 Broadway's My Beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. It is My Beat, with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Broadway, where the night time explodes into the canyon streets like some passion, screaming to be rid of the day. The night is a backdrop for a million fragments, neon and roar and melting shapes and shocks, and the clots of crowd. It's a fury that sweeps you up and holds you close, then throws you in the gutter of your own choice. It's Broadway, My Beat. At two o'clock in the AM, Broadway is laughing itself to death. It's a time for doing either one of two things. You nod to the bartender for another one, or you buy the papers and go home. Me? I bought the papers, but I didn't go home. Back to headquarters and write out a report on a visiting convention delegate with a wayward buzzer. It had to be done. I ordered to the taxpayers, because the taxpayers had supplied me with a sergeant named Tartaglia. Then convention delegates never give up, do they Danny? Nope, never do. You know, I never forget what happened three years ago, the time I went to a convention. Oh, tell me later, answer the phone. Uh, yeah, Danny. Sergeant Tartaglia speaking. What? Wait a minute, I can't understand you, lady. What? What is it? There's some game on the phone, laughing, crying all at once. I can't make our heads or tails. Well, let me have it. Yeah, here. Danny Clover speaking. Who is this? Pull yourself together, I can't understand what you're trying to say. Well, sure you are, now talk to me. Tori Jones, good, talk slowly. Tell me where you live, Miss Jones. Don't say it again, Miss Jones, I'll be right there. Let me and Miss Jones, it's Danny Clover, the police. Did someone call the police? You did, Miss Jones. What? What did you say? You phoned me and said you were in trouble, remember? All you need to know is that I've come to help you to hear me. Do you hear me, Miss Jones? Why do you do that? I didn't mean to be rough, I... I didn't mean that. I mean, why do you call me Miss Jones? Aren't you Tori Jones? No, no, I'm... Blazing down on her golden hair, and the thing that held her suspended and moved her like a puppet in a slow, waltz-like circle, was a scarlet sash of silk wound once, twice, three times about her throat. I'd wrapped her in an open window, somewhere ruffled her dress, and it was a dance you watched, a slow, dignified, stately dance to the rhythm beat of horror. And on her face was the terrifying smirk of the violent dead. I didn't make it up, I didn't dream it. Tell me she's in there for Christmas. When did you find her like that? A minute, a year, a hundred years before you came. I just got home from a date, and he kissed me at the door. I went in and called to Tori, and she didn't answer. And I went into the bedroom to see if she was asleep. She wasn't. She was like that, like that, with that horrible smile. You live here then? I'm her roommate. Tori's roommate. I'm the plain one. Beth Stafford, the plain one. Tori called me about 15 minutes before I got here. Was she with anyone? Pull yourself together. Was she with anyone tonight? Can you tell me that? I don't know. Her life was a date. Where's she from? Who are her people? I never asked her. All we knew about each other is what happened to us in this room. The phone calls the meals. The screaming you hold in. Where did she work? That's Sterling Incorporated. She was a dress model there. Sterling Incorporated, huh? Okay. I want you to stay here, Beth. You won't go away. All right. I could send a doctor. Do you want me to do that? I'll be all right. Just get rid of... of that. I'll be all right. Mr. Clover. Yes? Girls like Tori always end like that. Don't they? Don't they, Mr. Clover? You can call it an advantage that a policeman has. He doesn't have to wake up from a nightmare and scream. He nuzzles the pillow and knows that the dream of a lovely girl hanging by silk from a light shandelier is only a projection of his work-a-day life. Yeah, it's quite an advantage. When he gets up the next morning, he gets dressed, has breakfast and goes to work trying to find out who made him have a dream like that. And in the morning, the world of Sterling Incorporated, manufacturers of ladies' dressware, was simply Sterling-efficient. Long lines of cutting tables, sewing machines, and the faces that went with them. Faces that wouldn't get weary until another hour or so. The face of the office force goes with the company's product. Sees your badge, bites its lip, announces you into the office of Lionel Conrad. He owns the joint. All of it. All of it, Mr. Clover. And just think, 20 years ago, I was peddling elastic bands on Broadway. Yeah, that's... Horace Alger stuff, eh? That's what you're gonna say. Horace Alger. Still read the stuff. Finest literature, a man can lay his hands on. Smoke, cigar? No, I just... But