The signal oil program, the Whistler. That whistle is your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. I am the Whistler and I know many things for I walk by night. I know many strange tales 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. Yes, friends, it's time for the signal oil program, the Whistler. Rated by independent research, the most popular program on the West Coast. Remember that every traffic signal reminds you with new signal gasoline, you do go farther than ever. Look for the familiar big yellow and black circle sign that identifies those popular signal stations in seven western states from Canada to Mexico. And now the Whistler's strange story. Poison is quicker. Most men lead lives of quiet desperation, said Thoreau. Quiet desperation. How well little Alfred Smithers, who never read a word by Thoreau in all his life, knew the meaning of that phrase. All the nagging dullness of a humdrum existence and a tiresome wife. Yes, the saucy little servant girl Alfred had married in London so many years before had become a lazy slovenly housewife whose untidy little home had miraculously survived the blitz. Now with the coming of peace, Gracie Smithers sat in a dingy front parlor night after night reading murder mysteries and yawning, while Alfred gazed blankly at his daily express and wished he were rid of her. Wished it with all his heart and did nothing about it. Well, that's another one off me, Docket. The other didn't play fair though. I still don't see how that little Watts's name could have been the crimson hangman. What you thinking about, Alfie? Nothing. Hmm. Still waters run deep, you know. You don't just sit there thinking about nothing. Only a perishing statue does that. I was thinking about the days. What? The days aren't so bad. At least I have something to do at the office. At least I keep occupied. What's the matter, Alfie? Getting the jitters? Never mind. Don't you like a happy little home all of a sudden? If you must know the truth, Mrs. Smithers. I say now, what's got your backup? Oh, nothing. Feeling sorry for yourself again, dearie? Oh, shut up. Get back to your murder rubbish and don't bother me. Really, Alfred Smithers? Read, can't you? Let a man have a little peace and quiet. There's nothing to read. I was hoping you'd pick up some more thrillers for me at the bargain shop tomorrow. All right, all right. What do you want me to get? I wrote down the titles somewhere. Got them ready for you. Oh, yes, here they are. Dearest Alfred. What's that? Oh, don't get the wind up, lovey. It's only a book title. Doesn't sound much like a murder mystery to me. Perhaps it isn't. I thought I'd like to see the Alfred in real life if he's anything like Alfred in the book. Very amusing. The others are all thrillers, though. Death is my bridegroom. There gives you the creeps, don't it? Nobody loves me. That's a murder that looks like suicide. Yeah. This way out, a spine-chilling cat and mouse game, the catalogue says. I could hang. Don't know that one. And the last one, poisonous quicker. Rubbish. Nothing but tribe. Alfred Smith is your snob. Everybody reads murder novels. I don't. Oh, you've always thought yourself better than anybody else. Especially better than me. I've never been good enough for you. That's for you to say, my dear. That's a fine thing to say to your wife. I'll give me a list, grassy. I'll pick the books up tomorrow. Well, okie doke. Here's the list. Be sure and get poisonous quicker. It's all about somebody murdered for insurance. Start realism, the catalogue says. Cheap trash. Dearest Alfred, death is my bridegroom. Nobody loves me. This way out, I could hang. But poison is quicker. What's the matter? Why are you shaking so? I don't know. I'm not a quarter chiller. Almost50 minutes later, the Almost like a note to you, isn't it, Alfred? The barely coherent elliptical style of a suicide note. If Gracie were dead and that note were found beside her body, you try not to think of it. Why, it's monstrous. You're thinking of murder. You want to be rid of her, but not that way. Still, if you simply left her, you'd have no money. Gracie does have insurance. Poison is quicker, she said. Poison, that arsenic powder you used in the garden. The thoughts in your mind all that night and all the next day. It's coming out now from its hiding place deep inside you. And then when you return home that evening, it happens. The little push that makes you a murderer. Well, where are they? Where's what? My books, dearie. You said you'd bring them home with you. Oh, I'm sorry, Gracie. I forgot all about them. You forgot? Yes, Gracie, I forget other things on me mind. Other things on your mind? Such an important little man, aren't we, Alfie? Can't keep a promise