 Get this and get it straight crime is a sucker's road knows who traveled wind up in the gutter the prison of the grave. I Didn't know it, but I was caught in a smokeout that led from a search for a lady in black past murder of a highway in the gunfire Ling warehouse For a girl already dead in the mall From the pan of layman Chandler outstanding author of crime fiction comes his most famous character in the adventures of Billard Marlowe Gerald Moore starred as Philip Marlowe. We bring you tonight's exciting story to smoke out Leapless night that leaves you with raw nerves and sandpaper eyelids Always followed by a day that never ends Kind of long tough days. It keeps you on the move until life in the city Finally reduced to no more than a confused clatter of think of exhaust fumes And an aimless marvel shallow people milling around looking for nothing but a chance to count each other Out of a lousy buck This is no exception Because when I finally decided to quit to get out of it to go someplace quiet and relaxed I found myself instead in a hurry all over again I was on my way to a very public building on Spring Street a stubborn instigation of one detective Lieutenant Matthews of homicides The phone call 20 minutes ago. It caught me as soon as I opened my apartment door Well, you've been Marlon or if you ever check in at that office of yours and on days like this Matthews What's up? Tell me all you know about Vera Hamlin Who's Vera Hamlin a girl? No fool. Are you real sure you don't know a positive? Am I supposed to? Uh-huh. Maybe she used another name pretty blind about five six a sweet kid apparently I can think of a lot of women who fit that description Matthews. Yeah, you could I didn't get it then I haven't been to my office at all today. Why you wanted to help How do you know? Well, we picked it up from the imprinted an open packet stationary in our apartment Better come down take a look at it Bill. Take a look at it. Where is she? In the morgue. She was struck by a car last night. Accident? What makes you ask that Marlon? Your dubious tone of voice Matthews. Well, was it an accident? I guess so. Maybe I've been a cop too long. I get suspicious myself on dark night. I can understand it. Come on down to the light of way I'll meet you there Hi That's good time This is Mr. Connor the morgue attendant. I'm certainly glad to know you, Mr. Marlon. Is this your first visit? No, I've been here before Connor. Well Matthews for what good you think this is gonna do the police department Let's see her and get it over with. All right, let's go Connor. Step this way please gentlemen. Follow me. Happy fellow is me. Well, civil sir. Here to the right. Now, let's see. Here we are. No Look Matthews, I told you on the phone. I didn't know would you get me down here? That led it to you as one of them. Got the letter? No, no, I read the whole thing in from the lab and that imprint they worked on. She was worried. She wanted you to investigate something for her. You were supposed to call her today. Oh, anything about her? Yeah, she came to LA about six months ago from Omaha. She worked for a guy named Brasso's or Proto's Wholesale 77 Market Street. Lately, she was seeing a lot of him after office hours. What's wrong with that? Nothing. She was killed in front of Brasso's house at 2 a.m. She was getting out of her car and Brasso wasn't home at the time. He has a fair alibi. He puts him out on Highway 101 north of Santa Monica. Excuse me, gentlemen. I better get the phone. Yeah, yeah, do that. What about the motors, Matthew? No motors. Well, then why are you so upset? Why was she so upset? What did she want you for? That's not enough. If I weren't that one answered, I'd know where it goes. Oh, I know, but you're fending a murder rep. You're not even a murder rep. I'm not an idiot for you. All right. Thank you. Excuse me, Matthews. Hello, this is Matthews. Yeah, yeah, yeah. A witness. Says it was murder. He'll get a load of this. Yeah, a woman. So what happened, huh? Great. Who was it? The lady in black. Where'd he get that? It sounds corny. Where did you get that? It sounds... You mean there's a story about it out now in the L.A. Journal? Yeah, I'll be back there in five minutes. And listen, get a hold of the reporter who wrote that story and hang on to him. I want to talk to that wise punk. How do you like that? How do you like that? I feel a Hamlin murdered with an eyewitness to prove it. Only the police department is a laugh outfitting town to know. Come on, Phil. Where to this time? To buy a newspaper, find out what's going on. As we left the morgue and headed to police headquarters, we made one stop on the way to pick up a copy of the journal which he read as I drove. The kind of smoky, well-illustrated sensation was in the car this year. The police were concerned. Black revealed exclusively to the journal tonight that she was an eyewitness when a mad killer purposely swerved his speeding car in a spacious, blonde, beauty Vera Hamlin outside her lover's Brentwood home late last night. If