 And now, another tale well-calculated to keep you in. Suspense. The Green Lorelei, written for suspense by George Bamber. My name is Adams. Roger Adams. Maybe you've heard of me. I write for the pulp magazines. Mystery stories, horror stories of two and three cents a word. But then again, maybe you haven't. It's been a long time since I've written anything, and even longer since I've sold anything I've written. Maybe that's why nobody believes me, because of what I did for a living, and what happened afterwards. It all happened in Los Angeles, the place they call the city of the angels. I was living in a broken-down apartment house that overlooked that cultural desert that is the city of Hollywood. It was late at night, one hot and smoggy August. I'd spent the whole day sitting, staring at a typewriter that sat staring back at me. I hadn't been able to write a word for days. Finally, I got fed up with it all, and I took fifty cents of my last two dollars. I went down and I bought two bottles of cold beer, and on my way back up to my... Well, Mr. Adams. Oh, Mrs. Snyder. I thought if I listened to my door long enough, I'd catch you sneaking up and down stairs. No, I wasn't sneaking. Well, I'd like to know what you call it, walking on the sides of the steps that way. Mrs. Snyder, you have an extremely suspicious and unpleasant nature. When are you going to pay me the money, Omer? At the end of the week. You've been saying that more than a month now. Well, now this time it's true. I just sold another horror story to authentic mysteries, and the check is in the mail. Now, I thought it would be here today. Well, I've heard that one before. No, I swear, I swear it's true. Now, please, Mrs. Snyder, you have got to trust me. I will have the money for you by the end of the week. Well... Friday for sure. Everything I owe you. I promise. Well, why can't you have a little of it now? I'm going to count five or ten dollars, maybe. Because I don't have five or ten dollars, maybe. I see you've got enough to spend on beer. Mrs. Snyder, it cost me fifty cents for two bottles of beer, and that's all I've had all day. Now, if you like, there's a two-cent deposit on each bottle. I'll bring them down to you when I'm done. Now, don't get smart with me. I've been very lenient with you. I told you you will get your money at the end of the week. Well, you better. You don't allow to go. You hear me, Mr. Adams? I did with my back to the door until I regained my self-control. The room was still the same. The rumpled bed, the sock hanging from the sink, the litter of papers on the floor. I went to the kitchen, rummaged around until I found a can opener. The beer tasted disappointingly warm as the night, and sour and bitter as the day. I went to the typewriter, but it was no good. The same sheet of paper I'd rolled into it five days ago sat staring up at me, blank, white, and unyielding. Finally, I turned off the light and I sat down in front of my window, staring out at the winking, blinking, happy lights of Hollywood, wondering what to do next. I was at the end of my rope. I was broke. At the end of the week, I'd be evicted for non-payment of rent. The worst of all, I couldn't write. Not a single idea came to my head. And then I heard her voice. The voice of the woman upstairs. I had heard it many times before, sometimes when I sat unable to write, mostly at night. To me, she had the most beautiful voice of any woman I'd ever heard. And I imagined her to be like her voice, soft and lovely like her voice. But then it occurred to me that I didn't know what she looked like. In all the months I'd lived in Mrs. Snyder's apartment house, I'd never once seen her. I'd seen her husband many times. As he went back and forth on his way to work, he was a short, ugly little man. And it seemed impossible that he could be married to a woman who sang as beautifully as that. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the desire to know who the woman was and what she looked like. I grabbed a cup from the kitchen and I raced up the stairs to the apartment above. Yes? Hi there. I'm Mr. Adams from the apartment below. So? Well, I hate to bother you, but I was just sitting down to dinner when I discovered that I was fresh out of coffee. I wondered if I could borrow some from you. I don't drink coffee. Well, how about tea? Just a couple of teaspoons full. I hate to eat a meal without something to drink, and I don't want to run down to the store and let my dinner get cold. Cue me to cup. He took the cup and closed the door in my face before I could see anyone else in the apartment. But not before I got an impression of what it was like. It was laid out the same as mine, only cleaner. But it looked old and dirty. Maybe it was the furniture. It was old and black like it. I'd been brought over from the old country and much older than Mr. Steinmetz, who'd lived alone a long time. Here you are. Oh, thank you. Thank you very much. You're Mr. Steinmetz, aren't you? Yes. Why? Well, I thought that's who you were. I saw your name on the mailbox downstairs, and I thought I might as well introduce myself. I'm Mr. Adams in the apartment below. I know. And I thought since we live in the same building, there's no reason why we can't be neighbors as well as friends, huh? Well, is your wife at home? What makes you ask that? Well, on my way up, I heard a woman singing. I thought it was your wife and wanted to compliment her on what a beautiful voice she had. My wife is dead. Oh. Oh, I'm very sorry. Well, it must have been your daughter. You heard no woman here. Oh, Mr. Steinmetz, I stood right outside this door, and I heard her just