 In response to requests representing millions of listening friends, the national broadcasting company is pleased indeed to bring you again the adventures of Sam Spade detective. Me, sweet. What number have I got? The Sam Spade detective agency, but... Oh, well me, sweetheart. Something's happened. Call me later, Dwight. Dwight, yeah. Look. I didn't know you were in town. You didn't write to me or... Effie, Eff! This is me in the flesh, Sammy the Spade. Oh, now what? Goodbye. Effie, I'm in a pay phone. My nickel is running out. Oh, Dwight, how can you be so cruel and play jokes at a time like this? Wait, wait, listen. Ella, you listening? Yes. I am not dead. Don't believe everything you read in the papers. Huh? Or here on the radio. Yes. You were at my funeral. Is that what you were about to say? Yes. And it was lovely. Don't believe that either. Stay right where you are, sweetheart, because I'll be there, alive and handsomer than ever. With an account of a caper which proves you can kill some of the people part of the time. My exaggerated report on the death of Sam Spade. NBC welcomes back to the air a character who has captured the public imagination more completely than any other since the birth of Sherlock Holmes. William Spear, radio's outstanding producer, director of mystery and crime drama, brings you the greatest private detective of them all in the adventures of Sam Spade. Ain't it grand to be blooming well dead, candles at my feet, candles at my head. We're not over this right now because, because... I'll wait, I'll wait. Spade, S-P-A-D-E, Spade. Sam never told me he had a twin brother. He doesn't. But then you... I'm me, Sam. Oh, no, no. Oh, wait, come here. Now do you believe me? Well, I hang in the room. Oh, what's the use? Never mind, never mind. Now get your pencil and paper and take it. Date November 17th, 1950. To Miss Effie Pereira. That's me. From Samuel Spade. That's me. License number 137596. You must have been the last one to see him alive. Did he tell you to give me a message? Shut up. Subject my deaths, dear Effie. Since the sight of me in the flesh, breathing, hungering and living doesn't convince you, maybe this report will. Think if you can back to last Monday. Now, if you recall, it was about 11 o'clock when on the flimsy pretense that we needed stamps for the office, you drew two dollars from petty cash and stepped out to buy a pair of step-ins. And that's when my client materialized. He was small and thin and carried with him the unmistakable odor of stale flowers. His black alpaca suit, string bow tie, elevator shoes and white gloves had no bearing on his conversation. Oh, dear. My name is Chester Swan. Are you sure? Yes. My name is Spade. How tall are you, Mr. Spade? Six feet in my feet. Wait. 178. I always notice a man's bone structure, don't you? Oh, always. Open. Open, let me see inside. Oh, oh. Like this? Mm-hmm. All right. Fine. Oh, well, now that you know me this well, Mr. Swan, what can I do for you? Oh, dear. Perhaps I shouldn't have come here at all. I'm sorry, Mr. Spade. Well, really? Oh, dear. Oh, hello again, Mr. Swan. You wanted to talk to me? Yes, but I can't talk now. Mr. Spade. Still here? There. I live at 8516 Claremont in Berkeley. I'll be there tonight. Oh, dear. This time, as he made his exit, he left $50 on the edge of my desk. And so stupid me, I was at 8516 Claremont at the close of the day. It was a small white cottage with green shutters and a white picket fence. There was a hill in back and a brook in front. The sun was beginning to set on it, and it was all very picturesque. In fact, so much so that a girl with red hair, blue jeans, purple smart, oils, and canvas was making it immortal. She liked me immediately. Here, hold this. Certainly. Like it? Oh, yeah. This is my first landscape. I'm a sprouting artist. Obvious. Make sure all... Not when I can get somebody to do it for me. Who are you? Oh, I might be a fellow artist. Don't do that. You're a liar. You're Sam Spade. I saw your picture in a newspaper clipping when I was helping Chester clean out his desk before he moved it. But I... You don't know an easel from a pallet? Oh, but I could learn. I take it seriously. Well, then so do I. I doubt it. You've never tried to get away to stand off, to throw off the shackles, have you? No, no. I'll have to