Let every go signal remind you that you do go farther with signal gasoline. The Signal Oil Program. Signal Oil brings you another strange tale by the Whistler. Tonight, the story of a man who gambled with life and of the tale the dead man told. 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. Before the Whistler brings you tonight's story, I want to pass along to you a few of the enthusiastic comments coming in from men in uniform to whom Signal Oil Company has been sending thousands of the exciting battleship games called SALVO. Lieutenant Commander Hartung, commanding the USS Bladen, writes, Signal's generous gift of SALVO games is of inestimable recreational value and will do much for the morale of this ship's personnel. And Commander A.L. Mayer of the USS Haskell writes, The crew of this vessel deeply appreciate Signal's kindness. SALVO games provide much pleasure during leisure hours. And friends, because of the popularity of this great game for two persons, Signal Oil Company thought you too would enjoy playing SALVO. So in addition to those going to the armed forces, Signal has been able to get a limited number to be given away by neighborhood Signal gasoline dealers. A SALVO game is yours for the asking, but I'd suggest getting yours tomorrow, sure. Because folks over here are sure to go for SALVO in just as big a way as men overseas are going for the SALVO games, Signal Oil Company is sending them. And now, the Whistler. A driving rain slants down outside the Golden Pheasant Nightclub. It drenches the streets, but it doesn't seem to dampen the gaiety of the crowd inside. Yes, it's a gay crowd, happy and carefree, which just goes to prove once again that all the glitters is not gold. A couple detach themselves, make the short dash from door to curb and climb into a car. They seem far from carefree. I can't understand it. It's only 11 o'clock. How come you're tired already? I'm not tired. I just want to go home. Okay, so we're going home. Darling. What? Don't be angry with me. Oh, I'm not. How can I be angry with you? Sandra. You're so sweet. So understanding. Well, I don't understand this. We were going to have fun tonight, going on to Sammy's place after the Golden Pheasant, make a night of it. You were going to. Those were your plans. Well. Those weren't my plans. You know, sweetheart, that we always do what I want to do. Is that so? You know, sweetheart, that I can make you do anything I want. Can't I? Is that so? Well. I guess you can. You little mink. That's better. So I take you home, when we could be having a good time. But what I want to know is why. All right, I'll tell you. Because I'm afraid of Arthur. I'm afraid he might get home ahead of us. Look, baby, I told you your husband is at the office. I left him there myself at six o'clock. He said he'd probably be there all night, or most of it, going over the books. This is inventory time. Very convenient, huh? Yes. Very convenient for us. By the way, Bert, didn't you say you wanted to stop at the office on the way home? Yeah, I'm going to Richmond tomorrow morning. I might as well pick up my papers and things tonight. Thanks for reminding me. What would I do without you? Oh, you've gotten along pretty well. But I'm not going to get along forever without you. Sandra, when are you going to quit Arthur? When are you going to make the break? Oh, let's not worry about that just yet. Maybe something will happen to make things easier. But this has been going on now for months. I'm not going to wait forever. You'll wait, darling. Just be patient. How can you be so calm? Oh, here's the office, dear. Turn in. Oh, okay, okay. Sandra, you're a wonderful woman. A remarkable woman. Yes, Bert Williams, Sandra's a remarkable woman. So remarkable that you're risking everything to be nearer. Your friendship for Arthur, her husband. Your business partnership with him. Your reputation. None of them matter if you can just persuade Sandra to leave Arthur for you. But it's going to take a little more time, it seems. I'll just be a minute. I'm coming with you. But Sandra. You're not going to leave me out here in the rain, on this dark street, alone? No, but listen, Sandra, Arthur's up there. He might hear us. He'll come out. No, he won't see me. I'll promise you. All right then. Come on. He might as well find out now as later anyway, mightn't he, Bert? That might be the best way, just get it over with. So you walk up, not being especially careful about the footsteps. Down the hall, into your office. Get the papers. Back past his office. Across that patch of light on the floor, coming through his closed door. That's funny. Shh. What? Listen, not sound. Well, they wouldn't be talking to himself. No, but maybe he's already gone and forgotten to turn out the light. Arthur? And waste electricity? Not Arthur. Silly my hair. Maybe you better stick your head in the sea. I'll stand back outside. He'll never know. But Sandra. You might as well. Si, do you think it was funny you didn't stop and say good night? Yeah, I suppose so. Okay, just a minute. Hi there, you old workhorse. What are you up to? Funny, must have fallen in the blue. Arthur, this is