Original subtitles

Not much left of it, Joe.

Yeah, tried to stand, but there wasn't a chance.

The car stood right in the middle of the track.

Did you see how many people were in it?

Only that guy over there, as fast as I can see.

He was standin' down the front seat of the car,

just like he passed out or somethin'.

Still digging your grave with the knife and fork, I see, Willard.

You must be done pretty deep by now.

Thinking about the breakfast, all I can do for a better job

is digging my grave with my knife and fork as you so quickly observed, Mr. Keats.

Let me recommend something like that for you.

Maybe one of those breakfast steaks of Wally's

would make a real newspaper man of you.

How about it, Mr. Keats? Only take a minute to cook it.

Yeah. I know Wally, in thirty seconds they eat it.

No, thanks, just give me a cup of black coffee.

Only something with the body of a man

the soul of a rat and the brain of a dinosaur

would think of stuffing his belly at this early hour.

Of course, don't get me wrong, I love all editors, especially fat ones.

Now that I'm not longer working for him.

That's right, Wally.

Ah, Mr. Keats is retired from the regular staff,

he now has an office of his own and reports directly to the publisher.

Ah, success!

What that ungrateful Gargant�a is trying to say, Wally,

is that the former ace crime reporter of the Record Herald,

meaning myself, is now a feature writer.

I work on my own time, I choose my own subjects,

not to mention selecting my own boss.

More coffee.

It's wonderful why you scoop everybody on the Wharton case.

It was more about it in this morning's paper.

A member, says... here, Jason...

Jason Sloan, well known leather goods manufacturer who was killed last night

when his car was struck by the UPT Unlimited at the crossing at Chesterville.

Mr. Sloan was a member of the famous Wharton trial jury

and it's the second one of that group

to make for an accidental death in the past month.

Say! That's exactly what it says here!

It should, Wally. I wrote the story myself.

What's more, I've just come from the morgue.

I love the morgue.

Joe, I'm trying to eat my breakfast. Stop talking about the morgue.

When I was about to offer him an exclusive,

one the finest featured stories ever written.

It has horror, suspense, the dangerous sudden death

dropping mysteriously out of the night upon unsuspecting victims.

Drivel!

Do you see, Wally, I happen to know that Jason Sloan is not the second one

of the board of jurors who died recently. He's the fourth.

What?

The possibilities of this kind of stories should be obvious for any real newspaper editor.

Joe!

Can't you see the headlines?

Revenge from beyond the grave.

Members of the jury quitting in fear.

Cut up the hand acting! What's this about four members of the jury being dead?

- And a fifth one is missing. - Come on! We've to talk this over in my office.

Put all that I owe you on my ticket, Wally.

And that includes my coffee.

Now I see the whole thing it's a feature series

the jury with the dying men curse on it. Four have died already, who'll be next?

Come on, let's get this happen.

And there's the Wharton's jury.

The first to go is Baxter, the next is Wenstead, then Lewis, now Sloan,

with this Channing missing. Headline: Who will be next?

That's a good angle.

The Wharton case is on more papers than any murder trial in the last ten years

What if someone is trying to bump off the entire Wharton jury?

No, wait a minute.

The fact that four members of the jury that mistakenly convicted Harry Wharton

of murder have all died of accidental death in the past six months,

is good human interest, will sold a lot of papers,

but don't make yourself ridiculous by implying you have a private hook-up

with what is going to happen tomorrow. - Alright, that was just a thought.

You know me and my hunches.

Let me have this stuff as fast as you can get it out.

By the way, wouldn't I have a dictaphone?

What's the matter with dictating to a secretary?

No. Mr. Apple, you know about dictating to a pretty secretary.

My mind is up to wander.

And a pretty secretary taking dictation from me...

Ah, no. Her mind is able to wander.

- Well, if you want to stop in a hurry... - No...

Once again, the tragic story of Harry J. Wharton

finds its way to the pages of this newspaper.

Harry Wharton, a rich young man of our town,

was tried for his life on the murder of Marie Chapelle.

Convicted by a jury of his peers and sentenced to be hanged

for a crime he did not commit.

Marie Chapelle was one of those who neither toiled nor spun.

She was from a different social stratum than Harry Wharton,

but somehow she caught the young man's fancy.

Then, one night...

Marie.

Wake up!

Who's there? Who's there?

But Harry Wharton was convicted of a crime he did not commit.

HARRY WHARTON CHARGED WITH MURDER

Mr. George Szabo.

The D. A. is using George Szabo as a surprise witness

to place you at the scene of the crime.

Do you know anything about him?

I don't think I ever saw him before.

Mr. Szabo, am I do understand, you actually heard the fatal shots?

Yes, sir. I was outside the apartment house when I heard the shots.

Miss Marie Chapelle, the deceased, hired me to tail Mr. Wharton,

follow him. That's my business, I'm a private detective.

Mr. Szabo, why did Miss Chapelle asked you to have Mr. Wharton followed?

Marie, eh... Miss Chapelle was afraid he'll run out on her,

not get through with his promise of marriage.

I object!

HARRY WHARTON TO TESTIFY TODAY. ACCUSED TAKES STAND IN OWN DEFENSE.

Mr. Wharton,

did you o did you not fire the shots that took Marie Chapelles' life?

I did not.

Was there any reason for you to desire the death of the girl?

None, whatsoever.

Now, tell us in your own words, Mr. Wharton,

exactly what happened and where on the evening the crime was committed.

