 The Adventures of Sam Spade, Detective. Dr. Ludwig Zoya, 1241, Leavenworth, San Francisco, from Samuel Spade, license number 137596. Subject, Edith Hamilton. No caper? No caper. Dear Doctor, if I owe you an apology for not keeping you informed on the progress of the assignment, and for letting it drag on as long as it has, and I'll have to go on owing you, which makes us even, because you don't owe me anything. The start of it was a month ago. 32 days, 8 hours, 3 minutes, and 45 seconds to be exact. Mr. Spade. Dr. Zoya. Good to see you. Let me think. How long is it? Three years since I visited Jerovus. That was when you were my leading suspect in the Dinov case. Yes, poor Dinov. It was he who pointed out that we psychoanalysts are not unlike you detectives. We probe, we question, we follow up clues in order to find out what is the dark secret, which has nervously disturbed a human mind. But we are limited. We have only our patients' words and our interpretations. Sometimes that is not enough. And that is why I need your help in this particular case. What case is that, Dr. Zoya? Please do not interrupt the free flow of my thoughts. Pardon me. Naturally, my ego feels a certain resentment against my id for asking you for your help. What makes me think I need a detective? Well, my id was just asking my ego the very same question. Now you too feel resentment. We must analyze that later. Bring me your derivative. Now, now to the key. Oh, yes, okay. This woman was referred to me by her physician. She has suffered a complete nervous collapse because she thought she recognized a certain person crossing the street, a person she had not seen for years. Who was that? My patient's son died under mysterious circumstances three years ago, and the woman she thought she saw was her daughter-in-law. It was widely reported in the newspapers at the time. Perhaps you remember it. Carter Hamilton. Carter Hamilton. Oh, Roanoke, Virginia, 1946. The mother accused the son's wife of murdering him. Daughter-in-law was hauled up before the grand jury, but not indicted, dropped right out of sight afterwards. Good, you know that case. Well, actually, my patient is suffering from an agonizing sense of guilt. Unconsciously, she thinks that she herself murdered her son. Did she? Well, there may be something tangible at the bottom of so profound a feeling of guilt. You mean you want me to help you convince her that she really is guilt? No, no, no. That is for me. But first, we must find out. What we must find out is somebody else, whether they are guilty. What? Go all the way to Virginia? Saw the crime that's been off the books for three years? No, no, no. The daughter-in-law is actually here in San Francisco. If I remember right, she wasn't the only suspect. Well, whether she is innocent or guilty is of no importance. It is only important that we know. What? Excuse me. Yes, Mrs. Case. Mrs. Hamilton is here, Dr. Zoya. Oh, Goodwin's case. Send her in. This is my case. I'm in by my patient. I want you to meet her. Good afternoon, Mrs. Hamilton. Good afternoon, Dr. The woman who stood framed in the doorway was a tall commanding figure, impeccably dressed in black with an easy hundred grand worth of black pearls wound around her neck and a black veil covering her face. She walked in ahead of you, displaying not a sign of nervousness and stopped directly in front of me. Very deliberately, she lifted the veil, revealing a youthfully old face, deeply tanned and set off by snow-white hair. Only her enormous violet eyes showed any expression. She stared at me for what seemed like a full minute. Yes, you do. You look like the other one. Perhaps you had better explain, Mrs. Hamilton. My daughter-in-law, Edith, was very much in love with another man before she married my son Carter. He jolted her. Carter was second choice. It was I who talked her into marrying him. That's why I'll never rest until my son's death is avenged. We must analyze this desire for vengeance. Oh, yes. Yes, I had a dream last night. I dreamed that Edith was dead, stabbed with the same bone-handled hunting knife she used to kill my son. Yes, yes, you would or not. No, you just lie down on the couch and relax, Mrs. Hamilton. I'll be with you in a moment. Come, let's just speak. This is the most disturbing new development, her dream. You must get to that girl as soon as possible. Her life may be in danger. You mean the old lady is mixed up enough to take a shot at her? Here. Here is the address. And take this briefcase. Why, the briefcase? Well, there are legal papers in it regarding the Hamilton estate. They require her signature. I had Mrs. Hamilton arrange for you to take them to her instead of the attorney. I'm supposed to pose as a lawyer. While I'm there, I'm supposed to shake a confession out of her and while I'm typing it up, I'm a bodyguard. You're getting a lot for your money, Dr. Zoya. I spent the next hour or so in a newspaper morgue briefing myself on the old Hamilton case. The victim, Carter Hamilton, was the 28-year-old tail end of an old Virginia family