Come in. Welcome. I'm E .G. Marshall. Welcome
to the world of eerie imagination. The fear you
can hear. Vendetta the very word itself invokes
dread and strikes a mood of brooding terror But
to live on the island of Corsica home of the
vendetta is to be steeped in the tradition of
violent massacres and the fatalistic expectation
of ferocious vengeance as a way of life At least
it would have been so just a hundred years ago
when these famous words were first written It
was a hand, a man's hand. Not a skeleton hand,
all bright and clean, but a hand black and desiccated,
with the yellow nails, the naked muscles, and
traces of blood upon the bones at the point where
they had been severed as with the blow of an
axe about the middle of the forearm. The fingers,
extraordinarily long, were attached to enormous
tendons. still held in their places here and
there by strips of skin. That hand was something
hideous. It made one think involuntarily of savage
vengeance. And in spite of the putrescent look
of death and dissolution, it seemed to have a
life of its own. mystery drama, The Hand, was
especially adapted from the Guy de Mocasson classic
for the mystery theater by Ian Martin and stars
Alexander Scourby. I'll be back shortly with
Act One. At the time of the bizarre and terrifying
affair of The Hand, Ari Donne, was a police magistrate
in Ayacho, a charming little white city nestled
on the edge of a beautiful gulf shut in by lofty
mountains. Most of the cases he had to investigate
or prosecute there were cases of vendetta, but
these were Corsican against Corsican. This affair
of the hand was alien against what? Something
far more alien. Perhaps supernatural. That was
not until later, of course. For now, the only
alien presence was a neighbor of Henri's, a Sir
John Rowell, lately come to the island to settle
down, and an object of great speculation among
the native population. Well, there goes my new
neighbor again. Does he go hunting at twilight?
No bit now. At least there's a magistrate, I
hope not. Well, what's he shooting at, then?
I don't know, Marguerite. We have no sharks.
The wolves and other predators stay in the mountains,
and he's not been here long enough to start a
vendetta. Oh, I am not sure I'll listen to that.
Oh, no call for alarm, Doctor. I'm quite sure
your services will not be needed. It is the same
pattern night and morning. Well, or even what
is he shooting at? A target, I suppose. He's
keeping his eye sharp. But for what? Ah, now,
that is the question. Have you seen him? He is
immense and very powerful. And he doesn't encourage
visitors. He has two huge Alsatian hounds that
look ready for the kill at a word. You, our chief
magistrate, are in a far better position to judge
him than any ori. What do you make of him? I
don't know. His papers are in order. I have no
reason to have any professional interest in him.
Well, has he no one to share his loneliness?
He has a manservant he brought with him from
Marseille. No one else? There was a woman listed
on the ship's manifest as his wife. Oh, his wife.
Well, I never knew. Well then, but no one seems
to know that. In the months he's been here, no
one has seen hide nor hair of her. I've watched
these evenings myself, and I've never seen her
move from the house. If, indeed, she is inside
it. So you see, Marguerite, very soon, both as
friend and policeman, I'm going to have to satisfy
your curiosity and my own about the mysterious
Sir John Rowell. For a while, however, I had
to content myself with having a close watch set
over the man. None of my people could find anything
suspicious enough in his actions for us to make
any move. But as the strange rumors about him
continued and increased, I resolved to see the
stranger face to face for myself. I made a point
of going hunting every day in the neighborhood
of his place. It took me a little while, but
at last, one day... So, Biafra, now hold the
point. You flushed him out! right under the Englishman's
nose. Go fetch him, Fernand. Fernand! Hold! Hold
him! Whiskey! Down, boy! Down! That's it! Good
dog! Hold! Here, Whiskey, here! My apologies,
sir. You a bird, I believe? No, no, not at all.
I shot him right from under you. Sorry. I didn't
know you were there. Nor are you. Allow me. I'm
John Ruhl. Yes, I know, Sir John. I am your neighbor,
up there on the hill. Henri Donne. Pleasure.
Damn fine shot. Sir John, will you accept the
game as an apology for shooting over your field?
