 When I got the crisp $50 bill in advance, I figured my client had a heart of gold. But after I was beat up, double-crossed, and shot at, I realized just how hard a heart of gold can be. From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character, as C.B.A.S. presents... The Adventures of Philip Marlowe. And now, with Gerald Moore starred as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's unusual story, The Heart of Gold. I had spent the day trying to decide how to spend the day. And finally convinced myself Sunday afternoon was a good time to catch up with neglected bookkeeping. But I only got as far as the office door because a special delivery letter was stuck in the mail slot. I ripped it open and watched a crisp $50 bill flutter to the floor. Pending it down with my toe, I turned to the letter which was dated Saturday. Dear Mr. Marlowe, kindly investigate the party who lives at 1903 North Ogden Street, to find out if his name is really Elliot Perdue and what his occupation is. Then please come to my residence at five tomorrow, Sunday, and live at the home of a friend Arthur Stewart, 33 Lemonwood Drive in Bel Air. I sincerely hope that $50 will be a sufficient retainer. Truly yours, Helen Asher. Judging from the tone of her letter, it was obvious that Helen Asher didn't hire private detectives very often. Nevertheless, I glanced at my watch, which said I had to work very fast, and I headed for 1903 North Ogden. It turned out to be a small house near Selma Street. I got out of my car and walked up to the door. Good afternoon, sir. Are you the resident here? That's right. What do you want? I represent the Dr. Potter poll of public opinion. I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding... Sorry, but I don't have any opinions to express. Oh, even the opinions of a man with no opinions are important to us. Now let's just let me step inside here and get out my notebook. There we are. All right, but make it fast. Right. Now what is your occupation? I'm an investment broker. With which firm? I'm independent. I see. And what is your name, sir? What do you need my name for? Well, for my personal records in case I have to come back. Elliot Perdue. Uh-huh. Do you have any hobbies other than horse racing? What do you mean? Those dope sheets and racing forms are on your desk. I'm quite an admirer of horse flesh myself. You're quite a character, too, aren't you? Working on Sunday, you know? Well, you know how public opinion is. It goes right on, rain, shine or Sunday. Excuse me a moment. By the way, what's your name? Marlowe, Philip Marlowe. Okay, Mr. Marlowe, stand still because I'm not kidding about this gun. I'll beat it back to whoever hired you and tell them they're being very clumsy about a very delicate situation. One more move like this and they won't get another chance. I knew Perdue meant business so I left without an argument. And at least I had a repeat on the name Elliot Perdue and the occupation of Bookie to toss at Helen Asher when I met her at five o'clock. In Bel Air, I eventually found 33 Lemonwood Drive. Two hundred yards of palm trees stood at rigid attention while I drove through the gate and up to the house. When the button opened the door, he stared at me like my hat was on fire. Yes, sir. Did you wish something? Yes, I'd like to see Mrs. Asher, please. Mrs. Asher? Oh, good heavens, Mr. Stewart. What's the matter, Robert? I'm Philip Marlowe, Mr. Stewart, a private detective. I have an appointment with Mrs. Asher. Is she at home? Oh, Mr. Marlowe, perhaps you can help. I don't know what to do. It's such a terrible thing. What's happened? Upstairs, not five minutes ago, Mrs. Asher shot herself. Shot herself? Please, if you'd come up with me. Yeah, sure, of course. I'm certainly grateful for your help, Mr. Marlowe. This is her room. She's in here. There. Yeah, she's dead all right. Shot herself in the left temple. Whose gun is that, Mr. Stewart? Well, it's mine. I kept it in the desk downstairs. You find it? No, Roberts did. I was out in the hot house working with my orchids. You see, I've been out of town. I just came in this morning on the super chief from Chicago, and I wasn't expected back until Wednesday. Yeah, look, Mr. Stewart, do you mind telling me how well you knew Mrs. Asher? Oh, very well indeed. Ever since the accident three years ago, she lived in my house under my care. The accident? Yes, that's how she got those scars on her cheek and neck. As you can