 Broadway's My Beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway's My Beat, with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. The pallor of the long day ebbs finally from Broadway, and what had been sallow and gray is a sudden scarlet, where drabness was, where surfaces were drained of color. There's a glitter now, silvery, darted through with splinters of neon light, and at this edge of twilight, the shock gathers, waits for the revelers. The sighing wind draws them into it one by one, from the long corridors, from hall bedrooms, from the embrace of solitude. They drift, they run, they whorl to the dancing of the wind. And shock waits, and shock comes. And answer a call from Spanish Harlem in the barrio, in a room of cracked and dusting plaster. It is lurid and grotesque, and somehow of a piercing and dread beauty. A dwarf who sits on a cot, tearing from his guitar a savage lament, tears in the furrows of his earthen face, for the girl at his feet, for the dead girl at his feet. I'm from the police, this your place? You hear me? I said I was from the police. I want you to tell me what happened here. Put that thing down and listen to me. Who are you? Look at it, look at this badge. Si, polis. That's right, polis, tell me about it. Perdone, no comprendo, señor. You live here? Is the showroom? No comprendo. This girl. Muerte. That's right, muerte. Dead. You killer? Si, muerte. You killer? Preciosa. Ah, muerte. This thing that killed her, this barb. What is it? Tell me. Pandaria, pandaria de carida. Pandada? Pandaria de carida, no comprendo. No, no, I don't understand. All right, Danny. Well, Valdez, they put you on this, too? Yeah. The call just came through from headquarters to Harlem Precinct. They sent me over. I thought maybe I could help you. You can. He doesn't speak English. You talk. You can get everything we need. The girl's a beauty, Danny. Why does it have to happen this way to a beautiful girl like... He's taking balls with those things. Talk to him, Valdez. Sure thing, Danny. Venga, viejo. Deje la guitar y escuche. Soy de la policía. Antonio Valdez. Este hombre también es detectivo. No. La mujer murió. Arriba de un bandarí. Uno muerte. Mufea para un. Como ella. Si, es fea. ¿Quién es usted, viejo? Cádiz del Cádiz de Juan Cinto de Sevilla. ¿Usted es de Juan Cinto, viejo? ¿Qué anor? Cádiz sumoso de estoques de Juan Cinto. ¿You get something, Valdez? This man, this dwarf. This is Cádiz, a sword carrier for Juan Cinto. The most brilliant man of doors is Manolete. Juan Cinto of Sevilla. Cinto de... Now, slow down. Just tell me about it. Cinto's in this country, Danny. He just came here from Sevilla. He's on his way to fight in Mexico. His Spanish language papers have been headlining it ever since he got here. This man is part of his troop? Yeah, a sword carrier, Danny. The driver's license and the girl's purse identifies her as Eve Hunter, Park Avenue address. Ask him if he knows her. Viejo. Conoce usted a esta muchacha, Eve Hunter? Ella también de Juan Cinto. Tú ni quieres que haga una corrida. Sevilla, Barcelona, Madrid. Ella también está ahí, en la plaza, después, a su lado. He says she belonged to Juan Cinto also. Wherever he went in Spain, wherever he fought, she was there. Ask him if there's a Cinto's room, if Cinto was here. Es el corto de Cinto? Estuvo aquí el Cinto? Es el corto de Cádiz. No es bastante bueno para Cinto. ¿Dónde está Cinto? Quizás en Hotel Lorma. Con su esposa, con Nicolás el boterado. This is his room, Danny. It's not good enough for Cinto. Cinto's at the Hotel Lorma with his wife and manager. Ask him what happened. ¿Qué pasó aquí, Cádiz? Y que a la casa abrí la puerta. Allí a la muchacha, muerta. De esta manera, tantalica. ¿Eso es lo que pasó? ¿Dice usted la verdad? Le digole que pasó la muerte. Se terminó. He says he came home. He says there is death and it's ended. Found the girl like that. That's all we'll get out of him, Danny. I know my people. That's all we'll get out of Cádiz, the sword carrier of Juan Cinto. You helped, Valdez. Thanks. Now get him to headquarters. And leave there and out into the streets of the mild evening. And briefly let it wash over you, a special corner of the world, Mario. Blooded now with sounds of restlessness, a beginning spring, and lost memories from another time. And shake it off and make a phone call to the residents of a murdered girl, Eve Hunter. No answer. So to the squad car in the drive downtown to Park Avenue near 70th to the Lorma Hotel. The doorman with medals opens a door with grill work and the clerk of the carnation smiles the smile taught by the management and gives you one Cinto's sweet number on the 10th floor. Juan. Oh. The face of the woman who opens the door holds disappointment and dark beauty. I am very sorry. I thought it was my husband Juan. But then, how could I think that since Juan would not knock? My name is Danny Clover. I'm the manager. And I am senority, so