 This is your narrator, the man in black. Again about to introduce tonight's Columbia program, Suspect. The story is The Piss in the Pendulum by Edgar Allan Poe. The adaptation by John Dixon Carr. Our guest is the distinguished American actor, Mr. Henry Hull, who plays the part of a prisoner of the Spanish Inquisition. If you've been with us on these Tuesday nights, you will know that suspense is compounded of mystery, suspicion, and dangerous adventure to hold you in a precarious situation and withhold the solution until the last possible moment. And so it is with The Piss in the Pendulum and Mr. Hull's performance, we again hope to keep you in suspense. And now, The Piss in the Pendulum. And her death was a long agony. And when at length they unbound me and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy, indeterminate hum. Yet for a while I saw, but without terrible exaggeration, I saw the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable grape trees on the walls of the room. I saw the flames of the seven tall candles which burned on the table. I saw the lips of the black hooded judges, and these lips appeared to me white, white as paper, white as horror. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name. John Delbray, Captain John Delbray. Good fathers, gentlemen. We hear you, my son. I am very weak and infirm. I've been confined for many months in a dungeon. I've been tormented by nightmares. Conscience one trusts. Pray silence, sir Antonio. Even now I have no knowledge of where I am or to whom I may be speaking. You are speaking to me, my son. I am Fr. Pedro de Espela, prior of the Dominicans of Segovia and Grand Inquisitor of all Spain. Is this the court of the Inquisition? It is. Oh, then God help me. He will help you, my son, if you trust him. I am a French officer. That is true. A soldier and creature of the art being Napoleon Bonaparte. But a French officer nonetheless. A prisoner of war. But what might you try me in this court? Let the clerk read the charges against this prisoner. Pray silence while the clerk reads the charges. The charges against the prisoner are as follows. Imprimise that he is one Jean d'Albray, a captain of artillery in the army of Bonaparte, so-called Emperor of the French. This means nothing as the prisoner says. It is no crime. Proceed. Items that on the fourth day of September in the year of our Lord, 1888, that Saint Jean d'Albray did wear a spouse and married the most noble lady, and ward of the electorate. One moment. Your excellency, folks. Antonio, will any cheat employed to trap this girl into marriage against her will? No, we have no actual evidence of any cheat. Was the girl of age? I believe so. And wherefore is the prisoner here? This marriage was a deplorable thing, if you like. Bonaparte himself is almost at the gates of Madrid. He is general. Menace is our city of Toledo itself. But lawful marriage, however, regrettable, is no sin or crime. There are other matters in the indictment, I think. Then continue. But give us nothing that is not material. Item that on the 12th of October, 1888, that Saint Jean d'Albray, being in command of a five-gun battery of light artillery, did direct the fire of his guns against the Holy Church of St. Martha the Innocent. What? The fire by of his wicked malice destroyed that church utterly. Captain d'Albray, is this charge true? It is, yes. You admit it? Good Father, hear what I have to say. The church blew up, I think. Would you boast of your opinion, man? It blew up because it was stored with kegs of gunpowder for your army. I had every right to file on it. And that is all the defense you have to make? I tell you, I had every right to file on it by military law. There was military law above God's law? I don't know. I did my duty, that's all. Long live the Emperor! Captain d'Albray, mark what I say. No man, however great his heresy, is ever condemned to be burnt in the fire. The fire? The fire. If he first recant and acknowledge the error of his ways. But for you, Jean d'Albray, there can be no mercy, no pity, no atonement. The only sentence of this court can be death. Death? Yes. The secular, a government arm to which we must release you has devised two ways of punishment in cases such as yours. You hear the tolling of the bell? I hear them. It is the procession of the contempt going to the autotaphe. Soon the yellow light of the flames will stream through the windows and flicker on floor and ceiling. Nun c'et in or amortis into his mandibus domine. Most of those condemned out of mercy will be strangled before they are burned. It cannot be so with you, Jean d'Albray. You must die in one of