 Broadway's my beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway's my beat with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Winter begins its long dying, and Broadway reacts to the process about the same as anywhere else, with a kind of joy, with a smile touched off by the little warmth left inside. Except on Broadway, there will be things to remember. The evenings, just as nighttime drifted in when the lights on the trans-lux were winter fireflies, and twinkled of how it is to be at war in February. And the coffee smells and the crowd, and the time when you delivered the runaway pecanese back to the girl whose lips quivered when she kissed the dog. And the night's dying, and remember how it was, has seen through the prism of a cold tear. The night had died in the place where I was, and the first light diluted the shadows in the hallway, revealed these things, the carpeting rich and carved, and the intruding pattern, the blood on it. The man's blood lying on it, and the young girl in an evening gown and fur is at her sobs. Trying to find out from you as daily as whether you knew this man, whether you've ever talked to him. Whether there's or even why he should be dead in front of my door. That's right, from what I can tell this man was beaten to death. The way he's lying, he probably struck his head against this wall here where there's blood. Well, I told you, I told you all I know about it. Tell me again. Like, I was on the town nightclub party, you know? Go on. Like, I came home, I saw this man, this man who delivers milk. His identification says his name is Raymond Grant. Do you know him? Do you have talked to him? You keep asking me that. I told you that. I came home and I saw... You came home, alone? Yes. I always come home alone, Mr. Clover. It's a good deed I do myself whenever I go out. I came home alone and I found this man. He was lying just as he is now. You went into your apartment, called the police? Yes, yes. What do you do, Mr. Clover? I study history, Mr. Clover. I'm a graduate student at the university. How long ago did you come home, Miss Daily? I don't know. Half an hour, 20 minutes or more? I don't know. Bob, I'd say this man has killed just a little while before you got here. Say that... Oh, please. Please. Finally, shock that has drifted on the flow of dawn, ends its search, and touches the bear's shoulder to the girl. She draws the fur close about her throat, and it ripples with her trembling. And death lies still across her threshold, barring the way to a darkened room where sleep is, where there's an end to shock, where night's gaiety can be dreamed again. When the attendants come and take away their dead, the trembling is still on the girl, and the shock, frozen now in her eyes, shapes a wall against further questioning. Try to help her into her room. They pushed away. So leave her for a later time. And at Crane Derry's, take a man away from the roar of incoming outgoing milk trucks from the clatter of crates loaded, unloaded. Take him to a wallboard office slammed against the edge of the loading platform. Question him. Raymond was quite a boy, Mr. Clover. Maybe that's why he had to die like that. You have theories about the way people should die, Mr. Perry? Look, well, you don't try to make me out on being a sharpie with you. When you asked me about him, it just spilled out. That's all. Maybe it wasn't the thing to say. But you knew him well, huh? Oh, better than I know my other boys. I'm a foreman, see? After hours, sometimes they nuzzle up to me, tell me things about themselves. So I'll look on them with kindness when rescheduling time comes up. Raymond Grant did that to you, too, huh? Yeah, he did. Well, look, Mr. Clover, the boy's dead. I won't feel right if I... I just won't feel right. Well, like you said, Mr. Perry, he's dead. Dead by violence, dead by murder. Whatever he was, we owe him his killer. Whatever he was. You'll tell me, huh? What do I know about a boy like Raymond? He comes to me after his route, shows me little notes as lady customers have left and is emptied. Oh? No, all about it, Mr. Clover. Most of our boys get little things like that left in their empties. But with Raymond, there was a kind of different slant. More personal, maybe. Did you tell you who they were from? We got a kind of group loyalty here in this milk factory, Mr. Clover, things like that, a foreman don't pry into. Makes us all buddy-buddy. The kind of man you tell me Raymond was. He didn't brag a little, give you names. Look, maybe he wrote them to himself for all I know. The boys do that sometimes, to equalize things among themselves. Hey, look, he has a wife, a little house on Staten Island, with a lawn. What could a man ever want with... Okay, well, you if I go back to work now. We're Staten Island address, then you can go back to work. And leave there, driving out of Lower Manhattan, Staten Island ferry. The day is marked by a boat ride. Get out of your car to enjoy it. Watch the squat bow cut through the mid-morning mists. And near the other side, not be able to resist the hand-wave to the sailor lounging against the rail of the tramp steamer and get a grain in return. And the ocean voyage is over. To drive to the address on Staten, find it, park the car, walk up the short path to the White Frame House. Yes? The woman who opens the door is small and pale. The expressions she wears have