 Suspense. Night as we open a special limited series of five Friday night performances at this hour, suspense brings you an incomparable study in terror. This Edgar Allen pose the pit and the pendulum, in a new setting as a radio play, especially written for suspense, by contemporary master of the art, John Dixon Carr. As star this evening, we bring you a noted actor of the New York stage, Mr. Jose Ferrer. And as usual suspense is produced, edited and directed by William Spear. Sick on to death with that long agony. And when at length they unbound me and I was permitted to sit, I felt my senses were leaving me. The sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged into one dreamy, indeterminate hum. Yet for a while I saw, but without terrible and exaggeration, I saw the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies on the walls of the room. I saw the flames of the seven tall candles which burned on the table. I saw the lips of the black robe judges. And these lips appeared to me white. White as paper, white as horror. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them passion the syllables of my name. Captain Jean Dolbray. Good fathers, gentlemen. We hear you, my son. I am very weakened and firm. I have been confined for many months in a dungeon. I have been tormented by nightmares. Conscience, one trust. Pray silence for Antonia. Even now I have no knowledge of where I am or to whom I may be speaking. You're speaking to me, my son. I am Fra Pedro de Spiglia, friar of the Dominicans of Segovia, and grand inquisitor for all Spain. The Court of the Inquisition? It is. Then God help me. He will help you, my son, if you trust him. But I am a French officer. That is true, a soldier and creature of the Archfiend Napoleon Bonaparte. But a French officer nonetheless, a prisoner of war. By what right do you try me in this court? Let the clerk read the charges against this prisoner. Pray silence while the clerk reads the charges. The charges against the prisoner are as follows. In primus that he is one Jean Delbray, a captain of artillery in the army of Bonaparte, This means nothing as the prisoner says it is no crime. Proceed. An item that on the fourth day of September, in the year of our lord, 1808, the said Jean Delbray did wed espouse and marry that most noble lady, the Donna Beatrice Valdes, niece and ward of the illustrious... One moment. Your Excellency spoke. Frantonio, was any cheat employed to trap this girl and to marry it against her will? No, we have no actual evidence of any cheat. Was the girl of age? I believe so. Then wherefore is the prisoner here? This marriage was a deplorable thing, if you like. Bonaparte himself is almost at the gates of Madrid. His general assail menaces our city of Toledo itself, but lawful marriage, however regrettable, is no sin or crime. There are other matters in the indictment, I think. Then continue, but give us nothing that is not material. An item that on the 12th of October, 1808, the said Jean Delbray, being in command of a five-gun battery of light artillery, did direct the fire of his guns against the Holy Church of St. Martha the Innocent, and thereby of his wicked malice, destroyed that church utterly. Captain Delbray, is this charge true? Yes, you admit it. Good father, hear what I have to say. If you recall, the church blew up. It blew up because it was stored with kegs of gunpowder for your army. I had every right to fire on it. And that is all the defence you have to make. I tell you, I had every right to fire on it, by military law. Is military law above God's law? I don't know. I did my duty. Long live the Emperor. Captain Delbray, hear the sentence of this court. Must I stand up to hear it? I am very weak. You may remain seated. I thank you most humbly. Had your defence been any except this, the Holy Office would have been possible. Mark what I say. No man, however great his heresy, is ever condemned to be burned in the fire. Fire! Fire! Fire! If he first recants and acknowledges the error of his ways. But for you, Jean Delbray, he can be crossing no barrier. The only sentence of this court can be... Death! Death! Death! The secular of government armed to which we must release you has devised two ways of punishment in cases such as yours. You hear the tolling of bells. I hear them. It is the procession of the condemned going to the Autodotheque. Soon the yellow light of the flames will stream through the windows and flicker on floor and ceiling. No get-in-horror mortis into his mounibus. Most of those condemned out of mercy will be strangled before they are burned. It cannot be so with you, Jean Delbray. You must die in one of two ways, either with the direst