 This is your host, to welcome you through the creaking door in the UNOS Sanctum. Come in, come in. We had a surprise visitation here, a scream or two ago. A sightseeing delegation simply crazy to take it all in. One onlooker's mouth was so gape you'd think his face was split from ear to ear. Confidentially chum it was. The head of the delegation was terribly proud of his honorary title. Poor chap, it was the only head he had. Things went along coagul until some wag suggested holding hands. We brought out a trunk full of hands we'd keep for just such occasion. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Tonight's inner sanctum mystery between two worlds was written by John Robert and stars Mason Adams and the role of Sam with Ann Shepard as Connie. It's Yuletide week in South Chicago as a flash electric storm whips the streets. Inside the 10th District Police Station, Chief Matthews and his clerk daily are passing the time over a game of chess. Suddenly, like a bolt from the heavens, a window pane crashes. A parcel fastened to a fist-sized rock drops to the station house floor. It's a package tied to a rock sheet. And what's in it? A notebook, Chief. A five-and-dime notebook. It's all written up like a confession. It's signed Sam Tyler. Sam Tyler never heard of him. Read me what Sam Tyler's got to say. Ever come face-to-face with death and just stand around helplessly waiting for it to tap you. Waiting for the final count. While you're waiting, your heart is a big clock ticking off your doom. And inside your head a moving picture's going on. You're looking at the story of your life. And it's not a pretty story. It's all black. It's all bad. You hate to die without a single good mark in a big book. If you only had just enough time to chalk up one good deed. It happened like that with me. I came face-to-face with death. Death was Nick Fuzenda. I lost face with Nick. The big guy liked his racquet-boys tough and nervous and I had a streak of chicken, Nick said. I had a streak of chicken. And I knew too much to be trusted alive. What do you want a chicken? Nick, don't do it. Give me another chance. I ain't like to scare me. What's waiting for me after you pull that trigger, Nick? I haven't done one decent thing since I was born. Here'd you pick the wrong set-up. You should have joined the boy scouts. So long chicken. Shot made a noise like a TNT charge but I hadn't felt the impact. I hadn't felt anything. Either I was paralyzed with fear or dead to feeling. Or Nick had missed. I watched Nick stare unbelievably in aim again. An easy bullseye of five yards with Nick a crack shot but still no impact. I was still standing up. Hold on. You're dead. No, Nick. I'm alive. You can't kill me. Nick, you're seeing a miracle happen. You're crazy. Nick, I'm going to get that chance. I'm going to live. More shots but still no impact. I was alive, uninjured. I wanted to make. His face was profiling but he was suffocating. He had some invisible stranger. I had his hands around Nick's throat strangling him. I'm joking. Nick was on the floor. I watched the color wash out of his face. I watched him go rigid. I crouched and listened to his heart. Not a sound. Not a murmur. He was dead. Nick had dropped dead. I'd seen a miracle happen. I tapped a midnight freight heading east. I was in a box car loaded with crates of eggs still sweating over my narrow escape. When I got a spooky feeling that I wasn't alone. I lay still choking back my breath with my hand tied around Nick's gun. You have no need for the gun, Sam. How did you know my name? I know all about you, Sam. Put down your gun. It's up on the trigger, Cox. Oh, Trixie, you're a goner. Too late for that, Sam. I am a goner already. What kind of crazy talk? I died, Sam. Just one year ago. You're your own ghost. Get your hands up high, Mr. Whiskers, so I can frisk you. I reached a frisk and slapped his pockets for a ride. But there was no one to touch. I was only grabbing an empty air. I told you I died a year ago, Sam. I saved your life tonight. I gave you your wish. Your chance to do one decent thing before you died. Did you mean the promise you made? No. That's grand. You drive me crazy. And you lied in the face of eternity. I'd have to recall the time given you. What do you mean, recall the time? You're living on borrowed time, Sam. You were meant to die by Nick's first bullet. Do you remember how Nick died? Yeah. All of a sudden he couldn't breathe. But like his lungs were gone and his heart was calling quick. Like you're beginning to feel now. Like I... I can't... You didn't mean your promise to tomorrow, didn't you, Sam? Sure. Sure I did. Anything you say. Then continue on to Chicago. When you arrive there, spend your time waiting in a restaurant called a spread eagle. Sooner or later you will be approached. You are to lend yourself to any situation that arises. Any situation, understand? Sure. Sure, I understand. This, uh... This good deed I'm to do on borrowed time. What's your interest in it? Deeply personal, Sam. I am no longer among the living, but I have no