Sing a Song of Murder

Signal gasoline. Signal. The new gasoline you can prove is superior. A signal oil company and your neighborhood signal dealer bring you another curious story by the Whistler. Tonight, sing a song of murder. I'm the Whistler. And I know many things where I walk by night.

I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Success is a curious thing.

Sometimes it comes very slowly, the result of a lifetime of dull drudgery. And sometimes it comes quickly almost overnight. It was that way with Bill Randall. The fact that he was the most popular singer in the country wasn't as amazing as how quickly it had happened.

Less than a year, and he was on top. His voice was as much a part of the average teenager's life as her Bobby socks. Everybody was very happy about it. Everybody, that is, except Bill Randall.

Bill wasn't happy at all. And after his broadcast one night as he was taking his manager home, he told him why. Showing pretty well, Bill, but I thought you were gonna run over a little.

Now you gotta learn to judge times better. Why don't you get in the habit of time and everything you do? That way you thought, Gordon, I didn't offer to take you home to hear a lecture.

I could do another thing, General. Yeah, yeah, I know, Romeo. You and your swoon and dames. But I didn't ask for the lift. Diana got to pick me up. I want to talk to you. So you want to talk to me?