see, my hands were burned at the same time. Would you mind telling me about it? Well, I was living in Canada at the time. One day, my wife Florence and I went to a camp near Quebec, and we met Helen Asher our first day there. She was a pathetic, lonely woman, a widow. Oh. That very night, while she was visiting us, the oil stove in our cabin exploded. Oh. Florence, my wife, was killed. Mrs. Asher was severely burned. It was ghastly. I can imagine. Mrs. Asher had no one, so I thought the least I could do would be to care for her, since I knew the accident had been caused by sheer carelessness on my part. You took over full responsibility for it? Yes, I did everything I could think of, but she never quite got over the shock of that night, and now this, it's horrible. Have you notified the police yet? No. You better do it right now. Yes, I'll go right downstairs and call them. A dead woman on the floor had been beautiful once. No doubt about it. This was my client, and a certain $50 bill was burning a hole in my pocket. I wandered over to a writing table, and as I looked down, I noticed that the Sunday sheet had been torn off the memo pad. It bothered me. Tomorrow should mean nothing to a suicide, yet Mrs. Asher's memo pad filled Monday already. The sheet was blank, but on a hunch I tore it off and stuck it in my pocket. I was about to turn away when I saw a book of matches from the Conga Club, so I picked that up too, and then I left. I drove around for some time trying to figure things out. Then I went down to police headquarters to see one Lieutenant E. Borough. It's suicide, as far as we're concerned, Marlo. Everything checks. Mrs. Asher was despondent, and she killed herself. She didn't leave the suicide letter, but they don't always. How'd you get in on this? Well, she paid me $50 in advance to air out a small-time bookie or worse named Elliot Perdue. Incidentally, what's the background on Arthur Stewart? Oh, he's a big money fashion designer. Started his business on his wife's insurance. She died in an accident in Canada. He did a lot for Mrs. Asher because he felt responsible. Yeah, yeah, I know all that. But was she left-handed? Did Stewart come in on the Super Chief this morning, or was it the butler that found the body? That's right. We checked it all. Hey, look, Phil, do you have any good reason to think this isn't suicide? No, no, not really. It's just that $50 in advance that bothers me, I guess. Oh, by the way, I've got a piece of paper I'd like the boys in the lab to run a test on, okay? Sure, Casey will fix you up. Marlo, I figure suicide now, but I can always change my mind. I went down the hall of the police laboratory and handed the blank page of the memo pad to Casey. Ten minutes later, he explained that the impression showed a left-handed person had written a number, Bradshaw 7-7-11, with a wide-point fountain pen, probably on the page just above the one I'd given him. Well, I thanked him, dropped four bits in the Christmas fund bottle, and found a phone. I dialed Bradshaw 7-7-11 and waited. Hello? Who's this? The man in the moon. Come up and see me some other time. Hey, wait a minute. I like your voice. And besides, 7-7-11 is a very lucky number. Uh-huh. Three passes in a row. But don't let it fool you, Jack. The answer is no dice. Goodbye. Yes, well, I gathered she was in no mood for playing, so I decided to be strictly business and dialed again. Hmm. There was no answer. I let it ring for some time, but Miss Golden Voice obviously wasn't taking any more anonymous calls. I had left only the long shot, the book of matches I'd found on Mrs. Asher's desk. The conga club was on the Sunset Strip, so I drove out there, found a parking space on the side street nearby, and went in. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, so I paid a buck ten for a scotch and soda worth 40 cents, just to help pass the time. Amber Spotlight was glistening down on a set of sequined contours that would have melted the ice age down to a fortnight, and she was singing. For wherever my man is, I am here, forever. I knew it was beneath her, the congas featured songstress, and I knew something else too. There was no mistaking that voice. She was the girl with a lucky phone number. I wrote her a note, called a waiter to the table to deliver it, and then sat back to watch her as she glided over and sidled into a chair opposite me. It was your penmanship that intrigued me, Mr. Malan. It was your voice and so