Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel it wind up in the gutter, the prison of the grave.
There was a gorgeous tapestry found under a tomb and they were all after it.
The worried importer, the man with half a face, the Englishman in an LA slum and the lady wearing a green veil.
But before it was over none of them had it and two of the four were dead.
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 transcribed story, The Baton Sinister.
I watched the blood red sunset behind an ugly purple storm out on the ocean.
And the weird afterglow that crept into the canyons of the Hollywood hills made me uneasy.
Added emphasis to the disquieting phone call I received at my office from a man named Paul Schindler.
Who I knew was a very capable worldwide broker of bizarre art objects.
In words that fell over each other in urgency he asked me to meet him at my place at once.
As I drove to my apartment I figured the trouble lay ahead.
But I didn't realize how close it was until I parked and started out of my car.
A bullet smashed the corner of my windshield and I ducked for cover then hugged the building and headed for the rear where I was sure I'd seen a gun flash.
I was halfway there when the side door flew open and Paul Schindler himself stopped me.
He was white faced and shaking his eyes ringed by dark blue circles of fatigue.
Marlow, Marlow, that shot.
Yeah, somebody threw a slug at me Schindler from back there.
I was afraid of this. We can't talk here, not now. Come, let's get in your car and drive, hurry.
Wait a minute, wait a minute, what's all this about? Who shot at me and why?
It must have been that lizard, Myron Lough.
He's followed me all the way from England Marlow because, but I, I tell you all about it when we're safe.
Right now we must get away from here.
Okay, but watch yourself, come on.
Well, so far so good. You see that hole in the windshield? It's lucky it's not in my head.
Are we being followed?
Not yet anyway.
Well, Pollard, last time it was a cloak of Kamehameha and a trip to Honolulu. What is it this time?
It's worse. The tapestry, Marlow. 15th century and exquisite. Worth 20,000 as a museum piece alone.
Hey, that's a lot of money for a chunk of cloth.
Bah, it's nothing. I'm getting better than 80,000 for it from a man named Arthur Merritt in Seattle.
80 grand.
Yes, correct. You see, this Merritt claims to be a direct descendant from Edward, second Duke of York, who fell at Agincourt.
Really?
Yeah. He spent a fortune tracing his genealogy and collecting family treasures and regards this tapestry as his greatest prize.
Oh, it's a gorgeous thing, Marlow. Depicts the Duke on a gold horse, riding to battle beside the king.
With such colors, reds, blues, greens, breathtaking.
How bad?
Ah, but I'm so tired. I don't think I've slept in weeks.
For 80,000 bucks you can afford to be tired, Schindler. But how does the guy with the itchy trigger finger fit into all this?
Loft, that scum. He was after the tapestry too. He got wind of the fact that someone was willing to pay 80,000 for it. But he doesn't know who.
I see. You found it first, huh?
Yes. It's in a sealed tomb under the ruins of a castle in Wales, just minutes ahead of Loft.
Where's the tapestry now?
At this moment, it's in a cheap suitcase, checked in a public locker at the Cavinga Boulevard bus depot.
Now, I want you to pick it up and get it safely to Arthur Merritt. Here, here's the locker key.
Take it on a plane leaving in three hours and your money. Five, one hundred dollar bills. Enough?
Enough. Where'll I find Arthur Merritt?
76 West Street, Seattle. He'll be expecting you. And Marlow, I feel better if you get the tapestry soon and keep it with you until plane time.
You're really afraid of this guy, Loft, aren't you?
He'll stop at nothing. I warn you. Now, I'll get off here at the corner, Marlow.
All right.
Incidentally, when you get the tapestry, don't go back to your apartment. Loft may be waiting here.
Now, I'm at the Hollywood Crest Hotel.
Hollywood Crest, huh?
Yeah. Call me when the job is done. Goodbye, Marlow, and good luck. You'll need it.
The key Schindler left was numbered 410, so I drove to the bus station and went in.
A casual walk through showed me that locker number 410 was the last on the left, and I ambled over to the lunch counter,
ordered a sandwich and coffee, and sat down to case the rest of the customers.
Finally, I spotted him. A dark man in ragged clothes with a profile out of Western Asia who was also watching number 410.
The profile glanced around nervously and looked away fast when he caught me watching him.
I eased the key to 410 out of my pocket and slipped it under my sandwich.
Told the waitress I'd be right back and started towing him.
He saw me coming in, made for the back exit, broke into a run.
