 You are groping down a dark alleyway in the French Quarter of New Orleans, driven by terror, hounded by the curse of the Papalloi, the curse from which there is no escape. Escape, produced and directed by William N. Robeson, and carefully contrived to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight we escape into two worlds, one of modern jazz, the other of primitive voodoo, and to a doomed man who brought them together, as William Irish imagined it in his eerie story, Papa Benjamin. All his police department, 4th, Pre-Singh Sergeant Tal over speaking. Now, yeah, we'll pick him up on a drunk 723, try it. Yes, sir. What can I do for you? Are you in charge here? Yeah. Hey, aren't you Eddie Block, the band leader? That's right. Hey, Joe, look, I was here, Eddie Block. Well, never thought we'd get a visit from a big celebrity like you, Mr. Block, and at four o'clock in the morning. I suppose, though, this is just the shank of the evening for a big shot orchestra leader. Well, what can we do for you, Mr. Block? I just killed a man. Yeah, you're kidding. I tell you, I've just killed a man. I guess you've been working too hard, Mr. Block. You're imagining things. Here, here's the gun. Look at it. Man, sit down, Mr. Block. Better have a drink of water. You'll feel better. Oh, no. I'm all right. Sergeant, this gun's been used all right. Smell. Was it an accident, Mr. Block? No. Well, who'd you use it on? Who was it? I don't know his name. They call him Papa Benjamin. Sounds lucky. Yeah. White man? No, he was a Negro. Oh, well, now, in the audience... Oh, no, no, no. It was nothing like that. Well, what was he doing to you? He was killing me. Huh? Killing you? But how? Look at me. I used to weigh 200 pounds. I'm down to 102. Well, how? How was he killing you? Would you believe in anything you can't see, can't hear, can't touch? Well... I've been to the biggest doctors in the world. They don't believe me. How can I expect you to? You simply say I'm cracked and let it go at that. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in an asylum. Oh, look, Mr. Block, you say he was a Negro named Papa Benjamin. Yeah, he was an all-to-all man. 80, maybe 90. Skin and bones, he could hardly walk. And I shot him. You sure? You sure you killed him? Yeah, of course. Well, where? I don't know exactly. A little back alley in the Fierre-Carré near Congo Square. Well, I suppose when you take us there, can you do that? Then maybe we'll find out this is just a bad dream. This is the alley. To the right, between the buildings. All right, let's go. You pack, Sergeant, and catch cold without it. Quiet, you! Oh, cops! Nice neighborhood. This is it. In that door and up the stairs. Come on. Yeah. Oh, no, no. Don't make me go up there again, please. Better come, Mr. Block. You're showing us. Hey, a pleasure life. There's somebody here on the stairs. Hmm? Yeah, he won't bother us. Dead drunk. Step over him and let's go. This ain't the most pleasant neighborhood to come to call him in. This it? Yeah. In that door. Come on. Better call a commissioner. Mr. Block wasn't kiddin' this man's date. But why? Why? Because he was killing me, Commissioner. It was self-defensive. He never came near me once. I was the one who went to him. I offered him 3,000, 10,000, any amount, and he refused. Finally, I offered him my gun and asked him to shoot me, whether to get it over with quickly and not to drag it out any longer. Then when he said no, you shot him. Yeah. So you can lock me up now. Mr. Block, do you think we want to hang a murder-wrap on you, one of the most popular celebrities in the United States? Use your head. Now, I'm trying to find an out for you. He was killing me. Look, an 80-year-old colored man who's so feeble, he can't even go upstairs by himself, who has to have his food pulled up to him and a basket is killin' who? A stumble bum his own age? No. Mr. Eddie Block, the top band leader of America, who can name his own price anyway, who has about everything a man can want. Tell me just one thing, Mr. Block. How was he killing you? By thinking thought-ways of death had reached me through the air. Now, Mr. Block, you... You want to hush the whole thing up, don't you? No. No, Mr. Block. But I'm going to get the whole story, so you might as well start telling me from the beginning. All right. It began one night about two years ago. We were playing at Maxon's on Charles Street. We were just another band, small Dixieland outfit then, Eddie Block and his chips. Judy Jarvis, my wife, did the vocals, but we weren't setting the world on fire. Business was so bad I knew what to expect when I got a call from the manager one night after closing time. Oh, hi, Eddie. I thought we'd better have a little talk. It's that bad, huh? We took in $4,500 this week. Yeah, I see. And you can cancel my contract anytime it falls under $5,000. I get it. Eddie can get the same liquor and sandwiches anywhere, but he'll go where the band has something. Tonight there were more waiters in the place than customers. Judy didn't even get a hand. It's not her fault. I