Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel it wind up in the gutter of the prison or the grave.
There's no other end, but they never learn.
This time it was going to be a vacation in the wide open spaces,
but a black stallion, a tiny emerald and a battered horseshoe met a 24-hour delay.
It could have been worse, because to the dude from Manhattan they meant death.
From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of Mystery, comes his most famous character and crime's most deadly enemy.
As we present, The Adventures of Philip Marlowe.
Now with Gerald Moore, star of Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story, The Dude from Manhattan.
Every so often life in the city seems to boil down to nothing but noise and concrete.
Where all a deep breath does for you is to pack more exhaust fumes into your lungs.
And the nearest thing to nature is a mangy sparrow pecking survival out of a dirty alley.
So when I got a long distance call from an old friend inviting me to spend a week in the great outdoors at a ranch he just bought near Rattlesnake Mountain,
I snapped at the chance.
Inside an hour I was rolling down the highway towards San Bernardino and 120 miles later at 5 o'clock I turned in under a big arch of gnarled cedar that spelled out Rainbow Ranch.
But the layout beyond was about as primitive as a dry martini.
A ranch house the size of a Union Station was backed up by blue-tiled swimming pool, paved tennis court and a semicircle of bungalows with all the rustic charm of a Hollywood motel.
I drove on in slowly as a broad brimmed hat, red gabardine shirt, hickock belt and hand-tooled boots bounced out the door and ran toward me.
It was my host, the ex-hotel man Harold R. Lawson.
Oh rascal, how are you boy? I am sure glad you can make it.
File out and I'll show you around.
Hey, what is all this Harold? From your phone call I expected a shack with oil lamps, a wood stove and at least a few head of cattle.
What, you mean I didn't tell you? Why, this is a guest ranch Phil, guest ranch. The best in the West.
Oh brother.
Oh and incidentally don't call me Harold. Bad atmosphere for the dudes. The name's Buck now, Buck Lawson.
Buck? Oh no.
Oh I got real spread here Phil, real spread. Fourteen big cabins, string of thirty horses, stables down there.
Hello Buck, beautiful day isn't it?
Howdy folks, sure is. Mr. and Mrs. Doberman, he's a big van storage man in L.A.
As I was saying, thunder.
Who's coming, Red Rider?
Not funny Phil, not funny. Look, it's thunder. That black devil, he's loose again.
That horse will kick the fence down if those fools don't hold him.
Hey, hey, that's some animal, he's a beauty.
Yes and a renegade. A skittish temperamental bronco with anybody but Virgil Sawyer.
Yeah? Oh they got a rope on him now, that'll hold him huh?
Not for long. Sawyer's the only hand I've got who can get close to that stallion. He's leaving tomorrow, blast it.
How come?
Well, frankly that's what I wanted to talk to you about.
Yeah, wait a minute, I came up here for a rest, not a job.
I know, I know, you'll get it Phil, you'll get it. But since you're here, I figure you could sort of keep your eyes open for me.
Lawson, it's a dirty trick.
No, no, no, Phil, please. I'm expecting trouble and bluntly I can't afford it.
Every cent I've got is tied up in this ranch. A serious scandal could ruin me. And you're just the one who can keep that sort of thing from happening.
Okay, okay, so it's the old hotel business on horseback. How does a Sawyer mean trouble?
Well, there's a couple here from the East, the Mortons. He's a top silk wholesaler from New York and rich.
And that kind means everything to me, Phil. But his wife, Judy, an ex-dance instructor with Arthur Murray back East, is, well she's bored stiff out here.
And the upshot of it all is that some of you...
Somehow she and your cowboy Sawyer started making eyes at each other and the husband got nasty about it huh?
How did you know that?
Yeah, well it's standard, like a B-picture plot. Well, anyway, they came to blow us this morning.
Maybe Virgil's innocent, maybe not, but I can't take a chance, so I fired him.
Ordered him to pack and get off the place by tomorrow.
