 Your card, Mr. Thompson. The King of Hearts. Colonel Mohr? The five of clubs, Mr. President. Count Rizzini? Come count, we are waiting. What is your card? Blasso di Spada. I beg your pardon. The ace of clubs, Mr. President. Count Rizzini? Come count, we are waiting. What is your card? Blasso di Spada. I beg your pardon. The ace of clubs, Mr. President. I beg your pardon. The ace of death. Midnight. The witching hour when the night is darkest. Our fears the strongest. And our strength at its lowest end. Midnight. When the graves gape open and death strikes. How? You'll learn the answer in just a minute in The Ace of Death. And now, Murder at Midnight. Tales of Mystery and Terror by Radio's Masters of the Macal. Our story, based on Robert Louis Stevenson's Immortal Suicide Club, is by Max Ehrlich. It's title, The Ace of Death. I stood there on the bridge and stared down into the swirling fog. It hid the river like a white shroud. I shivered. To be cold down there, freezing cold. I would go down, down deep into the black watery depths. My ears bursting in my lungs fighting for breath. And then, finally, there would be silence. Silence. And eternal peace. Somewhere a clock began to chime eleven. The last hour. The last hour of a man's life. My life. I, John Evans, ill and broke without family or friends. Sick and wary of the constant struggle among earthbound mortals. Looks forward to my new future. Death. I put one foot over the bridge rail. My heart pounded. My head throbbed. And then, someone came out of the mist and seized me from behind. No, no, no, you fools. Let me go, let me go while I still got the car. Why did you stop me? Why? I wanted to die, I wanted to. I sympathize with you, young man. You see, I too am tired of life and seek death. You? You want to die? Yes, but not by drowning. No, my boy, I've made other arrangements. The river is not only a dull way to die, it's positively salted. The very idea makes me shudder with distaste. Wait, I don't understand. Most of us are too commonplace about the hereafter. We enter with morbid fear and without imagination. Actually, death can be glorious. Glorious? Yes, a great new change from our ordinary lifetime routine. A journey into an uncharted world. A man should meet death on the wings of adventure. It should be an exciting and delightful experience. Death? Exciting and delightful? Why not? I've already arranged my decease along these lines. And since you and I have an interest in common, why not join me? We'll seek death's private door together. Come, young man, come along with me. Where? To my club. I'll be glad to recommend you for membership. Your club? Yes. It caters to a cleantel of gentlemen like ourselves. We call it the hereafter club. The whole thing was mad, insane. And yet... Yet it was intriguing, too. I looked hard at the elderly gentleman who'd come out of the fog to pull me from the brink of death, only to offer me a pleasanter and more delightful variety later. He repeated his invitation to join him, and I could see that he was perfectly sincere. I decided to go with him, even though I secretly considered him some kind of a madman. After all, what could I lose now? We took a cab and stopped at a grim-looking building in the silk-stocking district on the east side. My elderly friend, whom I now knew as Frederick Whitney, took me into a luxurious reception room and asked me to wait there until he saw the president of the club. Finally, the president himself came out to greet me. He was a man of about fifty, with a bald spot on his head, piercing gray eyes and a thin mouth. He smiled and extended his hand to me. Welcome to the Hereafter Club, Mr. Evans. Thank you, Mr. President. Mr. Whitney has recommended you very highly, and I'm delighted to count you among our members. I am pretty vague as to what all this is about, but Mr. Whitney mentioned something about a $400 initiation fee. Well, I'm afraid I... My boy, Mr. Whitney, knew you were in delicate financial straits and took your initiation fee upon himself. You were fortunate indeed, Mr. Evans, that he happened along and rescued you from the river. Such a morbid way of entering the Hereafter would have been tragic indeed. Isn't death in any form tragic? By no means, Mr. Evans. Death can be a triumph, a fine, heavy wine, when so designed by a connoisseur. Come, Mr. Evans, follow me. You are about to embark on an exciting and unforgettable experience. Like a man in a dream, I followed the president into a large room. There was a green