 Good evening, friends of the Inner Sanctum. This is your host bidding you welcome through the squeaking door. Well, we're overcome with yuletide spirits. This evening, parties everywhere. Ah, what fun. One fellow was lit up like a torch. His wife had struck a marriage to him. Big shindig at the city morgue, everybody was a little stiff. Out in Hollywood, Dragonstyne Dracula and the Wolfman threw a monster jammery. The guests had a screaming good time. And the punchbowl. Mmm, just right. Chill to body temperature. Sub-zero. Everybody's blood ran cold. Tonight's Inner Sanctum mystery, Death Out of Mind, was written by John Robert and stars Larry Haynes in the role of Ed with Anne Shepherd as Mary. Our gentle people, now for the soothing nuances of shrieks in the night. Say, ever see the little man who wasn't there? No, carefully right behind you. We're in apartment 2A of a cheaply furnished flat in Chelsea facing the street. The room is pitch dark. A patch of moonlight is crusted on the window as if it can't get through the grime. Ed Tape is crouched at the window watching the street. Mary? There's nobody downstairs. There must be. I've seen them. Here, from the window. See, they're leaning against the lamp, smoking a cigarette. I've been watching them, Mary. I can't take my eyes off them. Ed, you've got to take hold of yourself. Leave this room. He'll be waiting for me wherever I go. He'll be everywhere waiting for me. Turn a corner and run into him. Catch a train and he's sitting beside you. Run away and meet him in Boston. Don't, please. Please, fate. Fate dressed in a black suit. Please, no more wild talk. I'm... I'm crazy. Is that what you mean? Ed, darling, think. We're just married. I'm a bride. We were going to be something wonderful. You married a guy with whams in his head. The marriage never had a chance. You've got a stacked deal, Mary. I'll get help. Operator, I want the police. Operator. Operator. There's no buzz. The line's dead. You cut the wires. I told you it was downstairs. Don't stand any more of this. Oh, Mary. Mary, don't cry over me. Forget me. Just turn the time back 24 hours and forget you ever married me. But you've done nothing, it's just in your mind. This is a payoff for other things. It is always a payoff waiting somewhere. There's always attribution. Now, you get away, Mary, this door. No. I'll wait for Santa alone. I don't want him coming to move. And he doesn't exist. Take the back staircase and hurry. I'll get a doctor. You're sick. Feed it. Feed it. Feed it. So, my door. Twice, three. One, you call it two, you can't get away. Three, open a door. So simple, then. No fuss, no ways to talk. Just one, two, three. Open up. Okay, Santa, I'm not running away. I'm opening up. Sergeant, Sergeant, I'm head-taid. I just killed a man. He's gone. This guy's sick. He's calling an ambulance. It's been six hours, doctor. I hate to push, but how much longer? It's futile being a district attorney now, Kedridge. The prisoner's a very sick man. Just a few questions. Useless. His memory is gone temporarily. Who is he? Ed Tate, reporter on leave from the bulletin. He was released from a sanitarium less than two weeks ago. He's a complete reporter. On his way from the station house to the hospital, Tate kept insisting he'd murdered a killer named Santo. But he did murder him. Oh, he did that all right, but to the best of the department's knowledge, there never was a killer named Santo. How long before he can answer questions? Days, maybe weeks. A department can't wait that long. If we tried narcosynthesis, a compound popularly known as truth serum. Get started, doctor. Murder can't wait. Count backwards. Starting at 100. 100. 99. 98. Tell us all about it, Tate. All about it, Tate. The sanitarium? Yes, about the sanitarium. You were there in Harbor Hospital. You were released two weeks ago. You went there from your newspaper. Why did you go to the sanitarium, Tate? Stella Andrews killed herself. I couldn't get her out of my thinking, get her out of my head. Who was Stella Andrews? She figured in an unsolved murder mystery 20 years ago. I dug the story up and put it back on the front page. I remember the case, Tate. Stella Andrews was tried for murder and acquitted. They set her free. You uncovered new evidence? No, no, no. I did it as a circulation stop to sell papers. I didn't think of Stella Andrews. I didn't think. Go on, Tate. Let her until that last day. What happened that last day? Stella Andrews confronted me in my office. A gray, tragic woman. She told me that she'd long ago changed her name. That she'd made a new life for herself. I told her it's not a riot. She started suspicions in the minds of her neighbors. She said she was too old to make a new life for herself all over again. And then? Yes, Tate. I turned away in shame, despising myself. And then she was gone. 20 stories to the sidewalk. An innocent woman paid the supreme penalty. I was her accuser, her judge and jury. I was a murderer. Go on, Tate. Well, after that, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't work. I wound up in the