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 of the grave.
The trail started in Montana with a bum with two names rushing away from his lady love and led fast into LA.
Past a southerner from Canada, a worried wool dealer and a chorus girl with a 45.
When it finally stopped at murder in the park, the tramp was still in a hurry.
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, star of Philip Marlowe, we bring you tonight's exciting story, The Bum's Rush.
You know, there comes a time in everyone's life when a relative wants a favor.
But this was a particularly nice relative. In fact, a great old gal.
She'd written my name and address in the center and her name, Jesse Gavin, Eagles Rock, Montana, in the upper left corner of the envelope.
The stamp totaled a way a mail special and the letter inside started off like one of those, I was wrong, you've got to find them for me, you've got to type.
But it didn't wind up that way.
Clip to the letter was a hundred dollar check and under that, a not too good snapshot of a bald man holding a rake.
Who wouldn't have been helped any by better photography?
Ten minutes later at exactly 8 p.m., my long distance call was put through and the voice that belonged to Aunt Jessie was snapping at me from Eagles Rock, Montana like the end of a whip.
Certainly I ruled it. How many Jesse Gammons do you think there are in Eagles Rock?
Phillips, I want you to find Jonathan Mitre and see if he's all right.
Yeah, you said that in your letter.
Jonathan Mitre is my C.A.C.
Aunt Jessie.
Oh, I know what you're thinking, young man, but I'm 51 and he's 55 and there's nothing wrong with the September song of the harmonies close enough.
Yeah, I hope my harmony's that good when I'm 55. Why are you worried, honey?
Because he left here last week on some kind of a big deal. It's a secret. That's all he'd tell me and I haven't heard a word from him since.
I see. Well, tell me, what sort of a deal would it be? I mean, what business?
He's not in any business.
Oh, what was his work before he retired?
Well, he's not exactly retired either.
He's not exactly... Look, Aunt Jessie, I'm getting at this. What does he do? What did he used to do for a living?
Frankly, not... Well, I might as well tell you. Most folks around here, Philip, think Jonathan Mitre's just a bum. Maybe he is.
He came to town, Philip, on a freight train a month ago and he's been raking leaves for handouts ever since. That's how I met him.
But he's a fine, honest, proud man and I'm going to marry him.
Congratulations.
Yes.
Look, you didn't happen to give that fine, honest, proud man a wad of money to finance his big deal, did you?
Oh, no, certainly.
Well, then don't, because I'll be frank. Sounds to me like a broken-down con man warming up a new routine.
Then I'll gladly pay to find that out, Philip. But I think you're wrong. Jonathan told me that he had to prove himself by making some money of his own before he'd marry me.
As if I didn't have enough to take care of two people already.
Okay, Jessie, it's a little off-center, but I'll buy it.
But, Philip, when you find him, don't tell him that I hired you. I say he's very proud and it had hurt him. And now all I can give you to go on, aside from that snapshot I sent, is an address, 764 Hope Street in Los Angeles.
764 Hope Street. Well, how'd you get that?
From checking through every single thing of him I could lay my hands on. It was on the back of an envelope. Of course, it may not mean nothing.
You're so right, Jessie.
Please, now, don't joke with me, Philip. Jonathan was so serious and in such a hurry, and there was a funny, brave glint in his eye when he left. Do your best!
A brave glint. Okay, Jessie, no jokes. Goodbye, darling.
I felt a little sorry for my Aunt Jessie Gavin because the concept of a knight of the road rushing off on a secret quest to prove himself worthy of marriage, held up like a cellulose shovel.
And it got no help when I pulled to a stop in front of 764 Hope Street.
It was a cramped combination warehouse in office of corrugated iron and glass brick, respectively, with a shy red and black sign reading, Hirsch Woollens, over a door that looked like,
it looked like it had handled about as much business recently as a repair shop for spinning wheels.
It was half open, however, so I went in just in time to catch the last round of what must have been a healthy spat going on behind a frosted glass door marked private.
Well, I'll tell you something, Mr. Elvin. Keep your eyes more on wool and less on nylon and you'll be better off.
All right, all right. Heaven take my, this is no time to quibble. We've got more important things to do.
Unless, of course, you want to keep that chorus job at the plume forever. Well, okay.
You just watch your step. Goodbye, Elvin. Stand aside, stupid. This is a hallway, not an art gallery.
There's a pretty girl if ever I've seen one.
Well, what do you want?
Oh, Mr. Hirsch.
Yes?
