Tales of the Bizarre 95-12-15 (2) The Fruit At The Bottom Of The Bowl

Summary

Podcast Summary: Tales of the Bizarre 95-12-15 (2) – "The Fruit at the Bottom of the Bowl"

Podcast: Harold’s Old Time Radio
Episode Date: September 28, 2025
Original Radio Date: December 15, 1995
Story Author: Ray Bradbury
Key Performers: Nigel Anthony (Acton), John Hartley (Huxley), Roger May (Police Officer)
Episode Theme: Obsession, guilt, and the futility of escape in a post-murder psychological spiral

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Overview

This episode presents a radio dramatization of Ray Bradbury’s story, "The Fruit at the Bottom of the Bowl." The narrative plunges listeners into the fevered mind of William Acton just after he’s murdered Donald Huxley. Using the interplay between Acton’s own voice and his persistent, increasingly panicked inner monologue, the story meticulously charts his desperate, compulsive efforts to erase all traces—specifically fingerprints—from the scene of his crime.
Bradbury himself introduces the tale, pondering the connection between everyday crime detection and the psychology of a murderer haunted by their marks.

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Key Discussion Points and Insights

1. Theme Introduction & Psychological Setup

• Ray Bradbury's Introduction [01:00]
  • Bradbury muses on the role of fingerprints in crime-solving and the compelling “what-if” of finding oneself in a murder scenario. He notes:

    "There is no stopping point for a compulsive and passionate and panicked individual."
    (Ray Bradbury, 01:37)

  • He encourages listeners to note Nigel Anthony’s performance, playing Acton and his alter ego.

2. The Aftermath of Murder

• Acton's Shock & Self-dialogue [02:51–06:08]
  • The story opens with Acton (and his internal self) stunned by what he’s done:

    "For Christ’s sake, I’ve just committed a murder."
    (Donald Huxley/Acton, 04:12)

  • Acton begins immediately obsessing over his fingerprints—their presence on the body, the floor, and even abstractly everywhere he touched.

3. The Spiral of Obsession

• Cleaning Begins, Expands, & Consumes [06:08–14:01]
  • Acton’s inner monologue pushes him to wipe not just obvious evidence but every possible surface. The room becomes a labyrinth of potential clues, every surface a new threat:

    "It's all surfaces, mirrors, veneers, marble, metal and glass, painted and polished wood, all waiting to be caressed, touched, finger marked."
    (Acton, 08:58)

  • A sequence of “what ifs,” prodded by his alter-ego, drives his actions:

    "You plan on polishing how far? … A yard on all sides? … Or maybe two would be better. … Three yards on all sides?"
    (Acton dialogues, 08:31–08:51)

  • He searches for gloves, upending dozens of drawers:

    "Still nothing. Another damn drawer. And no gloves. How many drawers have I gone through? Must be 60, 70?"
    (Acton, 13:10)

4. The House Becomes an Enemy

• A Maze of Artifacts and Memories [14:06–25:31]
  • Through conversational flashbacks with Huxley, Acton recalls every item he touched—books, decanters, glasses, exquisite antiques, and the eponymous fruit bowl, noting each’s unique vulnerability to fingerprints.

    "There seem to be some smudges on the glaze. Look like fingerprints."
    (Acton, 15:28)

  • He recognizes the futility:

    "Fingerprints? Oh, My God, they must be everywhere. Everywhere."
    (Acton, 11:48)

  • A friend of Huxley's, Billy Boy, arrives, intensifying Acton's panic as he continues to frantically clean, calculating how much house is left and how little time remains.

5. Obsession Becomes Madness

• Cleaning Escalates to the Absurd [25:31–27:14]
  • Driven by mounting anxiety, Acton is compelled to clean increasingly impossible spaces: hundreds of books, every piece of silverware, all surfaces in room after room.

