 Suspense. Video's outstanding Theater of Frills brings you an hour. A full 60 minutes of suspense. Tonight, starring Mr. John McIntyre in a play entitled, The House by the River by A.P. Herbert. Directed by Anton M. Leader and produced by Robert Montgomery. Mr. Montgomery. True wit is nature, to advantage dressed. What oft was thought but ne'er so well expressed. Alexander Pope was speaking about poetry when he said that. And most of us, when we think about poetry, think of it in much the same way. As beauty caught and held captive in a skein of words. As something soft and lovely and without violence. But that's not always true. Poetry can be violent and hard and dark with tales of terror and horror. The popular idea that a poet is always a soft and fragile fellow is also untrue. Poetry grows from the stuff of life and the poet is heir to all the ills of other men. He is a frequent walker upon the dark paths of life, as well as in the sunlit fields. And finally it's not true either that a poet worth that name must live in a lonely garret, in obscure poverty, sleeping on the stacks of his unread rhymes. Some poets find fame unfortunate early and live richly in comfort and adulation. In fact, that's the kind of a poet we have in our story tonight. Stephen Burns, who at 35, was already being compared with Keats and Shelley, who had in a few slender volumes made himself the voice and the conscience of all England. His home, standing on the bank of the Thames, was known to a million Englishmen as the House by the River. Here he lived in peace and contentment with his wife, Marjorie, and his brother, John, a civil servant in London. Here, on the breast of the great sluggish river, he lived and studied and worked until... The evening of June 15th, last summer. Marjorie was out of the house visiting her people in Cornwall. John was not yet home from work. It was Cook's night out. Stephen stood at dusk in his garden, watching the water beneath him turn black as night came on with a rush. His neighbor, Mrs. Ambrose, was watering her tulips in the garden next to his. The scene was set for a strange adventure. Tonight, Mr. John McIntyre returns to our cast following his sensational performance three weeks ago in Donovan's brain. With him is a new young star from the Abbey Players in Dublin, Mr. Dan O'Hurley. And so were the performances of John McIntyre as Stephen Burns, and Dan O'Hurley as John Burns in A.P. Herbert's The House by the River. We again hope to keep you in. Suspends! Anything wrong, Mrs. Ambrose? Look at that, Stephen! Why? It's a cat. A dead cat. Much as I love living on the river, Stephen, this is what it casts upon our property. This and worse. Yes, I know. I've seen it passing up and down the river for weeks. Yes, what's happened to the world, Mrs. Ambrose? And it can become so indifferent, so menacing and cruel to a little yellow kitten. I'm sure I don't know about the world, but I do think a letter to the authorities would help. Yes, it might at that. Who is that marjorie up there in the house? I thought she was away for the evening. She is. No, that must be the new maid. Oh, Emily Gont. It seems like a very nice girl. Well, she's a nice, clean girl, at any rate. She's probably in the bath right now. Well, I'll have to get someone to take that cat away. Good night, Mrs. Ambrose. Good night. Yes. Cruel menacing indifferent world, even to a tiny yellow innocent little kitten. Oh! Good evening, Mr. Burns. Good evening, Emily. Have a nice bath. Yes, thank you, sir. Very nice. Are you looking for something, Emily? I just thought I'd put my hair up tonight. You have very pretty hair, Emily. I don't wonder you tend it so carefully. It's a bother more than anything else, it is, sir. Men are so lucky when it comes to things like that. As a matter of fact, Emily, you're a very pretty girl. Thank you, sir. Pretty enough to kiss. Oh, sir. Would you mind if I kissed you, Emily? You must be joking, sir. No, Emily, I'm not joking. Please, sir. What would Mrs. Burns say? Never mind, Ms. Burns. Emily, never mind. Come here. Oh, no, please. Quiet, you little fool. I'm not going to hurt you. Hasn't a man ever kissed you before? Oh! Oh! Would you be quiet? Listen to me, you're perfectly safe, Emily. I'm sorry, I was a fool. I didn't mean to hurt you. All right, then, I'm going to let you go. But I want you to be quiet. Help! Would you be quiet, you fool? You wake everyone. You have everyone here. My wife, my neighbors. Stop it! Stop it, do you hear? Stop it! That's better. Emily? Emily? Emily? Open up, it's John. John, that's about time. What kept you so long? You know, I've got to stop forgetting my key like this. Come in, come in quick. Is anything wrong? I, I, I need your help. I, I'm in a hole. All right, what's the tru- It's our mate. It's Emily Gont. I'm afraid she's dead. Why haven't you picked her up? Why haven't you called a doctor? Listen to me, John. I say she's dead. Emily. Dead? Yes. You ought to throw something over