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 a wrestler on the skids, a quick change artist in an alley, and a girl with an eye for angles all met destruction because a hundred thousand easy bucks caught him in a stranglehold which none of them wanted to break. 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 Stranglehold. Sometimes men climb all over themselves for a purpose, sometimes for relaxation, and most times for no reason at all. Take professional wrestling. I watched in the ringside while two gargantuan hulks contorted their features in mock agony and bulged muscles at each other on a mat surrounded by tears of onlookers, screaming through their half chewed popcorn. While the fans as usual howled for blood, booed the decision, hooted the departing contestants and waited for the next comic act, laughingly called the main event. I went again over the letter I'd received two hours ago by messenger from one Manny Faber. It included a ringside ticket to LA Wrestling Arena, a check for $200, and the request that I catch as much as I could stomach of the match between John, better known as Peachy King, and Jules Caesar, the Emperor of Brooklyn. After which I was to come to Faber's house for instructions that involved John Keane plus $100,000 of Manny Faber's money. So I watched a little closer as something that looked like a Sherman tank in a toga and leather sandals crowned with an olive wreath lumbered into the ring and sneered at the crowd. And since I'd long ago given up wrestling as a sport, I turned to the fan next to me wearing a derby on the bridge of his nose, waved a cloud of cigar smoke aside and got some information. Oh, Caesar? Ah, you get your money's wiped out of him, all right. Hey, what about this John Keane? How does he stack up? Ha ha, Peachy, you kinny's a bomb, stinko, no show, oh, oh, a bring down. Ha, look, look, you're fixing the ring up for him now, get this. Ha ha ha. What's that, flowers? Yeah, your peach blossoms. Ha ha, these two peach blossoms all over his corner. Hey, with stuff, two years ago the stuff was okay, but now it's tired, you know what I mean? Hey, he won't even put on a show, little old rascal. He's still called a champ, isn't he? Champ, him, ha ha ha, he won't even give you a laugh anymore. He's afraid of getting his pretty nose burnt, what a bum. Hey, Caesar'll tie him up in knots, here comes like a, you're home, Peachy, ha ha ha, you bum. See what I mean with that profile, he ought to be a ribbon crook instead of a wrestler. Yeah, hey, what's that on the back of his robe? Are you kidding? That's a big peach, of course, embroidered in gold and black silk, out of your life. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, go ahead, go ahead. Hey look, I hear them robes cost him a thousand bucks apiece. He thinks they make him hot stuff with the tame. Maybe they do. Who's the brunette in there talking with him? Oh, should I know, there's always something like that. I look quite down, will you make it talk so much? Now, ladies and gentlemen, the feast of revenge on tonight's program, a free fall, no limit contest of wrestling, in this corner at 278 pounds, the outstanding contender from the Atlantic Seaboard and Emperor of Brooklyn, the Algerian World, Caesar. Are you kidding? Are you kidding? And in this corner at 225 pounds, the undisputed champion of the Western Hemisphere, John Pichicline. Go on and talk, go on and talk. As the match got underway and Pichy started out of his corner, a good-looking brunette shouted something at him that stopped him cold. He turned a glare at him and Caesar slapped a hank on him that put Pichy flat on his back for fall number one. Three minutes later with his head in the gilligan, Pichy was well on his way to the mat again for fall number two, which was enough for me so I got up to leave. The brunette, I noticed, was leaving too. And at the end of the exit tunnel, we came out side by side. Have you got a match? Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Thank you. It's a mess, isn't it, huh? What's a mess? The way things are going inside there. Pichy ought to change his line of work, don't you think? Oh, what's it to you? A laugh so far. What's it to you? You said something to him that knocked him for a loop, baby. What was it? A personal matter. Oh, how personal? Oh, about like that. Ahem. Thank you and step down, Philip Marlowe. Then you'd better step out, too, or I'll whistle for a John Donne. Nighty night, nosy. So saying, she flashed a couple of daggers at me from her snapping black eyes, spun on four and a half inch red patent leather heel and was gone. So I drove up to Hollywoodland and the house at 2000 Beechwood Drive where I was to meet my client, Manny Faber. The house looked like a two-room cottage from the street, but it ran for three stories down the backside of a hill. All