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. There's no other end, but they never learn.
From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction,
here 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 Hiding Place.
Mrs. Brown's gift shop. Oh yes, yes, Mr. Waltman. The bookends? Well let me see now,
that was the little Dutch figurines, wasn't it? The boy and the girl?
All right, fine. Well, I'll have to... Oh, hold, hold the line a minute, Mr. Waltman.
Mr. Marlowe, you're back. Yes, Mrs. Bryant. Did you find him, Mr. Marlowe? Did you find Chipper?
Chipper is dead, Mrs. Bryant. Oh. Take it easy, Mrs. Bryant, maybe you'd better sit down here.
No, no, I'm all right. There's a customer waiting on the phone, I'll finish that.
All right, then I want you to tell me everything you found out about my son. Sure, sure. I'll only be a moment.
As Martha Bryant went to the telephone, I braced myself for the story I had to tell her.
I tried to figure some last-minute way of making hard facts a little softer for a sweet, brave,
gray-haired lady. I deserved a better break. The first thought about what had happened brought the
whole ugly business rushing back at me again. Turned my mind back like a clock to where it had all begun
yesterday morning in my office. And that same Martha Bryant, full of hope and quiet courage,
had walked up to my desk, handed me a letter, and asked me to find her son. His name is Chipper,
Mr. Marlowe, or rather Chip, now that he's a grown man who's 22. He left suddenly without a word
six months ago. I've heard nothing until this morning when that letter there addressed to Chip
came in the mail. Postmark San Luis Obispo. Oh, sit down, won't you, Mrs. Bryant? Thank you.
Maybe I shouldn't have opened it, but well, you see, it's the first indication I've had in all that
time that he's even alive. Break it. Dear Chip, it's been a long drag, but the waiting is finally
over, darling. Time is now. Meet me at 11.30 Monday night at the House with the Big Wheel,
signed Toby. House with the Big Wheel. What does that mean, Mrs. Bryant? I have no idea,
but for some reason it frightens me. Oh, 11.30 Monday night. That must be tonight.
Who is this Toby? Toby Packler. She's a very, very beautiful young woman, platinum blonde.
Chipper believed he was in love with her, I'm afraid. Oh, please don't misunderstand me,
Mr. Marlow. I'm not a possessive mother. I knew I'd give Chipper up someday, only
I hoped it would be to a nice, sincere girl. Toby Packler isn't? She's much too fast. The kind who
uses too much mascara and wears things like those little anklet chains they call slave bracelets.
I tried to find her after Chip left, but she was gone too. Oh. Tell me, did you and your son argue
about Toby, Mrs. Bryant? No, no. I only saw her once. He knew I didn't think much of her, but
that didn't drive him away, Mr. Marlow. What did? Well, I've never been able to understand.
After his father died, Chip became irresponsible and a little wild, perhaps, especially since I had
to spend all my time running our gift shop on Ivar, but he was a good boy, really.
I've tried to convince myself that he left just to prove his independence, to
test his wings, you know, but now... Now what, Mrs. Bryant? Now I'm worried.
That letter, it puzzles me. I don't like it. Well, it may mean nothing more than you're getting a
daughter-in-law who uses too much mascara. I hope you're right. I want Chip to be happy, to
to settle down. I want to turn my business over to him and...
Will you try to locate him for me? Here, I have his picture here in my wallet. See?
Say, Chip looks a lot like his mother, doesn't he? Yes.
I'll try. Please find out if my son is all right. Sure. I'll do my best.
From my office window, I watched her leave the building. Saw her stop politely and answer a
question for an oily sidewalk passerby in a black pinstripe suit, then move quietly on down the
street toward a shop on Ivar. A neat, gentle, very lonely woman. I hoped I'd find a happy story for
her in San Luis Obispo. She had one coming. I was still hoping five hours later when I pulled into
a mobile gas station in a little town at the foot of the Santa Lucia Mountains, 200 miles up the
coast. I filled up, asked a few questions, and found out there were only four good hotels,
five not so good, and two or three dozen motor courts, and that ran the gamut. So even with
nothing but the name Toby to go on, the job wasn't completely impossible.
By the time I'd worked my way down into the motor courts, the sun was sneaking off between
the rocky hills toward the ocean, and I was still collecting negative answers.
Until I tried a mirrored neon combination bar restaurant and motel called Pinky's on the north
edge of town. Sorry, Mr. No Toby Packler registered here. Now wait a minute, are you sure? She's a
lovely platinum blonde about... About what? Huh? Never mind, skip it, Pinky. Maybe this is better.
