Nero Wolfe: The Lost Heir 04/20/1951

Welcome to Choice Classic Radio, where we bring to you the greatest old-time radio shows. Like us on Facebook, subscribe to us on YouTube, and thank you for donating at choiceclassicradio.com. What is it, Archie? The guy named Horace Creil, his secretary, says he wants to talk to you. What about? I don't know. Us? Mr. Wolfe's rather busy right now, but I'll give him a message if you wish. Yes. Yeah. Wait a second, Mr. Wolfe. What? Black on red and red on black. Archie, this is Solitaire. Solitaire is a game that is played by one single person alone. If I wish to put a red card on a red card or a black card on a black card... You're cheating. Of course I am cheating. What is the message, Mr. Horace Creil, secretary, asks you to convey? Just that he wants to see you. In a rather tragic sense, I suppose he does. Why tragic? You know that he wants to see me. He is blind. Tell him to come here at his own convenience. Okay. What does Mr. Creil want to see Mr. Wolfe about? A murder? A murder that may still be prevented. Archie. Just a second. What? I have run the cards out perfectly. Is it his own murder Mr. Creil wants us to prevent? Ladies and gentlemen, it's that renowned genius who is the bulkiest, bulkiest, most ponderous and most brilliant detective in the world. Yes, none other than that chair-born mass of unpredictable intellect near a wolf, created by Rex Stout and brought to you in a new series of adventures over this NBC network in the person of Mr. Sidney Greenstreet. Once in a long while, Mr. Wolfe and I talk about this affair. When we do, we call it the case of the lost heir. But I don't think the title is quite adequate. For me, it ought to be called the case of the gone goose. And I was the goose. Well, Archie, do you see any red on red or black on black? No. So? So what? You entertain me, Archie. Okay. You won your little game of solitaire perfectly, as you say. Now, who is Horace Creil? A prominent industrialist. If you read the papers, you would know. Horace Creil. Oh, yeah, the Creil Company. Exactly. How did you know he was blind, if he is? The papers have carried the story. The headlines read, Blind Father Welcomes Lost Daughter. Oh, yeah, I remember a few days ago. There was a picture, too. Why don't you remember the girl at least? Well, if it's the one I remember, I remember. Archie. Oh, well, it probably isn't true. By the way, let me tell you what I found out about the facts of life. The door, Archie. Mr. Creil is here to see Mr. Wolff. Oh, yes, come in. This is Mr. Creil. I'm his secretary, Hugh Gaines. There's a step here, Mr. Creil. Of course. Who is this man? I'm Archie Goodwin, Mr. Wolff's assistant. Mr. Wolff's waiting for you. Where is Mr. Wolff, Mr. Goodwin? I led the way the blind man and his secretary followed. Mr. Horace Creil was tall, thin, white-haired. His face was heavily lined, but the lines were not those of care or worry. He wore very dark glasses through which he might not have been able to see, even if he had had his sight. Hugh Gaines, the secretary, was in his late 20s, surprisingly young and surprisingly handsome for the kind of a job he had. I led them into Mr. Wolff's office, made the introductions, and sat them down. Well, Mr. Creil, what can I do for you? As you see, Mr. Wolff, I'm blind. Need I say, you have my deepest sympathy. I don't give a hoot for your sympathy, Mr. Wolff. Oh, thank you, of course. I mention my condition merely because it affects the position in which I find myself. Go on. Hugh. Yes, Mr. Creil? Tell Mr. Wolff about my daughter. Incidentally, Mr. Wolff, I asked my secretary to do this because in this way you will get a first-hand account. Now, let's see. A few days ago, Tuesday, to be exact, at about three o'clock in the afternoon, a young woman walked into the house and said she wanted to see her father. I spoke to her myself. She said her name was Magda Creil. I asked her certain questions. Why, Mr. Gaines? He asked her questions because he thought, and I thought, that my daughter died 13 years ago. Oh, either the girl who came back to me is my daughter, or she is an imposter, and she belongs in jail. Is there any doubt in your mind about it? Of