 Broadway's My Beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway's My Beat with Larry Thor, as Detective Danny Clover. Springtime begins to search through Broadway, and its gentle winds fill out the places to set up shop. The push carts of the flower vendors were the promises are wrapped in tight buds of faint color. A child's ribboned, silken hair sighed across the winter-pinched face. A woman's shoulders too soon eager to shed the raiment of winter's night. In the spring songs choked out of loudspeakers, in the inviting, side-long glance, in the barefoot padding through sun-warm corridors, here is spring for Broadway. Innocent, nostalgic as the music of the organ grinder, to which monkeys dance, to which Broadway sighs, remembers, fries again. At the edge of the March evening against the shimmering of dusk, the anger of a man, the near hysteria, the economy-sized fury at innocence maligned. It's an outrage, a shame, a filthy shame, the way you police have nothing better than do and drag off a man off the street and push him and beat him and people standing around and snickering him. No one beat you, Mr. Grace. Or it's the same thing you might as well have. What am I doing here? What am I doing in a messy room with a detective and a girl with a sketch pad? Me, a man with two kids, an overworked wife, nags at me when I'm late for supper or late for anything. Everything I ever got I sweat for. You hear me? Make it easy, Mr. Grace. Uh, miss, I'm in a seed store, see, I'm buying things for my lawns, my rosebrushes and seeds, you know, big row and a rake, and I walk out and a man grabs me, makes me drop things in the street and he brings me here. Why? Tell me what crime I've committed! Tell me! You passed a bill in a bank early this afternoon, Mr. Grace, a thousand-dollar bill. Where'd you get it? I got it. The bank said it was good, didn't they? Then why'd you have to stick your nose in? I got it. For a man who sweats for everything he gets, how much sweat for that thousand, Mr. Grace? A bill the bank recognized from serial numbers is one from a five-year-old payroll robbery where a pay messenger was murdered. How much sweat for it, Mr. Grace? I don't know what you're talking about. I bought it. I bought it from a man on 45th and Broadway. He said I could have it for $250. I laughed in his face. But you bought it and so did you. Well, I laughed in his face at first, but when he said he'd go to the bank with me and prove to me it was good. This man, was he Les Cheney? I don't know who he was. I never saw him before. Maybe I can freshen it for you, Mr. Grace. Cheney was a man we believed responsible for the robbery and murder. We couldn't prove it, though. We never found the money. But he was sent up for possession of narcotics. He's out now. Les Cheney, sell you that bill. I don't know. Maybe it was him. I told you I never saw the man before. Oh, $1,000 for almost nothing. Wouldn't you have bought it? Let's pretend we're friends. You would have bought it. Miss Holland, here's an artist, Mr. Grace. She'll sketch a drawing while you describe the man who sold you the bill. Go ahead, Mr. Grace. I thought she was doing a drawing of me. I thought that you... Describe him. Well, describe him. Well, he had kind of a thin, smirky face, a pinched nose, kind of washed out eyes. They were blue, I think. They bulged out a little bit, and you getting at me? Don't worry about her, Mr. Grace. She'll get it. You just go on. Well, his hat was kind of slouched down on his forehead. Any distinguishing marks, like a scar or anything? No, no. There was no scar. I noticed he needed a shave, but then I guess they owed him that type. Kind of a loose mouth, something like a bird dog. Yeah, that's it. The sad eyes, and the kind of sniffing around. Yeah, but that's all I remember. Now, what else do you want? You don't have to go on this, Fallon. Good. Call your wife, Mr. Grace. Tell her you'll be real late. We're holding you on suspicion. You do that? You do that after the way I cooperated? Oh, you'll suck me in, and then you'll do... Well, you can't! You can't! You... And watch the protest die in his throat. The shoulders slump. His face fall apart and reassemble into shock. Aaron Grace, citizen, family man, provider of wife and children, and a lawn and rose bushes. Suddenly a new identification, a name on a bullies blotter. Be held for further questioning and connection with the murder. So turn him over to the sergeant and the artist, and leave. Routine now, another reading of the records which concerned the five-year-old crime. Records still on the active file, and the name which dominates them is the name of Les Cheney. More records, Les Cheney had been released a month ago from prison having served five years of a seven-year