 The Columbia Network takes pleasure in bringing you suspense, suspense. Columbia's parade of outstanding thrillers produced by William Spear and scored by Bernard Herman. Notable melodramas from stage and screen, fiction and radio presented each week to bring you to the edge of your chair to keep you in suspense. Tonight's story by the noted American author T.S. Stribbling deals with a crime of murder on an exotic and atmospheric island with ragged beggars who slept in a Hindu temple and awoke with gold in their pockets and a dead girl lying near them and with a strange and mystical entrance into the life of hereafter which was the experience of an American psychologist For your suspense for listening, we invite you to join us for a passage to Benares. In Porto, Spain in Trinidad at half past five in the morning, Mr. Henry Poggioli, an American psychologist, stirred uneasily, became conscious of a splitting headache, opened his eyes in bewilderment and then, with a shock, saw where he was. He got up, arranged his clothing, he tried with his neat psychological mind to recapture his dream, to bottle up again the little smoking wisps that still floated about within his aching head. By seven o'clock he'd found his way back to the house of Mr. Low, his host in Porto, Spain. Low was already about his coffee with an interested spoon poised above the morning paper. Ah, there you are. Good morning, Poggioli. I say you are quiet. Didn't hear you get up at all. Have some breakfast? Thanks. I have been out for a breath of air. What's the news today? Well, the new governor will arrive in Trinidad on the 12th and, uh, hello. Now the natives killed his wife. Tell me, Poggioli, as a psychologist, why do coolies kill their wives? Oh, for various reasons, I imagine. Let's hear some of the facts. Ah, I say this is a coincidence. Really putting on a show for you, Poggioli, on your first visit to Trinidad. How so? Well, you remember that wedding procession you and I watched last evening down at the Hindu temple? The temple? Oh, of course. The cream-colored little bride with the breast plates and the linked gold coins and the anklets and all the finery and the bridegroom. What you say his name was? Buudmanlal? Yes. Well, do you know what's happened? Buudmanlal is in jail this morning and his cream-colored little bride is dead with her throat cut. No. Do they think he did it? No doubt of it. That's why he's in jail now. You always seem like a sensible fellow, too. One of our best patrons, which only proves my contention, Poggioli. A bridegroom of only six or eight hours killing his wife without any reason at all. Oh, there's usually some reason for murder. Maybe. But I say, oh boy, you're missing the point completely. How? Well, suppose you actually had gone and slept in the temple there last night. You wanted to, you know, remember? And I said, no white man ever stays all night in a cruelly temple. You remember? Yes, I remember. You said it simply isn't done. Well, if you had Poggioli, I'd say that would have been a pretty kettle, wouldn't it? Yes. Yes. Well, I'm afraid I'll be mixed up in this. Both Mr. Lal and his uncle, Hyrodas, are clients of mine. Old Hyrodas is upwards of five million dollars in my bank. Hyrodas? Didn't you tell me he'd built that temple where the murder took place? Yes. It's what the Hindus call a temple and rest house. Hyrodas gives rice and tea to any traveler who comes in for the night. It's an Indian custom to help mendicant pilgrims. A rich Indian will build a temple and rest house just as you Americans erect libraries. Ah. What does it say there about the murder, though? Um, Boudman Lal, nephew of the famous Mr. Hyrodas, was arrested early this morning at his home for the alleged murder of his wife whom he married yesterday. The body was found at six o'clock this morning in the temple where the wedding ceremony took place. The temple tendons gave the alarm. The victim's head was severed completely from her body and all her jewelry was gone. Five Cooley beggars who were asleep in the temple when the body was discovered were arrested. They all claimed ignorance of the crime, but a search of their persons revealed that each beggar had a piece of the bride's jewelry and a coin from a necklace. Mr. Boudman Lal and his wife were seen to enter the temple at about eleven last night for the Hindu right of purification. Mr. Lal, who is a prominent curio dealer, declines to say anything further. That doesn't tell you very much, does it? Ah, not much. What do you make of those beggars? Oh, that's simple enough. Those devils laid in wait inside the temple until the husband went out and left his wife. Then they murdered her and divided the