Well, that's that. What are you worried about?
Plenty. Sawyer's a proud man, Marlow. He was furious. He threatened to get even.
I'm not sure he means it, but if he does, well, that's what we have to look out for.
The we, huh?
Now look, Buck, you built me into coming up here and I got a good notion to turn around...
Wait, wait, wait. Hold it, Phil.
What's the matter?
You see that couple going into cabin number eight?
Yeah?
That's the couple I'm talking about. The Mortons, Paul and Judy.
Cabin eight, huh? But don't tell me, just let me guess.
Yeah.
You're right, Phil. You've got number seven, okay?
Yeah, sure. Number seven it is. I'll be seeing you, Buck.
I walked up to number seven and waited for the boy to show up with my bag.
Then I started to unpack, but stopped when I heard a riot next door.
At that point, sprawling Rainbow Ranch was just a horizontal tenement. Nothing more.
Well, let me point out a few. Now what are you doing?
Shutting the window. Isn't it bad enough to make a fool of yourself in private?
You have to make a public scene as well?
The voices rattled on for a few minutes, then dwindled off into a long and golden silence...
that said maybe a peace treaty had been signed.
But then a door slammed to number eight, so I peeked out. It was Morton.
And from the look on his face, I knew the peace treaty was nothing but an armed truce.
I followed him to the big lodge and into the bar, and when he sat down, I took the stool next to him.
Well, what'll it be, gentlemen?
Scotch and water, no ice.
Eh, the same, with ice. Well, Mr. Morton, I guess that brands us as dudes, huh?
Ha-ha. Bourbon's the only drink out west.
I wouldn't know, I'm sure.
Oh, it's a fact.
Hey, that's a handsome ring you got there.
And the initials are the same as mine.
Those stones are emeralds, aren't they?
That's right.
Yeah. There's supposed to be four of them. One's missing, I see.
Is that an emerald, too?
It was. Happens to be my birthstone.
Oh. Here you are, gentlemen.
Oh, fine. Allow me, Mr. Morton. There you are.
Oh, thank you, sir.
How'd you lose it? Stone, I mean.
I don't know. It happened several months ago, and in any case, it's no concern of yours.
Now, if you don't mind, I'd just as soon be left alone.
Oh, well, that's too bad.
Here I was hoping I'd find out all about the silk business.
The silk... What do you mean by that?
Oh, just conversation. You are in that business, aren't you?
Of course, but... Hey, who are you, anyway?
Name's Marlow.
And just why are you prying into my personal affairs, Mr. Marlow?
Because I got a little free advice for you.
Cool off before you start the kind of fire you can't put out, huh?
So that's it. That cowboy saw you.
Marlow, now you're getting too personal. I suggest that you mind your own business.
Oh, I'm sorry.
Didn't mean to lose my temper that way.
Good night.
Yeah, it's bound to be.
Charming, isn't it?
Well, Mrs. Morton, where'd you come from?
I was standing over there watching.
My husband has all the social grace of a tarantula.
Well, maybe you should have looked closer before you made the leap.
Oh, that's the wonderful thing about him. Yeah?
You're not apt to like Paul much when you first meet him.
But once you get to know him, you hate him.
Yeah, I'm not sure that's funny. It's not supposed to be.
I've been living with him for six months now.
I'm so jealous it's unbelievable.
He wouldn't leave me in New York, oh, no.
Insisted on dragging me out to this... this dust bowl with running water.
Why a rancher? I'll never understand. He doesn't know one end of a horse from another.
Well, with his aptitude, he'll learn.
You know, it might be figured you two might get back together
if you had a chance to relax in the open, Mrs. Morton.
Mm-hmm, so he said.
However, we weren't here ten minutes before he accused me
of getting romantic with that leather-faced cowboy.
Does that make sense?
I don't know. Both gentlemen are justified. You're lovely to look at.
Somebody ought to remind my husband.
