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THE PRODIGAL PANDA CAPER and THE BIDDLE RIDDLE CASE ADVENTURES OF SAM SPADE
00:59:28
Two hard-hitting Sam Spade adventures for your listening pleasure. For more switch to 1001 Radion Days...
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When the Moore family dished cable Internet and switched to Zigly Fiber, they got so much more. Mr. Moore got more upload speed for next level gaming and livestreaming to the masses. With reliable service, Mrs. Moore is no longer her family's IT guru, leaving her more time to stream games into overtime. Let's go. And young Mason Moore got more done quickly uploading HD product demos and video conferencing without freezing. The numbers look good. Brad, you're on mute. Switch from cable Internet to Ziply Fiber and get more of what you love for $65 less per month than cable at Ziply. Fiverr.com podcasting company presents the Adventures of Sam Spade Detective Sam Spade Detective Agency Me sweetheart Mary, 29th of December. You too, Sam? Did you take the little boy home? Yep. Straight home? Well, not exactly. F Had to make a couple of emergency stops, but we got there. What do you mean, Sam? Well, I got my weekly nod on the head for one thing. Sam. Just taking the little boy home. Like I said, eph, we were derailed. There was a dash of poison, for instance, a couple of pounds of thousand buck notes and an infernal machine that nearly blew up half the Mission District. But other than that, we had a peaceful ride home. Why, Sam, this sounds like a caper. Which is just what it is. Angel, get out our special holiday bottle of Napa Valley win and we'll get in our premature regards to the New year following dictation of a report entitled the Prodigal. Prodigal? Sam, are you sure that's the right word? Certainly I'm sure. The wanderer will return to the Roost. You and your big fat roost with our last bedtime story for 1950, namely the Prodigal Panda Caper. For NBC, William Speer, radio's Outstanding Producer, Director of Mystery and Crime Drama, brings you the greatest private detective of them all in the Adventures of Sam Spade. Effie, Ms. Perrine. Coming, Sam, coming. I've been looking in the dictionary. Sam. You've fallen into the trap again. Prodigal. Here now see, prodigal, given to reckless extravagance. It doesn't mean wandering at all. See, people think just because the prodigal son wandered that. What are we talking about? The prodigal panda caper. How can a panda be given to reckless extravagance? Well, let me see. Oh, here. Definition 3. Prodigal yielding abundantly luxuriant. A panda. You mean one of those black and white? Right? Right. See note below? It says. You ready for the note below with my pencil? Oh, all right then. Fill in two. Master Roebuck Dozier, 2318 Delaney Street, City. From Samuel Spade, license number 137596. Subject, the Prodigal Panda Caper. Right. Dear Roby, I had spent a relatively pleasant day running down a case of slow pay in north beach and flushed with success, had returned to my office for a final check of the file. Underwood. Helen. Not sure. Roderick. Pardon? Dolly. Where the. Oh, Spirits Holiday. Yes. I sat down, put my head and my feet on the desk and was loosening my collar when I noticed, just to the right of my off ankle, one large bag of jelly beans sighting. Past it, I saw in the corner chair an open copy of a magazine featuring on the COVID a blonde in a low cut dress taking a.38 slug from a slack jawed bug in the background under big red letters spelling out Thrilling Crime Comics. And behind all this, sound asleep, was you. Hey. Hey, Sonny. Sonny. Hey. Hey, wake up, will ya? Come on. Renly's blowing. Huh? Oh, hi. Hi. How long you been here? A long time, I guess. What's your name? Roby. Short for Roebuck. Well, what can I do for you, Roby? I've been to the police. They wouldn't do anything. They said I should come to you. You mean you got a job for me? Yeah. Dangerous. Yeah. A hoist. You mean a heist. What was it? My panda bear. Oh, someone stole it. Yeah. It's not mine really. I bought it for my little brother, Barney. He's five and he's always wanted one. So when I got the junk money, I went. Money? Oh, bottles and papers and stuff. I collected it from the Neighbors and earned $6.15. And Barney wanted the panda bear, so I bought it at Lacy's department store today, and they stole it. Who stole it? Well, there was this man in the checkered coat and the lady in the red silk dress, just like the store. In the comic here, the man looked like that, but the lady looked different. She had black hair and a red dress and her eyebrows went up this way instead of sideways. I was walking down the street with my panda bear, and the lady called me over to a car she was sitting in and started to talk to me. And right away, the man in the checkered coat ran up and grabbed at my panda bear. And they chased me up a fire escape. And the man pulled out a big black gun and said if I didn't come down and give him the panda, he'd shoot me and Barney and Mom. So I came down and gave him the panda. Well, that's quite a mouthful. Oh, excuse me, Roby. Hello, Sam? Yeah, Dundee. This is Dundee. Oh, Sam is a little fella about 8 years old on his way over there. No, he's here now, Lieutenant. What's the deal? He gave us quite a story. Well, how'd it go now? We took it down. I got it right here somewhere. Let me see. It's about a man in a checkered coat and a lady in a red silk dress. You know. Oh, here it is. Quote, I was walking down the street with my panda bear, and the lady called me over to a car. She. Okay, Dundee. He hasn't changed it any. Yeah, we got hold of his mother. Runs an elevator in the Rust Building. Good. She says he reads too many comic books. You better send him home. Okay, Lieutenant. Thanks. Come on, Roby, you gotta send me home. Lieutenant Dundee called your mother, old man. You don't believe me either. Oh, it's not that, Roby. It's just. But I can't go home without the panda beer. What do I tell Barney? I promised him my own brother? Oh, he's home now, waiting. Yeah, well, tell you what I'll do, Roby. You let me put you in a taxi and send you home, and I'll take the case. You'll get my panda back. Wouldn't be at all surprised. So if Barney's face hits the floor, just tell him Samuel Spade Incorporated is working on it. Only one thing. I haven't any money left. Oh, you got jelly beans, haven't you? Yeah, okay, you can pay me off in jelly beans. Come on, now, let's find a taxi. Which we did, Robie. Like the psychology book said, I didn't discourage the child imagination, but I did try to tout you off thrilling crime comics and onto Alice in Wonderland. This, I could see, would take some doing. It was almost closing time when I got to Lacy's, but