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THE CHARLES AND JACKIE KIMBALL MURDER CASE and THE FRANCIE GREEN MURDER CASE BROADWAY IS MY BEAT
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Plastic bags, plastic lids. What do we do with you? You can't go in the recycling bin, but you can be recycled if taken to a new recycle on center. Find one near you@recycleon.org OregonCenters Broadway's My Beat From Times Square to Columbus Circle the gaudiest, the most violent the lonesomest mile in the. Broadway's my beat with larry thor as detective danny clover. Broadway. It's a neon shriek of despair that claws across the face of night the tears of the black wind that beats against the silent dust it's struggle and confusion and the dance of shadows on a Spectacular illuminated with 10,000 fragments of light it screams, it sobs, it whimpers, it laughs. The face of night has not changed. It's Broadway My beat. They were waiting the harbor police Their launch dancing against the shadows of the curious Waiting and bound in the veil of mist rising above the river they were waiting for me. Hi, Donnie. You got here first up aboard the line. Yeah. Okay, Schema, let her go. All right, Florio, fill me in. Well, Danny, it goes something like this. The city engineers would dredge in the river for some social purposes. No philosophy, Florio. I'm not up to it. Yeah, okay, Danny, like I was gonna tell you. They was dredging the river and they come upon a car at the bottom of Saint oh they call the derrick department. The mobile department sends out a barge with a derrick. The derrick wraps a chain around the car, gives a mighty heave and a pull, and there it is, Denny, hanging there in the floodlights. How did the car get in the river? Well, the engineers figured that the only place it could have come from was off that bridge up there. Where on the bridge? Well, that's what's funny. There ain't a mark on the bridge, not even a blemish. Guardrail ain't touched. If the car crashed, I want pictures in every foot of the bridge. Now, let's get on the bars. Florio, tell him to lower the car. Florio. Hey, engineer, lower the boom. Boy and girl in the car, Danny. It's a long time in the river. How long? The engineer says from the amount of rust in the car, two or three days. Here, help me open the car door, Florio. Yeah, Nanny. I'll let river water rush into luck. What would you try? Bad man. You got muscles, Danny. Danny. Why did you have to call me Florio? Why me? This makes it all the more down your alley, Danny. The bullet holes plug neatly in the hype region. One each to each. They weren't not only drowned, were they? No. L'. Oreal. Come here. Yeah, yeah, Danny. What do you want? What does this look like to you? It looks like the front end of the car was smashed. Like it hit something. Yeah, that's what it looked like to me. You think that's something, Danny? Come around here to the back. You see that, Denny? You tell me I shouldn't be philosophical. No, no. Yeah. Yeah. Danny. A sign. A sign that says just married. Good morning, Danny. I give you a greeting, Danny. Good morning. Oh, hi, Sergeant. How are you? Tall in the saddle. You're what? Tall in the saddle, Danny. This is an answer heard all the time west of the great Divide. Intelligence from my youngest boy, Giovanni, who was studying to be a cowboy by box cops and television. Yahoo. Todd Taglio. And what kind of intelligence did you get from upstairs? Give me the rundown. Rundown? To wit. Identity of occupants of car established from respective wallets. Established occupants to be Mr. And Mrs. Charles Kimball, ne Jane Moore, married two days ago at the home of the bride where the groom had been in erstwhile and former border. Go ahead. That's the intelligence from upstairs, Danny. And what, may I ask, is that envelope? Oh, here. It's the photographs L. Jacobs took of the bridge off of which the cop plunged down. Yeah. Now I believe it. This morning it was too early. Maybe I wasn't hearing right. But now I believe it. Huh? Look at these pictures. Let's see. This guardrail on the bridge is four feet high. It's untouched. Uh huh. Nowhere along the whole length of it is there a sign that the car crashed through it. Well then how could the car get in the middle of the east river, Danny, under 30ft of water? That's a tall and a saddle type question, Sergeant. How did the car get there? Tartaglia shrugged, blinked silently, pleaded to be excused from the room. Didn't wait for permission. Got out. That left me alone with it. How did the car get there? How did it hurtle a four foot barrier without a mark, a scratch on said barrier? How? And then the question I'd been touting away from my brain. Why? Why? The bullet torn flesh of a boy and girl on a honeymoon. Their blood washed away on a river slime. And then I knew. No policeman's riddle, no games with the equations of murder could hold it back any longer. It had to be done. So I did it. I called on the parents of a dead bride. Just a moment. I'll only be a moment. Yes, what is it? Please, Mrs. Miller. Yes, hi, Mrs. Miller, please. If you're selling something. I'm afraid I can't do you any good. You see, we're in a. In a kind of. Well, everything's different now. I'm for the police, Mrs. Miller. Yes, I know, but. I'm sorry. I'd like to help the police. May I come in? Well, but everything's so upset. I. I don't like for people to see my house this way. It's about your daughter. Oh, but Jane's away on her honeymoon. May I come in, Mrs. Miller? Well, she won't be back for another ten days. Please come in. This way, Mr. Clover. Danny Clover. Mr. Clover. I'm sure you'll want to talk to my husband, too. We've been rearranging the furniture. You see, two of our rooms are unoccupied now and. Ben. Yeah? What do you want? Well, don't move the chair now, Ben. It's the policeman. Mr. Clover. Couldn't you have stated your business at the door, Mr. Clover? You see, I'm quite occupied at the moment. It's something about Jane, Ben. About Jane? What do you have to do with her? Mr. Clover, do you have a picture of your daughter? Oh, yes, we have a whole album. A