 Lipton Tea and Lipton Soup presents Inner Sanctum Mysteries starring Lee Bowman. This is your host, Raymond. Welcome to the Inner Sanctum. Come in, won't you? What are you staring at? The walls. Well, you know that old saying about walls having ears. Well, these walls have eyes and a nice assortment of fingers and hands. One of them has a heart, but you can't beat that. Don't mind me, friends. In my old age, I'm getting to be a bit of a gore. You're getting to be a crotchety old bachelor, that's what. Who said that? Oh, Mary Bennett. Hello. Tell me, Mary. Do you think I should get married? You know, I used to have a girlfriend, but she threw me over. She was a vampire. She said I wasn't her blood type. Mr. Raymond, please, what a silly thing to say. More and more, I'm convinced that what you need is a wife. I'd just love to see the way a wife would handle you. Would you send me a wedding present, Mary? I sure would. I'd send you a big supply of Lipton's noodle soup. You know, I'll bet your wife would appreciate that. My goodness, in the old days, it took a woman all day to make a pot of noodle soup. Whereas nowadays, it only takes a jiffy. That is, when you use Lipton's noodle soup mix. But Lipton's has got the same homemade taste, believe you me. It's got the same chickeny flavor. Yes, sir, a hot plate of Lipton's noodle soup is a grand welcome home for the whole family. One whiff of that savory Lipton's noodle soup, and folks feel relaxed and ready for dinner with a rousing good appetite. Well, now that's a very pretty picture, Mary. Which reminds me, our story tonight is about one of the fine arts. Murder. It's called Death is an Artist. An original tale by Frederick Matho. And our star is from Hollywood, Lee Bowman. Soon to appear with Rita Hayworth in the Columbia Technicolor picture tonight and every night. So, curdle close to the fire and turn the lights down real low. By the way, if you have a little spook or two in your home, looking behind your shower curtains before turning on the water is the courteous thing to do. Otherwise, you might be dampening your spirits. Now, let's get on with our story. I'm Stevie, a reporter. I'm what's called a police reporter because I hang around police stations for my stories. But tonight, I'm the best reporter in the world because I've got that kind of a story that's only given to one writer in a thousand, once in a lifetime. This story begins with the end of a man's life. Yesterday, an old man living alone with his five cats on an abandoned barge under the Brooklyn Bridge cut off the heads of four of his cats then expertly slit his own throat from ear to ear. At six o'clock on the morning we got the flash about this old man, I was playing cribbage with Mike, my police pal at the station house squad room. Burke, the desk captain was snoring his head off. Okay, Mike, there it is. Go 121 points. At last, Ron made it. Oh, you're the luckiest jerk, Stevie. We're both lucky. Not a call the whole night. Sure hate to drive out to anything in this place, would we? Uh-oh. Praise 84th Precinct Brooklyn. What? Yeah. Wait, say that slower. You haven't seen him in a week. His cat's seen around. Oh, but lady, huh? Bloody in the snow. Well, that's different. Sure, sure. Yeah, okay, thanks. What's up, Captain? Some dame passes an old barge down the foot of the bridge on a way to work every day. He says an old bum lives there with his cats. Don't tell me I got a rescuer cat now. No, this coot talks to a real polite every morning. But she ain't seen him in a week. Today she goes to look close like and finds blood in the snow near the door, so... So we go see. Probably when south of the winter. Coming along, Stevie? Yeah, but I don't like it. Burke mentioned cats, and I hate cats. And I hate people who keep cats. Well, this is it, I guess. Come on, Stevie. Hey. Hey, look, Mike. There's a snowman. Oh, so what? Haven't you ever seen a snowman? Yeah, but look, that's not an ordinary snowman. It's a beautifully sculptured head of a woman made out of snow. Ah, come on, it's cool. Let's get inside this scowl here. Hey, open up. Open up there, open up inside. There is blood out here, Mike. Look. See? Here's where the woman's foot prints stop. Okay, Sherlock. Help me bust this door. Oh, what's the matter with you? Look on the floor. One, two, three, four cats with their heads cut off. And another one alive. Hey, where are you going? I told you I can't stand them dead or alive. One of them clawed me when I was a kid. I... Stevie, get a load of this over here on the bed. He did a good job, from ear to ear. He had done a good job. He was naked to the waist, and his hairy torso was bathed in blood. His head laid on one side and was nearly severed at the throat. His mouth, a strangely sensitive mouth, unfoolishly open in the middle of a matted mass of beard. But it was his eyes that stirred something inside me. They were cold black agates that smoldered with defiance, even in