 Stand by for crime. Hi, Morgan speaking, KLP newscaster. Well, another of those unusual murders has occurred here in Los Angeles. Last week, a man's body was found on a lonely dirt road off Mulholland Drive up in the Santa Monica Mountains. He'd been shot to the head with a .38 caliber revolver. He'd also been badly beaten. His name was Mark Adams. That's what made the murder unusual. Mark Adams was a partner in one of our leading stock and bond houses. He had a respectable, straightforward life since he'd moved here from Portland ten years ago. Dozens of friends testified of that fact. He had no enemies. Robbery had not been the motive. Because of sizable, some of money had been found in the wallet he carried. Why then had he been murdered and his body left in a lonely Santa Monica Mountains? That was a good question. I asked Bill Meggs of police headquarters if he minded if Carol Curtis, my secretary, and I called on the widow, Mrs. Ada Adams. Bill said, heck no, if we picked up anything to let him know. So Carol and I climbed into my jalopy and headed for the Adams residence, which was on Bettyton Street. I guess this is it, climb-upers. I really hope she'll talk to us. I wouldn't blame if she didn't. Well, if she doesn't, we'll come back another day. Ring the bell, will you? All right. So Carol pushed the bell, Britain. We heard chimes ring inside the house. After a minute, the door opened. A woman of about 40 wearing a long-sleeved black dress appeared. It was obvious she'd been crying. You, Mrs. Adams? Yes, I'm Mrs. Adams. Well, I'm Chuck Morgan. This is Carol Curtis. We're from Radio Station KLP. Oh, reporters. Well, if you don't mind, I... We want to help you if we can, Mrs. Adams. Mr. Morgan has a reputation for aiding the police in these cases. Oh, you're that, Mr. Morgan. Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that... You understand perfectly, Mrs. Adams. You're upset and confused and hardly know what you're saying. Yes, that's it, exactly. Well, all right, you make them in if you like. Thank you very much. Thank you. Won't you sit down and make yourself comfortable? Thank you. Tell me, Mrs. Adams, can you think of anybody, any friend or business associate who would gain by having your husband out of the way? Oh, no, there's nobody. Nobody at all. Well, there had to be a reason for him being shot, Mrs. Adams. No one would be more apt to know that reason than yourself. If there's anything you'd like to tell us in confidence, we'll respect your wishes. Well, I... yes, there is something. Good. I know I should have told the police, but in the excitement, I somehow felt that I could keep it a secret. If Mark had died any other way, I could have. Keep what a secret, Mrs. Adams? Oh, it's horrible. Because of the way that Mark died, there'll be an investigation. They'll find out. It'll be in all the papers. The disgrace of it. Mr. Morgan, if I tell you, will you help me keep the secret? By doing so, I'll not obstruct justice, I will, of course. Do you promise? I promise. Very well. I know of your contacts with the police department. A Lieutenant Megs called to say you were coming out. Because of your friendship with Lieutenant Megs, you can help maintain Mark's reputation, even though he is dead. Mr. Morgan, my husband was... was a hopeless dope addict. If Mrs. Adams had told us that her husband was an escaped convict, we couldn't have been more surprised. I knew Mark Adams by reputation had met him on one or two occasions. He was a man of integrity, good habits. Neither I nor anyone else I was sure would suspect him of being a dope addict. Still, a clever addict can conceal the effects of the stuff without much trouble. Except perhaps when he needed a shot and couldn't get it. Well, this was a motive for murder, all right? But we had to have a lot more of a story than we knew now. It's rather a startling bit of news, Mrs. Adams. I know, I know. It's going to come as such a great shock to so many people who knew and trusted Mark. You will try to keep it from the press, won't you, Mr. Morgan? Have you told anyone else about this? Oh, no, not a soul knew it. Mark was very clever about keeping his secret. As you may know, dope addicts can do that. How long had he had the habit, Mrs. Adams? Well, I don't know for sure. It was about a year ago that I first learned about it. I'd been away for a few days and returned earlier than I expected. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was tired after my trip, so I lay down for a nap. When I awoke, it was almost dark and Mark was just entering our bedroom. Blasted light. Hello, Mom. What's... Ada, what the devil are you doing here? Well, darling, aren't you glad to see me? I caught an earlier train. Yes, of course. Of course. Look, Ada, why don't you run downstairs and see the dinner? I'll be with you in a minute. But Mark, do you... Mark, what's that you have in your hand? Never mind, it's nothing. Now look, let me alone. Get out of here. Well, it's a hypodermic needle. Well... Mark, you're not... Oh, no, no, you... Yes. Now you know. At least I won't have to fight that part of it any longer. Wait here. Mark went into the bathroom. He was gone about ten minutes. When he returned, he was completely relaxed, seemingly normal. I couldn't believe the change that had come over him. I'm sorry, my dear. Now, I'm almost glad you found out. It's been pretty bad trying to keep my secret. Oh, Mark, this is awful. It's terrible. How long have you... It began in Portland. Just before we came down here. You'll recall, I didn't get that promotion at the office I was promised after old Hartley died. Well, Thompson gave the position to his son. I was pretty disappointed. A lot more so than even you suspected. I had to have some escape. And so you resorted to dope. I had a friend who used some occasionally. He assured me it offered complete freedom from care and that it was easy to break the habit. Oh, Mark, you fool. Don't you know that it's more habit-forming than anything you could possibly have done? I didn't then. I do now much to my sorrow. But, Mark, what are you going to do? What are we going to do? They'll find out sooner or later at the office. They're bound to. It'll be the end of it. They won't find out, Ed. They mustn't, not ever. But how can we... You can help me, Ed. Look, Ed, you must. I'm going to break myself of the habit. I have a vacation coming up. I'll go to a sanitarium. I'll take the cure. Look, I'll be off the stuff forever. Only you'll have to go with me, Ed. I'll need your strength desperately. Ed, will you help me fight this thing? Of course I will, darling. I'll do everything possible. Oh, my dearest, we'll fight it together. And win. Did your husband go to the sanitarium, Mrs. Adams? Yes, he went, and I went with him. We stayed a month. It was pretty horrible the way Mark suffered. But it was worth it. At least I believe so at the time. Why is your husband cured, Mrs. Adams? Well, I thought so. I think Mark did, too. After the month was up, we came home, and for a time everything was fine. Then I began noticing the inevitable signs. Signs I had learned to recognize at the sanitarium. A brightness in his eyes. A controlled nervousness followed by complete relaxation. At first I closed my eyes to those things, telling myself I was overly suspicious because of what had happened before. But you knew in your own mind he was using the stuff again. I had to face it at last. Two nights ago I started out to attend my bridge club. I drove around the block and parked across the street from our house. An hour passed, and then a man came along the street his hat was pulled down and both hands were deep in his pockets. I got down out of sight and waited until I heard him climbing the steps to our porch. And then what happened? Mark opened the door, but didn't turn on the porch light. I couldn't hear what they were seeing, but I knew they were arguing. After a while they went into the house. I got out of my car and started across the street. I'd reached the sidewalk when I heard the shot. Did you see the strange man again? No. I'd forgotten my key. I guess I became panicky. I kept pounding on the door and screaming. After a long while someone came and then the police. I must have fainted. When I came too I was lying on the living room couch. The house was full of policemen. There was blood on the floor. But both Mark and the strange man were gone. And the next time you heard of your husband was when they found his body upon Mulholland. Oh, what a horrible experience. How much of this have you told the police, Mrs. Adams? Only that I'd forgotten my key and came back for it and heard the shot and began pounding on the door and screaming. And you haven't any idea who the strange man was? No, none at all. A strange man could have been any one of several dozen dope peddlers in the city. Well, it's going to be quite a trick to keep this away from the press. The police will have to know. Oh, but you promised. Only if I didn't have to obstruct justice, Mrs. Adams. This dope angle not only gives a motive but narrows a number of suspects down considerably. But Chuck, isn't this something you can do? What? Well, think about how terrible will be for Mrs. Adams if it becomes known that her husband was an addict. It's she who has to face all those people, you know? Yeah, I know. Well, let's talk it over with Bill