A startled corpse, a blue-eyed woman and a cryptic message
scrawled by a dying man, were the pieces of a Chinese puzzle
that wouldn't fit together until I found out what was deadly
about the orange dog.
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 Orange Dog.
By six in the evening of a very slow day,
I had resigned myself to the business of no business.
So I took my feet down from my desk, switched off the lights
and started out the door for home with the prospect of a nice,
quiet evening ahead of me. But I didn't make it.
Even as far as the door.
Oh.
Hello, Philip Marlowe.
Marlowe, my name is Shelley Martin.
I'm at 8412 Los Feliz, a private residence.
I want you to come out here right away.
My sister is in a jam, a nasty one.
Well, Miss Martin, as a matter of fact, I was just closing up for the night.
Look, you. I need the services of a private detective right now this minute.
And I'm prepared to pay for them.
There are plenty of others in town. Are you coming or not?
Yeah, yeah. OK. And thanks for the reminder.
That's me you hear sprinting up your front walk.
That's much better. And Marlowe, bring your brains along.
You're going to need them.
And that was the end of my quiet evening.
But I just couldn't resist those government engravings of Mr. Lincoln.
So I drove down to Weston, turned off on Los Feliz and found the number 8412.
The yard was an overgrown tangle of perennial plants losing their battle with the weeds.
It was like a girl in a strapless evening gown with her hair up in curlers.
However, I could see a light through the Venetian blinds and the doorbell worked.
The resonant two tone chime that caused the door to open just far enough to allow a pair of eyes so blue they were almost purple to peek out at me.
Yes, what is it?
I'm delivering that private detective you ordered.
Oh, Marlowe, come in.
Thanks.
Sit down, won't you?
Thanks again.
All right, what's the next move?
It's about my kid sister.
She's involved with a man named Lou Horner, a San Francisco broker.
She's quite deeply involved, I'm afraid.
Oh?
You see, some very strange things are going on, Marlowe, and my sister is a naive kid caught right in the middle of them.
Yeah, I see. What sort of strange things, Miss Martin?
Shelley.
Sweet.
Well, to begin with, when I arrived from San Francisco today, my sister called me and asked me to meet her here in this house.
When I got here, the lights were on, the radio was playing, and the front door was open.
But the place was deserted.
Whose house is it, Horner's?
No, I think she said it belongs to a friend of his who's in Europe now.
This Horner person uses it when he's in Los Angeles.
Well, couldn't they have stepped out for a while?
You know, you don't look the type, Shelley, but maybe you're just panicking, huh?
No, I'm not being panicky.
All right, all right. Where's the nasty jam?
Right behind the couch. Take a look.
Okay. But you know, I... Oh, I see what you mean.
Who is he, Shelley? How'd he get here?
Maybe it's Horner, I don't know. I tried to search him, but I couldn't.
Mm-hmm. Well, it wouldn't have helped anyway. Whoever shot him cleaned him out. No wallet, no papers, nothing.
I found this magazine lying under his hand. Look here.
Mm-hmm.
He must have written this just before he died.
Where's that? Here.
Oh. It says, call Marion tonight about the Orange Dog of Foal.
Orange Dog of Foal. For what?
That's why I called you, Phil. Marion is my sister.
And whatever the Orange Dog of Foal is, it must be awfully important.
We've got to find out what it means, Phil, for Marion's sake.
So far it means murder, honey, and that's for the cops.
No. Well, all right, call them. But keep Marion's name out of it.
A thing like this could destroy her.
But look, maybe she pulled a trigger on our friend here, you know.
Maybe, but I don't think so. She's a sweet kid, Phil. Give her a break.
If I'm wrong, I swear I'll help you bring her in myself. Is that fair enough?
Okay, Shelley, it's a deal. It makes just as much sense as the Orange Dog of Foal, but no more.
After I checked as far as I could on my client and sent her home,
which was to the Villa 12 at the Wilshire Gardens Hotel,
I ripped the General Squeegee tire ad with a message scribbled across it out of the magazine,
folded it up and stuck it in my pocket.
Next I called Lieutenant E. Borat, homicide, and told him where I'd found the body.
Probably named Lou Horner, leaving out all the details about Shelley, Marion, and the Orange Dog.
Then I started out the door, but that back is a shadow of sweat across the walk.