as please. You heard nothing! My wife is dead! I stood in the hallway stunned. I had heard a woman singing. I was sure of that. But why had he lied? I went back to my apartment trying to figure it out. I sat in the darkness with the warmer second bottle of beer, and I heard her again, more clearly and distinctly than I'd ever heard her before. There was a woman up there. I was sure of that now. But who was she and what was she doing there and why had the old man lied? Tomorrow when he went to work, I'd find out the answer to that. But the night passed slowly. The gray hours dawned slower still. Seven o'clock came, seven thirty. At eight, I saw Eric Steinmetz leave the building with his lunch bucket under his arm. I knew he'd never returned home before six. And that meant I had ten hours. I wanted to rush upstairs right away, but I made myself wait until I was sure that she was there. At ten o'clock, I was sure. I crept up the stairs of the hall using the sides of the steps so they wouldn't creak. My heart beating in my mouth. The closer I got, the louder her voice became, and at the door it sounded as if she was standing just on the other side. Hello, Mrs. Steinmetz. Are you there? Mrs. Steinmetz, this is Mr. Adams, the man in the apartment below. I wonder if I could see you a moment. Mrs. Steinmetz? I knew she was there. Something was there. Through the wood of the door, I could hear breathing. I could feel her heart beating. I had to see the inside of that apartment. What do you mean you lost your key? I didn't lose it. I left it in my room and I locked myself out and I wanted if I could borrow your master key. I can't let anybody have that. I only wanted for a minute just to open my door. Why can't you hang on to your own key? I told you it was an accident. It could happen to anybody. You're the worst one I got. You don't pay your rent. You locked yourself out. Please, please, Mrs. Snyder, let me have the key. Please. Now, I will run up and I'll open the door and I'll bring it right back. And I will have your rent for you at the end of the week. Well, okay. But you bring it right back down here. I'll be waiting right here. I'll be waiting until you do. I don't want any funny business in my apartment. As I ran up the stairs to my room, I fished out the pieces of wax I had put in my pocket. At the door, I squeezed them together over the key. Hard. In my mystery stories, I had written about this method of obtaining keys hundreds of times. But I had never once done it myself, so I wanted to be sure I did it right. Well, what's taking you so long? I'll be right there. I pulled the two pieces of wax apart. The impression was clear and perfect. I opened the door with my own key and raced back down the stairs. Well, what took you so long? I had trouble with the door. Oh, thank you, Mr. Snyder. Well, I've got to run. I'm late as it is. Well, when are you going to pay me that money that you owe me? Later. Later. This is a very difficult thing you ask, Mr.... Uh, Smith. Yes, of course, Mr. Smith. It is not only difficult, but it is against the law. Well, that's all right. I'm a special investigator. You have credentials then? Uh, no, no, not, not on me. See, I'm not allowed to carry them because of the nature of this case. Oh, I see. Well, allow me to introduce myself. I am the President of the United States. Oh, well, now, look, are you going to do it or not? There are plenty of other locksmiths in this town. I would not touch this key for less than $50. What? I'm sorry, Mr. Smith. Well, uh... Look, here is my watch. It cost me $200 new. Now, will you take that instead? It cost you maybe $35 new. Well, now, will you do it or not? I see by the President's new watch that Congress is now in session. It was two o'clock by the time I stood outside her door again. That gave me four hours before Steinmetz came home. I knocked. Mrs. Steinmetz, are you home? I stood listening for a long time before I slipped one of my newly made keys in the door. Hello, Mrs. Steinmetz. Are you home? There was no answer. So I stepped inside, closing the door after me. The apartment appeared the same as it had the day before, but somehow it was emptier now. I crossed the worn carpeted floor of the curtains covering the small kitchenette. Mrs. Steinmetz, I shoved the curtains aside. I turned in the thick, hot stillness of the afternoon apartment and started toward the bedroom door. Halfway there, I was stopped by something that caught my eye on the round table in the center of the living room. It was just a picture. At first glance, it looked like a picture of two people standing together, but as I looked at it closer, I realized it wasn't of people at all, but a close-up of two animals or reptiles that only looked like people. They didn't have any hair or ears, and the surface of their skin was scaled like a snake's. I was about to search around for more pictures when I realized she was singing again and it was coming from the bedroom door. I left the room and I threw it open. The blinds were drawn in the hot, stuffy room and in the darkness a single candle burned. As my eyes adjusted to its light, I could make out a sleek bronze casket sitting at the other side of the room. Now, in my career as a writer of mystery horror stories, I've killed off about 500 people and come across countless bodies, murdered in foul and devious ways, but never once has I been alone in a room with a closed casket or opened one by myself. It took a great deal of courage to force myself across the room and even more to place my hands on the cool metal of the lid. And then with an effort, I raced it. It was empty. The candlelight