Hello, UConn 28209. Yes, this is Candy Matson. The National Broadcasting Company presents Candy Matson, UConn 28209. Just a moment. People can barge in on you at the... Now where is that? That's better than nothing. Wait a second. Hi, Candy. Well, Mallard, my favorite foot flat. You caught me at the wrong time. Depends on your viewpoint. Shall I leave? No, no, come on in. What brings you up to Telegraph Hill, Mallard, dear? You. An interesting subject. Care for a drink? No, I'm on duty. You mean I'm being honored with an official call? Sort of. In that case, you can leave. No, seriously, Candy. You can help me, if you will. Well, the mountain coming to the mountain. Oh, you're not so large. Now you can leave. Only kidding. Here's a pitch. An acquaintance of mine, Gordon Ayres, has a little problem on his hands. He needs your help. What is this? Don't get excited, Candy. He's an insurance adjuster for an aviation outfit here in San Francisco. A couple of months ago, a guy and his wife took off in a private plane from one of those little airports down the peninsula and crashed. She burned to death. Ayres investigated and okayed the claim. A rather fancy amount. But his company doesn't like it. They don't think the crash was legit. It gets interesting. He has to prove he was right. He came to me. He wanted us to verify the facts. But we're the San Francisco police, and that's out of our jurisdiction. So? So, I mentioned you. Oh. He wants to meet you and have a little talk. If you can get the guy out of the suit, there's a nice little hunk of cabbage in it for you. Mallard, I'll take it, but there's something phony. How do you mean, Candy? This is the first time you've ever given me a helping hand in my private eyeing. Could be there's a reason. Could be a reason why I'm going to take the case, too. Must be the rabbit in me. I love to nibble on large hunks of cabbage. Do you recall the lyrics from that old song, the one that goes, He floats through the air with the greatest of ease? Well, that's what happened to Candy Matson, one of San Francisco's better known private investigators. She found herself floating through the air all right, but not with the greatest of ease. As a matter of fact, it was one of the most hair-raising experiences this pert little gal detective ever ran into. Well, why go on about it? Here she is to tell you about it herself. Well, that's the way it started. Inspector Ray Mallard, an old friend of mine, and that's all I can call him, darn it, an old friend of mine, dropped by and insisted I meet this Gordon Ayres, an aviation insurance adjuster. Two things induced me to take the deal, Mallard's big spaniel-like eyes and the money angle. It was right after Christmas and I was a bit short. Mallard left and I took the slip of paper he had given me with Ayres' phone number on it, sat down by Amici's pet aversion and doodled with a dial. Good afternoon, Pacific Seaboard Fidelity. How do you do? Is there a Mr. Gordon Ayres there? Speaking. Inspector Mallard suggested I call you Mr. Ayres. This is Candy Matson. Oh, Miss Matson, yes, happy to know you. I imagine Mallard explained my dilemma. Not in detail, no. Well, the situation is quite complicated. I was wondering if we could meet and discuss it at length. Can we get together this afternoon? If you say so, yes. Time is of the utmost importance, Miss Matson. All right, you call it, Mr. Ayres. Splendid. I'm just leaving the office now. I have an appointment down the peninsula in an hour. Do you have a car? Yes, I do. Could you meet me at the San Mateo Airport, Cranston Flying Service? That's okay. About an hour and a half? Hour and a half, fine. Goodbye, Miss Matson. This I didn't like. Already I was money in the hole. San Mateo Airport, right on the water next to Bay Meadows, separated by the highway and a couple of salt marshes. Why should I have to meet the guy down there? Oh, me. Well, I drove down to the San Mateo Airport, found the Cranston Flying Service building and got out of the car and waited. It was a nice afternoon, so I stood watching some of the planes take off and land. Pardon me, you aren't by any chance... Oh, no, of course not. No, I'm not by any chance. I'm Candy Matson. Are you Mr. Ayres? That's right. I didn't expect anyone quite so young. Well, did you want to talk, Mr. Ayres, or just stand there like a sea bass out of water? Oh, pardon me. I want to talk, of course. By the way, have you ever flown? On commercial airlines, many times. Why? Would you like to take a little hop this afternoon? Hmm? What's that got to do with why I'm here? Plenty. It'll give you a picture of what I'm up against. In what do we fly and who's going to be our guiding angel? Well, we'll probably fly, and that's Cessna over there, and I shall do the piloting. Well, I don't know. Have you been flying long? About 20 years. And I also flew for Uncle Sam in the late mess over Germany. Okay, I'll take your word for it. Good. Let's go into the office. Mother told me there would be days like this. Candy, she used to say, never leave the house without your parachute. We slipped through some prop wash, and