 The Adventures of Sam Spade, detective, brought to you by Wild Root Cream Oil Hair Tonic, the non-alcoholic hair tonic that contains lanolin. Wild Root Cream Oil, again and again, the choice of men who put good grooming first. Uh, uh, Foggy. Did you go in? Coincidence. I was just reading my new library book. And it's all about a body in the water, pushed over a cliff. And there's a strangest girl in it with a, with a strange mother. And she drinks the girl and runs away with a chauffeur that rich people. They can't do that. They're stealing my materials. Oh, no, Sam. No. It's by Owen Fitzsieven. He's very well thought of. Mother always understands his plot. Not tonight, she won't. Staring our angel, I'll be right down to dictate my report on the critical author, Caber. Dashel Hammett, America's leading detective fiction writer and creator of Sam Spade, The Hard Boiled Private Eye, and William Spear, a radio's outstanding producer, director of mystery and crime drama, join their talents to make your hair stand on end with the adventures of Sam Spade, presented by the makers of Wild Root Cream Oil for the hair. You know as well as I do, fellas, your hair is one of the first things any gal notices. So it's really important to keep your hair spruced up right all the time. The answer? Why, of course. Wild Root Cream Oil Hair Tonic. Wild Root Cream Oil grooms your hair neatly and naturally, relieves dryness and removes loose, ugly dandruff. I have a hunch, fellas, she'll help herself to another look if you're using Wild Root. Get Wild Root Cream Oil Hair Tonic in bottles or the handy new tube. It's again and again the choice of men who put good grooming first. Later in this program, we'll have an important announcement. Listen for it. And now with Howard Duff starring as Spade, Wild Root brings to the air the greatest private detective of them all, in the adventures of Sam Spade. Come on in, let's get this over with. Can you wait till I finish this chapter? Let's get the page to go. The detective had just found this girl in a sorted rooming house. He had this fight with her boyfriend and buoyed him, and now butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. But I don't trust her. What's the name of the book? Morgue Fruit. His last was a spindly stiff. That was about this neurotic nurse who was in love with her employer. Effie, how long have you been reading this kind of trash? What's not to make this character live? And I love his detective. He's real hard-boiled like an dachel hammock. Dachel hammock? Mark your place and come here. All right, sir. Ready? Yes, sir. I can hardly wait. That's the way I like it, eager. Depends on the chapter, I mean. I wonder what she's up to. She's guilty, of course. Of course, but why not? You can read it when I'm finished. Oh my goodness, we've got a report to get out. And here we are, chattering about books. Date, August. I will give the date. Yes, Sam. Uh, date? Hello there. To a missing persons bureau, Saphiciska Police attention, Sergeant Schwartz from Samuel's Bay, licensed number 137-596. Subject, Gabrielle Leggett. Here, Dave. I should have handed it over to you at the start, but you know me, I'm greedy. I cashed the cheque she'd sent me as a retainer without consulting my better judgment, gave the money to Effie to pay bills without batting an eye, borrowed a dime car fare from the corner news boy without collateral, and arrived in front of the Leggett mansion on Nob Hill without the foggiest notion of what I had been retained for. I'm good to Leggett, Mr. Spade. It's about my step-daughter, Gabrielle. She's been missing since the funeral. Uh, whose funeral was that, Mrs. Leggett? My husband, Gabrielle's father. That was nearly three weeks ago. She came to me afterwards and said she was going down to Casada to our country place for a few days that she wanted to be alone with her grief, but I discovered that she never arrived at Casada. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Spade? Yeah, except for one thing. Why do you want her back? First, she may do something to disgrace me. She'll undoubtedly try her best to do so. Secondly, unless I get her signature to some papers, in accordance with her father's will, I can't go on living in this house. Furthermore... That's okay. You've convinced me. Now, when she left, what did she take with it? Just one piece of light luggage and her liquor case, of course. She drinks, you know. Well, it's not my place to disapprove. I merely thought it might help you to know. Well, we could case all the boys in town, but it'll take a lot of time and a lot of money besides them on the wagon. Well, you might talk to Eric, my chauffeur. He drove her to the station or says he did. Where do I find him? Let's see. Ten o'clock. He'll be loitering down the hall somewhere in the neighborhood of the linen closet, helping the upstairs maid fold the sheets. I'd knock first, if I were you, and avoid embarrassment. Thanks for the tip. Oh, mine, if I have a look at your stepdaughter's room. Eric will give you the key. I'm not a loud