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, the Whistler's strange story, Ladies Man. The mountain lodge is almost obscured by the fury of the snowstorm, and the car heading toward the lodge, up the narrow winding lane, finds the going precarious. But now, with one last lurching crunch, the driver brings the car to a stop in front of the steps leading to the lodge. Two men alike brace themselves against the wind and snow, and hurry up to the door. One man, the doctor, carries a small black bag. The other, a younger man, anxiously leads the way into the house, to the quiet bedroom at the back, and waits while the doctor examines the figure in the bed. The room is chilled with cold, and quiet, deathly quiet. After a time, the doctor looks up at the younger man. Well, I'm afraid your friend is gone, Mr. Cole. Oh, no. I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. Oh, it can be, doctor. I came for you the moment I found him. Oh, if only I... There, there, there now, Mr. Cole, you mustn't blame yourself. I know, but... Your friend must have been very ill for some time before you got here. You say you came as soon as you could. You could do no more than that. Well, I might have come up here yesterday. I thought about it, but the storm, I thought it'd clear up. I had no idea he was ill. I mean, really sick like this. A little cold. That's what he called it when he wrote me. Well, maybe he didn't realize it himself. People don't sometimes. Hmm. Now, that's peculiar. What, doc? His blankets. Here, look at them. They're damp and cold on top. I wonder if he could... Oh, the windows, doctor. I'm afraid I can't see them. Oh, the windows, doctor. I told you, remember? They were all open when I arrived. The snow had blown in over everything. I brushed it off the blankets, but some of it probably melted through. Well, probably. Well, Mr. Cole, I guess there's nothing more I can do. You're probably wanting to make the arrangements in town, I suppose. Oh, yes. Yes, doctor. When I drive you back, I'll take care of all the arrangements. You're good at making arrangements, aren't you, Lance? As playwright Philip Leonard's manager, agent, and dear friend, you handled his affairs for him while he lived. It seems only right that you complete the cycle and plan his funeral after you had deliberately hastened his death by opening the window over his bed, letting in the cold, the snow, to cover his blanket. Now the funeral service is over, you join the mourners who have come to pay their last respects. Stand with them in little groups of three and four. You're not surprised, are you, to find considerably more women than men in evidence? But even in sorrow, the widow Lydia Leonard is easily the most attractive. It isn't only the beauty in her face, but her manner and quiet dignity as she accepts the mumbled words of condolence. She even manages a soft, appreciative smile for you, Lance, when you approach her. Well, Lydia, no use trying to say anything. You know how I feel. Yes, of course, Lance. The way you've handled everything has made it a lot easier for me. I wonder if Philip realized how much you thought of him. I'm sure he did. Look, Lydia, is there anything I can do? Get you away from all these people. I mean, drive you home. Lance, could you? Would you do that? I'd like to try to stop thinking about it. Yes, I understand, Lydia. I'll pick you up here right here in about two minutes. Thank you. Oh, excuse me. Please let me through. Do you mind? Please let me through. Hello, Lance. Oh, hello, Cliff. Lance Cole? Oh, Mr. Cole, I'm Deborah Brock. I'd like to talk to you. Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Brock. Please, I've got to drive Mrs. Leonard home. But Mr. Cole... I'm sorry. I can't possibly stop now. See me some other time. Oh, Mr. Cole, sorry. You were very thoughtful to do this, Lance. Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Lydia. It was all right. I can't say I enjoyed it, but I should certainly be used to playing a part. It wasn't just another stage role for me, Lance. I did love Philip once. I loved him very much. He loved you, Lydia. I'm sure of it. Are you? Are you really, Lance? You knew him better than anyone. The real Philip, I mean. The ladies' man. Ladies' man. Yes, I guess he did have that reputation. You hadn't seen him for months, had you? No. No, we both knew it was over. Just hadn't gotten around to the divorce. But, Lydia, are you still in love with him? No, I'm not. I'm still in love with... with a memory, perhaps. With what he was then. Oh, easy, easy. You know, I'm sorry I didn't go up to the lodge sooner. One day might have made a difference. Philip was always going up there to the hideaway without telling people. Sometimes it was to write, sometimes... He hadn't written anything, had he, Lance? Started a last play, anything like that. Why, no, Lydia, he... Why, he hadn't written anything. That's what you want them all to