 Suspense, and the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William and Robeson. Paris, city of light, city of gaiety, city of scintillating women, sparkling wine, and the finest food in the world. But this has not always been so. Just a few years ago, Paris was a city of darkness and despair and hunger, where men turned to strange and sinister activities just to keep alive. This was the Paris of the Nazi occupation, a hopeless city, which Marcel I. May has caught in his strangely disturbing story, Crossing Paris, a tale of cupidity and retribution. Listen, listen then to Mr. Hans Conrad starring in Crossing Paris, which begins in exactly one minute. And now, Mr. Hans Conrad in Crossing Paris, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. If you had been in Paris during the Nazi occupation, you would have seen a lot of interesting things. You might even have caught a glimpse of me stealing through the streets at night as inconspicuously as possible for a man carrying a heavily loaded valise in each hand. And these valises were lined inside with canvas to prevent the leakage of any tell-tale drops of blood. And they belonged to my employer, Monsieur Jean Blier, in whose cellar the original butchering was accomplished. My job was hard, but it paid well for the risks I took. Quite often I worked with an assistant carrier, usually Le Tambeau. Well, one winter afternoon, I set out to meet Le Tambeau at the Café Voltaire on the Boulevard de la Bastille. It was bitterly cold and the trees were bright with frost. He promised to be a miserable night for us. A keen north wind was blowing over the canal toward the Seine, and the day seemed dying of cold. It was nearly dark when I reached the Café Voltaire. Ah, dear, what will it be? You look cold enough for a brandy. That I am. Here, this will warm your bones. Your friend Le Tambeau was in. He said to tell you he is not free tonight. Oh, Curse him. How can he behave like that? He has no respect for his work. Respect for what work? Who is this Le Tambeau? Respect for what work? Oh, please, Monsieur, I'm talking to the bartender. It's no affair of yours. It's my affair all right. I'm standing here drinking and you come in and curse people and talk about respect. I'll teach you respect. Oh, the fellow was drunk. He put his glass down and staggered up to me, fist raised. At that same moment, a huge man calmly stepped around from behind me, caught the drunk's chin in his big hand and pushed him back into my powerful grasp. Now, we are not the police, you idiot, but I promise you some police if you don't shut up. They say I throw luck at the protease. Police will ignore him. Well, well then, let's go, my lad. Pay for our drinks now and we'll report to the station for duty. Pay up and let's be off. I don't know why, but I paid. And then, still laughing, the big one took me by the arm and me started out. He was a rough fellow, probably a laborer, but certainly not of the police dressed as he was in a spotted, shiny suit and a dark turtleneck sweater. His small pig-like eyes were bright with irony and the tight blonde curls that ringed his huge head gave him the appearance of a great ram. When we reached the street, the night was already black with high, icy winds. That was a squalid scene. Oh, well, the man was drunk. But I could have handled him. I carry a knife, you know. You did not have to interfere. Oh, no, I enjoyed it. Well, anyway, you probably saved him from being caught up. Oh, but I didn't realize that you were going to cut him. My apologies, Monsieur. You're a blood-sirsty brute. I bet your wife wears a black eye to mass every Sunday. No, no, no. No, no wife. The big thing in times like this is to eat. With me, my stomach comes first, love afterwards. I see. And what do you do? What is your train? I am a painter. Oh, you must find it difficult these days, so little building going on. I manage in a small way. And look here, you're a strong fellow. And if you're not afraid of a little risk, I can give you a job tonight as my assistant. It pays well, too. How much? Say, 400 francs? You're on. Don't you even want to know what it is? You're probably an assassin. Of course not. Above all, I'm a man of honor. Difference does it make? All right then. Let's turn off here. First we must go to the Our work starts there. Let's walk faster. I'm cool. Who is he? I, Pierre. Who's the other one? Let Amber ducked out at me tonight. So I've asked my friend Grangile here to take his place. He's all right. All right then. You're late. We followed Monsieur Jean-Bier across the cellar to a thick table where stained white cloths covered a shapeless form. He proudly removed the shroud revealing a whole hog which had been neatly cut into a dozen portions. Then he stood back and allowed us to feast our eyes. He's a beauty, though. How much does he weigh? 