admit that the urgency of living, the pressure of merely existing, is had to... Catfish, Sam. By the way, I'm Amy Goodrich. Catfish? The world is full of unhappy people who never try to get away from it all. Well, honest. Stop it. I don't want it to, really. Honestly, Sam, get away from everything. Leave, dissolve. I've dreamed of it. Never return. Cross my heart. What are you doing here? To see Mr. Swan. He isn't home yet. His house is a wonderful subject. Look, Sam, colorful, moderate, pleasant. That is until the sun stops shining. But picture it at night in the fog. Crushed with barrenness, full of death, brooding, ominous. I'm trying to capture that, too. It's what we've got to get away from, isn't it? Absolutely. You and I... As you start up the hill on Claremont, there's a green apartment house on the right. I'm in 420. Well, maybe we'll find a way out together. Maybe. I waved to Rafaun farewell and sat on the steps of my client's house until he showed up at 6.15. He took me inside where the only furniture was an army cot and a portable barbecue. I'm so glad you kept our appointment, Mrs. Fade. I'm so frightened. I've been upset all week long. I didn't know what to do. I just didn't. And what have you been so upset about, Mr. Swann? Well, lately, Mr. Fade. Infrequently, for the last week I've noticed a man. I think he's following me. At first I'd see him in a car following my bus when I went downtown. Then he'd be waiting around at the bus stop in the evening when I came back. I've sold my house and I'm ready to move. It's unnerved me so much, but... Did he follow you home tonight? No, no, but I... Well, would anyone be following you, Mr. Swann? Well, hi, hi. I don't know, Mr. Fade. I don't know. I really don't. All right, I'll try another tack. What does this man look like? He always wears dark clothes and a hat. I'd say it was about your height. Six feet. I remember. Maybe heavier. Same bone structure, though. Yeah, you haven't been to the police. Oh, yeah, no. A man in my business can't afford off-color publicity. No? What kind of business is that? The Bantan Mortuary. Oh. 25 years. Same location. Oh, and I've worked hard, so very hard. And if there's something behind all this, something that has stopped me from being made the executive secretary of the Undertaker's Breakfast Club when they hold their annual election next month, I don't know what I'll do, Mr. Fade. I just don't really know what I'll do. I just don't. Don't go ahead, Mr. Swann. You'll feel better. Just let it all out. Just really do. And he did. When he stopped crying, I instructed him to go about his daily habits as always and left, assuring him I'd get to the bottom of it all. I walked down to the corner ostentatiously, which is a neat trick, well, calculated to throw nefarious observers off the track and lull them into false security. And when the bus showed up 10 minutes later, I got on it, rode three blocks, walked back, and took a plant across the street. A clever roost, as you see, to invite a showdown. Two hours later, a man about my size and dark clothes appeared over the hill and crept stealthily to the front of my client's cottage. He had his eyes glued to the window when I walked up behind him. Hey, let go, let go of me. Come on, you're going inside. Listen, I'm no peeping Tom. No, no, you're the bloodhound type. I'm inviting you in for a real sniff at your point. Oh, no, you don't. Well, all right, then I'll go quietly. Okay, that's better now, just walk on. The kick he landed on me wasn't according to Queensbury. I couldn't move for three or four minutes and by that time, he disappeared. When I recovered my faculty, as I reported the incident to my client, who cried himself to sleep. After I bolded him in for the night, I stopped on my way down the hill at apartment 420 in the little green apartment house. She was still wearing the blue jeans and the purple smock, and she still had the same ideas. Come in, Sam. You said you were serious about getting away from it all, and a whole day has passed. It was that pressure of living. I'm here to apologize. You are not, but go ahead. I'm sorry, Angel. I love to be fooled, Sam. You're forgiven. Now, how's the painting coming? They're the one of Swan's cots. Slow. Fog is always tough. Looks nice, though. How long you been on