Radio mirror (May-Oct 1939)

'Who am I? And where did I come from?11 Would you dare fall in love when you couldn't solve the dark mystery of your forgotten past? Part I THE train to New York sped onward through the night. But Kitty did not sleep. Her eyes wide in the cramped darkness of the lower berth, she stared out at the landscape rushing by. She felt as though she were rushing toward her own destiny. Two days ago she had been Kitty Kelly, dress model in Marks Fifth Avenue, an orphan girl from Dublin who had lost her memory a year ago. But now — the mystery of her real identity had risen to haunt her again. That telegram from Inspector Grady — what did it mean? She and Michael had read it that morning in the lobby of the New Hampshire ski resort. "Bring Kitty Kelly to New York at once for questioning," it had read. "Clues that may throw some light on her identity have turned up. Mrs. Megram has been murdered. Grady." Some light on her identity. Her heart beneath the soft stuff of her nightgown beat a mad tattoo of hope. Tomorrow, at this same time, she might know who she really was. And the nightmare and confusion of her life during the past year would be over. For a whole year, she had lived in ignorance, like a person in a dream. A year ago, she had awakened as though from a heavy sleep, and found herself in the stuffy third-class cabin of a ship bound for America. Her only companion had been a grim-faced old woman in cheap black clothes. Mrs. Megram. She had awakened that morning, as though from utter darkness. Unquestioningly, in a kind of stupor, she had accepted the things Mrs. Megram told her day after day in that swaying, ill-lighted cabin. That her name was Kitty Kelly. That she was a poor Irish girl from an orphanage on her way to find work in America. That she had been ill during the voyage. Her mind had been a blank on which Mrs. Megram's harsh tongue had traced a dismal story of a poverty-stricken past. But not one word of it was true. She had known that now for two days. Even before the telegram from Inspector Grady came, she had known she was not Kitty Kelly, a poor Irish orphan. She had known it ever since that wintry afternoon two days before at the hotel, when she and Michael had gone out to ski on the white New Hampshire hills. Neither of them had ever skied before. And Michael, the dear, had worried about her falling. "Give me your hand, Kitty!" he had cried, catching her as she stood unsteadily on the height of the snowy slope. She had clung to him for a moment, a little frightened. Then something had happened to her — and she had pushed forward, skied down the steep mountain with sudden, effortless ease. Even Michl, the ski instructor, had cried out in delight at her skill. He had rushed forward, as she braked at the bottom in a perfect Christiania, and seized her by the hand. "But, Miss Kelly — you must have learned how to ski like that in Switzerland!" Switzerland! An Irish orphan in Switzerland! She had laughed and shaken her head. But the incredible ease she had felt on those skis had haunted her with a sense of strange unreality. And that same night, there had been the incident of Grant Thursday. Michael had gone out, and she and Bunny Wilson had been standing alone in the lobby, when he arrived. Grant Thursday. She had heard about him from the gay crowds at the ski shop. A wealthy, handsome young bachelor. A writer, explorer, man about Eu For the first time, in dramatic fiction form, you can read the complete story of the CBS serial that has thrilled listeners from coast to coast June, 1939 19