 Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road. Those who travel it wind up in the gutter the prison of the grave. There's no other end, but they never learn. From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character in The Adventures of Philip Marlowe. Now with Gerald Moore, starred as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's story, The Big Book. It winds it up. Boys, get him in the wagon without any trouble, thanks to you. Well, you don't have your car here, do you, Phil? No, Lieutenant, and I haven't had lunch, have I? Maybe the police department feels obligated on both counts, huh? Maybe. Get in, Phil. Mooney, some good restaurant before headquarters, huh? Thanks, Lieutenant. How are you, Mr. Marlowe? Hungry, Mooney. Okay, Mr. Marlowe. I know a good spaghetti place, will you? Unit 18A, a dead body at Number 11 West Main Street reported a suicide investigate. Your call, Matthew? Unit 18A, a dead body at Number 11 West Main Street reported a suicide investigate. That's right, Lieutenant. Might save us a trip back here later, huh? Yeah. Marlowe, lunch will be a little late. Let's go, Mooney. At Number 11 West Main Street, a skid row rooming house, a middle-aged woman who had been the ground floor rear apartment, was now dead of a bullet that had passed directly through her heart. A shabby cramped room was packed tight with a dozen different stales' smells, and the naked light bulb dangled from a cracked plaster ceiling. The dead woman lay in the middle of the floor as she looked about 45, had gray-black hair, and wore a cheap cotton dress under a faded, moth-eaten man's sweater. Up to there, she belonged to the backdrop. But beyond that, some place in the deeply etched beauty of her face, the studied neatness of her hairdo, there was something vague and disturbing that made the whole picture slightly lopsided, like a... like a cheerful tie on an undertaker. Ten minutes later, when I was out in the hall, listening to Mooney run down the routine, I asked Lieutenant Matthews, that something was still with me, bottling me the way a half-remembered dream does when you're shaping the next morning. Also, the bullet was fired at point-blank range. Anything on the gun that was next to it? Not yet, Lieutenant. It was her fingerprints only. Looks like it's strictly pawn shop stuff. Serial numbers filed off, cheap make, etc. Deputy Karnas says she died about 10-10-30 this morning. Yeah, long about that same time, Landlord says he saw a flashy black car parked in the alley outside where people never parked. Spiffy convertible was gone after he heard the shoddy things. Did he get the license number, Mooney? No, Mr. Malo, he got nothing. All we have on it so far is a fresh tire tread in the mud. It's a 750-15, pretty good shape. And that is it, huh? Just about. Landlord thinks that the deceased was an actress way back from little remarks she made. That's about all. I still got one neighbor to check, though. Okay, Mooney, let me know. Right. Now, Mo, it looks like the stand you up on that lunch date. Sorry. I'm not so hungry anymore. I'll see you around, Matthews. On the way out, I told myself three things. One aside from the fact that we belonged to the same fraternity laughingly called mankind, Jane Temple was nothing to me. Two a lot of beautiful girls turned out to be beautiful women, and three, if the black convertible meant anything at all, the police would figure it out by themselves. They were well-equipped for the job. Now, by the time I was out on the street in the sharp autumn air, it chopped away the stale smells of the dead woman's apartment. I was beginning to forget the name Jane Temple entirely. I might have kept going that way if he hadn't appeared just then. Mister, mister, over here quick. Mister, you're not a policeman. You're a reporter for the newspaper, no? What makes you say that? Well, I see you go in there with the police, the detectives, the men, nobody salute you. The ones in uniform, I mean. So maybe you're a reporter, huh? Maybe why? Well, I can't tell you here. Come to my shop in 15 minutes. I don't want people to see us together now. Come to the shoemaker place across the street and down to the stairs. Andrew Nodella. Yeah, but why, Mister Nodella? What do you want a reporter for? What's it about? The fine, final lady who used to die. Mr. Jane Temple. Goodbye, mister. Look, my friend, it cost me one buck of 50 for the letter of home. How can I give it to you for now? Now, look, you haven't said... Okay, okay, okay. Andrew Nodella changes mine. He won't argue for who the customer. Here, $1.25 just like you wanted my cash. Yeah, it's more like it. I wasn't born just the other day. I can tell value. Sure, sure, sure. My mistake, Mister. Now, excuse me, please. Okay. Hey, I'm a killer drone, the chisel. I only gave in to get rid of him, you see. Now, I'll put the out-to-launch sign on and lock up the door so we won't be disturbed. The police are nobody. Okay. Now, Mister... Marlowe. Mister Marlowe, we go in the back room. This way, please. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute. Before we go anyplace, Nodella, one question. Why are you so worried about the police? Well, because down in this neighborhood, Mister Marlowe, every time I do a good thing and I call the police when it's right, I get in some kind of trouble. These people, my customers, they don't like you should be a... A stool pigeon? A stool pigeon. All right, Mister Nodella. Now, about Jane Temple. Wonderful woman, Mister Marlowe. Come and do back room. All right. Mister Marlowe, fine. Call to the lady. I know. I was not always a shoemaker. You know, in the whole country, I was a student. And before that, I was an artist. I wouldn't doubt it. You and Jane Temple were really good friends. Is that it? Ah, she's good friends. That's why I'm in a position to say I don't think she killed herself. She was not the kind of a lady, Mister Marlowe. She was not a moody. She liked to be alone with her memories, but that's all. Look, come here at the table, Mister Marlowe. Look at this. That was her. Scrapbook, huh? Yeah. She left with me. The ladder on the front was worn. I was repairing it for her. She trusted only me with it. But open it up, Mister Marlowe. I say no more. You just look for yourself. It was a usual setup. Between the big covers of a big book, a little life story and tattered yellow clippings and faded photographs. 25 years ago, Jane Temple had been exquisite. A fragile, haunting kind of beauty that never goes out of style. The kind of universal beauty that makes style. The book itself came in two parts. The first told in rave reviews and letters from selected mirers was the rocket-fast rise of Jane Temple, who, as one critic put it, was inspirational beauty and the inspired actress. Both. Yet on that level, the first part ended abruptly in 1928, with no explanation. The second part was another success story, but it ran right up to the present. The career of one Jerome Lockie, from obscure London stagehand to top Hollywood theatrical agent. A healthy, giant step. No place did I see anything to connect the two. Odella must have read my mind. You wonder, hey, Mister Marlowe, what one got to do with the other, huh? Yeah. Do you know? No. Maybe this can help you find out. It's another clipping that was not pasted in the book. Where did it come from? Inside the back cover. I was only to repair the front, Mister Marlowe, but as a surprise for Miss Temple, I went ahead to do it all, you see. I found this clipping hidden in the lining of the back cover. It tells of a man named John Gordon being sent to jail in London, England in 1928 for embezzlement of a theatre's money. There's a picture of him, Mister Marlowe. Yeah, so I... Hey, this John Gordon is... Jerome Lockie, see? The big agent man, Mister Marlowe. There's still one more thing. Last night, I surprised somebody, a thief in this shop, and when I scare him away, he was looking at this book, but nothing else was touched. You didn't tell anybody about it? No, no, no. I was going to tell Miss Temple, but... Mister Marlowe, everything I say to you, everything I show you here, am I crazy or does it mean only one thing? Jerome Lockie killed a wonderful Mr. Temple to keep a secret. Well, it's possible. But also, Nadella Miss Temple may not be so wonderful at that. You know, people don't kill to keep secrets. They kill to keep secrets from getting out. That's called blackmail. No, Mister Marlowe, not to Miss Temple. I don't believe that. And I don't believe that you do either. I don't want to. I'll see what I can find out. Mister Marlowe, you tell me before you tell your paper. Mister Nadella, I don't have a paper. Just curiosity. I'm a private detective, not a reporter, and the initial mistake was yours, not mine. So don't get mad about it. What? A private detective? Mister Marlowe, who you're working for? Right now, Mister Nadella. I'd say the late Jane Temple. Goodbye. The Jerome Lockie agency on the Sunset Strip was big, brassy, and busy, and supported a blonde receptionist to match. After I gave her my card and we exchanged frosty smiles, she waved me into a seat. I tried it for 15 minutes, and then I began to get itchy. But compared to the dapper gray at the Temple's gentlemen sitting next to me, that was a mild reaction. He was one of those heavy-handed character actors you remember by face, never by name. Mr. Jerome Lockie certainly has an exaggerated impression of his own importance. Been here a while, huh? Quite a while, sir. Much too long a while. Young lady, please tell Mr. Lockie that Elliot Monroe could wait no longer. I'll see him at his home this evening. I have several studio