Two pairs of footsteps echoed down the dark alley. They stopped, waited, waited for Jack the Ripper to strike. But this is not London in 1888. No, this is Chicago in 1945. Yet Jack the Ripper is loose again to nigh, to butcher his victims without trace. Hello, creeps. This is Peter Laurie opening the doors of the Mystery Playhouse. If you recall some sixty years ago, London was terrorized by a one-man crime wave, by a murderer who was never captured and never seen. And tonight we follow the investigations of Sir Guy Hollis, who firmly believes that Jack the Ripper is still alive, that it is he who is the fiend that once again slashes and kills. There is the element of the supernatural in this story that will amaze you, for it seems that the spirit world has given the black heart of Jack the Ripper the power of everlasting life. Time, the present. Our scene is the reception room of a well-known Chicago psychiatrist, Dr. John Comedie. Miss Canister, the doctor's assistant, is chatting with a tall, distinguished man who is apparently waiting to consult Dr. Comedie. But surely, Sir Guy, you can't believe a theory that seems so, well, astrological. I'm afraid I do, Miss Canister. I will grant, Miss Canister, that we still know very little about the life energy of the tongue, about those forces which keep the planets in their spheres and keep a star from spinning astray and crashing into the regular gullies. Hello there. Oh, Dr. Comedie. I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Hollis. Miss Canister, will you step into my office, please? Take your time, Doctor. Anything to gain your patient's respect. What have I done now? It's Sir Guy Hollis. He's a lord or a knight or anyway, not a commoner, attached to the British consulate here. Find out anything else about him? Nothing about his mental condition. He's right out of an English movie. Only thing that's missing is a monocle. Oh, yes, and he's a bug about astrology. Send him in. The doctor will see you now, Doc. Thank you. It's been a somewhat busy day, Sir Guy. Sorry you had to wait so long. An apology a doctor need never makes, sir. Most attractive office, Doctor. That's also my home. Oh, that explains the piano then and the painting. Perhaps. What do you think of London, Doctor? London? Why? Have you ever noticed anything strange about it? The fog is famous, although here in Chicago we sometimes have one to match it. Yes, the fog. That's important. It always provides the perfect setting for what? For murder. Tell me, Sir Guy, what is a Londoner doing in Chicago discussing murder with a psychiatrist? Have you ever heard of Jack the Ripper, Doctor? The murderer? The greatest monster of them all. Worse than Spring Hill Jack or Kryptonian. Red Jack. Red Jack the Ripper. Yes, I've heard of him. Do you know his history, Doctor? See here, Sir Guy, doctors are pretty much in demand these days. I assume you were a patient wanted my help as a psychiatrist. If you just wanted to swap old wives tales about famous crimes, perhaps we might arrange dinner some night. This is no old wives tale, Doctor. This is a matter of life and death. What is? Well, listen. London, 1888. Out of nowhere a shadowy figure with a knife haunting the squalid eyes of Whitechapel and Spitalfield, six times that knife has been sent into the throats and bodies of London's women. Thirty-nine stab wounds, the paper says the first time. August 31st, another victim. On September 8th, watchmen making their rounds in the grey dawn stumbled across the third hacked and horrid thing. I understand he used his knife rather well. He was an expert, Doctor. And where did he learn? At the operating table. The butcher's block, some said, on the police force. On November 9th, a sixth victim was found on the floor of her room. Panic in the grandstand? Yes, but needless panic. Months passed, a year. They said Jack had escaped to America. They said he committed suicide. They've been saying things ever since. You tell the story very well, but I'm afraid that's all the time I can give you today, sir, Guy. I haven't finished. I'm anxious to hear the rest of your story, but I... Dr. Calhoun, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I am on the trail of Jack the Ripper. I've tracked him here to Chicago. You've tracked... See here, sir, Guy. Oh, what was the date of those London murders? 