course. That's why I'm here. On the telephone, you said something about preventing murder. Well, I have a stepson named Anthony George, to whom I intended to leave my money, not because I liked him, simply because I had nobody else to leave it to. Except your daughter? Except my daughter, if she is my daughter. We were talking about murder. I was talking about my daughter and my stepson. Ah, same thing I did. Maybe. Possibly. I don't know. Mr. Creil. Yes? I am not a wealthy man, but I am certainly able to make ends meet. Yeah. What do you mean? Explain how to. I think Mr. Wolf means that if you don't want to be frank with him, he'd rather not waste his time. Mr. Wolf, I apologize if I've seemed to spar with you. Fui. You see, a blind man can only judge by what he hears, and smells, and feels. So? Most. I must be a little more cautious than I would have to be otherwise. I am sorry, Mr. Creil. Patience is not one of my virtues. Now, about your daughter, or your non-daughter, what's her name? Magda. She calls herself Magda Creil, which was my daughter's name. What makes you think she isn't your daughter? Well, ten million dollars, partly. Once again, Mr. Creil? My estate may be worth more than that, but surely not less. You? Surely not less, Mr. Creil. Rather more, I should say. Yes, ten million might have some appeal to an ambitious girl. Eh, Archie? Sure, but I'm not a girl, and I'm not ambitious. Nobody could accuse you of either fault. Mr. Creil, we are getting nowhere. Either you tell your story from the beginning, or take it somewhere else. Archie, I'd like some beer. When I went out for the beer, the kitchen was a mess, and incidentally, I saw what was being prepared for lunch. When I got back to the office, Mr. Creil and his boy were gone. One beer for Mr. Wolfe. What happened? What took you so long, Archie? I had a sandwich. And spoilt your lunch. You know what you're having for lunch? Of course, I planned it. Baby octopus. Delicious. I'll take your word for it. What happened to the blind tycoon? Get your book, will you, Archie? I wanted to give you a few notes. Just a second. Okay. Item? You needn't repeat everything after me. Yes, master. Item. Horace Creil was born blind. Item, his wife and their six-year-old daughter, Magda, disappeared in their private plane 13 years ago. Magda returned last Tuesday. Item, no matter what he says to the country, Horace Creil is afraid he's going to be killed. I think Mr. Creil is right. Memo. From Archie Goodwin to Nero Wolfe. Time, 4.32 p.m. The notes you dictated on the Creil case are on your blotter. Three pages of them. You are with your orchids. I am on my way to the Creil domicile to meet the other characters in this turgid drama. As per instructions, I will bring them here, if possible, while Archie. Yes, sir? My name is Goodwin, Archie Goodwin. I believe I'm expected. Is this way, please, sir? Yes, sir. Yes, sir? Thanks. Hello. Don't tell me you're Nero Wolfe. Not by a couple of hundred pounds. I'm Archie Goodwin, his assistant. Well, I'm Magda Creil. Nobody's assistant. That awful Hugh Gaines creature said Nero Wolfe wants to talk to me. He does. Where is he? He's waiting for you. No hurry, though. No hurry at all. Just play and don't worry about a thing. Black hair, green eyes, skin like a magnolia pet. Beautiful, beautiful. While she finished what she was playing, I watched. Beautiful. Well. Beautiful. Mr. Goodwin. Archie. Oh, we could get along together, Archie, if that's the way you are. It's the way I am. I can't seem to do anything about it. Where's Anthony? Anthony? Oh, Anthony George. Well, I thought both my repulsive half-brother and I were supposed to meet Nero Wolfe. I'm here in case anybody wants to know. Over there in the shadows, listening with all his ears. I'm here in case anybody wants to know. Over there in the shadows, listening with all his ears. That's Anthony George. Shall we go and talk to Nero Wolfe, Anthony? Goodwin, you look like a normal sort of person. Well, that's open to question, but go on. If you had to choose between $10 million and killing a woman by due process of law, which would you choose? I'll think about it between now and July 1994. Now, shall we go talk to Nero Wolfe? Miss