 Tired of the everyday grind? Have a dream of a life of romantic adventure? Want to get away from it all? We offer you... Escape! Escape! Designed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. You are standing in a darkened room in the heart of Russia's dread Lubyanka prison. Your mind tortured in the blankness while across a desk from you happily smiling at you is the chief of Russia's secret police who intends to drive you to insanity or to death. Listen now, as Escape brings you John Daner's exciting story, The Man with the Steel Teeth. It began on the evening of April 29th. I was seated in my box at the Bolshoi Opera in Moscow listening to a particularly fine performance of Boris Goodenoff when I felt a slap on my shoulder. Yes, police. I don't know. What do you want? I don't know. I'm in bed now. What? Not tomorrow. Look here, what's this all about? You are under arrest. Arrest? What are you talking about? Come. There were two other men with him. Big men. In a moment I found myself escorted down the corridor, down the grand staircase and out into the dark street to a black limousine waiting in front. No one said a word as we sped through the streets. The men on either side of me staring straight ahead. Then we rounded a corner and in a second I knew our destination. The Bianca Prison. Home of a thousand ugly secrets. The dread MVD. We swung down a long ramp and came to a stop at a huge unguarded bronze door. I was ushered into a small office bare except for a desk with some filing cabinets. A small round man in a drab gray suit was standing near the desk watching us. From there I was taken through another door and steered down a long corridor. It was a cell block. And I was a prisoner of the Soviet secret police. Just a minute. I've been here for two days without a word as to why I've been arrested. I want an explanation. Look, I'm an accredited correspondent. My papers were annoying. You know that. Now what about it? I gave up. They had no intention of dealing with me until they were good and ready. I could see that. I watched the man behind the desk. He was the same one who had been in the office when I was brought to Lujanka. Inspector Golovkin of the MPD. A small round battle man in a badly fitted gray suit. Golrim's spectacles magnified his brown eyes and when he smiled his full lips uncovered the most fantastic set of stainless steel teeth I ever laid eyes on. Full uppers and lowers. Then the morning feast was over. Our pleasure to see you again. Again? We've never met and you know it. Spasso House for one year or so ago. A reception for the Belarusian delegation to the All Union Sports Congress last year. A diplomatic banquet in honor of the President of the US-backed People's Republic. Many places, my friend. I don't know you. I see we shall get on very well. Why am I here? A legitimate question. You are here to confess. Confess? To what? No, no, no. We have much time. No need to get excited so soon. I'm asking you again. Confess to what? Shall I read it to you? You've written my confession? Oh, no, no, my friend, no. These are the charges. Only the charges. The confession is up to you. With my help, of course. You're interested? Go on. From the office of Max Golovian, Inspector District of Moscow Lanzarov-Tibian First Officer. This does not concern you. Tested to by the following officers of the People's State Security. No, it doesn't concern you. Ah, subject. Concerning the activities of one Arthur Henderson Luttrell, correspondent WNA, citizen of the United States of America, resident of Moscow two years, here and after called accused. One. That in the morning of August 21st, 1952, the accused was observed by witnesses in an exchange of objects with A. Zalagin engineer, former member of Ukraine People's Agriculture Cooperative while standing near North entrance to workers' posts. The little man droned on, unrailing paragraph after paragraph of nonsense. Names of people I'd met as a reporter or at official functions are on the street or anywhere. Names of people now dead or awaiting execution. It wasn't until this thought came that it dawned on me what my crime might be. And in the last paragraph, Golobin confirmed it. And that Arthur Henderson Luttrell is accused of the crime of espionage and the encouragement of sabotage. That by the use of personal influence, he contributed to the deviation of 12 individuals since convicted, sentenced, and in four separate instances executed for crimes of treason against the state. Well, very clever. Nothing clever, my dear friend. Merely a recitation of facts. From all the people I know here, you take the few names that'll make a case for you. What's more, some of them are dead. But why? What am I supposed to have done? Do you or do you not confess? Do a trumped-up deal like this? No, not on your life. Eh, on your life, Mr. Luttrell. Sir John, ubi divo. You have been asked the question, my dear boy. Do you or do you not confess? Go to the devil. You sure ask. Confess. No. Confess. Confess. Then they tried psychological persuasion. The method to wear me down to the point of exhaustion when I would gladly sign anything in exchange for a night's sleep. You will confess. You will read from this paper, then you will sleep. No. You will read the following. The charges brought against me are true. I am guilty of sabotage. Read it, Mr. Luttrell. I am guilty. Read it. I am guilty of sabotage. And the use of personal influence to encourage political deviation. And sabotage in others. Go on. Then you will sleep. Go on. In the instances of Nikita Kass, Alexi Zarazin, Anton Svernik, and Mikhail Bagratin, I was unquestionably a primary factor in... No. No, it's not true. It's not true. I will not... And I awoke to find myself back in my cell. Then I noticed something was strange. Something different about my cell and a natural stillness. It