    "Drawers full of linen. Window panes and ledges. Drapes, and curtain rods. Doors and doorknobs, plates and plaques."
    (Acton, 24:48)

  • The cleaning is relentless, even as exhaustion sets in:

    "Arms aching, eyes swollen. Hardly able to move, but must keep moving. Swabbing and rubbing, swabbing and rubbing."
    (Acton, 26:40)

6. Confrontation and Irony

• The Police Arrive [27:35–29:33]
  • A police officer addresses Acton by name, already aware of his involvement. Acton, so utterly convinced of the power of fingerprints to convict him, fixates on having wiped all of them away.
  • The officer’s lines perfectly puncture Acton's mania:

    "Fingerprints are only necessary. Where we have to look for a murderer."
    (Police Officer, 28:26)

• Final Act of Futility [29:03–29:33]
  • In a final absurd gesture, Acton pleads for a handkerchief—just to wipe the doorbell and doorknob before arrest, believing this will protect him:

    "Do you have a handkerchief I could borrow? … I just have to wipe the doorbell and the doorknob. There."
    (Acton, 29:03–29:16)

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

• Bradbury’s Introduction to the Story [01:00–01:37]

  "There is no stopping point for a compulsive and passionate and panicked individual."
  (Ray Bradbury, 01:37)

• Acton’s self-reflection after the murder [04:12–05:45]

  "For Christ’s sake, I’ve just committed a murder."
  (Donald Huxley/Acton, 04:12)
  "Not murdering hands at all."
  (Acton, 05:45)

• On the endlessness of erasing fingerprints [08:58]

  "It's all surfaces, mirrors, veneers, marble, metal and glass, painted and polished wood, all waiting to be caressed, touched, finger marked."
  (Acton, 08:58)

• Futility of cleaning [11:48]

  "Fingerprints? Oh, My God, they must be everywhere. Everywhere."
  (Acton, 11:48)

• Police Officer’s ironic retort [28:26]

  "Fingerprints are only necessary. Where we have to look for a murderer."
  (Police Officer, 28:26)

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Timeline of Important Segments

| Timestamp | Segment/Quote | |:-----------:|---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------| | 01:00 | Bradbury's setup: Fingerprints, murder, and compulsive cleaning | | 04:12 | Acton voices the horror: "For Christ’s sake, I’ve just committed a murder." | | 08:58 | Acton’s realization: Everything is a potential source of evidence | | 11:48 | Panic: "They must be everywhere. Everywhere." | | 13:10 | Glove search—obsessiveness ramps up | | 15:28 | Cleaning extends to art and collectibles | | 24:48 | The cleaning spiral: "Drawers full of linen. Window panes and ledges..." | | 26:40 | Physical and mental exhaustion from endless cleaning | | 28:26 | Police Officer's twist: "Fingerprints are only necessary. Where we have to look..." | | 29:03–29:16 | Final, futile act: Wiping the last handles as police take Acton away | | 29:43 | Bradbury’s credits and dramatization details |

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Tone, Style, and Experience

The episode’s style is tense, claustrophobic, and fueled by rapidly escalating anxiety—mirroring Acton’s panicked psyche. Dialogue is swift, sometimes overlapping, with the alter-ego prodding, mocking, and urging Acton toward ever more pointless efforts. The story is simultaneously darkly comic and chilling, using the repetitive obsession with cleaning to illustrate the inescapability of guilt.

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Conclusion

"Tales of the Bizarre 95-12-15 (2): The Fruit at the Bottom of the Bowl" is a masterful psychological study of guilt and obsession. In following Acton's desperate attempt to erase every trace of his crime, listeners are drawn deep into the maddening logic of a man undone not by external evidence, but by his own relentless compulsion. The final irony reveals the futility of his quest—reminding us that evidence is not all that condemns the guilty. Fans of classic radio, mystery, and psychological suspense will find this episode a haunting listen.

Transcript

[A]

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[B]

The fruit at the bottom of the bowl. Now, this is one of those cases where word association helped me, but also I got to thinking about fingerprints. I think we're all fascinated by that. And we look into the background of the police over a period of many years and the identification of criminals by their fingerprints, and we're fascinated with it. And then you begin to think to yourself, well, what if by some strange, terrible accident I became involved in a murder of some sort and I'd been in a room with someone and left my fingerprints all over the place? What would I polish off first? What would I clean? How would I get rid of the fingerprints? Do I stop at a certain point? Well, once that idea seized me, it became irresistible because there is no stopping point for a compulsive and passionate and panicked individual. So again I sat down, I set up the situation, I brought the people into juxtaposition and I put the fingerprints all over the place to see what would happen to them. So here now you have fruit at the bottom of the bowl. And I'd like to have you pay a special attention to, to the performer, Nigel Anthony, who will be playing one of the leads because he plays against himself. He plays against his alter ego, Acton. So I think it's a very special thing to listen for. And here it is. Fruit at the bottom of the bowl.

