 Good evening, priest. This is Hunter Galloway inviting you to listen to another mystery playhouse drunk. Tonight, the whistler and his sane story, right for right. Terrified. She hadn't planned on this. Her heart pounding this way, her hands shaking, the weak feeling in her knees. She told herself again that if the plan were to succeed, she must be bold. Everything must go off as usual. This Friday night must be exactly like everyone before it. During the eight years, she'd acted as secretary once a week for Harvey Cole. She held onto the edge of the piano for support and tried to appear calm as she watched him stumbling through a Chopin apron. Smiling happily when it went smoothly, frowning when it went wrong. Yes, Harvey Cole, her best customer, was having his hour at the piano after dinner. Soon it would be the usual remark about how he'd have the good sense to retire while he could enjoy it. Then he'd go on to the letters and sign them, as usual, without bothering to read them. That was the heart of the plan. He trusted her. He always signed the letters laid out neatly and sequentially without reading them. Still, Charlotte was terrified and with good reason. No, that can't be. Um, Mr. Cole, I... Yes, of course, Charlotte, the correspondence. Hmm, that's more like it. Mr. Cole, we really must get this correspondence off. Not bad, old boy. Not bad. The right hand's all there. Lead, Mr. Cole. Charlotte. Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Cole, it's just... Must those letters be signed now? Must I keep the ghost of Chopin tapping his foot while I meddle with a stack of routine correspondence? You could just as well sign yourself. We've discussed that, Mr. Cole. We agreed. I know, I know. I should sign them myself. It's a personal touch. Very well, my dear, bring them here. I have your pen here, Mr. Cole. Hand them to me, please, one at a time. One at a time? But, uh, Mr. Cole, I just remembered I made a mistake. I forgot the correct... What? You? Oh, come now, Charlotte. You haven't made a mistake in eight years. Give them to me, please. No, no, no. I did make a mistake here. I'll bring them back in just a minute. What in heaven's name is the matter, Charlotte? I couldn't, Stephen. He wanted to take the letters one by one. He would have read them. Oh, don't be idiotic. He hasn't read them for eight years. You knew something was wrong. I could feel it. You're imagining things. The letters in the middle of the file. He won't read it. I can't, Stephen. I can't. All right, Charlotte, we can't talk it over here. Let's run to the garden. Well, Charlotte, it was too much for you, wasn't it? At the last minute, you failed. And you're still weak in the knees as Stephen leads you into the garden. And still in the back of your brain, you can see the cold, unemotional tight of the letter you'd prepared for Harvey Cole to sign. The letter in the middle of the file which began, I, Harvey Cole, hereby state that I have taken my life by my own hand and of my own free will. The letter Stephen had agreed to buy from you. I'm surprised that you, my dear, those ice-cold nerves were as tight as violin strings. Yeah, listen to them. Dear Uncle Harvey, all eight million dollars of them, banging away on the piano. You know, one million of it's yours if you have the nerve. I don't know what happened to me, Stephen. Funny, isn't it? Considering you thought of the whole thing. Every Friday night for eight years, you've come here to do a correspondence. Watched in time, without reading it. Stephen, why do you have to go? Every Friday night for eight years, you wish there were a way to get out of your grubby little rut. Get your hands on a piece of that eight million. Grab yourself a ticket over that bright horizon you've been longing for. Even a public stenographer can dream. Can't see Charlotte. I don't know, Stephen. I looked at your uncle playing there at the piano. Don't tell me it was conscience loss. You haven't got a conscience. It took a pretty cold fish to come to me and make a deal to trade Uncle Harvey's signature for a million in hard cash. I can't do it tonight, Stephen. We've got to wait. Why? He looked at me so clearly when I said I'd made a mistake. He knows something. He knows nothing. Stephen, I'll do it then. I promise, Stephen. Very well, Charlotte. Next Friday. So you return to your drab little office in town, Charlotte. To wait for next Friday. To grind out business letters for traveling salesmen and department store buyers. Back to dear sir and very truly yours. While the words of Uncle Harvey's suicide letter flash