They all knew he was aboard the yacht when it exploded and sank.
And everybody called his death an accident.
That is, everybody except the corpse himself.
He said it was murder.
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 Restless Day.
It had been a long, hard Saturday night that topped off a long, rugged week.
When I finally got the bed dog tired at 5 a.m. Sunday morning, I was planning to stay there.
Until I caught up on all the sleep I'd lost and gained a running head start on the coming week.
And by 3 in the afternoon on the day of rest, I figured that job was only about half done.
But whoever it was that started writing my doorbell had a different idea.
I held out until the buzzer stopped, but it was only a change of tactics, so I gave up.
All right, all right, I know when I'm licked. Just a minute.
Thank heaven you're in, Mr. Marlowe. I don't know what I'd have done otherwise.
I'm sorry.
Fine.
Here, read this, this story on the front page.
What?
No, down here.
Oh, yacht explosion, death, label, accident, huh?
Yes, yes.
Mystery blast which destroyed the Rollins yacht at Santa Monica Friday night,
and in which Benjamin Rollins noted cosmetics manufacturer was killed,
was established today by police investigators as accidental.
Sorry, I smoked too much.
Sorry.
The explosion was shattered and sank the 50-foot pleasure boat was caused by a leaking fuel line.
Rollins, known to be a chain smoker, is believed by witnesses to have continued on page 7.
Never mind, Marlowe. I'll tell the rest.
You think you'll make it?
There are two frightening things wrong with that story.
Well, go ahead, frighten me.
First, the explosion was no accident. That fuel line was repaired a week ago.
Second, Ben Rollins was not killed.
You're shaking my faith in the American press. How do you know all this?
Because I am Benjamin Rollins.
Yes, well, look, fella, you better dial 116 on the phone and tell the police all about it, huh?
No, no, that's exactly what I can't do. Someone's tried to murder me.
If they find out I'm still alive, I'll be a target for a second attempt.
Wait a minute, wait a minute. I need two things right now.
One, a cup of coffee. Would you like some?
No milk, if you please. My doctor insists.
Okay, come on.
Yeah, there's a good, solid explanation of why everybody thinks you were aboard that yacht.
Well, first, they believe my body was lost in the explosion.
You see, I intended to spend the night there because Lucille, my wife, and I quarreled.
But I got a call and I had to go out of town on business at the last minute.
I went out to the boat, but only to pick up some papers.
I was in a hurry. I must have left the lights on. I lost my hat in the wind on the way back.
It was found... it was found in the water.
Apparently I didn't secure the dinghy because that was a drift offshore.
Mind you, I read all this in the paper when I got back this morning.
Back from where?
Phoenix. Arizona.
Figures.
I came in on the California Limited. You can check on that.
Marlow, I must know who tried to kill me before they know they've failed.
Uh-huh. That could be tough. Have you got any ideas?
Yes, I have. It might be any one of three people.
Three?
For instance, Walter Pittman, my ex-partner, threatened to kill me less than a month ago in New York
when I won another court decision from him.
And there's my business manager, a fellow named Slater.
I almost fired him last week, the arrogant fool.
It's always when I get cross, this comes to me.
I see.
And I'm sorry to say it, but Mrs. Rowland's husband would no doubt rather have me dead than alive.
That's quite a line-up for a mere cosmetics chemist, isn't it?
Yes, it is. Look, you haven't been running lipstick experiments with somebody else's live equipment, have you, Rowland?
Oh, certainly not. I've been working so hard I haven't time for my wife.
I say nothing of another woman. Oh, Marlow, I'm frightened.
I must get to the bottom of this. I'll pay you double your usual fee. Will you help me?
Okay, Rowland, it's a deal. If I hurry, I might get in on your funeral.
Under the circumstances, that should make somebody due for a very big surprise.
I was shaving a shower later, and I checked my wheezing client's credentials,
settled them down in my apartment with orders to answer the phone, but not the door.
Drove out to Santa Monica where the not-very-late Ben Rawlins had made his home.
I had a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers of people close to Rawlins.
That is, close enough to kill.
I decided that Arthur Slater, the business manager, was my best bet for an opener.
He had been described as soft-spoken, efficient, and somewhat arrogant.
After I found his cottage on Seaview Drive and walked up to the door,
I heard someone inside offering a similar description, but with more color.
