 Good evening, friends. This is your host to welcome you through the creaking door into the inner sanctum. Come here. We're fishing the other day in troubled waters, dropped anchor five miles out of mine. We use the heaviest man in our party as an anchor, a really solid chap, will he, tips the attic beams at 275. In his toeless feet. We all had quite a rugged time of it with the monsters of the sea. Live bait wouldn't do so we tried dead bait. That cut our little fishing party in about half. Tonight's inner sanctum mystery, wind over murder, was written by John Robert and stars Edward Sloan in the role of Sam with Else with Eric as Hilda. And now for tonight's uneasiness. Have you ever watched an act of violence happening to somebody else? Someone robbed at gunpoint a brutal assault in a dark and lonely street. A screaming woman dragged into a waiting home of you. You want to intervene, come to the rescue, but your heart stops dead and a voice whispers inside you. No, Sam. No. Mind your own business. Don't interfere. You're not your brother's keeper, doll. I obeyed the voice in my head, the voice of caution. I didn't interfere. I just stood there frozen watching the car run away into the night. A heavy man in a loud plaid suit and a woman in summer cottons. A woman beaten unconscious and taken away in a car. Taken away to what fate, I wondered. I told myself I was an innocent bystander, deaf dumb and blind. Just a man waiting at a deserted station, minding his own business. But a deaf man doesn't let a woman scream enter his ears and lock itself in his mind. A blind man doesn't see and remember details or let the numbers of the license plates of the kidnappers' car. 4-8-2-6 burn into his brain. 4-8-2-6, 4-8-2-6. It was none of my business, but I have to tell someone about it. Someone, a policeman. I ran through the dark streets. It was a town in the suburbs. Everybody had gone to sleep. On Kensington Road, a tavern was still open. Gallagher's. I could hear cheap jukebox music scratching at the night. A man stopped me outside the door. That's all right, Mr. Merson. Please, I must pass. You know me? Sure. Everybody knows you, Sam Merson. You run the dry goods store by South Main Street. Why the mad dash into Gallagher's at this hour? You're that thirsty? No. Just now, down by the bus station. Another foot, Merson, and your jar has got to reach clear to the side now. That suit? What about my suit? Loud plans. A suit like... A suit like what? Nothing. Like absolutely nothing, I assure you. I'm confused, tired from a long day in the store for money. I must go home. Wait a minute, I'll buy you that drink. I didn't wait. I ran 10 blocks to a policeman closing his call box. Hey, officer. Yes? What's the matter, Merson? Well, I'll bring you to this side of town. Wait, please. My heart. Yeah, it's going like a trip hammer. I can hear it all the way over here. What's up? Another minute, please. First, light down the number 4-8-2-6. 4-8-2-6? Are you pulling some kind of practical joke at this hour and night? Joke? What joke? Write down 4-8-2-6. Write down my own shield number? 4-8-2-6 is your shield number? Feeling okay, Merson? I'm tired. I feel tired. Well, suppose you put yourself together and take a cab home, huh? Yes, pull myself together. I went home. What happened was none of my business. Numbers on cars and on policemen were none of my business. I was a simple man, and my life was a quiet one. A dry good shop, a wife, a garden behind the house. No clubs, no excitement. The balloon that ticks everywhere in the world. Crazy people after each other, and it was none of my business. I must not get involved. Yet, there was a number repeating itself in my head. And a cry still in my brain. At home, I didn't go to bed. I sat up all night in my clothes, wondering about the woman, wondering and worrying. In the morning, I sat down to breakfast with my wife, Hilda. Well, what's in the newspaper? News. No, I mean anything important. News to a bus, the Board of Education... No, no, not such news. I mean, had something maybe happened last night? To robberies at Cumberland Garage in the Davis Lumber Company. Is that all? All. Nothing worse than robbery? Sam, I don't understand. Yes, there's something worse. In Miradol Creek, the police found a dead body. Who was she? Well, who was she? Not she. He was a man, a stranger. The police could not identify him. Why did you think it was a she, Sam? Sam, what's the matter with you? Nothing. Nothing is the matter, and stop nagging me. Sam, what's come over you? The telephone. Let it ring. Let it ring. I don't want to be bothered with telephone calls this morning. Sam. Yes, Hilda? What are you afraid of? I'm tired. I had a bad night. You see, it stopped ringing. I'm going to take a rest. What about the store? It's closed. Today my store will be closed. All day and into the evening, I couldn't rest. I couldn't empty my mind and rest. She, where would the police find her body? I wondered, and who was she? Her mother, her sister, her sweetheart. And to whom? And when the people who loved her came to look on her face for the last time, was it for me, the innocent bystander to pass under them her last word? Help, help her to scream. No, I couldn't hide, afraid, like a murderer with a secret, like the murderer must be hiding himself. Where are you going, Sam? Out to report something. Take