The cask of finest wine is in a catacombs far under the river. Bones are there too. Human bones. The burial grounds of an old family. And deep in a dark, dank tunnel, there is no one to hear a man begging for his life. Hello, creeps. This is Peter Laurie, opening the doors of the mystery playhouse. The works of Edgar L. Poe usually start one's acquaintance with the literature of mystery. Then, as the years pass by, we are apt to forget that Poe is not only the father of the horror story, but truly the master of mal. So tonight, we bring you one of the very first and very best. It's a story of revenge that communicates its terror to the listener so directly that hours afterward, your spine will still feel cold. Here then is Edgar L. Poe's The Cask of Amontillado. For a thousand injuries of Fortunato, I bore as best I could. Neither by word nor deed did I ever give him cause to doubt my goodwill. That was long ago, but I remember it. If ever a man had reason to hate and right to vengeance, it was I, the last of the Montresors. Through a device which the devil himself must have conceived, Fortunato, the noble, high-born Fortunato, had robbed and swindled my aging and sorrowful father of all his vast fortunes. As the last of our gold was transferred to Fortunato's already brimming vaults, my father, broken, humiliated, and plagued with anguish, passed on. As he lay dying, his last words to me were, Revenge! Revenge, my son, the wrongs done to the Montresors by this fiendish Fortunato! My father had been old and helpless before Fortunato's cruel and evil ways. Now that my father was dead, I would be avenged. I vowed neither by word nor deed would I ever give Fortunato cause to doubt my goodwill. I accepted the small sums of gold which he so graciously offered from time to time, only that I might live to bring upon the noble Fortunato the terrible doom he so richly deserved. Until revenge was mine, I would smile in Fortunato's face, and indeed, for many years, I was smilingly his friend. Scarcely a night passed, but Fortunato did not stop beneath my window. So much did he enjoy the opportunity for further injury. Surrounded by his boisterous and giddy friends, he would call drunkenly up to me, Fortunato! Fortunato! Yes, Fortunato? Come, come cease your mourning, with hazy hairs opening a cask of sherry in honor of the spree. Put away your sorrows and join us. No, Fortunato, I cannot. Enjoy yourself without me. Fool! A fool like you deserves his sorrows. Come, gentlemen, we are fools for even asking him to join us in our fun. Come, let's drink, drink. The wine of spring is here. Good night, Montresor. The melancholy Montresor, who hasn't even a courage to drink with his fellow townsmen. Good night. As his drunken prattle faded into the night, I would snuff out my candle and toss pitfully in the dark, feeling the fresh, each galling wound Fortunato had ever dealt me, and waiting for the moment of my revenge. None in the town ever witnessed my wounded pride. None except Amiotto, the wine dealer, my one true friend. To him alone did I dare to mention the name of Fortunato. He must, on occasion, have read my troubled mind, for he showed me many kindnesses and much understanding, even at times to Fortunato's disadvantage. Ah, Signor Montresor. Good morning, Amiotto. I have a splendid surprise for you today. Have you, Amiotto, and what is that? A cask of contigliano, Signor, the finest wine there is. Here, sample it, Signor. I can't afford anything so rare, Amiotto. I only came to call, not to purchase. It will cost you no more than the kind you usually buy. Thanks, Signor. Well, thank you. That's enough. You treat me too well, Amiotto. Beautiful. I scarcely know how to thank you. Your expression of delight is more gratitude than I deserve. I was extremely fortunate in being able to purchase the last available cask for you. And there's none meant for Fortunato? You will arouse his anger. A wine dealer must follow his judgment and his heart. Fortunato prides himself too highly on his knowledge of good wines. I believe you are more skillful, Signor. Thank you. Ian LeCasey opened a cask of sherry last night in honor of the spring. Then he will be in a bad mood today. Oopsie, he approaches, Signor, and looks as dark as your own ancient vaults. Ah, Fortunato, it's good to see you. It was just as well, perhaps, that you refused to come last night, Montresor. LeCasey is a fool about wines, a fact of which I am doubly sure after sharing his inferior vintages last night. Ah, I see you have contigliano, Amiotto. Signor Montresor has it now, through a very wise purchase. Are you joking, Amiotto? Where would Montresor find the funds to buy such a rare wine? That is not my affair, Signor. So that is what you do with all your money in your solitary evenings, Montresor. Spend them both on Amiotto's rare finds. Well, I will wager you've not a drop left to show for it. On the contrary, Signor Montresor