I caught a glimpse of a large, ugly head of long, dirty hair
set on a small, ugly body that was moving fast.
By the time I got out on the walk, long hair was already putting mileage on a green coupe with a broken tail light.
It winked mockingly as it went out of sight.
So I got in my car and headed for New Chinatown.
It was the logical place to get some information regarding a Chinese dog.
I saw a light filtering through a dingy window,
illuminating the words James Tang, dealer in Oriental Curios.
Inside the musty shop, a little man, dressed in a black kimono, drifted forward, softly.
Yes?
I think perhaps you can help me, huh?
I am honored.
To be able to help would bring fragrance of plum blossoms to my nostrils,
carpet of rose petals to my humble floor, and a thousand blessings upon my head.
That is very pretty. Tell me, what is the dog of foe?
The dog of foe?
Why, why this?
This fantastic creature here is called the dog of foe?
His fierce eyes and snarling mouth are to frighten away evil spirits from temples of Buddha.
Why do you say called the dog of foe?
Amateur collectors and auctioneers have named him that.
It sounds exotic to cash customers.
Actually, he is a lion. The lion of Korea.
I see. Tang, would you happen to have an orange dog of foe?
Very strange that you should ask that, my friend.
Strange why?
Reason number one. There is no authentic orange dog of foe.
That's a good reason. Why not?
Because to Buddhists, orange is color of sorrow.
The piece you speak of could not possibly be authentic.
What's reason number two?
You are second person to inquire after this non-existent orange dog of foe within last few minutes.
Was it an ugly little man with long hair?
Quite contrary. It was very pretty girl with short hair.
Was her name Marion?
She made point of not leaving her name.
How it proves something.
However, my friend, all Chinese proverb loosely translated says,
A little knowledge is the instrument of a fool.
There were nine other curio shops in the neighborhood,
so I started making the rounds for the non-existent orange dog of foe and a girl who was interested in one.
From the first three shops, I got a fast horse laugh in the fact that the girl was still ahead of me.
The next two netted an insult of peace and a total blank on the dame.
And from the sixth called Saxon's, a glossy well-ordered place on West 7th Street,
the only effect was a coldly curious raised eyebrow.
The man in front of me whom I took to be Mr. Saxon himself was a gaunt white Russian
with a high naked head the color of warm parathum.
His slender fingers played nervously with each other as we talked.
The orange dog of foe.
Yes, I have heard of such a piece, I think. It would be porcelain.
Probably. This is your business. Who has it, Mr. Saxon? Can you tell me?
No, no, I'm sorry. I believe I heard this orange dog mentioned just once,
somewhere down in the village. But I'm sure I could never remember who spoke of it or when.
Oh, no idea of its value then, huh?
Now that you mention it, I seem to remember the figure 20,000.
You mean yen. How much in American money?
I am speaking of American money. It would be an importation from China, you know.
How could it be worth that much? It's not even authentic, Mr. Saxon.
Authentic? You seem to know a good deal more than I about this orange dog.
Possibly one would have to see it to appreciate its value.
Yeah. Tell me, has a girl been in here tonight looking for this orange dog?
A girl? I know.
Know anybody named Marion?
Marion, Marion. No, there is no one in my acquaintance by that name. But why do you ask?
Because Marion has quite an interest in the orange dog.
I have a feeling they'd make a great team if we could get them together.
I see. And what is your name, sir?
It's not Fu Manchu, Mr. Saxon. Good night.
Saxon's expression didn't change.
I turned and walked out of the place, and then because with both of us using double talk,
the conversation was bound to deteriorate.
At least I had found out that the orange dog of foe existed.
It was going for a very high figure, especially for a phony.
And it didn't take an abacus to figure out that Saxon knew more than he told me.
Well, I started off the sidewalk for the next bric-a-brac-a-mporium when...
I saw something parked on the side street which brought me to a halt.
It was that green coupe with a broken taillight.
I went over to it, found it empty, and stuck my head inside to check the registration card for Longhair's real name.
Yeah, it was a very foolish move because...
Longhair at that very moment prodded my kidney with a muzzle of a.38.
And neither he nor the gardener had a sense of humor.
All right, Mr. Wiseguy, come on, walk.
You and me are gone up the alley here.
What's the matter? Don't you feel at home in the light?