recent picture, one of the wedding of her and Charles and the Ben and me. May I see it, please? Ruin it. What right have you to come into my house to please Ben? Mr. Clover just asked to look at Jane's picture. There it is on the mantel. Mr. Clover, that's Charles. Her husband. Yes, Charles Kimball. Isn't he a fine looking boy? There's no other way to say this. If there were another way, I'd give. They're dead. They're both dead. Murdered. Get out of my house. Go on. Go on, get out. Get him out of here. I'll kill him. What kind of a filthy joke is he trying to play on us? Go on, get him out. Ben. Ben, don't. Don't. Who would want to kill our boy and girl, Mr. Clover? We don't know, Mrs. Miller. That's why I came here, because we don't know. Charles lived here with us. He and Jane fell in love. They got married two days ago. They went on honeymoon to Niagara Falls. We were waiting for a letter, a postcard. Why should they be killed, Mr. Clover? Charles. Where are his family, Mrs. Miller? He had none. He came here after the war, rented a room from us, worked hard. Charles and Janie. They were two people, Mr. Clover. Nothing more. Charles. Tell him to ask someone else. Ann. Get what he wants from someone else. Not from us. Tell him that, Anne. Ben, what do you think it's doing to me? To me? They were found in a car. A car? The one we gave them for their wedding present. Ben and I knew all along, so we saved for it. Ann. Yes, Ben? What do you want? Ask him to help us out. I'm sorry? Ask him to help us. Yes, baby. Will you help us? Mr. Clover? It was a basic question. It had a background of a few thousand years to it. A man's child had been killed. A man's child needed avenging. As simple as that. There's a cult that comes with civilization. Men who put on white jackets buttoned at the throat and measure violent death with slide rules. Who stare at murder in the cross section through microscopes. Who dissolve it and shake it up in test tubes until death has a color to it. One of the men in the white jackets was named John Gordon. He was a technician for the police department Technical division. I called on him. Something I can do for you, Lieutenant? Yeah. The report on the automobile dredged out of the river early this morning, huh? Just a minute. Well, wait till I finish reading this article, Lieutenant. You don't expect me to put it down now, do you? Yeah, I expect that. Have you ready? No, No, I don't expect you have. The isometric measurement of hydrogen ion concentration versus colorimetric measurements. Imagine you reading that. What do you read, Lieutenant? Obituaries. Gordon, where's the report? I had it ready an hour ago. I waited for you. Now I'm here. Get it. I'll tell you about it. It's chock full of charts and graphs and chemical reagency. You'd be distressed. What's your great sorrow, Gordon? Who did what to you? The report, Lieutenant. It says the passenger car in the truck. What truck? Please. All right. The size, the shape of the crumped front end of the passenger car together with the molecular displacement of the metal indicates that the car, assuming a normal rate of speed, indicates that the car hit a truck. What kind of truck? I was getting to that. I don't know. Scrapings indicate that the paint of the truck was new and not its original coat. A widely used paint. From information available, the make of the truck is impossible to identify. What else? My. My job is done now. It's in your. Well, your very capable hands, I'm sure. Pardon me. John Gordon, Police Department, Technical Laboratory speaking. Huh? Yeah. Yeah, he's here. For you. Look. Thanks. Hello? They switched me to you, Danny, on account of I asked. It almost took too long. Who is this Floyd Carpa. Danny. Come get me, kid. I got news for you. Well, tell me now. Carpa. What kind? Charles and Jane Kimber. The couple took a honeymoon in the river. Come get me, kid. Yeah? Where? Bowie. 320 Front Street. Walk back. Hurricane Carpa. Come get me. Danny, please. Listen. I never said it to a cop before. Listen. Come get to me, please. It was a name to launch a minor nightmare. Floyd Carpa. A man who dressed too well, perhaps despite the memory of the years of wearing cast off clothes. A little man with hate perched on his shoulder like a sharp beaked creature. Vocation. Hoodlum. Majoring in bank hold ups. Three of them. Two convictions. Floyd Carpa in the Bowery. He didn't belong there. Carpa saying he knew about the Kimball murders. It didn't fit. Carpa saying please to the police. It didn't make sense. 320 Front street. He said I went there. Walk back. He said I did that. I'm Danny Clover here. Carpa. Carpa. Hey. What? I'm coming in. You almost made it. The threat. That was Carpa all right. I had to look close to make sure. But it was he. No hate now. Something lent its own special expression to his face. Something. The bullet wounded his stomach. The time of pain. The final hugging. Close of the darkness. Floyd Carpa was dead. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, written by Morton Fine and David Friedkin and starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Broadway demands quality to its crime, else Broadway pays no attention. But when a boy and a girl are murdered on their honeymoon, when a boy and a girl are dredged from the east river, when a grade A hoodlum named Floyd Carface found shot to death in a Bowery, Broadway gives pause. And there was a connection. The boy, the girl, the hoodlum. Broadway chortled and nudged its neighbor and just had to know all about it. So did I. The police records told me about a place I could go to, a housing development out in Flushing. The record said a man named Bruce Munro lived there. And Bruce Monroe had once been caught splitting the proceeds from a bank robbery with Floyd Carpa. So I went there. After all, I was a policeman. I had to ask questions of somebody. Danny. Danny, how are you? You don't have to tell me. You look wonderful. Wonderful. You checking up on me, Danny? No. No, you're not checking up. A social call, huh? Sure, a social call. How are you, Danny? Wonderful. Wonderful. How about