WEBVTT

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Suspense. Tonight, suspense brings you Mr. Kirk Douglas as star. But first, a brief message

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Livermore, California. And now, Schenley brings you Radio's outstanding theater of thrills,

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Suspense. Presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines of Fresno, California.

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Tonight starring Mr. Kirk Douglas. In the story of Markham's death. A suspense play

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produced, edited, and directed for Schenley by William Spear.

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You say Phil Martin's run dry? Well, I didn't make it up. My wife got it from Ann. Hasn't

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written a word in six months. Yes, and I got it from Peterson, his publisher. They've

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dropped him from their spring list. Well, bye-bye, Dean of American Mystery Writers.

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I'm glad to see him go. Phil Martin. I thought that guy'd write from the grave. I don't understand

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it. I guess it happens to the best of us. Hope he saved his money, but I suspect he hasn't.

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Phil Martin run dry. I don't get it. I don't get it.

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No, I didn't get it either. Unless you border on that fringe of abnormality which marks

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you as a writer, you can't possibly understand the complete futility you feel when your talent

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is suddenly turned off like a water spot. I spent as much time staring at the blank paper

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in my typewriter as I ordinarily spend in writing an entire novel. Oh, Ann could sympathize

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with me because she loved me, but I didn't need Ann's stupid sympathy.

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Phil. Phil, darling, I'm sure it's only temporary.

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Temporary? Ann, I can't even write a decent ten-word telegram. It's no use, Ann. I'm

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afraid I'm through. Oh, no, you can't be. Not anyone as great as you. Phil Martin,

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Phil, maybe you've done too much. Darling, maybe you'll rest. Why don't you rest for

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a few months? I've been resting.

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Well, I mean, get away. Yes, that's my last chance, dear. I'm going

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to do just that. I'm going abroad. Abroad? Oh, honey, when are we going?

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We aren't going. I am. You're... Phil, is this a way of letting... I mean...

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Oh, don't worry, dear. I'm not running out on you. I'll just be gone for a few months.

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Oh. Oh, well, just a few months. Yes, alone. Ann, I told you when I first met

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you, I'm a complex person. I'm difficult to understand.

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Yes, yes, dear, I know that. I... But I thought I understood you.

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Well, you can't. Nobody can. But I love you, Phil.

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And I love you, Ann, but that doesn't change matters. I'm going to England for a few months

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by myself. You don't have a thing to worry about. You keep your apartment and wait for

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me. The rent's paid through the first of the year. I'll be back before that.

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Ann Fleming was the beautiful, not overly intelligent type of girl I've associated with

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since my divorce. Her only family was a half brother, a petty hoodlum whose habit of always

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wearing gloves, one of the imposing nickname of kid gloves. That hadn't helped when he

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ran his car into a storefront killing two people just a block from where he'd held up

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a tavern. Kid gloves had gone to jail three months before I met Ann to serve 40 years

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for manslaughter and robbery. A very corny plot, the whole thing, including Ann.

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As I roamed around London, I thought maybe a visit in this city of great mystery tradition

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would be my answer. And it was. The second day, while wandering around aimlessly in the

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bombed out and still unrepaired section of Bloomsbury, I stumbled onto my last inspiration

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quite by accident. Oh, say, when was all this hit?

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Oh, right at the start of the war, sir. Oh, then this isn't V-bomb damage.

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Oh, no, government. As a matter of fact, the old house across the street had it the first

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part of Jerry Comeauver. I'd almost say it was the first house to be hit in the war.

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Well, did it take only one bomb to level it like that?

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Well, how many do you think it takes? I've cleaned it up a bit now. Old house, that too.

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Built back in 1750. Hmm, really?

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Yeah, pretty well known. Lots of Yanks made their digs there. Before the war, that is.

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A Yankee rioter stayed there once when he was here. What was his name, ducky?

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Oh, E. P. Rowe. No, Poe, Poe. Oh, that's it. Poe. So you don't mean Edgar Allen Poe,

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do you? That's him. That's him. What? Edgar Allen Poe once stayed in that house?

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That's right. American writer. Acquaintance of yours?

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Well, hardly a contemporary. What?

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Oh, nothing. My little halbert was playing in the rubble there Tuesday last and dug out a box of

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junk. Maybe some of it was Mr. Poe's. Like to see it? Why, yes, certainly. Well, it's vaguely possible.

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I looked through the battered steel box. The woman provided me with a cup of tea as I spread

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the contents out in front of me. It was thrilling somehow to think that these dusty things perhaps

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had once belonged to the man who had invented the detective story more than a hundred years ago.

