ANNCR:

The Adventures of Sam Spade, Detective -- brought to you by Wildroot Cream Oil Hair Tonic, the non-alcoholic hair tonic that contains Lanolin. Wildroot Cream Oil, "Again and again the choice of men and women and children, too."

MUSIC:

UP INTO TRILL INTO PHONE BELL

SOUND:

PHONE RINGS..REPEATS UNTIL CUE..EFFIE'S STEPS FADE ON

[EFFIE-SAM OPENING] (TO COME)

ANNCR:

Dashiell Hammet, America's leading detective fiction writer, and creator of Sam Spade, the hard boiled private-eye -- and William Spier, radio's outstanding producer-director of mystery and crime drama, join their talents to make your hair stand on end with the Adventures of Sam Spade.... (MUSIC: ACCENTS) ...presented by the makers of Wildroot Cream-Oil for the hair.

(COMMERCIAL)

 

MUSIC:

SNEAK UNDER

ANNCR:

And now, with Howard Duff starring as Spade, Wildroot brings to the air, the greatest private detective of 'em all..in the Adventures of Sam Spade!

MUSIC:

UP TO SHOW

SPADE:

Date: February 13, 1949. To: Mrs. Ulysses S. Steel, 1454 Ridgepoint Road, San Francisco. From: Samuel Spade, license number, 137596. Subject: Your daughter. (MUSIC: SNEAK) Most of the mothers who come to me with wandering daughter problems are living answers to the question of why girls leave home. I couldn't say the same for you. You impressed me as a kindly person, a little nervous, maybe, but I wasn't long in finding out why.

MRS. S:

It's her attitude. I'm not a suspicious person by nature, Mr. Spade, but she has changed so completely. Elva has always been a lovely, well-mannered girl. Naturally, we sent her to the best schools and spared no expense in her upbringing. But, now, Mr. Spade, the language she uses - Rude, vile. Some of it I can't even understand.

SPADE:

Such as?

MRS. S:

Well, I -- I -- on one occasion, to explain a protracted absence from home, she said she had been doing a - a possum-- Oh, I can't bring myself to repeat it.

SPADE:

A possum-belly, Mrs. Steel?

MRS. S:

Yes. What does it mean?

SPADE:

Don't worry about it. That's just a slang expression for lying low -- hiding out.

MRS. S:

Hiding out!? From what?

SPADE:

What's her explanation?

MRS. S:

She says she's going to dramatic school. Mr. Spade, surely she wouldn't learn some of the things even in dramatic school. Why, the very servants are appalled. Our cook resigned because Elva called her a mell moll and a knuckle headed hash slinger because she ordered a punk-and-gut and poor cook said she had never made pumpkin pie with tripe in it and refused to do it now. And when she insisted upon having cat heads with sow-bosom and cackle berries for breakfast and referred to a lovely chocolate mousse as-- Well, I really can't repeat that.

SPADE:

Mrs. Steel, has your daughter ever been in stir, I mean, prison?

MRS. S:

Good heavens, no! Mr. Spade, you don't think my daughter has been consorting with some member of the underworld.

SPADE:

I don't know, but it wouldn't take me long to find out. What's the name of this dramatic school she says she's going to?

MRS. S:

It's called the Tortsoff School of Dramatic Arts. According to Elva, she attends classes there every evening, but when I've tried to phone her there, there has never been any answer. And last night, I actually want over there. It seems to be a large studio on the second floor. But it was in darkness and the doors were locked. When I confronted Elva with that, she laughed at me and called me an old scissor-bill and advised me to keep my nose clean and stop giving her the double-O, whatever that is.

SPADE:

It means she thinks you've been spying on her.

MRS. S:

Well, I think it's high time. Mr. Spade, I want you to watch that girl night and day and find out what she's up to. |

SPADE:

(MUSIC IN) Judging from your daughter's picture - keeping an eye on her was going to be easy. After I'd cashed your check, I did a little checking on you, Mrs. Steel, and learned that your husband was a partner in the firm of Sterling and Steel, diamond importers, which might explain why some member of the underworld would be only too happy to consort with your daughter. After lunch, I strolled over to the Jackson street address of the Tortsov School of Dramatic Art. It occupied the loft of an old brick building and had dirty windows. The door was standing slightly ajar, and the dialogue that floated out slightly jarred me.

