42-09-30_100_in_the_Dark.txt

The Columbia Network takes pleasure in bringing you Suspense Columbia's Play Theatre of Outstanding Thrillers. Produced and directed by William Spear and scored by Bernard Herrmann. The notable melodramas from fiction and stage and screen, from the world's great literature of entertaining excitement, presented each week to bring you to the edge of your chair, to keep you in suspense. Tonight's story, by America's distinguished author and playwright Owen Johnson, gathers its suspense in a very gentle way. It doesn't have a spectacular finish, garnished with revolver shots. There are no graveyard watches. There's not so much as a single lifeless body, identified or unidentified. It's a tale told in a club room, the Artists and Writers Club in New York. A tale of high class robbery and suspicion, and of how some ladies and gentlemen nervously counted 100 in the dark. Ah, that was a fine meal. Me for the club anytime. Here, we can all sit here, Quincy. Yes, and you just draw up that chair for Mr. Peters. Oh, yeah. Thank you. Do you all know Peters? This is Mr. Steingall. How do you do? How do you do? Mr. Gollier? Oh, I'm good with Matt. Oh, yes. Oh, you know each other. Yes, indeed. And the one who drew up the chair, Mr. Rankin. How do you do? Well, I guess we're all acquainted now. To get back to our table discussion, Quinia. Oh, yes, yes. How about a drink? Who'll join me? Oh, pleasure. Fine, fine. John. Well, now, Stangall, as I said, there are only half a dozen stories in the world. What is more to the point? There's every reason. Yes, sir. What? Oh, five with soda, John. Yes, sir. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. What is more to the point, gentlemen? Is the small number of human relations that are so simple and yet so fundamental that they can be eternally played upon, redressed, and reinterpreted in every language in every age, and yet remain inexhaustible in the possibility of variation. Well, that's true, of course. Very possible. Take the eternal triangle two men and a woman, or two women and a man. Its variations extend to thousands. That right, Rankin? Well, in a way. Ah, here we are. Set them down right there, John. Very well, sir. Ah. A little soda. Here you are. Thank you. And you? Only a second. Soda, Peter? Yes, please. Another one. Here you are. Thanks. And here's yours. Thank you. And now, a little soda and wine. Well, here's to you all. Sure, sure. Sure. I'm afraid we can't see eye to eye, Quinny. I believe there are situations, original situations, that are independent of your human emotions. That exist just because they are situations, accidental and nothing else. As for instance. Well, I'll just cite an ordinary one that happens to come to my mind. In a group of five men, such as we are here, a theft takes place. One man is the thief. Which one? Now, I'd like to know what emotion that interprets. And yet it certainly is an original theme at the bottom of the whole literature. It's not the same thing at all. Detective stories. I could answer that the situation you give can be traced back to the commonest of human emotions curiosity. I think Plane has you there, Rankin. What is the peculiar fascination that the detective problem exercises over the human mind? You will say curiosity. Yes and no. Admit at once that the whole art of a detective story consists in a statement of the problem. Anyone can do it. I can do it. Steingall can do it. Rankin, I believe even you can do it. The solution doesn't count. It is usually banal. It should be prohibited. What interests us is can we guess it? There you have it the problem, the detective story. Now, why the fascination? I'll tell you. It appeals to our curiosity. Yes. But deeper, to a sort of intellectual vanity. Five men present. The theft takes place. Who's the thief? Who will guess it first? Whose brains will show its superior cleverness? You see? That's all. That's all there is to it. Out of all of which, the interesting thing is that Rankin has supplied the reason why the supply of detective fiction is inexhaustible. It does all come down to the simplest terms five possibilities, one answer. Well, the reason is that the situation does constantly occur. It's a situation that any of us might get into any time. Yes, I know of an incident of that kind that happened to a friend of mine last month. Of course, of course, gentlemen, you are glorifying commonplaces. Every crime, I tell you, expresses itself in the terms of the picture puzzle that you feed your six year olds. It's only the variation that is interesting. Take the well-known instance of the visitor at a club and the rare coin, for example. You all know that story. I don't think I have. I'm not sure. Why, it's very well known. Go ahead, Crane. Tell it. A distinguished visitor is brought into a club. A dozen men, say, present at dinner, long table. Conversation finally veers around to curiosities and relics. One of the members present then takes from his pocket what he announces as one of the rarest coins in existence, passes it around the table. Coin travels back and forth, everyone examining it. And the conversation goes to another topic. All at once, the owner calls for his coin. It is nowhere to be found. Everyone looks at everyone else. First, they suspect a joke. Then it becomes serious. The coin is immensely valuable. Who has taken it? The owner is a gentleman. Does the gentlemanly, idiotic thing, of