I did was touch the bell when the door flew open. You're Marlowe, am I right? Come on in, Marlowe. I'm Manny Faber, head of Faber Transcriptions, Inc. Produce radio shows, you know. Yeah. So you saw me. You saw that big, crooked, four-fleshing, stupid, fat-pounding mastodon that calls himself Johnny Peach Keen, huh? Yeah, I saw him. Here, have a chair. Oh, thanks. Well, what do you think? You just summed it up. What's that got to do with your 100,000 bucks, Mr. Faber? You haven't seen the late editions? No. They're full of it. Peachy Keen is suing me for 100 Gs per slander. How can you slander a guy like Peachy? It's impossible. I know that, and you know it. But does a court of law know it? No. In fact, they're going to make it stick. No? How did it happen? I'll tell you. A very sweet guy named Frank Gaynor. Yeah, I know him. A sports compensator. Yes, yes. He's been doing five a week on my label and going big. But three days ago, what we've been expecting for months finally happened, rest his soul. A week ticker, and just like that, he dropped dead on the street. Heart failure. Yeah, I read about it. Well, Frank always kept five broadcasts ahead, see? Made tape recordings in his own little studio. So I've been running his last five shows as a final tribute to him. Well, what happened? Yesterday, the whole 15 minutes of his broadcast was devoted to ripping apart John Peachy Keene. Here, listen. I've got the tape here on the machine. This is one part. A blight on the sports world. And furthermore, I have proof that John Peachy Keene has so far to the highest bidder in small-time gambling circles in his last three matches. Now, I know for a fact that he has become so blatant in his underhanded dealings that even as dubious a business at professional wrestling cannot stand the strength. And officials have threatened to bar him from the ring. Strong stuff. I can show beyond a doubt that John Peachy Keene has falsified medical reports to evade tough competition, and that he eventually... Yep. It goes on like that, Marlow. Some of it opinion, most of it fact. And it's the facts that my lawyers tell me I've got to find the proof for or be a dead duck. That's why I asked you to come up here. I... Oh, excuse me. Sure. This is probably Ruth, Frank's wife. Nice show people, once. Oh, hello, Ruth. Come in, honey. Hello, Manny. I haven't been able to find a thing yet. I can't imagine where Frank got his information. Oh, Ruth, shake hands with Mr. Marlow. He's the detective I told you about. Mrs. Gaynor, Marlow. How do you do, Mr. Marlow? Glad to know you, Mrs. Gaynor. Manny, here's the key to Frank's private studio at 6122 Sunset. It might be a good place for Mr. Marlow's start. Yes, all his files and equipment are there. Frank didn't like to work at home or at my plant on the strip. Wanted his own private set-up. We looked there, but maybe we missed something. Okay, I'll see what I can find. Oh, by the way, do either of you happen to know a good-looking brunette connected in some way with Peachy? No, but he's quite a ladies' man, I understand. Why, Marlow? It's just a hunch. I saw him talking to one tonight. A fireball. May mean nothing. Well, I hope you'll be able to locate the proof of Frank's statements, Marlow. We've got to find it for Frank. Also, it'll break my heart to pay a hundred grand to a no-good meat-heaver named Peachy Keen. I promised Faber I'd keep in touch and left. I found Gaynor's little recording studio tucked into the second-floor corner of a small office building on Sunset. Unlocked the heavy soundproof door and went in. The room had a busy, cluttered look, as though Gaynor himself had just stepped out. A row of filing cabinets and a desk sat along one wall, and opposite them was the glassed-in booth with the tape recorders and microphone by which the solitary sportscaster had canned his radio programs. I dug through the walls of the office and found a folder labeled John Keen that held only a sketchy history of the wrestler. Some publicity pictures and a few clippings, one of which rated a long second look, because it was topped by a picture of the same brunette I'd seen at the ringside. It was captioned, Carla Bennett Leads for West Coast. I started to read the story when there was a sound at the door behind me and the lights went out. Don't move, mighty. I'll kill you on the spot if you do. Up against that window, you make a perfect target, you know. But don't try anything cute. What do you want? A little more than I'm getting at what. I'm entitled to it, I am. The service is rendered, you might say. I can't help you, Buster. You've come to the wrong man. Oh, but not to the wrong place, huh, mighty? So, first things first, like I always say. Turn around, mighty. Let's knock it... Oh! Well, tell me, sleepy boy. Oh. Oh. Oh. All right, all right. Don't rush me. Don't rush