← Down These Mean Streets (Old Time Radio Detectives)
Down These Mean Streets (Old Time Radio Detectives)
Episode 626 - Murder on the Air (Ellery Queen, Box 13, The Whistler, & Sam Spade)
02:06:18
Tune in for danger with a collection of radio mysteries that involve the medium of radio itself! Master sleuth Ellery Queen has to solve a murder that takes place in his own studio - right in the middle of his show - in “The Armchair Detective”...
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Narrator
Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel it wind up in the gut of the prison of the grave. The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. The Adventures of Sam Spade Detective the Adventures of the Saint starring Vincent Price. Bob Bailey in the exciting adventures of the man with the action packed expense account, America's fabulous freelance insurance investigator, yours truly, Johnny Dollar. Hello and welcome to down these Mean Streets with more old time radio detectives and crime solvers. This week, all of our radio shows involve radio shows. They're mysteries set behind the microphones of radio dramas where the performers have more to contend with than just the drama in their scripts. First up, Larry Dobkins stars as master detective Ellery Queen, who has to solve a murder that takes place in his own studio right in the middle of his own show. It's the Armchair Detective and it originally aired on CBS on March 27, 1946. Larry Dobkin is a regular on the podcast. Usually we hear him as Louis the cab driver and sidekick of Simon Templer on the Saint, but he also pops up as Archie Goodwin opposite Sydney Greenstreet on the new Adventures of Nero Wolf. Then Alan Ladd stars as Dan Holliday in Actor's Alibi, a syndicated episode of Box 13. Holliday is hired by a radio leading lady who fears that her life is in danger. When the woman turns up dead, Holiday suspects her jealous co star. But the man had a perfect alibi. He was talking to Holliday at the time of the crime. Speaking of perfect alibis, that's what our lead character has on his mind in Brief Pause for Murder, which is probably my all time favorite episode of the Whistler. Originally aired on CBS on September 11, 1949. It centers on a radio announcer who plots to do away with his wife. With the help of a recording and a sympathetic engineer, he'll arrange it so his voice is heard on the air at the exact moment he commits the murder. The killer to be is played by the great Frank Nelson, who's probably best remembered by radio fans as Jack Benny's nemesis, the man who seemed to pop up everywhere Jack went and who greeted him with the same elongated question. There's the man from the real estate office. Oh, Mr. Mr. Yeah. And finally we'll hear Steven Dunn as Sam Spade in the soap opera Caper, originally aired on NBC on February 16, 1951. Spade is hired by the woman behind a popular radio soap and she suspects her husband is keeping secrets from her sordid secrets that wouldn't be out of place on her own melodramatic daytime saga. It's time to step up to the microphone for four radio mysteries involving radio. We'll kick things off with Ellery Queen right after these messages. There's a common phrase that's being kicked around in your house and mine more and more every day, and that is high cost of living. Sound familiar? I bet it does. I'm sure you've heard Mother and Dad mention it more often than once, and you will undoubtedly hear it many more times as the days go by. Now, just in case you're hazy on exactly what it means, let me give you a rough idea. It means that the cost of your clothes and food has gone up to a point where the family budget has become somewhat strained. Well, that's one of those things. And you can't be expected to increase the family income. But there are some things you can do to help. For instance, take better care of your clothes when you come home from school. Change into old clothes before you go out to play. Take care of your health because doctors and medicines are expensive. Eat well, but don't waste. Take your full share, but eat all you take. Try not to ask Mother and Dad to buy you things you don't actually need. Make the best of the most of what you've got. Try to be more than usually careful of your school equipment, such as paper, pencils and so forth. Make them last and go as far as you possibly can. Remember that all members of a family must pull together at a time like this. So do your share. Let's turn back the clock about 24 hours and drop in on Mr. And Mrs. Johnson. They're just returning from a football game. Well, here we are. Home at last. And boy, am I hungry. So am I. Let's start thinking about some food. Big juicy hamburgers maybe. Say, that's for me. With plenty of catsup. Uh huh. Del Monte catsup. It has such marvelous flavor. And Mrs. Johnson really knows her catsup. Del Monte catsup. The zestiest, liveliest catsup that ever pleased a man. Now that football season is in full swing, you'll find Del Monte catsup a bigger help than ever when planning lunches before the game or supper afterwards. It's a smart hostess who serves hearty food and lots of it. With plenty of Del Monte catsup. Handy to add bright, rich, spiced tomato flavor. Yes, that marvelous tomato flavor you find in Del Monte catsup. The only catsup made with pineapple vinegar. That superlative vinegar that coaxes out all the best in tomato flavor. Remember, for real zip and zest, it's Del Monte Catsup every time. Next time you go shopping, look for Del Monte Catsup. You'll like its quality and you'll like its thrifty price. Are you looking for a smooth shave, men? Then try Fitch's no Brush Shaving Cream. It'll give you the kind of shave you want. Because 40 years of experience have gone into the making of this product, Fitch's no Brush contains a special skin conditioner ingredient that takes the work out of shaving. You won't have to struggle and scrape against stubborn whiskers. Because the skin conditioner prepares your face beforehand, it holds the whiskers up so your razor can zip them down closely and quickly. Even against the grain of a tough beard, your razor will glide swiftly, never nicking or scraping. Fitch's no Brush is a boon to sensitive faces because it lubricates gently, keeping that tender skin from being irritated. After this quick, easy shave, your skin will feel cool and refreshed, wonderfully smooth. And if you prefer a lather cream, try Fitch's Brush Cream. It forms a rich, abundant lather when applied with a brush. This lather stays moist all during the shave. Fitch's Brush Cream also contains the special skin conditioner for sensitive faces. Fitch's Brush and Fitch's no Brush Shaving Cream are available in handy 25 and 50 cent sizes. For a shave you like, switch to Fitch. Say there's a girl in our neighborhood who's always been mighty fond of Brenda. Starr follows her adventures regularly in the funny papers. So she was mighty thrilled when she found that Brenda is one of the characters in that new series of comic buttons that that Kellogg's Pep is putting out. So thrilled that she started to specialize in collecting Brenda Star buttons. And she already has five of them pinned right on her jacket. Of course, most of the fellows and girls in the gang think that it's more fun to collect different buttons. And that's why they want Cindy and Vitamin Flint Heart and Superman and all the others. Of course. However you do it, it's doggone exciting fun. As you know. The best part is these comic buttons are so easy to get. You don't send in any money, not even the box stop. And you can't buy them anywhere. But there's one of these exciting prizes in every package of Kellogg's Pep. The Sunshine Cereal. The crisp, tender whole wheat flakes with that catchy sunshine flavor makes mighty good eating for breakfast. So Crisp and fresh and toasty, that. Well, you want to pitch right in and eat hearty, and that's always a good idea on a cold morning. Yes, sir. Kellogg's Pep is mighty good for you. Mom knows that, so remind her to get plenty of pee. He Pee the Sunshine cereal. Kellogg's Pep. I dedicate this program to the fight against crime. Not merely crimes of violence and crimes of dishonesty, but crimes of intolerance, discrimination and bad citizenship. Crimes against America. Ellery Queen, in the interest of a safer American home, a happier American community, a more United States, the American Broadcasting Company and its affiliated stations bring you Ellery Queen. I dedicate this program to the fight against crime. Not only crimes of violence and crimes of dishonesty, but also crimes of intolerance, discrimination and bad citizenship. Crimes against America. The American Broadcasting Company presents another case in the career of Ellery Queen, celebrated fighter of crime. As usual, Ellery invites you to match wits with them as he relates the mystery, and before revealing the solution, he gives you a chance to solve it. Tonight, Ellery's guest, Armchair Detective, who will represent you home Armchair Detectives is the popular Hollywood columnist, Ms. Sheila Graham. And now, Ellery Queen, your host for the next half hour. Thank you, Paul Masterson. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. You've heard me investigate crimes in just about every imaginable place. Well, our crime tonight took place in the strangest locale of all, right? On my own radio program. I call it the Call. Ellery, hold it, will you? What's the matter? Paul? What is it? Ellery, you can't do this. You'll have to switch. Give us another. Why? Murder on the Queen Show. Are you crazy? You'll scare the bejinkers out of people. Ellery, they'll think it's actually happening in the studio during the broadcast. Very good point, Paul. Yes, very good. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to be sure and keep in mind throughout the next half hour that you're listening to a case from the past, a crime that occurred a long time ago. Satisfied, Paul? Thanks, sir. It's a case I've always called the Armchair Detective. Veteran Queen fans will recall that in the early days of our radio show, as today, I invited some well known person to come to the studio and sit in the guest detective's armchair. Then, as now, it was usually fun, but on the night I had in mind, things didn't quite go in the usual way that night. About 15 minutes before, before we were scheduled to go on the air. Everybody got the cuts? I think so. Tell how are we on time? We'll have to pick up 15 seconds, Hillary. Oh, come on. All right, coming then. Who is it tonight? Dr. Marty McKing. Who? You know, the college professor who has his own radio show. McKing's English. Oh. Oh, correct English Crusader. That's right. Better brush up my grammar after you, nicky. Thanks, Bill. Dr. McKing, Ellery Queen in the Body. How do you do, sir? I'm almost afraid to answer. Dr. McKing, I might hang a pot of something, darling. Oh, Rosemary. I'm sorry, my dear. Myself, may I present Mr. Ellery Queen. How do you do, Mr. McKee? And this character is my brother and business manager, Bud McKee. Oh, hello there. Hi. I think our paths have crossed in radio. That's a small business. Say, Ellery, seeing that we're pals, how about tipping Marty off to tonight's solution? Sorry, we are rebuffed. And. Oh, yes, sorry, elsie, my secretary, Ms. Woolen. Ms. Woolen. This is really a thrill, Mr. Queen. I'm a. I'm a dyed in the Wool Queen fan. Why, isn't that nice? Thank you, Ms. Woolen. Dr. McKinnon, we haven't too much time. Shall we go into the guest detective room? Modest to sit in a special room, Mr. Queen. Right in here, Mrs. McKing. You see, we try to duplicate a whole mattress. Oh, Nicky, would you pour me a glass of water, please? My throat, you know you can't see the broadcast in this room. Oh, is that you? Just hear it as you would in your own home program pipe in here from the control room. Marty, you get it through that. That loudspeaker. Help me. So I see. But at the proper time, Mr. Queen, I take it I extemporize in that microphone above the table? Yes, Doctor, yes. It's strictly an ad lib spot. Immediately after my announcement on the air that I know who committed the crime, Nikki and I dash into this room from the studio, seat ourselves on the other side of the table from you, and then we hold a three corners post mortem over the corpse. Not Dr. McKing's corpse, I hope. Elsie, do I detect an unconscious secretarial wish to achieve my