Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel it wind up in the gutter of the prison of the grave. There was a broken body in a quiet house, gunplay on America Round at midnight, and a boy and a girl in love running away, all because of one man's fine Italian hand. From the pen of Laman Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character in The Adventures of Philip Marlowe. Now with Gerald Moore starring as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story, The Fine Italian Hand. The day just passed with them full of jarring contrasts. Laughter hiding heartbreak, a woman dying of loneliness in an overcrowded city, a man who sacrificed everything to make a fortune, and shot himself when he got it. The messed up byproducts of our hopped up civilizations. A thought of him stayed in my mind as I drove over the freeway to San Fernando Valley because the job I was on promised no change in the day's pattern of combining things that didn't belong together. When I parked at the corner of Magnolia and Van Nuys Boulevard, I was still trying to reconcile my new client, the owner and operator of a little amusement park for children, with a panicky voice on the phone that had begged me to come at once. It wasn't hard to spot a heavy set old man moving among the stampeding merry-go-round salons and picking crumpled tickets like plums from the fists of laughing kids grabbing for Bryce's ring. We never change, do we? When he saw me, he hopped off. Nick, Nick, take over, please. Take over, Nick. You Mr. Marlowe, maybe? That's right, Mr. Angelo. Oh, Mr. Marlowe, come with us away to my little office. We've got to talk right away. No time to waste. Oh, that's nice, little boy. I'm very proud of you. Now you take your free ride with Nick. I've got to talk to some business. Goodbye. Come in, Mr. Marlowe. Please, sit down. Mr. Marlowe, I'm a very worried man. Yeah, I know about your son you said on the phone. What sort of trouble is he in, Mr. Angelo? He's a good boy, my Bernardo. He's been to college. He's a veteran from the war with two bronze stars and a purple heart. Look, there's his picture in his uniform. He's a good boy. Sure, sure. Now he's in a jam, is that it? Yeah, he's in a jam with a gambler, man of name Safran. You know this man? Yeah, slightly. Frank Safran's a bad boy. Did you send over money or what? No, no, no. My boy won't throw his money away like that. No, it's about a girl. Oh, which way does it go? She's Safran's girl and Bernardo's making a play for her or? That's right, that's right. This girl belongs to the gambler and my boy's taken her out. Oh, fine. He won't tell me nothing. I find out just the same. Maybe he's just playing the big shot and maybe he really loses his heart. I don't know. It's gone too far. Now there's a problem. My boy's going to be killed or he's going to kill somebody and I don't know what to do. What makes you think it's gone that far, Mr. D'Angelo? Maybe Safran will just get Safran's scabbing out her off. No, no, Mr. Marlowe. My boy's going to get off. He's a pretty tough. He's a champion with a golden glove. Really? Yes. But tonight there's no help for him. Bernardo come home tonight with his face all beat up. He won't tell his papa nothing. All he says is that red faced dog, I'm going to get even, I'm going to kill him. He's just a crazy man. My Bernardo, he won't listen to me. He pushes me away and we go out again. Red face. Doesn't fit Safran. You sure he was the one who had your son beat up? Sure, of course. Who else? I'm guilty because of this dancer, this parlor. I don't even know her last name. Parlor, huh? What do you think I can do about this, Mr. D'Angelo? Chase Bernardo down and bring him home? No, no, that's no good. My Bernardo, he's too headstrong. No, Mr. Marlowe, I must find out something. I must find out if this girl is using my boy for a play thing or if she's really in love with him. What difference does that make with Safran? Well, if this girl really loves my boy, then I'd do anything to bring them together. Anything. Now, if this is only a game she plays, then she's about to see, she's about to see. What does that mean, Pop? Oh, that means if it goes that way, that's the way it goes. And I know what I've got to do. So you find out this for me, please. Well, I don't know, Pop. It's not the kind of thing I like. Look, look, I'm not asking you to spy on somebody. Just find out for