200 pounds. But divided into four releases, you'll manage him all right. It's easy to see. You've never carried a hundred pounds of black market pig about parish. You're wasting time. Hand me a release under the table there. Where does it go tonight? To Montmartre. Put your shop in a real goulang coup, number 43. And one thing now. To arrange his deliveries, he must have the meat there by 2 a.m. If you are late, he will not accept it. But Montmartre... It's no distance for a young man like you. How much are you giving us? Now, Pierre, bargains are bargains. We are all men of honor in this affair. No one has ever questioned my honor, Monsieur. And I deliver your meat on this side of the same for 400 francs. But Montmartre, that's a different matter. Oh, I see what you're up to. You know perfectly well I can't risk keeping the pig here and that it's too late to get anyone else to carry it. Lugging 200 pounds of black market meat all the way across Paris in the dead of the night with the police lying in wait for us at every turn along the way. You call that profiteering? All right then. All right. You get 50 francs more. I want respectable pay for my work, not just a cheap. I'll handle it then. But not a sumo. It is hard work. It involves great risk. 600 francs. Tell me, Monsieur Chamblier, is this really number 45? What? Why do you ask that? Oh, for no reason at all. Because I know the answer. Monsieur Chamblier, 45, we pull you. Who is this man, Pierre? Frangile, you will do me the courtesy of keeping your mouth shut. I do the talking here. You agree then, sir, to 600 francs? Monsieur Chamblier, 45, we pull you. My share will be a thousand francs. What? Are you mad? Oh, don't pay any attention to him. He's my assistant. So you just give me the two times, 600 francs, I'll settle with him later. All right then. Here, take it. I can't have you here all night. Monsieur Chamblier, 45, we pull you. Give me 2000 francs, or I shall wreck this place. Chamblier looked at him, fearfully for a moment. Then he pulled a fat billfold from his pocket and handed two notes of a thousand francs each to the ram who pocketed them calmly and caught the third one on the fly when Chamblier, in his nervousness, let it slip. It was too much for me. I started to aggrieve to make him return the money, but Chamblier seized me by the arm. He let him alone. I carried him for a row here. I don't want a row, but after all, he's my assistant. And this is my cellar. I've paid out enough money to have peace here, at least. You can settle with him later. But now we've got to finish packing the valises. It's late. We went back to the table and finished fitting the sections of pork into the valises, wedging them in with crumpled newspapers. Grand Gilles paid no attention to us, but sat across the cellar on a wine barrel, eating a thick slice of ham he'd found. When we were packed, however, he got up without a word and came over to pick up his two valises. This apparent willingness seemed to impress Chamblier. And when we reached the door, he stuck a pack of cigarettes into the ram's pocket. That's for the two of you for the drink. Cigarettes at night? It's a fine way to get ourselves picked out. Oh, come now, Pierre. Don't worry so. I have to have two thousand francs more. No! No! No! At the zoo! At the single zoo! Give me two thousand francs for heaven's sake, Chamblier! Chamblier! Two thousand francs, Chamblier! Pete, stop it. You'll have the police on us. Here, you blackmailer. Here, take them. In the name of Mary, shut up! Here, you devil! Oh, by the door. Let us get out of here. I'll settle with you later, my fine friends. Chamblier! Oh! Chamblier! I now have to have another two thousand francs. Why have I made you stop it? No, don't you dare pull anything like that again. What's the matter with you, anyway? Do you want to go to jail? I'm warning you now. If you are chipping at me, or I'll pinch your head off and let you bleed. I don't want any trouble, but after all, I've given you a job. This is my work. You should have some respect for it. Oh, that's for your job. Where do we cross the river? We have to go up to the Île Saint-Louis, to near the railway station down here, to