been locked there a long time ago, a face to go with the house. Only time would change it, one day it would fall apart. Yes? What can I do for you? Are you Mrs. Grant? Yes. Come in, please. Oh, thank you. I'm from the police, Mrs. Grant. I know. Mr. Perry, call from the plant I've been waiting for you. In here, please. You must sit down if you like. Thank you. It's about your husband. I know. Mr. Perry told you? Yes. I'm trying to find out why he was killed. Yes? So we want your cooperation. Anything you can tell us. Tell you? Yes, about your husband, why somebody would want to kill him. I don't quite understand what you mean, Mr. Clover. Well, uh... Can't see how anybody would kill Raymond because of what I could tell you about him. But you can't. I don't guess he was a good husband. I haven't thought about whether he was or not for a long time. He had his good points and bad points. I didn't like him very much. Why? Well, you know... No, I don't. I didn't like him at all. One day a long time ago, we'd been married about eight years then, I got a feeling about him. It never left me. After my stuff one morning, here I am, a woman, and the life I lead is because of this man, his husband of mine. Raymond. Did you know anything about his friends? Yes, he had some. I guess outside there the people came in contact with. Maybe they liked him and Robert did. He used to come home sometime with more money than he made. He used to say they were for favors. What kind of favors? I used to ask him that, and Raymond would tell me something that didn't make any sense at all. I'd forgotten what it was. I stopped asking him a long time ago. Everything was a long time ago, Mr. Clover. I brought you some tea and bagels, Danny, for your 410 dunking. You didn't have it yet, did you? Yeah, I had, you know, but thanks anyway. This is strange, world. I debated to myself, did Danny have or didn't he have? And I come up with this, a tea bag and a bagel gone to waste. Why don't you have it? Well, if it really makes no never mind, I think I could partake. Go on, you know, partake. Thank you ever so kindly. It's a spot. It's the very spot. You know, Danny, I will have to walk home to rewet my appetite. Do you bring me anything else, you know? It goes without saying. Whenever you think it's the proper time. Refreshed. And to work. The boys, you were signed, made a rundown in an apartment house where milkman was killed, Danny. What they get? Doors slammed in their faces by the elite. Balling kids thrust into their arms while governesses and maids racked their brains for a memory of said milkman. Ergo. Ergo. Ergo. Same as nothing. All it was known about Raymond Grant is that sometimes the milkman forgot to leave double-rich vitamin fortified whipped cream. They checked a girl who found him, Carol Daly. No, she was out at the time, but we have heard from her from another source. You'll let me in on it, too, huh? No question. The other source is being herself. While you were out, she phoned in. Said she was taking a walk for herself. That's very interesting, you know. It promises, Danny, has all the earmarks. Her apartment being so near to headquarters, Miss Daly didn't form me. She was taking a walk the same. To talk to you, and then some new information re-emerged milkman. She's dead. Danny. An accident, you know. Someone's been hit down on the street. The coach, Danny. Don't go out without the overcoat. And out to the street. The swarm had gotten there before I did. The gatherers upon violence, shoulder to shoulder, and surround shock with faces. Drink it in, make a memory out of it, and tell a friend with only slight embellishments. And elbow your way through, and get pushed and muttered at, and finally make it. And the girl in the cylinder of street and crowd lies there outstretched. The attitude of her body of infinite grace sprawled as if in languid acceptance of what had happened to her. Only her face held a recognition of the moment, frozen there, and the pearl of blood at her lips. Her name was Carol Daly. Ah, I did it. I did it. You were driving the car that hit her? Yes, I don't know what happened. I just felt the car hit something. Oh, do something for her, help her. She's dead. I did it. I am murdered. I killed. I did it. I did it. Please do give your hiz authority's eye witness viewpoint on latest development. Starting tomorrow on most of these same stations world news with Robert Trout. The twilight drains off Broadway, slows down the side streets, gathers, lingers for an instant on the fieges of the steel island, and the neon explodes to spectacular strike fire. The mists are threaded now with scarlet and the beckoning tonight has begun. It's the end of a February day, and die with it. Or you can fling yourself into the night time, let neon stun you, let the loudspeaker music sob for you. The little crepe paper man dolls will dance for you at the end of their unseen strings. You have a choice kid. Make it before the poised shadows make it for you. The office at headquarters switch on the overhead light against the waiting darkness. The man's face is more clearly seen now. The sallow light falling on the terror of what had happened to him. Running down of a girl in the street, the killing of a girl named Carol Daly. Do we need the light? Getting dark, Mr. Blair. Oh, it's a car. I hadn't noticed. You can tell me about it now. Well, I, I