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Leaver Brothers Company presents the Pepsodent program, the adventures of Philip Marlowe,
starring Van Heflin. Philip Marlowe, the famous private detective of Murder My Sweet and the Lady
in the Lake, created by Raymond Chandler, brought to you on the air by Pepsodent and
starring MGM's dynamic young actor Van Heflin.
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Now Van Heflin and the adventures of Philip Marlowe.
Hollywood after midnight is like any other city after midnight.
Night moves in and the city becomes hushed and stealthy. The nightclubs close up one by one,
but now and then the police whistle and the prowl car siren serenade the sleeper.
If you've got any cop in you at all, you get on edge and you have to get dressed and go out and
walk it off to relax. Well I was relaxing past the Swank Carlton Hotel on the Sunset Strip about 1
a.m. when all of a sudden recess was over. Hey Marlowe, is that you Marlowe?
It was George Millar, the quiet spoken night clerk of the Carlton hailing me from the doorway,
probably to Moochamela Creeno. No, I was wrong. Hey look Marlowe, you're very busy right now.
Why, if I may be as cagey as all that. We've got some trouble on the eighth floor.
Where's Curly, your fearless house deck? Tonight he has to have a hangover. What's the beef on
floor eight? King Leopardi. Do you know him? King Leopardi? That's the sweetest trumpet this
side of Gabriel. Is he tending here tonight? He's in the corridor on the eighth floor,
dressed in yellow pajamas and his trumpet. There's a girl with him and they put him on a jam session.
Well suppose the King rejects my diplomatic notes. Well, get rough, but only if you have to.
Okay, thanks. But a guy with such an ear for music got to listen to reason. All right, I'll be down five minutes more.
Oh, baby, don't be a meanie. Stop a man's summer blowin' moan. Come on and blow out.
Hey, King, that's all, boy. Oh, stop the mellow mellow, King and Yellow. More mozzarella, more, more, more.
I said all right, King, the party's over. Hey! Were you addressing me, peasant? I said wrap it up,
Can it, put it on ice. The show is over. Ha. Conk him, King. King Conk, that's what he is.
King Conk. Let him have it, King. Then fare to a nosy house dick, as follows. All right, now look,
Yellow Pants, wrap up your bugle and buzz off. Now hit the grit. Oh, you're tougher than a 40-cent steak, aren't you?
Well, this'll make you soft and tender. Here. Atta boy, King. Hit him again for me. All right, hit me with that trumpet, will you?
Okay, King. Now come on, get up, get dressed and get out. How can he? He's out cold. I'll be glad to pack for him.
And you get back to your room. Listen, copper, I don't have to do anything. Get going, sister. Come on, jump.
The door to room 815 was ajar. I went in, began tossing a lot of that yellow silk that the King liked so well into his suitcases.
Something at the small desk stopped me. Tucked under the corner of the desk blotter was a note.
It was assembled from words and letters cut out of newspapers and pasted on a telegraph blank. It said,
Ten grand by Thursday night, Leo Pardi, or else. Her brother.
I slipped the note in my pocket and went out in the corridor just as the King staggered past me into his room.
I could get an infection from the dirty look he gave me as he slammed the door after him.
The door two sweets away opened a crack and then shut again very quickly. I went over and knocked.
Beat it, copper. I want to talk to you. I don't want to hear from you.
Okay, here I come, sister. Ready or not. I'll blow you down, so help me. I'll let you have it.
Lay that pistol down, babe. Come on, come on. Get out before you pick up what you didn't count on.
And what would the little girl be doing with a 25 automatic, I wonder?
A girl needs protection with insects like you around. Look, what's your name?
Little Bo Peep. Okay, but what does little boy blue with a horn mean to you?
I admire his work. Do you know King Leo Pardi? No.
What are you doing in a place like this? I can tell you can't afford it. What's your angle?
I won a soap contest. All right, baby. You want it that way?
What are you going to do? I'm going to make a phone call. It won't cost you a nickel.
Hello, desk. Mylar, it's Marlow. I'm calling for the lady in room 811. She's checking out.