think, isn't it, Lance? That Philip Leonard died without writing another play. Your eyes moved toward the glove compartment in the car, only a few inches away from Lydia. You're thinking about the manuscript that's locked in there, aren't you? The only draft of Philip's last work. Because he did do some writing, a final play about his own life, about his life and love. Especially his love for Lydia. Even when you reach Lydia's apartment, your mind is still on Philip's play. Lance. Hmm? Oh. You're not listening to me. You haven't heard a word I said. Sorry, I was thinking about something. It's an idea I've had since, well, since Philip... Oh? It's about a play, Lydia. A play Philip often spoke doing, but he never got around to it. You mean the play about his life? Yes, he often spoke to me about it. You know, I used to be a writer, Lydia. I was just wondering, perhaps I could write it. Oh, Lance, how wonderful. Of course you could. You knew Philip as well as... as well as you know yourself. You knew both of us, all of us. Even all the others in his life. It could be an exciting play, Lance. You really think I could do it? I'm sure you could. I'd help. I'd love to. And Philip's producer would have some ideas. Oh. Oh, Lance, you simply must. Oh, well, if I could just make it come off, you know, there'd be only one actress who could play Lydia Leonard. Oh, Lydia, would you? I'd want to, Lance. Very much. You will try, won't you? Oh, yes, Lydia. Yes, I'll try. It'll be good, Lance. I'm sure it will be. You know, somehow I won't be surprised if... if you're right. You know, it will be great. It's exciting, isn't it, Lance, the way everything worked out? From the time you found Philip Leonard alone in his cabin hideaway dying, did nothing to help him, actually hastened his death. You wanted him out of the way, didn't you? Because of the play he'd written and because of Lydia, the way you felt about her. Now, with Philip's last manuscript in your hand, you've been actually urged by his widow into doing exactly what you'd planned to do and the greatest opportunity of your life. It's perfect, isn't it, Lance? Perfect. And in the next few days, you remain away from your office locked in your apartment, seemingly hard at work on the new play based on the life and love of Philip Leonard. Hello? You're off with Mr. Cole. There's been some more calls and messages. Oh, all right, Winnie. Mr. Cliff Davis called. He said that Lydia Leonard has been in touch with him about the play idea. Oh, that's good. He'll see you whenever you're ready to show him something. Well, you can call him back right away. Tell him I'll be in tomorrow at 10. And you can say that I have a draft of the opening scene already. Yes, sir. Oh, and that young lady, Deborah Brock, was in the cabin. Deborah Brock? She's an actress, Mr. Cole. She said she tried to talk to you at the funeral last week. Oh, I remember now, yes. They'd talk anyplace to get a part. Well, tell her I'm not taking on any new clients now. I'm much too busy. Yes, sir. And you can hold everything else until tomorrow, Winnie. I'll come to the office after I see Cliff Davis. Very good, sir. It's working perfectly, isn't it, Lance? Lydia talking to Cliff Davis, getting him ready. You know, of course, that he'll be dubious about the whole plan, that he'll doubt your ability. But the next morning, after he's read the scene, you handed him the look on his face as the answer you've been waiting for. Lance, it's... Well, it's unbelievable. Well, I take it then you like it. Like it? I love it, every word of it. But I mean you, Lance, that you can write like this. It's filled up at his best, better than his best. I'm flattered. Now, for instance, these lines to Lydia just before seeing Curtin. The... the plant grows and the flower blooms, radiant in glory, but never so radiant to me in love with you. And you've got it, Lance. The thing they all strive for, heart, the gentle sure touch. Well, there's more, Cliff. I mean, I've got it all mapped out. There's more to come and I think it's even better. Keep it up, Lance. It's fine, perfect. Now go on, get back to work. I'm going to call Lydia and tell her what I think. Good. And if it works out, I mean, if I can keep it up, will you produce it? I'll break your back if you even show it to anyone else. Why, it's wonderful. Wonderful is the word, isn't it, Lance? You feel like a man lost in the clouds as you drive across town from Cliff's office to your own. His praise still alive in your mind as you hurry in to be greeted by your secretary and someone else. Mr. Cole, this young lady... Oh, I'm sorry, Winnie, I can't talk to anyone today. I'm an actress, Mr. Cole. An actress? Oh, not that. No, no, no, Mr. Cole. This isn't Deborah Brock. This is... McCray. Anita McCray. However, Ms. Brock did call again several times. Well, look, Winnie, when she calls again, just tell Ms. Brock I have nothing to do with casting. Tell her I said