 And now, tonight's presentation of Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrills. Suspense. This evening, suspense brings you what we feel is a particularly unusual and absorbing story. No actors other than Mr. William Conrad will appear in its presentation. It's a study in terror, which has few equals. So now, starring Mr. Conrad, here is tonight's suspense play by A. M. Burridge, The Waxwork. While the uniformed attendants of Mariner's Waxworks were ushering the last stragglers through the great glass panel double doors, the manager sat in his office interviewing Raymond Houston. The manager was speaking. Oh, there's nothing new on your request, sir. In fact, we refuse it to different people, mostly young bloods who've tried to make bets about three times a week, I should say. We have nothing to gain, something to lose by letting people spend the night in our murderers den. If I allowed it and some young idiot lost his senses, what would be my position, eh? But you're being a journalist. Somewhat old as the case, Houston smiled. I suppose you mean that journalists have no senses to lose? No, no, no, of course not. But one imagines them to be responsible people. Besides, we have something to gain here. Publicity and advertisement. Yes, exactly, said Houston. And there I thought we might come to terms. The manager smiled. Eh, I know what's coming. You want to be paid twice, do you? You know, it used to be said years ago that Madame Tussaud would give a man a hundred pounds for sleeping alone in the Chamber of Horrors. Well, I hope you don't think that we've made any such offer. Eh, what is your paper, Mr. Houston? Well, I'm freelancing at present, sir, working on space for several papers. However, I would find no difficulty in getting the story printed. I'm sure the morning echo would use it like a shot. A night with mariners murderers? No live paper could turn it down, sir. Eh, sir, how do you propose to treat it? Well, I shall make it gruesome, of course. Gruesome with just a saving touch of humor. The manager nodded and offered Houston his cigarette case. Very well, Mr. Houston. You got your story printed in the morning echo and there'll be a five-pound note waiting for you when you can't come and call for it. But, eh, first of all, you realize it's no small ordeal that you're proposing to want to take? I'd like to be quite sure about you. I'd like you to be quite sure about yourself. I own, I shouldn't care to take it on. I should hate having to sleep down there alone among them. Why, ask Houston. Oh, I don't know. Isn't there any reason, I suppose? I don't believe in ghosts. If I did, I should expect them to haunt the scene of their crimes or the spots where their bodies were laid instead of a cellar which happens to contain their waxwork averages. Well, it's just that I couldn't sit alone among them all night with their seeming to stare at me in the way they do. After all, they represent the lowest and the most appalling types of humanity. The whole atmosphere of the place is unpleasant and if you're susceptible to atmosphere, sir, I warn you that you're in for a very uncomfortable night. Houston had known that from the moment when the idea first occurred to him. His soul sickened at the prospect. But he had a wife and a family to keep. So here was a chance not to be missed the price of a special story in the morning echo with a five pound note to add to it. Besides, if he wrote the story well, it might lead to an offer of regular employment. The manager smiled at him and rose. Well, I think the last of the people must have gone by now. Oh, there is one condition I'm afraid I must impose upon you, sir. I must ask you not to smoke. We had a fire scared out on the murderers' den this evening. I don't know who gave the alarm, but whoever it was, it was a false one. Fortunately, there were very few people down there at the time and there might have been a panic. Now, if you're ready, we'll make a move. He led the way through an open barrier and down ill lit stone stairs which conveyed a sinister impression of giving access to a dungeon. In a passage at the bottom were a few preliminary horrors such as relics of the Inquisition, a rack taken from a medieval castle, branding irons, thumb screws, and other mementos of man's cruelty the cruelty of the man. Beyond the passage was the murderer's den. It was a room of irregular shape with a vaulted roof and dimly lit by electric lights burning behind inverted bowls of frosted glass. It was, by design, an eerie and uncomfortable chamber, a chamber whose atmosphere invited its visitors to speak in whispers. The wax work murderers stood on low pedestals with numbered tickets at their feet. Recent notorieties rubbed dusty shoulders with the old favorites. Fertile, the murderer of weir, stood as if frozen in the act of making a sharp window gesture to young bywaters. And there was LaFroy, the poor half-baked little snob who killed for gain so that he might ape the gentleman. Within five yards of him sat Mrs. Thompson, that