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's no other end, but they never learn. From the pen of Raymond Tranfer, 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 Uneasy Head. Hey, Slattery, you running a bar here? That's no be neglecting a regular clientele. Okay, okay. Everybody relax. Remember, them also, sir, will only stand around and wait. I'm calling them like I see them. You're drying again, chum. Another shot? Yeah. Say, Slattery, you happen to know a guy named Sammy Archie? I was supposed to meet him here at six. That was an hour ago. Hey, Archie, another shot. What's yours, friend? Rye, Wander on the side. Rye and a little hell. Slattery, I asked you a question. Listen, chum, I sell whiskey, I sell gin, I sell beer. Pretzels I give away, but only pretzels. If you're busting with questions, try Louie. Louie? Yeah, the punk in the corner there, the guy with the patent leather hair. Louie welcomes visitors. You want to pay with this drink? Oh, wouldn't miss it for the world. Mind it for me, will you? Hey, round boy, I'm going to forget I'm a lady. Your name, Louie? That's me. Slattery tells me you might have some information I want. Could be. What race? Don't want any dope on ponies, Louie. I'm looking for a guy. A guy like who? Archer. Sammy Archer. Do you know him? No. What's the matter? You Welch on a bet? No. Well, thanks anyway, Louie. I got something good at Beaumont. Check. You're here twice. We've been once around. Coming up now. No luck, huh, chum? I thought maybe Louie could help you. He knows everyone in town. Yeah? Well, here's the Sammy Archer, a guy I never met. Well, so long, chum. Yeah, yeah. Don't go away mad, huh? Oh, not a chance, Slattery. After all, you... Hey. Hey. What kind of scotch was that? Tastes...tastes like boiled cabbage heads. Slattery, what did you... That drink, it was dope. Are you no good? Two-timing? For a long time. A hundred years, maybe, I felt good. The temple was beautiful. Chinese beautiful. Everywhere lacquered woodwork that had the deep bottom was sluster of a pigeon-blood ruby. And a thousand shelves filled with ten thousand smiling ivory budas. And the lovely streamlined dancing girl. Beaming in a white silk mandarin robe, waiting for my pleasure. But then suddenly the hundred years ran out. The lacquered woodwork was a bar. The boudas lines of whiskey bottles. The white silk mandarin gown and apron. The lovely dancing girl, Slattery. Easy, easy now, yeah, yeah. Chum, try this. It'll bring you around. Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Oh, it's you. How dumb do you think I am, Slattery? Hey, hey, hey, easy. No, no way. You got it wrong, Chum. I didn't slip you that Mickey. Come on now. Lay back. You're gonna be okay. How long have I been out? Oh, about an hour. You're in the store room behind the bar. Now just take it slow, Mr. Marlowe. How do you know my name? Well, I checked your wallet when you folded, Chum. I saw you with a big shot private dick from Hollywood. Yeah? That gave you my vote. Really? Oh, yeah, yeah. I heard all about you, Mr. Marlowe. The time you nailed that lousy Paul Miles who was hitting all the bars for some old-time protection. Yeah, but you were... you should have said who you was. Yeah, yeah. Hey, Slattery, got any idea who got to my drink? No. There must have been a bird next to you, Ryan. Water on the side, man. You know, here, come on, help me up. Yeah, sure. Oh, ooh. That easy, you know. There we are. No, no. Never seen him before. He shoved off when you went to see Louie. What did he look like, Slattery? Think. Oh, well, uh, he smoked a cigar. Yeah. He had kind of a red face and was wearing a camel hair overcoat. Oh, yeah, yeah. He was nervous. He kept playing with a book of matches. He tore them out one at a time and then he bent them up. He bent them up, huh? Yeah. You don't know his name where he hangs out? No, zero chum, except that Louie heard him ask someone about how to get the Palm Springs, but, uh... Mr. Marlowe, I do know about Sammy Archer. You do? Yeah, I didn't want to talk up before Mr. Marlowe because I didn't know you. Slattery, where can I find Archer? Well, uh, you ain't putting him on the spot for someone, huh? No, no, nothing like that. He called my office today, said he had some kind of a business deal with a guy he didn't trust. Wanted me to meet him here at the bar, get the details and play bodyguard. Now, come on, tell me, Slattery, who is Archer? Where can I find him? Hey, he's a second story man, Mr. Marlowe. He's a... You mean that... Yeah, yeah, he knocks off fancy places. Beverly Hills most of the time. He's strictly a prowler. Oh, fine. Well, you could probably tag him over at 31 West Grand. He's got a basement apartment there, but, uh... Look, you, uh, you ain't gonna be careless about the dope I gave out, are you not? Don't worry. I'm not gonna work for him, Slattery. I still handpick my clients. Well, then, uh, why are you going there? For a lead, Slattery. A lead on a nervous guy in a camel hair coat. You see, I also handpick my enemies. 