Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road. Those who travel it wind up in the gut of the prison of the grave.
This time a peddler of pulp paper love, a blackmailer with muscles, a south of the border chiseler, a simpering prude and a corpse in a bedroom.
All had one thing in common. Each was a woman. It happened like this.
From the pen of Raymond Trampler, 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 Ladies Night.
And the moment the sauce is boiling furiously, which is right now, add one full cup of tomato paste gradually and stir vigorously.
Okay? One full cup of tomato paste gradually. Oh no, no not now. I'll be a minute. I said I'll be. Oh no.
All right. So I add tomato paste cup and all. Okay. Okay. I'm coming. Who is it?
Western Union telegram from Philip Marlowe. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you. Kaye Vanaman. Yes, darling. It's Don Ch'Fen Kaye.
Am I welcome? Me and my small Western Union Joe? Oh sure, sure. Come on in. Come on in, honey. We're going to the kitchen.
Oh, it's not Marlowe playing chef again. What is it this time? Well, sauce a la merino.
What's on your poor little rich girl's 14 carat mine tonight? You. It's Tuesday. Tuesday? Yes.
This is meeting night in my crowd. The Greens Committee at the country club, the Beverly Hills male choir, the veterans of this and that.
So no men left. Oh, except Stone's friend Marlowe, huh? Look Kaye baby, just because I...
That, that, that. I know it by heart, Phil. Just because brave private detective once saved rich Uncle Enoch's niece Kaye baby from lots of trouble.
For what she was well paid. There's no reason why they've got to go on seeing each other. Well, Mr. You're wrong. There is a reason. A big fat one.
I like you. Lots. You know. Especially on Tuesdays. I can't tell you how happy that makes me. Now look.
I'm not being too bold, am I? I did call, you know, three times. You weren't home all day. That didn't discourage you.
Oh. If I can't have you, I'll take the doorstep. Tuesdays. On Tuesdays.
Now, about this sauce, ala, what do you call it? What do we do first? Fish out the cup or wait for it to melt?
Well, it all depends. If we want to, hey, is that thing sticking out of your pocket? Real telegram or prop for gag?
Oh no, no prop. Real thing. I met the boy in front of your door. Here. Open it up, will you? My hands are greasy.
Though I noticed. Over there self-reliant. It's called soap and water. Oh. Well, read it, dear. Straight like, huh?
Okay. Straight like. Try to read you all day. Very important. Uh-huh.
You get the tulip room. Sunset strip at eight tonight will pay you. Tulip room. Strip will your fee.
Time means everything. Gigi on. Arms big. You know her? Give me the towel, will you? Yeah. I think.
Sure. She's the demon editor for Passman House. Who publish what?
She publishes magazines, torrid love, great passions. You know, the shopgirls' encyclopedia.
Uh-huh. Well, now tell me, shopgirl, where'd you meet editor Gigi Almsby? At a cocktail party about a year ago.
She's quite a character. Sleek to look at. And listen to? Oh, someplace between a career woman and a marine sergeant.
Credit good? Excellent. Uncle Enoch once shook hands with her, and that's better than Dun and Brett.
Where are you going? The Dun jacket and professional demeanor. Both are going to the tulip room. Phil, come on.
But you're not. Phil, that's not fair. This is Tuesday. And the sauce a la merino needs one measuring cup removed.
That delicate woman's touch from here on in. Bye-bye, Kay. You're a staunch friend indeed.
The tulip room was one of those extra chic spots, you know, curled up at the foot of the Hollywood Hills,
where the velvet and the maitre d's tone of voice made you sure you had egg on your vest.
But that plus the crew cut glamour girls who lined the boots and shrilled darling, no matter what was said,
made finding my prospective client that much easier. In severely tailored bankers gray flannel,
she stood out among the neighboring naked shoulders like a wart on a cue ball,
as did her voice, which once it had gone through the introductions came right to the point.
Marlow, my problem is simple. I want to find a woman in a hurry. Her name is Henrietta Lawrence.
She's a good hack writer who disappeared. I know not why. Health? Likewise.
Now here it is. One, two, three. A couple of weeks ago, Henrietta Lawrence showed up in my office
in some place like Seattle or Portland, I forget which, and handed me an outline for a three-installment serial story
that was excellent, according to our standards. Three days ago, she brought in the first two installments, also excellent.
