 I'm 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. Tonight transcribed as the Whistler's strange story, Seven Steps to Murder. Clayton Affair was unusual for two reasons. In the first place, of course, it involved a pair of famous newspaper men, Archer Atkins, the Dean of New York Drama Critics, and Everett Clayton, the syndicated columns. But more than that, it was interesting in its structure. Yes, there were seven distinct steps between an apparently cordial relationship and a murder. The opening night of Clayton's first play, The World Wind, was step number one. Atkins had attended, of course, with the rest of the critics, and shortly after the final curtain, had walked across the street to the offices of the New York Globe, with Merchison, his editor, to meet the newspaper's deadline. Everett Clayton's new play, The World Wind, opened last night at the Brighton Theatre with Diana Brooks and Paul Strand in the leading role. Finish it, Atkins. Oh, well, Merchison, I want to see what you did to Clayton's play. I thought it was great. Oh, did you? Here's what I thought. Everett Clayton's new play, The World Wind, is dullness itself. It's utterly lacking in originality, imagination, or even ordinary playability. The death rattle was audible before the first act was five minutes old. Blessing Atkins, you can. Oh, why can't I? You grew up together. You came from Texas together. You were even engaged to his sister. He's your best friend. Art knows no friendship. You're a liar. You're jealous because Clayton's invading the drama. You're sacred territory. If that's true, you should fire me. Too bad I'm too influential, huh? You know, one of these days, you'll stick your neck out too far and I'll chop it off. Your review of Everett Clayton's play was step number two. The next day, you see Clayton in the coffee shop of the Stratford Club where both of you live. He walks over to your boot, his face tense and expressionless. The paper folded in his pocket. Well, Everett, good to see you sit down. Thank you. Waiter. Yes, sir? Coffee, please. Yes, sir. Two. No coffee for me. Milk. Yes? Your stomach again? I'm getting worse, I'm afraid. But that's not why I came, is it, Archer? I suppose not. That review, Archer. Nice of you. You're not a playwright, Everett. You, uh, you at least saw the play, I presume. Of course. An author spends a year writing a play and that's the consideration he gets. Any of your money, any? Everything I've got. Oh, too bad. Why didn't you consult me before? Let me read it. Because I knew what I'd get. Sarcasm, smart cracks, not one bit of constructive criticism. There is a small item you've forgotten. Talent. No one has yet succeeded in drawing milk from an elephant. Nor kindness from a critic. If you wanted charity, you should have said so. You want me to go over it scene by scene and show you how bad it is? No, because you couldn't. That's the trouble, you know. The people don't decide what's good or bad anymore. They wait for the critics to tell them. Well, thanks to you, I know my play is dead, Atkins. But I also know you're a fake. You've been phony all your life. If the rober boys in Switzerland had Edgar Allan Poe's name on it, you'd call it great. No, easy, old boy. You're getting carried away. You're picked on the wrong guy, Archer. I've got 20 million readers too and before this thing's over, I'm going to make you look like the village idiot. Just do me a favor, Atkins. Check my column tomorrow. It'll interest you. In just a minute, the whistler will continue tonight's story. All of us are proud of our hometowns and rightly so. In this brief moment before we continue with our program, we'd like to offer a salute to one of our hometowns in America, Los Angeles, California. In area, this is the largest city in the world, stretching more than 40 miles from the ocean to the 5,000-foot level in the mountains. And it all started from a tiny Mexican Pueblo. In the year 1781, the Mexican provincial governor, Felipe de Neve, founded El Pueblo de Nuestra Signora Riana de Los Angeles, meaning the village of Our Lady, the Queen of the Angels. This Pueblo became the capital of a Mexican province, and it was the last place to surrender to the United States in the war with Mexico. Los Angeles today is the largest in population of any city in the West, and according to the 1950 census, the fourth largest in the nation. In the 10 years between 1940 and 50, the city increased by 31%, and still it continues to grow, to absorb the people who are making their permanent homes in the Los Angeles area. Many things have contributed to this phenomenal growth, the exceptional all-year climate, the development of the citrus fruit industry, the discovery of vast oil fields, the development of a man-made harbor handles more shipping than Boston or San Francisco, big