Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel it wind up in the gut of the prison of the grave. This time rain slashing a glass roof, an old man's curiosity and an imaginary imp out of place. They all became important when two people died violently so a third could make a killing. From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character in The Adventures of Philip Marlowe. Now with Gerald Moore, starred as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story, The Fatted Calf. The first film of the season came as a surprise. It always does in LA where somehow or other people are never ready for it. It's funny in a town where people are ready for anything. Where every year the opening slash of lightning stands nerves on edge and cracks composure like it was so much dread in China. And by five o'clock in an afternoon of driving rain and thick gray sky I was no exception. I wasn't helped any by the arrival of a special delivery letter. A hundred dollar bill enclosed which dragged me out of my suddenly cozy office, into my car and over to Studio City in the San Fernando Valley where according to the letter Junius Poppy, the veteran cartoonist and creator of the impish Peter Pageant comic strip, wanted to see me at once. But as I wound up the spiral of McAdam Cole Sunswept Drive toward number 3840, I forgot about the storm around me and wondered instead about the man I was going to meet. Wondered just how many parts pixie the originator of a half leprechaun, half very funny human being who tickled the nation's satiric funny bone daily from coast to coast was going to be. And when I was parked in front of the place which was a few million raindrops bouncing off a roof that was all glass out of my car and going to the front door, I had made up my mind. Junius Poppy had to be small, slight, delicate and maybe self-effacing but certainly pleasant. Mr. Marlow? How wrong can I be? Oh, Mr. Poppy. Yes, of course. Come in, come in. You're getting wet. Follow me. Don't touch anything. You're soaked. Junius Poppy was tall, heavy set, gruff and a crab. I dripped little puddles of water behind him through a long hall into a studio which was a half a dozen easels under twice as many fluorescent lights. And a litter of Peter Pageant drawings everywhere. And while Mr. Poppy did not offer me drinks, cigarette or even chair, I became resourceful. I took off my own coat, dropped it in a corner where it sloshed into a disgruntled heap and I defiantly lit a cigarette and started to... Please, I despise tobacco. Oh, excuse me. Now first, Mr. Marlow, a few facts. I have been drawing Peter Pageant for 27 years but unlike most of the syndicated cartoonists, I employ no staff. We use no material, allow nothing to be published that I haven't created personally, down to the last stroke of the pen. However, I do have an assistant who serves two purposes. One, he inks in the balloons. What? The circles where the words go. And two, and more important, he watches me work daily so that when I'm gone... Even cartoonists die now. Peter Pageant will continue uninterrupted. My assistant is named Sid Cagan and he...to be more exact, his wife Louise is the reason I'm hiring you. Twice I opened my mouth to ask a question but twice he waved the question aside. So, liking him less by the minute I listened to him tell me what for the past week Cagan had been. First preoccupied, then upset and finally rebellious. Poppy, a bachelor who didn't want to lose a good man because of anything as trivial as a marital problem, had investigated and learned that Louise Cagan had spent a week in San Francisco recently. But he hadn't learned any more because an appointment he had made with it, a talk at all over since the sleuthing was not subtle, hadn't quite come off. Yesterday, Marlow, we were to meet at a cocktail lounge. I was early and so I saw her come in and sit down. She's the type of tall brunette you don't miss. I was about to start toward her when she suddenly leaped from her table and hurried out of the place. For no reason? Please don't interrupt me, Marlow, of course she had a reason. She was frightened at the sight of a man approaching her. He was very ugly, patent leather hair, sour complexion, eyes that belonged on a hawk. He followed her out but she got away from him and then he disappeared too. Louise hasn't called you since to explain? No, not until late last night. Then she apologized and lied about why she didn't show up. Forgot, she said. Casual like her? Overly casual like, Mr. Manor. Please don't touch those things. Oh, sorry. Yes, no. We made another appointment for 6.30 tonight at a different place. An artist hangout called the Talisman on Lancashire. This time, Marlow, I want you to go in my place. Perhaps my approach is too mechanical. There's just a chance. Now, Mr. Poppy, a few questions. First, the Cagan's home address. 