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Choice Classic Radio Detectives | Old Time Radio
Broadway Is My Beat: The Eugene Bullock Murder Case 11/19/1949
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Welcome to Choice Classic Radio, where we bring to you the greatest old time radio shows like us on Facebook, subscribe to us on YouTube and thank you for donating at choice classicradio.com Broadway's My Beat From Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomest mile in the world. Broadway's My Beast. With Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Broadway. It's a jagged dream of concrete and steel and twisted faces where the vision of beauty stands in a doorway at the end of night. You go looking for it, and you're stopped by a guy selling the latest postcards or a sightseeing to toy line, and you keep looking. Then the same guy stops you and lays you odds you'll never make it. You never do. It's Broadway. My Beast. A cop doesn't have to go looking for that. They call you in. On my call was a greasy brownstone building that crouched on maybe half a block where Harlem reaches up for Central Park. Its walls were covered with withered ivy and its windows were barred with iron. Not withered. On a soot covered sign, you could make out sounding name Primrose Sanitarium Rest Home for For what you couldn't make out. And then a door was unlocked. The man stood in front of you in a sharp white jacket with his hands folded like ice palms that hung from his narrow shoulders. It's after visiting hours, chum. I was invited. Danny Clover, probably special detail. Oh, we've been waiting for you. Waiting with bated breath. Chum. Come on in, chum. You're the friendly type. Oh, yes. All the chums in our little institution find me gentle and friendly right down this hallway. The chums, who are they? Sick people, lost people? You know how it is. Do I? Of course you do. You're a policeman. That settles it. And you, what are you? Male nurse named Horace Vesper. Assistant to Physician Ellery. Him and me, we're the administering angels of Primrose Sanitarium. Angels? Mm. Jim, here we are. Who is it, Horace? One of the patients giving us trouble? No, physician. They're all asleep like suckling babes. This is the detective who answered the call we made. Oh, how do you do, sir? I'm Dr. William Ellery. I see you're astonished at the state my laboratory is in, but we've had a disorder here, as you see. A bourbon, sir? On the phone, you said a man was dead. Where is he? Oh, they're on my operating table. Show the detective, Horace. Sure, Physician. Over here, chum. See how it is Mr. Clover. Yeah. Who was he? One of your patients? Innocence. Innocence. You can talk plainer than that. I don't think I can. You tell him about it, Horace. Sure. Physician. It was like this, Jim. We found this man on our doorstep. He was one of the lost people. You're quick, Jim. No. This one was bleeding from a knife wound, but lots of blood. Stabbed. So I lifted him in my arms like he was a foundling babe, and I brought him here to the physician. We gave him a transfusion. Yeah. Only thing I could do. He'd lost too much blood already. He was dying. I haven't practiced surgery for many years, Mr. Kovac, but I think my old professors would have been proud of me. Who was he? That's your problem, chum. There was no identification on them. Not a thing. This one was one of the anonymous chums. And so the tedious routine of why an anonymous man dies began. And it's easy to be anonymous in New York. All you have to do is light cheesecake, shove on subways, stare on windy street corners and wish you were in Miami. You're one of the crowd worth two dimes a day to the bm. Nobody bothers about you. But if you want someone to bother about you, there's another way. You can be found dead. Then you're an important guy. New York demands to know who you are, and you become the star attraction the next morning in the morgue. Me, I represent the police department. And I'm your custodian. I exhibit you. I'm afraid to look, lieutenant. You'll have to, ma'am. Okay, that. Yeah. D. Well, ma'am. Poor man. Your father? No, he's not my father. Thank you. Would you tell the next lady to come in? Yes. Yes, of course. You know, Danny, policeman's got to protect life and property with this man is property todaglia. Somebody's. Yeah, I know, but they didn't mention this detail when I took my civil service exam, Danny. 