forth, mostly the so forth that got me, Benita. Would you care to decipher the Sanskrit you called a note? The waiter said you wrote it. Sure. It says important business. That's an idiom. If you wanted to talk turkey, how would you translate it? Do you know a woman named Helen Asher? Not that I remember. Why? Well, your phone number showed up on a memo pad. How do you account for that? How should I know? Maybe she intended to call me up. Look, you're quite a handsome man, Mr. Marlowe. But you look silly with your nose bent. Why do you keep sticking it into other people's business? Because besides being paid for it, it sometimes leads to meeting interesting and beautiful people. The present company included. What do you want? Mrs. Asher killed herself tonight. Mrs. Asher's dead? Yeah, yeah. And considering you said you didn't know her, you looked very put out about it. All right, Marlowe, you win. But let's not talk about it here. Finish your drink while I get out of this costume. Then meet me outside by the front door in ten minutes. When she headed for the back of the club, I headed for the front. I got out the door and down in my car just in time to see her leave by the stage entrance. She jumped into a yellow convertible, ripped down Sunset Boulevard, turned down to Doheny and scraped to a halt in front of the region apartments. At the door, a tall, sunburned man popped up from somewhere and intercepted her. It was Elliot Perdue. A short but hot argument took place and apparently Perdue won, because they went in together. I found the name Benita Malone over the mailbox at number five. We got to her apartment door just as a second round started. No, I haven't changed my mind, Elliot. I've been doing a little research since you threw me over, Benita. I've got you and your precious plans right here in the palm of my hand. What are you talking about? This little heart-shaped locket on this little golden chain. Let me see that. No, no, no. Not showing this trinket until just the right moment. Listen, Elliot, I don't know what's brewing in that slimy brain of yours, but get this, if you try to monkey with my life again, so help me, I'll kill you not. Get out! Benita, would you be interested if I told you that I know Mrs. Asher's secret? And would you be interested if I told you that Mrs. Asher killed herself tonight? That slows you down, doesn't it, bright boy? Yes, but it doesn't stop me, beautiful. I'll be seeing you before you know it. I ducked into an alcove and heard Benita slam the door on Perdue's coattails as he left. So, now I knew that Perdue, a locket and Benita Malone added up some way to a bullet in the head for a scarred woman with a secret. I went back to my car and drove out to Stuart's house in Bel Air. When you were here before, Marlowe, I was so upset I hardly realized you were a private detective. You had an appointment with Mrs. Asher. Had she hired you? Yes, to investigate someone, but she didn't live long enough to give me the details. Now, what sort of trouble could she have been into if needed a private detective? I don't know, but perhaps you can help me find out by answering a few questions. Anything? Anything at all, Mr. Marlowe? Does the name Elliot Perdue mean anything to you, Mr. Stuart? Elliot Perdue? No, I'm afraid not. How about Benita Malone? Yeah, I've never heard of her. You know anything about a heart-shaped locket on a gold chain? A locket? A gold locket? Yeah. And Mrs. Asher had a heart-shaped gold locket? Where'd she keep it? Upstairs in her jewelry box, I should imagine. Come on, let's have a look, huh? Yes. Right up these stairs here. This is her room, Marlowe. I know. I was here once before. Fine. It's not here. It's not on her dressing table. Her jewelry box, it's gone, Marlowe. Do you think that... Elliot Perdue has it. I can't understand this. What's the locket like? What's inside it? Just a picture. It was valued by Mrs. Asher because it was the only one she kept of herself the way she looked before the accident. Now, why would anyone else want that? I don't know. But when we get that locket, we'll get a lot of answers along with it. Now I was more convinced than ever that Elliot Perdue, Benita, and the late Mrs. Asher's secret were all dangling from the same chain that supported the gold locket. I said good night to Arthur Stewart and started back for Hollywood. A moment later, I changed my mind and abruptly swung onto a shadowed side road and parked lights