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 you walk the sunny September morning on Broadway, walk slow. Give yourself time to gather up the things you want to save for memories. Beneath your feet, the concrete strikes glints of silver and gold. The paths that's by are nicely proportioned with silken ankles, and doctrines, and breezepot hairdos. And the secret things that only you can see, all of which mixes well with the carousel music your mind makes. This is the day that Broadway belongs to you. And east of Broadway on 57th, where I was, other things of beauty. I counted 12 of them. Mr. Blair gave me that much time. He was in charge of all of it. You will agree they are darlings, won't you? Every one of them, and each with a dream, to become the most exquisite dancer in the world. Your call sounded urgent, Mr. Blair. Look at them. Are you looking? Are you looking? Funny question. Choose one. What? Choose one. One of the darlings, the beauties. There, they posture and they're exercises for the dance. And which one is best? In your eyes, I mean. Lord President, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Look, Mr. Blair, I didn't come here... And of course your eyes remain on Sylvia. All right, darlings. Enough. Enough. Sylvia, background, newly returned from England, a beautiful dancer with greatness in her. Devoted to me, her dancing master. Sylvia, I saw her six years ago. Sent her to study with Sadler's Wells. Paid for her education. Now, she is back here with me. I'm glad for both of you. Now she is back here with me. Now she will die. What? Sylvia told me that she is convinced of it. Peter Churro. What are you talking about? Dear man, I have said it. Sylvia told me Peter Churro was going to kill her. Who is Peter Churro? Whose name and address I give you on my card. Here. Sylvia! Sylvia, dear! Sylvia, dear, tell the dear man who Peter Churro is. Her boy I met in England once he was a soldier. And what does he want to do to you Sylvia? He wants to kill me. Then swiftly she moved away to the center of the room. And the place of dust and autumn light was hers. Its color caught in the silk and sash that bound tight her waist. That hung and slashed the line of scarlet against her lightness. Her place now because in Walt hung with mirror the only reflection hers. And from somewhere an arrow of light ricocheted from street chrome pierced her shoulder. And with the wounding of light the girl began its slow and drifting turn. Spun its curve finally to the floor. Ended it in the dancers attitude of death. And from the dancing master a quick staccato of applause. Performance was over and I got out. I went out and I scrolled on the back of the dancing master's business card to a boy named Peter Churro who wanted death for a girl. Walked the broken flights of a tenement that was part of the street's litter. And a farther, sodden with other passings. And the number drooled. And the face of Peter Churro was scarred and broken and stitched together. And on it was pasted the weary smile of a clown. Yeah? Stuns you huh? Take a look mister. A good look. Enjoy yourself. What's wrong? You don't laugh? You don't cry? What do you do? Police. You, Peter Churro. That's what the kids do. Wherever I go they see me. They pull mama's skirt. They say look mama, look the man. And mama looks real good and long. And hurries the kid away. Now, Peter Churro. What else you want? Talk. Let's go inside. Tell me what else I've got to talk about. Sylvia Douglas. I'm not with you. Not with anyone. I saw her a little while ago. She said you were going to kill her. Come on inside. I want to show you something. There on the table, on the window sill, on the shelves. You make these? Out of something I can't even remember anymore. And a pocket knife. Kids toys. Toys to give to the kids. To buy them back so they won't run away. And these, wooden pistols. Full scale. Look real, don't they? Yes. Yes. First I give them a toy and then this. So they can play at killing each other. Carving. A hobby I picked up in therapy classes after this happened to my face. They said when I got worried about it I should do things with my hands. Let's get back to Sylvia. Look at me and try to hide the smile when I tell you I'm in love with her. What do you know? You did it. She's beautiful. You saw her and you stood close to her. You talked about things. What? Tell me. I told you. She said you wanted her dead. Once I pointed one of these wooden guns at her and she screamed and I got on my knees to her. That's why she thinks that. That's the only reason. I want to tell you about me and her. I met Sylvia in England during the war. She was dancing with soldiers in a canteen. She came up to me and asked me to dance with her. I had the other face then. We danced fine together. I love her. I'm not going to kill her but there's something else. What? There's a man. There's death on him. He loves her. Who? Big, strong, a man all in one piece. And death on him. I tell Sylvia that and she shivers and she laughs. What man? His name is Johnny Moore. A man who works on the docks along Shoreman. But you're right about something, mister. What? Sylvia