Hello, UConn 28209. Yes, this is Candy Matson. The National Broadcasting Company presents Candy Matson, UConn 28209. Ladies and gentlemen, before we commence tonight's Candy Matson story, it's a very great pleasure to welcome as our distinguished guest this evening the widely read radio columnist of the San Francisco Examiner, who conducts his own radio column under the title, Day and Night with Radio and Television. Mr. Dwight Newton. Thank you, Dudley Manlove. Recently, I conducted a popularity poll to determine our readers' favorite radio program originating in San Francisco. Heading the list and a top heavy favorite was your Candy Matson program. In behalf of the Examiner readers who participated in the poll, I am happy to present this award which reads as follows. 1950 San Francisco Examiner Favorite Program Award. This certifies that readers of the San Francisco Examiner have voted Candy Matson their favorite local radio program in a poll conducted by the underside writer of the column Day and Night with Radio and Television. Congratulations to all who participate on the Candy Matson program, to Monty Masters who writes and directs it, and to you, Natalie Masters, the Candy Matson star. Thank you, Dwight Newton. We're doubly proud of this award tonight because next week's program will mark Candy Matson's first birthday. From all of us here at NBC in San Francisco to Dwight Newton, the San Francisco Examiner, and most of all, you the listeners who've made this award possible, our very sincere thanks. We continue now with Candy Matson, UConn 2-8209. Just a moment, I'll be right there. How do you do? You are Candy Matson, aren't you? Yes, that's right. And who are you? Willa Gray. Come in, won't you, Willa? Is there something I can do for you? I don't quite know how to explain this, but it's my brother. Your brother? Maybe you've heard of him, Miss Matson. Gordon Gray? Why, sure. The songwriter? That's right. Who doesn't know him? He's written almost as many hit songs as Irving Berlin. What about him, Willa? Well, like many people I know, Gordon is a crime student for relaxation. He reads all the books, listens to all the radio programs, and naturally he's heard and read a great deal about you. Well, I'm flattered. When I suggested talking to you, he agreed immediately. Talking to me, Willa? What about? Well, it's his mental condition, Miss Matson. He suddenly becomes extremely childish. All day long he sits at the piano playing nothing but uncoordinated notes. Are you sure they're uncoordinated, or is it some new style he's trying to develop? Miss Matson, you're familiar with Gordon's work. Songs like Lazy Old June, The Tenderness of You. What he's doing now is just musical gibberish. How well I remember Lazy Old June. I was just a kid in high school at the time. Are you living with your brother, Willa? No, I'm not. Just as well, too. I don't think I could take it. Why do you say that? These foolish notes he plays. He says he's working on a thing to be called Symphony of Death. That someone is going to kill him. What? Now you've got me interested. I hope so, Miss Matson. He won't talk to me. Every time I drop by, Gordon just sits at the piano, laughing horribly, and playing these kindergarten notes. As I said, he's a great fan of yours. Won't you go and just speak to my brother? Sure, I'll see him. Gordon Gray with a shattered mind. What a pity, if true. Think of all the jukeboxes that would have to settle for promissory notes. Candy Matson, San Francisco's well-known gal private investigator. Nearly trying to get her penthouse on Telegraph Hill cleaned, and she walks into a stack of memories. Memories created by a songwriter named Gordon Gray. Symphony of Death. It never became a popular composition, but it will always be on Candy's all-time hit parade. A tune she'll never forget, because it brought about a very strange chain of events and a fascinating finish to the entire story. Oh, and the in-between department? Well, here she is. The gal who never suffers from gaphosis, Candy Matson. When I went into the cold, hard world to make a living for myself, Gordon Gray was an American institution. That's when he wrote his Never to be Forgotten, The Rhapsody of You. I'd had no idea that Gray was in San Francisco. Alas, I'd heard he was in New York, working on the score of a brand new musical. So when his sister confronted me like that, naturally I was caught a bit off-base. She wrote Gordon's address for me, and like the rabity little elf she'd seen, ducked out as abruptly as she came. Then I dressed, drove over to an apartment house on Paul Street, just down from the family club. I pressed the button, it blew an ugly little noise back at me. I entered, went up the stairs to 221. The door opened. Yes? Mr. Gray? Yes, that's right. I didn't call you on the phone. I thought