out. It had suddenly occurred to me that the gallivanting Mr. Perdue might call on Stewart. If so, I wanted to be on hand. 40 minutes later, I was about to call off the cloak and dagger routine when I heard the sound of a powerful motor roaring out of Stewart's driveway. I looked up just in time to see a long black mash whipped by what Stewart at the wheel. From the speed of the car, I was certain he wasn't going out for the morning papers. Decided to go back to the house and question the butler while I could have him to myself. Oh, why no, Mr. Marlowe. I haven't any idea where Mr. Stewart went. I only know that he had a telephone call after which he dashed out of the house, highly upset. Well, maybe some sick friend he did sitting up with, huh? But tell me, Roberts, did you ever hear of a man named Elliot Perdue? Oh, yes, sir. He called on Mrs. Asher here once or twice while Mr. Stewart was away on business. When did you last see this Mr. Perdue, Roberts? Yesterday morning, sir, about ten o'clock. And one thing more, did you ever see Mrs. Asher wearing a gold locket, a heart-shaped one? Oh, quite often, sir. As a matter of fact, she asked me about it just yesterday morning. You're shortly after Mr. Perdue left. She couldn't locate it anyplace. A singular coincidence, huh? Oh, by the way, what do you know about a singer named Benita? Benita? I've never heard of her, sir. Are you sure she's never been out here as Mr. Stewart's guest? Why, I'm positive, sir. Mr. Stewart never has any ladies out here of any kind. Oh? Doesn't that strike you as being strange, Roberts? After all, Mr. Stewart's a very eligible widower. Widower, yes, Mr. Marlowe, but Philander of no. Good night, sir. As I drove back to Hollywood, I tried to figure out where Arthur Stewart had gone. But I had about as much to work with as Gypsy Rose Lee after a third encore. And after discounting Benita's place in the conga, there was only Elliot Perdue's house on North Ogden. Fifteen minutes later, I walked up to it, but the place was as dark and as quiet as the inside of a coffin. I was about to turn back to my car when suddenly it caught the reflection of a sliver of light bouncing off the glass in Mr. Perdue's living room. I found it back to a lock easy to bluff. A moment later, I stepped into the living room. Marlowe, how did you know I was here? Mr. Stewart told me. You're a liar. Arthur wouldn't... Arthur? I... Well, you see, Mr. Stewart and I... Oh, no, it's Mr. Stewart, huh? Wait a minute. There's someone outside. Perdue? Put out your light. Now, when he finds you, keep talking, say anything. I'll be behind the door. Here I am. But... Well, Benita... What a waste of time, my dear. While you've been here rearranging my socks, I've been talking to your boyfriend with the locket safely tucked away right here in my breast pocket. How clever of you. How absolutely ingenious. It's a bit late for nasty words between us, Benita, because possession of you was part of the bargain I struck with Mr. Stewart. You see, we... What are you staring at? My big blue eyes, Perdue, don't move or I'll blast you. You'll do nothing? Get the gun, Benita. Now, Perdue, we'll play some more. And now the gentleman's breast pocket. Ah, here it is, Benita. Safe and sound. Which is just the way I want it, Phil. What? My own gun. Why, you beautiful snake? The locket, Marlo. Come on, I get nervous with one of these things in my hands. Throw it here. Thank you. Now, when I leave, Phil, don't come after me, because I'd hate to fill you full of little holes. Good night. Benita stepped out of that house. I solemnly swore I wouldn't trust another woman for the next hundred years. A groan from the body on the floor brought me back to 1948 in Elliott Perdue. I knew that he had seen the picture in the locket, so I went to work on him. Come on, Perdue, snap out of it. Come on. Huh? Oh, it's you, Marlo. Who'd you expect? St. Peter, what was in the locket, Perdue? I don't remember. Maybe a call on Lt. Borrow will refresh your memory. I doubt it. And we better start playing games again. We'll start with one call, slap, slap, Perdue. No, no. Let me alone, Marlo. Get your hands off me. You're ready to start singing, huh? All we need now is the right lyrics. Come on, Perdue. Talk. Stop it. Stop it. I'll talk. Good. Now, why did Mrs. Asher kill herself? Because she had a good reason. Like what? That's a long story. Make it short. Okay, Marlo. Here goes. Hello, Ibarra. There's a five-minute