me, huh? How about me? All settled down. Settled down. A two story house in Flushing. Me and my family. Respectable Family, huh? I'd like to meet them. Sure, Danny. They're upstairs. I keep them in a cage. That way you can keep your eye on them. They're problem children. Children with problems, Danny. Come on up, take a look. I'd like to. What have you been doing for the last couple of years, Bruce? Since jail. It's feeding time, Danny. They like company when they eat. Yeah. What have you been out here, Danny? I keep my family in a glass cage on the roof. Look at him. 30 beauties. Makes a man proud. I'm proud, Danny. Pigeons? Sure. What did you think? Quite a cage, huh? Isn't it? You bet it is. Let's go in. Come on. Feeding time. Hi, Jasper. Oh, Mildrey. Oh, George. Who plucked out your tail feathers? What have you been doing since jail, Bruce? I'll bet you didn't come here as a social caller after all. Your buddy Floyd Carpa was found shot to death. They all wind up that way. You? I'm an exception. I retired. I'm respectable. I raised a family. Here, fellas, eat. Come on and eat. Look at those pige eats. Did you kill copper? Nonsense, Danny. You know that's nonsense. I haven't seen him for ages and ages. Tell me something, Bruce. How can you afford all this? Nice house, large family. It's a drain, isn't it? Business is good. What business? I'm a licensed used car dealer. An international permit, even. I drive used cars into Canada. Have an outlet there. Oh, come on, Elliot. Eat your corn. Well, you won't eat, Danny. No more bank heisting, huh, Danny? You know that's nonsense too. Look, Danny. Danny. Frankly, Danny, you're upsetting all of us. I'm being voted in tonight. I gotta make a speech. Flushing Homing Pigeon. Society's voting me in tonight. Questions like yours could ruin my acceptance speech. Bruce Monroe placed a kernel of corn on his lips, puckered them, and then extended a finger. Lucille fluttered to the finger, was lifted to Monroe's mouth and daintily pecked away at the lunch so lovingly served. All that billing and cooing did so something to me. So I got out. The ride back to headquarters didn't clear up a thing. The same nagging questions rolled alongside me. Why was the hoodlum Floyd Carpa dead? What had the hoodlum Floyd Carpa to do with the life and death of a boy and a girl whose lives have been ordinary, whose death spectacular and grotesque? Sergeant Totaglia couldn't make sense out of it either. Or, as he put it, I can't make no sense out of it, Danny, either. I have been mulling over this sad affair with the missus. Mrs. Tartaglia, she can't make no sense out of it either. No, not any. The scene of our mulling it over, I remember like it was a picture on a calendar. Mrs. Tartaglia was hovering over her Mixmaster, hustling up some pizza dough. I was reading to her from the paper in my stock and feet. We was very domestic last night, Mrs. Tartaglia and I. Tartaglia, have you. What have you found out about Charles Kimball, the dead boy? Oh, oh, sure, Danny, sure. I got it right here. What we have found out about Charles Kimball is that he was a good boy with an honorable war record, with decent law abiding friends, with a decent law abiding job in a paper factory. He was a good boy, Danny. That's what I thought. Anything else? Yeah, a couple items. The Taglia. What do I have to do to get you to tell him to me? Oh, nothing, Danny. Just ask me. Don't look that way, Danny. I'll tell you. Tracing down the truck with which the Kimball car collided is still in the process of being traced down. This means they haven't found him. I'll tell them to find it. Yeah, I'll do that, Danny. Now, here is the Beastly Resistant, a teletype rider from the Poughkeepsie Police Department. What makes it so resistant? It wants Floyd Copper. Huh? Yeah, Floyd Copper. They warn him on suspicion of a bank robbery that took place recently at Poughkeepsie. They want to know, do we got him? Destroyed carpet. It's so the bank teller can identify him. Do we got him, Taglia? Yeah, yeah, in a manner of speaking. So tell him that Titaglia put it on the teletype. We don't want to keep Poughkeepsie in suspense, do we? So you're Danny Clover, huh? Been reading about you and the papers up in Poughkeepsie. Still trying to solve that honeymoon couple murder, I read. Which one of you is from the Poughkeepsie police? Me. Who'd you think? This little guy's the bank teller. This little guy's Oliver Hilliard. How are you, Mr. Hilliard? Aw, don't blush, Oliver. The man just ask you hello, that's all. Answer, Mr. Clover. No. What are you gonna do with a guy like that, Daddy? He shoots and wounds a heister who could be Floyd Carver. Now he blushes this way. I want you to look at Floyd copper. Then Mr. Hilliard will know for sure. Down this corridor. Oh, you got him on ice, huh? Say, what do you think of our work up in Poughkeepsie, Danny? I haven't heard about matching a three day bank robbery with a known bank robber. Clever, huh? Real magnificent. I knew you'd say that. Nothing spiteful about you. Big city police. We're going into the morgue now, Mr. Hilliard. Don't worry, it'll only take a second. You'll be all right. Sure, sure, Oliver'll be all right. He helped, as Oliver did. Described the bank robber. Picked out his picture from our files. That's the type of citizen we have up in Poughkeepsie, Danny. Cooperative. Right over here. Hey, this is quite a production you got here. Only at Poughkeepsie we got a morgue with something to write home about. You feel all right, Mr. Hilliard? Oliver feels fine. Don't you, Oliver? Bet you can't wait till you get home and tell your wife about this, huh? All you have to do is take one look, Mr. Hillion. Flip back the shroud, Danny. Well, that him Oliver? Destroyed Carpenter, the one who held you up? Yeah. Oliver nods his head. Yeah, Danny, positively, huh? How do you like a cooperative citizen like that, Danny? The kind we grow in Poughkeepsie. Poughkeepsie's policeman. The bank teller and I had not nothing else to say to each other after that. When it finally registered on the Poughkeepsie policeman, he shook my hand