I was having dinner at the Athletic Club and...

- What time was that? - I'd say it was about 8:15 or 8:45

HARRY WHARTON JURY STILL OUT

You know I'd like to see that poor guy get a break.

And that's on the level. - Not a chance.

They've got enough on Wharton to hang him twice.

Yeah, maybe so. But there's something too pat about this case.

Uh, uh, here they come.

Please, raise.

Please, seated.

Court will come to order.

Prisoner will raise and face the jury.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon the verdict?

We have, Your Honor.

The clerk will read the verdict.

We, the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged.

Attention, question, the jury will be told, Your Honor.

Clerk will pool all of yours.

- Jerome K. Bentley, is this your verdict? - Yes.

- Peter Jackson, is this your verdict? - Yes.

But I mean as...!

I am innocent!

- Emily Staggler, is this your verdict? - Yes.

- Charles Wenstead, is this your verdict? - Yes.

- Abby Nordick, is this your verdict? - Yes.

- Alice Hill, is this your verdict? - Yes.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

Those words seem to burn their way in the Wharton's mind.

- Hello. - Hello, cherry blossom.

Just in time for the first installment.

Take those as a lucky good girl, and tell Falstaff I'm going right ahead.

It takes a long time to hang a man in this great State of ours.

The sovereign people are careful. They don't want to make any mistakes.

Friends of Wharton rely to his aye.

The remotions and appeals and interviews with the Governor all to no avail.

Harry Wharton have been found guilty by a jury of his peers.

Twelve tried and true men and women setting in legal judgement.

The law must take its course.

Dominus noster Jesus Christi absolvat, et ego auctoritate

ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis,

et interdicti, in quantum possum, et tu indiges.

Deinde ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis,

in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

Why don't they hang me?

What are they waiting for?

Hang me! Hang me!

I guess I was the only one to continue to believe in Wharton's innocence

with nothing stronger than my own personal hunch.

I kept up and I even fight.

Then, on the night before Harry Wharton was to be hanged,

I made my way to Wally's Grotte.

Hello, Mr. Keats.

Hello, there, Mr. Szabo.

Make my coffee.

I've been looking for you.

I thought I might do an interview on you.

You know, something about the feelings of the guy whose testimony

put the rope in the other man's neck,

the night before the other fellow hangs.

I don't give out interviews.

I don't know what you game is, Keats, but let me give you a little advice:

Snoopin' around where you are not wanted is liable to earn a hole in the head.

Here you are, Wally. It sounds kind of curley.

It sounds kind of touchy.

WHARTON TO HANG TOMORROW. CONVICTED PLAYBOY TO PAY WITH HIS LIFE.

This time they got me,

they got me for keeps.

- Who was it, Szabo? Who shot you? - The dirty double-crosser.

This is the way he pays me off.

I know too much, see? But bullets are cheaper than...

How bad am I? - I can't tell you, George. How do you feel?

- I don't feel nothing, I'm numb. - I'm afraid you're pretty bad, then, George.

You got something you want to get of of your chest?

- Yeah. - About Wharton?

Yeah.

He was framed.

Framed by thy named Gordon Cook.

Framed by Gordon Cook. Marie Chapelle was his girl.

Rat! He was supposed to give me the rest of my dough tonight.

Hey, I need someone to witness this confession lesson.

Then followed a race against time.

Only a few hours stood between Harry Wharton and eternity.

They were lawyers to see, depositions to be made,

last minute appeals to the Governor.

The wheels of Justice were made to turn backward.

Then, as the cold gray lied of dawn crept in the Harry Wharton's death cell,

the warden brought the news of his pardon.

Don't you understand, Harry? You're a free man.

Mr. Keats, here, discovered new evidence in your case

and the Governor acted immediately.

I'm not going to hang?

I'm not going to hang.

Why, I've been hanged a hundred times already.

I'm a dead man, one of the living dead.

Every time somebody marched down those stairs, I marched with him.

I've hanged so many men on the gallows,

the rope no longer chokes me.

That's funny, isn't it?

- Let's go down to my office, Harry. - Just a minute, warden.

Did you know that everything in these cells is done by twelves?

There are 12 bars from the ceiling to the floor.

It's exactly 12 steps around the inside of this.

The guard takes just 12 steps

from the stairs to here.

Everything, everywhere, in twelves!

Like a jury! Twelve!

Twelve! Twelve!

The story of Harry Wharton, gentle reader, deserves a happy ending.

But such was not to be.

The man's mind crumbled the way during those dark months in the death house.

When he was freed, he went directly to a private hospital for treatment.

For a while, his condition seemed to improve.

He received visitors, some of them members of the jury who had convicted him,

anxious to make amends for the suffering they caused him.

You have a visitor downstairs, Mr. Wharton. Would you like to see him?

- Certainly. - I'll send him right up.

Oh, I'm going off duty now.

If you need anything, just ring for the floor nurse.

Thank you, nurse.

I have everything I need.

A few hours later, the nurse heard strange crackling noises

coming from Harry Wharton's room.

Go ahead, quick!

Hospital attendants rushed, smashed their way into the room,

but to no avail.

Weary of living within the sort of mental twilight which was his existence,

Harry Wharton had taken twelve feet of clothes line from the hospital laundry,

set fire to his room and hanged himself.

When the flames were extinguished,

it was discovered that Harry Wharton's body had been burnt beyond recognition.

Harry Wharton died for the last time.

This time of his own choice and by his own hand.

