 Suspense! The radio's outstanding theatre of thrills brings you an hour, a full 60 minutes of suspense. Directed by Anton M. Lieder and produced by Robert Montgomery, who tonight also stars in a play entitled, In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes. This is Robert Montgomery. The other day, a friend of mine repeated a familiar phrase. He indicated the travel folder on his desk and said with a kind of triumph, I'm going to get away from it all. He's lucky, my friend is. He's going to change the scene, the whole scene, new horizons, new vistas, new people, or no people at all, new thoughts, or no thoughts at all. He has a rendezvous with a cloudless sky and a peaceful stream and the easy whisper of the wind. Only time stands between him and a fresh beginning. Indeed, he has a lonely place where there is no loneliness. Yes, my friend's lucky. He can get away from it all with a simple change of scene and he has no fear of being alone with his thoughts. It isn't like that with Dixon Steele. It isn't like that at all. And so with the performance of Robert Montgomery as Dixon Steele and with our play in a lonely place by Dorothy B. Hughes, we again hope to keep you in suspense. I stood there at the foot of sunset at the end of the city of Los Angeles, looking out through the evening fog at the Pacific. The swirling mists kept lifting themselves like gauzy veils coming up to touch my face. There was something in it like flying. The sense of being lifted high above the crawling earth, of being part of the wildness of air, and something more of being wrapped tight in a strange world of fog and cloud and wind. I had liked flying at night, but the war's ending had finished that. Since then it had left me that feeling of power and exhilaration and freedom that came from being alone in the sky. But here, tonight, at the edge of this noisy fog-branched ocean, I had it again. When I turned away, I was already late for my appointment with Brub and his new wife. I walked past my coop, parked at the curb, and went up the path to the little white cottage. The lights from the living room windows made little concentric circles in the heavy fog. It would be good to see Brub again. You old son of a seeker. What do you mean by not calling us before now? Let me see you. It's the same boy, Brub. I haven't changed a bit in either of you. Oh, sure I have for the better. And this is why. Sylvia, this is Dix, Dix and Steele. Hello, Dix. We're old friends, really. You've been Brub's favorite topic of conversation as long as I've known you. Oh, we flew together, Sylvia. Brub took care of me like a big brother. You needed some looking after Colonel Steele. Save it for later, mister. And it's not Colonel anymore. The Army made me a gentleman, gave me the only mark of distinction I've ever had, and then took it away from me. Say, why didn't you tell me you were married into such a lovely girl? Well, thank you, Dix. Tell you, you called me up five months ago. And last April, the 8th, to be exact, told me you'd just get in and let me know as soon as you were located. That's the last I heard. You checked out of the Ambassador three days later, and you didn't leave a forwarding address. How could I tell you anything? Keeping tabs on me, Brub? I'm not trying to find you, you crazy lug. And here I am. It's like being home again. Well, brief me, boy. What have you been doing, and how's it going? Slow, Brub. Slow. I've got a little apartment, and a car, and the typewriter. That's about it. And the typewriter's a new touch. Trying to write a book. Like 90% of the other GIs. The detective novel. My rich Uncle Fergus back east is staking me for a year to see what I can do. He calls it giving me a hand over the period of my readjustment. So that keeps me busy most of the time. And the rest of the time? The rest of the time, I hardly know what to do with myself. You were a hot pilot in England, Dix. Just a kid at that. Sure, it's gonna take a little time. Would anyone care for something to eat or drink? Cold beer? No, thanks. Not at the moment. I'm too relaxed. We were a casual generation, Dix. They put us in the middle of something that wasn't very casual. There's bound to be a reaction. Oh, Brub's always looking for the hidden motive power. That's because he's a policeman. Policeman? Oh, not a policeman. Now, darling, a detective. Oh, I'm sorry, darling. What happened to you, Brub? Oh, my old buddies ask me why, and I can't help them. I don't know why. All I do know is it's rotten hard work. No, the things men do. You with a badge and me with a typewriter. And that reminds me, I ought to be getting back to it. Oh, but it's still early. What's the hurry, Dix? Well, Brub will want his rest, Sylvia, if he's gonna dig around for the glory of the L.A. police force. It is L.A., isn't it, Brub? It is, indeed. Then you do need some sleep. Plenty of work in L.A., no? Plenty. Well, I'll be seeing you, too. Well, good night, Dix. We'll expect you to come off it. Hey, wait a minute. We don't have your number. My number? Sure, we'll want to get in touch. Oh, yeah, right. Crestview 90898. Right. 