When it started it was simple, just a lawsuit for damages.
But before it was over it was far from simple and the damages were murder.
All because of a red-headed woman, a ghostwriter with ambition,
and a match that burned with a bright green flame.
From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction,
comes his most famous character as CBS presents...
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe.
Now with Gerald Moore, starred as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story...
The Green Flame.
It had been the kind of early start, late finish, crowded in between day that had made breakfast, coffee,
lunch, a ham sandwich on the run, and dinner nothing.
So by the time it finally ended it was pushing nine o'clock.
And I was both a little tired and a lot hungry.
All of which made the feast I could imagine spread out in front of me over an emerald green tablecloth.
Something better than good enough to eat.
Blue point oysters on a half shell, a Caesar salad.
Veal scallopini topped with mushrooms the size of silver dollars.
Oh, I was ready for it.
Yes, yes, well, the oysters once again became a blue ash tray.
The scallopier notebook, the green cloth underneath all my desk lotter.
Hello, Marlowe speaking.
Cody Whitmore, Marlowe.
Ever hear of me?
I have.
I've also heard you own half a dozen screen magazines, a local radio station,
and a daily published for the motion picture industry called the Hollywood Trades.
Is that covered?
Not quite.
Today I acquired something else.
A libel suit for a hundred thousand that was just slapped against the trades by a has-been actor
named Bradford Colby, which Marlowe, is the reason I'm calling you.
Oh?
So drop whatever you're doing, boy, and get over here to the Whitmore building.
Whitmore building?
We're on El Centro, near Gower, and closed tomorrow Sunday.
No addition.
Figures.
When the night watchman lets you in, turn left, keep walking till you get to an office
in the mid-116.
You got that?
Yeah, 116, but if you don't mind, Miss Whitmore, I'd like to do something.
I'd like to eat first.
Make it coffee and a ham sandwich at the outside and get over here fast.
Coffee?
Look, Miss Whitmore, I'm starving.
Marlowe, how much do you get a day?
Twenty-five in expenses.
Why?
I'm willing to pay 125, and you keep track of the expenses.
Now what do you say, boy?
Boy says coffee and a ham sandwich will leave him stuffed.
Goodbye, Miss Whitmore.
Come in, Marlowe.
Sit down over here, and if you smoke cigars, don't.
I can't stand them.
Drink?
No, thanks.
Marlowe, our A-1 gossip columnist, Stanley McGrath, had this to say in today's edition
of The Trade.
Mm-hmm.
The film's actor, Bradford Colby, won't call it quits.
When refused a part by an independent producer who's short on funds, Colby offered to hawk
all and come up with 20,000 if the producer would change his mind.
The producer wouldn't.
End of quote.
And beginning of noise from Colby, huh?
Yes.
A clamor that we can only silence by proving that McGrath, what he said, is true, which
shouldn't be impossible because Max was a thorough man and never heard of the word rumor.
Wait a minute, wait a minute.
What do you mean, was a thorough man?
He died of a stroke, Marlowe.
At five this morning en route to the hospital, age 61.
His column, as usual, arrived here yesterday afternoon in the mail.
He always wrote from his home, which is a junk-filled cracker box, up on North Brunton.
And now you're being sued by Colby for damages, huh?
The late Mr. McGrath isn't around to prove what he said is true.
You catch.
And being very unpopular with producers myself these past 30 years, Marlowe, I have no chance
of any help from the one who actually turned Colby down for that part.
And the other part of the recovery is?
All of which makes my job what?
Precisely this.
Find Max's source of information.
Come in, Larry.
Larry North, Marlowe.
My editor and anybody's Napoleon.
Larry, meet Mr. Marlowe.
How do you do?
How do you do?
Doty, I just found out that old Max only legman, a quid duck named Leonard Phipps, left town
sometime yesterday for San Diego.
May or may not be back by now.
Where's Marlowe going to start?
Well, I figured.
At old Max's place.
Larry and I have already checked there, Marlowe.
8-3-12, North Brunton.
Maybe you'll grab onto something that we overlooked.
Here's the key.
I'll be right back.
I'll be right back.
Larry and I have already checked there, Marlowe, 8-3-12, North Brunton.
Max lived alone.
Don't get wrapped up in his notes.
They're gibberish.
And remember, my lawyers are sure that we lose this case if we can't prove what Max said
was the truth.
Well, yeah, but...
All is soon as you get a lead.
And if I'm out, Larry will be in his office next door.