His idea of welding a marriage is to spend all his time playing gin with that Doverman.
Who?
Doverman, the van and storage character from Los Angeles.
Oh.
Which, of course, leaves me saddled with his wife, Carrie.
Now, there's a cute personality for you if you happen to like neurotic parrots.
So what with the desert, the dame, and gin rummy?
Virgil began to look pretty good, is that it?
Excuse me, folks. Care to order another drink before dinner?
Yes, I would. And I'd like it over there, alone.
Megan Manhattan, bartender. Strictly Manhattan. And make it double.
Mr. Marlowe, good night.
Hmm. Now I'm not so sure.
It was almost dark when I left the bar and headed down to the bunkhouse...
where the working personnel of Rainbow Ranch called home.
The casual clutter of rumpled cots, scattered pulp fiction and dusty boots...
gave it the only sign of authenticity I'd seen in the entire place.
But aside from that, it was empty.
Then a noise from outside brought me around the building to the back...
where I ran up against six and a half lean feet of solitary cowboy...
with his hat shoved back on his head, pitching horseshoes.
He was out of uniform for a flashy dude wrangler...
which left him in a faded blue shirt and Levi's...
that fitted his lanky legs like a pair of bent stovepipes.
He spotted me and stood there swinging a battered horseshoe in each hand...
while I walked up to him.
Hello. Hiya, Sawyer.
Little dark for horseshoes, isn't it?
Little.
Hey, hey, you're good.
Good at horses, too, huh?
I understand you're the only man who can handle that black stallion, Thunder.
Yeah.
What's the secret?
No secret. Just have to treat him right.
What's on your mind, mister?
The fact that you're leaving tomorrow.
I reckon you better keep out of my business.
Now, look, Sawyer, it takes at least two to make a fight.
And fights are poison to Buck Lawson. So?
I don't like to see my friends poisoned.
Now, why don't you take it easy, huh?
Lay off. Keep your nose clean.
I don't know who you are, mister, but...
I'll tell you this anyway, seeing as you're so interested.
I'm leaving here tomorrow, all right?
And I'm gonna square up with a couple of folks first before I go.
I got a raw deal here, and I'm just not the kind to take it laying down.
What do you mean, raw deal?
You're a big boy now. You ought to know better than to get yourself all involved.
I'm not much for conversation, fella, but I'm gonna say something real plain...
so you'll be sure to say it.
Oh!
By the time I got myself untangled and back on my feet...
the strong, silent fugitive from the old Chisholm Trail was gone.
However, my original theory that it takes two to make a fight was still valid.
So I decided to find Paul Morton and spend the rest of the evening close to him.
His cabin was dark, but I remembered the running gin game he had with a big van and storage man.
So I went down the line to the Doverman cabin and knocked.
It was Cary, the perennial dude, who galloped up to open the door.
Howdy, stranger. Come on in and set a spell. Our latch is always stringing out.
Well, I sure do. Thank you, ma'am. My name's Marlow.
Orville, this is Mr. Marlow.
Howdy, Marlow.
Howdy.
Hope you'll excuse the looks of the place.
Our box of extra clothes just arrived from town.
Cary's been unpacking it.
Sit down there, Mr. Marlow. They're mostly old things. Just throw them on the floor.
Oh, thanks. But really, I can't stay. I'm looking for Paul Morton.
I thought I might find him here.
Morton? Say, there's a nice chap.
Met him day before yesterday for the first time and won $90 off him in gin already.
Haven't seen him tonight, though.
Orville was out looking for him himself just a few minutes ago. Weren't you, dear?
Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I was.
You didn't locate him, huh?
No, I didn't. You know, he seemed to be all upset this afternoon.
Couldn't keep his mind on the game.
I thought I'd have a little chat with him to calm him down some.
Orville's a wizard, that, Mr. Marlow.
Oh, it's not me carrying us to this country.
I don't see how a man can keep trouble in his mind on a place like this ranch, Marlow.
