The Bad Little Babe

This is Ken Roberts, inviting you to listen to another adventure of Casey, crime photographer. Aist Kathlermann, who covers the crime news of a great city. Our adventure for tonight, Bad Little Bay. Night. In his rather untidy bachelor appointment, Casey slubs comfortably in an ancient, obestuff chair, reading a popular mystery story.

Oh, just one of them about to find out who's done it. Hello! Mr. Casey? Yeah? Well, twelve o'clock about the lobster ship this week. Who is this? Glenn, in about half an hour from now, you'll start walking toward the garage where you keep your car.

Yeah? Don't do it. Don't do? If you do, you'll be killed. Huh? Kill watching your apartment house now waiting for you to come out. Call the police and tell them to get those men. Who are you?

Never mind that. Call the police and don't leave. Now look here. Not just a gag. This is Casey Powell. Hey look, I'm probably wasting your time, pal. I just got a screwy phone call that might be on the level.

Screwy phone call. Now this turns out to be somebody's idea of a practical joke. I know how you'll use the needle login, but a gal just phoned me. I didn't recognize her voice and she wouldn't give her name.

But here's what she said. Whoever the gal was who phoned you, Casey, I don't think she was a practical joker. No. Before I sneak up here to your apartment by the backways, Sergeant Brett and I spotted a car parked up your block with two guys and editor who registered as Red Hunts All-In.

Why should they be laying for me? You're always sticking your neck out, aren't you? If you'd stick to press the top of your face. All of your people. I'm not joking. I'm no different from any other newspaper guy in a crime beat.