to see Cliff Davis. Now, Ms. McCray, I'm terribly busy and if you don't mind... And the plant grows and the flower blooms. Radiant and glorious. But never so radiant to me. But never so radiant to me in love with you. Shall we talk, Mr. Cole? Well then, something's wrong, isn't it? Something's very wrong. This girl, a stranger to you, a young actress, pretty, self-assured, quoting lines from the dead Philip Leonard's play about his life, lines which you are certain no one else had ever set eyes upon. Inside your office, with the door tightly closed, Anita McCray tells all exactly how it happened. And you sit there staring across the desk at her, completely stunned. And you were up there at Philip's hideaway, the lodge. Weeks before he died. Yes. Poor Philip. He wasn't well even then. But I never dreamed that he'd neglect himself so. Contract pneumonia. Oh yes, yes. Tragic, tragic. So careless of him. What it said in the papers, I mean. How he left the windows open, alone up there, snowing. Yes, now about the play, Mrs. McCray. Oh yes. Well, I'm just, just curious, you understand. I mean with the papers talking about your new play. Saying Philip, that is Mr. Leonard, hadn't written anything recently. It, it puzzled me. Oh, I see. You can understand. When I'd read parts of it for Phil, Mr. Leonard, and he'd mention giving me a part. Oh, excuse me. Yes? Mr. Cole, I just wanted to remind you of your luncheon appointment. Oh yes, yes, Winnie, thanks, thanks. Well, you seem rather busy, Mr. Cole. Perhaps I should- Oh no, no, no, no. Please, don't go, Mrs. McCray. Anita, we have things to talk about. Oh. Oh yes. I believe you deserve an explanation. An explanation, Lance, yes? Somehow you've got to clear up things for Miss McCray. Make her understand about the play without letting her know you had anything to do with Philip's death. But somehow you sense she isn't going to be easy to handle. And when you've told her your story- Very well, Mr. Cole. Lance, it will be our secret. We'll share it. Just the two of us. However, there's one condition. What's that? Philip promised me the lead, you know. After I'd read the part for him, he insisted I play it. Part's already been cast. All the arrangements have been made. Mrs. Leonard is doing it for us. After all, she'll be playing herself. Oh, that's too bad. Well, you'll have to change those plans. I'm going to play the lead, Lance. Or, uh, well- Or what? Or I'll expose you. Oh, now wait a minute. I'll give you a few days to think it over, Lance. I'm sure somehow you'll be able to explain everything to Mrs. Leonard. Well, Lance, just when things were going smoothly and Ethan McCray threatens to ruin everything for you. There is a way out, but you dread the thought of asking Lydia to step out of the play. However, you finally decide to drop around to her apartment. Quickly, you tell her what's on your mind. You're joking, Lance. No, no, I'm not, Lydia. Now, don't you see- No, I don't see. Why, it's ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. Why should I give up the part? Why? It'll be the smartest thing you've ever done, Lydia. Now, believe me, I've thought it over very carefully. You must be out of your mind. I won't do it. I just couldn't give up the lead. I couldn't. I owe it to Phyllis. Lydia, I'm- I'm sorry, Lance. I made up my mind. Of course, it's your play. You can do as you wish. Yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Of course, it's your play. You can do as you wish. Yes, that's right. It is my play, Lydia. However, let me warn you, Lance. If I don't have the lead, you won't have a play. I'll stop it. I can, you know. After all, I'm Philip's widow. It's no use, Lance. You plead, threaten, finally realize there isn't anything you can say to make Lydia change her mind. Back in the street, you step into your car, drive around for hours, thinking about it, wondering now what you'll tell Anita McCray. You've got to find a way to prevent her from exposing you as a fraud, Lance. Yes, you've got to find a way. And then suddenly a thought occurs to you. You telephone Anita, ask her to meet you right away. Then you hurry back to your apartment to wait for her. Well, come in, Anita. Come in. Hello, Lance. Sit down. Thank you. Well, you've reached a decision, Lance? Yes. How did dear Lydia take it? Oh, not too well. Once she's made up her mind, she can be quite difficult. Oh, I can be difficult too. I'm rather stubborn. She won't give up the path. That is too bad. What about me, Lance? You'll be taken care of, Anita. After all the place bound to be a hit, it'll make a lot of money, a lot of money. You intend to pay me off, is that it? Well, you have a nice income on a royalty basis. Oh, how nice. And in the meantime, what happened to my career? Is that so important? Very important. You can't buy me off, Lance. Oh, now wait a minute. You gave me your answer. I see no reason for staying. What are you going to do? I'm going