- Good morning, Willard. - 'Morning.

Just like the first stuff, sounds pretty good.

Pretty good. The trouble of you, Mr. Apple can be summed up in one word:

Worms. - Worms?

Yes, worms. You're full of holes, you're aching with jealousy.

No yell. I don't want to give me your reaction on the Wharton case.

I want the reader interest.

The ghost of Harry Wharton stalking the twelve people who convicted him.

Say, whose idea is this?

I am gonna personally interview each and everyone of those jurors.

I've got statements and pictures and live stories.

And, incidentally, scare the pants off of people.

That's the stuff! Now, you're talking like...

Like your favorite reporter, I know.

And before I get through, I hope you get sued for violating somebody's privacy.

Say, how is that from the publicity angle?

Let me worry about the exploitation, you just get the stories.

Do you like my coffee?

ALICE HILL. ANTIQUES

I don't mean to seem rude, but

your attempts to capitalize a series of coincidences into sensation

lies them are both cheap and revolving.

Just tell me what your first reaction was when you read in the Record Herald

that five of your fellow jurors had been accidentally killed.

Mr. Keats, you can tell me to repeat, but I did not read in the Record Herald

where five of my fellow jurors were dead.

I don't read the Record Herald.

I told you that yesterday night, I told you that the day before.

Alright, Miss Hill, but what if there's something back of all this coincidental deaths?

Rubbish!

You said that no, but if tonight or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow,

another juror dies strangely and suddenly,

what would you say then?

I think, good afternoon, Mr. Keats.

Now, if you don't mind, I have an appointment.

By the way, do you have a new photograph of yourself?

The ones taken when you were on the jury are terrible.

I warn you. I wouldn't be a part in any of your cheap publicity instances.

No picture, no interview, no story.

You make a newspapers man life very difficult, Miss Hill.

I'm sorry.

Picture of you would've looked nice too, sort of dress up the page.

Couldn't just spare even a little snapshot? So big....

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

You mustn't mind her. She's been even terribly upset about the whole thing.

Tell her to forget it. She's a pretty girl. She'll wrinkle.

I tell her that all the time, but she is so serious.

Say her conscience has never given her a minute of peace

since that poor Mr. Wharton hanged himself.

- She'll have to relax. - Oh, Mr. Keats,

here's something for you. Personal affairs.

Hey, thanks.

Oh, Tex, did you call about a ship in a glass?

- Why, yes, Alice. - Well, goodbye again.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Wow, goodbye.

Nothing quite as precious as a fresh newspaperman.

Well, got that I have a date for tea.

- Who's it? - Jerome K. Bentley.

- Who? - He was the foreman at the Wharton jury.

Wants to talk to me about furnishing an old house he bought at New Buckminster.

Called this morning. I haven't seen him or heard ever since the trial.

Well, I see you later, Tex. - So long, honey

I... remember from a jury acquaintance that you're a dealer on antiques.

When I bought my old house I thought of you at once.

It's very nice of you, Mr. Bentley. I'm sure we'll have some things for you to like.

I'm anxious to see your house. - You shall see it, Miss Hill.

I promise you. Very soon.

- Shall we go? - Yes.

One moment, Sir. You forgot your gloves.

Thank you.

Don't read over my shoulder. It makes me nervous.

Sorry, I was strong on avoid looking at your face.

- What's the matter? Hangover? - I've never drunk for four days.

You must be in love.

Look out and think, maybe we ought to wind up the articles on the Wharton case.

Are you crazy? This is the best feature we had since the trial.

Yes, just cheap sensationalism. Who are we trying to fool?

I 've been over you, over to those people around the jury.

They are nice folks, minding their business, doing their job.

What civilian source has been talking to you.

Snap out this, Joe, this is the newspaper business.

Alright, might correct him, suspect him,

you've been seeing too much a certain lady juror.

Looks like I've kept kidding about Alice. I'm serious.

Okay, but do me a favor, will you?

Go on down to Wally's. You need a good breakfast. Cheer up!

Why don't you concentrate on your own ways long and leave mine alone?

- Hello, Marcy. - Hello.

There's a way office feed.

Oh, it's terrible the things a woman can do to a man.

The mayor has been calling you, Mr. Apple, I promised that you'd call right back

Oh, yeah, yeah...

WOMAN JUROR ON THE WHARTON CASE KILLED. NO ONE WITNESSED THE ACCIDENT.

CAR EVIDENTLY WENT OUT OF CONTROL. SHE WAS DEAD WHEN RESCUERS REACHED HER.

Wally, you are an authority on women, tell me something.

I don't know a thing about them. I don't even let them in the place.

You had, my friend, proved you are an authority.

I would ask your advice on a pure hypothetical case.

Friend of mine. This friend of mine got interested in a girl.

He never intended to get interested in her.

He made it in the line of duty and sort of fell for.

Pardon.

Hello. Oh, hello, Mr. Apple..

Yes, yes, he's here. Your boss, Joe.

Tell him I'm seeing a man about a steam shovel.

It's funny, seems he stepped out for a second, Mr. Apple.

Yes, okay, I'll tell him, you bet.

Joe, he's pretty excited. He said another juror of the Wharton case had been killed.

This time, a woman. - A woman?

- Was it Alice Hill? - It didn't say.

Just said for you to get over the morgue as fast as you can.

The morgue!

- Hello, Joe. - Hello, inspector.

Alright, Mike.