I displayed a bit of silk that didn't belong to a parachute. Then into the building that housed the Cranston office. It was typical. A glass-topped counter with various flying trophies hung about the walls. Old propellers, silver cups, pictures of planes, and assorted certificates. Ayres plopped his wallet on the counter, and the chap proceeded to check him out. We went out onto the field and climbed into the plane. Then Ayres gunned the motor, and we were taking off. This is all very cozy, Mr. Ayres, but what's the idea? There's a very definite reason for it, Miss Matson. See that tower down there? Mm-hmm. No, no, down there toward Redwood City. Oh, yes, I see it. Oh, that's where we're going. About a mile east of that, there's a private airport run by a man named Folger. We're going to simulate a landing at that field. Well, I'm still not with it. I want you to notice all the physical qualities of that field as we come in for a landing. Notice the boundaries, the hazards, and the amount of free space a plane has, especially a light plane. You make me feel like a latter-day Nellie Bly. Okay, Mr. Ayres, let's go. I'll watch. Fascinated as I am by flying, I started looking around. The lower end of the bay on our left, the skyline to our right, and the bustling peninsula directly beneath us. I was shocked out of my reverie when the plane turned on its side and we cut sharply to our right and out over the bay. I thought Ayres had lost control of the ship, but no, it was just a routine bank. Then another bank right, and we were nosing in toward an airfield down and in front of us. Did I startle you? A little. It's all right now that I know we're not playing tag with gravity. I'm going to cut the throttle now and nose in for a fake landing. I'm glad you told me. I'll know how to behave. Keep your eyes open, Miss Matson. You see any high-tension lines around the airport? No. Any fences, highways, or any other obstructions? No, no, I don't. Now, look, this is a normal landing. Mm-hmm. Now, if I were to sit the plane down here, I'd be about a mile from the waterfront. Then if I let the plane taxi the usual amount, I'd be up by those hangars. Any problems about that? None that I can see at the moment. Look carefully. You see anything at all? Anything? No. If I didn't know better, I'd say we were in the Sahara. Okay, then I'm going to give it the gun. Without the wheels touching the ground, we were climbing into the sky again and back toward the San Mateo Airport. In less than minutes, Ayers brought the plane in for a neat landing, and we were over a very dry martinian little spot in Berlin. Okay, we've played charades long enough, Mr. Ayers. Cut me in on the plot. It's merely this. The man who owns that airport, Folger, was out flying with his wife one afternoon. Brand new plane. They came in for a normal landing, just as we did. As far as I could figure out, the plane nosed over and caught fire. He escaped. His wife didn't. As the adjuster on the case, I voted straight accident and asked my company to pay the claim. They didn't like the idea. Ah, you know how insurance companies are, Miss Madsen. Naturally, they have to be suspicious. But in this case, their fears are groundless. Mm-hmm. What about Folger? Where is he now? Still running the airport. Now, let's get down to cases, Mr. Ayers. Just why did I get the free plane ride this afternoon? Well, I've known your friend Mallard for some time. I wanted him to sign this affidavit saying the field is perfectly safe for normal flying. He wouldn't do it. Naturally. Naturally, being with the San Francisco police. Then he suggested you, I have to have some licensed representative of the law's signature in order to clear my neck with my company. Here, you saw for yourself. Will you sign it? Whoa, there, boy. Wait a minute. Feather your prop. You... you mean you won't sign it? I didn't say that. But I don't sign anything until I read the fine print, not even from my pal Mallard. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave now, after I have another olive and what goes with it. Then I'm going home. I'll call you tomorrow afternoon sometime. What, Miss Matson? Don't start to argue, Mr. Ayers. After my second olive, I get very stubborn. This got wilder by the moment. I was supposed to sign an affidavit clearing this joker on the basis of a 30-second buzz over a cow pasture. But oh, no. I wasn't going to get caught with my flaps down, not for Mallard or anybody. I drove home to my penthouse on Telegraph Hill, dished up a warm tub, some warm soup, and then some warm blankets, and blacked out for the night. In the morning, I drove over to California Street near old St. Mary's. I wanted to see a good luck piece of mine, Rembrandt Watson. Rembrandt's a photographer and tops in his profession now that he's not supplying the rent for all the bistros on the Barbary coast. Candy, my lily. Greetings. You know, if I was a GI, I'd slug you for that. How are you, Rembrandt? Strictly, yes, we play bon. That's French. Well, that's your opinion. And that's English. Oh, dove. You look as well-scrubbed as Mount Diablo after a