Get this and get it straight. Crime is a sucker's road and those who travel it wind up in the
gut of the prison of the grave. There's no other end, but they never learn.
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starred as Philip Marlowe, the makers of Wrigley's Spearmint Chewing Gum are glad
to bring you tonight's exciting story, The Iron Coffin.
Dear Sir, Colin, I wouldn't touch your proposition with someone else's ten-foot pole, period.
Furthermore, hello. Would you connect me with Mr. Marlowe, please? Philip Marlowe,
the private investigator. This is Philip Marlowe. Oh, I'm so glad I caught you. Mr. Marlowe,
you've been very highly recommended to me by a very dear friend and I want to employ your
services for a case. All right, who are you? I'm Catherine Newbow. It's about my daughter,
Irene, or more exactly about her fiance. I want you to find him for me. He's 26, dark
complexion, about five feet ten and takes a size of... Oh, just a minute, Mrs. Newbow. It's a little early
for descriptions. What's the nature of his disappearance? Mr. Marlowe. Yeah? I'm afraid
I just can't explain over the phone. I'm at the boy's place now. Would you come over here? It's
4-2-2-0 and a half bronze. 42, 20 and a half, huh? You see, Bennett is lost and Irene's gone to help
him and she may get lost too. Well, how do you mean that, Mrs. Newbow? Lost where? Back somewhere in
the 16th century. After she hung up, I spent a few minutes trying to decide if I should take along
my 38 or a butterfly net. But in spite of what I thought she'd said about the 16th century,
I was convinced that Mrs. Newbow was a genuinely worried woman. I sold myself on that by the time
I hit Bronson Avenue. When I finally found number 42, 20 and a half, I began to unsell myself fast.
Said 42, 20 and a half was a sagging second floor of a weed-ridden tile and stucco heap on the alley,
back of a dead delicatessen. The windows were heavily shutted behind rusty iron grills and the
heavy door was set at the top of a narrow flight of unreliable wooden stairs. Mr. Marlow, I'm Mrs.
Newbow. Hello. The looks of this place on the outside, I, uh, holy smoke. It's rather bizarre,
isn't it? Yeah, to say the very least. These are Bennett Varago's rooms. He's a student. Of what,
alchemy? His place is a museum. Everything in here must date back to the... Yes, to the 16th
century. That's what you said, yeah. That's what I meant. Mr. Marlow, two years ago when my daughter
met Bennett, he was a nice normal boy with a great enthusiasm for history. He's brilliant. I liked
him and Irene, of course, fell madly in love with him. But then... Then what, Mrs. Newbow? Then it
began to change. He was working awfully hard toward his doctor's degree when suddenly he...
he seemed to hit a snag. How do you mean? Well, he became obsessed with a particular period in
history, Spanish history. Well, that's not so unusual. That's how guys become specialists. Oh,
but it's more than that. His interest was much more than scholarly. It became a morbid fascination.
Oh? Look at these relics, Mr. Marlow. Yeah. At first, Bennett only studied them. But in the
last year, he began to live with these things exclusively. More and more until... until he left
a month ago. And now... Well, I just don't know. You know, my guess is the boy needs a psychiatrist,
not a private detective. Where's he now? I'm not sure, but this morning a note came from Irene. It was
mailed in Santa Barbara two days ago, the day she left. She might be with him. Yeah, but you said you
had no idea where they might be. I do. See this book? Yeah. It's a castle constructed in the year
1540 by Peter the Cruel of Lerman near the present city of Valdemauro, seasoned in 1562 after a
violent struggle by the Count of Castile, Dominique Virago. Yes. And look here. I found this old newspaper
clipping in that book there. It's about that very castle. It says it was torn down in 1887 by
an eccentric millionaire bachelor and rebuilt stone for stone on an isolated part of the
California coast known as Pointe Estero. The man who spent his entire fortune on this single
project was Philip Virago. For Pete's sake. And that's where they are. They must be. Well,
considering what we started with, that makes sense. I looked it up, Mr. Marlowe. Pointe Estero is just
above Morro Bay, about 200 miles north of here. Will you go up there and find out what's wrong?
