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 car hop knocked me down a flight of stairs,
an honest woman was strangled by a green silk sash,
and a simpering dandy was shot to death.
All because of a run of the mill act two hundred and five hundred miles away.
It happened like this.
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,
I'm going to tell you tonight's exciting story, The Vital Statistic.
Hey boy, give me a paper will you?
Paper, miss Lee? Yes sir, what do you like? Greases, comics or classmate?
How about some news?
Star, here you are, thank you. Paper!
Get out of my way!
Hey, take it easy.
Drive away from here, fast.
Wait a minute, wait a minute, what is this?
You've got to help me, I'm being followed.
Just a minute sister, I think you better tell me.
The lights green, drive away, you hurry please.
Okay, okay.
She was streamlined from close cropped hair,
the color of a smoky sunset, to low heeled slippers brocaded in bronze.
And in between a dress that conformed as close and smooth as lacquer on a Chinese vase.
I made four turns in four blocks and pulled into the curb and stopped.
She stabbed a look at me with a pair of sharp jaded green eyes
that said life had always been nothing but a calculated risk.
And she stepped out of the car and smiled.
You were a big help brother, thanks and good bye.
Uh uh, not just like that baby, come here.
I don't like being left out on a limb.
Now look, you did me a favor, okay, but we drop it right here.
It's trouble, you wouldn't like it.
On the contrary, it's business, like keeping my own nose clean.
I'm a private detective but I didn't issue any invitation for you to jump into my car.
A private detective?
Yeah, who's chasing you baby, the law?
You can tell me out here on the straighter inside over a drink.
I'll take the drink, I need it.
Maybe I need you too, this might be a break.
I'm Mrs. Terry LaBar and you're um...
Marlowe, Philip Marlowe.
Who are you running from Mrs. LaBar?
A woman in slacks.
I don't know who she is or why she's following me,
every time I look back she's there, this is the second day.
Booth?
Yeah, sure.
Say look, why haven't you talked it over with your local policeman?
Are you working for me, private detective?
That all depends.
Alright.
I'm a merchant, Chinese silks, not a little shop for six percent profit,
but wholesale quick with cash at forty percent.
Uh huh, so what's the point?
No police.
All it takes is a rumor of police and I'll have doors closed on me from Seattle to Mexico.
Good evening, may I get you something?
A martini please.
Make it two, will you?
Yes sir, right away.
This gets us back to the woman in slacks, huh?
Yeah.
Here Marlowe, fifty and fifty, hundred dollars.
I want you to locate that woman, find out who she is and why she's after me, will you?
Not without a few more facts.
For instance, could she have some connection with your business?
No, I have two men working with me.
A strong one named Harlan Casey who sees that my cash gets safely to where it's going,
and a smart one named Joe Temple who knows what to buy with it.
She doesn't belong to either of them.
Oh, are you sure?
Positive.
Casey hates all women, even me I think.
And Joe Temple, well, Joe's a wonderful guy.
You hint like a woman falling in love with a fellow named Joe Temple.
Care to talk about it further?
Why not?
Temple and Casey have been in San Francisco all week on a deal.
A big deal that'll make or break us.
Every sale I have is tied up in it.
Oh, well what about you and Joe Temple?
Yeah, well perhaps this will explain.
I planned to go away this weekend, but I changed my mind because I didn't want to miss his letters.
I know it sounds funny, but it's true.
Those must be some letters.
They are.
Like the one I got this morning.
It's half business, all right.
Complete account of how hard he and Casey worked for me yesterday in San Francisco.
But the rest of it is to me, personally.
I don't want to sound old-fashioned, Mrs. LeBar, but what about-
My husband?
Yeah, yeah.
That was a mistake I couldn't live with.
One thing I can't stand, Marlo, is being lied to.
It leaves me vindictive.
I'm suing for divorce right now.
Vince LeBar is a human leech.
As cold and spineless and parasitic as the real thing.
