It started at dawn in a Los Angeles taxi and wound up that night on a cliff in the middle of the Pacific
all because of a Dutchman with fifty thousand dollars, a corpse in a lily pond
and an oriental with a chauffeur who wanted a cloak made of nothing but feathers.
From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character in
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe.
Now with Gerald Moore, starred as Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story,
The Cloak of Kamehameha.
The message that a repulsively wide awake boy who was missing a tooth front row center had delivered at six in the A.M.
had come in two parts.
The first scrawled in black ink on a wrinkled piece of paper said,
Marlowe, get hold of a taxi cab.
Poses the driver yourself and at exactly eight o'clock this morning come past 8840 North Ogden Drive.
Signed Paula Chandler.
The second half made more sense.
It was printed in neat letters on neater green paper and under an engraving of Benjamin Franklin read,
100 silver dollars payable to the bearer on demand.
So at exactly eight o'clock I was behind the wheel of a hired cab, leather jacket, peak cap, toothpick and all.
And within hay taxi distance of number 8840, Mr. Paula Chandler, a round man in square clothes with hair cut to match, was not late.
Taxi! Are you there? Taxi! Wait!
Yes sir, cab!
Of course! Why do you think I'm shouting my head off? I want to go to the municipal airport. Do you understand?
The municipal airport at Inglewood.
Okay, okay, Inglewood. Municipal airport it is.
Marlowe, Demeter, quick, put the flag down. Every minute I'm being watched.
Oh yeah, yeah. Watched by who, Mr. Chandler?
I do not know. Now listen carefully, Marlowe.
Later you are to go to the Holly Moana Hotel and wait for a young lady named Lani Collier.
Then at the hour she designates you go to her house, number 44 Diamond Head Circle, and pick up the...
Oh wait a minute, Holly Moana, Diamond Head, all those places. This hotel isn't by any chance in Hawaii, is it?
Didn't I mention this in my note?
No, you didn't. Nor did you mention picking up a cloak.
That just proves I haven't been myself ever since yesterday when I received this anonymous letter that's postmarked on the lulu.
All it says is, Kamehameha's cloak of golden feathers will bring no less than death.
Marlowe, have you ever been to the islands?
Yeah, twice. Once business, once pleasure.
Well then surely you've heard people speak of King Kamehameha.
Oh sure, it was back in the 1780s, right? Big organizer, conquered Oahu by driving the defenders over that cliff that divides the island.
Yeah, yeah, Pali.
Marlowe, the feathered cloak that Kamehameha wore was about a hundred square feet and every inch of it a golden yellow feather.
And valued at more than half a million dollars.
Really? How come?
Well, the feathers.
They are from the now extinct black marmo bird, Marlowe, and there was only one yellow feather on each bird.
I could explain why they're now extinct. Don't tell me this is all a game of call you to Marlowe to shindler with a cloak that belongs to the museum.
No, Marlowe, no, it isn't with the cloak you speak of. But Lani Kaliya has another one, less valuable of course, it's one quarter the size.
But it also belonged to the king and it also is made of the priceless feathers.
And is this her property to have and to hold legal like?
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Lani is wealthy, young.
How young?
About 25.
Oh.
She went to a fashionable schools here in California and as a result cares more about fun and furs from I.J. Fox than she does priceless heirlooms.
So for $50,000 I have bought the cloak to resell to a New York millionaire for almost twice that sum.
A lot of loot.
Well, yes, he loves island law.
Oh, figures.
Marlowe, I was right. I am still being followed. Don't look back.
Just drive faster.
No, no, no, no, no, do nothing. This is exactly as I wanted. Whoever it is will follow me, not you. And when I am in Honolulu, they will still follow me.
Well, I take care of the business on hand.
Yes, yes, yes. There is a reservation for you on the next plane. So after you leave me and collect your cab fare, which will be $500, you drive away.
And then later, Marlowe, get back here, board your plane and underway.
And tonight when I've got the cloak?
Take it back to your hotel room at the Halemwana and sit on it hard. Because unless I am a complete success as a decoy, you will have your share of trouble too, I'm sure.
But Marlowe, from which specific direction it will come, I do not know.
I got the $500, which was the cover expenses for my Honolulu trip, and I was told to keep the change.