course. Laughs as he knows someone is playing a practical joke on him and that the coin will be returned tomorrow. The others refuse to leave the situation so. One man proposes that they all submit to a search. Everyone gives his assent until it comes to the stranger. He refuses, curtly, roughly, without giving any reason. Uncomfortable silence. The man is a guest. No one knows him particularly well, but still he is a guest. One member tries to make him understand that no offense is offered, that the suggestion was simply to clear the atmosphere. The stranger becomes very firm, very proud. And says, I refuse to allow my person to be searched, and I refuse to give the reason for my action. Another silence. The visitor evidently has the coin, but he is their guest, and etiquette protects him. Nice situation, eh? Well, what's the answer? The table is cleared. A waiter removes a dish of fruit, and there, under the ledge of the plate, where it's been pushed, is the coin. Manal explanation, eh? Of course. Solutions always should be. At once, everyone apologizes to him, whereupon the visitor rises and says, Now I can give you the reason for my refusal to be searched. There are only two known specimens of that coin in existence, and the second happens to be here in my vest pocket. That's rather obvious. Of course, the story is well invented, but the turn to it is very nice. Very nice, indeed. Well, I don't know. The ending is very unsatisfactory. The visitor should have had on him not another coin, but something absolutely different, something. Destructive, say, of a woman's reputation, and a great tragedy should have been threatened by the casual misplacing of the coin. Well, I've heard the same story told in a dozen different ways. Oh, it's happened a hundred times. It must continually happen. I know of one extraordinary instance. In fact, the most extraordinary instance of this sort I've ever heard. Peters, you rascal. I see you've been quietly letting us set the stage for you. Well, it's not a story that will please everyone. Why not? Because you will want to know what no one can ever know. It has no conclusion, then? Yes and no. As far as it concerns a woman, quite the most remarkable woman I've ever met, the story is complete. Do I know the woman? Possibly. Probably, I should say. As a matter of fact, this should be particularly interesting to you because I believe that most of you are acquainted with the people involved. The names, of course, are disguised. I think. Yes, I have. Just time before I catch my train to tell it to you. Mrs. Well. Mrs. Rita Kildare inhabited a charming bachelor girl studio, very elegant, with a duplex pattern in one of the buildings just off Central Park West. She knew very nearly everyone in that indescribable society in New York that's drawn from all levels and that imposes but one condition for membership to be amusing. In this mingled society, her invitations were eagerly sought. Her dinners were spontaneous, and the discussions, though gay and usually daring, were invariably under the control of wit and good taste. On the Sunday night of this adventure, she had, according to her custom, sent away her Filipino brother and invited to an informal chafing dish supper seven of her more unusual friends. At seven o'clock, having finished dressing, she put in order her bedroom, which formed a sort of free passage between the studio and a small dining room to the kitchen beyond. Then, going into the studio, she struck a match and was about to light the candlesticks which illuminated the room when the bell rang, and a Mr. Flanders, a broker, compact, Nervously alive, well groomed, was waiting as she opened the door. Well, you're early. On the contrary, you are late. Well, in any case, hello, and come inside. Here, let me take your things. Thank you. Well, I'm the first, I suppose. Of course. And since you are, you can be a good boy and help me with the candles. Delighted. Who's to be here tonight? The Enos Jacksons. I thought they were separated. Not yet. How interesting. Only you, dear lady, would dream of serving us a couple on The Verge. It is interesting, isn't it? Assuredly. Where did you know Jackson? Through the Warings. Jackson's a rather doubtful person, isn't he? Well, let's call him a very sharp lawyer. They tell me, though, he's been gambling pretty much. Indeed. How about yourself? Me? I'm a bachelor. If I lose my shirt, it makes no difference. Is that possible? Probable, even. Who else is coming? Oh, Maude Lilly. You know her? I don't think so. You met her here some time ago, a journalist. Oh, yes, yes, of course. I'd forgotten. Mr. Harris, the clubman, is coming, and the Stanley Cheevers. Stanley Cheevers. Are we going to gamble? Don't tell me you object. Certainly not. Only the Cheevers. They play quite a game. Yes, well united. They have an unusual streak of good luck. Oh, by the way, it's Jackson, isn't it, who is so attractive to Mrs. Cheever? Quite right. What a charming party. Where does Maud Lilly come in? Don't joke. She's in a desperate way. And young Harris? Oh, he used to make the salad and cream the chicken. Ah, see the whole party. I, of course, am to air the element of respectability. Of what? Don't play baby with me, my dear Flanders. I apologize. That's better. No one, of course, knows who else is coming. No one, of course. The Stanley Cheever Center. Short, fat man. With a vacant, fat face and slow moving eye, and his