 Family Theatre presents Rosalind Russell and Chuck Connors. From Hollywood, the mutual network in cooperation with Family Theatre presents the McCoy, starring Chuck Connors. And now, here is your hostess, Rosalind Russell. Family Theatre's only purpose is to bring to everyone's attention a practice that must become an important part of our lives. If we are to win peace for ourselves, peace for our families, and peace for the world. Family Theatre urges you to pray. Pray together as a family. Now to our transcribed drama, The McCoy, starring Chuck Connors as Paul. Before going out to dinner, I left word with the concierge that if Spencer called, he could reach me at the restaurant any time before 9.30. Or back at my rooms any time after that. Downstairs, I caught a glimpse of myself in a large ornate wall mirror as I crossed the lobby to the street. Eleven years. I found myself wondering if Spencer still had his lieutenants uniform and if so, could he get into it? Mine was long gone. Ex-buck sergeants aren't so sentimental. I stopped for a moment on the outside steps to light a cigarette. At 8 in the evening there is no such thing as an uncrowded Parisian sidewalk. The lights are on, the cafes are bright and noisy, the city comes awake. But hold the thought, Ronimus. It's not the same city anymore and you're not the same sergeant. That was a million years ago, so don't try to go back and cross your fingers. Maybe Spencer won't call after all. I was back in my room by quarter of 10. There was a cable from Jethro of the London office saying that my cabinet minister was rumored to have resigned. If so, forget the interview and follow up on the resignation angle. I phoned the American Embassy. The rumor was true but the lid was on. There wasn't going to be any story. By 11 o'clock I had spoken to Jethro long distance, been reassigned to Prague and made reservations on the morning plane. The crossed fingers were getting a little numb so I turned in. They were working though. Spencer still hadn't called. Just a minute. Yes? You are Mr. Paul Ronimus? That's right. Inspector Roslo, Paris police. My credentials. Sure. Come in. Sorry to wake you at this hour, but we have information that you will be leaving early in the morning. That's right. What can I do for you? Just a few questions. Have a seat. Thank you. You are an American journalist, are you not? I'm a newspaper man. And you have just arrived in Paris? Just this morning. Might I ask why you are leaving so soon? Might I ask why you are asking? In a moment. Well, very simply, the story I was sent to cover blew up in my face. Oh? Yes. I see. You don't believe it? And it is rather pet in view of the circumstances. Not knowing what circumstances you mean, I can't very well argue the point. Are you acquainted with a man by the name of Spencer, Alfred Spencer? He is an America. Yes, I know him. Or rather I knew him. We haven't seen one another for years. When exactly did you last see him? In 1949, Vienna. I see. But since then you have had no contact, whatever, with Mr. Spencer. Not until he phoned me here this afternoon. Ah, he phoned you? About 2.30. You are sure you did not phone him? Quite sure. I wouldn't have known where to call. Very well, he phoned you. And what did he want? It was a personal matter. You will have to take my word that it is now a police matter. What did he want? He wanted to sell me something. Indeed. Would you care to name the item offered for sale? It was an oil painting. Exactly. But of course you said you were not interested. On the contrary, I said I was very much interested. Mr. unanimous, have you forgotten that you are speaking to a police official? No. Then you are unaware of the gravity of that admission? What admission? That you knowingly conspired with Mr. Spencer to traffic in stolen goods. Oh, now hold on. Or of course you protest you did not know the painting was stolen. Of course I knew it. Pardon? I say of course I knew it. Technically, I guess you could say it was stolen. Mr. unanimous, for my own enlightenment, what other word would you employ to describe the illegal appropriation of property? Well, we used to refer to it as liberating things. Liberating? Back during the war. Certainly, you remember that phrase? Well, I do, of course. That's what Spencer said he was doing when we found that picture in Germany. Liberating it. In Germany? Well, that's right. It was, let's see, March, early March 1945. Lieutenant Spencer had joined the outfit about the first week in February right outside of Fulda. He was assigned to us from an officer's pool. And when I reported to him and saw the gold bar on his collar, I thought somebody pitched us a curve. About the only second Louise around that late in the game were the new ones coming out of the infantry OCS at Versailles. And they weren't much. Eddie, Sergeant. I'm your new platoon