 The story you're about to hear is unique, it is horrible, it is filled with terror, and it may or may not be true. In any case, every time a world's fair is held in Paris, it reappears in the papers and magazines around the globe as a news story, and travels by word of mouth to the ends of the earth as a true story, true or false, heard for the first time or twice told, we believe this great classic of terror will keep you in suspense. Listen then, as Miss Vanessa Brown stars in The Vanishing Lady, which begins exactly one minute from now. Sometimes a man can have too high an opinion of himself. Sometimes that opinion can drive him to great deeds. Here now is one of America's legendary heroes to tell you of some of his unique characteristics. If his adjectives seem a bit outlandish, remember that his image was an inspiration to a pioneering people, and he still affects a nation addicted to TV. I'm that same David Crockett, fresh from the backwoods, half horse, half alligator, a leapful tetched with the snapping turtle, can wade the Mississippi, leap the Ohio, ride upon a streak of lightning, and slip without a scratch down a honey locust, can whip my way in wildcats, and if a gentleman breezes for a $10 bill he may throw in a panther, I can hug a bear too close for comfort and beat any man opposed to Jackson. Folklore belongs to every nation's legendary past, and I guess we Americans have our share of some tall ones. The story you are about to hear first appeared in the pages of the Detroit Free Press. In the summer of 1889, at the time the Paris World's Fair was celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the fall of the Bastille and the beginning of the French Revolution. It reappeared in the London Daily Mail in 1911. Two years later, Mrs. Bellock Lounge used it as the basis of her novel, The End of Her Honeymoon, and sometime after that, it became the storyline of another novel, She Who Was Helena Cass by Lawrence Rising. As recently as 1951, it cropped up again as a British motion picture so long at the fair. It is a hardy tale, a sort of modern folk tale. It has never been proved, it has never been disproved, and one can only wonder if in the dread secret archives of the police judiciary in Paris, the real facts are recorded in fading ink on yellowing paper, locked forever from a curious and intrigued world. No one knows, perhaps no one ever will know, but we can guess. And this, we guess, is what might have happened to lovely young Cynthia Winship and her mother as they arrived at the Hotel Creole one beautiful summer day, the day the great Paris World's Fair opened. Bonjour Madame, puis-je vous aider? I don't understand French. Is there anyone here who speaks English? Madame, what can I do for you? My daughter and I have just arrived from Marseille. We're on our way home from India. Oh, I am afraid, Madame, we cannot accommodate you. But you must. I'm a feeling tall, well, and I telegraph the head for the reservation. Ah, I see. The name, please. Oh, Winship. Mrs. Winship and daughter. Mrs. Winship. Ah, yes. And it is indeed most fortunate you did telegraph, Madame, for you I have reserved the last room in the hotel. I'm so relieved. Would you be so kind as to register? Yes, of course. Here, Cynthia, my dear, you may from there not do this for yourself. Yes, ma'am. Where do I write? There, in that line. Oh, I see. Well, you are fatigued from your journey, yes? I shall have the boy show you to your rooms at once. Yes, ma'am. Yes, ma'am. Madame, Mrs. Winship at number 342, right now. Right now, sir. These are your baggage, Madame? Yes. These six. Here is the package. Six pieces. Yes, this way. Keep round that portal, Cynthia. Don't trust this Frenchman. I don't think you make off without things, ma'am. Here we are. One, three, four, two. Entrez, Madame. Oh, what a lovely big room. Look, and the park out there. It's square with the statues, isn't it? Uh, ladies, desire, quelque chose encore? No, thank you. Here. Ah, merci, madame. Thank you, ladies. Oh, ma'am. It's like something out of a book. Yes, ma'am. That's just the trouble with Paris. On the surface, it's so attractive. But underneath, it's evil. The furniture. The guilt clock. Oh, this lovely marble table. Oh, ma'am. Everything is so French. Now they're very glad to be what everything's so English by this time tomorrow. Now come away from that window and help me get him to something comfortable there's a dear. Yes, ma'am. I don't know when I've been so tired. I just can't seem to catch my... Oh, speak to me. Here. Here. I'll get you up in the bed. There. I'm going to lose my corset. Here, ma'am. Here. Here are the smelling salts. Now breathe deeply, ma'am. Ma'am. The telephone. I've got to get a doctor. Operator, will you please send a doctor up to room number... No, let's see. Number 342. Doctor to room number 342. Hang on, ma'am. The day before the doctor arrived, accompanied by the manager of the hotel. To my great relief, the doctor spoke English. He felt Mother's pulse took her temperature and did the usual things doctors do, and when he turned to the hotel manager. A young woman. Do you have such thoughts? Not dead. Are you sure? Absolutely. So I can't seem to be comfortable. Sir, this is a very serious matter. I'm not afraid of anyone. I'm