 You, finding life rather dull, dreaming again of exotic places, wishing you were somewhere else. We offer you escape. Escape with us now to a small freighter in the China seas and a sinister traveler who brings destruction to crew and ship alike. As Ella St. Joseph tells it, in his most unusual play, a passenger to Bali. The papers in my pocket read steamship round about 9,000 tons British registry. Master and owner, Captain English. Stamped across the face was the clearance of Port Authority. I'd be glad to see the last of Shanghai, its smell and its waterfront filth. Gargoyles had been scarce. Now, with our hull filled for the first time in months, I didn't want to waste time. I wanted to get underway before morning. Mr. Slaughter. Hi, Kevin. Would you step up here to the bridge, Mr. Slaughter? Aye, sir. Are we ready to sail, Mr. Slaughter? All secure, sir. All hands on board. Aye, sir. Good. Let's clear port, Mr. Slaughter. Yes, sir. Mr. Angle, stand by the castle. Stand by. Let go the stern spring line. You there on the dock, take that line for it. For a deal lump of me. Here you can't board now. But my good fellow, I am aboard. The ship is about to sail. Who is it, Mr. Slaughter? There was someone who would sissy talk with you, sir. Stay there. I'll be down. Well, what is it? Have I the honor of addressing Captain English of the roundabout? I am Captain English. Allow me to introduce myself, Captain. I am the Reverend Walks, a missionary bound for battle. What can I do for you? You can offer me your hand. Come to your point, Mr. Walks. We're about to sail. I am told your boat puts in a build along the port of Bali. Is that correct? Yes. Good. Here you will find my passport and papers of identification. If the papers and myself shall meet with your approval, we can settle the matter of money, and I shall sail with you tonight. You've been misinformed, Mr. Walks. The roundabout is a trading steamer with no accommodations for passengers. You'll find I need little. I'm sorry, but it's impossible. Good night, sir. Name your price. What's that? A customary fare from Shanghai to Bali is $100. I'll double it. Sorry, don't tell me there isn't room in your cash box for $200. That's a lot of money, Mr. Walks. Think of the reward for bringing grace to the pagan Balinese. Let me see your papers. Well, your passport seems to be in order. The photograph, you... And the money, Captain English. The money is also interesting. Is it not? Where is your luggage, Mr. Walks? On the dock. Two cases of bibles. I'll see to them. Mr. Slaughter, take Mr. Walks for it. Tell Mr. Rangel to get the luggage aboard. Aye, sir. If you're Captain English, you... You won't regret your choice. And now, if you'll just lead the way... I watched him walk away, his monstrous, bulk-shadowing grotesquely in the foggy, half-like his great bull neck, creasing into massive shoulders, his shaggy black hair, wild and unkempt. I didn't like this man, his missionary, strange in his ways and manners. Yet I found myself thinking that, after all, he was a man of God. Perhaps later I would come to understand him. The fog was thicker now. I shook myself free of the depression I felt. Mr. Rangel. Aye, Captain. Prepare to cast off. We sail immediately. It was the third night out of Shanghai when Mr. Slaughter brought the first trouble to my cabin. A fanner and the after-old servant come on board in Shanghai. Obviously, Mr. Slaughter. Come here, girl. I won't hurt you. Come here. What is your name, girl? I don't think she understands English. Probably Chinese from the looks of her. Understand. What are you doing aboard this steamer? Must come on ship. What do you mean, must come on ship? Why? Must come... Now, look here. Do you know what is done with stowaways? People who sneak on board a ship without paying. I do not know. There is no place to put her ashore, sir. Until we reach a valley? I know, and yet she can't have the run of the ship. We could lock her in the empty cabin, sir. You forget, Slaughter. There is no empty cabin now. Mr. Walks has been... Mr. Walk? Mr. Walk? No, Mr. Walks, girl. Mr. Walk? Mr. Slaughter, would you ask Mr. Walks to step into my cabin, please? Aye, sir. I'll only be a gentleman. I couldn't help but hear my name being spoken. May I be of service to you, Captain? Very, very first. I don't appreciate eavesdropping outside my cabin. Eavesdropping? My dear Captain, you do me an injustice. I was merely passing by. As you say, Mr. Walks. Mr. Walks, do you know this young girl that you have ever seen her before? What a charming child. What a delight. I'm sorry, Captain. I'm afraid I cannot help you. I have never seen her in my life. Mr. Walk? You tell me long. After all, Captain English, you could hardly expect a man like myself to know a girl from what must obviously be a... well, a sordid livelihood. I have never seen this girl before. She came aboard this boat to be with you. Did she tell you so? No, but it's obviously so. Even though I am dedicated as a missionary to aid and comfort the distress, I do not feel obligated to lie merely to smooth the path for