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As she went out and I replaced the trinkets, I snagged the faded musty gray satin lining of

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the box and accidentally tore it. Trying to get it back together, I only ripped it further.

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I put my hand under the lining to straighten it and something fell out.

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It was a waterproof packet containing three yellowed sheets of paper written in a small,

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fine hand. At the bottom of the third page was the name Edgar Allan Poe.

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I slipped the packet into my pocket and returned the box. Oh, find anything? No,

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just as you said, a lot of worthless trinkets. Oh, by the way, I ripped the lining as I was

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putting everything back. Oh, that's all right. Oh, no, I'd like to give you something for your

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trouble and for my clumsy damage. Here, and thank you so much. Five quid. Oh, I say five quid,

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but the old thing probably ain't worth a thrifty bit. Well, your time, your trouble,

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and your courtesy are, though. Thank you very much. But five quid. Oh, I say.

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Five pounds for an original Edgar Allan Poe manuscript. It was a short story written by

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Poe during his brief stay in England many years before his rise in subsequent fall.

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As I read and reread the manuscript, I realized that it was an experiment in a completely new

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mystery technique. Here, in effect, was what Poulty had never discovered in his thesis

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on the existence of only 32 basic dramatic situations. Suddenly I realized I was the only

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one who knew this story and that I could put it to better use than as a museum piece. Why,

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here indeed was the 33rd situation. Why, in my hands, it could blossom forth as a novel,

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a film, a radio play. I was about to be reborn and literary mortality was at my fingertips.

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I began writing in London and all the way back home. It took me six months to complete my work,

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and then with everything finished, I burned the original Poe composition and sent the novel off

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to the publisher. Then I called in. Will it be a big success, darling? Big success? Well,

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I've never been as confident of anything in my life. Oh, that's wonderful. They said you were

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through. I told you. A rest was all I needed, a change of scenery. I'm proud of you, Phil. I'm so

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proud. I'm glad. Maybe now you, now Phil, maybe you'll think differently about things. I'm so glad.

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You aren't even listening to me. Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Oh, look, look, Anne. I'm going to be pretty

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busy for the next few weeks. Now I won't be able to see you very often. Oh, I should think you'd

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have time now that... Well, I haven't, but we'll see. We have a date tonight. Well, I'm going to the

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Mystery Writers Banquet tonight. And tomorrow? Well, okay, but I'll come over for you at eight

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o'clock and for once will you try to be ready on time. Every year on the anniversary of Edgar

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Allen Poe's birth, the Mystery Writers of America hold a banquet similar to the Academy Award

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Banquet. Instead of awarding Oscars, they give Edgars for the outstanding works of the year.

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All of a sudden, everybody was looking at me. Now I have a special Edgar to give.

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This special award goes to the first writer to discover a new and startling different approach

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to the mystery story since the death of our patron saint, the great Edgar Allen Poe himself,

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Philip Martin, for your novel Markham's Death.

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Yes, a special Edgar for an idea plagiarized from Edgar Allen Poe. The end had justified the means,

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and I knew that the original manuscript was now only ashes. I was the only one who had ever seen

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it. I was completely happy and enjoying my victory after the banquet in the quiet of my own home.

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Mr. Martin? Yes, speaking. This is Dr. Selgrove. Dr. Selgrove? Yes, I'm head of the Academy of

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American Letters. I want to congratulate you, Mr. Martin. I was at the banquet tonight. Oh,

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well, thank you, sir. Well, yes, indeed. I've been collecting data on Edward Allen Poe all my life.

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Your work was in the finest traditions of Poe. Well, that is the supreme compliment, Dr.

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Mr. Martin, what did you find behind the lining in that steel box in London?

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What? It was you, wasn't it? Well, I don't know what you're talking about. Yes, in the truest Poe

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tradition. So much so that I have reason to believe your idea was once Poe's. Now, look, Dr. I,

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I hope you haven't spread this misinformation around. Why, you're wrong, of course, but, well,

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even the faintest suggestion could do me irreparable harm. If you mean, have I been discreet, sir, I have,

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until now. Well, look, how do you want me to disprove this ridiculous accusation? I'm at the

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Academy every day. I'll be there tomorrow night until nine thirty. The doors close at eight, but

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I'll wait for you. That will be fine, doctor. I'll be there around nine.

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And as I set the receiver back on the hook, I wondered just how much he actually knew

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and what I would have to do to silence him.

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For suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you Mr. Kirk Douglas in the story of Markham's death.

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Roma Wines presentation tonight in Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.