desire? Marty, I don't find that a bit funny. Don't come, Rosemary. But, Mrs. McKing, I didn't know. Oh, right. Yes, I should explain. No one's allowed in this room but our guest of the evening. So, Nikki, if you'll show the rest of Dr. McKean's party into the client's booth. Good luck. If you get thirsty during the broadcast, Doctor, here's A picture of water right on the table. Oh, yes, thank you. Oh, Bill. Yes, Huntery? How about a quick level? Whenever he's ready. Uh huh. All right. If you'll be seated, Dr. McKing, you and say something if the mic. Anything at all. Just a voice level. I left Dr. McKing alone in the armchair detective's room. We went on the air with our program, and in due course I reached the point in our mystery where I was able to stay. But Ellery, do you mean to say. Yes, dad. Now I know who committed the murder. Nicki and I hurried to the armchair detectives room. As usual, there was Dr. McKing, a little nervous, but otherwise himself. I said, is at the table, Mike. And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have the mystery. Now let's see what our guest, armchair detective, has to say. Nicky. And tonight, ladies and gentlemen, our guest is the famous Dr. Monty McKing, founder and leading light of that popular radio program, McKing's English. All I can think of at this moment, Dr. McKing, is McQueen's ignorance. You're too modest, Emery. You're not the worst offender by any means. Oh, you're sometimes guilty of ellipsis. Is that bad, Doctor? But you usually avoid committing such truly foul crimes against our mother tongue as needless variance, irrelevant allusions, pleonasms, periphery, surrender. But to get away from the English language. And how not to. Dr. McKing, I hear you're famous in a different sphere altogether. Yes, you're said to be able to whip up a mean boyer based doctor. Oh, yes, Nikki, I am an enthusiastic amateur chef. Doesn't your wife resent it? On the contrary, Nikki. Mrs. McKing is only too happy to leave the solution of our household's culinary mysteries to me. Ah, talking about solving mysteries, Dr. McKing. Oh, dear. I find that drought has suddenly attacked my vocal cords. Simple. We'll irrigate him. Nicky, would you oblige? I'm way ahead of you, Ellie. Here you are, Dr. McKing. A nice wet glass of water spoiled. Thank you. Now, as soon as you're through oiling your larynx, Doctor, suppose you tell us who committed the murder in the police commissioner's office. Don't let the water glass worry you, Doctor. All commission. You nervous to speak, eh, Dr. McKing? Oh, well, it happens to the best of us. In just a moment, I'll give the solution for tonight's mystery. But first, the control room cut our armchair detectives room off the air. That night, just in time. As Mickey and I hurried around the table to Dr. McKing's chair, he fell off his chair. Dr. Queen. Queen? I. I poisoned. Poisoned by what? Dr. King. What? Then search Rosemary. Who? Dr. Search Rosemary. That's his wife. Dr. McKing. Hillary, call a doctor. A what? Nick? Hillary, what's going on in here? What's happened to your guest? Hey. Dead, Phil. Dead. But we're still on the air. The poison is in that glass of water. McCain just drank our water from the pitcher. Pitcher's loaded with it, too. Smell this, Phil. Huh? What am I doing? Ellery, for the love of Mike, we're still on. You've got to finish the show. Solve the murder. Yes. Solve the murder. Yet Phil had this room guarded till we're off the air. Vicky. Yes, Silver? Back to the mic. I don't know how we got through the rest of the program. My mind's a blank on the whole thing. But the minute we went off the air that evening, Ellery hurried back to the guest room to solve a very different kind of murder. The murder of his own armchair detective. No, I didn't inspect the Queen. I didn't. I tell you, Mrs. McLean, your husband's dying words would have sent you. Well, you didn't find anything on me, did you? The idea of murder's ridiculous, Queen. My brother probably committed suicide. Impossible. But the poison that killed him comes only in liquid form, so it must have been in the container. And there's no poison container of any kind, either on Dr. McKean's body or in this room. Inspector. Billy, I found it. Ah, the bottle's empty, Inspector. But smell it. This is it. All right, Sergeant, where'd you find that bottle? On the floor of that glass enclosed booth where Ms. McKing, Bud McKing and Ms. Woolen watched the broadcast. Maestro. The client's booth. Oh, Nikki. Feeling better? Oh, yes. Well, no one else was in that booth, Inspector. Just his wife, his brother and his secretary. Sort of simplifies it. Hey, you sure the water in this picture was okay when the McCain party first came in here with you and Nikki? Before we went in the air? Positive time, Inspector. Hillary's right to next glass full of it in. So one of these three dropped the poison into the pitcher before Ms. Porter escorted him out, disposed of the empty bottle and the booth. Afraid we forced the poisonous hand Nicky by sending them into that pool. Mrs. McCain, it looked as if your husband had noticed you fooling around with that pitcher. If Marty had seen me drop poison into the water, would he have drunk any of it? Rosemary's got a point there, Inspector. He probably didn't get the significance of what he'd seen until he realized he was poisoned. But when he does realize it, he says to search you for the bottle. But why should I murder Marty? I loved my husband. I loved him dearly. Life won't be the same. I'll say it won't. Ms. Woolen, what do you say? Oh, nothing, nothing. What did you mean, Ms. Wallen? Yes, go on, Elsie, say it. All right, I will. Dr. McKing was the kindest husband in the world to her. All she cared about was money. Money for clothes, furs, and jewelry. When he had to close down her charge account, she. She. She poisoned him out of revenge, huh, Ms. Wooler? No. For he's a state. His will leaves everything to her. That's why Mrs. McKing poisoned him. For his money. Well, Mrs. McKing. What can I say, Mr. Cream? That I'm innocent. I've already told you that a dozen times. True. I've been extravagant, and I was angry when Marty clamped down on me. But commitment murdered for money. The man I loved. Henry, come out with me a minute. Boy, is that. Shut the door. Well, shut it. It's shut that. Oh, these plain radio doors. What do you think, son? I don't know. The king did put the finger on his wife. May have been no more than a stab in the dark, dad. Certainly not enough to hold her on. I think I'll send her home. Have B. Gumpsh. The house on the QT might send Nikki home where they're told. Good idea, dad. She could snoop out information where they wouldn't give us time of day. Blasted. Sure. But what, dad? Ever since MCKing said search rosemary, I've had the weirdest feeling that. That she meant something else. I don't know. I had the feeling there's a clue. Clue I've missed or forgotten. A clue that ties in with McKing's dying worth maybe something that happened during a. Of course. You've got it. No, dad. No. But I know where I can get it. Talk sense. Well, they always make recordings for the Queen shows, dad. Now, you go ahead with your plans. I'm gonna take a recording of tonight's show home and play it back all night if necessary, to spot that whatever it. That drought has suddenly attacked my vocal cords. Simple. We'll irrigate him. Nicky, will you oblige? I'm way ahead of you, Ellery. Here you are, Dr. McKing. A nice wet glass of water. Boil. Thank you. Oh, it's here. It's here somewhere. Modest, Ellery. You're not the worst offender by any Means. Oh, you're sometimes guilty of a listening. Oh, can't be the there variants irrelevant illusions. Leonasm said to be able to whip up a mean boy of a doctor. Oh, yes, Nikki. I am an enthusiastic amateur chef. Doesn't your wife what a chef? On the Contrary, Nikki. Chef. Mrs. McKean. Chef. Can it be that amateur chef does it your wife? That's it. Is that all it is? Darn it. Who's that? Who is it? Ms. Porter? Bud McK. Yes, Max. Wait a minute. What do you want? I saw the light under your door. I've been reading. What are you doing back at your brother's house, Mr. McKing? I thought you left after we got Rosemary to bed. Oh, I went home. But then I thought with Monty. Well, Rosemary in such a spot. May I come in and chin for a while? I'm sorry. It's after three. What do you want? Get to death. Good night. Oh, what's your hurry? You're Mr. McCain. You're full of that murder off too, aren't you? And she made you afraid of me. Please take your foot away. I want to go to bed. Off. Thanks. Gallery's pulling the wool over my eyes. You're a spy. He planted you here. Let go of the store. Bondi wasn't murdered. It was suicide. You've been drinking. Get off. I know what you think. That I'm in love with Rose Mary. That I killed my brother to get his wife. If you don't go away. There's never been a thing between Rosemary and me. Not a thing. Sergeant B. Sergeant, you still down there? What's better? Oh, nothing. Nothing, Sergeant. I just want to make sure you. We were there. Everything okay up there, Ms. P? Well, yes. Yes. I talked Rosemary mcking into Betty by at half past ten. And Ms. Woolen went to her room hours ago. Well, you sound shaky. You sure everything's all right? Well, Sergeant Button mcking just came back to the house. I know I saw him go in, but he didn't try to sneak in. So maybe I better come in at that. What was that? Oh, heavenly sake. What's wrong now? Don't you hear it, Sergeant? Sounds if someone was breaking up the house. I better go see what's up. No, wait till I. Downstairs. Funny. Stop. Who. Who's that downstairs? What happened? Where the dickens is a mic? Want to be? Ms. Porter. Ms. Porter. Ms. Porter. Ms. Porter. You're okay, Ms. Porter. See the inspector's here. He just came. How you feeling, Nikki? Inspector Queen. She's still groggy. I was Upstairs? Well, you're downstairs now, Nikki. Bailey carried you here from the upper hall where he found you out cold. Then he phoned me at headquarters. I had been working late. Oh, what's the matter with my head? Somebody used it for target breakfast, Ms. Porter. Well, they scored a bullseye. Oh, who was it? Who did it? Neely was too late, Nikki. But it's somebody who was in the house. I checked right away, but the two women were in their room sleeping. Or make them believe they were sleeping. And I found Bud mcking on a couch in the upstairs hall, snoring off a load. You've got him locked in separate rooms. That Hillary. Where the heck have you been? Maestro, I tried calling you at home, but no answer. Must have been on my way over here, so. I'm Mickey. Hi, Mr. Q. Nicky, you're hurt. Got a crack on the skull, son. Maybe I have a concussion. Oh, Mickey. Valerie, hold me close, baby. Well, what are you two standing here for? Didn't you call a doctor? Nikki, honey. Closer. Oh, she's okay. My stroke. I am not. Sergeant. Why, you. Nicky, what were you doing, Snoopy? Why? Well, I heard someone going berserk in some room downstairs. Really? By the time Nicky got out into the upstairs hall, it was all over. And she bumped into the whoever it was. In the dark, he grabbed her downstairs. The kitchen, wasn't it? How'd you know? I want to see it. Which way? Come on, Nicky. Wait for me. Hurry up. Nikki. Wouldn't care if I drop dead right in this spot. Probably too late. I should have foreseen that the killer. What are you talking about? Hillary here gets me half tried. Here's the kitchen. And then he won't even wait. Well, for the. Look at this place, a wreck. Dish is broken, furniture knocked over. Search for something. But why? Then why in the kitchen? Remember Dr. McKing's dying words? Search rosemary, meaning his wife? Not necessarily not his wife, but ellery. Rosemary. That's Mrs. McKing's first name, sir. It's also the name of something else. Dr. McKing was an amateur chef, an enthusiastic cook. This ought to be the spice cabinet. By step. That crack on my head. Anyway, old cloves, thyme, mace, maram, sage, basil, mustache, old ginger. Ah, look. Rosemary. Huh? Rosemary and herb used in cooking. When he said search Rosemary, he meant to finish a sentence or search rosemary jar in spice cabinet or something like that. Search rosemary jar. Well, well, well, search it. I might. There'll be something in this jar unless the searcher beat us to it. He missed it. There is a wad of typewriter paper. Mrs. The King left it. What's it