 Family Theatre presents Marta Toran and Arthur Shields. From Hollywood, the mutual broadcasting system in cooperation with Family Theatre brings you transcribed Arthur Shields in the right approach. Now to introduce the drama, here is your hostess, Marta Toran. Thank you, Tony Loprano. First, a word about Family Theatre's purpose. That single purpose is to promote family prayer and the belief that prayer is the most powerful force at man's command and as such, must be given a place in our hearts and homes, in our times and in our world. And now to our drama, starring Arthur Shields in the right approach. It was a fine morning. If it hadn't been, Inspector Mike Flanagan wouldn't have lingered so long on the street in front of police headquarters, soaking up a bit of sun and chatting about nothing in general, although if the truth be told principally about baseball scores. And when he went in, the captain of inspectors wouldn't have addressed him. Like this. Well, Flanagan, a half hour later again. You know how I feel about such doings. Yes, yes, sir, Captain Murphy. Too is nothing but a small foiling. I was outside chatting with some of the boys. You'll be having us punching time clocks yet, like they do down in insurance companies down the street. And this station reportant for duty means coming to this here desk and not lally-gagging with the boys at the front entrance. It was only exchange of little talk I was at some of the nightclubs. They're a decent lot. And I was picking up some clues on the Brimstead murder case. You want it solved, I'm thinking. Sure, you were picking up clues. Sure thing, were you? And did the nightside treat you to the pleasure of telling you they solved the case and have a confession? A confession? Oh, that nightcrown. Just treachery they had this morning in their bright smiles and the bit of blarney they were offering for conversation. That Brimstead case is closed, as far as you're concerned, Flanagan. But who? That young Jack and apes of a Tommy Harris walked into the nightside and confessed to a peluca cop who hadn't been in the department more than four months. Newsharks are in the Super's office getting the dope right now. Tommy Harris? The likes of him? You'll have to recognize in the name. Oh, that blackout. The very first person I talked to after the morning. Exactly, exactly what have we seen? Flanagan, how long have you been in the department? You could reckon. The answer as fast as myself. Should I join the force the same day they promoted you to sergeant? Twenty-three years. And how long is it you're after being in the inspector's division? It was yourself who made me a plain clothesman the day after they made you lieutenant and polished off the chair you're sitting in. Let me see. 12 years. I've survived four superintendents and eight shake-ups. Thanks to your eminence, of course. For a fact now, for a fact. I've been good to you, Michael Flanagan. And I saw the Griggs B case for you, didn't I? That you did in true. And a handsome triple slain. That's no lie. And the 100,000 bank snatch from the Madison branch of the First National Trust. And don't pull out your musty old clippings on me. Whose clippings? They seem to have given Timothy Yellowish's Murphy no shabby share of the mention. And what's this to do with the divils of a scamp, Tommy Harris? You'll be after saying Harris was the first person you talked to. Of course. He seemed as natural as a bird's tail for the first. At first. And now wasn't I the thick head? Trouble is, Flanagan, your approach was all wrong. Too direct. You marched up to him like it was St. Pat's Day. And you tipped your big fat mitt. What list? Times is changing. You can't use methods you learned as a flat foot pounder to beat. Or whirl in a short chalele for the delight of the housemaids in the park. But Captain, wait a while. Now keep listening to me. I repeat, man. Times is changing. It's scientific you've got to be. This is the day of lie detectors and psychometers. And drunkometers and all that fiddle-faddle. In the old days when we picked up a man who tasted too much of the pot sheen, we smelled his breath. And if a whiff of it had a jolt of John L. Sullivan, you called him quick enough in the iron closet. No further questions. No big jewellers. You haven't blow up a fancy pink balloon so that professors with white coats and heavy black spectacles can be telling the judges, your honor, it was six dollar scotch he was drinking. Or bourbon. Or just canned heat. Now, it's happening. Now look, you could learn from these laddines. I tell you, men, your approaches are wrong. It's too direct. You've got to be like a, well, like a wary cat crossing on a, on a wire fence. I'll