erotic romanticist hanged to propitiate British middle-class matroness. Charles Peace, the only member of the vile company who looked uncompromisingly and entirely evil, sneered across a gangway at Norman Thorn. Brown and Kennedy, the two most recent additions, stood between Mrs. Dyer and Patrick Mayan. The manager, walking around with Euston, pointed out several of the more interesting of these unholy notabilities. That's crippling, I expect you recognize him in significant little beast who looks as if he couldn't tread on a worm. Oh, and that's Armstrong, but looks like a decent, harmless country gentleman, doesn't he? And there's old Vakye, he can't miss him, of course, because of his beard. And this one... Who's that? Yeah, come here, have a good look at him. This is our star turn. He's the only one of the bunch that hasn't been hanged. The figure which Euston had indicated was that of a small, slight man, not much more than five feet in height. It wore little waxed moustaches, large spectacles, and a caped coat. There was something so exaggeratedly French in its appearance that it reminded Euston of a stage caricature. He could not have said precisely why the mild-looking face seemed to him so repellent, but he'd already recoiled a step, and even the manager's company had cost him an effort to look again. But who is he? He asked. That, said the manager, is Dr. Modette. Euston shook his head doubtfully. I think I've heard the name, but I forget in connection with what. The manager smiled. You'd remember better if you were a Frenchman. You know, for some long while, that man was the terror of Paris. He carried on his work of healing by day and of road-cutting by night. He killed for the sheer devilish pleasure it gave him to kill, and always in the same way for the razor. After his last crime, he left a clue behind him which set the police upon his track, but he was much too clever for them. When he realized that the coils were closing a body, he mysteriously disappeared, and ever since the police of every civilized country have been looking for him. There's no doubt that he managed to make a way with himself, and by some means which has prevented his body coming to light, one or two crimes of a similar nature have taken place since his disappearance, but he is believed almost for certain to be dead, and the experts believe these record distances to be the work of an imitator. It's queer, isn't it, Miss Houston? However notorious murderer as imitators, Houston shouted and fidgeted with his feet. I don't like him at all. What eyes he's got. Yes, this figure's a little masterpiece. You'll find the eyes bite into you, won't you? Very much, excellent realism then for buddhett practice mesmerism, and it was supposed to mesmerize his victims before dispatching them. Indeed, had he not done so, it's impossible to see how so small a man could have done his ghastly work. There were never any signs of struggle. I thought I saw him move, said Houston with a catch in his voice. The manager smiled. You'll have more than one optical illusion before the night's out, I expect, sir. Well, I'm sorry I can't give you any more light because all the lights are on for obvious reasons we keep this place as gloomy as possible, isn't it? Well, that's Houston. Good night. Houston wheeled a swivel chair, a heavy one upholstered and plushed a little weight on the central gangway, and deliberately turned it so that its back was toward the effigy of Dr. Buddett. For some undefined reason, he liked Dr. Buddett a great deal less than his companions. Busying himself with arranging the chair, he was almost light-hearted. But when the manager's footfalls had died away and a deep hush stole over the chamber, he realized that he had no slight ordeal before him. The dim, unwavering light fell on the rows of figures which were so uncannily like human beings that the silence and the stillness seemed unnatural and even ghastly. He missed the sound of breathing, the rustling of clothes, the 101 minute noises one hears when even the deepest silence has fallen upon a crowd. And the air was as stagnant as water at the bottom of the standing pond. It must be like this at the bottom of the sea, he thought. He faced these sinister figures boldly enough. They were only waxworks. So long as he let that thought dominate all others, he promised himself that all would be well. It did not, however, save him long from the discomfort occasion by the wax and stare of Dr. Baudet, which he knew was directed upon him from behind. The eyes of the little Frenchman hearted and fermented him, and he itched with a desire to turn and look. My nerves have started already, he thought. And then another voice in his brain spoke to him. It's because you're afraid that you won't turn and look at him. The two voices quarreled silently for a moment or two. At last, Houston slewed his chair around a little and looked behind him. Among the many figures standing in stiff unnatural poses, the effigy of the dreadful little doctor stood out with a