The thick fog that clung to Los Angeles made searching for the girl who was going to kill
herself slow and uneasy.
But in the end I'd have settled for that and more because murder happened twice before
I found the lady in mink.
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 Lady in Mink.
By Pacific Coast time it was only five o'clock in the afternoon.
But the dense billowing fog that was heavy over everything, like a huge thick hand, said
it could be midnight.
And Los Angeles could be London in May, December.
So when I got out of my car and walked toward the buzz of red neon that marked the hotel
cocktail lounge where I was to meet my new client, Grace Tyler, I felt all alone and
a little sorry that I wasn't in some nice cozy nine to five business that would leave
me heading for home now.
And maybe an evening with people who like to laugh.
But when I was inside the lounge, which was imitation hunting lodge and friendly, I perked
up some.
My client was young and almost pretty with dark shingled hair dressed in somber gray
and wore not enough makeup.
Her eyes were swollen and red from crying.
When I introduced myself, she tried to come right to the point.
Mr. Marlowe, I have to find my sister.
Oh, take it easy, honey.
That won't do it.
Who is your sister?
I'm sorry.
It's all right.
Her name is June Drake, Mr. Marlowe, and she's in trouble.
I got this letter from her here.
Trapped, no way out, take my own life.
Hateful people, this is to say goodbye.
Who's this Melnick she mentions?
Do you know her, Mrs. Tyler?
No, I never heard the name Melnick before.
I miss Tyler.
Oh.
My sister was the married one, Mr. Marlowe.
Her husband was Stu Drake.
He died a few years ago.
I see.
Have you been to the police with this?
No, because...
Well, you see, Mr. Marlowe, June is...
She's different, more full of fun than I am, and, well, she gets around, and sometimes
with strange people, dangerous ones.
Yeah, I think I know what you mean.
Grace, what does your sister look like?
Well, she's about my height, has long red hair, and she's pretty, Mr. Marlowe, very
pretty.
Hmm.
Sad more looks, anything else?
Car, clothes?
Clothes, yes, definitely.
She always dresses well, except that she's overly fond of furs.
Most of the time she wears a mink stole.
Stole, huh?
The kind of a cape?
Yes, she is.
I see.
June has an apartment in Beverly Hills, Mr. Marlowe, 3,300 wrecks for drive.
I went there, but it was locked.
The neighbor says she left for New York a week ago, and yet I...
Yet she couldn't have because this letter was mailed here in town only yesterday, is
that it?
Yes.
Oh, please, Mr. Marlowe, do something.
Here, here's $50.
I'll pay more if only you'll hurry.
Oh, that'll do it.
Where can I get in touch with you, Grace?
I'm staying here at the Beverly Crest Hotel.
I don't live in Los Angeles.
Well, as a starter, I think I'll try another 3,300.
I'll pay you a little more.
I'll call you later.
Goodbye, Grace.
Outside, the fog felt about the same, but there was more of it, so I was 15 minutes
getting to June Drake's apartment, which was a ground floor arrangement, already in about
the size and shape of the ale bowl.
I was only half that time outsmarting the cheap lock on the back door, drawing all the
blind shut inside and turning on a single light.
But then I was no place.
There were clothes in the closets, prettier ones in the bureau drawers, and it went on
like that for 45 more minutes, everything just as it should be and no lead, until I
was ready to leave.
Then on a coffee table, I saw something that stood out in that nest for the idle rich like
an ear-to-ear grin on an undertaker.
It was a book of matches advertising Duke Grey's Billiard Academy, third in Maine,
where particular pool players congregate.
That and the name Melnick had to dovetail or I was licked.
The next hour was a lucky one.
I found the Duke himself, a both new and despised Melnick, whom he described as a hardly ever
sober dirty word, front name Frank, who lived third floor rear at the Palace Arms, a tired
walk up also on Main Street.
So at exactly nine o'clock, I walked the length of a filthy corridor, stopped and knocked
the knuckles on my right hand almost raw before the door inched open and a pair of
shifty eyes and a puffy, pasty face blinked out at me.
Yeah?
What do you want?
If you're Frank Melnick, conversation.
I'm not dressed for it, honest.
This isn't a social call, Mr. Melnick.
Hey, what do you think you're doing?
Chomping away into my room?
