The signal oil program, the Whistler. 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 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 stations from Canada to Mexico. And now the Whistler's strange story, the big prison. To John Emerson, it was more than a nightmare. The sounds, the images flashing across the black background of his mind were too real, too terrifying. At first, nothing was clear to him. But gradually he seemed to be back in Ketchikan, Alaska. His mind going over and over that first chance meeting with Willard Crofton, pompous, jovial, boring Willard Crofton. So it's all set, Emerson, all set. Oh, now wait a minute, Mr. Crofton. I've known you, well, let's see, exactly an hour. And here you are, you're asking me to spend a whole month hunting with you. Why not? You say you like to hunt. I'm headed for my little lodge outside Whitehorse and looking for a hunting partner. So why not you? But really, Crofton, I... Now another word. I insist you be my guest, Emerson. Yes, sir, I absolutely insist. Yes, John, you know that chance meeting with Willard Crofton was the beginning of it. But as the liquor boils up again in your brain, you're sure there's more, something much more important, far more terrifying. You grope back over it all again, forcing yourself to remember. That's a good one, eh, Emerson? A good one, huh? There was the long, tiresome trip to Crofton's lodge, the days, the weeks wasted looking for game that just wasn't there. Go ahead, shoot, Emerson, shoot! No! Wait, it's just an old stump. And always Crofton with his foolish jokes and his guns. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! How'd you like that one, Emerson? Great one, huh? Shoving another highball into your hand. Oh, have another one, John. And another. Bottoms up, John! Then suddenly in a rush it all comes back to you, like acid in nitroglycerin. The memory of those last wild moments at the lodge explodes in your mind. Oh, I cropped an eye! I've had enough! You've had me enough! Oh, see here, Emerson, I picked you up at Ketchikan and brought you here because I thought you'd be good company. But if you think I'm going to pay your passage all the way back to the scene... That's exactly what I think! I've listened to your silly chatter for a month. Now I'm going to get out of Alaska even if I have to kill you. No, no, no, no, no, look, now John, you've been drinking too much. Shut up! Your fingerprints will be all over that gun. You'll... John, put it down! Put the gun down! Then it's gone in a red flash, the nightmare, the visions, the spinning, dizzy, sick feeling. You open your eyes and you know it's all real. You discover yourself lying fully clothed on a bed in a hotel room with morning sun streaming in the window. But before complete panic can overtake you, you're stopped by the sound of voices, real words from real people coming in over the open transom. I tell you, Joe, the telegram's addressed to Willard Crofton. And I'm telling you, he's still asleep and I'm not going to wake him up until it's almost time for his train. What's going on? Yeah, but Joe, the wire's marked, deliver personal, and we're supposed to deliver it. Two guys. Look, I'll deliver it personally when he wakes up. Now what difference does it make? Don't ask me, Joe, I don't make the rules. Your assurance, Mr. Crofton. Crofton? Sure it is. I've never seen the guy, but he come in drunk lately. Wait a minute, Joe. Let's look at the register, huh? Won't do any good. He was too stiff to hold a pen in his hand. Something really had the guy going. Well, maybe to be sure, I ought to go out to that hunting lodge of his. Because if this is the wrong guy, I'll... Why make the trip for nothing? He brought his car, go out and check the registration. Then if it's Crofton, leave the wire with me and I'll deliver it for you as soon as he wakes up. You're on your feet now, John, piecing it all together. Weaving dizzily over to the dresser, wincing at what you see in the mirror. Then your eyes drop down and you grow tense at what you see. Greenbacks all over the place. Crofton's wallet, his papers, his railroad and steamer tickets. Well, it's Crofton's car, all right, Joe. Didn't I tell you, just leave the rest to me. Oh, son of a gun, I don't know. This telegram still says, deliver personal, the winner Crofton. Okay, be yourself if you want to. Go on, make the trip all the way out to the lodge. You cling to the edge of the dresser as for the first time the full realisation hits you. If that messenger goes out to the lodge, you know what he'll find, John. Crofton