The Adventures of Frank Race, starring Paul Dubov with Tony Barrett as Mark Dunnamon. 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. And 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 Count Trafano Crest. Los Angeles after sundown, a sleepy city like a giant cat, warm and content, denying its spectacular reputation. Mark was out on the town and I was sitting in our hotel room reading a newspaper account of a case we had just cleaned up. As my eyes came to the bottom of the column, I glanced down at the floor and suddenly noticed that I either had four feet or company. Since the other pair of shoes on the floor were several sizes smaller than my modest hens, I dropped the paper and looked up, about five feet up. He was dressed in a color scheme that might have come from a painting by Cezanne. And had I been a drinking man, I might have taken the pledge. Is Detective Race? Well, the name is Race, but I'm not a detective. What can I do for you? My boss is disappear. I am chauffeur. You mean he left town without paying you? No, no. Just disappeared. You're fine. Why come to me? This is a case for the police. No, no. No police. Viventi say no police. Who is Viventi? It's me. Oh, well that explains everything, except why no police. Viventi is on parole from prison. One moment. Oh, I see. Which means that you'd be yanked as a parole violator if the police thought you were hooked up with the disappearance. You find the boss. I pay. I don't want your money. What kind of a rap were you jailed on? The one you've been paroled for? Oh, fight in crap game. With a fellow who thought you threw too many sevens? Oh, no. Was a Revens that night, but was his own dice. Ever have any trouble with your boss? Yes. Viventi want to go home, back to islands to loosen when parole is over. It's why Mr. Templeton is mad. When I tell him is soon goodbye, he... Blew his top? Oh, you said it. Mr. Templeton say he called police and tell him I squeeze oil and gasoline bills for to steal money. When did you see Templeton last? Two nights ago. I drive him home and put car away. I go to apartment yesterday is no answer. No. I caught on telephone today is no, no, no answer. I go to apartment again tonight is no answer. He's disappeared. He's maybe dead. We better get into that apartment and have a look. You see, Detective Rayser, he's gone. We might get a line on where he's gone though. You're familiar with his dress. Check the bedroom closets and see if we took any clothing with him. I look through this desk. Oh, he's good. I look. The contents of Templeton's desk gave no clue to his whereabouts, but the search wasn't boring. There were a dozen bank books held together by a rubber band, all showing sizable balances. In another drawer, also bound by a rubber band, was a stack of porn tickets, again for sizable sums. In the same drawer was a ledger and a list of money transactions with pawn shops in major cities all over the country. But it was in a little metal filing box that I hit the jackpot. A batch of precious stones in various settings. They looked like the Bavarian crown jewels. I spilled them out on the desk as Vivendi came back into the room. Oh, it's changed mine, Detective Rayser. Yeah, what about? You forget case. Mr. Templeton just go away. Vacation. You got the jitters, Vivendi. What did you find in there? Oh, nothing. I think I'll take a look. No, no, no. Step aside. The bedroom was just as it had been at first glance, a portrait of Jonathan Templeton on the wall dominating the room. But now the closets were open, staring at me from one of them, but not seeing me was the face that had posed for the portrait. Jonathan Templeton had been strangled by a brightly colored necktie. I turned back to Vivendi just in time to see an iron paperweight do things to my conscious mind. When I came to dawn, like my head was breaking, I made an anonymous call the police, tipping them off about the body, and then I stuffed the jewelry and the pawn tickets into my pocket for future reference. I was about to leave the apartment when the phone rang. I answered it. Hello? This is Lombard. Get that ring back here and get it back fast unless you want trouble. Which ring and where shall I bring it? Don't stall. You know which. Who is this? A friend, just a friend. Who is it? Hello? Hello? Oh, a man named Lombard, and he wanted a ring. It was something to remember. I stepped to the door out into the hall just in time to bump into a female who might have stepped out of a drawing by Varga. Oh, oh, excuse me. I didn't see you. It's all right. I'm not hurt. I was coming in to see you. So I notice with a skeleton key in your hand. You give me little choice. I must have that ring. You promised I, I've paid