 This is Ken Roberts, inviting you to listen to another adventure of Casey, crime photographer. Ace Cameraman, who covers the crime news of a great city. Our adventure for tonight. Thunderbolt, a night of storms. A public garage in the neighborhood of deluxe apartment houses and stately city mansions. An expensive car is driven in as an alert attendant. Ah, hardly a good evening, Jim. By the way, this thing will need a wash and polish before you put it away. I can see that, sir. Pretty bad weather out there. It's filthy. I'll get a man to run you home, doctor. Ah, don't bother. I'm dressed for rain and need exercise, so I'll walk as usual. Whatever you say, sir. No. Good night, Jim. I got cold. Pardon me, sir. Yes? May I trouble you for a match? Oh, certainly. It's rotten weather, isn't it? Yes, pretty bad. But here's a book of matches you can keep them. Sure you have others? Oh, yes. Good night. Excuse me. Aren't you Dr. Foley? Yes. Oh, I've seen papers in the medical journals. Do you mind if I walk with you for a short distance? Oh, if you wish. I shall consider it a privilege. Are you, uh, positioning yourself? Oh, it was once my ambition to become a great brain surgeon such as you are, but now I'm just a sort of jack-of-all-trades, which means, of course, that I'm what the world calls a failure. Well, success and failure are matters of viewpoint. Oh, how true. A man can be as he thinks. He can rise above misfortune and live in Valhalla with the gods. That's thunder. To me, that is Thor, the mighty, wielding his hammer, forging his thunderbolts to strike the mountain giants. Do I sound mad? Well, you sound interesting, Mr., uh... Thorsten is my name, Doctor. Thorsten? Yes. Oh, one of the streetlights is out here. Makes things quite dark. Oh, the storm, probably enough to doubt. Yes, a minor thunderbolt of the storm, the feeble precursor of a greater one, a deadly one. A deadly one? Forged by the hammer of the son of Thor. What are you doing with that? I'm wielding the hammer, striking down the giants, killing you. The murdered man is Dr. Bernard Foley, Captain Logan. Yeah, the big brain surgeon, Miss Williams. Casey, will this killing make headlines? I'll say. That kind of headlines, it'll be followed by editorial blasts against those cops. That means you haven't got any leads, Phil. Well, we've been able to learn so far as that Dr. Foley left his car in the artboard garage and at a quarter after 11, the patrolman found his dead body sprawled across the sidewalk as you can see it now. The spot must have been pretty dark before you cops got here with your flood lamps. I see that streetlight, South. Yeah, the storm knocked it out, I guess. Well, Dr. Foley robbed, Captain. Well, we found a wallet full of dough in his hip pocket, Miss Williams. Robbery wasn't the motive for his murder. How was he killed? Well, the ME thinks the job was done with a small tack hammer. What? A small tack hammer. Yeah, the double-headed kind of poster is used. Well, Logan, the big playwright it was killed last week, Eli Whitlock. Yeah, his skull was crushed with a small hammer and his body was found on a dark street near his home and on a night like this. I know. The similarity of the Whitlock murder has naturally occurred to me. But Whitlock's killer was caught red-handed robbing the body and he's now in jail. The guy you mapped for that job at Mitzi went through Whitlock's pockets, but he's consistently denied the killing, Logan. Well, I believed his story that he found Whitlock lying in that doorway and forget he was drunk. I haven't believed it, and I don't know. Logan, I have a hunch that you're at the beginning of a very tough case. But who's that he's calling out? Could I mistake our master's voice, Annie? Casey! Williams! We're on our way first! Here we are, fella. All right, take over the desk till I come back. You two come with me into the private office. Okay. Hey, why in the private office, Fred? We'll soon find out. Close that door so we can have some class. All right. Now, you two covered the fully murder last night. Yeah. And the Whitlock killing last week. You know we did. Casey, from the first, you believed the cops pulled in the wrong guy for Eli Whitlock's bump-off. Yeah, and he was behind bars last night when Dr. Foley was killed. I think you had the right idea. Sit down. Now, I'm going to read you a special delivery letter that just came in. Listen to this. Dear sir, last week, the much-overrated playwright, Eli Whitlock, met death. Last night, the unduly acclaimed surgeon, Dr. Bernard Foley, met death in the same identical manner. I destroyed both of these frauds. Casey! Go on, boy, go ahead. And my thunderbolt shall