It can happen, believe me.
Poppycock, my son, there's something about this open land round here
that cleans out a man's head and his heart, too.
You sound like a travelog.
I mean it. A few more days of this and Morton will forget
there ever was such a thing as a cash register.
Yes, sir. Give this untamed countryside a chance and it'll cure anything.
Yes, what?
Marlow, come here, first.
What was that?
Wasn't the call of the world, Mr. Marlow?
Lawson, what's the matter?
Hey, come on, down to the stable, hurry.
Something terrible's happened.
How'd you find out about it, Lawson?
One of the boys told me.
Heard Thunder racing a terrible fuss.
Come over to check, but by then it was all over.
Give me the lantern, Harold, will you?
Here, here, here you go.
Holy smoke.
Is Paul Morton all right?
He's been trampled to death from protectors.
It's a ghastly accident.
And it's all my fault, Phil.
I knew Thunder was dangerous and I didn't get rid of him.
All right, take it easy, take it easy.
There's a lot of questions to be answered before anybody takes the...
Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute, look at this.
Here by the gate.
It's just a horse show.
The stables are full of them, Phil.
Yeah, not like this one.
Look at it, it's all battered up.
Well, all right, it's battered.
What's that supposed to mean?
Nothing yet.
But it gives me an idea.
Because the last time I saw one of these was being pitched at nine stake behind the bunkhouse.
What are you getting at?
Well, the chances are at least 50-50 that Paul Morton's death was no accident.
It was murder.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe.
But first, perfect musical settings for a Sunday before the fourth will be yours tomorrow afternoon.
The symphoneth, a half hour of fine orchestral music, and the choral airs, a half hour of brilliant vocal music,
are regular Sunday afternoon features on most of these same CBS network stations.
And now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe.
And tonight's story, The Dude from Manhattan.
When I labeled Paul Morton's death something worse than an accident, Lawson's mouth fell open and the muscles in his face jerked as his eyes moved slowly from me
out to the now quiet black stallion in the choral who somehow or other seemed to sense the death at our feet.
Then as the trembling man's lips silently formed the word murder, he gestured for me to help him carry Morton's body out of the stable.
After that, he looked at the dead man's broken face once more, said he was going to kill him, and he did.
A minute later, Judy Morton stepped into the small circle of light that surrounded what only a short time ago had been her husband.
Except for a thin line of perspiration above her lips, she was no different than when I'd seen her last.
I just passed Buck on my way down here. He told me my husband was dead.
Did he tell you anything else, Judy? Not how Paul died, I mean?
No. It was a stallion, wasn't it? An accident.
And I'm sure he was a man of his own.
Why, Marlo? One thing, this horseshoe, too close to the body.
But this is a stable. And this a horseshoe that's been used exclusively for pitching at a stake in the ground.
Here, look at it. And remember, Cowboy Virgil's favorite sport is horseshoes.
Besides, what reason would your husband have for coming down here at this hour in the first place?
It wasn't too crazy about horses, you know. No, but he was about me.
Let's move a little away from here, Marlo.
Cigarette? No, thanks.
I'm not coming apart at the seams because it isn't in me.
I hated Paul. Hated him with all my heart, Marlo.
I'm down here only because he pleaded with me. Beg me to talk to him once more, to listen to reason.
About what? About the decision I came to less than an hour ago, which was divorce, unconditionally.
I thought you said you came out here to try to patch things up. I did.
I also said that we weren't doing a very good job of it.
Then, tonight, a little after we left you with the bar, Marlo, I got my hands on the liver.
I needed to prime myself loose from that jealous maniac.
It was the knowledge, Marlo, that my late husband was crooked.
Silk business? Yes.
While he was drinking his dinner, I went to one of his suitcases for an aspirin.
Found what instead?
At least three dozen samples of the best silks made without any importers or manufacturer's name.
And underneath that, $200,000.
I know enough about the silk business to fill in the blanks, Marlo.
