And now stay tuned for the mystery program that is unique among all mystery programs. Because even when you know who is guilty, you always receive a startling surprise at the final curtain. In the Signal Oil Program, the Whistler. Signal, the famous go-farther gasoline, invites you to sit back and enjoy another strange story by 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. And now for the Signal Oil Company, the Whistler's strange story, The Other Hand. As he turned the brass knob of the heavy oak and door and stepped into the lobby, Clint Markham realized that the doctor was right. That now with final proofs okayed on Clint's first big series of articles for the magazine, he needed complete rest and quiet. An Oakdale sanitarium was the place to get it. The day supervisor, a scrub-looking gray-haired woman in an immaculate white uniform, was talking on the telephone behind the counter as he entered. Yes, doctor, we have everything ready for him. That's right. The first floor room in the East Wing looking out on the garden. We have complete quiet. Just a moment please. Yes, sir? I'm Clint Markham. Oh, Mr. Markham. I'm talking to Dr. Groven on the phone right now. The doctor would like to speak to you, Mr. Markham. Here you are. Thank you. Hello, doctor. Clint? Glad you showed up. Thought for a while you weren't going to be sensible. I know when I'm licked. I woke this morning tied up in a hard knot. You've got a bad stomach there, Clint. Might easily turn into something serious. I know. I've given the complete instructions here. They're absolutely required for a week, longer if possible. That means no business, no interruptions of any kind. Right. You've got to cooperate with this, you know. I'm aware of that. I hope you are. Well, that's it, Clint. Good luck. Thanks. Good night, doctor. That's it. I suppose the entire staff is completely informed on my situation, hmm? Well, Dr. Groven was rather explicit. I thought so. I suppose you show me to my private cell, huh? I'm sorry, nurse. I can't eat a bite of this dinner. You've got the first day jitters. It'll take you a little time to relax. What about calls? Anyone phone me this afternoon? Well, we've had instructions not... Oh, come on now. Who was it? Um, Miss Susan Forretts. Oh, what'd she say? She said at nine tonight she'd be at a little place called Rodolfo's at 8th and Greenway. I explained, of course, that you couldn't be there. Oh, good. She, uh, she needs to be told no once in a while. Uh, take this tray away, will you? I think I'll try and sleep. You're being very sensible, Mr. Markham. I'll leave the sleeping pill for you. I don't want to be disturbed under any circumstances until tomorrow morning. Uh, take care of that, will you? Of course. Good night, Mr. Markham. Good night. The minutes tick by as you lie on the quiet dock, telling yourself how ridiculous it was of Susan to expect you to leave the sanitarium and meet her. But you finally decide you can't dismiss her like that. Yes, Clint, Susan's not only an exciting girl, but a very important one at the moment. And sanitarium or no, she likes to have her way. You decide that it would be best to see her. At 8.30 you're back in your clothes. Thankful you were given a room on the first floor. And to avoid an argument in the lobby, you leave by the French windows leading out through the garden to the street beyond. Taxi! Hey, hey, hey. Redalvo, 8th and Greenway. Clint! What? Oh, Lenore. Hello, darling. I didn't expect to see you here, Lenore. I didn't see you. Sit down. I'm sorry I haven't appointment. Susan Forrest will be late. She always is. How did you know? Forrest will stop by the office to find out where you were as she called the hospital from there. Waiter! Yes, ma'am? A pair of old-fashioned feet. Sit down, Clint. Surely you have a moment to spare for your lawyer and loving secretary. Look, Lenore, there's no point in hashing it all over again. You've got to understand that I... I know, darling, you're a sick man. Getting the articles in shape, making the right deal with just the right publisher has been tough. You're going to be just good friends from now on. Let's not be sarcastic. I was great as a pal and buddy until Susie came along, the little gal with the big punch. Why don't you be honest? I've tried to be. Do you ever think Susan Forrest has got that I haven't as a father who runs a successful magazine? Why don't you admit it? I don't want to discuss it, that's all. I wish you would. But why? Why should we go... Don't you see what a fool she's making of you? No, I don't. Besides, what does that have to do with us? That's why I came here tonight. I want an answer. Well, what kind of an answer do you want? About you and me. I've