a fine way to act. Come on, wake... Arthur. Arthur. Good Lord. Sandra, stay out of here. What's the matter? Is something wrong? Sandra, go back. Stay. Something the matter with Arthur? Why is he lying there with his head on the desk? What? Oh. Oh. Arthur. Sandra, be calm. I don't know what happened, but... He's dead, isn't he? Yes, he's dead, all right. Pull it right through his temple. Oh, no. Why did he do a thing like that? I don't know. It does look like suicide. What? Here, there, now, Sandra. Sit down, try to keep calm. Oh, but... I was through with him. I was going to leave him, but... I sort of wished him well. Of course not, darling. I know that. Now, just take it easy. I can't believe he commits suicide. Why? Why? Maybe he left a note. They usually do. Let's see. There is something on the desk here. Here, look. It's addressed to me. You? Yeah. Dear Bert, this will probably be a shock to you, but... Believe me, it's best. Business is bad, but that's only part of it. You'll be able to carry on with me out of the way. Just one thing, look after Sandra for me, will you? Goodbye, Arthur. Arthur? How could he do such a thing? I can't tell from this whether he knew or not. What does this mean? You'll be able to carry on with me out of the way. I don't know, and that's... Of course he meant the insurance. Insurance? Yes. Didn't you two have some kind of partnership insurance? Yes, that's right, of course. We took it out when we first started in business. If one of us died, the other got $100,000. Yes, that's what he meant. Business was bad, but if he died, you'd get $100,000 to help with the business. Only Sandra... What a fool! He made a terrible mistake. Why? I won't get any $100,000, I won't get a cent. Why not? Because there's a suicide clause in the insurance. It's paid for any natural or accidental death, but not for suicide. Suicide voids the insurance. It was all for nothing. He did it all for nothing. Yes, he was a fool even in death. Bert, how can you talk like that? Why not, Sandra? He stood between me and what I wanted most in the world, you. Now there's nothing standing between us. We're married, we live the life we wanted together. But I have an assent outside the business. Don't worry, we'll think of a way. It's ironic, you know. Only if we had that $100,000. Yeah, we might have too, if only he hadn't made it so obviously suicide. You don't suppose? Suppose what? It is suicide, isn't it? It couldn't have been... Murder? Good Lord, Sandra, who could have murdered him? I don't know, but a robber, someone. No, no. Of course it's suicide. There's the note, obviously a suicide note. Of course, naturally. If it hadn't been a note, it might have looked like murder. Sandra, Sandra, listen. If there was no note, if the police didn't find a note, it might look like murder to them. What do you mean? And if they called it murder, the insurance company would pay the $100,000. You're not thinking... Why not? What difference would it make to him? He must have intended that I get the insurance money. Well, why should I be robbed of it just because he forgot something? It's not right. Why not? It's what he wanted. We're just carrying out the wishes of the dead. It's nobody else's business. But you're forgetting if it looks like murder, then it is somebody else's business. The police, they'd have to find a murderer. Which they couldn't do, because there is no murderer. But they might have killed him. Even you. Me? Yes, I hadn't thought of that. A gun. Who's gun is that? I didn't know Arthur had a gun. He didn't. Oh, good Lord, that's my gun. He must have taken it out of my desk. Your gun? But then there was things in it. Yes, unless, wait a minute. Would they... It would have your fingerprints on it. Naturally, it's my gun. And it has his on it too, because he used it. That would prove it was Jewish. Yes, unless we wiped them off and put mine back on. The murderer would wipe his off anyway. But it would be natural for mine to be there. Yes, that's right, of course. But they still might say you killed him for the insurance. They might say that, but... Look, Sandra, I have a perfect alibi. I was with you. We've been at the Golden Pheasant all evening since 7.30. Plenty of people saw us there. Now, wait a minute, please. Think a minute more. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you now. Darling, don't worry. It's simple. They couldn't possibly convict me, even if they did decide I did it. Now, don't worry. Everything's going to be all right. I'll just wipe the prints off of my scarf. Then grip the gun, there. Wipe it again, but not too well, so some of my prints will be left on. Now I drop it carelessly on the floor. Now, the note. Just touch a match to it. There, there goes the evidence. Just a pile of ashes in the ashtray. Couldn't they be simply destroying evidence? Not if they don't know it ever existed, and how can they? Only you and I know. But if they find the ashes in the ashtray, won't they examine them or something? But they won't find them. Because now we dump the ashtray out the window and scatter the ashes to the four winds. There. There, that does it. Now we're all