 Hello, Yukon 28209, yes, this is Candy Mattson. The National Broadcasting Company presents Candy Mattson, Yukon 28209. What? Why, Myra Fisher, what are you doing here in a department store with your work clothes on? I work here, dear. I'm a wage slave. Well, I must say on you, it looks good. What do you slave at? I'm head of advertising and promotion. Well, quite a spot, hey, girl. No, it was until this morning. Now my neck is in the fire. What'd you do? Forget to proofread one of your head? Nothing so trivial, dear, believe me. But am I glad to have bumped into you? Maybe you'll change your mind when I tell you I've been shoplifting. No, I'm serious, Candy. Could you spare a moment and come on up to my office? Why, sure. And wipe that frown from off your brow. It's wrinkling your makeup. Well, yours would wrinkle, too, if you had a missing Santa Claus helper on your hands. Well, well, now there's a situation, and it almost broke Candy Mattson's heart when someone told her there was no Santa Claus' helper, one Jack Frost. Listen, here she is now to tell you about it. That's right, what the man said. I ran into a deal where we had a missing Santa Claus helper, Jack Frost. The jet with the icicles was supposed to talk to the tiny tots of the brownstone, one of San Francisco's larger and classier department stores. I'd gone down there that afternoon shopping. I wanted a bow tie for my old pal, Inspector Ray Mallard, of the San Francisco Police Department, a bow tie that lit up and spelled Cossack when you pressed the button on the battery. That was when I bumped into this gal, Myra Fisher. We went up to her office on the sixth floor, and she sat me down. She greeted me, too. You think I'm fooling about this Jack Frost thing, don't you, Candy? Well, now look, dear, we all have our little peccadillos, yours just nearly half of them. Well, peccadillos, yours just nearly happens to be a missing Jack Frost. You'll get over it. I refrain from hurling this ashtray at you, Candy, only because of our long acquaintance. Good. Now, listen to me. We've had a Santa Claus helper here for almost a month, and a darn good one. The kids were crazy about him. This morning, he didn't show. Well, you don't suppose Jacky Boy got in the mood and caught the Christmas dinner, do you, the kind that comes in pints? No, he wasn't that sort of Joe. Well, your answer's simple, hire a new one. They're hired through an agency. I call the one we do business with, and they're fresh out of Jack Frost. And I've got to get one, Candy. Otherwise, I come down ten notches in the opinion of the brass. I don't want you to think I'm unsympathetic, Mara, but what can I do? Would you get around? You know people find you somebody, anybody who'll take over the job of being Jack Frost. Well, okay. I'll do the best I can, Mara. Candy, you're a dear. Yeah, one of Santa's dears. Okay, I'll try and find you a Jack Frost, Mara, but don't hold it against me if he turns out to look more like Humpty Dumpty. I went home and looked up the Webster definition of saw. It said saw, easily yielding to pressure. That was me, Candy Matts and Girl Dope. Here I had all my Christmas shopping to do and I agreed to find a substitute for Jack Frost. I had no idea where to start. So I changed into something red and green for a stop-and-go, also for Christmas, and went over to see my friendly advisor, Rembrandt Watson. Rembrandt is a photographer and excellent, too, now that he doesn't have the sherry shivers or the park pauses. He lives on California Street, just kitten rompers from Old St. Mary's with a statue of Sonja Tseng for company in a park next door. Candy, though, how delightful to come in, won't you? Thanks, Rembrandt. Oh, Pat, you're equated with my friend, Thaogenes Murphy, aren't you? Oh, yes, hello again, Mr. Murphy. Well, good afternoon, lad. You look pretty if you needed the last time, I saw you. Uh-oh, here comes the blarney. Young lady, Thaogenes Murphy, the honest Irishman, never says a word. It doesn't mean. Now, how do you think I managed to sell so many used cars that we placed out on Venice Avenue? Because you're an honest Irishman. Oh, you're so right, lad. Incidentally, if you need a good car, I can get you one at a very reasonable Thaogenes. Oh, sorry, I got carried away. I didn't mean to barge in on you like this, Rembrandt. No, be ridiculous, dear. No, don't be. Nothing of it, lad. I'm on my way now. Rembrandt and I