[MUSIC PLAYING] This episode is brought to you by Experian. Are you paying for subscriptions you don't use, but can't find the time or energy to cancel them? Experian could cancel unwanted subscriptions for you, saving you an average of $270 per year, and plenty of time. Download the Experian app. Results will vary. Not all subscriptions are eligible. Savings are not guaranteed. Paid membership with connected payment account required. You are listening to the new Mutual Audio Network. Welcome home. The following audio drama is rated PG for Parental Guidance. It's season 15 of the Sonic Summer Stock Playhouse. Performing through the summer months, the Sonic Summer Stock Playhouse is presented by the Sonic Society for the Mutual Audio Network and features producers and actor troops from the modern age of audio drama who recreate and reproduce classical time radio plays. The Playhouse endeavors to bring shows to a contemporary audience for the love of the medium and not in any intended form of copyright infringement of these classic radio plays. And now, we go to our host of the Sonic Summer Star Playhouse, Mr. David Oates. [APPLAUSE] Welcome ladies and gentlemen to our fifth feature of his special daughter affair, the 15th season of the Sonic Summer Stock Playhouse. [APPLAUSE] Thank you, thank you. Once again, welcome. Thank you for taking your seats. I'm David Oates, and I'm thrilled to, once again, be your host this season. [APPLAUSE] Thank you. This week, we have a specialty. It's Larry Grobe and Project Audion have entered our stage once again in a long lineup of fictional hardboiled detectives. Philip Marlow stands out as one of the earliest and one of the best. This recreation from The Adventures of Philip Marlow focuses on one of the lost episodes, The Quiet Number. So without further ado, let us raise our curtain on another grand detective mystery of The Adventures of Philip Marlow. [APPLAUSE] [MUSIC PLAYING] This is Project Audion, timeless audio dramas for modern times, created the classic one. Hello, I'm Larry Grobe with the generic radio workshop. You know, radio scripts come to Project Audion in many ways. This particular large, slightly musty stack of scripts was boxed up and shipped to the generic radio workshop not long ago. These are the original drafts for The Adventures of Philip Marlow, a radio drama which ran for four years and nearly 120 episodes. And this stack represents about 80% of them. Now, the 1940s and '50s were a golden age, not just for audio drama, but for fictional private investigators. I'm talking about characters like Sam Spade, Candy Mattson, Richard Diamond, and Philip Marlow, created by the great Raymond Chandler. Radio was wonderful for detective stories. You could give your hero a new case every week, and new supporting characters could be drawn from all walks of life. Still, it took a special kind of talent to devise a new half-hour mystery week after week. And these scripts came to us from the son of just such a man. From California, we'd like to welcome to Project Audion, Mr. Robert Mitchell. So what'd you like to know about first? So, Mr. Mitchell, your last name isn't Chandler, I see. Oh, well. Mr. Chandler, OK, in 1947-48, Mr. Chandler was a major crime fiction author, a novelist, and screenplay writer. And he didn't. Radio hired people like my father and Jean Levitt for incredibly low wages. And there wasn't much of a union at that time. When dad came back from World War II, he moved to Los Angeles. My mom and dad had married just before he shipped out. So they hadn't seen each other for like three years. And he moved into her apartment when he got to Hollywood, which was basically the size of my apartment, studio. So now he's got a daughter, and he's got a wife, and he's got a writing career. Where could he be by himself and write? He went into the bathroom, and he straddled the toilet and put the typewriter on top of the toilet tank. It's my sister told me that's how dad was writing in those very early years. And I found what I think is my father's first Hollywood credit. He won the weekly Why I Love Free Speech contest at Radio Station KMPC. And he received a $10 prize in November of 1946. That's very substantial. So my sister would have been one month old at that time. So that's where the $10 went. Undoubtedly. My father and Jean got to meet Raymond Chandler. Really? They drove down to La Jolla. This showed down on for a year in 1949 and spent an afternoon with Raymond Chandler, which something was always pretty something. I have some letters, a couple of letters from Raymond Chandler chatting about this and that. They didn't talk about the radio show extensively, interestingly enough. My father's memory of it was that Mr. Chandler had some sort of skin problem on his head. Some kind of-- I think it's one of those skin problems that you get when you're anxious and under pressure. Dad had the same thing or something