 The Adventures of Sam Spade, Detective. We can... Woman was meant for man. I must say, this is the shortest honeymoon in my experience. F, have you been keeping something from me? Well, I wouldn't blame myself if I did. It didn't exactly color graph this punch. Come on in, Angel, and I'll tell you as much about it as I think you should know. And what may I ask is a large parcel with a pink ribbon around it? Love letters, what else? I must say, for a whirlpool romance. Whirlpool? I mean, writing all those letters, when did you find time to get acquainted? Stop pulling at that blouse. What's the matter, this is a bitch? Damn. Now that your marital status is no longer quo, won't stand these little routine informalities. Don't you think we should be a little more stilted with each other hereafter? In the hereafter? Then, perhaps, and not a minute before. Two Sergeant Joseph Walsh, Bunko and Fugitive Detail, San Francisco Police, from, you know who, license number 137596, subject the, uh, easy-ass. Subject the love letter caper, or how to be happily married, those singles. The start of it was last Wednesday morning. I had just a risen shave, bathed, weighed myself in the bathroom scales and decided on a breakfast of black coffee and rye crisps. Noisy stuff. Isn't it very shiny here? Oh, now hold this, will you, sonny? Yeah, but what do you call this, some kind of Italian soda cracker? Rye crisps, low in calories. Take a bite. You're gonna lose a pound or two yourself. There you are. Eat the change. Thanks. I'll smoke it after dinner. The first thing that fell out of the envelope was a photograph. Glamour type. It was inscribed to Sam, body and soul, Ella. The letter was in the same tone of voice. Sam. Oh, Sam, my darling. Last night was so beautiful, but now my arms are empty and I'm filled with strange fears for the future. Unless I see you soon, I don't know how I can go on living. Come to me tonight, my darling. Wait until the house is dark. Then slip in through the west gate and I'll meet you beside the fountain. If you fail me, I don't know what I'll do. But I know you won't. All, all, all my love forever, Ella. I read it over again. Looked long and later picture and shook my memory down. I couldn't even remember ever meeting a girl named Ella, but I did remember that last night was definitely not beautiful. In fact, I had dropped 35 bucks in a blackjack game, not deductible. After I had tested the letter for invisible ink, codes and ciphers, et cetera, with negative results, I decided it was either A, a crank letter, or B, bait, or C, a camouflage call for help from a damsel in distress. I took another look at said damsel's photograph and decided I would investigate her distress. I then phoned my secretary until it'll look up the night bus schedule to Atherton to return address on the envelope containing said love letter. It was around 11 in the PM and the moon was just clearing the pre-tops behind the Comstock mansion when I slipped in at the west gate for the instructions in Ella's love letter and took a plant beside the aforementioned fountain. The house was in darkness and I didn't see the ladder until the moon cleared the chimney pot. There was a girl climbing down the ladder from the second story and she had a suitcase in her hand. When she reached the ground, she looked around anxiously, spotted me and flew into my arms. Sam! Oh, Sam, my darling, you didn't fail me. Oh, my precious, hold me. Never let me go. I love you. I love you too, but now look. I'll explain it all later. We'll have to hurry. I think he suspected something. Who suspected what? Please, there isn't time. Come on. The watchman. We'll have to go out the back way. Come on. Hey, hold it. Get down. No, let me go. We've got to get out of here. I said get down. Second story, the hall window. Come on. It's our last chance. If he looks in that room, I love you. I love you. What room? Wait. Well, my room, of course. Where are you planning on going? Anywhere. Just so I get away from him, I love you. I love you. Who's him? My uncle. He's been holding me prisoner in that house. Oh, come on. I tell you, he's insane. He'll kill us both if we're caught. So please, come on. I went because, A, I don't like being shot at. And, B, there was a wild possibility that she was, indeed, a fairy princess on the land from a dragon. I discarded half of B when we reached her