sentence. Les Cheney, out on parole. So leg work now. Get the completed sketch and find an address and call on Les Cheney. Yes? Mr. Cheney? Who are you? Danny Clobram from the police. Let him alone, will you? Les is out now. He's behaving. He's trying to get him a job, so let him alone. Mind if I come in? I'm not gonna say no to a cop. If you want, drop dead on the sill if you want. I see you made it. You want to go back? Where's Les Cheney? I told you. My husband's out. Job hunting. That's right. Stiff around the place, pull down the wall bed, look in the closet. You're a cop. Work at it. What makes you so better, Mrs. Cheney? Guys like you, cops like you, tore five years out of my husband's life. I got a thing about being married. I like to take care of my husband. I hum when I scramble an egg and no less is gonna eat it. And I'm a woman who likes when the day is over and I got a husband near me. I missed it for five years. Your husband was in possession of narcotics when he was picked up. You're lying through your teeth. Guys like you, cops like you, planted that stuff on Les. It ain't you how you couldn't pin a murder on him so you fixed him good. Listen to me. I want you to look at something, Mrs. Cheney. Listen to me, whatever your name is. I want you to hear it. I've been practicing it for five years, worth a night. Hands behind the head. The position of the lonely people. This is what I want to say to you. Die. Ron, don't walk and tell your friends to do likewise. You all through? Tell them all you're here. Take a look at this picture, Mrs. Cheney. It's a sketch of a man who passed a thousand dollar bill. Have you ever seen this man? I never saw him. I'm gonna save you a trip back. Les never saw him. Tell Les the police were around, Mrs. Cheney. And they'll be back. The cops on the beat too, whatever your name is. Don't forget to tell them too. Get out. This is what your mom hopes you'll send her from the big city, soldier. A little pillow with nice poetry on it, soldier. Emma's for the, always for the T's for the H. Get lost, soldier. This man's ahead of you. That's right, son. You better take off. I'm a policeman. Benny and I have a little business to take care of. Hi, Benny. Uh, sit down, Danny. Sit down. Proud of me, huh? A legitimate line of trade. Selling sentimental pills for home sick soldiers. I'm done my part, Danny. How you been, Danny? Hmm. Can't use anything. Gonna help me out? Gee, I wish I could, Benny. But I swore off in a stole pigeon, Danny. I run up to my mom just last week and told her how nice I'm doing with poison. Told her that I'm not gonna make... Yeah, yeah. Look at this catch, Benny. You ever see this man before? I... I haven't got my glasses, Danny. Hold it up close. Huh? You ever see him? Never, sir. Help me. Don't look like that, Danny. I don't lie to you. This man's been passing hot money. Can't afford, huh? Uh-uh. From a messenger holed up in shooting, murder. This guy? You ever see him? I just told you, Danny. I just said to you, you know, I don't tell you... Close time, gents. Oh, come close in time. Nine o'clock's never close in time. Tonight it is. I'm sick of no customers. I'm a customer. Yeah? To pay your check and leave, I'm going home. Come on, come on, come on, don't stall. The only reason I've served you in the first place was your flash to 20. The old $4.60 I brought to the church. Yeah. Where'd you get a $20 bill, Benny? Oh, Danny. Danny, look. It's nine o'clock in it. Today at nine o'clock, Benny Fain is turning over on no leave. Clear my conscience and leave the old Benny Fain behind. Stop. Where'd you get it? I'm glad for the opportunity to tell you, Danny. I heard about a guy who was selling hot dough. The old Benny Fain got his address and bought a $20 bill for a fin. The old Benny Fain thought it was a conifit, not murder dough. Where'd you buy the $20 bill, Benny? Ah, just on, uh, 114th Street, 607 First Floor, all the way back. Well, good night to all. Sylvia, mister, she's not here. And I've searched everywhere, under the bed, under the liquor bottle. Who are you? Just a lonely redhead looking for an old girlfriend. I lost somewhere in a bar one dim day long ago and far away. All of a sudden, lonely me remembered Sylvia. Remembered you told me she lives here. Let's go inside, huh? I tell you, the girl's not here. I guess you can come on in. Sylvia won't mind. Well, you're in. Do something. Say the kind words. I'm from the police. Who are you? Joan Carson will make a faithful and obedient servant have references. Say the kind words. No Sylvia lives here, Miss Carson. This room belongs to a man who's selling hot money. You heard about it and came to buy from him. You greedy, freezy money, Miss Carson? It's a proverb for the redheads. Money