 Worried about the United Nations? Anxious about those bills piling up? Want to get away from it all? CBS offers you escape. You are the victim of a native witch doctor. Pursued from the West Coast of Africa to the West End of London by the grinning face of a dead man. You are under the curse of a poor man. The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations present escape. Produced and directed by William M. Robeson and carefully plotted to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight, we escape to the dark lowlands of West Africa and the mind of a man who scoffed at native magic as H.G. Wells paints it in his gripping story, Pollock and the Poor Man. I had spent considerable time in Africa, but I have given little credence to the many superstitions of the natives there. Voodoo curses, weird incantations of witch doctors and the like, had always seemed a pretty silly business to me. But that was before the affair of Pollock and the poor man. Even then, while the thing was happening, I took little notice. It was only when I got back to England some months later and went to see Pollock climbing up the three flights of stairs to his lonely bedroom that I began to realize the ghastly truth of it. One look at him was enough. I had never before seen a man so unnaturally wasted, so prematurely aged and broken, so eerily mad as this man lying on the bed, looking up at me with haggard eyes. It was good of you to come, Waterhouse. Nonsense, old chap. I just thought I'd look you up and say hello. But I had no idea I would find you ill. Ill? Yes, I suppose I am ill. I suppose that's what you'd call it. What in heaven's name is the matter, Pollock? I, uh... I said come closer, will you? I'd barely see you. Oh, yes, of course, sir. I'll just drop a chair. Oh, no, no! Pollock, then. What's the matter? Oh, no. Take it away. Take it away! What are you talking about? What is it, then? That thing in your hand. Take it away, please, if I haven't said it. What? In my hand? Pollock, this is only my hat. Your hat? Why, yes, of course. Just an ordinary black humble. Now, if it's style is offensive, too, you ought to... Oh, no, I don't know. I'd... Just put it on the table, the floor. Somewhere where I can't see it, please. Of course, old man. Yes, I... I suppose you think I'm male. I don't mean... I know you do. Everybody does. I'm used to it now. And the worst of it is... Perhaps I am. I say Pollock. Only, I don't think so. Because I do see it. I don't care if no one else does. I can see it. See what? The head. That hideous face following me everywhere, grinning at me. And always upside down. Pollock, what are you talking about? You don't believe me either. Well, look at my wrist. It's broken. The bandage is still on it. That's real enough, isn't it? Yes, of course. Broken, you say? Yes. It did that. And my other accident. When I first got back to England, they said I walked in front of a bus, but I know better. It did that too. A head? Exactly. You wouldn't expect to see a man's head come rolling down the middle of a busy street in London now, would you? Oh, Pollock, you'd better lie back. Rest a bit. I'll call a doctor. You too. And I thought you might understand. After all you were with me when it started. It was you who first warned me, who sent me home. You don't mean that business with a poor man? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. You remember how it started? We were camped at that little village on the lagoon behind the turn of Peninsular. It was swampy and hot and I was bored to tears. Maybe that's why I did it. But anyway, when I got back, you were furious with me. No, no, no. You're a fool, Pollock. You've got to take it back immediately, do you hear? Oh, what possible difference can it make, Waterhouse? Why, all this fuss, old boy, it's only a little wooden statue. Can't be worth anything, except for a curio. You're not that stupid, Pollock. You know, very well, this is a porous idol. You must have stolen it from the hut of a witch doctor. Well, and what of it? Don't you see to them this is sacred, as sacred as an altar cross to a Christian. You've not only committed a crime in their eyes, but a terrible sacrilege as well. Don't tell me they're going to sick their painted gods on me. I should be frightened to death. Before they can do anything, you're going to take this back where you found it and apologize to the poro man. Apologize to an illiterate black witch man, are you crazy? Pollock, I've had about as much of you as I can stand. You're one of those infernal fools who think a black man isn't a human being. I can't turn my back but your running crossways to them, getting you some scrap or other. The third time this month and this time it's serious. Are you telling me you're going to send me home? I honestly think it would be best. As a matter of fact, I'm all for it. I'd be very happy to get out of this sticky, dirty Godforsaken place. Very well. But before you go, Pollock, for the good of the expedition, you've got to take that thing back and apologize. All right. I don't think I'd better. Why not? Well, tell the truth. I don't think they'd give me a chance to apologize. All right. Tell me what happened. Oh, nothing very much, except... Well, as I was carrying the thing away, he went and those chaps popped up and saw it. He started yelling, trying to take it from me. Yes, go