Okay, but why would your hating your husband put a woman in slacks on your trail?
I don't know.
All right, Terry, I'll worry about that too.
Any idea where I can start?
Just one.
I pulled a switch on her yesterday, Marlo, for about an hour.
I trail her to the corner of Wilshire and La Cienega, then lost her in traffic.
There are several dancing schools around there.
Is that worth anything?
Maybe.
What kind of car was she driving?
We were both walking.
She's tall and brunette, and I've seen toads with nicer eyes.
Not enough. Can't guarantee anything.
I'll keep my fingers crossed, Marlo.
Here, take the hundred.
Do what you can to report to me at my place.
204 Beechwood Circle, okay?
Pardon, sir, your drinks. Two martinis.
Oh, thanks. Here you are.
Thank you, sir.
To your success, private detective.
To your health, silk merchant. Drink hearty.
Slugging it down was no way to treat a good dry martini,
but I figured it was time I was on my way.
I drove out to Wilshire and La Cienega and slowed down enough to look at all four corners.
There was a drugstore with a special on garbage cans,
a drive-in called Scotty's, a branch of the Bank of Los Angeles,
and a flying red horse over a mobile gas station.
I drove on again when I spotted a pair of black slacks going into a dancing studio a half block down.
It looked like a lead, but after two hours of staring at knobby knees and shorts
and bulging hips and bloomers, all knocking themselves out for a mythical, klee-glided future,
I was finally convinced that it was a dead end.
Now, I got back into my car and headed up into the hills for Beechwood Circle
in the slim hope that Terry could give me something more to go on.
Her house at 204 was low and dainty and half hidden behind the tough, slender grace of a bamboo grove.
The walk was guarded by a white marble line of career and the front door, when I finally found it,
turned out to be a sliding panel and a wall of Oriental lettuce work.
As the door slid open, I was looking down the barrel of a snub-nosed pistol
held very steady in the hands of a hard-eyed brunette in a pair of black slacks.
You've been looking high and low for me, haven't you, peeper?
Ever since you left that dame...
I might have been.
You're not the brightest character in the world, in spite of what you and your friends think.
I spotted your car when she got in. It wasn't too tough to tag.
Where's Terry?
Sleeping off a hangover from better days.
Skip the chatter. Where is she?
Come on in and look. And that's no suggestion, sailor. It's an order.
Move. Over there to the top of the stairs.
Sure, sure.
That's a good snot, boy. You're late, you know.
I got what I came for and now I'm in a hurry. Turn around.
Look, sister...
Shut up! I'll have you landed!
Oh, there were ten stairs down to the basement.
And with a shove reinforced by the 45, I hid all but the first three.
By the time I worked all the kinks out and was back upstairs again, she was gone.
I started through the house, then slowly from one room to another, turning on lights as I went,
looking for what I knew was going to be a very sick client.
When I got as far as a study where somebody had gone through the desk drawers with what must have been a snowplow,
and I still hadn't found Terry, I got that numb feeling in my stomach.
I started out a side door that opened into the patio.
But then I heard a whistle from the front walk.
I cut back through the house instead and waited near the door.
Terry! Hey, Terry, can I come in?
It's little Joe, the Frisco kid.
What happened to your weekend trip, honey?
Ah! Who are you? What do you want?
Hiya, Temple.
How do you know me?
Mrs. LaBarre hired me today. Just after she canceled the weekend, she gave me a rundown.
She hired you? What do you mean?
I'm a private detective named Marlow.
Why would she hire you?
Because she was being followed by a brunette and slack. She didn't like it.
And that's all the information you're going to get, so relax.
You say Terry isn't here? Isn't home?
Not so far, no.
Come on back here to the study, Temple. I want you to look at something.
Somebody's gone through the desk in an awful hurry.
Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean.
Maybe you know something about what's missing, huh?
You and Mrs. LaBarre were fairly close, from what I'm told.