say? H. Dated 10 days ago. Due to a recent disturbing episode, I am writing this note as a precaution. If anyone finds it, I'm the only one who uses the spice cabinet, so it is safe against accidental discovery. It will be because they are investigating my murder. The other night, a certain person close to me threatened my life. I was inclined to at least first dismiss it as hysteria. Now I am not so sure. If anything happens to me, the person who threatened to kill me was. Who? Eller. Come on. Maestro. It's Elsie Woolen, my secretary. Signed, Monty McKing. Vi, get that woolen girl down here. And it is true, Ms. Willard, you did threaten Dr. Machine's life. Yes, but. I dare you threaten him. Come on, Tears. Nikki, you tackle her. Me? Give us some of the old Porter treatment. You know, the kind you use on me. I hope I have better luck with her, Ms. Woolen. Elsie. Oh, Ms. Porter, they just don't understand. Yes, well, they're men, dear. But, Elsie, they'll find out eventually. It's much better to tell the truth. They're really not ogre. You can't blame them, dear. If you refuse to talk, it. It looks as if you have something to conceal. Why not tell the whole story? Come on now. I loved him. Secretary loves books. Vicky, shut up. I kept it locked up for so long, but one night it came out. Marty told me he loved his wife. I guess I said some foolish things, but I didn't poison him last night. I didn't. You can't prove I did because I didn't. Try to prove it. Go ahead, try. All right, Feely. She's not going anywhere. Of course she's right. We can't prove it. All this does is to uncover another possible motive. This is a tough thing. This would be about the time for the great Ellery Queen to come up with one of his miraculous solutions, wouldn't it? Well, Nikki, how did you know? Oh, no. Allen Ray. Yes, dad. Now I know who murdered Dr. McKing. And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have the mystery. Now, suppose you home armed care detectives and our guests in the studio compare solutions. Thank you, Ellery. I'm happy to introduce the charming proprietress of one of Hollywood's most popular syndicated columns, Ms. Sheila Graham. Good evening, Ms. Graham, and welcome to the Armchair. Thank you, but after listening to your mystery tonight, I'm a little worried about occupying this post. Oh, you had nothing to be afraid of. Perhaps you'd like A glass of water to help you relax. Heaven no. That's the last thing in the world I'd want. Well, I can't say that I blame you. But now suppose we get down to business. Tell me, who do you think is the criminal in tonight's story? Well, it's very complicated tonight, sure, But I think Ms. Woollen, the secretary, did it. I see. And you see? Well, it was a very subtle murder. It takes a smart girl to murder a man like that and took a lot of preparation. Secretaries are usually rather smart. And she knew this man. She knew that he might get thirsty. He obviously got thirsty very often in his office. And also he said that somebody very hysterically threatened his life previously. You mean in the note he left? Yes, in the note he left. And she was a very hysterical woman. So I think Ms. Woollen did it. Thank you very much, Michelagh. We'll find out in just a moment if your solution is correct. Now here is Paul Masterson. A second great war has in the not too distant past drawn to a close. The magnificent self sacrificing work of the International Red Cross will long be remembered at home. The American Red Cross has always been on the job. Whenever disaster struck, whether it was a tornado, earthquake, fire or flood, it is our duty and our privilege to help make the 1948 Red Cross campaign the best ever. The quota is set at $75 million. By giving to the Red Cross you are giving directly to your relatives and friends in the armed forces and here at home. Let's make 1948 the banner year in donations to the American Red Cross. I don't care. I don't want to hear it. He's just too, too smart. Always knows the answer to mysteries. Well, I want to hear it. Mickey, fight down. What have you got? Elric swelled head? It's all right, dad. It's that crack on the skull. Well now, what was Dr. Monty McKing's profession? What was he most famous for? His radio program McKing's English Authority on the correct usage of the English language. Then let's take another look at that note we just found on the Rosemary. I quote, due to a recent disturbing episode I am writing and so forth. Something wrong there, maestro? Sergeant? Due to in that sentence is hopelessly incorrect. Oh, it is? It should read because of a recent disturbance I am writing and so forth due to can never be used adverbially. Is that so? And this if anyone finds it, it'll be because they are investigating getting my murder. Any one must be followed by he one can't possibly mean the plural. Oh, Ms. Porter is with us again. Yes, Nikki. Another mistake, and this I was inclined to at first dismiss, a split infinitive. A splitting what? In other words, this short note, purportedly from the pen of an authority on correct English, reveals not one, not two, but three of the commonest errors of usage. Incredible conclusion. Dr. McKing did not write the note. It's a phony. I mean, a forgery. And since the note was not written by Dr. McKing, it was not left in the rosemary jar by Dr. McKing either. Someone else left the note in the jar? Obviously the real writer of the note, the forger, Hillary. Why? What was accomplished by it? Well, a great deal, dad. It made us believe that the word rosemary in Dr. McKing's dying statement search Rosemary, meant rosemary the herb, rather than rosemary the name of a woman, and who, by our thinking that the victim was not accusing a woman named Rosemary, but was merely telling us to look for a note in a spice jar. Only Rosemary McCain herself. She did poison her husband, tried to twist his accusation of her to mean something entirely different because she had a guilty conscience. So tonight, after I put her to bed, she forged her husband's signature to a note accusing Elsie Woolen, then sneaked downstairs, left the note in the rosemary jar as a blind. And then Nikki deliberately led us to that jar. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Let us to the jar, maestro. By wrecking the kitchen, Sergeant, what was that but a clever device to draw our attention to it, to make us search it and find her plant in the rosemary jar. And then on her way back upstairs, she bumped into me in the dark. And let me have it at that Rosemary's attempt to lead us down a false trail might have succeeded if only she'd learned from her victim the rules governing the English language. Well, here's where she learned something about the rules governing murder. Really? Old Rosemary mcking for the murder of my armchair detective. Yes, sir. And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have the solution to our mystery. Thank you again, Ms. Sheila Graham, for serving as our guest armchair detective this evening. As mementos of the occasion, I have for you a copy of my latest mystery anthology, the Queen's Awards, 1947, and a subscription to Ellery Queen's Mystery magazine. Ah, Paul. Feeling all right? Well, I guess we're okay. There have been no calls yet asking if our armchair detectives really been knocked off. And what are you worried about? Among other things, Ellery, next week. Never mind about next week. What's the matter, Nikki? What gives next week. That it darkens the fair brow and brings lightning into those beauteous orbs. Why, Paul? Well, it's nothing, Nikki. I. I guess you bring out the poet in me. Oh, Nikki, remember me? Go away. Not you, Nikki. Yes, I remember you, Ellery. Q. I remember that female, too. What female? Nikki's referring to next week's problem, Paul. I'll say she was the problem. What was? Her. I mean, its name. Ellery. You were right the first time, Paul. I call her. I mean it. The Farmer's Daughter. This is Ellery Queen saying good night until next week and enlisting all Americans every night and every day. Day in the fight against bad citizenship, bigotry and discrimination, the crimes which are weakening America. All names used on this program are fictitious and do not refer to real people, either living or dead. Among the members of tonight's cast were Larry Dobkin, Herb Butterfield, Kay Brinker, Alan Reed, Joan Banks, Bill Johnston, Charles Seale, Ann Morrison and Joe Kern. Music was by Rex Corey. Direction by Dick Woolen. Entire production under the supervision of Ellery Queen. Now, a listening reminder for a hilarious combination of spring fever and spring house cleaning. Listen. When Willie Piper, Spring fever. Combats his wife's feverish energy on Tales of Willie Piper. Tonight, the preceding program came to you by transcription. The best time to plan for the future of your children is when they're small. That's the time to set up a nest egg for their education. And your banker will tell you that the best way to do it is to put the. Box 13 with the star of Paramount Pictures, Alan Ladd as dan holiday. Box 13. Box 13. Box 13. Box 13. Bo holiday. Why did you ever leave a soft job as a reporter to become a freelance writer? Or why did you ever advertise for adventure? Oh, I know it makes you feel like a kid with a box of Cracker Jack. Now, you can't stop. You might run across a juicy peanut or. That grand prize is supposed to come in each and every packy. But you know by now that storylines, like money, don't grow on trees. Susie, where have you been? You know where I've been, Mr. Holiday. Down at the start times after the mail. Oh, yes, the. The mail. What's in box 13? Box 13, starring Ellen Ladd as Dan Holliday. And now, box 13, starring Alan Ladd as Dan Holiday. Box 13. I wish I'd never rented the thing. Wish I'd never even thought of it. Mr. Holliday, you're early this morning. Well, I had to see if my new Secretary's on the ball. You know, since you rescued me from that nut factory down at the start times, I'd work my fingers off the elbows for you. Uh oh, now take it easy, Susie. You'll need those elbows to lean on when things get dull around here. Dull? Oh, things don't get dull around you, Mr. Holliday. Hey, what's that you're writing? A love letter? Yeah, it's a love letter to your publisher. Uh oh, he wants to know where are the chapters you promised for the new book. And what are you telling him, Susie? A lie. A big fat one. Thanks. By the way, where are those chapters, Mr. Holliday? If I had them, my secretary would have lots of extra work. You don't like extra work, do you, Susie? I don't like your worried look. When you don't have chapters, you have that look. Oh, does it show so much. Like a chinchilla coat in a dime store. It's the hallmark of my profession, Susie. Say, what was in box 13 today? Some goof wants you should fly to Mars with him in his homemade rocket. Oh brother. Oh yes, there was a ticket to a radio broadcast. Radio broadcast? Silky Soap presents Time for Dramas Starring Gene Blake. 