 Lipton Tee and Lipton Soup presents Inner Sanctum Mystery. Dear friends, this is your horror host at the squeaking door of the Inner Sanctum. Come in, come in. Hang your hats on the torture rack over there and get cozy. Tonight we've got cadenzas and cadavers. Murders and melodies. That's all I can tell you now. No sense putting the cart before the herd is rare. From the way you're talking, I guess we're going to have music on the program tonight. I think that's real nice. So do I, Mary. I've always loved music. Even as a child I used to play the death rattle. Now please, I'm being serious. You know, I once won a prize for playing the piano. Yes, they gave me a love... Wait, wait. Don't, don't tell me. Let me guess. They gave you a lovely sterling silver medallion. Didn't they, Mary? No, they didn't. You know very well that the only way you can get that sterling silver medallion is from the Lipton Tee people. And ladies, it's solid sterling silver and it's just the right size, about an inch in diameter. It's the kind of jewelry you find at those smart shops on Fifth Avenue in New York. The medallion is decorated with a Chinese inscription and it's hung on a narrow black rayon satin ribbon. It's just what you want to brighten up your simple silk dresses and your dressy suits. And here's how you get this handsome medallion. Just send 25 cents and the box top from a package of Lipton's, the tea with the brisk flavor, to Lipton Tee Box 92. That's Box 92, New York City. Send for yours tonight. Give me a pen, Mary. I'll send them a check immediately. And what's more, I'll write it in blood. There'll be plenty spilled here tonight. The title of our story is Musical Score. It's an original radio play by Christopher Mayle and our star is Barry Kroger, who plays the role of Grasso. It's the story of a simple melody of a killer who, as our story opens, is fighting desperately and alone against a raging storm off the coast of Maine. The lifeboat he's in is half found and the man's wild rowing does little good. I'm a murderer! A murderer! I'd kill to be free! And I am free! Did I do it all for nothing? Peter told his wife and they were the first to go, almost in the same spot. Oh, Wolfim's composing. Oh, and that tune of his. He had all three of us on the life raft, crazy with it. That maddening tune. But I still hear him humming. I still hear it. But the sea was calm that day. Dead calm. Fifteen days of calm. Fifteen days on a raft with a sick woman and three men. And that son... Carl! Stop that bastard humming! Marsha seems to like it. Part of the symphony I'm working on. It does get on our nerves, Tom. How is your wife? I don't know, Grasso. Poor Marsha. Yes, yes I know. I'm hungry. Smile, how about some ration? Ah, that fat belly of yours. I told you before, even off as chief mate, I run this life raft. We've got rations for one person for two days. The woman eats, we don't. Now forget it. Well, we ought to be practical. Smile. What made the Santa Margarita go down so quickly? I told you. Nothing but a stray mind. It was Argentine registered coffee, both a neutral. It's all it could have been. I'll cut it out when you're tall. Or change the tune at least. I can't stand it. Sorry. You may be a famous playwright, Grasso, but you don't know the sea. We're near the main fishing banks. We've got a chance of meeting a fisher we can hold out. Tall! Tall, will you stop that blaster, too? Yes, I haven't said tall, quit it! What a trio. A perfume manufacturer, a playwright, and a sailor. We all wanted food. We all wanted water. Sweet things. An end of tolls humming. Well, I wanted all that more than the others did. Without Marsha Tall, I could eat a little. Without Peter Tall's song, I could rest. The 17th night it was. The moon painted us all in silver and black. The other slept. Tall had his wife's head cradled in his lap. I crawled over to Tall. How is she, Tall? You know, I think she's getting better. She smiled at me a minute ago. My singing helps. Go on, Tall. Hum. Hum your song. Hum your song. For the last time. I cut off his infernal song, cut it off with my fingers, digging into the yielding flesh of his throat. He slumped over his wife's body. I closed my ears to her moans, and I pushed them both. What? A murderer. So Tall's gone, so's his wife. But they didn't fall off. One of the three of us murdered them, and it wasn't me. I don't think you did, Smiles. I know I didn't. You're voting two to one and electing me the murderer, huh? Not necessarily, Grasso. It just looks a little like it. How are you going to prove it? Who's going to believe you any more than they'd