 Broadway's my beat from Times Square to Columbus Circle, The Gaudiest, The Most Violet, The Lonesomest Mile in the World. Broadway's my beat with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. When night comes to Broadway, it drains through neon before it scatters the street and everywhere shadows are tinged with scarlet. And the crowd gathers the tribe of twilight till dawn. The roar that coils upon itself before it floods the darkness. Lean against it, walk it. The whirlpool of mob, the puffs of music from winking doorways, the swirl of women's laughter that passes your lips. Let it touch you. Then look backward, see it all change into night wind and drift away. And uptown, north on Broadway and east, 110th Street in Central Park, in the part of the night that hung over a lake where I was standing in the floodlights, in the row boat in Detective Muggerman in a huddled shape. I got him Danny. Tie it up. Right. Better give me a hand with him. Got him? Yeah. Easy. I'll kill this man. But once a citizen was right Danny, man drowned in Central Park Lake, the citizen said. This boy wasn't drowned, my good one. Look. A small caliber gun. Hasn't been dead too long. About 19. Good looking boy. Well, nothing happened. Uh-uh. No wallet, pockets, empty, no identification. What's he got in his hand, my good one? In his hand, his fist. He could be holding some. Wait a minute. He was. Look. Let me have it. Strange looking ring, isn't it? Antique, no initials inside. I'll get him downtown, Muggerman gets some prints. Okay. Danny? What? You were right. He was a good looking boy. Then the pattern, known too long, repeated too many times, the checking, the waiting. In three days, no reaction to the distribution of the boy's prints. In three days, many viewers of the dead, many comments, compassionate and otherwise. But no tear of recognition to fall on the murdered boy's face. Finally something. The ring, the boy had held so tight in his dead hand. The antique ring, the strange ring. There was a man who could tell me about it. A man named Mr. Husted of Husted Jewelry Limited on Lower Madison. Go there. Wait for Mr. Husted to wipe the mist off his rimless eyeglasses. Replace them in there allotted furrow. The better to see you with. You were foggy. Out of focus. Now you're quite clear. Define the presence, right? Thank you, Mr. Husted. I was told back at headquarters, you knew something about the ring we found on the... If we could avoid a mention of the dead, it would please me, Mr. Clover, you see. I'm quite old by now and such things, you understand, of course? Yes. The ring... You have it with you? Yes, I... May I see it, please? Thank you. Place it on this scarf, a velvet, please. Thank you. Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes. You recognize it? It is the ring. Exactly the same ring, Mr. Husted? Of course it is. The memories, this little circle of gold. The gone lost days, the days of twilight and waltzing. No time left for... Just tell me what there is about this ring, Mr. Husted. I was third clerk then, learning the business. My father let me wait on her. A shining girl. I remember she breathed to her fiancé, she breathed. I like this one. I like this one for my wedding ring. Her voice was so... The girl who a day after became Mrs. Rene Garland, a girl who is dead now. I attended her funeral. She was beautiful. How long ago did she die? Twelve, fifteen years. I have it in an album, I could... See, thank you, Mr. Husted. She had a son, left him everything. Earl Garland. He comes here often, asks for me. You have his address? On Fifth Avenue, great classic mansion. Stained marble here and there. You really must go, mustn't you? Go, go, Mr. Clover. And leave him with the mist again on his eyeglasses. The better to see the twilight days. And in a Fifth Avenue mansion, be told to wait for Earl Garland. Wait in a great hall, bare, almost empty. Its aged walls veined with the delicate arteries of cracked plaster. Its only warmth ashes of candle flame spattering against the darkness from candelabra, hanging loose. And from somewhere inside the place, a throbbing of lost music, wandering. Then a man in a far doorway, pausing an instant, then walking toward you. Then offering a gloved hand. I'm Earl Garland. The servant said it was about a ring. You're wondering about my gloves. A little unusual, isn't it, Mr. Garland? I don't seem to be going anywhere. It's only that it's cold in here, a cold house. It's not that I'm maimed or anything like that. You see, two hands complete. Yeah. It is about a ring, isn't it? Not about my personal affectations. About a ring, this one. You must have known it was once my mother's or you wouldn't have come to my cold house. Boy was holding on to it. A murdered boy we found in Central Park. I read of it. My mother's wedding ring, Mr. Garland. Now that you speak of it, he could have found it, stolen it, had it given to him by some progeny of my mother's servant. You will explain it to me, huh? It's not that unusual. When mother died, she left