 Murder by Experts. The mutual broadcasting system presents Murder by Experts. With your host and narrator, Mr. John Dixon Carr, world-famous mystery novelist and author of the recently published bestseller, The Life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is John Dixon Carr. Each week at this time, Murder by Experts brings you a story of crime and mystery, which has been chosen for your approval by one of the world's leading detective writers, those experts who are themselves masters of the art of murder and can hold intensity at its highest. This time, our guest expert is the noted mystery writer, Miss Frances Crane. From the many thrillers she has read and enjoyed, Miss Crane has selected a gripping and dramatic story by Philip Andrews. And now we present, James Stevens in The Big Money. The Big Money. Yeah, I was in The Big Money. An hour and a half ago, I had $7 million. I had a wife, too, slender, dark-haired, green eyes, and a cute figure. But she's gone now. She left me one hour and 30 minutes ago. No, one hour, 31 minutes, and 20 seconds ago. And she took the money with her. That's not all she took. She took my life. I wish she'd come back. I want my life back. I don't care about the money. She could keep that. After all, it only took me a month to earn it. That's right, one month, 30 days to earn $7 million. What's the trick? You have to be born for it, born for The Big Money. And I was. I always knew it. As far back as I can remember, even back in prison, even back before that in military hospitals, while the dogs patched up my face and tried to patch up my memory, I knew I was born for The Big Money. That's why I wasn't downhearted when they let me out of the big house with the usual five-spot and a ticket to the city and no prospects. The warden tried to give me a pep talk, but I put him in his place fast, believe you me. George, I'm glad you're leaving us today. I won't keep you long, but I want to help you if I can. That's nice of you, warden. Mighty nice. The prison psychiatrist says you only have a partial memory of your military service and no memory at all of the period before that. That's right. I remember coming to a hospital and being told a shell burst had knocked me out and cut up my face. That's as far as back as it goes. We've checked your army career. You're a troublemaker. In fact, you were under arrest on charges of stealing government property when that shell hit the guardhouse. So what, warden? You were dishonorably discharged. But still, it might be possible to get medical treatment for your condition. Now, if you want me to contact the proper authority... Skip it. Suppose I could remember everything that happened to me. I don't want to. Growing up in a slum, being kicked around, who wants to remember that kind of stuff? But your parents, your family, don't you want to find them again? They probably forgot me years ago. I'm looking ahead, not behind me. Take the average guy with a memory. He can't concentrate. He's distracted by all the things he remembers. Me? I can look straight ahead and stick to business. And that business is getting myself into the big money. Well, if that's how you feel, I won't say any more. Good luck anyway. Thanks, warden. Thanks, anyway. So that was that. Ten minutes later, I was a free man after two long years. I hiked straight for the railroad station and caught the first express for New York. Then I ambled back to the club car and ordered a drink. I relaxed and sat back, feeling good. Very good. Across the aisle, a girl was reading a magazine, a knockout, black hair, green eyes, and lips like rose buds. Pretty soon, she saw me watching her, but she was smooth. She didn't even seem to look at me while she gave me a long, steady once over. She was interested, I knew that. She turned to a short, plump, white-haired man beside her and whispered something. White hair gave me a long look, too. Then he got up and came across smooth as butter. I beg your pardon. I have the feeling we're acquainted, but I can't quite bring your name to mind. My name's George Cook, if that's any help. Cook, Cook. Now, I'm afraid I've mistaken you for someone else. Yes, of course. You remind me strongly of my old friend, Howard Vincent. Never heard of him. The likeness is striking, but my apologies. I didn't mean to intrude upon you. Oh, you're not intruding, are you? Davenport is my name. Pilo Davenport. Mr. Davenport? Trains are pretty dull when you're traveling alone, don't you think? Insufferably dull. Perhaps you care to join me and my niece for a drink, Mr. Cook? He didn't have to ask me twice. In fact, he didn't have to ask me once, because if they hadn't picked me up, I was gonna pick them up. In 10 minutes, we were as cozy as three mice in a cheese factory. Marlene was a name. Marlene. Saying it was