 Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Retro Radio Sunday on Weird Darkness. Each week I bring you a show from the golden age of radio but still in the genre of Weird Darkness. I'll have stories of the macabre and horror, mysteries and crime and even some dark science fiction. If you're new here, welcome to the show and be sure to subscribe or follow the podcast so you don't miss future episodes. And if you're already a member of this Weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen in with you. Spreading the word about the show helps it to grow. If you're here because you're already a fan of nostalgic audio and print, you'll want to email WeirdDarknessatRadioArchives.com. When you do that, you'll get an instant reply with links to download full-length pulp audio books, pulp e-books and old-time radio shows for free. That email address again is WeirdDarknessatRadioArchives.com. Coming up, it's an episode from The Mysterious Traveller, which also lived as a magazine and as a comic book. All three mediums featured stories which ran the gamut from fantasy and science fiction to straight crime dramas of mystery and suspense. The radio series ran on the mutual broadcasting system beginning December 5, 1943, continuing in many different time slots until the airing of its final episode, September 16, 1952. Only 75 of the original 370 Mysterious Traveller episodes still exist. In this episode, we'll be listening to a story that aired June 8, 1948, entitled Murder is My Business, where a radio writer is offered $600 a week to work for Basil King, the most hated man in radio. Unable to stand it anymore, the writer decides to kill the scumbag, using the sponsor's new product. Close your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Casting system presents The Mysterious Traveller, written, produced and directed by Robert A. Arthur and David Cogan, and starring tonight two of radio's foremost actors, Eric Bressler and John Sylvester in an original radio drama titled Murder is My Business. This is The Mysterious Traveller, inviting you to join me on another journey into the realm of the strange and the terrifying. I hope you will enjoy the trip, and it will thrill you a little and chill you a little. So settle back, get a good grip on your nerves and be comfortable. If you can. Our story tonight begins in a huge white mansion overlooking the Hudson River, some 50 miles above New York City. In a large comfortable room, David Phillips, a slender nervous man in his early thirties, is seated at a desk typing. Dear Julia, a year has passed since we last saw each other, and I'm writing this letter with the hope that you will understand all that I'm about to reveal, and understanding will forgive me. I'm a writer, darling, and yet I find it difficult to put into words the horrible events of the past year. As they flash through my mind, I can feel the quickening of my pulse and the hatred within me surges up as overwhelmingly as... But I mustn't think of that. It's much more important that you understand what has happened. It all began the day I was in my study, writing a script for the dangerous adventure radio show. Who is it? It's Basil King. Basil King? Dave, wait a minute, I want to talk to you. But honey, Basil King, I can't keep him waiting. Yes, you can. Well, we'll talk fast. King's looking for a writer for his radio show, isn't he? Yes, Sig Rodman just quit. Quit? You mean he had a nervous breakdown, and so has every other writer who's ever worked for Basil King. Dave, I don't want you to write for him. But Julie, his show pays 600 bucks a week. We could pay off all our debts with that kind of dough. Darling, be sensible. No amount of money is worth a punishment you'll have to take from him. Now look, we'll talk about this later. He's on the phone. Tell him no. Shh, he'll hear you. Hello? Mr. Phillips, this is Basil King speaking. Oh, yes, Mr. King. Several people have spoken very highly of you as a radio writer, and at the moment I'm in need of one for my show Brad Barker, Private Eye. Would you care to discuss the matter? I'd like to, very much. Are you free for lunch and tomorrow? Yes, I am. Shall we say one o'clock at the Algonquin? All right, Mr. King. Just to ask for my tips. Good day. Now, honey, don't look at me that way. Dave, I just don't understand you. It doesn't make sense wanting to write for him. Everyone who's ever worked for Basil King detests him. He's the most hated man in radio. Be reasonable, Julie. 