BLANCHE:

(FADES FROM UNDER)...and another thing, you listen to me, you big four-flusher! To that society dame, you may be a combination of Raffles, Robin Hood, and Jimmy Valentine, but to me you're just a house-dog, with time off for good behavior.

WOODY:

Aw, Blanche, lay off.

BLANCHE:

(MIMICS HIM) Ahh, Blanche, lay off. I won't do nothing of the sort. Fifteen years in the rackets and look at you.

WOODY:

I got plans.

BLANCHE:

Sure you got plans. For what clink this time? Or was you considering a chain gang for the summer months?

WOODY:

This is a set-up. It can't miss. She's got the whole layout. The way the place is wired, the combination to the safe. Even the keys, she got copied. We walk right in like we own the joint.

BLANCHE:

Yeah, and then either the night watchman drills you and you die. Or you drill him and die anyway. Only from gas. Look at me, Woody. I'm your woman. Remember? I hate to see you goin' on like this.

WOODY:

What a cheesy line.

BLANCHE:

I can't help it. That's the way it is. Do you mind?

WOODY:

Yeah. I'm getting out of here.

SOUND:

(STEPS APPROACH)

BLANCHE:

(FADES CLOSER) Hey, wait a minute. The least you can do is buy me a drink.

WOODY:

(CLOSER) Okay with me, pieface, but you're paying for it.

SPADE:

(MUSIC UNDER) I ducked into a nearby broom closet (and if you have followed my career on the radio, you know that I have more luck that way)--cross that out, Effie--and waited till they had gone. I was lucky again because they were very careless about locking doors, and they shouldn't have been. I'm not familiar with dramatic schools, but I do know an arsenal when I see one, and the Tortsoff School of Dramatic Art contained: Fifteen Thompson sub-machine guns: twelve carbines, M-1; several fistfuls of automatics of calibers forty-five and thirty-eight; a suitcase full of two-inch pipe cut into foot lengths, packed with Cordite and equipped with home-made fuses. There were also several kits of tools for safe-cracking and other burglarious activities and lots and lots of ammunition, all of it live. If these were props, the Tortsoff School really went in for realism. They were certainly violating the city fire ordinances. The only thing I found that was at all theatrical was in a closet -- some cardboard placards and some poster paint. I created a colorful "No Smoking" sign, free-hand style, nailed it to the wall, and left. (MUSIC: UP AND DOWN) (SOUND: TRAFFIC B.G.) At seven in the P.M, I spotted your daughter leaving your home and followed her. (SOUND: SPADE'S STEPS ON SIDEWALK) When she left, she was carrying an overnight bag and was dressed in what my secretary informed me was the latest thing - a sectional dress, a quick, small jacket with gold plated hooks, and pleated skirt with high cummerbund -- in moonlit blue. But on her, it looked fine. Her first stop was a cab stand. (SOUND: STEPS OUT)

ELVA:

(OFF) The Queen's Hotel, driver, and please hurry.

DRIVER:

(OFF) Okay, if that's the way you want it.

ELVA:

Cop a heel, will yuh? Shag!

DRIVER:

Huh!?

SOUND:

(CAR DOOR SLAMS: CAR THROUGH GEARS AND FADE UNDER)

SPADE:

(NARRATION) I piled into an adjacent conveyance, copped a heel, and shagged after her. The Queens Hotel is a waterfront flea bag so low that the fleas have to wear pressure suits to keep from getting the bends. Your daughter leaned over the sleeping room-clerk, picked a key off a hook and went upstairs. I leaned over the sleeping room-clerk and set fire to his whiskers...

POP:

Help! Help! Fire! Sound the alarm! Put me out!