1888, for a book. If Jack the Ripper were even born that year, he'd be, uh, he'd be 56 today. I'd say Red Jack would be good and dead about now. Would he? Or should I say would she, because the Ripper may have been a woman, you know? Do you think I'm insane, Doctor? No. But then you might listen to my reason for thinking the Ripper is still alive. I had been studying these cases for 13 years. Talked to officials, friends of the four drabs he killed, and then I started studying unsolved murders all over the world. Followed a trail of blood. I could show you clippings from San Francisco, Shanghai, Berlin, Cairo, Milan. 87. 87 such murders. And all had the trademark of the Ripper. You remember the New Orleans torso slayings last summer? Well, vaguely. A colleague of mine attended the hearing. And surely you remember two recent ones here in Chicago, one out on South Durban in September, and then a few weeks ago there was another very much like it up on posters. Yeah? Well, Doctor? You're a criminologist. But figure it out, Sir Guy, if Red Jack were, say, 30 in 1888, he'd be 86 today. And no man of 86 could have butchered up that horse dead for me. Suppose he didn't get any older. Suppose Red Jack knew how to stay young. But people do grow old, Sir Guy. Murderers, too. Whether they're women or butchers or scientists, they grow old. What about sorcerers? Who? Necromancers, wizards, practices of magnetic. Now, see here, Doctor, I have studied the dates of those 87 murders, and they have an astrological significance. Suppose Red Jack didn't murder for murder's sake alone. Suppose he wanted to make a sacrifice. What kind of a sacrifice, Sir Guy? It has been said that if you offer blood to the dark gods when the moon and the stars are right, they grant boons, boons of eternal youth. I don't understand, Sir Guy. I'm not an authority on witchcraft, nor even an amateur criminologist. Why have you come to me? Because Jack the Ripper is here in Chicago, and through you, I am going to capture him. Oh, good morning, Doctor. Good morning, Kenneth, sir. Well, how did his lordship turn out last night? He's the most exciting patient we've had in months. He's not a patient, Kenneth, sir, at least not yet. Shouldn't he be? No, I can't tell. He talks so convincingly. There is a shred of reality in this story. It's real enough to him, Lord Nose. Oh, excuse me, Doctor. Dr. Carmody's office. May I speak with Dr. Carmody, please? It's most urgent. One moment. I'll go and get the doctor. Oh, good morning. Hello? It's Guy Hollis, Doctor. Oh, any new clues turn up overnight? You're willing to go through with it? Just this minute sent my nurse out for a magnifying glass and a pair of handcuffs. I hope that'll be necessary, Doctor. Now, look here, Sir Guy, how can I possibly help you? I have good reason to believe the Ripper is among your acquaintances. What good reason? I'll tell you when I see you. I understand less the fence than a friend of yours who writes a column for the Sun Herod and the Sun of the Sun. I understand less the fence than a friend of yours who writes a column for the Sun Herod and the Sun of the Sun. I understand less the fence than a friend of yours who writes a column for the Sun Herod and the Sun of the Sun. Yes, that's right. How did you know that? I hope that you'll take me with you. Take you with me? I told you that I have plotted the astrological chart. The Ripper must make a sacrifice before this night passes. Okay. How about supper first? Splendid. Pick me up at about 7.30. Thanks awfully, Doctor. Right. Bye. Are you sure you're doing the right thing? That's why I wanted him to supper first. If he proves dangerous, I'll manage to sidetrack him somehow. I hope Lester's in. I know. Hatchet murder on Polk Street. No, no, no. Hatchet murder on Polk Street. No, no murder yet, Lester. But if you don't become conscious, there may be. Oh, oh, John. Yes, that's right. Now look, old man, is it okay if I bring someone to the party tonight? Oh, sure, John. Why, like a? It's a guy from the British consulate. Well, all the better. Manpower shortage and all that. Now listen, Les, he's... Well, he's kind of a strange duck. I'm not sure yet whether his head is on right. That's okay. I have plenty of company. See you tonight. Right. Hennester, all that remains now is for Sir Guy and I to attend the party tonight and capture the Ripper. What are you talking about? Well, Sir Guy says the Ripper will be there tonight. You're joking. I am, yes. But Sir Guy isn't. And perhaps he's right. But I still don't know who you're hoping