queer prominence. Perhaps because of a steady beam of light beat straight down upon it. Houston flinched before the parody of mildness which some fiendishly skilled craftsmen had managed to convey in wax. Met the eyes for one agonized second and then turned again to face the other direction. He's only a waxwork like the rest of you, Houston muttered defiantly. You're all only waxworks? They were only waxworks, yes. But waxworks don't move. Oh, not that he had seen the least movement anywhere, but it struck him that in the moment or two while he'd looked behind him there had been the least subtle change in the grouping of the figures in front. Krippen, for instance, seemed to have turned at least one degree to the left. Oh, I thought Houston perhaps the illusion was due to the fact that he had not slewed his chair back into its exact original position. Oh, but there were Brown and Kennedy too, surely. One of them had moved his hands. Houston held his breath for a moment and then drew his courage back to him as a man lifts a weight. He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote quickly, memo, deathly silence and unearthly stillness of figures like being at bottom of sea. Hypnotic eyes, Dr. Baudette. Figures seemed to move when not being watched. He closed the book suddenly over his fingers and looked around quickly and awfully over his right shoulder. He had neither seen nor heard a movement, but it was as if some sixth sense had made him aware of one. He looked straight into the vapid countenance of the floor, and smiled vagantly back as if to say, it was and I. No, of course it wasn't he or any of them. It was his own nose. Or was it? Then why all that silent unrest about him? A subtle something in the air which did not quite break the silence and happened whichever way he looked just beyond the boundaries of his vision. He swung round quickly to encounter the mile but baleful stare of Dr. Baudette, and then without warning he jerked his head back to stare straight at Krippen. He nearly caught Krippen at that time. You'd better be careful, Krippen, and all the rest of you. If I do see one of you move, I'll smash you to pieces. Do you hear? He ought to go, he told himself. Already he'd experienced enough to write his story or ten stories for the matter of that. Well then, why not go? The morning echo would be none the wiser as to how long he'd stayed. No, would it care so long as his story was a good one? Yes, but the manager, one never knew, perhaps the manager would quibble over that five pound note which he needed so badly. He wondered if his wife were asleep or if she were lying awake and thinking of him. She'd laugh when he told her that he'd imagined that he'd imagined this was a little too much. It was bad enough that the waxwork effigies of murderers should move when they weren't being watched, but it was intolerable that they should breathe. Somebody was breathing. Or was it his own breath which sounded to him as if it came from a distance? He sat rigid, listening, straining until he exhaled with a long, his own breath after all. But if not something had divine that he was listening and had ceased breathing simultaneously, Houston turned his head swiftly around and looked all about him out of haggard and hunted eyes, everywhere his gaze encountered the vacant waxen faces and everywhere he felt that by just some least fraction of a second he had missed seeing a movement at hand or foot, a silent opening, a compression of lips, a flicker of eyelids, a look of human intelligence now smoothed out. They were like naughty children in a classroom whispering, fidgeting and laughing behind their teacher's back but blandly innocent when his gaze was turned upon them. No. No, this would not do. This distinctly would not do. He must clutch at something, grip with his mind upon something which belonged essentially to the work-a-day world, to the daylight London streets. He was Raymond Houston, an unsuccessful journalist, a living and breathing man, and these figures grouped around him were only dummies so they could neither move nor whisper. Well, what did it matter if they were supposed to be life-like effigies of murderers? They were only made of wax and sawdust and stood there for the entertainment of morbid sightseers and orange-sucking trippers. That was better. Now, what was that funny story which somebody had told him in the false stuff pub yesterday? He recalled part of it, but not all. For the gaze of Dr. Boudette urged, challenged and finally compelled him to turn. Houston half turned and then swung his chair so as to bring him face to face with a wearer of those dreadful hypnotic eyes. His own eyes were dilated and his mouth at first set on a grin of terror, lifted at the corners in a snarl, and then Houston spoke and walked a hundred sinister echoes. Then he sat quite still, staring straight before him, like a man found frozen in the Arctic snows. Dr. Boudette's movements were leisurely. He stepped off his pedestal with the mincing care of a lady alighting