one. There he is. It's okay, Myrtle. Anytime. You Eric? Collinson. What can I do for you? I'd like the key to Miss Gabrielle's room. You the law? Why? You expecting some? The old lady's been threatening the Yelp cop. She decided to whisper instead. Oh, Private Dick. You catch on fast, lover boy. Okay, I'll let you in her room. Come on. Mrs. Leggett says she drove Gabrielle to the station. She says that, does she? Isn't that what you told her? I'm not telling you what I told anyone. Search yourself. After you. What's eating you? Nothing at all. Just want some privacy. Oh, now wait a minute. I'm responding. Go help Myrtle. Give me those keys. Oh, listen. You can't. Hello. Hi. Let me in. Don't have your lights on. The room was, shall we say, untidy. The mirror dressing table was chipped around the edges and the rain's held a scouter across it between two polo pony bookends. It was a mess of books. Three odd volumes of a Harvard five-foot shelf. A horse breeder's gazette and a bunch of detective novels. I picked one up and opened it to the title page. It was called Morgfruits. And it was by Owen Fitz-Steven, author of the corpulent cadaver, the spindly stiff and the kiss off. It was autographed to the author's great and good friend, the late Edgar Leggett. The signature looked familiar, but it didn't look like a lead. Neither did anything else in the room. I started to unlock the door with the key on the ring. I grabbed away from Eric and the light caught the smooth side of a Christopher medal. It was engraved for Eric Forever Gabby. When Forever Eric went off duty that night, he went across town. The trail ended at a crummy broken down rooming house out in the film house. He let himself in with a key and climbed the stairs. I waited until he was out of sight. In more time than it takes to tell, the door cracked open and a nose that could only belong to a landlady raised it out at me. She was, uh, gumming a sense in. What do you want? They, uh, get settled in all right? They ain't nobody settlin' in on me. Never touched me. You got me wrong, Mom. I, uh, meant the newlyweds. Did they, uh, raise the rent money all right? Oh, damn. Raise it and spend it. She's a Dick Smither. Dick Smither. Socks it up all day and throws a dead shoulder out the window. And they call it honeymoon. Uh, ex-husband, darling. I came to figure the back alimony out. Well, good to me. I'll see she gets... Oh, no, you don't. No, no! Don't you come pushin' in here. Quiet. After hours. Don't allow callers in here after 10 o'clock. House rules. Shut up. Well, I don't. What's their room number? Now give it to me or I'll shake it out of you, Barlin. 212. 212. And if I want for these new uppers, I'd let you try it. Oh, is that what those are? Uh, thank you, Grand Duchess Marie. Smart Alec. No wonder you can't hang onto a woman. Yes, all right. You're sober to drink. I did not. Alimony's so good. Weston Union. Told you to stay away and I'll beat it. Eric, what is it? Uh, look, Eric. I don't want any trouble, but I'm comin' in. Over my dead body. Eric! Get back in the room, Gabby. Now look, I won't let you hurt her, so... Now look, Collinson. Don't make me do it. I don't want to. Okay, I'm sorry. What have you done to her? Nothing in the bucket of cold water can't cure. Sit down. I want to talk to you. Who are you? Sam Spade. I'm a private detective. Your stepmother hired me to find you. Oh. You know why she wants to find me? Do you? She wants to kill me. To kill my father. Now she'll kill me. Can you prove that? My father never had a day's illness in his life. She could drink three quarts of brandy in any evening. Do you believe a man like that could die of heart failure? Frankly, I could. Now she's starting to think how to talk about me. She wants to railroad me to the insane asylum. Do I seem crazy to you? No. A little nervous, maybe. This idea you have about your father's death. Talk some more, will you? All right. I'll tell you the whole thing. I've got to have a drink first. I can't get to the top of it. Give me a hand, will you? Sure. Now you need a corkscrew for this one. Yeah, I think there's one down there in the cupboard. I don't see one. Back in the corner. There's a father. There. No, there's nothing. Hey! I dreamed I was a character in a detective story. The title of the story was Morgfroth. In the author, a man named Fitz Steven, was trying to figure out a way to turn me into a red herring before knocking off his number one suspect. I tried to tell him it's against the rules to make you a detective a red herring, but he said it was a new kind of murder you are, and it didn't matter anyway because there wasn't even a victim. That's what he thought. The makers of wild root cream oil are presenting the weekly Sunday adventure of Dashel Hammett's famous private detective, Sam Spade. Who's on good grooming? If you want the well-groomed look that helps you get ahead socially and on the job, listen. Recently, thousands of people from coast to coast who bought wild root cream oil for the first time were asked, how does wild root cream oil