Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Mary Cecilia Rogers was murdered in the vicinity of New York City in the summer of 1842.
It was still an unsolved crime in November when the Mystery of Marie Roger was published.
The author, Edgar Allan Poe.
It paralleled in every essential detail the murder of Mary Rogers.
Poe wrote it far from the scene of the atrocity with only the newspaper reports of the day.
Nevertheless, the subsequent confession connected with the murder of Mary Rogers
confirmed not only the killer named by Poe,
but all the chief details by which he arrived at his identification.
Good evening. My name is Dupin.
I should like to extend an invitation.
Regard first a certain event which truly occurred in New York City on a warm summer night in 1842.
Secondly, I invite you to employ your imagination and displace that same event
intact with all of the essential facts to a cobbled old world Paris on an identical warm and fragrant summer night in the same year.
Lastly and most interesting, I should like to invite you to attend that event.
It is a murder.
The general design and mental character of the atrocity,
indeed the first knowledge of its occurrence came to my attention on Wednesday night, the 25th day of June.
Who is the prefect of police?
I am, Monsieur.
Dupin?
Yes, Monsieur.
Oh, thank you for coming, Monsieur. I wasn't certain my messenger would find you.
No, this way, Monsieur.
Please.
André, the lantern for Monsieur Dupin.
Oh, she died harshly.
Yes, yes, yes.
Beaten, choked, drowned out, yes, quite harshly, yes.
She was beautiful, Monsieur.
Once, perhaps, yes.
Still, but mademoiselle, what?
In life she had a name, in death she must also have a name. Any of you?
Monsieur, none of them know her, I have asked.
But her clothes and jewels say she was known, Dupin.
Good clothes, torn and disordered in her terrible struggle, but good.
And the jewelry, not expensive, but tasteful.
This woman, in my opinion, Dupin, was known.
And loved, Monsieur Prefect.
No doubt.
Dupin, this is why I said for you, I have been through these things before.
The newspapers will write stories, their reporters will make conjecture.
Although there is no name for her now, there will eventually be a name, and then, Monsieur,
I will be called upon to produce her assassins.
There is so little to go on.
The eyes of the public will be upon me, and my honor is at stake.
And my honor too, Monsieur Prefect, if I am involved in the investigation.
Dupin, listen.
There is a fund at the Prefecture, a sizable fund, which I am authorized to use when circumstances arise.
For your services, I am willing to make a direct and liberal proposition.
Dupin, you will help me to find the answer to this woman's death.
A form about the mouth, as in the case of the merely drowned Monsieur.
Air bruises, impressions of fingers.
It was a strangulation, by hand and by discard, Monsieur.
Yes.
Doctor.
Dupin.
An ingenious knot in that cord, don't you think?
This is a slip knot, a cello's knot.
Cello's knot.
She was found in water.
Why did she die, Monsieur?
For beauty perhaps, for love, for hate.
It was Sunday.
Observe, Doctor, there are no marks to prove she was weighted and then shaken loose.
Yes, she quit life on Sunday.
Murdered in the dark, thrown into the river, unweighted.
Monday, Tuesday, she remained as a corpse, wheel on the bottom.
Then on the third day, tonight, as a corpse, wheel, she rose.
She was murdered on the bank, then taken out to her grave in a boat.
And there had to be a man who knew how to handle a boat in the tricky current.
Who is there?
It is I, the prefect.
I have someone who thinks he may know her.
Come in, Monsieur.
Ahead of me, please.
With your permission, Doctor, Monsieur Dupin, Monsieur Beauvais.
How do you do?
Monsieur Beauvais has been searching since Monday for news of a Marie Roger.
Mademoiselle Roger is an employee of Monsieur Beauvais.
Yes, I am a perfumer.
I called on her mother, Madame Roger, Monday, when Marie did not appear at my shop.
Madame informed me that Marie had left Sunday to visit her aunt at Rue de Drombe.
She has not yet returned.
I see. And what else?
I cannot say, Monsieur.
So far I have ascertained that she never arrived at Rue de Drombe.
And indeed, no one has seen her since Sunday.
Not even Jacques Saint-Eustace.
Who is Jacques Saint-Eustace, Beauvais?
Monsieur Saint-Eustace is the accepted suitor of Marie Roger.
He lodges and takes meals at the pension kept by Madame Roger.
He was to have gone for his vitroves at dusk Sunday and to have escorted her home.
In the afternoon it rained heavily and supposing that she would remain at her aunt's,
he did not think it necessary to keep his promise.
She has stayed there under similar circumstances.
And where is Jacques Saint-Eustace at this moment?
Searching and anxious as I am for Marie Roger.
But where he went I do not know.
It is three days since Sunday.
Four days, really. But three that Marie Roger has been considered missing.
Your search is tardy.
I know, Monsieur.
Well?
I am at your mercy.
She has disappeared twice.
The first time she disappeared was about three years ago.
Her mother, her friends, were unable to account for our disappearance.
I was distracted with anxiety and terror.
