Murder Is My Beat

A man's body is found face down in a fireplace, face and fingerprints charred beyond identification. Clues lead to his mistress, bar singer Barbara Payton (alas, we get to hear nary a note). Homicide cop Ray Patrick tracks her to a mountain cabin, but a blizzard forces them to spend a (chaste) night together, and she starts to get under his skin. On the train back to Los Angeles, she spots the man who was presumed murdered standing on a platform; against his better judgement, Patrick joins her on the lam to uncover the truth -- a confusing pastiche involving her roommate, a double blackmail scheme, the wrong body and, somehow, ceramic figurines....

Of all the directors who started out in European cinema but fled to America, Edgar G. Ulmer worked with the most crippling resources. In Murder Is My Beat, he returns to Detour's depressing terrain of thrown-together fugitives holing up in crummy motels. But instead of the full-tilt, well, savagery of Ann Savage, there's the catatonic passivity of Barbara Payton, a beaten-down, ill-used blonde. (How much of this depends on acting ability is anybody's guess. At this final outpost of her movie career -- five years earlier, she'd been James Cagney's moll in Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye -- Payton had already begun her sad drift toward the demimonde.) Though the story relies too much on explication rather than exposition, its fatalistic inertia keeps the viewer interested but off balance. It's another cheapie noir saved from utter mediocrity by the genuine, if compromised, talents of its director.