And Marlowe, don't waste any time.
There's a lot at stake, boy.
What Doty Whitmer had labeled a cracker box turned out to be a five room, slightly beat
down, almost square house set back some 50 carelessly landscaped feet from a high stucco
wall that said the late Mr. McGrath had lived alone and liked it.
And when I entered and went to his study where I turned on a desk lamp, I saw what my client
had meant by junk.
There were the odds and ends that a man collects in a lifetime.
On his desk, a tarnished loving cup for excellence and reporting, dated 1927.
Beyond that, on the mantle, an autographed picture of Teddy Roseville and next to it,
a paperweight from Niagara Falls.
And then...
And then an item I hadn't expected.
In a shadowed corner of the room, there was somebody else, a tall, gaunt somebody else
wearing horn rim glasses and papers sticking out of every pocket.
He was slowly, an inch at a time, backing off from the edge of the circle of light in
which I stood.
I took one casual step toward the desk and then nailed him.
Get your hands off me.
Why, take a start running, Mr. Leonard Phipps.
How do you know my name?
I'm psychic.
I also know you just got back from San Diego.
What I don't know is what you're doing here.
Now come on, talk fast.
Please let go.
Leave me alone.
I'll talk.
I've got nothing to hide from the right party.
Who are you?
Philip Marlowe, private detective who's working for Dodie Whitmer, a lady impatient to know
which producer McGrath was talking about.
In that article on Colby this morning, now do I qualify?
Yes, yes, yes, of course.
We're both after the same piece of information, Mr. Marlowe.
I want to find that answer too and then whisper it into Dodie's ear.
Just to save her a hundred thousand bucks?
No, just to get a chance to fill McGrath's shoes.
And don't laugh because I've been ghosting that column for the past month now.
Didn't McGrath write this morning's column himself?
No, he didn't.
I did.
But the piece on Colby was not mine.
McGrath must have added that himself, the fool.
You don't sound like you're happy in your work, Phipps.
I wasn't.
Mac was a tyrant.
I put up with him because he promised sooner or later to let Dodie Whitmer know that I was
doing his work.
Don't be too bitter, Phipps.
Mac couldn't have known exactly when he was going to die.
Well, what if he couldn't die?
Why don't we get back to the subject?
Have you any idea where we can get a hold of something real to go on?
Yes.
Yes, I do.
Out there in the living room.
Follow me, Marlowe.
If you can, in the dark.
Come back here.
By the time I got to my feet, Phipps was gone.
I found another lamp in the dark, turned it on, and started for the telephone.
But then I stopped.
In the center of the floor, where it must have fallen when the leg man made his wild break,
was a wrinkled piece of paper.
When I picked it up and turned it over, I was suddenly glad that Mr. Phipps had gotten
away because in his hurry to leave, he had dropped his check-off list for Operation Bradford
Colby.
There were a half a dozen producers crossed off above the notation, Mac's place, but below
that, and not yet discounted, was a name I'd never heard before, Sherry Sheldon.
At that, I called Dodie Whitmer, gave her a quick rundown on what had happened with Phipps,
and then tossed the name Sherry Sheldon in.
She talked it over with Larry North before she answered.
But once she did, I knew that finally we were all getting someplace.
Marlowe, this is good.
Larry tells me that Sherry Sheldon is the ex Mrs. Bradford Colby.
Oh?
And better than that, a redhead with temperament to match.
That kind'll talk.
Any idea where this item lives?
Yes, a bungalow on Sherry Moya, 5800.
5800, huh?
Larry says it's a quiet, dead-end street, but not to let that throw you, because from
what he's heard about the lady herself, she's very much alive.
So play it smart, boy.
You're probably in the big time now.
Good luck.
It was only a furlong plus at the bungalow on Sherry Moya, so when I pulled up and parked
away from number 5800, I was still wondering exactly what play it smart boy meant.
When the lady in question was known far and wide as a shock of red hair capping so much
dynamite, but a minute later as I walked toward the house, I labeled that thought introspection,
dismissed it, and concentrated instead on an acre of tweed jacket that was unfolding
out of a long honey-colored sedan parked a little ahead of me.
When it straightened up to something over six and a half feet, slammed the car door
shut and stomped inch-thick soul brogans off in a king-sized hub, I knew that this was
an angry man.
