When I started I thought one man was in trouble and three were trying to help him.
But after I found two pounds of tobacco, two pieces of brass, and a boat without a pilot heading straight out to sea,
I knew they had all been in trouble. And all had taken the hard way out.
From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character as CBS presents...
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe.
And now with Gerald Moore, starred as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story, The Hard Way Out.
I had killed a shank of the afternoon in a Hollywood department store, trying for the fifth consecutive year to select something unique in a personalized Christmas card.
A bright-eyed salesgirl finally suggested in desperation, a smoking 38, spelling out Noel in delicate wisps of white curling smoke.
Well, I gave up, settled for a reissue of last year's unoriginal message.
An hour later I was driving out towards Sepulveda and my new client August Quake, and I was glad to be away from the pre-holiday crowds and back to work.
When I pulled up in front of the factory building, an immodest sign told me the man I was to meet inside was president and co-founder of Quig and Slater, manufacturers of nothing but the best in construction materials.
Come in, come in. Leave it to you in a minute, I'm on the phone.
Listen, August Quake does not change its policy overnight, Slater. Not after 25 years. You should know that, you of all people.
Never mind the excuses, Slater. Those you always have and they make me sick.
What, did you have trouble, Mr. Quig?
Oh no, my partner is dead now 10 years. That was his son, Keith Slater. But he has nothing to say here. His father left it that way.
Well, sit down, Mr. Marlow, please. Slater is not what I want to talk to you about.
All right, Mr. Quig, who is the man and what's his problem?
My general manager, Frank Emery.
No?
He has embezzled $60,000 of this company's money in the last year.
Hmm. Then isn't this a great time for you to climb the nearest rooftop and scream copper?
No, because I want to save Frank Emery, not condemn him.
Why? What's so special about a general manager who keeps dipping itchy fingers into the till?
Mr. Marlow, Frank Emery has worked for me for seven years. And in that time he has climbed from shop worker to plant foreman to general manager.
And that is something which took me 15 years.
Which proves what?
That Frank can one day go right to the top, here to my job, honestly. And that is just the part he was on until a year ago when he got married.
Oh. And he started to fill his pockets with company lettuce before he'd even gotten rid of the rice, is that it?
Yes. But don't leap to any conclusions with the Marlow, because his wife, Sheila, is a very sweet woman. Everybody knows that.
If anything, she should be a good influence.
Mr. Quig, what's Frank Emery's salary?
$175 a week.
Oh. When did you last see him?
This afternoon, about two o'clock. I called him in here, but I didn't say anything about the shortage.
We just talked. I asked him if he thought he needed a vacation. He only sulked. He said he'd be all right in a little while.
Then he left. But when he got back to his desk, he only stopped there long enough to pick up his hat. That was three hours ago.
You've called his house since?
Twice, but I got no answer. Here's the number, Marlow, and the address.
Now we'd better stop talking, start moving. I must know what Frank Emery plans to do.
Here, this is my private number. The plant will close in half an hour, but I'll be here working late.
Okay. But before I get going, Mr. Quig, one more question. Just so all this will make some sense to me.
Were you ever in a jam like this yourself a long time ago, maybe? And you know what it's like to be in Emery's shoes?
You're a pretty alert fellow, Mr. Marlow.
I do seem to remember a rich man who once kept me out of a lot of trouble. But the details aren't very clear anymore, so good night and good luck.
Hello?
Mr. Frank Emery, please.
I'm sorry, he's not in. Is this Philip Marlow?
Yeah, that's right. That should make you Sheila Emery, huh?
Yes, I just finished speaking to August Quig at the plant, Mr. Marlow. He told me about you. And about Frank.
Take it easy, Mrs. Emery. Crying isn't going to help Frank any.
Yes, I know. But how can I help Frank? What can I do?
I'm not sure, but look, can you meet me right away? I'm at the Golden Crown. It's a cocktail lounge on Santa Monica Boulevard near Bradley.
Yes, of course, Mr. Marlow. I'll be there as soon as possible.
Exactly 34 minutes later, a two-tone sleek convertible about the size of a Pullman car glided to a stop in front of the Golden Crown.
The loveliness behind the wheel was wearing a hundred-dollar hand-knit dress that just wouldn't let go.
