 The Adventures of Sam Spade, Detective. Uh, date? Uh, two, Deputy Sheriff Bill Woodington, Marin County Sheriff's Office, San Rafael, California, from Samuel Spade, San Francisco License Number 137-596, subject, The Battles of Belvedere. Dear Bill, By this time, I should have known better. And I did. For a square mile, there are more screwballs in your stamping ground across the bay than should happen even to me. But Belvedere Island is very small and I'd always been very curious about it. I can see it from my office window. A little green hump rising out of the water just around the corner from the Golden Gate Bridge and connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. But I got there the stylish way. A sign on a dock we made for said battle landing. I thought I knew what that meant because my client's name was Jonathan Battle. But I was not quite prepared for the beautiful welcome I got. Golden is the word that best describes her from the gold sheen of her complexion to the gold sandals on her delicate little feet and the heavy oriental type gold jewelry gleaming from her ankles, arms, throat and earlobes. Her jet black hair was partially covered with a gold embroidered sari and as she came nearer, I saw that her eyes were their slight oriental cast were not green as they looked from a distance but blue with flecks of golden. I am Chandra Leslie, Mr. Spade. Welcome to Belvedere Island. Thanks. I think I'll like it here. If you will accompany me, I will take you up to the house. Thank you. I am sorry my foster father could not be here to greet you but he is an artist, you know. Oh. You're Jonathan Battle's foster daughter? Yes. He was my father's closest friend. When I was left alone in the world he came out to India after me and brought me here. I see. How do you like San Francisco? I've never crossed over to the city. I wish I could. Well, why can't you? I am only a woman. I must do as I am told. I see. I wasn't told not to go down to the landing to meet you but perhaps it would be just as well if you did not mention it. Mum's the word. That is his studio down that path. I'd better not go any farther. Hey, wait. Will I see you again? That is for you to say. With that she vanished. I wasn't surprised. She was much still beautiful to be true anyway. What did surprise me was what I saw through the big studio window at the end of the path. A man stood with his back to me, dobbling paint on a big canvas. Across the room from them two models were posing. They both looked familiar. I couldn't remember then who the dark-skinned, determined male giant squatting with a rifle between his knees resembled but the feminine one in the Oriental Dancing Girl type pose was a dead ringer for Chandra Leslie, the girl who had just left me going in the opposite direction. I couldn't figure how she could have gotten in there so quickly and if she was too good to be true, how could she be too? The answer proved to be absurdly simple. Interruptions, nothing but interruptions. If I ever finish this picture it will be a miracle even if I live to finish it. Just look what I'm forced to use for models. Wax dummies. That one is a good likeness. That girl? Where is she? I never find her when I want her always out chasing birds somewhere and the dark-skinned fellow just disappeared. I had to copy him from memory. He looks familiar, Mr. Battle. Who was he? I never asked him. Just came wandering out of the woods one day soliciting our jobs and there he was exactly what I needed for the figure of the Sikh soldier in my painting. Sikh soldier? You mean he wasn't well? No, Mr. Spade. Sikh, man. Sikh, S-I-K-H, as in India. Oh, ho-ho, foolish name. I can see you're interested in my work. Have a good look at it. See here? The figure of the dancing girl against the sweep of the desert in the setting sun. The weary soldier tries to submerge the horrors of battle, I mean war, in the contemplation of feminine beauty. But the sun's rays, refracted in that crystal, focus themselves upon the weapon in his hand. And he is reminded that he must revel while he can, for as surely as the sun rises on the morrow, he must answer the call to... I mean arms. Great conception, isn't it? My son's idea. Mm-hmm, yes. Well, exactly why did you ask me to come over, Mr. Battle? Mr. Spade, supposing you knew a man who had committed the crime of murder in order to realize a reward beyond the wildest imaginings of the Occidental mind. Supposedly, but just as he had that dream within his grasp, you had snatched it away from him. Me? Suppose further, that your enemy had then devoted his life and his fortune to searching you out, and you suddenly learned that he had caught up with you at last and was actually living a stone's throw away from you. What would you think? I think I'd move. Where? To a crowded city where he or his hirelings could be looking for you around any corner? Well... I think not, Mr. Spade. I think I would stay right here on this island and hire myself a detective. Bully for you. And I would send that detective to warn him that his presence is known and his designs anticipated. Who is the sinister character and where is the ambush? It's the property adjoining this one on the north. The name on the mailbox is Patterson, but don't you... Oh, good