you all I can. How do I know the ring is yours? Why do you torture me? You know the crest. It belongs to Count Ruffano. I must have the ring when he returns. I must. Lombard wants the ring too. What am I bid? This is my final bid. A 22 pistol and monogram. What will they think of next? I warn you. I've got bad news for you, ducky. I'm not Jonathan Tableton. Then where is he? Well, that depends on the kind of life he lived because he's dead. And those sirens mean the police are coming to find out why. I'm getting lost and humbly suggest you do the same. Well, well, well, well, the wandering boy comes home and where have you been? Out. Out, he says. I've been looking for you all night. You was a guy which was going a bit oily and now you tell me you went off and had a ball all by yourself. Marcus, when I said out, I meant out cold. Somebody caressed me with a paperweight, although I can't understand why he ran off and left these behind. Holy cow and rocks. Hey, look, you didn't go off your trolley and knock over the jewelry store now, did you? No, but somewhere in this stuff is the clue to a man's murder. Come on. That's good. Come on, where? Down to the police robbery detail to check on these things. They're probably stolen. We can locate the owners through insurance pictures and circulars. The police check turned out to be a blind alley. Not one of the pieces showed up on the list of missing jewelry. I took out a batch of pawn tickets. I had lifted from Templeton's desk. Mark and I made the rounds of the three gold ball establishments. The answers were all the same. In each case, a man answering Templeton's description had pawned a valuable piece of jewelry. The handwriting on the pledges matched too, but he used a different name each time. We continued our march down Spring Street. He's another pawn shop. Miller's. What did he drop in here? That's funny. What? There aren't any tickets for Millers, yet he hasn't missed any of the other shops on Spring Street up to this point. And there are tickets for places further up the street. So? So I've got a hunch. Give me your wristwatch, Mark. My wrist? What for? I'm gonna pawn it. I left my watch back at the hotel. Well, how convenient for you. Come on, come on, come on, markers, give. Oh, right here. I'll put it on and go in there. Here, you take the tickets and check the rest of the pawn shops. I'll meet you back at the hotel. Yeah, yeah, everything happens. See you later. Well, what can I do for you? I'd like to get ten dollars on this wristwatch. I'll take it off. Here. Nice watch, but it's not yours. What did you do? Take in a crystal ball on a pledge? No, no, you had it fastened through the second hole in the watch band, but there are signs of wear in the band near the fourth hole. The person who wears this watch has a smaller wrist. Maybe we ought to trade places. In this business, one must be an observer of human beings and a student of human nature. In your studies of human nature, have you ever come across a specimen named Jonathan Templeton? Yes, yes, I know Jonathan Templeton. By other names, he plagues many pawnbrokers. Plagues them how? By borrowing large sums of money on worthless collateral. Maybe I have some samples of his merchandise. Take a look at these. Where'd you get them? That's not important. Are they worth anything? Well? No. Settings are gold and platinum, but the stones, they are mostly white zircons. A zircon is only a semi-precious stone. Well, how about this ring, the royal crest of the Trofano family with the large diamond? Also a zircon, worth perhaps one hundred dollars. Many pawnbrokers might give a thousand on it. Are you kidding? No, they are only businessmen, not jewelers. Most of them are not students of real values. Only one who knows jewelry well can tell a flawless white zircon from a diamond. The ring would certainly fool me. That's why it could also fool a pawnbroker. And if the pledge is not redeemed... The pawnbroker is stuck with it when it's appraised for sale. That's right. The more ethical pawnbrokers take their loss and try to be more careful. But there are others who try to get even by passing the corralero off on another broker. And that's where a man like Templeton gets into the act. The broker who gets stuck hires him to stick some other broker. Yes, for a very large commission. Did Templeton ever work for you? He's never passed anything here according to the tickets. I know fine things. He could not fool me. Well, can you think of any broker in town he might have worked for? Perhaps there are others for whom you have no tickets, like Charles Lombard. Lombard? A pawnbroker named Lombard? On South Hill Street. Can I help you? Are you Lombard? Yes. I'm a private investigator. I'm