 The signal oil program, the Whistler, is your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. I am 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 signal oil program, the Whistler, rated by independent research, the most popular West Coast program. In gasoline, you know, it takes extra quality to go farther, and signal is the famous go farther gasoline. So look for the signal circle sign in yellow and black that identifies signal service stations from Canada to Mexico. And now the Whistler's strange story. A woman's privilege. In the drawing room of a palatial home in Newport, hang a pair of priceless oil painting. One of an Italian nobleman, the other his wife. The surfaces are cracked, the frames old and worm-eaten, but the colors are as fresh and brilliant as if they were painted yesterday. There's a strange connection between the paintings and a sordid, ugly scene in a New York police station, not far from the East River. It was very late. And in the next room, a homicide lieutenant was grilling a suspect. The charge was murder. Any luck? He's coming along. Ready to get to him? Give him five more minutes. The guy's ready to break now. You know, I can't help feeling there's more to this than the guy's telling. Something that maybe even he doesn't know. Yes, it was more than a simple murder. More than the homicide detail or anyone else would ever uncover. It was the story of a traveling art broker named John Winters of a casual trip to the picturesque Italian seaport of Venice. Of the unbelievable, stunning moment in his hotel room when a quiet little artist named Giulio Donati put a quarter of a million dollars in the palm of his hand. Well, Senor Winters, what do you think? Well, it's pretty hard to believe to nothing. But seeing is believing, eh? Tell me, what do you think it would bring on the American market? I don't know. It's been so long since anything like this. Ah, but you do know, Senor Winters, at this moment your head is spinning with figures. Well, after all... Of course. So you will agree I'm giving it to you for almost nothing when I ask only $75,000. $75,000 for an original Montaigneur. I think you're being very reasonable. Ah, thank you, Senor. Too reasonable. What's wrong with it? Still skeptical, eh? You're very hard to convince in your Winters. Suppose I leave it with you for, say, 24 hours so you can examine it closely. You're pretty sure of yourself, Donati? I would not have come to you if I weren't sure depainting would pass the inspection of an expert. Your reputation as a specialist on Montaigneur is known all over the continent. Yes, well, this is a Montaigneur if I ever saw one. But $75,000, it's... There will be many, Senor, who will say it's Montaigneur's best work. I'd agree with them. It is. What's funny about that? Eh, you flatter me. What? Eh, you see, I painted it myself. You? What? I wanted you to know that. It took me many months. Wait a minute. You're telling me that you... I painted it myself, Senor. But the technique, the style... Ah, they were difficult to master. The oil's hard to find. The aging process... Ah, Senor, it was hard work. But you see, it had its reward. Eh, is this the only one? Oh, no, I completed that pair. The other was sent a week ago to a New York broker, a C.L. Brickley. I expect to hear from him tomorrow. Does he know about this one? Of course. I informed him in a confidential letter. I should think you'd keep it under your hat. Forgery's a serious business. Oh, please! They are not forgeries. I claim only to paint in the manner of Montaigneur. I intend to pawn off a forgery. I would have been so frank. But you know what's going to happen. This Brickley will peddle that picture as an original. Senor, what you people do with my paintings is your own business. I am an artist, not a forger. However, I think you will find me discreet enough. And now I must go. You may examine the picture as closely as you want, Senor. Where can I reach you? Good. Before noon, eh? Right. Good day, Donati. Good day. A long-distance operator. I want Mr. Wilkin Potter, person-to-person, Chateleon Hotel, Interlochen, Switzerland. A minute, Potter, I'll tell you again. It's the McCoy in original Montaigneur. Please, put in your goal for 75,000. I told you he doesn't know what he's got. The artist only produced 35 paintings in his life. They're all catalog winters. There's no such thing. I saw it with my own eyes. Are you telling me I don't know a Montaigneur when I see one? What about this brickly he bought the mate to it? A John, I just can't believe it. All right, Potter. If you don't want to advance me the money with money of others, that's better. You'll hear from me in a couple of hours. Well done. Donati was right, wasn't he? Your mind is whirling with figures as you hang up the phone. Hurry across town toward the little shop in the Plaza Francketti. Yes, there's over a quarter of a million dollars in that specially built briefcase under your arm, provided that the three people in the world who know the truth are discreet. That's the only gamble, isn't it, John? You and Donati and Brickley, the New York broker. With three who know, there's always a chance one might talk. You turn a corner into the Plaza, wondering if Brickley had thought of that