 Listen, that whistle is your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler, rated tops in popularity for a longer period of time than any other West Coast program. And signal gasoline is tops too, tops in quality. It takes extra quality, you know, to give you extra mileage. And signal is the famous Go Farther gasoline, available wherever you see the signal circle sign in yellow and black that identifies independent signal dealers from Canada to Mexico. I'm the Whistler, and I know many things for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. And now the Whistler strange story. Cover up. As the coal gray dawn broke over the fog-shrouded coastal village of Benton Coal, death came to the big house on the hill. Moments after the chimes of the hall clock had echoed six times through the silent house. A door along the upstairs corridor closed quietly. And Joan Harper, white-faced, nervously twisting a handkerchief in her fingers, moved slowly down the great circular stairway. At the foot of the stairs she stopped, looked back over her shoulder for an instant, and then hurried into the library. As she picked up the phone, placed her call with the operator, her thoughts raced back to a moment two years ago, to a bright, warm spring morning in the garden when David Blaine had come to her. Hi, I'm David. Over here. Hard at work, I see. Well, all these plants certainly do need a lot of care. I don't suppose you'd be interested in some spade work, Mr. Blaine? Oh, it might be. Good. After that, I'll have something else for you to do. The hedge along the- Joan. Yes, David. I suppose you couldn't help over hearing that growl upstairs. Well, Adele's voice has a way of... No use, Joan. I've tried to make it work, but it just won't. I'll be leaving in a day or two, moving into an apartment in Los Angeles. I see. Of course, there'll be no divorce. If Adele was well and strong, that would be another matter, but she isn't, and well, I just- I know, David. I'll do all I can for Adele, of course. Adele has more than enough money to take care of everything. I just can't stay on here any longer. It wouldn't be good for Adele, either. You understand why I can't stay, don't you, Joan? Yes, I understand. David, I... Nothing. It's nothing. Yes, that was two years ago, wasn't it, Joan? Two long years. Yet you remember it well, don't you? You understood then quite clearly why it was impossible for him to stay here at the house, and at that moment you wanted to tell David that you were in love with him, too, but you couldn't, and you told yourself it would all work out for the best this way. David would go away, and there would be no divorce. Your sister Adele would always stand between you as long as she lived. Now, two years later, you're placing a call to David to tell him that Adele is dead. David, this is Joan. Joan, this is a surprise. How are you? David, I've been trying to reach you for the past two hours. Seeing someone off, you know, just this minute got back to the apartment. Joan, is something wrong? It's Adele. She's dead. Yes, sometime during the night. She shot herself. David, she was expecting you last night. Drive down this morning. I see. All right, David, you'll hurry? Yes. Yes, I'll leave right away. Your hand is trembling as you replace the receiver. There's a tight, hard knot in your throat. A mere sound of his voice can do that, can't it, Joan? But there's something else. David's manner, his excuse about not coming down, and that vague feeling that has persisted ever since you were awakened by the gunshot, in that confused, half-awake state. It sounded as if there was someone on the back stairs hurrying away, but you couldn't be sure. The thought keeps running through your mind now as you wait for David while you answer the many questions of Sheriff Quinn, and then it's all swept away as you meet David. And in the days that follow, you call yourself foolish for letting your imagination run wild. David helps with everything after he arrives, and you stand side by side at the funeral attended by a large gathering of friends, villagers. And when it's over, you walk from the family crypt down the tree-shaded path toward the road, in the waiting car. David? Yes. Have you made any plans about going back to the city? No, nothing definite. How about you, Joan? Oh, I suppose I'll stay on at the house with Mrs. Hastings. Joan. Yes? Who, who's that man walking up ahead, the one of the trench coat? Oh, that's Mark Quinn. He's the sheriff here. Sheriff? I see. Are they young, isn't he? Yes. Very capable, they say. Why do you ask? Oh, I, I couldn't help noticing doing the services back there. He seemed to take it all pretty badly. I've seen that look on a man's face before. Hard, drained of all color, little angry. Getcha know he's crying inside. He was in love with the devil, wasn't he? Yes, ever since high school. They were engaged once. Then I came along. Is that it? That's it. You know, I had a haunt. She was something like that. I suppose he blames me for what's happened. Of course not, David. He didn't come around to offer his condolences. Perhaps he's going to do that now. What? He stopped at the gate I think he's waiting for him. Oh, yes, I think he is. Oh, Joan. Hello, Mark. I don't suppose I'm the first to say this, but well, if there's anything I can do. Thank you, Mark. Oh, you've never met David, have you? Hello, Mark. We met a long time ago, Mr. Blaine. I don't suppose you remember. I, uh, I was at the wedding. Oh, I see. Sorry, I... That's