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Choice Classic Radio Detectives | Old Time Radio
The Adventures of Philip Marlowe: The Soft Spot 09/01/1950
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Your message amplified. Ready to share your message with the world? Start your podcast journey with Podbean. Podbean. Podbean. Podbean. Podbean, the AI powered all in one podcast platform. Thousands of businesses and enterprises trust Podbean to launch their podcasts. Launch your podcast on Podbean today. My school uses Podbean. My church too. I love it. I really do. 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@ChoiceClassicRadio.com get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road, and those who travel it wind up in the gut of the prison or the grave. There's no other end, but they never learn. From the pen of Raymond Chandler, outstanding author of crime fiction, comes his most famous character in the Adventures of Philip Marlowe. Now with Gerald Moore starred as Philip Marlow, we bring you tonight's exciting story, the Soft spot. And so much for the news from abroad. Here in Los Angeles, two persons were killed and eight injured today in three separate automobile accidents attributed directly to the thick fog that has blanketed the city ever since yesterday morning. And according to the weather bureau, the fog which is rolling in from the sea will be with us for smug. Smug. Everything's cockeyed. Hello. Philip Marlow, please. Earl Hanley speaking. This is Marlow. How are you, Mr. Hanley? How's the newspaper circulation business? Horrible zooming, Philip. Oh, look, Marlo, can you come out to my join in? Las Feliz Boulevard? 3000, 810. I'd like you to work for me again. And you write your own ticket as usual. No, no, thanks. They play too rough in your league, Hanley. Besides, it's a bum night to ride around in a cold newspaper truck watching out for hijacking. No, no, no, no, Marlo. It's nothing like that. This is personal business. It's an old man who's disappeared. I'd like you to find him for me. Still a dark night. Double your fee. I see a light, Mr. Hanley. Outside, the city was wrapped up tight in the kind of wet ceiling, zero fog that leaves you feeling damp and all alone. Hanley's joint on Los Feliz was an old English stone mansion, sprawling, smothered ivy and about as cozy and come hither as a scream in the night. Inside, I followed an aging, round shouldered butler whose footsteps didn't make any noise along the type of high, wide, nice, cold, furnished corridor you find only in museums when we finally arrived at Hanley's study, however, things changed. It was a small room with bright lights, heat and a desk cluttered with friendly bric a brac. Hanley himself was standing against the far wall. And for a moment, the contrast was jarring. Because the self made man in shirt sleeves, built like a boxcar and chewing on a cold cigar didn't at all match the collection of stiff family photos, 1890s style, that hung on the wall behind him. What is it, Marlowe? Hard to find the family resemblance from here. Your folks, Mr. Hanley? Yeah. Left to right. My mother. She passed on a year ago. Me as a kid, my father a lush, and my grandfather. He claimed to have killed more Indians than ever existed. All born and raised in a lot of nothing. Walker Foale. Couldn't hold you, huh? Yeah. Couldn't bring me back either. Even when Ma died. I was only a little tyke when I ran away. Mono. Couldn't stand my grandfather even then, nothing but a rod and a bottle. Bad combo. How about your father? Oh, I wrote a few nice words to him. My sister wrote me that Ma died and I sent a fat check for flowers and a tombstone. But he never answered privately. Drank the dough up. He never could save a buck in his own, they tell me. Anyhow, enough of letting her hair down on Marlowe. Let's get on to business. Sit down, sir. Oh, thanks. Sure. You. You said someone disappeared, Mr. Hanley? An old man? Yeah, there was a gardener here. Marlow. Name's Cooper. John Cooper. He's 60, 65 maybe. Tall and skinny and got a fringe of curly hair around his ears. The rest is strictly cue ball. Yeah, he shoved off yesterday. With what, Hanley? With. You catch on fast, Phil. You know, it's my trade. Yeah. Yeah. Well, the stuff don't amount to too much. Half a dozen fancy silver drinking glasses. Those goblets. Goblets? Yeah, goblets. Worth about a hundred apiece. Nothing that'll dent me. Also, I'm insured, of course. Well, then the goblets mean something else. They do. Let's call them a present from a lady. All right, let's. I