 Broadway's my beat. From Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. With Larry Thor, as Detective Danny Clover. It's a jagged dream of concrete and steel and twisted faces, where the vision of beauty stands in a doorway at the end of night. You go looking for it, and you're stopped by a guy selling the latest coast car for a sightseeing tour in Joyland. And you keep looking. Then the same guy stops you and lays your odds you'll never make it. You never do. It's Broadway, my beat. A cop doesn't have to go looking for death. They call you in on me. My call was a greasy brownstone building that crouched on maybe half a block where Harlem reaches out for a central park. Its walls were covered with withered ivy, and its windows were barred with iron, not withered. On a soot-covered sign, you could make out a restful sounding name. Primrose sanitarium, rest home floor for what you couldn't make out. And then a door was unlocked. The man stood in front of you, and a starched white jacket, with his hands folded like ice tongs that hung from his narrow shoulders. It's after visiting hours, Chum. I was invited. Danny Clover, Broadway special detail. Ah, we've been waiting for you. Waiting with baited breath, Chum. Come on in, Chum. You're the friendly type, huh? Oh, yes. All the Chums in our little institution find me gentle and friendly. Right down this hallway. The Chums? Who are they? Sick people, lost people. You know how it is. Do I? Of course you do. You're a policeman. That settles it. And you? What are you? Male nurse named Horace Vesper, assistant to physician Ellery. Him and me, we're the administering angels of Primrose sanitarium. Angels? Chum, here we are. Ah, who is it, Horace? What are the patients giving us trouble? No, physician. They're all asleep like suckling babes. This is the detective who answered the call we made. Oh, how do you do, sir? I'm Dr. William Ellery. Well, I can see you're astonished at the state my laboratory's in. But we've had a disorder here, as you see. A bourbon, sir? On the phone you said a man was dead. Where is he? Oh, there on my operating table. Show the detective, Horace. Sure, physician. Over here, Chum. See how it is, Mr. Clover? Yeah. Who was he? One of your patients? In a sense. In a sense. You can talk plainer than that. I don't think I can. Are you telling about it, Horace? Sure, physician. It was like this, Chum. We found this man on our doorstep. He was... One of the lost people? Your quick, Chum. No. This one was bleeding from a knife wound, but lots of blood. Stabbed. So I lifted him in my arms like he was a foundling babe and I brought him here to the physician. We gave him a transfusion. Yeah, indeed. Only thing I could do. He'd lost too much blood already. He was dying. I haven't practiced surgery for many years, Mr. Clover. But I think my old professors would have been proud of me. Who was he? That's your problem, Chum. There was no identification on him. Not a thing. This one was one of the anonymous Chums. So the tedious routine of why an anonymous man died began. And it's easy to be anonymous in New York. All you have to do is like cheesecake, shove on subway, stare on windy street corners and wish you were in Miami. You're one of the crowd worth two dimes a day to the BMT. Nobody bothers about you. But if you want someone to bother about you, there's another way. You can be found dead. Then you're an important guy. New York demands to know who you are, and you become the star attraction the next morning and the morning. Me? I represent the police department, and I'm your custodian. I exhibit you. I'm afraid to look, Lieutenant. You'll have to, ma'am. OK, detective. Yeah, Danny. Well, ma'am? Poor man. Your father? No. He's not my father. Thank you. Would you tell the next lady to come in? You know, Danny, a policeman's got to protect life and property, but... This man has property, Todd Hagler. Somebody's. Yeah, I know. But they didn't mention this detail when I took my civil service exam. Now, Danny, 20 years, and I'm not used to it yet. That makes you different. What did you find on Dr. Ellery? Well, so far, legitimate. License, everything. Oh, another one, Danny. Yeah. This way, ma'am. I'm Mrs. Bullock. Mrs. Eugene Bullock. I just thought... Todd Hagler? Yeah. I just thought, well, he didn't come home. Mr. Bullock didn't for a whole night. And