But the day before yesterday, when the third installment was due, I was sitting in my office winter when this happened.
She only got as far as the front door. What happened? I don't know.
She saw somebody going by slowly in a car, scared the daylights out of her, and she hobbled for a cab.
Wait a minute, wait a minute, did you say hobbled? Yes, she limps.
Use the cane. Anyway, she piled into this cab and took off. Haven't had a word from her since.
I'm worried, Marlow. She's a nervous thing, the kind who'd go to pieces, little ones fast.
So I want you... Gigi owns me always. I live and breathe this day and night, Clovis. Darling, I want you.
Busy, Jeanette, busy. So I see. And what's the handsome gentleman's name am I supposed to give?
It's Dracula, darling. We're counting the white throats. Goodbye.
Goodbye, Jeanette. This is business strictly. Well, I was only being friendly.
Excuse me, darling. Happy business. Oh, what they let loose after dark.
Anyhow, Marlow, I want you to find this girl. She may be in an awful jam.
Now, what do you want to know? Well, description might help, Gigi.
Okay. Henriette is about 35 on the drab side, no makeup, no jewelry.
Each time I saw her, she was wearing the same thing, a plain brown coat, a plainer brown hat, low heels.
All in all, a sex appeal of a tumbleweed. Last address you had on her?
The only one. The Brace Hotel for Women, Room 7. It's over on Fountain, near La Cienega.
But she hasn't checked back there in two days, either.
That giggling flower of the old South desk clerk I could talk to on the phone today hasn't the slightest idea where she is.
But I figure for you, she might, Marlow. She's probably got a face like a wet hemp. Her name is Clarice.
Well, we'll try it. Where can I reach you, Gigi?
At my home in Brentwood. Sunnyside 9, 101-1.
101-1?
Yeah, I'll stay next to the phone. Really do your best, will you, Marlow?
Okay, Gigi. It'll be my best, all right? Don't worry about it. I'll call you.
Good evening. Brace Hotel. Miss Violet Mall? One moment, please.
Go ahead. Hello. Can I, can I help you?
Are we alone? Is the switchboard closed?
Why, oh yeah.
Good. You see, I'm a private detective named Marlow, Clarice.
A private detective? And you know my name.
Oh, we find things out.
How can poor little old me help you?
Well, it's about Henrietta Lawrence, the girl with the cane. She's in trouble, and I think it's a man.
So do I.
Who?
Well, I don't know.
You sure?
Positive. She was always so quiet, so mysterious. It was enough to make a body curious. So one night I followed her.
She went to Annie Stringer's Hollywood Health Club. That's a lady's Turkish bath over on Santa Monica Boulevard in Doheny.
Well, maybe she ducked in there because she knew you were following her.
Oh no, I was very careful. Besides, she had something to say to a woman there.
I know. I saw him talking in the doorway when I went by. Couldn't see who it was, though.
No man, huh?
No. But I keep my eyes open when she comes back.
Oh, you do just then. Keep them wide open, Clarice. They're lovely eyes.
Oh.
Good night, honey.
My client was wrong. Clarice did not have a face like Wet Hemp. It was more like a batch of biscuits, but the body curious had provided a lead.
As far as the corner of Santa Monica and Doheny, and into the white, antiseptic-looking reception room of Annie Stringer's Hollywood Health Club. Women only.
There I forgot about Clarice, hemp, and biscuits alike, and thought instead about something a whole lot tastier.
Like the girl who was leaning on the corner of a desk marked information while she made pencil marks on a chart.
She looked up when I closed the door and started toing me.
But when another door in the room opened and a woman who was built like a sack of cement wore down on me, she turned back to her chart.
Yes, sir. I help you. I'm Annie Stringer. We don't have a men's section here, if that's what you wanted.
No, it was something else, Miss Stringer.
Annie, old do. Names my stock and trade. Something else, like what?
Henrietta Lawrence. I'm looking for her.
Who are you, mister? What's your name?
Philip Marlow. I'm a friend of Henrietta's from Portland. They told me over at the Brace Hotel that Henrietta might be at your place.
You see, someone had seen her come in here once.
Henrietta Lawrence, huh?