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And now, Roma Wines bring back to our Hollywood Soundstage, Kirk Douglas as Philip Martin,

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in the story of Markham's Death, a play well calculated to keep you in suspense.

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The hands of the clock on the wall seemed drugged. They moved so slowly that day.

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My appointment with Dr. Selgrove was for 9 p.m. I was to be at Ann's at 8. I figured about 20

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minutes would wipe that slate clean. Hello, honey. I'll be ready in a minute. I said I'd be here at 8.

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Oh dear. Isn't 8 already? Is it? Yes, it's after 8. Oh, I thought it was only about 7 30. I'll hurry.

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Well, there's no reason. Are we going out? No, Ann. We're not going out. As a matter of fact,

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we're never going out again. What? I'm sorry, Ann. This is the last time we'll see each other.

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But, but I, I, well, Phil, I, I've, I've told everyone that...

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What have you told everyone? That we were going to be married.

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Well, you shouldn't have. Did I ever say I'd marry? You know I was married once and it doesn't work

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for me. This would be different. Oh, would it? I don't think so. You see, Ann, you're taking up

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too much of my time. But I wouldn't get in the way, Phil. You know... You're also taking up too much

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of my thoughts. I probably hit that bad slump a few months ago because of you. Oh, it wasn't your

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fault. It was mine for not realizing it. Phil, you, you really mean... Oh, now look.

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What about me? What about me? What am I going to do? You'll get over it. Here. This should help.

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What's that? Take it. Just what you like. A roll of nice, clean, new $50 bills. Feel better now?

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You think you can buy everything with money, don't you? Well, you can't. And stop drumming with

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that letter opener. Oh, sorry. I didn't realize. Well, that takes care of everything, doesn't it?

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We're still friends? No. No, we'll never be friends. Phil Martin, you're rotten. You're rotten

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and you're conceited. You're everything I've ever... I hate you. I said I don't like scenes. Goodbye, Ann.

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Get out of here. Get out!

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As I left her apartment, I paused to look at my watch. It was 8.30. I noticed a man fade back into

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the darkness of the doorway, but outside of the fact that he looked vaguely familiar, I thought

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nothing more of it. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, at least from one

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shoulder, and I was on my way to lift the weight from the other one. The Academy of American

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Letters was just a short distance from Ann's apartment. Mr. Martin? Yes. I take it you're Dr.

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Selgrove. That's right. Sit down, Mr. Martin. I'll stand, thank you. You were at the banquet last

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night. I remember seeing you. And when I saw you, I knew my search was over. You fit the description

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just like the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. I knew you were the man Mrs. Carruthers described.

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Who is Mrs. Carruthers? The woman who gave you the steel box. The box which must have contained the

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Edgar Allan Poe manuscript you so skillfully rewrote. Preposterous. You deny that you were

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in London. No, but... Or that you found the box and examined it. Well, no, but... Mr. Martin,

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a poverty-stricken woman like Mrs. Carruthers couldn't forget a man who gave her five pounds.

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She could forget seeing him slip a packet into his pocket. That is, until someone came along and

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gave her ten pounds to refresh her memory. For ten pounds, she probably dreamed up the whole story.

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Look, you say you know something of Poe. Then you know that the time he spent in London was long

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before his prominence as an author. Why, for all we know, he didn't write a line during his entire

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stay there. Mr. Martin, I've devoted my life to gathering information about Edgar Allan Poe. It's

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my hobby as well as my job. I've been looking for one missing manuscript for a long time.

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A manuscript whose existence I learned of by quite by chance. What are you talking about?

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This letter which Edgar Allan Poe wrote to a cousin in Boston during his London visit.

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Fine piece, isn't it? Well, what about it? Well, let me read it to you. He says,

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My new theory for a tale of murder is a form of induction as opposed to deduction.

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I refer to it as Markhamism after the title character. My first draft manuscript is stored

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behind a satin curtain built of steel to age and mellow until such a time as I may produce it

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without being turned mad. I see.

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Dear me, you were overconfident, Martin, calling your novel Markham's death. Not only didn't you

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change the process, you didn't even alter the name. And if I should admit to all this,

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what would be your price? Now, Mr. Martin, money's of no consequence. I'm a student,

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a collector of American letters. All I want from you is the manuscript.

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Impossible. In return for my everlasting silence. Possessing the manuscript is payment enough.

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I have no desire to ruin you unless, of course, it should become necessary for me to do so.

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How would I know you wouldn't show it?

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Certain you don't question my word.

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The manuscript has been destroyed.

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Don't expect me to believe that.