your raincoat and rubber, Sam. In the streets it was raining, big, splashing tears for the dead. The police station was a mile away. I started to cross the street. But slow, so slow, my legs, I was sitting so long, my legs were like strangers to me. With a car running at me, my legs were stiff and slow. I stared at the car, chained to the street, pushing my eyes out at the license plate, number 4826. Behind me I could hear my wife. She had followed me out. I came out of what felt like a thing, with Hilda's white face looking down on me. How bad is it, darling? I don't know, my, my side is dead. Then just stuck your side in your face. The car. It didn't stop, it kept on going. It stood there like you were inviting the accident. It wasn't the accident. The driver of that car meant to kill me. Then you're delirious. Come inside. I'll call Dr. Cooper. No, call nobody. Just... ...side the house. What time are you? Do as I say. I was lucky. Just my side, black and blue, was the whole injury. I soaked in a hot tub. And later I told Hilda the story. You see, I did nothing to save her, Hilda. I just stood paralyzed, deaf, dumb and blind. Blind yet I saw the license plate and my eyes wrote it on my mind. 4826. The number was 4826. Yield, Hilda, is a funny thing. The more you try to forget, the more you remember. A number like 4826 will come back to you in crazy ways, in crazy coincidences, one after another. You say the license number of the car was 4826. Yes. The car in which the woman was thrown unconscious. 48... Sam. Yes, Hilda. Hilda, what is it? 4826 is the license number of your car. Your car, Sam. Sam. Coincidences in numbers, like a crazy witchcraft. It was as if I had been picked to learn that there were no innocent bystanders, just cowardly bystanders, just guilty bystanders. Like the murderer, I too was guilty. But who had I killed? I had to find out. I had to know. In the morning I made an inquiry at the motor vehicle bureau. Yes, Mr. Masen? Numbers on license plates, Jimmy, can two cars have the same numbers, two different cars? It happens sometimes. The same numbers, but different letters. The letters designate the township the automobile has been registered in. Numbers may sometimes be the same, but the letters change. For example, the letter C means sooner than a township. D means one-blade township. My license plates have a Y in front of the number Y4826. Well, Y means this township. Did I clear something up for you, Mr. Masen? Yes, yes. Now, there's a favor I want to ask. All right. Y4826 is my car, but I have seen another car with 4826 on its plates. The letter I don't know. I must identify that other car in its owner. Can you find that out for me? I could, maybe. If what? Well, if, let's say, this car you're casing broke a law. Like it damaged your car and spread away, hit one time. Yes, yes. That's my reason. He, he did damage and didn't stop. Please, Jimmy. Have a seat for a while, Mr. Masen. There's one other 4826 in the county. X4826 registered in the next town, Salter. And the name of the owner? Well, I've written it on this slip of paper for you. The slip read Walter Demarest. Glamdale Walk, Salter. Salter was a residential town just next door to mine. I started to drive to Salter. Now I was closer to finding out about the murder I had done by letting a woman go to her death. A few blocks along on Everest Street, a light changed and I stopped. I waited, and suddenly my door opened. Oh, mind if I hit your ride, Dave, Mr. Masen? No, no, not at all. My plaid suit still got your papa in it. It is an unusual suit. A custom tailored. I picked the fabric out myself. Now the light's changing. You know me, but we were never introduced. Call me Richie. Richie Summers. You're a stranger in town? Yeah, kind of. Do you own a car? No, you don't. Well, if I did, would I be hitching rides? You small town is a sheer inquisitive. Any more questions? Before, when you hitched a ride, how did you pick my car? My car of all cars. I saw you coming out of the Motor Vehicle Bureau. I knew you were going my way. You are going my way, aren't you, Masen? What is your way, South Main Street? Right to your dry good still. It's been closed a day and a half now, I notice. Hey, you're not sticking to business, Masen. Your own business. I dropped him on South Main Street, and then when it was safe, I turned the car back to you. I thought you were a good man. South Main Street, and then when it was safe, I turned the car back toward Walter Demarest, Glendale Walk, Salt Air, a brass plate-red Walter Demarest, floral designs for all occasions. In the real acreage, there was a greenhouse. Walter Demarest grew flowers for all occasions, birds, anniversaries, and funerals. The car was there too. X4826, a black car, a make like mine, parked in the driveway under a maple tree. I watched into the twilight, into the first shadows of night, and I hid so that I wouldn't be detected like a criminal hides. And then I saw him come out and go to his car. A frail man with a business-like look carrying a small valise, a lady's overnight bag. Demarest drove for miles, with me not far behind. Two black cars, twins, both numbered 4826 and a grey children of possession. At the fork of a winding road beside a running stream, I watched him stop, get out of his car, and throw the overnight bag over the wall into the stream. He drove away, and I