like it. And Dad was under a lot of pressure and kind of angst in 1949. So they chatted about that. One of Mr. Chandler's letters is about skin lotion. So this big paragraph about skin lotion and then this little tiny paragraph about the radio show. Well, so you were the child of two, eventually two writers. What was that like? I mean-- I had to be quiet a lot. Yeah, the layout of the house was such that noise-- you couldn't make noise in one part and have it be quiet in the other part. No, I had to be quiet. I had to be quiet everywhere except maybe outside. But television came along and he started writing for some other things. Well, television was coming, so he was going to write for it. It was probably Jean Levitt who got the Steve Allen thing going and had them all moved to New York. That was probably Jean, because it's an ambitious next step sort of thing. Television was more difficult to write because now you had a budget to worry about. By the time I knew my father, he was a successful but disillusioned demand. He didn't write for pleasure and he didn't write on spec anymore. He received an assignment and he wrote it. And that was it. He didn't even keep it diary. It was kind of like it had been-- the fun of it had been squeezed out of him by the process that a freelance writer goes through, submitting something to somebody else's formula, and then having to keep changing it. Radio days were dad's favorite days in his career. Why is that? It was all new and exciting and full of possibility is what I'm gathering from that. Thank you, Bob Mitchell, for sharing those stories and this great set of scripts. And with that, from this stack, we've plucked a lost episode, something that hasn't been heard by anyone in 75 years. From July 9, 1949, our transcontinental cast is standing by to recreate the adventures of Philip Marlow, case number 41, "The Quiet Number." 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. There's no other end, but they never learn. I went from a mansion in Bel-Air to a cheap flat in Southgate, searching for a girl with a secret, who a man in a pork pie hat, a wise cracking secretary, and a fat corpse didn't want me to find. But who I found anyway, because of the quiet number. [MUSIC PLAYING] From the pen of Raymond Schindler, an outstanding author of "Mystery," comes his most famous character and crimes most deadly enemy, as we present "The Adventures of Philip Marlow." [MUSIC PLAYING] Now with Gerald Moore starred as Philip Marlow, we bring you tonight's exciting story, "The Quiet Number." [MUSIC PLAYING] The night had been dead calm and sticky hot. It left the city red-eyed and exhausted. The morning was already breathless and boiling. It was the kind of heat that jangles your nerves and draws your temper as tight as a drum head. When my phone rang in a man's voice, edged flat urgency, asked me to come to a house in Bel-Air, I knew he was feeling the heat, too. It was Carlton Lamb. He had lived in Beverly Hills when I'd worked for him six months ago, and as I drove out to the address he'd given me, I realized that the man who had fought his way from hot dog vendor to king of the concessionaires had taken still another step up, and from the size of his new house, it was a big step. I parked and followed a curving walk past a green swimming pool already alive with young bodies to sun brown to be admirled, and saw Lamb himself standing apart like he was confused by the very wealth he'd worked so hard to get. When he saw me, he motioned me into the house. And the look in his eye meant only one thing. The same thing is before-- Sylvia. I've got a new lead, Marlow. I figured you'd have given up after six months, Mr. Lamb. Give up looking for Sylvia, not this year, Marlow. Not next year, not ever, as long as there's hope of finding her. Here, look at this picture. Last Tuesday's LA star. Yeah. Well, what do you think? I think it's a crowd of people watching a parade. Fourth of July parade in Southgate, so the caption says-- But look here, this girl in white, see? Marlow, that's her. That's Sylvia. I know it. You mean this is your lead. This picture of a girl's half-hidden face? You call this a lead, Mr. Lamb? Yes. Here's an enlargement I got from the newspaper office. It's a little better. See the eyes? That same half-smiling expression around her mouth? And oh, with that fat ape with a crew cut there had moved back one step. You'd see. Yeah, of him, it's perfect. But this girl's wearing bangs. It's been over six months, Marlow. OK, I concede the point. And Sylvia was a sucker for parades. And she liked white dresses, too. She's got one on there. That's three lines that intersect, Marlow. Remember what you said. Get a line on every characteristic that makes a person a personality. And where those lines intersect, that's the place to look. Yeah, it's a great theory. Also, it's a big world. You've had time to think. Sure it isn't better