90898. You'll be hearing from me, Dix. I'd be hearing from Brub. And why not? Good old Brub with his tired eyes and rumpled hair. Brub had been my big brother. But he hadn't known everything there was to know. Some things a man keeps secret. It's amusing to keep something secret. I wondered if they were surprised by my quick exit. But I had to get out of there. I couldn't stay. I had to figure things out. So Brub was a detective now. And he had my telephone number. There was something amusing about Brub being able to lay his hands on me whenever he wanted. Amusing and more exciting than anything that had happened in a long time. The hunter and the hunted, arm in arm. The hunt, sweetened by danger. I was driving slowly, hugging the curb. And then I saw her. A girl. An unknown girl. Standing alone on the corner of Camden Drive, waiting for a bus. And buses didn't run often out here at night. I pulled up a block ahead and got out, shutting the door so it made no sound. And then I walked back toward her. She heard me coming in the fog. She turned her face to me, smiling a little. Glad to have someone to share the darkness and the silence with her. I walked up to her, slowly. And I was smiling back. Speaking. Oh, is this Sylvia? Recognize your voice? Well, I guess I slept through it. I was up late last night, working on the book. Tonight? Oh, fine, fine, what time? Thanks, you had me a little worried. My dinner coat shrank while I was away flying. Thanks for calling, Sylvia. I had slept late. The day was almost gone. The apartment was already in shadows. The afternoon paper was on the lawn, just outside my window. I threw on a robe and ducked out quickly. Then I was back in the room, standing in the middle of the floor, holding it, still folded in my hand, listening to the blood hammer in my head. I switched on the floor lamp and sank down into an easy chair. I lit a cigarette and I took a deep breath. That was all I had to do. It lay spread open in my lap. They'd found their biggest type for the headline. Strangler strikes again. Hello, Sylvia. Where's Brab? He called at the last minute to say he'd be detained. It's like being married to a doctor. Would you like to drink meanwhile? Here he is now. Sorry to be late, darling. Hello, Dix. Glad you could join us. You look exhausted, Brab. Hard day? Haven't you seen the papers? No, I didn't get a chance. Why? It's another one. Oh, Brab. Well, what's it all about? Another woman killed. The same way. Did the commissioner call you in? Yeah, the whole department. We've been with him since five. We got to stop it. Yes, darling. Was it someone important? No, no, it never is. Oh, I forgot you were just a visitor, Dix. You see, the only pattern we can find is in the time schedule. They come one a month regularly. You must be starved, Brab. Wouldn't you like to order? In a minute, baby. I want to unwind. We'll have a high ball anyway. Malcolm. Yes, Mrs. Nicolet. Three scotch and sodas, Malcolm. We'll order later. Certainly, ma'am. The first one was about four months ago. May to be exact. May 16th. The night before my birthday party. There was a girl down on Skid Row. She was a nice enough kid, dancer and a cheap joint. We found her in an alley. Strangled. No clues. And that was number one? Yeah. In June, number two. We found her in Westlake Park. Wasn't any reason for it. A nice, normal girl, young and attractive. She'd been killed the same way. And no clues. And then the others? Last night was the fourth. No motive, no connection between any of them. And never the same neighborhood. And last night? Beverly Glen Canyon, up where it's country. She was lying on the brush at the side of the road. There were about 500 car tracks superimposed on that particular stretch, so it wouldn't do any good to lift them. But we've got one clue, a great one. We know the killer uses a car. How can you tell, bro? Well, her name was Mildred Atkinson, and she'd been playing bridge with three girlfriends in Beverly. At 11, she and another girl went out to the bus stop together. A friend caught a Wilshire bus and left Mildred behind, waiting for a Hollywoodland. So how did she get up to the canyon, where we found her this morning? It's a long way. The answer is she went for a ride. Where's that drink? Just another minute, darling. Los Angeles is too big, too sprawling. You can't patrol every street every night. He's safe. He's insane, of course. Sure he is. A maniac walking in the streets, mild-mannered and soft-spoken, and looking as normal as anyone. A homicidal maniac. I sat there watching brubs angry black eyes and Sylvia's white-pallet face. He's insane, of course. Their imaginations were poor, blunted little things reaching only as far as the obvious. He's insane, of course. So that was to be the chorus. What could they know of the world of imagination and beauty, in which a sane man, as sane as any, could kill and kill again? Don't you like your drink, Dick? Huh? Oh, sure. Lost in a fog, eh, boy? But I know why. Do you? Could it be that little banning girl over at the next table? Could it be that she reminds you of someone? Well, I don't know what you're talking about, bruv. What girl, or what... Now he sees her. What's the mystery about Betsy banning? Does Dick know her? No, darling. It's just that she's a dead ringer for another girl we used to know in England. Especially Dick's. He knew her well. Am I right? Yeah. Yes, you're right. Little Brucey. This, eh, this girl is so much like her. You're wrong, Dick. She's not as pretty as Brucey. Don't you remember? Remember? Yes. I remember Brucey. But I didn't want to remember Brucey. Brucey of the Sea Green Eyes. Brucey whom I had loved and wanted and needed. No, I'd been through it before. It was now that mattered. It was today in Southern California, thousands of miles away from her with something else hammering in my head to be looked at and examined. What? Oh, yes. Tires. They were good tires. No patches. No distinguishing marks. Robert said it himself. They couldn't get tire marks from dry concrete. I hadn't thought so. Still, I should have made sure. Certain gambles are legitimate. Like taking Mildred to that drive-in last night. Gambling on the muddled memory of waitresses who served hundreds of average-looking men and women every day, every night. Sure, it was a risk. But risks were like spice. Like stunt flying. As long as you used them like spice, sparingly. Like