 Hello, Yukon 2-8209. Yes, this is Candy Mattson. The National Broadcasting Company presents Candy Mattson Yukon 2-8209. Hello. Hey. I've been smog bound. Rather? I've been visiting an aunt of mine in Los Angeles, Ducky. A fate worse than death. However, I am glad to be competing for long hair music, thou. I can take it or leave it, why? In this case, I hope you can take it. Every hair of a gentleman named Erick Spaulding. A noted English symphony conductor? Of course. I used to know him in London. He's here to conduct a series of concerts. A bully for him. I know where I can get him a baton, wholesale. He needs more than a baton, Candy, dear. He needs help. That's why I'm calling you. What do you want me to do? Look for the Lost Chord? You don't know how close to being right, you are, girl. Anyway, he's going to drop by me place this evening. I wonder if you could come over, too. Well, I was going to hit the prone position early tonight, but if you really want me to be there, I'll do it. Splendid Candy. Come for dinner, won't you? I just bought a new chafing dish, and I'm clipping up a tasty scraping of pasta rasole. Well, how interesting. It is. It's spaghetti. A la Watson. Candy Mattson, the girl all San Francisco claims to know personally. That's because she hits the front pages of the newspapers more often than the three bridges. Kate, who came in late, Candy makes a tidy little living by minding her own business. The business being one of private investigation. Take this deal with Rembrandt Watson and Erick Spaulding. It sounded innocent enough to start with. The clue here, a corpse there, can make a very interesting story. One that Candy Mattson can tell you about herself, right now. What did the man say, a clue here, a corpse there? Well, he's almost right. The corpse came first, the clue later. I also ran across the most ingenious device ever dreamed up to cause a man to lose his job. And I managed to get a little culture on me, whether I wanted it or not. Because in the course of this little deal, I got better acquainted with Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven, even Catatorians. Bless you. It all began by accepting Rembrandt's invitation that night for dinner and a meeting with Erick Spaulding. For the sake of the musician, I climbed into a gown that made music as I walked. It was cut trimly on the grace notes and called for a reprise every other bar. Then I put on my coda and went over to Rembrandt's place on the California Street opposite old St. Mary's. Candy girl. Welcome to Minab Hill, lamasere. Thank you, dear. Come in, come in. Breathtaking. Positively breathtaking. You look gorgeous in that. What is it, Candy? If you just often consider the thousands of man-hours put in by little worms all over mulberry bushes, you wouldn't ask that question. Oh, silk. Where's the maestro? Erick hasn't arrived yet. He'll be here shortly. What's his problem, Ducky? I haven't the slightest idea. But he seems terribly upset. His worry seems to concern itself with his concert tomorrow night at the opera house. These boys with the long hair and coat tails to match, they're always worrying. I don't know how most of them manage to live so long. Oh, help yourself to the poor, dear. I had some more dirt, but Henry, me great dame, beat us to them. Henry, heaven. I haven't seen him in ages. How is he, dear? No, I'm so glad you asked, Candy. He's missed you terribly. I'll let him in for just a moment. No, no, no, Rembrandt, I didn't mean that. He's missed you so, dear. Oh, Rembrandt, he's charging me. No, Henry, no. Rembrandt, help. He's got his paws all over my prowl. Isn't that sweet. Such devotion Candy adores you. Well, tell him to do his adulation from the floor with all four paws on it. Quick, Rembrandt, I'm becoming pigeon-chested. What a beautiful picture. Rembrandt. Oh, yes. Henry, down, sir, this instant. There we are. Now I know how that mud-shell in Chesapeake Bay felt when the big mole landed on it. Into the kitchen, Henry, back to your sided beef. That's the lad. Oh, that must be Eric. Or another great dame. Eric, dear boy, do come in. Thank you. What a charming place, Rembrandt. So bohemian. That's one word for it. Personally, I call it clotted. Candy, dear, may I present Eric's folding, Eric Candy Mattson. I do. Really, quite an honor, Mr. Spaulding. I've heard many of your European recordings. Is that a fact? Yes, I had a very good orchestra in London. Nice chaps all played well together. I used to know the producer on the Standard Hour. That way I became quite familiar with the playing of the San Francisco Orchestra. How do the two compare, Mr. Spaulding? That's like trying to compare the Atlantic Ocean with the Pacific. Both large bodies of water, but entirely different in characteristics. Oh, well, I feel the San Francisco Organization would rate among the best of the world with the proper conducting. And you feel you can give it the proper conducting? Most certainly. I see. Why don't you tell Candy about your innovation in music, Eric? I'm sure she'd be greatly interested. Oh, yes, I'm surely. It's nothing more or less than