heartily, thanked me from the heart, wrapped a hearty arm around the bank teller's shoulders and led him back to Poughkeepsie. I started back to my office. On the way to Taglia, shoved a phone message in my hand. It was from Detective Mugavan. Mugavin had something, the message said. Something maybe hot, maybe cold. Anyway, the something was in a garage uptown. Come right away, it said. So I changed course and went to the garage. This is called Morgan's Garage, Danny. Caterers to the desires and ailments of trucks, moving vans, trailerways, all kinds of heavy vehicles. Interesting. Yeah, like you say, interesting. This one over here, for example. Fascinating piece of machinery. Why does it fascinate you? Two reasons, Danny. First, because it's exactly like one of my kids toys. A trailer way they call it, that picks up and delivers automobiles, carries them on the highways and the byways. Somehow it gives me a romantical feeling, these automobile carriers. The second reason, Mugaman. The second reason, also fascinating. This trailer way is the truck you've had the whole department looking for, including me, Dan. What Yeah. The one into which the honeymoon car crashed. Or vice versa. Before going over the bridge into the river. Are you sure, Danny? In something so fascinatingly routine as this, I wouldn't be sure. I've been scraping hunks of paint off of it. Trotting him down a technical, trotting back, examining the stent and the grill work. Trotting down the technical. Trotting back. We'll be asking too much of you to shut your big mouth. Oh, not too much something, Danny. All this routine adds up to something. Danny. Danny. Come back to me, Danny. You're so far away. That's how they did it. Mugaban. Carper makes us get away from a bank job upstate in a car. Drives it up on this trailway. He and his buddy. Buddy drive off. Who looks for a runaway car on one of these things? It's your party, Danny. On the road somewhere. They crash into the honeymoon couple. Or vice versa. The kids see Carp is hurt from a bullet wound. They're murdered for seeing that. The murderers drive the kid's car up on the trail away. Stop at the 59th Street Bridge, dump it. That explains the no scars on the bridges guardrail, huh? Yeah. You sounded like you were tired of routine. Is that right, Muggleman? Yeah, that's right. I'll change it for you. Ever been to Flushing? Let's go, Mugman. This house. Such a serene and peaceful habitat, Danny. Now, look. Yellow shutters and chin straights. Tasteful. Ring the bell. Welcome back, Danny. Or you brought a friend. A friend of Danny Clover. I'm glad. Come in. Social, Danny, or business? Business, Bruce. Ah. Oh, pigeons. That's it. You want to buy some pigeons? You're going to start raising pigeons. Pigeons, Mugavan. Take a look at the serene and peaceful habitat of a man who dumped Floyd Carpa when he was wounded. Who killed those two kids? Surely, Danny, surely this is nonsense. The cops, Mugavan. Yeah. Danny, Watch out. Remember your feet, Danny. Come on, my friend. Danny. Mugavin. Mugabin. It hurt much, kid? Yeah. Yeah. Dirt. Go get him, Danny. I'll be okay. My shoulder. Yeah. You won't get away, Bruce. Oh, no, Danny. On the roof, Danny. It's a good place to die. Come up on the roof and die. Right through this door and die, Danny. Yeah. Me daddy shooting me one of my pickings just hurt. Throw away your gun, Bruce. Throw it away. Ask me nice, dad. That's me real life. I got loads for you, Danny. No more Pollux in my gun. Throw it here. Yeah. See how I do What? You tell me when you ask me nice. Put your hands behind your head and walk toward me. Yeah. Don't look like you hurt any of my fists, Danny. It makes me glad for you. Still got bullets in your gun, Danny? Yeah, Bruce. What are you gonna do? Kill me in cold blood? You could. Real easy. I'm so close to you now. Face to face. Very easy target. Put your hands out, Bruce. Long time since there were handcuffs on him, huh, Bruce? Not long enough. You? You know, I'm glad, Bruce. Glad you did. Bat. All right, that's enough. Enough. Come. Quiet, Rob. No, Bruce. Those were for me. This is for Mugum. And for two kids. Two decent kids. Two decent kids. What tried to stop me was something gentle. A gentle, easy Irish voice telling me I didn't have to hit him anymore. But I might as well be hitting a rag doll. That's enough, Danny. It said. Enough. Then they pulled me away. That was good, because I would have killed him. Then I asked a question. And the same gentle Irish voice told me Mugaban was all right. Three, four days maybe, and he'd be all right. And that was good. Broadway's quiet now. It's the hour without color. The six o' clock hour. The hour of going home. But in a while, night will dip down and touch the street. There'll be fury again and rack and roar and crowd the restless wandering down a phosphorescent alley. The puppet dance into a screaming furnace of light. It's Broadway the gaudiest, the most violent the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway, My beat. Well, the holidays have come and gone once again. But if you've forgotten to get that special someone in your life a gift. Well, Mint Mobile is extending their holiday offer of half off unlimited wireless. So here's the idea. You get it now. You call it an early present for next year. What do you have to lose? Give it a try@mintmobile.com Switch limited time. 50% off regular price for new customers. Upfront payment required. $45 for three month, $90 for six month or $180 for 12 month plan taxes and fees. Extra speeds may slow after 50 gigabytes per month. When network is busy, see terms. Broadway's my beat From Times Square to Columbus Circle the gaudiest, the most violent the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway's my beat with larry thor as detective danny clover. Broadway. It's a time and a place of fury that beckons with a blinking eye Then reaches out and hugs you close and you're caught up in it, the seesaw color, the riot of noise and night sounds, the mottled gold from the spectaculars that drips over you. And you try to hold it, but your hands clutch a pinch of dust, a