 The Adventures of Frank Race, starring Tom Collin. War changed many things. The face of the earth and the people on it. Before the war, Frank Race worked as an attorney, but he traded his law books for the cloak and dagger of the OSS. When it was over, his former life was over, too. Adventure had become his business. The Adventures of Frank Race. The Adventures of Frank Race Frank Race, for the adventure of the Baradian Letters. At the end of a windy day, the dusk had fallen, but, walking along the key to Louvre, we'd been able to see whitecaps on the river Seine. Now, waiting to cross the rude river, we caught the Eiffel Tower, looking as though it might take a bow any minute. Everything seemed to be going places, particularly masculine hats and feminine skirts. Mark and I were on a holiday after finishing an investigation in Holland. I'd sort of like to get around these ceasings on foot, but, Mark... Well, listen, Race, where are you going now? A hotel. Another seven or eight blocks? I could never make it. Unless you want to whore me piggyback. Take care. Not me. I don't want no part of them flying bedsteads they use in this town. Look, I've got a better idea. What? I'll stop in at the American Bar in the next corner. I promised that bartender in Brooklyn I'd swing by and chew the foul. No, I reckon I'll meet you there later. Schwell, make it a party, huh? Our hotel was on the Rumeau Mount. Fairly big place. It was one of those open work elevators that whizzy up and down with all the speed of a truck in compound low. Our room was on the fifth floor. As I got here, a man leaning against the wall eyed me with the friendly gaze of a bartender inspecting a dubious check. The father down the hall stood another of the same ilk. A pay-able citizen who blew cigarette smoke in my face as I passed. Hello, Reyes. We had been thinking you'd never come. Most blunettes. The one who had spoken might have been 30. The kind of 30 to make a 16-year-old regret his youth. The other was younger, maybe about 22. I'm sure I'd never seen either of them in my life. You don't remember me, do you, Reyes? I can't say I do, but you're nice to have a run. September 14th, 1943 in Saint-Colais? Does that mean anything to you? Yes, it does. It means a lot. Two days before, on September the 12th, you had parachuted down near Le Mans. For a rendezvous with other OSS operators. But something went wrong. So? So I went on the run and ended up at a farmhouse near Saint-Colais. Where a certain lady... Wait a minute. You couldn't be Paulette Dubrog. But of course. Paulette Dubrog. How did you know I was here? Oh, I saw a little squid in the newspaper. So I came. I came, Reyes, because I am in trouble. But before I say more, I want you to know my friend, Amy Cantor. American? Cleveland, Ohio. Hello, Reyes. I came in just now. I passed a couple of men in a home. One was park marked with a small mustache. Yelvin had a ring in his left ear. Would they have anything to do with this trouble you mentioned? Oh, so they followed me here. Who are they? Oh, they've been stalking Paulette for days. There seems to be a gang of them. Last night she was fired upon. Not a hangover from the underground, is it, Paulette? I don't know, Reyes. I only know that I am not as carefree as I used to be. I'm a freak. Oh, they're here. Don't open that door, Reyes. I have the adjoining room. Slip in there, both of you. Here. When you hear me, let them in. Leave. Where can I find you later? Across the Seine. First off, the Boulevard Saint-Michel. There's a small orphanage in Saint-Martin's. You'll find us there. Yeah, I'll come. We'll talk this over. Well, come in. Come in. It's always nice to have company. Where is the woman? I hear the boy I saw in the hall, aren't you? I want a blue smoke in my face. Hey, get away from the door to that other room, monsieur. Sit down. Make yourselves at home. I'll order drinks. You have had your warning, monsieur. Now I act! I rarely use a right-hand punch for an open hand. This lad had come in chin first. His pal gaped down at him, as though looking at a freshly hooked hatik. Then, staring at me, the pal backed out and hive all down the hall. I relieved my conscious caller of me, like Jack, which he'd tried to bring me with, and then flicked him for anything else I'm interested. He had a wallet containing several five-frag notes, and leather-scrawled and undecidable French. And a card bearing the embossed name of one Charles Baradian. While I was doing the checking up, my visitor stood, and came out of his... You'll be all right in a few minutes. Pierre. Well, it's Pierre. Your friend left for greener pastures. Here's your wallet. And its contents. Who's Charles Baradian? I didn't know. All right. I suppose you have a right to retain some self-respect. I'm going out. I suggest that you get yourself a drink, light out for a while. Just don't be here when I get back. The bar was finished in a sort of a cocoa modern. Everything about the place had the light touch, including the size of the liquor portions. Mark made me know to check his bartender friend, a garrulous soul with an expression of a benevolent beagle. Glad to meet your race, honey. Your friend is a friend of mine. Well, it'll be. I'll take a scotch and soda, Chick. Plus, serving of information. Oh, sure. What kind of information? The name Charles Baradian. Does it ring a bell with you? Baradian. Yeah, yeah, it