Shut up. I don't like you much anyway, so you better ease off with a smart science.
Okay, this will do us far enough.
Well, Mr. Wiseguy, did you find what you're looking for?
You mean the orange dog, Shorty? The answer's no.
The orange dog? So that's where the plates are.
What plates?
You're working for Horner. You don't know what plates.
Look, chum, when you get your next haircut, have your brains dusted off.
Nobody works for Horner anymore. Horner's dead.
Dead? Since when?
What's the surprise act for?
You saw the body. You were sneaking around that house on Los Feliz.
In fact, you might have killed Horner yourself.
That body wasn't Horner.
Why, Horner is three times the size of that guy on Los Feliz.
He's bald. Also, he's so dumb he can't remember his own phone number.
Hold it.
I'm looking for a bar street where they sell those inshore...
I'm sorry, gentlemen. I don't want...
Hey, quiet. I'll blow your brains out.
All right, now, come on, Mr. Wiseguy.
Tell me what Horner's got on his mind. You know all right.
I saw you taking orders from his girl.
You mean Shelly Martin?
Who else?
Thought maybe you meant Marion.
Marion? Who's Marion?
Shelly Martin's sister. And don't let her worry you.
Marion's got the orange dog eating out of her hand.
That I'll say. It ain't funny, mister.
It's just peculiar.
Because Shelly Martin don't have a sister, I know.
So it seems like you're a very mixed-up character.
In fact, Mr. Wiseguy, you're so mixed-up, you're no good to me at all.
So get over there with the rest of that...
I took my time getting up.
A dirty, long-haired little man was gone...
with my headache from the rap he'd given me with a pistol barrel.
And I was disgusted with myself.
Dry, dirty, disgusted like a drunk at sunrise...
because a nasty little jerk with an oversized head...
and a blue-eyed dynamo with auburn hair...
had me jumping through hoops like a trained ape.
I stood in the alley and swore at myself...
until the futility of that routine dawned on me.
Then I decided to go hunting.
But I made one stop first at a telephone...
to at least get E. Barr off my conscience.
Lieutenant E. Barr.
Hello, Lieutenant.
I just found out that body on Los Feliz isn't Horner.
I knew that an hour ago.
The body isn't Horner is no brokeie.
He's a counterfeit or a big one.
The dead man was a treasury agent named Slade...
who was closing in on Horner.
So if you've got anything you haven't told me...
you better get it off your chest.
At this point, it's a pleasure.
A girl named Shelley Martin's calling the signals about now...
and she could be found at Villa 12, Wilshire Gardens Hotel.
Yeah, hurry. You'll just about meet me there, E. Barr.
Oh, wait.
Suppose you go alone and find out what you can first.
That's a switch.
I'll follow in half an hour.
Let's not freeze her up, Marlo.
Let's keep her talking, okay?
Okay, E. Barr. That's easy for her.
She's got a forked tongue.
Only this time it's gonna wag...
strictly on the straight and narrow, I guarantee it.
In just a moment, we will return to the second act...
of the adventures of Philip Marlo.
But first, it's no mystery that hunger and cold...
confront many families abroad this winter.
CARE will help feed and clothe these needy people.
CARE, the safe, sure, non-profit way...
to send supplies to Europe and Asia.
A check to CARE for $10 will send a 21.5 pound...
41,000 calorie food package...
or a baby food package or a layette...
or a baby blanket package or material for clothing.
CARE guarantees delivery.
You get a signed receipt...
that your package has reached its destination.
Write your check tonight.
Mail it first thing in the morning...
to CARE, C-A-R-E, 50 Broad Street, New York City.
And now with our star Gerald Moore...
we return to the second act of Philip Marlo...
and tonight's story, The Orange Dog.
When I pointed my card toward the Wilshire Gardens...
and a beautiful liar named Shelley Martin...
I was sure of two things.
The plates that Longhair had wisecracked about...
and piled me into a row of garbage cans...
were the engraved kind that counterfeiters used...
to make money the easy way.
And second, both Longhair and Lou Horner...
were racing for the plates as well as The Orange Dog...
which could be one and the same thing.
But 20 minutes later as I pulled up near Villa 12...
which was strips of yellow light...
and raised voices drifting out of half-open Venetian blinds...
I forgot about the gentleman involved...
and concentrated on a lady...
who didn't have a sister called Marion.