31 West Grand Avenue was a dirty stone tenement propped up by a dirty stone stoop. A cracked pavement led to the basement apartment which showed a fuzzy slice of yellow light, where the door was cracked open inches. So when I knocked, I was ready for almost anything. Just as long as it was on the seamy side. But I didn't expect it to come from overhead. You're wasting your time, big boy. When Sammy leaves his door open, you shouldn't bother knocking. You mean he's out? No, I mean he's in. And he's got the blind staggers. I know. I heard him falling over the furniture. But go ahead, see for yourself if you'll pardon appearances. The big slob. The lady was right. A tinny radio led me to the basement room where I found the two scarred wicker chairs and the single end table on hand turned over. Drawers open and overflowing pieces of discarded clothing everywhere. And in the middle of all that sprawled along the edge of a threadbare couch that was weak in the springs. Sammy Archer. He was facing me, eyes closed, and wearing a faded blue bathrobe, two sizes too big for him. And next to one hand that rested on the floor was an empty gin bottle sitting on a... on a clipping, torn out of a fashion magazine. On one side an ad for a Bendix automatic wash, on the other a picture of a diamond tiara. A jeweled crown which the caption said belonged to Mrs. Bessie Dunsmiore of Palm Springs. California's most celebrated hostess. Well, it was a good time to awaken my host by shaking well. Hey Sammy, Archer, come on, pull yourself together. I should have known better. You can't wake a dead man by shaking him. Especially when he's got a knife buried in the middle of his back. Sonny Desk, Raminey speaking. Phil Marlow, Raminey. Hiya, Phil. Have you got time for a few questions? We're up to our ears with the Dunsmiore story. What do you got, Phil? Beauty, beast, or traffic accident? Skinny guy with a golf ball complexion and the name Sammy Archer. Ever hear of him? Sure, two-time loser on a jolly end. Jewelry, teamed with a French named Christy Roach. Roach, huh? Say, tell me, Tony, what is he... Hey, wait a minute, Raminey, what did you just say about Dunsmiore? Oh, hold on, didn't you catch PM Sheets? No. Someone got away with a precious tiara last night. They're looking for a hundred grand. They tag anyone for it? Not yet, but they're working on it. Seems that a gardener left a pulse ring's lash up the same time as a crown of diamonds. Gardener, huh? Yeah, was working under a phony name. Well, this Christy Roach, what's he look like? Oh, big red face. Where's a cigar front center? Thanks, now I'm really getting someplace. That means what, Phil? Two feet from the corpse, Raminey, there's a textbook on gardening. Corpse? What corpse? Where are you, Marlow? 31 West Grand Avenue where somebody stabbed Sammy Archer to death. Now listen, Raminey, if you sit on this a while, I think I may be able to wrap it all up for you after a quick trip to Palm Springs. Why not use us and the law? What's your angle, Phil? A very personal one, kid. Like what? Like a mickey that shredded the lining of my stomach. I don't like that kind of treatment. It's bad for the ego. Have a fun... I'll call you later. Goodbye. The trip to Palm Springs was two and a half hours of hard driving through sterile wasteland. And there was plenty of time for me to add what always came out to the same thing. Sammy Archer, posing as a gardener, swiped the Dunsmuir tiara to pedal through Christy Roach whom he feared. But Roach had double-crossed him. In a permanent sort of way. Taken care of me and then headed for Palm Springs. Yeah, but there I got stopped each time. Why Palm Springs? Plus, of course, Archer's apartment turned inside out, meant that the tiara was still hidden someplace in the desert hamlet. Yeah, that really would make it a cinch to find. Yes, sir? I'd like to see Mrs. Bessie Dunsmuir, please. My name is Philip Marlowe. Police or gentlemen of the press are no longer welcome. Good evening, sir. Steady, Jeeves. I have information about the tiara. Now, tell that to your mistress or you'll only be able to look down that long nose through one eye. This way, sir, if you please. The interior of the Dunsmuir shanty was strictly colossal. From a foyer the size and shape of the Union Station to a plush leather-lined den that was about as cozy as a parking lot. And Mrs. Bessie Dunsmuir herself fitted perfectly. Because as the renowned party-giver glided into the room, I saw enough jewelry on her arms, ears, and neck to match Tiffany. Carrot for carrot. She listened intently while I brought her up to date. After that, she ushered me into an uncomfortable chair, rang for long nose, and then asked a sensible question. Mr. Marlowe, this Sammy Archer, what did he look like? Well, he was thin, Mrs. Dunsmuir, and sandy hair. Does that fit your ex-gardener? Precisely. Now, perhaps, we're actually going to make some progress. The police here haven't, and come in, Martin. Oh, I'll let you off at tomorrow. Oh, no, thanks. Thank you, Martin. Mrs. Dunsmuir, did you ever notice a red-faced