 The Linux show starring Nick Carter, master detective, presented by ACME, America's great producer of fine quality paint. This is the story of a man known the world over as one of the most daring and resourceful characters in the history of detective fiction. A man whose name has become a symbol of the triumph of right and justice over the sinister forces of crime and lawlessness. A man recognized as one of the great masters of deduction, Nick Carter, master detective. Today's baffling case, The Witch of Dunderberg Mountain. Another exciting chapter dramatized from the life story of Nick Carter. In just a moment we'll find how a curious old moldy coin lured Nick Carter into a strange community brooded over by Dunderberg Mountain and a collection of macabre superstitions. But now millions of American families are happier these days because women who run their homes wisely have learned about chemtone, the miracle wall finish, which makes every home more bright and inviting. 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Yes, looking at that comfortable old Victorian mansion with its gay flowered window boxes, its shiny brass door knocker and the bright and glistening windows, no one would ever guess that those pains are bulletproof. The doors, windows and chimneys burglar proof and that on the top floor is probably the world's best equipped laboratory for the scientific study of crime. As a matter of fact, our master detective is at this moment closeted in his laboratory while Patsy Bowen, his efficient and long-suffering secretary holds the world at bay in his second-story office and consulting room. Finally, the hidden door that leads to a secret passageway creaks open and at her, Nick Carter. Patsy, would you get that blame thing fixed? Not me. The way you gumshoe around without making a sound gives me the jumps. Every time I think I'm in a perfectly empty room and suddenly look up and see you at that old roll-top desk which you won't let me throw out. As if you just materialized out of thin air, it makes my heart do nip-up. Yes, Patsy, your grammar's a bit thumb-diddle, but I think I get your drift. You want me to stamp her on a bumper to furniture like the average man? I do not. Tell me, did you finish whatever it was you were puttering around with up in the laboratory? I did. I examined the shirt the man accused of the Pemberton murder was wearing the night Daily Pemberton was killed. But that shirt had been washed and ironed here. Like so. Murderer made the common mistake of believing that a thorough washing and boiling would eliminate traces of his crime. But not with a modern benzidine test, sweetheart. Oh? Took me less than three drops to reveal the presence of blood stains. Mr. Pemberton's blood. You needn't look so pleased. I'm always pleased when I've managed to enter criminal career. Murder so often becomes a habit. Huh? Anything happen when I was upstairs? Anything, everything. The mayor called, the head of freedom for Moravia called, the tenant Riley called, the butcher called. Trivia, all trivia. Anything worth bothering about down in the waiting room? This is Delacy Trump's pearls. What about them? Stone. Tell her to report to insurance company. She can. Seems some jiggler's wiped them. She doesn't want her husband to find out. Not interested. Old Mr. DeWitt Hemingway's second wife has run away. You should have done it years ago. Not interested. Mr. Roger Winthrop, author and lecturer, has taken a house in some forsaken spot up the river. He's writing a history of the folklore and superstitions of the Catskills. He wants you to know. I never collaborate. Besides, what I know about the River Valley superstitions and the plenty gory, he can dig out of the records for himself. Not interested. Will you not jump to conclusions, Nick? He does not want you to collaborate. His servant has been hexed. The local witch has put a curse on him. And he's had a succession of headaches or corns or something. Tell him to wear a nice affetative bag. I believe that's a useful round. It's too late. The servant, whose name was Jacob, died about dawn this morning. A violent and horrible death. His last words were something about a descent into hell. Well, why didn't you say so? He wouldn't let me. Send Mr. Winthrop up. Well, send him up. What are we waiting for? Keep your shirt on, Nick. I can't have him shot out of a cannon. Why can't I click my enter off his gadget, can't you? Butch. I ain't your face. Butch, Mr. Carter will see Mr. Roger Winthrop. You mean the guy with the ribbons on his glasses? Right the very first time. OK, Mr. Winthrop. Hey, halfway up the stairs already. Athletic for an author, I'm fancy. Come in. Mr. Carter, Mr. Nick Carter, where is he? Right behind you. Mr. Carter, I am. I know. Roger Winthrop. Author. I'm now engaged in collecting data for my latest novel. In fact, I have already. Has this novel anything to do with your servant's death? Why, no. Let's skip it. Of course. But if it went for the novel, I never would have rented the old Brocken house. And we'd never have met the old Witch. You said Witch? He did. You keep out of this, Betsy. What old Witch do you mean, Mr. Winthrop? Who is this, sir? I'm Nick Carter's secretary, and then you enter General Factotum, and the lady who shows the buttons on his shirt. Now let's get back to the Witch. She