afraid of what I'll tell you. This was a piece of cake. Well, they talked in these languages, and I couldn't understand. I looked from one face to the other, trying to read from their expression how serious my mother's illness was. They were as casual as other ordinary dinners. Finally, I could stand it no longer. They must... You must... You must tell me. What is the matter with my mother? Moselle, your mother is ill. Yes, seriously ill. It is a collapse, but you're perhaps in a strain of travelling. However, a week or two of absolute rest and she will... A week or two? Oh, no, but we're going on to England tomorrow. That would be out of the question. She cannot be moved for at least several days. The next 24 hours will be critical. Oh, my mother. Oh, my poor mother. Moselle, Moselle, you must not break down too. I need your help. Yes, yes, doctor. Immediately. I need some medicine. Will you fit it for me? Oh, but... I must not leave your mother for a moment during these critical hours. Here. I will write down this address and a little message to my wife. Your wife? Yes. I have the medicine already prepared at my home. It will be much faster to go there for it than to a pharmacy. There are very few chemists who have the ingredients. But couldn't you telephone? Well, that's my Moselle. I have no telephone. Or a messenger, perhaps. Mademoiselle does not know Paris. In fact, with the exposition opening, nowhere can you find a reliable messenger. They are all selling souvenirs. No, Mademoiselle will accomplish the errand more rapidly herself. Here is the address, Moselle. 24 bis rue Val de Grasse. And here is the message to get to my wife. But I don't do Paris at all. I'm a total stranger. I am sure the manager here will give the necessary instructions to the coachman. But certainly, if Mademoiselle is ready. I quite knew what was happening. I was seated in a rickety carriage outside the hotel with the doctor's message clutched in my hand while the hotel manager gave valuable directions to the coachman. It is arranged, Mademoiselle. Jacques is one of our most trusted coachmen. He will get you to the doctor of house and back in safety. Thank you so much, sir. Can you look after my mother, won't you? Of course. Of that, you may be sure. Goodbye, Mademoiselle. Alozi, baby. I felt completely helpless. Alone in a foreign city where no landmark was familiar and the language had gibberish to my ears. At the charge of an evil-looking coachman driving an ancient carriage at snail's pace up and down endless wide boulevards across traffic-choked squares knowing that my mother's life might well depend on the speed with which I accomplished my end. Driver, can't you go any faster? This is a matter of life or death. When we left the hotel, we had crossed a huge square with statues around it and turned into a wide avenue which led up a gentle incline at the top of which was a huge arch. But before that, we turned off into narrower streets. It must have been twenty minutes later when we turned into another wide boulevard and we saw another huge arch up ahead or was it the same arch? Coachman. Mademoiselle. Haven't we passed that arch before? I don't want a sightseeing tour. I want to go to this address directly. Don't you understand? Now please take me there at once. We turned into a narrow street and pulled up before a grim grey house. A blue and normal sign on the wall read twenty-four beasts. I jumped out of the cab almost before it stopped. Rushed up the three stone steps and pulled at the bell arm. Oh hurry, hurry, hurry. Bonjour Mademoiselle. The doctor sent me for some medicine. Monsieur le docteur, on n'est pas ici. Here, you read this. Retainez cette jeune femme aussi longtemps que possible. C'est de la plus haute importance pour revenir de Paris et même de la France. Entrez Mademoiselle. Thank you. The doctor took their reading and re-reading with a note as though she didn't understand it until I thought I would scream. Please, please hurry. Get me the medicine. Look, it's my mother. She may be dying. I must get back to her. Please hurry. She pointed to a chair. Slowly walked down the hall and closed the door behind her. I waited and waited and I began to wonder. I wondered about the time the cab had taken to get here. About that arch that looked so familiar. And I was torn by the hundred meaningless anxieties that torture you when you're nearest and dearest are ill. And then I heard something that froze my blood. A telephone. A telephone. Clearly ringing somewhere in the house. The doctor had said he had no telephone. That was the reading where I must come all this way for the medicine. Oh, no, it wouldn't be in this house. It must be next door or across the street, of course. Of course, that was where the sound was coming from. No, it was the voice of the doctor's wife answering the phone. Oh, no, no. What monstrous plot was this? I felt my scalp growl with terror. My brain pounded. My head felt as though it would burst. I wanted to scream. To run out of this awful house to run all the way across Paris to the bedside of my mother. Well done, mother. The medicine. Thank you. Oh, well done, mother. Now, driver, please. Please, in the name of your own mother. Hurry. Back to the hotel as fast as possible, please. You won't please go up