leader. Second Lieutenant Spencer. Yes, sir. You may call me Lieutenant. Yes, sir. It's not funny, Sergeant. All right. How long have you been in grade? About eight months. Oh, you're before that? Buck Corporal, almost a year. There's an opening on the TO for staff. You want to be a staff? I guess so. Well, what you really want is out, isn't it? Yeah, but it doesn't look like I'm going to make it. Well, block your application for transfer to Stars and Stripes, you see, oh? Mostly. Well, cheer up, Sergeant. The war is almost over. You can go back to the newspaper reporting after you get discharged. I guess so. In time, let's you and I get off on the right foot. You've been in grade eight months, I've been in grade two years. I'm all through trying to win the war. The way I see it from now on, the trick is to stay alive and get as fat as you can. Well, that's fine with me, Lieutenant, but nobody's quit yet. There's still a little shooting to do. Pockets of resistance, mopping up operations? Somebody's got to do it. But not a second Lieutenant who's been in grade for two years, Sergeant. Not this second, Lieutenant. Stay alive and get fat. What Spencer meant by that was to dodge every assignment that looked risky and loot all he could in the meantime. We'd start out on a jeep, just the two of us, supposedly on reconnaissance. And at the first turnoff out of the company area, Spencer would have me swing the jeep around and we'd start cross-country, looking for abandoned homes, factories, any place that might yield up a few souvenirs. So you're going back to reporting, Aronimus? Well, that's the only thing I know. Also, I like it. You'll never get rich. Well, maybe not lousy rich, but I don't think people like Pegler and the Alsops are starving. Oh, but they're working awful hard. What about the girl in Paris? Is she part of the future? Paris? Marie, isn't it? Who do you think senses your mail? Oh, I yeah. She might be. No girl in the States? Nobody in particular. How about you, Lieutenant? No. Ah, there was one for a while. My partner. I think she's married now. You mean a business partner? Yeah. What did you do? Guess. You own some kind of a store or something? No. Law firm? Real estate. You could guess forever and you wouldn't get it. I was a dancer. A dancer? That's right. With the feet. You don't look like the type. I'm not. I sort of backed into it. Eight years ago in college, I broke my leg. A little Southern college. I had a football scholarship with a no-play, no stay clause in it. So I had to build up the leg in a hurry and the doctor said the best exercise was dancing. Well, did he get you back into shape? Oh, enough to do the big apple. But as a blocking back, I wasn't worth ten cents. They dumped you, huh? Fast. Hey, did you work on a New York newspaper? Cincinnati. Ah. Well, maybe if you ever went to the Met, you might have seen me. The opera house? No, you'd have to look hard. I was in the chorus in 38 and 39 like working in a garlic factory. How was the money? I'm making more right now. Well, you might do well to stay in and make it a career. Nah. They'd bust me back to Permanent Corporal or something like that and I'd spend the rest of my life typing morning reports. You can't tell. They're going to need officers for the occupation. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Pull up, pull up. What is it? Up there on the hill, through the trees. See it? Yeah. Why? That's a house and a half. There's going to be a road around here somewhere. Yeah, yeah, we passed it. Swing around. Lieutenant, it's just a thought, but there's only two of us. Come on. Look, supposing there's a squad of crowds hold up there. If there was, we'd look like a pair of canceled checks by now. Quit worrying and turn the Jeep around. Originally, I think the place had been a hunting lodge. It reminded me of the photographs I'd seen of Hitler's summer retreat in Berksdegarden, only not so big. The heavy front door was locked and bolted, so we smashed one of the windows facing out on the wide veranda. Spencer reached inside, loosened the catch, and threw up the sash. Very interesting. What is it? Kind of a trophy room. Let's have a look. Interesting as the word. I wonder who owns this place. Whoever it was, it must have been a big party, man. Swastika, swastika, swastika. They sure love them. Yeah. How many of these stuffed animal heads you think were brought down by himself? Every last one. Oh, sure, sure. In a truck from the taxidermist. Even for that, I'll bet he needed help. I don't know. Get a load of that leopard. Looks like he died of old age. That's a nice way to go. Come on, let's recognize the rest of this joint. What do you call this? It's just a guess, but I'd say it used to be a private art gallery. You see along the walls there, nail marks? Just outlines where the pictures used to hang. Yeah. Yeah, I think you've got