 I was a communist for the FBI. Starring Dana Andrews in an exciting tale of danger and espionage. I was a communist for the FBI. From the actual records and authentic experiences of Matt Sevettik, come many of the incidents in this unusual story. Here is our star Dana Andrews as Matt Sevettik, who for nine fantastic years lived as a communist for the FBI. Fair is foul and foul is fair. Black is white, white is black, and things only seem to be what they seem to be. It sounds distraught and lunatic, yes. That's how it was though for nine years, when my right hand hardly knew what my left hand was doing, yet if either hand made a mistake, I might have died. Nine long, fantastic years of two-face and double-talk behind the red mask, being a communist for the FBI. In a moment, listen to Dana Andrews as Matt Sevettik, under cover man. Matt Sevettik, under cover man. This story from the confidential file is marked Very Private Funeral. Comrade Rev Chinco doesn't even look at me when I report into communist headquarters. He lulls back in his swivel chair, gazing dreamily out of the window. I never like that dreamy look in Rev Chinco. It's kind of spring fever he gets periodically. I just wonder which way is he going to spring this time? I sit down, gingerly. Rev Chinco swivels around and peers at me, biting me. Comrade Sevettik, here. What do you know about the so-called electronic brain? Not too much. Anything? Just that it's a super-calculating machine that does marvels of mathematics. You probably never heard then of Dwayne Fleming. No, not a thing. Dwayne Fleming knows everything about electronic calculators. Whose side is he on? Ours. Uh-huh. Comrade Fleming. Comrade Fleming has been engaged to aid in the installation of the newest electronic brain at the university here. He's been notified that he will presently have a personal assistant. Me, I take it? The United States military relies heavily on machines like this. Its amazing calculations can put advanced aircraft into production years ahead of schedule. Just for example? You will assist Comrade Fleming in seeing that the new machine renders the smallest possible service to the United States military? Sabotage. Nothing crude, you understand? No broken tubes, short circuits or missing transistors or all that clumsy business. Then you do know something about them. Just what I read in the science magazines? The university. Dwayne Fleming. He expects you. Yes? Where's Mr. Fleming home, please? He's resting. I'm Mr. Svetic, Matt Svetic. Oh. Come in. I hope I'm not disturbing him. But he said it was important. Maybe I could walk around and come back later. Yarl, is that our man? Yes, dear, it's Mr. Svetic. I thought you were sleeping. I was lying down, but I wasn't sleeping. You're a prompt man, Svetic. I can come back a little later. No, no, let's go back to my study. Anything I can bring you? Later, honey. Come on, Svetic, get it over with. I want to like them both. And from both of them I get a guarded sort of resentment. His wife is pretty, sensitive-looking, but I sort of regret her being so visibly allergic to me. Her husband isn't bursting with affection for me either. We barks around conversationally a while. I get the eerie feeling that half the time he's forgetting I'm even there. Then he comes back after one of his long, weird mental absences. What do you know about electronics? Very little. How do you expect to be useful then? I count on your briefing and instructing me. In other words, I'll have to do the real sabotage. In other words, your only function here is to see that I sabotage this job. I wouldn't say that. I'm saying it. You're my policeman. I'm not so loud. What are you, MVD or what? I'm here to help you. You're here to watch me and I don't think I need to be watched. You don't think you have to be watched, don't you know? You listen to me, Svetic. Now you listen to me. Listening, comrade Fleming? It is comrade, I hope. Dwayne, dear. Come in, Carol. I brought you two male animals with small refreshments just in case. Well, thank you, Mrs. Fleming. Just put them down, Carol. I'll be back in a moment. What happened, Mr. Svetic? Maybe I'd better stop back later. Wait. Let's talk about Dwayne and you and the party. It won't take long. Short and sweet, then. Short and bitter, Mr. Svetic. I want you to go back to your masters. Go back and tell them to leave us alone. To leave Dwayne Fleming to die in peace. What? You wonder why my husband is so irritable and moody? Irritability and his dreadful headaches are all part of what's killing him. Mr. Svetic, please go back and tell the party that comrade Dwayne Fleming has a tumor of the brain. He'll be dead in less than a year. Oh, Mrs. Fleming. He's sick and tired of all your communist intrigue and burrowing and blabbermouth shouting of fake ideals. Tell your chief Dwayne's done enough for the party. Tell