All of which comes under the heading black market, huh?
Yes. I added what I had found to the fact that this dude ranch he had insisted on was close to Los Angeles.
Close enough for him to run off and conduct his purchasing while I thought he was communing with nature or playing gin with that Mr. Doverman.
Then I had him.
You also had a divorce, no strings attached, right?
Exactly.
Blackmail to get rid of your own husband.
Pretty, isn't it? Yeah.
Well, at least with this... this accident or whatever it is, it's no longer necessary.
No? Now, Judy, only two things are necessary.
One, the location of Virgil Sawyer and the other you in your own cabin where I can ask you some questions later.
Why do you want to ask me questions?
Well, I might be making a big mistake, baby.
But it might be that Virgil and you are out for the 200,000 bucks.
You know, honey, that man in a saddle might like money, too.
I'll see.
When I started back for the bunkhouse, the only place I knew of that might give me a lead on the strong, silent horseshoe pitcher,
I realized that tagging Paul Morton's death for murder was one thing, proving it was going to be quite another.
And when I was there and the place was empty without even signs of a hasty departure, I was sure of it.
But not by intuition, as was the gentleman standing in the open doorway watching my every move.
Orville Doverman, champion of the wide open spaces, didn't believe that a clean-cut cowboy could be guilty of anything more unrefined than spitting on a pot-bellied stove.
Well, I think you're crazy. Buck told me about your finding that horseshoe next to Morton's body and the conclusion you jumped to from there.
You're being very hasty, boy, and that's dangerous, and that's the reason I'm here.
I don't believe in necktie parties. A man's got a right to a fair try.
Hey, hey, hold it! Nobody said anything about lynching your hero.
I want to find Sawyer so that if I'm right, we can save the state the time and trouble of a manhunt.
But since you brought it up, vigilante, don't scramble for conclusions too quickly yourself.
I happen to have a little more to go on than the relative position of a horseshoe.
Not that idle gossip that's going around.
The same, but the moment it figures two ways.
Virgil's unhappy enough with the status quo to liquidate the city slicker, or Virgil and the Squall light out after a clean start the hard way. Choose one.
I don't have any answers, Marlowe, in either case, and especially the stupid suggestion that the girl and Virgil Sawyer are in cahoots.
That I can't believe.
Well, sentimental reasons I can't either.
Besides, Judy Morton found out enough about her husband within the last hour to make murder for freedom's sake very unnecessary.
She learned he was a crook, Mr. D., if you can stand the disillusionment.
Oh, no, Marlowe!
Gaz and shady dealings in silk.
Judy didn't go into details about it, but I gather she found out enough to make him sit up and take notice.
Right back to Virgil, boots, saddles and all.
Yeah, it does, sort of.
We'll argue the fine points later, but right now, Mr. Doverman, if you want to make sure that everybody gets a square deal, get close to Judy's cabin and stay there, sentry duty your object.
Oh, all right.
And if I'm wrong about the cowboy, you've done nothing worse than waste your time.
Goodbye.
I spent the next 20 minutes talking to cowhands, guests, miscellaneous hired men, any and everybody who might have been able to say he went that-a-way, of Virgil Sawyer.
With no success.
And to make matters worse, when I'd given that up and was on my way back to the lodge to help Lawson wait for the sheriff, I found myself being paged.
Howdy!
Western style, of course, by no one else but Mrs. Gary Doverman.
The capital D in Dude Ranch.
Howdy!
Howdy, ma'am!
Oh, Mr. Marlowe.
Yeah.
Mr. Marlowe, look at this. Look at what I've found. I've struck it rich, you might say, much like the old rustlers.
The old rustlers, Mrs. Doverman, stole cattle.
Oh?
Yes.
Oh. Yes, so they did.
I guess I meant those panhandle men. You know, gold is where you find it.
And anyhow, look, it's a precious stone. Small, but nevertheless precious.
Uh-huh. Mine while digging for worms, no doubt.