please come in. Nicolas? Senora. We have a visitor, Nicolas. Senor Clover, it pleases me to present to you senor Nicolas Menaccio, the manager of my husband. When I thought this, senor. How do you do? May I ask you whether your husband is home, senor? No, he's not. He's seen your city of magnificence. I wait for him. Nicolas and myself. I'm from the police, senor. There's been a murder uptown. There seems to be some connection between your husband and a girl who was found dead in the barrio. A girl in the barrio? That's right. A girl named Eve Hunter. She was found in a room rented by a man named Cadiz. Cadiz, of course we know. One of the Cadiz, but this girl is... Eve Hunter. Aye. You know her? In Xavier, in Spain, I first saw the senorita Eve Hunter. And in Barcelona, in Lisbon, in Córdoba, in these places and other. The flame of this girl and that of my husband. You mean Eve Hunter followed your husband around? And why not, senor? Then you didn't mind the fact of this girl? One sin, though, is to me. I am his wife. They hold the clothes of him. Of these girls. I'm sorry. If I know it, there will be other Eve Hunters. Nor will I mind. My husband is not home. But he was a senor. I'm from the police. My name's Danny Clover. Yes? Is this the home of Eve Hunter? Yes. What has it made? I've been phoning here all evening. Which lends itself nicely to coincidence? I haven't answered the phone all evening. And why am I dangling this intelligence in front of you? Who are you? Very well. So that we may have some basis for rapport. Identification. I'm a believer in it. I'm Ted Hunter. And since you mentioned Eve and added tidbit, we were plucked from the same parents, therefore we have the same face, and I am her brother. Let's go and slide, shall we? Mischief of our Eve. Tell me, please do. Tell me. She's dead, Mr. Hunter. In here, please. The study. How did Eve die? I suppose you'd call it by stabbing. With a steel barb that bullfighters. Under you? That's right. The grieve for a sister, Mr. Clover. How was it done? Whaling and gnashing of teeth and saying, no, no, saying, this is a dream, protesting, saying, I don't believe it and you're a liar? Or this way. Hold the cup at arm's length toward eternity and wish a happy journey and rest. I want you to tell me something about your sister, Mr. Hunter. Look around you, Mr. Clover, at this room and share her with me. You a stranger and I a stranger. Those things on the wall, under he is. Again, under he is. Photographs, bullfights. Plances and here a terrarium costume given to her by and at my arm. And here, the ear of bull. The dedication. What kind of woman was my sister? You tell me. A seeker and so a stranger to everyone, to me. I hardly knew her. She wandered, I wandered. She had her places to see and taste. I learned that your sister spent a good deal of time in Spain. How about yourself? I've been in Spain, but mostly after our parents died I traveled all about South America, the Symebees. And who killed your sister? Ah, the question distilled from the banter. The essence squeezed from the situation. Who killed my sister? I don't know. But this. Yes. There was a phone call this afternoon. My sister spoke in Spanish. Then she got dressed, went out. And I'm afraid that's all. This morsel from me to a detective. This. Pardon me. Yes. Right in here. This gentleman wants to see you, Mr. Clover. Well, I was waiting for you. Just came over on the squad car radio. What did, Valdus? One Cinto. Rumor around the barrio, he's supposed to put it in an appearance, a little nightclub on 112. Let's go. So ride a scream up to the barrio through the night streets and the night crowd where the glitter ebbs off in a grayness. Take a turn and uptown again. And the barrio slides in to meet you, the people of the stoop and the cushion of the windowsill. The lights somehow always dimmer, shadows more clustered. That's it, Danny, down the street. El bravo. Danny, look. What there was to see was in the center of the small dance floor under the single light. The slim figure of a man is face somehow tortured. A man holding a sword and spinning a silken and scarlet cloth. Now with slow grace, now in a fury of movement, the watchers in the shadows. It's one Cinto, Danny. Have you ever seen anything like it? Watch. Watch the way he handles the sword and the muletta. Passe un natural. Attoro. Attoro, attoro. Attoro, attoro. He's calling out the Cape Passes he makes in the arena before he kills the bull. Look at him. Yeah. Bomb you on the pecho. Attoro, attoro. Something's happened to him, Valdus. Come on. Vaya, permiso. Policia, fuera, fuera. Blood. Just like he'd been gored by a bull. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fein and David Friedkin, and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. You listen close to Broadway, you hear it. The measured thrumming of the spectacular that echo off into the night and its cadence is the beat of a mechanical and metallic heart. This is the rhythm assigned to Broadway. It's muted song, it's dance. And it rhymes well with a whisper or a plea or a cry. The gaudy talk and shouts in the hawker's tune. So lean into it and listen. And the sound you get is a scream deep from your own throat. And when the clatter dies and the night is done and sleeping is done, it's work time, checking in time, start a new day time. So go to your office and wait. Wait for an autopsy report on Juan Sinto. Can I come in, Danny? You got anything for me, Sergeant? Autopsy report, Danny, from Dr. Gonzalez. What do you find? Oh, it's true that Juan Sinto died while there was no one near him and the doctor has determined how that happened. The bullfighter was shot earlier in the day. The bullet removed by an amateur causing damage and the wound dressed like many bullfighters have their wounds dressed. It was stuffed with gauze. Juan Sinto knew he was dying, the doctor believes. And sure enough, the exertions of his mock fight which you witnessed did just that, killed him. Yeah. What are you thinking, Danny? I think someone found Eve Hunter and Sinto in that room in the barrio. Killed Miss Hunter and thought he'd killed Sinto. The killer ran. Yeah. The dwarf caddis came back to his room and saw what had happened. Extracted the bullet and bandaged Sinto's wounds the way he'd done a lot of times before. Then hid Sinto someplace. That's what I think. That's why we're holding him. Yes? Oh, come in, please. Sit down. Sergeant Otraglius and your Nicholas Manaccio. All right. How do you do? I was just going out for coffee, senor. Anything I can get for you, pour favoie. Gracias, senor. Well, why this, everybody? What can I do for you, senor Manaccio? As manager and friend of the great Sinto, I wish to make the necessary arrangements for the remains to be sent back to Sevilla for better. I see. It'll be arranged. Senor Manaccio, see, I want your opinion on the death of Juan Sinto. I will explain. Last night, this tragedy, he played out until its finale. Typical of his greatness. I don't understand. So many times he has looked at death in the arena, and so he wished to embrace it thus, as a matador, as a killer of bulls. In the tragedy of last night, he died a matador. Why didn't he say who killed him? To admit that he died because another man had given him death would be shameful to him. I see. Did you kill him? Senor, I did not. Did you kill Eve Hunter? No, senor. You think his wife could have murdered him? You are a fool, senor. But she did have motive for killing Eve Hunter. I am at your service, senor. Whenever you wish to talk with me of the arrangements for the body of Juan Sinto, I will speak no more of foolish things. Down the hall, senor. Room 312. Detective Magovan will take care of it. Gracias. Buenas tardes, senor. Go back now to the Lorma Hotel. Ask for the senora, Sinto. Be told she had gone out for the afternoon to a Spanish language theater, El Cabre, 116th Street, off Lenox. When you get there, the wind torn posters blazing with Juan Sinto. The doorman announcing in English and Spanish the hour-long new Israel in memory of a dead Matador. And inside, the scattering of afternoon wonders. And against the darkness and the puppet image of a dead husband, the light of the old film spangles across the face of a woman whose duty you would have found in any shadow place. La Corrida. La Corrida de Corva. Senora Sinto. That is Juan. In the center position. I want to talk to you, senor. Of what? Juanita's dead and the world wits. What then, will you talk? We want to find his killer, senora. A moment. Look. There is that is. Look how he hands my Juanito de Soar, the gift of the bull. And Juanito with the muleta. Oh, Dios. Juanito. Come, senor. We can talk here. If you want. What of me do you wish, senor? You told me you knew about Eve Hunter and your husband. Sí, I knew. You could have killed her for that. You could have killed Juan Sinto. I told you before, senor. Of such as this girl, there were many for Juanito. Yet always there was me. Still you could have killed him. I did not kill the girl because she was pleasing to Juanito. What pleased him? I could not kill her. How long have you known Nicholas Menacho? From when I knew Juan. Juan brought him to me. He told me, said to me, this is my father and my brother-in-law. Smile on him. Smile on Nicholas, mi querida. Menacho is a man who could kill out of jealousy because he was jealous of Juan's fame, his woman. You have seen Nicholas? Talked with him? Then you know what you say has emptiness. And Cadiz, the sword carrier. About him? Before each querida, Juanito touched the back of Cadiz for luck. For another day of life. Cadiz was adored by Juanito. This does not happen often to such men as Cadiz, the dwarf. Your husband was murdered, senor. Someone wanted him dead. This someone has madness. Find him, senor. And kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Hey, Danny! What's on your mind, Gino? I've seen your Cadiz, Danny, the dwarf. He's been screaming for you. He wants to talk to you. Beats his fist to the wall. Says he wants to talk to the detective. How do you know that's what he's saying? How do I know? Danny, the man screams in plain English. Bring me the detective, he screams. With a slight accent, I admit. Put plain to the ears of any English speaking. I shouldn't have understood him, Danny. That is? They told me you wanted me. To tell you of the dying of Juanito, senor. You could have told me before. You pretended you didn't know English, why? Then Juanito was not dead. Tell me about it. Juanito asked me for my room. He wished of a loneliness with a girl, with Eve Hunter, while I played the guitar. But I left him. I left Juanito. And when you came back, you found her dead, and sent her dying. You treated his wound, hid him from us. Why? Because he killed the girl and tried to kill himself? He wished not her death. Juanito asked that I hide him and then help him to find the murderer. You've known all along who the killer was. Perhaps. Who? A nameless one, but none to me. You know him, but you can't name him. In Spain, wherever was Juanito for a corrida, was this man also, grinning down from the far seat of the plaza. After in each place in the street, the cafe, he come to me, say talk with me about Juanito and the girl, Juanito and Miss Hunter. Tell me of them, he say to me. Whisper, he say. I turn my back to him. He's here? He followed you and sent her here? Perhaps. Such a man would do this. A man who had the face of Eve Hunter. Open this cell, I want this man released. Let's go, Cadiz. Let's go identify a man. Come on, Cadiz. Mr. Clover with friend. Mind if we come in? I had bought myself a drink and when I drink it's a time for solitude. Inside, Mr. Hunter, you can have your drink and we'll turn our backs, that'll make it lonely for you. You want me to invite your friend in here? Well, the large muscle of the law. Come along, you two. This is the house of the dead girl, senor. That's right, Cadiz. In here, you... tequila. Not tequila, senor. You? Nothing. And I'm not disappointed I drink alone. No, this is Cadiz. He traveled with Juan Sinto. These pictures on the wall, all of them of Juan Sinto. And now? Cadiz told me of a man who followed Juan Sinto and your sister around Spain. He would come to Cadiz after the fight and ask him to talk about your sister and the Matador. Really, now? This picture of Juan Sinto, I remember. In Barcelona when he was almost hooked upon the horns of a bull. He've always had a sort of aesthetic sense. Let me go on, Mr. Hunter. This man, this man who followed them around Spain, finally made up his mind about something, out of pride or whatever, he would kill them. And he did, yesterday. Cadiz. Senor. Is this the man? No, senor. I see. You've had your fun and games, now please leave, you two. Can I drive you any place, Cadiz? Am I not under arrest? No more. You can go wherever you like. Senor Hunter? Yes. So many of this picture of Juan Sinto on this wall. There are so many memories. May I stay a while and look at them? I'll tell you quite simply, no, you may not. They are of deepest memory, senor. I ask you, this dwarf of a man asks you. I ask you, senor. I'll be going long. Put them down, Cadiz. They're sticking with these bandarillas. They kill him for a while. Put them down. I don't want to use this gun, Cadiz. He is the man, senor, the killer, senor. You can't get away from me. You killed them, didn't you? Yes, yes, get away from me. Cadiz? Because you're saying... You killed Mr. Hunter. Why? My sister with that butcher with that rubbish. That killer of bulls, my sister. In a world of filth and sweat and screaming, peons and dwarves. My sister, mine. Such a man as this, and I am called a dwarf. Let's go, Mr. Hunter. They race against the fugitive knight on Broadway, the people of the Swarm. Each in his own way. Make time stand still. That's the trick. But dawn comes. The gutters are choked with the wasted minutes. The infinite man hours of loneliness and tears. It's Broadway, the gaudiest, the most violent. The lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway, my beat. Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover, with Charles Calvert as Tertaglia and Jack Krushin as Muggevin. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis, with musical score composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. In tonight's story, Paul Freese was heard as Cadiz, Whitfield Connor as Teddy Hunter. Featured in the cast were Virginia Gregg, Edgar Berrier, Anthony Barrett, and Harry Bartell. Broadway as My Beat was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Musical score was composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. Bob Stephenson speaking. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio Service.