And now, tonight's presentation of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
Tonight, we bring you a transcribed story about buried treasure and a curse.
We call it, The Treasure Chest of Don José.
So now, starring Mr. Edgar Berrier, here is tonight's Suspense play, The Treasure Chest of Don José.
This is not a pretty story. There is blood in it, the blood of men and women.
There is a curse in it and gold. But it is a funny story. It is a joke.
A great joke that I cannot laugh at. It is a joke on me.
In matters of this sort, secrecy is of the utmost importance.
In matters of this sort, no man is your friend.
Once I had a friend. We lived together in my little house on Black Cay down in the Gulf of Mexico.
But then the hurricane struck and everything was different.
The wind blew for two nights and a day. And when the waves piled up on the cay and swept away the house,
it was my friend, Pedro, who dragged me away unconscious and lashed me to a ring bolt on our little dock and saved my life.
The next day, the sun was shining again, but there was nothing left on my little island.
The splintered planks that once had been the house of my father were scattered among the stripped palm trees.
And even the big chimney that was built by my great-grandfather was a pile of broken bricks.
There was nothing but blue sea and bright sun and heaviness in my heart.
Yes, even the chimney.
Hey, what would you expect from such a wind?
Hey, my friend, so now a last curse of the Gasparillas has fallen on you, huh?
Curse, curse. You speak foolishness.
It was a hurricane.
Hey, see. So it was, but a hurricane sent especially to destroy you.
Hey, you cannot believe that silly prayer.
Did not your father perish from a bolt of lightning that struck him from a cloudless sky?
The doctor said it was a heart attack.
And your grandfather? Was he not pulled into the sea by a giant octopus?
He was washed overboard during a squall.
And all because of his father, Don José, the king of the pirates, and the curse put upon him and all the Gasparillas by the beautiful Dona Margarita, who preferred death?
Hey, you, you prattle like a schoolboy. You have never been one day to school.
Now come.
I will clear up this mess and build the house over again.
You should know that I endured a certain local notoriety since I bore the same name and was the great-great grandson of Don José Gasparilla, one of the last and one of the fiercest of the pirates of the Spanish main.
This was of much less interest and concern to me than it was to my friends and acquaintances among the Florida Keys.
Neither my father nor his father before him had ever profited by a single doubloon from the legendary treasure of our pirate forebear.
And as to the curse pronounced on Don José by the proud and virtuous Dona Margarita, I gave it as little credence as I did the recurrent tales of Gasparilla's very treasure.
But that was before Pedro and I set about cleaning up the hurricane's mess.
We were stacking brick from the demolished chimney when Pedro made a discovery.
Hola, José. Look at this.
What is it?
Hey, seems to be a box. A little iron box the size and shape of a brick.
Let me see it.
There was a lot, but it's rusted away. Hand me that pinch.
See? Here.
Hey, piece of paper inside.
Yes, it is very old.
What does it say, José?
Huh? Oh, nothing. It is just an old paper.
Si, si, I know, but what does it say?
See, it is a nursery rhyme my father copied for me when I was a little boy.
Yeah, but what is he doing in this old iron box, huh?
Yeah, I must have hidden it away once when I was playing.
Here, amigo. Shall we get back to work?
It was a lucky thing Pedro could not read. That was no nursery rhyme.
That rotting parchment said,
On Dogbody's Island you could fare worse if there you willed on José's curse.
For there, three and thirty yards south-southeast of the Rocky Guards,
you will find a pleasantly fulsome measure of the
Gasparillas' earthly treasure.
There could be no question about it.
Here was at last a tangible clue to the hidden gold of my ancestor.
It was mine if I could find it.
Why should I share it with anyone, even Pedro?
I was the rightful heir, and I would claim it all.
So that night, I took our only boat and rode to the mainland.
I spent two days in the public library in Key West,
searching the old charts before I could find it.
It was a tiny sand spit near the tip of Cape Cod.
It was perfect, my little rented cottage on the beach, quiet, secluded,
and yet within view of that rocky point, which must be the same one
Don José called the Rocky Guards.
There was a stack of firewood beside the kitchen door,
and in a shed back of the house there was even a long-handed shovel,
a most fortunate circle of wood, and a
I gave of them three on commitment paper and three register notes in the honour,
to thank a gentleman and opt to share the
...
