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. I didn't know it, but I was caught in a smoke out that
led to my search for a lady in black, past murder at a highway inn, to gunfire at a warehouse,
for a girl already dead in the morgue.
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 Smoke Out.
It never seems to fail. A sleepless night that leaves you with raw nerves and sandpaper eyelids
is always followed by a day that never ends. A kind of long, tough day that keeps you on the move
until light from the city is finally reduced to no more than a confused, clatterous sink of
exhaust fumes and an aimless mob of shallow people milling around looking for nothing but a chance
to con each other out of a lousy butt. And this was no exception. Because when I finally decided to
quit to get out of it, to go someplace quiet and relaxed, I found myself instead in a hurry all
over again. I was on my way to a very public building on Spring Street at the stubborn instigation
of one Detective Lieutenant Matthews of Homicide, whose phone call 20 minutes ago had caught me
as soon as I opened my apartment door.
Where you been Marlowe? Don't you ever check in at that office of yours?
Not on days like this Matthews. They don't give me a chance. What's up?
Tell me all you know about Vera Hamlin, Phil.
Who's Vera Hamlin?
A girl.
No foolin'.
Are you real sure you don't know her?
I'm positive. Am I supposed to?
Uh-huh. Maybe she used another name. Pretty, blonde, about five, six. A sweet kid apparently.
I can think of a lot of women who fit that description Matthews.
Yeah, you could. But this one wrote you a letter yesterday.
I didn't get it. Then I haven't been in my office at all today. Why?
You wanted your help?
How do you know?
Well, we picked it up from the imprint in an open packet stationary in her apartment.
Better come down and take a look at her, Phil.
Take a look at her? Where is she?
In the morgue.
Oh.
She was struck by a car last night.
Accident?
What makes you ask that, Marlowe?
Your dubious tone of voice, Matthews. Well, was it an accident?
I guess so. Maybe I've been a cop too long. I get suspicious of myself on dark nights.
I can understand it.
Come on down, Phil. Right away I'll meet you there.
You better hold it a while. Here he is now. Hello, Phil.
Hi.
Good time. This is Mr. Conner, the morgue attendant.
I'm certainly glad to know you, Mr. Marlowe. Is this your first visit?
No, I've been here before, Conner. Well, Matthews, for what good do you think this is going to do the police department?
Let's see her and get it over with.
All right. Let's go, Conner.
Step this way, please, gentlemen. Follow me.
Happy fella, isn't he?
Well, civil sense.
Here to the right.
Now, let's see.
Egren? Vonagen?
Now, here we are. Hamlin.
Here.
There.
Well, Marlowe?
Hmm?
You know her, Marlowe?
No.
Okay. That's all.
All right, we'll get it, Matthews.
Come on, son. Let's get out of here.
Yeah.
Now, look, Matthews, I told you on the phone I didn't know. What did you get me down here for?
Because there's some angles on this, Seth. I don't like the looks.
That letter to you is one of them.
Got the letter?
No. No, I read the whole thing in from the lab and that imprint they worked on.
She was worried. She wanted you to investigate something for her. You were supposed to call her today.
Oh, anything about her?
Yeah. She came to L.A. about six months ago from Omaha.
She worked for a guy named Brasso's, a produce wholesale on 77 Market Street.
Lately, she was seeing a lot of him after office hours.
What's wrong with that?
Nothing.
But she was killed in front of Brasso's house at 2 a.m.
As she was getting out of her car, Brasso wasn't home at the time.
Oh.
He has a fair alibi, puts him on a highway 101 north of Santa Monica.
Wait. Excuse me, gentlemen. I'd better get the phone.
Yeah, yeah, do it. What about the motors, Matthews?
No motors.
Well, then why are you so upset?
Why was she so upset? What did she want you for?
That's not enough for you to know, huh?
If I had that one answer, I'd know where to go from now on.
I know, but you're pinning a murder wrap on somebody.
I'm not up to that. It's for you to know.
All right, thank you. Excuse me a minute. Hello, this is Matthews.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
A witness.
Says it was Murr. She'll get a load of this.
Why? Yeah, give me that again.
Yeah, a woman.
Saw it happen, huh? Great. Who was it?
The lady in black.
Where'd you get that? It sounds corny.
Where did you get that? It sounds...
You mean there's a story about it out now on the L.A. Journal?
Yeah, I'll be back there in five minutes.