spoil. Ah, but she had enough bangles and G-jaws to give a dozen to each man. Yes, yes. You're quite right, Boudjoly. That's a fact. Why should they continue sleeping in the temple after they'd killed her if they did murder her? Well, why shouldn't they? They knew they'd be suspected and they couldn't get off the island without capture, so they thought might as well lie down again and go back to sleep. Hmm. You may be right, Lo, but that doesn't look like the solution to me. Well, I'm satisfied that's how it occurred. You mean the beggars killed her? Well, I don't think so. I rather fancy that the actual murderer took the girl's jewelry and went about the temple thrusting a bangle and a coin in the pockets of each of the sleeping beggars to lay a false scent. Oh, come on, Lo. That's laying it on a bit too thick, Boudjoly. My dear Lo, that's the only possible explanation for the coins in the beggars' pockets. As of by the end, you've had lots of experience in these things. Come along with me and we'll go up and see Mr. Hyred does and see if we can't help his nephew. I'll be glad to. But we'll go to the temple first. Then we'll call on Mr. Hyred us. Well, here we are. Spider the police guard at the door. The temple doesn't look sinister in the daylight. Oh, it just looks dirty. Well, let's go in and question the beggars. Excuse me. Did any of you fellas hear noises in this temple last night? Oh, much sleep, Said. No noise. Policeman Pancha's wake this morning makes it still here. What's your name? Shudachan, Said. When did you go to sleep last night? When I ate rice and tea, Said. Mm-hmm. Do you remember seeing Boudman Lal and his wife enter this building last night? Yes. Remember, Said. Did you see them go out? No, Said. No one remember go out. You were all asleep then, huh? All asleep, Said. Do you have any dreams during your sleep? Hear any noises? I dream bad dreams, Said. When Policeman Pancha's wake this morning, I think dreams come true. And me, Said. Me, too. Me. Did you all have bad dreams? Yes, all have bad dreams. Look here, Paz, early. I don't see where this is getting us. I do think we ought to be getting on to old Haridasa's house. Oh, I think we can now entirely discard the theory that the beggars murdered the girls. On what grounds? They told you nothing, except that they all had bad dreams. That's the reason. They all had wild, fantastic dreams. That suggests that they were given some sort of opiate in their rice or tea last night. It's quite improbable that five ignorant Coolies would have wit enough to concoct such a piece of evidence as that. Mm-hmm. Like a fact. But I don't believe that Trinidad Court would admit such evidence. We're not looking for legal evidence. We're after some indication of the real criminal. Now I suggest that we get on to the house of Haridasa. Please come in, gentlemen. I've been expecting you. Please be seated. Thank you. Thank you, ma'am. Most mysterious murder in the life of my poor neighbor will depend upon your exertions, gentlemen. Tell me, what do you think of the beggars that were found in the temple with the bangles and coins? Well, I'm afraid my judgment of the beggars will disappoint you, Mr. Haridasa. My theory is that they're innocent of the crime. Really? Why do you say that? Because they told me of dreams they had. All their dreams were very nearly identical. You are not English, sir. No Englishman would have thought of that. No, I'm American with a backlash sprinkling of a... of Italian. My name's Pugioly. What is your profession, Mr. Pugioly? You are a detective. No, it's a dust. I'm a psychologist. Ah. Your soul is at least groping after knowledge. However, it gropes as a blind worm, Mr. Pugioly. And we must find the criminal who committed this crime and thus restore my nephew, Boudman Lal, to liberty. You can imagine what a blow this has been to me after I arranged this marriage for my nephew. You did? Arranged a marriage for a nephew who is in his 30s? Yes, Mr. Pugioly. I wanted him to avoid the pitfalls into which I fell. He was unmarried, and he'd already begun to add dollars to dollars. I did the same thing, and now look at me. An empty old man in a foreign land. What good is this house where men of my own kind can't come and sit with me when I have no grandchildren to romp and play? No. I've piled up dollars and pounds. I've eaten the world, Mr. Pugioly, and found it bitter. Now here I am, an outcast. And why don't you go back to India, Mr. Hyderadas? Why, Mr. Pugioly, my mind is half English. If I should return to Benares, I'd walk about thinking what the temples cost. How much was the value of the stone set in the eye of Krishna's image? If I would ever be one with my own people