 Tired of the everyday routine? Ever 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. Tonight we escape to the prison island of New Caledonia and to the murderous conflict between one of the prisoners and the monstrous Monsieur Deneu official executioner as John Russell tells it in his terrifying story the red mark. We breathe in, breathe out, inhale and exhale and we are therefore considered officially as living. Privately, however, and always with a snarl deep in our throats we call ourselves the living dead. We sleep without resting, wake without desire, read without pleasure, and work without hope. Some of us work in the mines, some in the cobra sheds. I myself am a barber, but all of us wear the same straw sandals and the same rough canvas jackets and we are never allowed to forget that this is the penal colony of New Caledonia and we are convicts and the France is on the other side of the world. Hello, Dumai. Well, I'll be sure you startled me. I didn't hear you come in. You were daydreaming. Ah, you know how it is. I know how it is for you, but Dumai, for me, the dreams are at an end. My life as a convict is an end. You have your ticket home? Of course I have my ticket. I've only eight more days to go. Eight days? Three weeks on the ship and then France. Freedom, wine, music, the theater. Shut up. Sorry, Dumai. You are my friend, my very good friend, but don't talk to me about France. I'm really sorry. You're leaving in eight days, but I will be here for 13 more years. I know. I assume you wish to be shaved. If you'd be so kind. Be seated. Uh-oh. Dumai, look. What? Out the window there, coming across the compound. Ah, yes. Monsieur Dounou and his ugly little assistant-bomb beast. The vultures. That's no matter for concern. If one has a prison, one must have an executioner. Oh, careful with that soap. Monsieur Dounou is neither flesh nor foul, neither a convict or an official master of the guillotine. He's a dog, a pig. But such easy work if one has a strong stomach. For merely pulling the cord on the guillotine only three or four times a year, he's permitted a house of his own, even a wife. He's a corpse that should be buried with a stake through his heart. I hate him. No, ignore him. He's nothing, an old bag of bones. He's the devil himself. Devil, huh? Dumai, if he were the devil, he would not be the stupid fool that he is. Ignore him, I tell you. I do. Ignore him? It can't be done. Careful with that razor. I'm sorry. Are you trying to become an executioner yourself? Be sure. There's something you know about Monsieur Dounou. Tell me what it is. Look, Dumai, you will say nothing until next week, until I've sailed. Nothing, I swear it. All right, I trust you. You know his wife, of course. You mean that little girl? Yes, from the fishing village down the coast. Zelle, her name is. Well, what about her? Do you not agree that she's beautiful? That marriage is a sacrilege. True. But you can't blame her. Monsieur Dounou bought her from her families. Disgusting. Of course. But is she not beautiful? I, uh, I don't pretend to be a judge of these things. You know she is. Well, what about her? You ask, do I have my tickets to France? Yes. Yes, but not just one. More than that, I have two tickets. Two? Zelle is going with me. Oh, be sure you're out of your mind. No. But I would be if I left here without her. But can you not imagine what that man will do to you? He will do nothing because he knows nothing. He's a stupid fool. Oh, but my friend, you're young and you've forgotten. France, Paris, the world outside is full of beautiful women. It's foolish to run this risk for Zelle, when there will be others waiting for you. But Dumai, I love her. You love her? And she loves me. I'll try to make her happy, make her forget. She's never been happy, Dumai. And she's a girl who ought to be very, very happy all the time. Now if your hand is steady again, get on with my shave, will you? I saw that my little friend Bijou was a dead earnest. Right or wrong, foolish as he might be, he met every word he'd said. And suddenly, I realized how much alike they were. He and Zelle, the child bride of the executioner. They were both small and slim, with lively eyes and mouths that were quick with laughter. They even looked alike. Across the compound, Dumou was talking with his jackal of his servant as they promenaded. A gaunt black garb monster. He was the only convict among us who never wore the shapeless gray canvas clothes. I glanced at the two of them now, and then as I went on shaving Bijou, wondering what they talked about, what they dared to talk about in the bright clean light of the sun, that hideous pair of devils. Master. What is it, Bambis? The little one who smiles too often, Bijou. What about him? In the barbers there. He's being shaved. Do you assume the fact to be of some interest to me? I only mentioned it. Not necessary. I was already aware the Bijou was there, and the barbers hutt being shaved. I'm sorry, Master. In fact, I am aware of several things that stupid little Bijou thinks are secrets. Being shaved, is it? We have a blade that could give him a closer shave. Bambis? Oh, yes, Master. So close that he would never need another one. An interesting idea. Very interesting. I think Bijou has made rather serious error in not realizing my cleverness. A mistake that may very well prove fatal. Zellie, your husband, my little one, your old, old husband. You were expecting someone else, perhaps? No, of course not. But you're home early. Did I surprise you? Well, I... I enjoy surprising you, my dear. Do you mind? No, but dinner won't