trying to locate some merchandise stolen from a client of mine about a year ago. I don't take in stolen stuff. I didn't say you did. I just want to look through your back files. Something wrong? Your voice. I've heard it before. I was on a radio quiz program a few days ago. Yeah, maybe that's it. What do you want to see? Your files from seven or eight months ago. Unclaimed stuff is sold if it isn't redeemed in six months. I know. I guess it's all right. The files are in the cage here. I'll show you. If the crest ring had come from Lombard's and had been passed to Templeton, I wanted to know who had dropped it off originally and why Lombard wanted it back. I rifled through the file and there it was. It had been pledged by a woman, Maria Nieman, and her initials matched the M.N. monogram on the 22 that had been jabbed in my ribs outside of Templeton's apartment. I prepped a few questions to shoot at Lombard, but just then another man came in. This is Lombard. Templeton's dead. Take it easy, Craft. Oh, any news? I knew something was wrong. Called again about the ring. I thought you'd be there by then. Maria went up herself. It was too late. Did you get a chance to look around? No, somebody was coming out of the apartment. Must have been the same man who entered the phone when I called. Yeah, she said he was big, about six feet. He was wearing blue suit. I was hidden from him by the grill of the cage, but he started to describe me like a police bulletin. I was a little confused. I was a little confused. I was a little confused. He was a little confused. He was a little confused. He was a little confused. He was a little confused. It was time to let the sun set on the little island of precious pawn trinkets. I came out of the cage and headed for the door fast. So long and thanks. Find what you want. He's the guy. Grab him. I managed to dump Lombard and a man named Craft made the door, but as I stepped into the street, the face of Maria Nieman stared into my from a car parked at the curb. Then all of a sudden she had three eyes, and one of them was the muzzle of that 22. I yelled stop, feet, and started after a man was running for a trolley. It served its purpose. The crowd fell in behind me, blocking her aim, and I beat the man I was chasing to the trolley by a good five yards. We'll return to the adventures of Frank Race in just about one minute. And now back to the adventures of Frank Race. It was one of those rough days. Getting hit on the head and shot at had turned the case of Jonathan Templeton from a matter of idle curiosity to a matter of personal interest. I wanted to have a little bit of a chat with Vivente, who had left me speechless in his boss's apartment. So at 10 o'clock that night, I sashayed into the rendezvous ballroom, a dime a dance joint where many of Vivente's compatriots spend their evenings and their money worshiping the biggest blonde Amazon since the gold rush. The orchestra was in a break, and only the pianist was left beating out a dreamy improvisation. I spotted my quarry in a dim corner of the hall near a fire escape. Friend Vivente was cradle in the arms of one of said Amazons who was gently rocking his dream board. Hello, honey. Want to dance? Talk? No thanks. On all counts. A big shot. Hello, Vivente. Come on, Junior, show your face. No, no, please, you go away. Not Vivente. Beat it, Bob. Don't bother my customer. Here's a fistful of tickets, baby. Your partner and I want to sit this one out on the fire escape. Well, thanks. No. Well, you find Vivente, huh? It's a gift. Come on, Romeo, out on the balcony. Know anything about a porn broker named Lombard on Feral Street, Vivente? Oh, he sometimes go there to pick up ritual packages for Mr. Templeton. Ever hear Templeton mention a man named Contrafano? No, no. How about a man named Craft? It's come to see Mr. Templeton sometimes. I drive him in car once with his girl, name of Maria. I read them out on corner near Lombard porn shop. When was that? About seven or eight months ago? Oh, yeah. It was spring. Is good? Maybe. It helps. Now, look, Vivente, you better call your parole officer and turn yourself in until I clear this up. Oh, no, no, no. With man dead is bad. Find who killed Templeton. Goodbye, please. His box-toed shoe caught me in the shin and I jackknifed while he went down the ladder into the street. Try following a man down the ladder when you have only one working leg. If you can do it, you're a cinch to make the fire department. I tried to figure my next move, and it was hours before a germ of intelligence bored its way into my brain. I was trying to do the chasing when I had possession of the ring. I went back to my hotel, turned on all the lights, and waited for them to