So after I had returned both cab and costume to their owner, I added 10 to the original hiring price and had him drive me back to my apartment and wait while I packed.
Then I got into the cab again, rear seat, said Municipal Airport, Inglewood, and settled back to think about the crossroads of the Pacific.
Lovely hula hands and what shouldn't be too rough a job. But there I was wrong. Because in the next minute and those that followed, everything was done the hard way.
First we ran out of gas, then got tied up in a traffic jam, and after that got stopped for speeding. All of which added up to me at the airport just in time to watch my plane take off without me.
But then when I told a Cherubic clerk in a gray flannel an insipid smile that my name was Philip Marlowe, and that I wanted a reservation on the next flight which was leaving in an hour, things got even worse.
But you can't be Philip Marlowe, sir. That is not the Philip Marlowe who was on flight 21 that just left.
You have a reason for saying that?
Well, I most certainly do. There were 36 seats on that plane, sir. And when she took off, all 36 were full. Now I know, I checked them myself, and I don't make mistakes.
Well, bully for you, boy. But I happen to be both Philip Marlowe and the man who was supposed to be on that plane. Also, Buster, I'm out of patience. Now, do I get the next plane or don't I?
Come on, I can't stand indecision.
Well, I...
You what?
Well, I think it can be arranged, Mr. Marlowe. As a matter of fact, I know it can.
Well, in that case, my friend, thank you.
When we took off, my frame of mind left me ready and waiting for at least a crack up at sea. But an hour later, the last of California had slipped over the horizon and there was only a clear sky ahead.
I began to relax. My mind drifted pleasantly. The flavor of the lime lifesaver in my mouth made me think of tall, wondrous, frosted Hawaiian punches.
And the sinuous grace of lovely hula hands.
And I opened my eyes again. Diamond head was in front of us, majestic in the red glow of the evening sun.
That gave all of the lush Moana Valley I could see the texture of thick velvet. We landed like the airport was made of marshmallows.
And a half hour later, I was in the lobby of the Halemauna Hotel. It was cushioned right tan and Filipino mahogany over cool tile.
And everywhere laughing sunburned faces wearing bright splashes of color. So smiling both inside and out, I walked briskly to the reservation desk and told a good-looking Hawaiian in white flannel that I was Philip Marlowe.
That is reply I stopped smiling both inside and out.
But sir, your reservation was taken two hours ago. There must be some mistake.
I doubt it.
But you are Philip Marlowe of Los Angeles, sir.
That's right. And I've been through this before today because of what I thought was an error due to...
Due to what, sir?
Nothing. No, I'll talk to you later.
There was a large circle of mirror on the wall behind the clerk.
And even as we had talked, I caught the reflection of a beautiful tan girl in a cocoa brown suit, white pearls and no stockings.
With the mention of my name had done a take that had made a long blonde hair whip straight out.
When she saw me watching her, she pivoted sharply on a spiked heel and hurried toward a lanai under a banyan tree.
Where there was Hawaiian music and a lot of different looking people drinking at glass-top tables under a three-quarter moon.
I stayed near the reservation desk long enough to light a cigarette and then I followed her.
She was seated away from the lobby entrance and on a hunch that she might be Lanai Kaliya, I started for an empty table next to hers.
But a middle-aged Chinese in gray gabardine and Panama to match slipped into the chair that I was after.
So I forgot about being subtle and addressing her as Miss Kaliya introduced myself as an old and dear friend of Pollard Schindler's.
One Leland Dunn.
Well, this is a pleasant surprise, Mr. Dunn. But tell me, how did you know what I looked like?
Well, Pollard Schindler's accent doesn't hamper his vocabulary, Miss Kaliya. He used the right adjectives, believe me.
I'd love to believe you, but I can't, Mr. Dunn, because Pollard Schindler never saw me in his life.
All our business was done by telephone.
Okay, my mistake. I'm Philip Marlowe, Lanai, and I want to know when we rendezvous at 44 Diamond Head Circle for the cloak of Kamehameha.
Cloak?
Yeah.
You are no more Philip Marlowe than you are Leland Dunn. And if you need a reason, it's that I just left Philip Marlowe upstairs.
Now, wait a minute, baby. There's only one Marlowe. That's me. I can prove it.
