Stand by for crime.
Hi, Chuck Morgan speaking. You know,
being a newscaster on a radio station the size of KLP puts me in line to meet a
lot of interesting people.
Like Joe Stanley for instance. Joe was a scientist.
He'd been employed by the government to work on some strictly hush-hush project, the
hydrogen bomb I think.
He came out here to the coast once or twice a year to huddle with airplane
factory executives, etc.
Usually on such occasions he bunked with me. Last week Joe was here
for a couple days. Thursday morning Carol Curtis, my secretary, and I drove him out
to the airport
to catch an early plane back to Washington. We said our goodbyes.
Watched the plane taxi down the runway for its takeoff.
Well, Glamopus, let's get started back. No way, Chuck.
I want to see the plane take off. Why? It's going to look like every other plane
you've ever seen taking off.
Well, I don't care. I want to see it just the same. Besides,
Joe wouldn't like it if we left now. Listen, if I know Joey's sound asleep by this time.
Flight 182 now loading at gate three for Kansas City, Chicago, and
New York. You know, Chuck, there's something sad about saying goodbye.
You like it though. Yes, it's a... what do you mean I like it?
Anytime a female can find something sad enough to weep about, she's in her element.
I'm not weeping. No, but you will before we get away from there.
Oh, is that so? Is that so? Hey,
here comes Joe's plane now. Oh, there's Joe.
Look, Chuck, he's waving. Goodbye, Joe. Wave to him, Chuck.
Nonsense, you didn't see Joe. I did too. He was sitting way up front in that little egg-shaped
room. That was the pilot, stupid.
It was not. I guess I can tell a pilot when I see one.
Okay, Glamour, push you win. Now come on, let's get going.
Chuck, wait. What's the matter now?
Joe's plane, it's coming back. Oh, no, he's just circling around. He's trying
to... hey. What if the motor's stopped?
I see it. Something's wrong.
I'm overcome now. I'm feeling...
This was the biggest news story of the year, the fourth disaster of its type within six
weeks. Sixty-eight people died as a result of that
last crash. Fifty of them were aboard the plane.
Eighteen of them occupied an apartment house into which the plane had plunged.
The co-pilot, a man named Jenkins, lived long enough to be rushed to a hospital.
Just before he died, he spoke two words, the light.
Well, it wasn't much to go on. But my friend Joe Stanley had died in that
crash and I was beginning to get ideas. That's why I took my problem to Pappy Mansfield,
owner of Station KOP. Now, let me get this straight, Chuck.
You're basing this cockeyed theory of yours on the fact that the co-pilot said something
about a light before he died. Is that right? Plus the fact that this has been the fourth
plane crash of its kind within two months under exactly the same circumstances.
Ah, coincidence. And the fact that Joe's plane, on Joe's plane,
get this Pappy, two motors conked out. Can you call that coincidence?
Those motors were checked and tested before the plane left the field.
I don't know, Chuck. Look, Pappy, for once in your life, why not
get with me? I've never let you down. But this theory of yours, that someone is trying
to... Now, take a look at this map of the city.
Now, right here's the airport. Yeah.
Over here's the apartment house the plane crashed into.
So? Now, over here is a hill.
Mm-hmm. Now, there's nothing on that hill but an
abandoned oil well. Practically every outgoing plane passes over that area.
And you're not going to tell me that someone is up there with a Buck Rogers.
Please stop, Pappy. Now, look. The derrick in that old well has been patched up and the
shack at the bottom has been lived in. Oh, dozens of abandoned well shacks are occupied
by hobos. Uh-huh.
And you think that one of these hobos fixed up that tumbled down derrick just for the
exercise to you? Well...
Well... All right, Pappy. There's something wrong
about the whole thing. Now, look. It'd be a terrific scoop for K.O.P. if we smelled
out the rat. Well, what do you want me to do?
There's an engineer out of the K.O.P. transmitter named Bill Adams. Bill knows more about electronics
and Einstein. Let me have him for a few days.
And close down the station? We couldn't operate without Bill.
You won't be operating anyhow if someone scoops me on this story.
