 The signal oil program, the whistler, that whistle, is your signal for the signal oil program, the whistler. 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. Yes, friends, it's time for the whistler, rated by independent research, the most popular West Coast program. And remember, let every traffic signal remind you, with new signal gasoline, you do go farther than ever. Look for the familiar big yellow and black circle sign that identifies those popular signal service stations in seven western states from Canada to Mexico. And now the whistler's strange story, murder in haste. Albert Taylor was two people. To the cafe society crowd in Miami, he was the charming young husband of a silver fortune from Denver, aged 45, amply mature and a little crotchety. To his wife Helen, the silver fortune, he was something else again, an unpleasant little boy whose unpleasantness had to be bought off with hundred dollar bills, instead of chewing gum. This made for friction, of course. After three years of marriage, Helen was heartily sick of both Alberts, and more careful with the hundred dollar bills. And Albert, too, had reached the saturation point. As a matter of fact, the unpleasant little boy was on the verge of a tantrum. Is that you? Yeah. Albert, I'm awfully upset. Oh, what now? My bracelet, the diamond and emerald one. I put it in the drawer of my vanity last night, after the party. Well, what about it? It's gone. I've questioned the servants and they- Did you, uh, call the police? No. Good. What do you mean? I told you I'd get money somewhere, Helen. You took it! Of course I took it. I see. And what did you do with it? I sold it, of course. What did you expect? Think I'm going to sit up and beg you for every time I need five dollars? Sure, that's what you want, isn't it? Come on, come on, watch Albert, the trained terrier. Eat, sleeps, walks, talks, thinks like a human being. That's enough, Albert. You bet it's enough. I'm sick of it. I'm through being your favorite charity. You don't know how right you are. Well, what does that mean? It's very simple. I'm going to call the police and tell them you've stolen my bracelet. Wait a minute. Don't be ridiculous. Yes, wait for me. Give me that phone. Now go my head! Why, you, you nagging, just a disagreeable- Albert! Albert! I'm sorry! You want to watch me jump, don't you? You want to crack the whip and watch me jump? Albert! You're hurting me. Yes. Let go, please. I'll hurt you all right. Albert! I'd like to shake you until- I'd like to shake you until you keep falling off you. Why don't you do something? Why don't you go over there to the hearth and help her up? Well, perhaps you're not as dazed as you look standing there in the middle of the room. Maybe even now you realize Helen isn't going to get up because she struck a temple on the and iron when you hurled her across the room. Yes, Albert. She's lying there so very still because she's dead. With the prologue of tonight's story, murder in haste. The Signal Oil Company brings you another strange story by The Whistler. When you see those big new signal billboards that say, Go farther than ever with new signal gasoline. Remember, it's power that puts more mileage into new signal gasoline. Amazingly increased power that chemists created by actually rearranging the atoms in gasoline molecules. You'll notice signals power first in the way your motor springs to life, the instant you touch the starter. You'll notice signal power again in the way your car steps ahead in traffic with pickup that makes you proud. And you'll notice it in the knock-free purr of your motor on hills, steep ones that you'll breeze up in high. Yes, new signal gasoline is packed with a kind of performance that makes even old cars feel young again. But while you're enjoying this performance, don't forget the amazing power in new signal gasoline that makes this performance possible also makes new signal more than ever, the Go farther gasoline. And now back to the lubrication point on your car and specifies which of signals The Whistler. Nine specialized oils and greases each part should have for long trouble-free service. But they don't even stop there, no sir, just to make doubly sure they check each point again, which is why it's called signal double-check lubrication. That's the kind of service you want these days when your car has to last until who knows when. And that's the kind of service you'll get from your friendly neighborhood signal gasoline. Clean dealer. And now back to the Whistler. For the first time since that awful night in Miami. Yes, you feel relaxed. It's over now, isn't it? The hound of it. There'll be no more ugly squabbles over money. Noting the fear the dagger hanging over your head. They're gone more jumping through hoops for Helen because the last argument was now. You said final, wasn't it? So final that Helen lies dead in front of the heart. A minute lay down in a chair by the sergeant's debtor you've decided on the only course of action can start to tell him the whole impossible. You leave her in a thing. I wanted her bedroom and locked the door. The servants in their separate quarters are used to you round the streets