already told you. That's final? Yes, Lenore. You're sure? Absolutely. Hmph. Sorry, Clint. Sorry you decided this way. And what does that mean? I don't think you know me very well, Clint. Not really. I fight for what I want. And if I lose, I might as well warn you. I don't give up gracefully. If you're thinking of exposing me, I might as well tell you nobody's going to believe that you wrote most of those articles. We can't... To old-fashioned? Oh, er, er, thanks. Here you are. Thank you. Well? I should have known it would be this way. My mother ran to railroad me and I run the heels. I think I've been fair enough with you. Mayor, the articles were my idea. I worked them out. Frankly, I didn't expect it to seem like this. I thought we understood each other. You've been given a fair salary and after all, we're adults and... Don't worry. I'm not going to jump off a bridge yet. Well, I should hope not. It's a hard problem, but there are answers, you know. I started to tell you, Lenore, threatening to expose me won't work. Just keep it. Er, looking for a cigarette? I seem to be out. You need one. You're shaking like a model T. Here, have one of mine. No. Light? Thanks. All right. Oh! Flashbulb. Talk with her. I just caught your picture, folks. Have a ready point. About ten minutes. Four by six. Print for a dollar. Not now. I don't want any souvenirs of this. Is this my drink? Yes. Go on, please. I've been... Finish your drink and we'll order another. No, thanks. No more. With this stomach of mine, I've lost my taste for liquor. Besides, that one will give me enough trouble. About the picture... Please, go away. I said not tonight. Excuse me, Lenore. I'll go and get some cigarettes. But it's not the cigarettes, is it, Clint? You have to get away from Lenore for a moment to think. As you fumble with the levers on the cigarette machine, you glance in the mirror on the front and see yourself there, white-faced, beads of perspiration standing out in your forehead. You realize she knows you were bluffing, that she can tell just by looking at you. Yes, Lenore can ruin you when she knows it. Somehow, you've got to come to terms with her. As you start to return to the table... Oh! Going to do, Lenore? Yes, I've got to run, please. Well, let me take you. No, you'd better wait for Miss Flores, then. I insist, Lenore. We, uh... We have a little more talking to do, you know. Come on, boss has orders. I don't see why you have to come in. I told you to come in. You haven't told me a thing. I'm not a blackmailer. I'm not interested in anything but you. Is that clear? Sure, only I just don't believe it. Will you please go? My roommate will be coming home soon. I don't want it to be... Oh, excuse me. Hello? Martin? Oh. Not now. Can I discuss it? No. I'll let you know. Just interested in me, huh? Oh, Clint, listen. I'm through, listen. That was Marty Davis, wasn't it? Leg man for that newspaper columnist. What's he paying you for the exposure picture? Well, Clint! Literary far has come pretty high, Lenore. I take it you haven't given him everything yet, or he wouldn't be calling back. Haven't named names yet, huh? No, I haven't named names. I... I heard what you said. But I told you once it won't work, and I meant it. I'm not telling anyone about you. Not the papers, not Susan Forrester. I don't have to. Now, just get out of here. Oh, no, I'm not leaving until... You are leaving right now. Put that down. You give me that? Don't! Don't! Why you ruin me, will you? You... The next few minutes are a blank. Impressions, visions, images, colours. Swirling up like a whirlpool in your mind. Then your head clears. You find yourself moving mechanically, wiping your fingerprints from the heavy candlestick. Later you find yourself running blindly down a darkened street. You remember the sanitarium, the open French doors, the room you can return to without being missed, the one way out. A moment later you're climbing in a care, and as the driver pulls away from the curb, you try and calm yourself. Stop the blood from pounding in your brain, still the agonising pain in your stomach. You're sure there's no way they can connect your being with her tonight. No one could possibly have recognised you together. Your eye wanders through the back of the cab seat, the driver's licence, his picture. Then everything freezes inside you as you remember something. Stop! Stop, stop, stop the car. I forgot something. Hey, hey, wait a minute. Do I wait for you? Oh, well, no. Here, here you are. Keep the change. You hurry back to Rodolfo's. Your mind focused on the thing you forgot, the one thing that can hang you. That photographer. I've got to get that picture. Since only 13 shopping days remain until Christmas, I