 Good evening, friends. This is your host to welcome you through the creaking door into the inner sanctum. Come in. Come on in and join my wisty white friend. Oh, you're shivering. Cold? Well, don't let it throw you. Just remember that many are cold, but few are frozen. Oh, yes, your sheet is reserved for you, but please don't tear it. Remember the high ghost of living. Now, if you've got some time to kill, let's kill it. Tonight's Inner Sanctum Mystery, the Judas Clock, was written by Frederick Maytho and stars Barry Kroger and the role of Sebastian with Lawson, Zerbius, Andrew. Now, all comfortable and tense? Good. Now, I want to warn you, if you feel a pair of thin, cold hands passing over your face, don't be frightened. The hands belong to a clock, a monster called Cleopatra's clock. It's a very unusual clock. For years, it's been giving people the works. The story is really the story of Sebastian Packer. Since this clock can only murder, since it can't talk, we'll let Sebastian speak for it. I'm a clock maker. I carry on the profession my father taught me in London. I like clocks, all that is but one. For 30 years, I've looked for a certain clock and a certain man. The clock is known to collectors as Cleopatra's clock. The man? I swore to kill when, as a boy of 14, I closed my father's glazing eyes and wiped the fork of blood from his lips. Last night, I found Cleopatra's clock. Tonight, I may have found the man. I'm told you're an expert clock repairman, mister. Packer, madam. Yes, I suppose I am. Well, I have a clock. Rather, my husband has. Yes. And it hasn't run for years. Would you have a look at it? Well, can't you bring it in? Oh, heavens, no. It weighs 500 pounds. One of those huge marble things, Italian Renaissance, I'd say. Marble? Italian? Could you describe it further? Well, it's rather unusual. Black marble, heavily carved with strange Egyptian characters. The ivory face has a beautifully etched scene on it, but it's a gruesome one. Crucome? What kind of scene? It's a picture of a woman. A beautiful woman. And she's holding the limp form of a young man in her arms. Yes. It's ghastly. Cleopatra's clock. I knew without seeing it why the clock wouldn't run. It had been built in Italy for a prince of the house of Savoy in 1598. He conceived the clock when he discovered that his family treasures included 40 gold coins minted by Cleopatra and an Egyptian parchment. A parchment describing in horrible detail the death by poison of Cleopatra's young brother. The 40 gold coins were those Cleopatra had given a trusted servant to administer the poison to her brother. The writer of the parchment had slain the servant for his treachery and carried the coins with him to Rome. The Cleopatra clock was made to run only when the 40 gold coins were in place in the clock's hollow weights. Twenty in each weight. And the coins had been in my possession since the day of my father's death. Well, Mr. Parker, can you fix it? What? Oh, sorry. Stay dreaming. Yes, yes, of course. Does Mr. Arnold know that you're having the clock repair? No, we've only been married a few weeks and I'd like to have it working when he comes back to town tomorrow. Sort of a surprise. I see. I'll be there in half an hour, Mrs. Arnold. So last night I went to the Arnold house and I found Cleopatra's clock again. It's six feet of black marble glistening. It's pendulum motionless. It's hollow weights empty and weighty. I started to work. Foghorns from the East River sounded much as I remember they did in London. And suddenly I was back there on a fateful day about a fortnight after the clock had first been uncreated by my father. I was in the shop when the man from Scotland Yard stepped in. He walked straight to the clock and stared at it. Good afternoon, sir. Does the clock interest you? Very much. When did you acquire it? A cousin bought it at auction in Italy and I'm displaying it for sale on consignments. My name's Pettiboon Scotland Yard. I've been looking for this clock for a month. It was stolen in Italy. Stolen? Yes, Mr. Parker, and worse, murder was done. You know, I'm afraid you've involved yourself in a bit of something here. The murder? I'm taking possession of the clock in the name of the Crown. I shall never forget the look of horror on the detective's face as he laid his hand on the clock's carved column. It froze there while his face strained to pasty white and his eyes bulged. He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly and crumpled to the floor after his throat. He was still and twisted and very dead. Mr. Pettiboon had died of a heart attack. The moment he took possession of the clock. My father wanted time to think, so I helped him drag Pettiboon into the stock room. I went to my quarters. I dosed fitfully to awake hours later at the sound of angry voices. Well, cousin Andrew, you've done me a fine turn, haven't you? I've told you I didn't mean to kill the old girl. It was an accident. And don't talk so loud. The boy will hear us. You killed her as soon as you learned that she'd made out a will in your favor. And then when you thought it was safe, you sold all her furnishings and sent the clock to me to sell. All right, I did. And you're in it to the ears. I go to the police. And how will you explain poor, stiff Mr. Pettiboon lying in your stock room all this while? Besides, there's nothing to fear. Now that Pettiboon is gone, he was the only one who suspected me. Now, you're the only one who knows. I'll crate this cursed black monster tomorrow and you leave with it. And will you also crate Mr. Pettiboon? Oh. Oh, look, I have a plan. Here, sit down in this chair right here. And I'll show you how we can solve the whole thing. My