 Good evening friend. This is your host to welcome you through the creaking door into the innocent. Come in, come in. Fell over a word this morning while cleaning the ghosts out of the attic. Longevity. Means living on and on without a stop. Just dug in for kids. A century old uncle of mine is still around a regular heart hill for an hill. He's really wild about outdoor living. Spends all his time haunting the garden. Like a century plant. Yes, we water him quite a day. And I've a land who hasn't gone a day older since her 85th birthday. Just as if time had stopped for her. Confidentially it did. And he died promptly at the stroke of 85. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Tonight's inner sanctum mystery, Murder Comes to Life, was written by John Robert and stars Charles Irving in the role of John with Santa Sortega as sorrowful. And now for our weekly dizzy spell. We're aboard a ship, the SS Monterey entering San Francisco Harbor. A lone deckhand leans over the rail brooding into the fog. He tenses suddenly, as if keying his ears and mind to a sound in the sea. The seaman shakes his head as if the name glances off him meaninglessly. He moves a hand across his face, as if removing mist that cloud his vision, as if desperately anxious to accept the identity of Jean LeBlanc as his own. Jean LeBlanc. Here's it, my name. A name I forgot long ago and I fell apart. And if it is my name, why can't I accept it and believe it? Why do I insist I'm someone else and run? Jean LeBlanc. Everywhere I've gone through the years, the names pursue me, demanding that I stand my ground and pace it everywhere. Lisbon, Bombay, Crippleley. And the last time? The last time in a bar in an island port where forgotten men drift to forget. Hello, Jean LeBlanc? That name. Wherever I go, I hear it. Wherever I go, it whispers at me, shouts at me. It's driving me crazy. It's your name, mister. Running from it will get you nowhere. Your Jean LeBlanc. But I'm Belmar. My name is Belmar. You're Jean LeBlanc, San Francisco, USA. You've been shuttling from island to island on the bum like a man without a country. But you're Jean LeBlanc, San Francisco, USA. You're as sure as that? I ought to be. We've traveled around the world and back together. You step ahead, slippery as an eel and me on your tail. You've been following me, you say? Like grim death. Why? $50,000. That's the price you'll fetch. Look, look where we are. You've got to stop following me. Sure, I'll stop LeBlanc. When you stop running. I'll make you stop if I have to kill you. A gun, huh? You grease lightning on the draw. A killer. If you only had what it takes to pull a trigger. Go on. Try and pull the trigger. I can't. I can't, man. My fingers are numb since they were asleep. Yeller. When the chips are down, just as you've always been. Well, my fingers aren't numb. Here's proofing. There was an iron bar crashing against my skull, a hole open in the earth, and I plunged through it. I came to with a moon on my face, and the wind in my ears. I was in an open field, in an abandoned quarry under a pile of rocks, rising from the dead. A shadowy figure was standing over me, a sour little guy, with a mournful look as if he made a habit of crying. I watched him remove the rocks covering me, one by one, and tossed them into a pile. I'll have you out of there on a chippy. A rat dutch in a quarry like you were a load of chump. How do you feel? Weak in my pins. As if I was just born, as if I've come back from the dead. I'm not kidding. As far as dead as any guy could get. Who did it to me? I let you in on this much. It was a cup, a retired cup. A cup? Yeah. He said I was worth $50,000 to him. What did he mean? That's how much Jean LeBlanc is worth to a cup. Look, why don't you stop drifting from port to port and face up to yourself? Call yourself by your right name. But, but I'm Belmar. I'm known as Belmar. Our ship is Belmar. Yeah, mine's still in the rut. And while it's like that, we're in the rut. We? We go together? I came in eggs. If you want to know where you picked up the name Belmar. No. I'm going to tell you anyhow. See this tin can? Yes. You land out of Frisco on a ship that hauled a car with these tin cans. Can fruit. This one held apricots. Read the brand name. Belmar. Yeah. Belmar. Belmar fruits. Guy with your class has been trying to cram himself into an empty fruit can. I could bust right out crying. I mean so much to you. I just dug you out of that rock pile, didn't I? Well, so long for now. But wait, who are you? You didn't tell me. You used to call me Ben in the old days. And you were the big boss and I was your racket boy. Ben's a name. Sorrowful. He was gone. I was alone with the wind. There was a battered tin can beside me. Wearing a label that read... Belmar. I went back to the club I'd blanked out in. There were questions I wanted answered. Want something, mister? Yes, me. Surprised? You were killed in here last night. Sure. But here I am, my own ghost. And thin air. Reach out and feel. Go on, Papa, I feel. What you were? You were deader than a doornail. Oh, I'd quit horsing