Don't give me that high and mighty routine, Arthur Slater.
If you think for two minutes you can throw little Angie over any time you feel like it
after all the promises you've made, you're wrong.
That's just about enough, Angie. Not by half, brother.
I know which way the wind is blowing, and it's a nice big wind.
Nobody kicks me out, and I mean nobody.
So think it over, Mr. Big.
Get out of my way.
Yes, ma'am. Cute kid, friend of yours, Slater?
Who are you? Another insurance investigator?
That's right. My name's Marlow. May I come in?
Yes, certainly. All the others did.
Thanks. Who knows, I may be the last.
Slater, I've got three reasons for believing that yacht explosion was no accident.
Not an accident? What reasons are you talking about?
For one, Walter Pittman.
Pittman? You mean Rollins' ex-partner?
You know him, huh?
Well, only by name I never met the man.
All right, then. Let's talk about reason number two, Lucille Rollins.
How do you feel about her, Slater?
You must be out of your mind, Marlow. She and Ben fought constantly, yes.
Slater, I asked how you felt about Mrs. Rollins.
I don't like her.
And now what or who is reason number three?
You are. You had an argument with Rollins last week. He practically fired you.
And you think I'd kill him over that?
Could be.
Look, Marlow, Ben Rollins drove himself like an overloaded truck.
He had a cigarette cough, nervous shakes and bad dreams.
To me, bureau drawer eyelashes and glue-on fingernails simply aren't that important.
So we had frequent arguments.
Now, do you have any more smart reasons you'd like to discuss or would you care to leave?
Just one thing more. Why does your girlfriend think you're a little stuck up these days?
You're becoming a bit too personal, Marlow. Get out.
I'm not compelled to answer any of your questions. There's an established legal procedure.
Skip it, Slater. If I need to, I'll be back.
And I'm fairly chummy with the boys in blue myself, so I'll get the answers if I want them.
Good night, big shot.
Arthur Slater was like a billiard ball, hard to rub the wrong way.
And if he did have an angle, he was playing cagey.
As long as I was in the neighborhood and the trail was hot, I figured I'd have a talk with the Spitfire Angie.
Wasn't hard to trail her.
A corner newsboy had heard her get into a cab.
The cabbie swore he'd never forget her. Swore again.
So finding her apartment was less trouble than unfolding a five dollar bill.
When I pulled up across the street from a place, I noticed a big car, as big as the average garage,
and older than last year's college graduate parked in front.
It was a black Pierce Arrow and someone with a mouthful of cigar hooked behind the wheel.
The cigar was pointed at me as I crossed the street.
When I went up the stairs to Angie's door, it was still pointed at me.
But I forgot about that when the apartment door opened.
Angie was relaxed.
There were little glints of gold in her green eyes.
And the warm lights behind her shimmied on soft waves of hair,
the shade of burnished copper.
Maybe she was a Spitfire, but at the moment, her damper was down.
Yeah?
Well, Buster, you got your mouth open. You might as well say something.
Eh, hmm.
Angie, who do you think murdered Ben Rollins?
Murdered? My mistake, chum. Good night.
Just a minute. This is business, honey.
Who are you, anyhow?
Philip Marlowe. You ran over me on your way out of Slater's place a few minutes ago and dented my ego.
Well, sue me. Who are you working for, Sharmus?
You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
But I will tell you this, sweetheart. The explosion on that yacht was no accident.
So I'm checking up on wives that'd rather be widows.
Lucille Rollins? Nuts.
She was rolling in dough either way.
She hated her job, but she sure didn't have to kill to quit.
Get your compass fixed, Marlowe.
Wrong way, huh? Well, suppose Lucille were in love with, eh, Pittman, maybe.
Pittman? Who's he?
Short and dark. Tell me something, Angie.
Your boyfriend Slater has picked up a lot of push lately. How come?
Some big deal they've been working on at the plant.
And he makes me sick.
Gets the first sniff of a success and suddenly all his hats are too small.
Especially his old hats, honey.
You can't blame the guy if he's really on his way up now, can you?
Listen, Mac, I'll tell you, him and the whole world something.
Nobody is gonna put little Angie on the skids.
If there's a heave-ho pulled around here, Mr. Hot Shot Slater himself will get it.
And right in the neck.
So if you happen to be snooping for him, Marlowe, you can putter right back and tell him so.
