It was only a gambler's marker, a promise to pay worth a thousand dollars.
I was hired to find it, which sounded easy, until I realized that it meant the whole future
to two men, freedom to a third, and death to the girl in the cottage.
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
Promise to Pay.
It started over a bottle of port at five o'clock in the afternoon, when Mama Nodella, a proud
old lady who ran a restaurant, bet me I couldn't prepare a dish of chicken, cacciatore.
I never pass up a bet.
So at 5.30, I picked up a can of chicken, and at six had gone to work on it.
At a quarter after seven, everything was ready for the pen, and my enthusiasm was at a high
F until the telephone rang.
And what I thought was a check call from Mama Nodella turned out instead to be Garfield
Randall.
He was a used to be client, who at 32 was currently setting the LA business world on
its ear.
Say, hello, did you see the article about me in this morning's paper?
John Randall, probably next head of Continental Land and Trust?
Yes, that's it.
Chairman of the board, isn't it, Gar?
Yes.
Job I've been after for two years.
So?
Well, it's a job that'll go to somebody else at noon tomorrow, Phil.
Unless you can get me out of a nasty mess I'm in.
What's her name?
Terry D...
How did you know it was a woman, Phil?
It's a trade secret.
What do you want me to do?
Well, come over here to my place, 91 Laurel Canyon, immediately.
I'll explain then.
You can make it, can't you, Phil?
I mean, now, right away?
Yeah, yeah, I guess so.
Right away, Gar.
But it hurts.
Arrivederci, cacciatore.
Oh, come in, Marl.
Quickly.
I'm due there at eight and it's almost that now.
A small point, Gar, but just where is there?
Oh, where?
Terry Dodger's cottage over in the valley.
3847 Sweat Drive.
Just beyond Arthur Murray's place on Ventura.
I'm expected because the lady wants $20,000 to keep her mouth shut.
About what?
The fact that a few days ago, an innocent evening with some new friends ended up with
me gambling and losing $1,000 at Paul Naylor's Club on Lancashire Boulevard, also in the
valley 3100 North.
I didn't have the cash on me, so he took my IOU.
Your marker would interest who in particular?
Only the entire board of directors of Continental Land and Trust.
They feel their executives should be above that sort of thing, even once in a while.
And this Terry Dodge, can she prove that you lost $1,000 gambling?
Well, according to this message here, yes.
It came a few minutes before I called you, together with my picture, which you returned,
frame and all.
Here.
No.
God, dear, I gave Naylor the thousand and didn't pick up your notice requested.
But now I'm confused.
Do I give it back to you or submit it to your board of directors tomorrow?
Oh, by the way, the chinchilla we saw last week is on sale.
I hear only $20,000 is bought right away.
Probably cost more tomorrow.
See what I mean?
Yeah, yeah.
Drop around and see me at eight tonight, will you?
I'd like your advice on the matter much love, Terry P.S.
Don't worry about the safety of the note, darling.
I have the perfect hiding place for it.
Hmm.
Tender, huh?
Tell me, Gar, how close were you and this vampire?
Oh, we went together for about a year.
Winter was getting cold.
Because you've been on the way up?
Because she's been on the way down, Marla.
Hmm.
Why'd you give her the money to deliver in the first place?
Well, you see, Phil, I couldn't afford to go near a gambler like Paul Naylor once I'd
been nominated for the chairmanship.
Of course, I didn't suspect for a minute that Terry would do anything like this.
So when I didn't hear from Terry by six, I called Naylor.
He told me that she had already delivered the money, but he also told me that she'd
burned the note in front of him at his suggestion.
Which might mean that Terry Dodge is just bluffing, you know.
Yes, or that Paul Naylor is just lying.
Your job, Phil, is to find out the truth as soon as possible.
And if I do and the note does exist, what then, Gar?
Then I pay.
I have to.
It's my whole future.
Yeah.
Call you in an hour, Gar, from the valley.
To Randall generously settle a matter of my fee with two crisp $100 bills.
I got into my car and wound through Laurel Canyon into the San Fernando Valley in Sunswept
Drive where I parked away from number 3840, which was the kind of all alone green and
white ivy-choked cottages that life insurance ads wonder if you'll own when you're 65 and
out of work.
With one exception.