were only discussing the situation of the world. And to what conclusion did you come? It stinks. The bottom of the afternoon to the both of you. Oh, he's quite a boy. Yes, I'm very fond of Thaogenes. What brings you around this way, dear? Jack Frost. Yes. Now, getting on with our conversation, what brings you around this way, dear? Jack Frost. Maybe the needle's bad. Shall we try again? I know how you feel. I reacted the same way myself. I'll give you the pocket-sized edition. The Brownstone department store is without a Santa Claus helper, Jack Frost. He didn't show up for work this morning. I said I'd find him a new one. Well, that's very sweet of you, Dove. Very dumb of me, Dove. I know of only one character who even remotely looked like Jack Frost. I met him up in Alaska when I was traveling with the USO. Won't do you much good down here, will it? No, that's why I came to see you, Rembrandt. Don't you keep a cross-file on models you've used in photography? As a matter of fact, I do. Here in this little book, let's see. Men, thin, extremely. I have just one, Pietro Tarantello. Would you care for a Sicilian, Jack Frost? In Sicily, yes. Hey, what's that? Where? On that chair next to you. Oh, that's the afternoon paper, dear. Diogenes Leptidae, imagine. Yes, but on the front page. Here's the whole story about the missing Jack Frost on the front page. Ooh, what he got in his Christmas talking. A flood through the head. That's no way to treat Jack Frost. And here's a picture of the guy without his vaults, icicles. What the hem? Looks like he stepped right out of an 1890 Shakespearean play. I hate to say this, Rembrandt, but he resembles you. I take back what I said. Rembrandt. Divorce yourself from that tone of voice, Candy. I don't like it. Rembrandt, I've got an idea. You usually do. You like little children. Can't stand them. You like to talk to people. I have poor conversations. You like to be charming. Lost me charm. Gay? Lost me gay. With the help of a few icicles, Ducky, you're going to be Jack Frost. Rembrandt fought. He argued. He paced the floor. He had the vapors. He fainted. I brought him too. I won the argument. I got my friend Myra Fisher on the phone and informed her that one R Watson would assume the role of Jolly Jack Frost on the morrow. She was delighted. I couldn't say the same for Rembrandt. Then I went home. I was greeted by a sound very much like that of a phone ringing using my keen instinct. I figured it was the phone. It was. Hello, Candy Madsen. How do you do, Miss Madsen? Allow me to introduce myself. Allowed. My name is Burke. Prentice Burke. I'm the first assistant vice president of the Round Stone. Round Stone? Yes. That's the store of some kind, isn't it? Yes. Now, the reason for my call. There has been, shall I say, a rather unfortunate occurrence in our store today. So I read. I need the help of a professional sleuth. You were highly recommended by the head of our advertising department, Miss Myra Fisher. Uh-huh. A thick button. I beg your pardon. No need to. You didn't do anything. OK. Care to talk to me now, Mr. Burke? I'd much rather have you come down to my office, Miss Madsen. This matter is of an extremely confidential nature. I'm your girl, then. Figured to live with you, speaking. How long will you be there? As long as necessary. That's up to you. Very well. I'll be there in half an hour if I can find a place to park. I only had time for a fast change, so I made it from Andescray to Tabu. I sniffed at it and felt I was on the right scent. Then I climbed in my car, drove down Carney Street, waved a crisp single under the nose of a hotel doorman and had my car taken care of. Then into the brown stone and up to Mr. Prentice Burke's office. I flipped a hip past the girl's secretary and walked on in. Burke was waiting for me. That was obvious. I could tell by the expression on his face it was worried look number 12B. How do you do, Mr. Burke? I'm Candy Mattson. Oh, sit down, won't you? Thank you. Now, our subject is what? A man named Jordan. That's on another network. I beg your pardon. Oh, that's right. Now, about this Jordan. Yes, Ralph Jordan, to be exact. Well, that's a relief. For a moment, I thought you wanted to talk about Jack Frost. That's just it. He was Jack Frost. Oh, me and my big mouth. He was working here up until yesterday afternoon. And maybe you read about it. He was found shot today. Yes, yes, I read about it. That's