I knew it couldn't be Sheila Emery, but it was. She was a tall, luscious blonde with blue-gray eyes that were set wide apart
in a face that any angel would have gladly traded his wings for.
Now, five minutes later, we were seated inside at a quiet corner booth.
But only two weeks ago, everything was perfect, Mr. Marlow. Frank didn't seem to have a care in the world.
Then all of a sudden, he changed. He became quiet, almost morose.
You never suspected that he was stealing from Quaid?
Of course not. And I still think there's some explanation, something we don't know about.
Maybe. But from where I sit, it looks like you two have been keeping up with the Vanderbilts instead of the Joneses.
It always danced the bank account.
Just what do you mean by that, Mr. Marlow?
Exhibit A, that knit-one-pearl-two number you're wearing.
What?
Exhibit B, that splash of automobile you drove up in.
But Frank said we could afford those things. I know because I was worried when we bought the boat.
What boat?
The Carefree. It's a 30-foot sailboat. We dock it near our cottage just beyond Santa Monica.
Hey, wait a minute. A sailboat, a cottage at the beach, that car?
Just how far do you think 175 bucks will stretch these days?
What do you mean? Frank makes twice that, plus bonuses.
Not unless he has a very fancy paper route on the side.
Because 175, period, is the figure that Quig quoted me an hour ago.
Oh, no. No, I can't believe that Frank wouldn't lie to me that way.
Some guys do funny things when they're too much in love.
Oh, now look, tears take time, honey.
How about holding him back long enough to give me some dope that'll put me on Frank's trail, huh?
I mean names and numbers, his clubs, his friends, anything will give me a line.
Yes, of course. But all that information is in his address book at home.
All right. Home's our next stop. Just between us, Sheila.
What are the chances that Frank has an extracurricular interest on a back street somewhere?
Another woman? Oh, no, I'm sure that's not the way things are.
Frank loves me very much.
Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.
Believe me, if he doesn't, we're not looking for an embezzler. We're after a maniac.
Come on, let's get out of here.
When we left the Golden Crown, Sheila was still crying in a no-shape-to-drive.
So after parking my coupe in a nearby lot, we floated out to the Emory Place in Brentwood in a two-tone Nash,
which did everything at the push of a button except dry a girl's tears.
At her house, Sheila pulled herself together long enough to give me a handful of addresses that might possibly lead to Frank Emory.
But just as I was about to leave, I noticed a single phone number scribbled in pencil on the edge of a desk blotter.
It was Crenshaw 2-2-1-3-1.
And since Sheila couldn't explain it, I wrote it down on a slip of paper and filed it in my pocket and left.
Once outside, I remembered that my car was still on Santa Monica Boulevard at the Golden Crown.
So I started back to the house to call a cab.
I stopped suddenly at the sound of somebody in the shadows alongside the house.
When I moved toward the noise, a man darted out between two trees, and I went after him.
Get your hands off me!
So we can play another round of hide and seek?
No dice, brother. I'm getting too old for it.
Now, who are you? What are you doing around the Emory Place? Come on, let's have it.
Say, wait a minute, aren't you Marlow, the man August Quighard?
That's right. You still haven't answered my question.
Oh, no, but I will now that I know who you are.
I'm Quig Keith Slater. Surely, dear Quig must have told you of me, the wastrel son of his late partner.
He did, but you're still parrying, Slater. Why were you hiding behind those trees?
Correction, Marlow, I wasn't hiding. I was waiting for Frank Emory.
All right, we won't argue terms. Why were you waiting?
Because I want to get hold of Emory and help him before he goes too far.
You see, Marlow, he came back to the office after you left.
What? Did he talk to Quig?
No, the place had just closed and the old man was out for dinner.
Did you talk to Emory?
Yes, and it wasn't much fun. That poor fellow is just about out of his mind, Marlow.
He raved on for an hour and a half about how unfair Quig was.
Said he knew that I was the one who'd get to run Quig and Slater after the old man died.
I don't follow that. When did you become the fair-haired boy around there?
Oh, I'm hardly that. But I do own a quarter of the plant, unless of course Quig fires me one day.
Those are the terms of my father's will.
But Quig won't fire you, is that it?