Now beat it!
That's not a bad idea.
Oh, by the way, what's Angie stand for?
Angelica.
But don't count on it, brother. Don't count on it.
As I went down the front steps, the cigar and the black Pierce Harrow lined up on me again.
And followed me as I crossed the street and got into my car.
They were still pointing at me as I drove away, but...
After all, the street was public property and the guy could smoke a cigar if he wanted to.
Well, by the time I knocked on the front door of the Rawlins' home,
I was braced for a deluge of tears and a session of red-eyed hysteria.
So I was caught off balance by the handsome blonde woman of 35
with a rye-crisp waistline who was cool, calm, and well collected in green slacks.
She introduced herself as Lucille Rawlins.
Sit down, Mr. Marlowe. You said you were a friend of Ben's.
That's right, Mrs. Rawlins. I stopped by to offer my condolences.
But apparently condolences aren't much in order today.
No tears, huh? Not even crocodile tears.
I'm not a hypocrite, Mr. Marlowe. That's why.
I'm merely stunned and confused over this terrible accident and...
I'm not sure yet how I feel.
Yeah, it was an accident, all right.
Especially since that leaky fuel line that caused it was repaired a week ago.
It had been repaired?
Oh, yeah. It's interesting, isn't it?
Who are you, Marlowe?
I'm a private detective and I know a lot more than that.
I know, for instance, that the insurance on the boat alone will keep you and pretty doodads for several years.
And that's only a drop in a bucket.
Mr. Marlowe, I think you'd better leave.
And I think you'd better climb down off that high horse and listen.
Because I haven't even started yet.
Ben was a hated man by Pittman, by Slater, and maybe by you.
And I can prove he didn't die accidentally, baby, so I'd like some nice straight answers, huh?
When did you see Pittman last?
I've never seen Walter Pittman. I don't even know what he looks like.
Ben and I were married two years ago.
He broke with Pittman long before that.
But you're pretty chummy with Arthur Slater.
That's a lie. Why, we hardly spoke until a week ago.
You picked a poor time to get friendly, baby.
Listen here, Marlowe.
Arthur... Mr. Slater, I ran into each other purely by accident one afternoon last week.
I happened to stop in at a small bar in downtown Los Angeles.
Mr. Slater was there at a table talking with some man, a stranger to me.
When he saw me, he came over. He seemed upset.
So upset...
Wait a minute. Is there anyone else here now?
I know. My maid went out to the movies.
I heard something, a noise.
It sounded like he came from the service boys. Come on, let's have a look.
Well, I don't know what any...
Hey! The lights went off.
Somebody turned them off. You better... Lucille, look out!
The bullets which had been intended for Lucille had only traveled a width of the kitchen,
but miraculously both had missed.
However, it had thrown them moved out fast, because when I got through the service boys
and into the backyard, nothing stirred.
Except the restless ends of a pepper tree.
But a second later, a heavy, clanking motor roared on the side street.
And I got to the fence just in time to see a boxcar on rubber tires skid around the corner.
It was a black Pierce Arrow.
I went back to the house, found the master switch and turned on the lights.
Lucille, a face strained and bloodless, stood in the kitchen door and watched me.
A hole had been punched in the back screen door, and on the floor
was a strange object which had been used to unhook the lock.
It looked like an oversized bobby pin wearing rubber pants,
which didn't mean a thing to me.
But to Lucille, who stared at it like it was a centipede she just found in a cream puff,
it meant plenty.
Ben.
What?
It's like Ben himself was here.
Like he wasn't killed at all.
What are you talking about? What is this thing anyway?
I... I don't know.
Part of some new invention he was working on
for the last month. Ben carried two or three of these things with him everywhere.
Look, Lucille, where's your phone?
Right there.
But Marlow, you... you don't suppose...
Who are you going to call?
A friend of mine. He'd better be in, too.
Marlow. What's the matter? Marlow busy?
Yeah, yeah, busy.
He's either talking to someone who has gone out after leaving the phone off the hook,
neither way, Lucy, that makes my friend very busy.
In just a moment, we will return to the second act of the adventures of Philip Marlow.
But first, it may have taken a little detective work
finding a much wanted man last week,
but an unprecedented number of listeners seem to have turned Philip Marlow
for Jack Benny's largest audience this season
found him here on his opening show on CBS.
