 Suspense at sea, suspect, suspectant, suspend. Ah, here we are, suspense. The condition of mental uncertainty, usually accompanied by apprehension or anxiety. Fear of something which is about to occur as, do not keep me any longer in suspense. For our story of suspense tonight, we invite you to enjoy The Devil in the Summer House by John Dixon Carr. Somewhere along the Hudson, perhaps not far from Territown, there is a modest house in its own grounds. Behind it, in the spacious garden, stands a summer house of evil memory. More than 25 years ago, a man shot himself, or at least died in that summer house. They found Major Kenyon with a scorched bullet hole in his head and the weapon beside him. But we are in the present now. The lattice summer house has grown heavy with vines, and only the other evening, two men came into that garden at twilight over the shaggy grass as a storm was brewing along the Hudson. The lawyer from New York. Who's there? And Captain Burke of the Homicide Squad. Is he my friend, D.C.? I was just going to ask you the same thing. My name is Parker. I'm an attorney. You're not Captain Burke. Yeah, the very same and no other. I thought I recognized you, Mr. Parker. Must be something important to bring you so far from New York at this time of night. I was in Territown anyway. I thought there'd be a housekeeper here, but I don't see any lights. Have you got business here? Yes, in a way, have you? I don't know. I'll tell you better after you tell me what brought you to a place that no one has lived in for 10 years. Tell me, Captain, did you ever get an anonymous letter from a dead man? Did you? No, I can't say I did. The letter's anonymous. How do you know the man's dead? Because they're all dead. Every last one of them, dead and under the ground where they can't be hurt any longer. Look, there's the summer house where Jerry Kenyon used to work. There are the windows of the library and the dining room. Looking for it. Can't find this lightning. Makes the windows blaze, don't it? Jerry Kenyon hadn't a care in the world. Yet he shot himself. I'll show you the letter. Now, look, Mr. Parker, I couldn't read anything in this light. But if we can get inside the house now. Certainly we can get into the house. I was the family attorney. I've got the keys. Why should a dead person send me a letter? But you've got a flashlight, I see. Came here prepared for anything, eh? This is the library. There were always candles on the mantel. Yes, there they are. Have you matched, Captain? Yes, I'll light them. Same old heavy furniture. Same old thick carpet. Same old globe map. Now, Mr. Parker, there's letter that you were talking about. Yeah. Read it. Hey, wait a minute. This thing is dated November 2, 1918. That's right, and be careful of that paper. You see how old it is? That it was mailed yesterday. From where? I don't remember. I didn't keep the envelope. Read it. Dear Joe, in case you didn't know, it's I'm Joe. Dear Joe, if you want to know how Major Kenyon really died. But we know how he died. It was suicide. Are you sure it was? Whoever wrote this letter doesn't seem to think so. If you want to know how Major Kenyon really died, look in the third drawer of the desk in the library, press hard at the back of the drawer yours very truly. That's that sign. That's right. Now you're sure you don't know who wrote that letter? This is the first time I've been back in this room, Captain. It was almost a home to me once. There's the chair where Isabelle sat on the afternoon it happened. Isabelle was Jerry Kenyon's wife, beautiful woman. There's the door that the maid let me in by that afternoon. You know, Captain, it seems to me they're all here tonight. Who? We stand beneath the sounding rafter and the walls around us are bare. As they echo our peals of laughter, it seems that the dead are there. Yet we stand to our glasses steady. You know it? I was in my school reader. How does the rest of it go? Yet we stand to our glasses steady and drink to our comrades' eyes. Here's a glass to the dead already, a raw for the next that dies. Excuse me, Captain. I don't know what's come over me talking that way. I was very fond of these people. Are you going to look in the desk, Grom? This is a lot of nonsense. Then why are you here, Mr. Parker? Jerry Kenyon was always a happy man. At least that's what I always thought. Big, boisterous fellow. Yeah? He had a good position with Viterterm, you know, the phonograph company. Yeah, sure I know him. But he'd just been made a major in the army. 1917. There was a war on then too, if you remember. I remember. To make the world safe for democracy. Old