her. What? All right, I didn't think. All right. How did it happen? How did I know? I was playing the fool. I was pretending I was going to kiss her. Go on. Well, she got frightened. She thought I meant it, and then she bumped her head. I had to keep her quiet at this scandal. She didn't seem to understand. Lost her nerve. I kept trying to quiet, and then she bumped her head. Like, no, I said that, didn't I? Shall we call the police? You don't understand, John. It's murder. Yes, it is. What am I going to do? I don't know. I was thinking the river. Slip out in a rowboat and do it now. It would be easy that way. Take only a few minutes. Emily Gont, in the river? We've got to get her out of here. Marjor will be home. Anyone could walk in. I want you to help me, John. If you don't, I'm finished. Couldn't you throw it over the wall, into the water? No, no, no. The tide would throw it up again in the morning. You've, you... It's got to go out, John. It's got to be sunk. All right. Let's get it over with. I knew you'd help. Let's get it over with. Yes, yes, you're right. I'll just run down to the basement for a moment. We have a large sack there. What are you doing now? It's got to sink. Don't you understand? The anchor, I will do it. Hurry up, Stephen. Hurry up! I'll leave you already. It's a quarter after 10. Emily's been dead an hour. What have I done to you? Nothing. I'll be all right. Are you sorry? Of course I'm sorry. What do you take me for? But it couldn't be helped. Thanks. Don't talk about it anymore. The sack is missed. I'll take the responsibility. I'll say I'll... No, no, I won't have you involved anymore. Besides, it won't be necessary. Let's go home. Stop him! What is it now? I just remembered. My name and address are stenciled on that sack. Only Mr Burns. Morning, Mr Beach. If you please, sir. Yes, what is it? It's Emily, sir. Anything wrong with her? Oh, no, sir. She's not in the house. It was my night out yesterday and when I came in this morning I noticed as our bed wasn't slept in. I think she's been gone all night. Really? Gone without her macintosh, too. I wondered as how maybe you'd seen her, sir, or sent her on a heron's like. No, no. There was no heron. Oh, youth will have its fling, they say. I hope you won't be too hard on a Mr Burns. Emily's really a good girl. Nonetheless, it's not a thing for her to have done. I'll speak to you when she comes in. Thank you, sir. Yes. It's begun. Careful some toast, John. No thanks. Steven? No, darling. I'll ring for some fresh. Don't bother. I'm not very hungry. What's come over you two the last few days? Anything wrong with your egg, Steven? Steven? Oh, no, no, dear, no. I'm thinking that's all. Poets are like hens. They brood before they produce. I haven't written in days. It's always darkest before the sun at... Well, I know it wasn't a very good joke, but you might smile. Oh, it's no use, ma'am. It's doing the work of two that's made me so mumpish, and that detective fella poking around in my kitchen under my feet all day. What detective? Oh, the one who's been nosing round the bed door asking after Emily. Look at girl. She's probably off with some toff she is. What did you tell him? Nothing at all, but Mr Burns here, he just immediately told him Emily's like to be off to Bellys with a gentleman friend. We don't know that. We don't know anything, really, but she was a flighty little thing. That's a lie. She'll turn up again, but until she does it can't help to talk about it. Nobody's been lining Emily. Just because the girl ran off or somebody... You didn't see her do it, did you? Don't be a fool, John. Certainly not. Then... I'll leave her in peace. That's all cook. Thank you. Oh, not at all, mum. Pass the coffee, would you, darling? Do you know, John, one who'd almost think you were sweet on the girl. You weren't, were you? Shut up, Stephen. You're both too grumpy for me. I think I'll go and cut some flowers. Don't go too far. It's just a joke. Forget it. Forget it. How can I? Every time someone speaks to me, I see the same thing in their eyes. Where's Emily Gont? What's happened to the girl? Why did you do it? Forget it. I believe you almost have. I wish I could. I wish I could... Blast it. What's that, darling? I said blast it. Finished writing. I can't start. Oh, I'm sorry. I wish it were a tap and I could turn it off and on, but I can't. I've carried an idea in my head for a month now. It's been growing and swelling and clamoring to be born, but I... You'll get it, Stephen. Not in this room. I'm going out in the river. Does that help? I need the river. It seems to flow through my life, just as it does through the heart of London. Anyway, it's good exercise. Darling, I'll come with you. I'd rather go alone. Oh. What if you don't mind? No. I don't mind. Well, then? Stephen. What? Nothing, Stephen. Nothing. I'll be back late. Transport. Mr. John Burns, please. John, this is Marjorie. Oh, is anything wrong, Marjorie? No, I don't think so, but I've just had a brainstorm. Would