getaway car. It was parked in the alley with a motor running. When she insisted that I drive, I hesitated whether to head directly to police headquarters or nail it a stupid way. I was weak from being on a diet, so it was Hobson's choice. More familiarly known as Spade's Folly. It's where I live. You wouldn't lie to me. Not about that. Look at the address. Your love letter arrived here. Come on. Here, let me carry your bag. No, no, it's all right. I'll carry it. Come on, come on, it's okay. No cops, no booby traps. Now, let's have a look at that suitcase. Hello, you mustn't have. Come on, come on, get it to me. No, you can't. Why not? Because you'll get the wrong idea. Oh. What have we here? I knew you'd get the wrong idea. The only thing you seem to have missed is the hope diamond. That jewelry is mine, every piece of it. It's all I have in the world. Poor kid. Let's see now. Diamond bracelet, not more than 10 grand. Emerald necklace, second hand, of course. All told, I don't imagine this stuff will net you a penny more than 100,000 bucks. I know, but I'll just have to get along as best I can. I don't have any money of my own. Yeah, why did you write me that crazy love letter? Because my uncle reads all my mail. And I didn't want him to know I was hiring a detective. Why did you? I couldn't very well walk around with all these jewels without some protection, could I? Oh, my uncle. He's followed me here. As opposed to the cops. Oh, no, it's he. I know it. Where can I hide? Don't you have a bedroom? Yeah, but it has a window and a fire escape in here. Go on. Go on, go on. I suppose she's told you about me. You were her uncle? Oh, good heavens, no. I'm Stuart Mason. I'm a fiance. Or was, though she ran away with you. Maybe you'd better step inside, Mr. Mason. Thank you. I'll sit down. I'd like to explain. No, no, no, no. I just brought a few things I'd like to leave forever. Here. This bundle of letters. Her love letters to me. I suppose she'll want to destroy them. Now, wait a minute, Mr. Mason. Don't jump to any rash conclusions. I saw her come down the ladder. I saw her throw herself into your arms. Yeah, about it. I can't blame her. I've been a coward. I told myself it was for her own sake that I discouraged her from escaping with me. But now I know that, well, it was at least partly fear for myself. But I might die as the other student. Yeah, but what others? The men she's known. They've all died under mysterious circumstances. And didn't she warn you? Well, she told me was that her uncle was insane and wouldn't let her out. Crazy like a fox. As long as she remains unmarried, he controls her money. Three million dollars of it. Uh-huh. Well, only the brave deserve the fair. Alas, if you'll just give her these letters and tell her that I... You tell yourself. Come on out, Ella. Stuart, why did you come here? Your letters, my dear. And I wish you every happiness. You too, old man. Good night. But Stuart, Stuart, darling, I can explain everything. Don't try, my dear. But Stuart. Hey, Ella, your jewelry. Your love letters. Hey, we'll take care of those letters, Stade. Keep the gun on him, Riley. Inside, you. Over there, sweetheart. What do you want? Mr. Stade, I've been aware for some time that you've been carrying on a surreptitious love affair with my niece. Look, Mr. Comsite. What, Tim, Riley? Don't worry, Mr. Comsite. I advise you against trying to jump him, Stade. Why should I? You're both nuts, but not crazy enough to take a shot at me here. Try me and see. I wouldn't waste the energy. I haven't made a penny on this cape or so far, and it doesn't look like I will. Ha, not a penny, he says. The king's ransom and jewels extorted from a foolish, lovesick girl. Oh, how did I manage that? Don't you play the innocent with me. This packet of love letters will satisfy the police. Blackmail. You're crazy. Those letters weren't written to me. You deny that Ella has ever written your letter? One too many. In fact, one. Well, how do you explain these? Darling, Sam. Sam, my dearest one. What? Sam, my great, big, beautiful detective. dated last October. Hey, let me see those things. Watch it. I told you not to move. Yeah, yeah, so you did. Well, what now? Very well. Give me the police department. Yes, it is. Hello? This is Hugo Comstock. I want to make a complaint. Blackmail. Hello? I want to... Yes, yes, Sergeant. The name is Hugo