on and off in your brain like a neon sign. Then it's Friday again. And you're off on the usual trip to the estate with Stephen and the family car. I have a letter, Stephen. I'm already. I'm sorry about last Friday. I'm not. What do you mean? Oh, it's just as well, Charlotte. It won't work. It will work, Stephen. Listen, I was nervous last Friday. That's all. I'll get hold of myself. I'm sure they'll... It's not that. As I told you, my dear, I'm not concerned to wit about your conscience because you have none. Now, I'm afraid it's a far more practical reason. I don't understand. Of course you don't, because I haven't told you. In Uncle Harvey's not contemplating suicide, my dear. He's in robust health on the best of terms with show fare. What are you talking about? Well, simply this. If there is anything even slightly irregular about the suicide, Dr. Maxwell and that whole pack will be howling for my scalp. What's the matter? I'm his typewriter with his signature. His revolver, Charlotte. The little pearl-handled gem he reserved for his exclusive youth. He's securely locked in the cabinet in the library. The key is gone. I've hunted high and low and can't find it. Stephen, your uncle carries that key on his watch chain. I'll get it for you. Well, good girl, Charlotte. Good girl. So the performance goes on, Charlotte. First the usual digestible dinner, then the customary chef to the music room, and once again you sit there by the piano. Waiting for an opportune moment. The letters in your hand. The suicide note again in the middle of the pile. The same place always gets stuck in that blasted cadenza. That's it. It's all in the right hand. Finally you stand next to him. Your heart beating like a trip hammer. Struggling to be your usual businesslike self. I'm ready, Mr. Cole. Of course, Charlotte. Once again the correspondence. Let's go over here to the desk. I have your pen here, Mr. Cole. All you have to do is write. Oh, thank you. You know, my dear, it just occurred to me you've been writing confidential letters for me all these years. The only person in the world I'd trust this way. Why? Thank you, Mr. Cole. You know, Charlotte, a man with money finds it easy to become disillusioned with his fellow humans, and I'm afraid I've become rather cynical. You seem to be the one completely honorable individual that's been my good fortune to encounter during the past 50 years. And I want you to know I appreciate it deeply. I have the pen, Mr. Cole. It's very kind of you to take that. There's a special reason for my speaking of it tonight, Charlotte. Well, let's see. Better get these letters out of the way first. You know, Charlotte, I think I'll read them over tonight just for fun. It's a terrible moment, Charlotte. And there's nothing you can do but stand there and watch Harvey Cole as he reads the first letter. Grunts approvingly and signs. Everything stops. Your heart stops. Your breathing stops. Your mind is tight up in a knot you can't even think. The suicide note he was supposed to sign without reading is in the middle of the pile. Seven from the top. He reads and signs the second one. Then the third. You want to run out of the room, but your legs have gone weak and all you can do is hold onto the edge of the desk and stand there. Then you, Charlotte, I can hardly believe it. What is it, Mr. Cole? I'm surprised that you, my dear. Look here, how you spell sincerely. Really, Charlotte, after all these years... I'm sorry, Mr. Cole. I'll make the correct... It's all right. I'll take this. There. I... I don't believe I... made any other errors, Mr. Cole. Say something, my dear. I'm sure the rest of these letters are quite satisfactory. I guess I won't be signing my life away. There. I guess that does it. You'll mail these in the morning as usual. Yes, Mr. Cole. And now, how about some cherry, my dear? Yes. Excellent. You sound exhausted, Charlotte. Don't tell me having to watch and sign letters is that much of an ordeal? I've been rather nervous this week. I thought I noticed as much at dinner, and I happen to know why you're so nervous. You do? Be careful, Charlotte. Careful? For what? Of Stephen. He's tricky. And right now, he's up to something. I can always tell. He has all the finesse of a bad poker player. His actions always campaign for his thought. I can't say exactly what he's up to, but I do know this. You are his next step. Me? How am I involved with Stephen? Charlotte, in a week or so, my lawyer's returning. I'm going to change my will. I'm disinheriting Stephen completely. And I'm leaving my entire state of fortune to you. It's