Here's Dick Powell as Richard Diamond, private detective. My name's Diamond and I'm in business for a very simple reason. I like money. Oh sure, I could do better, but I don't believe in straining myself. I might make a few bucks more, but so what? You work harder, your back gets weaker, and you take that extra couple of bucks and spend it for a brace to keep you from falling in the middle. No, I got a little one, room office that leans out over Broadway and I'm very happy. Sometimes I get a case that lasts a week, a hundred bucks a day in expenses, and I make enough to pay the rent. Take my girl Helen Asher to dinner a couple of times and rest my feet on the desk like a prosperous businessman. I'm in partnership with a shill called Human Nature, and with him on my side it just figures that people are going to get in trouble, like the character who's ringing the doorbell of an apartment on the east side. He's built just right for more trouble than he can handle. Well. Hello Mrs. Moran. You say that like you're really glad to see me. I'll let you know as soon as we can talk business. Did you bring a rubber hose along? Why, are you going to be hard to get along with? This time, yes. Where's your husband? He went out. I tried to convince him the window was the quickest way to the street, but he's old-fashioned. He took the elevator. You're drunk. You can't get a bit out of me. Want a drink? Just get the 500. I don't want to be around when your old man gets back. You couldn't afford that, could you? No, and I don't think you could either, baby. Now let's stop playing games, Mrs. Moran. I've got a big fat surprise for you, Mac. Keep it in small bills. That's not funny. That's your surprise. Yeah. You don't get the money. You get something else. Stop yelling. You'll have the whole building up here in a minute. They'll be up anyway, Mac. A gunshot makes people curious. Now wait a minute. You don't have to pull a gun. I don't have to do anything, and I'm breaking myself of one habit right now. I'm through paying your dirty blackmail. Now you know I got my orders. If I don't collect, someone else will be around. Come on, give me the gun. Sure. A piece of the time. I need a drink. Well, here's to nothing, Betty, old girl. X-ray, X-ray, read all about it. Mac Grayson shot to death in blackmail plot. Socialite Betty Moran kills gangster, then takes on life. Read all about it. Paper. Thank you. Oh, paper, mister? Yeah. Here you are. Here's the check. Oh, thanks. Wealthy wife of William Moran kills... Well, I have to call Mr. Moran. No sense to lose a good source of income. Yeah, come in. Over here. This clothesline eye, I couldn't see you. You always do your laundry in your office? Free soap. Pull up a chair, Mr. Moran. William Moran. Nice pair of Argyles. One of my old clients sends them down from Singsing. Have you read the morning papers, Mr. Diamond? I haven't had time. Took some throw rugs down to the laundry mat before I started on the socks. My wife died last night. What did you eat for breakfast? Why pancakes and eggs? Why? You must eat a whole pig when you're not in mourning. How did she die? She was shot to death. Couldn't she get two people for a pyramid club? She was being blackmailed. It's usually the other way around. The victim shoots the blackmailer. She did that. His name was Mac Grayson. I want you to find the other man behind this blackmail ring. Oh, what makes you think there was more than one? I received an anonymous phone call this morning. It was from a man who said he was a friend of Mac Grayson. He made it perfectly clear that he was going to continue with the blackmail. You know what they had on your wife? She was a very wealthy woman, Mr. Diamond. Before she married me, she was rather wild. They get that way sometimes. There were some letters. Why don't you go to the police? As far as they're concerned, the case is closed. They say it's a murder and a suicide and that's that. But I want to get the people who drove my wife to suicide. Okay, Mr. Moran, but if you want me to try and dig up your blackmailers, my fee is rather high. I want to start sending my laundry out. Money is no object. That's the nicest thing you could have said. A hundred dollars a day and a fifth of plasma. Plasma, Mr. Diamond? A hundred proof. I never know what I'm going to run into in a case like this. I may bleed a little. You can reach me at Evergreen 45021. I'll write your check. Here, use my pen. It's getting an inferiority complex. Do you know anything