8pm Federal Broadcasting Studios. Now who would want me to go to a radio show? The advertising agency maybe, huh? Those guys don't read adventure wanted ads. Too busy dreaming up singing commercials. Someone wants you should go to that broadcast awful bad. Yeah, she wrote please in the back of the little envelope. She? Yeah, she. And I don't like her taste in lipstick. The one she wrote this with is the color of blood. And now you have returned, my darling. I am alive again. The wind is down, but still the seas run high. Time for Drama has presented the Wind is Down starring Jean Blake. In the cast were Robert Baylor as John, Agnes Sloan as Grandmother and Marvin Masterson as the butler. This is fbc, the Federal Broadcasting double. Sorry, sir, we're closing the studio. Huh? Oh, sure, sure. I. I was meeting someone. They must have stood me up. Someone in the cast, sir? Yes, it could be. I think they've all gone, but you might try the stage entrance. Oh, thanks. How do I get there? Around the back of the building, sir. Just opposite the parking lot. You blithering idiot. Watch where you're going. Sorry, I didn't see you coming around the corner. You autograph hounds always clutter up the entrance. For that I'll not give you mine. Step aside there. Oh, don't mind him, son. He's just an old ham. A has been. Oh, That's a heavy hunk of ham. Who is he popping? Name's Marvin Masterson. Not the Marvin Masterson? Yep. He's washed up in pictures. Threw on the stage, too. Does bits on the air now. Say, didn't I see him play a butler on Time for drama tonight? Yeah. How the mighty have fallen. Say, Pop, you read that like an actor? Was one once. Oh, nothing like Masterson, of course. And I can appreciate how he must feel. Well, someone else did too, when he said fame. It is the flower of a day that dies when the next sun rises. You an actor too, son? No. Writer Name wouldn't be Dan Holiday, would it? Yes. Why? Got a message for you. From whom? Don't know. Found this note on my desk. If Mr. Dan Holliday comes around, ask him to go to the Mayfair restaurant. Hey, what is this I'm getting passed around like a collection plate? When you catch up to her, give her a pencil. That lipstick smeared up my call sheet. Ah, Monsieur Halliday. Tis an honor to have you once more at Mayfair. You have these due to us. Too long. Working hard, Henri? Always. But tonight, you relax. You have fun. A Missy Holiday? What do you mean? A charming young lady waiting for you at your table. Oh, I. I'd hoped you'd come, Mr. Holliday. Why, you're. You're Jean Blake. Yes. I must talk with you. We'll order later, Henrietta. Now, what is this all about? Oh, I suppose I am being rather mysterious. I'm used to mystery. Besides not owning a pencil. What's your problem? Pencil? Yes. That lipstick you write notes with. Comes off on things. Oh, I'm in danger, Mr. Holliday. Grave danger. But why come to me? I know about you. In box 13, you advertise adventure wanted. Will go any place, do anything. I need help. So. So, Mr. Holliday, I'm going to be killed. I'll do anything you ask, but you must help me. You must. Oh, no. Look, Ms. Blake, I'm a writer, not a dead detective. Hello? Monsieur Holiday? Yes. Honor, there is a call for you. May I plug in the phone? A call? Oh, sure. Excuse me, please. Hello? You're engaged in an interesting adventure tonight, aren't you, Mr. Holiday? You must be psychic. Who is this? If seeing into your future is being psychic, I suppose I am. You see, when I ring off, I know you will tell that beautiful young woman sitting next to you that you can't help her. Oh. Surprised? Yeah, a little. What makes you so sure? If you don't send her away, you won't Be able to help her or anyone else that I don't see. Something else you don't see is a gun. It's aimed precisely between your eyes. No, don't look around. You can't see it from there, but an expert marksman can see you. However, every move you're. You're in this restaurant. Interesting situation, isn't it? Hundreds of people around you and you don't know which one you're speaking with or which will shoot you if you don't do what you're told. Get rid of that girl, holiday. Now, now, Ms. Blake, you will help me, but you must. You simply must. Look, I'll pay you anything. I don't want your money, Ms. Blake. I want you to see the police. You won't help me? No. That's final? That's final. Very well. Goodbye, Mr. Holliday. Well, nice going, Holiday. A young woman in distress pleads for help, and what do you do? Send her out into the night alone. But you had to do it so that that madman on the phone wouldn't hurt somebody. Now you've got to find her and fast. Henri. Henri. Oui, monsieur? Holiday, that girl who just left, Jean Blake, did you see where she went? Oui, monsieur. She walked towards the park. Oh, this is the park. But no Jean Blake. Oh, There she is. Ms. Blake. Ms. Blake, wait. It's all right, Ms. Blake. Stan Holiday. Oh, but I thought. No time for thinking. Get in my car, quickly. What can I do? What can I do? Oh, now, easy, Ms. Blake. Take it easy. There, there. You'll be all right. Now, come on, try to be calm. Can you tell me who's been threatened? There's only one thing we can do. What? Go to the police. You can relax now, Holliday. You're off that hook. The Blake gal's probably back home. And you can bet they put a cop to stand guard at a door. Sure, Holiday, this would have made a great springboard for a yarn. But you're out of it now, so I just forget the whole thing. Anyway, what would you have done for the last chapter? Last chapter? Of course. If you should go back to the Mayfair for lunch tomorrow, you just might run across something interesting. Ah, aren't you Dan Holiday, the author? I thought this much. I've seen your pictures on dust jackets of your very exciting books. I'm a fan of yours. Have a seat, Mr. Masters. You recognize me? Have we bumped into one another before? Well, I'd call it a near miss, but along with a few million others, I'd recognize you Anyway, personally, I detest dining alone. Since no one was with you, I took the liberty. My pleasure, sir. Thank you, Henri. Serve my dinner here. Your voice is very distinctive, Mr. Masterson. Seems I've heard it just recently, of course. Twas on the radio. I have been doing a bit of that, you know, Simply for amusement, of course. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. I saw you on Gene Blake's show last evening. You played the butler. Yes, I asked them not to credit me. Here's just dabbling with radio, a new medium, you see. I'm sure the name Masterson means a great deal, even to the radio audience. The public soon forgets. Call Monsieur Allegheny. The phone is connected. Oh, thank you, Henri. Hello? Hello, Mr. Holliday. It. It's going to happen. But I told you about. I know it is. If only you could come now. No, no. Don't show up. To God. Hello? Hello? Good Lord. Holiday. What's wrong? Jean Blake. She's just been murdered. You are listening to box 13, starring Alan Ladd as Dan Holiday. And now Back to box 13, starring Alan Ladd as Dan. Well, what a sleuth you turned out to be, a Holiday. You sit in on a mutual admiration session with a tired old ham actor, and the gal you're trying to protect gets knocked off. Hold it, Mac. Where do you think you're going? Miss Blake's. Miss Blake ain't seeing nobody. Yeah, that's for sure. She's dead. Dead? Are you crazy, mister? I've been here all the time. Which part of the duplex is hers? Upstairs, but you can come on. This it? Yes. Good, I. Come on, bust it in. See what I mean? Suicide, huh? What did she take? Suicide? You better look again. She was shot. That's impossible. I'd have heard something. I've been here six hours and I ain't heard no shot. But there were three shots. I heard them just 15 minutes ago. You heard them? You wasn't here 15 minutes ago. Or was you? Were you? I told you, I've been here six hours. Didn't you leave for cigarettes or something? I told you, I've been here. Yeah, I know. You've been here six hours. But who was around before I got here? No one, that is. Nobody but them. Nobody but who? The tenants of the other apartment. An old guy and his daughter, name of Masterson. Masterson? Look, Mac, you know too much about this. I'm holding you till I get the inspector down here. Sure. When you phone in, tell headquarters to send along a magician's manual, huh? You didn't hear Any shots? This thing must have been done with mirrors. Did you talk to Ms. Blake after you left her last night? No, not until she phoned me this noon, Inspector, at the restaurant. She phoned you at the restaurant this noon? Yeah, that's right. I was having lunch with a guy from downstairs. Marvin Masterson. Well, I got news for you, Holiday. If you talked to anybody, it wasn't Ms. Blake. What do you mean? She couldn't have telephoned you. She's been dead over 12 hours. How about that, Holiday? Holiday, where's that good ear you're supposed to have? Sure, you would swear it was Miss Blake's voice, but she was dead 12 hours before. Look, Holliday, we're trying to find the last chapter, but even you couldn't write this one. But it was her voice. Come on now, think, Holiday. What did she say over the phone? It's going to happen, what I told you about. I know it is. If only you could come now. There was something else that came over that wire. Something a good ear would have picked up. If only you could come now. If only you could come now. Think, Holiday, think. What else did you hear with that phone? A clock. A clock? Sounding the Westminster Abbey chimes. Yes? Coming. Yes? Ms. Masterson? I'm Dan Holliday. Oh, yes. Good evening. Won't you come in? I'm sorry to intrude. Oh, not at all. Father told me he lunched with you this noon. Oh, yes. Is your father at home? No. Oh. Is there something I can do? Oh, yes. Answer a few questions, if you will. Well, if it's about that poor girl upstairs, the police have already questioned Father and me extensively. Poor Father. He was so upset. He went out to our beach cottage for a few days. I'd like very much to know. Can't you get your information from headquarters? No. Why? You see, I know more than the police do. Isn't withholding evidence crime, Mr. Holliday? Yes. So is aiding and abetting a murder. I'm afraid that's not very clear. Some details are not clear to me. That's why I'm here. Are you insinuating that? No, I'm accusing. Accusing whom of what? A father and his daughter of murder and abetting a murder, respectively. That's ridiculous. I don't think so. I get it. This is just a gag hooked up between you and my father. Well, it really isn't very funny. It's no gag. Your father murdered Gene Blake and I believe you helped him, Ms. Masterson. And now I'm sure of it. Is my silence that expressive? No, but your clock strikes the Westminster chimes. Chimes? I don't see what they've got to do with it. I see several things. Your fancy record player, for one. It does have an attachment for making recordings, doesn't it? Mr. Holliday, you have no right to ask questions. The police got all the information they wanted, but not the evidence to convict Marvin Masterson. I know he's a murderer. You'll have to prove that. This noon, over the phone, I heard Jean Blake calling for help. Then I heard that shots had killed her. Well, if my father was dining with you at the time, how could he be the killer? I heard the murder, but not at the time it was committed. It was you, Ms. Masterson, who telephoned me at the restaurant. Are you trying to say I'm clever enough to go through that shooting routine and then fake Jean Blake's voice over the phone? It was Ms. Blake's voice, all right. However, I heard it 12 hours after your father killed her in this apartment. Later he carried her body upstairs. That's fantastic. Is it? Mind if I go through this collection of records? I should find the one Jean Blake was forced to cut on this machine before she was shot to death. No, don't, please, I. You did play that record I heard on the phone? Yes, but I thought it was a joke. Father was playing on someone. He phoned me a few minutes before and told me what to do. What did you think when you discovered Ms. Blake was dead? I was frantic. You see, Father warned me to forget all about the record. He refused to answer any of my questions. Mr. Holliday, my father can't be responsible for this to be tragedy. He's just a broken old man. He was the idol of millions for so long and now they don't want him anymore. It's breaking his heart. Please. Please, I'm begging you to forget all about this. Mr. Holiday. I thought you might be innocently involved, but I'm afraid you can't protect your father from a murder charge. What will he do with him? I'm sorry, Ms. Masterson, but. But I'll have to take that record. Don't touch that. Cabinet Holiday. Oh, you didn't like the beach, Masterson? I didn't go. You're too clever to be out of my sight. Being at this end of your gun might indicate otherwise. But I don't like guns pointing at me. Hey. Get out of the way. He. He was going to shoot you. Oh, you're so right. Fortunately, you got in the way. Are you convinced now that he killed Ms. Blake? Yes, I'm afraid I am. How did you know it was done here, not up in Jean's apartment. Jean didn't have a clock which strikes the Westminster Abbey chimes. This is box 13, starring Alan Ladd as Dan Holy. What is Station High? Tis a proud bendigate. It boasts and begs. It begs arms of homage from the throng. And oft the throng denies its charity holiday. What's that, Inspector? I said that Masterson was a fool. Imagine his insane jealousy of a young performer leading him into a murder plot. Oh, I know. But after all, look at it from Masterson's viewpoint. He'd been a great star. Now he was reduced to playing a bit supportive, a girl he considered an upstart. Yeah, well, it's too bad. Yes, this thinking went awry on him. He figured if he got rid of her, they might