too much, Charlotte. The room starts to spin, and you have to sit down. It's your, Charlotte. All of it, legally. No strings attached, no letter, no murder. That's why Stephen was so irritated with you last Friday, Charlotte. It's all yours, and he was trying to buy you off. To get the thing over with in time to save his inheritance. And to keep you silent forever by making you his accomplice. Charlotte, what's troubling you? You look frightened, my dear. I am frightened, Mr. Cole. I think I understand now what Stephen's up to. Oh? He said you were growing despondent. Moody. Me? Dispondent? He said he was afraid of what you might do. Why, that's positively preposterous. He was afraid of the revolver you keep in the cabinet over there. He was afraid you might use it on yourself any day now. Good Lord, Charlotte, you didn't believe that. He was so convincing, Mr. Cole. It never occurred to me that he would have any motive in making it all up. So? Well, so I told him I'd get the revolver and get it to him. So he could put it out of your reach. Put it out of my reach? Now why in the world should Stephen make up a story like that? Don't you see, Mr. Cole? He wants to use that revolver tonight to prevent you from changing your will. You mean that... Charlotte, I couldn't believe that even of Stephen. He's desperate and cunning and unpredictable, he couldn't turn to murder. There's only one way to find out, Mr. Cole. We must give him that revolver. The music almost leaves. Good, did you get the revolver? Here's the revolver. I have a note in my pocket. He signed it? Of course. Good girl. Stephen, you can't put it off another minute. You called the lawyer while I was there. Something about changing his will. I couldn't get it all. Wait a minute. Changing his will? How much did you give, Charlotte? Guess what I told you, Stephen. I didn't want to appear too, any time. All right, all right. Will it be some time tonight? Better than that right now. Now you better get out of here. All right. Stephen. Yeah? Good luck. But you aren't going to leave, Charlotte. You've earned your ticket to this little show, and you're going to watch. So you stand on the terrace outside, watching through the window, hardly daring to breathe. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Then the sliver of light at the door of the music room. Stephen's still aware as he comes in the door, inching closer to the old man, gnawing in his easy chair. He raises the gun. Then, just as you and Harvey had planned, Harvey jumps up and grabs Stephen's wrist. Oh, you're going to kill me, huh? We didn't see you about that. Let go of me. Let go of me. I tell you. You can't see in the shadows, Charlotte. Which one is on the floor? You run around to the library door, push it open, walk toward the chair in the corner. You still can't see. And then... All right, my dear. Oh, Mr. Cole, you're safe. Yes, my dear. Oh, why, you're bleeding. It's nothing. He just nicked me in the arm. Now, excuse me, please. Police? This is Harvey Cole speaking. I've just killed my nephew in self-defense. Well, Charlotte, it was neatly done. There wasn't a hitch. The police make a formal report. The coroner has satisfied completely. And as Dr. Maxwell drives you home and sees you to the door, he says... For the next week or so, Charlotte, you'd better be careful. You've suffered quite a shock. Well... Well, Mr. Cole, be all right, Dr. Maxwell. Now, don't go worrying about Harvey. He's fine. I'd feel so terribly responsible if anything happened to him. I'd feel as if... as if it were my fault. Rubbish. You get that idea right out of your head. I won't have you developing one of those nasty little guilt complexes now. No, Charlotte. There's no feeling of guilt, is there? Stephen was right. You haven't got a conscience. There's only the hope stronger now that the bright horizon is near, almost within reach. Harvey is 65. Perhaps his injury is more serious than they're willing to admit. Perhaps when you drop in at the hospital the next day, Dr. Maxwell will tell you... Nonsense, Charlotte. He's coming along. Great job. See you home by Friday? Good as ever. Just a little shock, that's all. If you ask me, he's good for another 20 years at least. I had to know how he's doing. Believe me when I say he's grown closer to you because of all this. You know about the will, of course. I must be him. Don't go in now. I've just given him a sleeping tablet. He can't have another for at least eight hours. You're rather powerful, you know. And at his age... Very well. But he did say that if you should drop by