around and get down to cases. Who gave me the business? Look, I don't want to get mixed up. I asked who gave me the business? Uh, Tramp, as far as I know. Called himself Sanderson. Like he was stranger on the island. And who pronounced me dead? Old Bailey. He said there's a sort of unofficial coroner here on the island. And how is it I ended up in a stone quarry? And how come the island police weren't notified of my... my murder? Nobody goes to the police on this island. Old Bailey pronounced you dead. Everybody looked the other way while Sanderson carried you out the back door. It's me. You were stoned dead right where you're standing now. Sorry, pal. Sorry I had to come back and spoil it. Looking for Old Bailey. The coroner. I wanted an old boy, an unconscious man, qualified with him as a corpse ready for immediate burial. I found him along the edge of the beach. Living in a shack built of packing cases and old strips of cardboard. When the tide came in, the ocean soaked through the sides and up through the floor. It was as if Old Bailey wanted the shack to wash out to sea. The tide was in when I got there. Well, you're here, son. What brought you here? You better talk fast. The way the waves are coming will be washing out to sea. You want that to happen? Yes, of course. Precisely my idea in building here. What brought you here? You're not surprised to see me? Why should I be? You pronounced me dead last night. A mistake from the looks of you. A mistake that almost buried me for keeps. I'm ashamed of my incompetence, but I promise you the recall of your death certificate. The very next time I live. Look, Mr. Coroner, you know a dead man when you see one. My idea is that somebody hired you to pronounce me dead. Maybe. And maybe not. Quit wriggling. How much did you get to pronounce me dead? Barely enough to flee myself of death. I asked how much? $4,350. Who from? Who wanted my death certificate and why? Now you're asking an old sinner to play informer. I'm not asking, Bailey. You're demanding. On pain of death. You overestimate the price I've put on my life. We'll see. We'll see if we can push the price up. You'll lose. Oh, but that death certificate from you. The harder you squeeze, the lower the price. The closing of life. The storm, Bailey. The sea torches with a paper hut and overran us. I felt it pull at me. I was being sucked into the middle of a whirlpool. Flying face up on the beach, storm was over and tide was out. Old Bailey was gone, and then it's paper hut too. I could see the wreckage way in the distance, riding the ocean swell. I was half dead, but alive. A miracle. I got to keep you alive and going, boss. When it happened, I'm not blamed for the condition you're in. You're to blame. How? It was me who beat you over the head and sent you mind wandering. You really want to know about it? Yes. It was your last day in Frisco. The cops were around our hideout, setting up machine guns, tossing tear gas bombs, all ready to close in for the pinch. The only way out was to shoot our way out. And? You can't remember anything by yourself, huh? No. No, I try, but something gets in my way. It's all a jumble in my mind. I was the only one doing any shooting on our side. You were blowing your top screaming like a crazy man. Gunfight. Burns always gave you the willies. I slugged you to shut you. Later I got you out and smuggled the tool to support his ship. It was a freighter carrying fruit cans with the name Belmar on them. And? And blank. Quickly get away. I'd call it quits. Just get away and lay low. But you blanked out. Horrible. Tell me, what was your genre blank like before he began to scream at last day in Frisco? Oh, top man in the world. You had the world in your best pocket, boys. You were the Jesse James I read about as a kid. Only better, the stuff you pulled at Frisco on its ear. What sort of stuff? Banks, museums, mail trucks. Just theft? No murder? Murder was a rub. Like I said, guns gave you the willies. That last day in Frisco, police had our hideout surrounded, you said. How did they get that close? That's a question I was waiting for you to get around to. They were tipped off by a stilt pigeon named Queenie Simpson. The job you mucked on Queenie still needs to be done if you ever want to go home. Oh, it's a lot to remember all at once. I mean, it's a lot to believe. You think maybe I'm working a gag, that I'm trying to swinly on the call on yourself, genre blank and wake you for a fall guy. Okay. Don't find things out your own way. I'll be around. I'll be in Asia. So, I went about finding things out my own way. I went looking for Sanderson to double check on why he broke my head so that a phony death certificate could be issued in the name of genre blank. I found him camped in a hobo jungle 50 yards away from a railroad embankment. That's right. Back from the dead. Can it? You never killed me. I didn't know, you just thought you did. I only passed out and you buried me alive. Disappointed? Not too much, maybe. You're worth $50,000 in reward money. Dead or alive. Here, this will restore your memory. It was a