FACE OF THE FOE: A Neighborhood Is Terrorized By a Psychopath Who Is Murdering Women!
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My dad worked in the mines of Kentucky in the steel mill in Gary, where I eventually joined him. Through him, I learned what hard work was and saw that the men and women like him were the backbone of our community. Through my law practice, I've been fortunate enough to give back to those in need with food programs, clothing and toys for children, and educational support. Every day through the Allen Law Group, I want to make my community and my father proud.

My dad worked in the mines of Kentucky, in the steel mill in Gary. And the parents of my partners worked in the mills too, or in the building trades, or driving trucks. So at Allen Law Group, we understand the struggle working people face when they lose their livelihood because of an accident. That's why we work so hard to help injured people win justice. Unlike the other firms, that's all we do. And because we know what you're facing, we won't quit until we win. I guess you can say it's in our DNA.

My dad worked in the mines of Kentucky in the steel mill in Gary, where I eventually joined him. Through him, I learned what hard work was and saw that the men and women like him were the backbone of our community. Through my law practice, I've been fortunate enough to get back to those in need with food programs, clothing and toys for children, and educational support. Every day through the Allen Law Group, I want to make my community and my father proud. Oh!

The Black Museum. Affiliated stations present Escape. Dinner Sanctum. The Seal. Present Suspense. I am the Whistler.

Welcome, Weirdos! I'm Darren Marlar and this is Retro Radio, old-time radio in the dark, brought to you by WeirdDarkness.com. Here I have the privilege of bringing you some of the best dark, creepy, and macabre old-time radio shows ever created.

If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, sign up for our free newsletter, connect with us on social media, listen to free audiobooks that I've narrated. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression, dark thoughts, or addiction. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com.

Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into tonight's retro radio, old-time radio in the dark. The CBS Radio Mystery Theater presents... Come in. Come in.

Welcome. I'm E.G. Marshall. I suppose one must consider Hamlet William Shakespeare's greatest play. Certainly it is the most famous. Was Hamlet a young man overwhelmed with a problem too large for him to solve?

Did the tragedy of his father's death drive him mad? Or was he a politician who played for time and by accident lost not only the game, but his life? Why don't you judge for yourself? Angels and ministers of grace defend us. Are you my father? It beckons you to go with it. I'll follow. No, you shall not go. Unhand me, Horatio. A friend or not, I'll make a ghost of you.

Lead on, spirit. I'll follow, even if it leads to the gate of hell. Our mystery drama, Long Live the King is Dead, was freely adapted from the immortal Shakespeare play, Hamlet, especially for the Mystery Theater by Ian Martin and stars Tony Roberts. It is sponsored in part by True Value Hardware Stores and Buick Motor Division.

I'll be back shortly with Act One. Hamlet, a graduate student at a distant university, was not even aware of the death of his father he loved and revered till long after the fact.

By the time the news reached him, and he could make plans to return to the castle of Elsinore, it was to discover that his beloved mother had remarried. But now his father's brother, Claudius, was king and shared his mother's bed. Wrong? Right? Morality apart, this was a situation he had to face on his return home.

listening to his new father and new sovereign speak for the first time in public. The memory of our dear brother Hamlet's death is more than green. As all of you, I bear my heart in grief.

Yet in this warlike state... our sometimes sister, weighing funeral and rejoicing... has, in wisdom for all our better goods... taken me as husband... I, in return, her as wife. We hope you will forgive and realize... that in our sorrow, still in the midst of death... we are in life. But now the business of the state has lagged too long...

What petitions must we hear? Dread, my lord. Who speaks? Laertes, son to Polonius, your counsellor. You have our immediate ear in all things. I beg your favor to return to France, from where I came most willingly to attend your coronation. Have you your father's leave? Oh, he does, my lord. Wrung from me by such laboursome petitions, I pray you let the young Japanese go. By all means, grant it.

But since I stand as foster father in this matter, let me in the same way treat you as my own. What of you, my nephew Hamlet, and my son? What can I offer you in kind? A little less than kin, a little less than kind. Forgive me, I lost what you said. As well, as well. Dear Hamlet, I beg you as my son...

Try to cast off the melancholy and the black of mourning. Forget your father gone to dust. We must accept the fact of dying. It is a common ailment. In any case, in this case... Aye, madam, it is common. If it is, we have all felt it. Why is it particularly so with you? Oh, so it seems. Seems, mother? Oh, no, it does not seem, but is...

It isn't only my inky cloak or customary suits of solemn black or sighs or tears or frowns and all other common displays of grief that proclaim my sadness. I have that within which passeth show. The rest are but the trappings and the suits of woe. It is noble and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, to mourn your father. But we must mourn in reason.

If I may serve in some sense, think of me as father. You, a poor substitute, but at least your father's brother. I would not ask you except... Except? Except what, uncle? For many reasons, I would urge you not to return to school in Wittenberg, but to stay here for your mother's sake and mine. Dear Hamlet, let me add my prayer to that.

I shall in all my best obey you, madam. Why, there's a fair reply. And loving, too. I promise you that you are as myself in Denmark. Do you agree, Gertrude? Of course, dear Halt. I cannot tell you, son, how happy your agreement with your mother's wish and mine has made us. Now, at last, perhaps Denmark can smile again. And...

and we may bring some laughter back to court. Come, my queen. That it should come to this. But two months dead? No, not even that long. So excellent a king and man compared to my uncle. A god to a gargoyle. I remember how loving my father was to my mother and how she hung on his every word and look with a hunger of love that never could be satisfied. And yet within a month...

Oh, frailty, thy name is woman. One little month before the tears were dried, she married my father's brother and with indecent speed crawled with him between incestuous sheets. Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt and vanish. Oh, that God did not forbid self-slaughter.

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable all reason in life seems to be. For what has happened cannot come to good. But I must let my heart break while I bite my tongue. Your Lordship? What?

Horatio, what brings you here from Wittenberg? Oh, tired of books, decided to play truant. Oh, not you, my friend. Come, speak out. What brings you here to Elsinore? Well, I came to see your father's funeral. Don't mock me, my friend. I think it was to see my mother's wedding. Indeed, my prince, it followed very fast. Oh, it's sheer thrift, Horatio. The funeral meats serve to feed the wedding guests. It turns the stomach.

My Lord Hamlet, I... I think I saw your father last night. My father? My father, the king, my father. Where? Well, let me explain. I have two friends, members of the palace guard, standing their watch some nights after your father had been at last laid to rest. They were, both of them, shaken and terrified by the appearance of a figure on the battlements, armed head to foot, who did not speak, but seemed in some dumb fashion to implore their help.

In desperation, knowing not what else to do, they... they sent word to me. And I came. And did you see this apparition? Yes, Hamlet, I did. I kept the watch with them a third night. And he did appear. And how did he look? Oh, a countenance more in sorrow than in anger. Did he stay long? While one might count a hundred. Oh, God in heaven! What brings him from... from his grave?

I will watch with you tonight. Maybe he will walk again. Well, Sister Ophelia, I am all packed and ready to depart. I shall miss you, Laertes. It's been good to have you home from Paris. From all the great occasions that have happened, I could scarcely have stayed away. I wish they had not happened. I wish I were going with you. Except... Hamlet? Yes? Hamlet?

Because he loves you. We have exchanged vows which bind us. My little sister, do not put too much faith in princes. I will not let you put a slur on Hamlet's name. My dear sweet one, I have no doubt that Hamlet, even in his grief, may love you now. But Hamlet's will no longer is his own. His royal rank makes him a prisoner of the state. You may give yourself to him willingly, but no matter how honest he is, he cannot give himself away as you can.

Ophelia. Yes, Laertes. I speak only to keep you from being hurt. And I have stayed too long, for here my father comes. Hoth, hoth, still here, Laertes, aboard, aboard. Your ship is ready to sail. Oh, there then, my boy, my blessing with you. I thank you, Laertes. Now, just these few precepts for your guidance. Reign in your tongue, be familiar, but never vulgar. If you have friends, and they are tried and true...

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And it must follow us the night, the day. You cannot then be false to any man. I will obey, but... Dear father, you said the ship was sailing. I heard you also. Oh, yes, the ship, of course, my boy, of course. Farewell, then, and my blessing. I humbly take my leave, father. Well, go now, go. Goodbye, Ophelia. Remember what I said. Locked in my memory, and only you have the key.

Goodbye, dear brother. Godspeed, you boy. Now, where were we? I think you were about to make a speech. No, no, no, no, no speech to the point. What is it between you and young Lord Hamlet? He has of late offered

offered me much affection. Affection? Do you believe his offers? I do not know, Father, what I should think. You're a baby if you think a young man is to be trusted. He has offered me his love in only honorable fashion. Spring is to catch woodcrops a trap for a pretty bird. When the blood burns, it lends the tongue vows. Now do not trust his vows. I order you from this time forth, Ophelia, to avoid meeting him or seeing him alone.

The air bites at the bones, Horatio. It is very cold. Aye, colder even than the wind. What's the hour? It just struck twelve. I didn't hear it. This is the time when the ghost will walk. Look, my lord, the spectre comes. Angels and ministers of grace defend us. Are you my father? King? Royal Dane? Oh, answer me. It beckons you to go with it. Ah!

I'll follow. No, you cannot go. Unhand me, friend or not, I'll make a ghost of you. Lead on, spirit. I'll follow you. I'll go no further. Speak. I am your father, spirit. If ever you love me, revenge my murder. Murder? Oh, my prophetic soul.

My uncle.

So I lost and he gained in one twisted moment of my dying agony. My queen, my crown, and my untimely death. And I was cut off full of sin and sent to my account unshriven, unanointed, and unhallowed. Ah!

Now, fare you well. Night time and the glowworm's pale nightlife is fading fast. Adieu, my son. Adieu. Remember me. Remember thee. Yes, from the tables of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records. And your commandment shall live alone in the book of my mind.

A mother damned. I'm traitorous, murderous, clodious. Let me write it in my record. That one may smile and smile and smile again. And be a villain. Lord Hamlet, is all well? No, far from well. A villain dwells in Denmark. It needs no spectre from the grave to tell me that. Aye. Aye.

About this vision here, it is an honest ghost. Give me your word that you will keep secret what you have seen or overheard. Well, trust me. No, swear upon my sword. Well, I have given my word that I... Swear! God, what was that? There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Swear! Swear! And so I will. Then rest, rest, perturbed spirit.

The time is out of joint. Oh, cursed spite! That ever I was born to set it right. So Hamlet now must trace his tragic quandary. Will he believe a ghost? A figure perhaps conjured out of his grief-stricken mind and his dislike of his uncle?

Or can he accept the fact of a murder committed by someone in so high a place that no ordinary justice can bring him to trial? Is he mad or sane? For if he is sane, he seems to be the only one in this world. I shall return shortly with Act Two. ♪♪

Hamlet is not the only one assailed by doubts. Claudius' conscience is disturbing him, and he is afraid of Hamlet as a threat to his uneasy throne.

He is more and more frantic to find out what Hamlet's thoughts are. And to this end, he brings to court two friends of Hamlet's from younger days, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and using their venal nature and ambition for advancement, makes them spies. Nor is he above trying to use his doddering old chamberlain, Polonius, and through him, his daughter, Ophelia, as informant.

What is this of my nephew Hamlet that you wish to speak, Polonius? Why, good Mélis, that only yesterday he came upon her in the closet where she sat sewing, and with a face as white as his shirt, he seized her by the wrist, stared at her face as if he would memorize every feature, and then, with the look of a man who has gazed on hell, backed slowly out of the room, his eyes never leaving her face. Most, most strange behavior. Mélis!

Your son is mad. Mad? Oh, yes, it is true. To wit and by your leave. Because, you see, I have a daughter. As well we know. A dutiful daughter who has given me this. This is a letter from Hamlet? As to my daughter as will be revealed. Doubt thou the stars of fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt I love. Oh!

Oh, dear Ophelia, I have no heart to reckon my unrelenting sorrow, but that I still love you best. Believe me, Hamlet. Now, now, this letter from obedience my daughter showed me. And how does she receive his love? Oh, Lord Hamlet is a prince above her station. Thus she must lock herself away from him, refuse his company, receive no token. And do you think this has driven him mad, hmm?

How can we try this further? My lord, may I suggest we could arrange a meeting between my daughter and him while you and I or madam might hide behind the tapestry that drapes the wall. My God, we'll try it. My poor sad son approaches. Then we can make a first assessment. Now quickly, your majesty, hide yourselves away, away, and let me intercept him. Come, come quickly, get to it.

Well, well, well, God have mercy. Look who's here. Oh, you know me, sir. Oh, very well, very well. You sell fish? Not I. Oh, it's a pity. I wish you were so honorable a man.

Have you a daughter? I have. Keep her out of the sun. Light is the father of conception, but not the way you'd like your daughter to conceive. God, still harping on Ophelia. You, you see the man of wit, my lord. What are you reading? Words. Words. Words. But what is the matter?

Between whom? I mean what is the subject of what you read. Oh, slanders, sir. For here this satirist says that old men have wrinkled faces, a lack of wit, and woefully weak legs, which is not fair, you see, since you could be as old as I am if, like a crab, you could go backwards.

Though this is madness, there is method in it. Will you walk with me into the air, my lord? Into my grave? Yes, indeed, that is out of the air. But I... My lord, may I most humbly take my leave of you? You cannot, sir, take from me anything I will more willingly part with. Except my life. Except my life. Fare you well, Lord Hamlet. Hamlet.

To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether it is better in the mind to suffer, or end a sea of problems by the sleep of death. To die. To sleep. Aye, there's the flaw. For in that sleep, when we have shuffled off this mortal shell, the dreams that threaten to haunt our peace forever must give us pause. Thus conscience makes cowards of us all.

and makes us bear the ills we have. Afraid of others we cannot know, nor dare to risk. Oh, God. Here comes Ophelia. I cannot drag her down with me. Ah, sweet one, in your prayers remember me and all my sins. Hamlet, how do you feel today? I humbly thank you. Well, well, well. I have remembrances of yours. I should return.

Will you take them now? I loved you once. Indeed, you made me believe so. You should not have believed me. I would have taken you unwed, but that's desire. I loved you not. I was the more deceived. I thought... Get thee to a nunnery.

Would you want me to make you a breeder of sinners? I beg you, sweet my lord. I am sick of womankind. God gives you one face and you make yourselves another. I will stand no more of it. You've driven me mad. I would proclaim as prince there be no more marriages. All those that are married already may live. Save one. Save only one.

You're still here, Ophelia. Then I shall take my leave. But hear me, to a nunnery. Go. Oh, God. Please help him. Hush, child. And forgive him. He's not in his senses. This mad, raving man. I want her. Your Majesty and Father, to see such a noble mind overthrown, it's...

It breaks my heart to see him as he is. Take her away. Come, child. We shall weep our tears together. Well, you see, my king, quite mad, quite mad. But what I heard him speak was not like madness. I think his purpose different, although I'm not sure...

What it is? I still think his grief is from neglected love. Can we not try once more? Try what? Well, the players are here, and all will be bustled for tomorrow's entertainment. But by the day following, if you hold it fit, let Hamlet meet with the queen, his mother, and let her chide him and entreat him to tell her what cast him down. I shall be hidden behind the curtain, unknown to them, and will report their conference. Yes, sir.

Yes, it shall be so. Madness and anyone great enough to shake the throne must never unwatch and go. Polonius, I hear the players are to be here. Ah, why, so they are. Will you come to the play? Uh, no. More than that, I would like to talk to them. They are old friends and might lift my spirits. Then relief is not far away, for...

Oh, here they come. You are welcome, masters. You are welcome all. I am glad to see you. Ah, you, sir. You are disguised in the face since I saw you last. Do you come to beard me in Denmark? This beard is better covering than the wrinkles age has put on me.

my face. It suits you well. How good to see you. Let's not wait for tonight, but give me a foretaste now. Let me have, let's see, my favorite speech. What one is that, my lord? It begins as I remember...

The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sabled arms black as his purpose did the... Did the knight resemble? Yes, yes, that's it, that's it. Let's have it all. Did the knight resemble when he lay couched in the ominous horse? Hath now his black and dreadful complexions. Unless things mortal move them not at all...

would have made Milch the burning eyes of heaven and passion of the gods for Hecuba. Bravo. Bravo. But you must make all ready for tonight. On to your quarters. Stop a moment, friend. Yes, Prince. Can you play The Murder of Gonzago tomorrow night?

But of course. And you could, for me, insert a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I should set down for you? Give me only time to commit them safe to memory. You shall have it, I promise. Now, leave me and make your preparations. With all dispatch, good Prince Hamlet. Now, I am but a rogue and peasant slave.

Is it not monstrous that this player here, all in a fiction, in a dream of passion, can create the emotion to distract himself to tears? And all for nothing. For what? For Hecuba. What Hecuba to him, were he to Hecuba that he should weep for her? What would he do if he had the motive and the cue for passion that I have?

Why, he would drown the stage in tears, make the guilty mad, and terrify those still unstained by guilt. Yet I, the son of a dear father murdered, prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, unable to face my cause, can only unpack my heart with words.

Bloody, bawdy villain. Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain. Oh, vengeance. I have heard that some guilty people, while sitting at a play, if the scene reflects their guilt, may be driven to confession for murder, though it has no tongue or will out. I'll have these players play something like the murder of my father before the king. I'll watch him like a hawk.

And if he only blanches, then at last I'll know the truth. The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. At last, it seems, young Hamlet has, in the words of Lady Macbeth...

screwed his courage to the sticking point. But if this last proof of the murder of his father is presented to him, he still must face a terrible problem. How to exact his revenge? I shall return shortly with Act Three.

It is the evening of the play. About the dais where the play will be performed are seated Ophelia, Polonius, Horatio, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and all the nobles of the court and their attendants. An expectant buzz fills the hall. And beside the empty seat saved for Hamlet, his friend Horatio sits in some excitement.

since, as a soldier, a play is a new experience for him. Now, as they wait, Hamlet turns to the player who will enact the king. Speak the speech, I pray you, trippingly on the tongue. Don't mouth it, as some of our players do, or soar the air with your hands. You have the words I wrote? I have indeed, your honor. Good.

Be not too tame, though. Let your discretion judge that. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action. The whole purpose of the actor is to hold the mirror up to nature. That should be the first and last end, for it overdu... Ah, here come the king and queen. While I take my seat, make ready. Oh!

They, uh, they do not speak. This is the pantomime. The prologue which makes the statement of the play, Horatio. I'm not well versed in understanding this art. What, uh, is the play called? The Mousetrap. What?

Why, my king, it is an apt title. This is the image of a play done in Vienna. Gonzago is the duke, his wife Batista, and sure it's a knavish piece of work. Come!

Begin. The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing. Confederate season, else no creature seen. Thou mixture rank. You see, my king, or will see, how he poisons him in the garden. Right.

Then later wins the love of Gonzago's wife. On wholesome life you serve immediately. So pour I the deadly poison in his ear! Ah!

Give all the play! Give me some light! Away! This play was meant to pattern what might have been. Oh, yes. Did you see Claudius? Why, this is... Oh, my God, friend Hamlet, what have you started? Who knows as yet? Yes, what now? Oh, dear. Oh, dear. The queen, my lord, is most disturbed and would like to speak with you. Then go and tell my mother I will come to her by and by.

And leave me all. Even you, Horatio. It is now the very witching time of night... when churchyards yawn... and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood? I will go to my mother... and will be cruel... but not unnatural. I will speak daggers to her... but use none...

As for Claudius, his days are numbered. No, madam. Lord Hamlet is on the way. I will conceal myself behind the curtains. Is this right? It is what the king commands. Now, mark you, draw him out. Be round with him. Mother! Mother! Don't be afraid. But I hear him coming. Hide yourself.

Well, mother, why have you called me here? Hamlet, you have your mother much offended. Mother, you have my father much offended. Have you forgotten who I am, my son? You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife. And would it were not so, you are my mother.

If that is all you have to say to me, I will face you with others who can better defend me. Not till I set you up a glass wherein you may see the inmost part of you. What is in your mind?

You will not murder me. Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!

Is it the king? A senseless bloody deed to run him through. A bloody deed? Almost as bad a good mother as kill a king and marry with his brother. Kill a king? Aye, madam, t'was my word. Oh, God, Polonius. You wretched, rash, intruding fool. I took you for another. Farewell.

Stop wringing your hands, mother, and let me wring your heart. What have I done that you treat me so? Such an act that blurs the grace of all your life. What act? What do you blame me for? Look here upon this miniature around my neck and upon the one you wear. My father, your husband, the counterfeit of two brothers...

How could you step from this to this? How can you call it love? For at your age, wisdom should temper the body's urge. You lost a god and found a man so misshapen in his soul that even the most desperate old maid would turn from him in loathing. Oh, Hamlet, speak no more.

You break my heart in two. Then throw away the worse apart and live the purer. And when you are desirous to be blessed, I will blessing beg of you. But go not to my uncle's bed. As for this meddling fool, I'm sorry. I'll dispose of his remains. Hamlet! Hamlet!

Where is Polonius? In the dust. And his soul? In heaven. Send your messengers there to seek him. And if they don't find him there, why, seek him in the other place yourself. Hamlet...

You must be mad. For your own safety, then, we send you straight to England. The bark is ready, and your schoolmates, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, will see you safe. To England? Aye. Where else? Why, that remains to be seen. Will you wish us all safe return? Of course we do.

You, mother, perhaps. But tell the king he should not worry. I doubt that we shall all return. Ophelia Mad, she came to you thus? It wrung my heart. Poor, pretty, lost little soul. The poison of grief springs from her father's death.

Gertrude, when sorrows come, they don't come in single file, but marching wide like legions. My good Laertes. Where is my father? Dead. But not by Claudius. Let him demand his fill. I'll not be juggled to hell with the legions. I will know the truth.

I'll be revenged more thoroughly for my father. How did you gain the news so soon? My sister sent me word. Where is she? I would not haste to see her. Let all be revealed. Here she comes now. Where? As you can see. That is my sister Ophelia? Poor suffering maid. She walks as though blind. Her head a tilt. Her eyes are as vacant as the grave. Ophelia tears...

Sister? You must sing down-a-down. Ophelia, don't you know me? I know Rosemary. That is for remembrance. Pray, love, remember. And pansies. That is for thought. Why, she is mad. There is fennel for you. And columbines and rue.

I would give you violets, but they all withered when my father died. And I was abandoned by my love. Do you see this? Oh, God! Beatrice, I must talk with you alone. Come, go with me.

Now Hamlet is returned. Would you, Laertes, undertake to show you are your father's son in more than words? I'd cut his throat in the church. Revenge should have no bounds. But why offer him sanctuary? Besides, for the common view, a passage of arms would seem more apt. Unless I lost...

Suppose your rapier point bore an unction that upon a scratch ensured instant death. Since my father had no defense, I see no reason to offer him more. Ah, but trust me to shuffle the foils in such a way as they are presented that the poison blade will be safe in your hand. And yet...

It seems a crime on crime. Excuse me. Yes, my sweet queen, what ails you? One woe upon another's heel must tread. Ophelia. Yes? What of my sister? Give me Laertes to bring the news. But she is drowned. Drowned? Oh, no, Horatio, not Ophelia. To return to Denmark still alive and find her dead...

When is the funeral? Today, my lord, have not. Then let us get there with all speed. No. Hold your filling of the grave till I have caught her once more in my arms. Whose grief can bear such emphasis? Her brother's.

And you? Hamlet, the Dane. The devil take your soul! Hold them apart! He is mad! He is mad! Why, who is mad? I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not make up the love I had for her. But I will fight you, Laertes, if so you must. By God, you will? I hope that much I can hold in trust. Come, Hamlet. Laertes.

Give me your hands. My hand to you, sir, and against no man. My hand to you, and against this man. I wish I could persuade you how little wrong I've done. I wish I could be persuaded. But that's too late. Come. Let us cross swords. Why, this is foolish, friends. I know, Horatio, but there's no harm. Let him expel his agony. I can handle his sword. Have at you, then.

A hit! A palpable hit! Well, again. Stay, stay. Let us drink. Hamlet, take this cup. To your health. I'll play the bout first. Then I'll drink to you, my son. Oh, no, Gertrude, no. What is it, mother? Die, murderer, die! Your skill at swordplay shall not save you. A thrust in my back. Why, damn you! Double damn! Ah!

I'll wrest that vicious sword from you and return treachery for treachery. Fear not. It's but a passing wound. Not with the poison rapier you took from my hand. Poisoned? Then we are both. What was in that draft I took? The draft I put by, but I can see it all now. Keep the...

poison on my sword. And the poison in the drink. So, die, villain. Die! No, Hamlet. No! And if that's not enough, give me the cup. Open your mouth, tyrant.

Swallow your own death, Oceanwood. Hamlet, my prince, is it well with you? No, no, ill, Horatio. How is it with the others? The queen is dead. The earth is fast upon. The king is writhing in his last agony. So be it. Now, at last, I die.

Horatio, in this harsh world, draw your breath in pain to tell my story. The rest is silence. My lord. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing you to your rest.

So died Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

The play Hamlet was staged in the first year of the 17th century, 275 years ago. It was a play of deep psychological insight, full of drama to excite an audience, and it has lasted all these years. The people and the problems are not so different from what we have today. Only the genius of one man has guaranteed that the play will last.

As long as language remains our means of communication, and radio is one means of bringing that to you. Our cast included Tony Roberts, Ian Martin, Arnold Moss, Evie Juster, and Bob Caliban. The entire production was under the direction of Hyman Brown.

Radio Mystery Theater was sponsored in part by Allied Van Lines. This is E.G. Marshall inviting you to return to our mystery theater for another adventure in the macabre. Until next time, pleasant dreams. ♪♪

My dad worked in the mines of Kentucky in the steel mill in Gary, where I eventually joined him. Through him, I learned what hard work was and saw that the men and women like him were the backbone of our community. Through my law practice, I've been fortunate enough to give back to those in need with food programs, clothing and toys for children, and educational support. Every day through the Allen Law Group, I want to make my community and my father proud.