more about this man who called you this morning? Only that he said he was a friend of Mac Grayson's. Oh, there you are, Mr. Diamond. This should be enough of a retainer. Oh, yes, yes. And that's all you know. I'm sorry I can't be of more help. Oh, you've been a brick. I'll get the rest from homicide. Thank you and goodbye, Mr. Moran. Goodbye, Mr. Diamond, and good luck. Oh, I'm sorry. I knocked down some of your washing. Ah, there. Well, I'll be hearing from you. Well, that's the way it goes. One minute you're washing socks, the next you've got enough money to stake out a claim on every night spot from Mont Street to Harlem, unless a particular blackmail ring likes to kill private detectives. I had a hunch the assignment might run into overtime, so I put in a call to a lovely redhead named Helen Asher. Francis the butler answered, and I told him to pass the word along that I might be late for my date. I hung up before Helen could get on the pipe and start screaming at me like a wounded eagle. I locked the office, went down to Fifth Precinct and an old friend, Lieutenant Levinson. He was in charge of the homicide detail and could tell me about the late Mrs. Moran and her victim. When I walked in, Sergeant Otis was polishing his billy. Hello, Otis, the lieutenant in? Well, Richard Diamond, the all-American gumshoe. Oh, you're just jealous because that club you've got is a better shape than your head. Lieutenant, Diamond's out here. Okay, send him in. Tell me, Shammus, how does one get to be a great big private detective? Seven box tops? You have to observe things, Otis, my boy. For instance, one look at your shirt and I can tell you've been eating well for a week. Why don't you either get it cleaned or stick it in a pressure cooker? Hello, Walt. Now, wait a minute, Rick. If you've got a body somewhere, take it to another precinct. Well, I'm a little short right now, but maybe I can dig one up. Yeah, that was a swell one. Is this just a social visit or am I a dreamer? It's about the Moran suicide. You handle it? Uh-huh. One of the neighbors called us. They're both debtors and Otis on a double date. What about the Grayson guy she knocked off? Cheap thug. Couple of convictions. He... Oh, don't tell me Moran's been to you with that blackmail story. Yeah, yeah. He seems to think Grayson was working with someone. Rick, that guy pestered us all morning, but there's no proof of blackmail or anything else except two people got killed. Give me a quick rundown. I don't know why you're interested. I think Moran drummed up the blackmail theory just to cover that his wife was running around with another man. Well, I'm interested because Moran gave me a fat 200 bucks in advance to get me in the spirit of the thing. Well, if you want to be bored, here are the photographs of the deal. Here's Mac Grayson. Bullet entered his chest just below the 10th rib. Guns are 32. Same one that the Moran dame used on herself. Enough powder burns on his shirt to show that she was standing pretty close when she gave it to him. She'd have to be not to miss him. Now, you can see she was lying about 10 feet from Grayson near the bar. Probably needed a stiff shot before she knocked herself off. That's the highball glass on the floor near her head. And that's the 32 she used, about six inches from her right hand and only her prints on it. Powder burns on the girl? Sure, all over a temple. We did the paraffin test on her hand too. She fired the gun all right. Did Grayson have any friends? We never tied him up with anyone except an old wino that hangs out on Skid Row, a dump called the Para Club. Named Wilbert Truitt. Now, well, thanks Walt. Now look, the dame killed the guy and then shot herself. What more do you want? I'll let you know. Wait a minute. I know that gleam in your eye. I always get a sour stomach from it. If you've got something, you'd better tell me. Oh, you're a cynic, Walt. Have you, uh, have you talked to this Wilbert Truitt? We questioned him this morning. Got a tail on him? Sure, but he won't take us anywhere. Now, what are you cooking up? Well, maybe you think there's something to Moran's blackmail story. Oh, don't be an idiot. Then what are you tailing Truitt for? Because I can't take a chance. Blackmail is a federal rap and if Moran keeps stirring up trouble, I want to be able to prove he's nuts. Now, you look here, I want to know what's on your mind. I'll send you a letter. Oh, Otis. Yeah, Lieutenant. Get me my bicarbonate and shut up. Bye. Goodbye. I went through