 Stand by for crime. Hi Chuck Morgan speaking. You know, being a newscaster on a radio station the size of KLP puts me in line to meet a lot of interesting people. Like Joe Stanley for instance. Joe was a scientist. He'd been employed by the government to work on some strictly hush-hush project, the hydrogen bomb I think. He came out here to the coast once or twice a year to huddle with airplane factory executives etc. And usually on such occasions he bunked with me. Last week Joe was here for a couple of days. Thursday morning Carol Curtis my secretary and I drove him out to the airport to catch an early plane back to Washington. We said our goodbyes. Watch the plane taxi down the runway for its takeoff. Well Glamopus, let's get started back. No wait Chuck, I want to see the plane take off. Why? It's going to look like every other plane you've ever seen taken off. I don't care, I want to see it just the same. And besides Joe wouldn't like it if we left now. Listen if I know Joey's sound asleep by this time. Flight 183 for Kansas City, Chicago and New York. You know Chuck, there's something sad about saying goodbye. You like it though. Yes it's a, what do you mean I like it? Any time a female can find something sad enough to weep about she's in her element. I'm not weeping. No, but you will before we get away from there. Oh is that so? Yes that's so. Hey, here comes Joe's plane now. Look Chuck, he's waving. Goodbye Joe. Wave to him Chuck. Nonsense, you didn't see Joe. I did too. He was sitting way up front in that little egg-shaped room. That was a pilot's stupid. It was not. I guess I can tell a pilot when I see one. Okay Glamopus, you win. Now come on, let's get going. Chuck, wait. What's the matter now? Joe's plane, it's coming back. Oh no, he's just circling around. He's trying to, hey. What are the motives to stop him? I see it. Something's wrong. What are you talking about Billy Grash? This was the biggest news story of the year. The fourth disaster of its type within six weeks. Sixty-eight people died as a result of that last crash. Fifty of them were aboard the plane. Eighteen of them occupied an apartment house into which the plane had plunged. The co-pilot, a man named Jenkins, lived long enough to be rushed to a hospital. Just before he died he spoke two words. The light. Well, it wasn't much to go on. But my friend Joe Stanley had died in that crash and I was beginning to get ideas. That's why I took my problem to Pappy Mansfield, owner of Station KOP. Now, let me get this straight, Chuck. You're basing this cockeyed theory of yours on the fact that the co-pilot said something about a light before he died. Is that right? Plus the fact that this has been the fourth plane crash of its kind within two months under exactly the same circumstances. Ah, coincidence. And the fact that Joe's plane, on Joe's plane, get this, Pappy, two motors conked out. Can you call that coincidence? Those motors were checked and tested before the plane left the field. I don't know, Chuck. Look, Pappy, for once in your life, why not get with me? I've never let you down. But this theory of yours, that someone is trying to... Now, take a look at this map of the city. All right, here's the airport. Yeah. Over here is the apartment house the plane crashed into. So? Now, over here is a hill. Now, there's nothing on that hill but an abandoned oil well. Practically every outgoing plane passes over that area. And you're not going to tell me that someone is up there with a Buck Rogers rager. Stop, Pappy. Now, look. The derrick in that old well has been patched up and the shack at the bottom has been lived in. Oh, dozens of abandoned well shacks are occupied by hobos. And you think that one of these hobos fixed up that tumbled down derrick just for the exercise? Well... Well... All right, Pappy. There's something wrong about the whole thing. Now, look. It'd be a terrific scoop for KOP if we smelled out the rat. Well, what do you want me to do? There's an engineer out of the KOP transmitter named Bill Adams. Bill knows more about electronics than Einstein. Let me have him for a few days. And close down the station? We couldn't operate without Bill. You won't be operating anyhow if someone scoops me on this story. Well, OK, boy. We both knew when we began this conversation that you'd get what you wanted. Only get this. Unless you return Bill Adams to the transmitter