Signals of Treason Part 4

SUNDAY EVENING, listeners — and the clock reads half-past six!

Thirty minutes until Diana must arrive at CBS; ninety minutes until broadcast.
And in that narrow window, our heroine prepares for the most dangerous performance of her career.

Missed Earlier Episodes?

She crosses to her closet.

Inside hangs what appears, at first glance, to be one simple garment:
a conservative powder-blue dress — the picture of respectable feminine propriety.

But Diana parts the fabric with a practiced hand.

Beneath the blue shell, hidden on the same hanger like a secret identity awaiting its cue, lies the crimson gown of Miss Masque.

She lifts the blue dress and inspects her afternoon’s handiwork:

Hidden snap closures instead of buttons.
A pull-ribbon waistband.
Twist-release sleeves.

She tests it:

Snap! Pull! Twist!

The blue shell collapses into a neat puddle at her feet, revealing the Miss Masque gown gleaming like a captive flame.

“Fifteen seconds,” she murmurs. “Perfect.”

Next comes her handbag arsenal.

Her compact — gold, elegant, utterly feminine. The stolen Scarlet Shadow script, folded inside. A clean cotton pad tucked into the compact’s hidden nook. And finally — from a locked drawer — a tiny pharmaceutical vial of ether.

She holds it a moment, feeling its weight.

The pad must be soaked seconds before use; ether evaporates too quickly for anything else.

The compact snaps shut. The vial slides beside it. The purse closes with a decisive click.

A tragic necessity — but an unconscious actress is safer than a dead director.

Diana draws the blue dress back over the crimson gown, perfecting the illusion: hair immaculate, eyes wide with airy innocence, expression feather-light.

One last look in the mirror.

“Showtime.”

“Harriet!” she calls brightly. “Call me a taxi! I’m off to see a real radio program — isn’t that thrilling?”

THE TAXI screeches to the curb at twenty-five past seven.

Diana steps out in powder-blue perfection, waving cheerfully as if she hasn’t spent all day preparing to thwart treason.

Inside the CBS lobby, pre-broadcast chaos swirls — technicians sprint with coils of cable, ushers guide guests, wounded servicemen in hospital blues wheel toward the elevators for tonight’s special performance.

Diana drifts through it all like an air-headed butterfly.

But her eyes are sharp.

There — the two sound-effects technicians from last night, the train-whistle man and his assistant. Moving with crisp efficiency, checking watches, exchanging clipped nods.

Diana slips behind a cluster of guests to avoid their notice, fluttering past like any feather-brained socialite dazzled by the excitement.

Further down the corridor, the actress playing the Scarlet Shadow hurries toward the performers’ wing — costume bag slung over her shoulder, script under her arm.

Perfect.

Diana counts to five.

Then follows.

The ladies’ dressing room is small — barely wider than the row of mirrors lining one wall, with a garment rack pressed close and a narrow chaise tucked beneath the bulbs. A room built for function, not glamour.

It is quiet.

Because tonight, listeners… There is only one female performer in the entire show!

Alice Malone stands before the mirror, adjusting the crimson folds of her Scarlet Shadow costume. Her hands tremble slightly.

“Sorry!” Diana chirps as she slips inside. “Wrong door.”

Alice smiles politely. “Visitor restroom’s down the hall. I’m the only girl on the show tonight, so they let me use this whole room.”

Perfect.

“You’re too kind,” Diana murmurs, her hand slipping into her handbag. Her fingers find the cold glass of the vial and the smooth metal of the compact. Hidden from sight, she presses the cork loose with her thumb.

“Tell me — do you have a spare hairpin? Mine have vanished entirely.”

“Let me see—”

She never finishes.

Diana moves.

Her left arm sweeps around Alice’s shoulders — a steadying, deceptive anchor.

Her right hand brings the compact and vial into the light in one fluid arc. With a practiced flick of her thumb, the loosened cork falls away, and she tilts the glass.

Ether blooms across the cotton pad with a cold, sharp sting.

Then — strike.

The soaked pad presses over Alice’s mouth and nose.

A shocked gasp.

A muffled protest.

A trembling moment —

And the ether takes hold.

Alice collapses.

Diana lowers her carefully onto the chaise, ensuring not even the faintest thump escapes the room. She checks the pulse.

Strong. Steady.

“I’m truly sorry,” she whispers — and she means it dear listeners.

She binds Alice’s wrists and ankles with soft costume ties — snug enough to restrain her when she wakes, gentle enough to avoid harm.
A padded silk scarf becomes a safe, breathable gag.

Alice will revive before the broadcast ends.
But she will not be heard.
And no one will enter this room until after the broadcast.

Diana crosses to the hallway door and turns the privacy latch.
Click! The bolt slides home — securing the only entrance anyone on the public side would use.

Snap! Pull! Twist!
Her powder-blue disguise falls away.

She drapes the Scarlet Shadow’s cape over the Miss Masque gown beneath — a seamless illusion under dim studio light. Ties the black domino mask. Lowers her voice half a register.

A knock rattles the door!

“Five minutes!” a stagehand calls. “Scarlet Shadow to Studio B!”

Diana inhales — calm, steady, focused.

Then she moves to the second door — the backstage access dressing rooms use for quick stage transitions. She eases it open. The corridor beyond lies empty.

Perfect.

Without a backward glance, Diana slips through the backstage door, closing it silently behind her.

Studio B buzzes with pre-broadcast urgency: the orchestra warming in discordant bursts, actors rehearsing lines by their microphones, technicians adjusting levels. In the gallery, wounded servicemen and war-bond patrons settle into their seats.

Jonathan Reed stands at the center microphone, cane set aside, scanning the studio.

His eyes flick toward her — a quick, assessing glance — and Diana answers it with the calm, unreadable poise of a woman wearing two masks at once. Without breaking stride, she moves to microphone three.

From here, she can see everything.

The ON AIR light sleeps above the door.

“Steady,” she whispers.

The floor manager raises his hand.

“Stand by — five… four…”

And then —

THE ON AIR LIGHT BLAZES CRIMSON.

-

🎙️ Next Broadcast:

Tune in tomorrow for the final episode

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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.