I'll bet you can. Forged papers and all. I've already been warned to watch for impostors, so quit wasting both your time and mine and get out of my way. I've got things to do.
Now, wait, Lanai, I...
For what? Prove that you're neither Dunn nor Marlowe but Kamehameha himself? No thanks and goodbye.
If there had been a door, she'd have slammed it. Well, now I had two clues. One, an obvious party who would assume the name of Philip Marlowe, and the other, Lanai Kaliya.
Less obvious, but more intriguing. So, figuring the road company Marlowe would keep, I followed Lanai, who by this time was getting into a new yellow Nash convertible.
Before I got to her, she stepped on the gas, threw her lights on, and lurched from the curb. So, I ran across the street to what I thought was a taxi, but I was wrong.
Because it turned out to be a chauffeured limousine, and being helped in by a small swarthy item of dubious lineage in a wrinkled cotton uniform, was the Chinese and Greg Gabbardine in Panama to match, who had been sitting near us on the Lanai.
What counted more was that he obviously sensed my problem. You wish to follow the girl, sir? Yeah, it's a lover's spat, you know what I mean?
I think so. Jolo, quickly. Yes, sir.
You know where she's going? I'm not sure, maybe Diamond Head Circle. Lady is gaining, sir. Let's make a Diamond Head Circle. Is there a fast way there, a shortcut?
There is. Jolo, pique nonnolo, che l'ai l'olo. Which means what? Means, never mind Diamond Head Circle, drive fast to the factory instead, and do not move, Mr. Marlowe.
Oh, comes the heavy artillery, huh? Okay, Fumanchu, what's with the factory? You, out of the way, until the cloak of Kamehameha is mine.
Which won't work, because believe it or not, clever one, there's another Philip Marlowe who at the moment is a lot closer to that collection of fancy feathers than either of us.
You lie. A stupid bit for freedom. I bet they will not give you... Jolo, the chop, look out!
It was my chance. As we hit, I slacked at his gun and then jerked the handle of the door and jumped. When I got to my feet, I was on the sidewalk and bruised, but better off than China Boy.
I was draped over the back of the front seat and shouting dirty words in a half a dozen Oriental dialects at both Jolo and the driver of the pineapple truck that had sideswipers.
A crowd that included a towering Hawaiian policeman who promptly told my hostess, shut up, gathered in a hurry, so I ran for a taxi, gave the driver ten bucks the address I wanted and took off.
The street on which Lani Kaja lived was a neat curving strip that rose sharply from sea level up to the shadow of Diamond Head itself.
And we were there in less than ten minutes, but finding number 44 was something else. And another thirty minutes disappeared before we finally parked away from the place, which was glass, cona wood, and you can't find the front door without a blueprint tucked deep behind a thick grove of date palms.
I told the driver to back down the hill without using his motor, then I slipped into the grounds and carefully moved toward the house until what I thought was the trunk of another palm tree stepped into my path fast.
Stop where you are.
At the top, which was over six and a half feet, there was a shock of flaming red hair. The whole frame was half covered in dirty yellow shirt, once upon a time white ducks in battered brown sandals. In broad daylight, it would have looked worse.
You, who are you?
Someone with an appointment to see Miss Kaja. Why, you belong to this place?
Yes, and this place belongs to me as well. All of it. Miss Kaja included. She's mine to protect. Do you understand that, Malahini?
Malawich?
Malahini. Greenhorn, tourist, the kind that I hate. The kind that's ravaging all this beautiful. Stealing the islands from those to whom they belong.
Now take it easy, Red. I'm not here to ravage or stick your pretty island into my pocket when you're not looking. All I want is words with Lani Kaja.
You're like the rest of them, trying with cunning and deceit to turn her head away from these shores and toward the mainland where you come from. I won't stand for it.
Look, why don't we break this round table up and get to the house? I'm in a hurry.
All right. But I'm sure that Lani will be on my side. So sure in fact that we really shouldn't disturb the flower, should we?
Should we?
Oh!
Malahini.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe. But first, if mystery and detection are your dish, don't forget you can get more of the same over CBS.
Tomorrow, for instance, is the day when two unique and widely differing sleuths make their weekly appearance.