in good health, well, I'll renovate. That was Pappy. Always pulling the hard to get along with the act and then giving in. I picked up Carol and we drove out to where KOP's transmitter is located and had a talk with Bill Adams. Bill wanted to be helpful, but it was obvious he had his doubts about my sanity. Anyway, I gave him my ideas and asked him to check into them. But we came away from there with the feeling that we were wasting the time of Pappy Mansfield's highest-paid senior engineer. You know something, Chuckie Boy? I think Bill Adams thought you were nuts. Yeah, maybe I am, but they thought the Wright brothers were too. But they're older than you, though. Right remark. I think so. Well, where do we go from here? You are going to the city hall and find out who owns that oil well. And where are you going? I'm going out to that demolished apartment house and have a look around. Then that's where I'm going. Oh, no, you're not. Oh, yes, I am. Oh, no, you're not. For the first time, I can remember, I won an argument with Glamour Puss. This was accomplished by driving to city hall and practically pushing her out of the car. It was late in the afternoon when I reached the apartment house. The workman was just quitting for the day. I parked at Jalopy and walked around back. A man in Levi's, wearing a hearing aid, was putting some carpenters tools back into a box. Hello there. You wanted the workman? Yes. Just quitting for the day. The place was pretty badly damaged, wasn't it? About $50,000, I say. That's quite a hunk of money. Now there was a friend of mine on that plane. Oh, a passenger? Yeah. I don't suppose any of you workmen picked up any of the personal effects of the passengers. Personal effects? No, not that I know of. The workman, I hadn't expected the question. As a matter of fact, I hadn't intended to ask it. To just something to say. His eyes darted to the toolbox. I took a couple steps forward. There was a briefcase lying on the ground behind it. This yours? Yes, give it to me. Well, hit a minute now. There's some initials here. J.S. What's your name, friend? Him? Yeah. It's John Sims. That's quick thinking. Suppose you open up the case and show me what's inside, huh? Why should I do that? Because I'm telling you to. Telling or asking? Telling. Well, I'm telling you to mind your own business. Take it easy, friend. Let go of my arm. Sure. I'll let go of your arm that first lets you and me have a little talk, huh? Come on, open the briefcase. I haven't got the key. Where is it? It's home. I forget it. What's in the briefcase? Fluke, friends. I'm a draftsman. Ask the foreman. Where's he? He left ten minutes ago. Let go of my arm. Okay. Sure. There you are. So far, Mr. Simpson. Everything you've told me is very convenient. He left the key home. The foreman's gone for the day. And somehow it doesn't figure. That briefcase looks exactly like the one my friend Joe Stanley was carrying when I put him aboard the plane. All briefcases look alike. Who are you, anyway? The name's Morgan. Chuck Morgan. I'm a newscaster in station KOP. I never heard of you. Fair enough. You know something, Simpson? I think you're a liar. Why, you... Don't try that again. Let's turn on my freak arm. Then give me my briefcase. Nah. I'm sticking my chin out on this when I'm taking the briefcase with me. And I am swearing out a warrant for robbery. That's your privilege. Here's my card. The address is right there. If you're on the level, you can have me arrested. If you're not, I'll have you arrested. I took the briefcase and drove to KOP. Kara was there, and she had my script ready for the 7 o'clock broadcast. Easy script. What in the world is that? It's a briefcase. I just bought it from a second-hand dealer. He assures me that it contains a small fortune and $100 banknotes. But Chuck, it looks like... Never mind what it looks like. Stash it away someplace until I can get hold of a locksmith. What did you find out about the oil well? The well and the hill are owned by Delfast Oil Corporation. They quit it eight years ago. Right now, all of their operations are in Texas. Good. Get hold of Burt Mayfair, police headquarters, and tell him I want him on hand when the locksmith opens that briefcase. Okay. But Chuck, where did you really get it? From an ugly man in blue overalls who's now swearing out a warrant for my arrest. Well, I did my 7 o'clock newscast. And I