And now, tonight's presentation of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
Tonight, we bring you a story of betrayal and retribution on Devil's Island.
We call it The Stool Pigeon.
So now, starring Mr. John Danaer, here is tonight's Suspense play, The Stool Pigeon.
It was hot that afternoon, which in itself you understand should not have been surprising.
On that Devil's Island, it was always hot, unless there were the rains, and then it was
a different, more steaming heat.
There were four of us racing cockroaches in Cano's hut, Makil, Thibaut, Cano, and myself.
We were what the authorities generously called libres, that is to say, we were free to roam
within the confines of the island, but never to leave it.
As I say, we were racing cockroaches, and Thibaut had already won three races.
His animal was a huge red beast, fully three and a half inches in length, and possessing
a remarkable stamina.
She was named Marie, made me think of a filly I used to bet on in Paris.
It's hot.
My friends, it is hot.
You never get tired of saying that, do you, Thibaut?
Does he?
Yesterday, you said the same thing last month and last year.
You owe me five francs from the last race, babe.
Oh, I always lose here.
Shall we have another?
No, it's too hot.
Oh, there.
Now who says it's hot?
Who?
Who said it?
Oh, shut up.
You little maggot, I could break your shell with my nail if I felt like it.
But I like you, Makil, so I allow you to speak to me, just.
I heard there's a ship coming next week.
Oh?
Where'd you hear that?
Cano hears everything and knows nothing.
I heard from a guard.
It's a lie because I hear everything first.
Did you call me a liar?
I call you a liar.
Stop, stop, stop it.
Put away the knife, Cano.
We'll all be put in solitary if you're seen.
A knife?
Knife?
Where did you get a knife, Cano?
Never mind.
Oh, but I do mind.
That's interesting that you have a knife.
Are you thinking of escape, perhaps?
Never mind.
I'd like to buy your knife, Cano.
Not for sale.
100 francs?
I'm not selling.
150?
No.
Well, some other time.
I've got half a bottle of wine.
Let's go and drink it.
I don't feel like quarreling.
Oh, Makil, you have a divine soul, come, my little maggot.
You too, Cano, exil.
Makil, he of the divine soul, had been on Devil's Island for eight years.
In Marseilles, he had been, among other things, an habitual thief and arsonist.
He stood five foot six and had long been befriended by Thibaut.
Thibaut was, by his very stature, and passed the King of the Libres on the island, a huge
and gross man, towering over six feet.
In Paris, he left behind him a series of syndicate murders for which he'd escaped the guillotine
only by underground and political pressures.
In spite of his terrible reputation and physical appearance, he was not an unfair man, and
on the whole, well-liked by the rest of us.
Cano was slim and dark, volatile as benzene.
In a fit of jealous anger, he'd slit his wife's throat.
A handy man with a knife, a moody, uncertain fellow, Cano.
I was there because I was caught embezzling from the bank.
A stupid thing to do, more stupid to be caught.
I looked forward to six more years before release.
Gone.
Every last mortal drop.
Half a bottle doesn't go far.
Not for one with a mouth of a hippopotamus.
I remember a wine in Paris, Montcher.
Think of Emile.
He might be tasting your wine soon, away from this pest hole.
How long has it been now?
Nine days.
No, ten.
He escaped on the 14th.
I give odds he never reaches Maribaux.
Five to one.
Why not?
Why shouldn't he?
Well, the sharks, Cano, the sharks.
Very bad this year, I've heard.
And his boat wasn't much good either.
Any other reason?
Well, let's wish him luck by not talking about it.
I'd like to talk about it.
Martille, why else shouldn't he reach Maribaux?
You know how many have tried in the past five years and been caught.
We all know, don't we, Thibault?
One informs, someone tells that swine of a governor.
Yes.
We only think that.
It's only a guess, nobody's sure, only a suspicion.
Now, isn't that so, Exil?
Someone who knows everything that's happening before anyone else.
He's right.
My friends, he's absolutely right.
It's true.
I've long suspected it myself, and it's wise that it should be brought out into the open.
Someone on the island is an informer, making himself fat on the sufferings of others.
I shouldn't want Emile to be caught.
He was a friend, a good friend.
Terrible thing if he were caught.
The question is, who?
Ah, who not?
It could be any one of a hundred, if it's true.
That pig Louis Daudin, possibly Grosjean.
Oh, one could imagine anything from him.
What about Grosjean?
Oh, Barry, oh, Bruce, Galena, Munch.
Macile, Ruxil, Thibault.
Any one of us, even yourself, Cano.
Oh, no, that, that, that is a dreadful thing to contemplate, Thibault.