know it's not her fault. She's okay, but... Well, I'm asking you, what's wrong? Oh, I don't know. I'm getting the latest arrangement sent to me from New York. We sweat our heads bald, rehearsing. This is New Orleans, practically the cradle of jazz. You've got to give them something new. Yeah, I know, I know, I know. When do I leave? Well, finish the week up. See if you can do something about it by Monday. If not, I'll have to wear St. Louis to get Kruger's band. I'm sorry, Eddie. Oh, that's okay. You're not running a charity bazaar. But I didn't feel so cocky about it. It looked like we were on the skids. The band just didn't seem to have it. And I wasn't good enough to figure out why and pull them out of it. I was feeling pretty low when I went back to the deserted bandstand to pick up some music. The place was dark and empty except for a couple of scrub women cleaning up. A dark nightclub can be an eerie place sometimes. I got that feeling just before I saw it. Saw it lying on the floor between the stands. It was a severed chicken claw with a red ribbon tied around it. I almost laughed. How did that thing get there? Then I picked it up and tossed it out of the floor where the scrub women were cleaning up. I certainly wasn't expecting the reaction I got. They took one look, turned and ran out. I just recovered from that surprise and was bending down to pick up some music that had slipped to the floor when I heard someone come in. I guess I was pretty well hidden from view anyway he didn't see me. It was Johnny Statz, my drummer, and he was acting funny, looking intently at the floor searching for something. Suddenly he spotted this chicken claw on the floor and grabbed it up with a terrific sigh of relief stuffed it into his pocket and walked out. What I did then I did on a strange impulse and it changed the whole course of my life. I followed Johnny Statz. I suppose I just meant to catch up with him and have a cup of coffee with him somewhere and ask about the chicken claw. But as I followed him farther and farther down into the view carry down to Congo Square it was a growing curiosity that kept me on his trail. When he turned into that dark alleyway I stopped and debated. I felt like an eavesdropper and yet something drew me on and I walked up that dark alley. I passed that one lighted window but I went on threw a sort of tunnel into another alleyway and then I stopped. Ahead of me Johnny Statz stood before a dark dismal looking old wreck of a building. Suddenly he whistled quietly a gigantic man appeared out of the shadows. Johnny handed in the chicken claw and was motioned into the building and then I heard sounds coming from the upstairs of that building. A throbbing drum, a wailing, an unearthly sound and yet wonderful. An exotic fascinating rhythm. This was music, something new, something sensational, something that would set New Orleans on its ear and put Eddie Block in the big time. I had to get in there and hear it. I was mighty busy for the next five minutes. I ran back down the alley overturning five or six garbage cans before I found what I needed. Then back to that lighted window in the alley and a five spot in exchange for a red ribbon. Then I was back at the dark building walking up to that menacing shadow. Lala, let me see your face. Okay, okay easy with that knife my ribs are tender. Your face never been here before. My friend Johnny starts up there, he'll tell you. Mr. Johnny, your friend, yes you've come? This, this chicken claw told me to come. Papa Benjamin sent you there? Certainly. You'll make me late. Papa Benjamin won't like that. All right, go along here. We're singing No All in New Orleans. I groped up the stairs half expecting to feel his knife in my back. But I got to the top safely. Cautiously, I opened the door and slipped down. The room was full of people, they were in such a state of frenzy I wasn't even noticed. I slipped into a corner and slid down by the wall sitting on the floor. That was a sight I'll never forget, wild, fantastic, hideous, revolting, fascinating. In the center of the room was an incredibly old man, naked to the waist, wearing a hideous mask. And holding a live chicken. There were wild gestures, weird incantations, frantic dancing, shouting, rolling of eyes. There was blood, and always there was the chant. Nobody noticed me. After a moment I took a piece of copy paper out of my pocket and began putting down the notes. It was wonderful, fantastic and wonderful. In ten minutes I had it, and I'd seen enough, enough for a lifetime of nightmares. I began to feel sick, I wanted to get out. I started to stand up. Suddenly the room went dead. A stranger is here. His bony arms stretched out straight from the shoulder, pointing at me like a narrow. And there was blood on it. What you do here? Pop all over it. I notice, ma'am. Let me find out. No one moved. There was no sound in the room as Johnny Stats came over and squatted beside me. You're in terrible trouble, Eddie. I don't know if I can get you out of it. What is this, Stats? What are you doing here? There's