That's very generous. I'll accept on one condition.
What's that, Sir John? That you let me return
the compliment and ask you to join me in a glass
of ale. Good. I will be only too glad to accept.
It was less the heat of the day than my professional
interest that prompted me to accept the invitation
from the tall man with a red hair and beard,
very tall indeed, and also very broad, a sort
of placid and polite Hercules. I was most anxious
to be able to question him about his life and
his projects. Joseph, out here on the veranda.
Change your mind and have something stronger?
No, no, no, no. Ale will be perfect. Are you
called for John? Yes, two glasses of ale for
Mr. Donne and myself. There you are, sir. And
bring a cut of Stilton and some water biscuits.
You like our English cheeses? Oh, yes, I do.
We are quite insular enough here on Corsica.
It's a rare pleasure to indulge in a foreign
taste. I know what you mean. Still, I can't feel
that Corsica, or for that matter... Anything
French is any way foreign to me. Now, Joseph,
splendid. Thank you. Put the tray on the table
here. Yes, sir. You can loose the dogs again.
We'll be quite safe while I'm with M. Donné.
Very well, sir. Oh, those are the big Alsatians
I see occasionally, huh? Mm, two of them. Yes,
yes. They look quite savage and fierce. Do you
think perhaps my dog will... Oh, have no fear.
Castor and Pollocks are as docile as kittens,
where other animals are concerned. They're trained
as man killers. And then, only at my command.
Your health, Mr. Dornay. To yours. Delicious.
So refreshing. As the view of the sun setting
across that blue Mediterranean water. Does Madame
Royal also share your enthusiasm for your adopted
island? Lady Royal is an invalid. I hope to nurse
her back to health here. Oh, if I could suggest
the offices of my good friend Dr. Forrest Giv...
A doctor should be needed. Oh, forgive me. I
had no desire to pry... There's nothing to pry
into. Natural curiosity. I must admit... I do
find it hard to cast you in the category of a
recluse. Oh, yes. I've traveled a great deal.
Africa, India, even America. And as for adventures,
yes, I've had plenty of adventures. Oh, yes.
Big game hunting, huh? What? Oh, of course. I've
hunted them all. Tiger, elephant, rhinoceros,
gorilla. The name's a legion. Oh, all very dangerous
animals. Terribly so. Not really. When you compare
them to the worst of all. What? What else, Monsieur
Dunnay? In your profession, you must know him
too. Man. Man himself. What on earth? Let her
go! Forgive me! I followed Sir John down the
front steps of the veranda as he took them two
at a time and disappeared around the corner of
the house. I would have followed him further,
except his chance had it. I turned my ankle quite
severely on a loose stone after the bottom step.
Stopping in momentary pain, the yelp and snarl
of the dog suddenly quieted. I was conscious
of the squeak of the front door of the house.
Arrested, I looked up to see, framed in the doorway,
a tall, emaciated woman with great bruised half
-circles underlining her eyes that stared with
a feverish gleam. She wore a long, loose, trailing
peignoir, and with one hand she beckoned towards
me by clutching something in the other close
beneath her breast. Painfully, I looked back
up the steps. Lady Rose? Whoever I am, this side
of the grave helped me. But how? By sending this
letter. Both days. Oh, please. Please, I beg
of you, on all our lives, don't. Don't tell such
a... I'm afraid my doubt... Please, don't refuse
me. You're my last... in my hand was real enough.