Tomorrow night, Jack will be back with Mary, Dennis, Phil, Rochester, and Don
for more of the fun that's made the Jack Benny show the number one comedy and radio.
You'll find him right here on CBS every Sunday at 7 Eastern Standard Time.
And now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlow
and tonight's story, The Restless Day.
When I left Lucille Rollins, the feminine target for tonight,
I headed for Angie Gordon's where I'd first seen the man with a cigar in his face,
who I suddenly figured might be Walter Pittman.
As I drove, I felt like my brains had spent the night playing leapfrog in a squirrel cage.
Because any way I'd call a dice every one of my clients suspected of murdering him was somebody else.
And just to keep things from making any sense at all, I suspected my client.
I pulled up near Angie's and saw the Pierce Arrow parked, lights and a man with cigar out.
When I got close to the bungalow door, I knew that the lady was at home
and that she was receiving a gentleman caller more or less.
Tell me your name is Smith, which incidentally I don't believe,
and then you start asking a lot of very personal questions. How cozy.
Now please, you do not understand.
There are certain things about the death of Ben Rollins that I must know.
Things that mean a lot to me.
How much a lot?
Well, a hundred dollars maybe.
What? Now don't tell me that's all you could stuff into that briefcase there in your hand.
Listen girl, I must know whether that explosion on the boat was an accident or not.
The police let her go as an accident?
Never mind that. You are Slater's girl.
You must know something about him as well as the other one who was here.
Now you tell me, click.
Stay away from me, you big lug. I don't know anything.
Let go of me.
You heard the lady, Pittman. Let go.
How do you know my name?
I read tea leaves.
And while we're all asking questions, you mind telling me why you were throwing bullets at the China warehouse on Mrs. Rollins?
I did no such thing. I don't even know Mrs. Rollins.
You're a liar and it's dull as the sauerkraut. The gun in your pocket will prove it.
I have no gun in my pocket.
Here, here, look for yourself.
All right, I will. But if it's all the same to you, I'll start with your briefcase.
Give me that.
Why? So you can get to the gun first?
No, because I...
All right, all right, Mr. Smart Man. Go ahead and look.
See for yourself that there's absolutely nothing there that concerns you.
When I get my hands on you, I'll break your tooth.
Last you, Marlow.
And don't look so astonished, friend. It's called a gun.
Why, you little...
I'll skip it, Marlow.
This isn't my idea of returning a favor, but it is good business.
You see, baby, little Angie sells out to the highest bidder.
And no matter how I add things up, that isn't you.
So exit Pittman, huh? Briefcase and...
What are you staring at?
That. That little gadget there.
Must have fallen out of Pittman's briefcase.
Yeah, what is it?
Twin brother of an item I found a little while ago, rubber pants included.
What are you talking about, Marlow?
Nothing, baby. Just tell me how long I sit here.
As long as you like.
Now, you see, Marlow, I just can't afford to let you get the Pittman ahead of me.
Yeah, that good business you were talking about.
Uh-huh. After all, a gal's got to make a living.
One way or another, Marlow. Don't you?
There was room to debate Angie's point, but no time.
So I skipped her invitation for a drink.
Both promised and threatened to see her again and headed for my car in the only direction left.
The residence of the local pivot man, Mr. Arthur Slater.
When I got to within a block of the place, I parked and then approached slowly, keeping to the shadows all the way.
But the house turned out to be as dark and quiet as the inside of a coffin.
I was about to leave when some noise a dozen yards behind me said that I was no longer alone.
I turned quietly and got ready for what I figured would be a reunion with my old buddy, Walter Pittman.
But I was wrong.
Sneaking through a nearby clump of orange trees with all the deafness of an ox with bunion trouble was no one else but my client, Ben Rollins.
When I called his name out loud, he ran toward me, arms and legs flailing the wind like a Kansas scarecrow caught in a tornado.
Marlow, Marlow, I've been looking all over for you.
Rollins, why aren't you back in my apartment where you're supposed to be?
I couldn't wait any longer. I was afraid something had happened to you.
When you didn't call, I was sure of it. I thought you might be here at Slater's.
But I did call and all I got was a busy signal.
Oh, about an hour ago. But that was a friend of yours. He wanted to know if you'd play cards with him tonight.
And how do you believe me?
I don't know for the time being, yes.