set. Oh, darling, I hope so. I'm scared. Don't be, baby. It'll be simple. Just leave it to me. And you better cry a little more, so you'll be properly tear-stained when the police get here. Police? Sure. That's the next step. Hello, operator. Get me the police station. Yes, the homicide division. Well, Bert, you're skating on thin ice, don't you think? Making the police believe that Arthur's suicide is murder and possibly making them think you did it. That's a dangerous game you're playing. But now that it's done, the police seem to fall for your trick. At the coroner's inquest, they're eyeing you with suspicion. Your testimony to the coroner doesn't help much. No, I definitely don't think it's suicide. He wasn't the type to commit suicide. He had no reason to that I know of. Then perhaps he had enemies who might have wanted to put him out of the way. No, no, not that I know of. The coroner seems satisfied with your testimony. Then Sandra answers the question. Yes, Mr. Williams and I spent the entire evening at the Golden Seas at nightclub. And your husband didn't come along? He said he had some work to do. We dropped in at 11 to pick him up. That's when we found him. Did your husband ever speak of taking his life? Was he despondent? Oh, no. Never. Mrs. Albers, do you think your husband committed suicide? I feel sure that if he were to do such a thing, he would at least have let me know. Some explanation. But he didn't. Therefore, I can't believe he took his own life. That went over big, didn't it, Bert? That practically clinched it. They can't call it suicide now. Sandra convinced him. But just to add another link, there's the police officer to add his testimony. A bullet entered the right temple on a 250-degree angle. That is, slightly from the rear and moving forward. Powder burns on the skin indicated that the gun was not held directly to the head, but several inches from it, perhaps three or four. In your estimation, Captain, could it have been possible for the dead man to have fired the fatal shot himself? Well, yes, possible, but it would have been an awkward position. If he had shot himself, it would have seemed more logical for him to place the muzzle directly against his temple. And in your opinion, the gun was probably fired by someone else. Someone who came up from behind him, perhaps. Well, that would only be an opinion. It might not have been. It could have been either. Well, Bert, there's a break for you. A break you hadn't counted on. Arthur was very obliging. You can see him right now deciding to hold the gun away from his head. No doubt he wanted to avoid unnecessary unpleasantness. He was so fastidious. Well, offer up a few thanks, Bert. Because that did it, the coroner's jury has reached its verdict. The jury finds the deceased Arthur Albers met death at the hands of a person or persons unknown. You are listening to the Signal Oil Program. Let every Go signal remind you that you do go farther with signal gasoline. Well, Bert Williams, you pulled it off, didn't you? The coroner's jury called it murder by person or persons unknown. Oh, there'll be an investigation, but you're not worried about that. You'll be able to prove that you didn't do it. But now you fixed it so that you can get that $100,000. Go ahead. Go on down to the insurance company and collect it. Yes, naturally, Mr. Williams, you want the insurance benefit. It's rather customary to give us a little time to investigate a case like this, in which there seems to be some question of doubt. But I need the money right away. The business, you see. Yes, yes, of course, of course. I understand that. But, you see, in case it were later proved that Mr. Albers' death was by suicide, then we'd not be able to pay you. I know that, but the coroner's jury has already said that it was murder. Unless I'm very much mistaken, that makes it legal. Yes, unless we could prove otherwise. You mean you'll investigate further on your own? Yes, yes, of course. We're required to do so. But you're also required to pay me, since it's officially called murder, at least until you prove otherwise. Yes. Then I'll take that chance and pay you back if I'm wrong and it is suicide. There's only one thing about that, Mr. Williams. By taking the money now, I warn you, you might be laying yourself open to suspicion of fraud in case it turned out to be suicide. Fraud? Yeah, oh, now please don't misunderstand or don't... I'm not accusing you of anything. I only warn you that the courts might view your action as suspicious. I'm suggesting that it might be better to wait, let the decision be final, before you collect your benefit. I'll take the chance. I want the money now. Very well, Miss Williams, as you wish. Yes, you're sure of yourself now, aren't you, Bert? Very sure. And why not? You've deposited that certified check for $100,000 in your bank, and they can't touch you. So you go to Sandra to tell her the good news. Now, baby, we can get out, maybe in a week or two when it's all blown overhead for Mexico or Florida, anywhere you say. That's wonderful, darling. I'd like to start out right now. So would I. We'd better let things cool off a little