the reason I've called you. Why didn't you have your own store detective's takeover, Mr. Burke? No, no, that would never do. I want no one in the store to know what's going on. Ah, intrigue. Quite possibly. I have reason to suspect that Jordan was killed by someone in our employ. I want to find out who that someone was before the police do and get it splashed all over the front pages. Publicity conscious, eh? Business has been off all year and any bad breaks in the press would hurt us that much more. Maybe you've got a point there, I don't know. I know I have. Okay, I'll take the job. You say you have a suspicion. What is it? Well, nothing tangible. It's just a feeling I have. Oh, that's a big help. Well, I'll mush around and see what I can pick up. I'll bill you tomorrow for my first day's work. It's much easier to sustain a friendship on a daily basis. I left Burke looking as though someone had just called his store a bizarre. It was closing time, so I hefted my way through the crush and retrieved my car from the doorman. The Hall of Justice is right on my way home, so I decided to drop in on my old pal, Mallard. Inspector Ray Mallard of San Francisco Homicide. A nice guy to serve coffee to on Sunday mornings if you could ever lasso him. I never could get strong enough rope. Candy, what brings you around here? I hate to have my Christmas ruined so early. What about that Jack Frost character? Oh, yeah. Poor guy got it good. Where'd you find him? In his apartment over on 17th. He lived near Seal Stadium. Why's he interested, Candy? Rembrandt's a dead ringer for the guy. I still don't get that. The girl who was head of advertising for the brownstone was going out of her head for another Jack Frost. I talked Rembrand into taking the job. Oh, it does sound funny, doesn't it? Bring me up to date, Mallard. Did you get any dope on the killing? Nothing but a 45 slug out of the guy's wall. Ballistics is checking it now. Nothing else? If I did, I should tell you. No, oh, I guess not. This goes beyond just a normal curiosity, Candy. What are you drilling for? Only that I'm worried about Rembrandt. I got him the job. I'm responsible. I wouldn't want anything to happen to him. Ask a silly question, Mallard, and you get a silly answer. Okay, let's forget it. How was about dinner tonight? I've thought this thing long enough. Okay. Uh, Candy. Uh, yes, Mallard. We've known each other a good long time, haven't we? That's right. Ever since the fair on Treasure Island. We've had our little quarrels, little misunderstandings. Oh, they never seem to last long, no doobie. No. That's why I feel I have every right to ask you a question. Wait, yes, I'd say you do, Mallard. Maybe I'll ask you tonight. No, no, no, go ahead. Now's as good a time as any. Perhaps it is, Candy. You get around a lot. You meet people. Do you know where I can get a couple of tickets to the Rose Bowl game? My brain lit up like a Roman candle. I stormed for the door, turned back, stood there, my jaw waggling helplessly. Then I stuck my tongue out at Mallard and left. It was the only thing I could think of doing. Oh, he can make me so mad. But inside half an hour after I got home, I started to laugh. Felt much better. Just as I was puttering around getting ready, the apartment buzzer buzzed. It hadn't Mallard much too early. But I was wrong. It wasn't Mallard. Well, Myra, what a surprise. Do come in, won't you? No thanks, Candy. A friend of mine's waiting in his car outside. He's driving me home. I'm sorry. You can't stay for a moment. It's all my dear. I just brought by to leave this, merely a little token of thanks for getting me off the hook. Oh, Myra, there wasn't any need to do that. Just a few pair of old stockings, dear. Getting me my new Jack Frost means more than you know. Here, please take them. Along with my very deepest thanks. Thanks so much a girl can always use them. Are you all set with my friend Mr. Watson? Oh, yes. He came in this afternoon and filled out his withholding tax and so on. That's very nice. I think you'll find him very efficient, Myra. Oh, what's the matter? Pardon me. I didn't mean to frighten you. Oh, Mallard. Silly of me. I must have jumped a foot. Oh, that's all right. He frightens me too. Myra, I'd like to have you meet Inspector Mallard. Inspector Miss Fisher. How do you do? Oh, fine. Thank you. Now that I've caught my breath, do forgive me, Candy, but I must rush. See you soon, I