soon destroy others. Thunderbolt! Shut up and get all of this. All right. All right, it goes on. I concern myself only with the giants. Giants? Yes. But I shall slay other giants. On the next night of storm, another alleged giant shall die. Another? This time, a colossus of commerce shall meet his doom. A dealer in money, a seller of false security. Try to prevent his death. You will be powerless. That's all. No signature, of course. Let me see that cocktail letter. Hold it at the corner. All right. Hand printed and blocked letters. You think it's on the level, Casey? Your guess is as good as mine, kid. The writer's obviously a screwball. The letter isn't a gag. The screwball must believe you. Four. Who? The ancient god of the Norsemen. Four. The Thunderbolt. Don't you know anything about the classics, Casey? Four! Strongest of gods. The magic hammer. I know, I know, I know. Have you gotten in touch with the cops about this letter, Burke? If they get in touch with this paper when they get something hot, they can read about it in our next edition. There'd be plenty sore if you hold out and something happens. The letter says another big man will die. Sure. A dealer in money, a seller of false security. What does that tell you? The best protection for whoever it means is to read a copy of this letter in tomorrow's express. Yeah, that's true. And, of course, the threat may be strictly phony. Anyway, the threat's made for the next night at storm. Sure, and the weather report for tonight that tomorrow is clear and... Hey, Burke. What? Look out the window. Huh? Right. I hope, Burke, that this letter is as phony as your weather forecast. Shall I save you another drink before you leave, Mr. Clements? No, thanks, Harry. I've already had more than I could... Pardon me, should have, but... ...tonight I was celebrating. Well, you have every reason to celebrate what you told us fellows behind the bar here. That's right. I signed up another million dollar policy, isn't it, Harry? Another million dollar policy? I'm just what the fellows in my business say I am, the greatest life insurance salesman in the world. Oh, I believe that, Mr. Clements. I'll go home now. I'll call the doorman and have him get a taxi for you. No, no, I want to walk. You need a walk. Do me good. Night, Henry. Good night, Mr. Clements. Even, Mr. Clements. Here's to it. Thanks. Thank you, doorman. Yeah, feels good. Rain feels good. Pardon me, sir. May I trouble you for a match? Match? Oh, sure. Thank you. Aren't you, Mr. Allen, Clements? Well, how'd you know? You were pointed out to me at the Underwriters' Convention several months ago as the greatest life insurance salesman in the business. That's true. Do you mind if I walk along with you? Come along. Glad to have your company, Mr. Thank you, and my name is Thorse. Hey, see you and Miss Williams have a nerve showing yourselves here at headquarters today. If you read the newspapers, you must know a guy named Crammert was hammered to death last night. We've heard about it, Lord. And I've heard that you two knew about the letters threatening his life. Captain. You and your smart city editor wouldn't tell us cops about it. Oh, no, we had to see it in print too late. Now, listen, pal. Don't pal me. Get out of this office and don't come. Now, what would you have done if you had seen that letter? Would it have told you that a life insurance salesman was the intended victim and a particular life insurance salesman named Crammert? And wouldn't you have been inclined as we were to dismiss that entire fantastic letter as a gag? Now, be reasonable, Captain Logan. Oh, I suppose you're right. Hell, now all of us know the letter wasn't just a gag. Yeah. Berks turned the original letter over to you. Are there any fingerprints on it? Only yours and Mr. Burt. We expected that. Was the same weapon used this time? Yeah, attack hammer, the dark things. You know, Logan is a very obvious pattern of murder. In its method, sure. Rainy nights, deserted streets, victims who habitually walk to their homes. All this crazy hammer swing I had to do was bust a streetlight on their route and wait for him in the dark. Yeah, a streetlight was out last night. Yeah, we figured it was much more than a coincidence this time, so we investigated and found a BB shot inside the broken globe. There you go, now. Powerful slingshot. This killer isn't so crazy. He plans well in advance. But he is crazy. He clearly establishes his insanity by the absence of normal motive for his murders. Envy, Logan. Envy? Push to have normal lengths by failure. You mean because the killer is a failure, he wants to destroy men who are successful? Well, to me, that seems to