sounds more interesting. Thanks. Of course, I don't actually think she is one. Still, the natives who live around the Brocken farm are quite convinced of the fact. It seems she's placed a curse on people before this. Mostly young boys who taunted her or stole her fruit. Young William Tappan was thrown from his father's farm horse and dragged twice around the barn. Henry Vandervoort fell out of an apple tree and broke his arm. And Johnny Upsendike had scarlet fever and jaundice both at the same time. It seems to me I've heard of accidents like that happening to kids even without their being ex. Yes, Betsy, but that's not the significant part of the narrative. What is? The boy's last names. Tappan, Vandervoort, Upsendike. I take it, Mr. Winthrop, the old Brocken farm you've rented is in a Dutch community. It is. Up the river at the foot of the Donderberg. Wild hag-ridden country. Those families settled there before the revolution and had married and intermarried ever since. All but the Brockens. They seem to have been disliked right from the beginning. Some say they aren't Dutch at all, but Hessians. Yes. Let me see. Brocken. Isn't that the name of that mountain in Germany where all the witches are supposed to gather on Walpurgis nut? Yes, that's why the Brockens are said to have settled where they did. Because old Donderberg, the local mountain, bears a strange resemblance to the Brocken. I see. Local gossip has it that on the eve of May Day, which, as you know, is Walpurgis nut, all the family and their cats, they've always had black cats, would swoop up the chimney on broomsticks, and fly away to Donderberg Mountain for some sort of witches' Sabbath. Then this witch who's supposed to have hexed your servant Jacob is, I gather, one of the famous Brocken. She's the last of them. Miss Hermina Brocken is an old maid. And when she dies, the family will be extinct. And high time, too, if you ask me. Now, you don't really think she's a witch. No, but she's a vindictive, highly neurotic. I might even say dangerous female. And you think she killed Jacob? I do. She laid a hex on him last week, made a rag doll out of an old scarf of his she managed to steal. She named the doll Jacob, of course, and then began sticking pins into it. And last night, or rather early this morning, he died. Tell me exactly what happened. Well, I rented the Brocken house for the summer. It seemed to have the sort of weird, not to say, sinister background I needed for my novel. Did Miss Hermina go with the house? Oh, no, no. She and her cat moved out to a sort of farmer's cottage. I insisted on that. I can't abide cats. Well, as I was saying, last night I was in my study scribbling away the better part of the night. It was a peculiarly black night, you may remember. This is what is called the dark of the moon. Yes, yes, I know it. Well, finally I became aware that everything was unusually quiet. And then I realized I'd worked through the entire night. And this was that queer, unearthly silence that comes just before the dawn. Suddenly I was conscious of a dull, muffled thud, a thud that was almost a clan. What was that? Curious how strange sounds become at night. Sounded like the clan of a coffin lid. Better lay off work for tonight, Winther of Old Boy. First thing you know, you'll be imagining ghostly footsteps. Good Lord, what's there? Something's coming around the corner of the house. That's the toolhouse door. Someone's trying to get in. This is ridiculous. Better go see what it is before my imagination makes a fool of me. I'll take the lamp. It's probably nothing at all. Just the wind rattling the lock. But there isn't any wind tonight. Pull yourself together, Winther. Down the steps to the woodshed. Yes, something is moving the lock. Someone's out there. Some wait till I unlock the door. I'm done for. Jacob, what are you doing out here this time of night? Jacob, what's wrong with you? I don't go near it. Don't go. She's right. It goes straight down the hill. But I, I, I, I. Good Lord, he's having convulsions. Jacob, Jacob. And what happened then, Mr. Winther? Jacob died right there in my arms. It was horrible. As the death raffle left his throat, his right hand relaxed and something rolled to the floor with a metallic clink. I picked it up and brought it here, thinking it might serve as a clue to this whole horrible business. Let me see. Here. Black with AIDS. Looks like a metal slug of some kind. Betty, how about giving this a going over with that metal polish you keep around for polishing up the door now? With pleasure. Right here in this drawer. I keep it handy, Mr. Winther, because all the hardware in this old house is brass. And I always say, what's the good of having real brass furnishings and looking to keep them well? I'm not interested, Pat, to postpone the housekeeping. Well, Mr. Winther, from your description of Jacob's death, the panting, the dragging footsteps, and the final convulsions, I'd say it was probably poisoned. No possibility of suicide, I suppose. Of course not. It was the witch, Miss Hermina Brocken. I told you she'd put a curse on him. Curses don't cause convulsions, Mr. Winther. I never said they did. The point was, she hated Jacob enough to want him dead. Why? Well, I suppose it was my fault in a way. I told Jacob to make up to the gold girl in order to get her to tell