 Broadway's my beat from Time Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway's my beat with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. In the first week of the new year, Broadway has beside itself with promises. The new leaves have been turned over, the resolutions made, the wife has been kissed in the morning. It's the time of only one martini before dinner, the high protein diet, and let the blonde stroll by without lifting your hat. Also it's the week of the clearance sales, good slightly handled and non-returnable, but at a bargain. So buy something, live it up, it's 1952, the year the boat will come in, it's got to be the year. In the corridor where I was, the new year was a thing that came and went, paced off with the quiet steps of nurses, the corridor of routine and pain, emergency hospital. Danny, you got here fast Danny. What's the trouble Dr. Sinski? Come on. Report that came with the man said his name was John Dobson. Can he talk? No. How bad is he? Well, I'm doing everything I can, in here. One thing, he's not in any pain. There's the report over on the table with his effects. John Dobson, Park Avenue address, found in Kamato's condition in a park car in East River Drive. Motor's still running, 8.20 p.m. 40 minutes ago Danny. What's the matter with him Doctor? Poison. Uh huh. Carrying a lot of money, over $300 in his wallet. I've got saliva samples down in the lab Danny. Until then I have to treat symptoms. You can't tell what kind of poison, you may be self-administered. I doubt it. You ever hear of anybody drinking poison and going for a car ride? I'd say the man was driving when the poison hit him, pulled over to the side. That's your business. Pardon me Danny, I've got mine to do. The shadows gather, wait on the edge of the circle of light that is a yellowing barrier against them, holding from them the man, locking from them his life. The shadows wait for a night's decision to be made. The beggars of darkness eager for the handout of death, working quietly within the fortress of light, Dr. Sinski, aware of the hunger of shadows, moving quickly against them to deny them a man's dying. Watch it, then leave them alone with it. They own out of the Park Avenue address of John Dobson. Be told that his wife is at home, ascend to the 30th floor apartment. How clear does it have to be before it penetrates? There's no one home. The woman's anger tears that her heavily creamed face, intensifies the smallness of her eyes. The only color, the pale thin lips like an old scar. Get out before I have you thrown out. I'm from the police Mrs. Dobson. I don't care who you are, you've no right to come here to wake me, to make me show myself this way. Your husband's in the police emergency hospital. He's been poisoned. Come in. You could have phoned, you know. That's true. We could have. And you wouldn't have seen me like this, in the way you're privileged. Few men have ever seen me in this... even John, he has his own bedroom. Maybe it didn't register, Mrs. Dobson. I said your husband has been poisoned. He's in the police emergency hospital. Of course I'll go to him. If that's what you're implying. If you'd only phoned, I could have worn a proper... Oh, now I just have to throw on the first thing that... how bad is it? He's dying. The blow that crushes you, save for a finish right between the eyes. Is that how it's done? It crushes you? I love him. That answer your foolish question? He was found in a parked car alone. You know where he was before that, Mrs. Dobson? With me. We had a candlelight dinner here in the apartment. Over a dessert he kissed me, full on the lips. Said he had to go out for the evening. It was hours ago. Did he tell you where he was going? He whispered it against my ear. To his old friend, Floyd Gilmore. John and he exchanged old school ties for Christmas. Where do I find him? Floyd? He has a devastating little flat in Gramercy Park. Done in bachelor's souvenirs. The longer you keep me, the longer it'll take me to get to John's side. I'll drive you down, Mrs. Dobson. I want to be lovely for him. That'll take a while. So you won't bother waiting, will you? Of course you won't. Yes, what is it? Your name, Floyd Gilmore? I'm Danny Clover, police. You might have come in. Well, what for? It's about John Dobson, I understand. What about John? Something's happened to him. He might die. Yeah, you better come in. In here. He might die? He's been poisoned. He was found a