 Mutual presents the Mysterious Traveller. 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, that 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. As you hear the story I call, Murder in Jazz Time. Tonight we're going to delve into the strange and confusing events in the life of Alexander Drake. But what person can tell you of these events better than Alex Drake himself? As our story begins, Drake is seated at a small table staring at several blank sheets of writing paper. Suddenly he picks up a pen, hesitates, and starts to write. I scarcely know at what point to begin telling of the things that have happened to me these past months. I suppose I should begin with Vicki, Vicki who I have loved ever since we were children. If my love was never returned by her, I was condemned to wait ever hopeful that someday she would reciprocate my feelings. We saw a great deal of each other after she graduated college and I watched with interest as she embarked upon a singing career. Success came to Vicki quickly and smoothly as all things did. She sang with several name bands and then became a star attraction at the Swankier nightclubs. Several years passed and then one night as I had always dreamed of it happening, she agreed to marry me. That was the happiest moment of my life. A week later we were married and driving to New Orleans on our honeymoon. Happy, darling? Oh, yes, Alex, yes. No regrets about giving up your career? None at all. Oh, it's good of you to say that, Vicki. I'll try to make it up to you. Oh, no really, Alex. Giving up my career isn't any sacrifice for a long time now. I've known that I wasn't very good. Not very good. You were getting $1,000 a week at the Casablanca and look at the way your recordings are selling. Oh, let's face it, Alex, I have a nice voice. I'm fairly attractive and thanks to fine publicity I've come a long way, but I'm not really a very good singer. Oh, nonsense. I think you're a wonderful singer. That's because you're in love with me, darling, but I know better. Take for example that recording of Easy Living that I made. That was one of the best things you ever did. Yes, Alex, it was. But have you ever heard the recording that Billie Holiday made of that number? No, I don't think I have. Well, if you had heard it, you'd know the difference between good singing and really great singing. You mean she was so much better? Yes, Alex. And if I can't be a top blue singer, then I won't sing at all. Oh, Vicki, you're young yet. It takes time. No, Alex. You either have it or you don't. I see. Is that why you decided to give up your career? You mean me? Yes, darling. I'm glad you told me. Oh, look, Vicki, that sign, only 37 miles to New Orleans. Oh, wonderful. At last I'm going to see New Orleans. You don't know how long I've waited for this. Why all this enthusiasm for New Orleans? Why, Alex, New Orleans is the birthplace of jazz. Think of all the great musicians and singers who've come from there and the wonderful jazz they've created. Like Willie Johnson, Bertha Hill, and Jack Simmons. And just think, Jeff Becker is still a New Orleans and we can hear him play. He's the fellow that owns the famous Waterfront Café, isn't he? Oh, Alex, Jeff Becker isn't famous because he owns a café. Why, he's one of the great names of jazz. Many critics think he's the finest jazz pianist who ever lived. Forgive my ignorance, darling. I'm afraid I'm just a long hair at heart. Tell me, if this fellow, Jeff Becker, is as great as you say, how come I haven't heard more about him? Because he's always refused to leave New Orleans. He's had some fabulous offers to play in New York, but he's turned them all down. That's why he isn't widely known. But real lovers of jazz come from all over the country to hear Jeff Becker play at his café. Well, then I guess there isn't any question as to where we're going tonight. Jeff Becker as it is. An hour later, we were in New Orleans and registered at a hotel. Early that evening, Vicki and I had supper at Antoine's. And then we left for Jeff Becker's café. As we drove, Vicki was unable to hide the excitement, she felt. Jeff Becker's café turned out to be a long, rambling, shabby building with a balcony that ran the length of it and hung over the river. The inside of the café was as unpretentious as the outside. There were 40 ancient tables or so, a small bandstand and an equally small dance floor. A mahogany bar ran the length of one wall with a long mirror behind it, reflecting the shabbiness of the café. As we were seated, a few musicians began to drift in and take their places on the bandstand. Vicki whispered excitedly to me the names of the musicians whom she seemed to know without ever having seen before. And suddenly Vicki clutched at my arm. Alex, look. There's Jeff Becker. Where? There he is, walking towards the piano. That little sandy-haired man? Yes. That's Jeff Becker. I stared at him and felt somewhat disappointed. For no good reason whatsoever, my imagination had led me to see Jeff Becker as an impressive-looking individual. Whereas in reality, he was a slight man, being no more than five feet five, with a plain, undistinguished-looking face. He looked a good deal younger than the 50 he was reputed to be. There were two very attractive-looking women with him, both of whom followed his every move as he sat down at his piano. The talk and the laughter in the café died