he's never done that before. Never. Never. Todd Hagler, your water. Here, Mrs. Bullock, drink this. Thank you. Since today is our 25th anniversary, I thought... Well, I knew Mr. Bullock wouldn't want to miss that. This was our first trip to New York, you see. Mr. Bullock hadn't been out of fire over four. You don't have to tell me now. Yesterday. Yesterday, he left the hotel. Mr. Bullock had an appointment at seven. I've always liked pearls, and he was going to get my necklace. Surprise. I didn't let on, but I knew about it. The appointment with whom? He... He had had the money with him, and he was going to see Mr. Branch. Mr. Eben Branch. Eben Branch. Got that, Todd Hagler? Yeah. I didn't want to ruin Mr. Bullock's pledge. I knew what it meant to him. There wasn't much more she had to tell us after that. Then she asked to be left alone with her husband. I planted the tagli in the shadows and got out of there. The New York telephone directory is a jewel, a dream, a work of art. It gave me Eben Branch's business. Trader, his address, 12 Gramercy Park South, and his telephone number. What I needed, I couldn't get by dialing, so I called on Eben Branch. Trader, 12 Gramercy Park South. From the police, eh? Veil yourself with a bamboo fan, my boy. The rain is making more humid, I think. The place of Eben Branch was a fragment torn out of a tropical paradise and entosed in double-paneled glass. Even to the white cargo-type rain, pouring down in the space between the glass walls from a contraction bearing the seal of approval of the New York City engineers. Tropical birds played tropical games and sang sad songs in huge cages of gilded bamboo. Sitting in a fan-shaped wicker chair was Eben Branch, wearing yellowed linen, his hands touching the head of a girl, a silent girl in a jade sarong who strummed a tropical-type guitar. You'll find it pleasant here, Mr. Clover, far from the terrors of that jungle out there. You'll stay for a bit? I may never leave. Splendid, you're a man of quality, sir. I knew at the moment I saw you. I said as much to the girl here. Didn't I, girl? And now what can I do for you, sir? You could wake me up. Oh, it's no dream, Mr. Clover. All this was bought at a good price. Few souls, a few deaths, and a fantastic horde of pearls. The South Sea's a venitable paradise, boy, venitable. Wouldn't it have been simpler to leave paradise where it belonged? I only asked because I wouldn't know. You mean go back? Impossible. Of course, impossible. The moment I set foot on that island, one hour I should be gutted by the native I stole the pearls from. He didn't concern you, Mr. Clover. It was 30 years ago, not your domain. What concerns me is a man named Eugene Bullock. Eugene Bullock? Do you know where he is? I asked you first. For the symbols it had an appointment with me last night, at midnight. Midnight? His wife said he was to meet you at 7. Men lie to their wives. As I say, Mr. Clover, midnight is the hour at which I find myself most amenable to conduct. Till then I have other matters. In the phone book it says you're a trader. Is that a business? Trader? The word I used to make me glamorous and unreal. The term I insert my advertising manner to attract suckers. I sell pearls, Mr. Clover, for cash. Let's see. Only cash. Mr. Bullock wanted pearls. I was prepared to sell them $5,000 worth. Did you? That's the tragedy, Mr. Clover. Simple to never show up. I need $5,000 desperately. How did I scum high, Mr. Clover? And so as the sun sank slowly in the west, I bared a fawn farewell to the land of palmettoes and jasmine and exiled beach boys. If what Branson told me was true, the pattern of Mr. Bullock's life needed completing. His last five hours of living. What happened to Mr. Bullock last night between 7 and midnight? People had died during those hours, but why Mr. Bullock? And as an extra added question, what happened to the $5,000 he had on his purse? By the time I got back to headquarters, the description of Mr. Eugene Bullock had been circulated all over the area. Hiya, Danny. How's it going? Hello, Marty. OK. How's the cab business? As the saying goes, what do you need? I think I got something for you. Look, the little guy that Eugene Bullock... Yeah? Maybe he was in my cab last night, about 7 o'clock. We had some pictures taken downstairs, Marty. Here. Look. At him? Looks calmer, but