 I was a communist for the FBI. Starring Dana Andrews in an exciting tale of danger and espionage. I was a communist for the FBI. From the actual records and authentic experiences of Matt Severick, come many of the incidents in this unusual story. Here is our star, Dana Andrews as Matt Severick, who for nine fantastic years lived as a communist for the FBI. For nine years, I managed to live on a communist diet, a diet of indigestible ideals and poisonous philosophies. But even I was shocked to learn that red poison came in canned. This story may save you from a violent case of political tomein. In a moment, listen to Dana Andrews as Matt Severick, under cover man. Dana Andrews as Matt Severick, under cover man. This story from the confidential file is marked, Prison Comes in Canned. I should have been used to darkness by now. My life had become a series of grotesque shadow dancers for the FBI, with the commies playing the music. But you never get used to darkness when the shadows are alive with treachery. When the mist is like the breath of disaster. The fog hung like a soggy veil over this tiny waterfront town. The buildings, the blurry street lights, everything seems without shape or form, swimming in a limbo of mist and darkness. And what was I doing here, walking the wet pavements of this waterfront street? I was looking for one particular building, the home of the Oceanic Import Company, a food importing concern that no one ever heard of. That is no one but me and the commies who sent me here. Then, almost too suddenly, the fog swirled with movement. A light appeared over a doorway just ahead, and the darkness spoke to me. Static. Who's that? Wagner. Oh, I've been looking for you, Conrad. No, mind that. This way, in here. I stepped out of the darkness into the lighted doorway, a door closed behind me. And it stopped blinking. I found myself facing the distinguished director of the Oceanic Import Company, Conrad Eric Wagner. He welcomed me with typical commie friends. You're late, Static. I know, but that fog has caused the fog. Of course, the fog. Nevertheless, you're late, aren't you? Well, I suppose I am. Aren't you? All right, I'm late. Do you want a note from my mother? Hmm. I suppose your record for competence makes up for your lack of discipline. Yeah. Come along. Here, sit down. Thank you. You've been briefed on this project, I imagine? No. I was told to report to the Oceanic Import Company. I was to find you there. It looks like you found me. Yes. This is the Oceanic Import Company. This? Well, it's practically a barren room. All we need. Now, about your reason for being sent here. You know nothing about it? Well, nothing. Hmm. Tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock, a fallen freighter will dock at Pier 2. A freighter? I didn't think this port had any overseas traffic. Very little. It's primarily a fishing town. But as I say, tomorrow at 8 a.m. Pier 2, okay. In that freighter's cargo is a small crate of canned tuna. It's listed for delivery to the Oceanic Import Company. Canned tuna. That's right. But in the world of the party, weren't we... Everything in time, Static. Everything in time. You're right. You're right. You will meet that freighter in the morning, Comrade. As a representative of Oceanic Imports. You will check for the cargo inspectors to see that our crate is properly dispersed. That's all? That crate of canned goods must not go astray. Why not? Because, Static, in those cans are microfilm of top-secret documents from the Communist International. Oh, I see. Oh, what sort of documents? The new revised plan for red action within the United States. The new timetable for the proletariat advance. I see. Can goods seem to be going up in value. Yes. But if you should permit these canned goods to reach the open market, the price will be frightening. The Oceanic Import Company. Is that it? Yeah, that's it. Has the crate been checked through yet? It's not going to be checked through at all. Huh? The crate's gone. Gone? Yeah. What are you talking about? Here. Here's a manifest straight from the ship. It says the canned tuna was damaged in shipment. It started to spoil, went bad. Just a minute. Let me see that. It is black and white. The crate of canned stuff went bad. Last night, the crew dumped the crate overboard. It was there in black and white on the cargo report, all right? The crate of canned tuna had been tossed to the bottom of the murky harbor. Now the official red timetable had been put to sleep in the deep out of reach of the eager commies. But I was still very much within reach of Comet Wagner. This report from the cargo inspector, Svettik. Your shore is complete. I'm afraid so, Comet. Get your coat. What? Your coat. Put on