SPADE:

Take it easy, Pop. (SOUND: PATS FACE) They needed trimming anyway.

POP:

By jupiter, that was a close shave. Lucky you was here, son. Thanks.

SPADE:

It was nothing, Pop. But you can help me.

POP:

You a Johnny Ham?

SPADE:

Just a poor deek, trying to make a living. The girl in room twenty-one. Who is she?

POP:

What's the matter? You bashful?

SPADE:

What name is she registered under?

POP:

Ain't.

SPADE:

Ain't what?

POP:

Registered. She comes to visit a friend. Ain't one of our regulars. I better look. (SOUND: LEDGER OPENED: PAGES TURNED) Here. Here he is. O'Gorman. Woodrow.

SPADE:

What's he do for a living?

POP:

Says he's an actor, but he don't carry no fiddle in that violin case.

SPADE:

(MUSIC IN) I didn't need to ask him what Woody O'Gorman did carry in his violin case. There wasn't time anyway. Because that's when your daughter came back down the stairs, and I did a quadruple "take". It was the quickest quick change I had ever seen. Instead of the smart little outfit she'd left home in, she was wearing a gaudy but not neat evening dress, slit up one side, plastered with sequins, and dripping with rhinestones. Also net stockings, also wedgies, a feather-boa yet, rings on the outside of her gloves, a cigarette holder approximately eighteen inches long, and a slinky walk to match. I turned up my coat-collar, dropped a cigarette in the corner of my mouth and slunk out after her. (MUSIC UP AND DOWN) By the time we reached Columbus Avenue, three other men with turned-up coat collars and cigarettes drooping out of the corners of their mouths were also following her. But when she started down a flight of stairs to a joint called Nick's Cellar, the other mashers gave up. (SNEAK SUBDUED BARROOM SOUND) When I got inside, I saw why. Not since the days of the old Blood Money mob had I seen such an assortment of evil-looking characters.

NICK:

(WEARILY) You a customer or one of Them?

SPADE:

Customer.

NICK:

Then you're drinking here at your own risk.

SPADE:

What's the caper?

NICK:

I wisht I knew. Here I was, running a nice cheery little place, with, I won't say square, but a semi-square clienteel. Just enough bums to attract a little tourist trade. And only one lush at a time, and we don't bounce him till the joint is full.

SPADE:

Well, real genteel. Just like a private club, huh.

NICK:

Private club! That's what you see now. For this bunch. They scared everyone else out.

SPADE:

Who are they?

NICK:

See that stocky gent, sitting over there in the booth with the dame that come in just ahead of you?

SPADE:

There's two of then.

NICK:

With the big cigar.

SPADE:

The Edward G. Robinson part?

NICK:

You can say that again. Only this one makes Little Caesar look like Mary Worth. His handle is Blacky Knight.

SPADE:

Blacky Knight. Sounds like something left over from Prohibition.

NICK:

You can say that again.

ALBERT:

(OFF) Button yer lip, yer old cow!

GWENNIE:

(OFF) Keep you 'air on, Albert. (SOUND: SLAP) Ow! Don't 'it me so 'ard, Albert!

SPADE:

Who are they?

NICK:

The guy's name is Albert.

SPADE:

And the woman, if that's what it is?

NICK:

Gwennie Hatchett. She did thirteen years for chopping her first husband in Liverpool and brags about it. And then that big guy with the face, sitting with the blonde dish, that's Big Jack Rorty. She's Blanche.

RORTY:

(OFF) Hey, who's talking about my frail?

BLANCHE:

(OFF) Who says I'm yours, you big slob. You ain't got a fence around me!

SPADE:

They all seem kind of jittery. What's up?

NICK:

Hey, who are you, anyway?

SPADE:

Sam Spade. Private Detective. You want my I.D.?

NICK:

Don't act crazy. You flash that, and they'll blast us both. Listen. Keep looking straight ahead. I'll get down behind the bar like I'm looking for a bottle. Dig the wax out of your ears and listen close.