Crayer. Yes, Mr. Wolfe? Why did you wait until now, until last Tuesday, to let your father know that you were living? Does it make any difference? I think so. 13 years ago, I was six. What she means is that she was six when she died. But I didn't die, Anthony Sweet. Obviously, but Magda Crayle did, with my mother. Here's mother. Anthony says he doesn't remember me as a child, but I remember him the brat. What about me? Well, when I was about four or five, you were eight or nine, I suppose. Do you remember dressing up in one of daddy's tail coats, a sword, and mother's hat with a plume? Suppose I did. You're still not my sister. Don't worry, Anthony. When poor father dies, I'll support you. Ah, gee, sir. I made a mistake. A mistake? You? I thought I wanted to talk to these young people. I don't. Take them away. TV young lady to an acre. On my salary? As part of our investigation, it will be charged to Mr. Horace Crayle. TV music It was no hardship at all. In fact, it was a pleasure. We dropped Anthony George off at the Crayle Place, and Magda and I went on. And on. TV music You're a wonderful dancer, aren't you? You can't make enemies that way, honey. Archie, why did Mr. Wolf want you to take me out? To find out whether you really are Crayle's daughter. How did he expect you to find out? I don't know. Do you think he knew? He probably had some idea, but I don't know what it could have been. Honestly? Honestly. Archie, do you think I'm telling the truth? No. But wait a minute, baby. I don't think you're lying either. I just don't think. Give me my handbag, Archie. Thanks. I've got something here that might interest both you and Mr. Wolf. Here. Those are snapshots that were taken of me before I was six. Ah. Ah, cute. Now look at me. Beautiful. Beautiful. Can't you see those pictures are of me? Kids that young all look the same to me, but, uh, suppose they are pictures of you. What are they? Oh, just this. I found them in one of Mr. Crayle's old photographs album. My father, I mean. Oh, here's something. Well, one lying on my tummy on the white bearskin rug. All babies get their pictures taken that way. Give it to me. Wait a second. What's this mark under your shoulder blade? It's a little birthmark, like a strawberry. Ah, it's clear. Uh, look, honey. Why are you so interested in babies, Archie? Because I always thought I should have been a mother. Now look, have you still got that mark on your back? Of course. At least I suppose so. They don't go away, do they? Where are you going? I'll be right back. You hear her wolf speaking? Archie Goodwin. I'm with Mac to Crayle. No doubt. What? No doubt, I said. But never mind. What do you want? I want to ask a question. Go on. You don't think Mac does harm to Crayle's daughter, do you? I don't think anything. You're stealing your lines from me. Never. All right, then, no. I don't think the girl is Crayle's daughter. That's just what I hoped you'd say. Why, Archie? Because for once you're wrong. She's pretty, isn't she? Yes, she is. Also, she's got a birthmark. You have seen it? No, but nobody's going to be fooled enough to claim a birthmark. It isn't there. It's too easy to prove. Good night, Archie. Don't you deserted me, Archie. You know Hugh Gaines, don't you? Hello, Gaines. Hello, Goodwin. Making hay while the moon shines? You know, if you work that into a routine, it could be pretty dull. You don't like me, do you? Do I have to? No. No, not in the least. No, that's good. Mr. Wolfe and I feel it's wrong to like any of our clients, especially in nightclub. Really? Why? Because they might sit down at your table while you're making a telephone call. Oh, I'm sorry. Never mind. Finish it. Once again, I'm sorry. Forget it. Mr. Crayle seems to think that Magnus is trying to ruck him. Apparently. What do you think? Boys, I'm here too, you know. What? What do you think, Mr. Gaines? Well, to me, it's a matter of no importance one way or the other. As for Mr. Crayle, what he wants is absolute proof. And of course, there's no such thing as proof that it's absolute. Do you want me to add it up for you? Yeah, that's exactly what I want you to do for me. Add it up. Thirteen years ago, Mrs. Crayle and her small daughter, Magnus, bought