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 West Coast program in radio history. And signal gasoline is top two, 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. Sure in haste. Albert Taylor was two people. To the Cafe Society crowd in Miami, he was the charming young husband of a silver fortune from Denver. To his wife Helen, aged 45, amply mature, the silver fortune. He was something else again. An unpleasant little boy whose unpleasantness had a tendency to make the large fortune into a smaller one. This made for friction of course. After three years of marriage, Helen was heartily sick of both Elbert's. And Elbert too had reached the saturation point. As a matter of fact, the unpleasant little boy was on the verge of a tantrum. Elbert, is that you? Yeah. Elbert, I'm awfully upset. Oh, what now? My bracelet, the diamond and emerald one. I put it in the drawer of my vanity last night after the party. Well, what about it? It's gone. I've questioned the servants. Did you call the police? I did. What do you mean? I told you I wanted to buy some things, Helen. I see. And what did you do with it? I sold it of course. You sold it? That's very interesting. Didn't occur to you of course to consult me. It occurred to me. I rejected the idea after due deliberation. Why you... I don't want a scene about it Helen. I took it, I sold it, period. And through consulting you about anything, you understand? There'll be no more sitting up and begging. That's what you want, isn't it? Come one, come all. Watch Elbert, the trained terrier. Eats, sleeps, walks, talks, thinks like a human being. That's enough, Elbert. You bet it's enough. I'm sick of it. I'm through with being your favorite charity. You don't know how right you are. What do you think you're doing? I'm going to call the police and tell them you've stolen my bracelet. Give me that phone. Now. I told you what I'm going to do, Elbert. Let go of me. You want to watch me jump, don't you? You want to crack the whip and watch me jump. Elbert, don't. Please, Elbert. Well, I'm through with that, Helen. I'm through with you and your whip cracking all through. Helen. Helen, I'm sorry. Helen. Why don't you do something, Elbert? Why don't you go over there to the hearth and pick her up? Or perhaps you're not as dazed as you look standing there in the middle of the room. Maybe even now you know she won't ever get up because she struck her temple on the anvil when you hurled her across the room. Yes, Elbert. She's lying there so very still because she's dead. With the prologue of Murder in Haste, the Signal Oil Company is bringing you another strange story by the Whistler. You know, friends, while watching some Christmas shoppers this morning, the thought occurred to me if people would only choose their gasoline as carefully as they pick out Christmas gifts, a lot more drivers would be using signal gasoline. And for good reason. If you've traveled the West much at all, you already know that from Canada to Mexico, signal is famous as the go-farther gasoline. But even more important to you is the quality in signal gasoline, of which that mileage is your best proof. For after all, in order for a gasoline to give you better mileage, it has to make your engine run more efficiently. But when your engine runs more efficiently, you naturally enjoy quicker starting, faster pickup, smoother knock-free power, the kind of superior performance you expect of a superior quality gasoline. That's why we say to be sure of the tops in gasoline quality, there are just two things to remember. 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. Yes, Albert, there'll be no more ugly squabbles, no more jumping through hoops for Helen, because the last argument was final, wasn't it? So final that your wife Helen lies dead in front of the heart. A minute later, you've decided on the only course of action possible. You leave her in her bedroom and lock the door. The servants in their separate quarters are used to your arguments and probably have paid no attention. Two hours and 20 minutes later, you're standing on the observation platform of the limited express bound for Jacksonville and points north. Nice night. Oh, I didn't hear you come out. It's all right. I said it's a nice night. So you're running for the train when we were pulling out. Just made it, didn't you? Yeah, they're kind of close. Been in Miami long? No, I've been fishing off the Keys just a week or so. I see. My name's Ricketts. Glad to know you. I'm a Brown, Richard Brown. Going up in New York, Brown? Yeah. Well, I guess I'll be getting inside, Ricketts. Good