it, Sarge. You know, they must have been pretty valuable. It's the only stuff he took. Well, there's always a market for it. Do you mean if he jumped the country or something like that? Sure. German marks, French francs, they go up and down. But a couple of old masters are money in the bank. Well, isn't that a sweetheart? What? Guys like us win the hand and skunks like this take the pot. Say like that. Say my foot. Hey, where'd they get this stuff? Robbing other countries? And where else? And you get a look on your face when I say, let's go looting. Like go, don't I? Oh, you go because I'm a lieutenant. That's why you go. Look at this joint. He lived like a king. And how did he get it? He took it. Well, let me tell you, Ronimus, you write for all the papers you want. There's no way in the world to lay your hands on something like this, except by grabbing it. Beam ceilings. Hand carved. You know what that costs in the States? I never got around to price it. I bet you didn't. Art gallery. Looks more like a cathedral. It's got coals. It's even got... Ronimus. What is it? Look, he left one. A painting. Lieutenant, take it easy. Frame it all. Don't touch it. Huh? It could be a booby trap. I guess it couldn't that. You see anything? Yep. You're a smart little sergeant, sergeant. Take a look behind you from the other side. Between the bottom of the frame and the wall. Yeah, I see it. It doesn't look much bigger than a matchbox. It probably doesn't have to be. Now, let's get out of here. Wait a minute. What do you think that little bump on the front of it is? A plunger? Lieutenant, I couldn't care less. Yeah, that's gonna be it. The weight of the frame holds it down, pulls the picture away from the wall. The plunger pops out and... I sound right to you? I guess so. You know anything about Art, Ronimus? A little. I'll take a guess. What's the picture? It's Italian, I think. Like Michelangelo, one of those? One time, anyway. Maybe a t-shirt. What do you think it's worth? I don't know if it's the McCoy. It's probably worth plenty. I don't think our crowd friend would have it hanging here if it wasn't. Just don't forget he left it hanging there. But with a valentine behind it. Maybe he's the kind of guy who figures if you're gonna bait a trap, don't use stale cheese. Maybe. Look, you want me to drive back to the company and get one of the anti-demolition boys? Are you kidding? Well, we can't just leave it like this. Who said we're gonna? The guy who neutralizes that little black box gets the painting. Oh, now look. Well, there's nothing to it. One of us holds the frame steady. The other reaches behind it and gets his finger over the plunger. As long as it's pressed down, the thing can't go off. That is an opinion. Well, how else could it work? It wouldn't use a time fuse. It might go off and nobody was around. Okay, suppose you're right. I am right. You get your finger down on a plunger. And that's all there is to it? Yeah, and then what? Now you've got hold of that thing and you can't let go. Ah, no. What do you do? Carry it around with you the rest of your life? Throw it away. Along with your right arm up to your left? Throw it out a window or down a well or back of the wall. Yeah, sure you do. These things have the same fuse arrangement as a grenade or a tellermine. Even after the pins out, you still got four or five seconds. I don't know, Lieutenant. Ron, I must get smart. This picture could be worth a fortune. You've been taking bigger chances than this three times a week since D-Day for 90 a month. All right. Now you're talking. Now, what you want to do? Hold the frame or try for the plunger? I think you better handle the plunger. Good enough. Okay. Get a grip on the picture. Go ahead. Can you touch the box? Yes, barely. I got it right in the middle. Now look, if you need more space for your arm... Yeah, I do. Well, don't press out with your elbow. Now let me raise the picture up a little. Go slow, go slow. Any better? I've got my fingers on it. The plunger? Yeah. Just flush up against the frame. Can't you get your finger over it? No. Just around the sides. Wait a minute. Let's take a little rest, huh? If you think it's too risky, we're not so far along, we can't go back. I think we are already. Just take your hand out. No. When you raise the picture, the box moved up. I thought it might be attached to the wall, but it's loose. Dandy. Maybe you could hang on to the plunger while I ease it down again. Then I can't get my hand out. I just developed a theory about why you haven't made First Lieutenant. Shut up! If you thought the box was attached to the wall, how are you gonna throw it out a window? I didn't think it was until I got my hand in here. You're a genius, sir. Clam up! All right, you think of something. I already did. We lower the frame down to where it was, and you try and ease your hand out. And if the