 Broadway's My Beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the goddess, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway's My Beat with Larry Thor, as Detective Danny Clover. When you walk the sunny September morning on Broadway, walk slow. Give yourself time to gather up the things you want to save for memories. Beneath your feet, the concrete strikes glints of silver and gold. The passers-by are nicely proportioned with silken ankles and doxins and breeze-tossed hairdos. And the secret things that only you can see, all of which mixes well with the carousel music your mind makes. This is the day that Broadway belongs to you. And east of Broadway on 57th where I was, other things of beauty. I counted 12 of them. Mr. Blair gave me that much time. He was in charge of all of it. You will agree they are darlings, won't you? Every one of them, and each with a dream, to become the most exquisite dancer in the world. Your call sounded urgent, Mr. Blair. Look at them. Are you looking? Are you looking? Funny question. Choose one. What? Choose one. One of the darlings, the beauties. There they posture and they exercise for the dance. And which one is best? In your eyes, I mean. Look, Mr. Blair, I didn't come here. And, of course, your eyes remain on Sylvia. All right, darlings. Enough, enough! Sylvia, background, newly returned from England. A beautiful dancer with greatness in her. Devoted to me, her dancing master. Sylvia, I saw her six years ago. Sent her to study with Sadler's Wells. Paid for her education. Now she is back here with me. Now she will die. What? Sylvia told me that she is convinced of it. Peter Churro. What are you talking about? Dear man, I have said it. Sylvia told me Peter Churro was going to kill her. And who is Peter Churro? Whose name and address I give you on my card. Here. Sylvia! Sylvia dear! Sylvia dear, tell the dear man who Peter Churro is. A boy, a married man. Who Peter Churro is. A boy I met in England. Once he was a soldier. And what does he want to do to you, Sylvia? He wants to kill me. Then swiftly she moved away to the center of the ruin. And the place of dust and autumn light was hers. Its color caught in the silken sash that bound tighter waist. That hung and slashed a line of scarlet against her likeness. Her place now because in walls hung with mirror the only reflection hers. And from somewhere an arrow of light ricocheted from street chrome pierced her shoulder. And with the wounding of light the girl began a slow and drifting turn. Spun its curve finally to the floor. Ended it in the dancer's attitude of death. And from the dancing master a quick staccato of applause. Performance was over. And I got out. And gone out of an address crawled on the back of a dancing master's business card. To a boy named Peter Churro who wanted death for a girl. Walked the broken flights of a tenement to this part of the street's litter. Then a corridor soddened with other passings. And the numbered room. And on it was pasted the weary smile of a clown. Yeah? Stuns you, huh? Take a look, mister. A good look. Enjoy yourself. What's wrong, you? Don't laugh. You don't cry. What do you do? Police. You Peter Churro? That's what the kids do. Wherever I go they see me. Pull Mama's skirt. They say, look Mama, look the man. And Mama looks real good and long. And hurries the kid away. Now Peter Churro, what else you want? Talk. Let's go inside. Tell me what else I've got to talk about. Sylvia Douglas. Not with you. Not with anyone. I saw her a little while ago. She said you were going to kill her. Come on inside. I want to show you something. There, on the table, on the windowsill, on the shelves. You'll make these? Out of something I can't even remember anymore. And a pocket knife. Kids' toys. Toys to give to the kids. To buy them back so they won't run away. And these wooden pistols. Full scale. Look real, don't they? Yes. Yes. First I give them a toy, then this. So they can play at killing each other. Carving. A hobby I picked up in therapy classes after this happened to my face. They said when I got worried about it I should do things with my hands. Let's get back to Sylvia. Look at me and try to hide the smile when I tell you I'm in love with her. What do you know? You did it. She's beautiful. You saw her and you stood close to her and you talked about things. What? Tell me. I told you. She said you wanted her dead. Once I pointed one of these wooden guns at her and she screamed and I got on my knees to her. That's why she thinks that. That's the only reason. I want to tell you about me and her. I met Sylvia in England during the war. She was dancing with soldiers in a canteen. She came up to me and asked me to dance with her. I had the other face then. We danced fine together. I love her. I'm not going to kill her but there's something else. There's a man. There's death on him. He loves her. She grew big, strong, a man all in one piece. And death on him. I tell