And in the next second, I knew that it and the thespian Bradford Colby were one and the
same. When Colby got to Sherry's doorbell and jabbed at it impatiently for attention,
I ducked below a hedge nearby. When the door opened and then slammed shut again, I left
the hedge in favor of an on-the-bias palm tree that bowed toward my lady's chamber where
I could both see and hear what had to be an exciting reunion.
You said that you knew something. It couldn't fail to intrigue me on this of all days. For
now that I'm here, start intriguing Sherry, darling.
All right. How's this for a starter? I want to the penny exactly one half of the money
you're going to get from Dodie Whitmore.
Oh, Sherry, how droll. Now why in the name of the great American dollar do you think I'd
give you so much as a sly glance at that delightful little fund?
For two reasons. The first, I deserve it for putting up with both you and your abominable
conceit for exactly one year.
Oh, still droll, darling.
Go on, keep laughing, Mr. Colby. Keep laughing while I light my cigarette with one of these
matches, these cute ones that burn with a green flame.
Where did you get those?
In a little known lodge out beyond Malibu called the Green Flame. Don't you remember,
darling, I ran into you there one day last week when you were having lunch with a mysterious
stranger whom you tried to keep me from seeing.
You nasty little sneak, Sherry.
When you were so engrossed in keeping yourself between me and your guest that you left this
souvenir book of matches at the bar after you graciously lit my cigarette for me.
And what of it? They give those matches out by the thousands.
That they do, but, Brad, dear, they all don't have numbers penciled on the inside.
Numbers?
Ah ha ha.
What numbers are you talking about?
Now who's being droll?
What are you getting at, Sherry?
This. I had a call a minute before I got in touch with you from a delightful gentleman
who's very interested in what I'm getting at. So here, take your stupid book of matches
and get out.
No, I don't need them anymore.
No, wait, Sherry, now please.
Brad, I am going to have exactly one half of that easy money that's coming your way.
And after the gentleman I mentioned and I get together, I may want more.
So don't say anything you'll be sorry for later on.
Oh, Sherry.
Just get out now. And don't come back until I tend for you, dear Brad.
It was the better part of a minute before Colby the actor quit running the gamut of
theatrical expressions indexed under hate and Colby the man stopped biting down hard
on his lower lip. And without another word he slammed out of his apartment, ran to his
car and saw it off. I waited long enough for the steam in the room to condense and then
I walked to the front door and rang the bell delicately. The way I imagined a delightful
gentleman like Mr. Leonard Phipps might.
Yes? Can I help you?
I think so, Miss Sheldon. It's only a matter of a simple question. Did you give that Brad
Colby story to McGrath yesterday?
Wait a minute. Who are you?
Why, Leonard Phipps, of course. I talked to you on the phone, remember?
Oh, oh yeah. It was only half an hour ago, Mr. Phipps, and yet in those thirty minutes
it's surprising how your voice has gone from tenor right down to bass good night.
Not so fast, baby. It's hot on my shoe shine.
All right. Come in. I'll tell you what you want to know. I did give that story to McGrath.
I did it for revenge. I hate Colby.
And when your revenge boomeranged and the eggs came out a hundred thousand ahead of you,
you decided to cut back in, is that it?
Yeah. Wait a minute. You've been listening. How else would you know all this about Brad
and me?
Same way I know you're a liar about giving McGrath that story. You're in, honey. It's
strictly something different like a book of matches that burn with a green flame in accidental
meeting at the lodge of the same name. Let's take it from there.
Yes, why don't you? Right outside where both you and it belong. Good night, mister.
Marlow, Marlow. Philip Marlow, Sherry. But tell me, why the hurry? Anxious to party your
nose before Mr. Phipps arrives?
Frankly, Philip, I'm anxious to do just about anything that doesn't involve talking to...
What is it?
Somebody's hit. Come on. He's over there near the curb.
The car didn't stop, Marlow.
No, and that scream sounded pretty... pretty bad.
Oh, he's... there, isn't he, Marlow?
Yeah. That could mean only one thing to you, baby.
To me? Why, who is it?
Your late date, Sherry. One Mr. Leonard Phipps.
In just a moment, the second act of the adventures of Philip Marlow, but first, on the special
program, one great hour later tonight on CBS, President Harry S. Truman will be joined by
Gregory Peck, Isla Lupino, and Quentin Reynolds to tell the story of what American religious
groups are doing to bring relief to the world's war-stricken people. Be sure to hear one great
hour tonight at 10 o'clock Eastern Standard Time over most of these same CBS network stations.
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act, the Philip Marlow, and
tonight's story, the Green Flame.