stunts, planning them with precision, I could afford to take risks. I just couldn't make mistakes. I left the club right after dinner. Got back to the apartment early. I pulled up in front and got out. I started up through the patio to my place at the rear when I saw I wasn't alone out there. She was hurrying in, not noticing me. In the blue light, her hair and her slacks and her jacket were all blue. Different depths of blue. I did it out of impulse without thought. I beg your pardon. Who? Who is it? I'm your neighbor. My name's Steele. So your name's Steele. Did you drop something? I don't know. Did I? No, you didn't. It's just conversation. Try again another time. No, no, wait a minute. I just lost my dinner date. I thought maybe you'd lost yours, too. Sorry. Mine will be here any minute. You've got red hair. I didn't notice that. It's no secret. Like I say, I'm your neighbor, 4A. If you do have a loser dinner date, let me know. I'll be sure to make a note of that. Good night. I got some cold beer and some cheese from the refrigerator and draped myself over the divan. The night was a scorcher. A Los Angeles September night. I lay there eating and drinking and waiting for it. Not that I thought for a minute it would come, but I was waiting for it. And it did come. It's you. I've just lost a dinner date. Come in. Come in. Maybe you'll find him here. I hope not. I told him I had a headache and was going to bed and that I was disconnecting the phone, but I still want dinner. You mind if I finish my beer? Go ahead. I'm Dick Steele. Who are you? My name's Laurel, and that's all you get for the time being. All right, Laurel. I don't mind beginning at a crawl. I suppose you're in pictures. Not often. I don't like getting up mornings. No, I don't either. That's why I'm a writer. Why'd you come by, Laurel? Because I'm hungry. And because tonight I didn't want to sit opposite a man who's rich and 60 and eats oatmeal. You have a grudge against money? No. Only against the men and women who go with it. People who think that everything in life is for sale. I hate them. Sometimes they pay their rent and the jeweler. They don't pay mine. How did we get on to this? Haven't you finished the beer yet? All finished. And already. Let's go, Laurel. We aided cars out on the road to Malibu. We didn't say much. We ate and smoked and had coffee. And I watched what the lights did glinting on that red hair. When we left there, I knew it. I knew it was the beginning of something, of something good. She was beside me and with me, and that was enough. I'd needed her for a long time. Ever since Brucey, that's how long. This girl, this Laurel, could make it up to me, could make me forget. I parked on an open stretch overlooking the dark beach in the ocean. She wanted to go down closer, so we left the car and struggled through the sand down to the water's edge. I held her hand tightly. The spin drift salted our lips. I haven't done this in a long, long time. Having fun? Wonderful. You can really smell the ocean here. Breathe, Dix. Breathe deep. Laurel, would you laugh at me if I said I was happy? That I never thought I'd be happy again? That I didn't think I could be? No, Dix. Laurel. Laurel, you're wonderful. Am I? Laurel, come here. Come here. Laurel, what's up? Who was that redhead I seen you with last night? What are you talking about? Where did you see me? You didn't see us. We were pulling out of Carl's restaurant when you went in. Sylvia spotted you and I spotted the redhead. There are always people looking, Rob. There are always eyes to see. Sure, boy. You can't take a step in this world, you know that. But listen, how about lunch? Fine. Fine. What time and where? Neum. Beverly Hill Station. Police station, kid. Pick me up there. Okay, Rob. I'll see you there. Neum. That was a nice station you got there, Rob. Flowers and shrubs and white facade. It looks like a small eastern university. Beverly Hills is just a small town, Dix. Almost a village, but the force is first-rate. I'll be working out of there from now on. How's the case coming? Uh, the case? Oh, that. It's a dead end, I'm afraid. You mean you're closing the books? Uh, we don't ever close the books. After the newspapers and all the rest of them forget it, our books are still open. That's the way it is. That's the way it has to be, I guess. It's been tough cases before, but we find the answer. Our department's had cases running 10, 12 years. Sometimes it's just because we're waiting for the next move, but we find them. This is Dix, old pal, remember? What are you trying to tell me? That the criminal doesn't escape? That's right. One way or another, he's caught. Sometimes it's because he's caught there in that lonely place, living with himself. So it ends in suicide, or the insane asylum, but there's no escape. You were saying the other night that this killer is insane. He is. I can't figure it. He's been pretty smart, hasn't he? The insane are more clever about their business and more careful, too, than the sane. It's normal for them to be sly and secretive. That's part of the mania. But they give themselves away. Just like Mom used to make. How do they give themselves away? They repeat the pattern. Now, take the strangler. Look at his pattern. I don't see any. I must be writing a lousy detective novel. Okay, look. It's a girl at night alone. He comes along in a car. She accepts a ride. You're positive about the car? It has to be. My theory is he didn't use it on the last one on Mildred until he'd made the approach on foot and lulled her. She was waiting for a bus and he's waiting on the same corner. He gets a talking. He invites her to have a cup of coffee. Then he mentions his car isn't far away and he'll give her a lift. He takes her to the drive-in. Drive-in? What