Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Today's story, One More Shot, written for suspense by William N. Robeson.
Hold it, please. One more shot.
Thank you.
Here you are, Bubby. Take this plate with the others and get them into the office, pronto.
Sure thing, Dad.
That's my son, Bobby, learning the newspaper photography business from the ground up.
He's my courier. He rushes the plates from the field into the office.
Two things Bobby and I like more than anything else are cameras and motorcycles.
That's why I asked to cover this cycle race.
That was the winner I just photographed, just in time for the early evening edition.
If Bobby makes the office in time...
He didn't. Bobby never got to the office at all.
He went off the highway at Coleman's Gray.
He was dead when the police arrived.
A victim of too much speed, they said. Just another traffic accident.
But I didn't believe it.
Bobby was too good a driver. He was too careful.
So I did some investigating on my own.
And then I went to see my friend, Sergeant Quad, in homicide.
I checked it out with traffic, Bernie.
It was just another unfortunate accident.
It was not an accident, Quad. It was murder.
Look, Bernie...
I can understand how upset you are.
I know what it must mean to you.
Do you?
Well, there's one thing you don't know.
What's that?
Where are the exposed photographic plates?
What plates?
The ones I gave Bobby to take to the office.
They weren't in the saddlebag of his cycle when they found him, were they?
No.
Of course they weren't.
That's why Bobby was run off the road.
Somebody wanted those pictures.
Bad enough to murder for.
The who?
How do I know?
But it's fantastic.
Maybe it is, but the fact is he left that field with four photographic plates.
And they were gone when his body was found.
But who were the pictures of?
I can't remember.
Winners of races, officials.
That's not important now.
The first thing is we've got to find out who ran Bobby off the road.
You're sure he was run off the road?
Are you sure he wasn't?
No, no.
Then will you go back and look over the scene of the accident with me?
Okay, Bernie.
This much I'll do for you.
So we went back to the scene of the accident on Coleman's grade.
At this point, the curve was too gradual for the most inept driver to go off the road.
I walked up the hill, my eyes glued to the pavement, till I found what I was sure would be there.
Hey, Quad, look at this.
See here?
Look, by the curve.
Flakes of green paint.
Yeah, yeah, so?
Bobby's bike was painted black.
So Quad collected the tiny flecks of green paint in an envelope, and he promised to have the police chemist analyze them.
Then we went back to the police garage.
But what was left was Bobby's wrecked motorcycle that was piled up in a corner.
I thought so.
What, Bernie?
Look here on the handlebar.
Smudge of green paint.
Could be the same.
Looks like it.
All right, we'll check it out.
Hey, look here.
Wedged in the frame.
Kick pedal.
Motorcycle has only one quad.
This one has two.
Extra pedals off an English BSA.
Well, what do you think now?
Looks like you got something, Bernie.
I mean, it looks like my son was run off the road by an English BSA painted green.
Yeah, yeah, it does.
But who was driving that bike, and why did he do it?
I don't know, Bernie.
But I'm sure going to try to find out.
While Quad was running down the paint shops to find one that might have repainted a green BSA in the part sellers,
to find who sold a new BSA kick pedal, I had my work cut out for me.
I rounded up all the pictures that were shot by all the press photographers of the motorcycle meet at Mills Field.
Last Quad found a man who had painted a green BSA blue, and another one who had sold a BSA kick pedal.
And we brought them into headquarters to look at the blowups of the pictures.
They went over each one carefully, examining each face in the crowd with a magnifying glass.
Finally...
Yeah, this is him, Sergeant.
Huh? Where?
There. Yeah, this is the guy that had me paint his cycle.
How about you, Mr. Morris? This look like the man who bought a new kick pedal from you?
Yeah, yeah. That looks like him, all right.
Well, Bernie, this seems to be your man. Take a look.
Yeah, this is a long shot of the whole infield, taken by Johnny Jones from the press box.
Mm-hmm.
See, here I am, beside, just snapping a picture.
Yeah, yeah, I noticed that.
Now, wait a minute.
Standing next to the suspect these gentlemen have indicated, do you recognize who that is?
Now, which one?
The one in the Mickey Cohen hat, sports shirt, buttoned at the neck, no tie.
Oh, yeah.
Do they look familiar to you?
Well, the... Rocco Mellitesta.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
How come you're taking his picture?
I wasn't. They were all gathered around the winner of the race, the kid in front. I was taking his picture.
And Rocco was in the shock, and he didn't want to be, so he sent the punk standing next to him to see that your boy never got the plates to the paper.