I'm awfully worried. I told her the transplanted castles from Spain were not exactly my cup of
tequila. But between the check she handed me and the look in her eyes, I figured a drive along the
beach might do me good. Well, I made Santa Barbara by four and by 630 I was watching the surly Pacific
Surfer hurl itself at the huge granite lump called Morro Rock. Farther north I got the man that the
ocean became. A hulking bank of solid black clouds offshore made a hollow mockery out of
daylight savings time. And 20 miles beyond Morro Bay, I had to turn out my lights. By rough
calculation, the castle was another 10. When 11.7 had turned up on their speedometer without so much
as a single battleman in view, I decided to turn my lights back on again and stop for some local
advice. My first chance was a combination motorcord restaurant and mobile gas station
labeled Summit Light California, El Chester Poindexter prop.
Howdy, friend. Bad night to be out on the road, huh? What'll you have?
Yeah, a cup of coffee. Okay. Driving on up north? No, no. As a matter of fact,
I'm looking for that old Spanish castle that's along this coast somewhere.
Yeah? Yeah, yeah. Got any idea how I can get there? You got business there? Yeah, I might have. Why?
Just wondered. Not a good place, mister. Folks in these parts like to forget it's here. Oh?
Ah, what's wrong with it? Nothing, maybe. Then again, well, it was built 60 years ago by a madman,
mister. Brought it over here from Spain, complete, even to the furniture. So I hear you. They say it
belonged to his ancestors and he brought them to every one of their bodies. Their coffins are down
there under that castle right now. 13 of them. How do you know? I talked to an old timer once to help
put that place together. Seven men died on that job and you know what he told me? One of them
coffins is iron and it's eight feet long. You made a great fullback here. Fill it up again, will you?
It ain't funny. They say his name was Peter the Cruel. Now look, Chester, you're not lathering
yourself up into a ghost story for tourists, are you? You asked me and I'm telling you. All I asked
you was how to get there. You see that line out there? Across the bay and past the breakwater.
Wait till she comes around again. There, see it? Yeah. That's up on the summit of Pointe d'Esterreau.
Well, the castle's just a mile past that. There's not much of a road in but you can make it. Okay,
thanks. It's right down next to the water in a nasty jagged little cove. All together it's three
miles from here. Much obliged. There's something else you might keep in mind. Like I said, I don't
hold with ghosts but I know for a fact them coffins are sealed in a crypt under that castle.
But they don't stay put. They get thrown around. Folks have heard them thumping. Good night, friend.
A highway dropped down close to the quiet bay which was sheltered by the breakwater
and a hundred yards out a white sailboat, its mast pointing straight up at the stars.
It made a strange contrast to the pounding surf a mile beyond where I found the turn off to the
castle. It beat a year's depreciation out of my car in 10 minutes but finally at the top of a small
rise I saw it, the Spanish castle. It was a grim gray mess of crooked walls and twisted towers that
crouched on the shore like something that had crawled up from the bottom of the sea.
When I pulled to a stop in front of the main gate I saw there were lights in one of the lower rooms.
I started in and then I saw something else. A girl running down the path toward me.
You! You there, wait! Please wait! Oh, you've got to help me. Somebody's going to be killed.
Killed? In there? In the castle? Yes. Hurry, please. All right, come on.
Thank heaven I saw your headlights. I'm glad I found you, Miss Newbold.
How did you know? I guess right. What do you mean?
Well, your mother was pretty sure I'd find you here. I'm a private detective, Philip Marlow.
What's this about somebody being killed? It's Bennett. He's almost out of his mind, Mr. Marlow.
He's gone down to the crypt under the castle. I tried to stop him but I couldn't.
He's killed down there, just like the others. Like what others, Irene?
All the other Viragos, all his ancestors. He is a cruel little killer. Oh, now just a minute. Come on.