me. Hello? Marlow, where were you? Is something wrong? No, as wrong as a limey showing up here to put the... Ooh, put the slug on me. A limey? Who was it? Why'd he slug you? Good questions, Faber. Hey, does the name Carla Bennett ring any bells? Carla Bennett? No, no, I never heard of her. Huh? Oh, just a minute, Marlow. He is rude. Huh? Marlow, I remember that name. Yeah? I'm sure Frank interviewed her once. Carla Bennett used to be Mrs. John Keane. Peachy's ex-wife? Yes, I'm positive. Why, is she mixed up in this? I don't know. The limey who slugged me apparently took a newspaper clipping about it when he left. At least it's gone. Marlow, this limey, was that all he was after? Well, he said he wanted more than he was getting. Hey, but look, Faber made this call. What'd he want? He said he'll be out checking on a few things himself. That's all. Oh. By the way, Ruth, any idea where this Bennett dame might be found? No, I haven't, Marlow. No. I think she was staying at some woman's hotel on Vermont Avenue when Frank interviewed her at that time. Vermont? But that was over a year ago. Maybe she's a lady of habit. I'll try it anyway. Thanks, Ruthie. There were three exclusively female hotels on Vermont. The second one I called had a call of Bennett registered. So I went out to my car and baybied my aching head down Vermont at the Victoria Plaza Ladies Only Hotel. The lobby was done in ivory and pink with desk clerk to match, and the nameplate tagged as Mr. Seymour Pratt. I started over but stopped when I spotted about an acre of peach-colored suede coat wrapped around Jean Pichi Keene himself lumbering up the stairs at the back of the lobby. Mr. Pratt saw him at the same time and darted from behind the desk like an angry canary after a rhinoceros. Just a minute, you. This is a ladies' hotel. So what? I gotta see the one in 212. Not this way you don't. Why, it's after midnight. If Miss Bennett wishes to come down to the lobby, that's her affair. But no men are allowed upstairs after 10 p.m. Okay, okay. How can I get in touch with her? Use the house phone naturally. Over there in that booth. I'll go right back to the board and plug you in. I'll be with you in just a moment, sir. Ducky, I'll wait. A call for you, Miss Bennett. Good listening, huh? Now, see, here, you know perfectly well you're not supposed to come back to this desk. This is for employees only. What about eavesdropping? Is that for employees only, too? How dare you accuse me of... Save it, Seymour. The guy in the booth there is a professional wrestler. If he finds out you're listening in, he'll tear your arm off and beat you to death with it. Let me take over here. Give me the earphones. Now, wait. Come on, give it to me. Okay. Now, sit there like a good boy. Keep the key open and your trap shut. No surprise, were you now, John? In the lobby in a phone booth. You better come down, Carla. No, John, I'm tired. Will you call me tomorrow? No, wait a minute. What did you mean by that crack you made tonight when I was in the ring? Just what I said. I want a nice big slice of that 100,000 you're getting from Manny Faber. Why, you're crazy. What makes you think I'd give you one lousy penny? You will gladly. You see, John, I know all about those visits you made to the Lyceum Theater. A lot of us come back to L.A., hasn't it, darling? Why, you... Oh, shut up. After the life you led me for four years, you big ape, I'm entitled to all I can get. And that'll be plenty. So I advise you to run right back now and tell your friend that I know all about your little scheme. And talk it over good, John. I'll be waiting to hear from you. All right. I'll do just that. And you're sure gonna be sorry you stuck your nose into this one, Carla. Really interesting. Are you quite, quite finished now? Yes, and you were a big, big help, Mr. Pratt. Oh, there he goes. Peachy suede coat and all. So long, Seymour. In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe. But first, Horace Height and his famous Youth Opportunity Program have joined Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen, Red Skelton, Jack Benny, and the other top-ranking entertainers who make CBS Sunday nights a must. Enjoy these 30 minutes when Horace Height takes over on most of these same stations Sunday night this fall. Tune in, tune in this fall, 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 Stranglehold. When Peachy Keene slammed out of the phone booth, he was burned to a crisp. He stomped out of the woman's hotel via the back door that opened out of the parking lot. And when I got there, he was already out of sight. I stopped in the shadows to figure out which way he'd gone, but skipped that as the back door opened again. This time, it was Carla Bennett. She ran across the lot, hopped into a new green convertible, and got as far as switching on the lights before still another