I'd just more or less barge in on you. I'm Candy Matson. Candy Matson? Do come in. Oh, please do come in. Thank you. So my little sister finally got up on up gumption to call you. Yes, she came by this afternoon. We had quite a nice little chat. A nice chat with my sister? Impossible. A little mouse doesn't know how to put one word after another. Oh, here, here. Do sit down, won't you? Place is a mess. I've got manuscripts all over the floor of the High Boy, the what not, everywhere. High Ball, spot of Sherry? Thank you, no. Not right at the moment. As you say. I beg your pardon? It's nothing really. I'm just thinking of my monstrous joke. I'm going to be killed, you know. Yes, so your sister said. You mind? My sister, young. She's young after my grandchild. Do you know what? She thinks I'm slipping my cable. Do you mind if I call you Gordon? I love it. Providing I can call you Candy. I'd despise myself in the A.M. if you didn't. Candy, you're just as delightful as I had you pictured. Thanks, Gordon. Now frankly, what do you think? Are you slipping your cable? Of all the idiotic, of course not. Willa seems convinced you are. Willa's a mere babe, a suckling. What about this new thing you're working on, Gordon, this symphony of death? She told you about that too, huh? Yes, part of my monstrous joke, Candy. Want to confide in me? Let me know what this joke is. I don't mind in the least. You have brains. Not many people have brains in this world, Candy, but you do. And because you have brains, I'm going to give you a challenge. Okay, let me have it. Oh, no. The challenge will only come after he kills me. He? Who are you referring to, Gordon? That's part of the challenge, Candy. I see. Do you really believe that someone's out to kill you? But of course. That's the delicious part of the whole thing. I'm going to be killed. It can't be avoided. That's why I'm writing my symphony of death. Oh, oh sure. Now I see. You're making fun of me, Candy. No, no, I'm not, Gordon, really. It's just that, well, I've never met anyone who was happy about the prospect of getting knocked off. I don't mind, actually. I've lived a full life. I've seen the world. I've made lots of money. I've been wined and dined by people in all walks of life. My music will live after me. That's all I care about. Now I can understand. There, you see. That's why I like you. You have brains. Shall I play my new composition for you? If you like. Very well. As you will discover after I'm dead. It's all part of my monstrous joke. Excuse me. Pay no attention to the technique, Candy, my dear. My fingers aren't quite as supple as they used to be. There, what do you think of it? Gordon, I think it's a great monstrous joke. I knew you'd see it. It's part of the joke. You're really sharp. I knew it. That's part of the joke and you can see it. You pay wonderful compliments, Gordon. Thank you. But don't you think this Symphony of Death is a complete departure from your usual style? From something like, well, the Rhapsody of You, for instance? Certainly, certainly. It's because of him. I had to write something dedicated to him, didn't I? Well, to scramble a dangling participle, who's him? The man who's going to kill me. As I left, I tried to shake the picture of a cackling man playing one-finger doodles on the keyboard, but I couldn't. The impression was indelible. When I arrived home, I was greeted by the sight of a familiar auto parked out in front. It was my number one boy, Inspector Ray Mallard of San Francisco Homicide. I invited him up to sit a spell and chew the fat. What's new, Cupcake? I haven't seen you for several days. Seems like weeks. Huh, a compliment. That means you're after something. I am not. Can't I ever say something nice without you misconstruing? Okay, okay, a compliment accepted. What brings you around here this time of day, Mallard dear? Aren't you on duty? That's the trouble. I've been on duty for almost 48 hours straight. I had to take a little breather for myself. Working on a deal? Yeah, a hot one. No leads, no clues, no nothing. For a slight consideration, I might be inclined to help you crack the case, Sherlock. By the way, what are you working on? Nothing but hope and what's left of the bank account. You mean to say the great lady private high is temporarily at liberty? I mean to say just exactly that. Well, if I'm any judge of your business ability, you've got enough money tucked away to buy the Philadelphia Athletics from Connie Mack. What do you do with all your loot, Candy? Throw it in hair mattresses and sleep on it. Oh, excuse me a moment, Mallard. Sure, go right ahead. Oh, hello, Willa. I didn't expect to see you so soon. I hope you won't think me a nuisance, but I just had to see you. I understand. Come in. No, thanks. You've been to see Gordon. I just spoke with him on the phone and he