two ways, either with the diarist of physical agony, a slow fire of green wood, iced bandages about the head and the heart so that the fire does not approach too quickly. Or else, Jean d'Albray, you must die in a certain other way. I've done with this past your sentence and let me go. The Lord does not permit me to tell you now what this other way is. The sentence of this call, therefore... I had swooned. Yet still, I would not say that all of consciousness was lost. In the deepest slumber, no. In delirium, no. In a swoon, no. In death, even in the grave, all is not lost. There are shadows of memory which tell us indistinctly of tall figures that lifted me and bore me in silence down, down, still, down. Until a hideous dizziness oppressed me at that descent into the earth, then, as consciousness swam back to my wits and dark, Beatrice, was that you who spoke? Yes, Jean. You were here in the dungeons of the Inquisition. I am not really speaking to you, my poor Jean. I am only in your imagination. I'm not mad, then. No. But your brain is fevered. You only think you hear. No, no, no. I do. I do. I hear you clearly. As clearly as I once heard you. In the little church near the Abrow where we were married. Yes, yes, yes. I destroyed that church, Beatrice. I had to. It was my commanding officer's order. I know, Jean. Be comforted. There are those who care. You won't leave me. As long as I am in your heart, I shall be here. I was strong once. Now I am weak. Once I was reckless. Now I am afraid. What am I, Beatrice? What are you going to do to me? I cannot tell. Remember, my voice comes only from your own brain. Are you fetid? Fetid? No. They've not chained you to the wall. No, no. They take it away by uniform. They've given me sandals and a robe of what feels like coarse surge, but I'm still free. Free. Take courage, Jean. Free. And in the grasp of the inquisition, Beatrice. Yes, Jean. It's completely dark. There's hardly any air. I dread to get up. I dread to stretch out my hand. Suppose... Suppose you've buried me alive. Courage. Can you stand up? Then walk. Walk as far as you can. Measure the limit of the cell. If this is not a tune... You're right, Beatrice. That's always... I'll find... Are you on your feet? Yes, now. Now pray. Pray for a poor devil who always meant well. One pace. You are very weak, Jean. Rest a moment. Where are you now, Beatrice? In the flesh, I mean. You know that, Jean. In the old house by the olive grove, scorned of my peat. Yes, I know it. Each morning I climb to the hilltop and watch you. Go on, go on. Sometimes I think I hear gun-wheels rumble in the hills and long-moving collars with the red dust rising above. Go on, go on! First come the heavy cavalry in plume-crested helmets on their flanks, wheeling like hawks, light hussars in blue and scarlet. And behind them, bayonets as vast as light points on the seas, rank upon rank the long grey coats and the tall, bare-skinned cats. The old God of the Grand Army! It is only a vision, my dear one. They do not come. Ah, will they? Will they ever come, Beatrice? I cannot tell. Then I must face what has been prepared for me. Walk again, John. Try. Keep your hand in front of you. It's rope, it's rope. It impedes me, and the floor is treacherous with slime. But I'll try. Four pieces. Five. It can't be a tomb. Eight. Nine. Look out! My hand is in front of me. It's lower than my face, but I... I feel... I feel nothing. Nothing, John. It's a pit. A circular pit. And I fell on the very edge of it. Oh! They would have made you walk into it. Oh, there's a loose fragment of rock just inside the edge of it. If I can dislodge it. Listen! Rats, it made me. Rats, yes, but something else. I heard it move. Who did I? What is in the pit, John? I don't know. But you're saved! Saved? Saved from the Inquisition? My torture has been merely postponed. A deep sleep fell upon me. Sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, I know not. But when I opened my eyes once again, I could see. Yes, see. My prison was large and lofty. Its walls formed a massive iron place, bolted and joined together. A wild, sulfurous lusker. I could not trace its origin, lit up the dungeon, and the circular pit, and the crudely dogged skeleton figures painted in evil colors on the iron walls. Skeleton figures, demon figures, gargoyle figures. Their colors a little blurred, but from the effects of the damp, it must approach you slowly and force itself into your mind. It must stalk you like a tiger, must bring you face to face at last with the king of terrors. When I regained consciousness, I lay on my back in a full length on a low framework of wood. Through this