drive-in? Oh, that's something new. One of the car hops recognized Mildred's picture after the story broke. She remembered her coming in with a man and ordering coffee. Good girl. That's a big help. Yeah, it is. And the man. Did she remember him? It could be you or me or our grandfathers. No, she couldn't remember. Well, half a loaf is better than none, eh? I've got to go up to Beverly Glen in the scene of the crime. Want to come along? Well, I had a date. Come on. I can give you a better idea of what we're up against. All right. I'll charge it up to research on the book. Good. Show me and take your car or mine. What was that? My car? Why? Was Rob suspicious? Did he want my car back up on that street? Was this lunch arranged? No. I'd already hesitated too long in answering. It couldn't matter which car. It had been too late and too foggy. Did you say something, bro? I'm sorry. Thinking about the redhead, I said, whose car do we take? Yours or mine? Oh, he might as well take mine. You don't mind another passenger. Not at all. The chief wants to come along. Jack Lochner. We'll go back by the station for him. We swung out towards Sunset. All three of us up front. Lochner was a tall, thin man with wispy gray hair. He didn't look like the chief of anything. I drove carefully. I suppose it's the thing to do with cops besides him. I stay for a ride. Yeah. Okay, so I'll shut up. This is it, Dick. Turn right, Beverly Glenn. My hands began to sweat. If Rob hadn't called out, I knew I would have turned out of that street myself automatically, and I was a visitor from the east who didn't know the country very well. There was tension in my hands and arms, fear that I might recognize the place at the side of the road and react to it. And then slowly, I relaxed again, realizing that I didn't know the road, that I could never find the spot even if I wanted to. For it had been dark. We climbed into the valley. There was a chill in the air, and the sun was far away. Nobody spoke. These two men were on a case that had them tired and sore. It wasn't a time for a conversation piece. I drove on, waiting for somebody to tell me to stop. Here we are. Just pull up along here, Mr. Steele, if you will. This way, you found it? Right there in the brush. You see how thick it is in here? Look at that. He'd have figured that she wouldn't be found for a long time with the leaves falling on her, covering her. And every day, there'd be more leaves. Not many people look off at the side of the road when they're driving, not unless there's something scenic to look at. This canyon would be perfect. And how was she found so quickly? Look, the milkman picked this spot in the world to have a flat. The killer figured it smart. See how the road curves here? There's something behind, two loops below. And he can look up to the top of the hill, see the lights of a car approaching him when it takes the first of those two curves. He can sit with her in the car, looking like a spooner until the other cars go by. He was playing it safe. So he does it. He opens the door of the car, he rolls her out into the leaves, and he's away. No chance of being caught at it. And strangling's the easiest way. Yes. Yes, that makes sense. How about it, Rob? Find anything? The experts have been over every inch with their microscopes. He won't find anything, but he wanted to have another look around, so I came along. Well, it seems hopeless to me, Mr. Lochner, if there's nothing here of all places where can you look? There's only one place we'll find anything. And where's that? It is right now. Enough to send them to the gas chamber. Huh. Cigarette, Captain Lochner? Yeah. Thanks. Got it? Yeah, got it. You haven't been able to get a description of that car yet, have you? Not yet. We're working on the people at the drive-in. One of them is going to remember. And when you find it, then you'll go through it for those clues that you were talking about. Hairpins and lipstick? No, Mr. Steele. Nothing like that. Dust, Mr. Steele. Dust? You heard the man, Dix. He said dust. Like this stuff all over me. No matter how much I beat it, I can't get it all out. Yeah. That's dust. We've got dust from the drive-in, dust from her clothes and her shoes, and dust from here. From a little thicket off Beverly Glen. Three different kinds. And all of them in his car. Oh, that's really fantastic. And even in 10 or 12 years, we'll be there. Some of it will, yeah. You want my opinion of this case, gentlemen. The strangler doesn't have a chance. I swung the car around and we rolled back down the canyon and into town. They were sitting beside me again, up front, sitting on the dust they wanted so desperately, breathing it into their lungs, having it settle on the flesh of their hands and their faces and in their hair. The golden little molecules started gently and unseen before our eyes as we drove back. And I felt good. My hands were easy on the wheel. I could be talkative now. I was expected to be curious and impressed. I would come back to it again. Did it help you, Brud, coming back? No, I didn't find anything. Didn't expect it. You know something? He's from the East. You mean the waitress recognized an Eastern accent? No, he talked just like anybody else. No accent. That's just Lochner's reconstruction. He's from the East. I know that. He's a mugger. I'm afraid I don't follow you, Captain. What's a mugger? Certain gangs used to operate in New York. One man would get the victim's soul. You see, with his right arm, and the others would rob him. Until they found out it could be a one-man job. You don't need more than two fingers to strangle a man or a woman. He's a mugger. He doesn't use his fingers. Not on any finger marks. He used his arm. He's from the East. As a fellow Easterner, Captain