sanitary. And then? Well, on my release, I tried to forget Stella Andrews. I crushed on the sidewalk. I tried to get back and stride. I tried to kid myself there. Wouldn't be a payoff somewhere for what I'd done. I tried marriage. I dragged a sweet kid into partnership in the accounting I owed fate. What did you do, Tate? I eloped with Mary Connor, a public librarian. For me, Mary had the kind of magic that makes pain disappear. I'd only known her for a whirlwind week, but long enough to know she was gold through and through. We were motoring back from Elton just back. Happy? What time is it? A minute past midnight. I've been Mrs. Edward Tate for four hours. I'm hungry. Oh, coffee. Do me fine, too. Keep look out for road stand, huh? There's one right ahead. Let me look and show it. Fine place for a wedding supper. It's the Ritz, darling. Hamburgers like filet mignon. Come on, my mouth's watering. It's a beat-up cardboard shack. The kind that generally bloom in June, grab some tourist change, and then fade in October. A sign outside read, with you. The inside was gloomy. What a beat, folks. Two hamburgers. And coffee, coffee first. No hamburgers. I'm out of meat. Oh, what have you got? Eggs, ham and Swiss. Ham and Swiss, and toast the bread, huh? Yeah, make it two. Yeah, okay. We were here through sandwiches as tasteless as sawdust when the door opened behind us. The night air set a chill over me. Like a premonition. A man came in out of the night. I stared at the newcomer as if magnetic fingers were drawing me to him. He was dressed in the devil's black. Black so worn it had a satiny sheen. And his face was hard and bitter and evil. No, just eggs and ham and Swiss, mister. Hey, what's the gun for? One guess. Oh, yes. Sure, I can guess. Hurry. Okay. It was a black flat automatic. Your wallet, mister. I got my wallet and dropped it out on the counter. The chef was stalling over the register. I could tell by the sudden rigidity in his back that he was reaching for a gun. I wanted to scream one, I'm not two, but my throat muscles were... Ow! I watched the chef double over. I watched the gunman vault the counter and bear in for the kill. Ah! Barry's hand closed over mine and pulled at me. Dad, quickly. I was through the door and running for the car and someone else's feet, but Barry pulling at my sleeve. Dad, hurry. Here's his. We were moving and the killer reached the door and fired. The shots were lost in the night. We left him silhouetted in the doorway. A dark centennial, cutting the tomb. Moon shafts, touching his automatic. Placifer isn't. The Manhattan skyline was breaking at us before we dad trust our voices. Anyone behind us? No. It was a car, but it turned off. Jolly, honey Moon. We'll forget it. We'll just not remember. Did you watch him there? No, I couldn't. I relentlessly moved in for the kill. How exquisitely cold and efficient like a machine. Ed, it's unhealthy. That sort of talk. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I felt as if he were part of me come to life, a blood twin showing me to myself, demonstrating to me what I really was. A killer cold and efficient like a machine. No, no, no, no. He killed that man like I killed Stella Andrews. His instrument was a gun, mine was a typewriter. He used bullets, I used words, but our methods were the same. Deliberate, ruthless, murderers. Ed, forget him. We'll see him again, my blood twin. He's my conscience. Come to life. We're going to report this to the police. No, we're not. Why? I'm, I'm afraid of him. But he's a complete stranger. What have we got to fear? We'll never see him again. We'll see him again, Mary. He'll come calling. But what? Ed, the wallet. He has your wallet. We're not strangers to a Mary. He'll be calling on us. He had my wallet, my name, my whereabouts. But the wallet was only an incidental thing. I knew he'd call. Our lives were intertwined. Somehow he was now as much a part of my life as that, as the ghosts of Stella Andrews. We reached home. We just sat around and waited. And soon the phone rang. Ed. It's him. What do we do? Answer the phone, I guess. Yes? It did, yes. What did he say? I'm, I'm to come to the street. Ed, you won't. He won't harm me, he said. If I don't come down, he's coming up, he said. What does he want? I'll go see. He was waiting for me in a big car that looked like a hearse. As I came out of the hall, he motioned me to come sit beside him. The car knows he's taught the river. He didn't talk. He just concentrated on driving. We were close enough for me to touch him. But I wasn't frightened. I felt as if we belonged to each other. Where are we going? To the river. What for? To dump him. Him was a gesture behind us. I turned to look. There was a packing truck on the floor in the rear of the car. You're going to kill me too? Why should I? To shut me up. We'll dump the trunk together. That'll shut you up. Well, wouldn't killing me be simpler? If you shut up, it's just the same, maybe. Um, what's your name? You get an idea. No. No, I just want to know you very much. Santo, just Santo. We stopped along the