Suspense. Tonight, suspense brings you Mr. Kirk Douglas as star. But first, a brief message from your announcer. In America's finest hotels and restaurants, wherever hospitality is the last word in luxury, the first name in wines is C-R-E-S-T-A, B-L-A-N-C-A, Cresta Blanca. Cresta Blanca. When you proudly pour Cresta Blanca, California Burgundy or Sauternes, you pay guests the most gracious compliment possible. For Cresta Blanca wines, from the finest of the vines, distinguish America's finest tables. That's why when you serve Cresta Blanca wines, you and your friends enjoy the best. Schenley's Cresta Blanca Wine Company, Livermore, California. And now, Schenley brings you Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense. Presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines of Fresno, California. Tonight starring Mr. Kirk Douglas. In the story of Markham's death. A suspense play produced, edited, and directed for Schenley by William Spear. You say Phil Martin's run dry? Well, I didn't make it up. My wife got it from Ann. Hasn't written a word in six months. Yes, and I got it from Peterson, his publisher. They've dropped him from their spring list. Well, bye-bye, Dean of American Mystery Writers. I'm glad to see him go. Phil Martin. I thought that guy'd write from the grave. I don't understand it. I guess it happens to the best of us. Hope he saved his money, but I suspect he hasn't. Phil Martin run dry. I don't get it. I don't get it. No, I didn't get it either. Unless you border on that fringe of abnormality which marks you as a writer, you can't possibly understand the complete futility you feel when your talent is suddenly turned off like a water spot. I spent as much time staring at the blank paper in my typewriter as I ordinarily spend in writing an entire novel. Oh, Ann could sympathize with me because she loved me, but I didn't need Ann's stupid sympathy. Phil. Phil, darling, I'm sure it's only temporary. Temporary? Ann, I can't even write a decent ten-word telegram. It's no use, Ann. I'm afraid I'm through. Oh, no, you can't be. Not anyone as great as you. Phil Martin, Phil, maybe you've done too much. Darling, maybe you'll rest. Why don't you rest for a few months? I've been resting. Well, I mean, get away. Yes, that's my last chance, dear. I'm going to do just that. I'm going abroad. Abroad? Oh, honey, when are we going? We aren't going. I am. You're... Phil, is this a way of letting... I mean... Oh, don't worry, dear. I'm not running out on you. I'll just be gone for a few months. Oh. Oh, well, just a few months. Yes, alone. Ann, I told you when I first met you, I'm a complex person. I'm difficult to understand. Yes, yes, dear, I know that. I... But I thought I understood you. Well, you can't. Nobody can. But I love you, Phil. And I love you, Ann, but that doesn't change matters. I'm going to England for a few months by myself. You don't have a thing to worry about. You keep your apartment and wait for me. The rent's paid through the first of the year. I'll be back before that. Ann Fleming was the beautiful, not overly intelligent type of girl I've associated with since my divorce. Her only family was a half brother, a petty hoodlum whose habit of always wearing gloves, one of the imposing nickname of kid gloves. That hadn't helped when he ran his car into a storefront killing two people just a block from where he'd held up a tavern. Kid gloves had gone to jail three months before I met Ann to serve 40 years for manslaughter and robbery. A very corny plot, the whole thing, including Ann. As I roamed around London, I thought maybe a visit in this city of great mystery tradition would be my answer. And it was. The second day, while wandering around aimlessly in the bombed out and still unrepaired section of Bloomsbury, I stumbled onto my last inspiration quite by accident. Oh, say, when was all this hit? Oh, right at the start of the war, sir. Oh, then this isn't V-bomb damage. Oh, no, government. As a matter of fact, the old house across the street had it the first part of Jerry Comeauver. I'd almost say it was the first house to be hit in the war. Well, did it take only one bomb to level it like that? Well, how many do you think it takes? I've cleaned it up a bit now. Old house, that too. Built back in 1750. Hmm, really? Yeah, pretty well known. Lots of Yanks made their digs there. Before the war, that is. A Yankee rioter stayed there once when he was here. What was his name, ducky? Oh, E. P. Rowe. No, Poe, Poe. Oh, that's it. Poe. So you don't mean Edgar Allen Poe, do you? That's him. That's him. What? Edgar Allen Poe once stayed in that house? That's right. American writer. Acquaintance of yours? Well, hardly a contemporary. What? Oh, nothing. My little halbert was playing in the rubble there Tuesday last and dug out a box of junk. Maybe some of it was Mr. Poe's. Like to see it? Why, yes, certainly. Well, it's vaguely possible. I looked through