They've been here for thousands of years, making their presence known in the shadows. They might be seen by a lonely motorist on a deserted road late at night, or by a frightened and confused husband in the bedroom he's sharing with his wife. Perhaps the most disconcerting part of this phenomenon boils down to this question. Has the government been aware of their presence all along and is covertly working with them towards some secret end?

In the audiobook, Runs of Disclosure, what once was fringe is now reality. While listening, you'll meet regular people just like you who have encountered something beyond their ability to explain. You'll also hear from people of great faith and deep religious belief who continue to have these strange and deeply unsettling encounters. Author L.A. Marzulli explores these ongoing incidents to discover the answers to these questions.

Who are they? What do they want? And why are they here? Can you handle the truth? Listen to this audiobook if you dare. Rungs of Disclosure Following the Trail of Extraterrestrials and the End Times by L.A. Marzulli Narrated by Darren Marlar Hear a free sample on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com

The Weird Circle The Weird Circle

In this cave by the restless sea, we are met to call from out the past stories strange and weird. Bellkeeper, toll the bell so all may know we are gathered again. The Weird Circle. Once again, it's Weird Circle time at the Ogden's Playhouse.

Tonight we are to hear an adaptation of the Ambrose Beer story, Middle Toe of the Right Foot. To the mystery story fan, tonight's presentation promises keen listening pleasure. To the smoker who rolls his own cigarettes, Ogden's fine cut promises smooth smoking pleasure.

It's a promise that comes true with every cigarette rolled with Ogden's. That's why we call attention to our standing invitation to try Ogden's when in need of a cigarette tobacco. You'll find Ogden's easy to roll, delightful to smoke. Yes, easy to roll, delightful to smoke. And now the Ambrose Bierce story, The Middle Toe of the Right Foot. Out of the past...

Phantoms of the world gone by speak again the immortal tale, The Middle Toll of the Right Foot. Well, there it is. So that's the old Manton place, eh? Certainly a run-down farm. Weeds growing rank all over and the house rotting away. Do you think anyone will show up to claim it tomorrow? Gertrude Manton's brother's been notified.

That house has been empty now for ten years. You think Manton will show up? I wish he would. Manton killed his wife and children there. What happened to this fellow Manton? I don't know. Never found a trace of him yet. And you, a deputy sheriff? Better shine up your badge and get busy. I'll find the murderer someday. Somehow. No wonder the ghosts live there. It gives me the creeps. Look, even the trees are all leaning to windward, trying to get away. Come on, let's drive on. All right. Come on.

Yeah, Ross will be waiting at the hotel. We'd better get along. Why don't you look where you're going? Why, I'm sorry. I was only... Get out of my way. Some people are the clubsiest. Cleck. Good day, sir. I want a room. Yes, sir. Gladly. Will you sign the register? Front.

Uh, you will have room 212, Mr., um, Mr. Grossmith. Oh, uh, Mr. Grossmith, I, uh, I think we've met, sir. What? A bumping acquaintance in the screen door just now. Well, uh... Allow me to introduce myself. Ross, sir, editor of the Martial Advocate. Glad to welcome you to our city. Are, um, are you here on business? If I am, it's my own business. My mistake, stranger. Thank you.

What a horned toad. Rosser, here we are. Come on.

Hello, King. Oh, wait. You must be Mr. Sanchez. Yes, sir. How do you do, sir? Welcome to Marshall. It's good of you to meet us here, Mr. Rosser. We county politicians, like the deputy here and myself, can't get along without you great men of the press. Oh, shucks. Come on over here and sit down. Right. Now, you want to talk about the Manton House first or the corner? Wait a minute. First, let's order something long and cold, huh? The Manton place will take care of itself. That's a good idea. That was a hot drive.

Well, now, about this candidate for coroner, I can't see, King, why a man can't be a good coroner just because he's got a cast in his eye. Well, you know, Rosser, I have a theory that any physical defect goes with some mental or moral defect.

Just can't help myself. I hate and always hated any kind of deformity in a man or in a woman. I infer, then, Mr. King, that a lady lacking the advantage of a nose would find it a hard struggle to become Mrs. Thomas King. Well, put it that way if you want, but seriously, I once nearly married a most charming girl who... Well, I was a kid lawyer studying at Harrison. Each time I came home here, I rushed over to the Brewer's. I think I was really in love with Gertrude Brewer. She was lovely.

Then, one summer afternoon, we were in the orchard. A young brother was helping us gather fruit. Oh, Tom, it's such fun to have you home. Even if for only these short visits. How's everything? Oh, just fine and dandy. Oh, I've so much to tell you. They made me deputy sheriff. Oh, how wonderful. Yeah. Can't I see you alone this evening? Let's walk down by the river. Oh, I'd love to, Tom. Sis. What is it, Ned? Here comes Manton.

He's tying up his team down by the gate. Oh, Gertrude, I can't stand that man. Why do you let him come here? Why, he's very amusing, Tom, and very nice. He's very prosperous, but I agree with Tom, sis. He's a queer duck. Got queer ways. Well, Ned, what do you mean? Well, I went after Partridge with him, and he uses the craziest contraption. Yeah? How's that? He's taken a long straight branch, stripped it, and

and on the end he's fastened a loop of wire that's sharp as a razor blade. A razor blade? Yeah. He sneaks up on a bird, then gets the loop over its head, and gives a quick jerk, and presto, bird's dead.

Throat cut. Oh, Ned. Why does he do that? Well, there's no shot to scare other birds. Well, that's true, and a good idea if you want slaughter instead of sport. And when he's doing it, Tom, his eyes look so queer. Uh-oh, Ned. Here he comes. But I'll see you alone tonight, won't I, Gertrude, dear? Yes, Tom, of course. Afternoon, Miss Gertrude. Hello, Mr. Madden. Just thought I'd stop by to see the prettiest peach in the county. Oh, hello.

Oh, hello there, my boy. Howdy, Mr. Manton. Why, Mr. Manton, look. Your hands are stained. Oh. Oh, well, I'm sorry, Miss Gertrude. I have been doing a pretty job of butchering. Finest cabs you ever saw. Oh, thank you.

Um, uh, this is our friend Tom King. He's been made deputy sheriff. Oh, good old law and order. Well, howdy. Don't you ever take your cattle to market on the hoof? Oh, prefer it my way. Besides, makes for tenderer, whiter veal. Well, young woman, you look mighty near perfect today. Mighty near? I think Gertrude looks perfect always. Well said, young sheriff.

I guess by and large that everyone will agree that Miss Brewer here is an absolutely perfect specimen. No flaws, no faults. Now stop it, both of you. Well, as her brother, I'll say she's easy on the eyes, but a perfect specimen? Ha ha, no, she isn't. Now, Ned, behave. Ned, what are you talking about? Yeah, you tell him, sis. Oh, the boy's crazy. What's he driving at? Well, it's all so silly.

I don't know why Ned mentioned it, but the fact is, if you must know, I have only four toes on my right foot. No middle toe. What? Cut off by accident? No. I was born that way. Oh, a branded filly, eh? Well, you'll never stray from your owner, will you? Gertrude, I never knew that. Why, it's of no importance, Tom. I never think of it. Ah, it's cool here under the trees. Ah.

Uh, mind if I sit on the bench? Oh, not at all, Mr. Manton. Here, I'll make room. Uh, take my chair, Manton. I'll be running along. Oh, Tom, already? Yes, I've got some business in town. Important, really. You'll excuse me, Gertrude? So long, Ned. Forgetting me, eh? No. Goodbye, Mr. Manton. Oh, see you tonight, Tom. Goodbye for a little while.

Well, gentlemen, I didn't go back that night, and that goodbye was not for a little while, but for a long time. Do you mean a defect in the young woman's foot made such a difference to you, King? Yes. It's a curious obsession on my part, but I know that if I'd married that girl, I should have been miserable and would have made her so. But if the girl cared for you... She couldn't have cared too much for King, for she soon married a gentleman with more normal views. You mean Manton.

I get it. That horrible house we passed today. But you said Manton killed his wife. Yes, he did. Wait a minute. Who's that coming out of the door? Familiar looking. Oh, but it couldn't be. His name's, um, Grossmith. Grossmith, huh? Yeah. A cheerful bounder if I ever met one.

Nearly knocked me down when he arrived this afternoon. Hit my ear off when I tried to speak to him. No interview? No interview. What a nerve. He's sitting down right near us. Well, I'm interested in this story of King's. Tell me more about the Manton case, King. Your friend seems to be choking. Let him choke. Go on, King. Well, there's not much more to tell. I spent several years in the county seat before I came back here. The next time I saw Gertrude Manton was one day ten years ago.

I was in my office when I heard a knock on the door. Come in. Tom, it's I, Gertrude Brewer. Uh, Gertrude Manton. Gertrude! Oh, it's good to see you again. Why, you look... Don't try to be polite. I look old and tired and scared. And I am. Oh, what is it? Here, sit down and tell me. Tell me how I can help you. Will you help me?

Ned's away and I'm in such trouble. Well, I've heard gossip that things aren't going so well at the farm. They're not. It's awful. There are no more cattle. No more cattle? Well, in heaven's name, why? My husband's killed them all. He cuts their throats. Oh. It's just sort of a passion with him. There were no more calves, so he killed our bull. Then he started on the cows. Our lovely, gentle cows. Every so often, my husband's eyes get a strange, glassy look in them.

He wets his slaughtering knife and sort of fingers it with an awful smile on his lips. Tom, he's crazy. He ought to be put away, but what must I do? Oh, now, now, Gertrude, dear, of course I'll help you. Take it easy. Now, don't cry. I won't, but Tom, he cut the throat of our last cow yesterday and...

I'm so frightened. It's having a terrible effect on the children. Now, now, see here, everything will come out all right. Please stop crying. I'm going to get Dr. Carter and we'll drive out first thing in the morning. You will? Yes. Oh, that's wonderful. I won't be afraid anymore. Thank you, Tom. We'll see you tomorrow morning, then. Goodbye. It's good of you, Dr. Carter, to drive out here. Miss Manton's an old friend of mine. She's a fine woman, Tom.

Oh, but that husband. Yeah. Doc, I want you to look him over. There's something very wrong. Oh, Nellie. Oh. Oh. Oh, lovely sunshine. Lovely day off. What a gloomy place this is. Hello, Gertrude. Gertrude. She doesn't answer. Well, let's ring or knock or something. I'll try the bell. Look here, Tom. The door's open. Hmm. Yeah. Go on in. Gertrude.

Where are you? This house has the emptiest feeling. Are you sure she knew we were coming? We arranged it only yesterday. Oh, she must be here. There's no one in this room. Well, let's go upstairs. That's better. Come on. Doc! Doc, wait! Look. Here on the stairs. This... This stain. It's... It's sticky. Hmm. That's blood. Dripping from...

Hurry, Tom. Hurry up here. Good Lord. Little boy lying by the banister. Oh, his throat is cut. Gertrude! Gertrude! Where the devil is she? Doc, try the bedroom door. Tom, in here. It's Mrs. Manton lying across the body of her little girl. Both their throats slit from ear to ear. Gertrude!

As tonight's Weird Circle tale unfolds, many of you will note a familiar ring to the style of plot structure used by the master storyteller Ambrose Bierce, the incisive, racy style of the modern writer. Written before the First Great War, the middle toe of the right foot still carries the modern touch. In short, the works of good writers live on through the years. It's the same with Ogden's Fine Cut Tobacco.

A long time back, when Ogden's first came into prominence as the top choice of roll-your-own-cigarette fans, smokers were talking about and praising Ogden's. Today, just as then, Ogden's remains the popular choice of Canadian roll-your-own-cigarette smokers, a fact that can be attributed only to unvarying excellence right down through the years. Try Ogden's for real smoking enjoyment. You'll agree Ogden's is easy to roll, delightful to smoke.

Yes, easy to roll, delightful to smoke. And now back to our story. Sheriff Tom King, years ago, had been attracted to Gertrude Brewer, but ended his courtship when he learned that she lacked a middle toe on her right foot. She soon married the well-to-do but eccentric Robert Manton. This marriage ended in tragedy, for several years later the town was horror-stricken to learn that Manton, in a frenzy, had cut the throats of his wife and of their two children. Manton escaped.

The house has been empty for ten years. Well, that's the story of the Manton murders. And a morning I'll never forget. Well, I don't wonder. It's a horrible story. Tom, you may be interested to know that this Grosmith, or whatever his name is, sitting near us here, has been glaring at you and taking in every word you've said. Why the impudence? What do you think we ought to do about it? That's easy.

Sir, I think it would be better if you'd remove yourself to the other end of the veranda. You are evidently not used to the company of gentlemen. I'll not be spoken to that way. Why, you ill-bred lout. You've listened to every word we've been saying. Now, easy, Rossi. You're a bit hasty and unjust. This gentleman's done nothing to deserve such language. I'll not take back a word. This man has been annoying me all day. Hold that tongue of yours, sir, and I'll cut it out. You will, will you? Come, Rossi. Here, please, gentlemen. Please.

It's the custom of the country to demand satisfaction for an unwarranted blow. I now demand it of you. I'll give it gladly. I have no acquaintance in this place, sir. Perhaps you, sir, will be kind enough to represent me in this matter. You mean me? Well, I... I don't especially like your manner or your manners, but I suppose I shall have to consent. My name is Sancher. Yours is Grossmith, I believe. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Sancher. And you, King, will act for me, of course. What's the matter?

What are you staring at? He's looking at me, and I find it most objectionable. Why do you look at me like that, Mr. King? I find you very interesting, sir. You're giving me an idea. Oh, I've had quite enough of this. Get on with the arrangements, Mr. Sancher. Very well, sir. I'll toss a coin. As challenger, Mr. Grossmith has first call. If he wins, he may choose either the weapons to be used or the spot where the affair is to take place. Right. Satisfactory, gentlemen. Toss the coin. Here goes.

What do you say, Grossmith? Heads. Heads it is. Then I've got my choice of weapons. Yes. What do you want, guns? Certainly not. Knives. Boy knives, and I insist that it be a duel in the dark with knives. Knives. I thought so.

You, uh, you like knives, don't you, Mr. Grossman? Hold it, Tom. It's up to Rosser to say where this duel is to be. Well, I, uh... I'll speak for you, Rosser. As your second, it is my privilege to make the arrangements. All right with me, King. Well, then, gentlemen, meet me here in... in three hours. Right. It'll be dark then, and I shall drive you to the place I have chosen for this strange encounter. Mr. Sancho, I depend on you to buy the longest knives you can find in this town.

I'll be here at nine o'clock, but for now I've had enough of you gentlemen's company. Look here, Tom. What the devil have I got myself into? A duel. A duel with knives. And, just as he says, in the dark. But I didn't bargain to get ourselves into a mess like this. You realize that we have the choice of place, don't you?

Well, don't worry. Nothing's going to happen to you, Rosser. Well, as second to this fellow Grossmist, I must ask you, King, what's your planning? Is it some sort of practical joke? Not exactly a joke, Sancher. Well, where is this place you have in mind? A rather appropriate spot. Remember the haunted house I showed you today? You mean where the Manton murders were? Exactly. It will be the most perfect setting.

And now, if you and Ross will only help me carry out my plan tonight when we get to that Manton house, this is what will happen. Oh, go up. All right, here we are. Come on. Get out, Grossmith. This is the place. What are you waiting for? By heaven, this is a trick. Well, of course, Mr. Grossmith. If you're afraid of spooks, why... I'm afraid of nothing. I'm coming. Ah!

The choice of place for this duel was ours, Mr. Grosmith, and we have chosen this house. Go in, please. Why, it's dark as Haiti. Well, here, wait a minute. I got a candle. I'll light it. That's better. Now, here's the room. The dust is a foot thick. These infernal cobwebs. They're like rotting cheesecloth. Come, gentlemen. I'll hold the candle high so you can look into the room.

It is large and square, as you see. No fireplace, no furniture. Only this door and two windows, which are boarded up. It will be utterly dark. Mr. Sancher, is everything all right? I think the gentlemen should remove their hats, coats, and vests. All right, but I don't see the sense to it. Shall we leave them here in the passage? Yes. Very well. And now, gentlemen, here are the knives. They are exactly alike. You may examine them by the candlelight, and while you do so, I shall search you, Mr. Rosser.

Nothing. Now, let me hold the candle, King, while you search my principal. Right. Well, I'm satisfied. Well, Sancher, I think we're ready. If it is agreeable to you, Mr. Grossmith, will you place yourself in that corner, the one farthest from this doorway? Well, I can't see a thing. Feel your way along the wall. And now, Rosser, you here in this corner nearest the door. Right. Now, gentlemen, you are both in position.

Remember, you are not to start fighting or move until you hear the closing of the outer door. I shall now blow out the candle. There. There is the darkness you asked for, Grossmith. We leave you now. Good luck, Rosser. Goodbye, Mr. Grossmith. Are you with us, Rosser? Right behind you. Then here goes the outer door. All right, Rosser. Come out of that corner. My knife is waiting for you. My knife. My knife.

I love a knife. I'll carve you up, you blackguard. Well, why don't you say something? Rasa, where are you? Come out of that corner. Very well, I'll get you. You sniveling fool, are you afraid? Oh, a corner. But I'm getting nearer to you, Rasa. Why don't you move the door? Now! There's no one here. Rasa, where are you? I'll get you. Rasa, speak! Speak!

Come in.

What's the big idea of sending for me so early in the morning? Oh, hello, Sancher. Hello. Did he get you here, too? Yes, he did. Well, Tom, what is it you want? Boys, that hoax we framed up last night doesn't look so good this morning. How do you mean? Well, it's got me in a spot. You see, there's something about that fellow Grossmith I didn't tell you and Sancher. I drove right back to the house after I left you boys last night, and though I called and yelled at him, there wasn't a sound. He wasn't there. And he didn't come back to the hotel. Well, what do you care?

I never want to see the fellow again. But I've got to find him. I never should have let him get away. Just what do you mean by that, Tom? Well, I mean just this. When Grosmith challenged you, I thought I recognized him.

Yeah, that fellow isn't Growsmith at all. Huh? He really is... Hello, Tom. I guess I'm early. Ned Brewer. Well, I didn't expect you here this early. Well, I got tired waiting for you and the county commissioner. I'm glad to see you again, Ned. You know Sam Rosser, the advocate? Of course. How do you do? Welcome back, Ned. And this is the commissioner, Mr. Sancher. Glad to meet you, sir. How do you do? I'm Gertrude Manton's brother. I guess so. Well, Mr. Brewer...

The county will be glad to give over the custody of the farm, and since you're here, we might as well drive right out there and get the business over with. What do you say, Tom? Sure. I'd like it mighty well if Rosser here came along as a witness. Why not? Of course. Make a good feature story for my paper. But I bet it'll bring back powerful, unpleasant memories to you, Brewer, to see that Manton place again. I wish I didn't have to come out here. This place drives me crazy. Such ghastly recollections.

I can't ever forget that day. No, nor can I, Ned. It was stark horror. Unbelievable. Poor Gertrude. What happens now, Mr. Sancher? Well, we wait here till noon. It's nearly that now. Good. And then, if no other claimant puts in an appearance, the state law says I hand the custody of the place over to you as the rightful heir. I don't know what I'll do with the place. I certainly never want to see it again. Let's go inside. The door's unlocked. Well...

There's nothing here for anyone to take anyway. Gloomy, isn't it? What a ghostly effect, that light filtering down from the upstairs windows. I remember this room to the right here. I thought so. It's empty. Wait! Come here, quick! What? What is it? What's in that far corner? I think it's a man. It must be Grossman. Hey, you! Hey! Tom, wait. This man's dead.

Why, he can't be. Rosser, kick out some of those boards so we can get some light in here. Right. I'll help you, Rosser. All right. He's been dead for some time. He's rigid. There's his knife on the floor. But there's no blood on it. Look at his hands. Palms out and those claw-like fingers shielding his face. There's not a mark on him. See if you can help me lower his arms. Certainly. There. Look at those wild staring eyes and that half-open mouth.

Can you figure out why he died, Tom? This man died of sheer terror. Don't you agree, Ned? What? Why, Ned, what's the matter? By heaven, Tom, it's Manton. Look, you saw him once at our place, didn't you? Yes, but he wore a beard then and long hair. But you're right. This is Manton. Manton? Grossmith was Manton? Tom, Brewer.

Do you see what I think I see in the thick dust? Where? What? There on the floor. Leading from the door straight across the room to within a yard of Manton's body. Footprints. Bare feet. Three parallel lines of them. This is awful. A woman's footprints in the center and on either side the marks of children's feet. Look at that. This nearest print of the woman's foot. The middle toe is missing. The middle toe of the right foot. Gertrude...

My sister, Gertrude. From the time-worn pages of the past, we have brought you the story, The Middle Toe of the Writer. Pull the bell! Tonight's presentation brings to a close the present series of Weird Circle Stories at the Ogden's Playhouse. For the past 39 weeks, we've brought you the great mystery classics by the world's master storytellers with the thought that in the entertainment offered, you would find enjoyment.

If the presentation of this Weird Circle series has attained that objective, Ogden's feels that the purpose of the series has been met. Till we meet again then, here's a reminder. Try Ogden's Fine Cut Tobacco. You'll find Ogden's easy to roll, delightful to smoke. Yes, easy to roll, delightful to smoke.

If you smoke a pipe, try Ogden's Cut Plug. It's a smooth, mellow pipe tobacco. Hold the kaleidoscope to your eye. Peer inside. One twist changes everything. A woman awakens in a grotesque, human-sized arcade game.

A mysterious cigar box purchased at a farmer's market releases an ancient jinn who demands a replacement prisoner. An elderly woman possesses the terrifying power to inflict pain through handmade dolls. An exclusive restaurant's sinister secret menu includes murder-for-hire and harvested organs.

With each turn through these 20 tales, Reddit NoSleep favorite AP Royal reshapes reality, creating dazzling patterns of horror that entrance as they terrify. The Kaleidoscope, 20 Terrifying Tales of Horror and the Supernatural by AP Royal, narrated by Darren Marlar. Hear a free sample on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com.

Have you heard the strange tales of the whistler? I'm the whistler. I have as much freedom as a squirrel in a cage. Martha is a cold mercenary devil, but I'll have freedom beginning tonight. I'll kill... Friday night and again CBS presents The Whistler. I, the whistler, know many things, for I walk by night.

I know many strange tales, many secrets hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. And so I tell you tonight the amazing story of destiny. At a long table in a New York office sits a little man. He is slightly bald and thin and 45. A mild-mannered, reticent little fellow named Milton Strong. But Milton is anything but strong.

For the past 25 years, he has worked in the office and now, as a bookkeeper, is earning the stupendous salary of $35 a week. Milton can't understand why no one appreciates his ability. Milton has grown a bit sour, but he's never had the nerve to ask for a raise. Today, however, is going to be different. His wife has started him out with a lecture, and Milton is going to face the boss in a manner both clear and... Mr. Goulthright...

I'd like to have a word with you. A word? Mr. Wolfright, it has long been my decision to approach you on this subject, but for various reasons, a sense of reticence has bade me be silent. How long did it take you to memorize that, Milton? I am 45 years old. I've worked hard and long and faithfully for this company.

That's right, Milton. I'm aware of that. You haven't missed a day in all that time. In fact, our efficiency expert is getting out a booklet, and he's using you as the feature. I came to this firm as a lad of 20, and in all the following 25 years, I asked for very little. I did my work well. Sure you did, Milton, and the company appreciates it. I now draw a salary of $35 a week, and I thought that if, after all this time, 25 years, you could see your way clear to afford... Go on, Milton. To afford, well...

I'm not getting any younger. Well, Milton, strange as it seems, I've just come from a meeting of the department heads. Mr. Unger is the head of the accounting department and... Now, let me see. Oh, yes, here it is. Yes, here is his recommendation regarding you, Milton. Oh, yes. Yes, Mr. Goof, right? He recommends that you be retired at half salary as of the first of the month in consideration of your long service and loyalty to the company.

Retired? Oh, but that can't be. Retired? That's what it says here. But I don't understand. I'm only 45. No one is retired until he's at least... Why, you should be tickled to death. It's like a pension. But I came here to ask for a raise.

A raise? Well, how could that be possible when your department head suggests retirement? Oh, I see. Why, you should be tickled to death. I'd be, and you'd get two weeks full salary and two weeks vacation besides that full pay. You know, Milton, I kind of envy you. So I'm fired. Fired? Why, that's crazy. You've been honored. Good night, Mr. Gould. Good night, Milton. After Saturday, you've got nothing to worry about. Nothing.

And so poor Milton Strong walks out of the big office and starts home. All the way, his feeling of apprehension increases. His wife, Martha. What will she say? It was his wife who stirred him to the point of demanding a raise. Finally, Milton gets up nerve enough to go home. Home to certain death at the hands of Martha.

Yes, it's me, Martha. Well, where on earth have you been? Can't you ever get it into your head that when I say dinner will be ready by six, I mean it? Well, things happen sometimes to delay me, Martha. Delay you? I'd like to know what could happen to make you this late. Well, you see, I took some time to talk to you. What do you mean by coming in this house with that mud on your shoes? Get outside and take those rubbers off. Yes, I forgot. Yeah, you'd forget your head if it wasn't tied on. Yes, Martha, I'll take them off. And what do you mean?

coming into the house smoking that stinking pipe. Get it outside, do you hear? Yes, Martha, but I started to tell you. Oh, go on out. If you insist on smoking, do it outside. I'll put it out, Martha. I'll put it out. The dinner's cold and you can eat it that way. Martha, I couldn't help it. I went to talk to Mr. Goulthright about the raise. Yeah? What happened? Well, you see, I...

I'm a little along in years. Along in years? Is that what he said? No, he didn't say it. The head of the department had made a recommendation. For what? Well, now, don't get excited, Martha. I went in to ask for a raise, as you said, and, well, everything had been arranged. Well, did you get the raise? No. I've been retired on half salary. Retired? Retired? At your age? Are you crazy? Why did you... Why? Except what could I do?