One is that well-known character Sam Spade, Dashiell Hammett's hard-boiled private eye.
The other sleuth, whose adventures are yours every Sunday, is Danny Clover, an old hand on that gaudy street called Broadway.
Broadway is my beat, says Danny Clover, and it's a beat where anything can happen.
Both Broadway is my Beat and the Adventures of Sam Spade come to you over most of these same CBS network stations.
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, The Cloak of Kamehameha.
A red-headed lunatic with a slow, soft voice and fast, hard fist took me by surprise and I wound up flat on my back before I realized he'd so much as moved.
By the time I got to my feet and took after him, he was sprinting for a bamboo thicket and had a 30-yard lead, which was all he needed to lose me completely.
When I finally untangled myself in the jungle, I came out on the road, but then I heard a motor behind me, so I dove for the underbrush again just as a heavy car roared by.
I'd seen it before. In fact, I'd been in it. It was the limousine that belonged to the Chinaman.
The back seat was empty, but the half-cair chauffeur, Jolo, was crouched behind the wheel, drove out of sight like his life depended on it.
As I walked back toward the house, I saw that a door was standing open and spilling a shaft of yellow light across the dark grounds.
I started up the walk when it came.
Then a second later, Lenny Kaila burst into the path of light and ran for the open door.
I went after her, caught her by one arm and spun her around.
No, no, let me go.
What happened? Why'd you scream, Lenny?
It was back there in the pond.
Yeah?
I heard a noise and when I came outside, I found him.
Found who? Come on, show me.
I talked to him just a few minutes ago. I gave him the cloak.
Yeah?
Now it's gone and he's dead with a knife in his back.
What?
There. Look, there in the water.
Oh, brother. Who is it, Lenny? Do you know him?
Yeah. That's Philip Marlowe.
I was scared on my neck, crawled as Lenny tagged the thing in the lily pond with my name.
He was face down in the shallow water and three inches of crooked steel.
And the ugly carved handle of a Chris stuck straight up between his shoulder blades.
Somebody had made a very grim mistake.
But it took five minutes of argument and a thorough checking of all the credentials I carried to convince the badly frightened Lenny.
I dragged the body out of the water and up onto the grass.
And then I went through his pockets.
What did you find?
A card.
Oh?
Yeah. From the Hawaiian Island Art Products Company, limited.
Number 12 Harbor Street.
Mean anything?
No, I've never heard of it. What's that on the back?
Flight number and departure time of the plane I was supposed to take out of Los Angeles.
Whoever he is, he's been one jump ahead of me all the time.
Right up to your lily pond here.
Was anyone with him when you gave him the cloak, a half cast and the chauffeur's uniform, for instance?
No, no, he was alone.
I gave him the cloak just as Schindler had instructed me to.
Listen, Lenny, there was a down at the heel redhead here just before you came out.
He claimed to be a friend of yours.
Oh, that was Lawrence Cochran, the poet.
That guy's a poet?
Yes, at least he was going to be.
He wrote one great poem years ago about two lovers who leap to death over the poly.
Oh.
To keep from being separated and their souls turned into birds.
It's still very popular here on the island.
What happened then?
Well, then he got the habit of drowning himself in gin.
Now the natives call him Papuli, the crazy one.
That's closer.
Oh, he's always hanging around. I suppose he still believes he's in love with me.
He's not so crazy.
My mother wanted me to marry him at one time.
Now that she's dead, he thinks he should look after me.
Okay, Lenny, let him keep thinking so.
What do you mean?
Well, I mean you can use a good watchdog right now.
So when Cochran comes back, you make him park on your doorstep
and you stay inside and be careful.
With guys named Philip Marlowe getting knives in their backs,
I've got a few things to do myself but fast.
I'd like to borrow that souped up convertible of yours.
Oh, where are you going?
Number 12 Harbor Street
and the Hawaiian Island Art Products Company Limited.
Harbor Street was a narrow, twisting alley two blocks below King Street,
a kind of social sargassum where the derelicts of the Pacific quietly foundered and dived,
built into the damp crevices between warehouses.
However, Number 12 turned out to be practically a blank wall.
There was one small window high up, a door with a heavy iron grill over the glass,
on which Hawaiian Island Art Products Limited I.K. Lee President was painted in small black litters
and a thin passageway blocked by an iron gate at the side of the building.
