 A startled corpse, a blue-eyed woman, and a cryptic message scrawled by a dying man. For the pieces of a Chinese puzzle that wouldn't fit together. Until I found out what was deadly about the Orange Dog. From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character, as CBS presents... The Adventures of Philip Marlowe. And now, with Gerald Moore, starred as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story, The Orange Dog. By six in the evening of a very slow day, I'd resigned myself to the business of no business. So I took my feet down from my desk, switched off the lights and started out the door for home with the prospect of a nice quiet evening ahead of me. But I didn't make it, even as far as the door. Hello, Philip Marlowe. Marlowe, my name is Shelley Martin. I'm at 8412 Los Feliz, a private residence. I want you to come out here right away. My sister is in a jam, a nasty one. Well, Miss Martin, as a matter of fact, I was just closing up for the night. Look, you! I need the services of a private detective right now this minute. And I'm prepared to pay for them. There are plenty of others in town. Are you coming or not? Yeah, yeah, okay. And thanks for the reminder. That's me, you hear, sprinting up your front walk. That's much better. And Marlowe, bring your brains along. You're going to need them. And that was the end of my quiet evening. But I just couldn't resist those government engravings of Mr. Lincoln. So I drove down to Weston, turned off on Los Feliz, and found the number 8412. The yard was an overgrown tangle of perennial plants losing their battle with the weeds. It was like a girl in a strapless evening gown with her hair up in curlers. However, I could see a light through the Venetian blinds and the doorbell worked with a resonant two-tone chime that caused the door to open just far enough to allow a pair of eyes so blue they were almost purple to peek out at me. Yes, what is it? I'm delivering that private detective you ordered. Oh, Marlowe, come in. Thanks. Sit down, won't you? Thanks again. All right, what's the next move? It's about my kid's sister. She's involved with a man named Lou Horner, a San Francisco broker. She's quite deeply involved, I'm afraid. Oh? You see, some very strange things are going on, Marlowe, and my sister is a naive kid caught right in the middle of them. Yeah, I see. What sort of strange things, Miss Martin? Shelly. Sweet. Well, to begin with, when I arrived from San Francisco today, my sister called me and asked me to meet her here in this house. When I got here, the lights were on, the radio was playing, and the front door was open, but the place was deserted. Whose house is it, Horner's? No, I think she said it belongs to a friend of his who's in Europe now. Horner, a person, uses it when he's in Los Angeles. Well, couldn't they have stepped out for a while? Mm-mm. You know, you don't look the type, Shelly, but maybe you're just panicking, huh? No, I'm not being panicky. All right, all right. Where's the nasty jam? Right behind the couch. Take a look. Okay. But you know, I... Oh. I see what you mean. Who is he, Shelly? How'd he get here? Maybe it's Horner, I don't know. I tried to search him, but I couldn't. Mm-hmm. Well, it wouldn't have helped anyway. I never shot him, cleaned him out. No wallet, no papers, nothing. I found this magazine lying under his hand. Look here. Mm-hmm. He must have written this just before he died. Where's that? Here. Oh, oh. It says, call Marion tonight about the orange dog of foe. Orange dog of foe. For what? That's why I called you, Phil. Marion is my sister. And whatever the orange dog of foe is, it must be awfully important. We've got to find out what it means, Phil, for Marion's sake. So far it means murder, honey, and that's for the cost. No. Well, all right, call them. But keep Marion's name out of it. A thing like this could destroy her. Well, look, maybe she pulled a trigger on our friend here. Maybe, but I don't think so. She's a sweet kid, Phil. Give her a break. If I'm wrong, I swear I'll help you bring her in myself. Is that fair enough? OK, Shelly, it's a deal. It makes just as much sense as the orange dog of foe, but no more. After I checked as far as I could on my client and set her home, which was to the Villa 12 at the Wilshire Gardens Hotel, I ripped the general squeegee tire out with a message scribbled across it out of