I wouldn't think of it. After all, that would keep my dear father from resting easy in his grave.
Okay, okay. Let's skip it. Exactly what did Frank Emory tell you, Slater?
He said that August Quig was a two-faced liar and that he'd settle with him in his own way.
I told Quig that when he got back from dinner.
And I also reminded him that Frank had a key to the office.
That didn't faze Quig, did it?
No, he said he never worries twice.
If Emory walked in on him, he'd think about what to do about it then.
I tell you, Marlow, we've got to get hold of Frank Emory and stop him before it's too late.
In just a moment, back to the adventures of Philip Marlow.
But first, just one hour from now, over most of these same CBS network stations,
Eve Arden will be midway through her regular Sunday night role of our Miss Brooks,
America's most charming and most highly unusual school teacher.
You've seen Eve Arden make her hilarious way through many a Hollywood movie.
Now you can hear her every Sunday night as our Miss Brooks,
just a little later over most of these same CBS network stations.
And now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of the adventures of Philip Marlow
and tonight's story, The Hard Way Out.
It was nearly an hour later before I was back in my office on Coahuila with my finger in the dial of the telephone
checking the names and places that Sheila Emory had given me.
Two nightclubs, three hotels, and five friends later, I'd run through the list without a single kosher lead.
Sitting there thinking of all the places a guy could disappear to,
I reached into my pocket for a lifesaver and found something else.
The slip of paper that read Crenshaw 2-2-1-3-1, the number I'd seen on the desk blotter at Emory's place.
So with nothing more to lose than another millimeter off the tip of my index finger, I went back to dialing.
Pipe and Tobacco Shop, Sam Newton talking.
Newton's what?
Pipe and Tobacco Shop, what can I do for you?
Not a thing, old timer, my mistake.
Pipe and Tobacco Shop.
Marlow speaking.
This is Sheila Emory, Marlow. I think I know where Frank is.
You do?
Yes, at our cottage at the beach.
It's closed up, but I was just going through some things in my desk when I discovered that the keys to the door were locked.
And I clearly remember seeing them only yesterday.
What's the exact location of that cottage?
It's two miles north of Santa Monica and down on the beach, directly behind a large white frame house on the Pacific Coast Highway, number 1221. You can't miss it.
1221, okay, I'm leaving right now and I'll call you as soon as I can, so try not to worry.
Somehow or other I made it straight out along Sunset to the beach and then north as far as the large white frame house without being tagged for low flying by any of the boys in blue.
When I got down to the cottage on the beach, I found it deserted and boarded up like opening night at an unlicensed peep show in Boston, except for a couple of hours later, I was left alone.
When I got down to the cottage on the beach, I found it deserted and boarded up like opening night at an unlicensed peep show in Boston, except for a couple of stray girls who probably had insomnia.
I was all alone, but the gregarious streak in me didn't suffer very long because a minute later I had an unannounced visitor.
It was a nasty caliber 45 automatic. The man on the other end who gripped the handle like he knew what he was doing was none other than the general manager of Quiggen Slater, Mr. Frank Emory.
Mind telling me who you are and what you want here?
Well, the name, which probably doesn't matter, Mr. Emory, is Philip Marlowe. But my business with you is something else. I'm working for your boss, August Quiggen. Believe it or not, he wants to help you.
That's a lie, Marlowe. Nobody wants to help me and you know that. This is a smart trick, but it won't work. It can't work. And I'll tell you why.
When the police do get to me, Marlowe, they won't find anything but a corpse. Is that clear?
Suicide. Don't be a fool. What about your wife?
Marlowe, that's why I took the 60,000 bucks. So save your breath, unless you're interested in joining me do exactly as I say. Now here, pick up these keys and open that door. Go on.
Now, throw the keys back gently.
Please, Emory, listen to me.
No, I've listened to too many people already. Now it's my turn to talk, but all I'm going to say is goodbye in my own way.
Now, what are you doing, Emory? Stop a minute, think.
This isn't the time to think, Marlowe. This is the time to act. Now, get in.
Emory backed me into the cottage, stepped outside and pulled the door shut.
I waited a moment until I heard his car start.
Then I tried the door and knew I was wasting my time.
Emory had run a piece of pipe through the handle and Gargantua himself couldn't have opened it from the inside.
