Suspense.
This is the man in black, here again to introduce Columbia's program, Suspense.
Our star tonight is Peter Lorre, playing the part of the Hungarian count Stefan Kahari,
a gentleman of sinister aspect.
The story is by John Dixon Carr, who calls it, The Devil's Saint.
If you've been with us on these Tuesday nights, you will know that Suspense is a
compounded mystery and suspicion and dangerous adventure.
In this series, our tales calculated to intrigue you, to stir your nerves,
to offer you a precarious situation, and then withhold the solution till the last possible moment.
And so, it is with The Devil's Saint and Mr. Peter Lorre's performance,
we again hope to keep you in...
Suspense.
The Devil's Saint.
Paris, fifteen years ago.
Paris as it used to be, when lights twinkled from the old trocadero to the hill of Sacre-Cœur,
when taxi cabs honked and the beat of tangos swayed, and Chinese lanterns gleamed above the lake in the bois,
when, in short, you and I were young.
Come then to the President's Ball at the Opera, St. Catherine's Day, 1927.
A fancy dress ball at the Opera filling these marble halls with a multitude of masks and a multitude of dreams.
The mosaic decorations are no less bright than the colors that weave here,
halloweins and columbine, Cleopatra and musketeers.
In the great marble foyer, remember it?
They have set out little tables and lines of palms behind which you may sit and scream.
Look at one such table.
A young man wearing the scarlet and gold uniform of an English guards officer in Wellington's Day.
A dark haired young girl in the costume of a Baconte.
And as we approach...
Ned, don't please, you mustn't.
Why not? You really don't mind, do you?
No, of course I don't mind, only you mustn't.
Oh, Ned.
Look here, Alona, we've got to settle this thing.
You have enjoyed being here tonight, haven't you?
Ned, I've loved it.
After being cooped up at my uncle's place in the country, it's like heaven.
All right. When I take you back to the hotel, I'm going to face this uncle of yours tonight.
No. No, please don't.
I'm going to say that you and I intend to get married and that's that.
I can't marry you, Ned. I've told you that.
But why not? Just give me one good reason.
Because I can't.
My uncle, he would never allow it. Never.
And that seems to you a good reason enough?
Yes, Ned.
This uncle of yours, what's his name?
Count Stefan Kohari.
He's a Hungarian, I think you said.
Yes, so am I. My mother was an American.
What's he like, actually?
Oh, he's a little eccentric.
Oh, please don't misunderstand. He's a great scholar and a historian, only...
he's a little strange. He...
Ned.
What is it?
There he is now.
Your uncle?
Yes, that elegant man in plain evening clothes, with the odor of the golden fleas across his chest.
Oh, I see him. He looks as black as a thundercloud.
He's throwing those two dressed as devils aside as though they didn't exist.
Give me my mask quick before he sees us.
No, Elona.
Why not?
We'd better face this out now.
Still.
Good evening, Elona.
Good evening, Uncle Stefan.
Uncle, may I present Edward Whiteford?
How do you do, sir?
How do you do?
Elona, do you think that costume is quite the thing to wear in public?
Why not?
Well, an older generation might call it immodest. It looks like...
Like what?
Nothing. Will you go and get your cloak or your domino or whatever you wore here?
Uncle, please don't make me go home so soon.
It's hardly eleven o'clock.
I was not asking you to go home, my dear.
I was merely asking you to put on a wrap.
All right, I'll get it. You stay and talk to Ned.
I shall be delighted.
Will you sit down, sir?
Thank you.
You seem to have quite a gathering at this table.
Yes. Some friends of mine from the embassy. They're upstairs dancing now.
Well, look, glasses, glasses, and still more glasses.
You know, I was quite an addict once at music glasses.
Have you ever tried it, young man?
Well, it's very easy. You take a spoon like this, you see, and...
Like it?
Forgive me, sir, but there's something I'd like to ask you.
Yes?
I don't know exactly how to say this, so I'd better say it in the shortest way.
I want to marry your niece.
Look out, sir, you'll smash one of the glasses.
A few francs will pay for that.
But there are other things of higher value, at least to me.
Oh, maybe I ought to mention first that my full name is Lord Edward Whiteford.
My father's the Earl of Grey.
Indeed.
Why, I only mention that to show we're, well, respectable enough.
Or the British ambassador will vouch for me, sir, if you'd like to ring him up.