600 bucks a week is a lot of dough. If I can't get along with King, I'll quit. Now, what more can you ask? Next day as the head waiter led me through the crowded dining room, I could see Basil King seated at a table in a far corner of the room. King was a tall, slender, gray-haired man in his late 40s. He had a cold, impassive face, and his movements were stiff and precise. It suddenly occurred to me that he bore an amazing resemblance to Clifton Webb, the Hollywood star. As I reached King's table, he stood up. How do you do, Mr. Phillips? I'm Basil King. Have a seat, won't you? Thank you. I suggest we talk first and order luncheon later. All right, Mr. King. Now, Mr. Phillips, to begin with, I'm a man who believes in frankness. I daresay this frankness of mine has led to my making a large number of enemies and has given me the reputation of being an extremely difficult person to get along with. No doubt you've heard quite a few stories about me. Yes, I have. Believe me, they're highly exaggerated. Great talents such as myself have always been misunderstood. The petty minds in this world not understanding men of genius are forever seeking to destroy us. I see. I wonder if you do, Mr. Phillips. I wonder if you do. I ask very little of my writers merely a modicum of intelligence and the ability to accept constructive criticism. That sounds reasonable enough. Yes, one would think so. And yet I haven't been able to find a writer who understands me. I'm sure you will sooner or later. Perhaps. But to date it's been very discouraging. However, we mustn't dwell on the past. Now, Mr. Phillips, you come highly recommended and I trust that our shall be a happy and profitable relationship. I hope so. By the way, you aren't troubled by ulcers, are you? Who I know. Good. For some unfathomable reason, all the writers I've had in the past seem to have been afflicted with ulcers. I can't stand people who are always taking pills and subsisting on bland diets. Tell me, are you familiar with my show, Brad Barker, Private Eye? Oh yes, I've heard it quite often. Good. Then you're undoubtedly aware that there are two things I insist upon in my shows. Clever plots and gimmicks that work. Bear that in mind, Mr. Phillips, clever plots and gimmicks that work. I understand. It's on those two rules that I have single-handedly built the most popular detective show on the air. You have only to look at the Hooper rating of Brad Barker, Private Eye, to substantiate what I am saying. Yes, I know you've got a terrific rating. 18.6. Needless to add, my sponsor, the Zestful chewing gum company has increased its sales tremendously. Now, Mr. Phillips, I'm prepared to pay $600 a week for the writing of Brad Barker. Is that satisfactory? Yes, that sounds fair enough. When may I expect your first script? Well, let's see. And today is Wednesday. What about Monday morning? That's satisfactory. Monday morning it is. Now, shall we order luncheon? An hour later, Basil King and I separated in front of the Algonquin. I went home and started work on the script, determined to turn out a show that would make King sit up and take notice. After four days and nights of intensive writing, I completed the script. Monday morning, I went downtown to Basil King's luxurious office and turned the script over to him. As I sat by his desk, watching him read it, it was hard to tell what he thought of it. His face was cold and impassive as he turned page after page. At last, he finished reading it and looked up. It won't do, Mr. Phillips. It won't do, well, why not? First of all, you haven't caught the spirit of Brad Barker in your dialogue. But more important, the plot is weak, and your murder gimmick won't work. Well, I don't see why it won't. Would you mind explaining? In this script, you have the victim, what's his name? Charles Riker. Yes, you have this fellow, Charles Riker, whose life has been threatened. Barricade himself in a small cabin. All doors and windows are locked from the inside, and in addition, he's armed to the teeth and has a watchdog with him. That's right. Two days after this fellow Riker has barricaded himself, Brad Barker breaks into the cabin to find him dead. Dead of poison. Yes. Your gimmick is that the murderer unable to get it, Riker, has tapped the water pipe, which ran from the spring to the cabin and poisoned the water. Yes, well, what's wrong with it? My dear fellow, don't you think that when Riker drew a glass of water in the cabin, he'd have tasted the poison in the water? But I planted in the script that the poison was tasteless. Oh, you did. Well, nevertheless, it won't work. Why not? It just doesn't ring true. I don't feel it. Why not? We should stop asking, why not? It's obvious that I don't like your gimmick, and if I don't like it, 15 million radio listeners won't like it. If our relationship is to continue, you must learn to accept constructive criticism. After all, my dear fellow, you have merely to look at the rating of the show to realize that I am never wrong. Furthermore, I should like to point