 The adventures of Sam Spade Detective, brought to you by Wild Root Creme Oil Heratonic, the non-alcoholic heratonic that contains lanolin. Wild Root Creme Oil, again and again the choice of men and women and children too. I'm very sorry, but Mr. Spade is not available at this hour of the morning. You might have better luck if you try an hour or so, say somewhere around 10.30 or 11. You see, his work keeps him up night, and he has to have his... Miss Parine, this is your employer. Samuel Spade, up and kicking at 9.30 in the morning. Already? Presidential. You haven't been up this early since 1934. I had to see you, sweetheart. Really, say? I couldn't stay away another moment from those roguish green eyes. That winter, sweetheart, a fishing line. A fishing line? Where were you with a fishing line? In a closet, of course. I had a couple of sinkers and a brand new hook. I'll be right down to dictate my report on the cutty-hunk caper. I'll keep myself away. Dashel Hammett, America's leading detective fiction writer and creator of Sam Spade, the hard-boiled private eye, and William Spear, radio's outstanding producer, director of mystery and crime drama. Join their talents to make your hair stand on end with the adventures of Sam Spade. Presented by the makers of Wild Root Creme Oil for the hair. Say, has your family tried Wild Root Creme Oil hair tonic yet? That's right, I said your family. For not only men, but women and children too, like the neat, natural way Wild Root Creme Oil grooms their hair. The effective way it relieves annoying dryness, the fast, thorough way it removes loose, ugly dandruff. If your family hasn't tried it yet, get Wild Root Creme Oil in the 25-cent get-acquainted bottle. Find out why it's America's favorite. Ask for Wild Root Creme Oil hair tonic. Again and again, the choice of men and women and children too. And now with Howard Dove starring as Spade, Wild Root brings to the air the greatest private detective of them all, in the adventures of Sam Spade. Hello, sweetheart. You. Calm yourself, Angel. Nobody looks good this time of the morning. Just got my hair must. Oh, but look at your hair. I know, I know, but don't jump to conclusions. I haven't got two heads. The little one is only a bump on the big one. Shall we have at it? You look nice in the morning, Sam. That's a big dirty lie. Now, what is that bright yellow stuff all over the floor there? Oh, that sunshine. Oh. Uh, date Philodin to, uh, Mr. Terrence Burgess, city jail, San Francisco, California. Jail? Mm-hmm. From Samuel Spade, license number 17596, subject to cutty-hunk caber. It seems like only last night that I was strolling up a feral street through the fog. As a matter of fact, it was last night. A night off, I thought. I would sidle up the Greenland Auditorium and watch two other people break each other's bones for a change. The card looked interesting. A 300-pound ox known to the public as Nasty Norbert was wrestling a new import named the Swedish Pinhead. Extra city jail, extra plug-in killer loose, extra paper, mister? Not I, son. I am not interested in crime. But wait. How many papers have you left, fella? About 54. Well, you better get going. Somehow, the news of the bludgeon killer's escape touched only the outer fringe of my consciousness since I was determined to leave it all behind for a night. So I strolled toward Greenland, noting the while that about a half a block behind me, a character and a hat and a long gray overcoat seemed to have the same thing in mind. When you've been failed as often as I have, Terry Boy, you've developed hindsight. This was obviously an amateur shadow. I'd stop, look in the store window, so would he. I turned off old Farrell onto Webster, diddo. Then off Webster onto Gary and over onto Fillmore. My shadow was moving closer now, keeping me inside in the crowd. When a police car screamed past, my guy ducked into a store entrance like a rabbit. I turned up Post Street, slid into a dark doorway, and waited. Hold it, buddy. No, no, wait, let go of me. Just a minute. Hey, give me that. Okay. Now, what's the matter? Nothing. Honestly. Why are you tailing me? I'm in trouble. You're getting a lot more trouble running around with a police 38 in your overcoat pocket. Where'd you get it? I borrowed