many police patrols and German soldiers around. Let's hurry then, my hands are turning to stone. As we pass by the wine market, deserted and desolate in the night, the winds seem to blow with less vial hands, but colder. Our faces were gnawed and burned by it. The oily water in the sand was black as coal, and along the banks, the bare trees stood bleak and spectral. Finally, we reached the Île Saint-Louis, and we were called, turned into the first side street for a moment's respite from the paralyzing North wind. It's a wonder the air doesn't feel. Why, in the name of heaven, do you work at this job? I met my living this way. Every man to his trade. Now tell me, how much can you get for pork in the black market? For gadgets. Word, 75 francs a pound. For gadgets, I tell you. In that cafe where they thought we were police, I'm sure we could sell Jean Blier's pig at 75 francs a pound. That would give us 30,000 francs. 15,000 a piece of easy money to... instead of killing ourselves in this wind... You think if I want to do that, I'd abroad you alone? No, and if I were to decide to do it now, I'd begin by getting rid of you. What makes you think you... Quiet, listen. A patrol back here brings a shout out, quick. In a moment we continue with... Jack Benny acquires a girl's baseball team and Armist Brooks acquires headaches from a school board on CBS radio this evening. And if that isn't enough, Mitch Miller has Jack Webb hiding under his beard. Yes, there's great listening ahead on CBS radio, so keep your dial right where it is. Suddenly aware of the fact that his rivals Bob Hope and Bing Crosby are part owners of baseball teams, Jack Benny will be out to acquire one for himself and the answer will be the Buxom Bloomer Girls. For another key to laughter, join Eve Arden as Armist Brooks as she tries to open Madison High in time to receive an award for good attendance. The key here is the one she loves in a series of mishaps that prevent the opening of the school. Too late to help or find the key, but in time to help Mitch Miller present one of his greatest shows, Jack Webb will be here on most of these same stations, along with producer Otto Preminger and comedian Phil Foster. Remember they're all on CBS radio later today, Jack Benny, Eve Arden and Mitch Miller with his guests, Jack Webb, Otto Preminger and comedian Phil Foster. And now, we continue with Crossing Pervis, starring Mr. Hans Connery, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. We froze against the doorway and the patrol passed without seeing us. Our head of us were still two solid hours of terror crossing Paris. The moon was still hidden, but the night had grown lighter and consequently more dangerous for us. After a block or two, I suddenly sensed that Jean-Gilles was no longer behind me, and turning, I saw him halfway across the street, headed toward a line of blue light that framed the doorway of a cafe. I'm going to get a shot of liquor. Come back here, you fool! You can't carry that stuff in there! I won't be long. He was already opening the door, pushing his valises past the blackout curtain which masked the lighted interior. Cursing, not telling what he was up to now. But in any event, I couldn't leave him there with Jean-Gilles' pork, and I didn't dare stand around in the street waiting for him, so I crossed over and followed him inside. Several men who looked like clerks were playing cards at the table, and the floor was covered with sawdust and the lights were dingy. The proprietor's wife sat knitting a sock behind the cash register and looking suspiciously at Granger, who was already standing at the bar, one foot resting on his valises. Do cognac, Patroux. This is my closing time. Cognac. What is all that luggage? You're not running into my place with the police at your heels, are you? Give us some cognac. No, no, no, no. Do not cause a row with me. This row. Cognac, Patroux, Remy, Martin. Shut up, Granger. Shut up, Patroux. Ah, if you quiet down, I will get it for you. Thank you, monsieur. The proprietor searched for a bottle of Remy Martin and Granger turned and stared at the four clerks who had stopped their card game. They were obviously avoiding so much of the glance in our direction. All right. You. There are four of you sitting there. You're half-starved on rotten carrots and sawdust pudding. You're smoking corn silk. All of you. And there's enough good, fat pork and these releases to make you rich. Ah? What's to keep you from making off with it? You know well enough we're in no