 Wait, come back here. Wait, nothing. I said you were nuts. Crazy. No, no, don't. I'm sorry. Very sorry. But I had to have it. I'm going to have it. And once you're dead, you'll never miss it. Midnight. The witching hour when the night is darkest. Our fears the strongest. And our strength at its lowest end. Midnight. When the graves gap open and death strikes. How? You'll learn the answer in just a minute. In The Dead Hand. Murder at midnight. Tales of terror and retribution by one of Radio's best known mystery writers, Robert Newman. Its title, The Dead Hand. A small studio cottage on Dr. Martin Trent's estate. Seated at the piano, alone in the gathering darkness, is Roger Blaine, the famous pianist. And playing as only he can play. Hear me, Loner. You must hear me. And you must come. Here, falling to you in a way you could never resist. With my music, lead fast to you. Am I disturbing you? Always, Loner. Martin's out at the hospital, and I heard you playing. That's not why you came, Loner. You came because I called you. Because you promised you'd come and give me your answer. What we talked about last night, am I going away with you? Roger, I must have been mad. I don't know what got into me. Don't you, Loner? This is what got into you. My music. Telling you things I never could tell you in words. Roger, stop. I can't think when you play like that. I can't believe him. He's my husband. I love him, respect him. Can you love a surgical instrument? Can you compare what you feel towards him with what you feel to... now, this minute? No, it is different. Roger, how can we? He's your friend. It was he that brought you here. Gave you the cottage. And haven't I given him anything? Music like this. Music such as no one has ever heard before. Roger... Loner, listen to me. It's what I'm saying here. I love you. I need you. It was you who helped me find depth within myself. I never knew you existed. You've got to come away with me. You owe it to me, to yourself, to the world. Roger, please. You know you want to. And you're going to... Roger, no. I can't. I tell you I... Loner. We can talk to Martin when he gets home tonight. Tell him. I think he'll understand. No, Loner. There'll be no talking, no explaining. My car's outside and we're leaving right now. The music. My music. It was still with me as we drove out through the gates down the highway, pulsing, throbbing. Yes, I could hear it, but couldn't, Loner. I glanced at her sitting there beside me. Happy, dearest? What? I... I don't know, Roger. You don't know? Don't you realize what this means, Loner? I'm playing better than I ever played before, and this is only the beginning. After my New York concert, South America, then you're off. Roger, are you sure you love me? Me, as a person. My sure. Oh, what do you mean, Loner? I know you've said you do, but whenever you've talked about it, Roger, about us, you've talked in terms of your music. Roger, are you sure that's not what you love? Well, of course I'm sure. If I didn't have my music and I couldn't play, I don't think I could live with you. I know. You who lifted me to heights I never dreamed of, technically, emotionally. Roger, stop the car. Turn around. Take me back. What? Take me back. I don't understand. I do, for the first time. With Martin away so much, I was lonely, flattered by your attention, and your music was like a drug, keeping me from thinking. But now I can think, and I know you don't love me, and I don't love you, so... please, Roger, take me back. No. But, Roger, can't you see this whole thing was a mistake? It was not a mistake. And I won't take you back. Well, I'm going back, whether you take me or not, and if you won't stop the car. Laura, no! Take over that ring! Let go of that ring! Let go of that ring! I opened my eyes. I was in a bare white room in a hospital, standing next to the bed, and Lorna and Martin. Hello, Roger. How are you feeling? Well, I... I don't know what happened. You were out driving with Lorna. The car got out of control, and you had a smash-up. They rushed you here to the hospital. Well, you've been here for two days. Smash-up? Yes, I remember. Are you all right, Lorna? Yes, Roger. I was shaken up. Oh, especially the fingers. Nothing happened to it, did it, Martin? I've got a concert in a few weeks, you know? Roger, don't stop it! What? Why are you looking at me like that? Don't worry about it, Roger. Not now. Well, I've got to know. I've got to see... Roger, please! Martin, what did you do to me? Roger, I think you know how I feel about you. About your music. You've got to believe me when I tell you there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing. It was your hand or your life. My life? And what is my life without my music? Nothing worse than living death. Why didn't you let me die? Don't say that, Roger. We'll do anything we can. There must be something. Something? There's just one thing. You've got to get me another hand. We will, Roger. There have been some wonderful developments in prosthetics as a result of the war. I don't mean an artificial hand. I mean a real hand. What? Roger, you're mad. No, no, I'm not. You took my hand and you'll get me another one. We'll talk about it some other time. You think I'll forget about it, don't you? Don't you? Oh, I won't. I say I'm going to have another hand, and I will have one. And