days, old heartaches, old memories. I remember that blazing hot day in August when all the windows were up. I remember this room. It is a bell that was Jerry's wife sitting in that chair, knitting. I remember. Yes, Kitty, what is it? There's a man to see him, Miss Kenyon. He says his name's Parker. Yes, I'm expecting him. Show him in, please. All right, ma'am. So I take your knitting and your knitting bag. Why should you take my knitting? I don't know, Miss Kenyon. I just wondered. You can come in now. Thank you. Hello, Joe. Hello, Isabel. You stand for me? Joe, I must apologize for Kitty. Servants are getting to be a problem nowadays. She looks pretty enough to get along. Oh, Kitty's got large ideas. She wants to go on the stage, if you please, and do imitations, like Miss Draper. If you only knew how hard it was acting all your life. Isabel, you've been crying. I have not, at least. Is that why you stand for me? I've missed you. You haven't been here in over a week, Joe. I had an idea. Jerry was getting a little tired of having me around this house. Oh, no, Joe. Why, Jerry? Yes, what about Jerry? I wish I knew, Joe. That's why I wanted you here. Where is he, by the way? I don't want to say goodbye to him before he leaves. He's probably out in the summer house, where he works with all those papers. He's got a lot of work to catch up with. He's going overseas tomorrow. Yes, I know. He's out there. He's been out there all day. His last day here. I've been alone. That sounded like a shot. Yes, it was a shot, Joe. Your house doesn't seem to worry you. It's only Paul, Jerry's brother, Paul. Oh, thought you'd gotten him off your hands for good. Jerry asked him out. He got here two nights ago. That doesn't make it any easier for you, does it? No, I don't mind. Jerry's fixed him up with a pistol range in the cellar. Paul's a terribly bad shot, not like the rest of us. You don't seem to like it, Joe. Shall I have Kitty go down and tell him about it? No, no, it's terrible, as long as he keeps away. Poor Joe. But about Jerry, who is it this time? Joe, Jerry's been home five days on leave from camp. Well, never mind what camp. But he spent four evenings of those five with that fisk woman. Diane Fisk? The redhead with all the money? Oh, she got money? Well. She must have some attractions, then. Please understand me, Joe. It's not that I'm jealous any longer. It's just that Jerry goes his way, and I go mine. I may not be without admirers myself, if it comes to that. You have no idea how true that is, Isabel. No, I was thinking about Jerry. He may not always be lucky. He may meet some girl who's not as broad-minded as I am. And then when he gives her the go-bar, Paul must be getting really furious down in that cell. He's not hitting anything. He must be using a lot of ammunition. Now, your trouble, Joe, is that you're too much of a gentleman. And if you really want to see Jerry, there he is now. Where? Just standing in the door of the summer house. Look out the window. He's finally bright out there. Doesn't he look noble in his new uniform? Sam Brown Belt and Revolver and everything. Look how he turns around and waves his cap at us, like a real soldier. Real soldiers don't exactly wave their caps to them. He does. Jerry, Jerry. Jerry, Joe Parker's here. Joe Parker. He wants to see you. Into the summer house again. Not a care in the world, has he? Now, listen, Isabel, you've got to slow down. You'll be crying again in a minute. Come on over here and sit down. Light hurts my eyes, that's all. Well, then we'll just pull these blinds. We'll still be able to see him. There, how's that? It's better, thanks. Now, can I get you any? Oh, no, you heard the great white chief's orders. I'm to get you something. What do you have, Joe? Hi, ball? Don't bother with that. Oh, it's no bother. Everything's out in the dining room here. The ice man didn't deliver today of all days, so I'm afraid I can't give you any ice. I read in the paper yesterday that we're likely to have automatic ice boxes any day now. You know, things that freeze ice by electricity or something. Do you believe that, Joe? I doubt it. Listen, Isabel. Here you are. It's not cold at all. It's the best I could do. Thanks, sir. What I wanted to say was, couldn't you get that brother of yours to give up practicing now? Hasn't he done his good deed for the day? Yes, maybe he has. I'll ring for Kitty. You don't have to call me, Miss Canyon. I'm here. Oh, yes, Kitty. What is it? It's only to tell you there's another visitor. This time it's a woman. Lady Kitty. Call her a lady, please. Maybe. She says her name's Diane Fisk. Diane