And now stay tuned for the mystery program that is unique among all mystery programs. Because even when you know who's 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, Double Exposure. It was a summer's evening, quiet, calm, matching the gentle atmosphere of the quaint artist town of Cypress Point on the California coast. Clint Harwell was calm too as he walked down the street heading toward the drugstore. He was calm. His mind was undisturbed at ease. Clint Harwell was all of these things before he entered the drugstore. Yes, he could even take pleasure from the fact that the local newspaper was to run his picture in an early issue under the heading, Famed Architect to Wed Local Novelist. There would be a story about the homes Clint had built too, the pertinent facts about his background. And there would probably be little, if any, mention of the tragedy that had touched his life early last year, the accidental drowning of his wife, Corinne. In the drugstore, Clint waited with his back to the proprietor and customer that he was waiting on. Hey, have we all Mr. Willis? I think so, Doc. No razor blades, toothpaste, anything like that? Got them all, Doc. Well, I'll just wrap up these things for you. Be right there. Oh, no hurry, Doc. Any more trouble with those protection racketeers, Mr. Willis? Oh, I keep hearing from them. It's a dreadful thing, you know. Terrible. I certainly wouldn't give into them. There you are, Mr. Willis. Drop in again. Sure thing. Good night, Doc. Good night. Oh, I believe I know what you want, Mr. Harwell. Yes, sir, your pictures. Oh, got them developed, Doc? Oh, certainly. I do all that work myself, you know. Have the lab in the back. Really? I didn't know. Really? With all the seasons you've been coming down here? Well, anyway, they're ready. And believe me, they turned out fine. Let's see now. Check the file. CD, E, Fraser, Harris, Harwell. Yeah, there you are. Oh, thanks, Doc. How much is that? $1.39. Fair enough. Thank you. Oh, here you're settling down here now for good. That's right. Retiring? No, not exactly. I'll build a few houses. You know, new types. Give me a chance to experiment. By the way, Mr. Harwell, perhaps this isn't the time to mention it, but this is the first time I've had a chance to. I'm awfully sorry about Mrs. Harwell. She was such a wonderful person. Yes. Well, good evening, Doc. Good evening, Mr. Harwell. Drop in again. And that was all, wasn't it, Clint? So it seemed, anyway. Half a block from the drugstore and the bright glare of a store window, you pause, take out the photographs and glance through them. Interesting snapshots, all taken on a recent cruise along the coast. Yes, interesting, each of them. Until the last one, a shot of the sea. The sea, that was all when you took the shot. But now, Clint, what the devil? Something else, Clint, a woman's face. A woman's face staring, almost as if she's smiling up at you from the sea. And it's the face of your late wife, Corinne. It seems impossible, doesn't it, Clint, that the pharmacist or anyone could know that your wife's drowning wasn't really accidental, that you were directly responsible. But you must look into it further, you know that. You must learn what's behind the picture of your wife. You're certain it's a double print, but why? You know where to find that answer. You hurry back to the drugstore. It's almost closing soon. Doc is back toward you, talking on the phone. You watch your opportunity, slip inside and hide in the phone booth. Yes, Mrs. Williams, the boy should be there any minute now with your medicine. Not at all, glad to. Oh, it's been a busy day, all right, but I'm closing up now. Yeah, take care of yourself. Good night. The minutes seem years as you wait, don't they, Clint? Then finally, Doc Angelie's gone. You hurry from the phone booth to the dark room in the back of the drugstore. You close the door, snap on the light, and gasp at what you see. Good Lord! Good Lord! Surprised, Mr. Howard? What? Thought you'd have my dark room all to yourself, huh? I, uh, yes, I guess I did. How did you know I was here? Saw you when I left. Phone booths don't make very good hiding places, you know. Anyway, I sort of figured you might have something on your mind, something to do with pictures. Yes, these pictures on the wall. I'm afraid I don't understand them, Doc. Not at all. Is it so hard to understand, Mr. Harwell, that I'd want to surround myself with beauty? Your wife was beautiful, you know. I made all these pictures of her myself, covered my walls with them. You? You were in love with