the squad room and out into the hall. I used the payphone by the door and put in a fast call to my client, William Moran. I had a hunch that Moran's $200 retainer in my pocket gave him a name priority on it. Yes? Mr. Moran. That's right. This is Diamond, Mr. Moran. I've got a lead on someone who knew Mack Grayson. That's fine, Mr. Diamond. Who is it? A guy who hangs out on Skid Row named Wilbert Truitt. Ever heard of him? No. Oh. Well, he might have been the one who phoned you this morning. I think I'll go down and find out. Good, good. You'll keep in touch, won't you? Oh, as long as I'm on the case. Goodbye, Mr. Moran. I left the fifth precinct and headed for Skid Row. If you've never seen the street, it's a liberal education in the misery of human beings. Even the sun winds up with a hangover if it shines on the place too long. The Parrot Club was a cellar with a low ceiling and a drink of wine for 10 cents a glass. The smell of stale alcohol was so strong that if you opened the door to air the place out, the walls would probably cave in. I found Wilbert Truitt sitting at the bar with a dirty towel around his neck. He held the towel and a glass of wine in one hand, and with the other he pulled the towel, lifting his hand and the glass up to his mouth. You must have been an engineer. I learned this little stunt in grammar school, Bucko. I started missing my mouth 30 years ago, so I used this towel as a sort of alcohol pulley. It cuts down the element of risk. Hate to spill a drop. You know a guy named Grayson? It's the Shakespeare, Bucko. I am completely exhausted after a night of revelry, and my hand waves like it was flagging down a caravan of whiskey trucks. Look, friend. But after one or two pick-me-ups, I am perfectly capable of lifting the glass by myself. And come nightfall, I'm in excellent condition to entertain my little friends. Oh, swell. Most cowards let the little fellows frighten them, and they end up in Bellevue, but I like them. They worried me at first, but when they found out how much I drank, they began to show the strain, and the shoe was on the other foot, so to speak. Oh, no. They tried to frighten me the first night, but I just kept right on with one bottle after another, and it finally drove them to drink. Now my DTs have hallucinations. We are rapidly building up a thriving community. What were you saying, Bucko? Something about the evils of self-indulgence, but I've forgotten now. Good. In that case, I will let you buy me a drink. Oh, sure. Waiter, bring the bottle. You just gave me cold chills. If I lick your hand, it's only a sign of fond endearment. Okay. Now, do you know a guy named Grayson? I knew there was a catch. Are you a cop? No. In that case, I trust you. Besides, you are holding that lovely bottle. What about Grayson? First, a small glass of truth serum. First, Grayson. I can't stand to look, so I will turn my back on the bottle and tell you what I know. Mr. Mac Grayson, a very unsavory character who reached a sudden demise last evening, delt in smutty pasts and made them pay off by milking his victims. He has only one friend, a Mr. Leo Fink. Now, please, I'm beginning to spit out wads of cotton. Where does this Fink live? Oh, you are indeed a heartless rogue. I was once. You aren't by any chance a spy from the purity league? You get the bottle when I find out where Leo Fink lives. 1120 Second Avenue now, please. Now, here you are. Don't struggle with the cork, bucko. I have just acquired the strength of an uncropped Samson. And as I gaze upon this ruby goblet, I am reminded of the fact that you are not the first to come seeking the whereabouts of one Leo Fink. Huh? Play it back in English. A thug with a disagreeable habit of twisting my ascot approached me not 10 minutes before you came in seeking the same information. Did you give it to him? I had to. One more pull on my tie and dissipation would have been a thing of the past. Thanks, Wilbur. Here, buy yourself another jug. Oh, bless you. And good morrow, cousin. Here's to my love. Oh, true apothecary. Thy drugs are quick. Thus, with a kiss, I die. I left Wilbur with his first love and walked out on the street. I grabbed a cab and headed for Leo Fink's address. All the way over, I kept thinking how wonderful fresh air really was. When we finally got there, I paid off the cabbie and looked at my watch. It was 4.30 and the city was turning soft and mellow as the sun started giving up behind the tall buildings. I got that lousy feeling again when I looked