comes easy, goes easy. Who needs to walk the length of a grimy hall fort? Wait in an empty room for it. No one was here. Who let you in? A graceful movement of my soft, dainty hand. I knocked. No answer. I tried the knob, it turned. Sylvia wasn't here. I thought to wait. How long have you been waiting? A half minute, a whole minute, maybe, before you knocked. That's the teenage boys on the front stoop. They all know this is my entry. Commented, too, in a kind of fashion. You don't know anything about the man who lives here. Turn around and look, Mr. Look. Could that be him that walking death in the doorway? Could that be him? He fell before I could get to him. He fell in the limp, loose way of men who were already dead. His hands were wet with the flow of his blood, where he'd held the bullet wound. His mouth shaped a word. Then it, too, was gone. The death wound, the silence. This was what was left of a man whose picture I carried, who sold blood money to rose fanciers to pillow salesmen, who had died for it, been murdered for it. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Every day of the year, the Red Cross is helping humanity somewhere. Servicemen rely on it. Disaster victims owe their lives to its prompt help. Communities everywhere know its day-by-day services. All these countless ministries are financed by your contributions. Won't you answer the call to make this year's contribution larger than ever? When the trade winds blow in from the Hudson and springtime comes to Broadway, it's a season of rare enchantment. March is on its way out, and a few more X's in the calendar, and it's April. It's the time, kid, for weather talk, for baseball scores from sunny Florida, and bite your lip against the knowledge that Joda Match won't be out there in center field anymore. But it's the good time. The man at the orange juice stand whistles while he puts the yearly coat of shellac and the coconut. The fella next to you, the coffee counter, gives you half his newspaper, and the blonde you met last night calls you at the office and tells you not to be angry. So have a smile, kid. It's that time of the year. But it wasn't smile time where I was. It was the sodden room to be found at the end of all the sodden corridors in the world. The sand-colored walls enclosing the depth of a man and standing beside him a girl and beside him another man, Detective Muggevin. Name's John Mooney, Danny. Here's his wallet. Let me have it. I'll take a look around, Muggevin. All right, young lady, you said your name is John Carson and you came here looking for a long-lost friend. Look, Mr. This don't make any difference. A man comes home to die, and I happen to be here where he lives. I came here looking for a friend. What friend? What difference does it make? What friend? Sylvia. Don't even remember her last name. Know how you forget? Sometime you pass by and you say, I think Sylvia used to live here. Find out how she is, you know? Sure, a friend of yours used to live here. No, I'm not sure. The street looks something like this in the house. Ask if she's sure Sylvia lived in New York then. Don't worry about it, Muggevin. Just keep... Hey, Danny. How much was taken in that robbery, Danny? 50,000. Want me to count this and see how much is missing? No. Miss Carson, come here a minute. Take a look at the money, Detective. Muggevin found this drawer. Close to 50,000 dollars. You can go now, Miss Carson. Muggevin. Uh-huh. The follower. Then walk away from it. Walk the tired night streets of early spring. Here and there a window open to it, the soiled curtain floating, floating in the darkness, swaying to the dance of the night, disc jockey calls in the unlighted room. Brushed shoulders with a straggler who was angered because for an instant you made him lose his hurried way to know where, then smiles his forgiveness and just there at the end of the corner where the street lamp dims, he sees it, will find it again. And then the quiet street where your room is where your lucky sleep waits to welcome you. Only first you must rid yourself of the image of a murdered man who sold money and graved with death, of a girl with red hair who walked now or slapped or laughed, and the shadow that mocked her was not her own. And sleep is diluted to these things. And finally sleep runs out. And at headquarters the next day make a phone call to Les Cheney for routine questioning. He told by his wife that he'd gone out to an interview for a job. Tell her that when he came back to stay home you might be stopping by later on. Then it's noon. Your lunch hour is short because... Danny Clover speaking. Markov and Danny get down here to Charles Hotel West 12. You got some? Yeah. Come through please. I'm from the police. Medical examiner is taking