The letters! The letters are gone.
Terry kept my letters in this bottom drawer.
Ah. By the way, Temple, where's your sidekick, Harlan Casey?
I don't know. We both left San Francisco yesterday.
He hates to fly, so I assume he took a train.
He ought to be here in L.A. now.
Well, you don't think Casey's mixed up in this, do you?
I don't know. It could be.
Vince LaBarre. That's who it was that got those letters.
It was Vince LaBarre. They were really love letters.
The business part was nothing.
And LaBarre is the dog in the manger kind of guy who wants everyone to be unhappy if he is.
That fits. That fits, Temple, with a smart lawyer.
Your letters to Terry becomes great amaterial for a counter suit for divorce.
Sure, he could make it stick and also get a fat settlement out of community property laws.
Now, listen, here's what you've got.
Marlow. Marlow, it's... it's Terry.
Terry!
Wait!
Terry!
Look at her, Marlow. Look at her!
She... she's dead.
Telling Matthews homicide details.
Marlow, Matthews, there's a dead one out here, a woman who got a pencil.
Always. Go ahead, Marlow.
I'm at 204 Beechwood Circle.
The woman was a client.
Yeah, go on.
She was strangled with a green silk sash in my loungy pajamas, Matthews, sometime within the last, I'd say, hour.
Her name was Terry LaBarre.
Hey, wait, Terry LaBarre, wait a minute, Marlow, listen.
We got a teletype here from a sheriff in Empire, Oregon, come in five minutes ago.
So?
Oh, wait a minute. Yeah.
Says some guy named Jess Freeman from L.A. was killed there this morning in a traffic accident.
Was loaded with big dough but doesn't look the type.
The only other identification on him was a business card from one Terry LaBarre. Yeah.
You got a helpful answer for that?
Wait a minute, wait a minute.
Temple, do you know anything about a man named Jess Freeman?
He was killed in Oregon today in a traffic accident and had one of Terry's cards on him.
Freeman? No. No, I don't remember him.
No dice, Matthews.
Who are you talking to, Phil?
Joe Temple, one of Terry LaBarre's associates. He's here.
Never heard of Jess Freeman?
Yeah. No, I came on him.
They sent his prints to Washington. A tattoo says he was in the Navy once they opened him down.
No, about out there. Any idea who killed him?
Yeah, maybe a brunette and slacks. I think I know where to find her.
Well, let's stand here. Sit on it till we get them. I'll be right out.
Wait a minute, Lieutenant.
What?
Look, right now it's only a hunch, but if I move fast and quiet, I might be able to develop it into something worthwhile, okay?
Okay, but keep in touch, Phil.
Yeah, yeah.
I still can't believe it about Terry Marlowe.
Now look, look, why don't you just go home and take it easy. I'll tell Lieutenant Matthews where he can find you, huh?
Thanks. 1310 Marlborough Drive.
Now tell me, you know where Vince LeBar lives?
Yeah, yeah. The Laverne Apartments on Rossmoor. He's got a suite on the top floor. 7A.
7A.
And if it's any help, he drives a new green Nash sedan. But I thought you said that it was that brunette who...
I did, I did. And if Vince LeBar can't leave me to the lady in long pants, I'll eat my shirt.
What's more, Matthews will see to it personally.
Yes, what do you want?
Some quiet conversation with Vince LeBar. I'm Philip Marlowe, private detective.
Oh, how exciting. Had I known you were coming, I'd have baked a cake.
Oh, you're breaking me up. I was hired by your wife tonight.
Get out of here.
Your wife is dead, LeBar. She was murdered.
Teri murdered?
Yeah. Now, if you don't mind, I'll come in, huh?
She was killed because of a packet of letters, LeBar.
Oh, no.
Kind of a cinch to cause a big stir in anybody's divorce court.
Stir big enough to swing a counter suit in your favor.
I don't know what you're talking about.