want the back MO. Why me? Why not the insurance company? The law? No, that I don't want. And if you laugh when I tell you the reason, I'm gonna punch you right square in the nose. And have some scotch. No, thanks. Go ahead. Well, drink alone then, if you don't mind. I don't mind. It's this old duck, Cooper. You know, I feel sorry for him. Yeah, he came in here one day last week, cap in hand, looking beat as an alley cat. So I gave him a job helping one of the gardeners. But I was onto him right from the start. What does that mean? He was a gardener like I'm a ballet dancer. Yeah, I could tell. And from there on, it got worse. First couple of days, he watched me and everybody else around here pop out as a shoplifter. Loose and Tiffany's. But you didn't fire him. No. No, I figured a few square meals, some sleep, a little dough in his pocket, it'd calm him down. So I just put a new master padlock in my trophy room and let it go with it. That was your mistake, huh? Yeah. Yeah. But just so you don't think I'm losing my marbles, Phil, I better tell you about another mistake. But gonna have to make this short dinner guest, you know. Another mistake? Mm. Yeah. 15 years ago, Phil, I was in a spot just like this Cooper. Yeah. I was broke, hungry, mad at the world, and in a position to do the wrong thing. I did, and I got caught. The boss understood, read me the riot act and let me go. Today it's my turn. Want a laugh? Not very much. Tell me, what have you got for me to go on? Well, thin air. Aperture good. Molly, you'll make out the name and description I already gave you. All right, here's the rest of it. According to the servants, one, lived somewheres around skid row. Two, he never touched anything that kicked harder than ginger ale and that he went for in a big way. Three, he had a buddy in his neighborhood who was teaching him how to wiggle. You know, make stuff. Carving wood. Yeah, I know. That's it, huh? Well, that plus the fact that he smoked these pint sized cigars. We found a pack of them. The overalls are one. Here they are. They're called Aces Up. Made in a downtown LA shop, also on skid row. Oh, the address is on the box there. Could help. Could. Well, see what I can do, Mr. Hanley. Okay. Marlon, call me as soon as you get close, will you? And Marlow. Yeah, I. I want those goblets pretty bad, but take care of the old man, will you? I know what you mean. Yeah. Also, Hanley, I think it's a pretty decent thing. Hey, you'll have to excuse me, Marlon. I got a change for my guess. Talk to you, huh? I followed Hanley back along the museum corridor past the guests who included a spy. Beautiful lady dressed in too much black, chatting with a crisp item in banker's gray flannel who looked like he'd been born holding an hors d'oeuvre. I didn't see how they could have much in common with their host, but when the big front door is closed behind me, I forgot about them and concentrated on finding a needle in a haystack. A needle in a haystack and a fog yet. Well, the tobacco manufacturer responsible for the handmade black rope called Aces up was my first try. His shop was a two by four dirty glass storefront labeled H Andrave in dry peeling gold foil that flaked off when I opened and closed the front door, and what had to be the proprietor was alone, rolling cigars on a rickety table that was stacked high with damp dark tobacco leaves. He didn't look up when I described the man I was after last if he'd seen him moment later, when he did turn his head my way to answer, I realized why. I am sorry, senor, I don't see nobody. I am blind. Fine start, huh? For some cockeyed reason, like the fog of the kind of man I was after or the neighborhood of derelicts I moved through which could have used a few sprays of sweet air, didn't get any better, not at least for the next hour, during which I stuck to the wood carving angle and covered every possible tie in I could think of, including a visit to a nearby home for retired men of the sea. Looking for someone who's teaching a man to whittle. That's right, he's teaching an old man named John Cooper. Ever hear of him? No, can't say I have. Put lots of lads here, Whittle. Why don't you have a chat with them? Okay in the morning. They're all bedded down now, mate. Wouldn't want to pipe him out over a silly question like yours, would you? No, no, skipper. Let him sleep right there. The whittling went the way of Aces Up Cigars, and I turned to my last hope, John Cooper's miniature for ginger ale. However, asking about that in the cheap, noisy bars at dotted Main street was even a sillier