When I glanced across the lobby at the bar, I caught a man watching me. He was the same oily
character in a black pinstripe suit that I'd seen stop Mrs. Bryant on the street outside my office
back in L.A. He ducked away and I beat it into a bar. Just in time to see him slip out a side door,
so I followed him. Outside a gravel path, worm through a grove of dejected pepetries,
wound up in a lonely walled patio, and when I got there, oily was out of sight. The reason was
simple. The nose of his gun in my back said he was behind me. Don't move, Marlo. Well,
well, name and all. Yeah, sure. I've been tailing you every inch of the way since old lady Bryant went
to see you this morning. What's the connection, oily? Exactly six long months of watching and
waiting. For what? For removing you two skunks that have to make some time. And from the way
you've been working, you don't know enough to do yourself any good or me any harm. So take some
advice. Go back to L.A. Leave it alone. Leave what alone? That's none of your business people.
I'll take over from here. But just in case you're running the chipped Bryant or Toby on your way out
of town, tell them for me they're not cutting Lou Race out of his share of 110 grand. I'm gonna get
it one way or another. And so you won't forget. Use this. Oh! Or I'll remind them.
When the brick floor of the patio finally stopped pushing, I was alone.
Except for my ugly thoughts. I knew I was on the right track, but from the sound of things,
Chip O'Brien was much less a mama's boy than his mama believed. I made sure Lou Race was
nowhere around the motel. Then I went into the bar again to see what a double Scotch would do
for my headache. The bartender obviously was the type who got around. So I took a chance and asked
him about Toby Packard. It was no good. When I described Toby as a beautiful platinum blonde,
a girl sitting alone, two stools down, a girl with a short ragged mouse brown hair,
an extremely flat miss formed face, dropped her eyes and looked away.
I suddenly felt very cheap. I flipped a silver buck on the bar and got up. You know it was the
kind of dumb stunt you can't apologize for. You just leave. I was halfway to my car before I
realized that the girl had followed me out. Hey mister, here are you.
Just a minute. I turned and watched her come toward me.
The garish neon light her face was jarringly unreal, the color and texture of hard putty. I
I heard you inside when you asked about Toby. Yeah, I thought you had. Do you know her, Miss?
Palmer. Yeah, I know her. She's one of my few friends. What do you want with Toby?
Well, my name is Marlow. I'm from L.A. I want to talk to her a little bit.
I'm a fellow named Chip Bryant. She's my only lead. Chip Bryant? Yeah. She never mentioned that name
to me. Anyway, you're too late, Mr. Marlow. What do you mean? Toby left town this morning.
Left town? Oh no. She was going up north to Seattle, I think, on some kind of personal business.
Now listen, did she ever say anything to you about a house with a big wheel,
where it was, what it means? House with a big wheel? Yeah. No, I'm afraid not.
I'm sorry, Mr. Marlow. I guess I'm not much help. I...
Well, good night. Thanks anyway. And good night, Miss...
Palmer. Yeah, yeah, Palmer. Good night.
The girl walked back to the bar, the little gold chain I'd spotted around her ankle
glinted in the brittle light. It was like an echo of a memory.
A slave bracelet on her was as out of place as a morning glory in a bed of toadstools.
But that gave me a crazy hunch, a hunch that somehow in the last six months,
a gorgeous blonde named Toby Packer had become a drab brownhead with a flat, stiff face.
So I didn't chase wild geese to Seattle. Instead, I got in my car and I waited.
An hour went by and it was almost dark before she finally came out again,
stepped down into a sleek new convertible and drove north out of town.
I followed her. She turned off a neglected side road and for eight miles twisted through jagged
rocky hills toward the mountains. And suddenly from the crest of a small rise,
I saw what she'd been heading for. An old stone house squatting in a grove of eucalyptus trees.
The girl I figured to be Toby Packer had slowed almost to a stop.
I watched the creeper long until she was out of sight.
I got out of my car and I went down for a closer look.
Round brown shingle couplers reared proudly out of choking overgrowth and on a huge rusty iron gate in front
was the name Escobar. But in the trees behind the house, I saw more.
Turning slowly in the stream, there was a giant water wheel, a big wheel.
I drove fast back to town and stopped at the only place I could figure for a quick answer.
The office of the San Luis Obispo Daily Eagle, a night editor who was strictly old school from green eye shade to sleeve gutters,
but still very much on the ball.