that's journalism, I'll eat my bag. Gave reading, you're a cop, not a critic. Yeah, but I got taste. The lady in black will appear at police headquarters at 9 o'clock to reveal license number and description of the murder and the shocking death which police have already labeled accidental nuts. Come on, Mullet. I thought I was sorry for Matthews because the way things were breaking the Vera Hamlin deal was the stench to become one of those involved screwball affairs. When nothing goes according to the book all I wanted to do was drop Matthews off, get away from the whole thing, and try to forget about it. That's when we piled up behind the waiting squad car at headquarters, a gang of nightspeaks the cops were draping the stairs. Stop them. And I'm just your witness on a show? It's fine, I'm a button. Where's the lady in black? How do I know I didn't find out there was a witness till I read it in a journal? Yeah, that was a dirty trick. Hi, Abbot. You're an old-timer, Abbot. You guys ought to keep points like that journal's squirt in line. Don't blame us for that guy. He's throwing up Hamala? You blame him? You know as well as I do, the journal picked up that witness right here. Kept her under wraps until they had time to break the story. Well, he shouldn't let it throw him. You know guys like that, you usually hang them shut. Sure, after the damage is done. See, all sides might check. Good night. Think about I drove back to Hollywood and tried to double scotch in a quiet bar. That didn't work. Half hour later, I ended up in my office with Vera Hamlin's letter open on my desk. There was a pile of bills in a souvenir postcard from a place called Moon's Point on Highway 101. Penciled across the back with a word, I think this place means trouble to Dave Russell. I don't know why, but I remember the girl's face in the mall. Maybe it was a stack of wrinkled tens on my desk that made me do it. At whatever it was, I went to my car, drove out past Santa Monica, and it took me an hour to get to Moon's Point on Highway 101. An isolated huddle of grimy filling station rickety sticks cabin auto caught in weather-beaten lunch counter and bar, squatting beside the highway. I pulled up at the parking lot and went into the bar where the source of the quaint name Moon's Point met me. Moon himself. It was round, pale, and soft as a lump of green cheese. What can I do for you, Mr. Dave around? Dave who? Russell, want to see him on business. What kind of business? I don't know. Okay. Two of Brussels here. Out in cabin number four, there's Mr. Stippler. You can grab that back there if you want to. But I don't think you'll have much time before you tell it. Why not? The late paper, it just come in. The L.A. General. Is that all? I got much later news than that for him. Agent Sine asked him for Dave Brasso. Well, I think you're a cop, and I might be able to do you a little favor. What have you got in mind, begging? There's love lost between you and Brasso, I'll tell you. I believe in a night for night and tooth for tooth, see? I used to be a driver for Dave Brasso, and yesterday I got canned. Oh, now, pull off my truck of fire, for no reason at all. So? Oh, so I've been sticking close to him, just waiting for a chance to pay him back. And I've been finding hot things. Things you might like to know. Well, for instance, he had a fight. A knockdown drag-out argument with that Vera Hamlin girl there. Just an hour or so before she was run over. She claimed he was seeing another woman. What's that called, begging? She was found dead in front of his house, bud. You're headed up. And that's why he's hanging him out out here. Also, why it ain't gonna do him one bit of good. I've got plenty to tell about that. Wait a minute, hold it, hold it. Yeah, that's Monday. Stippler walking the door to number four here. I gotta get out of here. I've got plenty to tell, but so when you're finished in there, I come on over behind the grease rack at the filling station. I'm waiting for a while. Well, how you feel, Dave? You're on edge. You've got reason to be there. He's already told it. Wait a minute. There's somebody outside here. Yeah, that's right. I want to see Dave Brasso. And Mr. Brasso is pretty busy right now, Mr. Not too busy to see me. Oh, you a cop? No. And he must be a company reporter, so scram. You look Mr. Brasso up at his place of business. Some other time. You mean after he skipped town to keep the witness from putting a finger on him? Well, you were stripping. Well, nobody. Wait. Who are you? What's your diet, Georgian? Name's Marlowe, private detective. I'm here because Vera Hamlin wrote me a letter yesterday. Vera? I'm going to get lost for a couple minutes. What do you want to talk to this guy? Don't you? Go on. Go on. Beat it. Well, okay. All right, Georgian, come on in. Okay, so you're big, Brasso. Husky enough to run over somebody and kill him. About even getting into a car. Oh, that's that one. Go by it, Georgian. Where's the letter? Locked up in my office. What'd you see in it? Wanted something