Corian? Why, I had no idea. Yes, I was in love with her. I don't believe even she knew that, though. I never told her. I didn't want to spoil the friendship we had. You and Corian? But when? I mean, how could you have known her? You left her alone a great deal of the time, Mr. Harwell. Remember, the last few years especially. She needed someone just to talk to. She used to come here to the drug store. They became good friends. She told me lots of things. All right. So you and Corian were good friends. Then I assume this snapshot, her face looking at me from the sea, that's all your idea, huh, Doc? Just a simple double print, Mr. Harwell. Call it bait if you want to. The point is you rose to the bait. Why? Why did you do it? When your wife drowned last season, Mr. Harwell, I went along with the accidental verdict the sheriff handed down. I was too shocked then to remember so many things she told me. Too shocked even to think about Louise Phillips, your present fiancée. What's Louise got to do with this? You were seeing her then. Everyone knew, even Corian. When I heard just recently that you and Louise planned to marry, I began to remember things Corian said to me. She was afraid of you, you know, afraid. And yet she loved you. I don't believe I'd say any more, Doc. She was afraid of the ocean too, loved to look at it, but deadly frightened to be on it, especially with you. She told me so herself. I've heard all of this I intend to. You don't have to hear any more, but Mr. Harwell, I think the sheriff might be interested in what I have to say, though. Oh, no, Doc. No, you're not going to the sheriff. Yes, I am, Mr. Harwell. No, you're not, Doc. You're not going to say a word to the sheriff or anybody else to arouse suspicion against me. You can't stop me, Harwell. There's no way. There's one way, Doc. I'll stop you. If I have to kill you. It seems minutes later, doesn't it, Clint? Minutes that are actually seconds when you stare at your hand, at the heavy piece of photographic equipment that it holds. And then you glance down at the floor of Doc's dark room, react again, shocked clean through at what you see. I... I did it. I... I did what I said. I... I have killed him. If you expect to be getting a new car soon, or if you'd like to keep that new car pep in your present car, here's an important point to remember. Just any motor oil won't do 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 Oil Company brought out Signal Premium Compounded Motor Oil, an improved type lubricant, especially engineered to give modern motors this extra protection. I emphasize the word compounded because in addition to its 100% pure paraffin base, Signal Premium contains scientific compounds specifically created to put an end to those enemies of engine life, carbon, gum, varnish, and corrosion. Thus, by keeping wear down, Signal Premium Compounded Motor Oil keeps performance up. So if you want to keep your motor young, make your next oil change a change to this extra-duty Signal Oil that does so much more than just lubricate. Change to Signal Premium Compounded Motor Oil at the same station where you fill up with the famous go-farther gasoline. Signal, that is. Whistling It's gone, isn't it, Clint? The quiet, the calm of the early evening. The peace of mind that seemed to be yours only a few short hours ago. Because now, in one swift movement of unreasoning rage, you've struck down the drugstore proprietor. You've murdered Doc Ainsley. Music It's all like a nightmare, the way Doc felt about your late wife. And then as the panic subsides, you know what you must do. You turn, quickly remove every picture of her from the walls of the darkroom. Wipe your fingerprints from the Werner weapon. Turn out the lights. Slip out the back way. And home. Music The next morning, it's all there, with the newsboys screaming the grim news. Extra, Sunrise Edition, local drug is found slain. Extra, Sunrise Edition. Music Knock, knock, knock. Hello? Clint? Oh, oh, Louise, hello. I've been wondering when you'd get back from San Francisco. Well, a shopping tour successful? Very. You asked me to dinner, you know I wasn't going to miss that. Oh, yes, of course, tonight. Fine, Louise, I'll call for you around eight, is that all right? Fine, Clint. Music You're relieved as you hang up the phone. It could have been a very different call, couldn't it, Clint? But you're safe now, aren't you? Safe in the knowledge that no one saw you anywhere near the drugstore. There would have been some word you're certain of that, too. But that evening as you and Louise return