And listen, get a hold of the reporter who wrote that story and hang on to him.
I want to talk to that wise punk.
How do you like that?
How do you like it?
I'm not going to have a murder with an eyewitness to prove it.
Only the police department is the last outfitting town to know.
Come on, Phil.
Where to this time?
To buy a newspaper, find out what's going on.
Matthews was boiling as we left the morgue and headed to the police headquarters.
We made one stop on the way to pick up a copy of the journal which he read as I drove.
The kind of smoky, well-illustrated sensation was in the clouds, issues of police work and false papers.
I'm going to read this exclusively to the Journal tonight.
She was an eyewitness when a mad killer purposely swerved his speeding car into curvaceous blonde beauty Vera Hamlin outside her lover's Brentwood home late last night.
If that's journalism, I'll eat my bag.
Keep reading. You're a cop, not a critic.
Yeah, but I got taste.
The lady in black will appear at police headquarters at nine o'clock to reveal license number and description of the murderer in a shocking death which police have already labeled accidental nuts.
Come on, now let's get one of those.
I'm sorry for Matthews because the way things were breaking, the Vera Hamlin deal was a cinch to become one of those involved school ball affairs.
Nothing goes according to the book and I was glad I never got a letter.
Now it was none of my business.
All I wanted to do was drop Matthews off, get away from the whole thing and try to forget about it.
That one we piled up behind the waiting squad car at headquarters.
The gang of night deep potots was raping the fairs.
Don't give me a right.
And under your witness going to jail?
It's nine on the button.
Where's the lady in black?
How do I know? I didn't find out there was a witness till I read it in the journal.
Yeah, that was a dirty trick.
Hi, Evan.
You're an old timer, Abbott. You guys ought to keep humps like a journal squirt in line. They just make you cuss on everything.
Oh, don't blame us for that, man.
He burned up, huh, Marlow?
You blame him? You know, as well as I do, the journal picked up that witness right here.
Kept her under wraps until they had time to break the story.
Well, he shouldn't let it throw him. You know, guys like that usually hang them.
Sure, after the damage is done.
Stop! Move! Move! Move!
Who are you going to get that for? You today just turned on the first exam, Marlow.
Oh, I've had enough today, Matthews. Besides, nobody in City Hall buys my check. Good night!
I watched him out of sight and drove to the corner where one of the reporters told me that the green sedan had had a lady in black in it.
So I tried the shots and got in the way clean.
So, without a second thought, I drove back to Hollywood and tried to double-scotch in a quiet bar.
Yeah, it didn't work. Half hour later I ended up in my office with Vera Hamlin's letter open on my desk.
And closed were five ten dollar bills and a souvenir postcard from a place called Moons Point on Highway 101.
Penciled across the back with a word.
I think this place means trouble to Dave Russell. I don't know why, Vera.
Maybe it was a memory of the girl's face in the mall.
Oh, maybe it was a stack of wrinkled tens on my desk that made me do it.
At whatever it was, I went to my car, drove out past Santa Monica, and it took me an hour to get to Moons Point on Highway 101.
An isolated huddle of grimy filling station rickety six cabin auto cart and weather-beaten lunch counter and bar, squatting beside the highway.
I pulled up at the parking lot and went into the bar where the source of the quaint name Moons Point met me.
Moons himself. It was round, pale, and soft as a lump of green cheese.
What can I do for you, mister?
Dave around?
Dave who?
Russell. Want to see him on business.
What kind of business?
Private business.
Oh, okay.
Sure, Brussels here. Out in cabin number four there, at Mr. Stippel's.
You can got that back there, if you want it. But I don't think I'll have much time for you, fellas.
Why not?
The newspapers just come in, the LA Journal.
Is that all? I got much later news than that for him.
Hey, hey, hey, who's there?
Pull it down, will you? My name is Baggett. I just signed asking for Dave Brasso.
Well, I think you're a cop and I might be able to do you no favor.
What have you got in mind, Baggett?
Well, since there don't seem to be much love lost between you and Brasso, I'll tell you.
I believe in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, see?
I used to be a driver for Dave Brasso, only yesterday I got canned.
Turned out, put off my truck of fire for no reason at all.
So?
So I've been sticking close to him just waiting for a chance to pay him back.
And I've been finding out things, things you might like to know.
Give me a minute.
Well, for instance, he had a fight.
A knock down, drag out argument with that Vera Hamlin girl last night.