But why? Why?
Because Rocco doesn't want anyone to know he's back in town. That's why. At least he don't want to advertise the fact in the paper.
What's he doing at a motorcycle meet in broad daylight? That's the first time he's been in the sunlight since he graduated from grade school.
Motorcycle meet. Motorcycles. Of course, that's it.
What?
These motorcycle raids. We've been having an epidemic of them. One night a cycle club wrecks a tavern on the south side.
A few days later another club demolishes a drive-in over in the east end. Half a dozen of them in the last month, all demanding protection money. All different clubs.
Didn't make any sense until right now.
You mean with Rocco behind it, it would?
It might. But like everything else about Rocco, how are you going to prove it?
Well, anyway, we're not looking for Rocco. We're looking for this creep standing beside him, the one who killed Bobby.
We'll find him, Bernie, if we have to shake down every cycle club in town.
No, no, no. This isn't the way to do it, Quatt.
What do you mean?
You might scare him off. Let me do it.
You do it? How?
I used to be a pretty hot rider. Let me get a cycle and join a club. I'll find this murderer for you. I got more reason to than you have.
In just a moment we will return for the second act of...
Suspense.
Hi, Whitey. Gonna throw a few fast Whitey Ford curves?
Not now. Spring in my car has got a date at the service station.
Hello, Mr. Ford. In for that spring oil change?
Right. And it's time for a fresh fram oil filter. Better check my engine air filter, too.
Will do, Mr. Ford.
Hey, you believe in taking good care of your car, eh, Whitey?
You bet. The car needs regular oil changes and a fresh fram filter every 5,000 miles.
Well, why a new filter every 5,000 miles, Whitey?
Of course, stop and go driving can load your oil fast with sludge and do real engine damage.
Maybe I'd better get fresh filters for my car.
Positively, and I suggest fram filters.
All set, Mr. Ford. Oh, I replaced your dirty engine air filter with a new fram, too.
The great Yankee pitcher, Whitey Ford, has the right pitch on filters.
He's set for spring with a fresh fram oil filter and a fram air filter, too.
So me, Bernie, I go underground.
I put on cycle boots, a black leather jacket, and a cap so close to a motor cop's cap as the law allows.
I hung around the motorcycle clubs and the rallies and joints and everywhere I make friends.
I always show them a picture of a murder suspect enlarged from a tiny image on the original photo.
For a long time, nobody recognized it, until one day at a hill climb.
Well, it's hard to tell. I mean, the picture's so fuzzy like.
I know, it's not a very good shot, but at least you ought to be able to tell whether you know him or not.
Well, yeah, he looks a little familiar.
How familiar?
Well, he looks something like Big Red.
Big Red who?
Big Red. I mean, I never heard of the last name.
You know where he lives?
He's a Southsider, I think.
You know who he rides with?
Yeah, the Dolphins, I think. I don't know him very well.
Dolphins. Are they out here today?
Yeah, I think I saw one of them around.
Okay, thanks.
Listen, I'm sorry I couldn't help you out.
That's okay. You did just fine.
McQuad, there's no doubt about it. He's the suspect. Big Red's his name.
Believe me, it was all I could do to keep him riding him down with my bike, the way he rode my boy down.
And what would that prove?
Nothing, I suppose.
But I want you to pick him up. I want to see him pay for what he did.
Now, just a minute, Bernie. What would that prove?
Justice, that's what?
There's more at stake here than one crazy punk.
What?
The whole mob, Rocko himself.
That's a police problem. I'm only interested in-
You said justice, huh? Don't you mean vengeance?
No, certainly not.
I wonder. Bernie, look at it this way, huh?
This, this, what is it named, Big Red, was only a murder weapon, really, an instrument.
Rocko gave the order. Rocko was really the man who killed your son.
And unless we get Rocko, we've got nothing but a gunsel.
Don't you see? Big Red can lead us to Rocko.
You can find Rocko if you want. You've got plenty of informers.
Of course, of course we can find him. We can even pick him up for a few hours.
But we can't hang anything on him.
Now, with luck, we can use Big Red to implicate Rocko, don't you see?
Yeah, yeah, I guess I do.
So look, I mean, you've done just fine. You've identified Big Red for us.
Now let us take it from there, huh, pal?
Okay, Quad, she's all yours.
I told Sergeant Quad everything. Well, almost everything.
I guess it was the desire for vengeance, like he said.
Whatever it was, I wanted Big Red for myself.