rebuild the show around him. The old boy was nutty as a peck of peanut brittle. Well, Mr. Holliday, should I go over to Star Times and see what's in box 13? Oh, not this morning, Susie. Today we work chapters for our publishers. Chapters for our Dear Publisher. Good. Oh, say, before we start, there's a letter here for you. A letter? What's it say? It's from the man who owns the apartment building where you live. Yes. It says your rent is past due. Get it up or get out. Oh, fine. Next week, same time, Alan Ladd stars as Dan holiday in box 13. Alan Ladd appears through the courtesy of Paramount Pictures. And may currently be seen in wild harvest. Box 13 is directed by Ted Hettegar with an original story by Frank Hart Taussig. The part of Susie is played by Sylvia Picker. Original music was composed and conducted by Rudy Schrager. This is a Mayfair product. And now stay tuned for the program that has rated tops in popularity for a longer period of time than any other west coast program in radio history. The Signal Oil Program. The Whistler. G N, A, L Signal. Signal. D Signal. The famous Go Farther gasoline invites you to sit back and enjoy another strange story by the Whistler. For extra driving pleasure. The signal to look for is the yellow and black circle sign that identifies signal service stations from Canada to Mexico. And for Sunday evening listening pleasure. The signal to listen for is this whistle that identifies the Signal Oil program. The Whistler. I am the Whistler. And I know many things. For I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. And now the whistler's strange story. Brief pause for murder. He couldn't recall the exact moment when it ceased to be a thrill to beam brightly at a microphone and announce, this is Roger Wixon speaking and inviting you to tune in next week at this same time. He was sure now, though, that the glamour and magic of radio had gone out of his life the moment he'd married Tisha. Yes, and she'd taken a lot of other things out of his life, too. Things like pride and confidence and self respect. And Roger couldn't recall either the precise instant he decided to kill Tisha, when the helpless, frustrated hate for her blotted out any pangs of conscience, left him frankly admitting to himself that all he wanted were the moment and the means. Of course, there was no plan in his mind on the night of the dance at the country club. No plan, just a decision. He'd come home first, after leaving her there with Trent Crandall, and had sat alone in the living room, patiently waiting for her. It was after two when the door opened and she called back to Trent. Good night, Trent, darling. Thanks for the buggy ride. Oh, Roger, you waited up for me. How sweet of you. Not at all. I was just catching up on my reading here. Trent's new book. He'd be so flattered. Darling, I had to fall back on something simple. I started on the Rover Boys, but I got stuck on the big words. That's why you waited up, isn't it? You thought up a clever remark all by yourself and you wanted me to hear it. I only want to tell you, Tisha, that I think you're being very stupid. You mean about Trent, Right. It makes no difference to me if. If you want to play footy with San Francisco's most distinguished visitor. But our fellow citizens have a way of talking, you know. If you're implying that Trent. I'm not implying anything. Why don't you join us some evening, play chaperone? Trent Crandall is a celebrity, Tisha. Whatever he does is news. If it got back to his wife, she might possibly misinterpret. She just might assume there was more to your association with Trent than a healthy interest in his books. There is. I love him. And it doesn't concern Mrs. Crandall at the moment. She's on her way to Reno. I see. And, of course, it doesn't concern me either. It shouldn't. When his divorce is granted, I'll be leaving you. Naturally. There it is again. What Facial expression number 2A. The inscrutable smile. You were wearing it at the club tonight. I rather expected to see the other one. Patient suffering. I believe it's called Good night, Tisha. You're glad I'm leaving, aren't you? That's why you smiled. Maybe. Of course, you will have to get along without my money. I said good night, Tisha. Just good night. No recriminations. You know, I couldn't sleep a wink if I thought you were brooding over something. Why, of course not. You were brilliant tonight, Tisha. I enjoy being sneered at in front of a room full of people. Oh, and it was an inspiration, your calling my boss the program director of a peanut whistle. Mr. Gladney is an incompetent, offensive stuffed shirt. Why shouldn't I tell him so, even if he is your boss? Very well, Tisha. Is that all? That's all. All right, darling. This is Mrs. Roger Wixom bidding you good night. So Tisha leaves, and you sit alone in the living room thinking. You've discovered a very important thing. Haven't you, Roger? The reason you'd given yourself for wanting to kill her is gone. She's going to leave you of her own accord and marry Trent Crandall. But it doesn't seem to make any difference to, does it? Nothing matters. Not even her money. You're going to kill her because you hate her. That's all the reason you need. But how, Roger? How? The next morning, shortly after you arrive at the station, you run into another announcer. Jerry, how was the thing at the club? Oh, all right. I hated to miss it. That's funny. I thought I saw you there. I probably heard me. I had the dance remote last night from the Cedars. Oh, yeah, that's right. I heard you. We tuned in over at the club. Very simple. On the air from the Cedars. Can't be at the club. At the club. Can't be on the air from the Cedars. Conclusion, Jerry wasn't there. Guy can't be in two places at the same time. Get it? Yeah, yeah, Jerry, I get it. Again. This week, you Whistler fans have sent in some really choice limericks. So once again, Signal has asked me to skip the regular commercial in order to present $20 Signal Gasoline books to three of you as tokens of our appreciation. The first one tonight goes to Sarian Bessinger of Santa Monica, California. For this limerick. There once was a man named Ben Bo whose gas tank would always run low. Now he saves that bother and likewise goes farther with Signal. Benbow now saves Doe Signal, signal, signal, gasoline. Your car will go for the gasoline. Tonight's second twenty dollar signal gasoline book goes to L.F. washburn of San Diego, California for this limerick. There once was a driver named Schuster who's getting more miles than he useder since signal he's tried. His car is his pride and Schuster's a signal gas booster. Signal, signal, signal gasoline. Your car will go far with go for the gasoline. Tonight's third $20 signal gasoline book goes to Mrs. James T. Blackistone of La Verne, California for this limerick. There once was a trusty old steed who drank signal gas with his feed. They thought it would kill him, but instead it did fill him with pep and astonishing speed. Signal, signal, signal, gasoline. Your car will go far with no father gasoline. Well, that's all we have time for tonight, friends. But our thanks to all of you who sent in Limerick. Listen for more lucky limericks next Sunday. Well, Roger, it doesn't matter that Tisha plans to leave you, does it? The decision to kill her has been part of you for so long that nothing she does will ever change it. So you don't think of the why of it anymore, just the how. And part of the how took shape in your mind when Jerry Edwards explained that it was impossible for him to be both on the air from the Cedars and at the country club at the same time. Something to think about, isn't it, Roger? And that evening, as you're doing your news broadcast, you find something else to think about halfway through the show. Someone solving the housing problem. Oh, here's a late bulletin. Police in this city went on 24 hour duty tonight, launching an all out effort to capture the so called Whipcord Strangler who claimed his third victim last night. The crime followed the grimly familiar pattern. Mrs. Dorothea Eckler was found dead in her apartment early this morning. Medical reports indicate death had been caused by strangulation with a cord or thong. As in other cases, the apartment had been looted. Police warned residents to take special precautions. You hope your listeners will attribute that catch in your voice to revulsion at the horrible crime. But it's something quite different, isn't it, Roger? Another part of the howl. You've decided now that Tisha will die in a way that will point. The Whipcord Strangler is the only suspect. At the very moment that you are broadcasting from the studio. It'll have to be a recording, of course. So there's another big problem. How can you get one of the station engineers to play a recording of your Voice at the right time and to keep his mouth shut no matter what happens. That stops you, doesn't it, Roger? For three more days, it stops you. Then fate steps in again. Mr. Gladney, the program director stops you in the hall and called you over to meet a new employee. Our new engineer, Wixon Vern Cummings. Hello. How do you do? Be working with you on the night shift. Say, I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I? I don't think so. Your name is Cummings? Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Cummings. Well, I've got to run along. Explain the setup to Cummings, will you? Oh, you bet, Mr. Bladney. You know, I'd swear I've seen you somewhere before. Must have been a couple of other guys. Haven't you got a station break coming up? Oh, yeah, yeah. Let's do it. As you give the station's call letters and the time signal, you watch the new engine through the glass of the control room. Try to imagine what he'd look like without the mustache, with a face a little less drawn. And then something clicks. You do know him. Six years ago at another small radio station in the Midwest, you cut off your mic, and the smooth voice of the network announcer booms from a loudspeaker over your head, introducing a program of dinner music. When you re. Enter the control room, Cummings is showing elaborate interest in the dials on the instrument panel before him. Say, Cummings. Yeah, I. I'm sure we've met before. I don't know. There are lots of faces like mine. Not exactly like it. What's that? You just might be a guy I used to know back in Kansas City. Worked at the same station. Look, I tell you, you're wrong. Why don't you let it go at that? Cut the speaker, will you? I can't hear myself saying, shut it down. That's better. Look, Wixon, I'm new here, and I don't want to be rude, but I've got to study this panel layout. Now, do you mind? Oh, sure, sure. I'm sorry, Cummings. I didn't mean to bother you. But you look just like a guy I used to work with in Kansas City six years ago. Only his name was Spore. Vern Spore. My name's right up there on my license. You see? Right up there. Why don't you take a look? Vern Cummings. Vern Spore. You know, you and this guy could have been brothers. Well, okay. I guess I'll write to the boys back at the station in Kansas City and ask if they know what became Of Wexen, huh? Wait a minute. Okay, Wixon, you win. I'd like to talk to you. Sure. Look, you were always a pretty good guy. How about forgetting you ever knew me, huh? I don't see why not. After all, it's your business. You probably heard about that jam I got into. It was after you left. What happened? Well, I. I needed some dough and there was some beat up equipment around the station. I figured the stuff would be good for a few bucks and I made a deal with a guy. We got caught. That was tough. You're in the clink. Had to change my name when I got out. What about the license? Friend of mine fixed it up. I see. You won't say anything? Why should I? Thanks, Wixon. Gosh, when you walked in tonight, I thought I'd die if Gladney ever found out about my record. Sure. Listen, if there's anything I can ever do. Sure. Don't worry. I'll call on. So that's all there is to the how, isn't it? Roger Cummings is your man. He'll play ball anytime you ask him. All that remains now is when the answer to that comes unexpectedly. The next evening when Lieutenant Krasner of the police department comes into the station to ask a favor. Mind if I interrupt you for a minute, Mr. Wickson? Oh, hello, Lieutenant. Not at all. Come on in. Thanks. Just confirm talking to Mr. Gladney. He suggested I see you