another's crime. This girl is obviously far beyond any spiritual help or material comfort that I could give her. Good day, gentlemen. Girl, did you know this man, Shanghai? Yes. Did you know him well? Very well. He was my... he's very well. Slaughter and I talked with the girl for a long while, but we could learn nothing further. After more questions, useless ones, I had the first mate take her for a... feed her and find her a bed. I would talk with Mr. Warks in the morning. Slaughter and I were eating breakfast and Mr. Warks came into the mess room. He sat down. His gigantic, obscene body overflowed from his chair across the table. Good morning, gentlemen. I trust your nights were pleasant once. Mr. Warks, I want to talk with you about that girl. The girl? Oh, yes, a tragedy, a tragedy. I want you to tell me all you know about her. Then I'll decide what's to be done. What's to be done? Captain, you're overstepping your bounds. This is God's work. Now... What do you mean? Oh, dear, dear, you, you haven't heard. And what, Mr. Warks? What is it here? About the girl, Mr. Slaughter, the poor, poor girl. What of her? It seems she met with an accident last night. Accident? Yes, at least so, I presume. There is some small evidence that she has left our ship now to ride in a mightier, more wonderful vessel. Perhaps even now she is riding across the heavens in a chariot of flaming gold. What are you talking about? The poor, demented girl sought sucker in the depths of water about us. What? Her pitiful torn shore lies amid the houses of the stand. She committed suicide sometime last night. Must I eat alone, or will you gentlemen stay for a second cup of coffee? In my own mind I knew what had happened, and I'm sure Slaughter did. I felt certain Warks had killed her and thrown her overboard, but there was nothing I could do. Four days later we dropped anchor in the harbor of Yulalon. The ship's officers and I were anxious to get our cargo unloaded and to know that we were rid of Mr. Warks. I was in my cabin going through the routine of bills of lading and ship's papers with the port officer, Mr. Matsis, new at the job and over cautious. About your passenger. Is he a missionary? Yes, yes, he came aboard in Shanghai. Captain, since there have been certain changes in Bali, we now have no need of such a person. This man's name is, is what? Warks, the Reverend Mr. Warks. You do not usually carry passengers, Captain? No, no we don't. Could I speak with this man? Of course. Yeah, merely of formality. Of course. I'll have the mess boy locate him. Be only a minute. Captain English. Oh, I was looking for you, Mr. Warks. For you, the port officer would like to see me, I overheard. But first let me give you this. Two hundred dollars, what's this for? The use of a lifeboat. What are you talking about? A lifeboat, Captain, I need one to get ashore. You wouldn't have me swim. The port officer wants to talk with you. Wait, Captain. Warks, I'm as anxious to have you off my boat as you are to leave. You can only go ashore in the proper way at the proper time. This is your last chance, yours as well as mine. Let me go ashore now and take the consequences. You'll search the four corners of the globe looking for this minute. Don't let it slip through your fingers. There's an eternity in it. Captain English. This man is not a missionary. His name is not Warks. Our Indonesia is close to him. What? You mean he can't land? Oh, no, no, this is ridiculous, Mr. Matches. This man doesn't belong to me. I refuse to be burdened with him. You have no choice. He is on your ship. He belongs to you. This man booked passage from Shanghai to Bali and I refuse to take him further. I am sorry, Captain English, but this is not my concern. During the time you are in port, a police guard will be placed on this man. He will not be allowed out of his cubby. When you sail, he will sail with you. Who is this man? Call him a murderer, an anarchist, a revolutionary. It does not matter. During the recent trouble here, he fought on both sides and profiteered from both sides. As I said, Indonesia is close to him. Your papers unordered, Stump, Captain. Good day. Oh, aren't you, Captain? You should have let me go. You should have let me go, sure, in the lifeboat. For now, in the time ahead, you are going to see a great deal of your passenger to Bali. Yes. A great deal. Escape under the direction of Norman McDonnell is bringing you Ellis St. Joseph's great play, A Passenger to Bali. It was the sixth week, 42 days before we had taken on a passenger in Shanghai bound for Bali. Three days after he boarded the ship, he had murdered a young girl. A stowaway. We all knew he had, but we couldn't prove it. Now we were anchored outside the harbor of Bangkok. I was in the deck house, and Mr. Slaughter rapped on the door. Well, Captain, what's the news? Bad, I'm afraid. The walks hasn't been refused again. Again? Just as he was in Makasa, in Lembang, in Batavia. The same words, the same reasons as in Bali. In English, there was a fight in the folks of this morning. One of the men hurt bad, and it was because