Yeah, well, I'm Ned Johnson. I'm looking for a job.
What kind?
Oh, a salesman. Woke my life.
I see. How long have you been waiting out here?
Oh, I just stepped in.
Come inside.
Thanks.
Sit down. What is your specialty? Woolen, Wisted, or Felt?
Well, I, I've handled them all. I, I...
We confine ourselves largely to a very high-grade Merino woolen, Mr. Johnson.
Ned Johnson. I work with Merino.
Well, what about the others? Lester perhaps? Lincoln?
Oh, sure. Lester, Lincoln is certainly, I find it all a fascinating business.
So do I. A very romantic background.
Yeah.
By the way, what do you think of Lannatown as against Merino?
Lannatown? Well, not good. Not, no. You see, I've watched the Lannatown range right through shearing and on up the weaving.
It just doesn't compare with...
What's the matter?
What are you really after?
I slipped, huh?
You fell on your face. Lannatown is synthetic wool made from milk. Now, who are you?
Okay, okay. I'm from the Sequoia Credit Association. We're investigating you.
Just a periodic routine thing. It's strictly confidential.
Get out of here and stay out of my ever-captivating...
All right, take it easy. I was clumsy. That's all. Don't start a riot about it.
Don't you pry into my...
That's quite a temper you got there. Better watch it, Hershel will get you in trouble so long.
I hadn't exactly been wool-gathering with Hershel and company, but I hadn't exactly made strides on the connection between a bum and a hurry in 764 Hope Street either.
However, I couldn't help wondering what Hershel meant when I'd overheard him speak to the girl in the office about more important things to do.
So when he slammed the door on my shoulder blades, I went around to the alley for a peek in his warehouse.
But I skipped that when a man stepped into view wearing the identical face I had in my pocket on a snapshot.
It was Jonathan Mitre. He'd swapped the rig for a silver-tipped cane and patches for 14-carat clasps from spats to a Homburg, which might well have covered a bald head.
But it was the same man, no doubt about it. So I decided to play this one strictly three-cushions with a reverse English.
Hey!
Huh?
Hey there, you!
Oh, what? Were you addressing me, sir?
Yeah. Don't I know you? Oh, sure I do. Pointy, huh?
I know you're mistaken, my man. I haven't been east in 30 years.
Oh, come on, friend. I know you anyway. You're good old Jonathan Mitre.
Sir, I am Ross J. Crowley of Canada, and I have never had the dubious pleasure of your acquaintancehip until this very moment.
Ross J. Crowley of Canada, huh? Okay, Mitre, that's the way you want it.
What are you doing around the wool business? Setting it up for a fleecing or just pulling it over somebody's eyes?
My good man, you obviously confused me with someone else. Now pack off, I can't I? I'm in a hurry.
Now wait a minute, Pop. Wait a minute. Let's get this straight first. Your name's not Crowley. Why are you using it?
My God, sir, you're trying my patience. Stand aside!
Come on, let's have it.
Oh, very well, if you insist. Here it is!
Hey, come back here, you old goat!
Why don't you look out?
Why, you awkward, rough thing. Why don't you look where you're going?
I was, but I couldn't get around all three of you.
Three? What do you mean?
You and your two big feet. If you can't keep those gunboats out of people's way, by yourself, hire a pilot.
And you...
Oh, by now, my boy's so far ahead, I couldn't catch him if he stopped for lunch. Thanks to you. Goodbye!
What a farce corner, anyway, but I've been right the first time.
Jonathan Mitre, Elliot Ross J. Crowley of Canada was long gone, and I had no idea where.
It left me with one slim, lovely lead, a lady named Marsha. If I'd eavesdropped correctly, she would shortly be making with her legs in the chorus of the Ploom Theatre restaurant.
It was 7.30 when I entered the platinum-plated tourist trap on Hollywood Boulevard that featured small portions of bad food on the glass and large helpings of good skin under lights.
It cost me ten bucks and a fast ad lived backstage, but it would have been worse out front, so when the chorus high kicked its way out into the wings, I nailed Marsha as she went by.
She narrowed a half a pound of mascara at me and let a foot-light smile drop, which left very little else.
Yeah, my name's Marsha. What do you want? Make it fancy, I gotta change.
Change what? Your hairdo? This won't take a minute, baby. All I want to know is where Jonathan Mitre can be found.
How should I know? I never heard of him.
You're stalling on your own time, baby. I got all night.
Snuff to you, Jack Blow.