whose blood was as rich as it was blue. The accounts of the killing were sketchy. At the old plantation, Carter Hamilton had been found one morning by his mother dead in bed of a stab wound. The knife was never turned up. Somebody had wiped everything in the room clean of fingerprints, which sounded like robbery until it was established that nothing was missing. The state was counting heavily on Mrs. Hamilton's senior testimony in their case against the daughter-in-law, but an odd angle had forgotten. The old lady had clammed up in front of the grand jury and the case was dropped for lack of evidence. Then there was a picture. She was the kind of a girl who looks her best in a writing outfit with her freckled showing and then surprises you by looking even better in full makeup with her shoulder showing. Candid is the word that best describes her features, large, widely spaced eyes, a generous mouth, and an expression of unaffected sincerity. It was with a certain reluctant eagerness that I kicked myself up Stockton Street to Pine, across Pine to Bush, and up free flights of stairs. Mrs. Edith Hamilton? Yes. You must be from the attorneys. They wired me when you were coming. Come in. Thank you. Not that I'm in hiding, but I'm curious as to how they got my address. Would you like a drink? Well, not right now. Can I fix you one? In about 20 minutes, maybe. I'm still wondering how... How they located you? I, uh, think the elder Mrs. Hamilton saw you on the streets. Oh, is she here in San Francisco? Yes. Is that so surprising? No, it's a large city. What is surprising is her staying on after learning that I was in town. She's not very well. In fact, I, uh, think she's had some kind of a nervous breakdown. I'm sorry to hear that. I'm very fond of her, you know, in spite of everything. No, I didn't know. Maybe I should explain. I'm a private detective local. I was hired here in San Francisco to bring these papers to you. Oh, you found me. It seemed to be a little slow in introducing myself. I'm sorry. Sam Spade. Well, if it had to be a detective, I'm glad it's you. But I can't help wondering why they didn't send a lawyer. Lawyers cost $50 an hour. I only cost 10. Oh. In the private eyes stories, it's always 25 bucks a day and expenses. I wish those writers would get a breast of the times. I'm sure they'll catch up. But if you're being paid by the hour, perhaps I can keep you here a little longer. I'm glad you said that. You remind me of someone. Pleasantly, I hope. Yes. Oh, yes. And sadly, too. Your husband? If you don't know about that, I hope you'll never find out. I'll leave that up to you. His hair was like yours. He was thinner. And his eyes were blue. Maybe we shouldn't wait till 5 o'clock for that drink. It was a funny kind of a drink. Had never been hit by one before, a black velvet. After two of them, I even began to hate myself a little less. And after the third, I decided there was some mystical connection between the drink and the color of her eyes. Black velvet. So much about music, but the way she went up the piano, you knew she wasn't afraid of it and probably wasn't afraid of anything. The pieces she played were like her. Bold and at the same time delicate. Simple, but with a web of complexities in the background. Brilliant, but always colored with sadness. What's the matter? I want you to take me someplace. Where? Anyplace. Dinner. I don't care. I just want to go someplace with you. With you. Hey. What is it, Sam? I thought we were going out. I never paid much attention to San Francisco before I met her. It's quite a place. There's a little park up on Russian Hill where you can stand and look out over the houses of the marina to the Golden Gate. There's an island in San Francisco even worse than Alcatraz. It's in the middle of the lake at Flashakazoo and instead of gorillas, the population is nothing but monkeys. There are only two laundries in Chinatown. And out of Golden Gate Park, they have a band concert every Sunday afternoon. Maybe it was just the bright weather, but everything looked clean and shiny as if somebody had taken out a scrubbing brush to all the buildings. We even fed seagulls. At first, she never went any further into her past than the day before yesterday. I couldn't very well charge her for the progress I was not making on the case, so when I learned that you'd sent old Mrs. H to a nursing home for a two-week rest and Edith did not need bodyguarding for the time being, I took a job that took me down to Los Angeles for a few days. I was awful glad to get back and not because I don't like L.A. Oh, darling, you were gone so long. Hey, hey, the posing. Oh, give them to me. Well, I like that. This is the last time I make a fool out of myself by inflowing. I'll love them later. Hey, you're trembling. What happened when I was gone? What happened to me happened before you went away. You know that. Sam, while you were gone, I had a lot of time and I did a lot of thinking. And I came to a very important decision. There was something I knew I had to tell you. And I wasn't so