Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road.
And those who travel it wind up in the gut of the prison of the grave.
There's no other end. But they never learn.
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Now, with Gerald Moore starred as Philip Marlowe, the makers of Wrigley's Spearman Chewing Gum,
are glad to bring you tonight's transcribed story, The Last Wish.
Flight seven from Dallas, Texas, now arriving at gate four.
Flight seven from Dallas, Texas.
Here we are, sir. Just coffee.
Still can't say you want a run in, may I?
Pie, cake, sandwich, hot or cold?
No, honey, just coffee, nothing else.
Oh, wait a minute. Make another coffee, will you?
Sure.
Oh, Lieutenant, Matthew's over here.
Oh, hi, Phil.
Hi. Sit down. I just ordered some coffee for you.
Oh, that's wonderful, Marlowe. Now that the niceties are over, where is he?
He's around, Matthews.
Where around, Marlowe? Look, why all the hocus pocus?
When you called, you told me to get over the airport here in a hurry. You said you had him.
I do. Also, I've got a story.
Well, that can keep till we get to headquarters.
No, it can't keep, Lieutenant. It's...
Flight seven, gate seven, for New York, now loading at gate nine.
It can't keep any longer than that, Lieutenant.
I don't follow you, Marlowe.
A guy the law wants in a cozy cell in a plane going to New York, where's the connection?
That's the story, Lieutenant. We got 20 minutes before that plane takes off.
Here, have your coffee.
Anything else, sir?
No. All right, Marlowe, let's...
But make it snappy when you have... I can't make it snappy, Matthews. It's not that kind of a story.
Not parts of it, anyway.
All right, Phil, do it your way.
Well, it began early this evening, Lieutenant, about 5.30, when I got a call from a doctor in my neighborhood.
A nice, elderly guy named Sam Tauman, who once took a bullet out of my shoulder.
Oh, I remember, yeah.
Yeah, well, he wanted me to come over to his office right away, Matthews. He was excited.
But not for himself. Excited for a patient, an old man who was dying.
When I got to his place, the kind of old-fashioned doctor's office where the drab horsehair furniture sort of gets mixed up with the shiny new x-ray equipment, he met me at the front door.
He's inside with my nurse, Phil, and he's going fast. You've got to be quick.
Now, what did I tell you on the phone?
Well, almost nothing, Doc, just that he's old.
Yes, 70, Phil. Maybe more.
Anyhow, his name's Schiller, Jacob Schiller. He's a good friend of mine from San Francisco, and he was on his way to Israel, to Tel Aviv.
Oh. It was his life ambition. Sit down, Phil.
Okay. He's not going to make it, Doc?
Not a chance. It's his heart. He had an attack this afternoon. I can't even move him out of here. He's through. A little too soon.
He wanted to go to the new country, is that it?
Yes. Pioneers measured by his spirit, not his years, he said. Anyhow, Phil, he came down here to see his son, for he caught a plane tonight for New York and the first leg of the trip to Israel.
And that's where you come in. I don't know where Jack Schiller is. Jack's his boy's name.
But the old man would like to see him once more. It's his last wish. He knows he hasn't much time left.
Uh-huh. Well, why me, Doc? Why not the police?
Well, I didn't think... I mean, Phil, it... well, you see...
Oh, the kid doesn't sit too well with the law, huh?
I'm afraid not. Excuse me.
Sure.
Dr. Taumann, hello? Oh, oh, yes, Mrs. Caller. Yes. One every three hours, like it says on the bottle. Yes. Goodbye, Mrs. Caller. Where was I, Phil?
Jack Schiller and the law. The reason they don't get along.
Oh, well, you see, Phil, Jack came down here to L.A. about three months ago, and as his father's old friend, he looked me up.
So he had him over for dinner a couple of times. But pretty soon he started coming less and less.
And when he did, it was a different Jack Schiller. Smart, flashy clothes, a new way of talking, you know, big shot kind of talking.
Yeah, I know.