I talked my way past the man at the door and hustled up to the sixth floor and the toy department. The clerks were doing whatever clerks do at 5:30, but I found a handy floor walker. Dear me, Mr. Spade, I just don't know. I just don't know. You mean you counted your cash and everything, but you can't. Well, it's not that, Mr. Spade. I am perfectly willing to stretch a point to please the little fellow. We. We like to think we are human here, you know. Well, that's nice that. If you like to think so, I mean. But you see, something very strange happened this afternoon. Come over this way, sir, by the escalator. We had the giant pandas at this counter here. 25 of the large size. I assume that's what you're interested in. I guess so. Then what, then? Well, for Christmas, they didn't do anything. Just sat here, huh? Yes, but would you believe it, sir? This afternoon all 25 were sold. Well, how do you account for that New Year's gaiety? Well, if you want my personal opinion, it's Ms. Greenbriar, the new girl who came to work yesterday. She is endowed with. I know just what it takes to sell pandas. Well, how about the junior model? Medium. Yes. Now, let me see. There were a few under the counter here. Where. What? I was wrong. You here is a big one. Well, lucky me. How much? 5.79 plus tax. I'll make the slip out and you can get your change over the big. An impressive panda bear, Ruby was hard to figure out how you could lose anything that big. And harder still to figure out how I'd explain this kind of thing to people who stopped me on Market Street. Be that as it may, my floor walker friend took my cash, tore off the sales slip and I was about to set sail with my panda when I heard him make the kind of a noise floor workers make when they see what he was looking at. Ms. Greenbrier. Ms. Greenbrier. He pointed weakly, turned pale even by floor walker standards, and sagged to the deck. I turned in time to see Ms. Greenbrier collapse at the top of the escalator and watched her come down, draped across three steps like the COVID of one of your books of bedtime stories. She was the last passenger of the day. Or so I thought. When I looked closer, I saw she wasn't the passenger. She was freight. At the lamp counter on the floor above, busily adding up receipts as if nothing had happened. Was a dark type built along Dragon lady lines. I'm very sorry, sir, but we close promptly. I want to know about the girl who just went down the escalator. Ms. Greenbrier? Yeah. Notice anything strange about her? Why? Is she ill? Yeah. Did she look ill? I thought there must have been something wrong. I said hello to her and she didn't pay any attention to me. It was only a second ago. Where'd she come from? Around the corner, I think. She'd been at the wrapping desk. She had. It was a tent sized sheet of heavy brown paper, a batch of metered postage tape and a shipping label addressed to Master Frankie Carson, 281 Avenida Ruiz, Havana, Cuba. Downstairs, I found my floor walker friend had come around and was bending over Ms. Greenbrier with an impressive looking gent with gray at the temples. Good heavens. It can't be. It just cannot be, that's all. I'm afraid she is, though. In Lacey's, it's. It's unheard of. Why should she be? Good heavens. In my department too. Excuse me, floor walker. Oh, this is Mr. Spade. He was with me when it. Oh, dear. I'm Dr. Kempthorne. I was exchanging some Christmas gifts when. Any idea what killed her? Well, it's pretty hard to tell without an examination and I don't have my things with me. Heart? Possibly natural causes? Well, of course. Why? Do you have reasons? There are more natural places to die than at the top of an escalator. And in my department, at Lacey's too. Good heaven. Well, who can say? Have to look up the girl's history if she had a heart condition. Well, sure, sure. Meanwhile, I'll call Homicide. They've nothing better to do. For a minute I thought I'd been reading too many comic books. Roby. But things settled down when they pulled out the records and found Ms. Greenbrier had had a heart condition of long standing and the medical examiner wrote it off as natural causes. So hoping you would consider a jellybean bonus for promptness. I pick up my Panda and wince. Outside, I'd gone about 10 steps when. Hiya, Humphrey. It was Larry Healy, the cop who drives for Lt. Dundee, sitting in a patrol car. Oh, you and Bogart. Who's it for? A little kid in the Mission. How come? What do you mean, how come? I'm buying a Panda bear? For a little kid in the Mission who likes panda bears? Does that have to be explained? Okay, Sam. Okay, okay. It just hit me. The bearing turned out quite right. He needs a necktie. Oh, I just happen to have one here my brother in law got me for Christmas. Here, give me. Now, see. Larry. Larry, how long has there been bad blood between you and your brother? Bad blood? Listen, even when we were friends he gave me ties like this. There you are. On your way, Sam. Thanks. Thanks. Taxi. Taxi. The cab let me out near the end of Delaney and I started walking up the row of dingy pre earthquake flats towards your house. Roby at the end of the street. Parked at the curb was a discordant note in this hard pressed neighborhood. A sleek custom built red convertible. One of the kind that looks like it can go 90 miles an hour standing still. The same can be said for the dame in it. Also a discordant note. You see, San Francisco is a very big, large city. You just don't run into a dame at the lamp counter in Lacey's. And a half hour later in a dumpy neighborhood in the Mission. Unless she wants it that way. Well, hello. Hello. Dragon lady, Silly. You must sell a parcel of lamps. The car. Mm. But don't try and explain that now. Just tell me why you followed my cab. Follow you? My. Mr. Spade. Come on, come on. What is it? You're embarrassing me. I know. Since that moment at the lamp counter you can't get me out of your mind. Well, that's a perfectly normal reaction. It's not that, it's. Oh dear. The panda bear. You want it in the worst way. You're kind of attractive as men go. Mr. Spade, you give me a light, please? Sure. Holding the match up to her cigarette, three things hit me. The black hair, the red dress and eyebrows that went up instead of sideways. At that point, the sleeve of a checkered overcoat with a big arm inside. It came around under my chin from the rear. And the fourth thing hit me. How long I dwelled in panda land, I don't know, but it was real nice while it lasted. I was a panda too, I remember. And I was going somewhere with a big overstuffed private detective under my arm when a lady panda batted her big brown eyes at me and began pulling my nose. She seemed to have a very, very high voice. Wake up, Mr. Spade. Ruffle is blowing. If I