The Whistler, another signal mystery. I am the Whistler. And I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales, many secrets hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Tonight, the Signal Oil Company, marketers of signals famous, go farther, gasoline and motor oil, bring you another in a series of strange tales by The Whistler. The story of the wild moors and strange people of Devon. Listen to Local Storm. But first I'd like to take a moment to tell you about Harry Carter, whose signal station out near one of the big motion picture studios I visited this week. When I asked Harry how long he'd been serving Culver City Motorists, he replied, I've been doing business here since 1927. Some of my first customers are still with me after 17 years. One of Harry's proudest jobs is keeping a fleet of 28 studio limousines in first class condition. And you've never seen cars gleam so brightly or motors hum so sweetly. Naturally, a dealer that gives such service has lots of steady customers. To keep that sort of service going, there's Jerry Corulli, who's been helping Harry 12 years, and Conrad McCoy, who's been with him six years. Well, friends, like Harry Carter, all signal dealers are permanently in business for themselves. So you can depend on them for conscientious, thorough service that'll keep you satisfied year after year. Get acquainted this week with the friendly signal dealer near you. You'll find that for sincere interest in helping your car last out the duration, you can't beat your neighborhood signal oil dealer. And now, the Whistler. On the southwesterly tip of England, deep in the wild moors of Devon, lies the little village of Stone Cross. Invalid Mrs. Wentworth is one of the few residents of this lonely place. She hasn't been here very long. She moved from London after the blitz to this safer place and bought a little white stone cottage on the moor. She has few, if any, friends. Her neurotic ways and snappy tongue and commanding attitude have turned them away. She has few visitors, the vicar's wife occasionally, and Dr. Brooks more often. He's not really a doctor. He's a masseur, and he's in the living room of the cottage now, giving Mrs. Wentworth one of her treatments. It's not going too well. The unseasonable weather seems to have upset Mrs. Wentworth. Come now, trial. Just once more, Mrs. Wentworth. Oh, please, doctor. Don't ask me to try to move again. It's agony. Agony, I tell you. But you don't, trial. Please try to understand it's really mostly in your mind. It's a psychoneurosis. I can't believe the pain's as bad as you say. My dear man, it's only by sheer pluck I stopped from fainting because of the excruciating agony in my legs, and this beastly weather has made it ten times worse. I don't think you should make me exercise. You know what the heart specialist in London told me. No exertion or excitement. Besides, I don't think they helped me. Well, haven't you felt that any improvement from all this massage treatment? Well, the swelling seems to have gone down a bit. Swelling? Mrs. Wentworth, you've never had any swelling? Oh, yes, I did. And the aching, if only you knew. Sometimes I feel like giving up. So do I. What do you mean? I mean if you won't try, then there's nothing more I can do for you. You say my massages don't help you, and you don't do your exercises, and you don't follow your instructions, and you don't take your medicines. Certainly. They don't do me any good. You should try something different. You promised to cure me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You're sworn by oath to administer to the sick and to relieve the suffering, and you say it's a waste of time. Very well. I'll see what else I can do. You'd better, or I'll cut you out of my will without a penny. Sometimes I think you're letting me die on purpose, just to see if you can get your hands on the money. But let me tell you this. If I don't feel better, a lot better very quickly, I'm going to get a fresh will drawn up. Please don't say foolish things, Mrs. Wentworth. I don't need your money. I assure you all I'm doing is my very best to make you well and have you walking again. And what about my wheelchair? You said you'd fix that too. Hark at it. All the time. Squeak, squawk, squeak, squawk, squeak, squawk. It's getting on my nerves. Well, I really don't have time now. I have to be back at the village hall by six to assist at a post-mortem. Post-mortem? Who on? Old Mrs. Lynn. She was found dead last night. Probably murdered. Good heavens, the vicar's wife. Yes, the vicar's wife. Oh, how awful. I never hear anything out here. I