it? Three weeks, all told. Well, then you've had a pretty good plan on the house, haven't you? Ever notice a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a dark suit casing the place? Tall, broad-shouldered? Pretty much like me. Could anybody be pretty much like you, Sam? No, you're right. Sam, is there something wrong? No, no. Well, then don't stand there doing nothing. Do something. Oh, me? Amy fixed me a small dinner which had a strong turpentine taste to it. Then we mixed oils and painted and made fudge. Next afternoon, at the Hall of Records, I did a little spade work on Chester Swan. His application and permit to practice undertaking in the city of San Francisco were dated 1938. Details? Unmarried, 52 years of age. Graduated from mortician school in Ohio. Listed one living relative, Nephew. Theodore J. Swan, Toledo, Ohio. I was gathering the above information when I smelled whiskey over my shoulder, which is always good luck. It was Al Torrington who was also in the private investigation racket in this city. And he was leaning, peering from my face to the car that I held in my hand. He got over to you too, Sam? Who got over to me, Al? Him, that thinny with the tears. What's his name? You know, my eyes ain't so good. Swan, Al. Chester Swan. Mortician. Yeah, yeah, that's him, Sam. The same one exactly. Came to my office two weeks complaining about somebody following him. And he did nothing about it. Said I was too fat. Oh, well, you are, Al. Are you sure? Sure, I'm sure. And some other, the boy said he was around there too. Wanted a private eye, but he wanted a man who looked just right. All right. Obviously as right as you are, Sam, because it looks like he picked you. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yes, F, it did look like he picked me. And I thought that over and I didn't like it. And I called my client of home to tell him he was fired, but he didn't give me a chance. Oh, dear, I'm so glad you called, Mr. Spade. I really am. I called for a reason, Mr. Swan. I'm resigning this case. Oh, dear, Mr. Spade, you can do that. You really can. I don't think you've been quite honest with me, Mr. Spade. Oh, dear. Tears will get you nowhere. I made a routine check on your reasons for hiring me, and they don't quite fit with the reasons you gave. They really just don't quite, Mr. Swan. It's no game, Mr. Spade, believe me. He's back tonight. Right now he's standing beneath the lamppost outside my window, and I'm frightened to death. Please hurry over, Mr. Spade, and let's get this business straight now. Please, please. And stupid, stupid me, I went over, and I found that little white cottage on the hill looking grim and gaunt in the heavy fog. Amy's words about it being crushed with barrenness, full of brooding and death came back to me. And Mr. Swan's frightened words about a mysterious man in dark clothes waiting beneath the streetlight also came back to me, particularly when I noted there was no streetlight near the house. However, there was a light somewhere in the rear of the house, and the front door was ajar. Oh, Mr. Swan, Mr. Swan, are you here? Oh, Mr. Swan, it's me, Sam Spade. Are you here? Mr. Spade? Is that you? Are you out there? Where are you? Ah! Things happened fast. I turned around to find the front door filled with a man in a dark suit. He had something in his hand. It looked like a roll of cotton candy, but it felt different. It only staggered me against the wall, but it made me forget where my arms were. Easy, Spade, easy does it, boy. Easy. He let me down to the floor gently. I could still see the lights somewhere in the back of the house, and I could hear him talking way off. Take off his coat. Give me the needle. I can't watch. I'm going upstairs. The needle went somewhere in my left arm, but not before somebody pulled my coat off, and for no reason I could think of it at the moment, also tried to pull my finger off, and I couldn't dwell on it. By that time, the stuff in my arm was going other places, and I was going with it, even though there was action all around me. Vaguely somewhere, somebody was shooting Roman candles or having blowouts or playing bebop. I just didn't care at all. I just didn't. The first thing I saw was sunlight. It was the kind you see in a picture. It was a picture of a little white cottage with