applied showmanship, Miss Mattson. I've always had the firm belief that music should paint a mental picture. I imagine the composers did, too. So I've made it a point to always include one number in my concerts where we play in fluorescent lighting. Oh, yes, I recall reading an article in Life about that. I've been severely criticized for it. I conduct with an illuminated baton. To me, the musical message is much better presented in that manner. The audience sits in the dark. It has a chance to interpret what the composer intended saying. Could be. I've been accused of everything from cheap theatricals to degrading the concert stage. But I'm sticking with it and convinced the public appreciates what I'm trying to do. Rembrandt tells me you're bothered about something, Mr. Spaulding. Yes, I am. I'm an artiste, Miss Mattson. I know only one thing, music. That's why I wish to speak to someone in your line, investigating in that sort of thing. That sort of thing leads to money. I know. And I'll be very glad to retain you if you can help me find out what I want to know. And that would be... Someone is trying to sabotage me, Miss Mattson. The San Francisco concerts are critical stepping stones in my career. I've given two concerts each time during the selection where we black out the lights. The orchestra en masse has hit one foul, rotten chord. Didn't you get it straightened out in rehearsal? That's just it. It never happened in rehearsal. I've checked the score afterward. Perfect. I've talked to the orchestra personnel. They're more amazed than I. To say the least, it must be extremely embarrassing at a moment like that. Believe me, words haven't been invented to describe such a feeling of mortification. The audience starts to titter, then laughs. By then, the whole thing has been shot to blazes. My reputation is at stake, Miss Mattson. I see what you mean. I thought perhaps with your train-sleuthing instinct you might be able to help me. My old friend Rembrandt here recommends you highly. Thanks, old friend here. You got me interested, Mr. Spaulding. When did you say your next performance is? Tomorrow night at the opera house. Tell you what, I don't know what your contract calls for, but whatever it is, we'll split the fee and I'll go to work for you. What? Why, that's preposterous. Isn't the future of your career worth it, Mr. Spaulding? Well, I... Very well. I think it's outrageous, but what can one do? Okay. Now, when do you rehearse for tomorrow night's concert? Tomorrow morning, at 10 o'clock. Very well, I'll be there. Just one word of caution. Pay no attention to me whatsoever. Make like as if I don't even exist. Agreed. You know, I'm so glad everything's settled. Now we can get to the spaghetti vasso. Me food is practically chafing at the dish. Let's have at the reggiest out, shall we? The spaghetti vasso was magnificent. Rembrandt has the green thumb for taking the most ordinary food, adding a bird's nest or two and a dash of some witch's potion and making it taste like ambrosia. There was only one drawback. For days after, you walked around like you had a red-hot barbecue pit in your stomach. I stopped off on my way home, bought a chronicle, completed the journey and piled into bed. Then I read the paper. Missed Kane caught Daruse, glanced at the radio column and then concentrated on the musical section. There it was, Spalding's concert for the following evening. The first movement from Brahms first, the fountains of Rome, the Rienzi, so on and so forth, and for his blackout selection, Swan Lake. With that, I dozed off. And before I could pick up the remnants of a dream I'd had the night before, it was morning and I was dressing in on my way to the opera house. No, no, I'm here on official business for Mr. Spalding. Oh, sure. Go right on in. I passed through the stage door and onto the stage itself. Just as I did, a little faraway thought started tickling the back regions of my brain. Spalding, Spalding. By a strange quirk, there was a gal who played first flute in the orchestra named Spalding. I worked my way around to where the musicians were unpacking their instruments. There she was, the gal herself. Hello there. Oh, hello. How are you? Fine, thanks. You don't remember me, do you? I'm Candy Mattson. Oh, yes, the young lady detective. You used to drop backstage now and then to the standard broadcast. That's right. Nice to see you again. Thank you. What's this I hear about the orchestra falling on its face the last two concerts? It's an amazing thing, Miss Mattson. We're at a complete loss of words for an explanation. I understand it's front-page news all over the country. And why not? Well, a thing of this sort is news. Erics fit to be tied, of course. Well, I can't blame you. Incidentally, I just happen to think isn't your name Spalding too? I beg your pardon? I said, isn't your name Spalding too? Why, yes, it is. We spell it differently, however. Oh, so? Yes, Erics spelt his name, S-P-A-U-L-D-I-M-G. I have no U in my name. You both have a decided British accent. Oh, you think so? I rather thought I'd lost mine. No, hardly. Tell me, do how do the