 Good evening, friend. This is your host, to welcome you through the creaking door into the inn of Sanctus. Come in, come in. We had a surprise visitation here. A scream or two ago. A sightseeing delegation simply crazy to take it all in. One onlooker's mouth was so gape you'd think his face was split from ear to ear. Confidentially chum it was. The head of the delegation was terribly proud of his honorary title. Poor chap, it was the only head he had. Ah, yeah. Things went along cozy until some wag suggested holding hands. We brought out a trunk full of hands. We'd keep for just such occasions. The fight's inner sanctum mystery between two worlds was written by John Robert and stars Mason Adams and the role of Sam with Ann Shepard as Connie. It's Yuldtide week in South Chicago. As a flash electric storm whips the space. Inside the 10th District Police station, Chief Matthews and his clerk Daley are passing the time over a game of chess. Suddenly like a bolt from the heavens a window pane crashes. At a parcel, fast into a fist-sized rock, drops to the station house floor. It's a package tied to a rock, Chief. And what's in it? A notebook, Chief. A five-and-dime notebook. It's all written up like a confession. It's signed Sam Tyler. Sam Tyler never heard of him. Read me what Sam Tyler's got to say. Ever come face to face with death and just stand around helplessly waiting for it to tap you? Waiting for the final count. While you're waiting, your heart is a big clock ticking off your doom. And inside your head a moving picture's going on. You're looking at the story of your life. And it's not a pretty story. It's all black. It's all bad. You hate to die without a single good mark in a big book. You've only had just enough time to chalk up one good deed. It happened like that with me. I came face to face with death. Death was Nick Fuzenda. I lost face with Nick. The big guy liked his racquet boys tough and nervous and I had a streak of chicken, Nick said. I had a streak of chicken. And I knew too much to be trusted alive. What do you want a chicken? Nick, don't do it. Give me another chance. I ain't like to scare me. What's waiting for me after you pull that trigger, Nick? I haven't done one decent thing since I was born. Here, did you pick the wrong setup? You should have joined a boy scouts. So long chicken. Shot me to noise like a TNT charge, but I hadn't felt the impact. I hadn't felt anything. Either I was paralyzed with fear or dead to feeling. Or Nick had missed. I watched Nick stare unbelievably in aim again. An easy bullseye at five yards with Nick a crack shot, but still no impact. I was still standing up. Hold on. You're dead. No, Nick. I'm alive. You can't kill me. Nick, you're seeing a miracle happen. You're crazy. Nick, I'm going to get that chance. I'm going to live. No more shots, but still no impact. I was alive, uninjured. Something was happening to Nick. His face was proofling of he was suffocating. Some invisible stranger had his hands around Nick's throat strangling him. I'm joking. I help. Nick was on the floor. I watched the color wash out of his face, watched him go rigid. I crouched and listened to his heart. Not a sound, not a murmur. He was dead. Nick had dropped dead. I'd seen a miracle happen. After midnight freight heading east. I was in a box car loaded with crates of eggs still sweating over my narrow escape. And I got a spooky feeling that I wasn't alone. I lay still, choking back my breath with my hand tied around Nick's gun. You have no need for the gun, Sam. How did you know my name? I know all about you, Sam. Put down your gun. Pits up and the trigger is cocked, so no tricks are your a goner. A goner. Too late for that, Sam. I am a goner already. What kind of crazy talk? I died, Sam, just one year ago. Yeah, you're your own ghost. Get your hands up high, Mr. Whiskers, so I can frisk you. I reached a frisk and slapped his pockets for a ride, but there was no one to touch. I was only grabbing an empty air. I told you I died a year ago, Sam. I saved your life tonight. I gave you your wish, your chance to do one decent thing before you died. Did you mean the promise you made? No. That's grand. You drive me crazy. When you lied in the face of eternity, I'd have to recall the time given you... What do you mean, recall the time? You were living on borrowed time, Sam. You were meant to die by Nick's first bullet. You remember how Nick died? Yeah. All of a sudden he couldn't breathe. But like his lungs were gone and his heart was calling questions. Like you're beginning to feel now. Like I... I can't breathe. Mr. Whiskers was smiling. You did mean your promise to tomorrow, didn't you, Sam? Sure. Sure I did. Anything you say. Then continue on to Chicago. When you arrive there, spend your time waiting in a restaurant called a spread eagle. Sooner or later you will be approached. You are to lend yourself to any situation that arises. Any