 The cask of finest wine is in a catacombs far under the river. Bones are there too. Human bones. The burial grounds of an old family. And deep in that dark dank tunnel, there is no one to hear a man begging for his life. This is Peter Lorry, opening the doors of the mystery playhouse. The works of Edgar L. Poe usually start once acquaintance with a literature of mystery. Then, as the years pass by, we are apt to forget that Poe was not only the father of the horror story, but truly the master of Mal. And so tonight, we bring you one of the very first and very best. It's a story of revenge that communicates its terror to the listener so directly that hours afterward, your spine will still feel cold. Here then, is Edgar L. Poe's, the cask of Amontillado. The wound injury is a Fortunato. I bore as best I could. Neither by word nor deed did I ever give him cause to doubt my good will. That was long ago, but I remember it. If ever a man had reason to hate and write to vengeance, it was I, the last of the Montressors. Through a device which the devil himself must have conceived, Fortunato, the noble, high-born Fortunato, had robbed and swindled my aging and sorrowful father of all his vast fortunes. As the last of our gold was transferred to Fortunato's already brimming vaults, my father, broken, humiliated, and plagued with anguish, passed off. As he lay dined, his last words to me were, revenge, revenge my son the wrongs done to the Montressors by this fiendish Fortunato. My father had been old and helpless before Fortunato's cruel and evil ways. Now that my father was dead, I would be avenged. I vowed neither by word nor deed would I ever give Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I accepted the small sums of gold, which he so graciously offered from time to time, only that I might live to bring upon the noble Fortunato the terrible doom he so richly deserved. Until revenge was mine, I would smile in Fortunato's face, and indeed for many years I was smilingly his friend. Scarcely a night passed, the Fortunato did not stop beneath my window, so much that he enjoyed the opportunity for further injury. Surrounded by his boisterous and giddy friends, he would call drunkenly up to me, peace your mourning, Lucchese hears opening a cast of sherry in honor of the spree. Put away your sorrows and joy. No Fortunato I cannot. Enjoy yourself without me. A fool, a fool like you deserves a sorrows. Come gentlemen, we are fools for even asking him to join us in our fun. Come, drink, drink, the wine of spring is here. Good night Montressor, the melancholy Montressor who has given a courage to drink with his fellow townspeople. As his drunken prattle faded into the night, I would snuff out my candle, and toss itfully in the dark, feeling fresh each galling wound Fortunato would ever dealt me, and waiting for the moment of my revenge. None in the town ever witnessed my wounded pride. None except Amiatto, the wine dealer, my one true friend. To him alone did I dare to mention the name of Fortunato. On occasion he read my troubled mind, for he showed me many kindnesses and much understanding, even at times too Fortunato's disadvantage. Good morning Amiatto. I have a splendid surprise for you today. Have you, Amiatto, and what is that? A casque of Fortunato, senor, the finest wine there is. Here, sample it, senor. I can't afford anything so rare, Amiatto. I only came to call not to purchase it. It will cost you no more than the kind you usually buy. Thanks, senor. Well, thank you. That's enough. You treat me too well, Amiatto. Beautiful. I guess they don't have to thank you. Your expression of delight is more gratitude than I deserve. I was extremely fortunate in being able to purchase the last available casque for you. And there's none meant for Fortunato? You will arouse his anger. The wine dealer must follow his judgment and his heart. Fortunato prides himself too highly on his knowledge of good wines. I believe you are more skilful, senor. Thank you. He and Lucchesi opened a casque of sherry last night in honor of the spring. Then he will be in a bad mood today. He approaches, senor, and looks as dark as your own ancient vaults. Ah, Fortunato, it's good to see you. It was just as well, perhaps, that you refused to come last night, Montresor. Lucchesi is a fool about wines, the fact of which I am doubly sure after sharing his inferior vintages last night. Ah, I see you have continued your know, Amiatto. Senor Montresor has it now for a very wise purchase. Are you joking, Amiatto? Where would Montresor find the funds to buy such a rare wine? That is not my opinion, senor. So that is what you do