 The mutual broadcasting system presents The Mysterious Traveler, written, produced, and directed by Robert A. Arthur and David Cogan, and starring tonight two of radio's outstanding personalities, Frank Redick and Jan Minor, in an original play titled, Death as a Cold Breath. This is The Mysterious Traveler, inviting you to join me on another journey into the realm of the strange and the terrifying. I hope you will enjoy the trip, and it will thrill you a little and chill you a little as we discover that death has a cold breath. Your name is Andy Marlowe, once you were a very successful publicity agent, but this morning as you slouch behind your big mahogany desk, you feel terrible. You're nursing a hangover, you're worrying about the I.O.U.'s and you've been passing out the last few months to certain rather tough individuals who run gambling houses. You're slipping, slipping fast. Your bankroll is gone, your girl Julie, who's just as hard and beautiful as the diamond she loves to wear, is looking for greener pastures, and you're on the skids. Unless you come up with a smart idea, you stare at your appointment pad with bleary eyes. The first name on it is Harold Farrington. Harold Farrington, the matinee idol of 20 years back. Now he's a has-been ham. You almost tell your assistant to send him away, but you change your mind and have him send in. Andy! Andy, old boy, you're looking splendid. I just got back from Florida. Thought I'd drop in and say hello. Sit down, Harold, and cut out the hot air. You haven't the price of a trip to South Jersey, much less Florida than I know it. Always bluffing direct, Andy. That's what I like about you. Yes, it's embarrassing to admit it, but I am financially substandard at the moment. If it's a touch, Harold, the answer is no. I wouldn't dream of asking you for a loan, Andy. But I want to retain you, to enlist your services, to put me once again on the front pages. Remember six months ago you dreamed up that idea of a national theater that I hoped to found? That got me nice headlines, Andy. Yes, it didn't get a job out of it. I'm going to be frank with you, Harold. Of course, old man, of course. The only way you'll ever work on Broadway again is to get a job in the street cleaning department. Andy, would I know you're only joking? Just remind the public of me, and the women will clamor to see me again. I've always had success with the women, you know. The answer is no. I like to get paid for my services. But you will, Andy. Six months ago, for your last campaign, I made you sole beneficiary in my will. You'll collect when I die. Sole beneficiary in your will? What a laugh. I think I fell for your line about having trust funds that would pay off when you died. I checked up later. You don't even own a spare suit of clothes. Hey, admit I exaggerated. I confess it. Oh, that's mighty white of you. However, this might interest you. A letter that was forwarded to me last week. Read what it says. Six pages and a woman's handwriting. Reeking with gardenia perfume. Fui. It's from a wealthy widow in Boston. In 25 years ago, she was an admirer of mine. Her name is Abby Wilson. Mrs. Abby Wilson, and she's worth half a million dollars. Harold, you bore me. So does Mrs. Abby Wilson. Now get to the point, will you? I am, Andy. She's ill. Slowly dying. And having read about my plan to start a theater which I would run in the interest of a free-on-tramel stage, she decided to make the dream possible by leaving me all her money when she dies. Now don't you see, Andy, that will of mine is now worth something when Mrs. Abby Wilson dies. I'm a rich man. Pipe dreams, Harold. She's probably a crackpot in an old lady's home. And to show you what I think of your will in which I'm sole beneficiary, let's see, it ought to be in this drawer here. Yeah, here it is. Now, watch, Harold. There. There's your precious will where it belongs. And the wastebasket. Now get out of here, you old has-been. I'm busy. Your exasperation finally has gotten the better of you, Andy. You kick Harold Farrington out. Then, feeling worse than ever, you slump in your chair again. You're still slouched there half an hour later when the telephone rings. Hello. Oh, hello, Julie. The wonder boy sounds as if he had a hangover this morning. No, I'm all right. Just catching a little cold, that's all. Then you'll probably be glad to have me break our date for tonight. Break our date? Yes. I won't be able to make it tonight, Andy. So sorry. Why won't you be able to make it? I've had those tickets for weeks. I'm flying out to the coast at midnight, sweetheart. Phil Wentworth is throwing a really big house party and then a cruise on his yacht afterwards. What? He phoned last night to invite me and I accepted. Julie, you can't walk out of me like this just because Wentworth has money. And you have charm, Andy. But the charm's been wearing a little thin lately and so has your bankroll. So goodbye, darling. See you around. Julie, wait. The little gold diggers. I'll get another bankroll somehow and she'll come running back. I know Julie. For a moment, Andy, you daydream about being rich again. But you're rudely