her a chartered plane in St. Louis to fly across the Ozarks to Hot Springs, Arkansas. They took off. And that's the last that ever was heard of them, all the pilot, all the plane. Okay, add some more. Mr. Crayle had the whole area searched for months. The search itself cost almost $50,000. And the plane was not found. They finally decided that it must have fallen into the Mississippi where it would sink to the bottom and stay forever. Now, wait a minute. Magnus. Yes, Archie? Don't you remember anything about this trip? Nothing. Not a single thing. The last I remember is Mother putting me to bed in a strange city, in a hotel. And that's all. Okay, what's the next thing you remember? Archie, dear. Didn't my father go over this whole business with Mr. Wolfe? I suppose he did. Then do we have to do it again? There must be some reason why he wanted me to take you to a nightclub. Because I might say something I haven't already said a hundred times. Maybe. What's the next thing you remember after your mother put you to bed in a strange city? Archie, I have a confession to make. This, I believe. Go ahead. $10 million is a lot of money. So I've been told. I don't really remember a single solitary thing before I was six years old and going to school in Rogers, Arkansas. Not Anthony George wearing tails and a sword? It was one of the pictures in the album. Not your mother putting you to bed in a hotel in St. Louis? $10 million, Archie. So you're not Magda Crayol? Well, of course I'm Magda Crayol. What? Me have tried to make the story sound a little more convincing than I should have. But I'm Magda Crayol just the same. How could I be anybody else? So far, I can't see why you shouldn't be anybody else. Miss Crayol, when I'll bring up the matter of the diary, won't you, Miss Crayol? The diary? Oh, you don't know. Then Mr. Wolfe has told you nothing at all about this case, has he? You probably told me all I needed to know. What about a diary? Well, you see, Mr. Goodwin, Miss Crayol's memory begins at about the happy age of seven. A black-haired, green-eyed, pigtail brat named Maggie Lomax. Only child of Walt and Mabel Lomax of Rogers, Arkansas. Am I correct, Miss Lomax? Er, Miss Crayol, I mean. He's a sarcastic character, isn't he, Archie? There he is, there he is. What about this diary? To cut a long sob story short, Walt and Mabel Lomax died in an automobile accident a few weeks ago, leaving them only Maggie. Take it from there, Maggie. There was no money. I looked through the house to find anything I could sell, and I came across a hidden box. The diary was in the box, along with some clothes that might fit a six-year-old girl. The clothes look like what the girl was last seen wearing. How do you know? Well, there's a photograph of one of Mr. Crayol's albums taken in St. Louis the day before the flight. But for ten million, those clothes could be reproduced. Stitch for stitch. Archie, dear. Take him out in the alley, it would be a pleasure. Oh, now wait a second, Archie. With one arm tied behind you, I think you could probably beat me into a pulp. Is it all right if we don't prove it? We were talking about the diary, Archie. Okay, what about it? Archie, I don't even claim the handwriting is mine. What's handwriting when you're six years old? Still, the first page is one of those things that has name, name of parents, home address, and like that. Color of hair, eyes, you know. Sure, I had one myself. Certainly. Every child had one. One or a dozen. Maybe they still do. You fill in the first page, and then you never write another word. Honey. They were cheap. I doubt if they cost a quarter, and there was a place that said, my first date, favorite pastime. Look, baby. He calls me baby, Mr. Gaines. Yes, I noticed that. I think he'd believe your story no matter what you told him. Get lost, will you, Mr. Gaines? What's that? Get lost. Drop dead. Turn blue. Well, I can take a hint. Good night, Archie, and Miss Lomack. Prissy, isn't he? Prissy is the word. He doesn't seem to believe your story. He believes what he's told to believe. His job. Sure. You believe me, don't you, Archie? Honey, you're beautiful just the way you are. Now, let's talk about the diary. I hate you. I