Who do you think you are?
Ames Marlowe.
I'm looking for June Drake.
June Drake?
I don't know any June Drake, honest.
Hey, don't convince me, Melnick.
Now shake the fuzz off your brain and start remembering or you'll find yourself in trouble
up to your eyebrows.
Okay, okay, I know her.
When did you last see her?
Three weeks ago.
Maybe a month ago.
But she's an acquaintance from my hometown, that's all, honest.
You're a liar.
June Drake would brush you off like a piece of lint and you know it.
Listen, I'm as good as she is any day.
Don't forget that.
Get your hands off me, Melnick.
Now get out of here.
Go on.
I told you once, Melnick.
Let go.
Okay, now start talking.
Give it to me straight the first time or I'll get real mad.
Come on, get up.
Okay.
There's a guy named Jaffe, Hugh Jaffe.
He's June's boyfriend.
That's all I know, honest.
All right.
What's this stuff, these clippings and these pictures here?
I used to be a photographer, honest.
Until your lens got bloodshot, huh?
Yeah, on the Salinas Herald Star.
All right, Melnick, what's Hugh Jaffe's address?
It's 2001 North Beachwood Drive.
Thanks, I'll try it.
But if you're not telling me the truth, Melnick, I'll be back.
Honest.
Yes?
You want what, senor?
I, uh, Mr. Hugh Jaffe.
He's not here.
I am Margarita Jaffe, his wife.
What do you want with him?
A few words, Mrs. Jaffe.
You expect him soon?
Since he does not live here anymore, no.
Oh.
You and Hugh were divorced, then.
I didn't know that.
And I did not say that.
Now, what are you looking for?
June Drake.
You...
What do you want to know about that?
I want to know where that is.
Can you help me?
No, I cannot.
I do not know and I do not care.
But when you find her, senor, I hope you find her dead.
If I'd have followed the approved technique, I'd have lost a leg on the lady's threshold.
And I was about to lean on her doorbell again to try once more for an address on Mr. Hugh
Jaffe.
When I saw I didn't need to, because stuck over the mailbox was a letter forwarded to
him at 41 Peacock Lane, Brentwood, California, which was a half-hour drive due west of Hollywood.
Pretty fog-filled minutes later, Hugh Jaffe and I exchanged introductions and I stated
my purpose.
Then I stumbled behind him through a two-inch thick rug that ended in an oak panel library,
where he cigarred me, then settled back and waited.
We looked at each other until it became embarrassing.
Then he opened.
Well, oh, I wish I could help you, but I haven't seen or heard of June Drake in over three
weeks.
Well, I was under the impression that you two are on closer terms, Mr. Jaffe, if you
don't mind my mentioning it.
Not at all.
We used to be, but all that's changed now.
She was too expensive for me.
Lovely creature, but terribly vain.
Now that she's out of the picture, you're going back to your wife.
No, I'm not.
Frankly, Marlow, my, shall I say, infatuation for June has completely destroyed everything
Margarita and I ever had.
Which I suppose makes divorce the next step.
Sure, I wish it were that easy.
She refuses to give me a divorce, Marlow.
Her way of striking back.
Yeah, I know what you're getting at.
I had a brief chat with Mrs. Jaffe myself.
Well, if you hear from June, get in touch with me, will you?
I'll appreciate it.
Of course, I'll be happy to help in any way I can.
Please, Marlow, call me if you find her.
The number here is Crestview 89122.
Yeah, I'll remember it.
Even if I find her dead.
Dead?
What do you mean?
Why that?
Well, from where I stand, Mr. Jaffe, June Drake is dynamite.
That stuff can blow up right in your face, huh?
When you least expect it.
Sure, it was devil talk, but sometimes swinging wide and praying for lucky punch beats waiting
in your corner.
Besides, that was as far as I could go on the book of matches.
So after slowly walking a block through the chilling fog, I found a phone, called my client,
and brought her up to date on the Jaffe triangle.
And my own contention that if June Drake didn't try actually to kill herself, Senora Margarita
Jaffe might.
That grace wouldn't buy.
No, no, Mr. Marlow, I can't believe that.
Maybe you just don't want to.
But either way, there's still Frank Melnick.
We've already met grace and believe me, he's got all the charm of a black widow spider.
He's a drunk.