members of the orchestra feel about these numbers played under fluorescent light? It doesn't bother them. They think it's slightly silly, but they don't pay any attention to it. Each conductor has his own little idiosyncrasies. I see. Well, I hope you have a fine rehearsal, Mrs. Spalding. Miss. Miss Spalding. Oh, yes. Miss. You, um, you are going to be around for the concert this evening? I believe so. I find it becomes more interesting all the time. Something was phony with a gal, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I tossed it off and decided to think about that angle later. In the meantime, I ducked into a quiet corner of the wings and listened carefully to the whole rehearsal. Then it came time for the blackout number, Swan Lake. It went beautifully, without a hitch. At the finish, Eric mopped his moist brow and spoke to the orchestra. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much. You all know what has happened in these particular spots. The rehearsal this morning has gone beautifully. I thank you. I hardly think I need to remind you that tonight's concert will be critical to say the least. If we repeat what has happened at the past two performances, I shudder to think what will be said of me and you as an organization. Will you all please pay a special attention to the score this evening for my sake, as well as yours? That is all, and again, I thank you. With that, Spalding dismissed the orchestra. I waited a reasonable length of time, then dropped her onto his dressing room. The Concertmeister was in with Eric, so I waited. And waited. Finally, he was alone. Or so I thought. Oh, Miss Madsen, come in, come in. Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Spalding, I thought you were by yourself. Oh, a thousand pardons. Miss Madsen, may I present, Balto Ramondi, my arranger. Mr. Ramondi. A pleasure indeed. There was something you wanted to talk about, Miss Madsen. It's all right. I'm just pushing all. Do that, will you, Balto? And take care of that second bar after letter K. It should be an A-natural. No, Eric, not an A-natural. It should be A-flat. Ah, yes, yes, that's right. A-flat. I'm so upset. Well, take care of it, will you, Balto? Right, oh, I'll see you back at the hotel. Very happy to have met you, Miss Madsen. Also, Mr. Ramondi. Well? Well, yourself? I don't understand. Why do I? Let's both get with it. Are you acquainted personally with any members of the orchestra here? No, in a vague sort of way. How vague would your friendship with the First Plutus be? How did you know about her? I didn't, but now you've told me almost. What about her? I was hoping this would be kept quiet. She was my wife. I had a hunch it was something like that. Could she have anything to do with your lack of grace notes? No, not Nona. Nona? The former Mrs. Spalding. Well, we've got to start somewhere. She's as good a target as any. I'm afraid you're on the wrong sentence, Madsen. Nona and I had our differences. We split up. She came to America and joined the orchestra here in San Francisco. She's respected and admired. She wouldn't do anything to jeopardize her musical career, I'm sure. But she might, yours. Have you cut up any old capers since you've been here, Mr. Spalding? No, we haven't spoken. It's an unwritten rule we've both observed. Hmm. This has the same aroma Monterey has during the Sardine season. Well, I'll keep plugging away. Good luck on the concert tonight. You need it. The hotel where Spalding and company made its headquarters was just a hop-skipping a jump from the opera house. But I would have looked silly getting there that way, so I drove. A simple question produced results. Waldo Ramondi was in room 1812. Before I could ponder whether that was from the overture of the same number, I was there. Come in, please. Oh, hello. Come in, won't you? Thank you. I hope I'm not disturbing you. No, no, no. Not at all. Seems we have a music lover anomaged. However, don't you think Eric might resent this little visit? Why, you little... Cut it, Ramondi. You're lucky I only slapped your face. I'm here on business only. Get out of here. Not yet, small time. I want to have a little talk with you. Who do you think you are, walking in here and making demands of me? The name is Miss Mattson. That doesn't mean anything to you. I'm sure, but I happen to be a private investigator. Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't think that you will forgive me once you... I'll call a meeting of the board and let you know. I've got a couple of questions to ask. Give me the right answers and we'll both save time. Gladly, if I can. How long have you been with Spaulding? Almost 17 years. Did you know that the first flutist here was once his wife? Yes. We don't talk about it. Neither do we talk to her. What about this studied confusion that's occurred during the last two concerts? It's most incredible. None of us can understand it. No, none of us. Doesn't it strike you that a whole symphony orchestra just couldn't possibly go sour unless the whole symphony orchestra had agreed? Or unless the score was wrong. But that couldn't be it either. Both