 Captain Soop, present Inner Sanctum Mystery. This are the mystic marvels of manifold murder. This is your host. Extending a cordial invitation to step through the creaking door of the Inner Sanctum, where we probe deep into the dark and cavernous depths of men souls to see what makes them cure. Mm-hmm. Our clinic here is the whole vast world of crime. And you who listen in may hear us dissect our characters at a safe distance. And unless your nerves are strong, you'd better take my advice and keep your distance. Why, Mr. Host, that's not the kind of advice to give, folks. It sounds unfriendly. Well, what would you suggest, Mary? Well, give them some sort of friendly advice. Like pointing out to them the extra delight they'll get from a cheering cup of Lipton tea. Then go on to tell them why Lipton's is so downright delicious. Tell them that the reason is Lipton's brisk flavor. And don't forget to mention that brisk is the tea expert's own word for the spirited, full-bodied flavor of Lipton's. So refreshing and so zestful. Explain that Lipton's brisk flavor is never flat, but always lively and satisfying. And in closing, remind them to try Lipton's soon. Because in every cup of Lipton's, there's extra enjoyment. And now that's the kind of advice you should give, folks. Well, Mary, you seem to have given it to them already. So we can go ahead and get launched on Skeleton Bay. That's the title of tonight's story. An original radio play by Amiel Tepperman. It's about a lady novelist, a writer of mystery stories. It opens at a swanky hotel with private cabins situated on a storm-swept rock-bound coast. The story itself is all about you guessed it. Murder. And here's Betty Lou Gerson as Carola Winter, the lady novelist, who will give us a blow-by-blow description. I'll tell you first about the night I met Michael Barrett. It was in August at Skeleton Bay. I'd come to the hotel supposedly for a rest. That was what I kept telling myself. But in reality, I didn't know why I'd come here. I'd seen the name advertised months ago. Since then, it's your primary, hammering at the inside of my brain. It's like the voice of impactful things command me. Command me. Command me. Because I didn't like crowds. The hotel manager had given me a cabin near the beach all to myself. It was the middle of the night that I couldn't sleep. The wind came in from the ocean howling like a hungry beast across the shores. And the pounding of the surf mingle with the angry baffled growl of the sea. I sat at the window in the dark, staring out at the beach. I was restless, excited. It was then I saw the signal. It was just a winking little light a few yards away on the beach. Someone was blinking a flashlight. I was able to make out the figure of a man in boots and a leather jacket. He was signaling toward the hotel. I had the answer in a moment. A man moved past my window going down toward the light. Yet his collar turned up against the wind. His hat brim pulled low. I knew who it was. Mr. Field. A small, furtive man who'd come upon the train with me. The two men met. Barely a stone's throw from my window. I could hardly see them huddled closely together. This was excitement, mystery, intrigue. The stimulation I wanted needed. I had to know what was going on. I threw on a raincoat, opened the cabin door. The wind swept my hair in a streamer and the spray stung my face as I hurried down the beach. My blood began to race. My heart to pound. For those two men were not engaged in any conference. They were locked and struggled. It was a very silent struggle with only a grunt now and there. I saw the flashing gleam of a knife. I couldn't tell who had the weapons. The tall man in the leather jacket or the furtive Mr. Field. And then... Then I saw the blade plunge home into the throat of the furtive Mr. Field. I felt a sudden surge of wild elation. This was murder. I had witnessed it. The tall man at the body of Mr. Field slide down to the sand. Then he looked up and saw me. He stood there with a bloody knife in his hand and we looked at each other. Who are you? I'm Carla Winter. I have this cabin here number five. You saw me kill him? Yes, I saw you. What are you going to do about it? I'm going to help you dispose of the body. His name was Michael Barrett. He lived on the opposite side of the bay in the house high up on the cliff. It won't be so easy to get rid of the body. If I had the boat I could take him out and drop him over but it's too rough tonight. If there was some place to hide him for a day I could come across on the boat tomorrow night. You can hide him in the closet in my cabin. Nobody will look this way. Better lock the closet door. Yes, of course. You sure nobody will come snooping here? Nobody comes here but the maid. All right. I'll be back tomorrow night with a boat. Did you pick up the knife? Yeah. Got it in my pocket. Well, I guess that's all. Good night, Carla. Good night, Michael. All night I sat up alone with a locked closet door between me and the staring, sightless body of Mr. Field. Breakfast next morning they'd already discovered the disappearance of Mr. Field. And the maid says his bed wasn't slept in at all. I think he could have committed suicide in the ocean. I hurried through my breakfast listening to the gossip all around me. Now in broad daylight I