 The signal oil program, the Whistler. That whistle is your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. I am 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. Yes, friends, it's time for the signal oil program, the Whistler. Rated tops in popularity for a longer period of time than any other West Coast program in radio history. 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. So look for the signal circle sign in yellow and black that identifies independently operated signal stations from Canada to Mexico. And now to Whistler's strange story. All damage covered. As usual, the swank orchid room was crowded. And the reason for the popularity of this small nightclub in downtown Los Angeles was obvious. At the moment, the tall, slender girl with the honey-colored hair stood before the microphone and the dance floor, swaying with the rhythm of her song. Just who can solve this mystery? Why should it make a fool of me? Maxine had sung those words over and over, night after night. But suddenly, she seemed to be singing them for the first time. Suddenly, she was the woman the words were written for. The thought of killing him had occurred to her before. But never in the middle of a song had she known this cold-blooded, dispassionate desire to kill a man she'd married. Later, in her dressing room, Maxine had changed into her street clothes when she heard a knock on the door. And she didn't have to guess who it was. This wasn't just her boss. This was Jim McCoy, a guy as real as his name. Hiya, songbird. Hello, Jim. Real great tonight. Real great. Sounded like you met every word of it, baby. Maybe I did. Well, keep it up. I can always add a few more chairs for the customers. Well, I gotta get back to the lounge. What's your hurry? Hurry. And we usually say goodnight about this time. That's what I mean. Do we have to? Look, baby, we've been through all this before. Observation. The tone of your voice goes well with the cold of your shoulder. Maxine, things were different when you were a cute trick on the loose. You may be Miss Maxine to the customers, but to me you're Mrs. Charlie Kindle. I know. But after all, what's in a name? Look, baby, maybe they don't show, but I still have a couple of old scruples lying around. Don't kid yourself. They show something awful. Charlie needs you now more than ever. No fun not being able to walk, cooped up day in and day out. You're all he's got. Yeah, I guess you're right, Jim. Forget it. Yeah, I think we're better. Good night, songbird. And so, Maxine, a half hour later you're driving over the freeway, going home to Charlie, your husband. You can't help but admire Jim for turning you down, can you? Because of the way things stand, because you're married to Charlie. You drive on through the night thinking about it. And by the time you reach the outskirts of Ellenville, you've decided that there must be a showdown with Charlie. As you start to plan the things you'll say... Sorry, lady, a roadblock. Oh, but I live in Carpenceet. I've got to get home. There's been a landslide. Won't be able to get through for a couple of hours yet. Oh, I see. Train coming through in about ten minutes from Malay. Now, if you're ready, you can go back to the main road, take a ten-mile detour. No, thanks. I'll take the train. You turn your car around, and minutes later park it on a quiet side street near the depot and hurry to catch the train. Shortly before four in the morning, you unlock the front door of your house in Carpenceet. As you step into the living room, you see Charlie, stretched out on the couch, an empty bottle on the floor, the cane propped up against the end table, cigarette smoke curling up around the hand that dangles over the edge of the couch. It's a familiar sight to you, isn't it, Maxine? Charlie's been an invalid for two years now. He was injured again when he fell while getting off the suburban train a month ago. Still hasn't minted. You hurry to Charlie's side. From his hand, you take the cigarette that's ready to fall to the floor. Charlie. Come on, come on, sweetheart. Come to the party. Charlie. Charlie, wake up. Oh, Maxine. Hey, old baby. Yeah, baby's home. Oh, Mr. Dropped Off. What time is it? Oh, a few minutes to four. Four? What took you so long, Maxine? There was a roadblock at Ellenville. Oh, that's too bad. I had to leave the car there and take the train. Sure, sure. I had to wait ten minutes for the train. It took fifteen minutes to get to Carpenceet, twenty minutes to get a cab to take me here, and I... Okay, okay, honey. I believe you. I believe you. Well, why shouldn't you? It's the truth. Sure it is, baby. Sure. You don't believe a word of it. You never do. Do you want to know something? I don't care, Charlie. I don't care what you believe anymore. Don't you think I know that, Maxine? Honey, don't rub it in there. I know you go out and date when you're finished at the club. They even know about the guy you work for, McCoy. I was not on a date tonight with Jim or anybody else. Sure, baby. Anything you say. I'll never ask any more questions. This is as long as you come home to me. Maybe I'm sick of coming home. Maybe I'll never come home again. Don't say that, Maxine. Why shouldn't I? I mean it. I've told you before. You'll never get rid of me. We're married and you can't change that. Don't tempt me, Charlie. You struggle to control the rage that's sweeping over you. Turn away from Charlie and hurry into the bedroom. You stand there in the darkness by the open window while the frost of night bites the anger in your cheeks. The train, Maxine. Yes. Why