dead on the floor and a dozen wide open clues pointing straight at you. You begin to think clearly, rapidly. What you need is time, time to get out of Alaska before the body is discovered. And there's one way to do it. One way that Crofton's lodge might go undisturbed until spring. You tense yourself and take the plunge. I hate to wake the guy up and come in late. Someone out there looking for Crofton? Oh, yes. Well, I'm Crofton, what is it? Oh, telegram for you, Mr. Crofton. Mark, deliver personal. Oh, okay. Just a minute. Just a minute. Well. Oh, yeah. Here's your telegram, sir. Well, here's something for your trouble. Gee, thanks. Sorry to disturb you, sir. We weren't sure you were Crofton. Who else would I be? Well, I don't know, sir. It's 8.15, Mr. Crofton. Your train leaves at 9 sharp, you know. Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. Don't worry. I'll be on that train. With the prologue of The Big Prison, the Signal Oil Company is bringing you another strange story by The Whistler. You know, out here in Hollywood, where The Whistler is produced, an actor or actress often becomes so famous for some one feature, such as the legs or the body or the voice, folks often overlook the fact that they're also very great at acting. Well, it occurred to me that it's much the same with signal gasoline. Signal has become so famous as the go-farther gasoline, many folks forget what makes that good mileage possible, the quality in signal gasoline. In fact, the best yardstick of gasoline quality is mileage. You see, the only way any gasoline can give you better mileage is by helping your motor run more efficiently. And when your motor runs more efficiently, naturally you enjoy quicker starting, faster pickup, smoother, knock-free power, the kind of performance you expect from a quality gasoline. That's why we say to be sure of the tops in gasoline quality. Just remember two things. One, in gasoline it takes extra quality to go farther. And two, signal is the famous go-farther gasoline. And now back to The Whistler. Well, John, it's only now that the full force of it hits you. The thing so many men have felt about the North in years gone by. For the guilty, Alaska is a gigantic prison with the only real avenue of escape to the South, the railroad to Skagway, the sea lanes beyond, all carefully policed by watchful eyes. You have only one hope now to escape this Alaskan prison before Willard Crofton's body, with all the evidence pointing to you is discovered. Going back to cover up would be too dangerous. And that means five terrible days travelling on Crofton's tickets. One day by train to Skagway, four days by boat to Vancouver, five days in a trap that may be sprung at any moment. The telegram delivered to you in Crofton's name says only, leave today as planned, signed Williams. And Crofton's papers aren't much more helpful. You're still studying them a few minutes later when... Hey, yes? Mr. Crofton, the garage man's outside about the car. Oh, well, is it ready? Ready? To be put up for the winter. Oh, yes, yes, tell him to go ahead. Good, there are baggages in the lobby. Oh, yes, yes. Have it taken to the station, will you please? Here you are. Oh, thanks. How long till train time? Let's see, 30 minutes. Well, I'm a little tired. I guess I'll wait here till just before the train leaves. Well, how about breakfast? No, no, I'm afraid there's not that much time. I'll have lunch at Bennett anyway. I'll wait till then. Well, it's up to you, but knowing a white pass and Yukon Railroad like I do, I'd never leave Whitehorse with an empty stomach. And somehow, by a miracle, it works, John. The last minute dash to the train, the creaky ride to Carr Cross, then lunch at Bennett in the dizzy, winding descent to the little village of Skagway, nestled under a glacier at the water's edge. You tell yourself the worst is over, that there's no reason for anyone to go to Crofton's cabin, no reason why the body won't lie there undisturbed until spring, six long months away. You begin to relax in Skagway as you walk into the steamship office to check your reservations. Now, let's see your ticket. When does the boat leave? Tonight at seven. Oh, Crofton. You remember me, Pat Carroll. I talked to you on the way up. Came in about three weeks ago, didn't you? Oh, yes, sir. Sure, sure. You were with another fella. Or, uh, let's say, wait a minute. Guess it was your pal I talked to. Yes, yes, it must have been. By the way, where is he? Oh, he, uh, he decided to stay up there for a while. Oh, that's funny. Told me he was due back in the States in a few