Sir, you want to see the issues of exactly six months ago, you say?
Yeah.
That'd be normal.
I'm not sure.
Sir, you want to see the issues of exactly six months ago, you say? Yeah. That'd be November about the 8th, 9th and 10th.
Here, son. Help yourself. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I'm right to sort of cinch it.
Careful there. Don't rip those copies.
See, by the way, what store are you looking for? Oh, a small something on a party named Toby Packer.
Ah, it's not here. Wait a minute. Maybe it'll be in...
Yeah, sure, sure. This is it on page three.
A woman identified as Toby Packer of Los Angeles suffered severe injuries to head and face today when the car she was driving skidded into a bridge abutment two miles north of here.
So that's how come the face.
Miss Packer's condition was announced as critical by Clark Emergency Hospital attention.
Eh? Is that all you wanted?
That's enough.
If that answers your question, young man, I put these copies away.
Yeah, I had to be careful. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. That headline. What was that? Let's see that.
Santa Barbara Jewelry Store Rob.
Daring Thieves is capable gems valued at 110,000. 110 grand.
Yeah, I remember that. Two men and a woman. Got away clean too. Never caught a one of them.
You don't mean there's a connection between these stories, do you?
I don't know. Ask me again after I've checked in at the old Escobar place.
At an Escobar's place? Out in the hills? Oh, you're joking, son.
What in the world could that crackpot possibly have to do with a jewel robbery in a car wreck six months ago?
It beats me, but there's some tie in you can count on it.
I think you're crazy.
But if you're going out there, maybe you should be.
Now, what's that supposed to mean?
You'll have something in common with Adam.
He's lived in his own private dream world for so long, he's forgotten what the real world's all about.
Goodbye, son. I'll see you later.
I hope.
In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlowe. But first, the fun is always fresh and furious
when Groucho Marx takes over on CBS Wednesday nights with his wonderful quiz, You Bet Your Life.
Groucho, the master of ad lib, teams up pairs of opposites and then goes to work with his quips and questions.
Very, very solid with laughter, this Groucho Marx show.
Here at this Wednesday and every Wednesday on most of these same CBS stations.
Now with our star, Gerald Moore, the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, The Hiding Place.
From the road I had thought of Adam Escobar's place is just another hundred year entry home.
You know, the kind big aloof wrinkle like an aging nobleman who had retired long ago with his memories.
But now that I was there and at the rusted iron gate that presented my intrusion out loud,
I changed my mind. I saw now it had to be a degenerate nobleman. Also, a nobleman had to be flat broke.
I saw it everywhere. The name Escobar on the gate and copper lettering had turned a sickly spotted green.
The scuffed faded family crest in laden tile in the cement walk was cracked and crumbled.
The exquisite stained glass door was cracked all the way down the middle.
Only the engraved card in the slot under the knocker that said Adam Escobar Esquire was neat and new.
The landed gentry's last ditch stand. I was about to knock when...
You need not bother knocking, sir. I saw you coming up the walk. I am Adam Escobar.
He was a small slight man of maybe 60 plus with a large head held high in spite of the frayed cuffs,
patent leather slippers that were cracked and peeling. I introduced myself then father of the old man.
I introduced myself then followed him into a musty living room. There Wiley apologized for no longer having any servants
and thought he'd eat some brandy from a cut plaster canter. I told him all about my search for Chip Ryan,
complete with Toby and the race. Frankly, Mr. Marlow, I am puzzled. Your drinks are confused.
What does all this have to do with me? Well, maybe nothing, Mr. Escobar, but the only guess
around is that the jewels were hidden here on your property, a house with a big water wheel,
the night of the robbery six months ago. Why? For what reason, sir? The police?
Probably. Trio wouldn't want to be picked up with the stuff on them. Salud. And they're yours, sir. Thank you.
Then, then Mr. Marlow, soon after they did that, hid the jewels. I mean the girl, the one with the
injured face had that accident. Those are the circumstances. Oh, more or less. And if I've added
right, companies coming by 1130. It's 1030 now. It might be a good idea if you left the home grounds
for a while. Me leave my own home because of some thieves, because of three common... Mr. Escobar,
it's that or the police. And I'd rather not have them in it for a while. I still owe my client the
slight benefit of the doubt that's left. You think I am afraid. Is that what you are trying to say?
No, no, of course not. But I don't see why you should stick your neck out. These people have
nothing to do with you. You are wrong, sir. Every honest man has something to do with every criminal.
