Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel it
wind up in the gutter, the prison or the grave. This time a platinum wristwatch, a
body on a lonely strip of beach, and a case of heart failure in a Beverly
Hills garage all added up to blackmail, 25 years old, and a killer who would
never be caught. 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.
In just a moment, tonight's story, but first a message from the four dealers of
America. The whole country is talking about the great 1950 Ford. Listen to what
Mr. Carl Moore of Kingston, Pennsylvania, one of more than 420,000 delighted owners
says about his new Ford. I leave my car out on the street a lot in winter, but
you'd never know it to look at my 50 Ford's paint job. It's still as new
looking as when I bought it. I'll never stop wondering how Ford can sell a car
that stands up so well for so little money. And speaking of getting a lot for
little money, my Ford gives me up to 22 miles to a gallon of gas. Yes, it's hard
for Ford owners to keep the good news to themselves. The news about the economy of
the big new Ford, from its low initial price to its high resale value, from its
low cost of maintenance to its thrift on gas and oil, Ford is a real economy buy.
But prove it for yourself. Your neighborhood Ford dealer has the facts
on Ford economy, and he'll be glad to have you test drive the big 1950 Ford in
your own way. And now we bring you tonight's exciting story, the anniversary
gift.
We turn left at the next corner, Cabby. Okay. Boy, this Beverly Hills in the sunny
afternoon is really something, ain't it? Yeah. Wide streets, classy homes. Boy, these
jokers got it made. Some life. Nothing ever gets to them to bother them except
the income tax, maybe. Here it is, mister. 8834 Beverly Road. What a joint. Yeah. Wait
for me, huh? Sure, sure, mister.
The door was answered by a girl of about 16, a tall, slender girl with dark eyes.
Too deep for her years. Oh, come in, won't you? I believe Dad's expecting you. She led
me across a living room as dignified as the lobby of a bank to a door that she
opened. If you'll wait here in the library, I'll tell Dad you've come. The library of Stanley
Turner, my new client, was as somber as his living room, except for one thing. Over
a fireplace that half filled one wall was a life-size portrait of a woman, a
most beautiful woman. Could have been a painting of what the girl who had just
left would look like in another 25 years. I was still staring at the picture when
Stanley Turner came in. That's a portrait of Margaret, my wife. We lost her one
week ago today. I'm sorry, Mr. Turner. Well, we'd been expecting it for over a
year. The doctors had warned us, but even when you're braced for a blow like that,
it... Yes, I know what you mean. It was her heart, Marlow. She was coming home from a
shopping trip in Westwood last Tuesday evening when it happened. She had her own
car and was just pulling into the garage here when the attack seized her. Catherine,
my daughter and I both heard her car hit the garage wall. We ran out and found her.
The doctor did everything possible. Wednesday morning she was dead.
I'm sorry. It's all right, Mr. Turner. I must tell you all this because the reason
I called you here has to do with Margaret's death. I don't understand. I've
got to get Margaret's watch back. What? A watch? Yes, a wrist watch. It's...
Well, I'll try to explain. I loved my wife very deeply, Marlow. Now that I've
lost her, the most important thing in the world to me is the preservation of her
memory. Can you understand that? It's natural that you'd cling to things that
remind you of her, Mr. Turner. Now what about the watch? It's lost. Somewhere in
Camino Beach. You know where that is? Yes, a few miles below Redondo. Yes, that's
right. The day Margaret died, I had taken her watch with me to have it repaired. I
went down the coast on some business and on the way back I stopped at Camino Beach
for lunch, a place called the Trade Winds. You had the watch with you when you went
in? Yes, in my overcoat pocket. I came out and got in my car and was halfway back to
my office before I realized it was gone. I've got to get it back, Marlow. How
much is it worth? In cash, about $500, but to me, now it's worth 20 times that.
What's the watch like? It's a Benorus Platinum set with emeralds. Mm-hmm. I gave
it to Margaret on our 20th wedding anniversary. There's an inscription on
the back to Margaret from Stanley with eternal love. I know that watch is
somewhere in Camino Beach. Can you find it and bring it back here to me? There's
nothing more you can tell me? Unfortunately, that's all there is. I'll
do my best, but I can't guarantee a thing.