man who smokes cigars hanging around talking to Archer, perhaps? No, I never did. Did you, Martin? No, madam, I don't believe I did. Excuse me, madam. Good evening, Dunsmuir residence. Who's calling, please? One moment, sir. A Mr. Endicott, madam. Endicott? I don't seem to know any Endicott. Hello? I'm sorry, Mr. Endicott, but I don't seem to recal... What? You... Well, yes. Yes, of course. I'll see you tonight here. Goodbye. Goodbye. What's wrong, Mrs. Dunsmuir? Oh, just some more trouble over the estate. Ever since my husband passed on three years ago, we've had a mountain of trouble with his investments. I see. Well, about the tiara, Mrs. Duns... Mr. Marlow, do what you can about locating it. You'll be rewarded handsomely by the insurance company if you're successful, I'm sure. They stand to lose a hundred thousand dollars. Yeah, but can't you tell me anything about Archer? I'm afraid not. I don't believe I ever said more than two words to him. Now, excuse me, Mr. Marlow, and thank you for your interest. Martin, please show the gentleman out. Outside, I chalked the Dunsmuir interview off at face value. Proof positive that Sammy Archer and the sticky-fingered ex-guard were one and the same. Then I headed for town on the first public phone, which was at a mobile gas station. There, I swapped a ten-dollar bill for a pocketful of quarters and started calling people back in L.A. who might know more about Christie Roach and the kind of connections he could have in Palm Springs. But after four near-misses, I quit and stepped aside and let a big man with a beefy face that belonged on an English bulldog take his turn. However, he had other ideas and he pointed them out bluntly with a shiny automatic. I wonder if you could help me, Sonny. I'm looking for a diamond tiara. You gotta be kidding. I wear a fedora besides that... Hold it right there. I have news for you, Sonny. While you were gaving into the tube there, a station attendant left closed shop went into the bar next door. Out of earshot. So? So we're alone. And that means I'm going to... You very little... Stay right there, Marlow. Well, well, well. Christie Roach. Red-faced cigar and all. Glad to see you. Shut up. Come on, we're getting out of here. Without our buddy, then? Don't worry about him, Marlow. He'll keep that way. Maybe a lot longer than you will. In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlow. But first, every Wednesday night, CBS, the Network of the Stars, brings you Groucho Marx and his dizzy quiz, You Bet Your Life. You Bet Your Life, starring Groucho Marx. And you bet your life, too. You bet your life, too. You bet your life, too. You bet your life, too. You bet your life, too. You bet your life, too. And your better here, You Bet Your Life, starring Groucho Marx this Wednesday night, on most of these same CBS stations, as well as Dr. Christian and that bright new musical show, The ABCs of Music. Now, with our star, Gerald Moore, Right story, the uneasy head. The way Christie Roach had brought his gun barrel down on the bulldog's scalp, I knew he meant it when he jammed the same gun into the small of my back and marched me to my car. He didn't relax until we were driving down a dark side street toward the center of town. Little kid, you jumped right out of the frying pan into the fire. You should have taken that first hint I tossed you. The Mickey? Yeah, that was real cute. But it was too subtle, Christie. I didn't really peg you until I found Sammy Archer. Oh? It's too bad about Sammy. That was more or less of a mistake. Oh, sure, sure, sure. You only intended to carve your initials. The knife slipped. No, no, no, no, no slips, kid. At the time, I thought Sammy had tried to pull a password on me, but I found out later he was just stupid. He had a great thing, and he was just too dumb to see it. As for you, turn east the first chance you get, and don't run any stop signs, you understand? Where we going? Oh, no place in particular, just so it's nice and quiet. You know, you don't know when to quit, Marlow, so now you're just one of the loose ends I've got to tuck in before I clean up my business here. Take it easy on the corners. You told me to turn east the first chance I... I also told you to mind your manners. Busting my wrist isn't going to help my driving much. It'll be worse the next time. I've got a lot of ground to cover yet tonight, and I want it smooth. That's too bad, because there's a bump coming up fast right now. We picked up a tail. Take a look. Cops. Yeah, cops. Call it laughing, boy. You're the skipper. We race them out of town, or do I pull over? Pull over, pull over. I don't know what that beef is, but play it straight, kid, because if it comes to shooting, you'll be the first to drop. Can't you read, buddy? You're on a one-way street. You're telling me. Yeah, only you're going the wrong way. Yeah, I know. Well, you see, my friend... I warned you. What about him? Well, he's in a hurry, officer. I was taking him as far as the corner there. He said it was okay to come this way. I didn't. I'm a stranger