out, and Jeff Becker and his men began to play. As Jeff Becker played, the disappointment I'd felt about him fast-lifted me. As he sat there at the piano playing smoothly, effortlessly, he was no longer a small, slight man with a plain face. There was a warmth and greatness about him, and even I, who was no lover of jazz, could sense the genius of Jeff Becker. Yes, Becker, he is. He really is. Alex, look. He's coming this way. Yes, he seems to be coming to our table. Good evening, Miss Saunders. Welcome to New Orleans. Why, thank you, Mr. Becker. Thank you very much. Just call me Jeff. Only tourists call me Mr. Becker. All right, Jeff. Oh, this is my husband, Alex Drake. Glad to meet you. How do you do? Won't you join us? Sorry, no. I only have a minute. The boys and me got some playing to do. I've heard Brown Bee Boogie play it before, but never as wonderfully as you do it. Thanks very much, Biggie. How did you know who I was? I've seen pictures of you. Have you ever heard my wife sing, Jeff? Yes, I have. Well, I gotta be getting back to work. It's been nice meeting you, folks. See you around. Yes, of course. An abrupt sort of fellow, isn't it? He was being tactful, darling, not abrupt. He was afraid you might ask him what he thought of my singing. Well, what's wrong with my asking him that? Oh, nothing. Only it would have made Jeff Becker unhappy to have told you the truth about my singing. Well, anyway, I still think you're great. Thank you, darling. Oh, look. They're going to play now. We sat listening to the magic of Jeff Becker's music for hours. When I suggested to Vicki that we leave, she refused, insisting that we remain until closing time, which was four in the morning. The next evening found us once again at Jeff's cafe, and again, we remained until closing. Try as I might. I couldn't get Vicki interested in the sights of New Orleans and the fascinating swamp country nearby. Night after night, despite my protests, we would end up at Jeff's cafe. Life to Vicki came to revolve around these nightly visits, and all else seemed unreal to her. Soon, even I lost track of time. Weeks passed, and then one night at closing time, Jeff Becker came over to our table for the first time since the night we'd met. Howdy, folks. Glad to see you're still with us. Hello, Jeff. Well, how do you folks like New Orleans? Having a good time? Frankly, we've seen very little of New Orleans outside of this cafe. Well, just between us. There ain't very much more to see. I agree. Oh, dear, it's closing time already. No sooner do we get here than it's time to go home. Well, if you'd like to hear more music, why not stay on? The boys and me always have a small session after closing hours. Well, thanks very much, Jeff. But I'm afraid that we really must be... Oh, we'd love to stay on, Jeff. It's wonderful of you to ask us. Glad to have you. See you around. Vicki, enough is enough. We've been here since 9 o'clock. Alex, you don't understand. It's an honor to have Jeff ask you to stay on. Few people get that invitation. Well, I'm duly appreciative, believe me. But seven hours is enough of this place for one night. Now come along, Vicki. Let's go back to the hotel. No, I want to stay for this session. Vicki, I think I've been more than reasonable. Coming here night after night for weeks. Now it's about time I got my way. I insist we leave. I won't go. I tell you, I'm staying here. If you want to go back to the hotel, don't let me keep you. As Vicki screamed at me, for a brief flashing moment, I almost imagined I'd seen hate in her eyes. The shock of that moment was like a revelation. Suddenly, I realized that Vicki had changed. That I was losing her. Her face as she listened to the music was like the faces of the musicians. And Jeff Becker's himself. Their emotion laid bare. My turns ecstatic, impassioned, unresisting. I was an outsider looking in on a way of life of which I could never be part. The lateness of the hour, the smoke-filled room and my confused thoughts were too much for me. And I fell asleep with my head on the table. I have no idea how long I slept. But when I awoke, it was daylight. I became aware of a woman singing. I looked up. I saw it was Vicki. Vicki standing by the piano, singing to Jeff Becker. This is a dance. I don't know, Vicki. What's wrong? Hard to say. Oh. Vicki, jazz was born in these parts. And it came from the people. The people worked on the levees, the river sidewells. And in the fields, it was part of the bone and flesh of old-timers like Willie Johnson and Joe Fletcher. They played jazz the way it was in their hearts. A singer like Chippy Hill just stepped up, clapped her hands, and gave out with the blues. That's what made it great. They played and sang as they felt. I see. Second-rate musicians picked up something that was fine and clean and took it to the big cities in the north. But they weren't playing for the sake of music. They were playing for greenbacks. And is that what's wrong with my singing? Pray so. I reckon you had too many teachers, Vicki. And they all taught you to sing by the book. It may be popular, but it ain't good. Do you think it's too late to go back? Hard to say, Vicki. Do you want to start all over? Oh, yes, Jeff, yes. Would you let me stay on here and sing with your band? Well, if you feel. No, Vicki. Alex. You're not singing with the band. We're leaving New Orleans at once. Alex, be reasonable. You