stayed. Here, deep instinct told me was where I would find my victim. The criminal always returns, and he had guided me to her. Somewhere here where a bag had been thrown into a stream was a steel figure in a cotton dress. All I had to do was find her. I found her. I combed the hard-frogged inch by inch, and then where the earth was loose and freshly turned, I found her. Broken and dead with the last outcry she had shouted into my brain, still rigid on her lip. Home, I stayed locked in my room for hours, unable to face Hilda, my wife, or myself. Away like this, you'll just drive yourself. Look, see this, Hilda? What is it, sir? A tear from a cotton dress, a swatch of brown cotton. But the dress wasn't brown, Hilda. When blood dries, it dries brown. Say no. And this pin... it was pinned to her dress near the throat. You should have seen the throat, Hilda. It was twice, five times the size, swollen from strangulation. Don't stop. I took these things from her grave, the swatch of cotton, the pin, even a handful of earth to carry in my pocket. Do you know why, Hilda? Do you? Why, sir? Why? For trophies. Like a hunter collects trophies, souvenirs of his victims, little remembrances, so that I shall never forget the first thing I killed. Son. Yes, Hilda. He told me things. Strange, frightening things these two days. About a heavy man in boxclads, about a woman, about a car, about crazy coincidences in numbers. I've listened and I've said nothing. My mind said a lot, but I said nothing. What did your mind say, Hilda? That you were a sick man, imagining sick things. My mind told me that. But tonight, coming from the garage, just now, looking at your souvenirs, my mind told me something else. What? That there was a woman in a cotton dress and that you, Sam Morrison, a quiet businessman and a good husband, murdered her. Coming from the garage, just now, you said, Hilda, what did you mean? Your car, Sam. Why, four, eight, two, six, I examine the back. On the floor, and on the seat, there are stains, big brown stains. When blood dries, it dries, dries. Somebody's at the door, Hilda. No, Sam. You better go see. Leave my door open, Hilda, like this, so I can see it here. I don't want to hide anymore. Go! See who's at the front door. Yes. I'm Officer McBride from headquarters. Mrs. Morrison, may I come in? Yes, come in. I'll tell you why I came, briefly. A young widow in town, Mrs. Harriet Apley, was reported missing a day or so ago. We found her a few hours ago in the woods near Chequesset River, murdered. And you came straight here to the miles? Well, the night Mrs. Apley disappeared, your husband was on the streets late, acting peculiarly. He ran up to me and he said a lot of things that didn't make any sense. Is Mr. Morrison home? My husband is not well. I asked, is he home? He's sick. He needs a doctor and not a policeman. My husband is sick. Sick, yes? My wife is telling you the truth, Officer McBride. I'm sick, yes. Sick like a murderer is sick. Sick with guilt. Oh, if you'll calm down a minute, my husband. Calm down! Can I with her scream, eating into my brain? Can a murderer ever know calm? How come murdered your young widow on the street this night? I, Sam Myerson, confess to murder. Arrest me. Oh, now, look. Arrest me! Myerson, if the doc says your husband will get back to normal, all right? But it'll take some time. Sam has time. And I have time. Ah, sure. Still, I should have told him right off that he was being framed by guys out to shut him up. That might have cleared his mind and steadied him. My husband. A quiet proprietor of a dry good store. A man who never bothered anybody. Should be the victim of a frame-up. Well, they never intended for Sam to face charges, Mrs. Myerson, or anything like that. They were just out to scare him enough so he'd forget what he happened to see that murder night. You see, it was a jealousy murder. This florist, a demerit, he imported a New York killer to help murder and dispose of his two-timing sweetheart. Still, in a way, it was a lucky thing for your husband. The florist broke under the strain and formed a confession at headquarters. Or Sam would face murder charges. And conviction. The way he planted clues like a blood-soaked car seat kept pointing toward him. And the way even coincidence was building its own trap around him. The way Sam had already convicted himself. Coincidence, you said, officer. Those numbers. The way they matched. Was that only coincidence? Maybe not. Maybe, like I heard Sam telling the doctor in there, it all happened the way it happened to prove the whole point of Sam's experience. That everyone in the world is his brother's keeper. That there are no innocent bystanders to murder. Only guilty bystanders. Poor Sam finally went all numb. Making with the numbers. A homicidal florist threw Sam a bouquet of forget-me-nots. Other Sam almost killed him. Some joker once remarked, murder is where you find it. And Sam went right out of his mind looking for it. Imagine confessing to another guy's crime. It's getting so everybody wants to get into the act. Even if it means curtain. For another inner sanctum mystery. The program was heard in the United States over CDS, the Columbia Broadcasting System, and has been rebroadcast for service men and women overseas. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio Service. The voice of information and education.