hope. Tomorrow, Myra, I'll be down to see how my lad's doing is Jack Frost. Thanks for the stockings. Well, aren't you going to invite me in? No, I'm not. Here's my coat right here with our hurry. Come on, let's go. I'm starved. I thought we could have a cocktail here before we left. You saw it wrong. Two tickets to the Rose Bowl. From now on, you earn your cocktails, Mallard. We went downstairs and as I locked the front door, a car was just driving off. It was Myra and she waved. And driving, if these tired old eyes hadn't deceived me, it was Mr. Prentice Burt, Vice President of the Brownstone. Well, oh well, Mallard and I climbed into our car and drove out of the cliff house. It was that kind of an evening. We had dinner and after I suggested we walk a bit. The night was crisp and clear and the evening star was hanging out above the dark waters of the Pacific like an iridescent Japanese lantern. We cut across a little road above Sutro Baths where an old car barn had once stood and worked our way over the cliffs and stood high above land's end. It was exhilarating. Penny, for your thoughts, Andy? Inflation is still here. All right. I get two pennies. Well, I was just thinking, Mallard, when you see a star in the sky, soft water below, feel Christmas in the air, how can there be violence in the world? An age-old question, pal. One I can't answer. I'm too small. Hey, you're cold. I better put my arm around you. Mallard, no. The headlights from that automobile are shining right down on us. Mallard. Danny, what's wrong? Got your flashlight with you? Sure. Also my gun and my handcuffs. Anything else we need? A mortar, maybe? Lights from that car. They shone on something. Down there, under that tree. Oh, Candy, just for once, can't you stop digging up a mystery? Be human? I am being human. Come on, Mallard. See what's under that tree? We scrambled around through the brush, slipped into some sliding sand and rode the crest down to the tree. It wasn't easy to get around some of those brambles, but get there I fully intended doing, because what I saw was red, bright red. You okay, Candy? Nothing that a new pair of nylons won't fix. Shoot the flashlight over this way a bit. Now we're... there. That's it. Now, do you think I'm dreaming things up? What is it? Wait, I hold it up. Well, looks like some kind of a costume. Right. And look, if those aren't blood stains, I'm a Labrador Retriever. No, you're a Candy Matzen. Those are blood stains. How was your boy dressed when you found him? Torn slacks, sweater, shoes, no socks. This was most likely his costume, man. Yeah. Don't move around too much, Candy. I want to have a good look at the ground. Hey, what are you doing down there? Who's that? The police. I'll get up here and don't try any tricks. That's all right, officer. This is Inspector Mallard. Homicide. Oh, sorry, Inspector. That's all right. Stay right where you are. We'll be right up. Now, this is a break, Candy. I want you to drive into a phone. I'll leave the officer here to guard the place. You can go home. I've got work to do here, okay? Yeah, yeah, sure. For once we had dinner before, you had a chance to break the date. This baby was hard to reconstruct. Was the guy knocked off out there at Land's End, or was he bumped off at his apartment, the killer driving way out to the beach and hiding the costume? Only time would tell. I went home, climbed into bed, and logged about eight hours, enough to give me fuel for the next day. In the morning, I went down to the brownstone. The shoppers were already swarming through the place. I spotted a floor walker and strolled over to him. Pardon me, sir. I... I said, pardon me, sir. I'm very busy, young lady. Make it as brief as possible. You do work here, don't you? Of course. You are the floor walker assigned to this section? That is correct. Come to the point, please. Oh, the... Well, I have a good mind to report you. As you wish. As I said, I'm very busy. Now, what is it you wanted to know? The words are like gall in my mouth now, but where do I find Jack Frost? Right over there. In the back, two aisles over. Thank you. Not at all. Very much. All the high-handed characters, people like that, make me steam. I was getting up a full head of dander, but it simmered out before I had a chance to boil over. Because as I rounded a corner, I saw Frosty Boy, or Rembrandt, if you choose, up on his platform, with the cutest little blonde kid sitting in