be ready for another hour yet. I'll start it at once. An hour? What is an hour when we have a lifetime together? Zellie? Yes, sir. Even though I'm an old man, old enough to be your... your father, you do not answer me. I... I don't consider you old, sir. Thank you. Then we will have many more years together, no? But, of course, sir. Then we must make good use of those years. We must do things, eh? Anything you wish. Then why not begin with a small trip up the coast? I can easily get permission. Whatever you say. Good. Then we shall leave the first of next week. Next week? Yes, my dear. Why not? But next week? Eight days from now? The boat stops here. I had forgotten about it. But what could that possibly have to do with us? Well, letters. There may be letters for you from France. And your papers. You know how you love your papers. You were so considerate of my welfare, Zellie. Try to be, sir. You must love me very much. I said, you must love me very much. Oh, of course. Say it. What? Say that you love me very much. I love you very much, sir. Pretty. But so unfortunate, you must always address me as sir. It's much too formal. It means nothing. It's only a habit. You must do something about that habit. I'm going out while you prepare dinner, Zellie. I must see Bombiste about a little matter. He'll be back soon. But of course. How could I bear to be away from you? Not to see you or touch you for even one single night. Goodbye, Zellie. Bombiste. Yes, sir. Oh, yes, master. Bombiste, are you aware that we have not worked in some time? True, not for a long time. Too long, eh, Bombiste? Yes, master, much too long. Bombiste, in view of that treaty between the government and the jungle tribes, the prison officials might be very displeased if a native should be murdered. But of course, the officials are leaning over backward to avoid trouble. Then what do you think would happen to a man who murdered the native? Uh, junk. Surgery? Precisely. Has somebody killed a canock? No, at least not yet. Not yet? Bombiste, do you happen to know where our little friend sleeps at night, the handsome beecho? I think it is in barrack number 12. Would you find his bed in the dark? Yes, master, but if it is a matter of slipping a knife between his ribs there are much better places than the barracks. Why not in the jungle where it may seem that a native... Please, Bombiste. Oh, I'm sorry, master. You are not going to slip a knife between beecho's ribs. In fact, my little Bombiste, like the contrary. Quiet, quiet. It's beecho. Beecho, what do you want? Why are you awake? Do my somethings happened? I'm not sure what it is. Oh, what do you mean? I woke a moment ago some sound, I think. Do my... I have something here to show you. Oh, what is it, beecho? Wait, let me strike a man. He was holding a convict's jacket in his hands made of gray cotton canvas. The number on the pocket was 2232, beecho's own number. And the whole front of the jacket was splattered with bright red blood. In just a moment we will return with the second act of escape. But first, most people like to know what to expect. But on at least one CBS show, a great part of the fun is in what turns up on the spur of the moment. That show is Groucho Mark's great quiz you bet your life. Heard every Wednesday night on most of these same CBS stations. Now we return you to the second act of escape. The brief time before the match flared and went out seemed like minutes. I grabbed beecho by the arm and lay still listening in the darkness, straining to hear whether anyone else may have been awakened. Now there was no sound. The other men slept on. Here, do my, my sandals. Feel them, they're wet. Yes. They've been worn outside somewhere within the last hour. And do my, my knife has blood on it too. Beecho, tell me quickly where have you been? What have you done? Nothing, I've been asleep. You've not been out of the barrack? No, I swear it. Do my, what is this? What does it mean? Beecho, I think it means that someone is more clever than you. Wait. What is it? The prison dogs. Listen. Yes. They're coming this way. Do my, are they after me? Who else? But what am I going to do? Well, first we must dispose of these bloody clothes in the jungle, I think. We, you're going to help me? Of course, my friend. Come, I have a plan. Quietly now, Beecho, and quickly. We threaded our way among the sleeping convicts to the rear of the barracks. Near the back door, I saw a pair of old worn robe sandals. I grabbed them and took them with me. And then we raced across the hard-beaten earth of the compound, cursing the bright moon overhead, and plunged into the black thicket of Lyanna and mangrove and fern into the jungle. For half an hour or more, we smashed our way through the soggy tangle of undergrowth, crashing into trees, tripping into vines and roots, sprawling full-length on the swampy loam. But always we staggered to our feet again, and ran on and on and on. Do my, where is, where's that stream? We must be very close now. I saw it here somewhere, last spring. But this is not last spring. Well, streams do not move about. Keep on. We'll never find it in this darkness. There will be a path of moonlight. The trees are open above the stream. No bijou, go on. But do my. It's no time to stop now. Wait. Listen, I think the dogs are closer now. No, but they soon will be. Come on. Do my, we must find that stream. And then minutes later, we did find it. Dead tired and dripping with sweat from the steaming heat of the tropic night, we stumbled over a low hummock, and so we went to the stream. I can saw the blazing white path of