Comstock. And I'm making this complaint on behalf of my niece, Miss Ella Comstock. The name of the offender is Samuel Spade, a private detective. Huh? Well, of course I'm sure. Yes, I'm holding him at his apartment now. The address is... Oh, you have it. Well, I'm not surprised. You better hurry over here. Right away. He's threatening wireless. You really think you can make that stick? Mr. Spade, I'm sure I can. Dirty words and foul implications were forming on my trembling lips. But he had letters from his niece to one Sam, a great, big, beautiful detective. And I had the jewels, and before the night was over, Sergeant Walsh, you had me, booked, bothered, and bewildered. What bewildered me was how to raise the $2,500 bail. Sam Spade, innocent dope. I mean, dope. The United States Armed Forces Radio Service is presenting the weekly adventure of Dashel Hammett's famous private detective, Sam Spade. I answered my breakfast of rude prison fare. They didn't serve any rye crisp, but what they did serve is even less fattening. I thrust my emaciated arms to the bars of my cell and clawed at the lapels of a passing bondsman and begged him for succot. He says I didn't need any because I was it. I hurled him aside and sat down to think. About then you, Sergeant Walsh, hold still in front of myself. Okay, Sam, get moving. You're free. Gee, thanks. Who stood my bail? A great kid, aren't you? Sergeant, am I to understand that the charges have been dropped? Get out of here. All right, I know what I'm not wanted. My not the reason why. And don't come back! Your inhospitable words cut me to the quick, Sergeant. But I zipped my lips, swallowed my pride, very low calorie, and strode bravely out into the sunlight a free man I fought until I bought a newspaper. Right there on page one, it said, heiress revealed secret marriage to private detective. Blackmail charges against Sam Spade dropped. All a mistake, says Uncle. Next to the item was a picture of Ella leaning over a hot stove in my kitchen. It was captioned, surprise bride prepares breakfast for incarcerated mate. Will keep things hot for him, says Mrs. Spade. I did it for your sake, Sam. Would it have been simpler just to have dropped the charges? It wasn't difficult. The nicest man forged the license and the certificate for only $10. I know a guy who would have done it for five and thrown in some fingerprints for free, but that's not the point. But darling, don't you see if you've just gone free without being married to me, Uncle Hugo might have done something worse to you. I'd kill you. Nuts. Who are these ex admirers of yours who are supposed to have been knocked off by your uncle, name-free? Well, there was Ralph Pattinson. He died of vapor lock. Of what? It happened in the mountains. Something went wrong with his car, but they couldn't prove it because it blew up and burned after it went over the cliff. And then there was poor Freddie Push. They called him the piggy bank suicide. Why? They found $5 worth of pennies in his stomach. Oh. And then there was poor Nicky Nato. He was a ballet dancer. That's enough. Now about those letters. Why was your friend Mason returning love letters? You had written a son detective named Sam. Well, that was just coincidence. He always went by his initials, you know, like GBS for George Bernard Shaw, S.A.M. is for Stuart Andrew Mason. Stuart Andrew is his pen name. He writes detective stories. And the rest of the coincidence was that love letter you inadvertently mailed to Sam's play detective, thereby sending your uncle out gunning for Sam instead of S.A.M.? What could I do after he read my diary and my confessions to myself about S.A.M.? And the reference is to his brilliant mind on criminal subjects. Well, you were a natural stand-in for S.A.M. Bernard's S.A.P. But I wasn't going through that, Sam. Not after I met G. Why not? Because the moment I saw you, I knew that all those things I'd said in that love letter were really true. Really? Last night was so beautiful? I think I... I think I must have dreamed of you. I don't know. Oh, Sam, darling, I'm so lost and frightened. Dammit. You don't know what my life has been. Oh, I can imagine. Boyfriend's dropping dead right and left. You're the only one who can stop it. If Uncle Hugo thinks we're really married and he can't use my money anymore, then he'll stop having accidents happen to people. Won't you please