Suspense. And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery
and adventure, William N. Robeson.
There is an old definition which describes the theater as a plank on two barrels and
a passion. Analogously, we might describe radio drama as a microphone, a voice, and
a story. Tonight we have all three and little else. Little else is needed when the voice
belongs to an actor of the statue of Herbert Marshall. We present him without supporting
players, without sound effects, and no more than the usual musical trimmings. His voice
is all that's needed to strike terror to your heart. So send the more impressionable small
children out of the room, dim the lights, settle back and listen as Mr. Marshall stars
in A.M. Burrage's chilling story, The Wax Work, which begins in just a moment.
Here's Frankie Lane. I never feel like singing with a bad cold, so I take wonderful four-way
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those nasty cold miseries and feel better quickly. Four-way, 29 and 59 cents.
Here's a word about another fine product of Grove Laboratories. To get rid of embarrassing
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Every trace of dandruff goes down the drain. Three minutes with Fitch and embarrassing
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remover shampoo today. And now, The Wax Work, starring Mr. Herbert Marshall. A tale well
calculated to keep you in suspense. While the uniformed attendants of Madinor's wax
works were ushering the last stragglers through the exit, the manager sat in his office interviewing
Raymond Houston, a young journalist somewhat down in his luck. The manager was speaking.
It used to be said years ago that Madame Tussauds would give a man a hundred pounds for sleeping
alone in the chamber of horrors. I hope you don't think that we have made any such offer,
Mr. Huston. By the way, what is your paper? I'm, I'm freelancing at present. However,
I should find no difficulty in getting the story printed. The morning echo would use
it like a shot. A night with Madinor's murderers. Very well, Mr. Huston. I must warn you, it's
no small ordeal that you're proposing to undertake. I own, I shouldn't care to take it on. I should
hate having to spend the night alone in the murderers' den. Why? Well, those wax works
represent the lowest and most appalling types of humanity. The whole atmosphere of the place
is unpleasant and if you are susceptible to atmosphere, I warn you that you are in for
a very uncomfortable night. Houston had known that from the moment the idea had first occurred
to him. His soul sickened at the prospect. But here was a chance not to be missed. The
price of a special story in the morning echo. Besides, if he wrote the story well, it might
lead to an offer of regular employment. The manager smiled and rose. Well, I think the
last of the people must have gone by now. Oh, one condition I'm afraid I must impose
on you. I must ask you not to smoke. We had a fire scare down there this evening. I don't
know who gave the alarm, but whoever it was, it was a false one. Fortunately, there were
very few people down there at the time or there might have been a panic. And now, if
you're ready, I'll take you down to the murderer's den. In a moment, we continue with the second
act of suspense. Here comes Elmer Blurt, world's lowest pressure salesman. Nobody home, I hope,
I hope. It says here, JP Pullum Dentist. You wouldn't want to buy a new 1959 Rambler, would
you, Doc? You are a lucky man. I just happened to have a vacancy. Sit down. Yeah, but Doc...
Open wide. Oh, that's right. You know, you don't have to sell me on the 59 Rambler. It's
first in economy, first in sales gains, and no wonder. Rambler has the best of both. Big
car room, small car economy. Yeah, but Doc... Oh, relax. Can't you salesmen ever stop selling?
You know, Rambler's got quite an idea with that personalized comfort. Independently,
adjustable front seats, adjustable headrests, easiest parking and handling in America.
But that 59 Rambler is so terrific, it makes you want to put your foot right down on the
accelerator. No, that didn't hurt, did it? Oh, gosh, Willaker, no, that's my lower plate
you've been drilling. Rambler continues to pass car after car in sales. In state after
state, Rambler now outsells all but two other makes. Come see why. Drive the success car
at your Rambler dealers. And now, starring Mr. Herbert Marshall, act two of The Wax Work.
Murderers' den in Mariner's Wax Works was an eerie and uncomfortable chamber. The chamber
whose atmosphere invited its visitors to speak in whispers. The Wax Work murderers stood
on low pedestals. Recent notoriety has rubbed just his shoulders with the old favorites.