his lap. Well, well, well. Look who we have here. A very big boy. Hello there, son. Oh, Jack Frost. What is your name? Topper. Topper. My, what a fine name. How old are you, Topper? Five-and-a-half. Five-and-a-half. Well, you must go to school, Topper. Which one? Garfield. Garfield. That's a good school. Now, tell me, what would you like to have me tell Santa Claus to bring you for Christmas, Topper? An electric train and a baseball bat, and I like to be in the seals for lefty-old-oo. Well, I'll see what I can do to arrange that, Topper. I'll tell Santa Claus. Bye now. Goodbye. I hope you can make the boy's wish come true. Oh, dual could use him. Candy. I'm so glad you're here, Doug. Look around into the back room for a moment. I've got to talk to you. Aren't you working, Frosty Boy? I got 10 minutes off every hour. I'll take a break now. Look right around there, Candy. Okay. I'll see you in a moment. What's the matter, Rembrandt? Even under those icicles, you look warm under the collar. Yeah. Look at this. Every now and then, one of these mopeds tattles up to me with a Christmas letter in its hand. A little red-headed girl handed me this about half an hour ago. I've been shaking ever since. Let me see. Dear Jack Frost, a word of the wise is sufficient. When you take your lunch hour, keep on going. Don't come back. Otherwise, you'll meet the same fate as your predecessor. Hmm. Just about what I expected. Candy. You mean to say that you're deliberately using me as a sacrificial lamb? Why no means, Ducky. Go ahead. Take your lunch. Then do as the note says. Keep on going. As a matter of fact, why don't you take off now? I'll meet you at your place in about an hour. That's the best news I've heard since Nelson's victory at Trafalgar. I whipped upstairs, reported to Prentice Burke, got my first day's check, and on my way out told his secretary she better get Burke's and smelling salt. Then I went back down on the floor again. Sure enough, there was my boy, the floor walker. I wanted to have a few more words with him. Oh. You again. If you don't mind, I was just up to see Miss Myra Fisher. She wasn't in. Have you seen her down here? No, and what's more, I won't see her all day. She phoned saying she was feeling ill. Most inconsiderate, I must say, during the holiday rush. Yes, I must say. Could you give me her address? She's a friend of mine. I've got to see her. Her address? Well, yes. Write it down here on one of my cards for you. Myra Fisher, 227 F Union Street. There. Thank you. You're so kind. I had all the ammunition I wanted. A check signed by Burke and a card written by the floor walker. His name was Simon Liggett. With that, I ducked into a phone booth and called Mallory. Good boy. This is Candy. What did you find out at Lanzan last night? Couple of very juicy footprints. I give us nothing. Did you make any casts of them? Oh, I sure. Mind if I borrow a couple of them for a few hours, Mallory? Well, I don't see how it'll hurt. Sure, okay. Thanks, Mallory, dear. I'll be by in a moment, and I want to borrow you, too. I stopped by the Hall of Justice, got the cast of the footprints, shoved Mallory into the car, and then picked up Rembrandt. The thing was only a hunch, but my hunches have paid off, so I never ignore them. First, we went out to an address on Fifth Avenue near Clemente. We got in the back door and went to work. Nothing made sense there. So we drove over to receipt away in the marina. Again, we got in and did some sleuthing. This time, we hit the jackpot. A pair of shoes in the closet matched the casts we had brought with us. Rembrandt, go out in the kitchen and see if this place has any ketchup. I'm not hungry, Doug, but, oh, look, what are you up to, Candy? We've got enough to swing a case here. I'm working for a voluntary confession now. Tell me, what was the position that the jack frost was in when you found him dead? In a chair, like that one. His head slumped down on his chest. Good. Here's the concept, Doug. What are you putting it on? You what? Without the bun or relish, Ducky. Sit down there, will you, Rembrandt? Now, just go limp and let your head hang down. That's it. Now for a little seasoning. Oh, Candy, you're smearing me with this sticky stuff. No, for the sake of art. Oh, still. There. How does he look, Mallard? Well, Candy looks like the same guy, the real thing. Good. Now, Rembrandt, you just sit like that. Don't move. Mallard, you duck