 Hello, Yukon 208209. Yes, this is Candy Mattson. Got an old corpse kicking around, you want identified? Know of any good murders you want solved? We've got just the girl for you. Her name is Candy Mattson. Mighty Q, too. She fills out a size 12 suit to just the right proportions. Soft blonde hair, two sparkling blue eyes, and all in all, she looks as though she might have stepped right off a vodka calendar. And what's more, she's a private eye. You scoff? You ridicule? I'll let you see for yourselves. Listen, she's talking on the phone right now. Hello, Candy Mattson. Hello, Miss Mattson. I'm afraid you don't know me. That makes it even, you don't know me. Let's go from there. I've read about you in the papers, Miss Mattson. You handle confidential cases. That's right. However, there's a little matter of a fee involved. Yes, yes, I know I can pay. That's item number one. Now to item number two. What's the confidential case? I can't possibly tell you on the phone, Miss Mattson. I said it was confidential. Okay. Where do you want to talk? I am the proprietor of a restaurant, the Charlemagne in North Beach. Oh yeah, I ate there once. Oh, that's nice. No, it wasn't. I didn't like the food. Oh. However, I'll overlook it. Do you want to talk in about an hour? That will be fine, Miss Mattson. Good. And your name would be? Martinello. Carlo Martinello. Okay, Mr. Martinello. And have some ink in your pen. It costs money just to talk. I probably sounded rough and commercial, but you have to be in this racket. Most people look on a private eye as a musician. They invite you to a party and expect you to bring your harp for free. But uh-uh. I learned the hard way a long time ago. So now they pay in advance and take their chances later. That's the way it was with this Martinello. I was at home in my penthouse on Telegraphy a lot on the porch taking a sun bath. And the phone rings and it's this Carlo character. That part was all right because I can always use new customers. But what made me mad was the fact that I had to stop listening to the 49ers belt the bejabers out of the Cleveland Browns at Kesar Stadium. But I followed through an uncovered a couple of very done-in bodies along the way. Do you like the grotesque in your whodunit? Then follow me and we'll tiptoe lightly through the tibets, the ponds, and the baccalaunis. Because part of the story unfolds at the opera house. Reluctantly, I dressed into something Charlemagne-ish. Turned off the 49ers Cleveland game and went down to talk to Martinello. This place was typical. Located on Paul Street, a garish neon sign. And as you walked in, the place was air conditioned by Eau de Garlique. Yes, Miss, you wish a table? I wish a table, yes. With the right party. I'm looking for the owner. I am the owner. I am Candy Mattson. Oh, Miss Mattson. Walk this way, please. If I could walk that way, I'd revive Waterville. Pardon? Where is your office? Right over here. Allow me. After you, Signorina. Thank you, Signor. Here. Sit down, please. Thanks. Now, Martinello, what's on your mind? Always, all my life, I have run a very nice, respectable place. Mm-hmm. Until this morning. What's with this morning? I go down to the basement. My icebox is down there. That is where I keep all my meat. So, you wanted some ground round? Oh, no, no. Perhaps I'd better show you. Please, you will come with me. Martinello led the way out of his office and down a flight of stairs. A cold blast hit my face. A musty aroma smothered my nostrils and if I had had a phobia about darkness, I'd have ducked out then. But I followed the guy and we ended up in front of a refrigerator about the size of an inquisition chamber. He opened the door and it was the usual restaurant icebox, choice legs of lamb hanging from hooks, potential filets and thick New York cut. The box was cold and I started to shiver. Not from the refrigeration, though, because over in the corner was a man. He looked like something out of a long-lost Arctic expedition. He had a long, flowing moustache, every bristle of which was coated with ice. He was quite frozen and quite dead. I slammed the door shut and reeled out. The sight had staggered my thought processes. Martinello reached over by a salami slicing table and turned on a Mazda, a weak affair that cast dim shadows about the damp basement. Is that