bay's table in the centre of it, and several men in evening dress lounged around the room drinking champagne. They seemed nervous and distraught, and when they laughed, it was high-pitched and too loud. They seemed to be waiting for something to happen, some event to begin, as the president high stood at the door he turned to me and smiled. These men, Mr. Evans, are charter members of the Hereafter Club. They come from all walks of life, but they have one common desire, death. I see. And what happens now? Our procedure is very simple. We all play a game of cards. A game of cards? A simple but fascinating game of cards. That is, these gentlemen play. As president of the Hereafter Club, I am the dealer. And what is the game? Each man draws a card and turns it face up. The man who is fortunate enough to draw the Ace of Spades dies. For this is the card of death. And how does he die? By the hand of the man who draws the Ace of Clubs. Oh, I see. The Ace of Clubs eliminates the Ace of Spades. Precisely. How many of these games do you play a night? Just one. But as you can see, Mr. Evans, during its course, a man can live a lifetime of adventure. For this makes of death an exciting game of chance, a game to whip the blood and make the pulses race. You see, one never knows whether he will draw the fatal Ace of Spades tonight, or whether he will survive for weeks or even months. A question, Mr. President. How much of this can a man stand? I can only answer in this way, Mr. Evans. Our members always come back to the Hereafter Club night after night until they draw the Ace of Spades. Once a devotee of the game, it's impossible to resist. Now, but come, we're ready to begin. In a kind of hypnotic trance, I followed the president into the room. But when the members saw him, their conversation stopped suddenly. They put down their champagne glasses. They straightened. Their faces grew pale and tense. Their eyes brilliant with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The president took a fresh pack of cards from his pocket. And like a magnet attracting iron filings, the men drew close to the bay's cover table. I found myself standing next to Frederick Whitney as the president spoke. Gentlemen of the Hereafter Club, the game is about to begin. Someone here tonight will draw the Ace of Spades. Whoever he is, let me assure him that we will arrange his death so that it will appear to be an accident with no breath of scandal and with no unnecessary anguish to his family. We all know that life is only a stage to play the fool upon, as long as the part amuses us. Now we are worried of our daily performance and have chosen a civilized and exciting way to quit that stage. Gentlemen, the deal. It was a fantastic, weird, monstrous experience. The green bay's table, the president puffing on his cigar and dealing a card to each man's face down. Each man's face like a graven image turning his card up. I could feel the sweat pouring down my forehead. My heart pounded like a hammer and next to me, Frederick Whitney stood rigid, his eyes shining as the president's voice drawn down. Mr. Thompson, your card. They're here. The Three of Diamonds. Colonel Moore. The Six of Hearts. Mr. Denison. It's the Jack of Spades. Count Rizzini. The Eight of Clubs. Mr. Evans, our new member. The Queen of Hearts. Mr. Whitney. Mr. Whitney, what is your card? The Eight of Clubs. Well, Mr. Whitney, congratulations. You shall be the official agent for tonight. Now let us see whom you will guide into the hereafter. Frederick Whitney left the game and went directly into the president's private office. There was only one card to be drawn now. The Ace of Death. The tension was almost unbearable. I felt like running away from that table, screaming at the top of my voice, but I didn't. I only stood there, riveted, staring at those cards, listening to the president's hypnotic voice. Mr. Benedict. The Tree of Spades. Mr. Wallace. Nine of Diamonds. Mr. Thompson. The King of Hearts. Colonel Moore, your card. The Five of Clubs. Count Rizzini. Count Rizzini, we are waiting. What is your card? Lasso di Sparda. I beg your pardon. The Ace of Death. I stumbled from that horrible place into the cold night air. I went directly to my room, shaken to the core at what I had seen. In the cold, gray light of the morning, it took on the aspect of a bad dream. A macabre nightmare. I resolved to shrug it off or get the whole thing. But when I bought a newspaper, the headline struck me like the blow of a hammer. Quickly, my