When he got to the door, we played follow the leader down the tunnel to the alley behind the bus barn and around the corner.
There the game stopped because a claw that belonged on a lobster reached out,
grabbed me by the shirt front, and pulled me up against 18 inches of curved Damascus steel,
sharp enough to shave with. I knew then why he'd show me only his profile.
Half his face was handsome, the other half, well, when he spoke, he hissed through the flexible half of his mouth.
Stand still, my friend, or I slit your gizzard for you. Where is Myron Loft?
I don't know. I never met the man. Up close, that is.
Mya, you are working for him.
Keep using that knife for punctuation, pal, and I'll admit anything.
I followed the fat German. I watched him put the tapestry in one of those lockers inside.
Therefore, I knew that Loft or his hireling wouldn't be far behind.
You mean me or off base? What's Myron Loft to you?
What indeed? Only I know the true value of that tapestry,
for it was I who paid for it, with half my face and half my mind.
But before I'm through, Loft will know too. Where is he?
I don't know, but I wish I were with him.
Shall I kill you for being stupid? Go to Loft and tell him that Akkar is not dead,
but has come back to teach him the price of treachery.
This will surprise him, no doubt, huh?
He murdered me so I would not talk. He left me for dead.
He sent me hurtling, unconscious, off a bridge in a truck of blazing oil.
It made me like this, claw for a hand, a face to frighten demons.
But he did not kill me.
Nice guy, Loft.
And the tapestry itself. Tell him it will bring him nothing but despair,
for I have put a curse of worthlessness on it that...
Akkar!
There, from the alley, the shop.
Did you see who it was, Akkar?
No, but I didn't have to see it to know.
He thinks he has finished it now, but he is wrong.
Look, look for the baton sinister.
What, what? Look for what, Akkar?
In the duke's shield, the baton sinister.
Akkar!
The words baton sinister, whatever that meant on his twisted lips.
The twisted little man died.
I walked back carefully the way I had come,
but life in the bus depot was going on as usual.
The waitress gave me a hard eye when I sat down at the lunch counter again
and the mirror over the back bar told me why.
I was pasty green from eyes to mouth.
The thought of death in an alley still did that to me was strangely familiar.
I was a little boy, a little boy, a little boy.
I was a little boy, a little boy, a little boy, a little boy.
I got the key from under the sandwich, dropped the buck on the counter
and then went to locker 410 and opened it.
Schindler's tatted suitcase was there.
I picked it up, took it over to a store phone and sat on it
while I put in a call to Lieutenant Matthews at homicide.
Oh, say that again, Marlow. I don't think I heard you right.
Yes, you did, Matthews.
I said a man with half a face named Akkar
was shot in the alley back of Cohinga bus depot,
probably because he knew too much about a tapestry.
Yeah, yeah, that's what you said the first time.
Who did it? You got any ideas?
Well, it could be a guy named Myron Loft.
That's all I know about him, just a name.
Okay, I'll send somebody. Stick around, will you, Phil?
Hey, hey, Lieutenant.
Yeah?
You happen to know what a baton sinister is?
Uh, spell that for me, will you, Phil?
Never mind, Matthews. I'll call you again before I leave.
When I left the bus depot, I drove to my office,
took the suitcase upstairs, and after I locked myself in,
I opened it under the lamp on my desk.
Folds of dazzling cloth spilled out.
I remember Schindler saying the Duke was riding a gold horse,
so I looked for that.
Yeah, it was easy to spot.
And from there I located the shield.
It was deep blue with three white roses on one side
and a red line on the other,
and in the center, pointing diagonally from upper right to lower left,
was a thin line of still deeper blue.
That was all I had a chance to see,
because a hand in a rubber glove clamped a wet cloth over my face,
and the sickly sweet odor went through me,
like warm oil through a paper bag.
A hundred years later, I had a strange dream.
I saw a pair of high-heeled green suede shoes,
and then a woman in a green veil looking at an empty suitcase.
Oh, it must have been a dream,
because I couldn't move and my eyelids were leaden.
When the green veil and green shoes left,
everything went black again.
Next time it was no dream.
I was face down on my office carpet alone and very sick to my stomach.
I'd been chloroform.
I crawled over to the desk and pulled myself up.
The suitcase was open and empty.
Somehow I got the phone off the hook, dialed information,
and a minute later I had my client on the wire.
Maro, you sound sick. What is wrong?
I am sick.