I went around to the back of the villa...
and saw the service door unlocked...
and the kitchen beyond dark.
And when I entered and quietly moved to a spot...
near the living room where I could see Shelley...
snapping at a pompous, excitable man with a red face...
I figured that a little eavesdropping might pay off.
I'm here in Los Angeles.
Is there anything wrong with that Mr. Horner?
Yes, everything.
Why, I wouldn't even have known you were in town...
if I hadn't gone back to the place in Los Feliz...
where I saw you and some man having a delightful little chit-chat...
over the body of that tea man.
And was that Suppose Comerton?
Isn't that the hairdresser in the completes.
And the especially importantPh TBD amount into your own car.
And I believe you could have even fortress individuality.
Yes, of course I could have.
No, I wouldn't have had any Billions dollars...
to buy some and keeping that in my mail for my fellow fellow.
Yes sure, which could you could have directly?
Not at all.
Off you go, Shelley.
You're just
That's what I would say.
Not if I weren't увид text...
but in när, man if easier than a
Leave me alone here so that I can make a call according to schedule.
A call about... Lou.
What's the matter, Shelley?
Behind you, Lou.
They're in the garden.
Lou!
The bullet crashed to a closed window, didn't stop until it got to Horner,
who grabbed at his chest and dropped to the floor even before the glass quit flying.
And by the time I got outside to where the shot had come from,
I found nothing but a little wind rustling a lot of trees.
I got back to Shelley and the blood over Tweed on the carpet.
Horner was already dead.
Marlow, Marlow, the man out there was Henry Peel.
Peel? Something in long hair and dirty clothes?
Yes, I met him in Horner's office once.
Lou said he was a broker from Chicago.
Come on, both Peel and Horner are counterfeiters.
What?
Lou, a counterfeiter?
That's right. Never mind the carefully arched eyebrows, honey. They mean nothing.
But Marlow, I swear I never knew that Horner was anything but a broker.
A broker maltreating poor Sister Marion? You're a liar, Shelley.
About Marion, yes.
I haven't even got a sister.
But from there on out, I'm telling the truth, Phil.
Then tell some more and fast.
All right, here it is.
Lou Horner's been my boyfriend.
And a checkbook?
For the past year and a half.
But about a month ago, he suddenly stopped being very attentive.
And I couldn't figure out why.
So you decided to keep your big blue eyes wide open, huh?
Exactly.
And it paid off.
Because I found out that, one, he had taken better than $20,000 out of his bank account.
Two, that he was coming down here to Los Angeles.
And three, that an item named Melvin was coming down here to Los Angeles.
And Marion might be beating your time.
Yes.
And that part of it upset me plenty.
Until ten minutes ago.
But then I found out that Horner here was a murderer.
And that, Marlow, I don't buy.
Three cheers for the all-American girl.
Oh, skip it, Marlow. I'll live my way. You live yours.
Don't worry, honey. Nobody wants to change places with you.
Hey.
Hey, look.
Why does Horner wear a little rubber band on his little finger? Do you know?
Oh, he had a bad memory.
Used every kind of gadget in the books to keep himself from forgetting things, especially numbers.
Oh.
Oh, for example, that rubber band might mean ten o'clock.
How do you figure?
Like five and five.
The fingers on each hand reading from left to right.
He used things like that.
Oh.
Wait a minute.
Hmm?
Horner was going to make a call to Marion just now.
And the message the tea man left was...
Call Marion tonight about...
About the Orange Dog of Foal.
Shelly, baby, where's your phone?
Fast. Come on. It's quarter after ten already.
It's out there in the hall, Marlow.
What are you talking about?
A line, honey, a line on your ex-sister Marion.
This is Mr. Saxon.
Ah.
Lou Horner, Mr. Saxon.
I know I'm some 15 minutes late with this call,
but I'd still like to see you about the Orange Dog of Foal.
Certainly, Mr. Horner.
The Orange Dog is here, waiting for you.
Good. I'll be right over.
Marlow, who is Mr. Saxon?
A man very close to a lot of trouble, Shelly.
Now, look, he'll wait right here for the law,
and in particular, one Lieutenant E. Borah.
Tell him nothing but the truth about Horner
and what he meant to you in dollars and cents,
and you may be all right.