don't think you should leave me stuck out miles from everywhere with a murderer at large in this awful storm. I think it's an outr- Oh, Olive will take care of you. I really must go. I'll phone you if I get any worse. Yes, do that. Olive will let you out. I can let myself out, thank you. Good night. Good night. But Dr. Brooks didn't go to the village. If she could have watched him, she would see him making his way through the wet rotting vegetation of the overgrown garden to the rear of the cottage. Mrs. Wentworth might have wondered about that if she had seen, but she didn't and so- Olive! Olive, come here, Olive! Where are you? Yes, Mum. If my dear husband were alive, he'd horse-whip that doctor for incompetence. Yes, Mum. Olive, did you hear about the vicar's wife? Aye, Mum. Weren't it awful? Milkman told me. When I went past there this morning, all blinds was down. I thought it were funny. What did he tell you? Who? The milkman. He said vicar went up to London to see about Orphan's outing and when he got back last night, there she were in kitchen. They say it must have been a madman what wrung her poor neck. Oh, keep quiet. Don't tell me such things. You asked me. Turn the wireless on. It's time for the news. Yes, Mum. That's right. Leave it there. Anything else, Mum? No, I don't think so. Yes, Mum. Oh dear, oh dear. Why don't they get on with the news? This is the BBC regional program. Before we get on with the regular news, we have a special police bulletin. The police warn residents of the county of Devonshire to be on the lookout for a dangerous criminal wanted for murder. This is his description. He is a man aged about 27. Ah! Olive, the lights are gone. Olive, come here, quick. Oh, oh dear, oh dear. Olive. I'll be here, Mum. Well, don't just stand there in the dark. Light the candles. Yes, Mum. Oh, what a ghostly place this is. Every time there's a storm, the lights go out. Just when one needs them most. I wish I'd never come to this godforsaken place. Olive, what have you got your coat on for? I've put you a nice supper on a tray in kitchen. All you have to do is light the gas for the hot water for your tea, Mum. Eh, I hope I can be at home before rain starts. You're not thinking of leaving me alone, are you? Yes, Mum. Well, you can't. Dr. Brooks left strict instructions. I was not to be left alone. It be my early night, Mum. You don't seem to understand. I'm too ill to be left alone in this dreadful storm. Sorry, Mum, but my husband has to have his supper. Come storm or no storm. Nothing hinders his appetite. Oh, please, please stay. A little while tonight. There's a good girl. Just till the lights come on again, eh? You can see fine now, Mum. Ain't no good being afraid on thunder. Thunder never hurt no one. I forbid you to leave this house. But I got to, Mum. I warn you, Olive. If you go now, I'll cut you and your husband out of my will. I'm an old woman. I won't live much longer. So don't do anything you'll be sorry about later. I have to go, Mum. You don't know George when he's kept waiting. Please. Please don't, Olive. Please don't go. If you'll stay, I'll give you that hat and that coat you liked in the village. I'll buy it for you tomorrow. I'm so afraid. I'm old and I'm lonely. I'm dreadfully afraid. Please. Please say you'll stay, Olive. Sorry, Mum, but I've got to get home. I'll be back in morning. Good night. How can you be so unkind, you ungrateful girl? Come back. Come back, Olive. Come back. Yes, she's all alone now. Her old grey head buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break. She stays that way for perhaps a quarter of an hour in the flickering candlelight. The only sound, the thunder and her sobbing, and then... What was it? What was that? Oh, must have been the rain. I don't hear anything now. Couldn't have been that man, that murderer. No. No, it couldn't. No one would want to harm me, a poor old invalid. No, no. I won't think of such things. I won't. I won't. No, I don't want to be a... A man is peering in the window. He's silhouetted by the lightning. He's moving away toward the door. Who's that? Is that you, Olive? Is anyone there? Oh, what an awful night. I shouldn't be left here alone. I'll have a heart attack. Oh dear, oh dear. I won't be left alone. No, the telephone. Why doesn't she answer? Oh, why doesn't she answer me? What number, please? What number, please? I want Waterfield, 1702. Waterfield, 1702. Yes, yes. They do not reply. But they must reply. That's the village hall. They're having a post-mortem on that poor old... Sorry, they do not reply. Well, keep trying them. There must be someone there. The man is in the room now. I can just see him in the dim flickering candlelight. He's hiding in the shadow of the doorway. She has her back to him as she sits hunched in her old wheelchair, trying to get the doctor on the phone. Hello? Hello? Hello? What is the matter with the phone? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? The man is right behind her now. He's raised his hands, huge hands, with the fingers outstretched, reaching, reaching toward her neck. Hello? Hello? Hello, exchange? Oh, oh, drat the phone, drat the whole blessed place. What a place. What am I to do? What was that? I could have sworn I heard. Who's there? Oh, there's someone right behind me. Who is it? Who? You are listening to The Whistler, another Signal Mystery, brought to you by your friend, The Signal Oil Company, marketers of signals famous go farther gasoline and motor oil. As the storm clouds thunder across the countryside, the invalid, Mrs. Wentworth, left alone in her solitary cottage at the edge of the moor, is startled by a hulking figure intruding into her living room. Is it, could it be the murderer who is roaming the countryside? Could it be? Who are you? Evening, Mrs. Wentworth. Hope I didn't frighten you. Oh, it's you, George. Yes, you did frighten me. I knocked, and as you didn't answer, I thought better come on in, see how everything were all right. Thank you, George. I'm very pleased you did. I told Olive I didn't want to be left alone, but she had to go and get your supper. I know, I'd just seen her. She told us how thunder had made you a bit jumpy, so I told Lass, never mind about my supper, I said. I'll go and cheer the old girl up. Won't be long, for he has you laughing like a sixteen year old. Oh, George, you shouldn't talk like that. You really are a one, you are. Come here by the fire and get warm, eh? What you need is a drop of parsnip wine. Get roses back in your cheeks, I'll get it for you. Oh, you're a good boy. Get my supper, will you, George? It's all ready. I'll have left it on a tray on the kitchen table. Won't be a couple of shakes or duck's tail. Oh, what a difference it makes if you aren't all alone. I didn't think I was going to eat a thing. Here you be, Royal Majesty. Supper fits at four, Queen. Oh, thank you, George. You don't know how nice it is to have you here. Here you are. Here's your very good health. Thank you. Mmm, that does go down nice, that do. It's very good. How is my garden these days, George? With the nasty wet weather, I haven't been out of the house since Sunday. Garden be doing fine. What with mud and all, I've been done nothing much from outside. Well, I saw you digging between the raspberry bushes. I think it was yesterday. What, you said I hadn't been out? I saw you from the window. I was thinking of putting you in there. Oh, George, you're always joking. Don't tease me. What's it for? Going to bury some old rubbish, what I want out of the way. Do them raspberry bushes well to good, that will. Oh, how nice. I love raspberries. Do you think I'll get a good crop? You ask me, I think you'll get more than what you bargained for. Oh, I do hope so. And how are the other things getting on? I don't know what I'd do without you. You've worked wonders around here. It's a real pleasure to have you working for me. A real pleasure to work for you it be. Not like working up to Vicarage, old Barsley, be moaning about, always moaning about something. If it be one thing, be another. Not like us, mmm. Us, mmm, gets on all right, don't us, mmm. Oh, you are a one you are. I had forgotten you used to work at the Vicarage. Tell me, George, did you hear any gossip in the village about what happened to the vicar's wife? They say she was murdered. Yes, I heard them talking. Some say she weren't, some say she weren't. If she asks me, I says it were a good rinse. But let's forget about her. A drink up now. Yes, you're very good else again. I shouldn't really. Oh, come along, won't hurt you, my pretty. I'm feeling a lot better now. You cheered me up, George. I think the storm is passing over now. And what do you think? Bless ye. In morning, storm will be gone, old sun will be shining. You'll never know as I was ever happened. I do hope so. This weather makes me feel my world is coming to an end. Tell me, what did you do for work before you went to the Vicarage? Work down to the slaughterhouse, I did. Oh, how ghastly, those poor animals. How you must have hated it. Nay, I liked it well there. More fun than a barrel of monkeys. Well, why did you leave, George? The bloomin' inspector throwed me out. What on earth for? I used to like to kill them