your coat. Where are we going? I'm taking you for a boat ride. Look, Wagner, it's not my fault that the crate was broken. You didn't try explaining anything, Svettik. Just get your coat. You come along. Just one minute. Are you afraid of the water, Svettik? All right. Let's go. Looks like the American voice was C, eh, Svettik? Our own middle yacht and everything. Yeah, everything. Why so glum, comrade? Don't you enjoy the sea air? I'm a little fed up with this mystery routine you've been giving me. My stake in this project is as great as yours, Wagner, and I don't know... Relax, Svettik. I think I'm entitled. Relax. I'm about to show you exactly where our crate was thrown. Our crate? Is at the bottom of the harbour? There's point prugas over there, the entrance to the harbour. Just beyond it, our diligent comrades tossed the crate off the freighter into the water. Comrades, you mean we had party workers on the ship? Svettik, you really didn't think the party would let so valuable an item out of a pan for even a moment. Well, I... The crate was tossed overboard at a specified point by specially instructed comrades on the crew of the freighter. In this way, we avoided the risk of a possible cargo inspection on the dock. Understand now? Well, I guess so. They like the hard way to do things, though. Difficult, perhaps, but safe. Now, note this location carefully, Svettik. It will be up to you to get the crate with the microfilm out of the water. Oh, I see. I see. You'll hire a diving crew to dredge the bottom. Oceanic imports will secure the permit. Hey! Hey, senority! Are you with your mother? Who's that doing that hollering? Go away with your mother, senority! Forced by mother, senority! And it's away! You've got to be... One of those fool fishermen. Better change your course, Wagner. You're heading toward his net. Take it easy. What are you doing? Let him change his course. He's out to snare some measly fish. We're out to haul in the world. Well, thank you, operator. There you are. Bigger this is red. Still sloshing around the waterfront. Listen, Bigger. My little chums have tucked away a crate of hot microfilm. The FBI can use it. Yeah? Where is it? At the bottom of the harbor. At the bottom? I'll give you the location. I've been ordered to dredge it out for the commies. But I'll stall it off... We'll let the coast guard ride. What's the matter? Well, if you get the job done tonight... Get it done tonight. I'll keep Wagner away from the shore. Now, look. Here's the location. Got a pencil? Right. The fog that night was thicker than ever. A rotten blanket that smothered all activity in the harbor. I kept Wagner away from the shore all right, but the fog kept the coast guard away too. Then Wagner met me the next morning. The commie timetables were still asleep in the deep. Wagner, however, was very much awake. The diver to get the crate, Spettich. All arranged? Well, you know the crews around here are pretty expensive. I've been shopping around for a decent price. Price? Spettich, do you realize what the price will be if we lose those microfilms? No time for false economy now, Edith. Just get that job done. But, Beaker, I can't stall Wagner any longer. You've got to get that job done tonight. Fog on no fog. Well... I'll postpone the diving job. I know. That fog's been awful soupy, aren't it? At night, yes. But the days have been clear enough. If you can't handle a simple task like this, comrade... I can handle it, Wagner. Don't worry about that. I'm not worrying, Spettich. But I suggest you start worrying a little more. If the crate isn't out of the water and in our hands tomorrow... Well, this is red, Beaker. What's the matter? We checked it twice, didn't we? Well, the Coast Guard had divers walking all over the harbor bottom. They combed every inch of it. No crate, no... Nothing. Beaker, it's got to be there. I know it's there. Maybe the tide or the currents or something. The Coast Guard knows enough to allow for that. The crate just isn't there, Matt. Great. Well, keep your boys around, Beaker. They may be picking me out of the harbor next. I was a communist for the FBI and the second act of our story. The United States Coast Guard had spent the night scouring the bottom of that murky harbor, searching in vain for the creative communist microfilm. Now, it was my turn. By early afternoon, I was on the bars with a diving crew and comrade Eric Wagner, who had come along evidently to expose his nerve ending. We inched toward the area beyond Point Frugus, with Wagner becoming increasingly jumpy every bit of the way. I was wondering how he was going to react when he learned the bitter truth when... Hey! When one of the crew hopped from the deck of the tug to the barge. Hey, which