place among the dead. I walk between two worlds. You see, Sam, in life I didn't have one decent thing to point to either. Through you I hope to find the rest. In Chicago I tried to get Mr. Whiskers out of my mind. But had a bad dream. It had to be a bad dream. I went to the spread eagle afraid not to. I just sat like a frozen mummy ordering ham sandwiches. I couldn't eat and coffee. I couldn't swallow and listening to downbeat piano music. Mind if I join you? Pull up a chair. I'm Truscus, Sam. You know my name. I know your name and all about you. Where you come from, your record. And why you're on the land. You know all about me too, huh? I've watched you. I had a confidential operative checking to your pedigree. But for... Well, frankly, because I need just such a person as you. For a certain adventure I'm involved in. What do you mean, just such a person as me? I wanted a man who's at home and shall we say unconventional activities. A man I can trust because he doesn't dare go to the police. Or even to the underworld. And I'm your man, I guess. You definitely are. Okay, let's go. I heard you agreed just like that. Without even discussing price or the nature of the work. You said I was your man. The fact is, Truscus, I'm your man and there's nothing I can do about it. This is our destination, Sam. He? In the middle of nowhere? Up that footpath over there say one-eighth of a mile to find a private lake. I own it. All right for you. There lies your first chore. Behind us on the floor of the car is a burlap sack. It's weight I would estimate is a hundred and eighteen pounds more or less. We've been riding the corpse around. We have. You have to carry the burlap bag and contents up that footpath to the lake and drop it in there. And without tears, Sam. Mind you, without tears. From this point on as the saying goes we're in business, Sam. What's the next event? Wedded bliss for you. Time to get married. You are. Tomorrow evening you'll call on your radiant bride to be at this address. Fifteen cantilever walks. Yeah. And try to look more cheerful, Sam. Love comes but wants into every man's life. I could hear Mr. Whiskers giving me the horse laugh somewhere as I climbed the steps to fifteen cantilever walks. Big grey stone as if someone had imported the sight of a mountain. Iron over every window. And glow me enough to give even a crepe hang in a St. Vitus dance. I rang the door buzzer. Do I kill the bride before or after the ceremony? Make yourself at home, Sam. Wander a bath. I'll see what's keeping your blessing bright. I wandered a bath with my eyes popping over the expensive layout. Whatever Tresca's game was, it wasn't penny ante. The joint screen, big stakes right down to the needle point footstool. Where did Mr. Whiskers figure in it? A minute later in the library I began to catch on a little. Mr. Whiskers was right in the game. There, sitting over the fireplace in a big gold frame. It was Mr. Whiskers. You like the portrait, Sam? Oh, yeah. Yeah, you ask. It's quite a painting. Who is Mr. Whiskers? Mr. Whiskers. As a trifle-ware reverent but an apt nickname. He was my brother Stephen. Was, huh? He's dead? You sound as if you were ready to dispute it. I just asked, is he dead? Very much so. Dead and buried. Your memory is a little odd, Sam. I'm sorry. Getting married is an idea I've got to get used to. Then meet your bride. That's one way of bringing the idea to roost. Constance. Sam, this is my niece Constance. Constance, this is your fiancee, Sam Tyler. Hello, Sam. Hello. Well, I'll leave you to get acquainted. You'll want to exchange premarital views on love and homemaking. I wasn't a blush in my blushing bride. Her cheeks were chalk white. Her face had the look of death. Like some creeping sickness that already called two strikes on her. I sat down at the piano. I stood watching her. Looks like you're stuck with me, kid. If Tresca has his way. Tresca will have his way. What's your angle, kid? Why is the niece of a million-dollar lay-out ready, willing, and able to marry a dead-beat ex-con and mug? I'm obliged to marry. What do you mean obliged to marry? The terms of my father's will. I inherit his estate at midnight tomorrow, only if I'm married. It's beginning to make some sense. Mr. Whisk is up there. Was your father? Yes. Why pick me? A mug your uncle brought home. Why not scout your own, dearly intended? I'm not well enough to know, Sam. I'm not well enough to live. Much longer. We shacked up in the big jail at 15 Cantilever Walk. I was the legal husband of an heiress, but I wasn't congratulating myself on my good luck. There was a hidden gimmick, Sam. I cried. I searched Connie's room. I found the hidden gimmick in a lady's handbag. The handbag was crammed with a usual junk girl's stock of powder case, lipstick, nail file, comb, plus a driver's license in the Christmas Club bank book. But they weren't in Connie's name. The name on them read Ann Powers. I got it as fast as I read the name. The girl was a ringer, another patsy in Tresca's game. You didn't feel too guilty, Sam. What? I left my