Letters, letters, letters. Joe Temple's letters to Teri, the ones you arranged to have stolen tonight.
Oh, you must be crazy.
Her death wasn't part of the plan, LeBar. That was one of those bum deals.
A robbery that got out of hand, wound up as a murder.
Oh, no, wait.
Now, where is she, LeBar? Who's the brunette in slacks and where do I find her?
You get out of here, I'll have the police help you.
Oh, shut up.
You not only steal letters, but ashtrays, too, huh?
Like this coy little number here at Doghouse.
Scotty's drive-in, Wilshire and La Cienega.
Okay, LeBar, that's all.
Stand still.
Oh, now a gun, huh?
They say you're yellow, LeBar, but you're not. You're just stupid.
There's a terrace outside those doors, Marlow.
Those with the iron grill.
Go on out there.
Go on.
I don't think Terry's dead and I don't think she hired you.
I think you're working for that lousy, louse Joe Temple.
And if so, he'll need a battalion of private detectives before I'm through.
You're through right now, LeBar. You're too dumb to see it.
Go on. Clear over to the rail.
Keep your back to me.
It's seven floors down, Marlow, to a concrete driveway.
Just in case you get jumpy.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlow.
But first, most people like to know what to expect.
But on at least one CBS show, a great part of the fun is in what turns up on the spur of the moment.
That show is Groucho Marx's great quiz, You Bet Your Life,
heard every Wednesday night on most of the same CBS stations.
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlow
and tonight's story, The Vital Statistics.
The moment Vince LeBar and the Courage caliber 32 we held in his right hand
made it out of the apartment and on the run to the elevator.
I kicked through the plate glass door and I spent the next two minutes alternately swearing, straining,
and nicking myself while I played contortionist in and out of the fancy snake grill work
in my wrought iron cage until finally I reached the inside handle.
I was free out and over to the telephone in a big hurry because for my money,
the icing on LeBar's voice left Joe Temple someplace on the short side.
What the life insurance people call good risk.
Hello? Marlow Temple, listen hard. Your life's in danger.
What? LeBar, you had him tagged from the first. He's after those letters, all right.
But what about the girl in slacks?
Well, I think she might have a connection with a drive-in on Wilshire and La Cienega,
a place called Scotty's Inn. I'm gonna check it.
Now tell me, any word from Terry's muscle man yet?
Marlow and Casey? Yeah.
No, nothing, Marlow. But look, can I meet you and talk to you?
No, no. Vince LeBar had a gun in a short temper when he left here.
Now make this work any easier. Just stay away from open windows, Temple. I'll call you.
Scotty's Inn was eating on the run in the finest California tradition.
A mammoth circle of steel under glass painted a dazzling yellow and blue,
surrounded by a half a dozen cars containing teenaged couples with smudged lipstick and the giggles.
The second after I pulled in and parked something in slacks with false eyelashes,
a waist you could span with a handcuff,
and a fixed front-line chorus girl's smile flipped the card-marked ginger against my windshield.
Handed me a menu that still had the froth from an earlier customer's milkshake in one corner.
Why let be, mister? Just coffee, Ginger. Cream?
Uh-uh. Information. Oh, it's you again. Huh?
Look, baby, what I told you on the phone ten minutes ago still goes, huh?
About what? About Rose Facetta, the girl you described.
Long black hair, a nice shape, you're infatuated but you don't know the name and address.
So I was nice. I gave the name, told you to look the address up in the phone book. Period.
Don't be so lazy, baby. Wait a minute, Ginger. I didn't call you before,
but that dime cup of coffee will bring you a ten-buck tip if you tell me who did.
Hey, you aren't the guy who called. I don't know any names, but you're not him.
He didn't talk up like you do. But what's all the fuss, baby? Rose Facetta's got a guy.
She's spoken for. Besides, a handsome fellow like you should...
Sweetheart, sweetheart, this is business, strictly. Believe me. Oh.