weeks. Guy can change his mind, can't he? Oh, sure. Fix up the tickets, will you, please? Oh, say, I know why he's staying up there. Sure. What do you mean? Well, your partner, Mr. Crofton. Didn't he let you know? My partner? Williams. I got a reservation wire here. He's, uh, he's due next Monday on the Nora. Going up to the lodge for a fling at the hunting racket himself. Oh, that, yes. Well, he sent me a wire about that. Uh, when does he get here? Uh, Monday. He'll be up at your lodge by Tuesday night. You, uh, you think you might change your plans, Mr. Crofton? Now, I could, uh, could cancel his ticket. No, no, no. One of us has to be on the job. What, uh, what time do I get down to Vancouver? Well, leaving tonight. You'll be there Monday around 5 in the afternoon. Oh, that's okay. Fix up the ticket. Heh heh. It's a funny one, isn't it? You and your partner will pass each other on the way. Heh heh heh. Ships that pass in the night. Fix up the ticket, will you? Oh, I... I'm sorry. I'm in a hurry and... Oh, sure, Mr. Crofton. I'll fix it for you. Well, John, it's going to be a race now, isn't it? A grim kind of a race. As you move southward on the Louise to Vancouver and freedom, as Crofton's partner comes north on the Princess Nora over the same route, bound for that cabin and the awful discovery that awaits him there. And if that happens before you reach Vancouver, John, if he arrives while you're on the road, you'll be in a terrible situation. You'll be in a terrible situation. And if you reach Vancouver, John, if he arrives while you're still impersonating the dead man, one quick radiogram and it'll be all over. And you, John, the murderer of Willard Crofton, will be apprehended in a manner of minutes on a ship at sea with no escape. All ashore that's going ashore. All ashore that's going ashore. You stand on the after deck in the shadow, try to keep out of sight as you look at the twinkling lights of the little town, the ugly docks, the rock cliff plastered with tourist signs. It seems an age before the deckhands get busy with the lines and passengers begin to drift forward to their cabins. Another part of it's over, John. The vessel moves out into Lynn Canal. The lights of Skagway recede into the night. Excuse me, sir. Oh, yes, Stuart. Your name, please? Crofton. Oh, yes, Willard Crofton. Would you follow me, please, Mr. Crofton? I'll show you to your cabin. You manage to have dinner alone, then slip back out to the deck, find a chair and lean back to rest for the first time in more than a day. You're tired now, terribly tired, and you're thankful for the darkness, the soothing slap of the water against the sides of the ship. And then... Well, Mr. Crofton. Oh, yes. Mind if I sit down? Why, no, sir, not at all. That's the Crofton... Crofton Williams, isn't it? I saw your name on the passenger list. Quite a surprise. Oh? Yes. I've dealt with you people for some time now, nearly 15 years. Well, that is... I'm Dr. Prentice, Alaska Medical Mission. It's a pleasure, Doctor. My, I could tell you some stories about the things your medical supplies have done for us up here. Saved a lot of lives, Crofton. Well, that's fine. Last call for dinner. Well, better hurry if you want dinner. Last call. I don't believe I'll eat anything, thanks. Haven't been feeling too well. Oh? Is he sick? No, touch of cold, I think. Slight temperature. If I took my own advice, I'd be in my stateroom. You going to Vancouver? Yes, I have to get back, give my partner a chance for a vacation. Well, vacation, that's what I need. You know, I really better turn in. Will you excuse me? Well, of course, Doctor. Nice to have talked to you. Thanks. It was a pleasure meeting you at last, after doing business all these years. I'll try to make dinner with you, Crofton, perhaps tomorrow. Fine, Doctor, fine. Good night. A sense of relief sweeps over you as the little doctor walks away, and you turn, thankful there were no slips. There can't be any slips, John, because you're on a very delicate schedule. Only 12 hours stand between you and disaster, the narrow margin that will separate your arrival in Vancouver from the arrival of Crofton's partner Williams at the cabin in Whitehorse. You know you must be off this boat and out of Vancouver when it happens. The Doctor, mercifully, keeps to his cabin for the next few days, and you're alone now at the rail of the Princess Louise as she slides into the dock at Ketchikan. Oh, Stuart. Yes, sir? How long do we tie up here? About an hour, sir. Well, I think I'll go ashore, stroll around a bit. Yes, everybody does. Both