a poignant note, parceling out her trinkets, her bubbles, some jewels of value to her faithful attenders. Our lawyers didn't quarrel with it. He had poignancy. And you never saw the ring after that? Mother had left me less tangible things to remember her by. May I have it, Loretia? We'd like to keep it for a while, Mr. Garland. Until you identify the boy, naturally. Keep it. You would, of course, have a picture with you of a dead boy so that I may look at him. Yeah. Here. You know him? Poor English child. Just if you know him, Mr. Garland. No. No, I've never seen him. You will pardon me, please. Well, doctor? I have said it to you before, Earl. There's very little more that I can... Nonsense. I have faith in you. You will help her. There are places, quiet, serene. Lisa should... Lisa wants to be with me, what my wife wants. Then take that music away from her. Only sink her deeper into whatever she's looking for. Once there, you'll never get her back. You'll never... Oh, Mr. Clover, I want to go to Earthnia. I was just leaving. Good night, Mr. Garland. Yeah, what is it, Sergeant? One of the people from the outside to see you. Oh, who is he? A fellow who says he brings news from Central Park. Show him in, Gino. This way to see Danny Clover. That'll be all, Gino. Sit down, please. I'm Nagel. Oh? Yes. And what did you want to see me about? You know which Nagel I am? No, I don't. I see. Which Nagel are you? The one who hangs around Central Park. I've been in jail for doing it. That's why I thought you might know I was THE Nagel. But no. Why did they put you in jail? For hanging around. But now your authorities are convinced I'm harmless. I just like to sit in the park, that's all. All night. Every so often I choose a place in the park that I might like and sit there a few nights and enjoy it. Several days ago a boy was shot at the lake near 110th Street. I know. Did you see it happen? No. Then what did... That night I was sitting in the mall. The night before last I took to sitting around the lake. Perhaps the fact that a murderer had been committed there prompted me to do so. I don't know. I never questioned myself. That's one of the reasons I can sit around and be happy. Don't smile. I'll bet that's more than you can do. Please go on. The night before last I was sitting there. About one o'clock a girl walked up to the edge of the lake. She stood there for a while then threw a flower into the water and walked away. Why didn't you report this before? It was such a charming thing. I had to wait until last night to convince myself it wasn't one of my nicer imaginings. I think things like that sometimes and I thought maybe this was... The girl came last night too? Yes. She did the same thing. I never did get to see her face. She was too far away. But I imagine she was very lovely. Then you wouldn't recognize her again, huh? No. And you might as well know it. The only reason I'm telling you about it now is I've decided to move from the lake and I'm going to sit around the museum. Then the man got up, walked over to the door and turned toward me, smiled. Then he did a peculiar thing. He opened the door and closed it behind him instead of dissolving in a puff of smoke. And wait then. Dusk and dinner, night time in the cigarettes and midnight. And a little after that, the ride up to Central Park, leave the car and walk. Walk to the lake and stand there. Button the coat up high. Wait. Watch. Until it's one o'clock. But it's after that. And time moves. Nothing else. Wait. Time, wait. And the figure that moves there where the trees are more black than the night is there. Figure of a girl moving toward the lake and stopping her face not to be seen through the bright shadow. Walk toward her quietly. Quietly. And for a reason the ground spins up at you, hits you. Then, I think at all. You are listening to Broadways My Beat written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Your 1951 Christmas seals are on their way. You'll be getting them in the mail. Send your contribution as your personal blow against T.B. Remember your annual check to the National Tuberculosis Association says that you want to speed the day when T.B. will no longer menace mankind by Christmas seals. The light of the November morning touches Broadway's shoulders softly now. Breaks the clinch that held it together in the night. And it becomes the time of the dazed wandering. The search for a place to sit down. The hands let the morning mist wash away, slowly dissolve the stains of nighttime. Then the congealing and the shock. Somewhere it was it from across the river, the clawing shriek of a whistle, the insistent percussion of a bell, steel hammer, electrically tripped. Gather up the pain, kid. Bring it with you. A new day is dawning. But where you are, it's luckier. Gentle, knowing, professional. And it's what wakes you. The pain being carried away in the hands of Dr. Sinsky. Real good. Restful. It's just like the good Dr. Sinsky says, Danny. You slept real good. How would you know, Gino? How does one come to know