Name of deceased: Mrs. Emily Staggler. Occupation: housewife.

Cause of death: strangulation.

- Where do they find her, inspector? - Out on Highway 9.

Whoever strangled her over there in her own car,

then they run the car over and back and then tried to set fire to it.

Couldn't burn much because the gas tank was nearly empty.

And you and the guys were writing those articles about Harry Wharton

that step about vengeance from beyond the grave.

- That's right. - How all of this make you feel?

You mean do I feel like that even viewing it through a crystal ball,

for telling the future and all that?

No. I mean how is the feeling being responsible for a nice fresh crime, will you?

Everything was going along nice and quietly

and you decided to revive the Wharton case,

then some homeless crime turns homicidal maniac

because he thinks he ought to avenge a miscarriage of justice.

Take it easy, inspector. Don't try to pin this on me.

It was several members of the Wharton jury who died

before I even started writing the articles. Remember?

Now, those were just coincidences. They died accidentally.

But that red ring around the lady's neck, that didn't come for wearing a necklace.

That's a rope burn

This woman was hanged before she was ever driven off the road.

Okay, Mike put her away.

That's ridiculous to think that a newspaper story would inspire

someone to go out and start to kill the entire jury without any reason.

What's so ridiculous about it? This is a big town and they're a lot of crimes in it.

Suggest something like this to a nut right away wasn't a mock,

he was to become an avenger.

Do you mean that there's no other possible motive for this killing?

Mrs. Staggler didn't have an enemy in the world.

Excuse me, boy, I have to make a call.

Read all about it! Read all about it! Get the evening paper.

The killer eludes police. Get the evening paper here

Killer eludes police. Here you are, sir, thank you.

Killer eludes police. Get the evening paper here, night final

Thank you, sir. Thank you.

Paper, mister? Thank you, sir.

Get your evening paper here.

Read all about it, read all about it! Get the evening paper here!

Killer eludes police! - Just a moment, please.

Are you Jerome K. Bentley? - Yes.

I am Garret, Homicide Detail

Inspector Davis said that I have to keep an eye on things,

so that all about Wharton have excited quite this town.

Hope you don't mind. - Not at all, officer.

The fact it's quite reassurance.

Bet that I'm tired.

What got into you, Mr. Jerome K. Bentley, when he suddenly decided

you want all this stuff shipped tomorrow?

He wants to move to the country as soon as his house is ready.

He should be glad, Texas, the biggest star that we've had in months.

Well, be glad when I slept about twelve hours.

Now, I'm too tired.

Okay, honey.

One thing about Mr. Bentley that struck me is rather why he

keeps asking we have twelve of everything.

I wonder why he wanna twelve of everything for.

- A quarter past twelve. - Take it easy. You're making me nervous.

I'm making you nervous.

How do you suppose it makes me feel to see you standing there

munching your gum when a homicidal maniac is probably strangling my girl?

- Your girl? - She doesn't know it yet, but she is.

Okay, you do something?

- About making it your girl? - No, about finding her.

I was told to watch the house and I'm watching it.

You've been watching it for 4 hours. She isn't here.

Nobody knows where she is. - I can easily guess.

- Yeah? Where? - Coming across the street.

Girls, don't do this to uncle Joe. I worry.

Well, not good who's been standing at our doorstep, our favorite newspaperman.

We were working till midnight, then we decided to walk home.

- Who decided? - Haven't you heard what's happened?

No, we didn't even leave the shop to eat.

That policeman standing on your doorstep is there because

the same killer is trying to murder every man and woman inserted on the Wharton jury.

He may have chosen you as the next victim.

Oh, I thought you've gonna quit trying to scare people.

Here's our runaway, Regan.

I'm sergeant Regan, madam, we've been instructed to keep an eye in your apartment

until the killer is apprehended. - The killer?

Mrs. Staggler, who was on the jury with you, has been murdered.

Staggler!

Say, oh, all our way home I had the feeling that we were being followed.

Now, you're talking silly, Tex. Let's go and make a cup of coffee.

Would you like a cup, sergeant? - You bet!

Tex, I must've misplaced my key. Do you have yours?

Why, collect it in my lily-white hand, sugar.

Stand aside.

Was I presumptuous to have let myself in?

- Do you know this man? - Yes, this is Mr. Bentley.

He's a customer of mine.

I'm sorry, Miss Hill. I saw him enter the apartment, but I thought...

That's all right, Officer. I've known Mr. Bentley for some time.

I found Miss Hill's key in my own pocket of all places,

and dropped in to return it.

I must have picked it up off your desk this morning, by mistake.

Thank you so much. I'm glad to have it back. I'm always losing it.

I also brought these,

in case my unexpected visit should have displeased you.

Oh, not at all. Thank you.

You know Miss Tuttle, and this is Mr. Keats and Officer Regan.

You remember Mr. Bentley. He was foreman of our jury.

Mr. Bentley, I've been wanting to get in touch with you.

That's quite a coincidence,

because I've been thinking of getting in touch with you, Mr. Keats.

It's fate, that's what it is. Alice, you brought Joe and Mr. Bentley together.

Now I'll go bring some coffee and water together and see what comes of that.

Want to help, sergeant? - Sure thing.

Tex, would you put this in water, please?

Sit down, would you?

It was Joe who dug up all the evidence that saved Harry Wharton.

Yes, I know.

I've been reading Mr. Keats' recent articles with considerable interest.

In fact, I've been wondering why the police

haven't arranged some sort of protection for him.