with me burns. Oh, how dreadful. How fearfully dreadful. I wish you wouldn't say such things like that. You've given me the cold shivers. Put some more wood on the fire, will you, George? You ain't sucked enough of that wine. That's what matter with you. I've had enough. And if you ask me, I think you've had too much. George gets up and puts more wood on the fire. The blaze gives long, weird, fantastic shadows to the scene as he moves behind a chair. He's looking at his great hands now. He's slowly raising them to the level of Mrs. Wentworth's old neck. She doesn't turn, but she's tensed up. She seems to sense her danger. What are you up to, George? Let go of my chair. Stop pulling at wheels. You ain't going nowhere. Let go! Shut up, that hollerin'. Hollerin' won't help you. You must be mad. The murder. That hole you've been digging. Those poor animals. Please, please listen to me. You can have anything you want. You won't tell a no-tale to this away. You can have my money, all of it. I'll give it to you. I'll get it. Don't you worry about that. Oh, still, I'll get it over quick, like. It won't hurt you. Please, please let me go. Please. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. She's struggling, trying to move the chair by pulling at the wheels, but he holds it easily with one hand, while with the other he's reaching for her scraggy, fragile old neck. At the touch of his finger, she struggles up from her chair and runs from him. Now two people are running down the garden path toward the cottage. They're at the door now. Why? It's Dr. Brooks at Olive. Mrs. Wentworth is standing in the center of the room, and George is by the fire holding her chair, and he's laughing. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. God bless you, Mrs. Wentworth. You'll be all right now. You'll always be all right from now on. Thank God it worked. I knew it would. I'm sorry, George, frightened you so, but you asked me to try something else, and so I told you to do it, as if it was the only way we could get you walking again. Now you won't ever need that chair again, so I think you'll agree that it was worth it. Oh, I'm going to faint. Leave her alone, Olive. She won't faint. How dare you trick me like this? I'm desperately ill. You might have given me a heart attack. Oh, there's nothing at all the matter with you. Get out of my house, all of you. Get out. Go on. Get out of my house. I'll see you're all sorry for this. I don't want to be well. You know what you'll be. You'll be an ungrateful old witch on wheels, and I hope you get struck like it. Get out! Get out of here! You'll be sorry. The lot of you, you'll be sorry. I'll cut you all out of my will, all of you. Well, I'm certain that's all right with us, Mrs. Wentworth. None of us asked to be put there in the first place, so none of us will miss being taken out. If we ever were there at all. What do you mean, ever there at all? I mean, I don't think that we were in your will at all. That's only another device of your new-rotted brain to force people to do as you wish. Well, I, for one, have had enough of such things. I've tried to help you, and I did. I've proved you tonight that you can walk, that there's nothing at all the matter with you. By frightening me nearly to death with that horrible man. Yeah, now, be that proper. Us were only trying to help you. Never mind, George. Perhaps we'd best forget about it and leave her. Yes, get out. Get out of my house. You freaks! You freaks! Now, who could that be on such a night? I don't know. You'd better find out. Hello. Is Mrs Wentworth at home? Yes, sir. Who shall I say is calling? Inspector Gentry of Scotland Yard and Constable Irwin of your village police. By gun, Scotland Yard! Inspector! Oh, come in, come in, Inspector. Thank God you came here. I've just had the fright of my life. Is that right now, ma'am? Well, what caused it? These... these terrible people. They frightened me nearly to death. Well, now, that's hardly a nice thing to do. I can explain it, Inspector. Yes, perhaps you'd better. Well, you see, Mrs Wentworth is my patient. I'm Dr. Brook. This is her maid, Olive, and her gardener, George. Yes, I know. And you're her doctor? No, he's not a doctor at all. Just a masseur. But I was giving Mrs Wentworth treatments and she didn't respond. I was sure that she was not really ill, so I tried an experiment to see if I couldn't prove it. And I thought she would, of course, realise that I was trying to help her. Oh, and what was the experiment? Frightening me to death, making me think George was going to murder me. Oh. Well, yes, you see, there'd been all