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It's the truth. I burned it.

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Well, if you want to be difficult, I won't agree with you, Mr. Martin.

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Martin, pity you won't cooperate. I'll just put this letter back in the safe, and then tomorrow we'll see.

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Panic fled with the return of cold logic. Dr. Selgrove was unquestionably dead.

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I had to act quickly because speed was essential. I knew that from what I myself had often written.

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I took the letter and pocketed it to be burned later in the privacy of my own home.

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There will be no suspicious ashes for the police to sift.

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The bookend was the only thing I touched. I carefully filled the wash basin with hot water

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and dropped the bookend into it, smearing and obliterating any fingerprints.

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Now, I had to work backwards. The average murderer establishes his alibi first.

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But in my case, I had to establish it behind me and cover my time.

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Most people are careless about exact times and can be off many minutes,

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especially in their recollection. Have you ever looked at your watch?

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Then had someone asked you the time only to find that you had to look again?

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Yes, Anne would work as my alibi. I couldn't confide in her, but she was careless about time.

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But what of the man I'd seen in her hall at 8.30? Suddenly I knew it was Anne's brother,

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Kid Gloves Flemming. Now that I thought about it, I knew I recognized him from his pictures.

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He'd obviously escaped from prison and had gone to Anne for help.

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Yes, Anne would be more than happy to say I'd been with her until a quarter to nine.

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Unobserved, I hurried back to her apartment house. In front of the building,

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I hailed a passing taxi and entered at precisely 9.05.

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Where to, mister?

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The Milford Club on 59th. Not many taxis in this neighborhood, are there?

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Were you waiting long?

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Ten or fifteen minutes. I wanted to be at the club by 9. It's almost that now.

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Is that all? I thought it was later. Oh well, I'll get you there fast.

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Oh, that's all right. There's no hurry.

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Oh, good evening, Mr. Martin.

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Oh, good evening, Henry. Well, not many coats being checked tonight, are there?

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No, sir. But look at all those hats.

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Let me see. Seems as though I've misplaced my watch. Have you the time, Henry?

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Why, sure. It's 20 minutes after nine.

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Oh, thanks. I seem to be losing every minute of my time.

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Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

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20 minutes after nine. Oh, thanks. I seem to be losing everything tonight.

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Oh, what's wrong? Well, I've dropped my notebook.

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Oh, I must have dropped it in that taxi. Was it important?

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Well, just to me. I had some personal notes in there.

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Oh, look, I wonder, Henry, if you'd call the cab company for me and ask if it's turned in.

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Sure. Thanks. My name and address are engraved in the cover.

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As a matter of fact, I even recall the name of the driver.

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It struck me as unusual. It was Alonzo P. Alonzo.

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I'll take care of it for you. Thanks.

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Oh, and you might add that I'll post a $25 reward.

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Then I went down to see Lieutenant John Kirkland of Homicide.

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We'd been classmates, and I'd spent many an evening at headquarters discussing our favorite subject, crime.

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Well, well, well. Hello, hello, Phil.

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Hiya, Johnny. Anything on the docket? Oh, just routine.

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Oh, mind if I sit in? I want to get my mind off Anne.

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Anne? Well, what's maddening? Oh, you know, Johnny, the usual.

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I wrote Phinney to our little romance, and, well, she wasn't too happy about it.

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Still a dog with the women, eh, kid? Oh, say, say, this is a coincidence.

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Remember that wild kid brother of Anne? This kid brother? Oh, oh, you mean the one

22:57.760 --> 23:00.960
they call Kid Gloves? Well, I remember reading about him. Why?

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Well, he broke out of jail late this afternoon. Uh-oh. Say, Anne'll certainly be worried.

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Well, she won't have to worry anymore. What?

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Yeah, they caught him down at the railroad station trying to get out of town.

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What? Are they bringing him in? Yeah. Stiff.

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Yeah, the poor fool decided to shoot it out, and he picked a crack shot like O'Malley the drawing.

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Oh, well, is O'Malley all right? Oh, sure, O'Malley's always all right.

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But the kid's dead. Oh.

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This is going to be tough on Anne. Even though they didn't get along, he's still her brother.

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Well, she'll get over it. I guess it's better this way.

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Ah, it's a funny thing, though. He was still wearing those Kid Gloves,

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and he had a roll of new $50 bills that would choke a horse.

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Now I understood. Anne's brother had visited her just after I left, and she'd given him the money.

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Well, I was completely relaxed now. The only person who could possibly spoil my perfect story was dead.

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Oh, uh, pardon me, Phil, please. Sure.

