I believe that this is from a magazine called Screen Stories.  There were changes made between this and the actual filming but it is pretty accurate.  The biggest change is that the title of the film was changed from The High Wall to High Wall, which I actually think works better.

DARK LAPSES OF MEMORY AND A VIOLENT MURDER CONSPIRED TO ENDANGER THREE OTHER LIVES

The grim necklace of purple bruises encircling Helen Kenet’s throat had closed off her life between one breath and the next.

That much the police determined when, after following’ the careening car which Steve Kenet deliberately crashed into a bridge railing; they found him dazed but unhurt. His wife, in the seat beside him, was already dead—of strangulation.

It was Willard Whitcomb, editor of the respected publishing house, the Brattle Press, who made the offcial identification of her body at the Homicide Bureau. She had been his secretary for a year, while her bomber. pilot husband had been flying freight in Burma, and his conservative face was set in lines of appalled concern.  “This is shocking, Mr. Wallace,” he told the District Attorney. He hesitated, then went on to say that perhaps it had no bearing—but when her husband, returning unexpectedly from Burma, had come into the office this afternoon, looking for his wife, he had seemed, according to all reports, to be in a state of extreme agitation.

In the next room, under a mercilessly glaring light, Steve Kenet sat at a bare table, surrounded by the detectives and police who had been grilling him for the past. hours. His
clothes torn, his dark hair rumpled, and his fine features so haggard and dazed, he seemed
little like a brilliant young flyer who had risen to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel and
had won the Distinguished Service Medal.

The inspector pursued relentlessly, “Now look, Kenet. After you strangled her, you wanted to make it look like an accident—a broken neck in an auto crash. You knew you could walk away from that kind of accident!  That’s it, isn’t it?”

“No,” Steve said thickly, “I killed her in the park—in Mellford Picnic Grove. Then I
tried to kill myself.”

District Attorney Wallace, coming in, said triumphantly) “That’s good enough for me.
Have him sign a statement.”  But the attending police surgeon said, “Uh-uh, Dave. I’ve ekamined him.” His voice was firm over Wallace’s exclamation of impatience. “He’s been through some head surgery. They’ll have to look him over at Psychiatric.”

During his subsequent handcuffed ride in a locked prison van to the County Psychi-
atric Hospital, Steve Kenet sat in a sullen apathy which did not lessen when they reached their destination. The admission clerk took the manila envelope in which were stored the contents of Steve’s pockets at the time of the arrest, and carelessly checked them off. “Money. War Decoration. Snapshot case with one picture—” Steve leaped forward with suddenly savage force, his unfettered arm flailing. “Give me that !”

It was a snapshot of himself, taken two years ago, his arm about a four-year-old boy so like him that it could only have been his son. Both were smiling happily, and Steve was it was impossible not to see their adoration of each other. He panted, as a guard pinioned
his arm,“l want that that picture!”

The clerk. put it in the safe. “Everything goes on ice .for a while. Including you.”

His own clothes replaced by a shapeless hospital suit, his eyes emptied again of all save their dulled stare, he was taken to a small, isolated room, starkly bare except for a thin mattress on the stone floor. The sound of the door being double locked behind the guards was like the sound of doom itself.

But it was then that the pain in his head began again ; the excruciating pain that kept him braced constantly against the dreaded onslaught of its agony. Today, though, there was a new torment. The unbearable pictures that began unreeling themselves behind his burning eyelids.

In the X-ray room of the hospital, young Dr. Ann Lorrison leaned forward, listening to the consulting surgeon discuss the head X-rays of a new patient named Steve Kenet; a patient who had confessed to the murder of his wife, and attempted suicide.

He pointed to the dark area of a blood clot that was causing pressure on the brain. “True
to form, the patient has shown irritability and periods of unconsciousness with lapses of
memory.”

Dr. Dunlop, superintendent of the hospital, who had been going over the case history with
Dr. Poward, his assistant, instructed Ann, “Prepare him for immediate surgery.”

She walked along the corridor of the isolation ward—a slim girl whose auburn-haired beauty was accented by her severely cut white hospital coat. She unlocked the door of Steve’s room and greeted him with cheerful friendliness. “I’m Dr. Lorrison, Mr. Kenet—

He glared at her, and said harshly, “Get out!”

Unruffled, she held out a legal paper. “Our neuro-surgeon is confident he can remove the
cause of your headaches. Will you sign here, please, indicating your consent ?”