on. Well, we had a bit of a tussle. I got away. Go on, Pollock. We were on the bank of the river and I toppled him over, that's all. He fell into the river? Yes. I think he may have hit the rocks first. Was he badly hurt? I don't know. I didn't stop to find out. He was dead, wasn't he? I really don't know. Oh, you fool. You know what was an accident? I had no intention... An accident? A lot they care. It was bad enough with the idol, but you've probably killed a man. We're in for it now. Well, there's nothing to be frightened about. Nothing! In the first place, I should think even your conscience would suffer a little. The second, you don't seem to understand about this poorer business. It rules the country. It's the law, religion, medicine, everything. And these poorer are the most vindictive men on earth. One whose idol you stole and whose follower you killed will be duty bound to do something about it. And there's no telling what he will do. Oh, come now. You don't believe in these voodoo curses and things? Of course not. I'm thinking of something much more real than that. You mean you might try something rough. I can only advise you to lie low until we can get you out of here in the morning. I'll take you as far as Suleymane and see you're safe aboard a steward. You needn't. I can go alone from here. Not far. You still don't understand this business. You wouldn't get a quarter of a mile from this camp alone. I still thought you were making a mountain out of a molehill waterhouse. But I must admit I didn't sleep much that night. I lay there on the mat in my heart and listened to the sounds of the village. And then later to the noises of the night wakening jungle. Sometime after midnight I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start. For a moment I was confused, but I sensed something wrong. And then framed against the moonlight square of the door I saw a hand upraised and in it a knife. Stop it! Stop or I'll shoot! Stop! You devil you! Pollock, Pollock, what is it? What happened? I missed the beggar waterhouse. I missed who? Missed who? What happened? The poor a man. Waterhouse he was in my heart. He had a knife. He tried to kill me. Now wait a minute. Wait a minute. Wait till I find a light. There. Are you all right, man? I'm all right. I just saw it in time. He rode aside and I'm... Look. In my bed. The knife. That was a narrow one. Well, perhaps now you understand the seriousness of this. Waterhouse I saw his face. He stopped just at the door for a second. He was crouched down and he looked back at me from under his arm. His face was etched clearly in the moonlight. It was upside down. I'll never forget it. I'll get you a drink. Listen, Waterhouse. Listen. He glared back at me with his painted face upside down and streaked with those hideous scars they cut in their cheeks. See that in my dreams. Steady on, old man. Here you are. Drink this. All right. Waterhouse. The idol's gone. I've just noticed the idol's gone. He took it. It's gone. Yes. Well, then it's all over. He got what he wants. He won't follow me again, will he? I'm afraid there's more to it than that. But he's got the blasted idol back and he won't try it again. Will he? I've just noticed something too, Pollock. There's something here on the floor. One of your shots clipped off the tip of his little finger. Too bad you aren't a better shot. Why? Why'd you say that? Because I'm afraid we haven't seen the last of this business yet. You were more right than you knew, Waterhouse. The next morning was only the beginning. We were standing by the river and supervising the parking. I'm glad we're getting out of here. There's something brewing or things wouldn't be so quiet. Oh, what would be brewing? In a copper pot, probably? Dancing in a circle of skulls, putting curses on you? Oh, that. What can he do? How the devil should I know? There are versatile people. They know a lot of rumdaches. The best thing to do... Look out! Oh, man, that was close. What was it? One of their beastly poisoned arrows and the tree behind you. Missed your head by inches. I came from over there in the bush. Let's do something. Let's chase him something. No use now. Never find him in there. The best thing for us to do is to get out of here quick. Well, we got out all right. You remember how we went down the river, keeping as far from the banks as possible? Huh? You thought I was safe when you got me to Selim and said goodbye. Didn't you, Waterhouse? So did I. You said goodbye and went back to the interior. Nothing happened. And for two days and I was beginning to feel that the whole thing was just a nasty dream. And then, then as I was walking in the compound, I was hit in the arm with a slug. It was a long shot. The bullet was spent. I only got a flesh wound. But I knew he was there. I decided to confide in Brea. Little Portuguese would rid me of hotness compound. He took it seriously. It is a personal question, you know. It's revenge, see? And he must hurry because you will leave the country. Yes, I'll be on the boat to Freetown in three more days than I'll be rid of him forever. Perhaps. Then there's this magic. Of course, I don't believe in it. Superstition. But still, it's not nice to think that wherever you are, there's a black man spends a moonlight night sometimes dancing around a fire to send you bad dreams. You have any bad dreams? Well, there. Keep