 Pairs of footsteps echoed down the dark alley. He stopped, waited, waited for Jack the Ripper to strike. But this is not London in 1888. No, this is Chicago in 1945. Yet Jack the Ripper is loose again to knife, to butcher his victims without trace. Hello crepes. This is Peter Lorre opening the doors of the mystery playhouse. If you recall some six years ago, London was terrorized by a one-man crime wave. I am murderer who was never captured and never seen. And tonight, we follow the investigations of Sir Guy Hollis who firmly believes that Jack the Ripper is still alive. That it is he who is the fiend that once again slashes and kills. There is the element of the supernatural in this story that will amaze you, for it seems that the spirit world has given the black heart of Jack the Ripper the power of everlasting life. Time the present. Our scene is the reception room of a well-known Chicago psychiatrist, Dr. John Comety. Miss Canister, the doctor's assistant is chatting with a tall, distinguished man who is apparently waiting to consult Dr. Comety. But surely, Sir Guy, you can't believe a theory that seems so well, uh, astrological. I'm afraid I do, Miss Canister. I do grant, Miss Canister, that we still know very little about the life energy of the tongue, about those forces which keep the penits in their sphere and keep a star from spinning a stray and crashing into the wriggly bell ring. Hello there. Oh, Dr. Comety. I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Hollis. Miss Canister, will you step into my office, please? Take your time, Dr. Comet. Anything to gain your patience or respect? Well, what have I done now? It's Sir Guy Hollis. He's a lord or a knight or anyway, not a commoner. Attached to the British consulate here. Did you find out anything else about him? Nothing about his medical condition. He's right out of an English movie. The only thing that's missing is a monocle. Oh, yes, and he's a bug about astrology. Send him in, hmm? Mm-hmm. The doctor will see you now, sir. Thank you. It's been a somewhat busy day, Sir Guy. Sorry you had to wait so long. Apology, a doctor need never make, sir. Most attractive, aren't they, Dr. Comet? It's also my home. Oh, that explains the piano, then, and the painting. Oh, perhaps. Ah-ha. What do you think of London, Dr. Comet? London? Why? Have you ever noticed anything strange about it? Well, the fog is aimless. Although here in Chicago, we sometimes have one to match it. Yes, the fog. That's important. The deed always provides the perfect setting for what? For murder. Tell me, sir Guy, what is a Londoner doing in Chicago discussing murder with a psychiatrist? Have you ever heard of Jack the Ripper, Dr. Comet? The greatest monster of them all. Worst than Spring Hill Jack or Krypton even. Red Jack. Red Jack the Ripper. Yes, I've heard of him. Do you know his history, Dr? See here, sir Guy, doctors are pretty much in demand these days. I assumed you were a patient, wanted my help with the psychiatrist. If you just wanted to swap old wives' tales about famous crimes, perhaps we might arrange dinner. This is no old wives' tale, Dr. This is a matter of life and death. Sorry. What is it? Well, listen. London, 1888. Out of nowhere a shadowy figure with a knife haunting the squalid diaries of Whitechapel and Spittlesfield. Six times that knife was sent into the throats and bodies of London's women. 39 stair wounds, the papers said, the first time. August 31st, another victim. On September 8th, watchmen making their rounds in the grey dawn stumbled across the third-hacked and horrid thing. I understand he used his knife rather well. He was an expert, Dr. And where did he learn? At the operating table, the butcher's block, some said on the police force. On November 9th, a sixth victim was found on the floor of her room. Panic in the grandstand? Yes, but needless panic. Months passed, a year. They said Jack escaped to America. They said he committed suicide. They've been saying things ever since. You tell the story very well, but I'm afraid that's all the time I can give you today, sir Guy. I haven't any. I'm anxious to hear the rest of your story. Dr. Parmenin, I am on the trail of Jack, the ripper. I've tracked him here to Chicago. You've tracked? See here, sir Guy. Oh, what was the date of those London murders? 1888. If Jack the ripper were even born that year, he'd be 56 today. I'd say red Jack would be good and dead about now. Would he? Or should I say would she, because the ripper may have been a woman, you know? Do you think I'm insane, doctor? No. But then you might listen to my reason for thinking the ripper is still alive. I have been studying these cases for 13 years, talked to officials, friends of the four drabs he killed. And then I started studying unsolved murders all over the world. Followed a trail of blood. I could show you a clipping from San Francisco, Shanghai, Berlin, Cairo, Milan. 87. 