character pranced into the headlight beams like a veteran ham making for upstage center. Hey, Miss Bennett, wait, I got to talk to you. I couldn't tell where the first one came from. I only heard it. It brought the little man up on his toes and arched him like a drawn bow. I saw the flash of the second one. It came from the alley and crumpled it into a pile. A moment later, I'm more of a war than I ran to where I could see, with a pair of taillights twisting onto the side street. It was all the good it did me. I went back to the body of the little man as Carla Bennett climbed out of her car. She was white from shock, and in the headlights, her makeup was garish. Belonged on a clown. The back alley, Harlequinade, was suddenly very grim. He was shot, Mr. Right in front of me. Who's the little guy, Carla? I don't know. I never saw him before. You know my name? Yeah. We met at the wrestling arena earlier tonight. You remember? Marlowe, private detective. Now, come on, Carla, let's have it. What's his name? I don't know, I tell you. Okay, we'd better find out fast. Let's take a look at his wallet. No! It's none of my business. I'm getting out of here. Wait a minute. He wanted to talk to you pretty badly, baby. Very likely about 100 grand. If I were you, I'd stick around. You've got awfully big ears, Mr. Marlowe. Yeah, better to hear phone conversations. What? This guy's an actor. He's got an equity card. His name is Seth Cameo. You mean anything? Not to me. Unless... Unless what? Unless he happens to work at the Lyceum Theatre? As you said, Carla, Vaudeville's back in town, and that brings up another point you'd better... Say, what's going on out here anyway? I thought I heard shots. You did, Pratt. They came from the alley. Oh, so it's you again. I might have... That man. That man there on the ground. Good heavens. Is he dead? Yeah, he's murdered. Oh, no. Help! Help me! Murder! Help! Please! That jerk. I'm getting out of here. Not alone, you're not. I'm going with you. Listen, big ears, I can take care of myself. Will you be here? That's not the point, sister. I still want to talk to you. Get in. I'll go out that way to the street, not too fast. All right. Since you're running things, where are we going? Lyceum Theatre. On the way, you can tell me why your ex-husband, Peachy, has been hanging around there. I don't know why. Who's the friend he's been seeing? Was it Cameo? I don't know that either. Now, look, for Pete's sake, do I have to draw you a picture? A man was shot down right in front of you. Doesn't that convince you? The bucking the same opposition, baby, and believe me, this is no time to hold out, not in this league. I'm not! All right. Well, that stuff you overheard on the phone was pure bluff. I accidentally ran into John a couple of days ago near the stage door of the Lyceum. He...well, he acted funny like he was waiting for somebody and very nervous about it. You didn't see who it was? No. I waited until three girls and two men had come out one after another, but they were cagey. I couldn't tell which one John was waiting for. Then I heard about this slander suit of his, and I figured something was screwy. So you took a swing in the dark tonight and connected, huh? Good and solid. When I told him on the phone to go back to his friend, I knew he'd be just stupid enough to do it, and that's why I came out so fast. I wanted to follow him and find out who else was involved before I got in too far. You're already in too far, baby. You got more nerve than good sense, even for a hundred grand. You don't believe me? Ask Cameo. There's the theater park here. We'll walk over. Look, tell me something big here. Suppose Seth Cameo did work here. What's it gonna prove? It all depends on what we find to go with it. He was killed to keep him from upsetting the Apple card. One way he could have done that would be to have proof of what Frank Gaynor said in his broadcast about Peachy. Sure, but fitting a Broadville actor at the Lyceum into that slot doesn't make sense. Yeah, there it is. Cameo's placket. We were right. Yeah. Seth Cameo, the one-man all-star cast. See Lionel Barrymore, Betty Davis, Harry Drucker. Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney, and many others. Denise Flynn played in a split-second changes by the world's most versatile one-man cast. Sure, he was a mimic. A guy like that would have dialects, lots of them. So? So maybe Seth Cameo was the boy who slugged me and gained his studio. He was careful to turn out the light first, and he threw that limey jive at me to toss me off the track. And what's more, he... Uh-oh, we got company. Where? There's a little geezer over there. What are you doing here? Here, there's clothes. Last show's been over for hours. I know, you're the night watchman. That's right. Now you better move along, kids. No lighter and no unsettered. Just a minute, Pop. Is Seth Cameo, does he have a limey number in his act? Why don't you come back tomorrow and ask him? Well, that's tougher than you think, mister. How about it? Does he do a limey? Limey? Well, now, let's see... Cockney, English. Oh, I don't think so. Might have at one time, though. Been in the business for years. Good man, too. Best quick-changer I ever seen. Hmm. Has he got a scrapbook or something in his dressing room? Do you know? Well, yes. Yes, he has. Got a box there with every bill he's ever played on in it. Most actors do. But the theater's all closed now, fella. Well, you've got a key, haven't you? Look, Pop, it's important. We gotta find out right away. Oh, I'm sorry, sonny. Can't do it. Look, it's real important. Take a good look. Very important. Ten bucks. Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah. Oh, I guess it wouldn't do any harm if you just want to look. The old man slid the tin into his pocket like he wouldn't admit it even to himself and let us in the stage door, down the stairs, and with his flashlight along the dark hallway to Seth Cameo's dressing room. He unlocked it, reached in and turned on a tired little lamp and pointed out a box on a trunk near the back. We picked our way over to look through a jumble of costumes that had been period pieces of the turn of the century. The box was lined with sentimental posters, and inside was a man's life. It's stacks of programs and playbills. It began with a crisp current appearance and then ran back through all of Seth Cameo's dusty yesterdays. Didn't take long. Maybe five minutes. Here. This is it, Marlow. Exactly what you're after. I see that. The coffin in theater Kansas City, September 1940. Seth Cameo of London in Piccadilly Circus of Magic, do you name it Limehouse? Sure. This is it, baby. Seth Cameo and Limey were one and the same. And where does that get you? It gives me an idea. It gives me one too. You found what you wanted. Now let's put everything back like it was and get out of here. In a minute, Pop. I want to check something else. Now look, honey. This is dead against all rules. I'm getting jittery. Wait a minute. Hold it. I heard something upstairs. Did you lock the outside door, Pop? Oh, come now, fella. Be a sport. That's an old stunt that just won't work. That door's got a snap latch. Shut up. I heard it too that time. There is somebody up there. Huh? Yeah, you're right. That cad flame-tower's afraid of something like this. Now look, you two. You stay right here and don't touch nothing till I get back in here. I'll go see what it was. Better switch off the lights, Carla. The brakes are going against us. What do you mean? All this after-hours theater business can't be coincidence. The boy that came upstairs has trouble on his mind. You ask for a payoff, baby. That's what you're going to get, only the bank won't handle it. The morgue will. Hey, you. What you doing here? You the night watchman around here? Oh, my. It's John. How'd you get in? Yeah, pretty good. No pun intended. I want to see the girl that's in here. I want to see her. Take it easy. Go back in here. Now you go on. Get out. Don't lie to me. Grandpa, Carla's parked the truck for me. Keep quiet. She could be. Now where is she? Come on. I mean business. Now listen here. Don't you give me none of your sass, son. You just clear out there. Oh, my. Crazy old fool. You got the watchman. You better clear it out, Carla. He'll be down here in another minute. Now look, go up that way and cross the stage. Go to 2000 Beachwood. It's the one place Beachy won't go. Manny Fabers. And stay there till I call, you understand? Never mind. Beat it, will you? Go on. Be careful, big ears. When Carla moved off into the darkness, I saw at the other end of the hall the inquisitive beam from the flashlight poking at the dark corners as Keane eased down the stairs. I got my gun into my hand, plastered my shoulders against the wall beside the open door and waited. I didn't have long to wait. I heard him stopping the hall outside, and the beam of the flashlight crept over the floor and up to the wall, and then slowly, carefully circled the door frame. Carla? I heard him moving closer. Then the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver inched into the room. I know you're in here, Carla. I waited until I could see the big fist wrapped around the gun, and I brought my.38 down hard. His gun flew to the floor, and I swung again for his head. Why you? The rest are only blanking lunch for me. I'll kill you. Not tonight. Not tonight, peachy. I may need it. I'll get him. It's on you. That's your problem, big man. Fall down, will you? I'll get you. Go down and stay down. Oh, I gotta chop that guy down like a tree. It had been short but vicious. At one point, she'd landed and shaken me to my shoelaces. The wreckage of costumes, props, and a lifetime