Fisk? Kitty, tell the lady I'm not in. Lady. She's a fine lady. I don't want to intrude, my dear. I don't want to intrude. Anyway, it's too late, Miss Canyon. She's coming down the hall now. My dear, Mrs. Canyon. How do you do, Diane? This is a friend of ours, Miss Fisk, Miss Parker. No, I don't want to intrude, really. I don't. I wouldn't have intruded for words, especially on a day like this. Isn't it awful? But your husband simply insisted, my dear, Mrs. Canyon, he simply wouldn't take no for an answer. I'm sure he wouldn't. Do you know what he's brought from his office as a surprise? No. A phonograph recording machine. He's going to let us use it. So that we can all hear ourselves talk twice. How nice. Here, his name can't somebody stop that firing. Don't fly off the handle. Take it easy now. Kitty. Yes, ma'am. Would you please go down the cellar and tell Mr. Canyon's brother he's driving us all crazy. Tell him to stop. Yes, ma'am. My dear Mrs. Canyon, I do hope I haven't offended you in any way. I know I'm a silly little chatterbox. They say people who have red hair often are. Because at your age, you must find the heat very dry. Don't you think we'd all better sit down? I think... I was very much interested in what Ms. Fisk said about our phonograph recording machine. Mrs. Canyon was just talking about a machine to make ice. Yes, yes, isn't science wonderful, but I do think it was me to major Canyon to invite me out here and then go and fall asleep in the summer house. Did you say fall asleep? Yes, of course. How did you know? Well, I came up the back way and I saw him in the summer house with his head forward on the table. Taking a nice little snooze. It's very queer. Of course, you couldn't see much, except in the bright light of the door, but I think I saw him there. I didn't disturb him naturally. But I think I'd better disturb him. Oh, now please don't trouble on my account. The fact is, my dear, I don't altogether trust myself in this room. A woman of my age has to conserve his strength, you know. So, if you'll just excuse me. Well, of course, if you... Dear, I just can't think what I'm always saying because I have the best intentions in the world, Mr. Barker. Parker. Yes, Parker, but I do somehow manage to offend people being so dependent and everything. Except the man, of course. I couldn't defend you, Mr. Barker, of Park. Now, could I? Madam, I'm not sure. Of course, the person I really came to see was Paul, Mr. Kenyon's brother. He's a little young, of course, but he's joining up next month and I think we should all do our bit, don't you? He has such a pleasant personality. I think he likes me. Why, have you walked into that door this minute? Now how am I ever going to get any place? Someone's always interrupting my revolver practice just when I'm getting to the point where I can... Oh. What, Paul? Good Lord, are you here again? You're a very untidy object, Paul. Well, that's pretty untidy in this cellar. And dirty. I've got cockroaches on me, so keep away. Did you have a good day's shooting? So well. One of the best. Hit the target? On the only shot that mattered, I hit the target dead center. That sounded like Isabel. I think it was Isabel. Why have you got those blinds down? Get them up! What is it? What's wrong with you? What are you looking at through that window? Twenty-five years ago, Captain Burke, we found Jerry Kenyon lying across the table in the summer house. He'd shot himself through the head with his own revolver and the holster. It was lying on the floor beside him. Shout out to him. I think when Isabel found him, he'd been dead about half an hour. The doctors prove that to them? Yes, that shot had been fired against his head. The front of his uniform cap was powder burned where the bullet entered. There's no doubt about that. None at all. We never noticed the real shot. Because that young lad was shooting off guns like a maniac in the cellar. Precisely. Now they're all dead. By accident, illness, they're all gone. Isabel Kenyon died less than a year afterwards. I think she died just because she was so fond of Jerry. I suppose you've guessed my little secret. Oh, I think I can sort of read between the lines. You were in love with Isabel Kenyon, weren't you? Yes. Well, these things happen. I never let her see it, do you understand? Women know pretty generally. So they're gone, the youngest of them. And I'm left alone with old tunes, old ghosts, wondering why the fellow ever killed himself. Why? Why? And this morning, out of a clear sky, I get a letter saying, if you want to know how Major Kenyon really died, look in the third drawer of the desk