What's the address? Come on. 2428 Havenhurst Drive, bottom floor.
Thanks. Here. Here's the ten, I promise you. No, never mind.
The name was free to him, so why should I charge you? Besides...
Besides what? I like the way you said sweetheart. Come on back sometime, will you, baby,
when you want more than coffee? Okay. When I want more than coffee and less than murder, I will.
Stay out of it, Ginger.
It was definite double talk, but the effect was what I wanted.
Ginger with mouth wide open and staring after me like my ears were on backwards.
That way she might be scared out of making a simple curiosity spike telephone call
of the popular Rose Facetta, which would trumpet my arrival loud, clear and prematurely.
Ten minutes later, I was parked away from number 2824 Havenhurst.
As I got out of my car and started toward the place, I found Vince LeBar's green sedan
on the opposite side of the street and carefully tucked into the shadows of a pair of long-haired pepper trees.
It was a good time for me to be careful, so when I knocked on the front door,
which showed yellow light at the threshold and was the starting point for something not too close to music,
I did it with the butt end of my 38.
Yeah, who is it?
Ziggy, friend of Ginger's. She asked me to deliver you a message, Rose.
Oh, all right. What's the message, friend? Why you loud...
Don't try it, sunshine. There's no law against shooting ladies who knock you downstairs.
Now back off. Come on, move, but not too far.
The moment I want you in between me and Vince LeBar.
Who?
Look, Angel, it's all real plain. Those suitcases behind you there are packed.
His car's outside. He's after the letters.
Oh, no.
Ha-ha. There goes Vince now, buster.
Well, peeper, your opener stinks.
Get inside fast.
Sure, sure. Any place in particular, sailor?
That chair near the desk. Keep your hands in your lap.
Okay. It'll please you, Mr. Detective. I'll be very glad to.
After all, you're my guest, and I should be nice to you.
Now we talk like a little lady, huh, Rose?
Vince LeBar picked up the letters from you as scheduled,
and you're getting ready to run because you killed Terry,
and you'd rather not be around for the question-and-answer period, right?
I didn't kill her. I... I just knocked her down.
No. You didn't kill her.
You just slowed down her breathing somewhat with a pajama sash.
You're wrong, copper. I...
Skip it. Doesn't add any other way.
Go on, answer it.
Who is it?
Mr. Shirley. What's going on in there, Mr. Theta?
Landlord?
No, the jerk who lives in the top half of this place,
along with a few thousand French pooties.
Mr. Theta, if you don't open this door, I'm going to call the police.
I distinctly heard a noise that I...
Come on in, Mr. Shirley.
Well, what... Well, what's going on in here? Who are you?
Never mind that. Now get on the phone and call the police.
Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Yes, certainly.
Oh.
Operator. Oh, operator. I want the police.
2824 Havenhurst Park.
Look, hero, you're a little mixed up about some things.
Yeah, and you're just the kid who's straightened me out.
Those letters you got at Terry's place were written by Joe Temple.
Was your boyfriend Vince heading for Temple when he left here?
I can't...
Try hard, sister.
All right, all right. Maybe he was.
Now leave me alone.
Not quite.
Hey, you, Mr. Shirley.
Yes?
In that desk next to you, there's a gun.
Keep it on until the law arrives.
Ladies want it for murder.
Well, yes, but what if she should...
Yeah, then shoot Shirley, fast.
Because if you don't, she'll kill you.
Tell the cops I'll fill in the blanks later.
Now wait, why must you leave? Why don't we both watch?
Because a guy named Joe Temple needs my help a lot more than you do.
The home address Temple had given me turned out to be lights in a quiet house
on a quiet street named Marlborough.
I was there out of my car and running for the front door when they came.
I chucked my gun out of the holster, got close into the building,
and moved up until I was on a line with a pair of half-open patio doors.
Then I saw something I hadn't expected.