death. They seemed to carry a message only I was meant to see. I turned away and stumbled over a small wooden box that contained clay fragments. An impulse seized me, and I carried the box outside. What do you want that box to try for? I'm not sure. I just feel I ought to take it along. Mind? Just junk. These bums collect the screwy stuff. Come on, I'll drop you off at your paper. You'll get a news beat on this anyhow. Okay, Mike. Thanks. I'll call you later to see if you identify the old bird. All right, Stevie. Hey, here's that box of junk. You want it? Oh, yeah. Yeah, thanks, Mike. I wrote the item. All we could learn was that he was Ivan. No fingerprints on record. No relatives. Just Ivan. So he stayed just Ivan to a quarter of a million readers and to the police. But to me, he was a man who had not yet died. I poked through the rubble of clay in the box, and I was about to throw the whole mess out when a time blackened metal tag caught my eye. It was the kind of tag used to mark paintings or statues. It read Agatha, January 2, 1924, 20 years ago, today. And below that was a name, Ivan Thorn. The name jangled a bell in my memory. It frightened me. It fascinated me. I rummaged in the box some more. A hunch grew to certainty. Ivan Thorn had been a sculptor. He was a fragment of clay, a nose, ear part of a chin, ear and ear, a woman's ear. And the snow image of a woman's head came to mind. Why did Ivan Thorn, a sculptor of obvious talent, do a head of a woman named Agatha in clay, then on the same date, 20 years later, as a bum, reproduce it in snow and slit his throat? I found the answer in the yellowed clippings of the newsroom morgue. The story of Ivan Thorn was filed under murders unsolved. After I'd read the story, I marched into G.C.'s office. Hey, what's up, Stevie? They say the Brooklyn bridge again? No. You, uh, you read the item on the old guy I found with his throat cut? Sure, sure. Cut off his cat's heads, then his own, unidentified. Good item. I, I know who he is. Was. Yeah. Story? Story. You got time to listen? Shoot. Well, this begins in a sculptor's studio off Washington Square on a stormy night long ago. Ivan Thorn and Agatha, his wife, were having work. For the last time, Agatha, are you really going through with this divorce foolishness? For the last time, yes. I'm tired of living from hand to mouth. I'm tired of your stupid statues. I'm tired of your stupid cats. I'm tired of you. All right. I'll give you the divorce. You can marry Greg Stevens. He'll give you everything you want. But Horace stays with me. I want custody of the boy. The court will decide that. Agatha, I've been working on that head of you for a year. It, it's good. I think the museum. Oh, that thing? It doesn't even come close to looking like me. Of course, that head isn't you. It's what I remember you as when I first met you. Ivan, let go of me. You're hurting me. All right. I'll let go of you. But I'm going to finish that head, Agatha, and you're going to help me. I will not. You'll get your divorce. Only if you agree in writing to pose me one day each month for six months. I must finish it. Six months. And what about Horace? He's away at school all the time. We'll let the court decide a decent arrangement. All right, Ivan. I'll do that. Give me that pen. Here. I, Agatha Thorne, agree to pose for a sculptured head by Ivan Thorne. On the first day of each month for six months signed Agatha Thorne. There you are. Now get out. Get out before I break your neck. She's gone. She's gone. But I'll see her again. Six more times. That's all I need. Six more times. Sounds to me like this Ivan guy is working up a neat little catastrophe. Mr. Raymond. Oh, yes, Mary. I got to thinking about that snowman they found. Did you ever make a snowman? Oh, sure. And I cut off his head for a souvenir. Kept it in the icebox over the summer. And you're teasing me, Mr. Raymond. But you know when I was a child, we used to spend all afternoon making a snowman. And then we'd go in the house for supper with our cheeks red as a frost apple and with a real country appetite. A house was so warm and cozy. Yes, and filled with all the exciting smells of good cooking. You know how children are. They play in the snow and then come in ready to eat you out of house and home. And I've got a grand suggestion for these winter night suppers. Lipton's noodle soup mix. It's such a heartening dish. Thrifty, too. Costs a lot less than canned soups. Yes, Lipton's noodle soup just seems to belong to folks young and old who've got a healthy appetite and a yen for homemade chickeny tasting soup. Uh, Mary. Yes, Mr. Raymond. Mr. Bowman is waiting to resume his part of the young police reporter, Stevie. That's right. Uh, you remember, Stevie told his editor that Ivan was divorced by his wife, Agatha, 20 years ago. And how the events that followed turned the sculptor into the tired old bum he was when he slit his throat under the Brooklyn bridge. Well, Stevie, did