The Columbia Network takes pleasure in bringing you Suspense.
Columbia's parade of outstanding thrillers produced and directed by William Spear and
scored by Bernard Herman. The notable melodramas from stage and screen, fiction and radio,
presented each week to bring you to the edge of your chair to keep you in Suspense.
Good evening. This is Orson Welles. I'm very happy I am to be back in the United States and back on
the Columbia Network, even for so short a visit as this one, back with old friends like Johnny
Dietz, who is tonight's director, and Bernard Herman. The Mercury Theatre presented tonight's
radio play for the first time last year. We came right out then and hailed it as a classic of the
medium. Nobody argued the point. A lot of people asked us to do it again, so it's gratifying to get
the chance now, and to find a favorite of ours in this distinguished anthology of spook shows.
Personally, I've never met anybody who didn't like a good ghost story, but I know a lot of people who
think there are a lot of people who don't like a good ghost story. For the benefit of these,
at least, I go on record at the outset of this evening's entertainment with a sober assurance
that although blood may be curdled on this program, none will be spilt. There's no shooting,
knifing, throttling, axing, or poisoning here. No clanking chains, no cobwebs, no bony and or hairy
hands appearing from secret panels, or better yet, bedroom curtains. If it's any part of that dear
old phosphorescent foolishness that people who don't like ghost stories don't like, then again,
I promise you, we haven't got it. Not tonight. What we do have is a thriller. It's half as good as we
think it is. You can call it a shocker. It's already been called a real Orson Well story. Now frankly,
I don't know what this means. I've been on the air directing and acting in my own shows for quite
a while now, and I don't suppose I've done more than half a dozen thrillers in all that time.
Honestly, I don't think even that many, but it seems I do have a reputation for the uncanny. Quite
possibly. A little escapade of mine involving a couple of planets, which shall be nameless,
is responsible. Doesn't really matter. Don't think I disapprove of thrillers. I don't. A story doesn't
have to appeal to the heart. It can also appeal to the spine. Sometimes you want your heart to be
warmed, and sometimes you want your spine to tingle. The tingling, it's to be hoped, will be quite
audible as you listen tonight to The Hitchhiker. That's the name of our story, The Hitchhiker.
I'm in an auto camp on Route 66, just west of Gallup, New Mexico. If I tell it,
perhaps it'll help me keep me from going, going crazy. I've got to tell this quickly. I'm not
crazy now. I feel perfectly well, except that I'm running a slight temperature. My name is Ronald
Adams. I'm 36 years of age, unmarried, tall, dark, with a black mustache. I drive a 1940 Buick
license number 6Y175189. I was born Brooklyn. All this I know. I know that I'm at this moment
perfectly sane, that it's not me who's gone mad. Something else, something utterly beyond my control.
I've got to speak quickly. At any minute, the link may break. This may be the last thing I ever tell
on earth, the last night I ever see the stars. Six days ago, I left Brooklyn to drive to California.
Goodbye, son. Good luck to you, my boy. Goodbye, mother. Here, give me a kiss, and I'll go. I'll
come out with you to the car. Oh, no, it's raining. Stay here at the door. Hey, what's this,
dear? I thought you'd promised me you wouldn't cry. I know, dear, I'm sorry. But I, I do hate to see you.
I'll be back. It'll only be on the coast three months. It isn't that. It's just the trip. Ronald,
I wish you weren't driving. Oh, mother, there you go again. People do it every day. I know,
but you'll be careful, won't you? Promise me you'll be extra careful. Don't fall asleep,
or drive fast, or pick up any strangers on the road. Oh, gosh. I think I was still 17 here,
you told me. And why? I mean, as soon as you get to Hollywood, won't you, son? Of course I will.
Don't you worry. It's not going to happen. It's just eight days of perfectly simple driving on
smooth, decent, civilized roads. There's a hot dog or a hamburger stand every ten months.
I was in fine spirits. The drive ahead of me, even the loneliness, seemed like a lark.
I reckoned without him. Crossing Brooklyn Bridge that morning in the rain, I saw a man
leaning against the cables. He seemed to be waiting for a lift. There were spots of fresh
rain on his shoulders. He was carrying a cheap overnight bag in one hand. He was thin,
nondescript, with a cap pulled down over his eyes. I would have forgotten him completely,
except that just an hour later, while crossing the Pulaski Skyway over the Jersey flats,
I saw him again. At least, he looked like the same person. He was standing now with one thumb
pointing west. I couldn't figure out how he got there, but I thought probably one of those
fast trucks had picked him up, beaten me to the skyway, and let him off. I didn't stop for him.
