44-07-13_The_Beast_Must_Die.txt

Roma Wines present. Suspense! Roma Wines, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. Salud! Your health, senor. Roma Wines toast the world. The wine for your table is Roma Wine. Made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. The Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California welcomes you again to this weekly half hour of suspense. Tonight from Hollywood, Roma Wines bring you a star, Mr. Herbert Marshall. Mr. Marshall is with us to play in Nicholas Blake's powerful story of vengeance and retribution, The Beast Must Die. But before we raise the curtain on tonight's tale of suspense, here is a message from Roma Wines. In Havana, Cuba, one gathering place of fashionable people is the charming Pan American Club. A dinner party is in progress, and a Cuban host has risen to return a compliment which has just been paid him by a guest from the United States. Lifting his glass, he says, Thank you, my friend. 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Ask for Roma, Roma wines. Made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. And now, with The Beast Must Die, and with the performance of Herbert Marshall as Felix Lane, who wrote A Diary of Death, we again hope to keep you in suspense. I am going to kill a man. I don't know his name. I don't know where he lives. I have no idea what he looks like. But I'm going to find him and kill him. Well, Mr. Lane? I wrote those words, if that's what you're asking, Inspector, and I meant them. Apparently you did. But whatever possessed you to write such a document? Vanity, for one thing, I suppose. A record for posterity of the perfect crime. As you know, I am a writer by profession. I think more clearly on paper. By keeping this diary, I was able to plan my murder step by step. But you found out that a real life murder could not be carried out so easily as the murders you wrote about in your detective novels, eh, Mr. Lane? I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Inspector. In fact, except for the ending, I think this diary is quite the best murder story I've ever written. And quite the most incriminating document I've ever known a prospective murderer to leave lying around. Incriminating? In a way, I suppose. In another way, this diary might turn out to be my best defense. Well, how do you figure that, Mr. Lane? Well, supposing I read some parts of it aloud to you and let you decide for yourself. Very well, Mr. Lane. Fire away. That was my first entry. June 18th. Yes, I am going to kill a man. It takes great singleness of purpose to commit a murder. But if ever for a moment I stray from that purpose. I have only to think of Ronnie. Ronnie was my son. One evening, two weeks ago, he was crossing the road outside our house. He had gone into the village to buy some candy. For him, it could have been only a paralyzing blaze of headlights around the corner, a moment's nightmare, and then the impact turning everything to darkness forever. His body was hurled into the ditch. He was dead at once. The motorist who killed Ronnie did not stop. The police have failed to trace him. They say he must have been going 50 around that blind corner for the child's body to have been thrown and injured as it was. The man who drove that car, he is the man I have got to find and kill. June 25th. I found my first clue today. My mind was on Ronnie. I was driving toward a neighboring town. The hills around were green, the boxwood hedges. Still damp from last night's rain, translucent like giant chunks of emerald. Suddenly, the front wheels of my car hit into a great puddle. A sheet of water splashed up over the front of the windshield and drenched me from the side. I pulled up at the far side of the water splash. I got out, cursing myself for my preoccupation, and began mopping away at the windshield. A man leaning over a farm gate addressed me. What? Looks like you got a proper shower bath, mister. Yeah. I've been pestering the county for months to repair that hole in the road. People always driving into it and splashing themselves all over. Funny thing of all, though, was about a fortnight ago when a chap tried to use it to get a free car wash. Oh, really? It was my wife's birthday, to be exact. About 8 o'clock, we were on our way to Chelanum to see the picture show. Just as we were coming out of the gate, this chap driving one of those low slung sports jobs hits the water splash. You don't say? Hmm. And then this fella says something to the girl he's driving with. And what do you suppose they do? Well, they back up and run through the splash again. And then again. They did it four times. Eight o'clock. Your wife's birthday. It wouldn't be June 3rd, would it? Oh, right, sure, but aren't you now? Oh, well, you see, I've heard of a friend of mine who was rather celebrating that night and driving