idea. And a breezy out here. I'll go with you. You knew it the minute he opened his mouth, didn't you, Albert? Ricketts is a plain clothed cop and there can be only one reason why he's so interested in you. He's right behind you as you walk back through the train to your seat. And you're wondering if he'll sit beside you when you stop there. And then when you're 10 feet from your seat, it hits you. You realize why he's following you. Your luggage with your initials E.T. on it is in the baggage rack over the seat. And Ricketts is just waiting for you to stop there. You hold your breath and keep on going. That Brown? Yeah. Isn't this your seat? Why, no. I have a compartment up ahead. Oh, I see. Well, good night, Brown. Good night. There's only one place to go, the club car and the bar where you can sit for a minute and think. Yes? Make it a Manhattan dry. Dry Manhattan, yes, sir. This your magazine? Oh, no. No, go right ahead. You going to New York? Yeah. Oh, it ought to be cold up there this time of the year. A lot of snow and all that. Yeah, I suppose so. Yeah. I'm as excited as a kid. I haven't seen snow for an age. Matter of fact, I haven't set foot in America for five years. Oh, it's great to be back. I get a kick out of just talking to an American again. Yeah. I was sitting in my compartment a few minutes ago thinking that I... You got a compartment? Yeah, a couple of cars ahead. My name's Brown, Mr. Jameson, Leslie Jameson. Jameson? Yeah. Wait a minute, you're not the mystery writer. Oh, I'm afraid I am. Here you are, sir. Dry Manhattan. Oh, thanks. Well, here's to you. What's the matter? Nothing. Say, Jameson, why don't we go to your compartment? Be quieter there. We can have the drinks sent in. Why, of course. Well, that's a good idea. Yes, Albert, the compartment would be great. Yes, Albert, the compartment would be quieter and you'd feel a little more comfortable, particularly since you noticed your friend, Mr. Ricketts, stroll into the bar and sit down, still hunting for the occupant of your seat, no doubt. Mr. Jameson finds his compartment pleasant there, too. Well, as a man, can't stay forever in Buenos Aires and continue to write for the American public. It's got to keep in touch, don't you think so? Huh? Oh, yes, yes, of course. So, you say you left Buenos Aires. Yeah, I'd planned to anyway, but I made it a little earlier on account of that nasty business with my assistant. Oh, I see. I'll probably go back in a year or so. Say, Brown, did you ever read anything of mine? Well, I can't say I've done much reading in the detective storyline. You have a serial running in one of the magazines right now, don't you? Yeah, Murder and Haste. I don't suppose you've read it, huh? No, I'm sorry. If I'd known I was going to meet the author, I'd have boned up on it. Well, don't apologize, Brown. How about a nightcap before we turn in, huh? Why, it's early, Jameson. Surely you're not going to give up the ship so soon. Oh, I've got to confess, I'm a little bushed. Tell me more about your agent in New York. You were saying you, you've never met him personally, huh? Oh, oh, you mean Farrell. He's always a great agent. I've often wondered what he looks like. Sometimes I think he must be a magician with a long beard. The way he pulls royalties out of a hat. He sold my leading character to a radio series. You've never even been to New York? No, never. I'm probably the only man in the business who can say that. Oh, Brown, it's close to midnight and I think... Jameson, what about this serial you're running? Maybe you could bring me up to date on it and... Brown, I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Right now I'm awfully tired. It's early yet, Jameson. Now look here, I don't want to be rude, but I'll have to ask you... Hey, what's the matter? What's that? They're trying to stop. It sounds like something's... Get off! Look out! Hey, Jameson! An open switch, a signal down, and the southbound local is suddenly there on the same track without warning. It's over in a split second. Then you open your eyes, Albert. You're all right, miraculously safe in the tangled network of steel and splintered wood that used to be a Pullman car. And there's Leslie Jameson. He wasn't so lucky, Albert. There's nothing you can do for him now. The other end of the coach is in flames and they're moving towards you. If I can make it out this window... There. Here, let me help you. Give me your hand. That's it. Thanks. You all right? Yeah, I think so. I'm a little dizzy, scratched up, I guess. Yeah, I see you. Oh, it's you, Mr. Brown. Huh? Oh, Ricketts. Yeah, you're