On the floor that was littered with a broken lamp,
pieces of vase and overturned furniture was Vince LaBarre.
Doubled up, dead.
And standing over him, his face the color of soft cement,
a 32 dangling in his limp right hand was Joe Temple.
When he saw me, he tried to talk, but the words jammed in his throat.
When I stepped into the room, he began to speak.
Marlowe, I shot him. I couldn't help it. He was gonna...
Sit down, Temple. Get a hold of yourself. Got any brandy around?
Over on that table near the phone.
He was out of his mind, Marlowe. An absolute maniac.
He said he was gonna kill me.
So you lunged for him, there was a fight, and you came up with the gun, huh?
Yeah. And when he started for me again, I pulled the trigger.
And then I did it again. And a third time.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Drink this.
He brought the letters back, Marlowe.
They're inside on the floor where he threw them.
He said they didn't mean anything anymore.
That he and that girl in the slacks had taken care of Terry...
Take it easy, Temple, easy.
He seemed to go crazy. He said I was her wife, Steve.
The cause of his trouble, and that I deserved death.
Well, that's when I jumped at him. It was terrible, Marlowe.
Yeah.
Well, between the two of us, we've just about got all the answers.
Which is usually a good time to call the police, huh?
What do you mean, just about got all the answers, Marlowe?
What else is there?
Jess Freeman.
The guy Lieutenant Matthews told us about when we were over at Terry's place, remember?
Oh, yes. That traffic crash in Empire, Oregon.
But why should that figure in this, Marlowe?
It shouldn't, but I think it does.
On this side, Detective Lieutenant Matthews speaking.
Marlowe Matthews. Another dead one on the Terry LeBar case.
Oh, no.
Yeah, Vince LeBar, her husband, he was shot.
Who did it, Marlowe, do you know?
Yeah, a guy named Joe Temple. It was self-defense.
We're coming in, Matthews. I'll take that gun, Temple.
You get the letters. Let's go.
When we got into my car and started downtown, Temple was more relaxed.
And he talked easily until we passed Vince LeBar's sparkling green sedan parked a block away.
Once again, close into the shadows, and once again, empty.
Real empty.
The sight of it closed him up tight for the rest of the trip.
When we walked into police headquarters and through the quarter of a mile of glossy corridor leading to the door marked homicide, he didn't open up any.
But it didn't matter, really, because it's police rule never to talk to two men about the same thing at the same time.
And I was first.
Matthews said hello without shaking hands, waved me into an uncomfortable seat, and then lit his pipe while I brought him up to date.
And it was his turn.
Sir Rose Fasetta killed Terry LeBar so that she could get the letters Joe Temple had written, huh?
Did this so that her boyfriend Vince LeBar could raise a lot of fuss in divorce court with the letters, file a counter suit, that kind of stuff?
That's the whole deal.
Yeah, with Temple making it a double header by shooting Vince when Vince came to kill him.
That's it, Matthews. If you believe Temple.
Huh?
And if Temple hadn't slipped.
All right, now what are you getting at, Phil?
That when I was on the phone with you earlier tonight, you asked me if Temple or I knew anything about a Jess Freeman who was killed in a traffic accident in Empire, Oregon?
Right, right, but you didn't.
No, no.
Nor did I mention the town of Empire, it's a temple.
Yet a half hour ago, just before I called you, Temple came up with that name.
Oh, then, Molly, you...
Oh.
Hold my calls, Mooney.
Molly, you mean...
I mean that Joe Temple killed Terry LeBar. Rose just knocked her out and got the letters.
Temple strangled her while she was still unconscious.
Yeah, but why?
Because a guy identified as Jess Freeman got himself killed in a traffic accident.
So?
A guy who I think was actually Harlan Casey, Terry's two-fisted assistant, who together with Joe Temple was crossing the boss lane.
Yeah, but, Molly, I'll let you...
And that left Temple in a very hot spot. To save himself, he had a kill.