Come back here. This is important.
Now, listen, you. I don't know anybody called Jonathan what's-his-name. And put one more fingerprint on my arm and you'll get bounced out of here on your head.
You know there's just a chance you could be on the level. Look, guy wants about 55 and spats with a Homburg over what is no doubt a ball dome.
Carries a black cane with a silver tip and for some reason answers the name of Crowley.
Crowley?
Yeah, that's it, Ross Jay. Getting warmer, huh, kid? And don't bother telling me you never heard of him.
So I've heard of him, so what? He's a good pal of mine. Met him a couple of nights ago. He's quite a sport.
I bet he is. Where can I find him?
What do you want him for?
I want to talk to him. That's all. Where does he live?
Up a tree. Like I said, bust or blow.
And like I said, baby, this is important. So important, I'll have a lopsided line in the next number if you don't talk,
because you won't be there, you'll be on your way to the pokey. Now where does he live?
I don't know. He's from Canada.
You can come closer than that, sweetheart. Give.
All right. He tells me he takes a walk in the park every night. He raves about the gladiolas.
Like they grow in Coldwater Canyon Park, maybe?
Maybe.
Thanks, you're a good kid. Keep your pot of dry, baby, I'll see you.
That park looked deserted when a half hour later I drove by it to the far end, turned down a side street and stopped.
But as I started in on foot, I saw him, spats, Homburg, Kane, and Alias,
ambling slowly away from me along a back path.
I started after him quietly and when he got near a corner I was close enough to hail him, and then grab, but I didn't get the chance.
Stand still and keep your mouth shut.
I turned slowly. It was the gentleman with the big feet and he wasn't much uglier, just a little flabbier than the automatic wrapped up in his fist.
You seem to be falling over my feet every time I turn around.
I noticed that, but I figured the first time was coincidence.
What do you figure now?
That our gay dog, Mr. Crowley, who just turned that corner there, is wagging two tails?
You hold the gavel, Chairman.
Don't you forget it either.
So he gave you the name Crowley, didn't he?
Why, you think he's got another one?
Stop that, we both know he lied.
But I don't know why he took that name or why you're interested.
A hobby. A collect old geese with more than one name.
You're going to handle that, huh?
You won't tell me?
I don't know your angle either.
We might work out a trade, huh?
No, I'm not wasting any more time, either.
He's not going to get away from me again.
That means you'd better stay right here.
Oh!
He piled me up on the ground with a stomach full of pain.
I saw him run down the path.
When I got back to my feet, he was taking the corner.
I just thought it after him when it came.
I froze and listened.
But there was nothing more to hear.
I walked softly as far as the corner.
He was face down with toes of his oversized shoes,
digging into the grass and a gun he hadn't time to use.
Spilled a few inches away from his clenched, dead hand.
Across the park and rushing for Coldwater Canyon Road,
as fast as his feet could go, was a bum with two names and a Hamburg hat.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe,
but first, 30 minutes packed full of talent, music and fun.
That's the Horace Haight Original Youth Opportunity Show
coming your way every Sunday evening on CBS.
Yes, this fall you'll hear them all on CBS.
A galaxy of stars, and one of the brightest is Genial Horace Haight,
who keeps the fun rolling with one hand,
and with the other pushes open the door to opportunity.
Gives a talented youngster his big break toward fame and fortune in show business.
Remember, Sunday night, it's Horace Haight
and his Original Youth Opportunity Program.
Listen every Sunday, starting this Sunday, over most of the same CBS station.
Tune in, tune in this fall, for the show that you love best of all.
Listen carefully, here's the address, it's CBS, CBS.
Now with our star Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe
and tonight's story, The Bum's Rush.
When I took after the fleeing figure known to my Aunt Jessie as Jonathan Mitre
or Ross J. Crowley, he was still barely visible ahead with arms and legs
flailing the night air like so many test streamers in a wind tunnel.
I didn't know any more about his double identity than I had before,
but I did know that what might have started as only a confidence game of sorts
had now mushroomed in a murder with the aforesaid gentleman very much involved.
And a moment later when I saw him breathless and afraid,
duck into a sagging deserted wooden shack that showed a single red light
and was labeled Department of Parks Fire Equipment Private,
I figured the right time and place had come to talk it all over.
When I finally, carefully stepped inside and announced both myself and 38 in hand
in definite centaurian tones, he agreed wholeheartedly.
All right, all right, come on, just as you say, with my hands out.