- What for? - It merely occurred to me,

the mysterious killer might decide to hold you responsible

for making his task more difficult.

No, that's where you're wrong.

The man is obviously a maniac with one fixed idea.

He wants to do away with the jury because they mistakenly convicted the wrong man.

He's bound to know that it was I who saved Harry Wharton from the gallows.

Yes.

So he could hang himself in an insane asylum a little later.

I really must go, Miss Hill.

Oh, you want to get to ship my things tomorrow, will you?

Oh, they're all packed already. Will you stand and have some coffee with us?

No, thanks. Would you say goodbye to the others for me?

Of course, I'm sorry you have to hurry.

Good night. - Good night.

Don't forget about the talk we are going to hold.

I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Keats.

I'm looking forward to it.

If you would've asked me, I'd say the guy here is nerd

walking into your house and making himself at home like that.

Oh, I don't mind. He's nice and a very good customer.

Besides, he was doing me a favor. - Yeah.

And it seemed a bit scared either, wandering around alone at night.

He was foreman of the jury, you know?

Yes, I know.

- Rather quiet, but very nice. - Oh...

Alright, wake it up.

This coffee's so strong now it ought to be carrying me instead of vice-versa.

Damn! What happened to our little prowler?

Oh, he asked to be excused.

Want to know a secret?

I think Mr. Bentley's kind of sweet on a certain young lady.

Oh, Tex, you're talking nonsense.

Well, he certainly scooted out of here fast enough when two other men showed up.

That confirms my good taste on women,

who I have known have feelings. I propose a toast on Mr. Bentley.

May the killer never discover that he likes to prowl by night

and deliver posies to pretty ladies.

Good night, Regan. Keep a good watch on my chickens.

I will, Joe. That girl from Texas makes a good coffee.

See if it keeps you awake.

Good night. - Good night.

Hello, black magic.

Say, are you following me?

Look, Blackie, why don't you run along home, you're making me nervous.

- Hello again, Mr. Keats. - Oh, hello, Mr. Bentley.

May I join you? I think we are going the same way.

Certainly, but I thought you were probably home in bed by now.

I have a confession to make, Mr. Keats.

I've been waiting for you.

That's funny, don't care. I am beginning to feel as being followed.

Now, you tell me you are waiting for me all the time.

I guess that makes my psychic.

Everyone is psychic to more or less degree, Mr. Keats.

Why, I don't carry a spare crystal ball around with me but I do play hunches.

When you are always on the look at for news, you developed a sort of a sixth sense.

Perhaps I developed a sixth sense too,

because I have hunches as you call it.

The identity of the unknown killer will be revealed today.

What makes you think so?

- Because I know who the murderer is. - Are you sure?

Reasonably so.

Well if you have any information, you shouldn't be withholding it from the police, you know.

That makes you an accessory.

For a newspaper man, you are most na�ve.

I said I had a hunch.

If you wish to accompany me and see if my hunch is correct,

I think you may go across a most unusual story.

At least, I can promise you a most interesting experience.

I don't see how I can pass such a chance like this.

Where do we go? When do we start?

We start now.

Taxi!

Police headquarters.

Police headquarters?

POLICE STATION

I come every night at this time.

I like to watch the police lineup.

Do you expect to find our mutual friend here?

Keep the change.

If one attends the police lineup often enough,

one is apt to be almost anyone.

Do you know what interests me most, Mr. Keats?

No, Mr. Bentley.

This is getting the sound like an old time Minstrel show.

What interests you most? - As I watch the men on the lineup,

I wonder how many evil ones are turned loose

and how many innocent ones are found guilty.

That's enough to keep almost anyone awake all night.

Albert Leonard, alias Albert Lichter, alias Albert Link,

age 37. Height, 5 feet and one quarter, weight 151 pounds.

Previous arrests: 12. Convictions: 2.

Grand theft, fraud and larceny.

William Black, alias... - Night after night...

The never-ending hunt goes on.

Searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Shifting each human straw to find the one that is guilty.

What started you on this night prowling, Mr. Bentley.

Oh, I have no family,

no business affairs that require my attention at day time.

Have you always had these nocturnal habits

or did you acquire them after Harry Wharton was convicted?

After.

The truth is I haven't slept since Mr. Wharton was convicted.

I spend my nights exploring the jungles of this great city.

I find it fascinating. The battle of good versus evil.

I could take you to places,

show you things that that would surprise even a man of your wide acquaintance.

Maybe later. Don't forget our date to meet the killer.

I don't, my dear friend. We have several hours away.

Let me make a telephone call first.

A telephone call?

Yes, I always keep in touch with the paper. They like to know if I'm on the job.

I'll only be a minute.

Give me the desk.

Who's this? Mac, listen.

Yeah, yeah, I`ve heard what you said.

Jerome K. Bentley is crazy on the head,

he�s gonna introduce you to the killer at daybreak.

Well, I don't know who is a crazy, if him for telling you or you for believe him.

Don't be funny.

I got the hunch of Jerome K. Bentley may be the killer.

Ahhh, good luck.

Yeah, I thought I'll make you sad if I didn't take notice.

This is what I want you to do.

Be nice if you can track the story,

but don't stick your neck in anything tighter than a horse collar.

Do a checking every hour so we know you're okay.

And look, kid, if anything happens to you, we'll bury you with honors,

in parish field.

