 This is The Man in Black, here again to introduce Columbia's program, Suspense. Our distinguished star this evening is the stage and screen favorite, Mr. Paul Lucas, whose performance is in The Lady Vanishes and in the stage production The Watch on the Rhine, you will recall with pleasure. Tonight's tale of suspense is a story by John Dickson Carr, fire, burn and cold and bubbled. If you've been with us on these Tuesday nights, you will know that suspense is compounded with mystery and suspicion and dangerous adventure. In this series, our tales calculated to intrigue you, to stir your nerves, to offer you a precarious situation and then withhold the solution until the last possible moment. And so with fire, burn and cold and bubbled and the performance of Paul Lucas and the other members of our company, we again hope to keep you in. The Rhine Theater presents the distinguished American actor, Myron Willard in Shakespeare's Macbeth, with magic effects especially designed by Ludwig von Arnheim, a relic of old London. On this site in the cramped and crooked lanes of Ulwich, there has been a playhouse since Nell Gwynn sold oranges in the pit. The present theater, though modernized, is heavy and darkened with time. My daylight, it is a dinginess of red-plushed seats, haunted by old ghosts. But at night, when the lights bloom for some new production, when the murmur of a crowd fills the carpeted aisle, the orchestra begins to tune up. It is kindled with that strange magic before the rise of the curtain. What's it's way, sir? E-12-11-13 program? Stockings? Thank you. No, madam, this is Rowe, your seat for G-14. At the stage where nerves crawl and there is a tendency to scream, the three witches of the play are huddled around the people in the curtain, looking out into the audience. They are hideous-looking creatures, these witches, in gray rags like cobwebs. But as they speak... Dear, I am scared. Don't let it bother you, darling. You can't even see the audience when the floats are on. There's nothing to worry about. Nothing except the size of the take at the box office. You won't even have to worry about that tonight. Look out there. You two are as shaking as much as I am. Now, don't pretend. All right, all right. Everybody's jumpy on first night. What I can't understand is why they want to use young girls as witches, and then make us talk in cracked voices as though we were 80. Double, double, toil and travel. Fire, burn and call. Dear darling, it's only one of the ghosts of it. You've been hearing it for weeks at rehearsal. I will say this for Martin Willard as an actor and a manager, too. He's the first one who's ever had a real professional magician to do the ghost effects of this ham show. Oh, are they serious? Look there. Where? Out in the audience in the second half of box on the left-hand side. Don't you see the woman who's just coming in? Yes, I can see her. Not a bad-looking bit of good for her age. What about her? But that's Marcia Blair. Marcia Blair? You don't mean you've never heard of her? I can't say I have either if it comes to that. Move over, Ivy. Give us a squint. Marcia Blair used to be Mr. Willard's leading lady. She was a very great actress 15 years ago. Oh, 15 years ago. She's had a terribly romantic history, where she's made lots of money and retired from the stage. Then she married some horrible no-good. Do you see that tall grey-haired man standing beside her? Well, he doesn't look much like a no-good. That's not the man I mean, Celia. That's Howard White, her second husband. Oh. They say he loved her for years and followed her about and practically worshipped her. But she was married to this no-good and wouldn't get a divorce. Then the no-good died, I suppose. So Marcia Blair and her faithful Howard got married. Yes. I remember reading in the paper that they'd been married one year tonight. I-I expect they're very happy. Well, I'd be happy too if I had a mink coat and a string of pearls like that. Well, you've got to admit she's beautiful. All right, Katie, if you say so. I used to go and see her act when I was a little girl. She-she was kind of an idol. I wonder what they're saying to each other up in that box now. I wonder what they're saying. I wish you wouldn't be so uneasy. Nothing can happen to you here. You're uneasy yourself, Howard? Yes, I suppose I am a little. Howard, I know I shouldn't be talking like this on our first anniversary, but that's what worries me. What if Barry isn't dead? What if he isn't dead? Oh, listen to me, darling. Your late husband even condemned his soul. Died in New York more than a year ago. We have proof of that. But then who wrote those letters to me? I don't know, dear. Somebody's playing a joke on you. Joke? If you marry him, Marcia, you won't be alive a year from then. Joke. But you're married to me, my dear, and you are alive. Shall I quote you something from another play, Howard? Well... The eyes