me, please. I can't talk so good with you. It's not so hard. I know, Pop, but really. Please, sir, please. My boy and my mama died, and now Bernardo's all I've got to let. He's a good boy. He should not get into trouble just for a cheaper game of love. Don't you understand me? I understand you, Marlowe. And from what I knew of Frank Safran, he had plenty to worry about with a hot-headed son who didn't know when to quit. Or maybe it was Safran who didn't know when to quit. That thought cost her fifty bucks in advance, sold me. Mr. Angelo gave me a description of the girl he'd seen, but once told me that Bernardo had moved away from home, he didn't know where. But the park closed at ten, and that he'd be there all night, and that was all. My first step was to locate the dancer named Paula. So outside, I said, nickel through a phone until I called everything from ballet to burlesque, but got no caller, which left only Frank Safran's easy money mills. It was a ranch house, California style, tucked under the hill south of Ventura, on a dead end called Sunbird. After I got the nod at the peek-a-boo window, I wandered through the bar and passed the dice table, but the door at back marked private and went in. I tuxedoed rock pile with a boil lock to complexion, and swarmed up at me from the telephone as he talked, and waggled a thick hairy finger. So I took the hint and waited quietly for him to finish. I don't care if it takes you a week. This joint don't soak up no five-brand shortages. You guys find it. Goodbye. Well, what's on your mind, Toots? I seem to remember you being announced. It isn't a formal call. I'm just looking for an old friend. We don't have any old friends to spare, Toots. That's figures. Mine's Paula. She's a dancer. I understand that Mr. Safran knows her quite well. You might tell me why I can get in touch with her, huh? Oh, so you're a friend of Paula Baker's, huh? Yeah, that's right. I'm way back. Well, that's all such you're through. A name's not Baker that came right out of thin air now. What do you really want? Take it easy, boy. She just caged you with last names. That's all she gave us Jones. Who's that? The Duncan department store credit section. Three hundred bucks worth. I got this far in her references, and I want to see Mr. Safran. Well, he's not in. I'll take it up with him later. If it's worth his time, you'll hear from us. Take it easy on yourself, Mac. Just tell me where I can find it. Out that door there. You got the whole city to look in. And take your crummy business. Okay, okay. I know you're getting pushy. Hey, a blushing boy. One thing more. What's your name? I want to get it straight. As though it wasn't a total loss, I managed to keep the back door open long enough to snap off the night latch. And I'd met the red-faced man who no doubt supervised the beating Bernardo had taken earlier. I kicked plenty of noise out of the iron steps going down, and then I crossed the parking lot, loomed back against the wall, and waited. Halfway through, my first cigarette bunker came out, got in his car, and drove away. I watched him out of sight, then slipped back in quietly, located Safran's 8x12 vest, and started throwing. In the top drawer, I found first a letter with a gambler's home address on it. And under that a picture, one of smiling loveliers posed in front of a dance studio on Wilshire. She wore Paula's description like a snug pair of slacks, and dance instruction was a field in the fine art of hooking that I'd overlooked completely. I closed the drawer and parted out when I heard someone coming. I jammed my cigarette into the ashtray and ducked back against the door frame as the cleaning woman bustled in. Ah, moldering cigarette butts. Don't wonder this trap don't sprout out of the ground. Hey, somebody's been in here. Hold it quiet, baby. Shut up and hold it shut from there again. Is it a deal? Okay. Hey, you don't belong here, mister. Hey, there you are, beautiful. Let's forget we saw each other, huh? Look, I'm a trusted employee here. Silence is golden. How golden? Five bucks worth. And if I hear one peep out of you before I get out of here, I'll come back someday and put glue in your soap bottles. Goodbye, baby. The dance studio was presently glossy from a social modernistic façade on Wilshire Boulevard to its far from old-fashioned receptionists inside, who signed me up, expressed sympathy over my rusty lumber, and