 You are speeding through the Turkish night on the Taurus Express. You are alone and unarmed and somewhere on the train is a calm killer from whom you must escape. Escape, produced and directed by William N. Robeson and carefully contrived to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight we escape to Turkey and the Taurus Express which carries a shipment of death. As Harold Lamb told it in his exciting story, three good witnesses. I took the Taurus Express that night because I was going home, back to the United States, back to California and my routine job at the oil company. Two days before, I'd given my final report to our State Department man in Istanbul, a negative report. In Mr. Ward, your considered opinion is that there is no oil in this area? Not enough to be worth drilling for, not at this late date. Ward, be over before we can get out 10,000 barrels. You're being optimistic, Mr. Ward. Ward isn't over yet. Who can say when it will be? Well, that's true, but... What does Arvark say? He agrees with me completely. So does Wyndham, the British engineer. We're all agreed. Three good witnesses, huh? Well, then that settles it. What do you mean? Three good witnesses. Oh, that's an old saying out here in the Middle East. Come from the A-rabs of Flank. In their old law, the testimony of three independent and trustworthy witnesses was enough to establish the guilt or innocence of an accused person. But why three? I suppose two witnesses to a crime might tell the same lie. But if three fellows tell the same story, well, it must be true. Hmm, maybe. I suppose the odds against three making up the same story would be high, but I don't know whether I'd like to trust my neck with that kind of justice. Yeah, it is a little different from a justice back home in Chattahoochee County. I imagine you'll be wanting to get back to the States as soon as possible. Indeed, I do. Well, I can put you on a Tars Express Wednesday. You'll be in Cairo by Saturday. Get an ATC plane that will have you in Washington three days later. Istanbul to Washington in less than a week. The small world, isn't it? Oh, I was booked on the Tars Express leaving Istanbul on Wednesday night. I got to the station late, and as I walked down the long platform toward the first class carriages, I sensed a tenseness in the crowd. First I couldn't explain it. Then I noticed that the platform was alive with police. They stood at the door of every car, motionless, solemn-faced, carefully scrutinizing everyone who got aboard. And it seemed that everyone on that bustling platform was aware of them. I found my car near the front of the train, a policeman stood at the open door. I paused to verify the car numbered. Suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow. I thought I had missed you. A pair of arms lying around my neck, a pair of lips were kissing me. Pushed her away to try to see her face, but she clung to me. Tried to say something, but she kept talking so fast I couldn't get a word in. How could you do this to me? To run off without even saying goodbye? I must be with you right up to the last minute, my darling. Last I could see her. She was beautiful. Very young and very beautiful. Turkish or Greek, I couldn't tell which, but lovely. I'm wondering why you must let me go on the train with you. See you safely to your compartment. I cannot bear it. Madam, I'm afraid you're making a mistake. Please, please, you must help me. I will explain. But I... Come, you will miss the train. I will see you safely on board. Come! Hurry! So we may say our last goodbye in privacy. This last was thrown over her shoulder to the policeman standing there. She pulled me up the steps into the car. He stared at us, but he said nothing. In the moment we were standing in the deserted corridor. Thank you, sir. Thank you. Now look here, young lady. What is all this? It is the fault of those police standing up there. I could not get into the car alone. But why not? This is a first class car. Only rich foreigners ride in first class compartment. I could see by your clothes you were American. I knew you would help me. But why did you want to get into this car, especially? Because I... Suddenly she stopped. And her eyes were riveted on something behind my back. I turned to see a swathe young man staring at us from the other end of the car. He was dressed in the uniform of a train conductor. Slid open a compartment door. The most imperceptible jerk of his head. And then the girl slipped past me into the open room. Conductor slid the door shut after her. Your number, sir? Oh, oh yes, yes, sir. 12. Yes, the next one. Here. If there is anything I can do for you, I shall be pleased. If you care to leave your ticket and passport with me, I shall be able to attend to Syrian customs without disturbing you later. As he talked, his eyes were not on me. He was watching the slow progress of a policeman through the car. Officer was walking by, glancing into each compartment. When he came opposite us, he spoke to the conductor. Policala? Policala. The conductor was standing squarely