boatloads. Both? Yes, sir. That's the Princess Nora there at the dock. The Nora? That's right, sir. She's headed right back where we came from. Oh, anybody on board you know? You'll have plenty of time to see her. Oh, no, no, no, there isn't. Anyway, I've changed my mind. I'm going to stay aboard. The hour in Ketchikan seems like ten years, John. It's ironic, isn't it? You and Williams in the same town. Williams on his way north where he'll find his partner murdered. You on your way south to find freedom with a slim slice of time. Only a few hours still tipping the balance in your favor. And then finally the tension eases a little and you stand at the stern rail of the Princess Louise, watch the Nora back slowly out of the harbor and steam away toward the north. Her lights are all but out of sight when you're aware someone is standing beside you in the darkness. Strange, isn't it? Watching a boat move away like that gives you a lost, empty feeling. It's too dark to see your face, but something tells you to be careful, on guard. You turn away slightly, but the girl is in a mood to talk. It's like being separated from someone in a crowd. You wonder if you'll ever see them again. It is something like that. In that boat, going where this one came from. What's it like there in Skagway, I mean? Oh, did you just come aboard? Yes. This is the farthest north I've been. Ah, it's much the same. Not as many people. Oh, you live there? No, no, Vancouver. Seattle's my hometown. Be nice to get back. Seattle? You know someone there? No, no, I don't. You have relatives in Vancouver, too. You know anybody named Lockwood? I came from a large... I... You're going inside? Yes, yes, excuse me, please. It's the wind. My throat. It's dangerous for me to be out here. You're trembling inside as you hurry away, aren't you, John? Yes. Because it suddenly came home to you. This girl from Seattle. She's someone you know. Someone who knows you. You can't reach your stateroom soon enough as the realisation sweeps over you. Lockwood. Of course. Helen Lockwood. You met her not three weeks ago in Ketchikan. But you mustn't meet her again. Give her a chance to remember your real name and expose you as a masquerader. It's two days, John. But on some pretense, you've got to remain in your stateroom until the boat reaches Vancouver. Hewitt. Yes, sir? If you don't mind, I'd like my breakfast served in here in my stateroom this morning. Certainly, sir. You feeling all right, sir? Oh, it's nothing serious. If you'd like, the ship's docked. No, I tell you it's not serious. I'm... I'm just playing safe. Yes, sir. I'll bring your breakfast right away, sir. Yes? Your breakfast, sir. Oh, come in. Put it right there on the... Oh. This is the ship's docked, sir. I thought I told you it wasn't necessary. That was my idea, Mr. Crofton. Well, now, sit here, doctor. I'm not seriously ill. There's no need for you to... Now, Mr. Crofton, that's what I'm here for. But I... You're just like all the rest of them. Now, here, let me take your pulse. I need any help, doctor. No, thanks. You can go, Henry. I, uh... Hmm, uh, let's see. Might as well get your temperature, too. A sense of anger mixes with fear as the doctor stands over you. Above all, you can't have him meddling, telling you to get out on deck. As he turns away for a moment, you remember the words of little Dr. Prentice, something about a touch of cold, a slight temperature. Your eye strikes the pot of hot coffee on the tray right next to your bed, and an idea comes to you that almost makes you laugh out loud. It's so simple, isn't it, John, to take the thermometer from your mouth, dip it for an instant in the coffee, put it back before the doctor turns, and you know in advance what he'll say. Now, Mr. Crofton, if you'll let me take a look... Ah! Hmm, 102. Mr. Crofton, I'd say you should stay right in bed for a while. Nothing serious. Oh, I don't think so. However, I'm glad I checked. I'm sorry I was short with you, Doctor. Oh, I'm used to you businessmen. You never want to stop for anything. I, uh, do want you to rest for me, though. We're only a day and a half out of Vancouver. Well, don't worry, Doctor. I'll stay right here. Yes, John, you accept the doctor's orders graciously. And when your stateroom door closes, you slump back completely relaxed for the first time since you awakened that morning in the White Horse Hotel. Only a day and a half now to Vancouver, and by the time Crofton's body is discovered, you'll be on your way to one of a thousand places where you can disappear completely. And again, you almost have to laugh out loud. It