this way. Don't say that. You know what she means to me. I told you 50 times. I'd never trusted a woman or got any kindness from one until I met Sylvia. In some circles, that's called love, Mr. Lam. Are the rules still the same? No police if that's what you mean. She must have had a reason for running. Maybe she's in trouble. I'll pay you double this time if you think it'll help. It won't. In fact, you'll pay me nothing. I failed you six months ago, Mr. Lam. This one's on the house. But what I said then still goes, if she's crooked, I'll let you know first, but I won't protect her. Fair enough. And keep this in mind too. All we've got to go on is half a face and a whole mob of faces, even assuming it is Sylvia in the picture. Do you realize how little that means? How little? Marlo, for six months, I've known nothing except she was gone. Now for the first time, I know that she's alive. That less than a week ago, she was on a street not 20 miles from here, and that she still loves parades and wears white dresses. And that means somewhere she still buys white ginger perfume and orders almond duck Cantonese style and-- As Lam went down the familiar list of things that identified the girl I knew so well but had never seen, all the memories from six months before came rushing back. I remember all the violence I'd checked on. Everything that had happened the day she disappeared from the Baldwin murder to a hit and run accident on sunset. But none of them had tied in with Sylvia Royce. Now I was on the same merry-go-round again. I left the house with her picture and Lam's new unlisted phone number in my pocket and drove through 20 stifling miles of city streets to Southgate. It was 11 o'clock and hot when I started and seven grueling hours later at six. It was still hot, and I had nothing to show for the entire afternoon's work but a pair of lame feet and a mountain of negative answers from enough employment agencies, Chinese restaurants, and perfume counters to fill a phone book. But the thought that I'd find her around every next corner nagged like a nail in a tight shoe. So I got another grip on my patience, looked up another Chinese restaurant, and walked smack into my first break because the boss, Mr. Liu, took one look at Sylvia's picture and his face broke into a smile. Oh, yes, sir. I have seen this lady. How long ago was it, Mr. Liu? Oh, not recent. Could be seven, eight, and nine weeks ago. Do you know if she lives around here? I think not. This is a new place, open a month now. The lady came into my old place, the Hong Kong on DeWitt Street, close by Liberty Boulevard. And her name, was it Sylvia Royce? I have a call, no name, sorry. Well, you've given me something anyway. I hope so, Mr. Model. Your job must be difficult. Something like carving a statue from a puff of smoke, Mr. Liu. Goodbye, and thanks again for your help. Most welcome. Now, may I serve you, sir? Yeah, give me a pack of the cigarettes, will you? Maybe the heat had made me jumpy. But as I walked out, I was more than half sure that the man who wanted cigarettes, a pair of lifeless blue eyes under a gray pork pie hat, had shown a lot of interest in my work. I spent 15 minutes finding Liberty Boulevard and 10 more locating the old Hong Kong Cafe on DeWitt, where rough boards nailed over blank windows marked the end of that lead. But the field was a few blocks an hour or at least. And across the street, a woman padlocking a stubborn folding gate over a doorway marked Connie Hagen, Secretarial Service Upstairs, was another angle and handy. Hey, can I give you some help, Connie? Just find me, Jack, and I'll make it OK. There, that'll hold it. I don't know who'd want to steal a few orange crates in a pile of second-hand goose quills anyway, do you? The Secretarial racket's not so good I take it. And you can keep it. If you've heard a loud noise lately, brother, it wasn't business booming. Got some typing? Not exactly. I'm looking for a girl named Sylvia Royce. Here's her picture. Ever see her or hear of her? Who did you say you were? So far I didn't. The name's Marlowe. I'm the Dodge. Sequoia credit adjusters. Ah, that'll get by like a $7 bill you private eye you. OK, so now it's your pitch. How about Sylvia Royce? I don't know anyone by that name. Then you know that face by another name. What is it? Your nuts. Come on, you showed too much bridge work when you took your first piece. Let's have it. Well, look who's shoving. I said the name means nothing to me, and I never saw the face before. Now, if you don't mind, my feet are beginning to fry on this sidewalk. I'm going home and soaking the ice water. Why don't you do the same with your head? Just a minute, Connie. You're not that tough. What have you got against private eyes? And draw a full of unpaid accounts, Jack. All you guys are bombs, and I hope you have luck to match. Good night. She walked away fast, throwing a half-scared look back over