in front of the door of the girl's compartment, hiding her from view. Policeman walked on. In a moment he had disappeared. Thank you, sir. I shall not disturb you. I went into my compartment. My bags were already there. The train was about to leave. Everything was in order. But I couldn't help wondering about the incident. I'd just witnessed it. About the girl I'd involuntarily hemped in the conductor. Wondered about all those police out there. Obviously, something was going on. Then I remembered this was Istanbul, the gateway to the Middle East. It was supposed to be a lie with acts of spies. Could that girl be... Then I laughed. Just my overage, stay at home, mind imagining things. Then suddenly I heard a voice in the corridor outside. What's the big idea? The voice was unmistakably American and music to my ears. I jumped on her feet and stepped into the corridor. There outside the next compartment was a young man in civilian clothes, carrying a small bag and a briefcase. The swarthy conductor was approaching him with a worried look. How about this, huh? There's a dame in my compartment. Big pardon, sir. There must be a mistake. This is compartment number 10. Naturally. You think I can't read? Number 10? That's mine. But number 10 is not sold. It is not marked on my list. The heck it is, and I've got the ticket right here. What's with the dame? Please, not so long. I don't get this. I beg your pardon. Can I be of any help? Oh, you're an American too. Yep. I'm free ward, Los Angeles. Tom Hatfield. I don't know you. Look, what's with the dame? Do you know? No, I'm afraid I... Please, gentlemen, step into the compartment, please. But the girl... Please. In. Yes? Okay. Well, I... Please. Oh, all right. T-epidestine. Vasariya. Apisemen, natukamo. Hey, wait a minute. Talk English. What's all this about, anyway? It is... I am embarrassed, sir. You're embarrassed. I buy a ticket and find a dame in my compartment. Of course. Oh, and closer inspection. Maybe I'm not so mad after all. She looks like a good deal. Thank you, sir. Oh, you do speak English, huh? Sir, the policeman will come by. Maybe look in. I must ask of you a favor. Yeah? If she could stay here just until the train has started, she will not bother you after that. Why can't she stay in her own compartment? Please, sir, I have no place else to put her. All the other places are taken. Oh, she's a deadhead, huh? Deadhead? No ticket. Stow away. It is something like that. What's the setup? Is she your girlfriend? No, no, it is not like that. It is... You see, we are both Macedonian. She is escaping from the Nazis. She wants to go to Cairo to join the nurse corps. Oh? She has been for two years in Greece, under the Nazis. Mm-hmm. She is a real patriot. If you will help her. Well, maybe if he introduced us and let her speak for herself. She is called Maradales. Well, let's make it Mary for short. Mary the Deadhead. Hi, Mary. Hi. You're okay. Get her. She talks American. I spent two years at American school at the Salonica. I worked with Red Cross in Greece during the fighting. Why, so? I like Americans. I want to go to United States. Who doesn't? I want to learn to be a real nurse. You will help me. Americans are always kind. Mm-hmm. This gentleman here. He helped me get on the train. Naturally. Now you will help me. Ha-ha. Okay? Mm-hmm. Okay. Thank you, sir. Now, I must go before the policeman gets suspicious. Okay. This may turn out to be a pleasure. Looks like you don't need me. I'm in the next compartment. Maybe we'll get together later. Sure, sure. I'd offer you a seat, but we're sort of crowded already. Mary and me. I went back to my seat laughing. Laughing mostly at the silly idea I'd had that maybe Mary the Deadhead and her conductive friend were spies of some sort. Obviously, they were harmless. As harmless as I was. And that was completely harmless, come found it. I looked out the windows, the train slid out of the station, leaving Turkey, leaving the war, going home. Back to complacent safety. Men were out here fighting and dying. They'd get no help from me. Me. Overage and useless. Ha. I felt pretty sorry for myself. It wasn't until the next day that I began to get acquainted with my fellow passengers. Mary the Deadhead was riding on the conductor's jump seat at the end of the car. The Ruvians, an Armenian couple, were in 14, the Capapa next to mine. Young Tom Hatfield was on the other side of me. And two Greek refugees, Mr. Ciniara and Mr. Drikar, were next to him in eight. Hatfield kept pretty much out of sight all day, because Mr. Ciniara, who shared a table with me at dinner that night, I didn't much care for him, but he was somebody to talk to. You Americans, you do not realize how lucky you are. No, I suppose not. You do not know what it is to be safe. Just look around you. Almost all the passengers and this express are refugees. All of them would pay much to be going to the United States as you are. Yeah, I suppose so. But yes, where else is there any security for us? But you, sir, and your young friend are already secure. Wherever you go, you