Suspense. And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery
and adventure, William and Robeson.
One of the greatest pleasures we find in this business of keeping you in suspense is the
discovery of new talent and of unusual story twists. And what you're about to hear, we
think we have combined both. The twist, you'll never guess it, no matter how familiar you
are with that mystical literary device, the ventriloquist dummy. And the new talent, two
young men, Bob Jurn, whose first radio play this is, and DeForest Kelly, a bright new
luminary in the Hollywood firmament. Put them all together and you have a strange half hour
ahead. Listen, listen then as DeForest Kelly stars in Fleshpeddler, which begins in exactly
one minute.
It took mighty men to conquer mighty America and the men set before themselves even mightier
heroes, some real, some not. For instance, there was the legendary keel boatman, Mike
Fink. Let Mike tell you about himself.
I'm a salt river roarer. I'm a ring-tailed squealer. I'm a regular screamer from the old
Massacep. Whoop! I'm the very infant that refused this milk before its eyes was opened
and called out for a bottle of Old Rye. I love the women and I'm chock full of fat. I'm
half wild horse and half cock-eyed alligator. I can hit like forthproof lightning and every
lick I make in the woods lets in an acre of sunshine. I can outrun, out jump, out shoot,
out brag, out drink and out fight any man from Pittsburgh to New Orleans and back again
to St. Louis. Come on you flatters, you bargers, you milk-white mechanics and see how tough
I am to chore. I ain't had a fight for two days and I'm spiraling for exercise. Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Folklore belongs to every nation's legendary past and I guess we Americans have our share
of some tall ones. And now, Mr. DeForest Kelley in Fleshpedaler,
a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. I'm an agent, a booking agent. Fleshpedalers
we are sometimes unkindly called. But I don't pedal flesh. I sell talent. Singers, musicians,
nightclub acts. And I'm pretty good at it. I've got an instinct for talent. When I find
a new act that's really got it, I go after it until it's mine. Only the ventriloquist
team of Wilson and Oliver, I wish I'd never heard of them. Then I could sleep better nights.
My wife and I were vacationing in the Catskills last summer and the night before we were due
back in New York, a carnival pulled into town. I don't want to sound like a snob, but to
me the carnival is the lowest form of show business. I hate them. But my wife Gloria
loves them. Since I love Gloria, we went to the carnival.
Pete, isn't it exciting? It's just cheap noise. Oh, I wish it had come to town sooner.
I wish it hadn't come till tomorrow. Oh, come on, Pete. You might even find some new talent.
Here? Why not? Freaks are for sideshows, honey, not class spots. You never can tell. A bearded
lady might go great at the Copa. I can tell. Right here for the wonder of the midway. Hey,
the one and only Alexander Wilson and his lovable little dummy pal Oliver. Hey, you've
seen ventriloquists before, you say? Uh-huh. Hey, but you've never seen anything to equal
Wilson. The remarkable Wilson and Oliver. Hey, don't pass his by, friend. Pete, let's go in.
Oh, but he's a trilogist, a dime a dozen. Come on, I want to see him. Honey, you've seen
a hundred just like him. Well, maybe he's one in a hundred. All right, all right. We
pushed through into the small tent and took our places on the hard, uncomfortable benches.
Wilson was already seated on the platform, a typical childishly dressed dummy on his
lap. He was a man in his fifties, I'd say, with the saddest face I've seen in fifteen
years of show business. When the people were in, he suddenly sprang the dummy to life.
Shut the door, shut the door. All prisoners accounted for, Mr. Wilson. You're sure, Oliver?
Sure. Well, then say hello to the people. Hello to the people. Oh, now come, Oliver.
You can do better than that. I can? Yes. Well, you ought to know. The routine was awful,
dull, time-worn. But for some reason, this Wilson fascinated me. He had a talent all
right. His handling of the dummy was amazingly accurate. As the act went on, I began to think
that Wilson was even better than the Barker said he was, and he was going over with the
house. Wilson had Oliver sing while he himself smoked a cigarette. After a few more gag routines
and a couple of neat tricks, the performance was over, and I knew I had to sign the act.