But where are you going, Marlow?
To a curio shop on West 7th Street
with the Orange Dog of Foal.
You are the Mr. Horner who called?
Yeah, yeah.
Also the one who was here this afternoon, you remember?
Oh, yes.
Well, I'm sorry I didn't call you at 10, Mr. Saxon.
According to schedule, I hope it hasn't inconvenienced you.
No, that's quite all right, Mr. Horner.
Just a moment, sir.
Ah.
What's the matter? Is anything wrong tonight?
You seem on edge, Mr. Saxon.
I am.
So please, Mr. Horner,
don't make a single stupid move.
What?
Wait a minute. Why the gun, Mr. Saxon?
I promise not to bite the Orange Dog.
You won't even touch the Orange Dog.
Now, who are you?
We've been all through that.
I'm Horner, Saxon. Lou Horner of San Francisco.
No, you're not.
Horner would have had no reason to wander around curio shops
as you did this afternoon,
asking any and everybody about the Orange Dog.
Now, once more, who are you,
and where is the real Lou Horner?
All right, we'll take him in that order.
I'm a private detective named Philip Marlowe,
and Lou Horner's a corpse.
Hmm.
But also, I'm a good friend of yours, Saxon,
because I'm going to give you a little bit of advice for free.
Call it quits, buster, you're licked.
What are you talking about, Marlowe?
The T for Treasury man named Slade.
Before he died, Saxon, he talked.
I see.
And believe me, he said enough to put you away
because Orange Dogs are as popular as lifesavers.
What do you say, Saxon, do we play it smart?
Very well, Marlowe, we will play it smart.
My kind of smart.
Now, turn around and walk through that curtain there.
I want to show you something.
Orange Dog, maybe?
Yes, the Orange Dog of Foal.
I want you to see it for yourself before you die.
Saxon said die like it already happened.
And after he relieved me of the comforting bulge of the gun in my pocket
and marched me to a large, windowless room
that was a little darker than the lining of an eight ball,
he told me to stand very still.
And he turned on a single lamp that rested on a large, scarred table.
And next to it, an ordinary shipping crate
and cushioned on all sides by white wrapping paper,
I finally saw the Orange Dog of Foal.
It was a porcelain lion, pop-eyed, majestic in a crazy way.
And also it was colored orange, bright and clear.
But now that I'd seen it, I knew that the next move was Saxon's.
I turned to face him.
It was then that I noticed the black curtain behind him move slightly.
And long hair quietly stepped into the room.
This Mr. Saxon did not know about.
Well, Marlowe, now that you have seen the Orange Dog
for your first and last time, what do you think of it?
He thinks it's just jim-dandy, mister.
Now drop your gun before I blow the top of your head off.
Go on, drop it.
It's better.
Now sit down there and stay put.
You and Marlowe will get across the room.
Okay.
Thanks for showing up, Peele,
before Saxon here ran out of small jokes.
Don't kid yourself, Marlowe. I didn't just show up.
I've been right behind you all the way. That's how I work.
So what do you want, Peele?
A couple of very fine engraved plates
that I've been after for six months now.
Plates which could be in the Orange Dog of Foal?
No place else but.
What, you think that maybe the late Mr. Horner
wanted it as an ornament?
But that's all it is.
There are no plates in the Orange Dog.
It is only a collector's item.
And you're a liar, Saxon.
And I know the best way to prove that.
Marlowe, put that thing up and toss it against the wall.
No, no, don't. I tell you there's nothing in it.
Toss it, Marlowe. Go on.
Okay, Peele.
Ah, now we'll see who's right above the plates being hit.
Nothing, huh, Peele?
No, nothing.
All right, Saxon, get up.
I want to know what a plate saw, so I'm going to count to three.
That's how long you have to live, if you don't tell me.
No, no. Peele, believe me, there are no plates.
One, two.
Hold it, Peele. Wait.
Here are the plates. Here, in this jeweled box.
Look, right here, under your nose.
Oh!
Is he... is he out, Marlowe?
Yeah, he's out all right.
They took a light with him, too, is there?
Is there another lamp in here?
Oh, no, there isn't.
Nor is there another gun.
Why, you stinkin' little...
Wait a minute, those sirens, Saxon, are heading this way.
Police? Yeah, the police.