him he wants out? Tell them anything that'll make them leave him alone. That'll let him live in peace and tranquility and love. These last precious months. Well, I'll come back later, Mrs. Fleming. I'm shocked. Too shocked, in fact, to be able to offer whatever awkward sympathies are possible. But somehow, somewhere glimmering through the gloom and depression is a glancing sparkle of will-of-the-wisp light. I phone the FBI, meet my contact in a quiet restaurant where I have trouble keeping my voice down within safe limits. Now, don't get me wrong. I have the deepest sympathy for Fleming and his wife, but keep it down that. And no names. Can't you see what this can mean? I know what I'm thinking, but you go on. I think Fleming is in a mood to spill all he knows about the party. To the FBI. Yeah. That's what I'm thinking. Can you do it without revealing that I informed you? Sure. I just tell Fleming that the War Department has asked for a routine FBI check on him. He's a fine if he talks. Just one more thing, Matt. How do we know for sure that Fleming is a dying man? His wife ought to know. He knows. Just always on the alert for a trap, that's all. Trap? Well, and that's why you'd better report Fleming's condition to the party. Why? Maybe they know what's wrong with him and they want to see if you tell them about it. Wheels with n-wheels with n-wheels. I see. You'd better bring Comrade Rifchenko up to date now, Matt. I'll follow through on Fleming. Ah. One year to live or less. Is that it, Sovetik? That's it, Comrade. So the contemptible turncoat turns cold on the party. Suppose the FBI gets to him in its present mood. I don't think we have to worry about that. He wants to live out his last few months in quiet. I regret your negative attitude in the face of such an opportunity, Comrade Sovetik. Negative attitude? What do you expect me to do? It is conceivable that Comrade Fleming, having only months to live, will risk even more than in the past for the Communist International. See him and tell him that I wish to speak to him. I telephone Fleming's home from a pay booth. I get his wife on the telephone. There's something triumphant about the way she tells me Duane isn't home. He got another call earlier today. A man called for him about an hour ago and they haven't come back yet. You wouldn't know who that man was, would you? Nobody you'd know, I'm sure. Well, tell Duane I called and that I'll call again. It's important. Very well. Goodbye. I don't have to have it spelled out to me that nobody I know is probably the FBI. I try again in an hour. No answer. I keep trying all day. Nothing. I finally raise Mrs. Fleming afternoon of the next day and get a smallish jolt. I'm sorry, Mr. Svedic. Duane is out of town. Out of town? He came home yesterday after meeting that man. There was another call for him. When will he be back? I don't know if I'm free to say. Goodbye, Mr. Svedic. Fine thing. Now I've got to go back to Rift Chink. I want to tell him the bird has flown since yesterday and I've just been sitting. I walk into Rift Chink's office expecting the worst and do I get it? Only even worse than I thought. Sitting across from Rift Chinko is the man who is out of town, Duane Fleming. And he doesn't look any too happy either. Nobody does. Sit down, comrade Svedic. Fleming. I've been trying to reach you. I'm complimented. Svedic, comrade Fleming here received a visit yesterday from the FBI. The FBI? Just so. My informed sources gave me the news. Not I regret to say comrade Fleming himself. I'll tell you I didn't go to them, Rift Chinko. They came to me. Why? I told you the war department asked for a routine FBI check. Assume I believe you, comrade. Go back to your work or wait my instructions. You may go. Now then, comrade Svedic, next things next. His wife told me he was... Comrade Svedic, the party does not always content itself with the reports of even the most trusted members. What report are you referring to? Any specifically? The report that comrade Fleming has a fatal brain tumor. I'm sure comrade Fleming himself confirmed my report. He did? Well, so much for that then. Svedic, did you bother to discover that comrade Fleming's doctor is Dr. Dwayne Fleming the elder? His father? No, I didn't. He'll didn't. What's the difference? What's the difference? Medicine is medicine. A fatal tumor is as fatal to a blood relative as it is to a stranger. Oh, brilliant comrade. Applause. Bravo. All right, what's your story, comrade? Fleming has not been out of town. I can see that. By my direction he's been hospitalized and diagnosed by disinterested physicians. Well? Comrade Fleming has no brain tumor. No? Then what's he dying of? He is not dying. I'm sure he thinks he is, or thought he was. Comrade Fleming did sincerely believe that. He believed it so surely that he reasoned he had nothing to lose by informing to the FBI. We