No, not, not one of us.
Over here.
Oh, have you seen Thibault?
Oh, here you are.
Daudin, ah, we were speaking of you a minute ago.
What's the matter?
It's Emile.
What about Emile?
He's been caught.
They were waiting for him in a patrol boat off Maribaux.
They took him.
Oh, sacre.
Now the question is, how did they know he was going to Maribaux?
I wonder.
How did they know?
Two days later, Emile was back on the island in solitary.
We heard that he was in bad shape.
Thibault managed to smuggle in some cigarettes through a friendly guard, and that was the
best he could do.
Things were very bad, worse than usual.
The governor, Monsieur Planche, was angry, and restrictions even for librais became more
intolerable.
He seemed determined to make us all pay for Emile's attempted escape.
There was a lot of grumbling.
Even Thibault felt a pinch.
Then Emile died.
We heard from the beating he received when he was captured.
Thibault was very quiet.
For a week after, too quiet.
Then one day he said, I'm fed up.
Why don't you take a petition to the governor?
Now, there's no joke.
I repeat, I'm fed up.
Something must be done.
Escape, Thibault?
That or... or what?
Yes, what?
We stand.
We stand for better conditions.
No more oppressions.
We're prisoners, but there's still rights, human rights, to stand against tyranny and
inhumanity.
Bravo.
You've just been elected to the Chamber of Deputies.
I'm losing patience with you, Gano.
Don't be a fool.
We have no rights, even animals.
The governor's dog has more rights than we.
You know why, shall I tell you why?
Because the governor's dog is clever.
We are not clever.
The governor's dog sits up fritily and begs for a morsel.
He has no other dogs to contend with, no competition, while we, we fight and snarl among ourselves
with the garbage in the streets.
It's true.
It's true what he says.
What does he say?
What do you mean, Thibault?
We no longer fought among ourselves, but banded together.
Unit of strength, a solid front.
We could force the governor, the authorities in France, to better our conditions.
And what do we do?
Present a petition as cano putit?
No, perhaps not, perhaps not.
Something more forceful, eh?
No good would come of it.
If there is to be action, I'd rather try and escape.
How far would you get, Oegsie?
Are you forgetting the informer?
We don't know.
We don't know there's an informer.
We suspect, but we suspect everything.
There's nothing else to do.
Suppose it's the natives who informed.
They have before.
Suppose the governor is just too smart for us.
How many choices do we have anyway?
Brazil, they turn us back.
Dutch Guiana, Emile tried it.
They're always watching.
The West Indies, Venezuela in an open boat.
Not much chance there.
Or do you want the jungle?
An informer doesn't lessen our chances too much, it seems to me.
But it does lessen them.
I have been thinking, thinking hard, my friends.
We're agreed on one thing.
Conditions could not be worse, eh?
You agree?
If we could escape, we would do so and take our chances.
If, if.
Therefore, there are two choices, it seems.
Better conditions on the island or escape.
And both impossible, I would say.
Ah, you're a pessimist, Oegsie.
That's why you'll never be a success.
He's right, Oegsie.
You'll never be a success.
Go on, Thibaut.
I think that we may accept both choices, one dependent on the other.
What do you mean?
If we had better conditions, we might be able to escape.
Can't you ever talk in a straight line?
Now, which of us has the greatest opportunity to see the governor?
Well, you have.
You have, Thibaut.
You do his garden work.
Exactly.
Come on, come on.
Patience, my friend.
Monsieur Planche strolls in his garden.
Thibaut, he says.
Thibaut.
The roses are not looking very well today.
He stands next to me and he says this.
And for the indignity this petty official heaps on my head and for what he allowed done to
Emile, I could stretch out my hands and strangle him in five seconds.
You understand?
In five seconds.
But if I chose, I would not strangle.
I would hold him, hold him as a hostage.
A hostage?
And you follow me.
Now, let's suppose that a revolt were begun, eh?
The guards overthrew.
Oh, la la la.
It's a thought nobody's ever tried.
But the guards would shoot us down.
They would have to shoot the governor if they tried.
And if we succeed in what you say, then what?
What happens?
What do we do?
What?
That remains in my head.
You must trust me there.
I trust no one.
Exile.
Well, if there were a chance, I'd be with you.
I don't look forward to six more years of this.
Ah, my key.
If I'm at your side, my friend, as always, as always.
That leaves you, Cano.
All right.
Excellent.
Then we must start to make our plans carefully, very carefully.
Cano, stand by the door and warn us if anyone approaches.
We don't want the informer to overhear us.
Do we?