A light burned inside but the door was locked.
So after I'd ruined my shoeshine and skinned all my knuckles,
I managed to climb over the gate and edge down the passageway to the rear,
where I could hear water running.
It was a marble fountain playing in the center of a walled garden as oriental as a forbidden city.
I eased across its rigid daintyness to an open door,
peeked in and then reached for my gun because sitting inside at a sleek white mahogany desk
was the Chinaman in the gray Panama.
Well, well, this is a somewhat unexpected turn of events.
Ah, please, be careful with that gun, won't you?
You be careful, Lee, and you won't have to worry about the gun.
Now tell me something, why'd you break your neck to get Kamehameha's cloak anyway?
You know what'll happen if you ever try to sell it?
Oh, my good man, I can sell that cloak every day for the rest of my life,
a few feathers at a time.
Yeah? The world must be full of feather collectors, huh?
But it is.
I manufacture the beautiful feather lace islanders wear on their heads.
And while the bird is extinct, the desire for its gleaming feathers is not.
One or two golden mammo feathers in each lay, and instead of a mere $100 apiece,
I can get double that, triple that.
Now do you understand, Mr. Marlow?
You, um, you've got things a little mixed up, haven't you, Lee?
Mixed up how so?
Yeah, your boy Marlow is dead up at Lani Kalia's place.
Oh, that.
No, that was a Mr. Blake, an easily accessible gentleman
who I hired on Main Street in Los Angeles.
He only pretended to be you for obvious reasons.
To intercept the feather cloak, huh?
Oh, yes.
I've known all about Pallard Schindler's plans since the inception.
I followed every move he made.
In fact, there was I who caused all your trouble on the way to the airport this morning
by means of a bribe to your driver.
Yeah, aren't you the one?
Yes.
Too bad you won't be able to keep your nest lined with Kamehameha's bathrobe, after all, Lee,
because I'm going to walk out of here with it or big chunks of your puss, now name it.
The cloak now.
Uh-huh.
I'm together from this you don't have it, Marlow.
True to observation.
And the Schindler, as I suspected, has tricked us both.
Yes, darling, Lee, I'm warning you, start talking.
Oh, that's all I wanted to find out.
Go ahead, Jolo.
Oh!
That is judo, Mr. Marlow.
Almost like magic, isn't it?
Jolo can break your back if I tell him to, Marlow, so you behave.
Schindler has the cloak, no doubt about it, so I must find him at once with no interference from you.
So, Jolo, you have his gun.
Yes.
Lock him inside.
Keep Marlow until I call.
I may need him later.
From something the half-cast had done to my spine.
With the edge of his hand, my legs were paralyzed.
I felt like the practice dummy in a school for chiropractice.
Every joint in my body ached when I moved.
So I didn't move until a feeling oozed back into my legs.
Then I wobbled to my feet and looked around.
There was the small high window I'd seen from the street.
A heavy chair, a desk with a lamp and something like a picture framed in bamboo on the wall.
I glanced at it and then...
And I looked back.
I kept looking hard for a long, long time until I finally realized what it meant.
The answer to the whole thing was contained in that bamboo frame.
I had to get out and get out fast.
I unplugged the lamp, plastered my back against the wall next to the door and...
tapped on the lampshade to intrigue Jolo into coming in.
It worked.
When the knob turned slowly, I threw the lamp up at the window.
A crash brought the door open with a jerk and Jolo stepped in with my gun in his hand.
What is going on here, Mr. Marlow?
Where... where are you?
Answer!
Right here, Jolo!
Come on, get up!
I've got some magic to show you now.
A trick I learned in Kansas called a haymaker!
I ran down the hall of the street door and out to the car.
There was no traffic problem at that hour, so I jammed the gas pedal of the floor and held it there...
right through the heart of Honolulu and up the twisting road that led to the mountains back of the city.
The echoing roar of the motor as it tunneled through the forest lining the road was finally replaced by another roar, wind.
The unending gale that shrieks through a precipitous pass 3,000 feet above the city, the Polly.
I swung the car to the side of the road and ran the rest of the way out to where the rocks rose to a knife edge...
that dropped a sheer 1,000 feet to the valley floor.