you won't refuse a gum drop now, will you? Yeah, have one. When I eat them, since I first read that Ned, the fun-loving robo boy, always nibbled them before a big game. Go ahead, have one. No thanks, I... You wanted to see me about something, Mr. Clover? Yes. About Tori Jones. Tori Jones? Lovely name. Lovely model. It was. The girl was murdered, read it in the morning papers. Ah, pardon me. Lionel Conrad speaking. Yes, yes, dear. Yes. Yes. But you know you have trouble getting into a size 42. All right, I'll bring it home with me. Goodbye, dear. My wife, Mr. Clover. We were talking about Tori Jones. I don't know anything about her, Mr. Clover, except she modeled our clothes. That's the extent of my information. Our designer sketches the dresses. We make them models like Tori model them. Look on my tip line. We'll see you later. Second, Martin, I want you to meet... No time for salesman. I'm late now. Who was the rocket man? My shop manager, Martin Driscoll. Only he don't spend a lot of time in the shop. I gotta talk to him about that. He worries me. You got worries? Plenty. Somebody's stealing my designs, Mr. Clover. Somebody's stealing exclusives and peddling them the two-bit mass production dressmakers. Yeah? How could that be done? I wish I knew. Ira makes the sketches. I okay him. They turn up in basement stores at $12.95 per line. Who's this Ira that sketches? Ira Gatz, my designer. Where do I find him? In the village. That's where his studio is. You'll get the address from the girl at the desk. Will that be anything else, Mr. Clover? Nothing. Thanks a lot. For what? I don't know. Maybe a motive for murder? At the Greenwich Village studio of Ira Gatz, a tired Venus in homespun linen, emerald-tonial polish, and long chains of Indian silver that jingled, jangled, jingled, lifted a turquoise-studded hand, strangled a yawn, and in pure green print, told me Ira was having lunch at the Flamingo cafeteria. Only a pearl's throw away. She fell asleep while she was talking, so all I had left was the Flamingo cafeteria. The Flamingo, 7th Avenue's hotty answer to the left bank. The delicate poets eating chopped herring like it was snails and wine. The girl athletes, lobbing Freud and insults across their littered trays. And the fellow who's learning French off a phonograph record. You are looking for someone or something, mon ami? A man named Ira Gatz, you know him? Do I know him, the galant asked? Of course I know him. Who doesn't know Ira? He's working, ill-travide. Where is he? Over there, mon ami, at that table near the wall, surrounded by his usual coterie of sycophants. Oh, thanks. Oh, I said it, Stephen, I said it! It's abysmal what Charlie is trying to do. Can you imagine acting like that about Picasso? Pardon me, are you Ira Gatz? Don't interrupt while I'm talking. Dolly, stunning craftsman, but by what right... I'm Danny Kovar of the police, Mr. Gatz. Maybe you want to talk to me. Police? Fair weather sycophants are Mr. Gatz. They needn't have left on my account. Maybe it's because we have nothing in common with the police. Nothing to talk about. Jones, we could make conversation about her, couldn't we, if we tried? All I know about Tori is that I sketched her in things I created. This creating, it pays well? Well, enough. What are you getting at? Your boss tells me your designs are being stolen. Does that bother you? As long as I get paid a living wage, nothing bothers me. Isn't that how it is all over? You could add to your income by selling your drawings twice to a competitor of Sterling Incorporated. Tori could have found out about it and you could have... I don't think so. No. Converse some more, Mr. Clover. Were you ever out with Tori? No. It can be checked, Mr. Clover, what it? Who passes on your drawings at Sterling? Lionel Conrad? No, Martin Driscoll does that. As a matter of fact, I gave him my spring collection only a little while ago. Oh? Where is he now? For the Delphia property, business trip. Don't look so sad, Mr. Clover. You'll be back in time to dress for the opera tonight? Anything else? No. Tell your court-a-reader to come back, Ira. They'll love it. Now you're a martyr. It became a matter of routine. I grabbed a loose detective named Muggevin and gave him a detailed description of Martin Driscoll, planted him at Penn Station and had him check all the incoming trains from Philadelphia. Muggevin was conscientious. He called in every 40 minutes with no word. He got sadder all the time. But at 5.40, there was a lilt to his voice. Driscoll was back in New York. In fact, he was in his apartment. And Muggevin was waiting outside. In 10 minutes, I was outside, too. Hey, Danny. Is he still upstairs, Muggevin? No, that's him getting in that cab over there. The guy in the top hat, white gloves and tails. Well, he's a little early for the opera. Mr. Driscoll? Mr. Driscoll? They didn't