Megs. He's a good guy. Maybe we can dream up something. You can rest assured of one thing, Mrs. Adams. No one but the police will be taught about your husband being an addict until we pick up his murderer. I didn't call Bill Megs at once. I couldn't get the picture of the distress and Mrs. Adams' eyes out of my mind. Maybe somehow it would be possible to crack this case without letting it become known that Mark Adams had been an addict. I didn't know how. But for lack of something better to do and to give me time to think, I headed to Jalopy up towards Mohullen Drive. Was it somewhere along here that the body was found, Chuck? According to Bill, it was about 100 yards down this road. Yeah, this is it. Well, let's get out and take a look around. I can't imagine what you expect to find. The police aren't stupid, you know, and they've already been here. I know the police aren't stupid, stupid. There only seem to be one set of tire prints. One set? I can see a dozen, but what if I couldn't? All the prints were made by the same set of tires. Those were probably on the police car. What I want to know is, where are the prints made by the tires of the murderer's car? And how did his body get here? You say there are no prints of a second automobile. Well, I'll tell you how I think it got here, Grammapis. Look up there. That's Mohullen Drive, curling around the side of the mountain. Oh, I get it. The body was thrown out of a car up there, and it rolled down here. That's my girl. Bill said Adam's clothes were torn, his body cut and bruised. Well, then we're wasting our time looking for tire prints. Maybe. However, the car up there probably stops so the murderer could get the body out. Now, if the road had soft shoulders, there'd be tire prints up there, wouldn't there? And you don't think Bill makes those of that? I do. I think he's already made an impression of the prints in his lab. Oh, what makes you think that? Bill told me. Why, you sell and sell. And you made me think that all... All right, don't get sore, Grammapis. I'm only stalling for time so my conscience won't bother me for not reporting Mrs. Adam's story to Bill. Oh, I hope when you do tell me, put you in jail for a year for obstructing justice. A year? Now, come, come, Grammapis. What would you and Pappy do with me for a year? Grammapis and I've been walking around while talking. I step behind a bush and I'm quite lying on the ground. It's a page from a newspaper. Nothing unusual about that, except that this page was folded neatly and the date line was staring up at me. It was dated July 24th, the day Mark Adams had been murdered. I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a page from the classified section of the Los Angeles Observer. Why so interested in a page from the Observer, Sherlock? Nobody ever reads that scandal sheet. Certainly not a man of Mark Adams I standing. Still, it could have fallen out of his pocket when he rolled down the hill. Well, what are you reading? Classified ad that's underlined in pencil. Oh, this is a fine time to go looking for Bobby. Shut up, Grammapis. Let me read. For sale, 20 karat diamond ring, bring cash to 222 Beddington Street after 9.30 p.m. July 24th. Oh, Chucky boy, you don't mean... Not at last. Oh, darling, you don't have to give me one that big. Honest, I'd be satisfied. Grammapis, will you stop that chibring? Don't you know what this means? Well, then you're not going to... 222 Beddington Street is the address of the Adams family. Whoever answered this ad in the paper is the man who murdered Mark Adams. The conclusion of stand by for crime. All dope addicts need money. Yeah. Mark Adams made desperate by his cravings and probably decided to sell his ring, inserting the ad in the paper that he knew his friends never read and naming a date for the transaction when he knew his wife would be at a bridge club. Well, I felt that the advice of an older and wiser head wouldn't hurt this situation, any. But Carol and I drove back to the station and told our story to Pappy Mansfield, owner of KLP. We're looking at it purely from a news angle. Chuck, you may have something. However, the pleas have got to catch your murderer first. Unless I beat them to it. You? Here we go again. Look, Pappy, I've got an idea. You know Bugs spent to the gambler. Sure, sure, everybody does. Well, Bugs has a penchant for rocks, diamonds. Big ones, little ones, medium-sized ones. He owns a dozen of them. Everyone knows that, too. Now, maybe a shot in the dark. But it seems to me that a rock the size of the atom's diamond would make his mouth water. Oh, so you're going down and ask Bugs man to man if he shot Mark Adams so he could get that diamond without having