like tasting old brandy. Marlene and I got along fine, but I could feel them both sizing me up, eyeing my going away from prison suit, and I knew they were shop shooters with some cute game on their minds. By and by, Marlene came to the point I knew they were interested in. Very witty, Mr. Cook. What line of business are you in? Traveling salesman. Now, my dear, you mustn't ask personal questions. I don't mind, Mr. Davenport. The truth is, I'm a free traveler. A free traveler? What's that? Well, you see, they set me free this afternoon, and now I'm traveling. Very good, Mr. Cook. Very good. Such frankness is refreshing. And what business are you in, Mr. Davenport? Well, I'm part lawyer and part detective. I have a specialty all my own. I trace heirs to unclaimed fortunes. Interesting business. You ever find them? Frequently. In fact, much oftener than I have any right to expect. Oh, now, Uncle Philo, you mustn't boast. Of course not, my dear. 125th Street, next stop, 125th Street. Well, this seems to be our stop, Mr. Cook. Where are you staying in town? I haven't quite made up my mind. I thought I'd look around a bit first. See, Marlene and I would like to have you come and call on us tomorrow, the next day. Wouldn't we, my dear? Oh, we'd love it if you would. Well, in that case, I will. Find out. Here's my card. Don't fail us now. Please promise you'll come, George. All right, Marlene. I'll drop in on you. Sure, I was gonna drop in on him. Philo, obviously, was up to some little game, and if I could find out what, it might pay me. So I dropped in the very next morning at 2 a.m. I didn't bother to wake Philo or Marlene. What kind of a friend would disturb them at that hour? I just let myself in with a picklock, found the living room, and started going through it. I began with the drawers of a mahogany desk. And I was just getting going when the overhead light snapped on. And Philo's voice said... Good morning, George. So nice of you to come see us so soon. I turned, nice and carefully. There was Philo in a dinner jacket and Marlene wearing a gown that started at the floor and stopped unexpectedly. Oh, now, Uncle Philo don't make George think he isn't welcome. Put away that gun. Offer him a drink. Of course, my dear. George, if I put away this gun, will you sit down for a glass of brandy and a nice quiet chat? Why not, Philo? I'll sit here on the couch. I was just looking around the room while I waited for you. Admirable. Marlene, he's our man. I know he is. Congratulations, George. I'll get the brandy, Uncle Philo. You know, George, I made a bit with Marlene. You'd show up tonight. Philo, I underestimated you. So you were waiting for me? Yes, we've been waiting for you. Since we left you on the train, I've checked your entire career. Your army record, you're being wounded, your prison sentence for robbery after your discharge, your loss of memory, everything. That's fast work. Well, it's my business. On the train, Marlene and I were startled at your resemblance to a certain Howard Vincent. Yeah, you mentioned him before. Who is he? I'll come to that in a moment. I said that my business is finding missing heirs who have fortunes waiting for them. I'm successful at it, George, because sometimes when an heir can't be found, I create one. Philo, I'm beginning to think you aren't honest. Which brings me now to Howard Vincent. He died in a train wreck in 1941. I saw his body, but only I know for certain that he is dead. I see. Go on. For four years, in a state of $7 million has been waiting for him to turn up to claim it. $7 million? And a few odd thousands? Here's the brandy, Uncle Philo. Thank you, my dear. Thank you. Here you are, George. Right. Now I propose a toast to Howard Vincent, formerly George Cook, and to $7 million, divided 50-50. This was it, what I'd always known would happen someday, the break, the big money, $7 million. $7 million just waiting for me to reach out and grab it. The three of us set up most of the night while Philo outlined the deer. Easy, George. You're perfect for the part of Howard Vincent. You look enough like him so that we can claim it's the scars from your womb that keep the resemblance from being exact. I think they rather improve your looks, George. I wouldn't want you to look too much like Vincent. In his photographs, he's rather vicious looking. Well, thanks, Marlene. I never dreamed that shellburst was going to blow me right into $7 million. $3 and 1 half million, remember? Oh, sure, $3 and 1 half. Your loss of early memory is also very fortunate. Ordinarily, we would have to fake it to explain why you didn't remember little details of your past. And that's so hard to do. Uncle Philo tried it once, but the results were very bad, weren't they, Uncle Philo? Let's not dwell on that case, my dear. In this instance, George's