played on the quilted white satin lining of an empty coffin. Mrs. Steinmetz, I know you're in here, Mrs. Steinmetz, and I intend to find you. I started going through the boxes and trunks and junk piled in the bedroom. I know she was in the apartment someplace. I could hear her voice. And dead or alive, I intended to find her. I went through the living room, the kitchen, overturning and pulling things apart. Then I was about to give up when I saw the closet door. I'd never noticed that before. I stumbled across the room to get to it, and then I tore it open. She was beautiful. She was easily the most beautiful girl who had ever lived. She had long, yellow hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a golden cascade. A small red mouth and clear blue eyes. And as I stood there staring at them, I realized they had that half-dead, half-live, never-dead, never-having-lived look that I'd seen on the faces of effigies in a wax museum. Cautiously, I reached out and pulled my fingernails down her cheek. What are you doing? Ouch! Out of my apartment! I threw you off my services, Steinmetz! Out and steal! You come back and I call the police. He wasn't going to call the police. I was. The body was right here in this closet. Well, it isn't there now. But I saw it with my own eyes. Mr. Adams, we've searched this whole apartment and haven't found anything that even faintly resembles a button. Well, how about the casket? He hasn't explained that yet. Yeah. Mr. Steinmetz, how about that? Officer, I am old man. My wife died 20 years ago. I think I died too soon. I buy coffin. I not die, but I still have coffin, so I keep it here. There's no crime against that, is there? No, I guess there ain't. But how about this man? He break into my house, tear up my goods. He is lying. The man is a maniac. His wife died and he preserved her in wax somehow. I tell you, I saw her with my own eyes. All right, where's her body now? Well, I don't know. You can't support your charges without a corpus delicti. Oh, officer, he's crazy as a loon. He causes nothing but trouble. Now, wait, wait, wait. I dug my fingernail in the wax on her face. Some of it is still there, you see? Green wax, Mr. Adams. Anybody could dig their fingernails in a green wax candle. Well, it wasn't green before. No, wait. I want no trouble. Just he don't bother me no more. That's all I care. He leave me alone. Let him go. Well, I can't very well hold him unless you're willing to press charges. Please, let him go. Just he don't bother me no more. All right. Come on, you. You can consider yourself a very lucky man to have... The officer took me down to my room. And I had to promise I wouldn't bother the old man any more. And then I had to listen to Mrs. Snyder complain about the rent. Well, after they were gone, I lay down on the bed and I tried to sleep. I watched the day darken outside my window into dusk, and then night. And with the night, she started singing again. But I pulled the pillow over my ears and I fought against her. I would have succeeded, too, if they hadn't started arguing. I'd never heard that before. And all the months I'd lived in the apartment house, I'd never heard the woman speak. I fought against it as long as I could. And then I crept out of my room and up the sides of the steps. As I stood outside the door, I could distinctly hear two voices, a man's and a woman's. All of your fault. No. If you'd stayed in your place, this never would have happened. You were the one who wanted him up here. I never wanted any part of it. Why don't you let me go? Where? Please, don't hit me. This was more than I could stand. I slipped the key out of my pocket and into the lock quietly. Why don't you let me go? You'll never leave me. I threw the door open and ran out of the room. What I saw made me so paralyzed with fear that all I could do was stand there and scream. I saw it. I tell you, I saw it. I tell you, I am in it. Stop listening to him. He's a monster, a maniac, a lizard. He's crazy. I am not. I tell you, I saw it with my own eyes. When I came into the room, there were two of the monsters, lizards, whatever they are. And when they saw me, he changed himself into the form you now see. And she, she shrunk before my eyes into a little green snake that slithered into the couch. He's crazy. I told you that before. But I saw it. Get him out of here. Look, look under the couch. There's a little green snake. Take him to the hospital and the rest of you people clear out of here. Why does the man persecute me? He's lost his mind, Mr. Steinmetz. I knew all along he was crazy. He never pays his rent. I can promise you he won't bother you anymore, Mr. Steinmetz. We'll take him down and have him committed. If you like, you can come down tomorrow and sign a complaint. No, no, no. Just so he don't bother me anymore. Well, he won't bother you anymore. I can promise you that. Good night, Mr. Steinmetz. Good night. Good night. Are they all gone? Yes, they're gone. You can come out now, dear. It's too bad they unbalance so easily. Yes, it is. It's because they only have the five senses to rely on. Keep changing the impressions their senses get and they go mad. It's not their fault. They're inferiorly made. Can't we go home now? We found out what we came to find out. Yes. I'm tired of this planet anyway. Suspense. You have been listening to the Green Lorelei, written for suspense by George Bamber. Heard in tonight's story was Bob Reddick has Roger Adams. Also included in the cast were Elizabeth Lawrence, John Gibson, Bill Smith, Herb Duncan, Ellen McCrae. Another tale well calculated to keep you in. Suspense. This is the CBS Radio Network.