situation, understand? Sure. Sure I understand. This, uh... This good deed I'm to do on borrowed time. What's your interest in it? Deeply personal, Sam. I am no longer among the living, but I have no place among the dead. I walk between two worlds. You see, Sam, in life I didn't have one decent thing to point to either. Through you I hope to find rest. In Chicago I tried to get Mr. Whiskers out of my mind. I'd had a bad dream. It had to be a bad dream. I went to the spread eagle afraid not to. I just sat like a frozen mummy ordering ham sandwiches. I couldn't eat and coffee. I couldn't swallow and listening to downbeat piano music. Mind if I join you? Pull up a chair. I'm Truscus, Sam. You know my name. I know your name and all about you. Where you come from, your record. My year on the land. You know all about me, too, right? I've watched you. I had a confidential operative checking to your pedigree. But for, well, frankly, because I need just such a person as you. For a certain venture I'm involved in. What do you mean, just such a person as me? I wanted a man who's at home and, shall we say, unconventional activities. A man I can trust because he doesn't dare go to the police or even to the underworld. And I'm your man, I guess. You definitely are. Okay, let's go. How did you agree just like that? Without even discussing price or the nature of the work? You said I was your man. The fact is, Truscus, I'm your man and there's nothing I can do about it. This is our destination, Sam. In the middle of nowhere? Up that footpath over there, say one-eighth of a mile, you'll find a private lake. I own it. All right, for you. Thank you. And there lies your first chore. Behind us on the floor of the car is a burlap sack. The weight I would estimate is a hundred and eighteen pounds for less. We've been riding the corpse around, we have. You're to carry the burlap bag and contents up that footpath to the lake and drop it in there. And without tears, Sam. Mind you, without tears. From this point on, as you're saying, goes, we're in business, Sam. What's the next event? Wedded bliss for you. I'm to get married. Tomorrow evening you'll call on your radiant bride to be at this address. Fifteen cantilever walk. Yeah. And try to look more cheerful, Sam. Love comes but wants into every man's life. I climb the steps to fifteen cantilever walk. Big gray stone as if someone had imported the sight of a mountain. Iron over every window. And glue me enough to give even a crepe hang in a St. Vitastats. I rang the door buzzer. Do I kill the bride before or after the ceremony? Make yourself at home, Sam. Wander a bath. I'll see what's keeping your blessing, bruh. I wandered a bath with my eyes popping over the expensive layout. Whatever Tresca's game was, it wasn't penny-andy. The joint screen, big stakes right down at the needle point footstool. Where did Mr. Whiskers figure in it? A minute later in the library I began to catch on a little. Mr. Whiskers was right in the game. There, sitting over the fireplace in a big gold frame, was Mr. Whiskers. You like the portrait, Sam? Oh, yeah. You ask. It's quite a painting. Who is Mr. Whiskers? Mr. Whiskers. Has a triple-way reverent but an apt nickname. He was my brother Stephen. Was, huh? He's dead? You sound as if you were ready to dispute it. I just asked. Is he dead? Very much so. Dead and buried. Your memory's a little odd, Sam. I'm sorry. I'm, uh, ready. Getting married is an idea I've got to get you still. Then meet your bride. That's one way of bringing the idea to roost. Uh, Constance. Sam, this is my niece, Constance. Constance, this is your fiancee, Sam Tyler. Hello, Sam. Hello. Well, I'll leave you to get acquainted. You'll want to exchange premarital views on love and, uh, homemaking. I wasn't a blush in my blushing bride. Her cheeks were chalk white. Her face had the look of death. Like some creeping sickness that already called two strikes on her. I sat down at the piano. I stood watching her. Looks like you're stuck with me, kid. If Tresca has his way. Tresca will have his way. What's your angle, kid? Why is the niece of a million-dollar lay-out ready willing and able to marry a deadbeat ex-con and mug? I'm obliged to marry. What do you mean, obliged to marry? The terms of my father's will. I inherit his estate at midnight tomorrow. Only if I'm married. It's beginning to make some sense. Mr. Whisk is up there. Was your father? Yeah. Well, why pick me? A mug your uncle brought home. Why not, why not scout your own, dearly intended? I'm not well enough to... As if you're not even well enough to live. No, Sam. I'm not well enough to live. Much longer. Tresca and a scrub woman standing. Shacked up in the big jail at 15 Cantilever Walk. I was the legal husband of an heiress, but I wasn't congratulating myself on my good luck. There was a hidden gimmick somewhere. I plied. I searched Connie's room. I found the hidden gimmick in a lady's handbag. The handbag