to pay for it. All right, all right. Be sarcastic. I'm going to ask Mrs. Adams to describe the ring. Then I'm going to find out if Bugs has it. If he has, I'm going to ask Bill to arrest Bugs and charge him with Adams' murder. That way we won't have to even mention the fact that Adams was a dope addict. You know something, Chuck? What's that, Pappy? It's a hot day outside. The thermometer's up over 100. There's a rumor around that today's heat will break all known records. Now, if this happens, then you wrote a story for your 7 o'clock guesswork. All right, all right. I'm dying laughing. Just for that, I'm good to show you something. I was a jackass. Ask anyone's advice. Go jump in the lake, both of you. Goodbye. I was mad. I got out of there and headed for Beddington Street. Ranged the doorbell of the atom's home. Mrs. Adams still in her morning dress and invited me in. A ring? A diamond? Oh, yes, Mark did have one. A rather large one. Wasn't it... I mean... When you identified the body, Mrs. Adams, did you notice whether or not the ring was missing? No. That is... Well, I was too shocked. It was the last thing that I... I understand. A ring, such as the one owned by your husband, was advertised for sale on the observer. This address was given. The buyer was asked to appear after 9.30 on the night of your bridge club. You mean that Mark sold the ring so that he could have more money to... to buy dough? Well, most dope addicts are forever in need of money, Mrs. Adams. It's possible that ring buyer murdered your husband. If you describe the ring as accurately as you can, we still might be able to pick up the murderer and keep the knowledge of secret that your husband was mad at. I was still mad. Otherwise, I might have had the common sense to call Bill Meggs before going down to see Bugspence. But I didn't. I drove down to 9th Street and found the building that contained his so-called office. I got by the day with the desk and located Bug's private sanctum. He was sitting behind a big horseshoe desk as flashily dressed as ever. There was a diamond ring the size of a marble on his left hand. Two of his strong-arm boys flanked the desk on either side. Well, if it ain't Mr. Chuck Morgan, the gent who talks in the radio without saying anything, what's in your pea-sized mind, Morgan? You want to lay a bet? I want to lay a bet that I can tell you where you got that ring. Ah, quite a rock, huh? Brand new. Okay, what do you want to bet? Oh, maybe 10 years up at Q. I may even go higher than that. Yeah, how high? How about the gas chamber? Look, you saying I knocked somebody off to get this rock? What did you get it? I bought it. That's a switch on your usual practice. Who'd you buy it from? A guy. What's his name? I don't know. I didn't ask him. Did he live on Bettingham Street? I'm coming in here and asking me questions. Take it easy, Bugs. Take it easy. You know from past experience it's smart to answer my questions. Bill Megs is on his way down here right now. I'm just trying to give you a break. What kind of a break? The man you bought that ring from is dead. Okay, so he's dead. Let him be dead. Who cares? He was murdered. Okay, so he was... What do you mean, murdered? Oh, look, Morgan, I didn't murder nobody. See, I got this ring strictly legit. Then you'd better start dreaming up some new alibis because I've spent the morning busting your old ones wide open. Well, how do you like that? Boys, did you hear what this punk said? He says we ain't got an alibi. Max, you got that bill of sale? Yeah, sure. It is, boy. Hand it to Morgan. Hey, look at that newshound. It's a bill of sale for a diamond ring, ain't it? It's signed by the guy who sold me the ring. All you gotta do is compare that handwriting with his and you'll find out what a jerk you are. Now, wait a minute, Bugs. This isn't nothing. I ain't waiting for nothing, Morgan. Come in here, shooting your mouth off. But I'm kind of glad you did, you know why? Because now I got an excuse to throw you off. A good excuse. And I ain't gonna be responsible for what you look like afterward. Boys, show Mr. Morgan the door. That'll be a patient. Bugs boys had a peculiar way of showing me the door. I didn't see the door at all. I was unconscious when I went through it. I woke up in an alley behind the 9th Street building. The sun was beating down full force on my face. Flies were buzzing around a cut above my left eye and I was soaked through with sweat. I got up on my knees and peeled off my coat. It was an outside water faucet and a patch of shade on the west side of the alley. I crawled over there and soaked my head into the cold water. Five minutes later, I was in a phone booth talking to Bill