Well, okay, boy. We both knew when we began this conversation that you'd get what you
wanted. Only get this. Unless you return Bill Adams to the transmitter in good health,
well, I'll renovate...
That was Pappy. Always pulling the hard-to-get-along-with act and then giving in.
I picked up Carol and we drove out to where K.O.P.'s transmitter is located and had a
talk with Bill Adams. Bill wanted to be helpful, but it was obvious
he had his doubts about my sanity. Anyway, I gave him my ideas and asked him to
check into them. But we came away from there with the feeling
that we were wasting the time of Pappy Mansfield's highest-paid senior engineer.
You know something, Chuckie boy? I think Bill Adams thought you were nuts.
Well, maybe I am, but they thought the Wright brothers were too.
But they're older than you, though. Right remark.
I think so. Well, where do we go from here?
You are going to the city hall and find out who owns that oil well.
And where are you going? I'm going out to that demolished apartment
house and have a look around. Then that's where I'm going.
Oh, no, you're not. Oh, yes, I am.
Oh, no, you're not. For the first time that I can remember, I
won an argument with Glamour Puss. This was accomplished by driving to city hall
and practically pushing her out of the car. It was late in the afternoon when I reached
the apartment house. The workmen were just quitting for the day.
I parked the jalopy and walked around back. A man in Levi's, wearing a hearing aid, was
putting some carpenter tools back into a box. Hello there.
You one of the workmen? Yes.
Just quitting for the day. The place was pretty badly damaged, wasn't
it? About $50,000, I say.
That's quite a hunk of money. You know, there was a friend of mine on that
plane. Oh, a passenger?
Yeah. I don't suppose any of you workmen picked
up any of the personal effects of the passengers? Personal effects? No, not that I know of.
The workmen hadn't expected the question. As a matter of fact, I hadn't intended to
ask it. It was just something to say. His eyes darted to the toolbox.
I took a couple steps forward. There was a briefcase lying on the ground behind
it. This yours?
Yes, give it to me. Wait a minute now.
There's some initials here. JS, what's your name, friend?
Him? Yeah. It's John, John Simpsons.
That's quick thinking. Suppose you open up the case and show me what's inside, huh?
Why should I do that? Because I'm telling you to.
Telling or asking? Telling.
Well I'm telling you to mind your own business. Take it easy, friend.
Let go of my arm. Sure, I'll let go of your arm, but first let
you and me have a little talk, huh? I cannot open the briefcase. I haven't got
the key. Where is it?
It's home. I forget it. What's in the briefcase?
Fluke friends. I'm a draftsman. Ask the foreman.
Where is he? He left ten minutes ago.
Let go of my arm. Okay. Sure. There you are.
So far, Mr. Simpson, everything you've told me is very convenient.
You left the key home. The foreman's gone for the day.
And somehow it doesn't figure. That briefcase looks exactly like the one
my friend Joe Stanley was carrying when I put him aboard the plane.
All briefcases look alike. Who are you, anyfe?
The name's Morgan. Chuck Morgan. I'm a newscaster and station KOP.
I never heard of you. Fair enough.
You know something, Simpson? I think you're a liar.
Why you? Don't try that again.
This time I might break your arm. Then give me my briefcase.
No. I'm sticking my chin out on this when I'm taking the briefcase with me.
And I am swearing out a warrant for robbery. That's your privilege.
Here's my card. The address is right there. If you're on the level, you can have me arrested.
If you're not, I'll have you arrested.
I took the briefcase and drove to KOP. Kara was there and she had my script ready
for the seven o'clock broadcast. Is your script?
What in the world is that? It's a briefcase. I just bought it from a
second-hand dealer. He assures me that it contains a small fortune
and one hundred dollar bank notes. But Chuck, it looks like...
Look, never mind what it looks like. Stash it away someplace until I can get hold
of a locksmith. What did you find out about the oil well?
The well and the hill are owned by Belfast Oil Corporation.
They quit it eight years ago. Right now, all of their operations are in
Texas. Good. Get hold of Burt Mayfair, police headquarters,
and tell him I want him on hand when the locksmith opens that briefcase.
Okay. But Chuck, where did you really get it?