rainfall. There's a romantic parallel. What brings you about on this lovely day? This lovely day? How would you like to go for a little drive, Ducky? Let's see. I was supposed to have tea with Tharogenese Murphy, the honest Irishman. But he'll understand. Yes, I'd love it. Where are we going, and why? San Mateo. And for why, I don't know. Well, that's San Mateo for you. Anyone else going with us? No, just the two of us. Oh, good. Then I shan't have to ride in the tunnel. Wait just a moment, dove, whilst I toss Henry my great day in a brisket or two, and I'll be right with you. Rembrandt fed his monster. We piled into the car and whooshed off to San Mateo. On the way down, I tried to plot a course of action. It wasn't easy. As my friend Eris had said, the field was free from flaws, and where do you go from there? I was soon to find out. Is this our destination, dove? That's right. Erie little spot, what? Yes? Reminds me of the recruiting posters I used to see for the Foreign Legion. Come on, Rembrandt. I want to see something. What, dear? The other side of this hanger over here. What's over there? The burnt fuselage of a plane. Candy girl. Your sense of the macabre knows no bounds. Can't help it. This is business. Is that the one? I should imagine so. Hmm. Quite a mess, isn't it? Oh, what a horrible way to go. Look it over, Rembrandt. Anything strike you as strange. Wait a moment. Yes. Why are there tattered pieces of fabric on this side of the plane and on the other, nothing but melted steel frame? Good point, laddy book. And another thing. Look inside the cabin there. The safety belt on the other side. Intact. So it is. And I should sign affidavits yet. Wait till I see that mallard. Pardon me. Was there something you wanted? Oh, how do you do? I don't like his looks, dear. Do you want a ride? Is that why you're here? We have cubs, cessnas, just about anything. No, no, nothing like that. Then, what is it? I happen to own this airport and I don't like people poking about. The owner? Well, then you must be Mr. Folger. Yes. That's right. Who are you? Santa Claus. A little late. Come on, Mr. Folger. Let's go into your office. I'm sure we have a lot to talk about. Folger led the way and we went into a little quonset hut type of building that served as the airport office. There were no trophies here. Nothing but bareness. On one side was a pot-bellied stove and on the other a mangy looking parrot inside a cage. Folger motioned us to a couple of firehouse chairs and sat down himself in one that swiveled. Now then, what's this all about? I'm Candy Matson. This is my friend Mr. Watson. I see. I'll be frank with you, Mr. Folger. I'm working with the Mr. Gordon Ayres of the Pacific Seaboard Fidelity Company. What? That's right. And they're holding a payment of your claim until Ayres can get a signed affidavit verifying his judgment. Fidelity! What in the world? Pay no attention, Miss Matson. That fool parrot picks up anything you say. I must admit this is somewhat of a shock. I thought it would be. Is there anything you can do to help me? Pictures, diagrams, anything like that? Yes, I have a complete file, including a newspaper photograph of the Christ itself. May I see them? Newspaper! Quiet! Quiet, you idiot! Quiet, you idiot! Quiet, you idiot! Yes, you may see them. I keep them in my apartment in the city. If you'd care to drop by this evening, I'll show them to you. Good. Supposing you give me a call when you get in town. Candy Matson, UConn 28209. I'll write that down. Candy Matson, Candy Matson. That's right, Polly. NC980124. I said quiet! Someday I'll wring that blasted bird's neck. The only reason I keep her around is because she belonged to my wife. There. I'll call you this evening, Miss Matson. We left the place, got in the car, drove back down the road, and ducked into a little clump of trees, well hidden. Rembrandt looked at me as though I was losing my mind. But in about ten minutes we heard the sound of a car coming from the airport. It roared past us, and at the wheel was Folger. That's all I wanted. I whipped us back to the Quonset hut, fully expecting the place to be locked tighter than a drum, but it wasn't. The door was wide open. What's the idea? What's the idea, Candy? I'm not sure, Rembrandt. It's just a hunch. That open door, though, means we're going to have to work fast. Work fast? At what? My telephone number is UConn. Not NC something, rather. I have a sneaking idea that somewhere back in the dim recesses of that parrot's memory, I can get a key to this whole thing. Now, hello, Polly. Pretty Polly. Give me a pencil, Rembrandt. Pencil? Here. Thanks. Pretty Polly. Candy Matson, UConn 28209. Pretty Polly. Candy Matson, UConn 28209. Candy Matson, Candy Matson. NC, NC. NC, 98012. 