call Lieutenant Dudley. Mr. Spade, Sam is wait. Lucky. Over here. Good. Christopher. Sam. What happened? Well. Well, it was this way, Dundee. I was walking down the street with my panda bear. And the lady called me over to the car she was sitting in and started to talk to me. And right away the man in the checkered coat up. You are listening to the weekly adventure of radio's most famous detective, Sam Spade. Van Heflin stars. This Sunday in State Fair, another outstanding 60 minute production by Theater Guild on the air. Co starring in this exciting broadcast is one of the leading families in show business. Jean Lockhart, Kathleen Lockhart and daughter June. It's a gala New Year's Eve broadcast when Theater Guild presents State Fair Sunday over most of these NBC stations. Also means another hour and a half with Tallulah Bankhead in radio's greatest spectacle, the big show. Among Tallulah's guests will be Ken Murray, Gloria Swanson, Margaret O'Brien, Jose Ferrer and many more. Now back to the prodigal panda caper. Tonight's adventure with Sam Spade. It was a humiliating experience. Roway riding back to headquarters in black defeat. But dear, good Lieutenant Dundee, however, was the soul of patience and understanding. What do you take me for, Spade? An idiot? Look, Dundee, all I want you to understand is that this dame in the hopped up convertible. I had three rides on that merry go round now and I'm sick of it. The dame in the red dress and the guy in the checkered coat, they take your wallet? No. Your watch? Other valuables? No, just my panda. Sam, are you trying to tell me there's a hot panda racket going on? Dundee boy. Look closely now as I take off my hat. What? There, see? Now, as you know, my head ordinarily does not come to a point. But this protuberance was made by a gun butt, not by imagination. So someone slugged you? I believe that, Sam, but this panda bear thing is. Dundee. Yeah? What? Yeah, yeah. You were saying something about my panda bear, Dundee. Maybe I ought to take it back. That dame at the store this afternoon, the one who sold him. Ms. Greenbrier? Yeah. I just finished the post mortem. No heart attack. She was poisoned. It's a strange thing, Mr. Spade. Very strange. I leave my business thoughts at the store. Floor walker. Just try and remember the dragon lady's name, huh? Dragon lady? My good gracious. I. I can't remember my own name. I'm so upset. Oh, now concentrate. Now look. Dark hair, up tilted. Eyebrows, red silk dress. Works in lamp department on seventh floor. I can picture her so plainly. Dark hair, Floor walker. Dark hair. Upshot. Eyebrows, eyebrows and the red dress. Red, red, red, scarlet, scarlet, scarlet. That's it. Easy now. I Got a list of employees right here. I'll tell you. Scarlet. Scarlet. Scarlet. Scarlet Townsend. Scarlet Townsend. That's the dame. Floor walker. Scarlett Townsend? Yes. She lives here? Right in this room. Move out. Good day. I'll come. I said I'll come. Landlady. Why'd she move me? Oh, I tried to keep her on the right track. But her age, you can't tell her nothing. How would she frame that? No good game around here. I put my foot down. I said Scarlet. I said. I said Scarlet. I said, you're what no good day? What no good day, my lady. Crystal McCall. Oh, here. I found this just now as I was cleaning the room. Picture of Crystal McCall. Now, ain't that a swell way to have your picture taken? The name rang a bell and so did the picture. Crystal herself in the altogether. When I got around to the face, I made a startling discovery. Crystal was also the late Ms. Greenbrier. Don't look at it all day, young man. When did you see this girl? Last night, lady. This morning. She and a fella in a checkered coat come around to pick up Scarlet in a big red oak car. Know the fella? Nope. Never saw him before. But I'd sure know that car. Oh, you ought to see it. You're not telling me a thing, landlady. I have in Los Angeles. I'd have been dead. But San Francisco is not a convertible town. I found a free phone and began calling the dealers, figuring a bright red custom built convertible is something you remember whether you see it or sell it. An hour of this got me nowhere and I'd begun to wonder if the car had been smuggled up from the unmentionable side of the Tehachapi when the wind changed. Sold the Yeller one a while back. Thanks, but near misses don't count for any. But the buyer had it painted red. Special job. Well, you're improving. Who's the buyer? Kim Thorne. Dr. Kem Thorne. Right. Dr. Jules Kempthorne. Lives on Motley Drive and bulling game. That's the only red one I know. Great. That's the only red one I need. Mr. Spade, this is utterly unbelievable. And I certainly don't intend to stand here all night discussing the pros and cons of panda bears. All right, Chem Thorne, let's slide over into your field. Meaning what? The sweet young thing at the store turned out dirty. The heart attack, the poison attack? Well, suicide, do you suppose? What do you suppose? Well, I'm sure I don't know. Look, why don't we hold Hands and tell the truth, huh? You'd better run along, Spade. I've had about all of this that I intended. Look, the dead dame was Crystal McCall. Does that mean anything to you? No. The same Crystal McCall was running around with a hood named Frankie Casella. Formerly of New York, now of Havana. By Department of Justice request. This is all very interesting. What has it to do with me? She was riding around in your red convertible this morning, for one thing. That's a hot car. You know, I took a close look at it two hours ago and got slugged. I don't know how you score these things, Kempthorne, but in my book, this calls for a couple of answers. You're right. You're right, it does. Where's the car? It's gone. Who has it? My chauffeur. This is the last straw. I guess there's no point in covering up for him any longer. Who is he? Lenny Fleagle. An ex con, isn't he? Yes. I thought I could straighten him out. He's been missing for two days. This time he just took the car and left. I knew he had something to do with that girl in the toy department at Lacey's. So I went there today. I guess I was too late. You think Fleegle killed her? I don't know. I don't know. Where. Where did you see the car? Near the end of Delaney Street. What's the license number? 