And perhaps I ought to mention that I've always kept Ilona carefully guarded from the world.
Almost too carefully guarded, don't you think?
That Lord Edward depends on my reasons.
Sorry, sir.
You have known Ilona about how long?
Four days.
Four days. You wouldn't even choose a business partner in four days.
Yet to want to marry my Ilona after four days.
But we know our own minds, sir.
You do, huh?
Then you know more than the wisest man in this world.
However, as one whose dearest wish is Ilona's happiness...
I hope it is, Count Cahary.
Do you doubt what I say?
Oh, no, sir.
Well, I will make you a proposition.
I own an estate in Touraine, not far from Paris, sir.
Little chateau, a few hundred acres, fishing.
Very good stable of horses.
I know. Ilona told me.
Oh, she did?
Well, then here is my suggestion.
Why not come down and visit us for a week or two?
That's very decent of you, sir.
Oh, not at all, not at all.
And if at the end of that time you are not cured of this infatuation...
It's not an infatuation, I swear it's not.
No?
Well, if at the end of that time you are not cured permanently of this feeling...
you may take Ilona.
And with my blessing, that's fair, isn't it?
Oh, it's more than fair, Count Cahary.
I don't know how to thank you.
Oh, well, please, don't even try.
And at least I can promise you a very interesting experience.
You see, at the Chateau d'Azay...
there is one certain bedroom we call it the tapestry room.
It is?
Well, I assure you, it will be very interesting for you to sleep in that room.
Why? Is it haunted or something?
No, no, no, not haunted.
Well, now if you don't mind, I shall say good night...
and I hope I can trust you to bring Ilona safely to the hotel.
Au revoir.
Look over there.
What is it, sir?
Just look.
Streams of our fellow guests pouring down the main staircase.
Shapes of nightmare, shapes of delirium.
Insane, dead masks.
Only the eyes move.
Wouldn't we be terrified, perhaps...
if he would look behind those gargoyle faces?
Oh, no, I don't think so.
They're only ordinary people like ourselves.
That sure is where you make your mistake.
Well, I shall expect you for the weekend...
and encore un fois au revoir.
Ned? Ned?
It's all right, Ilona. You can come out from behind those palms.
What was he saying? I couldn't hear.
Ilona, it couldn't be better.
He's a very decent old boy, actually.
And he's invited me to the Chateau d'Azay.
Did he say anything about the tapestry room?
Yes. He invited me to sleep there.
And you said?
I said I would, naturally.
You mustn't do it, Ned. I won't let you do it.
Why the devil not?
Because everybody who sleeps in that room dies.
Dies? Are you serious?
Oh, Ned, please don't do it.
Oh, nonsense.
There are a lot of superstitions about every old house.
This isn't a superstition, Ned.
It happened once when I was a little girl.
A man insisted on sleeping there.
They found him dead in the morning.
So? How did he die?
They don't know.
There wasn't a mark on his body.
He wasn't shot or stabbed or strangled...
or poisoned or hurt in any way.
He was just dead.
Two nights later, in the province of France now known as under Eloway,
but once called to reign,
the ancient land beloved of Rabelais and Balzac.
But now, as the wind moans down the valleys
and rain flickers across the apple trees and thunder stirs in those haunted hills,
it can bring little comfort to a young man driven in an ancient carriage
from the railway station along snake-like roads.
To what destination?
Ahead, a lift of lightning shows the gray walls
and conical slate-roofed towers of a chateau
set some distance back from the road.
Light shines from its narrow windows dimly seen through the rain-erring.
Driver! Coachman!
Oui, monsieur.
Is that the Chateau d'Azay of ahead?
Oui, monsieur.
I will take you to the very door, if...
If what? Why do you cross yourself?
If I am permitted.
What should stop you?
Only fear, monsieur.
And I am not much afraid.
Just...
What was that?
Only the dogs, monsieur.
They keep many dogs, large dogs, at the Chateau d'Azay.
Well, here we are.
Bonsoir, monsieur.
And if I may be permitted a word of advice?
Well?
Beware of the tapestry room.
There isn't a bell on this door.
There might at least be a knocker.
Ah, got it.
Et alors, monsieur, vous cherchez...
Je cherche le Chateau d'Azay, et je...
Perhaps it would be better if you spoke English, yes?