20 years and I'm not used to it yet. That makes you different. What did you find on Dr. Ellery? Well, so far, legitimate license, everything. Oh, another one, Danny? Yeah. This way, ma'am. I'm Mrs. Bullock. Mrs. Eugene Bullock. I just thought. Yeah, I just thought. Well, he didn't come home. Mr. Bullock didn't for a whole night. He's never done that before. Never? Never. Attack. Real water. Here, Mrs. Bullock. Drink this. Thank you. Since today's context is down the dressing, I thought. Well, I. I knew Mr. Bullock wouldn't want to miss that. This was Our first trip to New York. You see, Mr. Bullock hadn't been out of Iowa before. You don't have to tell me now. Yes, you do. Yesterday he left the hotel. Mr. Pollock had an appointment at seven. I've always liked pearls. And he was going to get my necklace. Surprise. I didn't let on, but I knew about it. The appointment with whom? He. He had had the money with him. And he was going to see Mr. Branch. Mr. Ethan Branch. Ethan Branch. Got that photography? Yeah. I didn't want to ruin Mr. Bullock's place. I knew what it meant. There wasn't much more she had to tell us after that. Then she asked to be left alone with her husband. I planted Tartaglia in the shadows and got out of there. The New York telephone directory is a jewel, a dream, a work of art. It gave me even Branch's business trader. His address, 12 Gramercy Parks South. And his telephone number. What I needed, I couldn't get my dialing. So I called on eben Branch, Trader 12 Gramercy Park South. From the police, eh? Avail yourself of a bamboo fan, my boy. The rain is being more humid, I think. The place of Eben Branch was a fragment torn out of a tropical paradise and enclosed in double paneled glass. Even to the white cargo type rain pouring down in the space between the glass from a contraption bearing the seal of approval of the New York City engineers. Tropical birds played tropical games and sang sad songs in huge cages of gilded bamboo. And sitting in a fan shaped wicker chair was Eben Branch, wearing yellowed linen, his hands touching the head of a girl, a silent girl in a jade sarong who strummed a tropical type guitar. You'll find it pleasant here, Ms. Clover, far from the terrors of that jungle out there. You'll stay for a bit? I may never leave. Splendid. You're a man of quality, sir. I knew at the moment I saw you. I said as much to the girl here, didn't I? Girl? And now, what can I do for you, sir? You could wake me up. Oh, it's no dream, Mr. Clover. All this was bought at a good price. Few souls, a few deaths and a fantastic hoard of pearls. The South Seas. Veritable paradise, boy. Veritable. Wouldn't it have been simpler to leave paradise where it belonged? I only asked because I wouldn't know. You mean go back? Impossible. Of course, impossible. The moment I set foot on that island Nirvana, I should be gutted by the native I stole the pearls from. Need to tell you, Mr. Clover, that was 30 years ago. Not your domain. What concerns me is a man named Eugene Bullock. Jim Bullock. Do you know where he is? I asked you first. Simpson had an appointment with me last night at midnight. Midnight? His wife said he was to meet you at seven. Men lie to their wives. As I say, Clover, midnight is the hour at which I find myself most meanable to conduct. Till then, I have other matters. In the phone book it says you're a trader. Is that a business? Trader the word I used to make me glamorous and unreal. Sir. My observed my advertising matter to attract truckers. I sell pearls, Mr. Clover. For cash. I see. Only cash. Mr. Bullock wanted pearls. I was prepared to sell him $5,000 worth. Did you? That's the tragedy, Mr. Clover. Simpleton never showed up. I need $5,000 desperately. Paradise comes high, Mr. Clover. And so as sank slowly in the west, I bad a thong farewell to the land of palmettos and jasmine and exiled beach boys. If what Branch had told me was true, the pattern of Mr. Bullock's life needed completing his last five hours of living. What happened to Mr. Bullock last night between seven and midnight? People have died during those hours. But why Mr. Bullock? And there's an extra added question. What happened to the $5,000 he had on his person? By the time I got back to headquarters, pictures of Mr. Eugene Bullock have been circulated all over the