49H822. I'd better report stolen. If you need me to testify, please feel free to call. That I will. Dr. Kelly Kempthorne. Bye. What I had in mind, of course, was to call Lieutenant Dundee and have him slap a 24 hour tail on the good doctor. But something intervened. Halfway down the walk to the street, my eye fell on a round plastic object about the size of a nickel lying in the grass. Clearly the eye of a giant panda, since two other eyes were obviously watching me through Dr. Kempthorne's front curtains. I continued gaily on to my cab, drove up a half block, got out and walked back just in time to see Kempthorne pull away from the curb in his other car. Heading towards El Camino and points north. This left me free to prowl at will. And four match books later, I had found two more eyes. A pocket full of panda skin and a goodly scoop of panda upholstery. The trail led to the garage. It was no wonder his car was stolen. He must have had to leave it on the street all night because there was no room for it in the garage. Which had been turned into a kind of panda abattoir, crammed to the rafters with panda bears. All a giant size, too, in various stages of disobeal. Legs, arms, eyes and innards. A sight to chill the heart of any but the sturdiest private detective. Ruby. But I braced myself and carried on. Homicide. Dundee. This is Sam Dundee. Sam, where you calling from? Phone booth and a drive in on El Camino. Listen, the license number on the red custom job is 49H822, and the guy driving it is Lenny Fleagle, an ex con. Don't talk to me about that car. Larry Healy picked it up tonight going 90 on the bay Shore. Great. Lousy. Why? What happened? Next time I see one of them panda bears, I'm gonna spit right in its eye. So Larry pulls the guy down, and first thing he sees is the panda bear with a necktie. What about the dragon lady? She came second. All Larry can think of is the hot panda bear. Figures they stole it, so he takes it back to the patrol car to return it to the kid. No. Yeah. By the time he got the exhaust smoke out of his eyes, they were gone. Oh, what's that license number again? 49H822. You sure? Positive. I'm looking right at it. I. Oh. Sam Dundee. Yeah, we're all at Anderson's Drive in on El Camino. Put it on the air. Which just shows you how I can think. Roby. The red job was staring at me with its big chrome eyes outside the plate glass window. Legal and the dragon lady, bless him, were having a Saturday night. Blue plate displayed attractively on the tray racks, hung from the car doors. I sidled out of the phone booth and through the kitchen, thereby coming up on the car from behind. More coffee, honey? No. We better get going. Plenty of time. Mind if I join you, Fleagle? Huh? He reached and I pushed, and instead of his gun, he came up with half a hamburger. It was too harsh a light for the dragon lady to operate upon, and by the time Larry Healy and the Powell car pulled up, they decided to do it the easy way. You all comfy back there? Lovely. Larry. Legal dragon lady. Shut up. What about the red job? What are you gonna do with it, Larry? Oh, and pound it till the lawyers are through talking. Sam, you want to go by way of Delaney Street? Yeah, okay. Why Delaney Street? Larry delivered the panda, huh? Sure. To the kid. Roby Dozier. We'll have to go and pick it up, Lenny. Yeah. What's it worth, plago? 50,000? A hundred little kids Got it? Yeah. Oh, Marcelo will be disappointed, Plago. With the tax boys watching both him and Crystal, it looked like a safe way to get some of his dough out of the country to him. Wasn't my idea. I hated him. I did eight years for him, Spade. I could have killed him. Shut up, Lenny. I don't care anymore. To heck with it. Look, it wasn't me. The guy who's running things for him here is Dr. Kempthorne. But Crystal had the dough. He killed her. He took her to lunch today. Go ahead, Lenny. So he poisoned her. Then what? She'd fixed up one of the pandas. He didn't know which, stuffed it with bills. 80, 100,000. I don't know. Anyway, you'll find the money in the red car under the back seat. Under the seat? What are you talking about? It's in the panda. The kid's got it. Look. Why do you think I'm telling you this, you stupid flatfoot? I fixed that thing for Castella myself after we took the dough out. What kid? It's got a bomb in it. I don't remember much about the ride from then on. Roby. All I could see was a white line unwinding in the headlights. But somehow we got to the end of Delaney street and around that corner again. Roby. Roby. Go over here in the alley. Roby. Roby. Are you hurt? No. Just resting. Where's the panda? Well, I'm through with pandas, and so is Barney. Next, junk money. I'm gonna buy him an elephant. What happened? A policeman brought it. Yeah? I started home with it when a car drove up and a man with gray hair got out. Kim Thorne. What then? Same thing. He grabbed it and got in his car and drove off. He's around the corner there playing with it. Go ask him. I don't care anymore. Around the corner. You may need. Period. End of report. Oh, Sam. What a highly inconsiderate thing to do to a panda. But I'll give him one thing. What thing? He had the good grace to park in front of a vacant lot before starting to tear it apart. And of course, to coin a phrase, he saved the people some money. And now, if you're a good, efficient girl and run that through your infernal machine, who knows what I'll have in store for you when you're through. No jelly beans. Still, work is done. Now, scoop, scoop, scoop. Three chimes mean good times on NBC Friday means another visit to that entertaining eat establishment, Duffy's Tavern. Archie, the manager and his whimsical friends have cooked up another fresh half hour of laughs and typical Duffy's Tavern madness. And you're all invited. There's also another delightful adventure with Chester A. Riley, played by William Bendix. Tonight on the Life of Riley. Keep your dial set to NBC for the very best in radio entertainment. Here. There's Sam. All official. Yeah, I like the black ones. Lay off. Lay off. Well, you know, favoriting all the black ones. They're my favorite still now, Master Robot Dozier. Pays well, Sam, I hope Roby appreciates you. Only just a kid. How can he appreciate me? I appreciate you, Sam. Oh, I appreciate you too, sweetheart. You're so pretty and so efficient and so good about not hitting you all the time for your back salary. Yep. If when I stop and think of you, I go all choked up. You do? Black one. Come here, angel. Yes. It's all yours, dear. The rest of the jelly beans. Happy New Year. Aw. Good night. Good night, sweetheart. The Adventures of Sam Spade are produced, edited and directed by William Spears. Sam Spade was played by Stephen Dunn. The Ring Tuttle is Effie. Script for tonight's adventure by Harold Swanton. Musical scoring by Lud Gluskin conducted by Robert Armbruster. Join us again next week, same time for another adventure with Sam Spade. Enjoy the Magnificent Montague, then Duffy's Tavern on NBC. When the Moore family ditched cable Internet and switched to Zigly Fiber, they got so much more. Mr. Moore got more upload speed for next level gaming and live streaming to the masses. With reliable service, Mrs. Moore