enough to hold the entire United States Navy, and of course the motion picture industry that produces two-thirds of all motion pictures in the world. But industries of all sorts have prospered in Los Angeles. More cars are made here than any place except Detroit, more tires than any place except Akron, Ohio, more furniture than grand rapids, more sport clothes, oil equipment, more processed food and more aircraft than any place in the world. Just to give you an idea of how Los Angeles is able to provide room for all these industries and people, this city is bigger than the states of Rhode Island and Delaware combined. It has been a rapid growth from a tiny Mexican Pueblo to the world's largest city and area, and Los Angeles intends to continue its progress. The people who call it their hometown are proud of the part it has played in the building of America. And now back to the Whistler. Although you didn't know it at the time, the case that was soon to become famous as the Atkins Clayton Affair fell neatly into seven parts, seven steps to murder. Clayton's play, of course, was the first step, and the scathing review that appeared in the globe the next day over your signature was the second. But when you arrive at your office the next day, Merchants and the editor is sitting on your desk waiting for you, the afternoon addition of the ledger in his hand. Hello, Merchants. Did you read Clayton's column? I did not. Lead paragraph. Listen. I am now reconciled to the fact that my play, The Whirlwind, will close in a matter of days as a result of the efforts of a group of critics headed by Archer Atkins. As a matter of fact, Atkins is not equipped to set himself up as a critic or even a writer. He has no conception of literature, dramatic, poetic, or otherwise. And I intend to prove it. Well, amusing, but not very. You started all of this, Atkins. I think you should apologize. I'm going to be quite busy, Merchants, and I'm sure there are a few obituaries that require your keen intelligence. I hope Clayton gives you a... sock and a jaw. That's step number three, Archer. The public challenge that went out to 20 million reasons. You decide it's ridiculous, of course, and forget about it. The play lasts five days and closes. Then one evening, some weeks later, Barbara Ross, the fashion editor on the ledger, walks up to you in the lobby and taps you on the shoulder. Archer, darling. Good evening, my dear. Archer, I found something I thought you'd want a glance at. Why, did Clayton put me in print again? Nothing like that. Somebody hadn't made his book of poetry. It was printed privately, only 50 copies. Well, let me see, eh? Fourteen by Jaffa Ahmed. What's it about? Oh, I think it's lovely. It's written by an immigrant boy about his love for a little girl. Oh, no, thank you. Oh, but art. Poetry, darling, is as much a part of adolescence as the first shave, and just about as important. But it's really quite good. The boy seems to have an excellent sense of meter and a good deal of insight, too. Archer, you know so much more about poetry than anyone else I know. All right, dear. I'll look it over. Number four, the book of poetry. Nothing to it, of course, is there, Archer? But you take it home and toss it on the nightstand. And just before you decide to turn out the light, you pick it up and glance at the first page. Aren't you from the start? There's something about the poems that haunt you, almost as if you've read them before. Memories, things you've forgotten completely, spring to life. Yes. This boy has managed to capture something out of every man's youth. Something that gets under your skin and stays there. You finish the book, get out of bed hurriedly and sit down at your typewriter. You can't wait and go tomorrow, can you, Archer? You've got to get it on paper now. Although the poems are immature, there's something great and universal about this work. The volume has been printed privately, but in my opinion, it would be a wise investment for any publisher to issue it in quantity. Fourteen by Jarpa Ahmed should never be forgotten. That ought to do it. It'll be on the bestseller list in a month. In the morning, you hand your article to a copy boy. You're aware, of course, that you've just completed step number five. Although you don't know it, the minute you turned in that review, you moved nearer to murder than you've ever been in your life. It's just 24 hours later when the same boy walks into your office, places a newspaper on your desk. Step number six. Here's your copy of the letter, Mr. Ahmed. No, no. Round town with every play. Oh, here we are. I promised to reveal Archer Atkins, the so-called dean of literary critics, as a phoné. Today I call attention to the raves he's been giving the book of poems called Fourteen. Supposedly written by a 14-year-old Iranian lad. The