Surtle, the murderer of Weir, stood as if frozen in the act of making a sharp window
gesture to young bywaters. There was DeFroy, the poor half-baked little snob who killed
for gains so that he might ape the gentleman. Within a few yards of him sat Mrs. Thompson,
a neurotic romanticist, hanged to appreciate British middle-class matronhood. Charles Peace,
the only member of the vile company who looked uncompromisingly an entirely evil, sneered
across at Norman Thorn. The manager pointed out several more interesting of these unholy
notabilities. That, that's Crippen, I expect, you recognize him. Insignificant little beast
who looks as if he couldn't tread on a worm. That, that is Armstrong. Looks like a decent
harmless country gentleman, doesn't he? There's old Vacky. You can't miss him, of course,
because of his beard. And this one. Who's that? Huston asked in a whisper. Oh, have
a good look at him. This is our star. He's the only one of the bunch that hasn't been
hanged. The figure which Huston indicated was that of a small, slight man, not much
more than five feet in height. It wore little waxed moustaches, large spectacles, and an
opera cape. There was something so exaggeratedly French in its appearance that it reminded
Huston of a stage caricature. He could not have said precisely why the mild-looking face
seemed to him so repellent. Who is he? That, said the manager, is Dr. Bourdette. Huston
shook his head darkly. I, I think I've heard the name, but I forget in connection with
what? Oh, you would remember better if you were a Frenchman. A little while back, that
man was the terror of Paris. He carried on his work of healing by day and of fruit cutting
by night. He killed for the sheer devilish pleasure it gave him to kill, and always in
the same way, with a razor. But at last he left a clue behind him which set the police
up on his track. But he was too clever for them. When he realized that the coils were
closing about him, he mysteriously disappeared, and ever since, the police of every civilized
country have been looking for him. However, there's no doubt that he managed to do away
with himself, and by some means which has prevented his body coming to light. I, I don't
like him at all. Ugh, what eyes he's got. Yes, this figure's a little masterpiece. You
find the eyes bite into you? Well, that's excellent realism then, for Bourdette practiced
mesmerism and was supposed to hypnotize his victims before dispatching them. Indeed, had
he not done so, it is impossible to see how some smaller man could have accomplished his
ghastly work. There were never any signs of a struggle. I, I, I thought I saw him move.
Well, you will have more than one optical illusion before the night's out, I expect,
sir. I'm sorry I can't give you any more light, but all the lights are already on. For obvious
reasons we keep this place as gloomy as possible. Well, good night, Mr. Huston.
The manager had provided an armchair for Houston, who immediately turned it so that his back
was towards the effigy of Dr. Bourdette. For some undefined reason, he liked Dr. Bourdette
a great deal less than his companions. The dim, unwavering light fell on the rows of
figures which were so uncannily led human beings up a silence and the stillness seemed
unnatural and even ghastly. He missed the sound of breathing, the rustling of clothes, the
sound of a run minute noises one hears when even the deepest silence has fallen upon a
crowd. And the air was as stagnant as water at the bottom of a standing pond. It must
be like this at the bottom of the sea, he thought. He faced the sinister figures boldly
enough. They were only waxworks. So long as he let that thought dominate all others, he
promised himself that all would be well. It did not, however, save him long from the discomfort
occasioned by the waxing stare of Dr. Bourdette, which he knew was directed upon him from behind.
The eyes of the little Frenchman's effigy haunted and tormented him and he itched with
a desire to turn and look. At last, the compulsion was too great and he slew his chair around
and looked behind him. The image of the dreadful little doctor seemed to stand out with a queer
prominence. Hewson fringed before the parody of mildness that some fiendishly skilled craftsman
had managed to convey in wax, met the eyes for an agonized second and turned again to
face the other direction. He is only a waxwork like the rest of you. You are all only waxworks.
They were only waxworks, yes, but waxworks don't move. Not that he had seen the least
movement anywhere, but it struck him that in the moment or two when he had looked behind
him there had been the least subtle change in the grouping of the figures in front. Crippen,
for instance, seemed to have turned a degree to the left. Or, thought Hewson, perhaps the
illusion was due to the fact that he had not turned his chair to its exact original position.
He had never seen nor heard a movement, but it was as if some sixth sense had made him
aware of one. He looked straight into the vapid countenance of Leproy, which smiled vacantly
back as if to say, it wasn't I. Of course it wasn't he or any of them. It was his own
imagination. Or was it? He swung round quickly to encounter the mile that built his chair
of Dr. Wadette. Then, without warning, he jerked his head back to stare straight at
Crippen. Ah, he nearly caught Crippen that time. You'd better be careful, Crippen, and
all the rest of you. If I do see one of you move, I'll smash you to pieces. Do you hear?
This would not do. This distinctly would not do. These figures grouped around him were
only dummies made of wax and sawdust. They stood there for the entertainment of morbid
sightseers and horrid sucking trippers. But it was no good. He knew the effigy of Dr.
Wadette was staring at him. He could feel the two places where the gaze of those piercing
eyes pressed into his back. He turned halfway and tried to steal a glance at the figure,
but instead he felt himself whirled around to face those dreadful hypnotic eyes. You
moved. Yes, you did. You moved. I saw you. You moved. Then he sat quite still, staring
straight before him like a man found frozen in the arctic snows. Dr. Wadette's movements
were leisurely. He stepped off the pedestal with the mincing curl of a lady alighting
from a bus and then quietly sat down on the edge facing Houston. And now so I miss you.
