 And now, tonight's presentation from radio's outstanding theater of thrills suspense. Tonight, the story of a murder, deliberate, cold, motiveless, in which we will examine its effects on our protagonist. The story is called, The Earth is Made of Glass. Good morning, Dr. West. Oh, good morning, Ms. Adams. I've brought down the night charts from the fourth floor. Ah, look at them all. What sort of night did you have? Fairly quiet, doctor. No new cases. There were. I don't know where you'd put them. Well, we have one vacant bed this morning, 4.36. Mr. Steele? Yes, he died about 4 a.m. Surprised he held on that long? I thought you might be upset, doctor. I mean, the day supervising Ms. Rosenberg told me you and Mr. Steele were either related or a very close friend. No, no, not at all. Mr. Steele suffered certain delusions. Just before he died, he asked me to give you this, Dr. West. It's some kind of diary or journal. He said he owed it to you, that it was in compensation. Well, leave it on the desk. I'll ask who's in charge of settling his estate. All right, doctor. I looked at the first few pages. Very strange. Well, I'm going off duty. Well, Miss Adams, I'll see you tomorrow. Yes, doctor. Journal of Richard Thomas Steele. Strange. He tore out a good many pages. Everything up to July 26, that's only a month ago. Why on earth do you leave it to me? Who do you think I was? Well, devil, there was certainly something torturing him. July 26, an extremely depressing day. Early morning on, the air was hot, heavy, sticky. I stayed indoors. I stayed indoors with the blinds drawn, spent three and a half hours arranging and cataloging a new shipment of books. I must say I gloated over the volume of bacon, gold leaf uncut, 1836, a treasure. In the afternoon, I ventured out to play chess with Elliot. He's an uninspired player and a worst conversationalist. I'm appalled that a man of Elliot's pretension still wallows in 18th and 19th century thought patterns, twaddle and sentimentality. He's totally out of step at the times, blindly determined to keep his mind closed to any developments in science. It was so apparent in that argument we had of a Ralph Waldo Emerson. I noticed he had a volume of Emerson's essays, a cheap reprint, and I thumbed through it. There was one paragraph in the essay called compensation which especially annoyed me. I must have snorted because Elliot was instantly on the defensive. When I asked him if he actually believed such claptrap, he fairly leaked that man. Certainly, I believe there's compensation Richard. Tet for tat, measure for measure, love for love. Whatever a man does comes back to him. Good for good, evil for evil, so that if I should commit a crime, I would have necessity to be punished. In one way or another, yes. You mean that I would in some way suffer in compensation for my evil deeds. Isn't that what Emerson says? I want to know what you believe. Do you believe what he says? Well, let's read what he says. Discounting the poetry in all the emotional overtones. Emerson says, commit a crime and the earth is made of glass. Commit a crime and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge in fox and squirrel and mole. You cannot recall the spoken word. You cannot wipe out the foot track. You cannot draw up the ladder, so as to leave no in that a clue. Some damning circumstance always transpires. The laws and substances of nature, water, snow, wind, gravitation become penalties to the thief. Well, Elliot. Beautiful, isn't it? Don't be evasive, Elliot. We're discussing his theory. Well, I don't see how there can be any argument. We know... We know a good deal more than Emerson, you old fellow, especially about the laws and substances of nature. They surely haven't changed. No, no. But we've taken them into the laboratory. We've tested the substances and we've mastered the laws, put them under our control. The scientific method, Elliot, white cancels out every word your friend Emerson wrote. The scientific method. Is it an open sesame to all knowledge? Does it make us gods? There are still mysteries we can never fathom, Richard. For instance, the mysteries in ourselves. In our souls? Yes, in our souls. And whatever it is we have that cannot be weighed or tested, yet which manifests itself in every good or evil thing we do. Say you commit a murder. Say I do. A perfect crime. I grant you that a man of your intelligence can outwit the police. Nevertheless, you could not escape from... Well, let's call it your conscience. But say I commit a laboratory murder. What? Let me put it this way. To catch a murderer, the police first set out to discover some connection between the murderer and his victim, which leads them to the motive for the crime. And when a murderer is caught by his own conscience, it is also through his connection with his victim, his emotional connection. But in a pure abstract murder, one occurring in an emotional vacuum, the two participants would be connected only by the unadulterated act of killing. But isn't every man connected first of all with himself? I mean, a man renders judgment on himself. In his soul, I would say. But superstitious claptrap, Elliot, apparently you're completely unable to grasp my premise. Theoretically, a laboratory murder is entirely possible. Why not actually? It would be very interesting to test the theory and find out. July 28, the