Well, name doesn't mean anything to me, but...
Annie, Mrs. Gordon wants you to come be for a while.
All right, he'll be right there.
I don't recall anyone by that name, Mr. Marlow, but you might check with my receptionist there.
Take care of the gentleman, will you, Mona dear?
Very well, Annie.
I'm coming, Mrs. Gordon.
I'm... I'm sorry, mister.
Marlow, Mona dear. Philip Marlow.
Marlow. Well, I don't recall any Henrietta Lawrence ever having been with us, but...
why don't we check the registration card at my desk and be sure? I might be mistaken.
All right, she's a woman about 35. She wears no make-up, but...
Never mind. I know her, amigo.
What?
Just listen. You see, Mr. Marlow, the cards here list everyone who ever visits the club.
Why do you really want him yet, Lawrence?
Well, I'm a private detective with an interested client.
Who has money, amigo?
He could be. What's your connection here?
Receptionist.
Ah.
And good friend to Annie. Or, um, confident, you might say.
All right, say it.
Meet me in the alley behind the hardware store across the street in a half hour. We close then.
Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Marlow, but we don't seem to have any listing of a Henrietta Lawrence.
But perhaps in the...
No, never mind. Thanks, just the same.
Well, you're quite welcome.
Don't get me waiting, amigo.
I killed most of the 30-minute wait at an all-night beanery a block away where I drank bad coffee and listened to a...
special monologue from a waitress, which was worse.
And at exactly 10.30, I stepped into the street and walked to the alley behind the hardware store.
Oh, cautiously, I tore the dark shadow of the building into a hand that gripped like a bear trap, snapped shut on my upper arm,
while another locked my wrist high into my back.
Oh, one inch, Mr. Marlow, and I'll break it off and hand it to you.
I was a lady wrestler, understand?
Oh, do I still call you Annie?
Oh, don't remind me of wisecracks.
It's been a long day and I haven't got patience.
Now, what's your angle, flatfoot?
Slips.
Slip, baby, in more ways than one. Start talking.
All right, all right. Henrietta came from Seattle, not Portland.
Some handsome advice. Forget Henrietta Lawrence, Chalmers.
You can't do her any good.
You're a liar, Annie, and you know it.
Wasting your breath, Chalmers.
Let's bluff Annie, hot air.
Yeah? I suppose that goes for the letter, too, I suppose.
Letter? You slipped again, kid.
What about it? You don't know what letter I'm talking about?
But, Mr. Marlow, Henrietta Lawrence does. So tell her to call off the bloodhound,
or that letter will go right to the cops.
They'll know exactly what to do with it.
Get going, sweetie.
Okay.
What's wrong with all the time you're going to get off, go on, speed it while you can still walk. Go.
All right. But I'll be around, Marlow.
So don't forget the message I gave you for Miss Lawrence.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlow.
But first, the kindly physician of Rivers End, Dr. Christian,
will meet the spirit of George Washington in a most unusual way this Wednesday night
when Dr. Christian tells his story on most of these same CBS stations.
An elderly patient who claims to have a personal message from George Washington
comes to Dr. Christian's office and presents him with one of his most perplexing cases.
Dr. Christian, starring Gene Herschelt, is a regular Wednesday night feature.
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlow,
and tonight's story, the ladies' night.
Okay.
Kay watched Andy Stringer lumber out of sight down the alley,
and she turned, tossed me, and I told you so, smile and lit a cigarette for me.
Here. Well, I guess it's a good thing I chucked that scullery made routine
and followed you after all, wasn't it?
Look, I've already said thanks, so go ahead. Get real corny, rub it in. Marlow pinned by a woman.
That was no woman, Philip. It was the late gargantuan's cousin.
Yeah, I was also outnumbered and surrounded.
By the way, where's your gun, Kay?
I don't have any gun. What?
Just a lot of love and curiosity about what you were doing out here in the alley with a creature like that.
I was taking a judo lesson.
By correspondence, maybe?
What was all that about a letter?
Well, for my money, the way things stack up, G.G. Ormsby's top writer, one Henrietta Lawrence,
is being blackmailed by Andy Stringer, and that letter is Andy's protection.
It goes to the cops if anything. Kay, get out of sight quick.
What? What's the matter?
Marlow, not another one.