position to report it. You think the name of haven't gone. She'd come to your Sanctuary. Get out of here, you filthy paupers. Get out and hold against the black market. Rubble, scum. What good does it do to make laws if they're not respected? Blackards, anarchists, disloyal, French... Stop it, Georgie. Have you lost your mind? Perhaps you don't care what happens to you, but I care what happens to me. You don't say so, eh? You there, patron, patron, patron. I can't wait all night. Give us some cognac. Give us some cognac, guy. He said, here is your cognac. But please, no more. It is past closing time already. Here, here is to you, little Pierre, you who are as timid as a girl, but whose charm I cannot resist. You have releases full of pork that these cowards refuse to take. I will carry as far as you are. Unfoot on my knees for you. And then, without warning, the ram reached out, sealed the cognac bottle, and leaves it with only strength against the mirror behind the bar. Ah, excellent, excellent. Now, my releases, come, little Pierre, I never wish to see these wretched people again. Baboons, I ignore you. I erase you from my memory forever. I followed him out, wondering how in the world I could keep this monstrous madman from getting us picked up by the police. The moon had come out now in the center of the street, and it looked like an arrow of brightness by the shadows along the sidewalk offered dangerous possibilities of surprise. At the first street crossing, the black shadow in which we were walking was broken by a streak of moonlight. We just reached the opposite curb, went from the dark only three yards in front of us, a man's voice rang out. Stand where you are. No tricks now. What are you carrying in those releases? Before taking that tone, you do well to identify yourself. It's the police, you saw me well enough. Oh, the police? Well, I'm suddenly glad we ran into you. I've been looking for somebody to show us how to get to the Roussevignet. You're going away from it, and I think that you'll... You don't tell me. Did you hear that, my friends? The Roussevignet is behind us. Well, then we just have to turn back. Later, perhaps, right now, you're going with me to the station. May we rest a moment first? We've worked a long way looking for the Roussevignet. Perhaps I can explain to you. No need for that. Come along now, come on. There was nothing he could do if I put my valises down anyway in spite of him. So I did, thinking he would give me a chance to talk him out of this. And the ram, bending his knees slightly, put his down also, and then, suddenly, straightening up, smashed the policeman's jaw with his stick. The poor man doubled to his knees, fell flat without making a sound. Grangile bent over him for a moment, and then grabbed his hat and threw it into the middle of the street. The vials are shown there in the moonlight. Well, let's go. Well, that was clever. As soon as he comes to, he'll grab his whistle. In five minutes, all the police and the arrondissement will be after us. That would surprise me. I have this whistle in my pocket. Shit. Air read alert. Now, what will we do? We don't dare go into a shelter with this meat, and we certainly can't stay in the streets. I live only two blocks from here. Come on. In spite of carrying a hundred pounds a piece of that cursed pig, we ran all the way. But at last, with bursting lungs, we made it. I stuck the moment inside the door to catch my breath before climbing to the top floor where he said he lived. The ramp went on ahead, and the door was open when I finally arrived. Come in. Come in. I'll have a fire going in the stove in a moment. It was a large, comfortable studio. In the bluish light that filtered in from the street, I could see a huge mirror covered with gauze, hanging directly opposite the entrance over a baby carriage, filled with what appeared to be framed paintings. I sat down my valises near the door and stood there until Grangile drew a blackout curtain over the window and turned on the light. There were several easers in the room, and on a table near the window were spread out a number of drawings and paintings. Surprise. You were a painter. Yes, I said I was. You did all those? I sell most of them around Montmartre. But since the German occupation, musically enough, not all was for money. I bought her. Well, only last week for a picture of a woman wearing nothing but high heeled shoes and an opera hat, I got a hand. But here's one I've been commissioned for that'll bring a hundred thousand