took an effort to focus at the moment. Then I saw what it was. My cell door was open. Just a crack. But it was open. It had always been closed and double locked each time I was returned from questioning. Now it was open. Reason told me it was another way of torturing me. A trap. But I had to try. Cautiously, I stepped out into the broad corridor. I moved past the line of cells. If I could reach the bronze doors. The bronze doors. Outside. Escape. And then I was standing before the door to the office. It was too easy. They'd be waiting on the other side. They'd be there. Empty. No go lovin'. Nobody in the corner behind the desk stood a coat rack. Wanted hung an overcoat and a black hat. I took them, put them on. Walked to the bronze doors. And I was outside. Except for a black limousine that stood across the parking area. The place was deserted. Nobody. My first thought was the embassy. If I can get to the embassy, I'm safe. I looked again at the limousine. An official car of the MVD. Trying to be as casual as possible, I went over and looked in. The ignition keys were there. I got in quickly, stepped on the starter. I drove carefully, alive to the fact that the city had a thousand eyes. It was early morning. A few cars were on the street. The commissars and sub-comissars. Associate commissars and their assistants. Soviet officialdom rolling to work on privileged wheels. Suddenly the welcome sight of the embassy came into view. It loomed large and took shape as I approached. There was a car parked in front of the main embassy entrance. I pulled up behind it. I was about to set the handbrake when I saw something that turned my blood to water. Not 40 feet from me leaning against the stone post of the entrance gate was a man in an overcoat. He was absorbed with a small hand mirror in which he was examining his teeth, probing here and there with his forefinger. It was Inspector Golovit. We will return to escape in just a moment. But first, answering the call of the sick and the distressed at home and at the battlefield is the job of the Red Cross. This month the Red Cross is asking for contributions to carry on this wonderful work for another year. Can we do less than answer the call ourselves? Give as much as you can to the American Red Cross. And now, back to escape. I slid down in my seat. Golovin didn't look up but I knew he'd seen me and was just waiting. And I saw the bulge in his coat pocket. I had no chance against a pistol. I started the car and pulled out into the street. In the rear view mirror I saw Golovin go to his car and start after me. There was in a panic. At the corner I turned left and headed toward Red Square. I hoped that once there I could cut across the square into one of the side streets and double back to the embassy. But about halfway across the square I saw a car move out of the thin line of traffic in back of me. It was Golovin and I had to abandon my plan for the moment. Then began a dodging game that took us through the west section of Moscow and into the industrial suburbs. Time after time I was sure I'd lost it. But he was seemingly materialized out of nowhere and fastened himself onto me. It went on and on until we neared the railroad yards. We were racing down a cobblestone street laced with track. Golovin was closing on me fast. He called my name as his car came alongside. Then began forcing me off the road. There was only one way out. I whipped my wheels to the right and skidded onto a bridge. I kept speeding and a while found myself in open country with Golovin nowhere in sight. I had lost Golovin. For he had lost me. What difference I had no chance of ever getting back to the embassy now. The MVD would be there waiting for me with a color guard. So I drove on. On the strength of an MVD identity card I found in the pocket of my overcoat I obtained Gasolina at a small town. And then a few miles from Smolensk I had a nasty shock. It was a road block. Two trucks were placed squarely across the road 20 feet apart. Soldiers with Tommy guns stood in the light of flares motioning me to stop. There was nothing to do but pull over. A soldier came over and flashed a light in the window. Comrade, good evening. Good evening. Excuse me, comrade, show me your bags. MVD, go. Excuse me, comrade sergeant. What happened to Demidov? I wanted to check. Good evening. Good evening. The soldier waved me on. The MVD identity card had done it. I drove steadily the rest of that night and all the next day. Late the following night I reached the outskirts of Warsaw. The time had come to abandon the MVD card. It had served its purpose. All the secret police was alerted to watch for me. So I left at the side of the road and started walking. In half an hour I was at my destination, the apartment of an old friend. I was on the ragged edge, needed rest. What is it? Hello, Maria. May I come in? Oh, Chicago, you are a ghost. Yes, come in. I'm very tired. Sit down here, my darling. How good that feels. I will make some tea for you. Such a surprise to see you, my Chicago. What has happened to you? Are you not in Moscow? No, of course you are not in Moscow, you are here. Why are you here, Chicago? Chicago? Chicago. Already you are sleeping. That is good. Morning. Chicago, finally you wake up. But it is not morning, it is two o'clock in the afternoon. How do you feel now, you sleep good? Oh, as heaven. You are going to stay awake now? I give you a cup of coffee. You are an angel. Never mind the angel talking. Here. Thanks. First cup of coffee I've had in two months. Now, you must tell me, Chicago, what has happened? Where do you come from? Where do you go? Old Cotton Eye Joe. Old Witch? Your question. Where do you come from? Where do you go? Like Old Cotton Eye Joe, an American folk song. Never mind, sit down, I'll tell you. You've missed you, Chicago. And when you came in last night, I