green shutters. You guessed it, I was in Amy's apartment, where we made fudge together. I got to my feet somehow. I knew the best thing to do with me. There was a fire escape in a window. I got out there and I weaved against the wall. Away with that load he was carrying. I don't know. I don't see. Don't just stand there. We've got to do something. There might be trouble. Now let's keep going. I didn't wait to find out what they were going to do. I made my way down the fire escape and started walking for the street. And that's when I noticed my shoes didn't fit me anymore. They weren't mine. Neither was the gray flannel suit with the label marked tidkeys. Neither was the blue shirt. While I was at it, the ring on my finger engraved Emerson High in 1936 wasn't mine either. My new belt buckle had a big letter T on it, which is not my initial. It really isn't. And I didn't have any use for the eyeglasses in my coat pocket either. You were out when I walked in the office, F, but you'd been there. There was a black crepe done up and a white satin ribbon hanging on the door. The desk blotter was drenched with salt tears. And a newspaper folded back to page 13, and I'll sue the chronicle on this if it's the last thing I do, gave me a two inch spread item, November 15th, 1950. 15? What happened to the 13th and the 14th? Detective perishes in Berkeley fire. I read it through once and twice. It was my obituary. By listening to the first in a new series of adventures involving radio's most famous detective, Sam Spade. Later tonight on most NBC stations, Duffy's tavern comes your way with another merry half hour session starring Ed Gardner as Archie the manager. There's a full serving of laughs garnished with chuckles and whipped up by Archie and his unpredictable friends, Miss Duffy, Clifton Finnegan and Eddie the waiter. It's just one of the many great Friday evening entertainment features on NBC. It's Duffy's Tavern. Your cue for better listening where the three chimes always mean good times. Make it a Friday evening habit to tune early and stay late at your favorite NBC station. And now back to caper over my dead body. Tonight's adventure with Sam Spade. I left the crepe on the door and went out to buy a new desk blotter and some more newspapers. The whole ball news had the best story, which wasn't much. Samuel Spade, licensed private investigator, perished Wednesday night in a fire in a vacant house in Berkeley. His warm friends will feel regret at the passing of a man who was always kind to the poor. None of us ever asked Sam Spade for a handout without receiving a kind word and bon mot as he turned us down. This was nice, but I wanted more. It was fairly safe to wonder about unrecognized. My ill-fitting attire, acquired from my unknown benefactor, would be disguised enough when combined with my two-day beard. Engine Company 16, Berkeley division, had handled the fire and half a block away was a grog shop called The Shamrock. I waited for a fireman to come in. Bartender. Bartender! What kind of a place are you running now? I've been here five minutes. Well, it seemed like five minutes. A wee bit more, if you don't mind. That's enough for you, Patty. You're still on duty. I am not. I'm off now. The chief said I could be off. He says every day I receive such a shock to me, system. You received your shock three days ago. And I'm still shaking, man. Oh, the sight of him was terrible, terrible. Aren't as black as the good saints' beard. Hard twisted and horrible in death. He was probably dead drunk and didn't know what happened to him. The flames and finding him like me. Oh, it was terrible, terrible, terrible. Terrible. It wasn't that bad, and you've had your limit. And who says so? I say so. Oh, you do, do you? And who are you? Your brother-in-law. Well, maybe I can spot you one time. I never drink with strangers. What's your name? Uh, Old Doolan. Well, you heard the man go ahead and pour. Cheers. Yeah. Fireman, you had a terrible experience three days ago. That I did, Mr. Old Doolan. That I did indeed. I've heard it a dozen times. I'll be at the other end of the bar. Three nights ago, Mr. Old Doolan. And we get a call from the house on Claremont. It is a fire. Well, sir, when we get there, it's about all gone. Can't understand why it's been flames so fast. Wood. It