into that closet over there and I'll hide in here. We've got a good view of the front door from both places. OK? OK. There are times, Candy, when I admit I admire your genius. Genius, genius. Come on, let's hide. The golden shafts of sun splashing in through the window from the ocean slowly turn pink, then purple, and into twilight. A minute ticked on. Once... Bless you, but quiet though, Rembrandt. You'll mess up your ketchup. Five minutes, 10. Then we heard muffled footsteps coming down the hall and a key inserted in the lock of the apartment door. The old fool, I killed. No, no. OK, buddy, that'll be about enough. What? Oh, no. Get him, Mallard. He's ducking. I'll get him. Nice tackle, Mallard. All right, Mack. You're going to remain peaceful. Do I have to give you a little tap? No, no. I'll be quiet. You got me. I did it. I did it to the both of them. I killed them. I killed them. I killed both of them. Both of them? Yeah. Look behind the sofa. The sofa. The girl. The tech cross. The sofa. The sofa. Wait a minute, Mallard. I had to do it. I couldn't. Oh. Oh, Mallard. More trouble, Candy. I killed both of them. I'm glad I killed both of them. Yes. No friend of mine. The late Myra Fisher. The whole thing was jealousy. Not the jealousy of a man for a woman, but the jealousy of a man for a job. Simon Liggett had been with the Brownstone for almost 20 years. He'd worked himself up from the stock boy to a place where he'd been promised the job of head of advertising and promotion. He almost got it. Except at the last moment, Prentice Burt gave the position to Myra Fisher. That had only been two weeks before. He knew that Myra was on a probationary term, so he did everything he could to undermine her. Little things like changing ad copies, sending out false stories to newspapers. He figured that if he could keep the store without a Santa Claus helper, he'd break Myra's back and get the job by the first of the year. He paid a visit to the first Jack Frost and tried to bribe him into quitting, but the guy would have none of it. There was a struggle. Liggett lost his head and whipped out a gun and shot him. He was still in his costume, so Liggett stripped him, put some old clothes on him, drove out to Land's End and ditched his costume. Then he felt sure there would be no Jack Frost the next day. But that's when Myra met me and I talked Rembrandt into taking over. By this time, Liggett was in a frenzy and would stop at nothing. He trailed Myra and Burk to Myra's home, killed her, took her body over to his place and ditched it behind the sofa. The next morning, he wrote a note to Rembrandt and gave it to one of the little girls waiting in line to see him. Fear and envy were taking their toll on the poor guy's mind. I wanted to compare the handwriting, so I had Burk write me a check and Liggett write Myra's address on a card. Also, we had the footprint cast. Between the two, everything pointed toward Liggett. That's when I staged my little parlor charade with Rembrandt playing the part of a corpse. The sight, with Rembrandt's resemblance to the dead Jack Frost, would shatter anybody into a confession. But Christmas, in spite of everything, is a lovely time of year. And there is a Santa Claus. Three of them for me is a matter of fact. Mr. Prentice Burk, who sent me a very nice check for my effort. Rembrandt Watson, who, out of sheer love for the job, went back to playing Jack Frost for all the kids at the Brownstone. And last but not least, Inspector Ray Mallard. He gave me a Christmas sock. Oh, right on my mouth. Just where any well-placed Christmas sock should go. Listen again next week at this same time for excitement and adventure just dial. Candy Mattson and a Merry Christmas to you all. Yukon 208-209. Heard tonight were Helen Cleave as Myra Fisher, Lou Tobin as Prentice Burk, and John Grover as Simon Liggett. Jack Thomas plays the role of Rembrandt Watson and Henry Leff is heard as Inspector Mallard. The program stars Natalie Masters as Candy and is written and produced by Monty Masters. Sound effects were created by Bill Brownell and J. Rendon. Eloise Rowan is heard at the organ. The characters in tonight's story are entirely fictitious, with the exception of the part of Topper, which was played by himself. The resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental. The program came to you from San Francisco. Dudley Manlove speaking. You are tuned for the stars on NBC.