I had a little trouble up there, Mylar. Your two noisy guests will be checking out any minute.
Okay? Oh, well, I hate for things to happen on my shift.
Well, the King bopped me with his bugle and the girl had a gun.
She's nice people. How come you put a floozy like that girl so close to the King?
Well, I didn't. Quillen the Dayman did. Another thing. Look, there was a receipt for rent
to Miss Marilyn DeLorme on the telephone table in her room.
Well, that wasn't the name she gave Quillen. Apartment 211, Ridgeline Apartments,
Cord Street, L.A. She lives right in town in a cheap neighborhood, but she checks in here
at a price she can't afford and gives a phony name. Now, why? Why?
Cord Street, where Marilyn DeLorme lived, was old town. Party town, crook town.
It was afternoon when I got off the cogwheel car that climbs the steep hill to where the
Ridgeline Apartments sat on the top of Bunker Hill. I went up dim, dusty stairs to
apartment 211 and I tapped on the door. There was no answer, so I tried the door.
It was unlocked. The room inside was dim with stagnant gloom. Marilyn DeLorme was in.
I didn't talk to her, though. I didn't think she'd want to make much conversation
with those blue bruises about her throat, where she'd been strangled. I got out of
there fast, wiping off doorknobs like Uriah Heap, polishing apples for his boss.
I found King Leopoldi at his job at the Club Belvedere. He was relaxing at a table in
the bar with a kind of a girl commonly referred to as a knockout. She looked tall and her
hair was the color of a brush fire seen through clouds of dust. I pulled in my chin and then
walked over to the table.
Hello, Leopoldi, old maestro. You remember me?
I'm sorry, I can't say that. Why, you dirty keyhole snoopers.
King, please don't start anything again.
You left a certain little note in your hotel room last night.
Get out, dime a dozen.
That wasn't all. That dame with you last night.
I said beat it.
King, sit down.
Beat it and take this with you.
There's not much snap in that punch, King. Would you like to try it again?
I have had some drinks. I'll see you later when I'm okay. See you later too, Dolores,
after the floor show.
I'm sorry, Miss...
Sit down. You made as conspicuous enough as it is.
Oh, wait a minute. Look, let's get...
Sit down.
All right, thanks. It's what I get for being a little gentleman and letting him pepper me
without a comeback.
No, he's always spoiling for a fight.
The King just can't control his dukes, can he?
He better have a drink.
All right. Coke with bitters.
That's what I love about Hollywood. You meet so many eccentrics.
Yeah, but you see, I'm the kind of a guy who starts with a short beer and wakes up in Shanghai
with a full beard.
Is this on me or is it on you?
Well, that depends.
Well, how's champagne? Mums cordon rouge, shall we say.
It's on you.
It's on me. Coke with bitters.
How did you get to know King Leopardi?
Oh, I just happened to throw him out of his hotel last night.
Oh, house detective, huh?
No, no, filling in for a friend. Philip Marlowe, private investigator, the general tag.
Oh.
How did you happen to get to know the King?
I once sang in his band, but not for long.
Well, then, look, tell me, would it be hard for a woman to get to him?
Only if he was surrounded by a wall of fire.
If the woman had a gun.
Why?
Well, I found this threat note on his desk last night.
It asked for $10,000 or else, and it signed her brother.
Well?
Well?
Yes, a woman with a gun could get to him.
And everybody would give her a great big hand.
Mm-hmm.
Well, I'll skip that Coke and bitters and say good day and thank you, Christabel.
The name is Dolores.
Oh, good afternoon, Miss Drury.
Chiosa, Dolores Chiosa.
Oh, Chiosa.
Fare thee well, Miss Chiosa.
Formal, aren't you?
So long, Dolores.
So long, Philip.
If I hear anything, I'll toss it your way.
The evening papers carried a squib about Marilyn Delorme
found strangled in her Court Street apartment.
That was all dead end.
Until about 1 o'clock in the morning when the telephone started having hysterics on my night table.
Yeah?
Philip, this is Dolores.