plunger slips? It slips. What else is there? Maybe somebody will see the jeep and come in here. Sure. The Russians, after they crossed the Elbe... If I had a free hand, I'd knock your teeth out. Yeah, the prospect is terrifying, but what are we going to do, Lieutenant? All right. We'll try lowering the frame, but slow. Got a hold of the plunger? On the sides. I'll tell you when I'm going to move. Now, just ease your hand down slowly with me. Yeah. Ready? Ready. Don't bend your elbow. I can't help it. Well, in fact, you'll jazz the whole thing. It's numb. I can't hold the box. It's slipping. Spin around. Hit the dig. It didn't go off. You stupid jerk. It must have been a dud. And we got the picture. You stupid, buck-hungry jerk. Wait a minute, Ron. Am I sure talking to an officer? I'm talking to a chorus, boy, who is going to knock my teeth out. Listen, I think it's still going. I almost wish it would. Now look here. Get your picture, Lieutenant. Get your picture and let's get out of here. That was in March 1945. Less than two months later, the war in Europe was over and Spencer was transferred out of the outfit. And why was that? Well, he was one of the high-point men, Inspector, at discharge points. He'd been overseas almost three years. Then he was to go home. Well, at least he wasn't headed for Japan. And that's where the rest of us thought we were going. I see. So, until 1949, the time in Vienna, you did not see Mr. Spencer again. No, I saw him once more, just once. Here in Paris about three months later, August of 1945. Our whole battalion had been transferred from Germany back to one of the cigarette camps outside of Rheims to be refitted for shipment down to Marseille and then to the Pacific. During that time, I got up to Paris about once every two weeks. And Marie and I started to make plans. You want to dance again, Pa? No. What are you trying to do? Kill me? Kill you? Ill-mort! You're trying to ill-mort me? Oh, don't speak French. You can't speak French. All right. But for three years, I've been running around on my feet, Sir Le Pied, and they're ill-mort. You feel dead? Both. Oh, that is very sad. Très triste. Very très triste. Oh, don't speak French. It is awful. Well, anyway, Très bien, but I'm not a dancer. You're not marrying a dancer. I'm a writer. Escrivier ascribed. And very good in English. In English, I am Très bon. Are you Très bon in Cincinnati? In Cincinnati, I am the traitors and the bonus. In Cincinnati, I make them weep and laugh. And will we be in Cincinnati? Weeping and laughing till death do us partee. Hey, that sounded right to you. Oh, yes, yes. Tell me again about Cincinnati, Paul. It is the traitors and the bonus. Will we have a house? We will have nothing but a house, a madhouse. Cuckoo. Why would it be a madhouse? Because there will be nothing but lawn-false running around. Cuckoo babies. And that will make it a madhouse. Oh, you fool. But since they will be yours, the house can be mad. But I, the father, the pair, will be happy. Oh, Paul. I will. Dozens of cuckoo babies. All yours. All right. Well, hold on. Goodbye. Stand up. It's the Mercedes. Aren't you going to introduce me? Sure, Marie. This is Lieutenant Spencer. How do you do? Just leaving. Well, he is. Aren't you, Lieutenant? Haven't you heard the news? What news? They quit. The Japanese. The war's over. The home works? Everything. Everybody goes home. Hey, Marie. Did you hear that? Yes. I won't have to leave. We can get married right away. Oh, that's wonderful. Now you don't have to go. Oh, how about this, baby? Oh, Paul. Hey. I guess I'm a little in the way. No, no, no. Sit down. Sit down. Hey, Lieutenant. How's the picture business? Well, I still haven't sold it. Oh, you will. Hey, garcon. What kind of picture business are you in, Lieutenant? Oh, it's just a painting I've got. Bar-a-champagne. Triple sec. What kind of painting? It's one we liberated in Germany. And three glasses. We? Paul and I. Quad glasses. Oh, Paul, please. What am I supposed to do? Tell them in Hindustani? Well, if you'd ask me, I could tell you. Oh, I will do the talking in this family. Say, Lieutenant, listen. Yes, sir? Don't get funny. All right. What can I do for you? Look, Marie likes to dance. I mean, this is a professional dancer, baby. Lieutenant? Yeah, at the match. The man? I'll explain it when we get to Cincinnati. But he'll dance your brains out. Now go on. Hey, garcon. Paul. Could I have the pleasure, ma'am, zone? Where's the bubble water? Paul? Go ahead, honey. Go ahead. The champagne. 