all night. Arguments and probably have paid no. I thought about running away again. And no attention. Two and it all seems so. So useful. Hours and 20 minutes later you're standing on the observation platform. So you came into the station and spilled it, eh? Of the limited express bound for Jackson. Going over there? We've been there. Found her an hour at Villain Points North. So you did it? You were made. Nice knife. Oh, as well know that she's not my wife. Yeah, yeah, we know that, Mr. I didn't hear you come up. Sorry. I said it was a nice night. Yeah, yeah. I saw you running for the train when we. She was your assistant and bonus areas. What? Pulling out. Just made it, didn't you? Yeah, it's kind of close. All right. You say she was shaking you down, huh? You've been in Miami long? What's she have on you? Am I assistant? No, I've been fishing off the keys just a week or so. I see. Oh, that's right. You're assistant. Have you, uh... Name's Ricketts. Glad to know you. I'm, uh, uh, Brown Richard. Had a lapse of memory or something, James? The assistant, Brown. Uh-huh. You going up to New York, Brown? Yes, I am. Tell me, James, and what was she threatening to take to the pool? That's right. Well, I, uh... I guess I'll be getting in. But a three-year-old would have known it was a bluff. Hi, Ricketts. Good idea. I'll go with you. That's the last thing in the world she would have done. No, you don't know her. She would have done anything. Not if it mattered. Heck, pal. Huh? You knew at the minute he opened his mouth. You have got a bum memory, Jameson. It was all over Bonas Ares six months ago. She's wanted down there. Bummer. Didn't you, Albert? Ricketts is a plain-clothes cop. And there can be only one reason why he's so interested in you. He's right behind you as you walk back through the train to your seat. And you're wondering if you'll sit beside you when you stop there. Then when you're 10 feet from it, it hits you. You realize why he's following you. Your luggage with your initials, E.T. Honard is in the baggage rack over the seat, and Ricketts is just waiting. Next Monday at nine o'clock, the whistler will bring you another strange tale. The whistler is broadcast from going. Uh, Brown? Yeah? Isn't this your secret entertainment by the marketers of Signalgate? Why, no, no. I have a compartment up ahead. Casselline and motor oil, and fine quality automotive accessories. Oh, I see. Well, good night, Brown. Good night. And by your neighborhood, Signal Dealer. This program produced by George W. Allen with tonight's story by Eleanor Beeson, music by Wilbur Hatch, is transmitted to our troops overseas. This is by the Armed Forces Radio Service. It's only one place to go, the club car and the bar, where you can sit for a minute and think. Yes, sir. Uh, make it a Manhattan, uh, dry. Dry? Manhattan, right, sir. Thank you. Oh, is this your magazine here? That whistle. What? Oh, oh, no, no. May I look at it? Sure. Thank you. Uh, is your signal for the Signal Oil program the whistler? This is Marvin Miller speaking, reminding you to look for those familiar... You're going to New York? Yes. Yellow and black circle signs. I'm gonna be cold up there this time of year. Identify those popular Signal Oil signs. A lot of snow and all that. Yes. It comes in seven western states from Canada to Mexico. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System. I suppose so. You know, I'm as excited as a kid. I haven't seen snow for an age. Matter of fact, I haven't said foot in America for, well, five years. Oh, it's great to be back. I get a kick out of just talking to Americans again. Yeah, yeah. I was sitting in my compartment a few minutes ago and... You, uh, you have a compartment? Oh, yeah, yeah. A couple of cars ahead. Oh, wow. My name's Brown, Mr... Jameson. Uh, Leslie Jameson. Jameson? Wait a minute. You're not the, uh, the mystery rider. Ha, ha, ha. I'm afraid I am, yeah. Here you are, sir. Drum and hand. Oh, thank you. Well, here's to you, Mr... What's the matter? Uh, oh, nothing. Say, uh, say, Jameson, why don't we go to your compartment? Be quieter there. We could have the drink center. Why, of course, if you'd like. Yes, Albert, the compartment would be quieter. And you'd feel a little more comfortable, particularly since you noticed your friend, Mr. Ricketts, stroll into the bar and sit down, still hunting for the occupant of your seat, no doubt. Mr. Jameson finds the compartment pleasanter, too. Well, a man can't stay forever in Buenos Aires and continue to write for the American public, has to keep in touch, you know. Uh, don't you think so? Oh, yes, yes, of course. So you say you left Buenos Aires, huh? Yes, planned to, anyway, but made it a little earlier on account of that nasty business with my assistant. Ah, yes, I see. Oh, I'll probably go back in a year or so. Do you ever, do you ever read anything of mine, Brown? I can't say I've done much reading in the detective's storyline. You have a serial running in one of the magazines right now, haven't you? Yes. Murder and haste. I don't suppose you're reading it. No, I'm sorry. If I'd known I was going to meet the author, I'd have boned up on it. Oh, don't