The police are dumb and there's easy money to be made, that kind of talking. And he never would say what his business was, if he had any.
But believe me, Marlow, whatever it was, it wasn't too much on the up and up. And there was some kind of a girl mixed in.
There always is. What's Jack Schiller look like, Doc?
Look like? Yeah. Oh, yes. Here, Phil, a picture we took of him when he first came to the house, a barbecue we were having.
He's about 30 years old. Kind of good looking, huh? Maybe too good looking, Phil. Maybe that's the trouble.
Anyhow, for Jacob's sake, Phil, for my old friend, do you think you can find him?
Well, that depends, Doc. What else do you know, like last address, friend's name, favorite bar? That's the kind of information that counts.
I was afraid it would be like that. Phil, I never did know his address.
Oh, yeah, but Doc, there's got to be someplace I can start.
Oh, one thing, Phil. What?
Twice or maybe three times I saw him going to a fancy apartment house on Wilshire Boulevard, the Sherry Towers.
Sherry Towers. I passed it late at night coming from the clinic. I didn't bother stopping to call him.
I, well, you know, Phil, if he wanted no part of me, I wanted no part of him. And I wouldn't care about him now either.
But for Jacob, Jacob's been a good man, Phil, always. Phil, we'll try.
Yeah, sure, Doc, I'll try.
Doc Talman smiled his thanks without moving his lips, turned and shuffled toward a room behind him.
When he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of a lot of cylinders and tubes and gadgets I didn't understand.
And something I did understand a little.
The almost peaceful face of an almost peaceful old man who was dying.
I didn't try to see anymore. There wasn't time to waste.
I suddenly wanted to get started in a big hurry.
The Sherry Towers on Wilshire was made out of plaster, glass, brick and acute angles.
And it was anybody's guess what held it all together.
The only person in the plush lobby was a tall man with a red turkey neck who had a toothpick and a cigarette jammed in one corner of his mouth.
I walked over to the receptionist.
That's right, Mr. Lederman's car at nine, Mr. Kelly's at nine thirty, Washington gas.
That's it, Steve. Goodbye.
Oh, yes sir, can I help you?
I hope so. I'm looking for Jack Schiller. I'm an old friend of his from out of town.
I tried his place and a neighbor said I might find him here.
The neighbor was right. But you're early. Miss Grant isn't through at the club until ten at least.
Miss Grant?
Peggy Grant. She sings at the Crown Club. She's the one who lives here.
Didn't the neighbor tell you that too?
Yeah, but the way he said it I thought he was kidding.
You are from out of town, aren't you?
Yeah, Pitchfork Corners. Well, good night ma'am.
Good night. Look for you later, Mr. Pitchfork.
Oh, you big city slicker, you.
Huh? Yeah?
Pardon me for butting in, but I couldn't help over here. I can tell you something about your friend Jack Schiller.
Alright, start telling.
Well, let's step outside. I'd rather only you heard it.
Oh, sure thing.
So you know Jack, do you?
Yeah, buddy of mine. That's why I think I ought to tell you. It's a bad night.
For what?
For old friends to bother him, Rob. He's busy.
The role of Nichols at Turkey Neck must have had clenched in his palm. Folded me fast.
By the time I climbed back onto a pair of wobbly knees he was across the street into an alley and gone.
But I cheered myself up with the thought that it was better this way.
After all, with Turkey Neck coming out on top I was only a friend of Schiller's from the sticks, so nobody had to worry about.
That thought helped alright. Helped everything from the blood that trickled out of my mouth right down to the side.
I hoped it would stop by the time I got to the Crown Club.
Good evening. A table for one, sir?
No, thanks. I think I watched from the bar.
Oh, tell me Captain, does Ross Holland still run this club?
Oh, yes, sir. Are you a friend of Mr. Holland?
An acquaintance.
Oh, well in that case I must insist a table.
No.
André, André, table for one, vip mon.
This way, sir. The chanters will be out in a moment and you cannot see as well from the bar.
Uh-huh, thanks. I did want to catch her a number.