young heart beat with a wild dread as I listened. I could only see cousin Andrew's back. But I could see father seated dejectedly in the chair near the black marble clock, his head and his hands. It was midnight. All the clocks in the shop began striking the hour. And louder than all the rest was the chime of the evil clock. If only then I'd known I might have done something. Eight, nine, eleven, twelve. Before my horrified eyes, the heavy marble piece leaned slowly from the wall and crashed across my father's back. Cousin Andrew stored facing my father as the clock pinned his frail form in the crushed chair. He choked him. He made little pitiful sounds. His eyes begging for life. But my cousin Andrew just stood his back to me and watched. Bumbling sinners, you die hard. Then cousin Andrew ran from the shop crying for help and claimed an accident. I raced into the shop. My father was dead. I choked back my tears and closed his poor, staring eyes. Then, for some reason, I thought of the coins and the clock's weights. I took them and I ran from the shop. The blood-stained gold pieces jangling merrily in my pocket. Armed with the notion that the coins were a failure and the definite notion that I must eat, I approached one of the many dingy little curio shops in the Limehouse District. I stepped through the fog toward a shop where a dim light burned in the rear. Every inch of wall and ceiling was hung with curios. The old armor and swords and shields would have run out. But a wizened, apish man barked at me from the rear. Where do you want? I have something to sell. What have you got? I have thought of gold pieces, sir. They're supposed to be McCoy's clear patriot pay-to-servant to poison her brother. I twist the scrawny neck off of you. You're pulling my leg, aren't you? No, no, sir. I'm not pulling your leg, sir. Lie me. Where did you cut them? I didn't steal them. They belonged to my father. Oh, oh, it's a lively tale. Will you buy them, sir? Hey, you get out of here before I cause a bobby your scam. Go on, I'll get out. Give me back my coins. The ugly brute came and told me he held my coins clutched in a tight, hairy fist. Before I could move, he struck me. I hit the wall with a clatter, and then it happened. As I hit the wall, my eye caught a metallic gleam above me. I leaped back instinctively. The hairy arm thrusted me again. A heavy metallic object dropped from the ceiling and struck across the forearm of the clenched fist. I stared first at the manscaping mouth. Then at the great bleeding gash in the arm, he clutched with his other hand at the blood that dripped on the object that had struck him. It was an ancient Headsman's axe. The gaping mouth opened and closed, making no sound. Then, with a moan of horror, the pawn broke a crumple to the floor. I clamped my mouth upon a cry of panic. I stooped together, all the coins fallen from their hands' hand. Blood made them slippery. Nusting them into my pocket, I stumbled whimpering in fright through the sharpen and into the night. The fog of London never swallowed a more frightened and a more lonely boy. I hadn't touched those horrible coins since the day the storekeeper's wrist had been cut by the falling Headsman's axe. By now, I have believed the legend that evil followed them. I began to feel that the only way I could escape their curse was to find the Cleopatra clock and put the coins back in the hollow weights where they belonged. One day, as I read the notices of the times, my heart skipped a beat. Auction of clerks at Chopin Place auction rooms Saturday at 7, rare items one of them. Find Italian Renaissance piece of black marble. Rare treat for collectors. Come early. I went early. I was the auction room's first visitor. At the rear of the shop, a balding, gimlet-eyed man looked up. I praised me as poor in prospects. He turned back to his paper. I felt the 40 gold coins in my pocket as I sauntered casually towards the black gleaming clock. Other clocks about were ticking. Only the pendulum of the Egyptian clock remained motionless. I cautiously opened the glass door of the clock to reach for the hollow weights. I seemed to hear my father's words again. Just for one of the weights, my intention being to unscrew the cap of the weight quickly and to replace the coins. I saw something I had never noticed before. Directly beneath the right-hand weight was a small, round, flat bit of metal centered over the floor of the pendulum box. It startled me. I looked over my shoulder towards the man in the rear. He was watching me. I had the unhooked weight in my hand. Remember, clock, I'd have to work fast now to replace the coins. My fingers were sweaty with excitement. The weight slipped. It fell directly on the metal piece beneath it. I say, what are you doing here? I had no intention of the man now coming toward me because something was happening within the clock. A whirring sound. A sound of wheels turning perhaps. Then they opened, mouthed wonder. I watched the supporting panel in the front of the clock suddenly start to rise on hinges. The clock was off balance. The clock moved forward ponderously and I stood there transfixed in the path of a black marble monster. Hey, boy, don't you idiot! He jumped towards me. Wait for no more. I ran for the street. For his jangle mirror in my book and as before I was where I'd started only as I ran. I knew. I knew my father had been murdered and I knew how. And I knew who had done it. I walked for miles trying to pull myself together. I wandered aimlessly. Also I thought. But fate had traced my path before me because I was started to find myself staring under the shop window of a rare coin dealer named Megalroyd. I walked into the