Incidentally, Rollins, do these mean anything to you, these oversized bobby pins?
Good Lord, the curlers. Where did you get those curlers, Marlow? They should be in my safe.
Well, I found one at your house and the other in a briefcase that belonged to Walter Pittman.
But Marlow, these are samples of my newest invention, these hair curlers.
They can produce a home permanent wave overnight that will last for six months.
It's worth millions to me.
If you live.
Yes. Now, it should be easy to figure out who wanted to kill me.
I'm not so sure. If you didn't even know these were missing,
why should someone have to kill you to get hold of them?
And second of all, how come the shooting's still going on?
What shooting are you talking about?
Over at your place. Somebody tried to kill your wife there just before I called you.
And that brings us right back to your alibi about talking to Ibarra at the time.
It's a little too pat, Rollins.
Besides, that curler could very easily have dropped out of your pocket.
Why should I shoot at Lucille?
For the best reason in the books, you wanted to kill her.
And when that yacht business almost boomeranged on you, you still hadn't changed your mind.
And that led to this whole routine with me double-billed as Patsy in Star Witness Bull.
You're out of your mind, Marlow. I couldn't have set that explosion on the yacht as a trap for Lucille.
Why not?
Because it was on account of me that Lucille wasn't on the yacht herself that night.
What?
After we argued, we decided not to spend any more time under the same roof.
Lucille said that suited her fine and she'd sleep on the yacht.
We let it go at that till about noon on Friday.
And you got small about things and said the yacht was yours, maybe?
Did you sleep on it?
Oh, yes. I was just bickering. I know.
Just a minute, Rollins. I've heard enough and I think I finally understand this whole screwy deal.
I know for sure just as soon as I can make one single phone call to your house.
We'll get back to Slater. Come on.
When I got to a telephone and threw to the maid at the Rollins place,
I was almost positive that in another minute I'd have both a solid answer for my client and a couple of clumsy customers for the law.
When the shaky voice at the other end of the tube told me that Lucille had just left the house in high gear,
after mumbling something about a place called Inspiration Point,
I stopped being confident and started to worry.
And when I tossed the jackpot question at the maid and got the winning answer,
that worry became something worse and it must have showed.
What is it, Marlow? What did you find out?
Too much to explain now. Where's Inspiration Point, Rollins?
About a mile south of here, straight along the shore.
Good. What kind of a car does your wife drive?
A Blue Nash. What's Inspiration Point got to do with Lucille, Marlow?
Everything. Now look, you call the cops and tell them to get out there as fast as they can.
Do you get me? As fast as they can.
Inspiration Point turned out to be an acre of windswept rock that overlooked the cold January sea.
After I saw Lucille's empty car, I crept, staggered, and fell down the narrow winding trail that led from the road to the promontory itself.
I was afraid that I was going to be too late to stop what I was sure was a hastily scheduled murder.
But a minute later, when I rounded the last crazy turn in the trail, I felt better.
Because standing only a couple of yards away from me, her hair slapping wildly against the upturned color of her coat,
and very much alive was Lucille Rollins.
I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when, suddenly, I caught the expression in her eyes.
I turned to follow the line of her unblinking gaze and I knew that I hadn't arrived any too soon.
Because a lady was being held at the point of a gun. A gun held by Arthur Slater.
I closed my hand tight around the cold 38 and my pocket moved closer.
When you called me at the house, you said that my husband was alive and with you. Why did you lie to me?
Because I knew that would bring you running. And I had to be alone with you, Lucille, so I could do what I missed doing last time.
Last time? You mean the yacht you did that?
Yes. But somehow or other, Ben was out there instead of you. So that accident was a waste of time.
But this one, the bereaved wife who jumped or fell to her death from the edge of Inspiration Point, won't be.
But why, Slater? Why do you want to kill me?
There's no time to explain, Lucille.
Then we'll take time, Slater.
Marlow, you...
Damn, Amy!
Marlow! Marlow, he's going to kill me!
Yes, honey, I know. He had to.
But why, Marlow? Why?
Because he stole your husband's invention to sell the wall of Pitman. He was going to go into business with him.
But now when the cops get here, he's going first to a hospital and then to jail. A grand larceny and attempted murder.
Attempted murder? What about Ben, Marlow?
Ben was a near miss, honey. Nothing more. You'll see what I mean in a minute.
