 And now, stay tuned for the mystery program that is unique among all mystery programs. Because even when you know who's guilty, you always receive a startling surprise at the final curtain. In the Signal Oil program, The Whistler. 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 for the Signal Oil Company, The Whistler's strange story. Lady with a key. It was almost midnight when Job Cannon drove his car into the parking lot, got out and walked around to the entrance of the Linden, a small restaurant and cocktail bar on the highway a few miles south of Los Angeles. The Linden was a place he often patronized, especially when he had a deal on. Most of Joe's enterprises were arranged in cocktail bars, restaurants, almost anywhere but a legitimate business office. But Joe was seldom involved in a legitimate deal. Inside, Joe nodded at the bartender, then strolled over to the jukebox. Hi, Joe. You haven't been around lately? Yeah, I've been pretty busy, Pete. A bottle of beer and a sandwich, you name it. Hey, hurry up, will you? I'm on my way to San Diego. Yeah, sure. Pardon me. Well, I couldn't help overhearing you tell the bartender that you're on your way to San Diego. Well, you see, I was on my way there when my car broke down. I can't get it till tomorrow and I just have to be in San Diego by morning. I was wondering if... Would I take you with me? Oh, would you please? I'm sorry. My trip has to do with business. My boss wouldn't like it if I mixed business with pleasure. Oh, but please, it's awfully important to me. I wish I could help you, baby, but I can't. Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry. So am I. It's okay. Forget it. The girl walks away, walks to a booth at the back of the bar. She's attractive, isn't she, Joe? And the main coat she's wearing is the real thing. You're almost certain of that. Yet you have a feeling there's something foamy about her, that she had some reason other than a stalled automobile for asking you to drive her to San Diego. You listen to the tune on the jukebox for a moment, then walk up to the bar. As you slide onto a stool, Pete, the bartender, places the sandwich in the bottle of beer before you. Cute dish, huh? What? The name. Oh. She asked you for a ride, South? How'd you know? She already asked that couple back there, the one on the booth next to hers. They turned her down. You turn her down? Yeah. I don't like her story. I don't know. I think she's on the level. She used the phone a little while before you came in, talked to a couple all night garages. Right, South? For me, she'd be a very pleasant company, Joe. Hmm. Hey, you know something? Hmm? Maybe I was too hard on a little girl, huh? That drives to San Diego three hours. Can get awful dull. Sure. Hey, I'll be right back, Pete. Pardon me, Miss. Oh. I changed my mind. I'll take you to San Diego. I just don't want to go. Oh, I certainly do. It means a great deal to me. Can we, can we start right away? As soon as I finish my sandwich and clear up a little business with the bartender, would you like a drink or something? Oh, no, no, thank you. If you don't mind, I'll wait in your car. Oh, sure. It's in the lot. It's a far side, black 49 Nash. I'll be out in a few minutes. You watch the girl as she hurries out, and turning you catch a glimpse of the couple seated in the next booth, a young man, a woman grinning at you. You shrug, walk back to the bar and finish your sandwich. Then the bartender joins you. You, uh, faking the dame? Yeah, yeah. Oh, uh, here you are, Pete. Thanks. Uh, why don't you be back? Tomorrow night. Imports? Mm-hmm. From Tijuana. I'm picking this stuff up in San Diego tomorrow morning. Yeah, I figured another shipment was about to. Uh, handling it, uh, same as always? Yeah, yeah. Now look, you can tell Harry I'll meet him here with it tomorrow night. Okay? Okay. Usual cut? Well, I haven't kicked yet, have I? Like I was telling... Hey, bartender. Uh, I'm looking for a girl, blonde, sort of tall, wearing a mink coat. You see her in here? Uh, no, no, no, I haven't seen her. How about you, mister? No, no. Okay. Thanks. He must be looking for your girlfriend, Joe. How come you told him she wasn't here? Uh, I don't know. Maybe I just don't like his looks. Yeah. Well, I had a hunch about that day, and I think I'm gonna play it safe. Cancel her ride to San Diego. Yeah, yeah, yeah, maybe you're better. I'll see you tomorrow night, have Pete. What time will I tell