believe me? Even I was ready to murder for a crust of bread. For all I know, Smiles, you did it to sell even off some ration. So we hang together or we hang separately, then? Let's be practical about this, Smiles. None of us can afford to be mixed up in even the implication of murder. Suppose we have an agreement, just in case we are picked up. What kind of an agreement, Grasso? Suppose we agree now and for all time that Tall and his wife simply died at sea and were buried at sea. On the 21st day, the rations were gone and the song, we could all hear Tall humming it from the bottom of the sea. We watched each other like animals. On the 23rd day, a fishing boat picked us up, half dead, cooked alive, but we lived. I lived to fear and to kill again. Fear began with a little scene in the Portsmouth Hospital where we were being treated. Well, you got your belly full of food, even though? Yes, yes. No more hunger-painting, Smiles. How about you, Grasso? Pretty normal now, I guess. Oh, by the way, a friend of mine, second-made on another ship, was in the sea me yesterday. Yes? They picked up a couple of survivors from the Santa Margarita before we were rescued. Not interested, eh? They were a man and his wife. Don't be such a dramatic-ass, Smiles. No, no, no, not poor Marsha and Peter Tall, but the friends of theirs, the Abraham Davises. You know them? Davises? The symphony conductor? Yeah, that's him. Wouldn't he like to know about the Talles, huh? You've got a flair for the dramatic, Smiles. Sometimes it's dangerous to be so talented. They began to worry if both of them weren't ganging upon me. But days, weeks past, nothing happened. Only the Talles melody was always with me, day and night. It kept ringing in my head, dawn and on and on. At least I hadn't heard from the other two until one morning a letter came from Abraham Davises, the symphony conductor and dear friend of the Peter Talles. Yes, sir. It has taken me this time to locate you three who were with my lamented friends, Peter and Marsha Tall, when they died at sea from the score of Peter Tall's last symphony, his performance, and thought you might like to hear it. Hear it? I didn't need a reading to hear it. But I'd have to be there. They would be. Maybe plotting to tell lies about me to Davises. Right then, I decided to kill them both. That way only. They freed them from anxiety. Murder would free me. Ivanov would be first. Yes, fat, beady-eyed, Ivanov. I studied their movements. Ivanov worked late at his office every Tuesday night and on the second Tuesday of each month, the Halifax-bound cargo steamer, Sam Lewis, left her New York dock. My plan was simple. It involved my waiting for Ivanov in his apartment house on the night of Tuesday, May 8. My weapon would be simple, too. A common bread knife. Simple and so satisfying. Good day, Mr. Ivanov. Thanks for the bottle of perfume. My girl's crazy about it. When you get married, I'll give you a quarter of it. Thanks! I slid the knife from my sleeve and gripped the handle. Ivanov reached his door. His broad back was a leap away. I knew where to strike. You learn those tricks in my trade. An upward thrust just below the right shoulder blade. You, you, it was you. Feeling no remorse, no pity, just relief that I had nothing more to fear from even of at least one more to kill, to be free one more. I turned my back on the cooling mat at my feet and reached the street. I walked fast. I had only a little while to reach the docks and make my boat. Tolls and melody kept beating its tireless notes against my veins. Dear me and gory bee, that's my idea of a real fun plug-er. Oh, speaking of music and murder, did you ever hear of the fiddler in temper? He murdered his wife because she was always harping at him. Oh yes, and because she had a cellist disposition too. You're certainly full of musical puns tonight. Good heavens, what have you got there? It looks like a Chinese gong. It is, Mary. I got it from an auctioneer. You know, those fellows always say, going, going gong. Well, what are you going to do with it? Oh, I've always wanted to kick the gong around. Besides, if you're going to tell that Chinese story about the medallion, I ought to accompany you on the Chinese gong. Well, I'm not going to tell it in Chinese, so suppose you put that thing away. But, ladies, there is a story behind that sterling silver medallion that the Lipton Tea people want to send you, and what's more, it's a true story. It seems that the original of this handsome medallion was given to an American flyer who was rescued by Chinese guerrillas after he bailed out over enemy territory. The