fact is, gentle readers, I wrote Fourteen. What is she? Shocking, eh, Archer? Oh, well, I'll notice I didn't see you. That's all right. You needn't hide that. Some of our best people read ever at Clayton, including the publishers of this paper. It's trash, just trash. And lies, too, I suppose. Well, Clayton never wrote Fourteen. He hasn't got enough sense. Seems to know a lot about it, Archer. Read on. He tells just how he did it. He had no knowledge of poetry. He says, just threw together the lushest and most senseless adjectives he could concoct. Had the whole mess printed up on the quiet. You, the great Archer Atkins, praised it to the skies. Are you trying to tell me that you believe this nonsense? Well, the man's got readers, Archer. 20 million of them, so calm down. Don't tell me to calm down. As a matter of fact, why don't you get out of here? Look at me at that typewriter. I'll teach Clayton his place. Not at a globe, you would. And why not? I talked to the publishers who want your resignation by the end of the month. From now on, I'm editing your material, and I don't intend to have any libel suits on my hands. Not even to save the great name of Archer Atkins. Good day. Well, for once I've had the last word. The turn you never expected. And it's even worse when you reach the Stratford Club and learn that you've suddenly been turned into a laughing stock. What, you old boy, how could you? What was it now? I still feel the music, the poignant expression of an adolescent love. Sweetly agonizing emotions, part of every man viewed. I'm not about applying this cane on your skull, my dear Handler. Gentlemen, gentlemen, you hear? The great Atkins is no longer capable of using his cutting tongue. He must now resort to a cane. This thing has got you, hasn't it, Archer? And it hurts deep, twisting inside you until finally the seventh step begins to take shape. The seventh and final step. Murder. The frightening thought, isn't it, Archer? Frightening but very clear. It's all there in your mind as you ride up to your luxurious suite in the elevator. Everett Clayton is a man of habits. One of them forced upon him by his health. You know all about that, Archer. How each evening at seven a waiter brings a large glass of milk into his apartment. You smile as you let yourself into your rooms across the hall. Tonight, that same waiter must bring you something as well. Hello. Hello, coffee shop. It's Mr. Atkins. I wonder if you'd send me up something, huh? No, I don't know. Something light, a chicken sandwich, perhaps? Oh, no, no, hurry. Well said, you have a waiter coming to Mr. Clayton's rooms at seven. Must time enough, surely. Don't make a special trip. Thank you. Yes, sir? You have a sandwich and coffee for me? Oh, yes, sir. But I was going to stop first at Mr. Clayton. Yes, well, come in a moment. I'll set it down there in the desk, will you? And I wonder if you'd do something for me. I tried to unlock a suitcase a moment ago, but I couldn't seem to turn the key. Would you have a look at it, please? Why, certainly, sir. Where is it? In the bedroom. Of course, if it's too much trouble. Not at all, sir. I have handled a lot of things. You hesitate as the waiter starts across to the bedroom. Then you turn quickly to the tray he set down on your desk. Before he comes back, you empty the contents of a small envelope into the milk intended for Clayton. You stir it hastily, and then return to your book. Well, I got it open for you, sir. That lock is sprung a little bit, though. Oh, well, I'll have to have it attended to. Here you go. Thanks for your trouble. Not at all, sir. Thank you very much. Well, thank you. You settle back in your chair now, giving the waiter time to deliver the glass of milk to Clayton. A few minutes later, you slip out into the corridor and down the hall. Stop outside of Clayton's door and listen. He's talking to someone on the telephone. Yes, yes. I got your letter. Well, what did you expect me to do? All right. I promise I'll see you about the first thing tomorrow. Yes, yes. I promise. Goodbye. You wait tensily after Clayton hangs up, hoping no one will come along the hall and find you standing there. A moment's dragged by. What is he doing? Isn't he ever going to pick up that glass? And then a moment later, you whip the door open, step inside, and lock it. A glance at Clayton's body sprawled on the floor assures you that he's dead. Quickly, you cross the room and sit down at his battered, portable typewriter. To my dear mother, comma, my sister, comma, and gentle readers, colon. It isn't often that a man gets the opportunity to write his own obituary. Believe me, comma, this isn't easy. Comma, but I've been ill for some ten years now. You type rapidly, Archer, because you know exactly what you want Clayton's suicide note to say. It includes above all else