 Broadway is my beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway is my beat, with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. When Broadway leaps into the night time, the sound is a thin compounded of trumpet and machine and hiss and the gaudy laugh. They melt together and the noise you get is shock. When the month is March and the rains of spring fall softly into the riot, shock scatters and huddles tightly behind this facade and that. In that doorway, behind that window, the street is hurry up and get out of the weather. The street is stragglers, is bleeding neon. So make a phone call, find a friend. It's lonely in the rain. There were ceiling to floor windows where I was to enjoy the view high above the city and look out over it. Blurred now by the spinning raindrops, the penthouse apartment, and violent death on the 40th floor with its own private entrance and Detective Mugger venealing over. It's a way to die, Danny, with a 32 slug, I'd say, shot in the back. Of course, it's frowned on by 100% sports. Who is he, Mugger? The name's Gordon Merrick. You know, Angel Merrick. I hope he makes Angel worthy. Merrick, huh? The showbacker with a golden touch, isn't that what the columnists call him? Yeah. They'll think of a better one after the night. Let's have it, Mugger, but what happened? Well, pretty definite when he was shot, a hotel like this times everything. Calls, requests for room service, you know. Merrick called down for champagne at 11.30 and the table service. For a two? Would you drink champagne alone on a rainy night in a place like this? Sure for two. Waiter brought everything a half hour later at midnight. No answer. Walked in, saw Merrick lying there. Any callers on the desk, you know? Uh-uh. Anybody could get on the public elevator to the 35th floor, get off, take the private elevator to here. No way of checking. That painting underneath him looks like he grabbed it when he fell. I don't blame him. All I got to resemble is that picture I had to cut out of a magazine and paste in my locker. With Merrick, it's a life-sized oil painting. Comes the time I back a show starring that woman. Oh, Royce. Beautiful girl, Muggerman. I saw her a couple of weeks ago coming out of the theater where her show was playing. Well, I would have found some excuse to stop her and talk to her. You know, your car is parked in the wrong zone or something? Well, work to do, huh, Danny? And through the window, the pattern of the city far below, sodden now with rain and mist, the sunken city, its roar muted, its brilliance dimmed and sallowed in the haze of night rain. Then the quick, phosphorescent gleam of neon, and only neon has the power of flight through this darkness. All other lights are slowed, their shimmer flows on the currents of wind. And here and there, a trap gathered into a blob, shapeless, blurred, and a man on the pavements below pauses an instant, touches a flame to a cigarette, hurries away because this death in this place has somehow whispered into the fall of rain. And at headquarters, the opening of a file on the death of Gordon Merrick, the image of the woman's portrait to whom he spoke is dying, gives you the first entry. A name, Carol Royce, an address, Sutton Place on the East River. Go there. The woman who finally opens her door to you is wrapped in night lace and goes well with March time. I was trying to sleep. It's quite late, you know. For me, it's late. I'm from the police, Miss Royce. May I come in? It's late, I told you. I'm trying to sleep. I have a matinee tomorrow. It's about Gordon Merrick. What if I to do it? What about Gordon? He's dead. He was murdered. Please come in. I asked you something. Yes? What have I to do with Gordon Merrick? Alive or dead? We found him holding a portrait of you. When he was shot in the back, he must have reached out and... In the back? Poor boy. In the back. It must have hurt. You think so? Think what? Think that it hurt. Tell me. I want to know. I'll send you the autopsy report. Do that. Please do that. That's all it means to you? He's dying like that? Well, Gordon called me at the theater tonight, asked me to a champagne supper for two, a cold bird and candlelight to talk about things. I was bored talking to him about things, so I didn't go. I came home, tried to sleep on my portrait in his arms. Poor boy. Talk to him about what things, Miss Royce? Vic Cain, him over there in the silver picture frame. I met him when I toured the USO. Last war. The man stood out from that olive drab crowd on the hill. I went after him tooth and claw. I got him. And Merrick wanted you back, wanted you away from this, Vic Cain. He never made it. But he died trying. That you can say for Gordon Merrick, he never stopped trying. Vic Cain, did he know