to your own wife. I couldn't help it, Gracie, they slipped me mind. Like fun they did. You done it deliberate, I know you did. Gracie, don't raise your voice. It's vulgar. Oh, so now I'm vulgar, am I? Well, if I'm not good enough to do things for, I'm not good enough to do things for you. You can make your own tea and toast tonight. Don't shout at me, Gracie. That's creepy. Don't, don't, don't. I'm sick and tired of getting the frosty eye from you, dearie. You're not so high and mighty. Just a miserable little clerk in a dirty little office. That'll do. Oh, just a second, your highness. Gracie! Don't. You'll only upset yourself. I'll make tea for the both of us. You'll make none for me. That wishy washy weak stuff you'll brew for yourself. I'll make me own. All right. But once I'll do it your way. Eh? Tonight I'll make it the way you want it, Gracie. Just as strong as you like. With the prologue of tonight's story, poison is quicker. Signal Oil Company is bringing you another strange story by The Whistler. Inflation. You hear that word all around you these days. But in the midst of higher and higher prices and dollars that buy less and less, it's gratifying to find a product that actually offers more quality than ever before in history, but still sells at its pre-war price. Yet that's just what you get in new signal gasoline. Of course, improvement isn't new to signal gasoline. Since that day 14 years ago, when Signal Oil Company introduced the first guaranteed anti-knock gasoline at no extra price, signal gasoline has been constantly improved. They give you the benefit of every latest development in the automotive and petroleum industry. But today's signal gasoline, in which the atoms in gasoline molecules have actually been rearranged to create amazing new power, is so superior to pre-war gasolines it's really a completely new type super fuel. To discover what thrilling performance there's still left in your car, try just one tank full of new signal gasoline. When you step on the accelerator, you'll know why signal products, although still young in years, have grown and grown in popularity. Until today, those friendly stations displaying signals, yellow and black circle sign, now serve seven western states from Canada to Mexico. And now, back to the Whistler. But poison is quicker. Strange what a book title can do to a man, isn't it Alfred? Who would think it could be the stepping off place to murder? And yet, Gracie's dead now, the victim of arsenic poisoning. And you're already playing a new role, the part of a shocked husband, the little man who seems so dazed and bewildered. It's only four hours after you made Gracie such a nice cup of tea, now she's dead. And police sergeant Jellaby is questioning you. You're thankful you're still in the safety of your own home. You might lose your head if you were in the hostile atmosphere of a police station. Are you sure you can't think of any reason why your wife would wish to take our own life, Mr. Smithers? Not right now, sergeant. I just can't think now. I'm sure you understand we must get to the bottom of this unfortunate affair. Of course, of course. Now, about the question of motive then. Well, the books, it might have been the books. Books? But it's such a tiny thing. You better tell me about it, Mr. Smithers. Well, my wife is very fond of reading. Last night she asked me to pick up some novels for her in the city today. I was so busy though I forgot all about them. She was rather upset when I come home without them. Upset enough to kill herself, Mr. Smithers? Oh, good heavens no. At least I didn't think so then. You quarrelled about it? Oh, no, we never quarrelled. She was upset, as I said, and it disturbed me. In what way? I felt rather guilty about failing her, so while she was making our tea... Your wife made tea after your little incident? Oh, yes, she always done that. She said, I made such horrible tea. Our neighbours can tell you that. Who are they? Well, there's Mrs. Applegate next door. She's a widow and then there's Henry Small across the road. I see. Go on, Mr. Smithers. You said you felt guilty. Oh, yes, yes, so I did. So while she was making the tea, I decided to surprise her, make up for what I'd forgotten to do, like, you know. In what way? Well, I remembered the rental library on the Queens Road might still be open, so I thought I'd better take a quick walk over there and pick up a few novels for her. I left the house without a word. Wanted to surprise her, like, see? Mm-hm. How long were you gone? I left at half past six. It was foggy, you know, the way it gets this time of year. So I was longer than I'd bargained for. Over half an hour, I was. And these are the books you got her? Yes, Ember's A Desire and Love in the