army medical history authenticates his condition. So he doesn't need to remember a thing. I told the warden that memory's only handicap a man. Your prison record will have to be freely admitted. Naturally, you'll be thoroughly checked. Sure. But suppose they managed to trace me back to before the army, to the time I can't remember about. They won't. You see, I am in charge of the search for Vincent. You? How come, Philo? Uh, Howard Vincent was a typical rich man, son, too much money, too much freedom. You know the story, George? Sure, I've read it a dozen times. He's back in 1941. He got mixed up in something really nasty and disappeared. Then the family got word he'd been killed in the wreck of the Western Flyer in Wyoming. You remember, 30 dead. Oh, but I forgot, you don't remember. Now look it up in the papers. Go on. Uncle Philo flew out and found that a watch and a wallet belonging to Vincent had been recovered from the wreckage. There were also three bodies, any one of which might be Vincent. I get the picture. He was a little hard to identify by that. Yes, but I recognized one of the three as poor dear Howard Vincent all the same. However, I was already foreseeing, shall we say, future possibilities? Philo, now I know you're not a... Well, I came back to report. I hadn't been able to identify any of the dead as Howard. He might still be alive. So his father kept on hoping. When the old man died in 1945, he left his money to his son, provided Howard could be found within seven years. And he left me an annual retainer to keep looking for him. And now at last you found him. No, my dear, not for several weeks yet. You see, we have careful preparation to make very, very careful preparations. Philo's plan was nice and simple. I went down to the bar and got a room and a cheap flop house. Next day, I found a job as a mechanic. Every day after that, I ate lunch in Battery Park near the Wall Street District. At the end of three weeks, Philo just happened to be walking through the park and saw me. Next day, he brought old Mr. Peoples, the lawyer for the Vincent estate, Mr. Peoples owed an odd and I was discovered. As easy as that. Of course, it didn't end there. They asked me a million questions. They traced my record, prison, army, hospital, wound, everything. They had high-priced docks. Checked me over to be sure my lack of memory was on the level. But at the end of the month, they hadn't proved I wasn't Howard Vincent. And then Philo and I gave little Mr. Peoples the clincher, the old one too. Well, Mr. Peoples, are you satisfied that we've really found Howard at last? Yeah, me and Mr. Davenport. I just can't seem to make up my mind whether he is Howard or not. I think he is, but be dreadful if we made a mistake. I'll completely right you are, Mr. Peoples. But I think I have the evidence that will settle our doubts for good and all. Well, it's a college history book. One of the books Howard used at Yale. Yesterday I had an inspiration. I searched all of Howard's old books, and at last I found what I'd hoped for. See, here on page 98. Yes. The faded fingerprint in ink on the margin. Made one night ten years ago when Howard was studying. The only fingerprint of his we've ever located. So it is. My goodness, this is important. This... This... This will tell us beyond question whether this young man is Howard or not. Yes, we only have to compare his fingerprints with this print Howard made ten years ago, and we'll know. Well, George, are you willing to make the test? Certainly I am. If I'm not Howard Vincent, I want to know it. If I am, I want to enjoy it. Very reasonable attitude. Dear me, yes. Will you make the print, Mr. Davenport? Well, Philo made a print of my index finger and little Mr. Peoples squinted at it, then at the print in the history book. He spent at least five minutes doing it, mumbling to himself. This is an important moment. Very important moment. Dear me, yes, yes, I'm sure of it. The print's match. You are Howard Vincent. Congratulations, my boy. Congratulations. Of course the print's matched. Philo had faked that print in the history book a month before. Big money at last. Seven million dollars. Yes, seven, not three and a half. I didn't have any more idea of splitting with Philo than of flying to the moon. Naturally I didn't tell him that, not yet. I sort of got the feel of things first. I settled into being Howard Vincent very, very quietly. You know how the big money works? Hush, hush. That's how I wanted it. But pretty soon I felt as if I'd been Howard Vincent all my life. I began to enjoy it. But I couldn't put Philo on forever. And the showdown came one morning in my plushy private office at the very top of the Vincent building. Philo and Marlene were both there. And they got down to business fast. Well, George, you've adapted