hate you, too. Shall we dance? The diary. Oh, dear. Where is it? Do you call this romance? No, I call it working overtime. Where is it? Here, in my handbag. Here. Push over. We look at it together. I'm not crowding you, am I? What's a little crowding? Cosy, isn't it? No. Look at the cover first. My diary, 1934. I suppose somebody gave it to me for my sixth birthday. Let's just not suppose anything, shall we? All right, Archie. Page one. Name, magda, crail, date of birth, October 11th, 1928. But you'll read it. Or can you read? Anything you can write, honey. Date of birth and so on. Father Horace Crail, Mother Mabel Crail. Black eyes, green, my favorite pastime, playing with the dog. Playing has a Y in it. You know what I think, Archie. You wouldn't call that writing, would you? Not real writing. It's more like printing. I think my mother guided my hand when I wrote that. Yeah, that's the way it looks, all right. Well... Dance now? Dance now. While we danced while I held that disturbing girl in my arms, I tried to believe the case was just as simple as it seemed. Somehow she'd survived a plane crash, a head injury, then a normal life with a couple, and naturally wouldn't tell her that she wasn't really theirs. I tried to believe it. I was trying hard when... Archie, don't look. There's Anthony George. Oh, yeah, alone in the corner. You've had a lot of experience, Archie. Do you think he's a killer? A what? Do you think he'd commit murder? I don't think anything about him, but why should he? For ten million dollars? See what you mean. Are you worried? Not with you around, Archie. Not with you around. It was like that, maybe even more like that, until the waiter told me I was wanted on the telephone. I asked her to keep the table warm that I'd be right back. Hello? Hello? Hello? This is Archie Goodwin. Archie? Oh, hello, Mr. Wolfe. How are you been talking to Mr. Crail? Wonderful. A little less humor, perhaps? Okay, what about Mr. Crail? He showed me some pictures of his daughter. Maybe pictures? Unfortunately. Some of the pictures were missing from the album. Those are the ones I've been looking at. Archie, I'm interested in that birthmark. So am I. Do you think you could persuade the young lady to have a picture taken of her back undraped? Wait a minute. Just one moment, please. Well? You mean that? Clear picture and a bright light. How would you like her posed, Mr. Wolfe? I am not amused, Archie. Okay, I'm sorry. All I want is a clear, sharp, focused picture of that birthmark. And I expect you to get it for me. Good night, Archie. Hello again. Dance? No. Talk. More talk? Lots more. What now? That birthmark. So I've got a birthmark. What about it? I wish I had one. It was worth ten million. So do I. But this one is worth nothing to me. Since my father doesn't believe I'm his daughter, and he's blind, that kind of identification doesn't mean anything to him. You're forgetting the people he trusts. Hugh Gaines, for instance. If the birthmark is there, couldn't he look at it, compare it with those awful baby pictures, and say, yes, here is your daughter? I've got news for you, Archie. He has looked at it. He says it looks the same as the one in the baby pictures. Has he told your father that? Yes. He also told him he thought I was a fake. That somehow I found out that the six-year-old daughter of a millionaire had died in a plane crash 13 years ago. And I found out she had a strawberry birthmark on her back. And I had one, too. So I decided to say that I was Magda Crayle. That's absurd. Of course it is. You can see how it's going to work out, can't you, Archie? Frankly, no. How? My father went to Mr. Wolff simply to have improved that I am his daughter. Whatever Hugh Gaines is. The only thing I'm afraid of, though. What are you afraid of, baby? I'm afraid my darling half-brother might kill him before he has a chance to change his will. Isn't that a somewhat mercenary view to take of the matter? Maybe it is, Archie. And maybe I'd feel differently about it if my father had found me instead of waiting for me to find him. He tried, didn't he? I wonder. Let's get back to that birthmark. Are you allergic to floodlights? I know a photographer who has a studio. Confounded, Archie. I