Used to be a photographer for some paper.
The Salinas Herald star.
You sure, Grace?
Grace, how did June's husband die?
Yeah.
He was killed in a car wreck, drove it over a cliff.
June just got out in time.
Nobody knew exactly how it happened.
It was a terrible accident.
Maybe.
What do you mean, maybe, Phil?
You might as well face it, honey, because the chances are slim that that's the whole
story.
Look, Grace, suppose, well, suppose something else happened, like, like June being responsible
for Stu's death.
Oh, no.
Yeah, and Melnick, the photographer, with a picture to prove it.
You know, a small case of blackmail.
No, no, Phil, you're wrong.
She wouldn't kill.
I know that.
Okay, okay.
I'll do the dirty guesswork for both of us until we get some proof.
Right now, that makes back to the hussy end of one senora, Jaffee, my best bet, because
the lady there is both jealous and hot tempered, a daily double that always runs on the money.
So long, baby.
Goodbye.
When I got back to my car and pointed it at a 2001 North Beachwood drive again, I was
feeling pretty low because no matter which way I added things, June Drake always came
out a minus, which wasn't good.
But sometimes Lady had a real sweet sister.
But then I told myself it was still the fog making the good look better and the bad worse
and the concentrate on my driving and the facts I had to go on.
When I did just that, I took my foot off the accelerator and slammed it down onto the brake
hard.
And it suddenly occurred to me that I was going the wrong way.
Because if I was right about Frank Melnick being a blackmailer and June Drake a killer,
the senora would keep a lot longer than the drinking man in the palace arms, third floor
rear.
I was only three quarters of an hour getting back down to Main Street.
But even as I started up the foul smelling rickety stairs, a small voice inside kept
telling me that I was too late.
But a second later, as I moved quietly toward Melnick's door, two other voices not so small
and coming from the room in question said otherwise, said that Melnick was still around
and as healthy as ever.
But better than that, that his guest was the lady my client was paying me to find, a lady
named June Drake.
All of which made this a good time for my right hand in the 38 in my pocket to get together
while I listened carefully and move closer until I was next to the door.
An empty gin bottle.
Open up Melnick before I blast my way in.
Come on.
Okay, wise guy, wait a minute.
For what?
For this exodus, I warned you, Melnick, get back.
Hey, hey, what's the matter with you?
What are you doing?
Looking for June Drake, remember?
Now where is she?
What are you talking about?
I'm alone in here.
Yeah?
You always talk to yourself in a high voice, don't you?
That window to the fire escape there is always open on foggy nights too, isn't it?
Listen, smart guy, I want to know where she...
Hey, wait a minute, this mink stole here.
Maybe it doesn't matter where she went.
Maybe she'll be back after she thinks I'm gone.
I don't think so.
You see, Mr. June Drake never left.
She's right behind you, stupid.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe.
But first, you'll find both pleasure and a chance for profit when you listen to Sing
It Again, CBS's hour-long Saturday night cavalcade of melody, riddles, and prizes.
Your chance for the greatest prize in radio, $53,000.
When Sing It Again comes your way over most of these same CBS network stations later tonight,
be sure you're listening.
$53,000.
It might be yours.
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's
story, The Lady in Mink.
Maybe June Drake used the spiked heel of a shoe, maybe the butt of a pistol, but either
way, it didn't matter because on the way to the floor, I bounced once off the sharp corner
of an end table and this was why all the lights in the world had gone out for me at once.
I was, they blinked on again one at a time and I dragged myself hand over hand along
the length of an iron bedpost until I was standing.
I saw there was blood oozing from a cut on the right side of my face.
But as the two rooms focused into one again, I forgot about the slightly battered Marlowe
and concentrated instead on an open newspaper lying at my feet.
Because written across it with an eyebrow pencil and firm but feminine hand were the
words, Grace, call off your private detective.
It's too late to help me.
I'm near the end.
But before I go, I'm going to take the two people with me who have wrecked my life.
Goodbye, June.
But then I started for the door and a hall phone to call the police.
But then I stopped.
Conscious for the first time of the half circle of hushed gaping faces and bathrobes that
stood in the doorway.
The gaping faces that weren't turned toward me but over to a shadowed corner where face
down in a pool of his own blood with the dead form of Frank Melnick.
