 I was a communist for the FBI. Starring Dana Andrews in an exciting tale of danger and espionage. I was a communist for the FBI. From the actual records and authentic experiences of meth-cevetic, come many of the incidents in this unusual story. Here is our star, Dana Andrews as meth-cevetic. Two for nine fantastic years, lived as a communist for the FBI. If you were forced to select a companion from the Communist Party, or a bed full of vermin, which would you choose? I had that choice to make once when I was a communist for the FBI. This story explains why I made the inevitable decision. In a moment, listen to Dana Andrews as meth-cevetic, undercover man. Now, here is Dana Andrews as meth-cevetic, undercover man. This story from the confidential file is marked a suit for the party. Comrade Roderick Brennan was an important man among the local commies. He was district committee chairman in charge of red infiltration into civic welfare groups. But this work accounted for only a portion of his importance. Comrade Brennan attained his true stature as a red in another more unique manner. A manner to be recommended to all party members like him. On his way to a cell meeting one night, Comrade Brennan simply dropped dead. What for? Where are we going? Quite immediately. This is Brennan? Now? Have a heart, Rivkin. She just buried her husband. Give her a chance to... Never mind the sentimental path. Be ready in 15 minutes. Look, Comrade, I think... 15 minutes, Medic. In exactly 15 minutes and 35 seconds, I was in the taxi with Comrade Jacob Rivkin. Rivkin was definitely not the type of commie you see in those red propaganda posters. He was no square jawed Apollo in overalls. Quite the contrary. Rivkin was a nervous, pasty-faced little man. Built like a radish and just as indigestible. Though he was a ranking cell leader in the party, he had the uncanny faculty for making people dislike him on site. His attitude toward the grief-stricken widow of the late Comrade Brennan was all too typical. Please, Mr. Rivkin, I'd rather not go through my husband's personal things now. Maybe later on a few days. It's imperative that we find the list immediately. I told you I don't know of any list. Come on, Rivkin, some other time. Mrs. Brennan, your husband was on his way to a party meeting when he was stricken. Yes, I know that. He was bringing a list to our committee. He must have had it in his pocket somewhere on his person. I want you to find that list for us. Please, not now. I haven't been feeling very well. Maybe I can explain, Mrs. Brennan. You see, this list contained the names of party members and by your husband to infiltrate certain welfare groups. Really, Mr. Setic, I don't care, not now. Can't you understand that? I know it's difficult for you, Mrs. Brennan, but if those names should get out of party hands... The FBI, for instance. If the FBI or any enemy agency for that matter learns the names of those comrades, it would mean disaster for our cause. We need that list, Mrs. Brennan. I don't remember seeing any list or anything like that. Really, I... What about the suit your husband was wearing? Did you go through the pocket? No, no, of course not. I couldn't. Then with your permission, I'll do it now. Which suit was it? The brown herringbone. It's a bit too large for me. It's lost so much weight. I presume the suit is upstairs? Oh, come on, Carmen, not tonight. Yes, please, some other time. Please go now. We have no intention of leaving until you tell... What did he say? Go away, little boy! Where is that suit, Mrs. Brennan? We need the list. You need the list! You need the list! You need the list! Then find the list! Find it! Find anything you want, just let me alone! Let me alone! Let me alone! Now then, on his clothes upstairs... His clothes, Mrs. Brennan, his clothes, where are they? They're gone. Gone? Where? What happened to them? Take it easy, Ripson. Did you give them away, Mrs. Brennan, to some relatives or friends? Yes, I gave them away, all right, just to hold. Where? To whom? As to the funeral. I didn't want to be reminded. I gave everything away. Will you please make sense, Mrs. Brennan? Where are your husbands' clothes? That list must be in the suit, the brown suit. All is due, sir. I gave them to charity. If we've lost that list, Mrs. Brennan, we will hold you fully responsible. The party will launch a campaign of character assassination. Cut up, Ripken. Do you know which charity it was, Mrs. Brennan? The Salvation Army, I guess. That must be it. The Salvation Army. Are you sure? I mean, are you sure it's the Salvation Army? Charity! You'll have to go to charity for Roger's list. The communists have to go to charity. Ripken was panic to find that list. As for me, I suffered my own secret desperation. It