one of you is Mr. Svennik? I am. What's up? I was up there checking these instructions for the pilot of the tug and I... They're all right, aren't they? Your crew can understand them, can't they? I mean, nothing is wrong. No, everything's fine. You're sure you want the divers to go ahead with this job? Well, yeah. I thought we hired them for. Okay. You're the boss. Now just a moment. What's on your mind? Well, this crate we're looking for. It's a crater cantuna fish, ain't it? Yes, of course it is. Is there any doubt about that? No, just that one of them Portuguese fisherman pulled in a whole crater cantuna the other day. What? What's this? Where? Where was he fishing? He'd spread his nets right out there and we're going. At least twice. That's what I understand. Can you say he pulled in a case of cantuna? Yep. I saw him tie up at the dock. You want a happy fisherman, that guy? No, I ain't sure. It was your crady haul then, but... Turn back. Tell the pilot to turn back. Don't be foolish, Wagner. We've gone this far. We might as well... Turn back, I said. We can't let that fisherman... You, you. Who's the fisherman? What's his name? I don't know his name. I just see him once in a while in the docks. Who is the man for the love of heaven? Who is he? Quit yanking up my shirt. Mike, we'd like to find that fisherman. What did he look like? Well, like a fisherman. They all look alike to me. Well, isn't there anything that... Well, you saw his boat. Did it have a name or anything? You know, I come to think of a Spanish name, or maybe Portuguese. Uh, a pal, pal. You know, like a song. Paloma, that's it. La Paloma. Turn back. We have to find it. Turn back, I said. Listen, won't you quit clawing at me? No, not pilot. To turn back immediately. It'll be a pleasure. More ruckus about some crummy can to spoiled fish. For the sake of that unsuspecting fisherman, I had to find him before Wagner did. If he'd opened those cans and found the secret crummy microfilms, the reds were licked. But if Wagner got to the fisherman first, he was in for trouble, bad trouble. Searching the harbor area, we found that most of the fishing boat were out at work on the water and wouldn't return until about sundown. As for the inevitable fog, it didn't help a bit. The only thing I could find with no trouble was Wagner. He stuck to my side like a barnacle with a complex. Static, I hold you fully responsible for this mess. Me? Why me? If you hadn't postponed the diving for two days... Oh, cut it out. I intend to file a complete report of your laxity with the control commission as soon as... Look, Wagner, we're wasting time this way. We ought to split up. Go in different directions. Mmm. Might be wise. Look, you search the south end of the harbor and I'll cover this bay area. We'll cut the time in half. Good idea. And static, don't stop looking till you find that boat to La Paloma. Don't worry, comrade. I'm as anxious to find that fisherman as you are. The murky waterfront was well covered that afternoon. I roamed the bustling piers and creaking docks. I studied the flocks of fishing boats, huddled at anchor in the crescent of the shoreline. But La Paloma seemed to have flown from her nest. I walked along the edge of the seawall, trying to read the names on the boats that swayed at anchor below me. One boat swayed more than the others, as if to keep time with the loud singing that floats on my deck. That boat bore the name La Paloma. Hey! Hey, mister! You call me, senor? Yeah, is that your boat? See, it's mine. I won't eat it. You mind if I come aboard? Come, come down, amigo. You can jump from the wall, all right? Well, I can try. Okay, amigo, take a chance. Leave! To mendiness? No, I'm sorry. I came to talk business. Fishing is my business, senor. So we talk about mending this, eh? Well, uh, I'm with the oceanic import company. Huh? Yeah, we import food, canned goods, tuna fish, that sort of thing. Tuna fish? I import too. I catch a whole tray of canned tuna in my nest. Big import, that's me. I give you competition, eh? Oh, that, uh, that tuna you found, that's why I want to talk to you. You want them? I tell you, I'm pretty cheap. No, no, I don't think you'll want any either. The fish in those cans is bad. It's spoiled. Bad fish in cans? Yeah, I hope you haven't eaten any. Spoiled tuna can poison you, you know. See? See, I know. You sure my tuna's bad, senor? Look, I spent all day looking for you so I could warn you. I didn't do it because I needed to walk. See, see. Maybe I'd better tell my wife, eh? Well, look, I'll do it for you if you like. After all, my company's responsible. See, you do it. You tell my wife, I'm in the nest. Okay? Uh, where do you live? Right down the bay shore. Dos, dos