“Surgery, huh ?” He laughed gratingly.  “I’ve been through that before. And you see where it got me.” Violently, he ripped the paper in half. “Now get out and leave me alone!”

She remained unperturbed by his fury. “If you have any more pain, tell the orderly,’
she said and, with a cordial nod left.

District Attorney Wallace received the report with belligerent impatience. Of course,
Steve was refusing the operation—so he could come into court and get an acquittal on a plea of temporary insanity! Frowning, he looked through Steve’s folder. “Bomber pilot,” he
muttered. “Married during the war. Head wound in combat. Operation performed suc-
cessfully in army hospital. After the war, went off to Burma, flying freight. Left an old
mother, a wife and baby. Mrs. Kenet took a secretarial job. A month ago in Burma, he
was in a crackup. Here’s the cable from the doctor in charge: ‘Advised Kenet operation
imperative.’ ”

Wallace glared at Dr. Dunlop. “And that’s his defense! He planned on using this doctor’s diagnosis as a license to murder his wife! He banked over twenty thousand dollars during those two years. He wasn’t sharing that with any wartime wife.”

Dr. Dunlop said, patiently, “We cannot certify to his sanity until we observe him after he’s had a second operation. And—he’s refused surgery.”

“His mother’s consent is all you need,” Wallace said decisively. “She’s a reasonable old lady—kind of sickly.”

Reluctantly, Dr. Dunlop asked Ann and Dr. Poward to call on her.

It was several hours later when Ann returned to the corridor where Steve was under observation, and her eyes were grave.  The trip to Steve’s mother’s shining little house had had tragic overtones. When she and Poward arrived, they had found the fragile old lady had died of what was, without question, a heart attack.

A hungry, bewildered six-year-old boy had been sobbing inconsolably. He was Richard,

1947

Steve’s small son, and his plight had gone straight to Ann’s heart.

She stood in the doorway. Steve, still unkempt, was listlessly finishing the food which
Delaney, the orderly, had brought him; while Slocum, a  sweet-faced old man who had
been an inmate for twenty years, told of how he heard music all the time.

When he had shuffled away, Delaney said, to Steve’s sound of pity: “He does all right.
Three squares a day. He loves music, and he has it—all on the county.”

As Delaney removed his tray, Steve saw Ann, and anger flashed in his eyes. “Yesterday was visiting day. And don’t tell me my mother wasn’t here!”

“Your mother was not here,” Ann told him quietly.

His look changed suddenly to one of curious triumph, and Ann said, “That pleases you, doesn’t it? You’ve been hoping she would take your son away to some place where no one would tell him what has happened.”

Steve sneered. “Now look, you can’t talk me into that operation. No operation—no
trial. Then I’m here permanently.  I don’t know where a man could do better. Three
squares a day—and music—all on the county.”

1947

As Ann’s clear eyes appraised him, she made up her mind to shock him out of his taunting defiance. “Your mother died last night,” she told him bluntly, and ignored his shocked grief. “But don’t let that alter your decision to stay here. Your son will be taken care of in the County Orphanage.

“I know why you object to surgery,”‘ she continued. “You don’t want to risk a trial.
You don’t want to be acquitted. You’d rather stay here forever than face your son again.
You feel you can’t ever explain why you killed his mother.” She filled her voice with lashing contempt. “You’ll have three Squares a day—all on the county. Yes—you’ll escape
reality, Mr. Kenet. But your son will not.”

His face contorted, he came toward her threateningly. But she stood her ground.
Then, with a cool nod, she said: “Goodnight, Mr. Kenet.”

Later that evening, when she reached her home, to which—though she had no intention
of telling Steve—she had received permission to bring his lonely, frightened child, her telephone began to ring.  It was Dr. Dunlop, saying, “Kenet has asked for surgery !”

As far as removing those agonizing headaches, the operation was an unqualified success.

1947

And Steve no longer alternated between apathy and savage fury. Even when a Mr. Hackle—a lawyer the court had assigned to him—announced his intention of making Richard the emotional gambit in the trial, Steve’s anger. was under control as he
dismissed him from the case.

He was in a fever of impatience now to be discharged from Psychiatric, and sent back
to the county jail. “Once I’m out of here,” he told Ann, “I’ll be able to hire the kind of
lawyer I need—and get my son out of that orphanage.” Obviously, the boy was never
out of his thoughts.

When Ann casually said that the boy was not in an institution, but had been placed temporarily with a private family, relief and gratitude flooded his face.