717 Magnolia Boulevard. 717 and Cagan himself is still working for you regularly? Yes, although he called this morning, said he was sick. Now please ask your questions quickly. I must return to my work. Peter Pageant's schedule, four frames a day, hasn't been interrupted in 27 years. Oh, here, this might interest you. Here, take a look at this. The last frame has a lot of detail. Yeah, it has. Peter addressing the U.S. Senate, huh? Cute. You always work in pencil and ink in later? Yes, yes, yes. Now, anything else? Yeah, there is, Mr. Poppy. The whole business. Cagan's problem, I mean. If it's only a case of a gal not being true to a guy, I quit and you get your dough back. I graduated from the over-the-transom class. Louise Cagan is not the kind of girl who plays around. I know. What makes you so sure? Well, for one thing, an example. Maynard Roper. Who? Maynard Roper. He's an agent for Empire Features, the syndicate that handles my work. And though extremely handsome and what the ladies would call smooth, he got no place being, should I say, attentive to Louise. I could tell, I observed. Now, satisfied? For the moment, I can still play that Roper just wasn't her type. I'll call you later, Mr. Poppy. Goodbye. And don't bother showing me out. I can find a way myself. Impulse number one said nuts for the funny on paper only, Mr. Poppy. But impulse number two said, quiet, Marlow, it's the storm that's making you jump in. There's a hundred dollar bill in your pocket. So I got into my car and drove the mile and a half to 717 Magnolia Boulevard, where I figured I'd look over the Cagan home grounds before it was time for me to show at the talisman. As I drove past the place, I saw there was a light in the living room. And a woman, brunette and attractive, who was no doubt the lady of the house, paging through a magazine. And things stayed like that each time I came around the block. But 20 minutes later, when I parked in front of a nearby corner drugstore to get cigarettes, I forgot the lady of the house because getting out of a parked car in front of me was a man with cello complexion and eyes borrowed from a hawk, easily seen by the rain splash light from the display windows. When he hurried inside into a phone booth, I saw the patent leather hair Mr. Poppy had already described. And he got his call through and turned his back to the street. I moved quickly to his car, opened the front door, struck a match and read the name and address on the owner's card strapped around the steering wheel. It was Burt Slack, 200 Central Avenue, San Francisco, California. The city in which Louise Cagan had recently chosen to spend a week. The clock on the dashboard reminded me it was 6.15 and time to head for my rendezvous at the talisman. But the little voice deep inside said Mr. Burt Slack shouldn't. So for what it was worth, I reached under the dashboard and yanked the ignition wire. Then I got back into my car hoping to gain ten minutes and headed toward the club on Lancashire Boulevard. Another scotch and soda, sir? Keep the rain from soaking all the way through, you know. Yeah, all right, another scotch and soda. Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute. That lady there, the one in the blue cape who just came in? Oh, yes, yes. I'm going to come over to Mr. Poppy's table, will you? We'll order then. All right, sir, any gift. Keep the rain from soaking all the way through, isn't that awful? I'm awfully sorry I'm late, Junius. I... Oh, excuse me. Waiter, you've made a mistake. No, no, no, Mrs. Cagan, the mistake was mine on purpose. You wouldn't have known me by name. Which is what? Philip Marlowe. I'm a friend of Junius's. He was tied up with his work tonight and asked me to keep his dates for him. Like a drink? No, thanks. I haven't got the time. But why didn't Junius call me or leave a message here? I don't know. Perhaps he forgot or... Perhaps you're a liar. Perhaps he called my place after I left, then called here. Waiter. Yes, ma'am? Will you please check with the captain and see if anyone left a message for Mrs. Cagan, please? Yes, ma'am. And on your way back, two scotch and sodas, huh? Now, just a minute, Mr. Marlowe. I've already said no. As long as we're playing things back, you already said I was a liar. Why? Because Junius told me that my meeting with him would be personal. And since he's gone far enough out of his way to even call me on the telephone about it, it must also be important to him. And it is. As important to him as, say, San Francisco is to you. San Francisco. So you're not really a friend of Junius' papa's? Not