 Now, Roma Wines, present. Suspense. Tonight, Drury's Bone, starring Horace Karloff. Suspense is presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines. Those excellent California wines that can add so much pleasantness to the way you live. To your happiness and entertaining guests. To your enjoyment of everyday meals. Yes, right now, a glass full would be very pleasant. As Roma Wines bring you... Suspense. This is the man in black here for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California. Who tonight from Hollywood bring you as star Mr. Boris Karloff. In the remarkable history of a Scotland Yard Inspector, who found himself in surely the most ironic predicament ever to confront an officer of the law. And so, with Drury's Bones and with the performance of Boris Karloff, we again hope to keep you in suspense. The events that are covered in this report began on the night of December the 28th, 1910. Although I didn't know it at the time. But it was on that night that I opened my eyes to discover that I was lying behind some trash barrels in a dark London alleyway. Thunder was ripping the skies apart. And the sheets of rain that were pelting on my unprotected body had soaked me to the skin. My head was aching unbearably. As I automatically tried to rise, I found I was so dizzy that I had to hold on to the barrels for support. I reached up to the feel of my head. My hair was a massive, plotted blood. In my numb mind I could feel only one ear. I had to find a lighted building somewhere where someone could get me warm clothing and call a doctor. It seemed ours before finally I saw an office building in which a light was burning and gratefully stumbled in its direction. Listen to this, Peters. As the report from the fire. Who are you? I beg your pardon. Great heavens, man. Come over here by the fire. Here, I'll give you a hand. That's it. Good lord. Look at that head. Peters. Yes, sir. You'd better call the doctor. Right, sir. Let's get some of these wet clothes off, eh? Easy now. This is very kind of you. Now the trousers. That's it. Robbed, eh? I suppose so. Suppose? Yes. You see, I don't know. Come, sir, you must know whether or not you had a pocketbook. There's nothing here now, certainly. There's nothing? Who are you, by the way? I say, let's have your name. I'm... My name is... My name. I don't know my name. I don't know. I must have fainted because the next thing I knew I was lying on the couch in the office covered with warm blankets and slowly returning to consciousness. Like any factor in the doctor but talking harsh voices near the bed. You say no identification on him, eh? Nothing except these. I found them under his headband. Two ticket stubs, Drury Lane Theatre, December 24th, 1910. Have you checked there? There's no possible way to trace them. I'll have to call him something. Drury, that's it, after the Drury Lane. And Terence, after you, Inspector Terence, Drury. Very well. How long do you suppose this condition will last? Amnesia. No way of knowing. I should just a bit of rest and then some kind of absorbing work. Not strange, of course. You mustn't be allowed to brood, you see. Danger and this sort of thing lies in a man's working himself into a genuine psychosis from worry. I see. I say, Carothers, why don't you put him to work here? At least until you locate his family. After all, you can't very well turn your back on the chap now that he's named after you. Matter of fact, it happens that I could use a new man around here very nicely. Oh, there you are. And as to forgetting one's worries and absorbing work, I can't think of a better place in the world for a man to do that than Scotland Yard. Tonight for Suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you Mr. Boris Karloff, whom you've heard in the prologue to Harold Swanton's radio play, Drury's Bones, tonight's tale of suspense. This is Truman Bradley for Roma Wines. When you listen to the friendly advice of Miss Elsa Maxwell about hospitality and gracious living, you realize that here is an authority who talks plain common sense all the time. I'm talking to men as well as women when I say that the finest hospitality is always simple, sincere, moderate and natural, never the opposite. And so I am always emphasizing that the nicest, simplest, most sincerely flattering hospitality is to serve your guests some Roma sherry. With its golden amber color, it's delicious, tangy, nut-like flavor. It's not only supremely enjoyable before dinner or in the afternoon, it's smartly correct, a genuine compliment to your friends and to yourselves. And please don't worry about special glasses. It is perfectly correct to use any nice glasses that are handy. Well, Miss Maxwell speaks more authoritatively than I can, but I will add this. Roma sherry, like all famous Roma wines made from California's magnificent sun-ripened grapes, brings you all their fine flavor, aroma and color, is unvaryingly good, always enjoyable. Thanks to the age-old wine skill of Roma's noted wineries, located in the choicest vineyard areas of California. Yet all this goodness and pleasure is yours for only pennies a glass. Remember, more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wines. Roma, R-O-M-A, Roma wines. And now it is with pleasure that we bring back to our