The cabbie waiting outside drove me back to the gas station on Wilshire where I
picked up my own car fresh off the grease rack and headed for the ocean and the
sunset. It was getting dark by the time I reached Camino Beach. A rickety, salt-cake
little town jumbled in between the highway and the surf. My first stop was
the Tradewinds Cafe, a waterfront shack on spindly legs standing knee-deep in a
smelly backwash. It only took 10 minutes to find that there was nothing there for
me. After that, I drew a blank at each of the three hawk shops in town. Wand up an
hour and a half later, no farther than the sidewalk curb, where I watched a
traffic cop brand my tire with his parking marker. Plant a heavy foot on my
bumper to steady his bike and light a cigarette. Hiya. Is this your car? Yeah. What is it? Am I
over-parked? Nope, not yet. Just borrowing your bumper a minute. Mine? Of course not. Got a lot of
scratches already. Say, that's a fancy chalk label you put on the side of that
tire there. Z, the mark of Zorro, huh? No, the mark of Ziegler. That's me. Just a little thing I
worked out to add a personal touch to my business. You're a stranger around here, aren't you? Yeah,
from LA. Saw you coming out of the pawn shop there. You don't look like the type. Well, I'm not as
long as my luck holds. Actually, a friend of mine lost a wristwatch here in town. I'm trying to
locate it. Pretty good watch, is it? Yeah, good enough. The really tough part is that it has a
very big sentimental value. I've tried all three of the pawn shops in town, but no dice. You know,
if I had a friend who'd lost a good watch, I think I'd check in at Sean's bicycle shop on Third Street.
Well, thanks a lot, Ziegler. Don't mention it. Oh, incidentally, I wouldn't bother to tell him who
sent me down if I was you. So long.
Hello? Hello, anybody there? Hello, Sean? What do you want? I'm close for the night.
I'm interested in a lady's wristwatch, Mr. Sean. Oh, you know, just how does that bring you to a
bicycle shop? Look, we both know your offense, so let's not waste time on that. The watch I'm
after is platinum set with emeralds and has an inscription on the back. To Margaret from
Stanley with eternal love. A bright sentiment, I'm sure. Have you seen the watch? No. Look, Sean,
either I beat your tongue as limber as the St. Bernard's ears, or you accept this $20 in exchange
for some straight information, peacefully. Now, take your choice and take it fast.
$20. What kind of a choice is that? But I don't have the watch, Booko. But you have seen it. Oh,
five, six days ago, a fella brought that watch in here, wanted to know what it was worth.
I said $500, he laughed in my face. Who was this guy? You mentioned something about $20.
Oh, yes. Here. I'd rather not give. That's better. His name is Chip Menashee. In summers,
he works in the concessions in the pier. In winters, he's nothing more than a beachcomber.
He lives in a little room out in the pier behind the shooting gallery,
and that, Booko, is your $20 worth. It had better be, Shane, or I'll be back for my change.
The amusement pier was deserted. When I finally found the one-room shack tacked on behind the
shooting gallery, it was dark and quiet. I knocked once, got no answer. So I pushed a
wad of rags out of a broken pane of glass, and the door reached inside, and then snapped the
lock and went in. With a light from the one naked overhead bulb, I started through the room.
On a packing crate that passed for a dresser, I found a week-old newspaper clipping
that said the body of one Leon Stice of Camino had been found on an isolated beach Wednesday morning,
shot in the chest. No apparent reason. Stice was survived by his wife, Nancy, of 320 Front Street.
I got real busy wondering why a bum like Chip Menashe saved old newspaper clippings of murder
stories when a noise outside turned me toward the open door. What are you doing in my place?
You weren't home, so I came in to wait. You a cop or something? No, I'm no cop, Menashe.
The name's Marlow. Maybe we can do business. Sit down. I don't get you. I collect old watches.
Collect old watches. A mutual friend sent me, Menashe. Yeah? I'm interested in ladies' watches,
particularly. Maybe something in platinum with emeralds. Okay, Pally, what's the proposition?
Nothing until I see the merchandise. Now, how about putting it on display, huh?
I can't hear you, Pally. Oh, come on. Now, where's the watch? Don't wash me,
mister. Don't wash me. Get your no-bass. All right. Make me a proposition. Ten grand? Ten.
Ten thousand? Uh-huh. You must be out of your mind. Yeah, we'll see who's out of their minds.
That's a very valuable watch. Maybe you better get out of here and add it all up again. Yeah,
maybe I'd better at that. But, uh, Menashe, don't go away because I'll be back.
I won't go away. I know when I'm sitting on top of the pile.
