Radio stars (Dec 1938)

BY MILDRED MASTIN m MARY MARGARET McBRIDE once chased the Shah of Persia all over Europe to find out if he really carried pearls and diamonds in the folds of his garments. She finally caught up with him in Paris, and he was wearing a dark, tailored suit, with nary a jewel in sight. If Mary Margaret was disappointed in the Shah, she was pleased to get the story. Her life, for years now, has been one hard, swift, continual search for stories — first as a newspaper reporter, later as an author, arfd now as a columnist on the air. She's gone beneath the sea, above the clouds, under the earth, around the world, watching, listening, asking questions, always hurrying on the trail of a scoop. Mary Margaret doesn't look like you expect a successful newspaper woman and radio columnist to look. Right today she could go back to the Missouri farm where she came from and be perfectly at home. She has soft, dark eyes that light up when you talk to her, and clear pink and white skin that is rare in sooty New York. There is nothing of the sophisticate about her. She's the kind of woman who would look out of place with a cigarette because she wouldn't know just how to hold it. She'd probably light it as if it were a candle. When invited to a smart cocktail bar, she orders a cup of tea and, without thinking, always takes off her hat. She admits that at dinner parties she usually spills something on her front. And once when a friend lent her an ermine wrap to wear to a very swanky affair, Mary Margaret refused to check it because she couldn't bear not to show it off, then, in a burst of guilty conscience, told everybody who admired it that it was borrowed. . A woman of quick sympathies and deep understanding, people easily confide in her. She still considers as her most harrowing reportorial experience the time a woman confessed to her that she was a murderer. No one — least of all Mary Margaret — suspected the woman of murder. Suddenly in the midst of an interview, the woman, feeling instinctively that Mary Margaret was understanding and could be trusted, blurted out the story of a murder she had committed, unburdened to her the details of a perfect crime. What would you do if an undetected murderess confessed her crime to you? For weeks Mary Margaret led a life of troubled days and sleepless nights, trying to find an answer to that question. Was it her duty as a law-abiding citizen to tell the police? Should she betray a trust or shield a murderer? She had heard vaguely of people who shared such secrets being, in the eyes of the law, an accessory after the fact. She had visions of a trial, notoriety, even prison. She was also haunted by the fear that the woman, having regretted her confession, might do away with her, too, since dead men tell no tales. Just about the time Mary Margaret, torn by fear and pity and duty, "had reached a decision, the poor woman suddenly died. Mary Margaret allowed the story of the secret crime to be buried with her. And there the matter ended. Of course, this ability to inspire confidence has been a big help to her on Tier never-ending search for stories. A scientist, notoriously tightmouthed about his work, will open up and tell Mary Margaret exciting incidents of his most recent expedition. A jade collector, known to be impatient with people w3io are ignorant on his favorite subject, finds himself telling Mary Margaret all about jade and inviting her to see his collection. Her note {Continued on page 54) 25