SPADE:

(MUSIC IN) I did. And I didn't like what I heard. According to Nick, your daughter had indeed been consorting with members of the underworld, namely, the number two man on Blacky Knight's general staff, Woodrow, alias Woody, The Factory, O'Gorman. Blacky's mob was brand new and the story was that they were all late arrivals in the general western exodus of hoods from Calumet and points east. Nick didn't know exactly what the caper was, but he had heard the term "cracked ice" bandied about, and from this concluded that it was the pushover of a wholesale jewelry firm. From the dialogue I had overheard at the Tortsov School of Dramatic Art, I deduced that said pushover was scheduled for your husband's firm; and that the other pushover was your daughter who was doing the inside work.

NICK:

(LOW) And that ain't all. The word's out.

SPADE:

Somebody tipped the cops?

NICK:

Nah. Remember Charlie Fargo?

SPADE:

When did he break out?

NICK:

Paroled. Hs's been getting a new mob together too, and he don't like the idea of a bunch of outsiders walking off with local merchandise.

SPADE:

Expecting trouble.

NICK:

Yeah. And tonight.

SPADE:

(FULL VOICE) Set up another one. I'll be back.

SOUND:

(STEPS REGISTER AND OUT)

BLACKY:

What do you want?

SPADE:

Not you, Blacky. The girl. I'm taking her home.

ELVA:

Cop a heel, fathead. Shag. I'm all dated up.

GWENNIE:

Ay, Woody, pipe the josser wot's 'ornin' in on yer lidy-friend.

ALBERT:

Pipe down! (SOUND: WHAP)

GWENNIE:

Albert, don't 'it me so 'ard!

ELVA:

Oh, stop clowning, you two. Who are you, the shamus mother threatened to hire?

BLACKY:

You never mentioned that to me, Elva.

ELVA:

Well, I didn't take her seriously.

BLACKY:

But it's perfect. We have to change our whole attitude.

WOODY:

Pipe down, you muggs. The professor is hatching a new idea!

BLANCHE:

Ideas, ideas! When do we stop rehearsing and get into production?

BLACKY:

Stop that, Blanche, you're out of character.

SPADE:

Shut up, everybody!! Now, Elva, what's going on here?

ELVA:

Well, it's awfully hard to explain, but I'll have to insist you don't interfere. Look at the harm you've done already.

SPADE:

I have?

ELVA:

Yes. Your attitude is all wrong. You can't just be a private detective. You have to feel it. Naturalism has its place, but there's no need for dragging things out of real life onto the stage which had much better be discarded.

SPADE:

Go on. I'm fascinated.

BLACKY:

What Elva is trying to tell you, young man, is that everything must be real, but only in the imaginary life of the actor. I quote the great Stanislavski. What we had here this evening before you came in (I will pass over the subject of that bartender whom we finally had to frighten into silence; and the other customers, a definitely jarring note of naturalism); what we had, sir, was truth, transformed into a poetical equivalent by creative imagination, by emotion-memory, inner ethics and discipline, and concentration of attention all of which expressed itself in a sustained, pure attitude. Stanislavski.

SPADE:

What you're trying to tell me, Professor, is that the Tortsov School of Dramatic Art is on the level? That these hoods are really your students? And this is just a new-fangled way of rehearsing a play?

BLACKY:

Exactly. This is the first time that the principles of Stanislavski have been carried to their ultimate fruition. During every moment of the development of the action of the play we have tried to live our parts, both externally and internally.

SPADE:

Well, all I've got to say is, you must have a strong stomach. But not quite strong enough to bounce lead off of. In a word, I think it's time you all changed your attitudes and went home.

BLACKY:

Now look here--

SPADE:

Stop jumping your cue, and let me finish. The trouble is, you've all taken off your parts too good. If you think I'm a disturbing note of naturalism, wait till you meet a butcher named Charlie Fargo. And you will, because he's gunning for you.

ELVA:

Oh, it's too fantastic. Now, why [don't] you be nice and go back to mother and tell her it's all perfectly harmless, and---

NICK:

(SHOUTS OFF) Hey, Spade, here it comes!