Harry? Oh, I should be back here by nine, if the stuff is ready to pick up. Now look, let me use your phone. Well, yeah, I better call San Diego now and make sure the stuff came in from Tier 1. In a matter of minutes, you've completed your call to San Diego. Then you step out into the parking lot. And as you walk toward your car, you hear footsteps, catch a quick glimpse of a running figure. By the time you reach your car, he's disappeared into the shadows. You open your car door and get in. The girl isn't there. Suddenly you catch sight of something on the seat beside you. You recognize it instantly as the girl's handbag. It's open. And one glance tells you it's full of bills, 50s, 100s. One, two, three, five, six. Oh, brother. You don't wait to count it all, do you, Joe? This is more money than you've had in a long time. You want to get away before the girl returns. Miles later, along the beach road, you stop, remove the bills, toss the girl's handbag into the sea. You finish counting the money. $5,000, Joe. Quickly you slip it into your inside coat pocket, hurry back to the car. The night air is chilly, so you decide to get your overcoat from the back seat. As you open the car door, reach inside. Your hand freezes in midair. Sudden terror grips you as you stare down at the floor. A girl. She... She's dead. Tonight's $20 signal gasoline book goes to Nancy Mason of Los Angeles, California for this limerick. Now all gather around while I tell why the gas that I use is so swell. Takes you farther for less. The brand you can guess. It's spelled S-I-G-N-A-L. Say no. Say no. Say no gasoline. Your car will go far with go farther gasoline. Tonight's limerick writer certainly won the spelling bee when she said, S-I-G-N-A-L is the gas for mileage that's swell. But in addition, you can expect performance that's grand because performance and mileage go hand in hand. Both are the result of the extra efficiency today's great signal gasoline extracts from your motor. So there's no need nowadays to choose between economy and driving pleasure. You'll be thankful for both when you get a thankful of signal. The famous go farther gasoline. The events of the past few hours seem like a nightmare, don't they, Joe? You're meeting with a girl in the cocktail lounge. Her sudden disappearance leaving her handbag containing $5,000 in your car. Then a few minutes ago you found her dead on the floor in the back of your car. For a moment you're too stunned to move to think clearly. And then quickly you jump into your car, race down the highway. Several miles later the panic begins to leave you and you realize you must dispose of the body as soon as possible. Your hands suddenly grip the wheel in terror. The police, Joe. Automatically you press down on the accelerator and then you realize your mistake. You slow down. You'll be hitting it up back there, won't you? What? You in a big hurry? Oh, well, I guess I was driving a little fast, huh? Oh, I ought to give you a ticket, mister. Well, it's late. There's hardly any traffic. I guess I was speeding without realizing it. Well, I'll let it go this time. Oh, thanks. Just a minute. What's the matter? You're heading for Mexico? No, no, San Diego. You sure? Let me see your license. Okay. You struggle to remain calm. Keep your hands from shaking as you turn your wallet over to the officer. Hope that he doesn't look into the back seat of your car. You wait for what seems ours before he returns the wallet to you. Well, okay, go ahead. But take it easy from now on and watch that spinometer. I'd hate to find your car up the road with a dead body in it. You watch the police car disappear into the darkness and you heave a sigh of relief. That was close, wasn't it, Joe? You mop your forehead as you drive on down the highway. When you find the spot you're looking for, you pull over to the side of the road, carry the girl's body into the brush and leave it. Then you're on the highway again. And for the first time since you found the girl, you feel safe. You reach over, open the glove compartment to get a pack of cigarettes. Your hand comes to rest on an envelope. You take it out, see the name and Whitney written on it. Finger the bulky content and decide it's a hotel key. You're puzzled, aren't you, Joe? Curious, too. But you realize you can't take any more chances. You crumple the envelope in your hand, cross it out the car window, drive on to your hotel in San Diego. Have a reservation, sir? Yeah, I