area. Hey, Danny. How. Oh, hello, Marty. Okay. How's the cab business, as the saying goes? Yeah, what do you need? Think I got something for you. Look, the little guy that Eugene Bullock. Yeah, maybe was in my cab last night about 7:00. We had some pictures taken downstairs. Marty here. Look at him. Looks calmer, but. Yeah, that's him. Last night he looked more excited. Like how? Like. So he gets in the cab and he says, close around, I quote through the rear view mirror. I see he's got the same expression. Like a kid riding with chalk on a wall, huh? So I asked the question and he says, yeah. Where'd you take him? Oh, wasted a village and a spot I know in Chinatown. Places like that. Nothing suits this guy. Nothing. Then we hit a dime a dance dive off 105th Street. This he goes wild about. He loves it. He pays me and he leaves. Is that what you want then? No. Whatever it is, no. If that's how we say no in Spanish. Look who's around here. I can tell. I'm from the police. Adios, senor. Adios. Hey, wait a minute. Wait a minute. What frightened you about the word police? Senorita get that way. Get that away from me. Oh, how it's in English, huh? You learn fast. Let's go, senorita. Let's go where we can talk with our background music. Take off. We're chatting. We're having an intimate type conversation. I am intruding, Sanchez. Intruding's the word, Peter. We do something about your mouth. You tried French. You really did. What do you know? Man gets knocked down in the fight, nobody pays any attention. This what happened last night, Rosa. This what happened last night. Music happened last night with Maraca. Slacking music. When we were interrupted, I was slang. Let's go. Let's go. Wait. Right. Last night I was dancing with a sailor. A pretty sailor boy from Peru. And then a man was stabbed. The man died. Oh, bad. Somebody sees blood, somebody screams. Everybody runs out. There's even the pretty sailor boy. The wounded man is lying on the floor. Sanchez helps me to listen to my automobile. I drove him a little way to a sanitarium where the doctor. I left him. Why did you take the trouble? Why didn't you run too? I felt sorry for the little man lying there. Oh. How about $5,000? So the little man had that much with him when he came here. He didn't have it later. Senor. I have never seen $5,000 in my life. Is that the truth? Is that the truth? But you want me anyhow, don't you? I am arrested, yes. She was arrested? Yes. And booked. Yes. And Sanchez, her admirer. C also. It was simple and it was fast. I had the victim, the motive and two grade A suspects. I told the boys in the press room the solution of the murder of Eugene Bullock was only a matter of hours. Simple routine, I told them. I've never been so wrong in all my life. You are listening to Broadway's My Beat, starring Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Broadway is the name a street and it's a world apart. It's a world that explodes every 24 hours, then starts all over again. The faces might be different, but the expressions are the same. The current population had a current crime to consider, and I had promised them a killer. The killer of Eugene Bullock, an alien from Iowa. But I wasn't keeping my word. Grade A suspect. Rosa was being uncooperative. She said she didn't have anything to do with the killing. Somebody else at the dance hall must have done it. So I gave her a chance to tell me who the chance was. The police lineup. They're ready out there, Danny. 12 guys who could have been at the dance hall at the time of the stabbing. Thanks, Dr. Tagler. This is what we call a police lineup. Rosa. Rosa. Yes. The lights are so arranged that we can see those 12 men and they can't see us. You can say what you like and the men won't know who speaks. I see. Yes. Now I want you to pick out the men you recognize. The men who were in the dance hall night before last. Go ahead. That one, Lieutenant. The tall man on the end. But that's Audie Westwall. Danny. Gets his name on the bladder like clockwork. Vagrancy commutes between the Bowery and the drunk tank. Two convictions for purse snatching. Never mind, Taglia. Let's just run him down. Who else? Rosser. The one in the brown sweater with the eyeglasses? Yeah, who else? That one. You mean the one holding the cap? Oh, yes. That one too. But I mean the one next to him. Go ahead. That one and that one. Yes, I'm sure of it. Keep going. The man