When Lucille found out that Ben was still alive, there were a lot of tears and promises to be good from both parties.
It wasn't until an hour had gone by and the police had already booked both Slater and Pitman, who was picked up heading back for L.A.
But Mr. and Mrs. Rollins were in any condition to sit down and talk things over, even with the help of coffee and cigarettes in the Rollins' home.
Then the whole scheme, Marlow, was designed by Slater, who as my business manager had access to the new curlers.
That's right. Knowing how Walter Pitman felt about you, Slater secretly contacted him to handle the manufacturing end, you see?
Yes, I see.
Well, a few changes in the design and the whole thing would have been patented and on the market while you and Slater...
...pretended that Pitman was a stranger to him.
Uh-huh. We're still laboring away at last-minute changes.
And when we learned about Pitman's product, Slater would act as surprise to Ben here.
You're so right, Lucille. That was the plan. Oh, but it fell apart.
See, it fell apart when you accidentally ran into Slater in that small bar in downtown L.A., do you remember?
Yes.
When he was with Pitman, the man you described to me as the stranger?
Yes, of course.
All right. Well, he realized then that with Pitman's product a success, you would sooner or later see a picture of Pitman, the newly rich inventor...
...and recognize him as the man you saw with Slater before Pitman's product was on the market.
So that meant that Slater either had to get rid of Lucy or give up his entire plan.
Uh-huh.
Have you got a match, Mr. Molo? No? No, I'm going to give them up.
But, Marlow, was Pitman involved in the murder attempt too?
Oh, no, no. He drew the line at the theft. See, when he found out that you had died mysteriously, he turned up here to check on Slater...
...because he couldn't afford to be mixed up in your murder.
I see. But how did you figure all this, Marlow?
Well, after I had tangled with everybody, I was no place. Angie Gordon was looking for an angle. You, Lucille, were getting shot at for a dollar.
Yeah, and Pitman and Slater were not on the same team. At least as far as the business on the yacht was concerned.
Nobody seemed to have a clear-cut motive.
But when I told you that Lucille herself was supposed to stay on the yacht that night, you had the answer.
That was the time. After I called your house and asked the maid the jackpot question, which was...
...who aside from you, Ben, knew that Lucille was going to sleep on the yacht Friday night?
She said Slater, didn't she? Yeah. Said something else too.
She also said that you had left for Inspiration Point in a big hurry.
Yes. Then Slater tried to kill me first on the yacht, second in the house here, and finally out on the point.
But in the end it worked out fine, darling, because the third time was the charm. For us.
Well, by the time I was through tying in all the loose ends for my client and his wife, it was three o'clock in the morning...
...and I was dog-tired all over again.
When I got into my car and started away from the place, Ben and Lucille were standing in the doorway waving at me and smiling.
So as I drove back toward L.A., I forgot about the sleep I was missing and thought about them.
A couple who couldn't get along, until one or the other of them had been robbed, dynamited, and shot at.
Yeah. I guess it's really so.
As the old bromide has it, the path of true love never does run smooth.
Eh, smoothly.
Smooth.
Hmm. Oh well.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, created by Raymond Chandler, stars Gerald Moore and is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
The Secret is by Mel Denuell, Robert Mitchell, and Jean Leavitt.
Featured in the cast were Lorette Philbrant, Edgar Berriere, Virginia Gregg, John Danaer, and Jack Moyles.
The Special Music was by Richard Arbeiter.
The movie got no
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Barlow says...
Somewhere in the cold persistent rain that made the city itself seem a thing of evil,
a girl had disappeared and it was my job to find her.
But before I did I found death and a devil.
The Jack Benny shows on CBS Sundays at 7 Eastern Standard Time and comes right in the middle
of 90 minutes of wonderful comedy on CBS's new early Sunday evening line up.
Immediately preceding Jack's show you'll find Spike Jones and a spotlight review at 6.30
Eastern Time.
And following the Benny show Amos and Andy take over with their inspired humor.
Listen to Spike Jones and Amos and Andy over most of these same CBS stations tomorrow flanking
Jack Benny.
They add up to 90 solid minutes of merry Sunday listening on CBS.
Now stay tuned for Gangbusters which follows immediately over most of these stations.
This is Roy Rowan speaking for CBS the Columbia Broadcasting System.