of old theater programs was scattered over the room like big moldy snowflakes and the crazy ankle-high glare from the still-burning flashlight. As I sagged down onto a trunk to catch my breath, I saw something that brought me right back to my feet again. An illustrated program from the King's Theater in Buffalo that gave me a new slant on the whole mess. It billed Seth Cameo as the man with a thousand voices, the perfect mimic, and the act that had followed him for a 30-week run was a girl whose face I knew well. I ran out of the theater into the nearest cab stand where I sent one driver to get the police over to the theater and with another, I headed for Manny Faber's place on Beachwood, and what I was positive would be another murder. When I got to the front door, I knew there was no need to hurry. It was all over. Come on in, Marla. I've got news for you. It was Carla with a gun in her hand. And on the floor in the corner, her face tight with pain, was Mrs. Ruth Gaynor glaring hate up at me like a wounded panther. There she is, Marla. I recognized her as soon as I saw her. She's the one Peachy was waiting for outside the Lyceum Theater. They've been working together all this time to frame that slander suit against Faber. Yeah, yeah, I know. But I didn't expect to find you like this. What happened? She knew I recognized her and pulled this gun on me. The one she used on Seth Cameo, no doubt, huh? Uh-huh. She was going to use it on me, too. But I was way ahead of her. She's only in love with John Peachy Keen, but I was married to him for four years, and you don't live with a professional wrestler that long without picking up a few tricks. They call you the weaker sex. What is it, Ruthie? Your elbow? Is it broken? Let me alone, you two-bit flatfoot. I'll call a doctor and get you fixed up. For one reason only, I don't even like to see a black widow's spider suffer. More coffee, Miss Bennett? No, thank you, Mr. Faber. Well, I don't blame you. I've got no appetite either. You know, Marlow, I always liked Ruth, and I thought she'd like me. As long as you represented a buck, she did. And I've got to admit that she and the wrestler were clever, though. That stunt almost worked. She was clever. John Keen is 225 pounds of solid jerk. Yeah, and I'm not going to get my hands on her. I'm going to get my hands on her. I'm going to get my hands on her. I'm going to get my hands on her. John Keen is 225 pounds of solid jerk. Yeah, it was all her idea. She was in love with Peachy, and when Frank died, she saw a great opportunity. Especially with that mimic being in town. Sure, Seth Cameo is an old friend of hers. She and Peachy wrote a highly slanderous script. She got Cameo to record it on Frank's machine, imitating Frank's delivery. Yes, and I broadcast it and stabbed myself in the back. Exactly. And we'd never found out any of this if a couple of other characters hadn't tried to cut in. First, Cameo, who felt he'd been cheated when he learned the job he'd done was worth 100 grand. Ruth had to shoot him to keep him quiet. Second, little Carla here. Hey, Marlow, please. With me, it was just good, healthy spite. Spite, huh? What's stronger, baby, spite or dough? Well... See what I mean? Good night, Mr. Faber. Good night. Good night, then, Carla. Let's go. We didn't go home directly. We went on our beachward drive high into the Hollywood Hills, in part where we could look out over the sparkling, sprawling city. And we talked about color, the life, relative values, the city below us and the dark hills above. And then, as we watched the first faint glimmer of dawn rise in the east, we both realized something. Not original, not very complex, and certainly not sophisticated, but very gratifying. In the final analysis, the best things in life, we both agreed, are still free. Know what I mean? The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character, star Gerald Moore, and are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald. Script is by Robert Mitchell and Gene Leavitt. Featured in the cast were Vivi Janis, Ted Von Elf, Charlotte Lawrence, Barney Phillips, Tony Barrett, Peter Leeds, and Junius Matthews. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard O'Ronk. Be sure and be with us next week when Philip Marlowe says... I didn't know it, but I was caught in a smokeout that led from a search for a lady in black, past murder at a highway inn, to gunfire in a crumbling warehouse, and all for a girl already dead in the morgue. This fall, you hear them all on CBS. Red Skelton and Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen have joined the parade to CBS on Sunday evenings. And be sure to hear the contented hour with Dinah Shore tomorrow and every Sunday over most of these same CBS stations. This fall, you hear them all on CBS. 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.