I parked glory on the merry-go-round and then went looking for Wilson. I walked back of
the midway through the maze of painted trailers that were home to carny people. Suddenly the
door to one of them flew open and a woman stepped out, a neatly trimmed beard covering
her chin. What do you want? I'm looking for Alexander Wilson. Wilson? Why? I'm a talent
agent from New York. I'd like to talk to him. Agent? Yes, Peter Harris in Europe. Bernice,
it's on the poster. Oh, yes, of course, Bernice. What do you want with Alexander Wilson? I
told you I... Oh, who is it, Bernice? Talent agent. Never mind, go back in. Agent? I'm
looking for Mr. Wilson. Oh, well, I'm Arthur. You caught my knife act. You know, I could
pin a fly to a penny of 40 feet. Quiet. Don't mind him, flesh peddler. Go away. Go home.
Agents are no good for us. Leave Wilson alone. And you know, like I could put out a candle
flame with a pen knife at 30 feet, agent man. Arthur, go back in. Maybe he could sell my
act. Go in. Quiet. Wilson's in trailer 17, agent man. Hey, if you ever need a good knife...
Hey, Arthur. George. Shut up. Get in there. Forget what he said. Arthur is... Well, he
isn't quite bright. You know what I mean? Yeah. What's so wrong about seeing Wilson?
There are plenty acts like his. You don't need him. Well, you've got my curiosity going
now, Bernice. I hadn't intended that. But forget your curiosity and go home now. Why? Believe
me, flesh peddler, you will thank me for this advice someday. Which is trailer 17? I couldn't
see why Bernice was so huffy. It was none of her business anyway. I roamed through the
trailers with my cigarette lighter held high, looking for number 17. Finally, I found it.
A small aluminum antique set apart from the rest with a pre-war Chevy attached to it.
The trailer was completely dark. Mr. Wilson. What is it? I'm Peter Harris. I'd like to
talk to you. What do you want? Well, I'm an agent, Mr. Wilson. I'd like to see you. Just
a minute. Yes? I just caught your act, Mr. Wilson. I enjoyed it very much. Thank you.
I'd like to do business with you. Do business? Here's my card. My office places acts on
all four networks and all the principal nightclubs. I'm afraid it's out of the question. I never
play nightclubs. But... Yes, I never play nightclubs, Mr. Harris. Well, could I come
in for a moment, explain my setup? Maybe when you... No, forgive me for appearing short,
but I'm not interested in any offer you have to make. To begin with, I can get you 200
a week. Oh, excuse me. 250? I'm very tired, if you'll pardon me. Okay, Mr. Wilson. But
will you tell me why you want to stay with a two-bit freak show when you could make a
small fortune working with me? No. No, I'm afraid I can't tell you. Good night. I suppose
I should have forgotten all about it, but I'm not used to the brush off. Like I say,
when I see an act I want, I go after it until I get it. And then there was something about
Wilson's reluctance that wasn't somehow on the level. As I walked back toward the bright
lights and the noise of the midway, a figure stepped from behind one of the darkened trailers.
So you saw him. Oh, Bernice. Yes, I saw him. And are you satisfied? Not at all. Just more
curious. Exactly. Only fools push their noses into other people's business, flesh peddler.
Um, Harris is the name. And only fools get themselves and other people into trouble.
All I wanted was to offer him a nice fat job, $2.50 a week, and he slammed the door in my
face. Alexander Wilson cannot leave this carnival. Why? You don't know, Mr. Harris, and you're
not going to know. Know what? Stop asking foolish questions. Your curiosity can do a
great deal of harm. Bernice, where does the carnival go from here? Really, Mr. Harris,
you don't expect me to... Look, I can ask any one of the barkers or set-up men. Ask
them then. All right, I will. But remember, flesh peddler, if you follow us to Poughipsie...
Poughipsie? Very well, now you know. But if you follow us and try to see Wilson again,
you are a fool. In just a moment, we continue with... Suspense. One of the more colorful
lumberjacks of the Midwest was a lad named Whiskey Jack, sort of fellow who could single-handed
lick an entire logging crew or swim one of the Great Lakes with one hand tied behind
his back. But as in all heroes' lives, there came a tender moment. As legend recalls, Whiskey
Jack was not much for learning, certainly couldn't write his name. It was always the
big X that he made on any slip of paper. And one day he came in quiet like a little subdued.
And when they gave him his pay envelope, he signed for it with great deliberation. The
clerk looked, stopped, and called out, Hey, Jack, why the two X's? Whiskey Jack replied,
Why, son, I have just met me a lovely young lady in the next river town, and we was hitched.