flyer was told that the Chinese letters on the medallion would identify him and bring him safely through the lines. Well, he did get through, and only then did he learn that the inscription said, good luck in Chinese. Now, there's a story to tell your friends when they're admiring your medallion on its smart black ray on satin ribbon. And to get this good luck charm, just like the one the flyer carried, all you have to do is send 25 cents and the box top from a package of Lipton's, the tea with the brisk flavor, to Lipton Tea box 92, New York City. How about hitting that gong now so they'll remember? Yes, that's box 92 in New York City. All right, now let's go back to our murderer who's being haunted by a song. Remember what happened? A composer named Tell and his wife, Marsha, were thrown off a life raft and drowned by one of three other men on the raft. The killer has been telling us his story as he fights the sea in a lifeboat. You remember that he just murdered even half and is now heading for a Halifax-bound cargo ship. This is your flight room, Mr. Grosser. Anything I can do for you? No thanks, not just now. I'm going back to bed. When do we reach Halifax? Here in the morning, sir. Good night. Thank you. Oh, wait, wait. I'm afraid I'm rather a nervous traveler. Just between us, Ed. Do we have competent officers aboard? They're best, sir. Captain James is tops. There's nobody cheaper out anywhere than Mr. Smipes, sir. So he was there. I'd gone to a lot of trouble to get aboard that ship and he was there. I kept out of his way entirely until last night. We were off the main shore. It was raining slightly. I slid the long, well-pointed bread knife into my sleeve and made my way toward the afterdeck. It lacked three minutes of eight bells. There for a smoke. There he was. Just where he had been every night. Smoky. Leaning against the rail near the small light boat. I could barely see him. He was so dark. But I stole toward him a foot at a time. Now I held my breath. I was so close. Slowly I brought my arms straight to my side. Plexed my muscles. Tensed with a thrust. I calculated the lunge. The cigarette told me where his mouth was. Then he turned his head a little. His cigarette flared and lit his face in his eyes around me. I thought you'd looked me up if I came to the same spot each night. You're turning out to be quite a killer, aren't you? How did you... Yes, we... Still he'll be smiling. Now nobody knows what happened on the life raft. Nobody. I'm free. You'll never be free. The song... The song will... I dumped Smythe into one of the small boats and climbed in myself. I pushed out on the davits and lowered the boat to within a couple of feet of the water. And then climbed down the supporting ropes to it. I'd cut the ropes in the flat hull of the ship, flid path. We were alone. Just Smythe and me. And Smythe was dead. So I threw him overboard and I was alone. And free. And tonight, I'm alone and free. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Hear me, Tom! Hear me! I'm going crazy. There can't be a light. Not a light. But what must there be there? A light of land. Rocks ahead of me. And the surf's breaking against me. I'm close. I think I'm too close. I'm going to crash into them. The surf's picking up the boat and throwing me down the rock. I'll be killed! Wait, darling. I think I hear something outside. What? Stop a minute. I think I hear something. You don't have to shout. What is it there? Listen. Isn't that our door? Is that your pounding? How could it be? This is a lighthouse. New would come out to an island in this stone. Just the same. I'm going to see. All right. I'll go with you. What is he? No. No. Not you! Stay away, Tom! He's made it, Marshal. Here. Give me a hand. Put him in the living room, bunk. Peter. Yes? How did he know our name? By what he said? He's changed a lot. Since we saw him last. Since I saw him last. He was on the life raft with us. The Santa Margherita? Yes. I'd know him better than you would. You were ill. His name's Grasso. His was the last voice I heard before we... all overboard. Well, Mr. Grasso, you look a lot better this morning. How was your hand? Throbs. I can't move. What happened? You were washed up against the rocks in a lifeboat. You must have hit your head and banged up your side. You... you didn't drown. Obviously. You didn't choke me thoroughly enough, Grasso. The water revived me. And I was clutching in Marshal's dress. Yes, but how did you... Get here? Yes. Fishing boat. It was almost dawn when you tried to kill us. I managed to hold Marshal up for a little while. We were lucky. What are