soundstage Boris Karlov as Inspector Terence Drury, who resumes his report on the case entitled Drury's Bones, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. It was an amazing stroke of fate that brought me to the London office of Scotland Yard on that dreadful night of December in 1910. I'm sure that nowhere else could I have had more kindness and understanding. Of course, at first the strain was almost unbearable. I had absolutely no recollection of my past and no idea who the man was who lived the first thirty years of my life, or was it forty or twenty. I never knew, but Carothers judged me to be about thirty, so I came to regard that as my official age. When he was ingenious in providing interesting work for me during the days that followed, I became so absorbed in the tide of fascinating cases that flowed across my desk that I had no time for thought or reflection on my plight. My own dossier at last week was called the Inactive Fire and was gradually forgotten. In short, my present and my future became so interesting that I came to regard my past as a closed book. And so it was as a full-fledged Inspector I reported one day in May of 1930 to Chief Inspector Carothers. Oh, hello, Drudy. Have a chair. Thanks. Cigar? Yes, I will, thank you. Hmm, Havana, eh? Decently prosperous for a Scotland yard man, Inspector. Sure you're not involved in a scandal of some sort? I'm sorry, old boy. Gift from my niece. Have a light. Only one other conclusion, then. You're about to cancel my holiday. Well, as a matter of fact... Murder in Soho, I suppose. No, not in Soho. In Clevelli. Clevelli? Clevelli? That's a fishing village in Devon. That's it. Bit of a resort town, too, you know. Thought you might be able to combine business with pleasure. I do need a rest, you know. I have here a letter from a Mr. John Stannop who resides in Clevelli. It seems he unearthed a human skeleton in his backyard, apparently buried there for years. Or it'll just be a matter of securing a routine report on the case, perhaps questioning this Mr. Stannop and possibly a few of the local residents. Then you can pop down to Torquay and ask in the sun for a few days. Ever been in North Devonshire? I have already, religiously. I'm allergic to moors. Well, what do you think of it? Well, if it were anyone else but you, Carothers. I suppose I'd better write this all down. John Stannop, right? Do you have his address? There's no such thing as an address in Clevelli. There's only one street. But you won't have any trouble finding it. What I hear the townspeople will be quick enough to tell you all about the place where the bones are buried. How do you do, sir? Welcome to Clevelli. How do you do? My name is Drury, Scotland Yard. You'll want a sing-la, I expect. Yes, if you have one. Sign the register, please. Very well. I understand that Mr John Stannop has to leave a message here for me. Oh, you must be here about the bone. Yes. Some excitement they've caused, I'll tell you. What were the Ashley Norton's disappearance, a dark mystery these 20 years and all? Who were the Ashley Norton? Lived in that house 20 years ago, they did. That would be just about the time the body was buried, wouldn't it, sir? Yes. Did you know them? Never did see her. Saw him once or twice. Strange pair they was. Unsociable. Keeping themselves to themselves night and day in that house on the cliff. No telling what went on behind them doors. What do people think went on? There's some that thinks that what went on was murder. Murder? Why? There's those who knows the reasons better than I. I'll leave it to them to tell. Very well. Let's see. I signed this book, too, don't I? Oh, no, sir. That's our permanent register for new guests. But you've been here before. I? No. No, I... I've never been here before in my life. Oh. That's odd. For a moment I thought I'd seen you here before sometime. Mr. Stanup? Yes? Inspector Drury, Scotland Yard. Oh, happy to see you, Inspector. Come in, please. Thank you. I must apologize for the condition of the place, Mr. Drury. The events of the past few days have been a bit upsetting, to say the least. I should think so. Like a spot of sherry? Why, thanks, yes. I had rather an enlightening conversation with Mrs. Tumley at the inn last night. Oh? Seems the townspeople are quite certain it was a case of murder involving some people named Ashley Norton. Yes, yes. Roger Ashley Norton. His wife was named Sarah. Did you know them? No, no, no. No, I'd never met them. Very few people had. You see, that was 20 years ago. The house originally belonged to my brother. He died in 1925, and I didn't come into the property until after that. I know it's natural to jump to the conclusion of murder when one uncovers her human bones, but is there any reason to suspect a motive? Did anybody disappear suddenly? No one, but the Ashley Norton's. I see. There's nothing to go on but gossip, and it's all highly circumstantial, of course. You see, my brother was renting this house to them furnished by the year, payable in advance, and so he rarely had occasion to call on them. But when the regular check failed to arrive on time, he paid them a visit. The house was vacant. And it was immediately clear that no one had lived in the place for the last two months. Your brother made inquiries, of