Oh, Mr. Marlowe, you're teasing me.
Yeah.
You know very well that this is a polished stone.
Funny thing, though, is where I found it. Shall I tell you?
Oh, please. Please do, Mrs. Doverman.
Well, I was just unpacking those clothes that Orville had sent up from Los Angeles.
Yeah.
And, well, when I started to hang a pair up, this fell out of one of the cuffs, and then...
Now, I wonder how a little old emerald like this ever got there.
Well, it was probably mice, Mrs. Do...
Emerald?
Let me see that quick.
Well, yes, of course, but believe me, Mr. Marlowe, it can't be very valuable, I'm sure.
I'm not.
What are you talking about?
Murder or reasonable facsimile thereof, and a girl named Judy Morton, if I don't hurry.
Goodbye and bless you, Mrs. Doverman, or you talk too much, but now is the right time.
As I ran for Judy's cabin, I didn't know any more about the whys and wherefores of Paul Morton's death...
than I had before I made small talk with Mrs. Doverman.
But I did know that unless Lady named Luck and I were on the same team, the Rainbow Ranch was new for a second corpse.
When I was close enough to the raw folk door, numbered 8, and Orville Doverman, whom I'd asked to stand guard, was nowhere in sight.
The full impact of that responsibility sank into where the wing tips on the butterflies in my stomachs were scratching at my hip pocket...
until I moved in still closer, and there, in the light of a single lamp that was halo enough for me, I saw the girl from Manhattan...
nervously lighting one cigarette from the end of another, but more important, very much alive.
I didn't bother knocking.
Marlowe, what are you doing here?
What am I doing here? Honey, I'm uncrossing fingers and toes alike.
You know, they've been that way since I realized that I opened my mouth too wide too soon, which put you right smack on what used to be known as the spot.
Oh, so that's the way it happened.
Yeah, that's the way it... Now look, Judy, baby, you can't know what I mean yet.
It's Doverman, honey, the gin player with all the moving vans.
He's the one your husband was buying that black market silk from.
I didn't know that until a few minutes ago, which was after I told him where you could be found and that you knew an awful lot.
Oh, which Mr. Marlowe, he thanked you and warned you not to move.
You old...
See what I mean, Phil?
You old, sure, I see.
You know, it's funny, Doverman, when I was outside and didn't see you around,
I did see that Judy here was still in good health,
I figured that either you had decided to sit tight until you knew exactly how much she did know or that you already started to run.
Yeah, this I didn't count on.
And this, Marlowe, should point out what I said earlier about your jumping to conclusions is dangerous.
Handling hot silk is child's play.
It has been for me for 20 years, Marlowe. For your husband, Mrs. Morton, it was much more.
That's why I had to come to you like this.
That's why I had to know if his stupidity went so far that even you knew of me.
You shouldn't have bothered, Mr. Doverman, I didn't.
No, but you see, Marlowe did. That leaves me even.
Er, correction, Doverman, Paul Morton's dead. You're out in front.
I didn't kill Morton, Marlowe, and neither did Virgil Sawyer.
I saw it all, my friend. So I can tell you that the man who killed Paul Morton was...
Paul Morton himself.
Suicide? Are you out of your mind?
No, not suicide, Mrs. Morton. Merely a plan for murder that backfired.
The intended victim was you, his wife.
Oh, no.
Keep talking, Doverman.
Why, Marlowe, I'd rather keep you guessing.
I wouldn't.
Stop, baby!
My shoulder!
Now the man said keep talking.
I-I-I can't. I'm hit.
You'll be again if you don't.
Sawyer, no.
Stay out of this, Marlowe. Come on, Doverman. I'm not gonna ask you again.
Marlowe!
I'm not even gonna let you fall until you tell the rest.
Okay, okay. I'll tell you.
I overheard Morton ask him,
saw him go to your place for a sawyer, pick up one of your horseshoes,
and then he went to the stables near the black stallion stall.