rings a big bell. Where would I find him? I elicit all the rest of the elegance. Boulevard Houseman. Thanks, Chick. Now, wait a minute. Aren't you going out there now? I thought I would. Well, I'm going. Watch this. This sounds like a deal. We should play back the bass. Hold on, fellas. Going across the threshold of the Baradian mansion was like trying to fly away into the Chase National Safety Deposit Room without proper credential. My particular obstacle was personalized in one Terry Meglin, brawny specimen with the title of private secretary. The instincts of a barroom boxer. You can understand, Mr. Race, isn't only a question of looking after Mr. Baradian. There's his collection to protect. Almost a million dollars worth of rare violence and objects of art. In that case, I can appreciate your sense of responsibility. Don't ever expect Mark Donovan's vote of you run for public office. You would have preferred to wait for me in here. Oh, incidentally, I must limit your interview to 20 minutes. That's a rule we never break. Yeah, we are. Charles Baradian must have been about 45. A gray-haired man who toyed with violin as he talks while watching you with the stare of a hawk circling above a chicken brood. Know anything about violins, Mr. Race? Not as much as I'd like to. There is nothing quite like a fine violin. It looks beautiful, feels beautiful, makes beautiful sound. Very few women have all those attributes. Am I not right? Meglin tells me you came to talk about Paulette Dubroque. Yes. Are you a friend of her, or is it that you represent her? I'm groping a little, so I'm going to be frank with him. I suspect that you have something against Paulette. I don't know what or why, but I thought you might be willing to tell me. That will tell you. Several years ago, I allowed myself to become infatuated with Paulette. She was the only woman to whom I ever wrote letters. Lately, I have been getting those letters back one a week. Each letter cost me quite a sum of money. Why do you feel he must pay for those? In a few weeks, I am to be married. Also, I am in the process of embarking on an important business venture. Shall we say, I feel I cannot afford the publicity? Frankly, Mr. Race, I've grown tired of it. Of course, if Paulette is willing to accept this service, I'll be very happy. I see. I suppose I'll talk to her. I'll return tomorrow. I have no objection. There is just one thing. You might tell Paulette, I don't mind buying anything that will keep me happy, so long as I pay for it. Just one. At San Martin's opening, I was rushing through to a secluded terrace where Amy Cantor sat in the sun. A delectable figure in sweater and shorts. She got up to greet me. Hello, Race. Paulette hasn't come in yet. She should be here soon, though. Those freckles I see on your nose. Oh, yes. I'm among your assets. I'll go with the rest of you. And the rest of him. And the rest of me? He stood there looking up at me with half-barred lips. I kissed him. And it was everything. Gosh, that's having your prayers answered. I wanted you to do that, Race. Do my fingers feel rough on your face? It's other hand smooth. What are you doing, gardening? Got a blister under your chin, too. I'm a beaver when it comes to work. Race, I did want you to kiss me, but how about Paulette? That's the question I was about to ask you. How long has she been dabbling with blackmail? Paulette? She ever told you anything about a man called Brady? Well, no. Who is he? A dangerous citizen. No one from Mems El de Brach to be tangling with. Is she still Mems El de Brach? Oh, gosh. One minute the man's kissing me. The next he's giving me the third degree. I'll come back to our personal relations later. Well, she... she's still not married. What tie-up do you have with this place? Paulette just keeps going. That's all. I'm a career girl. I work here. Where'd she get the money? Her job. Maybe you don't know about that. She's been doing the lead in a revival of rain at the La Victoire. It sounds just like a press meeting, Sherry. Hello, Race. Got a kiss for me, too? How long have you been here? I don't need to have been here to know that you already have kissed Amy. Oh, you wouldn't be my Race. Come here. Well, Race, it looks like I've been replaced. Where? Yeah. Must be knocking them dead in rain. Oh, I have been doing all five. I shall do better now that you are here. How long have you known Charles Baradian? Charles Barad... There's that name out to the past. He thinks you're blackmailing him. Blackmailing him? Well, Race, what is all this about? A matter of some letters he wrote you several years ago. In 1940. I knew Charles Baradian just before the fall of France. He was very attentive, but to me it was not important. He's been getting a letter a week in the mail for a prize. He'd like to buy all of them from you in one package. But I don't have these letters, Race. I have not had them for years. Why, you... you don't appear to believe me. I guess I have to believe you. But you'd better let me break that news to Baradian. By myself. Next afternoon I rented a car. Mark and I then drove out to the Baradian mansion. I told Mark to cruise around the block like came out. This time I had no trouble getting in. Meglin answered the door himself. And I was led to a drawing room smothered in draperies. Here a stranger leaned against the ornate mantle. They were capable