 Good evening. This is Crime Classics. I am Thomas Hyland with another true story of crime. Listen. That's a couple of crocodiles roaring. They can do other things. They can snap. They can slither. As a matter of fact, when there's zoos around they do this most often. They lay eggs too, but no one's ever heard it done. The crocodiles who've been doing things for us are East Indian crocodiles. From a province in the south through which the Ganges flows. Each village in the province has its private pit dedicated to the happiness of their slimy and slithering friends. And sometimes a fellow would lose hold and fall into the pit, or jump in, or be pushed in. However they got there, the crocodiles took them in their stride. People were their favorite dish. So tonight, my report to you on Rashi among the crocodiles and the prank he played. Crime Classics. A series of true crime stories from the records and newspapers of every land from every time. Your host each week, Mr. Thomas Hyland, connoisseur of crime, student of violence, and teller of murders. Now once again, Mr. Thomas Hyland. Where the Ganges edged the town of Mahadwat, it was not holy. As a matter of fact, there was little to note in the town of Mahadwat. True, there was the crocodile pit, but the crocs were smaller than in, for instance, the village of Gumbau, just three miles down the river. Mahadwat had its share of temples, but they were kind of run down. It had its quota of fakirs, four of them, but none of them outstanding as, for instance, the gray fakir of Gumbau. To whom everybody brought ashes, but it had one edifice of which the villagers were rightly proud, the house of Matabar, a rich and ornate house, of which Udi was its master. It is written, when the moon is Genji's plucked, Vishnu looks with favor on a son who does not stray. A gentle man, an old man, a widower with a son named Rashi. Old man, listen to me. The world is not this village. The world is vast, and I must know it. I plead with you. The world, what I have seen of it. Fruits and ecstasies and all manner of delights. Fool! It is written, he who tastes sweet, I care not what is written. And what do you do when you wander, son? Beg. You suddenly become a holy man. I merely don my rags, plough for a palm, and, when enough coins are placed there, I doth the rags. Then, then, father dear, I dress splendidly again and walk to the bazaar. I have found, father dear, Mariah. Vulture. I have found, father dear, that delights come most easily to a young man who dresses splendidly and who has coins. Surely that is written someplace, or will be written. Father. What? I would not stray. I would remain in the village, if you would give me of your wealth. I cannot. And why can you not? Until rushy, until, son, you prove yourself a man. Then will I gladly give you. Old man, old man, listen to me. I am more a man than you could dream of. I've been far already, a hundred miles from here, and I will go further. And there will be a day when I will not come back. Speak not so. And I give you another bar that you want, old man. Speak not her name. Kamala. Kamala, the cousin to my cousin. Perhaps, perhaps, father dear, I will marry her. Speak not so. I beg of you, speak not so. She is calmly fathered, and of our blood even. What if she walked slow by the river, and tarries too long with the faquirs? What of the- Get out! Get out of here! Go! Very well. Shall I come back, father dear, ever? Shall I? Son, son to me, let me awaken you in your bed here in the morning. Be of my house. I will decide it. I will speak of it to Kamala. Then I will decide it. We have gleaned two things about Rashi. He was a gadabout who visited strained cities and begged the price of admission. And he was a bad son. Here's something else about him. He played a musical instrument, a reed pipe. He would go out by the banks of the river, find a clearing in the jasmine, sit and look at the moon. He liked very much to look at the moon, for this same moon rode over the far places. And Rashi was a dreamer. Then, to his dreams, he would finger himself a tune. You might say, didn't he draw cobras? No. No, he didn't. He drew his cousin's cousin Kamala, who had a weakness for reed pipers, especially her cousin's cousin Rashi. Rashi. Sadness is your song. And longing. Why longing, Rashi? I am here. That is the moon, Kamala. Yes. The moon my father will not buy for me. Wicked father. Rashi. Yes. Were he to buy it, what would you do with it? Give it to you. Wicked father. Miser. Old father. Who will not