what's more, you're going to help me get it if you're here. You're going to help me. I was able to get up and around a few days later. I didn't talk to anyone if I could help it. Because somehow I couldn't ever look at their faces. Only their hands. Big hands and little ones. Long-fingered ones and stubby ones. Yes, they each had two hands. And I, I to whom my piano met more than life, had only one. Then, sitting alone one evening, I met Hawk. I looked up and there he was, a small, slight, sharp-featured man. Hello. Nice evening. Yes, I suppose it is. Mind if I sit down for a couple of minutes? No. I wouldn't usually bust in on anybody except it. Well, I'm getting out of here tomorrow and I feel pretty good about it. Oh. What was wrong with you? Bad heart. I'm going to have to take it easy from now on. It's going to make it kind of tough in some ways, but you don't happen to have a cigarette on you, do you? Well, yes, I do have it. It's, uh, there. Well, at least I did have it. Silver cigarette case. Can't see. It's, uh... Fine. Dissip? What? Oh, yeah. Where did you find it? In your pocket. You mean you took it? Uh, my name's Harris, Joe Harris. He usually called me to hook. This is my racket. I ran it in boys until like... Your pickpocket. I wanted the best of the business, but now with my ticket going bad, I guess I'll have to lay off, except like now for a gag. You didn't mind, did you? Why? Certainly not. I'm very impressed. As a matter of fact, do you mind if I look at your hands? Look at them? What for? This beautiful pair of hands as I've ever seen. It occurs to me that you... you say that you don't know what you're going to do when you leave the hospital here. Oh, well, I just hadn't thought about it much. Why? I've got a proposition that might... it just might possibly interest you. No kidding. Why? Well, I'd rather not discuss it with you here and now, but I expect to be leaving here myself on Friday. If you'd like to come and see me sometime after that. You say where and when? Well, I've been staying at a little cottage on Dr. Martin Trent's estate. I'll probably be going back there. How about Saturday night? Late, around 11.30. Fine. OK with me. Then... it's a date. I left him there, hurried back to my room. I wanted to be alone. Had to be alone, for I was afraid that what was on my mind might show in my face. It certainly was a date. A date with death. A man obsessed, half mad, and his unsuspecting victim. Would both of them still be alive to hear it when the clock strikes 12.04? Is Roger Blaine to continue murder at midnight? I did leave the hospital on Friday. Went back to the little studio cottage. By Saturday night, my arrangements were completed. They went very complicated. I made it clear to Lorna and Martin that I wanted to be alone. And I picked up a length of iron pipe. The pipe I hid inside the piano when I heard footsteps coming down the path was a knock on the door. Come in. Hi. Not too late, am I? No, you're not too late. Hey, pretty nice place you got here. Yes, it is quite nice. Sit down. Oh, thanks. Now, what's this here proposition you wanted to talk to me about? It's a very simple one. How would you like to make $10,000? What do I have to do? You don't have to do anything. Just sell me something. You're left-hand. What? You're nuts. No, I'm serious. Forget the money right here in cash. I don't get it. I just don't understand. Look, I'm a musician. I'm a pianist. Or I was until I lost my hand. If I can't go on playing, then life doesn't mean anything to me. My own life or anyone else's. But you, how important is your hand to you? Now, an artificial one will do almost as well. And you can live for quite a while on $10,000. You mean you really thought I'd set you my hand? Let you cut it off? I'm getting out of here. Oh, wait. It's all right. Nothing. I said you were nuts, but I didn't really think... What are you going to do with that? No. No, don't. You can't. Someway, somehow I'll get you for this. I swear. I'm sorry, York. Very sorry. But I have to have it. Go into what happened after that. I got rid of the body. And then I went to see Martin. You don't look well, Roger. Anything the matter? No, I just came to see you about your promise. My promise? Oh, you're dead, whichever you choose to call it. I told you I wanted another hand. I was going to get another hand and that you were going to help me. Well, now you can help me. What? What do you mean? Look in here. See? Good Lord. Where did you get this? It might be better if you didn't ask too many questions. I'm fighting for my life, for more than my life. You took my hand away from me. Well, now you can give me this. You mean you honestly, seriously think that I can perform an operation of this sort? Do a graft and that after I'm finished you'll be able to use the hand? Why not? Operations of this sort have been done, haven't they? With other parts of the body? The eye? The cornea, not the eye. And some nerve grafting has been done. But this, look, Roger, I know what a shock this whole thing has been to you. Know it better than you. You're not a well man. A well man? I'm only half alive. And I'd rather be dead than go on living this way. But if I do die, I won't die alone. That's why I brought this along. Roger. Quick, easy, painless. If you won't do what I want, you die. And so does