yourself to wealth very quickly. Enjoying yourself, eh? I certainly am, Philo. I always knew I was meant for this kind of life. It seems to come natural to me. I believe I could get used to it myself. It's not the matter of my split. Of course, Philo, but it'll take time. It has to be arranged. Very smoothly arranged. Oh, we understand that, George. It isn't that Uncle Philo distrusts you. He'd just hate to have a misunderstanding and spoil our friendship. It's a big job turning over half the estate without anyone getting suspicious. Of course it is, my boy. Of course it is. And I'm going to give you two years to do it in. Three, if you think necessary. But I will want monthly installments of $50,000 until the final settlement. $50,000 a month for Philo! George, that isn't so very much. Out of all the millions you'd never have had but for Uncle Philo. Oh, all right. You win. $50,000 a month. I'm glad you're seeing it my way. And now that that is settled, we won't be meeting again, George. We won't? Why not? Uncle Philo means he'll feel safer if he's where you can't try to kill him, George. Kill him? That's ridiculous. I wouldn't dream of any such thing, Philo. You know that. Of course I do, my boy. Especially since as soon as I leave here, I intend to write out a complete account of this interesting affair and leave it with a friend to be forwarded to the police if anything violent should happen to me. Now that's not necessary, Philo. Nevertheless, I shall feel better when it's done. I'll leave my near. Shall we go now? In a minute, Uncle Philo. I want to powder my nose first. I'll be right back. No hard feelings, I hope, George. It's only good business, you know, to take precautions. Of course there's no hard feelings. I'm still making out pretty good. Here, let me ring for the elevator for you. It might as well ride down in my private car. A private elevator? Well, great wealth has its privileges as I hope to find out. Funny. I push the button, but I don't hear the car coming. Perhaps it's already at this floor. Try the door. All right, I will. Well, how do you like that? The door opens, but the elevator isn't here. The shaft is empty. Well, that's very hardly something wrong with the mechanism. The door shouldn't open if the car... George! George, what are you doing? What are you grabbing me for? Let go of me, George! No! No! I shoved hard, and Philo went down the elevator shaft, clawing at empty air and moving his feet like a ballet dancer. He screamed coming back to me, channeled upwards by the shaft. He screamed, and then he stopped. Yes, there was something wrong with the elevator, all right. I discovered it that morning, but I hadn't reported it. Instead, I'd sent for Philo and Marlene for this showdown. Now Philo was disposed of. Accidentally, with no comeback at me, I only had to take care of Marlene. I closed the elevator door and stood there trying to act calm, but the perspiration was popping out of my brow. I'd find Philo in a moment. Was it Marlene ever coming back? Then she came. Well, here I am. Well, George, where's Uncle Philo? He's in the elevator. I'm going down with you. We'll stop at the bank. I'm making a small advance payment. In the elevator? Oh, all right. Open the door, George. Go on, open it. She wasn't close enough. I had to stall. Get her closer. The door seems to be stuck. Give me your hand, Marlene. I'd rather not. But Marlene... Stay right there, George. Don't come any closer. You see, darling, I have a nice lady-like gun in my purse. Marlene, what is this? A gag? No, I didn't powder my nose, George. I found I'd forgotten my compact and I came back. I was outside the door when I heard you talking about the elevator and then Uncle Philo screamed. Poor Uncle Philo. I thought he was smarter than that. So did he, but he wasn't. A baby could have taken care of Philo. Well, go on, grab the phone. Call the cops. I could, but what good would that do either of us? I don't get you. Uncle Philo is dead. I can't help him, any. But you're not dead and I can't help you. Sis, what are you leading up to, Marlene? I know you murdered Uncle Philo, but you'd be safe and I couldn't testify against you. If you married me, George? Maybe Marlene had a baby voice, but her mind was like a steel trap. Sure, I married her. She had the whip hand. She helped me cover up Philo's death as an accident. Then she moved in and took over. Oh, it's nice to be rich, isn't it, George? Poor Uncle Philo. How he would have loved all this. I thought we agreed to forget Philo. Oh, we did, didn't we? All right, I'll change the subject then. I saw a dream of a diamond necklace at Carter's today. No, I won't buy it. You're spending money as if I had all the dough in the world. Marlene, I... You'll do nothing, George. Please sit down and stop clenching your hands. You know