Just an hour or so before she was run over. She claimed he was seeing another woman.
What's that girl, Baggett?
She was found dead in front of his house, bud. You ended up, and that's not all he got.
I know why he's hanging around out here. Also, why it ain't going to do him one bit of good.
I got plenty to tell about that.
Wait a minute, hold it, hold it.
Yeah, that's my little snipper who opened the door to number four there.
I got to get out of here.
But I got plenty to tell, bud, so when you're finished in there, come on over behind the grease rack at the filling station.
I'll be waiting for you.
What are you feeling, Dave?
You're on edge. You got reason to be, but running back into town won't help you any.
Well, they got a witness. She's already told it.
Wait a minute, there's somebody outside here.
Yeah, that's right. I want to see Dave Brasso.
Man, Mr. Brasso is pretty busy right now, mister.
I'm not too busy to see me.
Oh, are you a cop?
No.
Then he must be a criminal reporter, so scram.
You'll look Mr. Brasso up at his place of business some other time.
You mean after he skipped town to keep the witness from putting a finger on him?
Why, you were snooping.
Hold it, Marty. Wait.
Who are you?
What's your diet, soldier?
Name's Marlowe, private detective. I'm here because Vera Hamlin wrote me a letter yesterday.
Vera? I'm going to get lost for a couple of minutes, will you?
I want to talk to this guy.
Don't you think you'd better let me?
Go on, go on, beat it.
Well, okay.
All right, soldier. Come on in.
You wanted to see me? I'll take a good look.
Well, okay, so you're big, Brasso.
Hustling up to run over somebody and kill them.
About even getting into a car.
I'll let that one go by, soldier. Where's the letter?
Locked up in my office.
What'd she say in it?
Wanted something to look into. Said this was a good place to start.
Ah, a job for the poor.
Is that what the fight was about last time?
Fight? You do find things out, don't you, soldier?
That's my business.
Well, maybe you know who this lady in black here in the paper is and what she's going to tell.
Maybe. Might even know who was jumping up to try to kill her tonight and shut her up.
Who was that? You mean somebody...
Come on, Brasso, let's get closer to the truth. You're a lousy actor.
For instance, Vera wanted me to come to this dump because you and Sippler hold up here. Why?
That doesn't concern you. It's business.
Sure, and when a girl accidentally gets in the way of business, she's run over by it. Is that the way you work?
You keep talking on the same thing, soldier, and I don't like it.
I was in love with Vera Hamlin.
Maybe you're trying to use that to nail me in a frame.
Maybe you're a sneak for that stinking lousy weather.
Maybe you didn't get any letter from Vera at all, so get out of here and think up a new one.
Your theories are getting way ahead of you, Buster. Who's weather?
You're a lousy actor.
I said get out, too!
I take that back for an answer, soldier, and you can get more of the same anytime you want it at 77 Market Street.
Brasso's hair trigger left with 200 pounds of shoulder behind it.
I was out of the door and flat on my back in the gravel.
I was tallied my interview with him at Vera with one minor exception.
I had some bases in fact for his story, so I tested myself off and made for the rear of the deserted filling station where the grease rack stood.
There was nobody around.
I waited a few minutes for him, and then I skirted wide around the autocourt and looked into the scaly window at the bar.
Stipple was there with his nose in a beer glass, but no baguette.
I circled the building quietly, found nothing but indignant spiders and dark corners, and decided to try the grease rack again.
When the back door of the bar opened, Moon came out with a flashlight and a pail of garbage.
He was halfway to a rack of cans when he froze, like a bird dog with one foot in the air.
Holy mackerel!
Flashlights stabbing at a man's hand, hanging out over the edge of a shallow ditch.
Look, soldier, there's somebody laying in the ditch.
Yeah?
No wonder I couldn't find him.
It's Becket with a knife in his back.
Music
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we continue with the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, The Smoke-Out.
Music
Even as death quietly hardened the hand at the edge of the ditch, the wheezing pudgy circle known as Moon was already worrying less about why murder was false at his feet
and more about what the violence playing of the truck driver was going to do to his roadhouse business as usual.
Didn't make for most of them listening.
Dave Brasso, that Monday Stipple, all of them, they can take their trade and their troubles some or the other.
I gotta make a buck like the next guy, but I sure ain't just gonna do it this way, for overnight a dress is more than I can do.
Hey, wait a minute, Moon, what troubles are you talking about, Brasso and Stipple, I mean?