question that gave all the local comics their big break. Finally. Straight ginger ale, you say, huh? Now let me see. I get so many orders for it. You know, it could have been the time Carrie Nation stopped in. Or was it the night some joker who was eating pig's knuckles called for a finger bone? Now look, bright eyes, let's work a little less on the gags and a little more on. Hey, see that guy over there? In the corner booth. The little fella whittling on that stick. You know him? Come on, come on. Here's five for your trouble. Who is he? The name is Skeeter. Been doing his drinking and wood chopping here for five years. Is he always alone? Not always. Sometimes. He has a buddy with him lately. An old ball he's trying to teach how to cut them poles. A guy who never orders nothing at all, so don't get. What does Skeeter drink? Skeeter? Yeah. Why? He always has bourbon in it. Bourbon and ginger ale, the guy you want must drink Skeeter's Chases, huh? That figures. Thanks. Well, don't mention it. Scroll Ball. A profitable pleasure with thy eyes. Making me nervous. What is it, mister? Lose something? Sort of. John Cooper. Oh, have you seen him? Skeeter? He told me I could get in touch with him through you here at this bar. Said you were a friend. And I am. Say, is he in trouble, mister? Maybe. What makes you ask? Because he didn't show tonight and last night he was all out of sorts. Had something on his mind. Couldn't pay attention to the letter I was giving him. Is it bad? No. Not if I can get next to him in a hurry. Tell me, Skeeter, do you know where he. Where he stays? Sure do. A rat hole over on South Spring, Number two. Hey, wait. You ain't a cop, are you? Oh, no. A friend. Skeeter? Yeah? What kind of cigars does he smoke? Friend ace is up. Do I pass? Uh huh. It's 210 South Spring. 210 South Spring. Thanks. So long, Skeeter. I'll get in touch if I need any more help. Oh, hey. Sorry, buddy. I was in a hurry. I didn't see you. You lost up my shoeshine, sweetheart. Where you run it? Get your mitts off. I said I was sorry. What do you want? The dime you invested in. The shiny your ears slapped down into the pockets of that zoot suit which. Okay, okay, we'll let it go. I thought we would. So long again, Skeeter. And thanks. After I made my call to my client and told him how we stood, I drove the half a dozen blocks to 210 S. Spring St. The place was the kind of stale smelling, beer can lidded, dingy, two story affair that made you wonder if the garbage collector got around anymore. When I knocked on the cracked glass front door that sported a laundry shirt, cardboard that said Rooms for rent and eyebrow pencil, I was ready for anything. And that's what I got. Puffy red eyes, bad Teeth smell of cheap gin all in a cold cream shiny face that was half hidden by enough bleached blond hair to stuff an ottoman. Hey, handsome. I can catch my death a cold here. What's up? You're the landlady? No, she passed out. But I was drinking with her, so I'll do. What do you want? An old man named John Cooper. Is he in? The skinny duffer? Yeah, I guess so. I seen him earlier. It's that door back there. The one on the right. Hey. Hey, Chalky. What do you want back there? Where you going? Let's see. Podbean, your message amplified. Ready to share your message with the world. Start your podcast journey with Podbean. Podbean, the AI powered all in one podcast platform. Thousands of businesses and enterprises trust Podbean to launch their podcasts. Use Podbean to record your podcast. Use PodBean AI to optimize your podcast. Use PodBean AI to turn your blog into a podcast. Use Podbean to distribute. Distribute your podcast everywhere. Launch your podcast on Podbean today. This way. Was that Cooper's room the fella just came out of? Last on the right? Yeah, that's it. That last probably swiped your friend's bottle. He's the kind empty. Too bad. You know, he drinks you under the table and then takes what's left, which in this case would be ginger ale. Cooper doesn't drink. Yeah. Oh, and he know about that. Hey. Hey. You got company. Hey, Cooper. Lights on. Try the knob, huh? You're kind of anxious. Yeah, it's your game, mister. He doesn't drink. Huh? What do you call that spread eagle position on the floor? Napping? No, not with that knife in his chest. I call that murder. In just a moment, we will return to the second act of Philip Marlowe. But first, one of your favorite laugh shows and stars, My Favorite Husband, starring Lucille Ball, will return to CBS this Saturday night. Formerly heard on Sunday nights, Lucille Ball and her favorite