The place was lit up like opening night at a Hollywood delicatessen.
And when I got close to the front door, which was half open and splashing bright yellow
over the mat marked welcome, I heard a radio from someplace deep inside playing slow, sad
swing.
When I knocked twice and got only more Dixieland for an answer, I walked in calling Terry Dodge's
name out loud as I moved through the empty living room.
I couldn't tell why, but even as I said the name, I had the uncomfortable feeling that
I was wasting my breath.
And a minute later when I entered the bedroom, I was sure of it because there every drawer,
closet and cubby hole had been turned inside out.
And in the middle of all that and face up on the carpet was the still form of a beautiful
blonde woman in a black silk hostess gown.
The monogram in white over her breast pocket said she was Terry Dodge.
The ugly circle of dark red on the side of her head said she was dead.
Back to her body, I found the pieces of two airline tickets for Mexico City.
Beyond that, the brass candelabra that had killed her.
I dropped the tickets into my pocket and then went back to the living room and to telephone
call my client.
But when I reached for it, it went off.
Hello.
Hello, Terry.
Who is this?
Friend of the family.
Why?
Oh, I'm curious by nature, friend of the family.
Now, is Terry there?
Yeah.
She can't come to the phone right now.
Any message?
No.
Tell her Rip Stranigan wants to talk to if you don't mind.
I don't.
Oh, Terry, it's Rip Stranigan.
What?
Okay.
Sorry, Stranigan.
She'll have to call you back in a minute and...
And what?
And excuse me, but an unexpected visitor just dropped in.
A beautiful one at that.
With a gun.
And she knows how to use.
Very well.
The lady was tall with dark eyes and darker hair.
But framed her face the color of warm honey and she was wearing something white and plunging,
which from the waist up had all the material in it of the average necktie.
Who are you?
Rip Stranigan.
Mean anything?
Only that you're a liar.
I've seen Stranigan and in the first place, Terry's boyfriend's an ex football player
about twice your size.
Oh?
Also, he's from Texas and you couldn't be.
Oh, no.
And just between us, you're much better looking.
So once more, who are you?
Little boy Blue, who are you?
Me?
Well, I'm Annabelle, Terry's sister.
Always come home with a.38 in your hand?
Well, I only use this gun, Mr. Blue, because I thought you were a proler.
Oh.
With the radio off so you can concentrate, how about the truth?
All right.
I'm a private detective named Philip Marlow.
Came here to talk to Terry Dodge.
When I found the door open and nobody home, I decided to wait.
Now, I can't wait any longer because I'm late for an appointment.
So if you'll tell Terry I call, I'll appreciate it.
Good night, Annabelle.
Wait a minute before you go one thing.
What's that?
You were wrong about being little boy Blue.
Oh.
You're prettier.
Good night.
My ego sent the lady away for me.
But my professional cynicism labeled her local mother hurry and suggested that I keep
both feet on the ground.
So when I was out of her sight at the front door, I tried the oldest trick in the book,
which was opening it and then slamming it hard from the inside, which worked.
Because when I quietly moved back to where we'd been standing, she was already in the
bedroom.
Oh, no!
And I was glad to hear surprised at what she'd found there.
When she ran back into the living room, the face now the color of wet ashes grabbed for
the telephone and dialed the number that was more than the three digits that would bring
the police.
Hello.
I was close enough to hear what she said.
This is Maxine.
She's dead.
Yes, in her bedroom.
And the place has been turned upside down.
So somebody else is after that note, too.
No.
No, only a private detective named Marlow.
Well, he didn't act like it.
Said he was waiting for her.
I'll tell you all about it later when I see...
What?
Keep looking.
Listen, maybe you didn't understand me.
Terry Dodger's dead.
She's been murdered.
Well, Maxine Rossi doesn't want to be standing around with jam on her face when the police
arrive.
It's hard on the reputation.
Well, all right.
One more look around, but believe me, it'll be a fast one.
Goodbye.
When she hung up an inch back toward the bedroom like it was a snake pit, I headed for the door
and kept going until I was outside and over to where I'd left my car parked in the shadow
of a huddle of dwarf palms.
But then as I was about to get in, what I thought was just another tree reached out with
both hands, grabbed me by the lapels and slammed me hard against the side of my own car.