assured me that since I'd heard so much about her, I could have Paula, that is, Miss Calvin, while on duty as my instructor. It might only be so kind as to step this way. So I stepped this way. Into a ballroom with a black burnished floor that looked as deep as the night sky, and after a deft hand signal from the receptionist, Paula Calvin glided toward us. Introductions were made. How do you do? And suddenly, the room was filled with the soft beat of a rumba band and we were off. Well, that's the ornate, it would have been fun. If I hadn't had work to do, that part was tough. You're doing beautiful, Mr. Marlow. Just loosen up now and relax, huh? Yeah, I'll try. I'm glad I drew you as my instructor, Miss Calvin. Bernie said you were tough. Told me to insist on you and accept no substitute. Bernie? Uh-huh. DeAngelo. You remember him, don't you? Yes. Yes, of course I remember him. Good kid, don't you think so? Keep your feet a little closer together, Mr. Marlow. Don't be afraid to use your knees. You know, baby, Bernie's got everything. Looks, brains, even a temper, just to keep life interesting. Isn't that right, Paula? Guy thinks a lot of you, doesn't he? Hey, I'm talking to you. I heard you. The next question, I suppose, is how do I feel about you? Yeah. Now it's your turn to loosen up and relax, baby. Listen, I resent being checked up on by anybody. When I want Bernie DeAngelo to know how I feel, I'll tell him. And when I want Frank Safran to know, I'll tell him too. If you came here tonight for a room blessing, then I'm only Mother Hubbard. OK, Mother Hubbard. I want to find out one thing. Are you in love with Bernie DeAngelo? It's nobody's business but mine, mister. There could be a real wrong about that, baby. Then it's my mistake and I'll make it all by myself. Have you seen Bernie tonight? No, I haven't. And that's all the conversation you get. You can have the rest of your room blessing if you want it. No, thanks. I'll see you around, Paula. The next best bet for finding what my client wanted was a talk with Safran. I stopped and called his gambling plant, but he was still out. So I drove up into Coldwater Canyon to number 8100. The first real hint that something was wrong was a curtain dangling at a crazy angle over one of the lighted windows. Next it was the front door standing six inches open, and inside the legs of an overturned table sticking up in the air and then pieces of a broken lamp littering the floor. That was only the beginning. I nudged the door open and stepped in. It was a mess. I saw his feet first from behind the couch. I only took one glance at his face. Frank Safran had been literally beaten to death by a pair of very fast, very deadly fists. Don't move one inch, Jocko. Do I take three guesses or turn around and look? Bernardo with gun. Oh, I got it all right. It was his, automatic, caliber 45, and I'll use it if I have to. Who are you? Ames Marlowe. One of Safran's boys? You got a real talent for being wrong, haven't you, kid? Who are you? A private detective hired by one Ambrosio DiAngelo. Papa? Yeah, because he was worried sick about his boy. Suck it. But I told him to stay out of it. I told him it was my business. And you did a nice, thorough job of handling it. You did this, didn't you? Yeah, Safran had it coming to him. I was beat up tonight on his orders. I came here to pay him back, but I didn't intend to kill him. What'd you stick around for? I didn't stick around. He looked to me like he'd been dead over an hour. I left, then I got worried, and I came back just a few minutes ago. Yeah, yeah, I know. You found out he was dead, huh? Well, I guess I'd better call the police. I guess you'd better stand still. If you're really working for my old man, if you really want to help him, the best thing you can do is to get out of here and shut up about this until tomorrow morning. I don't work that way, kid. I'm going to call your old man and the police, and we're going to sit here until they show up. You won't give me a break. Not that time. If you run, you haven't got a chance. We'll just have to see about that. I'm sorry you turned out this way, but it didn't. I got a lot of things to do. So take your ethics, Marlow, and sleep on them. Oh! Bernie, Bernie, don't run! Come back! In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlow. But first, with thousands of dollars of wonderful prizes, singing it again is fun for the whole family to play. Make a date to listen over most of these CBS stations every Saturday night. Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlow and tonight's story, The Fine Italian Hand. I splashed some water on my face and wobbled over to the telephone that was spilled across the floor in their Frank Saffron's broken body. It was too late to do anything more constructive than call my client then. Before he heard it from the police, tell him what his boy, Bernardo, had been up to. What kind of job would have given him at least an eye-tooth to get out of? So when I dialed his number and got no answer, I was glad. Even though I didn't quite figure that the elder of the end wouldn't be in. Now there was absolutely nothing to do but call the police or... Get away from that phone. Or pay attention to a man who had just stepped into the room. A man with a red face who also held a gun in hand. Well, the department store, Dick. Look how he gets around. Or is it just that Frank's last name was Jones, too? You're overworking your bum joke, also. I didn't do this. Then who did? And how do you figure in around here and over at the club? Come on, smart guy, let's level. First, who are you? The name? Marlow. And the trade? Private detective. Hired by who? Come on, let's not pull teeth. Who are you working for, Marlow? Quiet old guy named Angelo. He does nothing worse than run America around for kids, you know. Oh, quiet old guy named DeAngelo. Yeah, yeah, that must be the punk's old man, huh? Which means that the kid, Bernie, must have done this, right? Yeah, he did it. But only after he got cut up this afternoon by the late Mr. Saffron here, all representative. That's not me, Rover boy. I never messed in Frank's private life anymore and I could help. Which means what? That I'd take Bernie DeAngelo one night to a flat he has over on Lancasham near Moore Park. A flat on Lancasham? What number? I don't know. It's the first house off the corner of Moore Park on the south side. He just moved in. But what's the difference, what, now? Don't move, Marlow, or I'll knock you flat on that handkerchief. What handkerchief? That one by the body. Oh, yeah. With the initials. The A's. The apostate C.A.s and DeAngelo. That doesn't... Okay, Buster, put away the house. I'll leave quietly. For where? For a crack at that flat on Lancasham near Moore Park south side. Why? So that if the kid's still around, I can stop him without calling the cops. And only rattle him into losing his grip altogether. Which would mean lots of firepower and the kid sooner or later dead in the gutter. What's wrong with that? A couple of things. But in particular, what it might do to us. Ah, yeah, I know. It's a nice old guy who runs a merry-go-round for kids. Nuts. So long, sucker. Howitzers, Lord, feed it before I start crying. Bernie DeAngelo's flat on Lancasham turned out to be second-floor rear and all that went with it. A messed-out landlady to the very public pace home of a faint line of naked, unfausted light bulbs. So weak to disturb the shadows in the corridor. But of course the unhappy marriage of a half a dozen distinct cooking odors sneaking out of the transom of as many rooms where cooking was strictly prohibited. Bernie had room nine at the end of the L-shaped hall. And when I turned and sawed it for a door, I was glad to see yellow light oozing out of the cracks. And I hear a tinny phonograph making not-so-grand grand opera. When I knocked, I did it with a barrel of my.38. Yeah? Who is it? Connors! You better turn that phonograph down. We can't hear ourselves think out here. Okay, I'll take care of it. Goodbye. Not so fast, Junior. Take care of it now. I don't want to have to come out here again. It'll make me feel nasty. Does that come across? Yeah, a real clearance. Oh my God! Yeah, Marlowe, get back all the way. Turn it off! Quit shoving! Oh! Quit shoving! Are you all with me? Conversation for a starter. Turn that thing off. Now we're gonna talk, Bernie. About what? Not my old man again. That's a waste of time. What's done is done, Marlowe. You know that. Yeah, and I also know you'll never get anyplace running. Unless we try real hard. Don't turn him on, Marlowe. Oh, fine. Madam was longer. Take it, Gunn-Bernie. Throw it over there. Yeah. If you please, Mr. Connors. How stupid did you think we were, Marlowe? Or had you forgotten all about Paula here? No, I hadn't forgotten. Just