framework, I was securely bound by a long, fastening, resembling surgical bandage. Bound, but why? Why? The bandage passed round and round my body, leaving in liberty only my head and my left arm. With much exertion, I could supply myself with food from an earthen dish on the floor beside me. There's meat highly seasoned, but there was no water. Beatrice, Beatrice, where are you? Your voice sounds stronger. Does it, John? And I, I can see you now. I can see you as clearly as I saw you months ago. Oh, I wish it were true. You're bonnet and a pedestal you carried in summer in the high-waisted blue dress. You are weaker, my dear, and more fevered. I, have I been asleep? Yes, John. They must have been here while I slept. They bound me. Why? Why? Why? Why? Stop those voices! Stop them! Mine, too, John. I am not here either, you know. Don't drive me away. Beatrice, Beatrice, look, look, look. Where? At the ceiling of this room. 30, 40 feet up what you see. I see painted on the ceiling. Figure of Father Tyne. Anything else? But Father Tyne carries no sign. No. He carries instead what looks like the gigantic pendulum from an ancient clock. About one thing I swear I'm in my right senses. I saw that pendulum move. A painting cannot move. Yet I swear that pendulum did move. It swung a little back and forth, just like a real pendulum. Try not to trouble your brain. That pendulum is real. Beatrice, Beatrice, take care. Take care of what? You're not looking at the pendulum now. Take care of the rats, the rats, and the pit. I see them. They're thawing out in dozens. You can see their eyes glitter. One of them ran across the hem of your dress. Did it, John? What do they want? They caught the scent of the meat in the dish beside you. But they'll not get it. Go away, you vermin! Move your hand above the plate, John. Move! Beatrice, Beatrice, where are you going? I could hardly hear you. You are sending me away, John. I am sending you away. Oh, my poor loved one. You can't bear to see the rats running about mightily. I'm with vermin. There are others I'd rather see here. I'd rather see here. You call me Captain Dalbrae. Then, in spirit, I am here. Who are you? You want to recognize me? No, I do not. I am that second inquisitor, Frau Antonio, whom you thought unfair as your trial. But we were not unfair. We administer the law. That is all. Oh, I command you. Oh, not until I have first told you what you already get. Which is? There are two forms of death for such as you. One, death with its direst physical torture. The other, death with its direst mental torture. And I have been condemned to the second. Your guess is good. Listen. Do you hear anything? Yes, yes, I do. I hear something. Turn your eyes upwards. Look at the ceiling. The pendulum. Aye, the pendulum. It's descended. Only a foot or so for the yet. As you notice, it is not really a pendulum. It's on the side, it's a crescent. Formed of sharp, of razor-sharp steel. You mean? A ponderous weight, Captain Delbray. Its movement is slow now. But soon it will take on momentum. It will swing wider and wider. 30 feet, perhaps. Presently, as it swings, you will hear it hiss. And with each broad movement, it will creep a trifle lower. Steel is directly above me. Yes. But the region of your heart lies still and looks up at it. How? How long before? You need have no immediate fear. It will not be too soon. But how soon? Who can tell? In the name of pity, give me some answer. How? Perhaps days. It's beginning to swing wider. I, I can't take my eyes from it. It glitter, fascinates you. See how it shines in that wild light. And this is your utmost refinement in cruelty. The law, Captain Delbray, is never cruel. And now, still in spirit, I leave you to your meditations. It will not be too soon. Minutes, hours, days. Steadily down, it crept. Days passed. It might have been many days before it, it swept so closely. Just a fan made of this morbid breath. Minutes, days. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. Right and wide. With the shriek of a damned spirit. With the stealthy pace of a tiger. Hurt him lay relentlessly down. I, I prayed. I willed heaven with my prayer of its more speedy descent. I grew fendically mad and struggled to force myself up against that swinging, bittering death. Oh, no real. Still unceasingly, still inevitable, down the sharp steel fast past within three inches of inches. Colling John, I am here. I'm quite calm. You are residing. No, that is the strange thing. Even now I am not resigned. Is there a way out? How can there be? Ten, twelve more vibrations and will fray the surge of my robe. Only lightly as a loser in a delicate