don't know. I don't know. My wife, please call her. Ask her to come to me. We've done that, Mr. Blair. You have to do it before. Oh, I forgot. I'm sorry. I forgot how to ask you. You see the shock and the horror of what I've done. Well, she's coming. My wife's coming. She's driving down. It won't take a little while longer. See, I depend on her for so many things. I'm not ashamed to say it, Mr. Clare. I'm lost without her. My wife is half my soul, half my being. I'm not ashamed. She'll be here. What do you do, Mr. Blair? Business, professional. Well, both, I guess. I think you could call it both. I have a travel agency. It's downtown in the battery. Blair's travel agency. I arrange tours and cruises. Do you know Carol Daly, the girl you killed? Oh, no. I was just driving home. The traffic seems so slow. I pulled out from the back of another car and that girl, she must have darted right into me. The sound as if she threw herself against my car. That lovely girl. I didn't see her. I swear, I didn't see her. It's all right, Robert. I'm here. Don't cry, Robert. Please don't cry. Mrs. Blair. I want to take him home. What must I do? The charge will be my own slaughter, Mrs. Blair. Involuntary. We have our lawyer. You can reach us any time. What must I do to take him home? You can post bond pending the hearing. Arrange for it, please. Don't look that way, Robert. Not in front of... It'll be all right. You're going home with me, Robert. And turn Mr. Blair over to Sergeant Tataglia, pending the posting of bond. Then leave headquarters, have dinner, go home. Spend the evening in the familiar room with a few familiar things. Pick up a novel you've been promising yourself to read and not read it because of the fleeting thoughts that intrude themselves. The image of a man dead in the hallway of a young woman broken and huddled in the street and in the morning the novel still lies on the arm of the chair where you've slept. Back to headquarters now and the phone calls and the tracing back to be done. Background wanted on Carol Daly because Carol Daly had new information about a murder and Carol Daly was suddenly dead. Three hours get enough to satisfy you for now. Carol Daly, no parents, 22 years of age. Carol Daly, student, graduate student of history at the university. Go there, see a student assistant, see a registrar, see a dean. Be told finally that as a graduate student Miss Daly spent most of her time in the Hayward Memorial Library working on a thesis with the Mr. Pierce, aisle 16, chair 12. Mr. Pierce, maybe you ought to know something. Hayward Memorial Library frowned on this sort of thing. Only last week... I'm from the police. The stacks on criminology are down that aisle and note that one. You have trouble at the library and she was born to suffer being helped. We could talk here quietly among scholars or at headquarters for you. What's the cut? You were saying... Headquarters, Mr. Pierce. Fold a corner of that page or whatever you do not to lose your place. Carol Daly, huh? That's right. Milkman killed on a doorstep and she dies from the power and action of eight cylinders. Requiem for Carol Daly. That's the size of the tear you shed for her, huh, Pierce? Give me the time for a little research and I'll annotate you a lament that'll break your heart. You're working with her on a thesis. Someone blabbed that. Did he give you dates? Anti-carrow, post-carrow? No, so you do it, huh? Anti-carrow was all raccoon and hip flasks. Post-carrow was what you said. The platonic mating of scholars. Post-graduate types. She worked with you, did research with you, wrote with you. That's all. You say the thing with such regret. Why regret it too? Because with Carol it was strictly the sticking of noses into tomes. No dates, no college proms, no quiet listening to symphonies in Carol's apartment. What you said. Just like that. That's why I was never introduced to a milkman. That's why it can't wound me too much. The girl is dead. All right, Pierce. Never leave college. Some of our boys might like to make a study of you. Hey, let's leave something out. A footnote to our discussion. What is it? This. Tri-Grennich Village, Bank Street, number 11. Tri-Margaret Howard. With her Carol listened to Bob. Her and the Howard group. Heywood Memorial is sure going to miss you. Bye. Come on, open the door. This is the police. Your name, Margaret Howard? I'm Margaret. I'm there on the couch, Jimmy. She's had one bad. Huh. They're gone. All of them gone. Looks like the place you've been having a party here, Miss Howard. You like to kill her, baby. I like to kill her and no to kill her. Are you bringing it? To hear me through the door, I said I was from the police. Lemon and salt and no tequila. The friends who walk out on me. But I got you, baby. And I got you, baby. Who are you, baby? Look, Miss Howard, I... No reaction, huh? Yeah, it's a lousy party. Hardly worth anything at all. Three-day party lays an egg in a few hours. No booze. No friends. Who are you? You know a girl named Carol Daly? She's a stinker. Carol's a stinker. Carol's a stinker. She's bad. You're gonna turn pink and green in a minute. Float away under the door, aren't you? She's dead, Miss Howard. Carol, this isn't happening to you. Someone's dragging you across the room. Cold city water, Miss Howard. Won't hurt a bit. Feel better? I had to do that. I apologize, Miss Howard, but it's