police notice offering a $50,000 reward for the capture of genre blank, dead or alive. Ah. I get your death certificate, Angle Sanderson. With me dead, it would have been easier for you. No carding me back. Just show that death certificate old Bailey issued and collect. I'll collect anyhow. If you live. That wouldn't be a threat, would it? A death notice. Who's going to die now? You. Of strangulation. I don't worry you, huh? Not a bit. I told you last night you weren't the killer type. You threatened, then you run. Hey, but I've changed, Sanderson. I stopped running, thanks to you. Thanks to me. Hey, you opened my head last night and the fears ran out. I face up to myself now. I don't cry, baby, anymore. I'm not the killer type, but I ain't going to kill you when you laugh until I blow a few. I had the strength of a hundred men in my hands. My fingers were still closed. I didn't have a chance. And I struggled a black patchy war over when I slipped. I was staring into an empty eye socket, looking for the last glimpse of myself that would finally stitch broken fragments together into a single piece. Who was I really and what was I all about? I saw nothing in that empty eye socket. I sat around with Sanderson. Fascinated by the face of death. Waiting for sorrowful's approval. The night's worked, boys. What did you kill him with? My bare hands. I strangled him with my bare hands. He's dead all right. That takes care of job number one. Job number two is... Queenie Simpson? Nobody else. This time... with a gun. Sure. With a gun. This time. Where do I find Queenie Simpson? Well, she's always been. The Wonderland arcade. She works a shooting gallery there. She always has. Kill her and you've got the cops up the tree. She's her only witness against you. Kill her and you're the racket king of Frisco again with the town eating out of your hand. San Francisco. It's been a long way around. Getting home sorrowful. I've come back to a forgotten world. Halfway around the globe. To murder a forgotten woman. The Wonderland arcade is a honky-tonk strip. There's a flea circus, a waxworks, a piano somewhere beating out ragtime. And Queenie Simpson's shooting gallery. I'm waiting, keeping out of sight. Watching until Queenie Simpson is between customers. What's the tab for a rifle load, sister? Two L shots for a quarter. It's cheap enough. Watch me shoot. Gold eye. You're pretty good. Thanks. I'm even better with a revolver. What would it take to coax you to get up against that target? I'd say you've got the coaxer right in your hand. Jean. Jean? Jean who? Jean Leblanc. I've been expecting you to call sometime. You're sure I'm Jean Leblanc? Must be Jean Leblanc. Only Jean Leblanc would come to kill me. Why? I tipped off the cops. Tell them all about you. Why? What game are we playing now? I double-crossed you and you're here to kill me. Now let's get it over with. You've got 11 shots left, mister. She's up against the target. Indifferent to her fate. I stare at her and then I lose her. My gun drops to my side. I can't shoot. My fears are back. I'm choked up with fear. The fear that drove me across the world. Pull the trigger Leblanc. It's horrible. Yeah, me. Still Johnny on the spot. Go ahead, pull that trigger. You killed double-crosses. I can't pull the trigger, sorrow. Don't turn yellow now. You come back a long way. Pull that trigger and you're the big boss again. I can't. I can't. My fingers are numb. My hands feel dead. I stuck along with you. Crawled down from the island. I watched over you worried about you. I went for you to come out of a brainstorm. But now it's over. Once and for all, are you going to make like Jean Leblanc and pull that trigger? I can't. I'm Jean Leblanc, but I can't measure up to what you expect. I'm afraid. Get me that gun. Ruffle shot Queenie as surely as I could. I watched her stiffen. While a red stain on her dress over her heart spins and spins into a wider and wider circle. There was somebody in my book once Leblanc. Don't blame me, sorrowful. You built a statue in your mind. And now it turns out it's only a clay statue. Police cars. Hear the sirens. Take one more shot, sorrowful. At me. Shoot your statue down before the police come. I can't. You must. Either way I'd die, but I'd rather it was you. This way I won't die screaming. Shoot sorrowful, please. Police around them. It's here. It's here. The corner of his eye. As if he's going on a crying jaggy and never come out. He still can't get it through his head. That the statue he built of Jean Leblanc never resembled the man. Even a little bit. Leblanc, even now with his worries over he's having himself a fit. Size four by six the cat could make a test. That old Bailey, 50 bucks and he'll pronounce you dead any old time. Even if it kills you. I hear he's doing shady business as usual. His shingles hung on Davey Jones' locker. His engraved invitations to please call, read, drop in any old crime. Inner sanctum is heard each week in the United States over CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System. 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