it. Who from? A cop. Wait a minute. Raise your hat. Yeah. All right, I'm Terry Burgess. Terry Burgess? Didn't they convict you? Yeah. They were going to sentence me tomorrow. The bludgeon killer, huh? How did you spring? The cop turned his back, and I grabbed. That's all. I had to get out, Spade. I had to. Wait a minute now. Wait a minute. I had nothing to do with it, so help me. But nobody cares. Nobody listens to me. I'm going to the gas chamber for something I didn't do. You got a lawyer, haven't you? Oh, I can't do anything. You tried to. Well, what can I do? I don't know, Mr. Spade. I don't know. I saw you back there. I thought if anybody could help me, you could. I'd say it easy. I followed you trying to get up there. But can't you please do something? You hear that? There's a power car, kid. I know that's bad news. The young will be bad news for me if I'm caught talking to you instead of dragging you into headquarters. Yeah, but... I'll tell you what. I'll listen to what you can tell me in five minutes. I'll risk my license just that long. On page one of the beginner's handbook for correspondent school detectives, it states that it is not OK for a private investigator to conceal a non-criminal, much less a convicted murderer. But I couldn't help wondering why this flyaway bludgeon killer would seek out for a confidant, a detective, especially one whose unfaltering sense of duty and sickening high moral standards have made his name anathema to the underworld and have caused him to be blackballed at gangster canasta parties everywhere. Anyway, I listened to the kid's story. He started right in about Lori Hanover. What is it about her that got me? She was beautiful, of course, but I've known a lot like that. What was she, a photographer's model or something, wasn't it? Yeah. And of a screwball, according to the papers. Oh, they didn't know the half of it. She'd been giving me the brush for weeks. Well, I thought it was another guy. I tried to talk to her, but she just hung up on me. Then what? I couldn't stand it any longer. One night I got tanked up and went over to her place for a showdown. I found her lying on the bed with her head off. It was awful. How'd you get in? The door was open. Yeah? Then what? I guess I passed out. When I woke up, a cop was standing over me. That's all there was to it. That's enough. What time did you get there? I don't know. How did you get there? I took a taxi. What kind of a taxi? Where's the driver? I don't even remember that. It was some off-brand of a taxi. Some off-brand of a taxi? This is important, kid. I know it is. I've tried to remember what I can't. I try to remember a book. Yeah, a nightmare. What time did you leave your apartment? I don't know. Sometime after dinner. You don't know when you left, how you got there or what time you found it. I'm telling you the truth, believe me. Yeah, five minutes are up. Come on, let's go. Listen, I can lie to you. I can make a lot of times and stuff, but I'm not. Yeah, yeah. Hey! Wait a minute. Let the police come. Sure it is. Let's go on me. Take it easy, Burgess. You dirty double grudge. Okay, Burgess. Okay. Come on, Burgess. Come on, get up. Burgess? What? Yeah, let's take him down to headquarters. I should have known better, Spade. Shut up and get in. Well, well, Burgess. Boys will be glad to see you back. He's got a great story, officer. He doesn't remember anything that happened the night of the murder, and he's stuck with it. Sure, they're all alike. He's guilty of sin. That's where you're wrong. He's innocent. Huh? But then why are you... Because I'd hate to have a client knocked off by a trigger-happy cop. You'll be safer in jail. Two headquarters, officer, and please don't let's use the siren hunt. You more left on him? Yeah. He's in his cell now, talking to Chenoweth. Chenoweth? You mean the lawyer? Yeah. Well, he comes pretty high. Where does Burgess get the money to hire him? He's assigned with the court. Chenoweth's sort of half-volunteered, anyway. Hey, mind if I make a suggestion, Sam? It's your office, Kelsey. Go home and go to bed. You're wasting your time. I don't think so. I got an ache in my bad knee. The case is off the books, Sam. Off your books? I don't mind. I think the kid was framed. Framed? Holy cow. He gets