The horseshoe in his hat.
Oh, not Sawyer, my shoulder.
Come on, Doverman. You're not finished yet.
I-I figured that he was going to...
To knock his wife out, leave Sawyer's horseshoe where it will be found,
then half make it look like an accident that would fool nobody, huh?
What went wrong, Doverman? Why didn't it work?
Well, he... he approached Thunder from the right side instead of the left.
The horse got excited, kicked out, and caught him.
That dude.
Now, let go, Sawyer.
Sure, Doverman. With pleasure.
It was a slow but steady two hours of first aid
and questions and answers mixed with a San Bernardino deputy sheriff
who couldn't quite get over it before Orville Doverman
was on his way to a hospital that featured barred windows.
Mrs. Doverman, a complete innocent, was on her way back to Los Angeles.
And Buck Lawson, Judy and I were in the bunkhouse,
watching Virgil Sawyer watch a pot full of water boil for coffee.
Rank style.
Well, you know, you can't ever tell, Marlo.
This whole thing might have just the right effect.
Put the ranch on the map, I mean.
After all, it was a genuine, 100% cowboy who saved the day for us.
No, that's not right, Buck.
It was Marlo here. I only followed him.
Coffee's ready for...
Oh, that's for me. Let's go.
What did make you go up there, Mr. Marlo?
Oh, a little precious stone, Virgil.
An emerald that once fell out of Paul Morton's initialed ring.
But, Marlo, that happened a long time ago, three, four months.
It was just after Paul had returned to New York from Los Angeles.
Yeah, and negotiations with Doverman.
You see, honey, it was Mrs. Doverman, really, who found the missing emerald tonight
and a pair of slacks that Orville had sent up here.
Then that was proof that Paul must have been with Doverman in Los Angeles before.
Yet they claim to have met for the first time here at the ranch.
Yeah, that's what they claimed.
That plus what you told me, Judy, made the man with the moving van zit.
And, uh, yo, hey, Virgil, that coffee's hot.
But it's good.
Anyway, since I told Doverman where you were
and that you knew your husband had been dealing in black market silks,
he took his cue accordingly.
Yes, and fortunately, you yours.
Well, that makes it two people who tried to kill me tonight,
my husband and his partner.
The seldom is heard a discouraging word...
Oh, fine.
And the skies are not cloudy all day...
Good night, gentlemen.
The
Virgil Sawyer made good coffee and lots of it.
So another hour went by before we finally broke up
and I was outside smoking a cigarette
and strolling toward my cabin in the start of a vacation
that already had been postponed too long.
But halfway there I stopped at the sound of raised voices ahead of me.
A man and a woman were arguing violently
and a little away from them on the porch of my cabin
watching the battle of the sexes with consternation while he waited for me
was Buck Lawson, my host.
I turned quickly and hurried back to the bunkhouse
where I knew Virgil Sawyer would put me up for the night,
where I knew that early the next morning I could sneak off,
find a quiet, cool stream...
and fish.
A coyote high in the hills someplace said I had the right idea.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe,
bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character
and crime's most deadly enemy, 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 Charlotte Lawrence, Bill Johnstone, Bill Lally,
Herb Butterfield, DJ Thompson, Lou Krugman, and Jack Carrington.
The special music is written by Richard O'Rant.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
I went from a mansion in Bel Air to a cheap flat in Southgate,
looking for a girl with a secret,
who a man in a pork pie had a wise cracking secretary
and a fat corpse didn't want me to find,
but who I found anyway because of the quiet number.
Three highly individual, highly entertaining mystery adventure shows
stand high among the top shows on CBS every Sunday.
The Green Llama, Call the Police, Sam Spade.
Go adventuring with them every Sunday when they come to you over most of these same CBS stations.
This is Roy Rowan speaking.
Now, stay tuned for Gangbusters, which follows immediately over most of these same CBS network stations.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
The Columbia Broadcasting System