yeah, that's him. Last night he looked more excited. Like how? Like so. He gets in the cab and he says, close around. I cruise. Through the rear view mirror I see he's got the same expression like a kid writing with chalk on a wall, you know? So I ask the question and he says, yeah? Where'd you take him? Oh, I've wasted a village and a spot I know in Chinatown places like that. Nothing suits this guy, nothing. Then we hear a dime at dance dive up 105th Street. This he goes wild about. He loves it. He pays many leaves. Uh, is that what you want, Danny? Huh? Quiero usted bailar. Es necesario sacarlo. No, whatever it is, no. If that's how we say no in Spanish. Por favor? Look, who's around here I can tell I'm from the police. Adios, señor. Hey, wait a minute. Wait a minute. What frightened you about the word police, senorita? Get that way. Get that way from me. Oh, now it's in English, huh? You learn fast. Let's go, senorita. Let's go where we can talk without background music. Problem with this, Carlos. Take off with chatting. We're having an intimate type conversation. I am intruding. Sanchez. Intrudings, the word. Beat it. We do something about your mouth. You tried, friend. You really did. What do you know? Man gets knocked down in the fight. Nobody pays any attention. This will happen last night, Rosa. Is this what happened last night? Music happened last night with Maraca's Latin music. When we were interrupted, I was saying, let's go. Let's go. Wait. Right. Last night I was dancing with a sailor. A pretty sailor boy from Peru. And then a man was stabbed. The man died. Oh, bad. Somebody sees blood. Somebody screams. Everybody runs out. There's even the pretty sailor boy. The wounded man is lying on the floor. Stabbed but not killed. Then what? Sanchez helped me to lift him to my automobile. I drove him a little way to a sanitarium where he's a doctor. I left him. Why did you take the trouble? Why didn't you run, too? I felt sorry for the little man lying there. Oh? How about five thousand dollars, Rosa? The little man had that much with him when he came here. He didn't have it later. Senor, I have never seen five thousand dollars in my life. Is that the truth, Rosa? Esverda, the truth. That's the truth. But you want me anyhow, don't you? I am arrested, yes? She was arrested, yes. And booked, yes. And Sanchez, her admirer. See, also. It was simple and it was fast. I had the victim, the motive and two grade A suspects. I told the boys in the press room the solution of the murder of Eugene Bullock was only a matter of hours. Simple routine, I told them. I've never been so wrong in all my life. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. It's a world that explodes every 24 hours, then starts all over again. The faces might be different, but the expressions are the same. The current population had a current crime to consider. And I had promised them a killer. The killer of Eugene Bullock, an alien from Iowa. But I wasn't keeping my word. The grade A suspect Rosa was being uncooperative. She said she didn't have anything to do with the killer. Somebody else at the dance hall must have done it. So I gave her a chance to tell me who. And the chance was the police lineup. Now, they're ready out there, Danny. Twelve guys who could have been at the dance hall at the time of the stabbing. Thanks, Tartaglia. This is what we call a police lineup, Rosa. Rosa? Yes? The lights are so arranged that we can see those twelve men and they can't see us. You can see what you like and the men won't know who's speaking. I see. Yes. Now, I want you to pick out the men you recognize. The men who were in the dance hall night before last. Go ahead. That one, Lieutenant. The tall man on the end. Well, that's already Westworld, Danny. Gets his name on a bladder-like clockwork. Vagrancy. Commutes between the boundary and the drunk tank. Two convictions for personaging. Never mind, Tartaglia. Let's just run them down. Who else, Rosa? The one in the brown sweater with the eyeglasses. Yeah. Who else? That one. You mean the one holding the cap? Oh, yes, that one too, but I mean the one next to him. Go ahead. That one. And that one. Yes, I'm sure of it. Keep going. The man without hair and with the moustache. You remember him? I danced with him. He wanted to meet me later. Ah, okay, Tartaglia. Let him go, one of them. Tell him to go