didn't know it was going to be me. Because nobody else would dare to call me this late. What do you want? I got the pictures. They're drying now. If you come home, bring them with you. They may be important tomorrow. Have you heard that Harry's grave was murdered? No. How? Oh, where? Tomorrow we'll talk about it, Archie. Good night. At 4 p.m. the next day, there was quite a lot of confusion in Nero Wolff's office. At his direction, I'd set up a picture screen at one end of the room and on his desk at the other end, a rather strangely constructed projector. At 4 p.m. the guests arrived. Magda, Anthony George, Hugh Gaines, and of course, Inspector Cramer, ready to make an arrest if he could figure out whom to arrest. Hello, Inspector. Hi, good one. Magda, Anthony George, Hugh. Yeah, what's this all about? What's going on, Archie? He had me, Inspector. I think Mr. Wolff wants to show slides of his trip to Yellowstone Park. But here he is, as came. Say, Wolff, you want to know what I think? Not in the least, Inspector. Sit down somewhere, won't you? Archie, will you turn out the lights? Thank you. Now, this is a picture of Magda Crayle lying on her stomach at the age of six months. I changed the focus so, and we have a close-up of a birthmark. A smooth discoloration that looks as if it might have been painted on. Now, Wolff, you said if I came here, you'd give me the guy who killed Horace Crayle. And you show me a picture of a baby's back. Inspector, if you open your mouth again, I may not keep my promise. Go ahead. While we look at this enlargement of a birthmark on baby's back, let us remember that the late Mr. Horace Crayle was blind and never saw it. So what? What's he getting, that good one? Inspector, if I knew, I'd tell you. Listen. Mr. Crayle had a trusted secretary, Hugh Gaines. I'm here. Of course. Mr. Gaines had a brilliant idea. He knew the tragedy of Mrs. Crayle and her daughter. And he decided to bring Crayle's daughter back to life. What makes you think so, Mr. Wolff? You had access to the photograph album and only you. Hardly enough, Mr. Crayle didn't even know his daughter had a birthmark until you told him. That may be true, but what of it? It's unimportant. Now I want to show you another picture. Archie, explain this picture, will you? A rating from left to right, this is a picture of Mrs. Crayle's back. Very pretty, too. As you can see, there is what appears to be a small birthmark, somewhat under the left shoulder blade. I change focus and as it becomes larger... That's not a birthmark. That's tattooing, you can see it. Tattooing, of course. And Mr. Gaines had a brilliant idea how to make use of a tattooed birthmark and Mrs. Magna to help him out. As blind as he was, Horace Crayle saw through it. That's why Hugh Gaines had to kill him. No, you don't Gaines. Mr. Wolff. Mr. Wolff, are you all right? Of course I'm all right. Well, Inspector Cramer, Mr. Gaines is your man. Another bottle of beer, please, Archie. It's right there in front of you. You know, I was thinking, a girl can get herself tattooed, can't she? Is that a crime? What does it prove? Archie, Archie, have I ever told you I love you? I'm going to bed. Good night, Archie. You have been listening to the new adventures of Nero Wolff, starring Sidney Greenstreet. The lights transcribe the night. Tonight's transcribed story by Mindred Lloyd was based on the characters created by Rex Stout. This is an Edwin Fadden production produced and directed by J. Donald Wilson. In the cast were Harry Bartell as Archie Goodwin, and Martha Shaw, Vic Rodman, Peter Leeds, Grace Stafford, and Bill Johnstone. Next week at this same time, Nero Wolff and Archie will bring you the case in room 304. Down Stanley speaking. Three times mean good times on NBC. This Sunday, the glamorous and unpredictable Tallulah brings you another hour and a half broadcast of The Big Show, starring Fred Allen, Judy Holiday, Joan Davis, Fran Warren, and many more. And this Sunday's Theatre Guild on the Air production is the Broadway comedy The First Year, starring in this Theatre Guild presentation are Richard Widmark and Katherine Grayson. Remember, Tallulah Bankhead stars in her wonderful big show, Sunday on NBC.