BLANCHE:

(OFF) (SCREAMS)

SOUND:

BURST OF MACHINE GUN FIRE: BREAKING GLASS)

MUSIC:

(PUNCTUATES AND UNDER)

SPADE:

The first blast of the tommy-gun got the lights. The second raked the walls. I did a belly-flop and dragged Elva down with me. I didn't know how many of them there were. All I had seen was Charlie Fargo's mugg behind the Thompson. I started snaking toward the rear exit, pushing Elva ahead of me. But I didn't make it.

CHARLIE:

(OFF) Now listen, this don't have to be a massacre. All we want is the Steel dame. If we don't get her we blow this joint apart.

ELVA:

No!

SPADE:

Shut up!

ELVA:

Here I am. Come and get me.

SOUND:

(STEPS REGISTER FADING ON)

SPADE:

(MUSIC UNDER) I got ready for him. I had the layout of the room pretty well in mind--emotion-memory. But my attitude must have been wrong. Because there were two of him. I got into a crouch, ready to tackle part one, when part two let me have it. (SOUND: BOING) (REACTION) (MUSIC ACCENT) It was a disturbing note of naturalism that interfered momentarily with my concentration of attention. In fact, the only attitude that Stanislavski himself could have assumed at that moment was prone on the floor.

(UP TO FIRST ACT CURTAIN)

 

(OPENING COMMERCIAL)

 

ANNCR:

The makers of Wildroot Cream-Oil are presenting the weekly Sunday adventures of Dashiell Hammett's famous private detective....SAM SPADE.

MUSIC:

(UP AND RESOLVES OUT)

ANNCR:

And now back to "The Attitude Caper" - tonight's adventure with Sam Spade.

MUSIC:

SECOND OVERTURE

MUSIC:

(SECOND OVERTURE AND TO BACKGROUND)

SPADE:

When I came to, my attitude was still prostrate, and my emotion-memory told me somebody was pouring brandy down my throat. (ONSTAGE) (CHOKES) That's enough. What kind of brandy is that brandy?

NICK:

You should grouse. Look at my mirra.

BLACKY:

Mr. Spade, you've got to help us. They've kidnapped Elva. If this gets out, the Tortsov School of Dramatic Art is finished.

SPADE:

(STRUGGLING TO FEET) As far as I'm concerned, it never existed. You are a bunion on the foot of Terpsichore, a nail in the sandal of Thepsis, and bad for private detectives everywhere.

BLACKY:

Then you won't help us?

SPADE:

I have to, worse luck. Now, listen, all of you, dust off those attitudes and get back into them.

BLANCHE:

I'll never had another attitude as long as I live.

SPADE:

That's what you think, sister.

WOODY:

I don't like your attitude, Spade.

SPADE:

Shut up! Now let's get a few things straight. What is this play you've been rehearsing? Maybe we can use some of it.

BLACKY:

Well, I wrote it. It's about a society girl -- the daughter of a wealthy jewel merchant, who falls in love with a gangster--

WOODY:

Wood the Factory. That's me.

BLACKY:

--- and betrays her own father for love, only to be discarded by the bounder after --

SPADE:

Yeah, yeah. But the basic situation -- do I or do I not detect a jarring note of naturalism? Or is it a mere coincidence that the part of the jewel merchant's daughter is played by a jewel merchant's daughter?

BLACKY:

Well, we made some changes after Elva entered the cast. You see, she's not very talented, so I hit on the idea of having her play herself. Of course I had no idea that my direction was so brilliant that these hoodlums would mistake us for real-life gangsters.

SPADE:

Well, Charlie Fargo's not one of our sharper torpedoes. But you've taken him in once, and you're going to do it again.

BLACKY:

But once lost, an attitude is difficult to recapture, Mr. Spade. The inner motive forces ----

SPADE:

(INTERRUPTS) Forget it. From now on, I'm directing this piece of trash, and we're going to rewrite that ending. It's corny.

