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. Late afternoon of March and Broadway moves in tired languor. The time of waking spectaculars and slow staining of color and twisted neon tubes. And this, ebb of sunlight performing on the shoulders of a woman who drifted from one season into another. The time of the late afternoon break and interval before the comptometers summon you back to their paternal wizardry. Ten minutes allotted to lean your head against winter stone, lift your face to the slow coming of spring, and flick the cigarette after the passer's by. A piece of the day and it was all yours. And at headquarters, the time for the recording of violences in quadruplicate. And clear the desk of odds and ends, the statements and grief, the stenographic reports on anguish, and sip the cold coffee in the wax container. Busy, Danny? Ah, just clearing a few things off my desk. Yeah, maybe you better make room. Huh? Because I brought you something. I give up. What, Muggerman? I got it downstairs interrogation room. If you're tired of the lull, I'm filling it for you. All right, let's go. You gonna tell me, Muggerman, or you gonna wait till we get there, open the door, and yell surprise, surprise? I have a questioning of a man on the matter of a car theft. Car theft? Ah, don't go big on me, Danny. It's got murder in it. What? The thief doesn't know we know it yet. You coming, Danny? Okay, officer, you can get back now. Thanks, Lieutenant, I'll take over. Well, this is our boy, Danny. What's your name? Are you kidding? Lieutenant, only kids on a full stomach, mister. Right now it's ten minutes before dinner time, so tell him... The amount of times I give my name, officer. Try once more, huh? Georgie Haven. Where do you live, Georgie? I haven't established residences yet. I'm out of town. I guess... You guess what? I guess I got carried away with the splendor of it all, of your great metropolis. Yes, you hopped into a long black car and drove away. The car was sitting at the curb key in the ignition. For the 15 minutes I watched it. And being as it was there, and being as I've always wanted as a child to drive across the Brooklyn Bridge, I... Ah, now, fellas, fellas, I knew I couldn't get away with it dressed like a bum at the wheel of a multi-cylinder cad. Where you come from, Georgie? North Dakota. So now let me ask you a question, huh? All right. Big shop you boys have got here, right? Coming in here after I was picked up, I noticed everything's got a department. First they took me to a place titled traffic violations. Now all of a sudden I'm in a place called homicide. Question, how come? Answer. A dead woman in the trunk of the car. She was bludgeoned to death, slugged with a jack handle. Oh, you're not gonna get away with it, that's all. What about it, Georgie? You heard what I said. You're not gonna get away with it. You're lying through your teeth. There ain't no dead woman. Come on, Georgie, we'll show you. Come on. This way, Georgie. What do you think I'm gonna write in the North Dakota about this place, huh? You thought about that? Through here. How long were you driving the car before the officer caught you, Georgie? All morning. I thought you said that... Parts of fib. I saw the car round dawn, drove around to get the feel of the traffic in the car before I... Uh-oh. Police photographers, Georgie, and technicians. Also... Yeah. Yeah, I see. Oh, look, I didn't kill her. Listen, listen. Uh-huh. I don't know what else to tell you. I didn't kill her. Get him out of here, Margerman. Book him. Right. Come on, Georgie. You planted it. You don't think you can get away with it just because I've blown here from out of town. You can't get away with it. Officer Gaines, Lieutenant, a few things here we can tell you about now. No identification on the woman, constantly dressed, handbagged with the usual stuff, lipstick, powder, you know. No driver's license. This, though, the letter we found in. Thanks. Yeah. Joan, see me tonight or never again. I don't know how, but I'm sure of it. I have the strength to do it. I'll kill myself. Harry. Mailed the day before yesterday from the post office. Yeah. You got anything else, officer? I opened the glove compartment with a registration card in it, made out to an Ann Martin on Park. Here. That's it, Lieutenant. I'm going to go to town. Yes, what is it? I'm from the police, Danny Clover. And I am Ann Martin. And you can tell me right off what it is you want. Some information about Joan Allen. Never tired me to talk about Joan with anyone. Anyone who'll stand still, please