apologize, Brown. Well, how about a nightcap before we turn in, eh? Oh, it's early yet, Jameson. Surely you're not going to give up the ship so soon. Well, I've got to confess I'm a little bush. I've been rattling on like a magpie all evening. Yeah, there you are. Oh, thanks. Wow, that's, that's beautiful brandy. None better. Well, Brown, what do we drink, too? Oh, I have it to crime, Brown. Mighty profitable business, for me at least. Yeah, here's to crime. You know, that's, uh, murder is my business, and yet I've never in my life seen a murdered man. Thank? No, never been in a police court. Hardly ever known a policeman. I'm really sort of a phony when you get right down to it. Well, Brown, it's been great talking to you, but I... Tell me more about your agent. You were saying you've never met him personally. Oh, Farrell. Well, he's a great agent. I've often wondered what he looks like. Sometimes I think he must be a magician with a long beard, the way he pulls royalties out of a hat. Sold by leading character to a radio series. Well, you've never even been to New York? Never. Probably the only man in the business who can say that. Well, Brown, it's close to midnight and I... Uh, look, James, what about the serial you're running? Maybe you could bring me up to date on it, and I... I'll tell you about it tomorrow, Brown. Right now, I'm awfully tired. Oh, it's early yet. Now, see here, I don't want to be rude, but I'll have to ask you to... Good Lord, what's that? We're trying to stop it. Stop the train. Take him! An open switch, a signal down, and the southbound local is suddenly there on the same track without warning. It's over in a split second, and then you open your eyes, Albert. You're all right, miraculously safe, in the tangled network of steel and splintered wood that used to be a Pullman car. And there's Leslie Jameson. He wasn't so lucky, Albert. There's nothing you can do for him now. The other end of the coach is in flames, and they're moving toward you. Finally, you managed to get out. Gotta get up through this window. What's this glass? Here, let me help you. Oh, give me a hand. That's it. You all right? I think so. I'm a little dizzy. Oh, sure. Oh, it's you, Mr. Brown. Oh, Ricketts. Yeah, you're lucky. This coach got it worst of all. Look at that fire. Yeah, got out just in time. Hey, that fella you were drinking with at the bar went to your compartment with you. He's still in there? Mike and Papa? Pretty sure he's Albert E. Taylor murdered his wife in Miami. Is he still there? No. No, he left a few minutes before the crash. Well, you better get on ahead, Mr. Brown. I gotta get my hand here. Can you make it up to the crossing? There's a highway restaurant up there. Sure, sure. I'm okay. Thanks. Okay, Brown, take it easy. Oh, well. Well, Albert, you stand there dazed for a minute, watching the fire move closer. Then you decide to take a chance, crawl back to Leslie Jameson's body, take his wallet, his ring, and watch, exchange them for your ring and watch, engraved to Albert with all my love, Helen. Then as the flames move close, you find his briefcase and bag and crawl out with him. Ten minutes later, you stagger into the highway restaurant at the grade crossing. Say, I wonder if you fellas can help me. I hurt, Mr. Oh, we got the dock in the back room. Come on. No, no, no. I'm all right. I just want to get out of here. I thought I could hire a car, get a bus to New York. You were in the wreck? Yeah. Say, I'm the AP correspondent here. Could you give me a name? Uh, I'm Leslie Jameson. Leslie Jameson? Say, aren't you the fellow who writes those murder mysteries? Yeah, yeah. That's right. Well, if that ain't a coincidence, Frank, only last night you and me made that bet. Yeah, yeah. Now we can settle it once and for all. Yeah, we was betting which one would turn out to be the murder in that serial you're running in a post. Oh, well, that's very flattering. Now, I wonder if you could help me about the bus I'm in. Say, Mr. Jameson, could you give us an advanced tip on the murderer? Yeah, then we won't have to wait for the magazine to come out tomorrow. Who was it, Mr. Jameson? Who? Well, I don't think that would be a fast cup of coffee. Yeah, sure. Oh, Ricketts. Oh, pretty rough out there. Three cars gone. What do you guys stand around here for? You've been out there and looked at it? Well, I got to stand by the car. I'm a reporter, pal, and I'm getting a story. Or I was until you... Skip it. How do you feel, Brown? Brown? That's Leslie Jameson, the writer. Huh? I thought your name was Brown. Well, of course I. Well, you know how it is. Here's your coffee. Thanks. No, Mr. Brown. I don't know how it is. How is it? Leslie Jameson, famous mystery story writer. Well? Traveling incognito. Well, you see, Ricketts, I didn't want to... Oh, I get it. We've been reading Mr. Jameson's serial in the post, Murder and Haste. Had a little bet with Frank here on who the murderer was. Oh, I can tell you that. I read The Last and Storm at last night. Hey, yeah? Sure. Got to the newsstand in Miami. Well, we ain't got it here yet. Well, Mr. Jameson, who done it? Well, I... I don't want to spoil the story for you. You