has one of the finest sellers in all the country. You are too kind, Amiotto. But, Fortunato, why not see for yourself? My vaults are always open to you. Someday I shall. And as for you, Amiotto, see that you take better care of my vaults in the future. Good day. Good day to you, Fortunato. I shall send the contigliano to your palazzo before he leaves, Signor Montresor. Now my mind was made up. That moment in the wine dealer's shop gave me the beginnings of a plan, a plan for which I had long been waiting. Fortunato must visit my wine cellar deep down in the catacombs beneath the home of the Montresors. From the depths of my old misery I began to devise the details of the plan. Ahead of Fortunato there lay only horror, agony, and damnation. It was about dusk that I finally sought Fortunato out, one evening during the height of his wedding festivities. He was to be married the next day, and gaily he sauntered through the crowd celebrating in his honour. He was dressed in a gay, many-coloured costume, and on his head he wore a high, conical cap topped with brilliant, small, jingling bells. Surrounded by light-hearted friends, musicians, and many curious bystanders, Fortunato was the very centre of the magnificent spectacle. It was this scene, both beautiful and terrible, in which I found him. Right here, Fortunato, how remarkably well you look tonight, and how lucky to find you. I've just purchased a cask of a Montelardo wine, but, well, I'm afraid I've been cheated. How, Montresor? A Montelardo? A cask? At a time like this? This time of year impossible. Well, this was a strange wine dealer, too, and, well, I was foolish enough to pay him the full Montelardo price without first consulting you in the matter. A Montelardo. So you told me. But since your friends are waiting for you, I must find Lucchese and ask him to test it for me. If anyone's a connoisseur of good wine, Lucchese is. He will tell me. Lucchese cannot tell a Montelardo from water. Some people say that his taste is a match for your own. What? Where is this wine? In the vaults beneath my home. Come, let us go. Go where, Fortunato? Through your vaults. I will test it. Oh, my friend, no, I won't impose this way on your good nature. You must remain with your friend. Lucchese is not in such great demand, especially tonight. My friends will not miss me for a few moments. Come on. No, Fortunato, no, I won't, for me. I see you're afflicted with a terrible cold, and my vaults are so insufferably damp they're encrusted with wine. Let us go, Montreux, sir, nevertheless. Cold as nothing. On Montelardo. You have been cheated. In this full of Casey, he is no kind of served good wine. Only I am worthy to decide. Let us be on our way. Dashing ahead, half running, half stumbling, shouting his drunken plans, Fortunato pulled me anxiously along the streets. I pretended to hold back, to be unwilling to have him leave his friends, yet each moment my eagerness to complete my plan grew greater and greater. I was so happy to see Fortunato. Soon we reached my home. There were no attendants there. They had gone off to help in the celebrations. I took from their brackets two torches, and giving one to Fortunato, I led him through several suites of rooms and through the archway that led down into the vault. As we descended the long winding stairway onto the damp ground of the catacombs, I listened and chanted to the delicate bells attached to the conical cap atop Fortunato's bobbing head. Against the somber shadows of the catacomb walls, Fortunato's gay red and yellow costume brought a touch of beauty and lent a moment of holiday to the tears of rare red and amber vintage. His steps were unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled even more as he stumbled down the damp stairs. The, the Amontillado Montresol. It's father on. How long have you had that cough, Fortunato? It is nothing. Come, Fortunato, we'll go back. Your health is too precious. This damp place is not good for your cough. No, no, no. Let us go on, do I? But you'll be ill, and I don't want to be responsible. Miss Hollens, there is always vacations. Enough! The cough is a man of thing. It will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough. True. True. You will not die of a cough. And I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily, but you should take care of yourself. Here, a drink of this wine, this fine aged Madoc will defend us from the chilling dampness. Here, allow me to break the neck of the bottle for you. Drink. I drink to the buried and repose around us. And I drink to your long life. Ah, good, good, excellent. This wine is excellent. Drink it along with me. But, what about the Amontillado wine? Oh, that's farther on, good Fortunato. Watch your footing there, my friend. The ground becomes damper and more slippery as we descend. The wine and the expectation of making a fool of me through my purchase of the Amontillado sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. We passed through walls of piled bones, of casks and broken bottles, intermingling into the lowest depths of the cellar. I paused again and this time seized Fortunato by the elbow. The lime, Fortunato, sees increasing, hangs like moths upon the wall. We're below the river's bed now. Look how the drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, Fortunato, we'll go back before it's too late. Your coffee. It is nothing. No, let us go on. But first, another bottle of the Maidoc. Oh, a better, a bottle of this, the Bananios. Here, Fortunato, here. You break the bottle this time. Very well. Your taste is truly that of a connoisseur, Montresor. I'm amazed. But come, let us go on. And hold up your torch, Montresor. I don't care for this blackness. Be it so, Fortunato. Again I offered him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily, but the wine I'd been giving him was beginning to have its desired effect. We continued our search for the amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches. Descending. Passed on. And descending again, arrived at the deepest crypt, where my father had been laid to rest. The foulness of the air was stifling, the dampness all but snuffed out our torches. Ah, Montresor, what other secrets do you have hidden here beneath the world? Why do you ask, good Fortunato? There's a pile of bones here. Now, how does it happen that the bones from this wall are thrown down in this manner? Why is it you have never replaced them, huh? What secret treasures do you keep in this last small recess? Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, tried to peer into the depths of the recess, and to discover within its circumscribing walls a solid granite, the rare and exciting treasure which he drunkenly fancied. But it was in vain. His light was too feeble for him even to see where the solid granite walls ended. Go in, Fortunato. Inside is the cask of wine you wish to taste. The amontillado. Careful, Fortunato. End it slowly. It's dark in that niche. And the floor is even more slippery. Was this Montresor? Then it ends so abruptly. True, Fortunato, it does. But proceed. I'm coming in with you. Ha-ha. No need to be so bewildered. What are you doing, Montresor? I cannot see. See, Fortunato, how secure these chains are embedded in the walls, how heavy the iron staples with which they're fastened to the granite. You see this heavy iron lock? The iron smiths of the last century knew their craft, eh, Fortunato? See how snugly these chains fit about your waist? And this key? See, Fortunato, how smoothly it fits the lock. Now, what's the matter? Pass your hand along the wall. You cannot help feeling the damp lime that clings to it. Yes, the wall is very damp, but it will keep you from falling. Perhaps you've already had too much wine. The amontillado. The amontillado. Truly amontillado. Fortunato was still nodding in his drunken stupor. Not yet did he know that he was forever chained to the walls of that black hell. I stepped outside and visited myself among the pile of bones that lay at the foot of the wall, the bones which he'd been sure had hidden a treasure, which in truth they did. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar and a trowel, which I'd hidden there. With these materials, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. But for the regular sound of my trowel and an occasional jingle of tiny bells on Fortunato's cap, all the silent. I laid the first tier and the second and the third. I carefully begun the fourth tier with the masonry, and I discovered that Fortunato's intoxication was wearing off. Fortunato! Fortunato was indeed awakened. With fiendish delight, I sat down upon the bones and I listened to his furious attempts to escape. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed my work with the trowel, and I finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tiers. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. When I again paused and, holding the torch over the mason work, I threw a fewremhnraze onto the dejected figure within. Help! Help me! Help me! Why did someone come and stop this madman, this fool, this devilish thief?! Help! Come and help me, bird, help me! Lada Fortunato! You forget how far we are below the river bed! Perhaps if I shout with you, Fortunato, someone will hear! Together, Fortunato! Lada! Help! Lada still Fortunato! Help! For the love of the Almighty, someone come and release the noble Fortunato! Help! He needs help so desperately, and there are so many trips between him and the rest of the world. Help! Help! Suddenly my prisoner was still. It was now midnight, and my job was almost ended. I completed the eighth, the ninth, the tenth tiers. I was finishing the eleventh and the last. There was only a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight and I placed it partially in its destined position. A very good joke