to her home after dining out, you receive a surprise. Well, here we are, Clint. Come in for a nightcap? Why, a pleasure. It's a pleasure to unlock my little hacienda again. Yes, I'll bet you missed it being away all week. I did. I couldn't decide which I missed more, my house or my fiancé. Oh, darling. Clint. You know, sweetheart, we've never talked about our house. Oh, I'd want to design it very specially. A big one for us. Big, small. What's the difference? Sit down, darling. I'll get some ice. All right. Well, I don't know. There could be a great deal of difference, Louise, at that. Not in the number of newspapers that pile up when you forget to tell them you're going to be away. I suppose not. Of course, the only news in this town today is about Doc Ainsley, poor devil. Oh, and the Curio store fire. I know. I threw all the newspapers away but that last one. Did you read about the witness? The witness? It's right there in the paper at your elbow. Read it while I'm fixing these. Witness? O.B. Willis, the man who owned the Curio store that was burned. He was hurrying down there when he saw someone rush out of Doc's drug store. He says he could identify him again if he saw him. What? Well, that's what he says. Why, Clint, what's the matter? Huh? Oh, nothing. Nothing really. I was trying to remember this. There's something important. Something I had to do this evening. Well, you needn't look so stricken about it. Besides, I'm the only thing that's important to you this evening. Oh, I remember now. A call, Louise. A call. I must make tonight. It's quite important. All right, darling. Make a call. The phone's right there, you know. No, no, no. I mean, I can't make the call here, Louise. It's, well, a little surprise. It has to do with our wedding, darling. It's the secret. Why, Clint, how romantic. I really hate running out on you like this but, well, you do understand. It's rather special. After all, it's very important. It is important, isn't it, Clint? Not a call but a hurried trip you're forced to make to catch the last edition of the local papers before they hit the street. Stop your picture from being published, even though it's in conjunction with that glowing account of your skill as an architect and your approaching marriage to Louise. Yes, you must stop it, Clint. And you pray there's still someone in the copy room as you pound on the door. Hey, look, I've got to talk to the editor, whoever's in charge. Well, I'm a man, I reckon, right now. Yes, I'm in charge. Oh, good, good. Then I'm not too late. My name's Harwell, Clint Harwell. You're running my picture tomorrow and I, well, I want it stopped. I have a perfectly good reason. Yeah, I'm sure you have. Sorry. You're sorry? Well, what do you mean? Nothing can be done about it, Mr. See, here, if you're in charge, I... Oh, I'm a man, all right, but only because everybody else has gone home. The paper's all printed up, been called for in the delivery truck. It ought to hit the streets any time now. Well, then why did you tell me... Mr., I'm the janitor. I've got to sweep up. Mind if I get back to my work? You're too late, aren't you, Clint? And you know what will happen as soon as O.B. Willis sees your picture in tomorrow's paper. And you're certain he will see it. He'll go to the sheriff, identify you as the man he saw running out of the drug store the night Doc Ainsley was murdered. You hurry out of the newspaper office, and with each step, the panic within you builds. You've got to fight it off, Clint. Get a hold of yourself and think things out. You'd run away tonight. Yes. But you know what that would mean. The end of everything you've worked for, your career. And there's Louise, too. You can't bear to think of losing her, can you? You've made a decision, haven't you, Clint? And ten minutes later, you arrive at a small cottage near the beach. Push through the gate. You hurry up the path to the front door and ring the bell. Oh, come on. Come on. Answer the door. Oh, shut up, Queenie. Be quiet, will you? You look up, peer through the darkness to the second-floor window of the house next door. You looking for Mr. Willis? Why, uh... Yes. He ain't home. Went out a couple of hours today. You from the insurance company? Insurance company? No, no, not. Uh, OB's been expecting one. That's the reason I asked. His store burned down last night. Suppose you heard about it. Oh, yes, I did. Imagine that's where he is now. Down at the store with a workman boarding up the place. Why don't you try there? Oh, thanks, but it's not really important. I'll see him in the