 You are speeding through the Turkish night on the Taurus Express. You are alone and unarmed and somewhere on the train is a calm killer from whom you must escape. Escape. Produced by William M. Ropeson and carefully contrived to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight we escape to Turkey and the Taurus Express which carries a shipment of death. As Harold Lamb told it in his exciting story, three good witnesses. I took the Taurus Express that night because I was going home, back to the United States, back to California and my routine job at the oil company. Two days before, I had given my final report to our State Department man in Istanbul. A negative report. Then Mr. Ward, your considered opinion is that there is no oil in this area? Not enough to be worth drilling for. Not at this late date. The war would be over before we could get out 10,000 barrels. You're being up to Mr. Ward. War isn't over yet. Who can say when it will be? That's true, but... What does Arfark say? He agrees with me completely. So does Wyndham, the British engineer. You're all agreed. Three good witnesses, huh? Well, then that settles it. What do you mean? Three good witnesses? Oh, that's an old saying out here in the Middle East. Come from the Arabs, I think. In their old law, the testimony of three independent and trustworthy witnesses was enough to establish a guilt or innocence of an accused person. But, uh, why three? Well, I suppose two witnesses to a crime might tell the same lie. But if three fellows tell the same story, well, then it must be true. It may be. I suppose the odds against three making up the same story would be high. But I don't know whether I'd like to trust my neck with that kind of justice. Yeah. It is a little different from justice back home in Chattahoochee County. Um, I imagine you want to be getting back to the state as soon as possible. Indeed, I do. Well, I can put you on the Tar's Express Wednesday. You'll be in Cairo by Saturday. Get an ATC plane and have you in Washington just three days later. Istanbul to Washington in less than a week. It's a small world, isn't it? So I was booked down the Tar's Express leaving Istanbul on Wednesday night. Got to the station late, and as I walked down the long platform toward the first-class carriages, I sensed a tenseness in the crowd. First, I couldn't explain it. Then I noticed that the platform was alive with police. They stood at the door of every car, motionless, solemn-faced, carefully scrutinizing everyone who got aboard. And it seemed that everyone on that bustling platform was aware of them. Well, I found my car near the front of the train. A policeman stood at the open door. I paused to verify the car number, and suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow. I thought I had missed you. A pair of arms twined around my neck. A pair of lips were kissing me. I pushed her away to try to see her face, but she clung to me. I tried to say something, but she kept talking so fast I couldn't get a word in. How could you do this to me? To run off without even saying goodbye? I must be with you right up to the last minute, my darling. At last I could see her, and she was beautiful. Very young and very beautiful. Turkish or Greek, I couldn't tell which, but lovely. You must let me get on the train with you. See you safely to your compartment. I cannot bear to... Madam, I'm afraid you're making a mistake. Please, please, you must help me. I will explain. But I... Come. You will miss the train. I will see you safely on board. Come, hurry. So we may say our last goodbye in privacy. This last was thrown over her shoulder to the policeman standing there, as she pulled me up the steps into the car. He stared at us, but he said nothing, and in a moment we were standing in the deserted corridor. Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you. Oh, look here, young lady. What is all this? It is the fault of those police standing out there. I could not get into the car alone. But why not? This is a first-class car. Only rich foreigners ride in first-class compartment. I could see by your clothes you were American. I knew you would help me. But why did you want to get into this car, especially? Because I... Suddenly she stopped, and her eyes were riveted on something behind my back. I turned to see a swathe young man staring at us from the other end of the car. He was dressed in the uniform of a train conductor. He slid open a compartment door. There was an almost imperceptible jerk of his head, and then the girl slipped past me and into the open room. The conductor slid the door shut after her. You nervous, sir? Huh? Oh, yes. Yes, sir. 12. Yes, the next one. Here. If there is anything I can do for you, I shall be pleased. If you care to leave your ticket and passport with me, I shall be able to attend to Syrian customs without disturbing you later. As he talked, his eyes were not on me. He was watching the slow progress of a policeman through the car. The officer was walking by, glancing into each compartment. When he came opposite us, he spoke to the conductor. Policala? Policala. The conductor