a confession, one in which the dead Everett Clayton will admit to the world that he perpetrated a deliberate hoax against you. His note tells how he lied in claiming to have written the verses in the book 14. How, actually, he simply dug up a number of anonymous ballads and revised them a bit. You put it all down, Archer, your way, but in Everett Clayton's style. And then you add his well-known signature, just the two simple typewritten letters. Yee-haw! See. Thanks, my dear Everett. We'll see tomorrow how your 20 million readers, like this one, don't be half-right. Use you saffie, for example. About how many standard varieties of domestic chickens would you say there were? Fifty? No, that's only half-right. Brush up on your poultry farming. Tell your I and E officer you want to study with the United States Armed Forces Institute. Use saffie. It's easy. It's simple. If you don't want to be half-right, use you saffie. And now back to the whistler. Well, the seven steps are past now, Archer. Everett Clayton is dead. But more important than that, the suicide note in his typewriter will put you back at the top of the heap. Yes. Merchison, your publisher's handling. And the whole literary world will have to admit who has the right to wear the critic's crown. But you're very practical about it, aren't you? The police will come, of course, and you're ready for them. With that vague, superior, confident air it has always carried you through before. And why not? What can they possibly prove? You don't seem at all surprised at the police calling on you, Mr. Atkinson. Oh, my dear Captain Foss, the moment the manager of this club informed me of Clayton's demise, I resigned myself to a round of dull questions. Naturally. You've known him all his life, grew up with him, sweet on his sister at one time. Anything else you want to know? I was an incubator baby, weighed three pounds, two-and-one-third ounces. I'm surprised you aren't more interested in the way Clayton died. I like to believe, people, Captain. When I'm told someone is dead, I assume he's dead. Whether he was shot through the head with a cannon threw himself into Mount Vesuvius or was clubbed to death with the missing arm of Venus de Milo doesn't concern me in the least. Poison is more to your liking, isn't it? I don't know what you're trying to imply. Let's make it clear then. How long did it take you to write that note? Note, Captain. The suicide note in Clayton's typewriter. Oh, do tell, in verse, no doubt. It says Clayton never wrote those poems that he stole them from some anonymous ballads. Well, I insisted on that all the time. We'd like you to hold that edit. You wrote that note, Atkins. You poisoned Clayton and ran the note off on his typewriter. That story. Some idiot from the ledger. Take a look at these papers, Atkins. Ever seen them before? They're yellow. They're very old out there. They're poems you wrote to Everett Clayton's sister when you were 14, over 40 years ago. What? That book of poetry you reviewed was not written by Jaffar Ahmed or Everett Clayton, but by Archer Atkins. I'll review it, my old poetry. So it wasn't suicide, you see? No, wait a minute. He still did it. It was a malicious trick. Now listen, Captain. It wasn't suicide, Atkins. Because Clayton's sister blew up when she read what he did with those poems after she sent them to him. She phoned him last night. He was talking to his sister. She made him promise a public retraction. Clayton was going to see you about it in the morning. Now, a question. Do you know the name of what is considered to be the first American ship? In 1798, a newspaper advertisement in Salem, Massachusetts asked for assistance in the building of the Essex. The ad requested that every man in possession of a white oak tree should bring it with him when he came to Salem. In January 1799, there was enough lumber to start construction, and by October of that year the 32-gone Essex was launched. It was a completely sea-worthy ship and saw heavy duty, although 720 days were spent building her. This is but one of many interesting facts which can be found in the history of your United States Navy. Featured in tonight's transcribed story were Bill Foreman as the Whistler, Hans Conreed, Olin Suley, Jack Moyles, Charlotte Lawrence, Vic Perrin, and Jack Carroll. The Whistler, directed by Gordon T. Hughes with music by Wilbur Hatch, is produced by Joel Balone and transmitted overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. This evening's story was by Meyer Dolinski. The Whistler was entirely fictional, and all characters portrayed on the Whistler are also fictional. Any similarities of names or resemblances to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is George Wolf speaking and reminding you to listen again next week for another strange tale by the Whistler.