Desert, sort of thing most women like to read. Did your wife read this sort of thing as a general rule? I read... don't know. I never much thought about the books she read. What books did she ask you to get for her in the city? Books? Yes, what titles? Oh, well, I... I know it's absurd, Sergeant, but I simply can't remember. Are you quite sure? I just can't think of them. I mean, I... I forgot about them in the first place, and now I'm so mixed up... Perhaps it'll come to you later. Now about the note. Doesn't it strike you as rather odd? I don't think I know what you mean, Sergeant. Well, it isn't coherent, for one thing, and she didn't sign her name to it for another. I thought of that. My wife... She must have been under great mental strain when she wrote it. Oh, I can see that. Decided to take her life on a sudden impulse, eh? Must have thought you'd left the house in a fit of anger, then hurried about the business of writing the note and putting the arsenic in her tea. It's a terrible thing to think about, and it's hard... Right. Arsenic poisoning's not the most pleasant of deaths. Since you weren't here to prevent it, perhaps it's just as well you didn't get home until... until it was all over. Yes. It's... Is that all, Sergeant? Yes. You'll be notified when to appear for the inquest, Mr. Smithers. I'll see you then. Good night. And so you've gotten away with murder, Alfred. Or have you? Is Sergeant Jellyby as stolid and blind as he seems? He certainly didn't seem too sympathetic. Was that merely his official manner, or does he suspect you? And was your trip to the rental library after you'd watched Gracie die, as clever an alibi as you thought? You had to lie about the type of novel Gracie read. You deliberately brought home those trashy love stories to ward off any questions about the suicide note. But if Henry Small or Molly Applegate should remember that Gracie read mystery novels... Ah, you made a mistake there, Alfred. But it's too late to rectify it now. All you can do is attend the inquest with Molly Applegate and Henry Small on either side of it. A nasty business this elf. It'll soon be over, though. I hope so, Henry. You think that the coroner's jury could have made up their minds by now. Can't see why they're taking so long about it. Well, it really isn't so long, Mrs. Applegate. They've only been gone a few minutes. An arrowing ordeal for you, that's what it is. I don't see how you could be so cool up there on the witness stand. The man can't reveal his grief in public, Mrs. Applegate. That he can't, you've done yourself proud, elf. Me, now, the few questions the coroner asked me, they had me shaking like a leaf. Pretty silly if you ask me. How you mean, Molly? The few questions he put to you. Didn't really need to call you as a witness. Same goes for me as far as that goes. I'm sure I could have told a sight more if I'd been asked. Just what do you mean by that, Mrs. Applegate? They're coming back. The jury's coming out. Mrs. Applegate, I'd like to know what you... Now, here is the coroner. Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict? We have. How find you the case of the deceased Grace Smithers? In the light of the evidence disclosed, we find the deceased Grace Smithers is a suicide while a temporarily on sound mind. Well, that's it, elf. There it is. My, yes. Nothing to worry about now. What do you mean? Nothing to worry about? Well, really, Mr. Smithers. Well, what do you mean by it? Nothing to make you bite me head off, I'm sure. Only that it's official now. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Applegate. I... I'm not quite me self, you know. Well, I didn't mean to snap at you meself. You're right, of course. I haven't anything to worry about now. Nothing at all. Nothing to worry about, Alfred. Then why is fear so clammy and cold inside you? You've always been afraid of so many things. And now you've actually killed Gracie, you're afraid you'll be found out. That's the greatest fear you've ever known. Murder was so easy, but that was only the beginning. What about Molly Applegate? What more could she have told if she'd been asked? The question haunts you all during the funeral and through the next day and the day after when the insurance man calls at the house. Just one more question for our files, Mr. Smithers. I don't see why I have to answer any more questions. You can get all your information from the police records. It's a formality we have to follow, Mr. Smithers. My company's not in business for its health, you understand. But surely I told you everything you want to know. Just one more thing. What really made your wife take her own life? That's in the evidence at the inquest. It's available to you. My instructions are to get it in