You're going to be too shindly. Your tapestry is gone or was stolen.
Gone? Stolen?
Yeah.
Oh, no, no, it can't be.
You plundering stupid fool, Maro.
Why did you...
What did you say?
I'm sorry, Phil.
Screaming in hysteria won't get it back, will it?
No.
How did it happen?
Well, I brought it up here to my office,
but somebody was always in here laying for me.
I was chloroformed and out for about half an hour.
When I came to it was gone.
Now listen, you know a man named Ackar,
horribly scarred from burns.
Ackar? No. Why? Did he get it?
Yeah, not the way you think.
He was killed at the bus station.
What? Killed?
Good heavens. Did Loft do it?
I don't know. Ackar thought so,
and I'm getting tired of hearing that name, Loft.
Hey, incidentally, what's a Baton sinister?
Baton sinister?
Yeah.
It's a mark in heraldry, but why that one?
Well, it might be important. What is it actually, Pollard?
Well, it's simply a short line on a shield or a scutcher.
It runs diagonally from sinister chief to dexter base.
What does that mean? From upper right to lower left, maybe?
If you're facing the shield, yes.
It's the mark of fraudulence. But why?
Well, I was told to look for the Baton sinister by...
Hey, wait a minute, Pollard.
There's something on the floor here.
Looks like an envelope.
Yeah. There's nothing in it, but it's addressed to...
Holy smoke, this is addressed to Myron Loft,
946 South Grand Avenue, LA.
I knew it. I knew Loft was behind the theft, Marlow.
But now we've got a chance to get the tapestry back.
Where is this Grand Avenue?
It runs through a slum called Bunker Hill.
Any cab driver knows it. I'm going down there now, Schindler.
Good. I'll get there as soon as I can to cover you.
And, Marlow, listen. The man is a devil.
Be careful.
Bunker Hill stuck up above downtown LA
like a ward on a debutante's hand.
The big street that had tunneled under it
or bypassed it years ago left it nothing more
than a dingy, isolated attic.
Where the city's worn-out castoffs finally end up to die.
The big hotels that open on the swank street below
had all carefully turned their backs on the hill.
I parked near Angel's Flight and walked
on the odd-numbered side of the street
until I spotted 946, a crumbling, yellow stucco rooming house
that clung to the hill face from habit only.
And I gave the windows a lot of attention
to be sure no one was watching.
And I went out of the corner, crossed and came back.
An anemic nightlight was on at the end of the hall.
So I pushed my way through the smells,
tore the door with a grimy card that said, office.
I was about to knock when a voice purred from the landing
on the stairs behind me.
When you turn round, do it slowly, understand?
Uh, perfectly.
I dare say you're Pollard Schindler's man.
Could be. Which makes you myron loft, huh?
Yes, I've been up on the roof watching you.
I expected you to come before long.
I suppose you want the tapestry.
Now, how'd you guess that?
Then what price has Schindler decided to offer me?
Price, you're kidding.
Hardly. I don't enjoy humor.
Perhaps you don't know much about the tapestry, hmm?
Not much. I know more than I used to.
I had quite a chat with Akka.
Akka? That's impossible.
My ex-assistant is dead.
I know. But he lived long enough to tell me about
the baton sinister on the Duke's shield.
That's a lie, my fine fellow.
There's no baton sinister on that shield unless...
Oh, of course.
That sly idiot.
Akka would try something like a baton sinister.
But for what purpose, I can't imagine.
Just to make sure that you'd pay for his murder.
What's that?
Must have been a shock to find out he'd survived
that burning truck accident you tried.
So you finished him tonight with a bullet.
Oh, that's strange.
How much more do you know along this line?
Enough to make bargaining more than worth your while,
and I haven't kept it all in my head.
I see.
For my door is a second on the left.
Now move along now, quickly.
I see no reason to hurry.
I do.
See what you mean.
Although the accent was Oxford,
the gestures were strictly skid row.
So as I proceeded, Myron Lofton
gunned into my lord's sagging chamber,
I watched carefully for the chance I knew
I'd have to take before long.
But a small step toward a dark corner...
No, no, don't try that.
...told me it wasn't going to be easy.
The gentleman with the flexed voice was being very wary about me.
Now turn about and face me, quickly.
So wary about me, in fact,
that the quiet footstep behind him went unnoticed.
The footstep that had been made by a green suede pump
that belonged to a lady with a veil also green.
I now knew I'd actually seen earlier in my office.