no time to talk now. You've got to do something quicker. You'll be a dead man. Why? I'm on the very heart of New Orleans. I wouldn't dare. Listen, you've seen enough tonight. You know better. Eddie, there's only one way. What? Join. Become one of us. Oh, no. It's the only way, Eddie. I can't save you. You'd better hurry up, because unless you do, you'll never get out of here alive. You know what this is, don't you? This is voodoo. Okay, sure. I'll join up. Why not? Wait a minute, Eddie. There's a lot more to it than you think. Unless you're serious, it'd be better to get cut to pieces right now. All right, don't worry. I'm serious. All right. Papalloi, his spirit wishes to join our spirits. The old man burned some feathers while the others watched silently. Then he nodded. He came out all right. He reads them. The spirits are willing. There were other things. Rituals, ceremonies, another sacrifice. Then as the chanting started again, they brought me the sacrificial bowl. I didn't have to be told what was in it. I started to draw back. Drake, Eddie. Drake, I'll kill you on the spot. Late next morning, the band assembled at Maxim's for a rehearsal. When Johnny Statz got there, he found another drummer sitting in his place. Naturally, he came to me. What's all this about, Eddie? I don't want any voodoo lover in my band. That's all Statz. Here's a check for two weeks' salary. So you're crossing them, are you? Boy, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes for all the gold and port knocks. If you mean that bad dream last night, I haven't told anybody and I won't. I'd be laughed at. I'm only remembering what I can use of it. The jungle is just trees to me, the Congo or river, and the nighttime is just a time for electric lights. Hey, but this new number you're gonna rehearse this morning. I said I'd remember what I can use. Listen, Eddie, that chant is sacred. It's secret. It was secret. Eddie, don't do it. Look, here's a couple of sea notes. Hand them these. That ought to pay up my dues from now to doomsday. And I don't want a receipt. And if they try putting poison in my orange juice, they'll end up in a chain. It's not that easy, Eddie. You're one of us. Oh, get out. Goodbye, dead men. Graham, the manager of the club, changed his mind about cancelling our contract when he heard us rehearse the chant. Instead, he spent five Gs in publicity. And Saturday night was set for the big unveiling. It seemed like all New Orleans tried to jam into Maxons. Came to hear the voodoo chant. The real thing. Just before we were ready to hit it, Judy came up to me. Eddie, listen. Let's not do it. Oh, what do you mean, baby? Not do it. This is it. This is our ticket to the big time. It'll be a sense safe. Yeah, I know, but I got a funny feeling. And look, I found this under your dressing room door just now. It sounds like a warning. Somebody doesn't want you to play that number. Let me see. You can summon the spirits, but can you dismiss them again? Think well. Forget it, baby. Stats is trying to scare me because I fired him. Ladies and gentlemen. Come on, honey, let's go. They're waiting. Maxon, it takes great pleasure in bringing you a historic moment in musical history. You're about to hear, for the first time anywhere, the voodoo chant. The age-old ceremonial rhythm, no one but the initiated has ever heard before. This is the real thing. An accurate transcription. Not a note's been changed. So, ladies and gentlemen, Eddie Block and his chips present for the first time anywhere, the voodoo chant. Thank you for more, but we were playing with KG. Once a night, that had packed him in. After it was over, I went back to our dressing room. Judy got there before me. She was reading a newspaper somebody had brought in. Eddie, listen. Oh, baby, you were wonderful, and we wowed him. We're in the money now. Yeah, Eddie, but I'm... Oh, boy, am I tired. I feel more tired than I've ever felt in my life. Nervous strain, I guess, huh? Let down. Eddie, look here in the paper. Oh, who cares about the paper now? Eddie, it's Johnny Stett. Huh? He's dead. He drowned himself in Lake Portia train this afternoon. He... this afternoon? Then that note, it wasn't Johnny. Oh, look, Eddie, you can't blame yourself. Me? Oh, no, no, no, no. Of course not, but I think I know who to blame. What do you mean? Nothing, nothing. Eddie, why don't you lie down and rest for a few minutes? You look worn out. Yeah, I am. I... I feel dead. Here, let me take off your coat. Oh, be careful. What's the matter? I don't know. Funny thing, while I was waving the baton on the chant, I felt something, a sharp pain there in my back, like a pin or something stuck in me. I don't feel anything there now. Maybe it slipped down. I don't know. Couldn't have been much. There. Now, you just lie down. You'll feel better in a few minutes. You've been working too hard. You should relax now. Maybe take a few days off. Eddie, look here. Where did this come from? What? It's a little doll that was lying on the dressing table. Why, Eddie, it looks just like you. Let me see. That's