die. Rashi. Who will never die. Rashi. What? I brought you a lotus to tie into my hair. Again? You're tired of me? No. No, I never will. Give me the bud. Yes. Kamala. Yes. It would be well if my father would die. Why not your fawn's eyes in dismay? But think of it. It would be well if my father would die. Then the moon and what it looks upon would be yours and mine. Look you there, where the river bends. Huzoor the fakir glows his coals. Huzoor the wise. Not so wise. Wiser than you, therefore wise. You would go to him? He has said to me, saying, Kamala child, in trouble and in question, come to me. Kamala child, saying he said. My father is in trouble. Huzoor the fakir glows his coals. Let us go to him. Yes. Then not yourself to the glowing coals, Kamala child. I will be careful. Huzoor. It is grievous this riddle you present. How say you it again? The cousin to my cousin will tell it. The riddle is this. In a far-placed, well-to-wealthy man, he prized his gold and his jewels above all, saved his son. His son to him was as the gentle rain and the shining stars, yet impoverished he kept his son. And the riddle is this, fakir. Would not the earth spin more easily if such a father would die and be delivered of his wealth to his noble son? I like riddles. Well, would not the earth spin more easily, as Rashi has said, if such a father... Rather consider such a son. If such a son be dead would not the father have an easier time? Twenty rupees, please. Do not pay him, Rashi. He has told you nothing. Not one rupee, fakir. Very well. At least spread the coals for me so that I may walk and soothe... Spread them yourself. Very well, child. Yet I wish a blessed evening to both of you. Blessed evening, fakir. No rupees. Come, Rashi. What shall we do, Kamala? We will think of something. How shall we start thinking? With evil. Let us try that, beloved. There are enough food to eat, son. Son, why do you mock me in the public market? And what you say is not so... I am in rage. The son of a rich man in rage. Nor is there enough to eat. Listen, these lies you are saying. Listen all. My father sits among his riches and draws his hands over them and laughs in his beard. Nor does he give charity without expecting return. Lies, lies. And I, his son, must share scraps with his dog. I tell you this, all of you. So if one day I am starved... A curse! A curse on my son. Father, he should be dead. Which happened in the bazaar in the town of Mahadwad. So everybody heard it or was told about it. Results? Much nodding of heads and plucking at beards and mumbling and gossip at the wells. And more so when Rashi was suddenly not around any longer. Not at his usual haunts and no more piping of the reed among the jasmine. People forgot that Rashi disappeared from town quite often. But instead they remembered what his father had shouted at him in the bazaar. A father had growled and the villagers were mumbling. And one day this happened. What brings you to my house? You are my cousin's uncle, Udi. Should I not be in your house? Speak what you want and go. I have a letter. From my son? No, not him. Where is he? I will read you the letter. Give it to me. Very well then. Very well then. To Kamala, beloved of Rashi. Very well then. Read it, read it. Do you pray me? I pray you. To Kamala, beloved of Rashi. The father of Rashi has slain him and has hidden his body. Lie, lie, what lie is this? So the letter says... Who sent such a letter? I found it at my door. There is no name to it. It is a lie. Nevertheless, I will journey to Kamala where there are people of England who are called police. And I will show them this letter. Kamala, child. I will journey now. I pray you. This minute. And she did. She showed the letter to the police. They looked all around the village for Rashi. One of the more alert of them noticed that the crocodiles in the pit had been dozing for the last two days. Which meant they had eaten a lot. Which made the police drag the ooze. They found a bone. So they arrested Udi for the murder of his son Rashi. The penalty for murder in the village was tearing a person in two. You are listening to crime classics and your host, Thomas Highland. This Friday night hear the death bargain murder case. One of the most thrilling yet routine tracer of lost persons. Under the terms of a strange agreement two beautiful actresses find themselves in the shadow of violent death. It's a puzzler that calls for fast action and deduction by the old investigator, Mr. Keen of CBS radio. Don't miss him Friday night on most of