calls to make this afternoon. Goodbye. Good day, Mr. Monroe. Studio calls. Yes? Mr. Monroe couldn't wait, Mr. Lockie. He said he'd see you at your home tonight, sir. My tough luck. Anyone else, Marlowe? Not only that New York call, sir. I'm still trying to get it. I'll put it right through the moment it comes in. Oh, yes. A Mr. Philip Marlowe, a private investigator. A private investigator? Is it important? I think so, Mr. Lockie. It's as important as Jane Temple. Jane? What about Jane Temple? She's dead, Mr. Lockie. A bullet through her heart. A badge. Yes, sir? Bring Mr. Marlowe right in. Yes, sir. Right his way, Mr. Marlowe. Thank you. Will Marlowe? Why are you here? I mean, how did you know I had anything to do with Jane Temple? I didn't. But since she was an actress once, and you're about the biggest agent in Hollywood, I thought I'd start with you. Start what, Mr. Marlowe? Start finding out why she committed suicide, Mr. Lockie. Tell me, do you own a black convertible? Yes. One of those step-down Hudson's. Tire size. Do you happen to know it? Yes. Yes, sir. 750-15. Why? What's all that got to do with Jane Temple's suicide? Quite a bit. Might even change it to murder. Jane Temple murdered? By whom? Someone who'd profit, Mr. Lockie. Any idea who that could be? Not the slightest. Okay. Thanks for your trouble. And good afternoon. Wait. Hold it, Mr. Marlowe. I'd like to talk with you some more. But not here. You name the spot, Mr. Lockie. All right. My house tonight. Nine o'clock. Nine o'clock. I'll be there. In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe. But first, our armed forces are mighty busy these days. They're conducting the United Nations Police Action in Korea. They're patrolling the occupied countries. They're standing ready for national defense. And at the same time, they're doing important scientific research. With so many varied duties, the armed forces need more men. Men with brains and ability who can be trained as highly efficient specialists. Men who want to be the leaders of tomorrow. Enquire at your nearest recruiting office about the opportunities open to you in America's armed forces. The world's greatest power for peace. Now with our star, Gerald Moore, the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, The Big Book. When I walked out of Jerome Lockie's sleep private office, I was satisfied that in spite of the efficient air condition of the atmosphere and there what they charged with enough high-voltage implications so that sooner or later he'd have to make another move. Outside it was dark. I drove back downtown and finally located Lieutenant Matthews at a lunch counter. Wrapping up the short end of a quick blue-plate special. My story didn't affect his appetite a bit. Have a piece of pie, Marlowe. The cherry is great. Matthews, I've been trying to tell you that I... I've been listening filled to all of it. All of it. From that crackpot shoemaker to a leather-bound scrapbook right on up to a weird-looking Jerome Lockie's kiss. Now what do you want me to do? Get an ulcer? Matthews, maybe Jane Temple didn't kill herself. Maybe she was murdered. Go on. Now look, there was an old clipping and some pictures in that scrapbook that identified our Jerome Lockie as one John Gordon who did time a few years ago for embezzlement, which if revealed would ruin the great Jerome Lockie. Now look, it looks like... Oh, that's... What's the matter? What's the matter? Look, Marlowe, I haven't been to bed for 24 hours. I'm dog-tired. I thought I finally got a break. A clean-cut case of obvious suicide. A nice old doll disillusioned, broke, did herself in. Too bad, yeah, but just that simple. So what happens? You run into some jerk of a shoemaker with an imagination, and now it's all mixed up with ex-cons, blackmails, and murder. It's not my fault. I didn't do it, you know. I'm sorry, Phil. All right. A little fed up, I guess. Oh, nothing that a week or so of hearing wind and pine trees wouldn't cure. So you went out to see Lockie, huh? Uh-huh. Where'd you leave it? Hanging in mid-air. Made a date with him for late at night at his house. You think he did it? Who knows? I saved my Sunday punches real name being Gordon, that is. Maybe when I spring that it'll jar something loose, huh? Maybe. Oh, by the way, did you meet Mrs. Lockie? Not yet. Why? Nothing in particular. Good-looking blonde I saw once in the Beverly Hills station some beef about a collision. She impressed me as being a pretty tough fighter in the clinches, that's all. Just a thought. Yeah, finish your pie, Matthew. Yeah. You want to follow this through on your own, Phil? Yeah, if you don't mind. You see, I've gone this far and, well, there was something about Jane Temple that... I don't know. It showed even down there in that dump. Yeah. That's what I mean, Phil. I gotta get on under the pine