out that at no time. Is that you, Dave? Yes, Julie. How did King like your script? He didn't like it. That's putting it mildly. Oh, but that was a good script. That's one of the best you've ever done. That's what I thought. But Mr. King didn't. Now wonder all his writers have nervous breakdowns. That man doesn't know what he wants. Well, I'll give it one more try. You mean you're still going to try to write for him? Now, honey, there's no use in giving up so soon. Maybe once I get to know King's likes and dislikes, it won't be so tough to write for him. Dave, I've never interfered before, but this is too much. I want you to call that egomaniac King up and tell him you're through. Julie, I can. I told King that I'd turn in another script by Thursday. Oh, Dave. I promise you that if he doesn't like the second script, I'll give up. Now, that's fair enough, isn't it? Oh. For the next three days and nights, I sweated over a new script. As I worked out the plot and gimmick, I tried to anticipate Basil King's every possible objection. Early Thursday morning, I went downtown to King's office and turned the script over to him. As he sat reading it, I began thinking of what I would say to him if he'd turn the show down. I would tell him quite firmly that it was obvious I wasn't the man to write the Brad Barker show. At last, King finished reading the script and looked up. The plot, Mr. Phillips, isn't exactly new. And the dialogue needs rewriting here and there. But on the whole, it will do. You mean you like it? I wouldn't go so far as to say that I like it. Rather, let us say that it's acceptable. I trust, Mr. Phillips, that with time, your scripts will improve. Good day. I left Basil King's office that morning convinced that I would succeed where other writers had failed. I felt it would be just a question of time until I learned the workings of King's mind. But then I discovered, as so many of my predecessors had, that Basil King's likes and dislikes were not constant from day to day. What he told you on Thursday didn't hold true on Friday. Weeks went by, and for every show that King accepted, he'd reject two. He would criticize every script from beginning to end, tearing it to bits relentlessly and coldly. Any questioning of his criticism would lead to his redoubling his attack. One week slipped into another. And with each passing week, my hatred for Basil King grew. Life became a nightmare of deadlines, of writing endlessly with one eye constantly on the clock. Darling, you just can't go on this way. You've got to quit. Julie, we've been over this a dozen times already. We need the 600 bucks a week to pay off our debts. What good is that money if you have a nervous breakdown? Look at yourself. You've lost 15 pounds in these past weeks, and you're smoking five packs of cigarettes a day. Please, Julie, I've had all I can take today. Now let's not talk about it anymore. You're not kidding me, Dave. The money is only part of it. It's your pride that won't let you quit. My pride? Yes. You can't stand the thought of quitting like the others did. You've got to prove that you're better than they are. That's enough. Well, it's the truth, isn't it? It's only your pigheaded pride that makes you go on when anyone with sense would quit. I said that's enough. Dave, we can't go on like this. What do you mean? I'm not going to stand around and watch you have a breakdown. You'll have to choose between Basil King and myself. Now look, Julie, you're upset. You don't know what you're saying. I know perfectly well what I'm saying. I'm asking you to choose between Basil King and myself. Stop trying to intimidate me. I told you before I'm not quitting, and I meant it. All right, Dave, if that's the way you want it, I'm leaving. Well, go ahead. No one's stopping you. Basil King may be able to make you quit, but not me. You call it pride, OK. But I want it a louse like him beat me. Somehow I'll get the better of him. You wait and see. Goodbye, Dave. I was so emotionally worn out the night you left me, Julie. I could scarce comprehend my loss at the time. There seemed to be only two people in the world, Basil King and myself. As I traveled back and forth day after day between my typewriter and King's office, my hatred for him increased 104. Feeling my hatred for him, King redoubled his sadistic attack, sensing that I was determined not to quit. The week slipped by, and the nightmare continued. King insisted that I come to all rehearsals of the show so that the cast, as he put it, might see that culprit who wrote the script. It was at a rehearsal that I first met Mr. Pearson, president of the Zestville chewing gum company. He was sitting in the control room, watching with great respect as Basil King rehearsed the cast. No, no, no. My dear