be his mania. And you may be right in your theory, but it would take my guys forever to check up on all the failures in town. Well, I'm not a cop. This thunderbolt screwball is your headache, Logan. And you newspaper mugs will be handing me anything but aspirin. You make me out of dope because we pinched the wrong guy for the whiplock job. And the public will never be told your city editor held out that letter on me. He cops didn't even ever... Dad! Dad, don't start that again now. Why shouldn't I? When I think of it, I start to boil it. Come in. Hello, Captain. Glad to find you and William here, Casey. Well, if it isn't Mr. Burke, city editor... Yeah, Burke, you're an unpopular guy around here, you know. Get out, boss, while we're going through. I don't want him to get out. I want your city editor to stay until I've told him exactly what I think of him. I... Wait! Oh, let me... Come down here to make amends. Well, another thunderbolt letter. Another thunderbolt? Came special delivery like the first. Give it to me, here. What does it say? Ryder brags about keeping his promise last night and promises another murder when it rains again. Another? This time he's more explicit about his next victim. I think he means to kill a press photographer. What? A press photographer. You, Casey. Burke, you're kidding. Read that letter. See for yourself. He isn't kidding, Miss Williams. Oh. Casey. This is just my headache. The second letter from that thunderbolt nut says he's going to kill a... a press photographer, Miss Williams? It promises to kill Casey, Effelbert. It doesn't promise anything of that kind. Only you, Logan and Burke, claim to see the inference. Well, let's try it out on Effelbert. I want to see you. Show on that photostatic copy of the letter, but don't you try to rip me up, though. Here, Effelbert, read this. Lincoln Photostat Company Incorporate. No, Effelbert, down here. Oh. Uh, the next to fall by my thunderbolt shall be a very little giant. Little giant. Shut up, Casey. Let him read. He can't. He practices press photography a minor art. A minor art. He dabbles in a field other than his own crime detection in which they credit him with brilliance when the fool is merely lucky. Now, that's something. The thunderbolt is forged and ready and will strike on the next night of storm. Now, I ask you, Effelbert, as a pal, can you find anything in that bunch of dribble that could possibly apply to me? Casey, now I'm worried about you. What? The guy practically draws your picture and writes your name under it. He means you. Department Casey speaking. This is Ann Casey. Oh, yeah, I was just going to phone you, kid. Well, that case of sniffles. You went home to nurse him. Well, I feel a little better. All right, now, so what? Now, look, I've been needled about that letter until I'm sick, too. That nut may hammer somebody to death tonight, but his threat was definitely not directed at me yet. Look, you'll walk blindly and you don't know what he looks like even. Annie, please. This must be before I tell you. I don't ask very much of you. Well, all right, I promise. Your apartment house when you finish working tonight and leave your car parked in front of the door instead of going to the garage and walking the two blocks home. And left. And then go up to 1150. Now, be sure your car tonight, Mr. Casey, will be pretty spotty from this rain. Who do you garage guys think I am? You're a hard man to make money out of, Mr. Casey. Go ahead, Charlie. Clean her up. OK. Oh, wait a minute. I'm second. Do that cleanup job tomorrow night, will you? And if Miss Williams ever asks you if I left the car here tonight, you tell her no, huh? I ain't seen nothing of your car tonight, sir. Thank you, pal. Thank you. All right, Charlie. I'm heading for home. All right. Pardon me, sir. Go on. May I trouble you for a match? Oh, I guess so here. Miserable weather, isn't it? Yeah, he's stinking. Here's my lighter. Thank you. See, aren't you, Mr. Casey, the famous crime photographer? Well, I don't know about the famous part, but I'm Casey. I thought so. You've been pointed out to me at police headquarters. What were you doing there? Well, nothing in the business way. I was paying a social call on a detective friend of mine, Sergeant McCloskey. Oh, you know him? I know McCloskey. Do you mind if I walk along with you? Why, no, no. I've long been one of your admirers, Mr. Casey. Huh? Little men like myself can't help but envy you giants. Giants? I borrowed the word from your paper's publication of those so-called thunderbolt letters. Interesting mystery that. Yeah, yeah. What's, uh, what's your racket, Mr. Thorson? Thorson is my name. Thorson? Thorson? I