lucky. This car got it worse to war. Look at that fire. Yeah, just got out in time. Say, that fellow you were drinking with at the bar, went to your compartment with you. Is he still in there? Huh? My compartment? I'm pretty sure he's Albert E. Taylor, murdered his wife in Miami. Is he still there? Why, uh... Why, no, he, uh... He left a few minutes before the crash. Oh. Well, you better get on ahead, Mr. Brown. I gotta give him a hand here. You make it up to the crossing? Yeah, I guess so. Well, take it easy. There's a highway restaurant up there. Sure, sure. I'm okay. Thanks. Okay, Brown. Take it easy. Well, Albert, you stand there dazed for a minute, watching the fire move closer. Then you decide to take a chance. Crawl back to Leslie Jamison's body, take his wallet, his ring and watch. Exchange them for your ring and watch, engraved to Albert with all my love, Helen. Then as the flames move close, you find his briefcase and bag and crawl out with him. Ten minutes later, you stagger into the highway restaurant at the grade crossing. Say, I, uh... I wonder if you can help me. I, uh... You hurt, mister? We got a doc in the back room. No, no, no, I'm all right. I just want to get out of here. I thought I could hire a car and get a bus to New York. You were in the wreck, mister? Yes. Well, look, I'm the news correspondent here. Could you give me your name, please? Uh... I'm, uh... I'm Leslie Jamison. Uh-huh. Leslie Jamison. Hey, wait a minute. Aren't you the fellow who writes those murder mysteries? Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Well, if that ain't a coincidence, Frank. Yeah. Only last night you and me made that bet. Well, sure. Now we can settle it once and for all. Yeah, we was betting which one had turned out to be the murderer in that magazine serial you're running. Yeah, well, that's very flattering. Say, I, I wonder if you could help me about the bus, I mean. Uh, well, say, mister Jamison, could you give us an advance tip on the murder? Yeah, then I won't have to wait for the magazine to come out tomorrow to collect from this guy. Oh, it says you. Who was it, mister Jamison? Who? Well, uh... I don't think it would be fair to reveal the, uh... Give me a fast cup of coffee, will you? Yeah, sure. Greg and Steve. Oh, hello. Pretty rough out there. Three cars gone. What are you guys standing around here for? Have you been out there and looked at it? I gotta stand by this counter. Yeah, and I'm a reporter, pal. This is where they're bringing them. This is where I get my stories. Yeah, and I was getting a slow story... All right, skip it. How do you feel, Brown? Brown? Well, that's Leslie Jamison, the writer. Huh? I thought your name was Brown. Well, uh, of course I, uh... you know how it is. Here's your coffee. Thanks. No, mister Brown, I don't know how it is. Leslie Jamison, a famous mystery story writer, traveling incognito, narrowly escaped death when the... You see, Ricketts, I, uh... I didn't want people to know. Oh, I get it. We've been reading Mr. Jamison's serial, Murder in Haste. I had a little bet with Frank here on who the murderer was. Well, I can tell you that. I read the last installment last night. Yeah? Sure. Got it at the newsstand in Miami. Oh, we ain't got it here yet. Oh, come on, Mr. Jamison, who done it? Yeah. Well, uh, I don't want to spoil the story for you. Gotta finish it. Uh-huh. Afraid we won't buy another copy of that magazine, huh? Yeah, uh, come on, Jamison. Well, you see, gentlemen, it's, uh... it's a matter of ethics. A writer can't... What do you mean, ethics? I know how it is. Sure, Jamison, sure. I can tell the boys I got a spate from the author's mouth. Oh, come on, what goes? Well, I don't want a review. I got you a car, lieutenant. Oh, good. Be right with you. Say, you guys know anyone who wants to go up to New York? I got some unfinished business up there. I'm hiring a car. I'd like to get somebody to share in the driving. But Jamison... Well, sure, you said you were going to New York, didn't you, Jamison? Well, as a matter of fact, the bus... Come on, give me a hand in the driving, huh? Well, all right. Good. But first, give the boys a break. Tell them who the murderer was. Yeah. I'm sorry, it's against my principles. Well, it's your business. Come on. It was the old lady who did it. I know it. Pay me! You got a hotel space in New York, Jamison? Well, not yet. I thought I'd arrange when I arrived. Oh. You haven't been around much lately, I see. Probably isn't a room to be at. Oh, is it that bad? Worse. Well, I think I might be able to fix it up for you at the Midtown. I know the manager