weather continues warm, humidity high. This is the last summer I shall spend in New York. Today, I roamed around my library, read a little, thought a great deal. It's odd how I keep referring back to my conversation with Elliot. Abstract murder. A laboratory murder. I jotted down one or two theoretical points today. An amusing project in such hot weather. What utter nonsense to think of conducting a laboratory experiment and writing on paper. Or it's a contradiction in terms. The core of the scientific method is to prove theory in life. So, let us proceed actually to create a pure murder. A murder committed, as I said to Elliot, in a material and emotional vacuum. A murder of someone with whom I have no connection, whom I have no possible reason to kill. But I will decide how to choose my victim after I've made all the other preparations and have purchased the necessary equipment. Gloves, sir? What kind of gloves? Any kind of gloves? But I mean, what do you want them for? Driving, gardening? I want gloves I can use for almost anything. Well, now we call these utility gloves. Oh, yes. Those are excellent. What size, sir? Now, these look just about... No, no, no, I don't want to try them on. I'll pick them out. They are just right. I'm very fond of a genuine old-fashioned hardware store like this one. Lots of people tell me that, sir. Anything special you're looking for? No, I suppose I'm just browsing. Oh, yes. What are those? Ice picks? Yes, sir. Quite a selection. Screwdrivers and all their something I want. A knife? Sure, sir. Those are pretty poor knives. That's why they're marked down too big for paring, too small for carving. Just knives. That's about it. The best possible recommendation. I'll take one. A meaningless knife, all-purpose gloves, knife and gloves new, factory-made, uncontaminated by human association, smelling only the harsh, impersonal machines which turned them out, my first safeguards against the intrusion of emotion. I must complete my plans. Who will it be? I must never see his or her face. I must not know his or her name, age, occupation, thoughts or desires. I must come into contact with this victim as casually as though we were blown together by the wind. There can be no selection, no volition on my part, except the elementary volition necessary to raise my arm to kill. July 30th. The exact record of what has occurred. I must write it down now while it's fresh in my mind. I'll be absolutely precise and objective. Very well then. At exactly 10pm tonight, I left my house wearing the new gloves and carrying the knife in my right-hand coat pocket. I walked an undetermined number of blocks turning corners at random, taking care to observe no street signs or landmarks. I observed only one thing that there were many people on the street. In fact, I became aware that I was pushing to a rather dense crowd. I walked on with difficulty, myself to become conscious of the exact nature of my surroundings. Then at last, I found my progress to the crowd blocked by what I can only describe as a human back. I raised the knife and drove it into the back with all my force. I continued walking without haste, pausing only a fraction of a second to hear. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead, yes. I paused just long enough to hear, thus confirmed, my unqualified belief that without any possible consequence to myself, I had taken another human being's life. You are listening to Mr. Joseph Kearns in Sylvia Richard's study and motive. The Earth is made of glass. Tonight's presentation in radio's outstanding Theater of Thrills Suspense. This is Flag Week, when all patriotic organizations urge all patriotic Americans to display their stars and stripes. Your flag, hanging on high, tells all who pass that America truly is one nation indivisible. Give new glory to old glory by showing your country's colors during Flag Week, and on all patriotic holidays, national and local. And now, we bring back to our Hollywood soundstage Mr. Joseph Kearns in Elliot Lewis's production of The Earth is Made of Glass, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. August 1st. All day I felt enormously stimulated elated by the success of my experiment. The very intensity of the sun outside my study has added to my feeling of well-being. Tomorrow I shall complete my notes on this extraordinary and I'm sure valuable psychological study. Today I shall relish to the full my mood of achievement. How I regret that I can't tell old Elliot. The disbelief and horror on his face if he knew compensation. Oh, tut tut, Mr. Hammerson. August 3rd. Yesterday I was unable to write in my journal because of the excessive heat and because I suffered from a headache and a vibration in my ears. Today I'm forcing myself to write to have on record the final control in my experiment, my laboratory murder. To assure complete ignorance of the identity of my victim I have read no newspaper and will not read any for a period of two or three weeks. Nor will I hold conversation with anyone apt to be morbidly interested in murder as reported in the tabloid press. August 4th, the heat is unbearable and all day I have felt that odd heavy vibration in my head. Now also on my arms and body it is almost constant in a one, two, one, two rhythm but sometimes it's a sound as well as a vibration like the distant sound of the sea. I must