told me. Yes, that's right. What do you think, Miss Matson? Very sad, Willa. How long has he been like this? Just a week or so. He flew in from New York and I could see the change in him right away. How long ago did he leave for New York? He left Hollywood for New York last month. Was he all right then? Oh, yes, just fine. He seemed so happy. He just finished writing music for the new show in the East. But when he got there, the backers, as they say in show business, told him the music was no good. He said he'd return to the coast and redo it. But instead of going back to Hollywood, he came here, put that apartment on Powell Street and he's been holed up there ever since. Do you think being told his music was no good had anything to do with his present condition? Oh, I'm sure of it, Miss Matson. He's always been such a sensitive person. No, no, Willa. I've known several people who've snapped momentarily and are a terrific strain. Maybe it's not as serious as you think. But what am I going to do? First, he needs aid immediately. I know a Judge Conway here in town. I think he'll help you get Gordon committed to a sanitarium where he'll get the finest medical aid available. A sanitarium? Oh, my God. Oh, no, Miss Matson, that would kill Gordon. It's either that or have him get progressively worse. I suppose you're right. Could you, I mean, would you talk to Gordon, explain what must be done? I don't think I'm capable. Sure, I'll do it, Willa. You sit tight and I'll call you just as soon as I speak with Judge Conway. Thank you. Thank you so much. I imagine I should inquire as to how much you charge for your services. No, forget it, Willa. Getting Gordon Gray back to normal will be pay enough. You're just wonderful, Miss Matson. Goodbye. Poor kid. So helpless. Poor kid is right. I couldn't help overhearing. She's about 90 percent mouse. She and Gordon must have been poured right out of the same mold as far as sensitivity is concerned. Is that the Gordon Gray candy, the famous songwriter? That's the one. And he's cracked up. Mm hmm. I'm sure he's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. He's a great singer. You're the best. Mm hmm. Downright sure. Well, thanks, pal. Just the sight of you has picked me up considerably. I'll be getting back to the grind. Mellody, hold me tight for just a moment, will you? Sure. Don't let Gordon Gray get you down in a couple of days. Well, it wasn't a very pretty sight. And I've got to face him again. Thanks for the hug, Mallord. Mallard released his grip and left. I snapped my ribs back in place and sealed myself with the ordeal ahead of me. It wasn't going to be easy, but it had to be done. So once again I found myself ducking down Green Street over Powell, across California, and down the rollercoaster of a hill to Gordon's apartment. He answered the door and I was met with just as much enthusiasm as before. Candy Matson, I was wondering where you'd been. You've been gone for ages, darling. You come in. I've got a surprise for you. When did you get back from Europe? When did I get back? Oh, just a day or so ago. Your letters were wonderful. I especially adored the one from Naples. What a time you must have had. Yes, yes, quite a time, Gordon. How's the new symphony coming along? That's the surprise, my dear. It's completed. Long last it's finished. To be perfectly frank, Candy, I think it's great having in touch with Toscanini. He's going to give it its premiere performance at Carnegie next month. I've already sent him the revised manuscript. Can you picture it, Candy? A hushed crowd. The maestro wraps his baton. The orchestra comes to full attention. Then that magnificent, firm downbeat of Toscanini's and symphony of death is making its debut. First, the allegretto. Then, the molto andante. The audience is at first inclined to scoff, to think that Gordon Grey could write serious music, from lazy old dune to symphony of death. Too much of a step, they'd say. Then, Toscanini glides into the con moto. The audience tenses, not believing their ears. Little by little, they understand what Gordon Grey is trying to express. Then as if it were not enough, Toscanini moves into the breathtaking finale. It soars, it moves. It transports everyone in Carnegie Hall into another world and abruptly symphony of death. The symphony of death is over. The audience arises this one. They shout for Gordon Grey, the composer. History's being made. More shots for the composer. But Gordon Grey isn't there. Gordon Grey's dead because of him. Gordon, listen to me. Because of him, the world will have to be denied any further music from the pen of Gordon Grey. I said listen to me, Gordon. What? I want to talk to you. And you've got to listen very carefully. You're sick. You need help. Your sister and I are arranging to have you sent to a home nearby. They'll have