to find at Lester's party tonight, Sir Guy. A few writers, a painter, a singer, all fairly normal. Ah, but so is the Ripper. Perfectly normal. Except on certain nights, huh, when he becomes an ageless, pathological monster, crouching to kill. On evenings like tonight, when the stars have arranged in blazing patterns of death. But why among my friends? Because they are the kind of people the Ripper seeks out. But I warn you, Sir Guy, once these people find out what you're up to, you'd better be prepared for just about anything. I'll be ready. Look, what's that you got there? See here, Sir Guy, you can't go around among my friends with a gun in your pocket. Oh. Then you keep it before me. Yeah. But be prepared to use it. Sure. Well, come on. The party should be in full swing by now. Well, Sir Guy, are you enjoying yourself? Immensely, John. Your friends are very charming. Except that one of them is Jack the Ripper, huh? Perhaps. And if I get the opportunity, I think I'll show you how he can find out. As soon as I hope, it's one o'clock, I should be leaving. Leaving, leaving? Who said leaving? Are you trying to slow my party, John? Well, Lester, it is late. It'll be a killjoy, John. I've hardly met our honored guest. Oh, dear. Are you here on a military mission, Sir Guy? Not exactly. Well, then it's not secret. Oh, not at all, Mr. Benton. I'm on the trail of Jack the Ripper. Jack the Ripper. Well, it's rude of us to be so curious. Sir Guy has an idea that Jack the Ripper is following around Chicago, Lester. He's out to find him. Oh, really? Yes. Sir Guy is serious. Well, he should be. According to some old files I've read, Red Jack was something of a menace. Had some, uh, ripping good times. Oh, Lester, your puns get worse daily. Oh, they're not bad. Sir Guy is sure that the Ripper is responsible for the South Dearborn murders and the one up on Halstead a few weeks ago. Uh, you've covered them, Lester. What's your idea? Could be. Very neat carving on both ends. But the victims were men. I thought the Ripper was only interested in women. Oh, not at all. It's probably a courtesy that the women we know the Ripper sought were fairly vivid symbols. A, uh, kind of living comment on the society which he detested. Oh, yes. And then just as our laws change and our society changes, so then must his victims change. With each new age, the Ripper discovers a new symbol of protest. Tell us, Sir Guy, which do you hope to find here? The Ripper or the symbol? Yes, I'm rather curious about that. The Ripper. All right, boys and girls. We're trapped. Let's face it. Thank you, Beth. I told you he was serious. I know, John, but what can a considerate host do? Uh, I've got it. Uh, Laverne, let's have that bread knife there on the side, boy. Oh, man. Thanks. Uh, Sir Guy has come a long way on a difficult mission, so let's give him a fair chance. I'll turn out the lights for one minute and Sir Guy can stand here in the middle of the room with the bread knife. Now, if, uh, anyone here is the Ripper, they can either make a break for it or take the opportunity to, uh, well, eradicate the sewer. That's fair enough, Sir Guy. Fair enough, Lester. Uh, Laverne, some, uh, suitable background music, please. Uh, something Wagnerian, madam. Now, choose your partners for the kill, ladies and gentlemen. Every 60 seconds of darkness for evil to make its cosmic presence known. Unchalenged, unmolested, let the Ripper ride. A minute for death, at the end of which we'll look for the bodies. Uh, ready? All right, silence. Now, turn out the lights. Don't anyone move. Let the affirmative forces return. Let there be light. Look there on the floor. It's Sir Guy. My lord, he's been stabbed. Here, let's pick up the body and get her off. I guess nobody had better touch the body. What is it? I mean, well, doesn't Hollywood recommend the police in moments like this? For heaven's sake, Les. I swear, Les, I didn't want to bring him, but he insisted. He said he'd plotted the chart. He said he was certain the Ripper would use his knife before the knife was out. I don't suppose we ought to move him to you. Well, uh, I'll call the police. Sir, heaven's sake, Les. Well, look, if you have any ideas what we should do, Nodja, now shoot. Whoever goes to get the police could just as easily make a neat getaway. Oh, Les, if he was right, after this, uh... But I wasn't, sir. What's the body know? Sir Guy, wait a minute. Look at that. Wait, I really don't think that