The Adventures of Frank Race, starring Tom Collins. The war changed many things, the face of the earth and the people on it. Before the war, Frank Race worked as an attorney, but he traded his law books for the cloak and dagger of the OSS. When it was over, his former life was over too. Adventure had become his business. The Adventures of Frank Race. And now we join Frank Race for the adventure of the Baradian letters. Paris. At the end of a windy day. The dust kept falling, but walking along the Quai de Louvre, we'd been able to see white caps on the river Seine. Now, waiting to cross the Rue de Rivoli, we caught the Eiffel Tower looking as though it might take a bow any minute. Everything seemed to be going places, particularly masculine hats and feminine skirts. Mark and I were on a holiday after finishing an investigation in Holland. I'd sort of like to get around and see things on foot, but Mark, well... Listen, Race, where are you going now? Open the hotel. Another seven or eight bucks, I could never make it. Unless you want to haul me piggyback. Take care. No, not me. I don't want no part of them flying bedsteads they're using this time. Look, I got a better idea. What? I'll stop in at the American Bar in the next corner. I promised that bartender in Brooklyn I'd swing by and you'd a fat one. No, I can meet you there later. Swell, make it about eight. Our hotel was on the Rue Montmartre. Fairly big place, it was one of those open work elevators that whiz you up and down with all the speed of a truck in compound low. Our room was on the fifth floor. As I got here, a man leaning against the wall eyed me with a friendly gaze of a bartender inspecting a dubious check. Farther down the hall stood another of the same ilk, an aviable citizen who blew cigarette smoke in my face as I passed. Hello, Hayes. We had been thinking you'd never come. There were two of them. Both blunettes, both beautiful. The one who had spoken might have been thirty. The kind of thirty to make a sixteen year old regret his youth. The other was younger, maybe about twenty-two. I'm sure I'd never seen either of them in my life. You don't remember me, do you, Hayes? Can't say I do, but you're nice to have around. September 14th, 1943, in Saint-Colais. Does that mean anything to you? Yes, it does. It means a lot. Two days before, on September the 12th, you had parachuted down near Le Mans for a rendezvous with other OSS operators. But something went wrong, so... So I went on the run and ended up at a farmhouse near Saint-Colais where a certain lady... Wait a minute. You couldn't be Paulette du Brac? But of course. Paulette du Brac. How did you know I was here? I saw a little squid in the newspaper. So I came. I came, Hayes, because I am in trouble. But before I say more, I want you to know my friend Amy Cantor. American? Cleveland, Ohio. Hello, Hayes. I just came in and I saw a couple of men in a home. One was parked marked with a small mustache. The other one had a ring in his left ear. Did they have anything to do with this trouble you mentioned? So they followed me here. Who are they? They've been stalking Paulette for days. There seems to be a gang of them. Last night she was fired upon. Not a hangover from the underground, is it, Paulette? I don't know, Hayes. I only know that I am not as carefree as I used to be. I'm afraid. Oh, they're here. Don't open that door. I have the adjoining room. Slip in, both of you. Here. When you hear me let them in, leave. Where can I find you later? Across the Seine. First off, the Boulevard Saint Michel. There's a small orphanage. Saint Martins. You'll find us there. Yeah, I'll come. We'll talk this over. Well, come in, come in. It's always nice to have company. Where is the woman? You're the boy I saw in the hall, aren't you? The one that blew smoke in my face. Hayes, get away from the door to that other room, monsieur. Sit down and make yourselves at home a load of drinks. You have had your warning, monsieur. Now I act! I rarely use a right-hand punch for an opener. This lad had come in chinned first. His pal gazed down at him, as though looking at a freshly hooked haddock. Then, staring at me, the pal backed out and high-balled down the hall. I relieved my conscious caller of the blackjack, which he'd tried to bring me with, and then flicked him for anything else of interest. He had a wallet containing several five-frag notes and a letter scrawled in undecipherable French and a card bearing the embossed name of one Charles Beradian. While I was doing the checking up, my visitor stirred and came out of his... You'll be all right in a few minutes. Pierre. Where is Pierre? Your friend left the house. Your friend left for greener pastures. Here's your wallet and its contents. Who's Charles Beradian? I do not know. Well, I suppose you have a right to retain some self-respect. I'm going out. I suggest that you get yourself a drink, light out for a while. Just don't be here when I get back. The American bar was finished in a sort of a coco-modern. Everything about the place had the light touch, including the size of the liquor portions. Mark made me know to check his bartender friend, and Gary Lessoe with an expression of a benevolent beagle. Glad to meet you, race. Any friend of none of us is a friend of mine. Well, it be, huh? I'll take a scotch and soda, Chig. Plus a serving of information. Oh, sure. What kind of