of physical agony. A slow fire of green wood, ice bandages about the head and heart so that the fire does not approach too quickly, not be silent for Antonio. I cry your pardon, Grand Inquisitor. Or else, Jean Delbray, you must die in a certain other way. I'm done with this! Pass your sentence and let me go. The law does not permit me to tell you now what this other way is. It must approach you slowly and force itself into your mind. It will stalk you like a tiger. It must bring you face to face at last with the king of terrors. The sentence of this call I had sworn, yet still I will not say that all of consciousness was lost. There are shadows of memory which tell me indistinctly of tall figures that lifted me and bore me in silence down, down, still down, until a hideous dizziness suppressed me at that descent into the earth. There was a vague horror at my heart because of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then consciousness swam back to my wits again. Darkness, stone floor and darkness. Oh, oh, Beatrice, oh, my wife. Did you call me, Jean? Beatrice! Was it you who spoke? Yes, Jean. You here in the dungeons of the Inquisition? I am not really speaking to you, my poor Jean. I am only in your imagination. Am I mad then? No. But your brain is fevered. You only think you'll hear me. I hear you clearly, as clearly as I once heard you. In the little church near the abrow, where we were married. I destroyed that church Beatrice. It was my commanding officer's order. I know, Jean. Be comforted. There are those who care. You won't leave me? As long as I am in your heart, I shall be here. I was strong once, but now I'm weak. Once I was reckless, but now I'm afraid. Where am I, Beatrice? What are they going to do to me? I cannot tell. Remember, my voice comes only from your own brain. Are you feted? No. They have not chained you to the womb? No. They've taken away my uniform. They've given me sandals and a robe of what feels like coarse surge. But I'm still free. Free. Take courage, Jean. Free and in the grasp of the Inquisition. Beatrice. Yes, Jean. It is completely dark. There's hardly any air. I've got to get up and I've got to stretch out my hands. Suppose they've burnt me alive. Courage. Can you then walk? Walk as far as you can. Measure the limits of the cell. If this is not a tomb... You're right, Beatrice. As always. I'll try. Courage. Yes. Courage. Thank you for a poor devil who always meant well. One pace. Two. Three. Four. You're very weak, Jean. Rest a moment. Yes. Where are you now, Beatrice? In the flesh, I mean. You know that, Jean. In the old house by the Olive Grove. It's corn of my people. Yes. I know it. Each morning I climb to the hilltop and watch. Go on. Sometimes I think I hear gunfields rumble in the hill and long-moving columns with the red dust rising above them. Go on. First come the heavy cavalry in plume-crested helmets on their flanks squealing like hawks, light hazards in blue and scarlet, and behind them in a glitter of bayonets as vast as light points on the sea rank upon rank. The long grey coats and tall bearskin caps of the old gods and the grandownies. It is only a vision, my dear one. They do not come. I cannot tell. But I must face what has been prepared for me. Beatrice. Yes, Jean. I tried to walk. I took some steps. Four steps, yes. In which direction? I can remember. Are you facing the same way? I don't know. Perhaps. Then walk again. Try. Keep your hand in front of you. Yes. Miss Robin pleads me and the floor is treacherous with slagging. But I'll try. Four pieces. Five, seven. It can't be a tune. Nine, ten. Look out! I felt the rope grip me. What is it? My hand is in front of me. Lower than my face. But I feel nothing. Nothing, Jean? It's a pit, a circular pit. And I fell on the very edge of it. You would have made you walk into it. There's a loose fragment of rock just inside the edge. If I can dislodge it. Listen. Something else. I heard it move. So do I. Accidents saved me. They would have had me plunged there symbolically like the descend of a soul to keep company with something else. And quick death forms no part of their plan. What is in the pit, Jean? I can't say. What you're saying is... Save me at this. Save. From the imposition. My torture has been merely... Post-honed. Sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, I know not. But when I opened my eyes once again, I could see. Yes, see. My prison was large and lofty. Its walls formed of massive iron plates bolted or joined together. A wild, sulfurous luster. I could not trace its origin. Lit up the dungeon. And a circular pit. And the crudely dodged skeleton figures and evil colors on the iron walls. Skeleton