morning. It's eight blocks from Willis' house along a tree-lined street, past Doc Ainsley's drugstore to the curio shop. And when you arrive there, the place is deserted. The workmen have gone. You stare at the charred remains of the building, and then turn and walk across the street to the lunch counter. Frog two. Obey easy, Sam. Evening, sir. Want to see a menu? No, I'll just have some coffee. Cream? Yes, please. Got some nice blueberry pie. Coffee. Okay. Is there anything else for you, Sheriff? Not a thing, Alice. How about you, Mr. Willis? No. Willis! Your eyes move quickly along the mirror behind the counter. Settle on the round face, little man, and you'll be fine. Obey Willis, Clint. The man who says he can identify you is Doc Ainsley's killer. You turn around, you're back to them. Pick up the newspaper lying on the counter. Good night, Alice. Good night. So long, fellas. And thanks. As the door closes behind them, you breathe a sigh of relief, don't you, Clint? That was close. Too close. You look up from your newspaper, glance out the front door. They're standing there, the Sheriff and Willis, talking quietly. You watch them out of the corner of your eye, your heart pounding wildly. And finally they move away. Your coffee, sir. Oh, thanks. Here you are. Ain't you going to drink your coffee? Sorry. I just remembered a very important appointment. You step out of the lunch room, see Willis and the Sheriff part company down the street. Moving quickly along the shadows, you hurry after the small round-faced man, Obey Willis, the witness, Clint. The man you know you've got to silence. You're only a half block behind him now as he makes his way to the front door. You're only a half block behind him now as he makes his way along the deserted, dimly lighted street. And then he turns into the park, slumps down on a bench, lights his pipe. You circle through the trees until you're standing directly behind him, then clenching the heavy rock tightly in your hand. You lift it high in the air. It'll all be over in a moment, won't it, Clint? You're about to step out and smash the rock down on his head when... Quickly you draw back into the shadows as you see this man approaching. That you, Obey? Huh? Oh, evening, Perry. Oh, evening. Thought you were still in San Francisco. I got back this afternoon. Good to sit on. Been on the go all day. Say, a lot's been going on around here while I was away. Just heard about Doug. Yes, a shame, a doggone shame. Hey, tell me you saw the killer. That's right, Perry. Running out back at the drugstore. Did you get a good look at him, did you? I sure did. I'd recognize him anywhere. I was on my way to the fire when I saw him. Oh, yeah. Sorry to hear about your fire, Obey. Them protection racket boys, huh? Yeah. Dirty skunks. One of them called me at the house just a little before 11. Said it was too bad I hadn't joined the association. Because something was going to happen to my store. How do you like that? That's when I ran down to the store, but I got there just a little bit too late. You insured, ain't you? Yes, and it's a good thing. I had a lot of money invested in that shop. You know, Obey, I've been thinking. Maybe there's some connection with Doc's murder and the fire at your place. How do you mean? Well, them protection boys again. At the time some of them were setting fire to your place, maybe a couple of strong-armed boys were over at Doc's, putting the pressure on him to sign up. Maybe they pressured too hard, killed Doc accidentally. Say, I never thought of that. It could have happened that way, Obey. Sure could have happened. Just like that. Yes, sir. He's right, isn't he, Clint? The blame for Doc Ainsley's death could very well be placed on the hoodlums who burned down Willis' store. And they could be blamed for killing Willis too. It's a perfect setup, isn't it? Yes. And it makes it all so much easier for you now to kill him. You hurry to your home, slip your revolver into your pocket, and then drive back toward the home of Obey Willis, park in the shadows a block away. Then you walk to a spot directly across the street and wait in the dark behind a palm tree for Willis to return. After what seems hours, Willis finally appears. For the time he reaches his front door, you're right behind him. What are you... Open the door. Get inside. Wait a minute, who are you? You heard me. Open the door. Now, inside. Who are you? What do you want? Don't recognize me, do you? Well, it's so dark in here... All right, pull the shades down. Then we'll turn on the light. Oh, yeah, and close the