deserted wharf, just under the Brooklyn Bridge. And there, with the world asleep and the moon looking on, we dumped a truck. It sank slowly, twisting and tortured slow motion. You can go home now, Tate. Don't you feel it, Santo? Feel what? There's this kinship. We're the same person, Santo. You're crazy. No, no, I mean it. Look at me. See our resemblance? We didn't just happen together. You're something out of me. You are me. You talk too much, Tate. Maybe I'll have to kill you after all. Oh, you'll kill me, Santo, soon enough. You'll have to kill me. You're my conscience. At home, we just stayed in, Mary and I, staring emptily at each other. It was a honeymoon like a wake. Morning came, the day passed. We did nothing, just sad, imprisoned. And then that night, I knew Santo had come. This time for keeps. I knew it by the way my flesh was floating in sweat. Fear was consuming me. Mary, Mary, Santo is downstairs. It's all in your mind. He's downstairs. He'll be coming up. Mary, where are you going? To see. Ed, I can't send much more of this. Yeah, yeah, you go see. And when you come back, signal, like this. Do it twice. Mary went down to check, but I knew the answer. I got my gun and went to the window to watch and wait. Santo was downstairs. Santo was downstairs. When he came up, I killed him. We know the rest, Tate. Now you must sleep. Sleep? Yes. Barmy has a march here. Right, doctor? Well, it suggests a vivid hallucinosis induced by his guilt feelings about this still address. This man he killed, did you identify? Got a report on it a moment ago. A man named Jenkins. He was the building superintendent. This Santo then just existed in Tate's imagination. Fate dressed in a black suit. It's an interesting hypothesis, Kittridge. A big headache to me. Oh, daily, get those notes typed up. Have the department investigate every last detail immediately. Mrs. Tate's in the next room, doctor. You want to listen in? Very much, Kittridge. Oh, Mrs. Tate, this is Dr. Thorpe. How is he, doctor? I'm recommending his immediate return to a mental hospital. Mrs. Tate, your husband just told us a long story. I'll have to ask you some questions for the record. You were just married? Yes. Motoring back from Elkton, did you stop at a road stand for refreshments? No. We came straight to our apartment. And then what? He began behaving clearly. He locked us in. We just sat all night, all the next day. The second night, Ed took a gun out of his police. He stood guard at the window. He said he was waiting for a santo. Did you ever see this santo? No. What brought the janitor up at that hour of the night? Ed was raving insanely, I suppose he came to investigate the noise. Can I go, Mr. Kittridge? No, not right now. You'll have to stay a while. Just routine. My men will be reporting back, and I want you to read your husband's statement and then make one of your own. You can buck on the bench, grab 40 winks. I think I'll doze off myself. Pick your own chair, Doctor. Oh, Kittridge speaking. Yeah, we like it a pencil. Okay. Yeah, I got it. I got it. Keep talking. Okay. Reports coming in, Kittridge? Yes, Doctor. Explain this. There was a road stand called Joe's Barbecue. My men found it, all boarded up. Tate probably noticed it while driving and wove it into his hallucination. Uh, Mrs. Tate. Mrs. Tate. Yes. Did your husband leave the apartment at all last night before the shooting? He might have while I was asleep. Why do you ask that question, Kittridge? Because my men fished a packing trunk out of the East River. What was in the trunk? Cement. Bags of cement. What's the medical slant on that? Only perplexity, Kittridge. You know, I've got a new theory, Doctor, since we're hypothesizing. What is it? That Tate's zany story was true, the whole of it. That the chef and Santa were real. That the whole thing was staged to play on Tate's emotional instability, drive him crazy, then drive him to actual murder by sending that janitor up those stairs. Like all police theories, too incredible for me. Mrs. Tate, can you help us out, give us an idea about that trunk? No. Ed was irrational, capable of anything. When he barricaded himself in the room with a gun, why didn't you call the police? I did. But... But what? An odd touch for you, Doctor. The man who wasn't there cut the telephone wires. Extraordinary. Cut the wires inside the apartment. They dressed in black. Do you like black, Mrs. Tate? I do. Black worn to a satiny sheen. Do you always wear a satiny black, Mrs. Tate? I prefer it, Mr. District Attorney. Good heavens, Kittridge. What did you say? You were Mary Conner when you got married? Yes. Who were you, Mary Conner, before you began masquerading his fate? Mary Andrews. Stella Andrews was my mother. Want to get married? Okay. May all your troubles be little ones. Confuse, chap, that Ed Tate. Three on a honeymoon. Mr., that's asking for trouble. In fact, wouldn't you say it's sort of crowding your luck? And that little man who was there popping in and out of Ed's mind. You know, if it was me, I'd have started charging him a rant. Good night. Pleasant dreams.