You went in to ask for a raise, and you let them throw you out right into the ass. Oh, what could I do? It was all arranged. You're tired at half salary, $1,750 a week. You stood there like a nitwit and let them put that over on you. But, Martha. You stupid, spineless jellyfish. What could I do? You let them push you around for 25 years. You could have been a goose rice job right now, but you're afraid to open up your mouth. I went to his office to demand a raise, but he beat me to it. Yeah, that's always been the trouble, Milton Strong. Somebody's always beat you to it. Spoke up first.

Retired, $1,750 a week. An old man. How are you going to manage on $1,750 a week? Well, I suppose I can find something else. I'd like to know what. I'll find something, and until I do, well, your sister left you $1,500 last... What did you say? Nothing. That is... If you think I'm going to touch a dollar of that money while you're still able to stand on two feet, you're crazy. But until I get something... It's in the bank, and it'll stay there.

And if you want to smoke that filthy pipe, get outside. Yes, Martha. I'll go outside. Do you want anything to eat? It's on the kitchen table. I don't want anything. What? I'll eat it later. After a while, Martha. I want to think. Think? Don't wear yourself out. I'm going to bed. Good night. I said good night. Yes. Good night, Martha. Good night. It is long past midnight, and Melton has been sitting by the window staring into the night.

Resentment has taken hold of him and slowly grown into hatred and revenge. Terrible thoughts surge through his brain. I tolerate such persecution. Why should I stand idly, belittled by the firm, bulldozed by my old mercenary devil? Freedom as a squeegee, appreciation, loyalty. Twenty-five years of her freedom, I will have it. Beginning tonight, I'll kill her. No one will ever know what has become of me. ♪

Trembling in anticipation, Milton goes into the small kitchen, opens a drawer, and steps softly to Martha's room. Opens her door and stands listening to her easy breathing. Then, Milton leaves the house and wanders about the streets till dawn. Then, at ten in the morning, he steps into the bank.

Good morning, Mr. Strong. Oh, I'd like to cash this check, please. Hmm. I see. Purchasing some property, Mr. Strong? Yes. Well, just a second, just a second. Very well. How do you want it? Oh, it doesn't matter. Perhaps the small bills would be best. Yes, yes, of course. This is... Ah.

There you are. Thank you, thank you. Good morning. Several days later, Milton Strong gets off a train in a western state. Takes a small bus for a little mining town 50 miles away. Here in this vast desert country, he will begin a new life, a life of freedom. He will change his name, change his destiny. Milton Strong has ceased to exist. A new man is born.

The little bus bounces into Oroville, and two hours later, he is chatting with a prospector in the gold plate bar. Well, I'll tell you, partner, I've been here a couple of years and I haven't struck much yet. Oh, I found a little pay dirt, enough to get along. There's supposed to be quite a lot of gold here, isn't there? Oh, sure, it's here. It's all over. Sometimes you strike in a day or so, and then sometimes you work for years. And if a man ain't got capital of his own, well, somebody's got to grub-stake him. But it's here. In other words, it's a matter of being optimistic. Yeah.

Yeah, yeah, that's it. Yes, well, I think I'd like to try it. Of course, I don't know anything about mining, but... Oh, you don't have to know in this country. It's easy. Anybody can tell gold when he sees it. Where are you from? Los Angeles. I had to come here. The doctor said I should get away from the ocean air. You don't look sick. I was fortunate to have a checkup in time. I'd like to find a place and try my hand at it. You mean buy a place? Yes, yes. Well...

I got a nice place. Three-room cabin, good water. There's ore there. You got the patience. You mean you want to quit? No, I don't want to. But I'm out of funds. I owe everybody in town, so I ain't got a choice. And the fellow who gets it will probably be the one to hit dirt in a week. Is it far from town? What, 25 miles?

lonely for a fellow alone. Mm-hmm. Well, could I see the place? Sure. I ain't been up there for a week. Been staying here in town while my wife went to Sacramento to try to raise a little money from her uncle. She just got back this morning. She's doing a little shopping now. Did she raise any money? No, just enough to eat on for a few weeks. But we decided to pull out. Besides, I hurt my arm last week. Oh. But I'd like to look the place over. Well, here I am.

Believe me, I'm ready to go. I'm dead tired. Oh, um, Kate, this is the gentleman who wants to look the claim over. Thought we might take him with us now. Well, sure, why not? This is my wife, Kate Rogers. How do you do? Stranger here? That's right. Well, then let's be on our way. I'm sure you'll like the place. The car's just around the corner. Do you want to get your bags? They're up by the door. I haven't been to a hotel yet. That's good. We'll be to the place in about an hour.

Oh, this is it, friend. It looks fine from here. Then have a look inside. And tomorrow, my husband can take you over the claim. There are three rooms. Living room, bedroom, kitchen. All fairly good size. For that, you'd certainly be enough for one man. You're not married? No, no, no, I'm alone. Just a minute. I'll light the lamp.

No electricity up here. Nothing else modern, for that matter. I understand. Yes, it's very nice. I like it. Plenty of good water for drinking and sluicing. The air is wonderful. Now, that should interest you. Air? Something wrong with you, stranger? Yes, well, just a little touch of lung trouble. Oh, by the way, Mr. Rogers...

How did you injure your arm? I noticed it's in a sling. Oh, it was my own darn fault. Kate warned me about digging on that ledge. I fell off and... Well, I didn't break it, but the cuts just don't seem to heal up. Oh, I see. Now, to get back to the property, I'm pretty sure there's ore on it. Rich ore. And there's plenty of game around here. Come on. Take a look at the bedroom and the kitchen. This is the bedroom. Please!

Oh, what's the matter, Kate? Look, Steve. Look. Yeah? Steady, Kate. Take it easy. Who is he? I don't know. But he's dead, whoever he is. Dead? He's been shot. No blood around here that I can see. Must have been shot someplace else and made his way to our place. But who is he? I don't know. Never seen him before.

According to his clothes, I'd say he was from out of town. A man from some city, wouldn't you say? Yeah, he must be. About 45 or 50, I'd say. Steve, we'd better go back to town and get the sheriff. Yeah, I guess so. Somebody should stay here. He'll have to drive me in, Kate, unless you can drive, mister. Oh, no, no, no. I never drove a car in my life. Do you mind staying here? No, no, no. I'll stay. Then come on, Steve. Let's go. Whoa!

For 20 minutes after the departure of the prospector and his wife, Milton stares at the body of the dead man. Then, slowly, the realization comes upon him. The man is about his own age, his own size, from the city. And most amazing thing of all, he looks like Milton. A stranger. No one knows his name. But no one knows Milton's name. He hadn't mentioned his name once. Suddenly, he steps to the body and goes through the pocket. He finds identification. Harry Jacobs.

Then, in another pocket, he finds... Good Lord. Money, bills. Why, there must be... One, two, three. Why, there's $20,000 here. $20,000. And no one knows who he is. Quickly, Milton reaches a decision. He exchanges papers with the corpse of Harry Jacobs, replaces some of the money in Harry Jacobs' pocket, and keeps some for himself. Then, two hours later, the Rogers return with the sheriff. Know who he is, Sheriff? Nope. Never saw him before. I...

I'd say he was shot about 10 or 12 hours ago. How long do you think he's been dead? Maybe six hours. Well, from all appearances, he wasn't shot here. We ain't been here for a week, you know. Well, let's see if he's got any identification on. I'd say he was from out of town, from the city. Who are you? Oh, this gentleman is our guest. He's looking the place over with the idea of buying it. I see. Well, here we are.

This man's name is Milton Strong, New York City. Wait a minute. Look at this. A package of bank notes. Money wrapped in bands. Hey, read the printing on those bands. First State Bank of Auroville. What do you know? This must be the fellow that robbed a bank in town this afternoon. What? Robbed a bank? Sure. Ain't you heard? Killed a cashier and got away with $20,000. Vice President shot at him, but he got away.

There's probably somebody with him, but we don't know for sure. How much did they get from the bank? Twenty thousand. How much is there? Let's see. Hey, there's only ten thousand here. What do you make of that? So far as we know, there was only one bandit. What do you suppose the other ten thousand disappeared to? Well, maybe he had a cohort after all. Nothing strong, eh?

Well, let me just get back to town and notify the authorities in New York. The authorities? What about his family? The police in New York will take care of that. Well, that's that. I'll return the money. You can bury him, Rogers. Bury him? Here? Well, certainly. What else could we do? There's no undertaker in Auroville. Body wouldn't keep any time in this heat. Well, thanks, Rogers. I'll be getting back to town. Thanks, Sheriff. Yeah, uh...

What did you say your name was, stranger? Oh, it's Jacobs. Harry Jacobs. I see. Well, so long, folks. So, next morning, Milton Strong, the bank bandit, is buried in the sand at the edge of the claim. Yes, Milton Strong is no more. He is now known as Harry Jacobs. In the afternoon, Rogers shows him over the property and explains his potentialities. He still hasn't decided and after dinner leaves the cabin again.

Where's he gone now, Steve? Oh, he's wandering around by himself. Trying to make up his mind if he wants a place. Sure is strange acting, Galoot. I'm just a bit suspicious of him, Kate. He said he came from Los Angeles. But how do we know? Yeah, that's right. How do we know? I don't think he's here for his health. And I don't think he's a darn bit interested in prospecting. Steve, what do you think? Tell me. Well, I... I went all over the property again. Yeah? Well...

Well, you'll wear yourself out hiking around like that. Mr. Rogers, I've made up my mind. I'll take the place. Yeah? Well, now I'll tell you. Kate and I have been talking things over and, well, it would take a good deal to buy the place and finance the workings properly. But I've got plenty of cash and I want the place to myself. Yeah? Yeah.

Got the money with you or in a bank? Yes, I have some with me. Enough, I'm sure, to handle the deal. You say you came from Los Angeles? Yes. You're a funny-acting fellow, Jacobs. A little too quiet for my likes. Don't talk much. Just want to happen in Los Angeles. Oh, what do you mean? You said you came here for your health. If it's lung trouble, as you said, then why don't you cough any? Oh, well, uh, you see... Yeah, got any identification on you, Jacobs? Oh, yes, yes, of course. I'd like to see it, if you don't mind. Yes, of course.

There you are. Harry Jacobs, New York City. New York, eh? Thought you said Los Angeles. Well, I came from New York to Los Angeles. I wasn't in California very long. And you got plenty of cash with you? Oh, yes, yes, enough. How much do you want? Three thousand will do it. Three? That seems like a large price for this place. You want it, don't you, Jacobs? Real bad? Oh, yes, yes, I'd like to have it. All right. You and me will drive into town in the morning and have the lawyer drop the papers. Yes, all right, uh...

Yes. Well, I think I'll go to bed now. It's a bit late. So, good night. What do you think, Steve? He's got the cash with him. This place ain't worth 3,000. I know. But if he's got that much, then he's got a lot more. Shall we... Well, I could slip into... No. Just leave everything to me. But Milton doesn't sleep well. The strange attitude of Rogers and his wife makes him uneasy...

Next morning, he is up at eight and finds Kate Rogers in the kitchen. Good morning, Mrs. Rogers. Morning. Where's Mr. Rogers? Why, he drove into town to get the lawyer. He didn't want to disturb you so early. He's going to have the papers made out and bring them back with him. Oh, I thought he couldn't drive. Well, his arm's so much better, he figured he'd be all right. How soon will he be back? Should have been here a half hour ago. It's nine o'clock.

Oh, there he is now. How about some breakfast? Oh, yes, yes. I'll sew you up, all right, Jacobs? Yes. Did you get the papers arranged? We don't have to sign any papers, Jacobs. I won't be selling the place. Why not? I don't have to. I'll have all the money I need in a few days. But you said that you... I haven't been to any lawyers. I've been to the sheriff's office, sent a wire to New York, and I got an answer. What? A wire? Well, what about? Put up your hands, Jacobs. Put them up. You may be a mild-looking little guy, but I'm taking no chances with a killer. What?

What did you say? You're wanted by the New York police for banditry and murder. Oh, no, but it's a mistake. Here's the telegram. Your description. Write it. Yes, sir. Harry Jacobs, 45, 5 feet 6, as per your description, wanted for robbery and murder of bank messenger. $10,000 reward.

Dead or alive? $10,000 reward. Get that? No, no, no. It's all a mistake. You don't understand. I understand, all right. You and your partner came out here to hide out. Probably robbed a half dozen banks on the way. Pardon me? What partner? The fellow we buried the other day. That Milton Strong. The sheriff said there must have been two bandits. And there was only $10,000 on him. What become of the other $10,000? I tell you, I had nothing to do with the holdup. You carry too much cash on you, Jacobs. If you've got $3,000, you must have more.

You were too anxious to get this place, and it ain't worth more than a thousand. Yes, but you're wrong, Rogers. You're going back to town with me, Jacobs. I'm collecting that 10,000 reward. No, no, no, no, no, please, no, don't take me back. I can't go back to New York, I can't. I can imagine that. They'll fry you. You've got to listen to me. You've just got to. Search his stuff, Kate. He's got the money someplace. No, wait, wait, wait, wait. I've got the money, and here it is. The money from the bank. Steve, that's it. The same bank wrappers. And yeah, it's 10,000. No, there's more.

The 10,000 of the wrappers belongs to the bank. The rest is mine. That's all we need to know, Jacobs. Come on. And I hope the sheriff don't spill this before you're locked up. The town would tear you to pieces. No, look, look. Just listen to me. I swear I never saw that dead man in my life. I did come here to get away from embarrassing circumstances. I wanted to lose myself.

After you went for the sheriff, I searched the man's pockets. I found his identification. And because he resembled me, I switched his papers with mine. And then, then I found the money. I decided to keep some of it. I am Milton Strong, and the dead man was Harry Jacobs. What a story. Who'd believe that? Don't send me back to New York. There's no reward for me. The troops would come out, and you wouldn't get a dime. Now, here, you keep this money I took from the robber, and let me go. No one will ever know the difference. Oh, no. I'm not that dumb.

I'll turn you and the money in and collect the reward. I'd rather get it legally. Come on, Jacobs, before the town gets wise. Milton is handed over to the sheriff and locked up in the flimsy jail. They have wired New York and a detective with extradition papers is flying west. But unfortunately, the word has gotten around town that the jail holds the murderer of the bank cashier. A crowd of men, silent men, has gathered in the front of the jail. I don't know what we're going to do about this, Rogers.

Are you sure you didn't say anything about it? I didn't say a word. I don't know how they found out about it, but maybe some of your deputies talked. I warned them not to say a word. I don't mind crowds that shout and yell, but I'm afraid of the crowd that just stands and says nothing. Are you sure on the warpath? That detective from New York should have been here an hour ago.

I sent a car to meet the plane. Maybe the plane was late. Yeah. Well, if the crowd starts anything, somebody's going to get hurt. Hey, you fellas better get your shotguns ready. They might break out any minute. All right, Bray. Well, Jacobs, got anything more to say? Well, I've told you that I'm Milton Strong. I had nothing to do with the bank holdup. Well, that crowd looks surly, so I guess I better put you back in the cell. Wait a minute. Here comes your car, Sheriff. It's about time.

Go out and tell Jake the driver to stay around the back of the jail and stay in the car. Don't let that crowd know what he's doing. Right, Sheriff. I get you. Hey, Sheriff Tillman. That's right. I'm mighty glad to see you. Number 10 o'clock. Yeah, I know. I know. Now, let's get out of business. That crowd outside is going to get impatient pretty soon. Good. What do they want? What they call justice. This fellow here held up the bank and killed a cashier. But I wanted to be sure he was Harry Jacobs.

He had identification on him, but he claims he's Milton Strong. Milton Strong? Yeah. We buried Milton Strong several days ago. He found part of the bank money on his body. Milton Strong? Yeah. But if he's really Harry Jacobs, I'd prefer you get him out of here and deal with him in New York.

I had one lynch in here, and I don't want another. But he isn't Harry Jacobs. I knew Harry personally. He ain't Harry Jacobs. No, but he is Milton Strong. Harry Jacobs was a professional holdup, but not Milton Strong. Then we really buried Harry Jacobs. What do you mean?

I took this fellow to my claim with the idea of selling it to him. Yeah. We found a dead man in my cabin. I came after the sheriff, and this fellow claimed that while we were gone, he exchanged papers with a dead man. Well, from all appearances, that's just what he did. But why should he do that? Well, Milton Strong is wanted in New York, too. I'm wanted in New York? What for? As if you didn't know.

What's he done? What's he wanted for? Hey, that crowd is starting. Get him out of here. Hurry. Out the back way. The car's waiting. Let's go, Milton. You can catch 1133 now. Stall them off as long as they can. All the way back to New York, Lieutenant Clark will not talk. They ride across the country in utter silence. And three days later, Milton sits in the office of Inspector Burns of the New York police.

Milton, on the morning of July 20th, did you cash a check at a bank at 21st and Lexington? Yes, I did. A check made out to you by your wife? Yes. Are you sure your wife wrote that check? Well, yes, yes, she did. Why did you leave town the same day? Well, I went on a vacation. Why didn't your wife go with you?

Why? Because I wanted to be alone. That is... You might as well tell the truth, Milton. You haven't a chance to get out of it. But I... No, I didn't. I didn't. I didn't. I didn't. I didn't. I didn't. Sorry, Milton, but we have proof. We have a witness. A witness? Yes. Bring in the witness, Lieutenant. Come in, please.

Where have you been, Milton? Martha! Why didn't you let me know where you were? Please, please, Martha. Let's not talk about it here. What were you doing in Arizona? I was just taking a little vacation. I was going to write you. I tried to buy a cabin in the mountains. For you. And me, Martha. For us. What? Don't you dare like that type. Oh, no, no, no, no. No, Martha. I've quit smoking. I wasn't even conscious of what I was doing. And what are you doing without your rubbers? You know it's raining. Well, I took them off outside, Martha.

Come on, Milton. Let's go home. I have a few things to talk over with you. Yes, darling. Well, come on. Get up out of that chair. Yes, yes, darling. Just a minute. What about this charge, this check forgery? Forgery? Oh, I wrote that check. I remember the whole thing now. Then what about the charge of wife desertion? He's come back, hasn't he? But we brought him back. I wrote the check so he could make a down payment on a house. But like a child he is, he wanted to take a trip and hunt gold.

He's always been an adventuresome soul. Well, go on, Milton. Get along. And if you dare light that dirty pipe, I'll shake your head off. Go on. Yes, darling. Well, good day, gentlemen. Well, it just goes to show you that no man can escape his destiny. No man can change fate. And when he attempts to do so, he only conjures up far worse conditions for himself.

Poor Milton Strong ran away from things and ended up at the starting point, back with Martha. But he's happy now. Martha's nagging is now sweet music to his ears, because Martha really loves him. Out west, they almost lynched him, nearly took his freedom away. But Martha saved him. She lied for him. Yes, Milton did forge that check. He was even going to kill Martha. But he got cold feet the moment he walked into her room. But Milton will be a good boy now.

In his search for so-called freedom, he came close to the jaws of death. Lucky Milton. CBS has presented The Whistler. Original music for this production was composed by Wilbur Hatch and conducted by Ivan Dittmar. The Whistler is written and directed by J. Donald Wilson and originates from Columbia Square in Hollywood.

Next week, same time, I, the Whistler, will return to tell you another unusual story. Good night. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.

Do you like my horror-able humor episodes called Mind of Marler? If so, and you'd like more, it now has its very own podcast. Comedic creeps, sarcastic scares, frivolous frights, macabre madness. Every week I dive into strange history, twisted true crime, and paranormal weirdness. All the stuff you'd expect from me on Weird Darkness, but delivered with dark comedy, satire, and just the right amount of absurdity.

Monsters, myths, mysteries, mirth, and more every Monday with Mind of Marlar. I like alliteration, can you tell? You can find a list of where you can subscribe to the podcast at WeirdDarkness.com under the menu tab for podcasts. The Witch's Home. The fascination of the eerie, weird, blood-chilling tales told by Old Nancy, the Witch of Salem.

and Satan, her wise black cat. They are waiting, waiting for you now.

104-year-old I be today. Yes, sir. 104-year-old. Well, Satan, the time has come again for us to cheer folks up with another of our pretty little bedtime stories. So if you'll tell everyone to douse their light, we'll get right down to business.

That's it. We want lots of gloom and shadow for our comforting little yarn. Now, roar up to the fire and gaze into the embers. Gaze into them deep and soon you'll see a famous land that's far across the sea. A land of sphinxes and a pyramid.

the land of Egypt, and there, far out upon the desert, some modern Englishmen are digging up the buried temple of an old-time god who's been forgot 2,000 years. And so begins our story about the Priest of Seton.

The priest of Bethel.

Work, you fellows! For the love of heaven, put some muscle in that job. Hurry, I tell you, hurry! You've been in Egypt long enough to know that one can't hurry a native digger. Well, I'll go mad with curiosity if I don't finish the job soon. We'll go to the warehouse together, Clyde. For I'm as eager as you to learn what lies beyond that entrance. Well, you two boys come over here in the shade. Sit down and be patient. How can we be patient, Sir Richard? I know. I've found it difficult enough on my first expedition to Egypt.

But you'll soon become accustomed to delays and disappointments after a while. I realize Bart and I are merely tyroses, but with all your experience, I can't understand how you can be so calm. Why, we may be on the verge of a discovery greater than Lord Carnarvon. I scarcely think so.

We shan't find the tomb of a Tutankhamen behind that fallen stone, sir. We're merely unearthing the sanctuary of a small and very unimportant temple. But the chamber behind that stone won't be a ruin like the rest, sir. And we'll find it in precisely the state it was 2,000 years ago.

You said you're fairly sure of that yourself. Yes, my theory is that this entire temple was suddenly buried by one of the desert storms. That's the moon, perhaps, which wrenched that huge stone from its place to block the sanctuary entrance. If we're not the first to discover it since that time, we're certainly the first to have tried to move away that barrier. Someone may have been trapped in the chamber when that stone fell across the doorway. That's possible.

But finding a skeleton or two will not advance the science of Egyptology. But don't look discouraged. We'll find something interesting inside, I'm sure. Those lazy beggars will only hurry up their work, Lord, yes. I remember that feeling from my younger days.

I say, it doesn't look as though the shoring timbers are very secure where those taps are working. They do look sort of wobbly, don't they? If they gave way, the sand would slide and block that entrance all over again. Then we'd have to wait until they are immersed in the sickened iron. I'll give orders to have them as thin as they were.

He's busy! He's busy! Clyde, they've moved the stone! They've freezed the essence! We can go inside the chamber. Oh, come on, Sir Richard. I'm coming. Have you got your flashlight? Yes, I have mine. So have I. Here we are. It's your right to go in first, Sir Richard. Clyde and I will squeeze through together. Not through this narrow passage. They've only moved the stone about nine inches from the wall. Move aside, you men. Move aside and let us by.

Hurry, Sir Richard, hurry. We're right behind you, sir. Well, don't be right behind me and stop pushing. We've got to wait until the dead air clears out of that chamber. It does smell awful, doesn't it? Of course it does. It was imprisoned there before Caesar was born. It's not so bad that we can't stand it, sir. This is our first time, sir. Can't we go in? All right, follow me. Oh, I say, I'd squeeze between this stone and warm.

We should have the men move it a little more. Oh, that'll take more time. Oh, there's room enough. For you young, splendid chaps, yes, but I'm middle-aged and fat. Hold your flashlights before you. It's pitch dark beyond. I'm through. What do you see inside? Hurry, Clyde, and we can see. I'm through. Come on, Bart, and look. Look there. Bart! Bart! Good Lord!

That giant statue. Of the lion-headed goddess, Thicket. Perfectly preserved. This is a find worthwhile. Look! On her lap. Bones. A human skeleton. Bones. Someone was imprisoned when that stone fell. Yes, but not alive. Thicket was known as the destroyer. She was a goddess to whom human sacrifices were made. When we climb up for a closer inspection, you will find those bones are a young woman.

for lion-headed seconds demanded virgins as a victim the lap of this statue is undoubtedly covered with ancient bloodstains i'm going to climb up now wait live look over there i say another statue will fall into the floor it isn't the statue it's the body of a man yes and preserved like these statues in this airtight room but don't touch it this change of atmosphere may make it crumple into dust

The shriveled flesh looks firm and hard, like leather, sir. It does indeed. Perhaps some chemical emanation from the sand has mummified it. He was imprisoned here alive when the stone fell. Yes, sir. Oh, devil, he's lying prone before the figure of Nefertum, his arms outstretched in an attitude of prayer. He died beseeching the god whom in his faith granted life. There's irony for you.

His dead face was peaceful, as though he thought at the last his God had heard his prayer. I think his face is horrible. Yes. Yet there's something fascinating about it. You're right. It's rather difficult to take one's eyes away. He must have been a chap of a strong character. He exerts power even in death. I...

I don't like to look at him. Now, here's proof that those bones on Second's left are the remains of a sacrifice, Richard. A sacrificial knife that's clutched in this dead man's hand. By Jode, that means this fellow was a temple priest, a priest of Second. He just put that girl to death, perhaps when the stone fell before his door. If that is so, why should we find his body perfectly preserved when hers is nothing but a skeleton?

That is queer, sir. Say, it is. Don't touch him, Clark. I wasn't going to, sir. I was just looking closer. Somehow I have a peculiar feeling about him. As though... as though he isn't really dead. Not dead? After several thousand years? Crazy idea, isn't it? Of course he's dead. Dead as the gods he worshipped. The gods he thought had power to let him live.

Let's get out of here. I can't be closer any longer. Clyde. I've got to get out of this chamber. There's something in here I can't stand. I fancy I'm a little sick. Sick? The air in here is pretty bad, sir. It's affected Clyde, apparently. Bad air, eh? You're getting the wind up too, Barton. Because of a mummified dead man. No, sir. And I'm not afraid, sir. It's only that...

Oh, I can't explain it. Don't try to explain, son. It's a spooky-looking place with these statues, that heap of bleached bones, and this dried-up dead man on the floor. And I was once young and impressionable myself. Please don't think I'm a booby, sir. We'll go outside. Let the air freshen up a bit. Get some better light than these torches for our second visit. Then you'll begin to enjoy our fun. You go through the passage first, Clyde. I'll follow you, Barton. I'd rather come last, sir.