His duty. I know that now, Mr. Marlow. If I had known it many years ago, I might still have both
my wealth and my property intact. Well, okay. Who knows when I come back, it may be... Come back?
But where are you going, sir? Into town. I'd still like to catch up to Chip Bryant before the
reunion. I don't think there's going to be the time or place for conversation. Conversation
with that Bryant Woodlum about what, sir? About a mother, Mr. Escobar. A nice old lady who doesn't
deserve a kick in the teeth. Back in San Luis Obispo, I returned to the missing person door-to-door
canvas for the third time that night. Only now I can find myself to the wrong side of the tracks
exclusively. And the deeper the dive, the better. I didn't figure that Chip Bryant would show anywhere
else. And after a half a dozen quick stops, number seven proved lucky. It was a cramped, greasy bar
with a sawdust and cigarette butt floor and a single customer. I hadn't found Chip, but I was
close to the depth of Mr. Lou Race. The barkeeper, ball of fat, wearing a sweatshirt the size of a tent
had his back to me when I entered. So did Race. So when I tapped the tricky man on his padded shoulder
and he turned, he was surprised to see me swing. That slicker was an old dick. This? Just in case
the cat got your tongue. Now get up! Get ready to answer a few simple questions. Hey, what do you
think you're doing? You're busting my table. I'll pay you for it unless you want to be up there
rolling chins in trouble with the law, Junior. Don't try to help the clientele. The cops? Oh,
okay, okay. Why didn't you say so? I don't know nothing about this guy. And I don't know enough.
Now come on, Race, you talk or eat sawdust. Which? No, no, no. Well, I'll tell you. What do you want?
One, you, Chip, Brian, and Toby Packler stuck up that Santa Barbara jewelry store six months ago,
right? Yeah, yeah, we did it. But they crossed me up. It was when the cops were coming and we
split. Splitter, you played hooray for Lou Race and ran without worrying about the others. What's the
difference? The reason Toby and Chip Brian won't tell you where they hid the jewels, that's the
difference. Nuts, you're standing on one ear, peeper. Toby had a different reason for crossing me. Like
what? Like I fell in love with that louse, Brian. The kid she baited into coming along with us.
My flap on her baby blues. The kid who was supposed to drive the car, period. That's how she crossed me.
Anything else? Yeah, the tougher. Where's Brian now? One of two places, either with Toby Packler
or with Packler. Good night, sweetheart. By the time I made it to the door, the second company,
Sam Spade, was across the street behind a parked car and streaking for an alley in the middle of
the block. Just as I thought I was going to lose him, he came abreast of a dark doorway and I saw it.
An arm raised quickly, the glint of a knife blade, the arm dropped sharply.
Whoever had done it slid away in the dark as suddenly as he appeared. When I was next to
race, there was only the caller's card, a black ivory handled knife driven to the Hilton between
the dapper man's shoulders. It was going out fast. Hey, holy cow, how did it happen? Shut up, race,
race. Do you know who got you? Yeah. Has it got a dark black ivory handle? Yeah. Why, why, what does it mean?
Who's it belong to, race? The kid. What kid? That's all I'll feed Brian. He's dead, huh? Yeah.
Yeah. And so are all the prayers of one Mrs. Martha Bryant. Huh? Who's she? Never mind, never mind.
Listen, call the cops. Tell them my name's Philip Marlowe. I'm a private detective and I may be able
to explain all this later. Right now I'm due at a house with a water wheel and explain that later, too.
If I'm lucky. Oh, Mr. Marlowe, I'm glad you're here, sir. It is almost 1130. I know. Have you seen
anyone, Mr. Escobar? No, sir, and I have been watching very closely and in readiness.
My father owned this pistol. Oh, well, I hope it's been oiled since. Now look,
I didn't locate ship. Wait a minute. Isn't that a car there turning off the road without any lights?
I am going along the side of my property line back to the water wheel. It is a woman, Mr. Marlowe.
Yeah, no doubt named Tony Packler. Now look, you stay here, Mr. Escobar, and keep that blunder
bus ready. Don't forget, Chip Bryant's due out here, too, and he's a killer. Keep your eyes open.
We'll stand a better chance meeting him one at a time.
I went around to the side of the house quickly, then kept close into a long line of eucalyptus
trees that ended at a crumbling building that had once been servants quarters. After that,
it was only 20 yards to the water wheel, 20 open yards to the huge ancient circle of hand-hewn wood
that complained against the side of a dreary squat stone mill that had long ago died of old age.