uno. Two, two one, bay shore. Over that way. Okay. Oh, uh, my name's Severic. What's yours? Tamorina. Pietro Tamorina. My wife, she's Marie. You see her. Make her give you up the canfish. I hope she won't mind my butting in like this. Go on. You tell her. But, amigo, hey. You be quiet about it. Do not wake the baby. Well, I was in the lead now. I'd found a fisherman and I knew now where the creek was located. I was all set for the home stretch. I looked up to judge the distance for my little lead back to the seawall. And suddenly I knew my lead was gone. There on the seawall, looking down at Tamorina and me, was Comrade Wagner. Come up here, Stetich. Sure. Give me a hand. You found the boat in the man I see, Stetich. Uh-huh. Does he have the crate? Uh, no. He hasn't? Then where? Who has it? I'm not sure. Come on, let's walk. What is it, Tamorina? You had put the wrong way on me, God. I told you my house is that way. Losing your sense of direction, Stetich. Come on. Mrs. Tamorina. What do you want? I'm Matt Stetich. This is Mr. Wagner from the Oceanic Import Company. No, not at nothing today. It's imperative that we talk to you, madam. My baby. We must talk to you now, right now. Of course, of course. And you're not so loud, eh? We just talked to your husband. It's about that crate of canned food he hauled in the other day. So? It is his, no? It belongs to our company, madam. We've come to claim it. Oh, nobody claim it. He had to haul it from the water in his snare. What's not yours? Well, let me explain, Mrs. Tamorina. That canned fish is bad. It's rotten, spoiled. Bad? Why so bad? Bad. No good. Can't you understand that? If you wake my baby, I call a colic-hop. You'll do nothing of the sort. You? Oh, you, you, you. That's there. There you see you wake my baby. Adios, sonoros. Go away. Adios. Mrs. Tamorina, please. This is important. Adios, adios, adios. Go away. Go. Madam, you're a fool. If you eat that canned stuff, you may kill your whole family. Huh? Kill, huh? That tuna fish is no good. It's poison. That's why we threw it to the bottom of the harbor. Food like that is dangerous. Oh. What's wrong? Oh, my sister. I gave some of them to my sister. Well, we never see the end of this chase. What did your sister live? Come, come in. I, I must keep the baby. Yes. My sister, she lives on the street. Right close to the bait shop. For favor, send your sister the baby. Static, stay here. I'll get the system. No. No, you stay with Mrs. Tamorina. I can make it faster. You get along better with this woman. If they put, I'll be back. That is just a minute. There was no time to argue now. I had to get away from Wagner in a hurry. I ran toward Mrs. Tamorina's sister's house, passed it, and kept right on running until I reached the bait shop. There was a payphone on the rear wall. I started dialing the local FBI office. But I realized that by the time they'd cover the distance, Wagner and the microfilms would be gone. Police headquarters? Oh, a senior, a policeman to my house, hurry. I live at 221 Bay Shore, senior. A man is trying to steal from my house. Hurry, please. Eh? Or name? Or me? My name is Tamorina. You got that Pietro Tamorina. I knew the local police would find Wagner there all right. But to make sure the evidence was found too, I called the FBI and told them to follow through on Wagner's arrest. Once those microfilms were linked to Wagner, one more red would be erased from the commie spectrum. In a matter of minutes, the police cars zoomed by the bait shop and stopped at the Tamorina phone. I walked away from the phone and turned inland, away from the shoreline. The fog was beginning to roll in from over the water. A foggy veil to hide the face of the waterfront. At this time, the fog was like a welcome friend that gave me cover, obscurity, the security of darkness. But when you must wallow in treachery to defeat treachery, you learn to greet the gloom more readily. You walk more securely in darkness, as long as you walk alone. Dana Andrews will return in just a moment. This is Dana Andrews, ladies and gentlemen. It was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said, we want a state of things which allows every man the largest liberty compatible with the liberty of every other man. We have at State of Things in America today 150 million definitions of the word liberty, one for every citizen of the United States and room for every one of them to flourish. That in itself is the essence of liberty. In the story you just heard, names, dates and places are fictitious to protect innocent persons. Many of these stories are based on incidents in the life of Matt Staviric, who worked undercover for the FBI. Next week, another fantastic adventure. Join us then, won't you?