CULLIES'S STEAM BATHS. OPEN ALL NIGHT

I never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye

upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky,

and at every drifting cloud that went with sails of silver by.

- Where did you learn it, Cullie? - Mr. Bentley; he taught it to me.

He likes to have me saying it when I'm massaging his neck.

That's Oscar Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol.

Go on, Cullie.

"Some kill their love when they are young

and some when they are old."

I don't remember that verse, Mr. Bentley.

I like the one:

"He does not die a death of shame

on a day of dark disgrace, nor have a noose about his neck,

nor a cloth upon his face,

nor drop feet foremost through the floor into an empty space".

This is quite a way to round out an evening of revelry.

You mean to tell me that you come here every night to have your night massage?

That's right.

One hour of Cullie fixes in the up for another 24 hours.

- How do you feel now, Mr. Bentley? - Your hands work miracles, Cullie.

These hands can fix sanding, so that my mother give me, rubbing pain away.

It's not the usual sort of pain, Mr. Keats.

It starts as a small dull ache in the back of the neck,

sometime after midnight.

In an hour, the pain is so intense that it's unbearable.

Then I come to Cullie. He rubs the ache away.

- Haven't you seen a doctor about it? - It would be enough, Cullie.

Thanks.

Why should I see a doctor?

There's nothing a doctor can do. I know what caused it.

It was known in the medical profession as simpathysm or sympathy pains.

I've had these attacks ever since the night Harry Wharton was to be hanged.

They brought more and more violent.

- Steam massage, gentlemen? - Thank you, Cullie.

- Can you make it extra hot tonight? - Sure!

Say, this can stand apart boiling if you're in a hurry.

Just tell me if you find the heat depressing, Mr. Keats.

If my skin begins to peel off, I'll yell.

Ah, I'm just thinking about the case.

Bentley!

Bentley! Bentley!

Help!

Bentley!

Bentley!

Got too hot in there for me, Cullie.

How about going to the corner to bring us a cup of coffee?

- Sure, it's daybreak, time for coffee. - Thank you, Cullie.

- It just be a minute, Mr. Bentley. - Take your time, Cullie.

It smells like steam escaping.

Don't stop.

I'll get the steam out.

I'd better call an ambulance.

He's alive.

Steam raises. He was lying on the floor next to the door.

He probably got some air that way.

He'll be alright.

Let's take to a doctor to look at him.

Of course, Cullie, I'll cal the emergency hospital.

Operator. Give me the emergency hospital, please.

I wish to report an accident.

- How is he, doc? - I'll tell him, doctor.

Never mind. If he can talk, he's alright.

Now, just a ride over just as soon as I got the news.

They needn't to stop the ham breakfast.

Now, my little steam clam. What's this all about? What have you been up to?

He must really believe I have a story if he missed eating to come over here.

- Excuse me. - Going, doctor?

I'll be back a little later.

Now, I want you to rest Joe, take it easy for a few days.

Don't feel badly about missing out all the story you watched over Mac about.

Why, if this accident hadn't happened, you'd scooped the town.

Wait a minute, maybe you know what you're talking about but I don't.

What happened to me last night was no accident,

I was deliberately locked in the steam room by the same man who

is trying to kill off the Wharton jury.

Joe, Joe... Mac told me about your tip from Bentley.

Evidently Mr. Bentley knew what he was talking about

when he said he'd introduce you to the killer.

Look, I've been sopping up liquid like a bar towel,

but I'm beginning to believe that you're wetter than I am.

I am trying to tell you that Jerome K. Bentley is the killer.

You'll have a little trouble making a charge stick.

- I've got the guy dead to rights. - No, you haven't.

- What do you mean I haven't? - 'cause the real killer has already confessed.

What?!

The murderer walked in the police headquarters this morning and gave himself up.

The police are questioning him now.

- And it's not Bentley? - No.

This guy seems to know all about the killings.

Stuff that he couldn't possibly have picked up from the papers.

He's the one alright, Joe.

Not Bentley...

Look, Willard, you know I play my hunches.

I don't know anything about this guy who has confessed, but

there's something phony about it.

But, Joe, he knows every angle, every detail.

He's got to be the killer.

No one but the killer could possibly have all the information he has.

Don't fall for that confession. I have to get out of here.

You gotta take care of yourself.

Which you don't understand, as soon as those people on the jury

heard that the killer has confessed they'll come out of hiding,

they won't have any more protection.

Behave yourself. You wanna be strapped to your bed?

- Somebody's got to warn them. - No, that's more like it.

Now you're my favourite newspaper man again.

Yeah.

I guess I get loudly excited.

Will you go to sleep if I leave you alone for a while?

Sure.

I'm half sleep already. - That's the stuff.

A little rest and you'll be on your feet at no time.

I'll see you later.

Close the door, please.

Sorry, sergeant. I'm Joe Keats, Record Herald.

I wanna see inspector Davis. It's important.

I'm sorry, the inspector is busy, Mr. Keats.

What's it about?

I've got some information on the Wharton case, important information.

Hello, Jimmy, let me speak to inspector Davis, please.

Inspector? Sergeant Lutton.

Joe Keats is here, seems he has some information on the Wharton case.

All right, tell him to come on.

Have him repeat the list of juror he killed.

I'll be back in a minute.

Tell us once more Mr. Pierson,

in exactly what order you killed the seven jurors?

This guy Pierson doesn't talk like any crank.

He's giving us chapter and verse on every one of the killings.

I know I sound crazy, inspector, I'm playing another hunch.

