Stand by for crime. Hi, this is Chuck Morgan, KOP newscaster in Los Angeles. You know, one thing a newsman must have is a good memory, a memory of the faces and events and dates. It's part of his stock and trade, and it pays off if he develops it. You take my own memory, for instance. The other day I saw a picture of a man in the Times, and my memory told me it was someone I knew. I had to cast back to a day when I'd sat in a New York courtroom and heard a judge sentence a prisoner to five years, because he'd been convicted of subversive activities. His name at the time had been Ivan Rolinsky, and he was a communist. Now his name was Jim Loring, and he was running for mayor of Carmichael, which is a city about 250,000 population located up the coast about 100 miles from LA. Loring was not only running for mayor, had looked as though he were going to be elected. And I figured as a public-spirited citizen, I ought to do something about it. Or I did until I mentioned the matter to Pappy Mansfield, owner of KOP. Carol Curtis, my blonde secretary, was on hand at the moment, which wasn't unusual. Well, it'd make good story, all right, Chuck, but you're wasting your time. Jim Loring's past is as clean as a whistle. Oh, and how do you know that, Pappy? Well, Loring's a well-known family in Carmichael. Jim went to war in 1942, and while he was overseas, his folks were killed in an auto accident. When Jim came home in 1945, he was taken in by an aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Asa Loring. So you see, Chuckie Boy, Jim Loring, who's running for mayor, couldn't be Ivan Rowinsky, the Communist. Hmm, that figures. By the way, Pappy, isn't there a war plant in Carmichael? Well, there's a factory up there producing military goods. Why? If the mayor of Carmichael happened to be a Communist, he'd be in a fine position to get his hands on the output of that plant, wouldn't he? Down, boy, down. Your imagination's getting the better of you again. I've already explained to you that Jim Loring... Jim, I heard you. It makes sense. Isn't it somewhere near Carmichael that the government is doing further research on that submarine that's to run by atomic power? Chuck, for heaven's sakes, why don't you give up on this one? There's not even a thin shred of evidence that what you're thinking is true. You're right, Glamourverse. You and Pappy have sold me. By the way, Pappy, haven't I got a vacation coming up pretty soon? Well, I suppose you're entitled a few days. Now, if you could get a bunch of sundaes together... Yeah, very funny. I've got a couple of weeks coming up with pay, and I'm taking the first week beginning tomorrow. Well, that's okay, Chuck. Tell you what, Myrtle and the kids are down at our place at Balboa. There's plenty of room, so why don't you... No, thanks. I've heard that one before. I go down to your summer place, and after two days you call up and wonder if I could run into town for a couple of special broadcasts. A fine vacation that'd be. No, I'm going farther away than Balboa. A lot farther. Where are you going, Chuck? Where am I going? You know, dog gone well where I'm going. I'm going up to Carmichael on my own time and money... and prove that Jim Loring is not Jim Loring, but Ivan Rolinsky, the Communist. What are you going to be doing for the next few days, Glamourverse? What am I going to be doing, he asks. Pappy, what am I going to be doing for the next few days? Well, all right, okay. But remember this, it's on your own time and money, too. And don't expect me to bail you out of jail. And furthermore, KOP has not taken any... This wasn't quite the wild goose chase that Pappy and Gero thought it to be. Ivan Rolinsky, the man I'd seen sentenced to five years in jail, whom I'd interviewed on several occasions, had a scar on the back of his left hand. The scar, because of its peculiar shape, would be certain identification. So all I had to do was call on Jim Loring and check his left hand. If he had a scar, then I'd know at least I was on the right track. So, Gero and I started north on Highway 101 Monday morning and reached Carmichael around noon. Everyone in town knew Jim Loring, and they were only too glad to tell us where he lived. So around two o'clock, we put up in front of an attractive seaside cottage and found an elderly, pleasant-faced woman sitting on the porch. I beg your pardon, we're looking for Jim Loring. Is this where he lives? Yes, it is. Jim isn't home at the moment, but he should be back in a few minutes if you care to wait. I'm Hester Loring, Jim's aunt. Well, thank you. I'm Chuck Morgan, newscaster and radio station KOP in Los Angeles. This is my secretary, Carol Curtis. How do you do? So you're Chuck Morgan. That's right. Oh, my, my. I don't know how many times I've listened to your broadcasts, Mr. Morgan. It's really exciting meeting a real live radio actor. I'm hardly an actor, Mrs. Loring. Oh, no? Can you get KOP's signal way up here, Mrs. Loring? Oh, my, yes. In fact, it's one of the few stations in Los Angeles we get real well. Something to do with the mountains and water, they tell me. Did you come up to interview Jim, Mr. Morgan? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. He's pretty young to be running from there, and he has an excellent war record. Oh, yes, he has. He was decorated five times and wounded twice. He was also a prisoner of war, but he escaped. Well, where was Jim taken prisoner, Mrs. Loring? In Germany, I think. Yes, I'm sure it was. Toward the end of the war. He doesn't talk much about it. Did he know about his folks being killed? Oh, yes. Ace and I were out here at the time visiting. We wrote to Jim and told him and said we'd stay until he got home. You see, the poor boy had no one else. After he got home, he asked us if we'd like to remain and sort of make a home for him. Of course, we agreed. Ace and I have no children of our own, and we love California. When was the last time you saw Jim? I mean, before he went to war. Oh, my, that was a long time ago. Jim, he was just a babe in arms. You see, Bert and Esther, they were Jim's parents, moved out here to California when he was only a year old. But didn't you have trouble recognizing him when he came back from the war? Oh, no, indeed. Jim, he's a spitting image of his father, and they'd sent us dozens and dozens of pictures of him at every age. Oh, I see. I suppose Jim's friends were glad to see him when he got home. He remembered them all? Not here in Carmichael. You see, when Jim learned about his parents, he wrote and asked us to sell a place in San Lorenzo. San Lorenzo? Well, that's 500 miles away. 493. Ace and I always keep a record of such things when we travel. It's an interesting pastime, and it helps keep the budget straight. Then you sold the place in San Lorenzo and bought this one before Jim got out of the Army. Yes, that's right. And Jim didn't go back to San Lorenzo at all. He came here, a perfect stranger. We understood perfectly how he felt. He didn't want to have to return to San Lorenzo and be reminded of the pleasant boyhood he had there. Coming here to Carmichael was like starting a new life. Yes, it certainly was. Well, he's done pretty well for himself, hasn't he? Oh, Jim's a smart boy. He's a civil engineer, you know. Why, he has complete charge of the Montmartre Dam project. And about six months ago, he was approached by some of the town's leading citizens and asked if he'd run for mayor. Well, that's a success story in Capsule Farm if I've ever heard one. Here comes Jim now. You'll have a chance to meet him yourself. He's very modest. Carol and I watched as Jim Loring's car stopped in front of the house. He got out and started up the wall. He was a young man, early 30s, dark haired, pleasant-faced, intelligent-looking. His left hand was concealed in his jacket pocket, and he didn't remove it when he stopped in front of us on the porch. Hi there, Aunt Hester. Got company, I see. Oh, Jim, dear, I'm so glad you're back. This is Chuck Morgan, newscaster on KOP, and his secretary, Carol Curtis. They drove all the way up here from Los Angeles just to interview you. Well, I'm flattered. How are you, Morgan? How are you? Greatest. Nice meeting you, Jim. This is an honor I hadn't expected. Up here in Carmichael, you know, we have a feeling that you folks in Los Angeles don't admit that there's any other city on the coast but your own. A lot of people should, I believe, I guess. You know, doesn't every day that a man as young as yourself gets to be elected chief executive of a city the size of Carmichael? Wait a minute. I'm not elected yet. The publicity we've read indicated you will be. The opposition hasn't a chance. I wish I could be assured. I told you Jim was modest. One of the reasons we drove up, Jim, was to check your identity. Identity? I knew a man once who looked like you. It was a long time ago. He had a peculiar shaped scar on the back of his left hand. I wonder if you'd show me your hand. Oh, no. Mr. Morgan, you don't understand. It's all right, Aunt Hester. It's all right. This other man was probably an old friend of Mr. Morgan. I'm sorry I can't accommodate you, Morgan. Jim took his hand out of his pocket and pulled back the sleeve of his jacket. His hand had been removed just above the wrist. It was embarrassing. We made our apologies and were awkward about it. But Jim Loring couldn't have been more gracious. He explained he'd lost his hand in the war and it always embarrassed him to see the shock on people's faces when they first noticed his infirmity. So we got out of there, went back to the hotel and ordered a cool drink in the bar. I still don't see why you asked Jim to show you the scar. That was like telling him your real reason for being up here. Sure it was. How else was I going to get him to tip his mitt? Chuck, you still don't believe that nice young man is a communist spy. If he is, we'll know before the day's over. How? Because if he is, he'll make