course. Oh, yes, yes. No one had seen or heard from them for at least two months before. And what date was that, Stanup? Well, let me see. That was December of 1910. I'm sorry. It's quite all right. Let me... No, no, no. The maid will attend to it. Let me get you another. Not right now, thanks. Well, would you like to examine the garden? The garden? Yes. Where the bones were discovered. Oh. Oh, yes, yes, of course. I'll throw the French window here to the side. I take it. Yes. Here we are. Just over here, Inspector. See. And the trees stood about here, eh? The what? The holly tree. I must admit you're a jolly fine detective, sir. The garden had discovered the body while removing the dead holly tree, all right? But I... I wasn't aware that I mentioned the fact to Scotland Yard. It was in my room and being late that night that I first began my notes. I include them now in this report, just as I wrote them then. Clavelle, Devon, May 18, 1930. The feeling that this is all a book that I've read or a play I've seen somewhere in the past has taken hold of my very soul. And the terror that grips me when I think of the future makes rational thought very difficult. Nevertheless, I have resolved to pursue the investigation until I am certain that there is no further doubt. I must discover someone who knew Ashley Norton intimately, his profession, his habits, his personality. I think I must risk tomorrow another talk with Mrs. Tumley. But meanwhile, I shall withhold any further report to her others. Now, Mrs. Tumley, you said yesterday that there were some people here in Clavelle who knew the Ashley Norton's rather well. Did I? Yes, Mrs. Tumley. Well, it might have been Effie Wilkes I had in mind. Who was Effie Wilkes? She was the Ashley Norton's serving mate, sir. And where is Effie Wilkes now? Oh, she disappeared, sir. She disappeared? At the same time, they did, sir, and not a sight nor sound of her since not these 20 years. Who else? Who else knew the Ashley Norton's? Only the other one I could think of would be Ben Sykes. Blind Ben, they call him now. But he could see then right enough. And where is he? Oh, he's hereabouts. Gone to bed if he'd with his nephew today. But he'll be back Wednesday if you'd care to speak with him, sir. Did he work for the Ashley Norton's? In a manner of speaking, sir. He helped out with the experiments. Experiments? Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Ashley Norton was quite the scientist. Or so he said. What did Ben Sykes have to do with these experiments? Oh, he got things for them, sir. What sort of things? Live things, sir. Live things? Rabbits, animals, such like things, sir. Is that all? No, sir. If you ask me, that wasn't all. What else? There was human beings, sir. Human beings? Yes, sir. What human beings? Why, I would say, sir, the nearest ones that came to an. What do you mean? Oh, I'm sure you know much more about this than I do, sir. But they do say those bones were the bones of a woman. Caraba's wired today that he expects to locate the serving girl if he wilks within a matter of hours. That means at least that she's alive. And it also means that her testimony will complete the case. And I can no longer deceive my surface to the outcome. I don't quite know why I sent Caraba's the information about if he wilks, knowing as I do that I'm endangering myself by that action. Perhaps there's something of which I'm still just a little proud. I'm still primarily a detective. Well, I shall pursue this investigation impersonally and logically until the very last link in the chain. That link is Ben Sykes. Blind Ben. There is only one fact in which I can take some faint hope. Ashley Norton was a scientist, presumably a doctor. And I can find no faintest memory in myself of any specialized scientific knowledge whatsoever. Ben Sykes' nephew is going over to Biddifford today to bring the old man home. I shall go along and talk to him. So you're Ben Sykes. Aye, blind Ben, they call me. But eyes are known. I can keep up with the best of them. What's your business in Chlovelli, sir? Come to ask you some questions about Mr. Ashley Norton. Haven't we met before, sir? Not that I remember, Ben. Your voice is, uh... Oh, well. What sort of questions, sir? Perhaps about the experiments. I'll say not of the experiments, sir. They were the master's private business. Very well. Did you know Mrs. Ashley Norton? Sarah Ashley Norton? I did, sir. And no finer woman ever walked the earth. Did? Did he love her? He loved her more than life itself, but, uh... But what? Well, she helped him with his experiments. He was condemned hereabouts for that. But she helped him all through these long months until... Until? Until she went away. Either! Look out! And I'm glad he's on the road! The last I remember was the sickening sway of the wagon as it overturned in the ditch on the left of the road. I must have hit my head on something and lost consciousness just for a moment. Help me with him. What? Oh, oh, oh. Oh, I see his nasty gash on his leg there. What about the other? Take care of Ben. I'll look to the inspector. There you are, old fellow. Inspector! Inspector, are you all right, sir? I believe so. Here we are. How are you, sir? Thank you. Is Ben all right? He's hurt. His leg. I was sent for the doctor. Let