hardly believe the thing had really happened last night. I didn't know the hotel manager thinks it might be murder. I was him fawning for the police. The police? I hadn't counted on that. Anything wrong, my dear? You look sick. I do feel a bit dizzy. I think I'll get some fresh air. Oh, poor dear. It must be quite a shock to her. She came up on the train with Mr. Field, you know. All in the open air I let the wind cool my fevered face as I hurried down toward the beach. It was only 9.30 in the morning. A whole day. A whole evening before Michael could come for the body. And the police would be around all day investigating, snooping. And all the time Mr. Field would be sitting in my closet staring blankly out of his sightless eyes. When I reached my cabin I put a hand on the door knob. Suddenly I went cold all over. The door was unlocked. It would still as a statue listening as there was someone inside. Someone moving around. I only had my handbag. I had a pistol in it. I always carried it for protection. But my handbag was inside on the dresser. Slowly, slowly I pressed the door open. Half inch. And then the door creaked. Is that you, Miss Winter? The maid. It was only the maid, of course. She'd be making up the bed. Why hadn't I thought of it? Miss Winter, is that you? Yes, it's I. What are you doing in that closet for those keys? Why, they're just my past keys, Miss Winter. I was just going to tidy up the closet. I didn't ask you to do anything to the closet. Well, but that's part of the job, Miss Winter. I'm supposed to do that in all the rooms. Well, you leave this one alone. Keep away from that closet, you hear? Yes, Miss Winter. But I was only trying to help. I want your help, I'll ask for it. Now please leave it once. Just as you say, Miss Winter. I'm sorry if I did anything wrong. Did she suspect anything? I hadn't liked her tone. Why? Why had I been so sharp with her? Now she'd surely think there was something in the closet. Something she shouldn't see. At lunchtime, I didn't want to leave the cabin. I sat at the window. And I could almost feel the sightless eyes of Mr. Field staring at me through the closet door. Summon at the door. Just a minute. Miss Winter? Miss Karla Winter? Yes, I'm Miss Winter. I'm sorry to trouble you, Miss Winter. I'm Detective Sergeant Smith from headquarters. May I come in for a moment? Yes, please do. What can I do for you, Sergeant Smith? We're out here investigating this field business. He hasn't turned up yet. I'm sure he will in time. Well, I wish I could be so sure, Miss Winter. What do you mean? We've gone through his room. Found some mighty queer things. Queer things? It seems as Mr. Field's in some sort of racket. There's a good chance he may have been murdered. You don't say. I understand you came up on a train with him. Yes, yes, that's true. Did you have any conversation with him on the train? No, none at all. You're the Karla Winter who writes the mystery novels, aren't you? The same. I've read every one of them. They're darn good, Miss Winter. Why, thank you. Do you think you'll get a plot out of this? I mean, Mr. Field. Well, I can't tell yet. I wish you'd keep me posted on developments in case it does turn out to have a plot. I sure will, Miss Winter. By the way, we found this picture among the papers in Field's room. I'm showing it to everybody around in case they might recognize it. It's an old newspaper item, about 10 years old. Can't figure out why it was printed around. It's about a guy named Wycliffe. It's one of a murder in Canada. Here, take a look at it. I felt the blood racing in my veins pounding at my wrists. The picture of the man named Wycliffe who was wanted for murder in Canada was a picture of Michael Barrett. Michael Barrett is a lucky guy with a beautiful woman ready to commit murder for him. Mm-hmm. But what'll he do when she runs out of victims and begins looking at him with a calculating eye? As for Karela, she's sinned heavily because murder is the greatest sin. Yes, if you ask me, she'd better hope for a depression because the wages will go down, including the wages of sin. Well, I never knew that murder and economics were related, Mr. Host. Oh, definitely, Mary. Take the high cost of living, for instance. Why, those prices are murder. Oh, yes, Mr. Host, it is difficult when the cost of living starts to climb. But then, so often, the things that really add up to good living are just simple, inexpensive pleasures, a piping hot cup of Lipton tea that many of us find waiting when we come down to breakfast each morning. As you read the morning paper and sip that cheery cup of Lipton's, the whole world seems brighter. It's simply wonderful the way that lively, spirited Lipton tea gets you off to a fresh start. For Lipton's brisk flavor gives you all a natural zest of tea at its best. Gives you extra delight, extra satisfaction. So remember this, folks, this time, dinner time, or any other time when you want a grand, refreshing drink. Pour yourself a cup of Lipton tea. And now, let's get back to the rock-bound coast of Skellison Bay and see how Kerala entertains the grisly guest in her closet. I don't remember now how I got rid of that Detective Smith. I told him I'd never seen the man in the picture and sent him away. The day was interminable. From my window, I could