longer. Both of you, along with me. You don't give me very much choice. No. All right. You win. Get me the hospital. Even before I became fully conscious, before I opened my eyes, I knew, knew that it had been done, that it wasn't his hand anymore, but mine. It's still something wrong. I couldn't analyze what it was at first, but it was there. A feeling that something wasn't quite right, that perhaps it wasn't entirely my hand. I set up. The hand was a mass of bandages, stiffened with splints, and inside the bandages. Careful, Roger. Don't touch them. Oh, Martin, I didn't see you. I've been here with you ever since last night. Last night? I've been out that long, 24 hours. It was very important that you keep quiet. You've been under sedation. Oh, yes, of course. This isn't the hospital. No, I brought you home with me, back to the house. I thought it would be best for several reasons. That's very smart, Martin. We don't want any questions, do we? Not yet. You did do it, didn't you? What? Oh, yes. I could. And it's going to work. It is working. I can feel it. Please, Roger, you must be careful with that bandage. You can't touch it, move it, disturb it in any way. I won't, Martin. But I don't have to. I tell you. I can feel the fingers moving, even inside this. And in another week or so... We'll see. Yes, we'll see. Got a cigarette, Martin? Of course, I have it right. That's funny. What is? In my case, it was right here in my breast pocket. I must have left it downstairs with the hospital. It doesn't matter, I can do it. But... Yes? I think... Yes, here. Here it is. Under my pillow. What? How did it get there? I don't know. It must have fallen out when you bent over. But... Why are you looking like that? Because... I think I know how it did get under my pillow. What do you mean? When fingers learn something, a special skill. They don't forget it, ever. Mine never have. Even when I'm not thinking of what I'm doing, they go on playing by themselves. These fingers here, they haven't forgotten either. You understand? I'm awfully tired all of a sudden, Martin. Would you mind? No, Roger. I'd like you to get as much rest as possible. There's a friend of mine coming here tomorrow to see you. Another doctor. That's fine, Martin. I'll see you in the morning. But that wasn't why I asked Martin to go. Is it because I wanted to be alone? Because I had to be alone. Because I knew now what it was that I'd only sensed before. A hand had a will of its own. Martin's pocket without my even being aware of it. I lay there alone in the darkness after Martin went. Not touching the bandages, but flexing the fingers, forcing them to obey my will. I had to do that. I knew I had to do it. Because I suspected what might happen. And what did happen proved that I was right. I fell asleep finally. And while I was asleep, I dreamed. I dreamed I was walking down a dark, labyrinthine corridor somewhere under the earth. Then... Little closer, Roger. Just a little closer. Who's there? Who's there? Just me. Waiting for you. Yeah, Hook. I said I'd get you. No, well... Out of the darkness came a hand that clutched me by the throat, gripping tighter. Tighter! Tighter! I fought against it. I tried to scream. And my waking was more horrible than the dream for the hand was there. Gripping me by the throat. Moaning. Exerting every ounce of my strength and will. I fought it off. Pulling at it. Feeling the fingers quivering inside the bandages. My hand or his, I was tied to it now. Tied to a thing that was seeking to destroy me. Shaking convulsively, I leaped out of bed. I ran out into the hall and down the stairs to the living room. The piano! That was the one thing that might save me, save my reason. Seating myself at the piano, I started to play. Using only my right hand at first. But I tried to force it with my left hand. Kizzy! Never. But it is. I'm stronger than you are. Nothing is stronger than I am. Nothing in the world. And there's no escape. Because we're one now, Roger. And wherever you go, I'll be there too. It's not true. It's not... What? What are you doing? Just a little closer to the desk, Roger. A little closer. That paper knife? You can't. But I can, Roger. I told you I'd get you somehow. Someway. Put it down. Drop it. You can't fight against me, Roger. I told you. I'm too strong. Martin! Martin! Great! I'm safe. The living room. I heard the piano and... Good Lord. He's dead. He was saying something about a hand. He was in a completely psychotic state as a result of shock and a sense of guilt. The state psychiatrist was coming tomorrow to commit him. Oh, Martin. That hand he brought me wanted me to graft on. I don't know where he got it. But I suspect that was behind the whole thing. Behind it? Yes. What do you mean? You don't really think I did graft it on, do you? Why? He was desperate and I had to do something to quiet him. I splinted his left wrist, wrapped it in bandages and told him not to touch them. Martin, that paper knife in his chest. Which hand is holding it? His right one, his good one. Yes. And still, in a way, it's possible that the dead hand, the one he was so concerned about, did guide it. Rise wide with awful comprehension. Lorna stares at her husband. Then down at Roger Blaine's body as somewhere in the silent house, a clock starts chiming for murder. And the clocks strike twelve for...