buddy-buddy, no. But I am a friend of Bert's Slack. You know Slack? Yeah. Now, why don't you sit down, Louise? Our drinks are coming. Well, here we are. Two scotch and sodas. Just the thing to keep the rank... Oh. I already said that once tonight. Yes, you did. Yeah. Well, two scotch and sodas, just like you ordered. And no message for you, Mrs. Kagan. Thank you. Mr. Marlow, you know about San Francisco, you know about Bert's Slack, and somehow or other you know I was supposed to meet Junius' papa here, and he couldn't make it. So why don't you just sit here and think it out all by yourself, huh? I'm going. Come back here. Let's go, my arm. When I'm ready, gentlelady. Which might be right now, don't you think? Maynard, thank heaven you're here. I usually am, Louise. Well, my good man, have you reached a decision? About the young lady's arm, I mean. Let go. Maynard, please see that he doesn't follow me. It'll be a pleasure, Louise. What are we drinking, Mr. uh... Marlow, Marlow. Scotch and soda. Wonder what keeps that from soaking through. Maynard wrote that our handsome syndicate agent Junius' poppy attack very smooth was also very snide. When he slid into the booth next to me and we each had a fresh drink while Louise Kagan put distance between us, I knew that the urge I had to punch him in his finely chiseled Grecian nose could not be blamed on the stormy weather. It would be just as much fun on a sunny day. A couple of minutes later when he got up, flashed, glistening uppers and lowers at me and started to leave with a worst-in-snide, bye-bye, boy. I had to hold on tight. Somewhere along the line I slipped. Hey, Roper, you forgot something. Oh? Now what is it? This! This! Also, you didn't thank me for your drink. It was rude of you. Bye-bye, boy. Outside I felt better. As I walked around to the alley behind the club where I parked my car, I noticed that the rain had tightened up to a drizzle that was about ready to call it quits. At the corner of the sky already showed dark blue with a single star front and center. But I didn't notice until I was in line with my front fenders was company on hand. I have been waiting for you. It was snow with wide-open eyes that flashed something close to a stereo, the length of a long, thin arm that was pointed at me and trembled while the hand awkwardly held a gun for what had to be his first time. I am Sid Kagan. I want to know why you are following my wife, what you have to do with her. I do know that you are a private detective and that your name is Philip Marlowe. That junious poppy hired you. That much I found out. You ought to be able to put the rest together yourself. You're a big boy now. Junious is worried about you, Kagan, because you and Turner are worried about your wife. Look, he wants to help you all the way around. I don't believe you. I only believe that people are bothering Louise, molesting her, driving her out of her mind, and I... I want to stop them. I want to protect her. All right. Take a look at this picture and see if you can tell me whether or not this is one of those you say are molesting her. Picture? Let me see. I can't. It's only a calling card, Kagan. Don't give me that gun. Sure. With a clip out. Here. Now, also, I'll give you some advice. Go on home, Kagan, and soak your hot head in a bucket of ice cold. It's the most you can do to help. Now, beat it before I get mad. Go on! All right. I'll go. But remember, Marlowe, I am still going to protect my wife. Yeah, I'll remember, Kagan. You jerk. Nothing as stupid as an amateur with a gun. Stand still, Marlowe. I am no amateur. Oh, fine. I wouldn't bother looking under the hood, either. We're now even. One torn ignition wire deserves another, hmm? Well, Mr. Slack. So, isn't that 38 been waiting long? Long enough. So, you're a private detective, huh? Now, that's interesting. I'm a private eye, too. Really? You find crumbs in every profession. Where do we go from here? No place. It's a team, anyhow. I'm finished. I've done my little job. I'm leaving town. The personal business that brought me here is over and done with. All's well. You'd be smart to look at it that way yourself, Jack. Yeah, brilliant, brilliant. We'd go over big with my client, wouldn't we? What's the difference how it goes over with your client now? Why don't you read the papers? Meaning what? The latest edition here. Catch. And read. Genius poppy. Out loud, Marlowe, please. Found dead in a studio city home. Creator of Peter Pagin's shot to death. Hmm. Surprised, huh? Yeah. Plenty. Well, that's too bad. But I guess you'll get over it. Why do you walk all the way down this alley without turning around? Now, go on. Move, Mr. Marlowe, as directed. Goodbye. In a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe. But