are always safe. But it is not so for us. Yeah, I suppose we do take a lot for granted. Oh, here's Mr. Hatfield now. Hatfield, won't you join us? Thanks, no, I'll just sit over there. No, I insist. I was just leaving. You must join your friend. Oh, really? There's no need? I insist, please. Okay. Well, thank you, Mr. Ciniara. It's been a pleasure. And for me, sir, good evening. Good evening. How are you? Well, I haven't seen much of you today. Been resting, eh? Something like that. You ordered? Yes, I'll call the waiter. Never mind. He'll be back. Who's your slick-haired friend? Oh, Mr. Ciniara. He's a Greek refugee just escaped from the Nazis. Everybody out here just escaped from the Nazis. He was saying how lucky we are to be Americans. I guess they don't see many of us in Turkey these days. I guess not. I haven't seen many of us myself. Funny, I didn't run into you in Istanbul. I was in there just passing through. Oh. I thought I'd have met you at the American mission or somewhere. No. I... Well, I'm out here at the State Department. Oil. And I didn't have much luck. I'm going home now. Too bad. Hmm. Many of things for us Americans to do out here, though. Like oil and other things, you know? Of course, they give the unimportant stuff to has-beens like me. Stuff for young fellas like you. Okay, Mr. Ward. Hmm? What? Okay. I'm Tom Hatfield, Frankfurt, Kentucky. White, Protestant, 26, unmarried. No, I'm not a draft dodger and no, I'm not a wall. And yes, I'm here on business, which is none of yours. I'm a Captain Air Force, two years overseas. You might say officially, I'm on a holiday. The fact is, I'm taking this train to Adana, where I get off at five tomorrow morning, cross the border and catch a plane that's waiting to take me to Cairo. Anything else you want to know? Oh, I... I'm sorry, I... I'm sorry. I guess I'm getting on my own nerves. Forget it, William. Oh, it's nothing. You needn't think that... Riding on trains is kind of bad for a flyer. It makes me jumpy. I understand. But you must have already been through a lot. I do understand. I was in France in 1918. I know what it's like. Maybe you know better than I do. Oh, I wouldn't say that, but I envy you. I'd give anything to be in it. You're lucky you're not. Oh, I know, I know. No fun being old and useless like me either. I envy you. And I can tell you're doing something important. You can? How? Mm-hmm. By the way, you're so careful with that briefcase. Carry it around with you all the time. You got it on your lap now. Probably got something important in it. The statues or something. Sorry you noticed that, did you? Well, I hope nobody else on this train is so observant, Mr. Warden. Oh, you're pulling my leg. What difference does it make, anyway? You can never tell on a train like this. Out here. You never know. Oh, you mean spies? Well, I... But why? I haven't seen anyone who looks suspicious. Spies are never suspicious looking, Mr. Warden. They're anybody. Anybody who wants to make a quick buck and doesn't care how he does it. This train is alive with people like that. We have it, but who? Who? I'll just take, for instance, Mary the Deadhead. She's young and pretty, yes. But she's broke. And her shifty-eyed boyfriend, the conductor. Oh, but they're Greeks. She's a refugee. So she says, but didn't it seem strange to you that he put her in my compartment by mistake? My name wasn't on the list, so he said. Were you satisfied with her story? Well, for a moment I was suspicious, but... You can't take too much for granted. Now, for instance, the story I just told you. I might be a spy, mightn't I? That whole thing might be hogwash. Well, no, no. You're American. I know that. Who else would say hogwash? No matter. I could be an American trader. There are such things. Oh, but that... Or you might be the spy. Yeah, they even look like you. Meek and mild. Casper Milktoes. And their cover stories are pips. Like telling you they're out here looking for oil. They strike up a conversation, ask questions, and notice briefcases. Oh, but look. Now, look here. Surely you don't think... No, I don't think anything. I only say you never can tell, Mr. Ward. Of course he was kidding me, pulling my leg. But I didn't really mind. I liked him. And he had a right to be cocky and flippant. He was doing something for the war effort. Even though I knew he was kidding me. I went to bed thinking about spies and fell asleep dreaming of them. Then very suddenly, I woke with a terrible sense of urgency. There was something that I must do. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to five. The train was dark. Everything was quiet. And yet, I felt I had to get up. I started to put on my clothes. It makes sense, but then I remembered. It was Tom Hatfield, not me, who had to get up at five, leave the train and head down at a... cross the border into Syria and take his plane. Those dispatchers must be important. If he had to change to a fast plane, as soon as he got out of neutral Turkey, when I stepped out into the dimly-lit corridor, it was... it was deserted. I knocked on Hatfield's door. No answer. I tried the handle. The door slid open into darkness. Something was wrong. I switched on the light and went in. Tom Hatfield lay there in the bunk of sleep. Hey, Hatfield! Rise and shine! We're coming into Adana! You've got to get off! I shook him. He didn't move. Then I saw blood in his pillow, not in his head. I looked around quickly. The briefcase was gone. Keep working! Keep working! There's something wrong, sir. Did either of you see anybody going to number ten? No. Nobody. Who should go... Look, do you have keys to the doors? But no. There are no keys. They lock from the inside, a sliding bolt and chain. Nobody can get in once they are locked. Yeah, that's what I thought. I knew Tom Hatfield would have locked that door. Somebody must have gotten in some other way and left that corridor open as a false clue. But how? Then I noticed the door which connected to number eight. I tried it. It was locked. This didn't make sense. But through my mind was racing one thought. American dispatchers have been stolen. Tom Hatfield is out. It's up to me. I searched the room. I found an automatic under the mattress, but no briefcase. I heard the train start up again. We were leaving Adana. I looked again at the connecting door. Then I got it. The bolt was fastened on the other side of that door. But on this side it was not. That meant that someone could have come in through number eight. I knocked on the door. I heard a movement and then the bolt slid back and the door swung open. I was face to face with Mr. Ciniata. And he was staring at the gun in my hand. Oh, my, is it? What is that for? The briefcase. The bag of my friend. Is it here? Briefcase? Bag? We have here only our releases. This door has been opened. Something is missing. Oh, if you have lost something, I pray you to look. I know nothing of it. Come in, please, and look. All right, I will. I'm not accusing anyone. But I just want to be sure that... The next thing I felt was a stinging coldness on my face. The rushing of wind. I realized that I was hanging half out of the window of the car. I was shoving me out of the train. Savagely, I kicked. I thought something gave. And I pushed myself back and slid down onto the floor. I thought something hard under me. The gun. And I didn't complain that I saw them coming at me. Ciniata earned the car. I raised the gun. What is it? What has happened? Oh, look. On the floor. Shut the door quickly. Are they... Wait. Let me look. Yes. Both of them. Finish. They took the briefcase. I'm sure they did. Hey, who's shooting up the place? Happy. How will you look at that? What's happened? Well, the briefcase. It's here someplace. I'm sure it is. Hey, wait a minute, fella. You're all banged up here. Looks like we both got bumped. Here, sit down. You'll need a drink. Mary, you'll find a pint in my bag. Bring it in here, will you? But they got the papers. We ought to look. They did. Yeah, the briefcase isn't here. I don't see it. Well, there wasn't anything in that briefcase, except some old Istanbul newspapers. They probably threw it out the window. Back at Hyderpasha, a Britisher I know, warned me to be careful on this trip. I put my classified materials someplace else. Well, but then that means I killed two men without any cause. Without a shred of evidence to back up my story. How we waste time. Quick. The Syrian border police got on the train at Adana. They might be here any minute. Now, who is dead here? Mary, the dead head, took me into Hatfield's room and carefully administered first aid to my cuts and bruises. But Kevorkian and Hatfield were busy in number eight. What are they doing? Never mind. Pay no attention. But they're throwing the bodies out of the window. Think not of it, please. Hi, Kevorkian is a Macedonian. When he fought the Germans at Thessalonica, he threw bodies over the cliffs. He knows what he is doing. But you, you are a brave man too. Even if you are not Macedonian, you would be judgment right for two, three years in spite of your age and your innocence. It is better to have no bodies. What's that? Be quiet now. The border police. Well, we got the room cleaned up just in time. He has their passport. I forgot. No, they are not here. I can tell you about Chiniar and Rica. But this man here, Mr. Ward, he is American general in disguise. Secret service. He put Chiniar and Rica off at Adana with pistol. They were spying. Good heavens. He'll never believe that. Never mind. This man is a Syrian. He does not care what happens in Turkey. But do you have any Syrian money? Oh, yes, yes. Here. In my wallet. Good. Give it to me. Thank you. Now. Come with me, Sergeant. I do not worry now, Mr. Ward. In a moment, Haiki working and will have those passports. We will throw them at the window and there will be no trace. I had to think, Mary. I thought you might be drawing down an access paycheck. It is no matter. Now we are out of Turkey. And before long, I can go to United States. Maybe that might not be so easy. You've got no money, no passport, no transportation through the combat zones. Never