will die. She's going to die. Ride back to headquarters. Place a call to Longshoreman's Union and pose the name Johnny Moore and wait. Let moments drift by till the sun gives off its mid-afternoon brightness. Then the call back and the man tells you that Johnny Moore can be located at Pier 16 East River docks. So get the squad car, lower the visor, drive to the waterfront. And Pier 16 is piled high with crates and cartons and bales and machinery. And a salt-rhymed freighter leans high against it. The name on the prowl says Queen of the East. Can you believe it? And a clod of men on the docks feed the freighter's winch. A little distance from them a man dressed in a t-shirt and tattoo sits at a jerry-built desk and sucks a toothpick. Show him a badge. Ask him the name Johnny Moore. Get directions. Your name Johnny Moore? Yeah, why? I'm Johnny Moore. Nice to meet you. Nice to meet you. I'm Johnny. That's nice. I'll talk to you, Johnny. Fatty over there say it's okay? Huh? Good. Let's get us a cold one, shall we? I got a thirst. Want a Coke? No, thanks. Your name's what? Danny Clover. Yeah, health, Danny. You want me for what? Just talk. Sylvia Douglas, Johnny. Tell me about her. No, I can't, Danny. I tell myself about her fine, but that way I don't have to use words. I make pictures. How did you meet her? Mostly I was under her 200 pound crate of tobacco. Fine place, huh? Let's get with it, Johnny. Now you won't hurry me, will you, baby? No. Now I'll show you what. Sylvia come in on the Queen Anne a few months ago. Shipped out early in the morning. Passengers didn't get off till about 10. About that time Sylvia got off. She walked right over to me. I was unloading the tobacco I mentioned. That's how it was, huh? She just walked right up to you. Later she told me she'd been watching me for a couple of hours. Then you've seen her since. Wouldn't you? Tell me about it. Now look, baby, I'm... Just go back a little, Johnny. She walked up to you while you were unloading. What did she do? Nothing. Just looked. I put down the crate and I stared back. And after a while I said, I said, can I help you? She didn't answer me. I asked her when she was staying. After a while she told me. I've got word you might want to kill her. Baby, baby, I ain't strong enough. Kill Sylvia? You're on the wrong dot, baby. From a September place in the sea, the first chill wind of evening drifted in, touched the lean masts and the sides of the freighter, and she creaked and pulled helplessly at her moorings. Then a swift shadow of a gull darted low across her prowl, and the ship was still. And then leave the dock where Johnny Moore, a longshoreman, told you about him and a dancer. Up town now, on a phone call to the studio for the address of Sylvia Douglas, and go there, because something had to be cleared away. Something had to be explained. Oh, it's you. Why? I want to talk to you. May I come in, Miss Douglas? I know why. You wanted to be with me when I was alone. You chose a nice time for me. Twilight. Let's talk about it inside, Miss Douglas. Of course. The music. That's Petrushka. How do you know? Miss Douglas. I was rehearsing. It's why I'm like this in costume. I'm very good. Do you want to watch me? I talked to Peter Cheril. I'd like to dance for you. I'd like you to watch me. Do you hear what I said? I said, Peter Cheril. Grotesque. Isn't he grotesque, Mr. Clover? He loves you. And you. And the ones out there in the street. They will love me, too. Why didn't you tell me Peter wanted to kill you? He does. He does. I told you I talked to him. Peter's a scarred boy. He has bitterness and a memory of dancing with you. He doesn't. But don't you see? Don't you see that's why? No, I don't see. It's why he wants me dead. So I can belong to no one else. He'd want the world dead if he could arrange a thing like that. That's mad, isn't it? Shouldn't he be put away for a thing like that? Peter told me something else. It doesn't interest me. He said you'd die. He said there was death on Johnny Moore. Peter said that? He said Johnny would kill me? You sit over there and watch me dance, Mr. Clover, the way I dance sometimes for Johnny. Tell me. Tell me now, Mr. Clover. If you were Johnny Moore, would you want me dead? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. You want me dead? Tell me. Please, tell me. Hello? Oh, you. No. No, I've changed my mind. No, I will not be there. It doesn't matter, I promise. You heard me. No. He thinks he owns me. He thinks he bought me and paid for me. And now he asks the owner, the management, the boss. Who does that? That Tony Blair. Tony, the frothy dancing master. He says I promised to rehearse with him tonight at the studio. Well, so I did. And I won't. All he wants to do is to kiss me. Him and that frothy love. This thing of your being killed, what is it? A publicity stunt, a phony promotion idea of yours and Blair's? A joke? A way to... You think that? How lonely it'll be for you when I'm dead. Goodbye, Mr. Clover. So leave there. Out into the streets again. Take a walk around the block with it. Think about it. And the intrusion of the word again. A hoax. Except one thing. The people. And the realization comes to you suddenly, each one of them somehow in a way not easy to define. Each one of them with a touch of violence on him. And trouble and strangeness and strength. So go back to the place where it all started. Where a man waited back to the dance studio. Climb the stairs and open the door. To the evening empty place. To the mirrored hall that reflected mirrors. Reflected the waiting man. Mr. Blair, dancing master, who was done with dancing. He was strung from the ceiling and his head leaned against his shoulder in infinite sadness. And the rope turned. Turned again. More slightly. More slightly still. Mr. Blair hung. Mr. Blair dead. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as detective Danny Clover. September drifts through corridors, whispers against scarred doorways, and Broadway leaves the looking out of memories windows. Maybe now is the time we need for. Maybe now the season that ends the longing for things not yet dreamed. The door is open onto muted wind. And no one has come to you. So walk out of the room. Lock in the autumn solitude. Hit the street. Walk with the mob. Scream. Laugh. Get lost. And somehow find yourself back in your room. Look around. Nothing's been taken from you. Nothing robbed. Solitude is just where you left it. That police headquarters September morning rests lightly on the shoulders of Sergeant Gino Tataglia. And a good bonjour to you Danny. Thank you. Likewise. You feel good this morning, don't you? And why not indeed? Last night I slumbered beneath a blanket. That's what does it, huh? That's what does it. Well, to work, huh Danny? Whatever you say. In the matter of the death of Tony Blair, dancing teacher, it is the consensus of our good Dr. Sinsky that said death was caused by premeditated murder, as was your deduction. You've got Dr. Sinsky's report? Indeed. I will brief it for you. From lacerations and bruises on the face and body of the deceased Tony Blair, it is apparent that the man was viciously beaten, then hung, to make sure he's dying. Uh-huh. Such is the opinion of Dr. Sinsky. We are now awaiting the report from technical. You'll get it to me, huh Gino? Of course, without saying. Danny? What? A question. This ballet dancer, this Sylvia Douglas, who said she was the one who was going to die. Oh, what about her? She danced in front of you, you told me. That's right. Arabesques, turns, the whole deal. Uh-huh. And her double entendres, Danny. Tell me about them. You see, Tina, my eldest is in ballet class and she has trouble with them. Her what? The double entendres, Danny. You know, where they beat their feet and jump up and down. Tina was showing us. Like this they go. After you talk on the phone, I'll show you, Danny. Thank you. Danny Clover speaking. This is Mrs. Donnie Blair of 2346 Medicine, apartment 2C. I was told you are the man who found my husband dead. That's right. What do you... I wish to speak with you. I wish to tell you who killed Donnie Blair. You will come to me for that? Yes, Mr. Clover? Right away. Thank you. I will wait. Mr. Clover? Yes. If you please, come in. Thank you. May be seated. Now I will tell you who killed my husband, Tony. All right. Alightly. Thank you. Sylvia Douglas. Oh, no, wait a minute. Sylvia Douglas, the girl who murdered my husband. I was with her when your husband was murdered. You lie. Listen, your husband was beaten. Not by a woman, Mrs. Blair. A man did it. And your husband was hung. It would take a man to... Somehow, somehow she killed my husband. Do you know what she is? You tell me. Devil. Not just a word for lack of another word. A truly one. A devil. All right. Now let's talk about your husband. I used to dance. You know that. You can't tell that. You can't tell. Yes. Yes. Of such case. Of me was said I hardly touch the stage when I dance. About your husband, Sylvia Douglas, Mrs. Blair. About a man who loved beauty and a young woman who was beautiful. He was attracted to her. Was he in love with her? Tony was in love with every woman in the world. For any woman he could find an excuse to love her. As it should be. And he is dead. Sylvia Douglas didn't kill him, Mrs. Blair. At least, only... Surely, if we talk, she did. I have asked you to come to listen to her name. Sylvia Douglas. Woman who killed Tony. Now you have heard it. Then she offered another cigarette to be lit. Then one nod of thanks and one nod of dismissal. So leave. Squad car again. On a short ride downtown. Visiting time on two prime suspects. Men with strength enough and motive enough to beat and hang Tony Blair. First stop, lodgings of XGI. Bitter carver of wooden guns. He told by a landlord that Peter Churl left. About 11 o'clock this morning. He was called up, the man tells you, by a lady whose voice on the phone was just a doggone's shame. That's all. Mr. Churl smiled when he picked up the receiver. And he laughed when he put it down. Then Mr. Churl went out. So the second stop, here 16. Longshoreman Johnny Moore hasn't shown for work. Call headquarters, get an address, an apartment house too, near the waterfront. You looking for something, sport? Johnny Moore. Tell him police. Oh, I'd rejoice to do that