There was even a long-handed shovel, a most fortunate circumstance, since I did not want
to create any suspicion in the town by purchasing one.
I can tell you I scarcely slept that first night, so great was my eagerness to be up
in the morning to pace the three and thirty yards south-southeast of the rocky guards and
begin digging for my pleasure.
Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two.
Good morning.
Oh, good morning.
Looks like it's going to be a nice day.
Yes, yes it does.
Wanna do some digging?
Hey, beg your pardon?
I see you've got a shovel.
Looks like you're going to do some digging.
Oh, yes, clums.
I am going to dig for clums.
Ah, no clams in the surf.
Oh, is there any?
No.
Find them on the bay side.
Well, then I will look over there.
Don't dig them with the shovel.
Gotta get a shovel.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, I'll do it.
Oh, yes.
I've got to dig my shovel, gotta use a rake.
Oh, is that so?
Nah.
Too late now, anyway.
Tide's coming in.
Another low tide at five this afternoon.
Oh, I didn't know.
I am a Carl City
I came out here and warn you.
Warn me?
About what?
Eh, you see that patch of sand yonder, beyond the cranberry bog?
Yes.
Quicksand.
Treacherous.
Oh, oh, thank you.
Eh, you want to stay here long?
Why, I don't know.
A few weeks.
Maybe all winter.
Hmm.
You, uh, a writing fella?
No, no.
Hmm.
Painting fella?
No.
Ah, just taking a vacation.
Yes, you might call it that.
Beats me.
Well, nice to have this talk with you.
Anything you need in the way of police protection, just let me know.
He couldn't know.
How could he know?
Nobody knew about the treasure clue but me.
Yet he seemed so suspicious.
He asked me so many questions.
I went back to the house, sat at the window until he was out of sight off the beach.
But by that time the tide had come in and the treasure was buried by the ocean.
So I waited until five o'clock when the tide was low.
And then carrying a gasoline lantern, I paced off the 33 yards south-southeast of the rocky
guards and set to work.
It was clear now I would have to work fast.
And at night, but there was no way of knowing who might drop in on my operations during
the daytime.
I waited until an hour after sundown.
And then carrying a gasoline lantern, I returned to the hall, found my shovel in the grass,
and set to work.
Although the evening was chilled with a brisk breeze blowing in from the sea, I had soon
shed my coat and was dripping with perspiration.
I lost track of time, place, and my own identity.
I was a machine, attacking the wet sliding sand with huge bites of my shovel, widening
the hole as it grew deeper, until my lantern threw long shadows across the opening that
had become large enough for a carpet.
Then my shovel hit something solid.
I reached for my lantern, and there under its lifeless green glare was a section of rotting
wood.
I shoveled the wet sand to one side.
There was a rusted iron strap.
They had found it, an iron bound chest, the treasure chest of Don Jose Gasparia.
It was almost too much to bear.
Suddenly my dampened shirt chilled me.
I was seized with a fit of shivering.
Then I began crying like a child.
How long I crouched there in this agony of relief and joy, I cannot tell.
But suddenly, above the sound of my own sobs, a pounding surf, a sang wind, I heard voices.
Terrors eased me.
Who came now to violate my supreme moment?
Who now threatened to deprive me of what was rightfully mine?
My tender lantern out scrambled from the hole, and a few yards away I could see the beam
of a flashlight slowly approaching.
I ran and hid behind a ledge of rocks, my heart drumming in my ears, my hell-breath screaming
in my tightened throat, trying to listen, trying to see.
It's got to be around here.
There he is.
What's the matter?
Nearly fell in a hole.
Here, look, this will do great.
Save it a shovel to fill it up.
All right, ready?
Yeah.
One, two, three.
What would I do?
Did they know?
At last it was quiet, and I watched their light as they made their way across the island
toward the bay.
Then after a time I heard the cough of a motorboat.
Still I waited until the sound of the receding motor was lost in the sighing wind and the
hiss of the nearby surf.
Then I lit my lantern and went back to my diggings.
The hole was half filled, and suddenly my terror turned to rage.
What had they done?
I began digging savagely.
Almost at once my shovel hit something, something that was softer than the chest and yielded
to the pressure.
I seized my lantern, crouched over for a closer examination, and found myself looking into
the vacantly staring eyes of a corpse.