was crammed with the usual junk girl's stock of powder case, lipstick, nail file, comb, plus a driver's license and a Christmas Club bank book, but they weren't in Connie's name. The name on them read Ann Powers. I got it as fast as I read the name. The girl was a ringer, another patsy in Tresca's game. You didn't feel too guilty, Sam. What? I left my handbag where you could find it. I had to look. Tresca killed his niece and hired you to stand in for her. Are you going to deny that? No. I came to fall in with Tresca. I was in a restaurant. Tresca came along and hired me. My life, Sam, every bit of it hadn't been good. I couldn't die leaving it all bad. You wanted to do one decent thing before you died. Yes, yes. You made the wish and Mr. Whiskers appeared and took you upon it. He sent you to Tresca and Tresca hired you. You're going to tell me that's what happened. Is that what happened on that? I don't know anything about this obsession you've had with Mr. Whiskers. What good deed can we do around here, kid? Murdered his niece to steal the estate for himself. We just pawned. Aray for Tresca. Connie's father left the money to charity if his daughter failed to marry. Constance refused to marry. She wanted the bundle to go to charity. Yes, to atone for her father's past. His life hadn't been much either. A million dollars to charity, that's a lot of squaring off. That could be all one decent act. Yours and mine, Sam. Make Tresca's scheme fail. Why don't I invest this under taking for newlyweds? Well, now don't you two look at me as if I were another supernatural or... I'll call visitation. I entered through a secret sliding panel on the North Wall. I overheard your odd tater-tate simply by donning earphones. The room is wide. You know, Mr. Trick, what's the gun for? What are guns for? There was a charge like stale air exploding. I spun around but didn't drop. This was where I had come in. Tresca like Nick could empty his gunpoint plank but he couldn't rub me out. It was exactly where I had come in there in front of me. Tresca was getting the same dose, Nick. His face was sparkling as if he was suffocating. As if some invisible someone had his hands around Tresca's throat. Having trouble with your breathing, Tresca? I can't breathe. He was on the floor rigid, out for keeps like I'd seen Nick once. Is he dead? Deader than a doornail. Are you waiting for Mr. Whiskers? We sat all day and all night and through half the next day but Mr. Whiskers didn't show. Mr. Whiskers didn't show as if he never was. Sam, it's only in your mind. How do you explain that to yourself? Maybe Mr. Whiskers doesn't have to come anymore. His job is done, one last thing and our job is done. What? One last thing, Sam? The cops. We tell them what gives and hand a million bucks over to charity. That's the one decent act of purpose that brought us here. It's the purpose that brought you here. I just hired out to Tresca for pay. What about that wish you made on the docks, kid? It was different on the docks. I'm not broke or hopeless anymore. Why not? In a way we earned it. No good, kid. I've got a promise I've got to keep. I can't keep that promise because I won't let you. The gun is no good. I don't kill, kid. You saw how I don't kill. That was before, Sam. You do. A flying chief or sort of a dying scribble. The girl was right. I did kill. Now, that's the end of a chief. What are you making, Mr. Suppose we let the answer write itself at 15 candle-ever-walk. The confession is the McCoy, all right. That's Sam Tyler on the sofa, Tresca on the floor, and there's the girl, out cold, still holding the gun. Got any pulse? No. She's dead. No visible cause, daily. Just dead. I'm getting a faint pulse on Tyler. Sam. Sam Tyler. You, uh, Cooley? Yes. The girl's shot you and you just about let to death. You know the whole story, Sam. I saw the girl got to do that blast, decent thing, after all. The girl didn't do anything. Her heart blew out after shooting you. We read your confession down at headquarters. My confession? Yes. This five and dime notebook. Yes, Sam. It was tied to a rock and tossed through the window at headquarters. You wrote it, but what we want to know is who delivered it. You didn't write that confession, Mr. I didn't write it for deliver it. You didn't write? And it was the girl. She had enough left to get downtown and get your story to us. If not you, it had to be the girl. You'll have to ask Mr. Whiskey about that. If you're hurry, you might catch him somewhere between two worlds. Gee. The state of Illinois intends to mail a bill to Mr. Whiskers for that broken police station window. They're busy digging up a dead postman so he can speed delivery of the bill out of this world. What about Jessica? A perfect plot gone the part because his brother, although kept put, wouldn't stay put. Inner Sanctum. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio Service. The voice of information and education.