there, mother. I don't see baby up. In a moment we continue with... You know the social security benefits to which you will be entitled when you separate from the service and take a civilian job. Here's a tip from Social Security. Roger Clark had a Social Security card, sure enough. But Roger lost it. It's not important, said Roger. I don't need the card. I'll never forget that Social Security number as long as I live. So, as Roger worked here and there, he rattled off his number incorrectly. And there was all kinds of trouble getting things straightened out so Roger's earnings could get on his Social Security account. Don't be like Roger. If you have lost your card, write to Social Security Department 15, Hollywood 28, California, and ask for form SS5 to replace your lost Social Security card. And now we continue with the vanishing lady starring Miss Vanessa Brown. A tale of wealth. I've pleaded with the coachman. I've begged him to hurry. I explained to him in tears that my mother was desperately old. But the carriage never increased its speed. We crept across Paris just as slowly as we had come when I was sure that I saw that same white arch three times. But at last, we crossed the Great Square with the statues in it. Close to the hotel. Oh, please, please hurry. Just beyond the Great Square, we turned up a narrow street which shortly entered a wide circle in the middle of which was a tall, slender monument. The driver swung around the monument and pulled up before the entrance of the hotel. I jumped out of the cabin and I saw the sign over the hotel entrance. It said, Hotel Ritz. You've taken me to the wrong hotel. I'm saying it's a hotel creon. Look, I don't understand what you're saying, but I want you to take me to the hotel creon. She's the stupid man. Can't you understand, my mother's sick? You've taken more than two hours to get me to that doctor's house and but can't you understand? I looked around me. A small group of passengers by had dropped and were listening curiously to the argument. And then they joined him, taking sides. Everywhere I looked were foreign faces, strangers, enemies. And then shoulders through the cloud I saw a young man in tweed with a pipe clamped in his teeth. And before he had a chance to speak, I knew health had come. I'd say, are you having some trouble? I'd say, Kevin Benigni. Yes, that's right. Now what seems to be the matter? I told him as rapidly as I could. I said to the driver, pop me into another cab and five minutes later we walked into the lobby of the hotel creon. The manager was behind the desk. My mother, is she all right? I beg your pardon? My mother, Mrs. Winship, in 342, is she all right? There is no Madame Winship in 342. What? The 342 is occupied by Monsieur Auguste, nor a permanent guest. Oh, no, no, you don't understand that. I'm Cynthia Winship, don't you remember? Two hours ago you put me into a carriage to go to the doctor's house for some medicine for my mother. I am afraid, mademoiselle, is mistaken. I have never seen her before in my life. I say, look here, what is this? I swear to you, it is, as I say. We signed the register less than three hours ago. We got in on the train from Marseille. Right, but we'll have a look at the register. Yes, I'll show you. I'm in 342. Where's the register? It is here, mademoiselle. I see for yourself. Today is day. Fourteen guests registered. But I do not see any mademoiselle or Madame Winship. Do you? No. Perhaps mademoiselle is mistaken. Perhaps she is registered as some other hotel. No, no, no. This is the hotel, the clear. You were standing there when we arrived. You came to the room with the doctor. You put me in a carriage. But I assure you, mademoiselle, these are fantasies. Wait, wait. What is it? The bell boy there. He carried our baggage. He'll remember. Do you recall carrying this young lady's luggage up to room 342 this afternoon? No, monsieur. But you were? There were six pieces. Don't you remember? No mademoiselle. He said he never saw you in his life before. But this is monstrous. And it's impossible. My mother is somewhere in this hotel. What have you done with her? What have you done with her? Well, how do you feel, Miss Winship? Oh, better thank you. Super embarrassing. Well, won't you have something else? A salad? A little roast? No, no, thank you. Just a cup of tea, please. Oh, certainly. Gaffin, yes. That's the table, mademoiselle. Your treat, monsieur. I don't know how to thank you, monsieur. Do you realize I don't live nearly? Oh, well, it's Stanley. Bruce Stanley. I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Stanley. Well, it's a pleasure. Mr. Stanley, you believe me, don't you? Of course I do, Miss Winship. We did register at that hotel. We were in room 342. Well, I can even describe the furnishings. There was a big window that went from the floor to the ceiling. Well, I'm afraid every hotel room in Paris has windows like that. No. Really? Yeah. Well, in this room, the drapes were plum-colored and there was a marble pop table. Black marble it was and a gilt clock. It had run down. The hands, it's tough, I remember. At 20 minutes past three the walls were covered in rose brocade and the bedspread was a washed-out yellow. If I could get into that room you would see that I'm not making this up. No, I'm