Lochner, you must admit that a Westerner could have learned the trick. I've seen the way they did it in New York. He knows how. Same way. I think you're right, Loch. We keep getting closer. You will, Mr. Steele. I'll get out right here. All right. Thanks for the lift, Steele. Thanks for letting me go along. I'll see you at the station, Bob. Ever since this thing started, I've been afraid for her. For her? You mean Sylvia? She's lived in the canyon all her life. She never had any fear, wandered all over at any time of day. But the canyon at night, the way the fogs come in, it's a place for him, and I've scared her. She's alone so much I never know what hours I have to keep. You know our street, how dark and lonely it is, and the way our house is set up there. Oh, I'm the one who's scared. And I can't help it. I can't pretend. Until we've caught him, she isn't safe. Sylvia isn't safe. I saw how it was with both of them. How they clung together, fear in both of them. The woman fearing to have her man close on the heels of a murderer, and Brub afraid for her because she was a woman. Because she was his woman and women were being stalked in the night. And yet, even though he was afraid, he would leave her because he was a hunter. And this was a big hunt for wild game. Yeah. Wild game. In tonight's full hour of suspense, Mr. Robert Montgomery stars as Dixon Steele in the play In a Lonely Place. Tonight's study in suspense. We will return with act two of suspense. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System. And now, back to our Hollywood sound stage and act two of In a Lonely Place starring Mr. Robert Montgomery in a narrative well calculated to keep you in suspense. Very tired. Tired of thinking about Sylvia and Brub and the fear that had bound them as desperately as their love for each other. I was weary of the big hunt. For I was hunting on my own. I was looking for happiness. I spent the next few days with Laurel. It got so that I didn't count the hours anymore. All I knew was beauty. And I knew intensity. And I called it happiness. And all the time, I knew it wouldn't last. I sensed the restlessness coming into her. I could feel it. Dix. Dix. What is it? Can you say something? Laurel. Laurel. What is it? You tell me. You've been sitting there without moving for more than an hour. Ah, just daydreaming. Was it something nice? Tell me about it. Turn off the radio, Dix. It's making me nervous. All right. Do you like a drink? Yes, please. You know what we ought to do tonight? The sky's the limit. How does that sound? Where do you want to go? To a drive-in? Dix. I'm sorry, I seem to be all thumbs. Here, let me make you a note. No, no, that's all. I didn't want it anyway. No, baby. No drive-in for you tonight. You're not the drive-in type. What type am I? The serotype, baby. Expensive and plush and chromium-plated. Seros, that'll do fine. You can take me to a drive-in tonight. I won't take you to a drive-in. Why not? Are you afraid someone might see you there? Is that why? What do you mean by that? I mean you keep me hidden away from sight, as if we might run into some of your friends, like that brub and Sylvia, as if I wasn't good enough for you. You're not making sense. Didn't I say I wanted to spread out tonight, get dressed up for once and go to seros? Hide you away. You come with me tonight to see somebody to see you. No, I'm tired. I don't want to get dressed and go places. All I want is to go up to the drive-in. We're not going to the drive-in. We're not going. Dicks, you're hurting me. Fine. What's on your mind? Can you come over to the house, I want to see you. Sorry, brub, but I got a date tonight. I just had a letter from England, Dicks. It's about Brucey. Brucey? I'll be right over. It seems that I can't have dinner with you after all. All right. You don't seem very unhappy about it. Laurel. Yes? I'm sorry if I hurt you. Forget it. It's all right. We haven't been soft lovers. We haven't played it that way. The world keeps coming in between us. That makes me afraid. Why should you be afraid? Because I might lose you. I have to keep telling myself to run away. I have to keep telling myself to remember to remember that I can't take any chances. That I can't lose you. I can't, Laurel. Don't be afraid, Dicks. You see, I love you very much. Have a chair, Dicks. All right? Would you care for anything to eat? No, thanks, Sylvia. I just finished him. Remember Adam Tyne, Dicks? No. Sure you do. The flight commander from Bath. Nice, quiet fellow. We saw a lot of him that spring of 1943. We knew a lot of fellows over there, bruv. I don't remember. Well, it's not important, except that I've had a letter from him. First one in more than a year. Such a sad piece of news, Dicks. Let's have it. Brucy is dead. Brucy. It's dead. Brucy. Dicks, I didn't know. I'm sorry, Dicks. I guess none of us realized how much, how much you and Brucy... Brucy. We didn't know, Dicks. No. How could you? How could anyone know? How did she die? Vice bombs? No. Well, then how? How? She was murdered. Murdered? Yeah, murdered. Well, how... Why? Why? The police have never found out. Better not talk about it, Dicks. Well, I want to talk about it. I want to know who did it. Why should anyone kill Brucy? They don't know. Her family missed her for two weeks. When she was found, it was an Iraqi cove. She'd been strangled. Brucy was dead. Brucy. Whom I had loved. Who was my only love. Brucy was dead. And no one cared. All the world cared. Except me. Brucy. She didn't answer. I stepped outside and looked up to her apartment across the patio from mine. It was dark. She didn't come home at all that night. Or the next day. Or the next night. No word from her. Not a sign. Nothing. The following morning was a dirty gray rag. I called