have a brilliant last-minute idea. There's no finer present than a switch for that forgotten name on your gift list. The forgotten name I'm referring to is your car, and the switch I'm suggesting is a switch to Signal. You'll all agree, I'm sure, that Signal must have something to have grown so in popularity from a small start in Southern California into an organisation of independent dealers serving seven Pacific Coast states from Canada to Mexico. You also know about Signal's good mileage that has made it known as the go-farther gasoline. But even more important to motorists is the extra driving pleasure you enjoy, because today's Signal gasoline helps your engine run so efficiently. So if you want your gas pedal to keep that Christmas morning thrill year-round, how about following Marvin Miller's suggestion? How about giving your car a switch for Christmas? A switch to Signal, the famous go-farther gasoline. MUSIC Well, Clint, you've killed your secretary, Lenore, haven't you? It doesn't matter now that you didn't mean to kill her. The terrible and important fact is that she's dead, where you left her on the floor of her apartment. And you realise the only thing that can save you is an ironclad statement from the authorities at Oakville Sanitarium that you were in your room asleep at the time of Lenore's death. And it would be so simple, Clint, if it weren't for one little thing, the fact that a nightclub photographer took a notion to snap a picture of the two of you together, and only half an hour before Lenore died. You fight your way through the crowds on Greenway Street to Rodolfo. Hesitate a moment in the lobby entrance, realising that you mustn't be seen. Then you step into one of the several phone booths, look up Rodolfo's number, dial it. Then a moment later, a girl at the cashier's desk, whom you can see easily from your position in the phone booth, picks up her phone. Rodolfo's restaurant. Miss, I wonder if I could talk to the chap who takes the pictures? Yes, hold the phone a minute. There, I'll see if he's around. Thank you. You watch from the phone booth as the girl leaves the desk to look for the photographer. You open the door of the warm booth slightly. Mop your forehead as you sit there waiting. I don't understand this. Suddenly you hear a voice, a very familiar voice, about 20 feet away. You're absolutely certain that Mr. Markham hasn't been here? No one has asked for you, Miss Forrester. I've been right here. I hope I didn't miss him by waiting in the bar. Susan Forrester coming directly towards you. You draw back into the booth, keeping the door partially open, so the light will remain off of you as Susan stops so close by you can reach out and touch her. He's never kept me waiting like this before. It's been a half hour. Well, I do not know the gentleman, Madam, but... Oh, I wonder if he got my message. Where's the telephone? Right here. Oh, someone's in the first seat. Here, Susan Madam. Thank you. You withdraw further into the booth next to the one Susan is using. Even here are dialing you, as you anxiously watch the cashier's desk. Then prepare to listen to the conversation you can't prevent, knowing that if they send someone to your room at the sanitarium, you're in a hopeless position. Hello. Hello, old girl. This is Miss Forrester calling again. I left a message earlier in the evening for Mr. Markham. Yes, yes, that's right. No, I don't wish to leave another message. I'd like to talk to him. What? You have to get permission? Oh, well, when will the night supervisor be back? Oh, fifteen minutes? All right, I'll call back then. Fifteen minutes. You hear her hang up. Look out cautiously as she moves past you on her way back to the cocktail lounge. Finally, the girl from the cashier's desk comes back, picks up her phone. You might as well be blocks away as you talk to her. Hello, sir? Yes? I'm sorry, but our photographer, he's left for the evening. Oh? There's a chance you might find him around the corner at Leonardo's. His girlfriend works there. Well, thanks. Thanks a lot. You hang up in a blind panic, wondering about your next move. In fifteen minutes, Susan will call the sanitarium, talk to the night supervisor. She's a persistent girl, Susan, used to getting her own way. But somehow you've got to stop her call. And then you realize that the answer might be right in front of you. Worth a try, isn't it, Clint? Rodolfo's restaurant. Hello, my name is Clint Malcolm. Yes, sir? I was to meet a young lady there, a Miss Susan Forrester. Would you pay to call me, please? Just a moment. You might try the cocktail lounge. Yes, sir. You wait anxiously and then smile as you see Susan crossing from the cocktail lounge to the cashier's