here. Uh-huh. Also, you're a big boy now. You should make up your own mind. You're so right. Well, Mac, if you're in a hurry, you can go, but you better get out and walk. Thank you. Your friend here is going to be tied up for quite a spell. All right, let me see your license. Maybe the limb of the law and I should have nailed him right then and there. But there were still too many loose ends, and I wanted Christie Roach to clear them up for me. So I watched him walk out of sight while I listened with half an ear to a lecture on blind drivers. Well, it was a small enough price to pay for the service rendered, so I thanked the officer for the ticket and then headed back to the filling station in a bulldog with a headache who might be in a mood to talk. When I got there, I found he hadn't waited around. After that, I checked the neighborhood and was 15 minutes getting to first base, which turned out to be the bar of a French restaurant across the street run by one Monsieur Jean Corre, a high octane number who apparently had overheard a phone call earlier. I immediately notified the police. Oh, nothing, they said. Ha, believe me, my friends, the lolliest gendarme in Paris would have more sense. Throw away an important clue? Never. I tell you, our police here... Mr. Corre, can I see you a minute? Aye, but of course, Monsieur. What is it? Well, it better be in private, huh? It's about the Dunsmure case. Ah, non, non, non. Step this way, Monsieur. All right. You naturally are a detective. Naturally, yeah. Now look, I understand you overheard a phone call. Oh, yes, about an hour ago. A suspicious man called the Dunsmure place from here. What did he look like? Oh, I am desolated, Monsieur. I do not know. You said it was an important clue. I assume it was important. In a case as big as this, anything may be important. The smallest... Yeah, yeah, you made your point. You made your point. Go ahead. Bien, he had an... He made an appointment. I only overheard, Monsieur. The telephone is back this way in the alcove out of sight. I was passing by right here when I heard the man ask for the Dunsmure residence. He talked to his party and made an appointment. I couldn't hear where or when, so I went on about my business. But suddenly, a memory exploded like a bomb in my head. Bessie Dunsmure, the owner of the stolen tiara. I rushed like this, Monsieur, to the phone. Oh, pardon, Madame. But he was gone, Monsieur. I called the police at once. The rest I can fill in. Now, tell me something else, Mr. Corre. Did you happen to notice a man with a cut on his head around here a while ago? A cut? Yeah. Why, yes. One who looked as ugly as Satan himself. I saw such a one in the washroom. Ah, you mean he's suspect? Well, not exactly, no. But he's connected. Where can I find him? Ah, you ask me, Monsieur. He was sick. I tried to help him, but he refused and left. You have no idea where he went? No. Wherever it was, I'll wager he was too wobbly to get there, Monsieur. All right. In that case, I better make a quick call and I... The telephone's set, anyway. Permission to speak. I know, Claire. Bessie Dunsmure hasn't had a new husband for two whole years, my dear. I can't imagine how she keeps up that elaborate front of hers. Why do you know that... You! What? Madame, hang up the telephone at once. I insist. Vite man. I beg your pardon. In the name of the police, Monsieur, is a detective. I demand you clear of the line. I've paid my nickel and I... Never mind. Skip it. But I would like to know about those bent matches on the floor. What do they mean, Monsieur? I better skip the call and get going fast. Oh, you've been a big help, Corrie. Maybe I can get you the quadrigere. The bent matches that lit at the floor under the phone meant that the man who had made an appointment to meet with Bessie Dunsmure had been the fence, Christy Roach. And to top it off, she'd lied about it. Didn't make any sense. But I added it to the rest of the question marks and made a beeline for Bessie's mansion. I parked a block away from the place, walked back and let myself in through an iron gate at the side, and wound up in front of a car, half hidden in a clump of hibiscus bushes. A man was leaning in the open door with a match in his hand, reading the registration on the steering post. It was the bulldog I'd seen first at the gas station. When he saw me, his hand dived under his jacket for a gun, but I was on him before he could get it out! Oh, my head! You're due for another dose of the same buster unless I get some fast answers. The time for games is over and even a private detective can run out of patience. You're a private digger? Yeah. You... I don't get it. This guy who belongs to the guy who helped you fence Christy Roach. And if he's inside, I got to... Roach didn't help me and you've got to do nothing until I find out about you. Who are you? I'm Fred Temple, Fred Temple, Amelan Insurance Company. Oh, no. We're covering the missing tiara. At least something's haywire. An insurance investigator? Yeah, yeah, but I'm not going to make it, fella. My