I've no reason to hide.
Other than murder, no.
What murder? That noise I heard, that's what he was, somebody was shot.
No, somebody was run over by a bullet rolling downhill at a terrific rate of speed.
Now shut up and turn around, pop hand still high.
Time we got cautious.
Are you searching for a gun on me, sir?
Young man, you must be out of your mind.
First you insist that I'm a Mr.
Mitre, mitre.
Somebody I never heard of.
And you're convinced that I'm a murderer.
I don't understand you.
There, no gun.
Now, is that a fight?
No intrigue. Where'd you throw it?
I didn't. I never had one.
Anything else?
Yeah, the name Crowley, Ross J. Why do you use it?
Because it's mine.
And that young man is a very common custom.
Now, do you mind if I leave?
I do.
Now look, old timer, I'm only going to be nice about this for a little while because first of all there's a fresh corpse outside and where I stand you could be responsible for it.
And second of all?
Second of all is my angle, where I fit, who I work for, facts, and I don't want to reveal them unless I have to.
Now from the top, you and the dead guy, the connection, what is it?
I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about.
You haven't, huh? Okay, Pop, we play it straight all the way. Now listen, my name's Philip Marlowe. I'm a private detective and I know what it's time to blow a whistle.
Don't move, Marlowe, or you never will again.
Oh, fine.
Marcia.
That's right, Marcia. All loaded down with a nasty old 45 automatic that makes her look and feel very un-ladylike.
Drop it, Marlowe. Come on!
That's better. Now, Mr. Crowley, without waiting for Marlowe to apologize, go on.
Go, but where do I go?
To the hotel. It's important. So hurry.
Oh, yes, very well. I won't waste a second.
The key.
You won't need the key. Somebody's waiting for you. Goodbye, Mr. Crowley.
Goodbye. I hope I never meet you again, Mr. Magelan. Good night.
Ha ha ha. It is cute, isn't it?
Uh-huh, darling. The moment unimportant. Right now, you're my only concern, Marlowe.
Oh, that's nice, Marcia. It's cozy, just the three of us. You and that giant U.S. pistol caliber. 45. Hey, baby, that's not your gun, is it?
No. You feel slighted?
Oh, no. No, sweet happy.
Stay back, Marlowe.
Why? I'll shoot.
No, no, you won't. You can't.
I'm warning you, Marlowe.
No, no, no. You see, baby, of the three safety devices on that army gun that do hit you down on the side is one.
Stay back!
It won't work unless it's in the forward position.
Oh, don't speak, Jack. Let go of me.
We're schooled, aren't we?
I will, now that's a question, teacher.
Come on, let's play.
You and Grandpa Elliot Jonathan might also have Elliot Ross J. Crowley. What's the game you two are playing?
I don't know.
Where does Hirsh fit in?
Come on, it's getting late. The top pupil wants an answer.
He's actually getting ahead of the class. Talk. What is it?
I don't remember and I won't, so don't bother getting masculine or polishing apples, pupil.
When I forget, I forget for a long, long time. Is that clear?
Yeah, it is. And since I can't wait, since I want to go out and play, we'll put you in here for safekeeping.
Hey, honey, you don't mind if I go through your bag, do you?
I didn't think you would.
Oh, here's a key that says in what room I'll find a team of Crowley and Miner.
Oh, my, my, such a temper.
After I'd picked up my 38, which the lady, who no longer sounded like one, had made me drop,
and to check the hotel key that read Villa 12, Wilshire Gardens, Beverly Hills,
I ran outside and back toward my car in what I figured should be a big hurry.
When I was halfway there, I had a premonition that speed was not to be.
A premonition that was a head dressed in blue, carrying a club, wearing a badge,
and leaning on my right front fender.
And it wasn't until I was next to him that I quit worrying about a long involved delay.
Because the officer on hand, one Curt Lendley, was an old and I hope still good friend.
Well, how are you, Phil? Well, I ain't here for you since I called in about that body up there.
Some kid heard the shot.
Oh, so you had once pegged this all alone in a very suspicious looking car.
Yeah, I'm surprised it was yours. I'm disappointed.
I'd hoped the name of the owner's tag was going to be Raleigh Newcombe.
Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. You know his name?
Don't you?
No. No, we were on different sides when he got shot.
No, he's from Canada.
What?
Yeah, Vancouver. He had a business up there with a guy named Ross J. Crowley.
Crowley?
Mm-hmm.
Hey, Curt, how'd you find all this out?