98012, that's it. Thanks, Polly. Come on, Rembrandt, let's get gone with the wind. I left Rembrandt off at Diogenes Murphy's place on Van Ness Avenue and drove downtown. I ran into a present-day miracle by finding a place to park, then took the elevator up to the offices of the Pacific Seaboard Fidelity Company. I spotted Air's office and walked in. Wow, Miss Matson, sit down, sit down. You're as good as your word. Thanks. Got anything for me? I may have, but first I want to know if you've got anything for me. Some little piece of information you've been holding out from your own company, for instance. I don't quite understand you, Miss Matson. I'll come to the point, then. How in the name of Kitty Hawk could you honestly pay a claim on that wreck at Folgers Airport? The plane was obviously burned only on one side, the passengers. And also the passenger safety belt was still intact, tightly fastened. You're a suspicious little thing, aren't you? Well, I'm like the insurance companies. I made the same mistake myself. That fuselage you saw was a training plane. It cracked up on a routine flight, no one hurt. The plane in which Mrs. Folger was killed was sold for scrap a week after my formal investigation. Well, looks like I pulled the trigger on the wrong target. Well, that's all right. As I said, I made the same mistake myself. However, I don't think it was advisable for you to go down there without consulting me first. Oh? Folger called me on the phone right after you left. You've given him a fine case of the jitters. Look, Mr. Ayers, I operate in my own manner. If I saw reason to give Folger's cow pasture the once-over, that's as it should be. And if that isn't agreeable to you, you can get another boy or girl. Oh, now, now, wait a moment. I'm sorry. No, no, you continue doing as you are. Good. Naturally, you want to be thorough about this thing, and I can't blame you. Right. Now then, what's the next step, Miss Madsen? I... Well, offhand, I really don't know. I'll call you first thing in the morning. Fine. I knew what the next step was, but I wasn't telling Ayers or anybody. This was more than just working for a commission. I felt I was on to something now and I was going to follow through. I called a friend of mine at an aviation insurance brokerage and got enough night work to keep me going until next St. Swithin's Day. I took my material home and started in. It was a history of every fatal plane crash in the United States for the past ten years. About 11, I fixed some coffee. About 2, I started to nod, pinched my cheeks, and snapped out of it. About 4, I had some more coffee. Then at 7, just as the sky dawned, red streaked across the bay, I found what I wanted, exactly what I wanted. It didn't tie together yet, not all of it, but the knot was now begun. It only needed a little tightening. I stretched out on the couch, set the alarm for 9, and woke up right on schedule. Once again, I got Ayers on the phone. Pacific Seaboard Fidelity, Ayers speaking. Good morning, Mr. Ayers, Candy Mattson. Oh, good morning, Miss Mattson. How do things look? Well, if you're referring to me, awful. I've been up all night. By the way, I wonder if we could make that flight again. Flight? Yes, over Folgers Airport. Only this time I'd like to make an actual landing. Oh, why, sure, that can be arranged. And I'd like Folger to come with us. I want him to describe just what happened as we go along. Oh, yes. This morning okay? The sooner the better. I'll call him right now, have him get a plane ready. I'll meet you there about noon. Now I had to work fast. I called Mallard, explained the situation, and he agreed to get one of his radio technicians and come along with me. We drove back down the peninsula, and I left them both at Cranston's flying service where they went to work. Then I continued to Folgers Airport. It was a little before noon, and Folger had the ship out on the runway warming it up. Hi there, Mr. Folger. Seen anything of Ayers? Yeah, he's in the office. He'll be right out. Come on, you can get in. Okay. Here comes Ayers now. Here, let me give you a hand. You can sit up front, and I'll sit back here. All right. Thank you. Right on time, I see, Miss Matson. Yes. Got the plane, gas, Folger? Yeah, I'll sit. Well, I guess we can take off. Here we go. Now then, Miss Matson, what's your plan? Just do what we did before. Circle out over the bay and come in for a normal landing. Okay. I'll bank her here. Fine. Now, is there any way for Folger to take the wheel? I... I beg your pardon? I said, is there any way for Folger to take the wheel? Oh, why, no, I don't think so. He's back there. That's because he can't fly, isn't that right? Isn't that right, Folger? What... what's she talking about, Ayers? I don't know. She must be out of her head. I'm not taking any chances with her. I'm gonna set the ship down right now. The way you set it down with Folger's wife in it, so she burned beyond recognition? Why, you... I can get the whole story, Ayers. Look at Folger, white as a sheet. He's ready to talk right now, aren't you, Folger? Yes. I'll talk. I'll tell everything. Including the story about the same kind of crash in Toledo, Ohio? I'll write you two. Don't move. I assure you, this gun is very deadly. You, Folger, open the starboard door. Go on, open it. Gordon, you don't know what you're doing. Oh, yes, I do. And neither one of you are gonna live to tell about it. Go on, Folger, get up by the door. Go on. Gordon, please don't do it. What