head, it... You better get in there and stop. When he passed out, he sagged against me like a sack of wet wash. I stretched him out on the grass and after one look knew there was nothing more I could do. I went over to the house and quietly tried to lock doors all the way around until I came to an open one in the butler's quarters. A bed lamp was on, so I braced myself for another meeting with Martin. When he came to the door, he was in his night shirt. As soon as enough of his chin was showing, I swung. It was a distinct pleasure. I stepped over him and went through his rooms and on up the long hall of the main part of the house. I finally located Bessie in the leather-lined den. She was alone, but judging from the rate she was burning up the jittery cigarette in her hand, she expected trouble at any moment. Marlow, how did you get in here? Why are you here? Just checking up on a lie, Bessie. A lie? I don't know what you're talking about. You're late today tonight. Incidentally, he's due any second now. His car is outside. On my grounds? Yeah, yeah, surprised? What's so important about that? Now look, you better tell me all about it, Bessie. No, get out of here. Get out! Later. Right now, this setup is so full of holes, even the truth is leaking out. First roach the fence, figuring Sammy Archer, the guy who swiped your tiara, was pulling a fast one. And he changed his mind and got a new angle. Second, you brushed me off because actually you're afraid of finding the tiara. And third, the insurance company that's covering your loss is suspicious. Yeah, it's cruel, but it can only add one way. Like the tiara that was stolen from here yesterday is worthless. Are you insane? It was famous, fabulous, worth a king's ransom. Yeah, the original, maybe. Not the cheap duplicate. It may be fuzzy on the details, but the big pitch is easy. You dismantled the original and sold it probably quite a while ago. But not before you made a duplicate to keep up appearances so gossips wouldn't know you were going broke. Also you kept up the insurance on it for the same reason. And the duplicate was stolen. People knew you'd been robbed, so you were forced to claim the insurance, but you knew that if the fake was recovered legally, you'd be prosecuted by the insurance company and disgraced. Sure, Christie Roach knows that too. He's coming here for blackmail, isn't he? Why else? Come on, Bessie, you might as well... You might as well... Might as well what? What are you looking at? A cigar butt there on the floor. It's burned a hole in your rug. What happened to make Roach drop a cigar, Bessie? Where is he? I don't know what you're... Stay away from that desk! I mean it, Bessie, next time it's for keeps. Now stay back. Where is he? In that closet there. I didn't know what else to do. You were right about the blackmail, about everything. I had to kill him. He'd have wrecked my life. Yeah, just your way of life. That was top heavy anyway. I guess so. But I thought I had to have it that way. Well, at least I'll give them all a big laugh on the way out. Bessie Dunsmure's a great entertainer. Bessie Dunsmure, the world's greatest hostess, invited the police and reporters out herself. A fake tiara was found in the back of Roach's car, and she wore it cocked over one eye for the benefit of the press, the photographers, and her friends. By the time that party was over, it was almost dawn. Bessie was right. The papers came out and the giggles began. But Fred Temple drinking coffee under a head full of bandages didn't see much to laugh at. It's pathetic. Something awful said there someplace, Marlow. I agreed. And easy lies the head that wears a crown, even a phony one. The Adventures of Philip Marlow, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character, star Gerald Moore, are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald and are written for radio by Robert Mitchell and Gene Leavitt. Featured in the cast were Verna Felton, Wally Mayer, Lou Krugman, Ben Wright, John Danaer, Edgar Barrier, and Charlotte Lawrence. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard O'Rant. Now, a special announcement for Philip Marlow fans. Next week, Philip Marlow will be heard Wednesday night at 10 p.m. Eastern Daylight Savings Time. Be sure and be with us again next week on Wednesday evening when Philip Marlow says... This time there was an innocent aboard, a noisy corpse and a quiet killer. But before I knew which was which, I'd mixed with all three while going 70 miles an hour. Now that warm weather's here, many of us will be doing more driving and more walking. It's the duty of every motorist and every pedestrian to take every precaution so that we may cut down on the terrible injury and death toll exacted by traffic accidents. These accidents don't just happen. They're man-made. Somebody causes them. Make sure that you're not responsible for a traffic accident. Walk and drive carefully. The life you save may be your own. This is CBS where Philip Marlow will come to you on Wednesday night, the Columbia Broadcasting System. Thank you.