He could be released for trial when a few more tests had been completed. But there was one test—that of narco-synthesis—which he had already flatly refused.  In Dr. Poward’s opinion, the refusal meant only that he knew that, under it, he would confess to having planned the murder of his wife.

At the staff interview with Steve, Poward said mildly, “You haven’t filled in those gaps
in your memory yet. There’s nothing to fear from narco-synthesis. It’s merely a mild injection of sodium pentathol, to stimulate your memory.”  Steve’s manner was pleasant—but unalterably firm. “I prefer it this way. There’s one thing you can do for me—turn me over for immediate trial. Then, guilty or not, I’ll be out of here and able to provide for
my son’s future. That’s the only important thing.”

But he begged for the completion of the remaining tests. “Ever since the operation,” he said to Ann, after three more days, “there’s been no question about me—mentally or physically.”

“Except,” she observed quietly, “for those memory gaps.”

He shrugged. “No one expects me to remember what I did when I was out of my mind. No mind—no memory.”

But then something happened to change his mind completely about narco-synthesis.

An elderly man, stiff with arthritis, came to see him at the hospital. He introduced himself as Henry Cronner, janitor of the apartment house at 106 Maple Street, and asked Steve if he remembered him. It was a question Steve did not. answer. The man had avaricious eyes, and he needed money to go to Florida for his arthritis. “I followed your whole case in the papers,” he said. “You know, they never mentioned anything about the three of you being in the apartment.” He paused. “You—interested ?”

“Right now,” Steve told him tautly, “I’m not allowed to handle my money. But I’ll
be out of here and in the county jail in a few days. Can’t you tell me–”

But Cronner was parting with no information—without money. He rose.  “See
you in the county jail, Mr. Kenet,” he said significantly.

Long after he had gone, Steve sat staring into space, hope—doubt—and hope, again—
taking possession of his mind. And the next day he went to Ann’s office. “You’ve made
a sale, Doctor. I’m buying narco-synthesis.  There was a sharp line between his brows
“Maybe—maybe I didn’t kill her. Since yesterday, I’m not sure.”  –

Deftly, Ann made the preparations.  It’s really  quite simple, And you’ll remember
everything you say.”  She motioned him to stretch out on the divan, and there was the
prick of a needle.  The indentation between his brows deepened.  “I remember getting off the plane, going home. So you can save a lot of time by starting with 106 Maple Street. I want to know everything that happened there.”

She shook her head.. “We’re going back to your coming home, Steve. Home from Burma. Remember? Tell me about it.  What’s happening ?”  The drug Was taking hold. Smoothly, with no evasions or subterfuges, the story came out . ..

He had gone straight to his mother’s home from the airport. Because she had not expected him yet, she wept with joy at his return. His first question was about Richard, and he was proudly incredulous that the lad was old enough to be in school. He had been thinking of him as the chubby four-year-old he had left.

“Where is Helen ?” he asked then. And had been enraged to find she’d had a job for
a year. Not because she needed the money, but because she was bored. His head had
been hurting all day ; whenever an attack was coming on, his temper was sulphurous.

His mother, seeing the signs of suffering, was worried because he had not yet had the
operation the doctors had ordered, and he promised to have it done soon. Then, scowl-
ing, he announced he was going to Helen’s office to get her.  “She’s all through working !”
At the Battle Press, the receptionist told him Helen had left on an errand. Then, at
his exasperation, she had scribbled a name and address on a slip of paper. “You can
catch her if you hurry !”

In the lobby of 106 Maple Street, Cronner, the janitor, fixing a short circuit, told him
that Mr. Whitcomb’s apartment was on the second floor, adding sourly, “You’ll have to
walk. I’m busy.”

When Steve knocked on the second-floor apartment door, Helen’s voice, eager and tender, called out, “Forget your key, darling ?  I left the door unlocked.”

Livid with jealous rage, Steve flung open the door. A cocktail shaker with two glasses stood ready on a low table. And Helen’s monogrammed overnight bag stood nearby.  She went ashen when she saw Steve, saw the black fury of his look. “Steve” Her voice was shrill with hysterical fear.  “I tell you I can explain–”  She backed away as he came menacingly toward her, and she screamed, “Steve! You’re sick—”

His hands shot out to her throat; in a frenzy of terror, she clawed at them with her long nails, ripping the skin. But he barely felt it, for the pain in his head became a madness of agony, and he crashed to the floor, blackness rising up around him.