It took me ten minutes to kick enough boards off one of the windows to wiggle out another five to get to her phone.
When I told Sheila that her husband was on her way home in a very desperate frame of mind, she promised to hold him at all costs until I could get there.
Twenty minutes later, I was in Sheila's house on Bundy Drive.
Marlowe, what happened?
Where's your husband?
I don't know, he hasn't been here.
Oh, fine.
After you called me, I waited, but he didn't come back. Marlowe, what did you mean when you said Frank was desperate?
I'm afraid Frank intends to kill himself.
Kill himself? Oh, no, he can't.
We still may be able to stop him. When he left the beach house, he was heading someplace to say goodbye.
I figured for sure that meant you, but wherever he was going, you didn't want to be followed.
He locked me in and... the gun. Hold me, Smoke, where's your phone?
Right over there.
Oh.
What about a gun? Does Frank have one?
Yeah, yeah, forty-five. Didn't come here to make his last goodbyes. It only leaves all this quick.
Do you know what you're saying?
Come on, answer that phone. No answer on Quicks private wire.
You're accusing Frank of murder. He hates Mr. Quig, yes, but I know he couldn't kill him. He couldn't.
Now, you listen to me. Your husband's cornered, and he's decided to blast his way out of a hopeless situation.
I'm going to Quig's office. If Frank comes back, try to keep him here.
But don't try too hard, because it might be dangerous now, even for you.
I drove down Sepulveda to the black hulking plant of Quig and Slater, pulled over, parked, and walked up the alley toward the side entrance.
Through a barred window, I saw the feeble nightlight glowed in the outer office. Otherwise, the place was dark.
When I got to the door, I stopped. A diamond-shaped key stuck out of the lock, and the heavy door was ajar.
I eased it open and listened. Nothing. I pulled the key out of the lock and dropped it in my pocket.
Then I went inside and switched on the lights.
Oh, I found him on the floor next to the desk in his private office.
He'd been shot in the chest point blank with a.45, which meant that even before he fell, August Quig was dead.
The room was untouched. Quig's key case lay in the pestle tray on his desk.
I snapped it open and saw what I expected. His diamond-shaped key.
I switched off the lights and started out. I heard heels clicking up the hallway.
I backed up against the wall and waited. It was Keith Slater.
He hesitated in the open door, a startled look on his face.
Good Lord. Quig.
Hello, Slater.
Who is it?
Marlow. I wouldn't touch anything if I were you. The police will want to see you just as it is.
Marlow, he's been murdered. I had no idea Frank would go this far.
Yeah, he's full of surprises tonight. Are you sure he's not carrying any grudges against you?
Frank and I are old friends. That old man in there was different. He wasn't human.
He was a machine, a rock crusher with a concrete heart.
I'm only sorry it was Frank who did that to him because he'll never be able to get away with it.
He doesn't intend to. He plans to commit suicide any minute now.
Tell me something straight, Slater. How does he feel about his wife? Is he jealous?
Jealous? Why, I...
Marlow, you don't think that he might kill Sheila. I'm going to call her right away.
Wait a minute. If Frank is there, a phone call would only hurry things. Come on, let's go.
I don't like the looks of this, Marlow. Neither do I.
Sheila?
Frank?
Is anybody home?
They're not here. Neither one of them.
Well, if they are, they're not talking.
You've got a macabre sense of humor.
Nobody's laughing, brother. Look, you check upstairs. I'll see what I can find down here.
For once, I hope it's nothing.
I gave the ground floor a fast run through.
It was neat and tidy from copper-pot at Ivy on the dining room wall of the Sunbeam Toastmaster on the breakfast tray.
The only thing out of place was a bottle of scotch near the kitchen sink and lipstick on the glass beside it said Sheila.
I was back in the living room before I found out why she had needed that bracer.
Propped against a bowl of violets on the coffee table were two notes pinned together.
The top one was for me from Sheila. It said, Marlow, I just found this note from Frank.
I'm sure he means that he's going out in our boat the carefree. I've got to stop him, Sheila.
I turned to Frank's note and was waiting in his bed. I came downstairs.
Nothing unusual upstairs, Marlow, did you? What's that? What have you found?
Frank's suicide note. He asked Sheila to forgive him and forget him.