[A]

Done. Is it? Are you sure? Check, check. He's dead. Yes. Right. Now. What? Well, leave, of course. Go, get out of here. Now. Wait, wait, wait. Listen. Did anyone hear? No. Nothing. No banging on the door? No shouting, voices? Nothing. Don. And nobody knows. Clock. Midnight. I did it. I didn't know for sure that I was going to do it. I didn't know for sure that I could do it. But I have. I have done a murder. Is that all you can say about it? What? Rather prosaic, surely. For William Acton, the writer, isn't it enough that I did it? It's just that I'd have thought you could do better than done a murder. I expected something like William Acton had never thought of himself as a sculptor. And yet in this moment, looking down between his hands at the body upon the polished hardwood floor, he realized that by some sculptural clenching and remodeling and twisting of human clay, he had taken hold of this man named Donald Huxley and. And changed his physiognomy, the very frame of his body. For Christ's sake, I've just committed a murder. Committed? I don't like that. What about accomplished? William Acton's fingers had stroked typewriter keys and made love and fried ham and eggs for early breakfasts. Nice everyday touch that. And now those same ten whorled fingers had accomplished a murder. That's true. With a twist of my fingers, I wipe the supercilious glitter, the Huxley look from those piercing gray eyes. Much better, Acton. Well, go on. Don't stop. Notice his lips. Remember how pink and sensuous they were, gaping wide, Equine teeth, yellow incisors, nicotine canines, gold inlaid molars. His nose, ears mottled, pale, discolored. His hands open, pleading for the first time in their lives instead of demanding. It could be said that death has made him a handsome. You can talk to him now. I could talk to him now, and he'd have to listen, and he couldn't answer back. Here's a thought, Acton. His hands open, pleading, as you put it, as a result of the work of your hands. My own two hands. Look at them. What about them? Ordinary hands. Well, now you come to mention that, I suppose they are. They're not thick, not thin, not long, not short, not hairy, not naked, not manicured and yet not dirty. Not soft and yet not callous, not wrinkled and yet not smooth. Yes. Ordinary hands, not murdering hands at all. So why are you staring at them in that way? What's in them of such immense interest that you should pause now, after successfully accomplishing a murder and examine them wall by whorl? It's not the hands as hands or the fingers as fingers. What, then? It's the tips of the fingers, the parts that leave the prints. You mean they gripped Huxley's neck? Left their traces, telltale marks. As clear as if I'd left a signed confession on the floor beside him. There's a handkerchief in Huxley's pocket. Use it. You mean get rid of the fingerprints? Wipe the throat methodically. Yes. Swab it, Rub it clean. Yes. And the back of the neck? Did my fingers reach the back of his neck? Can you be sure they didn't? I'll do it better safe Than sorry. Yes, but. But what? Did I only touch his throat? How can I be sure? What if I happened to have touched the rest of his face by accident, without even remembering that I'd done it? Better clean the face. A quick wipe over won't hurt. Cheeks, chin. Lips. Nose. Ears. Eyes. Forehead. That's right. There. What about the floor? What about it? Didn't you touch it? When? Just then. No. Did I? I thought so. Just with the fingertips. Steadying yourself. You know I can't see anything. You wouldn't, would you? I suppose not. But they will. They? Whoever finds him, whoever investigates his murder. Yes. Murder. Perhaps a quick wipe. Where do I start? Near the head. It would have been near the head. Definitely. A bit of a rub, then. Here and here. Near the head. In fact, all around the head. So maybe. What? Maybe wipe around the rest of the body. Why? What for? Just thinking. When he fell. When Huxley fell, you stumbled slightly, put your hand out. Did I? Might easily have done. Reflex action, nothing more. Then, when you were checking that he really was dead, you took his wrist to feel his pulse. You really ought to wipe that wrist while you're about it. Good. Now, when you lifted his wrist, perhaps your fingers, your fingertips brushed the floorboards. Left a smudge somewhere on the varnish. Swap the floor, then swap around the body. A nicer word would be polish. Think of it as giving the floor a bit of a polish, putting a shine on things, if you like. Polish. How far out are you planning to polish? What do you mean? The distance from the body. I suppose I should say the corpse. One yard? Yes, that looks about a yard. A yard on all sides? Yes, that should be enough. Or maybe two would be better. Two yards. Two yards on all sides? Yes, that would be better. You sound unsure. What do you think? Three yards on all sides? Yes. Three yards on all sides. Why have you stopped? It's a house. The whole house? The entire place. It's all surfaces, mirrors, veneers, marble, metal and glass, painted and polished wood, all waiting to be caressed, touched, finger marked. Keep calm, Retrace your steps. Go over the events, conversation, everything that happened from the moment you rang the doorbell. Oh, come on. Come on.

