 Good evening, friends of the Inner Sanctum. Well, here it is, Tuesday again, and this is your ghost toast to the squeaking turbo. The nice story is called The Last Story. It's an original radio play by Christopher Mayo, and our star is Richard Widmark, who plays the role of Tony Mewes. We're going to a small main coast fishing village, flounder cove where fishing folks go to bed early, to the lullaby of the surf and the boys offshore. But this night there is a new note added to the lullaby, a discordant note, which for all its strangeness serves only to keep awake the man responsible for it. Anthony Mewes, the young newspaper man from the city, is typing furiously while his bride sleeps in the other room of their fisherman's cottage. Dead fingers cannot type, but dead heart cannot ache. But that's the end of the story that began when my papers sent me here to flounder cove to do a story on fishermen. I spent my first morning sizing up the town, and about noon I found myself walking along a rocky bluff away from the village. I was approaching a little great church and a little great cemetery, and the grass was lush by the large tombstone. Mother, give me some sign. Tell me. Show me that I'm not a murderer. I don't really want to kill anyone, but I feel it. I feel I must. Sorry, miss, I, uh, I was passing by, and, uh, well, I couldn't help hearing you. You heard me? Hey, wait a minute. Don't go. I'll leave you alone if you like. Who are you? Tony Muse. I didn't mean to eavesdrop. All right. What you heard me say would have heard from the others. She stayed here a while. This grave here, Mary Sherman, you were, uh, talking to someone. I mean... I'm Mary Sherman. She was my mother. She died when I was born. You heard me talking to her. Well, I heard some nonsense about, uh, oh, about you not wanting to murder someone. You're not a murderer, are you? I've been a murderer since the day I was born. Murder is in my heart, as it was in my mother's. As it was in her mother's. Why do you keep your head turned away, Lisa? Look at me for a moment. No, I can't. Yes. I'll let you see. Look, look at my eyes. Look in the sunlight. What the...? The yellow. Her eyes were yellow. The most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. I saw sunlight and gold and barricades dancing through tears. But I saw no murder there. Only a horrible hurt had taught you. And I felt pity. And the desire to know more about redition. Killing runs in her blood. Got yellow eyes just like a moss was. They're pretty eyes, though. Yeah, right. Pretty look at. Mother's was, too. She got a killing fit and grabbed a knife through her man's heart. What? No reason. She come there hanging for it. Well, didn't she? No. The governor changed it to life. She was going to have a baby. Oh, Rita? Yeah, Rita. Mary Shermett died born in Rita at prison hospital. Uncle Zeb's good Christian he took baby and raised her. Why does she stay here? She can't bring herself to break away from a maw's grave on a bluff. Talks to a ghost. Everyone I spoke to agreed that Rita's Sherman would kill someone someday. I should have taken the afternoon train. My story was finished. But I didn't. I should have forgotten Rita's Sherman and her unhappiness. But I couldn't. When I saw her standing on a high point above the hungry rocks on the bluff that afternoon when I watched her step to the very brink of that bluff I should have turned my head away. But I couldn't. Rita, you... You come back. You come back or you'll be hit with your head. You had no right to clap. I do have the right. I... Oh, dear heaven. No. Is that so horrible, Rita? Didn't you... Didn't you see in my eyes? I saw superstitious nonsense, Rita. You've been told that you're a born murderer since you were a child. You're being driven toward it. I can help you, Rita. Please let me. You can help me, least of all. Why do you say that? Because of what Uncle Zeb told me last night. What did he say? That you are probably the man I was meant to kill. I kissed her and I found on her lips such a hunger for love and for understanding that I was blinded to the violent forces of nature I was dealing with. And I know, and I might not have called on Uncle Zeb that evening. Or heard what I did as I froze to the porch of Rita's waterfront shack. The front door was ajar. Put that door on you, she never... The money's gone and... Pushed the door open and