with all your money in your solitary evenings, Montresor. Spend them both on Amiatto's rare finds. Well, I will wager you've not a drop left to show for it. On the contrary, senor Montresor has one of the finest sellers in all the country. You're too kind, Amiatto. But Fortunato, why not see for yourself? My vaults are always open to you. Someday I shall. And as for you, Amiatto, see that you take better care of my vaults in the future. Good day. Good day to you, Fortunato. I shall send the Contiliano to your palace before evening, senor Montresor. Now my mind was made up. That moment in the wine dealer's shop gave me the beginnings of a plan, a plan for which I had long been waiting. Fortunato must visit my wine seller deep down in the catacombs beneath the home of the Montresors. From the depths of my old misery, I began to devise the details of the plan. A head of Fortunato there lay only horror, agony and damnation. It was about dust that I finally sought Fortunato out one evening during the height of his wedding festivities. He was to be married the next day and gayly he sauntered through the crowd celebrating in his honor. He was dressed in a gay, many-colored costume. And on his head, he wore a high, conical cap topped with brilliant, small, jingling bells. Surrounded by light-hearted friends, musicians and many curious bystanders, Fortunato was the very center of a magnificent spectacle. It was this scene, both beautiful and terrible, in which I found him. Here, Fortunato, how remarkably well you look tonight and how lucky to find you. I've just purchased a casque of a Montelado wine. Well, I'm afraid I've been cheated. How, Montelado? A casque that's time like this, this time of year, impossible. Well, this was a strange wine deal, a true one. Well, I was foolish enough to pay him the full Montelado price without first consulting you in the matter. A Montelado. So you told me. But since your friends are waiting for you, I must find the casey and ask him to test it for me. If anyone's a connoisseur of good wine, Lucchesi is. Lucchesi cannot tell a Montelado from water. Some people say that his taste is a match for your own. What? Where is this wine? In the vaults beneath my home. Come, let us go. Go where, Fortunato? Through your vaults. I will test it. Oh, my friend, no, I won't impose this way on your good nature. You must remain with your friends. Lucchesi is nothing such great demand, especially tonight. My friends will not miss me for a few moments. Come on. No, Fortunato, no, I won't for me. I see you're afflicted with a terrible cold and my vaults are so insufferably damp they're encrusted with wine. Let us go, Montreuseur, nevertheless. The cold is nothing. A Montelado. You have been cheated. This will look casey. He is no kind of served good wine. Only I am worthy to decide. Let us be on our way. Being ahead, half running, half stumbling, shouting his drunken plans, Fortunato pulled me anxiously along the streets. I pretended to hold back, to be unwilling to have him leave his friends, yet each moment, my eagerness to complete my plan grew greater and greater. Soon we reached my home. There were no attendants there. They'd gone off to help in the celebration. I took from their brackets two torches and, giving one to Fortunato, I led him through several suites of rooms and through the archway that led down into the vault. As we descended the long winding stairway onto the damp ground of the catacombs, I listened chanted to the delicate bells attached to the conical cap for past Fortunato's bobbing head. Against the somber shadows of the catacomb walls, Fortunato's gay red and yellow costume brought a touch of beauty and lent a moment of holiday to the tears of rare red and amber henchmen. His steps were unsteady. The bells upon his cap jingled even more as he stumbled down the damp stairway. It's father-in-law. It's father-in-law. How long have you had that cough, Fortunato? It is nothing. Come, Fortunato, we'll go back. Your health is too precious. This dampness is not good for your cough. No, no, no. Let us go on. Do I? But you'll be ill and I don't want to be responsible. There is always the case here. Enough. The cough is a man of thing. It will lack your pain. I shall not die of a cough. You will not die of a cough. And I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily, but you should take care of yourself. Here, a drink of this wine this fine aged maydock will defend us from the chilling dampness. Here, allow me to break the neck of the bottle for you. I drink to the buried repose around us. And I drink to your long life. Good, good. Excellent. This wine