So I thought it only proper and fitting that a married man should change his name. Folklore
belongs to every nation's legendary past, and I guess we Americans have some good ones.
And now we continue with the second act of Fleshpeddler, starring Mr. DeForest Kelly,
a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
I drove back to Manhattan the next morning, and two days later I hopped to Poughkeepsie
local out of Grand Central. The more I thought about Wilson, the more of a challenge he became.
I wanted him for my list, but more than that I wanted to find out what was behind Bernice's
strange attitude. Now I wish I'd forgotten about the whole thing. In Poughkeepsie, I
checked into a hotel, took a cab to the carnival grounds at the edge of town. It was late afternoon
as I pulled up in front of the gaudy tents and booths, waiting for the evening crowds.
I made my way through the cluttered midway, looking for Wilson's aluminum trailer and
hoping I wouldn't run into Bernice.
Hello, Agent Man. Hey, Agent Man. Hello.
Hello.
Remember me, Arthur the knife thrower? I can pin a fly to a penny.
Yes, I remember you.
And you've come for me?
What's that?
You've come all this way to get me for your agency?
Well no, I'm afraid not.
Oh. Well that's all right. I mean, you know, like I've been given it a lot of thought and
I don't think I could go with you anyway.
I see.
Sir, I couldn't leave Bernice in the carnival. My sister says carnivoke should stay with
carnivoke.
Your sister?
Bernice.
Oh. Arthur, why is Bernice so, so close-mouthed about Mr. Wilson? She acts as though she's
afraid of him.
Well, us carnivokes stick together, see. Like, we don't like other people sticking their
noses into our business.
Bernice said that?
Yes.
Arthur, where is Mr. Wilson's trailer?
I don't know.
Oh, come now, Arthur.
Bernice says, you know...
I know, Bernice says too much.
I don't know anything, Agent Man. Well, I have to go practice my knife throwing now. I got
to practice every day, you know.
Well it was clear Bernice had given Arthur his instructions and, no thanks to him, I
finally found Wilson's trailer set off from the rest.
Mr. Wilson?
Mr. Wilson?
Mr. Wilson!
The door to the trailer was unlocked and it swung open at my knock. Wilson obviously
wasn't there, but I didn't think he'd mind if I went in and waited. The inside of the
trailer was dim and musty. I left the door open to let in what little sunlight the day
had left and sat in the lone chair in front of the make-up table. I was just about to
reach for a cigarette when I had the feeling that I wasn't alone. I turned slowly in the
chair and the back of my neck began to crawl. There on a shabby army cot was Wilson's dummy,
popped up against the wall. The steady, unchanging expression of his face with the staring eyes
and painted smile grinned back at me. It was weird and uncomfortable to be so close to
this lifeless thing. Unmoving, wooden. It seemed so real and alive on the platform in
the tent. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't. I looked away, but I could still feel it there,
grinning at me, and the early evening dimness. When I could stand it no longer, I got up
and walked out of the trailer and bumped right into Bernice.
What did I tell you, flesh peddler?
Bernice, I...
What were you doing in there?
Waiting for Wilson.
What did I tell you?
Now look, Bernice, I don't like you or anyone else telling me what I can or can't do. I
want to see Wilson again and...
Come with me.
I'm waiting here.
Come with me, please. I must talk to you privately in my trailer.
Sit down.
Well, what's on your mind, Bernice?
I didn't really think you'd follow us.
I told you I'm not easily discouraged.
Mr. Harris, I must warn you again to leave now without seeing Wilson.
I don't think you understand me. I'm used to getting what I go after.
Mr. Harris.
I intend to see Wilson to try to talk him into signing a contract, and you've said so
far all that you've said is go away. Can you give me a good reason for not seeing him?
Okay, then why did you insist on dragging me in here?
Mr. Harris, can you assure me your interest in Wilson does not go beyond signing him as
a client?
What do you mean?
Your interest in Wilson wouldn't by chance be in his past, his private life, and not
in his professional talent.
I never heard of him until I caught his act three days ago.
Mr. Harris, I'd hoped I wouldn't have to tell you this. I didn't realize you were so stubborn,
but...
Yes?
Well, Alexander Wilson lost his mind many years ago. That doesn't disturb you.
It might if I believe you, Bernice.