Here, read it yourself. I'm going to call the police.
I'm sure he means that he's going out in our boat the carefree.
Say!
What's wrong? I thought you were going to call the police.
I was. But I noticed this phone number here on the desk blotter again. It's a tobacco dealer.
Slater, I've got a very wacky idea. I'm going to give it a try.
Hello?
Newton's tobacco shop?
Yes, but we're closed. It's after midnight, you know.
Hey, I know. This is the police, Mr. Newton. We want some information.
Police? What did you want?
Take it easy. Do you have a customer named Emory? Frank Emory?
Yes. He was in late this afternoon.
What'd he buy?
Tobacco. A special blend I make up for him.
I see. How much of it did he get?
Oh my. Let me think now. Two pounds. He must like two pounds. I'm sure of it.
A man could lay quite a smoke screen with two pounds of tobacco, couldn't he?
Thanks, Mr. Newton. You've been a big help.
What's the matter, Slater? You look troubled. Are you thinking the same thing I am?
I don't know what you're thinking, Milo.
This. It's mighty weird for a guy who's planning suicide to go buy himself two pounds of tobacco a few hours before he blows his brains out.
To put it succinctly, pal, I'm thinking that Frank Emory's suicide's a big fat phony.
This is Lieutenant Ebarra.
Milo Ebarra. Catching you at this hour is the best break I've had all night.
How so? What's up, Milo?
Guy's been murdered and his killer, one Frank Emory, is getting away by boat.
Can you sell the harbor patrol on running him down for me?
It's his own, a sailboat called the Carefree. A 30-footer with an auxiliary motor.
He'll be out aways off Topanga Canyon.
I can be arranged, but where I find you, I'll need some particulars.
I'm going to his beach place. It's in a little cold, two miles above Santa Monica.
There's a pier in a boathouse a couple of hundred yards beyond.
Okay, Milo, we'll find it. Now listen, don't get your feet wet. Wait till we get there.
The Emory Beach House was deserted and dark, so Slater and I went out to the boathouse, which was dark too.
That's where we found Sheila lying on the planks sobbing out the end of a long, hard cry.
Slater ran to her and lifted her to her feet.
Oh, Sheila. Sheila, what happened? Where's Frank?
Oh, Keith, I was too late. I saw him leave. He waved to me and called goodbye.
I begged him to come back, but no, he never will.
Don't be too sure of that, honey.
What do you mean, Milo?
Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute. That boat coming in is probably Barra.
Milo?
Yeah, here, Ibarra.
I got another boat out looking for the Carefree, Milo, so I came directly here.
Who's this?
Mrs. Emory and Mr. Slater, Lieutenant Ibarra.
How do you do, Lieutenant?
Well, Milo, what's it all about?
Well, an embezzler killed his boss, set up a strong case of suicide, and at the moment is pulling a very fast switch.
You mean he's not really checking out? How do you figure?
He bought two pounds of his favorite pipe tobacco today.
What's that?
Wait, Sheila.
Well, that's interesting, Phil, but suicide's a peculiar people.
Okay, but I'll bet you my sea scout insignia against a dead jellyfish that he's got a small boat aboard, and that he's going to get off the Carefree and row to shore.
How about it, Mrs. Emory? Is there a small boat?
There's a rubber life raft in one of the lockers.
That'll do it. It's all he needs.
Senator Barra?
Yes, Mooney, what is it?
We just got a call on the radio from the other boat.
They've spotted the Carefree running without light southwest about two and a half miles offshore.
He's holding a steady course, but there's nobody to wheel.
The batch seems to be abandoned.
Well, tell him to stand by, but leave her alone. We'll be right out.
Well, Milo, we'll know in a minute.
Let's go, folks. Get aboard.
A harbor patrol cut a slice through the black swells with the easy grace of a head waiter after a $10 tip.
And all the way out, it looked as though Milo was going to be the bright boy of the evening.
When we pulled alongside the Carefree and made a fast and boarded her, it still looked that way.
It looked great, right up to the point when Ebarra peered through the porthole in the closed cabin,
jerked the door open, and went inside.
After that, it didn't look so good.
Milo, come in here.
Is this Frank Emery?
Yeah. Yeah, that's him, Ebarra.