him all the local ghost stories. He unearthed plenty. Some of them, like the headless horseman and the crew of Hendrik Hudson, who go bowling in the mountains whenever there's a storm, have already been recorded by Washington Irving. Yes, yes. Then there's the two spectral riders who are supposed to be the ghosts of Major Andre and General Benedict Arnold. They met and rode through that territory. You know the night Arnold sold out to the enemy. Yes, yes. Then there's the story of a lost treasure that's supposed to be cursed, not to mention a batwoman and a black culture who appears whenever there's to be a death in the valley. Interesting, but irrelevant. Why did Mr. Rocken hate Jacob? Certainly not because he worried those stories out of her. Well, no. As a matter of fact, I rather imagine Jacob overdid his attentions for the old girl. When she discovered he had a wife and five children in the Bronx, well, she turned on him like a vixen. It was all Peter and I could do to tear him away from her. She was trying to scratch out his eyes. Hell, have no fury and so forth. Quiet, Betty. Just who is Peter, Mr. Winter? A local character who does the gardening for me. He's, well, not exactly bright, but he can make anything grow. How does he get on with Miss Rocken? Scared to death of her. Carries a piece of cold iron in his pocket all the time he's around the place. If you touch cold iron, you know a witch can't harm you. Speaking of cold metal, how's this for a handsome hunger staff? It shines better than I do or not now that I've got the tarnish off. Well, very interesting. That coin, Patsy, is gold. What? I'm very skinny, to be exact, minted in the reign of George III. In those days, coins like this were called Trader's Gold. For Pete's sake, why? Every British soldier who brought in a member of Washington's army received one of these. And every member of Washington's forces who gave himself up got one, too. Well, in the world, he was about Jacob that old a bit. To answer that, we'll have to make a visit to the Dunderburg. Yes, Mr. Wanderer. I think you brought us a problem that's even more interesting than you suspect. Just what is the significance of the piece of Trader's Gold found clutched in the dead man's hand? Is it connected in any way with the strange events which are happening in the shadow of Old Dunderburg Mountain? We'll see in just a moment. Linux self-polishing wax is practical proof that there is something new under the sun. New beauty, new protection, new skid resistance for all your floors and linoleum. If you haven't used new Linux self-polishing wax, you haven't learned how different, how perfect, the quick drying wax can be. 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Whichever you choose, Linux self-polishing wax or Linux Clear Gloss Varnish, ask for it by name, Linux, and get the best. You will find all three great Linux home brightness and ChemTone, the miracle wall finish, that hardware, paint, and department stores everywhere. And now back to today's exciting case. As we pick up Nick Carter and Patsy, they are following Roger Winthrop along a desolate country road to the Brocken Farm, where Winthrop's servant Jacob has recently died of violent death. It is twilight in the sinister hulk of the Donderberg mountain broods over the landscape. I'm not surprised the people who live around here believe in witches and curses and hidden If you'd spent a couple of months around here the way I had misborn, you'd believe in superstitions too. Things like that don't seem possible back in the midst of the city's traffic. But up here, time seems to stand still. Here people are still living in the dark ages. I noticed that we came along. Most of the barns had hex signs painted on them. Nick, have you noticed the clouds gathering behind that mountain? Yes. Imagine the old dustbin will start their game of ninetons any time now. Hope we'll reach your house, Mr. Winthrop, before the storm breaks. It's just over the next rise, Mr. Carter. Here's the gate behind the lilac bush. Well, that's what you'd call a very good repair. After you, Betsy. Thank you. That's the house down there in the hollow. And that's Peter sitting outside the toolhouse door. I gave him strict instructions not to let anyone move the body until you arrive. I know you detectives prefer to find your clues undisturbed. It's sometimes helpful. Why doesn't Peter sit inside the toolhouse? Because he's afraid of the dead. There's a superstition around here that the soul of anyone who's died a violent death is afraid of being alone and always tries to take along a companion. Oh, what's that? Something up there in that tree. It's there to celebrate it against the sky. A black cat. It's Miss Brocken's hecuba. They're inseparable. If that cat's around. Then the brocken female isn't far behind. I wondered who's been following us the last quarter mile. Nick, I didn't see her hear a thing. You, you don't mean she's invisible or something? Come, Mr. Fetcher. I'll admit she's kept out of sight. But no disembodied spirit breaks twigs and rustles dead leaves. She's imperfectly audible to anyone that took the trouble to listen. Here, that's it. She does stuff in a little pebble. My feet are chattering, so I couldn't hear an ambulance. Oh, Nick, I don't like this place. Easy, Fetcher. Oh, here comes Peter. Poor