Dolores?
Dolores?
Oh, oh, yeah, sure.
Would you come over to my place right away?
2412 Renfrew Street, below Fountain.
Hey, wait a minute.
It's the sort of bungalow court.
Mine is the last one in line.
Well, sure, but wait a minute.
What's the matter?
Dolores, look, what's the matter?
King Leopardi is here, too.
King Leopardi?
He passed out in my den.
It's absurd, isn't it?
Yeah, it's absurd.
It'll cost you 20 bucks.
All right, but hurry, please hurry.
All right, I'll be right over.
Phone calls in the dead of night.
I should have been a midwife.
Oh, come in, Philip.
I'm sorry I woke you at this hour.
That's OK.
I always get up around this time anyhow
to take my bitters and answer phone calls.
Where is he?
May I have a cigarette?
Sure.
Thanks.
Right.
Where did you say he was now?
In my den.
Oh, Philip.
Philip, he isn't drunk at all.
Did you really think he was drunk?
He's dead.
What?
The king is dead.
Long live the...
With my gun.
Well, good for you.
The lady wins the large, cute dog.
Come on, let's go and look at him.
You are listening to the adventures of Philip Marlowe,
starring Van Heflin.
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We continue with the adventures of Philip Marlowe, starring Van Heflin,
who appears by arrangement with Metro-Golden-Mare,
producers of The Hucksters, starring Clark Gable.
Delore showed me to the den in the back of the house.
Trumpet man King Leopardi was lying on the studio couch,
large, smooth, and artificial-looking, even in death.
A small Mauser automatic hung loosely in his right hand.
There was a bullet hole in his golden yellow sport coat,
right over his heart.
Delores, is this your gun?
Yes. Someone gave it to me once.
I don't even know how to use it.
Oh, no.
I don't expect you or anyone to believe me.
Don't expect anything. Just tell it.
Well, I was out late.
I sing at KFQC on a late 15-minute program.
Agatha and I got home about 11.30.
Who's Agatha, the cat?
My maid.
I came into the den for some liquor and fizz water and found him.
Like that.
I sent Agatha home so she wouldn't find him.
Finally, I thought of calling you.
Well, he got in here. How?
I don't know.
Were you ever in love with him?
The King never loved anyone.
I ask if you loved him.
I hated everything about him.
It's even better to tell the cops that it's but copercetti.
I can't help it. It's the truth.
Delores, look.
Go on out in the other room and buy yourself a drink.
I want to be alone here with tall, dead, and handsome.
Go on now.
After Delores had taken her white face out of that room, I could work better.
I went through the King's pocket and found his key ring.
One key fit very nicely in the lock of the back door.
I went to the living room where Delores was huddled against the arm of the Davenport
trying to become a part of the pattern.
Delores, how long has Agatha been with you?
Two years.
Did she ever steal anything from you?
Small things, that's all.
There are nylons now and then. I didn't mind why.
Well, she sold a key to somebody. A key to this apartment.
Oh, what's the difference, Philip?
We're wasting time.
I'm done for as a nice person.
They'll think it was a lover's quarrel and I shot him.
Or that he shot himself over me.
Well, you don't die from the latter, though.
Your reputation does. And I care about what people think of me.
Yeah. Well, that's what makes me for you again, lady.
Thanks, Philip.
Now, look, suppose you give me a description of Agatha
and tell me where she lives. I want to talk to her.
Tonight.
I drove down Brighton Avenue looking for the house
Delores had described to me.
All at once I slammed on my brakes.
In the driveway of a vacant house stood a small coop.
Delores had described Agatha's car and that was it.
And Agatha did not live in an empty house.
I got out and walked up the gravel driveway
and looked into the car.
And then I got back in my own car and drove until I found
an all-night drug store.
I phoned Detective Lieutenant Iberra.
Hello, Iberra?
Write this down.
Brighton Avenue, 3200 block west side.
Driveway of empty house.
Car parked with dead woman in it.
When alive answered to the name of Agatha.
Strangled.
I went back to the Carlton Hotel where it all started
the night before.