But this way, sir. Sir, is there something wrong?
Hmm? Oh no, I just changed my mind, Skipper. I think I'll go to the bar after all.
It was Jack Schiller, no doubt about it.
At a corner booth just beyond the bar and huddled close to a girl who was almost dressed in something strapless and spangled and
matched the display poster I'd just seen in the lobby labeled Peggy Grant.
I ordered a drink at the bar and then walked it over to a celebrity picture gallery on the wall near them
and listened to Schiller, all smiles raised to drink a toast.
Now, darling, to the unhappy end of Mr. George Mancini's squeeze play
and to your letters, back safe and sound in the lily white hands that wrote them.
Hey, sweet, you're supposed to drink a toast, not stare it down.
Baby, what is it?
Jack, I'm worried. I do want everything to go right.
Why, if you don't go get those letters from Mancini, everything I worked so hard for will be lost.
I couldn't catch it all. But it was easy to fit together.
Peggy Grant, who was now going up fast as a vocalist had once been in love with and under the personal management of George Mancini,
a preserved and alcohol combination agent producer, was now going down even faster.
And although she had never had a contract with Mancini beyond an oral agreement,
her old love letters had included enough business for Mancini to drag them into court
where they could stand up in lieu of a written contract and thus net brother Mancini the customary 10% of Peggy's earnings.
And to say so about future engagements that neither of them wanted.
I haven't spent all this time cultivating Mr. Mancini at his lair on top of Sweets of Drive for fun, you know.
Believe me, doll, we're in, honest.
All right, Jack, if you say so, darling, but will you know the letters are...
I know, love letters. Forget it, Angel, I won't even open them.
They belonged to a long time ago and I'm not interested.
Now you go on out there and sing for your supper.
I knew that once Schiller left the club he was going to be busy.
So as they started to tear themselves away from each other, I figured it was the right time for me to step in.
What I didn't figure on was Ross Holland, the king of the Crown Club, standing at my elbow.
Hello, Marlow. Pretty picture, isn't it?
Yeah, if you like, as you know, with bags under their eyes.
I wasn't talking about the one on the wall, Detective. I meant Peggy.
You were staring, remember?
I do. Your move, Holland.
Now, take the chip off your shoulder, Phil.
I don't mind if you stare. She gets paid for it.
But you pay it.
Sure. But also I pay the waiters, the doorman, and so on.
That, uh, that was all you were doing, wasn't it?
I mean staring, window shopping.
I'd hate to think you were here on business.
Oh, sensitive, aren't you?
You know, Marlow, I've piled up a lot of enemies wrecking in the blue chips.
That figures. What are you getting at, Holland?
A job. I think you might fit, huh?
Let's try the office, if you can spare the time. Can you, Phil?
Sure, sure. I've got nothing but time, Ross.
Let's go.
As I trailed Holland out of the bar as far as an unmarked heavy oak door,
I caught a glimpse of Jack Schiller picking up his hat and coat at the entrance.
Operation Mancini was underway.
I never get these keys straight, Marlow.
Round key on top, square one on the bottom.
You'd think I'd remember that, huh?
Yeah, switch to a revolving door.
Oh, well, I like my privacy. So do my boys.
Now, go on in. Make yourself comfortable. I'll get a couple drinks going.
As I moved into the vault, Holland called home. One thought alone stood out in my mind.
Every second that mine host wasted was a second that old Jack Schiller couldn't afford to lose.
But finally, when I was just about ready to skip playing it close and take off,
Holland came to the point.
His proposition that I go to work for his enemies, play spy and get paid for both parties.
That I needed like a weekend in a leaky submarine.
Well, that's it, Marlow. Yes or no?
Yes and no, Ross. I'd like to sleep on it. Fair enough?
Fair enough. Good night, Phil. Get to bed early, huh?
It was all the cue I needed.
I bum-joked my way out of his office, hurried through the club to the street,
then ran for my car and pointed it for the top of Sweeter Drive in the Hollywood Hills.