there. Oh, I couldn't possibly. Forget it, Jamison. Glad to help you out. Can you fix them up, Walter? I think so. Just signed the register, Mr... Jamison. Leslie Jamison, the writer? Well, why didn't you say so? Look, I don't want to put you out of it. Nonsense. We're honored, Mr. Jamison. I'm a mystery fan myself. I just want to tell you that murder and haste had me fooled right up to the last page. Peters. Yeah, boy? This is Mr. Leslie Jamison. Get the boys over. We want to take a few pictures. Pictures? Now, wait a minute. I don't want any pictures. Nothing to it, Mr. Jamison. Just a couple of boys from the papers. I know you're tired, but it won't take long. And, oh, Peters. Yeah? Have some flowers sent up to Mr. Jamison's room. We'll have the pictures taken there. Peters is our press agent, Mr. Jamison. He'll take care of you. Certainly will, Mr. Jamison, right this way. Now, look here, Peters. You look like a reasonable man. I never have my picture taken, and I don't intend to stand for it now. You don't know New York newspaper photographers, Mr. Jamison. It's much easier if you give in. What'll happen if I refuse? You'll find out. And you did find out, didn't you, Elton? You were helpless. There was nothing you could do. They came, they saw, they took pictures. And all you could do was rage and try to keep your face covered. And that only made a better story for them. They were delighted, Elbert. The next day, there are pictures of you and the tabloids hiding your face under the caption, Leslie Jamison, mystery author, stages publicity scene in the room at Midtown Hotel. The second page of the same paper carries news that you, Elbert Taylor, wanted for the murder of your wife in Miami, perished in the train wreck. But you're all mixed up now, aren't you, Elbert? You almost wish Helen was with you again to make the decision for you like she used to. And then suddenly there's nothing for you to do. The decision is all made. Yes? Mr. Jamison? Yes? Mrs. Jamison's on her way up. What? Your wife. I assumed it would be all right to tell her. Oh. Oh, yes. Mrs. Jamison. Hello, Leslie. What? What are you...? Maybe I'd better come in. Well? Well what? What are you going to do about it? You're an awfully simple sort, aren't you, Mr. whatever your name is? I suppose I am. How did you expect to get away with it after all the publicity? Where is he? What have you done to him? Now, wait a minute, Mrs. Jamison. I can explain everything. Maybe you'd better. Your husband was killed in that train wreck in Florida. I had reasons for wanting to disappear, so I took his identity. I never meant to keep it up. If you'll just... Just what? Look, there's nothing we can do for your husband now. He was killed in the wreck. You believe that, don't you? I don't know. Look, I'm going to leave town. All I ask is that you forget you ever saw me. Oh, I see. Well, what are you going to do? Well, I could go to the police, of course. Now, wait a minute. I... I can make it worth your while to... Oh, stop sempering. Does anyone know you're here in New York? I know. That's very fortunate. You see, Leslie and I didn't get along. As a matter of fact, we've been separated for some time. He said he was cutting me out of his will. With Leslie dead, I don't get anything at all. But with Leslie alive... Wait a minute. You wouldn't... Why not? He could retire right now and live on his royalties without doing another lick. You mean you want me to keep this up? Yes. Don't be ridiculous. There are a dozen reasons why I can't. I'll discover it in a week. You have his identification. Yes. I know his signature. I can imitate it perfectly. I know his background like a book. You may as well get used to it. Mr. Jameson. I tell you, I won't do it. It's... It's the most fantastic thing I've ever heard of. There's a Lieutenant Ricketts down in the lobby. He seems quite interested in our relationship. If you like, of course, I could bring him up to date. All right, Mrs. Jameson. Oh, darling. Just call me Ruth. Ruth. Ruth. Yes, what is it? I tell you, this can't go on. You're spending money like a child. $28,000 in three months, besides the deposits I made to your account. Behind it, no rent. The maid hasn't been paid. Look at these bills. Just look at them. I haven't got a penny. Are you all through? There's your quarterly royalty check due tomorrow. Well, that'll only pay part of the bills. It's not paying any of them, darling. That's going into my account. Oh, I see. Maybe you've got a fast way of getting out from under these bills. That's your worry, baby. Not mine. Well, what is it now? I'm afraid it's