fight's the kind of a joke we should have had. Uh, please, uh, forgive me, Nodja, for, uh, frightening you so. When you were all so innocent. What is it, Sir Guy? What do you mean? Hold it! Hold it, everybody! Are you sure about our innocence, Sir Guy? Oh, yes. You see, if the Ripper were here, he would have betrayed himself when he saw me lying there. Not a very gentle spoof, I'm afraid. Oh, sure, well. That's all I can kind of break. Yeah, come on, let's get a drink. Let's getaway from the comics. Well, John, uh, we leave. It's getting rather late. Yes, Sir Guy. Oh, you can shut your mouth now, Nodja. The game's over. For heaven's sake. I'll get you cox. Well, goodbye, everyone, and, uh, forgive me if I gave you an unnecessary scare. Well, they've forgotten about it already, Sir Guy. Good night, Les. Thanks. Don't mention it, John. Come around again, Sir Guy. I'd like to. Good night, Les, though. Good night. I suppose you're thinking that I'm guilty of the same sort of sensational tricks as our friend the Ripper, but... I want only to rid the world of a devilish thing that lives by the blood of others. As I said, they've all forgotten about it. Well, I guess I was wrong to seek him out of the party. You know, we're far more likely to find him out here in the darkness and the fog, perhaps along a lonely, shadowed street such as this, or perhaps in a neglected dead end, like this one here. Not Sir Guy. Please, do me one more favor. Today it's only a hunch, but let's turn up this alley, see what it has to offer. Remember, the Ripper must make a sacrifice tonight. Well, as long as I've gone this far. Thanks, old boy. Yes, this is what the Ripper likes, small, gaping alleyway, hardly noticeable to the rest of the city. It'll be in a hidden corner like this where I'll capture him, and I'll turn the bloody swine over to the police. He's a mad beast, John, an ageless monster, let loose on the world. There's nothing up here for Guy. No, just to the end of the alley, John, and we'll turn back, I promise. Look, Sir Guy, don't you think this is carrying a hobby a little too far? A hobby, John? In 1888, one of those nameless drabs the Ripper killed was my mother. What? Yes. My father spent his life searching for the Ripper, caught up with him too about 1926 in Hollywood, where he was stabbed in a brawl. The police never learned who it was, but I know it was the Ripper, and I'll live till I find him, I swear I will. Let me have my gun now, John, or you'll let your friends and I feel safer with my gun on me. I'll see here, Sir Guy. No, please, John, now let me carry the gun, now let me have it, John. Please. All right, you insist. John, it's not a gun, it's a knife. I know. John, John, what are you doing? I don't mind the John, only his jack. No, no. Hello, Lester, canister. I didn't get you out of bed, did I? Yes, the police picked you up this morning. Sir Guy? Oh, yes, I'm here. Sir Guy? Oh, he's dead, all right. That's horrible, that's... Well, of course he's in a cell. All right, Beth, I'm going in now and talk to John. Insane? Of course he must be. All right, Beth, I'll meet you here at the jail. My time's up now, John, I've got to be going. Just one more thing, canister. For some reason I want you to understand. You see, Sir Guy was right. I did have to make an offering before the night was over. I didn't want for it to be him, canister. But up there in that alley I realized he was as determined as I. You know, canister, I still wonder who at that party was astute enough to send the police after me so quickly. Lester, perhaps, huh? The police will tell me, but I'll find out, canister. And if it was Lester, he'll know I found out. But what difference can it make now? Oh, the police haven't won yet, canister. The guards won't let me down. They never have. Sir Guy was right about that, too. I am eternal. I have no age, you know. I never shall. Where are you going? I'll...miss you. Bye, John. Bye, canister. Lester! Canister, I've died ten times over. Why, Lester? He's safe today. The charge, you know. I still died ten times over. He suspected it was you who called the police. As long as he doesn't suspect you, put me wise. Now, will you tell me how you found out about it? I was ending the waste basket after Connolly left last night for the party. I discovered a lot of astrological plotting in his handwriting. And that Englishman's words, I couldn't forget them. Connolly just told me the guards won't permit him