From an ugly man in blue overalls who's now swearing out a warrant for my arrest.
Well, I did my seven o'clock newscast and I told the listening public that at the eleven
o'clock program, I hoped to have some information that would break the airplane crash story
wide open. But I wasn't anywhere near as confident as
I sounded. I have expected to see the man in the Levi's
and a police officer waiting for me in the corridor outside the studio.
But the corridor was empty. So was my office.
Not even Kara was around to needle me about the bragging I'd done over the air.
So I drove out to my apartment on Wilshire. It was dark by now.
Man locked the door, went in. Before I could snap on the wall switch, somebody
beat me to it. I spun around and found the ugly man in the
blue overalls standing across the room. This time he had a gun in his hand.
All right, Mr. Morgan. I'll take the briefcase.
Now, the conclusion of Stand By for Crime. Well, the guy wasn't pretending this time.
The gun was all he needed to give his face that ratty expression that it came by so naturally.
So it's you again, rat face. What's the matter? Are you afraid the cops would put your name
on that warrant instead of mine? My time is short, Mr. Morgan.
Hand over the briefcase. There's a smart remark.
How am I going to hand over something I haven't got?
Then you will tell me what you did with it. Will I?
Or I will take measures to force you to tell. Such as shooting me, I suppose?
Don't be a jerk, Simpson or Sampson, or whatever your name is.
Shooting me would mean you'd never find the briefcase.
You're quite right. It would be stupid of me to shoot you.
But there are other ways. Oh?
In exactly one minute, your telephone will ring. The man at the other end will have some
interesting information for you about Miss Carol Curtis.
About Carol? Oh, that one won't work either, buster. I left Carol at the studio 15 minutes
ago. Did you think, Mr. Morgan, was it before or
after you broadcasted you last saw Miss Curtis? I was...
Simpson, if you touch that girl, I'll break... You'll do nothing, Mr. Morgan. Nothing at
all. Leave the phone alone.
This time I'm giving the orders. Hello?
3486? Right. Put on the line, please.
Very well, Mr. Morgan. Hello? Hello?
Chuck? Chuck, is that you? Carol, where are you?
I can't tell you, Chuck. They'll kill me if I do.
Why, those are dirty. I'll... It's no use, Chuck. You can never find me.
Please give them the briefcase. Please, Chuck. Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. I'll give it to them.
But what about you? As soon as they have the briefcase, they'll
let me go. They promised. They promised, huh?
Listen, Chuck, it's important that I get away from here so that I can give you that information
you asked me to get for you at City Hall this afternoon. You want to know about that, don't
you? I stood there holding the phone, trying to
get the numbness out of my brain. And gradually it came to me. If Carol was so afraid of being
killed, why didn't she tell her captors where the briefcase was, or was she who had stashed
it away? And why did she keep reminding me about the
information she'd gotten at City Hall? She'd already told me about that.
And suddenly I had it. The oil well. That's where she was being held prisoner.
She was trying to tell me by referring to the information.
Ah, smart girl, that blonde secretary of mine. Yeah, so what? I could still feel rat face's
gun pressed into my back. And I thought of something. The phone I was
holding had an extension cord on it. I'd had it installed when I moved into the place
because sometimes I like to walk around while doing my telephoning.
I hung up slowly. My fingers curled around the heavy base of the phone.
Well, Mr. Morgan? Right, Mr. Simpson!
Well Buster, that takes care of you. Buster seemed to be sleeping peacefully and
deeply. I got a couple of belts, buckled them around
his arms and legs and found them away in my bedroom closet for future reference.
Then I got into the car and headed for the oil well.
It was about 8.15 when I turned into the side road that skirted the base of the hill.
I'd parked the jalopy and started up toward the summit when the thought occurred to me
that maybe I should have had the police in on this.
And the clock was going to be big stuff. But Carol was up there and in trouble and I
hadn't had time to do much thinking about anything else.
As I got up toward the top of the hill, I realized how deserted this spot was.
It was a strange feeling. Below, the lights of the great sprawling city
spread out endlessly. Ahead, the skeleton-like framework of the well,
Derek, was etched against the sky in ghostly silhouette.