ought to finish. Afraid we won't buy another copy of the magazine? Yeah, yeah, come on, Jameson. Well, it's a matter of ethics. I'll write it again. What do you mean ethics? I know how it ends. Sure, Jameson. I can tell the boys I got it straight from the office mouth. Come on, now what goes? Well, I... I don't want it. I got you a car, Lieutenant. Oh, good. I'll be right with you. Hey, you guys know anyone who wants to go to New York? I got a car and I want someone to share the drive. Well, Jameson, you said you were going to New York, didn't you, Jameson? Well, as a matter of fact... Well, you can come with me, huh? Give me a hand with the driving. Come on. All right. Oh, but first, give him a break. Tell him who the murderer was. Oh, no, I'm sorry. It's against my principles. Well, it's your business. Come on. Hey, it was the old lady that did it. You got hotel space in New York, Jameson? No, not yet. I thought I'd arrange that when I arrived. You haven't been around much lately, I see. Probably isn't a room to be had. That bad? Worse. Well, and I think I might be able to fix you up in the midtown. I know the manager there. No, I couldn't possibly. Oh, forget it, Jameson. Glad to help you out. Can you fix him up, Walter? Oh, I think so. Just sign the register, Mr.... Jameson. Leslie Jameson, the writer. Well, why didn't you say so? Look, I don't want to put you out. Oh, nonsense. We're honored, Mr. Jameson. I'm a mystery fan myself. I want to tell you that murder and haste has me fooled right up to the last page. Oh, Peters. The answer? This is Mr. Leslie Jameson. Now get the boys over. I want to take a few pictures. Pictures? No, no, no. Wait a minute. I don't want any pictures. Oh, nothing. Do it, Mr. Jameson. Just a couple of the boys from the Star Express. I know you're tired, but it won't take long. And Peters, have some flowers sent up to Mr. Jameson's room. We'll have the pictures taken there. Peters is our press agent, Mr. Jameson. He'll take care of you. Oh, certainly will, Mr. Jameson. Right this way. Say, look here, Peters. You look like a reasonable man. I never have my picture taken, and I don't intend to stand for it now. You just don't know New York newspaper photographers, Mr. Jameson. It's much easier if you give in. What'll happen if I refuse? You'll find out. And you did find out, didn't you, Albert? You were helpless. There was nothing you could do. They came, they saw, they took pictures, and all you could do was rage and try to keep your face covered. And that only made a better story for them. They were delighted, Albert. The next day, there are pictures of you in the tabloids, hiding your face under the caption, Leslie Jameson, mystery author, stages publicity scene in room at Midtown Hotel. And to complete the success of your change of identity, the second page of the same paper carries the news that you, Albert Taylor, wanted for the murder of his wife in Miami, perished in the train wreck. You're all mixed up now, aren't you, Albert? But you almost wish Helen was with you again to make the decisions for you like she used to. And then suddenly, there's nothing for you to do. The decision is all made. Yes? Uh, Mr. Jameson? Yes? Mrs. Jameson is on her way up. What? It would be all right to tell us it's... Uh, never mind. Hello, Leslie. Oh, uh, what are you... Maybe I'd better come in. Well... Well, what? All right, what you gonna do about it? You're an awfully simple sword. Aren't you, Mr., uh, whatever your name is? All right, I suppose I am. How did you expect to get away with it after all the publicity? All right, where is he? What have you done to him? Now, wait a minute, Mrs. Jameson. I can explain. Maybe you'd better. Your husband was killed in that train wreck in Florida. I, uh, I had reasons for wanting to disappear, so I took his identity. I never meant to keep it up. Now, if you'll just... Just what? Now look, there's nothing we can do for your husband. Now he was killed. You believe that, don't you? I don't... Well, I'm going to leave town. All I ask is that you forget you ever saw me. I see. What are you gonna do? I, uh, I could go to the police, of course. Wait a minute, wait. I, uh, I can make it worth your while, too. Oh, stop simpering. Does anyone know you here in New York? No. Well, that's very fortunate. You see, well, Leslie and I, we didn't get along. As a matter of fact, we'd been separated for some time. He said he was cutting me out of his will. So, with Leslie dead, I don't get anything at all. But, with Leslie alive... Wait a minute. You, you wouldn't... Why not? He could retire right now and live off his royalties without doing another lick. You want me to, to keep this up? Of course. Don't be ridiculous. Dozen reasons why I can't. They'll discover it in a week. You, uh, you have his baggage. Yes. And I know his signature. I can imitate it perfectly. I know his background like a book. You may as well get used to it, Mr. Jamison. I tell you, I won't do it. It's the most fantastic thing I ever heard of. There's a Lieutenant Ricketts down in the lobby. You know, he seemed quite interested in, uh, in our relationship. Of course, if you like, I'll bring him up