As the red-haired, sophisticated knives teared down at what seconds ago had been Leonard Phipps,
the sound of the powerful car that had slammed the life out of him whirred into silence far
down the street. All that was left of Stanley McGrath's over-ambitious leg man was a twisted,
broken scarecrow, sprawled over the curb and half up on the sidewalk. It wasn't pretty.
On the side of it cracked Sherry's self-assurance like a rock through a window pane. When she
stopped pressing the knuckles of one hand against her mouth and looked at me, she was
scared, clear through.
Marlow, this horrible thing, it was an accident, wasn't it?
Oh, sure, sure, but as accidental as if they'd used a sledgehammer on him.
Oh, yes. You only wish it was an accident because you're next in line and you know it.
Sherry was on his way to see you when this happened to him.
I don't know what you mean.
I mean it's a high-priced game, baby, and they're playing for keeps. So you better level
with me and fast. What's so important about those green matches?
I don't know.
You're a liar. You're going to wind up looking like Phipps here before the sun comes up.
No, no, stop it.
And tell me that, you little fool. Come on.
Oh, I swear. Phipps called me because he thought I might have given McGrath that story.
I'm Brad. But I didn't.
And why was Phipps still interested? Why did he want to talk to you?
Because I told him I'd seen Brad with someone at the Green Flame last weekend and that Brad
was very upset when he found me there.
All right. Who is he with?
I don't know.
That's not the impression you gave your ex-husband, beautiful.
I was swinging in the dark, Marlow. Five people at the Green Flame at the same time. I couldn't
tell which one had been with Brad, but I'd know them if I saw them again. And Phipps
thought that together we could figure out who it was.
Go on. What about the numbers in that book of green matches? What were they?
Eight, one, one.
Eight, eleven?
Yes.
What does that fit? A hotel room?
I don't know that either.
You mean it was just another swing in the dark?
Yes, but it connected, Marlow. It scared him when I mentioned it, so it must be important.
Take another look at Phipps, baby. See how important it is. Now try again, real hard.
Remember what eight, eleven means.
Marlow, I just don't know. Please believe me.
Maybe you're just thick. Maybe you've got too much nerve, but I'll tell you one thing,
Sherry. I wouldn't be in your spot for ten times a hundred grand because I don't think
you're going to live until morning.
Oh, I didn't think that Brad would go this far. What I've told you is the truth.
Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Shut up. Somebody's coming. It might be Bradford. Now you get
out of here.
Well, I don't have my car.
You don't have mine, that coop. Here are the keys. Go down to the office of the Hollywood
Trades. He won't show his face around there. Find Larry North or Doty.
Well, all right, but what about you?
Go on. Will you beat it?
I stepped into the shadows of the trees that parted the walk and waited. I heard Sherry
slam the door on my car and burn five bucks worth of rubber off my new fist tires getting
away. Second later, the visitor I was expecting showed up, but it wasn't Brad Colvin. It was
Larry North. He ran three bustling steps out into the street and watched my coop scoot
out of sight. Then he spotted the corpse. His mouth fell open and he tiptoed slowly toward
it like he was afraid he might wake it up. When I moved out into the light, he saw me
and turned.
Marlow, do you know about this? Who is it?
It's Leonard Phipps.
Phipps? McGrath's leg man?
Yeah. Drive it in so much as look back.
What a stinking break. Phipps in a hit and run accident at a time like this.
Look, you jump to your conclusions north and I'll jump to mine.
Eh? What do you mean?
Phipps knew something fishy about that item in McGrath's column, and Sherry Shelton knew
something fishy about Colby. So from where I stand, Colby couldn't afford to let him
get together.
No accident? That's a daring observation, Marlow.
For a hundred thousand bucks, I know plenty of guys who do a thing like this every day
in the week. You can buy a lot of distance with that kind of money.
Hey, you're right, of course. What exactly does the Shelton girl know? Did you find out?
Only partly. Bradford's mixed up with someone else on this deal. Sherry doesn't know who,
but if we can get the other tie in, she'll be able to identify that person on sight.
Yeah, well, did she... what did she have? Have anything else?
Number 811 in the book of matches mean anything?
811? Eh, no.
Hey, hey, hey, come on, North. Quit staring at him. You're making yourself sick. Let's
get out of here.
Yes, yes, all right. I guess I better. Little Bradford Colby must be out of his mind.
Maybe. I'll let you know. I'm going to drop in on him now before the cops do and check
my theory over with him. Where does he live?