And the Schiller, George Mancini rendezvous I couldn't afford to miss.
The place which turned out to be bilious green walls under a shocking pink roof,
stood out in that conservative neighborhood like a Black Panther in a snowbank.
There was a car parked nearby and the name on the owner's certificate
wrapped around the steering wheel was Jack Schiller, which was no surprise.
So when I knocked, I used the barrel of my.38.
That was smart of me.
But it would have been smarter if I'd pointed it the other way.
I was going to get a little lucky.
Don't move an inch, mister.
Oh, fine.
And drop your gun right where you stand. Go on.
I'll turn around and answer up real fast.
What do you want with George Mancini?
Nothing. It's you I...
Hey, that blood all over you. What happened in there, Schiller?
You didn't kill him for those lousy letters in that envelope under your arm, did you?
Well, is that it?
No, not quite, mister. He isn't dead.
What do you know about me? How come you know my name?
Cops.
Never mind. Just back off, mister. Fast.
Open that door.
Go on.
Mancini's screaming must have disturbed the neighbors.
Listen, Schiller, I'm working for Doc Com...
Stay back. Stay shut or you'll wish you had.
Now, go on.
Get in there with him. I'll show you.
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Now with our star, Gerald Moore, the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's exciting story, The Last Wish.
It only took one look at the unconscious pulp on the floor inside to tell me that George Mancini had tried hard to hang onto the letters.
Almost too hard. I rolled him over. He was as limp as a slice of raw bacon but still alive.
I just got his shirt collar loosened up when the door behind me opened again.
Easy, Fodden. I don't...
Marlowe.
Hello, Matthews. A little early for a lieutenant from homicide. How come they sent you?
They didn't. Becker and I were driving by when the call came out over the radio.
One of the neighbors out here heard something and phoned in. Who was he, Marlowe?
A guy named George Mancini.
Becker, see what you can do for him.
Okay, Lieutenant. Looks like he soaked up a lot of punishment.
He did, but not from me, Matthews.
Oh, no? What were you, Marlowe, a referee? Who did it?
It was over when I got here. And the guy who did it didn't give me much time to talk. He had a gun.
All of which still doesn't answer my question.
I don't know his name. His occupation is loving a blonde.
Is that why you're here, the blonde?
Yeah, more or less. She was afraid of Mancini. He had some letters.
Letters, huh? Which are long gone now, no doubt.
No doubt.
What's the blonde's name?
Lieutenant, I think we'd better have an ambulance. This guy is a long ways out.
Okay, take care of it, Becker.
Okay. Well, Marlowe...
Now, look, Matthews, nothing's actually happened so far but this beating, and it's probably well deserved.
But the situation's touchy.
The girl's worried silly if her name gets mixed up in a thing like this.
All right, all right. Now listen to me. I want the guy who dished up this mess.
Either that or the whole story down at headquarters. Now, which?
Okay, you'll have him. But just give me a little time alone and I'll deliver him on a platter.
Oh, not again.
I promise.
Oh, come on. It means a lot to me, Matthews.
Well, okay, Marlowe. Just see this doesn't blow up in your kisser and don't get lost, understand?
Outside, after I found my gun, I climbed into my car and headed for Peggy Grant's Lusher Park and Huss again.
When I got there, I parked away from the place and skirted the front entrance.
I was sure that by now the pretty face of the switchboard would be well primed for a tip-off.
I went along the side of the building toward the service entrance at the back.
The glow of a match and the shadows and an alcove stopped me.
It was the turkey neck, Jack Schiller's quick-fisted health mate, lighting a cigarette.
I eased my.38 out and moved toward him.
When he finally heard me, he turned.
Hey.
But by then he was looking right down the muzzle of my gun.
Easy now, easy chum.
Still so? It's a bad night for seeing old friends, chum.
You got me nailed down, brother. You don't have to take my word for nothing.
But listen, whatever your angle is, let it rest. Leave the kid alone for a while.
Otherwise you do for nothing but trouble in large doses.
You're kidding.