Agatha get her divorce? Yes. And the court gave her custody of their six-year-old kid, Horace. She married Greg Stevens, and according to these clippings, she kept her agreement with Thorn. She posed for the head he was doing over so that he could finish it. The first day of each month for six months, huh? Yeah. How'd he take the divorce and losing his kid and all? Beautifully. So everybody thought it got to be the talk of the town. The three of them, Agatha, Greg, and Ivan seemed to get along fine together. The Stevenses were frequent callers at Thorn's studio. Oh, I say, Thorn, why won't you show me the head you're making of Agatha? Isn't fair, you know. But not till it's finished, Greg. You wouldn't appreciate it as it is now. It really is good, Ivan. When will you finish it? Yes, Ivan, when? I want to finish it on New Year's Day. That will be the last time you need pose, Agatha. Can you make it that day? Well, I'll just have to, won't I? Yes. At three o'clock? At three o'clock. Come on, Greg, darling. Good night, Ivan. Good night, Ivan. My goodness, six months goes by so fast, doesn't it? Six months? I gave them six months. One day it's over. One day is the last day she poses for me. One day I'll finish that head. I'll love her. And for six months, six centuries, she belonged to that idiot. He took my son from me. You can't hear me, Agatha. Can you? This is you and Clay. You can't hear me. You can't hear me. Everybody thinks it's wonderful that I haven't thought of such a good sport about it. I fooled them all. I fooled you. Yes. He really was out of his mind, Stevie, this Ivan guy. Sure, but with the madman's cunning, he disguised it well. At that point, all his cats knew it, I guess. New Year's Day, 1924, was a howling, wintry day. Neighbors later testified to seeing Ivan's massive frame, coat flailing open in the wind, eyes staring, unblinking, as he turned into his building. It was the last time they saw him. In his studio, Ivan kicked his door shut and began talking to Agatha's statue as he'd gotten into the habit of doing now for some time. I've set the table by the fire, Agatha, just as we always did. You like that. And I've set a place for little Horace. Oh, I know you don't want him to come here, but we'll just make believe. I must pull myself together. I don't know you, Agatha. Come in. Come in. And the same to you, Ivan. Oh, let me get to that fire quickly. I'm frozen up. Why are you building the door? The draft rattles the door. Here, give me a coat. Now, how about a bite by the fire? Why, Ivan, how quaint, just like old times. This is the last time you'll come to pause. Have you minded living up to our agreement? No, Ivan. You've been very decent about it. But tell me, why are you so set on finishing the head you're doing of me? Have you ever seen a human skull, Agatha? Ugly thing. Long after that pretty head of yours becomes a skull, the head I'm making of you will live in the ageless bronze. But that's why I'm so anxious to finish this work. I see. Well, shall we start, Ivan? You're not working. You're just staring at me. I'm studying the lion of your neck, darling. It alludes me. Well, hurry, please. I've sat here for two hours now. I'm tired. I'll be finished soon. Then you can rest, darling. Then you can rest. Ivan, you're looking at me as though you... Ivan. You've moved your head again, darling. Here, let me show you. There. So, just like this. Don't move, Agatha. I think it's a loose on your throat. But in a split second, I can sink them into you tight, like this. I've loved you more in these few months. You've been away from me than I ever did before. I'll always love you. But if I can't have you, no one else can. Ivan, you're mad. I gave you six months with that fool because I wasn't sure. I thought I could get over losing you and the boy, but I... I can't. We all thought you were... Resigned. And now, even now, I don't know if I want to kill you, Agatha. I... I'm not sure. You don't... you know you don't. Think of our... your son... I am thinking of your little fool. Oh, Greg! Greg, help me! Greg! Greg! You've got the nerve to speak his name here. No! No! No! No! You're on credit. I did it, but you... you made me do it. This clay head... Agatha, see, I was wrong. You're much more beautiful. I've changed my mind. I don't want fame. I don't want a statue! I want you! See, Agatha, I've broken it, smashed it. It's Greg Stevens who should die. He did all this to us. I'll... I'll go see Greg. He must know that he too... has lost. Well, that's some yarn, Stevie. He actually strangled Agatha, huh? What happened then? He left his studio and called at the Stevens' house a little after six. Greg Stevens and young Horace were the only ones there, except for the butler. He testified that Ivan quietly asked to see Stevens alone. He had a bundle in his arms covered with a piece of black velvet when Gregory greeted him. Glad to see you and a happy new year to you. But where's Agatha? She was supposed to be with you. She'll turn up shortly. She said something about a girlfriend she had to stop by for. Oh, I see. Well, come on in, Ivan. We can have a glass of sherry while we wait. Thanks. Put your package down somewhere. I'll have the table here. Thank you. Did you get a lot done today on the head, I mean? Yes. In that box, would it? Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Well, good heavens, man. Let me see it. I've been kept from all this long enough. Now there's... Till Agatha gets here. I'm going away for a while, Stevens. Before I go, I want you to tell me something. Do you love Agatha? A lot, I mean. A lot? I worship her. I adore her. You know what you did to me when you took Agatha and my boy from me? Well, the choice was hers. I'm glad for my sake. I'm sorry for you. But I thought you were resigned by now. Resigned? You poor fool. I've lived the life of raging hate for you, Ivan. Sit down. You don't have to be sorry for me anymore, Greg. You can start feeling sorry for yourself. Corn, what are you driving at? Everything comes out even, Greg. What's in that box? Come closer, Greg. Here. I'll take the cloth off. See for yourself. Agatha! You fiend! You beast! I'll kill you! Don't do it, Greg. I still lose, Agatha. Don't do it! I'll kill you! I'll kill you! Get away from me! You won't kill me. I won't kill you. We'll both live. To remember. Thorne didn't kill Stevens? No, GC. He knocked him out. They found his footprints in the snow along with the kids. He must have stopped to say goodbye. What a story. He slid his throat this morning as a bum on a barge. Yeah. Took his cats with him. The clay fragments I found in that box on the barge were all that was left of the clay head of Agatha. Nobody even found out how he got away. Or managed to stay hidden for 20 years? No. That's his secret. Well, write it up, stupid. I can't. I won't, GC. You can't print that story. That devil I can't. Where's Greg Stevens? Where's Horace, the kid? Find him. Greg Stevens died penniless and insane a year later. His kid was raised in an orphan asylum. Well, find the kid. Now, let's see. He'd be about 26 today. Maybe he doesn't know any of these things. Why does a scoop get busy? Look, you can't print this story. Why do you think I didn't write it up and hand it in? I feel sorry for the kid. I was raised in an asylum. Now, story's a story. What do I have to do? Draw you a diagram, GC? Why do you call me Stevie? Well, because your name is Stevens, I guess. Good heavens. You don't mean it. Yes. My name is Stevens. I never use my first name. I don't like it. It's Horace. That's right. Your Horace Stevens? Yes. My father was Ivan Thorn. Have a little sculptor in your home. Better take his modeling away from him. Might grow up to be a bust. That's enough to give anybody the creeps. It certainly is, Mr. Raymond. Oh, Mary Bennett. Say, didn't you like our story tonight? Well, it was exciting, all right, but why don't you tell stories about normal happy people? Of course, folks like that never get murdered or anything, but interesting things happen to them. Nice things, too. I like discovering Lipton's noodle soup, Mary. Well, why not? Lipton's noodle soup is a good way to brighten up a meal, and good meals are a mighty important part of life. So, folks, maybe you've tried other envelope soups. But if you've never tried Lipton's noodle soup, you've got something real nice ahead of you, because Lipton's is the favorite noodle soup of them all. Our moral for tonight is, don't drive alone. If you have a car lucky you, form a car pool. Then, if you should have a flat tire, you'll be among friends on that day. You'll be among friends on that cold, cold highway. Fun. And Uncle Sam says, join a car pool, too. He's not kidding. He says, your car pool will help save gas and tires, so look to it, Max. Uh, yes, the, um, this month's Inner Sanctum Mystery Novel is Net of Cobwebs by Elizabeth Sanxay Holding. Oh, yes, and you won't forget to look for Lee Bowman with Rita Hayworth and the Columbia Technicolor picture tonight and every night. Well, now it's time to say good night until next week at the same time when Lipton Tea and Lipton Soup again present another Inner Sanctum Mystery directed by Hyman Brown. Good night. Pleasant dream. Folks, I got to thinking about wintertime, about snowmen and frost pictures on the windows and about how cozy a house can be when there's a gale blowing outside. And then I got to thinking about Lipton Tea, because a cup of Lipton's, the tea with that brisk flavor really hits the spot. It's so cheerful and warming. You know, the word brisk, B-R-I-S-K, means that Lipton Tea has a fresh, lively flavor. It's never thin or wishy-washy. That's why Lipton's is America's favorite tea. So don't forget to ask for it when you go to the grocery store. And don't forget to tune in next Tuesday night for another Inner Sanctum Mystery. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.