handful of ashes. That's Broadway, my beat. Scattered in the streets there are cubes of silence spotted so that the roar of the city rolls against them. Ebbs. Municipally designated HOSPITAL ZONE Quiet. Do not blow horn. Pain creates its own sound. It doesn't mix well with the voice from outside. And in the hospital corridors you walk as if on a knife blade. Because the balance is that thin between you and the people on the other side of the wall. A man was waiting for me at the end of the corridor. Hello, Danny. Dr. Sinski. I got your call, doctor. You made good time. The hospital got in touch for me to get here, so I did likewise to you. Why? They'll be wheeling a girl down to the operating room in a few minutes. Her name is Francie Green. It's the name of a lifetime, Danny. Now she dying. She might live, Danny. She was hit by an automobile. Someone hit her and ran away. Huh? This accident, this hit and run away. It was preconceived, this of trying to kill a 20 year old girl with the name of Francie Green. This had a plan to it. I don't understand you, Doctor. Last Saturday morning, the same girl I treated in emergency ward, a man with a handkerchief tied over his face tried to beat her to death. But she screamed and the man ran away. I gave her compresses and kind words, but her lips were trembling. I couldn't stop that. She was terrified. Gone. Tonight, Danny. I talked to her. She said someone tried to push her in front of a subway train yesterday. She just felt this someone's hand on her back. Tell me, Danny, who could need the death of a 20 year old girl to make him happy? The girl. What about her? Sell cigarettes at a place called the Oasis. She's coming now, Danny. Francie. Francie. You'll be all right. I'm a policeman, Francie. I'm Danny Clover. Find out who wants me dead. Find out. The girl turned her head away from me. Shuddered. And let the pain wash over her. Because the flow of pain was better than the brutal touch of death. And she turned back. And her eyes were restless. Shadows of fear that wouldn't sleep. That nothing could make sleep. Her begging now was silent. My promise to her was silent. Then I got out. The Oasis was one of the caves on 52nd street where the shriek of trumpets was chained to the walls where loneliness was bartered for the lament of saxophones. Where a voice was close to your ear because you wouldn't have heard it otherwise. All alone, kid? Yeah? Did you pick this hole or did it just come on you like something you've been dreaming? I picked it. I'm from the police. Yeah? Don't apologize, kid. We've had your type before. What kind of police? New York, Elmira, Secret. You got your badge from saving box stops. You want to see my credentials, and that would be a good bit. You show them to me. I believe him. You can have fun in the house, but on the house. Here, take a look. I believe him. Have fun. You said on the house. You can say that. Henry Miller, proprietor, master of ceremonies, caller of the dance. Time magazine says of me, and I quote, powerful owner of perhaps the worst nightclub in America. But without doubt the best time in the world. What do they say about Francie Green? This cigarette girl? They didn't get around to her. You got a bit with Francie? I asked because most of the time I'm like a father to her. Then you know she's in the hospital. The doctor says she might die. But you'd know that, being like a father. All right, I'll split hairs with you. When she stopped showing up for work regularly, I stopped being fatherly. I became the irate employer. What made you like that? Frances. Excuses. You was beaten up. A subway train chased her. These are excuses. To a colorful, cultured employer. You didn't believe it. Why? I'll tell you. The lazy girls that work for me dream up such bids to get out of slavery. You wouldn't believe it. They wait. You said France is in a hospital, dying. The truth, not an act. Not an act, Henry. Remind me to make a note to send the flowers. Flowers with a sweet smell to them. But France is a good girl. So she wanted me to find out who wanted her dead. Any ideas, Henry? No. No ideas. Unless. Unless what, Henry? Unless Francie, my innocent cigarette girl. Somehow got innocently mixed up in last week's murder. That's right. There was a shooting here. Yeah. Joe Padget, a very steady customer. Last Friday it happened. And you haven't solved it yet? Don't you guys have a department for the solution of crime? Good morning to you, Danny. May your day be merry and bright. What's the matter with you? Tartaglio? Lack of sleep, Danny. The pink eye were over last night. The who were the pink eye? Mr. And Mrs. Pincus. Plural. Pink eye. Latin. And the pink eye kept you up late making canasta? After canasta. Salt to the wound. As Father Salvatore said, it's the luck of the Pinkorum. Father Salvatore said that? And demanded a new deck, laughingly. Tartaglia, huh? Oh, yeah, Danny, did you get that memo I left you? Yeah, yeah, I got it, Danny. The girl, Francie Green, the operation. This way and that way. Dr. Sinski doesn't know yet. Go on. The solution of the murder of Joe Padgett, who was found shot to death in the men's powder room at the Oasis nightclub last Friday night. To wit, solution of crime is being undertaken by Detective Mugavan. Yeah, I know. What Progress. Progress. To wit. Joe Padgett was a bricklayer by profession with a wife by marriage. Good union man. Home lover, 100% substantial. It is his wife who concerns us at the moment. She concerns us how? Well, she had a perfect alibi the night of the shooting. She was playing hostess to a sewing bee on her block. But there's something strange. You did that. Good. Now tell me what's strange. At the time Muggerman questioned her, Danny. The next morning, there was a guy there who held her hand and wiped away her tears. What guy? A guy who the police also questioned. A guy named Ray Fennell. Ray Fennell. Now it's Ray Fennell who concerns us at the moment. As indeed it did. This Fennel, when interviewed, said he was a projectionist onto the screen at the Outpost Theater. Dis check alibi. You should have such a strong