moonlight ahead of us, almost at our feet. We slid down the shallow bank, dropped to our knees, and then all our brave hopes died out of us. Do my, do my, the stream is dry. Be sure, I tell you, last spring it was a torrent. It filled these banks so high, higher than my head. It's dry, but a trickle. Listen, they're coming closer. Run, do my, run while you still can. No, look, I brought another pair of sandals from the barrack. Here, put them on. The dogs will not have the scent of this pair. Quickly now. You put on those sandals, then circle back to the barrack. They'll never know you left. I can run no further. I'll wait for them here. Bijou, I cannot leave you here to- Don't be a fool. Put on those sandals, hurry them before it's too late. And, and later there's something I'd like for you to do for me. Here, the tickets to France. Give them to Zellie. I'll, but get away from her. If only there was some way to kill him. And with me, nothing. Tell her to go to the hundredly memories in Lyon. They will take care of her. Go on. All right. Is there nothing else that- I can't know. Then goodbye Bijou. Goodbye my friend. Tell her I love her very much. Being a convict, I was of course not permitted to attend the trial of my friend Bijou for the murder of a native. There were two convicts present however. Two star witnesses who palmed the Bible reverently and swore to having seen Bijou commit the murder. Two demons from hell. Monsieur Deneu and Bombiste. The trial was over in less than two hours. The verdict was not surprising. The sentence inevitable. Convict Bijou, you will rise and face the council. Have you anything more to say in your defense? Nothing I haven't said before. I'm innocent. I've killed no one. Then this council of the penal colony of New Caledonia sitting as a special court of the Republic of France finds you guilty as charged. As commandant of this prison, I order you to be taken to the compound of the camp at daybreak of the second morning following and there in the presence of your fellow convicts to be guillotined. The night before the execution, I stood outside Bijou's cell, rolled cigarettes and handed them to him through the barred window. The guard dozed somewhere on the other side of the hut. After all, my friend was to die in the morning. No one could escape from this place and there was no reason for caution. Tell me, do my silly, how did she take it? Is she all right? I could only see her for a moment. It was dangerous. I gave her the tickets, but she says she will not leave you. It's I who will be leaving in the morning at daybreak. Does she expect a miracle? Probably because she is in love with you. She's very upset, of course, nearly out of her mind. Poor little Sally. I hope it goes well when they're in France. Bijou, is there nothing at all I can do for you? No, nothing. The Republic has been very thoughtful in all the details. Even a bottle of red wine with my last meal. The vintage was atrocious. Bijou. And look, they've even left me the black hood, which I wear to the guillotine. I suppose I'm to make sure of the size or get used to wearing it or something. My friend, would you like for me to send for the priest? He was here, but I sent him away. I thought he would need a good night's sleep since he's supposed to accompany me in my ordeal. Oh, not of course to the extent of getting his head cut off, you understand. Bijou, how can you make jokes about a thing like this? My friend, how can I do anything else? The game is over. Should I pound my head on the wall and scream like a mad man? Shh, shh, quiet. Someone is coming. Bijou, Bijou, are you there? It is Sally. What? Sally, over here. Who is it? Jumai. Come, here by the wall. Jumai, when does that waste time? Sally, go away from here quickly before they find you. Be quiet, dear. Here, the key to a cell. Let him out. The guard's asleep. Where did you get this? From my husband, after he went to sleep. Hurry, please. But it will help nothing. Only cause trouble for you. There is no time to argue. Hurry. I took the key and slipped around to the entrance of the hut. The fat guard dozed in a chair with his hands folded on his punch. I moved past him, tiptoed to the door of Bijou's cell. Fitted the key in the lock. I held my breath, but nothing stirred. Bijou came out of the cell without a word. We slipped past the guard and met Sally by the wall of the hut. The three of us skirted the moonlit compound with a grim black shadow of the guillotine in the center of it. And without erasing any alarm, we finally reached the edge of the jungle. Sally clung with a desperate grip to Bijou's hand and wept sometimes. But gradually it became clear to all of us that there was no answer, no escape. Bijou might swim to the ship lying in the harbor, but with a prisoner at large, it was sure to be searched before it sailed. The coast in either direction was too well guarded and that left only the jungle in the hills beyond. Hills swarming with savages, who were quite aware that the head of an escape convict delivered to the commandant was good for a bolt of bright red calico. But in our despair, the jungle seemed to offer at least some forlorn hope. And so it was decided. Bijou would try to reach the western side of the island and from there, Australia, while Sally would sail on the ship when it left in the morning and wait for word and leave. One thing was fortunate. She had brought the clothes Bijou had planned to wear to France. We could leave his convict garb in his cell and stop in a trail. This time there would be no dogs. Three hours before dawn, after a long kiss