 Good evening, friends of the Inner Sanctum. Well, here it is, Tuesday again, and this is your ghost toast to the squeaking turbo. The nice story is called The Last Story. It's an original radio play by Christopher Mayo, and our star is Richard Widmark, who plays the role of Tony Mewes. We're going to a small main coast fishing village. Flounder Cove, where fishing folks go to bed early, to the lullaby of the surf from the boys offshore. But this night there is a new note added to the lullaby, a discordant note, which for all its strangeness serves only to keep awake the man responsible for it. Anthony Mewes, the young newspaper man from the city, is typing surreysly, while his bride sleeps in the other room of their fisherman's cottage. Dead fingers cannot type, but dead hearts cannot ache. But that's the end of the story that began when my papers sent me here to Flounder Cove to do a story on fishermen. I spent my first morning sizing up the town, and about noon I found myself walking along a rocky bluff away from the village. I was approaching a little great church and a little gray cemetery, and the grass was lush by the large tombstone. Mother, give me some time. Tell me. Show me that I'm not a murderer. I don't really want to kill anyone, but I feel it. I feel I must. Huh? Sorry, miss. I, uh, I was passing by, and, uh, well, I couldn't help hearing you. You... you heard me? Hey, wait a minute. Don't go. I'll leave you alone if you like. Who are you? Tony Mewes. I didn't mean to eavesdrop. All right. What you heard me say you would have heard from the others. She stayed here a while. This grave here, Mary Sherman, you were, uh, talking to someone. I mean... I'm Lisa Sherman. She was my mother. She died when I was born. You heard me talking to her. Well, I heard some nonsense about, uh, oh, about you not wanting to murder someone. You're not a murderer, are you? I've been a murderer since the day I was born. Murder is in my heart, as it was in my mother's. As it was in her mother's. Why do you keep your head turned away, Lisa? Look at me for a moment. Oh, I can't. Yes. Yes, you see? Look, look at my eyes. Look in the sunlight. What is it? The yellow. Her eyes were yellow. The most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. I saw sunlight and gold and buttocks dancing through tears. But I saw no murder there. Only a horrible hurt that taught. And I felt pity. And the desire to know more about Rita Sherman. Killer runs in her blood, got yellow eyes just like a mouse was. They're pretty eyes, though. Yeah, right. Pretty look at mother's was, too. She got a killin' fit and drive the knife through a man's heart. Why? No reason. She come near hangin' for it. Well, didn't she? No. Governor changed it to life. She was going to have a baby. Oh, Rita? Yeah. Rita. Mary Sherman died, born in Rita, prison hospital. Uncle Zeb's good Christian. He took baby and raised her. Why does she stay here? She can't bring herself to break away from her mother's grave on a bluff. Talk to a ghost. Everyone I spoke to agreed that Rita Sherman would kill someone someday. I should have taken the afternoon train. My story was finished. But I didn't. I should have forgotten Rita Sherman and her unhappiness. But I couldn't. When I saw her standing on a high point above the hungry rocks on the bluff that afternoon, when I watched her step to the very brink of that bluff, I should have turned my head away. But I couldn't. Rita, you... Don't come back or you'll be hit with your... Why would I have to do that? You had no right to clap. I do have the right. I... Oh, dear heaven. No. Is that so horrible, Rita? Didn't you... Didn't you see in my eyes? I saw superstitious nonsense, Rita. You've been told that you're a born murderer since you were a child. You're being driven toward it. I can help you, Rita. Please let me. You can help me least of all. Why do you say that? Because of what Uncle Zem told me last night. What did he say? The few are probably the man I was meant to kill. I kissed her. And I found on her lips such a hunger for love and for understanding that I was blinded to the violent forces of nature I was dealing with. And I know, and I might not have called on Uncle Zem that evening or heard what I did as I froze to the porch of Rita's waterfront shack. The front door was ajar. Look at that, girl. You see, the money's gone and... Push the door open and I faced Uncle Zem. Uncle Zem, not a very pretty soul. Pinned to