compare with the hair tonic you previously used? The results were amazing. Better than four out of five who replied said they preferred wild root cream oil. Remember, non-alcoholic wild root cream oil contains lanolin. And here's the announcement we promised you. Now you can get wild root cream oil, America's leading hair tonic in a generous new 25-cent size on sale at all drug and toilet goods counters. It's also available in larger economy bottles and the handy new tube. Get wild root cream oil again and again the choice of men who put good grooming first. By the way, smart girls use wild root cream oil, too. And mothers say it's grand for training children's hair. Go back to the critical author caper. Tonight's adventure with Sam Spade. I came to and it came to dawn and I was still a character with a detective story and I felt more like a red herring than I had in my dream. I had dragged myself across my own trail and wound up no place. My quarry had fled, leaving nothing behind but empty bottles with fingerprints on them. I lifted a few and hustled over to the Bureau of Identification. Half an hour later, I got the report. They were mine, all mine. I wondered what a detective novelist would make of that. I decided to find out. I had met Owen Fitz-Steven several years back in Seattle when I was digging dirt on a chain of fake mediums. He was plowing the same field for literary material and we pulled forces. I got more out of the combination than he did since he knew the spoof racket inside out. I cleaned up my job in a couple of weeks and we parted friends. His San Francisco apartment was on the sixth floor of the St. Mark. He was standing at its door holding out a lean hand to greet me when I got there. Yeah, they're looking fit, Sam. Little red in the face. That's the red herring I ate last night. How's the literary grip go? You haven't been reading me? No, where'd you get that funny idea? Oh, it was something in your tone as in the voice of one who has bought an author for a couple of dollars. I suppose you're still hounding the unfortunate evil juror. Yeah, that's all I happen to look you up. You autographed the book for Edgar Leggett. Oh, yes, yes. Morgue fruit, distressingly prophetic. What do you know about that family? How well do you know the girl, Gabrielle? Well, quite well, since she's a duplicate of her father. She has brains, but there's something black in her. Something she doesn't want to think about but can't forget. She's a neurotic who keeps her body sensitive and ready. I don't know what for. While she drugs her mind with drink and lunatic notions. Yet she's cold and she's sane. If I had something I wanted to forget, I'd anesthetize my mind directly, leave my body stay strong and ready. I hope you don't think any of this stuff means anything to me. Oh, yes, I remember you now. You were always like that. Tell me what's up while I try to find one syllable words for you. You know the fella that drives for him? Oh, Eric? Mm-hmm. Well, he was released from Folsom and Leggett's custody when he was 18 years old, murdered his father. Nice kid, what about it? Mrs. Leggett hired me to find Gabrielle. I found her with Eric in a rooming house out in the Fillmore. She begged me to save her from her stepmother's murderous schemes, and then she knocked me cold. Well, that's trivial. I've been thinking of the Leggett family in terms of doom on you. Bring me a piece of Jim Crackery out of O'Henry. If I were writing this, Gabrielle would kill her stepmother or dupe Eric into doing it for her. Or, no, that won't do. Not sufficient motive. Murder has to have a motive, you know. Why? She's insane, isn't she? I wonder. Are you saying that carelessly or do you really think she's off? Well, I don't know. She's got a kind of a wild look about her. Her eyes shift from green to brown and back without ever settling on one color. How much have you turned up on her and you're snooping around on? Are you who make your living snooping, sneering at my curiosity about people and my attempts to satisfy them? No, it wasn't different, O'Henry. I do mind with the object of putting people in jail and I get paid for it, though not as much as I should. I do mind with the object of putting people in books and I get paid for it, though not as much as I should. Yeah, but what good does that do? What good does putting them in jail do? Relief's congestion. You put enough people in jail and cities wouldn't have any traffic problems. And that's fine. All you have to do is wait till one of them kills the other and put the survivor in jail. That's simple. Yeah, but who's going to kill who? Perhaps they both have plans. Both Gabrielle and her step-mother. Looks as if you'd have to guard both of them. I think I'll settle for my client. As far as Gabrielle's concerned, her husband ought to be able to watch out for her. What? All right. Now, there you are. You didn't tell me anything about that. Lord knows how much else there is you haven't told me. Pardon me. Don't go away. Telegram, sign here. Oh, thank you. There you are. Thank