Miss Hunter, I assumed when I hired you that you were a radio actress. If I'm wrong, please enlighten me. What did I do that was wrong, Mr. King? I don't feel it. I just don't feel it. Try it again. Hey, you've got to give me a chance to explain. It wasn't my fault. Honest, it wasn't Rocky. Cut, cut. Miss Hunter, you sound too young. I want you to age the role one year. Mind you, just one year. It's to explain. It wasn't my fault. Honest, it wasn't. Rocky, don't. Cut. Well, if that's the best you can give me, it will have to do. And Mr. Cooney, if you can't do better, I'll have to get another sound man. Take 15 minutes. It's dreadful, Mr. King, the incompetence you have to put up with. Yes, Mr. Pearson, it often amazes me that I've been as successful as I have. Oh, speaking of incompetence, Mr. Pearson, I'd like you to meet the present writer of the show, Mr. Phillips. How do you do, Mr. Phillips? Glad to meet you, sir. I have great hopes, Mr. Pearson, of making a radio writer out of Phillips. Well, I'm sure if anyone can do it, you're that person, Mr. King. Apologize, Mr. King. Would you like to hear the commercial now? Very well, Caruso, go ahead. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, July 8th is the big day. In just one month, you'll be able to buy the latest discovery in chewing gum happiness, Pepsi Gum. Made by the Zestful Chewing Gum Company, Pepsi Gum is a new gum, a gum with a jailed-in flavor, designed to give you hours of chewing pleasure. Remember, the big day is July 8th, when Pepsi Gum will be on sale at all candy counters. I don't feel it, Caruso. I want more emphasis. I want you to be so compelling that people will rush to their drug stores and place orders for this new gum. Exactly, yes, exactly. Rehearse it a few more times and I'll go over it with your late arm. Yes, Mr. King. Well, I guess I'll be getting back to the office, Mr. King. What kind of view do you allow me to watch your rehearsal? That's quite all right, Mr. Pearson. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Phillips. I assume that you'll be at the factory for next week's broadcast. The factory? Yes, Phillips. We're doing the broadcast in the factory next week. Yes, it's the company's 25th anniversary. You've no idea how our employees are looking forward to your broadcast. Yes, indeed. Well, good day, gentlemen. Goodbye, Mr. Pearson. Mr. Phillips, I have here the script you turned in for next week's show. It won't do. Why not? There are so many things wrong with the script that it's hard to know where to begin. Let's start with your murder gimmick. You have the victim, I believe his name is Roger Rodin. Yes, that's right. Yes, you have this fellow Rodin picking up an envelope, licking the flap and sealing the envelope. A minute later, he drops dead. Your gimmick is potassium cyanide. Powder has been mixed into the glue of the envelope flap. Yes, and when Rodin licked the flap, his tongue absorbed the poison. It just won't stand up. Why not? For the simple reason that Rodin's tongue wouldn't absorb enough potassium cyanide to kill him. Oh, but it would. Potassium cyanide is a very potent poison. Just a few grains will kill a man. Possibly, but I'm not convinced. And if you can't convince me, you won't convince our 16 million listeners. It just won't do. It will work. I tell you, it will work. I'm sorry, Mr. Phillips, but I don't agree. How soon can you have another script for me? It was at that moment I knew I was going to murder Basil King. Perhaps all along it had been there, buried in my subconscious. For the first time in weeks, my hand stopped trembling. And I was able to think clearly of all that had happened. I had allowed Basil King, a man who was a psychopathic case, to drag me down to his own level. And what was worse, I had lost Julie. My stupid pride had driven the one person I loved away from me. Basil King would pay for that. And all he anguished, he'd caused so many people. I thought of King's rejection of my potassium cyanide gimmick. And suddenly, it came to me how ironic it would be if his death were brought about by potassium cyanide. Yes, the great man dying by a gimmick which he declared wouldn't work. Of course, I couldn't use the envelope flap, but there were other ways. And I would think of one. That night, a plan began to form in my mind. A plan which was completed a week later as I was being shown through the zestful chewing gum factory by Mr. Morris, the superintendent of the factory. I had no idea the factory was so large, Mr. Morris. We seem to have walked miles. I'm afraid your radio ride is just unused to walking. Probably riding in taxi cabs all the time. I guess you're right. Oh, what's this place? This is the shipping room. A lot of art completes the tour. I reckon