desk. Such a very short distance from her. She picks up the phone. Hello? Hello, Susan. Clint, where are you? At the sanitarium, dear. But I left a message hours ago. Didn't you get it? Miss Susan, they are very narrow-minded here. They insist that their patients obey doctor's orders. Oh, you're as well as I am. Dr. Grubiner doesn't think so. He tells me I've got to rest. Clint, I wanted to see you. Well, I want to see you. But perhaps there's something in what they say, you know, the strain of finishing the writing and all. Oh, that's ridiculous. Why, you're as healthy as a... Look here, look. Let's put up with them for a few days, huh? We'll make up for it. Well, are you missing me? You know, I do. I'll call you the very first day they allow me to visit. All right. But don't keep me waiting too long, darling. I won't. Good night, dear. Good night. There's still a chance, Clint. One more call now. You look up the number quickly. J-K-L-L. Leon. Leonard. Leonardis. Leonardis. Hello. Hello. Is Ted, the photographer from Rodolfo's there? Ted? Sure. He's here. Could I talk to him, please? I wouldn't be surprised if he's all talked out. His girlfriend gave him the bounce tonight. Please, put him on. Okay. You're shaking, aren't you, Clint, with nervousness and anxiety? You've got to make it quick. Find out about the picture. Get it and the negatives. Get back to the sanitarium without being seen by anyone who could link you with Leonora's death. Finally, you hear the voice of the photographer. Oh? What do you want? Ted? Yeah, this is Ted. Well, look, Ted, I'm in a hurry and... Well, go on. No, no, no, no. Listen. You took a picture tonight at Rodolfo's. A girl who... Oh, yeah. That's how my little Julie Ann made the grade. With a picture I took. She showed it to the head of a model agency. Please, I'm not talking about your girl. This was at Rodolfo's earlier. A blonde girl. Oh, the blonde. Mister, you shouldn't trust her. I don't remember you, but I sure remember that blonde girl. She gave me the surprise of my life. She gave me 20 bucks for the picture and the negatives. What? 20 bucks! I delivered them to her apartment. You delivered them to... to her? Yeah, I shoved them under her apartment door. Her little double-cross. Yeah, now you're talking, mister. Now you're smart. All women are double-crossers. I don't know you, buddy, but you come on down here, huh? We'll have a little drink on it, huh? No. Thanks, Ted, I can't. I have things to do. Yes, Clint, you have got things to do. The most important is get that picture and negatives. You ease out of the phone booth, slip out of Rodolfo's without being noticed. Twenty minutes later, you're back at Lenora's apartment, racing up the stairs. You gasp with relief at the sight of a large brown envelope stuck under her door. As you scoop it up and put it in your pocket, you hear someone coming up the stairs. It's just time to leap back into an alcove out of sight. Oh, don't be silly, Fred. Isn't that right? I wanted to come in and meet Lenora, my roommate. She must be quite a pal if she can barge in like this. Oh, I know she's a great pal, but if she tried today, she's completely gone and that boy's a bit... Can we go in my bag? Hmm? What is she interested in? I don't know. As they enter the apartment, you slip from the alcove and dash down the hall. At the head of the stairs, it comes. Not until you're several blocks away and safe in a cab do you slide the picture from its envelope, glance at it in the dim light. Makes you tremble a little, doesn't it, Fred? Sets off the nervous stomach. Lenora, alive only a few hours ago, reaching over to light your cigarette. Seems years now. You say you want out at the hunt and dance street, mister? That's right. I'll walk the rest of the way. You leave the cab several blocks from the sanitarium and wait until it drives off. No one notices you in the darkness as you climb across the terrace. Let yourself in through the French window. A few minutes later, you're undressed back in bed. For the first time now, you're aware of thirst, a raging thirst. You lean back, trembling. The reaction is setting in, isn't it, Clint? The letdown after the terror of the past few hours. You wish you could try to forget it now, but there's one more thing, one more act you must put out. Your hand trembles as you reach for the signal cord to summon the nurse. Your head throbs. The tight, knotted feeling in your stomach is worse than ever. You steel yourself for the next few moments ahead. Good morning, honey, Mr. Martin. Yes. Put on a light. Are you a nurse? Oh. Right. Probably right. Oh, how long have I been asleep? After one o'clock. Oh. Um, any one try to reach me? I believe there was a call, but the night