come in. Thank you. I was just finishing a singularly lonely dinner. This has been a day without bows and without old youth clamoring for me. Will you have coffee, Mr. Clover? No, thanks. How nice. Black, cream, sugar? How, Mr. Clover? Black. Good. Here you are. Early fall of night. And the time to speak of Joan. A friend of yours? I have the greenest envy for her beauty. I am stunned by what her loveliness does to both men and women when she just stands still in a room. And I am her friend. What else about her? What else would there have to be about a woman? Her friends. A man who wrote her a note signed it Harry, for instance. I don't know a Harry. I know a husband, Robert. A fisted man, a man of intellect and rare taste in antiquities and present beauty. Robert Allen, contributor to Top Drawer magazine. Robert Allen, historian. Robert Allen, husband of beauty. Husband of Joan. And you to Joan? We found her in your car, murdered. Yesterday afternoon Joan came to me and said she wanted my car and I gave it to her and she was very done up and gleeful. That was yesterday. I wouldn't worry if she hadn't brought it back. Please, please, please don't stop me. Joanie asks for my car often because her husband won't permit her to drive. He has theories on the vulnerability of beauty. Joanie comes to me and I give her my car and sometimes she won't return it for days on end and I ask her about it and she says there was rain or there was twilight. What day is she had it? Oh, sorry dear Anne. What would you like to hear about Anne? Anne's friend Anne. Let's talk about Anne. I'm sorry Anne. Not for Anne. Don't be sorry for her. Rich girl and with a job too and she has beautiful friends and dead friends. And you mustn't tell Robert I let his precious have my car. Robert would be furious. Get out. Where do they live? Next block off the corner of Hartenhaus. Get out. Look. I know the rules. I shall keep my grieving within the borough and I shall not ask again. Get out. And leave her. Walk the block to where her friend had lived. Apartment of the long canopy fringed. The core of French poodle already clipped in bow ribbon for the jaunts of spring. Doorman of the question mark eyebrows and the long gliding ascent and maybe 400 feet above sea level corridor to an historian. You wish something? The release of music to spill into corridor and over the man's shoulder a room lighted with images. A Roman head in aged marble and sightless eyes on ebony pedestal. A Greek torso winged and in flight. A Chinese goddess in porcelain and across the serenity of her outstretched hands of bow and blossom. And focal point of all the classic beauty a wall lined with portraits of a woman, impressions, suggestions, reflections of a woman. What can I do for you? Mr. Allen, Robert Allen? Yes, that's right. My name is Clover, police. Please come in. Thank you. I was enjoying some music and a drink, Mr. Clover. Would you care for some wine? Mr. Clover. Oh, sorry. Oh, don't, don't, don't apologize. These portraits are my own indulgence and pride. They're of my wife. Beautiful. That's not precisely the word. This one now, we were in Spain on our honeymoon and saw the Monty. Personally, I believe a touch of trifle coy. What do you think? Well, no. Exotic? Perhaps. Joan has a chameleon like quality. Where she is, what the circumstances, Joan mirrors it somehow. You see this one in India with the sari. One would say, what would you say, Mr. Clover? The loveliest portrait I've ever seen. In order to do my wife justice. There's a thing about her. If she were here, you'd see it, I'm sure. It's a, a lucis, a lute. Sometimes I confess it's being married to a thousand women. Do you know where she is, Miss Stralland? I know. No, I don't. Isn't that unusual? In character. Joan goes off at times, communes with whatever she communes with. When I'm too much with her or her surroundings, I'm lucky. She always comes back. Stralland. Yes. Miss Stralland, she's dead. No. Surely you wouldn't be joking. And no. I don't know where she is. Help me. I'm... Help me. Help me. Help me. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as detective Danny Clover. Tomorrow evening on CBS Radio, Lionel Barrymore's Hall of Fame Theater turns the spotlight on another little-known hero of American history. With the dramatization of the important events in that person's life. For still more outstanding Sunday night drama, don't miss your Theater of Stars with Vincent Price appearing in The Empress Cereal. A drama of tangled emotions set against the colorful ballet background. Remember too, Sunday nights on most of these same stations, CBS Radio's dramatic escape dramas. On the morning of a new March day, Broadway moves quickly. Last night's carnival is memory again, after image, but still dimly heard, and ten hours away again. It's cross the corner and dodge the traffic time, go to work time, sandwiches in brown paper bags, and resolve to see about the Rays today. And hurry up, the moving hand on the time clock writes in purple ink and docs for lateness. And strung through all of it, loudspeaker music carried on the scurl of a breeze. Lean into it, inhale it, it's the good time, brand new day, and Broadway wears sun on its cheek. And at my office at headquarters, sunlight had its special quality. It touched iron, grill work, and street and dust before it sifted in and found its place near the file cabinet and lay there. It was picked up and became a man and was named Sergeant Gino Tartaglia. A bright and cheery good morning to you, Danny. Same to you, Gino. Nice of you to think of me. Don't mention it. Aren't we friends, Danny? Gino is. I was telling this to Mrs. Tartaglia last night. How friendly. Please, Gino. Pat it be on top of the head, a gesture she only does in a sentimental mood. Now to work, if you please. Thank you very much. Certainly. Rundown under deceased Mrs. Joan Allen reveals only snatches of info, such as she has no business driving a car since no driver license had been issued to her. All right, well. Some seven years ago when her maiden name was Westfall, Joan Westfall, she had a slight altercation with a man named Tom Marino that took a shot at him. Oh. Tom Marino, whose present address I give you, it seems jilted her. Stood her up almost at the altar. She took a shot at him. Mr. Marino good-naturedly called it an accident and did not bring charges. However, Danny. Danny Clover speaking. This is Harry Barton. Harry Barton? Yes, what is it? This morning's paper carried an item about a note found on the person of Mrs. Allen who was murdered. Huh? The note was signed Harry. I'm Harry. I thought I'd call. I've been wondering how to find you. Where can I see you? I work at Nathan's Swedish Kitchen on Madison Avenue, a grocery store. Thanks, I'll be right there Mr. Barton. You're the fella, huh, from a very recent phone conversation? Mm-hmm, you Barton? I gotta tell you, it was very thoughtful how you parked the prowl car a little up the street, not in front so soon. You want to talk here Barton? Give me a minute to shiver and shake, huh? The whole way of life is blowing up right in my face. You killed her, is that what you're trying to tell me? Nothing of the kind, absolutely nothing of the kind. What kind of talk is that between fellas? I killed Joan, Mrs. Allen. You knew she was married? For over a year and a half now I've been suggesting delicacies for her table. I wouldn't know she's married. Look, uh... And delivering same to her house and stacking same on her butler's pantry. And this was nothing, I would have crawled on my face down Madison Avenue in broad daylight if Mrs. Allen gave the word. That's how much you were in love with her. To such an extent that I wrote verses, tiny poems and back of receipts from the cash register. And... and what? And instead of a slap from her she would give me that certain secret mysterious smile that beautiful women can give to a fella. More than a fella like me in his wildest dreams... What kind of a fella are you Barton, you haven't really told me. Thirty-two I'll never see again. Downhill from over the hump. And baldish, see up here. A fella who'll go for any patent hair restore, any remedy for what ails him. That kind, ordinary but also deep and intense. A man who'll write a note promising suicide if the woman he loves... But exactly that kind. Destroy me. And the note worked? A year ago. I wrote to Mrs. Allen exactly the same type note as you found, it worked then. She received my note, immediately she rushed to my room, I felled myself at her feet. I read to her from the collected works of Harry Barton, that's myself. I played lush music on the machine. And in a while she went away. And it was the most stunning evening of my life. And last night after you wrote her another note you were stunned again. With one variation. I made a terrible mistake. I touched her. I put my hand through her cheek and she hit me and she flew out. And drove away in a long black expensive car. From the window I watched her drive right out of my life. I'll tell you even if it sounds corny, my life went with her. You'll stick around, my Barton. From nine to six, the rest