 Peter Chambers, transcribed and starring as Peter Chambers, Dane Clark. That's your business. Anything else? That's for laughs. Your client is a lady, every inch a lady, and every inch of the lady, gorgeous. She's a blonde with black eyes, which makes you sit up and take notice, and there's plenty to take notice of. I will not believe that my uncle committed suicide, is that clear, Mr. Chambers? Despite the evidence, despite what the police say, despite anything, I simply will not believe it. And why not, Ms. Wilson? Because he wasn't the type. That's why not. I know my uncle. Simply and succinctly, he is not a man to take his own life. Okay, okay, now let's do it systematically. Your name is Irene Wilson. Your uncle's name was Max Daly. He owns a delicatessen store on 57th Street in Broadway. He killed himself yesterday at one o'clock in the afternoon in the bathroom of his apartment. He did not kill himself. He killed himself or he was murdered. It only happened yesterday, but according to the newspapers, it's already a closed case of the police. Which is why I've come to you. Well, you realize that aside from the physical evidence of suicide, the daughter of his apartment was locked from the inside. There are keys that can open such locks, Mr. Chambers. Who discovered the body? A neighbor. And what about your uncle's family? My uncle lived here alone. Where? At 6666 Park Avenue. It's pretty fancy. And who was this next door neighbor, the one who discovered the body? A Mr. Clark Standish. According to the police, Rich retired and an amateur musician. All right, now let's get back to uncle Max Daly. Any enemies that you know of? No. Of course, he was acquainted with many unsavory characters. Customers of that little delicatessen of his. Last week, I was standing near the counter off to a side when a man came in, they talked for a while excitedly, and then this man raised his voice and I could hear him saying, I could hear him very clearly. So you listen to me, pastrami peddler. You're getting too big for your britches. That's what you're getting. Your neck is sticking out way out. I'm giving you very good advice, pal, and for free. You're asking for a bigger hunk of pie? Well, you ain't getting it. Because with a bigger hunk of pie, you're liable to choke to death. This is the last time I'm held. When I asked my uncle about it after the man left, he just laughed it off. Did you ever see this man before? No. Would you know his name? My uncle called him lefty. Just a few more questions, Miss Wilson. Anything at all, Mr. Ching. You say that Max Daly ran an ordinary little delicatessen store? Yes. Well, how come he lives in one of the fanciest apartment houses in New York? He must have been a rich man. I agree with that. Well, then how come? Well, according to him, he made some very good investments, and those investments were paying off handsomely. Is there anything else, Mr. Chambers? No, I don't think there is. I know I can depend on you. Your first stop is police headquarters, and your first interview is with Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker, straight cop and good friend. So far, Pete, it looks like suicide. Pure and simple. It seems he was shining his shoes when he got the impulse. Carl came from a neighbor who heard the shot. Now, we had to break our way in, and the door was closed when he inside. We found him in the bathroom. I heard that. He was finished shaving. His own gun was beside him. He was a neat guy, Max Daly. He'd been shining his shoes, and he'd been wearing gloves while shining his shoes. Then he makes up his mind to knock himself off, and he does. So, door to apartment locked, part of burns on temple close enough, nitrate impregnations in the right hand glove, gun there on the floor. It's his own gun. Now, what would you say, pal? Murder or suicide? What would I say, Mom? What difference does it make? Maybe this will make a difference. What? Your client, the gorgeous Irene Wilson. What about Irene Wilson? First, her little hat shop is somewhat kaput. Meaning? Meaning it's on the verge of bankruptcy. So? So, she asked her uncle for a loan. And he refused. So? So, if anybody murdered him, she'd be the prime suspect. What with her having a key to the apartment, too? Oh, sure, sure. And then, though the police say it's suicide, she comes to me to prove it's murder, just because she's got an affinity for the hot seat. There's a better reason than an affinity for the hot seat. Affinity for 200,000 bucks. What are you talking about, Louis? Uncle Max Daly recently took out a life insurance policy in favor of pretty Irene. 100,000 bucks. 