Before I could get back onto my feet, what had to be the ex-gridiron great from Texas
had both my gun and my wallet out and was smiling with more teeth than I'd ever seen
before.
Well, the friend of the family is a private detective, I see.
Yeah, and the athlete's a scholar, he reads.
Shut up, Marlow.
Smart aleck talk won't get you out of this.
Now, what were you doing in my girl's apartment?
Looking for a blackmailer named Terry Dodge.
And before you get all worked up and muscled, make up your mind.
You want the truth or hot air out of me?
You got a lot of nerve, fella.
Doesn't answer the question.
All right.
I'll take the truth.
But if there's anything but that, I'll break you in two.
Now start talking.
Why'd you call Terry a blackmailer?
Because until tonight, she was up to her mascara in a deal that called for a man named Garfield
Randall to pay her 20,000 bucks to keep his future intact.
I don't believe you.
I never heard her speak that name.
Proves the point, Strenigan.
They've been going together off and on for a year now.
What?
Why, just last night, Terry told me that she didn't even want to see any other man.
And as of last night, that might have been the truth.
Because a few hours ago, this Randall got his framed picture back from her with interest.
The demand for the $20,000?
The same.
Strenigan, what would you say if I told you Terry Dodge has been murdered?
No, no.
No, Marlowe.
Let go.
You're lying.
Strenigan, let go.
Come on, my throat.
It's true, do you hear?
Let go.
I'm sorry, fella.
Do you have any idea who did it?
Yeah.
Yeah, but there's still a little groundwork to be done before I get to the bottom of this.
Before I go to the police.
You mean nobody knows about this yet?
Outside of a girl named Maxine Rossi, someone she talked to on the telephone on the murder
and no.
Now tell me, Strenigan, did you ever hear Terry speak of either this Rossi girl or a gambling
note that a guy named Paul Naylor held?
No.
No, I didn't, Marlowe.
But where do those two fit in?
That Strenigan comes under the heading of groundwork.
Now, if you can keep all this under your sombrero until you hear from me again, I'll take my
gun and wallet and get going.
What do you say?
I say yes.
On one condition, Marlowe.
When you do get to the killer, I'll get first crack at him.
Fair enough.
Now where can I reach you?
4812 North Ogden Drive.
You think you'll need any help?
I don't know.
Paul Naylor is my next stop and according to the talk downtown, he's a hard man to get
next to.
I'll call you later.
The club Paul Naylor ran out on North Lancashire didn't have a name, but the numbers 3100 would
tape luminous scotch light.
They're easy to find.
However, unless you knew the man behind the peephole, you were nowhere.
So 20 minutes later when I was out of my car and walking toward the steel plated back door,
I decided that getting in to see the head man of the house had to be approached like that
was the last thing in the world I wanted to do.
I stayed in the shadows of the building and moved a slow step at a time until I saw a
little oily man in a pink shirt, white knit tie and fuzzy black fedora nearby notice me.
Then I moved faster until I was at the steel door and so was he with a 45 in his hand.
Lost something mister?
No, I was...
What's the gun for?
Trespassers.
These are private grounds.
Oh, I'm sorry.
I didn't know that.
Oh, by the way, I thought this was...
Never mind what you thought.
Now get over there, stand very still while I make a phone call inside.
Phone call?
What for, cops?
No, stupid, the gentleman who lives here, Mr. Paul Naylor.
I think he'd like to talk to you while you can still talk.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe, but first, a man who knows something
about cars makes a better driver than a man who's completely blank about what's underneath
the hood.
And in the same way, a man who knows something about our American economic system is able
to be a better citizen than a man who hasn't any idea at all about what makes the wheels
go around.
Understanding our system of mass production enables one to feel renewed pride in the high
standard of living this kind of production has helped provide.
And it's understanding, too, that enables us to work at some of our system's defects,
like sharp ups and downs in prices and jobs.
So read, study, listen.
And with all of us working together, we can increase our productivity still further and
provide for even wider distribution of benefits.
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's
story, The Promise to Pay.
The oily little man in the pink silk shirt spoke briefly into the phone, then breathed
garlic in my face while his free hand dotted neatly inside my jacket.