to Clif Davies and Mrs. Leonard. I'm going to expose you. All right. All right. So you'll expose me. What then? Oh, it isn't just the play, Lance. You see, I can tell them what went on at the cabin the day Philip died. You? I can tell them who opened the windows to let the wind and snow blow on him. I can tell them who waited until he was dead before he went for the doctor. Look, Anita. You're responsible for Philip's death and you know it. You stole the play he wrote too. And when I tell them how he died... You're not going to tell anyone. I am... No. No, wait. Lance. No, Anita, I can't wait. Wait. You're not going to tell anyone anything ever. A sudden decision wasn't at Lance. And now Anita is dead. As you stand there staring down at the still body at your feet, as the terror of the moment leaves you, you tell yourself there was no other way. You had to kill Anita to prevent her from involving you in the death of Philip Leonard. You replace the heavy bronze bookend on the table, light a cigarette with trembling hands, begin to pace the floor of your apartment. You've got to think now, find a way to dispose of the body, and you've got to be very careful. There can't be any slip-up, Lance. Finally, you know exactly what you're going to do. The service elevator. Yes, you'll wait till it's dark, then take the body down to the basement garage when it will be deserted. Then you'll drive out of town, bury Anita's body somewhere in the hills, and she'll never be heard of again. Hello? Winnie, Mr. Cole. I tried to reach you earlier. Oh, yes, yes. What is it, Winnie? Mr. Davis called this afternoon after you left. He wanted to talk to you right away. I thought you'd want to call him. Oh, all right, Winnie. All right, all right. Mr. Cole, is there something wrong? Wrong? Why, no, no, of course not. Why? Well, it's just that I've noticed you've seemed a little upset the last few days. It's about the place. It's about the place. It's about the place. It's about the place. It's about the place. It's about the place. It's about the place. It's about the place. It's about the place. I suppose. Yes. Yes, I have been a little upset. But everything's all right now, Winnie. Yes, everything's going to work out fine. Just fine. It's about the place. Yes, Lance, you're confident now that everything is going to work out perfectly. Anita McCray is dead, and her story of how Philip Leonard died, died with her. Once you've taken Anita's body out of town and safely buried it, no one will ever connect you with her death. You hurry into the bedroom, search the closet for your old top coat, you wrap it around Anita, place the body on the davenport, and then... Frantically, you look for a place to hide Anita's body. Quickly, you place it behind your desk where it will be safe until you dismiss whoever is at the door. Coming. Hello, Lance. Cliff. Mind if we come in? No, wait a minute. I'd like you to meet someone, Lance. This is Miss Brock. Deborah Brock. How do you do, Mr. Cole? Brock, you're... You should have talked with Miss Brock yesterday yourself, Lance, instead of sending her to see me. She's made some serious accusations. Why, what do you mean? The play, Lance. Your play. Miss Brock says Philip wrote it. Philip? That's not true. It is, Mr. Cole. I know. Philip finished it almost two months ago. I read it for him up at the lodge. You? But I thought... How he promised me the lead. He couldn't. He promised the two. No, no, no. You're all wrong. No use, Lance. That scene you gave me the other day, the one you said you'd just written, Miss Brock hasn't seen it yet. You can quote it word for word. Oh, my. Oh, my. So I stole the play. There's nothing you can do about it. Nothing except expose you. Now, I'd like the original manuscript, if you please. Where is it? I'll send it to you. I want it now, Lance. Lydia will be happy to know that Philip wrote those lines about her, not you. Over here in your desk? No, don't go over there. Mr. Davis, what is it? What's the matter? You'd better call the police, Miss Brock. No, no, don't. Come over here. Just call them. There's something wrapped in a top coat here behind the desk. I think the police will be interested in seeing it. Operator, get me the police, quickly. Who was she, Lance? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Of course, you, Lance. Anita McCray. Did Philip promise Anita the lead, too? You should have known there would be more than one. Philip was always a ladies' man. The Whistler, whose strange story you have just heard, will be back next week with another tale from his never-ending files. This is the United States Armed Forces Radio Service, the voice of information and education. The United States Armed Forces Radio Service, the voice of information and education. The United States Armed Forces Radio Service, the voice of information and education. The United States Armed Forces Radio Service, the voice of information and education.