you like to take a pretty girl to lunch? Yes, you do. Me. I'll come in by the tube, be there in an hour. It's lovely here. Who'd think there was such a beautiful spot right in the middle of the city? I think they designed this park for lovers, primarily. Sometimes when I walk here, I feel like an intruder. But you're acting the part quite nicely. Luncheon at Pym's, Corsage of Valus. You're getting the grand treatment. After all, this is our first date. I've kept you a terribly long time. Won't they mind? I don't care if they do. John, you're very nice. Yes, like mint tea when you have a cold. No, like a friend. Be careful, Marjorie. I'll hold you to that. I want you to. What's the trouble? Trouble? You didn't come all the way into the city just to have lunch with me. I suppose I wanted to talk, but somehow now it doesn't seem so important. Is it something about Stephen? I... Yes. You must have noticed that our marriage hasn't been exactly perfect. Oh, you. You mustn't let Stephen's moods upset you. It's more than that. No woman has a chance with Stephen. His only real love is his work. I sometimes wonder why he ever married me at all. Perhaps because he needed you. Perhaps. And you, John. Don't you need anyone? Me? That's the other way around. It seems nobody needs me. Except Mr. Forsythe at the office. Come on. I'll take it to the tube station. You're Stephen Burns, the poet, aren't you? My name's Muriel. That's nice. Where did you spring from? Just the next garden over. I'm Mr. Dimple's niece. Down for the summer. Are you like it here? I know who you are. I've read all your poetry. Have you? I'm an artist myself. I've been sketching the view from up here. I bet it's ever so much finer out on the river. Yes, it is. I see you're going out there. That's right. Take me with you. I think not. Do. Take me with you. Don't worry, Muriel. One day I'll let you catch up with me. Hello, Stephen. I see you two have met. Just a minute. I didn't know you had a niece, Dimple. I hardly knew it myself until she was there with her baggage on my doorstep. I'm neglecting my painting. But I'll keep you to your promise, Mr. Burns. Yes, do that. See you later, Uncle. I know. Going boating? Yes. It'll be cool out there in the water. If only there wasn't so much refuse always floating about. Garbage, Mr. Dimple. Garbage from everybody's lives. Yes, so. Disgourging, if you'll excuse the expression, on to our gardens. Not at all right for an English river. Go out and make friends with it. Then you won't mind. As you, Dan, you mean? Well, I can't. Seesick, you know. How many secrets are out there? What? Oh, yes. It is a secret river. Like the Nile. Mystery hidden deep within it and passion, especially at night. Don't you think that makes it beautiful, Dimple? And exciting? I suppose so. I like to sit by my window and watch it. Watch it. Do you do a lot of watching, Dimple? Yes, Dimple. A great deal. Hello? Who the devil is this? Steven. What is it, Steven? John, listen to me carefully. All right, I am. I've been looking out on the river. Suddenly, as I was looking out, I can't hear you very well. It's a bad connection. Speak up. John, I'm trying to tell you it's come up. Do you understand? Yes. It's come up. Coming home. Tell me, Steven, tell me quickly. No luck. I couldn't find it. How could you lose it? How? I chased it six miles, but the tide was running too fast. How did it get loose from the anchor? I don't know. Maybe the knot wasn't very... I don't know. And what happens now? Now? Now it'll be passing up and down the river until it's found. Up and down the river in plain view of 50,000 Londoners. Sucked at by liners and churned up by thugs. If it would only escape, out to sea. There must be a chance. This might go on for weeks. Don't think about it. It might. But if it does, can you hold out, John? Can you? I'm not sure you can. As long as you can. I'll be out on the river from now on. I'm going to watch for it. I'm going to watch for Emily. Are you looking for me? Sorry to trouble you, sir. It'll just be a few minutes. I'm a police officer. Quite all right, Inspector. Won't you sit down? I don't think so. Thank you. Can you tell me anything about this sack? I can't say. Sacks are very much alike. We had one in our basement once, but... And what happened to it? Well, I don't know. Perhaps my brother John could... I don't know. Mind if I look at it in a moment? Oh, no. Stephen Burns. House by the river W-6. Well, that, it's mine. Very curious, sir. Any idea what might have happened to it? Well, none in the world. Did anyone in the house ever use it? I believe we use it for gathering kindling wood. That's not in my department, though. I see. Whose department would it be, sir? My brother John usually takes care of that. Well, I'm much obliged to be Inspector for bringing it back. Where did you find it? If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to keep it a while longer. A little matter we are clearing up. Certainly, as long as you like. I must remember to tell John it's been found. Does he happen to be home now? John? Oh, no, he's at his office in the city. Well, then, I won't be bothering you anymore, sir. Not at all. However, it seems I must speak to your brother John. Suit yourself, Inspector. Good day. My brother John, Inspector. My brother John. When your Emily Gawd disappeared, he was not to go after the young man. Rather, it was to go straight into the river. Yes, Mr. Coroner. And you have nothing further to tell us in quest concerning that disappearance. I've told it all, sir. Thank you. Step down, please. Mr. Henry Dimple? How long have you lived on the river, Mr. Dimple? On the river? 