Suspense.
And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure,
William M. Robeson.
Paris, city of light, city of gaiety, city of scintillating women, sparkling wine, and
the finest food in the world.
But this has not always been so.
Just a few years ago, Paris was a city of darkness and despair and hunger, where men
turned to strange and sinister activities just to keep alive.
This was the Paris of the Nazi occupation, a hopeless city which Marcel Aime has caught
in his strangely disturbing story, Crossing Paris, a tale of cupidity and retribution.
Listen, listen then, to Mr. Hans Conrede starring in Crossing Paris, which begins in exactly
one minute.
Smoke can't, smoke can't, smoke can't with the micronite filter.
It is the mild, mild cigarette that's got the freshest, cleanest taste yet.
It is the mild, can't, cigarette smoke can't with the micronite filter.
It is the mild, mild cigarette that's got the freshest, cleanest taste yet.
It is the mild, can't, cigarette smoke can't, smoke can't, smoke can't with the micronite filter.
And now, Mr. Hans Conradin crossing Paris, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
If you had been in Paris during the Nazi occupation, you would have seen a lot of interesting things.
You might even have caught a glimpse of me stealing through the streets at night as inconspicuously as possible
for a man carrying a heavily loaded valise in each hand.
These valises were lined inside with canvas to prevent the leakage of any telltale drops of blood.
And they belonged to my employer, Monsieur Jamblier, in whose cellar the original butchering was accomplished.
My job was hard, but it paid well for the risks I took.
Quite often I worked with an assistant carrier, usually Le Tambou.
Well, one winter afternoon I set out to meet Le Tambou at the Café Voltaire on the boulevard de la Bastille.
It was bitterly cold and the trees were bright with frost.
It promised to be a miserable night for us.
A keen north wind was blowing over the canal towards the Seine and the day seemed dying of cold.
It was nearly dark when I reached the Café Voltaire.
Ah, Pierre, what will it be? You look cold enough for a brandy.
That I am.
Here, this will warm your bones.
Your friend Le Tambou is in. He said to tell you he is not free tonight.
Oh, curse him! How can he behave like that? He has no respect for his work.
Respect for what work? Who is this Le Tambou? Respect for what work?
Oh, please, Monsieur, I'm talking to the bartender. It's no affair of yours.
It's not my affair, all right? I'm standing here thinking that you come in and curse people and talk about respect.
I'll teach you respect.
Oh, the fellow was drunk. He put his glass down and staggered up to me, fist raised.
At that same moment, a huge man calmly stepped around from behind me, caught the drunk's chin in his big hand and pushed him back with a powerful thrust.
I get it, I get it. Now the police always throw them there.
No, we are not the police, you idiot, but I promise you some police if you don't shut up.
See, I told you, look at the protein. That's police written all over him.
Well, well, then, let's go, my lad. Pay for our drinks now and we'll report to the station for duty.
Pay up and let's be off.
I don't know why, but I paid. And then, still laughing, the big one took me by the arm and me started out.
He was a rough fellow, probably a laborer, but certainly not of the police, dressed as he was in a spotted shiny suit and a dark turtleneck sweater.
His small pig-like eyes were bright with irony and the tight blonde curls that ringed his huge head gave him the appearance of a great ram.
When we reached the street, the night was already black with high icy winds.
That was a squalid scene.
Oh, well, the man was drunk. But I could have handled him. I carry a knife, you know. You did not have to interfere.
Oh, no, I enjoyed it.
Well, anyway, you probably saved him from being cut up.
Oh, but I didn't realize that you were going to cut him. My apologies, Mr. Schiff.
You're a bloodthirsty brute. I bet your wife wears a black eye to mass every Sunday.
No, no, no. No, no, wife. The big thing in times like this is to eat with me. My stomach comes first, love afterwards.
I see. And what do you do? What is your trade?
I am a painter.
Oh, you must find it difficult these days. There's so little building going on.
I manage in a small way.
And look here, you're a strong fellow, and if you're not afraid of a little risk, I can give you a job tonight as my assistant.
It pays well, too.
How much?
Say, 400 francs. You're on.
Don't you even want to know what it is?
Oh, you're probably an assassin.