Before I had time to read the person to whom
it was addressed, I found myself involuntarily
concealing it in my pocket before Sir John returned
and could see it. Nor could I stop to ponder
why my impulse had been to accept the lady's
part rather than that of my charming and seemingly
outgoing host. Why I chose to conceal its existence
rather than reveal it. My dear Monsieur Dornet,
pray forgive me. I'm most sorry we had to be
interrupted. Oh, forgive me for not following
you, but I turned my ankle. What happened? The
curse of trying to maintain privacy. The curiosity
seeker. A farmer from back in the hills named
Deschamps, who passes by here on his daily route,
for some unearthly reason came skulking round
the back of the house and was cornered by the
dogs. But what would you have expected to find
here? Heaven knows! I've no secrets worth anyone's
concern but my own, as I hope you believe. Or
is your presence here today more than just a
seeming accident? Are you concealing something
from me, sir? For the first time, I was aware
that he wore about his loins an American -style
gun belt, and that low on each hip, concealed
by the flare of his coattails, were two matched...
pistols with mother of pearl handles, on one
of which his right hand rested lightly. The letter
in my pocket seemed to burn through the lining
as I tried to judge whether it caressed that
handle by accident or design. These were only
the hands of Sir John, neither of which is the
one in the title of our story. To meet that special
hand you must return with me shortly for act
two The huge red -haired and bearded Englishmen
towers over the small dapper Frenchmen They are
as widely disparate men as you can imagine One
all muscle and vital force, the other elastic,
supple, poised always for the counter stroke,
like a rapier. Antagonists? No, only in a sense.
But whatever their relationship, mutually admiring
of each other. Why should you imagine I have
anything to conceal? Why indeed. Come, let's
go inside. I'll show you some of the trophies
of a roving life. You'd be interested. Very,
of course. Can you stand on your ankle all right?
Is it sprained? No, no, no. Just a slight twist.
From the hall, he led me into his parlor, which
ran the length and breadth of the whole house
across the back in a great L. His parlor was
all hung in black. Black silk embroidered in
gold. The fabric is Japanese work. Yes, but the
rest is yours. Not the panels. What's mounted
on them? Tiger, lion, black panther. Those I
recognize. And elephant tusks, I see. The hippo
and he and the rhino are a little large for mounting.
The rhinoceros is the most dangerous of all,
I suppose. Except, as I told you before. Now,
you're not honestly going to tell a policeman
that you are a manhunter. Not within the confines
of civilization, I hope. But I've done a good
deal of manhunting, too, in my time as a soldier.
That's a profession, not a sport. I've saved
a mount in the center for the ultimate trophy.
But never had, shall we say, the courage. to
make the necessary bag to mount it? I was following
the direction of his gaze to a gapingly empty
panel in this bizarre and gory collection from
the hunt. A panel conspicuous from all the others,
since it was lined in red velvet, as if in expectancy
of framing the pièce de résistance. What would
you hope to put there? Once... I would have been
tempted. Now, nothing. I keep it there to remind
me that it could be my own head, that poetic
justice could have easily decided to frame. Oh,
Gad, it's suddenly getting dark. Yes, and I must
be off for home. I mustn't hold up your dinner.
I've enjoyed our meeting thoroughly. Please,
come again. You're always welcome. I'm not quite
so sure of your Alsatians. Oh, you need have
no worry. Now on. They'll treat you as a friend,
as I hope I can, as I want to be. We shook hands,
mine disappearing inside his huge one, my conscience
stinging at me as I fought a battle between Donné
the man and Donné the policeman. Climbing the
hill back to my villa with Fernand frisking along
beside me, I tried to tell myself I was only
being practical, that I was giving myself time
to make my decision. A decision that was tipped
by the testimony I received from Michel Deschamps
as I questioned him at the barracks the following
morning. Michel. Why did you go so near to his
house? Well, everybody is curious about him and...
Everybody doesn't go near enough to have two
dogs attack him. Well, everybody does not have
a milk route which takes him twice a day by the
Englishman's house to see her. To see her? Well,
it is a dawn, you know. Just before the sun comes
up in the half -light and I am passing by in
my cart. Naturally, I'm looking at the house
when I pass. Naturally, I would myself. So, you
see, at that hour, nobody's staring. Even the
dogs are not yet awake. And then I see by the
upstairs window a woman. The first few days,
I'm not sure. I cost myself. She's not some witch
or somebody who wants to steal my soul. Why would
she be a witch? Because... At any rate, in that
light, she looked so. I was afraid to answer.
To answer what? Her signal to come near to her.
