Sure is a nice joi . . . place you got here, Miss Lane.  *He was about to a say joint*
Huh? . . . Oh, yeah, sure. Well, this here happened the night Mrs. Hamlin died or was murdered or whatever. I didn’t go to the police because . . . well, I’m kinda an amateur detective, and usually they laugh at me when I give ’em tips. But I figured I should at least tell Mr. Hamlin here. . . . 

That’s what he looked like . . . a fellow in the rackets. . . . It was like this, see? I was cruising up Seventy-ninth Street . . . that’s where Mr. Hamlin lives. It was about one o’clock in the morning. . . .

And I seen this punk come out of the back of the apartment building. He flags me and staggers into the cab. He’s been drinking. I don’t get a good look at him. . . . His hat’s pulled down, and his coat collar’s up. . . . But I see he’s slept in his clothes and ain’t shaved for a couple of days. . . . 
He didn’t know. I took him a half a dozen blocks and let him out. I figured him for a deadbeat, and he was . . . not a cent on him. 

Here we are, folks . . . Lusardi’s Restaurant – “Real Italian Cooking.” . . . I’ll wait out here for you. . . . 

Gee, Mr. Cranston, can it really be? . . . You know . . . the story Tommy told about the Shadow? 
Well, where will it be, folks?