 Good evening. I'm Mr. Barrick, one of the characters in the Mollay Mystery Theatre, which follows right away. I just want to remind you that although next winter seems very far away, right now is the time to do something about next winter's heating problem. The government says that fuel of all types is going to be scarce, so if you want to keep warm, you should go to your dealer now and get whatever kind and quantity of fuel he can let you have. Or say you should check up on all your heating equipment and make sure that you're not wasting fuel. And lastly, protect your home against loss of heat by installing insulation and weather stripping. Those are the ways in which you can protect your home against next winter's cold. And now the Mollay Mystery Theatre, presented by M-O-L-L-E. Mollay, the brushless shaving cream that guards your tender skin with its special protective film. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Jeffrey Barnes welcoming you to the program that presents the best in mystery and detective fiction. Tonight we bring you an unusual tale of the supernatural by Oliver Onions, entitled The Beckoning Fair One. It is a gripping study in human terror, the eerie story of a strange rebellion, and the terrible consequences that followed. So here it is. The Beckoning Fair One. My name is Paul Ollaran. I'll tell it from the beginning, just the way it happened. I don't ask you to believe it. Just listen. I was working on my new novel, Romilly, when I decided to move. I looked over a couple of places and finally discovered one I liked. Of course, it's not a new house, Mr. Ollaran, but we'll do the place over for you any color you like. There's certainly quite looking rooms, aren't there? Many of atmosphere here. You writers will have your atmosphere. Are you sure you won't reconsider about taking the whole house, I mean? You never know who might rent the other floors. If you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Barrett, you're not likely to have many people interested in living in this old relic. No, it's not as bad as all that. But I rather like the idea of being the only tenet in this venerable mansion. Just as you like, Mr. Ollaran. Leave it to me, Mr. Barrett. I'll make my corner of it cozy enough. I was thoroughly pleased with my new quarters. There was an air of ancient charm about the place that appealed to my imagination. Then I discovered the handle in the window seat. That meant there was a box underneath. But the lid was stuck. I went to work on it with mallet and chisel. The paneling rang and vibrated. The whole house seemed to echo. Finally, I loosened the lid and tried it out. I drew out something soft and yielding, covered with dust. There was some kind of a large bag, triangular in shape. It had wide flaps and buckles. I couldn't imagine what it had been used for. I soon lost interest in it, depositing it in a corner of the room. Then I set about removing a large nail out of the slum of the lid. I spent the rest of the afternoon putting my manuscripts into the box. In the evening, Elsie Bengo paid me a visit. Elsie worked on a newspaper and she was always enthusiastic over my work, especially the new novel, Romney. Well, Elsie, what do you think of the place? I don't know, Paul. I like the last place. In spite of the black ceiling and no water tap, has Romney come in? Uh, not very well. Are you stuck? Yep. Can't seem to get on with it. Paul, would you like to read me some of it? You don't understand, Elsie. I haven't done any more on it. Not a line. Paul, you're joking. Perfectly serious. We were considering scrapping the whole 15 chapters and starting over, making Romney a different type of woman. And you're really going to scrap those 15 chapters? You seem more concerned about it than I am. Well, maybe I am. You've got what you've been working for almost within your reach. A novel that'll make you famous. You still have a lot of confidence in Romney, don't you? And now you just want to scrap the whole thing. Paul, it's unforgivable. Oh, it's just... Elsie, the important thing is I'm happier here than I've been for a long time. I didn't mean to let you with this. But I feel so close to Romney. In the corner here? As far as you tell me. What? It's a harp cover. It's been used to wrap up a harp before putting it into its case. Oh, it must be a very old one. Oh, thanks for solving my mystery. Paul? Paul, who lives in the rest of this house? Nobody. I'm the only tenant. Paul? Yes? May I tell you frankly what I feel about this place? Why, all me? You'll never work here. Oh, why on earth not? I don't know why. But you'll never finish Romney here. That night, I sat by my fire pondering over Elsie's prophecy. I looked around the room. It filled me with a sense