your own words. You want your wife's insurance, don't you, Mr. Smithers? No sense in going to pieces, you know. If I were in your shoes, you know what I'd do? Take a trip. If you was in my shoes. Yes, do your good. Now, what about your wife? Oh, I guess the war was too much for her. She finally gave way after it was all over. Sergeant Jellyby told me you said that. Then you've seen the police. It's part of my job, you know. Is that all you want? I think so. The money will come through in due time, Mr. Smithers. Good night. Panic won't help you at all, Alfred. Still, Mr. Chatham, the insurance man, seemed much too suspicious, didn't he? Why all the leading questions? If he were in your shoes, he said he'd go away. As if he knew that was already in your mind. But that's your plan now, isn't it? The moment you get your money, you'll go away, start all over again in another town, maybe even another country. You hold to that thought all the next day. And then you stop at the corner pub on your way home from the office and have a beer with your friend Henry. Well, here's to you, Alf. A long life and no slip-ups. No slip-ups? Accidents. Hope nothing ever goes wrong for you. Cheerio. Cheerio. Ah, that's a bit of all right, what? Yes, yes, it is. Ran into that insurance bloke this afternoon, Chatham. You did? Tells me you're thinking of going away. What gave you that idea? I don't know. Perhaps he didn't say that exactly. Said he mentioned it to you. Where are you thinking of going, Alf? Alive. I haven't got an... Sir, for France is the spot this time of the year. I haven't even thought about it, Henry. Speaking of France, by the way, I read across a rum item in the paper last week. This French bloke's wife killed herself, see? Suicide. Plain as the nose on your face. Bloke collects the insurance and then skips off. Ops off to Paris and starts blowing in his brass on riotous living, you might say. The jaund arms picked him up like that. Give himself away, he did. He killed her, himself. If he'd stayed where he was, nobody'd have been any the wiser. Now, the way I look at it, Alf... Er... Alf... Where'd he go? I say there... You could be a friend, Mr Small. Well, he was here only a second ago. I was just shinin', not looking at him especially, and he ups and disappears. He walked out while you was talkin', Mr Small. White as a sheet he was, just like he'd seen a ghost. It wasn't a ghost you'd seen, was it, Alfred? Merely the folly of trying to go away. Henry Small's right. People would immediately start to talk. Wait, though. Henry Small never invited you to have a beer before, and why did he tell you that story about the Frenchman? It's very suspicious. As frightening as Molly Applegate's remarks at the inquest. What was the information she could have given the coroner? The question beats at your mind again as you walk home from the pub, trying to hurry through the fog that's come up. Mr Smithers! Oh. I hope I didn't startle you, Mr Smithers. You did give me a bit of a turn, Mrs Applegate. I didn't notice you waitin' at the doorway. Thought you'd be along about now. I've been waitin' for you. Waitin' for me? I know how it's been for you since Gracie passed on. I thought perhaps you were tired of having your tea alone by now. Oh. Well, I haven't thought about it much, Mrs Applegate. As a widow, I know what it's like to be lonely myself. I just got some lovely fish and chips at the shop, and I left tea on at home. So if you'd like to come in... Well, really, I... I thought we might have things to talk about. Things to talk about? I'm a woman what keeps her eyes open. I know how things were with you and Gracie. What do you mean? Oh, in our mystery books. Well, what about them? Believe me, I understand. Understand what? What is it to understand? You can trust me not to breathe a word to anyone. Mrs Applegate, I'm sure I don't know what... Alfred, you've known me long enough now to call me by my right name. You can call me Molly if you want to. Oh, I'm sorry. I really must be getting home. Oh, but our tea. I don't want our tea. I'm not hungry, Mrs Applegate. Good night. What's happening to you, Alfred? Sergeant Jellyby, Henry Small, the insurance man, Molly Applegate. They've all talked to one another about you. Are they playing a cat and mouse game with you? You've got to find out how much they know. Ask Henry Small. Question him skillfully, cunningly, so that he won't suspect anything. But get the truth from him. That's it. He'll fight him to the house. He's late in arriving, though. By the time he does get there, it's late afternoon, and fog is beginning to creep through the streets again. What did you want to see me about, Elf? Well, Henry, I'd like to apologize about the other night. Apologize? What