 And now, another tale well-calculated to keep you in. A story of murder with a motive for everyone. As in a moment, we bring you The Thimble. A story by Eliezer Lipsky. Adapted for radio by Alan Sloan. Yes, Miss Brady? Mr. Morgan? Yes? Miss Dennis O'Neill to see you. Did you ask Miss O'Neill to wait a few minutes? No, better yet, have her come back after lunch. Miss O'Neill and I are busy. Yes, sir. Dennis O'Neill, now, where have I heard that name before, Joe? Morning, paper. The daughter of the house painter who died yesterday. Oh, yeah, that's right. Heart attack, wasn't it? Yep. Where were we? Well, we were... I've got to see you, Miss O'Neill. I've got to see you. I've got to see you. Please, wait outside. I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan. This young lady just forced her way in. You're the district attorney. It's all right, Miss Brady. It's Assistant DA, Miss O'Neill, and I'm here. Well, as long as you're in, won't you sit down? No, please. There's no time. You must hurry. Who's this man? Detective Joe Russell. Detective's police. Won't somebody do something? They're going to bury her in two hours. Burry who, Miss O'Neill? Burry my mother. If the funeral's in two hours, shouldn't you be... No! No! You must listen to me. They wouldn't listen to me at the police station. They wouldn't listen to me at headquarters. You must listen to me. What is it you want to tell me, Miss O'Neill? My mother was murdered. She was poisoned. Why do you say that? Because my mother's heart was as strong as yours. She was murdered. And he signed the death certificate himself, and when I demanded an autopsy, he refused. Who is he? Don't you know? Everybody knows. Everybody in the world knows that... they were more than doctor in patient. Everybody knows. Doctor who, Miss O'Neill? Doctor Charles Cypress. Yes, I've heard of Dr. Cypress. Isn't he a reputable doctor? Oh, yes. He's reputable. But he poisoned my mother. Now, Miss O'Neill, why would Dr. Cypress want to poison your mother? Her will. Her will. She made him her executor. She left her art collection to him. He was tired of her, and he wanted her money. Miss, how old are you? I'm 23. Why didn't your mother leave her collection to you? Me? Yes, ma'am. You're overage. I should think... You must know. Everybody knows. Don't you know about me? Know what, Miss? I'm insane! You say Dr. Cypress refused an autopsy? Yes, he flatly refused. Where is the funeral, Miss O'Neill? Waterside parlor, two o'clock. Everybody will be there. But I'll know she was poisoned. All right, we'll take you there. Where have you been? We've been searching and looking. They don't believe me. He's gentlemen. Who are these gentlemen? I'm Charles Morgan, assistant district attorney. This is Detective Joe Russell. Venice, baby darling, go sit with the others. Let Uncle Mitchell talk to them. It's terrible. Terrible. She's breaking my heart. Are you her uncle? No, no, everybody calls Mitchell Uncle Mitchell. Obliensky Gallery is 57th Street. Your temple was to have her finest exhibit tomorrow. Instead, her funeral today. Did the girl tell you her mother was poisoned? Of course. Hysteria, despair, wildness. It's impossible. I was there. It was in my gallery, before my very own eye. Why do you say impossible? We were all there. How could such a thing happen? I was there. Venice was there. Miss Cypress was there. And all of a sudden, oh, it hurts. The hand to the chest, the smile to the lips. Then, gone, right there. And Dr. Cypress? There, there, I tell you, right there. There's a doctor here now. Everybody is here. Why? I'd like to speak to him. Oh, of course, of course. I'll bring him. I'll get you. You want a motive? Obliensky has one. Oh, I'll sell. Guy handle the artist stuff. Like stamps and collectors. Fewer of an issue of stamps, the more valuable. Fewer of a painter's work, ditto. No more O'Neill. No more O'Neill's. Yeah, you're a ghoul. Dr. Cypress? Yes, Mr. Morgan, I believe. That's right. Few questions, sir. Oh, by all means. What did Mrs. O'Neill die of, Dr. Cypress? What was the cause of that? Why, heart disease, of course, thrombosis. How did you know? Well, it was perfectly clear. She had coronary arteriosclerosis for years. If you come to my office, Mr. Morgan, I'll show you Mrs. O'Neill's for the last 15 years. Oh, as a matter of fact, you may have already seen some of my work. Oh, where is it? Monographs and police medicine, methods of post-mortem diagnosis in heart conditions. Uh-huh, I see. Tell me, Dr. Cypress, Mr. O'Neill, Mr. Obliensky, you and your wife were all present when the attack occurred. That is correct. You see that elderly woman over there? I was wondering about her. She picked a fine time to knit at a funeral service. Well, my wife always knits, she goes. Oh, Don's. The first day I met her on duty as a nurse in Edinburgh, she was sewing. And I've never seen her without a bit of work in her hands. Well, I'd like to speak to her later. I'd also like to accept your offer, doctor. I want to see those electrocardiograms. Oh, yes, of course. It's very kind of you to be doing this for Venice. Makes her feel much better. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to see if I can persuade her to take a sedative. Well, what do you think, Joe? Want a remorder? I don't think so. While you were chatting with Uncle Obliensky, I talked with Venice some more. Found out her mother had nothing to eat that whole day but black coffee, for which they sent out. Yeah, rules out poison. So? Just the same, Joe. I want to talk to the undertaker. Tell him to stop the burial. What? The girl is entitled to an autopsy. The doctor was too anxious to make a case for the heart condition and his own reputability as a specialist. I want to post-mortem before tomorrow morning. Now, where's the telephone? In just a moment, we will return for the second act of... Dr. Wyman. Speaking. Doctor, I want you to arrange to secure the body of a woman for an autopsy. Temple O'Neill, age 55. Great painter. Greatest woman painter since she rose up on Earth. You know her? I know her work. She dropped dead in the Obliensky Gallery, didn't she? Uh, yeah. What do you know about Dr. Charles Cypress? He's a good man on cardiology. Uh-huh, private life. Delayed, adolescent playboy. Lives high. Tell me more. Oh, gambling, women, the usual. Any connection between him and the lady painter? Well, that I wouldn't know. I know very little about live people. Why? Well, seems he refused a relative's request for an autopsy. Well, he's the doctor in the case. I think you'll find that his diagnosis will stand up. That could be. Just same, I want you to do this post-mortem yourself. Okay, I'll do the PM. Always wanted to meet O'Neill. Great painter. Terrific technique with a palette knife. Goodbye. Mr. McCormick, I see you've come to see the job. Yes, Doctor, yes, I have. All right, fine. Mr. Morgan, this is my wife, Mrs. Cypress. How do you do? Do you need me, sir? I can sit with a poor girl a bit. Well, Dr. Cypress has given her a sedative, Mrs. Cypress. I'd like you to stay. I'll do that, sir. Get in a mind if I get on with my sewing. Not at all. I understand you carry it with you. Wherever you go. Well, it wouldn't be me if I didn't. They say something was running with me with O'Neill's sewing in my hand. Oh, here are Mrs. O'Neill's charts. Oh, yeah. Now, when... Oh, I see you have them in chronological order. Do you understand them? Oh, frankly, sir, I only know that an electrocardiogram gives a symbolic representation of the functioning of the heart. Well put. Now, this line here, the spikes made by the tracing panel, the cisto, the domes, the diastome. Now, here you see a cardiogram taken after Mrs. O'Neill's first heart attack 12 years ago. You can see the variation, Mr. Morgan. Here. I'm right here. Here, this looks like another severe attack. Well, very good eye, Mr. Morgan. They ranged over a period of 12 years. Yes. Why didn't you tell Venice about her mother's heart condition? The poor bear in her troubles are aint. It would be addin' worries to her poor sick mind, sir. My wife has spoken for me, Mr. Morgan. I see. Tell me, Mrs. Cypress, did you ever nurse Venice? I? That would be, uh, professionally? It was when she was havin' delusions and persecutions. And till the time, the poor lass was sent away for institutional care. In fact, I stayed with her to calm her fears. Just one more question, doctor, and I believe we'll be through. You were made executor of Mrs. O'Neill's estate, and as I understand it, she willed you her art collection. Now, uh, I can understand the executorship. But why did Mrs. O'Neill leave you her art collection? Sir, I can explain the cause of that, if you don't mind. Please, Mrs. Cypress. The girl who hated pictures. There was an... I was carefulin' for her. When she broke away from me, and slashed a boat to studio with a knife, destroying her mother's conguses in rage and hatred. You're all right. I think I've taken up enough of your time, but, uh, I may have to call upon you for grand jury appearances. I'll want to go over the material I discussed with you today. You'll hear from me. Seein' the papers? Don't tell me. Let me guess. The A. Hall's funeral filed play Feared. Artist's funeral is called off by district attorney. Autopsy, ordered in mystery... Okay, Joe, you made your point. What are you gonna do? Well, grand jury sits at three. I'm gonna have all the witnesses in here one by one before we go in. And you and I are gonna go over their stories right up to the last minute. Because if Dr. Weinman doesn't come up with something, we're allowed to end up with nothing. In just a moment, we will return for the concluding act of... Suspense. Everybody outside, Joe? Except Dr. Weinman. He said he'd been a little late. How come? I was telling him about the job you may be due calling off the ceremony. I was telling him how Mr. Cypress went right on sewing, and he jumped like he'd been shot. Did you say anything? Just a moment. Yeah. All right. We'll stall till he gets here. Look, I'll tell you what. Let's talk to Uncle Mitcha Oblensky. I want to get the time element of this straight. Sure. Mr. Mitcha Oblensky. Yes, Mr. Morgan? What is it, Mr. Morgan? Mr. Oblensky, I merely want to