The Shadow - The Bells of St. Peter’s (Radio Recreation)

(Annoyed) Ah, these Americano movie stars! This one . . . she make so much trouble. She say, “Teresa, do this. Teresa, get me that. Teresa, clean this.” A woman so beautiful . . . and so cold . . . like a fish. Sì, like a fish. . . . 
She is out . . . making the pictures for the cinema. Buono! . . . Now I can go in . . . 

. . . and clean as I wish. No one to say, “Teresa, the stockings. Teresa, the . . . ” (Stops short and gasps) Mamma mia! . . . What has happened?

Signora Stevens! Signora Stevens! . . . (Moans) Blood . . . everywhere blood! The chairs overturned . . . the lamps broken. . . . I – I am afraid to look. I am afraid to open this closet door. She may be . . . 
(Relieved) No . . . no one here. But the furniture, the blood! (Swallows hard) I – I am sick. I must call the police . . . at once!

And the furniture overturned, Lamont . . . the lamps and vases smashed. Vittorio Scalza was right. Something terrible has happened to Lydia Stevens.
Sì, signore I swear it. I touch nothing. I call the polizia at once. . . . Ask the commissario here. 

How can one tell? We are right near the Piazza Barberini. There is much noise on the streets. And this is a big hotel. . . . Many people shout. 

(Off mike, shouting) Twenty years in the theater . . . and never, never has such a thing happened to me – Vittorio Scalza! . . . 
They cannot do this to me! I will not permit it! . . . Never! A hundred thousand . . . (Breaks off) Ah! Signore Cranston. . . . I am glad to see you!

Now – one day before the film is finished – with only two more scenes to shoot . . . the most important scenes in the story. . . . 
A love scene – the greatest love scene in the history of the cinema. And a death scene – the most tragic one ever written. Without them I have nothing . . . a hundred thousand dollars lost! 

Last night I have a dinner engagement with her. She is to meet me at Donay’s. She does not come. I call her apartment. No answer. Today – all day – I call her place. She is not there. Now I have been calling the police. They are looking for her.
Rest! (Laughs scornfully) You do not know this Stevens woman. She lives only for her work. Nothing – nothing stands in the way of her career. No. If she is not here, it is because she is dead . . . or kidnapped . . . or out of her mind. And I – I am ruined. I may as well throw myself into the Tiber. 

 I believe she speaks the truth, Signore Cranston. She called right after Signore Scalza did. 
Why do you ask her about last night, signore?

Ah, sì, That is so. Then whatever happened to Signora Stevens . . . may have happened last night.

(Sternly) Teresa, tell me. Who comes to see this woman – this Americana actress? . . . 
You’re sure, Teresa . . . you have never seen anyone come here to visit this woman? 

I see. (Thinking aloud) A big handsome man

Sì. And you have heard of him no doubt. He is the Americano – Tony Fortunato

Certo. We have been keeping – how you say? . . . the eye of the eagle on him. We do not like narcotic peddlers anymore than you do. You will find him at the Hotel Flamma. It is on the Piazza Adriana. . . .

As you wish, Signore Cranston. Only remember . . . be very careful. This Fortunato may be dangerous. . . . 

(In a wheezy whisper throughout) Sì, sì. . . . Chi? . . . (Breaks off) Oh. . . . 
(Cuts in) You thought I’d drop down and kiss your feet because you come from the good old U.S.A. Well, nuts to that. . . . 

Think I’m poor, do they? Look around. Finest suite in the hotel . . . all the furnishings mine. What do you think of it? 

How you like those paintings? . . . They’re all genuine. (Mispronounces) Some by Picasso and Degas . . . nice, huh? . . .

(On phone) You understand, Giuseppe? . . . Don’t let anyone come near the place . . . nobody. . . . Sì, sì, . . . I’ll pay you. Don’t worry. But if you let anyone take my son, you’ll be sorry. You understand? . . . Good! . . . Arrivederci . . . 
Shadow? . . . What shadow? There’s nobody here.

She wants my kid – mine! . . . Why should I give him up? Why should she take him away? . . . 

Better? . . . It’s better for him to be with me than in America . . . where they threw his father out.

You’re trying to soften me up . . . to make me give up what’s mine. . . . I hate that woman. I’ve always hated her. Why should I stop now? Why should I give in?

(Off mike, weakly) Yes, you’re right . . . whoever you are. I . . . I . . .
It’s a long story. Ever since my daughter died, I – I’ve tried to get custody of her child, my grandson. He’s here in Italy. . . . I wanted to bring him to America. But Tony Fortunato wouldn’t let me have him.

He’s always hated me . . . just as I’ve hated him. He ruined my daughter’s life. . . . He drove her to her death. He . . . (Breaks off) Well, that’s over with now. . . . 

He was here all right. He demanded the papers. I refused to give them to him. He got furious . . . began searching like a madman, tearing the place apart. I tried to stop him. . . . We fought. Finally I picked up a vase . . . tried to hit him on the head, but he warded it off with his arm. . . . 

When I was asked to come over here to Rome to make this picture, I pulled all kinds of wires. I managed to get court orders and letters from the State Department – and what not . . . in the hope that I could get the authorities here to turn my grandson over to me.
Tony didn’t know that. When he found out I had those papers, he got frightened, so he sent little Tommy to some relatives in the country . . . and came here to my apartment Friday night.

Yes. I reached Orvieto about two o’clock Saturday morning. I couldn’t do anything until later, of course. About nine o’clock Saturday morning I drove up close to the farmhouse on the outskirts of Orvieto. I waited for Tommy to come out to play. I thought I would lure him to my car with toys and games – things I had bought several days ago in the hope of finding him. I even had a little cowboy suit for him. . . .
Tommy never came out. It was obvious they’d been warned that I might come. The child had been spirited away. I stayed in the village nearby a second night, but I knew I had lost. I would never have another chance. . . .

Yes. My daughter’s dead. I – I did so many things wrong with her – so many. But it’s too late now to make it up with her. . . . I no longer have a husband. I have nothing – nothing but money and things and a career. I have nobody in the world but my grandson. I’d give up everything for him.