care of me. What happened, Markov, and I told you to follow her. Come here, Danny. Tell me what happened. I followed the girl home. That's where she went when she left that flea bag last night. She went to her apartment. Straight to her apartment? If she hadn't gone straight to her apartment this wouldn't be the story I'm telling you, would it? Go on. Straight to her apartment. At two in the morning I got Florio to relieve me. I went home. Straight home. At nine this morning just as the girl was leaving her apartment I relieved Florio. She went out to breakfast shop, made no phone calls, and came back here about an hour ago for lunch. She came down here at the ladies lounge. I waited outside the door. About ten minutes later there was a scream. The attendant found the girl at the dressing table with a knife in her back. That's it. The people coming in and going out, you know, I'll get out. Okay, okay. It's just this, Danny. This key. I found it in her bag. 607. It's John Mooney's room, isn't it, Danny? Yeah. Let me have it. See you around, Detective Margaret. It shows in the correct moment, Danny. What? What are you talking about, you know? The moment of please disturb, or the moment of please do not disturb. I took a flyer and chose the former. I hope I have not overstepped the bounds of a 12-year-old sergeancy. This is your better date, you know? The lot of a sergeant, Danny, all propaganda to the contrary, notwithstanding. The lot of said sergeant after 12 years of faithful and obedient service is not a merry one. 12 years is a long way to go to the delicatessen for sandwiches for the boys. 12 years is sticking the nose in the dusty files and records. You'll get your promotion, you know? Ha! Promotion. Ha! Ha! This same stale crumb, I off-tossed to the patient, strained to the breaking point, Mrs. Tartaglia. It is her comment I just quoted. Ha! Promotion. Ha! It'll go through one of these days, you know? I promise not to flip the lid while waiting. Don't work, don't any. If you wish. My burden, my refuge. I... An Aunt Les Cheney once suspected thief and murderer in that payroll robbery of some years' former. He is still not come home. He is still at large, violating his parole, no doubt. You think he's mixed up in this, you know? It matters to anyone what a 12-year-old sergeant thinks. Let's proceed, shall we? Whatever you want, you know? And then John Mooney deceased by murder that he was a pickpocket whose name was inscribed as such in our archives practically from the moment of the laying of the cornerstone. His room was in Joan Carson's purse where Muggum found it. What? Oh, just tell me what you got on Joan Carson. I was coming to her, Dany. Sorry. It's one of the wounds that leave no apparent scars. How you hire ups never accept me. I said I was sorry, Gino. Accepted. And then Joan Carson alleged murder of Mooney, a girl also with a record of possession of narcotics. What? In the month of October, the year 1943, picked up in her apartment together with one less Cheney by the narcotics boys. Sentence served the year on the island. With less Cheney, the same Cheney? They're very sane. I am dismissed, Lieutenant. Well, Gino... I hope I have been of some service. Good day, Lieutenant. And good hunting. Uh, Dany... I didn't mean it. Not you. It's the other... You did good, Gino. Real good. This is so tangly I'll be proud of you. Go home and tell her. Waiting for you almost all day. Come on. I told Les to wait for you, so get it over with quick. Ruth doesn't mean it. Les, your parole papers say you have to be polite to cops. Show me where it says about the hat and the hands and the bowing. Ruthie... I waited five years for a man to come back. Look what came back. What's the matter with you, Les? You know who he is? One of the brave boys who planted an envelope of narcotics on you. Ruthie, they didn't do that. I told you they didn't do it. I violated a law and I was caught. You had to memorize that speech, Les? You always had a poor memory. What made it stick, brass knuckles? Don't mind her, Mr. Clover. What can I do for you? Did you read the papers? To see how we finally found that money that was stolen in that holdup you were involved in five years ago? I can't go along with you on that, Mr. Clover. I was never involved in a holdup. My error, the one we picked you up for. The one you couldn't make stick? Sure, I admit it. My car was used as a getaway car, but it had been stolen from me. And you couldn't prove otherwise or you planted the narcotics on him. Why are you talking to him, Les? Because I have to, Ruthie. Don't mind, Mr. Clover. That's right. Let's get back to that money, Les. I don't understand why we have to get back to anything. Humor me, huh? Yes, I have to do that, too, don't I? We found