deprived of the dead boy, and understand it. Understand it because of the sudden statement of love for him. Blurt it out, bitter, explosive, no longer to be contained. But let it also open a door onto new questions. The finding out of why a boy's life must be taken. A boy of talent. A boy who was about to be married. A boy who had apparently scrawled a note against the insistent comments of the young man. A boy who had apparently scrawled a note against the insistent calling of death. Murder, suicide, make sure which. That'll take you to a place you'd been before, to a man you'd talked to before. Can't tell you how glad I am you came back to me, Mr. Clover. I just can't tell you how glad. Why, Mr. Taggart? Well, this is perhaps an uncalled for thought after those dismal doings at the Savannah Hotel. Even tragic, you might say. Pagan, that boy. Just tell me, Mr. Taggart. Well, I was wondering, just a fleeting thought, mind you. Did you happen to find the manuscript of the boy's novel? Did he perchance die with it there in the hotel room? No, no, we didn't find it. Why? Well, you must forgive me for this rather scavenger-like idea I've had. But not that we won't take care of the boy's estate, mind you. But it seems a provocative publishing stunt. You want to publish the work posthumously. A boy kills himself, leaves a novel. That would make a splash in the literary world. Yes, I would have tried to put it more tastefully, but that's it exactly. Sorry, I can't help you. Then I can't for the life of me imagine what else we have to talk about. The reason why I came. I'm not sure the boy killed himself. He was going to marry Peg Ramsey. Did you know that? Marry? No, I didn't. Imagine. You said you met the boy when he first came here, that you... Quickly, a quick introduction from Peg. As I said, his work impressed her, so I okayed in advance for him. That's why if you find the manuscript, I feel it rightfully belongs to me. That's all you knew of him, the advance, Peg Ramsey's interest in him, sponsoring of... That and the money I've already expended on him. For advance publicity on Peg's newfound genius, I even hired Tonto Jones. Who? Tonto Jones. Ace blurbist. The Guy de Maupassant of book jackets. Told him to stick with Walter and get to his marrow, find out everything about him... and write it in a hundred words to fit the back of a book jacket. I'd like to talk to a man who knew all about William Walter. You have his address? Greenwich Village, somewhere. The girl who'll give it to you on your way out, Mr. Clover. You were going, weren't you? So downtown now, to Greenwich Village. Turn off 11th Street onto Bank. Pass the bargain basement bars where the floor shows... chuckle at the customers and the local color is prefabricated. And find an address, another basement, where the door is a painted mural of pink and satyrs... with a motto in French over the brass knocker. When the door opens, the man puts a finger to his lips. Shh. It's the last side. Huh? Schoenberg. Bought the records today. Come on. Come on. Everybody's inside. All right. Grab yourself a hunk of floor and sit. If you don't mind, I'll stand. What did you bring? What? I told Barbette to tell everybody to bring a record. Didn't she? I brought a badge. Hey, who are you? Aren't you one of Barbette's... Police. I'm looking for Tonno Jones. Why? Where is he? Me? What do you want me for? A few questions, Tonno. By the way, where'd you get that name? I spent a summer in Mexico trying to write. The natives gave me the name affectionately. It stuck. All right. Now tell me what you can about William Walter. I was going to do his dust jacket for him. You mean that stuff on the cover of a book that tells how good it is? What do you mean, stuff? Just tell me about William Walter. I could have done it too. Have somebody to support me. I could have written a novel. Did William Walter finish his? About a week ago. Pretty good, too. Oh, not that I would have approached his subject matter that way. Then you read it. Parts of it. Other parts he read to us. To us? Mm-hmm. People who drop in from time to time. We had varied opinions as to the novel's significance. Of course, if you're the type who's satisfied with sheer entertainment value... Where is the novel? Manuscript? Oh, he left it here for me to look over. A couple of days ago, Janice picked it up. Janice Kirk? She said Willie sent her for it. I gave it to her. Hey, Tonno. We're disturbing your guest, Tonno. Go back to him. I'm just leaving. Oh. Oh. Hello, Mr. Clover. May I come in, Mrs. Kirk? Well, you don't want to talk to me now. I've been crying. I look a mess. It'll only be