After making an ass of myself. As you prefer. Don't walk the tragic way beyond this, sir, you workman. I'm coming out. Yes, you better be. Won't you go out next time? I said I'd leave locked. After I came to the pool. All right, old man. Come on, you boys. I'm coming, sir. I'm coming. Hurry up, Clyde. No. I'm going back into the chamber.

You think I'm afraid? I'll show you. Oh, Clyde, don't be a nap. I'll show you, I'm not a boobie. I'll show you. Go and fetch that young idiot, Barton. Yes, sir, I'll get him. Look out. There's falling timber there. They're breaking the fence, Clyde. There they go. The entrance is blocked again. Clyde's walled in that chamber. Thank God you turned back in time. You'd have been trapped in that passage. But Clyde. Clyde. Clyde, are you all right? Clyde, can you hear us? Clyde. Clyde. Clyde.

Oh, thank heaven. Alley-bay, you men. Bays and baskets, quick. Clear this stand away. It'll be a two-hour job to free the sentence again. Give me a shovel, someone. One to me. Now, don't worry, Bart. We know that Clyde is safe. And this experience will do him good. The boy's always been too highly strung, too imaginative. By the time we get him out of here, I'll wager that he'll never show fear again of any dead Egyptians. What's that? Everyone stop digging.

It's Clyde. He's screaming. Screaming for help, sir. There's nothing in there to hurt him. I'm not so sure. I felt as he did in that ghastly room. I felt something was there besides the dead. We're coming, Clyde. Now dig, you men, and free this passage. Yes, dig. Dig. Dig as you've never done before. Dig.

Now dig, dig, will you? Oh, we'll never free this passage. It's almost clear now, boy. We'll reach Clyde in half a minute. What shall we find when we reach him? Since those frightful screams, we haven't heard a single sound. Nothing could have happened to the chap, I tell you. He may be ill, unconscious from the bad air. Bad air wouldn't have caused his streets of terror. I don't know what caused them, but... It may be you can go through now. Now we'll find out. Come on, sir. I'm right behind you. Clyde! Clyde!

Clive, you're here again? We're coming after you. Clive, tell us you're all right. He doesn't answer, sir. I've reached the chamber. Pardon your thought, I've forgotten mine. Can you see him now? No, the room's so big and the light's so weak. Clive! Clive! There he is. Kneeling before the goddess's statue. And he's alive. He's getting up. Thanks God. Clive, you all right? Why did you scream? What happened to you? Clive, why don't you answer it? Pardon me.

He looked at us as though he didn't understand. What's the matter with you, Clyde? Sir Richard, look at his eyes. He stares at us as though we were utter strangers. His eyes are queer. I can guess they draw mine away from them. Nor I. It's the same sensation we experienced with that mummy. Good Lord, the mummy's gone. Crumbled into dust and bone. Yes, but what's happened to Clyde?

Oh, old man, we're your friends. Why won't you talk to us? Tell us why you screamed. Why do you look at us without a word? Why did we find you kneeling before that lion-headed goddess? Why? He doesn't seem to understand, sir. No. What on earth happened to him? What has happened in this room?

Well, Barton, what had happened, you'll say? What did occur in the old temple chamber? Go on with your story. Well, it's as great a mystery now as it was that day almost three years ago.

You see, Clyde's memory was completely blotted out. Complete aphasia, the doctor called his condition. Unfortunately, he was quite sane. Not mad, as we feared at first. And he's the man you're telling me to meet? Uh-huh. If this taxi doesn't break down, you'll meet him within the next five minutes.

What more, he's going to be best man at our wedding, now that you've finally joined me. Nice state of affairs when a girl has to journey all the way from London to Cairo in order to get married. Yes, but you journeyed on a nice, comfortable ship. Think of me. I traveled from the Nubian desert on Camelback and Nile Seamer to meet you.

and arrived only yesterday. And I've been here 24 hours alone. Well, that was the camel's fault, not mine. Now, drive us home right to the next corner of the museum, will you? Yes, he says he is. Tell me some more about this client. Well, we had a pretty tough time with him for nearly a year after we led him from that chamber. You see, he couldn't comprehend anything that was said to him. He had to be taught like a child to speak his mother tongue once more. He'd forgotten his own language? Completely.

Sounds unbelievable, doesn't it? Yes. But I suppose anything can happen in Egypt. He's quite himself now, of course. To be employed in Kylo Museum, he must be. Yes, his memory isn't completely restored by any means. That portion of his brain which contained recollections of his previous life doesn't function at all, it seems. But he speaks English again with a strange accent.

And Sir Richard writes me that his colony attainments are greater than they ever were before. In fact, he's become the museum's most valued expert on ancient Egyptian customs and hieroglyphics, which is rather funny. Clyde was always a trifle dumb about such things before his shock. Well, we're at the museum now, and there's no more time for talk. Take us to the side door, driver. Yes, sir. Oh, what a beautiful building. Now, I was awfully surprised to find Kylo so up-to-date. Oh, we're very 20th century here.

I see by this morning's paper that the town is even having a modern murder sensation. The killing of all those young girls, you mean. I read about that back in London. Well, it was news to me when I arrived this morning. We don't get newspapers in the desert, you know. Over a dozen girls have been reported missing during the past year, I understand. Yes. There's been several of them cast apart on the Nile. Each one stabbed through the heart with a knife that missed a queer-shaped wound. Some madness responsible, I suppose. Well, here we are.

Let me help you out, darling. Oh, thanks. This should pay your fare, driver. You needn't wait. Oh, very grateful, it can be very grateful. Yes, very grateful. Now, this way, darling. If Clyde and Sir Richard will probably be on the lookout for us. You've certainly aroused my interest in your friend, Clyde. Well, look out for his hypnotic eyes. They're the most curious thing you've told me about his changed condition. Yes, you'll find they reflect most something at first, but it wears off after a time.

Oh, here we are. We turn left for Sir Richard's office. Oh, what magnificent things! You haven't seen anything yet. Our temple group has been set up on the north wing, just as we found it. The entire sanctuary with all its contents. And my name's in the catalogue as one of its discoverers. Oh, Virginia, that's Clyde and Sir Richard coming down the hall. Is that tall, dark man Clyde? Mm-hmm. Come on, dear. Wait. Pardon me, he doesn't look as though he were an Englishman. He resembles those old statues about him. I do.

Seems his face has acquired an Egyptian cast since I saw him last. I don't like his face. I don't like his eyes. Oh, Bart, don't leave me alone with him. Oh, Virginia, darling. Why, he's the best fellow in the world. Barton, my boy. Oh, hello, Sir Richard. How are you, Clyde? We saw you leave your taxi from our window and came to meet you. Clyde, old man, you're looking great. Barton, my friend.

I am glad to see you once again. Oh, both of you, here. Miss Prescott, allow me to present Sir Richard Knox. Sir Richard. This is a great pleasure, my dear. Mr. Clyde Fulton. This is my fiancée, Virginia. Virginia. That is a beautiful name. I...

How do you do, Mr. Polton? Suppose we all go to my office where we can sit down. Well, if you don't mind, sir, let's look at our exhibit first. Miss Prescott has never seen it. I'll wager you've told her enough about it, though. It's down this corridor. You lead the way with Miss Prescott, Clyde. Barton and I will follow. Oh, can't we all go together? Barton and I will be right behind you. We shall leave as the gentleman so kindly permits, Miss Prescott. May I offer my arm? I...

Thank you. Come, Miss Bresham. You and I. Yes, you and I. I see your fiancée is no exception to the general rule. What do you mean, sir? That everyone on meeting Clyde for the first time since his change displays some evidence of fear. I tried to prepare her for it, but I had to fight the old feeling myself.

Any change in his condition since I saw him last? None, excepting that his new personality becomes more dominant each day. A lad we knew three years ago might as well be dead. Sit down here, Barton. When I say so, we said we'd follow directly. I kept you behind on purpose. You're the only person I can talk to, son. I want to do so without delay. You look worried, sir. What's wrong? Have you heard anything of the recent epidemic of murders here in Cairo?

Young girls. Why, yes, but... I have a theory concerning these killings. I have learned that every one of the murdered girls had announced her forthcoming marriage shortly before she disappeared to be cast off later by the Nile. Well, I can't see why you concern yourself with these crimes, sir. You recall the skeleton we found on the lap of our huge statue of thicket? Yes. It was that of a young girl.

For the ancient deities required a sacrifice of virgins. Spartans, I believe fresh blood is being poured upon the lap of Secrets to destroy us. You don't mean on... Shortly before the first of these strange recent killings was discovered, the sacrificial knife we found in that sanctuary was stolen from the museum. The knife the dead priest held? Yes. And the peculiar wound in the bodies of these poor girls was made by that knife.

By the knife of the priest of Beckett. You suspect somebody. Who? We'll talk about that after you, Clyde, and Miss Prescott have dinner with me this evening. But you must think there's something we can do, or you'll never regret it. There is something we can do, I hope. But there's no time to talk further now. Clyde and your fiancée are returning. She's laughing. You see, she's already lost her aversion for him. I wonder which was best.

Her previous fear or present freedom from it. I don't understand you, sir. You may, after we talk tonight. But I... Quiet, Theromite. You two delayed so long we returned to fetch you. Mr. Perkins has been telling me all about your lion-headed goddess, Barton. He says she's beautiful. And Miss Prescott has been telling me that tomorrow she will marry you, my friend. I envy you, the wife, with such a pretty name.

Virginia. This way, Barton. Quietly. We haven't aroused any of the watchmen yet, and we mustn't. I feel as though I were a criminal, sir. Scalping through this museum at midnight. Why have you insisted on bringing me here to talk about those murders? Because you will demand proof of what I shall tell you. And here, tonight, I think you shall have it.

Your revolver is handy? Yes, in my pocket. And I can still hit a shooting at 50 paces. Sergeant, you are the only one I can depend upon for the thing that must be done. Look, sir, I'm tired of listening to riddles. Stop here. This is to be our hiding place. Directly in front of our sanctuary tower. The moonlight from that window floods it. We shall see whatever happens upon the lap of second. But what am I... Quiet.

and crouch down behind these capers. Oh, very well. Keep your voice down. The watchman has just finished his round in here, as it isn't due for another hour. Our expected guest is aware of that, I think, and may appear at any moment. I'll be still. Let's... The reconstructed sanctuary of ours looks almost as ghastly in this moonlight as it did when we first found it. There are only three things lacking in this reconstruction that we saw that day. The skeleton, the sacrificial knife,

and the long-dead priest. But till that, the dean, I expect to see again before we leave here. You expect to see the dead priest? His body crumbled into dust. Yes, his body. But the priest of Sheket himself has been with us these three years. What do you mean, sir? Be still and listen. Something's moving. Yes, look there in the chandelier.

A man. In the priestly dress of ancient Egypt. Look at his face as he crosses that strip of moonlight. Good Lord. It's Clyde. Yes, but not the Clyde we knew. He's dead. You're looking at a thief who wears a stolen body. Oh, so Richard, you're mad. Am I? Watch. Do you think that Clyde, our Clyde, would kneel before that statue of the lion-headed goddess? He's...

He meals their prey. What do those images he worships represent? Continuance of life. Reconstruction of the dead. And above them all, Thackett the destroyer. In Clyde's form, her priest lives on to serve her thirst for blood. But the ancient gods have no power, sir. The ideals they represent are superstitious lies. You see, you felt their power in that man's compelling eyes. But you have a greater power, a greater magic, than any he commands.

That's why I brought you here tonight. Well, I have power, magic. Yes, the greatest of all. And you must call upon it now with all your strength. Get your pistol ready, for here's the victim you must save. A woman's coming through the shadows. Her arms outstretched as though in a trance. She's answering his summons. Held captive by his spell. Sights your pistol on his heart. And look, she steps into the moonlight.

It's Virginia. He's heard you, Bart. Shoot quick and shoot to kill. Yes. His eyes. I can't pull the trigger. I can't move. Nor I. Virginia, stop. She's going to him. He has on his arms. He lifted to the lap of Peket, the destroyer. No, no, no. You love a boy. Loves your magic. Loves your power. Call upon it now to break his spell.

I know you can. That's why I brought you here. Virginia, darling. The knife of sacrifice is in his hand. Shoot, man. Shoot. I can't. I can't. He's raising the knife above her breast. He's going to kill the girl you love. No, no. Virginia. Oh, thank God. I shot him. He's fallen to the floor.

Despite his power, I'd kill him. Kill him. Virginia, oh, my darling. You're safe, darling. Safe. The greater magic. Love. The greatest of all magic. Now the lap of Beckett the Destroyer will be stained with blood no more.

Well, that's the end of that, Mr. Satan. You folks come see us next week on my birthday and we'll have another 30 yards of spinning. A hundred and twenty-year-old I'll be next week. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

In just a moment, X minus one. But first, your home will be filled with the voices of top entertainers and fascinating experts in the homemaking field tomorrow when Virginia Graham and Mike Wallace bring you another broadcast of NBC's Weekday. Among the special guests is Rita Gam, Hollywood star and one of Grace Kelly's prospective bridesmaids. And

and Rita will be joined by a singer whose unique style is well known to his many fans, Johnny Ray. Then from Britain, it's actor Trevor Howard. Meet them all tomorrow when NBC's Weekday brings you another day of fact and fun on this station. Now stay tuned for X-1 on NBC. Countdown for blastoff. X-5, 4, 3, 2, X-1, fire. Fire.

From the far horizons of the unknown come transcribed tales of new dimensions in time and space. These are stories of the future. Adventures in which you'll live in a million could be years on a thousand maybe worlds.

The National Broadcasting Company, in cooperation with Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine, presents X minus 1. Tonight, a story by Frederick Pohl. Tunnel Under the World. On the morning of June 15th, Guy Burkhardt woke up screaming. It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life.

He could still hear and feel that sharp metal ripping explosion, that searing wave of heat. He sat up. Mary! Mary! Mary! Mary! Where are you? Guy, what's wrong? You're trembling. Where were you? In the kitchen cooking breakfast. What is it? I don't know. A dream, I guess. An explosion. Did you say an explosion? Yes. But that's the dream I had. What? I dreamed there was a big explosion and then something sort of hit me on the head.

Holy smokes, maybe there really was some sort of explosion at the start of the streaming. Well, there'll be an explosion down at your office if you don't hurry and get to work. Coming in on the bus, Burkhart watched to see if there was any evidence of an explosion. There wasn't. If anything, the town looked better than ever. The only thing that seemed strange to him was the fact that none of the usual crowd was on the bus.

He was a little relieved when his old pal, Henry Swanson, finally got on. Excuse me. Henry! Pardon me, sir. Henry, what's the matter with you? It's me, Guy Burkhardt. Burkhardt? Sorry, I don't believe we've met. What? Henry, for Pete's sake, it's me. If you'll excuse me, this is my stop. Well, I'll be... How do you like that?

Guy Burkhart got off in front of the gigantic Contro Chemical building, took the elevator to the 98th floor where he had worked in the accounting department for 12 years. It wasn't until he was almost at his floor that he realized the speaker was not playing the usual commercial.

Friends, are you happy with your present home freezer? Of course not. Well, the answer to your problems is a feckle freezer. Feckle freezers are better freezers. Most wives would do anything for a feckle freezer. Friends, are you happy with your present home freezer? Morning, Miss Horn. Good morning, Mr. Bearcart. Well, new hairdo, I see. Why, yes. Do you like it? It makes a lot of difference in your appearance.

Mr. Barth in? No, sir. He had an appointment with Mr. Dorchin of the Human Research Institute. Today? But today's the 15th of June. He has to sign the quarterly statement. He said he wouldn't be in. Huh. That's mighty peculiar. Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, Miss Horne, what the devil is a feckle freezer? A feckle freezer? There's some new copy on the elevator commercial. Dorchin must have landed another account. Feckle freezers. I really don't know, Mr. Burkhardt. Huh.

It's a funny day. Can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something strange going on. He couldn't shake the thought out of his mind. It persisted all through the day and through dinner. He was still brooding as he and Mary got ready for bed. Tired, dear? Oh, no. Anything wrong? I don't know. Well, I guess I'll get a good night's sleep. Coming? I think I'll sit up and read for a while.

Good night, darling. Night, dear. At exactly midnight, Guy Burkhardt lapsed into a sudden deep sleep. And the following morning, he woke up screaming. Darling, what is it? What's wrong? Oh, nothing. Bad dream, I guess. You gave me such a shock. I seem to be having a lot of nightmares lately. Really? Yes, the one I had yesterday...

This was the same. A big explosion and then nothing. You had a dream yesterday? Well, of course I did. You had the same sort of dream. I? Guy, you're mistaken. I don't remember dreaming. Mary, you told me. Guy, you're mistaken. But Mary, you... Maybe you dreamed I had a dream. Maybe... Oh, yes, I might have done that, I suppose. Everything did seem sort of strange yesterday. Oh, that's probably it. You better get dressed, dear. Today's the 15th. That's when the quarterly statement... 15th? Yes.

It must have been a dream because yesterday was the 15th. Guy Burkhart got up, dressed, ate breakfast, and took the usual bus to work. Once again, everything seemed even brighter and newer than usual. And once again, he was puzzled when he noticed none of the old crowd on the bus. Pardon me, please. Look, don't shove so. Morning, Henry. Morning. For God's sake, don't talk to me. What is it? Are you being followed or something? Don't you know?

I was sure you remembered. Remembered what? I can't talk. This is my stuff. Will you excuse me, please? Henry, Henry, for Pete's sake. As in yesterday's dream, Guy Burkhart got off at his stop and took the elevator to the 98th floor. The speaker in the elevator purred a new commercial this time.

Marlin cigarettes. They're sanitized. Does your present cigarette make your throat feel raspy and unpleasant? Marlin cigarettes contain a miraculous new drug which actually gives you the sensation of smooth, creamy smoke. Marlin cigarettes. Marlin. He walked down the marble corridor to his office.

Good morning, Mr. Burkhardt. Good morning, Miss Horne. Do you like my new hairdo? Yes. Is Mr. Barth in? No, sir. He had an appointment with Mr. Dorchin at the Research Institute. I know. You know? Well, I guessed it anyway. And today is the 15th of June, and he won't be here to sign the quarterly statement, and I'm going nuts.

Let me have a cigarette, will you? Yes, sir. Try one of these. They're Marlins. I've never heard of Marlins before today. What are we, a bunch of guinea pigs? Something wrong, Mr. Burkhardt? Wrong? Perish the thought, Miss Horne. Perish the thought. He went to his desk and stared at the mail. Before he opened it, he knew that the factory distributor's envelope contained an order for 12 new electronic computers.

He knew that the development journal contained an article about a new method of transplanting selective brain circuits of human engineers onto the electric brain circuits of robot engineers to facilitate the operation of automatic factories. He knew that there was a complaint from Feinbeck and Sons about the Controchemicals' newest household robot circuit. After a long while, he forced himself to open them. They were exactly as he suspected.

Hello? This is Swanson. Henry Swanson. What is it? Do you remember? Remember what? Just remember. All right, now listen, Henry. Let's stop playing games. Yesterday, either I was dreaming or you stubbed me on the bus. Today, the same thing happens. Oh, you do remember. Thank heavens. I thought so when I saw you, but I couldn't be sure. What is it you want? Listen, tomorrow morning, when I get off the bus, you get off with me. Be casual. They may be watching. Who may be watching? Swanson! Swanson!

Hello! You buzzed, Mr. Burkhardt? Yes, I'm still out of cigarettes, sir. Would you buy me a pack of Kelvins? Wouldn't you rather have Marlins? I smoke Kelvins. But, Mr. Burkhardt, Marlins have that soft, creamy smoke that's so soothing to your throat. Oh, you really believe that stuff? Well, it's true. I wouldn't say this, Mr. Burkhardt, except that, well, I've gotten to know you pretty well, and I've grown to admire you so much.

I see. Would you mind, Mr. Burkhardt, if I told you that for months now I've wanted to, well, comfort you? I know how troubled you've been. Well, you've never mentioned your feelings before, Miss Horne. April. My first name's April. That's a pretty name. You see, I do have your welfare at heart. That's why when I see you smoking Kelvins and I know Marlins are so much better...

Won't you let me buy some of them for you? Well, I suppose so. Why not? Here, bring me a carton. Oh, thank you, Mr. Vicar. Guy. I, uh... I think you ought to go. I'll be back. There was something wrong. Something definitely peculiar about what was happening. The call from Henry Swanson. The strange behavior of his secretary, Miss Horne. These new products, the dream...

Guy Burkhart went home that night feeling like a man in a nightmare. Is that you, dear? It's me. Did you have a good day? Fair. Oh, before you sit down, will you go down in the cellar and put in a new fuse? The switch in the hall closet blew out. I shut it off. Okay. Supper will be ready in a minute, so don't start fooling around with that old boat hull you've been building. I won't. Oh.

Mary! Mary! What is it? Come down here. Hurry up. What is it? I don't know. I'm not sure. I was looking for a fuse, and I thought maybe I'd drop one under the boathouse, so I scratched around. Look. Let me put the flashlight on it. Well? Look at the floor. What about the floor? It's supposed to be cement. Well? Well, it's copper. There's a thin layer of cement, but underneath it's metal.

Look here. Underneath the concrete, more metal. And here on the wall. You see? Metal. Metal under the floor, behind the walls, every place. Well, I don't really understand. Mary, I know this sounds crazy, but somebody, for reasons I can't even begin to guess, has taken this house and replaced it with a clever imitation. Guy! Mary, I'm going to look around a little more. Well, your dinner will be ready in a minute. All right, save it for me. There are a couple of things I've got to figure out. Oh.

The following morning, Guy Burkhardt woke up screaming. He dragged himself into the kitchen where his wife Mary was preparing breakfast and discovered it was still June 15th. Mary, where's the morning paper? Where is it? Outside the door, I guess.

Uh-huh. June 15th. You'd better hurry, dear. Today's the day Mr. Barth fills out the quarterly tax return. Oh, no, it isn't. Why? He won't be there. He'll get a meeting with that crackpot Dorchin at the Human Research Institute. Mr. Dorchin? He'll be there. And Miss Horne will have a new hairdo, and the elevator will be selling some new product, and Swanson... What about Swanson? Swanson. He said, I wonder if it's going to be the same today, or whether... Guy, what in the world are you talking about? Huh?

Nothing, never mind. Where's my coat? You haven't had any breakfast. I don't want to miss my bus. I'll see you tonight. Guy Burkhart got on his bus. There were the same unfamiliar faces, the same unusually new-looking buildings, the same unusually bright sunshine. And on the customary corner, Henry Swanson, pale and furtive, climbed aboard. Excuse me, sir. It's quite all right.

Do you remember the phone call? Yes. Oh, thank heaven. Get off at the next corner and follow me. Where are you going? There's an excavation for a building about a block down. Make sure you aren't followed. I'll go first. Burkhart. Here, behind the fence. All right now. Henry, what's this all about? I'm not sure. At first I thought perhaps they were Russians. Now I'm beginning to think they're Martians.

No humans could have accomplished what they've accomplished. Now, wait a minute. Start from the beginning, Henry. What's going on? Look, Burkhardt, peculiar things have been happening to you, right? Yes. A lot of your friends are missing. Your house seems changed. There's something stranger than that. The date. Today is June 15th. Yet I could swear yesterday was June 15th and the day before that. You got it, friend. It's always June 15th. And you and I are the only ones who know it. Why, Henry? How? I'm not sure.

I think it's some sort of mass hypnosis or something. Well, why doesn't it work for us? My wife, Mary, doesn't remember a thing. Somehow, when it happened, they missed us. We were protected from the full force of the rays or whatever they used. Burkhart, where were you on the night of the 14th about midnight? You say that was Sunday night? Yes. Yeah, I was down in the cellar under the boat I'm building. I was in my darkroom developing some pictures. This just doesn't make any sense to me. Russians, Martians. What makes you think that?

I've seen them. Where? At the end of the tunnel. What tunnel? The one they built under Tylertown. A tunnel under Tylertown? Yes, that's right. It's made out of copper or some alloy. Copper? Wait a minute. I found a copper layer under my cellar floor last night. So did I. That's how I discovered it. I found a way to get in, too. It's at the bottom of this excavation. Holy mackerel.

Henry, why don't we tell the police? Because we can't trust them. Even the police may be Martians in disguise. Oh, come on. Are you being melodramatic? Oh, am I? Well, you just come with me. Where? Into the tunnel. I'll show you. Henry Swanson led Guy Burkhart to a small hole on the side of the excavation. There, he removed a cut-out piece of metallic substance and they crawled into a dimly lighted tunnel. They walked for what seemed like two miles until Swanson held his finger to his lips. We've got to be quiet now. Henry, this is fantastic.

They've got a tunnel right under the whole town. Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. There's a room a little farther down. We'll be able to look through a glass in the door. Is it safe? It's perfectly safe, unless one of them comes along. Now, come on. Okay. Here. Now, Burkhardt, look through this glass. Now, just so I know I'm not completely insane, tell me what you see. Good Lord. Well, a tremendous panel with dozens of telescreens. And in front of each is a servo robot.

They seem to be computing something. Yes, I've watched them. They're evaluating data from the screens. Have you gotten a chance to look at the data on those screens? I've been afraid to go in. There might be a warning circuit somewhere. Well, if we knew what those robots were working on, we could go to the authorities. I'll risk it if you will. All right, it's worth the chance. We're lost anyway. Okay, open the door. So far, so good. Come on.

Let's take a look at that data. But don't interfere with the robots. Don't worry. Here, let's look at this screen. Listen to this. Tests in the 47K12 group of Marlin cigarettes pulled 80% using the soft feminine approach. Indications are that an extension of this approach would influence at least 70% nationwide. The direct elevator pitch pulled only 10%. This should be abandoned in a new series of high persuasion personal elements introduced. Henry, do you know what this means?