first, you'll say, where has the time gone when you listen to Club 15, the great quarter-hour show of Melody, Song, and Patter, starring Dick Hames with the Andrews sisters, Evelyn Knight and the Modernaires. You'll like singing host Dick Hames. You'll like song stars Evelyn Knight and the Andrews sisters. In fact, you'll like everything about Club 15. Listen every weekday evening over most of these same CBS stations. Tune in, tune in this ball, for the show that you love best of all. Listen carefully, here's the address. It's CBS, CBS. Now, with our star Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, The Fatted Calf. When the man named Slack with a coat of ethics to match said walk, I walked. By the time I'd taken ten steps, I knew that he was already gone, so I went back to my car, cursed my way through a fast repair job on the wiring, and headed to my late client's studio again. When I got there, the usual messy routine of cameras, tape measures, and notebooks were still in progress, and I was about to go inside. It changed my mind when I saw Louise Kagan step blithely out the door and walk almost jauntily over the flagstones that led from the house to the parking area. Hey Louise, wait! Oh, you again. Well, what do you want? Just one good morbid reason why you're not making with tears over what's inside. I never lost any love in there. If I pretended I had, it wouldn't fool anybody for five minutes. Nobody liked Junius Poppy, and I was no exception. I'd go real easy with that kind of talk from now on if I were you. What's that crack supposed to mean? That not later than tomorrow morning, your husband, Sid, will take over Peter Pagin completely. So? So you struck gold, you're in, you got it made. Are you implying that I had something to do with Junius' death? Oh, I doubt that you pulled the trigger, baby, personally. But there's a good solid connection, and I'm going to find it. Where's your husband? Inside with the police? No, I came here looking for him. He must be at home. How much do the cops know so far? Nothing, except that Junius died between two and three hours ago. Look, why don't you trot in and ask them yourself, Quizmaster? I don't think they can help me. You see, I'm still interested in a big ugly question mark all wrapped up in San Francisco. Look, Mr.... And before I turn loose of it, I'll understand it, believe me. I'm going over to your place now to talk to Sid. Can I give you a lift? No, thank you. Suit yourself. I'll get there ahead of you, and I might find something you wouldn't want me to know about. All right. I'll ride with you. Let's go. Let's do that. Get in. Thanks so much for the ride. You know, I wouldn't have enjoyed it a bit more in a hearse. You can drop the acid routine, Louise. I got a thick skin. Let's go inside. Now look, Marlowe, Sid isn't home. I can see from here the lights are out. Only proves somebody turned a switch. Come on, open up. All right. Come on. That's better. And since you're making yourself so at home, you might as well make yourself a drink. Hey, it's a good idea. Nice little bar you got here, honey. Always easier to talk with a drink in your... Hey, Louise, these papers on the table. Ever seen them before? What are they? Contracts, I'd say. Yeah, all filled out. Just waiting for Kagan's signature. So your husband is now a full-fledged big-time cartoonist. What do you know? Pretty fast work, huh? Just what do you think? Creator of Peter Pagin's been dead not more than three hours and already a success's contract. They're drawn up. No wonder Junius was bitter. Maynard Roper had those drawn up beforehand, just in case. Yeah, just in case somebody's patience ran out. Could be your husband's. I want to talk to him. You're out of your mind. He's been here, baby, and not long ago either. Here's his trench coat on the chair. What? Maybe he left again and maybe he didn't. Now, you take a look through the rest of the house, and if you find him, tell him to come on out. There's still time to talk. Well, go on! She gave me a glare that said she'd like to run my head through a garbage disposal unit and walk past me into the hall. As I held the trench coat, I saw an interesting smudge on the elbow of the right sleeve. It was an imprint of the little cartoon character, Peter Pagin, in the exact pose I'd seen earlier. Peter Pagin addressing the United States Senate. It could only mean one thing. The right sleeve of the coat I was holding had been jammed down into wet ink on Junior's poppy's drawing board shortly after I'd left the studio tonight. I was still looking at the coat when Louise came back. She started to say something, but the doorbell interrupted and kept on interrupting, and finally she walked over and