Now, as I walked away, a hunch kept whispering to me that the body of a guy named Leon Stice
found on a lonely beach was somehow tied in. So I decided to pay a call on his widow. I drove down
Front Street to number 320, but there was nobody home. As a matter of fact, the only sign of life
on the entire block was a red neon pelican and a blue neon martini glass above the door of a bar
across the street. So I walked over and went in. A couple of questions later, I found Nancy Stice
sitting alone in the back. The offer to buy a drink was the only introduction I needed.
Sure, you can buy me a drink. Hey, Charlie. Okay, Nancy. I, uh, I'm an old friend of your husband's,
Nancy. I just heard. That last didn't have no friends. There you are, Nancy. What's up for you, Mr.?
Uh, no. Um, here, keep it. Mud in your eye.
Nah, I got nothing against Leon Stice, except 25 years of living with him in a Camino Beach
rattle or nothing. That's all. Any idea why he was killed? For the role he was carrying.
After what you just said, that makes no sense. That's the way it was. And I didn't get one red
cent of it. It was all gone when I found him. Did you tell the cops he had money on him? No,
I hate cops. Yeah, sure. Uh, where did Leon get this dough? He told me he ran into an old
acquaintance that was staking him. Some guy named Martin Vogel who used to live here in Camino Beach
years ago. Martin Vogel was staking him? To what? Leon said him and Vogel was going in business
together. The cash was in advance. Oh, sure. He was going to be such a big shot. What kind of business,
Nancy? Just between, just between you and me, the only business that crummy mind of his would work
on was blackmail. Take it from me. And now, how about another drink for his grief-stricken widow?
Oh, I'll leave a buck on the bar on my way out.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe, but first,
a brief message from the four dealers of America. From coast to coast, Ford owners agree the big new
Ford brings you more for your money, more in comfort, more in performance, and more in economy.
But only through personal experience can you appreciate the restful ease of Ford's famous
midship ride and the luxurious comfort of Ford's non-sag foam rubber cushion front seat. Only by
driving this great car can you enjoy its smooth power and solid roadability. And only by getting
the facts about Ford's economy can you understand that so powerful, so smooth riding, and so beautiful
a car can cost so little to buy. To run and to maintain, but see what the new Ford gives you.
Find out how much it saves you. Yes, before you buy any car at any price, it will pay you to stop
by your local Ford dealers. Take the wheel of the 100 horsepower V8 or its companion in quality,
the 95 horsepower 6. Once you've driven it, you'll agree the new Ford is the one truly fine car in
the low price field. Now we return to the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, the
anniversary gift. I left the Pelican Club, got into my car, and started for the local law,
and the chance that I could learn something more about the new question mark I'd picked up named
Martin Vogel. Ten minutes later, I parked my car under the cracked globe that oozed sick purple
light over a weather-beaten sign, Camino Beach Police. A fat sergeant huddled over what could
have been the original teletype machine. When I presented my credentials, he jabbed a fat finger
at a dirty glass door marked Captain Elvin Bush, chief of detectives. Inside, a small old man,
neat in a clean white shirt, groomed silver hair, and a gentle smile was strapping on a shoulder
holster when I put my license on his desk. When I stopped talking, he got up and extended an almost
delicate hand. I certainly hope we can help you, Mr. Marlowe. Martin Vogel, you say? Yes, it might
have been a long time ago, Captain, maybe even 25 years, if he was mixed up with the police at all.
Do your records go back that far? Oh yes, by the apple crate load, and I mean that literally,
Mr. Marlowe. You see, in Camino Beach, police piles, fixtures, and furniture are somewhat lacking.
City appropriations only go where they show. Public bird baths, statues of the mayor,
and here, this bottom crate here, marked, let's see, 1921 to 1930. Figure he was arrested along
in there, this Vogel? Yeah, if he was arrested, dusty, isn't it? Well, the cards are alphabetical.
And let's see, Riker, Rooney, Stimple. By the way, Mr. Marlowe, what's your angle?
I'm not sure, Captain, Svensson, Underley, Huttman, that. Vogel, Martin. Got it, huh? Yeah,
picture and all. Bring it over here in the light. Yeah, Martin Vogel arrested Camino Beach Hotel,
May 28, 1923, on warrant from Chicago, Illinois police. Returned to Chicago, sentenced to five
years in state penitentiary for embezzlement. Arresting officer, patrolman Elvin Bush.
Picked him up myself, did I? Well, I've locked up a lot of people in the last 35 years. Yeah,
I guess you have it. Holy smokes. Huh? That can't be. What is it, Mr. Marlowe? You look kind of pale.