mind. I shall do it. I walk to here from Macedonia. I can walk all the way. Like Saint Paul in the Bible, walk to Rome. Well, I wish you luck, but you'll have a time getting by British control at Aleppo. You can't smuggle a pack of cigarettes past them. But what about me? What about a murderer? I don't know. We'll see. When the train pulled into Aleppo, the station where British control came on tripped me pretty awful. With Tom trying to act as if nothing had happened with me staring into that empty room, imagining Ciniara and Drika sitting there staring back at me. Maybe they had been spies. Maybe not. Now they were dead. And I was in trouble. We knew that the minute the train stopped, a soldier stood outside our windows and said, Look here! Everyone reminds of this place in this car. We waited silently for many minutes and a British major in khaki short stepped in behind him I saw Khiborkin and Mary the Deadhead standing in the doorway. Good morning. I'm Radcliffe. I'm looking for two missing passengers identified as the Greeks. Ciniara and Drika by name. Who come now? They seem to have been in the next compartment. And here. What became of them? Were there two? No. Young Lady. Yes, sir? You weren't the number eight, were you? You don't seem to have any other place. Nor a Syrian entrance visa. I sat down in the corridor. It's quiet. Conducted, don't you remember two passengers booked through to Aleppo? One was a stout man. Bookseller who escaped from Greece ten days ago. The other was... Ah, those! They descended from the car at Adana. One was fat with slick hair and the other... Oh, yes. Rarely. I say, isn't there a bullet hole in the wall up there? And you, sir, missed ward, isn't it? How'd you hurt your forehand? An accident. I bumped into one. Oh, yes, quite. I should tell you that the Armenian couple in number fourteen heard shots just after passing Adana. They were so frightened they locked themselves in until now. It's no use. I... I shot them. Both of them. They hit me first. Please realize that I'm not joking. My orders are to find those two pseudo-Greeks wherever they may be. Wait a minute. You said pseudo-Greeks? You mean a major. You want to find them? And how, as your American say? Why? Because we're advised by Istanbul that certain Axis agents have been working out of the Balkans with identification as refugees. These two, Tiniara and Dikar, were on this train. Our men on the train saw them throw something out at Adana. They partly threw themselves up. No, we did that. Your men at Haida Pasha tipped me off to expect trouble. Really? So they were agents. Certainly they were spies. But no Greek would be fat like Tiniara after only one week escaped from the Germans. And no Greek would have hair oil from Paris? Well, that being the case, will somebody start telling the truth? I will. This mild little gentleman, knowing nothing of the war and fighting, he killed you two men in a gunfight. How you say, like nobody business. And now, please, he is still suffering from shock. So will you please give him a plane direct to Cairo where he can rest? And this American courier, he is late with dispatches. He must have a place in the plane too. And since I cannot enter Syria without the passport, will you please put me also on the plane? Because in Cairo, I can get a job as a nurse with the Ella Greeks from Macedonia who are there. And maybe God will then give me a way to go to America, like he passed St. Paul through the Taurus Gate. Is it a deal, Major? Three places on the first lane, and you have your men like the Royal Canadian Husis only dead. The plane could be arranged, of course, if... All right, Mr. Ward, tell him, tell him! With the eyes of that amazing girl on me, my courage came back. I told him my story completely in every detail. He listened carefully and took it all down in his pad, and afterwards he said... That story, Mr. Ward, is not one bit of evidence to support it. By your own statement, the evidence is buried in the snow on the slopes of the Taurus mountain. Nuts! I tell you, I help chuck it out. And I examined the two men. I am a trainer, and I said they were dead. And for identification, I, a soldier of Macedonia, can swear that their passports were the men you say. Very well, I'll bring the airdrome. The evidence of three good witnesses is sufficient. Escape is produced and directed by William M. Robson. And tonight brought you Three Good Witnesses by Harold Lamb. Adapted for radio by John Dunkel with Morgan Farley as Humphrey Ward, Jack Webb as Tom Hatfield, Jeanette Nolan as Mary the Deadhead, and Harry Bartell as Kevokian. Music was conceived and conducted by Cy Fuhr. Beginning next Sunday night, escape will be heard at a new hour, 10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. Next Sunday night, we escape with another exciting adventure story created for you by one of the world's great authors. Good night then, until 10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. Next Sunday night, when again we offer you Escape. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.