old corpse lying in his living room at 1903 North Ogden. Name is Elliot Perdue. Three shots through a closed window. I was lucky. Any description of the killer? No, no. Now, look, Ibarra, right now I'm going after a songbird named Benita Malone at the region apartments on Doheny. Will you cover me there without siren? Sure, Marlo. I'll attend to it in person. It was only a healthy centipede this pig from Perdue's house to Benita's. When I got there, the place was dark and a car wasn't in sight. I decided to try the conga club. But as soon as I walked in, I began to worry because if Benita had wanted to get rid of that locket, she'd have had enough time to bury it at Forest Lawn. But I didn't know Benita, because Miss Oomph herself was singing in the amber spotlight and dangling from a soft white neck was the heart-shaped gold locket. Because he's wonderful. Because he's just my Ben. When she caught my eye, she smiled like a Meta D. In the moment she was through with her song, she headed back in my direction. Before she got to me, I saw her give the high sign to an ape in a tuxedo. He looked at her and then a cross toward my table left the room. I watched Benita glide across the floor in my direction. She was distinctly a thing of beauty. Well, Phil, what do you think of my singing? I'm just crazy about it. That and your jewelry. Especially that locket, family album. It was more or less handed down to me, generation to generation. That's an old Spanish custom. Yeah, yeah, so I've been told. And I imagine tradition prohibits your parting with it, huh? That's right. Unless, of course, someone with oodles of money offers me lots of it in exchange. Then naturally I'd be obliged to part with it. I don't think you'd feel obliged to your mother on the second Sunday in May. Besides, I don't have oodles of money. Oh, you should have told me that earlier. Goodbye, good looking. Hey, wait a minute. We couldn't do any business in a minute. And don't follow me if you want to stay pretty. She pivoted on a spike heel and took off for a dressing room. And I knew that if I followed, I would schedule for a nasty, tit-a-tate with an ape in a tuxedo. When I made the lower floor and saw that the long corridor to a room was empty, I knew the setup. The ape would be on the other side of the door waiting. Benita still had my gun, so I got the nearest substitute for a blackjack, a full bottle of Paul Masson champagne. Then I walked noisily down the corridor as far as her door unknocked. Turned the knob slowly, kicked the door open and stood clear. It worked. The ape's hairy hand was wrapped around my gun and it came down in a knock that was never interrupted. And that left him off balance. The ape hit the floor and before Benita had a chance to close him off, I ripped the locket from the neck, picked my gun up and ran. I didn't stop until I collapsed against the store window. Then I opened up the locket. Minutes ran out on me before I realized what was wrong with the picture. Then I knew Arthur Stealwood's home in Bel-Air was my next stop. 30 minutes later, I pulled up away from the place in part. And keeping in the shadows, I approached the house where only the library in an upstairs bedroom showed any light. The library had French windows. When I moved up close, I was startled by the sight of a figure going through Stealwood's desk. I stepped into the room and found it was my little friend, Benita. I've got my own gun again, Benita. Don't do any little dusting, honey. Oh, don't be funny. I'm not trying to. How is it you're not upstairs helping Stealwood pack? Because I've already finished packing Mr. Marlowe and don't turn around. That was well done, Benita. Fine. Sucked in by a little decoy sprinkled with sequins. Don't mind the prose, Marlowe. Just toss your gun on the couch over there. Now, that's better. You know, Marlowe, I can't say that I'm very sorry for you. I don't expect condolences from a character who murdered a woman this afternoon and a man this evening. You killed Mrs. Asher? Yes. And that blackmailing scum put you as well. But both murders were very necessary, Benita. Even as Marlowe's here will be. Come over here, Benita. Behind me. Hurry, Arthur. Let's get out of here. And now, Mr. Marlowe, it's time for you. Well, thanks, Benita. You swing a beautiful bookend. You know, I had you figured all wrong. No, don't mention it, dear. I heard the cops coming anyway. You sweet child. We're in here, Ibarra, all of