figured she might be on the other side. Then you figured wrong because there's never been any other side. Never been anybody but Bernie from the moment we met. Which is why you kept dating Frank Safran? Which is exactly why I kept dating Frank Safran. I didn't want him jealous and gunning for Bernie. I didn't want trouble. Now that you've got it, you don't want to let it go, is that it? What do you mean, Marlowe? Yeah, I mean if you turn yourself in now tonight, there's still a chance you'll get off easy. Yeah, and a better chance that he won't. All right. But even then it'll only be manslaughter, prison for a few years. This way it's gotta be worse, hide and seek from here on out for both of you right up to the end. No matter when that is. Look, honey, maybe Marlowe... No maybes, Bernie. I don't want you rotting away in jail and me rotting away on the outside because you accidentally killed Frank Safran. Now come on, Bernie, let's get out of here. Put him in this closet here. Yeah, yeah, sure. Look, Marlowe, if you do go back to Pop, tell him I wish it had been different, will you? Why? They can eat his heart out a little more? No dice, kid. Shut the door. The sight of you is making me sick. Okay, fella, shut it in. And shut its seat. It had been swinging wild, hoping that a lucky punch, no matter how low it would connect, would jar some sense back into the kid. But it had played differently, and as I started to kick the lock on the closet door, I knew now that Bernie DiAngelo resented me and probably his father along with the rest of the world that it wouldn't give them an even break. All in all, it was the kind of thing that made me mad enough to do the trick. Well, that's a fine way to treat a house. What matters, the handsome or fight over the girl or don't you like the way the furniture's arranged? Neither. Before you get too upset about this landlady, I'll cut you in on something. A minute after I get to your phone, every cop in town is going to be looking for your starboarder because tonight Bernie DiAngelo killed a man. Yeah, it's got nothing to do with the stuff you've wrecked. Come on, handsome, let's settle up. There's one splinter door and a trash bin on the board and a lot of little pieces. It used to be a vase, that broken box over there with them papers in it. Ain't mine, it's no charge. Okay, how much do you want? How much? Well, 20, 25, 30 with the vase. 30 bucks in all. Well, handsome, what is it? What you staring at? Oh, there's a slip of paper here. It fell out of the box. You've sold a lot of other papers. Can't hurt you. It's only a receipt. What's the fuss? Because it is a receipt, Granny, from of all places of the poppin store. A receipt for a pleasant delivered a long time ago. What? Yeah, it's gotta be. All right, Granny, here, 30 you said, huh? 20, 25, 30. 30 bucks. And if I'm right, sweetheart, I'll send you another vase come Christmas. Now, forget what I said about the phone and Bernie's being a killer. Because a mistake may have been made all the way around. What kind of mistake, handsome? A big one, a beaut, and I can't be more specific than that until I find the elder Mr. DeAngelo. Good night, Granny. By midnight, the San Fernando Valley is always sound asleep. If I cover the five miles back to the amusement park and close to as many minutes worrying all the way, then either my hunch was wrong and I was heading no place, or that it was right and I was too late to keep murder from happening again. When I was out of my car and moving quietly in between the dark machines that stopped being gay, bobbing animals when the kids were gone, I knew that I could quit worrying altogether. Because standing ahead, in close to the merry-go-round, was Mr. Ambrosio DeAngelo. And opposite him, holding a gun that I'd already seen once tonight, was Lou Bunker, the man I figured had killed Frank Stafford. And when I was within a dozen yards of the place, just like that. Okay, stop that far enough stuff. Right where you are and turn around. Why? So you can hit me over the back of the head and kill me like it was accident, huh? I fall in the dark while I work on the merry-go-round, huh? Pretty smart the guy, mister. That way, no Ambrosio DeAngelo to testify that you killed Frank Stafford. No, my boy, for now. Turn around and quit yapping. Nobody told you to go peeking in the windows or to play drop the hanky when you went inside to make sure