of March are come. I, Caesar, but not gone. And it's still two hours. Two hours to the time we were actually married. Oh, look here, dear. This is carrying an obsession too far. It would be just like Barry to wait until the last moment, just to make it worth. You knew him. Yes, I knew him. He was a genius. I suppose so. As a mere businessman, I never quite understood this theatrical temperament, except yours, of course. Barry was a greater actor than Myron Mullard will ever be. Barry could play anything, from a cockney to King Lear. His skill at makeup wasn't nearly good. It was terrifying. Oh, Howard, I am frightened. Suppose he's managed to get close to us tonight, and yet we can't see him. Well, the music started, Marcia. I... I shall have to go. Must you go, Howard? Really? If I break this appointment with Ferndale, dear, the deal will be called off. And since I haven't got too much backing anyway, I... All right, dear. I understand. Go ahead. Unless you wanted to come with me. And Miss Myron's opening tonight? Oh, I couldn't do that. I tell you, you'll be perfectly safe here, dear. Of course, Howard. I know that. You're in full view of 3,000 people. Nobody could attack you. The only daughter in this box is guarded. Outside that door is Miss Fenton, who's devoted to you, and the chauffeur who's even more devoted to you. What could happen, dear? Nothing, of course. And I'd prefer to be alone anyway. Yes, I rather guess that. Oh, please, dear. It's just that I can't endure anybody being with me when I'm watching a great play. But that doesn't include you, darling. Then if you'll accept these, madam, in honor of our first anniversary. Oh, Howard. Well, they're lovely. Of course I'll accept them. And she has a program. But everything else you need? Yes. Yes, I think so. I'll just open the door to the passage to make sure our watchdogs are on guard. Yes, they're out there, all right. Good night, master. See you in an hour or two. Good night, Howard. And good luck. Miss Fenton, Bradley. Yes, Mr. White. Yes, sir. Anything wrong? Miss Fenton, you've been my wife's companion secretary for five or six years. Yes, Mr. White. And I've loved every minute of it. And you, Bradley, you haven't been my chauffeur for quite so long, but they tell me you're an ex-wrestler. That's right, sir. Champion of the Shoreditch Athletic Club. And in my prime, though I says it was shouldn't, there's good a man who's ever climbed through the ropes. No, you know your instructions badly. You trust me, sir. Nobody gets into this ear box tonight unless it's over my dead body. Nothing must happen to you, understand? Nothing. Please, you're as white as paper. As for you, Miss Fenton, I'm afraid it's a little awkward. I know I ought to ask you to go in and join, Marcia, but... Oh, you needn't apologize, Mr. White. I know she doesn't want company. She'll be leaning forward with her elbows on the box rail, just as she always does. She isn't merely watching a play. She's acting, Lady Macbeth. Every line, every gesture. Oh, and I don't mean to disturb her. You won't leave this door, either of you. You trust me, sir. If... Oh, no. Anything wrong, Bradley? It is a very rummy-looking cove coming along the passage, sir, wearing a big black cloak with a red lining. Who'd that mean, Bradley? That's only her von Onheim. He's a professional magician and a scape artist. I was just wondering... Excuse me. Don't worry, Mr. White. We'll look after her. von Onheim. I see von Onheim. Now, can't snuts say I did it. Never shake the gory lux at me. I beg your pardon. And I beg yours, my friend. I was merely quoting a line from the play. You are not leaving the theater. Surely not walking out on Macbeth. I'm afraid I've got to. Oh, that's a pity, my friend. You will miss some of my best effects to say nothing of Shakespeare's when Benko's ghost appears at the table. I don't want to hear any more about ghosts, thanks. Benko's or anybody else's. I imagine you mean your wife's late husband. You've heard about it, then? Yes. Your wife has told me a good deal. She seems to think that in my profession I might have some charm or the demons or spell against ghosts. You know von Onheim in a muddled kind of way. That's what I've been wondering myself. Unfortunately, no. I am all too human. But your problem interests me and I confess it worries me. What is you? What about me? As I understand it, her first husband was a half-made American actor who later went completely mad and died in New York. His, uh... Oh, what's the word I want? Or obsession? That's it, obsession. His obsession was Marcia Blair's eyes. Yes, always her eyes They seem to hypnotize him. It is not new, you know. You'll find the same motif, the eyes of a beautiful woman all through the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Then, as I understand it, after this man's death, she began to receive a series of letters. How letters? Apparently written by