couldn't it have been late tonight? Ten minutes late. Ten minutes. The cigarette would have slipped out of Charlie's hand. The straw rug would have caught on fire. It would have solved all your problems. Suddenly an idea flickers through your mind. It could happen again. Charlie could fall asleep with a cigarette in his hand. There'd be a fire. But you'd be somewhere else when that happened, Maxine. An alibi. All you need is an alibi. And in an instant it becomes crystal clear to you how you can get one. Maxie. Maxie. Huh? Oh, what is it, Charlie? All by yourself in the dark, baby. It's on your mind. I was just thinking about the train. With the prologue of all damage covered, the Signal Oil Company brings you another strange story by The Whistler. You've heard me talk about the more thorough, more conscientious service that cars get at signal stations because signal dealers are in business for themselves and have a personal interest in pleasing you. Well, typical of this are the extras you enjoy when you have your car lubricated at a signal service station. Instead of taking the chance of remembering the many vital points on each make of car, signal dealers follow a factory-recommended lubrication chart, which plainly shows every lubrication point on your car. Also, signal dealers 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. You've reached a decision, haven't you, Maxine? You're going to rid yourself of your husband, Charlie, once and for all. And you know exactly how you're going to do it. You can see it all now, the way it's going to happen, the official version of the accident. Charlie asleep on the couch, the empty bottle of liquor on the floor, a lighted cigarette dropping from his hand to the straw rug, and then the fire. And you went around to prevent it. It's late afternoon at the following day when you awaken. And as you recall your plan, your heart throbs with a sick, dizzy excitement. After a reassuring cup of coffee, you call the train depot. Check the schedule of the evening train to Los Angeles. Then you take your time dressing. Fight to remain calm. Shortly before 5.30. Hey, Max, are your cabs here? Coming. Well, what's in the suitcase, honey? Oh, it's just a dress I'll need at the club. Bye, hon. Bye. Maxine. Yeah? Try to make it home early tonight, will you? It's kind of lonesome around here. Don't worry, Charlie. I'll... I'll be back before you know it. A quarter of an hour later you reach the depot, buy your ticket and start for the train. You're about to put your plan into operation, aren't you, Maxine? And you smile to yourself as you think of the first move. Charlie's accident on this very line put the idea into your head. As you reach the train, you start up the step. One step and then another. And as you near the platform, you deliberately place your foot between the two steps and throw yourself forward. Miss. Miss. Are you hurt? I... I don't know. Oh, wait, wait. Let me help you. There. There. You'd better sit down on the trains, baby. Thank you. I'll be all right. That's terribly clumsy of me. Well, accidents do happen. They seem to run in the family. A month ago my husband had a similar fault. Oh! You're angry? Yes. It'll be all right now, I'm sure. Well, is there anything I can do, Miss? No, no, thank you. Well, I... I'm sorry. I'll have to have your name, Miss, my report, you know. It's just routine. Oh, of course. Uh, Mrs. Charles Kendall. Uh, Mrs. Charles Kendall. Address, please. 752, Mabelton Drive. You smile, lean forward, continue to rub your ankle as you watch the conductor fill in the report. Everything's there, isn't it, Maxine? Your name, the date, time of accident. Yes. Everything working according to plan. You've established your presence on the train to Los Angeles. As soon as the conductor is out of sight, you pick up your suitcase, hurry into the lady's room. A few minutes later you emerge wearing a dull, faded coat, a drab hat pulled down over your eyes. All traces of your original makeup have been removed. And in your new makeup, you've suddenly become a different woman, a plain, older-looking, unattractive woman. Bell and bells. Next stop, Bell and bells. As the train stops, you get off without delay and hurry away from the depot. You find your car where you'd parked it the night before. On the quiet side street, and minutes later you're racing a good 70 miles an hour along the road back to Carpencita. Luckily, your train is a slow train because you must make up a good 35 minutes before it arrives in Los Angeles. It's dark now, and no one sees you as you arrive in Carpencita. You quietly park in an alley and then walk quickly to the rear entrance at your home and slip inside. And then you're standing in the living room, looking down on Charlie, sprawled out on the couch. The sleeping powder you slipped into his drink before you left has taken effect. Hasn't it, Maxine? Charlie? He doesn't stir. Quickly you light a cigarette. Drop it on the straw rug. In a few seconds it begins to smolder. In strange fascination you watch the flames begin to creep along the floor and then you turn and run from the house. It's over, isn't it, Maxine? The worst part of all. As you hurry back to the car, you know there's only one more thing that you have to do. You must overtake the train at one of the many stops it makes and somehow get back on board unnoticed. To be in the clear, perfectly safe. That conductor must see you get off at Union Station. Those are tense moments, aren't they, Maxine? Moments that seem like a lifetime. You take this short straight highway into