that I killed Frank Stafford. It was all your own idea. Yeah, and brilliant, Robert Bunker. Mr. Morrow, look out, Mr. Morrow. You won't get far, Buster, believe me. Mr. Morrow. Mr. Morrow, look out, look out. He's hiding over there on the merry-go-round. All right, Bob. I know how to get him out of where we stand. Just to get the ready for Bunker, because I'm going to go over there next to the switch. He can't hide no more, Mr. Morrow. I'm going to start the merry-go-round and make him enjoy himself all around me. I go now. Why, you fat old fool. There, Mr. Morrow, he's around. Stop him. Quick, pressure. Ow, my leg. That's enough, Morrow. Not quite, Bunker. You want to make it to a hospital filling the blanks fast. Come on, why did you kill Stafford? Come on. Okay. I dipped into the till at the club and dummied up the books to cover. He was going to find out about it, so I went to his place to get him. Bernie got there first, huh? Yeah. They had a fist fight, and after he left, I went in and... And you finished him off with your feet. I see that. I went there, Mr. Morrow, because I was worried about Bernardo. I had to do something. How did you know that the Angelo was there, Bunker? Morrow, please... Come on, keep talking. I heard a noise when I was inside. So I left and doubled back. He was inside then, but I only knew that it was an old man. I didn't know who he was until later when I came back a second time when you were there and saw that handkerchief. I hadn't been there before. Then when you talk about the old man here, I... Oh, I figured that D'Angelo initials could fit him... Morrow! Oh, that's my boy, Bernardo. Bernardo, don't look me! Over here, Bernardo! Why don't you let me go around? Look, Mr. Morrow, the girls are with him. They didn't run away this day. No, they didn't run away. I'm sorry! That's it, Mr. D'Angelo. Welcome your boy home. Well, Mr. Morrow, it's going to be tomorrow morning before all the policemen finish talking with my boy and Paula. That's right. After that, everything's okay. Okay, just because you talk is smart to do both of them at Bernardo's flat. Just because of what you said. Well, that and what they were smart enough to do, D'Angelo. I don't think it was easy for them to change their minds and come back to what could have been prison. No, I guess not. It's also on account of you that there won't be no prison. And it won't be a funeral for me. You know, that's what I don't understand, Mr. Morrow. When you tell the policemen that you know where to come and find the loot bunker at my place because of a department store receipt, I get all mixed up. I can... Oh, I get off of here, please. All right, sir. Well, the receipt was for Hankinship's monogrammed D.A., Mr. D'Angelo, which would be sent to you as a gift from your son. That put the idea in my mind that the Hankinship I saw at Frank's Saffron could be yours, not the other's. Oh, a così, c'est vrai. Well, Mr. Morrow, we are forever you good friends. Now I say goodbye here. Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute, Pops. This is miles from your place. I don't mind driving you home. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. That's all right. That's all right. I... I just want to go round the corner. Oh, an old friend of mine is there. I want to tell him all about D'Angelo's good luck. Thank you, Mr. Morrow. Arrivederci. I watched him walk away. A quiet old man in a quiet, empty street. A grateful old man. Who at three o'clock in the morning had to find his friend. And tell him all about the D'Angelo's good luck. And then, when he was around the corner and out of sight, I found myself wondering who the old friend could be. A minute later, when I had driven as far as the corner and could see which way Ambosio D'Angelo had gone, I knew. It was less than half a block away. A familiar Gothic architecture. Stone, stained glass. With people reaching for the sky. And... yeah. His old friend. 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 Georgia Ellis, Jane Avello, Paul Dubov, Barney Phillips, Anne Morrison, and Vivi Janis. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Aron. Be sure and be with us next week when Philip Marlowe says... This time I took a beating from a clever Chinese, ran into a twisted corpse in an alley, and watched death strike on the railroad tracks. All because of an open-toed banjo, which was jinxed from the start.
