The signal oil program, the Whistler. Whistling That whistle is your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. Whistling 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 west coast program in radio history. And signal gasoline is tops too, tops in quality. It takes extra quality, you know, to give you extra mileage. And signal is the famous go-farther gasoline. So look for the signal circle sign in yellow and black that identifies friendly dealer-owned signal service stations from Canada to Mexico. And now the Whistler's strange story, beyond reasonable doubt. The Cerise jacket on the mannequin in the window of the Berkshire shop was the thing that had brought Gina across the street to the south side of Kimberley Drive. It was an unusual thing for Gina to do, but the jacket was a stunning one, like everything handled by the Berkshire shops from coast to coast. And Gina had told herself that now after five years, it was high time she got rid of the strange subconscious dread that kept her away from the shiny black marble front of the most fashionable dress shop in Hillcrest. She examined the jacket and had almost decided to risk going inside to inquire about it when a man, a tall dark-haired man with a white carnation in his lapel hurried past her into the door. Her heart stopped cold for a moment, and then began to pound. Her first impulse was to hurry on and never come back, but she stopped, not sure. And then walked back cautiously to the glass door, looked through at his retreating back, the familiarity of his walk, the slope of his shoulders, and then... Gina! Gina, darling! Oh, hello, Isabelle. Oh, how wonderful to find you here. Darling, you've got to help me pick out a dress. You've simply got to. I'm a desperate woman. I'm sorry, Isabelle. I'm in a hurry and I can't... What's the matter, Gina? Here you are, one of the best dressed women in Hillcrest, yet you avoid the Berkshire like the plague. Have you got something against them? I've just been too busy to worry much about clothes. Rubbish. Look at you now, like you stepped out of a band box. Black and white, and that lovely black and white bag to match. Where did you get it? Oh, uh, Stillman's this morning. It's a beautiful bag. How you managed to find these things. Well, in we go now. I can't stay long, really. We'll only be a minute. You love this store, darling. You look around. I want to speak to the clerk at the glove counter for a moment. All right, Isabelle. Well, how are you, Jenny? Well, oh. Haven't seen you in a long time. You startled me. I... Don't you remember me, Jenny? Jenny? That's right. Jenny Barton. I think you must have made a mistake. Oh, did I? I'm afraid so. I'm very sorry. Clerk. Yes? You saw the woman I came in with, the lady in the blue crepe? Why, yes, ma'am. When she comes back, would you tell her I've gone home? Please, I don't feel well. Yes, Gina, you're not feeling well. And there's a good reason. The tall, thin-faced man with a white carnation. Handsome in a cruel sort of a way. You do remember him, don't you, Gina? Yes. After Seattle, there was no forgetting Floyd Durant. All afternoon, you keep telling yourself you brought it off. That Floyd would decide he made a mistake. That Jenny Barton of Seattle and Gina Crane of Hillcrest are two different people. Just an unpleasant incident, Gina. Not worth mentioning to anyone. Least of all to Clinton Crane, your husband. Well, Gina, did you have a pleasant day? Why, yes, Clinton, quite pleasant. I went shopping. Oh, I'm glad you did. Oh, Gina, I wish you wouldn't see so much of Isabel. Oh, she's harmless, dear. And awfully stupid. I know it, Clinton, but somehow I couldn't help myself. You could tell her you're busy. Well, she wouldn't take no for an answer. Well, it's a cruel way to put it, I suppose, but you and I are going to have to be careful of the company we keep from now on. Why then? At the last committee meeting, my name came up for State Senator. After that Brooks affair, they'll go on to the Senate. But after all, Isabel... I know, I know. Just keep it in mind, darling. Oh, by the way, this letter came for you this afternoon. What is it? I'm not the prying type, dear. You know that. Funny, though, it was stuck under the door when I came home. Oh, thank you. Well, aren't you going to read it? Yes, of course. June 14th, 18 June 14th, 18 June 14th, my dear Mrs... Oh. You sit down slowly as you read it, trying to hold yourself steady. Clinton is watching you, Gina. You can't let him know, can't give him the slightest chance to guess