home. Uh, yeah, yeah, Danny, sure. Take Rosa back to the Maytun and lock her up again. Senor, what are you doing? I don't understand. And I'll explain. You're lying. You're covering up for someone. The last man you pointed out, the bald he had danced with you. He was planted in the lineup. He's a cop. Take her away, Tartaglia. Maybe your boyfriend's got a better memory. Well, thanks, officer. I'll call you when I'm through. Cigarette, Sanchez? No, not from you. Here's a pack. Keep them. They're yours. By what right you hold me here? By what right, huh? The man was murdered. That gives us rights, him and me. You're crazy and sane. I kill no one, police, stupid. But you, you're a man of honor, huh, Sanchez? Como? I'll explain. You're a man of honor. You love Rosa. It degrades you if anyone manhandles her. I would kill him. That's what I say. You killed Eugene Bullock because he made passes at Rosa. Between a wish and the act, police, there is great space. You stabbed him and then you got a bonus, a $5,000 bonus. And that healed your wounded honor. You are only trying, police. I know guys like that always trying. We have a word for them in Spanish. See, polite, Sanchez. It's easier when you're polite. Okay. I'm polite. That's good. What have you done to Rosa? I wondered how long before you'd asked me that. What have you done to Rosa? We had to. She confessed to the murder of Eugene Bullock. You lie. Your mouth lies. She confessed, Sanchez. She only does it to protect me. I stab him, I stab him. Tell me about it. What like you say? This Bullock, he put hands on Rosa his. All hands on Rosa's body. This happened many times with Rosa. The hands of an old man. Yeah, yeah. The $5,000, where is it? Leave me alone, please. Leave me alone. All right, Sanchez. I'll get a stenographer. Did you confess, Danny? Yeah. What do you want, Tartaglia? Oh, I thought you wanted to know about this, Danny. They fished Horace Vesper out of the lake in Central Park. When? About an hour ago. Hey, Danny, getting Sanchez to confess, that could mean a promotion. To what, Tartaglia? To oblivion? You have it in the palm of your hand, sewn up clean and neat. And it slips away because a man named Horace Vesper was found dead in the lake. That changes it. You shudder at the fatal mistake you almost made. You shudder by that time you're pushing your way through a crowd whose eyes are vacant and unblinking. And it's the same crowd you always see in attendance that a public dying. The setting was nice, though. Central Park never looked better. The leaves running to gold, the sun shimmering in the lake, duck's fat and happy. The dashing blue uniform of New York's finest. And the lump of a man lying gray and sodden on the bank. That's him, Danny. Some kid in a rowboat, so I'm down in the water. That's how we happen to... No marks of violence on him. No, no, Danny. This guy must have been one of them health addicts. He goes in the water without no shade on. I figured the guy goes in for a dip because, like I say, with him health is a thing. And the shock of the cold water surprises him and stops his heart from beating. That's how you figured it. Yeah, it's up to it. I'm thrilled. Here is the deceased effects, Danny. Driver's license made out the Horace Vesper primrose sanitarian. Blue shield medical card of wallet with no dough. But plenty pictures of his navy buddies. How do you figure buddies? Yeah, this was a bit of detective work, Danny. See this watch, Bob? Yeah, but tell me about it anyway. It's a cleverly contrived watch, Bob. Contrived from one of Horace Vesper's navy dog tags. That's how I figure the guys in the pictures are his buddies. Let's see it. Sure, Danny, here. Cleverly contrived, huh? With my dog tags, I did something different. Well, Danny, you figure it like I figure it? No, I don't figure it like you figure it. How you figure? I figure like murder. Huh? Yeah, huh. Only I got like to prove it. Hi, Danny. Come on in. Thanks, Maria. How's the darling at the police laboratory? Everything okay? Need some new bunts and burners and things? Tell Danny about it. I'll fix it. How about just walking on little cat's feet, huh, Danny? Am I interrupting something? Well, Dr. Sinske, over there is working on something important. An experiment that can't stand a sudden jolt. Yeah? What is it? It's lunch. Cheese of flight. Oh, well, then just tell