to be executed. He thinks he really is Jack the Ripper. He's insane, Lester. Oh, I was afraid you'd say that. What do you mean? Any doctor will tell you he isn't insane. I know they will. They'll also tell the jury. So? So, the law doesn't execute the insane. It allows them to live. You mean? Who knows, chemistry? Who knows? Oh, comfortable thought, isn't it? Dr. Carmody may die for his crimes, but Jack the Ripper will live on. Oh well, spirits are hard to kill, unless they come in a bottle. Now, for our next production, we have something much less exciting. Oh, only 17 shots of a mob of crooks outsmarting each other for a partry $200,000. Two murderers and Simon Templer, better known as The Saint. Follow me to the green room for a preview. Right this way. Come, come. Come, come. You know, Horace, you really should have told me sooner. Told you what? That police headquarters have been moved to a Long Island mansion like this. It's quite a shock to a hardworking taxpayer like me. You'd better start getting used to shocks, bub. Oh, Mr. Natsum, the judge is expecting you. Go on in. I wish you wouldn't be prodding me with that rustle, Horace. It tickles. This way, sir. Why, cozy little stump, isn't it, Horace? My name is not Horace. Come here, please. Judge Stryker, Mr. Natsum is back, sir. Ah, yes, yes, come in. You might as well lock the door, Natsum. Aye, sir. Sit down, Mr. Templer. So you are the famous gentleman known as Mr. Tate, are you? Sometimes my friends call me that. Uh, Mr. Templer, we are faced here with a serious matter, a very serious matter. So it was seen. So serious, in fact, that I have been obliged to adopt rather an extraordinary measure, indeed. Like sending around a phony dick to pick me up for? You, uh, knew he was a phony? My dear fat-headed friend, you didn't really think that Horace over there could successfully impersonate an officer of the law, did you? Why, uh, I... Shall we get down to business? Very well. You have in your possession a certain, uh, diary containing statements and, uh, suggestions which I hardly need to say are wholly untrue. That is the statement that when you held a fine job in Washington, you dreamed up a high-tall oil swindle and got away with it. Yes, a fabrication from beginning to end. And that you and your associates now control about 90% of the black market. It's lies, every one of them. Naturally. That's why you're so anxious to have them suppressed. The fact remains that their publication might seriously damage the character and, uh, financial standing of certain respectable members of the community. Especially including you. I... It's, uh, it's for that reason and that reason alone that I am prepared to, uh, ascertain what value you place on this, uh, volume. What's your offer? Uh, shall we say, uh, $10,000? May I ask you what you find so funny about $10,000? Oh, nothing, nothing under ordinary circumstances. But you must admit that in this case it is a little ridiculous. And, uh, what would you suggest? $200,000, Judge Strykart. What did you say? You heard me. I said $200,000. You're insane! No, I'm not. I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Judge. I'm going to set up a foundation. The Simon Templar Foundation for the Rehabilitation of Wounded War Veterans. It will have a capital of $1 million. Your share will be exactly one-fifth. Do I make myself clear? Why, haven't you changed your tune before you ever get out of this house? Don't try to get your gun, Hollis. You see, I always carry a spear, and I'm an excellent shot. If you search me, you should have remembered that I always have something on my sleeve. Now, take your gun out, very slowly, by the muzzle. Drop it. Thank you. Now, you get toward me. That's right. And now, if you'll be good enough to unlock the door... Go on, open it. There's the little boy. You'll hear from me again, Templar. Oh, I'm quite certain of it. In fact, I shall expect to have your check by Saturday morning. Good night, Judge. Yes, they call him the Robin Hood of modern crime. But even a Robin Hood is not immune when powerful interests concern themselves with arranging for the sudden death of the saint. So with these, uh, gentle thoughts, this is Peter Laurie closing the doors of the mystery playhouse. Until next time, good night. Sleep tight. Good night. This is the Armed Forces radio service. This is the Armed Forces radio service. The Armed Forces radio service. The Armed Forces radio service.