Well, I haven't the faintest idea. I don't blame you. This is crazy, but it fits the facts when I think about it. Do you know who's behind this? Martians? No, not Martians, Henry. Humans. What? Humans who are interested in developing the perfect propaganda machine. What? I don't know who they are or how they've done it, but somehow they've taken Tyler Town over. Hypnosis. Hypnosis, drugs, maybe some kind of array or something. However they do it, what happens is that they let us live through a single day.

During that day, they pour all kinds of suggestions and propaganda into us. At the end of the day, they evaluate the results, see how we've reacted. And at midnight, they wash the day out of our minds, and the next morning, we start the same day over again with different stimuli. Do you know what that means, Henry? Suppose one man learned how to influence people 100%. Why, in a year, he could sell us anything from freezers to political candidates. Wait a minute. We're guinea pigs, Henry.

This whole community is one big test tube for Dorchan's propaganda research. Burkhardt, what do we do? I don't know, but somehow we've got to get out of this town and get to the FBI. How do you think we can? It's worth a try. Come on. Wait. What is it? Look through the door. There's somebody coming down the tunnel. You've got to hide. Behind the circuit box, quick. Shh. Good Lord, it's Dorchan, the head of the research institute. All right, Burkhardt, come out. We know you're in this room. Miss Horne has informed us that you remember...

I must warn you that it's useless to buck us. Come out peacefully. Let our maintenance crew adjust you properly so you don't remember from one experiment to the next. It will be quite painless. If you don't come out peacefully, we'll have to get you. Henry, take this wrench. When I give the word, jump in. But he may be armed. We've got nothing to lose. Very well. I'm coming after you. No! Burkhart, I've killed him. Wait. Wait.

Get his coat unbuttoned. Maybe his heart is still beating. Henry! What is it? What's wrong? Look underneath his coat. Heaven help us. It's a robot. A humanoid robot designed to look like Dorchin. Come on, let's get out of here. Wait. What's that? The loudspeaker. I told you it was useless, gentlemen. Who are you? Mr. Dorchin, naturally. The real Mr. Dorchin.

What are you trying to do to us? Merely trying to prevent you from damaging my experiment, gentlemen. You can't get away with this, Dorchen. Sooner or later, somebody, the FBI or somebody, is going to get wind of this madness. Really, Burkhardt, you're quite naive. Now, why not be reasonable and let the maintenance crews adjust you? And if I refuse, I suppose you'll kill me. That would be quite impossible. Oh? You see, Burkhardt, you're already dead. Dead? You're shocked.

It's quite true. You and everyone else in this town were killed by a premature atomic blast at the Contro Chemical plant. The blast occurred at 7 a.m. on June 15th. That is the last thing imprinted on your minds. That is why you wake up screaming each morning. No, it isn't true. But it is. What I and my associates did was take the brain circuits from your dead bodies. We stored them in electrochemical batteries until we had a chance to rebuild the cities and begin our tests.

Do you think I believe a fantastic tale like that? I imagine you find it incredible. Of course, we didn't rebuild everything exactly. After all, it only has to last for a single day, June 15th. At midnight, we turn off the power and wash out the memory of the day.

You and your friend Swanson, unfortunately, have defective circuits. You remember. Burkhart, it's no use. We're trapped. Give up. No, not me. What can we do? We can make a run for it down the tunnel. Come on. It's useless, Burkhart. Keep going. It's useless. Useless. Useless. Now, this door is open. It opens. It opens.

Oh, no. No, I don't believe it. Swanson, look! They were standing on a ledge of smooth, finished metal. At their feet, the ledge dropped away into a chasm so deep they could not see the bottom. Beyond was only a glare so bright that their eyes could not stand to look into it. And yet, just at the limit of their vision, something towered.

Something so huge it was almost inconceivable. Something. Yes? This is Dorchin. Now do you understand why it's useless? The great looming figure moved closer. It seemed to take shape now. And yet it was so gigantic as to be unbelievable. It came closer. The glare was partially blocked. And then...

Guy Burkhardt knew that the towering shape was none other than Dorchin himself. You see how I did it, Burkhardt? I took your brain circuits and had them reduced so they could be transferred to tiny humanoid mannequin. That's what you are, Burkhardt. A tiny miniature of yourself. And this city, this whole experiment I'm conducting, is built on a tabletop. Burkhardt!

It was the morning of June 15th, and Guy Burkhardt woke up out of a dream screaming. You have just heard X-Minus One, presented by the National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine, which this month features another story by tonight's author, Frederick Pohl. It's the second installment of his novel, Slave Ship. Your announcer, Fred Collins.

X-1 was directed by Daniel Sutter and is an NBC Radio Network production. The Hollywood Radio Theater. The Hollywood Radio Theater.

Every day at this time, Monday through Friday, a J.M. Colas Enterprises production, The Hollywood Radio Theater, presents an unusual tale of mystery and suspense. Every week, Monday through Friday, The Hollywood Radio Theater presents... Good evening. You're listening to The Zero Hour. Rest your eyes. Exercise your imagination.

This week, Patricia Power's eerie saga of a neighborhood besieged. Face of the Foe. Starring Jessica Walter, Joseph Campanella, and Judy Kahn. In Elliot Lewis's production of The Zero Hour. The Zero Hour.

This week, a winter's tale set in a pleasant residential neighborhood in the Canadian city of Montreal, where two attractive young women share a cozy, stylish apartment, their workaday problems and pleasures, and their dreams and uncertainties of the future. For Nicole Nugent, there's the question of whether or not she should marry the budding young novelist, Christopher Galloway.

For Laura Prescott, still smarting from a broken love affair, there is her current plan to start a beer garden restaurant to put her passion for German cooking profitably to work. But for Nicole Nugent and Laura Prescott, there will soon be a far more immediate and vital concern. There's a psychopath loose in the neighborhood. He's murdering people. And his victims all are women. Our story, Face of the Foe, begins after this word.

Asphalt and concrete, neon and steel. Nowhere, nowhere, anything real. Bolted doors on the houses. Shutter doors on the hearts. Broken dreams in the concrete. Murder dreams in the steel.

Picture this. A cold, blustery winter's evening in the city of Montreal. In front of a cozy fire in the living room of their shared apartment, Nicole Nugent and Laura Prescott sit over their after-dinner coffee. Till Eulenspiegel. How does that sound to you as a name for my restaurant? Till Eulenspiegel? What is it? It's not a what is it, it's a who is it.

A collection of satirical tales were written about him back in the 1500s. He was kind of a German hippie of his time, liked to play tricks on the establishment, including innkeepers. Now that you've told me, it's a great name. But will the customers know who he is? His legend will be proclaimed on a plaque outside the door and on the back of our menu. When our customers raise their beer steins, it'll be to toast the ghost of Till Eulenspiegel. I'll drink to that.

I smiled at Laura over our raised coffee cups. I wished her every success with her idea for a restaurant and didn't see how she could fail. She had imagination and brains, was a wizard in a kitchen, and now her mother had come through with a financial backing of $50,000. Laura had immediately placed an ad in the paper for a restaurant location.

I just hope this place I have an appointment to see tomorrow turns out to be as ideal as it sounds. It's a delicatessen restaurant with modern equipment, even an area at the side for outdoor tables and chairs, and it's right across from the university. A beer garden should have great appeal to college students. It sounds perfect. How come the owner is giving it up? He's retiring. What time is your appointment with him? Not until late tomorrow afternoon, so I have to try to get my mind off it.

I'm going to a movie with Amy tonight. Want to join us? No, thank you. This is the kind of evening to curl up in front of the fire with a good book. Especially if the man you're in love with is too busy writing one to curl up with you. I take it Chris is on a deadline. Again. I'm not sure I want to marry a man who's already married to a typewriter. I wouldn't hesitate too long if a man like Christopher Galloway loved me. Be careful on your way out. You may run into the man in apartment four. Oh, I hope not.

All we knew of the man in apartment four was the name on his mailbox, T. Oliphant. He'd moved in a month ago. A tall, stooped, cadaverous-looking character with a bald, high-domed head and a gray prison pallor look to his skin. Every time Laura and I encountered him in the lobby, he looked at us through his thick-lensed glasses in a way that gave us both a creeps.

A cold, sneering look, as though we were reacting to something that thoroughly disgusted him. He's a woman-hater. I'm sure of that. Sybil Hepworth thinks he's the mad bomber. It's ridiculous to even ask where Sybil Hepworth gets any of her ideas. But where does she get that one from? You know how he's always carrying a brown carton under his arm when he goes out? And she says she hears him hammering on something in his apartment all the time. So she figures he's in there making bombs. You know Sybil.

Sybil Hepworth was our apartment house busybody. Unfortunately, her apartment was right across the hall from ours.

And now as Laura left for her movie date, Sybil came flying out of her door to corner me with an idle comment about the weather, which was always her devious way of trying to strike up a gossip-laden conversation. Real wintry night out, isn't it? Yes, it is. Not fit for man or beast. But I noticed it didn't daunt Miss Prescott none. She must have a very important engagement to go out to the night like this. Very. She's a beautiful girl.

Used to see her going out all the time with her gentleman friend. But he doesn't seem to come around anymore. I suppose things between them must have gone... as they say. Gone what? You know, like they write in the gossip column. Oh, do you read the gossip columns, Miss Hepworth? I shouldn't think you'd have the time. Good night. I'd long ago reached the conclusion that Sybil Hepworth... moved her bed out into the lobby at bedtime...

But she was right about one thing. It was a real wintry night outside. I stirred up the flames in the fireplace, kicked off my shoes and settled down on the sofa with my book. It was a murder mystery, a good one. I was so absorbed in the story I was reading that the sudden frantic pounding on the door gave me a start that nearly sent me out of my skin. Who could it be and what was wrong? No one had rung the buzzer. Whoever it was, how had they gotten in? I was almost afraid to open the door, but the urgent hammering went on like a cry for help.

I turned the catch and cautiously opened the door. The colorless, terrified face of a woman peered in at me. Please, please let me in. Someone's after me. Oh, let me in, please. Yes, of course. He...

He was right behind me. All the way down Winnicott Road. You're safe now. I've locked the door. Thank you. Thank you. Come in and sit down. I'll get you some brandy. Then you can tell me what happened. With shaking hands, she put the armful of sheet music and books she was carrying on the coffee table and sat down heavily on the sofa. A big, ungainly woman with a round, childlike face framed by black sausage curls...

In her late 30s, I figured, and well to do, judging by the pastel mink, velvet pantsuit, and pearl necklace she was wearing, I went into the kitchen and poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass, noting by my watch that it was 10.30. And at that moment, I suddenly remembered something that sent a shiver of fear down my spine. Only four nights ago, a woman had been found strangled inside a garage on Winnicott Road. Here, drink this down. Then we'll talk.

Thank you. I feel better. Do you want to tell me what happened? Oh, yes. Yes, it was so frightening, that man following me. It's all right. You're inside now and the door's locked. Thank you, Miss... Nugent, Nicole Nugent. I'm Kathleen Windsor. I live on Winnicott Road, close to Queen Mary. I was on my way home... And someone was following you? Yes, yes. He followed me along Cote Saint-Luc from Girouard and then down Winnicott...

I crossed the street and he crossed right behind me, getting closer and closer. How frightening. I knew I couldn't reach my house, so I turned and ran down Phoebe Lane. Did he come after you? Yes. He stopped for just a minute and then I heard him coming. That's when I ran in and started pounding on your door. Oh.

Oh, thank heaven you were here to let me in. But how did you get into the lobby without ringing the buzzer? I didn't have to ring. The door wasn't locked. Oh, that's what I was afraid of. We've been having trouble with a lock on that door. I guess the janitor hasn't fixed it yet. Well, you'd better see that he does. But I am grateful that it was still broken tonight. Perhaps I should call the police.

Could you give them any description of the man? No. I just ran when I heard him getting closer. I only glanced at him once when I crossed the street on Winnicott before he came across after me. What did he look like? Kind of short, I think, with a dark coat. I couldn't really see. It was dark and he was in the shadows. I was really too frightened to notice. I understand. You see...

Only last Monday night, a girl from my church choir was murdered on Winnicott Road. Yes, I read about it. It must be awful when it's someone you knew. Elsie Grimberger. She sang the solo sometimes. Had a beautiful soprano voice. Shall I get you some more brandy? No. No. I have to go home. Mother would be so worried if she knew. She's always warning me to come straight home after choir practice. You live with your mother? Yes, but...

She's in the hospital now, has been for weeks, poor thing, with a broken hip. If we were to call the police, something might appear in the paper to worry her. I don't think you have enough of a description to be of any help to them. And I'm sure the man isn't still hanging about. Oh, dear, I hope not. To tell you the truth, I'm frightened about walking home from here. Oh, but I won't let you walk home alone. I'll go with you. Oh, that's very kind, but do you really think you should? I mean...

That means from my house back here, you'd be walking alone. Now that she mentioned it, the idea didn't exactly appeal to me. We were in definite need of an escort. And almost at once I thought of Mr. Matry, the janitor. If he were home, he wouldn't mind, I was sure. I remembered his telling me how he liked to take walks at night. There he is now. In just a few minutes, he'll be safely home. Oh.

Hello, Mr. Matry. This is so good of you. No trouble at all, Miss Nugent. This is Miss Windsor. She lives just down the street on Winnicott Road. Thank you ever so much for coming to our rescue, Mr. Matry. A sudden suspicion dawned on me. Was Kathleen Windsor just imagining things? Had a man actually been following her, or was it only wishful thinking?

She was close to 40, I was sure of it. But when it came to men and mother, it appeared she was just a naughty little girl. Mr. Matry's broad, swarthy face remained expressionless at all of the fawning and giggling Kathleen Windsor couldn't seem to refrain from. Your things are on the coffee table, Miss Windsor. Don't forget them. Oh, yes, my music.

I'm going to be singing a solo this Sunday. Are you a church-going man, Mr. Matry? Yes, I go to church every week. As the three of us came out of the apartment... I saw the door across the hall furtively closed. I knew that Sybil Hepworth had had her eyes and ears open. A full moon rode high behind a veil of clouds. We walked quickly, heads down against the wind... and arrived at Seabury House in a few minutes' time...

A doorman in maroon and gold livery tipped his hat to Kathleen Windsor, swung the outer door open and admitted us into the inner sanctum. We rode a whispery silent elevator to the fourth floor, walked down a thickly carpeted, softly lit hall to a plum-colored door numbered 415. We waited while Kathleen Windsor searched her purse for her keys, found them and opened the door.

Won't you please come in for a moment? Both of you. Just to see that everything's all right. Yes, of course. Just for a moment. He might have gotten into my apartment somehow. That does not seem very likely to me. It would be very difficult to get past that doorman and through a locked door. But we'll make certain you're safe before we leave. Won't we, Mr. Matry? Of course. Yes.

Mr. Matry patiently looked into every corner and cupboard and checked the window leading to the fire escape. There is no one here. You do not have to worry. But the other rooms, Mr. Matry, would you mind? He went into the kitchen, the bathroom, and Kathleen's mother's room, looking behind curtains and doors and the clothes hanging in closets. Finally, we walked together into the room that I knew at once belonged to Kathleen Windsor.

A little girl's room, all pink and white with ruffled curtains and a menagerie of stuffed animals on a canopied four-poster bed.

From a rocking chair in the corner, a giant plush teddy bear stared at me with glass-button eyes. It's all right, Miss Windsor. I've looked everywhere. There is no one. I know you're going to think this is silly of me, Mr. Matryoshka, but there is one other place he could be hiding. Would you just take one little peek under my bed?

In retrospect, my adventurous evening with Kathleen Windsor seemed rather ludicrous. I was looking ahead to the following evening when that struggling young novelist Christopher Galloway would tear himself away from his current literary effort long enough to take me out to dinner. But it was just my luck to wake up the next morning with a cold. Cheer up. Two weeks from now you'll be sunning yourself on the sands of Jamaica where probably no one's ever even heard of a cold. Oh, right now my only concern is about my date with Chris tonight.

Any time he's willing to take off when he's on a deadline is pure gold. Here, a glass of freshly squeezed vitamin C. Maybe if you take it easy all day, you'll feel better tonight. Oh, maybe. Too bad you had to go out at all last night. My big errand of mercy. It was a fool's errand, I'm sure.

That poor silly woman. You should have seen her bedroom, Laura. It looked like something out of an old Shirley Teppel movie. Well, from what you've told me, I guess her mother just never let her grow up. Her mother should have seen her last night, giggling and fawning over poor little Mr. Matry. How was Mr. Matry taking it? He didn't say anything after we left. You know how quiet and polite he always is. I caught him staring at her a couple of times, though. We'd better remind him to fix that lock on the lobby door.

Oh, we met T. Oliphant in the lobby on our way out last night. And you should have seen the way he stared at Kathleen Windsor. I've seen the way he stares at me, and that's enough. It was strange. He looked her up and down with that awful sneer of his. Maybe he doesn't approve of women in mink coats. A mink and an apartment at Seabury House. Whatever it is that Kathleen Windsor lacks, it is money anyway. Well, minks aren't in my line. All I want is a nice-going little restaurant.

I hope this place I'm seeing today will be it. Keep your fingers crossed. I will. That's about as much activity as I feel up to. It was a long, cold day. Even bundled up under blankets on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, I couldn't stop shivering. I kept trying to get Chris on the phone, but the line was always busy. I knew he had the receiver off the hook. Another annoying habit of his when he was in the throes of creation. Hello? Hello?

Finally. I've been trying to ring you all day. You know I sometimes take the phone off the hook when I'm writing. Yes, I know. It's very frustrating. What's the matter, Muffet? You sound a little out of sorts. Oh, I'm sorry, Chris. I have a cold, that's all. Oh, poor Miss Muffet. I thought you sounded a little fuzzy. Hey, what does this do to our dinner date? Cancels it, I'm afraid. I just don't think I should go out tonight. Oh, well then how about me bringing dinner in? Your favorite, Chinese food. Or would you rather not have any company?

Not just any company. But you and Chinese food sound perfect. I'm rallying already. Good girl. I'll be there soon, and I won't stay too late. Oh, it's just as well. I'm probably full of germs. Seeing as how they're your germs, I'll risk it. I'll see you, Muffet. Muffet. Chris always called me that. With affection, but also with a twinkle of amusement in his eye that he wouldn't explain. I couldn't honestly say why I didn't jump at the chance to marry Chris. I loved him, and he loved me.

We both knew it without having to say it all the time. But I also knew his commitment to his work might sometimes come between us. Was that the real reason I put off saying yes? Right now, with the man of my life to you any minute, I thought I'd better try to make myself as appealing as anybody with a cold of the nose could be. About all I could manage was a touch of eye makeup and a few strokes of the hairbrush. At least it took some of the lackluster from my eyes and returned a little of the sheen to my hair.

Hello, darling. How's my mother feeling, huh? I'll live, especially now that help's arrived. With provisions.

Ah, here we are. Beef wonton, lobster, shrimp, fried rice, pineapple chicken, and pork chop suey. Mmm, sounds fantastic. Even to my poor dull taste buds. Hey, where's Laura? I brought dinner for three. She should be back any time. She went to check out a location for her restaurant. It sounded perfect. Oh, let's get everything all ready. She may be in the mood for a celebration when she comes in. I don't have anything to celebrate. The property wasn't even for sale.

Not for sale? But I thought you talked to the owner on the telephone. Well, I thought I did, too. I told him he'd called me in answer to my ad. But he swore it wasn't he who called. Then who was it? He said it must have been some joker. Some joke. I wonder why anyone would do something like that. Don't ask me. Maybe running a wanted ad in the paper on my own wasn't such a good idea. Oh, there shouldn't be anything wrong with that. Let's see the ad. Oh, my God. Nicky, what's the matter? What is it, Buffett? That story in the paper...

Look what it says. I pointed to a small news item at the bottom of the page. Woman found strangled was the headline. Below it, with disbelieving eyes, I read, Early this morning, the body of a woman identified as Kathleen Windsor was found in her apartment at Seabury House on Winnicott Road. She'd been strangled. Grief in the darkness, grief and despair. Nowhere, nowhere, someone to care.

Tomorrow at this time, rest your eyes and listen here to this week's continuing study in suspense. Face of the Foe, I'm Rod Serling, and this is The Zero Hour. You've been listening to the Hollywood Radio Theater's presentation of The Zero Hour. Heard every weekday at this time. Rod Serling is your host.

Patricia Power's Face of the Foe was adapted for radio by Shirley Gordon. Jessica Walter is Nicole. Joseph Campanella is Chris. And Judy Karn is Laura. Featured in the cast are Gail Bonney as Sybil, Alice Reinhart as Kathleen, and Don Diamond as Maitreya.

Zero Hour is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Jack Myers is executive producer. Rochelle Sherman, associate producer. And Kim Weiskopf, story editor. Music composed and conducted by Stanley D. Hoffman. The Hollywood Radio Theater theme was played by Ferranti and Teicher and is now available on United Artists Records and Tapes. This has been a JM Colas Enterprises production. Hugh Douglas speaking.

Tune in tomorrow and once again. Rest your eyes and listen here. To The Zero Hour. The Hollywood Radio Theater. The Hollywood Radio Theater.

Every day at this time, Monday through Friday, a J.M. Colas Enterprises production, The Hollywood Radio Theater presents an unusual tale of mystery and suspense. Every week, Monday through Friday, The Hollywood Radio Theater presents... Good evening. You're listening to The Zero Hour. Rest your eyes. Exercise your imagination.

This week, Patricia Powers' eerie saga of a neighborhood besieged. Face of the Foe. Starring Jessica Walter, Joseph Campanella, and Judy Kahn.

In Elliot Lewis's production of The Zero Hour. Ordinarily, the greatest winter concern for Montreal residents is hockey. But this is no ordinary winter in Montreal. Only the climate is as usual. And Canadians have learned to deal with inclement weather. But in one particular neighborhood, there's something outside more terrible than snow.

Or so it would seem to young Nicole Nugent. She enlisted the company of the gentleman or janitor of her building to join her in walking an hysterical woman, one Kathleen Windsor, safely home. Seeing the middle-aged woman's plush apartment and frilly little girl bedroom, and having witnessed her flirtatious manner with her male escort, Nicole concludes that the shadowy pursuer that Miss Windsor claimed was following her home in the night was merely the product of a lonely spinster's fertile imagination.

but now kathleen windsor is dead and for nick all nugent a story in the newspaper lends credence to the theory that there is a fiend on the loose and he's somewhere very close by face of the foe will continue after this word maybe the man who killed her was someone else someone she knew

Why do you say that? How did he get in? She wouldn't open a door to a stranger, would she? Especially if she had really just escaped from a man following her. Chris is right, Nicky. It doesn't make sense. It must have been someone she knew. Which means it doesn't have anything to do with you and what happened last night. So try to put the whole thing out of your mind. I'll fix us all a drink. And then I'm going to say goodnight, Buffett. Let you put that poor stuffy head of yours to bed.

Bed was one thing, but sleep was another. My head began to throb. I didn't know whether it was from my cold or the image I couldn't keep out of my mind. Kathleen Windsor with her little girl curls and big blue please-like-me eyes lying lifeless beneath a ruffled canopy of her four-poster bed under the sightless glass-button stare of the giant plush teddy bear in the corner. PHONE RINGS

The sudden ring of the telephone startled me. Laura was evidently sleeping too soundly to hear it. Lucky Laura. Hello? Miss Prescott. No, this isn't... Where is she? Who is this? Is she out with a boyfriend? Who is this calling? I'll call again. Where's that, I wondered. As far as I knew, Laura had no man in her life. And the man on the phone, whoever he was, sounded like someone she wouldn't want to have in it.

In the morning, I mentioned what happened. Norman Roxburgh. I'm sure that's who it was. Only, what a nerve. Calling and asking questions about my business. As if he had a right to know. Who is he? Just someone in my restaurant administration class. Just hang up on him if he calls again. Hey, your cold sounds a little better.

How do you feel? My cold's better. I'm worse. The ache has gone down into my bones. Well, that sounds like the flu. Better spend another day bummed up by the fire. I'll have to. I'm not good for anything else. Between flu bugs and your telephone lethario, and not to mention murder, I didn't get much sleep last night. Well, it's Sunday. You can sleep all day. I'm sorry.

But it seemed I'd barely gotten settled on the sofa and begun to drowse off when Laura gently shook me awake. Sorry, Nicky, but I'm afraid you're going to have company. Oh, no. Who? Your Aunt Emily. She just phoned. I tried to put her off, but you know your Aunt Emily. Oh.

I wouldn't trade my Aunt Emily for a round dozen of anybody else's aunts. Granted, she was a little eccentric. Some people might even say crazy. The truth of the matter was, she was just gloriously herself.

A blithe spirit. Unfortunately, though I was only 24 and she was close to 70, just listening to Aunt Emily took more energy than I was up to in my present condition. You sound like a frog, dear. But never mind. They turn into princes, you know. As bad as I felt, I had to admit the sight of Aunt Emily was like a spring tonic. Lately, she'd been attending Sunday feasts at the Park Avenue Hare Krishna Temple.

She loved the food, the incense, the dancing, the hand-clapping, and she generally dropped in at our apartment afterward, swathed in a sheet with tillax painted on her forehead and 108 Joppa prayer beads adorning her scrawny neck. Today, however, she'd just come from her regular attendance at St. Simon's Church, for which she wore the slightly more conventional attire of a jaunty bright wool cape over knickers and argyle knee socks. Laura...

Do you suppose I could have a drop or two of brandy? Of course. We'll all have some. Be good for Nicky's cold. I had some shocking news at church today, and I'm quite unstrung. What news, Aunt Emily? Murder! The second member of our church choir in a week. First Elsie, now Kathleen. Kathleen Windsor sang in the choir at your church? And now she's been strangled by someone the same as Elsie was.

And both of them on Winnicott Road, where I live. Oh, how dare they? I know. It's a bit unnerving. Everybody in the choir warned me to be careful. But I told them no one would bother killing an old woman like me. Neither of the murderers' two victims were old or young. Both middle-aged, for whatever that might mean. Well, the fact is...