is no longer her family's IT guru, leaving her more time to stream games into overtime. Let's go. And young Mason Moore got more done quickly uploading HD product demos and video conferencing. Without freesight, the numbers look good. Brad, you're on mute. Switch from cable Internet to Zibli Fiber and get more of what you love. For $65 less per month than cable@ziply fiber.com the National Broadcasting Company presents the Adventures of Sam Spade. Detective Sam Spade Detective Agency. Me, Sweetheart. Sam, where have you been? I don't know what to tell them. Tell who? The reporters. Everybody. They all say you're the first private detective in the history of San Francisco to get rich. Honestly. Oh, Sam. When I think of all the back salary I'll be getting the fur coats. Easy, girl, easy. Prepare yourself, Sam. Yep. You mean the $50,000 is not available to employees of the network or sponsor, which, unfortunately, I happen to be. Sam. But cheer up, girl. Think of the taxes we'll Save now, make everything fast. I'm on my way. Meanwhile, puzzle me this. You ready? All right, Sam. Why does a man who is going to blow his brains out set his mantle clock ahead four hours? Sam, that doesn't make sense. Ah, but it does. Mull and ponder, sweetheart. I'll be down in a Trice 1951 model with an intellectual type report to challenge serious thinkers everywhere. To wit, the Biddle Riddle Caper for NBC. William Speer, radio's outstanding producer, Director of mystery and crime, brings you the greatest private detective of them all in the adventures of Sam Spade. All alone by the microphone, Effie. Sam, I just can't get anywhere with this. Never kick on the third down, cherub. Give it another try. Sam, I'm. I'm mentally through. Well, you know best. I. I just give up. Sam, what are those funny little bumps on your cheek? Go ahead, guess. Small box plague. You're getting warm. Looks like a little waffle mark. That's what happens when somebody hits you with a microphone, sweetheart. Now, if you look closer, just above the marks under my eye, clearly and distinctly in reverse, of course, the three letters of a network known far and wide for its hospitality to unemployed private detectives. You mean. Shh. Not here, girl. Poise the pencil. Who knows? A sponsor may be listening. Ready? Yes, sir. To Mr. Tracy Abbott, Drake Carlton Hotel. Copy to Dundee at Homicide from Samuel Spade, license number 137596. Subject, the Biddle Riddle Caper. Dear Tracy, it had a nice conventional start, this one. A nice conventional phone call telling me to drop up to room 402 of the Drake Carlton around three in the afternoon. But when I got there, I found that over the nice conventional number on the door was hung a temporary sign reading Olympic Radio Productions. Tracy Abbott, editor, director and producer. Bidding farewell to the nice conventional part, I made bold to enter the door. Abbott, 5 foot 8 of solid Hollywood, was waltzing with what I took to be a musician, composer or some such. We opened Coal Bunny like this. Now, killer at large, banging with the theme. Theme. A great big wonderful chord there, Bunny. Check, check. And then the teaser quote. Don't go a. You out there. Stick right close to that radio set of yours because the next half Hour might put $50,000 in your pocket. Yes, $50,000 will be paid by the sponsors of this program for information leading to the arrest and conviction of a killer at large tonight. That's it. Sustain the cord. Tonight, the murder of Tremolo. Tremolo. Tonight, the murder of Carol Stevens. Then da, da. Deep boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Boom. Boom. Check. What's that? Cymbal crash. Do it again. Don't need it. Check. Check. Big. Wonderful. Lush. That's the word. Lush. With scope and sweeping power. I got it. Well, I'll get as lush as I can with AP Scope, sweep, importance. Gotta sound important. Check. Check. Oh. Oh, I'm Sam Spade, Mr. Rabbit. Ah, yes, yes, Spade. Glad to see you. Please sit down. No, on the other hand, you'd better stand up. No time to lose. You have 24 hours to find a man for me. Well, that's pretty Short notice. How, Mr. Spade? Killer @ large is real. We keep a sensitive finger on the pulse of the people. Well, that's nice. We deal in real facts, real people, real crimes and real criminals. Check. Just how do you do this? How do you accomplish all this on the radio budget of today? Now, you see before you spay the mechanical marvel which makes this possible. The tape recorder. You're familiar with the tape recorder? Oh, more or less. Check. Tomorrow night at 9pm PST, with the aid of the tape recorder, we shall reconstruct one of San Francisco's more sensational unsolved crimes. The murder of Carol Stevens. You mean the Burlesque Dane three years ago. Two years, eight months and 29 days. You remember much about it? Let me see. She turned up dead on the floor of her apartment, didn't she? Check. Victim of the well known blunt instrument. In this case, a bronze bookend carrying the bas relief of Abraham Lincoln. Much ado, Much ado. Headlines by the Yard, a parade of witnesses, but no arrests, period. Fine. Now, what about me? Our show, Spade, is made up of the simple, honest, spontaneous statements of the witnesses themselves. We're set on this one. Except for one man, the most important one in the case, of course. Who's that? Jimmy Biddle. The doorman at the Broadway Burlesque at the time the Stevens girl was killed. Knew her? Some say he loved her. Top suspect. Until he came up with an alibi. Our advance men have combed the city for two weeks trying to find him, but no luck. So he's blown, Tom. That's what I thought until this morning. You mean you've heard from him? I heard from someone who said he was Biddle. He also said he knew who killed Carol Stevens and he wanted the 50,000. Right? I mean, check. Oh, fair enough. Well, that's what you advertise, isn't it? Not to people who hang up when you get curious. If it was Biddle, I've got to record his story. I want him here by 8 tomorrow night. Check. Well, since you keep bringing it up. Check. Yes, you can make it out for 100 bucks at Homicide. I cased the files on the Stevens thing. San Francisco's answer to the Black Dahlia. A cheap killing of a cheap dame in a cheap apartment that used a lot of expensive newsprint. She'd taken her last turn under the blue spot around 10:30, left the theater and hustled straight home. Because at 11 sharp, according to the neighbor across the hall, someone had tried the Abraham Lincoln bookend on Carol for size. She hit the floor just as the 11 o'clock news came on. Biddle's alibi had to be good. And it was. It came, as a matter of fact, from the greatest little alibi factory in town. Biddle was drinking old fashions with Joseph P. Norgaard, the