There was no mistaking it. The time yellowed picture of Martin Vogel made it plain. Vogel and
my client, the distinguished Mr. Stanley Towner, were one and the same. That meant that Towner had
lied to me and more important, had no doubt killed Leon Stice, who was blackmailing him because he
knew he was Vogel. I left Captain Bush, piled into my car and pointed it back for the amusement pier,
where one way or another, I was going to get Chip Menashee to fill in a few remaining blanks for me.
Yeah, who is it? Marlowe Menashee. I want to talk business.
Okay, Marlowe, looks like I doped it right. I thought you'd come back.
All right, now get up and listen hard. I want the watch and the story that comes with it.
I told you my price, it's still 10 grand. You're bluffing, Menashee. You know the watch
means money, but you don't know why. Yeah, Mr. Weisenholtz.
All right, now come on, talk. Okay, okay, quit. I'll tell you what you want. I took the watch from
Leon Stice. I found him dead on the beach. It was clenched in his fist. And the dough you're
spending? Was in his wallet. Let me up, will you? All right, come on. Now sit over there,
hands in your lap. School isn't out yet. What more do you want, Marlowe? How do you tie the
watch in with Stanley Towner? What makes you think I did? The fact that I was sent here to Camino Beach
and the fact that you were ready and waiting for somebody. Well, okay, okay. I was lucky. When I
read about Stice in the papers, I also just happened to read another article, an oddity you
might say, about a woman in Beverly Hills. A rich man's wife who got a heart attack in her car,
just she pulled into her garage. Woman called Towner, front name Margaret. Wife of a big shot
broker, also called Towner, front name Stanley. I went from there. I was trued. Yeah, genius.
Okay, now give me the watch. Come on, let's have it. All right, get your mitts off. Here. Now you're
real happy muscles, happy that... Hey, Pops. Come this way. Hey, Meneshe, wait a minute.
By the time I got to the door, he was halfway across the boardwalk to his car. But Captain Bush
and his sergeant were ready and waiting. When Meneshe was next to the gun he kept in his glove
compartment, the spotlight on the squad car slashed through the dark, found him and froze him in a
position. We've got you, Meneshe. You'd better quit. Meneshe, do you hear me? No, you listen, Papa.
Get him out of here, Becker.
The windshield sprang into little pieces. Come on, Becker.
I waited until Captain and Becker were next to the body and had lifted it off the steering wheel.
Then I moved quietly along the side of the buildings as far as the squad car.
There I turned and started back toward them. Hey, hey, what happened? Oh, it's you, Captain.
What brings you around here, Mr. Marlowe? A guy in town told me that somebody named Chip Meneshe
might give me a lead on Martin Vogel. You won't be able to now. That's Meneshe. What? We wanted him
for a week old stick-up murder. Stick-up murder? That guy on the beach? The same. Hey, Becker,
find the money on him? Right, some 300 bucks, Captain. Good. Well, he's better call for the
wagon now. Check. Funny thing, Mr. Marlowe, one fingerprint did it. Oh, how's that? That guy on
the beach, Leon Stice, found his empty wallet in the sand next to him. It had an eisen glass front
over his driver's license with a thumbprint that wasn't his. But was Chip Meneshe's, huh? We got
on to Meneshe because he was spreading a lot of dough around. Today, Becker got down here and
lifted one of his prints. That sense did, huh? Yes, that, and the shot he just threw at me.
Strictly a stick-up killer who got caught. Marlowe, about this Martin Vogel, you still
want to let it go that the Beverly Hills police are going to get in touch? I think so.
Good night, Captain Bush.
The ride back to Beverly Hills was an uncomfortable hour and a half, cold and empty.
I was glad that I had things to do like stop and start and shift gears, which kept me from thinking
too much about a lot of things and a lot of people I wish I'd never heard of. People like Stanley
Turner, who I had every reason to be against, but who I was starting to fall for. Stanley Turner,
a man who had started all over again after a single mistake made 25 years ago. A man who had
fought to build good things, like a comfortable home, a marriage to, to a woman in a painting,
a 16-year-old likeness named Catherine. But Stanley Turner, who was also a killer on a lonely
stretch of beach far from home, destroying something rotten who would destroy him.
A killer that nobody knew about, except me. Well, I pulled into the driveway and parked behind the
car that had been Margaret's. As I got out, the light of the garage went on and the side door of
the house opened. I felt almost wrong dropping my hand around the 38 in my side pocket. Good evening,
Mr. Marlow. You have the watch? Yeah. I had quite a tussle getting hold of it. I imagined you would.
