The Key Man

Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel and wind up in the gut of the prism of the grave. There's no other end, but they never learn. This one began as a threat of beating the turn in a murder with a brown-eyed blonde, a jovial hippopotamus,

and a tough ex-soldier of fortune, all complicating the problem until I got next to the key man. From the pen of Raymond Tranpler, outstanding author of Mystery comes his most famous character and crime's most deadly enemy, as we present...

The Adventures of Philip Marlow. Now, with Gerald Moore, start of Philip Marlow, we bring you tonight's exciting story, The Key Man. A long about dust, Hollywood Boulevard is some desolate place between the end of work and the start of play, and about as boisterous as taps.

So except for a cellophased machealini against the nearby storefront warming up his evening lir, I was alone on a lot of fancy pavement when I walked up to the box office of the newsreel theatre near Kewinga.

Paid my 40-cents admission tax included and started inside. Where of all places I was to meet my new client, one Mark Hummer. He'd called my office at 635, and in a tight voice, friends with fear urged me to find him in the last row, last seat far left, of the Boulevard cinema at once, if I could use a $50 bill.

It was exactly a quarter to seven when I crossed the length of La Bido Isle 4, and entered the theatre proper, which was almost empty. It was two minutes after that before I could see well enough to tell that the man all alone in the aforementioned seat The war white French cops protruding out of gray flannel