Down Wilcox, a villa in the Midcliff Gardens. Marlow, I'm going in to talk to Sherry. Maybe
I can find out who Colby's working with.
Eh, she's not here. I sent her down to the paper in my car to stay with you or Doty until
things cool off.
Yes, but Doty isn't there. She went out for some reason right after you called. There's
no one there now but the night watchman.
Oh, great. Now look, drop me off at Colby's place and you get down there and find Sherry.
She's worth a hundred thousand bucks to Doty Whitmer, but only if she lives. Now let's
go.
While the natty little Napoleon in an elevator scurried off to fetch his car, I ran inside,
put a fast call through to the police and submitted the shortest report on record of
a hit and run death. By the time I got back, North was waiting at the curb with the door
open. I piled in beside him and ten minutes later we glided to a stealthy stop on Wilcox
at the ivy covered archway over the Midcliff Garden gate. Neat slices of amber light poured
through a big Venetian blind on the window of a villa at the rear of the court. As North
identified his Colby's, in the same breath reminded me that the actor was a strapping
six-six and a desperate man. He urged me to be careful and I urged him to hurry and as
he left, I walked toward the big window and saw Bradford inside slumped deep in the lap
of a suede easy chair, throwing a solo with a bottle of Paul Masson champagne and looking
about as desperate as a sleepy Saint Bernard. I walked around to the front door, decided
to try the shock treatment to blast him out of his Blasey attitude. Yes, what do you want?
Get inside. Go on, move! Take your hands off me! You might have gotten away with that
clipped up suit for damages, Colby, but you're not going to get away with murder. You killed
Leonard Phipps, didn't you? What are you raving about? Who's Leonard Phipps and who are you?
Name's Marlowe and I'll tell you something, Colby. The only reason I'm not busy knocking
your head off at this minute is because I want to hear the whole story right from the
top. Now first, who wrote that item in McGrath's column for you? Are you mad? McGrath wrote
it himself, the venomous little creature. He and Doddie Whitmer used that to damage my
reputation and now they're going to pay for it. Oh, stop it. You knocked your reputation
into a cocked hat every time you stepped in front of a camera. Your damaged suit's a phony
and you know it. Now where's that book of matches with the famous 8-11 inside? 8-11?
Mm-hmm. Oh. Oh, yes. Those that burn with a green flame. You've been talking with my
imaginative ex-wife, I see. She's burning with quite a green flame herself, isn't she?
Oh, that woman hates to see me get a head. Never mind. Where is it? If you'll allow me,
Marlowe, I'll just answer this. Bradford Colby speaking. I see. Yes, I heard. That's right.
Well, I'll do my best, darling. At least ten. Goodbye, Helen. Just an old friend, Marlowe.
You can let your eyebrow down again. Helen, huh? You know, you always were a lousy actor.
I'm getting a little sick of you, Colby. And I've got a hunch I'm due for quite a stall,
so start talking, huh? Where's that book of matches? Easy, Marlowe. Take it easy. Here
it is. Come on, let's see it. Of course. Here, take a good look. Oh! What a character.
Up to your chin in trouble and you make waves. Lousy snoop. Oh! That does it, tough guy.
You're not leaving, Marlowe. You're staying right here. And just to make sure...
Oh, you don't, Colby! You sucker. Should have loosened your corset. I waded through the chunks
of glass ceramics that Colby had smashed on my head and worked hard to hold back the wave
of darkness that kept rising up under me until I made it to the kitchen, where I splashed
a few quarts of cold water on my face. Then I went back. Colby was still holding down
the hooked rug he'd landed on in the book of matches that had started the argument,
and it was on the floor beside him. I picked it up and opened it. The number was there
inside, written in blue wax pencil. But I thought I'd made a mistake, until I realized
that maybe Sherry Sheldon had made the mistake. When that idea hit me, it brought another
one along, and I remembered that Colby had received orders by phone to delay me. Then
I knew I'd better hang onto my head and move, but fast. I rolled him over and found the
keys to his car. It was halfway out the door when he came too. Stop! Come back, you
can't leave here. My exit not yours, ham bone. Good night.
It took all of five minutes to get from Wilcox to El Centro and Colby's long honey-colored
sedan. And on a hunch, I drove down the alley to the back door of the Whitmer building.