Meneshe is dead, Mr. Turner. Meneshe? Who, who is Meneshe, Mr. Marlow? The reason you hired me,
the man who called you and dangled this bait. Yeah, you were right. It's a beautiful watch, Mr. Bogo.
Bogo? You, you know about it? Yeah, they keep police files a long time. I know about everything.
Except why you didn't go after the watch yourself. Well, I, I was afraid. Afraid to show yourself in
the town where somebody might remember you, huh? The town in which you had committed a murder,
is that it? Yes, yes, that's it exactly. Dad, Dad, is that you down there? Yes, dear. Me, Mr. Marlow.
Well, why don't you come into the house? It's so late and it's chilly. You'll catch your
death of cold out there. Yes, in a while, dear. Now go back to bed. All right. Good night, Dad.
Good night, dear. Oh, good night, Mr. Marlow, and please make him do as I say, will you?
Yes, I will, Catherine. Good night. Do you mind if we go along to the police at once, Mr. Marlow?
I'd rather she didn't know right now. Tomorrow is soon enough. And can we take your car? Yeah.
The lights go off out here? Yes. The switches on the garage wall over there. Okay, get in. All right.
You know, Mr. Turner, I'm sorry about Catherine and the way she's going to be hit, but
hit by this thing. The switch is there on your right, on your right, Mr. Marlow. Yeah.
It was a very nice house. Mr. Turner, you certainly loved Margaret a lot, didn't you?
Completely, Mr. Marlow. And her memory too?
Why do you ask? Something that makes me awfully happy. Mr. Turner, you didn't kill Leon Stice.
Marlow, what are you saying? That you never lost your wife's watch at Camino Beach. You never had it.
She lost it herself. Lost it when she struggled with Leon Stice just before she killed him for your sake,
for you and Catherine and everything you've worked for. No, Marlow, no, you... Yes, Margaret had a bad heart.
She knew she didn't have long to live. Also, she knew that Stice was blackmailing you. It figures,
and what also figures is that you'd rather pay for a murder that you didn't commit than to have Margaret's name soiled.
Yes, I would, and I will, because you can't prove any of this. Correction, Mr. Turner, I can.
With your wife's car there in the garage, the car in which she died on what you said was her return from Westwood.
Which it was? No, not according to a funny little chalk mark I just saw on one tire, it wasn't.
A little white Z that a policeman named Ziegler in Camino Beach makes to check on parking time,
and we can go on from there. Your confession won't mean a thing. But Marlow, it will, it will, it...
No, no, I guess it won't. I guess you can't hide the truth very often, can you? No, only once in a great while,
and then strangely enough only when it seems like the right thing to do. What do you mean?
Why did you stop the motor? There's one thing I haven't told you yet.
The way things worked out in Camino Beach, Mr. Turner. The police there think that men as she killed Leon Stice,
and they're happy that way. They never heard of you or your wife, and I don't see why they should now.
I mean that nobody really knows the whole story. Nobody except you, Marlow? Nobody, Mr. Turner.
Good night. Thank you, Mr. Marlow. Good night.
Philip Marlow will be back in just a moment, but first a word from the four dealers of America.
Tonight there are more than 420,000 enthusiastic 1950 Ford owners, and it seems as though most of
them are talking about this car. Listen to what Judge Richmond B. Keach of Washington, D.C. has
to say about his new Ford. I was so satisfied with my 49 Ford that I decided to get a 50 as soon as
they became available. I've been more than pleased with the 50. Truthfully, I see no cause to pay
more when a Ford gives me all the performance, quiet, and comfort a man can ask for at such a
reasonable price. The Ford is wonderfully easy to handle, particularly in traffic. Yes, ask any Ford
owner how he feels about his big new Ford, and he'll tell you it stops for performance and for
comfort. But prove it for yourself. Drop into your neighborhood Ford dealers and test drive this truly
great car. You'll be amazed when you discover how little it costs to buy, to run, and to maintain.
Do it tomorrow. Test drive the big new 1950 Ford.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
This time I was in the country where the night should have been nothing but peace and quiet,
but a pair of angry eagles changed all that. One was solid gold and too close to a battered corpse.
The other weighed 160 pounds and was too quick with his fists in or out of the ring.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character tonight,
star Bill Conrad, are produced and directed by Norman MacDonald and are written for radio
by Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt. Featured in the cast were Sammy Hill, John Danaer, Gene Bates,
Ralph Moody, Larry Dobkin, Harry Bartel, and Edgar Berrier. The special music is composed and
conducted by Richard O'Rant. This is Roy Rowan speaking for CBS the Columbia Broadcasting System.