All language subtitles for The Missing Juror (Budd Boetticher, 1944) English

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