husband will now be heard on most of these same CBS stations every Saturday night. Be listening this Saturday when Lucille plunges that favorite husband into a mad and merry mix up over who is the town's best or worst dressed man. Now with our star, Gerald Moore, the second act of Philip Marlowe and tonight's story, the soft spot. The old man's body was rumpled in death like a discarded bundle of rags, loosely pinned at the center with a knife that had killed him. And as the frowzy blonde gradually realized he was dead, the look on her face was dumb, slack mouthed. Revulsion. Gee, death's an awful looking thing, ain't it? Ain't it? Hey, don't touch him, mister. It don't seem decent. Decency is strictly relative, sister. There's a scratch here on his neck like a woman's fingernail. Raked it where? Hey, his locket's gone. Locket? Yeah, this old guy wore a locket. Yeah, I seen it on him yesterday when the cops hauled off that redhead from upstairs. This old guy was shaving and he came out in the hall without his shirt on to watch. And I seen the locker around his neck. What'd it look like? It was a little square one on a gold chain. Now it ain't there. Ripped off and in a hurry. That much old gold's not worth murder, even in this backwash. Baby, what do you use for closets? Closets? Are you kidding? In this dump, you hang your stuff on the plumbing and like it. Why? Well, then there's no place here that six big silver goblets could be hiding. I guess you couldn't hide a shot glass in this joint. Not for long, anyway. The old boy travel light. There's nothing here. But what? Hey, what'd you find? What'd you find? Oh, this newspaper story on the table torn out of the day before yesterday's paper. It says, Nelson Root, wealthy Beverly Hills broker, dies in a freak car smasher. Rude, is survived by his wife, former showgirl Evelyn Lansing. Now, what do you suppose that old guy was saving that for? To have sold his shoes with, maybe? Oh, sure. Now, look, as long as you get your brain in gear, tell me where I can find that guy who ran out of here. Chalky? Yeah. Hey, listen, mister, I don't want to get mixed up in this. I just live here. I'm back here. You're already mixed up in it. But that Chalky's awful hard, mister, I wouldn't want to cross. Now, listen, that old man there was murdered, remember? It's for keeps. You tell me here and now. Are the cops down at headquarters? Come on. Where does he live? I. I don't know for sure. I think I heard once he's got a shack in the alley behind some warehouse over on San Pedro Street. Which warehouse? I don't know. Honest, I don't know. Hey, you might find out at Dooley's Diner. I think he shoots craps over there. Okay, thanks, baby. And do yourself another favor before you cool off. Call the police. It took a solid hour of devious back alley trails before I finally broke down the intimidated loyalty of The Skid Row Brotherhood, with a well placed ten dollar bill and got a bona fide lead. The thick fog that crawled along the alley. Chalky's shack had all the welcome home look of a wet gutter. Was wedged in under the hulking concrete base of an overpass like. Like dirt under a giant fingernail. Sick yellowish light oozed out through a single tiny window too murky to see into. So I did the next best thing and hoped that he was alone inside. Who's there? Who is it? Oh, yeah. I got a tip for you. Chucky Dooley sent me. It's about the johns. They're after you. Cops. Hey, wait a minute. Watch the tip, fellow. Hey. Hey, where are you? Right here, Chalky. Stay where you are, buster. I'll kick your head off. Hey, hey, what's the idea? I want fast answers, Chalky. Nice straight ones. Wipe your knife to the old guy tonight. Knife? The old. Hey, who are you? What's the idea? I want answers, not questions. Chalky, why'd you do it? I didn't. I didn't kill him. I never used a shiv. He was already dead when I went in there. I lifted that locket off to the old coot, that's all. So help me. Give me that locket. He ain't got it no more, Ma. Murphy's got it now. I. I hocked it already. She gave me three and a quarter on it. Look, I. I got a buck left. If you want that, you can. Lying grifter. You kill an old man to get the trinket for 2 cents? Well, no, I didn't. I seen that guy with the big ears run out of the old coot's room, so I went up the table. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Guy with big ears? Yeah, they was a zoot suter. I never seen him around before. I remember them flaps of his. He ran out of the old guy's joint in the big steam squad. Hey, now listen, buddy. He was the guy who done it, honest. Ain't no doubt about it. He was. Hey, now, wait a minute, you. You ain't a friend of his, are you? Is again, unless he was 10. Oh, now, listen, buddy. I never put the finger on the guy before in my life, but when it's protecting my own height. Yeah, I could have been the finger. So long, Chalky, and drop dead. It was still foggy outside, but my own personal fog began to lift. Big Ears must have been tailing me, overheard me on the phone and got to the old man first. But why why? The clipping that old man Cooper had about Nelson Roots accident. Nelson Root survived by a widow. A widow? Holy smoke. Callahan of the Daily Star gave me half a dozen pictures of Evelyn Lansing Root from her early cheesecake days right on up to the role of widow in mourning. There was no doubt left. She was the lady in black, one of my client's dinner guests. By the time I'd driven through the fog out to Las Feliz again and up to Hanley's sprawled out house, I'd lined the whole business up to where it made a twisted kind of sense. There was nothing left to do but nap it in his lap. I found him in his study. What's wrong, Marlow? Maybe you better tell me. Tell you what? Did you find Cooper or didn't you? Sure I found him. I found him dead. What? The old man is dead. You know perfectly well he's dead. Come on Marlo, sit down. Have a drink. You'll a beat. No thanks. I've covered a lot of ground tonight. Most of it pretty slimy. Led me in a big circle. It started here and ends here. And now it's late. Both fairly intelligent. Let's give each other a break, shall we? Go on. Let's suppose that a man was in love with a woman. A married woman who was tired of her husband. So? So she and the man arranged for the husband to die in a freak accident. Yeah, yeah, that's right. And let's suppose a strange old Giza overheard them planet and then disappeared. Oh, that's rough. Rough. I imagine they'd have to find him and shut him up, wouldn't they? Or he'd blackmail him to death. Possibly. And how do you suppose they go about that, Hanley? Hire a private detective? Maybe give him a song and a dance about a theft? A trumped up story about some missing silver goblets? Maybe? Maybe. Only he'd be much too reputable to do their killing. Yeah. So they'd hire a professional killer, one with big ears to follow the detective. And when the old man was located, the killer would step in and go to work with a knife and then vanish completely because he'd be a good professional man. Well, Hanley? Well, Milo? Oh yes. Yeah, that's a great yarn but a little fantastic, isn't it? Yeah. Oh good boy, that's the way I figured. Too weird to take seriously. Only I'm gonna make it stick. Yeah, Marlow, you try to embarrass me with a crackpot theory like that and I'll make you the laughing Stock of this state, do you hear? I'll have you hooted right out of the business. Because you don't have one shred of proof, Marlow. And you'll never be able to get one. And what's more, you know it, don't you? Don't. Get your hands off me, Hanley. Sure. Oh, come on, Phil. Come on. Come on. Let's have that drink now. And then you go on home and forget all about this, huh, Joey? Oh. After all, the old jerk was just a skid row drifter. He didn't belong any place. Who'll ever miss him? He was nobody, Phil. Get it? Mr. Nobody. He's no law, so let's just forget him. Marlow. Marlow. Wait a minute. Marlo. Come back here. I had to get out. What made it even worse to us that I knew he had me, I couldn't even begin to prove the first word of what I knew was the truth. I couldn't sleep with it either. That was why, an hour later I leaned against the lamppost back on skid row again and looked across a lifeless intersection through the eddying fog at the Gauntlet flop house where the old man had died. Well, well, well. Awayfaring stranger in the night. Hiya, pal. Bated. Wait a minute. Wayfaring stranger. Couldn't you accommodate me to the extent of a match? Or would that break your back? Here, keep him. Thanks. Why don't you go home, pal? Nothing happens here on Cooper street after 2 in the a.m. as a matter of fact, nothing happens anywhere anymore. Cooper street. Cooper. That's one right out of the book. I'll bet 50 bucks on it. Nine out of ten they'll take the name of a street. Huh? Who? Never mind. You live around here? Where's Ma? Murphy's Pawn Shop. Hey, easy. Watch the lapels, pal. Well, come on. Where is it? Mars? Join us three blocks down on Filbert, downstairs. Miller to the block, but there's no romance there. Palace. I still got a good notion to call the cops. The