of calm I'd never known before. The more I thought about Elsie Bengal, the more I became convinced I would have to destroy those 15 chapters. Unwittingly, I put too much of Elsie into my character of Romney. And those qualities I disliked in Elsie Bengal, I found objectionable in Romney. Then I became aware of the dripping water tap in the kitchen. It had a tinkling range of three notes on which it seemed to play a tune. In my mind's eye, I could see the gathering of each drop, the little tremble on the lip of the tap, and the tiny musical sound of its fall. I found myself waiting to hear each drop over and over again. Oh, the best, Mrs. Grayson, the best. Are you sure I'm not putting you out any asking you to come over every morning and get my breakfast? I don't mind it a bit. What the caretaker's wife for, if not to take care of things. Hear me, but that's a very old tune. I haven't heard it in these four years. What tune? The one you come in. It's called the Beckon and Fair one. Sing it for me. Hear me, I haven't got any voice. Come on, it went something like this. Very pretty. They do say it was on to a harp. The tune must be at least a hundred years old. And I was humming it? Indeed you were. It's sad. I thought I heard that tune last night, dripping from the kitchen faucet. Silly idea. A faucet singing. As time passed, I became more and more attached to my apartment. But Elsie Bengo did not share my enthusiasm. It just doesn't belong to today at all, Paul. You know, this is our dead house. Everything in it reeks of decay. That's all in the point of view, isn't it, Elsie? Is Romney coming any better? I think she is. I'm laying the foundations of her new character. I'll begin the actual writing soon. You mean you discarded the old Romney? Yes. Where's the manuscript? In the window box. What do you want it for? What's the matter, Elsie? Cut my finger. You ought to take that nail out of the lid, Paul. But I thought I did. Oh, let me bandage it. Please don't worry about it, Paul. It's running out of scratch. Look what you walked me down the bus. It'll do you good to get out for a breath of fresh air. I can't, Elsie. I really must get down to work. No. No, that isn't why you won't go out. Oh, Paul, move out of here. Everything's wrong with this place. Oh, Elsie, please. Here. Let me see you to the door. I put my foot through. Oh, you poor girl. Let me help you. No. No, don't let me go. Elsie. Please, please let me go away. I'm not wanted here. Alone that night before my fireplace, I found myself considering Elsie's two accidents. Well, I had removed that nail from the lid of the window box. But then I couldn't be too certain I hadn't left a bit of it still in the wood. And the staircase was an old one. Though it seemed strong enough to me, the step might have collapsed under anybody. Poor Elsie simply happened to be the victim. Oh, my imagination was beginning to play tricks with me. I actually fancied I heard my name in the sound of the dripping water tap. And I laughed at myself. That's what came of too much thinking. Suddenly, I stopped laughing. I heard a rustling sound. It seemed to be coming from the center of the room. For a moment, I couldn't identify it. It was a long, sweeping sound. Faint. What is it? What's there? Who's there? It's a woman, combing her hair. I've got to get out of here. I fled the house. I walked for hours in the cold, clear night. Gradually, my fear left me. I began to laugh at myself. Of course, I hadn't removed that nail. Of course, the wood in that step had been rotten through. I saw the invisible woman brushing her hair. I'd been dreaming too much, that was all. It was morning. By the time I got back to the house, I hadn't been to bed at all. I was tired. I found Mrs. Grayson, the caretaker's wife, waiting for me in my room. It's a liberty of coming in, Mr. Oloran. Seeing as the door was open and you weren't home. I've been out for a walk. You needn't bother about breakfast this morning, Mrs. Grayson. I'm not hungry. From now on, Mr. Oloran, you'll have to make other arrangements for getting your breakfast. I won't be sat in foot inside your door again. Why? What's the matter? I'm a respectable woman, and I'll not be serving a man who makes the habit of entertaining ladies in his room. Ladies? I'll make your bed for you this last time. Make up my bed? I haven't been to bed yet. I haven't been here all night. Somebody spent the night here, Mr. Oloran, because your bed's been slept in. Well, Mr. Evans, do you think Paul Oloran's house is really haunted? Or is he bewitched by his own imagination? And is there anything he can do to save himself? Yes, Mr. Baum, there is. Listen to me. I was once bewitched, but I was saved by a magic word. A magic word? What word? Listen. My