what's in that letter. What makes the words fly off the paper and bury themselves in your brain like jagged pieces of shrapnel? My dear Mrs. Crane, apparently you don't remember me, Floyd Durant, but I remember you, Jenny. I remember you very well. I know when you'll read this, you'll wish I was dead. Because of our strange association, while I was store detective at the Berkshire shop in Seattle, I'm staying at a boarding house, 217 Pine Street, third floor rear. If you'd like to talk over old times, drop around tonight at nine o'clock and bring your checkbook with you. That is, unless you'd like me to have my conversation with someone else. Your husband, for example, or the police. What? What's the matter, dear? Bad news? No. No, it's nothing important. Just a note from my dressmaker. Oh? Remember, I told you I was getting a new suit. It's nothing important. With the prologue of Beyond Reasonable Doubt, the Signal Oil Company is bringing you another strange story by The Whistler. But now I want to tell you about a product that's so fine, 97% of the persons now using it say they will be back for more. I'm talking about Lee tires, featured by signal service stations throughout the West from Canada to Mexico. And no wonder drivers like Lee tires. For 45 years, Lee of Conchoacan has made only the finest of first-line tires. And today's Lees, with their patented double-life rayon cord construction, are 25% better than pre-war. Safer, easier riding, longer wearing. What's more, your signal dealer can arrange easy credit terms on new Lee tires, and he'll give you a generous trade-in on your old tires. So why keep on taking chances on those smooth, tired-out old tires that can cause serious accidents and spoil your driving fun? Stop by your signal service station and have your signal dealer look over your present tires. You'll be surprised how little it will cost to drive out on fine new Lee tires. And now, back to the Whistler. Whistling So that's it, Gina. Five years are pushed aside and you're back where you started. Floyd Durant has found you at last. And the whole ugly mess you left behind in Seattle is right here on your doorstep. You know Floyd very well, don't you, Gina? You know he'll keep your secret. You know you can trust him, if you pay him as long as you live. Whistling Luckily, Clinton, your husband, is due tonight at a political meeting. And shortly after he leaves, you pull your car out of the garage. The letter with Floyd's address on it tucked safely away in your black and white bag. 217 Pine Street, third floor rear. A half hour later, you're walking down the long, dark hallway toward his room. But as you raise your hands and knock, something stops you. I don't care. I can't stand it, Floyd. I tell you, I don't care. Nothing matters now. You can do as you please, but don't come running back to me. I'm all through. Oh. Oh. Excuse me, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you. Certainly. Knocking Knocking Hello, Jenny. Come in. I've been expecting you. I've come to tell you, I can't possibly... Ah, no such word as can't. Your friends seem a little upset. Mm. Temperament. Barbara's a very unstable girl. Not like you, Jenny. You always took everything in stride. Like a drink? No, thanks. Oh. Well, I'll go ahead then. You know, I felt like shouting Eureka when I saw you at the Berkshire today. It's been a long search. Let's get it over, Floyd. How much do you want? Well, let's figure how much I would have had if you'd played square with me, huh? Let's see, I'd let you steal those clothes in the Seattle store. You would have picked up a rich guy... Never mind that. I asked you how much. Depends on your resources. You've got to give me some time. I can't raise the money overnight. Oh, now, Jenny, let's not be that way. Your husband's a wealthy man coming along in politics. I think I can get you a thousand. Never do to have his wife exposed as a thief. Worth a lot to a man like that to keep a square plate. I said I could raise a thousand. Is that enough? No. How about ten? Why, I couldn't possibly. Clinton gives me a weekly allowance. He balances my bank statements. Listen, Jenny, I covered for you. It wasn't easy. I played it stupid. But not anymore. No cheap little shop girl's gonna play me for a sucker twice. You're not as much as I am. You're just as quick. Now, careful, Jenny. You talk pretty big for a thief. I won't let you ruin my life. I won't let you do it. No? I'll stop you. I swear I'll stop you. There's only one way you can stop me, Jenny. I just told you how. Hey, get