idea getting me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night to give you a look at a cheap little locket. And all on a dizzy hunch, you said? Yeah, wild one. You know, the locket I mean, Mark. Come on, try it out. It'll do you no good. Anyway, sonny can't sell it to you for 30 days yet. The law, you know. Yeah, sure. But you've been winking at the law so long you're blind in one eye, Ma. Is that so? Well, here you are, see? Is it hot? Sunny. I'll know in a minute. It's the inside. I want to see if it's. Oh. What is it, sonny? Is something the matter? Yeah, my hunch paid off, Ma. It's hot, all right. Hot enough to burn a guy to death. Here's my card. I'm taking this along. What? Now hold on a minute, Hugh. Hey, stop. I'll call the cops. Don't bother, honey. I'll call him myself. The lights were still on in Earl Hanley's study. So I pulled over and parked on the street and went up the walk on foot. And as I moved to the door, the fog slid around me in thick swirls. When Hanley answered, his face was hard and ugly. He had a gun in his hand. Our business is over with, Marlow. Not quite, Hanley. What do you want? I got a tag for our fantastic little Just suppose story. You're either drunk or stupid, Marlowe. I warned you once. Now beat it. Not till you've heard my punchline, Hanley. It goes like this. Suppose a wife died after 40 years of marriage. And left her husband alone. A lonely, lost old man who's mellowed with the years. Suppose he doesn't have much time left himself, and he knows it. But he's got an obsession, an old unhappiness he wants to set straight. He wants to see a fella, not cause any trouble. Just be around where he can look at him now and then. Come on, get to the point. Sure. This is the point, Hanley. Here. Here, take it. Where did you get this locket, Lionel? Where? Where? Just suppose it has your picture on one side and your mother's on the other. What then? I gave this locket to my mother when I was a kid. Where did you get it? Come on, tell me. It came from around the neck of a harmless, sentimental old man. Who was stabbed to death tonight by a hired killer. He'd never have turned you in or blackmailed you, Hanley. Cause that old man was your father. I. I had my own father killed. I ordered my own father's death. I didn't know it. Yeah. Mr. Nobody, remember? Come on, Hanley. Give me the gun. We can go. Hanley went quietly all the way. He kept the little locket clenched in his fist. But as I led him up the stairs at police headquarters, he broke loose long enough to shatter both his hands against the marble pillar. He wound up in a straight jacket. But it didn't matter much, because when they picked up Evelyn Root, the lady in too much black, she filled in the rest of the story, including a lead to Big Ears. When it was over and I was sitting outside in my car alone in the fog that pressed close against the windows, I could see nothing of the city, nothing but the soft swimming white mist which hid the black outlines of Skid Row. Funny thing, you know, some people can get out of Skid Row, but Skid Row will never get out of some people. The adventures of Philip Marlowe bringing you Raymond Chandler's most famous character star Gerald Moore are produced and directed by Richard Sanville and written for radio by Robert Mitchell and Gene Levitt. Featured in the cast were Bill Boucher, Vivi Janis, Verna Felton, Edgar Barrier, Peter Leeds, Nestor Paiva and Paul Dubov. The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Arant. Be sure and be with us again next week when Philip Marlow says this time there were five masks, one for greed, one for cowardice, one for cruelty and one for deceit. And they all covered a murder. But it was the fifth mask that really counted because it uncovered the killer for some Easy to listen to music on Sunday afternoons. Be sure to hear those favorites, the Symphonat and the Coral Ears, which return to CBS this Sunday afternoon. The Symphonat brings you musical favorites from the lighter classics played by a group of outstanding instrumentalists. The Choral Ears sing rousing marches, popular songs of the day and familiar music of the past. Hear the Symphonette and the Choral Ears this Sunday and every Sunday afternoon on most of these same CBS stations. To hear each and every star, leave your dials where they are cause this is cbs, the Star's address. Yes, cbs, the Star's address. Roy Rowan speaking. This is cbs, where next week you will hear Philip Marlowe. An hour and a half later, Eastern Daylight Saving Time on the Columbia Broadcasting System SA.