The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd

The suits present the Campbell Playhouse. Boyson Well produces. The Dawson Welles. Tonight we broadcast our version of what is generally regarded as one of the greatest of

the modern mystery murder novels. In some peculiar fashion it seems to have become necessary to defend the murder mystery the form of entertainment. Here the artillery is brought up in its behalf. President Wilson, it is proclaimed loudly, could not go to sleep or could go to sleep.

does not remember the point exactly until a certain number of conflicting clues that managed to have faced the days from his proof. Then with a mysterious solved only after suspicion has been aimed at every adult in the neighborhood, he's not particularly shameful.

I have never understood the need for this defense. Murder mysteries are, among other things, our most moral form of entertainment. The wrongdoer is regularly apprehended. If he is not, I have incredibly missed some fascinating black sheep of an author in a flock otherwise startlingly white, and one learns an obvious lesson that to be suspected

wrongfully is in due courts to be triumphantly cleared of suspicion. Life doesn't always proceed according to this admirable pattern. The apologists would do better to defend life, I sometimes think. To help us solve the mystery of the murder of Roger Ackroyd here tonight, we are fortunate in having a very powerful ally, a most distinguished lady in one of your favorite actresses, a

The lady in whose ears the nation's applause is still ringing for her latest brilliant success in drums along the Mohawk. Ms. Edna May Oliver. But before we delve into the mysteries of this night's doings, Ernest Chappell has a comment to make on something which appears to be no mystery at all.