toward. toward. Severn Bridge. That's where this fellow and his lady friend were going. I remember his lady friend says, George. Ask the man whether you turn right or left at the next fork. George. Yes. Yes, George. That's right. That's my pal's name. And Sevenbridge. Yes. Yes. The way he drives ought to have brought him by here just around 8 o'clock. He didn't have a crumpled right front fender, did he? Oh, that he did. If that bloke was your friend, he sure is a proper nut. Well, peculiar, at least. Yes. Yes, he is peculiar. Driving through that water splash all over again and again. Four times he does it. And he wasn't laughing either. Didn't seem like a joke, somehow. Looks like he's trying to get a free car wash. Funny way I'd say to get the mud off. Yeah. Maybe it was tar, though, huh? Yes. Or blood. July 12th. At the Severn Bridge. I've talked to any number of the town's people and I've met a number of Georges, but not one of them have owned or driven a low slung sports job. Not like the one I've been looking for anyway. Maybe that I'll have to start all over again on some other tack. July 14th. I was returning to the inn this afternoon when I noticed a car parked on the side of the road up ahead. A girl with bright hair was working at the front wheel and a small lad beside her was doing his best to help. I pulled up beside them. It was a low slung sports job. I say, can I help? Well, what do you think, Phil? Oh, yes, sir. Please, if you would lend a hand. I'm afraid we're not quite heavy enough to weight this jack handle down for another turn. Here, fellow, let me have a go at it. Oh, I. The paint doesn't seem quite to match on the right front fender. The fender? Oh, dad had a new fender put on a while back. It got brung up or something. Yeah, I can't tell you how awfully nice it is of you to help us out. Oh, not at all. By the way, I wonder if you and Phil here wouldn't stop for tea with me at the inn afterwards. It's not far, you know. We're expected at home, sir. Perhaps you would come along with us. What do you do, sir? Hmm? I'm a writer, Phil. Oh, you really must come to see us. It's Gables on Devon Road, my brother-in-law's place. The name's Rattery. We'll give you a ring tomorrow and set a date. Sis will love meeting a real author, and so will George. Did you say your brother in law's name is George? July 16th. I've met him. I've spent an evening talking to him. George Rattery. So you're a friend of Lena's, eh? Storybrook, did you? A writer! Easy enough to write about a dead body, but I'd like to see an author that had guts enough to look at one. I had been more than a little afraid that George might turn out to be a sympathetic character. That need not concern me any longer. I shall have no compunction at all about putting his light out. It appears that George is the half owner of a garage down in town. A man by the name of Carfax is the other partner. A garage. That will explain how the damaged fender got itself fixed by the police knowing. How can a beast like George have a fine young son like Phil? August 4th. This afternoon I was rounding the corner of the tea house in the Rattery's garden when I heard voices. It was Lena and George. I stopped in my tracks and eavesdropped shamelessly. That's a neat wig you're wearing today, Lena. Is that for Felix Lane's benefit? Save your compliments for that Carfax woman. Jealous? Don't make me laugh. But someday you're going to find out that business partner of yours isn't as mild as he looks. I wonder what he'd say if he knew that his wife. Shut up, will you? And since when did you get so high and mighty? It wasn't so long ago that you yourself were glad enough to. If you ever open your mouth about any of that, I swear I'll kill you. Talking big now, aren't we, Miss Snow White? Just try something and you'll find out. Remember, there are quite a few people who might like to know about that poor little kid you ran down last June. If it weren't for Violet and Phil, I'd. Stop that kind of talk. You hear? Just remember, you were with me that night. August 5th. Had a look around the Rattory Carfax garage this afternoon. Told George it might come in useful as material in my book. All at once, I heard a shot. And there stood George blazing away over the plot in back with a rifle. I went up to him. There. It's another one of those pests out of the way. We've tried everything. Traps, poison, rat hunts. We can't keep them down. That's a nice rifle. Gave it to Phil last birthday when he came back from school in Switzerland. Much too good for him. Here. Like to have a go at him? I raised the rifle and sighted. George's back was to me. By shifting a few inches to the right, the bullet should enter the base of the brain. Who could prove that George hadn't suddenly stepped in my way? My finger tightened on the trigger. I say, George, I can't find that new tin of