while ago in his car. John? I just talked to his wife. She said he'd been with you. Uh, John never got here. Well, it's a matter, don't you believe me? What was he coming to see you about? I asked you something, don't you believe me? I told you John never got here. I told you something, too. He was coming over to see me, that's all. What for? To borrow a book? Play chess? What? You can take fingerprints, mister. I'm telling you, John wasn't here. That's going to be pretty tough to prove, Mr. Gilmore. John Dobson had plenty of time to be here, be poisoned, and leave. Be poisoned? You mean be murdered? If John Dobson dies, it'll be murder. I'll tell you why he came here. Came here? You said he didn't. All right, so I got mixed up. I got a quirk. I get my conjugations mixed when I'm under mental stress. Well, you want to listen to me or you want to call me a liar and arrest me? Do what you want, mister. Go ahead and tell me your story. I had a friend I wanted John to meet. Mind if I ask why? John doesn't get along with his wife. She didn't approve of his outside interest. You were going to introduce him to an outside interest? Well, this girl is this friend of mine. He's a nice kid. Same kind of personality as John. Oh? That's right. Pretty? Sure. John was, well, fetching's the word. Not as pretty as Edna. Not nearly as pretty as John's wife. What? You could never understand that about John. A beautiful wife like Edna, all her dough. Why, he had so many outside interests. Why, you should... Where do I find this friend of yours? Elizabeth? At the new Howard Hotel. Ask for Isabelle Martin, mister. Oh, and tell her I'm sorry. Tell her we couldn't make it tonight. The new Howard Hotel. A discreet brownstone in the discreet east sixties, designed to recall the foamy days of Victorian elegance. The reproductions of antique hitching posts, standing in frozen wonder at the sleek and snarling eight-cylinder beasts flotting their chrome. And the lobby hung with maroon velvet, its frayed tassels swaying gently over simulated marble, and presiding over it a frocked man savoring a well-thumbed pocket edition of Charles Dickens. Take courage by the hand, break through the mists of old lavender, dare to ask him for Isabelle Martin. The consequence is no more than a compassionate smile, a whispered room number, and a ride in a self-service elevator hung with the framed messages of beauty salons and credit dentistry. The elevator finally ascends to the heights of the fifth floor. Footsteps in the hall. I open my door and let out a call. Hi, John. Not John. I'm from the police, Miss Martin. Police? Floyd said he'd send me John. He sends me you. Good old Floyd. Well, good old Floyd. I want to scratch his face. Let's go inside, Miss Martin. That's a lovely idea. Lovelyest idea of the century. Let's everybody go inside. Let's everybody have a drink. Yes. Take a sip of mine. I was saving it for John, baby. He won't be here. All right for him. You take a sip of mine, baby. You think you can understand what I'm going to tell you, Miss Martin? The things this girl understands. I'm not as gone as all that, mister. Lonesome little drinky while waiting clears the brain. So tell me. John Dobson is dying. He was poisoned. That's why he stood me up, huh? Because he's dying. You waited for him. He never showed up, is that it? That's it. Do you mind if I look around? Love it. Love it. Note the tasteful arrangement. There's another glass here on the night table. Part of a drink in it. That's where it's been hiding. Tell me a lonesome little drinky. I put you down and forgot all about you, didn't I? I poured myself a new one all the time. Lonesome little baby. Pardon me, Dinky. Phone's ringing. Hi, then. Hello. This was Isabelle. For you, mister. Danny Clover speaking. Dr. Sinski, Danny. Get down here. There's nothing more I can do for him. Right away, doctor. Get me an empty bottle, Miss Martin. I want to take your forgotten drink with me. Empty? I got a life full of him, mister. Take your pick. Dr. Sinski, how is he, doctor? Not a chance. Mrs. Dobson, Danny. She's in there with him. It's such a time. You better leave them alone. Did he talk? Say anything? Once. For a second, Danny opened his eyes and said his wife's name. Said Edna. Said my beautiful wife, Edna. Beautiful? Even in all her grief, I caught myself staring at her, watching her. Look. Look at her. Even in all her grief. The circle of shadows was around them. Around a man and