She kept beckoning as if there was something
she must ask me to do. Finally, yesterday morning,
I could stand it no longer. I had to go see what
she wanted to ask. Was that so wrong? No, of
course not, Michel. I would have done the same.
But the dogs stopped you, huh? Yes. In a way,
I'm sorry. Don't feel that you let her down.
But from now on, mind your own business. Oh,
I accept your instruction. I will follow what
you advocate. What I advocate, by all means.
Not what I do. I don't understand you. Sometimes,
even a magistrate has to admit... I do not understand
myself, but that is not for you to worry about.
That very morning there was a mail packet sailing,
and I sent off the letter quickly, almost surreptitiously,
without looking at the address, except for the
fact that it was to the United States of America.
And I forgot it, I imagined, and the months.
went by. Oh, I do think it's very tedious of
you, Henri. Madame Forestier. Well, either for
reasons of your own, you are protecting our most
famous visitor from the rest of us, or, well,
he has some hold over you to protect his precious
privacy. He has no hold over me. Quite the contrary.
But if he wishes to be private, I would be the
first to protect his right. Well, on a small
island like this, Why should he have it any more
than the rest of us? You say, but if he can,
why shouldn't he? Oh, you know I don't know how
to answer that. All I want to know is, do I have
any hope that they might attend my garden set
next month? They? Well, there is a Madame Rowell.
Yes, but she is... sickly. Ah, well, is there
some hope that at least Sir John might be cooked
to appear? I have no reason to suppose that he
would refuse. Now, Lady Rowell, I would find
it hard to answer for. Well then, all I want
for you is to issue the invitation. Please, may
I count on you for that? I could eat. We're all
old friends. Eat, you ask. I had my doubts about
Sir John, and more particularly his lady, attending
any local garden fete. But I could scarcely in
my wildest imaginings have foreseen how extravagantly
and tragically it would be impossible. As I approached
the house in the hollow below me, I was in a
first -class mood because in addition to a packet
from the mail ship for my host, I also bought
a bottle of sherry to share with him that, in
my opinion, was one of a kind. He met me at the
veranda. Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.
We had a mail ship in today. I brought you a
parcel. Me? Yes. And I thought I'd outstrip the
mail. Vain hope. A parcel, you say? This. Thought
on earth. It might be a gun from its shape, but
it scarcely weighs enough. Shall we go to the
parlor while I open my surprise parcel? As we
moved into that parlor, I was super conscious
of my host's reaction to the parcel he bore in
his hands. Although there was no superscription
from the sender, I had an infallible feeling
that he sensed exactly where it had come from.
That somehow... I was accidentally part of a
climax in the life of this strange and vital
man. We've talked about my trophies, Monsieur
Doney. Yes. The ones I've mounted, the others
too clumsy and large to render that way. Yes.
And the third and different class, so far I've
had no right, no courage to mount. What are you
saying, Sir John? There is no reason for my receiving
this parcel that I can conceive except one That
I found no refuge here. I've been betrayed Only
my wife could have done that and who else is
there to evade at her determination to destroy
me. You're asking me. Yes The only link we have
to the world beyond this house Sir John I Believe
me. I had no wish to betray you I'm sure of that.
The day we met, your wife, while you were calming
the dogs, your wife asked me to send a letter
for her. To Richard Rull? I must admit I did
not read the address. I did notice that it wants
to the United States of America. I meant no harm.
He meant no harm. Right? Pandora, who naively
opened her chest to loose pestilence and all
the evils of the world to plague mankind, he
meant no harm. It seemed a simple and reasonable
request. So you exceeded. No doubt she also asked
you to conceal the fact of the letter from me.
Yes, I am afraid she did. Were you sorry for
her ravaged looks, her haunted eyes? Did you
picture me as some monstrous jailer, condemning
her to a life of solitary confinement? Sir John.
I can only defend my action by telling you that
at the time she did engage my sympathy. I told
you I believe that my wife was not in the best
of health. Yes. But the fault perhaps was all
mine. I should have told you that she is insane.