You are Lord Edward Whiteford.
Yes.
Monsieur is expected. Please to enter.
Monsieur is at and cold.
Thank you.
Ned!
Hello, Elona.
I brought the pie, ma petite, for the uncle.
You'd better not kiss me, Ned. Madam Flay says to look out for my uncle.
Madam Flay is our housekeeper.
Oh, well where's your uncle now?
In the drawing room. He's playing the piano.
Come along.
Elona, is anything wrong?
Oh, everything's wrong.
Two of my dogs were in horrible pain this afternoon.
Dr. Solomon had to put them out with chloroform.
You don't think...
I hope nobody's practicing, that's all.
Well, here we are.
Oh, nice tiger skins on the floor.
I say, who's the little old man with the gray beard sitting over there by the fire?
That's Dr. Solomon.
Oh, hasn't he funny-looking eyes?
He watches and watches and watches.
He's an old friend of the family.
Shh, come along. Let's get this over with.
Ah, Lord Edward.
Well, I see my niece has anticipated me.
Welcome to the Chateau d'Azay.
Thank you, Count Harry.
Oh, you must be very wet after your long drive.
Go up to the fire and warm yourself.
Madam Flay.
Yes, monsieur.
Please tell Antoine to take our guest's luggage up to the tapestry room.
The tapestry room, monsieur?
That is what I said, Madame Flay.
Yes, monsieur.
Now, not coincidence, Lord Edward. Dr. Solomon and I were just discussing the fate of the last person who slept in a tapestry room.
This is not good, my friend. This is against my advice.
It's against his advice.
Oh, here Dr. Solomon croaks.
This is not good, I tell you. It is the wrong season of the moon.
The wrong moon.
But there is no moon tonight. It's raining cats and dogs.
Don't talk about dogs.
Nevertheless, it is the wrong season of the moon. I say no more.
Cheerful blunder, that doctor.
Don't do it, Ned. I won't be responsible if they make you do it.
But look here, Count Cohery. What did happen to the last bloke who slept in the tapestry room?
You mustn't call him a bloke, sir. He was a very saintly gentleman, the bishop of Tours.
That was some time ago when Delona was only fifteen years old, but surely she must remember it.
I remember it.
The church, said our bishop, has no use for superstitions.
Well, he insisted on sleeping there. I made it as comfortable for him as possible,
but he was found dead next morning with a crucifix still in his hand.
Was it poison?
There was no poison, monsieur.
No. Here, Dr. Solomon.
It's true, Ned.
Well, there were just two very curious things, you see, in connection with that death.
On a mantelpiece there was found burning a stick of incense.
Just an ordinary incense, nothing wrong with it.
Yes, sir.
And under the dressing table, the police found it with an empty jar of ointment now.
Here's your wits. A dead man, some burning incense, and an empty jar of ointment.
What do you make of that?
I don't make anything of it. It's crazy.
Please do not speak like that.
I'm sorry?
It is still the wrong season of the moon.
What I really meant, sir, was this. Is there any reason for this story of death?
Reason?
Any legend attached to the room or anything like that?
Yes, there is.
Well, sir?
Well, we are a very old family, Lord Edward. Old and perhaps accursed.
When my ancestors moved from Hungary to France in the 17th century, they brought certain beliefs with them.
The old religion.
The old religion?
Yes, the cult of Diana, the cult of Janus, the cult of freedom and fertility.
The witch cult, if you prefer.
Oh, now look, yes, I...
Must we talk about this?
Well, you smile, but when I say the word witch, you think of some humorous picture on a Halloween's card.
It was very different in the Middle Ages, believe me.
Then, my friend, there existed an organized religion which rivaled the church.
There were many to worship unashamed at the grand sabbath.
Many to receive all favors from Satan, their master, and to dance forever joyously in the red flaming quadriles of hell.
Some 200 years ago, an ancestor of mine, Katharina Kohari, was tortured to death in a tapestry room for professing the old religion.
Many persons have not thought it safe to sleep there since.
Are you answer?
Oh, come sir, this is some kind of elaborate joke.
Joke? The bishop of Tua did not find it a joke?
Not a mark on his body.
I assure you as a physician, not a mark on his body.
No, not a mark on his body.
Hear Dr. Solomon.
Yes, I hear him.
Well, understand me, Lord Edward, there is no compulsion in this if you do wish to sleep in that room, all right?