200 Gs in case of accidental death. Murder, that's accidental death. And suicide? Well, before the two-year incontestability clause, because it will affect suicide, makes the policy null and void. Now, is it all beginning to come to you? Yeah. Yeah. If it's suicide, Irene gets nothing. If it's murder, and it can't be proved that she committed a murder, she gets $200,000. Very good, detective. She would be interested in showing that it wasn't suicide. And how she'd be interested? Where you going? Find out which way her interest is going to lead. Took a banyan the Riviera, or a chair and sing-sing. Next stop is 6666 Park Avenue, the apartment of Mr. Clark Standish. You stick your finger on the doorbell, or all you get is piano music. Well, you keep pumping at that bell. Yes, young man. Uh, name's Peter Chambers. I'm investigating the death of Mr. Max Daly. And I was told that you were the one who discovered the body. I didn't quite discover the body. But I would say that I was the one who, uh, turned in the alarm, shall we say? Come in, young man. Please come in. Clark Standish, small, delicate, white-haired, about 55 years of age. He's dressed in black pants, small pumps, silk plows, and a maroon smoking jacket. He leads you in to a lavishly furnished room when he leans delicately over a baby grand piano. I'm the man that called the police, but I didn't know that Mr. Daly was dead at the time. Well, would you mind telling me a little bit about it, sir? Certainly. It was about one o'clock yesterday afternoon. I heard a shot, a single pistol shot. Did you suspect where it came from? I didn't needn't be very perspicacious for that, Mr. Chambers. You see, there are only two apartments on each floor, and it being a rather warm day, the windows were open. Uh, uh, the windows? Come here, Mr. Chambers. You see, as I draw this draper side, a fire escape window. My neighbor's window also opens on this fire escape, two windows, two apartments, mutual fire escapes. As I said this, having been a rather warm day, these windows were open to the breeze, and I was able to hear the shot distinctly. I see. I was playing the piano at the moment, and when I heard the shot, I attempted to disregard it, hoping perhaps it was a backfire from downstairs, you know how it is. But it kept nagging at me, and finally I went across, and I rang his bell. There was no answer. I kept ringing, still no answer. So I came back here. Didn't know if I was doing quite the right thing, but I called the police. Well, it turned out that you did exactly the right thing, didn't it, Mr. Standish? So it seems. Tell me, sir, did you know Mr. Daly well, friends or just acquaintances? Matter of fact, I didn't know him at all. The usual New York story, not knowing your neighbor, but I suppose it's common enough in this city. Yes, of course. Did see each other occasionally and noted, but we never actually spoke. I do hope I've been of some assistance, Mr. Chambers. Thank you very much, Mr. Standish. You've been very kind and most cooperative. Oh, not at all. And if there's anything further, please don't hesitate. You get out of there, and you go to a cafeteria, and you sit over coffee and a cigarette, and you ponder. But the coffee, the cigarette, and the pondering adds up to a large hunk of nothing. So you go to the real estate agent, the people that run 6666 Park Avenue. You ask about Max Daly, and they tell you that each tenant has to be sponsored and recommended. You ask to see the papers on Max Daly, and they oblige. And you take a look. You take a good look, and then you beat it out of there, and you hurry back to police headquarters and barge in on Louie Parker. Oh, Pete, it's not like you. Louie, Louie, you're really pressing me this trip, son. Louie, please, listen to me, will you? Did you check those gloves on Max Daly? Sure, we checked the gloves. And I trade particles in the right-hand glove, just like I told you from the gun. Oh, no, no. I mean, did you check them where he bought them? You know, that kind of stuff. No, why should we? Look, Pete, you know, you can't start terrific investigations every time a guy knocks himself off. Louie, a lot of crime in this city, a lot of crime, not too many cops. Police commissioner himself said it. It doesn't figure. It just doesn't figure. Ah, there he goes. Psychological on me again. I can see the look in your eye. Look, Denise insists he wasn't the suicider. Denise has an axe to grind. 