a few minutes. Do you promise? Yes. Well, then come in. You wait right here. I'll go in the next room and do my face. We can talk. Well, go on. Talk to me. I've just come from Greenwich Village, Mrs. Kirk. I hate it, don't you? I spoke to Mr. Jones. Tonno? That's right. Tonno Jones. You know what Tonno means? No, I don't. I didn't either, till I looked it up. He's crazy, statured, stupid. No one pays any attention to what Tonno says of you. I do. How do I look better? Of course I look better. Can you tell I've been crying? No. Now we'll talk. Did you like the novel? Be more explicit, Mr. Clover. I'm always reading. What novel did you mean? William Walter's novel. You know something? I told you I loved the boy, and I did. Even after he was so cruel to me. What about the novel, Mrs. Kirk? Well, that's what I mean. He didn't even let me read it after all I did for him. Maybe you didn't understand me, Mrs. Kirk. I said I saw Mr. Jones down in Greenwich Village. He's a liar. About what? About anything he told you. He said you picked up Walter's novel a couple of days ago. I don't think he lied. Nobody else has that manuscript. Then I suppose nobody will ever read it. I suppose not. Mrs. Kirk? Yes? You told me how hard you worked to foster the boy's talent, how you brought him here to New York, how everything was wrapped up in that boy and his novel. Doesn't it bother you that the manuscript is missing? Well, I... Do you have it? No, no, I don't. Did you destroy it? Did you? What difference does it make? I'm just curious to know what the novel is about, that's all. I burned it before I read it. As soon as I got it here, I tore it up and burned it. That was the first part of it, wasn't it? What? I destroyed everything about the boy. Destroyed somebody you loved? How can you say that? You loved him all right, only he was going to marry Peg Ramsey. Did he show you the marriage license? We were never going to marry that girl. He just wanted his novel published, that's all. I don't know. Marriage license usually means marriage. They were going to keep it secret, but they told you because you deserve to know. Deserve to know. Do you know why they told me? To be cruel to me, to life at me, to slap me in the face with it. So you killed her. Do you know what she said to me? Do you know what that girl said to me? You, for the train fare you spent to bring him to New York. Even if I had killed her, could you blame me? But the boy you said you loved, him. Him, sitting there when I came into the room. I was ready to forgive him everything. I walked over to him, put my hands around his back. He shrugged him off, kept writing. Writing a note to a girl who was dead. Did you ever hear anything as crazy as that? Note to a dead girl. We thought it was a suicide note. Then he went over to the bed and he sprawled out and put his hands behind his head and then he stared at me. He stared hate at me. Because you'd killed Peg Ramsey? He knew it and he didn't go to the police. That made me think he still loved me. Why didn't he go to the police? Because he knew I'd crawl back to him. He wanted me there so he could tell me how much hate he had for me. How much he despised me. You didn't give him the chance. You destroyed him. Everything that he touched you destroyed. The final thing to ride on the train. And he'd be back there with the baggage, the litter, the animals. Let's go, Mrs. Kirk. No one's going to do that to me. What he did, not to me. Who did he think he was? Let's go. Night bursts open like a sudden flame on Broadway. The crowd swarmed dances between the silhouettes of a thousand buildings. Dances its fury away against the time of morning until the night soaks up the sound and pain and color. And turns it into dawn. 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 Muggavan. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Betty Lou Gerson was heard as Janice Kirk. Featured in the cast were Stan Waxman, Steve Roberts and David Wolf. You've probably heard the poets sing the praises of running Brooks, babbling Brooks and he who Brooks no evil. But you'll sing the praises yourself of Our Miss Brooks starring Eve Arden Sunday nights on most of these same CBS radio stations. As Connie Brooks, Eve Arden is sometimes running after a man, often babbling about men. And she Brooks no evil that interferes with her pursuit of a man. So maybe the poets should sing her praises too. Our Miss Brooks is fun to hear Sunday nights on CBS radio. Phil Anders speaking and remember Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy open fire on your funny bone Sunday nights on the CBS radio network. Thank you.