about you and Merrick? Jealous. Jealous is my Vic, so bitterly, so without reason. I adore the man you hear. A knight fills with rain and no Vic. You hear? Where does he live? A rooming house on 3rd, 756 3rd Avenue. But he won't be there when you go to him. I've been calling him ever since I got home. Hello? Oh, yes. Yes. Is it? Yes. Vic Cain? No, our eager boy stage manager calling a rehearsal for tomorrow's matinee. You, Vic, between the two of you, you've murdered sleep. Anything else you want, then? And leave there in the drive-now downtown through the streets of wavering shapes and rain that slants toward you with the sound of the windshield wiper that somehow becomes intimate and lolling. The spotlight on the car searches out a house number, finds it. Be told Vic Cain is not at home. But why don't you wait, sir? That chair over there in the hall, sir, is for waiters. So wait. The hall is a place of built-in draft and a picture of a tiger at bay and a rug becoming one with a wooden floor. Wait. And in an hour. Your name, Vic Cain? Who are you? Police. Danny Clover. Waiting for me? That's right. You could have waited in my room, mister. In here, it's always open. A stinking room by the side of the road. What do you want, cop? Information about the death of Gordon, Merrick. He dead on a rainy night? Very theatrical. Very... He was shot in the back, Vic. You got a gun? Yeah, I got one. 32. You want a pat-pat on top of your head and admiring, don't you? You just tell your boss I said you're real good. The 32 it is. Get it. Sure. Hey, what is this? Can't find it, Vic. What do you think I'm doing, cop? Going through a ritual before I reach onto the mattress and say, well, here it was all the time? The gun is gone. Somebody just walked into your room by the side of the road, which you leave open because you're friendly, and if somebody took it, is that right? That's right. Where were you tonight, Rick? Shooting snooker. I can point out the table, the cue stick. You want me to? Between 11 and 12 midnight? Had me walk along Broadway past Carroll's Theater to look at the posters. Then had me a long walk in the park. In the rain? Let's see your shoe, Vic. Come on, come on. Hold it up. Let's see. It's a muddy park tonight, Vic. Your shoes are awfully clean. What did you do? Walk on your hands. Now look. You're under arrest, Vic. Suspicion of murder. And deliver him to homicide to the death handlers for further questioning, further probing. The coffee scalded too many times. The pack of cigarettes tossed in a gleaming arc from one shadow to another. The quiet night talk. Cain stays with his story. He's booked, locked up on suspicion of the murder of Gordon Merrick. And in a room reserved for it, gather up the shreds and rags of sleep. Try to arrange them on the steel cot. Not quite make it, because too quick there's a gentle clutching at your shoulder. Danny? Danny, sorry I have to bother you, but there's a man waiting for you in your office. A couple hours now. I tried to let you sleep as long as... Walk away from sleep to where the man waits. A bulk of a man is hand like a clump of cold iron in yours and his voice. Soft. Surprisingly soft. I wish I didn't need to disturb you, Mr. Clover. You boys work hard. Need all the dreams you can steal. I know. Anything I can do for you? If you care to, you can. It's a matter that rests entirely with you. My position being rather ambiguous in this thing. Which makes me a pleader, Mr. Clover. Special pleader. For what? I'm a private investigator, Jackie Skarn. I've been retained this morning by Miss Carol Royce to investigate the murder of Gordon Merrick, which you were handling, I understand. You see now, what an ambiguous position she's... You could have told her you didn't want it. You could have told her the police were handling it. You've seen her, Mr. Clover. You talked to her at the moment when she expected another call. You'll understand my receptiveness. That's in the large fee. She's paying you to find Vic Cain innocent of Merrick's murder? An observation not too astute, considering how deeply she loves this Cain man. No offense, Mr. Clover. Honestly, no offense. If you took the job, you must believe that you can do that. Prove Cain's innocence. Otherwise you'd be... Taking all that she offered under false pretenses? Not true, Mr. Clover. I shall work very hard. And with integrity, if I prove nothing, I get nothing. Only expenses. That's the thing we've grown to admire here, Mr. Skarn, integrity. And you'll admire me. And since I must begin the process somewhere, your permission to speak with the Cain man in his cell, that is if it's... Move. Danny Clover here. Margaret and Danny, get down to the morgue. Got a thing for you. Real interesting thing. Right away. You