Eric and I have checked immediately afterward and that leaves us... Nowhere. Exactly. I have only one further suggestion. And that would be... Get better acquainted with known Spaulding. What do you mean by that? You are a private investigator, Miss Madsen. Why not apply the tools of your trade? The whole thing was becoming as simple as the hydrogen. Using my cool Sam Spade logic, I decided to do nothing until after the concert that evening. So I went home to my penthouse on Telegraph Hill, showered and slipped into something movie writers would have described as... comfortable? Then I called Rembrandt on the phone. Rembrandt Watson Studios? This is Candy Madsen, Private Eyeball. Very delightful. We both got to plug in. Yes. What's on your mind now? You, dear. How would you like to attend the Spaulding concert tonight? No, Candy. I've heard music before. So have I. But this is more or less a command performance. I recognize the command in your voice. Very well. Shall I dress? It's customary, isn't it? I mean, how would you like me in soup and fish? No, Ducky. I've seen your soup and fish. It's covered with soup and fish. No, just come as you are. Oh, Candy. Very well. As you say, dress. I'll pick you up about 7.30. Splendid. Where are we sitting? Is the diamond horse shoe? That's right. Backstage in the wing. I bustled about getting ready. As long as I was going to be backstage, I didn't have to get too fancy. So, in practically nothing flat, I was out in the car and once again driving over to Rembrandt's place. He was ready. He jumped in, and we took off for the opera house. The carriage trade was arriving at the carriage trade entrance, so I found a place to park out in back, and then we went in. Talked to Wally, one of the stagehands, and got two chairs on the left. Just at that moment, the concertmeister gave the cue for the orchestra to tune up. That was Spaulding's cue to float out from stage right and make his entrance. He carried more ham per pound than you'd find in a Chicago stockyard. He minced to the podium, bowed, scraped, and faced the orchestra. It all started nicely enough, even though the orchestra was playing as if it were sitting on eggs. First the bronze, then fountains of Rome. They took a bath in the first fountain. It felt so good they went on to another. Then another, and they were through, through all the fountains. Now it was time for the production number. The lights dimmed, the fluorescent lights on the music stands came on. Spaulding flipped a switch and his baton lit up. You could feel a tenseness come over the audience, and the orchestra started hatching its eggs. Eric gave the downbeat, and Swan Lake was underway. Everyone seemed to feel that the worst was over. You could almost hear the snapping of spines as the audience relaxed and settled back in their seats. And that's when it happened. It had happened again. The most horrible sounding chord I'd ever heard. The audience stood up. This time there were no laughs. Just a stunned amazement. The orchestra stopped playing and spalling through his baton on the stage and walked off into the wings. Slowly the orchestra followed. I was just as dumbstruck as the rest. Then I got my wits about me and ducked around to the rear. Come on, Rembrandt. To where, girl? Anywhere. I want to talk to people. Find out what happened. Don't you know? They blew a king-size clinker. Well, that was well established. It'll be heard round the world. But I want to find out how it happened. Uh-oh. There's Spaulding talking to Remonde. I'm ruined all through. Washed up. How can this sort of thing happen? How can it possibly happen? Oh, look, Eric, calm down. It's not as bad as you're making it out. I'm not making anything out. I'm facing the facts and through. Do you suppose I can face the critics, the public, after three successive performances like this? Oh, there you are, Miss Madsen. A lot of help you've been. You let it happen again. Cool off, Buster. You can't avoid something happening when you don't know what that something is. This is a something that's never been written into the books. Or, wait a minute. Hasn't it? All of a sudden I've got me an idea. Great heavens! By all the prophets, what's going on here tonight? You'll forgive my sudden departure. I intend finding out. We made like the cavalry going up San Juan. The scream had come from all stage over in the dressing rooms. That's where we headed. By the time we got there, a crowd had gathered. And there, in room 14, where their flute clutched firmly in her hands, lay Nona Spaulding. Possibly I'm going to try and get through here and find out what happened. Excuse me. Pardon me. How is she, Candy? She's not feeling well, Rembrandt. The matter of fact, she isn't feeling at all. She's dead. This was the kind of development I hadn't counted on at all. An orchestra coming apart like wet tissue paper is one thing, but murder is another. That's where my friend Inspector Mallard comes into the picture. I made a call to headquarters, but he was out. So instead, a couple of his boys came over. I let the entire thing in their capable hands and