[C]

Oh, it's you, actor.

[A]

Where's my wife? Huxley?

[C]

You think I'd tell you?

[A]

Really, Huxley.

[C]

Don't stand out there, you idiot. If you want to talk business, come in.

[A]

Very well, then.

[C]

Over there, through that door, into the library. After you.

[A]

There. That was your first mistake. Now, the doorbell was your first mistake. This was your second mistake. You touched the Doorknob on the library door. Maybe you touched some other part of the door.

[C]

You want a drink?

[A]

I need what I can't believe Lily is gone.

[C]

There's a decanter of burgundy, act and 59 vintage. A rich wine, exclusively for the rich. I bought a dozen bottles recently in auction. Mind fetching it?

[A]

Yes, fetch it, handle it, touch it. And you did.

[C]

You'll find the glasses on the shelf below the cabinet.

[A]

The decanter, the shelf, the glasses.

[C]

Pour one for me too, will you? I'm glad you came around today. Tomorrow you'd have missed me. I'm off to Mexico City with some friends. Frightfully early start. They're collecting me at 6. 6 o'. Clock. God knows why we have to take the first flight anyway. There we are. Thanks, Acton. Cheers.

[A]

Forgive me if I don't drink your.

[C]

Health while you're here. You might get a look at one or two of those books. There are some interesting first editions.

[A]

I didn't come to look at books.

[C]

I know, but you must just indulge me and look at that little book with the green morocco binding. Right up your street. It'll only take a second.

[A]

Pick it up. Touch it. Feel the binding. The Adventures of the Guildford Jackdaw.

[C]

Early English. Ever seen it?

[A]

Interspersed with anecdotes of some little good and bad boy.

[C]

Fascinating, isn't it? How old would you say? 18th century?

[A]

1790. Something very good.

[C]

Acton. Christie's dated it as circa 1795. Interesting moral text.

[A]

Turn the pages, run your fingers over them. Is it not amazing that though a murder had been committed in this place so many years since, and the man was hanged at the market house in the town. That book, it was about a murder. There was a picture, an old engraving of the murder swinging from the gibbet. That book? Yes. You touched it? Yes. Books, decanter, glasses. Well, in a word, fingerprints. Fingerprints. Oh, my God, they must be everywhere. Everywhere. Gloves. That's what you needed. An initial error, not wearing gloves for a murder. But I hadn't planned to do a murder. Maybe not, but what you need now is a pair of gloves before you go any further. Where the hole? The coat rack. Wait. What? The doorknob. Use the handkerchief to open it. Right. While you're there, wipe the doorknob clean on both sides of the door. Right. And perhaps the door itself. The whole door. Since you're there. Right. Now, what was I looking for out here? Gloves, coat rack, Huckley's overcoat. Yeah. Oh, nothing in the pockets. No gloves? No. Well, somewhere in the house There must be at least one pair of gloves. Hurry. No, don't hurry. Don't do anything frantic, nothing wild. You've got until six in the morning at the outside when Huxley's friends come to pick him up for the trip to the airport. Six hours? A little less. More or less. Say five? Better still, four. Four and a half of the outside. I don't need four and a half hours. Of course not. Now, carefully, calmly upstairs and look for a pair of gloves. Nothing. Still nothing. Another damn drawer. No gloves. How many drawers have I gone through? Must be 60, 70. More like 80. Probably 82. No gloves in here. 82 drawers in six rooms, all left with their tongues, so to speak, hanging out there. Oh, at last. Found them. Gloves at the bottom of the aether drawer. Oh, my Lord, my Lord. Well, put them on, then. Put them on and button them up. Do they fit well? Yes, yes, they're gray like doves. Two doves. How do they feel? Soft, thick, impregnable. Well done, Acton. You can do all sorts of tricks now and leave no marks. But where do I start? I think they call it the scene of the crime. He's still there. He's dead on the floor. Huxley fell to the floor on purpose. What a wickedly clever man. How do you mean? Down under the hardwood floor dropped, Huxley with you after him, rolling, tussling, clawing at the floor, printing and printing it with your fingertips. Huxley slipped away a few feet. I crawled after him, laid my hands on his neck, squeezed until the life came out like paste from a tube. Yes, but the floor. Yes, it will have to be cleaned, won't it? Every wildly infested inch, inch by inch, just to be on the safe side. Inch by inch, see your face in it. That's nice. That's clean. That's good. I've reached the table. What about the table?