alibi. At the time of the murder, Ray Fennel was in jail. The alibi of Ray Fennell was something I had to find out for myself. Because of the promise I'd made to the girl, Francie. Because. Because I had to find out for myself. The Outpost was one of the Movie cribs on 42nd Street. Converted from a legitimate theater to a burlesque house to a grind house. But it was grinding out now. The posters. Yep, he was Four Sagas of the Golden West. Not a double feature, not a triple feature, but four for the price of one. Four Apollos with golden spurs riding four silver stallions into the sunset. And a snack bar just inside the lobby. Even the ticket taker was bow legged. He looked at my badge, digested it. Shifted the wad of bubble gum in his mouth, inclined his head to a stairway. It was very hopalong, the whole. The door on the projection booth said Keep Out. I didn't pay it no mind. You can read, mister. The sign says Keep Out. Somewhere. They must have taught you how to read two little words like that. You Ray Fennell, productionist. The way you said that, you could be a deuce collector. But you don't look like a deuce collector. More like a cop. You Ray Fennell? Yeah, I am. He why do I turn off the speaker? I'll tell you about Ray. Fellow Mr. Up here in the projection booth, he is king. He pushes a button, magic pictures appear on the screen. The clients down there, they might not understand why a cop loused up their magic. Unless the cop states his business. They tell me you were in jail last Friday night, Ray. Why? I got a better why. Why don't you goons leave me alone? All week you've been dirtying up my days and my nights. Why did they put you in jail, Ray? You don't register. Insults don't register on you guys, huh? It's on the book, Mr. Ray Fennell. Drunk and disorderly. I get one lousy night off the week. The clients put me in the drunk tank. All you clients make me sick. A man was murdered last Friday night, Ray. Do tell. They tell me you know his wife. Do tell. It's your turn. I'll tell you like I told the others. Yeah, I know his wife, Mrs. Padgett and me. Very friendly. Been on for a long time. Even before Mr. Padgett. The cold and dead Mr. Padgett. And you've been consoling her for his death. They're much better than a consolation prize. Ask Mrs. Paget. You could almost say she's happy her husband's dead. And you? How about you, Ray? What's good enough for Mrs. Padgett's good enough for me. Oh, now look what you made me do. I don't pay no attention. The film breaks. You won't mind if I take myself away from you to fix this? Yeah, I mind, Ray. Leave it alone. You'll square this dereliction of duty with the management, with the union, with the client. The clients get restless. Listen to them. They'll understand. All of us clients understand things like that, but some things we don't. You don't say. Like what? Like about a girl named Francie Green. You know her too, Ray. Never heard the name, never laid eyes on her. You're building something, aren't you, mister? Yeah. We want to know why somebody wants her dead. It's easy, mister. Everybody wants somebody else dead. Take my good friend Mrs. Padgett, for instance. And you, for instance. Let's go, Ralph. Are you crazy? I can't leave this. Boo. Yes, you can. Call your relief or whatever you have to do. Then let's go. Why? Why? You goons got nothing on me. I've been over it a thousand times. I got the alibi. It's all down in your little dime store notebooks. Don't get excited, Ray. Now you've heard the name Francie Green. All I want you to do is look at her, and I want her to look at. Danny. Danny here. Hello, Dr. Sinski. How is she? I couldn't come to the phone when you called it. You were coming down because I had her help in the operating room. They took Frenzy back. Another operation this morning. Emergency. She's still in there. We can't move her Here. Slip this robe on. We'll go into the operating room. You'll see her. This is Ray Fennell, Dr. Sinski. How are you, Doctor? Take a robe off the hook, Mr. Fennell. Yeah, yeah, all right. Just this morning, Danny, she started the hemorrhage. You ready? Through this door. We're feeding her oxygen. I. I don't feel so good. Such a sweet girl. No good at all. Francie Green. Such a nice name. My 20 years old. Of all the shrill, insistent voices on Broadway, the voice of death is sometimes the hardest to hear. But it's there. And finally it will be heard. As Broadway heard the whisper of the dying of Francie Green. To Broadway, the fact that Francie had been a cigarette girl in a night club gave her shroud some glamour. But the fact that her dying was the final sum of the brutal violence committed upon her. Broadway shrugged off. A girl like that, they said, what can you expect? At headquarters, we felt differently about the dying of Francie Green. Sergeant Gino Tartaglia, he felt different about it too. Danny, it frightens me. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and it frightens me. What does Totaglia? Everything. His job. This metropolis we call a metropolis. This young girl, Francie, who shouldn't have died, but died anyway. Tataglia. Ah, wait. Let me finish, Danny. Let me spill it out. Otherwise, I'll be ripe to fall into the clutches of a psychoanalyst or some other professional man. Even my domestic relations with Mrs. Tatagli have become slightly. Oh, yeah, Danny. I screamed at her last night. I raised my voice to Mrs. Tartaglia in front of the Tartaglia children. All she was doing was hoovering around me. Hoovering? Yeah, with a Hoover. She was performing a necessary domestic duty, like vacuuming the Tartaglia rug. And I scream at her just because I am so internally upset about this murder of Francie Green. Feel better now, Taglio? Is it all right to go ahead? Yeah. Yeah. Danny, I've told you my feelings on the matter. So now let us proceed to the chores of the day. Anytime you're ready to take. The alibi of Ray Fennell, the projectionist has been checked and rechecked as per your command. The records show he was veritably in the drunk tank the night of the murder of the bricklayer Joe Padgett, arrested by Patrolman