I've been getting some strange vibes from Kathleen lately. What do you mean, vibes? She just wasn't herself. She was usually so quiet and subdued. A good little girl, as her mother would say. But these past few weeks, something had really turned her on.

She started acting all nervous and giggly. Probably because her mother was away in the hospital. She felt free for a change. That must have been it. I can't think of anything else it could be. You don't suppose she could have found a boyfriend? Heavens no! Kathleen was deathly afraid of men. Only... Only what, Aunt Emily? I remember one Sunday a month or so ago, just after her mother went into the hospital, Kathleen didn't stay after church for choir practice.

Was that unusual? Very. She never missed choir practice. And as it happened, I had to skip that Sunday, too, because of a cold. I had a throat as froggy as yours, Nicky. No good for singing. So what happened, Anna? Well, I was walking home, and about a block away from church, I could swear I saw Kathleen Windsor in a car with a man. This whole business is just another reminder that we should all live life to the fullest while we're here.

So hurry and get rid of that cold, Nicky, and give that man of yours a kiss for me when you see him. I will, Aunt Emily. Don't disturb yourselves, dears. I'll see myself out. Oh, he wore flowing robes and saddles, and he came with love for all. With a flourish of her cape, she pirouetted across the room and was gone. I was glad it was winter. With the streets frozen over with snow and sleet, Aunt Emily had temporarily stored away her favorite mode of transportation...

a gleaming red motorcycle. I spent the rest of Sunday catching snatches of fevered sleep. Monday morning I felt slightly more human, but not quite up to my job as secretary to the principal of Kensington School for Girls. When Laura left for work, I called in sick and went through my ritual of lighting the fire in the living room, bringing a blanket and Kleenex in from the bedroom, and curling up on the sofa again. I didn't stay curled up long.

Forgive me, mademoiselle, but I'm Detective Lieutenant Noel Philippe from Homicide. Homicide? You are Mademoiselle Nugent, are you not? Yes, I am, but... Then you're the person I've come to see. May I come in? Yes, yes, of course. I don't understand. I wish to question you about Kathleen Windsor, the woman who was murdered. You knew her, did you not?

No, not really. I mean, I only met her once, briefly. Briefly or not, Mademoiselle, according to the information I've been given, you were one of the last persons to see Kathleen Windsor alive. You and a Monsieur Georges Montreuil. Yes, that's true. But how did you... Apparently, you didn't consider such a fact of sufficient importance to inform the police? No.

I'm sorry. I suppose I should have. Yes, Mademoiselle, you should have. We cannot apprehend killers when the public will not cooperate with us. Maybe they're afraid to get involved. Afraid of the police. We are all afraid of the police, Mademoiselle. Because we are all guilty. But now I think you and I must have a little conversation. Tardy though it may be. The End

Lieutenant Philippe was of medium height with a weary face and bleak gray eyes that looked as though they'd seen too much of the seamy side of life. He looked like a tired bloodhound as he trailed me into the living room and sank heavily into the chair by the fire. Please tell me everything that happened when Miss Windsor came here last Friday night. Do not omit anything, no matter how trivial it may seem. Lieutenant? Yes, mademoiselle? The two murders on Winnicott Road...

Do you think the same person committed them both? It is too soon to draw such conclusions. A psychopath may read of a murder in the paper, and his feverish brain is inspired to duplicate the act. Thus, one murder often leads to another. What a terrible thought. In the two incidents on Winnicott Road, there is the similarity in the method of murder, strangulation.

But there is also an important difference. The Grunberger woman had not been sexually molested. The Windsor woman was. Of course, in the Grunberger case, the killer may have intended to molest his victim, but did not have the time. The car in the garage was running, and he knew the owner might return at any moment. It's all too terrible to think about. Yes, murder is never pleasant to contemplate, mademoiselle.

But in the event of two murders of women in your immediate vicinity, I suggest you must give it some thought, hmm? Oh, yes, yes, we will. We'll be careful. There is sometimes a sexual element in murders by strangulation. We may be dealing with a sexual deviant. Have you talked to Mr. Matry, Lieutenant? Perhaps he might remember something I've forgotten. Ah.

I was wondering when you would think to bring up Monsieur Matrai. He was, after all, the only other known person to be with Kathleen Windsor just before her death. He's a very nice man, Lieutenant. I'm sure you'd find him most obliging. I'm afraid, Mademoiselle Nugent, at this moment we do not find him so. Mr. Matrai, it seems, has disappeared before we could question him. Disappeared? Yes.

Tell me what you know of the man. Not very much, I suppose. I've lived here a year, and he's always been very polite and helpful. And that is why you thought of him to accompany you and Miss Windsor to her home, is that correct? Yes. And also, I remembered his telling me once that he liked to take walks at night. Ah. But, Lieutenant, that doesn't mean he walked around murdering women. Oh, perhaps not. Perhaps not. But then...

What reason do you suggest he had for not wanting to be questioned by the police? A very good one, as a matter of fact. I'm thinking of a conversation I had with him last summer. He was working outside in the garden, and I was admiring the flowers he'd planted.

He told me then how he had fled from Hungary in the 1956 revolution. How terrible it was there for his family and himself. He was so thankful to be living here in Montreal. Yes, yes. Oh, that's very interesting. Well, don't you see? No wonder he ran away from the police. He was afraid from his past experiences. Huh. A sound enough theory, perhaps, Mademoiselle. Except for one thing. What is that, Lieutenant? I'm afraid we have uncovered another reason for his fear of the police. What?

The record shows that your nice, quiet monsieur Matrai has actually served two terms in prison. What for? For molesting women, mademoiselle. Oh!

The most puzzling aspect of the Kathleen Windsor murder is how the killer got into her apartment. There was no sign of forced entry, which leads to the obvious conclusion that she willingly opened the door to whomever it was. And do you think it might have been George Matry? Yes.

He had witnessed the type of woman she was and knew that she was alone in her apartment. He could very easily have returned and gained admittance on the pretext that he wanted to be certain everything was all right. And you think she would have let him in? Mademoiselle, have you not been insisting all along that he was not the type that anyone would take to be a murderer? Lieutenant Philippe had made his point.

He lifted himself wearily out of his chair, reclaimed his battered hat, and left me with the information that a man would be stationed at our building in the event that George Matrya returned. When I finally crawled back into my cocoon by the fire, I was shivering again, but this time it wasn't from the cold.

Luckily, Chris chose just the right moment to cheer me up with a phone call. Stop trying to blame yourself, Muffet. You had no way of knowing about Mr. Matry. Maybe he isn't a murderer. Maybe he's just a sweet little dirty old man. Oh, Chris. I'm so glad you called. I figured you might need a little cheering up. And how about continuing the treatment with a night out this Friday, if you're feeling okay by then? If I'm not okay by then, I'll never be.

Guy and Lisa have invited us to a play at a buffet supper at their place afterward. Sounds like the perfect cure for a shut-in. What's the play about? Something written by a friend of Guy's, a comedy. Just as long as it isn't a murder mystery. Even if the play were disappointing, an evening with Lisa and one of her buffet suppers could never be. She was a friend from my school days, and Chris had become as fond of her as I was. Lisa had met and married Guy Sabaran less than a year ago.

Unfortunately, neither Chris nor I liked the man, but we'd learned to tolerate him for Lisa's sake. At the moment, I found myself thinking I was going to have to get well by Friday night if I were going to stomach a whole evening in Guy Sabarin's company. Hello? Aunt Emily, Nicky. How are you feeling?

Oh, getting better. And you? Splendid. Nicky, I was wondering, do you suppose Laura will be willing to bake a birthday cake for me? I'd pay her for the ingredients, of course. Laura makes such beautiful cakes. And Donald's such a nice boy. So much soul. I'm sure Laura would love to, Aunt Emily. But who is Donald? Donald Hamill. I got him from the drop-in center.

The drop-in center? For homeless youth. Unbleary. He comes from Windsor. Couldn't stand it at home and ran away. Says he won't go back again, and I don't blame him for what he tells me. Aunt Emily, you didn't... Bring him home with me? Well, of course I did. Where

Where else was there for the poor boy to go? I'm going to keep him with me until he finds a job and can look after himself. Aunt Emily, I don't think it's very wise of you to take in some strange boy like that. Oh, Donald isn't strange. He's a very good boy. Awfully quiet and shy, but not sullen like Tony. Now, you're right about Tony. He is a strange boy. And I'm not so sure I should have let him come home with me.

Who is Tony, Aunt Emily? Tony Bartha, Donald's friend. Although I wonder if he really is. I know for a fact Tony's going steady with Mary Jane. And I'm afraid he has Donald flirting with her. Mary Jane? Is that someone else you've brought home with you? Oh, dear, no. Mary Jane is marijuana, dear. You mean Tony Bartha's into drugs? Yes.

Oh, Aunt Emily, I don't think you should let him stay with you. Don't worry. I'm not going to for long. I don't like his attitude. Cheers! The rest of the day passed uneventfully, except for another encounter with T. Oliphant when I went to the lobby to get the mail. I was wearing a cable-knit sweater and my oldest pair of corduroy slacks for warmth, and T. Oliphant looked me up and down in the same manner that he had Kathleen Windsor. A new thought occurred to me. Maybe he just didn't approve of women wearing pants.

I scuttled past him quickly and hurried back to the sheltering circle of my fire like primitive man huddling against evil spirits. A few moments later, I had fallen sound asleep. It was dark in the room when I woke up. Laura had her class on Monday nights and didn't come home for dinner. The room was chilly. I put more wood on the fire and turned on the lamp. I thought of all the things I needed to do before I left on my trip to Jamaica. Clothes to sew, laundry to do, Christmas presents to wrap.

I still didn't have the energy. I picked up a book to read, making certain it wasn't the one I'd been reading the night Kathleen Windsor had come pounding on my door. Laura came in so quietly I didn't hear her. I gave a start when she suddenly materialized beside me. She looked strange, her face pale, her eyes staring. Laura, is something wrong? There's someone with me, Nicky. May I ask him in? Of course. She walked to the hall and in a moment returned with a man at her side...

Pleasant-looking, sensitive features, with dark blonde hair that just brushed the collar of his expensively tailored suit. Mr. Brooke, this is my roommate, Nicole Nugent. Nicky, this is Julian Brooke. How do you do? Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brooke. Laura, what's wrong? Something is I can tell. I'm afraid Miss Prescott doesn't feel yet like talking about it, Miss Nugent. You see, she's just had a ruddy bad scare.

Laura, what happened? A man attacked her on the street, tried to drag her off into the park. Got to get out of this city of night. Find me, oh, find me, my city of light. Tomorrow at this time, rest your eyes and listen here to this week's continuing study in suspense, Face of the Foe.

I'm Rod Serling, and this is The Zero Hour. You've been listening to the Hollywood Radio Theater's presentation of The Zero Hour. Heard every weekday at this time. Rod Serling is your host. Patricia Powers, face of the foe, was adapted for radio by Shirley Gordon.

Jessica Walter is Nicole, Joseph Campanella is Chris, and Judy Karn is Laura. Featured in the cast are Lorene Tuttle as Emily, Shep Menken as Philippe, and Richard Dawson as Julian.

Zero Hour is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Jack Myers is executive producer. Rochelle Sherman, associate producer. And Kim Weiskopf, story editor. Music composed and conducted by Stanley D. Hoffman. The Hollywood Radio Theater theme was played by Ferranti and Teicher and is now available on United Artists Records and Tapes. This has been a J.M. Colas Enterprises production. Hugh Douglas speaking.

Tune in tomorrow and once again. Rest your eyes and listen here. To the Zero Hour. The Hollywood Radio Theater.

Every day at this time, Monday through Friday, a J.M. Colas Enterprises production, The Hollywood Radio Theater, presents an unusual tale of mystery and suspense. Every week, Monday through Friday, The Hollywood Radio Theater presents... Good evening. You're listening to The Zero Hour. Rest your eyes. Exercise your imagination.

This week, Patricia Powers' eerie saga of a neighborhood besieged. Face of the Foe. Starring Jessica Walter, Joseph Campanella, and Judy Kahn. In Elliot Lewis's production of The Zero Hour Podcast,

Winter in Montreal. Cold blustery. A good time to stay indoors around a warm fire. Especially if you're a young woman like Nicole Nugent. And living with a female friend like Laura Prescott. Staying indoors is an especially good idea. If two women living just down the street have been murdered within the past week, which they have, some male companionship, a shoulder to lean on, would perhaps be a comfort.

Nicole has Christopher Galloway, but he's off working on a novel, and Laura has just returned home, accompanied by a gentle-mannered young Englishman named Julian Brooke. A comfort? Hardly. For Laura Prescott met the man while on her way home, while another man, whose face she couldn't see, was about to drag her off into the park. Face of the Foe continues after this message. I was sick. My body ached. My head was throbbing.

And then Laura was there, back from her night class. White as a sheet. I got sick all over again. A man attacked her on the street and tried to drag her off into the park. Laura, how dreadful. Are you all right? Yes, I'm all right. Thanks to Mr. Brooke. You tell her about it, will you, Julian? After I pour you some brandy.

Thanks, Nicky. I'm just a bit shaky, that's all. Mr. Brooke? Yes, I could do with a spot myself, thank you. Now, tell me. Well, I was driving on Cote Saint-Luc, there along the park, you know, between Godfrey and Winnicott Road, when suddenly I saw this woman on the sidewalk struggling with a man. I braked my car quickly and dashed out to help her. That was a risky thing to do, but thank God you did.

By then, the blackguard was trying to drag her off into the park. I shouted a warning and he let go of her and ran off, left poor Laura here shaking and sobbing on the grass. Did he hurt you, Laura? No, he just handled me roughly, that's all. She'll have a few bruises, I should imagine. Lord knows what he would have done if Julian hadn't stopped to help me.

It was foolish of me to be walking by it, especially after two women have just been murdered in this area. And considering the man who accosted you might possibly have been the murderer, I think we'd better call the police. I was expecting the battered little figure of Lieutenant Detective Philippe to reappear at our door in answer to Julian's call.

But instead, a pair of lesser police officers arrived to take notes on the incident and firmly cautioned Laura and me to do no more walking the streets alone at night. Later in the week, I was especially glad that Julian Brooke had come into Laura's life because Norman Roxburgh, the obnoxious man in her restaurant administration class, was still giving her trouble. He even grabbed my arm and tried to keep me from getting into the taxi last night after class. I can't reason with him, Nicky. He really hurt me.

as if I didn't have enough black and blue marks from that awful little encounter in the park. That is awful, but what can you do about him? I've already done the only thing I can, switch classes. They're on the same nights, but begin and end an hour earlier, so hopefully I won't have to see anything more of Mr. Roxburgh. But a lot more of Julian Brooke? Laura only smiled, but the look in her sea-green eyes answered my question.

It was Friday evening, and we were both dressing for our dates. Hers with Julian, mine with Chris and Lisa and Guy Sabarin. Aunt Emily was also coming by to pick up the birthday cake she'd asked Laura to bake. Do you think your Aunt Emily's friend will like it? Oh, he should love it. According to Aunt Emily, Donald Hamill is a nice boy with a lot of soul. Leave it to your Aunt Emily to take in a couple of homeless boys off the street. That worries me, especially from the way she describes the other one.

She thinks he may be using drugs. That could be risky. You know Aunt Emily, we should all live life to the fullest while we're... That's probably her now. I'll get it. But it was Julian Brooke, looking youthful and attractive, in a narrow-cut royal blue coat that set off his fair skin and dark blonde hair. I ushered him into the living room and told him Laura would be out in a few moments. He settled on the sofa with a cocktail...

And as I left the room, I saw him bring out a pad of paper and a pen and start sketching. Laura had told me he was a designer of modern furniture. This time it was Aunt Emily, in a pair of plum velvet knickers, white silk knee socks, and a white silk blouse with ruffles of lace at her throat and wrists. She looked like a transplanted court page. And to my surprise, she had her two homeless boys in tow. Boys?

This is my niece, Nicole. Nicky, this is Donald Hamel and Tony Bartha. It wasn't hard to tell which was which. The tall, gangling boy with a shock of wheat blonde hair and a big country guitar slung over his shoulder had to be Donald. The dark, underfed-looking one with a sullen expression on his weasel face, Tony. She sat down cross-legged on the floor, as she always did, and Donald settled beside her, cradling his guitar in his lap and stroking it fondly as though it were a baby.

Tony Bartha, meanwhile, stayed scowling in a corner apart from the group. Aunt Emily's sparrow-bright eyes darted at once to the sketch Julian Brooke had been doodling. It wasn't furniture design after all, but a skillful line drawing in red ink of a sailing ship. Its clouds of canvas billowing in imaginary wind. The figure of an angel blowing a trumpet at its bow. That's a really far-out sketch, Mr. Brooke. Is she a clipper ship? She's the flying cloud, a beauty.

You were sailing in Tewas, yes, Mrs. Teasdale? Oh, yes. I love beauty in motion. You know, it's funny. I can swear I saw a very similar sketch of a clipper ship recently. Only where? Do you ever pop into the Warwick Tea Room by any chance? Of course, that's it. I go there sometimes after church for Sunday brunch. They have a whole wall of clipper ships...

All done in red ink, as it happens. Precisely. They're all there. The Cutty Sark, the Moppele, the Flying Spurs, the Lancelot, Ariel. Oh, ships have such romantic-sounding names. You must think of a magic, exciting name for my motorcycle. What do you think, Nicky? I'm sorry, Aunt Emily. I'm only glad it's winter and you're not riding that thing. Lovely girl, my niece, but so conservative. Aha! Let's hope this is that man of yours.

I'll bet you he could think of a name. It was Chris with Guy and Lisa. They made a striking looking couple. Lisa was a statuesque blonde with a valkyrian profile. Her thick golden hair braided into a coronet

adding a queenly touch to her earth-mother figure. Guy Sabrin was lean and suave-looking, his dark satyr face set off by a pair of bushy brows that curled upward like the horns of a devil, and a carefully groomed black Van Dyke beard. A devil's beard! What, Emily? That detective investigating Kathleen Windsor's murder...

He's been asking me to describe the man I saw her with in the car that day, and I couldn't for the life of me remember what he looked like. But seeing Mr. Sabourin reminded me. He had a Van Dyke beard like mine? Yes, Mr. Sabourin. The man had a beard like yours. Exactly like yours.

With the apartment full of people and the whole neighborhood nervous about the recent murders, leave it to Aunt Emily to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. You have a devil's beard, Mr. Sabarin. Please, Mrs. Teasdale, it's a Van Dyke or a space beard if you like, but don't call it a devil's beard. You'll frighten my wife. She's perfectly right, darling. You do have a decidedly satanic look.

But it doesn't frighten me. Well, I don't want to frighten anyone either, but when we were on our way to the building just now, I caught sight of a man standing back among the trees across the lane.

I'm quite sure it was someone spying on this address. I think maybe you better inform the police. But I'm sure he is the police. Lieutenant Philippe told me he was stationing a man here in case George Matry came back. Oh, well, that's a relief. Please, let's not talk of the murders this evening. I agree, let's not. In fact, I have some very special good news to relate later tonight. Haven't I, Lisa? Oh.

Oh, what is it? Can't you tell us now? No, no. I've bought a special bottle of champagne to open with supper after the theater. My news will have to keep until then. Chris and I exchanged a look. It was going to be a typical Guy Sabourin evening. His tickets to a play written by his friend, followed by his big news over a bottle of his champagne. He had to be the big shot.

The last big news he'd had to share with us was the announcement of his promotion to senior salesman with the distillery firm he worked for. He had bought Lisa a mink coat to celebrate. That was Guy Sabarin's one redeeming quality in my eyes. His almost slavish devotion to Lisa. Well, your celebration may keep, but Donald's won't. Some of the boys and girls from the drop-in center are coming to share that beautiful cake you made, Laura. Have you thanked Miss Prescott, Donald?

Donald? Oh, please, Aunt Emily. He doesn't have to. I was happy to do it. Donald is painfully shy, I'm afraid. But not when it comes to his music. Why don't you thank everybody with a song, Donald? That lovely one you wrote that always makes me cry. It's called City of Night. Go ahead, Donald. Asphalt and concrete, neon and steel.

Nowhere, nowhere, anything real. Bolted doors on the houses, shutter doors on the hearts. Broken dreams in the concrete, murder dreams in the steel. Grief in the darkness, grief and despair.

Nowhere, nowhere, someone to care. Got to get out of this city of night. Find me, oh find me, my city of light. No one spoke for a moment. Aunt Emily was wiping the tears from her eyes, and I felt a lump in my throat. I'd found myself thinking about poor Kathleen Windsor alone in her apartment.

The lonely, love-starved prey of a depraved killer. Then I looked at Donald and saw his sensitive mouth begin to tremble and moisture brimming in his own eyes. Donald's not used to people being good to him. My thoughtful Chris moved over to talk to the boy while Laura put the cake in a hat box for Aunt Emily to carry home. It seemed Aunt Emily was right about Donald Hamill. He was a nice boy with a lot of soul. She was equally right about Tony Bartha who had done nothing but stand in the corner and look sullen the whole time.

I didn't care much for his attitude either. The so-called comedy by Guy Sabarin's friend turned out to be a dismal tragedy, but Lisa's buffet dinner was more than making up for it.

If there was any humor in that comedy, I'm afraid it was too sick to live. Of course, the rising young novelist Christopher Galloway is a far better judge than an unpublished amateur playwright like myself. Well, I've never written anything more than an occasional postcard. But I judge the play tonight to be an unqualified bomb. I guess you're right.

My old buddy missed the mark with that one. Darling, why don't you bring out your champagne now? Right. We've been waiting all evening for this big news of yours, Guy. It's worth waiting for, I promise you.

Here we go. Very special champagne for a very special occasion. Oh, look at those beautiful bubbles. And I'm ready to toast. If you'll just tell us what we're toasting. A toast to my beautiful wife, Lisa, who is soon to make me a father. Oh, Lisa. That's wonderful. Congratulations, Guy. Now that is big news. Ah, that isn't all. I have a little something else that's a surprise to Lisa as well.

A small present, my love, in honor of the occasion. Guy, what is it? Open it and see. Emeralds! But how... I have a bit of news on my own, darling. I was just given a bonus as the firm's top salesman. Guy, that's marvelous. Yeah, nice going, Guy. But I noticed Lisa didn't say a word. She stared at the emerald necklace for a long moment... then quietly snapped the case shut and put it away...

While Chris humored Guy, I followed Lisa into the bedroom. Lisa, you're worried about something. It's not the baby, is it? Oh, no, no. The baby's the most beautiful thing that's happened. Then what is it? It's Guy. He worries me. A mink coat, an emerald necklace. We can't afford such things. But Guy explained. First his promotion, and now a bonus. He's making all that up. I know he is.

He didn't get promoted, and there hasn't been any bonus. That's what worries me so, Nicky. Where is Guy getting so much money? Chris continued to be busy with his book. So I contented myself with his promise to spend all of Sunday afternoon and evening with me and settle down at my sewing machine to finish my vacation wardrobe. It was Aunt Emily calling to tell Laura how much everybody had enjoyed her Schwarzwalder Kirschtort.

Donald had had a successful party with the kids from the drop-in center. He had played his guitar and they had all wrapped around the clock, as Aunt Emily put it.

But then she got on the subject of Tony Bartha. I've seen him hanging around Crestview Public School several times lately. Why would someone his age want to hang around an elementary school? My point exactly. And the other day I saw him talking to a man in a big flashy car parked at the corner by the school. When he saw me, they stopped talking and the man quickly drove away.

Did you ask Tony about it? Yes. He said the man had just been asking for some directions. But I don't think I can take Tony at his word. Aunt Emily, do you think there might be a connection between Tony's taking drugs and...

Well, could he be selling them to schoolchildren? That very thought occurred to me. He's no good, I'm afraid. Certainly he's no good for Donald. Then you shouldn't be letting him stay at your house. I've decided I'm not going to any longer. I'm telling him tonight that he has to leave by Monday. He can sleep at the center until he finds someplace else to go.

I hope he doesn't give you any problem about leaving. He's such a surly character. Oh, he'll give me some of his lip, I suppose. Don't worry. I'll just tune him out. Bye, dear. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled along, Laura was out on still another date with Julian Brooke. And after slaving all weekend over a hot bobbin, I was eagerly looking forward to my promised afternoon and evening with Chris.

We were going to go antique shop browsing in old Montreal, then have dinner. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Nicky, but I have to write this afternoon. You go ahead and I'll meet you wherever you say for dinner. But, Chris, you promised. I know I did, Muffet, but I didn't get my quarter of pages done this morning, so I'll just have to keep at it. But it's only a matter of a few hours. A few hours counts a lot when you're on a deadline. You know how it is when I'm in the middle of a book.

I know that the book always seems to be more important than anything else. That's not true, Nicole, but it is my work and I expect you to understand. I said I'd meet you for dinner now. Isn't that good enough? And what am I supposed to do between the time the shops close at five and you meet me at seven? Walk the streets? Go into Notre Dame Cathedral and pray for my soul. I'll be here, Nicole. If you still want to have dinner, call me. The only times Chris ever called me by my given name, Nicole, was when he was angry. That's the way it would always be with Chris and me.

There would always be a book between us. A damned book. I knew I was being childish, but I was feeling neglected. I looked at the summer frock I had just finished hemming and thought of my trip to Jamaica. Maybe I would meet someone else. Someone who wouldn't put his work ahead of me. One thing I was sure of, I wasn't going to call Chris back. I'd find somebody else to go shopping and have dinner with. And if it couldn't be a man at the moment...

Well, there was always Aunt Emily. I'm sorry, Nicky, but it appears I've got hold of that flu bug of yours.

In fact, as soon as one of the boys come in, I'm going to send him over to borrow a heating pad from you, if you don't mind. Of course, Aunt Emily. And I hope you feel better soon. Oh, I will, dear. You know me. I never stay down for long. And it's just as well about this afternoon. Antiques aren't really my bag. They're too old for me. Oh, you're right, Aunt Emily. They are. Oh, there's the door. Probably one of the boys now. Ciao, dear.