[C]

It's mahogany Acton, German breakfast table from the mid 19th century. I had the veneer restored. Superb job. Surface like glass. Look, underneath it's got that typical central support with scroll cards.

[A]

Damn near table, Huxley. What about the surface? The tabletop, a quick wipe. But the bowl? Surely not the bowl.

[C]

Menton Magolica, 1877, or thereabouts. Very unusual. The scallop shell supported by merman handles. Look, the richness of the color. The green and coral pink of the garlands around the necks of the merman. The delicacy of the glaze.

[A]

There seemed to be some smudges on the glaze. Looked like fingerprints, but not the fruit wax. Fruit easily marked. Just a few at the top. Then the apple, orange and pear. No need to do the grapes. No need to do the fruit at the bottom of the bowl. What about the mirror hanging over the table? Why, I'm certain I didn't touch that. Then why are you staring at it? I'm thinking. About what? About doors. Which doors? That's the whole point. I don't know. I can't remember which doors I've used to night. Better polish all of them, then. Except the one I've already cleaned. Which one was that? That one. What was it? Better polish all of them, then. Yes, polish them thoroughly. The doorknobs, keyhole covers and finger plates. Mustn't leave any fingerprints on the finger plates. Polish the door panels, the tops, the edges. And what about the furniture? You certainly sat. I remember you sitting. But where? I'll wipe all the arms. Just the arms? Yes. Why, I was just remembering.

[C]

That chair you're sitting in, Acton, is one of a set of Louis Seille's gilded beechwood Fauteuil by Pierre Francois Joseph Corbisier, worth about $15,000 apiece. The floral silk covering is original. Just fine. Feel that material.

[A]

So cunning. Feel that material. I didn't come here to talk furniture, Huxley. I came about Lily.

[C]

Oh, come off it. You're not that serious about it. She doesn't love you, you know. She told me she'd go with me to Mexico City tomorrow.

[A]

You and your money and your damn furniture.

[C]

But it's nice furniture, Acton.

[A]