to date. All right, Mrs. Jamison. Oh, darling. Just call me Ruth. Mm-hmm. Oh, there's a deer. Ruth. Yes? What is it? I tell you, this can't go on. You're spending money like a child. $28,000 in three months besides the deposits I made to your account. While we're behind in the rent, the maid hasn't been paid. Just look at these bills. Look at them. I haven't got a penny. Are you all through? You know, there's your quarterly royalty check due tomorrow. That'll only pay part of the bills. It's not paying any of them, darling. It's going into my account. Oh, I see. Maybe you've got a fast way of getting out from under these bills. That's your worry, dear. Not mine. Having trouble. Oh, nothing at all, sweetheart. It's just that my accounts overdrawn by $500. Of course, you could finish your book, dear. Sure. Finish the book. Write a Leslie Jamison mystery novel. Well, then I suppose you'll just have to think of something else. Ruth, be honest with me. Actually, how long do you intend to carry on with this? Indefinitely, dear. You know, I know when I have a good thing. You mean then there's no end? Oh, there is if you want one. There are always the police, of course. Will you quit throwing that up to me? If you could be decent about it, you know, there could have been plenty without you bleeding me to death. I think I've been pretty fair with you. Six months. No sleep. Hound a day and night. I can't eat. This isn't getting us anywhere. Kind of dodge my shadow. I'm getting nowhere afraid all the time. This dagger hanging over my head. Robert, what's happened to you? Elbert, get a hold of yourself. No way out, is there? I'm trapped. Yeah, run into a corner. There's no way to turn. Elbert, stay away from me. No way to turn, is there? What are you doing? No way to turn. You're the death sergeant. That's right. What can I do for you? You can take this down. I uh... It's a matter, pal. I just killed my wife. The Whistler will return in just a moment with a strange ending of tonight's story. Meantime, a word about that extra something you get when you have your car serviced at independently operated signal gasoline stations. I'm talking about that feeling of confidence and well-being you have as you drive out, knowing that your car has been thoroughly and conscientiously taken care of. You see, signal dealers, being in business for themselves, do go out of their way to give you the kind of job they're proud to stand back up. When they lubricate your car, for instance, here's what signal dealers do, to make sure not a single point is overlooked. Instead of relying on memory, they check each point against signal's lubrication chart, which shows every lubrication point on your car and specifies which of signal's nine specialized oils and greases each part should have for long, trouble-free service. But they don't even stop there, no sir. Just to make doubly sure, they check each point again, which is why it's called signal double-check lubrication. That's the kind of service you want these days when your car has to last until... Who knows when. And that's the kind of service you'll get from your friendly neighborhood signal gasoline dealer. And now, back to the Whistler. Well, Elbert, for the first time since that awful night in Miami, you feel relaxed. It's over now, isn't it? The hounding, the fear, the dagger hanging over your head. They're gone now. You sit down in a chair by the sergeant's desk and start to tell him the whole thing. And then I wandered around the streets all night. I thought about running away again. And then it all seemed so useless. So you came into the station and spilled it, huh? Aren't you going over there? We've been there. Found her an hour after you did it. You may as well know that she's not my wife. Yeah, yeah, we know that, Mr. Jamison. She was your assistant in Bonas Aries. What? You say she was shaking you down, huh? What's she have on you? My assistant. Oh, that's right, your assistant. Have you, uh, had a lapse of memory or something, Jamison? The assistant? Yes, I have. Tell me, Jamison, what was she threatening to take to the police? Okay, but a three-year-old would have known it was a bluff. That's the last thing in the world she would have done. No, you don't know her. She would have done anything. Not if it meant her neck, pal. Huh? You have got a bum memory, Jamison. It was all over Bonas Aries six months ago. She's wanted down there for murder. Next Monday at nine o'clock, the Whistler will bring you another strange tale. The Whistler is broadcast for your entertainment by the marketers of signal gasoline and motor oil and fine-quality automotive accessories and by your neighborhood signal dealer. This program produced by George W. Allen with tonight's story by Eleanor Beeson, music by Wilbur Hatch, is transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. That whistle is your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. This is Marvin Miller speaking, reminding you to look for those familiar yellow and black circle signs that identify those popular signal oil stations in seven western states from Canada to Mexico. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.