When I came out at 38 with it, then he jerked me around, unlocked the heavy back door, shoved
me through, and marched me on the business end of his 45 down a strip of blue carpet
ankle deep to another door of glossy blonde mahogany.
He slammed me face first up against it, then signaled for an audience.
The door swung open, he prodded me, but I stumbled into an office of jungle green drapes
and pale beige furniture upholstered in leopard skin.
The face that peered at me over eight feet of desktop smiled from the ears down.
From the ears up, I'd have never known what smiling meant.
We have a front door for our friends.
I know.
That's why I went to the back.
I figured I'd pick up an escort there and bypass all that muscular red tape you keep
out in front.
Maybe that's smart figuring, maybe not.
Depends.
What do you want?
Call you a liar, Nailer.
Oh!
Mind your manners, stupid.
You weigh out a line.
You're building up quite an account, Oilly.
You take some long chances, mister.
What's your name?
Marlowe.
I still want to know why you lied to a friend of mine about burning his marker.
Marlowe, huh?
Wait outside, Quincy.
I'll call you.
Okay, Mr. Nailer.
All right, Marlowe.
So you're Randall's boy, right?
I've talked to him.
When Randall called you, you told him that his girl, Terry Dodge, had delivered the money,
okay, but that you saw her burn his marker.
That's what I thought I saw at the time.
What'd you really see?
She put the marker in her purse and started out of here, but I called her back and told
her to burn it.
Why?
Because I like my name floating around, Marlowe, especially now, where things tightened up
like they are.
So she went over to the fireplace there and burned a piece of paper.
But it wasn't the note, huh?
Right boy.
That call from Randall gave me ideas.
I checked the pieces left in the fireplace and they weren't even the same kind of paper
as the marker.
So somebody's shooting an angle, Marlowe, one with my name on it.
I don't like that.
I suppose you got the marker back all right.
Not yet, however I intend to.
But on your first try, you got too rough too fast.
And killed Terry before she'd talk, is that it?
You know, if I were you, I'd bite my tongue off before I'd say a thing like that.
Even joking.
Who's joking?
Girl's been murdered, your way.
Smart people die every day, lots of ways.
Yes, well, thanks for the information.
Good night.
Sit down.
Wait a minute, Nailer, the interview's over.
Not quite.
What's Randall steamed up about?
The blackmail, which puts you both in the same boat.
If I get the marker to protect him, I have to protect you at the same time for no extra
charge.
Let's be sensible.
Sensible?
Okay.
Quincy?
Yeah, Mr. Nailer?
I'm going out.
Sit on Marlowe here, real hard if necessary, till I get back.
Sure.
It'll be a pleasure, won't it, Mr. Marlowe?
O'Reilly straightened his tie and sat down opposite me, humming to himself.
Then he unfolded a racing form, tilted his chair back, and apparently forgot about me.
He was a perfect setup for a very old gang, because the two back legs of his chair were
perched on the far edge of a green hook rug that I could reach easily.
His eyes okayed my request to light a smoke, and then he dropped my matches.
I bent down to get them, I grabbed the rug instead, and he hangs hard.
Couldn't resist, could you, sucker?
I'm faster than I look.
Come on, I should have known.
Fell 100 percent.
Now I got an excuse to work, yo.
Wait a minute, Nailer will want to talk to me when he gets back, Stooge.
You'll be able to talk, only maybe you won't think so good.
Get back there in the corner.
Go on, move.
That's it.
Now turn around and face the wall.
He kept the.45 pointed at my middle, even while he shifted it to his left hand.
Then he dipped his right into the side pocket and brought it out, clenched around an ugly
set of brass knucks.
There was a tight knot in the pit of my stomach as he started toing me.
I just made up my mind to try for his gun, regardless when I heard it.
When I turned and looked, Oilly was sprawled face down on the floor and sprinkled with
chunks of shattered crockery and standing over him like a victorious gladiator was Maxine
Rossi.
Nailer, I came as soon as I found out you were in here.
He is so vicious, this Quincy.
Not at the moment, baby, thanks to you.
But I don't get it.
There's no time for talk now.
Come to the roulette table as soon as you can.
Hurry, darling.
I watched this slip through a side door.
Then rolled Quincy over, got my gun back in its holster and all of seven seconds later
went out through the same side door.
