 Pat Novak, for hire. Out in front of my office says Pat Novak for hire. Oh, you don't get in the blue book that way, but you don't embarrass your friends either. Because down on the waterfront in San Francisco, they don't separate the good and the bad. They let them run together. Before long, you got a caste system. You're either alive or dead. If you're on top, keep fading the crowd and trying for sevens until you lose the dice. It's about the only way to play it unless you like worms. I rent boats and do anything else that'll put a fast handle on a buck, but it doesn't always work out because down here, all your luck is junior grade and trouble is trumps. I found that out Tuesday night. It was the first time I ever saw Ruben Calloway, and the last time, too, if you like to keep a tidy record. It was about seven o'clock, and I just started back across the bay from Sausalito. You could still see Mount Tamalpia squatting on the marine shore, light brown near the top, but dark and black farther down, like a cupcake that's been in the oven a little too long. A low fog was beginning to squeeze in on the far side, so I kicked in the search light, and that's when I picked him up. He was struggling feebly with his face near the water and was almost bald so that when the light hit him, he looked like a cantaloupe that somebody got tired of. I pulled alongside and started a haul on my board. He brought most of the bay with him. Help me! Please! Yeah, we'd like to get a hold of you, wouldn't it? Come on. There. Now sit down. No, here. Lean against the gun. Yeah, thanks. Is the water red or you've been shot a little? Do you have to know everything? No, it's your load. Carry it, mister. Yeah. If you like it, go ahead. But don't worry for me. If you feel that way about it, pick another spot to die in. Go back in the bay where you'll have company. You've got to help me. I want you to get in touch with a girl named Alma Biggs. Yeah? He'll find her at the Empire Club. Out on Geary Street. My name's Ruben Calloway. Tell her about me. She'll pay you for it. What's she do? Collect bodies? Just give her this key. It's for a locker gun and a bus station. Now look, Pop, you don't know me. Suppose I use the key. You can't spend it. You better take the money. All right. Just see, Alma. Told her it didn't work out. It didn't work out for me at all. I guess that's right, huh? On the big things, you're 100%. I don't need a chair. Here, set up. I told you I don't want you dying in here. Stop beefing, fella. You don't have all the bad luck. It must have sent a fast chariot, because when I leaned over, the guy was dead. And he was working hard at it, too. He was a skinny little guy, all bent up and twisted in the bottom of the boat like an old paper clip. Wouldn't do any good to straighten him out, because he wasn't gonna sleep easy. His eyes were open and rolling around at the sky as if he was on the make for a star. And the skin hung loose around his face so that when you touched it, it felt like an empty baked potato. I pushed him into a corner and I started for Pier 19. When I got there, I hauled him out of the dock and I went down to call homicide. It must have been about 8.30 when I took a cab out to the Empire Club. It was a gambling joint out on Geary Street where they cut their whiskey and cards in different rooms. I asked the guy at the window if he knew Alma Biggs and he pointed her out by the roulette table. She was wearing a white satin evening gown. As I walked up behind her, I noticed she moved in rhythm with the roulette wheel. It was interesting. It had been a merry-go-round that had pinched her. I squeezed in next to her at the table and I was thinking of trying it again when she started to talk. It's a tight fit. Are you sure you like it? I'm not gonna stay long. That's what Rudolph has said. Make me a vets, ladies and gentlemen. Gamblers, make their vets. Stake me, Alma. I can't afford you, darling. Go broke for Ruben Callaway then. Four on the red. You gotta keep you for luck, darling. Can you comb your hair? I'll take the chips. They look bad on Callaway. It's too crowded here. Let's find a closet. Did he look pretty? For a fish, he was all right. Who are you? Pat Novak. I picked him up in the bay. He said to look you up until you didn't work out. I would please Turk. Who's Turk? The reason it didn't work out. Is that all, Mr. Novak? Except for a key that fits a bus station locker. Here. You keep it, Mr. Novak. It won't buy anything. I picked up your boy and dried him out, but that's all. We were small friends at best, so the service has stopped. You can come to a slow stop for $200. Take the key and pick up what's in that locker. I'll get it from you later. Yeah? I'll meet you in an hour. Where's a good place? Your apartment? Well, it's a place. I'll find it in the book. I hope you don't mind. No, the thin walls will save me. What's in that locker? What would it prove? Proves you've got a small mouth, Angel. Unless you're gonna kiss it, don't worry. 