In the middle of his back, an ice pick.
Red the hilt.
Lieutenant Ibarra's office.
Sergeant Mooney speaking.
Marlowe Mooney, where's Ibarra?
He had to go out of town.
Oh, well, look, Mooney, I'm at a place called the Palace Arms on Main near Fort.
Third floor rear.
There's a man named Frank Melnick with an ice pick in his back.
Very dead.
You know who he is, Marlowe?
Yeah, an ex-newspaper photographer, a drunk and I think a blackmailer in reverse order.
Any idea who did it?
Uh-huh.
One June Drake, a redheaded lady in mink, was out to kill herself just as soon as she
tidies up her affairs a bit, which I think includes killing again.
So if you'll put out a call for her, a mink by the way is a cape, a lady, young and about
five, six.
I'll try to get to what I think is her next stop before she does.
I'll call you later.
I got through to my client and broke the news.
She gasped and kept repeating no in a small, strained voice that kicked at the lining of
my insides no matter how fast I talked.
So in one breath, I told her that I was going first for Margarita Jaffe, then her husband,
either of whom could be next on June Drake's final agenda.
Then I gave her the Crestview phone number that Hugh Jaffe had given me.
Told her to call me there in an hour.
I hung up and ran for my car in 2001 North Beachward Drive, feeling punk.
It was a minute better than midnight when I got there and it was 10 wet dripping minutes
more before the door finally opened.
A hatchet faced housekeeper with a stocking on her head said that Mrs. Jaffe had left
a half hour ago saying something about meeting a woman.
And the housekeeper would have said more, but I was already back in my car heading for Brentwood
and number 41 Peacock Lane.
There, the Oriental Houseboy said the boss man was busy playing poker in the den.
In something stronger than Esperanto, I made it clear that my business was more important.
A minute later, a door opened on the far side of the room.
Excuse me, gentlemen.
Well, aren't you working a little late tonight, Marlo?
Murder isn't always done during office hours, Mr. Jaffe.
Murder?
Yeah, with an ice picket, that.
Tell me, have you heard from your wife or June Drake tonight?
No, of course not.
Why do you ask?
Because June Drake just killed a man named Melnick.
Killed a man?
What?
That's what, Mr. Jaffe?
That's hard to believe.
Why?
Because it was a man?
What were you expecting?
Don't be absurd, Marlo.
I was expecting nothing like this at all.
It shocked me.
Yeah, excuse me.
I'll take it myself, Jung, in the dining room.
Be with you in a minute, Marlo.
All right, Mr. Jaffe, make it fast, will you?
Love to listen on telephone.
June, listen to me.
You don't know much...
Wait a minute.
The private detective here, I think, is listening in on the extension.
It doesn't matter anymore.
Nobody can stop me now, Hugh.
I'm leaving tonight.
I only call to let you know that you don't have to worry anymore.
That I won't be any...
Never mind that.
Where are you, June?
Tell me.
I'm out in Santa Monica Ocean Way Hotel.
But don't try to do anything, Hugh.
It's too late.
Much too late.
Goodbye.
Mm.
Pretty talkative.
Marlo, you heard that, didn't you?
Yeah, I heard it all right.
You heard that too, didn't you?
I didn't like it, Jaffe, so...
Oh, don't bother.
This one's mine.
I'm expecting it.
Hello?
Hello, I wanted...
Oh, is that you, Marlo?
Yeah.
Look, Grace, your sister just called and...
Well, it doesn't look too good, honey.
Grace called?
Oh, but Phil, where is she?
Do you know?
Is she all right?
She isn't, Grace.
Any way you look at it.
Now, tell me, where are you?
My place, the Beverly Crest Hotel.
All right, now stay there.
I'll talk to you as soon as I can, Grace.
Goodbye.
But where are you going?
Thanks for your cooperation, Jaffe.
It's been a lot of help.
I'll also talk to you as soon as I can.
Believe me.
When I got outside, piled into my car and took off,
I didn't know if I was racing to keep a mixed-up girl
from committing suicide or going after a murderer.
I was scheduled to kill again.
I was 20 precious minutes following the wriggle
at Sunset Boulevard from Brentwood to Santa Monica,
where it hits into US 101 that parallels the Pacific.
And out there with the fog even thicker,
I was 20 minutes again finding the Ocean Way Hotel.