It opened into a lush room, 50 by 50, checkerboarded with people bunched around evenly spaced
gaming tables.
I moved toward the click of a roulette wheel and found Maxine there throwing blue chips
around with a subtle recklessness that meant she had a fortune to squander or that she
was a shill for Nailer.
How's your luck, baby?
Still holding?
Uh-huh.
It is so far.
But it may change any instant now.
Yeah, well, I guess it's my turn then.
Come on, I'll pick up some chips.
Ten black.
Marla, we gotta get you out of here.
You work for Nailer, don't you, Maxine?
Yes, but not like I'd work for you, Marla.
Oh?
He sent you up to Terry Dodge's place tonight to find out what she wanted with that marker.
And it was Nailer you called when you found Terry's body, huh?
Yeah.
He just left, Marla, not a minute ago.
50 double O.
Where was he heading?
I don't know, but one of those scraps of paper that wasn't burned in the fireplace, there
was a telephone number of a travel agency on it.
He had that with him.
A travel agency?
Yeah.
That might be the one shot I need.
Listen, Maxine, I...
Uh-oh.
The boys have got me pegged.
They're moving in.
I was afraid of this.
Wait till the lights go out, darling, and then run for it.
The lights?
Baby, I love you.
What about you, Maxine?
Don't worry.
My father was a longshoreman in San Francisco.
I don't know how to get there.
She walked slowly as far as the back corridor, then started to run, and as the two gorillas'
angle toward the room toward me, I pretended to study the odds on the craptable while I
edged for the door.
They were almost up to me when the room went suddenly black.
And a girl, Maxine.
I ducked low and bellied for the front entrance, all stops open.
And a few seconds later, I was outside.
I put 50 yards between me and the front porch before I so much as slowed down.
When I did, I saw something else.
Paul Naylor himself across the street just getting into his car.
I pulled my gun out and ran for him.
Hey, Naylor!
Marlow, how did you get...
Say, what's going on?
I want that phone number you got in your pocket.
Phone number?
I don't know what you're talking about.
That's too bad because I don't have time to explain.
It was five minutes and all of five miles later when I stopped at a gas station and
climbed into a phone booth to call the travel agency number on the half-burned piece of
paper that I'd taken from Paul Naylor.
I was sure now that at least I'd get an answer to fit the two airline tickets to Mexico City.
But the girl who answered the phone exploded that dream with her opening line.
Good evening, Canadian and Northern Railway Agency.
Hannah, it didn't make sense.
On a hunch, I shot a girl with a description of Terry Dodge and hit pay dirt on the first
try.
A woman who matched it had made a reservation that afternoon to leave for Canada at midnight
alone.
But then the girl asked me a question.
The answer to that made my next stop, my client, as fast as I could get there.
I drive into Laurel Canyon and up the twisting trail they call the road, put some new gray
in my hair.
But before I got to Randall's house, I pulled over, parked, and climbed the rest of the
way quietly on foot.
A long, brown convertible that wasn't Randall's squatted under the bushes beside the house.
I crossed the patio and went in through an open window.
I could hear voices, so I inched along the back hole of an open study door and listened.
Don't try anything cute, buddy, or I'll break you in two.
And I mean it.
Well, what do you say?
Give me the money and I'll give you that marker.
Well, I...
How do I know you've got the marker?
Where did you get it?
I killed that double-crossing girlfriend of ours, sweet Miss Terry Dodge, to get it.
That's where.
What?
You...
You mean Terry's dead?
Yeah.
We were pulling this deal together and then going to Mexico.
But she got greedy, was going to get the money and take off for Canada alone.
So now I'm doing it alone.
Get the dough, Randall.
Time's short.
Wait, I...
I want to see the marker first.
Well, sure.
Hand me that picture there.
That's right, pretty boy.
The one Terry sent back to you today.
Come on.
All right.
Here.
Thanks.
Hey, what are you...
What?
The marker.
It was behind my picture all the time.
Yeah, Terry was real smart.
And so was that blabbermouth Marlowe.
He dipped me off of the whole thing when he told me Terry sent this back to you today.
The marker wasn't anyplace else, so it had to be here.
And here it is, Randall.
All yours.
For 20 grand.
No.
No, I won't pay it.