quite all right. Some people have a memory for faces. Others don't. I happen to have. Although, sometimes it plays tricks on me. That's so? Take the other night, for instance, Tuesday night. The night that Mrs. Blaine died. I could have sworn I saw you getting off the train here at the depot. Oh? Caught only a glimpse of the face. I was mistaken, of course. You couldn't have been on that train. No, I didn't arrive till the following morning. I drove down. Well, I know you're anxious to get back up the hill, Joan. I won't keep you. Remember if I can be of any help. What? Oh, yes, thank you, Mark. The fear has swept over you once again, hasn't it, Joan? The fear that points a finger of suspicion to David. And you wonder if Mark really did see David at the depot Tuesday night. Wonder if Mark actually believes he was mistaken. As you drive back to the house, you wonder too about the footsteps you thought you heard on the back stairs the same night. You don't want to think about it. Try to force it from your mind, but you can. And you're afraid that what you suspect is true, that David was in the house the night your sister died. When you return to the house, you leave David downstairs in the library. Hurry up to your room. Pick up the phone. Moments later, you're talking to the telephone operator at David's business office. I'm sorry, Mr. Blaine is out of town. Oh, oh, yes, I remember now. He said something about going down to Benton Cove of when did he leave? He left Tuesday on the afternoon train. Tuesday afternoon? You're Satan? Yes, I'm quite certain. I made the reservation myself. I see. Thank you. He was here that night. David was here. With the prologue of cover-up, the signal oil company brings you another strange tale by the Whistler. But first a word about the amazing growth of signal oil company from a mere handful of stations in Southern California into a coast wide organization serving six western states from Canada to Mexico. That growth has in large measure been due to one policy, which signal has followed consistently for 17 years to make each product that bears the name signal even better and better. That goes not only for signal gasoline and signal premium compounded motor oil, but also for signals line of fine quality automotive accessories. For instance, take signals new deluxe batteries. Unlike ordinary batteries, which are guaranteed for only 12 or 18 months, signal deluxe batteries are guaranteed for a full 30 months on a service basis. And their improved all rubber separators, the finest type known to battery engineering, make signal deluxe batteries deliver up to 35% more power. So whether it's long life or dependable trouble-free performance you're interested in, you'll be wise to see your signal dealer before you buy any battery. Compare the low cost per month of a signal deluxe battery. Compare the generous trade-in signal dealers are now offering for old batteries. Compare their convenient credit terms. You'll see why from any angle today's best battery buy is the signal deluxe battery sold only at signal service station. And now back to the Whistler. There's little doubt in your mind now, is there, John? David was in the house the night a del died. You suspect the terrible reason as you wonder why he lied to you. You're afraid to think about it, afraid of what it can mean. You pace up and down the room for hours fighting the horrible thoughts that keep creeping into your mind. Finally, there's a knock on the door. Mrs. Hastings, the house can forever. Dinner will be ready in about an hour, Miss Jones. Dinner? Oh, I-I don't- Mr. David was wondering if you'd like to join him in the library for a cocktail? No. No, I-I don't think I'll come down tonight, Mrs. Hastings. I'm not feeling well. You really should have something, Miss Jones. I'll be all right. Perhaps after I rest a while. Very well. A moment after Mrs. Hastings leaves, you slip quietly down the back stairs, out into the cool night air, and start down the road to the village. You can't bear to face David now, can you? Not until you've had more time to think. You keep telling yourself it's all a horrible mistake. You're confused. That it'll all work out somehow. Then as you cross the small wooden bridge, a short distance from the house, you hear someone call. Oh, hello. Out for a little stroll? Oh, Mark. What are you doing here? Thought I'd take in a little night air. Beautiful evening, isn't it? Yes. Yes, it is. Going, uh, down the village? Uh, yes. Mind if I go along? No, of course not. I'm, uh, I'm sort of glad I ran into him. Oh. Yes, I've been wanting to talk to you about Adele. Of course, if you'd rather I didn't. No, no, it's quite all right, Mark. What? When you found her, you didn't touch anything. The gun, for instance. Gun? Oh, I know. No, I didn't even notice it until later after Dr. Kempston had arrived. It had fallen from her hand. Why do you ask? Well, there's something rather odd about the fingerprints on it. Adele's prints. What do you mean? The position of the prints is rather unusual. It would seem more like that gun had been placed in her hand than the hand had been closed tightly around the handle to make the print. Oh, I see. It doesn't seem natural to me the way the gun was held. Oh. But then, who knows? I guess it's entirely possible. Mark, I don't believe I'll go down to the village after all. I just remembered something. Oh. I'll have to go back to the house. You go on. Something important? Yes. Yes, it's quite important. Suddenly, you've