information? The name Charles Beradian. Does it ring a bell with you? Beradian. Beradian. Yeah, yeah, it rings a big bell. Where would I find him? I'll elicit all the rest of the elegance. Boulevard, Hausmann. Thanks, Chig. Wait a minute. You going out there now? I thought I would. Well, I'm going with you. It sounds like a deal we should play back to back. So long, fellas. Getting across the threshold of the Beradian Mansion was like trying to pry your way into Chase National Safety Deposit Room without proper credentials. My particular obstacle was personalized in one Terry Meglin, a brawny specimen with the title of private secretary for the instincts of a barroom bouncer. You can understand, Mr. Race. It isn't only a question of looking after Mr. Beradian. There's his collection to protect. Almost a million dollars worth of rare violins and objects of art. In that case, I can appreciate your sense of responsibility. Don't ever expect Mark Donovan's vote if you run for public office. You would have preferred to wait for me in here. Oh, incidentally, I must limit your interview to 20 minutes. That's a rule we never break. Here we are. Charles Beradian must have been about 45. A gray-haired man who toyed with violin as he talked while watching you with the stare of a hawk circling above a chicken run. Know anything about violins, Mr. Race? Not as much as I'd like to. There is nothing quite like a fine violin. It looks beautiful, feels beautiful, makes beautiful sound. Very few women have all those attributes, am I not right? Meglin tells me you came to talk about Paula Dubroc. Yes. Are you a friend of her, or is it that you represent her? I'm groping a little, so I'm going to be frank with you. I suspect that you have something against Paulette. I don't know what or why, but I thought you might be willing to tell me. Yes. Yes, I will tell you. Several years ago, I allowed myself to become infatuated with Paulette. She was the only woman to whom I ever wrote letters. Lately, I have been getting those letters back, one a week. Each letter cost me quite a sum of money. Why do you feel you must pay for them? In a few weeks, I am to be married. Also, I am in the process of embarking on an important business venture. Shall we say I feel I cannot afford the publicity? Frankly, Mr. Race, I've grown tired of it. Of course, if Paulette is willing to accept this service, well, a lump sum. After all, I was once very fond of her. I see. Suppose I talk to her, return tomorrow. I have no objection. There is just one thing. You might tell Paulette I don't mind buying anything that will keep me happy, so long as I pay for it, just one. At Saint Martin's Orphanage, I was ushered through to a secluded terrace where Amy Ketter sat in the sun, a delectable figure in sweater and shorts. She got up to greet me. Hello, Race. Paulette hasn't come in yet. She should be here soon, though. Those freckles I see out of your nose. Oh, yes. Darn it. I'm among your assets. I'll go with the rest of you. And the rest of him. And the rest of me? He stood there looking up at me with half-barted lips. So I kissed him. And it was everything fresh and delightful. Oh, gosh. That's having your prayers answered. I wanted you to do that, Race. Do you ever feel your fingers feel rough on your face? Yes. It's other hand smooth. What have you been doing, Gardening? You've got a blister under your chin, too. I'm a beaver when it comes to work. Race, I did want you to kiss me, but... But how about Paulette? That's a question I was about to ask you. How long has she been dabbling with blackmail? Paulette? Has she ever told you anything about a man called Berardine? No. Who's he? A dangerous citizen. No one from Mame Zelle de Broch to be tangle with. Is she still Mame Zelle de Broch? Oh, gosh. One minute the man's kissing me, the next he's giving me the third degree. I'll come back to our personal relations later. Well, she's still not married. What tie-up do you have with this place, apparently? Paulette just keeps it going, that's all. I'm a career girl. I work here. Where did she get the money? Her job. Maybe you don't know about that. She's been doing the lead in a revival of Rainn at the Lavic Trois. Hello, Race. Got a kiss for me, too? How long have you been here? Just arrived. I don't need to have been here to know that you already have kissed Amy. Or you wouldn't be my race. Come here. Well, Race, looks like I've been replaced. Well? You must be knocking up dead in the rain. Oh, I've been doing all right. I shall do better now that you are here. How long have you known Charles Baradian? Charles Bar... There's a name out to the past. He thinks you're blackmailing him. Blackmailing him? Right. Well, Race, what is all this about? A matter of some letters he wrote you several years ago. In 1940. I knew Charles Baradian just before the fall of France. He was very attentive, but to me it was not important. He's been getting a letter a week in the mail for a prize. He'd like to buy all of them from you in one package. But I don't have these letters, Race. I have not had them for years. Why, you don't appear to believe me. Yes, I have to believe you. But you'd better let me break that news to Baradian. By myself. Next afternoon I rented a car. Mark and I then drove out to the Baradian mansion. I told Mark to cruise around the block like came out. This time I had no trouble getting