200,000 axes. Yeah, but you said yourself he was shining his shoes using gloves not to get his hands dirty. He was neat and neat. Gloves shining shoes with gloves on his hands. That's not neat. That's screwy, Louie. It's screwy. Maybe you've got a point to everything. Now, you just can't waste the taxpayers' money on every little psychological. Look, you do me a favor. What? A special favor just for me. Sure, sure. Check those gloves, will you? Ah, okay. Special for my little old psychological private eye. You go up to Irene Wilson's exclusive hat shop on Madison Avenue when you fire a few questions at her. She's wearing a smock, but this baby is gorgeous even when she's wearing a smock. A black-eyed blaze as she gives you her speech. Yes, I am on the verge of bankruptcy here. Yes, I asked my uncle for a loan and he refused. He had no confidence in this shop in New York. He was always a good businessman. Yes, there is a policy in my behalf. Yes, I know I get nothing if he committed suicide and I know I get $200,000 if it is proven that he was murdered. Yes, I did not tell you any of that and there was other things that I haven't told you. I don't tell everybody everything, but I did tell you what I thought was relevant and I tell you again, I don't believe he committed suicide. I do believe he was murdered and I don't want you to believe that I murdered him. So, you're on your white horse again. A private-eyed knight on his bedraggled white horse galloping around the asphalt wilderness looking for answers. You wind up in Max Daley's delicate testin', the gallant knight munching on a pastrami sandwich. The join is open and running despite Daley's asses and the waitress keeps eyeing you. Finally, she moses over. You're Peter Chambers, aren't you? You're the eye-guy, aren't you? Yeah, yeah, I'm the eye-guy. I'm gonna tell you something. Wait, wait, wait, just a minute. Would you get me bicarb this? Food is wonderful, but it always... Listen. Or what? For the past few years, Max Daley was running a book here, a big book. I wouldn't have said anything, but since he got it, I thought... Look, what kind of book? Everything. Horses, basketball, hockey, baseball. Here? There wasn't even a phone in his place. Except a business phone. That's just it, Mr. Chambers. Phones, that's passé. Comes a reform where they all get tapped, everybody winds up in the pokey. This is a new kind of operation. The bets come in, personally. I don't get it. Anybody wants to make a bet, they write it out on a slip of paper. Stick their code name on it and bring it in here. Personally. Then they hand it to one of the waitresses, but the Max and S. I do, all right. That's a pretty smart gimmick. Did Max handle all this himself? He got a percentage. Who was the boss? Guy named Moore. Lefty Moore. No. Yeah. So, you're on the run again. You're looking for a hulking hood, ex-wrestler type. Lefty Moore. You visit all as usual haunts, but Lefty's strangely missing. So you switch from that effect to the sublime, and you're back in Parker's office. And this time, he's glad to see you, albeit he's roaring like a bull. Eat me, lad. This is one time you did me a good turn. The guy was murdered. No question about it. He was murdered, murdered, murdered. Murdered? Who was murdered? Who? He asked Max Daly. That's who murdered, period. The gloves tipped me. Your suggestion. The gloves Max Daly was wearing. Easy, Louis. He had to... Easy. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute. All right. Yeah. Well, we checked the gloves carefully. First, they're too small for them. Second, they're very expensive, quite new, and not to be used for polishing shoes. Third, they come from a London shop. Max Daly never was in London. Man's gloves, Louis, or ladies? Well, it could be either small, you know, like a gauntlet type. So somebody worked out an either-of-a-frame job, huh? Uh-huh. Add to that a careful examination. The bathroom floor discloses the imprint of the sneakers. Sneakers? Men's sneakers or ladies? Well, again, it couldn't be. The small size. Well, how do you make it, Louis? According to you, his apartment door is locked from the inside. Yes, but the fire escape window is open. Leads down to the alley in the rear. Now, somebody wearing sneakers snuck in... Sneaked in. Sneaked in, they took Max's gun out of a drawer. Then he goes into the bathroom where Max has just finished shaving, moved close, let him have it. Then they put the gloves on Max, fixed up the shoe shine routine, sneaked out. Snuck out. Sneaks. Now, what are you bribing? I was only kidding you a little. Are you any idea who it was? You know who figures the benefit, but I'm letting it rest of why I'm just letting it simmer. Just want to see what cooks up, you know? Louis, hmm? How's that fire escape window still open? No, it's closed tight now, sealed. Which means that I'll have to use the door. Means you'll have to use what? The door, the door. I'd like to look the place over as seeing as I'm your white-haired boy now. May I have the key? Yes, sir, white-haired boy, you may. Max Daly's got a cute little place, and you've hardly even begun when there's an instrument jiggling at the door lock. You wait, and the door opens. And there, big is life with a pick lock in his hand, lefty-moor. You jump him, you feed him to the first punch. Big one, but you manage to drop it. Then you drag him in and kick the door shut. All right, Thomas, lay off. Lay off. Now, look, pal. The gun I'm holding is out of your