was standing squarely in front of the door of the girl's compartment, hiding her from view. The policeman walked on. In a moment he had disappeared. Ah, thank you, sir. I shall not disturb you. I went into my compartment. My baggage was already there. The train was about to leave. Everything was in order. But I couldn't help wondering about the incident I had just witnessed. About the girl I had involuntarily helped. And the conductor. I wondered about all those police out there. Obviously something was going on. Then I remembered. This was Istanbul, the gateway to the Middle East. It was supposed to be a lie with acts of spies. Could that girl be...? And then I laughed. Just my overage, stay-at-home mind imagining things. And suddenly I heard a voice in the corridor outside. The voice was unmistakably American and music to my ears. I jumped to my feet and stepped into the corridor. There outside the next compartment was a young man in civilian clothes, carrying a small bag in a briefcase. The swathe conductor was approaching him with a worried look. How about this, huh? There's a dame in my compartment. Beg pardon, sir. There must be a mistake. This compartment, number 10... Naturally, you think I can't read. Number 10, that's mine. But number 10 is not sold. It is not marked on my list. The heck it isn't. I've got my ticket right here. What's with the dame? Please, not so loud. I don't get this. I beg your pardon. Can I have any help? Huh? Oh, you're an American, too. Yes, I'm Free Ward, Los Angeles. Tom Hatfield. I don't know you. And what's with the dame? Do you know...? No, I'm afraid... Please, gentlemen, step into the compartment. Please. But the girl... Please. In. Yes? Okay. Well, I... Please. Oh, well, all right. Do you hear that? Do you hear that? I would like to go to your room. Hey, talk English, huh? What's all this about, anyway? It is... I am embarrassed, sir. Oh, you're embarrassed? I buy a ticket and find a dame in my compartment. Of course, on closer inspection, maybe I'm not so mad after all. She looks like a good deal. Thank you, sir. Oh, you do speak English. Sir, the policeman will come by. Maybe look in. I must ask of you a favor. Yeah? If she could stay here, just until the train's starting, she will not bother you after that. Well, why can't she stay in her own compartment? Please, sir, I have no place else to put her. All the other places are taken. Oh, she's a deadhead, huh? Deadhead? No ticket. Stole away. It is something like that. Well, what's the setup? Is she your girlfriend? No, no, it is not like that. It is... You see, we're both Macedonian. She is escaping from the Nazis. She wants to go to Cairo and join the nurse corps. She has been for two years in Greece under the Nazis. She's a real patriot, if you will help her. Maybe if you introduced us and let her speak for herself. She's called Maradales. Well, let's make it Mary for short. Mary the Deadhead. Hi, Mary. Hi. You're okay. Get her. She talks American. I spent two years at American school at the Salonica. I worked with her across in Greece during the fighting. That's all? I like Americans. I want to go to United States. Who doesn't? I want to learn to be a real nurse. You will help me. Americans are always kind. This gentleman here helped me get on the train. Naturally. Now you will help me. Okay. Okay. Thank you, sir. Now I must go before the policemen get more suspicious. Okay, this may turn out to be a pleasure. Looks like you don't need me. I'm in the next compartment. Maybe we'll get together later. Sure, sure. I'd offer you a seat, but we're sort of crowded already. Mary and me. I went back to my seat laughing. Laughing mostly at the silly idea I'd had that maybe Mary the Deadhead and her conductor friend were spies of some sort. Obviously, they were harmless. As harmless as I was. And that was completely harmless, confounded. I looked out of the windows. The train stood out of the station, leaving Turkey, leaving the war, going home. Back to complacent safety. Men were out here fighting and dying, and they'd get no help from me. Me. Overage and useless. I felt pretty sorry for myself. It wasn't until the next day that I began to get acquainted with my fellow passengers. Mary the Deadhead was riding on the conductor's jump seat to the end of the car. The Eruvians, an Armenian couple, were in 14, the compartment next to mine. Young Tom Hatfield was on the other side of me. And two Greek refugees, Mr. Shiniara and Mr. Drikar, were next to him in eight. Hatfield kept pretty much out of sight all day, and it was Mr. Shiniara who shared a table with me at dinner that night. I didn't much care for him, but he was somebody to talk to. Hey, you Americans, you do not realize how lucky you are. No, I suppose not. You do not know that it is to be safe. Just look around you. Almost all the passengers and this express are refugees. All of them would pay much to be going to the United States as you are. I suppose so. But yes, where else is there any security for us? But you, sir, and your young friend are always secure. Wherever you go, you are always safe. But it is not