your little surprise? Yes, Mr. Matson. That is what I was greeted with this morning. Have you notified the police? No, no, no. Why not? As I told you, I have run a very respectable place. And, too, that is why I am hiring you. You can get in trouble, you know. Yes, yes, that is why you must help me. Please, please, Ms. Matson, say you will help me. I will pay you anything you say. I stick my neck out in the strangest places. Now it's a refrigerator. Okay, Martinello, $2,000. What? Make up your mind. Either I freeze your assets or the police find your frozen friend. Yes. All right, come. I give you the money now. Now we're getting somewhere. What about him? Oh, he'll keep. He's on ice. Well, this was one for the books. Refrigeration the ugly way. I had to ask a few questions if I was to get anywhere, such as like, do you know the guy? No. Had you ever seen him before? No. Who was the last one to close the ice box last night? I was. Does it lock from the inside? Unfortunately, yes. I was getting places like Wiley was with Hauser. It was inevitable. I had to take my courage in my hand and go down and look at that thing again. There it was, a male Mona Lisa etched in ice. This time I looked closer, I had to. And as I did, I realized I wasn't going to get any identification because this guy was a study in crimson. Underneath all that coating of ice, he was dressed in a devil's costume. I slammed the door once again and went upstairs. There I gave Martinello strict orders not to do a thing. Usually in cases like this, you have to wait for a break. They come along like a forcing hand in poker. So I went home to do some thinking. As I arrived, there was an old friend of mine, Rembrandt Watson. Hello, Doug. I'd almost given up. Rembrandt, how did you get in? Your door was open, dear. I took the liberty of coming in. Oh, sure. That's okay. How are things, Candy? All right, I guess. I'm kind of bushed, though. I feel about as devaluated as a British pound. You look wonderful, Doug. What's wrong? I've got a deal, but I don't know where to start. Anything I can help you with? No, thanks, Rembrandt. If I told you about it, you wouldn't believe it. I've never doubted you in the past, dear. I know. Well, I was just called in by a minestrone merchant in North Beach. The guy is stuck with a corpse. That's about par for the course. The deceased had been sealed in the icebox overnight. I've never seen one like that before. That's the way it is, dear. Many are called, but few are frozen. Oh, get out of here. But, Doug, I just got here. I know, but I've got to change and get down to see Mallard. I'll wait for you, Candy. I haven't seen the gum shoe since before my vacation. All right. I'll be with you in a few moments. I did a fast change and Rembrandt and I climbed into my car and we dropped off Telegraph Hill on Don Kearney Street. The Hall of Justice where Mallard hangs his star is only a few blocks away, so we made it in about five minutes. Inspector Ray Mallard, homicide San Francisco police, a lovable shaggy dog type of character. Very keen with the crime, but dumb with the dame. Me, for instance. If I wanted to say yes, he says no, and vice versa. Well, my ever-loving Candy, what's new in the private eye business? Very little. How's the legitimate fat foot racket? Oh, we're holding our arches up. Well, and Rembrandt, I haven't seen you since Pup was a Hector. Please, Inspector, you're metting your mix of paws. Who writes this dialogue? I'm pretty weak, I know. What's on your mind, Candy? A character named Carlo Martinello. Have you got anything on him? What's so funny, Mallard? Nothing, except I eat lunch there about every day of the week. Well, answer my question. Well, there's nothing on Martinello. The rest of the couple of times during prohibition, he was dabbling in grappa a lot under the table. Have you's got a case against a guy, a detective Matson? Oh, cut it out. No, seriously. What do you want to check on the guy, Candy? No reason, just thought I'd ask. Well, Martinello's okay. He's trying to make a living. The only thing I don't like, he loves to sing to his customers. That'd be enough to bankrupt him right there. Anything else I can do? No, that takes care of everything. I tell you what, I'm through in about an hour. I'll take you up to Martinello's for dinner. You