you... Here. Put your arm around my neck. No. I'll take you to the tower. Where's your wife? Marshal's gone to the mainland to get the doctor. We're alone. Yes. We're alone. Relax. No. Let me go, Tal. I... I didn't mean to do it. I was crazy with hunger. And that tune of yours... They're all crazy, Tal. I... I'll pay you. No, I'll pay you. It's too late, Grasso. Anything. Don't. Don't. You could start a... hemorrhage that way. What are you going to do to me? I'm nothing, of course. I... Here we are. You're not bringing me up here for the sun and the air, Tal. Why? You'll be very comfortable in this bed. Marshal liked it here. Wonderful view in every direction. These windows here pull to one side. What? Like this, eh? Now, I'll leave you direct... No, it's out. Don't walk, Grasso. What? I... I don't know. I... But you're up to something. Don't be silly. I'm just going to work on my music for a while. I'm having trouble with one part in it. It goes... Huh? Remember, Grasso? Well, that's it. I see it now. Why, you... You'll be safe here. I have this barred metal door here to keep saboteurs out. If you want anything, just talk. Acoustics are wonderful down these stairs. You can hear everything. Talk? No. My head... I'll do anything. Anything. Everything. Grasso. I heard about... Even I've smurred around the radio the other day. All right, all right! I get it. I tried to kill you and your wife. I killed even my wife. I killed Slives. Get to police, but don't play that song. Ha, ha, ha, ha. And the top drawer of the table next to the bed is a loaded revolver. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Stop, talk! The revolver... God, yeah. It'll stop it. Now, I'll never hear that song again. Never. Play it! Play your melody, talk! And the blaze is with you! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. I forgot to tell you, Grasso. The gun is loaded with blanks. Ha, ha, ha, ha. It's still a way out. It's still a way out. All right. Talk. Marsha, darling. No. Everything is fine now. Yes. Yes, there is something you can do for me. Send Davis a wire, will you? Just say... Plan fall production of Symphony. Have just finished final score. Hey, how would some boogie-woogie sound to you right now? I'd settle for a nice cozy fife and drum corps. Now, stop that funny kind of talk, because I've got something important to say. Folks, tonight the Lipton Tea people have asked me to remind you that the goal of this Seventh War loan drive is $14 billion. I guess some like that are just too big for you and me to understand. But every one of those dollars has a purpose behind it. And that purpose is to end the war in the Pacific as quickly as possible. Yes, that $14 billion is needed to move our soldiers halfway around the globe to build new ships and faster planes. We've promised our fighting men the very best weapons that can be made. That's the least we can do. And we're helping to fulfill that promise when we buy war bonds, when we support the Seventh War loan drive with every penny we can spare. So folks, please buy all that you can when the Victory Volunteer comes to your house. Oh, we got a moral for tonight's story. If you're thinking of marrying a musician, insist on a big house, don't go in for this lighthouse-keeping stuff. Oh, by the way, this month's dinner sanctum mystery novel is The Right Red Hand by Joel Rogers. And listen to this. Our star next week will be the famous traumatic actor of stage and screen Raymond Massey. He will appear in a story about a man who plays chess. Nice quiet little sport. Except that our friend uses human beings for his chess pieces. And by the time the game is over, those pieces are just too dead to move. Now it's time to close the squeaking door until next Tuesday. When Lipton Tea and Lipton Soup bring you Raymond Massey and another inner sanctum mystery story directed by Hyman Brown. So, until then, good night. Pleasant dream. There's a modern food with an old-fashioned homemade flavor. It's Lipton's noodle soup. Yes, Lipton's does taste homemade. It's got that same chickeny taste as the chicken noodle soup you make right in your own kitchen. Lipton's has got the same good herbs in the flavoring, the same tender golden egg noodles. But listen, Lipton's noodle soup mix comes in an envelope and it only takes a few minutes to prepare. Of course, sometimes it's hard to get in some stores these days, but there's lots of good things scarce in wartime. So remember to always ask for Lipton's noodle soup. And remember to tune in next Tuesday night for another inner sanctum mystery. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.