consult a doctor. Last night I was kept awake by the throbbing in my head and toward morning I was subjected to a new agony. Very softly at first but louder and louder like voices heard in delirium my head became filled with an almost hysterical babbling. Not for an instant have the voices stopped or even paused seem to keep time with the reverberation of my heart. August 8th I have no need to consult a doctor for I know the nature of my illness. Last night trying to drive the unspeakable uproar for my brain I turned to music but when I put the record on the machine Schnabel's recording of Beethoven's F Minor Sonata the Appassionata the sound in the voices rose to a bedlam streaking round out the music and then I knew in spite of every precaution my laboratory murder had not taken place in a vacuum two things had penetrated my shield first the voices echoing in my ears the fragments of speech about a concert are the same voices I heard in that crowd rising again and again to the climax of a woman's scream the pulsing sound I hear when I drove that knife home into a beating heart its vital rhythm, the mighty leap the heart's muscle on the blade of the knife was transmitted back to me through my hand and remains undelibly recorded in the heartbeat of my own blood August 11th during the past hour the incessant hammering of sound has receded but I know this respite will be brief now while I'm able to reason I must discover where I heard an act swiftly to correct my error there's no turning back the death I caused the accomplished fact and each day I remember something more today suddenly like a photograph imprinted on my brain I saw the black collar of his coat his grey hat and between his clipped silky reddish hair and I had and still have an insatiable desire to turn his head around to see his face perhaps there's only one course for me to take to reverse my plan learn everything about my victim every possible detail I myself a total portrait and then discard it in its entirety learn his name, age, address all the statistics of his life why beg your pardon Miss where are the newspaper files what dates did you wish to see the week of July 30th which paper? the times I'll start with that now just a moment I want them for the whole week yes yes here are all the copies for July bound and these loose ones are August so far come out of the reading room and return them to the desk and you're through please I opened the bound volume near the end and immediately saw his picture page one center the photograph was blurred but without reading a word I recognized him because he matched his hair I mean his face went with the back of the head I had seen but before I could read the headline above the picture someone spoke to me pardon me but may I look at that for just a moment standing at my shoulder smiling certainly as alive as I but it was he was there he my victim the face in the paper and his face were the same I swear they were the same I'm sorry to bother you and the girl at the desk told me you had that volume of the times yes yes there's an item I wanted to see in the July 30th issue I'd wait but I have to catch a train if I'm late my wife worries you know how it is if I'm late my wife worries that night he was very late somewhere she's still waiting waiting is that what he wanted me to know oh but this is madness hysteria it's merely coincidence the man in the library looks so much like him he's dead I know he's dead and the dead need to walk nor speak I must believe that and I must go back to the library and find out where he lived who and what he was August 15th I'm beyond all human help I can confide the terrors I live with only to the pages of this journal today I went to Riverside to a quiet street where he had lived tree-lined street running down to the Hudson River I walked past his house number 246 Palisades Road a young woman on the front porch was trimming a morning glory vine I ached to speak to her and ask her name but the words stuck in my throat I walked on then at the next corner it happened again I had paused at the curb when he came up behind me pardon me did you see the bus go by the bus yes the bus for Columbia say what's wrong are you ill no no no I'm alright you look like you're about to faint I live right near here no no no please I'm alright my house is just down the block well it's up to you I can't make you come but I hate to see you suffer needlessly August 20th he doesn't like to see me suffer yet because of him there isn't one day one hour when I'm free from despair and fear so I accept him now the dead do walk and speak at least one dead man does whether actually or in the madness of my brain I do not know I only know that if I venture out of my house inevitably he finds me sometimes he follows at a distance he waits ahead of me in Beckins and sometimes he meets me face to face as he did two days ago I was going home and I stopped at the corner drug store hey there Mr. Steele, Malded no no I'll have a cup of coffee sure thing here this stool's vacant next to this gentleman thank you go ahead sit down sure sit down I won't bite you here's your coffee no Joe I changed my mind look fella if it's something about me what's wrong Mr. Steele what do you want of me tell me what you want me? I don't want anything then why don't you leave me alone somebody you know Mr. Steele apparently