to look into. Said this was a good place to start. The fight was about last night? Fight. You do find things out, don't you, Georgian? That's my business. Well, maybe you know who this lady in black here in the paper is and what she's going to tell. Maybe. I didn't know who was jumping up to try to kill him that night and shut her up. Who is that? You mean somebody killed her? Come on, Brasso. Let's get closer to the truth. You're a lousy actor. For instance, Vera wanted me to come to this dump because you weren't simple to hold up here. Why? That doesn't concern you. It's business. Sure. And when a girl accidentally gets in the way of the business, she's run over by it. Is that the way you work? You keep talking on the same thing, Georgian. I don't like it. I was in love with Vera Hamlin. Maybe you're trying to use that to nail me in a frame. Maybe you're a sneak for that stinking lousy weather. Maybe you didn't get any letter from Vera at all. So get out of here and think up a new one. Your theories are getting way ahead of you, Buster. Who's weather? Jerk. I said get out, too! That's back for an answer, Georgian. You can get more of the same. There's only a one hundred seventy-seven miles of street. The shoulder behind it. I held me out of the door and tried on my back in the gravel. This tallied my interview with him at zero with one minor exception. My spiteful informer bag had had some basis in tact for his story, so I invested myself off and made to the rear of the deserted filming station where the grease tracks stood. There was nobody wrong. I waited a few minutes for a minute. I skirted wide around the auto court with a window at the bar. Stipple was there with his nose in a beer glass but no bagging. I settled the building quietly, found nothing but indignant spiders and dark corners and decided to try the grease rack again. When the back door to the bar opened, moon came out with a flashlight and a pair of garbage. It was halfway to a rack of cans when he froze. Like a bird dog with one foot in the air. Holy mackerel! A flashlight stabbing at a man's hand, hanging out over the edge of a shallow ditch. Look, this there. There's somebody laying in the ditch. I wonder I couldn't find him. It's bagged with a knife in his back. Our star Gerald Moore. We continue with the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, The Smokeout. Using Pudgy's circle known as Moon was already worrying less about why murder was spoken than what the violence playing of the truck driver was going to do to his roadhouse business as usual didn't make the whole thing. Dave Brasso, that Monday Stipple, all of them. They can take their trade and they're trouble-summer's else. I gotta make a buck like the next, but I sure ain't just gonna do it this way for overnight. Wait a minute, Moon. What troubles are you talking about, Brasso and Stipple, I mean? What is it? Come on, speak up. It may be important. To who? To me and the law, to bag it here. A girl who died a little ahead of her time. A girl who worked? A little bit of talking and scripting. Yeah, sure I am. And we don't have time for that, do we, Moon? Yeah, let go of me. Are you gonna talk? Well... Okay, okay, I'll tell you. You didn't know any of that. Get your hands off of me. All right, but make it fast. What's that up? What is it, Moon? Too much complication. Another so-do-top did run by a guy named Mike... He's been picking Brasso's cuffs off on US 101 every other night. Sometimes it's a well-planned ice-and-dent, and sometimes it's sloppy high-jagging, but it all hurts, it's trouble. Trouble Brasso can't prove, is that it? Yes. That's the reason for Mondi, Stipple, and their meetings out here. Stipple's supposed to get the proof for what they're doing. They want a guy going for the comics tomorrow. Oh, that's Brasso, Moon. Oh, and like I said, I've had enough. For my dough, it's time to call a cop. Brasso was out in front by no more than 30 seconds, so as I ran toward my car and the wall of death's tires had kicked up, I figured I had an even chance of catching up with him before he got back to Santa Monica and into heavy traffic. But I figured differently when I had one hand on the door of my car. I had to. Company said so. I'm holding it down. Please don't move. She was standing someplace behind me, and when I did her toes, she moved around in a wide, careful arc until we faced each other across a chunk of dark night. It revealed only two things. One, she was holding a gun until there was no mistaking her. This was a lady in black. Those car keys are in your hand. Go in here for me. Now, wait a minute. I'm sure we can talk. Please, let me handle it. Okay. Now what? Now, whoever you are, you can look for these while I drive. Hey, listen. I don't want to be in the crowd. Now, wait a minute. Oh, I get it. You're afraid something will jar the sale price you've set for Brasso, huh? Yep. What are you talking about? That ever-stinking routine known as blackmail. It'll be very specific. A mystery witness, you, the lady in