Be a good guest, Acton. Feel it. Touch it. No. Fingerprints can't be found on fabric. Can they not? Sure. Maybe they'll be best of you. All right, all right. Did you guess, Huxley? Did you guess I was going to kill you? Or maybe his subconscious suspected. Just as your subconscious suspected. Maybe his subconscious told him to make you run about the house. Handling, touching and fondling. Were you that clever, Huxley? That mean. Where are you going now? The table. You polish the table. The bowl. The fruit bowl. You polish the bowl. The fruit. You polish the fruit. Not the fruit at the bottom of the bowl. Better just a wipe. And the wall? What about the wall? Oh, no, no. That's silly. Clean the wall, you mean. Well, it's just this sudden memory of your struggling with Huxley. Him fending you off, giving you a shove. Do you remember him shoving you? Yes. Do you remember falling, getting up, touching the wall? Quite. Where now? I'm not sure. Then running at Huxley again. Then I strangled him. Then he died. Yes, but the wall no, that's ridiculous. I've done this room, I'll do the next room. It must be methodical altogether. We were in the hall, the library, this room, the dining room and the kitchen. What's that? What? I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye on the wall. You mean it was nothing? You mean that spot on the wall behind you? There is no spot on the wall. Isn't there? All right, all right. Just to be sure. See? Now, what spot? I can't see any spot. There, just there. Oh, a little one. Yes, right there. Well, what are you waiting for? Get rid of it. It isn't a fingerprint anyhow. Well, that one may not be. Well, I can't see any others. Not there? No, no, further up. Just there to the right a bit. Could that be one? Well, why are you there, just staring like that? I was thinking. Thinking about the way the wall goes over to the right and over to the left and down to my feet and up over my head? Yes. No, that would be too much. How many square feet? I don't give a good damn. But you're starting to clean it all the same. I see. Polishing to left and right, up and down, inch by inch. I can't do this. I must do the other rooms. Polish the essentials. Christmas, what can I do? Nothing. Ignore it. Huxley, open up, dammit. This is Billy Boy, drunk as an owl. Huxley, old pal, Drunker than two owls. Go away, Huntsman. You're in there. I heard you moving about, talking, breathing. I know you're in there. Yes, I'm in here. Yes. Help. Help. He's gone. Yes, but I've gotta hurry. I've gotta hurry. Time. Time. Only a few hours before those damn fool friends blunder in. But the wall. This wall is flawless. This wall may be, but the other three, the three as yet unpolished. Those walls are all right. I won't touch them. Must be thorough. Polish and swab up and down. Every stroke. Must overlap along the skirting board, around the light switch. While you're there, clean the light switch on and off. Now, down the sides of the door, into the corner, and nowhere left for finger marks to lurk. What's the time? 3:13. Now the next wall. Why have you stopped? What have you seen? What are you thinking? The bowl. You polish the bowl. Put the fruit. The fruit at the bottom of the bowl. Then I must do that mirror that keeps catching the light and reflecting little marks. You polish the mirror, it catches the light from a chandelier.

[C]

Fearful extravagance of course, having a chandelier. Brought it back from Paris. I was there last year with Lily, in case you hadn't guessed. $18,000. Can't remember what that was in Frank's. It's in what they call the Louis Cans Manor. Somewhere towards the end of the 1800s. 150 glass drops. Needless to say, it's scarcely ever cleaned.

[A]

150 drops of rainbow glass. I'll get a chair. That's it. One of those Louis says gilded beechwood, wasn't it? Climb up and. What? No. How could I touch the chandelier? It's Huxley and his damned antiques. Trapping me, catching me out, making me do crazy things. You're getting down. You're not going to clean the chandelier? No, I'm not going to clean the chandelier. And as for this Louis says gilded beechwood chair you've hit by the walls you've yet to clean. Damn the walls. There's still the dining room. What's in the dining room?

[C]

You've seen my collection of plates and dishes, haven't you, Acton? Several new items of which I'm particularly proud. The Claris Cliff pieces are new. Picked them up in London last fall. I love the Honolulu plate. With all those twisted trees and bubbly foliage. Fabulous colors. So primitive. Straight out of a child's paint box. And here's a lovely bit of ceramics by Gertrude and Otto Netzel.

[A]

It is lovely.

[C]

Yes, isn't it? Pick it up. Turn it over. See the fine thinness of the bowl. Hand thrown on a wheel. Thin as egg shell. Incredible. And the amazing volcanic glaze. Don't be afraid. Handle it. Go ahead. I don't mind. Shall I tell you where I got it? Actually, it was a New Year's present from Lily. Careful. Don't drop it. Acton.

[A]

Handle it. Go ahead. Pick it up. That's what he said. What he didn't say was put your fingerprints all over it. Act and leave irrefutable evidence that you were here. Picking up, handling, touching. And who gave him the damn bull? She did. Damn her, too. What have you done? I'm fool. Fool, fool, fool. Find the pieces. All of them, idiot. Every shard and chip and fragment. Gather it all together. None of it must be left behind. What do I do with them? Polish them, of course. Each piece, each irregular little ceramic atom. Must be polished as if it were a precious stone. What a fool I am. Over there, another piece under the chair. Glimmering in the dark, waiting to be found. Waiting to reveal its secret. Marks get it, Polish it. What about the time? 3:30. You must work harder. Get your jacket off and get down to it. So much to do. So many surfaces to rub and wipe and swab. So much that needs to be cleaned and polished in this room alone. Walls and floors, tables and chairs. Drawers full of linen. Window panes and ledges. Drapes and curtain rods. Doors and doorknobs, plates and plaques.