of my life in maiden Swedish kitchen. So leave the place of the delicacies and outside. Consult now the piece of paper, named Tom Marino, once fiance to Joan Allen. Address on East 38th, go there. Park the car under a tree whose branches are still slicked by winter. And the house of old aristocracy partitioned now into three room flats and rented to those whose income afford to genteel and respectable location. One flight up, softly lit parter. Mr. Marino is tailored and smiling. Polite. And cooperative. Joan Allen. Of course, I'd be glad to tell you all I can about him. He does. How many years ago was he? Let me see. His name was John Westfall then. About seven years ago. I understand you were engaged to her. Once I counted myself fortunate. She was very lovely, you know. A young man in love and when it's reached the end of the world, he's always fortunate. But to have that sort of relationship with a beauty like Joan, look in the mirror and love yourself for this miraculous thing you've accomplished. Yet you're jilted her. Do you have any idea what kind of life it would have been, being married to a woman like Joan? Is that so yourself? She was lovely. She didn't react, Mr. Clover. I suddenly realized it. The things I liked, important things, cherished things, that you save for secret, for someone you're going to love for the rest of your life. I'd tell Joan about them and she'd smile wisely. That's all. No reaction, just a smile. You know why? Tell me. She didn't understand. I don't quite... You didn't understand, that's all. She's dead now. We'll be kind to her. She was beautiful, truly a beauty. And she had a languid way about her. I suppose to most men she seemed mysterious. She took a shot at you when you walked out on her. No, I laughed. It was that funny. So out of character. Mr. Clover. Yeah? She's dead now. I think you know now all I can tell you about Joan. I think so. Thanks a lot, Mr. Marino. For a while, walk with it through Mid-Afternoon Street. Pass the doorways of boy and girl with school books solving old early spring mysteries and coming up wonder-eyed with the proven solutions. Pass open windows in the halting trickle of the current piano lesson. And pass the slow, smiling street dance of an old woman with open arms who dances the winter waltz to broken scales. And to a wall that overlooks river. And pose the violent image, the death in a car trunk of a woman. And the other images of her beauty, of her silences, of her furies. Of a man who had rejected her, diminished her silences and her mysteries. And make a decision. Flip the cigarette into coiling waters. Head uptown to where a friend of Joan Allen's was grieving or said she would. Today's another day, Mr. Clover. Gold star day. A bowl cold, whispered something that I interpreted to mean a dry martini, dinner, a show. I want to talk to you, Miss Martin. This very moment my bow has his fork in the olive jar. That's how winged I said I'd be. It won't take long. Come in. Thanks. Five minutes, Mr. Clover. That's the life expectancy of a girl's martini these days. About Joan Allen. What else would we have in common? Man named Tom Marino just talked to me about her. Told me things you left out when I spoke to you yesterday about Joan's reactions to things. To everything. Well? Joan was your close friend, so you'd know. From the time we were girl children together. From the time we didn't know anything about anything. Hardly anything, that is. Tell me about it. The life and times and tragedies of girl children like a girl in the brownie, then girl with one leg on hot rod, then girl in white frock, then girl into capital letters womanhood. Like that? You and Joan Allen, that's all. It's assisted with her. What? They're not knowing anything about anything. Go on. It's assisted with Joan. In high school it took three private tutors to get her out of Algebra 1A. With English I helped her. With Latin there was a 15 year old boy of Latin descent. The ancient conjugations were old hat to him. Very beautiful boy. How about Joan? With close teamwork we got Joan graduated from high school. In the small time college she went to she was on her own. She was flunked out in one semester. You understand why that's happening. I understand only this, that you've made me despoiled beauty. Reveal to you the goddess with the mind of clay. I'm our senior, we'll be getting warm, Mr. Krover. Adios, Mr. Krover. Oh, hello. Good evening, Mr. Allen. I'm Dr. Moggabon. How do you do? Allen. Won't you come in? Thank you. You sir, you'll find that chair comfortable. And Mr. Krover, that