clarify one item. The time. Checking your statements, I find that you are the only person who was certain of the exact time Mrs. O'Neill put her hand to her chest and said that... Oh, it hurts. Yeah. And then, so little a smile, then gone. How I know it is seven minutes to eleven? Yeah, that's what I want to know. Very simple. We are hanging portrait of a girl in blue. Yeah, go on. No, wait. Who's we? The doctor is on the ladder. He holds actually the picture on the floor myself, standing to one side, next to me, Venice, right in front of the picture, Temple O'Neill, next to her, Mrs. Cypress. What was she there for? With her needle and thread, perhaps, a hanging has to be moved, a stitch here, a stitch there. Yeah, that's what she said. Go on. In fact, not just five minutes before, she has sewed a tear in some velvet surrounding a little abstraction. Very handy to have around, a needle woman, no? Yeah, the time, Mr. Oblensky. How do you know the time? Very simple. When Mrs. Cypress grabbed her timble... Yeah, yeah, go on. Well, just as we get the blue girl properly hung, she grabs the timble. I get on my knees to pick it up from under the table. I look across the room as I come out from the table under, and I look at the clock, seven minutes to a level. And at that moment, Mrs. O'Neill died. Precisely. As I am going on my hands and knees after the timble, she is taken. Okay, thank you. Please wait outside with the others. Mr. Morgan? Doc Weiman's here. The grand jury's ready. Look, ask him for a few more minutes, Grace, huh? Morning, Doctor. What do you got? Well, Dr. Cypress was right. Mrs. O'Neill had an advanced sclerotic condition of the heart area. It was entirely proper for her position to infer the death that had been caused by coronary occlusion. So then, she wasn't poisoned. No case, huh? You want me to finish? Yeah, go ahead. Why don't you ask Mrs. Cypress why she did it? Mrs. Cypress? Sure, call her in. Tell her you know how and then ask her why. Then you can go in and ask for a murder one indictment. Well, maybe you know how, but I don't. The cause of death was a small, sharp instrument thrust through the nape of the neck into the medulla omblongata, a portion of the brain governing the respiratory tract. How do you know that? I found the instrument lodged in the brain. It was a needle. When Russell told me the old girl had a habit. Habit, a compulsion. Habit of sewing all the time. Listen to this job. Yeah, Doctor. I then found the hole in the back of Mrs. O'Neill's skull. Wait, wait, I just came in. Of course. The thimble, Joe. Joe, go out and get Mrs. Cypress. Mrs. And tell her to bring her sewing. Mrs. Cypress, you sewed some black velvet, didn't you? Oh, yes, sir. I'm in the picture, yes. And velvet is soft. Very soft, sir. Would you need a thimble for that? No, sir. But you would need a thimble to force a heavy, darning needle through human flesh. And as a nurse, you would know the medulla oblongata was one place such a thrust could cause instant death. And in your constant companion, your sewing kit, you could hide the weapon. Come on, Mrs. Cypress, the grand jury is waiting. I'd like to have your story. You can approve it, sir. Oh, Mrs. Cypress, I think you know better than that. I strongly do. You can prove it. Nothing would be simpler. You can read this autopsy report for yourself at the bottom of the page. The needle was found by Dr. Weinman in the medulla. Death was instantaneous. Now, the needle could have been thrust into her brain only by the person standing next to her. There were four persons in the room. Only one had a thimble. All right, Mrs. Cypress, what do you want to do? Sir, what would you do if you saw the man you married and you ever said change before your eyes and grow too great for his old love? What would you do when the poor, fair Lossy blurted out the story of a rain-mithra's affairs with your rainhusband? What would you do if you knew the one who stole him away from you? I had a condition of heart. And your rainhusband being a physician, there was a likelihood of death being ascribed to that ailment and passing without notice. What was the death certificate and had the means of taking him back, keeping him? Once you told him the truth and her, what would you do? Wouldn't murder her, Mrs. Cypress? Well, I did. Let's go into the grand jury. Mr. Morrigan, will you not wait till the doctor brings back my son-kid and lost without it? I'm afraid we're going to have to keep you away from needles for a long time, man. A very long time. You've been listening to The Thimble, a story by Eliezer Lipsky, written for suspense by Alan Sloan. In a moment, the names of our players and a word about next week's story of suspense. Third in tonight's story were Whitfield Conner, Kerry Keene, Paul McGrath, Joe DeSantis, Rocco, Maurice Tatlin, Ruth Tobin, and Jane Rose. Listen again next week when we return with the classic story of nature's imbalance. On one side, the frightful, formicity-doroliny ants, and on the other, a man who knew no fear. The story, Liningan vs. the ants. Another tale well calculated to keep you in... on CBS Radio.