Samish. It doesn't get us anywhere, does it? That's not my department, Danny. To get us anywhere, I'm only a cog in this infernal machine we call living. There's a connection somewhere, Tartaglia. There has to be. Padgett was killed last Friday night. The attacks on Francie began right after that. Whatever you say, Denny. I also have here an item that might or might not be of interest to you. Huh? What is it? The body of an unidentified man was washed up in the east river last night. The consensus is that he was murdered. You want it? Give it to Detective Kenning. Anything else? Nothing, Danny, except I am filled with a great sorrow over the death. Yeah, I know, I know. Is it right with you if I leave now? Whatever you wish. Where you going? To call on Mrs. Joe Padgett. I want to know how she feels about all this. May your venture succeed. And success, Danny. Let me know how it comes out. I'll add it to the record. Oh, Danny. Danny. Yes? Oh, yes. A half a dozen hot cross buns in the center. You are Mrs. Padgett? Yes. What are you? I'm not selling anything. That bakery truck parked across the street. You're the man. I'm Danny Clover. I'm from the police. Oh. Oh, I see. Well, please come in. In the parlor. Please sit down. Thank you. Mrs. Patrick. You haven't dusted in here or anything since. Since Joe died. Since my husband, Joe had that accident. I think I'll move away from here. I'm sorry about your husband. Yeah, of course you are. I know you are. Everyone's so kind. The girl's been wonderful. The girls, my neighbors. Baking me things and comforting. Such kindness. Tell me about Joe. Mrs. Badger. I told about Joe two times, three times to a policeman. I want to cooperate, but I've told already. It takes time to tell. Dusting around the house, straightening up a girl must take hold. Tragedy comes to everybody, and a girl can't let herself go. How did you and your husband get along? There was a difference. I read books, magazines. It's the better quality. Joe came home from laying bricks too tired to be friendly and husbandly. He didn't discuss. He ran out of talking about things a long time ago. Some of the other girls have the same trouble. Now what, Mrs. Patchett? Now that Joe is dead. Now that Joe's dead, is another fellow, Mr. Clover. The girls don't blame me. The other fella, Ray Fennel, he reads and he laughs and he knows nice things to talk about. There's Ray Fennell. He says, love like in the movies. Did he tell you Joel was dead? Did he break the news to you? No. It was simple how I found out. I got out of the cab and went in and Gene told me. Out of the cab? I went to meet my husband at the Oasis on Friday nights. We meet there. We used to to meet there. Joe got paid on Friday. My insistence we stepped out on Fridays. Who is Jean? Jean is Jean Bradway. She's pretty. She's such a pretty girl. She's the photographer that takes pictures of couples at the Oasis. She met me at the door and told me. Oh, pardon me, Mr. Clover. The door. Yes. Oh, yes. A half a dozen hot cross buns and some nice mini buff. There was nothing after that. She offered me a slice of cinnamon cake and I said no. I asked her whether there was anything else she could tell me. She said no. So I left. Left to the idea that Mrs. Padgett was one of the girls, one of the million housewives. Because I'm a policeman. The idea was clouded with the fact that there are files on housewives who have committed murder. Mrs. Padgett had told me a story. It was a story that needed checking. I called headquarters for information on Jean Bradbury, photographer at the Oasis. They came up with her hotel address. I went there. I guess I disturbed her. Go away. Go away. Can't you understand? Get away from here. Go away. I've got to talk to you. Go away. Go away. Go away. I'm from the police, Ms. Bradbury. You want to talk out here? How do you say no to a police? How do you tell a cop you don't want to talk to him? Sometimes, like now, you can't. What about it? Here or inside. Come in. I don't know a thing. Come about the murder of Joe Padgett, huh? I don't know a thing. You get up pretty late, else you'd know. Else you'd read the papers and know Francie Green is dead. Dead? Murdered. Ms. Bradbury. Francie Green was murdered. She sold cigarettes at the Oasis while You took pictures. You passed her a hundred times a night. Now she's been murdered. Dead, Francie. What do you know about her dying? What's the matter with you, being a cop? Does it kill you inside? Look at me. I'm trying to scream. I can't do it because you embarrass me. I'm a cop, Ms. Bradbury. Sometimes I've got a mentality that doesn't go beyond motives for murder. And why, after one murder was done, another one follows it. Listen to me. Something happened last Friday night. Joe Padgett was killed. He was killed. Then later, a week later, a kid named Francie Green was run down and killed. What's the connection, Ms. Bradbury? How do I know? I take pictures. A commission job and run fast. How do I know anything? What happened Friday night? Why was Francie killed? Because Joe Padgett was killed. Help me, Ms. Bradbury. I don't know a thing. I took pictures all night. All night, mister? All night. What? What are you thinking about? All night. Except for 10 minutes. Francie relieved me. She relieved you? How? I broke the heel on my shoe. I went to the dressing room to fix it. I gave Francie the camera. A guy was hollering to have his picture taken. Francie knew how to take a picture. Go on. Nothing else? She took one picture. She brought it to me to develop. She handed me the camera and said, jean, there's such characters in this place. She said that. For any special reason? After she took the picture, some character came up and offered her 50 bucks for the negative. The man she took the picture of? No. Some character, I said. Ramsay brushed him. She gave me the film. I developed it. Gave it to the customer. He liked it so well, he bought the negative, too. The customer? You know him? Sure. He's in every Friday night. Little guy with a candy store on Grand Street. Comes in every Friday night for a ball, has his picture