What is it? Come on, speak up, it may be important.
To who?
To me and the law, and to Becket here.
Maybe a girl who died a little ahead of her time.
A girl who what?
Hey, Mr. Year talking in circles.
Yeah, sure I am, and we don't have time for that, do we, Moon?
Yeah, let go of me.
Are you gonna talk?
Get back.
Well?
Okay, okay, I'll tell you.
If you know any national secret, now get your hands off of me.
All right, we'll make it fast.
Set up, what is it, Moon?
Too much complication.
Another full-dose outfit run by a guy named Mike.
He's been picking Brasso's trucks off along US 101 every other night.
Sometimes with the weather plan back and bent, and sometimes just sloppy hijacking, but all earth is trouble.
Trouble Brasso can't prove, is that it?
Yes. That's the reason for Monday Stipple's meeting right here.
Stipple's supposed to get the proof for Brasso.
Hey, Warner, there's a guy going to the car next to mine.
Oh, that's Brasso, Marlow, and like I said, I've had enough.
For my dough, it's time to call the cops.
Good luck, sucker.
Dave Brasso was out in front by no more than 30 seconds, so as I ran toward my car and the wall of dust, the tires had kicked up.
I figured I hadn't even a chance of catching up with him before he got back to Santa Monica and hit the heavy traffic.
But I figured differently when I had one hand on the door of my car.
I had to. Company said so.
I'm holding a gun. Please don't move.
She was standing someplace behind me, and when I did a toe, she moved around in a wide, careful arc until we faced each other across a chunk of dark night.
It revealed only two things.
One, she was holding a gun, and two, there was no mistaking her.
This was a lady in black.
Those car keys are in your hand. Throw them here, please.
Now, wait a minute. I'm sure we can talk.
Please, let me handle them.
Okay. Now what?
Now, whoever you are, you can look for these while I'm gone.
Hey, listen.
I don't want to be interfered with.
Now, wait a minute. Oh, I get it.
You're afraid something will jar the sale price you've set for Brasso, huh?
Yep. What are you talking about?
That ever-sinking routine known as blackmail.
But to be very specific, a mystery witness, you, the lady in black, who almost gets to the police to tag a killer.
Almost, so she could scare said killer into a generous frame of mind when next they meet.
In other words, Baby was all an act of pressure play on Dave Brasso.
Now it's time to collect. Do I go on?
No, you don't. You just do as I say.
You just turn around and walk, and think a little.
Think about the pistol shots that you neglected to mention, which somebody took at me while I almost went to the police.
Or did I do that myself, also for the sake of Mr. Brasso's frame of mind?
It's possible.
I don't think so. Now go on, start walking. You don't make much sense standing here.
As I moved away from her, she backed off quickly, caught a car that was nuzzling a high hitch near the far side of the roadhouse.
So I knew that any move I intended to make had to be done right then and there.
But she must have known just as much because that was when the gun she held got mad enough to start spitting my way.
I drove to the gravel with my feet and practically bowled my way across a dozen uncomfortable yards of chopped rock to the shoulder of a line of flash cans,
all of which left me scarred, safe, and in time to do nothing more effective than swear.
I had a pair of peeping taillights on a green sedan that were already winking out of sight.
Didn't help much.
.
Well, what do you know, the private detective again.
Well, what's it this time?
So Brasso's tipple is in?
Oh, he isn't.
That's funny.
No, I don't think so. I only think you're funny.
Panic, Marlo. Moon and I have been watching you comb that gravel out there searching for the key.
We couldn't catch the chatter, but she certainly made you look stupid.
And just so you don't go on looking that way, don't bother playing so wide-eyed about Brasso being in here either.
You see, I know you know he isn't.
It won't work, Sonny boy. Maybe a little pressure will.
I doubt it. I don't bend easy, Marlo.
Also, I don't happen to know where Brasso went.
But just so nobody gets too upset or quick with a gun, maybe we have to go back over to the bar to chat.
Moon is expecting me.
Besides, it's cozier there.
It won't be, once the cops start pouring in.
Incidentally, it makes it your turn not to play dumb.
I mean Ernie Baggett being very dead out in the back.
Even Steven, Marlo.
Yeah.
Okay, I know about Baggett.
From Brasso? I heard you.
Ah, nice night.
You know, Cripple, you're making a big mistake.
What?
I think Brasso can't pay off anymore.
You said I was protecting him.