black, will almost get to the police to tag a killer. Almost that she could scare that killer into a generous frame of mind when next they meet. In other words, baby, it was all an act of pressure play on Dave Brasso. Now it's time to collect who I want. No, you don't. You just do as I say. You just turn around and walk. And think a little. Think about the pistol shots that you neglected to mention, which somebody took at me while I almost went to the police. Or did I do that myself? Also, for the sake of Mr. Brasso's frame of mind. It's possible. I don't think so. Now go and start walking. You don't make much sense standing here. Then move away from her. She backed off quickly and caught a car that was nuzzling a high gate near the far side of the road house. So I knew that any move I intended to make had to be done right, then and there. She must have known just as much because that was when the gun she held got mad enough to start spitting my wrist. I drove for the gravel at my feet. Then practically followed my way across a dozen uncomfortable yards of chop rock to the shore of a line of flash cans. All of which left me scarred, and in time there was nothing more effective than a swear. I had a pair of peeping pere lights on a green sedan that were already winking out of sight. Didn't help much. Let's give it again. Now, what's it this time? So Brasso's typical asian? Well, he isn't. That's funny. No, I don't think so. I only think you're funny. The Panic Marlowe. Moon and I have been watching you comb that gravel out there, searching for the key. We couldn't catch the chatter, but she certainly made me look stupid. And just so you don't go on looking that way, don't bother playing so wide-eyed about Brasso being in here either. You see, I know you know he isn't. It won't work, sunny boy. Maybe a little pressure will. I doubt it. I don't bend easy, Marlowe. Also, I don't happen to know where Brasso went. But just so nobody gets too upset or quick with a gun, maybe we have to go back over to the bar to chat. Moon's expecting me. Sorry, this is cozy you're there. It won't do. Once the cups start pouring in, incidentally it makes it your turn not to play dumb. I mean Ernie Baggett being very dead out in the back. Even Stephen. Hi, Marlowe. Yeah. Okay. I know about Baggett. From Brasso. I said I heard you. Nice night. What do you mean, Marlowe? You know, simply you're making a big mistake. What? Nothing Brasso can't pay off anymore. You said I was protecting him. I worked for Dave Brasso, period. Maybe knocked off a couple of people and I'm not saying he has. It's got nothing to do with me. What's done is done. It doesn't include the girl. True. Not with this. What's the difference? What happens to her? She's living on bad time right now anyway. Look at her. Why? Because of what she knows? No, no. Because of the way she handles what she knows. All that gab in the papers. Now, she's lucky those three shots that were thrown at her only came out of a pistol. Could have been a howitzer considering the advance notice she gave. Hey, Moon. What? The cop's here yet? No, they ain't. I heard the girls take five minutes, ten minutes to go. I sure wish they'd get here. Don't worry, they will. No mama will it be. Hey. Hey, private detective. Come out of it. What's up? Around here, simple nothing. Nothing at all. Where are you going? The 77 Market Street. The Brasso produce company. I think it's where both your boss and the lady in black are going to get together. What gives you that idea? A hunch, simple. Just a hunch. Goodbye. It was a half a block of corrugated metal warehouse crouched behind a wide loading rack with your 2 a.m. button with enough noisy fresh vegetable business to turn night into day. When I was out of my car clear of the whirling electric hand shot I'm picking my way in the same crowded lettuce place for the cage-marked dispatcher. I kept wondering how a guy who built an outfit like this single-handed could have possibly made the mistake. I think it was him. I stopped wondering whether they should have been stolen from a horse left himself falsely inside of the cage and yelled at me. Well, what is it, mister? What's up there? Well, I'm busy here. My phone! Brasso's not in his office, mister. I'm not sure where he is. I'm not sure. You're a cop. No, private detective. With expense account, will five help? He just paid 10. Oh, let it rain. Come on, bust through this account. Yes, keep it down, will you? She's been around for maybe 20 minutes before she's got talking to me. Not a bad-looking doll, is she? All right. Come on, you got your 10 cents. Hang on just a minute. Where? The old shed in my back. Used to be a warehouse. They've got a real private office there. You'll probably catch up there if you're robbed. I'll probably try. Thanks. A medley huddle of posh cob of teetering at the edge of a deserted cobblestone hour. A flicker of lights from an open door deep inside of a building in front of a garden. It was no surprise. I didn't want to be interfered with. I meant out