one. And I'll sit right here. What do you think of her, sir? Me? Yes, I saw you staring at her, her portrait. The reaction of strangers who come into my home. Yeah, I stared. You had a very beautiful wife. It's a pity you didn't know her. Yeah, it is. It always is. I hardly expected such a civilized reaction. What are you talking about, Mr. Allen? Well, here we are, three men chatting in a most obeyed manner about a beautiful vessel most powerfully destroyed. You mean your wife hit over the head with a jackhammer. Exactly that. Now let's see, what is going to be your approach? Let's try it this way. We found out a great deal about your wife. Oh, really? Please tell me. Hey, Danny, you told me Mr. Allen was all broken up when he found out about his wife. Another lesson in civilization I give you, sir. Permit yourself animal anguish, but only momentarily so that life can go on. I'll remember that. You're the point we have reached. You gentlemen have found out a good deal about my wife. Tell me, name names, places, things of a person's existence. My wife. Tom Marino. Oh, yes. I heard about him. But much later, a year or so ago, he introduced himself to me after a lecture I had given an analysis of something, I believe it was a Near Eastern situation. He introduced himself to me. How did you two boys get along? We went to a place and got drunk for almost identical reasons. Mr. Marino insisted on picking up the tab. Now let's try Ann Martin. People like Ann Martin come to hear my lectures and take copious notes, nothing special. But a good friend of your wife's. Ann Martin is kind. But come, really, you're baiting me. You say something. All right. But it's difficult for me to say. Well, I can't help you there. I would figure out a way to phrase it. Tell us how you'd say your wife was a stupid woman. I'd use the word stupid. For a man like you, the reason for killing her. A man like me? What kind of man am I? Very high class. I'd use the word smart because I don't know any better. I do. And therefore I'd use the word taste. Okay, Mr. Allen, as long as we understand each other. You fell in love with Joan Westball, married her, found out that she was stupid. Gone. Years of it. Five years of it. She couldn't even get a driver's license. You wouldn't permit her to drive. Why, yes. You're a pharaoh, little things like that. Everything bewildered her with us, the pose. This quality about your wife, this vagueness, the smile of hers, wise, mysterious. Well, that portrait just above you, that's the best for that. Surely. That's it. The pose. She didn't talk because she had nothing to say. Ever. What happened the night before last, Mr. Allen? Oh, not so bad after all. Just to relieve your mind about that, Mr. Allen, we know she borrowed a car. We know she went to a man's apartment. And we know you know she did. Who cared about that? But it was the annoyances, huh, Mr. Allen? The annoyances. Nothing premeditated, huh? I must tell you what she did, this stupid woman. She had a flat tire. This baffled her, a flat tire, and the world had suddenly collapsed around her. Big tragedy, alone and lost. Maya Jones. And she called me, tears, please come, tragedy. I ran to her. I saw what it was. A flat tire. A simple thing. I started to fix it, tears, apologies. Finally, when I had changed tires, I did the uncivilized thing. Slugged her with a jack handler. Yes. The flat tire. The total of all the annoyances. And put her in a trunk. Why? Why? It occurred to me that this was procedure in such cases. Classic procedure. I'm the man for that. Now, shall we go? A haze covers Broadway now. For a time, the street is dimly seen, dimly heard. And for this instant, Broadway is stunned. But suddenly, the spectaculars explode. The lights plume upward, and the hawkers gather. It's night, and it started all over again. 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 Muggerman. The program is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis, with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Ben Wright was heard as Robert. Featured in the cast were Mary Shipp, Peter Leeds, Hi, Everback, and Larry Dobkin. Bill Anders speaking. Nothing small time about Charlie McCarthy. Tomorrow night, with vocalist star Howard Keele visiting the show, Charlie turned songwriter, composing a Broadway musical. Enjoy Edgar, Charlie, their guest Howard Keele, and the rest of the Bergen and McCarthy gang tomorrow night on most of these same CBS radio stations. And remember Eve Arden as Our Miss Brooks teaches you how to laugh Sundays on the CBS Radio Network.