the magazine, folded it up, and stuck it in my pocket. Next I called Lieutenanty Borre at homicide and told him where I'd found a body, probably named Lou Horner, leaving out all the details about Shelly, Marion, and the orange dog. Then I started out the door, but ducked back as a shadow had slid across the walk. I caught a glimpse of a large, ugly head of long, dirty hair sent on a small, ugly body that was moving fast. By the time I got out on the walk, long hair was already putting mileage on a green coop with a broken tail light. It winked mockingly as it went out of sight. So I got in my car and headed for New Chinatown. It was the logical place to get some information regarding a Chinese dog. I saw a light filtering through a bingey window. Illuminating the words James Tang, dealer in Oriental Curios. Inside the musty shop a little man dressed in a black kimono drifted forward softly. Yes. I, uh, think perhaps you can help me, huh? I am honored to be able to help who bring fragrance of plum blossoms to my nostrils, carpet of rose petals to my humble floor, and a thousand blessings to the world. Oh, that's very pretty. Tell me, what is the dog of foe? The dog of foe? Why, why this? This fantastic creature here is called the dog of foe. His fierce eyes and snarling mouth are to frighten away evil spirits from temples of Buddha. Why do you say called the dog of foe? Amateur collectors and auctioneers have named him that. It sounds exactly like the dog of foe. It sounds exotic to cash customers. Actually, he is a lion. The lion of Korea. I see. Tang, would you happen to have an orange dog of foe? There is strange that you should ask that, my friend. Strange why? Reason number one. There is no authentic orange dog of foe. That's a good reason, why not? Because to Buddhists, orange is color of sorrow. The piece you speak of could not possibly be authentic. What's reason number two? You are second person to inquire after this non-existent orange dog of foe within the last few minutes. Was it an ugly little man with long hair? Quite contrary. It was very pretty girl with short hair. Was her name Marion? She made point of not leaving her name. Now that proves something. However, my friend, all Chinese proverb loosely translated says a little knowledge is the instrument of a fool. There were nine other curio shops in the neighborhood so I started making their rounds for the non-existent orange dog of foe and a girl who was interested in one. From the first three shops I got a fast horse laugh and the fact that the girl was still ahead of me. The next two netted an insult of peace and a total blank on the dame. And from the sixth call of Saxons, a glossy, well-ordered place on West 7th Street, the only effect was a coldly curious raised eyebrow. A man in front of me whom I took to be Mr. Saxon himself was a gaunt white Russian with a high-naked head the color of warm paraffin. The slender fingers played nervously with each other as we talked. The orange dog of foe. Yes, I have heard of such a piece. I think it would be porcelain. Probably. This is your business. Who has it, Mr. Saxon? Can you tell me? No, no, I'm sorry. I believe I have heard this orange dog mentioned just once somewhere down in the village. But I'm sure I could never remember who spoke of it or when. Oh, no idea of its value then, huh? Now that you mention it, I seem to remember the figure 20,000. You mean yen? How much in American money? I am speaking of American money. It would be an importation from China, you know. How could it be worth that much? It's not even authentic, Mr. Saxon. Authentic. You seem to know a good deal more than I about this orange dog. Possibly one would have to see it to appreciate its value. Yeah. Tell me, has a girl been in here tonight looking for this orange dog? A girl? I know. Now, anybody name Marion? Marion, Marion. No, there is no one in my acquaintance by that name. But why do you ask? Because Marion has quite an interest in the orange dog. I have a feeling they'd make a great team if we could get them together. I see. And what is your name, sir? Not Fumanchou, Mr. Saxon. Good night. Saxon's expression didn't change. I turned and walked out of the place and then because with both of us using double talk, the conversation was bounded deteriorate. At least I had found out that the orange dog of foe existed and was going for a very high