that. Now without shouting, who are you? The one thing a private detective named Philip Marlowe. Another guy is still working for Vera Hamlin. You... You were working for Vera? That's right. But not swinging in the dark. Which means what? That you never saw Vera Hamlin killed in the first place. And that all this lady in black was as old as her strictly a smoke out. Vera was my sister, Marlowe. Her letters told me all about Dave Braco. A footy mentor. A rapper run around she was getting from him. So you added that to her only hit and run accident and decided to pose as a surprise witness. So that Dave Braco would try to pick you off and reveal himself as your sister's killer. If you look through it. Right. And now Marlowe, you... Marlowe, quick. Get back. Braco just turned that light off in there. He's coming out. Then I'm going to meet him. No, don't! Listen! If you want to help, say where you are. Keep quiet. One slow step at a time taught a long-distance triangle of light the open warehouse door spilled across the sawdust flooring. I slid my 38 from shore to host the right hand of the hand on the back of my next car to the crawl. And suddenly there was nothing to do but wait. You can stop right there, Mr. Braco. Huh? Who's there? Who are you? A girl named Pamela, Mr. Braco. Friends of Pamela. A girl who knows all about how my sister really is. It was only a sudden flash of light when I was taking it. It was a pistol raised and aimed at the back of Pamela's head. It was all the cure I needed. Drop it! Braco! Don't shoot again! Don't shoot again! Molo, Molo! Quickly, Braco, sit up. Yeah, but he's harmless, honey. He and Stipple are on the same team as far as your sister's concerned. Did you hear that, Braco? Yeah. I heard you, Molo. But then... then Stipple killed my sister. Call Molo. I don't know. He's the one to ask about that. All right. Why, Stipple, Dave? Why did you do it? Dave, stay back. Why? I did it because she caught me on my place, caught me talking to Mike Weber. You worked for Weber for the guy who was wrecking our business. No! Yeah, Dave, please. I didn't know what I was doing. She was going back to you to tell you what she saw. You... You must be double-crossing her! Hey, hey! That's enough! No. No, it isn't. Please, Dave. I've got something to finish. Pushing our deadline on a bulldog assistant. Yeah, yeah. We work for daily papers, man. You've been holed up in that warehouse with Molo on that heavy for a half hour now. What gives? Hey, how bad is Stipple's wound? Well, the wound is nothing. It's just scratch, although I wouldn't say he ain't hurt. But the story, you'll have to wait until I'm done at headquarters. I haven't got it all myself. Oh, there's lots of time for it. Listen, Abbott, Monty Stipple killed both Vera Hamlin and Ernie Beckett. He killed the lady because she finally was crooked. I'm tired. Tomorrow, huh? No, no, no, no. We can talk then. Well, it's something like this. Back at Moon's Point, Stipple told me how lucky the lady in black was. Only three shots were thrown at it. And he has no way of knowing how many shots had been thrown, huh? He's a better boy. Unless, of course, he'd throw them himself. Sure. The planters had a smokeout plan which was an inspiration to me because knowing Stipple was a liar and proving it was two different things. So you led him to the warehouse and while Liz Hamlin, he had guns for Brussels, Stipple had guns for her. You're so right and good night, Lieutenant. Oh, no, no, listen, Marlowe, I guess... Good night, Lieutenant. Okay, okay. Good night, Phil. Good night, Lieutenant. Good night, Lieutenant. Thanks, Marlowe. And... And what? More questions? Uh-huh. But not under vital statistics. Oh. Uh, Marlowe, one way or another my crazy plan has worked, right? I guess so. Well, then tell me, now that Stipple's caught and let go all over, am I supposed to feel good? I don't know, baby. Maybe that's what's so scrolly about revenge. Cut all the permanence of a smoke break even when your positive is justified. Figure it. I had one that started fed up with this city and the aimless, milling mob of shallow people. But now as I drove through the quiet, empty downtown streets, listen to Francis Tamsen talk about his sister who had never done anything but nagging about those money rubbers. I thought instead about the ones like you getting in trouble because other people won't realize the world is not for sale. These are the ones to keep in mind. And that was when I decided that I was only tired, not whipped, not fed up. This is Raymond Chandler's most famous character, star Gerald Moore and are produced and directed by Norman McDonnell. Script is by Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt. Featured in the cast were Lynn Ellen, Bonnie Phillips, John Daener, Jack Krushen, Polly Bear, Edgar Berrier, Byron Cain, Hugh Thomas, and Bill Wally. The sexy lieutenant, Matthews, is played by Larry Dobkin. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Oron. We'll be with us next week when Philip Marlowe says...