guy, he looks relieved. I thought you was never coming. I told you I wouldn't stay if you didn't get back before night falls. But we did, Peter. This is Mr. Nick Carter, the famous detective. He'll find out what killed Jacob. The light's fading fast. Better make her examination before it's completely dark. Oh, Catty, it may not be nice. You want to stay out here? Well, that woman and her cat crawling through the bushes and a storm coming up the side? Thank you. I'm coming inside, no matter what's in there. Hold the flashlight steady, Fetcher. It's horrible, isn't it? Extreme written mortise and marked italic constriction of the muscles, yours who firmly clamped together to permit any investigation of the oral cavity. We can take a look at the inside of the lips. Oh, the poison, whatever it was, was violent, but I don't think it would have ministered my mouth. No. Now, let's see. Rest in the instep of the shoes between the so-called heels. Heavy boots and tortler trousers, no, nothing to lower them. Ah, hands bare. Yes, yes, look here. The two small punctures of the right thumb. Yes. Fetcher, help me roll back a sleeve. Right, Mr. Carter. Here we are. Two more. And here again. And again. And all the punctures have already started to gangrene. That's how the poison entered the body. That's the evil eye, those two dents. It's the mark of the evil eye. They burn straight through you until you're dead. Interesting idea, Peter, but what killed Jacob was quite a bit more deadly than any evil eye. You mean you know who killed him? Definitely. The question now is to find where the killer's hiding. But, Nick, I... Let's see if we can get a line on how Jacob spent his last 12 hours. Get the small microscope out of my zippercase, will you, Petty? Or when you might prepare a few slides. Right, you are. Just exactly what you're doing that for, Mr. Carter. They're cleaning the dead man's nails, I mean. A good scientific detective, Mr. Wendler, can pretty well deduce from what he finds under any person's nails, where that person has been and what he's done for some time previous. Oh, slides, please, Petty. Here you are. Isn't my most powerful lens, of course. This flashlight isn't as strong as one could wish. Will... You got anything there? Yes. Quite a few things. We ate a piece of chocolate cake for dinner, with a finger to put. Sawed quite a bit of wood. A minute bit of sawdust. That was yesterday afternoon. They also plucked the chicken reasons very impolite to furniture. Finely globules of very fine oil. The most interesting ingredient in the whole collection is a certain tiny spored mold of fungus. Great deal of it, as a matter of fact. Maybe he went out picking wildflowers in the woods. No. This particular fungus only grows in places where there's a great deal of moisture and where sunlight never reaches. Any place like that around here, Mr. Wendler? Basement? Springhouse? No, no, the basement's bone dry and there is no springhouse. How about a well? There are few enough improvements on the place. No electricity, no telephone. But we do have a hand pump in the kitchen sink. Which means that there's a well under it. Jacob couldn't very easily get down into it. I'd say it would be absolutely impossible. Wait a minute. There's some sort of boarded up stonework with a padlock out back of the barn. I remember someone told me it's a condemned cistern or well of some sort. Yeah, that's the witch's well. You'll be wise to stay away from it. It's the way straight down to hell. A way to hell? Yeah. Weren't those Jacob's last words before he died? One yes, Mr. Carter. Come on, show me the place. Unless I'm very much mistaken, that's where we'll find the answer to this problem. At the bottom of the well. Counted as if Henry Hudson's crew had started a game of 19. Oh, that means this evil abroad tonight. Nick, Nick, I just remembered something. Now what? Isn't tomorrow the 1st of May? That means this is Walt Pregis' night. When witches ride and graves give up their dead, yeah. That one sounded like a strike. This is the cistern, Mr. Carter, or whatever it is. I thought you said it was padlocks, Mr. Winterf. It always has been. Not now. Locks flying on the ground. The staples all bent and twisted. That's as if someone had broken it. And the cover's been moved recently, too. But here, Nick, these scratches on the stone. That thing, I do believe you're finally beginning to notice things. You know where you can go, don't you? Yeah, that's just where you will go if you get too interested in that well. Now look here, Peter. You're a big boy now. You don't really think Miss Brocken's a witch? I know she is. Ever see a ride a broomstick? No, but I've seen her go down this well. When was it? Winter nights. Me and my brother Timmy would hide in the hay of that old barn and wait for her to come along. First we'd hear the scrape as she pulled off the lid. And then we'd see her climb down inside with a lantern and a teat. And that old black cat sitting on her shoulder. Why do you think she did it? Climb down inside, I mean. You get warm, of course. It's nice and cozy in hell on a winter's night. You never went down in summer? Oh, I should, she. It's hot enough right here in the valley in summertime. Very interesting observation, Peter. And it verifies my hunt just how Jacob was killed and why. What do