the same old thing, dear. I just can't seem to hold on to money. How much this time? Quite a bit, I'm afraid. I want $25,000, Albert. Twenty-five? What are you talking about? I have an obligation to meet. I need the money this afternoon before the banks close. And don't tell me it isn't there because the check covering movie rights to stolen murder was deposited yesterday. You know, you make very good sense. You'd better hurry down to the bank. It's after two. Ruth, be honest with me. How long do you intend to carry on with this? Quite indefinitely, dear. I know when I have a good thing. There's no end? There is if you want one. There are no police. You could be decent about it, you know. I could have been plenty without bleeding me to death. I think I've been pretty fair with you. Six months now, no sleep. Pounded day and night. Can't eat. Trying to dodge my shadow. Getting nowhere. Afraid all the time. Dagger hanging over my head. Albert, what's happened to you? Get hold of yourself. No way out now, is there? Trapped. Run into a corner. No way to turn. Albert, what are you doing? Albert, get away from me. Main floor. Yeah. Just a minute, mister. I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry. You're Jameson, aren't you? Yes. In a hurry? I'm on my way to the bank. It closes in a few minutes. Take your time. There's always tomorrow, you know. But I can't. Your wife's upstairs, isn't she? Well... I saw her go up a few minutes ago. I'm Sergeant Lake Jameson. I want to see her. And I'd like to have you along. After you. The Whistler will return in just a moment with a strange ending to tonight's story. Meantime, a message especially for you drivers who have new cars or expect to be getting one. Just any motor oil won't do, you know, for today's high-efficiency motors. No sir. They need special protection against corrosion, wear, and carbon if they're to give you the long, trouble-free service you have a right to expect. That's why Signal has brought out a new and finer motor oil, especially created to give modern motors this extra protection. Of course, Signal Premium has 100% pure paraffin base, but in addition, a total of five scientific new compounds have been added to Signal Premium motor oil. As a result, actual tests prove that this new type signal oil keeps motors six times cleaner and reduces cylinder wear one-third. Get that. Motors actually stay six times cleaner, and cylinder wear is reduced one-third with Signal Premium motor oil. So if you want to keep the performance of your car young, make your next oil change a change for the better. Switch to the new type signal oil that's your guarantee of a sweeter running motor, Signal Premium motor oil. And now back to the Quistler. And that's how it ended, Albert. With the two of you, you and Sergeant Lake, standing over Ruth's body where you left it on the floor of your apartment upstairs. It's over now, and somehow you feel relieved. The hounding, the fear, the dagger hanging over your head. They're gone now. And you lean back in the chair in Sergeant Lake's office at police headquarters and tell them the whole thing. I couldn't take any more of it. I knew it would go on for the rest of my life, day after day, year after year. I see. You, uh, you know, of course, she's not my wife. Yeah, that's why I was following her, and she knew it. Oh, and incidentally, that's why she hit you for that 25,000 bucks this afternoon. It was the last big bite. What? There were plane tickets in her purse. She was on her way out. You mean it was the last time? That's right. But what I can't figure is why you let her shake you down in the first place after the jam she was in in Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires. Wait. She... she was the assistant. Of course she was your assistant down there. What's the matter, Jameson? A lapse of memory or something? Assistant, yeah, yeah, he told me, I remember. On the train that night just before the wreck. Tell me, Sergeant. Yeah? Down there in Buenos Aires, what was it she did? You have lost your memory, Jameson. And it was all over Argentina six months ago. That's why I've been following her. I was all ready to pick her up. She's wanted down there for murder. 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 were David Ellis and Joan Banks. The Whistler was produced by George W. Allen, with story by Eleanor Beeson, and 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 over most of these stations, tune in a half hour earlier. Enjoy the Saint, as well as the Whistler. Marvin Miller speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