first. The insurance company might smell a rat if we pull out too quickly. The insurance company has nothing to do with me. I could leave right now. Rest after the strain of the funeral, you know? Without me? Hey, now, none of that. From now on, it's us together. It's a fallacy, you know, that two can live as cheaply as one. That $100,000 would go a lot farther for just... one of us. Sandra, I don't understand you. You're going to share it with me. I don't care anything about the money except for what I can do for you. Oh, really, darling? Well, that's very nice. Because, you see, I've decided that I'll just take it all. So if you don't mind, you might write me a check or make out a bank draft or something. Sandra, what is this, a joke? No joke, I assure you, dear. I'm very attached to money, and the thought of that $100,000 thrills me, so I'd rather not have it pieced near like a housewife's allowance. I want it now. Good Lord, Sandra, do you realize what you're saying? You're telling me it's the money you want, not me. Well, you might put it that way. Are you trying to tell me that all this time I've meant no more to you than that? Oh, it's been fun, darling. Fun? Sandra, you can't mean that. I'm afraid I do, Bert. So there's not much need for any further talk. Just transfer the $100,000 to my account tomorrow morning and we'll call everything even. Even. What fantastic notion makes you think I'd give you the money now? It's far from fantastic. I have a notion you wouldn't like for me to tell the insurance company and the police that you perpetrated a fraud, that Arthur really did commit suicide, and you destroyed the evidence. You wouldn't dare tell them. They wouldn't believe you in the first place. How could you prove it? With a little slip of paper I have, just a note, a note from Arthur. It came registered mail the day after he died. You might call it a suicide note. No. Yes. Isn't it logical that he'd write one to his wife as well as to his business partner? I never thought of that. No, darling, you didn't, did you? But it turned out very nicely for me. Now when you transfer the money to my account and bring me the bank book, I'll do you a favor. I'll burn this little note like you burned the other one. Okay. You win, Sandra. That's a good boy. I'll expect you then about 10 in the morning. Well, Bert, that's what you might call poetic justice. Well, poetic anyway. You really got taken, didn't you? But there's nothing to be done about it. She has you on a spot. And so you'll have to go down, transfer that hundred thousand to her account, and bring her the deposit slip. You watch her burn the note and destroy the ashes, and now you're even. Thanks, darling. I'll do you a favor. I'll burn the note and destroy the ashes, and now you're even. Thanks, darling. Someday, Sandra, you'll pay for this. Someday you'll get what you deserve. Perhaps, who knows? But in the meantime, I'll be so comfortable. Thanks to you. Yes, she rubbed it in, didn't she, Bert? And you go back to your apartment smarting under her words. But you don't have too much time to think about it, Bert. Because there's a man from the DA's office waiting for you when you get there. And he takes you downtown to talk to the boss. Just a couple of questions I want to ask you, Mr. Williams. Just to clear up a few points. All right, anything I can do. First and minor point. Did either you or Mrs. Albers smoke while you were in Albers' office before the police arrived? No. No, I'm sure we didn't. All right. Now, you say you were with Mrs. Albers all evening. Yes, we went to the Golden Pheasant nightclub for dinner and dancing. What time did you arrive there? Well, rather early, about 7.30, I'd say. And where were you before that? Well, I was at the office till about 6, then I went to my apartment to dress, I suppose. I can't really remember. Mrs. Albers was not with you then? No, I picked her up about 7.15. Why? Well, you see, Mr. Williams, the autopsy proves that Albers was killed between 6 and 7. Oh, I thought... You thought what? I thought it was probably later, that's all. Is that so? No, it was definitely between 6 and 7, or just a short time after you say you left the office. And you were not with Mrs. Albers until 7.30, an hour later. Why, no, I was at the apartment, but I'm sure I can prove that the elevator boy would have seen me. And the maid, I have a maid. She testified that I was there. Mr. Williams, I'm not questioning where you were. You're not under suspicion for Albers' death. I'm not? No, of course not. You never were. You see, from the very beginning we had a pretty clear line on the real murderer. What do you mean? The ashtray was the first clue. You see, it was a little strange that a man working late at night hadn't piled up an ashtray full of cigarette butts. The ashtray had been used, but there were no butts left in it. It hadn't been dumped into the wastebasket, so we got a little suspicious. We found that it had been dumped out the window. Out the window? Yes. And among the cigarette butts that we found was one especially that interested us. It was smudged with lipstick. This naturally led us to think of a