What?
I don't think Wilson's nuts. Apparently something's bothering him, something big maybe, but it's
not insanity.
I suppose you know Wilson better than I do.
I didn't say that, but a man in my business meets every kind of person there is, the cheats,
the phonies, the right guys, the bums.
So?
So you develop an instinct about people, and my instinct tells me Wilson is not insane.
You'll have to try something better to scare me off.
Mr. Harris, Wilson thinks he's a murderer.
You are trying to scare me, aren't you?
If that's necessary to protect you and us, yes.
You think he might murder me too?
I don't mean that. Actually, he never murdered anyone.
Look, Bernice, you don't make sense.
Don't you understand?
No.
I said Alexander Wilson thinks he is a murderer. He thinks he murdered a woman a long time
ago. He's lived with this thought for years, nourished it until he really believes it.
It's driven him out of his mind.
Bernice, do you expect me to believe a cockamamie story like that?
It's the truth. So don't you see, the only place for him is here in the carnival with
his own kind. We understand him.
Well, hasn't anyone tried to help him to make him realize that...
He is beyond that now. But with us, he's all right. Outsiders disturb him.
You haven't scared me off, Bernice.
You've got to stay away from him.
Why? If anything you've told me is true, it's only half the truth.
It's enough for you to know.
From you, maybe. Perhaps Wilson will tell me the rest.
I've warned you. I will not warn you again.
Hello, Bernice. Oh, hello again, Agent Mann.
Hi, Arthur. How's your throwing arm?
Well, I'm in, Arthur. Mr. Harris is just leaving.
Yes. So long, Bernice.
Goodbye, Mr. Harris.
When the trailer door closed behind me, I guess Bernice would start talking her fury
out on Arthur. So I moved around to the small window in the back of the trailer to see if
I could learn anything more.
I don't care. I don't even want you to say hello to him. Nothing. Understand?
Well, you know, just saying hello don't hurt, does it, Bernice?
I don't want you to open your mouth in front of that man, even to yawn.
I had to lie to him to get him away from here.
And I don't want you saying anything to bring him back.
Uh, uh, all right, Bernice.
Just pray he goes back to his flesh peddling in New York on that first prank.
Just as I thought, Bernice had lied to me.
I was determined to get to the bottom of this double talk about Wilson more than ever.
This had become more important to me than signing him to the usual seven-year management
contract. When I got back to Wilson's trailer, there was a light inside.
Who's there?
It's Peter Harris again.
Who?
Peter Harris. I spoke to you a few days ago and...
What do you want?
I want to talk to you, Mr. Wilson.
Go away.
But I've come all the way from New York.
I must ask you to leave at once.
Look, Mr. Wilson, I'm not a detective. All I wanted when I first met you was to book
you into the big time. But now there's something more. I think you need help. You need help
badly.
No, you're mistaken.
Can I come in and talk to you?
Oh, good heavens, no.
Well, how about having a drink with me before the show? You look like you could use one.
Please, leave me alone.
Wilson, Wilson, don't you see what these people are doing to you? For some reason, you're
a hearted man and this carnival is the worst place in the world for...
Leave me now. Leave me. Please. These people are all the help I need. Leave me alone.
I'll be at the hotel overnight. If you change your mind, Wilson, call me.
Now I was mad. If he wanted to rot there, going with the carnival until it wasted away,
it was no business of mine. I had a few drinks in my room at the hotel. Phone Gloria that
I'd be home the next day, went to bed.
Yes?
Mr. Harris?
Wilson.
Can you meet me right away?
Right away? What time is it?
I don't know. It's after midnight. It's 1, 1.30.
Well, I...
Please, please. I must talk to you. Can you meet me?
Sure. Okay. Where are you calling from?
An all-night drug store.
Where is it?
Wait. Wait. No. Not here. Meet me at my trailer.
Okay.
And please, hurry.
It took me longer to wake the cab driver in front of the hotel than it did to get to the
carnival grounds. I told the cab to wait and made my way through the darkened tents and
trailers to number 17.
Come in.
What's the matter?
Mr. Harris, I've changed my mind. I want to leave with you tonight.
Tonight?
Tonight. What's the...
Mr. Harris, you're the first person outside of the carnival I've talked to in more than
two years. You're the first person I've had the courage to approach.
Go on.