there are some letters he wants you to answer for him. I'll let you get some if you do it quietly. I promise I won't disturb him, Dr. I'll get the letters. So you walk into Harvey's hospital room realizing now that it started all over again with the accent on the future 20 years away. Back to the rut picking up the same old habits in the same old office. Only it's worse now with the money they're waiting for you. All yours. Some days. Yes, it might have been better to let Stephen go through with its plan but it's too late to do anything now. You pick up Harvey's letters on the nightstand by the bed and as you do your eyes settle on the little round cardboard box next to them. Silo, acetate, caution. Take only as directed. Harvey's sleeping tablet. Rather strong, the doctor said. Particularly at Harvey's age. You stand there fascinated thinking how easy it would be with a suicide note signed in the drawer of your dresser. He'd never taste them in a glass of cherries. So easy, Charlotte. He'll be home in a week. Just a week, Charlotte. Not 20 years. I'm so glad you're home, Mr. Cole. So am I. That's why hospitals were invented, my dear, to make a man appreciate his home. I couldn't help feeling you might have left a little soon, though. I'm bound to feel a little weak at first but don't worry, my dear. I have a good many years ahead of me yet. So Dr. Maxwell said. Now don't you become impatient and try to dispense with me to gain the inheritance. I'm Mr. Cole. Oh, I've upset you. Do forgive my clumsy humor. Dr. Maxwell told me about this unfortunate little gift complex you've developed. Now, now, I'm sorry, my dear. Oh, that's all right, Mr. Cole. Is there anything I can get you? A cigar? Or perhaps some wine? Not for me, thanks. Never thought about yourself, hungry. Perhaps. I just thought perhaps a little cherry. Do have some with me, too. I shouldn't have taken that lasted sleeping pill a few hours ago and hardly keep my areas open. You must sleep, Mr. Cole, the doctor said. I know, but it's not very polite of me, though, dropping off. Mustn't buy this, Mr. Cole. Let it come. Dear faithful Charlotte. Yes, sir. It's so good for you. You're a good girl, Charlotte. Good girl. It's over, Charlotte. No more 20 years. The future. The bright horizon is here now. You're careful to remove any trace of your presence. The wine glass, the letters, all of them except, of course, the suicide note, signed and dated today. And then you leave, walk back to town, and arrive at Dr. Maxwell's home at exactly the right moment. Why, Charlotte, how nice to see you. I'm afraid I'm just leaving, though, for Harvey Cole. You had to come along? What perfect timing, doctor. I was hoping you'd drive me there. I'm so anxious to see him again. You're almost there, Charlotte. Just one more hurdle, and you can say goodbye to the drab past. The house is quiet when you and Dr. Maxwell arrive and walk down the dark halls of the music room. Harvey is lying on the couch when you left him, as if he were asleep. Dr. Maxwell bends over him for a moment. You're dead, Charlotte. No, not yet. Oh, no, no. Please, please. You told me yourself he was doing so well. I don't understand it. Oh, disillusioned Steven. He must have been just fine. He was so alone, doctor. You still had you, Charlotte. Me? He wanted you to have part of his money now, while he could watch you enjoy it. See it do something for someone who still had a future. He was going to do that? Yes, he was. Odd, isn't it? Our man with so many plans could do this. You do think he killed himself? He had a reason, of course. His music was gone forever. You see, Charlotte, you were so anxious to blame yourself if Harvey had been hurt last week. We didn't want to arouse that guilt complex any further. And we... Wait a minute. What's the matter, doctor? There's note. I, Harvey Cole, hereby state that I have taken my life by my own hand and of my own free will. It's signed. Dated today. He left it, I guess. He didn't kill himself. This... this is a forgery. Hi. What do you mean? I was telling you, Charlotte, he did have a reason. His music was gone. He couldn't play the piano anymore. The wound he got when Stephen tried to kill him wasn't a scratch, Charlotte. That shot partially cat-paralyzed his right arm. He couldn't write. Why, someone killed him, Charlotte. Someone murdered him in... Charlotte, you! Thank you, Mr. Whistler, for a bright horizon for tonight's performance in the Mystery Playhouse. Until next time, please. This is Hutter Galloway saying... Good night. Sleep tight. This is the armed forces radio service.