Sylvia that and she shivers. Then she laughs. What man? His name is Johnny Moore. A man who works on a dox, a Longshoreman. But you're right about something, mister. What? Sylvia will die. Ride back to headquarters. Place a call to Longshoreman's Union and pose the name Johnny Moore. And wait. Let moments drift by till the sun gives off its mid-afternoon brightness. Then the call back. And a man tells you that Johnny Moore can be located at Pier 16 East River Docks. So get the squad car. Lower the visor. Drive to the waterfront. And Pier 16 is piled high with crates and cartons and bales and machinery. And a salt-rimed freighter leans high against it. The name on the prowl says, Queen of the East. And you believe it. And a clot of men on the docks feed the freighter's winch. A little distance from them, a man dressed in a t-shirt and tattoo sits at a Jerry-built desk in Sexton, Tupac. Show him a badge. Ask him the name, Johnny Moore. Get directions. Your name, Johnny Moore? Yeah, why? Police. That's nice. I'll talk to you, Johnny. Fatty over there say it's okay. Huh? Good. Let's get us a cold one, shall we? I got a thirst. Want a coke? No thanks. Your name's what? Danny Clover. Yeah, hell, Danny. You want me for what? Just talk. Sylvia Douglas, Johnny. Oh. Tell me about her. No, I can't, Danny. I tell myself about her fine, but that way I don't have to use words. I make pictures. How did you meet her? Mostly I was under a hundred, two hundred pound credit tobacco. Heh. Fine place, huh? Let's get rid of it, Johnny. Now you won't hurry me, will you, baby? No. No, I'll show you one. Sylvie came in on the Queen Anne a few months ago, shipped out early in the morning. Passengers didn't get off till about ten. About that time Sylvie got off. She walked right over to me. I was unloading the tobacco I mentioned. That's how it was. She just walked right up to you. Later she told me she'd been watching me for a couple hours. Then you've seen her since. Wouldn't you? Tell me about it. Now look, baby, I'm... Just go back a little, Johnny. She walked up to you while you were unloading. What did she do? Nothing. Just looked. I put down the crate and I stared back. Then after a while I said, I said, can I help you? She didn't answer me. I asked her where she was staying. After a while she told me, I've got word you might want to kill her. Ha ha ha. Baby, baby, I ain't strong enough. Kill Sylvie? You're on the wrong dot, baby. From a September place in the sea, the first chill wind of evening drifted in, touched the lean masts and the sides of the freighter, and she creaked and fold helplessly at her moorings. Then a swift shadow of a gull darted low across her prowl, and the ship was still. And then, leave the dock where Johnny Moore, Longshoreman, told you about him and a dancer. Uptown now on a phone call to the studio for the address of Sylvia Douglas. And go there. Because something had to be cleared away. Something had to be explained. It's you. Why? I want to talk to you. May I come in, Miss Douglas? I know why. You wanted to be with me when I was alone. You chose a nice time for me. Twilight. Let's talk about it inside, Miss Douglas. Of course. The music. That's Petrushka. I do you know. Miss Douglas. I was rehearsing. It's why I'm like this. And costume. I'm very good. Do you want to watch me? I talked to Peter Churl. I'd like to dance for you. I'd like you to watch me. Did you hear what I said? I said Peter Churl. Grotesque. Isn't he grotesque, Mr. Clover? He loves you. And you. And the ones out there in the street. They will love me too. Why did you tell me Peter wanted to kill you? He does. He does? I told you I talked to him. Peter's a scarred boy. He has better. And a memory of dancing with you. He doesn't. But don't you see? Don't you see that cry? No, I don't see. It's why he wants me dead. So I can belong to no one else. He'd want the world dead if he could arrange a thing like that. That's mad, isn't it? Shouldn't he be put away for a thing like that? Peter told me something else. Doesn't interest me. He said you'd die. He said there was death on Johnny Moore. He said there was death on Johnny Moore. Peter said that? He said Johnny would kill me? You sit over there and watch me dance, Mr. Clover. The way I dance sometimes for Johnny. Tell me now, Mr. Clover. If you were Johnny Moore, would you want me dead? Tell me. Please, tell me. You. No. No, I've changed my mind. No, I will not be there. It doesn't matter, I promise. You heard me. No. He thinks he owns me. He thinks he brought me and paid for me. And now he acts the owner, the management, the boss. Who does that? That Tony Blair. Tony, the frothy dancing master. He says I promised to rehearse with him tonight at the studio. Well, so I did. And I won't. All he wants to do is to kiss me. Him in that frothy love. This thing of your being killed. What is it? A publicity stunt? A phony promotion idea of yours and Blair's? A joke? A way to... You