Signals of Treason Part 3

SUNDAY MORNING, listeners! The sun climbs slow and golden over Manhattan, brushing the city in warm strokes of amber and rose. Church bells drift from distant steeples. Milkmen clatter along quiet streets. The great metropolis stretches, yawns, and blinks itself awake.

And high above Fifth Avenue, where the dawn turns tall windows to burning copper and sets silk curtains glowing, our heroine is already in motion. She prowls like a caged panther, three steps to the window, pivot, three steps back. Her hair spills loose around her shoulders.

“Twelve hours,” she whispers to the empty room. “Twelve hours until they pull that trigger.”

The mantle clock answers with a merciless tick… tick… tick… each one marching Jonathan Reed closer to chamber four.

Outside, Manhattan stirs—bright, innocent, unaware—and somewhere in that waking sprawl, two foreign agents sleep soundly, smug in their seemingly flawless plan.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Diana murmurs to her ghostly reflection in the glass.

She turns back, mind racing faster than the elevated trains clattering through the streets below. Every detail must be perfect, every angle anticipated… because one single mistake tonight, and America’s most trusted voice goes silent forever.

But look sharp—footsteps in the hall.

The doorbell RINGS!

Diana inhales, and in that breath, the restless strategist vanishes. The airy socialite snaps into place.

“Harriet! Send them in – as long as it’s not a bill collector!”

“Mr. Bowman to see you, Miss Adams.”

Diana’s brows lift in feigned surprise. “Russ? At this hour? I’m positively scandalized!”

Russ Bowman steps in, worn to the bone from an all-night investigation. His tie sits crooked, fatigue darkens his eyes, and a heavy folder is tucked under his arm with the weight of bad news.

“Diana…” he says, the words catching. He glances at the floor, then back at her. “I—I don’t know if I ought to involve you in this mess.”

Diana glides toward the sofa, the very picture of effortless charm. “Come now, Russ. Sit before gravity makes the decision for you. Harriet, darling—coffee, the strong kind.” Russ all but slumps into an armchair, still gripping the bulging folder. “Good heavens, Russ… you look absolutely done in,” she says lightly, settling herself across from him. “You can’t arrive in such a state and expect me not to demand the story.”

He exhales. “It’s serious, Diana.”

“All the more reason to share,” she says lightly. “Slowly, darling. You know how ‘reporter talk’ makes my dizzy little head swim.”

That does it. Russ drops the folder onto her table with a weary thud.

“All right. But this stays between us.”

Diana leans forward, bright-eyed and fluttery.

“Reed’s been receiving threatening letters,” Russ says. “Not just one—several.”

Diana widens her eyes with perfect surprise. “Threats? For what reason?”

“That’s what I wanted to know.” Russ spreads clippings across the table. “Turns out he’s not the only one. Six other stations are all getting letters in the same handwriting.”

He taps a second sheet. “And at those stations? The engineers reported the same thing Reed has: odd timing errors, stray cues, sound effects going off when they shouldn’t. Tiny things. Easy to dismiss.”

Diana, who saw a bullet loaded with her own eyes, breathes, “How dreadful.”

Russ lays down the broadcast calendar, full of penciled marks. “Here’s the part that kept me up. The letters talk about ‘patterns,’ about ‘not pretending the timing is accidental.’ They reference specific cues. Same wording in every city.”

He rubs his brow. “I was digging all night, trying to match anything. I couldn’t crack what the signals mean—but I can see someone’s tinkering with broadcasts everywhere.”

Diana gasps softly on cue. “Signals… to whom?”

Russ lowers his voice. “That’s what scares me. Whoever wrote these letters thinks Reed is part of something. And the FBI won’t tell me a thing—except to ‘stay out of it.’”

Diana’s hand tightens around her teaspoon.

Because she knows what Russ doesn’t:
the so-called errors are no accidents—they’re coded instructions, threaded through the broadcast like poison in a lullaby.

And tonight, a bullet in chamber four will silence Reed forever—unless she intervenes.

“Do be careful,” she murmurs softly, voice quivering. “This sounds positively… dangerous.”

He gives a tired laugh. “That’s why I’m going to the broadcast tonight. Reed gave me clearance to watch from the control booth.”

Diana nearly drops her spoon.
“Funny coincidence!” she chirps. “Mr. Reed invited me too! Would you believe it?”

Russ frowns. “Diana, this isn’t a gala.”

She waves an elegant hand. “Pish-posh, darling. What could possibly happen during a simple little radio play?”

If only he knew, listeners.

Russ finishes his coffee, gathers his folder, mutters another warning about staying safe, and heads for the door, still convinced he is the only one peeking behind the curtain.

The moment the door closes, Diana Adams the ditzy socialite vanishes.
Her posture straightens. Her eyes sharpen.

Time to go to work.

—

At the CBS staff entrance, no spectators linger. Only the hum of wartime work. Timecards. Cigarette smoke. Coffee.

A weary cleaning woman shuffles in—kerchief, spectacles, sensible shoes, mop bucket squeaking across the floor.

“Morning,” the guard grunts. “Covering for Ethel again?”