you've seen just about everything. All these boxes have Pepsi Gum marked on the side of them. That's right. You're getting ready to distribute it all over the country? Yeah, going to start shipping next week. You know, I've heard so many announcements on the show about Pepsi Gum that I'm curious. What's it taste like? Well, that's hard to say. It has sort of a sharp flavor. Sounds good. You have any around it? I'd like to taste it. Well, I'd like to give you some, Mr. Phillips. But the old man, I mean, Mr. Pearson, he's given out strict orders not to give any of it out. Reckoning's trying to keep it from the public till the last minute. But employees have tasted it, haven't they? Oh, sure. Well, Mr. Morris, you're looking at an employee right now. I do write radio shows for the company. Yeah, I guess you are an employee after all. I reckon I can give you a pack of Pepsi Gum. Hey, yeah, thanks. An attractive-looking pack of gum? Yeah, you got to catch the customer's eye if you want to sell gum. Oh, what do you say if we go back to the auditorium? Fine. I've seen the whole factory, and I've got a pack of the new Pepsi Gum. What more could I ask for? A few minutes later, I left Mr. Morris in the auditorium where the great Basil King was rehearsing the cast for the show. I walked across the street to the inn where we were staying and went up to my room. There, I took the pack of Pepsi Gum from my pocket and withdrew one of the five sticks of gum. I very carefully removed the wrapper. Then, taking a dab in handkerchief, I wiped the candy powder off the stick of gum. It took but another minute to evenly sprinkle potassium cyanide powder over the wet stick of gum. In a very short time, the gum dried. And it was impossible to tell that the fine powdery coating on it was a coating of death. I rewrapped the stick of gum and carefully inserted it in the center of the pack. When I arrived at the auditorium 10 minutes before airtime, the great man was relaxing in the control room. With him were Mr. Pearson and Bill, the broadcast engineer. Oh, there you are, Mr. Phillips. I was afraid you were going to miss the broadcast. Mr. Phillips may not be a good writer, but he is a punctual one, Mr. Pearson. Mr. King, you're a great one for banter. You have a ready wit. Thank you, Mr. Pearson. Look at that auditorium, completely packed. I've never seen our employees so enthusiastic and it's all due to you, Mr. King. I hope you'll say a few words to them after the broadcast. Why, I should be delighted to. Can you spare a minute, Mr. King? What is it? Do you remember that script I turned in a week ago with the potassium cyanide gimmick? You mean where the victim licked the envelope flap and was poisoned? Yes, I remember that deplorable script. What about it? Well, I was wondering, what if we would have switched the potassium cyanide to something else? Instead of the envelope, perhaps the cyanide might be sprinkled on a piece of candy or something like that. No, no, no, it would never work. I don't feel it. You really don't think it would, huh? Certainly not. Really, Mr. Phillips, you're showing less and less imagination from week to week. Well, I just thought I'd mention it. Mr. Phillips, that packet gum you have, isn't it? Isn't that the new Pepsi gum? Yes, Mr. Pearson, that's right. But I gave strict orders that it wasn't to be given out. How did you get it? Yes, how did you get it? I found this pack in the shipping room. I hope you don't mind my having taken it. Well, no, after all, we are just one big family. You see, Mr. Pearson, I've heard so much about the new Pepsi gum that I was curious to find out what it tasted like. Well, what did you think of it? Well, I haven't tried it yet. But I guess this is as good a time as ever. Have a piece. Don't mind if I do. Thank you. What about you, Mr. King? No, thank you. You mean you aren't even curious to know what Mr. Pearson's new gum tastes like? Please, Mr. King, I'm very eager to know what you think of the flavor. I have great respect for your opinion. Very well, Mr. Pearson. Here you are, Mr. King. Thank you. I understand it has a sharp flavor, Mr. Pearson. Yes, but delightfully so. Hmm, that's delicious. Now, I have a feeling that Pepsi gum is going to be a tremendous success. Go ahead, Mr. King, put it in your mouth. I'm anxious to have your opinion. Yes, yes. Certainly has a sharp taste. Oh, not that sharp. Keep chewing it. One minute to air time, Mr. King. Thank you. I watched the great man, Basil King, chewing a stick of Pepsi gum. I knew that he found the flavor a bit sharp. And if Mr. Pearson hadn't been watching him, he would have spat it out. Yes, Mr. King didn't like the flavor, but with the sponsor looking on, he had to continue chewing. I watched the minute hand sweep