you mean, Mr. Carter? Help me pull the lid off this well, and I'll show you. Here, take that side, and I'll fix it. Right, I need it. There. That does it. Now, Clatsy, give me that flashlight. Here you are. Thank you. Now, let's see what we've got. Ah, yes. Notice those rusty spikes driven into the stonework to form a sort of ladder? And notice where the rust has been scraped recently. That's how Jacob got it in his boots. He followed Miss Brock in his example and climbed down into the well. You'll also notice that the stones are covered with that curious fungus we found under his neck. Nick, she's watching us. Over there under that apple tree, and the cat standing on her shelf. We've been waiting for you, Miss Brogdon. I think you can tell us how Jacob died. It was his own greed killed him. I warned him no man could go down there and live. You knew he died if he went down into the well, and yet you let him go. I did not. I refused him the key I did, but he broke open the lock like a thief when no one was locking. He wouldn't listen, and so he had to die. And I'm not sorry. You killed him. Easy, Wintlop. Miss Brogdon isn't responsible for Jacob's death. Then who is? You said yourself he was poison. Quite right. And I think if I drop this rock down into the well, we may rouse the killers. Aye, if you do, let's play you that devil's tattoo. Oh, let me be careful. I'm afraid. Here goes the stone. Now, let's... Nick, I heard him. Good Lord, what is it? Rattlesnake. Forget this is rattlesnake country. And I rather imagine there's a rattlesnake nest down there. Aye, that there is. Old ones and young ones. The darlings. I told Jacob not to go down in that well. I told him he'd go to hell, but all he cared for was gold. And so he's dead! Dead! Dead! And I... One thing I still don't understand about that Donderberg mystery. Why did Jacob go down into the well? And why wasn't Miss Brogdon bitten when she did the same thing? I'll answer the last question first. Miss Brogdon was careful to make all her descents into the well in winter. What for what? You see, when snakes hibernate, they become cold and almost lifeless. As can a snake charmer. It's an old trick of the trade to put snakes on ice just before a show makes them quite harmless. Oh. And as for the reason that drew both Miss Brogdon and Jacob into the well, I deduced from the sample Jacob had in his hand that the Brogdon well is a hiding place of Benedict Arnold's famous lost treasure. What's that? Major Andre is supposed to have given Arnold a golden guinea for every man then garrisoned at West Point. Arnold undoubtedly hid the money and didn't have time to dig it up when he had to flee for his life after his treachery was uncovered. But if the Brogdon family knew where it was, why didn't they use it themselves? Probably because they felt it was painted money with a curse on it. I see. Well, thanks, Nick. Now in just a moment, I want you and Patsy to give us a preview of next week's exciting case. Everybody's heard the old saying that home is where the heart is. And because home does matter most, it deserves the most careful attention you can give it. Keep your home at its loveliest with the three great Linux home brightness. Linux Cream Polish, for example, renews the original gleaming beauty of your fine furniture. The handsome appearance of the wood grain itself in one quick, easy application. That's because Linux Cream Polish cleans as it polishes, saving one whole step in your cleaning day routine. The cloudy look of old polish and dust, the blurry appearance of finger marks are erased as if by magic. And Linux Cream Polish leaves no surface film of oil for dust to cling to. It helps conceal disfiguring scratches, too. So take the streamlined way to furniture care. Linux Cream Polish for fine furniture. Tell your dealer you want the product that cleans as it polishes. Ask for all three great Linux home brightness. Linux Cream Polish, Linux self-polishing wax, and Linux clear-glass varnish at your nearest hardware, paint, or department store. And now let's hear from Nick Carter himself. Well, Nick, what about next week's story? Next week, Ken, I think I'll tell you the story of how an heir mysteriously disappeared before it was born. And a curious and frantic case it was. When a woman who's going to have a baby any minute disappears into thin air right on the threshold of a famous maternity hospital, then she... Now, Patsy, don't give the whole plot away. Wait until next week. What do you call a story, Nick? I call it The Vanishing Lady. Nick Carter, Master Detective, is featured in Street and Smith magazines. Lawn Clark is starred as Nick with Helen Chote as Patsy. Original music is played by Lou White. The programs are written by Edith Meiser, and any resemblance to their interactual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The entire production is under the direction of Jock McGregor. Nick Carter, Master Detective, is presented at this time over the same stations each week by the three great Linux home brightness. Linux clear glass varnish, Linux cream polish, and Linux self-polishing wax. Created by Acme, America's great producer of fine quality paint. This is Ken Powell speaking for the thousands of Linux dealers all over America, and saying so long until next week. This is the Mutual Broadcasting System.