“Yes, dear,” she rasps. “Poor girl’s back is all done in.”

He jerks his chin down the corridor. “Studio B and the performers’ rooms. Reed wants everything spotless.”

“Studio B,” she repeats mildly. “I’ll see to it.”

Behind the stoop and wrinkles: Diana Adams.
Behind the downcast eyes: Miss Masque.

Studio B yawns empty, daylight leaking around blackout curtains. She hums tunelessly as she mops, every inch of her telegraphing “invisible.”

But her eyes miss nothing.

The sound-effects table.
The firearms case.

She pauses near the effects table, “scrubbing” a scuff, her mind tracing the angle:

If Reed stands here…
And the shooter fires there…
Position Four sends the bullet straight through him.

Her jaw tightens. She pushes the bucket on.

The performers’ lounge is cramped: sagging sofa, battered coffee urn, and a costume rack bursting with cloaks and coats. A stack of fresh scripts sits on a side table.

Diana begins mopping in slow circles.

The door swings open.

A young woman breezes in, talking over her shoulder.
“—yes, I know the bridge scene’s tricky, but I’ve rehearsed it a dozen times. Reed won’t have any complaints tonight!”

Diana keeps her head bowed.

The actress crosses to the rack, pulls out a garment bag, and tosses it onto the sofa—revealing a flash of crimson fabric.

She starts to unzip the bag… then pauses. Her eyes drift toward the “cleaning woman.”

Diana hums. Scrubs. Plays invisible.

After a tense moment, the actress unzips the bag fully.

A crimson cloak spills out.
A red fitted dress.
A mask.
Striking, theatrical lines. Heroic silhouette.

“Here we go,” she murmurs. “If I botch the bridge scene, Reed will never let me forget it.”

She checks the stitching, then glances at the wall clock.

“Oh, blast…”

She zips the garment bag, grabs her purse, and hurries out - leaving the bag draped across the sofa.

Diana waits.
Counts to three.
Four.
Five.

Then she crosses to the sofa with careful, stooped steps and lifts the edge of the bag.

A costume label gleams:

SCARLET SHADOW

A cloaked, masked heroine.
Sharing a scene with Jonathan Reed.
Expected to stand close, trade lines, face danger at his side.

Not Miss Masque—
but close enough to her own silhouette.
Close enough that no one would question Diana wearing it.
Close enough that a clever woman could slip into that role…

She lets the fabric fall and heads back to her mop.

The door bursts open again.

“Forgot my—oh, there it is!” the actress gasps, snatching up the garment bag before darting out again.

Diana exhales slowly.

Close. Very close.

And a plan begins to form.

—

When the lounge empties, Diana nudges her bucket toward the stack of fresh scripts.

She lifts the top copy and flips to the back half.

Act III: BRIDGE SCENE.

Sound cues marked carefully down the margin:

WIND UP
TRAIN IN DISTANCE
FOOTSTEPS ON WOOD
THUNDER LOW
GUNFIRE — SIX SHOTS

Voices in the corridor—getting closer.

She drops to one knee, script braced against the bucket, mop in hand, posture perfect for tackling an imaginary stain.

Her eyes race down the page, memorizing each cue, each mark, each line of sound.

The doorknob turns…

She flips the script closed, returns it to the stack, and scrubs the floor with sudden, furious energy as two young men enter the room.

“—told him the page-turn cue’s still mistimed, but Reed insists he’ll sort it out.”

“Let him. He’s the one who has to hit the timing, not us.”

They grab coffee, ignore the cleaning woman entirely, and wander out again.

When their footsteps fade, Diana opens her notebook and writes from memory, adding a small circle around the fourth shot. She tucks the notebook away and glances at the stack again. The Scarlet Shadow script sits near the top, just one of the many spare copies the cast grabs for rehearsal.

She lifts it and slips it beneath her apron as naturally as folding a towel.

Then she resumes mopping, her movements slow and methodical, just another cleaner finishing her rounds.

She has everything she needs.

—

That evening, high above Fifth Avenue, Diana Adams stands in her sitting room surrounded by evidence. Her photographs of the substitute revolver, the filed serial number, the empty bullet box; her floor plan marked with the killer’s line of fire; her notebook showing the cues of the bridge scene, the fourth shot circled twice.

Signals of treason, coded in make-believe.

“And tonight they plan a grand finale. One last message…”
Her gaze slides to the gun photograph.
“…and one dead hero to go with it.”

Her eyes drift toward her closet.

Inside hangs the scarlet gown of Miss Masque.

But tonight, listeners—
a different crimson figure is expected to take the stage.

She closes the notebook with a decisive snap.

“If they want a heroine on that bridge,” she murmurs, “they’ll get one.”

The stage is set.
The villains think everything is going to plan…
but tonight’s leading lady won’t be the one they’re expecting.

🎙️ Next Broadcast:

The Gripping Conclusion Approaches!

Tune in this weekend for Parts 4 and 5 - our most thrilling chapters yet!

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This story is written by Adam Wieland (2025), using the Public Domain character Miss Masque, originally published by Nedor Comics (Standard/Better Publications) in 1946.