in. Meglin answered the door himself. And I was led to a drawing room smothered in draperies. Here a stranger leaned against the old man's mantle. He looked capable of breaking up a dark strike. And the cut of him spelled cop in any language. This is Mr. Race. Oh, I am Benoit, Monsieur. I have the sortie. So a little matter of blackmail becomes official, doesn't it? I am concerned with blackmail, Monsieur. But more than that I am concerned with the murder committed in this house last night. The murder of Monsieur Charles Baradian. We'll return to the adventures of Frank Race in just about one minute. And now back to the adventures of Frank Race. I was sure of one thing. My parents holiday had definitely turned sour. Here I had been acting as an apparent go-between in a blackmail transaction. And now its victim lay sprawled on the floor of his study, murdered. Around his neck an ugly red welt were. Some sort of cord cut and strangled the life out of him. I had a close look at the wound where Benoit laid out the details. Well, he was first hit on the head probably with a poker. And a fine violin is missing from the collection. What was its name, Monsieur Magler? Guarnarias. Yes, well we might call it a typical case of murder and burglary. But you can understand, gentlemen, that in this matter we cannot afford to accept the typical. What about the weapon? Naturally it was not left behind. And now, Monsieur Race, if we could repair to another room. I was going to be questioned and probably placed under arrest. So I maneuvered to let Magler and the detective proceed in the room. Then swung the door shut and locked myself in. I stayed there waiting for Benoit's metal machinery to work. He thought the way I anticipated. He figured I'm breaking for a window. In that case he'd move to warn his men on the outside. I waited until I heard them move away. Then after a few more seconds I quietly turned the key and opened the door. The hall was empty. As casually as I could I walked to the front entrance. Front door stood ajar but no one stood on the steps outside. Saddling out I caught sight of Benoit talking and gesticulating to a uniformed Jandarm. Then I saw Mark in the car. As he came abreast of the door I made him a play. Get going, gun it! Hey, Empress, think you can get away from him? You kid, this might be Paris but I learn to drive in Brooklyn. Told you I'd get away from him. All right, what do we do now? I'm going to look up the location of Paulette Dubroc's apartment. You can drop me there. Then I'd like you to run down as much information as you can in the Baradian household. Check. When will I see you and where? That's a little after four. I have a call to make. Meet me at seven at San Martin's Openage. An actress playing leads usually does pretty well when it comes to money. But Paulette's apartment proved to be prugal, even old fashioned. To the extent of having poor tears between the living and dining room. Paulette wasn't at home which gave me a chance to look around. A small dresser in her bedroom I spotted a couple of letters postmarked January 1940. Both were epistles of passionate drivel and both were signed Charles. I heard the outer door get shut so I figured that Paulette would come home. I went forth to greet her and... I came conscious again of the realization my head was resting in a feminine lap. I looked up and saw Paulette. How do you feel, Grace? You're very attractive, you know? You move your face upside down. Oh, Cherokee. What made you slug me? Name of my mother. First it is blackmail I'm guilty of and now you accuse me of hitting you on the head. Someone did. But of course it was not I, though, Grace. I wish I knew you really stand. I have not lied to you about anything. You did about those letters from Bredean. I found this pair on your dresser. Said you hadn't had them for years. You could not believe that they might have been stolen from me? On the day after Charles Bredean's murder? Grace, no. Not Bredean. Yes, Bredean. Strangled. Last night. And I wish I knew how to advise you. I don't know whether to say turn yourself over to the police or get out of the country. From where I'm lying, the last thought seems to be your best bet. Probably I should go with you. Grace, I'm really in trouble, no? You're really in trouble, yes. You'd better get out of here for a little while, Amy. Change your appearance. You've done it before. And take care of yourself, actress. In front of the orphanage I found Amy sitting in our rented car with Mark. Oh, want to take me for a ride, Grace? Such a luxury over here. Why not? Fine. Just let me drop these packages inside the door. I'm a hoarder. Did you know that? You've been doing all right with her, haven't you? Maybe you ought to slow down. Why? Well, she's just a freckle-faced kid a long way from home. Don't tell me you're picking up a set of ideals. Oh, nuts. Any information on Meglin? Well, in two hours I didn't put together no Gallup report, but I did find out he keeps a room at a hotel called the Platonaire. And, oh, yeah, he used to run a kind of theatrical agency in the U.S. Booking second-rate concert violinists. Didn't take long, did I? Violinists? That's interesting. Now what are you talking about? Violinists and violins. And a lad named Meglin. I wonder what a fine canary is worth. Canary? What's that? I always thought it was a kind of spaghetti dish. It's a