francs. You like it? No, because it's the portrait of a Nazi. Perhaps, and because it's no good. You're still angry with me, aren't you? Oh, I don't know what to think of you. Think what you like, then. I'm going to eat something. The stove had commenced to glow, so I sat down in a big, easy chair next to it, and soon became drowsy in its pleasant warmth. And then suddenly a bell went off and woke me out of a sound sleep. I'm here speaking. Ah, Susie. I'm sorry I couldn't make it. Pierre Martin and I were... Huh? No, no, you don't know him. But Pierre Martin is a little gutter snipe who works in the black market. He gave you a job, the poor idiot. Oh, a great one. War dirty clothes. Play the role of a tough. The Satan is dirty. No, no, no. It was very easy. After all, it's the weak ones who act tough. You're amusing, I assure you. Huh? No, no, I'm still an amateur. So that's it. Slummy, you are slummy. You're mocking me. Making fun of my work. Laughing to himself all the while. I'll show you. Oh, the Pierre, Pierre. Such temper, little one. You dog. And I thought you were hard up. I want to help you. And you, the gentleman, treating himself to a taste of what I suppose you call the underworld. Like a stinking tourist. Is there no reward out for you, Pierre? It's stealing. That's what it is. You should have left the work to a man who needed it. You have no honor, no respect for work. You filthy rat. Oh, but I have, I have. Come over here. Look, I drew a portrait of you while you slept. Huh? Perhaps you will like this picture. I don't even know what to look at. What do you think I am? Me, I earn my keep. I work hard. You and your Nazi 100,000 franc commission. You've done everything to make trouble for me. My work is amusing, eh? Well, I'll show you what I think of you. Pierre, what are you up to? I ran across the room to the ease of the head. The portrait of a Nazi plunged my knife into the heart and ripped down. I was about to slash it across the middle and Grand Gilles' huge body smashed into me. I went to the floor. He had me by the throat and was slowly choking her life out with his six fingers. I began to push out the floor in agony with my open hand when suddenly I stopped the knife with one hand and seized it. My eyes were turning back in my head as I slashed out of his wrist. Ah! He let out a hole and sat back, watching the blood drape from one hand. I was too weak to move, so I lay there, holding my knife over my chest, pointing it at him. Suddenly, his eyes went white with insane rage and before I could move he threw himself on top of the gate! Oh, my God! Rolled over with a faint moan. My knife had been driven straight into his heart. His legs twitched a little and then he... He lay still. I looked at him, unbelievingly. I... I'd never heal. I'd never wanted to kill any man. Then I covered my face with my hands and... I worked. Two hours later, faint with exhaustion, I delivered all four balesas to the butcher's shop in Murman. All right, I await it. It is all there. Of course it is. I'm a man of honor, monsieur. I can see that. And you made it on time, too. But did you not have an assistant I understood from Jean Blier? It seems that my assistant, monsieur, did not really need the work. I was... I was forced to dismiss him. Well, anyway you made it. I always finish any job I start, monsieur. It was only then that I remember that Grangile had said my name to his girl over the phone and that my portrait sat waiting for the police in his studio. I put the 5,000 francs, which I'd taken from his body, into an envelope I borrowed from the butcher and addressed it to Jean Blier. I dropped it into a mailbox and then walked slowly down to the big market of Léal. It was almost dawn when I reached it and the heavily loaded pushcarts were stacked up on the side streets, smelling of green vegetables and berries. The gutters were slippery with garbage and a lonely woman in pink satin pumps was staggering virally through the filth at the end of an hour-night's house. I sat down on a curb and I watched her and said to myself, believe me, we none of us do what we wish to do. Hans Conrad starred in Crossing Paris, adapted by John Meston from the story by Marcel Imé and produced and directed by William M. Robson. Listen. Listen again next week when we return with Mr. Vincent Price in The Green and Gold String, another tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. Supporting Mr. Conrad in Crossing Paris were John Daener, Joseph Santis, Ted DeCorsia and Paul Dubov.