There's something screwy about this whole set up.

I can't ignore the evidence on the man who insists he's the killer and then proves it.

Boys are in there now trying to break him down, but the story is solid.

Meanwhile innocent people think they're safe again,

so they're going about their business.

I'd like to have a look at this self-confessed killer.

Come on in.

The last time you spoke of Mr. Sloan you called him Joseph.

His real name happens to be Jason.

What difference does that make, Joseph or Jason?

He's just as dead whichever name he had. I tell you again.

I killed them, all seven of them,

and I was going to kill the rest.

Let me ask him a question, inspector.

You named the seven you killed, Mr. Pierson, and the order in which you killed them.

Now, tell me the names of the other five jurors

and the order in which you intended to kill them.

The other... five?

That's quite irrelevant! I intended to kill them. That's the important thing.

Who is this?

- This is Mr. Keats. - A lawyer, I don't want no lawyer.

I'll defend myself.

He's not a lawyer, he is a newspaper man. Joe Keats.

Joe Keats!

I almost feel like I know you, Mr. Keats!

I think I have read every word you've written on the Wharton case.

It was all very interesting, too.

Sometimes your guesses were right, sometimes wrong.

But, then, I'm the only one who knows all about the killings.

- Did you read what the other reporters wrote? - Oh, yes, every word,

but I like your articles best.

They were much more vivid.

I see.

I know why you are here.

You want a feature article, don't you?

And you will get it! You will get it just before they hang me!

I'll make it exclusive to you, Mr. Keats.

I'm more interested in people's innocence than in their guilt.

You don't believe I killed them, do you?

What more prove do you want?

Alright,

turn me loose.

See what happens to the rest of them.

Alright, check over.

Alright, Mr. Pierson, let's go over again.

Inspector, that guy is mad as a mad hatter.

Did you see how he's told when I asked the names of the other five jurors?

He is a phony, a crank. - Maybe you're alright, Joe.

All admitted he couldn't name the other jurors and he didn't recognize you,

but I can't take the risk of letting this man go.

If he's a crank, the boys will break him down sooner or later.

Meanwhile the real killer can take his time to choose another victim.

Joe, be reasonable. It would cost me my job if I let that nut in there go.

He knows a lot of the details, so it's a fifty-fifty chance he's the man we want.

And don't forget the other killer assuming that the reason of the killer

is just as crazy as this guy. - What does that prove?

That proves that I can't let this man go

when he claims to be the killer just because he's crazy, now, can I?

No, I suppose not. Do me a favor, inspector.

Don't give out the story that you have a confession just yet.

If the press gets all of this, all the other jurors are going to think

that the danger is over. - I'll do what I can.

But as a newspaper man you had to know how hard

is just to keep it unavailable to the general of the press.

They have a way of digging up the real facts.

I'll be seeing you.

WHARTON JURY KILLER CONFESS TOM PIERSON ADMITS SEVEN MURDERS

Peter Jackson.

Juror number 8.

I'd like to speak to Mr. Peter Jackson, please.

This is Mrs. Jackson. Mr. Jackson isn't here.

Who did you say this was? - Joe Keats, of the Record Herald.

I don't wanna cause you any alarm, Mrs. Jackson,

but there's a possibility that the man who has confessed the killings

is a crank. The real murder may still be at large.

Is there any place your husband can be reached?

All I know, Mr. Keats is that he went to a house in the village of Buckminster.

Thank you, Mrs. Jackson.

Mr. Apple's secretary.

Joe Keats, where are you? Mr. Apple has been trying to find you everywhere.

Never mind about that. Where is the boss?

Well, you got to find him, Marcy, quick. This is something terribly important.

Yeah, that's it, good girl. Having call me back here.

I'm in Buckminster 2-8.

It's the jail. No, I'm not under arrest. I'll explain later.

You knew, this paper fellow said quite a story

about who gets murder story on the street first, don't you?

Yeah, we do.

Don't you want to tell him about finding the body?

Well, that was my boss's secretary.

I wanna get the story to my elder direct.

- Did you find it, boys? - No.

You didn't find Peter Jackson's body?

No. We didn't find Jackson's or any other dead body hanging there.

But I saw him, hanging from a beam.

Well, maybe he climbed down after you left,

locked all the doors and went for a swim down the river.

We've got a bad taste for practical jokes up here at Buckminster, newspaper man.

Look, I didn't just dream up a body hanging there.

I came here because I was afraid something could happen to Peter Jackson.

He was one of the Wharton jurors.

Hello.

Yeah. He's here. - Is that for me?

What did you say your name was?

Come on, let me talk to him.

I'll do the talkin' temporarily.

Yeah, he came in here half an hour ago.

Said he found a body hanging in an old house on the outskirts of town.

When we went there to investigate there wasn't a sign of a dead body.

I see.

I see, sure, sure.

I will.

Till you get here. Okay.

Lock him up, Ben.

Lock me? Wait a minute, you can't lock me. What's the charge?

Get in there.

I commend you talk to my editor.

I forgot to tell you.

That was your editor I was talking to.

Funny name, Apple.

It's a funny name: Apple.

I bet he's a peach!

This came for you to the shop.

I was pretty sure it wasn't business so I brought it over.

That's very thoughtful of you, Tex,

maybe from... It's from Joe.

I know my hunches are hitting on all cylinders.

What does that wandering boy have to say for himself?

He wants to meet me in Glenlock, and to come alone.

