 Broadway's My Beat from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesome-est mile in the world. Broadway's My Beat with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. From somewhere beyond the threshold of neon, the happy holidays beckon to Broadway, and the wilderness of plastic and chrome dons its ribbons of tinsel. Garlands of evergreen are hung against the shriek of subways, and behind plate glass, puppets with shrewd mechanisms perform their frenetic dance. The metallic music flows out of the horns of loudspeakers. The women walk slow, sway gently to its holiday rhythms, and everywhere the image of gaiety is reflected in spangles that whirl on winter's wind. So paint the grin across your mouth, kid. It's the merry time, and somewhere within it a phone call, a drunken voice that pleads you into a desolate wind-littered street, into a tenement scarred with shadows, into a room also desolate. A man sprawled on the floor in drunkenness, his arm flung toward the woman who lies away from him, his fingers reaching, trying to touch her dead face, and the other man who clings to your lapel has waited there only so he could tell you about it. That proves I had nothing to do with it, doesn't it? I called it in. I waited here for you. Me, along with those two, just so I could tell you about it. That proves... Bob. Robert Colker. I got a wife, and a good name. I don't want to get mixed up in this, mister. The woman? That's Mrs. Baker, Charlie's wife. Boy, is that boy got a hangover waiting for him when he comes to. Imagine, you and Charlie enjoying yourself. You get invited in for a little nightcap. You walk in, and there's Mrs. Baker lying on the floor, head all twisted like that. She was strangled. Yeah, yeah. That's how I figured it, too. When we walked in the store, I said, look, Charlie, boy, look at your Mrs. And Charlie kind of yelped like a dog or something. Tried to make it to her, but he passed out on the way. Hey, mister, unassented. You and Mr. Baker were up together. Then you came home. Yeah, but not like you think. We were to the office party. Charlie and me, we got to joining desks. Big deal office party. Booze and paper cups, dance a little with the steno. You've been wanting to touch all year. Then you take Charlie boy home. And look, mister, OK, if I could home now. I done everything could be expected. All right, Mr. Colker. Tell her you won't be home for a while. And wait then. Watch the barrier of faces form at the doorway. The same faces that gather always when sudden death is done. Faces tempered only by the quality of shirts, neckties and hairdos. Quality this time, tenement, frayed. And in a while, the medical examiner, the nod toward the dead, the black satchel opened and the stethoscope that hears no heartbeat. The official pronouncement that a woman named Lucille Baker, age about 32, married, no children, have been strangled to death. And the other nod to the two men who had been found with her. Take them along, get out, go. And back to the office and give orders to interview everyone at the party. Turn Mr. Baker over to the officer whose extracurricular duty includes the sobering of suspects. Question Mr. Colker again, his story sticks. Then a door opens and a very sober man walks in. I don't believe what they just told me. I don't believe it. What are you doing here, Bob? I just told them what happened. I told them we came back to your place. You wait outside, Mr. Colker. Sure, sure, whatever you say. Just take it easy, Charlie boy. Sit down, Mr. Baker. Your wife is dead. Lucille. I want you to try to tell me just what happened tonight. The office party. I went there, I was having a fine time. Yes, I was, I was having a wonderful time. I think it was the end of the day at first. I wanted to go home but they wouldn't let me. They said, look at all this free booze. Lap it up and forget it. And now... Go on. Well, I tried to call Lucille three or four times. I don't know how many times until I was having a good time not to wait up for me, but the line was always busy. What else do you remember? Bob said, come on, let's go home. When we got there, that last thing I remember. Lucille lying there. It sang to myself just like this. I am drunk. You think you see all sorts of things when you're drunk and this is one of them. That's not Lucille. I'm not even home now. I'll wake up. The room shone suddenly of everything but a man sobbing. This is only one in the long array of grieving that has been displayed to you over the last years. The grief for the love dead sometimes with laughter of strange texture with silence sometimes, anguished bitter. And sometimes this like this man's and always the walking away from it. And release him and his friend Bob Kolker. Go home, sleep. The next morning back to the tenement where a woman