Can you prove all this, Molly?
No. Not a word of it, it's conjecture. But conjecture that fits, Matthews.
Yeah.
When Temple found Terry unconscious in the garden, that was his chance. He took it.
Now look, Phil, Phil, you're guessing at 90%...
Sure, sure I'm guessing. But not in the dark. I know how these guys think and act.
I've done too many cases not to know. Now listen for a minute, will you, Matthews?
Phil, I gotta have facts.
Will you listen?
All right, okay.
Now look, Temple had to get those letters back, right?
Yeah, yeah.
And the last one in particular, because in the last one, this is the way it's gotta figure,
he had lied to Terry about being in San Francisco with Casey yesterday, when actually Casey was in Empire, Oregon.
Yeah, when Casey was killed up there, the fact was bound to come out.
Yeah, it's a good reason...
Matthews, will you let me finish, please?
All right, finish.
Temple knew Terry would find out. He knew that she couldn't stand a liar and a partner who'd double cross her.
Temple knew that she'd get him and ruin him if it took her the rest of her life.
So he came back to get the letter before she could read it, but she hadn't left town as planned, huh?
Ironically enough, because she didn't want to miss one of his letters.
Yeah, but look, I'm a policeman, Phil. I gotta have facts.
All right, all right, you're the policeman. You got labs and technicians. You'll get the facts.
And I'll bet you it figures just like I say.
Yeah, okay, Phil, okay.
And another thing, Matthews.
What?
When you talk to Temple, who's holding the packet of letters now like a real good boy...
Yeah?
You'll find the last one missing. It'll be in his pocket. I'll bet you on that.
Now, that ought to do it, Lieutenant.
Yeah, with one exception, Phil.
Huh?
How did Temple maneuver all this?
Getting the letters from Rose Fasetta, then setting up that self-defense deal.
I don't know. But my guess is that Vince got the letters from Rose just before I arrived at her place.
But when he got into his car...
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Temple was waiting, slugged him, drove back to his own house, dropped the body down the stairs,
shot him when he heard you coming.
Something like that, Matthews.
Uh-huh, uh-huh.
See if you can't get it out that way, you know?
Yeah, well, no worry, Phil. If it's true, we'll get it out.
It'll be true.
Oh, now would you ask Mr. Temple to come in, please, Mr. Mellow?
I'll be glad to, Lieutenant.
Say, Temple, Lieutenant would like to see you.
All right, Marlow, I think I can speak coherently now.
Good, good. They like to get the facts straight in there. Go ahead.
Yes, of course. Good night, Marlow, and thanks for your help.
Oh, good evening, Mr. Temple. Sit down and start talking.
When I got into my car, the new day was starting to push the black out of the sky.
And the early morning air smelled fresh and cool and clean.
Yeah, the whole night had been confused and complicated.
But I knew that by the time Matthews had finished with Temple,
there'd be no questions left unanswered.
That would be great, wouldn't it, if everything could be that way?
No questions left unanswered.
The Adventures of Philip Marlow, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character, star Gerald Moore,
are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald and are written for radio by Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt.
Gerald Moore may currently be seen starring in Republic's The Blonde Bandit.
Featured in the cast were Charlotte Lawrence, Elliot Reid, Doris Singleton, Georgia Ellis, Bill Lally, and Hugh Thomas.
Detective Lieutenant Matthews is played by Larry Dubkin.
The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Aron.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlow says...
This time a bride-to-be, a corpse in a plush bungalow, and a southern drawl behind a gun all had one thing in common.
They moved through the same deep shadow.
Remember, you'll find George Burns and Gracie Allen and their good friend Bill Goodwin here on most of these same CBS stations every Wednesday night
and a half hour following the Bing Crosby Show.
This is Roy Rowan speaking.
Now stay tuned for Pursuit, which follows immediately.
This is CBS, where Burns and Allen are heard every Wednesday night.
The Columbia Broadcasting System.