phoned from Los Angeles. Cannon's the name, Joe Cannon. Oh, yes, Mr. Cannon. I've put you in room 301. Nice room. I'll show you like it. Yes, you'll sign the register, please. Okay. Say it's a quiet room, isn't it? I can use some sleep. Oh, it is quiet, sir. Had a tiring trip? You can say that again. I know. Night driving tires me out completely. And that trip from Los Angeles down here, well, it's so dull. At least I find it so, don't you? Dull? And not always, no. You sleep until afternoon, then awake completely refreshed, unworried. Your dress go downstairs by a newspaper. It's all there, isn't it, Joe? The story of the murder, the finding of the dead girl's body by the highways strangled to death. Her name, Mary Cartney. You wander into the hotel coffee shop, take a table in the corner, read on. According to Giles Winthrop, well-known Los Angeles art dealer, Miss Cartney had been his secretary for the past year. Mr. Winthrop also informed police that he had left his office two days ago and failed to return. Last night, he had discovered she had taken $5,000 from his office safe. Well... Pardon me. Is the seat taken? No, no, it's... it's all yours, I... You stare at the short, heavy set man who slides into the seat across the table from you. It's the same man who came into the bar last night in Los Angeles. The one who asked you if you'd seen the tall blonde in the mink coat, the murdered girl the papers have identified is Mary Cartney. You banked that $5,000 yet, Chum? I... I don't believe I follow you. Sure you do, Chum. Don't try to tell me you haven't got the dough. I saw you pick up the dame's handbag, she left it in your car. I look beat it. Well, yeah, I don't know what you're talking about. Reading all about it in the papers, huh? You see where they got your description? My description? I see a paper. Yeah. Police report no trace of the money was found on the girl's body. Oh, here it is. Mr. Mrs. Alton Grimby, 1134 Park Drive, Long Beach, identified Miss Cartney from newspaper photographs as the same woman who asked them for a ride last night in a bar in the outskirts of Los Angeles. They informed police they'd overheard Miss Cartney accept a man's offer to drive her to San Diego. The man is described as dark-haired, about 30 years old, tired in a light sport coat and gray trousers. Heard enough, chum? There's a little more. I've heard enough. I'd say you were in kind of a tough spot, huh? Now, why don't you come along with me, say, up to my room where we can talk this over, chum? Why should I? You wouldn't want me to tip off the cops, would you? Okay. Let's go upstairs. You'd forgotten about the couple sitting in the back booth of the bar last night, hadn't you, Joe? And now this man sitting across from you wants to talk something over. You follow after him as he leaves the coffee shop. You're certain he's Mary Cartney's murderer, that he was the man you saw running away from your car last night while it was parked in the lot next to the Linden bar. That your sudden appearance prevented him from getting the handbag containing the $5,000. You slip the newspaper back into your pocket without finishing the article. Upstairs in the man's room, he takes a gun from his pocket, places it on the table with an easy reach. Okay, chum. Let's get down to business. I know you've got the five grand. You can keep it. That's chicken feed. What I'm interested in is the package. Package? What package? Mary Cartney had it with her. A painting. An original Don Atty. It's worth a hundred grand. I don't know a thing about it. I never even heard of it, Liz. I'll get back to you in a minute, chum. It's a call I've been expecting. While I'm taking it, you better remember where you put that painting. Hello? Yeah. Oh, yeah, Mr. Roberts. Yeah, this is Merkel. Sure, sure. Everything is said. I'll have the painting. I promised you I'd get it, didn't I? The interruption gives you time to think, doesn't it, Joe? And suddenly you remember something. The envelope with the name Anne Whitney written on it. The envelope you found in the glove compartment of your car. You're certain it contained a hotel key. You wonder why the dead girl, Mary Cartney, was mailing it to an accomplice named Anne Whitney. Whether the key has any connection with the valuable painting. Sure, Mr. Roberts, sure. Tomorrow morning at 10. Oh, look, since we've never met, you better pick the painting up here at my hotel room. It's