And late that night, I saw him again. It was on the new Pennsylvania turnpike between Harrisburg
and Pittsburgh. It's 265 miles long with a very high speed limit. I was just slowing down for one
of the tunnels. When I saw him, standing under an arc light by the side of the road,
I'd seen quite distinctly the bag, the cap, even the spots of fresh rain,
scattered over his shoulders. He hallowed at me this time. He stepped on the gas like a shot.
It's lonely country through the Alleghenies, and I had no intention of stopping. Besides the
coincidences or whatever it was, neither the Willys, I stopped at the next gas station.
Yes sir. Fill her up. Certainly sir. Check your oil, sir. No thanks.
Nice night, isn't it? Yes. Hasn't been raining here recently, has it? Not a drop of rain all the way.
Oh, I suppose that doesn't done your business any harm. Oh, people drive through here all
kinds of weather. Mostly business, you know. There aren't many pleasure cars out on the turnpike
this season of the year. I suppose not. What about hitchhikers? Hitchhikers here? What's the matter?
Don't you ever see any? Not much. If we did, it'd be a sight for sore eyes. Why? Oh, a guy'd be a fool
who started out to hitch rides on this road. Look at it. Then you've never seen anybody? No. Maybe
they get the lift before the turnpike starts. I mean, you know, just before the tollhouse. But
then it'd be a mighty long ride. Most cars wouldn't want to pick up a guy for that long a ride. And you
know, this is pretty lonesome country here. Mountains and woods. You ain't seen anybody like
that, have you? No. No, not at all. It's just a technical question. I see. Well, that'll be just a
dollar forty-nine with a tax. It gradually passed through my mind a sheer coincidence. I had a good
night's sleep in Pittsburgh. I didn't think about the man all next day until just outside of Zanesville,
Ohio. I saw him again. It's a bright, sunshiny afternoon. The peaceful Ohio feels brown with
the autumn stubble, a dreaming in the golden light. I was driving slowly, drinking at inland. The
road suddenly ended in a detour in front of the barrier he was standing. Let me explain about his
appearance before I go on. I repeat, there was nothing sinister about him. He was as drab as a
mud fence. There was his attitude menacing. He merely stood there, waiting, almost drooping a
little with cheap overnight bag in his hand. He looked as though he'd been waiting there for hours,
and he looked up. He hailed me. He started to walk forward. Hello? Hello? Hello? No, not just now,
sorry. Going to California? No, not today. The other way, going to New York. Sorry.
After I got the car back out of the road again, I felt like a fool. The thought of picking him up,
of having him sit beside me, was somehow unbearable. At the same time, I felt more than ever
unspeakably alone. Hour after hour went by. The fields, the towns ticked off one by one.
The light changed. I knew now that I was going to see him again, and though I dreaded the sight,
I caught myself searching the side of the road, waiting for him to appear. Yeah, what is it? What do you want?
Sell sandwiches and pop here, don't you? Yeah, we do on the daytime. But we're closed up now for the night.
I know, when I was one of you, you could possibly have a cup of coffee, black coffee. Just one.
No, not this time of night, mister. My wife's a cook. She's a man. No, don't shut the door, please. Listen, just a minute ago,
just a minute ago, there was a man standing here right beside the stand, a suspicious looking man.
I don't mean to disturb it. You see, I was driving along when I just happened to look,
and there he was. How's he doing? For nothing. You've been taking a nip, that's what you've been doing.
Now, on your way before I call out scarabotes.
I got into the car again and drove on slowly. I was getting to hate the car. If I could have found a place to stop,
to rest a little. I was in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri now.
Few resort places there were closed, only an occasional log cabin,
seemingly deserted. That's all that broke the monotony of the wild, wooded landscape.
I had seen him at that roadside stand. I knew I'd see him again. Maybe at the next turn of the road.
I knew that when I saw him next, I would run him down. I didn't see him until late next afternoon.
I stopped a car at a sleepy little junction just across the border into Oklahoma to let a train
pass by. When he appeared across the tracks, leaning against a telephone pole.
Perfectly airless, dry day. The red clay of Oklahoma was baking under the southwestern sun.
Yet there were spots of fresh rain on his shoulders. I couldn't stand that. Without
thinking blindly, I started the car across the tracks. He didn't even look up at me. He was
staring at the ground. I stepped on the gas hard, burning the wheels sharply toward him. I could hear
the train in the distance now, but I didn't care. Then something went wrong with the car.
Train was coming closer. I could hear its bell ringing and the crowd's whistle.
Still, he stood there. And now I knew that he was beckoning me to my death.
I frustrated him that time. I started work at last. I managed to back up.
When the train passed, he was gone. I was all alone in the hot, dry afternoon.
After that, I knew I had to do something. I didn't know who this man was,
or what he wanted of me. I only knew that from now on, I mustn't let myself alone on the road for one minute.