trees for a spell, so... Keep me posted, huh? I drove out to Beverly Hills again and found the Jerome Lockie place. It was a close-to-the-ground model that at first glance looked like a cozy little cottage. Second glance, however, showed the other two wings 15 or 20 ultra-modern rooms that rambled over two acres of gently-rolling real estate. The door was answered by a close-crop blonde and tailored black, who already today had the tapered, taut look of tomorrow. Yes? I'm Philip Marlowe. Is Mr. Lockie here? Oh, yes. Come in, Mr. Marlowe. I'm Vivian, Jerry's wife. Oh? Jerry's expecting you. You'll be right out. He asked me to look after you for a few minutes. On the contrary. I was in the middle of a whiskey and water, Johnny Walker. Like one? Thanks. Too bad about Jerry's old friend Jane Temple, huh? Yes. Jerry's very upset about it, you know. It, uh... must be awful to fall so far. Yeah. The top is awful high. Did you know her? Not only by reputation. What do you suppose happens to a person like that? I mean, you'd think they'd try to climb back out of the squalor. Yeah, you'd think so. Like, uh, Jerry did. That's right. He deserves a lot of credit. Things must have been tough after he got out. Yes. Yes. Yes, they were. Why, when he got out of the production end of show business, he was flat broke. He lost a fortune that way. He's told me about it, how he had to start all over again from the bottom. So I understand. Uh, here's your drink, Mr. Marlowe. Oh, thanks, Vivian. Thanks a lot. You know, Mr. Marlowe, it really is a long, hard struggle to make it up from the bottom, especially a second time. The third time, it might be impossible. Don't you think? Yeah. When you're up there, the fight's even rougher, isn't it? Yes. Yes, it is. Sometimes a person would... Oh, it looks like you have another visitor. What? Coming up the walk outside. Oh, that's Elliot Monroe. He's always popping in here at odd times, usually to borrow something. He may want anything from a clean shirt to a cup of vinegar. We never know. Now, this time he wants to see your husband. I ran into him at the office this afternoon and heard him say so. Oh, really? Yeah, so I'll make my business with Jerry as short and to the point as possible. Well, that's... that's very considerate of you, Mr. Marlowe. Excuse me. I heard Mrs. Vivian Lockey receive the load of ham at the front door, and second later I heard my name called from the hall behind me. It was Jerome Allsmiles doing his swab and determined best to bury the end of the world look he'd acquired in his office. But it peeked out around his eyes and at the twitching corner of his mouth. As he led me into the library and pointed me into a deep leather chair, I decided to let him lead off. I also decided to bait a trap and set it out. Now, how about a drink, Marlowe? I have one, thanks. Mrs. Lockey anticipated you. Anticipated? Oh, yes, of course. Well, let's see. Where did we leave off this afternoon? Oh, we talked about a lot of things like tire sizes, suicides. Oh, yes, yes. Now let me get something straight, Mr. Marlowe. You seem to believe that there's a little more to poor Jane Temple's death than a simple suicide. Considerably more, Mr. Lockey. Yes, and you've come to me with this problem. Why? Because you may be able to fill in some blanks. How? Tense up to you. Let's say first that I think a prominent and wealthy man is connected, a man who's saddled with a messy past that he can't afford either to keep secret or have revealed. Now just a minute, Marlowe. I don't know what you're driving at with this double talk, but it sounds to me as if you're accusing Jane Temple of blackmail. And I don't believe it. She'd have starved to death first. I'd like to agree, believe me. But unfortunately, I can still add. What do you mean? For instance, to what I said before, I add the name John Gordon. Who is John Gordon? I'm not quite sure. But I do know this. Somehow the key to who he is ties into a basement shoe shop in the 100 block on West Main Street. Does that mean anything to you? No, why should it? Marlowe, why exactly did you come here? Please tell me. I just did. Well, that's that. Chances are I'll see you again sometime. Good night, Mr. Lockheed. Marlowe, wait. Listen, in my business, bad publicity counts. And I've worked awfully hard. I know. I went all through that with Mrs. Lockheed. Don't worry about me. This time I'm more than willing to let somebody else do the talking. When I walked out on Lockheed for the second time, things still didn't add up, right? Something was missing. In the hall I passed Elliot Monroe hanging onto a glass of Scotch like it was a streetcar strap. And at the door, Mrs. Lockheed ushered me out with a frigid, unsmiling nod. I drove slowly all the way to Main Street. When I was parked and walking toward Nadella's shoe shop, I began to doubt