you, sir. I wonder what... Good Lord, this is positively corny. Listen to this, babe. I appeal to you as a friend of my dead husband, calm immediately, sunset, hotel, quesada, trouble, danger, and if you do not communicate, Gabrielle must not know. Sign... Go to Leggett. Spade. Did you have this wire sent to me as a prank? I was just going to ask you if you sent it to yourself as a prank. I have it. The key to the whole thing. It's a red herring. I didn't think that Stephen would be able to hold out very long against his professional curiosity I caught the next bus for quesada. Quesada is a one-hotel town pasted on the rocky side of a young mountain that slopes into the Pacific Ocean some 80 miles from San Francisco. I got there at 11 something that night, stepped down from the bus and crossed the street to the sunset hotel. Mrs. Leggett registered here. What's your name? Oh, she left a message for you, said for you to wait right here and don't leave till she gets back. Where was she going? It was probably over visiting with her daughter and her new son and her new over through the cove. How do you get there? You never be able to find it at night unless you went all the way around by the east road, not then I'm sure unless you knew the country. How do you get there on the daytime? You go down this street, you take the fork on the ocean side and follow that up along the cliff. It's easily enough found in the daytime but you're never in the world. It's the first time. I waited until morning. Stupid me. I found the road out to the point but it had never really been a road. The side of the ledge became steeper and steeper until the path was simply a narrow shelf on the face of the cliff. The cliff that sheared off 150 feet or more to rattle out into the ocean. A breeze from the general direction of China was pushing fog over the top of the cliff making a noisy lather of seawater at the bottom. The cliff was steepest. I checked my cigarette over the edge and watched it spin downwards and that's when I saw it. They go way steep into the Pacific to lift the body. I got my hands under the armpits found solid ground for my feet and dragged it up beyond the high tide mark. It was Gertrude Leggett. Somebody came staggering down the beach to meet us. You're dead? Yeah, Gabrielle, she's dead. Four of the witches are dead. You're buying me a drink, huh? Sit down there. Sit down. What's the big idea? Don't you know I was sick? Somehow I don't think you're that sick. I think you could make some sense. Sense? That's a laugh. You don't know me. I've never been able to think clearly the way other people do. No matter what I try to think about there's a fog that tries to get between me and it. You understand how horrible I can become going through life like that? Nuts. Nobody thinks clearly no matter what they pretend. Thinking's a dizzy business. A matter of catching as many of those foggy glimpses as you can and fitting them together the best you can. The trouble with you is you've been enjoying your misery. You've been so busy trying to prove that you're nuts that's the one you haven't really driven yourself nuts. How do you know I haven't? Because you're too anxious to admit it. All right, I'm sane if you want it that way. I'm just evil. There's something black inside me. What was that again? Something black. Everybody knows that about my family. My father too. Who told you that? I always knew it. They say my real mother killed her so. But I know better. I know how to open the door where she keeps the gun. Every day, Gertrude lies on mother's bed. I know how to open the door where Gertrude lies on mother's bed. And we play killing the witch. And she comes in in the night and bends over my crib. And she's changed herself. So she looks like mother instead of a witch. But I know better. And I hold up the gun with both hands. It's very hard to pull with both hands. It's very hard to pull with triggers. But I must do it or the witch shall eat me up. And then there's a video and then there's a big noise. Now listen to me. You were beginning to make some sense. I don't run away from it. Gertrude was lying on your mother's bed. That's your stepmother? She was my nurse. She married father. Not so fast. How old were you when your mother died? Four. Four and a half. Did your father know about the game with the gun? No, I don't think so. Did anybody? Gertrude said I must never tell anyone. I never did. Not till I grew up. I was with Owen Fitz Stephen. I had a lot to drink. I told him after that he began seeing Gertrude. When finally my father died. But it didn't do her any good. Because Owen really loved me. Now watch it. Now let's get this straight. You'll have to straighten it out again later on with a doctor to help you. This is to help me. When you were a little child, Gertrude taught you that killing the witch game to use you as a murder weapon against your mother. Then she filled you full of ideas of guilt and fear so you'd keep quiet about it. When you told the story to Owen, he blackmailed your stepmother to knock on off your