had been strangled asked questions through inch-open doors and the children of the tenement shrivel away from you as if you were a cold wind. The doors that are never open to you the furtive whispers and scurrying behind them, the giggles. And finally at the mention of the dead Mrs. Baker's name a woman who begins a weeping suitable for police callers invite you in. Take him from us like that, choked like that, cast away. Please, won't you come in? I'm Ruthie Alexander. Let's just shut the door, shall we? My neighbor's curious, nosy, so pathetically nosy. May I get you something? A chocolate tea? Something with a bite to it? No, thank you. You knew Mrs. Baker? I knew Lucille. Better than... how awful to be a man and have to suffer weeping women. You were saying you knew Mrs. Baker well. Better than she knew herself and the promises life offered that girl. Although Lucille wasn't pretty mind you not in the real sense of the word but she had her qualities hidden kind of sly. It intrigued you men. You're saying that she... Nothing of the sort. Why, Lucille, the poor unimaginative creature and I say this of her and I was a best friend mind you and have the right. Lucille backed away from men. I honestly think they frightened her. She was married to a husband who loved her. Of course he did, of course he did. Why shouldn't he? She could have even had a man like Teddy Fletcher. Teddy was dying for her. Lucille told me all about it. Fletcher? A fellow who works at the Dorsey Company where Lucille's husband worked. I told her so many times a man like that Lucille they don't grow on bushes. They... You know something. What? That Lucille. She was a deep one. Sly like I said. I wonder. I just wonder if she and Teddy... How awful of me. But will you have a cigarette at least? I'll light it for you. Draw the first puff. And refuse the kind offer. King sized, cork tipped, gratis and all. Give her back her solitude. Leave her to her tearless sweeping. Now she'd have something really to cry about. She'd wasted a cigarette. To the offices of the Dorsey Novelty Company Incorporated Lemonade. Be greeted, be given a catalog concerning current novelties. Be frowned at because they didn't want it. Be listened to. Be ushered past the office force and slogans about geniuses at work and courtesy and cleanliness and accuracy. And be shown to a cubicle. Yeah? Mr. Fletcher? Yeah, what is it? I'm Danny Klober from the police. I'm expecting somebody from down there. Sit down please. Thanks, sir. I'm trying to get some information. Yeah, I know, I know. All right, you know. Tell me what you know. Just one thing. You think I killed Lucille? Did you? I was in love with her. Did you kill her? I just told you I was in love with her. For two years now I built my plans around day-to-day plans. That adds up to be in my life, doesn't it? You think I killed her to be like killing myself, wouldn't it? All right, we'll go on the premise you didn't kill her, Mr. Fletcher. Tell me about last night. I was at the party. Everybody got loaded, not me. You don't drink, huh? I want it's better to say sober. Last night was such a time. Oh, why? Last night Charlie Baker was here getting tanked. Last night Lucille Baker was home being lonely. Then you left the party because her husband was here and went over to see her, is that it? It's the way I planned it. It didn't work. You want to tell me why? Yeah. I called Lucille from here during the party a lot of times. She said, I'm a wife with a husband. Stay where you are. Admiral Bourne, huh? A wife if it killed her. Then it killed her. Then you gave up and went home. I needed solace. I found Isabel by the water cooler. Isabel? Isabel Mitchell, pal and buddy, sweater and skirt. We smiled at each other over paper cups, linked arms and went to her place. Drank and did childish things like pin the tail of the donkey. Drank, drank, drank. You're alibi, huh? I want to talk to her. I guess she's still at home getting rid of last night's head. She didn't show up today. Nice kid. Where did she live? Two rooms on West 37th, 905 apartment two. Look, Mr. Clover, that Hamilton wall clock says noon and it's never wrong. You're not going to join me for lunch, are you? Thanks a lot. And the ride now to West 37th to the block of the Brownstones in the low rent in the corner grocery store. And next to the tailor shop that advertised proudly how it had held the line since 1950, find the number 905. Walk past the door to apartment one and a few steps more to apartment two. Apartment of Isabel Mitchell. Knock and get no answer. And open the door. Walk in. The living room decorated in row house decor. Dregs of last night's drinks. Coolage modern and empty. And the kitchen. The light still burning. The perpetual distance sound in the exposed water pipes. And strung from them. The girl. The girl twisting this way. And back. Only slightly. The lifeless girl. The murdered girl. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Confidentially Edgar Bergen has a split personality. And it's hard to say whether he's funnier as the Harris Bergen or as that saucy figment of his own imagination who does the harassing Charlie McCarthy. We leave it to you to figure out between the laughs. Every Sunday night on most of these same CBS radio stations when you hear Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy. In the days before Christmas Broadway puts on its flashy clothes and the flashy smile. Everybody's on his way to Con Santa Claus. The blonde who walks with you stops to adjust her nylons in front of the jewelry store. The brunette who tells you to pick her up for lunch in the lingerie department. The redhead who behaved all year long. And while the reindeer dash across the tundra of the spectacular's the recruits from the Bowery shake their little bells and nod lovingly at tiny tots. Get out the Christmas list kid. That's where your friends have been all year long. And at headquarters, consider other things. Official musings. The dying of Lucille Baker. A woman strangled. Consider what chain of circumstance led from her to the murder of another, Isabelle Mitchell. Consider and be interrupted by a police sergeant named Geno Tartaglia who sometimes had things in his mind. I got a headache Danny. I'm sorry to hear that. Why don't you take an aspir- Such condolences are touching Danny and I thank you for them. However, my symptoms are psychosomatic. A word Mrs. Tartaglia read to me last night. From a book. It's the type headache which is prone to deep thinkers. So science explained to Mrs. T. And she to me. You've been thinking deeply, Geno? Indeedy. As concerns the current situation in the murder of Lucille Baker and the subsequent same of Miss Isabelle Mitchell. A theory to whip. Mr. Ted Fletcher is a killer. Murdered the woman whom he loved, Mrs. Baker. Then murdered the girl he flirted with, Isabelle Mitchell. But Isabelle was his alibi, Geno. I got my headache making it sound reasonable to me Danny. But I think I know why he killed Miss Mitchell. Yeah, I can think of a reason too. You mean like that so soon? Well, it had figured, Geno. You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine. The way it stands now, Geno, Fletcher can't account for his actions the last night. Nobody remembers when he left the party. Let's just assume he left with Miss Mitchell. He took her home and left her. You've been peeking into my brain, Danny. He left her, went to see Mrs. Baker. Came back to Miss Mitchell and asked her to be his alibi. She refused. Indeed, Danny, indeed. So she was the only one who knew he was a killer. She refused to help him. He killed her. Our theories make a lot of sense, don't they? Maybe. Have Fletcher picked up, Geno. I'm going out. Okay, Danny, where can I reach you if I need you? At that novel, The Office. Maybe I can find out why that happy party had so much murder in it. That's right. Show me. Some guys will show them shiny badges. Better read the small print. All they care is that the muscle man was a favorite to ask. You threw with it? Yeah. Take back your badge. I produce novelies like that by the carload. Just that'll be sure you weren't giving the girl a fast shuffle. Some questions I want to ask you, Mr. Dorsey. About time you got around to me, huh? It just so happens I'm the head man in this little enterprise. Maybe the personnel didn't get around to telling you. They didn't need to. I saw your publicity on the wrapping paper. Yeah. Sorry, it didn't occur to me I need your permission. Oh, it's not that, kid. It's just that I got a happy enterprise here. You walk in, talk, murder, talk, it spreads gloom. Everybody gets unhappy until I think of something. The office party the other night. That was one of your thoughts? Yeah. Yeah, it was. Happened to be my birthday. I let it be known in a loud voice. And before long, the personnel is pitching dimes into a kitty. A good dime was had by all. What did you think of? Who? Dad Fletcher. Personally, I can't stand the guy. Good worker, but I can't stand him. Just keep talking. Fletcher. Not much to look at, but oh, you kid what he does to the emotions of the ever-loving upset sex. You know what I mean? You got to agree because you got him tabbed for killing Mrs. Baker, I understand. I tell you, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Charles Baker works for you, too. Give me your thoughts on him. Baker is a good boy, nose to the grindstone type. I got a lot of plans for him. Been to his home, made his impress the boss type of food, met his wife, the former Mrs. Baker. Yeah, and you have an opinion. Hmm, dull woman, plain, boring. You