figure, especially for a phony. And it didn't take enough backers to figure out that Saxon knew more than he told me. Well, I started up the sidewalk to the next brick of Brackenporium when I saw something parked on the side street which brought me to a halt. It was that green coop with the broken taillight. I went over to it, found it empty and stuck my head inside to check the registration card for Longhair's real name. Yeah, it was a very foolish move because Longhair at that very moment prodded my kidney with a muzzle of a 38 and neither he nor the gun had a sense of humor. All right, Mr. Wise Guy, come on, walk. You and me are gone up the alley here. It's a matter, don't you feel at home in the light? Shut up, I don't like you much anyway, so you'd better ease off with a smart science. Okay, this one's far enough. Well, Mr. Wise Guy, did you find what you're looking for? You mean the orange dog, shorty? The answer's no. The orange dog? So that's where the plates are. What plates? You're working for a horner. You don't know what plates. Look, Chum, when you get your next haircut, have your brains dusted off. Nobody works for a horner anymore. A horner's dead. Yeah, since when? What's a surprise act for? You saw the body you were sneaking around that house on Los Feliz. In fact, you might have killed Horner yourself. That body was in a horner where a horner is three times the size of that guy on Los Feliz. He's bald. Also, he's so dumb he can't remember his own phone number. Oh, holy. I'm looking for Old Bear Street where they sell those incholars. I'm sorry, gentlemen, I don't want your shirt. Hey, quiet, I'll blow your brain shirt. All right, now come on, Mr. Wise Guy, tell me what Horner's got on his mind. You know all right. I saw you taking orders from his girl. You mean Shelly Martin? Who else? Thought maybe you meant Marion. Marion? Who's Marion? Shelly Martin's sister, and don't let her worry. Marion's got the orange dog eating out of her hand. I don't say. It ain't funny, mister. It's just peculiar. Because Shelly Martin don't have a sister, I know. So it seems like you're a very mixed up character. In fact, Mr. Wise Guy, you're so mixed up, you're no good to me at all. So get over there with the rest of that... I took my time getting up. The dirty, long-haired little man was gone, and my head ached from the rapid giving me with a pistol barrel. And I was disgusted with myself. Dry, dirty disgusted like a drunk at sunrise because a nasty little jerk with an oversized head and a blue eyed dynamo with all-burnt hair had me jumping through hoops like a trained ape. I stood in the alley and swore at myself until the futility of that routine dawned on me. Then I decided to go hunting. But I made one stop first at a telephone to at least get a bar off my conscience. Mahalo, Lieutenant, I just found out that buddy on Lost Fields isn't Horner. I knew that an hour ago. The boy was a treasury agent named Slade who was closing in on Horner. So if you've got anything you haven't told, you better get it off your chest. At this point, it's a pleasure. A girl named Shelly Martin's calling the signals about now, and she can be found at Villa 12, Wilshire Gardens Hotel. Yeah, hurry, you'll just about meet me there, Ibarra. No, wait, first. That's a switch. I'll follow in half an hour. Let's not freeze her up, Mahalo. Okay, Ibarra, that's easy for her. She's got a forked tongue. Only this time it's going to wag strictly on the straight and narrow, I guarantee it. In just a moment, we will return to the second act of the adventures of Philip Marlowe. But first, it's no mystery that hunger and cold confront many families abroad this winter. Care will help feed and clothe these needy people. Care, the safe, sure non-profit way to send supplies to Europe and Asia. A check to care for $10 will send a 21-and-a-half pound 41,000-calorie food package, or a baby food package, or a layout, or a baby blanket package, or material for clothing. Care guarantees delivery. You get a signed receipt that your package has reached its destination. Write your check tonight. Mail it first thing in the morning to Care C-A-R-E 50 Broad Street, New York City. And now, with our star Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe, and tonight's story, The Orange Dog. I pointed my car toward the Wilshire Gardens in a beautiful liar named Shelly Martin. I was sure