supervisor... She wouldn't let them through. The only way, Mr. Martin, you need your rest. You don't look too well. I don't feel well, nurse. Is there anything you want? Yes, I'm terribly thirsty. Did I have a glass of water? Yes, I'll get it for you. And then you'll have to go back to sleep. I will, nurse. I'll be right back. Ah. While watching some Christmas shoppers the other day, I couldn't help feeling it's too bad folks aren't as careful in selecting their motor oil as they are in selecting Christmas gifts. If they were, a lot more motorists would switch to new Signal Premiums, the heavy-duty type motor oil that reduces engine wear due to lubrication 50%. Just think what a 50% reduction in engine wear can mean to your car's performance and your budget. By reducing engine wear 50%, new Signal Premiums should help your car keep its light-new pep and power twice as long. By reducing engine wear 50%, new Signal Premiums should help your car go twice as far before needing an expensive engine overhaul. Yet in the face of increasing costs, these important benefits are yours to enjoy at no increase in price at Signal Service Station. Aren't those reasons aplenty to decide right now to get your next oil change at a Signal Station? Get it changed to new Signal Premiums, the heavy-duty type signal motor oil that reduces engine wear due to lubrication 50%. So it's over now, Clint, and you're back in your bed at the sanitarium. You're certain that Susan, the nurse and attendant all believe you've been in your room all evening. You're weak and trembling, your stomach worse than ever, but you can lean back, relax now and rest, quite sure that you're safe. You're certain no one knows you left the room. The only thing that can still connect you to the murder of Lenore Stark is the picture of the two of you taken at Rodolfo, the picture and negative in the brown envelope lying in the stand beside your bed. You wavered dizzily as you reached for them, slide them from the envelope, strike a match. The negative goes up in flames quickly. Then you touch the match to the upper left corner of the picture. A glossy print starts to burn, the flames moving down, crawling across the picture of your face. And then Lenore, finally down to her hand, holding a match to your cigarette. That's when you see it, Clint, something you should have seen before. Her other hand, her left hand poised directly over your drink, dropping a capsule into it. No wonder. No wonder she wanted the picture. I'm not telling anyone. I don't have to. The flame becomes a blur, Clint. The cloud engulfs you. The walls of the room and the bed draw away, fading, fading. I brought your water, Mr. Markham. Mr. Markham, did you fall asleep? Water. No. Water. I... What is it, Mr. Markham? Is something wrong? Mr. Markham. No. It's late. Mr. Markham, you've got to try. You've got to sit up. Please, Mr. Markham, please, please. I came back with the water, Doctor. I found that Mr. Markham had fainted. I tried to rouse him, but... It's all right, nurse. You couldn't do anything for him. I don't understand it. He's dead. Yes. Judging from his color and expression, I think we'll find it was some sort of slow-acting poison. But there isn't any poison here. Where in the world could he have gotten it, Doctor? Why, he hasn't put his foot out of this room all night. Let that whistle be your signal for the signal oil program, The Whistler, each Sunday night at this same time. Signal Oil Company has asked me to remind you, during this busy pre-holiday season, it's especially important to drive at sensible speed, be courteous, and obey traffic regulations, so that some avoidable accident doesn't mar your Merry Christmas. Featured in tonight's story were Bill Foreman as The Whistler, Ted Osborne, Betty Lou Gerson, Monty Margetts, Gigi Pearson, Jerry Hausner, and Ted Von Ells. The Whistler was produced and directed by George W. Allen, with story by Joel Malone and Harold Swanton, music by Wilbur Hatch, and was transmitted overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. The Whistler was entirely fictional, and all characters portrayed on The Whistler are also fictional. Any similarity of names or resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Remember to tune in at this same time next Sunday, when The Signal Oil Company will bring you another strange story by The Whistler entitled, Curiosity Killed a Cat, in which greed and desire set off a murder on the high seas, resulting in a daring flight through a storm by the killer. Marvin Miller speaking for The Signal Oil Company. Stay tuned now for Our Miss Brooks, starring Eve Arden, which follows immediately over most of these stations. This is the CBS Radio Network.