know, Baker's better off without her, in my opinion. I tell you because you asked. And Isabelle Mitchell who also worked for you who was also at your birthday party who was strangled, murdered. Hmm, kind girl. Had a kind word for everybody, but everybody proved between. Fletcher meets her at the water cooler at my party. Isabelle gives him the kind word, Fletcher takes her home. That was a busy, busy night for Fletcher, wasn't it, Guy? Anything else, Mr. Dawson? That cuts it as far as I'm concerned. You too, huh? I bet you got loads of things to do, just like me. So goodbye, huh, Guy? Of course. Won't you sit down? I'm Lois Nolan. Yeah? I work at the Dorsey Novel Day Company in the office. I run an IBM machine, time study cards. I don't guess you noticed me, did you? Seems that I do. I guess you're wearing another dress. No, I was wearing this dress. You just didn't notice, that's all. Why have you come here, Ms. Nolan? I wasn't at the party last night, so your men haven't questioned me. I see, and you want to be questioned, is that it? Well, I was a friend of Isabelle's. You were? Though we had differences of opinion, as they say, about friends, boyfriends. Personally, I like fellows from whom I can better myself. And Isabelle... Yeah? She was not the discriminant type. Life, she once said, was a laugh and a song. Look what it got her, some laugh. Yes, now if you'll pardon me, Ms. Nolan. Some laugh. If you knew where I just came from, you wouldn't say some laugh. Where did you just come from, Ms. Nolan? From her uncle's house. In buckets, that's the way he was crying. He didn't say a word. But if you could have seen his eyes, those tears. Then he said, Lois, I cannot cry anymore. Isabelle was a good girl, and now she is gone. I didn't know she had a family. Because that man is a nervous wreck. After all, Isabelle did for him. Where does her uncle live? In Brooklyn. 2020 Stockton Street. I hope I have been of some help since Isabelle was a dear friend of mine. I was always broad-minded enough to forgive the things. You've been a great help, Ms. Nolan. Thank you very much. And the house in Brooklyn. Like all the other houses in the long file, the ceiling paint, the sagging porch, the parlor curtains drawn aside to reveal the Christmas wreath, then drawn further to permit a clearer view of the man who walks their quiet street. And having noted your passing, open their windows, crane to see at whose door you'll knock. Then in faraway voices, announce it to friends, relatives, and neighbors. The voices drain away. Then for a moment, the stillness is almost complete. Except for the wailing of vessels in the harbor. The cry of wind trapped against street lamps. Then break it. And the man in the woolen sweater wonders at you with pale eyes, washed away eyes. Oh, you must be from the mission. I phoned. I have the magazines all tied and ready. I'm from the police. About Isabelle. Yes. Come in. You'll take your death a cold. I haven't been to claim about it because I didn't know if it was right. I'm just her uncle and Isabelle moved away from me over a year ago. I thought maybe she got someone closer to her. That's not why I came. No? Then why? Well, I thought maybe you could help us. Maybe you could tell us things about her. It'll help us find her murderer. Isabelle came here to live with us when her mother died. Then my wife died and Isabelle stayed on. It was nice when she was here. And then she went away. Tell me about it, Mr. Clayton. It was nice. Gay, exciting. Young men called on her, brought her things, brought me cigars, sat and talked with me while they waited for her to dress. She was pretty, real pretty, worth waiting for. You remember the men who called on her? No, no, just boys, nice looking fellas. And you haven't seen Isabelle since she left? Oh, yes, I didn't say that. Not many times, but only quickly. I'd call her and tell her to come pick up little things I had for her. Things, presents. They weren't really from me. They were from this nice fella. He must have liked Isabelle a whole lot. You know how I know? Tell me. Well, he'd bring her these things and make me promise not to tell Isabelle they were from him. He said he'd tell her when he came when he was ready to. And I'd say, Charlie, Charlie Baker, nice fella. You know, he made me tell Isabelle I was giving her those things. Look at me. What would I have to give a girl like Isabelle? This is the first time I've been on a place like this, Mr. Clover. I've passed the jail many times, but I've never been in. Mr. Baker. Detention cells? You mean they're not permanent? You're not sure about Fletcher? Fletcher was picked up as a suspect, and that's still all he is. He's a killer. We'll find out. I still don't know why I'm here. I want to put your story together with his. Oh, then you'll know, huh? Then