answered it. It was Bert Slyke, the man from San Francisco. His face, green and waxy, would have worn the same look if he'd been falling out of a 10-story window and knew he couldn't hold on. He gripped the door casing with both hands, like a slow-motion fireman sliding down a pole. Suddenly he jerked up one hand and pointed at Louise. He turned his eyes at me and tried to speak. Then he took five sliding, stumbling steps into the room and pitched headlong to the floor. The handle of a knife ringed by a patch of drying blood stuck out of his back between his shoulder blades. Oh, Sid, Sid, you couldn't have... Sid, you think Sid did it? Why, Louise? What's the reason? No, no, I didn't mean that. Oh, get away, get out of here. Not yet. Slyke was a cheap private eye from San Francisco, and you just got back from there. What happened up there, Louise? Why do you think your husband had to kill this guy? No, no, I won't tell you. I don't know anything. Oh, leave me alone. Get away from me. All right, all right. Get hold of yourself. You're hysterical. Now listen to me. Where does Roper live? Come on, main at Roper. His address. 94 Addison Avenue. Why? Because your husband might be there, and I want to talk to him now more than ever. You're on your own, baby. Get good and hysterical if you want to. I'll see you. 94 Addison Avenue was a shellac pine under Ivy bungalow, hiding behind 10 feet of manicured hedge, and flanked by a small swimming pool that involved more chromium than water. When the door opened in response to a deep-tone gown, I saw several thousand dollars' worth of Chinese modern dudas behind a quilted silk smoking jacket wrapped around main at Roper, the first glad I helping have hated me and then changed his mind and smiled. Well, hello, Mono. Have you seen our hot tempered Louise lately? Yeah, I just left her. She had the temper scared out of her when a guy died on a living room floor. How horrible. Yeah. This one had a knife in his back. He'd been carrying it for some time. Made it as far as Cagans because he had something important to say, but he couldn't get it out. The name was Slack from San Francisco. Ever hear of him? Slack? Why, no. They tell me, have you seen Sid Cagan recently? I mean, was it in the last hour? Yes, twice. Once when I took his new contracts to his place, and again when he came here to talk them over. He left a few minutes ago. Say where he was going? No, wait. He did say he intended to stop at a drug store. He had a hedge. Which drug store? The one down the street about a block. Mm-hmm. Oh, but look, Mono, surely you don't really believe that Sid killed this man. He had a motive. You realize what you're saying? What have you got to go on, actually? A slip his wife made and a pita pageant that turned up out of place. Oh, Louise was no doubt hysterical. Under those circumstances, I'd be too. And as for pita pageant, don't forget that Sid's been practicing him for six years. He probably combs pita pageants out of his hair at night. Not this one. It was on a trench coat sleeve. I found it in Sid Cagan's living room. It was picked up from wedding on Junior's poppy's drawing board tonight. In fact, it was the last pita pageant Junior's drew before he was killed. That's what I've got to go on, Mr. Roper, so thanks and good night. I got in my car and drove fast till I found the drug store and then pulled up across the street from the place and watched. A cab was waiting out in front. When the door opened in the store, I started to get out, but... stopped again as Sid Cagan, the collar of his trench coat, turned up high. And both hands thrust deep in its pocket, shouldered his way out. Got in a cab and drove away. I sat there for a few minutes until the crazy logic of the crazy pattern finally sank in. And I turned and drove back toward 94 Addison. A few houses down the street I parked, got out, and after dropping my gun in my pocket, I left my hand curled around it and walked in past the chromium swimming pool up to the Pine and Ivy house and looked in. It was deserted. I turned and started for the gate again, but that was as far as I got. I'm not inside, Mullough. I'm here behind you. Don't move. Automatic and all, huh? Didn't think you had nerve enough to stick here and wait for me, Roper? I had no choice. Raise them up slowly and don't turn around. I'll take your gun first. Okay, now get inside. So it was your trench coat I found at Cagan's, huh? You forgot and left it there when you took the contracts over. Yes, and when you told me about it, I followed you. I saw you spot Cagan still wearing his coat at the drug store, and I knew then that you'd come back here after me. You sure you didn't kill yourself? Sure, sure. You know, you might have gotten