so for us. Well, I suppose we do take a lot for granted and... Oh, here's Hatfield now. Hatfield, won't you join us? Thanks, no, I'll just sit over here. Oh, no, I insist. I was just leaving. You must join your friend. Oh, really? There's no need in this. I insist, please. Okay. Thank you, Mr. Shiniara. It's been a pleasure. And for me, sir, good evening. Good evening. Take it easy. Well, I haven't seen much of you today. Been resting, eh? Something like that. You ordered? Yes, I'll call the waiter. Never mind. He'll be back. Who's your slick-haired friend? Oh, Mr. Shiniara, he's a Greek refugee. He just escaped from the Nazis. Everybody out here just escaped from the Nazis. He was saying how lucky we are to be Americans. I guess they don't see many of us in Turkey these days. I guess not. I haven't seen many of us myself. Funny, I didn't run into you in Istanbul. I wasn't there. I was just passing through. Oh. I thought I'd have met you at the American Mission or somewhere. No. I... I'm out here for the State Department. Oil. But I haven't had much luck. Now I'm going home. Too bad. Yeah. Plenty of things for us Americans to do out here, though. Like, uh, oil and other things. Of course they... They give the unimportant stuff to has-beens like me. Leave the good stuff for young fellas like you. Okay, Mr. Ward. What? Okay. I'm Tom Hatfield, Frankfort, Kentucky. White, Protestant, 26, unmarried. No, I'm not a draft dodger. No, I'm not a wall. And yes, I'm here on business, which is none of yours. Well... I'm a captain Air Force. Two years overseas. You might say officially I'm on a holiday. The fact is I'm taking this train to Adana where I get off at five tomorrow morning, cross the border and catch a plane that's waiting to take me to Cairo. Anything else you want to know? Oh, I-I-I'm sorry. No, no, no. Sit down. Sit down. I'm sorry. I guess I'm getting on my own nerves. Forget it, will you? Oh, it's nothing. You needn't think that... Riding on trains is kind of bad for a flyer. It makes me jumpy. I understand. And you must have already been through a lot. Yes, I do understand. I was in France in 1918. I know what it's like. Maybe you know better than I do. Oh, I wouldn't say that. But I envy you. I'd give anything to be in it. You're lucky you're not. Oh, I know, I know. But it's no fun being old and useless like me either. I envy you. I can tell you're doing something important. You can? How? By the way, you're so careful with that briefcase. Carry it around with you all the time. You got it in your lap right now. Probably got something important in it. Dispatches or something. So you noticed that, did you? I hope nobody else on this train is so observant, Mr. Warden. Oh, you're pulling my leg. What difference would it make anyway? You never can tell. On a train like this, out here, you never know. Oh, you mean, you mean spies? Well, I wouldn't... Well, but why? I haven't seen anyone who looks suspicious. Spies are never suspicious-looking, Mr. Warden. They're anybody. Anybody who wants to make a quick buck and doesn't care how he does it. This train is alive with people like that. But who? Well, just take, for instance, Mary the Deadhead. She's young and pretty, yes. But she's broke. And her shifty-eyed boyfriend, the conductor. Oh, but they're Greeks. She's a refugee. So she says. But didn't it seem strange to you that he put her in my compartment by mistake? My name wasn't on the list, so he said. Were you satisfied with her story? Hmm. Well, for a moment, I... I was suspicious, but I... You can't take too much for granted. Well, for instance, the story I just told you. I might be a spy, mightn't I? That whole thing might be a hogwash. Well, no. You're American, I know that. Who else would say hogwash? No matter. I could be an American trader. There are such things. Oh, but... Or you might be the spy. Yes, they even look like you. Meek and mild, Casper milk toast. Their cover stories are pips. Like telling you they're out here looking for oil. They strike up a conversation, ask questions and notice briefcases. Oh, but look here. Now, surely you don't think... No, I don't think anything. You never can tell, Mr. Warden. He was kidding me, of course. Pulling my leg. But I didn't really mind. I liked him. And he had a right to be cocky and flip. He was doing something for the war effort. Even though I knew he was kidding me, I went to bed thinking about spies and I fell asleep dreaming of them. Then very suddenly, I awoke with a terrible sense of urgency. It was something that I must do. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to five. The train was dark. Everything was quiet. Yet I felt I had to get up. I started to put on my clothes. It didn't make sense. But then I remembered. It was Tom Hatfield, not me, who had to get up at five, leave the train at Adana to cross the border into Syria and take his plane. Those dispatchers must be important if he had to change to a fast plane as soon as he got out of neutral Turkey. When I stepped into the dimly lit corridor, it was deserted. I knocked on Hatfield's door. No answer. I tried the handle. The door slid open into darkness. Something was wrong. I switched on the light and went in. Tom Hatfield lay there on the bunkers' sleep. Hey, Hatfield! Rise and shine. We're coming into Adana. You've got to get off. I shook him, but he didn't... he didn't move. Then I saw blood in his pillow, on his head. I looked around quickly. The briefcase was gone. Kivorkian! Kivorkian! Is something wrong, sir? Did... did you see anybody go into number ten? No. Nobody. Who should be going... Look, look. Do you have keys to the doors? But no, there are no keys. They lock from the inside, the sliding bolt and chain. Nobody can get in once they're locked. Yeah, that's what I thought. I knew Tom Hatfield would have locked that door. Somebody must have gotten in some other way and left the corridor open as a false clue. But how? Then I noticed the door which connected with number eight. I tried it. It was locked. This didn't make sense. But through my mind was racing one thought. American dispatches have been stolen. Tom Hatfield is out and it's up to me. I searched the room. I found an automatic under the mattress, but no briefcase. I heard the train start up again. We were leaving Adana. I looked again at the connecting door. Then I got it. The bolt was fastened on the other side of that door. But on this side it was not. That meant that someone could have come in through number eight. I knocked on the connecting door. I heard a movement and the bolt split back and the door opened. I was face to face with Mr. Ciniara. And he was staring at the gun in my hand. What is it? What is that for? The briefcase. The bag of my friend. Is it here? Briefcase? Bug? We have here only our valesis. This door has been opened. Something is missing. Oh, if you have lost something, I pray you to look. I know nothing of it. Come in, please. And look. I will. I'm not accusing anyone. But I just want to be sure that... The thing I felt was a stinging coldness on my face. A rushing of wind. I realized that I was hanging half out of the window of the car. I was shoving me out of the train. Savagely I kicked. I felt something give. And I pushed myself back in. Slipped down on the floor. I felt something hard under me. The gun. In the dim compartment I saw them coming at me. In the middle of the car, I raised the gun. What has happened? Look! On the floor! Shut the door quickly! Are they? Wait. Let me look. Yes. Both of them. Finish. They took the briefcase. I'm sure they did. Hey, who's shooting up the place? Hatfield. Holy cow. Look at that. What happened? The briefcase. It's here. Some place I'm sure it is. Hey, wait a minute, fella. You're banged up there. Looks like we both got bumped here. Sit down. Have a drink. Mary, you'll find a pint in my bag. Bring it in here, will you? But they got the papers, Hatfield. We ought to look. They did. Yes. The briefcase isn't here. I don't see it. Well, there wasn't anything in that briefcase, except some old Easton Bull newspapers. They probably threw it out the window. Back at Haider Pasha. I'm pretty sure I know. Warned me to be careful this trip. I put my classified material someplace else. Oh, but that means... That means I killed two men without any cause. Without a shred of evidence to back up my story. How we waste time. Quick. The Syrian border police got on the train at the Dona. They might be here any minute. Ah, who is dead here? Mary, the dead head, took me into Hatfield's room and carefully administered first aid to my cuts and bruises. But Kevorkian and Hatfield were busy in number eight. What? What are they doing? Never mind. Pay no attention. Oh, but they're throwing the bodies out of the window. Think not of it, please. Haider Kevorkian is a Macedonian. When he fought the Germans at the Kalanika, he threw bodies over the cliffs. He knows what he's doing. Oh, but I... But you. You are a brave man, too. Even if you are not Macedonian, you would be judgment-ried for two, three years in spite of your age and your innocence. It is better to have nobody's. What's that? Be quiet now. The border police. Well, we got the room cleaned up just in time. Number eight, Jiniara and Rika. He has their passport. I forgot. Jiniara and Rika, they're not here. I can tell you about Jiniara and Rika. This man here, Mr. Ward, he is American general in disguise. Secret service. He put Jiniara and Rika off at Adana with a pistol. They were spies. Good heavens. You'll never believe that. Never mind. This man is a Syrian. He does not care what happens in Turkey. But do you have any Syrian money? Oh, yes, yes. Here. Here in my wallet. Good. Give it to me. Thank you. Now, come with me, Sergeant. Do not worry now, Mr. Ward. In a moment, Haiki working will have those passports. We will throw them out the window and there will be no trace. And to think, Mary, I thought you might be drawing down an access paycheck. It is no matter. Now we are out of Turkey. Before long, I can go to United States. Maybe that might not be so easy. You got no money, no passport, no transportation through the combat zones. Never mind. I shall do it. I walk to here from Macedonia. I can walk all the