her shoulder once, then turned the corner and was gone. She had lied, and for a better reason than a drawer full of unpaid bills. So I gave her a good head start, then took off after her. But at the corner, plowed into 250 pounds of soggy, pink-shirted tub with a crew cut on his head, and a bag of canned beer under his arm. Can't you see where you're going, Speedy? He waddled around me and across the street while I figured out where I'd seen him before. It was the picture. He was the ape who'd been standing with Sylvia at the parade. I knew I could locate Connie Hagen again, so I followed the fat guy instead. And after three blocks, he went in at a scaly, four-flat frame house on Grant Avenue with mailboxes, nailed to the portrayal, so I slipped up and took a look. Number one said I'd been tagging Frances William McDermott manager. Two and three meant nothing. But the name on number four was Ruth Whitley and Paydert, as any rookie in the missing person's bureau knows because trading names with the local avenue was won right out of the book. And Sylvia Royce had lived a year on Whitley Drive in Hollywood. I was as eager as a kid in a candy store as I went in past the half-open-door marked manager and started up the stairs. But that was as far as I got when a hand like a catcher's meant full of buckshot landed on my shoulder and jerked me around. Hold it, friend. The sign says, no, peddless. Where do you think you're going? Upstairs to number four. I've got a message for Ruth Whitley, and it's important, so take that paw off me. That's so? Well, she's not in. So I'll take the message for, what is it? Personal, for one thing. You don't say. And who's it from? Sylvia. For what it's worth to you. Sylvia, huh? It's a hot night, ain't it? Kefobia? That's my door there. Go on in. You know, Miss Whitley's lived here five months now, and we're real friendly, like brother and sister. I sort of look out for her. Well, that's nice. Yeah, sit down. Now, this message of yours. Just say it's about somebody wanting to save Ruth. I said it was personal. That's all. I know that, Mac. But I'm a friend of hers, remember? If she's in trouble, I ought to be the first to know. What makes you think she's in trouble? Oh, things? Like her moving in here with a flock of duds, too fancy for her dove. Like her not ever going up to Hollywood, even for a ride on Sunday. Like her getting messages from Sylvia. Want a glass with you, Bia? No, thanks. You've got a long nose for other people's business, McDermott. When you manage a joint like this, you've got to have. Sometimes, they're pretty tense. They're the tricky ones. A little information might be a big help to me, pal. Sure it might. With enough of it, you could even put the bite on her I'll bet. Well, you're smart. Let's see how smart. For instance, this Sylvia. Just who is she, pal? A girl in a song, McDermott. I don't get it. Not for me, you don't, you fat louse. I'll be seeing you around, no doubt. But wait a minute, friend. If you don't tell me, I'll get it some other way because I'm not turning to loose at this now. Not now, I'm not. I'm getting too many good ideas. Look, when there's a pie around, you might as well cut yourself a slice. What do you say? Let's talk. I'll have to think it over. Oh, you will, huh? Then think it over outside. And something else, I run this house. So don't try to get back in without checking with me first. I'll be expecting it. So long, pal. [THEME MUSIC] I left feeling like I'd stepped in something slimy. Outside, it was dark. The sun had gone down, but the mercury hadn't. So I was sweating again when I reached the corner. I cut down through the alley and saw that a flight of stairs went up to the service porch at the rear of Ruth Whitley's flat. Then I walked back to my car on Liberty Boulevard, drove to a drug store nearby and called Carlton Lam. Is it really Sylvia, Phil? Are you sure? Not completely, but I'd give odds. Will you be in all night? Why, yes, why? I may want to call you in a hurry. What do you mean? What's wrong, Marlow? Nothing yet. Just take it easy. Could be I hit a little too close, that's all. I may have talked to her best friend. Also, I'm at a dead wrong guy who runs her apartment house. He's got his nose in the wind, and it's a very nasty nose. Listen, Phil, maybe you better ease off. If we lose her now, if anything should happen to her-- It's too late. She's bound to find out that-- Look, I'll call you back later, Carlton. There's a pork pie hat outside here. I think I'd better try on, just for size. You can crawl out of that magazine now, blue eyes. I'm all through with the phone. Top-- oh, thanks. In just a minute, come back here. Hey, what's the idea? You tell me, Buster, it's getting so every time I look up, I see that pork pie hat of yours. Is something wrong with the hat? Not especially. As long as it stays out of my business-- I don't see what you're reaching for, mister. You've