Of course not. Above all, I'm a man of honor.
What difference does it make?
All right, then. Let's turn off here. First we must go to the Roupolivon. Our work starts there.
Let's walk faster. I'm cool.
Who is it?
I, Pierre.
Hey, who's the other one?
Let Ambo docked out on me tonight. So I've asked my friend, Grangile, here to take his place.
He's all right.
Hurry, then. You're late.
We followed Monsieur Jeanblier across the cellar to a thick table where stained white cloths covered a shapeless form.
He proudly removed the shroud, revealing a whole hog which had been neatly cut into a dozen portions.
Then he stood back and allowed us to feast our eyes.
He's a beauty, no?
How much does he weigh?
Two hundred pounds. But divided into four valises, you'll manage him all right.
It's easy to see. You've never carried a hundred pounds of black market pig about Paris.
You're wasting time. Hand me a valise under the table there.
Where does it go tonight?
To Montmartre. Butcher shop in the Rougue-Goulencourt, number 43.
And one thing now. To arrange his deliveries, he must have the meat there by 2 a.m.
If you are late, he will not accept it.
What Montmartre?
It's no distance for a young man like you.
How much are you giving us?
Now? Yeah, bargains are bargains. We are all men of honor in this affair.
No one has ever questioned my honor, Monsieur.
And I deliver your meat on this side of the Seine for 400 francs. But Montmartre, that's a different matter.
Oh, I see what you're up to. You know perfectly well I can't risk keeping the pig here and that it's too late to get anyone else to carry it.
Lugging 200 pounds of black market meat all the way across Paris in the dead of the night with the police lying in wait for us at every turn along the way.
You call that profiteering?
All right then. All right. You get 50 francs more.
I want respectable pay for my work, not just a tip. 500 then. But not a soumour. It is hard work. It involves great risk. 600 francs.
Tell me, Monsieur Chamblier, is this really number 45?
What? Why do you ask that?
Oh, for no reason at all. Because I know the answer. Monsieur Chamblier, 45, Rue Polyvaux.
Who is this man, Pierre?
Tangier. You do me the courtesy of keeping your mouth shut. I do the talking here. You agree your answer to 600 francs?
Monsieur Chamblier, 45, Rue Polyvaux. My share will be a thousand francs.
What? Are you mad?
I don't pay any attention to him. He's my assistant. So you just give me the two times 600 francs. I'll settle with him later.
All right then. Here, take it. I can't have you here all night.
Monsieur Chamblier, 45, Rue Polyvaux. Give me 2,000 francs or I shall wreck this place.
Chamblier looked at him fearfully for a moment. Then he pulled a fat billfold from his pocket and handed two notes of a thousand francs each to the ram who pocketed them calmly and caught a third one.
When Chamblier, in his nervousness, let it slip. It was too much for me. I started to organize to make him return the money, but Chamblier seized me by the arm.
I'll let him alone. I can't afford a row here.
I don't want a row, but after all, he's my assistant.
And this is my cellar. I've paid out enough money to have peace here at least. You can settle it with him later.
Right now we've got to finish packing the valises. It's late.
We went back to the table and finished fitting the sections of pork into the valises, wedging them in with crumpled newspapers.
Grangile paid no attention to us, but sat across the cellar on a wine barrel, eating a thick slice of ham, he found.
When we were packed, however, he got up without a word and came over to pick up his two valises.
This apparent willingness seemed to impress Chamblier, and when we reached the door, he stuck a pack of cigarettes into the ram's pocket.
That's for the two of you for the drink.
Cigarettes at night is a fine way to get ourselves picked up.
Come now, Pierre. Don't worry so much.
I have to have 2,000 francs more.
No, no, no! Not a sou! Not a single sou!
Give me 2,000 francs for heaven's sake, Chamblier! Chamblier! 2,000 francs, Chamblier!
Stop it! You'll have the police on us!
Here, you blackmailer! Here, take them and shove them up! In the name of Mary, shut up!
Here, you devil! Oh, but my darling, I'll get out of here. I'll settle with you later, my fine friend.
Chamblier! Oh! Chamblier! I now have to have another 2,000 francs!
Quiet, I beg you! Stop it!