over for a minute, huh? He walks out of the room for a moment. And you slump back in a chair, sure that he means what he says. That Seattle is caught up with Hillcrest. And there's no way out. Then, only a split second before he comes back, your eye strikes something on the table next to your chair. A long, bright, sharp pair of scissors. You reach out, grab them, hold them under your bag as you rise. Oh. Let's get down to cases, Jenny. It's not whether you're going to raise that dough anymore. It's how. Floyd, I want to be very sure about this. You know what you'll be doing to me. What? You know there's no possible way I could raise it. I just told you. All right, Floyd, I'm just making sure. Okay. Okay. Well. Oh, would you pick up my bag, please? I thought you'd bring it with you. Sure, baby, sure. All right, Floyd. Oh. You decided. It's only after it's over, when you're back in your car, that you realize you still have a chance. That you were lucky enough to be wearing gloves. That when Floyd Durant is discovered with those scissors in his back, there'll be no way to connect it with wealthy, gracious Gina Crane. There's no sleep for you tonight, of course. And by morning, your mind is dull, your eyes heavy as you sit across the table from Clinton at breakfast, looking at the back of his paper. Uh, more coffee, dear? No, thanks. Well, another murder last night. What? Yes, but for once, thank heaven, the police are on their toes. You mean they, they know who did it? Yes, a woman. Could I see it, Clinton? Yes, here, read it. Store detective from one of the downtown shops was stabbed with a pair of scissors. It was bound to have been a woman. They, they haven't decided who it was. Her name's there, Barbara something rather. She followed him down from Seattle. There it is, Barbara Arnold. They've arrested her? What's the matter? Oh, nothing, I just hate to hear about these things, Clinton. So much crime. There'll be less of it when I get elected to office. And by the way, I'd better be getting to my office right now. Things are beginning to hum down there with nominations coming up. Clinton, darling, you know the Parkers are up at Yosemite? Yes. They want me to join them for a few weeks. Now Gina, you know that's out of the question. I'm tied up with the committee right now. I mean, couldn't I run up alone? Would you like to? Well, I suppose not. When do you want to go? Right away, Clinton. Today. You had to get away, didn't you, Gina? Even if it's only for a few weeks. It gives you time to sit back, collect your thoughts. And then try to forget all about Floyd Durant and Barbara Arnold. And murder. Somehow, by the time you return from Yosemite, you've almost managed to forget. At least your mind is made up that no matter what happens to the girl they've arrested, you're not going to interfere. Most important of all, Clinton must never know. I'd have appreciated your coming back last Friday, Gina. I wired you to return there. I'm sorry, darling, but I was meeting so many important people and having such a marvelous time. I didn't think a few days would make any difference. Well, fortunately, they haven't. You won't be needed there for a few weeks. And you won't be needed until tomorrow. Tomorrow for what? Jury duty, dear. You've been selected as a prospective juror in the Arnold trial. What? I'm sure they'll accept you. Clinton, I... Yes? Clinton, I can't serve on that jury. Can't serve? What are you talking about, Gina? You'll be ideal for them. Well, you've scarcely even read about the trial. No prejudice, an open mind. I'm sorry, Clinton, I won't serve. Huh? Well, now see here, Gina. I'm sorry to disagree with you. I've given you your way many times, but this is one thing on which I've made up my mind. I want you to do everything in your power to get on that jury. But Clinton, I... The committee notified me while you were away. I'm going to be nominated for state senator. Now, the campaign won't be easy. We can't have anyone saying that my wife refused the simple obligation of jury duty. Clinton, you don't understand. Of course I don't understand. Is there any reason, Gina, any reason in the world why you shouldn't be on that jury? No, Clinton. There isn't. Well, that's better. Now, we'll go down together. Yes, Clinton. Oh, and by the way, none of that hatty Carnegie stuff you wear. Wear something simple. Your black and white outfit, perhaps. As a course to you. I'll be ready in the morning. You never expected anything like this, did you, Gina? All night and the next morning driving down to