of two things. The plates that Longhair had wise-cracked about just before he piled me into a row of garbage cans were the engraved kind that counterfeiters used to make money the easy way. And second, both Longhair and Lou Horner were racing for the plates as well as the Orange Dog, which could be one and the same thing. But 20 minutes later, as I pulled up near Villa 12, which were strips of yellow light, raised voices drifting out of half-open Venetian blinds, I forgot about the gentleman involved and concentrated on a lady who didn't have a sister called Marion. I went around to the back of the villa where I found the service door unlocked in the kitchen beyond dark. And when I entered and quietly moved to a spot near the living room where I could see Shelly snapping at a pompous, excitable man with a red face, I figured that little leaves dropping might pay off. I'm here in Los Angeles. Is there anything wrong with that Mr. Horner? Yes, everything. Why, I wouldn't even have known you were in town if I hadn't gone back to the place in Los Feliz where I saw you and some man having a delightful little chit-chat over the body of that tea man. Treasury man? Yes. Is that who he was? A meddle, some fool I caught snooping through my papers. Then... then you killed him, Lou. Of course I killed him. I had to. Now stop asking questions and get out of here because this is business, not pleasure, Shelly, and that leaves no room for you. Or Marion. What do you know about Marion? Not enough. But what I do know I don't like. Look, Lou, who is Marion and what does she mean to you? Marion means money to me, Shelly. Nothing more. So just leave me alone here so that I can make a call according to schedule. A call about... Lou. What's the matter, Shelly? Behind you, Lou. They're in the garden. Lou! The crash through a closed window didn't stop until it got to Horner who grabbed his chest and dropped to the floor even before the glass quit flying. By the time I got outside to where the shot had come from, I found nothing but a little wind rustling a lot of trees. When I got back to Shelly in the blood of a tweet on the carpet, Horner was already dead. Marlowe. Marlowe, the man out there was Henry Peel. Peel? Something in long hair and dirty clothes? Yes, I met him in Horner's office once. Lou said he was a broker from Chicago. Come on, both Peel and Horner are counterfeiters. What? Lou, a counterfeiter? That's right. Never mind the carefully arched eyebrows. Honey, they mean nothing. But Marlowe, I swear I never knew that Horner was anything but a broker. A broker maltreating poor sister, Marion? You're a liar, Shelly. About Marion, yes. I haven't even got a sister. But from there on out, I'm telling the truth, Phil. Then tell some more and fast. All right, here it is. Lou Horner's been my boyfriend. And checkbook? For the past year and a half. But about a month ago, he suddenly stopped being very attentive. And I couldn't figure out why. So you decided to keep your big blue eyes wide open, huh? Exactly. And it paid off. Because I found out that, one, he had taken better than $20,000 out of his bank account. Two, that he was coming down here to Los Angeles. And three, then an item named Marion might be beating your time. Yes. And that part of it upset me plenty. Until ten minutes ago. But then I found out that Horner here was a murderer. And that, Marlowe, I don't buy. Three cheers for the all-American girl. Oh, skip it, Marlowe. I'll live my way. You live yours. Don't worry, honey. I'll have to change places with you. Hey. Hey, look. Why does Horner wear a little rubber band on his little finger, do you know? Oh, he had a bad memory. He used every kind of gadget in the books to keep himself from forgetting things, especially numbers. Oh. For example, that rubber band might mean ten o'clock. How do you figure? Like five and five. The fingers on each hand, reading from left to right. He used things like that. Oh. Wait a minute. Mm-hmm. Horner was going to make a call to Marion just now. And the message the tea man left was... Call Marion tonight about... About the orange dog of foal. Shelly, baby, where's your phone? Fast. Come on. It's quarter after ten already. It was out there in the hall, Marlowe. What are you talking about? A line, honey. A line on your ex-sister, Marion. Lou Horner, Mr. Saxon. I know I'm some 15 minutes late with his call, but