of walks. Who were the men? Ible Seaman Coles and Duncan, sir. Coles and Duncan? They're friends. Yes, sir, they were. It's almost a walks doing, sir. The three of them were arguing about something, and suddenly the fight starts. Duncan was cut heavy in the chest. Walks just sat by. Where is he now? In the mess, sir. I'll be right back. Wait here. Mr. Walks. Mr. Walks! Oh, Captain English, I didn't hear you come in. I was reading. The Bible is a matter of fact. Did you want to speak with me? I am told you are directly responsible for an injury sustained by a member of my crew. Oh, yes, that tragic episode between Duncan and Coles I'd almost forgotten. I could have you put in irons. For what reason? I did nothing. The men were discussing religion, and I was simply pointing out certain points to each. They went at each other with knives. Like children in the fever of the moment. Was there something else you wanted, Captain? Mr. Walks, I... Well... No. Walks had dismissed me. Dismissed me on my own ship. I had to get rid of this man. His personality was affecting us all. In the past month he had come to order about the lesser members of the crew. He had his meals served whenever and wherever he wished. He drank liquor from my own locker. As I watched the harbour traffic of Bangkok, I knew there was only one thing to do. Mr. Slaughter. Aye, sir. We will weigh anchor. How do we ship our course, sir? South East Bay is three-quarters south. Aye, sir. South East... That's Shanghai, Captain. Yes, Mr. Slaughter. That's Shanghai. On the two weeks' return trip to Shanghai, I began to feel myself a stranger on my own ship. The trim little China Sea's freighter was becoming a floating prison, and the jailer was Mr. Walks. My Kanaka crew, emotional and superstitious, were in love with him. They worshipped him. Worshipped his massive body and his liquor-fed eloquence. My deck officers and I could feel control slipping through our fingers, and we were powerless to do anything about it. Then, finally, it was the last night. Tomorrow, we would anchor in Shanghai. Yes, sir. We're back to where we started from. But at least we'll be rid of him. I hope there's no slip-up this time. There won't be. There won't, am I? Yes. Shanghai is as anxious to capture him as every other port was to reject him. They won't risk his escape. What's he done, Captain? Walks has been mixed up in something foul in every country he's touched. Heaven only knows what crimes he's committed. But shortly we'll be free of him. Now, let's have a drink to that. I don't mind, Captain. Get a new bottle out of the sideboard, will you? Here are the keys, Monsieur. Good. Just put it here. And two glasses. You should make it three glasses. Well, gentlemen, surely you'll invite me to join you. No, Mr. Walks. We'll not. Then I shall have to help myself. I think I'd better get out on deck, Captain. He'll excuse me. Wonderful, wonderful. Too bad poor Mr. Slaughter couldn't stay. Glad you enjoy my whisky. You have good taste, Captain. Good taste in everything. Whisky, boats. The roundabout is an ideal little steamer. Hmm. You might almost say I found a home here. You packed, Mr. Walks. A comfortable cabin, good food. Now that I've schooled your cook, a well-stocked liquor cabinet. Are you packed, Mr. Wilkes? No. No, I am not packed. You haven't much time. Tomorrow we'll be anchored at Shanghai and you'll be taken away, my hope to jail. You could be wrong, Captain. It might turn out that I shall stay forever aboard your ship. Until eternity. Walks. I've never liked you. Not since that first night when you came aboard in Shanghai. You're filthy. You're rotten, unclean. You're a murderer by your own influences. This is no time for heated argument. Drink a toast with me, Captain. You've got into the very core of this ship with your rottenness. A toast, Captain. You should use the whole crew, the Kanaka deckhands, the messboys. Every day they're becoming more slovenly, more lax. Very well, I shall drink a toast myself. To the roundabout may the comforts I've come to enjoy be not lost too soon. I'd sink my ship before I'd allow you to stay aboard her one day longer. Perhaps Shanghai will present an answer to surprise us both. When this ship leaves Shanghai, Mr. Walks, it will leave free of you. Now, good night, sir. It was in the sweltering noon of the next day that Mr. Chisholm, the British consulate Shanghai, was seated in my cabin, a long drink in his thin hands. Captain, the Chinese port authorities have told me of your predicament. I am to handle it in my own way, according to their instructions. I don't understand. It's extremely simple. In every spot, every port, every town in which this man sits foot, some sort of trouble's broken out. I know this, sir. I cannot be sure this man is responsible, but after all, the law of averages... Look, Mr. Chisholm, I want this man off my hands. How soon can you arrange this? I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear. Shanghai does not want him. Neither does the British consulate. But this man is a criminal. Oh, Mr. Walks would certainly be