the battered steel box. The woman provided me with a cup of tea as I spread the contents out in front of me. It was thrilling somehow to think that these dusty things perhaps had once belonged to the man who had invented the detective story more than a hundred years ago. As she went out and I replaced the trinkets, I snagged the faded musty gray satin lining of the box and accidentally tore it. Trying to get it back together, I only ripped it further. I put my hand under the lining to straighten it and something fell out. It was a waterproof packet containing three yellowed sheets of paper written in a small, fine hand. At the bottom of the third page was the name Edgar Allan Poe. I slipped the packet into my pocket and returned the box. Oh, find anything? No, just as you said, a lot of worthless trinkets. Oh, by the way, I ripped the lining as I was putting everything back. Oh, that's all right. Oh, no, I'd like to give you something for your trouble and for my clumsy damage. Here, and thank you so much. Five quid. Oh, I say five quid, but the old thing probably ain't worth a thrifty bit. Well, your time, your trouble, and your courtesy are, though. Thank you very much. But five quid. Oh, I say. Five pounds for an original Edgar Allan Poe manuscript. It was a short story written by Poe during his brief stay in England many years before his rise in subsequent fall. As I read and reread the manuscript, I realized that it was an experiment in a completely new mystery technique. Here, in effect, was what Poulty had never discovered in his thesis on the existence of only 32 basic dramatic situations. Suddenly I realized I was the only one who knew this story and that I could put it to better use than as a museum piece. Why, here indeed was the 33rd situation. Why, in my hands, it could blossom forth as a novel, a film, a radio play. I was about to be reborn and literary mortality was at my fingertips. I began writing in London and all the way back home. It took me six months to complete my work, and then with everything finished, I burned the original Poe composition and sent the novel off to the publisher. Then I called in. Will it be a big success, darling? Big success? Well, I've never been as confident of anything in my life. Oh, that's wonderful. They said you were through. I told you. A rest was all I needed, a change of scenery. I'm proud of you, Phil. I'm so proud. I'm glad. Maybe now you, now Phil, maybe you'll think differently about things. I'm so glad. You aren't even listening to me. Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Oh, look, look, Anne. I'm going to be pretty busy for the next few weeks. Now I won't be able to see you very often. Oh, I should think you'd have time now that... Well, I haven't, but we'll see. We have a date tonight. Well, I'm going to the Mystery Writers Banquet tonight. And tomorrow? Well, okay, but I'll come over for you at eight o'clock and for once will you try to be ready on time. Every year on the anniversary of Edgar Allen Poe's birth, the Mystery Writers of America hold a banquet similar to the Academy Award Banquet. Instead of awarding Oscars, they give Edgars for the outstanding works of the year. All of a sudden, everybody was looking at me. Now I have a special Edgar to give. This special award goes to the first writer to discover a new and startling different approach to the mystery story since the death of our patron saint, the great Edgar Allen Poe himself, Philip Martin, for your novel Markham's Death. Yes, a special Edgar for an idea plagiarized from Edgar Allen Poe. The end had justified the means, and I knew that the original manuscript was now only ashes. I was the only one who had ever seen it. I was completely happy and enjoying my victory after the banquet in the quiet of my own home. Mr. Martin? Yes, speaking. This is Dr. Selgrove. Dr. Selgrove? Yes, I'm head of the Academy of American Letters. I want to congratulate you, Mr. Martin. I was at the banquet tonight. Oh, well, thank you, sir. Well, yes, indeed. I've been collecting data on Edward Allen Poe all my life. Your work was in the finest traditions of Poe. Well, that is the supreme compliment, Dr. Mr. Martin, what did you find behind the lining in that steel box in London? What? It was you, wasn't it? Well, I don't know what you're talking about. Yes, in the truest Poe tradition. So much so that I have reason to believe your idea was once Poe's. Now, look, Dr. I, I hope you haven't spread this misinformation around. Why, you're wrong, of course, but, well, even the faintest suggestion could do me irreparable harm. If you mean, have I been discreet, sir, I have, until now. Well, look, how do you want me to disprove this ridiculous accusation? I'm at the Academy every day. I'll be there tomorrow night until nine thirty. The doors close at eight, but I'll wait for you. That will be fine, doctor. I'll be there around nine. And as I set the receiver