well known criminal lawyer at the time of the killing. So I trotted over to Norgaard's office on Market street, found him tied up and settled down in the waiting room next to a gimlet eyed youth in a neon striped suit who looked like he made a living sticking up crap games. He was filing his nails. Buddy? Yeah, buddy? You. You sure you're in the right office, buddy? Positive, buddy. I just thought I might save you some trouble, that's all. Sam Spade, ain't it? You're a smart kid. I try hard. I still think you'd be wise to blow. You know, this is quite a turn you do, buddy. Study nights with Richard Widmark? Sam, I told you I want to save you a bad time. You're a nice guy. Thank you. Must be a lot of things you can do around town to make a buck without coming here. Now, why don't you lift it out of that chair? I'm not going to do it, Mr. Norgart. And that's fine. I'll get with you later. Bye, Buddy. The guy who bustled out of Norgaard's office was flabby, florid and frightened. Penstripe gave me a last baleful look and sidled out into the hall after him. Which was nice, because I was running out of punchlines. Luke, I thought I told you to. Oh, Mr. Norgaard, I am. I'm sorry to barge in. My name's Spade. I'm a private detective. Of course you are. And a hungry one. Well, we're polite in here, too. Why do you say that? You're the fourth today. Oh, I'm about to prepare a mimeographed statement entitled what I know about the Stevens case or you too can make $50,000. Like a copy. You know, I can't remember when I've been treated so nice. What do you know about the Stevens case, Mr. Norgaard? It's all in the homicide file. On the fateful night, I ran into Jimmy Biddle as I was coming out of a bar in Chinatown. He'd hit the skids, but he used to be a useful friend. So I asked him up to my apartment for a drink, sat him in a chair, made him an old fashion, loaned him five bucks and hustled him out. Total elapsed time, 45 minutes from 10:45 to 11:30pm and that is all I have to say at this time. Have you seen Biddle since? Not since the investigation. I don't know where he is now, and I don't know who killed Carol Stevens. Period. Paragraph. Do you think Jimmy knows who killed her? Maybe he says he does. Oh. Where did you see him? He's hungry, too. We work the same breadline. I'm sorry I said that, Spade. Who are you working for? Olympic Radio Productions. Killer at large. Yes. They want me to come to the studio tonight and record a statement for them. I. I wonder if I ought to tell them what I really think. What's that? About Biddle. There's no point in talking around it anymore. I think he killed her. That's a neat trick if he was drinking your liquor at the time. Well, I think he did it after he left my place. Two things placed. The time of death, the medical examiner's report, which could be off as much as three hours, and the neighbor who thinks he heard the girl fall as the news came on. How reliable is that? Well, they usually think of those things during an investigation, but they didn't think hard enough. You. You say you talk to Biddle? He called my client. Why? He had 50,000 good reasons, according to him. You know, funny things happen when the dough gets into it. Bought people don't stay bought. Lost people get found. Yeah, well, I've told you all I know, Spade. If you have no more questions. Just one more. Who's the little weasel in the pinstripe? You mean Luke? Yeah. I put him out there to scare off the hungry ones. Nothing to do with you. And the fat character he's tailing has nothing to do with me either, huh? You really want to know? Love to. He's a pastry cook. I'm representing his wife in a divorce action. Thinks he's Casanova Pressure cooker, eh? Shoving Norgard Pinstripe and the flabby pastry cook in the look up later section of my hat band, I took off for Biddles. Last known address, a boarding house on Pacific Avenue. There I held hands with the landlady long enough to learn that A, she hadn't seen Biddle since a few weeks after the murder, but B, when last heard of Biddle, had gone on from the burlesque dame to something even more extremely female. According to the landlady named Rosalie, understand she's working on the line at the Pacific Ballroom. Red hair, blue eyes and Boom boom get me. I got you. Pacific Ballroom, eh? Would you do that last again, Boom Boom? Yeah, just checking. Thanks, Mrs. Landlady. Hello. Hi. Am I the lucky girl? Well, you look like your name ought to be Rosalie. Oh, you're psychic. Got your tickets? Here. Let me know when they're used up, huh? Don't worry. Hey, you know, you're a pretty good dancer. Arthur Murray, class of 1906. Only I. I didn't come here to dance. Oh? I'm looking for Jimmy Biddle. You know him? Yeah. Yeah, I know him. You a cop? Not exactly. Oh, what's the difference? Cop and no cop. You'll find him one of these days. Where? In the bay, maybe, or the morgue. He knows it. That's the funny part. He knows it and he can't do anything about it. It's got him. Rosalie, baby. Look, I'm out. That's enough about Jimmy. Let's dance, huh? That's what you're paying for, isn't it? Well, come on. Where is he? You're wasting your time. I. I won't sell him out. I'm through with him, but I won't sell him out. Ah, here. Here's your ticket. I sauntered over to the soft drink fountain and mulled the problem over a Coke for a minute or two. There are ways of dealing with dames like Rosalie. Some of them are a little cruel, as this one was going to have to be, but. But time was of the essence. I kept out of sight for 20 minutes or so, watching her dancing in the arms of a moonstruck plumber and sidled into a phone booth. The Pacific Ballroom does not permit telephone conversations while the girls are working. When I said it was the police, the plumber was turned over to a new candidate. And Rosalie came to the phone. Hello? This is Sam Spade. Rosalie, I was dancing with you a little while ago. What is it? I. I found Jimmy Biddle's apartment. Oh. What's the matter? He's hurt. That's right. Bad? I'm afraid so. He wants to see you. Okay, I'll be right over. She didn't stop for a raft, just plowed a zigzag furrow through the mob of the main door and climbed into a cab at the curb. The driver must have been an old fan of hers because they were almost out of sight by the time my cab got rolling. And that's the way it was. Across Market street and all the way out Van Ness, the marina. Her cab was pulled up in front of an apartment on Jefferson street and she just gotten out when we slid in behind them. Hi. You want to go up together? But you said you. I'm sorry, honey. I know it was a dirty trick, but now that's no way to be you. Shut up. The gold card holder by the doorbell listed the tenant as WRC. Mr. Smith was evidently not home. The