come to me. I didn't wait long. Come in. Mr. Rice? Don't reach for the artillery in your purse, Maria. I happen to have a gun this time myself. When I shot at you, I didn't know that you were a private investigator. No, you thought I was a clay pigeon. I can't help what you think. I will pay you well if you will return the ring you have, the one with the Trophano crest. How much? Well, I have $500. It isn't worth any more than a hundred bucks. I know. I don't care about the actual value. I must have the ring by tomorrow morning. What's so important about it? The count may be here tomorrow. We're to be married. Give me that ring! Give it to me! She came at me with her nails dragged, and I grabbed it, and then she tried to give it that 22 again. I don't like to argue with ladies when they're armed to the teeth, so I put her to sleet me by. Just as Mark came into the room. Well, what, what, what, what, what, I will be a horse's neck. Brother, that caveman's stuff went out with high button shoes. Race, you cannot go around slogging dames and expect... If you would be more observant, Mark, you'd note that the lady is toting a gun. Gold-plated, it's true, but deadly. That thing could almost make dying a pleasure. What a gimmick. Give her some water, then show her out. I'm going to call on another lady. But it's almost 3 a.m. Just about the time, this particular lady will be having her nightcap in the small private room of Chico's nightclub out on the strip. Who is the babe? Her name is Cissy Waterfield. She writes the best society column in Los Angeles. I've got to find out a few things about a man named Count Trafano. Cissy Waterfield Cissy Waterfield wasn't hard to find at Chico's. There was the usual crowd of males surrounding her. I took a seat at the corner table and waited until she saw me. She pushed her way through the team and came over. The beauty of her blending with the soft beat of the piano. Hello, Race. Why, the part, honey. I read in the papers you were in town. But you didn't call me. The papers also told where I was staying. You didn't call me. I thought of it. Good girl. But you're a difficult man sometimes. I learned that on my last trip to New York. You were getting serious, Cissy. It didn't become you. Not with that playgirl facade. I thought you were going to leave, Cissy. Oh, Jerry, darling. I've just found an old friend. Why don't you run along? How will you get home? Race will take me. Won't you, Race? Yes. Call me tomorrow, Jerry. Good night. Oh, he didn't like that. I'm a beast. I wouldn't have done it for anyone but you. You know, I believe you, don't you? I need some help, Cissy. Anything you want. Just ask. What do you know about Contra Fano? I wrote a column about him just a couple of weeks ago. He's a dear. A scoundrel, but charming. We were engaged once. I didn't know that. Didn't last long. He went back to Europe a year ago. Some sort of court trial. His family estates had been seized just before the war, and the poor darling was broke. A year ago? But you said you did a column on him just recently. Mm-hmm. I did. His case was dragged to the courts and was just settled. He got his estate back, a castle on the Riviera, the works. Oh, he's coming back to America. He said some ridiculous thing in an interview over there. Something about coming back to the woman he loves. Know who the woman is? With him, it's hard to tell. The competition was heavy. That help you? Yes, plenty. Good. Because I don't want to talk anymore. Take me home, darling. I took Sissy home. I helped her wind the cat and put the clock out. We made some confetti in case we should ever go to the Mardi Gras. Then I kissed her goodbye and headed for downtown Los Angeles. I got there just in time to see Lombard open his pawn shop for the day. I waited in the street for a minute or two, then I followed him. You! Don't go for that gun, Lombard! I managed to get one of his arms up behind his back, pinned him to the mat and sat on him. Let me out! After we've had a little chat. I'm warning you, I'll call the police. You're in no position to call anybody, legally or physically. Now what goes with that ring or do I have to break your arm? The girl pondered. She didn't come back for it in a six-month period, so I tried to sell it. And then you found out it was a piece of junk, so you gave it to Templeton to unload. Yeah, but then all of a sudden she came back with the ring. I called Templeton, but he wouldn't give it back. He wanted to keep it. Did she know that? I told her. Her boyfriend, Harry Kraft, knew Templeton and he went to him, but he wouldn't give it up. He blackmailed the girl. For what? I don't know. Why were you so hot on getting the ring back? I wanted to give the ring