Laurel's number once more. No answer. I had to get out of that cramped room. Away from the unremembered shape of my dreams. I didn't take the car. I wanted to breathe, to put motion into my body. I walked as far as Wilshire and then went up to Beverly Drive to my favorite delicatessen. Dix. Hi. Where'd you spring from? A guy gets hungry, Bruv. How are you, Captain Locker? Fine. Fine. Good to see you again. Slide in. Okay. Thanks. Would you like to order now, sir? If you please. Salami sandwich on rye and a beer, please. It'll be just a few minutes. More trouble than Beverly? No. Same old case. We're not going to let it happen again, that's all. And you think it comes from this neighborhood? It's the last clue we have. We pick up a little more each time we check. Yeah, but where do you check? How? We've been talking to the help again. At the drive-in where he stopped with her that night. Any luck? I don't know yet. In these neighborhood spots, a lot of people combine to eat regularly. I got to thinking about it. There must have been some of the regulars around that night when he took Mildred in for coffee. The nerve of it. Driving in there, coming in under all those bright lights and gambling that no one would remember what he looked like. Like you and me, brah. An ordinary man. Yeah, an ordinary man. With a nerve of a jet pilot. I see what you're after, brah. Have the help ask questions of the regulars when they come in. Were they at the drive-in the night of the murder? And did they see the couple? That's it. And then it'd be a break, but there's no chance. No chance except for his nerve. You mean he might have the nerve to walk in again? He might, Dix. He just might. And you think the help might spot him if he did? I think they might. They keyed up to remember, Mr. Steele. A little car-hop jean her name is. Swear she'd know him again if he came in. She'll know him if she sees him again. Only she can't describe him. That's the trouble with people in these cases. You remember how it was when we were flying? How do you mean? You said yourself he's a gambler. He's reckless. I mean, he'll take chances like going to that drive-in before killing the girl. Well, it occurs to me that it's the same kind of recklessness we had when we were flying during the war. We took chances, but we were sure that we'd pull out of them. Mr. Steele makes sense. And something else. He's probably an ex-service man. How do you figure that? Well, the people who saw him at the drive-in all say he's a nice-looking fellow with nice clothes. At least that's what the newspaper accounts have to say. Am I right? So far. Then it's 10 to 1. He's the right age, good, healthy specimen, average. The average were in the service. I know it's not a very brilliant deduction, but it fills out the picture a little more. I'll buy that, Mr. Steele. Yeah, I will, too. Well, I'll be getting back to the office. I'll be in a little later today, Chief. Okay. By the way, Captain Lochner, every time I see you, I seem to be asking a lot of questions. I hope you haven't minded. Not at all. You just keep asking them. I will, Captain, and thanks. I'm late now. I want to check over those Bruce reports again. See me as soon as you get back. Right. Here's your order, sir. I beg your pardon? Wasn't yours the salami sandwich? Oh, yes. Thank you. Bruce. This is a pretty common name. There must be 100,000 in the United States. At least. And hundreds in Los Angeles. Yeah. He said he was going to check the Bruce reports. It's not the same one, Rob. It couldn't be. Not Brucey. I'm sorry, Dick. I know it's a raw wound, but I couldn't help talking to Lochner about her. I was knocked off my pins when I heard the news and I wanted to report on the case. You were right. Then what happened? Loch cabled the London police. He thought it'd help us. That maybe Brucey was one of a series, like our series. It's far-fetched, but the killer might have been an American. England was full of GIs at the time. And was she one of the series? They don't know. It was a series, but it didn't start right after Brucey. A couple of months, then it began. The same pattern. Strangler. Well, what was the matter with him? Couldn't they catch him? No, he was never caught. After six months, it stopped. Just as suddenly as it had begun. Maybe it was shipped back home. If I could ever find him. If I could ever get my hands on him. The man who killed Brucey. I guess we feel the same about that. Do you want to come back with me, Dixon? See the reports? No, I... I don't think I could take them, bruv. You understand? Of course I do, Tix. Of course I do. I went back to the apartment in the divan for the rest of the afternoon thinking about Brucey. Strangled. So many miles away. And Laurel, who lived just across the patio from me and had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed it. I thought of them both and soon their figures swam together in my mind and were co-mingled so that they became one. It was already dark and I found myself very hungry. I got in the coop and drove over to Wiltshire. Not knowing where I'd eat. Past the Savoy, Romanos, the tropics. And then suddenly the brilliant lights of the driving glittered ahead of me. I couldn't stop to think. I twisted the wheel and pulled into a parking space right up front, right under the lights. They were looking for a man of my height. A man of my build. I was here for them. I'd come. Two young fellas were in the car to my left. A middle-aged couple to my right. No police. No police in sight. I was safe. The girl who came with the menu was pretty and pretty. No more than 16. Good evening. Hello. Want to see a menu? I know what I want. I'll have the special tonight. It's kind of a celebration. Yes, sir. All belong. I wondered what the girl's