9.30, then? All right. I'll bring the $200 with me. Don't worry about the dough. Oh. Because I scooped your chips off the table. I'll see you later. She stood there watching me as I walked over to the cashiers window. She gave you a nice warm feeling like a Bunsen burner in the middle of your back. And she stood there in the center of the floor, smiling. You know she could turn a glacier into a steam bath at 400 yards. A nice little mouse that made you want to go home and test all the old traps. Well, I cashed in her chips, and the boy at the window shoved out 200 rocks in a pained look as if he just handed over his right lung. I got a cab, and I rode down to the bus station at Seventh and Market. There were a few people sitting at the counter and a couple of old men on the benches waiting for somebody to get up and leave the funny papers. I went over near the wall and opened up the locker. It was a long trip for a small package, a square manila envelope, and a dress up in the corner, Ruben Calloway photographer. I squeezed the envelope and it felt like photographs, but I wasn't sure. I started to close the locker when I turned and then I tumbled for the first time. It's like getting a drop of rain on your hand before you ever look up at the sky. The two of them were standing over by the cigar counter watching me. The guy with a heavy overcoat and a little small guy about the size of a hangnail. It wouldn't do any good to sit down because I knew they'd stay until somebody condemned the building, so I walked past them out onto the street and there was a cab standing right in front. Cab, mister? Yeah. Swing up toward the St. Francis, will you? Yeah. Now look, you're going to be tailed, so brush up on your allies. If you like it that way. Hey, you were supposed to take a left there on mission. I got a license. Where's yours? I told you to double back over market. Get out and walk if you don't like it. I've been bought, mister. Oh, my two friends. That's right. You should have come first. I ought to part your hair. You got more chance with them. Here we are. Where you going? You like allies? That's what you're going to get. Take it easy, fella. You're not going anywhere. You were nice when you lasted. Take it easy. You better walk up a wall. They'll block the alley. See? Yeah. Give me the envelope so we can all get out. Can Junior help you? Give me the envelope. Still sealed. You all through? I don't know. No, see? Like him, Joe? No. That's the way it is, mister. You don't like it. Down like an old sock on a bony leg. I rolled over a couple of times. I tried to stand up, but it wasn't easy. You might as well try to find a hair in a bowl of chop suey. It began to rain, and I figured it would be easier to float out to the street, so I went to sleep. When I woke up, the rain hadn't helped the alley much. It's like washing your kid's face and finding out he was ugly to start with. The mud had washed up against the walls, it was a thick, sour smell, and down the alley, across the street, there was part of a sign sticking out that said, EATS. And that isn't what you felt like at all. I started groping around to get up, and my hand hit the pictures. They were scattered all over like clothes in a boarding school. I picked them up when I started for the street. On the way up in the cab, I got a chance to look at them. They didn't make sense. There were six of them, and they were all just about the same. A bunch of mob scenes of that fire over in Oakland. I didn't have time to figure it out because the cab pulled up in front of the St. Francis, and I went in to call Alma Biggs and tell her the party was off. Part of that alley must have come with me, because when I walked into the lobby, the doorman looked at me as if I'd just blown up a nunnery. I tried the number once, but nobody answered. I decided to wait 20 minutes and call again. That was a mistake, because I just got in the booth and started to dial, and somebody started wrapping on the door with a nickel. It was Hellman from Homicide. Hello, now, Biggs. Come on out. You can't get a date in that suit. What do you want, Hellman? Come on out! You're a hard man to find. You don't look in the right places. I'm a family man. Tell me about the dead guy. I don't know, Hellman. He died in my boat. That's all I know. He didn't say anything? Just sentimental stuff. His name's Ruben Calloway, and somebody threw him in the bay without instructions. I don't know a thing about him, except he takes pictures. Yeah? I'll wipe off the drool. They're not your kind. Who are his friends? He's got new ones by now. I don't know, Hellman. How