you on your feet in short order. Sent away? Yes. That means he will visit me sooner than I'd planned. Very well, Candy. Tell Willa to do whatever she thinks best. I won't give her any trouble. It's for your own good, Gordon. Believe me. I know. Candy, you never went to Europe, did you? You were here earlier this afternoon. Isn't that right? That's right. You just went along with the gag. That's right, Gordon. Yes. You'll be here sooner. Much sooner than I thought. Gordon Grey went into the other room and lay down on his studio couch, face down. That's when I tiptoed out of the apartment. If only I could have peeked into the future, I'd never have left. Because that was the last time Gordon Grey was seen alive. I went home, fixed myself something to eat, turned the radio on low, and sat down with a book called That Frail Vessel, a book about the behavior of the human mind. Out of one corner of my ear, I heard it. It was a 10 o'clock news over NBC with Sam Hayes. And there it was. The body of Gordon Grey had been found in his apartment. The book clattered out of my hands, and I sat there for a moment stunned. But only for a moment. Another second, I was driving over to pick up an old pal of mine, Rembrandt Watson. There was a good reason for it. Rembrandt studying to play the cello. On the way over, I noticed the headlines. The police had the net out for Gordon's sister, Willa. Rembrandt was home. He was agreeable to going to Gordon Grey's apartment with me. And before you could bat an eyelash, providing your batting average was good, we were in said apartment alone. My word, girl. What a garish-looking place. It didn't belong to Gordon personally, Rembrandt. He was merely renting it. He still doesn't deny the fact that it's garish. Can be the truth now. Why did you want me to come to this Victorian mausoleum with you? Just a hunch, ducky. Are you still taking cello lessons? Taking them? Girl, don't be ridiculous. I'm now giving them. Even better. Just as I thought, the boys in blue haven't touched anything. The manuscript for Symphony of Death is still on the piano. Can you play single notes on the piano, Rembrandt? I can try. Good. Run your hangnails over this. Strange. This isn't music. It's just a series of notes with no meter, phrasing, or regard for the proper time to the bar. Exactly. Play it just the way it's written. Very well. And call out the notes as you go along. I think I'm beginning to understand Gordon's Symphony of Death. As you say, D, A, D, then for no reason at all there's a rest candy. D, A, D, and a rest. Go ahead. E, G, G, and another rest. And then it goes D, E, A, D. There's a long gap in the manuscript. You know what that spells musically, ducky? Bad egg dead. Utter confusion. On the other hand, I don't think so. As we say in the movies, continue on. F, A, G, G, E, D. No timing at all. That spells fagged. So am I. However, it goes on like this. D, E, A, F. Another rest, then B, E, E. Finish. What? Through. It's kaput. Finish. Let's see now. Bad egg dead. Fagged. Death. B. Candy, love. If you're going to the notes of the musical scale, you could spell practically anything out of A, B, C, D, E, F, and G, even from a tune like ragma. But this means something. I know it does. Gordon told me it was going to be a challenge. What? Who's there? Don't be alarmed, Miss Natsen. It's only me, Willa. Willa, how did you get in here? Don't you know the police are looking all over town for you? Let them look. I don't care. My brother is dead. I read it in the papers. How did you get in here, Willa? The cops are surrounding the place. I just walked in through the front door. Oh, wait till Mallard hears about this. Willa, you didn't kill Gordon, did you? No, Miss Natsen. I didn't. Honestly, I didn't. I believe you, Willa. Because I think I know who did kill your brother. You do? Tell me. Oh, please, tell me. Down at the Hall of Justice. Okay, let's go. Rembrandt, bring along that bust of Beethoven sitting on the piano, will you? With pleasure, dear. I'll be glad to. Candy, this thing must weigh at least 15 pounds. Well, you're the only man in the group. Oh? Oh. Very well. Come along, bust. Hall of Justice or likewise. Candy, what are you doing here at a time like this? Can't you see I'm busy? Sure, I only want to see you busier. This is Willa Gray, remember her? Just the girl we're looking for. Save your breath, Mallard. Willa's innocent. She had nothing to do with Gordon Gray's death. Okay, you know so much. Who in Tarnation did? Put that bust of Beethoven on Mallard's desk, Rembrandt. I was wondering how long I'd have to hold this thing. What in the name of Schenectady do I want with that? There sits your murderer. Candy, are you out of your head? No, it's so complex it's simple, Mallard. Gordon Gray works like a beaver for two months writing a musical score for a