 Oh yes, what happened seemed accidental. The man who opened the elevator door and plunged his tourists to his death. The hotel fire that reduced five people to charred ash. And Edward Turner, who died when his car smashed into a pillar. But why was the same man at the scene of each tragedy? A man in a velvet hat. Oh creeps, this is Peter Laurie opening the doors of the mystery playhouse. Would you like to hear the story of a mad killer who murdered with one hand while holding the Bible in the other? Sound intriguing, huh? Well if it does stay with us for the next 30 minutes as we bring an exciting mystery tale At Jerome and Hal Prince, these talented brothers have evolved a strange and stirring story that should keep you on the edge of your seats throughout. So settle yourselves in them. Now as we raise the curtain on the man in a velvet hat. The beginning, New York City. An office building in the financial district just off Wall Street. Sometime after closing hours, Tuesday night, December 15th. An office Christmas party for out of town salesmen. The party is being held on the 19th floor in room 1906. In their cater, it's open the door. In an elevator shaft, that was at 11 p.m. Tuesday, December 15th. Nine hours later, 8 a.m. Wednesday, December 16th. A letter is delivered to John Reynolds, the ranking New York newspaper columnist. Here's a screwy letter, Mike. My dear Mr. Reynolds, it was my whim two hours ago to take home with me to eternity. My son, known in his life as Fred Smith. What do you know about that? Was it sign? No, but look. Capital M on my and me. Just as though the guy writing the letter thought that he was God. Hey, yeah, I just think I'll put in a routine check. See if any guy named what is it? Fred Smith was knocked off in the last couple of hours. The following day, December 17th, at a downtown hotel. Loudly note hardly a week before Christmas. Poor devil. Five dead, the chief figured. All from St. Dope who has to smoke cigarettes in bed in a flyer trap flea bag of a hotel. Mike, yeah? Mike, look, another letter. Listen, my dear Mr. Reynolds, five have been purified by flames and are at peace within my heart. Hey, Mike, have you any word of any big fires today? Well, yeah, there was a three-alarmor in a hotel downtown just east of Broadway. One day later, December 18th, it is night. Second Avenue is wet and slippery with rain then. What happened, Frank? In a swift chariot, I have taken Edward Tucker home to glory. No signature. The third in three days, and if it's like the others, it's on the beam. This looks like a story. The following day, December 19th, John Reynolds sets out to investigate. I'm Reynolds of the New York Dispatch. Is this the building where Fred Smith was killed four days ago? That's right. Were you on a night elevator? The night Smith fell down the shaft? Yep. Drunk as a coot, he must have been. Listen to me, on the night that Smith was killed, did you take anybody up to that office Christmas party who didn't belong there? A stranger? No, sir. Are you sure? Sure, I'm sure. Now, look. See this $50 bill? $50? Box? Sheesh. Come on, take it. It's yours. Gosh. Now come clean. Who was the stranger? Hmm? Oh, uh, maybe you mean the tall guy who came in at a quarter to 11. That's the one. Well, uh, I tell him the party's on the 19th floor. He doesn't answer, just nods. So I take him to the 19th and I let him out. What do you look like? Oh, I got you, Mr. Reynolds. You must have seen his hat. What kind of a hat could he wear? Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Black. It was old in this. Fuzzy. Fuzzy, like old velvet? If you say so, Mr. Reynolds. No, Mr. Reynolds. If I say so, no. Was it like velvet? Okay, Mr. Reynolds. Okay. A velvet hat. Yeah. A man in a velvet hat. You were one of the firemen working in that fire in this hotel. Was there anything suspicious? Just a guy smoking a cigarette in bed. That's suspicious. Pure accident. Did you happen to see a man in a black velvet hat hanging around outside the ropes when the fire was blazing? Black velvet hat. That's it. Black velvet hat. It was raining that night. Sure it was. Yeah. It was a guy. And he was wearing a black velvet hat. Do you remember? Do you remember? Madam, they tell me you were a witness to that auto crash down the street last night. That's right. What about it? Was anybody else around last night when that car slammed into the pillar? What if it was? Look, did you happen to know who the man driving that car was? He was Edward Tucker, who was champion midget auto driver. Now it wouldn't be easy for him to lose control of his car. It was wet. It had been raining. Sure, sure. Now tell me, were there any other witnesses around? A man. A man. He must have been wearing a... Well, a raincoat and a hat. A hat. Do you remember what kind of a hat he was wearing? Was it dark? Almost black. Maybe kind of fuzzy? Yeah, that's it. Yeah, fuzzy. Almost like it was, uh, velvet. Yeah. A velvet hat. And in John Reynolds' column in the New York that snatched the next morning, December 20th. Three deaths. Three accidental deaths. But were