name was. I wondered if she was Jean, the car hop whom the police had alerted. The girl who would come up to each customer in the hope of finding me. And here tonight, she had found me. And she didn't know it. I ate slowly, lingering over the food. And before I left, I handed her a large tip. Just to be sure, she remembered me. She thanked me, smiling, and said, and I promised I would. I went out Wiltshire to the ocean. The fog blew in at 14th Street. And I should have turned back then, but I didn't. I could hear the boom of the breakers. And I could smell the sea and the fog. And the fog itself was sweet and cool. It was silent. The world was shrouded in mists and silence. Except for the thump of the water and the far-off cry of the fog horn. And then, at that moment, I knew what I was going to do. I knew what I was going to do. I knew what I was going to do. I knew what I was going to do. I listened to my footsteps across the pavement toward the beach. And then I listened to the silence. As I began walking in the sand, sludging through heavy, damp sand, I passed the club where I'd go on to dinner one night with Brub, where I'd seen a young girl, a pretty brown-haired girl who looked like Brucey. I went on, trying to forget. I drifted along the deserted island I drifted along the deserted beach looking for the shape of the living thing of a woman. But I was alone. I passed a beach house where people huddled together in warmth and gaity and found myself trembling with hatred for Laurel. If she had come back to me, I'd not be shut out like this and cut off. Always leave you before you're ready. I groped on. My feet chained in the mud and I stumbled and fell to one knee. I stayed there. My head buried in my arms. I was there for a long time, lost in the world of swirling fog, from a crashing wave, lost in a lonely place, and the red knots tightened in my brain. Something came running through the darkness, a small dark shape purpleed upon me, and I realized it was a dog, a friendly terrier. I stroked it gently, coming over the sand. I could feel my blood begin to pound with excitement. Where there was a dog, there was a master, or a mistress. The sound of the steps came closer, and then she stepped forward out of the fog. I looked up from the door and said, Hello. And then I smiled. She couldn't know that behind that smile lay my hatred of Laurel, my hatred of Brub, my hatred of Sylvia, my hatred of Lochner, of everyone in the whole living world, of everyone. And Bruce was dead. What brings you, Brub? Am I invited in? Yeah, of course. Sit down. Yeah. Anything wrong? Plenty wrong. Is it Sylvia? No. What makes you think it is? Well, I don't know. You look so worried. You mean you don't know what's happened? I don't know from nothing. You know a beautiful morning? The birds singing? The California sunshine? And I decided it was a day for the beach. I've been out there all day, riding the breakers. Oh, wonderful sport. You were at the beach today? Sure. What's wrong with that? He was out again last night. The strangler. He did it on the beach. Brub? The little banning girl. Betsy banning. You'll remember, the girl looked like Brucey. Yeah. And I will get him. I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna kill him with my hands. The way he likes to do it. Oh, now take it easy, Brub. Would you like a drink? She always took her dog out for a run at night. No matter what time it was. She wasn't afraid. She was like Sylvia. The ocean was always something safe. Something good. And she had her dog. And the dog? Buried in the sand. Dead. Strangled. Poor fella. Right on time. Just about a month. On the nose. Every month. And no clues. On the sand? No. No clues. No buttons. No fingerprints. No cigarette stubs. No match folders. Not even a calling card. Well, there's not much I'm good for at a time like this. But if there's anything I can do, Brub, anything... I was in the neighborhood. I had to stop by and talk. I'll be going now. Thanks, Dix. Anytime, Brub. You know that. Anytime. The sand had been my first mistake. For sand was an evil penetrating thing and could never wholly be rid of it. If dust could tell a story, then sand screamed out its secrets aloud. That was why the morning afterward early, I had gone down to the beach and spent the whole day there in the sand. That was why I had been ready for Brub. When he came, that was why I was ready for the whole LA police force if they wanted to come. After Brub left, I went out of the house and drove to the cleaners on Pico and left a bundle of dirty clothes. Then I ate in Beverly and afterward went into Warner's Theater for a double bill. On the way home, I thought I was being followed. A large gray sedan that stayed with me for three miles, but I was wrong. We were together in a red light and when it changed, the sedan shot ahead of me and disappeared into the night. I slept without dreams and didn't wake until late afternoon of the next day and still Laurel hadn't come back. Do you love me? I'd asked her. And she'd said, yes. She lied in my face and in my arms. I hated her. A cheat and a liar. No one cared. No one ever cared. Only Brucey. Brucey, who was dead, who had left me alone, alone forever for the whole of my life. Yes, Captain Lochner would like to see you up at the station if you don't mind. I don't mind at all. Well, take your time. There's no hurry. Well, that's all right. I'm ready now. You can follow me in your own car if you like. It doesn't matter. You might as well take yours. You know the way, don't you? Oh, yes, I know the way. So they wanted to look at my car while Lochner kept me occupied. I laughed out loud and started driving over. Let them crawl through it. Let them look at the sand and the dust. Let them make casts of the