He's been shot over the heart from up close with a.45, undoubtedly the one he still has gripped in his hand there.
Lieutenant Ebarra, is it Frank?
Yeah, you better not come in, Mrs. Emery. Your husband has killed himself.
I walked back to the stern and sat down.
Ebarra was going through his grim routine inside, and I felt lousy.
I stared down vacantly at my feet and only gradually became aware of the little brass cylinder that danced across the deck with every roll of the boat.
I picked it up.
It was an ejected cartridge from a.45.
I had found an empty.45 cartridge.
All at once, things began to take shape for me.
Ebarra! Ebarra, hold everything!
I was right. Emery didn't commit suicide after all.
The man's body is right here, the gun in his hand.
I know, I know, but he was murdered.
Now look, I found this out on deck and the door to this cabin was closed.
Do you remember? When a man is shot with a.45, he drops.
He doesn't walk in, close the door, and then fall.
Well, did Emery have any keys on him?
Yes, these are his. They're in the ignition by the wheel.
Sure, sure. Look, look, this diamond-shaped one. It matches one I've got in my pocket.
Come on out on deck, Ebarra, and watch closely.
Hey, Slater! Slater, can I see your key to the side door of the factory?
Why, certainly, Marlow, it's right here in my pocket.
Eh, it's not in your pocket because it's here in my hand, Slater.
You were so excited when you shot Quig, you ran off and left it sticking in the lock.
No!
And here's one for you, Mrs. Emery.
While the carefree were still tied up at the dock, you stood right here,
surprised your husband in the cabin door and shot him.
This little cartridge was ejected back to the stern, but you forgot about that
because after you shoved him inside and put the gun in his hand, you closed the door.
Then you started the motor, locked the wheel, and cut the boat loose.
I don't know what you're talking about.
Look out, Ebarra! Ebarra, is that the gun?
Eh, that was nice, Ebarra.
Marlow, I wouldn't have believed this.
Don't lose your place because you'll have to go over it all again.
Don't worry, I won't.
You see, it's sort of like an equation.
Two pounds of tobacco and two pieces of brass added up to two bodies and two murderers.
Well, Marlow, it beats me that Mrs. Emery seemed to be nothing but sweet, soft, and stay-at-home nights.
Yeah, and yet she pulled one of the richest double-crosses on record.
Ebarra, she let her husband steal a fortune for her and even helped him plan a fake suicide to get away.
Then she turned around and used this plan, only no fake this time, to kill him.
So she'd be free to marry Slater.
But she didn't want Slater without the money, right?
Right. As long as August Quigg lives, Slater could never be sure of his income.
So Slater killed him and they hung that on Frank Emery, too.
Mm-hmm.
And they worked a fast routine of past the detective right through the middle of it all.
While Slater killed Quigg, I was with Sheila.
Then Slater took me over while she killed Frank.
They make a great team in a shell game, Marlow.
Yeah, but you did all right.
Well, see you tomorrow. The report, you know.
Good night, Phil.
I sat alone in a pier for a long time.
I watched the waves come in and gradually my mind got untangled in the treachery and violence that had been wrapped up in all night.
And the lady turned out to be the tiger.
And then as my thoughts plowed back through the whole mess of the afternoon when I'd been shopping for Christmas cards,
I made up my mind to cancel my order and have an entirely new set printed up.
They say it pays to advertise and if that's true, right across the top of my new cards and big block letters,
I'm going to have the words, goodwill toward men.
Who knows? Maybe it'll help.
Anyway, I hope so.
The Adventures of Philip Marlow, created by Raymond Chandler, stars Gerald Moore,
and is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
Script by Mel Dennelly, Robert Mitchell, and Gene Levitt.
Featured in tonight's cast were Barbara Fuller, Louis Van Roeten, Bill Lally, and Edgar Berrier.
Lieutenant DeBarr was played by Jeff Corey.
The special music was conceived and conducted by Richard Aron.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlow says...
I walked into it smiling because it had all the corny elements.
The weird doctor, the beautiful girl, the gloomy house on the windswept cliff, even the hulking menace.
Only one thing was missing, the body.
And that's when I stopped smiling because I turned out to be the corpse myself, almost.
Music by Richard Aron