see the guests moving about the beach. But none of them went in swimming. The weather was too rough. I wondered if Michael would be able to bring the boat over at night. If not, how much longer could I sit guard over Mr. Field in the closet? Now and then I'd see Detective Smith poking around on the beach. And then, without warning, he was standing over the very spot where Michael had stabbed Mr. Field. I watched him bend down and examine something. Was there a telltale drop of blood there? Did Smith know that was the murder spot? I saw him frown. Then he stood up, walk quickly away. I had to know what it was he'd seen there. I slipped on a coat, went out. Started toward the spot on the beach. All right, sir, where, Miss Winter? Oh, it's you to take it. Are you going anywhere in particular? No, no, I'm just going up to the hotel for dinner. It's almost dinner time, you know. Oh, fine, I'll walk up with you if you don't mind. Not at all. Hey, could I help you? I'll take your arm there. Thank you. The sand is so soft. As is still wet, we had high tide last night. Oh, um, Miss Winter. Yes? You sound sleeper. Why do you ask? I just thought maybe you might have heard something last night. Like a fight or something? Fight? Yes, yes. I was just looking at the sand back there, down near your cabin. It's all messed up, stamped around. What's that got to do with me? Oh, darling, oh. Except I think there was a fight there last night. Maybe that's where Mr. Field was killed. You, you think Mr. Field was murdered? It's beginning to look more and more like it, Miss Winter. I don't know how I managed to get through with the dinner. I hurried back to the cabin. I stopped at the door, shocked and unbelieving. There was a light inside. Someone was in there. This time I had my handbag with me. I took the pistol out. Once more, I inched the door open. The thing I feared. The closet door was open. And there was the maid, stooping over the body of Mr. Field. What are you doing there? The body. It's Mr. Field. You killed him. Suppose I did. What are you doing with that gun? What do you think? No. The wind was high. And the weather was rough. Unfortunately, no one heard the shot. I pushed her body into the closet next to the body of Mr. Field. Closed the door. Now. Now I was a murderer too. Let me in, Carla, quick. Yes, yes. I thought you were coming. It's been a terrible day. What happened? Come here, I'll show you. Is he still in there? See for yourself. Great. The woman, who is she? The maid. She opened the closet while I was out. You killed her? Yes, Michael. I had to kill her. There are detectives at the hotel looking for Mr. Field. I suppose if I was smart, I'd kill you too. And there'd be no one to talk. Yes, Michael, that would be smart. Go ahead. Kill me if you can. I knew he couldn't kill me because I'd seen it in his eyes. We were two of a kind, both wild, both reckless, both eager for the thrill of danger. He too wanted to be like the wind. We'd both been brought together here by some force stronger than either of us. And we loved each other. Carla. We have work to do. Yes, I'll take them down to the boat. I'll help you. We carried Mr. Field and the maid down to the boat. I'll take them out away and dump them. And after that, Michael? After that, then I'm going home. To your house on the cliff on the other side of the bay? Yes, Carla. Michael, take me with you. What? Take me with you to your house up there on the cliff. I'm sorry. I can't. You can? Why can't you? Isn't anything I can tell you. What are you hiding up there in the house on the cliff? You mustn't ask. Please, Carla, you mustn't ask. Why, you're married. You have a wife up there. No. Then what? I can't tell you. You're going away, leaving me forever. Not forever, Carla. Go back to the city. I'll come to your soul. I returned to the city and waited. I waited a week, a month. But Michael Barrett did not come. I wrote to him. But there was no answer. And then one evening, I saw him. I was returning home in a taxi and I saw him. Standing across the street looking up at my window. And he saw me get out of the cab. He turned and started hurrying away. Michael! Michael! Michael, don't go away! Michael, why did you try to run away? Don't you know? Well, you're afraid. Yeah, let's call it that. You love me, Michael, don't you? Carla, it's no good. There's nothing but ruin for both of us if I stay. We'll be together forever. It's impossible. I won't let you go back to that house on the cliff. I don't care what it is you're hiding up there. I won't let you go back. Goodbye, Carla. Wait. I'm going. Better forget about it. Don't go yet, Mr. Whitecliff. I saw the old newspaper clipping, Mr. Field carrying. I see. Why are you looking at me like that? You know why I killed Mr. Field? Because it tried to blackmail me about that old murder. Michael, dear, I'm a good deal smarter than Mr. Field. You see, I write mystery novels. I know how to handle such things. What do you mean? Wouldn't do you any good to kill me. I've written out all about you. Your real name and about that old murder in Canada would be found if I should ever be killed. Oh. Michael, darling, I'm blackmailing you. There's only one thing I want from you, your love. It shouldn't be so hard for you to meet my terms. All right, Carla. You win. We'll