sure you aren't. Perhaps I can find a way to make them let you in the room. Oh, can you? Yes, I'm with the Embassy, you know. I'm the Secretary, sort of thing. I believe that the British Empire has enough influence to change the mind of an obstinate Parisian keeper. Oh, then it makes do it right away. Well, I don't think that the might of Britain can move quite that fast. It's past dinner time, you know. But tomorrow we'll see. I can't wait until tomorrow. I'm afraid you'll have to. We can do nothing with the people at the hotel. So that we'll just have to be patient until tomorrow. I'll get a room for you tonight in the pantheon near the Embassy. You're very kind, Mr. Tannits. Oh, no. What is it? I just thought of something. The doctor. The doctor? Yes. Yes, the one the hotel manager brought in to look after my mother. I still have his address somewhere here in my purse. Here, here it is. Now we must go there immediately. He can tell us about my mother. Uh-huh. Twenty-four, this Revelle de Grasse. How long would it take to get there? Oh, about twenty minutes. Twenty? Twenty minutes. It took over an hour this afternoon. Well, I miss you. Twenty-four, this Revelle de Grasse. There, here we are. Yes. Yes, this is the place. Wait a minute. The house is dark. Well, it is quite late. I don't care. We've got to find out tonight. Where is he? He's there at the upstairs window. Hey, Monsieur le Docteur. C'est mademoiselle Winship. Je ne connais pas une demoiselle Winship. Says he doesn't know you. Oh, he must, he must. Doctor, don't you remember this afternoon? You sent me here to your house for medicine for my mother. Says he doesn't understand English. Yeah, the liar. He does. He speaks perfect English. I'm sorry, Cynthia. I was, I was, what am I going to do? What am I going to do? I'm certain I should have gone out of my mind. He found a room for me at the parcel near the embassy where I spent his sleep this night. I tossed and I turned and I worried myself until agony almost beyond endurance. Where were my mother? What had they done to her? This calls for me at half past ten and if anyone took me back to the hotel. To my surprise, the attitude of the manager had changed completely. But of course mademoiselle may inspect room 342. We are only too glad to convince mademoiselle that her mother is not, never was in the Hotel Courillon that I personally will escort you to the room. And this way please, to the ascenseur. Oh, but that terrible man, that horrible man. Cynthia, don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this. Now, remember this what I told you last night. We'll see. Blam color glades. Black marble clock table. Rooms go on. And a gilt clock with the hands stopped for twenty minutes past three. There we go. Voila, the 3rd floor. And this way it was room 342. You wish to see mademoiselle? Yes, that's right. Go door to the right. So, here we are. You see Bruce, I know where it is. Yes mademoiselle. Voila, enter please. Now Bruce, you'll see the yellow bedspread. Oh, no. Not quite the room you just described. The elevator mademoiselle. The drapes are royal blue. No. They're a little dusty, I fear. I must have this room renovated. And there is no marble clock table. No. The clock, as you notice, is running. No. And right on time it seems. The walls are not closed, blockade. But yellow flowers, no paper. No. My dear mademoiselle, you see how thoroughly mistaken you are. No, no. Well, that's the story as it may have happened. The lady, Mrs. Winship, had vanished. The room completely redecorated overnight. A gigantic conspiracy of silence. So cruel as to cause a young girl to take leave of her senses. But the stakes were higher than the sanity of a pretty English tourist. Mrs. Winship was suffering from bubonic plague, which she had caught before leaving India. The director had recognized the symptoms at once. Recognized, too, that she had no more than an hour to live. He had purposely sent Cynthia on a fool's errand. The hotel manager was in on the conspiracy. And the cab driver, and soon the British Embassy, the K. Dorsey, and the police durescière. For had it become known that there was a case of bubonic plague in Paris, the city would have been emptied of visitors. The World's Fair would have been a failure. The French Frank would have fallen. The police ability of the town sterling would have been threatened. That's the whole story. Some years ago, Alexander Wolcott tracked down the man who first reported it in the Detroit Free Press in 1889 and asked him whether he had invented it or had heard it somewhere in his travels. And the Detroit reporter replied that he could not remember. Which, as far as Mr. Wolcott was concerned, left the questions still open. For, as he royally observed, he doubted if any man could have invented a tale like The Vanishing Lady and then forgot that he had done so. What do you think? Suspense. In which Miss Vanessa Brown starred in William and Robson's production of The Vanishing Lady based upon Alexander Wolcott's version of the legend and adapted for radio by Mr. Wilson. Listen. Listen again next week when we bring you another tale in Suspense. Supporting Miss Brown and The Vanishing Lady were Diana Bourbon, Virginia Gregg, Ben Wright, Ramsey Hill, John Boehner and Edgar Berrier.