Quillen, the head day clerk, was on night duty.
That surprised me a little bit.
It was 2 a.m. and very empty, very quiet in the lobby.
I was fine.
Well, if it is Marlow, the old clues man.
A good, good morning. And tripe like that.
Hello, Quillen.
Look, how come you're on duty?
Millar went on vacation this a.m.
His brother has a cabinet crest line on the Arrowhead Road.
I didn't even know he had a brother.
Now you know.
Quillen, look, how come an old hotel man like you
registers floozies like that Marilyn Delorme
on the same floor with people like King Leopardi?
What?
You heard me, my host.
I didn't register the girl or Leopardi.
Millar did.
What?
You heard me.
Well, why was the room between their rooms empty last night
in times like these?
Millar had it marked on change.
Plumbing out a whack or something. Why?
Well, here's why.
A lad with a passkey could have gone into that room
and then unlocked the two connecting doors.
And then you could have run a bus service
between the girl's room and Leopardi's.
What are you driving at?
That girl in 811 had a gun and Leopardi
had a threat letter last night.
Now here's what I want you to do.
Call the hotel where Leopardi's staying now
and ask if he's there.
Why?
Big cause. Good enough?
Best reason in the world.
Why four was used, is it?
Wait here.
In about three minutes, Quillen came back
and leaned on the counter again.
Leopardi isn't there.
I talked to a guy in his suite who was almost sober.
He said Leopardi got a call about 11 from some girl.
What girl?
Well, he didn't know.
But Leopardi went out preening himself.
Okay, thanks, Quillen.
Anything to do with that brawl you had with Leopardi
here last night?
No, all in the spirit of boyish mayhem.
That 815 has a jinx on it, you know.
Girl shot herself there two years ago.
What?
A girl shot herself there.
Yeah, yeah, you said that, but what girl?
I don't know what her real name was.
Look here, Quillen, I want to see your hotel files
of that day two years ago
and all the newspaper clippings about it.
All right, all right.
Let go of my arm, physical culture.
I'll get the keys to the record room.
I read the hotel files of that day two years ago
and I read the newspaper clippings of that suicide in 815.
Then I asked Quillen just where George Millar's brother
had his cabin in the mountains.
It was just getting light when I pulled up at the cabin
high against the growth of dagger pine and cedar.
Smoke was curling through the chimney.
Someone was awake.
George Millar himself opened the door.
Oh, Marlow!
Oh, gee, it's good to see you.
How'd you ever find us up here?
How about some bacon and egg?
The answer in my brief Marlow morning manner is yes.
Well, that's well.
I'll wake up my brother and we'll all eat together, huh?
You don't have to wake me up. I'm up.
Oh, oh, hello, Gar.
Who's your friend, George?
Oh, Gaff, this is Philip Marlow.
You've heard me talking to him.
How are you, Marlow?
Gaff Callie.
That the name?
Yeah, my brother.
That's his fighting name.
He used to be a heavyweight boxer.
Fighter. Boxers dance.
Fighters fight.
Well, let's get coffee started, huh?
Marlow's hungry.
Say, I know I've had a busy night.
King Lear Party's been bumped off.
Bumped off?
Lowbrow killed.
Finacular for murder. The king is dead.
Where? How?
In a girl's apartment. Nice girl, too.
The old suicide gag.
But it could ruin the girl.
Gee, that's lousy.
Yeah. Yeah, but it won't work.
It was murder.
What makes you think it was murder?
Well, Gaff, the way I case the job,
the kill was supposed to have been pulled in his room 815
at the Carlton Hotel night before last.
Is that a fact now?
Yeah.
I spoil it by giving the king the Mary Heave hoe
before the girl in 811 could get to him.
Didn't I, George?
I guess you did, Marlow.
Yeah.
Of course, it would have been poetic justice
if King Lear Party had been killed in the same room
where a girl committed suicide two years ago,
registered as Mary Smith.
Usual name, Eve Talley.
Did you hear that, Gaff Talley? Eve Talley.
I heard it, Marlow.