There in the faint half-light of a hazy moon, I saw Toby Packler kneeling at the corner of the
building and with both hands working furiously to loosen a stone the size and shape of a football.
There was a gun on the ground next to her. I moved closer, my hand tight on the 38 in my pocket,
and I waited till she had the stone out. And that baby ends a six-month-old secret.
That wasn't bad aim, just a warning, Toby. How do you know my name? I read your mail.
I get back over to your home spun safety deposit box there and take the jewels out. Go on.
All right. I shouldn't I, soldier? You won't go any place with them. Chip will see to that.
He'll... They're gone. Get back. They're not here, I tell you. Do you understand? They're gone.
Gone. All the homes... Hold it. Now tell me, is this why you hit him?
Nobody else knew? Race or Chip Bryant? Race didn't even know about this place.
But Chip Bryant... And don't dare move, Mr. Mario. Now, drop your gun. Do it!
Miss Packard, Mr. Adam Escobar, Esquire. Keep quiet. So Chip Bryant had the jewels all the time,
did he? I never thought of that. What do you know about jewels? Oh, quite a bit. You see,
Miss Packard, that night six months ago when you stood over there on the other side of the water
wheel and told Bryant that you had hidden the jewels and would tell him where later on. I was
listening. You knew they were here? I'll tell anything to anybody. It was, of course, quite by
chance that I overheard you. But after you had that accident with your car, I searched as diligently
as the ivory partner, searched Miss Packard for money. That could mean so, so much to me.
But I found nothing. Then where are they? You're ready to tell me. Where are they? Do you know?
Now that I see this hiding place, yes. It was where Chip Bryant stood. Therefore, the jewels
are not buried. What do you mean? I think, Toby, that he killed Chip Bryant almost six months ago
and that he buried them here on these grounds without knowing that Chip had already found the
jewels. Why? Chip? Dead? Quite dead. I killed him two days after your accident. I found him
searching for the jewels. No, no, you're lying. Chip was supposed to go back to Los Angeles and
wait until I was well. Wait for my letter. He didn't, Toby. He came out here, found the jewels and was
killed by our host. No wonder I couldn't find them these months that I've searched day in and day
out. Scratch them, dog in cold and in rain by sun and by dark. No wonder I buried them with him.
Yeah, but you didn't bury his knife, did you? That you kept and used on Lou Race tonight.
Exactly. Why you... Why? So you can shoot me then him or so that if I'm very lucky,
I can run away to live some more? Toby, don't. Live with his smashed ugly face?
Speckler. What have I got to lose? You've been warned. My pretty face is gone.
Don't take another step. The man I love is gone. I said, don't.
I said, don't. Escobar, turn around. Point that gun at me.
Now it's self-defense.
Toby, Toby's bad. Yeah, real bad, soldier.
I had so much once. Pretty face, a guy named Chip, jewels.
I had everything. I was a big wheel. Wasn't I, soldier?
Yes. Yes, Mr. Waltman, the bookends will be sent out to you this afternoon at the latest.
Thank you for calling. Goodbye. I'm sorry to have kept you, Mr. Marlowe.
Well, it may be hard for you to believe, but in the minute I was on the phone,
and even while I talked, I think I saw Chip's whole life before me.
I know what you mean. Well, Mrs. Bryant, I found out that your son, Chip...
Yes. You found out what? Mr. Marlowe, what are you staring at?
That showcase there. Oh, our Mother's Day display.
It's attractive, isn't it? Yeah, very.
Mrs. Bryant, Chip was killed in a storm at sea a week after you saw him.
It was off San Francisco. His body was never recovered.
I was told that he was on his way to a new job in Canada at the time,
and incidentally that letter from San Luis Obispo, that was all a mistake. That girl never saw Chip again.
Outside, I left my car where I'd parked it and walked through the busy city street.
You know, it's a funny thing. Lies can cause more trouble in this world than almost anything else,
they say, and at the same time, can sometimes bring the most happiness.
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character,
star Gerald Moore, are produced and written by Norman MacDonald and written for radio by
Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt. Featured in the cast were Virginia Gregg, Joan Banks,
Herb Butterfield, Louis Gene Hight, Bob Griffin, Howard McNear, and Lee Millar.
The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Arrondt.
Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlowe says...
It started at dawn in a Los Angeles taxi and wound up that night on a cliff in the middle of the
Pacific, all because of a Dutchman with $50,000, a corpse in a lily pond, and an oriental with a
chauffeur who wanted a cloak made of nothing but feathers.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.