interrupted by the sound of an argument outside and your office door open. Hello, Marlowe. Your office boy didn't want to let me in, but I persuaded him I had business with you. Oh, hello, Rocky. I'm glad you dropped in. I've been planning to get in touch with you. I've got a big deal in the fire. We're going to get a big fee out of it. I hope you do, Andy, for your sake. So, Rocky, I just wanted to ask you if you could just wait a few days and as I will use, I'll really be flush. Nobody ever said Rocky Smith wasn't a reasonable man. What's your idea of a few days? Well, naturally, I don't get my fee until my client begins to see himself in the headlines. So, well, how about 60 days, Rocky? Because I never got past the eighth grade, Marlowe. But 60 seems to me considerably more than a few. I'll let you have three days. And that's all. When he's gone, you hastily pour yourself a drink, Andy. Just then your telephone rings. You let it ring. What can it be but more bad news? Finally, the ringing gets on your nerves. You answer it. Hello? Hello, is this Mr. Andrew Marlowe? Yes, this is Marlowe speaking. Well, my name is Phelps, Mr. Marlowe. I'm calling from Boston. Yes, yes, Mr. Phelps. Well, Mr. Marlowe, I'm very anxious to contact Mr. Harold Farrington. I believe he's a client of yours. Well, you could call it that. Yeah, he was here. Left about half an hour ago. Oh, well, can you possibly locate him for me, Mr. Marlowe? It's rather important. You see, I represent the estate of the late Mrs. Abbey Wilson. Wait a minute. Did you say the estate of the late Mrs. Abbey Wilson? Well, yes, Mr. Marlowe. Mrs. Wilson died day before yesterday. And it appears that her new will leaves everything she owns to Mr. Farrington. I believe she was once an admirer of his. Oh, yes, yes, I know all about that, Mr. Phelps. I'll tell you, I'll locate Harold for you. You just leave it to me. Well, I certainly appreciate it, Mr. Marlowe. I'd like him here for the probating of the will. Of course, as soon as the news gets out... He goes on talking, but you're not listening, Andy. Your mind is working like lightning now, so that crazy story of Harold's about a rich widow leaving him everything was true. Like a fool who tore up Harold's will, making you his heir. There must be some way to save the situation. Then it comes to the whole plan in one brilliant inspiration. Oh, Mr. Phelps, excuse me, please. Well, yes, Mr. Marlowe. If you let me handle all the publicity, I can keep it dignified and still make it a valuable asset to Mr. Farrington's plan. Well, yes, I can understand that. If you see to it that nobody else hears about this until you and me and Mr. Farrington can get together... Why, I think that can be managed, Mr. Marlowe. Good, good. Then I'm going to hang up now and find Farrington. And when I do, I'll phone you. So goodbye for now, Mr. Phelps. You hang up and snatch that torn-up will from the wastebasket. Carefully, you paste the torn will together with Scotch tape. Then you set out to find Harold Farrington. You try his rooming house first. No, Mr. Farrington ain't in. I don't know where he is, and I don't care. Unless he comes back with a $35,000 rent, he owes me. He might try Tim or Sullivan's saloon around the corner. That's where he usually hangs out. You hurry to the corner saloon, but the actor's not there. Desperately perspiring in your anxiety, you try all the other local saloons. At last, you find him. In a corner table in the cheapest bar of the mall, you can see he's almost... Pied. Milly, we're getting my good old friend, Andy. Harold, drink. It's not good liquor, but it's cheap. That's his great recommendation, isn't she? Yes, I... I'm sorry, Harold. I can't drink now. I've hunted you up to apologize. I was only joking this morning. I am going to put on a campaign for you. I'm going to get your name in all the papers. Well, that's right, he finally calls for a celebration. Waiter, two more. You sit down, Andy, controlling your impatience. You bring out the damaged will and get Harold to initial each torn section. Then you tell him about your publicity scheme for him. He's to disappear, you explain, after threatening to kill himself. Threatening to kill myself, eh? To die, to sleep, for chance to dream, eh? And there's the rub, for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause. You shinks me, Andy. All right, sounds like a good scheme. I'll, eh, cooperate. Your plan is working, Andy. Working beautifully. You get Harold Farrington into the pawn booth. You phone Ross of the Daily Ledger and Farrington talks to him. Hello, eh, hello, Ross. This is Harold Farrington. Just wanted to tell you, eh, going to play a big role soon in, eh, the tragedy of man. I'm going to play the corpse. Eh, what am I talking about? I'm just trying to tell you, old boy, time has come to ring down the curtain. Going to end the little drama of Harold Farrington. Hello. Eh, eh, Andy, how do you like that? He said I was drunk, and he hung up. Yes, your scheme is working beautifully. You have Harold Farrington phone all the critics and tell him he's going to kill himself. But then Farrington collapses. Desperately, you