important. Is... is... Carol... there? Yes. Oh. Oh. If she'd been here, it wouldn't have happened. I pleaded with her to come all night long. I pleaded with it. All night? What do you mean? I kept calling her at her apartment last night. All night long, I kept calling her and talking to her, giving her a blow-by-blow description of the mess we were making. Yeah. She should have come. It was really her party, and she didn't show up. Her party? How? Everybody was waiting to see her again. All of us who all took that tour last summer. Tour? Mr. Blair's tour to England, a student tour, when it's inducted. She's a kind of a get-together. Isn't that right, Mister? She would have come here. She'd be all right now. Wouldn't have happened to her. I'm Danny Clover, Mrs. Blair. We met in my office. Yes. What is it? Is your husband home? He's resting. I'm afraid I have to ask you to disturb him. It's very important. I'll ask him whether he'll see you. Wait here. This way, please. Don't let him upset you, Robert. Oh, hello, Mr. Clover. Mr. Blair. What is it you want to talk to Robert about? About Carol Daly. We told you in your office, Mr. Clover. Our lawyer's handling it. That's right. You did. My hobby or you don't have to stay. I'll just send this man home, Robert. I'm afraid not, Mrs. Blair. If you want to stay here and listen to what I have to say to your husband, that's up to you. Now, Myra, please. I'm going to stay, Robert. What kind of wife do you think I am? What do you want, Mr. Clover? I told you. I want to talk to you about Carol Daly. Well, Myra and I have agreed we'll do everything for a family that we can within our means. Miss Daly had no family. But you knew that, didn't you? Well, I told you. You knew that, didn't you? How could Robert have possibly known that? Tell her, Mr. Blair. Myra. Well, how? How? I knew him. You knew Carol Daly? Yes. Perhaps some of your husband conducted a student tour of England. Carol Daly was one of the students. Miss Myra, that's right. You didn't tell me that, Robert. You lied to me. I didn't lie. I just didn't tell you. You lied. Why did you do that, Robert? Oh, what difference does it make? It can make any difference. There was a coincidence that I hit someone I knew. What about Raymond Grant, Mr. Blair? I don't know anyone by that name. Who is Raymond Grant, sir? I just told you. He was a meltman. He was found beaten dead. You knew this man, Robert. No, no. How would I know him? Tell me why my husband should know him, Mr. Clover. I think Raymond Grant was a man who had a sideline. His wife said he frequently had extra money. Sometimes I think he noticed people coming out of the wrong apartment at Milkville every time. He used this knowledge for blackmail. And Robert knew such a man? Myra, do you want to listen to me or do you want to listen to him? You lied to me once, Robert. How do I know what you're going to say? Just listen. He was found dead in front of Carol Daly's apartment. Murdered. Robert. Robert. I'm talking to you, Robert. What, Myra? What, what, what? What do you want? He saw you come out of her apartment. Yes. How many times? I don't know. One time? Ten times? Yes. Twenty times? Yes, yes, yes. Oh. Oh, Robert. Robert. He found out who you were, that you were married. He blackmailed you. Yes. The girl must have loved you very much, Mr. Blair, who have lied to me, not to have told me that you were the killer. She wanted to tell you then, but I was standing in back of that door when you were talking to her. If you had walked into her room, I would have killed you too. I see. After you killed the man, you made her get into her evening clothes and say she just returned from a party. She never left the apartment. I found that out a little while ago. She wanted to tell you then, but I wouldn't let her. She didn't love me. She got away from me and tried to get to you. That's why I ran it down. Oh. Oh, Robert. Robert. Robert. Why do you cry, Myra? Because a girl is dead? Because a man is dead? You lied. You lied. Well, that's why you cry, huh? Not for the man, not for the girl, and not for me. Oh, poor Myra. I lied to her. But listen to this, Myra. I found a young girl who I loved, and so I lied to you. And be happy. Now you have something to grieve about. Let's go, Mr. Clover. One way plumes its lights upward into the sky and the night bursts open. The swarm starts its dance down the canyon streets and the little man stalks the heels of a drunkard. The place of darting eyes and crowd and mob and people with empty hands. It's Broadway, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway, My Beat. It Ways My Beat stars Larry Thorpe as Detective Danny Clover, with Charles Calvert as Tartaglia and Jack Krush in as Muggevin. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Paula Winfler was heard as Myra and Howard McNeer as Robert Blair. Featured in the cast were Mary Lansing, shot at Lawrence, and Shepard Menken. Youthful actor Dean Stockwell plays his original screen role when Lux Radio Theater dramatizes Kim by Rudyard Kipling this Monday night on CBS Radio. Don't miss this outstanding story of India as seen through the eyes of a young traveler and a Tibetan pilgrim. This Monday night on most of these same CBS radio stations. Remember it's your next attraction on Lux Radio Theater, Bill Anders speaking. And remember, my friend Irma, I enjoy Sunday evenings on the CBS Radio Network.