be my husband, Sam? Is that so much to ask after what I did for you? Yeah. Now, go on. You spring me out of that black male frame so I can help you compound a felony. But, Sam, what am I gonna do? You forge the marriage. Go forge a divorce. Where are you going? Back to jail. I'll see you there. Oh, dear me. Hit your foot, did it? Cast iron. Don't make them like that nowadays. My foot. Hey, your foot. I meant the strongbox. Oh. Coming in or going out? I think I'll sit down for a minute. Oh, Sam, you poor dear boy. Here, let me take off your shoes so it can swell up at once. Get away from me. I only wanted to help. I love you. Well, I don't love you anymore. Ho-ho. First little spat, is it? Who is this guy? Oh, Sam, I'm sorry. This is Curtin. You can say that again. Curtin's. Harwood L. Curtin's. L for Lacey, attorney at law. I represent the estate of the late Gertrude Comstock, Ella's mother. You, Mr. Spade, have married into, shall we say, money. Well, Curtin, it's time to raise the blinds in a couple of things. In the first place. Please. As you know, Ella, your grandfather, the late Commodore Ezra Comstock, left his fortune to be divided equally between his legitimate heirs, that is your mother and your uncle Hugo. Upon your mother's death, the residue of her part of the estate was left to be administered by your uncle Hugo as he saw fit until your marriage, at which time it should go to you. Well, where is it? Yeah. All in good legal time. First, here it is. Very strong box. Ha! Containing family mementos handed down to you from your grandmother. It was your mother's wish that this be delivered to your hands upon this auspicious occasion. Here is the key. In addition to which, I leave with you both my best wishes for your future happiness. Good day. Mr. Spade, I shall forward along to you the statement of my fees for services in this case. Wait a minute. Who's paying my fees? No more questions, please. I guess we might as well open up. Oh! I'm sleepy. Oh, no. Let's see what's in here. All right. Look. It didn't take long to go through Grandma Comstock's mementos, and I got more and more wide awake as we went along. The strong box contained four items, a teapot, a bundle of letters, a photograph album, and a family skeleton. The letters were love letters from one Elmo Pinkney. It was a tin type of said Pinkney in the album. He was a dead ringer for Uncle Hugo, which might have been a coincidence, but wasn't. I started scanning through the love letter. Going to any money yet? Well, there's a Confederate tin spot. I'll let you know if I hit any pay dirt. Well, at least she left me a pot to make tea. What? But if there wasn't any money, why wouldn't Uncle Hugo let me get married? Look, why don't you go and wash out that pot and make some tea, huh? Probably leaps. Oh, something in it. Huh? No money. His grandmother's married. His mother's and Uncle Hugo's birth certificate. Let's see those. Oh, crap. I might have known. I wonder who that is. That will be your Uncle Hugo. Well, that doesn't need to worry. If any more, does it? Yeah, put these things back in the teapot and put the teapot on the mantelpiece. But it's crap. So am I, so do it anyway. Come right in, Uncle Hugo. You too, cousin Riley. You fool. Very funny. Now, now, don't be silly, Riley. Well, except your poor old Uncle's blessing on this happy occasion. I don't want your blessing, Uncle Hugo. You're a mean old man, and you killed all my fiance. Well, it appears that Mr. Curtains has already brought you a legacy. I believe I recognize your grandmother's strongbox. The mentors of a strange, dramatic chapter in the history of a great family, Mr. Spade. You who have joined that family so, uh, unexpectedly will have a privilege that even I was never granted. Oh, how come? My mother was a strange woman in some ways. I'm sure she was. I suppose we shall never know what prompted her to leave these personal allotments to Ella's mother, nor why my late sister chose to keep their contents a secret from me. I don't suppose I might be allowed to just a peek into that Pandora's box. Go ahead. Help yourself. Really? Nothing but a photograph album and a bundle of letters. Love letters, Uncle Hugo. They seem to run in your family. Would you like to read them? You, uh, you would have no objection, Ella. Me? Why should she have? And I can give the whole story to you in a nutshell, Uncle