think that? How lonely it'll be for you when I'm dead. Goodbye, Mr. Clover. So leave there. Out into the streets again and take a walk around the block with it. Think about it. And the intrusion of the word again, a hoax. Except one thing, the people. And the realization comes to you suddenly, each one of them somehow in a way not easy to define. Each one of them with a touch of violence on him and trouble and strangeness and strength. So go back to the place where it all started where a man waited back to the dance studio. Climb the stairs and open a door to the evening empty place to the mirrored hall that reflected mirrors. Reflected the waiting man, Mr. Blair, dancing master who was done with dancing. He was strung from the ceiling and his head leaned against his shoulder in infinite sadness. And the rope turned, turned again, more slightly, more slightly still. Mr. Blair hung. Mr. Blair dead. Two Broadway's might be written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. September drifts through corridors, whispers against scarred doorways and Broadway leaves the looking out of memories windows. Maybe now is the time waiting for, maybe now the season that ends the longing for things not yet dreamed. The door is open onto muted wind and no one has come to you. So walk out of the room, lock in the autumn solitude, hit the street, walk with a mob, scream, laugh, get lost, and somehow find yourself back in your room. Look around. Nothing's been taken from you. Nothing robbed. Solitude is just where you left it. That police headquarters September morning rests lightly on the shoulders of Sergeant Geno Tataglia. And a good bonjour to you, Danny. Thank you. Likewise. Well, good this morning, Geno. And why not indeed? Last night I slumbered neath a blanket. That's what does it, huh? That's what does it. Well, to work, huh, Danny? Whatever you say. In the matter of the death of Tony Blair dancing teacher, it is the consensus of our good Dr. Sinski that said death was caused by premeditated murder, as was your deduction. You've got Dr. Sinski's report? Indeed. I will brief it for you. From lacerations and bruises on the face of the body of the deceased Tony Blair, it is apparent that the man was viciously beaten then hung to make sure he's dying. Uh-huh. Such is the opinion of Dr. Sinski. We are now awaiting the report from technical. You'll get it to me. How'd you know? Because without saying. Danny. What? A question. This ballet dancer, this Sylvia Douglas, who said she was the one who was going to die. No, what about her? Okay. Arabesques, Stearns, the whole deal. Uh-huh. And her double entendres, Danny, tell me about them. You see, Tina, my eldest, is in ballet class and she has trouble with them. Her what? The double entendres, Danny. You know, where they beat their feet and jump up and down, Tina was showing us. Like this they go. After you talk on the phone, I'll show you, Danny. Thank you. Up to 346 Medicine, apartment 2C. I was told you are the man who found my husband dead. That's right. What do you, uh... I wish to speak with you. I wish to tell you who killed Tony Blair. You will come to me for that. Yes, Mr. Clover? Right away. Thank you. I will wait. Mr. Clover? Yes. If you please, come in. I will tell you who killed my husband Tony. All right. Alive. Thank you. Sylvia Douglas. I'll wait a minute. Sylvia Douglas, the girl who murdered my husband. I was with her when your husband was murdered. You lie. Listen, your husband was beaten, not by a woman, Mrs. Blair. A man did it and your husband was hung. It would take a man to... Somehow, somehow she killed my husband. Do you know what she is? You tell me. It's not just a word for lack of another word. A truly one. A devil. All right. Now let's talk about your husband. I used to dance. You know that. You can tell that. You can tell. Yes. Of such grace. Of me was said I hardly touched the stage when I danced. About your husband and Sylvia Douglas, Mrs. Blair? About a man who loved beauty and a young woman who was beautiful. He was attracted to her. Was he in love with her? Tony was in love with every woman in the world. For any woman, he could find an excuse to love her as it should be. And he is dead. Sylvia Douglas didn't kill Mrs. Blair. At least all the... Surely as we talk, she did. I have asked you to come to listen to her name. Sylvia Douglas. Woman who killed Tony. Now you have heard it. Then she offered another cigarette to be lit. Then one nod of thanks. And one nod of dismissal. So leave. Squad car again. In the short ride downtown. Visiting time on two prime suspects. Men with strength enough and motive enough to beat and hang Tony Blair. First stop. Lodgings of XGI. Bitter carver of wooden guns. He told by landlord that Peter Churl left about 11 o'clock this morning. He was called up. The voice on the phone was just a dog on shame. That's all. Mr. Churl smiled when he picked up the receiver. And he laughed when he put it