87 such murders. And all had the trademark of the ripper. You remember the New Orleans torso slayings last summer? Well, vaguely. A colleague of mine tended to herrings. And surely you remember two recent ones here in Chicago, one out on South Devon in September, and a few weeks ago there was another. Very much like it, up on Foster's. Yeah? Well, doctor? You're a criminologist. But figure it out, sir Guy. If Red Jack were, say, 30 in 1888, he'd be 86 today. And no man of 86 could have butchered up that half-dead for him. Suppose he didn't get any older. Suppose Red Jack knew how to stay young. But people do grow old, sir Guy. Murderers, too. Whether they're women or butchers or scientists, they grow old. What about sorcerers? Necromancers, wizards, practices of lack-mending. Now, see here, doctor. I have studied the dates of those 87 murders. And they have an astrological significance. Suppose Red Jack didn't murder for the sake alone. Suppose he wanted to make a sacrifice. What kind of a sacrifice is that? It has been said that if you offer blood to the dark gods when the moon and the stars are right, they grant wounds, wounds of eternal youth. I don't understand, sir Guy. I'm not an authority on witchcraft nor even an amateur criminologist. Why have you come to me? Because Jack the Ripper is here in Chicago, and through you, I am going to capture him. Good morning, doctor. Good morning, canister. Well, how did his lordship turn out last night? He's the most exciting patient we've had in a month. He's not a patient, canister. At least not yet. Didn't he do? No, I can't tell. He talks so convincingly. There is a shred of reality in the story. It's real enough to him, Lord knows. Oh, excuse me, doctor. Doctor, come in, doctor. May I speak with Dr. Comedy, please? It's most urgent. One moment. I want you to begin. Hello? It's Guy Hollis, doctor. Any new clues turned up overnight? You're willing to go through with it? Just this minute sent my nurse out for a magnifying glass and a pair of handcuffs. I hope that'll be necessary, doctor. Now, look here, sir Guy. How can I possibly help you? I have good reasons. Good reason. I'll tell you when I. That's right. How did you know that? Take you with me. I told you that I have plotted the astrological chart. The ripper must make a sacrifice before this night passes. Oh, OK. How about supper first? Splendid. Pick me up at about 7.30. Thanks awfully, doctor. All right, bye. Are you sure you're doing the right thing? That's why I wanted him to supper first. If he proves dangerous, I'll manage to sidetrack him somehow. I hope Lester's in. So no murder yet, Lester. But if you don't become conscious, there may be. Oh, John. Yes, that's right. Now, look, old man, is it OK if I bring someone to the party tonight? It's a guy from the British consulate. I don't know that. Now, listen, Lester. He's, well, he's kind of a strange duck. I'm not sure yet whether his head is on right. Good night. Right. And as to all that remains now is for sir Guy and I to attend the party tonight and capture the Ripper. What are you talking about? Well, sir Guy says the Ripper will be there tonight. A Jokey? I am, yes. But sir Guy isn't. And perhaps he's right. But I still don't know who you're hoping to find at Lester's party tonight, sir Guy. A few writers, a painter, a singer, all fairly normal. How about sir, is the Ripper perfectly normal? Except on certain nights. Then he becomes an ageless, pathological monster crouching to kill on evenings like tonight when the stars are arranged in blazing patterns of death. But why among my friends? Because they are the kind of people the Ripper seeks out. But I warn you, sir Guy, once these people find out what you're up to, you'd better be prepared for just about anything. I'll be ready. Look, what's that you've got there? See here, sir Guy, you can't go around among my friends with a gun in your pocket. Oh, then you keep it for me. Tell. But be prepared to use it. Sure. Well, come on, the party should be in full swing by now. Well, sir Guy, are you enjoying yourself? Immensely, John, your friends are very charming. Except that one of them is Jack the Ripper, huh? Perhaps. And if I get the opportunity, I think I'll show you how he can find out. Now, soon I hope it's 1 o'clock. I should be leaving. Leaving? Leaving? Who said leaving? Are you trying to slow my party, John? Oh, lester, it is late. Don't be a killjoy, John. I've hardly met our honored guest. Oh, John. Are you here on a military mission, sir Guy? Not exactly. Well, then it's not a secret. Oh, not at all, Mr. Benton. I'm on the trail of Jack the Ripper. Jack? Well, it's rude of us to be so curious. Sir Guy has an idea that Jack the Ripper is falling around Chicago less, and he's out to find it. Oh, really? Sir Guy is serious. Well, he should be, according to some old files I've read. Red Jack was something of a menace. Had some ripping good times. Lester, puns get worse daily. Oh, then I'll pay. Sir Guy is sure that the Ripper is responsible for the South Sabre murder. And the one up on Hall stood a few weeks ago. You've covered them less. What's your idea? B, very neat carving and bottom. But the victims were men. I thought the Ripper was only interested in women. Oh, not at all. It's probably a virtue that the women we know the Ripper sought were fairly vivid symbols, a kind of living comment on the society which he detested. Oh, yes. And then just as our laws change and our society changes, so then must