indeed, Monstersaur. An excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it tomorrow for wedding. Over all wine. Over the Amontillado? Over the Amontillado. It's getting late, Monstersaur. They will be waiting for us in the palazzo. The future lady Fortunato and all my friends. Let us be gone, Monstersaur. The job's over. Yes, Fortunato. Let us be gone. For the love of the Almighty, Monstersaur. Yes, for the love of the Almighty. Fortunato? Fortunato? No answer came. I thrust my torch through the remaining opening and let the light fall within. From inside the crypt there came the only answer Fortunato now could summon. I felt sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to finish my labors. I forced the last stone into its position. I plastered it up against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For half a century no one has disturbed them. The bones of my fathers rest in peace. And so ends the first story of a man who killed to avenge his family's honor. Our next production concerns itself with an expert criminologist. A man who prided himself on his claim of never making a mistake. Follow me to the green room and we'll eavesdrop at rehearsal. This way. Come. Come, come. The entire case, of course, was decidedly second rate. You probably know the details. No, as a matter of fact I don't. That's why I came here. Oh? See, I was in Africa just last week. Didn't even know Harrington had been arrested until just before I sailed. I see. Well, I won't bore you with most of it. Uh, surprised to say that Ernest West had pushed Harrington in the stock market to a point where Harrington had to stop West or face absolute ruin. I see. So Harrington thought West out one night, sought him out at West's home on Long Island, and shot him with a.25 caliber revolver. We found it later on Harrington's safe. Well, there was nothing for the poor man to do but confess. Harrington was convicted solely on your evidence, Dr. Trevor? Yes. Otherwise he might have escaped. But your entire case was constructed around the revolver? Yes. And his prompt confession put an end to further investigation. Um, now as I was saying... Dr. Trevor, I'm interested in that revolver. A.25, you say? Yes. Rather uncommon caliber. Yes. With the handle chipped a bit on the right side? Yes. How do you know? It belonged to West's wife, not to Harrington. What? Yes, yes. It got chipped when she dropped it on a rock while target shooting in Switzerland. You see, I was with her at the time. You mean Ellis West gave that revolver to Harrington? Oh, I doubt that. Much as she loved him. You're out of your mind, Gregory. Not at all. I'm afraid that little.25 caliber revolver probably resulted in the execution of the wrong man. That's impossible. The right man, you see, was a woman. Alice West. She and Harrington were in love, and West played dog in the manger and wouldn't divorce her. Alice West is the murderer, not Harrington. She killed him? Certainly. There was no reason for Harrington to borrow her revolver. He had quite a little arsenal of his own, as I remember. A.45 caliber would have been his speed. But Alice West was in Europe at the time of the crime. Ah, before and after, yes. But I happen to know she was in Montreal the very month the murder was committed, and that isn't far from Long Island by plane. Go on, Gregory. Well, to clinch my case, Alice got tight one night in Monte Carlo and told me she was going to kill her husband. I left for North Africa the next day and didn't hear a thing for months. But when I saw the papers, I hadn't any doubts as to who had bumped off Ernest West. But Harrington's confession. Oh, Dr. Trevor, that's easy if you know people. The poor ox went to the chair for his lady love. It's been done before, you know. Gregory, what you say, it's impossible. Why? The man was convicted solely on my evidence. I could never make a mistake like that. Oh, come now. We all make mistakes. I don't. Well, it's a shame, but what's done is done. Obviously. You don't understand, Gregory. My reputation won't permit mistakes. I simply do not make them, that's all. Don't worry, Trevor. Your reputation isn't going to suffer. Alice West will be dead of dope inside of two years if I'm any judge. And no one else knows you've been wrong just this once. You do? Well, yes, but we can forget all about that. Yes, we must. We must. Don't fret, Trevor. I'll keep my mouth shut. Yes, I know you will. Fine. Now, what about another brandy, eh? Oh, yes, over here on the table. Trevor, what are you doing? Trevor! Yes, Gregory. You will keep your mouth shut. You see, the doctor doesn't make mistakes. If he did, it might prove fatal. In our next broadcast, you'll learn how a man committed the perfect crime. Or was it? Now, this is Peter Laurie, closing the doors of the mystery playhouse. Good night. Sleep tight. This is the Armed Forces Radio Service. The Armed Forces Radio Service The Armed Forces Radio Service