of breaking up a dark strike. And they called them spelled copy in any language. This is Mr. Race. Oh, I am Benoit, Monsieur. I have the Souffes table. So a little matter of blackmail becomes official, doesn't it? I am concerned with blackmail, Monsieur. That's more than that I am concerned with the murder committed in this house last night. The murder of Monsieur Charles Baradian. We turn to the adventures of Frank Race in just about one minute. To the adventures of Frank Race. Sure, one thing. My parents' holiday had definitely turned sour. Here I'd been acting as an apparent go-between in a blackmail transaction. And now its victim lay sprawled on the floor of his study, murdered. Around his neck an ugly red welt were some sort of cord cut and strangled the life of it. I had a close look at the wound where Benoit laid out the details. Well, he was first hit on the head, probably with a poker. And a fine violin is missing from the collection. What, uh, what was its name, Monsieur Magler? Uh, Guarnarius. Yes, well, we might call it a typical case of murder in burglary. But you can understand, gentlemen, that in this matter we cannot afford to accept the, uh, typical. What about the weapon? Naturally, it was not left behind. And now, Monsieur Race, if we could repair to another room. It was going to be questioned, and probably placed under arrest. So I maneuvered to let Magler and the detective proceed in the room. Then swung the door shut and locked himself in. Hey, open the door! Hey, open the door! I stayed there waiting for Benoit's metal machinery to work. Open the door! He thought the way I anticipated. He figured I might break him for a window. In that case, he'd moved the warning's men on the outside. I waited until I heard them move away. Then, after a few more seconds, I quietly turned the key and opened the door. The hole was empty. As casually as I could, I walked in front entrance. The front door stood ajar, but no one stood on the steps outside. Saddling out, I caught sight of Benoit, talking and gesticulating to a uniformed shunt on him. Then I saw Mark in the car. And as he came abreast of the door, I made him a plate. Get going! Got it! Think you can get away from him? You kid. This might be Paris, but I learned to drive in Brooklyn. I told you I'd get away from him. All right, what are we doing now? I'm going to look up the location of Paulette Dubrock's apartment. You can drop me there. Then I'd like you to run down as much information as you can in the Baradian household. Jack, when will I see you? And where? That's a little after four. I have a call to make. Meet me at seven. At some odd time's open age. An actress playing leads usually does pretty well when it comes to money. But Paulette's apartment proved to be prugal. Even old-fashioned. To the extent of having poor tears between the living and dining room. Paulette wasn't at home, which gave me a chance to look around. A small dresser in a bedroom, I spotted a couple of letters post-Mark's, January 1940. Both were epistles of passionate dribble. Ben, both were signed Charles. I heard the outer door go shut. So, figuring that Paulette had come home, I went forth to greet her. And I came conscious again with the realization that my head was resting in a feminine lap. I looked up and saw Paulette. How do you feel, Grace? You're very attractive, you know. You can move your face upside down. Oh, Chevy. What made you slug me? Name of my mother. First, it is blackmail and guilty. Other now you accuse me of hitting you on the head. Someone did. But, of course, it was not I, though, Grace. I wish I knew you really stand. I have not lied to you about anything. You did about those letters from Baradian. I found this pair in your dressing. Said you hadn't had them for years. You could not believe that they might have been stolen from me. Just returned? On the day after Charles Baradian's wedding? Grace, no. Not Baradian. Yes, Baradian. Strangled last night. And I wish I knew how to advise you. I don't know whether to say turn yourself over to the police or get out of the country. From where I'm lying, the last thought seems to be your best bet. Probably I should go with you. Grace, I'm really in trouble, no? You're really in trouble? Yes. You'd better get out of Paris for a little while. Change your appearance. You've done it before. And take care of yourself, actress. The orphanage I found Amy sitting in our rented car with Mark. Oh, want to take me for a ride, Grace? Such a luxury over here. Why not? Oh, fine. Just let me drop these packages inside the door. I'm a hoarder. Did you know that? You, uh... You've been doing all right with her, ain't you? Maybe you ought to slow down. Why? Well, she's just a freckle-faced kid a long way from home, and I... Don't tell me you're picking up a set of ideals. Ah, nuts. Any information on Meglin? Well, in two hours, I didn't put together an old Gallup report, but I did find out he keeps a room at a hotel called a Platonère. Uh-huh. And, uh... Oh, you used to run a kind of theatrical agency in the U.S., a book and second-rate concert violinist. Didn't take long, did I? Violinist? Oh, that's interesting. Now what are you talking about? Violinists and violins. And a lad named Meglin. I wonder what a fine canarius is worth. Canarius? What's that? I always thought it was a kind of spaghetti dish. What's a make of violin? One of