made up your mind, haven't you, John? Yes. You've got to see David right away. You've got to know for certain. You hurry back to the house, to the library. David isn't there. You go on up to his room. Knock on the door. No answer. David. David? You call his name softly, but sensing as you do that he's not in the room. And knowing too that you're glad you don't actually have to face him. Then your eyes move to the top of the bureau, to a letter addressed to David. Your hand moves to it slowly, mechanically. And even as you tell yourself that it's wrong, you take the letter from its envelope, stare at the first page, at the letter head of doctors Ferguson and Dunby, physicians and surgeons. You know at once that old Dr. Ferguson, the executor of Adele's father's estate, wrote that letter. That isn't important, is it, John? It's what he tells David in the first paragraph. A brief paragraph, but so very important. And so, David, I feel at my duty to advise you that in the event of Adele's death, prior to yours, and while a state of marriage still exists, all of the monies and property involved in your late father-in-law's estate are bequeathed to you. Oh, no. Oh, David. Oh. I didn't know you were here. Oh, I thought David, uh, have you seen him? I believe he's out in the garden, Miss. Said something about taking a turn before dinner. I see. Thank you, Mrs. Hastings. You tremble as you go downstairs and out into the garden. It was wrong of you to be in David's room. Wrong to take his letter. But somehow you couldn't help it. And those words keep blurring in your mind as you walk quickly toward the Rose Arbor. David had a motive to kill her, didn't he, John? A strong one. And no matter how hard you try to fight down your fears, they persist. Suddenly, you're aware of David's voice. You step back, stand behind the protection of the Rose Arbor, listening as he questions old Ben in the garden. Don't say it, Ben. You didn't do as you were told that night. Well, Mr. David, I didn't mean to go against Miss Adele's wishes, but I was tired. I saw no reason why I should go into town. But all the other servants did go into town. Yes, sir. If only we had known what poor Miss Adele was planning to do to herself. It might have been prevented, yes. I thought I was wondering about Ben. From your cottage. Didn't you hear the shot? Yes, but I thought it was only a car backfire. You didn't go out to look around in the yard? You mean there might have been someone here, Mr. David, that it might not have been suicide? I'm asking the questions, Ben. Did you see or hear anyone? No, sir. No, sir. I didn't... That's all I want to know. But I guess there could have been someone, Mr. David. I had no idea anyone even suspected... No one does, Ben. Forget it. Forget we even discussed the matter. The tone of David's voice frightens you, doesn't it, Joan? You draw back into the shadows as the two men start away toward old Ben's cottage. Then you turn and hurry back to the house. Enter the library. The letter still clasped in your hand. You want to read that terrible, frightening paragraph again, but David suddenly calls your name. Joan! Joan! You whirl around, frantically wondering if he saw you, knows that you were listening outside. Then as you hear him coming toward the library, you remember the letter, know that you was tidied. You turn hurriedly, slip the letter behind a heavy oil painting on the mantelpiece. There you are, Joan. I've been wanting to talk to you. I was in the garden. Oh? David, is there anything special you want to tell me? Quite... yes. Joan, when everything is cleared up here, I'll be going away again. If I sent for you, say, in six months, would you come to me? I don't know, David. You don't know? No. No, I don't, David. It seems there are more important things we should be talking about. More important things? What could be more important than you and I? You know why I went away the first time. You must know now that I'd do anything for you. Yes, I... I believe you would do anything. What are you talking about, Joan? David, where were you the night Adele died? I told you. I was in Los Angeles. Joan, where are you going? Leave me alone, David. I've got to think. Goodness, Miss Joan, you've scarcely touched your breakfast. I'm sorry, I don't want any more. My dear, you simply must calm yourself. I know you didn't sleep at all well last night. Mrs. Hastings, I'm going to drive into town. If you have to reach me for any reason, I'll be at Dr. Ferguson's office. All right, Miss Joan. May I help you? I'm Joan Harper. I wanted to see Dr. Ferguson. Were you a patient of his? No, but you say he looked after my sister and handled her affairs. Dr. Ferguson passed away last week. Is this... Yes, pneumonia. Oh, I see. Could Dr. Dunby help you? No, no, I'm afraid not. It wasn't anything important anyway. Thank you. Yes, Mrs. Hastings? Goodness, Miss Joan, I didn't know whether to call you or not. But Mr. David has decided to leave. He's upstairs packing. Packing? No. Yes, I didn't know if he discussed it with you or not. It all seemed so sudden. I'll go up. David. Oh, it's you, Joan. I thought you... David, why are you going away? I told you. But only last night. You said you were going to wait until everything was cleared up. Everything's as clear as it'll ever be, Joan. Look, I just can't say why, but... Yes, David? Well, I can't stand it around here. This house, the memories. Is that all that bothers you, David? Joan, I wish that... In a minute, Mrs. Hastings. I'm