across the street. A prowler car was parked at the curb and it looked like homicide's private limousine. Something was wrong. I went up to Fink's apartment in a hurry. Yeah? Oh, what do you want, Shammers? Well, good afternoon, Sergeant. I'm taking the census. How long ago did you die, sir? Very funny, Diamond. Otis, who is that? Diamond, who else? I didn't ask for a quick quiz on well-known personalities. Let him in. Yeah, Lieutenant. Shame on you, Otis. You'll never make an Eagle Scout. Hello, Rick. What do you want? I bet he's dead. You'll bet who's dead. You know who's dead. Sure I know who's dead. Who do you think is dead? The guy I came up here to see. Well, who did you come up to see? I think it's the guy who's dead. Don't you know? No, I ask you. Well, I'm telling you. You told me nothing. Look, why are you up here? Because I'm looking for a guy. What guy? I think it's the guy who's dead. Who's dead? Oh, he's on third. Don't you know? I think I know, Lieutenant. You shut up. Of course I know. Well, all right, all right. If you're going to hold out on your old power. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. How did we get into this thing? Otis, here's your bicarbonate. All mixed. All right, now let's start again. Walt, who's dead? Oh, let's not have two bodies up here. The guy's name is Fink, Leo Fink. Why did you say that in the first place? Because I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. Walt, Lieutenant Levinson. Now, what are you doing up here? Well, I came up to see Leo Fink, that's all. Well, he's in the other room. If he spills anything, don't believe it. He's been dead for 10 minutes. That's too bad. He knew Mac Grayson. Yeah, how did you find out? That sweet old gentleman you sent me over to, Wilbert Truitt. Oh, you got something out of him, huh? What else did he tell you? Nothing, but we struck up quite a friendship. I'm going to go back over and see what another bottle of wine will do to his memory. I'd better haul him in. Don't do it, Walt. Don't do it. I can find out things a lot quicker. Shh. I got a system. Okay, but keep me posted. I've got to clean up here. How did Fink get it? Two bullets in the head. No idea who gave it to him. They used a Luger, I think. Hey, have you questioned Otis? Oh, go on. Get out of here. Walt, tell me, did you check the prints on that highball glass next to Mrs. Moran to find out whether they were from her right or left hand? Now, what difference does it make? I'll let you know. Now, you wait a minute. No, I can't. I'm behind schedule now. Bye. Oh, Otis! I went downstairs in a hurry and started back to Skid Row and Wilbert Truitt. I turned a corner and had a quick change of heart. That's far enough, Shammers. Wow. Well, look what I picked up. All right. Get into this alley. Now, why don't you put that cannon away? It shows up like a pair of gums at a dentist's convention. Turn around and get going. I can run if it would help. Take your time. You haven't got too much of it left. Stop nudging. You got a cold barrel. Don't you like it? No, but it helps. Hey! Now, listen, in the manly art of self-defense, next time, don't get so close with a gun. Well, what do you know? A Luger. Okay, so I'm a Butterfingers. You've got the gun now. What are you gonna do? I got a mean streak, and it shows up when someone tries to kill me. I'm gonna ask a couple of questions, and if you don't answer them, you'll wish you'd picked on an octopus. Now, get up! Oh, you're a big one. Now, who sent you after me? I don't know. Who sent you after me? I don't know. Who sent you after me? Honest, I don't know. Wait, wait a second. All right, the guy told me on the phone his name was Jones. Sure, first name's John. Wait, wait, I know it's a phony, but he was recommended. You get paid for your work, don't you? Yeah, but this one I collect after the job. Where? I thought you'd gotten over that stubborn streak. Okay. The eight o'clock ferry to Staten Island. He's gonna slip me two bills. And you don't know his right name? No. Did you know Mac Grayson? I heard of him, but I never met him. Are you as handy with the 32 as you are with that Luger? Forget it. Next question. Who killed Leo Fink? That's a pretty big one. Okay, I'll word it differently. Who killed Leo Fink? I'll take the beating. Yeah, well, I gotta hunch this Luger of yours will check with ballistics. Come on. Homicide's still up in Fink's apartment. Nuts. What did you say? Okay. I hustled Louis up to Walt and left him handcuffed to Sergeant