was the funeral pyre of a man who lived in sin. Huh? Uh, detective fellow. Sam Spade, he was identified as. Oh, one moment, Fireman. I've heard fine things about him. Ah, some of those uppity police fellows from the division of homicides said he was a nice fellow. But some of the boys at the fire station and Miss Elve, well, we got our own ideas about that. Oh, what kind of ideas, Paddy, my boy? What kind of good can any man be accomplishing in an empty house late at night, I ask you, Mr. Old Doolan? Oh, he was done to a turn. He was when I burst in the door with me axe. Saved sit in the club room. Charged. Hempty whiskey bottle scattered all about. Sin, no, Doolan, sin. He'd gone to sleep with a smokin' cigarette that set the whole place off. Vace, rampant! From there, I went downtown to a telegraph office where I sent a wire to Toledo on a long chance. And while I was waiting for an answer on a not-so-long chance, I slunk into the bomb-torn funeral parlor to pay my respects to the departed. I stood in the back of that dimly-lit chapel and scanned the sea. Three of the boys from homicide were there, blowin' their noses. Two chorus girls I thought had long since forgotten me were there in black, deep-veen necks. My insurance man was there, looking awful worried. One chronicle reporter with photographer and a shoe-shined boy from our building and the bailiff from the courthouse just to mention a few I could make up. And you were there, F.A. Up front near a closed casket. I made out a bar of flowers from robbery detail. It said, good-bye, Sam. Maxie from the city morgue was the only one who looked at ease. Does anyone wish to, uh, you, miss? I was touched, Effie, and I would've stopped the whole thing then and there. But I had to find out who was in that casket. I reeled out the front door with tears in my eyes and slid around to the back door and into Chester Swan's private office. And there I made a phone call and got an answer to my telegram, which caused me to make another call to his bank. By that time, most of it was right in place. A search through his desk revealed nothing and a safe standing in the corner the same. But then my answer walked right in the door. When I found you'd left, but I saw you at the funeral and I thought you'd be here. And the guy was with you? Was he worried, too? Oh, him, him. That was Dr. Jesslyn. Sam, you'd been out for two days and I didn't. Oh, Sam, you're safe. You got away from it all. You've escaped, darling. Yeah, yeah, they're burying me right now. I'm dead. It's so wonderful, Sam. Only one thing. Where do you fit? The caper. I was supposed to burn up in that fire and what was left was supposed to look enough like Theodore J. Swan, class of 1936 Toledo, Ohio, to let beneficiary Chester Swan collect a nice pile of insurance money. Sam, what are you talking about? Who was Theodore J.? What did you say? Chester's only living relative. They're burying him right now. Somebody lost his caper. You want to tell me? Darling, I was at the house the night of the fire working on my foggy picture. You didn't see me when you went in and later on you didn't come out and I went over. And I was on the floor and a man was bending over me. He changed clothes with you, Sam, and I screamed and he pulled out a gun and I hit him with a hoe and I drug you out on the lawn. And then what happened? I put you in my car and took you home. I was going to phone the police but I decided it was something you were working on and I went back to the house and it... And it was burning and you knew the man you'd hit on the head was in there. Believe me, Sam, I didn't know the house was going to burn down. I wouldn't kill anybody, Sam. I only wanted... You only wanted to help me and you did right, Angel. Oh, Sam. That's all right. I'm your witness. You didn't start the fire. You mean somebody really started it? Chester. He thought it was me lying on the floor in there. The bank tells me he's about to go busted. He figured this went out with his nephew to scare up some insurance, though. I'm about the same size as... Hold me, Sam. Hold me. It's been horrible. This is the kind of thing I was trying to paint. Now I'm smack dab up against it and I'm sick. I'm scared. Easy, easy. Sam, you're really dead. There's our way out, Sam. Just leave now. Let it go the way