be in the back room. Captain Murphy Day, Chief of Inspectors. Yes, yes. City hall, you say? Oh, put her on. Yes, Miss Hardcomb. Uh, I got it. Department of Animal Regulation Room 906, you say. License matter, you say. Well, couldn't your own inspectors like... No, no. Yes, I understand. Train the man you'll be meeting. Yes, I'll have someone right over to see you. Flanigan, Flanigan. Now, get over to City Hall, me buckle. To the Department of Animal Regulations. The dog bureau, you mean? She called it the Department of Animal Regulation. But anyway, see Miss Hardcomb on a matter of a dog license. Room 906. A dog license? Oh, skip her. Send Flanigan or a boss to recall. Or one of them young buckles. Send what's his name? If you'd report on time in the morning, you could have had that new Chapman case that's broken. You weren't here, so I sent Bustwick. Flanigan's down at the morgue. I put the Mbraski on the pickpocket detail to fill in while Henigan's sick. O'Brien and Callihan are on pawn shops today. That leaves you. You wouldn't want to waste a sergeant inspector on a little dog case. Let's wait until one of the other... I thought I'd been schooling you to sit at this desk one day. Now I see you're not as smart as I took you for. Dog case or broken window or licky faucet. When the hall calls, you work fast. You jump like an English sparrow. English? Them boys at the city hall can help. Can help a lot. With soup and tendons changing so fast nowadays. What do you think keeps me here? Right on the old milk croot all these years? Oh, all right, all right. You said it was a mishard, Cormac Hall. It was that. She seemed to know just what she wanted to. Now, will you be getting along over there? And mind what I'm telling you, Flanigan. Use tact and the velvet touch. You, the lady dog catcher? Whom did you wish to see? Miss Herbridge. No, no, Miss Stiffbus. Was it Miss Hardcomb? That's it. I am Miss Hardcomb, Chief of the Department of Animal Regulation. Would you state your business, please? Oh, I'm Flanigan. Inspector's detail. Now, what's your little problem? I would prefer if it would not refer to matters of city business in terms of my little problem. What's eating you then? Your vocabulary seems very limited for a person of police responsibility. But I'll overlook your asking the question in culinary terms, Officer Flanigan. Sergeant Inspector Flanigan, if you insist on minding the little points, Mum. Here's my shiny bit of tin to prove it. And I'll trouble you not to use that term, ma'am, in addressing me. Ma'am is a contraction of madam, is it not? I am Miss Hardcomb. Oh, don't apologise. Not necessary. No less any more, that I can see. Are you the Sergeant Inspector Flanigan who solved the Bernacan case? The same. And the Maltesby murders? Who else, woman? I'd never have imagined it. Frankly, I'd have thought you'd be a person of... Well, frankly, I'd not think you'd allow such poverty of expression. And what do you think we catch crooks with? Tweezers? Fancy languages for lawyers and a punctuation for district attorneys. Yeah, well, let's get to the point. What's it all about? Why am I here running around City Hall like a politician's widow? I'll begin at the beginning, Inspector Flanigan. We'll call this case the Everett J. Whitebridge case. Folder 607, drawer W72. Call it, won't you like? What are the facts? Now, here are the photostatic copies of all the records. Here are the department notes and a copy for your own files. Here are the entry dates cross-filed under the number... Yes, yes, Miss Hardingham. That's decent, isn't it? But boil it down to a flick of a go of the doodle's tail. As they say over in Brooklyn, what's the hot dope? This Inspector Flanigan is a photostatic copy of the duplicate of Mr. Whitebridge's dog license issued April 11th, 1951. The original is naturally a copy of Mr. Whitebridge's possession. Is it in proper order? It is. Is the data correct? Data takes a plural verb, Inspector Flanigan. Datum, data. Latin, plural. Are the data correct then? They are. Well then? I should amend that. The data are correct insofar as they go. And... Mr. Whitebridge has a dog's license flag duly issued. And rattle ahead with the woman? Not and, but... But what? But Mr. Whitebridge has no dog. Ha ha ha! Well, is that a fact? I'd prefer you to handle this matter without personal bias, Inspector Flanigan. This is not a laughing matter. Tell me, did this Whitebridge fellow ever have a dog? He did. Your folder will show you that we have issued successive licenses to Mr. Whitebridge each on the 11th of April. Except the first. That was on the 10th of April. How do you know this spulpin don't have a dog? I tell you, Mr. Whitebridge doesn't