I'd still like to see you about the orange dog of foal. Certainly, Mr. Horner. Good. I'll be right over. Marlowe, who is Mr. Saxon? A man very close to a lot of trouble, Shelly. Now, look, you wait right here for the law, and, in particular, one Lutennedy borough. Tell him nothing but the truth about Horner and what he meant to you in dollars and cents, and you may be all right. But where are you going, Marlowe? To a curio shop on West 7th Street to see, among other things, the orange dog of foal. You are the Mr. Horner who called? Yeah, yeah. Also, the one who was here this afternoon, you remember? Oh, yeah. Well, I'm sorry I didn't call you at ten, Mr. Saxon, according to schedule. I hope it hasn't inconvenienced you. No, that's quite all right, Mr. Horner. One moment, sir. Ah. What's the matter? Is anything wrong tonight? You seem on edge, Mr. Saxon. I am. So please, Mr. Horner, don't make a single stupid move. What? Wait a minute. Why the gun, Mr. Saxon? I promise not to bite the orange dog. You won't even touch the orange dog. Now, who are you? No, we've been all through that. I'm Horner, Saxon, Lou Horner of San Francisco. No, you're not. Horner would have had no reason to wander around curio shops as you did this afternoon, asking any and everybody about the orange dog. Now, once more, who are you and where is the real Lou Horner? All right, we'll take him in that order. I'm a private detective named Phillip Marlowe and Lou Horner's a corpse. But also, I'm a good friend of yours, Saxon, because I'm going to give you a little bit of advice for free. Call it quits, buster, you're licked. What are you talking about, Marlowe? A tea for a treasury man named Slade before he died. Saxon, he talked. I see. And believe me, he said, enough to put you away till orange dogs are as popular as lifesavers. What do you say, Saxon, that we play it smart? Very well, Marlowe. We will play it smart. My kind of smart. Now, turn around and walk through that curtain there. I want to show you some. Orange dog, maybe? Yes. The orange dog of four. I want you to see it for yourself before you die. Saxon said, die like it already happened. After he relieved me of the comforting bulge of the gun in my pocket and marched me to a large windowless room that was a little darker than the lining of an eight ball, he told me to stand very still. And he turned on a single lamp that rested on a large scarred table. And next to it an ordinary shipping crate and cushioned on all sides my white wrapping paper. I finally saw the orange dog of four. It was a porcelain lion, pop-eyed and majestic in a crazy way. And also it was colored orange bright and clear. But now that I'd seen it, I knew it would be. Next move was Saxon's. I turned to face him. It was then that I noticed the black curtain behind him move slightly. And long hair quietly stepped into the room. This, Mr. Saxon, did not know about. Well, Marlow, now that you have seen the orange dog for your first and last time, what do you think of it? He thinks it's just Jim Daddy, Mr. Now drop your gun before I blow the top of your head off. Go on, drop it. It's better. Now sit down there and stay put. You and Marlow get across the room. Okay. Thanks for showing up, Peele. Before Saxon here ran out of small jokes. Okay, yourself, Marlow. I didn't just show up. I've been right behind you all the way. That's how I work. So what do you want, Peele? A couple of very fine and gray plates that I've been after for six months now. Plates which could be in the orange dog of four? No place else but. What do you think that maybe the late Mr. Horner wanted is an ornament? But that's all it is. There are no plates in the orange dog. They collect those items. And you're a liar, Saxon. And I know the best way to prove that. Marlow, pick that thing up and toss it against the wall. No, no, no. I tell you there's nothing in it. Boss at Marlow, go on. Okay, Peele. Ah. Now we'll see who's right about the plates being hit. Nothing, huh, Peele? Nothing. All right, Saxon, get up. I want to know what a plate saw, so I'm going to count to three. That's how long you have to live if you don't tell me. No, no. Peele, believe me, there are no plates. What? Oh. Hold it, Peele. Wait. Here are the plates here. In this jewel box. Look, right here under your nose. Is he out, Marlow? Yeah, he's out all right. They took the light with him, too. Is there