Yeah, you bet I'm always kidding.
You've got more nerve than brains, bastard.
You can't pull that twice.
Go fry your ears.
You're making a clot on the skull almost fun.
Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute. All that stuff spilled on the walk there, it fell out of your pocket, didn't it?
Didn't it?
So what?
So you don't have to say another word, watchdog.
I'm beginning to get the whole thing all by myself.
Sure.
And what's more, you yellow jerk, I don't like it!
The two small items I just seen on the walk made swinging the flat side of my gun butt against his head a distinct pleasure.
They also made getting in the service door and up the stairs two at a time to Peggy Grant's apartment a definite gratification.
Because now I had a Jim Dandy hunch on exactly what to expect.
Come on, princess, open up!
Who are you, the cop?
Expecting cops, Miss Grant?
Not exactly. The milkman doesn't carry a gun and my friends all use the front door.
I'm the informal type. Where's Jack Schiller?
Right behind you, mister.
Again.
Again. This time lay your gun on the table.
Go on.
Sure, sure.
You're slightly better than the guy downstairs.
I got by him with no trouble at all.
What's that? What guy?
Why, you mean Peggy didn't tell you about the watchdog?
What is this?
Go ahead, princess.
Tell him about the turkey neck character with orders to keep everybody away while Jack makes a fool of himself.
Darling, get this idiot out of here. This is a trick.
Why not also tell him who your real boyfriend is, baby?
Why, you lousy dog!
You should have learned a little from what happened to that skunk, Mancini.
Now go on back to him and tell him if he tries anything else like this, I'll go over him again.
Right from the beginning.
My, my. Aren't we spunky tonight?
Now look, Schiller, I want you to listen and I haven't got all night.
There's a guy downstairs who was sent out to see that nobody interfered while you played perfect pigeon.
It was you who risked getting plugged when you went in after those letters.
I want you a sucker enough not to read, and now it's you who's in a big jam with the police.
And what's more, I found out that that guy is one of Ross Harlan's boys.
You liar, get out of here.
Oh, Jack, make him go away, please.
Wait a minute. What's Ross Harlan got to do with this?
Nothing.
Nothing, how?
Late ten to one, those letters were written by Harlan, not Dreamboat here.
And that they set him up for a squeeze and have nothing whatever to do with their dubious career as a singer.
If you got any sense, Schiller, read one.
Jack, you gave me your word. Oh, don't be a child, darling. Can't you see what he's trying to do to us?
Just take one look at one signature, Jackson. If I'm wrong, you can split my other lip.
No, Jack, don't.
Just the letters, Peggy. At least I'm going to know who wrote them.
All right. If that's the way you want it, Jack, that's the way it'll be.
Jack, my gun.
Don't move, either one of you. Drop it, Jack. I mean it.
Peggy, Peggy, what are you doing?
Drop that gun.
Well, mister, you sure wrecked a lovely set up.
Why, I don't know, but it won't do you any good. I'm leaving and I'm taking these letters with me.
And it's true what he said.
Of course it's true, all of it. These letters were written by Ross Harland back when Mancini was his partner and they're loaded.
With them, Mancini could cut himself in for half of every cent Ross had.
And Ross couldn't trust anyone but me to get them back for him.
Stay where you are.
Don't feel too bad, Jackie boy. You have to live to learn. Maybe you won't be a dope all your life.
Peggy.
Let her go.
Oh, shut up. You were right, so you made your point.
Now whatever your reason was, get it out of here and leave me alone.
Oh, no. I haven't been monkeying in your corny affairs just for laughs, Sonny.
I was hired to find you by Doc Tormann.
Doc Tormann? Oh, that nosy old goat. Why?
Your father's in town. He's had a heart attack, a bad one.
My father?
Yeah. He wants to see you. I told Doc Tormann I'd bring you back and that's what I'm going to do regardless. Now get going.
Oh, Phil. Come in.
I finally got Jack, Doc. Here he is.
Hello, Doc. Where's my father?
Back in the bedroom.