his victims change. Cut out the music. With each new age, the Ripper discovers a new symbol of protest. But tell us, Sir Guy, which do you all provide here, the Ripper or the symbol? Yeah, that might have been a period. The Ripper. All right, boys and girls, we're trapped. Let's face it. I told you he was serious. I know, John, but what can you consider a host to? I've got it. Laverne, let's have that bread knife there on the side, boy. Oh, man. Thanks. Sir Guy has come a long way on a difficult mission, so let's give him a fair chance. I'll turn out the lights for one minute and Sir Guy can stand here in the middle of the room with the bread knife. Now, if anyone here is the Ripper, they can either make a break for it or take the opportunity to, well, eradicate it for sure. That fair enough, Sir Guy? Fair enough, Mr. Laverne, some suitable background music, please. Something veterinarian, you know. Oh, choose your partners for the kill, ladies and gentlemen. Laverne, 60 seconds of darkness for evil to make his cosmic presence known. Unchallenged, unmolested, let the Ripper ride a minute for death, at the end of which, we'll look for the bodies. Ready? Silent. Now, turn out the lights. The affirmative forces return. Let there be light. Oh, look there on the floor. It's Sir Guy. My lord, he's been stabbed. Here, let's pick up the body and get her off the floor. I guess nobody would better touch the body. What is it? I mean, well, doesn't Hollywood recommend the police in moments like this? Heavens' sake, Lass. I swear, Lass, I didn't want to bring him, but he insisted. Said he'd plotted the chart. Said he was certain the Ripper would use his knife before the knife was out. I don't suppose we ought to move him, do you? I'll call the police. Heavens' sake, Lass. Well, look, if you have any ideas, what we should do now. I'll shoot. Whoever goes to get the police could just as easily make a neat getaway. Oh, bless it. He was right about the Ripper. But I wasn't down. Sir Guy, wait a minute. Look at that. I really don't think that's quite the kind of a joke we should have had. Please forgive me, Nodger, for frightening yourself when you were all so innocent. What does that guy mean? Hold it, hold it, everybody. Are you sure about our innocence, Sir Guy? Oh, yes. You see, if the Ripper were here, he would have betrayed himself when he saw me lying there. Not, not the very gentle spoof I'm afraid. Oh, sure, wow. That's all I can tell you. That's all I can tell you. Really? Yeah. Come on, let's get a drink. Huh? Well, John, then, do we leave? It's getting rather late. Yes, Sir Guy. Oh, you can shut your mouth, Nodger. The game's over. Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll get your coats. Thank you. Well, goodbye, everyone, and forgive me if I gave you a not-necessary scandal. They've forgotten about it already, Sir Guy. Good night, Les. Thanks. Don't mention it, John. Come on again, Sir Guy. I'd like to. Good night, Les, then. I suppose you're thinking that I'm guilty of the same sort of sensational tricks as our friend the Ripper, but... I want only to rid the world of a devilish finger who lives by the blood of others. As Les said, they've all forgotten about it. Well, I guess I was wrong. We'll seek him out to the party. You know, we're far more likely to find him out here than the darkness in the fog. Perhaps along a lonely, shadowed street such as this, or perhaps in a neglected dead end, like this one here. Well, Sir Guy, please do me one more favor. To say it's only a hunch, but let's turn up this alley and see what it has to offer. Remember, the Ripper must make a sacrifice tonight. Well, long as I've gone this far. Thanks, young boy. Yes, this is what the Ripper likes. Small, keeping alleyway. Hardly noticeable for the rest of the city. It'll be in a hidden corner like this where I'll capture you and I'll turn the bloody swine over to the police. It's a mad beast, John. An ageless monster, a little loose on the world. There's nothing up here for Guy. I'll turn back. I promise. Look, Sir Guy, don't you think this is carrying a hobby a little too far? A hobby, John? In 1888, one of those nameless traps the Ripper killed was my mother. What? Yes. My father spent his life searching for the Ripper, caught up with him, too, about 1926 in Hollywood, where he was stabbed in a brawl. The police never learned who it was. And I'll live till I find him. I swear I will. Let me have my gun now, John. You've left your friends and I feel safer with my gun on me. I'll see you here, Sir Guy. No, please, John. Now, let me carry the gun. Now, let me have it, John. Please. All right. You insist. It's not a gun. It's a knife. John, what are you doing? I don't mind the John. I need Jack. Hello, Lester. Canister. How did you get out of bed, did I? Yes, the police picked John up this morning. Sir Guy? Oh, he's dead, all right. What's horrible is... Well, of course he's in a cell. All right, Beth, I'm going in now and talk to John. Insane? Of course he must be. Right, Beth, I'll meet you here at the jail. Time's up now, John. I've got to be going. Just one more thing, Lester. There's some reason I want you to understand. You see, Sir Guy was