Suspense: One Hundred in the Dark

The Columbia Network takes pleasure in bringing you... Suspense. Suspense. Columbia's play theater of outstanding thrillers, produced and directed by William Speer, and scored by Bernard Herman.

The notable melodramas from fiction and stage and screen, from the world's great literature of entertaining excitement, present it each week to bring you to the edge of your chair, to keep you in... Spend. Tonight's story, by America's distinguished author, playwright Owen Johnson, gathers its suspense in a very gentle way.

It doesn't have a spectacular finish, garnished with revolver shots. There are no graveyard watches. There is not so much as a single lifeless body, identified or unidentified. It's a tale told in a club room, the artists and writers club in New York.

A tale of high-class robbery and suspicion, and of how some ladies and gentlemen nervously counted... 100 in the dark. That was a fine meal. Me for the club any time. Here, we can also do your pretty...

Yeah, if you'll just draw up that chair for Mr. Peters. Oh, yeah, that's the Peter's. Oh, thank you. Do you all know Peters? This is Mr. Stangal. How do you do? I know you. Mr. Gold, yeah.

Oh, I agree with you. Oh, yes. Yes. Oh, you know each other. Yes. And the one who drew up the chair, Mr. Rankin. How do you do? Well, I guess we're all acquainted now. To get back to our table discussion, Queenie.

Oh, yes. Oh, how about a drink? Who joined me? Oh, pleasure. Fine. Madam. Oh, John. Well, now, Stangal, as I said, there are only half a dozen stories in the world. What is more to the point? There's every reinter... Oh, five with soda, John.

Yes. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. What is more to the point, gentlemen, is the small number of human relations that are so simple and yet so fundamental that they can be eternally played upon, redressed, and reinterpreted in every language in every age and yet remain inexhaustible in the possibility of variation well it's true of course very possible take the internal triangle to

men and a woman or to women and a man its variations extend the thousands that right Rankin well in a way ah here we are sat them down right there John very little soda here you are thank you and you Oh, thank you.

So did Peter? Yes, please. Yeah. Another one. Here you are. Thanks. And here's yours. Thank you. And now, little so done mine. Yeah. Well, here's to you all. Cheers, Cheers. Cheers. I'm afraid we can't see eye to eye, Quenny.

I believe there are situations, original situations, that are independent of your human that he says just because they are situations accidental and nothing else as for instance well I'll just cite an ordinary one that happens to come to my mind in a group of five men such as we are here a theft takes place one man is

the thief oh which one now I'd like to know what emotion that interprets and yet it certainly is an original theme at the bottom of a whole literature it's not the same thing at all that it takes to I could answer that the situation you give can be traced back to the commonest of human emotions.

Curiosity. I think, well, it has you there, Rankin. What is the peculiar fascination that the detective problem exercises over the human mind? You will say, Curiosity. Yes. And no. Admit it once that the whole art of a detective story consists in the statement of the problem.

Anyone can do it. I can do it. Steingull can do it. Rankin, I believe even you can do it. The solution doesn't count. It is usually banal. It should be prohibited. What interest thus is?

Can we guess it? There you have it. The problem, the detective story. Now, why the fascination? I'll tell you. It appears to our curiosity. Yes. But deeper to a sort of intellectual vanity. Five men present.

The theft takes place. Who's the thief? Who will guess it first? Whose brains will show it superior cleverness? See, that's all. That's all there is to it. Out of all of which the interesting thing is that Rankin has supplied the reason why the supply of detective fiction is inexhaustible. It does all come down to the simplest terms.

Five possibilities. One, answer. All the reason is that the situation does constantly occur. It's a situation that any of us might get into any time. Yes, I know of an incident of that kind that happened to a friend of mine last month.

Of course, of course, gentlemen, you are glorifying common places. Every crime I tell you express it itself in the terms of the picture puzzle that you feed your sexual it's only the variation that is interesting take the well-known instance of the visitor at a club and the rare coin for example you all know that story

you've heard it out there I don't think I'm sure why it's very well known go ahead Krennich, I'll do it. A distinguished visitor is brought into a club doesn't mean say present at dinner long table conversation finally veers around to curiosities and relics. One of the members present then takes from his pocket what he

announces as one of the rarest coins in existence. Passes it around the table. Coin travels back and forth, everyone examining it, and the conversation goes to another topic. All at once the owner calls for his coin. It is nowhere to be found. Everyone looks at everyone else. First they suspect a joke. Then it becomes serious. The coin is immensely valuable. Who has taken it? The owner

is a gentleman, does the gentlemanly idiotic thing. Of course, laughs as he knows someone is playing a practical joke on him and that the coin will be returned tomorrow. The others refuse to leave the situation so. One man proposes that they all submit to a search.