funny. Look, there in the back. There's a little pin sticking in the back. Yes. That's right where I felt the pain. That started it. The next day, I had a backache. Later, there was a numbness that spread to my shoulders, arms, legs. I felt tired all the time, listless, dead. I began to lose weight. I couldn't get Johnny Stats out of my mind. He'd introduced me to them, vouched for me, and he'd committed suicide. He knew he hadn't waited. I decided to get out of New Orleans. I went to New York, playing the chan, of course. I had to. It was my biggest asset now. But nothing changed. I was losing weight from a long time. From a husky 200 down to 160. I couldn't sleep. Maybe if I put an ocean between. I took an offer in London, toured the continent away a year. I was an international hit now, the biggest attraction in music. But I was down to 110, dying on my feet. The doctors couldn't figure it out. Reynolds in London told me. The order is normal, Mr. Block, as any one I ever examined. You're so well-balanced that you haven't even got that extra little touch of imagination most actors and musicians have. I guess that's true, Doctor. I'm just mediocre. And yet, you might say, my success is killing me. And so, after two years, I finally realized it was no use. I came back. Back to New Orleans. And back to the dark alleyway, down near Congo Square. I could just barely drag myself along. But I had to see Papa Benjamin. I slowly climbed the stairs, up to that loathsome door. I went in. There he was. Papa Benjamin. Staring at me from the bed as if he'd been expecting me. Then he started to laugh. Take that churrse off me. Give me my life. I'll do anything. Anything you say. What been done cannot be undone. You think spirits of earth, air, fire, water, know what forgiveness means. Intercede for me then. You brought it about? Here's money. I'll give you twice as much. All I earn, all I ever hope to earn. You have fouled the Obaia. Death has been on you from that night, all over the world, in the air above. You have mocked spirit with a chant that summons him. And please, please, here's a gun. Kill me now and be done with it. I can't stand anymore. All you have to do is shoot. I'll write a note, sign it, that I did it myself. Death will come, but different. Slow. Oh, slow. Oh no, no, no. I can't stand it. I won't. I won't. Maybe if I kill you, maybe then the spell will be broken. Yeah, that's it. I'll kill you! And that's all, Commissioner. And I came here. At the police station. You know the rest. Well? All right, Mr. Blog. Don't believe me, do you? Yes, I believe you. Not about the curse, of course. That was your own mind. They planted the suggestion in your mind you did the rest. But it's plain that you killed in self-defense. Crazy kind of self-defense, but I think we can manage it. We'll try. The Commissioner managed it, all right? How is almost a story in itself? How a detective with a moulage false face posed his pop of Benjamin and called the voodoo clan together and into a trap? How they collected the evidence that proved my story? And how they sent most of that voodoo bunch to jail? My name wasn't even connected with the case, so now I'm free. I'm living again. I've gained weight, and the tiredness and the numbness is gone. I took a nice vacation, I went to Bermuda, relaxed, and had fun. Now I'm back in New Orleans at Maxims, and the whole thing is forgotten. We're opening tonight, and the place is packed. Everybody's come to hear the chant. Eddie Block and the chant. We're on our way now. Nothing can stop us. Nothing can stop us. Gentlemen, we welcome back on his triumphal return, Eddie Block and his chips, playing for you the one and only. Look, Adam and Judy, they're eating it up. What's the matter? I was hoping I'd never hear this thing again. What do you mean? It's your trademark, yours and that is? I tried to persuade him not to do it, and he wouldn't miss it. Why? You aren't imagining all that voodoo stuff. I don't know. It was all in his mind that I nearly killed him. I don't think you can put it out of your mind if they get so easy. When Eddie plays it again... Oh, no. Hey, wait a minute. Look at Eddie. There's something wrong. What? Why are you staggering? Oh, wait. Here, let me pick him up. He's probably just fainted from the excitement. No! I guess Papa Benjamin won after all. And tonight brought you Papa Benjamin by William Irish. Adapted for radio by John Dunkel, with Frank Lovejoy as Eddie Block, Louis van Rooten as Papa Benjamin, Harry Bartell as the police commissioner, and Joan Banks as Judy. Music was conceived and conducted by Cy Fuhr. Next week... You are speeding through the night on the Eastern Bull Express. You're alone and unarmed, and suddenly you realize that your life is in danger, that somewhere on the train are deadly killers from whom you must escape. Next week, we escape with Harold Lam's exciting adventure story, Three Good Witnesses. Good night, then, until the same time next week, when again we offer you... Escape! This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.