for? I suppose you thought it was odd of me, John. I said, why are you looking out the window? Oh, nothing, nothing. What's up, Elf? I wanted to talk about something else, too. What's that? Well, I don't quite know how to say it. Something troubling you, Elf? Why do you say that? Well, sometimes to get it off your chest. Like I was saying to Molly Applegate this morning... Why must you keep looking out that window? What's that, Elf? You expecting something, are you? Is that it? Is that why you was late? Here he is, he's coming now. Oh, who are you talking about? Another minute and you wouldn't be able to see him for the fog. Oh, is it here? Let me see. Them uniforms don't keep out the cold in weather like this. No, no, he can't. What's up, Elf? He can't come here. He can't come here. Look here, mate. Easy does it. Now, look, Elf, is anything the matter? He's at the door, Elf. You better let him in. Elf, don't you hear him? You better go to the door. Elf! Elf! Good heavens. Elf, what have you done? Here, let me help you. You can let him in now, Henry. You all thought you were so clever. But... Poison is quicker. The Whistler will return in just a moment with a strange ending to tonight's story. Meantime, a word about a sight that's becoming more and more common these cold mornings. Somebody trying to start his car, but no luck. The reason? Another war-weary battery has gone dead. So that this can't happen to your car, I'd like to suggest that you take advantage of your signal gasoline dealer's complete battery service. At least every two weeks, stop in to have him check the water level and remove destructive corrosion from the terminals. If your battery seems run down, your signal dealer has the latest equipment to tell its exact condition as well as to give you a thorough recharge job. In the event that you need a new battery, he has top-quality signal batteries, fully guaranteed for long, trouble-free service. And I might add, signal dealers also have America's finest spark plugs, Champion spark plugs, which play such an important part in cold weather starting. So, stop in at your signal dealer soon. You'll find he's much more than just a place to buy signals famous go-farther gasoline and fine lubricants. For wherever you see signals, yellow and black circle sign, there you'll also find complete signal service and accessories to help your car run better, look better, and last longer. And now, back to the Whistler. Yes, Alfred, poison is quicker, quick enough to kill you while that uniformed figure still rang your doorbell. The cat and mouse game is over. The moment you saw his vague form coming up the walk through the fog, you knew that giant paw was descending on you. The police had come for you at last. So now you lie dead in a huddled heap in your little kitchen, while Molly Applegate, aroused by Henry Small's outcry, and Henry talk to the newcomer about you. Oh, it's terrible, terrible. How soon do you think the police will get here? Sergeant Jellyby ought to be here at any time now. Not that he can do anything nobody can now. What made him do it? Well, mate, the minute he saw you, he makes a dash for the kitchen. But the time I realized something was up, it was too late. Oh, poor fellow. Seemed to go all to pieces after his wife died. I did what I could for him, too. Stood him a drink the other night, ran out on me while I was telling him some yarn or the other. I must say I was wrong about him. Wrong? Well, I feel properly ashamed of myself now, but I got the idea she hadn't been a good wife to him. I tried to tell him so. Poor old chum. Ain't it funny how he jumped on the edge the minute I spotted you coming up the walk? Thought you might be bringing me a quid or two on the football pool this week. Instead, you called on a lelph. What gets me? Why does he do it just when I'm ringing the bell? What was it you had for him, Mr. Postman? A special delivery letter registered from the insurance company. It's the money from his poor wife's policy. Next Monday at nine o'clock, The Whistler will bring you another strange tale. The Whistler is broadcast for your entertainment by the marketers of signal gasoline and motor oil and fine quality automotive accessories and by your neighborhood signal dealer. This program produced by George W. Allen with tonight's story by Leslie Edgeley, music by Wilbur Hatch, is transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. That whistle is your signal for the signal oil program, The Whistler. This is Marvin Miller speaking, reminding you to look for those familiar yellow and black circle signs that identify those popular signal oil stations in seven western states from Canada to Mexico. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
