 I was a communist for the FBI. I was a communist for the FBI. I was a communist for the FBI. The incidents and the story you're about to hear are based on the actual records and authentic experiences of Matzavetek, who for nine fantastic years live as a communist for the FBI. Here is our star, Dana Andrews, as Matzavetek. Nine years, from citizen with nothing to conceal, to spy, conspirator, confident of rogues and traitors, fugitive and decent man and tormenter of the righteous, then free citizen again. Nine years of fear and desperation, but of service too, and sometimes inspiration, new beliefs in a human family. I'm glad it all happened. In a moment, listen to Dana Andrews as Matzavetek, under cover man. Dana Andrews as Matzavetek, under cover man. This story from the confidential file is marked, forged faces. I make my hourly check with communist headquarters from a good soundproofed pay station. I get Comrade Revchinko on the phone, as usual abrupt and insulting self. I'm in the middle of a counter-insult, which I've found the best defense against Revchinko's insolence, when he interrupts me to put another comrade on the phone. I wait, preparing a cold and hostile manner. I've got to do that to preserve some self-respect among the comrade. I wonder who this new comrade will be, to have inspired tones of respect from Revchinko. I wait and then... Comrade Stetek? Oh. What do you mean by oh? A lady comrade. I suppose I should be flattered that you distinguish me as a lady. Something in the voice. I want you to meet me tonight. Say when? Say where? Are you familiar with the suburbs, Ottawa Heights? Some of my best friends are Ottawa's. Meet me at the circle. My car will be parked about a hundred feet south of the circle traffic light. When? Our appointment is for 10 p.m. so meet me at my car at 9.30. What appointment at 10 p.m.? A beautiful one for a lady and her gentlemen. Goodbye, comrade Stetek. Goodbye to you, comrade question mark. Benedetta. Benedetta. Lady like? Comrade Stetek? Benedetta, Benedetta. A strange, almost affected name, but one that goes with a licked voice on the telephone. At 9.30, I'm cruising slowly through the better area of our best suburb. I locate the circle and the dark shadow of a single car park this side of the traffic light. I stop behind the dim car and turn off my lights and get out. Walk to the other car. The woman is behind the wheel. Overhanging trees block off the light from the corner. The woman is nearly a form and an outline in the darkness. A veiled face without detail. Only an exquisite voice named Benedetta. Get in. That's very good. We'll talk a moment and then keep our appointment. Go ahead. With Dr. Victor Perkins. A professional visit? Yes. At this hour? At this hour. Special appointment. Dr. Perkins' specialty is one that may be very useful to party one day. Access to the key history files of a high-ranking doctor like Perkins could be invaluable to us. Blackmail, etc. Do we invite him to join the party? We can tell him to join. Or else what? A few years ago, Dr. Perkins operated on a man whose face had been badly injured in a feminine explosion. A man named Macklin. Then he performed a miracle of surgery to restore humanity to Macklin's shattered face. Oh, plastic surgeon. Perkins didn't know that Macklin was a dangerous criminal. You and I are now prepared to present proof that he did know it. And that for a large fee, performed the operation for a shotgun wound. Without informing the police. Blackmail. In order to use him and to blackmail others through his files, I present myself as a patient. He will come out to talk to my anxious and attentive husband. Namely you. And while you detain him, I plant certain incriminating papers in his file. You're Mrs. Matthew Savetti? Yes, I was involved in an accident with fire. Where are you? Why do you suppose I was chosen for this job? Why do I wear a veil and go out on midnight? I'm sorry. You find it difficult, if not impossible, to discuss it. Even with my physician. You'll understand. I'll have done most of the explaining. There we go. I'm ready when you are, wife. A housekeeper admits Benedetta to Dr. Perkins' elegant office while I wait in the reception room. My mind remains obsessed and possessed with an image of Benedetta. Tall and graceful and somehow electric in her almost totally black costume. I wait ten minutes and Dr. Perkins comes out straight, gentle and serious. Mr. Svedic? Please sit down. If I may have a word with you before Mrs. Svedic comes out. Please, Doctor. I've already shown your wife this, this book with some of the restorations I've succeeded in making. I don't make very broad claims, Mr. Svedic. You mean so far as my wife is concerned? In anything. I understand completely. No promises, no claims. Only the record of performance. I think the cases represented in this book are a fair example of what you may have some right to expect if you'd care to glance through it. Oh, yes, I would. Not very pretty, you see. No. But if one turns the page, you see. Well, that's not the same woman. It is. And thank you. Good luck with us, Doctor. That's for you and Mrs. Svedic to discuss. Oh, I see. Well, uh, what do I owe you this far? Mrs. Svedic took care of that, thank you. So, why can't you take it after me later? It's been too good of you, Doctor. Well, I'm here to be helpful. I know. You'll hear better from us, Doctor. And remember about the photograph if you decide, won't you? Yes, Doctor. Well, good night, Dr. Praveen. Good night. The enchantment of a romantic situation in my early reading in the fragrance of dark perfume is one thing. The witches' broth of blackmail that I've helped start bubbling is another that I have no take for. Part of Perveen's is a decent and useful and gifted citizen and a comrade. They