So I didn't tell Quad that I had heard Red call a meeting with the Dolphins for nine o'clock that night.
Or that I knew where the Dolphins Clubhouse was.
The Dolphins Clubhouse was dark when I got there a little after nine.
I let myself quietly into the place through a back window.
Flashed my light around. It was in sort of a big closet.
And suddenly my light showed up the answer to the motorcycle vandal rage that Quad had been worrying about.
Here, carefully hanging on racks, were duplicate uniforms of half a dozen of the best known and most respectable cycling clubs in town.
My examination of the club's wardrobe was cut short by the arrival of Big Red and a half dozen of his bully boys.
I pushed back toward the wall, hiding behind the farthest row of uniforms.
What are we going to hit tonight, Red?
The first one's the Northside Car Wash, persuaded.
Is that the big one on Henderson Boulevard?
That's it.
What uniform we wear?
How about the Pelicans?
My heart stopped. I was hiding behind a rack which held the Pelican jackets.
Nah, we went as Pelicans last time. No use giving them guys too bad a name.
All right, then. How about the Dragons?
Okay, we haven't complimented the Dragons for a long time.
It didn't take them long to change into the helmets and jackets of the Dragons.
Five minutes after they arrived, they were roaring off again.
There was a payphone in the corner and I used it to call Sergeant Quad.
You promised me you'd let us handle it from here on in, British.
Yeah, that's just what I'm doing, Quad.
All right, all right. You say they're going to hit the Northside Car Wash on Henderson Boulevard.
That's right.
Okay, we'll be out there and stop them.
I'll meet you there.
Bernie, will you please stay out of this now and let us handle it?
Yeah, sure, Quad. I'm through playing cop.
I'll be there just to get the pictures for the press.
How are you going to get there?
I'm going as a Dragon.
I quickly found a jacket and helmet that fit me.
And I caught up with the phony Dragons before they'd gotten a mile away.
They were riding along the freeway in column formation.
I slipped in between the last two riders.
They looked at me curiously.
I smiled at them.
They shrugged.
After all, I was wearing a Dragon uniform.
Motorbikes roared into the Northside Car Wash from all sides.
The manager saw them coming. He saw there was no escaping them.
Big Red started for them, then realized they had a ringer in his ranks.
He walked up to me.
Who are you?
There he stood, this insolent, brutal punk.
My son's murderer, not a foot from me.
So close I could reach out and grab him by the throat.
I could kill him with my bare hands.
A hate and fury welled up in me.
And I remembered the other one, the big one we were after, Rocko.
I got a hold of myself. I tried to look innocent.
I said, who are you?
Who, me?
Yeah, you.
Rocko sent me.
What's that you say?
Said Rocko sent me.
I don't know no Rocko.
He said I should make a report on how good you do your job.
Yeah? Well, how do I know that you're...
Hey, what's the idea? Get them cycles off this property.
I'll talk to you after I finish the job.
Yeah, you do that. I'll still be here.
You, the boss here?
Yeah, I said get them cycles out of here.
I heard you.
Well, get them out of here. We don't wash cycles, only cars.
Like I know, Pop, and you got a good business here.
Like, maybe you want to keep it that way?
What do you mean?
Insurance like you. You pay a little each week,
and nothing happens to upset your business.
The old protection racket.
I said insurance, Pop.
I won't pay you a cent.
Oh, I think you will.
Don't you, Shorty?
Yeah.
Shorty hurled a wrench through the window of a sedan,
slowly moving down the wash rack.
As the hot water and soap poured into the car,
the rest of the mob went to work.
Switchblade knives slashed through the tops of expensive convertibles,
windshields were smashed, tires slashed.
The place was becoming a shambles when the scream of sirens put a stop to the vandals.
As they headed for their cycles in a frantic attempt to get away,
I caught up with Sergeant Quad, who was just drawing his gun.
Hold it, Quad.
That's Fred.
All right, come on then. Let's follow him.
Maybe he'll lead us to Rocco.
I'm sure he will.
In just a moment, we will return for the concluding act of...
Suspense.
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Here's a familiar tune about America's best-selling filter cigarette, Winston.
Winston gives you real flavor, full rich tobacco flavor.
And you know, that's because only Winston has filter blend up front.
Choice flavorful tobaccos, specially selected and specially processed for filter smoking.
No wonder Winston tastes good.
Like a cigarette churn.
No wonder Winston tastes good. Like a cigarette churn.
Smoke Winston.
Yeah?
This is Red, boss.