seeing the beggar's head upside down grinning at me, showing all his teeth the way he did not. That's nothing to be afraid of. It's not pleasant either. Then they say poor men send snakes. Have you seen any snakes lately? Well, only one. I killed one this morning on the floor under my hammock. I almost stepped on him when I got up. Of course, it is coincidence. Still, I would keep eyes open. Then there is the pains in the legs and arms. I thought they were caused by miasma. Probably they are. When did they begin? Well, three nights ago the night... Oh, blasted. It's nonsense. If I could just meet this devil face to face with a gun in my hand. You might shoot him, but then he might shoot you. I think he do not want to kill you. Anyway, not yet. Their idea is scare and worry a man with their spells and narrow misses and pains and bad dreams and all that until he is sick of life. Of course, it is our talk. You must not worry about it. No, of course not. But I wonder what he will be up to next. Perhaps it is I who should be up to something. What do you mean? Never mind. But I am not one to just sit and take this. That very afternoon I had a conversation with a rough-necked Mendei tribesman I found there in Salima. He showed me a little iron dagger and demonstrated how one struck at the back of the neck. He agreed to do the job for the price of a double barrel gun with an ornamental lock to prayers feeling better than I had in days. That night the Portuguese and I were sitting in his living room playing cards when suddenly the Mendei rough strode in without so much as a knock. What do you want? Oh, what's you? Have done what you tell me. Have proof. What is it you have in the package? Is that blood dripping? Proof. Here. His head? Oh, no. No, no. This man you want, now I get gone. You didn't have to bring this. I didn't ask for such proof. You mean, Senor Pollock, you got him killed? You did not kill him yourself? Why should I? But he will not be able to take it off now. What do you mean, take it off? Look at the cards. They are all spoiled with this blood. What do you mean, take what off? You must send me a new pack from Freetown. Can't buy them there. Take what off? It is only a superstition, I forgot. The natives say if the witch, he was a witch, but it is all rubbish. Go on, go on. They say you must make the poor man take the curse off or kill him yourself. It is very silly. Gun. Now. Yes. I'll make you two guns if you'll take that beastly thing away. No. One gun. Now. No. All right. Friar, that gun you have for sale, give it to him. I have the money right here. Yes, sir. Over here. Take it and go. Thanks. It is funny how the head sits upside down. Just the way I saw him that night. Just the way I see him in my dreams. Like it was waited that way. You will take him with you when you go. Maybe take him now. My cards are all spoiled. There is a man who sells them in Freetown. You should have killed him yourself. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. I took the thing to my hut. And no matter what I did, it always came to rest upside down and glaring at me. I got a shovel. I buried it in the soft earth behind the hut. But in the middle of the night, I was awakened by some sound in my room. What is it? Who's there? Speak up or I'll shoot. Oh, a dog. Only a dog. Yes, it is only a dog. But in the morning when I awoke and started to get out of bed, in the center of the floor glaring at me upside down, it was uncanny until I remembered the dog. I found his paw prints and then dug up earth outside and I knew how it got there. I took the thing down to the river. I threw it as far as I could into the current. At last I'd be rid of it. Late in the afternoon, a little steamer arrived that would take me away from this insane land of the power and Freetown and civilization. It almost began to feel gay. Is that boat carried me swiftly away from the shores of the Bora land? At last I would be free and soon I'd be back where poro and curses and nightmares would be forgotten. I was standing at the rail sighing with relief when the captain of the steamer whom I'd met before strolled out and began to make conversation. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, he said, I picked up a rum curio on the beach this go. It's a thing I never saw done this side of Inge before. Why is that so? The head of one of these poro chips all ornamented with knife cuts. I say, what's the matter, old chap? The green in the face. I wouldn't have took you for a bad sailor. Oh, I'm quite all right. Well, this ill I was telling you about is a bit queer in a way. I've got it in a jar of spirits in my cabin. You know, I mean, if you don't float upside down. Here I say, old chap, what's the matter? Stuart! Stuart! That was the last straw, I suppose. Something seemed to snap in my brain. For the rest of the voyage I lay there in the bunk, staring at the ceiling. And I had the strange sensation that the boat was made of glass. Transparent. And then I could see up through the ceiling into the captain's cabin. See the poro man's face floating in a jar of alcohol upside down, grinning at me. Of course, the actual head is still in the captain's cabin in Freetown, but it didn't matter the poro man's work had been done by then. Because now I carried it with me everywhere. In my brain. I saw it everywhere, anywhere. Any object