a lot simpler that way. Okay. See you tomorrow. Now, Chum, let's get back to you, huh? I told you before. I don't know anything about a painting, but... Yeah? But I did find an envelope in the car. Hand it over. I didn't want any evidence around that, so I got rid of the girl's body so I threw the envelope away. And you didn't even open it. It was a hotel key. I couldn't be mistaken. I could feel the key, the tab. But you tossed it away. I can find it again. I know where I throw it. All right, Chum. Let's go. I hope for your sake, you'll find that key. And so once more, Joe, you're on the highway, this time driving north, back toward the place where you tossed the envelope out your car window. And a plan is beginning to take shape in your mind. You glance at the man sitting beside you, then down at the gun in his hands, pointed directly at you. He's not taking any chances, is he? Just drive carefully, Chum. And in the right direction. Sure. Say, you know mine clearing up something for me, do you? What? Why'd you kill Mary Cotney? Why didn't she wait till she turned the painting over before you? Uh, I didn't intend to kill her. I was only trying to scare her, but I... I guess I pressed just a little too hard. She was double-crossing you, huh? Yeah. Yeah, she grabbed the painting and ducked out on me. He was gonna contact Roberts herself and cut me out of my share of the 50 grand. 50 grand? That's right. And now that I've filled you in on the details, let's keep the conversation at a minimum, huh? Sure. Suits me. Yes, it suits you, doesn't it, Joe? You want the time to think things out. Shortly before nightfall, you were in a few miles from the place where you dropped the envelope. And then up ahead, you see a side road. You slow down. You turn your car into it. I thought you said you tossed that envelope off the highway. I did. It's not far from here. I thought we better park the car somewhere along here under the trees while we look for it. All right. Stop the car. Sure. Sure! As you slam on the brakes, the sudden stop throws him against the windshield. An old trick, Joe, but it works. The jar stuns him for an instant. The gun in his hand clatters to the floor. Quickly, you scoop it up. Okay, get out and start walking. I said start walking. Over there under the trees. Now, look, Chum. Look, let's talk this over, huh? I'm going to talk about it. Keep moving. I'll cut you into the 50 grand. We'll split it. Uh-uh. I want the whole 50 grand for myself. You'll never get away with it. That's where you're wrong. I heard you tell this guy, Roberts, over the phone to drop into your hotel room tomorrow. So what? So he doesn't know what you look like. I'll be there when he shows up. I'll turn the painting over and I'll... How do you know you'll find the painting? The key, Buster. That hotel key I threw away last night. I've got a hunch it'll lead me right to it. All right, this is far enough. Yeah. All right, so what are you again by bumping me off? You're too dangerous to be floating around in the loose. You know too much about me. You might tip off the cops. Sorry, Chum. You wipe the gun for your fingerprints, drop it on the ground next to the body, and hurry to your car. You drive back to the highway, find the spot where you dropped the envelope and parked. You've got to find it, Joe, before nightfall, and that doesn't give you much time. You look around, walk up the side of the road for several hundred feet, and then you see it, the envelope addressed to Anne Whitby. You rip it open. It is a hotel key, Joe, and you're sure what you read on the tab gives you the answer to everything. Room 711. City Hotel Los Angeles. Early that evening, you stroll into the lobby of the City Hotel in Los Angeles, buy a paper, and drop into a chair near the stairway. You glance at the familiar headlines of the Mary Courtney murder, and then sit back and pretend to read. But you don't read beyond the headlines, do you, Joe? Instead, you're on the alert. Your eyes sweep the lobby from one end to the other. You've got to play it safe. You smile as you pick out the house detective lounging against the desk. You're certain the murder of Mary Courtney is the least of his worries. You've got to be sure of one thing before you go upstairs, that Room 711 is really Anne Whitney's room. You hurry out of the lobby and into the drugstore on the corner, where you make a phone call. I'd like to speak with Miss Anne Whitney, please. Room 