MUSIC:

(BRIDGE AND BACKGROUND)

SPADE:

There wasn't much time to rehearse the new material, so I simplified the whole production. For the next scene I put the entire augmented cast offstage and told them to act it out in pantomime. Then I went to see Charlie Fargo. It took about an hour to locate him. (SNEAK HARBOR BACKGROUND) He was holed up in a warehouse office down on the Embarcadero. I got in by a clever ruse. I paced up and down in front of it, looking suspicious, till one of his gophers pushed me in at the point of a gun.

ZIGGY:

Come on, you, march.

SPADE:

Hey, give me a break, will you? I only did what Blacky told me.

ZIGGY:

Yeah, yeah. Move.

SOUND:

(STEPS REGISTER: ENTER BUILDING: ECHO: DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES: STEPS TO WOOD & OUT)

ZIGGY:

Here he is, Charlie. He's one of the Blacky Knight push, alright.

CHARLIE:

Put it in the chair.

SPADE:

Sure, Charlie.

CHARLIE:

Now come on. Spill.

SPADE:

That's what I'm here for. In first place, I'm not in with Blacky Knight, but he thinks I am. My only interest in this caper is that girl you snatched in Nick's cellar.

CHARLIE:

Who are you?

SPADE:

Private eye. Her folks hired me to find out where she was spending her evenings. I found out that, and a lot more.

CHARLIE:

For instance?

SPADE:

You're wasting your time with that girl. She knows from nothing. She still believes that dramatic school front.

CHARLIE:

Then who did the inside work?

SPADE:

There wasn't any. They were going to use her as a hostage to keep the night watchman from turning in the alarm.

CHARLIE:

What's the matter with me doing that?

SPADE:

Because Blacky and his boys have that building staked out. They won't bother you when you go in, and when you come out, they're gonna blast you.

CHARLIE:

Why are you telling me this?

SPADE:

I told you. I want that girl.

CHARLIE:

That don't buy her.

SPADE:

Then maybe this will. I can lead you to enough guns and ammo and loaded pipe to handle Blacky's mob and the cops. And have enough left over for a couple of bank jobs.

CHARLIE:

You interest me. I'll put that girl in a taxi and she can go anywhere she wants. But you're going with us. And if those guns aren't there ---. Still interested?

SPADE:

(A BEAT) Sure.

CHARLIE:

Okay, you bought something.

SPADE:

(MUSIC UNDER) I made sure I knew the cab-driver personally before I let her go. She didn't seem frightened-- only a little annoyed. The jarring note of naturalism, no doubt. Her attitude was such that I almost regretted all the trouble I'd gone to for her. But I took refuge in my inner ethics end discipline and tried to hold on to my concentration of attention for the ordeal that lay ahead. (MUSIC CHANGES MOOD) Charlie Fargo double-checked my story on the way across town. We cruised past the building that housed Sterling and Steel, Diamond Importers, and I pointed out the shadowy figures of my cast of characters, lurking in the alleyway. I noted with inner satisfaction that, true to my directorial command, they were holding their weapons well in evidence.

And the police, bless their big Irish hearts, were staying well out of sight. They were also out of sight on Jackson Street when we pulled up in front of the Tortsov School of Dramatic Arts where they should have been waiting in the wings to rush out for the final curtain. Instead of having an ace in the hole, I was within an ace of being in one. I threw away the script and played the rest of it ad lib.

SOUND:

(STEPS UP WOOD STAIRS: TO LEVEL FLOOR AND OUT)

CHARLIE:

Well, what are you waiting for, Ziggie? Go on in.

ZIGGIE:

I don't like it. How do we know what's in that room?

SPADE:

Get out of the way. (SOUND: STEPS: KICK DOOR OPEN: LIGHT SWITCH) Look for yourself.

SOUND:

(SLOW STEPS INTO ROOM)

ZIGGIE:

Charlie. Lookit.