Looks like sooner or later everybody gets together in the back room at Saxon's, huh?
But not everybody stays here.
So I'll take this wrapping paper and leave now.
Wrapping paper? The stuff that was around the orange dog?
Yes, a sample of the best grade of counterfeiting paper made, Marlowe.
And that's what Warner was supposed to buy, not plates.
Those he got a month ago.
Still makes you a crook, Saxon, and one who'll never get past the front door.
Oh, no, we'll see about that. Marlowe!
Keep shooting, Saxon, in the dark. You got four shots left.
You filthy maggot!
Only one now, Saxon.
Saxon, that's number six. You're through, Saxon.
By the time he barrened his boys, plus a half a dozen very anxious team men got into the room,
Saxon was already coming apart at the seams.
After a half hour of steady questioning, he split wide open
and led us all to a basement hideout where the team men went wild over a few thousand sheets of A-1 counterfeiting paper.
But an hour later, after Peel, who admitted murdering Lou Horner,
and Saxon, who was ready for the nearest straightjacket, were both in the lockup,
there was still the problem of the glib lice from San Francisco.
But finally, when Shelley, Lieutenant Eber, and I stood at the green light of the globe in front of the police headquarters,
I knew that the girl who technically was only guilty of withholding information from the police
was not going to spend any time in the pokey, because, after all, I was more or less guilty of the same thing.
Besides, Lieutenant Eber was still interested in the others.
Well, Marlow, it looks like the whole business actually boils down to a single transaction
between Clay Saxon, who had the counterfeiting paper, and Lou Horner, who was supposed to buy it.
That's right, Eber, but Horner, who must have made his contact with Saxon via some middleman in San Francisco,
only had a telephone number and the password, the Orange Dog of Fo, to work on here in L.A.
But how'd you get hold of that number, Phil?
From the message the tea man left before he died.
You mean you actually called someone named Marion?
No, honey, I just dialed Marion. M-A Madison. R-I-O-N 7-4-6-6. Madison 7-4-6-6. You get it?
Yeah. Another one of Horner's screwy memory tricks, like the rubber band on his 10th finger.
Hey, that's pretty good, Phil.
Ah, it's an old gimmick, really. I read it in a dozen detective stories.
Well, you know, you may be able to read some of those.
Well, good night, fella. Look for you tomorrow.
Night, Lieutenant.
Well, Shelley, do I, uh, do I show you the way home?
No, Marlow. Aren't you hungry or thirsty or something?
Yeah, yeah, I guess I am at that.
Well, I know just the place for us, darling.
It's a cute little place, right smack in the middle of Chinatown.
Well, we got through a small Chinese dinner without seeing or hearing from a single orange dog.
And when it came time to leave, I was thinking that Shelley wasn't really too bad a kid at that.
So when she left the table to powder her nose, I started to make plans.
But when she got back, I forgot about them because in the meantime she'd run into an old friend.
Yeah, a rich old friend who was all alone in the big city.
I said I didn't mind taking a rain check when she explained that he was from Kansas City and a broker at that.
He certainly was overweight.
Come watch steak and potatoes.
Hmm, steak and potatoes.
Wonder if Lindy's is still open.
The Adventures of Philip Marlow, created by Raymond Chandler, stars Gerald Moore and is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
The script is by Mel Dinelli, Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt.
Featured in the cast were Francis Robinson, Edgar Barrier, Tony Barrett, Lou Krugman and Ed Begley.
Lieutenant Detective Ibarra is played by Jeff Corey.
The special music was by Richard O'Rant.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlow says...
I was hired to find a blackmailer and I did.
But first I found a badly beaten Adonis, a Jezebel with an accent and a man who had been an easy mark for murder.
Ninety minutes of unsurpassed comedy comes to you every Sunday night when CBS brings you the Spike Jonze show, the Jack Benny show and Amos and Andy in succession.
Tomorrow night pianist Alec Templeton and songstress Peggy Mann are Spike Jonze special guests.
Jack Benny and his gang, Andy, Amos and Andy, following in succession, will bring you more of the laughs that make them first for Sunday night fun.
Spike Jonze, Andy, Amos and Andy come to you over most of these same CBS network stations and Jack Benny comes to you over them all.
Now stay tuned for Gangbusters which follows immediately over most of these stations.
This is Roy Rowan speaking for CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.