one. The answer comes sudden. The crowd is gathered at the front of Donati's shop. What's the matter? What happened here? Keep back, please. What is it, officer? What happened? The proprietor of the shop, a senior Donati, was shot. This you, Potter? Looks like the deal's off. What happened? We were a little late. Brickley got there first, eh? Yeah, Brickley got there first. Well, thanks for the offer, Potter, but I won't need the money now. I'll be back in New York with the prologue of a woman's privilege. The Signal Oil Company brings you another strange story. By the Whistler. $100 is a lot of money. When you spend that much, you want to be sure you're getting the very best quality for your money, right? Well, if you're an average driver, you spend about $100 a year for gasoline. Ha-ha, but I hear you asking, how can a driver measure the quality of gasoline? Why, easy. Look at it this way. A gasoline that helps your motor run more efficiently naturally gives you more mileage, right? Which explains why we're so proud of the fact that Signal is the famous go farther gasoline. You see those quick signal starts save gasoline, that smooth signal pickup and knock free signal power save gasoline. Yes, it's these same features you want for extra driving pleasure that also give you extra mileage. That's why Signal says just check your speedometer for the best proof of gasoline quality. You'll find it's true. In gasoline, it takes extra quality to go farther. And Signal is the famous go farther gasoline. And now back to the Whistler. It's only three days from Venice to New York by plane, but it seems a great deal longer, doesn't it, John? You try to concentrate on other things, but your mind keeps going back to your suitcase and the luggage compartment to the masterful piece of forgery sold in its lining that will bring at least a quarter million on the American market. Yes, Donate was clever, wasn't he, John? Too clever. And to you at least, it's clear that this bricklay, whoever he is, knew that a clean deal could never be made if the secret of the forgery were shared. And that, of course, added up to Donate's murder. You have a surprise for Brickley, haven't you, John? But you know you have to be careful. On the afternoon of your arrival in New York, you walk down the corridor of an apartment building in the East 70s. Pause. Press a buzzer. Yes? I'm looking for Mr. C.L. Brickley. Oh, what did you wish to see Mr. Brickley about? Personal matter, is he in? Just what is it you're selling, Mr.... Winters, John Winters. Well, I'm really not selling anything. I guess this suit does need pressing, but it's really not that bad, Miss... Brickley? Oh, his daughter? I'm C.L. Brickley. What? Himself. Well, a woman. But a woman who isn't interested in a vacuum cleaner at the moment. Perhaps some other time, Mr. Winters. All right, Miss Brickley. Have it your way. A friend of mine told me you had a picture or two that might interest me. Wait a minute. What kind of a picture? I'm collecting Italian Renaissance. You? Honest C.L., I've got 11 other suits. If I'd known I was calling on such a beautiful businessman. I'm sorry, Mr. Winters. Please come in. Shall I bring my vacuum cleaner? No charge for the demonstration. I said I'm sorry. Come in. Please, sit down. Thank you. Is this your place of business? Yes. I'm a broker, Mr. Winters. I see. You mentioned Italian Renaissance. Just what did you have in mind? Venetian school, in particular. Oh. You know, of course, authentic Venetian things run a little high. How high? $300,000. That's high enough. What is it? A montaigne. Now, wait a minute. I know it's hard to believe it came to light during the war. I was very lucky. You're positive it's authentic. Do you want to see it? Well, that won't be necessary. Let me check my briefcase here. I have the picture in my safe. I can get it out. Just a minute. Here we are. How do you like this one? Where did you get that? Same place you got yours, Miss Brickley. Same artist, same convincing technique. Who are you? Winters. The name's Winters. Now, what do I mean? Where did you come from? Don't worry about me, lady. I'm authentic. I'm the director of the Montaigne's. All right, Mr. Winters. Just how many of these are floating around? Two. And how many know about the... Forgery? Two? You and me? That is, since you took care of Donati. That's a little crude. All right. So you had it done. What's the difference? That still leaves two. You'd be smart enough not to give the hired help your reasons. You've got it all figured out, haven't you? That's water over the dam. Let's talk about the pictures. We're hooked with each other, you know that. That might not be so bad, Mr. Winters. But better make it John. All right. John. You know, we've got a lot to talk over, C.L. Yes, I know. But since you're not quite the kind of a guy I expected to meet, why don't we switch the conference to a nightclub? I'd like that. Okay, pick you up around eight. Fine. Oh, uh, don't worry. About what? I'll wear another suit, one that's pressed. You know, C.L., you don't dance at all like a stuffed shirt. You like? I like. Tell me more. Not at a business conference. Oh, that again. Darling, where have you been? Hello, Mrs. Carleton. It's one of my clients. Where