been tagging me. What me? Not me, mister. Honest. You live here in Southgate? Yeah, for years. Can I go now, pretty please? I still want to make my call. All right, beat it. Maybe it's just the heat. Yeah, sure, sure. I hear they're dropping like flies all over town. [MUSIC PLAYING] When he stepped into the booth, I went out, got in my car, and rolled slowly down the street. My eyes on the rear view mirror. And I saw him run out, pile into a coop, and follow. So I let him through a mile of back streets, then took a corner fast, you turned, lights out, and waited. But he didn't fall for it, which made it my turn to play sucker. Because when I moved again, I couldn't tell if he was tailing me or not. That was bad. So I spent 20 minutes making sure he couldn't be before I went back to the house on Grant Avenue. All the lights were out, even McDermott's. But I parked on the side street and took the back stairs anyway, just in case. The screen door was unlocked, so I went in through the kitchen to the living room and turned on a lamp. Everything was cheap, but neat as a pin, except for an envelope of snapshots spilled on the floor. They were full of Sylvia in a park. And the address on the envelope was Connie Hagen, 3832 State Street. I made a mental note, then went to the bedroom and opened the door. A small table with two legs broken off was first. Beyond that was an overturned chair, then a ripped curtain in a smashed lamp. Behind the rumpled bed was the pair of feet. The toes pointed up at the ceiling. It was Francis William McDermott, who had just bled to death from a knife wound. The phone was in the hall outside, and I dropped my nickel and indyled the prefix of my client's quiet number, the unlisted one, when a hand reached over my shoulder and pressed the receiver hook down. While the muzzle of a gun was jammed hard against my spine. You don't want to make a call. You don't want to call anybody, mister. Not just yet. I went to a lot of trouble to shake you, pork pie. You're good. How'd you pick me up? Easy, but never mind that. What do you want here? Ten minutes ago, I could have told you. No, I'm not just sure. I am. I think you better leave her alone. I think you better get out of Southgate and forget you were ever here. Well, what do you know? A knight in shining armor protecting his lady love. Yeah, yeah, that's right. And I'm dead serious. So lay off her. She's had enough. She must be quite a kid. Every guy she gets near winds up feeling that way about her, except, of course, McDermott, seen him recently. Yeah, that's why you got your nickel back in the phone there. I figure Sylvia needs a little time now. So do yourself a favor, mister, and blow far. Do I get a minute to decide? Oh, wide guy. Does that answer your question, mister? In just a moment, the second act of Philip Marlow. But first, there'll be changes of time for two of your favorite music programs on CBS, beginning Sunday, July 10. The core leers, the brilliant vocal group directed by Eugene Lowell, will be heard when previously you've heard the symphonet. And the symphonet will be heard later on Sunday afternoons just before the family hour of stars. As on past Sundays, these two fine music programs will be heard on most of these same CBS stations. Be listening when the core leers and the symphonet come to you at their new CBS Times next Sunday afternoon. Now, with our star Gerald Moore, we return to the second act of Philip Marlow. And tonight's story, "The Quiet Number." When the man of the pork pie had whipped his gun against my head, I didn't go out. But I went down so hard that my arms and legs took a vacation. And I laid there with the must of the cheap carpet in my nostrils and listened to his feet pound down the stairs. And when I finally managed to get up and out on the street myself, it was empty. I went as far as the corner, which got me nothing but a bad dose of vertigo. So I propped myself against a lamp post while the buzz saws in my brain stopped spinning. Then I started back and saw for the first time that a light was on in the bedroom where McDermott's body was. I ran all the way and took the steps three at a time. And the buzz saws were spinning again. But I made it to her door as the screen slammed on the service porch. And when I got out there, she was already down the back stairs. But then I got a break. The white shoulder strap bagged she carried slipped and fell to the ground. And she stopped long enough to pick it up. I caught her as she turned to the alley. Let me go, please. It's been a long time coming, baby. But we finally made it. You've got to let me go. I have to get away from here, please. It's terribly important. Yeah, like a dead man in your bedroom. You know about that? How are you? Philip Marlowe, I've been looking for you for a long, long time, Sylvia. I'm sorry I had to find you like this, running down an alley away from a corpse. Let me