me have a look at it. Oh, yes. No, don't roll it back. Now, get me a knife. There you are. Now, help me with this. Here. That's it. Hmm, compound fracture and bleeding pretty badly. Have you a handkerchief? Right. Clean enough for a bandage. It isn't a bandage. Now, get me a small stick. That's it. Now, around here, just below the patella. Hmm. Now, hold on to that and relax it when I tell you. Yes, sir. Hmm. Tibia and fibula, both compound. Dislocation of the talus. Need X-ray immediately. What? I didn't know you was a doctor, sir. Huh? What? Neither did I. How do you feel, Ben? Much better, Mr. Drury. Thanks to you. She twitches now and then. You'll be all right once it's set. Lucky you was with us, sir. Ben, you were going to tell me about the last time you saw Mr. Ashley Norton. Do you remember? Yes, sir. I remember it well. He was going up to London to the theatre, he said. Was he going alone? Yes, sir. Mrs. Ashley Norton had gone on ahead to do some shopping, he said. Ben, do you remember when? What theatre? Yes, sir. It was, uh, Christmas Eve. And the theatre was, uh, Drury Lane. Yes. Yes. I guess I knew it always. Asking your pardon, sir. I'm an old man. And I can say things without anyone getting angry about them. Yes, Ben, what is it? Well, then, sir, you seem like a man who's running away from something. Oh, run away. I wouldn't run away from it any longer, sir, if I was you. Ben, I believe you're the only one of us who isn't blind. Welcome back. I say, though, that Chief's been trying to get a hold of you all day. Yes, I know. Is Chief Carothers in? No, no. He had to meet someone at the train. He'll be back soon, though. When he wants me, I'll be in my office, finishing my report. Oh, that's so. You've been on a case. Murder, wasn't it? Did you, uh, catch the fellow? Yes. I caught him. There's little now that needs to be added. Christmas Eve, Drury Lane Theatre. And Ashley Norton went alone, he said, because his wife, Sarah, had gone on ahead. And the medical training. It came back to me when I needed it as though it had been my life. My former life. There can be only one conclusion to this report. Sarah Ashley Norton was murdered by her husband. The cases closed, signed. Roger Ashley Norton, formerly Terence Drury. Oh, come in, Drury. I've been expecting you. Yes. Here's my report, sir. And there's time enough for that. If you don't mind, I'd rather you read it now. I'd like to get it over with. Yes, but, um, you know, we finally traced the serving, Levy Wilkes. Yes. If you don't mind. And through her, we traced someone else. Does it really matter now? I think perhaps it does. You may show in the witness, Peters. Yes, it is. Roger. I beg your pardon, but who? Roger. Don't you remember me? I remember you. I only remember that you were someone who was once very dear to me. And now it's too late. No, no, Roger. No, it isn't too late. I'm, I'm... Sarah. Sarah. You see, Drury, or rather Mr. Ashley Norton, it seems you and your wife did go to the Drury Lane Theatre on that Christmas Eve 20 years ago. And at very night, you were both to go on to Paris. Then at the last moment, you ran into some chap who begged you to deliver a lecture the next day. You agreed, and Mrs. Ashley Norton went on ahead. You were to meet her in Paris in two days. Oh. When you didn't come, I checked with a steamship company and they said your ticket had been used. The thief who robbed you must have used it. But I couldn't know that. I thought you must be somewhere in France. The French police tried to trace you for years. Then I, I thought you must be dead. Oh, Roger. Roger. My dear. Oh, Sarah, do you, well, and you suppose you could call me Terence? I've got used to it, you know. Very well, Terence. You haven't changed very much, really. I suppose you haven't either. By the way, I had excellent taste in women in those days. Oh, my dear. Oh. Oh, and can you ever forgive me? Forgive you? For what? The bones. Oh. The bones. Yes, I... Well, I suppose if that Mrs. Tumley hadn't been so nosy, I wouldn't have done it. But I was afraid if they found it in the house, it would look even worse. So that's why I did it. Dead? Dead what? Buried your demonstration skeleton in the back yard, under the holly tree. What? Oh. And so closes Drury's bones starring Boris Karloff. Tonight's study in suspense. Suspense is produced, edited and directed by William Spear. There is no reason at all, Elsa Maxwell says, why everyone should not have the enjoyment of Roma wines, with everyday meals and when entertaining friends. These superb wines of California are so delightful to the taste, so very delicious with food, so smartly complimentary to friends who are your guests. It seems a shame to me that some people still miss out on such wholesomely simple, moderate and inexpensive pleasure. But of course, Miss Maxwell, millions already do know and enjoy Roma wines. In fact, more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wines. And that can only mean Roma wines are California's finest, always extra good, unvaryingly fine in flavor and quality. Yet only pennies a glass. Roma, R-O-M-A, Roma wines. Next Thursday, same time you will hear Mr. Joseph Cotton, the star of suspense. Presented by Roma Wines, R-O-M-A, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.