am I going to see you, dear? It's been an age. I may have something to show you in a few days. Good. Don't forget me, will you? Don't worry. Mrs. Carleton, you didn't tell me about her. She has money, darling, but not the kind we're after. Who does it boil down to? They're pretty hard to find, you know. People who put out half a million for a pair of paintings. I put out a couple of feelers this evening before you arrive. Make your pardon, Miss Brickley. Yes? There's a call for you, a Mr. Gross. Mr. Gross, what is it? Who's Mr. Gross? He's, uh, one of the clients I told you about. He said it was quite important, Miss. Yes, of course. Excuse me, John. I'll be right back. She gives your hand a little squeeze as she turns to leave the floor. Floats past the row of ringside tables and out of the room. She is beautiful, isn't she, John? Slim, graceful. The satin of her evening gown clinging to her like a glistening white sheet. And for the moment, you forget everything else. The Montaigne is the half million, the wealthy client, everything. Everything that is except that you're dealing with a killer who's as sure as you are that those paintings can never be sold as long as there are two minds in the world who know their forgeries. If only she weren't so breathtaking, so beautiful. What's on your mind, John? Don't get up. Miss me? Naturally. What about Mr. Gross? Oh, uh, that was nothing. He said he was a client. What's on his mind? Oh, he's interested in Renaissance art, you know. Good. He knows about the Montaigne's? More or less. What do you mean, more or less? I told him I had something that would interest him. Make an appointment? Yes. As I told him, I'd get in touch with him in a day or two. Oh, let's forget about business for now, shall we? The music's so wonderful. And I do love to dance with you, John. You wish the rain didn't affect you this way. That you could approach the whole thing with a clear head. But it's something you've never known before, really. The music, the vibrant, thrilling feeling that sweeps over you as you dance with her. Her warm, low voice in your ear. But no matter how much you tell yourself that business is business, the feeling's still there the next morning when you arrive at her apartment. You pause for a moment before you ring. Decide once again that nothing must stand in the way of the picture deal in the half million dollars. Hello, partner. Partner? Any objection? Didn't know I'd made it to grade. Oh, you have, definitely. Oh. Come in. Got something to show you. Thanks. I didn't expect to find you in a laboratory, apron. What's going on? What's this? My laboratory. I've been putting your Montagno over the jumps. Jumps? Mm-hmm. I photographed it. Three ways. X-ray, ultraviolet, and infrared. The negative's over on the rack. Well... Then I checked the colors with alcohol. The nutty's a clever man. Was? If you insist. Yes, the nutty was a clever man. Don't you think you might have been a little hasty in letting him go? Still accusing me, mm-hmm. I can add up a column of figures as well as the other guy. All right, John, have it your way. I guess you were smart, though. It was a sure bet with one picture, with two. It's a gamble, isn't it? More than that... Let's not talk about that anymore. I don't want to be cruel. Just practical. Cigarette? Thanks. What's next on the program, beautiful? Mr. Gross? I... I don't know, John. What do you mean, you don't know? You're not getting cold feet, are you? You said he was interested... Yes, I know, but I... Well, that's good enough for me. You don't want to see him, I will. John, we've got to trust each other now. You know that. Just make an appointment with that guy for me. I want to see him. John, I don't know why I'm saying this. I've never said it before, but I... What is it? We could be awfully good friends. Yeah, yeah, that's wonderful. I'm very flattered. I've got to be careful, though, you know. Playing with dynamite. John, I... I'm talking about the naughty. You did it once, you could do it again. I'm talking about us and what good friends we could be. We'll discuss that at length after you get the pictures. The pictures, what for? Wrap them up, darling. We're going down to the pencil venue station. Yes, sir? I want to check this package. John, what are you doing? Just a minute, all right. There you are, clerk. $10. $10? Well, what do I do? Just give me the claim check. Okay. There you are. Now watch. I'll tear it in half, see? Here, Lorraine, that's yours. What are you doing? Wait a minute, mister. Put a note on the package, will you? You deliver it only when both halves of the claim check are presented. You get it? But that's screwy. We don't do it. You want that $10? Okay, mister, you're the boss. Thanks. Come on, Lorraine. You know, I think this is all pretty silly. Maybe it is. I do a lot of silly things for a quarter of a million bucks. But don't get me wrong, angel. I trust you like my own mother. I'll just trust you a lot more after you fix up that appointment for me with your friend, Mr. Gross. How soon can you make it? I don't know, John. I'm not sure. Let me handle it then. When can you get hold of him? I'll call him tomorrow. It isn't easy, is it, John? You leave her standing there in the station, fighting to