sport. Except Johnny Moore ain't around. Where is he? You got something on Johnny? How about that? Oh, Johnny-o, Johnny-o. I asked you something. Where is Johnny? Don't swell up around me. It don't impress me. I've seen some real swellers in my time. So just don't. He's wanted for murder. Oh, Johnny-o. Tell you something. I know where Johnny ain't. He ain't here. And he ain't on the docks. You know where he is? As a girl calls him. Any hour of the night or day. From that hall phone. She sweet talks me. And I let out a yell and Johnny comes running for the phone. She called him this morning? Earlier than usual. About nine, ten. Johnny went back to his room, got dressed, danced out of here. About ten. You know who the girl is? Johnny Moore. He's told everybody who'll listen about her. About Sylvie. Sylvie Douglas. A dancer. Dancers on her toes, he told her. This I gotta see. Johnny-o wanted for murder. Oh, how about that, I ask you. How about that. It was information anyhow. I knew where they were. At least of where they'd been headed. Both of them. Peter Churro and Johnny Moore, summoned by the voice and image of a ballerina. To a place and a time and a passion that was at the end of a phone call. So pick up Detective Muggerman and go there. Danny. The scream stopped me. It came from the door flung open at the head of the steps in the room of Sylvie Douglas. And out of the room and in terror, rushing down the stairs toward me, the scarred man Peter Churro. Look after Muggerman. I'm going up. Sure, fast, Danny. I'll need a doctor. Take it easy, baby. Just take it easy. I'll take that gun, Johnny. Yeah, sure. I shot him. Here, take it. Johnny. Johnny, you did it for me. Love you. I'll love you. Yeah, sure you do, baby. Tell me what happened, Johnny. You know what kind of a guy he is, that Churro? Tell me what happened. He was crazy. He was sick for the love of me. You made it all better by shooting him. Is that right, Johnny? You know what he did? I'll show you. You see that gun lying there? Well, he pulled it on... Leave that gun alone. I'll get it. It's wood. Huh? Look at it, Johnny. It's wood. Well, I... I saw that Churro with the gun. I didn't stop to feel it. All you did was let him run and give it to him in the back, huh? Now, both of you, I want to know what happened. He came here. He tried to make love to me. Wasn't you here, Johnny? Well, the guy flipped. He didn't care I was here, like I was even in the room. A real mess. You called him up, didn't you, Miss Douglas? After Johnny was here, why? I wanted to see him. I had a feeling for him at a certain instant. So I called him. It was a warm feeling, all of a sudden. And I wanted him here. So I called him. This gun in my pocket, Johnny, is it yours? What difference does it make? I shot him, and you know why I shot him. He pulled that wooden gun at me, and he started... Tell me about that, Miss Douglas. Why did Johnny pull a gun? I was gentle with him. While we talked, I touched his face. I smiled at him. Then he got angry. That's the question I'm asking you. Why? I laughed at him. That's why. And he flipped. Then Sylvie started to laugh. Then Churro really went on and laughed at him. That's why you brought him here, wasn't it, Miss Douglas? To have fun with him. What kind of woman are you, Miss Douglas? You know. Let's get back to Churro's gun again. You knew it was made of wood. Well... Baby. What, dear? What is this, baby? Johnny... The question, baby. Come on, answer it. Churro started to wave that thing, and you slipped me a real live Roscoe. What's this, for kicks, baby? The bitter mouth, Johnny. I don't like it. All of it for kicks, I must say. I don't know what you're talking about. Johnny. What? I can't protect you anymore, dear. Huh? I'll never forget you, Johnny. The way you loved me. Killed for me. Peter Churro. Tony. Poor Tony. Both of them. Dead. Because of your kind of love. Listen, baby. Poor Johnny. I killed two men for you, baby. You liked that, didn't you? I'll weep for you, Johnny. I'll kill you! I'll kill you! I'll be alone! Kill you? Let's call a doctor, Danny. Churro... Just let me stand here, mister. I want to look at her. I'm gonna die, so I want to stand here and look at her. Churro, you need to... No, no, let me. Take Johnny, Markham, and get him on it. Let's go, killer boy. Sylvia. Die. Why don't you die? I love you, Sylvia. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Die! You and me. Go, Johnny, Mark. Just you and me. Is he dead? He's dead. The other streets never paid off, so you walk Broadway. And Broadway's different. It twists you into the nighttime, whirls you with your puppet dance, rocks you, tosses you up in the air, and bangs you against a gutter. And you can't quit. Because Broadway never does. It's Broadway. Broadiest. 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 Crouchen as Muggerman. The program is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis, with musical score arranged and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Sammy Hill was her to Sylvia, Sidney Miller as Peter, Sheldon Leonard as Johnny, Martha Wentworth as the landlady, and Truda Marsden as Mrs. Blair. .