again, Mr. Pugioly, I must leave this western mind and body here, in Trinidad. That's very interesting and moving, but we were discussing your nephew, Wait. In searching for the criminal, I would suggest you look for a moneyed man. Let me tell you my suspicions and you can work out the details. What are they? I went out of the temple this morning to have the body of my poor murdered niece brought here to my villa for burial. I talked to the five beggars and they told me there was a sixth sleep in the temple last night. Was there indeed? Yes, Mr. Low, a white man. A white man? Yes, Mr. Low, all five of the coolies and my man, Buddha, told me it was true. But, Mr. Hyderadas, decapitation is not an American mode of murder. America? I was speaking generally, I mean a white man's method of murder. That is indicative in itself. I meant to call your attention to that point. It shows the white man was a highly educated man who had studied the mental habits of other peoples than his own. So he was enabled to give the crime an extraordinary resemblance to a Hindu crime. But what motive could a white man have? Possibly robbery, Mr. Pojoli, or if he were a very intellectual man, he might have murdered the poor child by a way of experiment. A murder for experiment? Yes, Mr. Low, to record this psychological reaction. Why, I can't entertain such a theory as that, Mr. Hyderada. Oh no, it is too far fetched. However, it is worth investigating, is it not? Yes, yes, but I'll begin my investigations with the man Guka. By all means, Mr. Pojoli. And in your investigations, gentlemen, hire any assistance you may need. Draw on me for any amount. I want my nephew exonerated and above all things. I want the real criminal apprehended and brought to the gallows. Oh, what do you think of that, Pojoli? A white man in that temple. Ah, sounds like pure fiction to me, to Shilbo Manlal. You know, these fellows hang together like thieves. Say, it's a jolly thing we didn't decide to sleep in the temple last night, isn't it? You know, in my opinion, Low, the actual criminal is Boon Manlal. Ah, same here. I thought so ever since I first saw the account on the paper. Somehow these fellows will chop their wives to pieces for no reason at all. Well, what do you know about Boon Manlal? Well, he was born here and has always been a figure because of his rich uncle. He lived here all his life? Uh-huh. Except when he was an Oxford for six years. Ah, he was an Oxford man, eh? Yes, yes. There you are. That's the trouble. I don't understand. What do you mean, Pojoli? I don't know that he fell in love with some English girl, but when old Hyra Das chose a Hindu child for his wife, Boon Manlal couldn't refuse marriage. No man's going to quarrel with a five million dollar legacy. Then he chose this ghastly method of getting rid of the child bride. Eh, I dare say you're right. I feel sure Boon Manlal killed the girl. Jones, I'm getting tired of walking. There's a cab. Let's hop it and ride the rest of the way. Hi, cabby! A cab! I see. Oh, it's nice. Well, aren't you coming? You know, I don't feel that I can conscientiously continue this investigation trying to clear a person whom I have every reason to believe. But, man, don't leave me like this. At least come as far as police headquarters with me and explain your theory about Guga, the templekeeper and the rice. Well, I thought I'd go back to your cottage and pack my things. Pack your things? Or your boat doesn't sail until Friday? Yes, I know, but there's a daily service to cure or so. It's stuck me to go there. Oh, no. Come, you can't run off like that just when I've stirred up an interesting murder mystery for you to unravel. Oh, I, Pojoli, you ought to appreciate my efforts as a host more than that. Well, all right. To the police station. Yes, sir. Chief Vickers, this is my friend, Mr. Pojoli. Mr. Pojoli, Mr. Vickers is chief of Trinidad's police force. How do you do? How do you do? Chief Vickers, I've asked Mr. Pojoli's counsel in the Budmunlal murder case, and he's already developed a theory as to who is the actual murderer of Mrs. Budmunlal. So have I. Now, in this matter, Chief Vickers, I want to be perfectly frank with you. I'll admit we're in this case and the employer of Mr. Hiradaz are making an effort to clear his nephew, Budmunlal. We felt confident you'd use the skill of the police department of Port of Spain to work out a theory clearing Budmunlal just as readily as you would to convict him. Our department usually devotes its time to conviction and not to clearing criminals. Yes, yes, I know that, but if our theory will point out the actual murderer... What is your theory? Mr. Pojoli's deduction is based on the dreams of the