it in a man's room. The man's name was John Mooney, and he had a record as being a pickpocket. Well, Ruthie and I were discussing that a while ago. Les read it to me out of the paper, and I clocked. I was wondering how he got that money, Les. I wouldn't know. I'll tell you how I figure he got the money. He was a pickpocket, so he picked somebody's pocket. All I'd done? Had a good day. Not really. He got killed for it. So he didn't have a good day. Go argue with a cop. We know who killed John Mooney. I said we... What? I... Oh, girl, named Joan Carson. She killed him someplace near his hotel. Took his key went to his room to look for the money. I found her there. Clover, Ruthie's missed me for five years, and I only been out a month. It's like we were married all over again. Let me spend my evenings with Ruthie. It'll only take a little while. The thing that bothered us, Les, was who Joan Carson was and how she knew where to find the money. You know who she was? You tell me, Mrs. Cheney. You tell him, Les. Tell him. Sure. I once knew of Mr. Clover a long time ago. I knew a lot of addicts a long time ago. It still bothers us, Les. How she knew where the money was. We couldn't find it for five years. How do I know what she knows? You're in jail for five years. We never saw a dollar that $50,000 that was stolen. You get out and start circulating. You still want to pin it on him, huh? Let me tell both of you how it all ties together. You did commit that robbery and murder, Les. Somewhere the money was hidden. You get out, get the money, take it someplace to get rid of it at a discount. A wise boy like you gets his pocket pick. Then the money starts showing. I don't think you're going to prove it this time, either, Clover. That's what held me up so long, Les. A bright boy like you gets his pocket pick. I couldn't believe it, but I had to come back to it. Like I said, you still need proof. Maybe you're right. We've still got another problem. Problem, how are we going to get your wife to admit she killed Joan Carson? How are we going to do that, Les? Good kid. Get him out of here, Les. Wait a minute. Clover, how do you figure Ruthie killed you? How'd you figure it, Les? You figure it? Ruthie. You need help, Les? Yeah. Yeah, help me. Your wife kept that $50,000 for you while you were in jail. Didn't she hit it someplace? Take it from there. See what happens. Are you crazy, Les? Shut up. Well, Clover, take it from there. You got out, you gave your wife that money, then you lost it. What did you tell your wife when you lost it? I told her I lost it. Lost it. Lost it to that redhead. You killed it, didn't you? Didn't you? Listen to me, Les. Nah, you listen to me. That's what I told you. That money was stolen. The pickpocket recognized me and called me and tried to sell it back to me. I didn't have any money to buy it. Why didn't that redhead for it? Why didn't she send me? Because I'm not beautiful anymore after waiting for you. Because I don't dip my head in henna. Because I don't own a slip that's not frayed. Look what she did to you. She crossed your kill and was going to keep that money for herself. Nah, she wasn't. She was going to come back to me. Oh, no. Oh, no, Les. Not her. Not Miss Joan Carcel. I took care of that. Killed her. Killed her, Les. Followed her and killed her. For you. For the past five years. For the years you were going to make up to me. For the years I lie there with my hands behind my head. Just to me, Les. To no one else. Mr. Pover. Yes? Take us away together. Twilight lies against Broadway like grey speckled gauze. Ripples off into another world. The street of the hurry up steps. The fast questions. Dances. The seekers after the special smile. And you walk it because once Broadway touched you. You can't rub it off. It's Broadway. The Gaudiest. The most violent. The lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway. My Beat. It is My Beat. Stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. With Charles Calvert as Protaglia. And Jack Krushen as Muggevin. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Musical score was composed by Alexander Courage. And conducted by Marlon Skiles. In tonight's story, Charlotte Lawrence was heard as Ruth. And Anthony Barrett as Les. Featured in the cast were Georgia Ellis. Howard McNeer and Leo Cleary. This is your old man. And most everyone else in his generation. And the beauty of their comedy is that it's just as funny. Just as fabulous. Just as fresh. As when Amos and Andy first stole America's heart 23 years ago. Tomorrow night on most of these same CBS radio stations, listen and laugh with Amos and Andy. Phil Anders speaking. And remember, Robert Q's Waxworks brings you the top records and recording artists on the CBS Radio Network.