right. I did have to make an offering before the night was over. I didn't want for it to be him, Canister. But up there in that alley, I realized he was as determined as I. Canister, I still wonder who what that party was astute enough to send the police after me so quickly. Lester, perhaps. The police won't tell me, but I'll find out, Canister. And if it was left, you'll know I'm out. But what difference can it make now? The police haven't won yet, Canister. The guards won't let me down. They never have. Sir Guy was right about that, too. I am. I have no aid, you know. Well, uh, we're going. I'll...miss you. Died ten times over. Why, Lester? He saved today. The charge, you know. I still died ten times over. He suspected that you would call the police. As long as he doesn't suspect, you put me wise. Now, you tell me how you found out about it. I was emptying the wastebasket after Comedy left last night at the party. I discovered a lot of astrological plotting in his handwriting. And that English mean words. Couldn't forget them. Comedy just told me the guards want to live him to be executed. He thinks he really is Jack the Ripper. He's insane, Les. Oh, and I was afraid to say that. What do you mean? Any doctor will tell you he is insane. I know they will. Now, also tell the jury. So? It allows them to live. Who means? Who knows, chemistry? Who knows? A comfortable thought, isn't it? Dr. Comedy may die for his crimes, but Jack the Ripper will live on. Oh, well, spirits are hard to kill. Unless they come in a bottle. Now, for our next production, we have something much less exciting. Only 17 shots, sir. A mob of crooks outsmarting each other for a paltry $200,000. Two murderers. And Simon Templer, better known as the saint. Follow me to the green room for the preview. Right this way. Come, come. Come, come. You know, Horace, you really should have told me sooner. Oh, do what? The police headquarters have been moved to a Long Island mansion like this. It's quite a shock to a hard-working taxpayer like me. You'd better start getting used to shots, Bob. Oh, Mr. Natan, the judge is expecting you. Go on in. I wish he wouldn't be spotting me with that rust, though, Horace. It tickles this way, sir. A cozy little stump, isn't it, Horace? My name is not Horace. Me here, please. Judge Striker, Mr. Natan, is back, sir. I am, yes, come here. You might have well locked the door, Natan. I see. Sit down, Mr. Templer. So you are the famous gentleman, known as Mr. Tane, are you? Sometimes my friends call me that. Uh, Mr. Templer, we are faced here with a serious matter, a very serious matter. So it was seen. So serious, in fact, that I have been obliged to adopt rather extraordinary measures. Like sending around a phony dick to pick me up for? You knew he was a phony? My dear, that had his friends. That Horace over there could successfully impersonate an officer of the law, did you? Why, uh, I... Shall we get down to business? Very well. You have in your position a certain, uh, diary of any statements and, uh, suggestions which I hardly believe they are fully untrue. That is the statement that when you held a fine job in Washington, you dreamed up the high-tower oil swindle and got away with it. Yes, a fabrication from beginning to end. And that you and your associates now control about 90% of the black market. That's why you're so anxious to have them prepared. The fact remains that their publication might seriously damage the character and, uh, uh, financial standing of certain rescuable members of the community. Especially including you. I... It sits for that reason and that reason alone, that I am prepared to, uh, ascertain what, uh, value you place on this, uh, volume. What's your offer? Shall we say, uh, $10,000? May I ask you what you find so funny about $10,000? Oh, nothing, nothing under ordinary circumstances. But you must admit that in this case it is a little ridiculous. And, uh, what would you suggest? $200,000 just like us. What did you say you heard me? I said $200,000. You're insane. Well, who know? I'm not. I'll tell you what I'm going to do, judge. I'm going to set up a foundation. I'm on Templar Foundation for the rehabilitation of wounded war veterans. It will have a capital of $1 million. Your share will be exactly one fifth. Do I make myself clear? Why haven't you changed your tune before you ever get out of this house? Don't try to get your gun, Harlott. See, I always carry a fair and I'm an excellent shop. In addition, you should have remembered that I always have something on my sleeve. Now, if you're done out, very slowly, by the muzzle, drop it. Thank you. Now, to the door of me. That's right. And now, if you'll be good enough to unlock the door. Go on. Open it. You'll hear from me again, Templar. Oh, I'm quite certain of it. In fact, I should expect to have your check by Saturday morning. Good night, judge. Yes, they call him the Robin Hood of modern crime. The Robin Hood is not immune when powerful interests concern themselves with arranging for the sudden death of the saint. So with these gentle hearts, this is Peter Lorre closing the doors of the mystery playhouse. Until next time, good night. Sleep tight. Forces of radio service.