handbag where you could find it. I had to look. Tresca killed his niece and hired you to stand in for her. Are you going to deny that? No. How did you come to fall in with Tresca? I was in a restaurant. Tresca came along and hired me. My life, Sam, every bit of it hadn't been good. I couldn't die leaving it all bad. You wanted to do one decent thing before you die. Yes, yes. You made the wish and Mr. Whiskers appeared and took you upon it. He sent you to Tresca and Tresca hired you. You're going to tell me that's what happened. You're hurting me. Is that what happened? Oh no. I don't know anything about this obsession you have with Mr. Whiskers. What good deed can we do around here, kid? Murdered his niece to steal the estate for himself. We're just pawns. Array for Tresca. Connie's father left the money to charity if his daughter failed to marry, refused to marry. She wanted the bundle to go to charity. Yes. To atone for her father's past. His life hadn't been much either. A million dollars to charity, that's a lot of squaring up. That could be all one decent act yours and mine, Sam. Make Tresca's scheme clear. Quiet and ambitious undertaking for newly wed. Tresca! Well now don't you two look at me as if I were another supernatural or alcohol visitation. I entered through a secret sliding panel on the north wall. I overheard your odd tater-tate simply by donning earphones the room is wide. You're almost a trick, huh? What's the gun for? What are guns for? There was a charge like stale air exploding. I spun around but didn't drop. This was where I had come in. Tresca like Nick could empty his gunpoint plank but he couldn't rub me out. It was exactly where I had come in there in front of me. Tresca was getting the same dose Nick got. His face was porcelain as if he was suffocating. As if some invisible someone had his hands around Tresca's throat. Having trouble with your breathing, Tresca? I can't breathe. He was on the floor rigid out for keeps like I'd seen Nick once. Is he dead? Deader than a doornail. We sat around the three of us. Tresca, the girl and me waiting for Mr. Whiskers. We sat all day and all night and through half the next day but Mr. Whiskers didn't show. Mr. Whiskers didn't show as if he never was. Sam. What? He exists only in your mind. For a man who died a year ago. How do you explain that to yourself? I don't explain it. Maybe Mr. Whiskers doesn't have to come anymore. His job is done. One last thing Sam? The cops. We tell them what gives in hand a million bucks over to charity. That's the one decent act of purpose that brought us here. It's the purpose that brought you here. I just hired out to Tresca for pay. What about that wish you made on the docks, kid? It was different on the docks. I was sick and broken, hopeless. I'm not broken, hopeless anymore. I can buy a cure. I can take a trip. Spend money. All kinds of money. I have a good time. I live in you. Then we shut up and keep the estate between us. Why not? In a way we earned it. No good, kid. I've got a promise I've got to keep. I promise to tomorrow. But if you can't keep that promise because I won't let you. What if I won't let you cheat me out of my way? What if I won't let you cheat me out of my one chance to live? Like this! The gun is no good. I don't kill, kid. You saw how I don't kill. That was before, Sam. You do. Short of a dying scribble. The girl was right. I did kill. No. That's the end of it, chief. What do you make of it? If I was to let the answer right itself at 15 candle level walk. Confession's the McCoy all right. That's Sam Tyler on the sofa. Triska on the floor. And there's the girl out cold. Still holding the gun. Got any pulse? No. She's dead. No visible cause, daily. Just dead. I'm getting her faint pulse and Tyler. Sam. Sam Tyler. Well, you the bully? Yes. The girl shot you and you just about bled to death. You know the whole story, Sam. So the girl got to do that blast, decent thing. The girl didn't do anything. Her heart blew out after shooting you. We read your confession down at headquarters. My confession? Yes. This five and dime notebook. Yeah, see it? It was tied to a rock and tossed through the window at headquarters. You wrote it, but what we want to know is who delivered it. I didn't write that confession mission. I didn't write it for delivery. You didn't write? And it was the girl. She had enough left to get downtown and get your story to us. It's not you. It had to be the girl. You'll have to ask Mr. Whiskers about that. If you're hurry, you might catch him somewhere. But between two worlds, jeez. That tax payer just told me the state of Illinois intends to mail a bill to Mr. Whiskers for that broken police station window. They're busy digging up a dead postman so he can speed delivery of the bill out of this world. Sad about Cheska, a perfect plot gone to pot because his brother, or local putt, wouldn't stay quiet. We invite you to join us again next week this time for Inner Sanctum. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio Service, The Voice of Information and Education.