I told you never to use this phone.
Unless I was in a jam while I am.
What kind of a jam?
The fuzz.
What happened?
We wrote down that car wash, like you told me to, but somebody tipped off the cops.
They were there three minutes after we got there.
Any idea who did it?
Did you send anybody to check up on me?
Huh? Why'd I do that?
I had a ringer riding with me. He was the stoolie then.
What are you talking about?
I'll fill you in when you pick me up.
Me pick you up?
If you don't, the cops will.
Where are you?
I'm talking from a gas station at 61st and Humboldt.
I'll be waiting at the corner for you.
You got your bike, ain't you? Get on it and get out of there.
Anybody on a cycle tonight that gets picked up for questioning.
And you wouldn't want me to be questioned, would you?
I thought I could count on you.
You can. If you come down here and pick me up...
I ought to.
You ought to pick me up if you know what's good for you.
Look here, you...
Listen, boss, I don't mind doing anything you tell me to do.
I don't mind doing your dirty work for you.
There's only one thing I do, mind, and that's taking your rap for you.
This I will not do.
Stay there. I'll be right down.
That's being smart, boss.
The patrol car coasted into the curb in the shadows across the intersection from the darkened gas station.
Sergeant Quad and I watched silently as Big Red slowly hung up.
The phone came out of the booth.
We watched as he wheeled his cycle behind the gas station.
We watched as he came back a moment later without his cycle jacket or his helmet.
It stashed him in the back along with his bike.
There's no doubt about it. He's waiting for a pick-up.
Rocko?
That's Hope. Hand me that microphone, will you?
Here.
Thanks.
Car 3. Car 3 to station.
Go ahead, Car 3.
Car 3 at corner of 61st and Humboldt.
Send two more cars into this area on standby.
Roger, Car 3.
But under no circumstance are they to cruise past this intersection.
Repeat.
Under no circumstance are they to cruise past this intersection.
Understand?
Confirmative, Car 3.
Thank you. Car 3 out.
We sat in the deep shadows of the spring night and waited and watched Red under the street lamp.
He didn't look like a killer at all.
At this distance he might even be Bobbie's standing there or any other kid waiting for a bus.
He kept looking up and down the street.
And finally he saw a car come and he seemed to recognize.
He stepped into the street.
The car came toward him.
But it didn't slow down. It picked up speed.
Finally it was on him.
Before the kid could jump back under the curb, the big sedan swerved toward him,
sent him greeting across the sidewalk.
Then it jumped the ramp, cut across the gas station, and roared off down the boulevard.
A driver kicked the siren open and we dug out in pursuit.
Quad grabbed the microphone.
This is Car 3. Sergeant Quad in Car 3.
We are following suspect South on 61st at high rate of speed.
Intercept. Intercept.
We weren't gaining on the suspect, but we weren't losing the meter.
Quad pulled out a service revolver.
Hold it steady, Mort.
You think you can hit him at this distance?
I can try to hit something.
You bet. You got his rear tire.
Yeah, and there's a prowl car blocking him at the next intersection.
He's had it.
The suspect car zigzagged crazily from its blown out tire.
The driver jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the front tires.
The driver jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the prowl car ahead.
He went into a screeching skid and ended up wound around a light pole.
The driver was pinned behind the steering wheel, bleeding but still conscious.
It was Rocco Malatesta.
Gee, you cops go to a lot of trouble to make a speeding case.
No, not this time, Rocco.
This is one ticket you can't fix.
This is murder.
What are you talking about?
Hit and run murder before witnesses.
Yeah, we'll see about that.
How about getting me out of here?
But first, just hold that pose.
Hey, what is this?
You coppers carrying newspaper photographers with you in a prowl car?
Well, not usually, Rocco, but this photographer's special.
You know, Rocco, if it wasn't for him, you wouldn't be here.
What?
Hold it.
Just like that.
For one more shot.
Suspense.
You've been listening to One More Shot, written for suspense by William N. Robeson.
In a moment, the names of our players and a word about next week's story of suspense.
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Music
Heard in tonight's story were Joseph Julian as Bernie, Nat Poland as Quod, Frank Thomas Jr. as Red, and Jim Bowles as Rocco.
Others in the cast included William Redfield, Alan Manson, Jack Grimes, Sam Raskin, Bill Lipton, and Peter Fernandez.
Listen again next week when we return with Bitter Grapes by Milton Geiger.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in.
Suspense.
The latest news follows and Have Gone Will Travel on CBS Radio.