taken. He pays by check. Signs it Menasha NMI Meston. On grand street, huh? Thanks. In a minute, mister. At this moment in eternity, I'm busy. It's all right, man. I should. Take your time. Thank you. Making up an order of confections for the shindig. Mrs. Rosenblatt's toying for his son. David Davies. Bar mitzvah tomorrow. Confirmed. You know. Should be with Glick. We'll relay to Mrs. Rosenblatt your compliments today. It'll only take a minute. Five pounds. Chocolate covered cherries. I got to weigh up. Got her ready in the sack. 4 pounds, 12 ounces. There 5 pounds to the penny. Who is this Mrs. Rosenblad getting fancy chocolate covered cherries? I remember when a dime's worth a penny. Licorice was. How often do you have a son as bar mitzvah? Now I can wait on you. What is your pleasure in the line of confections, mister? A friend of yours, Jean Bradbury. A doll. She says you took her picture at the Oasis last Friday. Every Friday Jean takes my picture. Last Friday? Come to think of it, last Friday. No, it was Francine. Anyhow, every Friday have an anniversary with a different girl. Celebrate some charming thing that has happened to us during the week. Pardon me, mister, but you have a right to talk to me intimately like this. I'm from the police, Manasha. Danny Clover. Oh, then maybe I better explain to you about my name. That nmi in the middle. Menashe nmi messed. And this nmi is an affectation. I picked it up in the army. I wasn't blessed with a middle initial. I didn't mean no harm by it. May I see the picture you had taken last Friday, Manasseh? Naturally. I got them all pinned in the wall, see? Which one was last Friday? Oh, this one right here. Remember? Because the girl is last Friday's girl doll. Yeah, the man behind you in the background. You know him? I never had the pleasure. As a matter of fact, now that you're pointing them out, this is the first time I noticed him. Mind if I take the picture with me, Manisha? It gives me such glamour. It's absolutely necessary. You should take it. It's necessary, manisha. Excuse me, miss. Kenny Storm? Yeah, he's here. It's for you, Mr. Clover. Thanks. Danny Clover here. You're a tough man to track down, Danny. Hey, Danny, guess what? What? Tartaglio. The guy they fished out of the river I told you about. You said give it to Kenny. Maybe you should take him. Why? Because the arresting officer who arrested him in the first place for being drunk and disorderly has identified the body as belonging to Ray Fennell, the projectionist. Interesting, huh? Danny? Hi, Danny. It was interesting. Interesting enough to make me go back to headquarters to look at the broken body that the river had washed back. The body that had been identified as Ray Fennell. And then it all fell into place. That meant going back to a movie grindhouse called the Outpost, to a projection booth. I don't even have to turn around to know who it is. I got a feeling up my back the minute you open the door. Turn around anyway. Ray. Yeah? I hear you've been calling a Mrs. Paget. Rake's a nice girl for a man, huh? I called at the morgue too, Ray. There's a man there with a tag around his toe. The tag's says it's Ray Fennell. But the tag's wrong, isn't it? Yeah, but then maybe only you and me know that. So what is it, Phil? Murder you committing? Same you killed your alibi for last Friday night. But like you say, so far only you and I know that. So let's go and tell the people, huh? You got corny dialogue for a policeman. Here, I'll prove it to you. I'll flick the switch and prove it to you ever. Kansas, there's no call on you to do this for. For me. Well, there is, ma'. Am. Cause I. Cause it's my duty to get the variants. Who killed your father, Russell? Your cattle. Who's Cor? You or the cowboy? I give you a choice. The man in the moray. The same one you hired to get drunk and disorderly enough to be put in jail. Your build your identification enough to establish you positively among a hundred weekend drunks. Ah, you're more fast than moving pictures. Go on. Why would I do that? You have created a certain suspense in me for an alibi. Police proven your alibi for the time you needed to murder Ray Padgett because he stood in the way of Mrs. Padgett. That's very funny. Shut up, Ray. I'm not through. Then you had to murder Francie because she took a picture that you were in. You made a mistake, though. Yeah. You talked to her about the picture. You tried to buy the negative from her. That way you're registered on Francis. You couldn't afford that because you were supposed to have been in jail. So you had to kill her. I had to do that, huh? Sure. You should have let it alone, Ray. Who cares about a picture taken in a nightclub? Let's go. It's not going to be that easy, Ray. Fennel is not going to let it be that easy for you. Don't be a fool. Kill you. Kill you and rump. What if they caught me? A little more time left for living. Give me that gun. A little more time. Give it to him. Hey. Here. Canvas. Drop it. No use, Rachel. Hey, ma'. Am. Got to be a ride. Like I said, Dre, let's go tell the people. In its midnight fury, Broadway is a mirage. A fragment peopled with phantoms who might be men or women. You touch some, they vanish. You touch others, they snarl and slink away. It's real or it's a slab gouged out of a dream. You never know which. It's Broadway. The gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway My Beat. Broadway's My Beat stars Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover, with Charles Calvert as Tartaglia. The program was produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. The musical score was composed and conducted by Alexander Courage. The cast tonight included Kay Stewart, Virginia Gregg, Joe Forte, High Averback, David Ellis and Jack Crucian. Marketing is hard, but I'll tell you a little secret. It doesn't have to be. Let me point something out. You're listening to a podcast right now and it's great. You love the host. You seek it out and download it. You listen to it while driving, working out, cooking, even going to the bathroom. 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