about some announcements on the police benefit next week. Thought maybe you'd do them for us. Why, sure. Be glad to. When do you want him to start? Tonight, if he can. Let's see, I've got him right here. Tonight, huh? It's pretty short notice. The schedule's pretty full. Here they are. Here. I know we're throwing you a curve, but as you probably see by the papers, we've been a little busy these days. You mean the strangler? It's been pretty rough. Pretty rough? Guy, you're not telling us anything. Oh. Your wife home alone while you're working here? Yes. Tell her to keep the windows locked. That's the way the guy gets in. You mean you think Nobody knows where he'll strike next. And it doesn't pay to take chances. Got any leads? A few. I got a hunch or two. I think we'll get him. I hope so. Yeah. What about the announcements? Oh, let me check the schedule. Oh, here. Here we are. Hmm. First time we can give you is the station break at 10 tomorrow night. Is that soon enough? Yeah. I guess it'll have to be. You'll do it yourself? Yes, it'll be on my ship. Thanks a lot, Wixon. I'll tell the boys at headquarters we'll be listening. And that does it, Roger. The win is complete, too. Police Lt. Krasner is going to hear you read that announcement tomorrow night at 10 o' clock, along with his friends down at headquarters. And who could ask for a better alibi than that? Late that night, when you and Vern Cummings are alone at the station, you walk to the control room. He's turned off the annoying loudspeaker when the boss isn't around, and he glances occasionally at the dancing needle on the volume indicator to assure himself that the network program is going out to the listeners. How'd I sound on the 9 o' clock news, Vern? Okay. Why? Well, did you notice anything different in my voice? Why? Be frank, I. I tried to give it something special tonight. How'd it sound? Well, like I said, I thought it was good. What's cooking? Look, can you keep something under your hat? Try me. I'd hate to have the old man find out, but I got a chance to go to Hollywood. Go to Hollywood? Yeah. Friend of mine with an agency down there thinks he could use me. I'll make more dough on one broadcast than I make in a week here. Oh, that's great. That's just great. You're going big time, huh? Well, it's not definite yet. That's why I don't want anything said about it around here or anybody around here to know. You're the only one. I've told you. I just got a wire from the guy. He's flying in from the east tomorrow night. Only be in town for a few hours. If I didn't have to work, I could drive out to the airport and talk to him, but, well, I gotta work. Well, why not trade shifts tomorrow night with one of the other boys? What? I'd have to say why. And I don't want anyone else to get wind of it. Wants a guy come up here, drive in from the airport. Oh, you don't ask guys like that to drive in from airports. No, I guess I'm sunk. After all, you can't be in two places at once. It's pretty important you meet this guy, huh? Oh, sure. Might be big time. Oh, forget it. No, no, wait a minute, wait a minute. What time does he get in? Well, his plane arrives at 9:55. 9:55. Let's see. 9:45, we got a band on the net from Hollywood. 10, we take murder Manor from New York? Yeah, but there's a station break at 10 and that police announcement, the time signal. I'm sunk because I gotta be in front of the mic for 30 seconds. What are you talking about? Let's record it, huh? Sure, we can do it tonight, right here in the studio. You give the call letters, the time signal, your announcement. I'll pay the record for you tomorrow night at 10. That means that you can leave here at 9:45 and you won't have to be back until the 10:30 break. It gives you 45 minutes. What do you think? It'd work. Well, why not? Yeah, but suppose Gladney finds out I left the station? I'd get canced. How's he gonna find out? We'll be alone here. And after I play the record, I'll destroy it. Fern, you're a genius. Well, there's your mic, my boy. Okay, you all set? Yeah, we're just about ready. Yeah, I'll go and I'll cue you from the booth. Right. Froggy, this is KTUX. Yes, it's 20 seconds before 10pm Friends, here's a chance for you to show your appreciation. Rog. Huh? Hold it a minute, will you? What's the matter? Look, I just got an idea. Why don't you start over and purposely make a mistake and then correct it? Make a mistake? Why? Well, it's simple. You give the wrong time and then correct yourself, it'll sound more like than ever that you were actually here in the studio. You see, nobody had ever dreamed it was a record. It's a good idea. Okay, let's try it. All right. Watch me for kill. Now, this is KTUX. 20 seconds before 9pm A correction, 10pm Friends, here's a chance for you to show your appreciation for the men who protect your homes and your loved ones 24 hours a day. It's done, isn't it, Roger? The record is made, ready to go. And you know you can count on Verne Cummings to come through for you. The next day is the big one, but you manage to go through your normal routine at home during the morning and early afternoon. As usual. You don't say much to Tisha, only enough to discover that since Trent Crandall has left for Hollywood, she'll be home all evening alone. 9:30 that night at the station, you call lieutenant. I just thought I'd remind you. Lieutenant, your announcement goes on in half an hour. Yeah. Yeah, I think it'll do the job all right. At 9:45, you give the station call. Letters and start out of the studio. Okay. I'll see you before 10:30, Vernon. Okay, Rog. And don't forget to bust that record. If the old man ever found out. Don't worry about it. I'll carry the secret to my grave. You're careful to take the back streets home, keeping well within the speed limit. There's only one person in the world who'll know you're going to be in two places at the same time tonight. And you know Vern Cummings won't talk, no matter what he suspects. It wouldn't be healthy for a man with a prison record to expose himself to suspicion as a possible accomplice. Ten minutes later, you've left your car in an alley. And walk up to the back door of your apartment. You reach into your coat pocket. Yes, the leather thong is still there. Oh. Oh, it's you, Roger. Hello, Tisha. What are you doing home so early? You scared me to death. I just thought I'd drop by and see how you were doing. You know, I've often wondered if you miss me, Tisha, during these long, lonely evenings. Answer my question, Roger. Why aren't you at the station? Is something wrong? Nothing's wrong. I just got tired, so I came home. What are you talking about, tired, Tisha? Tired of station breaks and tired of you, Tisha. I'm tired of the farce you've made out of our marriage. If you can call it a marriage, Roger, what do you mean? It wasn't really marriage, was it, Tisha? It was only a means for you. A way you could ease that frustrated black heart of yours. When Trent Crandall married somebody else right under your nose. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, Tisha. I'm tired of humiliation, of ridicule, of being used for a doormat, playing the clown for that crowd of stupid sophisticates. Roger, what are you going to do? Can't you guess, Tisha? Can't you make one small guess, darling? If you've done any mountain driving during the recent warm spell, you've no doubt seen a lot of cars that had overheated and were stopped to cool off. When this happens, most drivers worry principally about the water that has boiled out of their radiators. What they should worry about is the oil in their expensive engines. The reason many motor oils break down under extreme heat and form harmful gum, varnish and carbon. Fortunately, however, this type of damage is something you won't ever have to worry about. If your motor is protected by Signal Premium compounded motor oil. That's because, in addition to its 100% pure paraffin base, Signal Premium is fortified with scientific compounds that do important things for your motor, which oil alone cannot do. For instance, the oxidation inhibitor in Signal Premium compounded motor oil specifically prevents the formation of gum and varnish. The detergent compound actually removes harmful carbon, and the viscosity index protector preserves Signals Premium's rich body even when the temperature goes up, up, up. In other words, Signal Premium does a lot more than just lubricate. So if you want to keep repairs down and performance up, remember to make your next oil change. A change to Signal Premium compounded motor oil. Remember where to get it? At Signal Service stations. Well, Roger, it's over now, isn't it? Tisha is dead and you're free with half an hour to get back to the station. You leave her there on the floor, put on a pair of gloves and move quickly about the apartment, dumping the contents of drawers all over the room. Then into the bedroom where you open the window. Yes, Roger, it must look like a typical Whipcord Strangler crime, with robbery the obvious motive. The dance music coming over the radio covers any noise that you might make. But then, suddenly, the music stops. You hear the announcer interrupt and begin reading a bullet flash from the police department. A suspect arrested early this afternoon has confessed to the whipcord stranglings of three women in the city during the past month. What? Nearly half of those stolen from his victims. No, it can't be with this dangerous criminal. A wave of fear sweeps over you, Roger. Quickly. You turn the radio down. This is something you hadn't counted on. One of your alibis is gone. The fall guy is in custody. You stare at the littered room, wondering if you have time to restore the place to order. No, no, there's no time for that. The other Balaby. That's the one you'll have to depend on. Now you rush back to the radio. It's just 10 o' clock. If Verne Cummings hasn't bungled, you've still got a chance. Your hand is shaking so violently you can hardly turn the dial of the station frequency. And then. This is KTUX. 20 seconds before 9pm Correction, 10pm Friends, here's a chance. As your own voice comes over the speaker, you begin to relax. Lieutenant Krasny, at least a dozen other police officers are listening to it down at headquarters. It doesn't matter how Tisha died or who did it. The fact remains a man can't be at two places at the same time. Widows and orphans of the brave men who live in your service and die for your protection. For your protection. For your protection. For your protection. For your protection. For your protection. Let that whistle be your signal for the Signal Oil program the Whistler each Sunday night at this same time, brought to you by the Signal Oil Company, marketers of Signal gasoline and motor oil and fine quality automotive accessories. Remember, if you would like the fun of having your friends hear a limerick of yours on the Whistler, the address to which to send it is Signal Oil Company, Los Angeles, 55, California. All limericks become the property of Signal Oil Company. Those selected for use on the Whistler will be chosen by our advertising representatives on the basis of humor, suitability and originality. So, of course, they must be your own composition. Featured in tonight's story were Frank Nelson, Mary Lansing and William Conrad. The Whistler was produced by George W. Allen, directed by Sterling Tracy, with tonight's story by Lou Houston and William Foreman, music by Wilbur Hatch, and was transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. The Whistler is entirely fictional and all characters portrayed on the the Whistler are also fictional. Any similarity of names or resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Remember, at this same time next Sunday, another strange tale by the Whistler. Signal, Signal Gas. Marvin Miller speaking. This is cbs, the Columbia Broadcasting System. The National Broadcasting Company presents the Adventures of Sam Spade Detective Sam Spade Detective Agency. Me, Sweetheart, was it all excruciating? If I suffered, girl, how I suffered. But there's no other way, Sam. When fate turns against a man. True, dear one, true. But from somewhere I must find strength to pick up the shattered fragments of my life, to raise my eyes once again to the horizon and piece by piece put them together again. And the two of us, dear one, hand in hand, shall go marching down the years together. Brace yourselves, sweetheart. I'll