Yet he couldn’t have been entirely unconscious, for he seemed to be on a carousel that was revolving to the distant strains of The Merry Widow Waltz. Then the carousel disappeared, and he came to, lying on the floor. Dazed, he rose, and heard a sound of
horror come from his own throat.

Helen lay on the divan—strangled.  And his hands bore the bleeding marks of her
desperate struggle against him.  Numbly, he stared around the room. It was in the wildest disorder. But there was something missing. Only his brain was too fogged to tell him what it was.

“There’s something missing.”  They were the first words he said when Ann withdrew
the sodium pentathol. “And what was that about a carousel ? ”

“Probably a dream. But I don’t know yet.”

He repeated, in a voice of growing tension, “Something is missing.” And I’ve got to
find out—now!” He sat up. “The apartment is the only answer. If I could just see
it again. If I could remember everything.  Maybe—I didn’t kill her.”

Ann murmured soothingly that perhaps they could get a court order to have him
revisit the place. But there was more kindness than conviction in her voice. She
asked, “Do you remember what happened after that ?”

“I carried her down the fire escape and put her in the car. On account of my mother
and Richard, I couldn’t have her found in that apartment. Then I ran the car off the
bridge and tried to kill myself.” He made a distraught gesture. “Maybe I can prove I
didn’t kill her, if I can find out what’s missing—”

“Steve, there is only one thing missing,” Ann said gently. “That you refuse to admit
consciously your true motivation for killing her. You had no proof that she was un-
faithful. A wartime romance, wasn’t it ?  And when the war was over, the only job
you really wanted, at the university, paid so little Helen wouldn’t stand for it. So you
went to Burma. Hating it, building resentment against her—”

His eyes, filled with desperate determination a moment earlier, had closed drowsily,
and he seemed to have sunk into an exhausted sleep. It was dark outside now; as
she left for home, she instructed an attendant to let the patient in her office sleep there for
another hour undisturbed.

Her car was parked nearby, and she had driven out of the gates when her preoccu-
pied look changed to one of terror. Steve rose from the rear seat floor and clambered
over beside her.

“106 Maple Street,” he ordered. And when she pointed out that he was risking
everything for nothing, he challenged harshly, “Nothing? Even if I’m acquitted, I
still can’t face my boy—unless I can prove I didn’t kill his mother. That’s worth tak-
ing any chance.” His voice was quietly ominous. “We’re doing this my way. I’ll
kill you or anyone else who stops- me !”

Ann’s face was tense, her eyes frightened.  But, until she could signal somehow for aid,
her only course was to seem to put in with him.  They pulled up at the rear of 106 Maple
Street—where Steve could check on Whitcomb’s absence by his darkened windows—
and she stood by while he pulled down the iron fire escape ladder. And she went up
with him, wondering how much longer her knees would support her.

Cautiously, he pried up a window of Whitcomb’s apartment, and they went in. In-
stantly, then, he began reconstructing that ghastly afternoon. “Stand over there. Let’s
see—I came in—and you had guilt written all over you—

At his unconscious use of the word “you” and as he advanced, re-enacting the scene,
placed his fingers on her throat, her hands flew frantically to his wrists. He dropped
his hands at once, went on, “But—when I came to, she was on the divan. How did
she get over there?

Frowning, he reached for a cigarette from an ornamental box on the table. As he opened the lad, the lilting strains of the Merry Widow Waltz came from inside.

“The carousel” Steve whispered, then went into action. Ann stood by, afraid and
yet fascinated, as he deliberately overturned the chairs and scattered cigarettes on the
floor, as they had been when, in falling, he’d overturned the musical box. Suddenly, he
shouted, “That’s what’s missing! Her overnight bag” He dove into the adjoining
bedroom, rummaged in the closet, and returned with a small suitcase.

“Hers was smaller, but something like this. And someone came in and took it while I was unconscious!” He asked for Ann’s lipstick; used it to scrawl the initials H. K. on the
suitcase.

“Can’t you see His voice was charged with excitement. “My hands had scarcely closed around her throat when I blacked out! I couldn’t possibly have strangled her.  It was a perfect setup for Whitcomb!” Then he saw the look in Ann’s eyes, and the fire went out of his voice. “You don’t believe me, do you !”

She sighed. “Now let’s put everything in order.” And she stooped to retrieve the
cigarette box.