men who were found in the temple. So Mr. Pojoli's deduction is based on dreams. It would be a remarkable coincidence, Mr. Vickers, if five men had lurid dreams simultaneously without some physical cause. It suggests strongly that their tea or rice was stoked. Now, if you find out what Soprific was used, then have your men search the sales record and the drug stores in the city to see where's lately bought such a drug. You will find the murderer. Uh-huh. How do you like Trinidad, Mr. Pojoli? I like it very much indeed. You've just arrived, haven't you? Yes. In what university do you teach back in the States? Ohio State. A chair of criminal psychology and an ordinary state university? I'm not a professor, I'm simply a docent and I haven't specialized on criminal psychology. I quiz on general psychology. You're not teaching now? No, this is my sabbatical year. You look young to have taught in the university six years, but then you American start young in your land of specialists. Now, Mr. Pojoli, I suppose you're wrapped up heart and soul in your psychology. I am. You'd do anything in the world to advance yourself in the science. I rather think so. Especially keen on original research work. That's what he is, G. Vickers. Do you know what he asked me to do yesterday afternoon? No, what, Mr. Low? I don't think we ought to burden Mr. Vickers with our household anecdotes. Oh, but I'm really curious. Just what did Mr. Pojoli ask you to do yesterday afternoon, Mr. Low? Oh, well, really nothing. Nothing at all. It was just a little psychological experiment he wanted to do. Did he do it? Oh, no, no, no, no. I wouldn't hear of it. Oh, as unconventional as that. Oh, it was really nothing, nothing at all. I think I could guess your anecdote if I tried, gentlemen. About a half an hour ago, I received a telephone message from my man stationed at the temple to keep a lookout for you and Mr. Pojoli. A lookout for us? Yes, because one of the Coolies under arrest told him that Mr. Pojoli slept in the temple last night. Oh, but that's not true. That's exactly what he didn't do. He suggested it to me, but I said, no, you remember Pojoli? You didn't do it. Did you, Pojoli? Did you? You see, he did. Gentlemen, I had a perfect and important reason for sleeping in the temple last night, and so I can only ask your sympathetic attention to what I'm about to say. Go on. You remember, Lo, you and I were down there watching a wedding procession. Well, just as the music stopped and the procession entered the building, suddenly it seemed to be as if they vanished. Naturally, they'd gone into the building. No, no, I don't mean that. I'm afraid you won't understand what I do mean. That the whole procession, it ceased to exist, melted into nothingness. You see, that's really the idea in which the Hindus base their notion of heaven, oblivion, nothing. Yes, I've heard that before. Well, our medieval Gothic architecture was the conception of our western heaven, and I thought perhaps the Indian architecture had somehow caught the motif of the Indian religion, you know, suggested nirvana. That's what amazed and intrigued me. That's why I wanted to sleep in the place. I wanted to see if I could further my shred of impression. Does that make any sense to you, Mr. Vegas? We are not interested why you went, Mr. Pojoli. We know a murder took place in the temple. You don't... You can't think that I committed a horrible murder... as an experiment. You intellectual chaps do some pretty weird things, Mr. Pojoli. While only the other day I was reading about two young intellectuals... Yes, these fellows I read about also tried to turn an honest penny by their murder. I don't suppose you happened to notice yesterday that the little bride, Maila Rum, was almost covered with gold bangles and coins. Of course I noticed. But I had nothing what ever to do with her. I... I did sleep in the temple... By the way, you say you slept on a rug just as the coolies did. Yes, I did. And you didn't wake up either, Mr. Pojoli? No, no. Then did the child's murderer happen to put a coin and a bangle in your pockets, just as he did the other sleepers in the temple? I don't know. I... I haven't looked in my pockets since then. Please do so now, Mr. Pojoli. Here they are, Mr. Fickers. You don't happen to have any more, do you? No. I've already been through all my pockets and I haven't any more. Well, that's something. Of course you might have expected just such a questioning as this and provided yourself with these two pieces of gold, but I doubt it. Somehow I don't believe that you're an experienced enough man to think of such a thing. However, we shall see. I suppose you have no objection, Mr. Pojoli, for accompanying