try, Sam. Gather together the homely, humble tools of your trade. Find six dry handkerchiefs and prepare to greet me with a smile behind the tear. I'll be down before you can change stations with a report entitled the Soap Opera Caper for NBC. William Spear, Radio's Outstanding Producer Director of Mystery and Crime Drama, brings you the the greatest private detective of them all in the Adventures of Sam Spade. Sam who called young Widder Perine Plain F. Is it all over, Sam? Is a soap opera ever over, dear one? Oh, but it's out on the phone like you. I know, I know, but it's not the end. It's never the end. Pull up a chair. Now take a firm grip on Pad, pencil and your emotions. Got him. I'm at the ready. Sand. Good show. To Agatha Pilbeam from Samuel Spade, license number 137596. Subject the Soap opera caper. How was I to know what was on her mind? This strange woman, this mysterious Agatha Pilbeam, this voice on the telephone directing me to the big sprawling house in Hillsborough. Is that clear, Mr. Spade? How urgent is it, Ms. Pilbeam? Very, very urgent, Mr. Spade. I. I don't know which way to turn, so I went to the big sprawling house in Hillsboro, pulled up behind an ancient model A parked at the curb and was walking past it toward the gate when. Spade. Huh? Oh. Oh, Croc. Morton, isn't it? Good old Sammy. You remember. Yeah, yeah. When'd you get out? Oh, last month. But I'm a good boy now. Here, take one of my cards. You know anyone who needs a first class private eye? Crocs available. And what are you doing here? Sam, the lady wants to see me. The soap opera queen? Is that what she is? Oh, six or eight of them. She writes behind the Clouds, the heart of Julia Jukes life. Oh, I forget the rest. Yeah. Beats Gumshoe and Sammy. Yeah, well, right. If you get work, Croc. Yeah, I want a job right now. I mean, you got your license already for me. Well, I. Well, you can always run off a photostat as someone else's. Oh, Sam, that's mean. Croc was a crook, but a nice crook. He never killed anybody. He was just an uncurable camera fiend, specializing in taking pictures of people doing what they hadn't ought to be doing. You know, stuff like that. Or if you wanted a photo stand of somebody else's document Crock was your man. Well, I walked up the drive to the door, threw it past a white shirt front that turned out to have a butler in it, and toward what seemed to be your study. But it wasn't. It was your bedroom. And you were reclining on six pillows with a cigarette in a long holder in one hand and the mouthpiece of a dictating machine in the other. But, John. Hush, Melinda. There is no way to go now but ahead. John, you're so strong. I need you. I need your courage. We must face this thing together, Melinda. The organ was a phonograph playing in her ear. I waited for an opening, but there just wasn't any, so I had to interrupt. Don't see, Melinda. We can't run away from life. We must approach this calmly. Melinda. Beg pardon? Oh, just a minute. My mood Music. I see. I'm Sam Spade. Miss Pilbeam. Come. Come sit beside me, Mr. Spade. Well, it's time we talked things over. Well, thanks. Oh, maybe you'd better start at the. When a woman reaches 40, Mr. Spade, she comes to lean upon her man, to look upon him not just as someone to cherish, but as a source, a spring, a fountain of strength. Are you still dictating? I'm Talking about me, Mr. Spade. Oh, whom can I turn to, whom I grope? I flounder in the darkness. I cry out, I listen in vain for an answer, but there is none. Well, you always have a better chance of getting an answer when you ask a question. What do you mean? What are we talking about? What, indeed? Well, I haven't caught the show lately. You'll have to bring me up today. Why don't you run through the announcer's part, will you? You know, right after the organ, when he says. When we left Julia Jukes yesterday. I'm sorry. I thought I told you on the telephone. No. For many days now, I've seen somewhat of a strange new look on my husband's face. Husband? Dr. Martin Hawks. Oh, you're married. I thought it was Ms. Agatha Pilbe. Two years ago today, I met young Dr. Hawks and married him. Life became beautiful, a gay, laughing thing, a road to happiness. And then? Then a cloud passed over the sun. Martin became moody, silent. I tried to penetrate the shell, but he only drew farther into it. A strange, terrifying crevasse seemed to have opened up between us. Well, what is it, Martin? I asked him repeatedly. He'd only stare silently out the window and finally walked silently from the room. Well, how long did this go on? How. How long a series did you get out of it? For weeks. Until a few days ago, when the final blow fell. It was evening, and Agatha and Martin were at dinner. Let's look in on them as. Oh, sorry. We were at dinner when the doorbell rang and I answered it. It was a telegram from Martin, from Mexico. I gave it to him and watched the blood drain from his handsome features as he read it. His hand trembled, his jaw clenched. But you forced yourself to speak. Yes. What is it, Martin? I asked. Tell me, please, for the sake of our love. And he looked down at me as if I were a stranger. Then he crumpled the telegram, threw it savagely into the fireplace and strode silently from the room. Here, here. I rescued it from the flames. Read it. Thank you. Regret must confirm your worst fears. Cardoza. What. What is the terrible secret of Martin Hawks? Why did he act so strangely when the mysterious telegram arrived from Mexico. And above all, where is he? You mean he didn't come back? He's been gone for four days, Mr. Spade. I must find him now of all times. I need his love. When a woman reaches 40. I know, I know. What do you mean, now of all times? Been just a week now since the report came back from the laboratory after my physical examination. Oh, the doctor from Vienna. You see, Mr. Spade, I, too, have a terrible secret. Well, don't you want to tell me about it? Yes. I have a very rare incurable disease. There are only. Only six she short weeks to live. Well, less than an hour after his distressing interview with Agatha, our boy Sammy walked into the beautifully appointed office of young Dr. Hawks at 4:50 Sutter to find his nurse, pretty young Nora Sheldrake, a new character, working at her desk in the reception. Reception room. In response to a question from Sammy, we hear Nora saying. I have no idea where Martin has gone, Mr. Spade, but I can tell you why. Tell me, Nora. Please feel free to tell me everything. It. It's that. That woman, Mr. Spade. Agatha. Yes. Yes, Agatha. She never understood Martin. She doesn't understand Martin. She never has tried to understand Martin. Do you hear me? She never has tried. I take it you don't care for Agatha Pilby. I hate her, Nora. I do. I hate her. She thinks her money can buy everything, even Martin. Well, it won't. She knows that now. Well, calm yourself, Nora. Try and think back now to the last time you saw Martin Hawks was Monday, four days ago. Yes. The call came from some legal firm named Bennett and Hatch. Let me write that down. I switched the call into Martin. I was worried for him. I was concerned, I have to admit, now I did a terrible thing. Ah, you listened in. I did. They told him his sister was in town, that she was working at some. At some nightclub and wanted to see him. What nightclub was this? Let me see. It was the. The Tortuga. What else? That's all. They hung up then, and Martin came out. I watched the blood drain from his handsome features. His hand trembled, his jaw clenched. Yes? I'm going out, Nora, he said. If I'm not back, don't worry. That's all. It was so like Martin. The Tortuga was only a few blocks away on Post street, so I walked there. We're just tooling up for the dinner trade. When I arrived, sailed around backstage like Billy Rose on an inspection tour. Found the doorman and showed him the snapshot you'd given me of young Dr. Hawks or tried to. Look, young feller. I told you, we don't have no dancer here named a Hawk. I ain't got time for. Please take a look at the picture. No, I ain't got you. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That fellow was here at that Tuesday, Monday night. It was. Well, who'd he come to see? There wasn't nobody named Hawks, mister. It was Beth Jardine. Well, bless you, Dorman. Bless you. Bless you too. Thank you. Beth Jardine. Well, come in. I close the door, will you? Yeah. Drafty? Yeah, yeah. Is there anything I can. There sure is. Zip me up, Jack. I'm Sam. I don't care if you're Boris Karloff. You got hands, haven't you? Set me up. Okay, you say when. When can you breathe? Oh, no, you can't have everything. Ouch. Well, what's on your mind, Jack? Martin Hawks. Sorry, Never heard of him. Look, we're getting along beautifully up to now. Honey, let's not spoil it. You not only know Martin Hawks, you're his sister. What makes you think. What's that card stuck over there in the mirror? Bennett and Hatch, Attorneys at Law. The same Bennett and Or Hatch who called Martin Monday afternoon and told him his sister wanted to see him here. Now, what's this all about? I can't tell you. He got a telegram from Mexico. Mexico? Yeah. It upset him something awful. What'd it say? Regret, must confirm your worst fears. You're dead, huh? Yeah. Oh, that's great. Great. Pretty hilarious, huh, Jack? You just ain't got no idea. I got a piece of advice for you, Jack. Oh? Forget about Marty Hawks and live a long and useful life. I got a tip for you too. You're in a tight spot. Watch that zipper, Jack. One of the heavier soap opera types, Beth was, with a throaty voice and the talent for besmirching reputations. What was the mysterious influence she wielded over young Dr. Hawks? How much did she know about his strange disappearance? What about the cryptic telegram from Mexico City? And what about dinner? The last question I could answer. I stopped at Schroeder's for Sauerbrand and potato pancakes, ran into Larry Mahoney of Homicide, who was off duty, and we stopped in at a handy alley and bowled until 11. I was walking back down Market street when I passed the Flood Building which reminded me of the firm of Bennett and Hatch who resided there. As a matter of fact, it looked like they were there right now since the light was on behind the second floor window with their name on it. Now, the sensible thing would have been to call around 9 in the morning. Morning. But as I seldom do sensible things, I hustled up the stairs and down the corridor to their office. Someone other than Bennett or Hatch had put in some time. Obviously, the drawers of a dozen or more file cases had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. The desk drawers likewise. And to mark it clearly as the work of a thoroughgoing professional, the safe door was off its hinges. All this took me back to the Model A parked in front of your house this afternoon, Agatha. And I was contemplating Same when. Hello? Bennett? Yeah. Good. Christopher. I was scared you wouldn't be there. Try to get you at home. Do it, baby. Do it. Pull the string. We'll never make it with this guy. We're through. Pull the string here. Do it, baby. Do it. Make it. Hello, operator? Operator? Operator. I finally got someone at the Tortuga Club who knew where Beth Jardine lived. An apartment on Russian Hill. I didn't stop to ask which apartment, and when I got there, I found I didn't have to. All right, stand back, everybody. Stand back. Dogan. Oh, hello, Sam. What happened? Dame just knocked herself off jump from a room on the eighth floor. Stand back, you yowl. There was no need to, but I looked at her anyway, just to make sure. It was Beth all right. When she said she was through, she meant it. I was just turning to go and something big and a tan camel's hair brushed past me and bent over the body. Where is she? Where? Beth. Sister Beth. Bev. I recognized him from the snapshot. Wild haired, with a four days growth of beard on his lean, handsome face. It was Martin Hawks on the floor, verge of collapse. Officer Dugan and I helped him through the crowd toward the ambulance that had just rolled up, sat him on the running board and began to question him. What? What was that again? Your name. Your name. What's your name? My, my name? Of course. I, I, My name? I, I, I don't know. I don. It happens to everyone in soap operas. Sooner or later. When he filled out the forms on poor Beth Jardine, old Doc Peterson gave Martin a double O, blew his nose