A hunch paid off, because I had stopped and turned on the parking lights when the door
opened and I saw exactly what I'd expected. The watchman was on the floor out cold, and
the little Napoleon in elevated shoes was staging a big exodus with his arms full of
a very limp redhead named Sherry Sheldon. As soon as he saw the honey-colored car, he
started talking. Brad! Brad, you idiot! I told you to stay
home! To do it!
No, she's only unconscious. There wasn't time. We'll have to finish it someplace else.
Put her in the back seat. All right. Now let's get out. Marble!
Don't move, little man. I'm too tired for any more trouble. I'll shoot first. So you're
the boy on the inside with all the brains, huh? You cooked this whole thing up with Colby.
He gets libel and sues Dodie Whitmer for damages, and then you two split the settlement between
you. Correct me if I'm wrong, North. You got your chance when McGrath died after turning
in his copy. All you had to do was write that one libelous item included in McGrath's column,
and nobody could ever explain where the story had come from.
That stupid fool Bradford. I could never trust him to do anything right.
Is that why you killed Phipps? Yes. If Brad Colby had held on to you for
another five minutes, I would have had time to get out of here.
Yes, and so would I. Sherry, are you all right?
No, not yet. Hey, hey!
Where he and Brad are going, Marlowe, I'd never get another chance to even the score.
Oh, baby. You handle a spiked heel like Babe Ruth handled a bat. He's out.
Yeah, but Phil, you should see what he hit me with. Oh, brother!
Come on, beautiful. It's time to turn out the lights, get in touch with Doty, and call
the law. Let's go.
Well, let's go, Sergeant. Yes, Inspector. Hey, thank you, Mr. McMar.
Good night. Good night.
Well, I'm glad those cops and the cigars are gone. Here, kids, help yourselves. You both
look like you need it. This you can say again.
Now I need it. Marlowe, you could have slid me through the
hole in the lifesaver when you said my own editor, Larry North, was it.
Yeah, it gave me a jolt, too, Doty. Yeah, and me. The hard way.
But, Phil, I am sorry about that mistake I made. I could have saved us some trouble.
What mistake is this? Well, you see, honey, we knew that whoever
was working with Colby had written down a number for him in a book of matches.
Sherry here thought it was 811. But when I saw it, it was upside down from
that, so it came out 118. 118? Why, that's Larry's office number and
phone extension. Check. Yours is 116 and his was right next
door, I remembered. So 118 was it. That, coupled with the fact that it was written
in blue pencil, which is standard equipment for all editors, gave me the tip.
Honest now, Phil. Did you figure that out or was it luck?
Well, it's a trade secret. Hey, you know something? I missed dinner
last night. You know I'm starving? Well, I know a wonderful place.
They have matches like this, see? It burns with a green flame.
Will you join us, Doty? Yes. Yes, we would love to have you.
You'd rather have whooping cough. Go on, you. Get out of here and good night.
Good night, Doty. Oh, and it will be from here on in.
I guarantee it. A wonderful supper was waiting for us at the
green flame restaurant. It was all arranged by a call from Doty.
And it waited until it got cold because we didn't show up to eat it.
There was something about the moonlight glinting on the ocean.
And a certain stillness in the morning air that made food seem somehow unimportant.
So when I finally dropped Sherry off at her place on Cherimoya, went home to my apartment
on Franklin, it was either very late or very early, depending on the viewpoint.
There was just one lonely sardine and a cold baked potato in the refrigerator.
So I ate. Then I sat down on my bed to light my last
cigarette. But I wasn't disappointed when the match
flared into an ordinary yellow flame. Good night, Phil.
Happy Marlowe. The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, created
by Raymond Chandler, star Gerald Moore, and are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
Script is by Mel Dinelli, Robert Mitchell, and Gene Levitt.
Featured in the cast were Faye Baker, Larry Dabkin, Myra Marsh, Howard McNear, and Parley
Fair. The special music is by Richard O'Runt.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
It was a grim joke that started when six heirs came to an ugly house on a rain-swept island
to hear a madman's will. But the joke soon turned to murder.
In the end it was hard to tell who had the last laugh.
Tomorrow night Helen Hayes stars in the famous comedy The Farmer Takes a Wife on CBS's Electric
Theater. And Eve Arden stars as America's favorite school
mistress, or Miss Brooks. You'll delight in the expert comedy of these
two great feminine stars when The Electric Theater and our Miss Brooks come your way
tomorrow night over most of these same CBS network stations.
This is Roy Rowan speaking. Now stay tuned for Gangbusters, which follows
immediately over most of these same stations.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.