 Being a private investigator means two things. You can be sure you'll run into trouble, and you can never be sure you can get out of it. Well, there's not much you can do about it, I guess. Except, like Julie always says... Walk softly, Peter Troy. And now, Peter Troy investigates the minks in mink. Julie, she's the gal who wields a wicked typewriter in my office, often comes out with cute little maxims, like, uh... Walk softly, Peter Troy, or... You can't live forever, Peter Troy, or one morning you'll wake up very dead, Peter Troy. Always optimistic. Always looking on the bright side of things. That's my girl, Friday. Anyway, you'll meet her again soon, and you'll wonder why I didn't take more notice of her. Especially when there are women like Evelyn DeVere Hennessy floating around London Town. Now, Evelyn was a high-toned girl. She liked to keep her mind on a higher plane. She had rave and black hair, the figure that could give a man sleepless nights, and the voice that could send shivers up her spine. But Rexy Kramer never got the shivers. But it's all quite straightforward, isn't it? I want my husband killed, that's all. That's all. Who put you on to me, lady? Frankie Faber. Oh, now, come on. You think I don't know, Frankie? Well, not exactly, but I get around to asking myself how DeVere Hennessy's wife comes into contact with a slick operator like Frankie Faber. I wasn't always Hennessy's wife. I was a pretty slick operator myself before. You married into half a million pounds. Exactly. You do take commissions like this, don't you? Frankie said you were a specialist. Yes, I'm a specialist. You'll do the job. Well, there's a little matter. I know you're expensive. Very expensive. For instance, this job? You're getting DeVere Hennessy out of the way 10,000 pounds. For that, you get a Grade A first-class deluxe job. No questions asked. And satisfaction guaranteed. Absolutely. 5,000 now and... 5,000 after the job's done. No checks. I like the money in hard cash. You have that much lying around here? Yes. But I think we can do business, Mrs. Hennessy. How would it be done? That, lady, is a professional secret. But it'll look like an accident. When would it be? That's another professional secret. But I can tell you this. You'll be a grieving widow before the week is out. Now, about the down payment. Cute little playmate, Evelyn Hennessy. Certainly not the popular conception of the sweet, devoted little wife. She preferred homicide to housework. But even Evelyn had a conscience. Came to dawns, she had second thoughts about her husband's coming to my's. Maybe she got around to thinking that his death would not only make her a widow, but also an accessory to murder. And in England, they take unkindly to homicide. In fact, if you indulge in it, they're very liable to hang you. Or maybe this is the reason why she presented her mink-coated figure at my office the day after she made her deal with a professional killer. I was out of my mind, Mr. Troy, some sort of madness must have come over me. You can say that again. And now I realize that I'm a dreadful thing, and I want to make amends. Just like that? Yes. Well, listen, I tell you what to do. Please. You get up off the chair, Mrs. Hennessy. You do an about turn, you take yourself out of my office, down the hall and into the street. You walk down the street about two blocks, and you come to a gray building with a blue lamp outside. Now written on the blue lamp and big white letters is the word police. Do you think they'd believe me, Mr. Troy? Well, that's a risk you're gonna have to take. And while they're making up their minds, whether to lock me up in jail or in asylum, my husband died. Oh, now look. A thousand pounds, Mr. Troy. A thousand pounds to stop that man from killing my husband. I had the money here in my handbag. Furthermore, all you have to do is tell the man I've changed my mind. Just like any ordinary red-blooded woman is entitled to do. He can keep the money. He gets five thousand pounds for doing absolutely nothing. Oh, just one point, Mrs. Hennessy. Yes? Why did you want your husband killed in the first place? Very old, sharp one, Troy. Well, I'm listening. He's found another woman. He wants a divorce. Uh-huh. I don't want to let him go. Neither he nor the half a million pounds is worth. I happen to love my husband, Mr. Troy. And I have money of my own. You don't believe me? Maybe I have to. You throw money around like a grown tree. Five thousand pounds here, a thousand pounds there. All right, you do have money. Rather cancer-dive the money motive, doesn't it? When Richard said he was going to leave me, I just went berserk. I was distraught. I didn't know what I was doing, but... Now, I don't want him to die. I don't want anything to happen to him. I do love him. Uh-huh. Please, help me. Oh, I must be my day for the psychiatrist couch. Okay, Mrs. Hennessy, give me the name and address of this professional gunman. I'm afraid that's impossible. What? Oh, I don't know his name or his address. Oh, good night. Well, how'd you contact him? Through an advertisement in the newspaper, I had to insert a message in the lost and found section of the daily record. Go on. It read, Mark as he broached lost on Tuesday morning last between Hyde Park Corner and Green Park Tube Station. Sentimental value reward. And