Radio mirror (May-Oct 1939)

rope. And an expert on skis. In spite of her love for Michael, she had felt a little twinge of excitement at the thought of meeting him. But she had scarcely been prepared for the look of shocked amazement on his face, when he came into the lobby that night, and saw her standing there. GOOD Lord!" He had given a low whistle. "Is it possible? Or am I seeing things?" She had shaken her head. "I — I'm sorry, but — we've never met each other before." "You haven't, perhaps. But I have. Don't you remember — that afternoon last January? At St. Moritz? You were wearing a little blue jacket with military frogs, a knitted white Norwegian cap peaked in back? You were getting into a crowded funicular railroad going up the mountain? And I — I couldn't get into the car to meet you? I lost you!" In a torrent of excitement he had poured out a wild story of falling in love with her, following her all over Europe, in an effort to find out her name. And at last something had stirred inside her stunned brain. She knew him. Somewhere she had seen his face before. And now — Mrs. Megram had been murdered. New clues had been uncovered. At last, perhaps, the mystery was coming to a head. Tomorrow morning, she would be climbing from the train, racing to Inspector Grady's apartment in a taxi, with Michael at her side, racing toward her destiny . . . Perhaps she and Michael could be married at last. For six months now, she had known she loved him dearer than life itself. He had begged her to marry him. But she had not dared. And now, he was beginning to grow restless, bored with their endless existence apart. This last week-end, when they should have been so happy together, he had wandered off several times by himself, gone skiing with that pretty rich Isabel Andrews. Even tonight, he had gone out "for a last minute smoke" with Isabel. He had stayed away a long time. She had been in bed, her curtains drawn, when they finally returned. But wide-awake, staring into the darkness, she had heard his whisper, husky and deep, as they brushed past the closed curtains of her berth. "Shh, Isabel. Not so loud. We'll wake Kitty." And Isabel's drawled reply: — "Not a chance. G'night, Michael darling." There had been a little giggle, as 20 the train lurched round a bend. Mockingly that laughter still lingered in her ears. Tomorrow, she whispered prayerfully in the narrow berth. Tomorrow. . . . * * * At ten o'clock next morning, she and Michael were riding up in the iron-grilled elevator to the Inspector's apartment on Riverside Drive. Inspector Grady was waiting for them, outlined against a huge window that looked out on the Hudson River. "Well, Kitty Kelly, if you're not a sight for sore eyes! Say, Michael — if I were twenty years younger, I'd run off with her myself." But she was in no mood this morning for idle banter. "Inspector — please — what is it about Mrs. Megram — and . . . and me?" His kindly blue eyes scrutinized her with sympathetic understand PRETTY KITTY KELLY Sponsored by Wonder Bread and Hostess Cakes on CBS CAST Kitty Kelly. . ARLINE BLACKBURN Michael Conway CLAYTON COLLYER Bunny Wilson HELEN CHOAT Slim ART ELLS DICKSON Inspector Grady HOWARD SMITH Grant Thursday ..JOHN PICKARD Dr. Orbo LOUIS HECTOR Isabel Andrews LUCILLE WALL Radio script by Frank Dahm Fictionization by Lucille Fletcher ing. He motioned her to a chair. "I hope my wire to Michael here hasn't gotten your hopes too high," he said. "There's nothing very definite as yet. But we have found a couple of queer things out about this Mrs. Megram. She was murdered, as you know, last Thursday night. Shot three times through the back of the head. In a room at the Wolfert Hotel." "The Wolfert!" Michael broke in. "But — that's the most expensive hotel in New York!" "Exactly. That's one of the things I want to talk to Kitty about. Her friend, Mrs. Megram, was paying $25 a day for her room. She's been paying that price for the last six months. Tell me, Kitty, did she strike you a year ago as a woman who was rich or poor?" "She — she appeared to be very poor, Inspector." "Poor — eh?" The Inspector snorted. "Well — what do you think of this? Your friend, Mrs. Megram, left a deposit in the Marine National Bank of $10,000! She also had money to play the stock market, and to keep a gigolo. Now — can you make out where she could have gotten hold of all that dough?" Kitty shook her head. The whole thing was too fantastic for belief. Mrs. Megram wealthy! Why — she had seemed like a poor old charwoman, a broken-down derelict of the slums a year ago. And now — The Inspector went on. "You don't know? Okay — we'll go back to that later. Anyway, to make a long story short, this is the other thing that struck us. She was shot last Thursday night, while she was writing a letter to you." "To me? Sure — and what could Mrs. Megram be writing a letter to me about?" "That's just what we wanted to find out." The Inspector fumbled in his desk, and brought out a letter. "Here," he said. "Take a look at that — and see if you can make it out." Kitty took it from him with trembling fingers. It was a piece of expensive pink stationery, covered with writing in a deliberate, slanting hand. A strange scent, overpowering, the odor of some perfume, rose from it. Her head swam, and for a moment she could not read the words. Then: "Dear Kitty Kelly," she read. "I am writing you care of the store, where you are employed, because I have been told you are in the city. When you receive this letter, will you please communicate with me at once? I have something of great importance to tell you concerning yourself. Do not be afraid to see me, as I no longer want to do anything but help you regain the place that is rightfully yours. I know that when you hear what I have to tell you, I can trust your generosity to forgive me what I did, and to reward me well for the news I bring you. I want . . ." The last "t" in "want" trailed off in a long inky line down the paper. At the bottom of the letter was a smear of dried blood. Nothing more. Nothing. Tears of disappointment came into Kitty's eyes. She read the letter again. Perhaps she had missed a phrase, a word that might mean something definite. But no. This letter was nothing but an introduction, the (Continued on page 66) RADIO MIRROR