arrested the moment he set foot on land, but he'll not be given that opportunity. Now, look, Mr. Chisholm, you've got to take that man ashore. I'm afraid you're now a famous passenger. He's a man without a country. Am I expected to sail him around the world the rest of my days? I'm sorry, Captain English. I'm sorry. You will depart at your earliest convenience. Good day, sir. And so we sail from Shanghai, the roundabout and Mr. Walks. In the weeks that followed, a great shadow lay over the ship. Wrangle, the second mate fell ill, stayed in his cabin. Slaughter began drinking even during his watches. The ship seemed to smell of evil. Mr. Walks became the real captain of the roundabout. Then, sweeping in from the edges of the China Sea, came an even more destructive power, typhoon. The barometer had been falling for three days, and it was on the forenoon watch that the storm hit with its full impact. For seven hours, the roundabout wallowed through the seething masses of water. Then an emergency call from the quartermaster brought me to the bridge. I went into the wheelhouse. The power unit and the rudder control has gone out. Where's the mate? Wanda, sir, trying to connect to travel. We don't manual operation now, sir. You'll need another man to help you. Get help. But, sir, you can't... I can handle it until you get back. Hurry, man. If this thing gets out of control and starts spinning, the rudder will tear itself free in a matter of minutes. Now go on, man, hurry! Aye, sir. With the steam-powered gears to help me, each wave that hit the shuddering ship made the great wheel come alive beneath my hands. I stood feet braced against the wild pitching of the vessel, shoulders and arms straining to retain control. I tried to gauge the monstrous waves rushing toward us, tried to ease the groaning ship through millions of tons of lashing water. My muscles pulled and ached as each gray-green monster hit. I could hear nothing over the scream of the storm. I turned, looking for the quartermaster, and in that second it happened. I had been flung off the wheel like a marionette, and now it's spun free, spinning one way and then the other, with each roll of the ship. I tried to get to my feet, and my leg was twisted under me. What have you done to my ship, walks? Get a rope! Stop the wheel! I'll stop it! No, no, no, it'll chop your hands off! Get a rope! No time! Get a rope, you fool! It'll kill you, walks! Stay away from it! I'll stop it if I have to smash it! Push him on my back! Can you hold it a minute longer, walks? I'll help you on until I get there! Never mind, Captain. It will not be necessary. What? What did you say? The rudder has just snapped. I'm holding nothing. The next morning the storm was gone. Gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by a thick yellow clinging fog through which the roundabout floated, broken, wrecked, sinking. A wireless gun half her crew dead. She might go in half an hour, or she might last a week. But I had the safety of my crew to think about. My ship. I had given the order to abandon her. Black rats, we leave the sinking ship. Leave room for me up for it. I have need to stretch my legs. You won't be with us this trip, Mr. walks. My luggage is not aboard the lifeboat. You're staying aboard the roundabout. I've left you a sextant. There's plenty of food and liquor, even enough for you. I'm not going. No, you are not going. The ship is yours now. Do with her what you want. But that's murder. You're murdering me. I have no idea how soon the ship will sink, or even if she will. You may be picked up today, or tomorrow, or you may float here for years. Captain, English week. This gun can speak even above your voice, walks. This is for the last time. Goodbye, Mr. walks. Wait, Captain. It's not man's province to judge. No creature under your wing should be left to die. Cast no mercy. Without compulsion. Without... All right, then. Oh, your force. Oh! Even now you may not have seen the last of me. Roar! And so I left the roundabout. I left everything I owned. Everything except my freedom. The roundabout grew dimmer in the fog, and the figure of a man standing well forward in the bow of an empty ship was the last thing I could see before the fog closed in. Under the direction of Norman McDonnell, Escape has brought you a passenger to Bali by Ellis St. Joseph, especially adapted for radio by Mr. McDonnell. John Daener was starred as Captain English with Lou Merrill as the Reverend Mr. walks. Featured in the cast were Luke Krugman, Michael Ann Barrett, Wilms Herbert and Bruce Payne. The special music for Escape was composed and conducted by Ivan Dittmars. Next week, escape with us to the Old West and the unusual story of a man who was a merciless professional killer but who fought on the side of law as Ernest Haycox tells it in his exciting story while Jack wrecked. Stay tuned now for Make Believe Town, which follows immediately on most of these same CBS stations. This is Roy Rowan speaking. This is CBS where you spend an hour with Frank Sinatra every Sunday afternoon on the Columbia Broadcasting System.