and the library. But I tell you, we know how he died. Well, aren't you going to do it? Naturally. I've got a key somewhere here that fits the drawer. Now listen, Mr. Parker. In my father's country in Ireland, they got a saying that when a man's going to commit suicide. I thought of doing that too once. Then the devil comes in and takes him by the hand and talks to him. They say you can see the devil as plain as I see you just before you pull the trigger. The devil must have been in the summer house that afternoon. Oh, no, he wasn't. What do you mean? Major Kenyon didn't kill himself. He was murdered. My dear Captain Burke, the police covered all that at the time. Everybody had an alibi. They did, did they? Well, think of what I've told you. Isabelle and I were together all the time. Paul, her brother, was shooting off guns in the cellar. And? Diane Fisk? Yeah, what about her? Her chauffeur, who drove her there. Suor, he saw her walk straight up to the place. She passed the summer house, but didn't stop there. Well, that checks. Even Kitty the maid could prove she'd never stirred out of the house until just a minute or so before Isabelle went herself. Oh, and why did the maid have to leave the house at all? She was taking Jerry the black coffee he drank every afternoon. He'd already been dead half an hour then. And that, my dear Captain, disposes of everybody. Well, now listen, Mr. Parker. You're a good guy, and I'm not going to hold out on you any longer. You see, I say Major Kenyon was murdered because I know he was murdered. By an outsider? By one of the people in the house. That's impossible. Is it? Why don't you open that desk drawer and see? What time is it? It's quarter to eight. Quarter to eight? And I haven't got much time. For what? Holy St. Patrick, will you open that drawer? If it's waited 25 years, my friend, it can wait a minute more. I've got the keys somewhere and missed a bunch of keys. Everything the same. Paul never altered what he inherited. Same old desk, same old phonograph, same old... I think this is the key. Yeah, it opens. There's nothing here except one or two old newspapers. Everything very dirty. The letter says to press hard at the back. Now have you tried that? Doesn't seem to. Yes, by George, it does work. Well, there seems to be a movable back on a hinge. Well, what's inside? Some sort of flat brown paper parcel sealed with wax. And about as dirty as it can get. Open it, man, open it. I'm going to. It's a phonograph. There's a plain white label, something on it written in pencil. I don't see too well nowadays without my glasses. Here, give it to me. I'll read it to you. A record of how I killed Jerry Kenyon. Say, don't you get it, Mr. Parker? This is the real goods. The murderer's going to tell us his own story 25 years later. Be careful. Whatever you do, don't drop it. You seem to be interested enough now. I don't say I'm not interested. I say I can't believe it. You know, when you were talking about the dead coming back and that kind of thing, you sure started giving me goose pimples. But that's just what it is, a dead person. Now, there's the phonograph. Put that record on. Let's hear what the ghost says. Any of them could have made the record, of course. The apparatus was all here. Don't just stand there by the phonograph. Want to work? Yes, it works. Is it wound up? Yes, it's wound up. Here goes. Now, look, Mr. Parker. Whose voice do you think it's going to be? I don't know. Now, I want to warn you, the voice you're going to hear from there. Please, be quiet. Listen, I've started it up. Well, speak up. Who killed Jerry Kenyon? I killed him, Joe, dear. What's the matter? I'm sorry about it, Joe. But I had to have you for an alibi. And you were so terribly easy to fool. It's only a phonograph record, man. Don't look at it as if it was alive. You said you and I were always together, Joe. But that wasn't quite true. I left you to go into the dining room and mix a highball. Remember? Yes. And I was carrying my big knitting bag. Remember that, too? And there was something else in it besides knitting. I'm an awfully good revolver shot, Joe. I told you we were all good except Paul. And the back windows of the dining room were faced the same way as the back windows of the library. Thank you, Isabelle. Thank you. Jerry was in the summer house. I made a sign to him from the window, and he came to the door there in bright sunlight, 50 feet away. Joe, then, Isabelle. Joe, don't you know what August heat is in a wooden summer house? Didn't you, didn't anybody see that no man would be wearing a cap inside on a day like that? Jerry had taken his