Everyone gives his assent until it comes to the stranger. He refuses, hurtly, roughly, without giving any reason, uncomfortable silence. The man is a guest. No one knows him particularly well, but still he is a guest.

One member tries to make him understand that no offense is offered, that the suggestion was simply to clear the atmosphere. The stranger becomes very firm, very proud, and says, I refuse to allow my person to be searched, and I refuse to give the reason for my action.

Another silence. The visitor evidently has the coin, but he is their guest and etiquette protects him. Nice situation, huh? What's the answer? The table is cleared. A waiter removes a dish of fruit in there under the ledge of the plate where it's been pushed is the coin.

But now, explanation, eh? Of course. Solutions always should be. At once, everyone apologizes to him. up on the visitor rises and says, now I can give you the reason for my refusal to be searched.

There are only two known specimens of that coin in existence, and the second happens to be here in my best pocket. Yes, rather obvious. Of course, the story is well invented, but the turn to it is very nice, very nice indeed.

Well, I don't know. Ending is very unsatisfactory. Physicianally, if I don't, I'm not in another coin, but something absolutely different, The destructive say of a woman's reputation and a great tragedy should have been threatened by the casual misplacing of the coin.

I've heard the same story told in a dozen different ways. Oh, it's happened a hundred times. It must continually happen. I know of one extraordinary instance. In fact, the most extraordinary instance of this sort of ever heard.

Peter's Euchrascal. I see you've been quietly letting us at the stage for you. Well, it's not a story that will please everyone. Why not? Because you will want to know what no one can ever know.

It has no conclusion then. Yes and no. As far as it concerns a woman, quite the most remarkable woman I've ever met, the story is complete. Do I know the woman? Possibly. Probably I should say.

As a matter of fact, there should be particularly interesting to you because I believe that most of you are acquainted with the people involved. The names, of course, are disguised. I think, yes, I have. Just time before I catch my train to tell it to you.

Mrs. Rita killed her. Inhabited a charming Bachelor Girl studio. Very elegant. The duplex pattern and one of the buildings just off Central Park West. She knew very nearly everyone in that indescribable society in New York that's drawn from all levels.

and that imposes but one condition for membership to be amusing. In this mingle society, her invitations were eagerly sought. Her dinners were spontaneous, and the discussions, though gay and usually daring, were invariably under the control of wit and good taste.

On the Sunday night of this adventure she had, according to her custom, sent away her Filipino brother, and invited to an informal chafingish supper seven of her moor on usual friends. At seven o'clock, having finished dressing, she put an order her bedroom, which formed a sort of free passage between the studio and a small dining room, to the kitchen beyond.

Then going into the studio, she struck a match and was about to light the candlesticks which illuminated the room and the bell rang. And a Mr. Flann Zabroker, compact, nervously alive, roomed was waiting as she opened the door.

Well you're early. Oh look, aren't you? You are late. Well in any case, hello and come inside. Here let me take you things. Thank you. Ah, the first I suppose. Of course. And since you are, you can be a good boy and help me with the candles.

Delighted. Who's to be here tonight? The Enos Jackson. I thought they were separated. Not yet. How interesting. Only you, dear lady, would dream of serving us a couple on the verge. It is interesting, isn't it?

Surely. Eh, where did you know, Jackson? Through the warrings. Uh, Jackson's a rather doubtful person, isn't he? Well, let's call him a very sharp lawyer. And they tell me, though, he's been gambling pretty much.

Indeed. How about yourself? Me. I'm a bachelor. If I lose my shirt, it makes no difference. Is that possible? Probably even. Who else is coming? Oh, uh, Maude Lily, you know where? I don't think so.

You may have heard some time ago, a journal. Oh, yes, of course. I've forgotten. Mr. Harris, the clubman is coming and the Stanley Cheavers. Stanley Cheavers. Are we going to gamble? Don't tell me you object.

Certainly not. Only the Cheavers. They play quite a game. Yes, well united. They have an unusual streak of good luck. Oh, by the way, it's Jackson, isn't it, who is so attractive to Mrs. Cheever?

Quite right. What a charming party. Where does Maude Lily come in? Don't joke. She's in a desperate way. And John Harris? Oh, he used to make the salad and cream the chicken. See the whole party.