was a pot of coffee and a fever thermometer, John, that assured your escape from the big prison. Who is it? It's the steward, Mr. Crofton. Oh, come in. Close the door, will you? Yes, I'm doing. We'll be in Vancouver in two hours, sir. Do you need any help getting your baggage? No, no, I'm feeling much better. It's no trouble at all, sir. Matter of fact, if you wish, they'll even have an ambulance down at the doctor's. Oh, no, no, no, that won't be necessary. Well, you know best, Mr. Crofton. Well, it won't be necessary at all. No, steward, as soon as I reach Vancouver, I'm going to be perfectly all right. In just a moment, we will bring you the strange ending of tonight's story. But meantime, a word about a major purchase that many of you drivers will be making during the coming winter months. A new battery. Perhaps you've gotten the notion, because of the many new or off brands of batteries now being offered, that batteries are plentiful again. The fact of the matter is, good batteries are not plentiful now, and the indication is that they will be even scarcer as the demand grows. When I say good batteries, I mean the quality kind that you can rely on, such as those fine signal batteries, featured by signal service stations throughout the West from Canada to Mexico. Every genuine signal battery is ruggedly constructed of highest grade materials, made to exacting specifications that Signal Oil Company is proud to stand back of. Every genuine signal battery is guaranteed for long, trouble-free service by Signal Oil Company. Of course, the best way to get the maximum life out of any battery is to have it checked and inspected regularly, a service your signal dealer will gladly perform for you. Should he find that your present battery is not likely to stand the strain of cold weather starting, it'll be wise to get your order in now for a quality battery, a genuine, guaranteed signal battery. And now, back to the Whistler. MUSIC Well, John, it's almost over. The nightmare from which you've never really awakened. It's a real frightening thing, this delicate schedule you've been forced to follow. Just 12 hours from now, the body of Willard Crofton will be discovered at his hunting lodge near Whitehorse. And only moments later, the wires will be crackling with orders for your arrest as the murderer. But that's 12 hours from now, John. And long before that, you'll be off the ship and miles out of Vancouver on your way to a safe hiding place. Yes, John, Alaska was a big prison, but you've escaped. In just a few minutes, you'll walk down the gangplank on schedule, safe and free. Yes, Stuart, come in. My baggage is all... Oh, Doctor. Well, look, it was nice of you to come again, but I told the steward I'm feeling much better. Ah, he told me. Just the same, I thought I'd better take that temperature of yours. Oh, but really, Doctor, it's not... I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's only going to take a moment. Under the tongue? That's it. Mouth shut. Sometimes I think that's the best part of being a doctor, telling people to keep their mouths shut and making them like it. Oh, I'd better get that pulse, too. Oh, not bad at all. A little rapid, but that could be nerves. All right, let's have a look at that thermometer. Now, look, Doctor, look, I was... I was trying to tell you, this is all foolishness. I'm feeling fine. Well... What's the matter? Nothing, quite the contrary. Your temperature's normal again. And I don't mind telling you I'm greatly relieved. Well, I told you... Relieved? That's right. Of course, with no temperature, you're free to go anywhere you like aboard ship. Aboard ship? Wait a minute, wait a minute, what are you getting at? Well, you really did it with that 102 fever of yours. Made me suspicious, and I went back and checked up on your friend, Dr. Prentice, again. What about Dr. Prentice? It's too bad, but I'm afraid he picked up a case of smallpox somewhere in Alaska. Smallpox? We'll all be held in quarantine, of course. But then, we shouldn't be delayed more than 48 hours. Let that whistle be your signal for the signal oil program, The Whistler, each Wednesday night 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 Wally Mayer. The Whistler was produced by George W. Allen with story by Joel Malone and Harold Swanton, music by Wilbur Hatch, and was transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. Next Wednesday, for a full hour of mystery, tune in a half hour earlier. Enjoy the Saint as well as the Whistler. This is Marvin Miller, speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