they accidental? In every case, an eyewitness tells us it's seen a man in a velvet hat. An apparent madman. A man whose paranoia assumes the form of God's substitution. A man who writes letters claiming the deaths were caused by him. Are the police aware of the reign of this madman? And is the madman lying? Or has he done murder? But if murder has been done, and if this man is a murderer, he's a murderer such as the world has never known. Or perhaps such as the world has always known, but never seen. There's no motive for any of his crimes, no evidence of lust or of envy, of passion or of gain. Certainly, if this man is not a God, he has not only successfully adopted the posturing of one, but the psychic attributes as well. Where he walks, death walks. This man may be death himself. And all New York reads John Reynolds' column and wonders. Then in the next three days come three more deaths, three more letters, and three more reports in John Reynolds' column telling of eyewitnesses, seeing the man in the velvet hat at the scene of each crime. And now comes panic. A great city is hushed and frightened waiting to see who is the next to die. Then on December 23rd, the climax. It was late afternoon at the office for the police commissioner. Chief Gruder confers with the sector Sergeant Martin. Well, I haven't much to report, chief. This is the wackiest case I've seen. Never mind that. Get to the facts, man. What facts? We're supposed to find a guy wearing a velvet hat, so we can't find anything. Where he lives, his name, nothing. This doesn't seem to exist. Perhaps he doesn't exist. Yeah, well, tell it to New York City. Tell it to the newspapers. Hello? Now, look, chief, don't you think it would be better if we told the reporters that we've been getting the same letters that this columnist, Reynolds, has? Let them know we're at least happy to what's going on. Yeah, and perhaps you're right. Chief, Chief McGruder. Chief McGruder. Take it easy, Miss Martin. But it's happened again. The man in the velvet hat. What? Where? How? When? Crowded movie theater. A woman screamed and shouted, look out, the man in the velvet hat. And there was a panic. Panic? Has anybody killed? Sixteen. Sixteen dead. Maybe more. Sixteen. Good Lord. Yes, sir, just a minute. Look, chief, I think I'd better go out. Chief McGruder, it's the mayor. The mayor? Martin, you stay here a minute. Yes, Mr. Mayor. How'd you hear about it so fast? Well, I suppose the newspapers will make a big... But I'm doing everything I can. Oh, Reynolds, eh? Oh, why should he? Yes, Mr. Mayor. Yes, Mr. Mayor. Goodbye. What goes, chief? Plenty. Whole town is upside down. Relatives are jamming the moor trying to identify the dead. The citizens committee is planning a mass meeting tomorrow to demand action. Every newspaper in town is roasting the city administration. What do we do, chief? You? You do nothing to hear from me. Miss Meyers, my hat. Where are you going? To the mayor's office. The mayor and I and that columnist, Reynolds, are going to have a little conference. Reynolds? Yeah. The mayor seems to think Reynolds knows more about this thing than the police department. Answer me this, McGruder. Answer me this. Has there been a murder? Are these accidents murders? Maybe there aren't any murders, Mr. Mayor. Not in the ordinary sense. I believe there is, McGruder. Just a minute, Reynolds. Your honor, except for the panic at the movie house, every death was accidental or natural, as sure as we three are in this room. What do you mean? What about the man on the velvet hat? Put the screws on some of the people who say they saw him and he'd disappear like that. Forget it. To the people of this town he's real and this panic. Cold panic. Right in the middle of the holidays. The people are scared blue. May I say something, Mr. Mayor? Certainly. That's why you're here. Look, the way I see it, either it's all a hoax or there is a man in a velvet hat. That's right. So we've approved the hoax to catch the man? All right. All right. I think we can do one or the other. If Reynolds will help. Well, certainly I'll help. How? I'm going to challenge the man on the velvet hat and Reynolds is going to publish that challenge. I'm going to say I don't think he's a God. I'm going to say I don't even think he's a good criminal. Anybody can boast of a murder after it's happened, but only a master criminal can boast of a murder before it's happened and get away with it. I'm going to challenge him to name his next murder before it happens and Reynolds will publish my challenge. Okay, Magruder. But I predict that he'll accept your challenge and that when he does you will not catch him. And in his newspaper column, December 24th, John Reynolds sells a challenge from the police commissioner of New York City to the man on the velvet hat. Quote, I challenge you to prove that you were a criminal. I think you're a fraud. If you're not a fraud, you will announce in advance the time and place of your next killing, murder, mercy, death, whatever you call it. Unquote. Hello, this is Reynolds of the dispatch. Give me the