go. Hey, come here. Stop it. You're disappointing me, baby. I must have listened to too many love songs because Sylvia should be something between a princess and an angel. Please, I'm not Sylvia. You're making a mistake. I'm Ruth Whitley. It won't work. Not anymore. I've already talked to your boyfriend, and he admitted it. And McDermott was beginning to get the idea, too. Is that why he's dead, Sylvia? I don't know why he's dead. And I don't have a boyfriend. Can't you leave me alone? I've got to get away from here. No, you don't. You're all through running away. What do you mean? You said your name was Marlow, but who are you really? A private detective working for a man who wants you to come back. He loves you. He thinks you love him. Maybe I do. I did once, but I can't go back to him. Not ever. I can't. It's too late now, I know. But why did you leave in the first place? What happened to you six months ago, Sylvia? No, don't force me, please. Why did you run away? You must have had a reason. What was it? Tell me. Oh! Duck Sylvia, we're being shot at. Get out. Sylvia, Sylvia, stop. No, no, I won't. You're a little fool. Oh, God. Eat up, Mr. Keep her head down, or I'll split it for you. Sylvia's gone, and she-- Yeah, she's gone. And stick your pork pie hat around that corner once more, and you'll be gone, too. But for keeps. That makes it cozy. Either one of us can move. I guess I got here just in time. If you mean so, Sylvia wouldn't have to talk, you did. She took her secrets with her when she left. Good. That tapped my bottle, Mr. You may think so, Chum, but your battles just begun. What's more, you're a lousy shot. I was in a hurry, but I wasn't trying to hit you anyway. I got what I wanted, didn't I? And you'd better enjoy it fast. Hey, Mr. Listen, we're both stuck. I can stay here just as long as you can, but there's no reason now. Want to talk it over? Hey, I said you wanted to talk it over. I didn't answer. Instead, I picked up a tin can and edged out across the alley while I listened to the pressure pile up in his voice. Then I tossed the can past the corner of the wall he was hiding behind. When he spun around and threw the shots at nothing, but noise in the dark, I made it to the other side of the alley, up onto a fence, and from there, to a garage roof. I could see him. He was crouched low in looking around in panic because he knew I was moving, but he couldn't tell where. When he broke and ran, he headed straight for the side of the garage and stopped almost directly under me. I eased myself up to the edge and jumped. Oh! Hey, come here. Come here. Give me that. No, I want-- oh. Give me that. Right there. Now, we can talk, pork pie, long and wild. Ow! Ow! Stop. No more. I'm out of now. I haven't. Still, oh, you one good crack on the skull. Ow! Ow! Ow! No! Don't hit me again. I quit. I had to do what I did. I had to keep you away from Sylvia. Can't you understand that? I understand this. You're a jerk. Love sick to the point where you'd shoot a man down to protect what might very well be a murderous. You're stupid, and therefore dangerous, and I ought to knock your head off just to keep you out of my way. No, don't. Then tell me something and keep it straight. Why did Sylvia take the name Ruth Whitley and hide out here in Southgate? I don't know. You're lying. No, I'm not. She wouldn't tell me. And where is she heading now? Come on! Away from you, mister, and fast, I hope. But in which direction, I don't know. Believe it or not. I do. For one simple reason, because you've been played for a sap all along, she's not in love with you. The guy she really loves lives no further than the other side of the city. So watch the matter, pork pie. Cat got you tongue. Hey, knock off the pork pie, will you? The name's Devlin. That's your last name. Your first is sucker. OK, yeah. She got away from both of us, so we're tied there. Otherwise, you win all the way, mister. Can I have my gun back? Empty? How nuts do you think I am? Well, my hat, then. You won't need that either. Get out of my sight, Devlin, and stay out. Go home and have a good cry. You deserve it. Go on, beat it. [MUSIC PLAYING] A trickle of sweat started between my shoulder blades and warmed its way down my back as I watched Devlin walk out of the alley to the street. A minute later, a car door slammed and a motor roared away. I leaned against the garage, looked at that crumpled pork pie hat on the ground, and for at least a hundredth time, mopped my face with a handkerchief that did as much good as a fist full of kelp while I tried to scrape up enough energy to figure my next move. I made it fast when I realized that the garage door was being inched open. I stepped back and reached for my gun, but forgot it when a pair of eyes that sparkled like two holes in an army blanket blinked out at me. Oh, I didn't know anybody was still here. I thought you'd all left. You mean you were in there all the time? Yep. I