father. That made you feel responsible to his death too so you ran away. Gertrude said I killed her too. You might, but I doubt it. Now try and remember. Was Owen up here tonight? I thought I heard his voice. But I hear voices sometimes. I'm hearing it again. Listen. Do you hear anything? I didn't hear anything but the wind and the beat of a surf at first. When I did hear the voice, I sent Gabby for a doctor before I investigated. He was pretty badly mangled in the rocks. He'd fallen nearly as far as he'd pushed Gertrude but was still alive. I made him as comfortable as I could and finally he opened his eyes. Oh, Sam. You messed yourself up good. Yeah. No more rocks for me. Not unless you make Alcatraz. You know, I had half an idea when you came to see me in San Francisco that you were secretly nursing some exceptional, idiotic theory. Thanks, Owen, but I never had any theory. Whole thing dropped into my lap. Don't be too sure of that. On the standard present, I admit nothing. Later on, if I'm forced to, the very number of my crimes will be to my advantage. On the theory that nobody but a lunatic could have committed so many. Well, there's not so many. Only Gertrude, your co-author of the murder of the late Edgar Leggett. Nonsense. Crimes and crimes dating from the cradle. Even literature should help me. Not your own books. Why not? Didn't the critics agree that the spindly stiff bore all the marks of authoritarian degeneracy evident in son to save my sweet neck? And I shall wave my mangled body at them. A ruin whose crimes and high heaven have surely brought sufficient punishment upon him. Yeah, you'll probably make a go of it. Legally, you're entitled to beat the jump of however anybody was. Legally? You mean insane? Tell me the truth, Sam. Am I? I think that's what they'll say. What's that? Spoils everything. It's no fun if I'm really cracked. No fun at all. This goes to show, doesn't it? No, there you go again, Effie. I mean, if anything like that happened in real life, you wouldn't believe it. You mean if anything like that happened in fiction? Oh, no. The author is never the guilty party. Well, this author was. But that's not fair. You're right. You're right, Effie. He shouldn't be even a suspect. Maybe a red herring, but... Type that up, Effie. All right, Sam. Anything else, Sam? Yeah, phone the drug store and order some red herrings. I mean some aspirin. More and more folks are turning to famous Wild Root Cream Oil every day. Wild Root Cream Oil gives you all you ever dreamed of in a hair tonic. It grooms your hair neatly and naturally the way other people like it. What's more, Wild Root Cream Oil relieves dryness and removes loose ugly dandruff. So join the millions with handsome hair. Tonight or first thing tomorrow, ask at your drug or toilet goods counter for Wild Root Cream Oil. Also, ask your barber for a professional application. If you've never tried it before, get the generous new 25 cent bottle just introduced. It's Wild Root Cream Oil's get-acquainted size, and once you've made the acquaintance of Wild Root Cream Oil, you'll find you've made a lifelong friend. Come on in, twigletoes. Well, here it is, Sam. And I like it even better than morgue fruit. You did. I mean, it's not so realistic. I like a romantic type story myself. You do. Lots of atmosphere and psychology and those. Oh, you've got to have those. You really should be a writer, Sam. Well, you think so? Of course, detective stories don't pay much. Oh, that's true. But if you write enough of them, and look at all the material you've got. No good. Never do for fiction. But, Sam, there's already that radio series, The Adventures of You Know Who, Sunday Night. That's what I mean. I don't make a penny out of it. Well, it's your own fault. Sam, I don't want to seem critical, but if you played your cards right, you could have owned a piece of that show. What? And follow Blondie? Go home, Effie. I think I will, Sam. Just curl up with a good book. All right. I wonder who killed who. Well, when you find out, don't let me know. Oh, you know you can't wait. Well, I'll take it. Good night, Sam. Good night, sweetheart. The Adventures of Sam Spade, Dashel Hammett's famous private detective, are produced and directed by William Spear. Sam Spade is played by Howard Duff. Lorraine Tuttle is Effie. The Adventures of Sam Spade are written for radio by Bob Tallman and Gil Dowd. Musical direction is by Lud Gluskin, with score composed by Renee Gerrigank. Join us again next Sunday when author Dashel Hammett and producer William Spear join forces for another adventure with Sam Spade brought to you by Wild Root Cream Oil. Again and again, the choice of men who put good grooming first. This is Dick Joy, reminding you to... Get Wild Root Cream Oil, Charlie. It keeps your hair in trim. You see, it's non-alcoholic, Charlie. It's made with sooth and lanolin. You better get Wild Root Cream Oil, Charlie. Start using it today. We'll have a tough time, Charlie. Keep an eye on the galley. Get Wild Root... This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.