sure I could get through it. Oh, look, Angel, it sounds serious. I don't think this is the time. Oh, but it is. Yes, it is. Here. Take it before I change my mind. What is it? I wrote it all down. Sit here, facing away from the piano. And don't say anything until you've read it through. Well, okay. Sam sent me straight between the eyes. It said, I, Edith Hamilton, of my own free will, make the following confession. It was addressed to the district attorney of Roanoke, Virginia. Dr. Zoya was when I headed back to your office. Not to have my head examined. It was too late for that, but to tell you that I was resigning this caper. On the way, I placed two ads in the classified sections of three papers. One under office space for rent and one under situations wanted. Ex-private detective desires position as night watchman, prison guard, asylum attendant, or any more pleasant line of work. And I really meant it. United States Armed Forces Radio Service is presenting the weekly adventure of Dashel Hammett's famous private detective, Sam Spade. Sturbed is not the word, Mr. Zoya. Is it because you've been with her a week and a half and there's yet no progress? Just analyze the situation. The whole setup has been rotten from the beginning. You send me to that girl under false pretenses. You tell me to worm my way into her consciousness. One moment, Edith. I tell you this. How else did you expect me to get a confession out of her? Should have got the play when that old lady said I looked like a man Edith was once in love with. You thought she'd fall for me, didn't you? You thought I'd take advantage of it, didn't you? Well, you could hire somebody else to make love to her. I'm a detective, not a juggalo. So she did make a confession to you. Why do you say that? When a patient comes to a psychoanalyst for help, a situation develops which we call transference. Now, this means that the doctor represents to the patient someone in whom he can confide, to whom he can unburden himself, such as a parent or a loved one. Well, at the moment that is. What you feel toward me at the moment is what we call negative transference. You wish to continue to make love to her, but you feel guilty about it, so you blame me. Well, what then? What are you driving at? In this love affair of yours, we have a similar situation. But what she feels for you only resembles love. It is transference. You resemble a former lover, and that is why it only took a week and a half for her to reveal everything. Oh, sometimes I think I am too ethical or too old. Come now. Why don't you tell me? You'll feel better. There's nothing to tell. She had it written down. I didn't read past the word confession. Well, what did you do with it? I destroyed it. I see. Miss Case. Miss Case. Miss Case, what is it? Mrs. Hamilton. She's... It was Mrs. Hamilton, all right. But she didn't look much like the dignified old lady I had met in your office ten days before. Her high-piled white hair was hanging in two ratty pigtails. She was wearing a nurse's cape over a flannel hospital nightgown, and in her hand was a .32 caliber gun. Mrs. Hamilton, why did you leave the nursing home? You lied to me, Dr. Zoya. That place is nothing but an asylum. Well, you know that isn't true. Come give me the gun. You're tired. You must rest. Yes. Now I can rest. I've killed her. What? Miss Case, she's fainted. Get some water. Let me see that gun. I'm going to eat this place. Get an ambulance over there and don't stop to analyze anything. Judith was slumped forward over the piano keyboard. She was barely breathing. The old lady wasn't much of a hand with a gun. Four of the slugs had punctured the big studio window. One had torn a flesh wound in her shoulder. The other had penetrated the right side just below the rib cage and there was not much bleeding at the wound of exit. Her face was pale and the skin cold of the touch. I gambled on a hunch she was suffering mainly from shock. Moved her over to a couch, threw a blanket over and poured hot coffee into her. After a bit, her color started coming back. Then she opened her eyes. Oh, I thought you went away. I must have dreamed it. Why still, Angel? Don't try to talk. Please, please. Don't let them know what happened. Take it easy. It's only the ambulance. I've got to save Mother Hamilton, you see. I've got to get rid of that knife and... I can't let it... Put on the ambulance with her. She was still unconscious when they carried her into surgery. They told me she was out of danger. When they threw me out that night, I went back to her apartment. What she'd said about saving old Mrs. Hamilton and getting rid of the knife gave me a new slant on that confession I hadn't read. The pieces were still on the floor where I'd thrown them. It took me nearly an hour to put the jigsaw together and when I did, it was still a puzzle. In her story, that morning, three years ago, she confessed to finding the body before the official discovery to hiding the knife and wiping the doorknobs and surfaces in the death room to get rid of fingerprints. She