cap off before he went into the summer house. We saw him do it. He was bareheaded when he came to the door. So I lifted the revolver and shot him through the head. Then I dropped the gun back in my knitting bag and went back into the library with your drink. Isabelle, don't talk back to the thing, Maddie. You'll drive me crazy. There was something else in my knitting bag, too. I had to use it. It was a duplicate of Jerry's army camp with a powder-burned hole already fired through it in the place I wanted. Thanks, Isabelle, Isabelle. So I've been the goat for 25 years. I waited for some time, and then slipped out to find the body. I fitted the new cap over Jerry's head in place where it ought to go. I put the old cap in my knitting bag. I took his revolver out of the holster and kept it. The gun that I used, I dropped on the floor beside him. So I proved it was suicide. You see? You proved it to me. Joe, Joe, listen. I'm very sick. They tell me I'm going to die. You are dead. Joe, I'm afraid. I'm going out in the dark, and I don't know what's there. Don't go away, Isabelle. Joe. Just for a moment. OK, I've had just about enough of this. Joe, I want you to tell everybody about it. I want you to tell them how a poor crazy woman couldn't stand that man any longer. And hop. There. It's cut off, and it's going to stay cut off. Thank you. I've had about enough, too. But you can't arrest her now, my friend. You can't arrest her now. After hearing that, I'm not going to arrest anybody. Tell me, Captain, did you know what was on the record? No. That's why I had to hear it. I knew about it, but I wasn't sure what it had to say. But so helped me, I never guessed how harder would hit you. Man. Don't you get it even yet? Yes, I get it. Oh, no, you don't. You don't see anything. That was how the fake suicide was managed, yes. That's just how it was all done, bar one or two little things. Only. Only what? Only it wasn't Isabelle Kenyon who committed the murder. Did I hear you correctly? You did? This is another one of your little jokes, I imagine. Can't you let me alone? Have you some kind of personal spite against me? What did I have to do? You're going to hear the real truth now if I have to hold you down in that chair. I know Mrs. Kenyon didn't kill her husband because I've just come from talking to the real murderer up the river. But they're all dead. Oh, no, they're not. And I haven't got much time. Either that clock's just going to strike eight. What's the time that to do with it? Good deal, if you will follow me. Mrs. Kenyon died less than a year after her husband didn't she? But it wasn't Mrs. Kenyon's voice you just heard in that record. What? I'm telling you, the real murderer hated her. Hated her like poison and wanted her blame for the crime. When Mrs. Kenyon died, the real murderer wrote a letter. But she never mailed that letter. She made a lying record of Isabelle Kenyon's voice as evidence. Now you figure it out for yourself. Who was pretty enough to take major Kenyon's eye and strike back like fury when she got thrown over? Who wanted to go on the stage and do impersonations? Kitty, the man. Ah, you're talking sense. She shot Jerry from the dining room window. And she couldn't borrow Mrs. Kenyon's knitting bag. She went out to the summer house with a gun and the fake cap wrapped in napkin on a coffee tray. He did go out, I remember. Actually, she got there before Mrs. Kenyon did. But the summer house was dark inside, and Mrs. Kenyon never noticed her. The next day, Kitty wrote that letter. But she couldn't bring herself to Senate. So she kept that letter till the day before yesterday. Then one of the boys, it's Sing Sing, thinking he was doing her kind action, put a stamp on it and mailed it. Did you say Sing Sing? Yes. They're electrocuting her tonight for the murder of an Italian down at Collier's Hook. I found out about the record all right. But the one thing I wasn't sure of was that she had done the job alone. Now, frankly, the way you acted, I thought that you might have been in on it too. Well, that's why I had to hear it through. And it was anything but a joke. And now, here it goes to blazes forever. Oh, she's dead. And so ends the devil in the summer house. Tonight's story of the part of Mr. Parker was played by Martin Gable, again next Tuesday at 9.30 p.m. Eastern wartime. A story dedicated to the thrill of the nighttime. The hushed voice and the prowling step. Another adventure in suspense. William Spear, the producer. John Deets, the director. And John Dixon, car the author. Our collaborators on suspense. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.