it is. They all think you're dead. Oh, dear. Huh? But we know different, don't we, Mr. Spade? He was holding a Navy Colt revolver in front of him with both hands. I couldn't make up my mind to rush him and count on his bad aim or stand still and be a perfect target while I tried to talk him out of it. Either way, he was a crazy man with a gun and he was getting ready to use it. Sam, he's going to kill us. Mr. Spade, because my nephew was stupid enough to wear your watch and your suit when he exchanged clothes with you, I'm going to lose the fountain. And that puts you in quite a spot, doesn't it, Mr. Swain? Until a moment ago, yes, but now. Mr. Spade, the newspapers all say you're dead. The death certificate says the same thing. All of your friends are following your casket and my nephew's corpse to the cemetery at this very moment. Everybody expects you to be dead, Mr. Spade. Thanks to you, Mr. Swain. But now, nobody would miss you if I killed you. I'd miss you, Sam. But I'd have to kill you, too. Oh. Did you notice you were still wearing Theodore's clothes, even his ring, while Mr. Spade, I could kill you and put you in a fire somewhere and collect my insurance on Theodore now. Couldn't I? Oh, why, that's a terrible thing to think. Huh? Oh, you're not reasoning properly, Chester. You really aren't. How would you explain Amy? You just said you'd have to kill her. And what about the coroner's office? You know how they are. But if I... And don't forget the medical examiner's got something to say, too, not to mention the fact that you'd have to really burn me up to cover up the bullet hole. And furthermore, Chester, when you shoot me, if you happen to hit a rib and chip off some bone, they'd know I was shot before, and then homicide had been on it. I'm a failure. Go ahead, Mr. Swan. Let it all out. You'll feel better. Ah! And he did. And he's still crying in his cell downtown. Period. And the report. Oh, Sam, you were so brave. You actually stood there and talked that crazy man out of murdering you. You were wonderful. True, Effie. Amy thinks so, too. She's gonna do me in oils when they let her out of the pokey. Amy's in jail. What for, Sam? Oh, technical charge of an involuntary manslaughter. Well, springer, as soon as the coroner's inquest is completed. Dear Amy... Did she make good fudge, Sam? Fudge? Oh, that was the least of it. Oh? What do you mean? After the fudge. What then? Panucci. Oh, boy, oh, boy. Say, go type that up, sweetheart, while I see if there's any mention of my miraculous resuscitation on the radio page. Go, go. Scoot, scoot. There certainly is a mention of Sam's spade on the radio page for Friday. Sam's spade is one more in the list of great shows to join up in NBC's Parade of the Stars. Have you heard the big show? This Sunday, the big show comes your way once again on NBC. Listen to just a few of the star names who will be appearing this week. Bob Hope, Jimmy Durante, Perry Como, Jose Ferrer, Mindy Carson, Eddie Cantor, Meredith Wilson and his orchestra and many, many more. And, of course, your emcee once again will be the lady who invented the snappy retort to Lula Bankhead. Yes, it's the big show. It's big in music, big in drama and big in comedy. Be sure to hear the big show Sunday. I doubt it. Good. I will sign it and you will keep it always to remind you that I'm still here. Oh, Sam. Living, breathing, brave and handsome, a paragon. Sam, what will we do about the mail? The mail? What mail? Where would you... All the letters and postcards and telegrams and all that came when people thought you... Well, I mean, you weren't good. When they thought you... Oh, there have been enough tears tonight. Oh, Sam, it's so good to have you back. Will you be the same as you always were? Well, I'm going to try. Well, because then you can't help but be, like they say, the greatest private detective of them all. We'll see. Good night, Sam. Good night, sweetheart. No. The Adventures of Sam Spade are produced, edited and directed by William Spear. Sam Spade was played by Stephen Dunne. Lorene Tuttle is Effie. Script for tonight's adventure by E. Jack Newman. Musical Scarring by Lud Gluskin, conducted by Frank Worth. Join us again next week, same time for another adventure with Sam Spade. Hear the magnificent Montague, then visit Duffy's Tavern on NBC.