my address. This boy plays it smart. Now tell me, who told you about this ad routine? Frank Faber. Frank? The Frank Faber? The hoodlum nightclub owner? Yes. Ooh. Look, lady, for your information, the smooth Mr. Frankie Faber is one of the toughest gangsters in this town. And right at this very minute, he's crashing in on Tony from Laney's territory, dope gambling, the protection racket. Frankie's a regular little Al Capone. I know. Before I married Richard, I did some silly things. I was a debitant with too much money and not enough sense. I thought it was smart to be seen around with Faber. Well, that sort of smartness can land you in a whole heap of trouble. Already has done. Look, why don't we just ring up your husband and tell him? And tell him that I've hired a gunman to kill him. Yeah, I'll see what you mean. Look, get me out of this, Mr. Troy, and I swear to you I'll make it up to Richard somehow. I'll be the sort of wife he wants me to be. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make him happy. That'll be nice. Well, I'll go and see Frankie Faber. Oh, thank you. Now, be so kind as to deposit a hundred pounds with my secretary outside. Oh, I said a thousand. Lady, gunmen and hired killers deal in thousands of pounds. Private investigators come a little cheaper. All right, Faber. All right. The joke's over. It wasn't all that funny. Oh, come on, Troy. Get out of here, will you? You think I was born yesterday? What sort of an idiot do you think I am? You really expect me to give you this gunsling's name and address? I'm trying to do the fellas in good, Faber. You think he'd be happy if I was to give away his identity? He gets to keep 5,000 pounds. And you get to put the finger on it. Go on, beat it, Troy. Beat it before the joke goes sour on me. All right, Faber. Give him a message. Oh, it gets better as it goes along. Oh, look, I haven't got... Look, how do you come to get this reputation for smartness, Troy? Can't you do simple arithmetic? Can't you add two and two together and make it come out four? Oh, I get it. Well, good. Go to the top of the cloud. Richard Hennessey dies and you move in on the grieving widow. Oh, that's half a million quid to her own sizeable fortune. Everton and I were pretty thick before Hennessey came out of the scene. Maybe we'd, um, take up where we left off. No, not a chance. She happens to love her husband. So she pays a gunman 10,000 pounds to kill him? Look, I'm a busy man, do you mind? Faber, you're one meter close. Some of the boys in there never did like you, Troy. They take it to light and fake seeing you. All right, you've made your point. Yeah, I'll send you an invitation to my wedding. Thanks. Will it be formal? Or should we just come in shrouds? Ha, ha, ha, ha. Yes? There's someone else out here to see you, Mr. Faber. Oh, is it Joan? Uh, Mr. Smith. Smith? I don't know any Smith. Well, he says he's come to see you about a market-eat brooch. Oh, that's Smith. Yeah, send him in. Then he can go home. Joan, I won't need you any more tonight. All right, Roxy. Come in and sit down. Well, there's a coincidence for you. You just had Peter Troy in here wanting to know who you were, what your address was. And did you tell him, Faber? Not on your sweet life, but you know me, Roxy. Got the tightest mouth in the business. Uh-huh. What are you doing in this part of town, eh? I'm on a job. Someone put an ad in the paper last night, an ad offering a reward for the return of a market-eat brooch. Last night? I thought Evelyn put the ad in last Tuesday. No, she did. She did. I haven't got around to her job yet. This is another one. Business is pretty brisk. That's the way I like it. My, uh, new client is an old friend of yours, Faber. Oh, really? Tony from Mani. From Mani? That's right. Offered me an interesting assignment. Seems he's getting a little sick and tired of the opposition around town. Who's the victim, Roxy? Seems he doesn't approve of small-time hoodlums barging in on his territory. Who's the victim? Can't you guess, Faber? Oh, no, no, no, no, no, wait. It's, uh, you, of course. Oh, no, no, wait, Roxy. I'm sorry about this. But a job's a job, Faber. Bye for now. Roxy, don't listen to me! BAM! And the identity of the killer remains a mystery. Furthermore, Frank Faber's secretary, John Cramer, who may have seen the gunman came to the deadman's office, has disappeared with that trace. Any information? Pete! Don't say it, honey, but just don't say it. Well, you were there. You think I killed Faber? No, but... But if the police find out I went to his office last night... And they probably will. They'll hang this wrap on me. The logical suspect is Tony from Mani. Oh, Pete, on page three of that self-same paper is a big three-column picture of from Mani, sunning himself in the south of France. He wasn't even in the country when Faber was killed. My only lead to the hired killer lies in the police morgue. Not your only lead, boss man. Huh? Faber had a secretary. John Cramer, yeah. Oh, she may know the name of the killer, Mrs. Hennessy Hyde. Oh, she might have dead. Yeah, she was his confidential secretary. But she's disappeared. So we have to find her. And very quickly. Because the police will be looking for her, too. Well, if they find her, she'd clear me. I doubt it. She was there when I left Faber and he was still