have a dog and hasn't had for three years. You don't say. I do. I assure you, upon the best authority. Confidential information, Inspector Flanigan. Of course, I may not reveal its source to you. By the way, have you ever seen this gent? Yes, I have. He took out the license himself personally on several occasions. I have a good memory for names and faces and remember him well. What's he look like? Well-to-do, polite, well-dressed. I'd almost say a bit distinguished. Oh, that's sorry. Inspector Flanigan, may I state the wish of the department that this case be handled with great tact and diplomacy. It is for this reason I haven't handed the matter over to our own inspectors. Is that the title they give dog catchers nowadays? Inspectors? See, why don't I call this bird up and ask him right out? I wouldn't. Why don't you do some exploratory work first? Why don't I beat around the bushes like a banshee's ghost? I'm not greatly fond of them tactics. I mean, approach the matter sort of delicately, Inspector. Indirectly. And mind what I tell you, Flanigan? Use tact. The velvet touch. Approach things sort of scientifically. Maybe a right-ness hard comb. What do you suggest for me? I'd see a psychiatrist. Huh? Oh, you mean get his help in the case? Well, maybe I will thus. So you see, Doc, these are the facts as I know them. Now, why would a man keep getting a license for a dog he's never had and he's no more than he has the British Navy in his bath town? Of course you understand, Inspector. I have not observed the patient. Oh, of course. It's not a diagnosis I'm wanting. Just a bit of a steer. Now I don't say that... No, of course you don't, but... It could be a case of refusal to accept reality. Yes. Perhaps he was greatly attached to the dog and refuses to believe the dog dead. We call such a state a psychosis. Psychosis you're saying? Maybe it would help if you described the gentleman to me, his behaviour, his nervous habits but Doc, maybe I didn't make myself clear. He's a black stranger to me. I've no more seen him than Julius Caesar. What? You haven't even talked to him? Oh, nearly a word about wind or weather. Well, in that case we will consider my suggestion a sort of tentative. Why don't you talk with his family physician? Sit down, Inspector Flanagan. How can I help? I won't take for a minute, Dr. Winters. I'm inquiring about Everett J. Whitebridge. Oh, yes. The Whitebridge is up on Webster Avenue, you mean. Exactly. Whose house you were seeing leaving only last week. How do you know that? The neighbour, Dr. Winters. Neighbours always know more about a man than he does himself. And are twice as anxious to tell. To answer your question, Inspector, the Whitebridge's residence. Oh, oh. By Mr. Whitebridge? Yes. Now, I don't want you to violate any constants between a doctor and a patient. If you're getting ready to cart him off to the loony bin... What? You said Whitebridge called you, didn't you? Well, yes. Called me for his wife. She had a slight case of tantalitis. Over it now, though. You mean you didn't see anything wrong with Whitebridge? No. You're supposed to be. Does he act normal? Well, yes. He seems to be quite normal. As a matter of fact, I would say that Mr. and Mrs. Whitebridge are an ideal couple. Seem to be very happy together. I'll have to leave that to your judgement, Inspector, whether that is normal. And now may I say goodbye, sir? I have patience waiting. Your next, Mr. What'll it be? Prime Rib, tenderloin, nice special today on Pig's Feet. It only scraps I'm interested in, but you... What kind of scraps? For a dog? Yeah, but scraps of information, a boater dog. Hey, what is this? Well, I'm Inspector Flanagan. Can a man talk privately with you for a slim minute or two? Oh, sure thing, Inspector. How about over here? Ha! Suits me to a teaboard. Do you know the Whitebridges of Webster Avenue? Whitebridges? Oh, sure thing. He's been buying meat in this butcher shop for years. Oh, he has, has he? He's one of the folks who can still afford it. Tell me, how do you trim his meat? Say, Mr. Wait a minute, what kind of a quiz is this? I ain't running no black market or nothing. I'm only inquiring how you trim Mr. Whitebridges' meat. Look, Inspector, I don't think you know what we butchers go through nowadays. It's bad enough the way the customers complain without the cops coming around asking us how thin we're slicing the baloney. And there I was only asking, does Mr. Whitebridges ask for scraps for his dog? Look, Inspector, it's only the iceman who used to know household secrets, and that went out with refrigerators. For all I know, Mr. Whitebridges' dog died years ago. If he didn't, well, maybe he's feeding them dog