holster. Now, if you insist that I use it, I use it. Is that clear? Yeah, yeah, clear. All right, now. Breaking and entering, that's burglary. You can get a long wrap for that. Now, if you talk up, and if you talk up good, maybe the wrap won't be so long. Am I still clear? Yeah, yeah, clear. All right. Now, what do you want here? A ledger. A ledger? I waited till the heat was off, and now I'm here, looking for a ledger. What kind of a ledger? Max Daly. He was doing some high-class book making. Yeah, I know, I know. So he kept a ledger, a black leather record book. Well, how do you know the cops don't have it? Are you kidding, Thomas? If the cops ever had that book, they'd be rockets busting all over this town. Lefty, let me ask you something. Yeah? Where were you yesterday at one o'clock? Yeah. You mean when Maxie was bumped? I got the best alibi in the world. Alibi? Yeah. I was in court, pleading not guilty to a traffic rap. Have you been to London? London? Oh, well, I was with London. You mean the London youth? Okay, okay, Lefty. Let's, you and I together look for that black leather record book. You talk me into it, Thomas. Leave us look. You look, but you do not find. So you attach Lefty to a minion of the law with instructions that'll be placed in the capable hands of Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker. And back you go to Irene Wilson. Real glamorous now in a man-tailored red-gathered suit. You pump questions at her, and what do you know? For once, she comes up with the right answer. Yes, my uncle did have a black leather record book. He kept it here at my shop. His instructions were that I was to destroy it upon his death, but in the circumstance... Gimme honey, gimme quick. I never looked at it. He kept it in a locked briefcase, which I kept here in my space. Okay, let's have it. Yes, Mr. Chambers. I'll get it for you. Please wait. You wait, and you grab. And you break open that lock, and you look. And then you're running again. And then you're at 6666 Park Avenue at the apartment of Clark Standish. Ah, Mr. Chambers. Any new ideas on the subject of Max Daley? Plenty. And they're all about you. I beg your pardon. You went through that window wearing sneakers. You got into his place, clipped his gun, caught up with him in the bathroom as he finished shaving, and you let him have it. And then you pulled that shoe shine routine, slipped your gloves on his hands, left the gun there, and beat it back to your place. And then, sweet and innocent, you called the police. You had heard a shot. You wanna know your first mistake? I'm listening, Mr. Chambers. You told me you didn't know him. You never spoke to him. Yet a check at the real estate office showed that you sponsored him. Uh, it slipped your mind, didn't it, Mr. Standish? But why should I kill him, Mr. Chambers? What motive would I have? Oh, I got that right here, Mr. Standish. Right here in Max Daley's record book. Oh, we may be able to do business, Mr. Chambers. Oh, a real brain guy, Mr. Standish. Dreamed up an idea of personal embedding. No telephones involved. Had left him alone, funding for you. Let's talk business, Mr. Chambers. You did business with Max Daley, but when he got too big for his britches, and he wanted a big hunk of pie, that business was stopped. With a bullet. That ledger is worth enough to me for you to retire for the rest of your life. Are you going to give it to me? Uh, by the way, Mr. Standish, do you buy your clothes in London? Yes, I do, but that is of no importance right now. Are you going to give it to me? Oh, yes, sir. And how I'm going to give it to you? No! And so, with all the bad little boys safely put away in the pokey, and after congratulations have bounced around like rubber balls in their children's playground, you suddenly realize you've never settled the fee with Irene Wilson, and she is coming into 200,000 solid simoleons. So, that evening, you're at Irene Wilson's apartment ready to discuss your fee, and there she is, in gold lounging pajamas. Are we? You're quite attractive, Mr. Chambers. Now that it's all over, and I have an opportunity to observe... And you? Beautiful is the word. And beautiful is an understatement. Um, you said there was something to discuss. Something about... Let it wait, Irene. Let it wait. Let it wait. I wouldn't wait too long if I were you. That... is very good advice. Oh... Mr. Chambers. And there you've had crime. And Peter Chambers. Ayn Clark was starred as Peter Chambers. Crime and Peter Chambers transcribed was created and written by Henry King. Others in the cast were Bill Zuckert, heard as the tenant Parker, Elaine Ross as Irene, and Leon Janney as Clark. This is Fred Cullen speaking. Be with us again next week at this same time for another adventure by Peter Chambers in Crime and Peter Chambers. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.