know it. It's no use, Vicki. We're leaving New Orleans today, and that's final. I'll get your suitcases from the closet, Vicki, so that you can start packing. I tell you, Alex, I'm not leaving New Orleans. Not only am I staying, but I'm going to sing with Jeff Becker's band. Vicki, are you blind? Can't you see what's happening? You're losing all sense of perception, of values. Life to you has come to mean only Jeff Becker's cafe. I don't care. That's where I belong, where I really feel alive. If you love jazz, felt about it the way I do. You'd understand. I do understand, but there are other things besides Jeff Becker and his music. Not for me, there aren't. Now, here's a suitcase, start packing. It's no use, Alex. I'm not leaving. You will have to choose between Jeff Becker and myself, Vicki. Well, I'm sorry it's come to this, Alex, but I'm still going to sing with Jeff Becker's band. It was at that moment I knew that I had lost Vicki. As she turned away from me, an overwhelming hatred for Jeff Becker surged up within me. Had he been in the room at that moment, I would have killed him without any hesitation. I left the hotel, walked the streets of New Orleans. I knew that Vicki would never be mine as long as Jeff Becker were alive. And I also knew that I couldn't go on without Vicki. There was only one answer. I returned to the hotel, told Vicki I would remain in New Orleans with her. Night after night, we continued going to that waterfront cafe. And each night after the place had closed, Vicki would sing with a band. As I listened to Vicki sing, even I, who knew very little of music, could sense that her singing was superb. The musicians in the band looked at her approvingly and accepted her as one of themselves. Under Jeff Becker's almost hypnotic guidance, she sang with warmth and feeling. As much as I hated Jeff Becker, I couldn't help but admire his genius for bringing out talent. The music ended. And Jeff rose from the piano and patted Vicki on the shoulder encouragingly. He left the bandstand and started walking through the cafe towards his office in the back. This was the moment I had long waited for. I quickly eased out of my chair, which was in a darkened part of the cafe, and slipped out into the balcony. I then ran quietly along the balcony until I reached the French door that opened into Jeff Becker's office. I got there just as Jeff sat down at his desk. He was alone. I opened the door and stepped into his office. Oh, hello, Alex. What can I do for you? I've come for my wife. Your wife? But Vicki isn't in here. Vicki is wherever you are. And I can't have that, Jeff. She's got to be mine. She is yours. You know that. No, no. She belongs to you now. She said as much. As long as you're alive, Vicki will never be mine. I know that. You're wrong, Alex. Believe me. It's mutual. She's got to be mine. She's got to be. I felt Jeff's body go limp in my hands. And I knew he was dead. I quickly picked up his slight body in my arms and carried it out the balcony. There was no one in sight. I leaned over the balcony rail and dropped Jeff's body. It fell into the river with a small splash and was gone. I quietly walked to the other end of the balcony and slipped into my seat in the darkened cafe. The musicians and Vicki were still on the bandstand talking. And I knew they hadn't missed me during the few minutes I'd been gone. The ordeal was over. A week passed. And Jeff Becker's disappearance was the talk of New Orleans. The police questioned everyone, but were unable to solve the mystery. Vicki was inconsolable and locked herself in her room at the hotel, refusing to see anyone. Who is it? Salix, darling. Please let me in. Darling, you can't stay in your room like this day after day. You know it isn't good for you. Vicki, let's leave New Orleans. Go to New York. No, I'm going to wait until Jeff comes back. Vicki, Jeff isn't coming back. What? What do you mean? A body was found floating in the gulf this morning. The police think it's Jeff's body. Oh, no! After a week in the water, naturally, it was hard to identify. Jeff! Yes, darling. It's in all the papers. Oh! You mustn't cry, darling. Here, let me wipe your tears. Don't you think it would be better if we left New Orleans? Anything you say. A few days later, we were back in New York. There was snow on the ground, and the air was invigorating. What had happened in New Orleans seemed like a dream, a bad dream. At first, Vicki was melancholy, but as days passed, she grew better, and I felt confident that in time she'd be her old self. We saw all the shows in town and dined at the finest restaurants, and then one night I took her to Carnegie Hall to hear the Philharmonic Orchestra. Here, darling, here's a program. Thank you. Oh, I see they're going to play the Rock Mononoff first piano concerto with Andre Duvales soloist. You've always liked that concerto, haven't you? Yes, Alex. Look, Duvales just come up on stage. Young, isn't it? Yes, he is. Happy? Alex, they're going to play now. As I sat there in that great concert hall listening to the orchestra, I became aware of discordant playing. I looked at Vicki at other concert doors, but none seemed aware of it. The discordancy grew, and then suddenly I realized it wasn't the music of Rock Mononoff I was hearing, it was the music of Jeff Becker being played faster and faster, louder and louder. I walked the impulse to scream out. As