Mr. Steele thinks he knows me I do, oh I do maybe so Mr. if you say so but if you know me it sure wasn't from this life must have been some other incarnation that was the evening of the 17th and yesterday I'd started down the subway steps at 53rd street and all around to make sure he was nowhere near I'd only gone a few steps when I felt my arm jostled and I turned pardon me please what do you want why are you following me I looked and I didn't see you and then suddenly you struck my arm maybe it's just fate or something anyway I said I was sorry then have mercy on me and go away look you don't own the subway please I beg of you since my face seems to give you the willies no hurry got all the time in the world so I'll wait and take the next train will that help you know it will I don't know and don't want to but run along now before I change my mind August 26th what will you have Quoth God pay for it and take it well I have paid and I must now take for the day I learned the cure for all my pain and torment and the course I have to take is clear today on a deserted path during Fifth Avenue I saw him again he was coming directly toward me I waited I didn't even try to escape oh wait I must ask ask me what only one question I have to know I'm not sure I understand we don't have to play games I accept you you're real yes I guess I'm real and only you can give me the answer please I can't stand much more don't you see you look sick if you want me to help you there's only one way you can help only one way just answer me well okay go ahead I'll try do you believe in compensation what do you mean by that I mean if someone does evil if I have done evil must I get evil in return well say it again do you believe in good for good evil for evil look what about killing well there's all sorts of killing in the war I killed several people but senseless killing no reason what's the compensation for that you've asked a pretty complicated question of a pretty simple guy the only thing that comes to my mind right now is what it says in the bible an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth that's well does that answer your question an eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth command the price asked by the only one who can ask it well I'll pay for I've learned that no event between two human beings can happen in a vacuum we're all enmeshed bound together through our blood in a pulsing neck but one of us does violence to another he does violence to himself very well this price I'm glad to pay I'm glad to die for his death there's no other way in the hospital how do you feel but I must I have to die not if we can keep you from it well you did your best and what a silly way to do it with a butcher knife you have to let me die where's the doctor now lie down Mr. Steele the doctor will be here in a minute I have to make him see I promise you promise here's the doctor now Dr. West dying I'm having a little trouble what seems to be the matter you forgive me I tried to do as you said I need to die please go away and leave me alone I promise I'll die Ms. Adams yes doctor West did you finish reading his journal yes doctor it's a weird document certainly is what made him think you were the man he killed that was the nature of his illness he had a fixed illusion he looked at me and saw someone else's face how strange still when I finished reading this I called the police and checked about the murder and there was no such murder as he described not on July 30 not ever he didn't kill anyone he never drove his knife into a living back but Richard Steele killed in his mind you mean just because he thought of killing no he went further than that he selected his victim the man whose picture was in the paper I looked it up it was on the front page of the book review section the photograph of an author someone he wanted to kill yes and even for that crime because he wished for someone's death the earth was made of glass there was full compensation whose death, who was it the author of a new biography called Ralph Waldo Emerson and Our Times and who was it by the author was Richard Steele himself Suspense in which Joseph Kearns was starred in The Earth is Made of Glass next week the story of a man with no imagination who found it necessary to cause the violent end of a life it was written by the winner of the Edgar Allan Poe award E. Jack Newman and it's called sequel to murder that's next week on Suspense Suspense is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis with music composed by Lucian Morrowick and conducted by Lud Blusken The Earth is Made of Glass was written for suspense by Sylvia Richards in tonight's story Joseph Kearns was heard as Mr. Steele featured in the cast were Whitfield Connor, Charlotte Lawrence Herb Butterfield, Jerry Hausner Followinslow and Junius Mathews and remember next week E. Jack Newman's new suspense play sequel to murder when four noisy people give one noisy party in a Baltimore home two of the four wind up at the morgue it's an unsettling bit of business that interested all of Baltimore just a few years ago and CBS Radio's crime classics weighs the available facts for you tomorrow night on most of these stations hear all about the death of a Baltimore birdie and friend on crime classics tomorrow night you can join the FBI in peace and war Wednesdays on the CBS Radio Network