the courthouse with Clinton, your mind is struggling for a way out. But there doesn't seem to be one. All you can do is pray that Barbara Arnold, the girl you ran into outside Floyd's room, will fail to recognize you. As the attorneys question each candidate for jury duty, you're trembling inside, telling yourself over and over that it was dark in that hall, that Barbara had been crying, that you scarcely spoke, that she wouldn't know now in this courtroom. And now you're sure, Mrs. Crane, that you can approach this trial with an open mind, that you haven't reached any decision on the basis of what you've heard or read in the newspapers? I'm sure. And you would have to be convinced beyond all reasonable doubt that the defendant, Barbara Arnold, my client, is guilty before you would vote for conviction? I would. Thank you, Mrs. Crane. That's all. Thank you. Just one moment, Mrs. Crane. Just one more question. Yes? Are you certain that you never met the defendant before? Yes. Positive. I see. For a moment, Miss Arnold thought you looked familiar. She must be mistaken. She is quite mistaken. All right. The defense accepts the jury, Your Honor. Well, Gina, you're on the jury, sitting in judgment as the state tries Barbara Arnold for the murder you committed. And you've been lucky, haven't you, Gina? Very lucky. No suspicions, nothing to implicate you in any way. And the prosecution will prove beyond reasonable doubt that this girl, Barbara Arnold, sitting here in front of you, weeping, as her attorney has carefully instructed her, dead with malice aforethought and hatred in her heart, murder Floyd Durant. Are you positive, Mr. Jackson, that the defendant is the person you heard threaten Mr. Durant on the evening of June 14th? Well, I can't be sure of the voice, but I did hear him quarreling, and he called her Barbara. Oh, he called her Barbara. Yes, sir. I heard that all right. And what time was this quarrel? Oh, about 8.30, I guess. My wife and I were going out to the movies, and we heard the girl sobbing and yelling. And what were the words she used, Mr. Jackson, as near as you can remember? Well, she said, I'm going to get even, Floyd. I don't care what happens. Thank you. But I didn't mean that I was going to kill him. I didn't mean that. Order! Order! So, Miss Arnold, after your bitter quarrel with the deceased, you turned and ran out of the room. Yes, sir. Was that before or after you stabbed him with the scissors? I didn't stab him. I didn't. Then how do you explain your fingerprints on the shears? I must have picked them up to touch them while I was in Floyd's room. I was very upset I wouldn't remember. You'd have to believe that. You're asking us to believe a great deal, Miss Arnold. A mysterious woman outside in the hall, someone you can't identify. I don't care. I didn't kill Floyd. I didn't. No matter what you said, I didn't kill him. That is for the jury to decide, Miss Arnold. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the attorney for the defense insists that you must find this girl, Barbara Arnold, this murderous, innocent, as long as you hold any doubts as to her guilt. Well, for once, I agree with him. But there is no doubt. She quarreled with Durant. She admits that. She threatened him. She admits that. The only thing that she does not admit is that she killed him. She doesn't have to admit that. Her fingerprints are on the weapon. There you are, ladies and gentlemen. Motive, opportunity, and evidence. Yes, Gina. Motive, opportunity, evidence. And as the trial moves into its last day, you're feeling more confident than ever. You're thankful that the jury isn't to be locked up, that you're free to return home now, get a full night's rest before tomorrow's deliberations. And you're more exhausted than you realize, Gina. You oversleep the next morning, have to dress hurriedly, and you're more worried about your life than you ever were before. You oversleep the next morning, have to dress hurriedly, slip into the black and white crepe outfit, grab up your black and white bag to match as you run out the door to the waiting taxi. And there's another ironic thing, Gina. Fifteen minutes after the jury retires, you find yourself elected foreman. Yes, sitting there in the black and white dress, the same outfit right down to the handbag that you wore on the night you killed Floyd Durant. Foreman of the jury that should be trying you. Five, six, seven, eight. We stand eight for conviction, four for acquittal. We, uh, we'll have to talk it out further. Yes, Gina, you have to talk it out