alive. And she knows that his second visitor was the one who pulled the trigger, Pete. But she can probably identify him. Well, that's right. She can put the finger on him. And that makes her life worth about two cents. Well, there is a way out for her, Pete. Oh, yeah. I've just thought of it, honey. She just forgets that I came out of Faber's office so the police can still hang the rap on me. And she, on the other hand, gets off the hook with the killer. Doesn't have to worry about stopping a bullet some dark and somber night. I wonder how long it'll be before she starts thinking along those lines. Eh, still Mrs. Hennessy's rented killer to find. Oh, they got me over a barrel, Julie. I wonder how the plane schedules run to Afghanistan. Joan Cramer, the late Frankie Faber secretary, might just be able to give me a lead on the identity of the killer Evelyn Hennessy hired to murder her husband. But even if she couldn't, she could clear me of any implication in Faber's murder. Trouble was, the girl had disappeared. And I don't blame her, because the gunman would realize that she could point the finger right at him. It was more than possible that she'd feel inclined to have me take the rap for Faber's death. You see, all she had to do is to say she hadn't seen me come out of Faber's office. So I just had to find her. I got her addressed from the London telephone directory. She's in a quiet street in Belgravia. I knew there was nobody at home, so I started picking the luck. I needn't have gone to the trouble of getting out my skeleton keys. The door wasn't locked. The place was in darkness, so I took the Smith and Wesson from my shoulder holster. He used off the safety catch, switched on the light. That's the gun you killed Faber with, Troy? Oh, no. I wondered just how long it would be before you showed up here. All right, Inspector. Let's get it over with. Get what over with? Formalities of the arrest. Wait a minute, aren't you supposed to have another police officer present as a witness? Yes, that's the routine. But then you've always known that I'm not such a stickler for orthodox procedure. I could, I suppose, remind you that I'm still holding my gun, whereas you being a Scotland yard man are completely unarmed. Yes, that's right. But then I'd have to remind you that that's not the way you play the game, Troy, so let's just relax for the moment, shall we? You know, I suppose I was one of the last people to see Faber alive. Yes. And doubtless, you know, that John Kramer's evidence could either clear you or hang you. So I don't have to explain why I'm here. No, on the contrary, I was expecting you. Well, I didn't kill Faber. No, who did? Well, for you that I wouldn't be here now. Are you going to take me in? No. Well, thank you. Dan, thank me yet. There's a catch. Isn't there always? All right, give. Well, now, we've agreed that I don't always stick to the conventional orthodox procedure. Sir? No, policemen's hampered by red tape, Troy, and sometimes we find ways and means of circumventing it. Go on. Now, I've often found you to be an ideal help in cutting that red tape. And you want me to do it again? Yes. How? By clearing yourself with Faber's method. Oh, that's easy, isn't it? That's your neck. Well, Dan, I get any help from you. Yes, certainly. I'll even give you a valuable clue. Well, thanks. Faber's death was trademarked, huh? You know, murderous operand, I have a small list of similar killings. And ballistic shows that the gun that killed Faber has been used before, up and down the country. We've been after this boy for a long time. Well, and you know it wasn't my gun. It was a Smith and Wesson same caliber as yours. Look, there are thousands of Smith and Wesson. Yeah, but I know it wasn't yours. Now, as I was saying, this killing seems to be the work of a professional gunman. Now, we have one small lead which only came to light recently. What is it? That, unfortunately, I'm not of liberty to say, officially. I'll give you a hint though. Well, let's stop playing games. Then read through yesterday's lost and found columns of the daily record. Lost and found columns? Ring a bell. Like a four-armed fire. Good. Someone lose a marcoise brooch? You're a bright boy, Troy. What, you mean you know that? I don't mean anything. It's just a lead we've been following. Then you must know about a client of mine. Maybe, yes. But the particular advertisement that was printed yesterday before Faber was killed gives rise to some complications, Troy. It needs the unorthodox approach, hmm? Your approach. Why? Oh, you'll find out. Yes, you'll find out, all right. But I've got the feeling you'll handle it. Then if I don't? As I said before, it's your neck, Troy. Yes, here it is. A marcoise brooch, Troy. Oh, skip that, Julie. What address did I give? Uh, 45 Montreux Place. Belle Grave here? Why, yes. Do you know the place? I've just come away from it. You mean? It's Joan Cramer's place. Well, she's the advertiser? She wanted the hired killer to get in touch with her? That's right. Oh, I don't understand. Neither do I, yet. There is a glimmer of light going through. And Inspector Caswell gave you this, Lee. Hmm. And that, honey, bun is a significant point. The police had latched under the method of contacting the killer. Oh, Pete, I don't like it. Why would a girl who works for