Otis. They deserved each other. Louis said he was gonna be paid off at eight o'clock, and my watch said it was a quarter after seven. That gave me 45 minutes to check at homicide and still catch the ferry to Staten Island. The fingerprint man at the fifth precinct put the prints from the highball glass under a microscope I hustled Louis up to Walt and left him handcuffed to Sergeant Otis. They deserved each other. Louis said he was gonna be paid off at eight o'clock, and my watch said it was a quarter after seven. That gave me 45 minutes to check at homicide and still catch the ferry to Staten Island. The fingerprint man at the fifth precinct put the prints from the highball glass under a microscope and told me what I wanted to know. My hunch had been right. So I grabbed a cab and 20 minutes later, I was on my way to the precinct. So I grabbed a cab and 20 minutes later, I was paying for my ticket at the ferry landing. A thick, wet fog was beginning to roll in off the river, and by eight o'clock, it was hard to even see your watch. Someone was playing a piano in the lounge as the ferry began to move slowly across the river. I didn't know who I was looking for, but I figured if there was gonna be a payoff, it would be outside. I leaned against the rail and took out a cigarette. Got the match, mister? Yeah, yeah, right here. Thanks. Lousy night. Yeah. He wasn't my man. When he struck the match, I could see his dirty work clothes and his factory badge. I started down the other side of the boat. Finding a killer in that fog was like looking for your car keys in a mineshaft. I reached the bow of the boat, and right then I knew I was about to score. I get a tight feeling in my stomach when I start closing in on danger. I spotted the dark outline at the rail, so I pulled my hat down and walked up beside him. He was hunched over with his arms resting on the rail. Terrible night. Mm-hmm. It'd be awful if you had to find someone in this fog. Not if he found you first. Yeah. I like the name Louis Osgood. Have you heard of it? I like the name Moran. Huh? William Moran. Who are you? Just an employee. Diamond. Yeah, you get a gold star. Well, what do you want? Have you found the blackmailers? Now, stop playing Alice in Wonderland. I just pushed around your hired gonneth, Louis Osgood. He had enough to say to put you away for a long time. He couldn't have. He didn't know my name. Didn't know your name? Who murdered your wife? You or Louis Osgood? Why do you say murder? The police said it was suicide. Well, I got news for you, buster. Homicide just changed its mind. I checked and found out that the highball glass near her head was covered with prints from her right hand. What does that prove? It proves that to take her own life, the prints on the gun were also from her right hand. You're gonna tell me that your wife shot herself while holding a highball glass in the same hand? That's not my problem, Mr. Diamond. Well, I think it is. If Louis Osgood didn't shoot her, that leaves just one suspect, you. Now, let's take a walk back to the cabin. I want to keep an eye on you for homicide. All right. This is where I leave you, Mr. Diamond. Hey, come here! I hadn't thought he'd make a break, but as long as he had a gun and knew how to use it, I got my gun out and took off after him. I expected him to go over the side and in the fog, and he'd have a good chance. But when a guy gets cornered, he does funny things. I never would have spotted him. But he threw open a door and framed himself in the light from the inside. I must have caught him because I saw him start to fold and stagger through the door. I took my time getting there. A wounded man with a gun can get pretty mean sometimes. The door swung back and forth with the motion of the boat, and I could hear the sound of the engines. He'd gone down in the engine room, so I dropped to my knees and went in after him. A long, polished ladder led down to the big diesel's blow, and I knew I'd hit him with the first shot because there was a bright red trail of blood leading down the ladder and behind the churning machinery. Moran! Oh, Moran, come on out! You can't get out of here. Come and get me, Diamond! I don't like being slapped around, and I'm gonna see that you get yours! He was somewhere off to my left and keeping himself hidden. The catwalk circled the engine room, so I pulled an old stunt. I took a wrench off the wall and tossed it down the metal ladder. I watched for his gun flashes. When I spotted his position, I