the wall by a long, wailers' harpoon through his stomach. He wasn't dead yet. His red-rimmed drunkard's eyes pleaded for relief. But you can't pull a barred harpoon back through a man. Even I knew that. Who did this, Zem? Tell me who, quick. Was it Rita, Zem? It wasn't Rita, was it? Tell me! Tell me! Look! Not Rita, he said. Not Rita. But who had done it? And who would believe that Rita with her yellow eyes hadn't done it? Who would believe that now that Uncle Zem lay in a darkening pool with a stained harpoon coming through his back? Who? Well, here comes the sheriff now. Hey, hey, hey. Well, let me through. Hey, did you catch your sheriff? Sure. Sure, did. Well, I know that sheriff had gathered a cute company some day. Sure, I know that. Listen to me, sheriff. Rita Sharma... Hey, what are you doing? Where are you going down it? What? Come on, Rita Sharma. Say that again. Rita Sharma didn't kill Uncle Zem. Then they had to wake him. Come again. Good night down it. She took the five o'clock express. Well, let's take it from the ark. I wasted no time leaving Flounder Cove. They promised to flag it through train for me that night. The sheriff came to the station with me and he filled me in on a story. Who would have guessed that Mamie Hathaway and Zem was behind all those stories about Rita? But why, sheriff? Were they trying to drive the crew crazy? And who worse? Make a murder to somebody. And they'd have the money all clear. What money? Zem got $20,000 in cash from Rita's mom while she was in prison. To raise a can on. They thought nobody knew that. So he was going to use the money herself. But Mamie Hathaway knew, huh? Yep. Rita's mom told Mamie just before she died. Mamie told Zem she knew. So he had to cut her in on the deal. Lovely people. What happened last night? You come in and picture and Mamie sees the guy that's falling for you. She goes to Zem once a share. And they each made a mistake. Oh, sheriff. Zem told Mamie he spent all the money. Mamie kills Zem thinking sure, read it, be blamed for it. You see, son, nobody except Cal at the station here. The waiter had limp around the corner. Do you know why she left Zem? I reckon I do, son. And I hope you find her. I had to find the sheriff. I couldn't very well tell the sheriff why I had to find the sheriff. Better than anyone, I knew a girl was just then arriving in New York. A girl who was unstable enough to become a homicidal thief. I was standing on the subway platform at 14 when I spotted Riva. She was standing at the front end of the platform with a small group. Things happened fast then, but I remember just as I started toward her, I noticed the man who wavered close to her at the edge of the platform. I saw her hands raised slowly toward the main track. And then I heard the train coming. Riva, you're poor. Sammy. What's on me? Did you see? She fell. Remember, she fell. All right, all right, everybody moving on, then, moving on. How did it happen, Amy? You were standing close to? I-I-I... He was weaving sort of rocking clothes. I saw her go to pulling back, officer. She wasn't quick enough. Rita. Yes? You... You don't think you pushed the man, do you? I-I'm not sure. I just saw him leaning, and I raised my hand. I just don't know, Tony. Well, you didn't. I saw you. You were going to pull him back. Now let's talk about her. I looked for you, but now... Now, baby, I'll never let you go. Oh, Tony. I can't. I-I can't. Can't work, darling. I can't see you again. It's not that I don't want to, Tony. But Dr. White won't let me. Who's Dr. White? He's a wonderful man. He's curing me, Tony. He's a psychiatrist. He said it would be dangerous for me to see you for a long time. He became a high-polished wall. I couldn't climb. Between me and the woman I loved. I forced a couple of dates with Rita, but it was always the same story. Dr. White says you were part of my past. It must be forgotten. Dr. White says I'll have to forget you if he's secure. Dr. White says... Dr. White says... White! White! White! White! White! Dr. White, we'll see you now, Mr. Mewes. Thanks. Mr. Mewes, what can I do for you? Who's paying you for your services, Dr. White? Why, I know him. Rita came to me for help. I became interested in that case. Oh. The case of a subject, White. Frankly, both. I see. Well, that puts the cards on the table. She comes to you as a patient wanting to be cured for my sake. You fall in love with her and influence her to stay away from me. Yeah. Only part of