the old timers. Well, why don't I drive you, please? Find that hotel Platonère. I'd like to see a man about a violin. I drew a blanket Meglin's hotel. He was out. I haven't given no indication as to when he'd be back. But later that evening, just before midnight, Mark and I had him for a visitor at our hotel. His attitude hadn't changed. He was still the same self-contained career boy. But he had come to see me, which indicated a fissure of worry somewhere within him. You count on me, race. Why? I think you're involved in Baradian's murder. Blonde, aren't you? Well, it won't work with me. You've been breakable alibi for last night. I'm sure of that. Well, you wouldn't be loose. But do the police know of your interest in violins? I don't know what you're talking about. You do, but I won't present. I'd rather emphasize another point. I found two of Baradian's letters today with fingerprints on one of the envelopes. Ah, that's tripe, and you know it. Paper doesn't produce a good enough impression. In this case, the impression doesn't depend on the paper. It happens to be on the glaze formed by the glue. You're lying. It would have been a shot in the dark, but a register didn't make it into an ashen. You walked to a chair and slumped into it, trying to ignite a cigarette with shaking fingers. What's your stake in this, race? You got all my credentials yesterday. Come and investigate it. I have a client's interest to protect. What are you going to do with those letters? I imagine the French police would be rather enamored with them. Don't you? Now listen, race, you can tag me with the blackmail end of this, but not with Baradian's murder. The bullet had come from the fire escape, marked me to lunge for the window and disappeared in pursuit. I yanked at the phone and put in a sharp summons for the doctor, and then I turned to help Magland. I knew nothing was going to do much good. The bullet had nicked his line, and the man was coughing his life away. Race, I'm sorry, race. Whoever it was got away. How's Magland? He might have just left town or something. Hello? Race? Yes. This is Amy Cantor. Can you hear me? Yes. Where are you? At the orphanage. Oh, race, I'm worried. The police are here, and Paulette's coming in at any minute. Paulette? Well, I'd buy you to get out of Paris. Well, she called me about an hour ago. Said she wanted to pick up some things. Well, I'll be there as soon as I can. Tell her not to say anything. Mark? Yeah? How is he? We ain't got nothing to keep us here, race. This boy's dead. Come in, miss here, race. We've been expecting you. Where have you got him? Right in here? Should I come in, race, or should I go upstairs and poke around like you told me? Better go upstairs and poke around. I threw this door right here, race. Hello, race? I thought you were going to get out of town. I'm not guilty, race. They should know that. No woman would have the strength to strangle Charles Paradean. We can't sell him on that, Paulette. Brady was knocked unconscious before he was strangled. As Monsieur Benoit will tell you. Exactly. A woman could have done it, or a man, or both, and with blackmail is the motive. It points to Paulette and possibly myself. Exactly. Or it was to prevent someone else from blackmailing Paradean. Someone who knew Paulette. Someone who'd gotten hold of the letters. Possible, but not likely. I think it's quite likely. Don't you, Amy? I? I don't know what to think, race. Well, you might think about why you wanted me to believe you didn't know anything about music, about violins. I don't. Look, career girl. All violinists have one thing in common. Calluses on the fingers of the left hands. Just like the ones you have. And very often, with the instrument rubs against their necks, they develop small blisters. Just like the one you have. All right. Tharm of violinists. That doesn't prove me guilty of murdering Paradean. Who, uh, want these items now? No, come in, Mark. Yeah. I found them in a room. Oh. Just like is expected. So violins, eh? What meaning does it have? One of them, no doubt, belongs to Miss Ketter. The other, if I'm not mistaken, will prove to be the venerious taken from Paradean's home. You had to get some profit out of murdering him, didn't you? Oh, yeah. You're insane. You and Meglin were in on the blackmailing together. No. When I came into the picture, you had to move fast for a big payoff. Oh, that's not true. But Paradean bought and threatened to call in the police. What? So you killed him. And you killed Meglin in my hotel room, didn't you? Oh, prove it. And phoned around the corner to make me think you were here. I found the other item, too, Ray. A violin string with what looks like blood on it. A strangling cord. Ironic, isn't it, Benoit? A collector of fiddles murdered with one of his own violin strings. Tough luck in him. With you, hoarding didn't turn out to be an asset after all. Adventures of Frank Ray, starring Tom Collins with Tony Barrett as Mark Donovan comes to you from Hollywood. Others heard in tonight's cast were Anne Stone, Truda Marson, Gerald Moore, Stan Waxman, and Jack Krushen. This series is written and directed by Buckley Angel and Joel Murcott. The music is composed and played by Ivan Dittmarz. Be sure to be with us again this same time next week for another dramatic chapter in The Adventures of Frank Ray. Hart Gilmore speaking. This is a Bruzelles production.