realize you have to have help. You telephone Julie. You persuade her to bring her car and meet you. You show her the will. Tell her about Mrs. Abby Wilson. Surely, Julie, you understand. If this will is legal, I'll come at a half a million dollars soon. I understand that, darling. But just how are you going to collect? I mean, suppose dear Harold decides to stay alive, and then changes his will. He won't. I mean, how long can he live drinking as he does? He's on his last legs. You mean you'll keep him supplied with free liquor until he obligingly drinks himself to death, Andy dear? Yes, something like that. I haven't time to tell you the details now, but somebody has to get Harold to my cabin up in the woods and keep him hidden there. That's your job, Julie. Get him there, keep him there, and don't let anybody know he is there. Darling, for both our sakes, say you'll do it. Well, that means missing Bill Wentworth's party, but all right, I'll do it. Only Andy, darling, this scheme of yours had better pay off. So that's taken care of. Julie starts off for your secluded cabin in the mountains with Harold Farrington. You promise to join her the following night. The next morning, you get busy on the phone, ostensibly trying to trace Farrington. Among others, you call your old friend the theatrical critic Paul Milton. Yes, Paul, I am worried about Harold Farrington. It's no gag. I know he called you yesterday and threatened to commit suicide, and I think he meant it. I'm really worried about him. Okay, I'll keep looking. See you soon, Paul. We'll have a drink together. Paul Milton's skepticism is typical, and it's just what you want. Last of all, you call another old friend, Captain Harry Banning, in the Bureau of Missing Persons. Oh, now, Harry, I'm not trying to drum up a story. Farrington really is missing. I want you to put out a missing person's notice. Well, if that's the way you feel about it, I'll have to find him without any help from the police. You hang up, and you're pleased, Andy. Very pleased. That evening, you catch the train for the little town of Ridge Gap, where your cabin is located. At the Ridge Gap station, you slip away into the darkness without being noticed. It's bitterly cold, but you walk the two miles to your cabin. There you find Julie and Harold Farrington having a drink in the living room. After the necessary greetings, you waste no time in getting down to business. Well, kids, we're rolling. The editors are beginning to believe in your suicide, Harold. Andy, I'm not so sure that this suicide is a good publicity angle. The more I think about it... Of course it's a good angle. Isn't it, Julie? Well, of course it is, Harold. Why, it'll get the critics to writing long, appreciative articles about you. The kinds of thing the producers all notice. Well, maybe, but I still think... Harold, Harold, you hired me to do the thinking. Now, listen, you write me a long letter of farewell. Understand? A letter of farewell? Well, I could do that with the quotations from my great plays, Macbeth, Hamlet... That's it, Harold. Yes, yes. I'll take the letter back to New York with me. I'll call all the critics. I'll get a couple of them to rush up here with me. Just before we get here, you take one sleeping tablet, then pretend to be unable to wake until we've worked over you for at least half an hour. You got it? Yes, yes, of course, I could do that. And look, absolutely on the level. Tomorrow evening, your name will be headlines from coast to coast. Well, if you're sure, Andy... I'm positive. Now, sit out on my desk and start writing that suicide note, and be sure to apologize to me for using my cabin. You understand, Harold? You leave Harold Farrington busy writing the suicide letter. You take Julie into the next room to tell her the rest of your plan. And as soon as he finishes that letter, Harold's going to die. You understand that, don't you, Julie? Die? Andy, you didn't say anything about that when you sent me up here with him. I'm not going to have anything to do with murder. Harold will drink himself to death in another six months. What difference does it make if he goes now? It means half a million dollars to us, me and you. It's perfectly safe. By now, half New York knows Harold was threatening to kill himself. You go on talking, persuading him. And when you want to be, you can be very persuasive. At last, Julie gives in to your scheme. All right, Andy, I'll do it. But let's get it over with quickly. You go back into the living room. Harold has finished writing his farewell to you in the world, and he's reading it aloud with great self-appreciation. Out, out, brief candle. Life's but a walking shadow. A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage. And then is heard no more. Oh, there you are, Andy. Listen, I think this is rather good. He begins at the beginning and reads the whole letter to you. It's what you want exactly. As he reads, you busy yourself fixing him a drink. And into the drink, you pour the contents of a small bottle. Harold Farrington finishes his letter and waits for your applause. That's splendid, Harold. Simply terrific. You