Then a figure stepped in my path and I caught a glint of steel.
I lunged forward, wrapped my arms around his legs.
He fell over my shoulder and I had him in a fireman's grip.
I spun around and let go. He landed about ten feet down the slope and
cracked his head against a rock. Well, that was number two.
The next one might not be so easy to handle. The well shack was just ahead.
Lights streamed from beneath its door. I stopped and considered the situation.
I'd be crazy to go barging in. Or would I?
Wasn't it the last thing anyone would expect? Then the problem was solved for me.
The door opened and Carol Curtis stood framed against the light.
Carol! Hello, Chuck? Is that you?
We thought we heard someone. Carol was looking at me steadily.
I looked and told me to watch myself. Come on in. I want you to meet someone.
You all right, Clamopus? Oh, yes. I'm fine.
Chuck, I want you to meet Dr. Robert Burden. He's an inventor.
How do you do, Mr. Morgan? How do you do? Miss Curtis has been telling me about you.
What an interesting life you have. I've heard you broadcast many, many times.
Yes, I have. Thanks. Look, Clamopus.
Dr. Burden was kind enough to untie me after that other man left.
But of course I had to promise not to run away.
Yeah, sure. But what other man are you talking about?
Well, his name, I think, is Snyde or something like that.
A dreadful person. Really dreadful. Not at all like Ivan.
Who's Ivan? Ivan? Ivan Stuka.
He's the gentleman who pays me to stay here and work on my invention.
He pays me well, too.
Does this Ivan happen to be a man with blonde hair who wears a hearing aid?
Yes, yes, indeed. That's exactly who he is.
It was Ivan who repaired the derrick. Oh, you know him, then?
Yeah, a telephone acquaintance.
Dr. Burden has been telling me about his invention.
How about explaining it to Chuck, Dr. Burden?
Well, I don't know. Ivan might object, and after all, it is his money.
But if Ivan doesn't know, it won't make any difference.
And Chuck would never tell anyone, would you, Chuck?
Cross my heart and hope to die. What kind of an invention is it, Doctor?
Well, it's an electric current interceptor.
Of what? Here, let me show you.
Now, this is a small model. It looks like a pistol, doesn't it?
Well, you see, I point it at that electric bulb over there, and puff, the bulb is out.
Well, I hope you... Quite a gadget, isn't it, Chuck?
Yeah, quite. How do you do it, Doc, with mirrors or something?
Oh, no, no, no, no, not at all. It took me years to perfect this instrument.
As a matter of fact, if it hadn't been for Ivan, I might never have succeeded.
How's that? Well, you see, during the last war, I got the idea,
but I had to have financing. And naturally, I went to the government.
I thought they might be interested in an invention that could put an airplane out of commission,
merely by projecting a ray toward one of its motors.
Yeah, I should think they might. What happened?
Mr. Morgan, believe it or not, no one would listen to me.
Oh, I went back time and time again, and finally, well, finally I became sick.
Dr. Burton spent three years in a sanitarium.
Oh, I see. And when you were released, you met Ivan.
Yeah, oh, a fine man, Ivan. He felt that if I came up here to live away from everybody,
I could work on my invention undisturbed.
Ivan arranged for the turning on of the power and the telephone, and just everything.
I've been quite comfortable.
When did you get this invention of yours working?
Well, about six weeks ago. Oh, I tell you, it was exciting.
Ivan was most pleased. I'll bet. How did you test it out?
Why, on a plane coming out of the airport, of course.
That's why Ivan wanted me to come up here in the first place.
He said we'd have plenty of subjects to work on, when he was right to.
Oh, I tell you, it was a thrilling moment.
When I put that first plane out of commission, oh, it made a tremendous crash.
Yeah, yeah, I read about it. Weren't you worried about the passengers?
Worryed? The passengers? Well, that's funny. I never thought of that.
I'll bet Ivan did, particularly the planes on which important government officials were riding.
By the way, doctor, I suppose you have the plans of your invention down on paper.
That's a funny thing. Ivan keeps asking me about that. Why should I put them down on paper when they're all right here in my head?
No reason at all, except if you ever wanted to sell the idea.