get her out of your mind, your heart, knowing that you must never let her come between you and the business at hand, the appointment with Mr. Gross. The next evening, you go to her apartment, determined to see it through. As you walk down the hall, the door is open slightly. You hear her talking on the telephone. You stop still and listen. No, there isn't going to be any deal, Mr. Gross. Forget I ever told you to come here at 11. It's off. Yes, I know what I told you, but that was before, and I... Well, it's different now. I'm changing my plans. Yes, that's right. It's got to be this way for the present. Right. Goodbye. You stand there for a full minute thinking, then make up your mind. Two can play that kind of a game, can't they, John? And you know the one who wins is the one who gets there first. It's me, C.L., your partner. Oh, come in. Where have you been all day? Why don't you call a guy? I've been waiting to hear from you. Did you get hold of Gross? Yes. He's not interested, John. Funny. That looked like a sure thing, didn't it? Guy has money, crazy about Italian pictures. Well, there'll be others. Sure. Just take a little time, huh? It'll be worth it. I suppose it will. How about a drink? Um, I've got the car outside. Nice night. I thought you might like to go for a drive. Sounds wonderful. Maybe over to Jersey, huh? Across the George-Warton and Bridge. I'll get my coat. Only be a minute. It'll take your time. No hurry. It doesn't take long, does it, John? Now that you've made up your mind to it, just a few miles of riding, talking idly, with the automatic hidden down beside you in the seat, occasionally you glance from the road at her beautiful face in the moonlight. That's something you'll never forget. That face with a moonlight working magic with her hair. It even looked beautiful a half hour later. When you looked at it for the last time, only then it was very still, with a quiet, wax-like beauty of death. An hour later you have dropped the automatic into the river and you're back at her apartment. Both halves of the claim check in your pocket, going through the wastebasket next to the telephone. Find the thing. Here it is. A little slip of paper with the name Gross and the telephone number. Mr. Gross? He'll be back in a minute. I'm calling for C.L. Brickley. Give Mr. Gross this message, will you? Miss Brickley says the appointment's on again. She changed her mind. Right. 11 o'clock at the apartment. Well, let me give you a little tip. If the item is obtainable at the present time, your signal service station has it and in finest, nationally advertised quality. That goes for such major replacements as a new purilator cartridge to renew your clogged-up oil filter. It goes for those everyday needs such as whiz, body and metal polish, spot remover, window cleaner, and also for essential services such as putting a deep, long-wearing retread on those dangerously smooth tires or recharging that run-down battery. Yes, you'll find your signal dealer is much more than headquarters for signal famous go-father gasoline and signal premium motor oil. Wherever you see the big signal circle sign in yellow and black, there you'll also find a complete line of services and quality accessories to help your car run better, look better, and last longer. And now back to the Whistler. Yes, it was a long trail that finally ended in that police station near the East River, a trail that began in Venice with an artist who painted a pair of pictures in the manner of Montaigne and died because of it. Lieutenant Brady of Homicide has done his job now. The suspect has finally begun to crack. Don't stop it, will you? Stop it. All right, I'll stop it. You ready to talk? Yeah. Yeah, I'll talk. Turn off the lights. Right, Lieutenant. All right, let's have it, Mr. Gross. The guy in Italy, the naughty. I killed him for the... Brett Lee Dame. Montaigne? Yeah. What else? Why did she want him dead? I don't know why. I didn't ask no questions. She sent me over to Italy to get him, and I did. When I got back, she called me and said there was one more job to do. Money again, huh? Yeah, but she called up the night I was supposed to bump the second guy and said the job was off. I went out, and when I got back, there was a message that was on again. Going? All right. I wish to pick him up at her apartment at 11 o'clock. When I come by from... He was waiting there in front of the apartment. Bigger's life. So that's how you happened to murder John Winters. That's it. I guess the Brick Lee Dame changed her mind. Let that whistle be your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. Each Monday at nine. Brought to you by the Signal Oil Company. Marketers of signal gasoline and motor oil and fine quality automotive accessories. Signal has asked me to remind you to get the most driving pleasure, drive at sensible speeds, be courteous, and obey traffic regulations. It may save a life. Possibly your own. Featured in tonight's story were Betty Lou Gerson and John McIntyre. The Whistler was produced by George W. Allen with story by Brian Thorn, music by Wilbur Hatch transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. This is Marvin Miller speaking for the Signal Oil Company. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.