Nothing tells me that you are nervous. My dear sir, I have no illusions. I am not one
of these contemptible effigies miraculously come to life. I am Dr. Wadette himself.
In a moment, we continue with the third act of suspense.
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And now, starring Mr. Herbert Marshall, act three of The Wax Work.
Houston sat immobile, staring at the mild little murderer. He could see, he could hear,
but he could not move a muscle. And he could not tear his eyes away from Dr. Wadette's
hypnotic eyes. The doctor continued in his easy manner. The circumstances have made it
desirable that I should live in England. I was close to this building this evening when
I saw a policeman regarding me a little too curiously. I guessed that he intended to follow
and perhaps ask me embarrassing questions, so I mingled with the crowd and came in here,
a coin brought my admission to the chamber in which we now meet and an inspiration showed
me a certain means of escape. I raised a cry of fire and when all the fools had rushed
to the stairs, I stripped my effigy of the cape which you behold me wearing, donned it,
hid my effigy under the platform at the back and took its place on the pedestal. The manager's
description of me which I had the embarrassment of being compelled to overhear was biased,
but not altogether inaccurate. Clearly I am not dead, although it is as well that the
world think I am. His account of my hobby which I have indulged for years, although
through necessity less frequently of late, was in the main true, for you see the world
is divided between collectors and non-collectors. With the non-collectors we are not concerned.
The collectors collect anything according to their individual tastes, from money to
cigarette cards, from mouths to matchboxes. I collect fruits. She paused again and regarded
Hueson's search with interest mingled with his favor. I am obliged to the chance which
brought us together tonight and perhaps it would seem ungrateful to complain. From motives
of personal safety my activities have been somewhat curtailed of late and I am glad of
this opportunity of gratifying my somewhat unusual whim. But you have a skinny neck,
sir, if you will overlook a personal remark. I should never have selected you from choice.
I like men with thick necks, thick red necks. He fumbled in an inside pocket and took out
something which he tested against a wet forefinger and then proceeded to pass gently to and fro
across the palm of his left hand. This is a little French razor. The blade you will observe
is very narrow. They do not cut very deep, but deep enough. In just one little moment
you shall see for yourself. I shall ask you the little civil question of all polite barbers.
Does the razor suit you, sir? He rose up a diminutive but menacing figure of evil and
approached Hueson with a silent, fertile step of a hunting panther. You will have the goodness
to raise your chin a little. Thank you. And a little more. Just a little more. Ah, thank
you. Merci. Merci, monsieur. Merci. Merci.
Over one end of the chamber was a thick skylight of frosted glass which by day lit in a few
sickly and throated rays from the floor above. After sunrise these began to mingle with a
subdued light from the electric bulbs and this mingled illumination added a certain
gas thinness to a scene which needed no additional touch of horror. The waxwork figures stood
apathetically in their places, waiting to be admired or execrated by the crowds who would
presently wander fearfully among them. In their midst Hueson sat still, leaning far
back in his noble chair. His chin was up tilted as if it were waiting to receive attention
from a barber. And although there was not a scratch upon his throat nor anywhere upon
his body, he was cold and dead. Doctor Baudet on his pedestal watched the dead man unenwashed.
He did not move nor was he capable of motion. But then after all, he was only a waxwork.
Suspense. In which Herbert Marshall starred in William and Robeson's production of The Waxwork
written by A.M. Burrage and adapted for radio by Mel Dennelly. In a moment, a word about next week's
story of suspense. Do you have trouble getting your husband to talk frankly about the intimate
and important things in your married life? All too often a husband's reluctance to talk about sex,
money or the children can destroy a happy marriage. Be sure to read One Woman's Real Life Solution to
this problem in the new March issue of McCall's Magazine, now at your favorite newsstand. In all,
you'll find more than 40 exciting features in this big new issue of McCall's. Read 15 practical
down-to-earth ideas on how you can earn an extra thousand dollars this year by doing just a few
hours work each week. Learn Debbie Reynolds side of the strange divorce story that wrecked Hollywood's
ideal marriage. And see many full-color photos previewing the newest styles and hairdos that
women will be wearing this spring. Don't miss the fascinating March issue of McCall's with more than
40 exciting features for you and your family. Buy the new March McCall's at all new stands now.
Listen. Listen again next week when we return with Myron McCormick in Madman of Manhattan,
another tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
Suspense. The latest news follows. Then Have Gun, Will Travel on the CBS Radio Network.