rat poison. Phil was spreading some out from the dump yesterday. I wonder where he put it. Oh, hello, Elaine. Hello, Carpex. Hey, watch out. We're your point in that garden. We wouldn't want anything to happen to the senior partner, eh? Not very funny. August 12th. I am now a guest in the house of the man I'm going to kill. Violet, Phil's mother, suggested that I come and stay with them for a fortnight and help Phil in odd hours with his Latin. George, much to my surprise, joined in heartily with the idea. I wonder why. I must watch him very closely because of what happened last night. We were having coffee in the drawing room after dinner when the conversation took a most extraordinary turn. They were talking about Violet's new rose bushes. I suppose they'd be very nice, but I can't for the life of me see why you went to all that trouble. Well, the old ones weren't doing very well. They were still alive, weren't they, Mother? Oh, yes, dear, but I'm not one to keep something going when it's only half alive. Oh, I'm glad you're talking about rose bushes. I should hate to think you felt that way about people. Oh, of course not. But, on the other hand, I do think if a person were incurably ill that they ought to, well, that is, they ought to have the right to ask their doctor to put them out of their misery. Don't you think so, Felix? Well, I. Oh, speaking of doctors, reminds me, George, don't forget your tonic, doctor said after every meal. Tonic. Oh, positive. Foul stuff. Fiddler's gore. Poison. That won't kill you, George. Felix, would you really be in favor of doing away with all unfortunates? Well, I. Well, what about your incurable social pest? The person who makes life miserable for everyone else around him. I think a person would be justified in killing someone like that. I do think you're all getting a little morbid. Well, the kind of a person I describe has no right to life. Of course, that's to say, I would kill him if I could do it without running my neck into a noose. Now, in my book, I'm working on a very pretty murder. Quite my masterpiece, I think. Well, he's darn close about it. Locked doors, sealed lips, and all that. Of course, he says he's writing that thriller, but we've no proof, have we? I think he ought to show us the manuscript, don't you, Lena? I can't. I'm sorry. I hate anyone to see an unfinished manuscript of mine. I'm funny that way. Oh, Felix, please, get it and read some of it. Oh, come on. Don't be a spoiler. I'll go and get it myself and read it out loud if the blushing author is too coy. By heaven, I'll go upstairs and get it now. You'll do nothing of the sort. I forbid it. I will not have people snooping about among my manuscripts. That was close. After all, there is no book but this diary. I must keep it well hidden in my room. August 16th. At last I have my plan. It took a great deal of subtle taunting and persuasion, but it came off at last. George is going sailing with me this afternoon. And he can't swim. Drowning is very painful, they say, in the early stages. That's good, I'm glad. George's lungs bursting, the top of his head shrieking with pain, his hands scrabbling vainly to thrust against the giant weight of the water. Ah, but if I cannot kill George today, on the open sea, with the wind in my favor and myself the undisputed master of the situation, if I fail today, then I will know that it is not my destiny to be a murderer. And I will make no further attempt on the life of George Rattery. And that, Inspector Blunt, is the last entry in my diary. But you and George did go sailing, didn't you? Yes. It was after lunch on the same day. We walked down to the docks together. George, as you can imagine, was rather clumsy about a boat. It was only a few minutes after he clambered aboard that we were out in the main water, sailing free. George had his feet braced against the centerboard case and his hands gripped the gunwale. A squall was coming up. Hey! Hey, Evan! That motor barge is getting pretty close, isn't it? Oh, there's plenty of room, George. Power vessels have to give way to sailing vessels, you know. Give way? How do you think a boat that size is going to give way to us? Place like this. Hey there, what are you up to? Look out there, Tillie. You can't do that. If you run us into that boat to pull us, I'll bloody run over your leg until we both drown. Be careful. I can't grab. What are you doing? Hey, that's a bit close, but perfectly safe. Perfectly safe. That barge didn't miss us by a yard. The same thing happened the other day when I was out with Phil. He didn't lose his nerve. Oh. He didn't, eh? By the way, you better not stand up in the boat again. That's one thing that's not safe. Very well, my friend. But I shouldn't try any of those funny tricks you've been planning. Tricks? What tricks? You know what I mean, you filthy sneak. I searched your room