back to the proper owner since she wanted it. Well, that sounds honest and ethical. Now one more thing. Where does the girl live? Why? So you can break... The Regent Arms near La Brea. That's better. Thanks. I'll be seeing you. My visit to the Regent Arms was brief. Nobody was home, so I whirled away the time by opening and closing drawers. There were several blackmail notes from Templeton to Maria Nieman and a bunch of torrid love letters from Harry Kraft to Maria. Another item of interest was an unused marriage license just two weeks old made out to Maria Nieman and Harry Kraft. That was what I was looking for. I called Mark at the hotel and told him to meet me at Kraft's house. I got there first. Back your cab or the... Oh, it's you. Going someplace, Kraft? Is that the cab, Harry? Better come in. I think so, too. Oh, Mr. Race. I know it's a little late, but I want to apologize for all the trouble we've caused you. Skibbit. You mean that? Sure. Your girlfriend offered me $500 for this ring I've decided to sell. Well, what's the matter? No takers? Well, you see, Maria wanted the ring back for sentimental reasons, but... But now I don't. Harry and I have become very close in the past week or so. And you've decided that he is your own true love, right? I guess you could call it that. Old friends for a long time and then all of a sudden in a week, love. I guess that's the way it is, Race. Foolish though it may seem. Foolish? It's unbelievable. What do you mean? Well, your intuition must be strong because you took out this marriage license two weeks ago before you even fell in love. Where'd you get that? In Maria's apartment, along with a bunch of love letters you wrote also before you fell in love. You thought the good Contra Fano had passed out of your life, but then he turned up rich when the European courts verified his rights to his family estate. That's why you and Maria never used this marriage license. Yes, again, wise guy, because we are going to use the license. We're getting married today. Why? Because of your great love? Or so you can testify against each other. Testify? For what? For the murder of Jonathan Templeton. Templeton figured out how you planned to take the count and he wanted a cut. But we had nothing to do with the murder of Templeton. Is that right, Harry? Turning state's evidence isn't a bad idea when the going gets rough. I'm sorry, Maria. He's right. Harry, what? You better tell him, baby. I have nothing to tell him. You tell it, Harry. I drove her there, waited downstairs. Maria went up. That's a lie! I wouldn't give her the ring, so she strangled him. Liar! Liar! Liar! Hey, stop her! Hey, stop her! Hey, tight, Maria. Let me go! Calm down, honey. Calm down. I know he's lying because you'd never seen Templeton and you didn't know he was dead. You thought I was Templeton when you met me in the hall. What are you trying to do? Frame me? I'm getting out of here. Not until you get a police report. I'm holding. I'm holding. I killed him. Speak to me, love. Speak to me. He isn't dead, honey. That was a nice shot with that bottle. But what a waste of good bourbon. Love, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And so I endured that little scene until Mark came in, followed shortly by the police who took over. Then Marcus and I flagged a stray cab and headed back to the hotel. They did have a panic. Imagine that dame bawling about a guy who was trying to set her up for the gas chamber. Now, how does that fit? Women are funny, Mark. That dumb dame. That countre-final character wasn't coming back to Maria. There's a story in today's paper about him. He married some fat blonde in Milwaukee. The old man's a beer barrel, the story says. A beer baron, Mark. Ain't that what I said? I guess the count was quite a Casanova. He must have had those phony rings made up by the girls to pass out like gumdrops to gullible females in exchange for their lovely, lovely kisses. Which is no crime if a guy can get away with it. Hey. What? I wonder how much it would cost to get me a patch of those things and I... Marcus? You know, I... Just wondering, that's all. Just wondering. Can't a guy even dream a little? The Adventures of Frank Ray, starring Paul Dubov with Tony Barrett as Mark Donovan, comes to you from Hollywood. Others heard in tonight's cast were Georgia Ellis, Eve McVeigh, Parley Bayer, Gunnar Peterson, Bert Holland, and Jack Kruschen. This series is written and directed by Buckley Angel and Joel Murcott. The music is composed and played by Ivan Ditmars. Be sure to be with us again this time next week for another dramatic chapter in The Adventures of Frank Ray's. Art Gilmore speaking. This is a Bruce Ells production. Thank you for watching. Thank you.