biscuits. No, Inspector, Whitebridge paces bills the first of the month, never have any trouble. Oh, by the way, Inspector, there's a piece of property over in Spivvy Drive. Goodbye for a fellow with a steady income. Would you be interested in acquiring such a piece of... Sure, sure, Inspector. I make Mr. Whitebridges' suits, size 40, waist 36, length 31. That's all I know. Are you sure now? What do you think? That I might be putting secret pockets in Mr. Whitebridge's pants or two tricked linings in his vest? I worked once for a magician. I put a zipper here and a zipper there, but this Mr. Whitebridge, he's no magician. He's no smuggler. He's a businessman, like myself. I tell you, size 40, waist 36, length 30, that's all I know. That's all I know. Just a moment, Inspector, I'll look in the records. Oh, yes, here it is. Mr. Whitebridge is a member in good standing. Due is paid up until next September. Uses the links on Thursday afternoons. Plays nine holes, I believe. This is house over there. Don't tell nothing from that. Yeah, it is a look at the man I ought to be having for certain, sure. One looking his eyes would tell me if he'd the red tint of blood in his veins. It's a shadow and a ghost I am this way. Hey, you. You there. What is it? What are you doing prowling around this neighborhood? What's your name? Flanigan. Inspector Flanigan. So you're Flanigan, I thought so. And who's inquiring? My name is Whitebridge. Everett J. Whitebridge. It is. Whitebridge now. Why shame the devil for that. I demand to know why I'm being persecuted this way. My neighbors are peeping from behind curtains at me. The radio patrol car comes by twice as often as before. Stopping in front of my place every night. My partner is looking funny at me and hasn't had lunch with me for a week. Out on the golf course, I can't even get a caddy. I demand you make charges. Now, what have I done? Robbed a bank? Committed embezzlement? I've been ruined and I can't find out for what. I demand you make charges. Bring me to trial. Anything. Anything but this. Now, what's it about? Tell me. It's a little matter of a dog license. A dog license? Do you confess? Of course I confess. Get out your pencil. Where can that report be? Well, here's the Vernon Street house breaking. Here's the articles picked up in pawn shops. Here's, you know, that Flanigan later again. No sign anywhere of his report. Ah, could this be it? Wait. Dog license case successfully closed Flanigan. There, Flanigan. Wait till I get my hands on him. Flanigan stopped that whishman. It won't concede the fact you're 15 minutes late again this morning. Top of the morning to you, Captain Murphy. Soft spring day you'll be having. You flounder and dunder. I don't let the black mood come over you. Did you see what the Red Sox did to those lads that call themselves the Yankees at the stadium yesterday? Now, look here, Flanigan. Is this scrap of paper and this bit of scribbled the report on which you spent the greater part of a week? You took nearly a week on a case. It's worth only five words in a report. Nothing is too good when it's a city hall case, Captain. And I found the orders of no less a person than yourself. But your notation. All it says is, dog license case successfully closed. Sure thing. Filed it after you'd gone home last night. Oh, I can't have those bills of the night side seeing how we do things, can we now? They'd be thinking it was easy. Well, can no less a person than your Captain hear about the case? Oh, a small thought out of keeping it from you. It was the case of a man who for the last three years has paid a license tax on a dog he didn't have. No, me curiosity has aroused out with it. Captain, did you ever forget your wedding anniversary? That I did. And my wife hasn't forgiven me yet. Well, Mr. Whitebridge made the terrible error of forgetting his first wedding anniversary. So he bought his wife a puppy to make amends. And then he discovered a foolproof way of never forgetting again. He did? He did that. Miss Hardcomb. Miss Hardcomb? Miss Fine Toothcomb, they should be calling her. She's that pathodical. But they could be setting the Navy observatory clocks by her ways. That's what Mr. Whitebridge found out. But, man, can I be finding out what this has got to do with a dog license? Well, for 13 years Miss Hardcomb has been notifying Mr. Whitebridge a month in advance that his dog license is due. As soon as that comes, he goes out and buys an anniversary gift and hides it in his closet. Well, go on, go on, man. Well, when the second notice comes, he delivers the gift to his wife and renews the license at the same time. His wife credits him with a phenomenal memory and are very, very happy. But what became of