us. Marlowe, I figured you'd be out here when he didn't show up at that songbird's place. Well, what's this? A little man on the floor, the large bump on his head, is Arthur Stewart. The man who killed Elliot Perdue to keep him from telling me the truth about Mrs. Asher. And the man who killed her this afternoon. So Mrs. Asher didn't commit suicide after all. No, but she wasn't murdered either. She died in that accident in Canada three years ago. What are you talking about? Well, the woman that Stewart killed here this afternoon wasn't Mrs. Asher. It was his wife, Mrs. Florence Stewart. You see, there must have been a mix-up in identifying the bodies of the two women at the time of the accident. Stewart and his wife had Mrs. Asher buried as Mrs. Stewart. And they collected the insurance, neat, huh? Yeah. But what happened? It's simple, Stewart got bored with his scarred and unattractive wife and he started running around with choice little numbers. Like Bonita here. Phil, honest, I didn't know a thing about this. Stewart told me that Mrs. Asher depended on him so heavily that she'd be crushed at his seeing another woman. But I didn't know she was his wife. Marlowe, how do you figure this all out? I'm a locket that belonged to the woman we knew as Mrs. Asher. It had a picture of Stewart and Mrs. Asher taken in dress clothes before she was scarred. Yet Stewart claimed that he and his wife had only met Mrs. Asher the day of the accident and on a capping trip at that. But Phil, I saw the picture too and I didn't figure that out. That's because you were too busy trying to figure just how much the locket was worth to Arthur Stewart or to anybody in cold cash. You were blinded by all the dollar signs in front of your eyes, baby. My Phil, how can you say such things? Now, Marlowe, just so I don't toss and turn all night, tell me just why you were hired in the first place. Well, he borrowed it goes something like this. When Purdue knew that he was losing Benita to Stewart, he decided to check up on the opposition and he not only found out what he wanted to know but he found out a lot of things too that he didn't want to know. Mrs. Stewart, the late Mrs. Asher, became suspicious of his questioning and incidentally of her husband. So she sent for me. Well, Marlowe, Stewart certainly had me fooled. I doped him out to be a very generous guy, a great benefactor who was doing the right thing for a lonely, unfortunate woman. Yeah, it looked like he had a heart of gold, all right. But a funny thing, Ibarra, in the end it was this heart of gold, this locket here that got him. Mind if I keep it? Not at all. You had a tough enough time getting hold of it. Good night, Phil. Well, by the time I got back to my apartment on Franklin, the sky was beginning to fill with a soft gray morning. I pulled the blinds down in my bedroom and sat down for a last cigarette. I had mixed with a lot of funny people that day. For some cock-eyed reason, I kept thinking of Benita Malone, a girl who was no better than she had to be. Finally, I put her out of my mind and I was about to turn off the desk lamp when I noticed my memo pad. It still read Sunday, which was understandable. But scrolled across the top sheet was a telephone number. And I couldn't figure out how it got there. It was written in crimson lipstick. Bradshaw 7, 7-Eleven. The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, created by Raymond Chandler, stars Gerald Moore and is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald. Featured in tonight's cast were Gloria Blondell, John Daner, Jack Moyles and Ben Wright. Detective Lieutenant Ibarra was played by Jeff Corey. The special music was conceived and conducted by Richard Orant. Be sure to be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says... They were all after it. An importer, a beautiful woman, a nut, and a guy I couldn't figure out. But before we were through, one was in the hospital, two were in the morgue, and the fourth was waiting for the hangman. All that because of a blue bergenette, something I'd never even heard of before. Dr. Fabian, the ship's doctor in Cabin B-13, tells a new story of danger in far ports tonight, over most of the CBS network stations. Tonight's story, The Island of Coffins, is another original drama by John Dixon Carr, famed mystery writer. You can hear it when the ship's whistles sound outside Cabin B-13. This is Roy Rowan speaking. This is CBS The Columbia Broadcasting System.