hear you, Danny. Maybe not. Thanks, Muggevin. Go home. I could have stopped him with my siren. I could have, but I didn't. If Mr. Driscoll were going to the opera, it was going too early. And it was going by way of the Third Act Orbiture. His cab headed downtown and east toward Greenwich Village. So I followed. It swung into 8th Street. Me, too. Then it stopped in front of the studio of one Ira Getz. I passed it, parked a half block further down, and waited. A two-minute wait. Enough time for Driscoll and Getz to have a long handshake. Then I entered the doorway of the apartment house. It was that two-minute wait that ruined everything. The shots came from Getz's apartment. When I got to the door, all I could hear was a lot of pain. Yeah. Not too bad. Help me. Help me. What happened? I don't know. Ira and I were talking. And someone, see, through that open window, somebody shot through. Where's Ira Getz? There. At the piano. There. Gonna call an ambulance for me? For Ira? We need help. Not Ira. Not anymore. He's dead. While listening to Broadway's My Beat, starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. There's $55,000 waiting in Sing It Again's jackpot this week. The current phantoms proving a real hard-to-get guy. And $30,000 in wonderful prizes awaits the CBS listener who can identify him. Be around listening hard when Sing It Again comes your way again tonight on most of these same CBS stations. Dan Seymour may call you. It wants everything neat and in place. A word misspelled on a spectacular can stop traffic. A girl with her running her nylons, likewise. The scream of the loudspeakers has to be adjusted, just so. And the deep, anguished weeping in a darkened doorway, not too much. Even death and violence have to meet Broadway standards. Broadway weighed the death by hanging of a golden girl named Tori Jones. Balanced it against death by bullets of a designer named Ira Getz. Found they measured up and gave it its seal of approval. Artist and model murdered. Grade AA. The wounding of a man named Martin Driscoll. That was okay too. Broadway waited outside the emergency hospital to see how it came out. I waited inside for the same reason. A lucky, lucky man, Mr. Driscoll. It's only a flesh wound. A little more to the left. You'd be a dead duck, as we say in the profession. Very amusing, Doctor. Now, this may hurt just grit your teeth or something. Brave fellow. Now we're almost at the finish line. A little washing, some bandages, a few kind words. All right. Have I talked to Driscoll while you're doing all that, Dr. Sinski? Of course. It's all right with him. It's all right with me. Why did you go back to Getz instead of going to the opera, Mr. Driscoll? I should think you'd be more interested. Interested in? Oh, it was tried to murder me. That's what Mr. Driscoll has, Danny Spunk. Oh, he'll recover all right. He will... We all know you've been wounded, Mr. Driscoll, but answer the question anyway, huh? Why did you go back to Getz? It was something about his drawings that needed correcting. You didn't have the drawings with you? No, but Getz would know what I was talking about. The mutual understanding of coworkers, Mr. Clover. Exactly what happened before the shots? I think I told you that. I rang Ira's bell. He came to the door. We talked about the drawings. I heard a shot, several shots. I hit the sudden terrible pain in my side. And then you were standing over me. That's all that happened, Mr. Clover. Why should anyone want to murder you? A man makes enemies, Mr. Clover. Enemies he doesn't realize he's making. Some I suppose want to kill you. And Ira gets. Why should someone want him dead? That I would hardly know, Mr. Clover. Yeah. A doctor. Yeah, Danny? You'll take good care of Mr. Driscoll. How else would I... You'd prescribe a good rest at home, wouldn't you, doctor? So a person would know where to find him. Wouldn't you prescribe that, doctor? Confusing, huh? Tartagli? It's a cookie. A what? What I'm holding on to your nose, a cookie. Mrs. Tartagli whipped them up on her mix master. A bagful. Have some, Danny. Everybody offers big goodies. Oh, yeah, thanks, Tartagli. Danny, now that you have indulged yourself with Mrs. Tartagli's confessions, I myself have something to brighten up your otherwise drab day. Another cookie, Tartagli? Just put the bag on the desk. Yeah, Danny. It's about the gun. Well, tell me about the gun. The gun which did in one Ira gets was found in the bed. The bed of frozen geraniums, Danny, which was underground beneath said Ira gets studio. Go ahead. The bullet, which also grazed the side of Martin Driscoll and was recovered from the woodwork, also was fired from said gun. Conclusion, the hand behind the gun that pulled the trigger that shot Ira gets was also the hand behind the gun that pulled the trigger that nicked Martin Driscoll. Well, get off the