the dog? Oh, grew up, grew old and died three years ago. But Whitebridge was thinking Miss Hardcomb's notification service was well worth the $2 license fee. And he's been saving dog tags to tell him just what the anniversary is. But you care to license a dog that don't exist? Take legal to license a memory? That's what Miss Hardcomb was saying. Oh, wait a while, wait. Oh, look of us, not ourselves that's come to call on us on this fine spring day. Good morning. Good morning, Inspector Flanagan. Good morning. This is Captain Murphy, ma'am. Oh, I mean Miss Hardcomb. How do you do, Captain? I'm pleased, I'm sure. Good morning, Miss Hardcomb. I've come to commend your Inspector Flanagan for his diligence, his persistence. Oh, that's nice, I'm sure. Just please and folks, he is best at doing. Sure, I was just telling him that this minute I was. I was telling... And I was telling the Captain how pleased you were that Mr. Whitebridge plays the way you're keeping the record over at the dog bureau. Oh, yes, Inspector. It isn't very often our work is appreciated. What we mostly get is just complaints. Well, it's Whitebridge now. He mentioned to me that he might write a letter to the mayor. Oh, wonderful, Inspector. Could you remind him, Inspector, to call the department by its correct title? It's a bit more refined, don't you think? But Flanagan, you said this case was solved. I am still reminding you that you can't license a memory. What about Miss Hardcomb's records? Haven't you reckoned without Flanagan, Captain? Mind you, when Flanagan solves the case, it's solved for keeps. Shall I tell Miss Hardcomb, or would you do the honour? Well, it was really your idea, Inspector, so... You see, Captain, the chief of the dog... I mean the chief of the Department of Animal Regulation. Miss Hardcomb also is chief of the dog poems. She's sort of mayor of all the stray dogs in town. Yes, Captain. The ratio of stray dogs to licensed dogs is very high, haven't you? When Whitebridge's next license is to be renewed, Miss Hardcomb here is going to deliver as an anniversary gift a new dog. Well, won't it have to match the sex breed and colours stated on the license? Oh, that'll be easy, Captain. If I know Miss Hardcomb, the new dog will match the old one to the number of wags he has in his tail. Well, thank you, Inspector. Well, now, Flanagan, I'd say you'd handled this case with tact. Real scientific-like. Wasn't you, Captain, that would say there's nothing like the direct approach? This is Maratoren again. Every time I tidy up the house or put the dinner dishes back into the neat piles, it pleases me to remember I am responding to an innate feeling we all have. The psychologists call it a love of order. Everything in its place and a place for everything. Every housewife knows that one of the quickest ways of freshening up a room is to sweep up the intruding dust, hang up carelessly deposited clothes and bring back a sense of order. The eye, at Mira's glance it seems, recognises and appreciates order. We live in an ordered universe that obeys precise natural laws. To survive our human organisations such as citizen towns must aspire to order. Every word I speak, every sentence I pronounce is governed by rules to initiate and preserve order. And prayer regulates the order of our lives in a majestic way too for it puts God in his heaven and us on our knees. Now family theatre again reminds us the family that prays together stays together. A lot of things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. From Hollywood family theatre has brought you transcribed Arthur Shields in the right approach. Marta Toran was your hostess. Others in our cast were Ken Christie, Gene Bates, Paul Maxey, Stan Waxman, Bob Shannon, Ray Hyke and Bill Irwin. The script was written by James Roach with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman and was directed for Family Theatre by Joseph F. Mansfield. This series of Family Theatre broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who feel the need for this type of program by the mutual network which responds to this need and by the hundreds of stars have stayed screen and radio who give so unselfishly of their time and talent to appear on our family theatre stage. To them and to you, our humble thanks. This is Tony Lafranco expressing the wish of Family Theatre that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home and inviting you to join us next week at the same time when Family Theatre will present Walter Brennan in The Lock of Roaring Camp. Join us, won't you? Family Theatre is broadcast throughout the world and originates in the Hollywood studios of the world's largest network. The Mutual Broadcasting System.