Los Angeles, hitting better than 70 miles an hour most of the way. Finally you catch your train at one of its last stops and get back on just in time. Disappear quickly into the lounge room where you can change back into your original outfit. Union Station! Union... Oh, Mrs. Kendall. Ankle better, Mrs. Kendall. Yes, thank you, conductor. Oh, that's fine. Union Station! Your plan has worked perfectly, hasn't it, Maxine? You keep telling yourself that over and over again. And then as the train stops and you walk back to step off, you freeze suddenly and stare in terror of a man standing on the crowded station platform. Oh, no! You recognize him, don't you, Maxine? This man in the pinstripe suit. Instantly your mind goes back to that night a few weeks ago when you came home late just as this same man was leaving and you heard him say to Charlie, No, don't worry, Kendall. I'll take care of everything. It's all clear to you now, isn't it, Maxine? Now you know why this man in the pinstripe suit was talking to Charlie a couple of weeks ago. Charlie was hiring him to follow you. Perhaps he was following you tonight. You step back into the train, hurry through the cars and get off further down the platform. It isn't until you climb into a taxi and try to settle back that you realize you're trembling all over, shaking uncontrollably. Somehow you manage to compose yourself, regain your confidence for the time you reach the club and go inside to greet Jim at the bar. Hiya, songbird. Hello, Jim. Say, your feathers look a little ruffled. You're limping. Oh, I fell and scraped my knee while I was getting on the train tonight. Train? How come you took the train? Oh, I was too tired to drive all the way home last night, so I left the car in town. Well, you better take it easy. Sure you want to go tonight? Oh, don't worry, I'll make it. Okay. How's Charlie? Charlie? Don't tell me you've forgotten our little conversation last night. Oh, no, Jim. I haven't forgotten. As a matter of fact, I'm very grateful to you. You made me see what my beauty was. Yeah. Glad to hear it, baby. That night you deliver the song mechanically, don't you, Maxine? Because your mind is on something else. It's been four hours since the fire started and you still haven't had any word. But as you approach your dressing room... Maxine! I didn't see you, Jim. As a call for you, baby, you can take it in my office. Call? Mm-hmm. Who is it, you know? Long distance, yeah. Carpensita. Probably Charlie. Your mind is blank for the next few moments until you find yourself alone in Jim's office. Your fingers tightly gripping the telephone receiver as you slowly raise it to your lips. Hello? Mrs. Kendall? Yes, this is Mrs. Kendall. This is Captain Gray, Carpensita Fire Department. Oh? I'm sorry, Mrs. Kendall. I have some bad news about your husband. It won't take long, Maxine. Karen, I just want to ask some questions. I'll be as brief as possible, Mrs. Kendall. Thank you. Your husband was an invalid, was he not? That's right. Smoked quite a bit. Is that correct? Yes, he smoked quite a bit. And he was a heavy drinker as well. Drinking helped relieve his pain. Oh, don't misunderstand me, Mrs. Kendall. I'm not trying to establish that your husband was a chronic alcoholic, just that he did drink at times to a point of... Yes, yes, he did. Oh, then I think the conclusion we drew from the evidence is correct. Your husband fell asleep with a lighted cigarette while in a state of intoxication. Cigarette fell and that was it. I was afraid that would happen someday. I warned him so many times. Easy, Maxine. Mrs. Kendall, if you'll please sign this. What? Yes. Honey, you're trembling. Here, I'll hold it. I... I... What is it, Mrs. Kendall? Nothing. I'm just upset that's all. Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Kendall. Thank you for your cooperation. And finally it's over, Maxine. Really over. Without even the necessity for the alibi, which you went to so much trouble establishing. The man from the coroner's office is gone and you're alone with Jim. With no more barriers between you. It's all you can do to keep from blurting out how good you feel inside. How little you need the rest that Jim is trying to insist upon. I still think you should take it easy, honey. Stay in bed for a while. Oh, no, Jim. I'm not going to let myself brood about this. I want to work. It'll help, I know. Okay, songbird, you win. Oh, thanks, Jim. I appreciate everything you've done. And I hope I sound sentimental. You do. I can take it. I'll see you later. That night your song is different. The nervousness is gone, isn't it, Maxine? Suddenly you're gripped with terror and the song dies in your throat. A fool. Through the amber haze, sitting motionless at the bar, you see the man in the pinstripe suit. In that instant, you're certain he was hired by your husband to follow you. You're not going to let yourself go. You're not going to let yourself go. You're going to let yourself go. You're not going to let your husband to follow you. You don't know how long he's been following you, but in that moment of desperation, you suddenly turn, flee from your surprised audience toward the dressing room. It's me. Now look, Maxine, what's this all about? What did that man say to you, Jim? No, it's got you worried, hasn't it? No, no, I'm not worried. It's just a nervous reaction, that's all. Now listen to me, baby, this isn't a relapsus or something else. How about you kicking in with a few more to-tables? I'm un-strong, after all. Answer me one question. What question? What do you know about that