wife, voluble, nervous, overdressed, and pretty. Mr. Yes, Mr. Harris came in with Maude Lilly, a woman, straight, dark, Indian, great masses of somber hair, held in a little too loosely for neatness, with thick, quick lips and eyes that rolled away from the person who was talking to her. The Enos Jacksons were late and still agitated as they entered. His forehead had not quite banished the scowl, nor her eyes the scorn. He was of the type that never lost his temper, but caused others to lose theirs. Mrs. Jackson seemed fastened to her husband by an invisible leash. You looked at her curiously and wondered what such a nature would do in a crisis, with a lurking sense of a woman who carried with her her own impending tragedy. As soon as the company had been completed and the incongruity of the selection had been perceived, a smile of malicious anticipation ran the rounds, which the hostess cut short by saying, Well, now that everyone's here, this is the order for the night. You can quarrel all you want. You can whisper all the gossip you can think of about one another. But everyone is to be amusing. Also, everyone is to help with dinner. Nothing formal, nothing serious. We may all be bankrupt, divorced, or dead tomorrow. But tonight we'll be gay. That's the invariable rule of the house. For she's a jolly girl. For she's a jolly girl. Oh, thanks, everyone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get on with the cooking. Harris, I need you. I will. May I be of any help? Thank you, Ma, dear. Oh, Mrs. Schaefer, you might come along, too. All right. This is an adorable bedroom. Oh, thank you, dear. Now for my apron. Oh, there it is. Tie me up in the back, will you please, Maude? Of course. There you are. Fine, thanks. Now just let me get my rings off, and I'll be all ready to go to work. Oh, this is such a lovely apartment, Mrs. Kildare. Thanks. Soap and water always seem to do it. Ah, there. Your rings are so beautiful. They are nice, aren't they? But there's only one that's very valuable the sapphire. Oh, it's beautiful. Let me see. Oh. Oh, it must be very valuable. It cost $10,000 six years ago. It's been my talisman ever since. For the moment, however, I'm a cook. You're not going to leave the rings there? Why, of course. Now, I'm the cook. Maude Lilly, you're the story maid. Harris is the chef, and we're all under his orders. Mrs. Cheever, did you ever peel onions? Oh, good heavens, no. Well, there are no onions to peel. All you have to do is help set the table. Under their hostess's gay guidance, the seven guests began to circulate busily through the room, laying the table, grouping the chairs, opening bottles, and preparing the material for the chafing dishes. Mrs. Kildare, in the kitchen, ransacked the icebox and, with her own hands, shredded the chicken and measured the cream. Flanders, carry this in carefully. Cheever, stop watching your wife and put the salad bowl on the table. Everything ready, Harris? All set. All right. Everyone sit down. I'll be right in. She went into her bedroom, took off her apron, and hung it in the closet. Then, going to her dressing table, she drew the hatpin around which were her rings from the pincushion and carelessly slipped them on her fingers. But all at once, she frowned and looked quickly at her hand. Only two rings were there. The third ring, the sapphire, was missing. Stupid. She said to herself and returned to her dressing table. Immediately, she stopped. She remembered quite clearly putting the hatpin through the three rings. She made no attempt to search further, but remained without moving, her fingers slowly drumming on the table. Who had taken the ring? Each of her guests had had a dozen opportunities in the course of the time she'd been busy in the kitchen. She ran over their characters and their situations as she knew them. Strangely enough, at each, her mind stopped upon some reason that might explain a sudden temptation. Find out nothing this way. That's not the important thing to me just now. The important thing is to get the ring back. And slowly, deliberately, she began to walk back and forth, her clenched hand beating the deliberate, rhythmic measure of her journey. Five minutes later, as Harris, installed as chef over the chafing dish, was giving directions, school in the air, Mrs. Kildare came into the room like a lengthening shadow. Her entrance had been made with scarcely a perceptible sound, and yet each guest was aware of it at the same moment. With a little nervous start. Heavens, heavens, dear lady. You come in on us like a Greek tragedy. What is it you have for us? A surprise? I have something to say to you. Mr. Enos Jackson. Yes, Miss Keller. Kindly do as I ask you. Certainly. Go to the door. Go to the door? Please. Yes? Lock it. And bring me the key. There you are. You've locked it? As you wish me to. Thank you. Now, the bedroom door. Would you do the same? Sure. Thank you, Mr. Jackson. Mr. Cheever. Yeah? Would you blow out all the candles except the candelabra on the table? Blow out all the candles? Except the candelabra. All right. For goodness sake, Mrs. Kildare, what is it? I am getting terribly worked up. My nerves are all rage. All right, Mrs. Jacks. That's the last candle. All right. Now listen. My sapphire ring has just been stolen. What? You don't mean it. The ring's been taken within the last 20 minutes. I'm not going to mince words. The ring has been taken, and the thief is among