that is true. She shouldn't see you yet. A very neat way to eliminate competition, Dr.... Very neat. But I'm moving in. I suffered the tearing pangs of jealous hate in the days that followed. Rita refused to see me until White had released her as cured. But there was one way to beat White. And I planned accordingly. I parked my car across from his house on Long Island. It was a deserted section along the shore. Shortly after midnight, a cab came along and I ducked. I followed White up the driveway until he heard me. Tony Muse, Doc. What are you doing here? Let's go inside where it's comfortable. Oh, no. We'll talk right here. Don't let's mess up your driveway, White. This isn't done. All right, Muse. What is it? You've persisted in keeping Rita under your influence, Dr.. Now you're going to let it go. Not a chance. And how can you make me do it? By killing me? No, not by killing you. But a letter from you will do. Rubbish. You'll either write what I tell you to write, or you'll never psych again. I've been called to the coast for some important and confidential work. Before going, I've reviewed several of my cases. I feel that you have sufficiently advanced to be considered quite normal. I will check into your progress on my return. Sincerely yours, then sign it. Off to prevent me from showing Rita this letter as a poetry. I've thought of that, too, Doc. Why be rash? Listen to me. The trouble with you as a psychiatrist, White, is that you never met anyone who wanted something as much as I want Rita Sherman. He was light and easy to carry. I crammed the trunk compartment of the car, shot at him, and I locked it. In town, I mailed a letter to Rita, and I waited centuries for the night to pass. And then more centuries for my phone to ring the next day. Tony Muse. Whoa, no, no, no, darling. Is there anything wrong? You're crying, Rita. I know I can't help it, dear. Rita, you don't mean he's released you. Maybe he packed your toothbrush. I'll pick you up in the car in one hour. We're heading for Lake Arrowhead, darling. This is your wedding. Lake Arrowhead was a beautiful lake. And a deep wind. It hadn't been easy to act normally on a trip up with white stale corpse in the car with me. But now I could rid myself of it. Only one ugly task left. Time, time, and Rita's love would dull these memories. They opened the car trunk, and I found his eyes staring at me. I pulled him out of the car. The toppling bag I bought. The knife I was ready. It took me a half hour and all. No one would have guessed then who was packed in the weighted toppling package I dropped into the range. It was finished. I was free. Tonight we reached Flounder Cove. We're spending our honeymoon here. No man ever had more than I did to be happy of Rita, my wife. It was an expensive moment. I only realized the short two hours ago that the happiness I'd bought was impossible to hold. Rita dosed off peacefully. I'd gone for smoke and a walk and a moose. When I returned, I paused at Arcari Dior, someone moving about in front. I waited. Rita was easy to see in her white nightgown. She was walking softly toward the bedroom, walking in the sleep, looking down at my empty place. And then she spoke in a voice that couldn't have been hers. I know. I must hug her. My world was still hushed, balanced, ready to fall on me. Rita's arm raised slowly, and there was a single glint of mental. And she brought her arm down, and she leaped on the bed like a wild animal. Her arm flailed up, down, up, and back again. I saw her get up. I saw the knife buried into the slip mattress. Watched my wife return to her bed. Horses of the mind are not to be tampered with, unless it be to resolve their cure for all time. And the end of the story must be acted out. Ironic twist, too. The same gun I used on White. Rita will never wait to find it. She is a murderer. Happiness was not for either of us. To whom it may concern, Anthony Muse, who confessed to the murder of Dr. Donald White of New York City. I further confessed to the murder of my wife, Rita Sherman Muse, this night. This, my last story, I bequeath to all editors whose past patience has been tried by my artificial, unconvincing and contrived efforts in fiction writing. I'm going for a walk on the bluff above the seat. Rita didn't you know? Whom the gods would destroy. They first make man. He'll reach into the lusty file, crush it off, and present a still, up-to-date replica of a who-done-it-of-yesterday, enforces radio.