I trust you, Mr. Harris. I can't say why, but I know you'll believe me and help me.
I can't live like this anymore.
Sure, sure. Now, just take it easy.
No, no, no. Listen to me. Two years ago, I killed a woman. A beautiful woman. I loved
her more than I've ever loved anything or anyone in my life. When I tried to tell her
how much I loved her, she laughed at me. I couldn't stand that laugh.
I understand, Wilson, but that isn't exactly justification for my...
You see, she and her son, she was divorced, were working in this very carnival when I
first saw her back in my hometown in Illinois.
Yes.
I fell in love. Oh, you can call me a rube, anything, but I was in love. I quit my job
and followed the carnival for months. That's how much I loved her. And she laughed at me.
So I shot her one night. And then I wanted to die too. And when I saw her lying there
at my feet, I wanted them to hang me, but they laughed at me.
They laughed at you?
The law, the police, they didn't believe I'd done anything. They wouldn't let me give myself
up.
Where did you get this crazy idea, Wilson?
It isn't a crazy idea. It's the truth.
Look, lots of people get lots of funny ideas. They think about something they want to do
and they think about it so much that they really believe they've done it.
It was real from the beginning. I killed her. I did. But there was no evidence against me.
Listen, Wilson, you're not making sense.
You listen. He destroyed every bit of evidence so he could punish me himself. The police
couldn't arrest or even suspect me.
Who destroyed what evidence, Wilson?
Her son.
Oliver.
Oliver?
Yes, Mr. Harris. He's referring to me.
A trick? No. Wilson was too upset to be tricking me. I wheeled at the sound of his voice and
there in the doorway stood Wilson's dummy. Oliver, a small but capable pistol in his hand.
You are just as curious as Bernice said you were, Mr. Harris.
Oliver.
Bernice told me a lot about you. You had to know. And now you do.
No, you're not...
You shocked to learn I'm a midget. I must admit you gave me quite a start when you made yourself
at home in the trailer this afternoon.
But that was...
That was me, Mr. Harris. Fortunately, I was already made up for the evening performance.
Mr. Harris hasn't done anything, Oliver. Let him go.
That depends on you. You see, Mr. Harris, Wilson is no ventriloquist. I guess that's
obvious now.
It is.
Wilson murdered my mother and I protected him from the police.
But why?
Why? So the law couldn't punish him. What satisfaction would there have been for me
if they'd just hanged him? He'd been dead in an instant. Is that enough punishment for
a man who has murdered your mother? No. He deserved more. And I've given it to him. I've
punished Alexander Wilson for years.
That's right, Mr. Harris. He's held this over my head ever since. Sitting on my lap at every
performance, reminding me night and day... Well, I've had as much as I can stand. So
go ahead, Oliver. Shoot. Shoot!
Oliver, be sensible. If you pull that trigger there...
Say, Bernice and Arthur and everyone else? Bernice already knows and now I don't care
if the others do too.
For heaven's sake, shoot me! Get it over with! Shoot me, you monster! Shoot me!
With horror frozen on his face, Wilson slid to the floor dead. Then Oliver turned on me,
pupils of his eyes tiny with madness and his frail little body trembling.
I'm afraid this is one act you can't book, Mr. Harris.
Oliver...
You wanted to know everything.
Oliver, now wait, wait...
I'm really sorry for your sake. He asked me to let you go, but under the circumstances.
No... I'm sorry, Mr. Harris.
Flash by my head and landed quivered in Oliver's chest, a long gleaming knife blade. And there
was Arthur in the doorway of the trailer with Bernice, his face like stone, watching Oliver
crumple the little distance to the floor. Slowly the faces of the others appeared in
the doorway, silent. The terror I was holding back was a physical pain. I walked to the
door and stood looking down at the little body lying awkwardly like a dummy now. A lifeless
thing. Unmoving. Staring. Even with the traces of a painted smile grinning up at me.
This couldn't have gone on any longer, I suppose. The police will come now and at last there'll
be an end to it. Go home, Fleshpeddler, and forget all about us.
I went home, but I haven't forgotten, and I'm afraid I never will.
Suspense. In which DeForest Kelly starred in William N. Robeson's production of Fleshpeddler,
written by Robert Jerren.
Suspense has been brought to you through the worldwide facilities of the United States
Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.
This has been a production of the U.S. Department of State.
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