Yeah, yeah, my date, Doc. Will you go on? It's important.
All right, but don't forget you're a sucker for a hammerlock, so watch it.
Phil?
Señor Marlow?
Over here, Mona.
Oh, we'll see. Here I am.
Are we alone?
Yeah, yeah, we're alone.
Good. It is worth my life what I'm going to tell you.
And we like me alive, no?
Look, what is it, Mona? You know something about Henrietta Lawrence?
See, more than enough. There's a certain letter.
Oh, you know about that, huh?
Sure. I know where it is and what it says.
Bless you, baby. Where is it? I want that letter back.
That's nice.
Nice?
See, and I would love to give it to you for nothing, but...
But what?
But my poor mother, she needs an operation. My father, the mortgage on the ranch...
Your little sister wants music lessons. Come on, kid, how much?
How much the life of Henrietta Lawrence worth, Phil, dear?
To me, to you, to Henrietta Lawrence.
Her life, huh? I'll see what I can do.
You better do real good, amigo. It's a very serious thing. I take a great risk.
Annie Stringer is stupid, but she's also strong like a bull.
Come to my apartment. 8310 North Ardmore, number D. One hour.
D, huh? Okay, I'll be there.
Good. And please, amigo, you don't hold hard feelings against me.
Not for this. You know, business is business.
Pleasure's a blessing, huh?
Maybe we can mix them in an hour.
I'll be waiting for you, Phil.
How do you like that?
It was as touching a little scene as I've ever witnessed.
Skip it, Kay. This deal is liable to get rough before it's over, and I've got a call to make. Let's go.
And I was dumb enough to warn you against the hammerlock.
The kid's the... the hammerlock that that kid holds is like a pal on the head.
Can I go with you just for laughs?
Yeah, yeah. We're gonna call on my client. You're scramming. Come on.
Hello?
Marlo, GG. Got a line on Henrietta, but you're not gonna like it much.
What do you mean? How does it go, Marlo?
Trouble is she's got blackmail.
I don't know what the hook is, but I have word of one of the bargainers is plenty serious.
Who's doing it, Phil?
A female mastodon named Annie Stringer's, the big wheel.
I got onto it through a letter.
A letter?
Yeah. Annie wrote her protection letter.
It's got all the dirt in it and goes to the cops if anything happens to Annie. It's a standard routine.
Where is this letter? Who has it?
It's a double-crossing little Spanish number named Mona.
We're supposed to meet her again in an hour at her place.
Phil, we must get that letter.
It's no sense, GG. Mona's not bright, but she's sly, it's liable to be expensive.
That doesn't matter.
Okay.
Anything I can do to help Henrietta, I want to do now more than ever.
What does that mean?
I've heard from her, Marlo. She called me just a few minutes ago.
Where was she?
That's the tough part. She was crying. Said it was the end of everything.
She tried to tell me about the last installments of the story, then she was interrupted.
She gassed out something that sounded like American Airlines ticket office.
Then the line went dead. There are three of those offices in town.
Yeah. Well, we better check them.
Look, can you take the one out in Beverly Hills? I'll get the others.
All right. And Marlo, where does the Spanish ding live?
North Ardmore, 8310, Apartment D.
I'll meet you there in an hour.
When GG hung up, I sent Kay to check the airline office in Hollywood for a woman carrying a cane and a big load of trouble,
telling her to call me at the downtown agency within half an hour.
Then I headed south for the office on Sixth Street.
Halfway down it began to rain.
You know, the kind of dismal, misty drizzle that makes your clothes smell like blankets at a fire sale?
I spent a fruitless half hour peeking into corners and trading descriptions,
and finally, when Kay called in a negative report from the Hollywood office,
it was high time to beat it out to my appointment with Mona.
The rain had put enough dazzling sheen on the pavement to make it going slow and slick.
But I got out to 8310 Ardmore not over a minute late.
Apartment D was the last on the right and completely dark.
As I walked toward it, I found myself following a set of feminine footprints rapidly filling with water.
Besides, each left print was a little round hole.
By the time that registered on me, I was already adoring to hear her crying inside.
I didn't wait to knock.
Mona! Mona, it's me, Marlo!
For Pete's sake, what happened to her?
Phil! Phil, that woman was here waiting for me in the dark.