wanted to take an app and put the ruckus with me up, and I was scared to come out before. Say you wouldn't happen to have a little snort on you, would you? Not tonight. Oh, too bad. This hot weather kind of thins out my blood. I sort of say that your hat on the ground there. No, you can have it if you want. It turns my stomach. Oh, say thanks. This is a nice lid. How'd it bring a bottle of musky, moustini? Oops. What was that? A little cart fell right out of the hat. Something written on it here. Say, Bob, would you read this to me? The eyes are a little fuzzy. I wouldn't want to miss a bent one. Yeah, let's see it. Oh, it's somebody's whites. Holy smoke. Wait a minute. Sure. Now it makes sense. What is it? A switch that might put me back on the right track, and a hunch that I'd better get out of here fast. Listen, do you know where State Street is? State Street is sure. It's in Chicago, ain't it? Yeah, I should have known better. So long, happy. [MUSIC PLAYING] I ran to my car, and drove two blocks in the wrong direction before I found a citizen who could tell me that State Street was the other way. And for the 10 long minutes that it took to get there, I kept my fingers crossed in the hope that I was right about Connie Hagen. 38-32 was a well-lit apartment over a dark delicatessen, so I scraped up to the curb, jumped out, and went up the stairs. Nothing but a house full of silence answered my first ring, so I put my ear against the panel and listened. When I heard a door close quietly inside, I rang again, and this time Connie Hagen opened up. She'd have looked more relaxed with one foot in a bear trap, but she stood in the entrance like Horatius at the bridge, which meant that it was time to tread softly, but not slow down. What do you want, Marlowe? The same thing as before, Connie. And just why does that bring you to my door at this hour of the night? Because that not-so-sharp cover-up of years this afternoon spelled Sylvia's best friend in capital letters. She isn't here. I haven't seen her all day. She didn't even call me. Then she will, baby, any minute. She's in a jam, and the way I figure it shall come right to you for help. So why not invite me in and avoid a sordid squabble? Wait, you can't come in here. Get out, Marlowe, please! Look, I could sit downstairs on the curb, but think what that would do to my dignity. I'm gonna wait here, Connie, so relax. Marlowe, if you don't get out of here, I'll-- You'll nothing, and we both know it, so stop chewing your nails. You make me nervous. Well, what's this? A white shoulder strap bag. Give me that. Take it easy. You know you're supposed to carry these things, not drag them? Look, dirt all over the bottom. It's my bag. I'll drag it if I want to. Also, this is a nice little place you've got here, Connie. Small, but nice. Kitchenette, dressing room, roll away bed. I just wonder how it is for closet space. Come here, Devlin. He's got a knife, Marlowe. Drop it, Devlin. Toss it away, or I'll blow you in two. Come on. Now, start talking. You haven't been taking chances all night to help Sylvia. You've been trying to kill her, haven't you? What, why you're out of your mind. You're crazy. You followed me until I found out where she was living. Then you ditched me and went up to her flat to wait for her, but the fat Mr. McDermott caught you in there, started a fight, and you had to win it with your knife, didn't you? No, no, I don't know what you're talking about. And you knew enough to come here after her, because you got this address the same way I did. It was you who spilled those snapshots all over a floor, wasn't it? Don't, no, I can't take any more. Then talk. You were hired by my client, Carlton Lamb, to kill Sylvia. Admit it, because I'm going to keep on cutting your sneaking face up until the truth runs out of it, that way or another. Oh, no, he'll kill him. Stop, stop it. I'll talk. It happened just like you said. Lamb and I had to get Sylvia because she knew that he hired me, once to pull a murder. The bald would murder six months ago. She ran away when she found out. Lamb figured she was either going to spill to the cops or try to blackmail him. We had to find her and shut her up. Where is she? Over there, the closet in the back, she's out, that's all. You got here too soon. He hit her when he saw you drive up, Marlow. He said he'd kill her if I didn't get rid of you. I'm sure glad you're stubborn, brother. Know how to use a gun, Connie? You bet I do. Here, if he moves, use it. Sylvia wasn't hurt. Five minutes of cold towels and quiet talk put her back on her feet. And when she understood all that had happened, she told her part of the story. Told it more to the hot night out beyond the window than to me. About her love for a guy who turned out to be a murderer. And how that should have destroyed the love, but didn't. So she carried her secret into hiding and would have kept it the rest of her lonely