18 years this fall? You've known the two Burns brothers all that time? Ever since they were boys. What has been your impression of them? Impression? If you'll pardon me, one gathers more than an impression in 18 years. I have known them to be excellent men. In addition to which, I may need not add that Mr. Stephen Burns is England's foremost young poet. So being very helpful, Mr. Dimple, suppose we go on. I all mean, sir. We've already proven that this sack belongs to Stephen Burns. Can you tell us if you've ever seen it before? Yes, I have. After a party last Christmas, I borrowed his sack to dispose of a rather large number of empty bottles. I don't drink myself, but... There were so many young people down for the holiday. Yes, yes. And then did you return the sack immediately? I did. The river is a rather small community, and a person living on it might be expected to know a great deal about what goes on. Do you think that's true? Oh, yes. Indeed it is. You yourself, Mr. Dimple, might be in a position to observe a great deal. I think I know everything that happens on the river. Then what do you know of this tragedy? Nothing. Are you quite sure, Mr. Dimple? Quite sure. Nothing at all. All right. Step down, please. Call the next witness. Mr. Stephen Burns. Mr. Burns. You recognise this sack, of course. I bought it at Selby three years ago. And it has hung in your basement ever since? Well, except for brief loans, yes. Now, according to the testimony, this sack was used for the collection of kindling wood. As I understand it, you people living on the river simply go out on your boat, and the wood is part of the general refuse that floats on the water. You select what you like. There's always enough, and you generally use a large sack for your purpose. That's right. Now, in your household, that job, the collection of firewood, has usually been your brother's task? Yes. John collects the wood. Therefore, in your house, it was your brother who used the sack. Tell me, Mr. Burns, when was the last time your brother went out for wood? Some weeks ago, it's hard to say. Would you say two weeks ago? At the time, Emily Gont disappeared. I must ask you not to mind what I mean, Mr. Burns. Would you say two weeks ago? I couldn't be... I couldn't be sure. Thank you, Mr. Burns. That'll be all. Oh, I think he knows how to do that. Mr. John Burns. Mr. Burns, you're a bachelor living in the house by the river with your brother and sister-in-law. That's right. What day did you last collect kindling wood, Mr. Burns, and how close was that day to the disappearance from your household of Emily Gont? I don't remember. The collection of firewood, unlike a marriage or a birthday, is not a festive moment in my life. I do not fix those days in my brain. Yes, just so. And yet it strikes me as a rather unique activity for the middle of the summer. It may strike you as it likes. Evenings on the river are cool, summer and winter. I like a fire in my room. Let us come to the sack, Mr. Burns. You said that you lost it. How does one lose a sack? How? By having it one moment and not the next. By losing it. I'm aware it seems a little thing, but I promise you, Tizian, could you be more specific? Well, it must have slipped off the boat. Yes, of course. And then perhaps it was found by someone else who used it to contain the body of the poor innocent girl who is one family god. But I'd like to leave that day for a moment. Ordinarily, after you'd picked the wood out of the water, would you stuff it into the sack then and there in your boat? No, I'd just throw it into the bottom of the boat. I see. When would you put the wood in the sack? In the garden just before I took it indoors. Mr. Burns, ordinarily you carried the wood out of the boat and in the garden you put it into the sack. Then, Mr. Burns, would you be kind enough to tell me why it was that the last time you went for wood you found it necessary to take the sack out on the river at all? It seems I... I just forgot. The death of Emily Gaunt is willful murder by person or persons unknown. This inquest is adjourned. Mr. Burns, Mr. Stephen Burns, please. Yes? Martry, dear. You and John go. I'll be long present. Yes, Stephen. Yes, Coroner, what is it? I just want to tell you that this case is far from being closed. Are you sure you have nothing more you'd like to say to us? Nothing. I can understand your feelings, Mr. Burns. After all, the man is your brother. My brother? If there's any further light you could throw on this. There's nothing now. But if I should find anything, I'll get in touch with you immediately. You see, Coroner, I want justice done. No matter who may be involved. In tonight's full hour of suspense, Mr. John McIntyre appears as Stephen Burns and Mr. Daniel Hurley he as John Burns. In the house by the river. Tonight's study in suspense. In just a moment, we will return with act two of suspense. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System. And now, back to our Hollywood sound stage and to our producer, Mr. Robert Montgomery, for act two of The House by the River, starring John McIntyre in a narrative well calculated to keep you in suspense. Burns walked home slowly after the inquest. Down the main street of the little suburb, past the Greengrocers, past the Lending Library, past the tube station with its roar of express trains racing down from London, down the little street toward his house by the river. John and Marjorie had gone on ahead of him and he was alone, listening to his heels clicking on the pavement, listening to his thoughts whispering in his head. The police felt John was guilty that was evident. Hadn't Stephen been hoping for this secretly in his heart? Hadn't he nudged suspicion gently toward John by a raised eyebrow one time and the liberate inflection of his voice another time? Those were his thoughts as he walked home, now and then looking up to the sky that had suddenly turned so black and glowering, forecasting a heavy summer rain, then almost at his elbow, someone was calling his name. Stephen! Stephen Burns! Oh, hello, Miriam. Why don't you stop a while? Your wife and brother just went by. Is there? I hope you're in no hurry. No, I'm not. It's awfully hot, isn't it? I like it this way. I don't. I'm stifling. You don't look it. In fact, you look very cool and fresh. Thank you, Stephen. What I need is a cold drink. Make one for me. All right. Come on in. Won't you sit down? I'll only be a minute. You might look at that scrapbook. It's got all kinds of interesting clippings. Mystery in Stephen Burns' house. She went out into the world innocent and fresh to help her family in the battle of life with a few poor shillings she could earn by menial labor in a strange house. And for this she was brutally, horribly murdered by an unknown man who's vicious. Listen to Rodin. There wasn't any ice. It'll be a few minutes. Are you keeping this scrapbook? There? Well, it's Uncle's. Why should Mr. Dimple be so interested in the Emily Gantt case to the extent of cutting clippings from the newspapers and making a special little book? Do you know why, Muriel? Oh, I think he's a little morbid. But let's not talk about him. What would you like to talk about? I don't want to talk at all. It's so hot. Yes. It's hard enough just trying to breathe. Do you like it here, Muriel? Here, with you. No, here on the river. Are you enjoying your vacation? There's nothing much to do here, is there? Not much. For anyone as young as you. Oh, you're young, too. You can't be writing your poetry all day and all night. How do you manage? I suppose I don't. Oh, that's a shame. You know what, Stephen? What? I think I caught up with you at last. What was that? It's only thunder. Yes, you see how we spend our days, our time on Earth, going around under a blue, English sky, safe and blunted, half alive. And all of the time the storm is there, waiting to explode, waiting to rip and bend down and twist. But there's no storm in here. Isn't there? Can we keep you, Stephen? I beg your pardon? Nothing. It wasn't important. Did you notice, after the inquest today, how people were looking at me? Don't you know why? No. No, I don't. Do you think you killed Emily Gaunt? How can they believe that? They don't have to believe it. I know you think because they're neighbors and you've lived among them for years, that they like you. Well, it's not true. They like their nasty little back stairs secrets better. I should have moved out long ago. There must be one empty flat in London. I'll have to see an agent tomorrow. Don't run away from them. I'm not running from them. What then? Are you thinking of us? Stephen and I don't care what they say. I care what they say. I don't want any scandaling to his name. Or yours. John. When we were boys, Stephen used to read his poems to me. I remember sitting on the bank by the river, watching him. Have you ever seen one child, ape another? I did that. I used to shape the words in my mouth and pretend they were mine. It hasn't been easy for you, has it, John? Doesn't matter. It's not only that he's my brother. It's also that I admire him. And so you'll spare him the pain of having you around? Oh, that was a lie. I suppose if I told the truth, I really hate him. Yes, I've got to go. I know what this place means to your marjorie. I'd be