these things, Danny? One... What our sergeant is trying to say, Danny, is that he stayed up all night with you. Here in the infirmary. Here at your bedside. Dr. Sinsky, you have betrayed a confidence. From this moment henceforth, I no longer feel impelled to entrust you with a taglier secret. You could have gone home, Gino. You didn't have to do that. How does it feel, Danny? Hurts. Or should it feel? You go walking by yourself by a lake at the middle of the night. What do you expect? What do you think, Dr. Sinsky? You mind? That's all I had to say, Gino. Go ahead. What have you got, Gino? Our boy staked out the lake after you were mayhem. No lonely girl was found walking alone. The other thing is... The what? The man in your office, whilst you were indisposed, he identified the murdered boy found in the lake of the same location. Just look where you are. Your name, please. Clark. Howard Clark. That boy downstairs. Yes? That boy downstairs, you want to know who he is, don't you? Well, his name is Paul, and his mother gave him that name. It was one of the last things she ever did. Paul was born December 9th, 1932. His mother died December 12th. His mother's name was Helen. When he was born, Paul... Mr. Clark. Paul had blonde hair. Neither Helen and I like blonde hair because she was brunette, and I am too, but... Paul's hair turned. You're his father? And as he grew up, his hair became identically the color of mine. He went to grade school, high school, not college, you understand, just high school. His friends were boys and girls who came around to the house... once. They never came around again. Could you tell me why that was? Exactly why that was. For the same reason Paul and I were embarrassed in front of each other. There was no language between us after the hellos and how did the day go. There was just nothing to say. I see. I knew Paul only in that I could recognize his face. And the boy lying there in that slab downstairs is... is a stranger to me. Like he always was. He is Paul Clark because of the face. He's my son because his mother bore him. Can you tell me anything that... well, anything about his activities, his recent comings and goings and... Well, he came, he went. A stranger. Please, Mr. Clark, try to think of anything that might... Well, let's see. Once I ask him what he did that day and he told me. He said he went into the park and he listened to music. Well, I said how did you have a radio? He said no. I never asked him again. And no friends, sir? Well, a person called him time to time. A person with a kind of a strange name. Churek, I think it was. But he hasn't called for quite a while. Churek? Mm-hmm. It was Ben Churek. Now, would you assist me, Mr. Clark? Show me the forms that I must fill in to get my son's body back? Then search the city's directory for the name Ben Churek and beside it, an address, West 12th and an occupation, artist. Go to Ben Churek to a studio where the November light is filtered through a curtain skylight. For the November light the address is a girl's face painted on canvas. You walk in here, open your mouth to speak to me and nothing comes out. My painting freezes you where you stand. I'm not good, huh? I wish you, Mr. Churek. Me without caller when I hang around exhibition but I call her now in the here to for privacy of my soul. What you call her now? Girl of the Miss, Child of the Lake, Midwinter's Night Dream, Beauty and the Pain, take your pick. You know her? Well he met her once walking through the park and never got her name. Never saw her again. That masterpiece you admire is from memory. It's for sale, kid, but at a very high cost. You and who else met her? The boy, I know you came to talk to me about. The boy, Paul Clark. He was murdered. He lay in the morgue three days. More. And no one came to identify him. Why didn't you? I know the boy as he lived. Now he's dead. He still ain't still alive. That's why I didn't come to introduce the dead boy to you. But you can tell me about him. That I can. Paul, he never been to an art museum. Looked at a statue of youth. Looked at a statue of youth chiseled out of tragedy and warm marble. That was Paul. So I'm walking the park one night. I asked could I paint him? We got to know each other. Then another night we saw this girl. Paul saw her too. But to him, I never saw Paul again. That's life. And you wouldn't, right? That's life too. Mind if I answer it? Go ahead. Turk talking. Yeah, yeah. Sure is here. Thanks. Yes? Danny, a girl's just been brought in. A girl who tried to drown herself in that central park lake. Where is she? Why am I painting? You probe what I laughingly call my soul and you get your messages here. Anything else I can do for you? Just don't go away, Mr. Turk. You're a very interesting man. How is she, Dr. Sinski? She's a picture of a healthy young woman who's been dragged out of a lake. Can I talk to her? Before you do, Danny. Physically, this girl is all right. But mentally, well, there are headings that people try to drown themselves. Thanks. Now can I talk to