No, no, no, but I don't. No, sir, I've had my experience of that sort of thing and no one would listen to me.
Just as long as Ivan will pay me, I'm going to stay right here.
And continue to blast planes out of the sky.
Does that seem quite right, Dr. Burden, with all those passengers aboard?
Yes, there was passengers. It's funny, I never thought about them before. I must do something about them. I really must.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, in the meantime, Dr. Burden, suppose you tell me just...
All right, Morgan, get your hands up. Snyde, close the door.
Well, well, if it isn't rat-faced and the gentleman who rode down the hill.
A more permanent fate is a store for you, my friend. Doctor, what have you told these people?
No, no, no, Ivan, no, no, you mustn't be displeased. I merely told them about my invention.
You fool! Now it will become necessary for me to dispose of both of them.
I'll bet that would break your heart. You're so unused to killing people. After all, only 68 died because of that last crash.
So two more won't make any difference, will it, Mr. Morgan?
Except that you still don't know where the briefcase is.
The secret of the ray gun is, I think, far more important than the plants contained in the briefcase.
You see what kind of a rat your friend is, Doctor? He's going to murder Miss Curtis and me,
and then continue to induce you to blast planes out of the sky, killing innocent people.
Yes, yes, I must do something about those passengers. I simply must.
Now, Ivan, you suppose that we could arrange something...
No! You will continue to experiment with the plays I suggest,
or there will no longer be funds to permit you to continue working on your inventions.
Well, now, now, now, now, I...
You're making a murderer out of you, Doctor, without you realizing it. This man is an agent...
Shut up! Snipe, take care of the girl.
All right, Morgan, this is it. Stop!
A change had come over Dr. Burton. His voice had a commanding quality, a vibrance that made us all turn and stare at him.
Ivan's gun was still trained on me, but he turned his face to watch the doctor.
Snipe had taken two steps toward Carol and stopped.
Drop that gun, Stuka! From now on, I'm giving the orders.
Ivan didn't answer. None of us did. We all saw what was happening.
Dr. Burton had his ray gun pointed at the electric hearing aid on Ivan's head.
I could see the indecision on Ivan's face.
He was wondering whether he could swing his gun away from me and get the doctor in time to save himself.
I could almost hear the thoughts racing through his mind.
He knew that Dr. Burton had suddenly had a change of heart.
If he, Ivan, didn't succeed in shooting the gun out of the inventor's hand,
it would mean the ruination of all his beautiful plans.
It would mean the gas chamber for himself had snide.
There was only one course open for him.
Drop that gun, I said. I'll drop it.
Stop!
Carol and I got back to the studio on time for the 11 o'clock broadcast.
It made a good story.
Of course, everyone wanted to know about the ray gun,
but Ivan's bullet had entered the inventor's heart.
At the precise instant, the ray gun had sent Ivan to his ancestors via the hearing aid.
So the secret died with Dr. Burton,
and all I know is what the doctor had told me and what I saw.
Yeah, sure, there were plenty of skeptics.
Even in this age of atomic weapons and jet planes and radar,
and injected electric impulses, a lot of people weren't ready to accept ray guns.
However, if no more motors conk out after planes leave the airport,
it'll be pretty conclusive proof that Dr. Burton did invent some sort of electric current interceptor.
Well, anyway, time will tell that story.
There was one question that Carol wanted cleared up,
so she caught me about it at lunch the next day.
Mmm, this chicken salad is delicious.
I personally go for hamburgers.
You can eat chicken salad for once and like it.
I can eat it, but I won't like it.
Say, Chuck, there must have been some reason why you were convinced that Ivan was a phony.
Well, as a matter of fact, it was. However, I'd rather not mention it.
Rather not mention it? But why?
I'd just rather not, that's all.
Chuck Morgan, you tell me.
Oh, no, Glamourpus, you might think me a modest.
Oh, fiddly-dee. Come on, make with the words.
Well, if you insist.
I do.
All right.
You remember when I first met Ivan at the apartment house?
Yes.
Well, I explained to him that I was Chuck Morgan, newscaster at KOP.
Well?
Well, he said he'd never heard of me.
Oh, Chuck!