tried to clear up a little unfinished business of my own. You still play the cello, Rembrandt. Strictly from your own amusement, Delph? Why? Well, you know music. Take a look at the score. Right about... about here. Oh, yes. This is just about where they hit that foul chord. That's right. Notice anything wrong. Let me see. This bar looks all right. Hmm, so does this one. They didn't get past this point. Look carefully. Why, yes. Little indentations alongside the notes. Ever so slight, but there nevertheless. The pattern is beginning to take shape, Rembrandt. And if you look again, you'll find these little irregularities throughout the whole score. Can be. You're right. Now's as good a time as any to find out if I'm right or not. Wally! Wally! Is that you, Candy? That's right. Do me a favor, Wally. When I shall now switch on the fluorescent lights, will you? Okay. Now hand me that score, Rembrandt. We'll place it on the music stand like this. Good. Keep your eyes on this bar right here. Don't look away for one instant. No, Wally. Okay. Watch now. There are the lights. What do you see? Candy. Incredible. That chord changed right before me very eyes. Why, nobody could play that. It has dissonance over dissonance. That's what you heard tonight. Keep watching. The regular lights again, Wally. Right, Candy? There. You see? Back to normal again. But you don't see the bad chord, do you? No. This is amazing. Most amazing. The copyist used a certain kind of ink that vanished under the fluorescent lights. And at that time, a whole new score appeared. But that awful chord buried in it. Diabolical, isn't it? Yes, isn't it? Too bad you're so clever, Miss Mattson. Hi, Remondi. I wasn't sure for a while, but when Mrs. Spaulding got it in the dressing room, I had my money on you. It's a shame your knowledge won't do you any good. You're not going to be able to use it. You see, here in my pocket, a very competent 38. Now move, both of you, quietly over to Eric's dressing room. You better do as the man says, Rembrandt. Oh, there you are, Miss Mattson. Oh, no, you don't, Eric. Spaulding, you all right? Yes, yes, I'm all right. Just nipped me. Come on, Rembrandt. He's ducking around backstage. There he goes. He's trapped and he knows it. The cops are over on the other side of the stage. He's coming back this way. Rembrandt, the stage has been raised on the elevators. He's going to run right into that opening. Remondi, look out! Remondi! How do you feel, Spaulding? Just hand me a spot of that brandy, will you? I shall be all right. Sure. Tell me, why was Remondi gunning for you? Until tonight. I didn't know he was. All of a sudden, that name Remondi means something to me. Here's your brandy. Thank you. Yes, Waldo was a very promising violinist. Great things had been predicted for him until the summer of 1933. What happened? We were driving through Sussex when my car overturned. His left hand was badly smashed. Had to have the last three fingers amputated. That was the end of his career. First, he was bitter, wouldn't speak to me. Said it was all my fault. Little by little, I won him over. Then, because music was his world, I gave him a position of companion and librarian. He's been with me ever since. Yes, plotting your downfall. And very cunning, too. He waited all these years to pull the switch on his clever device. Why is that, Miss Matson? Your wife, Spaulding. Remondi had it figured out that you'd attach all the blame to your ex-wife. Poor Nonna. Gone. And Waldo, too. Yes. And all because that accident left a bigger scar on his mind than it did on his hand. Well, I'll see you, Spaulding. That was some concert tonight. It seemed to have just about everything. It was too bad about the ex-Miss Spaulding. She let her heart rule her head. She went to Remondi's dressing room to make an overture to perhaps make an effort to patch up her lost romance with Eric. She walked in at a bad time. Remondi was applying the finishing touches to his phony score. It was an assortment of ink all over the table. At the time, it didn't mean anything to Nonna, but during the performance, she discovered the same thing I did. After that bad chord, she rushed offstage, ready to apply the crusher to Waldo. He saw what she was up to and beat her to it, with a window-weight over the head. Well, like I've said many times, some of that music gets too deep for me. I think I'll just stick to something not quite so complicated, something simple, enjoyable, something you can understand, like bop perhaps. Listen again next week at the same time for excitement and adventure, just dial. Candy Metzen, Yukon 208-209. Heard tonight were Hal Burdick as Eric Spalding, Harry Bechtel as Waldo Remondi, and Norma Tuart as Mrs. Spalding. Jack Thomas plays the part of Rembrandt Watson. The program stars Natalie Masters as Candy and is written and produced by Monty Masters. Sound effects are created by Bill Brownell and Jay Rendon. Eloise Rowan is heard at the organ. The characters in tonight's story are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental. Bill Walker speaking, the program came to you from San Francisco.