was very happy. You're still as beautiful as ever, Maria. But I am wrong to talk this way to you. Everything was finished two years ago, and so it must remain. I still think we were fools. Now, forget. Forget. Now, you went a lot of trouble, eh? Yeah, a lot. You talk in your sleep. What did I say? I could not understand everything, but you keep on killing a man. Golovin. Golovin, that is the name. You must hate him to kill him so much. Well, he gave me a lot of trouble. Oh, what he looked like. Oh, small man, quite small. Maybe a little fat? Yeah. Does he wear glasses? I'd really talk in my sleep, didn't I? No, but there is such a man outside in the street who looks like that. What? Wait. Look, but be careful. Don't let him see you. Across the street, see? He has been there all day. He was there this morning. He's an inspector for the MVD. MVD? You are in a lot of trouble. All I want is to get to Berlin. Yes, you must leave Warsaw. Can you help me? I think so. I know someone. Can he be trusted? You know my brother, Bronislav? He's with the communists. I shall let you decide that when you meet him. Mr. Pistol only has a last resort. So, go over your cards again. We shall see if you know them. The personal identification card. Gasoline ration card. ID badge where I work. Inspector for State Fisheries. Travel permit and work record. Good. Now we go. Maria, I don't know how... Shh. Not one word from you. You saved my life, Maria. I'll never forget it. So, give me a kiss now. Come, come now. Let us go. Goodbye, my beautiful Chicago. Goodbye. Bronislav led me down the stairs and out the back door to the alley where his car was parked. There was no sign of goloving, a relief to be sure, but still a surprise since both of us half expected to see him. Maria's brother had done a first-class job arranging my escape. From Warsaw to Berlin was a cruise. Clear sailing all the way. It was a lovely summer night when we arrived in Berlin. We drove as near to the line dividing the sectors as we could. I got out. There was a handshake between us and Bronislav was gone. I started walking to the end of the street, the end of Soviet influence. Ten yards away, I rounded a corner and... Good evening, Lieutenant. The little man blocked my path so I couldn't get by. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, a frightening smile on his face. So now it is the end of the road for us. Know the trail? For a while I thought this moment would never come to pass. But now it is all over. As he spoke, he withdrew a small pistol from his pocket. He balanced it casually in his hand and continued talking. It was the end for me. To think the trail that the whole adventure turned out exactly as I had planned. From the moment you left yourself till now, every move you made as I had planned. I showed you well the way, no? So you're pleased with yourself, Golovan? Fine, but let's get this over with. What? You do not understand, Lytrell. I allowed you to escape. So you could shoot me at the end of the road. Quite the saddest, aren't you? I allowed it so that I could make my own way here. Look, don't play games, Golovan. Games? No games. This entire thing was planned for my escape. Your escape? Mine. By following you, I could give the impression that I was only doing my duty by pursuing an escaped prisoner. A prisoner who, by chance you understand, led me to here. You still do not believe me, do you? I just don't follow that song. Lytrell, in my country it is bad life. Now it is even worse. Soon my colleagues would have seen the things I could no longer hide and then would come to purge. My purge. I had to leave before that could happen. So now... I find it kind of hard to swallow, I'll tell you that. Here, take my gun. Now you believe? Come on, dear boy, we cannot stand here. Let us go across the road. You see, I need you to vouch for my story when I am questioned. One thing, Golovan. What would you have done if you'd found that your colleagues were closing in on you? I would have seized you immediately, taking you back to Lubyanka. You were never exactly what you would call safe, Mr. Tytrell. You were my insurance. Yeah. This is the American sector? Mm-hmm. My territory now. Oh, then we must seek the military police and I give myself up. Yeah. Yeah, I guess they would like to have a talk with you. So now, my dear boy... Now wait a minute, Golovan. Wait? Why did you do that? A lot of reasons. You figure them out. My knuckles hurt. They were bleeding. Golovan sat on the pavement looking stupid. I turned to go and as I did, he took his hand from his mouth. His full lips hung slack, feeling his steel teeth bent grotesquely out of shape. I shuddered and went to find the military police. Under the direction of Anthony Ellis, Escape has brought you The Man with the Steel Teeth by John Daner, starring Harry Bartel. Featured in the cast were Jack Krushen, Charlotte Lawrence, Steve Roberts and Paul Dubov. Editorial supervision is by John Meston. And the special music for Escape is composed and conducted by Leith Stevens. Next week. You are 400 feet below the surface of the South Pacific. The heavy taste of chlorine gas souring your mouth. While somewhere up above you, searching through the night for you, is an enemy destroyer bent on sending the submarine and you to a murky death. Listen next week when Escape brings you Richard Chan Lee's exciting story, Pressure. Tomorrow night and most of the same CBS radio stations, Lux Radio Theatre presents Dennis Morgan and Virginia Mayo. In the thrilling drama, this woman is dangerous. Also tomorrow evening, hear John Hodiac in suspense's chilling production of The Mountain, a story well calculated to keep you in suspense. This is Roy Rowan speaking. And remember, you have a date with Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts every Monday evening on the CBS Radio Network.