I faced Uncle Zeb. Not a very pretty... pinned to the wall by a long-whalers harpoon through his stomach. He wasn't dead yet. His red-rimmed drunkard's eyes pleaded to release. But you can't pull a barred harpoon back through a man. Even I knew that. Who did this, Zeb? Tell me who, quick. Was it Rita, Zeb? It wasn't Rita, was it? Tell me! Tell me! Look! Not Rita, he said. Not Rita. But who had done it? And who would believe that Rita with her yellow eyes hadn't done it? Who would believe that now that Uncle Zeb lay in a darkening pool with a stained harpoon coming through his back? Who? Well, here comes the sheriff now! Hey, hey, hey! Come on, folks, let me through! Did you kill that old cute somebody some day? Yeah, sure, I know this! Listen to me, Sheriff. Rita Sherman... Why? Say that again. Rita Sherman didn't kill Uncle Zeb. Maybe a half a way kill him. Tell the guy I'm goodin' her down it. She took the five o'clock express. Well, to take it from the Ark. I wasted no time leaving Flounder Coal. They promised to flag it through train for me that night. The sheriff came to the station with me and he filled me in on a story. Who would've guessed me mad when Zeb was buying all those stories about Rita? But why, Sheriff? Were they trying to drive the crew crazy? And it worse. Make a murder somebody. They'd have the money all clear. What money? Zeb got $20,000 in cash from Rita's mom while she was in prison. To raise the can on. They thought nobody knew that. So he was gonna use the money as Zeb. But Mamie half a way knew, huh? Yep. Rita's mom told Mamie just before she died. Mamie told Zeb she knew. So he had to cut her end in the deal. Lovely people. What happened last night? You come in a picture and Mamie sees the guy that's fallin' for you. She goes to Zeb and wants a share. And they each made a mistake. Oh, Sheriff. Zeb told Mamie he spent all the money. And he kills Zeb. They can sure read it. Be blamed for it. You see, son, nobody except Cal at the station here. Rita had left down the floor. Do you know why she left? I reckon I do, son. And I hope you find her. I have to find her. I couldn't very well tell the Sheriff why I had to find Rita Sherman. Better than anyone, I knew a girl was just then arriving in New York. A girl who was unstable enough to become a homicidal thief. I was standing on the subway platform at 14 when I spotted Rita. She was standing at the front end of the platform of a small group. Things happened fast, then, but I remember just as I started toward her, I noticed the man who wavered close to her at the edge of the platform. I saw her hands raised slowly toward the man's back. And then I heard the train coming. Rita, you're poor shit. He saw me. He saw me. Did you see? He fell. I remember. He fell. All right, all right. How did it happen, lady? You were standing close to her? I, I, I... He, he was leaving sort of rocking trouble. I saw her go to pulling back, officer. She wasn't quick enough. You don't think you pushed the man, do you? I'm not sure. I just saw him leaning. I raised my hand. I just don't know to much. Well, you didn't. I saw you. You were going to pull him back. Now let's talk about that. Look for you, but now, now, baby, I'll never let you go. Oh, Tony, I can't. I, I can't. Can't work, darling. I can't see you again. It's not that I don't want to, Tony. But Dr. White won't let me. Who's Dr. White? He's a wonderful man. He's curing me, Tony. He's a psychiatrist. He said it would be dangerous for me to see you for a long time. He became a high polished wall. I couldn't climb. Between me and the woman I lost. I forced a couple of dates with Rita. But it was always the same story. Dr. White says you were part of my past that must be forgotten. Dr. White says I'll have to forget you and be secure. Dr. White says, Dr. White says... Dr. White, we'll see you now, Mr. Muse. Thanks. Mr. Muse, what can I do for you? Who's paying you for your services, Dr. White? Why, no. Rita came to me for help. I became interested in a case. Well, the case of a subject, White. Frankly, both. I see. Well, that puts the cards on the table. She comes to you as a patient wanting to be cured for my sake. You fall in love with her and influence her to stay away from me. Yeah. Only part of that is true. She shouldn't see you yet. A very neat way to eliminate competition, Dr. Very neat. But I'm moving in. For the