can see for yourself. No, no, no, that's all right. Okay, Candy, give. Why, Mallard, dear, what on earth do you mean? You know something about something I want in. Mallard, and I want you to believe this. I mean it sincerely. If I knew something, you'd be the last to know about it. He's got something there. Come now, believe us, I will. I hate to do things like that, too, Mallard. He's been of great help to me in the past. More than once, he's saved my life. But on a deal like this, you have to play it close. After all, a girl has to make a living. For the first time in a long time, I was completely baffled as to where to start. Something had to be done about that cadaver in the icebox, but what? While I was beatling my eyebrows, Rembrandt invited me up to his place for tea. He lives on California Street, just down away from old St. Mary's, and only a bail bond brokers reach from the Hall of Justice. So I accepted. Do forgive the looks of the place, Candy, dear. I had a meeting with my philatelist group last night. Philatelist? The stamp collectors, dear. Well, I know what they are, but I didn't think they could make such a mess. You don't know philatelists. Sit down, though. Make yourself comfortable, I shall be a moment. That's all right. And Candy, dear, why the wrinkles? I've got cause for wrinkles. This chap in the icebox, Rembrandt. There's something I didn't tell you. He was dressed in a devil's costume. There, there, dear. Your tea will ready in just a minute. You'll feel better. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. What are you going to do, Candy? I don't know. I can't leave him in that refrigerator forever. We'll get him out, dear. I hate to think of a corpse catching pneumonia. Oh, excuse me, Candy. Help yourself with the tea. Mm-hmm. How do you do, Rembrandt Watson Enterprises? Quiet down. Who? Oh, hello, Templeton. How are all your steamships? Oh, that's good. What? Could I use, do what? To the opera? Of course I could. Right, oh, I'll pick them up at your office. Thank you, Templeton. Goodbye. Candy, dear, do you like the opera? I can take it or leave it. Why? It suddenly develops that I have two tickets tomorrow night for Tales of Hoffman. Oh, Rembrandt, I don't think I can... Come, come, Candy, it'll do you good. You've been working too hard. You need little relaxation. Tales of Hoffman, hmm? Okay, who's the pal who gave them to you? An old friend of mine, Templeton Woodruff. He runs a steamship to Java and other places it's your pinza things about. I finished the tea and left. Right then the only opera I could think of was in an icebox at Martinello's. I've always tried to play straight with Ray Mallard, so I decided to tell Martinello my plan. Miss Amatsen, I don't think it's such a good idea... Good evening, Carlo, I want to talk to you. That's what I mean. There's a gentleman here who... Well, you've got a gentleman. That's fine. Three more and you've got a crowd. What I want to talk to you about is this. You don't understand. The gentleman I'm talking about is from the police. The police? Yeah. Hello, Candy. How about some scallopini? Well, up jumps... Hello, Mallard, dear. I had an idea you'd like dinner here tonight. Do you know my boy, Carlo? Yes, yes, we've met. How do you do? Do you seniorina wish something to eat? No, no thanks. I want to talk to you, though, Mallard. Sure. Come on into my booth. We'll share some salami. No, no thanks. I want to see you downstairs. I don't think the food is good down there. I agree, but it isn't the food. I'm talking about murder. Once again, I headed down into the catacombs of the Charlemagne. This time, the act was a double. Mallard was right behind me. Then I looked around. We were a trio. Marc Nello was right behind Mallard. This is it. This is what? This is an icebox. Inside, you will find a body dressed in a devil's costume. Okay, Carlo, let's humor the lady. Open the thing, will you? I'm going to open it. Lovely view of the beef. It's gone. The body is gone. Okay, Marc Nello, start talking and make some sense while you're doing it. Leave them as much. I don't know anything. I haven't been down here all day. Get rid of those arched eyebrows, Marc Nello. You know something. What is it? Wait a minute, Candy. I'll do the questioning. In the first place, Carlo, was there or was there not