Oh, ridiculous, I'm not afraid to sleep there, sir.
Well, I thought perhaps you want to change your mind.
Oh, never. Would you like me to make a wager on that?
What sort of wager?
Hell, if I spend the night in this famous room and come out of it alive, will you give your consent to the marriage immediately?
Tomorrow morning?
Tomorrow morning? Why?
Because I don't think the atmosphere of this house is good for a loner.
What do you say? Would you do it?
Very well, Lord Edward, I accept the terms of your wager.
Don't do it, Ned. For the love of heaven, don't do it.
High up in the north tower of the Chateau d'Azay, under the conical slate roof, is the circular room hung with faded tapestries.
These tapestries move slightly with uneasy, mimic life to the clamor of the storm outside.
Candles burn along the mantelpiece and beside the great four-poster bed. The flames of these candles waver too as the door opens.
This is the tapestry room, monsieur.
Thank you, Madame Fleck.
That is the mantelpiece. Who is it?
The housekeeper.
The housekeeper?
Yes.
The housekeeper.
The housekeeper.
And the housekeeper.
And the housekeeper.
And the housekeeper.
And the housekeeper.
And the housekeeper.
The housekeeper.
And the housekeeper.
Yes, sir.
Mirusew?
Drugs and cigarettes.
What different things?
No, there are things that we're not allowed to, Monsieurㅋ Look, look here.
There are things that we're not allowed to, Monsieur.
Look here, which, Monsignor, good писье expectations.
the incense despair that is a bed where Monsignor the Bishop died
that is a good bag very inviting isn't it
but what's it going to be anything else Miss you require the painter will homeless
but no thanks I had a drink with the presence of paper I came upstairs
that feeling is good
but your shaving water will be brought up in the morning
skill he requires
good night
I heard an old harpy trying to scare a fellow out of his wits just because...
I hope they've built a good fire anyway.
Didn't realize how cold it was.
Temperature must have dropped.
What's that?
It's me, Elona.
May I come in?
No, Elona. Get out of here.
That's not very gallant of you.
I mean, I don't want you exposed to whatever it is.
Ned, listen.
Are you going to bed or are you going to sit up all night?
I'm going to sit up all night, naturally.
Then let me sit up with you.
No.
Why not?
Well, it may be dangerous.
Besides, I promised your uncle I'd go through with this alone.
I wish you hadn't had that drink with him.
Why? He couldn't have done anything to it.
It was you who poured it.
Yes, that's true. Only...
Listen.
What is that?
It sounds like footsteps.
Yes, but where is it coming from?
Seems to be right here in the room.
It seems to come from all directions.
Doesn't it sound like somebody walking between the walls?
By George, it is someone walking inside the wall.
Get behind that tapestry, Elona. Quick. Hide there.
Count Kohari. Where did you come from?
Oh, forgive me, Lord Edward, for seeming to appear out of the wall
and between the tapestries.
Like Mephisto appearing too fast.
And this red dressing gown perhaps adds to the effect too.
How'd you get here? A passage between the walls?
Yes, exactly.
I'll devise my ancestors for visiting this room.
You know, they invented that when its occupant was so unmanly
as to bolt the door.
If the door was not bolted, you could have walked straight in.
But I couldn't have done it unobserved.
No. Maybe not.
Have you had any other visitors, Lord Edward?
No.
Are you quite sure of that?
Quite sure.
Well, then, since nobody saw me come here,
I'll just sit down by the fire.
Please sit opposite me.
Is this the showdown, sir?
Hmm? I don't understand.
Well, there's got to be a showdown between us.
Is that why you're here?
Oh, I am here, young man, to explain certain things to you.
Will you have a cigarette?
Thank you. I...
Oh. They're perfectly all right.
That is what you're afraid of?
I'll have one, yes.
A light?
Thank you.
Well, when I was discussing the witch cult a while ago,
you didn't appear to think I meant what I said.
Do you want a perfectly frank answer to that?
Yes.
I think you're mad enough to mean anything.
What you say in a sense is quite true.
Seeing an old and inbred family like ours,
the mind can crack in the fantasies of witchcraft,
become as real, well, more real than the living world.
Let me give you an example.
Go on.
The saucer on the table beside you is Ming Porcelain.
It was once owned by Katharina Kohari,
a martyr of the old religion.