heart beating wildly, I read the lead paragraph. Count Pietro Rizzini, prominent Italian nobleman, was hit and instantly killed at midnight when he stepped off the curb into the path of a speeding taxi cab. The count who had recently lost his fortune was with a friend, Mr. Frederick Whitney, when the unfortunate accident occurred. And so in the darkness of the night, a man who has played a grim game and lost goes to his death as the clock strikes 12 for... Murder at Midna. Here is John Evans again to continue his story. Yes, the hereafter club was really a murder club, a racket conceived and created by the polished gentleman who called himself the president. He made a game of death and grew rich on it. For each night, although he lost a member, he made $400, the member's initiation fee. And as the members dropped out, according to Hoyle, there were always plenty of disillusioned neophytes like myself ready to replace them. My first impulse after reading that grisly newspaper announcement was to run to the police. But I had pledged my word to secrecy. And besides, besides, I wanted to go back. I had to go back. The thrill of the game was in my blood. I fought to resist it, but it was like a hypnotic drug. Time after time, I went back to the Green Bay's table and then one night... Your card, Mr. Whitney? Come, sir, what is your card? The Ace of Spades. Now, my friend, Frederick Whitney, the man who'd introduced me into the hereafter club, had drawn the Ace of Death. His string had run out, he was thrown. I stared at him. He was calm. And there was a half-smile on his face. He seemed almost glad that for him the game was over. The President kept on dealing. Mr. Thompson, your card? The Jack of Hearts. Colonel Moore? The Four of Spades. Mr. Denison? The Ace of Diamonds. Mr. Benedict? Can of Club. Mr. Evans? They were waiting for me. Come, come, Mr. Evans. Your card? The Ace of Clubs. Congratulations, Mr. Evans. Only your sixth evening at our club and you draw a winning card. Now, if you'll join Mr. Whitney and myself in my private office, we'll arrange the details. The instructions were simple. I was to drive Mr. Whitney into the garage of his home, leave him in the car with the motor running. That was all. And so without a word, I got behind the wheel and drove my elderly benefactor to the appointed place. We looked at each other there in the garage and then he said... John, if anyone had to draw the Ace of Clubs, I'm glad it was you. No, Mr. Whitney, look here. I don't want to kill you. You know I don't. Let's end this farce. Let's go to the police and end this monstrous thing. No, John, you forget I'm a murderer. I have already killed. I'd rather die by carbon monoxide gas in this comparatively painless way than in the electric chair. But the police will never know that you were responsible for Razzini's death. If we expose the hereafter club, the president would be sure to tell him... There must be a way somehow. No, my boy, I have chosen death. My time has come. In a way I'm glad everything has resolved. There is no more waiting. Waiting for the fatal card. Now, it's over now. Cole, go my boy. Leave the garage. Slam the door. No, no, Mr. Whitney. For God's sake, turn off the motor before... Cole, go John before it's too late. Hurry, don't worry about me. I have sought death for weeks. Now I welcome it. Meet it gladly. I staggered to the garage door, went out and slammed it shut. I heard the motor's still going. Five minutes. Ten minutes. I knew that it was the end now for Frederick Whitney. I looked at my luminescent watch. It was just midnight. I walked the streets for hours after that. Now I was a murderer. True, I had killed with my victim's consent, but I had killed. Now as the dawn came, I began to shake with a cold rage against the connoisseur of death who called himself the president. Men killed, men died, and he profited without risk. He always dealt the game and never participated. He was a prince of ruin, and unfortunate men like myself could not resist what he had to offer. And so, like a smiling Satan in formal clothes, exerting a demonic spell upon the fools who played his game, he watched them destroy each other. That night I went to the Hereafter Club and just before the game confronted him. Ah, good evening, Mr. Evans. I see you are back again tonight. Yes, Mr. President, I'm back again. And I want to congratulate you. Indeed. On what? On your financial vision in starting this club. By simple mathematics, it nets you a handsome profit. We