lady manager in the apartment next to his was. And after the usual license showing and more than the usual sweet talk, she came up with a key. Biddle wasn't wealthy, but he wasn't hungry either. Place had the well fixed man about, Tom look right down to the last crystal martini glass in the portable bar in the living room. Next to it was a mahogany desk in which were sundry checkmates and deposit slips indicating Biddle had found a prosperous widow or had been doing rather well at Canasta. A clock chimed four in the next room. Since it was after 10, I wondered why I went in to take a look. Maybe I was psychic like the girl said. There was a tape recorder against one wall. The same kind I'd seen in your office, Tracy, with a microphone and a roll of tape in it, half used up. Holding the microphone with one hand was Jimmy Biddle. In the other hand, a.38. He wasn't hurt. As I'd told her he was dead. You are listening to the weekly adventure of radio's most famous detective, Sam Spade. This Sunday there's another outstanding production by Theater Guild on the air. It's a one hour adaptation of the thrilling tale of intrigue in post war Vienna. The third man, Joseph Cotton and Senior Haso, star in this Theater Guild on the Air broadcast. And Sunday over most of these NBC stations also means the big show. An hour and a half of the finest in comedy, music and drama. Tallulah will be your hostess. And just listen to a few of the stars. Brett Allen, Marlene Dietrich, Danny Thomas and Fran Warren. There'll be many more too. So tune in this Sunday and every Sunday for the big show. And now back to the Biddle Riddle Caper. Tonight's adventure with Sam Spade. In accordance with Chapter 5 of the Private Detective's Manual entitled How to Keep youp License. I called Homicide and gave him the facts and figures, then went back to the study. Jimmy Biddle was surrounded by props like part one of a photocrime puzzle. I carefully reached over his shoulder and pressed the button on the tape recorder. My name's Jimmy Biddle. The DA Will remember me. We saw a lot of each other during the week after Carol Stevens hit the deck in her apartment. Three years ago, at just about this time of night. I fooled him then. I could probably go on fooling him. But I'm tired of it. I'm tired of living this way. So here it is. I knew Carol Stevens well. I was crazy about her. And I was jealous, too. That's why I killed her. Thought I could go on and on playing hide and go seek for the rest of my life. But sooner or later, this kind of thing gets too heavy to pack around. You gotta get rid of it one way or another. Period. End of report. I rousted the landlady again and we went over the room together. A helpful type landlady. She contributed a thousand odd bits of gossip about Jimmy Biddle, only one of which struck me as interesting. She'd come in this morning, she said, to clean his apartment and among other things, had wound and set the eight day clock on the mantle. The same clock which was now exactly four hours fast. Looking closer at the tape recorder, I saw a small label pasted above one of the knobs reading Murgas and Reeve, recording technicians. Next scene, the manufacturing section of Sansom Street. A five story building. All dark at this hour except for a light in the office on the second floor back, which happily turned out to be the one. Burgess Reed. Anybody? Hello? What do you want? Well, a pastry cook. I. I'm sorry. We're close, you see. Office hours nine to five. Now, wait a minute. Just a minute. Pastry cook. I'm. I'm not a pastry cook, sir. My name is Murders. I am one of the proprietors here. Just a moment, sir. I must. Sorry, it was getting cold out in the hall. So you're Murgus, huh? I am. And I don't care who you are. I know all about it, sir. I know it wasn't a practical joke. What wasn't a practical joke? That tape. You can march right back to the man you're working for and tell him he can't buy me off. Is that clear? Not very. There's no use denying it. I saw you in his office this afternoon when he. When he threatened me. Get down. August. What is it All. I crawled out on the fire escape in time to see my buddy in the pinstripe suit hit the bottom. The alley, praise be, was blind at one end, so Luke took off toward the street. I caught him in one leg. He stumbled, fell, smacked his head against the brick wall of the alley and took the count. I was frisking him when a prowl cop who heard the shots moved up. I convinced him I wasn't rolling a drunk and left him to run back upstairs. Marcus. Marcus. I better get you to a hospital. Who. Who are you? Sam Spade. I don't work for Nor Guard. Right now I'm trying to hang a murder rap on him. Told me it was a practical joke, a gag. What tape? Jimmy Beetle tape. Jimmy rented the machine from you and made the tape himself, right? Yes, he. He. Norgaard. What about Norgaard? Tried to beat me into it. Beat? Beat me. Wouldn't give it to him. Give what tape? No, no. He tried to point to the desk as he passed out. And so to this already bubbling stew, we add a crucial typewriter. While waiting for the ambulance, I cased it and found nothing. Then stuck a piece of paper into it and began to type. Four quick brown foxes had jumped over four lazy dogs when the sound changed. I looked closer, then tackled. A messy job I always leave to my secretary. I hate to play with typewriter ribbons, but this wasn't a typewriter ribbon since said ribbon had come to an end and I was pecking away at a piece of sound tape. Come on, Rosalie. I don't want to talk. Look, come on. My feet are even more tired than they were an hour ago. Okay, you first. All right. Now. I'm sorry, mister. I thought you were lying when you said Jimmy was hurting. Look, let's not go into that now. He was blackmailing Norgaard, right? I don't even know who Norgaard is. You knew Jimmy was shaking someone down, didn't you? I never knew where he got his money. I just knew it was dirty money. He'd laugh and say he was living high, but not for long. He never mentioned Norgaard? No. He just said he was gonna make $50,000 in a radio program. Did he say how? Singing. I thought he was kidding. Then he showed up with that tape recording. Well, he wasn't kidding. Then what? He wanted to be alone. He said he was going to make an audition and send it to a sponsor. That's where he made the mistake. He sent it to the wrong sponsor. He figured he hit Norgaard for the biggest touch of all. Thought hearing it might make him dig deeper. So he recorded his statement, sent it to Norgaard for a sample. But there was something he didn't think of. What do you mean? He should have studied up on his tape recorders, baby. With a pair of scissors and a good technician, Jimmy's eyewitness account turned into a first class