want to talk to Cain. That's your special plea, Mr. Skarn? Exactly. So I too can earn my keep. Tell him at the desk I said you could have an hour. Go ahead. Prove his innocence, Skarn. I'll admire you when it happens. Over here, Danny. Why don't you take a look at somebody? Okay. What have you got? This woman. Been here in the morgue since five this morning. She'd been dead about half hour. Who is she? A name that's made police plot her a lot of times. The vicinity of the Bowery. What did you call me for? This. This gun. It was found beside her in an alley downtown. And? It's been up to technical, Danny. I killed this woman came from this gun. Also the slug that killed Gordon Merrick. Let me see it for a second. Serial numbers been filed off. Yeah, I was coming to that. The boys in technical raise the numbers. And you know what? No, I don't know what. Come on, come on. Guns registered to Vic Cain. But I had Vic booked a two this morning. Yeah. His gun. This woman he couldn't have killed. You've got to find yourself a new murderer. David Friedkin and starring Larry Thor as detective Danny Clover. Now here's a word from Bert Lancaster, star of the motion picture, the Crimson Pirate. This is Bert Lancaster. I've been doing quite a bit of traveling around the world lately, either on location or making personal appearances. But I always keep in touch with Hollywood by listening to the Lux Radio Theater every Monday night over the CBS radio network. To radio actors, the Lux Radio Theater is Hollywood. Because you can always be sure of hearing the latest and best motion pictures with the original stars. Why don't you tune in with me to the CBS Radio Network next Monday night and hear some fine entertainment on the Lux Radio Theater. This Monday night it's Barry Fitzgerald and Blythe and Dennis Day in Top of the Morning on most of these same CBS radio stations. The squall of rain lashes once more at Broadway. For the time of its passing the desolation is complete. Only the gutters run with movement. Only the pavement receives reflects the shrieking of spectaculars, the insinuations of neon, the whisperings into nothing. The shrill promises offered on rain-tossed wind. And finally the storm begins its dying. And from underground a girl darts her slicker glistening, her hair streaming under the shelter of a newspaper torn from a trash bin. And after her another and then another, the street is no longer desolation. Something else now. Something that happens after rain. From a window, consider it. Follow the trickle of a raindrop of your finger. Consider that in this passing storm a woman had lain dead in an alley. Then turn away from it and come face to face with Sergeant Attaglia. Rain is indeed a moody thing, ain't any? Oh, well hello to you. I tossed a similar comment to Mrs. Attaglia during the night. I knocked on her shoulder, woke her up and said, Mrs. T, rain is a moody thing. It taps on windows, calls up memories of thoughthood. You woke her to tell her that? Once she woke me about snow. We have an understanding about things like that, Danny. I'm glad for you both. I should tell Mrs. T you didn't mind. I woke her up. Thank you, Danny. And me, Gino, what do you have to tell me? That the woman found dead of the same gun which did murder one Gordon Merrick. What about her, Gino? A woman Sophie Henry by name. A frequent caller at a precinct pokey, a frequent instigator of brawls, friendly riots, et cetera, et cetera. I rack it up to here, Danny. Anything in it about a connection between her and Gordon Merrick? None, Danny. It was gone over by the department with tooth and comb. No connection. Anything else? An address if you need it. Besides the pokey, a fleabag in the bowery. I scrolled the name here, Danny. Fake if you need it. You're welcome. That boy was holding for Merrick's murder, Danny. Vic came. What about him? Do we release? Not yet, Gino. There's still an answer I've got to find. Why Sophie Henry was killed with his gun? So because the new murder is closer to you in time than the old one, pursue the reasons for violence done upon a woman named Sophie Henry, late of the bowery, late of police blotters, late of the living. The ride downtown to the tip of the island. The streets are clean now after the rain. The chalk on the wall faded. The gutters running deep and turbulent for the five-year-old sailors of matchsticks. The address you're looking for is spliced between a grocery store and a bar. And note briefly that the cat in the bar window is the fatter. Yeah, Paul. Good morning. I'm from the police. Name's Danny. You come right in here, boy. This way, right in, honey boy. Oh my, what a day, what a day, what a day. Meet your brother. Hello, Mr. Skarn. Good morning to you, Mr. Clover. Your brother? He's