about that guy on your couch? Huh? I just left your place. How about the guy on the couch? There's a gal up there, but that's all. Does she wear suspenders? Huh? Then take my word, it's a man. And you're going to tell me he's dead, Hellman? No, I'm not going to tell you he's dead, Novak. He may be a soft breather. When Hellman mentioned the stiff up at my place, I knew we were going to be in low gear the rest of the night because Hellman isn't an easy guy. He wouldn't give his wife an aspirin if she had concussion of the brain. He took me out the side door, and we rode up to my apartment. But that guy was lying on the couch with his arms across his chest as if he wanted somebody to give him a lily or a way out of this. The lamp was shining down on his face, and the light was distorted, but when you stood over him, you could see his face was the color of pressed seaweed. If he had anything to be happy about, you couldn't tell because his mouth was open and hung over to one side like a loose change purse filled with old teeth. His clothes were rumbled and his shirt was open at his neck. You could see a chain around his neck and a silver medal in the dull light against his chest. It looked out of place and made you feel funny like seeing a picture of a Madonna in a bowling alley. I watched him while Hellman made noise. He still looks like a man. Yeah, who is he? George Leggett. What does that prove? Who his mother was. We're checking for a record. The gun, too. What gun? One was lying here on the floor. Mixed up Novak, there's a connection. I'll shop around till I strike it. You couldn't strike oil on a filling station. You got a double murder. Shop for a pair of people. I'll shop far enough to get you big shot. Far enough to see you fries. Well, you got the lard for it, Hellman. If you keep your mouth shut now, you can hold in the blood. Hello, Hellman talking. Yeah? When'd you find out? That makes it easier. You sure the same gun killed them both? Yeah. Yeah, I'll be in. Well, wrong number, no doubt. Give Hellman a sense of humor. They gave him a loud laugh instead. When he walked out of my place, he was smiling like a funny man who's just exposed Santa Claus. I didn't feel very funny myself. I took another look at those pictures and I was as mixed up as a guy with a Mexican divorce. They were just ordinary pictures of a fire in Oakland. What made them so important? I was sure that gunsel had taken some of the pictures, but were they any different than these and why was Alma Biggs afraid to pick them up? And who was a guy named Turk? No, I was full of questions, but no answers like some guy at a peace conference. Well, if I went over it anymore, I'd be counting my toes, so I got out of there and I looked up Jaco Madigan. Oh, he's a good guy and he was a smart one, too, until he decided the only way you can get a good trade-in on hard luck is with a bottle of whiskey. I found him at Emilio's bar, patting Bill the bartender on the back with one hand and pouring jiggers of gin with the other. The table's down at Murray's, in a place where Louis dwells. Bartelman's songsters are fun to spree, doomed from here to eternity. Jaco, I want to talk to you. Patsy, I'm driving a Harvard man crazy. He's at the end of the bar. Stop drinking and listen to me. I've got to keep on drinking Patsy if I want to preserve any continuity in my life, because I don't drink to forget, but rather to remember. To remember all the pleasant events of my life. There were two of them, I think. All right, Jaco. The first was a girl I met many twilight's ago, and the second was a summer night in St. Louis when a bartender felt crazed with the heat and set him up on the house. Will you stop it? I'm in trouble. Memory is a blessed toy, Patsy, but you have to be careful because it can be dangerous like giving a rifle to a small child for Christmas, which truly can get some temporary pleasure out of it by shooting various neighbors. But sooner or later, he's going to kill the only rich relative in the family. Jaco, I'm sorry. Memory's the same way. So you're entitled to collect the few good ones you have. You're allowed to straighten them out and put them in order. Oh, after all, an old pool ball gets wrapped now and then. You all through? Yes. I've run out of memories. Helman thinks I killed two guys ten miles apart. Wasn't it difficult? Turn on the same murder gun. The whole thing is tied up with some pictures. In color? A guy by the name of Ruben Callow. He died in my boat. He gave me a key to a locker downtown. The pictures were there. Is that one of them? It is. Take a look. Uh-huh. If it's a group picture, they were a very unruly family. It's the Oakland fire. Two gunsels followed me and took some of the pictures. In the meantime, some guy got shot in my place. Everybody's after the