confession. The final phase of the Biddle riddle was, as you will recall, Tracy, enacted on one of the sound stages of the nation's leading network. Whereas you will also recall you were busily transcribing the testimony of various witnesses on the Carol Stevens case. How you got him there, I'll never know. But there he was, as big and legal looking as ever, perjuring himself once more into one of your microphones. I walked out of the Twin Dragon on Grant Avenue. As I remember it now, Biddle was across the street. He apparently recognized me, though. Excuse me, will you, fellas? What? Spade, you idiot. You ruined it. I'm sorry, Tracy. Oh, we'll have to start it over again. Mr. Norga, would you mind if I record a few remarks? Spade, please understand my position. Biddle's confession has changed everything. I know the killer is not at large. Ya, ya. 24 hours we spent recording the show. Now it'll all have to be done over again. Sorry. These people at this house. Listen, Tracy. All right, Spade, what is it? I'm only trying to help. Now, where's Biddle's confession? On the machine there. We're going to dub it onto the main tape. Good. Now be a good lad and show me where you're starting to stop it, huh? Right there. Okay. What is this, Spade? This is going to interest you, Mr. Norgaard. Now let us turn to the tape, keeping our eyes on the spool as it slowly feeds Jimmy Biddle's last statement. My name's Jimmy Biddle. The DA'll remember me. We saw a lot of each other during the week after Carol Stevens hit the deck in our apartment. Three years ago at just about this time of night. I fooled him then. I could probably go on fooling him. But I'm tired of it. I'm tired of living this way. So here it is. I knew Carol Stevens well. I was crazy about it. And I was jealous, too. That's why, Ike, there's a riddle for you. Norgaard. He said the girl died, quote, at just about this time of night, unquote. But the clock struck three times. We know she died at 11. What happened to the other eight chimes spade. This is no time. Be patient with me, Tracy. What about it, Norgaard? Well, how do I know? The man was crazy, maybe. No, no, no, no. He wasn't crazy. Stupid, but not crazy. So we take this spool of tape off and put this one. What's that? This is the part that was cut out. Got it from the guy who did the splicing job for you. Thinking it was a practical joke or something. Sam, do you know what you're saying? Yeah, but Biddle says it better. The last thing we heard was I was crazy about her. And I was jealous too. That's why I killed her. Only he didn't say killed her, just that's why I standing outside in the hallway of her apartment tonight. She died. I'd seen her leave the theater with a. I followed him home to her place, heard the argument, everything. But I had no idea he'd kill her until I heard her hit the floor. Door busted open then and he came out looking like a crazy man. He didn't even see me. Just ran down the back stairs as fast as he could go. I went in and saw her lying on the floor, dead. I could have killed him then, but I thought of something better. He's good. Pay the cash, comes right on time. But I'm tired of living this way. So there's the story. The man who killed Carol Steven. Which is as far as Biddle's got since Nor guard had grabbed a stand mic and slammed it into the recording machine and the rhubarb would followed. He also slammed it into my face, which is why I carry the imprint of the nation's number one network just below my right eye. So that's about the crop. Tracy, Norgaard and Pinstripe now lie cheek by jowl in the jail hospital trying to think of an honest lawyer who'll defend him. While you, Tracy, with a third round of interviews before you are considering tossing out Carol Stevens and doing the shooting of Dan McGrew. Period. End of report. Dan. How unfortunate. Unfortunate? He never got to explain about the clock. That was four hours fast. Why, sweetheart, that's self explanatory. The clock said four, you see. But it was 12. It'll have been dead an hour, which makes it 11. Carry one one. Subtracting four from that leaves seven. And assuming he'd been there an hour before, that makes six. Damn, what relentless logic. Just like Ellery Queen Effie. On this program we do not plug rival products. Now go and type that up while I figure this Out. Scoot, scoot. Yes, three chimes mean good times on NBC. There's mystery in music every Saturday on NBC. For Mystery Tomorrow, Herbert Marshall stars as the Man Called X. The Man Called X is a man without a name who travels the world over combating the forces of international espionage and intrigue. For Music Tomorrow, your hit parade brings you the top tunes in the land, played by Raymond Scott's orchestra and with vocals by Snooki Lanson and Eileen Wilson. Here it is, Sam. Thank you. Dear one, I see by the furrows in your brow that you have not as yet solved the matter of the missing chime or why Norgaard set the clock ahead when he shot Jimmy Biddle. How to approach this? You realize Norgaard cut a hunk out of the tape, removing Biddle's eyewitness account, setting him up as a suicide, Right? Don't make me change my grip, though. Biddle, by his own statement, made the recording at the time of the murder of Carol Stevens. To wit, 11 o'clock. Now, in cutting out the crucial words, Norgaard also had to cut out eight chimes. This, he realized, would be noticed. So he set the clock ahead to make the number of chimes jibe. Chimes, jibe. Chimes, jibe. Nice ring, Sam. Will it be all right with you if I just say I understand when I really don't? Sure, sweetheart. I'll just type and answer the phone and you use your feet and your head and together we'll end up. I know, with Good night, Sam. Good night, sweetheart. The adventures of Sam Spade are produced, edited and directed by William Speer. Sam Spade was played by Stephen Dunn, Lorene Tuttle as Effie. Script for tonight's adventure by Harold Swanton. Musical scoring by Lud Gluskin conducted by Robert Armbruster. Join us again next week, same time for another adventure with Sam Spade. Enjoy the magnificent Montague, then Duffy's Tavern on NBC. A lot of products say they're clean, but what does that really mean? At ritual, we have very high standards for what clean really means. Like for our best selling Essential Prenatal Multivitamin, which is heavy metal tested, clean label project certified and GMO free. It features key mom to baby ingredients like folate for neural tube support, choline for baby's brain development and omega 3 for brain and vision support. But our high standards don't stop there. All of the ingredients in our essential Prenatal Multivitamin are sourced through our made traceable supply chain. 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