face was bewitched. Every time I shaved, I used to get invisible little nicks and scrapes. But then I learned the magic word. Mole! Well, gentlemen, there is something magical about the way mole protects your face against irritating little nicks and scrapes. But there's a common sense reason behind it. You see, mole has a special protective film, a slick smooth moist film with more real body and substance than light fluffy cream. Mole gives your razor something to ride on. Your razor rides along smoothly from the first stroke to the last without pulling or tugging at your whiskers. Your tender skin gets the very best of protection against aftershave burn and irritation. Mole is made with ingredients of assured quality, ingredients that meet the official U.S. pharmacopoeia requirements for medical purity. So, gentlemen, try mole. The brushless shaving cream that puts face protection first. And now back to Jeffrey Barnes and act two of the beckoning fair one. Paul Oleran writer had not been in his new living quarters long before strange things began to happen. Nails put themselves back into the wood. A leaking water tap played an old tune and an invisible woman appalled Oleran's soul by combing her hair. He has just returned to his rooms after spending the night walking the streets and contemplating the beckoning fair one. I looked at the rump of bed. The sheets bore a distinct impression as if somebody had lain on them. I knew that I hadn't been near the bed since Mrs. Grayson had made it the day before. I was face to face with it now. Something inhabited my room. But what? I was seized with the desire to know the thing, find out what it was. I lay down on the bed and tried to figure it out. It's becoming clear to me now the key lay in my half written novel, Ramalee. Or rather, in both Ramalees, the old one and the proposed new one. Looking back over it, I realized there was almost passionate hatred in the way the new Ramalee had supplanted the old. Somehow, all this was related to Elsie Bingo. One thing was certain. Elsie must not come inside this house again. That afternoon, I saw her coming up the walk. I hurried to meet her up. I'm sorry, Elsie. I'm just going out. I've got an appointment downtown. Do you want to walk along with me? Paul, you haven't any appointments. You just don't want me in the house. Well, I only wanted to tell you that everything's over between us. Let me see my Paul. Something strange is happening to you. Please, Elsie. But if you ever need me, Paul, somehow I'll know it. And then I'll come. Sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Barth. There's something I've got to ask you. Oh, glad to be of help, I can. As running agent of the house, you'd know something about the previous tenant, wouldn't you? Yes. The last tenant in your room was an artist by the name of Madley. He seldom went out of the place. As a matter of fact, Madley died there under rather peculiar circumstances. Yes. It was discovered at the post mortem that there wasn't a particle of food in his stomach. Starved to death? No, he started death all right. Only it wasn't because he didn't have any money. You see, they found a bank book in his room proving he had $10,000 in a New York bank. Suicide then? My starvation? Hmm? It's rather an uncommon form of suicide, isn't it? Then... Then why? Why? I don't know what's going on. Nobody ever found out. I returned to the house. That there was a strange presence there I was convinced. And now that I'd rid myself of Elsie Bingo within the old inspiration for the character Rommelie in my novel, I hoped to meet the beckoning fair one, she who was becoming the new inspiration. Once inside, I had to be calm, convinced of it. I didn't care whether she appeared or not. I left a candle in the bedroom, drew down the blind, took off my coat, I was stooped to get my slippers from under the bed. Straightened up? Reflected in the mirror? I saw a gleam of light in the centre of the room. It moved up and down through the air. It was the reflection of a candle on my comb. And each of its downward movements was accompanied by a silky crackling rust. I went into the living room and returned with the manuscript of the old Rommelie. The combing stopped immediately. I was no longer aware of the fair one's presence. She's just jealous. Jealous. Night after night passed, and still I did not see her. My life became one passionate and consuming desire to see the new Rommelie, the new heroine of my novel, who had fastened herself on my brain in the guise of the beckoning fair one. I want a bouquet of roses. Yes, sir. Got some duties today. Beauty is for a beautiful lady, huh? Here's a nice bouquet. That one will do. Nothing like roses to win the heart of the fair one, eh? What'd you say? It was just making conversations. You said something about the fair one. Just a manner of speaking, sir. I didn't mean any offense. Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. I'll take those files now, and I want you to deliver a bouquet of these to my house every morning for the next two weeks. I'd made the arrangements with the florists, so I wouldn't have to leave the house at all. I hoped the flowers would unbend her coy stubborn will. They did no good. I lost track of the days. I walked through my rooms with slippered feet now, treading softly, afraid of frightening her away. I kept the windows shut and the crimson blinds down. In this enticing, flower-laden place, I waited for the beckoning fair one. I searched my mind for some reason why she held herself back from me. Suddenly it came to me. The manuscript of the old Rommelie, those 15 chapters, I was a fool to think that the new Rommelie would show us up to me as long as there existed evidence of my former attachment. I took the manuscript from the winterbox and was about to throw it into the fire. Who's there? It's Elsie. Go away. I can't see you now. Please let me in, Paul. No. Paul, you're in trouble. I know you are. I'm all right. Go away. Paul, I only want to help. I promise I'd come as neededly. Paul. Paul. Please answer me. Paul. I didn't answer her. Paul. She was a fool. Coming here where she was not wanted. Why didn't she leave me alone? Her voice only irritated me. Soon her calling stopped. I heard her footsteps going down the stairs. I destroyed the manuscript of my old Rommelie, page by page. Then I lay down to wait again. How long, how many days? I don't know. I was beyond the world of calendars and clocks. Gradually the strength drained from my body. I gazed vacantly at the star patterned ceiling. Sometimes I had a fleeting recollection of a novel to be written. It was like something far off. Sometimes I thought about madly the previous tenant who lived here before me. I wondered whether she had played her coy game with him. Elsie, how'd you get in here? Paul, this isn't me. You're not well, darling. Let me take care of you. I said I'd come when you needed me, Paul. Wait. She called my name. Paul, what is it? I don't hear anything. No. No, I won't leave Paul. Say, isn't this the part of the house where that writer lived, the one who was being executed tonight? Yes, yes, this is it. What was the name of that girly murdered? Elsie Bango. Of course it's not a new house, but we'll be glad to do the place over for you. The water tap leaks slightly. But it won't bother you. And so we have heard how the strange voice of an unseen woman drove Paul all around to commit a murder. Yes, Mr. Barnes, the voice gave him evil advice, but now listen to a voice that gives helpful advice. Put face protection first. Yes, gentlemen, Molle does put face protection first. It guards your face against annoying little nicks and scrapes because it's got a special protective film, a slick, smooth film with plenty of real body and substance. Molle gives your razor something to ride on. Your razor rides along smoothly from the first stroke to the last and you get a close clean shave without any pulling or tugging at your whiskers. You'll find that your shaves will get better, better and better when you use M-O-L-L-E. Molle, the brushless shaving cream that puts face protection first. This is Jeffrey Barnes again, ladies and gentlemen, inviting you to be with us next week when we will bring you L.A.G. Strong's dramatic story of premeditated murder entitled Breakdown. A man is caught in the complicated web of a love triangle, which he realizes is slowly driving him insane. He attempts to solve his problem with a carefully planned murder, but it comes to a disastrous climax. So, mystery fans, be sure to listen next week to L.A.G. Strong's compelling adventure in crime breakdown. The original music for the Molle Mystery Theater is composed and conducted by Jack Miller. The beckoning fair one was written by Oliver Onions and adapted for radio by Eric Arthur. Until next Tuesday, this is Dan Seymour saying good night and good shaving with the brushless shaving cream that puts face protection first. Molle. Our Molle Hills Malans to you, are you too tired, too weary to face daily problems? Then listen, doctors may find that your fatigue is caused by a borderline anemia. Yes, a borderline anemia resulting from a ferronutritional deficiency of the blood. Decide now to throw off depressing fatigue with the help of iron-eyes yeast tablets. They're formulated to overcome borderline anemia by helping to build up red blood cells. Take IY, iron-eyes yeast tablets to get more vigor, more drive, more energy. This is the National Broadcasting Company.