Did you notify the police?
In that case, immediately, sir.
But suddenly Marie reappeared one fine morning after being absent all week.
So you did not call the police this second time she disappeared?
Well, what has happened once can happen again, Monsieur.
What did happen that week she was away?
I do not know. I do not honestly know.
But you doubt the story of visiting a relative.
I will not say.
Show him what we have, Doctor.
If you will kindly step over here, Monsieur Beauvais.
Now, Monsieur Beauvais, if you please.
You know this woman, sir.
It is her! It is Marie Roger!
It is her! Poor little Marie! Poor Marie!
Why does Beauvais cry, Dupin? The girl only worked for him.
Ah, he has not told us all. He is suspect, Dupin.
And I will have a word with him.
Stay.
But Dupin, why does he weep for a shop girl?
A grise to his promise to another.
He weeps for youth and beauty.
In just a moment, we will return for the second act of...
Suspense.
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You will recall the event we have been attending in Paris.
I invite you now to keep in mind the solemn fact that Marie Roget died violently.
That her lover, Jacques Saint-Ousters, is missing.
Where she died, who administered her death, for what reason remain to be known.
Attend at this point another event, if you will,
which was arranged by that zealous and righteous man, the prefect of police.
Ah, thank you for coming, du Vin.
You have located the lover, Saint-Ousters?
Saint-Ousters? No, no, he's unimportant, I assure you.
Somewhere right now he drinks and tries to forget.
But what I have here is important, most important.
Madame Dulac, if you please.
Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening.
This is Madame Dulac.
She has something of interest to tell you,
and I have something of interest to show you.
Good evening, Madame.
I have maintained this tavern many years.
Right here, close to the bank of the river.
No fear with me, Madame.
I have no authority to do anything but respect your person and your thoughts.
What is this information?
I saw a young woman here Sunday.
Monsieur says it was Marie Roget.
It was, definitely.
Just a moment. Sunday?
Yes, mid-afternoon, and later perhaps.
Where?
Right here in my tavern.
She arrived accompanied by a young man of dark, swarthy complexion.
The two remained here for some time.
On their departure, they took the road through some thick woods, that way.
Toward the river Dupin, and this is his secluded neighborhood.
Oh, go on, Madame, go on, go on.
Soon after they left, a gang of miscreants made their appearance here.
They behaved boisterously.
They ate and drank without payment, then left and followed the route of the young girl and the young man.
That same way.
I see.
About dusk, the same gang reappeared and recrossed the river in great haste.
I see. And you are certain it was Marie Roget?
Never fear. My men spoke with an omnibus driver, a man named Valence, who knew Marie Roget.
He claims he saw her cross the Seine on the Sunday afternoon in question,
with a swarthy man who feeds the exact description of Madame.
What else, Monsieur?
I will show you. Come on.
I followed him through the back of the tavern, into the thick woods which lined the Seine at that point.
He stopped when we had come to a cross thicket, within which were three or four large stones,
forming a kind of seat with a back and a footstool.
Note, Dupin, a white petticoat here and here a silk scarf, parasol, gloves, pocket handkerchief.
Inspect the handkerchief, Dupin.
Thank you.
You note the name Marie Roget embroidered over there?
Yes.
So this is the place she met her death.
Of course it is, and I have found it.
Look, the earth is trampled where she struggled, and over here, bushes still broken,
every evidence of a terrible struggle.
And here, the fence has been taken down, and the ground shows that some heavy burden was dragged along it,
towards the river. Come, look for yourself.
What do you say now?
I am wondering.
Wonder? We have facts now, sir, important facts.
Do you recall a strip of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats had been tied about her mouth,
probably to prevent her screams?
I do.
This was done by fellows who had no pocket handkerchiefs.
Miscreants, Dupin, miscreants such as those who visited Madame Dulac's tavern,
and later went the same way as Marie Roget and her companion.
There are many such gangs about here.
Now all we have to do is locate them, and I know how to do that.
Just a moment, we will return for the concluding act of...suspense.
Pepsi-Cola refreshes without filling. Why? Because it's truly light.
Charlie, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Pepsi-Cola refreshes without filling. Why? Because it's truly light.
Charlie, you're forgetting something.
Wait, Kay, there's more.
Yes, ice-cold Pepsi is the delicious refreshment that goes great at a picnic or a party.
But, Charlie...
And Pepsi goes fast. People like it, so keep plenty handy.
There.
Oh, you did fine, except for one thing.
Well, I mentioned lightness and how Pepsi refreshes and how fast it goes.
You left out Pepsi sociability. You know the B-sociable song.
Okay, I can't sing.
I can. Listen.
B-sociable, not smart. Keep up to date with Pepsi.
Drink light, refreshing Pepsi. Stay young and fair and get an air.
B-sociable, have a Pepsi.
Well, at least I can say this. Pick up an extra carton of Pepsi today.
Please do.
That night, the shrill cries of the Paris newsboys proclaimed the prefect's resolve.