Lord! It's 1247! It's time! It's time! Go, go, go! The sun is approaching the proper angle. I've only these few moments you understand each day. When sun's rays fall directly on that crystal from the clarestry window up there, perhaps today I will capture it with brush and canvas. He hurried back to his place before the easel and started messing with his pallets, squinting intently at the wax models in front of him. There were still a lot of questions I wanted to ask him, but this was obviously not the time. I left quietly and closed the door behind me. Quietly. Hey, you! Yeah? I think you're a detective. You don't like detectives? Hard boil type, huh? James Cain, Raymond Chandler. Dashel Hammett, please. Who are you? I'm Bob. Oh! Bob's in a battle, of course. Yeah, but if you think I haven't heard that gag before... Good, then I shouldn't bother you. Oh, I don't mind. What kind of crazy line did the old boy hand you? How crazy is it? He's been acting half bad here ever since he started painting that picture. It's nothing but an excuse for not finishing it. And why? Why? Because it's too lousy to show. Oh, I didn't think it was that bad. He does. Yeah, it's me leading up to some kind of a publicity stunt, hoping that'll sell it. He's just making a sucker out of you. That's okay with me as long as he pays for it. Get a few days out of it. Well, if you need anything, let me know. All right, sonny, right now I could use the telephone. It's up there in the main house, up yourself. Oh, but you're hoping to run into my beautiful stepsister to save yourself the climb. She went over to the next door neighbors for lunch. Your father mentioned them. Who are they? Somebody she knew in India named Sherry. Yeah, well, not Captain Sherry. Yeah, retired. Captain Theophilus Sherry. Captain Theophilus Sherry. Twice before in my wild, unpredictable career, I had crossed the path of and soared with Captain Sherry. And we had both lived the regretted. I wondered which one of us the third time would charm. I knew one thing for certain, with Captain Sherry on Belvedere Island, it would be a good idea for the natives to apply immediately for more life insurance. Not that he was any great criminal mastermind, but people just had a way of dying while he was in the vicinity. This time, instead of waiting for the mountain to come to Muhammad, I decided to move Muhammad off Belvedere Island, altitude 352 feet. But I didn't even make it as far as the mailbox before something stopped me. Hey, battle! Battle! Anyone in there? Battle! Can you hear me? Okay, I'm coming in! He was dead before I got to him. The front of his artist's mark was so gout-up with paint it was hard to tell which red was which. I finally located the wound. The large caliber slug had torn through him after entering just below the breastbone. It was a locked room puzzle. The one door bolted from the inside. The windows locked and unbroken, no marks of tampering. In fact, no possible way for the killer to have made his escape. I didn't know at then, but he hadn't. The United States Armed Forces Radio Service is presenting the weekly adventure of Dashel Hammett's famous private detective, Sam Spade. After I phoned you, Deputy Deer, I went back to the studio to pit my wits against that locked room puzzle. I was glad I hadn't brought my stupid toes with me because when I got there, the mystery was not quite as big. Or so it seemed. The first time around, I had made very sure the room had been just as I left it up to and including the two wax dummies. But I hadn't given them the fingernail test. And now I blushed to say that one of them, namely the giant-sized dark-skinned, the turban Sikh that had been squatting with a rifle between his knees, both before and after the murder, his turban and the rest of his costume had been hastily stuffed behind a cushion. That's when I remembered why that dummy had looked so familiar to me. I thought I knew where to find the original. Hello, Marcus. Where's Captain Sherry? You go home. Thanks. I won't. Out of my way. Master will not allow. You will have to hurt me. Okay, Marcus. I always do. Let's get that part of it out of the way. Oh, delight. Very delight. Now I break you back, I'll be clear. Hey! Oh, no. Stop, Kenny. Hey, Sherry, where are you? Call him off. Hey, stop there. Oh, Marcus, stop being naughty. Put him down. Not that way. I said put him down, not drop him. I say, old fellow, I'm faintly sorry my man here. What? Oh, it's you, Spade. Yes, Sherry. Here, let me help you out. I wish you'd found a head out of head. Marcus, prepare tea. Oh, tea. Very delight. Rose petal, orange blossom. How many lumps. Thanks. I've had mine. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Hush, Marcus. Yes, shut up, Marcus. Oh, imagine a man nearly eight foot tall, acting like a little child. Come on, come on out on the terrace. The view is extraordinary. The agent informed me that this is one of the few spots in the San Francisco area which commands the view of both Alcatraz and San Quentin. Well, you'd better enjoy it while you can, Captain, because when you're in, either you can only see the other one. I once spent a fortnight in the brig out in India, and I can tell you, the prison life is not for me. Then why don't you stay away from people who get killed? I say, you mean old battle, as it happens so soon. Okay, what's your alibi this time? I'm sure you have one. Oh, dread it, man. Why do you always commence by taking such a dim view of my activities? However, I will not allow you to goad me into letting you make a fool of yourself. As always, I shall place my cards upon the table. Face down, as always. You've only to turn them up, and be brief. 