and announced with a twinkle in his eye, ears to me like young Dr. Hawks has got himself a case of amnesia. Will the Martin of Young Dr. Hawks come out of the fog? What does he know about the death of Beth? Was it murder or suicide? Or both? And what of the mysterious telegram from Mexico City? Will Agatha ever discover the terrible secret of young Dr. Hawks? And will stupid Sam ever discover anything before we continue. A word from our announcer. You are listening to the weekly adventure of radio's most famous detective, Sam Spade. Three chimes mean good times on NBC. Saturday night is date night, but tomorrow poor Dennis Day has trouble with his girlfriend, Gloria. However, Dennis manages to sing his way out of trouble in his charming boyish fashion and say, why not let Dennis help your Saturday evening along, too? And for more music and fun tomorrow, there's the Judy Canova show, starring Judy in a melodic and carefree half hour of laughs and Grand Ole Opry with singing MC Red Foley and his special guest, cowboy troubadour, Ernie Tub. And now back to the soap opera caper, tonight's adventure with Sam Spade. It's a half hour later, now, in the sterile whiteness of a hospital room, that the three of us, you, Agatha, I, and old Doc Peterson, gather around the pale, quiet form of young Dr. Hawks. Martin. Martin's be to me. Martin, darling. Who. Who are you? Agatha, dear. Your own Agatha. Come, Agatha. Better leave him be for now. I can't go on. When a woman reads. I know, I know. You got to be strong, Agatha. Sam, we better leave him be for now. Well, you're the doctor. Oh, Doc, what could have done this to Martin? Oh, shock, sometimes. You don't mean. Yes, I'm afraid I do. Seeing his sister, then? Could be. Or sometimes it's just a matter of a body getting into such a fix, his mind backs off and refuses to have any part of it. The wah from Mexico City, his terrible secret, the strange threat hanging over him and his sister, driving one to suicide and the other the other to do this. Well, no wonder poor Martin gave away before this. Sure, sure. And there's still another explanation. How's that, Sam? That he figured amnesia was a nice, easy way not to have to account for what he's been up to for the last four days. Or where he was when the dame took off from the eighth story. Mr. Spade, you're not accusing Martin. There's something buzzing around in his little mind. The nurse tells me she got him into a pair of pajamas and tucked him in nice and cozy before we got here. Well, yes. Well, you may not have noticed, Agatha, because he pulled the covers up around his neck, but our boy had his clothes back on just now. What? Martin? Hey, he's gone. Indeed he was. Was Martin. As we could plainly deduce from the open window and the curtains blowing gently out over the fire escape, young Dr. Hawks indeed had packed up his amnesia, his terrible secret and his toothbrush, and taken off into the night. So I left you sobbing gently on old Doc's shoulder and found me a phone in a drugstore a safe distance away. On the 48th ring, Bennett. The Bennett and Hatch attorneys answered. He was sleepy. I used all my soft answers and he used all his hard ones. And finally we got to the point. All right, Spade. All right. The Jardine dame left a sealed envelope with us. What was in it? How do I know? It was sealed, marked personal and confidential to be delivered to the city attorney in the event of my death. Signed, Beth Jardine Hawks. Signed how? Beth Jardine Hawks. Not Beth. Beth Hawks Jardine. No. Is it important? Just a tiresome detail, Bennett. So she brought you the envelope, paid you a fee, and you stuck it in the vault for her. Then what? Now she had us call her brother and tell him to meet her at the Tortuga period that ended our part of it. We didn't even get our feet wet. On the contrary, Bennett, you're up to your ears. In what? Blackmail. Bye. Which explained many things. To wit, a, the wire from Mexico City from the lawyer named Cardoza, B, the murder of Beth Jardine, and C, the reason for young Dr. Hawk's mysterious flight from the hospital, his mind still fogged with amnesia. It did not, however, explain why stupid Sam had kept Croc Morton's business card in his vest pocket for 21 pages without doing something about it. The address was near 3rd and Howard. Not one of the better business sections, even for a private detective. I walked down Third street past the Sherry and Muscatel joints looking at numbers, and then discovered it wasn't necessary. The old Model A was pulled up in front of White what might have been a respectable office building before the earthquake but now couldn't decide whether to be a warehouse or a tenement. Thus far, a harmonious picture. But behind the Model A was something twice as long and three times as shining with a motor running out of place by about $4,000. Out. Kind of late, aren't you? Nora. Sam. Nora. Sam. Nora. Don't reach for the horn. But he told me. Sure. And you believed it. Like everything else he told you. Come on, get out. I will not get out. Oh, but you will. Or I'll pull you out by your pretty blonde hair. Come on, you. That's it. You can't do this to me, Mr. Spade. Nothing can stop Martin and me. We have our right to happiness, huh? Just the two of you. Chins up, eyes on the horizon. Let the dead past, bury its death. How can you joke? It's no joke. Believe me, you got taxi fare. Why? Because you're gonna get in my cab, go home, put your hair up in curlers and go to bed after saying to yourself 1000 times what a lucky little girl you are that Martin Hawks didn't shove you out a window to too. Now scoot. Scoot. It was a kind of a dark stairway that made me yearn for the comfortable feel of a shoulder holster under my left arm. At the top was a three and a half watt bulb, and at the other end of the hallway, a crack of light under Croc's office door. Between the two was a cat. More is the pity. So, abandoning my stealthy approach, I walked up to the door, turned the knob, stuck my hand in my side coat pocket like Edward G. Robinson and kicked the door open. Crack. Was sitting at his desk behind a stack of bills. The closet door was just closing softly. Who was in the closet? And did he still have his toothbrush, his terrible secret and his amnesia with him? Wow, Sammy. Yeah, you. You took me up on it right quick, huh? Have a chair. I sat on a chair in the corner, out of line of the car closet door, behind the desk. Oh, Sammy, you got a job for me, huh? Yeah, yeah, you. You don't look like you need a job, Croc, Huh? Oh, this? Yeah, A. This is nothing. Good day at the track, that's all. What's on your mind? Remember the Blennerhasset job, huh? The one with the letters before you went up? What are you talking about, sir? The shakedown, Croc. The dame who wanted you to get the letters back, remember? You know. So you got them for delivered and collected after you had the photostats made. Sam, you're crazy. I never done no such thing. You can level with me, Croc. You collected on the photostats for eight years. Wait, Sam. Well, forget it. Anyway, I got another one. Dr. Martin Hawks, married to the soap opera queen, you know. What about her, Sam? She's worth a couple of million bucks and has six weeks to live. As her husband, he's her only heir. Nice spot to be in. Yes, only he isn't her husband, huh? Because the Mexican divorce from his first wife, the late Beth Jardine Hawks, wasn't legal. You know, she blew in a month ago and began shaking him down after leaving the marriage certificate and a batch of other papers with some lawyers for life insurance. Sam, I. I just ain't interested. Hear the payoff crock? It's just like the dame with letters. What do you mean? Hawks hired someone to crack the lawyer's office and get the papers out of the safe. Some smart guy, an unfrocked private eye who doesn't have a license. I found out where he had the photostats made, though I can get copies paid. For crying out loud. Shut up. The closet door knob was turning slowly. I waved him out of the way and picked up the chair. It was all over. Two seconds after it started, a door flew open. He came out with his terrible secret, which turned out to be a gun. And I wrapped a chair right around his head. So I picked up the gun and CROC and young Dr. Hawks, and we all picked up a ride to headquarters. Only one scene remained to be placed, played in today's exciting episode. I should try to be brave, Mr. Spade. Sounds like such a cliche now. Good show, Agatha. Good show. Good show. Life must go on, you know, even when a woman. You were born in 1911, I believe. Yes. As I say, life must go on, even when a woman reaches. Indeed it must. Indeed it must. We have our happy moments and our sad ones. Our pleasures, our trials, our joys and our heartbreaks. And sometimes, Mr. Spade. Yes, sometimes, at the bottom of our cup of bitterness, we find a pearl. We do the laboratory test. A mistake, definitely. They got yours mixed up with someone else's. And you have no incurable disease and many years of happiness ahead of you. Yes, Mr. Spade, but happiness. I wonder. Can a woman past 40 whose husband is a convicted murderer find happiness alone? Well, good show. Period. End of opera. Oh, say, I can't wait for tomorrow's episode. Be sure to tune in at this very same time, cherub. And meanwhile, answer me then this. What then? How long will it take a woman past 20 to turn out a 25 page report? Yes, sir. I'll have the answer after a brief word from our announcer. Three chimes mean good times on NBC. Tomorrow, Arturo Toscanini will conduct the renowned NBC Symphony in the fourth of a Saturday concert series. For tomorrow's one hour performance, celebrated maestro Toscanini as chosen works by Debussy, Respi and Edward Elgar. You're invited tomorrow to the NBC Symphony and Toscanini. Oh, dear. Oh, there, there, little girl. No tears now. No tears. They're tears of gratitude. Sam, when I read all this about other people's troubles, I'm. I'm so grateful to you for the smooth life we have together. Together. Effie. Sam. Effie, Sam. Effie, Sam. That takes about 10 seconds. Go ahead. I'm only merely a secretary, but it's over now. Matter of fact, we're 10 seconds over. Oh, well, Sam, I. I haven't even. Your wife to be versus nothing but peace and quiet. Fairly regular paycheck with only a corpse now and then to produce a ripple on the mirror smoothness of our bliss. Oh, that's beautiful, Sam. I thought so. You don't have a single terrible secret either? No. But just to keep you interested, dear one, from time to time I shall pick up a piece of paper, read it, let the blood drain slowly from my face, then clasp you to me, thus holding you close. And just before striding silently from the room, mutter in your shell pink ear. I know. Good night, Sam. Good night, sweetheart. The Adventures of Sam Spade are produced, edited and directed by William Spears. Sam Spade was played by Stephen Dunn. Loreen Tuttle as Effie. Script for tonight's adventure by Harold Swanton. Musical scoring by Lud Gluskin conducted by Robert Armbruster. Join us again next week, same time, for another adventure with Sam Spade. Join the magnificent Montague and have fun at Duffy's Tavern on NBC. We just heard Ellery Queen, Box 13, the Whistler and the Adventures of Sam Spade. That will do it for this week's episode. Thanks so much for joining me. I hope you'll be back next week for more Old Time Radio mystery. In the meantime, you can check out Stars on Suspense, my other Old Time Radio podcast. New episodes of that show are out on Thursdays. If you like what you're hearing, don't be a stranger. You can rate and review the show in Apple podcasts or wherever you listen. And if you'd like to lend support to the show, you can visit buymeacoffee.com meansts OTR. I'll be back next week with more Old Time Frame Radio Master Detectives. But until then, good night and happy listening. Now here is our star, Vincent Price. Ladies and gentlemen. In a prejudice filled America, no one would be secure in his job, his business, his church or his home. Yet racial and religious antagonisms are extreme, exploited daily by quacks and adventurers whose followers make up the irresponsible lunatic fringe of American life. Refuse to listen to or spread rumors against any race or religion. Help to stamp out prejudice in our country. Let's judge our neighbors by the character of their lives alone and not on the basis of their religion or origin.