life because she could never escape her dilemma of loving a man and loathing a killer. When she was finished, I took her with me to the telephone where I gave the Beverly Hills the police on the tip on Carlton Lamb and summoned a Southgate squad car for Devlin. And after that was done, and I started to dial another number. She guessed what I had in mind. You're calling Carlton, aren't you? Yeah. Technically, he's still my client and entitled to a report. If you don't mind, I'll go back to Connie now, Marlo, I don't want to hear it. How long are you going to keep this up, Sylvia? Not long. I'll get used to the idea of what he tried to do to me, and then I'll get over it. Maybe someday I'll even forget it. Thanks for showing up when you did, Marlo. A lush in the alley gets credit for that, Sylvia. He found a card in Devlin's hat and it had Lamb's unlisted telephone number written on it. That's how I found out Devlin was connected with Lamb. It was a very lucky break. Yeah, even for my heart. Thanks anyway, Marlo. When she left, I made my call to Carlton Lamb and told him there was no Sylvia Royce in Southgate. Just a girl named Ruth Whitley, who was going to be okay from now on. He realized what I meant, but it made no difference, because then the police walked in on him. I didn't bother to say goodbye. I just hung up, and hours later, when all the loose ends were tucked in on the triple decker reports and I was back home in my apartment on Franklin, it was almost daylight again. I stood and looked out my window at the flat, hot city and wondered for a moment how many other Carlton Lamb's with quiet numbers there were under the endless miles of rooftops. But that's the kind of thinking that gives you bad dreams, and that was the last thing I wanted, as I pulled down the blind and went to bed. The Adventures of Philip Marlow, bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character and crime's most deadly enemy, star Gerald Moore and are produced and directed by Norman McDonald, script by Mel Denelli, Robert Mitchell and Jean Levitt, featured in the cast where Francis Chaney, Jack Webb, Paul Dubov, Georgia Ellis, John Dana, and Edgar Barrier. The special music is written by Richard Orant. "Be sure to be with us next week when Philip Marlow says..." It began with Bedlam and got worse as I bumped into a burglar, a bookie, a Boswell, a body, and a big shot named B. And before it was all over, everyone had lost his head because the headless peacock had moved. Amos and Andy are on summer vacation, but every Sunday night in their familiar CBS time you can find tremendous adventure 30 minutes of solid thrills with Call the Police, a show that shows you how policemen in a large city tackle a case. Every week follow their dramatic man hunts, their patient attention to detail, their brilliant deductions, when Bill Grant, young police commissioner of a large American city, take over. Call the Police is a regular Sunday feature on most of these same CBS stations. This is Roy Rowan speaking. Now, stay tuned for another great CBS mystery show, Gangbusters, which follows immediately on most of these stations. This is CBS, The Columbia Broadcasting System. That's our show for this time. You want to know who done it? I'm on the case. Our cast this month included Andy Hartson-Boer in Virginia, Richard Durrington in Idaho, Gary Leighton in Texas, Lothar Tubman in California, Christian James in Nevada, Holly Adams in New York, and Kyle Bond in Oregon. Larry Grobe, that's me, produced and directed this recreation. Hey, help us spread the word about Project Audion's recreations of classic audio drama like this one. Tell a friend, click the nearest like button, and listen to or watch our other episodes on YouTube or our podcast channel. Now tell you hear from us again next time, thanks for listening. And now with the conclusion of this week's Sonic Summer Star Playhouse, Mr. David Altz. Thank you to Larry Grobe and everyone of our Project Audion players for your participation this evening in a phenomenal singular play. And thank you for joining us this evening. Please be sure to get your tickets for next week as Rachel Pulliam returns yet again for an encore performance with this incredible recreation from the unexpected, heard, but not seen. Until next week at the Playhouse, I'm David Altz, good day from Halifax, Nova Scotia. And that concludes our feature this week for Sonic Summer Star Playhouse. All productions, features, characters, and scripts presented in the Playhouse belong strictly to their copyright holders, and no infringement is assumed or intended. The Sonic Summer Star Playhouse is part of the Sonic Society, and is a proud member of the mutual audio network, where we listen and imagine together. Please join David Altz and myself next week at this time for our next brand performance feature. [APPLAUSE] [MUSIC] [APPLAUSE] [MUSIC] [APPLAUSE] [MUSIC] [APPLAUSE] [MUSIC]