20 years ago... Oh, here we go. Marcus and I were having a goad east slope of Nanga Parbat in the Himalayas when our patrain encountered an avalanche which swept us bodily across the border into Tibet. Our carriers were decimated, but luckily, most of our gear remained intact. What kind of contraband were you carrying? Contraband into Tibet. No, uh, matter of fact, we were traveling light in the hopes of baking a few brace of bar-headed geese. Power play, eh? Allow me to finish. We arrived in Sera, a valley adjacent to Lhasa, a place of religious community and an uproar. It seemed that in their haste to create a new Tashi Lama, the native astrologers had misread their stars. In short, they had vested in the holy monastic robe an infant girl. She's not 16 years of age, and due to make a public appearance with a thunderbolt and sajra. Please, please, interruption, sir. To make a long story, a young agent in my company by name Leslie became smitten with her charms and offered to take her off their hands. Unfortunately, from that point of view, certain irrefutable temporal awards had been conferred upon her at the time of her accession. Among them, a mountain worth several billion pounds. Well, on our journey back to the Panyar... Hey, wait a minute. You say this girl owned a mountain? Precisely, a Muslim made it. Worth several billion pounds? Yes, it's the gold, you know. The presence of gold in the Sera has long backward geologists for the simple reason that it's an unnatural deposit. Unnatural? Synthetic, that is. For 13 centuries, the devout have made pilgrimage devout to implant in the mountain all gold nuggets in the ignorant belief that they will grow into large lumps. How many centuries did you say? 13. Oh, very well, 12. That's better. And needless to say, the small nuggets never do grow into large lumps. But until they do, the devout, with the exception of the aforementioned and or her nearest relative, are forbidden to carry off any of the gold. And who is the aforementioned? The very little girl whom Leslie carried off to the Punjab as his bride. They had one daughter, Chandra, the girl who met you at the landing this morning. How did battle get hold of her? Well, sir, a few years back, as our company was marching along the east face of Nangar Parbat. There was an avalanche? Precisely. And poor Leslie perished miserably. But the ungrateful scamp in spite of his many promises to me have left instructions that Chandra should become the ward of that presumptuous pink puddle of Jonathan's battle. He forbade her to see me and finally left India under cover of night, taking her with him. So you finally tracked them down on Belvedere Island. Exactly. Now, my plan, if all else failed, was to win her hand in marriage. What have she objected? Ah, you little companyhand, the oriental mind. She's a woman. She must do what she's told. All I had to do to turn the trick was to frighten battle into giving her the necessary fatherly instructions. So you see, his death has covered the most awkward time. By the way, who do you think did old battle in? I think he was killed by the rifle held by that warrior he was painting. The figure your boy Marcus posed for. Oh, hello. Oh, that's nonsense. Marcus was with me at the time. I don't think Marcus had to be there. I don't think anybody had to be there. Well, that settles that. Marcus! Marcus, pack the marmalade. We're leaving. Never mind the comforts. We'll leave them for the poor. Oh, good night, very good night. Where have you been? Oh. The police are here, and I have been all alone in the house. Where did Bob go? They took him away. They arrested him. What for? They found a pistol hidden in his room. They say it is the weapon that killed his father. A pistol? Please. You are not going to leave me alone. I'm so frightened. Being alone with my conscience. Conscience? But how could I have known what my foster father had in mind? Just what did he have in mind? Suicide? Oh, please. Do not say that. Even if it were true, I cannot bear the thought that I had made him so unhappy. I did not want to disobey him, but I could not. Oh, I could not. Come on. Come on, Shannon. Don't do that. The orientals are supposed to be without feeling. But you see, it is not true. Of course not. Please. Take me to the house. Sure. And you will not leave. You will stay with me. Sure. Sure I will. You do not think I am a wicked girl to refuse to marry the man of my father's choice? If it was Captain Sherry. Oh, no. I thought you knew. He wanted me to marry his son. I spent the rest of the night keeping her in Somnia Company in a very pretty one, too. I didn't get to you on the phone to ask you about that pistol of Bob Battle that you had tagged as a murder weapon until just after sunrise. What I learned from you was that the rifle that had posed with a dummy warrior was an old-fashioned