I'm so sorry. A little late for that. The damage
is done. You may have sealed her death warrant.
Perhaps even mine. What do you mean? This parcel
from America. Would you like to see what evil
out of hell you're acceding to that simple and
reasonable request has set loose? Sir John...
You have involved yourself in this on a personal
level. Now I want to involve you on a professional
one. As police magistrate, I want you as witness
when I open this gift from America. the outer
wrapping now what you see a box and within it
something wrapped in in canvas you wrinkled your
nose against the smell yes it's it's very strong
and uh very familiar yes formaldehyde which is
used to preserve flesh from water tying there's
a drawstring on the canvas which i'm opening
time about I'll show you my presence from the
other side of the world. You sound as if you
know what it is. I only wish to God I thought
I didn't. I echoed the same wish, but it didn't
change the contents. It was a hand, a man's hand.
Not a skeleton hand all bright and clean, but
a hand black and desiccated. Traces of blood
upon the bones at the point where they had been
severed as with the blow of an axe about the
middle of the forearm. The fingers, extraordinarily
long, were attached to enormous tendons still
held in their places by strips of skin. Flayed
as it was, that hand was... It made one think
involuntarily of savage vengeance. But in spite
of the putrescent look of death and dissolution
it had, it seemed to have a life of its own.
So now we see the embodiment of the title of
our story, A Poor Choice of Words. since nothing
can be more disembodied than a severed hand.
Whose hand? And why? And are these nerve -less
fingers really capable of writing a death warrant?
I'll return shortly with Act 3. Stomach churning
with revulsion, Monsieur Deneil looks at the
loathsome object spilled on the desk between
him and Sir John. In macabre fascination, his
eyes seem riveted to the severed hand. It is
only by a supreme effort of will that he is at
last able to drag them away and up to Sir John's
grim and haunted face. What is it? The hand of
a thief. Why? Why is it sent to you? So that
there'll be no mistake in my mind who sends it.
You said before, Richard Roll. A relation? My
twin brother. Younger by less than an hour. As
the first born, I acceded to the title. The barony
was mine, and the living went with it. Richard
had nothing, except my bounty. Our whole life
was a gigantic struggle to supremacy. He, because
I denied it him. I, because I had to hold it.
If you had everything and he had nothing, what
chance did he stand against you? Well, I'm English,
and I believe in fair play. I couldn't share
the title, but I made sure the living was shared
equally. I'm not ill -favored, and I'm exceptionally
powerful and large. But Richard was taller by
two inches, stronger by far. And a wild and darkly
handsome man that stirred women to a passion
beyond their senses. Until Claire. Madame Ruel.
My wife, yes. Whatever her true name should be
now. When we were married, my brother Richard
emigrated to the States. And you have never seen
him since? No, yes. I have seen him. I'd hoped
for the last time. Will you forgive me now? There's
been too much talk. And I must find a place to
hang my latest trophy. To hang it? You can't...
I think I've had quite enough interference from
you in my affairs, Mr. Donne. I must ask you
to leave my house. You're no longer welcome.
It seemed a long journey up the hill that night.
For I did not climb it alone. On the way back
to my house, I was haunted by a hundred thoughts.