dime, Tartagli. What about prints? No prints. Wiped clean. Okay, okay. Guns registry, tell me about them. Foreign mate. Probably a war souvenir. So? So if it was war loop, it was registered, we'll trace it. Well, like we're trying to do now. Was that all? That's all, Danny. That's the news for me, too. Well, great. You did a fine job on my otherwise drab day. Give me a squad card, Tartagli. Yeah. Can I have my cookies now? Didn't you hear me? Give me a squad card. You drive slowly back to Greenwich Village, slowly, because you want to think. But the images of violence dance in your brain and you can't think. You breathe a sharp December wind and it cuts a pain in your lungs and it brings you back. And you know that violence walks the streets of the city. And the shape of violence is weird and grotesque. Stolen designs. A man lying near a piano and the blood flowing out of him. A girl with a scarlet sash deep in the flesh of her throat. And finally you're there to talk to a hysterical girl. And you hope the hysteria is gone because someone, something has to make sense. It's good to have someone to talk to, Mr. Clover. I haven't talked to anyone since, since Tori. How are you, Beth? Are you all right? Sure. Sure, I'm all right. I want to ask you some questions, Beth. Try to answer them as simply as you can. Don't I always, Mr. Clover? I even did the night... what questions? You knew Tori may be better than anyone else. That's the way I knew her, Mr. Clover. Who would want to kill her? I can tell you that. I wanted to kill her. Over and over. How many times I've wanted to do that. Over and over. Why, Beth? Look at me, Mr. Clover. Look at me. Isn't it plain? Isn't it... Go on, Beth. Let it spell out all of it. Everything I ever wanted she had. It's like in the movies, isn't it? The princess and the ugly duckling. Clothes. Presence. Men. Men who called for her, took her out, showed her a good time. What men, Beth? Oh, big men. Important men. Like who? Like... I'm not going to keep it back any longer. I don't okay with anything. He never even looked at me. He called for Tori. I might as well have been the rugger or the floor. He never even looked at me. Who, Beth? Like Lionel Conrad, president of Sterling Incorporated. Even the night Tori was... he hardly spoke. Conrad took Tori out the night she was murdered? Yes. Yes. It's all right if I tell you that, isn't it, Mr. Clover? I don't owe him anything now, do I? Where's your phone, Beth? Over there, under the doll. What'll they do to him, Mr. Clover? Sergeant Tataglia speaking. Danny Tataglia, get Lionel Conrad. Bring him to my office quick. Got that? Yeah, Danny. Lionel Conrad. Your office, quick. Got it. Thank you for bringing me down here, Mr. Clover. You police work just as effectively as we dressmakers. And I want to thank you, Mr. Conrad. This is my opportunity to see you detectives detect at first hand. Nick Carter stuff, huh? Got a shelf full of Nick Carter. Broadens the mind like Latin. I want to ask you some questions. Questions, eh? Fine. Great. Just fire when you're ready. You're married, aren't you, Mr. Conrad? 22 years. How often did you ever date with a model named Tori Jones? Huh? Answer me. Look here. Answer me. What about Tori Jones? I refuse to answer. I know my rights. I've read enough books to know all about her. Me too. I'm going to book you for suspicion of murder. Mr. Clover. Mr. Clover. Yeah? I've got to get out of here. I've got to get out of here. Come here. Sit down. Sit down and talk to me. I said talk. Lionel, a fun-loving Conrad boy. Your plane around doesn't concern me. It's who it was with. Suffers. Shows. That's all we did. Tori and me. Go on. I love beautiful things. Tori. I wouldn't know. She wasn't beautiful when I saw her. Tori. Tori did. Yeah. Who did it? Who did it, Mr. Clover? Did you? Beautiful. Once she kissed me. Why didn't you tell me about Tori before? I couldn't. Don't you see? Nobody likes to get mixed up in a murder, Mr. Conrad. Not even a murderer. My wife. My business. Here. No other way to say it, I guess. Your wife. Your business. The whole thing. 22 years. A mess. I didn't kill her. Maybe. Sure. I can understand why you didn't come to us. As a human being, I can understand that. But I'm a cop. And right now, you're in a lot of trouble. Right now. Yeah, Tartaglia, what is it? Oh, news, Danny. What's in your mind? Come on. We traced the gun. To whom? To this guy right here, Colinell Conrad. Book him. Let me tell you something. Book him for murder. Call the DA. The gun was stolen. It was stolen from me. Get him out of here, Tartaglia. He's for the DA. Come on, you. But the gun was stolen. I didn't do it. I didn't. Why didn't you tell us about the gun? Because of what you're doing to me now, accusing me of murder. What are you trying to say? I knew it was my gun that killed Ira. The description of it was in