for Sally and the hand grip for me, Bijou turned and struck into the jungle and Sally broke into tears. He has no chance. The names are bound to find him and kill him, monsieur. Do you mind? You know he has no chance. He's very clever, Sally, and brave, of course, there's a chance. I think he knows they'll kill him. I think he's only being kind to me. You're only speaking foolishness. You must be brave, too, you know. Brave? I could do anything for Bijou, except losing. Well, you're likely to do that if we stay here any longer. It's too near dawn now and we have to take those clothes back to the cell. You must go home and be ready to slip aboard the boat. Only a few days ago, I was so happy. For the very first time in my life, monsieur, we were going away on that boat, little Bijou and I. And now, who's here to your mind? I cannot go on living without him. I cannot bear to live without him. As was the custom in those days, we knelt bareheaded. Over 400 of us. On the hard-packed dirt of the compound, facing the guillotine. The morning sun burst suddenly over the eastern rim of the sea. It's blood-red color fitting for the business at hand. The commandant of the prison stood only a few yards from me. And just beyond him, fussing over their hideous machine, those two vultures of evil, monsieur De Noux and Bombiste. Ah, the stage was set. The audience was ready. And only I knew that the star actor would not make an appearance. Is everything in readiness, monsieur De Noux? Quite in readiness, monsieur le commandant. Very well. Bring out the prisoner. I looked toward the cell hut and waited, keeping my face as blank as all those around me. And then, a priest and a guard stepped out of the hut and came toward us, and walking between them, wearing the gray convict's uniform and the black hood of the condemned was my little friend Bichaud. One moment of shock, and then I suddenly understood his apparent agreement with our plans a few hours earlier. He had reasoned that by this time, Zélie should be aboard the ship that had waited only for the tide to sail. She would not know of the execution for months, a year or more, perhaps. And by then, she would be settled safely in France. And so Bichaud had come back to face his death. Homie, place the condemned prisoner on the rack. Yes, master. Of all of us in the compound that morning, the man who was to die seemed the least afraid, and the least concerned of any. Though the hideous black hood covered his face and head to the shoulders, no hood nor prison clothes could hide the almost jaunty swagger of his walk. That swagger spoke a reproof to the justice of the prison court, sneered at the bloodstained evil soul of Danoux and gave courage and hope to us who melt on the ground. I am ready to proceed, monsieur le commandant. Is it your order that this prisoner be executed? It is. Proceed, monsieur Danoux. Homie, raise the knife. I see to the very top, to the top, master. The eyes of all of us, officials and convicts alike followed the heavy blade moving slowly up the guides. Fascinated, some of us snarled or cursed, some of us trembled, but only monsieur Danoux smiled to himself. So intent was my gaze that I hardly noticed the native who pushed past me carrying a leaf-wrapped bundle and walked up to the commandant. Here, what is this? What are you doing here? We bring him one fellahead. All I say is you give him one piece calico. We've had no escape here. Long time, fellow here, no chop-chop bush. All I say is you bring him one fellahead. You look. Monsieur Danoux holding the release court of the guillotine and his hand smiling still had not noticed. The native fumbled with his package and suddenly out rolled a human head, one that was impossible to mistake. You! But, but this is the head of the convict, Bijaud. Then who in the name of heaven was the prisoner on the rack? Monsieur Danoux, stop! No, stop! Monsieur, that was not Bijaud. Here is his head. Look, not Bijaud. Who is it you have killed? Pull off the wooden sea. No, no, I'm afraid. Monsieur Danoux, remove that hood. And then suddenly I knew it was not necessary for me to see who Monsieur Danoux had executed. Little Zalee had taken the place of Bijaud on the guillotine and now had joined him in death. Escape is produced and directed by William N. Robson. Tonight we have presented the red mark by John Russell, freely adapted for radio by Les Crutchfield and Manny Grotnick. Featured in the cast were Bill Conrad as Dumai, Harry Bartel as Bijaud, Will Geer as Monsieur Danoux, Barbara Whiting as Zalee, Junius Matthews as Bombiste, and Paul Fries as the Commandant. Special music was arranged and conducted by Del Castillo. Next week. You are in command of an English destroyer sailing to join the North Sea patrol in October 1914. It is midnight and from the coast of Flanders comes a desperate signal for help which you want to ignore but which destiny forces you to answer and to become the man who won the war. Next week we escape with one of the most famous stories of the First World War, Robert Buckner's classic and unforgettable tale, The Man Who Won the War. Goodbye then until this same time next week when once again we offer you escape. Bing Crosby's got a wonderful lineup of guests on his CBS show this Wednesday. Tomorrow night on most of these same CBS stations, it'll be the Firehouse Five, Plus Two, Plus Three Andrews Sisters, Plus Dermingle himself. Be listening won't you? Now stay tuned for the latest adventures of Philip Marlowe which follow immediately over most of these same stations. This is CBS, The Columbia Broadcasting System.