Faber want him killed? Who works for Faber? But supposing she didn't. But you know very well she did. I know she was in his outer office, but supposing she was a plant, Julie. A plant? Yeah. You mean she was working for someone else, as well? Why not? Who? Frankie Faber's enemy. Tony Framani. Right. But I still don't understand the advertisement. Framani was a way, remember? Now, someone else, someone working for Framani, had to give the killer his assignments. Joan Kramer. Exactly. So the instigator was Framani all the time? Via the sweetness Kramer. And police? What are they going to do about it? Well, the inspector figured that I'd kind of sort it out from here on. Why? Well, because he can't just walk into Framani's place and accuse him of ordering Faber's death. Now Caswell has to have definite proof he can't get it himself, so... So he sends you out to get it? Yeah. Well, there's nothing to stop me barging into Framani's place and creating a ruckus. Oh, Pete, you can't do it. Look, honey, if I'm ever going to find out who the hired assassin is, I'm going to have to do it. Well, that makes you to 10,000 pounds exactly. Thanks. I'd like to know the name of the man I've just employed. That's a trade secret, Mr. Framani. Yeah, now listen... Don't raise your voice to me. You never can tell, Framani. Maybe someday one of your enemies may advertise in the lost and found section of the daily record. John Kreiman knows who you are. That's right. Won't you sketch him a tip someone off? No. And she works for me, you know? Only for as long as it suits her. What do you mean? Work it out for yourself. Frankie, Faber, knew who you were. That's right. And look what good has done him. He's dead, isn't he? And he'll excuse me if I go now. Sure. And I'd be really happy if you kept away from me from now on. What do you want? A shabbat outside to see her. Who is it? Ah, a Canadian bloke. He says his name's Peter Troy. Troy? You know him? He was around when Faber got his. Listen, if you bungled that door... That door over there. Closet. Good. Send Troy in. And don't worry Framani. I'm just going to find out whether or not Troy's become a problem. And if he hears... Well, this may be a job I'll do free. Gratters. Send Troy in. And you, was he, sir? Yeah. Okay. Well, Mr. Framani, I'll see you. Thanks. I somehow thought you would, Zoni. Yeah, what is it you want? Just some information. About the what? The whereabouts of Joan Cramer. I think she works for you, doesn't she? And I want to know something about an advertisement for Mark as he broached. And then... You must be out of your head, Troy. For just blindly walking in here, you mean. Well, the fact of the matter is I've got some insurance, Framani. I left a letter with my secretary. If I don't get back before a certain time... That is the oldest gag in the book, Troy. Well, well. Now, your face is familiar. Listen, you can't touch him here. If anything happens to him, that letter gets to the police. That ain't the rap on you, Framani. And that's no skin off my nose. I've got it. Roxy Cramer, stick-up artist. Oh, no. He's in the big time now, Troy. He's a killer for hire. Cramer? Joan Cramer's brother. Sure, that's all. Like I said, she only works for you as long as it suits her. And me, Framani. So now you both know who I am. No, Roxy. We can't do a deal. Well, you can't do any deals with him, Framani. You've got nothing to bargain with. Money! It doesn't stack up against his life. Troy's right. You've got to die. You've both got to die. Don't do it, Roxy. You'll never get out of here. My boys would come. Hey, nuts. Whistle at them and they drop dead with fright. If you had one amongst them who was worth a cracker, you'd have got him instead of me to take care of Frankie Faber. All right, Roxy, you hold all the trumps. That's right. Except one. Huh? Look at the way Framani and I have placed, Roxy. Me on one side of the desk, Framani on the other. Now, we both carry guns. All right, you may get one of us. But as sure as bullets are bullets, the other one's going to gun you down before you've got time to pull that trigger twice. Yeah, that's right. How's it look now, Roxy? I'm fast. Change direction and make sure your second bullet kills. I don't think you carry a gun, Troy. Try me. OK, Framani. Walk slowly towards him. You get it first, Framani. I'll play along with Troy. All right, at least a minute. I have nothing to lose. Get back. How's that? Framani? You're trying investigation? Julie, it's all over. Framani and the professional killer are both dead. What? Roxy Kramer got Framani and I had to take care of Roxy. Oh, please. Listen, honey, have Inspector Caswell come on over here and clean things up a little, will you? You'll never learn, will you? Learn what? Mix and mink, Mrs. Evelyn Levere Hennessey made a full confession to her husband. Now, he has to make up his own mind what he does with her. Either he forgets all about her attempt at having killed or else he turns her over to Inspector Caswell. As for me, I've been spending the last few days hunting around for a nice orthodox-type policeman. One that I can nominate for Inspector Caswell's position. One that simply revels in red tape and wouldn't dream of setting up a poor, confused private investigator as a patsy. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.