told the listening public that at the 11 o'clock program, I hoped to have some information that would break the airplane crash story wide open. But I wasn't anywhere near as confident as I sounded. I have expected to see the man in the Levi's and a police officer waiting for me in the corridor outside the studio. But the corridor was empty. So was my office. Not even Kara was around to needle me about the bragging I'd done over the air. So I drove out to my apartment on Wilshire. It was dark by now. I unlocked the door. Went in. Before I could snap on the wall, switched somebody beat me to it. I spun around and found the ugly man in the blue overalls standing across the room. This time he had a gun in his hand. All right, Mr. Morgan. I'll take the briefcase. Now, the conclusion of stand by for crime. Well, the guy wasn't pretending this time. The gun was all he needed to give his face that ratty expression that it came by so naturally. So it's you again, rat face. What's the matter? Are you afraid the cops would put your name on that warrant instead of mine? My time is short, Mr. Morgan. Hand over the briefcase. There's a smart remark. How am I going to hand over something I haven't got? Then you will tell me what you did with it. Will I? Or I will take measures to force you to tell. Such a shooting me, I suppose. Don't be a jerk, Simpsons. Whatever your name is. Shooting me would mean you'd never find a briefcase. You're quite right. It would be stupid of me to shoot you, but there are other ways. In exactly one minute, your telephone will ring. The man at the other end will have some interesting information for you about Miss Carol Gertis. About who? That one won't work either, Buster. I left Carol at the studio 15 minutes ago. Did you? Think, Mr. Morgan. Was it before or after your broadcast that you last saw Miss Gertis? I was... Simpson, if you touch that girl, I'll break her... You'll do nothing, Mr. Morgan. Nothing at all. Leave the phone alone. This time, I'm giving the orders. Hello? Three, four, eight, six. Right. Put on the line, please. Very well, Mr. Morgan. Hello, hello. Chuck, Chuck, is that you? Carol, where are you? I can't tell you, Chuck. They'll kill me if I do. Why, those dirty... It's no use, Chuck. You can never find me. Please give them the briefcase. Please, Chuck. Yeah, yeah, sure. I'll give it to them. But what about you? As soon as they have the briefcase, they'll let me go. They promised. They promised, huh? Listen, Chuck, it's important that I get away from here so that I can give you that information you asked me to get for you at City Hall this afternoon. You want to know about that, don't you? I stood there holding the phone, trying to get the numbness out of my brain. And gradually it came to me. If Carol was so afraid of being killed, why didn't she tell her captress where the briefcase was that was she who had stashed it away? And why did she keep reminding me about the information she got in at City Hall? She'd already told me about that. And suddenly I had it. The oil well. That's where she was being held prisoner. She was trying to tell me by referring to the information. Ah, smart girl. That blond secretary of mine. Eh, so what? I could still feel Ratface's gun pressed into my back. And I thought of something. The phone I was holding had an extension cord on it. I'd had it installed when I moved into the place because sometimes I like to walk around or do my telephoning. I hung up slowly. My fingers curled around the heavy base of the phone. Well, Mr. Morgan? Right, Mr. Simpson. Well, Buster, that takes care of you. Buster seemed to be sleeping peacefully and deeply. I got a couple of belts buckled them around his arms and legs and found him away in my bedroom closet for future reference. Then I got into the car and headed for the oil well. It was about 8.15 when I turned it to the side road that skirted the base of the hill. I'd parked the jalopy and started up toward the summit when the thought occurred to me that maybe I should have had the police in on this. It looked like it was going to be big stuff. But Carol was up there and in trouble and I hadn't had time to do much thinking about anything else. As I got up toward the top of the hill, I realized how deserted this spot was. It was a strange feeling. Below, the lights of the great, sprawling city spread out endlessly. Ahead, the skeleton-like