windows, too. All right, now the lights. Well, recognize me now? I... No, I... I don't know you. Come on, take a good look. I'm sorry, but I never saw you before. You're lying. No, no, I swear I've never... Last night on your way to the fire, you saw me run out of the drug store. No, please, I didn't... Wait a minute. That gun... What are you gonna do? Can't you guess, Mr. Willis? No, you can't. Somebody will hear you. Not with this pillow and the windows down. But you don't get it. If you'll just let me explain... Sorry, Mr. Willis, but it's too late for that. Now, here's a clue towards solving another mystery that's puzzling a lot of you. How to make today's shrinking dollars by full value. When it comes to gasoline dollars, if you want to be sure you're getting all the mileage you're paying for, naturally you want signal, the famous go farther gasoline. But mileage, mind you, is only one of the benefits you notice when you power your car with today's signal, the gasoline that's engineered to help your motor run more efficiently. In addition, you'll enjoy flashing pick-up, smooth purring power, the kind of going that gives you more smiles per gallon. Yes, driving pleasure and gasoline mileage are like birds of a feather. They go together. Want proof? Just try a couple of tankfuls of signal. Let the action of your own car show you why drivers interested in economy, as well as those who insist on peak performance, are both switching to signal, the famous go farther gasoline. It's done, isn't it, Clint? O.B. Willis is dead. You've killed him, and you know who they'll blame for the murder. Yes, the same man who set fire to his store because he wouldn't join their protective association. It's as simple as that, isn't it? And you're certain that you're in the clear. You step over the limp form lying in the middle of the room and slip your gun into your pocket. You'll drive to the beach, toss it into the sea. Then the only link connecting you with the killing of O.B. Willis will be missing forever. You turn out the lights, step into the hall, open the front door and start toward the street. And then you stop stunned as a car stops in front of the house. It's the sheriff's car, Clint. Hello. Why, Sheriff Carnes. Who are you? Clint Harwell. I'm a friend of O.B.'s. Just dropped by to see him. I found the door unlocked and went inside. He, oh, he isn't home. Sheriff, do you think he could have gone back to the store? Probably. Oh, Mr. Harwell, this is Johnny Fane, insurance adjuster from San Francisco. Mr. Harwell, how do you do? Mr. Fane is here to settle things with Willis. That's right. You see, we've found the man who set the fire. You have? I had an eye on him since Mr. Fane's company tipped me off about him six months ago. The man's a well-known arsonist. Burned down two other stores and two other cities during the past eight years. Wait a minute. You mean... O.B. Willis. We're convinced he set fire to a store himself. I don't understand. What about the men who threatened him, the protection racketeers? It's just a gag. He's used it before, too. But he couldn't have set the fire. No, at 11 o'clock last night... He said he was walking past Ainsley's drugstore, saw Doc's killer. Sure, that was his alibi. That put O.B. half a mile from the fire when it started. So he wanted us to believe. You... you mean he... he lied? Yeah, that's right. Willis didn't see Doc's killer. He wasn't anywhere near the drugstore at 11. He was setting fire to his own curio shop. Oh, no. It can't be. Well, we'll go on inside and wait for Willis to show up. You'd better come in with us, Mr. Harwell. You don't mind, do you? Let that whistle be your signal for the Signal Oil Program, the Whistler, each Sunday 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. Many drivers, when buying gasoline, forget what a big part of the price goes for tax. In fact, in the average western city, for every dollar you pay for gasoline itself, you pay an additional 33 cents in tax. So figure it up. The tax you pay on three would buy you another gallon free. Featured in tonight's story were Bill Foreman, Joseph Kearns, and Charlotte Lawrence. The Whistler was produced and directed by George W. Allen, with story by Joel Malone, music by Wilbur Hatch, and was transmitted to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. The Whistler is 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 at this same time next Sunday, another strange tale by the Whistler. Marvin Miller speaking for the Signal Oil Company. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