Sometime toward dawn I must have fallen asleep, but the next thing I knew it was past noon
and somebody was pounding on my door.
Hey, anybody home?
Just a minute, I'm coming.
Oh, it's you, Chief.
Good morning.
Afternoon, now.
I'm sorry I was sleeping.
Thought you was dead.
Dead?
Took long enough to waken you.
Excuse me, I had insomnia most of the night.
Insomnia, eh?
You mean you was awake?
Yes.
Most of the night, you say?
Yes.
You hear anything peculiar out here?
No, no.
What do you mean?
Prowlers or such.
Why would anyone be prowling out here?
Didn't say there was.
I asked if you heard anyone.
No, no, I didn't.
Got the check.
It's been in the town limit.
Why, is anything the matter?
I don't know.
Kidnapping.
Murder, maybe.
Murder?
I don't know.
Ain't you heard it on the radio?
I haven't got the radio.
Sure, great consolation for a man living alone.
Well, what happened?
Tell me.
Young Harvard fellow, sinful rich, his father paid the ransom, $20,000.
But the kidnappers didn't deliver the boy.
Got a three state alarm out for them.
Think they're on the Cape somewheres.
Just checking.
What makes you think they'd come out here?
Oh, don't know.
Hunch partly.
Partly because somebody borrowed one of Jen Chantry's boats last night.
Found a blood stain in the cockpit this morning.
Didn't see him, eh?
I told you I didn't.
Ah, so you did.
Well, we'll catch him.
Of course, if they're on the Cape, sooner or later we'll catch him.
Ransom money's in small bills, all marked.
He'll get hungry sooner or later and spend some.
Besides, we've got a pretty good description of him.
Ah, let me know if you see or hear anything.
Yes, yes, of course, I'd be glad to.
You know, just checking.
Now there was no time to lose.
I had already missed one low tide.
I had to get my gold and get away from this island of suspicion and death.
I waited until five o'clock and then returned to my diggings.
The low, scudding clouds packed the sand with sudden gusts of icy rain.
There was little likelihood I would have unwelcome visitors on such a forbidding evening.
I quickly disinterred the body from my treasure hole.
Unquestionably, he was the kidnapper.
A young man dressed in the flannel slacks and saddle shoes of a college boy.
I dragged him to one side out of sight behind some rocks where I couldn't see his empty depths there.
Then I went back to my digging.
By seven o'clock, I had uncovered the chest and was prepared to lift it out of its grave.
The curse?
Oh, no, no curse, for here was the treasure and it was mine.
Want me to give you a hand with that?
What?
He wants to know you need a hand with that.
Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get here?
Low tide, we walked.
Get out of the hole, Pop.
Answer me.
Help Pop out of the hole.
Come on, Pop.
All right, where is he?
What?
The kid's body is gone. He got rid of it.
Get him out of there.
Okay, Pop. Come on.
Let me go. Please, let me go.
Where is he, Pop?
What do you do with him?
Do?
Where's the kid?
He's there.
Hey, put him there.
Steve?
Yeah.
Yeah, this here.
What are you trying to do, Pop? Why'd you move him?
What was he trying to do?
He was here.
Was? Was what?
Look in the hole.
Yeah.
No, no, no, don't.
There's a box here.
Is that why you moved him, Pop? To get to the box?
Please.
Give me a hand with this.
Leave it to Lord. It is mine. Don't touch it.
Shut up.
Here, see?
What do you got, Pop? Treasure?
Very treasure?
Don't laugh.
Maybe that's just what it is.
Let's get it out of there.
Leave it alone! Leave it alone!
I told you to shut up.
All right, Steve. Let's get it out of there.
That it was my treasure.
Only it wasn't mine.
Not while these two bandits stood over me.
At gunpoint, they forced me to help them carry it
throughout the house. My treasure.
It was mine, and nobody must take it from me now.
I must find a way to rescue it.
When we got inside the house, they forced open the chest
and emptied one of the canvas sacks,
its contents cascading onto the table
in a golden stream of doubloons.
Well, what do you know? Gold!
It is mine. It belongs to me. It is my inheritance.
Yeah, yeah, I know, Pop.
Only you're going to pay a high inheritance tax.
100%.
Hey, Steve, I nearly forgot one.
Him.
Who?
Him out there.