play five evenings a week, and each evening you make $400. That, Mr. President, adds up to $2,000 a week. Yes, it's a tidy sum, Mr. Evans, to be sure, but to tell you the truth, tonight we play our last game. Yes, to be frank with you, Mr. Evans, the sport of the game is beginning to pawl on me. I've decided to retire to the country and pursue the delights of horticulture. Flowers are my hubby, you know. Oh, I see. Even you can tire of sending men to their deaths. And just what do you mean by that, Mr. Evans? I mean that you are a coward, Mr. President. You have created a monstrous game, and yet you haven't the courage to play it yourself. You question my courage then, Mr. Evans. I do, and I question your honor, too. It seems to me that if you profit by your clients, you should take the same risk they do. You're a very important young man, but I cannot let your accusations go without rebuttal. Indeed, it might be an interesting experience to play this last game myself, a kind of fitting climax to a successful career. Of course, Mr. Evans, I'll demand a handsome apology when it's over. You don't mean that you are actually going to take a chance. Yes, why not? Because you're the excitement of my clients. Now, I might as well savor that excitement myself before I close the Hereafter Club. The news that the President was going to play created a sensation among the members. He dealt around. And then another. And the third time around, for the second night in a row, I drew the murder card. The Ace of Clubs. The President smiled as congratulations on what he called my phenomenal luck and continuity. Mr. Thompson, your card. The... Two spades. Colonel Moore. The King of Hearts. Mr. Denison. The... Seven of Clubs. Mr. Benedict. Queen of Diamond. And now, gentlemen, I'll turn over my own card. Oh! Congratulations, Mr. President. You have drawn the Ace of Spades. The President's face was immobile. Not an eyelash flickered. We went into his private office and his words were calm as he explained evening's arrangements. I had drawn the murder card and he had drawn the death card. Yet, judging by his unworried attitude and serene bearing, it might have been the other way around, I couldn't help a flicker of admiration for him. As for me, I was eager to do my part to kill this man who had been caught at the last moment in his own net. He had sent many a man to his death and now he had to meet it himself. There is a railroad bridge on the outskirts of town, Mr. Evans. It has a low railing and below it an express train passes exactly at midnight. You will push me over that rail into the path of the locomotive. And now, if you're ready, let us go. We didn't speak on the trip out to the bridge. It was a cold night. We stood there shivering and waiting. Finally, in the distance, that was it. The midnight train. I could see its bright headlight flickering as it approached. Then the president spoke. Mr. Evans, of course we are not going through with this. Of course we are, Mr. President. Look here, my dear boy. As you know, the hereafter club is disbanded. Unlike my clients, I have no desire to die. There's no point in doing so. You are going to die, Mr. President, just as you have sent others. I'll see to it myself. Be reasonable, Mr. Evans. I have everything to live for, and so can you have. Now then, I'm a very wealthy man and I'm quite sure you could use, say, $10,000. Get close to that rail, Mr. President. I suggest you listen to reason, Mr. Evans. The others died without a whimper. You sent them into the hereafter. Now you're going yourself as you deserve. You've got a very stubborn young man, Mr. Evans. No, drop that gun. Try to kill me, will you? You've got me in the arm, that's all. And now, however you are going over that rail. Don't, don't, I'll give you anything. Anything over you. When the train had passed, I saw what was left of his body on the tracks. Slowly, with dragging footsteps, I walked down the street toward the twin green lights of the police station. Now, like the others, I'm ready for the end. The doors of the police station open and close on the man who trumped the ace of death. The man who now seeks his own dark destiny as the clocks strike twelve for... Murder! Midnight! Remember to be with us again when death deals his final hand. And the clocks strike twelve for... Murder! The part of John Evans was played by Carl Swenson. The president of the hereafter club was John Briggs. With music by Bert Berman, Murder at Midnight was directed by Anton M. Leder.