So I stayed home, watched TV, and cooked myself a lonely hamburger for dinner. Too stubborn to call Chris and apologize. Neither of the boys had showed up to borrow the heating pad for Aunt Emily, so I decided to take it over to her myself. Perhaps I could cheer her up a little, I thought, but I knew it was far more likely it would be she who cheered me up. Feeling depressed over my quarrel with Chris, I gave no thought to my walking alone to Winnicott Road. Aunt Emily's apartment building was on the corner.

The main entrance was on Côte-Saint-Luc, but I always used the side door on Winnicott. My aunt's apartment was on the main floor, number three. I was about to knock when I noticed the door wasn't quite closed. The boys probably hadn't closed it on their way in. I'd tell Aunt Emily to caution them not to be so careless. I pushed the door open and walked in, calling out so that Aunt Emily wouldn't be startled. Aunt Emily? Aunt Emily? It's Nicky. The apartment was deathly quiet. Aunt Emily must be asleep, I thought.

I crossed the living room, passed the door to the kitchen, and stopped dead. I saw her lying there on the cold linoleum, lying stiffly on her back with her bluish-tinged, fear-contorted face staring up at me. The realization slapped me across the face. Aunt Emily had been murdered. Grief in the darkness, grief and despair. Nowhere, nowhere, someone to care.

Tomorrow at this time, rest your eyes and listen here to this week's continuing study in suspense. Face of the Foe, I'm Rod Serling, and this is The Zero Hour. You've been listening to the Hollywood Radio Theater's presentation of The Zero Hour, heard every weekday at this time.

Rod Serling is your host. Patricia Powers, face of the foe, was adapted for radio by Shirley Gordon. Jessica Walter is Nicole. Joseph Campanella is Chris. And Judy Karn is Laura. Featured in the cast are Richard Dawson as Julian, Lorene Tuttle as Emily, Vic Perrin as Guy, Gene Bates as Lisa, and Stan Hoffman as Donald.

Zero Hour is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Jack Myers is executive producer, Rochelle Sherman, associate producer, and Kim Weiskopf, story editor. Music composed and conducted by Stanley D. Hoffman. The Hollywood Radio Theater theme was played by Ferranti and Teicher and is now available on United Artists Records and Tapes. This has been a J.M. Colas Enterprises production. Hugh Douglas speaking.

Tune in tomorrow and once again. Rest your eyes and listen here. To the Zero Hour. The Hollywood Radio Theater.

Every day at this time, Monday through Friday, a J.M. Colas Enterprises production, The Hollywood Radio Theater presents an unusual tale of mystery and suspense. Every week, Monday through Friday, The Hollywood Radio Theater presents... Good evening. You're listening to The Zero Hour. Rest your eyes. Exercise your imagination. ♪

This week, Patricia Powers' eerie saga of a neighborhood besieged. Face of the Foe. Starring Jessica Walter. Joseph Campanella. And Judy Kahn. And Judy Kahn.

In Elliot Lewis's production of... The Zero Hour. Winter in Montreal. Cold blustery. A good time to stay indoors around a warm fire. Especially if you're a young woman like Nicole Nugent. And living with a female friend like Laura Prescott. Staying indoors is an especially good idea. If two women living just down the street have been murdered within the past week... Which they have...

Some male companionship, a shoulder to lean on, would perhaps be a comfort. Nicole has Christopher Galloway, but he's off working on a novel. And Laura has just returned home, accompanied by a gentle-mannered young Englishman named Julian Brooke. A comfort? Hardly. For Laura Prescott met the man while on her way home, while another man, whose face she couldn't see, was about to drag her off into the park.

Face of the Foe continues after this message. I was sick. My body ached, my head was throbbing. And then Laura was there, back from her night class. White as a sheet. I got sick all over again. A man attacked her on the street and tried to drag her off into the park. Oh, Laura. How dreadful. Are you all right? Yes, I'm all right. Thanks to Mr. Brooke. You tell her about it, will you, Julian? After I pour you some brandy.

Thanks, Nicky. I'm just a bit shaky, that's all. Mr. Brooke? Yes, I could do it a spot myself, thank you. Now, tell me. Well, I was driving on Cote Saint-Luc, there along the park, you know, between Godfrey and Winnicott Road, when suddenly I saw this woman on the sidewalk struggling with a man. I braked my car quickly and dashed out to help her.

That was a risky thing to do, but thank God you did. By then, the blackguard was trying to drag her off into the park. I shouted a warning, and he let go of her and ran off, left poor Laura here shaking and sobbing on the grass. Did he hurt you, Laura? No, he just handled me roughly, that's all. She'll have a few bruises, I should imagine. But Lord knows what he would have done if Julian hadn't stopped to help me.

It was foolish of me to be walking by it, especially after two women have just been murdered in this area. And considering the man who accosted you might possibly have been the murderer, I think we'd better call the police. I was expecting the battered little figure of Lieutenant Detective Philippe to reappear at our door in answer to Julian's call.

But instead, a pair of lesser police officers arrived to take notes on the incident and firmly cautioned Laura and me to do no more walking the streets alone at night. Later in the week, I was especially glad that Julian Brooke had come into Laura's life because Norman Roxburgh, the obnoxious man in her restaurant administration class, was still giving her trouble. He even grabbed my arm and tried to keep me from getting into the taxi last night after class. I can't reason with him, Nicky. He really hurt me.

As if I didn't have enough black and blue marks from that awful little encounter in the park. That is awful, but what can you do about it? I've already done the only thing I can. Switch classes. They're on the same nights, but begin and end an hour earlier. So hopefully I won't have to see anything more of Mr. Roxburgh. Or of Julian Brooke? Laura only smiled, but the look in her sea-green eyes answered my question.

It was Friday evening and we were both dressing for our dates. Hers with Julian, mine with Chris and Lisa and Guy Sabarin. Aunt Emily was also coming by to pick up the birthday cake she'd asked Laura to bake. Do you think your Aunt Emily's friend will like it? He should love it. According to Aunt Emily, Donald Hamill is a nice boy with a lot of soul. Leave it to your Aunt Emily to take in a couple of homeless boys off the street. That worries me, especially from the way she describes the other ones.

She thinks he may be using drugs. That could be risky. You know Aunt Emily. We should all live life to the fullest while we... That's probably her now. I'll get it. But it was Julian Brooke, looking youthful and attractive, in a narrow-cut royal blue coat that set off his fair skin and dark blonde hair. I ushered him into the living room and told him Laura would be out in a few moments. He settled on the sofa with a cocktail, and as I left the room, I saw him bring out a pad of paper and a pen and start sketching.

Laura had told me he was a designer of modern furniture. This time it was Aunt Emily, in a pair of plum velvet knickers, white silk knee socks, and a white silk blouse with ruffles of lace at her throat and wrists. She looked like a transplanted court page. And to my surprise, she had her two homeless boys in tow. Boys? This is my niece, Nicole. Nikki, this is Donald Hamill and Tony Bartha. It wasn't hard to tell which was which.

The tall, gangling boy with a shock of weak blonde hair and a big country guitar slung over his shoulder had to be Donald. The dark, underfed-looking one with a sullen expression on his weasel face, Tony. She sat down cross-legged on the floor, as she always did, and Donald settled beside her, cradling his guitar in his lap and stroking it fondly as though it were a baby. Tony Bartha, meanwhile, stayed scowling in a corner apart from the group.

Aunt Emily's sparrow-bright eyes darted at once to the sketch Julian Brooke had been doodling. It wasn't furniture design after all, but a skillful line drawing in red ink of a sailing ship. Its clouds of canvas billowing in imaginary wind. The figure of an angel blowing a trumpet at its bow. That's a really far-out sketch, Mr. Brooke. Is she a clipper ship? She's the flying cloud, a beauty.

He was sailing into you, as he asked Mrs. Teasdale? Oh, yes. I love beauty in motion. You know, it's funny. I could swear I saw a very similar sketch of a clipper ship recently. Only where? Do you ever pop into the Warwick Tea Room by any chance? Of course, that's it. I go there sometimes after church for Sunday brunch. They have a whole wall of clipper ships...

all done in red ink as it happens. Precisely. They're all there. The Cutty Sark, the Moppele, the Flying Spurs, the Lancelot, Ariel. Oh, ships have such romantic sounding names.

I must think of a magic, exciting name for my motorcycle. What do you think, Nicky? I'm sorry, Annemarie. I'm only glad it's winter and you're not riding that thing. Lovely girl, my niece, but so conservative. Aha! Let's hope this is that man of yours. I'll bet you he could think of a name. It was Chris with Guy and Lisa. They made a striking looking couple.

Lisa was a statuesque blonde with a Valkyrian profile. Her thick golden hair braided into a coronet, adding a queenly touch to her earth-mother figure. Guy Sabrin was lean and suave-looking, his dark satyr face set off by a pair of bushy brows that curled upward like the horns of a devil, and a carefully groomed black Van Dyke beard. A devil's beard! What, Annemarie? That detective investigating Kathleen Windsor's murder...

He's been asking me to describe the man I saw her with in the car that day, and I couldn't for the life of me remember what he looked like. But seeing Mr. Sabourin reminded me. He had a Van Dyke beard like mine? Yes, Mr. Sabourin. The man had a beard like yours. Exactly like yours.

With the apartment full of people and the whole neighborhood nervous about the recent murders, leave it to Aunt Emily to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. You have a devil's beard, Mr. Sabarin. Please, Mrs. Teasdale, it's a Van Dyke or a space beard if you like, but don't call it a devil's beard. You'll frighten my wife. She's perfectly right, darling. You do have a decidedly satanic look.

But it doesn't frighten me. Well, I don't want to frighten anyone either, but when we were on our way to the building just now, I caught sight of a man standing back among the trees across the lane. I'm quite sure it was someone spying on this address. I don't know.

I think maybe you'd better inform the police. But I'm sure he is the police. Lieutenant Philippe told me he was stationing a man here in case George Matry came back. Oh, well, that's a relief. Please, let's not talk of the murders this evening. I agree, let's not. In fact, I have some very special good news to relate later tonight. Haven't I, Lisa? Oh, what is it? Can't you tell us now? No, no, I've bought a special bottle of champagne to open with supper after the theater. My news will have to keep until then.

Chris and I exchanged a look. It was going to be a typical Guy Sabourin evening. His tickets to a play written by his friend, followed by his big news over a bottle of his champagne. He had to be the big shot. The last big news he'd had to share with us was the announcement of his promotion to senior salesman with the distillery firm he worked for. He had bought Lisa a mink coat to celebrate.

That was Guy Saverin's one redeeming quality in my eyes. His almost slavish devotion to Lisa. Well, your celebration may keep, but Donald's won't. Some of the boys and girls from the drop-in center are coming to share that beautiful cake you made, Laura. Have you thanked Miss Prescott, Donald? Donald? Oh, please, Aunt Emily. He doesn't have to. I was happy to do it. Donald is painfully shy, I'm afraid. But not when it comes to his music.

Why don't you thank everybody with a song, Donald? That lovely one you wrote that always makes me cry. It's called City of Night. Go ahead, Donald. Asphalt and concrete, neon and steel. Nowhere, nowhere, anything real. Bolted doors on the houses. Shutter doors on the hearts.

Broken dreams in the concrete Murder dreams in the steel Grief in the darkness, grief and despair Nowhere, nowhere, someone to care Got to get out of this city of night Find me, oh find me, my city of light

No one spoke for a moment. Aunt Emily was wiping the tears from her eyes, and I felt a lump in my throat. I'd found myself thinking about poor Kathleen Windsor alone in her apartment, the lonely, love-starved prey of a depraved killer. Then I looked at Donald and saw his sensitive mouth begin to tremble and moisture brimming in his own eyes. Donald's not used to people being good to him. My thoughtful Chris moved over to talk to the boy, while Laura put the cake in a hatbox for Aunt Emily to carry home.

It seemed Aunt Emily was right about Donald Hamill. He was a nice boy with a lot of soul. She was equally right about Tony Bartha, who had done nothing but stand in the corner and look sullen the whole time. I didn't care much for his attitude either. The so-called comedy by Guy Sabarin's friend turned out to be a dismal tragedy. But Lisa's buffet dinner was more than making up for it.

If there was any humor in that comedy, I'm afraid it was too sick to live. Of course, the rising young novelist Christopher Galloway is a far better judge than an unpublished amateur playwright like myself. Well, I've never written anything more than an occasional postcard. But I judge the play tonight to be an unqualified bomb.

I guess you're right. My old buddy missed the mark with that one. Darling, why don't you bring out your champagne now? Right. We've been waiting all evening for this big news of yours, Guy. It's worth waiting for, I promise you. Here we go. Very special champagne for a very special occasion. Thank you.

Oh, look at those beautiful bubbles. And I'm ready to toast. If you'll just tell us what we're toasting. A toast to my beautiful wife, Lisa, who is soon to make me a father. Oh, Lisa. That's wonderful. Congratulations, Guy. Now that is big news. Ah, that isn't all. I have a little something else that's a surprise to Lisa as well. A small present, my love, in honor of the occasion.

Guy, what is it? Open it and see. Emeralds! But how... I have a bit of news on my own, darling. I was just given a bonus as the firm's top salesman. Guy, that's marvelous. Yeah, nice going, Guy. But I noticed Lisa didn't say a word. She stared at the emerald necklace for a long moment, then quietly snapped the case shut and put it away. While Chris humored Guy, I followed Lisa into the bedroom.

Lisa, you're worried about something. It's not the baby, is it? Oh, no, no. The baby's the most beautiful thing that's happened. Then what is it? It's Guy. He worries me. A mink coat, an emerald necklace. We can't afford such things. But Guy explained. First his promotion, and now a bonus. He's making all that up. I know he is. He didn't get promoted. And there hasn't been any bonus.

That's what worries me so, Nicky. Where is Guy getting so much money?

If you've ever driven over the 59th Street Bridge late at night and found yourself gently smiling at the warm, delicious, fresh aroma of freshly baked bread, thanks Silver Cup Bakers. In the quiet, private hours of the morning, the Silver Cup Bakers perform their honored ritual of baking the finest bread you can buy. Silver Cup. Wholesome bread. Pure, tasty loaves. Nothing artificial.

Don't let your nose have all the fun. Buy a fresh loaf of silver cup bread and give your taste a treat you didn't think was around anymore. Some things are as good as they used to be. Silver cup bread is one of them. Chris continued to be busy with his book. So I contented myself with his promise to spend all of Sunday afternoon and evening with me and settle down at my sewing machine to finish my vacation wardrobe.

It was Aunt Emily calling to tell Laura how much everybody had enjoyed her Schwarzwalder Kirschtort. Donald had had a successful party with the kids from the drop-in center. He had played his guitar and they had all rapped around the clock, as Aunt Emily put it.

But then she got on the subject of Tony Bartha. I've seen him hanging around Crestview Public School several times lately. Why would someone his age want to hang around an elementary school? My point exactly. And the other day I saw him talking to a man in a big flashy car... parked at the corner by the school. When he saw me, they stopped talking and the man quickly drove away. Did you ask Tony about it? Yes. He said the man had just been asking for some directions...

But I don't think I can take Tony at his word. Aunt Emily, do you think there might be a connection between Tony's taking drugs and... Well, could he be selling them to schoolchildren? That very thought occurred to me. He's no good, I'm afraid. Certainly he's no good for Donald. Then you shouldn't be letting him stay at your house. I've decided I'm not going to any longer. I'm telling him tonight that he has to leave by Monday. He can sleep at the center until he finds someplace else to go.

I hope he doesn't give you any problem about leaving. He's such a surly character. Oh, he'll give me some of his lip, I suppose. Don't worry. I'll just tune him out.

By the time Sunday afternoon rolled along, Laura was out on still another date with Julian Brooke. And after slaving all weekend over a hot bobbin, I was eagerly looking forward to my promised afternoon and evening with Chris. We were going to go antique shop browsing in old Montreal, then have dinner. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Nicky, but I have to write this afternoon. You go ahead and I'll meet you wherever you say for dinner. But Chris, you promised. I know I did, Muffet, but I didn't get my quarter of pages done this morning, so I'll just have to keep at it.

But it's only a matter of a few hours. A few hours counts a lot when you're on a deadline. You know how it is when I'm in the middle of a book. I know that the book always seems to be more important than anything else. That's not true, Nicole, but it is my work and I expect you to understand. I said I'd meet you for dinner now. Isn't that good enough? And what am I supposed to do between the time the shops close at five and you meet me at seven? Walk the streets? Go into Notre Dame Cathedral and pray for my soul. I'll be here, Nicole. If you still want to have dinner, call me.

The only times Chris ever called me by my given name, Nicole, was when he was angry. That's the way it would always be with Chris and me. There would always be a book between us. A damned book. I knew I was being childish, but I was feeling neglected. I looked at the summer frock I had just finished hemming and thought of my trip to Jamaica. Maybe I would meet someone else. Someone who wouldn't put his work ahead of me. One thing I was sure of, I wasn't going to call Chris back. I'd find somebody else to go shopping and have dinner with.

And if it couldn't be a man at the moment, well, there was always Aunt Emily. I'm sorry, Nicky, but it appears I've got hold of that flu bug of yours. In fact, as soon as one of the boys come in, I'm going to send him over to borrow a heating pad from you, if you don't mind. Of course, Aunt Emily. And I hope you feel better soon. Oh, I will, dear. You know me. I never stay down for long.

And it's just as well about this afternoon. Antiques aren't really my bag. They're too old for me. You're right, Aunt Emily. They are. Oh, there's the door. Probably one of the boys now. Chowdy.

So I stayed home, watched TV, and cooked myself a lonely hamburger for dinner. Too stubborn to call Chris and apologize. Neither of the boys had showed up to borrow the heating pad for Aunt Emily, so I decided to take it over to her myself. Perhaps I could cheer her up a little, I thought, but I knew it was far more likely it would be she who cheered me up. Feeling depressed over my quarrel with Chris, I gave no thought to my walking alone to Winnicott Road. Aunt Emily's apartment building was on the corner.

The main entrance was on Côte Saint-Luc, but I always used the side door on Winnicott. My aunt's apartment was on the main floor, number three. I was about to knock when I noticed the door wasn't quite closed. The boys probably hadn't closed it on their way in. I'd tell Aunt Emily to caution them not to be so careless. I pushed the door open and walked in, calling out so that Aunt Emily wouldn't be startled. Aunt Emily? Aunt Emily? It's Nicky. The apartment was deathly quiet. Aunt Emily must be asleep, I thought.

I crossed the living room, passed the door to the kitchen, and stopped dead. I saw her lying there on the cold linoleum, lying stiffly on her back with her bluish-tinged, fear-contorted face staring up at me. The realization slapped me across the face. Aunt Emily had been murdered. Grief in the darkness, grief and despair. There nowhere someone to care.

Tomorrow at this time, rest your eyes and listen here to this week's continuing study in suspense, Face of the Foe. I'm Rod Serling, and this is The Zero Hour. The Zero Hour

You've been listening to the Hollywood Radio Theater's presentation of The Zero Hour. Heard every weekday at this time. Rod Serling is your host. Patricia Powers, face of the fold, was adapted for radio by Shirley Gordon. Jessica Walter is Nicole. Joseph Campanella is Chris. And Judy Karn is Laura.

Featured in the cast are Richard Dawson as Julian, Lorene Tuttle as Emily, Vic Perrin as Guy, Gene Bates as Lisa, and Stan Hoffman as Donald. Zero Hour is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Jack Myers is executive producer, Rochelle Sherman associate producer, and Kim Weiskopf story editor. Music composed and conducted by Stanley D. Hoffman.

The Hollywood Radio Theater theme was played by Ferranti and Teicher and is now available on United Artists Records and Tapes. This has been a J.M. Colas Enterprises production. Hugh Douglas speaking. Tune in tomorrow and once again. Rest your eyes and listen here. To the Zero Hour. ♪♪

The Hollywood Radio Theater. The Hollywood Radio Theater.

Every day at this time, Monday through Friday, a J.M. Colas Enterprises production, the Hollywood Radio Theater presents an unusual tale of mystery and suspense. Every week, Monday through Friday, the Hollywood Radio Theater presents... Good evening. You're listening to The Zero Hour. Rest your eyes. Exercise your imagination.

This week, Patricia Powers' eerie saga of a neighborhood besieged. Face of the Foe. Starring Jessica Walter. Joseph Campanella. And Judy Karn.

In Elliot Lewis's production of The Zero Hour. This week, a winter's tale set in a pleasant residential neighborhood in the Canadian city of Montreal, where two attractive young women share a cozy, stylish apartment, their workaday problems and pleasures, and their dreams and uncertainties of the future.

For Nicole Nugent, there's the question of whether or not she should marry the budding young novelist, Christopher Galloway. For Laura Prescott, still smarting from a broken love affair, there is her current plan to start a beer garden restaurant to put her pash off her German cooking profitably to work. But for Nicole Nugent and Laura Prescott, there will soon be a far more immediate and vital concern. There's a psychopath loose in the neighborhood. He's murdering people. And his victims all are women.

Our story, Face of the Foe, begins after this word. Asphalt and concrete, neon and steel. Nowhere, nowhere, anything real. Bolted doors on the houses. Shutter doors on the hearts. Broken dreams in the concrete. Murder dreams in the steel.

Picture this. A cold, blustery winter's evening in the city of Montreal. In front of a cozy fire in the living room of their shared apartment, Nicole Nugent and Laura Prescott sit over their after-dinner coffee. Till Eulenspiegel. How does that sound to you as a name for my restaurant? Till Eulenspiegel? What is it? It's not a what is it, it's a who is it.

A collection of satirical tales were written about him back in the 1500s. He was kind of a German hippie of his time, liked to play tricks on the establishment, including innkeepers. Now that you've told me, it's a great name. But will the customers know who he is? His legend will be proclaimed on a plaque outside the door and on the back of our menu. When our customers raise their beer steins, it'll be to toast the ghost of Till Eulenspiegel. I'll drink to that. MUSIC

I smiled at Laura over our raised coffee cups. I wished her every success with her idea for a restaurant and didn't see how she could fail. She had imagination and brains, was a wizard in a kitchen, and now her mother had come through with a financial backing of $50,000. Laura had immediately placed an ad in the paper for a restaurant location.

I just hope this place I have an appointment to see tomorrow turns out to be as ideal as it sounds. It's a delicatessen restaurant with modern equipment, even an area at the side for outdoor tables and chairs. And it's right across from the university. A beer garden should have great appeal to college students. That sounds perfect. How come the owner is giving it up? He's retiring. What time is your appointment with him? Not until late tomorrow afternoon. So I have to try to get my mind off it.

I'm going to a movie with Amy tonight. Want to join us? No, thank you. This is the kind of evening to curl up in front of the fire with a good book. Especially if the man you're in love with is too busy writing one to curl up with you. I take it Chris is on a deadline. Again. I'm not sure I want to marry a man who's already married to a typewriter. I wouldn't hesitate too long if a man like Christopher Galloway loved me. Be careful on your way out. You may run into the man in apartment four. Oh, I hope not.

All we knew of the man in apartment four was the name on his mailbox, T. Oliphant. He'd moved in a month ago. A tall, stooped, cadaverous-looking character with a bald, high-domed head and a gray prison pallor look to his skin. Every time Laura and I encountered him in the lobby, he looked at us through his thick-lensed glasses in a way that gave us both the creeps.

A cold, sneering look, as though we were reacting to something that thoroughly disgusted him. He's a woman-hater. I'm sure of that. Sybil Hepworth thinks he's the mad bomber. It's ridiculous to even ask where Sybil Hepworth gets any of her ideas. But where did she get that one from? You know how he's always carrying a brown carton under his arm when he goes out? And she says she hears him hammering on something in his apartment all the time. So she figures he's in there making bombs. You know Sybil.

Sybil Hepworth was our apartment house busybody. Unfortunately, her apartment was right across the hall from ours.

And now as Laura left for her movie date, Sybil came flying out of her door to corner me with an idle comment about the weather, which was always her devious way of trying to strike up a gossip-laden conversation. Real wintry night out, isn't it? Yes, it is. Not fit for man or beast. But I noticed it didn't daunt Miss Prescott none. She must have a very important engagement to go out to the night like this. The very. She's a beautiful girl.

Used to see her going out all the time with her gentleman friend. But he doesn't seem to come around anymore. I suppose things between them must have gone... as they say. Gone what? You know, like they write in the gossip columns. Oh, do you read the gossip columns, Miss Hepworth? I shouldn't think you'd have the time. Good night. Good night.

I'd long ago reached the conclusion that Sybil Hepworth moved her bed out into the lobby at bedtime. But she was right about one thing. It was a real wintry night outside. I stirred up the flames in the fireplace, kicked off my shoes and settled down on the sofa with my book. It was a murder mystery, a good one. I was so absorbed in the story I was reading that the sudden frantic pounding on the door gave me a start that nearly sent me out of my skin...

Who could it be and what was wrong? No one had rung the buzzer. Whoever it was, how had they gotten in? I was almost afraid to open the door, but the urgent hammering went on like a cry for help. I turned the catch and cautiously opened the door. The colorless, terrified face of a woman peered in at me. Please, please let me in. Someone's after me. Oh, let me in, please. Yes, of course. Please.

He was right behind me, all the way down Winnicott Road. You're safe now. I've locked the door. Thank you. Thank you. Come in and sit down. I'll get you some brandy, then you can tell me what happened. With shaking hands, she put the armful of sheet music and books she was carrying on the coffee table and sat down heavily on the sofa. A big, ungainly woman with a round, childlike face framed by black sausage curls...

In her late 30s, I figured, and well-to-do, judging by the pastel mink, velvet pantsuit, and pearl necklace she was wearing. I went into the kitchen and poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass, noting by my watch that it was 10.30. And at that moment, I suddenly remembered something that sent a shiver of fear down my spine.

Only four nights ago, a woman had been found strangled inside a garage on Winnicott Road. Here, drink this down. Then we'll talk.