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Hello. This is Kirkland speaking.

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Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

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Oh, when? I see. Who?

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Philip Martin? Huh?

24:26.720 --> 24:33.120
Why, why, he's right here. I said he's right here.

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Oh, is it for me? Just a second, please.

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Yeah. Okay. Let me know. I'll send him right out.

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Hey, what's up, Johnny? I thought that call was for me.

24:44.960 --> 24:49.600
No, no, it, uh, it wasn't for you, Phil. It was about you.

24:50.560 --> 24:51.760
About me? Yeah.

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Where were you this evening? I told you. I had dinner, went over to see Anne, and then met you.

24:58.720 --> 25:01.040
Well, weren't you anyplace else, sir? Are you sure?

25:01.600 --> 25:05.360
Of course I'm sure. Say, Johnny, what is this, the third degree?

25:05.360 --> 25:07.840
Do you remember what time you left Anne's?

25:07.840 --> 25:10.960
Why, well, I must have left about a quarter of nine.

25:10.960 --> 25:14.080
Yes, I'm sure of that. It was just about nine when I caught my cab.

25:14.080 --> 25:16.560
Was anyone with you? At Anne's, no, we were alone.

25:17.120 --> 25:21.440
Couldn't you be mistaken? Couldn't you have been some place else, maybe at 8 15 or 8 30?

25:21.440 --> 25:26.880
No. Why, Phil, why do you play right into my hands?

25:26.880 --> 25:30.640
Why do you make it impossible for me to help you? What are you talking about?

25:30.640 --> 25:39.840
Murder, Phil. I'm, I'm arresting you for murder.

25:49.840 --> 25:54.720
In a few hours, I'm going to be executed for the murder of Dr. Selgrove.

25:54.720 --> 26:00.800
But the police don't know that yet. You see, although I'm innocent of the

26:00.800 --> 26:04.880
crime I'm scheduled to die for, I'm powerless to save myself.

26:11.520 --> 26:17.600
Yes, I backed out of my own crime successfully. Only I set myself squarely in the middle of a worse one.

26:18.240 --> 26:24.000
The only way I can save myself is by telling that I was busy killing Dr. Selgrove at the time I'm

26:24.000 --> 26:29.120
supposed to have killed Anne Fleming. I know that Anne was killed by her brother, but there's no way

26:29.120 --> 26:33.920
of proving it. The letter opener he plunged into her chest still had my fingerprints, slightly

26:33.920 --> 26:39.120
smeared by his kid gloves. Robbery was ruled out because nothing was disturbed. Snooping neighbors

26:39.120 --> 26:43.680
had heard Anne and me quarrel and had heard her scream around a quarter of nine. They suspected

26:43.680 --> 26:49.760
that I had hit her and nothing more. But it placed the time exactly, exactly as I had placed myself

26:49.760 --> 26:59.680
in her company during that time. Well, I see where they dug up another original hitherto

26:59.680 --> 27:05.440
unknown manuscript by Edgar Allan Poe in somebody's closet in Fordham, New York.

27:06.160 --> 27:11.840
It's all about a man who builds such a perfect alibi for himself that he gets executed for the

27:11.840 --> 27:18.320
wrong murder. Well, I'm glad they only found it today after I had already written the above confession.

27:18.320 --> 27:21.440
Otherwise, they'd say I'd been plagiarizing Poe again.

27:21.440 --> 27:34.320
Suspense, the story of Markham's death starring Kirk Douglas presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A.

27:34.320 --> 27:41.760
Roma Wines, America's largest wine factory. The story of Markham's death starring Kirk Douglas,

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presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, America's largest wine factory.

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Roma Wines, America's largest selling wines. Yes, Roma Wines are America's largest selling wines.

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And this is Truman Bradley to tell you the reason. It's because Roma Wines taste better.

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You see, Roma gathers and presses only the choicest California grapes. Then with age-old skills

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or fragrant Roma Tokei. And always remember to ask for Roma. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines,

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enjoyed by more Americans than any other wines. Kirk Douglas may soon be seen in the Hal Wallace

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production, I Walk Alone. Tonight's suspense play was written by Bob Plath. Next Thursday,

28:58.720 --> 29:06.000
same time, you will hear Richard Ney as star of Suspense, produced and directed by William

29:06.000 --> 29:18.960
Spear for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California. In the coming weeks, Suspense

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will present such stars as Louis Jourdan, June Havoc, Dennis O'Keefe, Marsha Hunt, and others.

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Make it a point to listen each Thursday to Suspense, radio's outstanding theater of thrills.

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This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.

