Tune in on Station Homicide

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The swimming pool, under the moon, was like black ink in a white stone tray. Beyond the fringe of trees, blatant and gaudy, were the lights of Los Angeles, that painted lady of the Pacific.

Up on the night hill, by the pool, it was a time of silence, of quiet voices and blessed peace. Jimmy Hake, that round and comical man of radio, that owl-faced, elfin, blundering character, in whom every man saw his own image, reclined on the wheeled redwood couch and watched the way the faint light from the windows of the house made mysterious the face of his beloved.

Jimmy Hake needed all of his talent to keep his voice and manner relaxed. Murder makes the breath short, the palms sweat, the voice tremble, the neck rigid.

Murder is something that is two years a growing. Murder is the answer to a question that couldn’t otherwise be answered.

It was Sunday night. Tomorrow rehearsal, then the program itself at eight. Jimmy Hake, proudly presented by the makers of Shaynaline products, the cosmetics that bring out your natural beauty. Go to your nearest drugstore...

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