He offered a reward of 20,000 francs and a full pardon for any king's evidence.
It was an accepted conclusion that Mary Roget had been well-aid and slain by a gang of miscreants in the vicinity of Madame de Lackstabern.
Well, now you defeated Monsieur Dupin, now that I have solved the mystery of Mary Roget.
No, Monsieur.
I have doubled the reward. Soon one of the miscreants will come forward.
Then you will see. 40,000 francs should be temptation enough.
20,000 was temptation enough.
What?
No one will come forward, sir.
A gang such as he is hoped for would be composed of men who have never seen more than a hundred francs at one time.
20,000 would bring all of them, if they had any knowledge of Mary Roget's murder.
They are just waiting, you know that?
Waiting. When each is in jeopardy because of the other.
Oh, we shall see, Dupin. Wait.
It was one man.
Eh?
A man who dragged the body of Mademoiselle to the river's edge.
A gang, even two men, could have carried it.
A gang would have lifted it over the fence easily instead of taking a fence down, as it was taken down.
One man labelled hard.
My conjecture is as good as yours. Are you talking of Saint-Eustace?
No. He is quite unguilty.
Monsieur, allow me to point out that the newspapers, the police, all have identified themselves with what apparently happened.
We must consider what did not happen.
First, a gang did not set upon her and murder her.
Secondly, Mary Roget had no intention of visiting her aunt at Rue des Drômes when she left her mother and lover last Sunday morning.
Dupin, if you have confidential information, explain yourself.
I have the same information as you. Nothing else.
You said she had no intention of visiting her aunt that day. Why do you say that?
Monsieur, consider what might have happened if her intended Jacques Saint-Eustace had called for her at her aunt's and discovered she was not there, that she had not been there all day.
He would have been chagrined, suspicious, angry.
Saint-Eustace would have been all of this. Something for Mary Roget to worry about when she returned home.
But nothing to worry about if Mary did not intend to return home.
A point to consider, perhaps. Go on.
Consider that she kept a rendezvous instead. This we know. A rendezvous with a swarthy man.
We have been told by two witnesses who saw him.
Monsieur, I ask you, as I have asked myself, did this swarthy companion allow Mary to be slain before his eyes?
Or was he himself slain trying to help her? If so, where is his body?
He left her before she was set upon, obviously.
Did he leave her alone in such a dark district?
Would they quarrel?
Indeed they did. Another question. Mary Roget's death is known everywhere in France. Why has he not come forward to help us clear up the mystery?
For many reasons. Perhaps he's married, he has left, he's uninformed, he's...
He has a swarthy complexion, a sea complexion, a well-attested fact.
Now accumulate that with the cord that was tied about her neck in a sailor's knot.
Monsieur Dupin, I cannot...
And the need of a skilled boatman to handle a boat on the river to dispose of the body.
But it could be anyone.
No, it could not.
Ah?
Mary Roget was a gay, not an abject girl, and no commons even for her.
An officer. A naval officer, monsieur.
Like the one who might have led her into a false elopement the first time she disappeared.
Three years pass. The approved time for a French man-of-war to consume encircling the globe.
The officer returns, thinking of the same coquette, Mary Roget, the same bargain.
What he has managed to do once, he can do again.
Mary meets him Sunday for this purpose.
Then she thinks the better of an elopement and refuses to accompany him.
Saint-Oustesse has captured her love.
Her former lover slays her in quick anger, and he drags her body to the river, commandeers a boat and...
Where do I find him?
On whatever ship has arrived from the world cruise.
His name? What is his name, Dupin?
Inquire for the name of the young officer who has applied for leave to get married.
But there must be many such among a ship's complement returning after a long cruise.
Agreed. But, monsieur prefect, there is only one naval officer who has returned to his ship without a bride.
André? André? We leave at once for the naval yards.
It has been an interesting evening.
Now I issue a last invitation, my friends.
I invite you to retain all that you have heard and employ this time, instead of your imagination, your sense of reality.
For Marie Rogier of Paris was truthfully Marie Rogers of New York.
Let your reality move you back to New York City.
On a winter day, some months after the event described, in the darkening afternoon, inside a greystone building,
I invite you to attend another event I think you will find significant.
Hanson Robert Bryant Wilson?
You have been found guilty of the murder of Mary Cecilia Rogers.
It is the judgment of this court that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead.
Suspense.
You've been listening to the mystery of Marie Rogier, a story by Edgar Allan Poe, written for suspense by E. Jack Newman.
In a moment, the names of our players and a word about next week's story of suspense.
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Heard in tonight's story were Jackson Beck as DuPont, Bob Dryden as the Prefect, and Guy Rep as Beauvais.
Others in our cast included Abby Lewis, Jim Bowles, Ethel Everett, and Ronald Dawson.
Listen again next week when we return with the radio classic.
First broadcast on Suspense, May 25th, 1943.
Sorry, wrong number. Starring Agnes Moorhead.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in.
Suspense, on CBS Radio.