What about?
Get him in here.
Come on, can't we just dump him back in the hole?
I got a better idea. Get him in here. Carry him in.
Carry him? For what?
The rain will wash away any tracks in the sand.
Carry him.
I don't want to take any chances.
Where do we stood the two of us?
Watching my beautiful gold, my mouth parched,
my heart scarcely beating.
The one called Jeff standing by the door,
his gun pointed at me.
Then in a moment we were four.
The one called Steve was back with the death-stiffened body.
Put him in the closet.
Okay.
Okay now, Pop, I'll tell you what we're going to do.
My friend and me are in a little trouble.
And you're going to give us a hand, aren't you, Bob?
What are you talking about?
Go away. Leave me alone.
That's just what we're going to do. We're going to leave.
And we're going to take that bright shiny stuff with us.
The treasure is mine.
We're going to be fair.
Yeah, we're going to be fair.
We're going to give you $20,000 in nice up-to-date American money.
How do we know?
Maybe that junk of yours ain't worth half that much.
That money is marked.
I know. It's ransom money.
That's what I know.
That's the point.
This dough of yours won't work in any cigarette machine, you know.
We're going to have to go to a lot of trouble to cash it.
What?
What's that?
The window blew open. It's raining like crazy outside.
We better get started.
No, no, no. I won't let you.
Now, take it easy, old man. You got no complaints.
You're 20 grand ahead of the game.
What?
Come on, come on. Let's get out of here.
Grab the end of that check.
We're getting something.
What?
The sack full on the table.
Oh, yeah.
Here, Pop.
Here's one for you. A souvenir.
Come on. We got to get this thing across the sand before the tide comes in.
Okay. So long, Pop.
Oh, no. My treasure.
My treasure.
Help.
Thanks a minute.
And they were gone, walking slowly across the dunes with that heavy burden.
I watched them, unaware of the sheets of rain
driving through the open door of the cottage,
unaware that the house itself was shuddering from the impact of the storm,
unaware that the wind had shifted from northeast to southeast.
And suddenly I became conscious of my great danger.
The thin frame cottage was creaking and shaking from the relentless wind,
and the sound of the storm had a familiar tone,
a tone I had heard once before.
Then I realized that the wind had shifted.
I realized that this was no ordinary storm.
This was a hurricane.
Down behind the shelter of a high dune,
I stumbled and fell spread-eagled on the sand.
And suddenly the wind stopped, the rain stopped.
It was the calm of death.
It was the center of the hurricane, the eye,
the moment of respite before the final fury of the storm.
And I remembered the curse and wished aloud for its fulfillment.
There was no sound but the booming of the furious surf,
and then there seemed to be a distant human cry.
And I looked toward the rocky guards.
Far away in the distance, for an instant,
I could see the tiny struggling figures of my tormentors.
And then a giant wave crashed down on them,
and they and the spit disappeared in boiling angry water,
and the wet heavens descended again,
held upon me by the tail of the hurricane.
They awoke with a light in my eyes,
a light brighter, bigger, closer than the sun.
And I heard a voice.
You all right, Mr. Gaspar?
Hey, who, who, who is it?
It's me, Trish Weatherby.
Got out here as soon as I could.
Oh, we was worried about you out here with no radio.
You couldn't get the storm warnings.
It come up so fast, it wasn't time to get you off.
That's, that's very kind of you.
Lucky you got out of the house.
Why?
Ain't there no more.
Ocean come plumbed through,
carried the house right out into the bay.
Made two islands out of sprayed spit.
The house is gone.
Oh, not a stick of it left.
What channel where it stood?
Storms play funny tricks.
That kidnapper I told you about.
Yes? What about it?
Found three bodies out near those rocks.
The kidnappers and the victim.
What do you know about that?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
It is a very funny story, no?
But I cannot laugh.
The joke is on me.
You don't believe me?
Look.
Here is the gold doubloon.
All that is left of the treasure chest of Don José.
Yet I know this to be true.
There is a treasure.
I saw it, held it.
And that treasure still exists.
Only now there is no map.
But I can tell you,
in the rocky surf,
near the two islands called sprayed spit,
if you will dare the curse,
is the treasure chest of Don José.
Suspense.
In which Mr. Edgar Berrier starred in tonight's presentation
of the treasure chest of Don José.