The landlady there was a fat henna blonde
with a mouthful of gold and foul language.
She said that she never heard of a June Drake
until I lied that I was an L.A. cop
and described the girl as a lot of red hair
flowing over a mink stole who could be using any name.
Then she told me that what I called June had just been
a woman visitor a little while ago.
At that we started down a short carter to our rented room, fast.
I wouldn't do this for no one but a cop.
Brother, believe me, we both better be talking about the same girl.
There's enough fuss at this hour.
It's a room there.
No light on. I thought you said she had a visitor.
Maybe the visitor went home. What do you expect?
Two o'clock in the morning.
Not a peep.
Come on, open it up.
Open it up. Now he tells me.
He's got my keys over on the other side in my room.
Okay, then we'll get in the hard way.
You'll cut it out. You'll bust my door.
Take it easy, blondie. You're in for a shock.
Oh, dear.
Okay, turn the lights on.
That... that's the woman that visited her.
Yeah. Spanish woman known as Margarita Jaffe.
Ice pick and all.
I better get a little air over here by the window.
I don't feel so good.
And I better get to her phone and...
There's a cigarette over there. It's still smoldering.
She may not be very far away.
Brother, you set a mouthful. Come here and look.
What is it? What do you see?
There, the pier under that street lamp. Ain't that the one you're after?
Where? Oh, yeah, yeah.
Red hair and minks. She's seen us.
Right out to the end of the pier. She's running.
Call the cops. Blondie, sit tight. I'll see you later.
By the time I got out to the street and across the way,
she was already out on the pier.
I caught one glimpse of her red hair and then nothing but the fog
that swallowed her up like she was made of smoke.
I ran toward the spot where she had disappeared
and tried to yell over the crash of the waves for her to come back
when I heard it.
After that, things happened fast.
From somewhere, the cop on the beat, then Blondie,
then a couple of scared kids who were be-necking in a car,
and then more.
I knew it. Oh, I knew it. I sure all passed me a couple of minutes ago.
The rest two nights, I should have stopped her.
Mr. Chijomp?
Yeah. I'll just shine your light over there, will you?
I thought I saw something move.
Okay, but in this fog, we won't be able to see much.
Besides, with those waves and the undertow around here,
she hasn't had a chance. Maybe not. She never can tell.
Hey, hey, move the light over a little. To your left.
Yeah, that's it. There on the piling.
I don't see nothing there. Just a greasy pool.
Here, look. On that cross piece
near the water line on the piling.
Was that hers?
Yeah, that was hers, all right.
What is it, mister? That blondie is a very valuable fur.
A stole made of mink.
I never could figure where people came from
at 3 o'clock in the morning when something nasty happened.
But they always do.
Some come to help, some just to stare,
and others maybe to see if they can take it.
An hour after I'd heard June Drake scream,
we'd found nothing but the stole.
I couldn't take any more.
Maybe it was still the fog.
Maybe... maybe it was the thought
that my hotel room up in Beverly Hills,
a sweet kid named Grace Tyler,
was waiting to hear from me,
and I knew that sooner or later I had to call her.
I lit a cigarette and started to walk across
the ocean way in the nearest phone.
But then, just as I was about to enter the hotel lobby,
I stopped
and slowly turned back toward the pier
and the swirling cloak of ocean-covering fog,
a crazy thought seeping into my mind
like an ever-widening circle of ink
into a white blotter.
I knew that I was going to die.
I was going to die.
Until finally there was nothing but dark.
I made my call to Grace
and told her to get downstairs into a taxi
and over to police headquarters,
where we had a long story to tell.
An hour later,
we were sitting in Ibarra's office
and Sergeant Mooney knew what had happened
to Grace at five o'clock that afternoon.
Well, Marlow,
it looks like June Drake meant what she said in that note.
She took care of Melnick, Mrs. Jaffe,
and then herself.
Did they recover the body before you left?
No, Sergeant, they didn't.
And I don't think they will.
You mean the undertow?
No, I don't. I mean something a little more treacherous.
What are you saying, Phil?
That this whole thing was a frame, Grace.
The interested parties, you, Jaffe, and your sister, June.
The object, get rid of the difficult Mrs. Jaffe.