I put my hands to my ears, I became aware of my arm being shaken. It was Vicki. Alex, what's the matter with you? Vicki, the music, listen to it. Alex, be quiet. Everyone is looking at us. I can't stand it anymore. Let's go out of here. All right, Alex, but please be quiet. Everybody's looking at us. Hurry, Vicki, hurry. Goodness, I can't hear it anymore. What's gone? The music. Alex, you aren't making any sense. We came to the concert to hear music. What's wrong with you? Wrong. Nothing, nothing at all. I just suddenly felt ill in there and had to get out. Perhaps we'd better see a doctor. You look so pale. No, no, I'm all right now. Are you sure? Yes, yes. Let's go home now, Vicki. All the way home, I kept thinking of the amazing hallucination I'd had. Obviously, it was the result of the mental strain I had undergone in New Orleans. But with sufficient rest and relaxation, I would soon forget the horrible events that had occurred there. Arriving home, I went to bed but found it difficult to fall asleep. Hours later, I drifted off into an uneasy sleep. And then I started dreaming. I dreamt that I was in Jeff Becker's cafe and the only people there were Jeff and myself. He was seated at the piano playing, smiling at me. I walked over to the bandstand and he spoke to me. Hello, Alex. How do you like this number? Pretty good for a dead man, huh? You can't play if you're dead. Yes, I can, Alex. You hear my music, don't you? Yes, I do. You're always going to hear it, Alex. Always because my music will never die, even if you did kill me. It'll go on and on. No, stop! No! I don't want to hear it! Stop! Alex, wake up! Alex, wake up! Wake up! Alex, Alex, what is it? What is it? You were having a nightmare. You screamed and woke me up. Yes, I remember now. What were you dreaming about? New Orleans. New Orleans? Yes. Go back to sleep now, Vicki. I'm all right. I'm all right, I said to her. But I wasn't. That was the beginning of a series of nightmares and hallucinations in which I heard Jeff Becker playing that accursed music of his. When an attack came, I would flee from room to room, pressing my fingers against my ears. But there was no escape. I could hear the rhythmic pounding of Jeff Becker's music in my head, drawing louder and louder, relentlessly hammering away. I knew that it would only be a question of time before he'd don't be mad. I fought for my sanity. Good morning, Mr. Drake. How are you feeling today? Oh, I see you've done quite a bit of writing. Good. I'm glad you followed my suggestion. It's all written down, Doctor. Everything that happened to me. It's fine, Mr. Drake. I'm sure it'll be of great help to both of us. Do you feel in the mood for a visitor? A visitor? Yes, your wife. Yes, I'd like to see Vicki. She's just outside. I'll have her come in. Will you come in, now, Mr. Drake? Hello, Alex. How are you, darling? Vicki. It's good to see you again and have you near me. Oh, Alex. Dr. Mitchell says that you're much better. Yes, yes. I'm much better. Doctor, will you tell him? Yes, Mr. Drake. Tell me what? Won't you sit down, Mr. Drake? That's it. Now, what I'm going to tell you will come as a shock. But I'm hopeful it'll rid you of the hallucinations you suffer from. Yes, Doctor. Mr. Drake, you did not murder Jeff Becker. But I did. I did. I choked him until he was dead. And then I threw him into the river. And now, Mr. Drake, Jeff Becker was not dead when you threw him into the river. He was only unconscious, and the water revived him. His body made a splash, a small splash. Jeff Becker is alive. He was picked up by a fishing trawler going to sea. Do you understand, Mr. Drake? Jeff Becker is alive. Will you come in, please? I didn't want to do it. But he made me. Hello, Alex. How are you? No. Put your music. It goes on and on. I can't get away from your music. It follows me everywhere. Doctor, can't you do something? I'm afraid we've failed again. This feeling of giving overwhelming. However, we've shot you up. It's getting louder. It's louder than I can escape from it. Stop it. Stop it. This is the mysterious trawler again. Too bad about poor Alex, wasn't it? It just goes to prove you may be able to escape the law. But there's always your conscience to reckon with. But what happened to Alex? Oh, he finally responded to medical treatment. And today, he and Vicki are a very happy couple. However, there are still two things Alex can't stand. Jazz and the sight of rivers. He's strictly a long hair these days. Now, I recall another young man once who decided that two murders are better than one. It's so... Oh, you have to get off here. I'm sorry. But I'm sure we'll meet again. I take this same train every week at the same time. You have just heard the mysterious trawler, 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 Toplund, Frank Behrens, Joan Alexander, and John Gibson. All recordings heard in this program were played by Ms. Hazel Scott and may be found in her latest album, Great Scott. Organ music was played by Paul Taubman, sound by George Cooney, broadcast engineer, Al King. The mysterious trawler is written, produced and directed by Robert J. Arthur and David Cogan. Listen next week to a tale titled... The Little Man Who Wasn't There. Another strange and suspenseful tale of the mysterious trawler. 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 Caruso speaking, this is the Mutual Broadcasting System.