tearing, pangs of jealous hate in the days that followed, Rita refused to see me until White had released her as cured. But there was one way to beat White. And I planned accordingly. I parked my car across from his house on Long Island. It was a deserted section along the shore. Shortly after midnight, a cab came along and I ducked. I followed White up the driveway until he heard me. Who is it? Tony Muse, Doc. What are you doing here? Let's go inside where it's comfortable. Oh, no, we'll talk right here. Don't let's mess up your driveway, White. This isn't done. All right, Muse. What is it? You've persisted in keeping Rita under your influence, Doctor. Now you're going to let it go. Not a chance. And how can you make me do it? By killing me? No, not by killing you. But a letter from you will do. Rubbish. You'll either write what I tell you to write or you'll never psych again. Dear Rita, I've been called to the coast for some important and confidential work. Before going, I've reviewed several of my cases. I feel that you have sufficiently advanced to be considered quite normal. I will check into your progress on my return. Conceal yours, then sign it. This is childish. Off to prevent me from showing Rita this letter as a poetry. I've thought of that, too, Doctor. No, Muse. Why be rash? Listen to me. The trouble with you as a psychiatrist, White, is that you never met anyone who wanted something as much as I want Rita Sherman. And I mean to have her. She was light and easy to carry. I crammed the trunk compartment of the car, shut on him, and I locked it. In town, I mailed a letter to Rita and I waited centuries for the night to pass. And then more centuries for my phone to ring the next... Tony Muse. Hey, you know, darling, is there anything wrong? You're crying, Rita. Rita, you don't mean he's released you. Get a toothbrush. I'll pick you up in the car in one hour. We're heading for Lake Arrowhead, darling. This is your wedding. Lake Arrowhead was a beautiful lake. And a deep one. It hadn't been easy to act normally on a trip up with white-stale corpse in the car with me. But now I could rid myself of it. Only one ugly tat played. Time, time, and Rita's love would dull these memories. I opened the car trunk and I found his eyes staring at me. I pulled him out of the car. The toppling bag I'd bought. The knife I was ready. It took me a half hour and all. No one would have guessed, then, who was packed in the weighted toppling package I dropped into the lake. It was finished. I was free. The night we reached Flounder Cove, we're spending our honeymoon here. No man ever had more than I did to be happy about what Rita... Rita, my wife. It was an expensive moment. I only realized the short two hours ago that the happiness I'd bought was impossible to hold. Rita dosed off peacefully. I'd gone for smoke and a walk and a moose. When I returned, I paused at Arcari's door. I waited. Then I opened the door soft. Rita was easy to see in her white nightgown. She was walking softly toward the bedroom. She was walking in her sleep. Arc bitting wildly. She paused for a moment by the bed, looking down at my empty place. And then she spoke in a voice that couldn't have been hers. Yes, Mother. I know I must... Mother. My world was still ready to fall on me. Rita's arm raised slowly and there was a single glint of mental and she brought her arm down and she leaped on the bed like a wild animal. Her arm flailed up. Up and down. I saw her get up. I saw the knife buried into the slip mattress. Watched my wife return to her bed. This is the mind I ought to be tampered with unless it be to resolve their cure for all time. And the end of the story must be acted out. Ironic twist, too. The same gun I used on White. Rita will never wait to find she is a murderer. Ah, better this way. Happiness will not for either of us. Whom it may concern, Anthony Muse, who confessed to the murder of Dr. Donald White of New York City. I further confessed to the murder of my wife, Rita Sherman Muse, this night. This, my last story, I bequeath to all editors whose past patients have been tried by my artificial unconvincing and contrived efforts in fiction writing. I'm going for a walk on the bluff Rita didn't you know? Whom the gods would destroy. They first make man. We'll reach into the busty file, brush it off, and present a still up-to-date replica of who done it of yesterday.