711. Just one moment, please. No, thanks. Do you have any idea when she'll be in? Oh, she didn't. I'm not sorry, baby. One bit. If you had to wear heavy winter clothes right on through spring, you wouldn't feel very peppy, would you? Well, that's just how your car feels about tired old winter motor oil and gear lube now that spring is here. Yes, if you want to put spring into your driving, it's high time you were treating your car to a spring changeover at a signal service station. First step is to drain your motor and fill with signal premium compounded motor oil, the extra-duty signal oil that does so much more than just lubricate. Next step is fresh signal gear lube for transmission and differential and a signal double-check lubrication for the chassis. At the same time, your signal dealer will be glad to check those other points that need attention every five or 10,000 miles, such as front wheel bearings, oil filter, or air cleaner. Say, a car just can't help feeling pepier in a spring tonic like this. So for extra driving pleasure all summer, see your signal dealer this week for a signal spring changeover. It's working perfectly, isn't it, Joe? And you're certain the key in your pocket, the key to Anne Whitney's room, will lead you to the painting worth $50,000. And you won't have to share any of it with Mary Cartney's murderer. He's dead. You've killed him. And you're sure no one can connect you with his death. And now you've only to pick up the painting, return to San Diego, turn it over to Mr. Roberts, and receive the money. You stroll back to the hotel casually. Miss Whitney isn't in her room, the hotel operator said. But you're in no hurry, are you? You know she'll never return. Because she's dead. It's all clear, isn't it, Joe? You're certain that when Mary Cartney decided to double-cross her partner, Mirko, she registered as Anne Whitney, and hid the painting in Hotel Room 711. You move across the hotel lobby, then up the stairs. Finally, at the door to Room 711, you slip the key into the lock. You turn it, step inside. Everything is going perfectly, isn't it, Joe? It should take only a few moments to find the painting. You turn on the light. This painting, what you came for, fella? Who are you? Lieutenant Strauman, homicide. Sergeant Andrews. There must be some mistake. Where did you get this key? Well, I found it. You made a bad move coming here. You know, been waiting for someone to show up. Waiting? I don't know what you mean. The girl named Mary Cartney was murdered last night. The hotel clerk here identified her as the girl who checked into this room several days ago. Under the name of Anne Whitney. Look, I don't know what this is all about. I found the key to this room with her when she left. When we found this stolen painting here, we had a hunch that Mary Cartney's killer would have her key to 711. And our hunch was right. He did. Wait a minute. I told you, I found that key. You're under arrest for the murder of Mary Cartney. But I didn't kill Mary Cartney. I'm trying to... Hey, now, wait a minute. Will you... Well, there's a lot of money to be carrying around. Now, let's see that money, Andrew. Hmm? Well, this clenches it. No, I didn't. Oh, yes, you did. The serial numbers of these bills checked. Serial numbers? That's right. Mr. Winfrey furnished us with the serial numbers of the bills Mary Cartney stole from him. It tells all about it right on the front page of that newspaper you're carrying. You should have read it before you walked in on us. Come on, let's go. Let that whistle be your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. Each Sunday night at the same time, brought to you by the Signal Oil Company, the marketers of Signal Gasoline and Motor Oil, and fine automotive accessories. To all you friends who have been sending in Limerick, Signal has asked me to say thanks for the spirit in which you've played the game. Next Sunday is the last time Limerick's will be used on the Whistler, because Signal will soon announce something new and important that you'll all be interested in. Featured in tonight's story were Gerald Moore, Francis Robinson and Larry Dobkin. The Whistler was produced and directed by George W. Allen, with story by Edward Bloodworth, 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 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. Marvin Miller speaking for the Signal Oil Company. This is CBS The Columbia Broadcasting System.