got down on my stomach and crawled along the catwalk until I was directly over his head. He was sitting in a lot of blood, and he didn't look like he had long to go. Come on, Diamond, I know you're down here! Surprise! Look at the birdie! Oh! Sorry, Moran, but this just wasn't your night. You want to tell me about it? I shot my wife. I came in just after she shot Grayson. She was standing at the bar with her back to me mixing a drink. She dropped the gun by Grayson's body, so I picked it up and shot her. Wiped my prints off and put hers on it. Why did you do it? I hated her. She had money. I found some letters and turned them over to Mac Grayson, the well-known blackmailer. I wanted him to drive her crazy until she drank herself into a sanitarium and then I'd have her money. I never guessed she'd kill Grayson, but when I did, I saw a chance to kill her and make it look like suicide. You should never have called me. The police were satisfied. I had to find Leo Fink. He knew I'd hired Grayson, and he was gonna blackmail me. So when I dug up the little whine of that new Fink you hired Louis Osgood to bump Fink and me, is that right? Hey, hey, Moran. Oh, well, it was a dull conversation anyway. Lousy night. The captain came and helped me carry him up to the deck. Back at the ferry landing, I called Walt Levinson and told him the whole story. I didn't wait around. I just hung up in the middle of his lecture on good behavior and started walking. A stiff breeze was kicking up and pushing the fog back where it came from. After a good round of murder, a guy likes to relax. And I knew just the place to curl up and get my fur brushed. I grabbed a cab and headed for 975 Park Avenue, and the only girl in the world who looked better than her $10 million bank account. Oh, good evening, Mr. Diamond. Hello, Frances. Is Miss Asher in? Yes, sir. She's in the library. Thanks. Get me a glass of milk, will you, Frances? Milk? Oh, yes, sir. Right away. Hey, that's a B flat. Rick, where have you been? Sailing, sailing over the rounding main. Move over. You were supposed to have been here at 8 o'clock. Oh, what's an hour if you tack it on to the end of the evening? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. An hour if you tack it on to the end of the evening? Well, I'm glad you've been keeping out of trouble. I can't stand it when you wander in all beat up. Mmm, you smell nice. What kind of cologne is that? Gunpowder, 38. What? Oh, nothing. What's this you were playing? Oh, a new song. Again. You were just dandy. Well, you know I don't play well. I just pick. You should be glad you don't play the guitar. With those beautiful nails, you'd saw it in half. You're ridiculous. Whoops. Oh, that wasn't a B flat. Rick. Mm-hmm. Who do you love? I won't tell. Rick. I love you, baby. Then let's get married. Hey, these are pretty good lyrics. Now stop that. Again, this couldn't happen again. I hate you. This is that once in a lifetime. This is that moment divine. You never sing when I want you to. What's more, this never happened before. Though I have waited a lifetime for such as you to suddenly be mine. No comment. Mine to hold as I'm holding you now. And yet never to part. Mine to hold. Hey, what's the matter? Don't go. You want to sing? Go ahead. Well, what did you have in mind? I won't tell. You're not being original. That's my line. Well, I'm mad. Come here. Come here. No. Come here, huh? Mm-hmm. Helen. Mm-hmm. Still mad? No. Well, let's get you mad again. It's so much fun making up. Mine again. What's the name of the song again? It never happens again. I'm mad. Oh, good. Now. Oh, Mickey. Here's your milk, Mr. Diamond. Oh, my goodness. You never warned me. You have just heard Richard Diamond, Private Detective, starring Dick Powell. Helen was played by Virginia Gregg, Lieutenant Levinson by Ed Begley. Also in our cast were Wilms Herbert, Tal Avery, Herbert Butterfield, and Jack Petruzzi. Music was under the direction of David Baskerville. Richard Diamond is written by Blake Edwards and directed by William P. Rousseau. Now, this is Eddie King inviting you to be with us again at the same time next week, when we will again bring you Dick Powell as Richard Diamond, Private Detective. This program has come to you from Hollywood. Now, NBC brings you a three-way cavalcade of grand comedy with Phil Harris and Alice Faye, Fred Allen, and Henry Morgan, all following in fast succession over most of these NBC stations. This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.