without hair and with a mustache. You remember him? I danced with him. He wanted to meet me later. Okay, Tartaglia, let him go. All of them. Tell him to go home. Yeah, yeah, Danny, sure. Take Rosa back to the matron and lock her up again. Senor, what are you doing? I don't understand. And I'll explain. You're lying. You're covering up for someone. The last man you pointed out, the Baldi who danced with you, he was planted in the lineup. He's a cop. Take her away, Dattaglia. Maybe her boyfriend's got a betterment. Thanks, officer. I'll call you when I'm through. Cigarette, Sanchez? No, not from you. It's a crack. Keep them. They're yours. By what right? You hold me here. By what right? A man was murdered. That gives us rights, Stim and me. You are crazy. Insane. I kill no one. Police. Stupid. You, you're man of honor. Sanchez. Cuomo. I'll explain. You're a man of honor. You love Rosa. It degrades you if anyone manhandles her. I would kill him. That's what I say. You killed Eugene Bullock because he made passes to Rosa between a wish and the act. Police. Grace space. You stabbed him and then you got a bonus. A five thousand dollar bonus. And that healed your wounded honor. You are only trying, Police. I know guys like that. Always trying. We have a word for them in his planning. Be polite, Sanchez. It's easier when you're polite. Okay, polite. That's good. What have you done to Rose? I wondered how long before you'd asked me that? What have you done to Ross? We had to. She confessed to the murder of Eugene Bullock. You lie. Your mouth lies. She confessed. Anxious. She only does it to protect me. I stop him. I stop him. Tell me about it. What? Like you say, this Bullock, he put hands on Rosa. His old hands on Rosa's body. This happened many times with Rosa. The handsome old man? Yeah. The $5,000. Where is it? Leave me alone. Please leave me alone. All right, let's get a stenographer. Can you confess, Danny? Yeah. What do you want, Taglia? Oh, I. I thought you want to know about this, Danny. They fished Harris Vesper out of the lake in Central Park. When? About an hour ago. Hey, Danny, get in. Sanchez. To confess, that could mean a promotion. To what, Tartaglia? To oblivion. You have it in the palm of your hand, sewn up clean and neat, and it slips away because a man named Horace Vespers was found dead in a lake. That changes it. You shudder at the fatal mistake you almost made. You shudder. By that time, you're pushing your way through a cloud whose eyes are vacant and unblinking. And it's the same crowd you always see in attendance to the public dying. The setting was nice, though Central park never looked better. The leaves turning to gold and sun shimmering on the lake sucks. Fat and happy. The dashing blue uniform of New York's finest and the lump of a man lying gray and sodden on the banks. That's him, Danny. Some kid in a rowboat saw him down in the water. That's how we happen to be. No marks of violence on him. No. No, Danny. This guy must have been one of them health addicts. He goes in the water without no shade. I figured the guy goes in for a dip because like I say, with him, health is a thing. And the shock of the cold water surprises him and stops his heart from beating. That's how you figured it? Yeah. Heads up, don't it? I'm thrilled. Here is the deceased effects, Danny. A driver's license made out the Horace Vesper Primrose Sanitarium Blue Shield medical card of wallet. No dough, but plenty pictures of his Navy buddies. How do you figure? Buddies? Yeah. This was a bit of detective work. Daddy. See this watch fob? Yeah, but tell me about it anyway. It's a cleverly contrived watch pod. Contrived from one of Horace Vesper's Navy dog tags. That's how I figure the Kaiser. The pictures of his buddy. Let's see it. Sure, Danny. Here. Severally contrived, huh? With my dog tags. I did something different. Well, Danny, you figure it like I figure it. No, I don't figure it like you figure. How you figure I figure. Like murder, huh? Yeah, huh? Only I got like to prove it. Hi, Danny. Come on. Thanks, Maria. How's the darling of the police laboratory? Everything okay? Need some new Bunsen burners and things. Tell Danny about it. I'll fix it. How about just walking on little cat feet, huh? Danny, Am I interrupting something? Well, Dr. Sinski over there is working on something important. An experiment that can't stand a sudden