new Broadway show. He takes the score to New York. Producers tell him it's no good. It's the first time it's ever happened to Gordon. It does something to his mind. He broods. He comes to San Francisco. His mental condition becomes worse. So is yours. For your concern, yes. But let me finish. Here, take a look at this. Bad egg dead. Fag. Deaf bee. Okay, I give up. What does it mean? Bad egg dead. Gordon Gray is referring to himself. Fag. That means he had come to the end of his rope. His musical knowledge and creative ability were running dry. Gray had nothing more to look for. Okay, Miss Edger Allen Poe. What does deaf bee mean? Well, that had me stumped for a while too. Then I got to looking at this bust of Beethoven standing on the piano. It seemed to dominate the entire room. Then I put two and two together and got Ludwig von Beethoven. Bee was an abbreviation of Beethoven. Beethoven was deaf, deaf bee. I don't get it. You will. Beethoven is going to hit an all time low. The answer lies inside that plaster bust, I'm sure. Stand back, Nullard. I'm about to splatter a genius. Take a look. Good gravy. A small fortune in greenbacks. That's right. And a note too if these eyes don't deceive me. Congratulations, whoever you might be. You learned the true meaning of my symphony of death. You've also just executed my killer von Beethoven. Now perhaps he knows how it feels to be cracked up too. Thanks for participating in my little joke. My last charade. This is my entire estate. Put it to whatever good use you may be fit. Gordon Gray. Oh, Rembrandt, do me a favor. Take Willa outside. The poor kid's pretty badly shot. Certainly do. Come along, young lady. I still don't get it, Candy. That's easy to fill in the gaps now, Nullard. Gordon's music was falling apart. He knew it. So he started swiping melodies from obscure Beethoven themes. But Gordon, with only his flair for writing popular music, couldn't grasp what Beethoven had originally intended. Consequently, the things he wrote were terrible. The more he copied, the more he realized that Beethoven was becoming an all-ruling obsession. It was Beethoven in the morning, Beethoven at night, Beethoven 24 hours a day, until it drove Gordon completely out of his mind. That I can understand. But what's this joke he mentioned? Well, he was a great mystery fan. That's why he wrote this gibberish thing called symphony of death. A group of notes that spelled out bad, egg, dead, fagged, death, bee, and so on. All part of his warped mental condition. That makes sense. Except for one thing. How did Gordon Gray die exactly when he wanted to die? Nullard, dear, I now know there are some mighty strange things in this world. Even a completely sick mind such as Gordon's has great powers of concentration. Gordon was like a captain without a ship. Like a man who's been married 50 years who suddenly has no wife. You probably won't believe it, Nullard, but Gordon Gray, knowing that his mind was shot, and knowing too that every last bar of creative music had been drained from his heart, his soul, willed himself to die. Fantastic? Not necessarily so. There are many stories about animals who have done the same thing. If animals can do it, why can a human being with a so-called higher plane of intelligence do it too? So that's what Gordon had done. Taken his life savings, sealed them into a plaster bust of Beethoven, along with his last laugh note, and sat himself down to die. In Gordon's mind, Beethoven had killed him. I can understand why too. For just before we left his apartment, I found another manuscript. I had Rembrandt run over it. Note for note, it was the Moonlight Sonata, backwards. But in one respect, Gordon had outscored the old masters. He had completed his symphony of death, and Beethoven was in little pieces. That left him one up on another old master, a fellow named Franz Schubert. He left one entirely unfinished. The characters in tonight's story are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental. Actors heard this evening were Phyllis Skelton as Willa Gray, John Grover was her brother Gordon Gray, Jack Thomas as Rembrandt Watson, and Henry Leff as Inspector Ray Mallard. From the start of our program, Natalie Masters, and from her husband, Marty Masters, who writes and directs Candy Matson, and from the staff of the National Broadcasting Company, we wish to express our deep thanks and sincere appreciation to the San Francisco Examiner and Dwight Newton, radio columnist of the Examiner, for tonight's presentation, naming Candy Matson as the number one program in the San Francisco metropolitan Bay Area. Listen again next week at the same time for excitement and adventure just dial... Candy Matson, UConn 28209. The program came to you from San Francisco. Dudley Manlove speaking. This is NBC, the National Broadcasting Company.