the next move. And if he makes the next move, he'll do so before we have time to do any more snooping. And what are we going to be doing in the meantime? Sit here and get... Nothing so pleasant, Glamour Puss. You're going to call Pappy and ask him to check Jim Loring's war record. What I want to know in particular is did Jim Loring, the real Jim Loring, actually lose his hand in the war? Chuck, for heaven's sakes, you're not thinking anything as fantastic as that man actually had his hand removed so he could come back here posing as Jim Loring. A true communist, Glamour Puss, is a fanatic. Therefore, if you're going to cope with him, you've got to think fantastic things. Also, I want you to ask Pappy to find out what happened to Ivan Rolinsky after he got out of jail. What do you think happened to him? I think he was deported. Why? Never mind why, I think he was, that's all. If I'm right, then the pattern will fit together. Go on, go on. It won't be hard for Pappy to get you the information I want. All right. But what are you going to be doing while I'm having this chummy conversation with Pappy? I'm going to ascertain the geographical location of the Mount Marsha Dam project with relation to the Carmichael War Plant. So Glamour Puss went off to make a long-distance phone call, and I climbed into the old jalopy and drove up to the Marsha Dam. The project was about two miles above the city, in Panther Canyon. I parked the jalopy and walked over to a man who was sitting on a rock doing some figuring on a clipboard. Hello there, my name's Morgan. My radio station, KLP, sent me up here to get some information for a broadcast in your dam. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Heck no. My name's Stan Aikens. I'd be glad to answer your questions if I can. So, the dam's almost completed, isn't it? We'll be through in about a month, and then the river will be turned back to its natural course and form Lake Marsha. That'll take another month. The stored-up water will be used to generate power as well as for the irrigation. I see. Will the war plant use any of that power? I see they're located right below us. Sure. That was one of the reasons for the dam. But Paul Eamesberry can give you more information about that than I can. Oh? Who's Paul Eamesberry? A government man, a sort of a liaison between the plant and Jim Loring, who's a chief engineer here at the dam. I see. Where can I find this Paul Eamesberry? Downtown. Here, I'll write down his address. Oh, thanks. The best time to catch him in is after seven. He does his book work at night. There you are. Okay, thank you. Well, maybe this was it. And maybe it wasn't. The staring Aiken seemed to be cooperative enough, but why had he been sitting so conveniently on that rock when I drove up? There wasn't anyone else within a hundred yards. And how about this Paul Eamesberry, who kept office hours at night? I found the answer to the whole sorry mess in his office. But it was too late. Now, the conclusion of Stand By for Crime. Glamour Puss wasn't at the hotel when I got back. I waited an hour. Then I went into the snack bar and had a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Afterwards, I put in a phone call for Paul Eamesberry, told him who I was and was invited to come over and see him. He said he'd expect me about half past seven. At seven fifteen, Carol still hadn't shown up, so I wrote a note telling her to contact me at Paul Eamesberry's office. Left it with the desk clerk. At seven thirty, I parked the jalopy in front of the building where Eamesberry's office was located. It was getting dark when I went inside, but the corridors were well lighted. I found Eamesberry's office on the ground floor on the rear. Light shone through the frosted glass, so I opened the door without knocking. At first, the place seemed deserted, and I saw something that gave me goose pimples. A man's leg was sticking out from behind the desk. I crossed over quickly and saw the rest of the man. He was lying on his back, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, a bullet hole squarely between his eyes. There was a gun on the floor, and I picked it up using my handkerchief. It was a.38 and had recently been fired. Well, this was a matter for the police, not for me. I started for the phone, but stopped. I heard footsteps and voices coming down the hall. Well, Paul's here all right. His light's on. He's always here at night. I wonder...oh, hello there, Morgan. Found Paul all right, eh? I found him. He's there behind the desk. What in the...Paul? It's no use, Sakins. The man's dead. Dead? Paul? I don't believe it. How did...I mean... He's been murdered. Can't you see the bullet hole in his head? Yeah. Yeah, I see it. And you're the one who... He's holding the gun, Stan. Yeah. Trying to wipe over still your place. Now, wait a minute. You two... So you're the one Paul was afraid of. He said they were getting suspicious, and he might have a visitor. And I was the one