figure a way to turn his heart and his mercy to their corrupt end. And where does it ever stop? Who's safe? Not you, not me, not Tom, not Dick, not Harry, not anyone great or small. That's the eye contact of progress today. You all finished eating that? No appetite after eating my heart out. It's an unusually interesting case, man. Famous, blackmail, but so sparkling. Yeah, that presents an interesting question and maybe some answers. Why is a communist? Why do they fall for it? You take this Benedetta. Because of some mysterious accident, fire, she says. Why not? It's communism for self-justification, revenge on society. I don't know. But that fire or whatever it was was sure a dirty break for Dr. Victor Pervance. Huh? Benedetta, where have you been? Long time no see. Never mind. I'll see you tonight. Say when, say where, say how. Pick me up in front of my hotel at 10 tonight. The graveyard just again. What do you know about photography? Indeed I can. Bring whatever you need. Okay? Important. Understand? Five. A fairly decent camera beside me and a gadget bag will have impressive attachments. I pick up Benedetta at the agreed time. Then with Benedetta navigating, we steer for the suburbs again. This time to a broken, abandoned place overlooking the sea. I mean always there. My lady in black tells me to stop the car on a nubby dirt road and we go up creaking steps into the cavernous house haunted by us. In here. What about a light? No. Is this your beach house? No. Then I won't ask if it's your furniture, especially since there isn't any. A bookshelf against the wall. No books. And no light. Don't you fool. How foolish is it for me to ask if Comrade Rev Chinco considers this in line as party duty? The ocean is so beautiful. Especially by moonlight. Especially if you have a clear title to the house. Golfing nipples. Draining a sea. Sapphire by day. Darkest space by night. We follow. If I could only forget a laugh. What about this photography now? Behind the bookcase. I will hold a flashlight for you. I go to the bookcase and go behind it. I pull out a large flat portfolio. The kind artists keep their work in. Open it. I open it. There's nothing inside. It's gone. Whatever it was. It was there. I know it was there. Well, tell me what. Benadette. Benadette. It's been missing from the museum today. I took it. You took it? Don't attend, but it was me. And what needs mine is not so. It's not true. Benadette, listen to me. Gone. It's no good to me. Gone. It's useless to me. It's hopeless. I was going to put it back. I just wanted a picture of it. That's all. That's all. You believe me? Yes. There are no photographs of it. It's the condition of the gift. Do you understand? Yes, I do. We'd better get out of this place and get her. It's badly haunted. Starring as Matt Sepetick. And I was a communist for the FBI. And the second act of our story. Benadette is cold lit soared again when I dropped her off at her hotel. I watched her from the car as she ducked her head out in the desk like this. Still trying to hide her veil face from the elevator man at the elevator door's hide-and-seek sight. Then I break a strict FBI rule. I call my FBI contact at his hotel. Covering up as much as we can with our pre-arranged double talks. But adding up to a midnight conference in his room. Shouldn't have come here, Matt. You know that. I shouldn't have a shake here, but I had. And having you and Dr. Furvey? Whatever new torment the comrades have figured out one is in others' room in his hand. I'm personally grateful for that. Tell me about the girl now. Well, she dragged me out to a lonely beach house. Apparently, a photograph of painting of herself. But she'd stolen from the local museum. She must have been quite a girl in her pre-veil-wearing days. Old call. Uh, Shelley 938 Oldies. Who? Tinkin Boyce. Who? The director of the Arthur's games. I want to know if that painting of Benedetta's really been stolen. Or if it exists at all. It could have been fantasy. We get Tinkin Boyce out of bed. And we get an embarrassed admission that establishes one thing at once. Benedetta isn't out of her mind yet. In his study, Boyce tells me about Benedetta. Richard Warner painted it years ago. His incredibly beautiful and fascinating wife. Oh, if Richard Warner had only lived. Why didn't he? He was taking his wife to the desert for her health. And his private plane crashed in Arizona. Richard Warner died in the wreck. What about his wife? Vamish. Tim A. Now, um, I have kept the test of the painting from the newspapers until several Warner are out. Richard's surviving brother, the donor of the painting. Is he arriving? He's here. Where? Why? Do you want the painting back or not? Well, certainly I want it back. Invite Warner for dinner tomorrow. No, I have not spoken to him in years. Now I'm afraid to. You don't want the painting back, is that it? Yes. Well, invite him for dinner. So he'll be away from home when I want to get in. And let's have his address. The door is unlocked. The deal isn't there. But the door is unlocked because somebody has been there before me with a key. I look all over for any portfolio that might hold a small foil painting. Nothing. Seville Warner's personal effects pay off better. In a worn leather document space, I find a note written on blue paper in a woman's graceful but strong hand. My dear Richard, you know by now it's the accident under the tragic. I am well, but I must never see you again, Mrs. White. We were not flying here for my health. We were in love. We were running away. But now that he's dead, I cannot return to you. I know how this will shock and hurt you. Forgive me. Then again. Who turned out the light? Who is it? Did you find the painting? No. Did you? You were here before, weren't you? No. I didn't find it. Where is it? Now