So we had a sister named Eve shot herself
in 815 at the Carlton. So what?
So George here told me that Quillen registered
that professional gun girl in 815 night before last.
Oh, no. George registered her.
So?
So George kept the room between the girl and Lear Party vacant.
When everything was quiet, he had opened the communicating doors
and Marilyn DeLorme would walk into the king's room,
muffle her 25 in a pillow and shoot the king in his sleep.
How am I doing, boys?
Fine, Marlow. How am I doing?
Gaff, put away that gun.
How about you even checked on 118 Court Street?
I found Marilyn DeLorme strangled.
She knew too much.
For a few bucks you boys got Agatha to call Lear Party
last night from the radio station, pretend she was Dolores,
with an interesting invitation.
The king always had a yen for Dolores and he came running.
You shot the king before Dolores came home and left him in her den.
Then Gaff got rid of Agatha. She knew too much too.
Lear Party was the worst kind of a rat, Marlow.
We loved our sister.
She fell for him and he threw her out.
She killed herself.
Now what would you do, Marlow?
Take his gun, George.
Don't get between us or behind him.
This 45 goes right on through.
I'll have to take your gun, Marlow.
We'll always treat it like your own, won't you, George?
Got it, George?
I've got it.
Stand out of the way.
Does it have to be this way, Gaff?
Yeah, it has to be this way.
Sure, George and Gaff, the avengers of innocent girlhood
and their righteous indignation.
Shut up, Marlow!
Lynch, Mobbs, Tarr, and Feather merchants and other laws
under themselves take notice.
George and Gaff, they wrote the book.
Say your prayers, Big Mouth.
Gaff, there's been enough killing.
Get out of the way.
No, Gaff, I won't.
I swear I'll let you have it too.
No, Gaff!
I'm warning you.
I'm sorry, Gaff.
I'm sorry.
I had to do it.
George, he's dead.
Listen, I had to do it, Gaff.
I just had to.
You understand, don't you, Marlow?
Yeah, yeah, I understand.
He was a killer.
He killed three people.
He wasn't going to kill a fourth.
I wanted to finish the apparel up in the open
and take what came, but Gaff tried to do it cuter.
I didn't know Leopold was dead until you told me, Marlow.
I believe you, George.
Yeah.
Here's your gun back, Marlow.
It shoots fine.
I put in a big pitch for George at headquarters.
After all, he hadn't killed anybody except Gaff,
and that was in self-defense
and in defense of an unofficial copper named Marlow.
He won't go get off scot-free,
but he won't inhale cyanide either at the taxpayer's expense.
After I talked to Iberia at headquarters,
I telephoned Dolores Chiosa.
I didn't give her the sorted details,
but I told her not to worry, that she was in the clear.
Philip! Oh, thank you, Philip.
I'm so relieved.
I'm so grateful.
I'm so thirsty.
Well, come on over, then.
Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute.
Is this fiesta on you or is it on me?
Why?
Well, I mean, do I drink Coke and betters or Cordon Rouge?
It's on me.
All right, then. Champagne it is, baby.
But look, let me bring the glasses, huh?
You have just heard Van Heflin starring in the new mystery series
Raymond Chandler's The Adventures of Philip Marlow,
brought to you by the Lever Brothers Company,
makers of Pepsodent.
Van Heflin will return in just a moment.
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Now, concerning next week's show,
here's our star, Van Heflin.
Philip Marlow crouched in the darkness of Beverly Glen
and waited for those footsteps to come closer.
And then all at once, the Sandman hit him
without bothering to remove the sand from the sandbag.
And when Marlow woke up in the morning, his wallet and his gun were gone.
And he was wanted for murder.
Tonight's story was adapted by Milton Geiger
from The King in Yellow by Raymond Chandler,
creator of Philip Marlow, the screen's most famous private detective.
The original music was composed and conducted by Lynn Murray.
This is Wendell Niles inviting you to listen again next week
at the same time to another exciting mystery
on the adventures of Philip Marlow,
starring Van Heflin with a distinguished cast.
This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.