I must sound crazy too. Maybe I am. This horrible place. Baby, baby, take it easy. This is the age of
rocket planes and bebop, remember? Not in here. Here is the 16th century. Oh, settle down. Tell me
what's really going on. I am. Day before yesterday, I was just as skeptical as you are. That's why I
came here. But now, Mr. Marlow, Bennett Virago is fighting a battle that's been going on for 400
years. A battle with a monster called Peter the Cruel. The one in the oversized iron coffin
downstairs? I can't. Come on, baby, show me.
What I could see in the light of the four candles in the holder I picked up, I didn't like.
She led me first on a long flight of stairs, then through a maze of ponderous arched pillars that
made the catacombs seem cozy by comparison. Finally, we stopped in front of a heavy door with an
iron ring in it. I held it open and almost fell in. We were at the top of a deep circular room
carved from solid bedrock. Stairs that must have been designed by a reckless mountain goat
followed the curving wall down to the bottom. And there, in the light of a torch stuck in a bracket,
a man was working frantically over a big trap door set in the center of the floor.
It was Bennett Virago. I told Irene to go back upstairs and wait and then I started down.
Philip Marlow, I'm a friend of Irene. She told me I'd find you down here.
Get out of here. I refuse to be responsible. I'll be responsible for me, fella. I'm used to it.
Are you sure you can't use some help? You look pretty tired.
I'm exhausted. I'm not going to stop until I've settled this business once and for all. And I
won't tolerate any interference. Do you understand? No. Interference in what? I'm going to spend the
night in the crypt under this door. I've got to know the truth. Listen, if you're really Irene's friend,
please take her away into town. That Poindexter's place. She's not safe here. Nobody is. Every
document I found verifies it. Verifies what? Mr. Marlow, I'll show you. On one condition.
Give me your word that once I'm in there and this door is closed, you'll leave here and take Irene
with you. Well? Okay, Virago, it's a deal. Show me. All right. Take that crowbar and help me get this
open. Okay. Tonight I broke the seals that were put on this door 30 years ago. At that time,
the coffins were in three straight rows. And now? I know what I'm going to find. It's happened
before. Hey, buster, this thing is heavy. You'll never open it from the inside by yourself.
Oh, servant Romero has his orders. Get back in the boat. Quick. Prop it with your bar. I got it.
Well, Virago. Stay back. Don't move until I get the torch down there.
Now, look. I saw walls slimy with pale moss,
a rotten stone floor scarred with deep fissures. The coffins that had been in three neat rows were
scattered in crazy confusion. But that wasn't enough. In the middle of it all was the iron one,
eight feet long, standing right straight up on end. Now, maybe you'll believe me. Virago, listen,
wait a minute. Maybe you better think this over. You gave me your word. Yeah, but no kids threw
those coffins around like that. Now you're beginning to understand. Get out, Marlow. Get out fast.
Heaven only knows what might happen here tonight.
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day more enjoyable. Now with our star, Gerald Moore, the second act of Philip Marlow and
tonight's exciting story, the Iron Coffin. I kept telling myself that Virago wasn't in any danger,
that this was 1950 in spirits when the 16th century didn't stand a ghost of a chance against the
determined man, but I couldn't quite believe it. And things didn't get any cozier as I watched the
man with the obsession descend into the crypt, a candle in his hand casting a crazy chorus of
shadow dancers against the dripping wet walls. After the trap door crashed shut, I kept holding
on tight to the 20th century and things that made it tick, and that helped until I was back up to
the basement level. A moment of your time please, senor. A tangle of gray black shaggy hair fell all
around the grisly old face that could have scared a Halloween mask, and the rest of them fit from a
bill that included almost no shoulders, eight long scrawny arms, and an outfit that was medieval.
I did not mean to alarm you, senor. Yeah, you couldn't miss. It's so dark in here. You're
Ramiro? Si, Ramiro. I, senor, wait upon the master of this house, even as my father did,
and his father before him. Always, senor, Ramiro has been in service in this castle,
always since Peter the Cooler. You mean you came over here from Spain, you were imported with this
castle? Si, si, indeed. It had to be that way, senor. None else but Ramiro knows the castle.