a fine rat you are, Ayers. You're next, Miss Maxson. Just a little too darn smart for your own good, aren't you? I should have known better than to try to use a dame for the Fall Guy. Go on, stand up by the cabin door. Sure. Okay. I'll stand up by the cabin... Well, candy girl, let's see you get yourself out of this one. I hope Mallard's still listening to this mic. Mallard, Mallard, you big dumb cop, can you hear me? I can hear you, Candy. What's wrong? I had to tap Ayers over the head. What do I do now? I don't know how to fly this thing. Wait a minute. I'll put Kraxton on it. Miss Maxson, listen carefully. Take the wheel and hold it in the middle. Get your nose up a little. That's it. How am I doing? Fine. Now look down at the horizontal bar at your feet. Press the left one ever so slightly and turn the wheel left at the same time. Like this? Keep your nose up. Up. So it's just above the horizon. That's it. Keep it there. Better. Now straighten both the bar and the wheel. Slowly. Slowly. I've got it. Now you're headed towards San Mateo Airport. Now try to drift off to your right a little using the opposite technique. Better? You're doing fine. Hang on, Candy. You're going great. Now look for the protruding gadget on the right side of the dashboard. Black throttle. Push it in about a third of the way. I'm falling. Mallard, I'm falling. No, you're not. Just do as I say. You're coming in for a landing. Now don't move the wheel or the bars until I tell you to. The ground's coming up awfully fast. You're coming in just right. Now ready? Pull back the wheel just a little. No, not too much. That's it. Okay, now, rider on in. Now, quick. Kill your ignition. Kill it. Turn off the key. Candy, you made it. Candy, I said... Come on, crash, and let's get out to that plane. You all right, kid? Yeah. My knees feel like I did the conga from here to L.A., but... Otherwise, I'm all right. The boys will take care of theirs. Come on, we've got a report to make. Report? Sure. I sicked you onto this airs guy purposely. Sam and Teo didn't want to scare the guy off until they solved the case. So we cut you in on the deal without you knowing it. Candy, you did it. We've got a recording of the whole thing made over the plane's radio. Congratulations, Candy. You'll get a nice hunk of dough for this. Nice hunk of dough? Of all the dirty tricks. Mallard, you... I... Oh, what's the use? I can't ball you out now. I'm airsick. It was a very slick deal. Airs was a top-notch insurance boy. About five years ago, he met up with Folger. This was in Toledo, Ohio. Folger was married to a very wealthy gal, but couldn't get his hands on any of the money. Airs hit upon a pretty little method of mayhem back there. He took out a license plate under Folger's name, fireproofed his half of the plane, also the passenger's safety belt. Then one fine day, he came in for a landing, deliberately pancaked the ship, left the motor running and let the crate burn, with Folger's wife in it. They collected plenty. In those days, they had the names of Smith and Jones or something like that, and Airs was the insurance adjuster. They moved on to California, took the names of Airs and Folger, and set about to do an encore on the same old act. Folger met another wealthy gal, married her, and set himself up in the airport business. Airs got himself a job with a San Francisco insurance outfit, and voila, they were ready for another crack-up. My suspicions were first lit up when I saw Airs' face. He had more scars and stitches than a well-seasoned hockey player. And that broken-up fuselage behind Folger's airport, that was another giveaway. It was a test model they'd used to make sure their plans were all set. But the real giveaway was the parrot. What a memory. NC-98012 was the license number of the plane that crashed in Toledo, killing Folger's first wife. The parrot was also her pet, and Folger had kept it for sentimental reasons. He shouldn't ought to have done it, though, because through the parrot, I traced the whole thing. It was a nice one-time racket, but they should have quit before the police tripped them up. Oh, yes, Airs was convicted, and Pacific Seaboard Fidelity rewarded me quite handsomely. But that mallard deliberately using me for bait. I got even with him, though. I made him take me deep-sea fishing about a week later. Oh, did he get sick. Seasick. And I just stood there and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. Listen again next week at this same time for excitement and adventure just dial... Candy Mattson, UConn 28209. Heard tonight were Lou Tobin as Airs, Harry Beckfield as Folger, and Jack Cahill as Cranston. Henry Leff as Inspector Ray Mallard, and Jack Thomas plays the part of Rembrandt Watson. The program stars Natalie Masters as Candy, and is written and produced by Monte Masters. Sound effects were created by Bill Brownell and Jay Rendon. Eloise Rowan is heard at the organ. The characters in tonight's story are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental. The program came to you from San Francisco. Dudley Manlove speaking. You are tuned for the stars on NBC.