Yet you are using it as an ash tree.
Oh, I beg your wish, ladies pardon.
I'll blow off the ash.
Well, that's a very dangerous remark, sir.
Don't you understand that the worship of evil
can be strong and compelling as the worship of good?
That the devil can have his saints too,
that the sick brain which knows but can't help itself,
you have profaned this room merely by entering it,
and therefore you deserve to die.
Like the Bishop of Tuor?
Exactly.
You're not going to tell me the devil killed him.
The devil's agent may be flesh and blood.
Then it was murder.
Oh, of course it was murder.
Murder so cunningly contrived that no one ever saw through it.
Go on.
I asked you before to use your wits on this problem.
Well, look, incense was burned in this room.
You know why?
Suppose you'll tell me.
Well, obviously, I think to conceal something else,
which would be too easily noticed.
To conceal what?
For instance, the smell of chloroform.
Chloroform?
Yes.
A drug not well understood by laymen.
Dr. Solomon, by the way, was using chloroform this afternoon
to dispose of some dogs.
So I've heard.
Well, Dr. Solomon is old and very forgetful.
You mean chloroform could be stolen?
Oh, yes, it could be easily now.
Suppose, I mean, just suppose I take a pad saturated with chloroform.
I place it over the mouth and nostrils of a man already sleeping
or drugged so that he gets no air.
Wait a minute.
That, that won't do.
Why not?
Chloroform burns and blisters when it touches the skin.
You'd leave marks.
Oh, not at all, my friend, not at all.
If I first covered the mouth and nostrils with some substance like...
Wait a minute.
Yes.
Now you're waking up.
Hi.
Now observe what follows.
In a few seconds, unconsciousness.
In two minutes or three minutes, death.
Certain death, yes.
Oh, but chloroform, you see.
It evaporates very quickly.
There is no trace in the stomach since nothing has been swallowed.
Well, delay your post-mortem for 24 hours
for easy matter in these country districts,
and no trace remains in the blood.
Murder without a mark, Lord Edward.
Murder without a mark.
You can't do it, Count Kohani.
There's one thing you're forgetting.
What is that?
I'm not sleeping and I'm not drugged.
Oh, yes, you are.
How? When?
In the cigarette?
No, in a drink you had with me.
What was it?
Morphine.
And you've had enough to put three men to sleep.
See, that's it.
Well, try to get up.
I'll do it. I'll do it.
You see, you've knocked over the fire irons.
You'd have been in the fire yourself if I hadn't caught you.
Take your hands off me.
Just as you please.
If I could reach that bell pole.
Well, but you can't.
Well, I'd better sit down again.
You're murdering Luditic.
So that's how you killed the Bishop of Tours.
And that's how you're going to kill me.
Who, I?
Well, you don't think I killed the Bishop of Tours.
Didn't you?
You fool.
I'm not trying to kill you.
I'm trying to save you.
Dr. Solomon.
Yes, Monsieur.
Well, come out, come out, come in the room.
Come out and be my witness.
Yes, Monsieur.
I shall always guard the family honor.
Even when I guess how men die.
This young man evidently thinks I've been talking about myself.
Am I in a poplar parlance insane?
Oh, Monsieur.
Heaven forbid.
I have never known a saner man.
Have you any notion, Lord Edward, why I brought you to this house?
You would never have believed me if I had merely told you.
So I had to bring you here to show you.
Show me what?
What?
Look, look at the tapestries.
Come out of there.
Behind you.
Come out of there.
Hey, come out.
Elona.
Yes, yes, Elona.
Why do you think I've kept Elona so well guarded from the world?
Why at a fancy dress ball, for instance, did I object to the costume of a medieval witch?
Whose dogs were poisoned so that chloroform should be brought?
Who poured the drink, drunk with morphine?
In the devil's name, what are you trying to tell me?
It was Elona.
She's been helplessly, hopelessly insane for more than 10 years.
And so closes The Devil's Saint, starring Peter Lorre, tonight's tale of suspense.
This is your narrator, the man in black, who conveys to you Columbia's invitation to spend this half hour in suspense with us again next Tuesday.
William Spear, the producer, John Dietz, the director, Bernard Herrmann, the composer-conductor, and John Dickson Carr, the author, are collaborators on The Devil's Saint.
The author are collaborators on...
Suspense.
This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.