Every storm, every friction, every sound in the night. Why, senor, there where you stand, Ramiro
stood on that fateful day in the year 1562 when Dominic Verago, the Count of Castile,
sentenced Peter the Cooler to his death. It was an awesome occasion, senor. How bad. The story of
that day lives in my mind as though I had been present. I hear and see it all. Hear and see the
fantastic spectacle in this very room, the place lighted by flaming torches. The prisoner was
Peter the Cooler, his legs bound in heavy chains and weighted with an iron ball.
I, Dominic Verago, Count of Castile, to this day proclaim the tyrannical rule of the prisoner before me at an end.
And I do further proclaim that the prisoner, Peter the Cooler, behind,
wearing the shackles and weights of a common theme, and when his body is dead,
I order it cut down and sealed in an iron coffin, the chains not removed.
Only by right of the royal blood of our fathers do I allow his remains to be placed in the family crypt below this room.
Now, Peter the Cooler, you have heard this sentence. How do you speak?
I speak, dear righteous ruler, very plainly. This, the day of my execution, is a black day.
A black day for you, Dominic Verago, for Castile, for Spain. For in spirit I will not die, not go to the crypt below.
In spirit I will not rest until I have had my revenge through all the years that follow this day, this black day.
You and your ancestors, beware, Verago, beware!
Silence! The Count of Castile would reply.
Hang him!
And that, senor, they did, hang him and bury him below us.
That is why I stop you here, to warn you.
Yes, well, tell me, Ramiro, your ancestors, whose side were they on? The Count of Peter the Cruel? Well?
The Ramiro served only one man, senor, the master of the house. Even as I today serve only one man, the master of the house.
Good night, senor.
He glared at me for a long moment with sickly yellow eyes, and he stepped back and was gone.
And a few minutes later I found Irene Newbold and told her what had happened at the crypt and of Verago's wish that she spend the night at Poindexter's place.
When I saw her make one valiant try to keep from going to pieces, I picked up a coat and bag, held her firmly by the arm and walked her fast outside into my car.
It kept her thinking for a while.
When we arrived at Poindexter's, I promised to awaken her at dawn for the return trip to the castle.
She thanked me and went to her room, and a few minutes later I went to mine.
After three hours of cigarette-filled sleeplessness had gone by, I slipped outside and watched the summit light that winked at me every third second.
I didn't wink back, and the sight of El Chester Poindexter standing at the cliff's edge ahead looking toward the bay below in the long wide wash of the full moon didn't help any.
How do you do, Mr. Marlow? Trouble sleeping?
Yeah, your local ghost made good. He keeps propping my eyelids open.
And you don't feel up to much smart joking either, huh, Mr. Marlow?
Poindexter, I'm worried about Verago.
And you should be. That Peter the Cruel was certainly a powerful party.
Oh, nuts, the Peter the Cruel. There's another answer there's gotta be.
But you said Verago.
Yeah, and I meant Verago. Verago in his own mind. He won't even look for another answer.
He'll keep fighting ghosts until the boys in the white jackets with court orders call for him. And then there's Irene.
Mr. Marlow, you were saying...
Hey, Poindexter, look out there. See out there, that boat anchored in the bay?
Yeah.
That's the same one I saw from the road before, isn't it? The road I took to the castle?
Sure. Only sailboat around here.
Spring tide certainly has her dipping for moss tonight, huh?
Certainly has.
Heard me and a lot of other things, including the fact that our boy who's chasing ghosts is going to be killed by something very real.
If we don't get a move on, come on, come on. We're all going to the castle in a big hurry.
Marlow, are you sure you're right? I can't believe the answer's that simple.
Doesn't matter, Irene. Simple or not, it can still kill.
Come on, Poindexter, we're going to run for it. Every second counts now.
You catch up to us, Irene. We're going ahead.
Poindexter followed me as I ran into the castle and down the stone stairs to the basement along the passageway that led to the spot above the crypt where I first met Maru Maru.
But we both slammed to a stop at the sight of something I couldn't expect to find this side of the Dark Ages.
It was Romero again.