fire? Nothing, Jim. How could I know? Answer me. There's nothing to answer, Jim. What's wrong? Why do you keep looking at me that way? Look, Maxine, I thought something was phony last night when you got that call from the fire department. When I told you I thought it was Charlie, you almost keeled over, and I think I know why, baby. You already knew about that fire. No, Jim, no! And if you knew about it, you started it. I swear, I swear, I didn't. Jim, please don't tell that to him. He knows too much already, Jim, and I... I thought so. And I think I was in love with you. Oh, please, Jim, please, you're all I've got. Jim! Go on and cry to that guy out front. He wants to see you. Oh, don't go, Jim. Don't leave me alone. Not now. He's got to help me. He's got to help me figure this out. Jim, you mustn't leave me. Not now! Frantically, you're slipping to your coat. Hurry out the side door after him. But Jim's nowhere in sight, and you leap into a waiting cab. Yeah, what to, lady? Would you mind cruising around a bit? I'm looking for someone. A man. Sure, lady. Hey, see me up, lady? No, no, I don't. But let's not stop. Okay. You're sure the guy you're looking for, I'm looking for you? What? There's a black car that's been following us ever since we started. No. No, that's not the man I want. Driver, turn the corner, do anything, but lose that car! As you speed along the street, it suddenly occurs to you exactly what's happening. Yes, you ran out to find Jim, and now you're trying to escape the man in the pinstripe suit. Fear sweeps over you and crowds Jim from your mind, that you know you've got to get away from this man. The black car is only a block behind you as your cab races into the dark, deserted manufacturing district. Speak it around one corner, then another, and another, turning, twisting, and then suddenly... Driver! Yeah? That station up ahead, is that the electric train? Yeah! Here, this will take care of the fare. Let me off, quickly! The black car is nowhere in sight as you leave the cab, and hurry to the dimly-lit, deserted station. You're praying wildly for a train when suddenly you're relieved to see the lights approaching in the distance. And then, then as you step out on the platform... Hey, hey there! You see the man in the pinstripe suit hurrying toward you. Quickly, you run down the platform, dark behind a stack of packing cases. Mrs. Candle, Mrs. Candle, wait a minute! You hear his footsteps approaching along the platform. Your hands move up in front of you, you wait. Then as he steps into view, you land. How can you do that? How can you... The whistler will return in just a moment with a strange ending to tonight's story. Meantime, a word about these chilly nights and mornings we've been having. To be sure your car will start pronto, the instant you touch the starter, you naturally want to be sure you're choosing the gasoline that stops in quality. But how can the average driver measure gasoline quality? By mileage, of course. Which explains why we're so proud of Signal's good mileage, which has made it known throughout the West, from Canada to Mexico, as the go farther gasoline. You see, in order to give you such good mileage, today's signal has to help your motor run more efficiently. And when your motor runs more efficiently, naturally you enjoy quicker starting, as well as faster pickup and smoother power. A kind of performance that makes driving more pleasure in cold weather or any weather. That's why Signal says, to be sure of the tops in gasoline quality, there are just two things to remember. One, it takes extra quality to go farther. And two, Signal is the famous go farther gasoline. And now, back to the whistler. The small group of passengers have gathered on the station platform. Standing around in shock silence, they'd waited until the ambulance arrived and the police. Okay, okay, now here, now let's keep back a little here. I saw the whole thing, officer. I was sitting up front by the window, I could see just the plane. All right, lady, all right, you'll get your turn. I want to know what the motorman has to say first. I'll tell you. If you don't mind. Go ahead, you. Well, officer, when we got close to the station platform, I saw this woman and she tries to push this fella onto the tracks. And then the fella steps out of her way and she goes over herself. I couldn't stop in time to keep him hitting us. Now here, now here, where's the fella she was trying to push over? Right here, sir. Oh, will you come up here? What's your name? Henry Cooper. Did you know that woman? No, I never got a chance to meet her. I've just been trying to. Her name's Mrs. Kendall. Well, how come she tried to push you in front of a train? I don't know. You see, I worked for the railroad and claims investigator. Yeah? Well, a month ago, her husband was in an accident. Funny thing, a couple of days ago, she was in a similar accident. I only wanted her to sign a voucher. So I could give her a check to cover all damages. 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 Doris Singleton, Gerald Moore, and Wilms Herbert. The Whistler was produced by George W. Allen and directed by Sterling Tracy, with story by Robert Stephen Brody, music by Wilbur Hatch, and was transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. All characters portrayed on the Whistler program are fictional. Any similarity of name or resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Remember at this same time next Sunday, another Strange Tale by the Whistler. Marvin Miller speaking. This is CBS The Columbia Broadcasting System.