nearly made me cry. Just listening to it. I think without a new modesty, one could say it's good theater. Who is there to drink for me, Andy? Well, it isn't for anybody else, Harold. Thank you. I've earned this drink. Well, bottoms up. He drinks. And in five minutes, it's all over. For one last instant, he stares at you, accusing Lee. Then his eyes close, and he falls forward on the desk. He's dead. Perfect, Julie. Couldn't have worked out better. Now what, Andy? Back to New York and come find him tomorrow or the next day? It's all going to be settled tonight. Tonight? Yes. The very special reason why. I owe some money, but tomorrow I've got to be able to prove I can pay it from the inheritance. Now we're going to drive to Ridge Gap, have dinner, and pretend we're on our way up here from New York. Then we arrive here, find Harold dead, and phone the sheriff. That's all there is to it. Andy, now wait a minute. What is it? What time is Harold supposed to have died? Well, sometime last night when I was in New York. That's impossible. In his body, it'll still be warm when the sheriff gets here. The sheriff will know that Harold must have died this evening. Yeah, that's right. I forgot that. I can't wait till tomorrow. Just can't. I got it. What? It's cold out. Only about 15 above zero. We'll put Harold out on the terrace chair and all for half an hour, and then he'll be cold, plenty cold. It seems to be died hours ago. Swiftly, you and Julie lift the chair in which Harold Flarington sits. You carry it out on the terrace in the bitterly cold, there you leave Harold to cool a bit. Back in the house, you set everything straight, remove all evidence of Julie's having been there. You wait half an hour, 45 minutes, then you carry Harold back in chair and all and pose him properly in front of the desk where his touching suicide note waits. The picture is perfect. Cold enough now. Feel as far as... Feel as far as... He's like ice. Yeah, that's because he died last night, my dear. Now let's go. Have dinner at the village, make sure we're seen, then come up here and discover Harold. Your program goes off without a hitch, Andy. In the Village of Bridge Gap, you make sure witnesses see you eating. You tell the waitress you're just on your way to the cabin, then you drive up and find poor Harold's body. In half an hour, the sheriff is there with the coroner. The sheriff looks around, listens to your story, reads the letter Harold so obligingly wrote and nods. Yep, certainly there's plain enough story, Mr. Marlowe. Poor fellow. Down on his luck, decided to end it all. You say you gave him a key to this cabin six months ago? Yes, that's right, Sheriff. Six months ago I did a publicity campaign for him and we used to come up here to work out our plans. I gave him a key then and he kept it. And poor Harold crept here to die and hiding. That's how it goes. Well, I guess there's no use of hanging around any longer. Well, fellow stone cold means he died last night or this morning, I guess. Well, Doc, let's phone William's the undertaker and get this over with. I guess we'd better wait a minute before we call the undertaker, Sheriff. Wait, what for? There's something a bit peculiar here. Well, what do you mean, Doc? It's fearless fellows for it. Mighty cold, isn't it? It's dry and cold as ice. Shoji's been dead quite some time. Yes, everybody knows that. It's in every detective story. His forehead was as cold as ice. I wish I had a dollar for each time I read that. Yes, but I'm afraid you don't get my point. You see, a dead body can only cool off to the temperature of the room it's in. Oh, well, what are you getting at? Just this. I took the temperature of the suicide. The body temperature's only 45 degrees. 45 degrees? Well, how could that be, Doc? This room is 70 degrees. It's impossible. Be quiet, Julie. You're right, Sheriff. It isn't possible. Unless this suicide walked out doors and practically froze himself, he came back in, sat down and waited for us. And I don't think he did. What you're saying, Doc, is, um... it's not suicide, it's murder. You know, Rick, and we got the murderers right here in this room with us. Well, folks, how about it? There is travel again. Dear me, it's a cold wind that blows nobody good, isn't it? Yes, Andy and Julie were persuaded to confess. It wasn't hard to get a confession since each rushed in to blame the other. Such a clever scheme, too. Not a flaw in it. Only Andy hadn't been in such a hurry to cool the corpse off. The moral is, never rush a corpse and let it take its own time, even if it kills you. Well, that reminds me of next week's story, The Hot Seat. It's about a dim-witted fellow with but one thing in mind, revenge. However, his weapon was not the knife, gun or poison, it was... Oh, you have to get off here, I'm sorry. But I'm sure we'll meet again. I take this same train every week at this same time. You have just heard The Mysterious Traveler, a series of dramas of the strange and terrifying. The role of The Mysterious Traveler is played by Maurice Tarplin. This is Jack Farron speaking. This is the Mutual Broadcasting System. The Mutual Broadcasting System