just before lunch, and I found your diary. Yes, I posted that precious diary of yours off to my solicitor just before we came out here. Posted it, mind you, just before we went sailing. So you see, it'll be most unfortunate for you if you let me drown. Well, what's the matter? Lost your lying tongue, have you? Why, what a break your jaw for you. I've a good mind to hand over your diary to the police. Don't be silly. You know perfectly well you won't do anything of the kind. And for the very good reason that you don't want the police to haul you in on a charge of manslaughter for killing my son. You can't prove I ran over your son. Aren't you forgetting that Lena was with you last night? She was with you that night. The police could get a confession out of her in no time. Why, you. If. If I ever see you on the announcer today, you slug, I'll bet you into a jelly. I'll. Oh, shut up, George. I guess we've both been a little too clever. It looks like a stalemate. I docked the boat, and George. stormed off the minute we landed. I came straight here to the inn. Yes, I know. Perhaps it's just as well I didn't succeed. Going back to writing detective stories after committing the perfect crime would be like going back to playing with tin soldiers after winning the Battle of Waterloo. You seem to be awfully sure of your alibi. Well, after all, there's no crime in planning a murder, is there? Providing nobody is hurt? Unfortunately, somebody has been hurt. What do you mean? What are you trying to tell me? George Rattery died yesterday evening of the effects of strychnine poisoning. George dead? Strychnine poisoning? All my planning, all my high and tragic purpose. And the beast ends by taking his own life. Poison? I remember now, yes. He used to talk about suicide quite a lot. But I thought he only did it because the subject was so upsetting to his wife. I never dreamed. How did he take it? With his tonic. But it couldn't possibly have been suicide, Mr. Lane. But who? What else could it have been? It could have been murder. Unfortunately, we have no evidence except this diary of yours. But the bottle, the tonic. George Rattray died almost instantly after taking his tonic at dinner. But before the doctor arrived, that bottle disappeared. Well, any suspects? Every person closely associated with George Rattray had enough motive to murder him. But you. Have the strongest motive. After all, George Rattray did kill your son. Am I under arrest? Not officially as yet. But naturally, I have posted a guard outside your room. In the meantime. But, madam, you can't go in there. It's to order. Officer, let me by. I tell you, I've got to see Inspector Blunt. Please, Mother, I say it's no good. Be quiet, Phil. Why couldn't you have stayed at home? Officer, let me by. I must. Let him. Let them come in, Officer. Good afternoon, Mrs. Rattray. Phil? Hello, Phil. Hello, Felix. Please. Please, I can't stand it any longer. They're accusing Felix here of murdering my husband. He had nothing to do with that. Mother, do that. Treat us. Oh, watch, he's saying. Heaven's sake, Phil, will you be quiet? It was I who killed George. He treated me very badly. He was unspeakable to Phil. There was another woman. Oh, I can't go on. Are you trying to tell me, Mrs. Rattray, that you gave your husband poison? Yes, Mother. I tell you, I poisoned him. I poisoned him. Where did you get the poison, Mrs. Rattray? I. Well, I bought it at the chemist's shop. What chemist's shop? The one on Abbey Lane, near the corner of Hightower, that's it. Mm-hmm. What became of the bottle of tonic after your husband's death? Well, I broke it. I buried it. I'm sorry, Mrs. Rattray. The police have checked. You didn't buy any poison at the chemist's shop. Mother, I told you it was no good. Sir, Mother is trying to save me. It was I, sir. I killed him. What? Silly woman. Don't believe him. Don't believe him. He's just a foolish child. He doesn't know what he's saying. Go on, Phil. Well, you see, sir, I left a note. I was running away, but Mother found the note before I quite got out the door. Boys get such strange ideas. He couldn't have done it. He's just a boy. You know he couldn't. You see, sir, when they accused Felix here, I couldn't stand it any longer. That's why I wrote you the note, but Mother found it first. She said if she confessed, they wouldn't do much to her. The police would understand. Felix, make them believe me. I can prove I did it. Go on, Phil. You say you couldn't prove it. Now, what do you mean? I have it in my pocket, sir. I've had it hid ever since. See, here it is. It's still half full. It's Dad's bottle of tonic. Phil, where did you get that? I took it off the buffet after the doctor said Dad was dead. But this is very serious, Phil. You know that. He's lying. He couldn't have. He's just a little boy. Please, all of you, I have a favor to ask. Let