is excellent. Drink it along. But what about the Montalado wine? Oh, that's father-in-law, Fortunato. Watch your footing there, my friend. The ground becomes damper and more slippery as we descend. And the expectation of making a fool of me through my purchase of the Montalado sparkles in his eyes and the bells jingled. We pass through walls of piled bones with casks and broken bottles intermingling into the lowest depths. I paused again, and this time seized Fortunato by the elbow. You're blind, Fortunato. See, it's increasing. Hangs like moths upon the wall. We're below the river's bed now. Look how the drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, Fortunato, we'll go back before it's too late. Get your car. It is nothing. No, let us go on. But first, another bottle of the maydock. Oh, a better, a bottle of this, the bananios. Here, Fortunato. You break the bottle this time. Very well. Your taste is truly that of a connoisseur, Montressor. I'm amazed. Come, let us go on. Be it so. And hold up your torch, Montressor. I don't care for this black dress. Be it so, Fortunato. We leaned upon it heavily, but the wine I'd been giving him was beginning to hell. We continued our search for the Montalado. We passed through a range of low arches, and descending again, arrived at the deepest crypt, where my father had been laid to rest. The foulness of the air, the stifling, the dampness, all but snuck out our torches. Ah, Montressor, what, what other secrets do you have hidden here beneath the world? Why, do you ask, Fortunato? There's a pile of bones here. Now, how does it happen that the bones from this wall are thrown down in this manner? Why is it you have never replaced them, huh? What secret treasures do you keep in this last small recess? Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, tried to peer into the depths of the recess, and to discover within its circumscribing wall the solid granite, the rare and exciting treasure which he drunkenly fancied, but it was in vain. His light was too feeble for him even to see where the solid granite walls ended. Go in, Fortunato. Inside is the cask of wine you wish to taste, the Amontillado. Amontillado. Careful, Fortunato. Ender slowly, it's dark in that niche, and the floor is even more slippery. What's this, Montressor? But it ends so abruptly. True, Fortunato, it does, but proceed, I'm coming in with you. No need to be so bewildered. What are you doing, Montressor? I cannot see. See, Fortunato, how secure these chains are embedded in the walls, how heavy the iron staples with which they're fastened to the granite, and see this heavy iron lock, the iron cliffs of the last century knew their crown. Say, Fortunato, see how snugly these chains fit about your waist. And this key? See, Fortunato, how secure hand along the wall. You cannot help feeling that the wall is very damp, but it will keep you from falling. Perhaps you've already had too much wine. The Amontillado. True, the Amontillado. Fortunato was still nodding in his drunken stupor, not yet did he know that he was forever chained to the walls of that black hell. I stepped outside and visited myself among the pile of bones that lay at the foot of the wall, the bones which he'd been sure had hidden the treasure, which, in truth, they did. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar and a trowel which I'd hidden there. With these materials, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche for the regular sound of my trowel and an occasional jingle of tiny bells on Fortunato's calf, all the silent. Probably the first tier and the second and the third. The fourth tier was the masonry when I discovered that Fortunato's intoxication was wearing off. Fortunato was indeed awakened. With fiendish delight, I sat down upon the bones and I listened to his furious attempts to escape. As the clanking subsided, I resumed my work with the trowel and I finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth and the seventh tiers. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. When I again paused and holding the torch over the masonry, I threw a few tumble rays onto the dejected figure within. Trowel! Trowel for the love of the Almighty! Someone come and stop with you, Fortunato! Someone will hear! Together, Fortunato! It was now midnight and my job was almost ended. I completed the eighth, the ninth, the tenth tiers. I was finishing the eleventh and the last. There was only a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight and I placed it partially in its destined position. She, Fortunato! An excellent jest! We will have many a rich laugh about it tomorrow for wedding. Over all wine! Over the amontilado! Yes, over the amontilado! It's getting late, Fortunato! They will be waiting for us at the Palazzo, the future Lady Fortunato and all my friends! Let us be gone much and so! Yes, Fortunato! Let us be gone! For the love of the Almighty! For the love of the Almighty! Fortunato! Fortunato! Meaning opening and let the light fall within. From inside the crypt there came the only answer. Fortunato now puts out of the dampness of the catcoms. I hastened to finish my labours. I forced the last stone into its position. I plastered it up against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For half a century no one has disturbed them. The bones of my father's rest in peace. And so ends the first story of a man who killed to avenge his family's honour. Our next production concerns itself with an expert criminologist. A man who prided himself on his claim of never making a mistake. Follow me to the green room and we'll eavesdrop at rehearsal. This way. Come. Well, the entire case, of course, was decidedly second rate. You'll probably know the details. No, as a matter of fact, I don't. That's why I came here. Oh? See, I was in Africa just last week. I didn't even know Harrington had been arrested until just before I sailed. I see. Well, I won't bore you with most of it. I'm surprised to say that Ernest West had pushed Harrington in the stock market to a point where Harrington had to stop West or face absolute ruin. I see. So Harrington fought West out one night, sought him out at West's home on the island, and shot him with a 25 caliber revolver. We found it late on Harrington's safe. Well, there was nothing for the poor man to do but confess. And Harrington was convicted solely on your evidence, Dr. Trevor? Yeah. Otherwise he might have escaped. But your entire case was constructed around the revolver. Yes. And his prompt confession put an end to further investigation. Um, now as I was saying... Dr. Trevor, I'm interested in that revolver. A 25, you say? Yes. Rather uncommon caliber. Yes. With the handle chipped a bit on the right side? Yes. How do you know? It belonged to West's wife, not to Harrington. What? Yes. Yes. It got chipped when she dropped it on a rock while target shooting in Switzerland. You see, I was with her at the time. You mean Alice West gave that revolver to Harrington? Oh, I doubt that, much as she loved him. You're out of your mind, Gregory. Not at all. I'm afraid that little 25 caliber revolver probably resulted in the execution of the wrong man. That's impossible. The right man, you see, was a woman, Alice West. She and Harrington were in love, and West played dog and a manger and wouldn't divorce her. Alice West is the murderer, not Harrington. She killed him, certainly. There was no reason for Harrington to borrow her revolver. He had quite a little arsenal of his own, as I remember. A .45 caliber would have been his speed, but Alice West was in Europe at the time of the crime. Ah, before and after, yes. But I happen to know she was in Montreal the very month the murder was committed, and that isn't far from Long Island by plane. Go on, Gregory. Well, to clinch my case, Alice got tight one night in Monte Carlo and told me she was going to kill her husband. I left for North Africa the next day and didn't hear a thing for months. But when I saw the papers, I hadn't any doubts as to who had bumped off Ernest West. Harrington's confession. Oh, Dr. Trevor, that's easy if you know people. The poor ox went to the chair for his lady love. It's been done before, you know. Gregory, what'd you say? It's impossible. Why? The man was convicted totally on my evidence. I could never make a mistake like that. Oh, come now, we all make mistakes. I don't. Well, it's a shame, but what's done is done. Obviously, you don't understand, Gregory. My reputation won't permit mistakes. I simply do not make them, that's all. Don't worry, Trevor, your reputation isn't going to suffer. Alice West will be dead of dope inside of two years, if I'm any judge. And no one else knows you've been wrong just this once. You do? Well, yes, but we can forget all about that. Yes, we must. We must. Right? Don't fret, Trevor, I'll keep my mouth shut. Yes, I know you will. Fine. Now, what about another brandy, eh? Oh, yes, over here on the table. Trevor, what are you doing? You see, the doctor doesn't make mistakes. If he did, it might prove fatal. Now, next broadcast, you'll learn how a man committed the perfect crime. Or was it? Now, this is Peter Laurie closing the doors of the mystery playhouse. Good night, sleep tight. This is the Armed Forces Radio Service.