was my job as an undercover man to locate the list before Ripken did and turn it over to the FBI. But where does a dead man's brown suit go after it leaves the Salvation Army? I went to the Salvation Army's main depot on that district to find out. The lead, anyway. What? I said we have a lead. The calls are collected here and sent to the missions on Skid Row. Where? The missions on Skid Row. Well, they've got two missions down here, Comrade. You know that, don't you? Yes, yes, of course. I checked the one on Victor's feet. They haven't received any clothes in over a week. Well, let's go to the other one. There's a few blocks from here. Now, I know you're tired, brethren. I know you're worn and discurried. But a song, brethren. A song will lift your spirit. Amen, brother. A song will send your souls aloft. A song will reach the ears of the Almighty so that He might send the angel of good fortune down to you. You've been accosted by the devil, you men. He has befouled your bodies with hunger and fatigue. But he cannot touch your souls, brethren. Now sing, then. Sing with me to the glory of the unblemished spirit. Everybody sing! Yes, did you want something, gentlemen? Yes, if you'd stop that inferno bleating long enough to hit. We didn't mean to interrupt your service, Sergeant. I'll be done shortly, gentlemen. There's two from the steam table, if you like. Perhaps you'll lend us your voices in this next hymn. We don't have time for foolishness, Sergeant. What's that? My friend is a little upset, Sergeant. It's rather an urgent matter. I see. Now, I promise these men here one more song. If you'd be kind enough to sing, here one more song. If you'd be kind enough to wait until it's finished. Stop it! Stop that inferno clanking! Well, you're not only being rude, my friend. You're being positively blasphemous. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave this mission. Just a moment. Just one moment, please. Look, Sergeant, I want to apologize to my friend here. Well, you might. As I say, we're both pretty upset. You must be. You see, we've got a problem about some clothes that close. Well, you're welcome to look through the clothes in the next room. Take what fits you, and may the Lord bless you both with a little more courtesy. Thank you, Sergeant. Come on, Setic. The suit may still be there. Anything, Comrade? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Setic, if I don't find that list, the control commission will... Yeah, wait a minute. Those trousers there. Where? Yeah, down near the bottom of the pot. Where? Yeah, right there. Yeah. Here. All these. Here we are. Brown herringbone. In good condition. That's it. That's Greenland's. I've seen him wearing it. Quickly, the pockets. Anything? Anything there? Nothing in this one. Nope. I didn't hear either. Hurry, Setic. Check them all, all of them. Not here. Oh, not in any of the pockets, Comrade. Here, give them to me. Hey, wait. Don't do that. That may be in the lining somewhere. You're ruining the trousers. No, nothing, nothing anywhere. It's gone. Oh, a list may still be in the jacket. Oh, the jacket's gone, too. Probably in the back of some broken-down bun. That's hardly spoken like a friend of the masses, Comrade. Oh, these derelicts are typical of the decadence of bourgeois democracy. In the true dictatorship of the proletarians, they wouldn't sing hymns for their soup. They'd work or be liquidated. Yeah, okay. Come on. Where to? Let's start looking for the jacket. In this concrete jungle down here, impossible. It was worth a try, isn't it? Of course, look. It's static. Why are you so concerned? This is my responsibility. I'm the one to suffer if we fail to find the list. No, Rifkin. The cause will suffer. I'm as interested in that list as you are. Maybe even more interested. We explored the concrete jungle of Skid Row night and day. We took mental inventory of the derelicts on every corner. Studied the flow of human flotsam in and out of the flop houses. We prowled the alleys, stepping over the defeated forms of homeless men. We wandered in and out of littered doorways. Checked the tattoo parlors and 10-cent movie houses. We scouted all the shadows of Skid Row. But nowhere did we see the brown herringbone jacket we were so desperate to find. It's no use, Vedic. Another day down here and I'll lose my mind. Yeah. I guess I feel the same way. Hey, watch it. Don't trip over that old geezer's feet. What? I said, care for it. That useless old fool. Sleep in the doorway. No place else to sleep. I told you to watch where you... What's the matter? What are you looking at? Huh? No, nothing. Nothing at all. Come on. What's the matter with you, Vedic? You seem so... No, it's nothing. Nothing. I'm just getting jumpy. So many days on Skid Row. I