his wife. The man with pale death at his cheek. The woman luminous. The face touched with infinite sadness of infinite loveliness. The tear at her eye's edge not falling, but held there. The small glistening of despair. Johnny. Johnny. John. Dear. Johnny. He's dead. It's my beat written by Morton Fein and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as detective, Danny Clover. Two of our CBS Radio gals are at opposite extremes intellectually. Marie Wilson is empty-headed, my friend Irma. And Eve Arden is English teaching, our Miss Brooks. But in spite of this difference, Irma Peterson and Connie Brooks have two things in common. They're both funny, and they're both yours to laugh at of these same CBS radio stations Sunday evenings. Enjoy them both tomorrow night. Not only so many of its night times, Broadway has already used them, drained them of their neon, their glitter, their anguish. Broadway takes its place in line to wait for the new fallings of darkness as it did on the fading edge of this nighttime that had come like other Broadway nights. It sparked a spectacular as in a winking light. It opened corridors for solitude to walk. It carried on its wind laughter and shock. And Broadway stands dazed and still waiting for this night to end. Where I was the night wouldn't depart because it must linger on the face of a woman on its beauty, on the tear that held the grief for her dead husband. It must listen close because her weeping is gentle, distant. Mrs. Dobson. Mrs. Dobson, you... Don't look at me. Don't dare look at me. I'll take you home. There's no need. I'll manage. If you want to lie down and need something, the matron... You have a dressing room? What? A room. Something with a mirror in it. A brightly lit mirror. I suppose there's one somewhere in... I shock you, Mr. Clover. I shock you because I insist on being beautiful even while Johnny lies dead. Is that something awful for a woman to want? To be beautiful for her dead husband? I don't know. You know it now, Mr. Clover. You've seen me ugly and you've seen me like this. The lovely one is the woman Johnny knew. The woman Johnny saw when he died. There was never any other. You understand that, Mr. Clover? I think so. Good. Now leave me alone with him, will you please? I mean alone. No gratuitous sympathizers. No one to see me with tears on my face. Alone. To you, Danny, a good, good morning. You slumbered well in the land and nod, I hope. Oh, that's a good, you know. I didn't get home from the hospital until late. When I finally got to bed... Well, here's something that'll revive an otherwise drab day, Danny. Surprise. Electric fan? What for? Startles you, huh? The self-same fan you commissioned me to have repaired last July. I saved the department money. All fixed and ready to go. To Witt. Like Miami. This is the same... The same fan by which we have called other names. Bout a corn a pot to the quick and revived by me, Geno Tartaglia, plus the proto-tools Mrs. T slipped into my galoshes for Christmas. Professional, huh? Feel the breeze. It's January, Geno, turn it off. Geno? Yeah. Any other puttering you'd like to have done around here? Just... What are the word about the medical examiner's report? Roger. John Dobson did indeed die from a poison which Dr. Sinski did label as being of the alkaloid family. Specific poison and time taken will not be known until autopsy is performed on the vital organs. What else have you got? Some background material on Mr. and Mrs. John Dobson dug out by obediently yours and the good detective Muggevin. If you please. Indeed. Mr. Dobson lived by no visible means of support. Nice house. Nice clothes. No job. Prior to his exchanging marriage vows with Mrs. Dobson, he lived off handouts from friends. Go on. Mr. Dobson did attach himself and married Mrs. Dobson while she was still in with those weeks. Oh? Hadn't Dobson was married before? To a Timothy French deceased. What did Mr. French die of, Geno? Could you find that out? I did. I did. From an accident. Mr. French was a wheelchair case from his youth. Three years after his marriage to his wife, he had a misfortune, fell out of his chair down the steps. And Mrs. Dobson inherited it as a state, isn't it? Wait a minute, Danny. I'll look in these reports just a second. Never mind, Geno. Put them on my desk. You did real fine today. Just wait till July when you can enjoy that fan, Danny. The nice things you'll say about me. And study the reports the