Is that all?

That's all except that he says it's very important.

Glenlock? But into there, that's a whistle-stop of all whistle-stops

See what you're doing. - I'm going to Glenlock.

But it will be dark by the time you get there. Maybe I better go along.

I'll be alright. Just says to come alone, he must have a reason.

Just keep your fingers crossed and don't tell anyone where I'm gone.

They're crossed baby; they'll stay that way till you get back.

Hello.

Yes, Mr. Apple.

Alright, I find Joe. He's in a little town called Buckminster.

They're holding him in the jail.

Hey, say that again. Buckminster?

That's not what his telegram says.

Glenlock?

Oh, there must be some mistake.

Say, I don't like how it looks.

You may tell I'll be right over.

Hello. Speaking.

If it's my editor, I demand to talk to him.

Keep your shirt on, newspaper man, it's your editor.

Go ahead.

Wait a minute.

Where do you say this was?

Hold the phone.

What's happened?

Clam, Ben Folston, come here, quick.

What you said that pal's name was?

The pal you said you saw hanging in the Lacey house.

Peter Jackson, why?

- We'll be right over. - What's this excitement?

Some kids just found a man's body down by the river.

The man's name is Peter Jackson.

He had business cards saying he was in the real estate business.

Maybe there was somebody hanging in the Lacey house like he said.

This is a job for the sheriff!

Well, I'm glad you two finally got wise to yourselves.

Now, how about letting me out of here?

Hello. Put me through to the sheriff, will you?

Make it snappy on the telephone, will you?

I've got some important cause to make myself.

Hello.

Yes, Joe.

He's on his way up there now.

He left you to pick up Tex. They're driving up to get you.

Now give me your rewrite.

Rewrite? Joe Keats, take this:

"Today another member of the Wharton jurymen is dead.

While metropolitan police concentrate upon a crank

who professed to be the murderer, the real killer struck again".

Here is the daily flash on the Wharton jury case;

police have broadcast a warning to be on the lookout for Jerome K. Bentley,

foreman of the jury which convicted Harry Wharton.

This police still to be on the vicinity of New York.

It is believed that Bentley is responsible for...

- Is someone meeting you, madam? - Yes, thank you, porter.

Thank you, madam.

Joe, I was going to frighten.

Just because I'm so glad to see you.

Joe?

Joe, where are you?

Harry Wharton! - Don't be so startled, Miss Hill.

I'm really Harry Wharton. I'm not a ghost.

Or did you like me better as Jerome K. Bentley?

- Then, Joe is right. - Joe may say I'm dead.

Legally. I hanged myself in the sanitarium, remember?

It's Jerome K. Bentley the police are looking for.

Have you forgotten? I promised to show you my new house.

The drawing room especially will interest you.

It has a beamed ceiling.

You know,

you hang things from beams.

There's no answer of Glenlock people. That is a little out of the way places.

Station is only open part time.

There won't be anybody there until tomorrow morning.

Anything happens to that girl.

Long distance. I want to put a call though to Buckminster,

I don't know the number, but it's the town jail.

Yes.

Oh, it's you.

Marcy told me about Jackson.

Yes, the story will be on the street in few minutes.

I know I am.

Yes, yes, anything you wanna call me.

But who want to telephone you about is Alice.

She received a wire to meet you at a little place called Glenlock.

You didn't send the telegram?

Right, we'll be there, as fast as a modern escort can bring us.

Come on.

Now you know why I ordered everything in twelves.

Call it what you will:

obsession, insanity, murder complex.

Do you believe that by destroying others you can bring ease to your own mind?

I must try. I can't go on this living death.

I must find myself.

Over the bodies of your innocent victims?

Innocent?

Was it innocent to send me to the death house?

Have you any conception what it's like inside those cold walls?

Waiting, eternally waiting.

To fall asleep

and awaken night after night with that choking sensation in your throat.

You and the others die only once.

I died 100 times, 1,000 times

I must find myself.

Can you find yourself through murder, through cruelty?

I remember they said at your trial that... - That I was the gentlest of men?

I am.

But only when the twelve are hanged can I return to the land of the living,

to the beautiful things I loved.

Stand up, Alice.

It's no use screaming.

No one will hear you.

That's pretty good shooting.

Anyone of the three bullets would've killed him.

She's alright.

Her luck we're here on time. Where's Bentley?

Not Bentley, Willard.

If you turn him over, you'll find that he's Harry Wharton.

Wharton! No, wait a minute. Is this another one of your hunches?

A careful check at the sanitarium records showed Jerome K, Bentley

visited Harry Wharton on the day of the latter supposed suicide.

It was Bentley's body that was found hanged in the hospital room, not Wharton.

What do you know about that? It's a miracle, Wally, absolutely a miracle.

Another second and it would've been too late.

Do you know you're the first woman Wally's ever allowed down here?

Am I? I'm flattered.

Yeah, I used to have to dance down here by myself.

You hungry? - Couldn't eat a bite.

Anyway, three is an awful crowd.

Well, Mr. Apple, do you think Joe will stay with the Record Herald?

No, no. I guess so.

Unless he stays here going in the antiques business, eh, Joe?

Come on, you two.

Your dinners are getting cold.

Nowhere, they disappeared.

I think he took another job.

Ah, love is a stuff t'will not endure,

but food... food goes on forever.

And give me a little more steak sauce, will you?

And some mustard and some horseradish and... some pickles

Transcription: gamboler Synchro: hammet