you. But, Mrs. Kilbury, is it possible? Yes, Mrs. Cheever. There's not the slightest doubt. Three of you were in the bedroom when I placed my rings on the pincushion. Quite true. I was in the room when she took them off. The sapphire ring was on top. Each of you has passed through there a dozen times since. My sapphire ring is gone. And one of you has taken it. Now, listen. I'm not going to miss words. I'm not going to stand on ceremony. But I'm going to have my ring back. Listen to me carefully. I'm going to have that ring back. And until I do, not a soul shall leave this room. I don't care who's taken it. All I want is my ring. Now, I'm going to make it possible for whoever took it to restore it without possibility of detection. The doors are locked and will stay locked. I'm going to blow out the remaining candles in the candelabra, and we're going to count 100 slowly. It'll be in absolute darkness. No one will know or see what's done. But if, at the end of that time, the ring is not here on the table, I shall telephone the police and have everyone in this room searched. Am I quite clear? Everyone take his place about the table and remain standing, please. That's it. That'll do. Now, I'll blow out the candles and count 100. No more, no less. Remember, either I get that ring or everyone in this room will be searched. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty one, twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty, thirty one, thirty two, thirty three, thirty four, thirty five, thirty six, thirty seven, Fifty eight, forty, forty one, forty two, forty three, forty four, forty five, foot slipped off the chair, forty seven, forty eight, forty nine, fifty, fifty one, fifty two, fifty three, fifty four, fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty, sixty one. Sixty two, sixty three, sixty four, sixty five, sixty six, sixty seven, sixty eight, sixty nine, seventy, seventy one, seventy two, seventy three, the ring, seventy four, seventy five, seventy six, seventy seven, seventy eight, seventy nine, eighty, eighty one, eighty two, eighty three, eighty four, eighty five. Eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Well, it is there, Mr. Cheever. You may hand it to me. Well, now that that's over, we can have a very gay little supper. The lights, someone. And there you are, gentlemen. Oh, I say, Peters, that's not all. Absolutely. The story ends there? The story ends there. But who took the ring? Ha ha. What? You never found out? Never. No clue? None. I'm not sure I like the story. It's no story at all. Permit me, it is a story. And it is complete. In fact, I consider it unique because it has none of the banalities of a solution and leaves the problem even more confused than at the start. Well, I don't see. Of course, you don't see, my dear Anken. You do not see that any solution would be commonplace, whereas no solution leaves an extraordinary intellectual problem. How so? Well, in the first place, whether the situation actually happened or not, which is in itself a mere triviality, Peters has constructed it in a masterly way, the proof of which is that he has made me listen. Any of those present might have taken the ring. There are therefore seven solutions, all possible and all logical. But beyond this is left a great intellectual problem. How so? Was it a woman who lacked the necessary courage to continue? Or was it a man who repented his first impulse? Is a man or is a woman the greater natural criminal? Oh, that's simple, Quinny. A woman took it, of course. On the contrary, it was a man, for the second action was more difficult than the first. A man, certainly. The restoration of the ring was a logical decision. You see? Personally, I incline to a woman for the reason that a weaker feminine nature is strangely susceptible to the domination of her own sex. There you are. We could meet and debate the subject year in and year out and never agree. I recognize most of the characters, Peters. Mrs. Kildare, of course, is all you say of her. An extraordinary woman. The story is quite characteristic of her. Flanders, I'm not sure of, but I think I know him. I'm positive. Did it really happen? Exactly as I told it. The only one I don't recognize is Harris. Your humble servant. What? You, Peters? You were there? I was there. I was Harris. Having your pardon, gentlemen. Oh, yes. What is it, John? Mr. Peters, sir, your train. You told me to remind you. Oh, thank you. Yes, I didn't notice so late. Will you, gentlemen, pardon me? Of course. Nice to meet you all. Good night. Curious chap. Extraordinary. Well, now, I. I wonder. I wonder if we're wondering the same thing, gentlemen. And so, with the enigmatic smile of Mr. Peters, or Harris, ends 100 in the Dark, Owen Johnson's smooth story, which gave us tonight's. Suspense. Suspense is produced by William Spear. Tonight's radio drama was written by Jack Anson Fink, directed by John Dietz, and scored by Bernard Herrmann. Eric Dressler was Mr. Peters. Alice Frost played Mrs. Kildare, and Ted Osborne, Quinny. Others in the cast were Helen Lewis, Joan Shea, Henriette Kaye, Frank Reddick, Paul Luther, Stefan Schnabel, Ian Martin, and Barry Kroger. With this evening's performance, Columbia brings to a conclusion the present series of Suspense. If you've liked these broadcasts, CBS would be pleased to hear from you. Suspense has been a series presented for your relaxation and enjoyment by the Columbia Broadcasting System.