figures. Demon figures. Gargoyle figures. Their colors are little blurred as from the effects of the damp. And I... Must approach you slowly and force itself into your life. It must stalk you like a tiger. It must bring you face to face at last for the king of terror. I now lay on my back and at full length and on a low framework of wood. To this framework I was securely bound by a long fastening resembling a surgical bandage. Bound? But why? The bandage passed round and round my body leaving at liberty only my head and my left arm. With much exertion, I could supply myself with food from an earthen dish on the floor beside me. It was meat. Highly seasoned. And there was no water. Beatrice, where are you? I am here, Jean. As always. Voice, I'm stronger. Does it, Jean? Well, I can see you now. I can see you as clearly as I saw you months ago. Oh, I wish it were true. Your bonnet and the parasol you carried in summer and the high waisted blue dress. You are weaker, my dear. And more fevered. Have I been asleep? Yes, Jean. They must have been here while I slept. They have bound me. Why? Why? True, Jean. I am not here either, you know. Don't try. Beatrice, look! Where? In this room, 30, 40 feet up. What do you see? Read it on the ceiling. A figure of Father Time. Is there anything else? But Father Time carries no scythe. He carries instead what looks like a gigantic pendulum from an ancient clock. About one thing I swear I'm in my right senses. I saw that pendulum move. Painting cannot move. But I saw the pendulum did. It swung a little, back and forth. Just like a real pendulum. Why not trouble your brain? Father Time is not like those other paintings dogged down the walls. The imps and devils and skeletons. That pendulum is real. Beatrice, take care. Take care of what? You are not looking at the pendulum now? Take care of the rats. The rats from the pit. I see them. They're swarming out in dozens. You can see their glyphs. One of them ran across them of your wrists. Did it, Jean? What do I want? They have caught the scent of the meat in the dish beside you. You'll not get it. Go away, you burden! Do your hand above the plate, Jean? Beatrice, where are you going? I can hardly hear you. You are sending me away. I'm sending you away! My bear to see the rats running about my feet. Can you? Even when you know I'm not here. Beatrice! Yes, it's true. Sells swarming with vermin. There are others I had rather see here. I had rather see... Hey, Captain Delbray. Man in spirit, I am here. Don't you recognize me? No. I am that second inquisitor for Antonio, whom you thought unfair at your trial. But we were not unfair. We administer the law. That is all. Go, I command you, go! Not until I have first told you what you already guessed. Which is? As the Grand Inquisitor said, there are two forms of death for such as you. One, death with its direct physical torture. The other, death with its direct mental torture. And I have been condemned to the second. Your guess is good. Listen. Something? Turn your eyes upwards. It has descended. Only a foot or so as yet. As you notice, it is not really a pendulum. No. No. Its underside is a crescent, formed of sharp, of razor sharp steel. A ponderous weight, Captain Delbray. Its movement is slow now. But soon it will take on momentum. It will swing wider and wider. 30 feet perhaps. Presently as it swings, you will hear it hiss. And with each broad movement, it will creep a trifle lower. Steel is directly above me. Yes. Above the region of your heart. Lie still and look up at it. How long before? You need have no immediate fear. It will not be too soon. But how soon? Name of pity give me some answer. Hours. Perhaps days. Its motion can be arrested while you sleep. And now, Captain Delbray, still in spirit, I leave you to your meditation. Hours. Days. Steadily down it crept. Days past. It might have been many days before it swept so closely as to friendly with its accurate breath. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. The right. To the left. Far. Wide. A streak of a damned spirit. To my heart with a stealthy pace of a tiger. Down. Certainly relentlessly down. My braid. I wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad and struggled to force myself up against that swinging, glittering death. Of no avail. Down. Still unceasingly down. Still inevitably down. The sharp steel flashed past within three inches of my chest. And then, only then... I heard you calling, Joan. I am here. It is a strange thing, Beatrice. I am quite calm. You are resounding? No, that is a strange thing. Even now, I am not resigned. Is there a way out? How can there be ten, twelve more vibrations and it will fray the surge of my