tires. It didn't mean a thing to me. It only made the game more exciting. Thought maybe you could help us, still. I'd be glad to, Captain. You name it. It's the Bruce case, the English girl. I understand you knew her. Yes, yes. I've been doing a good deal of thinking about Miss Bruce. Brub told me your idea. I've got a list here of American men who were friendly with the Bruce girl. And we're all in England when it happened. Just look it over. See what you can remember about these men. Anything they might have said, John. Here. Oh, I see Brub's name is on it. Yeah, mine too. But you'd been transferred before then, Dick. My transfer wasn't completed until after I got back from Scotland. I had a month's leave accumulated. You came home after that? I was transferred to Germany on the cleanup. I was overseas another six months. And what about the men on that list? I can't tell you a thing against any single one of them. They were all good men. Not one could have had anything to do with this. It's impossible. Okay, okay. Brub's been telling me the same thing. It's another dead end. Well, it's enough for the day. I'm going home to sleep for 20 hours. Thanks for coming over. Good boy, Dix. I stood up for the fellas. You did, too. We had to. I never knew about Scotland. How'd you like it up there? It was wonderful. Because she was with me. Lucy. She loved it there. And I loved her. The car was where I'd left it. If the police had gone after dust, they hadn't taken much. The floor mat was no cleaner than it had been before. I went home and sat in the living room, preparing to turn on any of the lights. There were no slips, no mistakes. There had never been any. There never would be any. I'd go back east. I'd get my trunk off tomorrow by express, and then I'd go by plane. Goodbye, Brubs. Goodbye, Sylvia. Thanks for the buggy ride. But first I'd find a room not too far away and hold up for a few days. Once I was gone, Laurel would come back to her apartment and take care of Laurel. I sat there in the heavy darkness, my finger is aching, my head banded by iron. There were footsteps outside. No, not Laurel. A man coming home late from the office. But she might come tonight. I've been cleared by the police. No one need be afraid of me tonight. She might come. I sat behind the dark window hardly breathing. Then I heard them coming, high, pointed heels. I looked out. Slacks, a careless coat over the shoulders, a scarf to mask her flaming hair. I moved quickly, out the door, stepping softly through the windows, coming up behind her. So you decided to come back? Turn around, look at me. Sylvia? Yes, Sylvia. Where's Laurel? Where's Laurel? What have you done with her? Laurel's all right, Dix. She's all right. Where is she? Where is she? She isn't coming back. She's safe, and she's going to stay safe. So you poisoned her against me because you hate me from the beginning you hated me? No, Dix, no. Only I did feel something was wrong with you. From the first night you walked into our house, I knew something was terribly wrong. You knew what could you know, a jealous dame. You couldn't even stand to see Brub have a friend like me, wanted me all for yourself, didn't you? And now Laurel, you take her away from me too. Laurel came to us because she was afraid, and she was afraid of you and what you might do to her. That's a lie. Is it, Dix? Tell me, what happened to the girl who had coffee in the drive-in with you? What happened to the girl in Westlake Park? The girl down on Skid Row? Sylvia. Brub and Worris! Brub and Sylvia. And some of the boys I'd seen from the Beverly Station. They put on the lights and sat me down on the divan. And they stood around looking down at me. All of them but Sylvia. They stood between me and the chair in which she sat huddled and Lachna was looking down to talk to me. I'm arresting you in suspicion of the murder of Mildred Atkinson. That's very funny. And suspicion of the murder of Betsy Banning and the attempted murder of Sylvia Nicolai. Have you anything to say? Yes. I think you're crazy. Listen to me, Dix. It's no use. We have Mildred Atkinson's fingerprints in your car. There's only one way they could get there. Would you be lying? You, an old friend, just to trap me? And we have the dust. Do you know what a good lawyer could do with your precious dust? I'm not through, Dix. There's quite a bit of lint from the Atkinson girl's coat. Lint? And there are hairs from Betsy Banning's Scotty Dog. We found them on the suit you took to the cleaners. You can't think of everything, Brub. When you're luck runs out. Dix. Dix, look at me. Why did you do it? Why? Was it because you loved Brucey and she wouldn't have you? Is that what set you off? Is that what made you do it, Brub? I... Why, Dix? Tell me why. Because... because... I killed Brucey. This is Robert Montgomery again with thanks to our cast for their splendid performances. Next week for suspense, we've chosen the story with triple threat possibilities. The title, the story and the author taken by themselves are enough to command our interest. In combination, they become a dramatic force powerful in suspense. I speak of Nightmare by William Irish, a story which fuses reality with unreality and a frightening pattern of fear and suspicion. If you've ever had a nightmare, you know its impact. You know the difficulty with which you cast it aside. If you've never had a nightmare, we cordially invite you to have one on us next week. When with Nightmare by William Irish, we again hope to keep you in suspense. Good night. Next week here, Nightmare on Radio's outstanding Theatre of Thrills, one hour of... Suspense! Remember to give gladly to the 1948 Red Cross Fund. This is CBS where 99 million people gather every week, the Columbia Broadcasting System.