I'll go right in and see him.
Jack.
What?
What is it?
What's the matter?
Jack, your father's dead.
He passed away 20 minutes ago.
Oh, I'm sorry, Doc.
Oh, Pop. Pop.
Here, my boy. Sit down.
20 minutes. Just about the time it took to beat a chiseler out of a bunch of letters and argue with a cheap two-timing blonde.
Try to get a hold of yourself, my boy. We knew you'd have come if you could have.
Your father's last thoughts were of you, son. He was very proud of you.
Don't, Doc. Please.
I'll run along, Doc. I got a phone call to make.
Oh, wait a minute, Marlo. You can't leave thinking like you do. Not now with Pop dead.
I don't know what happened to me these last few weeks. I can't understand how I got in so deep.
She had me, I guess. I'd have done anything she asked.
You're not the first guy that's happened to. I doubt that you'll be the last.
Yeah, but I've got to square myself now. I've got to. And I want to start with the police.
You really mean that?
I never met anything more in my life. I'm not really a wise guy, honest.
So what's this about the police?
I'm in a jam, Dr. Tom, and a pretty bad one. Because I-
You've got too much nerve and too much energy. All you need is the right place to spend them.
That gives me an idea. Is Jack your real name?
No, it's really Yacob, like my old man's.
Oh. Doc, where's that plane reservation for Jacob Schiller?
Here. I have it right here.
Wait a minute. You mean-
Yeah, yeah, you're catching that plane. With luck, you may make it all the way.
Oh. But you're letting me go, Marlow. You'll be in a jam yourself.
Well, I think I know a pair of strong shoulders I can dump the responsibility onto.
Let's go, kid.
Flight 17 to New York, now loading at Gate 5.
Well, that's the story to hear, Matthews.
Just whose shoulders did you have in mind of that responsibility business?
You're wearing them, you lug.
Oh, give me that napkin, will you?
Hey, just tell me something else to make it all nice and tight.
That turkey-neck character, how did you know he worked for Ross Holland?
Oh, well, when I slugged him in back of Peggy Grant's apartment house,
a lot of junk fell out of his pocket, including a pair of keys on a chain.
One had a round head, the other one was square.
Oh, duplicates of that set that opened Holland's double-locked office, huh?
Uh-huh. Tight enough, Lieutenant?
Eh, tight enough.
Last call for Flight 17 to New York, now loading at Gate 5.
They, uh, they just called a New York flight, Phil.
Yeah. Last call.
Yeah.
You know, I hear they're doing great things over there in Israel.
Yeah.
Building farms right out of the desert land, that kind of stuff.
That's right.
They, uh, they can use all the help they can get, I understand.
I was raised on a farm, did you know?
Keeps you so busy you don't have time to get in trouble.
Hey, Mullum, sit down. I'll buy you another cup of coffee.
Thanks, Lieutenant. Thanks a lot.
We watched the plane take off, swinging heavy, thundering grace, and head east.
I guess we were both thinking the same thing.
Two Jacob Shillers were on their way to the fulfillment of a promise.
The old and the new promised land.
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The Adventures of Philip Marlowe, presented by Wrigley Spearmint Gum,
bring you Raymond Chandler's most famous character and star, Gerald Moore.
Philip Marlowe is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald, and written for radio by Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt.
Featured in the transcribed cast were Jack Edwards, June Foray, Larry Dobkin, Harold Dierenforth, Jack Crouchon, Lynn Allen, and Stan Waxman.
The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Arant.
The makers of Wrigley Spearmint Chewing Gum hope you've enjoyed tonight's adventure of Philip Marlowe,
and that you're enjoying Wrigley Spearmint Gum every day.
Next week, Philip Marlowe will be heard on Friday evening.
So we invite you to be with us next week on Friday when Philip Marlowe says,
This time I found an old friend in the morgue, watched a man with a burned hand die in a quiet garden,
and listened to a pathetic killer give up, all because a little glass donkey came to town.
This is Bob Stevenson speaking, and this is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.