[C]

I want to show you my house.

[A]

Hector in the kitchen. Utensils in satin sheen stainless steel. Mixing bowls, saucepans, pots and containers. Refrigerator, freezer and dishwasher. Mixer, blenders, stove and sink unit, Cupboard doors. Work surfaces, Marble chopping boards. Every sparkling glass. Every inch of glittering chromium.

[C]

You must let me show you around.

[A]

In the library. Books and maps and portfolios of prints. Hundreds of names on leather. Spines that may have been brushed or caressed. Melville, Cervantes, Whitman and Yeats. Mark Twain and Lewis Carroll. Freud, Wittgenstein and Kent. A signed photograph of Abe Lincoln. A bronze inkstand and a goose quill pen and an ivory skull.

[C]

Follow me. I'll lead the way.

[A]

The room of the murder. The room full of all those things that I may have accidentally touched. Leaving tiny, tiny little walls no bigger than. Than your finger leaving traces over the mirror. The table, the fruit bowl. The fruit. The fruit at the bottom of the bowl.

[C]

I so much want you to enjoy being in my house.

[A]

So much. To be cleaned, re cleaned, polished or repolished. The body. The floor. Table. Mirror. Walls, doors, windows, ceiling chandelier. Every drop of glass. Every shimmering pendant of hanging fire. Wash the body. Wipe all his clothes. Polish his shoes. And polish the fruit of the bottom of the bowl. 428. 12 rooms downstairs. 8 above. 100 chairs. 6 sofas, 27 tables, 6 radios. And under and on, top and behind the banister leading upstairs. Leave one little print and it will reproduce and make a million more. And then the job will have to be done all over again. 5, 13. Arms aching. Eyes swollen. Hardly able to move, but must keep moving, swabbing and rubbing, swabbing and rubbing. Bedroom by bedroom, closet by closet. The house is polished to a brilliance. Vases shine. Chairs are burnished to a glow. Bronzes, brasses and coppers are a glint. Floors sparkle. Banisters gleam. 541. On and up again. The attic. The attic. Old trunks, old frames, old chairs, old toys. Old music boxes. What's that? Chipped teapots. Cracked mirrors. Listen. Tarnished cutlery. Threadbare suits. Someone's coming. Acton. A rocking horse that no longer rocks. Footsteps. A Dusty collection of Civil War coins. William Acton. Who's that? Ask him what he wants. What do you want? Are you William Acton? What does he want to know for?

[C]

Yes?

[A]

Your jacket was downstairs, near the body. Body? Don't panic. Don't say anything. The body of Donald Huxley, the occupant of this house. Did you know the deceased? You don't have to answer. I'm a police officer. Acton, did you know Donald Huxley? Why, yes. Fool. I'm taking you down the precinct, Acton. He can't pin a thing on you. You can't pin a thing on me. You won't find any fingerprints, you hear? Not so much as a single mark. Well, we may not need any fingerprints. What's he talking about? Why not? Fingerprints are only necessary where we have to look for a murderer. Come along, Acton. No sudden moves, Acton. Down the steps, into the car. Hold on. You can't leave it like that. Leave it like what? What are you saying, Acton? Don't you see it? Yes, of course. Well, ask him to give you a moment. Just a few seconds. Officer, one moment, please. What for? Tell him before you close the door, there's something I have to do. I don't want any funny business, Officer. Do you have a handkerchief I could borrow? What? Well, I guess so. Here. Do it. Well, for God's sake, make a good job of it. I just have to wipe the doorbell and the doorknob. There. Done.

[B]

Acton was played by Nigel Anthony, Huxley by John Hartley, and the police officer by Roger May. The story was called the Fruit at the Bottom of the bowl, and it was dramatized by Brian Sibley. Martin Jenkins directed the play in London. My name is Ray Bradbury, and I wrote the original.