you're never going to touch me. If anything should ever happen to me and I mean anything, a friend will send a complete account of this impersonation of yours to the police. So you're going to take good care of me, darling. And that being the case, why don't we be friends? I'm not such bad company. Am I, George? No, Marlene wasn't bad company. She was very good company when she wanted to be. And that written account to go to the cops if anything happened to her protected her better than a bodyguard could have. So I made the best of it. We got along all right. Except that Marlene spent money like crazy until one night on our private terrace 20 stories up with a bottle of Napoleon brandy opened between us. I began to feel sleepy. Very sleepy. Too sleepy. I tried to stand up and I couldn't. I flopped back in the deck chair like a rag doll. And Marlene stood up and leaned over me. George? George? What is it? Why don't you go inside instead of falling asleep out here on the terrace? Go inside? That's a good idea. I tried to stand up again. This time with Marlene's help, I made it. She stood very close while I wobbled to keep my balance. And I knew she'd put something in the brandy. Liquor by itself couldn't have done that to me. Marlene? Marlene? Yes, George? Why'd you put it in the brandy? Just a few drops of something, George dear. Steady. Mustn't fall, not yet. We're not close enough to the railing. What are you up to? You've never stopped trying to find a way to be rid of me, have you, George? But you'll never succeed because I can make plans, too. And I've made my plans to be your widow. That's crazy. You can't get away with it. Of course I can. You're going to have an accident. You're going to fall 20 floors from this balcony to the nice, hard street. Now come over here, George. Another step. No, I won't. You can't. No, but I can. What I put in the brandy has made you helpless as a baby. Match you with a butler. I'll testify how drunk you were. George, can you hear me? Yes, I can hear you. George, let go of my wrist. You can make plans, too. George, let me go. But you always estimated how far gone I was. I'm pretty wobbly enough for you to push me over any round. I was just joking with you, George. I was just trying to scare you. Let go of me. Oh, no, you don't. We're going inside. I'm going to teach you a little lesson. Stop struggling. Well, do you any good? George, let go of me. Maline, Maline, look out. She was gone. She went the same route Filo had taken. But this time I'd have given both arms to save her. I stood there trying to get hold of myself, and behind me I heard the French door open. I turned. It was Matthew, the butler, gargling at me. Mr. Vincent. Mr. Vincent. Matthew, you saw. Saw tried to push me over to you. You saw tried to push me and slip and go over herself? Saw her try to push you over? Mr. Vincent, sir, I saw you murder your wife. That's the story. You, Mr. Peoples, and all you others, I sure had you fooled. How it, Vincent? That's a laugh. I was born in the gutters, but born for the big money, and I had it even if it didn't last. After what Matthew's told you, I know you'll never believe I didn't kill Maline. With those documents Maline left to be turned over to the cops? Well, I guess I've come to the end of the road. But you can't get the big money without paying for it somehow, can you? Oh, Howard. Howard, my boy. Yes, Mr. Peoples. Maline didn't leave any documents. She didn't, but she searched. No, that was just an effort to keep her hold over you. You see, shortly after we accepted you as Howard Vincent, we found a box of your boyhood toys and among them was a paint box covered with fingerprints and dried paint. And why didn't you nappy? Why'd you let me get away with it? Because they were your fingerprints. My boy, this was also unnecessary. You are and always have been Howard Vincent. And so the curtain falls on the big money, which was chosen by guest expert, Francis Craying, whose latest mystery, The Flying Red Horse, has just been published. Next week at this time, Murder by Experts brings you a story of a murderer whose victim refused to stay dead, selected for your approval by Cornell Woolridge. Until then, this is your host, John Dixon Carr, hoping you'll be with us next week at this time. The Big Money was written by Philip Andrews and adapted for radio by Robert A. Arthur and David Cogan. In the cast were James Stevens and Shepherd Eric Dressler and Wendell Holmes. Music is under the direction of Sylvan Levine and was composed by Richard U-Page. Murder by Experts is produced and directed by Robert A. Arthur and David Cogan. All characters in our story were fictitious, and any resemblance to the names of actual persons was purely coincidental. This is Jack Farron speaking. This is the Mutual Broadcasting System.