couldn't remember anything that had happened in the eight hours between 1 a.m. when she had left her husband drinking in the library and gone upstairs to bed and approximately 9 in the a.m. when she found herself standing over his body with a knife in her hand. I stretched out on the sofa to think it over and then I drew a blank. I've been reading that so-called confession. Very interesting. We must analyze it. You won't analyze it. I'm going to call the hospital. I've just come from there. How is she? Physically, nothing serious, mentally. She's not so good. She keeps asking for you. Yeah? She thinks you can help her. It's definitely there, the delusion that she's in love with you. What makes you so sure it's a delusion? Don't answer that. When can I see her? Well, it's best that you wait until she comes home. That will be next Tuesday. Look, you're supposed to be a first-class head doctor. Can't you cure this amnesia of illness? I thought I explained to you last night when we were discussing transference. Please, Dr. Zoya, please. I know you mean well, but don't. I beg of you. Well, it's not important. When she gets to know you better, she will realize that her love for you is irrational, and then she will remember everything. I got myself busy like crazy until Edith checked out of a hospital. There wasn't much talk between us at first. Even her music was reticent, little rambling improvisations that sounded like children's songs or lullabies with something just a little acid mixed with her simplicity. Then as the days went by and her strength and confidence started to return, her music became serene and graceful. It became like her as she sat there at the piano in front of the big window with its afternoon sun streaming down on the San Francisco hilltops. But at the same time, the April fog banks started its nightly prowl in through the golden gate. And that was like her, too. And like her music. Brilliant, but with a touch of melancholy. And then one day it was all warmth and brilliance and she was... I remember now. So that's it. I woke up this morning feeling so happy and then I knew I was on the verge of it because I knew that however bad the truth might be it was worse not remembering it. Even if I was a murderer you'd rather know wouldn't you? No, no I wouldn't. Why? I thought I knew you so well. Darling, are you angry? Yeah. But at me? Yes, you. The first time I came here I tried to give you a fair warning. You should have figured the score when I told you I was a private detective. You'd even read the stories where in the end the detective doesn't have any choice but to turn in the beautiful dame no matter what his personal feelings are. Maybe you didn't think they were true to life or maybe you thought I was an exception to the rule because you are. Well, I'm not. Truth is I was hard to get a confession out of you any way I could and I think in the back of your mind you'd known it all along. You want to have your confession and eat it, too. You probably learned as a child that it's smarter to tell all and be patted on the back than to be found out and get spanked. Can you be so smug and so self-satisfied and so whatever made me think I was in love with you just because you looked a little like someone who... Zoya was right. Only he thought you were kidding yourself, too. Zoya called a transference. I called it baloney. Goodbye. You come back here. You can't just leave like... That's why I never heard a confession. It turned into a lovers' quarrel. And I understand she paid $25 an hour to rattle it off to you. I have before me your telephonic message. I haven't had time to analyze it, but at first glance I take it to mean that Edith was innocent of everything except destroying evidence. Motive, despair, her mother-in-law, the anguish of knowing that her son was a suicide. I'm sorry now that I know what her story was that I didn't stay to hear her tell it. But that, as you would say, is not important. At least I cured her of that love delusion you were so worried about even though it took a month to do it. Period and a report. Oh, Sam. Sacrificing yourself. So self-sacrificingly. Rather than shatter a mother's delusion. You have some other time, huh? I'm sorry, Sam. I'll go tight this up. Sam, where did you go? I'm downstairs in the bar. Sam, there's so much noise on the line. I can't... I'm drowning my sorrows. Well, you don't need to shout. Oh, hold the line a minute. Yes? May I help you? Oh. No, I'm sorry. I was hoping I might find Mr. Spade in. Hello? Would you like to leave a message? Tell him Edith Hamilton called. Oh. Oh! F, are you still on the phone? Oh. Oh, pardon me. Yes, dear? What happened? Are you taking a bath? Nothing. Nothing at all. One moment, please. Miss Hamilton, I have him on the line. He's downstairs in the bar. And if you'll hurry, you can just catch him, I'm sure. Oh, downstairs? Well, I will hurry. Thank you. You're welcome. Sam, are you still on the line? What's the matter with you? Nothing. Nothing. Just go ahead and draw on your sorrows. But don't get loaded.