away with old Junius Poppy's murder because you were the only one with no motive, apparently. But you cluttered it up by killing your partner, Slack, too. Slack was stupid and loud-mouthed. He'd have double-crossed me or let the cat out of the bag the first time he got drunk. Blackmailers have to keep their secrets or they go out of business fast. With you, it's obvious that I have no choice. It's you or me. Yeah. You're a smart boy, Roper. How'd you manage to cut in on what Slack knew? He tried to find out from me whether Sid loved his wife enough to pay to keep her out of jail and how much he could demand and expect to get. I told you he was stupid. Believe me, Chum, the idea of getting rid of Junius so Sid could get enough money to make blackmailing him worthwhile was quite a switch. But one a good agent might think of. Stand still. Don't try for anything on that table. Why not? What are you saving me for? More conversation? No. I just wanted to get my breath. I've had quite a day, remember? All right. Let's go now. Where? Out back to the garage. Go on. Baby, move in! Marlow, is he dead? I don't know. I don't think so. You sure picked a sweet time to show up, baby. How'd you manage it? I was out there a long time listening when I realized what was happening, I came in. Yeah. Saved my thick skin or killed a blackmailer? Once I killed a man unintentionally. I didn't want to do it again, even him. But tonight when I thought Sid had stabbed Bert Slack because of it, I couldn't stand it any longer. I came over to find you and turned myself in. A big question mark on San Francisco? There was a brawl. I got mixed up in it. A man had a gun and in the struggle it went off and killed him. I was scared silly. I ran away. But Slack had seen the whole thing. He even got the gun with my fingerprints all over it. Well, that's that. Let's go, Marlow. Yeah. Okay, baby. Let's go. I'm going to go. Two refills, please. Okay. Better have some more, Sid. It's going to be a long night. Yes. I still can't get it through my head that this has happened, Marlow. I can't realize it. Slack saw that fight in San Francisco, and he put Louise's fingerprints on it and came here to blackmail. That's right. He went to Roper for information, and Roper was smart enough to take it and cut in. Killed Junior so you'd get more money by taking over the strip and then... And then he and Slack began to fight between themselves and may not kill him too. How can there be people like that? Same way there can be rattlesnakes, black widow spiders and cancer. Marlow, what is going to happen to Louise? I don't know, Sid. Oh. I think she's going to do something now she didn't have before. What is that? You. You loved her all the time, but she didn't know what that meant. She does now. Look, she might be finished with the police. Maybe you'd better go over, huh? Yes, I guess I'd better. Good night, Phil. And thank you. So long, Sid. As he crossed the street and went into police headquarters, I turned back to my coffee and thought about Peter Pageant. The impish, whimsical little character, with a sly, annoying smile, half sad, half amused at the foibles of the world. Yeah, the world seems more and more to be made of haves. Like that old song. How's it go? Sometimes I'm happy, sometimes I'm blue. Sudden storms and sudden coms. Maybe most of us are only half alive, huh? Take me, for instance. Half of me wants to go home and sit in front of a roaring fire with a drink and a good book. And the other half? Yeah. There's always that other half. The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character and crime's most deadly enemy, star Gerald Moore, and are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald. Script is by Mel Dinelli, Robert Mitchell, and Gene Levitt. Featured in the cast were Vivi Janis, Howard McNear, Parley Bear, Bill Johnstone, and David Ellis. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Orrond. Be sure and be with us next week when Philip Marlowe says... It started with a wreck and went from there to double murder over 75,000 bucks worth of glitter. That nobody got me in. Because I found out just in time what was fishy about the tale of the mermaid. If you want to keep ahead of the headlines, listen every weekday evening, Monday through Friday, over most of these same CBS stations to Edward R. Murrow with the news. Mr. Murrow is radio's most distinguished reporter. His informal but informed manner of presenting the news has earned him more awards than any other newscaster on the air. This is Paul Masterson speaking. Now stay tuned for Gangbusters, which follows immediately over most of these same CBS stations. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System. The New York Times.