Belgian-made browning with a smooth bore which could use revolver ammunition. But the fatal slug did match the test slug from Bob's revolver. What I told you was that ballistics can lie, and that you should take another look at the metal clamp and the trigger guard of the rifle. You said you would have the lab run tests on both guns, and by noon you had freed Bob Battle and released the exhibits into my custody. By 1245, I had the stage set exactly as it had been set for Jonathan Battle's murder, except that the door was not locked. Chandra was standing at the easel as near as I could figure in the spot where Jonathan Battle had been standing when the slug tore through him, and Bob Battle was standing just close enough to her. You, Deputy Deer, were lurking in the shrubbery outside observing the whole colossal spectacle. Now, nevertheless, I plunged unblushingly ahead toward my anger to Christy finish. But, Sam, I do not understand. What are we waiting for? You won't have long to wait, Chandra. You must be off your nut. I've been cleared. Nobody ever suspected Chandra. What do you hope to prove? Maybe that I'm wrong. Well, why isn't Sherry here? If I'm right, he will be. Okay, about 15 seconds. 15 seconds? Hmm, 12 now. And if we're lucky, we'll find out how your foster father was killed. Chandra, he has no right. You don't have to do this. Five seconds. Whatever happens, it'll mean your license paid. You have no right. Two seconds. Chandra, get down! You can't, sir. If all the high hand is honest, reprehensible, how badly she won't get it. Take it easy, Captain. Oh, trusting little girl. She's all right, Sherry. If she keeps away from you, she'll stay that way. Come on, Chandra. Give me a hand. You all right? Yes. Poor Bob. Yeah, poor Bob. He only killed his own father. But why? There, there. Now, don't fret about it. I'll take care of you, my dear. Uh-uh, Captain. Hands off. My dear fellow, you mistake my motives. What this poor girl needs is a father and what better God than myself and my vast knowledge of the audience and my deep understanding of the eastern mind. Nuts. Well, Sam, I sure got to hand it to you. It worked. I guess this just about cleans up this caper. Thanks, Sam. Thank you, too, Captain. You've been a great help. Oh, thanks. Well, it's a pleasure knowing you, Sam. Why, you dumb bunny. Who me? Standing there shaking hands with the most sinister international dope smuggler on the Pacific coast. Now, see here, Spade. That will take some proofing. Frisk him, Bill. Go on. See what you find on it. I welcome this opportunity to prove my innocence. Go ahead, Deputy. Well, what do you know? A hypodermic kid. See? But this is an outrage. You planted that in my pocket, Spade. Well, maybe. Even if I said the deputy here, I'll have to take you in for questioning, and that'll mean answering some questions for the federal men, won't it, Bill? Well, now, if you planted that kid, Sam... I haven't admitted it yet. You'll have to prove it. And you may not be able to before the federal men get involved. Not that Captain Sherry has anything else to hide. Well, Sam, you never let it be said that a royal fusilia didn't know when to blow retreat. Marcus, not again. Take the marmalade again. We're off. This time to Africa. Period. End of report. But, Sam, you let him go. I know exactly what you're going to ask, Evie. It worked like this. At a certain time of day, the sun rays were refracted through the crystal directly in the spring-metal clamp in the trigger guard of that rifle. This caused the metal to expand, thus pushing the trigger and discharging the rifle, which had previously been aimed at the spot where battle customarily stood while painting. But, Sam... Don't interrupt. The further confused the issue as well as splitting an infinitive, not to mention a hare, Bob, son of battle, loaded the smooth bore rifle with a cartridge containing a slug previously fired from his revolver, thus drawing attention away from the rifle and onto the revolver, which could not be placed in the locked room at the scene of the crime. Sam! Please, these interruptions. His motive. He thought his father was, in fact, going to force Chandra into marriage with Captain Sherry. Oh, that poor boy. He did love... Perhaps, but don't forget the billion-dollar mountain. But he leapt in at the crucial moment and interceded with the bullet man for her. He died. He undoubtedly will have, but of the expense of the state and not of my conscience. In short, I loaded that rifle with a blank cartridge. He was not dead when he hit the floor, merely in a dead faint. No pleas, please, no applause. This is as usual. Go type that up. Ever is going to become that poor bewildered girl. Yeah, poor little thing. Nothing to fall back on but a billion-dollar gold mountain. And I can't help it, Sam. You know, East is East and never the twang. Ah, ah, you're wrong. She's starting a twangy course tomorrow as a sales girl in the jade department at Gump's. Doesn't that make you green? Oh, really, Sam? You're jade humor. And so, Tibet. Oh, no, Sam, stop. I mean, really. Murderer. Good night, sweetheart. The adventures of Sam Spade, private detective, is a presentation of the United States Armed Forces Radio Service, the voice of information and education.