these same stations. And now once again, Thomas Highland and the second act of crime classics and his report to you on Rashi among the crocodiles and the pranks he played. A few words about South Kankan, India in the summer of 1894. The weather was fine and the jute crop was phenomenal. Sir Ramsey Gwendon, a better known as Sir Ramsey of the Loom had just endeared himself to the populace by establishing the first twine and rope factory in the area utilizing all but a small portion of the available jute. True, Sir Ramsey was later vilified and his factory is torn down by hand by enraged natives and nevertheless, he is down in history as one of India's first prime users of jute. Now, of the town, Mahadwat is, as we know, a rather insignificant part of the province. And in the summer, it is apt to run against the grain, especially the grains of Englishmen who are not much used to the brutal heat and swelter. So it came to pass that the Englishmen who happened to be in town at the time who was a policeman is an Englishman who should be admired. His name Roger Sharman, a man of infinite patience. Go on. I did not kill my son. I did not. Well, go on. I loved my son. He was my strong right hand and my boon. A moment. My dear. Yes, sir? What is it that you tell me that you have been brutal about in the bazaar? A child? Ask anyone. I ask you. That this old man hated his son, cursed him and threatened to kill him? Saad, go on. Do you know of this girl? No. No. What about her? She walks slow and smiles with ease. Go on. She is not to be trusted. She speaks lies. Oh, good fellow. How do you explain this boon? Well, pardon Saad. This boon. How do you explain it, the one we found in the crocodile pit? Saad? Yes, um, child. The old man cannot explain the boon, for it is the bone of Rashi, of his shoulder. I swear to you, I would not kill my son. I swear it. Is it not true that you argued true and that you wished him dead in the fit of... Is it true? Dear man, I'm afraid you're under arrest. When would you tear him in two? Child. Child, listen to me. Yes? No longer the law of the jungle, but the civilized law. Udi Matabar will be tried and justice will prevail. Justice will prevail. This means dead? If he is guilty. I am not guilty. Dear fellow, you say that so often. What are you trying to hide, dear fellow? History is full of coincidences, not the least of which the fact that the Sikh Padwar was at this very moment in the village studying fossils. Amazing, you say. Nevertheless, a fact. Sikh Padwar but lately returned from postgraduate study at Cambridge was hunting bone shards and artifacts at the old formations outside of the village. And it was to him Inspector Roger Sharman came. I hope it won't be too much trouble, old boy. From this? Yes. I've heard it's done to reconstruct the figure of the man from the bone section. Yes, yes it is. However, what are you trying to prove? Dear fellow, should the figure you construct be five and a half feet in height, a wide construction and neck a bit longish, I'm told, then we shall have proof that a young man named Rashi has been chewed by the crocodiles. Yes, yes. I'll do my best. Well said, old boy. Well said. And two days later, Roger sent a runner to Padwar asking for a progress report. Tell the sub I haven't yet begun to work on his project. And a week later? Some progress. Tell the sub to give me a fortnight. And in a fortnight? Tell the sub I'm sorry I was interrupted, my sister came of age and there was a celebration. And a week after that? Tell the sub he's welcome to come to see the reconstruction. Tell him I suggest he bring along the chap and the cures of the deed. Which the runner did? Good. Very good. Excellent. Thank you. Believe. This way, gentlemen. It is not my son, it will not be my son. But if it is my son, I did not do it. I swear it. Will you keep saying that, old chap? There. I say it is not my son, it is not my son. Of course it is not, it's a water buffalo. Oh, I say. Then a joint of water buffalo was thrown to the crocodiles and not rashi. I would say so. Then I am free. Hold on, old boy. Only a part of your case against you has been destroyed. Your stand is still missing and we don't know what you've done with him. You're a child and you must stand trial. It's the law. Come along. Padra. Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much. In the north, dear Kamala, towards Scotland when the summer comes in gently, the night such as this. And are you very rich, Inspector? Please, child, call me Roger. Are you very rich, Roger? Rich? Yes. How do you mean, child? Money. Child, you must listen to me. To what? The letter. Letter? That you received that said Woody murdered his father. He did. That said he threw his son into the pit with the crocodiles. He did. And the bone? It is the bone of a water buffalo, child. How could you know? But you knew. How could you know? How wise you must be. And Rashi is alive. How very wise you must be. Is he alive? Come. I know a place nearby. Kamala, come. No. Come. Why? Kamala, you cannot let an old man die. If Rashi is alive. If Rashi is alive. If Rashi is alive. Find out if he is alive. Go. No. Roger Sherman was a conscientious constable. Neither warm summer night, nor Santa Flotis, nor closeness of Kamala, who wore a jewel and bells on her ankles. None of these distracting elements could keep him from his appointed tasks. His next move was obvious. Armed with the full description of the lad, he traveled downriver to the town of Gumbau. And there made inquiry. Rashi of the village Mahadwat. Therefore, a stranger to this village. And the answer was no. About this high, given to wearing beggars' clothes. And the answer was a shrug. So, a journey to Maharashtra and the enquiries. No. And the shrug. And to Puna. Puna of the fabulous temple of Shiva. And there was a beggar in front of it. Of the village Mahadwat. Exactly. And of this height. Precisely. And young. Yes. And nose not too prominent, nor yet too small. Yes. And dressed in rags beyond belief. Good. Very good. And his name. Rashi. Of the village Mahadwat. Exactly. And of this height. Oh yes, I understand, old boy. Only sporting. A week ago, Rashi of Mahadwat went to Shadu. To the festival of Vishnu. I say, old boy, isn't your name Rashi? Aren't you from Mahadwat? Aren't you? I say, don't try to run. Oh, very well. No. Don't tussle. No, it's useless, you know. You're caught. You're a prisoner of the crown. Now, come along. I therefore present to the crown this thesis. That Udi Mataba strangle his son until he was dead. Then in the still of the night he did... I did not. I did not. He did dispose of the body of his son Rashi. I asked the court to look at the accused. Where in the court's memory has he seen such evil in a face? Such depravity. I am a good man. I have never harmed evil. A face eaten by lust and avarice. His tongue tells the lie of serpents. And his eyes mirror the wantonness of... No, no. This is my face. But I'm old. So, in summation, I ask that this symbol of wickedness incarnate be condemned to the gallows and... Hey, let us through. I say, let us through, won't you? Hey, hey. What disturbance? I am sorry to spoil the show, old boy. What is this? Well, it's been no murder, old boy. This bundle of rags is... Rashi. My son. Here is I, father. Ah, you see? What a show. Rashi. Rashi. They would hang you. No. I knew you would come back. You knew? Yes. Because you are my son. Father. Yes. Once I was not your son. Now I am. Did you hear? Did you hear? Father. Yes. Son. It is written, when the moon is Ganges plucked, Vishnu looks with labor on a son who does not stray. Well said, old boy. Bully. And arm in arm they went home. Father and son. And the father was more generous with his wealth. And the son more generous with his love. And the girl Kamala, why Rashi married her. And they had a lot of trouble with their children. And the Ganges flowed down to the sea. In just a moment, Thomas Highland will tell you about next week's crime classic. Rashi Among the Crocodiles, tonight's crime classic, was adapted from the original court reports and newspaper accounts by Morton Fine and David Friedkin. The music was composed and conducted by Bernard Herman. And the program is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Thomas Highland is portrayed on radio by Lou Merrill. In tonight's story, Jack Edwards was heard as Rashi, Jane Webb as Kamala, Edgar Berrier as Udi, and Van Rite as Raju. featured in the cast were William Conrad, Jack Krushan, and Eric Snowden, Bob LeMond speaking. And here again is Thomas Highland. Next week, the caribies in the year 1704, when a girl could get a wedding present that meant something like an island, even if it hurt her husband's career. My report to you will be on Blackbeard's 14th wife. Why? She was no good for him. Thank you. Good night. CBS, CBS Radio will follow you wherever you may go. If you want the very best do nothing and be our guest. Come, CBS, CBS, CBS Radio. Final Barrymore's Radio Hall of Fame is great Sunday night drama on the CBS Radio Network.