Meggs. That's right, Bill. That's the address. What? Am I sure? Was I ever wrong? Yeah, I'm laughing too. Okay, Bill, thanks. I'll be waiting. Well, I got in the jalopy and headed for Bettington Street to report to Mrs. Adams about the ring. She acted as though she'd been waiting for me and seemed almost cheerful. She was slipping on the jacket of a long-sleeved dress when she opened the door. Well, you certainly made a fast trip, Mr. Morgan. Sit over there, won't you? Thank you. Did you find the man who bought my husband's ring? Yes, it was Bug Spencer, the gambler, just as I thought. Did he confess to murdering Mark? Well, no. Bugs isn't the confessing type. Tell me, Mrs. Adams, why do you suppose your husband advertises the ring and the observer instead of in a paper that a more, well, conservative and possibly wealthier type of reader would buy? Well, I suppose he didn't want any of his friends to read it. But didn't you know that most banks subscribed to practically every newspaper published in the city? Legal and probate notices of great interest to bankers. Well, I don't believe I understand what you mean. I... Did... did someone stop out front? Yeah. Yeah, I think that's Lieutenant Bill Meggs of police headquarters. Lieutenant Meggs? Well, I'll let him in. He won't be coming in for a moment or two. He wants to pay a visit to the garage first. Garage? Yeah. He wants to check the tire prints he made in Mulholland Drive last night with the treads on your tires, Mrs. Adams. Tires on my car? That's right. You see, when you parked, you wanted to get close to the embankment so you wouldn't have too far to carry your husband's body. What? The right front wheel of your car was in the soft dirt off the pavement. No. No, you mustn't believe that. Dopedics are very clever and cunning, especially when they've had a shot. You must have had quite a jolt that night, Mrs. Adams. No, I didn't. Well, you can't believe that. I had everything I told you was true. Oh, yes, the story you told was true. Every word. Only you had the characters mixed. It's you who are the dope addict, Mrs. Adams. You who went to the sanitarium. You who pretended to be cured. You who sold your husband's ring because he'd give you no more money to buy dope. The ring wasn't on his hand when you viewed the body and you know it. He hadn't worn the ring for years. If he had, there'd be a mark on his finger, which there wasn't. How did it happen, Mrs. Adams? Did he catch you trying to steal the ring? Or did he find your supply of junk and wouldn't let you have any? Yes. He took it away from me. I had to have some. I had to. Mark had seen the ad I put in the observer. I got the gun out of the desk and I told him I'd kill him if he didn't give me some stuff. He refused. He said he was going to put me away again. So I... I shot him. I'm sorry, Mrs. Adams. Believe me, I am. Because now Mark isn't here to help you fight this thing. Hello, Bill. Come in. Sometimes a job of a newscaster isn't as pleasant as it might be. Bill took Ada Adams off in the squad car and I had her back for KOP. Both Pappy and Carol were there looking cool and relaxed. Oh, hello there, Chuck. Backs us soon. What happened to your eye, Chuckie boy? I ran into a door. Was it open or closed? That's a typical question. Well, Pappy, I've got all the facts on the weather story. No kidding. How hot is it outside? 109. It hasn't been 109 since 1868. Five people have died of the heat, seven are prostrate and the man fried an egg and vine street this morning. Well, that's great, Chuck. Make a good story, don't you think, Carol? I can hardly wait to hear it. Oh, you just try hard enough and I imagine you can stand it, Glamour first. Well, I've got to get busy and bat this out of my typewriter. I'll devote the entire broadcast to one... You will not? Well, what's that, Pappy? All right, all right. We apologize. We shouldn't have made you mad. Now, how'd you know? No, no, why? Well, you'll have to rub it in, Chuck. Bill called and told us everything. We've been sitting here on pins and needles waiting for you to tell us how you knew it was Mrs. Adams who murdered her husband. Oh, that. So you've been sitting here in this nice, cool office all this time while I've been out in the sweltering heat. Oh, stop reminding us how you've suffered. What's the sweltering heat got to do with knowing about Mrs. Adams' guilt? Everything. It's sweltering hot outside. Mrs. Adams was wearing a black wool dress with long sleeves. Why? The woman in her right mind would wear such a dress in this heat. There had to be another reason. She wanted to cover up something. Marks made by a hypodermic needle. Well, shall I write the story on the heat, Pappy?