who told you... Don't be a fool. I've already told you who I am. All you have to do is check my credentials, man. Yeah, sure. I know what we have to do. Gil, call the police. You're darn right. Are you crazy? I didn't kill your pal. I just got here a minute before you did. Yeah, sure, sure. You can tell that to the judge. We're calling the police. Hurry it up, Gil. There was an open window, two feet from where I was standing. And all I could think of was I'd better get out of there. It wasn't very good thinking, but it was the best I could do at the minute. Acting on impulse, I heaved the gun, handkerchief and all at Aitken's. All right, if you won't listen to reason... Stan, it's getting away. I'm back here, you. I went through the window. Like a flying squirrel landed in the alley outside, I went to my knees, got up and began to run. Behind me I heard Aitken's and his companion come through the window after me, yelling like a couple of banshees. Help! Police! Stop! Stop or I'll shoot! But I wasn't stopping for anybody. I got to the end of the alley and started to turn into the street when... A red-hot iron went searing along my scalp and then the ground rose up and belted me one in the head that knocked the twilight out of that back street and into complete oblivion. How long was I out? And there wasn't any way of telling. Consciousness returned slowly. Too slowly to suit me. I was lying on something hard, something that moved with a steady, even rhythm. I was conscious of a burning thirst and a flaming soreness along my scalp. Then I became aware of something else. Waves flapping against wood. It was a pleasant sound because there was nothing more that I wanted than a long, cool drink of water. So by sheer willpower I sat up. I found it was broad daylight and I was in a boat. And the lapping water was salt. And for as far as I could see in any direction there was nothing but ocean. I put my head in my hands and tried to keep my sanity by trying to figure this thing out. What had happened? The pieces fell into place slowly but accurately. I'd been framed, that was for sure. Who had murdered Paul Amesbury? Stan Aikens or Jim Loring. But why? Because Amesbury had become suspicious of what they were up to. How'd they expect to get away with it? Because I'd come along and given them their perfect alibi. They'd killed two birds with one stone by framing me for murdering Amesbury. Then Stan Aikens had shot me while I was trying to escape, which would explain his fingerprints on the murder weapon. Why hadn't they completed the job by finishing me off though? Yeah, the answer to that one was simple too. I'd escaped, which was an admission of guilt. They didn't want my body found around town. They wanted to be picked up later in this dory, in which I'd supposedly tried to get away, dead from exposure, thirst and starvation. I got up to my knees, realizing what a slim chance I had to get out of this one. There weren't any oars or oar locks, or even seats in the boat. But one thing they'd forgotten, the floorboards. I set one on edge and began to pry at a slap. It took me an hour to get it free, but it was all I needed. I began to paddle. I don't know how long I paddled. There were times when I slipped into unconsciousness. Then I came out of it again. The sun reached the zenith and began its downward plunge. And I thought, this is the end. I'm through. You stupid jerk, why didn't you stay back in LA where you belonged? So I gave up. I quit. I fell forward to the bottom of the boat and closed my eyes and hoped that the end would come soon. Hey! Hey there! You in the boat! Who's there? Go away, let me sleep. Something wrong, young fella? Hey, you look pitted out. No, no, it can't be. Who are you? Me? I'm Ezra Symes. Fishing's my business, but never mind that. Hey, looks like you're in trouble. How about a good drink of water? Water, yeah. That's what I want more than anything, water. Sure you do. Yeah, looks like you got a crack on the head alright. Here you be now. Take a good long drink and then we'll talk. Yeah, thanks. Wait a minute. Wait a minute now. Just a minute. Let me have some water. Just hold on a minute now, son. Yes, sir. You're him alright. You're that murderer, Chuck Morgan. Trying to escape and I caught you. Yeah, yeah, I'm Morgan. You caught me. Then let me have some water. No sir, no water, no sirree. You ain't getting any water from me, not a drop. I'm taking you in, see? Look, there's more than a hundred dollars in my pocket. You can have it all for just one swallow of water. A hundred dollars? Hey, hey, chicken feed. I'm gonna collect five thousand dollars for catching you. Five thousand dollars? Who offered that much for my capture? Tell the name Mansfield? Yes, sir. That's his name, Pat P. Mansfield. After that I didn't care much what happened. I knew vaguely that Ezra Symes had tied the dory to his motorboat and was towing me in. A long time later, after darkness had closed in, the boat gently