framework of the well, Derek, was etched against the sky in ghostly silhouette. Then a figure stepped on my path and I caught a glint of steel. I lunged forward, wrapped my arms around his legs. He fell over my shoulder and I had him in a fireman's grip. I spun around and let go. He landed about 10 feet down the slope and cracked his head against a rock. Well, that was number two. The next one might not be so easy to handle. The well shack was just ahead. Lights streamed from beneath its door. I stopped and considered the situation. I'd be crazy to go barging in. But would I? Wasn't it the last thing anyone would expect? Then the problem was solved for me. The door opened and Carol Curtis stood framed against a light. Carol! Hello, Chuck. Is that you? We thought we heard someone. Carol was looking at me steadily. A look that told me to watch myself. Come on in. I want you to meet someone. You all right, Clamapers? Oh, yes. I'm fine. Chuck, I want you to meet Dr. Robert Burton. He's an inventor. How do you do, Mr. Morgan? How do you do? Ms. Curtis has been telling me about you. What an interesting life you have. I've heard your broadcast many, many times. Yes, I have. Thanks. Look, Clamapers. Dr. Burton was kind enough to entire me after that other man left. But, of course, I had to promise not to run away. Yeah, sure. But what other man are you talking about? Well, his name, I think, is Snide or something like that. A dreadful person. Really dreadful. Not at all like Ivan. Who's Ivan? Ivan? Ivan Stuka. He's a gentleman who pays me to stay here and work on my invention. He pays me well, too. Does this Ivan happen to be a man with blonde hair who wears a hearing aid? Yes, yes, indeed. That's exactly who he is. It was Ivan who repaired the derrick. Oh, you know him, man. Yeah, a telephone acquaintance. Dr. Burton has been telling me about his invention. How about explaining it to Chuck, Dr. Burton? Well, I don't know. Ivan might object, and after all, it is his money. But if Ivan doesn't know, it won't make any difference. And Chuck would never tell anyone, would you, Chuck? Cross my heart and hope to die. What kind of an invention is it, Doctor? Well, it's an electric current interceptor. Oh, what? Here, let me show you. Now, this is a small model. It looks like a pistol, doesn't it? Well, you see, I pointed at that electric bulb over there, and puff, the bulb is out. Well, I'll be... Quite a gadget, isn't it, Chuck? Yeah, quite. How do you do it, Doc, with mirrors or something? Oh, no, no, no, no, not at all. It took me years to perfect this instrument. As a matter of fact, if it hadn't been for Ivan, I might never have succeeded. How's that? Well, you see, during the last war, I got the idea, but I had to have financing. Naturally, I went to the government. I thought they might be interested in an invention that could put an airplane out of commission, merely by projecting a ray toward one of its motors. Yeah, I should think they might. What happened? Mr. Morgan, believe it or not, no one would listen to me. Oh, I went back time and time again. Finally, well, finally I became sick. Dr. Burton spent three years in a sanitarium. Oh, I see. And when you were released, you met Ivan? Yeah, oh, a fine man, Ivan. He felt that if I came up here to live away from everybody, I could work on my invention undisturbed. Ivan arranged for the turning on of the power and the telephone and just everything. I've been quite comfortable. When did you get this invention of yours working? Well, about six weeks ago. Oh, I tell you, it was exciting. Ivan was most pleased. Oh, bad. How did you test it out? Well, I on a plane coming out of the airport, of course. That's why Ivan wanted me to come up here in the first place. He said we'd have plenty of subjects to work on. Oh, and he was right too. Oh, I tell you, it was a thrilling moment when I put that first plane out of commission. Oh, it made a tremendous crash. Yeah, yeah, I read about it. Weren't you worried about the passengers? Worryed? The passengers? Well, that's funny. I never thought of that. I'll bet Ivan did, particularly the planes of which important government officials were writing. By the way, doctor, I suppose you have the plans of your invention down on paper. That's a funny thing. Ivan keeps asking me about that. Why should I put them down on paper all right here in my head? No reason to talk, except