make of violin, one of the old timers. Well, where'll I drive you, people? Find that hotel Platonaire. I'd like to see a man about a violin. I drew a blank at Meglin's hotel. He was out. I haven't given no indications as to when he'd be back. But later that evening, just before midnight, Mark and I had him for a visit at our hotel. His attitude hadn't changed. He was still the same self-contained career boy. But he had come to see me, which indicated a fissure of worry somewhere within him. You count on me, Race. Why? I think you're involved in Baradian's murder. Blunt, aren't you? Well, it won't work with me. I have an unbreakable alibi for last night. I'm sure of that. Or you wouldn't be loose. But do the police know of your interest in violins? I don't know what you're talking about. You do, but I won't press it. I'd rather emphasize another point. I found two of Baradian's letters today with fingerprints on one of the envelopes. That's tripe and you know it. Paper doesn't produce a good enough impression. In this case, the impression doesn't depend on the paper. It happens to be on the glaze formed by the glue. You're lying. It would have been a shot in the dark, but a registered Meglin in turn Ashen. He walked to a chair and slumped into it, trying to ignite a cigarette with shaking fingers. What's your stake in this, Race? You got all my credentials yesterday. I'm investigating. I have a client's interest to protect. What are you going to do with those letters? I imagine the French police would be rather enamored with them. Don't you? Now listen, Race, you can tag me with the blackmail end of this, but not with Baradian's murder. Baradian... The bullet had come from the fire escape. Marked me to lunge through the window and disappeared in pursuit. I yanked at the phone, put in a sharp summon from the doctor, and then I turned to help Meglin. I knew nothing was going to do much good. The bullet had nicked his lung, and the man was coughing his life away. Race! I'm sorry, Race. Whoever it was got away. How's Meglin? They might have just had a towel for him. Hello? Race? Yes? This is Amy Cantor. Can you hear me? Yes. Where are you? At the orphanage. Oh, Race, I'm worried. The police are here and Polette's coming in at any minute. Polette? Why, I advised her to get out of Paris. Well, she called me about an hour ago. Said she wanted to pick up some things and... Well, I'll be there as soon as I can. Tell her not to say anything. Mark? Yeah? How is he? We ain't got nothing to keep us here, Race. This boy's dead. Come in, Mr. Race. We've been expecting you. Where have you got her? Right in here. Should I come in, Race, or should I go upstairs and poke around like you told me? Better go upstairs and poke around. Right through this door. Right here, Race. Hello, Race. I thought you were going to get out of town. I'm not guilty, Race. They should know that. No woman would have the strength to strangle Charles Baradian. We can't sell him on that, Polette. Baradian was knocked unconscious before he was strangled. As Monsieur Benoit will tell you. Exactly. A woman could have done it, or a man, or both. And with blackmail as the motive. It points to Polette and possibly myself. Exactly. What was to prevent someone else from blackmailing Baradian? Someone who knew Polette. Someone who'd gotten hold of the letters. Possible, but not likely. I think it's quite likely. Don't you, Amy? I? I don't know what to think, Race. Well, you might think about why you wanted me to believe you didn't know anything about music, about violins. I don't. Look, career girl. All violinists have one thing in common. Calluses on the fingers of the left hand. Just like the ones you have. And very often, when the instrument rubs against their necks, they develop small blisters. Just like the one you have. Oh, right. So I'm a violinist. That doesn't prove me guilty of murdering Baradian. Do you want these items now, Race? No, come in, Mark. I found them in a room. Just like you'd expect it. So violins, eh? What meaning does it have? One of them no doubt belongs to Miss Ketter. The other, if I'm not mistaken, will prove to be the Menarius taken from Baradian's home. You had to get some profit out of murdering him, didn't you? Oh, you're insane. You and Megalyn were in on the blackmailing together. No. When I came into the picture, you had to move fast for a big payoff. That's not true. But Baradian balked and threatened to call in the police. So you killed him. And you killed Megalyn in my hotel room, didn't you? I'll prove it. And phoned around the corner to make me think you were here. I found the other item too, Race. A violin string with what looks like blood on it. A strangling chord. Ironic, isn't it, Benoit? A collector of fiddles murdered with one of his own violin strings. Tough luck, Amy. With you, holding didn't turn out to be an asset after all. The Adventures of Frank Race, starring Tom Collins with Tony Barrett as Mark Donovan, comes to you from Hollywood. Others heard in tonight's cast were Anne Stone, Trudeau Marson, Gerald Moore, Stan Waxman, and Jack Krusche. This series is written and directed by Buckley Angel and Joel Murcott. The music is composed and played by Ivan Dittmarz. Be sure to be with us again this same time next week for another dramatic chapter in The Adventures of Frank Race, Art Gilmore speaking. This is a Brussels production. .