sergeant leaves on your desk. Find that the widow of Timothy French had inherited $250,000, more than half of it in insurance. Find the name of the insurance broker who had handled it. Jonathan Harvey, 12 Broad Street. Go to him. Talk to him. Let me make my puny attempt at trying to understand you, Mr. Clover. Go right ahead. I'll have to block it out on this scratch pad. Now, let's see. Under a general heading, we have your reinvestigation of the death of Timothy French and his first husband. That's right. Then draw a line and underneath your reasons for doing so. What shall we put down, Mr. Clover? Mrs. Darbson's second husband died last night of alkaloid poisoning. Newspapers added at great length. I read the head, ah-ha! I see what you're after, Mr. Clover. Thank you. Now I can fill in this side. Here, we have death of husband number one. Here, death of number two in the short space of two years. Hmm. Interesting. I'm glad you agree. However, I'm afraid that's as far as it goes, Mr. Clover. Oh, tell me why. Perhaps you don't know that my company conducted a most thorough rundown on Mr. French's death. Found it accidental. Though I am an insurance man, Mr. Clover, I am also a friend. Huh? Friend, a confidant to all my clients. As I was to Tim French. As I would be to you. You knew him well? My dear young man, I nurtured his romance with Edna. How did you do that? Edna was a teller at the Ruxton Bank on Wall. One day, I wheeled him along with me. Well, I made a deposit for him. And that's where he met Edna Dobson in the bank. She was plain then. Thoughtless fellow could call her ugly. And Tim was a, forgive the word, a cripple. Unwanted people. They meet sometimes, fall in love and get married. Then one of them dies in a fall. There you go again beating your head against a blank wall. It's useless, Mr. Clover. We spent thousands of dollars proving it to ourselves. Tim died accidentally. So leave there and decide a thing. Mrs. Edna Dobson, ex-bank clerk, widowed twice, was a woman you wanted to talk to again. Go to her apartment house. She's not the home you're told by a maid who opened the door for you and got right down on her knees again to dust. Where is she? She's going to a funeral tomorrow so she's gone to the beauty parlor naturally. Which one? Lawson's naturally. So thank the maid who waved her feather duster goodbye to you and go to Lawson's and meet another woman, dressed fashionably clinical in a white jersey uniform who sits behind a desk and asks questions. You a husband? No, I'm afraid not. I want to see you. Oh, my friend, eh? Who we got under the dryer belongs to you. I want to see Mrs. Dobson. What have you been doing all morning, man? Mrs. Dobson's been here since nine. Facials, hair set, contouring, refinishing, re-weaving, everything on the menu, and you walk in just as she walks out. I don't envy you. Oh, why? If you're a fellow who's going to help her through this bereavement, frankly, I don't envy you. Frankly, you don't look as if you can afford it. I'd get fired if Mind Here Lawson knew I was talking like this. Mind Here is Dutch, you know. No, I didn't. But I like your face to be blunt. Mostly because I like men's faces and I hate to see them be suckered. The dough that Edna Dobson spends on lotions and contours and facials since the first day she came in here. When was that? I remember because when she stepped in here, Mind Here said, I accept the challenge. Her first husband's funeral was at noon. Her appointment was at four. And since then she spent a lot of money on it. Not only with us. Take a walk down the street to Rexford's. Find out the dough she spends there on clothes to make her look of the form divine. But believe me, save yourself the walk. I know. Well, I want to thank you for all you've done for me. Not that I dislike Mrs. Dobson, you understand. Just that I like to be frank. Understand what I mean? Oh, Mrs. Dobson, come in. Sit down. Sit down. Here? This is police headquarters, Mrs. Dobson. Tax payers don't furnish this with upholstered furniture. It's so dusty. Oh, Detective Margaret. Uh-huh. Now you can sit down, Mrs. Dobson. Thank you. And I want to thank you for coming down here to see me. Did I have a choice? Well, I didn't want to barge in on you again. I know like you like to ready yourself before you meet people. Thank you again. Very considerate. Uh, I was telling Mrs. Dobson out in the hall how nice I thought she looked after all she's been through. He's