him and threatening her with some rather horrible form of death if she married you. I tell you Barry Lake is dead. He can't get up out of his coffin. Oh, getting out of coffins, my friend, is not so difficult. I have done it myself. Oh, please stop joking von Onheim. You don't happen to be dead. Through. There is that small difference. Um... Is your wife here in the theater tonight? Yes. She wouldn't have come here except that it's Maron Willard's first night. We haven't seen Maron, either of us, in years. She's back there in Boxing Beach. So I hear. Uh, I was hoping, uh, that you might invite me to share the box. Look here, old man. I don't want to seem inhospitable, but she doesn't want company. Well, that's about it. Well, then walk back a little distance with me this way so that you can see the stage from the back of the dress circle. Now, the orchestra has stopped and they're ringing up in a moment. There. Look at it. Look at what? The stage man. The lights have gone out, all except the dim yellow footlights shining at the curtain. The last cough, the last murmur, the last rustle of program dies away in one vast breathing hush. The curtain goes up. It goes my arm, Van Onheim. I've got to leave. What are the stage directions? Desert place, thunder and lightning. Enter three witches. When indeed, I wonder, may be your pardon, Van Onheim. Do you speak? No, it was nothing. Newspapers for that year 1936. You may read how Myron Willard triumphed at Rory Lane's Macbeth. But tonight, as the clock ticks on, there is another drama in a dimly lighted corridor outside Box D. There sits Miss Louise Fenton, Marcia Blair's companion secretary. Beside her, burly and broken-nosed is Big Jim Bradley, the ex-wrestler. And when more than half an hour has passed... There's the applause, Jim. That is the end of the first act. Yes, I hear it. Nothing's happened. And take my word for it, nothing's going to happen. Oh, she's such a likable person, Jim. And I think one of our greatest Shakespearean actresses. Well, I don't much care for the Shakespeare business, Miss. You give me a good movie with gangsters in it. That's my style. Oh, you don't understand, Jim. I've seen her as Julia, as Rosalind, as Portia, in our own drawing room without any props. I've heard of Lady Macbeth, too. You should see her eyes. Your eyes, Miss? Yes, you should see her eyes when she delivers that speech. The raven himself is horse that croaks the fatal entrance. Hey, Miss, look there. What is it? That foreign-looking cove in the black cape coming along the passage. I beg your pardon. You are Miss Louise Fenton, aren't you? Yes, my name is Fenton. What is it? I am looking for Arnheim, a friend of Mr. White's. And I must see Marcia Blair at once. No, you don't, Governor. You're not going in there. Why not? Because nobody goes in there. Not if it was the king himself, the feuders. Now, listen to me, both of you. When the lights went on, I happened to be looking at box D from the other side of the theater. And I think there is something wrong. Yes. But I can't be anything wrong. Jim Bradley and I have been sitting here the whole time. Except, of course... Except when? Well, except when I went in there for a few seconds. You went in there, Miss Fenton? May I ask when that was? Well, it was after Mr. White had gone and just before the play started. I went in to ask if she wanted anything. She said she didn't, so I came out again. And Bradley's been with me all the time. Except when he went to get a drink of water at the corridor. That's just too much gosh for a time. One moment, and listen to me. Marcia Blair is leaning forward across the railing of the box. Oh, but that's nothing. Help on Arnheim. That's the way she always is. Does she always fall forward with her arms held straight out and her head down on her arms? Better be careful, Miss. It's a trick. Trick? Why not open the door and see for yourselves? Would that do any harm? No, I... I suppose it wouldn't, but... Oh, there must be some mistake. We haven't heard a sound from in there. There couldn't be anything wrong. You open the door, Miss Fenton. I'm going to old talk to this gentleman just in case. Quiet, please. Quiet. What is it, Miss? Walk in there with me, both of you. Please go carefully as though nothing were wrong. You don't want to attract attention. Now. Oh, help on Arnheim. There's blood all over her face. Yes. And don't begin screaming again, Miss Fenton, when I tell you she is dead. Bradley? Yes, sir? Pick Miss Blair's body up and carry her out into the corridor. In another minute, we'll have the whole theatre wanting to know what's wrong. All right, sir. You win. But what about the people in the other boxes? Won't they see? They've gone down to the bar to get a drink. They won't see anything. She ain't no lightweight, the poor lady ain't. Steady does it. All the door open. That's got it. Now, close the door. Shall I put her down on the floor