Had I done wrong to send the letter? Whose was
the severed hand? What was the mystery of Sir
John's retirement? And what motivated the vendetta
of his brother against him? Old jealousies? Or
was it all as simple as chercher la femme? Certainly
she would not be hard to find it must be the
lady role if a woman was at the heart of it all
Only one thing I could be sure of now that I
should not be seeing him again But I was badly
mistaken about that Well Joseph what brings you
here Begging your honest pardon, Mr. John asked
if it would be convenient for you to wait on
him this evening. Of course. When? If it would
suit your honor, now would be fine. It suits
me. After my churlishness on your last visit,
I'm more than touched that you do me this honor,
Mr. Doney. Since I am still concerned that I
may have done you more harm than honor. I couldn't
have hesitated I have some papers here on my
desk that I wish to leave in your charge After
asking you and Joseph to witness them. What kind
of paper sir John? My last will and testament
some property assignments the legal debris that
follows sudden death Joseph. Yes, sir John Will
you sign here? And here? Yes, sir. Is there all
this immediacy, sir? In the midst of life, are
we not all equally in the midst of death? Thank
you, Joseph. You may go. Yes, sir, John. Now,
you, Mr. Donate? If you want me to. But I see
no reason why. Whatever polite disclaimer was
on my lips It was frozen at that moment as my
eyes fell on a blood -chilling sight Black object
in the midst of the empty panel lined with red
velvet empty no longer It was the hand mounted
now as the chief of all trophies But different
from all the others in one respect they were
mounted This was imprisoned. Round the wrist,
an enormous chain of iron had been rivend about
the foul relic, and this chain fastened the hand
to the wall by a great ring, solid enough to
hold an elephant in leash. God! Ah, yes, the
hand. Well, better than my own head, if I can
keep it. Would you sign? It's part of my best
enemy. It was cut off with a saber. Good thing
for me, I can tell you. It's huge. Enormously
powerful. The man must have been very strong.
Well, so far I've proved stronger. I put the
chain on the hand to hold it. The chain is no
use. Now the hand can't get away. The chain is
necessary. This hand always tries to get away.
I saw the hand, a horrible hand, running like
a scorpion or a spider along the curtains and
up and down the walls of my room. Three times
I woke up, three times I went to sleep again,
three times I saw a ghastly thing running all
over my room and using its fingers like so many
legs. awakened by the news that Sir John Rowe
had been murdered during the night. For God's
sake, Bernard, act like a doctor instead of some
frightened schoolgirl. I know you. You have not
seen him yet, old friend. Looked at the first
corpse, either of us has had the misfortune to
look at. Just like this. How did he die? The
cause of death was strangling, but... Under what
shocking conditions I tell you I in 30 years
as a physician. I have never seen anything like
it in what way we found him Lying on his back
in the middle of the room His coat was torn one
shirt sleeve off pulled off was hanging down
There was every indication that a fearsome struggle
had taken place His face was black and swollen
fight The most noticeable and terrifying thing
was his expression. His expression? Absolute,
hideous fear. And small wonder, for in the welter
of blood that was coagulated about his throat,
five separate wombs pierced through it as though
driven by points of iron. Only five. It was as
if he had been strangled by a skeleton. Well,
that is odd. What? What you just said. Only five.
Well, of course, how stupid of me. There was
only evidence of one hand having done the strangling.
That makes it even more bizarre. Is there anything
even faintly normal about this whole affair?
No, Joseph. You heard no unusual noise during
the night. Oh, no, I'm sorry, Magistrate. You
sleep where? Well, here in that little room off
the kitchen now. And there was no sound from
the dogs all night long? No, sir. Yet if a stranger
had approached the house... Oh, those dogs would
have torn him apart if he was a stranger. But
they were quiet. You would have heard them if
they had not been, huh? Well, I'm a very light
sleeper. Did you sleep late this morning? No,
no. I'm awake before cock's crow, you see. So
many things to be done. Water to be drawn, the
fire to be laid. And that's what you were busy
with when Lady Rowell left the house? I was already
preparing breakfast for Sir John, and I tried
to bring up to... You see, that's why I was so
surprised when she walked into the kitchen fully
dressed. And what did you say to that? It's not
my place to ask. I just said, what do you want?
And? She said she didn't want anything. Just
that she was feeling better. And if Sir John
should ask about her, she was off for a little
walk on the beach. That didn't strike you as
peculiar? It most certainly did. And did she
go towards the beach? I would have thought so.
I didn't actually check on it. Why? You're not
aware that... that she's disappeared. Did she?
Oh, no, sir. Well, we'll leave that for a moment.