I had to pay Terry blackmail for that note, but I won't see you to kill it.
All right, Randall, have it your way.
I'm walking out that front door, and that means I got to leave you dead on the floor.
Randall, that's not this time, Marlowe.
Marlowe, that was awfully close.
Never mind that.
Come on, let's get him.
Oh, you missed him.
Yeah, stay here.
I'll get him.
I...
Oh, my car.
I left it halfway down the hill.
It'll be 10 miles away the way he's driving before I can get to it.
He's got to be good to drive those roads that fast.
Hill.
He went over.
He was going too fast to get around your car.
He went over.
Yeah.
And if anybody ever had it coming, it was Rep. Strangigan.
All American.
By the time we got down to the crash, the canyon was swarming with people.
An ambulance and two prowl cars wind in, and 30 minutes later, the mess was all cleaned
up.
The police verdict was speed on a dangerous road, and the doctor's forecast was DOA.
So Randall and I went back to his place and spent another 30 minutes over some much needed
brandy, while I told him everything that had happened.
Great, Scott.
And it seemed like such a simple thing, Phil.
Pay a gambling debt and get the mark.
Yeah.
Hard to realize all this happened just because of that.
Well, that plus the fact that you let a pair of nasty characters get you in a spot.
Yeah.
It's also hard to believe that they're both dead now and it's all over.
You did a wonderful job, Phil.
I had some wonderful help from Miss Maxine Rossi.
There's a kid with lots on the ball, believe me.
Say, do you think she got away from Naylor all right?
With her talent, you can count on it.
But just to play safe, I'm going to let Mr. Naylor know it's hands off, or I'll see his
joint rip wide open.
I'd sure like to help, but I've just sown my last untamed oat.
Yeah, I think so.
Well, you're in good shape now.
The boys at headquarters are reasonable.
I'll run along and tell them what they need to know.
Okay.
Oh, well, Phil, just one thing first.
When you called the agency, the Canadian Railway, you said the girl there asked you a question
and that's why you came up here so fast.
What did she say?
Oh, she wanted to know if I was the tall gentleman from Texas with the nice teeth who had inquired
earlier about the ladies' reservations.
And he got all upset, which of course can only mean ripped Stranigan.
That explained the tickets from Mexico, the murder of the ransacked house, and all the
rest of it.
Oh, I see.
You know, the more I think about it, Gar, the luckier you get.
Good night.
Happy board meeting.
It was two o'clock in the morning.
The thought of my kitchen littered with dead chicken, raw rice, and the jumble of spices
practically turned my stomach until I opened my apartment door.
And then, one step at a time, I got it.
The delicious odor of chicken, gachiatore, cooked to perfection.
The sight of a gleaming table set in candlelight.
The sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle of wine.
And all done in a fine Italian hand, the hand of a long showman's daughter from San Francisco.
And then, a startling idea hit me.
You know, if Maxine Rossi could only... but she can.
You know this is dangerous?
Oh, brother.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, created by Raymond Chandler, star Gerald Moore, and
are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
Script is by Meldanelli, Robert Mitchell, and Gene Levitt.
Featured in the cast were Bill Johnstone, Betty Lou Gerson, Barney Phillips, John Danaer,
and Jack Crouchon.
The special music is by Richard O'Runt.
Be sure to be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
When it started, the tide was high on the San Pedro waterfront, and a hot-tempered kid
had murder on his mind.
But there was a knife at my throat, a beating under the piers, and a corpse on the beach
before the tide went out again.
The kid was finally stopped.
Just about an hour from now, most of these same CBS network stations will bring you the
hour-long Sing It Again program, a CBS Saturday night favorite, and the show with radio's
biggest jackpot.
Of course, tonight the jackpot's down to only $50,000 because last week somebody guessed
the identity of the phantom voice.
Still, $50,000 isn't hay.
$25,000 is invaluable prizes for correctly guessing the new phantom's identity.
Then there's an additional $25,000, this time in cold cash, if the phantom guesser can answer
just one more question about the phantom.
There'll be other prizes, too, for cracking one of the many delightful riddle songs.
So be sure to stick around for Sing It Again.
This is Roy Rowan speaking.
Now listen to Gangbusters, which follows immediately over most of these same CBS stations.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.