a body in here? Sure there was. He can't deny it. Here's a check for $2,000 sung by himself. Well, Carlo, yes. There was a body all right. Who was it? A friend of yours? No inspector. I never saw him before. Why did you call Miss Matze? Why didn't you come to see me about it? Well, you no inspector. The police? Just because you were once arrested for boot-licking Carlo is no reason to be afraid of the police. I'll put a couple of my men on the job and see what we can turn up. Is that all you're going to do, Mallard? No. Right now, I'm going back upstairs and have some of Carlo's scallopini. Mallard, are you out of your head? Well, Candy, in order to have a murder case, you've got to have a body. Obviously, we're fresh out. And until your pal with a devil's costume turns up, I intend to live my typical everyday life. Don't forget the mushrooms, Carlo. There are times when I get so mad at Mallard I want to scream. I didn't, though. I only scrammed. I hung on to the 2,000, however. I felt I deserved it, just forgetting my curiosity aroused. And it was aroused plenty. Corpses don't get up and walk out of iceboxes by themselves. But after all, Mallard had a point. There was nothing to be done without a body. So I went home and waited into a stack of dirty dishes that had been piling up. I had dinner and started a new stack of dirty dishes. Got a book and ducked in the bed. In the morning, I had an idea. After breakfast, I went down to the corner of Broadway in Columbus. That's where North Beach doesn't eat blend with Chinatown. On the corner was a Joe who sold newspapers. I'd known him for some time and he seemed to like me. Hi, a butch. Well, hello there, lady. How are you? Good, can't complain. Who won the football game yesterday? Yeah, funny thing. I got all the news right inside here and I get your point. Give me a chronicle, will you? Sure, here. Thanks. Who do you like in the future? Bay Meadows. A goat named Candy. What did you say? There's a pig named Candy running in the 7th. Take it or leave it. What a tip. I don't get it. Well, what's really on your mind, lady? Here. Here's a 20. You can play it on Candy all for yourself. Do you know a gent named Martin Nello Butch? He owns the Charlemagne down the block. Sure. What about him? That's what I'm asking you. What about him? Oh, he's all right. Little screwy, but it keeps his nose clean. Is that all? Yeah. Should there be more? I don't know. Thanks, Butch. I hope Candy pays off. I was getting nowhere, that was for sure and the rest of the day went the same way. Dead ends, blind alleys. I checked as many loose ends as I possibly could but I was still stuck in a quandary. But the crusher claimed, late in the afternoon when I got a copy of the light paper and read where Candy came in at Bay Meadows at 3220. And I hadn't had sense enough to get aboard. When I got home, the phone was ringing. Hello, Candy Matson. Oh, you're Candy Matson. I should play a fanfare. Oh, hello, Rembrandt, dear, how are you? Like an October morning. Every single one of you pours this breathing, great, huge gulp of air. What? I just had a facial dove, most invigorating. What on earth for? I loved your old pours just the way they were. Candy, you've forgotten. I have? Forgotten what, Rembrandt? We're going to the opera tonight. Oh, Ducky, I'm sorry. I had forgotten. I'm afraid I'll have to renege. Now, Candy, you promised. And I don't care what you're involved in. It'll do you good. But Rembrandt, I'm working on it. Perhaps you're right. Okay, I'll get ready. Wonderful, dear. Pick me up a quarter bait, will you? Pick you up a quarter bait, yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh, and another thing, Lamb, I do bring some cash with you. Mm-hmm. That's the girl. That, Rembrandt, always stony broke. I guess photography isn't what it's cracked up to be. I didn't mind, though, he's been a friend to me on more than one occasion. Then if I was going to the opera, I had to start thinking in operatic terms. I fished around in the closet and came up with something that would have done any woman's heart good. One of those strapless affairs that you can't stop breathing in for one moment. It was no longer the main attraction. I powdered, perfumed, pouted and rouged and took off after Rembrandt. But just as I started to leave, just a