“Don’t touch it!” His fingers closed around her wrist. “Everything stays the way it is l” Then, with bitter mockery, seeing her look at the clock: “It’s getting late.  The patient has to get back.”

As the car sped back toward the hospital, he commented, with the same bitterness.
“You’re in a hurry to go in and report this, aren’t you? I can’t stop you. But remember
you sold me the idea of surgery—of fighting for an acquittal. Wåy did you bother?”

His tone shifted to pleading. “Look, Ann, nobody will ever know I’ve been gone if you
don’t turn me in. You’ve got to give me a break. If I go back into solitary, there’ll be
no release and no trial. And I’ll never have a chance to do anything for Richard.” He
touched her arm. “You will keep quiet about this, won’t you ? ”

She said, in a voice that humored him, “All right.” And discovered in the same second
that she meant it. For some reason she could not yet name to herself, she had allied
herself with him …

Yet, in spite of Ann’s having kept her promise, Steve was back again in the dreaded
solitary confinement reserved for the criminally insane.

It was Whitcomb who had had him placed there. Steve had known that when the man
returned to his apartment, found that fatal afternoon’s havoc reconstructed down to the
last incriminating detail, he would know who had instigated it—and pay him a visit.

But there was no way he could have foreseen how cleverly, how ruthlessly, Whitcomb would trap him. When the editor first greeted him, in the visitors’ room, his manner
seemed all friendly concern. He wanted to help Steve—for Helen’s sake. So he was
going to pay for the services of the finest criminal lawyer in the state, to insure his
acquittal.

“Don’t bother,” Steve said curtly.  “And hold onto that fine criminal lawyer. You
might need him.”  Abruptly, Whitcomb dropped all pretense of friendliness. He knew what Steve was counting on: the testimony of Cronner, the janitor, who had boasted how he was going to sell his information to Steve. But—Cronner was dead. He had fallen down an
open elevator shaft. A most regrettable—accident.

“Remember,” Whitcomb ended, “any accusations you make against me will be ridiculed—the ravings of a pitiful lunatic.  With Cronner gone, there’s no possible way you can prove I killed your wife. And of course I did it.”

In a blind rage Steve flew at him, his fists trying to smash that triumphant face, his fingers reaching convulsively for his throat.

The scuffle brought guards running from all directions to overpower Steve, while
Whitcomb accused scornfully, “And you were going to release that homicidal maniac for trial!”

Steve struggled like the madman he was supposed to be, in the grip of the guards,
panting hoarsely, “He killed her! He told
me he did—”

But he was forcibly dragged back to solitary, where he paced the stone floor in
despair. “Walked right into his parlor!”  he muttered. He planned every move—like
a game of chess.”

Not until Dr. Poward came to Ann’s office,as she was getting ready to leave, did she
know what had happened. He said, “If there was ever any doubt about Kenet, it was
cleared up today. We almost released a homicidal maniac. He tried to kill a man—
a visitor. Now he’s back in isolation.  And we’ve asked the District Attorney for a
permanent commitment.”

Disregarding Poward’s blank stare at her behavior, she dashed past him, running
through the corridors until she came to Steve’s cell. Breathlessly; she cried out, “Steve! What happened? They said you tried to kill someone.  Who came here today ? ”

Eagerly, he told her the story. But when he came to Whitcomb’s confession—or
boast—that he had killed both Helen and Cronner, her look changed. It was too fan-
tastic—to believe that wealthy, conservative Willard Whitcomb could have made such
a statement. Heartsick that she could have been so mistaken, that her emotions were so
involved, she resumed her professional manner. “All right. We’ll tell the police.”

Her obvious disbelief was like additional bars closing him in. And he had to act—
now. He said, very quietly,- “You think I belong in this room, don’t You’re con-
fused. But I’m not. I’ve got things to do in this world—good things. A son to take
care of—and a profession. You know that.  If I don’t make Whitcomb talk, I’ve got
nothing.”

Too swiftly for her to intercept, his arms went around her, held her in an unbreak-
able grip. “I’m going out—tonight.”

He brought his lips down on hers, once, then snatched the keys from her purse and
whirled out of the cell, locking her inside.

Always, afterward, he was only to remember the next hours in a series of flasheg. His dash

Hunted…and a dangerous figure is Robert Taylor, as a supposed homicidal manic who escapes from a mental institution, in MGM’s High Wall, an exciting mystery drama.

down the hospital stairs, and Poward recognizing him just as he leaped into Ann’s car. Knowing his description would be flashed on every teletype machine in the state. Discovering the gas tank was almost empty. Stopping at a gas station where the
attendant recognized the broadcast car number. Overpowering the attendant and steal-
ing his spare suit of clothes.