couldn't let Rivkin know I'd seen it. But there it was. Brennan's brown herringbone jacket. Worn by an old derelict dozing in a doorway. I had to get back to that man alone. But how? How long would he stay asleep in that doorway? And how could I get rid of Rivkin without arousing his communist trained suspicion? Sure, sure. It had to be done. And I had to do it. But how? How? How? Drew, starring as Maths, in I was a communist for the FBI. And the second act of our story. The Communist Party can be quite broad-minded at times. For instance, it will seldom bear a grudge if a ranking party member dies without official permission. As long as he doesn't leave any incriminating evidence lying around where the FBI might find it. The incriminating evidence Roger Brennan left behind him was now lying in a skid-row doorway in a jacket worn by a sleeping derelict. Comrade Rivkin hadn't seen the jacket, but I had. And I had to get rid of Rivkin before it was lost again. What's the matter with you, Static? Suddenly you're as wide as a sheet. Am I? Just tired, I guess, Comrade. You're right. We've wasted too much time in this dismal neighborhood. We'll have to devise a more practical plan. Look, Comrade Rivkin, maybe we should work this thing in shifts. Well, that might work out. Sure. Look, I'll stay on the job while you rest up. Then you can relieve me in the morning. Go on, grab that bus across the street. I'll scout around here by myself. What's the rush, Static? Anxious to get rid of me? Oh, don't be a fool, Rivkin. You know it's the most sensible way to handle this chore. Go on, get your bus before it leaves. Just get a bite to eat first. I'm starved. Hey, you'll miss your bus. There's a bus every ten minutes. I know, but it's foolish to eat one of these joints when you can go on. What's the devil of the matter with you, Static? Nothing, nothing at all. Come on, let's eat. We went into the first greasy spoon cafeteria we came to. Just around the corner, the old man in Grenin's brown jacket lay asleep in a doorway. But how long would he stay there? Every tick of time was like a trip hammer on an exposed nerve. But my good comrade, Jacob Rivkin, wanted to relax over his food. I led him to a table near the window where I could keep an eye on the people who turned the corner. Just in case the old man should wake up and take a walk. The meal was miserable and seemed to last for eternities. From time to time, I noticed Rivkin studying me carefully. I tried to appear casual, but I guess I wasn't very successful. You're not eating much, Static. Oh, no. This food isn't exactly the best in town, you know. How would you know? You'll spend more time looking out the window than eating. I didn't come yet to eat this slot, comrade. I came to look for something vital to the welfare of the party, and that's just what I'm doing. Yes, Static. Your vigilance is commendable. Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you're staring at now. I couldn't help staring in spite of Rivkin. The old derelict in Grenin's brown jacket had just turned the corner. He was shuffling up the street directly toward us. In a moment, he would pass the window and Rivkin would have to be blind not to see him. Well, comrade, what is it? Oh, nothing really. Just thought I saw... Saw what? After all, I'm as concerned as... Oh, I'm sorry, comrade. Static, you clumsy idiot. Give me that napkin, hurry. Well, it's only water. It won't stain. Here, let me help you. Never mind. Never mind. I'll take care of it. Static, there are times when you're as awkward and stupid as a three-year-old. I said I was sorry, Rivkin. No harm done. All right, all right. If I'd known you'd react this way, I'd never would have had you help me. Oh, forgive me. I guess we're both getting pretty jumpy. Maybe you're right. Let's get out of here. I don't want to miss the next bus. At least the upset bath of water prevented Rivkin from seeing the old man shuffled by the window. Now Rivkin was on the bus and gone, but the old man was gone, too. He couldn't have covered too much distance with that slow, uncertain shuffle of his, so I headed up the street after him. Once again, I was scouting the skid-row shadows, peering into the windows of dirty little pawn shops, tattoo parlors, pool halls, but evidently the old man had gone into none of them. I stopped, trying to figure which way he might have turned, which doorway might have gobbled him up. When I noticed the only plot house on his bed in street, Plaza Arms said the tattered sign, bed 35 cents. Unless the old man could vanish into thin air, it has to be in there. Yeah. I... I'd like a room. We've got flops here, 35 cents. You want a flop? That'll be okay. What's the matter? How come you need a flop? Why not? Man's gotta sleep. You