back on the hook, I wondered just how much he actually knew and what I would have to do to silence him. For suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you Mr. Kirk Douglas in the story of Markham's death. Roma Wines presentation tonight in Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense. Suspense, Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, is presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, from the world's greatest reserves of fine wines. Now that autumn is here, you'll be spending more evenings at home, reading, listening to the radio, or entertaining friends. Now, here's an easy, delightful way to make the most of these pleasant hours. Simply serve delicious Roma California wines, such as glorious Roma Cherie, with its nut-like taste, Ruby Red Roma Port, or Mellow Roma Muscatel. And the last thing you need to know is the taste. Ruby Red Roma Port, or Mellow Roma Muscatel. Yes, you'll find that Roma Wines really help an evening along. That's because Roma Wines taste better. They have a full, rich body and fragrant bouquet. You can find only in a fine wine. Tomorrow, give your family and friends a real surprise. Treat them to better tasting Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, America's largest selling wines. And now, Roma Wines bring back to our Hollywood Soundstage, Kirk Douglas as Philip Martin, in the story of Markham's Death, a play well calculated to keep you in suspense. The hands of the clock on the wall seemed drugged. They moved so slowly that day. My appointment with Dr. Selgrove was for 9 p.m. I was to be at Ann's at 8. I figured about 20 minutes would wipe that slate clean. Hello, honey. I'll be ready in a minute. I said I'd be here at 8. Oh dear. Isn't 8 already? Is it? Yes, it's after 8. Oh, I thought it was only about 7 30. I'll hurry. Well, there's no reason. Are we going out? No, Ann. We're not going out. As a matter of fact, we're never going out again. What? I'm sorry, Ann. This is the last time we'll see each other. But, but I, I, well, Phil, I, I've, I've told everyone that... What have you told everyone? That we were going to be married. Well, you shouldn't have. Did I ever say I'd marry? You know I was married once and it doesn't work for me. This would be different. Oh, would it? I don't think so. You see, Ann, you're taking up too much of my time. But I wouldn't get in the way, Phil. You know... You're also taking up too much of my thoughts. I probably hit that bad slump a few months ago because of you. Oh, it wasn't your fault. It was mine for not realizing it. Phil, you, you really mean... Oh, now look. What about me? What about me? What am I going to do? You'll get over it. Here. This should help. What's that? Take it. Just what you like. A roll of nice, clean, new $50 bills. Feel better now? You think you can buy everything with money, don't you? Well, you can't. And stop drumming with that letter opener. Oh, sorry. I didn't realize. Well, that takes care of everything, doesn't it? We're still friends? No. No, we'll never be friends. Phil Martin, you're rotten. You're rotten and you're conceited. You're everything I've ever... I hate you. I said I don't like scenes. Goodbye, Ann. Get out of here. Get out! As I left her apartment, I paused to look at my watch. It was 8.30. I noticed a man fade back into the darkness of the doorway, but outside of the fact that he looked vaguely familiar, I thought nothing more of it. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, at least from one shoulder, and I was on my way to lift the weight from the other one. The Academy of American Letters was just a short distance from Ann's apartment. Mr. Martin? Yes. I take it you're Dr. Selgrove. That's right. Sit down, Mr. Martin. I'll stand, thank you. You were at the banquet last night. I remember seeing you. And when I saw you, I knew my search was over. You fit the description just like the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. I knew you were the man Mrs. Carruthers described. Who is Mrs. Carruthers? The woman who gave you the steel box. The box which must have contained the Edgar Allan Poe manuscript you so skillfully rewrote. Preposterous. You deny that you were in London. No, but... Or that you found the box and examined it. Well, no, but... Mr. Martin, a poverty-stricken woman like Mrs. Carruthers couldn't forget a man who gave her five pounds. She could forget seeing him slip a packet into his pocket. That is, until someone came along and gave her ten pounds to refresh her memory. For ten pounds, she probably dreamed up the whole story. Look, you say you know something of Poe. Then you know that the time he spent in London was long before his prominence as an author. Why, for all we know, he didn't write a line during his entire stay there. Mr. Martin, I've devoted my life to gathering information about Edgar Allan Poe. It's my hobby as well as my job. I've been looking for