Hugo. It seems that Grandma Comstock fell in love with a handsome rascal named Pinkney, a deserter from the Confederate army and eloped with him to New Orleans. Her family pursued her there, had Pinkney arrested, got an annulment, and whisked her back home in time for her scheduled wedding to Ezra Comstock. These letters were written to her by Pinkney while he languished in prison awaiting court martial. Here's the last one. Read it for yourself. Oh. Lydia, my darling, in a few hours I face a firing squad. Please no tears, no regrets. I'm glad that you are married to a man who is worthy of you. Comstock will be a better father for our child than I would ever have been. Farewell, my love. Huh. So that was a secret. Nothing so extraordinary about that. I think it's very tragic. Think of her married to a man she didn't love about to have a child and her lover facing a firing squad. Nonsense, sentimental nonsense. What do you know about such things? I should know a little after all I was that child. I'm sorry, I couldn't go on. Oh, wow. Fine old piece of soap. What? This teapot. I don't remember seeing this here before. Just something I picked up in a junk shop. Very rare piece. Do you mind if I look at the mark? Go ahead. A genuine example. Pity this crack. Oh, saving the pieces. I'll just toss them in the fire. Wait a minute, Comstock. I'll take care of it. Oh, it's not a problem. It's your birth certificate. Give me that. Oh, no. What are you going to do with it? Put it back where it came from. Ronnie. Yeah, Mr. Comstock. Spade, I'm going out of here and I'm taking that strongbox with me and don't think I won't kill you to get it. He will, Sam. Just as he did the other. And you too if you don't shut your trap. Hand it over, Spade. Sure. Come and get it. Okay, let's have it. There you are. Sit down and rest it. Hold it, Comstock. I've got the gun now. Well, Spade, it seems you've won the day. How does it feel to be a rich man? You'll have to tell me, Comstock. The reports of my marriage to your niece are slightly exaggerated. And that's about it, Sergeant. I'm sorry I can't furnish it with the forged papers Ella used to back up that phony story of her marriage to me. A fire broke out in the wastebasket and I accidentally dropped him into it. As for Comstock and his gunzled Riley, I will gladly press charges against them on the blackmail frame until homicide decides whether there's a case against him on the mysterious deaths of Ella's previous fiancé. Period, end of report. But, Sam, why? Why what if? Did he want that old cracked teapot? Well, because grandmother's love letters plus the documents on that teapot prove that Hugo was not a Comstock but a Pinkney and hence not entitled to one red penny of the Comstock fortune which was left, if you recall, to grandfather's legitimate heir. Who was? She entitled on me. Ella, but if she never married, she'd never find out, you see. Well, she doesn't deserve it. Mm-hmm. After making up pigeon out of you the way she did. I agree, sweetheart, but how else could she afford to pay my fee? Well, I certainly hope you soak her. I fully intend to. Go type that up or I falsify an expense account. Now, I'll still a couple of fingers in there and break out another glass. Oh, no, I meant the expense account. Oh, that. Well, it was nothing much. Just bus fare, uh, three breakfasts and a pokey? Ah, no, that would be a sign. Well, I took the liberty, Sam, of drawing up a statement. Did you look it over? Yeah. Mm-hmm. New letterhead. Well, it's only a sample I had done. Up? Sending your approval. Do you? Well, uh, yes, yes, very classy. I like the coat of arms and I'm not quite sure about the motto. Oh, but, Sam, you are the greatest private detective of them all. Well, you know best, Effie. And then for an extra dollar a hundred we could have a printed and raided ink. In what? Luminous ink, Sam. Shines in the dark. Even as you and I. Oh, Sam. I'm glad you're still a bachelor. Go home. All the same. Oh, good night, Sam. Good night, sweetheart. The Adventures of Sam Spade, National Hammett's famous private detective, are produced and directed by William Spear. Sam Spade is played by Howard Duff. Lorraine Tuttle is Effie. The Adventures of Sam Spade, Private Detective, is a presentation of the United States Armed Forces Radio Service, The Voice of Information, and Education. The Voice of Information.