Sam Spade (141:43)
I see. Well, thank you for your time. I'm sorry I bothered you. You used bad judgment in cunning in the first place. Yes, maybe you're right. There was falsehood in this someplace, Lieutenant, and it stuck out like a fat girl in slacks. The only thing to do was to go back to my apartment, get Tom turkey and confront Mrs. T with her husband in the flesh. But when I got back to my apartment building, I spotted in rapid succession, one, an ambulance, two, a police car, and upstairs, outside my half open apartment door, I spotted three. You. I've been expecting you. What's going on, Kelsey? Serious, Sam, serious. Who's that bald headed man moving around the apartment? That's McCracken, the new medical examiner, checking the stiff on your rug. I stepped around you, Lieutenant, and pushed the door all the way open. I saw McCracker kneeling over the body and a couple men from Homicide taking photos. I moved into the room feeling nothing good. A little guy had given me a job and while I was yakking with his wife, somebody got to him. And in my apartment where I'd stashed him, McCracken stood up and I looked down at the body. Then I looked again. Who I saw wasn't Tom Turkey at all. It was the late private eye, Al Kuchel. You are listening to the weekly adventure of radio's most famous detective, Sam Spade. You Friday fans of Sam Spade. There's mystery on Saturday evening too. On NBC tomorrow, the man called X sets out on another mission of danger and intrigue in some far off corner of the earth. Herbert Marshall stars as the man called X. A man without a name who travels the world over protecting his country's interests. He lives by his wits and his business is danger. He is the man called X. Tomorrow over most NBC stations for top Sunday listening, it's another broadcast of the big show on NBC this Sunday. Your stars include Fred Allen, Jack Carson, Mindy Carson, Ed Archie Gardner, Ed Wynn and many, many more. And Tallulah is your mc as usual. This Sunday it's the big show on NBC. And now back to the terrified Turkey caper. Tonight's adventure with Sam sp. While the men from Homicide were taking pictures, etc, you and I, lieutenants were going round and round on the question if I didn't kill the man found in my room, who did? And you were sufficiently impressed with my insults, Kelsey, not to hold me for the murder. We bowed to each other and I left thinking back to the truck that had almost run Turkey down. I went to the Haines. You drive truck rental garage? Yeah. What do you. I mean what do you want? I'm a detective. Could you give me a list of names for everybody who rented a truck from you during the past few days? Sure. He handed me a big registration book and I read every name for the past week. For the first five days they all seemed to be nice, normal, abnormal names. And then under the rentals for the day before was the name of John Smith. John had given his address as 7200 Kearney. And I happen to know that Kearney only goes up to 2,000. The dispatcher said that Smith had returned the truck about three hours before and he remembered him as an ugly, heavy set and rough voiced character who looked like an ex longshoreman. They had already washed the truck so the fingerprints were all loused up. Well, it's Mr. Spade again. Look, I'd like to speak with Mrs. Turk. Ms. Black, if you don't mind. Come in. Come in. Thank you. This way. Into the den. Right. Hell, I was sure you'd look into this affair a little more and realize that it was just a blind alley, a hoax of some kind. Where's Ms. Black? Oh, she's upstairs lying down. The whole affair has upset her, and she asked not to be disturbed. I think the wisest course of action for you, Mr. Spade, is just to let the matter drop. You can't let a murder Just drop, Mr. Lewis. The police wouldn't hear of it. Huh? Murder? Who? An unfrocked private detective named Al Kucho. Well, what does this have to do with Henrietta Black? Al Couture called me earlier today and said that Tom Turkey was a crackpot. A little man with delusions. He tried to top me off taking his case. He sounds like a perceiving man. Well, he didn't perceive. Ending up in my apartment with a bullet in his head. That's too bad. But I still. I left Tom Turkey in my apartment for safekeeping. And when I returned, he was gone and Kuchel was dead. Well, that explains itself. Obviously, this detective knew that Tom Turkey was a phony and Turkey killed him. It can figure that way and a number of other ways. Mr. Spade, I have no desire to sit here trading subtleties with you. As yet, no one has demonstrated that the real Tom Turkey actually exists alive. Now, until you do have something more concrete and less mythological, Ms. Black requests that you do not come around opening up old wounds. You've made an eloquent point. Just tell me one thing, if I can. When did Tom Turkey disappear? I mean, what month? What day it was? Oh, yes, 1943. November. But I'm not sure of the exact day. I think it was in the third week. Could it have been on Thanksgiving? Very possibly. Very possibly. I returned thoughtfully to my office and did a little rapid mental arithmetic and came up with a number seven. From November 23, 1943, to November 23, 1950, was seven years to the day. And I pondered this. What did the number seven mean to the life or death of Tom Turkey? I had just hit upon the answer and was crying, eureka. When my office door opened unknocked and a visitor came in unannounced. He was ugly, heavyset, and looked like an ex longshoreman. I waited to see if the voice checked. You, Spade. Who shall I say is called? Captain John Smith. And here's my calling card. The first. The first bullet grazed my shoulder and tore the padding out of my coat. The second bullet hit the Water cooler and it crashed over water and all on top of me. Where the third bullet hit. I wasn't sure at the time because darkness came rushing through my head like a freight drink. When I opened my eyes again, I expected to see St. Peter checking my ID card. But all I saw were the dust balls under my desk and a fly bathing himself in a pool of water, spreading slowly over the floor. There was blood on my hand, but it came from a glass cut. I was in shambles, but alive. Captain John Smith had shoved off, obviously thinking his bullets had done their work. Homicide, Lieutenant Kelsey. Sam Kelsey. Have you found anything more about Ton Turkey? Nothing, Sam. Frankly, I'm beginning to wonder if there is such a guy. Well, clever, Kelsey. A few minutes ago, a gorilla by the name, believe it or not, of Captain John Smith just tried to kill me in my office. Oh, go on, Sam. I find it hard to think. You find it hard to think, period. Really, Sam, did you get him? No, but my office is a wreck and there's a hole blasted in my wall big enough to put a basketball in. What did he use, a bazooka? I figured dum dum bullet sometime. That's illegal, ain't it? Kelsey, doesn't it strike you as significant that every attempt on Turkey's life has been vicious? As if someone not only wanted to kill him, but also mutilate him? Yeah, yeah, now that you mention it, somebody probably wanted to make identification difficult. Even dead, they didn't want anybody to know who he was. Now, listen carefully, Kelsey. This is real deep. Tom Turkey disappeared on Thanksgiving of 1943. A person has to be missing seven years before he can be legally dead and his insurance collected. Now, if someone had Turkey insured, they could collect the day after this Thanksgiving. If Turkey didn't show up before. You mean somebody's trying to kill him for the insurance? I would say so, Kelsey. I would say so. Now hurry up and find them. When I put down the phone, I heard a heavy pounding. For a minute I thought it was in my head until I turned to face the door and standing there was a small pilgrim with bandy legs in black stockings, pantaloons, white collared coat and stovepipe hat. Hallelujah. He wore silver buckles and what he was pounding on the floor was an 18th century blunderbuss.