spoiled for you if I stay. I don't want that. But don't you see, your going would only make it worse. Marjorie. Stay, John. I want you to. Why? Can't you see, John? Don't you know? I want to hear you say it. Oh, you do? Did you wait up for me? I waited for the rain to stop. I was just going to bed. Good night. What's the matter with Marjorie? I need some air. What's the matter with you? Nothing at all. Where are you going? Just for a walk. I think I'll come with you. You've just been. That's all right. As a young lady, I want to discuss with you. I miss Emily Gantt. Come along then. It's starting to rain again. We'll be soaked through in a minute. Let's go back. Here's the tube. Let's duck down into the station. All right. This way. What have you got to say? John. Do you feel it? Feel what? There's a difference in us since all this happened. Did you expect to stay the same? Did you think you could go on living as if nothing had happened? Poor John. I think you've suffered. Of course I have. Every minute. Every day. But don't you feel anything else? Yes. I'm scared and sick. That isn't what I mean. With me it is though I can see better and smell and feel. Everything is so much sharper than it was. It took a murder to do that. Yes. A murder. That's the amazing thing. That's why I'm going to put it all into a poem. Here. What? That's right. A story of two men. The Black Knight and the White. It'll be called Death in the Woods. What happens? The Black Knight meets a girl in the forest. During the encounter by mistake he kills her. He's torn with grief. Now the White Knight is his best friend. He comes upon the scene after the tragedy. And he helps the Black Knight hide the girl's white, mutilated body. They carry her to a dark, mysterious lake in the heart of the forest. Just within the boundaries of the Black Knight's castle. And here in the lake they put her corpse. You must be out of your head. You must be insane. Why? You think you're being clever? It's transparent. Ten million English readers would look at the first page and know who killed Emily Gone. No one would. I'm not going to have it published. I'd just write it. Why? Because I have to. No matter how terrible a thing is, he carries in his head. If a man is a writer, he can somehow get rid of it. He can write it out of his system and be rid of its nagging forever. Whether it's a love affair or a disease or a... or a murder, he can be rid of it. It's not that easy. It is for me. Don't do it, Stephen. You know how you are. You'll show it to someone after a while you'll want to. Don't worry about me. Shouldn't I? How did it feel, Stephen, when you were lying about me? About you? But you're imagining things. Suppose a policeman were to come up to us here right now. Suppose he were to ask which of us two gentlemen killed Emily Gone. Do you know what had happened? Tell me. You'd point to me. John. John, let me ask you. Which of us two would the world miss the most? The world! Blast the world! I care about me. Me, John Burns, who's never written a poem in his life and looks like anybody else in the street. What are you going to do about it? Nothing. I'm not going to do a thing. But... you can do as you like. No. I won't do anything either. You're not afraid, are you? I'm in love with your wife. So that's it. Very convenient, isn't it? Is it? And does she love you? I don't know. It doesn't matter. You could have had her, you know. I might have been on the gallows by now and you could have had her. Instead, you come down into the pit with me and help me. Why? We've been through all that because you're my brother. We've been here long enough. Are you coming with me? All right, I'll go alone. You tried to push me off the platform in front of the train. You tried to kill me. It was taken, John. You slipped. I was trying to catch your arm. I see. Then you were trying to save me. That's right. I must thank you for that. Not at all, John. Not at all. How much longer do we play this game? I beg your pardon. You've been following me since I got off the train. That's right. You're a police officer? Yes. How long have you been following me? Since the day after Emily Gaunt disappeared. You mean you've been with me since then? All these weeks, every day, every minute? You're an active young man, Mr. Burns. You've got a long stride. But me? Why me? I take my assignments from Scotland Yard. They don't always tell me the reasons. I tell you there is no reason this time. As you say, Mr. Burns. No, you leave me alone. No, Mr. Burns. Working? Let me see. Death in the woods. A romance by Stephen Burns. You're really writing it. I'm really writing it. I'm done in. What did you want? I just wondered why you'd been so late. Did you? Yes, you worried me. Did it? Did you think I'd finally cracked and gone to the police? I'd just like to know where you are. Don't bother about me. Did you know the house is being watched? Day or night? Yes. I can see them from my window here. I just wanted to be sure you