I found a clipping in his wallet. He's got a picture on it.
Oh, wait a second, I'll put a light on it.
Yeah, hurry up, will you?
I see. See, two guys in front of a building, Ross J. Crowley and Ross J. Newcombe,
officiated the other day.
Curt, sure, it's what I figured. The guy's a liar.
I've already met a guy who insists that that's his name and he's more like the Crowley in the picture.
Yeah, but there's a similarity in, even though the picture's anything but clear.
What guy are you talking about, sir?
Jonathan Mitre, an old geezer I was hired to find.
Mm-hmm.
Bum who's pulling something fancy that incidentally ties in real tight with that murder over there.
You know where he is, sir?
Sure I know. That's where I was heading when I ran into you.
Oh.
Ran into what, sir? What is it?
The picture.
What?
Curt.
Yeah?
Move your thumb up a little, will you? The way you just had it.
My thumb?
Yeah, yeah, move it. That's it, like that.
Oh, brother, brother, have I got a hunch.
About what?
Another murder and neat when the schedule will come off any minute at the Wilshire Gardens Hotel.
I'll see you later, goodbye.
At best it was ten screeching stop and go minutes from Coldwater Canyon Park across Beverly Hills to the Wilshire Gardens Hotel on the boulevard of the same name.
And all the way I kept hoping over time that one of two things were so.
Either my hunch was wrong and nobody else was going to get hurt for a while, or it was right and I was still on time.
But when I was there, parked and running toward the villa number ten, which was a silent stucco square choking to death under ivy and showing only a single light in the living room, I was almost sure that it was going to play it still another way.
Me right and too late to do any good.
When I tried the door and found it open, an inside sword once the letter propped up against the lamp on an end table that I'd been afraid I'd find.
There was no longer any doubt.
And even as I crossed the room, I knew that I was going to read a suicide note addressed to the police.
Telling them that the undersigned Ross J Crowley had taken his own life.
Well, it's better the partner had been stealing from Raleigh Newcomb, who had currently been pursuing it.
But I didn't know until I reached for the letter to make sure that I'd figured right with the last line just before the signature.
It read, also rather than face the humility of being dragged through the courts for killing Newcomb, they've taken the life of a man who would have caught me.
A private detective named Philip Marlow.
You did well, Marlow.
What?
Especially when it's your own victory, right?
Don't move.
Well, Mr. Hirsch, huh?
What do I call you, Crowley, now?
Doesn't matter, Marlow, if it's what does matter is that you're not quite the boy genius you think you are.
Meaning what?
Meaning Marcia.
You talk to her at the plume, then she talks to me.
Between the two of us, we maneuvered you around just like we wanted to.
So we could include you in our plan.
In other words, Marlow, when Marcia sent Mitre here from the park, we knew you'd follow.
Marcia's reliable.
Yeah, all year round, I'll bet.
Okay, Crowley, so the one with two heads isn't Jonathan Mitre, it's you.
You as Elton Hirsch here in L.A.
As Ross J. Crowley, Newcomb's partner up in Canada.
A crooked partner, Crowley, who when he knew he was going to be caught decided to kill himself with another guy's body, Jonathan Mitre, so it wouldn't hurt.
Exactly.
Also, Marlow, nobody will bother to look past what will pass as Crowley's body for the murderer of Newcomb, who I didn't expect on the scene.
I think you'll admit that all accounted for in that letter there in Crowley's, my handwriting.
Bravo, you've skipped nothing.
Now what about me?
Yes, you.
You must go before Jonathan Mitre, you know.
Otherwise, the coroner might find something wrong with the sequence of deaths.
So if you first, then Mitre.
No doubt it's unconscious in the bedroom right now.
No, Mr. Marlow, who would have doubted standing right here listening carefully.
Mitre, you crazy fool.
Say where you are.
No, no, Mr. Crowley, I won't.
That way I die.
This way at least I have a cat.
No, no, Crowley.
No, no, no, no.
I told you.
Mitre, Mitre, you all right?
Yeah.
I think so, just winged.
Oh, you got him, didn't you, Mr. Marlow?
Yeah, I...
No.
No, Jonathan, you got him.
That rush did it, you big...
Bum, Mr. Marlow?
Yeah, bum.
It was two long hours of first aid to Jonathan,
arrest on the charge of murder for both Crowley and the accomplice
before and after the fact Martha,
and questions and answers and triplicates for the police
before Mitre and I were finally alone
and back in my office waiting for a call we put through
to, of course, Eagle Rock, Montana.