wait. Listen to me. Where is it? This will be about a private plane that crashed and burned in Arizona years ago. Fine. Fine. Take it easy. You and your husband crashed and burned. Yes. I see it now. Only the papers made a natural mistake. No, there was no mistake. The man with you on that trip wasn't your husband. It's a lie. The authorities positively identified the body of Richard. For 10 days after the wreck, you write a note to your husband, who was supposed to have been killed in the wreck. No. Who was really the man in the plane with you? You've no right to insult me, so the authorities... Quiet. Thank you for the light, Mr. Warner. Who are you? You broke into a beach house last night. Who are you, I say? You stole an oil painting by Richard Warner. Indeed. You followed the woman who had hidden the painting in that beach house. You broke in and you took it. Simple. Why? Simple. It was mine. The painting is at this moment safely back in the museum. If it is, you took it back. Of course. Why? Who's the veiled lady you followed to the beach house? Why can't you let that pass my bearing? I can't. Let it just lie. Sit down. Here. Benedetta was your wife. Yes. You are not Seville Warner, brother of the man who married and who painted Benedetta. But that man himself, you're Richard. Benedetta's husband. Yes. The man killed in the wreck was your brother. It was my inspiration. Benedetta. She became ill. Nothing serious. I was painting in the teetons. I told Seville to take her to the desert for a few weeks. They crashed. I received that note from Benedetta, saying she'd been running away with Seville, pleading for forgiveness. The authorities took the charred body in the wreckage for you. Yes. And you just left it that way. You became your own brother. And something else. When I gave up my own identity, I shed a reptile skin. Richard Warner had been a communist, hating communism, praying for escape. When I took the identity of my dead brother, I was free of communism. They would let me alone. What good to communist is a dead comrade. I had lost my beloved wife. I had also shed the reptile skin. The very cream of the dust, eh? Perhaps. When the painting vanished, I knew she must have taken it. Did you know why? She always loved it so. Is that a good bourgeoisie motive for robbery? I couldn't let the police hunt her down like a beast. I came back to find the painting and return it. Welcome to it and welcome back. Comrade Warner? No. Welcome. Look out. Get out or I'll kill you. Good night, comrade. My soul were dead enough to shoot you. It's hard to take awful hard, but I take it. Somehow I've got to keep Warner lost to the party and use it to lose Benedetta to the party as well. I keep myself covered all the time if my plans misfire. I don't want Benedetta reporting me to the control commission. But she's in the kitchen in her husband's apartment. No, no she isn't. There's a tall veiled figure at the elevators and I start running and pulling her away just as she's about to press the button for the down car. Benedetta! Let me alone, please, please let me alone. Listen, you've got to go back there. How can I? You don't understand. How can I? Wait, go back, but don't fall for his talk. He'll tell you he loves you. Richard, still loves me? But don't listen to it for his forgiveness. Don't listen to him. A traitor and a renegade to the party. What? Go back, yes. But tell him you're in the party now and summon him to return to the party or face the consequence. He loves me. He forgives me. But a renegade to the party. And there's nothing to forgive. I never betrayed him. That letter was a lie for his sake. He loved my beauty so, and look at it. You wanted to see? See, my girl's beauty. The most beautiful Benedetta. The face my husband loved. Look. Her loved hand ripped away the veil. I stopped breathing. My stomach jumped and made cold and still. It wasn't a face. It was something dead and ancient, something volcanic. Something that had been quite hot and fluid once, and then had cooled and deglazed and tortured planes and ridges. Benedetta's face was a horror. But her eyes were beautiful and he was crying. That's why you lied to your husband. The beauty he loved. You can't. I became this shattered. I understand. Go to him. I want you to see how a traitor to the party deserts everything. Abandons everything. You are a swan. I will go. I'll go with you. We'll see. He loves you, he says. If I'm wrong about this, I think God help us all. Man's soul is wet and is pledged over a mockery. And love is a smear. And treachery and corruption are in the seats of judgment. If I'm wrong. You've been hurt. Hurt? Yes. That's right. Only hurt. You should have told me. Only hurt a little. There are doctors now for this. I know. We'll find one for you. Richard. I have found one. I'm not wrong. When I leave them, they don't know I've left. They're weeping in each other's arms. In love, never out of love come fire and party displeasure. And Richard Warner, ex-communist, can tell Dr. Purvin's plastic surgeon the contours of a new and living portrait of Benedetta. Ex-communist. Shield clear, Purvin. Me? I can't help it, can I? If the party can't hold its members against bourgeois sentiments and faith and the fire-proof qualities of man's soul. After all, the party still has me. Oh, yes, indeed. I'm a communist for the FBI. I walk alone. Andrews will return in just a moment. The play you've just heard is only one of many, just as unusual, all based in facts. Places, people, and other data are changed to protect the innocent. Like other stories in this series, this story was based on incidents and the experience and knowledge of Matt Severick, who works undercover for the FBI. Be with us next week for another exciting adventure in this amazing series. Thanks.