one missing manuscript for a long time. A manuscript whose existence I learned of by quite by chance. What are you talking about? This letter which Edgar Allan Poe wrote to a cousin in Boston during his London visit. Fine piece, isn't it? Well, what about it? Well, let me read it to you. He says, My new theory for a tale of murder is a form of induction as opposed to deduction. I refer to it as Markhamism after the title character. My first draft manuscript is stored behind a satin curtain built of steel to age and mellow until such a time as I may produce it without being turned mad. I see. Dear me, you were overconfident, Martin, calling your novel Markham's death. Not only didn't you change the process, you didn't even alter the name. And if I should admit to all this, what would be your price? Now, Mr. Martin, money's of no consequence. I'm a student, a collector of American letters. All I want from you is the manuscript. Impossible. In return for my everlasting silence. Possessing the manuscript is payment enough. I have no desire to ruin you unless, of course, it should become necessary for me to do so. How would I know you wouldn't show it? Certain you don't question my word. The manuscript has been destroyed. Don't expect me to believe that. It's the truth. I burned it. Well, if you want to be difficult, I won't agree with you, Mr. Martin. Martin, pity you won't cooperate. I'll just put this letter back in the safe, and then tomorrow we'll see. Panic fled with the return of cold logic. Dr. Selgrove was unquestionably dead. I had to act quickly because speed was essential. I knew that from what I myself had often written. I took the letter and pocketed it to be burned later in the privacy of my own home. There will be no suspicious ashes for the police to sift. The bookend was the only thing I touched. I carefully filled the wash basin with hot water and dropped the bookend into it, smearing and obliterating any fingerprints. Now, I had to work backwards. The average murderer establishes his alibi first. But in my case, I had to establish it behind me and cover my time. Most people are careless about exact times and can be off many minutes, especially in their recollection. Have you ever looked at your watch? Then had someone asked you the time only to find that you had to look again? Yes, Anne would work as my alibi. I couldn't confide in her, but she was careless about time. But what of the man I'd seen in her hall at 8.30? Suddenly I knew it was Anne's brother, Kid Gloves Flemming. Now that I thought about it, I knew I recognized him from his pictures. He'd obviously escaped from prison and had gone to Anne for help. Yes, Anne would be more than happy to say I'd been with her until a quarter to nine. Unobserved, I hurried back to her apartment house. In front of the building, I hailed a passing taxi and entered at precisely 9.05. Where to, mister? The Milford Club on 59th. Not many taxis in this neighborhood, are there? Were you waiting long? Ten or fifteen minutes. I wanted to be at the club by 9. It's almost that now. Is that all? I thought it was later. Oh well, I'll get you there fast. Oh, that's all right. There's no hurry. Oh, good evening, Mr. Martin. Oh, good evening, Henry. Well, not many coats being checked tonight, are there? No, sir. But look at all those hats. Let me see. Seems as though I've misplaced my watch. Have you the time, Henry? Why, sure. It's 20 minutes after nine. Oh, thanks. I seem to be losing every minute of my time. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. 20 minutes after nine. Oh, thanks. I seem to be losing everything tonight. Oh, what's wrong? Well, I've dropped my notebook. Oh, I must have dropped it in that taxi. Was it important? Well, just to me. I had some personal notes in there. Oh, look, I wonder, Henry, if you'd call the cab company for me and ask if it's turned in. Sure. Thanks. My name and address are engraved in the cover. As a matter of fact, I even recall the name of the driver. It struck me as unusual. It was Alonzo P. Alonzo. I'll take care of it for you. Thanks. Oh, and you might add that I'll post a $25 reward. Then I went down to see Lieutenant John Kirkland of Homicide. We'd been classmates, and I'd spent many an evening at headquarters discussing our favorite subject, crime. Well, well, well. Hello, hello, Phil. Hiya, Johnny. Anything on the docket? Oh, just routine. Oh, mind if I sit in? I want to get my mind off Anne. Anne? Well, what's maddening? Oh, you know, Johnny, the usual. I wrote Phinney to our little romance, and, well, she wasn't too happy about it. Still a dog with the women, eh, kid? Oh, say, say, this is a coincidence. Remember that wild kid brother of Anne? This kid brother? Oh, oh, you mean the one they call Kid Gloves? Well, I remember reading about him. Why? Well, he broke out of jail late this afternoon. Uh-oh. Say, Anne'll certainly be worried. Well, she won't have to worry