commissioner. Please hurry. Magruder, Reynolds. Yeah, Reynolds. I got an answer from the man on the velvet hat. He says at precisely 9 o'clock p.m. on Christmas Eve, a man will die poisoned in front of the Times Building on Times Square. He says, quote, after this, I will move again in silence for only those without faith need signs. That's all. That's what he says. What time is it now? It's four minutes till 9 o'clock. Four minutes, huh? It's darn cold out here. Why do they keep playing that same tune all the time? That was popular two years ago. Did they write any new Christmas songs? It's a good song. Zap chatter on each other, both of you guys. Tell your nerves to lie down. Oh, my nerves are all laying down. All right, then, shut up. Keep your eyes on your watch. Now, let's see. Simon and Thompson in front of the Times Building. Burke and LeMandier in the lobby. Rowan over there across the street on 7th Avenue, and the whole homicide squad scattered all over the theatrical district. All right, I'd like to have double the number of guys standing around, just in case. Now, what's your nerves need to lie down, Chief? Precisely at 9 o'clock on Christmas Eve, a man will die poisoned in front of the Times Building. Hey, Chief, where is the front of the Times Building? Well, we are here in Times Square, or, maybe, is it a block back there on 42nd Street? After this, I will move again in silence. Only those without faith need signs. Martin. Yeah? You've got a good reason why he didn't type on his last note on a typewriter like he usually does. Why does he have to write this one in that Bible letter? Search me. Maybe God maybe likes to write like the Bible. Yeah. And maybe I'll break you and send you out to Pounder P on Staten Island. How much time, Martin? Well, that's from 30 seconds that the guy is prompting keeping his appointment. Hey, Chief. Huh? Look at that guy. See? Which guy? Standing over there on a curb on 7th Avenue. The guy has no head. The honey's got no coat on him. Carrying his coat under his arm. On a night like this, he's qualifying for the booby hatch. Here he comes. Watch him. He's coming through those cars. Keep your eye on him. He's coming right at us. He's stopped. Yeah. Hey! Hey, look at him! What's he doing? Swarrowing poison, you fool! Grab him! Quick! Get it to the door now, Chief. Yeah. Isn't he, though? This is Coat, Chief. It's a brown raincoat. Inside out. Look. Look at this. Something in his pocket, huh? Well, I'll be... It's a velvet hat. Hey, Chief. Yeah? Here. The climate picked it up. Said he'd drop it on the sidewalk just before he drank a poison. Give me it. The letter. His last. Let those without faith disbelieve now. You're quite a hero today, Chief Mgruder. Hero, eh? Here's John Reynolds' column. Did you read it? No. Let's see it. The people of New York City owe a vote of thanks to their police commissioner for his effective... As for the man in the velvet hat, he was clearly a religious fanatic. There were never any crimes. There were merely accidents. Then the man in the velvet hat sent his letters to both the police commissioner and your columnist, attempting to say he had caused these accidents. Finally, when challenged by Mgruder to prove his existence, he poisoned himself rather than admit he was not possessed with supernatural powers. Nice open and shut case, eh, Miss Mgruder? Yes, sir. Oh, incidentally, the mayor wants you to call him. He wants to thank you personally. A devil with a mayor? Get that columnist John Reynolds on the phone. Tell him to get over here right away. I want to talk to him. It was a queer case, Mgruder, wasn't it? Not really knowing? Yeah. You know, I had the right hunch in the beginning and kept it to myself, though. You know, it's an interesting study, lunatic. You think so? The funny thing, though, about the lunatic, I mean, you never did find out who he really was, did you? Now, look here, Reynolds. I had you pegged from the start. What do you mean you had me pegged from the start? You heard me. Now, look here, Mgruder, where are you implying the man in the velvet hat and I were working together? No. There never was a man in the velvet hat. You wrote those letters yourself. I wrote. Why should I? What motive could I have? Plenty. They write a newspaper column, don't you? You've got to keep it filled and get it read, don't you? Now, look, I'm an old-fashioned cop, Reynolds. I asked myself, who gains? In this case, you didn't. You created the man in the velvet hat out of whole cloth. You wrote his letters and mailed them to me. And through coercion, bribery, or suggestion, you convinced a lot of witnesses they actually saw this panda with the scene of each accident. This is a gag of rib. You can't be serious. And maybe we found the typewriters. You wrote the letters on her. Maybe we didn't. You can be sure that if we haven't, we will. It's a beautiful theory, Macleod. But spoiled by an ugly fact. There was a man in a velvet hat. And you haven't. Dead. No, Reynolds. There wasn't any man in a velvet hat. What? How do you know? Look, at the man we found dead. The man who