joke. Yeah? What is it? It's lunch. Cheese of plates. Oh, well, then just tell me what your brains and equipment turned up on Horace Vesper and I'll tiptoe out of here. Well, we ran a marsh test in outline, Danny. No signs of poison. A sedative, yes, but a mild one. Nothing lethal. Was he drowned? Not that either, Danny. No trace of water in the pleura. Sorry. In the lungs. He didn't drown. I didn't think he did. What else, Maria? Well, there are two punctures, one on each arm made by a large tight needle. The type they use for transfusions, I'd say. Yeah. What else? Look in the microscope, Danny. One right there. Yeah. You see what I mean? Not exactly. All I see is somebody looking back at me. That's your eyeball, Danny. Adjust it. Here, let me. I'm winking at myself. I'll tell you about it and you won't believe it. I'll believe it. Tell me. Horace Vespers Navy dog tag is made a liar out of science. Get off the dime, Maria. What are you trying to say? Stop, is what I'm trying to say. Horace's dog tag says he had type A blood. The microscope shows something else. Like what? In the specimen I've examined of his blood, there are too many clots. Both A and B cells have a gluten. Come on. Mr. Vesper's blood has been tampered with. Now with both type A and B. Strange, isn't? I didn't answer, Maria. Because everybody knows there'll always be a new way, a strange way to kill a man. Instead, I went back to Primrose Sanitarium. Its door stood open, so I walked in. I found the hallway that led to the laboratory and felt my way along it in the dark. Touch. And that's what I got. You would awaken so soon, Lieutenant? Why? And my office, Lieutenant? In bed. I really didn't expect you to awaken so soon, Lieutenant? My sight. It's a mess, all right. Yeah. You see, Lieutenant, I hold myself personally accountable for what happened. One of the patients somehow got into my office and somehow got into my desk. Somehow got your gun and somehow shot me. Why? His protest against the world, I suppose. The kind of world he's made for himself. Anyone outside of it is an enemy. No. You're going to keep things locked up. I'll see to it. But it's Horace's job. He should know better. Horace. Can I not? Now, lie still, Lieutenant. You've lost a lot of blood. You're weak. I am? Looks like a flesh wound to me. It's worse than that. You'll be better, though, after you had a transfusion and some rest. A whole lot of rest. A week. I can sit up. See, it hurts. I can do it. Don't be a fool, Lieutenant. Lie down. You'll only aggravate your condition. Yeah. You mustn't aggravate conditions. No, the transfusion, Lieutenant. It won't hurt a bit. We'll just stab your arm with alcohol. Now, I'll get these things ready. My blood type's a, doctor. Yes, yes, I know. I ran a test on it while you were asleep. We mustn't make a mistake. Give me a transfusion of type B blood. Because that wouldn't make me well. That would kill me the way it killed Mr. Bullock. I beg your pardon? You didn't give Bullock a transfusion to save his life. You gave him a transfusion to kill him. Poor, poor fellow. Delirious. Killed Horace, too. Sedative in this bourbon, I figured. And you gave him a transfusion of B blood while you took a blood out of him. Cute. You wanted all Mr. Bullock's. Funny yourself after greedy, Doctor. Now you can remember your Hippocratic oath, Doctor. You need that transfusion, Lieutenant. Put down that needle, doctor. Lyris, you have to be quiet. Put down that needle. You have got to be quieter. Here's some quieting for you. You just rest right there, Doctor. That's the way it ended. The part of it that I knew about. I had to be told the rest. That the police found the doctor in the corner of the laboratory gibbering to a bottle of bourbon. That I fought them all the way to the emergency ward. And that nobody in medical history protested the way I did. All they wanted to do, they said, was give me a transfusion. There's laughter on Broadway now. It's nice. The street is tearing itself apart. It's drinks in the house and have another one show. And hey, mister, I can really show you the sight, the frenzy and the big noise. Mostly it's a big noise. Otherwise you'd hear the heartbreak because it's Broadway. The courteous, the most most violent, the lonesomest smile in the world. Broadway. My people, this is the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service RA.