a cop too, huh? Ain't had two cops in here the same time since the time Mr. Prybush is through a fit. I hope I'm not intruding into your jurisdiction, Mr. Clover. You got your job to do. And nobody's through a fit today. Well, uh, what do you, sonnies, want? I'm sure we're both looking for the same thing, Mrs. Pope. Oh. Please watch the album, Mrs. Pope. This sonny just told me about Sophie. She's dead, he tells me. So what do you want with me? I want you to help the police find out who is... Who killed myself, sonny? Who did that to her, huh? Who beat and threw her in an alley to die like that? Who would do that to my little Sophie, huh? She was doing that when you knocked on the door, Mr. Clover. Now you're all caught up. You found out anything, all this that we ought to know? Believe me, I'd be the first one to let you know. How come you're here? Oh, you must know, for an identical reason that you are. The papers had it. My client's gun killed this woman, Sophie Henry. Hey! Yes, Mrs. Pope? How about me? What about you? Ain't you got questions, ask me. Well, promise you won't go hysterical again when I mention Miss Henry's name. Scouts, honor. Just to answer this question, when was the last time you saw Miss Henry? Well, when the whole phone woke me up last night and the gentleman said, get Sophie to the telephone. And so I did. What gentleman asked you that? Did he give his name? No, he gave his name. I called Sophie to the phone. What time was this, Mrs. Pope? What time? Well, about midnight last night. After the call, she got dressed like always and she went out, so I closed my door and went back to sleep. Poor Sophie. You know, she was like a little girl. Nothing you couldn't ask her to do, and she would do it right away. She was always... Let's get out of here, Scum. Just one thing, Mr. Clover. Looks good for my client, doesn't it? How can you possibly figure Vic Cain the killer? Thanks, guard. I'll call you when I want you. Hello, Vic. Welcome. Carl Royce, been in to see you, Vic? She was here. How? She wept and pressed her lips against the wire mesh and carried on. Everything but the saw and the fruitcake. I can't figure you at all, Vic. Yeah, yeah. Police psychologists had it go at me a little while ago. Screaming down the hall. I can't figure you, Vic. Because a woman like Carl Royce is in love with you, a beautiful woman, talented, famous. The way I hold a cue stick, little finger crook, just so. You love, Carol? It eats you what I got for Carol. That's not what I asked you. Listen. You love her? What you want with me? Love her? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. That gives you motive. To kill for her? We've been over that. I said no to you. I know. You weren't walking in the park at the time of Merrick's death. Hey, I forgot to tell you something about that. I scraped the mud off my shoes so I wouldn't get the landlord's rug all muddy and dirty. He's got trouble enough with tenants who drop cigarette butts. All right, let's assume you've scraped your shoes and you're all neat and natty. Did you happen to walk past Merrick's apartment house and just happen to get on the elevator and just happen to get off at the penthouse? I've never been in a penthouse in my life, which includes Merrick. One more question, Vic. Did they let you see the morning papers? I saw them. Put you up a tree, doesn't it, cop? Try and move kind of. What kind of jury is going to convict me, cop? Merrick dead with my gun. I go to jail. Hours later, I'm still in jail and somebody else has found shot to death in an alley. Also shot with my gun. My gun was stolen, like I said it was. That guy, that guy that Carol hired for me, that Jackie scorn, he's going to find out what this is all about. What do you want, you know? Well, that's his old man. He's here. Take a look. You'll be interested in this, too, Vic. These copies of your prints. What about them? They match perfectly with prints taken off the phone at Mr. Gordon Merrick's penthouse apartment. Okay, okay, what? So I was at his apartment? That's right. I forgot to tell you. I made a free phone call from there, but I didn't kill Merrick because I didn't have a gun. My gun was stolen. That I can prove. My gun killed Merrick and it also killed a dame while I was in your jail. So what are you going to prove, cop? And leave him and spend the rest of the afternoon wondering about Vic's question. What was I going to prove? And know this. Vic would never be brought to trial unless I could prove something. His statement that his gun had been stolen would hold. But make an assumption and work from there. Assumption, Vic had murdered Gordon Merrick. Reason for assumption, Vic had lied twice. The mutt that wasn't on his shoes, his prints that were on a telephone. Further