No, don't you dare pull anything like that again. What's the matter with you anyway?
Do you want to go to jail? I'm warning you now. If you ever...
Start chirping at me or I'll pinch your head off and let you bleed.
Well, I don't want any trouble. After all, I've given you a job. This is my work. You should have some respect for it.
Oh, that's for your job. Where do we cross the river?
We have to go up to the Île Saint-Louis, too near the railway station down here, too many police patrols and German soldiers around.
Let's hurry, then. My hands are turning to stone.
As we passed by the wine market, deserted and desolate in the night, the wind seemed to blow with less violence, but colder.
Our faces were gnawed and burned by it. The oily water in the Seine was black as coal, and along the banks the bare trees stood bleak and spectral.
Finally we reached the Île Saint-Louis, and we were caught turning to the first side street for a moment's respite from the paralyzing north wind.
It's a wonder the air doesn't freeze. Why in the name of heaven do you work at this joint?
I make my living this way. Every man to his trade.
Now tell me, how much can you get for pork in the black market?
Forget it.
What, 75 francs a pound?
Forget it, I tell you.
In that café where they thought we were police, I'm sure we could sell Jean Blier's pig at 75 francs a pound.
That would give us 30,000 francs. 15,000 a piece of easy money to, instead of killing ourselves in this wind, we're...
You think if I want to do that I'd have brought you along?
No, and if I were to decide to do it now, I'd begin by getting rid of you.
What makes you think you...
Quiet, listen. A patrol back here in the shadows. Quick.
In a moment, we continue with...
Suspense.
Jack Benny acquires a girls baseball team and Armis Brooks acquires headaches from a school board on CBS radio this evening.
And if that isn't enough, Mitch Miller has Jack Webb hiding under his beard.
Yes, there's great listening ahead on CBS radio, so keep your dial right where it is.
Suddenly aware of the fact that his rivals Bob Hope and Bing Crosby are part owners of baseball teams,
Jack Benny will be out to acquire one for himself and the answer will be the Buxom Bloomer Girls.
For another key to laughter, join Eve Arden as Armis Brooks as she tries to open Madison High in time to receive an award for good attendance.
The key here is the one she loves in a series of mishaps that prevent the opening of the school.
Too late to help her find the key, but in time to help Mitch Miller present one of his greatest shows,
Jack Webb will be here on most of these same stations along with producer Otto Preminger and comedian Phil Foster.
Remember, they're all on CBS radio later today.
Jack Benny, Eve Arden and Mitch Miller with his guests, Jack Webb, Otto Preminger and comedian Phil Foster.
And now we continue with Crossing Paris starring Mr. Hans Connery, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
We froze against the doorway as the patrol passed without seeing us.
Ahead of us were still two solidars of terror crossing Paris.
The moon was still hidden, but the night had grown lighter and consequently more dangerous for us.
After a block or two, I suddenly sensed that Gangeed was no longer behind me and turning,
I saw him halfway across the street headed toward a line of blue light that framed the doorway of a cafe.
I'm going to get a shot of liquor.
Come back here, you fool. You can't carry that stuff in there.
And I won't be long.
He was already opening the door, pushing his valises past the blackout curtain, which masked the lighted interior,
cursing, not telling what he was up to now.
But in any event, I couldn't leave him there with Jean-Dié's pork and I didn't dare stand around in the street waiting for him.
So I crossed over and followed him inside.
Several men who looked like clerks were playing cards at the table.
The floor was covered with sawdust and the lights were binging.
The proprietor's wife sat knitting a sock behind the cash register and looking suspiciously at Gangeed,
who was already standing at the bar one foot resting on his valises.
Two cognacs, patron.
This is my closing time.
Cognac.
What is all that luggage?
You're not running into my place with the police at your heels, are you?
Give us some cognac.
No, no, no, no. Do not cause a row with me. These rows are...
Cognac, patron. Remy, Martin.
Shut up, Gangeed. Shut up, I tell you.
If you quiet down, I will get it for you.
Thank you, monsieur.
The proprietor searched for a bottle of Remy Martin and Gangeed turned and stared at the four clerks who had stopped their card game.
They were obviously avoiding so much as a glance in our direction.