around the clock. In 30 seconds, we would be on the air. And according to my calculations, Mr. King would keel over 15 seconds after we were on the air. Stand by. I'll give you the go-ahead, Mr. King. Very well. Coming up. Go ahead. Recessful chewing gum company presents Brad Barker Private Eye. Conceived, produced, directed, and edited by Basil King. My dear fellow, the monitor is too high. That's it, take it down. New engineers just don't know. My heart. Brad Barker, what's wrong? My heart, I can't catch him. I've got him, Mr. Pearson. You'd better get a doctor, it looks like a heart attack. Yes, yes, I'll get one immediately. Bill, turn down the monitor. Just do the best you can. OK, Dave, you take care of him, and I'll take care of the show. And soon there will be a good flavor added to the zeal and gum company. Bing, can you hear me? Yes, get a doctor. Do you remember the potassium cyanide gimmick? Potassium cyanide? Yes. I just want you to know you're wrong. It does work. That's why you die. What? That stick of gum, my dear. It was covered with potassium cyanide powder. No, no, get a doctor. A doctor can't help you. You're going to die. Oh, no. Brad Barker, Private Eye. Poor Mr. King. I see all those small, dingy offices overlooking harm. On the door and then. You just forgot one thing, murder is my business. Julie, darling, that was a year ago, and I've never ceased to regret your leaving me. I'm writing this in the hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I admit that it was my stupid pride that wouldn't allow me to acknowledge defeat at Basil King's hands. But he's gone now, Julie. And if he could only see your way clear to start all over. Hi, hello, Mr. Phillips. Remember me, John Pearson? Mr. Pearson. Yes. Do you remember Mr. Morris, my factory superintendent? Hello. We happened to be driving past and thought it would be a nice gesture to drop in and find out how you were getting along. Please, please, I've got to finish this letter to my wife, Julia. I've got to finish it. Doesn't seem to be getting any better, does he, Mr. Pearson? No, he doesn't. Look at all these letters scattered around. Must be at least 100. All addressed to his wife. What a pity, huh? Yes, yes, I'll never forget that day that Basil King died of a heart attack. I came back to the control room to find poor Mr. Phillips crying hysterically over the body. He never has gotten over the shock of Basil King's death. What a wonderful friendship that was. This is a mysterious traveler. Did you enjoy our little trip? It's too bad about Dave Phillips, isn't it? His mind snapped in his hour of triumph. 16 weeks of life with Basil King proved to be just too much for him mentally. As Basil King used to say, being a radio writer calls for a weak mind. However, it does seem that Dave Phillips did get in the last word. Well, Basil King died of a gimmick. He claimed would never work. And the police, oddly enough, never did suspect it was murder. Now, I recall another case in which a young man awoke to find himself dead and he decided, ah, you have to get off here. I'm sorry. I'm sure we'll meet again. I take this same train every week at this same time. You have just heard the mysterious traveler, a series of dramas of the strange and terrifying. All characters in tonight's story were fictitious and any resemblance to the names of actual persons was purely coincidental. In tonight's cast were Maurice Tarplin, Eric Dressler, John Sylvester, Shirley Blank, and Richard Cogan. Original music was played by Paul Talbman. Sound was by George Cooney, broadcast engineer, Walter Payne. Mysterious Traveler is written, produced and directed, by Robert A. Arthur and David Cogan. Listen next week to a tale titled... Queen of the Cats. Another strange and suspenseful tale of the mysterious traveler. This program has come to you from our New York studios. Another program of tense and dramatic action will follow in just a minute. Stay tuned to the station for official detective. Carl Crusoe speaking. This is the mutual broadcasting system. Thanks for listening to this week's Retro Radio Sunday episode of Weird Darkness. If you haven't done so yet, be sure to subscribe or follow the podcast so you don't miss future episodes. And if you like the show, please, share it with someone you know who also loves old-time radio and pulp audio. If you want to hear even more, drop an email to WeirdDarkness at RadioArchives.com and get an instant reply with links to download full-length pulp audio books, pulp e-books and old-time radio shows, absolutely free. That's WeirdDarkness at RadioArchives.com Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright, Weird Darkness 2023. I'm Darren Marlar, and I'll see you next week for Weird Darkness' Retro Radio Sunday.