that the trap I had set was going to catch anything. Until a long black convertible turned the corner behind me. I ducked into a doorway and waited. It was Jerome Lockheed's car all right. He almost stopped in front of the shoe shop, but suddenly lurched ahead and disappeared around the corner. Away from what turned out to be a cop pounding the beat, I was convinced he'd be back. So when the cop passed me, I ran around to the rear of the shoe shop and down the stairs to a window where I could keep out of sight and still see anything that went on inside. I just settled down for a wait when it came. Stand still, my fine fellow. Don't move or I'll kill you. Mr. Elliot Monroe. What do you know about that? Looks like the wrong sucker rose to the bait. Or is this just coincidence? It's no coincidence, my friend, believe me. While you were in talking to dear Jerry, tonight Vivian was called to the phone that gave me a chance to listen outside the library door and to send. That's why I am here to protect my interests. No wonder things didn't add. You're the missing link, typecast at that. If those hands up... Sure. Sure I couldn't see Jane Temple as a blackmailer now. Jerome Lockheed is a killer, but you're playing both parts. For you, that's a cinch. But our detective is clever now, isn't he? But just a little late, wouldn't you say? Yeah. No switches in a one-track mine. Yeah, it's my own fault. Have your fun, Monroe. Tell me one thing. How'd you warm your way into this setup? That was a well-kept secret. Not to a man with an experienced eye for drama, my good fellow. It started very simply when I recognized Jane Temple on the street one afternoon and befriended her. Befriended her? Yes. We reminisced about the good old days in the theatre and finally went through her scrapbook together. But there was one clipping that she tried desperately to hide in the binding of the clumsy old fool. So when she sent the book here to be repaired, it was you who broke in and found that clipping, huh? Yes, yes, and read it, and put it back before the stupid cobbler discovered me. But I had found the skeleton in the closet and knew that I could make it rattle long, loud, and lucratively. Sure. Jane Temple would do the dirty work, put the bite on Lockheed. It would have been perfect, ideal escape for both of us from the constant humiliation of poverty. There was nothing of woman left in her. All that remained of the great Jane Temple was dusty yesterday in a book bound in leather. Mr. Marlowe, are you afraid to die? No more than most people. Oh, well, I'm glad you said that I had to kill you anyway, at least you understand. Um, he who kills cuts off so many days of fearing death. Then is death a benefit. It's the last benefit you'll ever play. No, no, no. Crazy clown. You know all the answers now, don't you, Marlowe? The whole story. Yes, Vivian. All except how you showed up here when you did. I had to. You see, I've always known about Jerry's past. He told me about it before we were married. I knew that was why you came to see him tonight, and when I saw Elliot there listening at the library door, I realized that he must have known too. When he left the house, I followed him. Got here in time to save my life. To be honest, Marlowe, that was incidental. I got here in time to save my life. I hope. Just the same. I'm going to return the favor when the police get here. You mean you... I mean there are a lot of things that belong in a dead woman's leatherbound book of memories. No place else. But I do my best to help you and Jerry keep him there. Thanks, mister. That's the way it worked out. One policeman named Matthews got the whole story, but only half of what he found out was headed in the police records. And only as much of that as was necessary ever got into the papers. Two days later, when Jane Temple's funeral was held, it didn't even make the back page. After all, what's news about one Italian cobbler, one private detective, and one hard-boiled agent standing bareheaded before a fresh grave. Even though the cobbler had worked all night, finding a big book in the finest of Morocco leather. Even though the agent with blinking moist eyes closed that book for the last time, and the private detective laid it in the coffin to be buried with her. Yeah. What's news about that? The adventures of Philip Marlowe bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character, star Gerald Moore, are produced and directed by Norman McDonnell and written for radio by Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt. Featured in the cast were Jack Krushen, Bud Whidham, Jane Avello, Lynn Allen, John Daener and Ted Von Elts. Detective Lieutenant Matthews is played by Larry Dubkin. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Orant. This is Roy Rowan speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.