anymore. What? Yeah, they caught him down at the railroad station trying to get out of town. What? Are they bringing him in? Yeah. Stiff. Yeah, the poor fool decided to shoot it out, and he picked a crack shot like O'Malley the drawing. Oh, well, is O'Malley all right? Oh, sure, O'Malley's always all right. But the kid's dead. Oh. This is going to be tough on Anne. Even though they didn't get along, he's still her brother. Well, she'll get over it. I guess it's better this way. Ah, it's a funny thing, though. He was still wearing those Kid Gloves, and he had a roll of new $50 bills that would choke a horse. Now I understood. Anne's brother had visited her just after I left, and she'd given him the money. Well, I was completely relaxed now. The only person who could possibly spoil my perfect story was dead. Oh, uh, pardon me, Phil, please. Sure. Hello. This is Kirkland speaking. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, when? I see. Who? Philip Martin? Huh? Why, why, he's right here. I said he's right here. Oh, is it for me? Just a second, please. Yeah. Okay. Let me know. I'll send him right out. Hey, what's up, Johnny? I thought that call was for me. No, no, it, uh, it wasn't for you, Phil. It was about you. About me? Yeah. Where were you this evening? I told you. I had dinner, went over to see Anne, and then met you. Well, weren't you anyplace else, sir? Are you sure? Of course I'm sure. Say, Johnny, what is this, the third degree? Do you remember what time you left Anne's? Why, well, I must have left about a quarter of nine. Yes, I'm sure of that. It was just about nine when I caught my cab. Was anyone with you? At Anne's, no, we were alone. Couldn't you be mistaken? Couldn't you have been some place else, maybe at 8 15 or 8 30? No. Why, Phil, why do you play right into my hands? Why do you make it impossible for me to help you? What are you talking about? Murder, Phil. I'm, I'm arresting you for murder. In a few hours, I'm going to be executed for the murder of Dr. Selgrove. But the police don't know that yet. You see, although I'm innocent of the crime I'm scheduled to die for, I'm powerless to save myself. Yes, I backed out of my own crime successfully. Only I set myself squarely in the middle of a worse one. The only way I can save myself is by telling that I was busy killing Dr. Selgrove at the time I'm supposed to have killed Anne Fleming. I know that Anne was killed by her brother, but there's no way of proving it. The letter opener he plunged into her chest still had my fingerprints, slightly smeared by his kid gloves. Robbery was ruled out because nothing was disturbed. Snooping neighbors had heard Anne and me quarrel and had heard her scream around a quarter of nine. They suspected that I had hit her and nothing more. But it placed the time exactly, exactly as I had placed myself in her company during that time. Well, I see where they dug up another original hitherto unknown manuscript by Edgar Allan Poe in somebody's closet in Fordham, New York. It's all about a man who builds such a perfect alibi for himself that he gets executed for the wrong murder. Well, I'm glad they only found it today after I had already written the above confession. Otherwise, they'd say I'd been plagiarizing Poe again. Suspense, the story of Markham's death starring Kirk Douglas presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, America's largest wine factory. The story of Markham's death starring Kirk Douglas, presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, America's largest wine factory. Roma Wines, America's largest selling wines. Yes, Roma Wines are America's largest selling wines. And this is Truman Bradley to tell you the reason. It's because Roma Wines taste better. You see, Roma gathers and presses only the choicest California grapes. Then with age-old skills and unmatched winemaking resources, Roma master ventners guide this grape treasure unhurriedly to peak taste richness. These fine Roma Wines are laid aside with mellow Roma Wines of years before to await later selection for your enjoyment from the world's greatest reserves of fine wines. This weekend, enjoy the better taste of nut-like Roma Sherry, fruity Roma Port, or fragrant Roma Tokei. And always remember to ask for Roma. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, enjoyed by more Americans than any other wines. Kirk Douglas may soon be seen in the Hal Wallace production, I Walk Alone. Tonight's suspense play was written by Bob Plath. Next Thursday, same time, you will hear Richard Ney as star of Suspense, produced and directed by William Spear for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California. In the coming weeks, Suspense will present such stars as Louis Jourdan, June Havoc, Dennis O'Keefe, Marsha Hunt, and others. Make it a point to listen each Thursday to Suspense, radio's outstanding theater of thrills. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