I, of course, am to wear the element of respectability. Of what? Don't play a baby with me, my dear planners. I apologize. It's better. No one of course knows who else is coming. No one, of course.

The Stanley Cheever Center. Short fat man with a vacant fat face and slow moving high. And his wife, valuable nervous, overdressed, pretty. Mr. Harris came in with more lily. A woman's straight, dark, Indian, great masses of samba hair held in a little too loosely for neatness, with thick, quick lips and eyes that rolled away from a person who was talking to

her. The Enos Jackson's were late, and still agitated as they entered. His forehead had not quite banished the skull, nor her eyes, the scawn. He was of the type that never lost his temper, but caused others to lose theirs.

Mrs. Jackson seemed fastened to her husband by an invisible leash. You looked at her curiously and wondered what such a nature would do in a crisis, with a lurking sense of a woman who carried with her, her own impending tragedy.

As soon as the company had been completed, and the incongruity of the selection had been perceived, a smile of malicious anticipation ran the rounds, which the hostess cut short by saying, Well, now that everyone's here, this is the order for the night.

You can quarrel all you want, you can whisper all the gossip you can think of about one another, but everyone is to be amusing. Also, everyone is to help with dinner, and nothing formal, nothing serious.

We may all be bankrupt, divorced, or dead tomorrow, but tonight we'll be gay. That's the invariable rule of the house. The cooking. Ah, Harris, I'll need you.

May I be of any help? Thank you, my dear. Well, this is Cheetah. Hi, come along too. All right. This is an adorable bedroom. Oh, thank you, dear. Now, for my apron. Oh, there it is.

Timey up the back. Will you please maw it? Of course. There you are. Oh, thanks. Now, just let me get my rings off, and I'll be all ready to go to work. Oh, this is such a lovely apartment.

This is still there, thanks. Soap and water always seem to do it. Ah, there. Your rings are so beautiful. They are nice, aren't they? I'm saying there's only one that's very valuable the sapphire. Oh, it's beautiful. Let me see What must be very valuable it cost ten thousand six years ago. It's been my talisman ever since

For the moment, however, I'm a cook. You're not going to leave the rings there. Why of course now? I'm a cook a modnily your discovery made parrot is a chef and we're all under his orders Mr. Cheever. Did you ever feel onions? Oh would heavens know Oh, well, there are no onions peeled.

All you have to do is help set the table. MUSIC Under their hostess's gay guidance, the seven guests began to circulate busily through the room, laying the table, grouping the chairs, opening bottles, and preparing the material for the chafing dishes.

Mrs. Kildare in the kitchen ran sack the icebox, and with her own hands shredded the chicken and measured the crayon. LAUGHTER Plandus, carry this in carefully. Gee, though, stop watching your wife and put the salad bowl on the table.

Everything ready, Harris? All set. All right, everyone sit down. I'll be right here. She went into a bedroom, took off her apron and hung it in the closet. Then going to a dressing table, she drew the hat pin around which were her rings from the pin cushion and, carelessly, slipped them on her fingers.

But all at once she frowned and looked quickly at her hand. Only two rings were there. The third ring, the sapphire, was missing. She said to herself and returned to a dressing table. Immediately she stopped.

She remembered quite clearly putting the hat pin through the three rings. She made no attempt to search further, But remained without moving her fingers slowly, drumming on the table, who had taken the ring. Each of her guests had had a dozen opportunities in the course of the time she'd been busy in the kitchen.

She ran over their characters and their situations as she knew them. Strangely enough, at each, a mind stopped upon some reason that might explain a sudden temptation. To find out nothing this way, that's not the important thing to me just now.

The important thing is to get the ring back. And slowly, deliberately, she began to walk back and forth, a clenched hand beating the deliberate rhythmic measure of her journey. Five minutes later, as Harris installed a chef over the chafing dish was giving directions, school in the air, Mrs. Kildare came into the room like a lengthening shadow.

A entrance had been made with scarcely a perceptible sound, and yet each guest was aware of it at the same moment, with a little nervous start. Heavens! Heavens dear lady, you come in on us like a Greek tragedy.

What is it you have for us, a surprise? I have something to say to you. Mr. Ennis Jackson. Yes, Miss Killer? Kindly do as I ask you. Certainly. Go to the door. Go to the door?

please lock it and bring me the key you've locked it as you wish me to thank you now the bedroom door would you do the same thank you mr. Jackson mr. Cheever yeah would you blow out all the candles except the candle our on the table Lord all the candles except the candle

labra. All right. Goodness thank you, Mrs. Kildare. What is it? I am getting dirty, worked up. My nerves are all right. That's the last candle. All right. Now listen, my sapphire ring has just been stolen. The ring has been taken within the last 20 minutes. I'm not going to mince words. The ring has been taken

and the thief is a mommy. But Mrs. Kilberry, the path of death, Mrs. Cheever, is not the slightest doubt. Three of you are in the bedroom and I placed my rings in the pin cushion.