know, I'm asleep. Why? And clothes. They're pretty good clothes. Regulars down here don't wear clothes like them. Look, Chum, I'm paying for a bed, not a questionnaire. I'm broke. My wife cleaned out the bank account and took off. That satisfied you? Okay, Mr. Okay, don't get sure. I just don't want those smart guys annoying my customers. What kind of smart guys? Cops? Cops is all right. Some fire inspectors and help officials. I can't afford no trouble here. My customers are entitled to a flop without trouble. Yeah. Oh, where'd I find my bed? Upstairs. Good to empty. Take you to one of them. The place must have been collecting the odors of human deterioration for years. As I climbed the stairs, I could hear the heavy breathing of the sleeping men. Upstairs, there was nothing but a drafty loft. No doors, no heat. Just a cracked skylight for ventilation. Obviously, it hadn't been opened in months. The smell was even more sickening than it was down below. Through the darkness, I could see five beds lined up against the far wall. Three of them were occupied. I struck a match. A man asleep in the middle bed was the old derelict in the brown herringbone jacket. The poor old guy looked like he was exhausted. He was sprawled on top of the covers out cold. I checked the pockets of the jacket, praying that he wouldn't wake up. There was nothing in the breast pocket. Nothing in either of the side pockets. The inside pocket was empty too, but I noticed there was a hole in it. I used my pocket knife to rip the lining. The noise fit the silence like a scream. The old man stirred. He was quiet again. I reached in and felt around inside the jacket lining. My fingers closed on a piece of folded paper. The list. Grenin's list of party spies working in civic welfare groups. Now to get out of this musky hole and turn the evidence over to the FBI before. I don't know. I'm just looking for a friend. I thought you were. I don't know much about your. Take your poor puppy. He suspected me after all. The trusting soul of a train. Get out of my way. I looked around and panic. A back door, a closet, a fire escape, anything to hide before Ripken saw me. He was practically up to stairs now. There was only one thing for me to do. I jumped into one of the empty cotton huddled in a smelly crawling blanket. I knew he was looking for me, but the darkness was in my fever. I held my breath wondering how long it would be before he discovered me. I heard him strike a match. He was looking at the man in the first bed. He was at the second bed now. I began to understand how Goldilocks felt when she heard the three bears come home. But Goldilocks wasn't sleeping in a stale vermin-infested flop house cot. Ripken had another match going. He was headed for the third bed now, the bed next to mine. He'd seen the old man in Grinnon's brown jacket. I picked up from under the covers and saw Ripken bump to his knees and start rattling the sleeping man's pockets. There's my guy over here. Look at him. All right, behind you. What? Now, just a minute. There's a mistake here. He was in here, forced his way upstairs, and now we catch him picking the customer's pockets while he sleeps. Come on, buddy. Come on. There's a mistake I did. Look, Oscar, I haven't taken anything from anyone. I was just... Come on, you're waking everybody up. Here, look. He's all guy's jacket. He's nice and lying to me. He's out of his mind, Oscar. I didn't. I had no idea. You had no idea. Well, I got ideas. I've got some pretty crummy ideas about you. Come on. This is an outbreak. The don't fool is fighting. Shut up. Move. The policies help our management, and go back to sleep. The bridal earned that time not to go barging in where he ain't wanted. You get up early, don't you? They didn't hardly light yet. Yeah. Dave, you got an envelope I can use. I got a mail something to a friend. Here, this is okay. That's fine. Thanks. Sir, I'm sorry about that lump. I didn't want to disturb nobody. Don't worry about it. Guess he had it coming to him. Yeah. So you know something? Hand him to the cop. He'd come back later. And you know what he told me? What? That guy's not only a pickpocket, he's a big shot communist. I bet you the Reds will take care of him. Yeah, they probably will. Can you imagine them Reds? They're not able to turn up anywhere. That's right, Chum. Anyway. I walked down the street to the corner and mailed the list of party names to the FBI. Then I looked back at that skid row flop house. Last night I'd been given a choice. A bed full of vermin or comrade Rivkin. The choice was obvious. I turned the corner and walked away. Two broken down derelicts trudged past me. Defeated men walking together. No homes, no hope, no dreams. But they walked together. While I... I walk alone.