woman. A woman? Not one? No, no, not one of the office employees, because we found that the janitor had cleaned that ashtray about six. After all, but Mr. Albers had left for the day. And you told us that Mrs. Albers didn't smoke when you two came in later that night. Yes, that's right. That meant that there was a woman there about the time Albers died. So we began looking around and we got the main clue from the dead man's lips. From the... Yes. You might almost say he told us. You see, on his lip was a smudge of lipstick. That told us that indeed there had been a woman there and she had been someone known intimately enough to kiss him. And incidentally to stand behind him without arousing his suspicion for where she placed the gun to his head and fired. But that might have been his wife's lipstick. Yes, it might, mightn't it? But, I mean, it could have been there all day, ever since she kissed him goodbye that morning. It's possible, but not probable. He'd have seen it and wiped it off, or it would have worn off. But anyway, the next clue pointed in the same direction. Your prints on the gun had been smudged with some kind of fabric, not a handkerchief. We decided it could have been gloves worn by the murderer. Not leather gloves, but cloth gloves like a woman wears. Now what woman might know where you kept your gun, be in the habit of kissing Albers and so on? Only one, since Albers was the kind of a man he was. His wife. You mean... you're charging Sandra with the murder? Yes. You clinched it with what you just told me. What do you mean? You told me the truth, that you didn't pick Sandra Albers up until 7.15. She slipped. She told me you picked her up shortly after 6. At exactly the time she was killing her husband. No, no, she didn't do it. You're making a terrible mistake. I know she didn't do it. How do you know, Mr. Williams? Because Arthur Albers committed suicide. Oh, come now, Williams. He did. There was a suicide note. What happened to it? I burned it. I burned it so it would look like murder and I'd get the insurance money. Mr. Williams, I know how you feel about Mrs. Albers, and I know you're trying to protect her. But I warn you, she's not worth lying for. She's going to be prosecuted for the murder of her husband. And she's going to be convicted. Nothing you say can help her. The Whistler will revise this strange ending of this tale in just a moment. Meanwhile, I'd like to tell you about Roy Jacobson, for 13 years a signal gasoline dealer in Berkeley, California. What with repairing tires, relining brakes, replacing mufflers, and other jobs to keep aging cars on the road. Jacobson is a busy man. While I was waiting for him, a customer who had just had his breaks relined commented, I've been having my car serviced at Jacobson's signal station for 13 years, and I have yet to hear a customer squawk. I know I can depend on his work because he's so conscientious. Conscientious. That word, friends, characterizes the kind of service you'll find in signal gasoline stations from Canada to Mexico. And the reason for their conscientious, thorough service is that every signal dealer is in business for himself. Most of them for many years, like Roy Jacobson. Naturally, they want to serve you so well, you'll be their permanent customer. Well, with Uncle Sam predicting that one car in every 12 will go off the road this year, such service can be mighty important. That's why so many drivers these days are switching to those friendly signal gasoline dealers, who make a permanent business of helping cars go farther. And now, back to The Whistler. Well, the district attorney was right. He did convict Sandra Albers for the murder of her husband. All through the trial, Burt Williams kept trying to explain the clues they brought in, kept protesting Sandra's innocence. But it was no use. Nobody believed him. And when she died, something happened to him. He said he'd murdered her, that ghosts haunted him, that he heard her calling to him. His friends decided his mind had snapped and they had him put away. Too bad. No need for it at all. No, because what Burt didn't know was that Sandra really had killed her husband. Yes, the district attorney was right. And Burt, who had started out to make it look like he had committed a murder he hadn't, ended up in a madhouse because he thought he had committed one that he hadn't. Funny, isn't it? Next Monday at 9 o'clock, the Signal Oil Program will bring you another strange tale by The Whistler. The Signal Oil Program is broadcast for your entertainment by the Signal Oil Company, marketers of Signal's famous Go Farther gasoline and motor oil, and by your neighborhood signal oil dealer who is at your service daily to keep your car running for the duration. The Signal Oil Program, produced and directed by George W. Allen, the story by John Dunkel and music by Wilbur Hatch, is transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. Bill Pannell speaking for your friends, the Signal Oil Company, and suggesting once again that you let every ghost signal remind you that you do go farther with signal gasoline. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