moment. Well, get a load of the Duchess. Mm-hmm. It won't be Halloween for another couple of weeks yet. Oh, very funny. Come on in, Miller. What are you decked out for, Kenny? Something you wouldn't understand. I'm going to the opera. Oh, I love the opera. There's a Tex-Aitcuff in it. That's what I thought. But on your mind, Millard, I've got to pick up Rembrandt in ten minutes. Well, I was just driving by, so I thought I'd stop and tell you the news. News? About what? We found El Diablo. The guy in the icebox? Yeah. Martinella identified him. He was floating in the water off Aquatic Park. Any lead on him? The best. He was Salavini, the best company. Well, that explained the costume, but it didn't explain a lot of other things. I walked down the stairs with Millard. He got in his squad car, flicked on the flashing red light, and with a burst of his siren rolled down the street. I had to speak to Millard about that. All the neighbors had their heads out of their windows as I climbed into my car and followed. What an exit. I picked up Rembrandt and we drove up to the Civic Center. I found a place to park. The next time I went to the opera, I had to drive almost to Palo Alto and come back by train. Rembrandt's friend must have been very influential. We had seats in the diamond horseshoe. They were presenting Tales of Hoffman and a friend of mine, Dorothy Warnschold, was singing the role of Antonia. It was a fine performance and after the last curtain I took Rembrandt and we went backstage to see Dorothy. This is her dressing room, Rembrandt. Yes? Hello, Dorothy. This is Candy Matz and you come in please, Candy. Candy, how are you? Couldn't be better. Dorothy, may I present Mr. Watson? Rembrandt, this is Miss Warnschold. Delighted. You're in magnificent voice tonight, dear-dear. Thank you. Sit down, won't you? I've only a moment for rehearsing some of the scenes in Faust tonight. Rehearsing after a full evening's performance? It has to be done, Candy. Our baritone disappeared. We've had to replace him with a new man. Yes, yes, I know. By the way, Dorothy, I heard you did a broadcast a few weeks ago with a wonderful performance. I'm glad you liked it, Candy. I always look forward to those. What are your plans, Dorothy? Well, the season closes here and then we open in Los Angeles. Oh, yes, of course. Excuse me. Come in. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had guests. That's all right. Oh, Candy, I'd like to introduce Ralph Herbert. This is Miss Matz and then Mr. Watson. Nice to meet you. Mr. Herbert is our new baritone. Oh, yes. That's why we're rehearsing tonight. I couldn't take any more of your time, Dorothy. I just thought we'd save a few moments of rehearsal. If I told you that I don't move in that last scene, I sing upstage. That will leave you free to take as much stage as you like. Fine, Ralph. That will save time. Thanks. Oh, not at all. Glad to have met you, Miss Matz and Mr. Watson. Nice to have met you, sir. Yes, see you on stage, Dorothy. Yes, Ralph. Ralph has a wonderful voice and he's a good actor, too. You know, I think he'll be even better than Salavini. I've seen him before. Oh, yes. He's been in pictures and on the concert stage and in opera, too. But he's never really had a good break. This might be it. Uh-oh. That's it, Candy. I'm sorry, but I'll have to leave. Certainly, Dorothy. Say, why don't you stand in the wings? You can watch the rehearsal if you'd like. Oh, I'd love it. Come on then. Follow me. All right. The place is everyone's lately. This is all right, Candy. You can stay right here. Glad to have met you, Mr. Watson. Also, as we used to say in the theater, go out there and kill him. See you later. Where's Miss Wattenshoe? There you are. Herbets? Where's Herbets? I saw him just a moment ago in the dressing room. Well, it's late. We've got to keep moving. Please, somebody find Herbets. From way up in the heights of the stage, the opera house was pierced with a blood-curdling scream. That was no ordinary scream. It was a scream of death. You wait here, Rembrandt. Keep your eyes open. I'm going up to have a look. That scream wasn't in the score of Faust. I punched the button for the backstage elevator. It's a good thing they work fast and are speedy. Once inside, I pressed the button for the fourth gallery. I got out. This was the top