The means, have June Drake kill her
without keeping her intentions much of a secret,
and then have June Drake pretend to kill herself.
The result,
the police never bother looking for June Drake,
and when all is forgotten,
June and Hugh Jaffe get together in some other city
under some other name.
Oh, no. No, Phil, I don't believe that.
I don't believe any of this. I can't. I won't.
I don't...
Hold it, please, Miss Tyler.
I'm sorry. Go on, Phil.
Well, this part's a guess at the moment,
but it'll hang together.
Mrs. Jaffe wouldn't give Hugh a divorce.
Jealousy? Yeah, that and one idiosyncrasy.
The signora was crazy about money,
and since he was doing the running around,
a divorce would cost him much more than he was willing to pay.
Which means that although Miss Tyler here hired you,
you fell into the stellar role of the patsy,
the star witness.
Would always be close enough to later tell a story
they wanted to,
but never close enough to actually catch June Drake,
who has already murdered twice tonight.
Right.
Then, Marlow, big question.
Where is June Drake now?
That is something I worked on all night.
I almost had the answer once.
I almost caught June at Melonyx Flat
in the Palace Arms because I surprised her.
She thought I was going to Mrs. Jaffe's house at the time,
but I changed my mind.
Remember, Grace? What?
Oh, you must remember, baby.
You were there.
You were there. You're June Drake.
Well, Phil, now that we've picked up Hugh Jaffe
and it's all over,
I still don't see how you actually knew
that Grace Tyler and June Drake
were one and the same.
I was lucky, Moony. When Grace called me at Hugh Jaffe's house
right after she called as June,
I heard a bell boy in the background
over the phone,
but I didn't think much about it at the time.
Yet Grace claimed to be at her hotel
in Beverly Hills.
It wasn't until I began to think of the whole thing
as a frame that everything fell into place.
The clues planted so I couldn't miss them
all the way down the line.
The book of matches, the mink, the red hair was a fall.
And another thing, Moony,
Hugh Jaffe was much too surprised
when I told him that June Drake had killed Melonyx, a man.
He expected the murder of his wife, Margarita.
Why did June kill Frank Malik?
Because he was blackmailing her.
You see, Melonyx knew that June had murdered her first husband.
June was stuck.
She couldn't let her future husband know what had happened to her past one.
So she included him in as victim number two.
Besides, that's the only final payment she can ever make to a blackmailer.
Then, Marlow, June Drake is the real person
that never actually was a sister named Grace Tyler, was it?
No.
I'm not sure.
No.
No, I guess there never was a Grace Tyler.
Ever.
Night, Sergeant.
The Night of the Dead
Outside it was that strange time.
Between the end of one night
and the beginning of the day that follows.
When I looked up,
I could see that the thick, heavy fog
that had been with me ever since I'd first met the woman
called Grace Tyler
was lifting,
breaking apart.
So that here and there it was only
thin, spiraling wisps
above which there was the pale, gray promise
of a nice tomorrow.
As I walked along, it seemed to me that
there was less and less fog.
Until by the time I'd gone a few blocks,
I was sure that
I could feel fresh air,
cold against my face.
And clean.
I figured I might walk until
the sun came up.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe
created by Raymond Chandler, star Gerald Moore,
and are produced and directed by Norman McDonnell.
Script is by Mel Dinelli, Robert Mitchell,
and Gene Leavitt.
Featured in the cast were Lynn Allen,
Lillian Byeth, Edgar Berrier,
Whitfield Connor, Anne Morrison,
Lou Krugman, and Jimmy Eagles.
The special music is by Richard O'Rant.
Be sure and be with us again next week when
Philip Marlowe says...
An iron skull was their trademark.
Their business was climbing walls
and it was all done on wheels at 70 miles an hour.
But that was a cinch for the death cheaters.
Until they felt murder
with a feminine touch.
Sunday is the day when CBS brings you the tops in comedy.
But it's also a day when you'll find
big-hearted Danny Clover patrolling the Great White Way.
Broadway is my beat, says Danny Clover.
And every Sunday he's on the radio.
On CBS Sunday you'll also find
Dashiell Hammett's one and only Sam Spade
cutting another of his famous capers.
Broadway is my beat,
and the adventures of Sam Spade
are regular Sunday features on 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 Colombian.
Broadcasting System.