He could not know how Ann, released from his cell, faced Dr. Poward and told him defiantly, “It’s possible he’s not a homicidal maniac!  It’s possible he’s not going
to kill everyone he meets! It’s possible he’s out for one thing—to get the truth and clear
himself.”  She marched past Poward, and called a taxi . .

Within sight of 106 Maple Street, Steve stopped the car with cautious wariness. The
place was still surrounded by police. Walking in would be the equivalent of giving
himself up, of condemning himself to indefinite solitary confinement. While he was
sitting there in the car, planning desperately, Ann got out of a taxi and ran up to him.
“0h, Steve !” she cried.  “I hoped I’d find you! I want to help—to prove you’re right.
I know you can’t go back—not until you’ve seen Whitcomb.”

He had never known anything like the feeling her words gave him. But he said,
“I’ve got to get you away from here! Your professional career—everything will be
ruined if you’re found with me.”

“It doesn’t matter, now,” she said softly. “What you said tonight is true for me, too.
If Whitcomb doesn’t confess, there is nothing for either of us.’

How to enter 106 Maple Street, without detection, still seemed insurmountably dan-
gerous, when an amiable drunk ambled up to them, sociably wanting to go with them
wherever they were going. He seemed sent by Fate. For, after walking with him
briefly, they openly ran into the entrance of 106; —seeming, to anyone watching, like a
laughing young couple who had just succeeded in shaking a drunken friend who
wanted to come along.

Upstairs, Whitcomb’s face was relaxing in a smile. The two plainclothes men assigned to his floor, going out now for their supper, told him how Steve’s description had been so widely teletyped that his capture was already as good as accomplished.
Leaving, they told the editor they would be back shortly, that he had nothing at all to
worry about.  He was reading comfortably, when Steve’s voice, deadly cold, brought beads of perspiration to his face. “Don’t raise your voice,” Kenet ordered.

Whitcomb babbled, “Go away, far away.  I’ll keep sending you funds—wherever you
go—” He reached craftily for the gun on the table. It was almost in his fingers when
Steve’s fist crashed into his jaw, sending him reeling.

Ann took over then. Swiftly, she reached into her medical bag, withdrew a hypodermic
of sodium pentathol and inserted it while he was still momentarily stunned from Steve’s
blow.

She said evenly and quietly, “You are going back, Mr. Whitcomb, to the last time
you saw Helen Kenet—

The story was brief—and ruthless. He had left the office that day after a talk with
the president of his company—a talk that gratified all his burning ambitions. He had
been promised a partnership in the firm. He had arrived in high spirits at his apartment,
where Helen Kenet had promised earlier to meet him.

But he had been met by a hysterical, unnerved woman whose shaking hand pointed
to the unconscious form of her husband lying on the floor, and she was sobbing out the
story of how he had tried to choke her! How only his fainting had saved her life from his
mad attack.

Whitcomb had been madly infatuated with Helen. But nothing counted beside the fact
that any scandal would destroy his chances for the partnership. He turned and walked
to the door. Upon his return, he said coldly, he expected to find both her and her husband
out of his apartment.

She had really gone out of control then; screaming that she would drag his name
through every paper in town, until the scandal cost him not only the partnership but his
job, and the man realized that Helen really would do this.

Whitcomb hadn’t even lost his temper.  What he did, he did with calm deliberation.
With the marks of her struggle on his hands, it would be Steve who would be accused of
her murder.  Knowing that, his fingers reached out slowly, surely—Helen Renet
could spoil nothing for him, ever. Then he had removed the overnight case—the only
possible piece of evidence.

Still groggy from the drug, he didn’t see immediately that the two plainclothes men
had long since returned and were taking in every word he had said. Not until Steve
turned to the detectives and said, with the quiet satisfaction of proven innocence, “Well
that’s it.”

One of the plainclothes men approached Whitcomb. “It’s against the law for us to
use drugs to question prisoners—even a confessed killer. But–” he shook Whitcomb
roughly. “You’ll tell us the whole story again when we get downtown, won’t you, Bub?”

Steve said, ironically, “Whitcomb, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Three meals a
day—music—all on -the county.”

Then, turning to Ann and holding out his arms, he dismissed Whitcomb and all dark
unhappiness from his mind.

THE END