the newspaper. Why shouldn't I have kept quiet about it? My fingerprints were on it. I haven't got a chance. Come on, Mr. Let's go. Hold it, Tartaglia. What? Bundle Mr. Conrad up and put him in a cab. Send him home, Tartaglia, and charge it to the police department. Now get out of my way. I made a fast exit past Tartaglia's open mouth. Conrad had confessed that his prints were on the gun. His confession saved him. The gun had been wiped clean. Wiped clean before the murder. Because the killer didn't have time to do it after the murder. And that added up to my last call. When I got there, Detective Muggervill was being part of the street scene. He was heaving snowballs at a snowman. I brought him inside the apartment house where it was warm. Danny, I've been watching him all day like you told me. He just came in a little while ago. Yeah. Open up, Driscoll. He's in, okay. I saw him coming a little while ago. Yeah. Come on, Driscoll. Open up. Who is it? Danny Clover. I want to talk to you. I've already talked to me. Go away. Come on. Open it up before I break it down. Should I? What about it, Driscoll? You seem anxious, Mr. Clover. Is it about that murder? About exactly that. Just a second. Watch it, Muggervill. Yeah. He ain't playing. Me either. Driscoll. Have you got him, Danny? Let's go, Muggervill. He ain't. The wind is open over there. Yeah. The fire escape. Pull, Muggervill. Watch the snow. It's slippery. Hey, Driscoll. Come on out with your hands up. Get the f*** out of here, Driscoll. Come on. Driscoll, now we'll talk. Talk away, Mr. Clover. Talk away. It isn't finished between you and me. Not finished. Easy, Driscoll. Easy. I want you to hear what I talk. Every word, every word. That's good, Driscoll. Let's keep it that way. I'll kill you yet, Phil. Like you killed Torrey Jones, like you knocked her out and hung her by the throat. You're dribbling at the mouth, Mr. Clover. You waited for her, didn't you, Driscoll? You saw Conrad leave and you waited, and she saw you and called me. Then you walked in and murdered her. Why would I do that, Mr. Clover? Why? There has to be a motive in murder, doesn't there, Clover? I got that, too. You killed her because you knew. She knew you were stealing designs and peddling over Conrad's competitors. That was easy for you, wasn't it, Driscoll? The important man, the loyal employee, the manager. Yeah, let that a thing, Clover. Who tried to kill me? Who tried to murder me? The man who shot Ira Getz. That was you. I think you're insane, Clover. You asked someone in the office who I was, so you knew it was a policeman telling you to get to his apartment. So you killed Getz because you wanted in on your little larceny. And then you shot yourself and heaved the gun out the window. How do you know that? Because you wore gloves to go to the opera. Only you wore the gloves to hold a gun to kill a man. That's why there were no prints on the gun, none at all. The trick you went on, Danny? Yeah. Yeah, that's how it was, Mr. Clover. Exactly. Put the cops on him, Muggerman. I don't want to hold him anymore. It makes my hands dirty. Okay, Danny. Let go of me, Driscoll. Let go. If you try to shoot me, officer, you'll kill your detective, too. Danny's right. I can't get out of him. Driscoll. All right. I'll let go. Let's get him, Muggerman. Slipped right over the edge. Snow. Yeah, yeah. Let's get out the roof, Muggerman. In the midnight cold, Broadway is a wasteland. A wasteland that echoes with sounds you hear while there's only darkness. But there's no sun. People pass you a new touch. And you look down and there are fingers of dust in your shoulder. It's phantom, but it's real. It's Broadway, the godiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway, My Beat. It's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover and is written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin. The musical score was composed by Alexander Courage and conducted by Wilbur Hatch and the program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. The cast tonight included Charles Calvert, Michael Ann Barrett, Virginia Gregg, Ed Begley, Elliot Reed, Jay Novello and Jack Krushen. Looking for new fields to conquer, Jack Benny will take a look at Notre Dame football tomorrow night. For Notre Dame's brilliant coach, Frank Leahy will be Jack's guest. And who knows, Jack may end up as Nickelback next season. Mary, Dennis, Don, Phil and Rochester will also be in the lineup. So don't miss Jack Benny's show with Frank Leahy as guest on all of these same CBS stations tomorrow night. Stay tuned now for Sing It Again, which follows immediately on most of these same CBS stations. The Sing It Again gang will be here with famous tuneful riddle songs that total up to $55,000 in prizes. This is CBS, where you'll find Broadway is my beat every Saturday night. The Columbia Broadcasting System.