robe? Once slightly as a razor in a delicate hand, there will be many sweeps before it bites deep. And yet? And yet. I could only use my wits. You kept me away from you, Joan. You locked me out of your thoughts. If I am here only in your thoughts, why should I fear the rats? The rats? Rats? They still swarm here. Across the flora and over the meat ladder they have taken nearly all your food. It is iridescent. And they have sharp teeth. Well... The meat is oily and spiced. If I take what remains of it, scatter you, Vernon. And rub that meat on the bandages that hold me here. Try it, Joan, try. Maybe too late. If I move my body a fraction of an inch out... Try it, I tell you, try. Look, they scatter as soon as I do try. But they are watching you. I can see their eyes glitter. They are creeping back. Can I stand those that's crawling across the creek and the flesh bear it? If it was leaped on the wooden framework, another follows. They are gnawing at the bandage. Seven, eight more sweeps of the pendulum. Does the bandage give way? A little. Life stills, Joan. Life stills. Ten, a dozen rats gnaw. Is death, I wonder. Worse than this discuss. A dozen sharp knives do no better. The bandage is loosened to ribbons. If you move sideways, carefully, and drop to the floor. Dearest, I can't. I haven't the strength... The steel is fragile. Over a minute more will be too late. Try. Then, and with all of the powders that is in me, the hatred that I have bear my enemies. They are drawing it back up through the roof. Each move I make is watched. You never doubted that. No. Yet with all they could do to you, they have failed twice. They will not fail a third time, my dear. There must be no more dallying with the king of terrors. What else can they do? I can't say. See how the rats gnaw in silence at the bandage. To what food, I wonder, have they been accustomed in the pit? But you escaped the pit? I escaped it once. Listen. What do you hear? Growning and grinding is of metal. It's only the cogwheels of the pendulum knife. I think not, Beatrice. Why not? It seemed to come from behind these iron-plated walls. It seemed to shake the dungeon as a millwheel might shake it. It's... Stand up, my poor young. Get up off your knees. I can't, Beatrice. I can't endure any more. The paintings on the wall of this dungeon are skeletons and imps and devils. They seem...different. They are different. The colors sharpen, group right, the demon-sized glare, the skeleton hands outspread. Don't you catch even yet the odor of the heated iron? He's an iron! I've been much humbled, but I won't have you see me in tears. I only you to go! You're in the maze! The deeper glow settles in the painted eyes that glare at me. I could run up there into my lungs against the loom of that fiery dysfunction. The thought of the pit and its coolness came like balm. I stagger to the edge of the pit. I look into it. The incapable walls and roof lighted to its depths. Yet for one wild moment, even then, I refuse to believe the meaning of what I see. Does the pit please you, Captain Dalbray? You again. Do you find its contents pleasing? Not the pit. You've got anything but the pit. And how shall you avoid it? Look! This dungeon has changed its shape. That is true. The walls are closing in. It was formerly a square, and now it is. That means slowly towards the centre. To force me into the pit? Of course! It will force you along with me. Then apparently you must be told, Captain Dalbray, that you are speaking only to your own sick fancy. No! We are not here at all. No! Farewell! Your flatter and flatter through the red-burning walls with a swiftness that left me no time for thought, I strike back as the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold. I sprained words! I tuttered on the edgmen voices. The fiery walls rushed back. The French army had entered Toledo. The inquisition was in the hands of its enemies! Edited and directed by William Spear. Tonight you heard Mr. Jose Ferrer as star of the Pit and the Pendulum. First in a limited series of five Friday night performances at this hour, which will present Radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, Suspense. Tonight's radio play was adapted by John Dixon Carr from the famous short story by Edgar Allan Poe. Jose Ferrer will soon be seen with Ingrid Bergman in Joan of Lorraine. Appearing tonight with Mr. Ferrer were Jeanette Nolan, John McIntyre, Elliot Lewis, Joseph Kearns, Eric Snowden and Paul McBae. Music for Suspense is under the direction of Lud Blusken with original music composed by Lucian Morrowake. Next Friday, same time, we will again bring you Suspense! This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.