sorry, but Sheriff Queen is downstairs. There's a man with him. He insists on seeing Mr. David. Sheriff. Oh, David, David. I'll go talk to him. No. I want to go with you, David. We'll talk to him together. Going down the stairs, you take his hand, grasp it tightly, reassuringly. But all the time, the fears of the past few days pound in your brain, telling you exactly what's going to happen when you walk into the living room with David to confront Sheriff Mark Quinn. Oh, uh, morning, Joan. Sorry to disturb you. It's all right, Mark. I understand you want to talk to David. Yes. Um, Mr. Blaine, this is Joe Larkin. Oh? Hey, hey, hey. Don't remember, I guess, Sheriff. The night your wife was killed, Mr. Blaine, Larkin's here was on a freight train that passed through Benton Cove on its way to Los Angeles. It's him all right. Can't be no mistake. He swung on the train, rode up to LA, and hopped off. Oh, David. Blaine, I had to hunch all along. You were in town. The night your wife was shot. Now I'd go a step further and say you were in this house. David, oh, David, tell them it isn't true. Tell them you never saw this man before. I'm sorry, Joan. There's no use pretending any longer. He saw me all right. I was on that freight. And I was here that night with Adele. The Whistler will return in just a moment with a strange ending to tonight's story. Meantime, since thorough scientific lubrication is even more important to your car during the rainy season, I'd like to tell you about some of the extras you get in a signal-loop job. You see, signal dealers, being in business for themselves, do go out of their way to give you the kind of job they're proud to stand back out. That's why, for instance, they take no chances on memory when they lubricate your car. Instead, they check against Signal's factory-recommended lubrication chart, which shows every lubrication point on your car. And they use nine specialized signal oils and greases, so each part will have the exact type of protection it needs. But do they stop there? No, sir. Just to make doubly sure not a single part has been overlooked, they check each point again, which is why it's called signal double-check lubrication. Now that's the kind of lube service you want if your car is to give you the long, trouble-free service that was built into it. And that's the kind of lubrication you get from friendly, independent signal dealers. And now back to the Whistler. It's all over, isn't it, John? In David's own words, there's no use pretending any longer. And you look from him to the quiet, accusing face of Sheriff Mark Quinn. There's no doubter question. David was in the house on the night Adele died. He had every reason to kill her. You know that from what you read in the letter you hid behind the painting on the mantelpiece. It can mean only one thing. David is guilty. And then you're suddenly aware of his voice, speaking quietly, futilely, telling Sheriff Quinn another version of what happened the night he came here to see Adele. I suppose there's a little use telling it. I knew how it would sound then. That's why I ran. Ran? You saw me all right that night at the station, Sheriff. I came down on the train. Adele had phoned that afternoon, asked me to come. Said she'd arranged for us to be alone so we could talk, get things straightened out once and for all. When I arrived at the house in Adele's room, she was dead. Go on, Mr. Blaine. She asked me to come here to frame me or not. Anyway, the gun was lying on the floor beside her. I picked it up without thinking. Then I realized I was going to look. I wiped the gun off, thrust it back into Adele's hand. Oh, David. An interesting story, Blaine. It's true. You knew about it, Quinn. It was all in that letter of Dr. Ferguson. Now, wait a minute. I don't know anything about any letter. You took it, Quinn. Knowing it would have saved me. Dr. Ferguson's letter. David, what are you saying? That letter makes everything worse. Your motive. Do you know anything about any letter, Joan? Yes, I... I hid it. Here, behind this picture, I'll get it. Joan, you did this for me? Oh, I knew it was wrong, David, but I couldn't help it. I just knew you didn't do it. I hid it to help you. Give me that letter. You didn't read it at all, did you, Joan? I read enough. Read the second page, Sheriff. That last paragraph. I tell you these things, David, because of the situation existing between you and your wife Adele. And because my most recent examination shows that she has less than a month to live. David? Well, I... I guess that does it, David. Nobody would kill someone who had only a month to live. Sorry, I caused you so much trouble. Oh, David. And I almost burned that letter. Let that whistle be your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. Each Sunday night at this same time, brought to you by the Signal Oil Company, marketers of signal gasoline and motor oil, and fine quality automotive accessories. Signal has asked me to remind you to get the most driving pleasure, drive at sensible speeds, be courteous, and obey traffic regulations. It may save a life, possibly your own. Featured in tonight's story were Lorette Phil Brandt and Netla Fever. The Whistler was produced and directed by George W. Allen, with story by Lewis Hampton and music by Wilbur Hatch, and was transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. Remember at this same time next Sunday another strange tale by the Whistler. Marvin Miller speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.