knew. Good night, Stephen. Good night, John. While moonlight glinted on her body there. While waves washed gently or her body fair. Do you like the rose, Stephen? I'm not very hungry, I'm afraid. You look exhausted. Is the poem finished? Yes. All finished. You don't look very happy about it. It's good. When can I see it? I'm not going to show it to anyone. I see. We used to share things. This is different. I'll probably destroy it anyway. Stephen. Yes? What about us? What about us? You don't seem to have very much of a marriage. You must have noticed that. As I suppose I have. I've discovered something important about you. You live your life on paper. The things you feel and know. Even the people you love. They're all raw material. And when you get them into a poem, you're finished with them. When we were first married, you composed a lovely sonnet sequence. Songs for marjorie. And when you'd done it, you didn't need me anymore. Stephen, aren't you listening? It's about time he came down to dinner. What's he sulking about? Do you mean, John? He went out some time ago. Where did he go? He didn't say. Anyway, we were talking about us. Stephen, where are you going? Bring him back. Death in the Woods. By Stephen Burns. Part one. The murder. I couldn't find him. Why should you want to? Care for a drink, marjorie? No, not at the moment. That's better. We were talking about us before I made that sudden exit. Yes. The matter of fact, you ought to know about it. There's another woman, her name's Muriel. A rather silly little thing. Is that so? Not even a little bit jealous? No, Stephen. You're never jealous of someone you don't love. You make it sound very final. It is. Just like that. Should I say I'm sorry? There's no need. I know it doesn't matter to you. You're in some kind of a mood tonight. I can sense it. Why are you so strange, marjorie? While you were out looking for John, I read some poetry. Was it mine? It was signed by you. I went into the study. It was lying on the desk. I read it. Did you like it? Did I like it? How can you ask that? Why not? You can appreciate a thing aesthetically quite apart from what it says. No, you can't. Not when it says. Not when it says? That you're a murderer. Yes, it's true. I thought I might have disguised it a bit. But you read between the lines, didn't you? And you dragged John into it too. John's been wonderful. He's kept a secret very well. Why? Why should he? He's very old-fashioned really. He believes in chivalry. And you see, he loves you. We all know, splendid. I must have another. You remember in the poem I made John the White Knight? There was a nice touch. The man who locked the secret fast in his heart. But you, Marjorie, would you keep the secret? After all, you're not in love with me. It would be unfair. I couldn't expect you to, could I? Yes, Stephen, you could. You could. I'd have to take your word. Is your word good, Marjorie? Do you want to tell me about it? Would that help? Yes, that's an excellent idea. Come here. Yes, Stephen. Now, turn around. That's right. Face the steps. That's where it happened. Stephen. She was coming down from her bath and rematted the foot of the stairs. She looked rather pretty, and I wanted to kiss her. And so I did. It frightened her, I think, because she screamed. I kissed her again, and she screamed even louder. I had to stop that. I put my hands on her throat to shake her out of it. She tried to break away, still screaming, and I had to hold tight. It was ridiculous. You'd be home any minute and the neighbors would hear. Let me see. That's exactly where she was standing. All right, about where you are now, Marjorie. That's right, exactly the same spot. Then I put my hands around her throat with my thumbs on her windpipe, like this. Stephen. Just like this, and I began to press harder. Stephen, they'll know. They'll know. What do you mean? I mean, your poem. The manuscript? Where is it? What have you done? It should be at the publishers by now. I called a messenger and let it send around. You did that to me? Yes, while you were gone. All right. Let them publish it. Let the whole world read it. Why could those fools ever know? Two knights kill a girl by accident in a wood. They lay her body in the lake at the foot of a castle. What can they make of that? A fairy tale called Death in the Woods. I took the liberty of making a change in your manuscript. You did? I wrote a new title. What did you call it, Marjorie? I called it Emily Gaunt, a confession of murder. Go to your room, now. I'm sorry. You've frightened me so. Stephen. Go to your room, Marjorie. Yes. This is to certify that I, Stephen Burns, strangled Emily Gaunt on the 15th of June, John Burns had nothing to do with it. I am going to drown myself. Who's that? What do you want, Temple? It's Tuesday night, dear boy. Didn't you know? What? I don't understand. Chess, Stephen. Tuesday night. Chess. Have you forgotten? You like your little games, don't you? Of course. I'm free of you, Dimple. You've