We're going to have to wait until we get there.
You are listening to The Stool Pigeon, tonight's presentation in radio's outstanding theater
of thrills, Suspense.
If you're interested in spreading the truth about America to others, CBS radio suggests
you contact Letters Abroad, 695 Park Avenue, New York 17, New York.
Letters Abroad, once you've given them a few facts about yourself, job interests, hobbies,
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Send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to Letters Abroad at 695 Park Avenue, New York
17, New York.
And now we bring back to our Hollywood soundstage, Mr. John Danaer, starring in tonight's production,
The Stool Pigeon, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
We made our plans in Thiebaud's hut.
Up to a point, they were simple.
Thiebaud, on the next day, was to await the governor's presence.
If he appeared, Thiebaud would grab him and take him to the greenhouse.
We three, Canot, MacKeele, and I, would be in the vicinity.
I had to stand guard over Monsieur Plonge with Thiebaud, MacKeele and Canot to spread
word among the other libraies at the moment had come.
If on the other hand, the governor did not put in an appearance, we would wait for our
chance on the next day or the next.
As it happened, it wasn't until the fifth day that the thing happened.
It was well timed.
The island was stifling, the prisoners restless, smarting under the still harsh restrictions
which had followed Emile's escape and arrest.
We were like a time bomb, ready to explode, and the explosion came.
We joined Thiebaud in the greenhouse.
He held the struggling governor in his massive arms.
Let me go!
All right, MacKeele, Canot.
Let me go!
Get the others quietly, but hurry.
Tell them to gather at the governor's house.
Let me go!
You fools!
You'll suffer for this!
Do not speak of suffering, Monsieur Plonge.
It is dangerous talk for you.
Go on, go on, Canot.
MacKeele, and remember, the guards mustn't suspect you everything quietly.
Yes, Thiebaud, come on.
If you continue to struggle, Monsieur Plonge, I shall be forced to break open your head.
What can you gain by this, Thiebaud?
It will mean a life sentence, you know it.
And for you, possibly a death sentence.
Do you know that, Governor?
What are you going to do?
Hold you as a hostage.
We demand our rights as men.
You understand?
As men.
You have no civil rights.
Human rights!
My friend Emile died.
He took his chance in escaping, but he wasn't shot, he was beaten to death.
An accident.
He resisted.
Things must change.
I can change nothing.
The regulations are set in Paris.
I simply carry them out.
You overdo your authority.
You must apply for better conditions for the men.
I can do nothing.
We shall see.
Stay quietly now.
We'll wait until the others come back.
We waited.
It seemed a long time and the silence was more terrible than the heat in that place.
The Governor's hobby was raising orchids and the greenhouse was full of them.
I've always hated the things.
Then suddenly it was too quiet, as it might be on a summer's day, a moment before a thunderstorm.
What the devil's keeping them?
I don't know.
Maybe the guards know what's happened.
Maybe they've been caught.
Ben, listen.
They're shooting them.
Thiebaud, they're shooting them.
Shut up!
Someone get me a lighter.
Where's my key?
Coming.
Coming.
What happened?
We got word to about a dozen.
And word must have gotten to the guards about him.
I told you.
Now before it's too late, release me.
It'll be better for you if you do.
What happened to the others?
Last I saw they were coming his way.
Oh, Thiebaud!
Thiebaud, it's horrible.
I saw four of them.
Four!
All right, come on.
Where?
To his office.
Monsieur Blanche, we are taking you to your office.
If any guards try to stop us, you know what happens.
You can do nothing, Thiebaud.
Give yourself up now.
All of you.
Walk.
Slowly.
You in there!
Come on with your hands up!
The guards, Thiebaud.
Tell them, Governor.
Tell them that we're coming out.
With you.
Now tell them.
This is the Governor speaking.
These men are holding me.
They're coming out.
Tell them not to shoot.
Don't shoot!
Now, calmly, nicely, we walk out.
Stay very close to them, my friends.
That way you'll be safe.
As bees clustered around the honeypot, we sidled along the path, past the guards who
stood no more than 20 feet from us.
It must have been a ridiculous sight, but the honeypot was the Governor and our protection
from bullets.
Then we were in his office.
There were no others to join us, and the door closed.
It was a strange thing.
We none of us thought beyond the moment, and for that moment we were superior beings, prisoners
no longer because we were now the captors.
But when I glanced into the courtyard and saw the ring of guards looking up, rifles
cradled in their arms, it was then another moment, and one this time of fear.
What now?
First the siren must stop.
It offends my ears.
Governor, give the order.
This is the Governor.
Turn off the siren.