shop. Megalroyd seemed a nice little man. He smiled a bit quizzically at my firm belief that I possessed the betrayal coins of Cleopatra. For them on his counter. Oh, I say, you could be right, you know. These are the right era. Oh, I say, suppose they were. Let me put a glass to them. Would they be worth a great deal, even if they weren't? Well, let me see, let me see. Oh, yes, gracious, yes, they are nearly new. Fine condition, they should be worth a great deal as collectors' items. Mr. Megalroyd, I... I feel there's something I ought to tell you about these pieces. Yes. They... it's not important. Oh, well, just a moment. I have a catalogue on this Egyptian era in my show window. I'll fetch it, just in case. The coins lay on the counter. I watched Mr. Megalroyd run down the aisle. The approach to the display window is foot-caught in an electric wire which lay across the floor. The lights went out and I saw him pitch forward. Mr. Megalroyd! The street light peered through the broken plate glass. It came across a grotesquely sprawled form in the shop window. I needed no more light than there was to see what had happened. The upper half of the heavy plate glass had broken and dropped flat against the solid lower. Mr. Megalroyd lay at the pawn shopkeeper. Holding with one hand the bleeding forearm he had pushed through his plate glass window as he tripped. The gold coins were on the floor, covered with blood once again. I will find out if Mr. Arnold is cousin Andrew. If he is, I shall feel no remorse in killing him. While working to repair the clock last night I discovered that my father's accidental death had been a well-conceived diabolical murder. If the right-hand weight was heavier than normal thus reached the floor of the clock on the twelfth stroke of midnight. It tripped a trigger which collapsed the base of the clock and caused it to fall forward. My father had died on the twelfth stroke of midnight. Have you finished, Mr. Packer? No, Mr. Arnold. I'll have to come back tomorrow night. What time do you expect, Mr. Arnold, tomorrow? About eleven, I'd say. Will you be finished by then? Well, I think so. I'd have to take these weights to the shop with me, though. Something has to be added. I've put the coins in their place within the weights. Not twenty in each weight, but twenty in one and ten in the other. The other ten coins are in my pocket. In another pocket I have a small thirty-eight, although I don't have to use it. I have a thirty-year-old date to keep. Uh, think you'll have it fixed in time to strike midnight? Oh, yes, Mr. Arnold. It will strike at midnight. There we are. Weights are in place now. And it seized exactly five minutes before midnight. You set the hands and then just a little show on the pendulum. So, clear Petra's clock ticks again. It wakes from a thirty-year sleep, eh? Cousin, Sebastian? Cousin. Well, that's what I wanted to tell you. My wife told me your father owned this clock in London. Oh, yes. Then, uh, I was your father's cousin. So, uh, you are Sebastian Pagan. The little boy who ran away that night. Your cousin Andrew? Yes, yes. Well, seriously, I-I don't know how much you know of that horrible thing. Horrible night when your father was killed. I-I know the clock fell on father. I heard the sound from my room. I was frightened. I came down the stairs. Later, you'd time to see them carry father away. It all covered up. Well, that was why I didn't find you in your room afterwards. It happened so fast. Yes. We were sitting, talking. The clocks in the store were striking twelve. Suddenly, the base of Cleopatra's clock seemed to cave in then. I know. I, uh, I bought the clock as an option a few years later. It's sentimental, I guess. Had it all fixed, it's good and solid now. I saw it with that. Yes. Well, I-I think I'd better run along now, Cousin Andrew. No, nonsense, nonsense. Let's make up for last time and get it greater. Well... Come now. Come now. I have some final report from England here. Sit down a while. No, no, not that chair. This one's a lot more comfortable. Oh, very well. It's a funny thing, when you work with clocks as long as I have, you get to be quite philosophical about time. Oh, is that so? Oh. Well, here I sit by the big clock, just as my father said, thirty years ago. Do you know how many seconds ago that was, Cousin Andrew? No, do you? Well, at 350,000,360,000 seconds in ten years, that would be 946,080,000 seconds in thirty years. You've got quite a mechanical mind, Cousin. Here, try this portail. Here's to father. What's the matter, Cousin Andrew? Are you ill? No. Your face is drawn and gray. It's late. It's after midnight. You've got to go. I say, you do look awfully ill. No, don't care. Don't do anything. Where are you going? Don't go. I must go, Cousin Andrew. I told the patrolman near my shop that I would like him to meet me at twenty after midnight. The patrolman? Yes. But here, sit down and relax. Take my chair. It's well comfortable. You're sitting like a leaf. Now you just sit quietly. Good night, Cousin Andrew. You die hard too, don't you? It was just a matter of timing. I set the hand a minute fast and the weight didn't touch your clever little spring device till just now because it's lighter by ten pieces of bloodstained gold from the coffers of another ladra. To your picture. That defined time was that by all. Gotta leave you now, folks, with a timely moral. You can figure out how long you've lived. Sure, that's your pastime. But figuring out how long you're going to live, that's just any old time. Oh yes, by the way, this story should teach you another lesson. Never complain when you have to work late. Remember that overtime is certainly better than under time.