if you ever wanted to sell the idea. No, no, no, but I don't. No, sir. I've had my experience of that sort of thing, and no one would listen to me. Just as long as Ivan will pay me, I'm going to stay right here. And continue to blast planes out of the sky. Does that seem quite right, Dr. Burton, with all those passengers aboard? Yes, those passengers. It's funny. I never thought about them before. I must do something about them. Oh, I really must. In the meantime, Dr. Burton, suppose you tell me just... All right, Morgan, get your hands up. It's night. Close the door. Well, well, if it isn't rat-faced and the gentleman who rode down the hill. A more permanent fate is in store for you, my friend. Doctor, what have you told these people? No, no, no, Ivan, you mustn't be displeased. I merely told them about my invention. You fool! Now it will become necessary for me to dispose of both of them. I bet that would break your heart. You're so unused to killing people. After all, only sixty-eight died because of that last crash. So two more won't make any difference, really, Mr. Morgan. Except that you still don't know where the briefcase is. The secret of the ray gun is, I think, far more important than the plants contained in the briefcase. You see what kind of a rat you friend is, Doctor? He's going to murder Miss Curtis and me and then continue to induce you to blast planes out of the sky, killing innocent people. There's nothing about those passengers. I simply must... No, Ivan, you suppose that we could arrange... No! You will continue to experiment with the plays I suggest. Or there will no longer be funds to permit you to continue working on your inventions. No, no, no, I... He's making a murderer out of you, Doctor, without your realizing it. This man is an agent... Shut up! Snipe. Take care of the girl. All right, Morgan. This is it. Stop it! A change had come over Dr. Brayton. His voice held a commanding quality of vibrance that made us all turn and stare at him. Ivan's gun was still trained on me, but he turned his face to watch the doctor. Snipe had taken two steps toward Carol and stopped. Drop that gun, Stucka! From now on, I'm giving the orders. Ivan didn't answer. None of us did. We all saw what was happening. Dr. Burden had his Ray gun pointed at the electric hearing aid on Ivan's head. I could see it the indecision on Ivan's face. He was wondering whether he could swing his gun away from me at the doctor in time to save himself. I could almost hear the thoughts racing through his mind. He knew that Dr. Burden had suddenly had a change of heart. If he, Ivan, didn't succeed in shooting the gun out of the inveterate's hand, it would mean the ruination of all his beautiful plans. It would mean the gas chamber for himself at Snide. There was only one course open for him. Drop that gun, I said. I'll drop it. Shut up! When I got back to the studio in time for the 11 o'clock broadcast, it made a good story. Of course, everyone wanted to know about the Ray gun, but Ivan's bullet had entered the inveter's heart. At the precise instant, the Ray gun had sent Ivan to his ancestors via the hearing aid. So the secret died with Dr. Burden. And all I know is what the doctor had told me and what I saw. Yeah, sure. There were plenty of skeptics. Even in this age of atomic weapons and jet planes and radar projected electric impulses, a lot of people weren't ready to accept Ray guns. However, if no more motors conk out after planes leave the airport, it'll be pretty conclusive proof that Dr. Burden did invent some sort of electric current interceptor. Well, anyway, time will tell that story. There was one question that Carol wanted cleared up, so she caught me about it at lunch the next day. Hmm, this chicken salad is delicious. I personally go for hamburgers. You can eat chicken salad for once and like it. I need it, but I won't like it. Say, Chuck, there must have been some reason why you convinced that Ivan was a phony. Well, as a matter of fact, it was. However, I'd rather not mention it. Rather not mention it, but why? Chuck Morgan, you tell me. Oh, now, Glamour, first you might think me a modest. Oh, fiddly-dee. Come on, make with the words. Well, if you insist. I do. All right. You remember when I first met Ivan at the apartment house? Yes. Well, I explained to him that I was Chuck Morgan, newscaster at KLP. Well? He said he'd never heard of me.