I worked for Dave Brasso, period.
Maybe knocked off a couple of people, and I'm not saying he has.
It's got nothing to do with me.
What's done is done.
Which doesn't include the girl, huh?
Who?
That witness?
What's the difference? What happens to her?
She's living on borrowed time right now anyway. Look at her.
Why?
Because of what she knows?
No, no, because of the way she handles what she knows.
All that gab and the papers.
You know, she's lucky those three shots that were thrown at her only came out of a pistol.
Could have been a howitzer considering the advance notice she gave.
Hey, Moon.
What?
The cops here yet?
No, they ain't.
I heard the girls take five minutes, ten minutes to go.
I sure wish they'd get here.
Don't worry, they will.
Well, why won't they be?
Hey, private detective, come out of it.
What's up?
Around here, simple nothing.
Nothing at all.
Where are you going?
The 77 Market Street.
The Bostro Produce Company.
I think it's where both your boss and the lady in black are going to get together.
And what gives you that idea?
A hunch, simple.
Just a hunch.
Goodbye.
The Bostro Produce Company was a half a block of corrugated metal warehouse crushed behind
a wide loading ramp, which at 2 a.m. bustled with enough noisy fresh vegetable business
to turn night into day.
And when I was out of my car clear of the whirring electric hand shots, I was making
my way in between static lettuce crates for the cage marked dispatcher.
I kept wondering how a guy who built an outfit like this single-handed could have possibly
made the mistake I figured was his.
I stopped wondering when a face that had been stolen from a hawk pressed itself close to
the inside of the cage and yelled at me.
Well, what is it, mister?
Talk about that.
We are busy here.
Might be 621 out now.
That's the Dave Bracco.
Who's that?
He isn't here.
Dispatcher.
Yes, yes.
21 of Bush.
Right.
Bracco's not in his office, mister.
I'm not sure where he is.
I'm not sure.
You a cop?
No, private detective.
With expense account.
Will five help?
He just paid ten.
Oh, let it ring.
Come on, bust of this count.
Here's ten.
Lady in black?
Yes, yes.
Keep it down, will you?
She stood around for maybe 20 minutes before she got talking to me.
Not a bad-looking dollar, sir.
All right, all right.
Now where'd you send her?
Come on, you got your ten socks.
Hang on just a minute.
Where?
The old shed in the back.
Used to be a warehouse.
They've got a real private office there.
You'll probably catch up there if you run.
I'll probably find it.
I'll be right back.
The old warehouse turned out to be an ugly huddle of posh cobbler teetering at the edge
of a deserted cobblestone alley, and quietly dying of old age.
I accepted a flicker of light from an open door deep inside and was as dark and as quiet
as the lining of a croc coat.
Until I stepped in, and in front of a gun, it was no surprise.
When I told you that I didn't want to be interfered with, I meant just that.
Now without shouting, who are you?
Well one thing, a private detective named Philip Marlow.
Another guy who's still working for Vera Hamlin.
You're working for Vera?
That's right, but not swinging him a dog.
Which means what?
That you never saw Vera Hamlin killed in the first place.
And that all this lady in black was as well strictly a smoke out.
Vera was my sister, Marlow.
Her letters told me all about Dave Brasso.
About what he meant to her.
About the run around she was getting from him.
So you added that to a phony hit and run accident and decided to pose as a surprise witness.
So that Dave Brasso would try to pick you off and reveal himself as your sister's killer.
If you look through it.
Right.
Now Marlow, you...
Marlow, quick, get back.
Brasso just turned that light off in there.
He's coming out.
Then I'm going to meet him.
No, don't listen.
If you want to help stay where you are, keep quiet.
Oh brother, I'd better be right.
She moved one slow step at a time.
Tied the long thin triangle of light.
The open warehouse door spilled across the sawdust flooring.
I slid my 38 from shoulder,
hosted a right hand and a hair on the back of my neck started to crawl.
And suddenly there was nothing to do but wait.
You can stop right there Mr. Brasso.
Huh? Who's there? Who are you?
A girl named Hamlin, Mr. Brasso.
Francis Hamlin.
A girl who knows all about how my sister really was.
It was only a sudden splash of light that the loan was taking it.
With a pistol raised and aimed at the back of Francis Hamlin's head.
It was all the cure I needed.
Drop it, Stipple!
Stop, stop, stop shooting again.
Marlow, Marlow, let's quickly get Brasso out of here.