When she took her next step,
the gun she clenched in her expensively gloved hand
was raised high.
Came down hard.
The Earl of my dreams, I thank you.
That was neat and, believe me, not a moment too soon.
Never mind that.
He's not dead, is he?
No, he's just out cold, is in deep freeze.
But, uh, aren't we being a little matter of fact about all this?
We are. Did you expect tears?
Well, from the veil, yeah.
That's where I'm probably being misled.
I should concentrate on your green suede shoes.
They seem to be more in character.
And you seem to be quite ungrateful.
And Gabby.
Let's move on some.
Over there, that bundle. It could be the tapestry.
The tap...
Hey, lady, you're not after a tool, are you?
No, I came here to save your life.
I love you. That's charming.
Come on, mister, are we warm? Hot.
Yeah, this is it, all right. Good.
Now get back. Away from it.
Oh, no. Oh, yes.
Way back. And for safekeeping,
into that snug little closet there.
Without so much as a peek? At the veil, I mean.
Another word. Your mouth, I mean.
Go on. Inside.
It won't hold you for long, but I don't need long anymore.
She was so right.
Didn't hold me for long.
Because even a misplaced hiccup could jar loose
most any given segment of Bunker Hill construction.
However, by the time I got to the street,
it was Lady with Veil and Bundle tucked underneath her arm
climbing into a cab.
And only a taillight skidding out of sight around a corner.
I played the only bed left.
She departed in a cab. Maybe she'd arrived in one.
And maybe that one was still in line at the hack stand
across the street at the back of the hotel.
At number four, I connected.
Yeah, yeah, sure. The doll with the veil.
I brought her here.
Why? What's it mean to you?
Everything. She's my long-lost sister.
Where'd you pick her up? I can't remember.
Okay, okay. Here. Here's five. Now try it.
Sure.
It was a Sunset Gardens hotel.
Villa 12. Witches around on the side.
But you know what else?
Know what else?
I'll bet this five she ain't really your sister at all.
I'll bet she's really your wife.
Oh, you're so wrong. She's really typhoid married, Jack.
You better fumigate fast both inside and out.
Goodbye.
I was 30 anxious minutes weaving my way
through the thick westbound traffic
that any snail could have easily out sprinted
before I was finally parked away from Villa 12.
Then out of my car and running toward the
squat chunk of termite-proof Old Spain.
I hoped that again meet up with both the lady
who wore a mosquito net for a hat and my client's
hard-come-by drapery.
But the bungalow in front of me said no such luck
because it was dark, closed tight
and as quiet as snow falling all the way around
until I was in the bank
where each villa had its own junior
picnic grounds complete with barbecue pit.
Then from somewhere behind me I heard it.
First a rattle of paper.
Then a few footsteps, high heels,
I knew could be the green suede ones on flagstone.
After that over near the pit
liquid poured on wooden and sudden flame.
It was the lady whose shoes I knew all right
but this time no veil.
Only a face that might have been pretty if it weren't for the prancing shadows
the flames threw over an expression that was a little more
than determination, a little less
than psycho. I moved close to her
quietly. Then when she had the tapestry
unwrapped and was ready to make a little offering to the fire
guards I took my cue. Marshmallows
would taste better, baby, honest.
Yeah, a little me in 38, not so little.
So stand very still, honey, priceless heirloom included.
Oh, no I won't. It's going to fire.
Where are the lungs? That's a matter of opinion.
Ow! Let go of my arm, you big hay.
Drop it. Let it go, baby. Better we
dirty it than singe it. Come on, let go.
There, that's better. Now come on
firebug, who are you? Who?
Naomi Marshmallow.
Okay. Now tell me
where you fit in the tapestry or do we shake some more?
No, no, thanks.
I'll tell you what you want to know.
Who are you? Name's Philip
Marlow. Cop? No, a private detective
hired to babysit with the tapestry.
Let's not change the subject. Okay, okay.
Getting there. I'm
Arthur Merritt's niece
and sole heir. Guy in
Seattle who's waiting for me to deliver this item is your
uncle? Uh-huh, my uncle, the jerk.
Now wait a minute, wait a minute. Let me get this straight.
You steal the tapestry,
risk your life, play with guns and with people
who only play for keeps.
Also you can get a chance to burn 80,000 bucks
with a fancy needlework. Listen, my
uncle has been throwing away his money on antiques
and all he's got left of a half a million
is a hundred grand. I don't want
four-fifths of that used for this
stinking substitute for wallpaper.