her? Of course. Come on. This is Lieutenant Clover, Miss. A policeman and a nice man. He wants to talk to you. You see, Danny? She just stares ahead. You wanted to join Paul, didn't you, Miss? Paul? Paul's dead. I think I know what's troubling this girl. Let me handle her. Miss. Paul's dead. You love Paul, didn't you? You loved him. I never said so. I never told him I did. Yes. We want to help you, Miss. Who are you? Paul's. I never told him that either. But I think he knew. Don't you think he knew? I'm sure he did. There. You see. You used to meet Paul at the lake, didn't you? Oh, yes. Touch. Ask her who she is, then. I heard you. I told you. I'm Paul's. I want to give you something, Miss. Here, this ring. Take it. That's right. That's right. Put it on. But it's right that Paul should have it. Wear it again. It's yours, isn't it? Yes. But Danny, who is she? Don't worry about it. I know who she is. I'll take her home. Good evening, Miss. Lisa. Lisa, where have you been? We'd better go inside, Mr. Gunn. I want to go to my room. Yes, of course. Of course. Not yet, Lisa. What? My wife wants to go to her room? In a little while. Maybe go in here. I want to talk to both of you. It's all right if you say so, Mr. Clover. You sit there, Mr. Clover. And, um, Earl, over there. And I'll sit right here. Now, that way. Lisa, you're ill. Now, let me take you to your room. Well, Mr. Clover wants to talk to us. Aren't you going to sit down, Mr. Clover? Aren't you, Earl? I don't care. I am. I thank you, Mr. Clover, for bringing my wife back to me. But how does it happen she's with you? Our men have been watching the lake in Central Park, Mr. Gunn. They found your wife there. I see. The last time you were here, you heard the doctor say how ill she was. She went looking for Paul. Paul's dead, Earl. Paul? What Paul? The boy who was shot and thrown into the lake. Did you say Lisa was looking for him? Lisa, Lisa. I didn't find him. He's gone. Those men stopped me. I could have found him. Lisa, I don't understand. I don't understand anything. Tell your husband about Paul, Lisa. He knows. No, I don't think so. You'd better tell him. He's seen Paul. I know that, but what I want you to tell your husband is what you told me about how you belong to Paul. Tell him about that. Mr. Clover, you know it as well as I do. Lisa is... Don't make me say it about my own wife. Tell him, Lisa. Once I saw Paul, then after that we'd be very late in that place by the lake. In other places, far away. Every place was far away. And sometimes there'd be other people there. They'd know all about these places too. We'd never talk with each other. We'd just pass and wave. Then the wind would always scatter us and Paul and I would always be alone. Paul! Lisa, Paul's not out there. No. Paul's not out there. He's not out there, Mr. Clover. You see how it was, Mr. Garland? I thought... I thought... That's all there was to it. Your wife and that boy. They'd meet. They'd walk. Your wife is wearing her wedding ring again. Yes. Lisa, I want you to know... I'm tired. May I go to my room now, please? Yes, go ahead. Thank you, Mr. Clover. That was kind of you. I didn't want her to hear. You know why Paul had the ring? I suppose it was just a child's gift. I tried to another child. You didn't have to kill Paul. The maves dropped on him. You should have known that Paul was as lost as your wife. You should have known that. I thought it was something else. I thought it was a boy who picked up my sick wife in the park and was acting a part for her. You slugged me because if I learned the girl who came to the lake was your wife, I'd know who killed Paul. And now you know. May I say goodbye to my wife? I'd better go with you. All right. No. No, I'd better not. If I went into that room now while she's playing that music, she wouldn't even know who I was. Take me away, Mr. Clover. In the dregs of nighttime, the slabs of Broadway lean against the darkness in crazy, tilted angles. The balance is delicate, precise. So the walk must be careful. The talk, furtive. It's the never, never time that ebbs toward the edge of the world. It's the time of regret. It's Broadway, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway, my beat. Broadway's my beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover with Charles Calvin as Tartaglia and Jack Krushen as Moghevan. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Woodfield Connor was heard as Earl Garland and Sammy Hill as Lisa Garland. Featured in the cast were Ted Osborn, Junius Matthews, Howard McNeer and Lou Merrill. Maybe your dad can lick Charlie McCarthy's dad, but nobody can lick Charlie McCarthy's Edgar Bergen, not when the slick comedy is called for. The Edgar Bergen Charlie McCarthy show heard every Sunday night on CBS Radio is just about one of the funniest things that can happen to you. Listen for it and laugh tomorrow night on most of these same stations. Bill Anders speaking, and remember, the comedy treat that can't be beat is Jack Benny Time Sunday Nights on the CBS Radio Network.