can't be sure of that. The circumstances all point to that and we can take no chances, Svedic. Therefore, before he tells too much, Dwayne Fleming must be silenced. Silenced? Removed. He's your assignment, comrade Svedic. Attend to it. Drew, starring as Matt Svedic, an eye was a communist for the FBI and the second act of our story. I sit staring at Rev Chinco. My mouth is dry. I've been asked to remove a human life which has now become an annoyance to the party. And I show my feelings, I can't help it. No commitment I've made to the party but the FBI is going to turn me into a tool of killers. Not even if it kills me. I know my reaction is making a very bad impression on comrade Rev Chinco. They get Svedic, pretend Svedic, make a showing act. You're pale, comrade Svedic. Yes, it's a shock. If you have apprehensions about your role in removing the traitor from the area of danger, let me make myself clear. I do not expect crudities from you. Crudities? I will provide you with people to contact. They will execute our design. You merely make the arrangements for comrade Fleming's successful suicide. Merely telephone this number, arrange a meeting, state the case and the requirements. What about payment? Payment is arranged for through entirely different channels. Okay. Now go and keep the party out of it. I sleepwalk out into the street, numb with fear and repugnant. I'm supposed to deliver Duane Fleming dead or I'm on the spot. I try not to dissolve into panic. Hold on, think. How did I get conned into a thing like this to begin with? I telephone my FBI contact again. He picks me up in a dull, expressionless automobile. We drive out into the suburbs in silence. We park in a regular garden of a street whose peace and beauty only deepen the squalor of my involvements. Now, Matt, to begin with, we're not going to let you drag commie chestnuts out of the fire so cheer up. You're not going to let me, brother. You couldn't make me do it. Go through the motions, Matt, and make it look good. If I make it look too good, what happens to Fleming and his wife? Matt, if you don't do this job for the party, they'll get somebody who will and who'll do it sincerely in an ice-cold blood. If you at least seem to be doing it, there's a chance to save Fleming and his wife. I suppose that makes sense, all right? You know it does. Nice prospect. There's something I'd like you to do for us. Yeah. All entries should be in by the close of business today. Obviously. Do I and Fleming believe sincerely in his imminent death from a brain tumor? Why? His own father diagnosed it that way. That's why. Will you check into that for us? It may be very important. Which comes first, the goons or the doctor? Call Revchenko's number and get going on that before Revchenko gets impatient. And suspicious. Then see Dr. Fleming. Meanwhile? We'll do what we can, Matt. You do your job, huh? I go to a form booth. I fumble the coin several times before I can make myself deposited in the coin slot. I dial, perspiring, shaking. I get a laconic voice on the phone. I take a deep breath, state the case briefly and guardedly. A laconic voice makes some notes. Makes an appointment with me for that night when Fleming will probably be home. Pick me up. Intersection of Nelson and DeGarmo. Eight tonight. Click. It's done. I'm an accessory to successful suicide. I've got time to see Dr. Fleming. Do I and Fleming's dead? I dial his office. Make an appointment for after-office hours. Urgent and important. Now, then, we're quite alone, Mr. It doesn't matter, Doctor. If I'm to be your physician, sir. You're not. I'm afraid I don't quite... You're Duane Fleming's father, aren't you? You diagnosed his case as a brain tumor, right? I don't discuss my patients with anyone, not alone nameless strangers. I happen to know your son isn't going to die. Who are you? Your son went to another brain specialist. My son has complete confidence in me. He would never have doubted my diagnosis except under influence. Nevertheless, Doctor... You're a communist. I don't call you names, do I? Nevertheless... Why did you make that phony diagnosis on your own son? It was not a phony diagnosis as you crudely... as you... Go on, Doctor. All right. I made that diagnosis because he is my own... and my only son. Because my son was sick. Sick to his heart and soul. Sick in his mind from the same disease you have. Not almost worked. Almost worked. You're a doctor. How could you do such a thing? Do such a thing. Whoever you are, I know what you are. Turn around. Read the oath of apocrates framed on the wall here. Well? The oath we doctors live by and practice by. Read it. I swear I make this one oath and this one. Written engagement... Further down. From so far as power and discernment shall be mine. From there. Read it. I will carry out the regimen for the sick... and will keep them from harm and wrong... The