Anything else? Yeah.
How long have you been working on this project
that's Operation Arson? A week.
Came down from Seattle when I learned
that the man my uncle was dealing with was named Pollard
Schindler. You can fill him in from there.
How do you mind
if I leave? I'm looking forward
to bed and a good cry.
Eighty thousand dollars worth.
Do I go? Yeah.
On one condition. Your gun, baby,
it stays.
I watched her until she was around at the
front of the bungalow and out of sight.
And I grabbed up the tapestry, started to fold it
when a sudden flare from the
fire threw a crazy spurt of light over
the material on my arm. And I
saw that on the shield that the Duke of Kent carried
there was no baton
sinister. This was not the same
tapestry I'd examined in my office.
Right then, just to make
things all the merrier, I once again
heard from Naomi Martin.
On the even chance that this was a trap, Naomi playing
possum with healthy lungs, I ditched the
tapestry in a nearby clump of trees, then gun in
hand ran for the front door of Villa 12.
I got there just as the great convertible lights
outrawed off and Naomi was climbing back onto her feet.
What took you so long?
Now listen, you, the real tapestry, where is it?
The real...oh no, you're kidding.
Baby, that number you just tried to burn is not
the one I started out with tonight. It's minus baton
sinister. Minus who? What are you
talking about? Just this. Maybe you
still have the tapestry and the routine where the flames was done
with a phony and strictly for my benefit. And maybe
you're nuts. Now you listen.
What I told you before was the truth, nothing but.
However, if it happens to work out that I
walked off with a phony and you did likewise,
I'm sorry. I'll bet.
As of the time being, I'll buy it that way.
Now tell me what went on here.
I was about to unlock
the door when it happened. A hand with a
rubber glove grabbed me and. Wait a minute, wait a minute.
Rubber glove? Rubber glove? Do we say everything
twice? Whoever it was obviously
didn't want to leave fingerprints. Oh, the smell of chloroform
on his hand. I come to think of it, I
did get a whiff of something funny.
How do you know about that? In my office when the
tapestry was...wait a minute,
you were there. Didn't you get a look at him? No,
there was only a single light on and you were
already out cold when I got there. Yeah, but
you must have seen something. Sure, stars.
After he took the tapestry then laid an
envelope of some kind next to you, I told him
to reach way up. It got me piled
into a heap on your office floor. The envelope?
He ran. I followed but I lost him. Hey,
hey hold it. Back up, Naomi.
What? Did you say he placed that envelope
there next to me? That's what I said.
See what I mean? We were. Cut it out, baby. I've got an idea
of thought. About a baton
sinister and what's really going on.
Also, it just occurred to me that Myron
Loft might not remain unconscious forever
and that my client was going to cover me at Loft's
place on Bunker Hill. Wait, where are you going, Marlo?
Once I pick up the tapestry I just hid,
which may not be a phony, back to Bunker Hill.
So long, kid. Oh, no.
Somebody, somebody call the police.
Marlo, call Marlo. Marlo, thank goodness you're here.
I, I just shot
Myron Loft. You did what, Schindler?
Yes. Gotten him.
Dead Marlo.
Hey, for the love of
key, what's going on in this joint?
Nothing you can help, sweetheart.
Okay, dry guys, but try to hold
this down, will you? I am.
It was terrible, Marlo. I came to
this place after I didn't hear from you
and found out which room Loft had.
When I went in he was on the floor
unconscious. I was
on the floor unconscious. So I started
to look around for the tapestry.
In the meantime Loft came too, got hold of a gun
and rushed you, is that it? Yes, we struggled
and then the gun went off.
Oh, Marlo, what should we do now?
Call the police?
Yeah, I'll take care of it.
You go back into the room there and don't touch anything and see that nobody
else does. All right, Marlo.
But you have the tapestry.
Yeah, I got it, Schindler. Safe and sound.
Your worries are over.
I'm inside, Detective Lieutenant Matthews speaking.
Marlo Matthews.
I'm at 946 South Grand Avenue
and so is another body.
At Myron Loft I mentioned.
My client, Paula Schindler, just shot him
in self-defense.
Which also clears up the death of that car
out behind the bus depot. I mean Loft
caught him and then tried for your client but missed.
Yeah. Yeah.
If you believe my client.
Yeah, well I believe...
Oh, Marlo, what are you reaching for?
A few very tasty but hard to swallow
facts. One, my client's a liar.