reason for assumption, that motive for killing Merrick. Motive? The love of Carol Royce. What needed to be known now was how the murder gun was found in the Bowery beside a dead woman. So have dinner and think about it. Read a newspaper, catch up on back detail. And it's 11.30, a late time, but still a question time. So go now to the apartment of Carol Royce. It's getting habitual. I open the door and it's you. Mind if I come in? Well turned question? Yes, I might. Mind if I ask why? Because I'm dressed like this. My third act costume happens to be this negligee and I rush right home. We've got to talk, Miss Royce. If you want a change, I'll wait. Well, a packed house for me like this tonight. Come on in for some standing room. Thank you. In here. And don't stand too long. It gets me nervous. Say your say and get out. I understand you saw Vic this morning, Miss Royce. Yes, I did. To see him with bars in front of him. I wanted to measure myself control. You think you'll be getting out? I don't know much about the law, but I doubt whether they'll even arrange him. It's what my friends tell me. It's what I read in the papers. Vic's coming home to me. We'll have a party. He'll drink wine for my slipper. We'll pass it around the room and only the two of us will drink it. It'll be a happy... Mr. Skarn, come on in. Miss Royce has been waiting for you. Of course. I guess I was wrong all the time. Don't let it distress you, Mr. Clover. People are wrong about things right about things all the time. It happened... The best time I was too wrong. I thought Vic and Miss Royce... Now it turns out you have the key to Miss Royce's apartment. I had help. I'm a courteous employer and I expect loyalty from my domestic. Domestic? I suppose you could say so. And I'm sure your visit's about over, Mr. Clover. It's about right. Miss Royce? Man talk now, Mr. Clover. The three of us. You really love Vic, don't you? I told you how it's going to be when he gets home. When's he going to come home, Skarn? That's up to Mr. Clover, my dear. But it shouldn't be too long. He'll be held where he is for trial and the trial is going to be for murder. Does he know what he's talking about? No. When's Vic coming back to? Soon. Soon. You can believe that if you want, Miss Royce, but that's not the way it is. Vic Cain killed Merrick out of jealousy over you. Skarn! Gently. Gently, my dear. I told you... Did you tell her Vic's prince were found in Merrick's apartment? Oh. Skarn! Gently. I paid you! You said it would be all right. The situation doesn't warrant so much drama, my dear. It's really a very simple situation. Let's start from there. Vic killed Gordon Merrick out of jealousy over you, Miss Royce. He used Merrick's phone, called you, told you what he'd done. Listen to him! Listen to him, Skarn! So, Miss Royce got in touch with you, Skarn, and you set up a thing. I'm sure Miss Royce is quite bored with all this now, Miss... Are you, Miss Royce? You set up a thing, Skarn. Picked up Vic's gun where he left it in his room, then killed him... Shut up! Gently. Gently, my dear. That's right, then killed. Skarn got hold of a woman named Sophie Henry, murdered her with Vic's gun. You did! You did! You did! Look, Clover, that way Vic would never be brought to trial. Lack of sufficient evidence. His story about his stolen gun couldn't be disproved. Look, Clover, all I get out of this is expenses like I told you. I don't help in any way. I get practically nothing, but you helped. You did a lot. You got a reward coming, if you want. Let's go, Skarn. That's Carol Royce, Clover. No. Then we'll have to do it another way. Old Queen! What do you want? Here's my gun, Mr. Clover. Did I kill him? Is he dead? He's dead. Good. Take me away. I feel clean again. Broadway's almost empty now, except for those who never quit. Those who wear peepholes for eyes, the dreamwalkers, the people who want to laugh, the search behind doorways in alleys through shuttered windows. They never go home, because they can't. It's Broadway, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway, my beat. Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover with Charles Calvert as Sir Taglia and Jack Krushen as Muggevin. The program was produced and directed by Elliott Lewis with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Rita Johnson was heard as Carol Royce, her Butterfield as Jackie Skarn, Martha Wentworth as Mrs. Polk and Paul Richards as Vic Kane. Tomorrow night, Joseph Cotton stars in Playhouse on Broadway. The play is titled In a Lonely Place. Don't forget it's a thriller for Playhouse on Broadway tomorrow night on most of these same CBS radio stations. And remember, Robert Q's Waxworks bring you the top record and recording artists of the CBS Radio Network.