that was round, like a hat or a pillar of ours, suddenly developed features when I looked at it. Ugly, scarred features with a grinning, mocking mouth. Features turned upside down. When I docked in London, I went straight to my banker's office in Cornhill. And the security is all in order, Mr Pollock. You shall have to watch things, of course, but all in all you shall have enough to live quite comfortably and to enjoy a reasonable amount of freedom. Then to... I say, Pollock, what are you staring at so fixedly? That thing. Hanging from your mantelpiece. Oh yes, I see. The potted fern. Rather pretty one, isn't it? Oh yes. Yes, it's very pretty. I must do something about it, though. It's always dripping water down on the fender of the fireplace. Makes it rusty. I was wondering about that. It looks... Red almost like blood. Rust, you know. Yes. Oh, by the way, that reminds me, can you recommend a physician for mental troubles? I've got a little, uh... what do you call it, uh... hallucination. The poor man grinned at me fiendishly and I stared back at him. The banker watched me very curiously for a moment and then he gave me the address of a doctor and I left his office. That's when my accident happened. To a man who's been many months in the jungle of busy London streets, confusing enough. But when a head comes rolling down the middle of the street and between your legs... No! No! I was in the hospital for weeks. The only permanent injury, however, was the loss of the tip of my little finger. By strange coincidence, the same fingertip of the left hand that I'd shot off the poor man that first night. Well, even in the hospital, the poor man was with me all the time. Everywhere the doctors couldn't help me. My friends couldn't either. So I tried cycling in the country. But that thing kept rolling along beside me and getting tangled up in the wheels and spilling me. That's, that's, that's how I got the broken wrist. It... Well, the worst came only last week. I'd just come back from a long walk, hoping to be tired enough to go to sleep. As usual, that bronze vase was over there in front of the big French window. And it... Well, perhaps the poor man enjoys the view of the street three floors below. But anyway, this night, I felt a little devil make care, so I turned round towards and I looked him in the eye and I said, So, you're still here, are you, my ugly shadow? Yes, Pollock. I am still here. What, what, what did you say? I said I am still here. And I always will be. No, no, not that too, not that, no. No, no, no. Now you understand, Waterhouse, I not only see the poor man, I hear him too. Pollock, old chap, this is frightful. No, it is, rather, isn't it? I mean, you are ill, man, very ill. Now, surely there's something someone can do, some doctor? What can any doctor do? Can he take off the poor man's curse? Pollock, that's nonsense. And you know it. Oh, is it? Of course, man, it's all in your mind. All, what do they call it, suggestion. The power of suggestion is strong. You're impressionable. You've let these stories prey on your mind, and you've got to snap out of it. Oh, I should have killed him myself. Pollock, I'd do it too, with my bare hands if only I had the chance. Man, you're talking rot. Look at him there, look at him grinning at me. Pollock, that's only a bronze vase. Always grinning at me more and more famously every day. Stop it, stop it, you devil, stop it, you hear? Pollock, calm yourself. Lie back, rest. Rest, rest, yes, yes. That's what I mean. If I'd only known, I'd never have left you there in Sulema alone. All this might have been prevented. Oh, might it? Listen, Waterhouse, when you came in, I was just lying here thinking I see him. I hear him, my sense of sight and of hearing is affected. And someday, my sense of touch will go too. When it does, I know that will be the end. I'll be finished. And the poorer man will finally have his revenge. Won't he? Pollock, old man. When you came in, I was lying here, trying to get up the nerve to walk over there and make the test. I'm going to do it. No, no, I won't let you. No, you can't stop me, Waterhouse, don't you see? I've got to. I can't go on like this. I've got to know. Have it over with. No, Pollock. It's beyond anything you can do. Stand aside. But stand aside, please. That window is open. If you have a view. Never mind. This is just an ordinary Bronze vase. Isn't it, Waterhouse? Pollock, don't do it. I know it's only a Bronze vase. I know that when I will feel only cold metal, when I reach out and touch it, I know. Pollock, look out that window. You're backing into that window. Pollock! Escape is produced and directed by William N. Robeson. And tonight brought you Pollock and the Porer Man by H.G. Wells, adapted for radio by John Dunkel, Martin Yarborough as Pollock, Louis Van Rooten as Waterhouse, and Bill Conrad as Berea. The special musical score was conceived and conducted by Sy Fuhrer. Next week... You are groping through the darkened corridors of a gigantic department store in the dead of night. And suddenly you realize you're not alone. That a hundred eyes are glaring at you from the shadows. A hundred hands reaching for your throat. Next week, Escape with John Collier's eerie story, Evening Primrose. Good night then until this same time next week when CBS again offers you Escape. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.