Two, my client killed both that car and Myron Loft.
And three, I've been set up and used
as the neatest chump, patsy, sucker, fall guy
they all fit. He even shot
through my windshield for realism.
Paula Schindler never had the real tapestry.
Matthews, he had only a phony. He gave it to me to deliver
and then swiped it from me. After which he put me
on the trail of the real one.
So while swiping it back for him like the good
private detective you are, you'd come up with the real one, huh?
That's tidy. I'll be right down, Phil.
Okay.
You told the police what happened, Marlo?
Yeah. I told them
Mr. Schindler.
I told them everything.
Now there's nothing for us to do but wait.
Well, that does it, lieutenant.
Seven full pages of confession
from Mr. Paula Schindler. A very
crafty bird. Yeah, yeah, thanks,
Mone. Oh, bring that girl
in a couple of minutes, will you? All right.
Well, Phil,
here it is, the whole story. Yeah.
Yeah, look, Paula Schindler went after the tapestry
in England, but Myron Loft got there
first. However, Schindler was the
one who knew where he could sell it way above museum
price, so Loft had a duplicate made up
and saw to it that Schindler stole it
from him. And it was Acker
who added the baton sinister, the mark of
fraudulence in heraldry, to the fake tapestry.
Yeah, yeah.
But I still don't clearly follow the rest of it,
Phil. I mean, here in L.A., you know?
Oh, well, it wasn't much of a change. Another verse,
same song. Loft stayed close to
Schindler all the way back to mainland. Yeah. And he
watched and he waited until he figured that Schindler was
ready to close his deal, you see. Yeah. And he
stepped forward and announced that the tapestry Schindler
had was a phony. Oh. And that he'd given
the real one for a healthy cut of the sale price.
Uh-huh. And Loft couldn't go to Merritt
direct because he didn't know who Merritt was. Sure.
Oh. And from there it was me, the Patsy,
with the best of references. Oh. Can that do
it for you? Yeah, just about. Schindler
killed Acker, whom we didn't expect in the scene, and Loft
who he did, so neither one could spill to you.
That's right. Now, uh,
yeah, come in, come in. Now, when did you
Oh, just a minute, Miss Marchand,
please. Uh, when did all this
come across to you, Phil? When I got mixed up
with the lovely lady here.
She told me that the man who had quarreled for me in my
office had carefully placed an envelope on the
floor next to me. An envelope
I later took as a clue. From
that switch, I started to look around for others. Oh,
great. Hooray for Camp Fire Girl Me.
What kind of a medal do I get? Eh,
you get a pretty nice one, Miss Marchand,
thanks to Marlow. You get freedom.
You know, we could prefer charges
against you. Like what? Like what?
Like assault and battery for
slugging Loft, grand larceny for the theft of
the tapestry from Loft's place, attempted
destruction of private property. Okay, okay, okay.
I forgot about
those things. Yay. Thanks, Marlow.
Thanks, Marlow.
Is that your official statement no more, not even
I'm sorry before you go? Well,
yes. I'm sorry,
all right. Real sorry
that I missed. Goodbye.
It was
another hour and my signature was on another dozen official papers before I was free to leave Matthews,
who kept the real tapestry but gave me the one we got back from Paula Schindler,
the one with the baton sinister on it as a souvenir.
So by the time I got back to my apartment, it was pushing four o'clock in the morning,
and I was tired.
Tired of a night that had been jammed full of crooked people who had taken crooked paths
half across the world, chasing a buck.
So tired, in fact, that I didn't notice Naomi Marchant leaning across the door opposite mine until she spoke.
Marlow, Marlow, we could take that tapestry you have there even if it's a phony one in spite of
Seattle and sell it to Uncle Arthur before he knows anything about what happened here.
Marlow, we could, we could, Marlow?
No. Marlow?
Marlow? Marlow?
What do we know?
There was only one thing to do.
Put both hands firm on her shoulders, spin the girl around and across my knees.
Don't shoot, thank me!
Oh well. I was too tired for even that.
The Adventures of Philip Marlow, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character and
crime's most deadly enemy, star Gerald Moore and are produced and transcribed by Norman McDonnell.
Script is by Mel Dinelli, Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt.
The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Orrante.
Be sure and be with us next week when Philip Marlow says...
Rain slashing a glass roof, an old man's curiosity and an imaginary imp out of place.
They all became important when two people died violently so a third could make a killing.
Paul Masterson speaking.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.