me what your brains and equipment turned up on Horace Vesper. And I'll tip to water here. Well, we ran a marsh test in Outline, Danny. No signs of poison. A sedative, yes, but a mild one, nothing lethal. Was he drowned? Not that either, Danny. No trace of water in the pleura. Sorry, in the lungs. He didn't drown. No, I didn't think he did. What else, Maria? Well, there are two punctures, one on each arm, made by a large type needle. The type they use for transfusions, I'd say. Yeah. What else? Look in the microscope, Danny. The one right there. Yeah. You see what I mean? No, not exactly. All I see is somebody looking back at me. That's your eyeball, Danny. That's just it. Here, let me. No, I'm winking at myself. I'll tell you about it. And you won't believe it. I'll believe it. Tell me. Horace Vesper's navy dog tag has made a liar out of science. Get off of the dime, Maria. What are you trying to say? It's obvious what I'm trying to say. Horace's dog tag says he had type A blood. The microscope shows something else. Like what? In the specimen I've examined of his blood, there are too many clots, both A and B cells of the gluten eyes. Come on, come on. Mr. Vesper's blood has been tampered with. Now it's both type A and B. Strange, isn't it? I didn't answer, Maria, because everybody knows there'll always be a new way, a strange way to kill a man. Instead, I went back to Primrose Sanitarium. Its door stood open, so I walked in. I found the hallway that led to the laboratory and felt my way along it in the darkness. That's what I got. Darkness. So soon, Lieutenant, I'd expect that you would have waited so soon, Lieutenant. Where? Where? In my office, Lieutenant, in bed. I really didn't expect you to awaken so soon, Lieutenant. My side. It's a mess, all right. Yeah. You see, Lieutenant, I hold myself personally accountable for what happened. One of the patients somehow got into my office and somehow got into my desk. Somehow got your gun and somehow shot me. Why? His protest against the world. I suppose the kind of world he's made for himself. Anyone outside of it is an enemy. Now you're going to keep things locked up, huh? I'll see to it. But it's Horace's job. He should know better. Horace? I'm not now licensed, Lieutenant. You've lost a lot of blood. You're weak. I am. Looks like a flesh wound to me. It's worse than that. You'll be better, though, after you had a transfusion and some rest. A whole lot of rest. I'm weak, huh? I can sit up. See? It hurts. I can do it. Oh, don't be a fool, Lieutenant. Lie down. You'll only aggravate your condition. Yeah. We mustn't aggravate conditions. No. It's a transfusion, Lieutenant. It won't hurt a bit. We'll just stab your arm with alcohol. And now, I'll get these things ready. My blood types A, Doctor. Yes, yes, I know. I ran a test on it while you were asleep. We mustn't make a mistake. Give me a transfusion of type B blood, because that wouldn't make me well. That would kill me. The way it killed Mr. Bullock. I beg your pardon. You didn't give Bullock a transfusion to save his life. You gave him a transfusion to kill him. Oh, poor, poor fellow. Delirious. You killed Horace, too, instead of doing this bourbon, I figured. Then you gave him a transfusion of B blood while you took A blood out of him. Cute. You wanted all Mr. Bullock's funny yourself. That was greedy, Doctor. Now, Lieutenant. Remember your Hippocratic oath, Doctor. You need that transfusion, Lieutenant. Put down that needle. You're delirious. You have to be quiet. Put down that needle. You have got to be quiet. Here's some quieting for you. You just rest. Right there, Doctor. That's the way it ended, the part of it that I knew about. I had to be told the rest. That the police found the doctor in the corner of the laboratory gibbering to a bottle of bourbon. That I fought them all the way to the emergency ward and that nobody in medical history protested the way I did. All they wanted to do, they said was give me a transfusion. There's laughter on Broadway now. It's night. The street is tearing itself apart. It's drinks in the house and have another one, Joe. And hey, Mr. I can really show you the sights. It's a frenzy and a big noise. Mostly, it's the big noise. Otherwise, you'd hear the heartbreak. Because it's Broadway, the godliest, the most violent. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.