She had a big clump when I came in, she grabbed me and beat me with it.
That was a cane. Not that it makes any difference now.
Hey, your apartment's a rush. You got the letter, huh?
See, she's got it in her room. Look at this open-back room.
Later, later. Right now I want to know what that letter said.
You can forget about me paying the Mexican national debt for it. I want it free and fast.
Come on, what's Annie got on Henrietta Lawrence?
Right, right. She knows it.
What?
Somebody's outside there.
Oh, it's Gigi. Come on in, Gigi.
Hello, Bill. Who's this, the tortilla pounder you told me about?
Just a minute, you. You can't call me that.
All right, hold it, hold it. Take it easy.
You're a lousy housekeeper, sister. What happened?
Did your hat dance get out of control?
Now, wait a minute, wait a minute. Henrietta scooped this Gigi.
She was here and got the letter herself.
She what?
Yes. We were just talking about the letter when you came in.
Now, let's get on with it, Mona. What's Big Annie's pitch?
Supposing I won't tell you now.
Then I'll have you in the pokey for attempted extortion
before you can say, Pancho Robinson, beautiful. Come on.
Well, okay.
That's better.
Well, you and me go like that.
I don't know what Henrietta Lawrence means to this... this dragon here,
but she's a murderer.
Why, you lying little tamale talker.
That's impossible. Henrietta's a fine girl.
You know what you're saying, Mona?
Sure I do. I read the letter, didn't I?
Henrietta Lawrence killed a woman in Seattle four years ago.
Annie saw her do it. She had names, dates, places, everything.
I can't believe it. I just can't.
She's such a swell person.
Look, she even left this, the final installment of the story for me
in that Wilshire ticket office.
What'll we do, Phil? We gotta help her.
Because neither she nor Annie counted on Mona here reading the letter.
The best way to help her is to try to keep her from committing another murder.
Are you crazy? What are you talking about?
Come on, Gigi, get with it.
The letter was worthless, except his Annie string as protection.
Yet Henrietta went to all the trouble of getting it. Why?
So she could shut Annie up, and there's only one way to do that.
Killer. Holy mackerel, I didn't even think.
You should, senora. You got nothing else to work with. Drop dead.
Stop it, stop it. Both of you.
Oh, crazy.
Better stay clear of it from here on, Gigi. Go home and wait for me.
Okay, Phil, whatever you say. Call me as soon as you can.
Sure, sure.
All right, come on, Mona. Let's go.
Me?
Yes.
Oh, no, amigo. The letter's gone, and so is Mona's interest.
I'm very tired. I think I should...
Now, listen, you, you cut yourself in on this right up to your sombrero,
you know Annie, so you may be able to help me.
It's that or spend the night in a cooler, add it up, sweetheart. On the leg.
All right. You're so forceful, amigo.
Come on, let's go.
Well, Annie's not in her apartment. She's not around the health club.
What's next, Mona? Where else would she be?
Touch me, amigo.
Thank, will you?
Has she had any appointments lately that didn't fit with her regular routine?
Well, she went out on Fountain Avenue in a big hurry a couple of weeks.
Fountain Avenue?
That's where Henrietta's been staying, in a hotel out there.
The brace hotel?
That's it, on the nose.
Is Annie dumb enough to go there now, tonight?
Sure. She's stupid. And her strength makes her reckless.
That's it. Let's go.
Come on, Mona. See you on the first floor.
Hey there! Now, just one moment there. Where do you think you're...
Oh, it's you again, Mr. Marlowe.
Yeah, it's me again, Clarice.
You remember that Miss Lone, the number seven?
Well, you're sure in luck, Mr. Marlowe. She's in now.
She came back by half hour, girl, with a friend.
The biggest woman I ever saw.
Annie, is draw me, or you all right?
Yeah, come on. Let's get back there.
Mr. Marlowe, you can't go back there.
Your man in this hotel is for women only.
Now, look at this. You got a pass key there, haven't you?
Come on, this entire night from start to finish has been for women only.
Getting sick and tired of it, present company included.
Where's number seven?
It's right here.
Henrietta!
Unlock it, Clarice, fast. Get back.
Annie!
Dead. With a knife.
Yeah.
Go ahead and scream, Clarice. Get it over with.