drunk, makes a lot of threats against the girl in a public bar, takes off her apartment. The landlady hears a scuffle, calls us, and when we get there, he's out cold on the floor, not six feet from her body. What more could you ask? One small question. Uh... Who killed her? Uh... Guys who knock off their girlfriends generally have a few answers, Andy Lieutenant. Burgess has none. So he's stupid. So he was drunk and doesn't remember. Look, Kelsey, old gray-headed friend, I've saved you a lot of trouble tonight. Now, why don't you be a love and get me the transcript of the trial, huh? It's out of my department. You're well thought of around here, Lieutenant. I'll bet you could get it if you try. Oh, Sam, for Pete's sake. And the case file, too, while you're at it, huh? Good evening, gentlemen. I presume this is Mr. Spade. That's right. This is Mr. Chano of Sam. All right. How do you do, Sam? I'll leave you two to hold hands while I rattle up those files. Read him gently tonight, Mr. Chano, with the underneath and his bad knee. Bad knee? Uh, some people get hunches in their head. I get them in my knee. I wish you were right. How's the kid? Oh, better. You've given him something to hold on to. It's going to be tough when the letdown comes. A little early to be digging his grave, don't you think? And it's a little late to be riding up like a knight in shining armor and telling him you're going to get him off the hook. I don't mind telling your Spade that I resent your intrusion, implying as it does that, that, uh... That, uh, that, uh, what? Well, that I haven't discharged my duties as counsel as efficiently as I might have. I want you to know that I volunteered my services on this case because I thought a charge of first-degree murder against this boy was ridiculous. Mm-hmm. So you tried to get him off on manslaughter? Uh, temporary insanity. Why not manslaughter? Because 10 people heard him swear he was going to kill Lori Hanover in a bar one hour before the crime, that's why. Okay, so you pitched for temporary insanity, and the court psychiatrist pinned you to the mat, and all the while, you were leaving out the solidest bed of all. Oh? Yeah. But he didn't kill her. But he was innocent. A four-guy for somebody who had a much better reason than he did. And another thing, Chenoweth, if you defended the kid half as well as you're defending yourself right now, he wouldn't be in the can. Good night. Why do I talk so big when I know so little? After spending a couple of hours with the files Kelsey brought me, I began to wish I hadn't stopped in that doorway on Postley. I'd have had a much more pleasant time with nasty Norbert in the Swedish pinhead. Kelsey and Chenoweth were right. The case against Terry Burgess was tighter than a pulmon window. So I went home and I went to bed. My baddie, the bad name, was faking worse than ever when the phone rang. Hello. Mr. Spade. Yeah. Mr. Spade, I'm awfully sorry to bother you with this hour, but a Shakespeare said, delays have dangerous ends. Yeah, he also said, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, any one of the three will suit me, friend, but right now I'm... Can you rather procrastinate? No, hibernate. I'm in my bare feet and the floor's cold. Well then, I only saw you with young Burgess in an alleyway tonight, and I thought you might be interested in what I have to say. Hold it, I'll get my slippers. I won't keep you long. As you know, Mr. Spade, the case against Mr. Burgess was particularly strong since the defense was unable to produce any other suspect with sufficient motive. Right. There's an excuse guilt within their bosom lies. Imagine every eye beholds their blame. Burgess? Shakespeare. I have made a decision, Mr. Spade. Two hours of quiet meditation have convinced me. It is time to reveal to you that young Burgess is in fact innocent. Who are you? If you will call at my office, room 210 in the Cabrillo building, I shall supply you with good and sufficient proof there. Hello? Hello! It took two minutes to throw clothes out of my pajamas and run down to the street. And as my taxi cab took off, I noticed that the ache in my bad knee was gone. The Wild Root Cream Oiler presenting the weekly Sunday adventure of National Hammett's famous private detective, Sam Spade.