All right, then, what did you do then? Well,
once I had everything simmering on for breakfast,
I went up to Sir John's room to assist him in
his toilet. You were in this habit? Every morning,
regular clockwork. Continue. But he wasn't there,
sir. His bed hadn't been slept in. Turned out
just the way I'd left it the night before. So
I became alarmed. Everything was out of sorts,
you see. I see. And then you came downstairs
and found him. That's right. Covered with blood
from head to foot. It just don't signify. What
does that mean? Well, you knew, Sir John, sir,
if ever there was a man built and ready to take
care of himself, it was he. Why, he never slept
without having loaded pistols or revolvers within
arm's reach. And he knew how to use them. Yes,
yes. Have you any idea who killed him? I don't
know, sir. Could it have been Lady Roll? Not
a chance, sir. I met her once. She was a tall
woman. Oh, but wasted away, your honor, and weak
as a kitten. And who? I don't know, sir. I don't
even want to now. Neither did I, or at least
to check on what was in my mind. But I had a
duty to my position, and I must admit a morbid
drive to support my supposition. He was lying,
just as he is now, on this carpet here. That's
right, sir. His feet pointed in the same direction,
toward the door. and his head as it is towards
the panel directly ahead of you I felt a creeping
sensation that lifted the hackles on my neck
I knew before I looked what I was going to see
the sight that I had fought against making a
reality at last Involuntarily, I lifted my eyes
to the wall, to the panel where the horrible
flayed hand used to be. It was no longer there.
The chain, broken, was dangling from the ring.
But even that horror was to be succeeded by another.
As I bent again over the dead man, between his
clenched teeth, I found One of the fingers of
the vanished hand severed or rather sawed off
by the teeth about the middle of the second joint.
Marie, forgive us for violating the sacred precincts
of your police office, but the axle of my carriage
is broken and we are here to beg you to carry
us home. If you are ready to go. I'm always at
your service. And tonight, since it grows dark
early these evenings, I will welcome company.
But surely you're not still brooding over Sir
John and his vanished lady? The missing Lady
Roa I can accept. Our gulf is beautiful, but
the tides are treacherous, and her hold on life
at best was tenuous. Perhaps she wanted to end
it. The mystery of Sir John. is something else
again. Something best forgotten, I think. Yes.
But it doesn't seem to want to be. Let me show
you. Marguerite, forgive me. If you feel faint,
close your eyes. But now, do you remember you
said he might have been strangled by a skeleton?
Yes. Might he have been strangled by this? Good
Lord! So that is the famous hound, huh? Yes,
yes, if it were possible. Such a hound could
have made the wounds on his throat. Where did
you find this? It was discovered last night in
the cemetery on the tomb of Sir John Rawal. And
mark one thing well, what? The index finger is
missing. The one we found in the corpse's mouth.
The hand of a thief, Sir John Rawls said. His
brother Richard? What if so? What did he steal?
His wealth? His reputation? His wife? And if
his brother in some gargantuan and titanic duel
struck off his hand and Richard sought vengeance,
which of his hands was the instrument that brought
an end to the intense and private vendetta? De
Maupassant doesn't tell us. Wisely he leaves
that to us to decide for ourselves. I'll be back
shortly I won't easily close my eyes tonight
for fear that my mind's eye will conjure up a
vision of the black and desiccated hand with
the yellowed nails Scrabbling like some lonesome
crab across the floor up and over my bed and
scuffling around the walls. Its four good fingers
moving like spider legs. The mutilated stump
of the fifth, like a head. Our cast included
Alexander Squirby, Ian Martin, Mildred Clinton,
and Guy Sorrell. The entire production was under
the direction of Hyman Brown. And now, a preview
of our next tale. Well, you must know... Elia
must have told you? Elia's parents were gypsies,
but he's not. But he hasn't forgotten, has he?
What they believe... the gypsies. You don't mean
that you... They believe... in the living dead.
The dead who refuse to die. You mean... That
is what you mean, isn't it? I never said I believe.
But you let her sew the black phone into your
coat. But I couldn't stop her. Why now? Why today?
You don't mean... Mother? Marie believes your
mother has become a vampire. This is E .G. Marshall
inviting you to return to our mystery theater.
for another adventure in the macabre. Until next
time, pleasant dreams.