Yeah, but he's harmless, honey.
He and Stipple aren't on the same team as far as your sister's concerned.
Did you hear that, Brasso?
Yeah, I heard you, Marlow.
Well then, then Stipple killed my sister.
Poor Marlow.
I don't know. He's the one to ask about that.
All right. Wise, Stipple.
Dave, why did you do it?
Dave, stay back.
Why?
I did it because she caught me on my place.
Caught me talking to Mike Webber.
You worked for Webber for the guy who was wrecking our business.
Yeah, Dave, please. I didn't know what I was doing.
She was going back to you to tell you what she saw.
You'll be double crossing her life.
Dave, Dave, that's enough.
No, no it isn't. Please, Dave.
I've got something to finish.
Well, Marlow, for a guy who was you but it isn't even on the city payroll,
is it all right today?
Hey, but tell me...
Oh, Doc Matthew.
Oh, hey.
Lieutenant, how about the story?
We're pushing our deadline on a bulldog edition.
Yeah, yeah. We work for daily papers, Matt.
You've been holed up in that warehouse with Marlow
and Matt heavy for a half hour now. What gives?
Hey, how bad is Stimple's wound?
Look, the wound is nothing. It's just scratch, although I wouldn't say it hurts.
But the story, you'll have to wait until I'm down at headquarters.
I haven't got it all myself.
Oh, Lieutenant, you're kidding.
Sure, I've got lots of time for it. Listen, Abbot,
Monty Stimple killed both Vera Hamlin and Ernie Baggett.
Got it.
He killed the lady because she found out he was crooked,
and he killed Baggett because he was afraid Baggett knew too much.
Oh, now, so long.
Oh, but Lieutenant...
Tonight I've got something less than love for the gentlemen of the press.
Hey, Phil, come on. Miss Hamlin's over there.
Look, Marlow, before it's impossible for me to say away from those dear boys...
Where did you run across the switch?
I mean, what's Hague month Stimple for?
The fakey-maid lieutenant calling the shots when he was blindfolded.
Or in other words, what?
Matthews, I'm tired. Tomorrow, huh?
No, no, no, no.
We can talk then. Come on, Phil.
Marlow, please.
Okay, well, it's something like this.
Back at Moons Point, Stimple told me how lucky the lady in black was.
Only three shots were thrown at her.
And he had no way of knowing how many shots had been thrown, huh?
Had a boy. Unless, of course, he threw them himself.
Sure.
The client just had a smoke-out plan, which was an inspiration to me,
because knowing Stimple was a liar and proving it were two different things.
So you led him to the warehouse, and while Miss Hamlin here's guns for Brossel,
Stimple guns for her.
You're so right, and good night, Lieutenant Matthews.
Oh, no, no, listen, Marlow, I got to...
Good night, Lieutenant.
Okay, okay. Good night, Phil. Good night, Lieutenant.
Good night, Lieutenant.
Well, thanks, Marlow.
And...
And what, more questions?
Uh-huh. But not under vital statistics.
Uh, Marlow, one way or another, my creative plan has worked, right?
I guess so.
Well, then tell me, now that Stimple's caught and let her all over,
am I supposed to feel good?
I don't know, baby.
Maybe that's what's so scurry about revenge.
Cut all the permanence of a smoke ring, even when your positive is justified.
Take a rest.
I'd been jog-tired when it started.
We're fed up with this city and the aimless, milling mob of shallow people.
Always hungry for a butt that made it move.
But now as I drove through the quiet, empty downtown street scene,
I listened to Frances Tamsen talk about her sister, who had never been anything but nice.
I stopped thinking about those money grubbers.
I thought instead about the ones like Vera.
All the people all over the world who sometimes get in trouble because other people won't realize
the world is not for sale.
Yeah.
The Vera's are the ones to keep in mind.
And that was when I decided that I was only tired, not whipped, not fed up.
All I needed was a good night's sleep.
So I went home and got it.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character,
star Gerald Moore, and are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald.
Script is by Robert Mitchell and Gene Leavitt.
Featured in the cast were Lynn Allen, Barney Phillips, John Boehner, Jack Crouchon,
Polly Bear, Edgar Berrier, Byron Cain, Hugh Thomas, and Bill Raleigh.
Detective Lieutenant Matthews is played by Larry Dobkin.
The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Orontz.
Be sure and be with us next week when Philip Marlowe says.