Then I spotted them, Lanny lying stunned at the cliff's edge and standing over her,
his red hair ripped by the wind was the Mad Island Poet drunk as a lord.
And flapping around his shoulders like a pair of huge gold wings was the cloak of Kamehameha.
Oh, don't weep, my love! I offer you the freedom of the birds! Come, Lanny!
No! No, no, let me go, Lanny! You're mad!
No, Lanny, you're the mad one to think you could sell your treasures and leave the island! Your destiny is here!
No! Stop it! You murderous lunatic!
I'd like to warn Shinla, but the fool kept on, so I killed his courier, the man you gave the cloak to.
I'd kill a thousand times to keep you here with me!
No! You belong to the islands, Lanny, like this cloak and I do!
We must never leave! Come, it'll all be over soon and our souls will turn to birds and live forever in this paradise!
No! Stop it! Stop! Stop! Lanny, stop!
Marlowe, help me! Help me! Stay back, my love! Don't interfere!
Lanny! Lanny!
No! No, Marlowe! Marlowe, he slipped! He slipped! He fell over!
I know, I know. Are you all right, Lanny?
Yes, yes, I'm okay. Marlowe, look!
The cloak! Cochran must have lost it as he fell.
The wind brought it back here to me. I don't want to touch it ever again!
I know what you mean. Come on, baby, I'll carry it for you. Let's get out of here.
There's nothing like ham and eggs and good black coffee in the morning sun to make one forget an ugly night.
Right, my friends? Absolutely right, Mr. Schindler. More coffee, Phil?
Thanks, Lanny. So Lee was picked up by the Honolulu police?
Yeah, sure. I had it all set up. He'll spend some time in prison and at Jolo too.
By the way, he was still unconscious when we got to him. What in the world did you hit him with, Marlowe?
Enthusiasm, mostly.
That's when you got away and came up to the parley.
Yeah.
But Phil, how did you know it was Lawrence and where he'd be?
Well, it all tied in with that one popular poem Cochran had written, Lanny.
That anonymous letter you got in Los Angeles, Mr. Schindler, was a line from that poem.
Well, the mere mere's cloak of golden feathers...
Will bring no less than death.
How did you find that out, Marlowe?
Well, when I was locked up in Lee's factory, I saw a full copy of that poem on the wall in a little bamboo frame.
When I came to the line you just quoted, it stuck out like it was printed in neon.
That Peg Cochran is the killer. Once I had that, I tried to look at things from his angle.
He was a murderer, sure to be caught desperately in love, insanely possessive of everything he thought belonged here in the islands.
And he was an unbalanced lush as well.
So the rest of it figured, that's all.
And when he was cornered, he went back to the one important thing he'd ever done.
Exactly, baby. He was lost.
So he identified himself with the hero of his poem and took that as the only way out.
Amazing. Truly an amazing thing.
And a terrible thing too, Mr. Schindler.
Well, who knows? We all got what we went after, didn't we? Each of us. Even Lawrence Cochran.
After Schindler left to catch a plane for the mainland, and Lonnie said aloha and left to get ready for our date,
I sat on the lanai of the hotel and watched the sweep of the Pacific from Diamondhead to the hills across the harbor,
from the white sands of Waikiki, the green shallows over the reef, to the purple depths beyond.
And as a warm wind whispered through the ponds, and a native strummed his ukulele under a banyan tree,
I heard Lonnie whisper aloha.
Aloha. What does aloha really mean?
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, created by Raymond Chandler, star Gerald Moore,
and are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
The script is by Meldinelli, Robert Mitchell, and Gene Levitt.
Featured in the cast was Barry Kroger, with Lorette Philbrant, John Boehner, Paul Fries, Byron Cain, and Clark Gordon.
The special music is by Richard O'Runn.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
The thick fog that clung to Los Angeles made searching for the girl who was going to kill herself slow and easy.
But in the end, I'd have settled for that and more because murder happened twice before I found the lady in mink.
Fifty-two thousand dollars. A nice pocketful of change to have around, isn't it?
Well, the chance to win it comes your way again just a little later tonight when CBS's giant one-hour quiz show,
Sing It Again, comes to you over most of these same 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.