took his life in front of the Times Building was released from an insane asylum only one day before you published my challenge. He couldn't have been the man in the velvet hat all those other times, not while he was in the asylum. Now, look, Macleod, don't let your theory run away with your head. You know darn well. Don't tell me what I know darn well. You wrote that biblical script, then you got this poor fellow who killed himself on Times Square. You took advantage of his insanity to coerce him, control him, persuade him in some way to do what he did. You're out of your mind. Uh, Chief, uh, excuse me. What do you want? Well, Chief, here's the guy we're looking for. Secondhand typewriter store, man, in Brooklyn. That's the man. That's him. That's the man. What are you talking about? You're crazy. I tell you seven or eight times, he comes into my store, types something out, each time on a different typewriter. Always letters, since he's trying them out. The man's lying, you never saw me. That's the man, all right? I remember him. Okay, okay, calm down. All right, Reynolds. What have you got to say now? Now listen, Macleod, listen to me. When I began this whole thing, I never dreamed of calling you. You never dreamed it would cause the death of 16 people in a crowded theater. And the insane man, you persuaded to take poison. That was murder tool, Reynolds. Murder? Well, they'll electrocute you. Macleod, you're the only one who knows. You can hush this up, give me a break for you. But what do you say? Look, I've got money. I'll make a rich man. What do you say, Macleod? What do you say? I say you're going to burn, Reynolds. You're going to burn. There, my friends, we have the ingenious solution to tonight's mystery playhouse performance, the man in a velvet hat. And tomorrow, don't make up a man who wasn't there. You might end up in the electric chair. Pardon me, please. The creep who writes this tough twist in my arm. Well, we've just got time to look in on a green room where our players are rehearsing the next bedtime story. Follow me, please. Come. Come, come. You've got to get hold of yourself, charity. I can't help it, doctor. You see, it starts every night. About this time. What starts? Music. David's last composition. I hear it being played on a piano. And the notes seem to come from the old house, the house where David died in the fire. Well, perhaps someone is playing that piece on the piano. Someone on the island. No. No, there's only one other house out here, and those people are away. It's a dog. The dog keeps howling all night long. What dog? I don't know. There's no dog on the island, but... David and I did have a dog. Remember? He saved us, David, the night the fire. He died with him because David was too well to get out of bed. That's a real dog. Somewhere on this island. Oh, do you think so? Why, of course. Probably some stray got across the bridge, or swam over from the shore. Oh, excuse me, Doctor. Sir. Hello? Yes, speaking. Who is it? Some sort of a... No, no, no. A man spoke to me. He said I... Yeah, let me have that phone. No, it's no use. He's lying off. Well, we might be able to trace the car. Hello, operator. Operator. I'm trying to kill me. Hello, operator. Operator. What's wrong, Doctor? I'm afraid the wires have been cut. We'd better get into my car and drive into town, right away. Yes. Yes, it isn't safe for me to stay here another minute. The motor won't turn over. Somebody must have meddled with this car while we were in the house. Well, try my car, Doctor. I think perhaps I'd better. Is it in the garage? Yes, yes, I'll... Great. Heavens is gone. The garage is empty. The car's been stolen. Now, let's not lose our heads, Geraldine. But... We're not completely cut off yet. We can't use a car. We can still walk. But it's almost a mile to the bridge and the road is so dark down along the water. It won't be too dark with a flashlight. We can go down through the woods to the edge of the water and walk along the shore. Oh, wait a minute. What's the matter? I just remembered. David's brother's driving out here tonight. Are they? Yes, and his wife, Laura. They said they'd be here by 8.30 and if we wait for them, they can take it back in their car. What are you saying, Doctor? Let's save it and try to make it alone. If we wait right here, perhaps we can watch the bridge and see them coming. Let them save, Geraldine. What are you staring at? The bridge, Doctor! The bridge, look! This element's been washed out! You're peculiar going on here, don't you think? I think that woman has good reason to be worried, too. Sounds to me like the beginning of just the kind of story we like around here. Nice and creepy, huh? Well, you'll have to wait until next time for the whole thing. That old scare master of ceremonies, the gory goon of Deena Sanctum, a raiment will be on hand. So you'll be a till, huh? Won't you? When the raiment, the giggling goon, tells you the spine-tingling tale, voice on wire. This is Peter Lauren, closing the doors of the mystery playhouse. Good night, second attack. This is the Armed Forces Radio Service.