Thank you. I feel better. Do you want to tell me what happened? Oh, yes. Yes, it was so frightening, that man following me. It's all right. You're inside now and the door's locked. Thank you, Miss... Nugent, Nicole Nugent. I'm Kathleen Windsor. I live on Winnicott Road, close to Queen Mary. I was on my way home... And someone was following you? Yes, yes. He followed me along Cote Saint-Luc from Girouard and then down Winnicott.

I crossed the street and he crossed right behind me, getting closer and closer. How frightening. I knew I couldn't reach my house, so I turned and ran down Phoebe Lane. Did he come after you? Yes. He stopped for just a minute and then I heard him coming. That's when I ran in and started pounding on your door.

Oh, thank heaven you were here to let me in. But how did you get into the lobby without ringing the buzzer? I didn't have to ring. The door wasn't locked. Oh, that's what I was afraid of. We've been having trouble with a lock on that door. I guess the janitor hasn't fixed it yet. Well, you'd better see that he does. But I am grateful that it was still broken tonight. Perhaps I should call the police.

Could you give them any description of the man? No. I just ran when I heard him getting closer. I only glanced at him once when I crossed the street on Winnicott before he came across after me. What did he look like?

Kind of short, I think, with a dark coat. I couldn't really see. It was dark and he was in the shadows. I was really too frightened to notice. I understand. You see, only last Monday night a girl from my church choir was murdered on Winnicott Road. Yes, I read about it. It must be awful when it's someone you knew. Elsie Grimberger. She sang the solo sometimes.

Had a beautiful soprano voice. Shall I get you some more brandy? No, no. I have to go home. Mother would be so worried if she knew. She's always warning me to come straight home after choir practice. You live with your mother? Yes, but...

She's in the hospital now. Has been for weeks, poor thing, with a broken hip. If we were to call the police, something might appear in the paper to worry her. I don't think you have enough of a description to be of any help to them. And I'm sure the man isn't still hanging about. Oh, dear, I hope not. To tell you the truth, I'm frightened about walking home from here. Oh, but I won't let you walk home alone. I'll go with you. Oh, that's very kind, but do you really think you should? I mean...

that means from my house back here, you'd be walking alone. Now that she mentioned it, the idea didn't exactly appeal to me. We were in definite need of an escort. And almost at once I thought of Mr. Matry, the janitor. If he were home, he wouldn't mind, I was sure. I remembered his telling me how he liked to take walks at night. There he is now. In just a few minutes, you'll be safely home. Oh.

Hello, Mr. Matry. This is so good of you. No trouble at all, Miss Nugent. This is Miss Windsor. She lives just down the street on Winnicott Road. Thank you ever so much for coming to our rescue, Mr. Matry. A sudden suspicion dawned on me. Was Kathleen Windsor just imagining things? Had a man actually been following her, or was it only wishful thinking? Was she just imagining things?

She was close to 40, I was sure of it. But when it came to men and mother, it appeared she was just a naughty little girl.

Mr. Matry's broad, swarthy face remained expressionless at all of the fawning and giggling Kathleen Windsor couldn't seem to refrain from. Your things are on the coffee table, Miss Windsor. Don't forget them. Oh, yes, my music. I'm going to be singing a solo this Sunday. Are you a church-going man, Mr. Matry? Yes, I go to church every week. Mm-hmm.

As the three of us came out of the apartment, I saw the door across the hall furtively closed. I knew that Sybil Hepworth had had her eyes and ears open. A full moon rode high behind a veil of clouds. We walked quickly, heads down against the wind, and arrived at Seabury House in a few minutes' time. A doorman in maroon and gold livery tipped his hat to Kathleen Windsor, swung the outer door open, and admitted us into the inner sanctum.

We rode a whispery silent elevator to the fourth floor, walked down a thickly carpeted, softly lit hall to a plum-colored door numbered 415. We waited while Kathleen Windsor searched her purse for her keys, found them, and opened the door.

Won't you please come in for a moment? Both of you. Just to see that everything's all right. Yes, of course. Just for a moment. He might have gotten into my apartment somehow. That does not seem very likely to me. It would be very difficult to get past that doorman and through a locked door. But we'll make certain you're safe before we leave. Won't we, Mr. Matrai? Of course. Yes.

Mr. Matry patiently looked into every corner and cupboard and checked the window leading to the fire escape. There is no one here. You do not have to worry. But the other rooms, Mr. Matry, would you mind? He went into the kitchen, the bathroom, and Kathleen's mother's room, looking behind curtains and doors and the clothes hanging in closets.

Finally, we walked together into the room that I knew at once belonged to Kathleen Windsor. A little girl's room, all pink and white with ruffled curtains and a menagerie of stuffed animals on a canopied four-poster bed.

From a rocking chair in the corner, a giant plush teddy bear stared at me with glass-button eyes. It's all right, Miss Windsor. I've looked everywhere. There is no one. I know you're going to think this is silly of me, Mr. Matryoshka, but there is one other place he could be hiding. Would you just take one little peek under my bed? Oh!

In retrospect, my adventurous evening with Kathleen Windsor seemed rather ludicrous. I was looking ahead to the following evening when that struggling young novelist Christopher Galloway would tear himself away from his current literary effort long enough to take me out to dinner. But it was just my luck to wake up the next morning with a cold.

Cheer up. Two weeks from now, you'll be sunning yourself on the sands of Jamaica where probably no one's ever even heard of a cold. Oh, right now, my only concern is about my date with Chris tonight. Any time he's willing to take off when he's on a deadline is pure gold. Here. A glass of freshly squeezed vitamin C. Maybe if you take it easy all day, you'll feel better tonight. Oh, maybe.

Too bad you had to go out at all last night. My big errand of mercy. It was a fool's errand, I'm sure. That poor silly woman. You should have seen her bedroom, Laura. It looked like something out of an old Shirley Tepple movie. Well, from what you told me, I guess her mother just never let her grow up. Her mother should have seen her last night. Giggling and fawning over poor little Mr. Matry. How was Mr. Matry taking it? He didn't say anything after we left. You know how quiet and polite he always is.

I caught him staring at her a couple of times, though. We'd better remind him to fix that lock on the lobby door. Oh, we met T. Oliphant in the lobby on our way out last night. And you should have seen the way he stared at Kathleen Windsor. I've seen the way he stares at me, and that's enough. It was strange. He looked her up and down with that awful sneer of his. Maybe he doesn't approve of women in mink coats. A mink and an apartment at Seabury House.

Whatever it is that Kathleen Windsor lacks, it is money anyway. Well, minks aren't in my line. All I want is a nice going little restaurant. I hope this place I'm seeing today will be it. Keep your fingers crossed. I will. That's about as much activity as I feel up to. It was a long, cold day. Even bundled up under blankets on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, I couldn't stop shivering.

I kept trying to get Chris on the phone, but the line was always busy. I knew he had the receiver off the hook. Another annoying habit of his when he was in the throes of creation. Hello?

Finally. I've been trying to ring you all day. You know I sometimes take the phone off the hook when I'm writing. Yes, I know. It's very frustrating. What's the matter, Muffet? You sound a little out of sorts. Oh, I'm sorry, Chris. I have a cold, that's all. Oh, poor Miss Muffet. I thought you sounded a little fuzzy. Hey, what does this do to our dinner date? Cancels it, I'm afraid. I just don't think I should go out tonight. Oh, well, how about me bringing dinner in? Your favorite, Chinese food. Or would you rather not have any company at all?

Not just any company. But you and Chinese food sound perfect. I'm rallying already. Good girl. I'll be there soon, and I won't stay too late. Oh, it's just as well. I'm probably full of germs. Seeing as how they're your germs, I'll risk it. I'll see you, Muffet. Muffet. Chris always called me that. With affection, but also with a twinkle of amusement in his eye that he wouldn't explain. I couldn't honestly say why I didn't jump at the chance to marry Chris.

I loved him and he loved me. We both knew it without having to say it all the time. But I also knew his commitment to his work might sometimes come between us. Was that the real reason I put off saying yes? Right now, with the man of my life to you any minute, I thought I'd better try to make myself as appealing as anybody with a cold of the nose could be. About all I could manage was a touch of eye makeup and a few strokes of the hairbrush. At least it took some of the lackluster from my eyes and returned a little of the sheen to my hair.

Hello, darling. How's my buffet feeling, huh? I'll live. Especially now that help's arrived. With provisions.

Ah, here we are. Beef wonton, lobster, shrimp, fried rice, pineapple chicken, and pork chop suey. Mmm, sounds fantastic. Even to my poor dull taste buds. Hey, where's Laura? I brought dinner for three. She should be back any time. She went to check out a location for her restaurant. It sounded perfect. Oh, let's get everything all ready. She may be in the mood for celebration when she comes in.

I don't have anything to celebrate. The property wasn't even for sale. Not for sale? But I thought you talked to the owner on the telephone. Well, I thought I did, too. I told him he'd called me in answer to my ad. But he swore it wasn't he who called. Then who was it? He said it must have been some joker. Some joke. I wonder why anyone would do something like that. Don't ask me. Maybe running a wanted ad in the paper on my own wasn't such a good idea. Oh, there shouldn't be anything wrong with that. Let's see the ad.

Oh, my God. Nicky, what's the matter? What is it, Buffett? That story in the paper. Look what it says. I pointed to a small news item at the bottom of the page. Woman found strangled was the headline. Below it, with disbelieving eyes, I read, Early this morning, the body of a woman identified as Kathleen Windsor was found in her apartment at Seabury House on Winnicott Road. She'd been strangled.

Tomorrow at this time, rest your eyes and listen here to this week's continuing study in suspense, Face of the Foe. I'm Rod Serling, and this is The Zero Hour. The Zero Hour

You've been listening to the Hollywood Radio Theater's presentation of The Zero Hour. Heard every weekday at this time. Rod Serling is your host. Patricia Power's Face of the Foe was adapted for radio by Shirley Gordon. Jessica Walter is Nicole. Joseph Campanella is Chris. And Judy Karn is Laura. Featured in the cast are Gail Bonney as Sybil, Alice Reinhart as Kathleen, and Don Diamond as Maitreya.

Zero Hour is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Jack Myers is executive producer. Rochelle Sherman, associate producer. And Kim Weiskopf, story editor. Music composed and conducted by Stanley D. Hoffman. The Hollywood Radio Theater theme was played by Ferranti and Teicher and is now available on United Artists Records and Tapes. This has been a JM Colas Enterprises production.

Hugh Douglas speaking. Tune in tomorrow and once again. Rest your eyes and listen here to The Zero Hour. It's mystery time.

Time now for The Best in Mystery. Tonight, Mystery Classic stars Sir Ralph Richardson in My Adventure in Norfolk. Sir Ralph Richardson. And Mystery Time presents him now, transcribed in the Adventure Classic, My Adventure in Norfolk by A.J. Allen.

Well, I don't know how it is with you, but four or five weeks after the new year, my wife always says to me, have you thought about where we shall go in August? Of course, I always say no. And then she starts looking through advertisements of bungalows to let in.

But it happened last year as usual. And I had forgotten all about it. As usual. Until one very foul morning in February. It was snowing like a barnstormer's production of East Lynn.

Margaret looked up from her letters at breakfast and said... I think it's the very place. Uh-huh. The man seems very civil, too. Oh, good. You know, if you ask me, the government will never get this new bill through. It's in Norfolk, a place called Hicking Broad. Eh?

What is it? This bungalow, of course, I told you. It's furnished, too, with boathouse, garden and garage. That seems hardly possible. And plated linen.

He says we can go and see it and stay the night. He'll arrange for a woman to come in and oblige. Oh, just a minute. I remember now. Isn't that the place with the exorbitant rent? Yes, but you'll have to talk to him about that. He's bound to come down. They always do. My experience is they always don't. You're never firm enough.

Anyway, we can go down on Thursday and stay the night. What? In this weather? It may be beautiful by then. You know what the weather is this time of year. Between then and Thursday, the weather did everything it does at any time of the year.

But when the train battled its way into Potter Higham Station, and we stood shivering on the platform, it was settled again, snowing hard. Fortunately, the car I'd ordered was waiting, and the five-mile drive to the bungalow, which seemed to be in the most desolate spot on earth, was accomplished with no more than average hazard.

I was apprehensive in case the woman who was to oblige should have proved disobliging, but my fears were grounded. Although it was late and dark when we arrived, we found fires burning, and she'd even cooked us a steak apiece.

And so if you're sure you'll be all right now, sir, I'll be getting along home. I can catch the last bus at the top of the lane. Oh, thank you, Mrs. Elson. Oh, we'll be quite happy now. Oh, if that takes, all right. I asked them which of us pick it up special. Oh, very nice things. It's a nice problem each afternoon. I'd say if my husband was all right. But it was a nasty operation. And if I denied it, I'd be a liar.

If I was to tell you what they've done to him, you'd all be relieved. I'm sure it must have been very trying. Well, if you must go, Mrs. Felton... Missy, that's what it was. And the dressing. Why, every night I have to...

Are you sure that steak's nice, ma'am? You've hardly touched it. I don't think I feel very hungry after all. But now, look here, we mustn't let you miss your bus, Mrs. Selston. I'll light you to the door. Oh, thank you, sir. You know, I rather like this oil lamp business. For soap, it's not so stark as electricity. Ah, not snowing much now, I see. Well, thank you very much for coming in. We'll be seeing you in the morning. That's all right, sir.

I can't think why they always refer to that type of woman as homely. Nursing homely would be a better description. What, tired, dear? I am, rather. It's been a long day. Yes.

I think bed's indicated. I tell you what, you go up. There's enough fire left in the bedroom for you to undress by. I'll boil a kettle and bring you up a hot water bottle. Mrs. Ting's left two enormous stone ones in the kitchen. I think I will go up if you don't mind. You're most dreadfully tired quite suddenly. I expect to see a reaction after rushing about all day. Yes, and the complete absence of any noise leaves you in a sort of vacuum. This is a quiet place, please.

I don't think I've heard a sound since we arrived. Well, that's funny. What is? That car, just as I said there. What, is it a car? I didn't hear anything. Oh, well, that's important then. I'll tell you what is funny. The way we speak of going up to bed. Well, there isn't any up. This is a bungalow. You go southeast to bed, or is it northwest? Anyway, off you go, dear. I won't be long with your bottle. Thank you.

When Margaret was gone, I put the kettle over the fire and lit my pipe. The kettle started singing away. And as it hadn't any competition, it sounded like a mass choir. And one of its downward cadence is, I thought I heard the car again. I took the kettle off for a minute to listen, but there was nothing. Not that it mattered if there had been a car. Do you know how it is when everything's very quiet, how you give every little noise its full value?

Well, I put the kettle back and had a look out of the window. It was pretty dark, but that sort of luminous darkness that you get with the snow. And then, down the road, beyond the bunker and behind some trees that bordered the road, I saw a light. I didn't want to bother Margaret, so I crept along the hall and opened the front door quietly. What's that? Ah, sorry, me, dear.

I'm just going to pop out for a minute. Whatever for? I thought you were coming to bed. Well, I am. Just a tick. Just want to put the nose out first. I don't mind what you're doing. You'll fall into a drift or something. Well, actually, I fell into an adventure. I suppose you could call it that. When I got out, the cause of the radiance was obvious.

It was the light of a car, one of those square box-looking saloons with a flat radiator about the size of a small hotel. What was more interesting was there was a girl tinkering with the engine, quite an attractive girl as far as I could see, too. But she was pretty well muffled up with fur, so I couldn't be quite sure. Ah, good evening. Anything I can do? Oh, thank you. I don't really know what's the matter. Just stopped. Smells hot, doesn't it?

Any water in the radiator? I don't know. I expect so. There always is water in radiators, isn't there? Oh, I see your point. It depends whether anyone's remembered to put some in. Let's have a look, shall we? Hmm. I can't see any. By show, she is hot. You know, we'd better get some water in there. I can get some from my garage. Couldn't we use snow? Oh, I'd better not. Now, hold on a jiffy.

I'll get a bucket. By the time I got back with a bucket of water, she'd found a funnel. And so I poured a little water into the radiator. Oh, look out now. Oh. Oh, oh. Talk about volcanoes. I'd even blown the funnel out. Well, let me see if I can turn the engine off. I couldn't move it. I'll have a go. Oh.

Oh, come on up, you brute. No, it's no good. It feels solid. I can't move it an inch. It's no good. I must get on. But my dear girl, it's miles to anywhere. I can't help that. I tell you, I've got to... What's that? What's what? That noise. That sounds like another vessel coming. But if it comes this way, you can get it too, or at least a lift to a more acceptable roof.

I can see its light. It's a long way off, though. You know, you can see it for miles in this flat country. It struck me the girl didn't seem to be as pleased as she ought to have been. As the lights and the sound of the engine got nearer, she was at first uneasy, then plainly scared. Hello there. What's up, Garth? Skidding?

Oh, burnt down, have you? Well, this lady has. I'm pretty conflicted, too. She's seized up solid. I mean, the car has. I wonder if you could help with a toe or a lift. Well, I'm going to Norwich. I could give the lady a lift that far if she liked. But what about the car? Well, I tell you what. If you could give me a hand, we could push it into the garage for tonight. There's no car in it. And then, Miss, if you could send for it in the morning, but not too late, though, because I'm going to London.

That's rude. It will have to do. A little gratitude on her part would have been more gracious. Well, the money driver, whose name turned out to be Williams, helped me push the car into the garage, and a tough job it was. It was heavy, for one thing, and the body and the wings were slippery in the snow and ice. The girl made no attempt to help. She just fussed around as though she thought we might run off with the beastly thing. And she seemed a bit calmer when it was safely in, with the doors locked. As we walked away from the garage, I suddenly realized how cold it was.

Safe enough there, miss. No one could start it anyway. Oh, no. Oh, it's cold. You know, you two ought to come in and have a drink before you start. Oh, but I... Well, I don't mind if I do, sir. All right, well, take a minute. It'll warm you both. This way. I'll come in a jiffy, sir. I'd better put me lorry out in the middle of the road in case anything else comes along. Don't want something up the back of it. I took the girl in and sat her by the sitting room fire. And then I went out again to show Williams the way in. I met him by the gate. Um...

Lady of friendly, oh, sir? Never seen her before in my life. If you ask me, sir, there's something fishy about her. What's a young lady driving round at night in this weather alone for?

I mixed three whiskers and water, although there wasn't any soda, and I took my first opportunity to study the girl. Well, she's a bit older than I thought, and she's induced with a lack of friendliness. Well, we've done nothing to deserve it. There's a very hostility and suspicion, which is rather hard lines on us, considering. And she kept dodging out of her light. It struck me as odd.

She hurried Williams over his drink in a rather foolish way in view of the fact that he was to drive up. When he'd gone to start the engine, I asked her if she was all right for Monday, and apparently she was. Well, I reminded her to send early for the car, and she said she wouldn't. Off they went. Aye. You asleep, dear? No. I believe I dozed for a minute. Why did you cry? Yes, um...

I thought I heard something. I went down to see. I was right to it. There was a car broken down outside and the girl all on her own. I gave her a drink, but she wouldn't stop. She's gone off to Norwich in a lorry. The girl wouldn't stop? Where's her car? We've shoved it in the girl's house. But you must have been gone for hours. Why didn't you wake me up? I told her about it and the way the girl had acted and how she'd been anxious to get away.

Then Margaret said something which made me think. I think the whole thing's most peculiar. Peculiar? Oh, funny you should say that. The lorry chap said it was fishy. Look here. Where did she come from? This is an unimportant road. Not one you'd normally take. No. Unless you were avoiding people. If you were driving a stolen car, for instance. A stolen car?

Well, I never thought of that. You wouldn't. It was a girl. If it was, Stolen. Fine, Joe, I'm going to have another look at that car. No, don't you move. I'll slip out and I'll look at it again. That car may hold the clue to the whole fishy business. Oh!

it was very dark outside and so still that the candle i carried burnt without a flicker it wasn't a large garage and the car nearly filled it it backed it in so it'll be easier to tow out not the sort of car pinch that engine is still warm well i've seen the engine there are no clues there

Now, if I can squeeze along the wall, I can get a peeping at the back. Hub blow, frosted windows. Oh, no, of course not. It's rail frost. I wonder if there's room to open the door. Of course, it would open away from me. Hey, don't shout. You're pinning me against the wall. I didn't know anyone was there. Good heavens. He wasn't pushing.

He was as dead as a doornail. When I got over my first shock, I managed to bundle the body back into the car and have a look at it.

It was the body of a tall man with a moustache and evidently been propped up on the floor against the door so that as soon as I opened the door, it had slumped out. It was tall and thin, dark, dressed in tweeds and a raincoat. No papers in the pocket. It was a note case with nine pounds in it. No tailored name on the clothes, nothing whatever to give any clue of his identity. But it was obvious why he was dead. It was a bullet hole under his right shoulder blade.

Someone had shot him from behind and I guessed the bullet had gone through into the lung. Well, what was I to do? There was no phone in the house. The nearest police station was probably miles away and I had no transport. Besides, there was Margaret. I couldn't stroll off and leave her alone. There was no night to drag her around with me, around the countryside. In the end, I shut the car door again, carefully locked up the garage and went to bed.

What on earth have you been doing? What an age you've been. I'm sorry, sorry, darling, sorry. Well, did you find anything? Yes, I found something in the back of the car. What was it? I found nine pounds. Nine pounds? In the back of the car? Yes, in the back of the car. In her wallet. How extraordinary. She must have forgotten all about you. Yes, I wonder if she did.

Well, how do you mean? I just wondered. What did you do with it? Well, I left it there. I thought it was best. After all, it was none of my business. There's nothing we can do about it now, is there? No. No? Well, then, let's go to sleep. Good night. I'm so tired. Good night.

The next thing I knew, it was bored daylight and 9 a.m. Mrs. Selson was due at 10, so I tumbled out pretty quickly. I wanted to have another look at the car and the body in daylight. Unfortunately, I think the mention of the nine quid had roused my wife's curiosity, and she insisted on coming to the garage with me.

Now, look here, dear. I didn't tell you last night, but, well, there's something rather more to this than I said. You'll have to be prepared for a bit of a shock. A shock? Why? What else is there? Well, you see, the... But there's no car here at all. The garage is empty. I've never had such a shock in my life. No car, no body, nothing.

There was a patch of grease on the floor where I dropped the candle, but otherwise there was nothing to show that I'd ever been in there. Another queer thing, there were no wheel marks, either in the garage or outside, so it had apparently snowed very heavily again and covered them up. It didn't look as though there'd been all that snow. Margaret was inclined to laugh at the whole thing. We went back to the house, and she got some breakfast.

My belief is that you sat by the fire after I'd gone to bed, dozed and dreamt the whole thing. There never was any car or girl. Wishful thinking, probably. And did I dream going out to the garage again and finding the nine pounds? I don't know, but you must admit that... Wait a minute.

Look here, the glasses. The glasses? Yes. I said I gave them a drink, didn't I? Well, if the glasses are there, that proves it. I was in that drawing room like a shot. The glasses were there, three of them, just as they'd left them. So I had been right.

but i still didn't say anything about the body the mystery was quite mysterious enough already besides an idea was forming at the back of my mind and i wasn't ready to talk about it but if there was a car and a girl came back and took it how did you do it without waking them well the garage is so close to the house and we're not heavy sleepers she couldn't have done it alone anyway it wouldn't have started so it had to be either towed or pushed neither of which could be done by one person

What are you going to do with that cloth? Why have you wrapped it in your handkerchief? I'm going to take it away with me. I didn't say a word to Mrs. Selston about our night's fun and games, but I settled up with her, and soon after that, our previously ordered car came to drive us to the station.

On the way, I called on the landlord of the bungalow and told him we'd let him know about taking it. Neither Margaret nor I could make up our minds just then whether we wanted to see the place again or not. I had the girl's glass with me, carefully packed in that biscuit tin. And when we reached Liverpool Street... Taxi! Yes, all right, sir. All right. Scotsman Yard. Scotsman Yard.

Well,

Well, he was a bit amused, but Gregson's a sport and he knows me. Well, his chaps are awfully quick on the job. It wasn't long before one came back and laid a file on the desk in front of the inspector. Gregson thumbed it through for a bit, and then he looked up and grinned at me. Well, Helen, we know your little lady right enough. I

I've got a picture of her here, too. Is that the damsel you're looking for? Yes, that's her by the shoe, yes. Who is she? Oh, she's had lots of names at different times, but her last one was Naomi Sterling. She was in twice for shoplifting, but that was early in her career. Later on, she took off with the leader of a very well-known race gang, one of the nastiest pieces of work we've had in this country. There, there's a picture of him, too. There it is. Good Lord, the body.

What? It doesn't matter for a minute, no. Go on. What? Do you know any more about these people? Yes, quite a bit. This race gang fell foul of another gang, and there was a bit of a scrap. Naomi's boyfriend, he was known as Smug, got shot dead in the fight. Naomi managed to get him away in a car, but the car broke down. It was somewhere in Norfolk, I believe. But Gregson, look here. I...

Oh, well, go on. Well, it seems that she left the car and the dead man in a garage belonging to some simple oaf that she'd kitted into helping her. Anything to matter, Alan? No, no, nothing. No, go on, go on. Well, she left it in this garage and got a lift in a boot glory that was going to Norwich. Only she never got there. Oh, I see. Well, you knew all about this and...

You picked her up on the way. No, we didn't. We didn't know about it until afterwards. Apparently, the lorry was being driven pretty furiously in the snow... and it skidded on a bend and hit a wall. Naomi and the driver, a chap named William... were thrown out and ran their heads against the wall. And that, in case you don't know, is a very, very fatal thing to do. Anyhow, it was in their case.

You gave him like a fishbowl, don't you believe me? Yes. No, I mean... Look here, Gregson, I know you chaps are pretty smart, but how on earth can you know all this and have it there in black and white? There hasn't been time. It only happened last night. Last night? Last night, my foot. It happened four years ago this February. The people we are talking about have been dead for four years. Great Scott Allen, what's the matter?

You look as though you've seen a ghost. And that was the end of my adventure in Norfolk. But just think of it. I could have stuck to that 9,000.

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I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me for tonight's Retro Radio, old-time radio in the dark.