sick, sir. I will keep them from harm and from wrong. My son was sick. Yes, rotten sick. Sick to the soul of the sickness you have. I used my medicine according to my art... and my conscience and my oath... to keep my sick son from... deadly harm. Now get out. Dr. Fleming, you started to deny my accusation that you made a fake diagnosis. Why? Out. Who are you protecting, doctor? Carol, your daughter-in-law? Get out, I tell you. Okay, that's the way you wanted, doctor. Scum. And now I know what I'll never report to Revchenko. I know that Dr. Fleming made a true diagnosis. A clean bill of health. It's Carol who has taken it upon herself to tell her husband he's dying. Because Carol, who loves Duane as surely as his own father loves him, also wants to save Duane from the deadly harm of communism. At eight o'clock, three men in an inconspicuous car pick me up at Nelson and DeGarmo. I sit next to the driver. We exchange casual identification. The car perrs toward the university grounds. Slowly we cruise into Fleming Street. And all at once, our driver shoots the car ahead. Because there are police cars in front of Fleming's modest house, and an emergency squad is shoving through the crowd with an oxygen apparatus. Revchenko. You were always to call before coming down to headquarters, Sevetik. You know that. How can I call if you always cut your telephone off when you work after hours? Get on with it, Sevetik. How did it go? It didn't go. So? Well, when we got there, the place was surrounded by police cars and a crowd. An emergency rescue squad was taking oxygen apparatus into the house. Oh. Is that all you have to say? Oh. I arranged for earlier swifter justice, let us say. You sent another squad after Fleming? A precaution. A precaution? What about me? Don't you realize I might have walked into a trap? And I can tell you the hoods in my car weren't liking me much for almost getting them caught. The incident is closed. Is Fleming accounted for? You saw the rescue squad. Too late? Quite. Well, what happens to Mrs. Fleming? Happens. Oh, happened then. You've done fairly well, Comrade. But you need seasoning in some phases of our work. It will come. Good night, Sevetik. Good night, Comrade Ruffchenko. I go out into the night. A dark field's dirty. I've failed. I've failed Cal and Duane Fleming, who could have been salvaged and turned to good. I try to close my mind to the vision of that rescue squad rushing into the Fleming House. Too late. I stop at a radio TV store to listen to a local newscast, and sure enough it comes. A young couple on assignment to the electronic brain project on the local university campus was found dead today of asphyxiation in what was called by the police a suicide pact. The police medical examiner stated that and so forth. I go to a telephone like an automaton, dial the FBI night number. We don't talk just arranged to meet for a sandwich at an all-night drugstore. Are you ready to talk now? Keep it low. I thought you were on the ball. I thought you were following through to protect them. We did our best, Matt. They're dead. Suicide pact. It's on the radio. It's in the bulldog editions of the paper, too. You did your best. We were there when Ruffchenko's goons squad arrived. We picked them up and invented a whole set of about the Fleming's being asphyxiated. They're not? They're in our custody. Wait a minute. I'm confused. You see, Matt, the only way we could really protect them was by letting the Reds think they'd succeeded in liquidating them. We're hiding him and Carol away in the Northwest under protective custody. He's told us everything. We want to be sure the Reds don't take them away from us again. They can have a new life up there. Good. Doctor Fleming's gets buried tomorrow, closed to the public. Guess why? You don't hate me as any corpus. Toss you who pays the check. Toss nothing. This one's on me. It's going to be a lonely funeral tomorrow with the only mourner being Dr. Fleming, one of the few funerals where even the remains didn't come to the ceremony. Dr. Fleming, he's proved his mettle. He can keep a secret. Especially to save his son's life and mind. Very so. Sometimes, after jobs like this, I feel awfully smug about myself, awfully well pleased with the FBI. It doesn't matter that good people like Dr. Fleming think I'm scum. I mean, it doesn't hurt too much. I'm hardened to it now, almost. I'm a communist for the FBI. I walk alone. Dana Andrews will return in just a moment. This is Dana Andrews, friends. We believe the way to fight communism is not only to expose its intrigues, but to sell democracy. In the story you've just heard, names, dates, and places have been disguised for obvious reasons, but many of the incidents are taken from the actual experiences of Matt Sevettik, who worked undercover for the FBI. Next week, another exciting story. Join us then, won't you?