another lamp in here? No, that isn't. Nor is there another gun. Why, you sticking little... Wait a minute. Those sirens, Saxon, they're heading this way. Police? Yeah, the police. Looks like sooner or later everybody gets together in the back room at Saxon's, huh? But not everybody stays here, so I'll take this wrapping paper and leave now. Wrapping paper? The stuff that was around the orange dog? Yes, a sample of the best grade of counterfeiting paper made, Marlow. And that's what Horner was supposed to buy, not plates. Those he got a month ago. Still makes you a crook, Saxon, and one who'll never get past the front door. Oh, no, we'll see about that. Marlow! Keep shooting, Saxon, in the dark. You've got four shots left. You filthy maggot! Only one now, Saxon. That's number six. You're through, Saxon. By the time he barrenned his boys, plus a half a dozen very anxious team men got into the room. Saxon was already coming apart at the seams. After a half hour of steady questioning, he split wide open and led us all to a basement hideout where the team men went wild over a few thousand sheets of A1 counterfeiting paper. But an hour later, after Peel, who admitted murdering Lou Horner and Saxon, who was ready for the nearest stray jacket, were both in the lockup. There was still the problem of the blib blast from San Francisco. Finally, when Shelley, Lt. Barr, and I stood on the green light of the globe in front of the police headquarters, I knew that the girl who technically was only guilty of withholding information from the police was not going to spend any time in the pokey because, after all, I was more or less guilty of the same thing. Besides, Lt. Barr was still interested in the others. Well, Malo, it looks like the whole business actually boils down to a single transaction between Clay Saxon, who had the counterfeiting paper, and Lou Horner, who was supposed to buy it. That's right, Ibarra. But Horner, who must have made his contact with Saxon via some middleman in San Francisco, only had a telephone number in the password the orange dog of foe to work on here in LA. But how do you get hold of that number, Phil? From the message the team man left before he died. You mean you actually called someone named Marion? I mean, I just dialed Marion. M-A, Madison. R-I-O-N, 7466. Madison, 7466. You get it? Yeah. Another one of Horner's screwy memory tricks, like the rubber band on his 10th finger. Hey, that's pretty good, Phil. Ah, it's an old gimmick, really. I read it in a dozen detective stories. Well, you know, you may be ought to read some of those. Well, good night, Phillip. Look for you tomorrow. Lieutenant. Well, Shelly, do I, uh, do I show you the way home? No, Marla. Aren't you hungry or thirsty or something? Yeah, yeah, I guess I am at that. Well, I know just the place for us, darling. Oh? It's a cute little place right smack in the middle of China, darling. Well, we got through a small Chinese dinner without seeing or hearing from a single orange dog. And when it came time to leave, I was thinking that Shelly wasn't really too bad a kid at that. So when she left the table to powder her nose, I started to make plans. But when she got back, I forgot about them because in the meantime, she'd run into an old friend. Yeah, a rich old friend who was all alone in the big city. I said I didn't mind taking a rain check when she explained that he was from Kansas City and a broker at that. He certainly was overweight. Too much steak and potatoes. Hmm, steak and potatoes. Wonder if Lindy's is still open. I was hired to find a blackmailer, and I did. But first I found a badly beaten adonis a Jezebel with an accent and a man who had been an easy mark for murder. Ninety minutes of unsurpassed comedy comes to you every Sunday night when CBS brings you the Spike Jon show, the Jack Benny show, and Amos and Andy in succession. Tomorrow night, pianist Alec Templeton and songstress Peggy Mann are Spike Jon's special guests. Jack Benny and his gang and Amos and Andy following in succession will bring you more of the laughs that make them first for Sunday night fun. Spike Jon's and Amos and Andy come to you over most of these same CBS network stations, and Jack Benny comes to you over them all. Now stay tuned for gangbusters which follows immediately over most of these stations. This is Roy Rowan speaking for CBS The Columbia Broadcasting System.