CHARLIE:

Yeah. I've never seen nothing like it. Not since the army. (SOUND: A FEW STEPS--AUTOMATIC BREECH) Hey, I'm trading my heater in on this .45 right now. (SOUND: GUN SHIED ACROSS FLOOR) Go ahead, boys, help yourselves. And then start packing the rest of it downstairs.

SPADE:

(MUSIC IN) Ten minutes later I was still wondering where those cops were. I also wondered why Ziggie didn't include one shiny, new sub-machine gun in the last load he carried downstairs. Then Charlie picked it up and I found out.

CHARLIE:

Okay, Spade, start walking.

SPADE:

Oh, sure, Charlie. I guess we're all through here.

SOUND:

(STEPS START AND STOP AS:)

CHARLIE:

Not quite. The other way, stupid.

SPADE:

But there's no exit that way.

SOUND:

(STEPS)

CHARLIE:

That's what you think. Just keep walking until your nose hits the wall.

SPADE:

A secret panel?

CHARLIE:

No, but it sure is a way out.

SOUND:

(STEPS OUT)

SPADE:

You're making a big mistake, Charlie.

CHARLIE:

Because I'm not stupid enough to let you get out of here? I had you figured from the start. You lead me to these guns and I'm supposed to let you go so you can run to the cops.

SPADE:

No, Charlie, you got it all wrong. It's just that those guns haven't got any firing pins. I took them out.

CHARLIE:

Go on, talk some more, you-- (TAKE) What!?

SPADE:

Yeah. Go ahead, try it.

CHARLIE:

You're bluffing. (SOUND: CLICK) You doublecrossing--- (SOUND: SUB-MACHINE GUN BREECH: CARTRIDGE HITS FLOOR: ANOTHER CLICK) I'll brain you with it. (THROWS)

SOUND:

(WINDOW CRASHES)

CHARLIE:

Stay where you are, Spade. I've still got my heater.

SPADE:

Oh, no, you haven't, I have.

SOUND:

(SHOT: RUNNING STEPS FADE OFF)

CHARLIE:

(FADING OFF) Ziggie! Ziggie, start the car.

SOUND:

(SPADES STEPS AND OUT: OFF STEPS RUNNING DOWN STATRS)

SPADE:

You'd better stop, Charlie. Or I'11 have to stop you.

CHARLIE:

(OFF) Ziggie!

SOUND:

(TWO SHOTS: BODY TUMBLES DOWN STAIRS)

MUSIC:

(BRIDGE AND TO B.G.)

SPADE:

The light was bad on the stairs, and I was afraid at first that I'd missed my aim. I'd only wanted to stop him. He was out when I got to him, but it was only from the fall down the stairs. The cops arrived in time to stop the others at the end of the block. It seems that, because of your husband's name being Ulysses S., they'd scrambled their presidents and gone to Grant Street instead of Jackson. Which all goes to show you what can happen if you lose your concentration of attention, forget your memory emotions, and fail to live your part both externally and internally. As for me, I developed a severe headache. It must have been the Attitude. Period. Curtain. Next week, movies and bingo.

(COMMERCIAL)

 

(EFFIE-SAM CLOSING)

 

ANNCR:

The Adventures of Sam Spade...Dashiell Hammett's famous private detective, are produced and directed by William Spier. Sam Spade is played by Howard Duff, Lurene Tuttle is Effie.

MUSIC:

(THEME TILL CUE)

ANNCR:

"The Adventures of Sam Spade" are written for radio by Bob Tallman and Gil Doud. Musical direction by Lud Gluskin with score composed by Rene Garriguenc. Join us again next Sunday
when Author Dashiell Hammett and Producer William Spier, join forces for another adventure with Sam Spade, brought to you by Wildroot Cream-Oil...again and again the choice of men and women and children, too.

This is Dick Joy reminding you to...

TRIO:

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You see, it's non-alcoholic, Charlie
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Start using it today
You'11 find that you will have a tough time, Charlie
Keeping all those gals away
Get Wildroot right away.
Hi-ya Baldy.
Get Wildroot right away.

ANNCR:

Stay tuned now for Philip Marlowe.

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