pictures. Why? Well, have you seen the other pictures? No, I took an intermission. That's why you've got to help. Now, you'll find Ruben Callow is addressing the phone booth. Get up there and go through his stuff, will you? It doesn't sound legal. Neither's a bum murder rap. Get up there and go through his pictures. Try to find anything that'll fit in with his set. What are you going to do besides jail? I've got to find a gal named Alma Biggs. Oh, you'll have trouble with a name like that. She's probably changed it. The locker key was tabbed for her, but she hired me to run her errands. Is she pretty? Yes, if you like a fast track. Now, get up there, Jaco. Why can't I see it? Will you stop it, Jaco? Just get up there. Forget about her. She'd scare you to death. Yes. Well, at least I die hopeful. Good night, lover. Finding Alma Biggs was quite a job. I knew she was around, but I couldn't get to her. It was like trying to get a peanut shell out of a back tooth. I called the Empire Club, but they didn't know anything about her. I went through all the phone books and the city directories, and I didn't get anything but a sore thumb. I didn't do any better with the hotels. I sat in the lupos and called them all, and by one o'clock I knew more desk clerks than a vice-squat cop but no Alma Biggs. Finally, I went out to the Empire Club and I started talking to the cabbages. About 15 minutes later, one pulled up and remembered taking a girl in a satin evening gown up to an apartment on the hill. I called Helman and I rode up there to check the names. Alma Biggs had an apartment on the second floor. I knocked on the door and she didn't answer, so I tried it. The lights were out, so I closed the door and groped over to the desk. I should have noticed the draperies as I passed because they were full of people. Hmm. Wait a minute. All right now. Wait a minute, Mr. Novak. Stop breaking things. Someday you may want to mend me. Do you always sleep in the curtains? Do you always talk this long in the dark? Ten on the line. Yeah. I wanted to see who you were. George Leggett, maybe. Oh, do you know him? We're roommates. He died on my couch tonight. Anything serious or just humdrum death? He's satisfied. What do you know about him? I never heard anybody say a bad thing about him. Of course I never heard anybody mention him. Now, look, Angel, it's late. Who's George Leggett? Why do you care? Because homicide cares. They got Calloway and Leggett back to back and they want my skin. It's a nice skin, darling. Where are the pictures? Unless you're a social worker, you're not gonna like them here. Let me see. It's another one here. Yeah, I figured that. Where are the other pictures, Patsy? In some Ganoff's album. Two of them jumped me down near Mission Street. Who are they? We never got that friendly. Well, there couldn't have been two of them. Well, maybe the little guy was just window dressing, but he gave the right answers. Patsy, I think you're a liar. You're nicer than homicide. I want those pictures. You do. And I'm gonna take them away from you. If I had them, that's a big enough gun to do it. Get the pictures, Patsy. It's a bad time for murder, Angel. Homicide's working this week. I haven't time, Patsy. I'll push you down like a blade of grass. Get the pictures. Now, look, sweetheart, I took a job for 200 bucks. It covers a tandem murder, wrapping a sapping down on Mission Street, but it won't cover big talk from you. Now, put the gun away or I'll binge you hard. Don't move up when you talk. You're a round behind. Give it to me. Patsy. It feels good. Let it go or take the pain. Drop it. You don't have to hang on. I'm not a barbell. You're handy now. Who's Turk? Stop it. You're hurting my arm. There's a guy named Turk. I want to know who he is. You're late for that. Who is he? Go ahead. Tear it over. You'll die ignorant. What do you want, Helman? I want to give you a raise. So what, Helman? No, we ran to go. Yeah? You'll let your boy. You better find him. We already have. Don't tell me he's up on the couch. All right. What'd they say? No, because I knew she'd close up faster than a Dublin meat market on Friday. I left her and went down to the Chronicle Morgue to find out what I could about Turk's Spaniel. Helman had covered it. Spaniel talked too much and Joe Biggs killed him and left him growing out of a ditch like an old weed. I didn't know where to turn now. With Turk gone, who was after those pictures besides Alma Biggs and what did they prove? I knew the answer was there. Probably in plain sight, like a blimp on a football field, but I couldn't get near it. It was past two when I got back to my apartment and the phone was screaming for help. Yeah? Hello, Patsy. This is Jocko. What'd you find out? That never happened. Yeah? I mean, love again. All right, Jocko. Did