carefully? Yes, better do that. I never took those threats seriously. That's what I blame myself for. And if something did happen, well, I thought he'd attack her. I never thought he'd hide away across the theatre and fire a shot. And you were quite right, Miss Fenton. Marcia Blair was not shot. She... She wasn't shot. No, take a look at the wound. Oh, I can't look at it. She was stabbed. Stabbed through the right eye with a narrow, sharp blade, which entered her brain and killed her instantly. Not a pretty death, but a quick one. Who seemed to know a lot about this governor? Perhaps I do, my friend. And perhaps I can guess a lot more. You mean somebody stood out there and threw a knife at her? Like a ready musical turn? No, I don't mean that either. There's no knife in the wound and none in the box. The murderer took it away. Took it away? Exactly. Help on Anheim, please wait. You're not saying someone climbed up from outside. Twenty or thirty feet from the floor and stabbed poor Marcia in full sight of 3,000 people? That, Miss Fenton, is what the evidence seems to indicate. But it's impossible. Yet it happens. There is Marcia Blair's body. What's that? Oh, it's the warning bell for the second act. People will be coming back here any minute. What are we going to do? Iron Willard is Macbeth. Helen Gale is Lady Macbeth. Magical effects by Ludwig Van Anheim. Very few persons knew that there is a dead woman in the theatre. But at the end of the play, it is a different story. As to cordon police, the lights are extinguished. The great theatre is dark and mumbling with echoes. See the stage now? Only the back ends are overhead lights pour down a pale blaze on two men who stand grotesquely against the background of Dunzenane Castle. One of these men is Howard White, very near collapse. The other is Myron Willard himself, still wearing his make-up, still wearing helmet and chain mail. And when Willard speaks... Howard White! Confounded, man. Can't you hear what I'm saying? Excuse me, madam. This is all almost finished. Oh, not that I'm blaming you all, man. Thank you, madam. It's traditional, you know, that Macbeth's an unlucky play. But up to the very end, I thought I'd never done better. 11 curtain calls. No, 12. How would you like my tomorrow-on-tomorrow speech? I'm sorry, madam. I'm afraid I didn't hear it. Oh, yes, poor old Marsha. She'd have hated to die like that. Marsha was proud of her eyes, always nearsighted as an hour old, but too vain to wear glasses. Oh, there's Van Anheim looking at us from under the castle archway. Van Anheim! Did you call me, my friend? You're rather difficult to recognize under all that Macbeth make-up. Yes, I was just thinking the same thing. Never mind that. Where are the police now? At the moment, Mr. Wheeler, the police are in your dressing room. They are using it for questioning. No reception tonight, of course. No, but I thought you might be interested in two items of information that police have just discovered. Oh, sure. We had a fairly full house tonight, I believe. Fairly full. Every seat was reserved. Reserved, yes, but not occupied. I don't follow you. One box on the ground floor, box E, to be exact, was empty. Reserved and paid for, but empty. And box E, oddly enough, was just underneath the one occupied by Marcia Blair. Oh, the same. I still don't see quite what you're... Now, our next item of information comes from an usher. And outside, I see it in the stores very close to that empty box was occupied where a very curious stranger who arrived late in the dark and slipped out again by a nearby exit a few minutes afterwards. Just a moment, Van Anheim. Are you saying this stranger climbed up and attacked Marcia in full view of the audience? No, my friend. The murderer did not approach from that direction. Then he must have reached Marcia through the door guarded by Bradley and Miss Fenton? No, not from that direction either. Unfounded, man. It must have been one way or the other. Not necessarily. Tell me how. Don't you think I've got enough troubles already without this nightmare on top of it? Half on Anheim. Half on Anheim. You must take it easy, Miss Fenton. You must not excite yourself. Have the police been... Yes. Look, you've got to help me. They won't believe me. They won't believe the young lady sure, and that's a fact. I tried to help her all I can, but there's things I can swear to and things I can't. You see, I did go into that box. Oh, just for a couple of seconds, I admit it. But no other person went in or could have got in. So they say... or at least a hinting that I killed her. But I swear I never touched her. Who was questioning you, Miss Fenton? Inspector Grimes or Sergeant Blake? Well, I'm not sure the sergeant, I think. Then I shouldn't worry, if I were you. Inspector Grimes knows better. His guest, in fact, exactly what I have guessed. You seem on rather familiar terms with the police, my friend. I