of the opera house. The place was loaded with old sets, props, paper mache, alligators, gold goblets. Then, over on the other side of the catwalk, I saw it. The body of a man all crumpled and distorted. I hit the catwalk and ran over. It was 100 feet above the stage. And as I looked down, I could see a score of strained faces looking up through the darkness. I got on the other side and bent over the body. It was that of Raul Kerbert. Candy, down here. I think your man just jumped down underneath the stage. Again, I did a male pattern. The elevator shot me down at the stage level, and there was Rembrandt while I died. He came down the elevator on the other side, Candy. Then he cut across the stage and down those steps. Come on Rembrandt, follow me. I may need help. We ran down the steps and into the bowels of the stage. It looked like a nightmare. A myriad of crossed beams of steel for the rising stages. We cleared those and went around by the chorus dressing room. There was only one out. I remembered it. A door over in the corner, very seldom used, but it was open. It led into a long tunnel with giant steam pipes running overhead and to the right. This went underground into the veterans building. Down by your feet, there's a stream of water flowing in a trough. It's the old Hays Valley Creek. Our killer decidedly knew his opera house. As we entered the tunnel, I could see him up ahead running like crazy. So we took off after him. We made the other side and it breaks into a big engine room. As we came into the opening, I looked around. The engineer was lying on the floor out like a light, blood spurting from his scalp. Then I glanced up. There was another door. This led into the veterans building itself and I ran up. Then as we got into the long corridor, I saw Martinello breaking through the door. Stop! Stop, Martinello! Stop! You think I am a fool? I do if you don't stop! Try and get me! Okay, pal! You asked for it! It was the first time I had ever shot a man. It didn't feel good. But he lived and later the doctors of law gave him a little pill. The cyanide kind they dropped inside the gas chamber at San Quentin. Martinello paid his debt. Detail? Sure. I'll fill him in now. Martinello loved to sing. Ray Mallard had told me that. For years, Carlo had been hanging around the opera house hoping to step into a role. This season, a director had jokingly told him that if he ran out of baritones, he'd let Carlo take over. Carlo took him seriously. He lured Salvini down to his restaurant on a fake emergency call, costume and all, and did him in. He frightened. That's when he called me. It was worth $2,000 to have me hush things up. But I don't operate like that. He had a hunch I was going to tip off Mallard. That's when he removed the body from the ice box and dumped him into the bay. Carlo had also been at the performance of Teals of Hoffman. That's when he learned that they'd wrestled up Ralph Herbert to sing in place of Salvini. By this time, Martinello was obsessed with the idea of singing in the opera house and wouldn't stop at anything. Right after Herbert left Warnschold's dressing room, he managed to get Herbert into the elevator and up to the fourth gallery behind the stage. That scream was produced by a six-inch stiletto through Herbert's heart from the hands of Martinello. And that's when our chase began. I hope I never see that tunnel under the opera house again. That Mallard and his sentiments, it was he who gave me that gun just a week before for my birthday. He said I needed protection. Well, darn it, I do. But I can't get Mallard to believe me. Instead he just gives me guns. Listen again at this same time next week for excitement and adventure just dial Candy Metton, Yukon 208-209. Heard tonight were Harry Bechtel as Ralph Herbert's Jerry Walter as Carlo Martinello. Henry left plays the role of Inspector Mallard in Jack Thomas' Rembrandt. Dorothy Warnschold, star of the Standard Hour and the San Francisco Opera Company was heard as herself. The program stars Natalie Masters as Candy and is written and produced by Matty Masters. With the exception of Miss Warnschold and the resemblance to actual people in tonight's play is purely coincidental. Candy Metton comes to you from San Francisco. This is Dudley Manlove speaking. You are tuned for the stars on NBC. .