you find anything? Yeah? What else? I'll do it, Jocko. Are you all right, Jocko? Jocko, you all right? I got up to Callaway's apartment. When I got there, Jocko was sitting in the middle of the floor as sad as a steer on a sheep ranch. He hadn't seen who hit him and the picture was gone. So was the clipping. I asked him if there were any negatives around. He said no. That meant somebody was still on the prowl for the negatives. So I called Helman and briefed him and he said he'd meet us at Rubin Callaway's studio in 10 minutes. When we got there, it was dark, but I sensed Helman in the back room. Turned out to be a couple of pans of acid, but he was there going over the negatives. All this guy did was take pictures. Let me take a look. Will you, Helman? Can you spot the right one, Jocko? Hold him up to the light. Here are the fire pictures. How about this one? No, no, I had that one. Yes, that's it. And this fellow back here is the one that was circled. Hold it up so I can see. Hello, Turk. You waited too long. Give me the picture, Mr. All that gun will do is make noise, spaniel, and it won't make enough to keep a secret. Just hand me the picture. Somebody knows you're alive now. The picture's for last. That's your word against mine. I'll be so far away, I can't hear the argument. Let me have it. Don't give it to him, Novak. Yeah, I'll give it to him. You take it away, Helman. Thanks, Novak. That alley taught you manners. You stand over there. I want to remember the way you looked. Don't worry. I'll tell you about the Turk. Huh? You keep backing into this gun. It's going to shore around your breath bone. Guns are getting cheap. You better drop yours, spaniel. Over there. You look the same, Turk. We're almost the same. You got this all wrong, Helman. Joe doesn't look the same. Nine years in the cooler and you lose your personality. Please, Helman, don't do anything crazy. After nine years, you lose almost everything. Joe's lost everything but me. Down on the floor, spaniel. I want you on your knees. Please, please, Helman, you got it wrong. I got it all right, Turk. Because Joe wouldn't lie to me. When he said he didn't kill you, I knew you were alive. Please, Helman. Down on the floor beside the table. Go easy, baby. You got a copper here. I can't hurt him, Novak. Turk's spaniel's legally dead. What you can do to a dead man is care for the duck. Please, please, Helman. You're not saying this right. I'm going to have a better chance than you. You couldn't see, spaniel. You couldn't see your way back to help Joe out. You look good on your knees. Now go by the table. Leave that ass it alone, sweetheart. I'm going to help him see you with a whole pan full of it. I'm going to help you see, spaniel. Please, please, Helman. You wouldn't do that. You got the short end of the bed. Ah! Ah! Look at him, Jocko. Don't bother unless you're a baby doctor. We may need you, lady. Not for this copper. Remember, Turk's spaniel's dead. Detroit says so. He looks alive now. He can't be dead there and live here. I like your climate, but it's not that good. You can't see me, Turk. But I'll bet you can hear me walk out of here. Goodbye, Turk. I'll send you a cane. I managed to get most of the story out of Turk's spaniel. Ruben Callaway stumbled into the whole thing and he didn't know what hit him. He went over to Oakland to take some pictures of the fire and he got a picture of spaniel in the crowd. Spaniel saw him and trailed him over to this side. He had to get the pictures because back in Detroit he'd framed Joe Biggs with a riddled-up body and skipped out of the country. He'd been away until a few weeks ago and now he was waiting for a boat out of San Francisco, so he had to stay dead. He sent George Leggett after the pictures, but Leggett figured it was a good way to double-cross him and stay in the clear, so he tipped off Alma Biggs who'd come out here on a lead a few weeks before. Turk finally tumbled with a local gunsling he killed Callaway and left Leggett in my apartment where he trailed him. It almost worked out, but he didn't get to that shop in time. Hellman asked only one question. When I first met her, did I know Alma Biggs was that hard? No, in that satan evening gown, I didn't think so. This radio service has just brought you Pat Novak for hire, starring Jack Webb. Pat Novak is produced by William P. Russo. Giacomo Madigan is played by Tudor Owen. Inspector Hellman is played by Raymond Burr. Music was composed and conducted by Basil Edmond. Be with us again next week when over most of these same stations we'll bring you Pat Novak for hire. ABC, the American Broadcasting Company, for listeners in the United States and rebroadcast for our men and women overseas. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio Service, the voice of information and education.