see. Hmm. Street lights out just ahead of us. Dark stretch there. It is dark. And listen to that thunder. An inspiring phenomenon, thunder. Yes, I've, I've heard that like full moonlight, it does things to some people. Yes, to those whom the gods make mad. To the wise people of ancient times, that which we call insanity was a God-given gift. Mr. Casey, it meant freedom. And so I've read. Coming into that dark stretch, Mr. Thorson. Yes, we are. Evening, Casey. What? It's me, Joe McCloskey. Oh, this is an unexpected meeting, Sergeant. Why, yeah. Hello, Carl. You know this guy, Sergeant? Well, I ought to. Carl Thorson and I live in the same block for about, oh, about ten years. Hey, what are you doing so far from home, neighbor? I've been visiting friends, Sergeant. I'm walking to the bus stop. You know, Thorson is a great fan of yours, Casey. He's always asking me questions about you. Oh, you know, Mr. Thorson, well, Sergeant. Well, so well that if he was anyone else, I'd be putting a pinch on him right now. You know, a beat cops have been reporting all street lights out of commission since that last thunderbolt murder, Casey. And when Captain Logan heard one was out near your apartment, he sent my partner and me right up here on the jump. I'm kept to know that you policemen are so efficient, Sergeant. Well, you don't know the half of it, Carl. Ever since it started to rain this evening, Casey has been shadowed. Yeah. Yeah? Uh-huh. Come out of that doorway, you Dr. Indoor Red. Everything's okay. Well, come on, Casey. I'll escort you to your apartment house and then the other guys and me can get home. And you'll be entirely safe once you're home. I must hurry to catch my bus, Sergeant, so if you don't mind. Go on, all right. Run along, Carl. Run along. I'll see you later. It's been a great privilege to meet you, Mr. Casey. Good night. Good night. Yeah, he's a nice little guy, Torson. Yeah, isn't he? Kept me from making an awful fool of myself, Sarge. And with that, I've handed your boss Logan a swell laugh. He had me tailed tonight. Well, the captain's been worried about you, Casey. Well, come on, I'll walk you to your door. Seven minutes to 12. Oh, what delayed you? Oh, flock of cops that my pal Logan sent to nursemaiden, I suppose you put him up to it. No, he didn't give me the satisfaction of knowing he was having you guarded, but I'm glad to hear he did. Of course I'm all right. Now go on to bed, get over your sniffles, and let me get some sleep. Casey, I'll... Okay, now you've double-checked, wise guy, and now you know that that screwball didn't have his hammer out for me. Goodbye. And that's to all of you. Not to me, but nice of you to leave your door open. It made things so easy. I'll close it now. What are you doing? As you see, now I'm armed with a revolver as well as my hammer. As I see. Sergeant McCloskey and his fellow policeman made it impossible for me to stick to pattern, as he called it, but they went away. And I came back. Wasn't it fortunate that McCloskey is a neighbor of mine? He couldn't believe that the man he sees nearly every day is not the person that she thinks. He certainly threw me off the track. It doesn't matter. I shall keep my promise. Your promise? That you shall die tonight. Gods unlike men are bound by their promises. I see. Well, of course, you know you've got to finish me off by 12 o'clock. And I shall. You've got almost five minutes, fellow. Plenty of time. I'll watch the time. You're thinking, Mr. Casey, that when I approach you with my hammer, you'll seize it from me and my gun also, but I shall throw the hammer as my father Thor throws it with his speed of lightning on an airing aim. Maybe you didn't kill those other guys by throwing your hammer. You held it in your hand and you hit them many times. There was a reason for that. Yeah, but a guy can either throw a hammer or fire a gun with any act you see in the dark. You've scratched the lamp. Thorson, you've shot your last Thunderbolt. And this is Casey. Send some cops up to my apartment to collect the Thunderbolt killer. Thunderbolt? Yeah, he's sleeping on my living room rug right now. He's even crazier than I figured he'd be, Logan. When you wrote that last letter, he was referring to me. They took Thorson to the Insane of Sollum, huh, Miss Williams? Yeah, he's safely tucked away in a pad itself. Epibert, what do you think of a man who's so eager to get his name into the obituary column that he disregards all warnings and even breaks the Sollum promise exacted for his safety? I'd say that guy was a suicidal lunatic, Miss Williams. And I know just who you mean. Suicide lunatic. Oh, my God. Use the voice of information and education.