Good.
You're cooperative.
It's better that way.
I repeat, what now?
Now I think we go to the
next part of my plan.
Markeel, little maggot, stay by the window and observe.
Report if there is an attempt by the guards to move into the building.
Yes, sir.
What do you think you can accomplish?
Escape?
Impossible?
You know that.
It's been done.
When there's been no informer, it's been done.
I don't know what you're talking about.
First things first.
Now we come to the matter of conditions here.
I have told you that the-
Oh, what you've told me, and I say to you it is within your power to ease the suffering
of the men.
Give them better food, better medical care.
Your concern for your fellow man touches me, Thibaut.
Did you have as much conscience over those you murdered?
That is an entirely different matter.
Enough of this, Thibaut.
What happens to us?
My dear Canoux, it is happening to us now.
You'll see.
Trust me.
The devil with that talk.
When do we get out of here?
All in good time.
Therefore, Governor, you will assign your pledge to do these things of which I have
spoken.
If I don't?
I'll kill you.
Slowly.
I can.
I've had practice.
Let us suppose that I agree to this.
What then?
Then you don't die.
Now, the second point.
We have a chance to escape.
No.
A fair chance.
Not the chance that Borémeil had, but then he had no chance at all, did he?
There will be no escape.
In order to escape, there must be secrecy.
And there can be no secrecy when you know beforehand of the plan.
You will not have a chance to escape.
If you let me go, I warn you, I will deal with you all.
There will be no escape.
My dear Governor, I said nothing about when we attempt to make this escape.
What are you talking about?
Escape now, now, Thibaut.
Yes, of course, now.
Each to his own desire for me.
It may be now or sometime later, but the opportunity, if it comes, must at least allow a reasonable
margin of success.
That is up to you, Monsieur Blanche.
What do you mean?
Here now, the third point.
I wish to know the name of your informer.
The one who has for what must be at least five years supplied you with information concerning
every thought and deed of the prisoners.
There is no informer.
You are lying, Governor.
No, I have no need.
You have a great need if you wish to go on living.
What are you up to, Thibaut?
Don't interrupt His Excellency Canot.
He is about to tell us something.
If I tell you, will you give yourselves up?
I cannot speak for the others, for myself.
Yes.
You pig.
You sell us out?
No, no, no, no, no, my dear Canot.
You're free to do as you will.
Who is the informer, Monsieur Blanche?
I'm getting impatient.
Who?
Him.
Ah.
That is what I wanted to know.
Then I ask you one favor, Governor.
Do not be hard on these two.
All this was done to gain what you've just told me, nothing more.
I don't understand you.
My friend, Emile.
I have other friends.
I should not want to see them go as he went.
You had better escape now, Maquil.
No, no, Thibaut.
It's not true.
He's lying to you.
Run, Maquil, run.
Or I'll throw you out with the wind.
On my honor, Thibaut.
I'm your friend.
You know me.
I know you.
Run.
Exile Canot, you don't believe it, do you?
Run, little maggot, outside.
Quickly.
No, Thibaut, no.
Hope that the guard shoots you.
Please, please.
Run.
I would have cut his throat.
That is murder, my friend, you wouldn't want that.
I hope that your guards will shoot first and inquire later, Monsieur Blanc.
We all went to solitary.
It was expected, but somehow things were different, a little better on the island.
How do you explain it?
Perhaps the governor was ashamed.
Perhaps he admired something about Thibaut that none of us understood.
How does one know these things?
There's not much else to tell.
A year after we were released from solitary, Thibaut tried to escape.
And this time it wasn't a prison informer who turned him in.
It was the native from whom he bought the boat.
How do you explain these things?
Suspense, which Mr. John Danaer starred in tonight's presentation of The Stool Pigeon.
Next week, the story of a man who returned home to find his people in the grip of a strange
disease.
We call it The Frightened City.
It's next week on Suspense.
Suspense is produced and directed by Anthony Ellis, who wrote tonight's script.
The music was composed by René Garaguin and conducted by Wilbur Hatch.
Featured in the cast were Parley Bear, Joe Kearns, Tony Barrett, Jim Nusser, and Edgar
Barrier.
Tomorrow night on the FBI in Peace and War, a criminal comes up against a determined socialite
who doesn't scare easy.
And it isn't long before the G-men move in on the ex-con's new racket.
Remember the FBI in Peace and War, tomorrow evening over most of these same stations.
Stay tuned now for George Herman and the News, followed by Disc Derby.
Thursday nights, The Whistler brings mystery on the CBS Radio Network.
Phantoms rise in front of bring with them the Working
East.