we'll know. Oh, Fletcher's sleeping. Well, they're conscience like his. All right, come on, Fletcher. Wake up. Wake up, killer. On your feet. I brought you a visitor, Fletcher. Hi, Charlie. Hi, Charlie. Hi, Charlie, that's what you got to say to me? You my friend killer. Break it up, I said! Break it up! Yeah. What am I, crazy, dirty, my hands on him? You know what they got for you, killer? I brought a chair, and you're going to sit in it. Fletcher, I told Baker how it was between you and his wife, Lucille. I'm glad you did. We were going to tell him we didn't get a chance. Lover boy. Killer boy. I didn't kill her. Is that what he keeps telling you, Mr. Clover? That's why you just keep him in the detention cell, huh? That's right. Look, Charlie. All right, I'm looking. You've got to understand, Charlie, about Lucille and me. I loved her. She loved me. I thought I would have married her. Loved her? Loved Lucille? You? She wasn't a beautiful woman, Charlie. You know that she was a gentle woman. Talking with her, you weren't afraid of the world anymore. Well, Fletcher, if that's what she did to you, that's what she did to you. Didn't she do that to you, Baker? You were pretty broken up when she died. Did you ever have a wife who was murdered, Mr. Clover? No. Then don't tell me how it should feel. You and my wife are Fletcher. I didn't kill her. I swear I didn't kill her, Charlie. Yeah, sure, sure, sure. What happened last night, Fletcher? Lucille, wave your goodbye and you'll let your emotions run away with you. It was all over and you couldn't remember a thing, so you say you didn't kill her. Is that what happened, Mr. Fletcher? I told you what happened. Get him out of here. Just a few more things. About a girl who worked at your office also murdered Isabel Mitchell. You had your hands full last night, didn't you, killer? I asked you, get him out of here. No, I want him to hear something. There's another way this thing adds up. You could have killed your wife, Baker. What are you talking about? That was at the party. Everybody knows that. Everybody will vouch for me. I don't know a party like that. People coming in and out. Nobody remembers much about anything. You're building something, Mr. Clover? Maybe you could have left the party long enough to kill your wife, then go back to it. No one would have known the difference. Then play drunk, have a friend take you home. Find your wife dead. Ever see, Charlie? You might as well as cops take a little while to get used to it. Now listen, Clover. Then early the next morning, cry on my shoulder. Be released. Go around to Isabel's place and whisper to her the happy news about your wife's being dead. You're crazy. Why would I go to her? Because you were crazy about her. Crazy about her? Isabel? Isabel? What are you laughing at? He's right, Fletcher. You shouldn't laugh. Mr. Baker was crazy about Isabel. Gave her presents. What are you talking about? Why? Isabel didn't even know where they came from. After you've gotten rid of your wife, you could tell her, but she wouldn't have any part of you. You killed her. I love with Isabel. Her? A girl like that? Oh, Charlie, you stupid man. A girl like that when you had your own wife. Shut up! Shut up! Isabel was sweet and she was wonderful. You know how I know? She wouldn't look at me because I was married. That's the kind of a girl she was. She was good. I killed my wife for her and she took pity on me. She was good. But she still wouldn't look at you. So you killed her. Yeah. Yeah, that's right. I had no more to live for. Why should she go on living? Why should somebody else have her? Who else would have done for her what I did for her? Nobody. Just me. She didn't want me. She had to die. It's an enchanted island this Broadway or a desert of dust. Look at it and it's a magician's pitch with golden mirrors and fountains that plume with jewels. Then you blink, it all dissolves. It's a crumbling wall corroded with pain. It's Broadway, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway, My Beat. Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover with Charles Calford as Tortaglia and Jack Krushan as Muggevin. The program was produced and directed by Elliott Lewis with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. Featured in tonight's cast were William Conrad, Harry Bartell, Peggy Weber, Lou Merrill and Herb Butterfield. All the best fun-making from Arthur Godfrey's daytime shows on CBS Radio. That's what you hear every Sunday afternoon on most of these stations when King Arthur Godfrey and his roundtable hold court here tomorrow afternoon and remember to enjoy King Arthur Godfrey and his roundtable every Sunday afternoon on CBS Radio. Bill Anders speaking and remember those lovable rascals Amos and Andy are here every Sunday on the CBS Radio Network.