be married tonight. Soon after we were married, Michael began going out evenings. Once. Sometimes twice a week. Staying out all night. He'd return late the next day. When I asked where he'd been, his temper would flare up into something terrible. I stopped asking. But I couldn't rest. I had to know where he went. One evening I followed him. He boarded a train for Skeleton Bay. At Skeleton Bay, he set out to walk from the station. And I followed him. It was no longer summer. Trees were bare and the night was forbidding. I kept behind him when he skirted the bay to the narrow road that led up toward his house high on the cliff. It was a small stone house. And the wind whistled around it, against it, and above it, I stole to one of the windows. It was barred, like a prison. Carefully, I raised my head above the sill, peered into a lighted room. Michael was there, with a woman. For the first time in my life, I knew the meaning of frustration, jealousy. Michael told me he wasn't married, but this woman, I'd helped him to do murder. I'd killed for him. I'd lied to that detective for him. And all the while, this was the secret he'd been keeping from me. I opened my handbag. I looked into the room again. The woman was alone now. Michael was gone. So you came up after all, Carella? Michael, you... you sneaked out. You knew I was here. I'm sorry you saw through that window, Carella. Is that your secret? That woman? Part of it, but it's the part you mustn't know. But I do know it now. I know why I've got to kill you, Carella. That knife? You still got that knife? Yes, Carella. I've got this, Michael. You fell at my feet on and watched him die. Now I knew why I'd really come to Skeleton Bay that first day. It was for this, to kill Michael Barrett. So he's dead. At last, you've killed him. You... you saw me kill him? Yes, I saw you. What are you going to do about it? Help you dispose of the body, of course. Help me dispose of the body? Those are the very words I'd said to Michael Barrett down there on the beach. Now this woman was saying them to me. Who... who are you? I'm Lisbeth Wycliffe. I'm Michael's sister. And you want to help me dispose of his body? See the bars on those windows? Yes. I've been a prisoner in this house for ten years. You what? Michael killed the man I was going to marry ten years ago in Canada. He murdered him. But this house, this prison... Michael brought me here. He's kept me a prisoner because he knew if I got free I'd tell the world he was a murderer. And that's the secret. The secret he wouldn't even tell me. Yes, I killed her too. There outside the house and she fell beside Michael. And I rolled both bodies over the cliff, down into the sea. This is the end of my book. The best mystery novel I've ever written. I know that in writing it I deliver myself into the hands of the law. So now... I'm finished. I will mail it to my publisher and wait for Detective Sergeant Smith to come and get me. It looks as if Carilla's mystery novel will earn a lot of money after she's executed. Yes, but I'd say it's tainted money. Why tainted? Because she'll be dead and a ghost can't own money. So taint hers. The trouble with Carilla was that her conscience was too little and too late. It told her not to commit murder after she'd done it. Well, that's certainly too late, Mr. Host. Oh, yes, Mary, especially for her victims. And now, what's on your mind? Well, Mr. Host, right here I'd like to say a word to our listeners on behalf of our veterans. You know friends, ex-servicemen are returning to civilian jobs with a lot to offer their employers. They've had valuable training and experience in highly specialized service jobs. Many of them were able to keep up with their civilian jobs and learn new trades through special correspondence courses. And they're coming home fully equipped to do the same fine job as civilians that they did in the services. So let's give them every employment opportunity to put their increased skill to work. Friends, we take our leave of lovely Carilla Winter. She would have been better off if she'd remembered that the pen is mightier than the sword. Because the sword is leading her right back to the pen anyhow. Oh, yes, and remember, friends, when you go on a vacation, always insist on plenty of closet space. As you never know what unexpected guests might drop in. Or drop dead. By the way, this month's Inner Sanctum Mystery Novel is Death in the Limelight by A.E. Martin. And next week, the makers of Lipton Tea and Lipton Soup will bring you another Inner Sanctum Mystery directed by Hyman Brown. It's about a young chemist who discovers the secret of perpetual life. But he made the mistake of getting involved with death. So, until next Tuesday. Good night. Pleasant. Here's a swell dish, folks. It's easy to make and mighty easy to take. Lipton's Noodle Soup. You can prepare it in a jiffy and the whole family will love its delicious, chicken-y tasting broth so full of tender golden noodles. Lipton's Noodle Soup has all the fresh cooked, homemade flavor of Grandmother's Noodle Soup. Yet it's economical. It costs less and makes lots more than cansoes. So get Lipton's Noodle Soup Mix tomorrow. And don't forget to tune in next Tuesday night for another Inner Sanctum Mystery. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.