am, Mr. Willard. I am. Anyone who practices escapes from handcuffs, sex, chest... And stage boxes, perhaps. Stage boxes, if you insist. Excuse me. Isn't it Inspector Grimes in the wings now? Yes, and he's nodding his head. Then I can tell you, I think, what you want to know. Well, if you do happen to know anything at your duty to speak up. Well, Marsha seems to have had some ridiculous idea that her former husband Barry Lake was still alive. Her fears weren't justified, of course. And she wasn't killed by any dead husband. I beg your pardon. Her fears were justified, though not quite in the way she believed. And she was killed by her husband. Then Barry Lake is still alive. No. Barry Lake is dead. Well, if don't mean Marsha was really killed by a goat. No. I mean she was killed by her devoted second husband. Mr. Howard White. You're a dog, are you? You only hear what they say. That's not true. It's a slanderous statement. I'll have you in court for it. Everybody knows how devoted I was to Marsha. Your devotion, my friend, was devotion to her money. And your business affairs have been shaky for a long time. That's not true, and you can't prove it. Marsha Blyre was inclined to be sure to be a little close-fisted with money. That's true anyway. It's a lie, a lie. Willing to marry him, but Mr. Howard White knew he'd never touch a penny unless he killed her. He wrote the letters himself. Help one on him. He can't be guilty. She was alive after he left the box. He wasn't anywhere near her when she died. Perfectly correct, Miss Stanton. He wasn't there, and yet he killed her. Exactly. But you and Bradley can supply the clue that will hang him. Me, sir, I don't know nothing. No, I don't either. I think you do, if you'll put your mind to it. Do you remember what Howard White said to her just before he left the box? Yes, he said, Good night, Marsha. See you in an hour or two. And she answered, good night and good luck. No, I mean just before that. I... there wasn't anything. You see, it's a slanderous statement without any proof. It's an insult to my position on the stock exchange. Wait, I do remember something rather queer. Think, Miss Stanton, think. He said to Marsha jokingly, if you'll accept these, madam, in honor of our first anniversary. And Marsha said, Howard, they're lovely, of course I'll accept them. That's right, sure he did say it. And what do you think he was referring to, Miss Fenton? What was he asking her to accept? Well, I, naturally, it was flowers. A corsage or something like that. Did you see any flowers in the box or pinned to Marsha Blair's gown? No. I've come to think of it, I didn't. Then what did he give her? Don't look at me, sir. Now, here is a woman who is very near sighted. Yet refuses to wear glasses. But she can accept a pair of... Opera glasses. Miss, you can't prove it. No, you better stay here. Thank you, Bradley, but the place is surrounded with police. But I still don't understand. Now, what happens when you lift opera glasses to your eyes and they are not in focus? You turn the little wheel in the middle to bring them into focus. For Marsha Blair, it was deadly. You mean that the glasses had... Yes, they were specially constructed glasses, Miss Fenton. They were invented by a French criminal years ago. That little wheel is a little trigger. It releases the spring of a sharp, thin blade and breaks through the eyes into the brain. Oh, down, please. You can't prove it. Marsha Blair died instantly. The glasses torn from her eye by their own weight dropped over the box rail to the carpeted aisle below. The only witnesses who might have noticed would have been the people in the box just underneath. And that box was empty? By arrangement, yes. Even if anybody did see them fall, Howard White was prepared to remove the evidence instantly. You haven't forgotten the curious stranger. Curious stranger? I mean the man who slipped in after it was dark and I see just under the box and slipped out again a few minutes later. The pack of lies will start to finish. You can't prove a word of it. I beg your pardon, my friend. Didn't you see Inspector Grimes not to me a moment ago? Well, you are going to hang, my friend, for one of the neatest and cruelest crimes in my experience. The police have just found those opera glasses with a neat set of fingerprints in the side pocket of your motor car. Then so ends Fireburn and Cauldron Bubble starring the distinguished actor Paul Lucas. Tonight's tale of suspense. This is your narrator, Ted Osborne, the man in black, who conveys to you Columbia's invitation to spend this half hour in suspense with us again next Tuesday, same time when Nancy Coleman stars in fear paints a picture. William Spear, the producer, the director, Bernard Herman, the composer-conductor, Robert Salmon, studio technician, and John Dixon, car the author, collaborated on tonight's suspense. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.