right, Mrs. Dobson. You do look very lovely. Thank you. Why did you ask me to come here? Well, I have a few things I want to talk to you about. I see. We were surprised to hear you'd been married once before, Mrs. Dobson. What of it? I think it's important that we should know about your first husband. No, what about him? How he died. He died four years ago. He fell down the steps in his wheelchair. Did you push him? I'm sure there's nothing else you want to say to me. Did you push him, Mrs. Dobson? For your information, the insurance adjusters asked me the same thing. If they hadn't reached the conclusion that it was an accident, would I be here? Sit down, Mrs. Dobson. Close the door and sit down. This will only take a few moments. Thank you. Why did your Mr. Muggevin ask me that question? Well, you don't have to ask him, Mrs. Dobson. Ask me. I'll tell you why. Because his death left you a rich woman. Then by your reasoning, every woman who inherits money is a murderer. You met your first husband while you were a teller in a bank, didn't you? How did you meet your second husband, Mrs. John Dobson? Shall I tell you? If you don't mind, Mrs. Dobson. I was eating salted peanuts in a bar. He sent over a note and a bottle of wine. Who paid for the wine? What? Lieutenant asked you who paid for the wine. Who do you think paid for it? I doubt whether Mr. Dobson did. He was pretty broke from what I could find out. That's right. He was broke. I love it. I fell in love with him. Not right away, but eventually I fell in love with him. Mr. Dobson was a good-looking man. I imagine a lot of women fell in love with him. But I married him. When did you find out he was running around with other women, Mrs. Dobson? He's dead. Leave him alone. Lieutenant asked you, Mrs. Dobson, when did you find out about his wife? Leave him alone. Leave him alone. Did he start taking interest in other women when he barged in on you one day like I did and saw you like I did? What difference does it make? Here's the way we figure, Mrs. Dobson. I know what you think. You think I killed my first husband and you think I killed Johnny. I don't think we'll ever know about your first husband unless you want to tell us. It was an accident. Here's the way we figure, Mrs. Dobson. Your first husband died and you came into all that money. With money, you can make yourself beautiful. Beauty salons, custom dresses, the works. The way you always wanted to be. Isn't that right, Lieutenant? Then you met a handsome man, a man who believed you were beautiful, John Dobson. He married you. He had no job. He lived off you. You were satisfied with that as long as he believed you were lovely. She is lovely. I don't care what you say. Then he changed. He started to go around with other women. You couldn't tolerate that. You poisoned him. You ever see a woman who could wear clothes like her? No. No, I haven't. The way she does her hair, yeah. Beautiful. You think so? The reporters will think so, too. The photographers, too. The pictures of you in all the papers. All your exclusive clothes. Every woman in the city will be jealous. Just when women look at me, I can tell what they're thinking. They are jealous. They'll be interviewed and understand. All the men, the women. The women crowding the courtroom to get one peek at you. I killed them. I killed both of them. Will the reporters be here soon? Broadway's sleeping now. The furious avenue of the night is still. It stretches out in front of you. Without beginning, without end. The dumping ground of refuse and ashes and leftovers. The neon words have turned off. But look there. Where the sidewalk meets the street. It's your name. Written on water. It's Broadway. The gaudiest. The most violent. The lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway. My Beat. Tomorrow night, the gal who made good Tuesday nights, Audrey Totter as Millie joins the Sunday lineup on most of these same stations. Yes, from now on, you can meet Millie and all her hilarious friends, too. Sunday nights on CBS Radio. On the more serious side, tomorrow marks the debut of The People Act, CBS Radio's new series about community problems solved by American communities. You'll find out more about it. You'll find The People Act a fascinating, rewarding experience every Sunday night on CBS Radio, starting tomorrow night. Phil Anders speaking, and remember, those lovable rascals Amos and Andy are here every Sunday on the CBS Radio Network.