way. Like Saint Paul and the Bible walk to Rome. I wish you luck, but you'll have a time getting by British control at Aleppo. You can't smuggle a pack of cigarettes past them. Oh, but then what about me? What about a murderer? I don't know. We'll see. It was morning when the train pulled into Aleppo, the station where British control came on. The trip had been pretty awful. With Tom trying to act as if nothing had happened and with me staring into that empty room, imagining Chiniara and Rica sitting there staring back at me. Maybe they had been spies. Maybe not. No, they were dead. And I was in trouble. We knew that the minute the train stopped. A soldier stood outside our window and said, All right, man, I'm eyes in this place in this car. We waited silently for many minutes. And then a British major in Khaki short stepped in. Behind him I saw Kevorkian and Mary the Deadhead standing in the doorway. Good morning. I'm Radcliffe. I'm looking for two missing passengers identified as Greeks, Chiniara and Rica by name. Come now, they seem to have been in the next compartment. And here, what became of them? Weather too. Young lady. Yes, sir? You weren't the number eight, were you? You don't seem to have any other place nor a Syrian entrance visor. Please, I sat down in the corridor. Oh, yes, quite. Conductor, don't you remember two passengers built through to Aleppo? One was quite stout. Book dealer who escaped from Greece ten days ago. Ah, those, they descended from the car at Adana. One was fat with slick hair and the other, yes, yes. I say, isn't that a bullet hole in the wall up there? And you, sir, Mr. Ward, isn't it? How did you hurt your forehead? An accident, sir. I bumped into her. Oh, yes, quite. I should tell you that the Armenian couple in number 14 heard shots just after passing Adana. They were so frightened they locked themselves in until now. It's no use. I, I shot them, both of them. They hit me first. Please, realize that I'm not joking. My orders are to find those two pseudo-Greeks wherever they may be. Wait a minute. You said pseudo-Greeks? You mean, Major, you want to find them? And how, as you Americans say. But why? Because we're advised by Istanbul that certain Axis agents have been working out of the Balkans with identifications as refugees. These two, Chiniar and Drikar, were on this train. A man on the train saw them throw something out at Adana. They hardly threw themselves out. No, we did that. Your man at Haida Pasha tipped me off to expect trouble. Oh, really? So they were agents. Certainly they were spies. I knew that. No Greek would be fat like Chiniar after only one week escape from the Germans. And no Greek would have hair oil from Paris. That being the case, will somebody start telling the truth? I will. This mild little gentleman knowing nothing of the war and fighting, he kills you two men in a gunfight. Like, how do you say, nobody business? And now, please, he's still suffering from shock. So will you please give him a plane direct to Cairo where he can rest? And this American courier, he is late with dispatches. He must have a place in the plane, too. And since I cannot enter Syria without the passport, will you please put me also on the plane? Because in Cairo, I can get a job as nurse with the Greek from Macedonia who are there. And maybe God will then give me a way to go to America like he passed St. Paul through the tourist gates. Is it a deal, Major? Three places on the first plane and you have your men like the Royal Canadian Houses, only dead. The plane could be arranged, of course, if... All right, Mr. Ward, tell him. Tell him. With the eyes of that amazing girl on me, my courage came back. I told him my story, completely, every detail. He listened carefully, took it all down in his pad, and afterwards he said... That story, Mr. Ward, is not one bit of evidence he supported. By your own statements, the evidence of the... is buried in the snow on the slopes of the Tarris Mountains. Nuts. I'll tell you, I helped Chakra. And I examined the two men. I am a train nurse and I said they were dead. And for identification, I, a soldier of Macedonia, can swear that their passports were the men you say. Very well. I'll bring the addrom. The evidence of three good witnesses is sufficient. Escape. Produced by William N. Robeson and directed by Norman McDonnell, today brought you three good witnesses by Harold Lamb, adapted for radio by John Dunkel, with Morgan Farley as Humphrey Ward, Jack Webb as Tom Hatfield, Janet Nolan as Mary the Deadhead, Harry Bartella's Kevorkian, with Barton Yarborough and Jack Kruschen. Music was conceived by Psy Fuhr with Eddie Dunstetter at the console. Next week... You are alone in Paris. Unable to speak the language. Unable to cope with the gigantic conspiracy which seeks to convince you that you are mad. And you know you are the victim of a plot from which there is no escape. Next week, we escape with Alexander Wolcott's version of a modern folk tale, The Vanishing Lady. Goodbye then, until the same time next week, when again we offer you escape. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.