Where... Where's Miss Lone?
She's no doubt left by the window here.
And it's still open.
Only five feet to the ground and a clear set of footprints in the wet dirt,
cane marks and all, just like...
Just like what, Mr. Marlowe?
I started to say like the ones I saw earlier.
Sure, the last in tome in the story, the letter at Mona's, the airline ticket.
Now she's out of it slick as a whistle.
Clarice, call the cops. Here, give them my card. I'll get in touch.
Where are you going, Mr. Marlowe?
To break the unpleasant news as gently as possible of my client.
Phil, what about me? What will I do now?
Just keep looking at Annie, a beautiful, chiseling, double-crossing jerk.
Maybe you'll learn something, but I'm not going to count on it.
Phil!
Gigi had a lot of lights on in a glossy Brentwood house.
As I walked up the wet curving flagstones to a door,
I could see her inside pacing slowly back and forth.
An impatient cigarette in one hand, a stiff brace of brandy in the other.
Whatever Gigi Olmsby really thought or felt about Henrietta Lawrence then,
I couldn't tell.
But I was sure that before I left, she was going to despise her.
Phil, I've been waiting for you to phone me.
Something bad, isn't it? I can see it in your face.
We found Annie's string as body, Gigi, in Henrietta's hotel room.
Ah, what a dirty, dirty shame. And Henrietta?
Gone. But she won't get far, not this time.
The circle gets smaller every time. She can't keep on killing.
It's got to stop someplace.
Yeah, I suppose so. But I'm sorry for her, Phil.
I hope she got a plane ticket tonight and is miles away by morning.
I hope she gets a break this time.
She didn't buy a ticket. She's not even running.
And she won't get that break.
You talk as if you know where she is, do you?
Mm-hmm. You've been to Seattle, haven't you, Gigi?
Of course, but not for years.
You lived there. You were a writer before you became a publisher.
Why? What is this?
You knew Annie Stringer long before tonight, too, Gigi, huh?
What are you driving at, Marlow?
That your real name is Henrietta Lawrence,
that you killed a woman in Seattle once, changed her name and got away,
but there was a witness.
And a couple of weeks ago, purely by chance,
that witness, Annie Stringer, ran into you,
recognized you as Henrietta, and granted the chance for blackmail.
Stop it, Marlow.
So you had to bring Henrietta Lawrence back to life
just long enough to get rid of the witness.
But first you had to get a letter she'd written
and also have someone who'd tell a straight story to the cops.
So you hired me, planted the right leads along the way.
Get away from that desk!
Don't try it, Gigi. You can't win, so at least lose gracefully, will you?
If this was in one of my books, no one would believe it.
You're right. I can't win.
It's all true, Phil.
Where was the loophole?
It started only as a hunch, but everything fit.
I got it from the cane you used, Gigi.
At Mona's place, the cane marks were on the left side of your tracks.
But outside the hotel window, they were on the right.
Anybody who really has to use a cane couldn't do that.
Such a little thing.
As a matter of fact, it was.
Look, Marlow, you're the only person between me and that break.
I got more money than I know what to do with.
I can bid high, really high.
You wouldn't be for sale, would you?
No, baby. Just for hire.
Get your coat, Gigi. We're going down to headquarters.
Getting the whole business down on police stationery one orderly step at a time
was a process as full of, well, as full as the fiscal report of the First National Bank.
Took twice as long to whip up.
But finally it was all over.
I was on my way home to my bachelor apartment.
And then I remembered something.
Never mind explaining what took you so long, darling.
You're here now. Dinner is ready and waiting.
The martinis are ice cold.
Just come on in and close the door.
Yeah.
The Adventures of Philip Marlow, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character,
Gerald Moore are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald and are written for
radio by Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt. Featured in the cast were Jeanette
Nolan, G.B. Hunter, Constance Crowder, Lillian Bief, Gene Bates, and Michael
Anne Barrett. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard O'Runt.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
This time a friend with millions, a myopic chemist and a long-haired piano player
were thrown into a panic because a brilliant young lady with a gun was
taking a big step in the wrong direction.
CBS wishes to remind you that Laman Avner's wonderful down-to-earth
cracker barrel humor is heard every week on most of these same CBS stations.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.