down. Then Mr. Churl went out. So the second stop. Pier 16. Longshoreman Johnny Moore hasn't shown for work. Call headquarters. Get an address. An apartment house too. Near the waterfront. You're looking for something sport? Johnny Moore. Tell him police. I'd rejoice to do that sport. Johnny Moore ain't around. Where is he? You got something on Johnny? How about that? Oh Johnny-O! Johnny-O! I asked you something. Where is Johnny-O? Don't swell up around me. Don't impress me. I've seen some real swellers in my time. So just don't... He's wanted for murder. Oh Johnny-O! Tell you something. He ain't. He ain't here. And he ain't on the docks. You know where he is? There's a girl called him. Any hour of the night a day. From that hall phone. She sweet talks me. And I let out a yell. And Johnny comes running for the phone. She called him this morning? Earlier than usual. About nine. Ten. Johnny went back to his room, got dressed. Danced out of here. And he's Douglas, a dancer. Dancers on a toes, he told. Ha ha ha ha! This I gotta see! Johnny-O wanted for murder. How about that? I ask you. How about that? It was information anyhow. I knew where they were. At least of where they'd been headed. Both of them. Peter Churro and Johnny Moore. Summoned by the voice and image of a ballerina. To a place and a time and a passion that was at the end of a phone call. Pick up Detective Muggerman and go there. Screams properly. It came from the door, flung open at the head of the steps. In the room of Sylvia Douglas. And out of the room in terror, rushing down the stairs toward me. The scarred man, Peter Churro. Look after her, Muggerman. I'm going up. It's her bad, Danny. I need a doctor. Baby, just take her. I'll take that gun, Johnny. Yes, sure. I shot him here. Johnny, you did it for me. Love you. You gonna tell me what happened, Johnny? Tell me what happened. He was crazy. He was sick for the love of me. You made it all better by shooting him. Is that right, Johnny? You know what he did? I'll show you. You see that gun lying there? Well, he pulled it up. Leave that gun alone. I'll get it. It's wood. Huh? Look at it, Johnny. It's wood. Well, I... I saw that Churro with the gun. He didn't stop to feel it. All you did was let him run and give it to him in the back, huh? Now, both of you, I want to know what happened. He came here. He tried to make love to me. Won't you hear, Johnny? Well, a guy flipped. He didn't care I was here like I was even in the room, a real mess. You called him up, didn't you, Miss Douglas? After Johnny was here, why? I wanted to see him. I had a feeling for him at a certain instant. So I called him. It was a warm feeling. All of a sudden. And I wanted him here. So I called him. This gun in my pocket, Johnny. Is it yours? I shot him and you know why I shot him. He pulled that wooden gun at him. He started... Tell me about that, Miss Douglas. Why did Johnny pull a gun? I was gentle with him. While we talked, I touched his face. I smiled at him. Then he got angry. That's the question I'm asking you. Why? I laughed at him. That's why. And he flipped. Then Sylvie started to laugh. Then Churro really went on to laugh at him. That's why you brought him here, wasn't it, Miss Douglas? To have fun with him. What kind of woman are you, Miss Douglas? You know. Let's get back to Churro's gun again. You knew it was made of wood. Well... Baby... What, dear? What is this, baby? Johnny... Question, baby. Come on, answer it. Churro started to wave that thing and you slipped me a real live Roscoe. What's this, for kicks, baby? A bitter mouth, Johnny. I don't like it. All of it for kicks, I must ask. I don't know what you're talking about. Johnny. What? I can't protect you anymore, dear. I'll never forget you, Johnny. The way you loved me. Killed for me. Peter Churro. Tony. Poor Tony. Both of them. Dead because of your kind of love. Listen, baby... I killed two men for you, baby. You liked that, didn't you? For you, Johnny. I'll kill you. I'll kill you. Call a doctor, Danny. Just let me stand here, mister. I want to look at her. I'm going to die, so I want to stand here and look at her. Churro, you need her. Let's go, killer boy. Sylvia. Die. Why don't you die? I love you, Sylvia. Ugly. Ugly. Die. You and me. No, Johnny, more. Just you and me. Easy, dad. Broadway's different. It twists you into the night time. Whirls you with your puppet dance. Rocks you. Tosses you up in the air. Bangs you against a gutter. And you can't quit. Because Broadway never does. It's Broadway. The most violent smile in the world. Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover with Charles Calvert as Tartaglia and Jack Crucian as Muggevin. The program is produced and directed by Elliott Lewis with musical score arranged and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Sammy Hill was heard of Sylvia, Sydney Miller as Peter, Sheldon Leonard as Johnny, Martha Wentworth as the landlady, and Truda Marson as Mrs. Blair.