been holding the secret in for a long time, but you can tell them now. Go on, tell them what you saw. You've played your last game with me. A friend coming? No. No, evidently not. I don't know what's come over, Stephen, lately. He acts exactly as if I... I don't know. As if I'd done him some harm. Erratic champs, poets. I suppose so. You're too bad. I did want to meet him. The famous Stephen Burns. Well, I'll arrange it again, sometime when he's in a better mood. Oh, we'd better be getting to that game. Oh, by the way, how are all those scrapbooks of yours coming? Oh, first grade. I've been collecting these murder cases since I was a boy. It's an odd hobby you've got there. All hobbies are a bit odd, I suppose. At any rate, I've got 40 of them now with this Emily Gaunt affair. I daresay I'm the only one on the river interested in that sort of thing. Yes, it's John. Thank heavens you've come. Here, quickly. What's happened? John, I know everything. Never mind now, it's Stephen. Look, I just found this note. I was in my room and I heard him go out 10 minutes ago. Ground myself. I read the poem and I don't know why, but I hid it in my closet. It was gone. I had to lie to him to save my life. I told him I'd sent it to the publishers. He thinks he'll be found out. That's why he's gone. I want you to destroy this note, Marjorie. Yes, John. I'll try to stop him if it's not too late. Wait. Let him go. It would be better than the police. I love you. And because I do, I've got to do everything I can to save him. All right. Go ahead. I'll wait here. Out on the river, John steered the tiny motorboat around in a wide circle, and then slowly narrowed it, watching for the small robot, scanning the angry black water to the sign of a bobbing head, and then suddenly just ahead of him was the boat, empty. No! Stephen lay huddled in the bow of the boat like a trapped animal, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, to his skull, his clothes heavy and sudden with water. He raised himself on an elbow and then lurched forward to his knees. I went over the side, John. I did. I went in, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't. Take me home, John. I want some dry clothes and some brandy. Take me home! John frantically shoved and pushed to move his boat back. Then he stood abruptly and dived into the water after Stephen. There was no tolerance with all his strength and then he came up again. Stephen, his wetsuit, in another moment his arms were flailing out, searching, grasping, looking for his brother. It may have been only moments, perhaps it was ours, but as he looked round desperately scanning the black expanse about him to the sight of a single struggling head, there was nothing but jet-black water flowing swiftly. Stephen! Mercury. John, the river. Helping them to look for the body. I see. Surely you don't still suspect him. I have a few questions I want to ask him. He was out there with Mr. Burns on the river at the time, wasn't he? He went out to try to stop him. Stop him? John! Hello, Marjorie. Have they... Not yet. Mr. Burns, can I... Inspector, I want you to see this. Marjorie, no. I have to, John. I have to. This is to certify that I, Stephen Burns, strangled Emily Gont on the 15th of June. John Burns had nothing to do with it. I am going to drown myself. Signed Stephen Burns. Signed Stephen Burns. Signed Stephen Burns. I see. Well, that's plain enough. The case of Emily Gont is closed and I won't be bothering you again. Good night, Mrs. Burns. Mr. Burns. Good night, Marjorie. I had no choice, John. It was Stephen's reputation or you. And I love you. This is Robert Montgomery. Our congratulations and thanks go to John McIntyre and Dan O'Hurley for their excellent performances in the House by the River and to all the other players for their fine support. For Suspense, we have selected the latest story by Dorothy B. Hughes who wrote The Fallen Sparrow and Ride the Pink Horse. This one is a chilling mixture of many suspenseful ingredients. A charming young man as ordinary as the smiling gas station attendant around the corner. A young lady who understood him too well. Another who loved him too blindly. A detective with a hunch he dreaded to follow up and find crashing murders that terrorized a whole city. With these ingredients, Dorothy B. Hughes in a lonely place adds up to a gripping hour of suspense. So be back with us next week, will you? Good night. Mr. Montgomery may currently be seen in the Universal International Production Ride the Pink Horse. John McIntyre may currently be seen in the 20th Century Fox Production called Northside 777. The River by A.P. Herbert was adapted for radio by Irving Ravich and was directed by Anton M. Lieder. Ludglosken is our musical director and conductor and Lucian Moroek composes the original scores. Next week here in a lonely place on Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrills, one hour of Suspense! This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.