All right. You. There are four of you sitting there.
You're half-starved on rotten carrots and sawdust pudding. You're smoking corn silk.
All of you. And there's enough good fat pork in these valises to make you rich.
Huh? What's to keep you from making off with it?
You know well enough we're in no position to report it.
In the name of having Gangeed come to your senses.
Get out of here, you filthy paupers. Get out.
And hold against the black market.
Rubble. Scum.
What good does it do to make laws if they're not respected?
Blackards. Anarchists. Disloyal Frenchmen.
Stop it, Gangeed. Have you lost your mind?
Perhaps you don't care what happens to you, but I care what happens to me.
You don't say so. Hey, you there, patron, patron, patron. I can't wait all night. Give us some Cognac.
Give us some Cognac, I said. Here is your Cognac. But please, no more. It is past closing time already.
Ah, here. Here's to you, little Pierre. You who are as timid as a girl, but whose charm I cannot resist.
Your valises full of pork that these cowards refuse to take, I will carry as far as L'Eau.
On foot. On my knees. For you.
And then, without warning, the ram reached out, seized the Cognac bottle, and eased it with all its strength against the mirror behind the bar.
Ah, excellent, excellent. Now, my valises. Come, little Pierre. I never wish to see these wretched people again.
Baboons, I ignore you. I erase you from my memory. Forever.
I followed him out, wondering how in the world I could keep this monstrous madman from getting us picked up by the police.
The moon had come out now in the center of the street, looked like an arrow of brightness, while the shadows along the sidewalk offered dangerous possibilities of surprise.
At the first street crossing, the black shadow in which we were walking was broken by a streak of moonlight.
We just reached the opposite curb, when from the dark only three yards in front of us a man's voice rang out.
Stand where you are! No tricks now! What are you carrying in those valises?
Before taking that tone, you'd do well to identify yourself.
It's the police. You saw me well enough.
All the police? Well, I'm certainly glad we ran into you. I've been looking for somebody to show us how to get to the Rousseau Vignette.
You're going away from it, and I think that you'll...
You don't tell me. Did you hear that, my friend? The Rousseau Vignette is behind us. Well, then we'll just have to turn back.
Later, perhaps. Right now, you're going with me to the station.
May we rest a moment? First, we've walked a long way looking for the Rousseau Vignette. Perhaps I can explain...
No need for that. Come along now, come on.
There was nothing he could do if I put my valises down anyway in spite of him, so I did, thinking he would give me a chance to talk him out of this.
And the ram, bending his knees slightly, put his down also, and then, suddenly straightening up, smashed a policeman's jaw with his hip.
The poor man doubled to his knees, fell flat without making a sound.
Grand Gilles bent over him for a moment and then grabbed his hat and threw it into the middle of the street.
The vise are shown there in the moonlight.
Well, let's go... Well, that was clever. As soon as he comes to, he'll grab his whistle.
In five minutes, all the police in the Arrondissement will be after us.
That would surprise me. I have his whistle in my pocket.
Shit. Air raid alert. Now, what will we do? We don't dare go into a shelter with his meat, and we certainly can't stay in the streets.
I live only two blocks from here. Come on. Come on.
In spite of carrying a hundred pounds a piece of that cursay pig, we ran all the way. But at last, with bursting lungs, we made it.
I stopped a moment inside the door to catch my breath before climbing to the top floor where he said he lived.
The ram went on ahead, and the door was opened when I finally arrived.
Come in. Come in. I'll have a fire going in the stove in a moment.
It was a large, comfortable studio. In the bluish light that filtered in from the street, I could see a huge mirror covered with gauze,
hanging directly opposite the entrance, over a baby carriage filled with what appeared to be framed paintings.
I sat down my valises near the door and stood there until Grand Gilles drew a blackout curtain over the window and turned on the light.
There were several easers in the room, and on a table near the window were spread out a number of drawings and paintings.
Surprise. You were a painter. Yes. I said I was. You did all those?
I sell most of them around Montmartre. But since the German occupation, amusingly enough, not always for money.
I bought her. Only last week, for a picture of a woman wearing nothing but high heeled shoes and opera hat, I got a hand.
But here's one I've been commissioned for that'll bring a hundred thousand francs.