But even then, the gentleman vagabond couldn't quite get over things.
In other words, Mr. Marlow,
this Crowley who introduced himself to me as he is
had his fiendish plan already formulated,
and one of his trips down from Canada
saw me when his train stopped at Eagle Rock.
I was raking leaves around the depot.
And he saw me, and he hired me on the spot
because he needed someone to fit the part of his court.
That's it.
And you'll admit you were well qualified for the job,
alone in the world.
Except for Jesse, yeah.
Which you didn't happen to mention.
And the fact that you were bald.
That's true.
Don't be sensitive.
You see, Crowley or Hirsch was also bald.
Why, all that hair of his a wig?
That's right, toupee, every bit of it.
And incidentally, you see, the reason I caught on to things, Johnny,
a policeman found a newspaper picture of Newcomb and Crowley
in Newcomb's wallet.
Which told you that I couldn't be Crowley.
That's right.
It also told me more.
When the policeman accidentally put his thumb
over the bald part of Crowley's head,
gave me a different picture.
Then I only paid attention to what I could see,
features blurred though they were.
Which then you were Hirsch.
Uh-huh.
Well, Mr. Jesse, that's what I know.
Hello.
Mr. Philip Marlow, please.
It's Marlow speaking.
On your call to Ms. Jessie Gavin
in Eagle Rock, Montana.
One moment, please, sir.
Here, take it, Jonathan.
Me?
Yeah, yeah, go ahead.
All right, all right.
Uh, hello, Jesse?
Uh, uh, uh, Jessica, this is Johnny.
Yeah, Cuddle?
Yeah, it's me, all right.
I'm in Los Angeles with Mr. Marlow.
Cuddle, you don't have to shout so loud, you know.
She's cleaning up there to Eagle Rock.
I know, but she can hear you.
Just talk.
Uh, Jessica, Jessica, you get what happened now.
I'll tell you, yeah, a man hired me to work for him.
To pose, to pose.
Impersonate a Mr. Ross J. Crowley
because he said he had to be free to investigate
some crooked people who would try and contact me.
Yeah.
And since he offered good money,
right on the spot there, Jessica, I took the job.
I thought you'd be proud of me making extra money.
Wait a minute, Jesse.
Mr. Marlow, I'd better cut this short.
It's long distance. It's cost money.
Don't worry about it, Johnny.
There's no hurry. Take your time.
Oh, thank you.
Uh, Jessica, Jessica, now what this man really wanted,
you there, Jessica?
Uh, what, what, to use me as a corpse.
That's right, a body.
No, here, I feel fine.
You see, he went to put his rings on me,
another identification, to knock me on target.
That's what he did.
By the time I got Jonathan Mitre down to Union Station
and aboard a northbound train with specific instructions
to stay away from strangers,
Ann got back to my own apartment on Franklin.
It was better than three o'clock in the morning.
Oh, and I was tired.
I emptied out my pockets and started to undress.
But I forgot about that when my eye fell on the picture
that Jesse Gavin had sent me in her original letter,
the picture of Jonathan.
Well, now Aunt Jessie was going to be happy.
But I wondered for how long.
Somehow the portrait of the man with a hole
with a solid look of the ages
didn't fit the spare frame of Jesse's night of the road.
And then some train whistle would blow in the night,
and Jonathan Mitre would be gone.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe star Gerald Moore
and are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
The script is by Mel Dinelli, Robert Mitchell, and Gene Levitt.
Featured in the cast were Georgia Ellis, Hans Conrad,
Ann Morrison, Herb Butterfield, Wilms Herbert, and Bill Boucher.
The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Arant.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
The lady tourist was a schoolteacher out after glamour,
and she got it.
But only after she learned that in Hollywood
the three R's could be read and done in a dark room,
writing found in a dead man's pocket,
and arithmetic that added up to murder times two.
If you think you've got troubles, you should be married to Liz Cooper.
She can scare up more trouble than a tropical hurricane,
but it's always the kind of trouble you can laugh at
because it's all part of My Favorite Husband starring Lucille Balls.
My Favorite Husband is part of CBS's great laugh lineup for Friday night.
You won't want to miss a single minute of My Favorite Husband,
and you'll want to be around too to hear the Goldbergs,
Leave It to Joan, and Breakfast with Burrows.
They'll all be broadcast on Friday night over most of these CBS stations,
starting next Friday.
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.