further. Until the other eleven members of the jury join you in a unanimous vote for guilty. But Mrs. Crane, I still don't see why, if it was premeditated, she would use a scissors. I should think... It's a woman's weapon. I thought of that too, Mrs. Adamson. You don't believe then that there's anything to her claim about a mystery woman? None at all. I think that's the weakest argument they presented. I agree with Mrs. Crane. That's just a trick. Right. They're not giving us credit for good sins. All right, all right, ladies. I agree with you. I'll change my vote. Very good, Mr. Knowles. Then, uh, we're all agreed? Yes, yes. Here, Mr. Crane. Write it down. Write down our verdict. We, the jury, sworn upon our oath and after careful deliberation, find the defendant, Barbara Arnold, guilty of murder in the first degree. The Whistler will return in just a moment with the strange ending to tonight's story. Meantime, since you're going to be passing a lot of Signal service stations during your summer driving, I thought you'd like to know a little more about the organization that brings you the Whistler and the policies it stands for. First of all, Signal products have always been sold only through dealer-owned stations. The reason? Signal believes that a man who has his own money invested in his own business naturally has more incentive to sell his own business to the dealer. Secondly, because you want top quality products for your car, every Signal service station is backed by an organization that serves almost 2,000 Signal dealers with resources to bring you all the latest advances in petroleum science. Do drivers like this combination of personal service at dealer-owned Signal stations plus fine quality Signal products? Well, just consider the facts. From a mere $1,000 worth of dealers in Southern California, Signal has grown and grown. Until today, Signal stations serve six western states from Canada to Mexico. For extra driving pleasure, extra performance from your car, why don't you join the switch to Signal, the famous go-farther gasoline? And now, back to the Whistler. Well, Gina, you put it over. The incident in Seattle with the late Floyd Durant is closed for good. Yes, Barbara Arnett is in the hospital. And she's not going to be able to get out of the hospital. Well, I'm sure she'll be able to get out of the hospital. But I'm sure she'll be able to get out of the hospital. But the door is closed for good. Yes, Barbara Arnold is about to be condemned for Floyd's murder. Clinton will never know the truth now, will he, Gina? All you have is praise for the way you conducted yourself in serving as foreman of the jury. The jury that should have been trying you. As you file back into the courtroom with the other 11 members, you're trembling a little. But not with fear this time, Gina. No. But you're thrilled, excited, because everyone in the room is looking at you, waiting for the verdict. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict? We have, Your Honor. We found the defendant. Oh, Mrs. Crane, as jury foreman, you will please hand the verdict to the clerk. He will read it. Oh, yes, of course. The envelope right here, I must have dropped it. You put it in your purse, Mrs. Crane. I watched you. Oh, yes, thank you. Sorry. I don't seem to find it. We women keep so many things in our pocketbooks. Take my wife. Wait a moment. Here it is. Very well, Mrs. Crane. Hand the envelope to the clerk. Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Mrs. Crane. The clerk will read the verdict. But, but, Your Honor, this... The clerk will read the verdict. But... Will you please read that paper? Yes, Your Honor. June 14th. My dear Mrs. Crane, apparently you don't remember me, Floyd Durant. But I remember you, Jenny. I remember you very well. I know when you read this, you'll wish I was dead. Let that whistle be your signal for the signal oil program, The Whistler. Each Wednesday at this same time. Brought to you by the Signal Oil Company. Marketers of signal gasoline and motor oil and fine quality automotive accessories. Signal has asked me to remind you to get the most driving pleasure, drive at sensible speeds, be courteous and obey traffic regulations. It may save a life. Possibly your own. Featured in tonight's story was Betty Lou Gerson. The Whistler was produced by George W. Allen. With story by Robert Libet and Frank Burden. Music by Wilbur Hatch. And was transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. This is Marvin Miller speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