Quite true. I was in the room when she took them off. The sapphire ring was on top. Each of you has passed through there a dozen times since. My sapphire ring is gone, and one of you has taken it.

Everything is gone. Now, now, now, listen. I'm not going to miss words. I'm not going to stand on ceremony. me, but I'm going to have my ring back. Listen to me carefully. I'm going to have that ring back. And until I do not a soul shall leave this room. I don't care who's taking it. All

I want is my ring. Now I'm going to make it possible for whoever took it to restore it without possibility of detection. The doors are locked and will stay locked. I'm going to blow out the remaining candles in the candelabra.

And we're going to count 100 slowly. It'll be an absolute darkness. No one will know or see what's done. But if, at the end of that time, the ring is not here on the table.

I shall telephone the police and have everyone in this room searched. Where did you go? Am I quite clear? Everyone take his place about the table and remain standing, please. That's it, that'll do. Now I'll blow out the candles and count 100.

No more, no less. Remember, either I get that ring, or everyone in this room will be searched. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 36,

37, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 99, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73,

for ring. Seventy four. Seventy five. Seventy six. Seventy seven. Seventy eight. Seventy nine. 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, One hundred.

Well, where? It is there. You may hand it to me. Well, now that that's over, we can have a very gay little supper. The lights, someone. And there you are, gentlemen. Oh, I say, Peters. That's not all.

Absolutely. The story ends there. Story ends there. But who took the ring? Ha ha. What? You mean, he's never found out? Never. No clue. None. I'm not sure I like the story. It's no story at all.

Permit me, it is a story. And it is complete. In fact, I consider it unique because it has none of the banalities of a solution and leaves the problem even more confused than at the start.

Well, I don't see. Of course you don't see my dear Anken. You do not see that any solution would become in place, whereas no solution leaves an extraordinary intellectual problem. Oh, how so? Well, in the first place.

of the situation actually happen or not, which is in itself a mere triviality, Peter's has constructed it in a masterly way, the proof of which is that he has made me listen. Any of those present might have taken the ring. There are therefore seven solutions, all possible and all logical, but beyond this is left a great intellectual problem.

So, was it a woman who lacked the necessary courage to continue? Or was it a man who repented is first impulse. Is a man or is a woman the greater natural criminal? Well that's simple, Quenny. A woman took it of course.

Well, on the contrary, it was a man for the second action. It was more difficult than the first. A man certainly. The restoration of the ring was a logical decision. You see, personally I inclined to a woman for the reason that a weaker feminine nature is strangely susceptible to the domination of her own sex. There you are. We could meet and

debate the subject you're in and you're out and never agree. I recognize most of the characters, Peter's. Mrs. Kildare, of course, is all you say ever. An extraordinary woman. The story is quite characteristic of her.

Flanders, I'm not sure of, but I think I know him. I'm positive. Did it really happen? Exactly as I told it. The only one I don't recognize is Harris. Your humble servant. What? You, Peter's?

You were there? I was there. I was Harris. Have a good partner, Tony. Oh, yes, what is it, uh, Mr. Peter, sir, your train. You told me to remind him. Oh, thank you. Yes, I didn't know it was so late.

New gentleman, pardon me. Oh, of course. Nice to meet you all. Night. Curious, champ. Extraordinary. Well, now I wonder. I wonder if we're wondering the same thing, gentlemen. And so, with the enigmatic smile of Mr. Peters, or Harris, ends 100 in the dark.

Oh, and Johnson's smooth story, which gave us tonight's suspense. Suspense is produced by William Spear. Tonight's radio drama was written by Jack Einsen Vink, directed by John Deets, and scored by Bernard Herman. Eric Dressler was Mr. Peters.

Alice Frost played Mrs. Kildare and Ted Aspen, Quenny. Others in the cast were Helen Lewis, Joan Shea, Henry at Kay, Frank Redick, Paul Luther, Stefan Schnabel, Ian Martin, and Barry Kroger. With this evening's performance, Columbia brings to a conclusion the present series of suspense.

If you like these broadcasts, CBS would be pleased to hear from you. Suspense has been a series presented for your relaxation and enjoyment by the Columbia Broadcasting System.