Only this time, minus his apron and long winter underwear and plus a head-to-toe black coat of mail with a shiny steel helmet spike on top, topped underneath his arm.
And in one hand a lantern that swung to and fro with his cackling, in the other a long sword, vintage lady of the lake.
Hey! Come back, senor! Back, senor! Senor, they're fighting down there in the crypt.
In the last of the bragos, and Peter the Cruel, Peter who is to have his revenge.
Get out of the way, Romero. Come on, Poindexter, we've got to get this door open.
No! No, stop! Stop!
Get off, Poindexter!
Are we in time, is Bennett all right?
I don't know yet. What's the matter, Romero?
Are we in time, is Bennett all right?
I don't know yet. Watch that jerk in the fancy dress if he gets up, yell.
Come on, Poindexter, we've got to get this door open.
Come on.
It's coming.
Look! The crypt is filled with water just like you said.
Help. Help me.
Oh, Bennett. Bennett, thank heaven you're all right.
Brago, here. Take my hand. Reach for it.
There we are.
Couldn't have lasted another minute.
The water came through the cracks in the floor.
And the coffins, they floated.
That's right. They're bumping against the sides of the crypt as if something sound you people have heard.
Yes. And when the water subsided again, the coffins would be scattered all over.
Oh, Bennett, darling, you see, it's no angry spirit.
Yes, but why the water, Mr. Marlow, and why...
Why does Peter the Cruel's coffin always stand on end upright?
Where does the water come from?
The sea, the sea. There's an unusually high tide tonight.
Spring tide, they call it. Right, Poindexter?
Right. Happens when the sun and the moon are in either direct conjunction or opposition.
You see, the castle's so close to the ocean and the crypt so deep that the water seeps in as the tide rises.
Oh, I see.
And as for Peter the Cruel, he settles upright because the old boy was buried in his coffin with his bondage chains still wrapped around his feet, according to legend.
Ask Ramiro there. I'll be glad to tell you all about it.
Señor, señor, it is more than legend. It is true. True, sir, that no one can tell us.
Oh, shut up, Ramiro. And enough of you and your stories.
Mr. Marlow, how did you know? I mean...
I mean, what got you here in time? How did you think of the spring tide, Mr. Marlow?
Well, it was a sailboat anchored in the bay, Irene.
You know, when I first saw it, its mast pointed straight up at the stars.
When I saw it again hours later, it was dipped forward sharply because the anchor chain had been pulled tight by the rising tide.
Well, that gave me the hunch I needed.
The hunch we needed, Mr. Marlow.
Thanks a lot.
I'm glad to be out of the 16th century, and you know something?
What?
I'll stay out.
Well, it was another hour before we left the strange relic of another day.
An hour in which everybody found himself thinking of Peter the Cruel's vengeful spirit.
Oh, well, the tide took care of him.
Marlow, did you hear that?
No, no.
Well, as I was saying, that's the beauty of reality.
Yeah, you can figure everything out.
Marlow, there it is again.
Oh, that's nothing. It's probably just the wind.
Look, that figure up on the rampart.
Rampart?
Oh, well, that's Romero.
Or is it?
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The Adventures of Philip Marlow presented by Wrigley's spearmint gum bring you Raymond Chandler's most famous character and star, Gerald Moore.
Philip Marlow is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald and written for radio by Robert Mitchell and Gene Leavitt.
Featured in the cast were Irene Tedrow, Lillian Bief, David Ellis, Jane Novello, Parley Bear, Barney Phillips, and Edgar Barrier.
The special music is composed and conducted by Richard Arant.
The makers of Wrigley's spearmint chewing gum hope you've enjoyed tonight's adventure of Philip Marlow and that you're enjoying Wrigley's spearmint gum every day.
We invite you to be with us next week when Philip Marlow says,
This time a dying man's last wish led me from a gunman with orders to stop me, past a battered corpse in a crumbling mansion, to a ruthless redhead playing for keeps.
And when it was over, the one in the middle got away with everything except the dying man's last wish.
This is Bob Stevenson speaking and this is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.