me talk to Phil alone for a few minutes. It won't hurt anything. I think I may be able to help solve this whole thing. Phil didn't do it. Violet's right. Yes, but the bottle. Just give Phil and me ten minutes alone. Very well. We'll wait outside. About ten minutes, mind you, Felix. No more. Come here, Phil. I'm a murderer, Felix. You're not a murderer, Phil. No one could ever tell me that. But I left a note. We've gone all over that. I killed him. He beat Mother. I killed him, I tell you. No, Phil, I know better. They thought you did it, Felix. I heard them talking about your diary. You wanted to kill him. You said so in your diary. Maybe I did, but. They'd hang you, Felix. So that's why you wrote the note and pretended you did it? Yes, I saw you in the pantry with Dad's bottle of tonic before you went for the sale with him. You saw me? Oh, I'm sorry, Phil. Sorry you saw me. Naturally, you jumped to the conclusion that I. Oh, poor little man. Well, there's nothing for you to worry about now, Phil. You mean they're not going to hang you, Felix? They're not going to hang me. You won't let them do anything to you, will you? No. Promise me. I won't let them do anything to me. But, Phil, there are other things for you to think about now. Now that your father's gone, you are head of the house. That's a man's job, Phil. There's a lot you've learned about courage these last few days. Living takes a lot of courage. This is pretty grown-up talk, Phil. Do you understand me? I'm trying, Fiedelix. You remind me a lot of my own son. You mean the boy my father ran away with? That's right, Phil. Yes, you're a lot like him. Would he have gone sailing with us? Yes, yes. I think Ronnie would have been quite a sailor. Can we go sailing tomorrow, Felix? Not tomorrow. Are you going away? Yes, Phil. But not as far as most people might think. You sound very strange, Felix. I have a note to write. Got to make everything ship-shape. You go on out to your mother and tell them they may join me in a few minutes. Can't I wait, Felix? No, Phil. Go ahead now. But I'd like. Those are orders. Skipper's orders. Aye, aye, sir. Goodbye, son. I thought I had made the last entry in this diary, but there will have to be one more. This diary was kept for one purpose to make George and the police believe that I planned to kill the beast by drowning him. Death was already waiting for George Rattery at home in the bottle of his tonics, where I had placed three pellets of rat poison taken by me from the garage. My plan was almost perfect. The only thing I didn't expect was that someone loved me enough to try to destroy the evidence I had so carefully planted in an effort to help me and even to confess to my crime in order to save my skin. I know now that my life ended with the death of my son, Ronnie. It seems that I must have just come back to life for a few weeks to save Phil. Yes, I killed George Rattery. I have no regrets. I might have known that the matter would be taken care of fittingly. It says in the Bible, the beast must die, but the man dieth also. Yea, they both must die. George was right about that tonic of his. It is very bitter. And so closes The Beast Must Die, starring Herbert Marshall. Tonight's tale of. Suspense! Suspense is produced and directed by William Spear. Have you discovered the age old secret of famous chefs and lovers of fine food? Namely, how good wine makes even the simplest, most inexpensive meals really exciting events? How Roma wines perform flavor miracles in bringing out rich new savoriness? Well, the next time you cook any of the red meats, stews, fish, or poultry, Add a generous portion of any Roma California table wine, delicious sauterne, hearty burgundy, or tasty claret. Then put the same bottle well chilled on the table with your meal. You will be amazed at the wonders Roma wine performs in bringing out all the appetizing goodness of even the simplest foods. Remember, Roma wines, these marvelous aids to greater enjoyment of daily meals, cost only pennies a glassful. So any home can afford the pleasure they give to everyday living. Ask for ROMA, Roma Wines, America's largest selling wines, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is Herbert Marshall, and at the request of the United States Army, I'm addressing this to every soldier listening. Volunteers are once more being accepted for immediate training by the parachute troops. Paratroopers receive $50 extra per month in base pay. Officers get $100 extra per month. If you think you can qualify for the paratroops, Apply to your company commander immediately. Mr. Marshall appeared through the courtesy of Metro Goldwyn Mayer, producers of White Cliffs of Dover. Next Monday, same time, you will hear Mr. Peter Laurie with Richard Conte as stars of Suspense. Presented by Roma Wines, R O M A. Made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.