nudged to dock and the motor was cut off. I saw blurred lights and heard Ezra muttering to himself about the reward. Then I was lifted up and half carried, half dragged to a ramshackle automobile. The motor roared and we went bumping away toward the city. More time passed. It was like a nightmare with only fragments of events registering in my mind. And we stopped at last. And I knew we were in front of a building on a city street. Ezra came around to my side of the car, pulled my arm around his shoulder and dragged me out into the sidewalk. Then came the climax to this brutal nightmare. The door to the building toward which Ezra was leading me exploded outwards. Men poured into the street. There were yells and shots. And a man came running straight at me. I swung wildly and cracked open. Then I went down. The bedlam faded into nothingness and then... Chuck, Chuck, it's me, Carol. She's coming around. She'll be all right in a minute. Oh, Chuck, you were wonderful. You licked them both. If it weren't for you, they'd have escaped. What perfect timing. Yeah. How'd you know enough to come right here to the police station, Chuck? Water. What did he say, Pappy? Sounded like water. Water? Well, that can't be. Chuck doesn't drink water. Well, maybe he was thinking of the Marsha Dam. There's water up there. Oh, sure. Don't worry about the dam, Chuck. They found the dynamite. Everything's all right. Water. He said it again. I guess we'd better try another approach, Carol. Maybe the guy wants a drink. Let's try him with a slug. It was daylight when I came to again. I was lying in the hospital bed between snowy white sheets. Carol and Pappy were sitting nearby. But more important, there was a pitcher of ice water and a glass on the bedside table. I didn't bother with the glass. I just grabbed the pitcher and slobbered it all over myself. Hey, you drink much more of that stuff and you'll become waterlogged. You had a couple of gallons already. Yeah. Brother, that's wonderful stuff. Feeling better, Chuckie boy? Yeah. Just peachy. What day is it? It's Friday. Friday? What happened to the first part of the week? Well, a good part of it, you were paddling around the Pacific Ocean, enjoying your vacation. Yeah, vacation. Comfortable quarters, excellent cuisine, interesting companions. Where were you, Glamour Bus? Where was I when? When you didn't come back to the hotel after calling Pappy. Where were you? Oh, well, I called Pappy and Pappy called Washington and then Washington called Pappy and then Pappy called me and... Get to the point. Okay, just be patient. Pappy found out that Loring wasn't Loring but Rowinsky and that Rowinsky had been deported and when the Russians found Loring's dead body, they decided Rowinsky looked enough like Loring to... Look, skip all that. Will you, I guess, these things. Why weren't you at the hotel? I went downtown to the dam project office to get the fingerprints. Whose fingerprints? Rowinsky's, of course. I figured that everybody working on a government project like the Marsher Dam would be fingerprinted. And how else was Pappy going to prove that Rowinsky was Rowinsky when he got up here with Loring's fingerprints which were being flown here from the War Department of Washington? Well, uh, aw, Glamour Push, you're wonderful. Well, I know it. Well, you want to hear the rest of the story? There's more? Naturally. Aikens and Lorry had to confess, didn't they? Did they? Of course. Aikens broke first. He told about the dynamite being built into the dam so it could be exploded when the dam got full of water. So the water would destroy the war plant which was right below it. Now, I've heard everything and I wasn't here to supervise the details. Well, get him. Now, do you want to hear the rest of the story? There's more? You used that line a minute ago. Well... So did you. Go ahead. Well, the good citizens of Carmichael and the workers at the war plant whose lives you saved, the workers at the dam project and the United States government have raised a purse to give you as a reward. No kidding. How much is it? Five thousand bucks. Five thousand? Uh-huh. Holy smoke. I've still got another week's vacation coming to me. Glamour purse with five thousand bucks. Just a moment. Just one teeny weeny moment, please. Well, Pappy? Chuck, did you ever hear of a man named Ezra Symes? Ezra Symes? Yeah. The name sounds vaguely familiar. I can't remember where I met him, though. Well, I can. He's a fisherman and he fished you out of the drink and brought you in here and collected five thousand bucks reward money from me. Say that's right. I'd forgotten. Golly, Pappy, that was mighty decent of you to offer five grand to have me found. Uh-huh. Well, the way I figure it is this. Five thousand dollars from five thousand leaves zero. Now, if you take that five thousand you're going to get and subtract it from the five thousand dollars I've already paid out. Oh, no, Pappy. Now that... That isn't fair, Pappy. Well, we'll see.