you over to have a little search of your baggage in Mr. Lowe's cottage. Now then, Mr. Pojoli, be so kind as to open your trunk. Mm-hmm. Just as I thought. A trunk tray full of bangles and coins. I'll say one thing for you, though, Mr. Pojoli, your nerve almost got you by. But you... You can't believe that I did it. Well, you don't believe I did this, do you? I... I... In your trunk, Pojoli. If I did it, I would sleepwalking. God, I think that it's possible that right here in my own trunk... Well, we might as well start back, I suppose. This is all... I'll go back with you, Pojoli. I'll see you through. Somehow I can't. I won't believe you did it. You know, Pojoli, you set out to clear Boatman Lowe and, well, dash it all it looks as if you had. No, he didn't. Boatman Lowe was out of jail at least an hour before you fellows came into police headquarters to see me. Oh. You mean that you turned him loose? Yes. How's that, Chief Vickers? Because, Mr. Lowe, he didn't go to the temple at all with his wife last night. He went down to Queen's Park Hotel and played billiards till one o'clock. He called up a few friends and proved that easily enough. My word. That leaves nobody but... Yes. Pojoli. I don't know anything about it. If I did commit the murder, I was asleep. I don't know anything about it. That's all I can see. I don't know anything about it. Perhaps a rest in jail will help restore your memory. Well, we'll see. Come now, Pojoli, old man. Don't be too downhearted. I promise you I'll do everything I can. In the case against Henry Pojoli, having been duly tried by a juror of your pairs who have been found guilty and by the powers invested in me, I herewith sentence you to be hanged and the neck can till you are dead. To recall a lost dream is the most tantalizing task ever a human brain was driven to. But if I lie still long enough on this bunk, perhaps I can recapture the dream I had in the temple last night. It seems to me that the image on the altar moved and suddenly the dome overhead was opened and left me staring upward into a vast abyss where I was alone in endless space where all creatures and all matter that had ever been or ever would be were wrapped up in me. Pojoli, that's an odd thing. Six men dreaming the same dream in different turns. There must be a physical cause for such a phenomenon. Course! I've got it! Vickers! Whoa! I have it! I've solved it! Get me out of here! I know who killed the girl! What is it, my friend? I know who murdered the bride. All the hieradas did it. Now listen. Listen. Go tell Vickers to take the gold he found in my trunk and develop all the fingerprints on it. He'll find the hieradas's prints. Also tell him to follow out that opiate clue I gave him. He'll find the hieradas and the man to put the gold in my trunk. See if they don't find brass or steel filings in my room where the scoundrel sat and filed a new key. But they've already done that long ago. They have. But certainly. And old hieradas confessed everything. Though why a rich old man like him should have murdered a pretty child is more than I can see. But why did he pick on me as a scapegoat? Oh, he explained that to the police. He said he picked on a white man so the police would make a thorough investigation and be sure to catch him. It is I. But what I can't see is why the old boy wanted to be caught and hanged. But why didn't he commit suicide? Why? I know why. Because according to his religion in that case his soul would have returned in the form of some beast. He wanted to be slain because he expects to be reborn instantly in Benaras. With little my ill aran is his bride instead of his nephews. He hopes to be a great man with wife and children. All the things he was not. Here in Trinidad. Yes, yes. You must be right. Why didn't you come and tell me about hieradas' confession the moment it occurred? What do you mean keeping me here when you know I'm an innocent man? Why didn't you tell me before this? Because I couldn't. Old hieradas didn't confess until a month and ten days after you were hanged. So ends the passage to Benaris. T.S. Stribbling's tale of mysterious death and death mysterious. This was tonight's story of Suspense. Suspense is produced by William Spear. John Deets was our guest director this evening. Tonight's radio drama was written by Carol Case and scored by Bernard Herman. Paul Stewart was Poggioli. Barry Krogo was Mr. Hieradas and Horace Bram played Mr. Low. Others in the cast were Alan Hewitt and Guy Rep. Next week at this time Columbia will bring you another selected story from the world's great literature of thrills. Another study in... Suspense. This is Barry Kroger and this is the Columbia Broadcasting System.