hand. There will be many sweeps before it bites deep. No, I can't escape it. You kept me away from you, John. You locked me out of your thoughts. If I am here only in your thoughts, why should I fear the rats? Rats! You open your eyes and your eyes blaze. What is it? Rats! Do they still swarm here? Cross the floor and over the meat platter. They have taken nearly all your food. Yes, yes, yes, of course they are ravelous and they have sharp teeth. Well... The meat is oily and spiced. If I take what remains of it, scatter you famine and rub that meat on the bandages that hold me here. Try it, John, try it. It may be too late because I need my body a fraction of an inch up. Try it, I tell you, try it. Ah, look, look this. Tell her as soon as I do try it. But they are watching you. I can see their eyes glistening. They are creeping back. Can I stand with rats crawling across me? Can the flesh... Where is it? One of them has leaped on the wooden framework. Another follows. They are gnawing at the bandage. Seven, eight more sweeps of the pendulum. Until the bandage give way. Lice still shine lice still. Ten, twelve, a dozen rats now. Is death, I wonder, worse than this distress? A dozen sharp knives could do no better. The bandage is loosened to ribbon. Now if you move sideways, carefully, and drop to the floor. There are bitters I can't move. My arms, my legs are numb. There is no power. The steel has braided your robe. A minute more will be too late. Then with all the sprinklers in me, and all the hate that I bear, my enemies... A frame! A second frame! They are drawing it back up through the loo. Each move I make, they watched. Yet with all they could do to you, they have failed twice. They will not. No more dallying with a king of terrors. What else can they do? I can't say. See, see how the rats know in silence that bandage? To what food, I wonder? But you escaped the pit. I escaped it once. What do you hear? A groaning. It's grinding as a metal. It was only the cog wheels of the pendulum. I think not, Beatrice. Why not? It seemed to come from behind those iron-plated walls. It seemed to shake the dungeon as a mill wheel might shake it. Stand up, my poor Jean. Get up off your knees. I can't, Beatrice. I can't endure it anymore. The paintings on the walls of this dungeon, the skeletons and imps and devils, they seem different. They are different. The colors sharpen and grow bright. The demons' eyes glare. The skeleton hands out stretch. Don't you catch even yet the odor of heated iron? Heated iron? Beatrice, my darling, I... I have been much humbled. But I won't. I won't have you see me in tears. I'll order you to go. John, in the name of heaven... Beatrice! ...you're sending me away. Yes, yes. The forcaging heat pervaded the prison. A deeper glow settled in the painted eyes that glared at me. I could draw no breath of air into my lungs. Against the loom of that fiery destruction, the thought of the pit and its coolness came like a soothing bomb. I staggered to the edge of the pit. I looked into it. The enkindled walls and roof lighted it with depths. Yet for one wild moment, even then, I refused to believe the horror of what I saw beneath me. Does the pit please you, Captain Dalvray? Does the pit merciful God do anything but that? And how shall you avoid it? Look, has changed its shape. That is true. All are closing in. It was formerly a square, and now it is flattening. Sorry toward the center. To force me into the pit. Of course. Ah, well, to force you along with me. Again, apparently, you must be told, Captain Dalvray, that you are speaking only to your own sick fancy. I am not here at all. Farewell. And how? Now, closer and closer, through the red-beburning walls, forcing me into the pit with a swiftness that left me no time for thought. I shrank back with the closing walls, pressed me relentlessly onward, at length for my seared and writhing body that was no longer an inch of foothold. I, I've been one. I started on the edge of the pit. The early walls rushed back, and outstretched arm caught my own, but I was about to fall, creeping into the abyss. It was that sub-general La Salle, the French army had entered Toledo. The inquisition was in the hands of its enemies. The closes posed celebrated story, the pit and the pendulum, starring Henry Hull. We invite you to another adventure of suspense next Tuesday, at the same hour. Until then, this is The Man in Black, saying good night. William Spear, the producer. John Deets, the director. Bernard Herman, the composer-conductor. And John Dixon Carr, the author. Our collaborators on... Suspense. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.