20,000 francs. Don't you need the money? Marie? All right, Lieutenant. I'll dance with you. Marie did what I told her to. She danced with him right out of my life. She couldn't have been more than 19 then, and all I guess at any age, and especially at that age, anywhere in the world, the best dancer is the top guy. Are you saying that at one time you were in love with Madame Spencer? That's what I'm saying. Was she along with her husband when you saw him in Vienna four years later? Oh, no, he was just there for a few days on a visit. You mean a business trip? I guess he mixed in a little business. He seemed very prosperous. I suppose you know what he was doing. We never got around to discussing it. Oh, come, come, Monsieur Ronimus. The men's activities were common knowledge. He was a notorious black marketeer. What do you mean was? La Concierge tells me that when you went out for dinner tonight, you left word that if Monsieur Spencer called again, he could reach you here any time after 9.30. Well, that's right, but he never did call. He never will. At approximately 9.15 this evening, he was shot and killed. Spencer? In the process of trying to escape, after having stolen that painting, he offered to you for sale. How could a man steal something he already owns? Oh, he no longer owned a thing. His home, property, all his belongings were touched by creditors. There was to be an auction tomorrow. Apparently, when he heard of your arrival today, the idea of breaking into his house, stealing the painting and then selling it to you first occurred to him. Yeah. Does his wife know about this? Yes, yes, she does. Well, he must have been pretty desperate. Just as a matter of curiosity. Yes? Did he ever discover whose work the painting was? When I saw him that time in Vienna, he said an art expert had told him it was a genuine Georgione. And when you spoke to him on the phone today, had you agreed upon a price? He wanted $5,000, American. Quite a bargain. Inspector, did he leave any children? Yes, a boy, nine, and a girl, five. If I could arrange to buy the picture at auction for the agreed price, do you suppose their mother would get any of the money? She might, in view of the circumstances. But, of course, if someone should outbid you... They won't. You know, then, that the painting is a copy. Yes. Not worth a tenth of what it will cost you. Well, maybe a tenth. Do you suppose Spencer knew it too? Well, I'm not sure, Inspector, but... I like to think so. This is Rosalind Russell again. An interesting question to ask oneself is this simple little one. What was the best prayer I ever said in my whole life? The most sincere one. The one that came out most naturally. The reason I mention this is because we often hear it said that we, all of us, tend to dramatize prayer, where it ought to be as natural as breathing. We're inclined to think that prayer should be accompanied with mood music, that it should be like a tender and romantic moment. Or, on the other hand, the last desperate stand the miracle will save the situation. It is for these times, but these are special times. The best prayer, like the best love, is the constant one. It burns brighter at times, but it always burns. It comes into the mind like the recollection of the constancy of a beloved friend or a husband or a wife. It asks a petition simply as a child, asks his father or mother, for another little piece of bread or cake. It is the rise of gratitude within us for the sudden realization that we are fortunate in what life has given us. It's like an exclamation and appreciation of the sudden appearance of beauty, as when the sun rises in purple to light a new day, or sets in crimson and gold to mark the close of a finished day. The best prayers are like that. Natural movements of the soul of all of us. And family prayer that is a natural and a familiar thing in a family is one of the best of the best prayers, because it illuminates the very reason of the family. And by eliminating it, it binds it together so that the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. From Hollywood Family Theater has brought you transcribed the McCoy starring Chuck Connors. Rosalind Russell was your hostess. Others in our cast were Edgar Berrier, John Stevenson, and Jerry Gaylor. The script was written and directed for Family Theater by John T. Kelly, with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman. This series of Family Theater broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who feel the need for this type of program, by the Mutual Network, which has responded to this need, and by the hundreds of stars of state screen and radio who give so unselfishly of their time and talent to appear on our Family Theater stage. To them and to you, our humble thanks. This is Tony LaFranco expressing the wish of Family Theater that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home and inviting you to join us next week when Family Theater will present Integrity starring Cesar Romero. Deborah Padgett will be your hostess. Join us, won't you? Family Theater has broadcast throughout the world and originates in the Hollywood studios of the world's largest network. This is Mutual, the radio network for All America.