You like it? No. Because it's the portrait of a Nazi? Perhaps. And because it's no good?
You're still angry with me, aren't you? I don't know what to think of you.
Think what you like, then. I'm going to eat something.
The stove had commenced to glow, so I sat down in a big, easy chair next to it and soon became drowsy in its pleasant warmth.
And then suddenly a bell went off and woke me out of a sound sleep.
Grand Gilles speaking. Ah, c'est lui. I'm sorry I couldn't make it. Pierre Martin, I will. Huh? No, no, you don't know him.
Pierre Martin is a little gutter snipe who works in the black market. He gave me a job, the poor idiot.
Oh, I had great fun. Wore dirty clothes, played the role of a calf, a Satanist, a thief. No, no, no. It was very easy.
After all, it's the weak ones who act tough. Very amusing, I assure you. Huh? No, no, I'm still an amateur.
So that's it. Flumming. He was flumming, mocking me, making fun of my work, laughing to himself all the while. I'll show him.
Oh, Pierre, Pierre, such tempered little one. You dog! And I thought you were riled up. I want to help you.
And you, the gentleman, treating himself to a taste of what I suppose you call the underworld, like a stinking tourist.
Is there a reward out for you, Pierre? It's stealing, that's what it is.
You should have left the work to a man who needed it. You have no honor, no respect for work, you filthy rat!
Oh, but I have, I have. Come over here.
Look, I drew a portrait of you while you slept. Huh? Perhaps you will like this picture better than me.
I don't even want to look at it. What do you think I am? Me, I am, I keep, I work hard.
You and your Nazi hundred thousand franc commission. You've done everything to make trouble for me.
My work is amusing, huh? Well, I'll show you what I think of you.
Pierre, Pierre, what are you up to?
I ran across the room to the ease of the hell the portrait of a Nazi, plunged my knife into the car and ripped down.
I was about to slash it across the middle when Grangile, you, his buddy, smashed into me.
He cut me by the throat and was slowly choking alive out with his thick fingers.
I began to beat on the floor in agony with my open hand when suddenly I started to knife with one hand and sealed it.
My eyes were turning back in my head as I slashed out at his wrists.
He let out a hole and sat back, watching the blood drip from one hand.
I was too weak to move, so I lay there, holding my knife over my chest, pointing it at him.
Suddenly his eyes went white with insane rage and before I could move, he threw himself on top of me again.
And now rolled over with a faint moan. My knife had been driven straight into his heart.
His legs twitched a little and then he, he lay still.
I looked at him, unbelievably. I, I'd never killed. I'd never wanted to kill any man.
Then I, I covered my face with my hands and I worked.
Two hours later, faint with exhaustion, I delivered all four valises to the butcher shop in Mo'Mahle.
All right, I await it. It is all there.
Of course it is. I'm a man of honor, Monsieur.
I can see that. And you made it on time too. But did you not have an assistant, I understood from Jamblier?
It seems that my assistant, Monsieur, did not really need the work. I was, I was forced to dismiss him.
Well, anyway you made it.
I always finish any job I start, Monsieur.
It was only then that I remembered that Grand-Gilles had said my name to his girl over the phone and that my portrait sat waiting for the police in his studio.
I put the five thousand francs, which I'd taken from his body, into an envelope I borrowed from the butcher and addressed it to Jamblier.
I dropped it into a mailbox and then walked slowly down to the big market of Léal.
It was almost dawn when I reached it and the heavily loaded push carts were stacked up in the side streets, smelling of green vegetables and berries.
The gutters were slippery with garbage and a lonely woman in pink satin pumps was staggering wearily through the filth at the end of an all-night's-house.
I sat down on a curb and I watched her and said to myself, believe me, we none of us do what we wish to do.
Suspense.
In which Hans Conrad starred in Crossing Paris, adapted by John Meston, from the story by Marcel Aymé, and produced and directed by William N. Robeson.
Listen.
Listen again next week when we return with Mr. Vincent Price in The Green and Gold String, another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Supporting Mr. Conrad in Crossing Paris were John Danaer, Joe DeSantis, Ted DeCorsia, and Paul Dubov.
Suspense.
Suspense.