this talk about the murder of the vicar's wife. And I asked George to come in here when she was alone tonight and act as if he intended to strangle her. In her fright, she got up from her chair for the first time in months. So, you see, the experiment did work. You're rather rough on the patient, though, don't you think, Doctor? Well, I didn't intend to upset her so much. I'm sorry if I made a mistake. It was really something of a joke. Nothing to get so excited about. I'm not so sure about that, Mr Brooks. Is this the man, Constable? Aye, that's him riding off, Inspector. You see, Mrs Wentworth, I'm not so sure they didn't really intend to murder you tonight. Because, you see, we have positive proof that this man, George, your gardener, is the murderer of the vicar's wife. George? Oh, no! Inspector, you can't be... Oh, George! Look out! Get him, Constable! Good show, Constable. That blow should hold him for a while. Inspector, I'm sorry. I had no idea. I'd never have done such a thing if I'd known. Perhaps not. You're not thinking that I could have been planning a murder with George? I didn't say that, Dr Brooks. Do you have a guilty conscience? No, no, no, no, of course not. Mrs Wentworth will tell you. I'm one of her best, her only friends here in the village. She'll tell you. Wait a minute. Mrs Wentworth. Mrs Wentworth! Mrs Wentworth. Good heavens. I don't think Mrs Wentworth will tell us anything, Dr Brooks. And I'm just wondering... Wondering? What? Whether the law considers frightening a person to death murder. Now, in just a moment, the Whistler will return to give you the ending of tonight's tale. But first, I'd like to call your attention to an automobile headache that's happening more and more often these days. Drivers go out to start their car and find their battery dead. With all cars at least three years old, and most of them much older, it's only natural for batteries to be wearing out. But there's another reason for increased battery trouble. Ration driving. The little driving we do these days can't put back into the battery the charge used up by long standing and frequent starts. As a result, most batteries remain in a run down condition and wear out sooner. Now here's a tip. So that the cold months ahead don't catch you with a battery that you can't take it, see your neighborhood signal dealer now for a complete free battery inspection. Your signal dealer has just received a fresh stock of quality batteries built to signal's own specifications for longer service. Batteries so fine, they're fully guaranteed up to two years. Throughout winter, and for many months to come, you'll be assured of quick starts if you arrange with your signal dealer now to get a new, deluxe, quality signal battery. And now, back to the Whistler. Well, that was rather a drastic cure Dr. Brooks used on Mrs. Wentworth, wasn't it? Yes, he cured her of her illness all right by frightening her to death. You see, Dr. Brooks dreamed up that character for George, the character of a man who just loved to strangle things and people with his big strong hands. And he was utterly amazed to find that he had hit the nail on the head, that George actually was that character. George probably would have murdered Mrs. Wentworth some night anyway, just as he did his other gardening client, the vicar's wife. Quite a coincidence, wasn't it? So much a coincidence, in fact, that the police wouldn't believe it could be a coincidence. Especially after they found out Dr. Brooks had a good motive for murder. Yes, you see, the good doctor was surprised to find that the old lady had named him in her will. Her death would bring him a tidy fortune. Another coincidence? Well, just one too many, I'm afraid. No jury will ever believe the good doctor's protestations of innocence. No, I'm afraid the good doctor will find himself convicted of a crime he didn't commit. A crime that wasn't a crime at all, the murder of Mrs. Wentworth. The Whistler is broadcast for your entertainment by the Signal Gasoline and Motor Oil Company and your neighborhood signal dealer. At your service to keep your car running for the duration. The Whistler was produced and directed by George W. Allen. The story by James Sussex. Music composed and conducted by Wilbur Hatch. This program is being transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. Next week, the Whistler changes its time of broadcast and will be heard on Monday nights at 9 p.m. Remember, the next Whistler program will be a week from tomorrow night, Monday, September 18th, at 9 p.m. This is Bill Pannell speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