from a bus. The platform stood about two feet from the ground, above the edge of it a plush-covered rope hung in arc-like curves. Dr. Boudette lifted up the rope until it formed an arch for him to pass under, stepped off the platform and sat down on the edge, facing Houston. Then he nodded and smiled and said, Good evening. I need oddly tell you that not until I overhear the conversation between you and the worthy manager of this establishment did I suspect that I should have the pleasure of a companion here for the night. Or you cannot move or speak without my bidding, but you can hear me perfectly well. Something tells me that you were, shall I say, nervous. My dear sir, I have no illusions. I am not one of these contemptible energies miraculously come to life. I am Dr. Boudette himself. He paused, coughed and shifted his legs. Pardon me, but I am a little stiff. Oh, please let me explain. Circumstances with which I need not defecting you have made it desirable that I should live in England. I was close to this building this evening when I saw a policeman. Regarding me, I thought a little too curiously. I guess that he intended to follow and perhaps asked me embarrassing questions. So I mingled with the crowd and came in here. Then bought my admission to the chamber in which we now meet and an inspiration showed me a certain means of escape. I raised a cry of fire. And when all the fools had rushed to the stairs I stripped my effigy of the caped coat which should be old me wearing, donned it, hid my effigy under the platform at the back and took its place on the pedestal. The manager's description of me, which I had the embarrassment of being compelled to over here, was biased but not altogether inaccurate. Clearly, I am not dead, although it is as well that the world think otherwise, no? His account of my abbey, which I have indulged for years, although through necessity, less frequently of late, was in the main clue. For you see, the world is divided between collectors and non-collectors. With the non-collectors, we are not concerned, eh? The collectors collect anything according to the individual taste, from money to cigarette cards, from malls to matchboxes. I collect... ...throats. He paused again and regarded Houston's throat with interest, mingled with disfavor. I am obliged to the chance which brought us together tonight and perhaps it would seem ungrateful to complain. From motives of personal safety, my activities have been somewhat curtailed of late years, and I am glad of this opportunity of gratifying my somewhat unusual whim. But you, sir, you have such a skinny neck. If you will overlook a personal remark, I should never have selected you from choice. I like men with thick necks. Thick red necks. He fumbled in an inside pocket and took out something which he tested against a wet forefinger, and then proceeded to pass gently to and fro across the palm of his left hand. This is a little French razor. The blade you will observe is very narrow. They do not cut very deep, but deep enough in just one little moment you shall see for yourself. And now, I shall ask you the little civil question of all the polite barbers. Does the razor suit you, sir? He rose up, a diminutive but menacing figure of evil, and approached chosen with a silent, furtive stamp of a hunting panther. You will have the goodness to raise your chin a little, then. Oh, thank you. And a little more, just a little more, eh? Ah, thank you. Merci, monsieur. Merci, merci. Ah, merci. Over one end of the chamber was a thick skylight of frosted glass, which by day led in a few sickly and filtered rays from the floor above. After sunrise, these began to mingle with the subdued light from the electric bulbs, and this mingled illumination added a certain gastlinness to a scene which needed no additional touch of horror. The waxwork figures stood apathetically in their places, waiting to be admired or executed by the crowds who would presently wander fearfully among them. In their midst, in the center gangway, Hewson sat still, leaning far back in his swivel chair. His chin was up tilted as if he were waiting to receive attention from a barber. And although there was not a scratch upon his throat, nor anywhere upon his body, he was cold and dead. Dr. Boudette, on his pedestal, watched the dead man unemotional in. He did not move, nor was he capable of motion. But then after all, he was only a waxwork... Spence. In which William Conrad starred in tonight's presentation of the waxwork. The music for tonight's program was composed by Lucian Morrowak. Next week, we bring you a story based on fact. A man's last hours in a death cell awaiting execution. We call it, The Phones Die First. That's next week on Suspense. Suspense is produced and directed in Hollywood by Anthony Ellis. Tonight's story was written by A. M. Burrage. The orchestra was conducted by Wilbur Hatch. Stay tuned for five minutes of CBS News to be followed on most of these same stations by my son Gene. America listens most to the CBS Radio Network.