Hello there. Like a ride? What do you think? How far are you going?
Where do you want to go? Amarillo, Texas. I'll drive you there. Gee.
Gee.
Do you mind if I take off my shoes? My dogs are killing me. Go right ahead.
Gee, what a break. A hitchhike much? Sure. Only it's tough sometimes,
and you need great open spaces to get the break. I should think it would be, though. I'll bet you get a good
pick up in a fast car. If you did, you could get places faster than, say, another person in another car,
couldn't you? I don't get you. Well, take me, for instance. Suppose I'm driving across the country,
say, at a nice steady clip about 45 miles an hour. Couldn't a girl like you just standing beside the road
waiting for a list beat me to town, or any town, provided she got picked up every time in a car
doing from 65 to 70 miles an hour? I don't know. What difference does it make? Oh, no difference.
It's just a crazy idea sitting here in the car. Imagine spending your time in a swell car thinking
of things like that. What would you do instead? What would I do? If I was a good-looking fella
like yourself, why, I'd just enjoy myself every minute of the time. I'd sit back,
and relax. What if I saw a good-looking girl along the side of the road? Hey, look out!
What did you see? See who? A man standing beside the barbed wire fence. I didn't see anybody.
There was nothing but a bunch of cows and the wire fence. No? What did you think he was doing,
trying to run into the barbed wire fence? There was a man there, I tell you, a thin gray man with an overnight bag in his hand.
I was trying to run him down. Run him down? You mean kill him? Say you didn't see him back there?
You sure? I didn't see a soul. Watch for him the next time, and keep watching.
Keep your eyes peeled on the road. He'll turn up again. Maybe any minute now. There! Look there!
How does this door work? I'm getting out of here. Did you see him that time? No, I didn't see him that time.
And personally, mister, I don't expect never to see him. All I want to do is go on living.
I don't see how I will very long driving with you. I'm sorry, I didn't, I...
I don't know what came over me, but please don't go. So if you'll excuse me... You can't go. Listen,
how would you like to go to California? I'll drive you to California. Seeing pink elephants all the way?
No thanks. Uh-uh. Thanks, just a sec. Listen, please, just one minute, please. You know what I think you need, big boy?
Not a girlfriend. Just a good dose of... Please! There, I got it now. No, you can't go, please.
Come here. Get your hands off me. Do you hear me? Get your hands off me!
She ran from me. As though I were a monster.
Two minutes later, I saw a passing truck picker up.
I knew then that I was utterly alone.
I was in the heart of the great Texas prairies. There wasn't a car on the road.
After the truck went by, I tried to figure out what to do, how to get hold of myself.
I could find a place to rest, or even if I could sleep right here in the car for a few hours,
along the side of the road. I was getting my winter overcoat out of the back seat to use as a blanket.
I saw him coming toward me, emerging from the herd of moving steer.
Maybe I should have spoken to her then. Fought it out then and there.
For now, he began to be everywhere. Wherever I stopped, even for a moment, for gas, for oil,
for a drink of pop, a cup of coffee, sandwich, he was there. I saw him standing outside the
auto camp in Amarillo that night when I dared to slow down. I was sitting near the drinking
fountain of a little camping spot just inside the border of New Mexico.
He was waiting for me outside the Navajo reservation where I stopped to check my
tires. I saw him in Albuquerque when I bought 20 gallons of gas. I was afraid to stop now.
I began to drive faster and faster. I was in lunar landscape now,
a great arid mess, a country of New Mexico. I drove through it with the indifference of a fly
crawling over the face of the moon. Now he didn't even wait for me to stop.
Unless I drove at 85 miles an hour over those endless roads he waited for me at every other mile,
I'd see his figure shadowless, flitting before me, still in that same attitude over the cold,
lifeless ground, flitting over dried up rivers, over broken stones cast up by old grubs.
Stones cast up by old glacial upheavals, flitting in that pure and cloudless air.
I was beside myself when I finally reached Gallup, New Mexico this morning.
There's an auto camp here, cold, almost deserted this time of year.
I went inside, asked if there was a telephone.
I had the feeling that if only I could speak to someone familiar,
someone I loved, I could pull myself together.
Your call, please.
Long distance.
Long distance, certainly.
This is long distance.
I'd like to put in a call to my home in Brooklyn, New York.
I'm Ronald Adams. The number is Beachwood 20828.
Certainly, I will try to get it for you.
Albuquerque, New York for Gallup.
New York.
Gallup, New Mexico calling Beachwood 20828.
I read somewhere that love could banish demons.
In the middle of the morning, I knew Mother would be home.
I pictured her tall and white haired and her crisp house dress going about her tasks.
It would be enough, I thought, just to hear the even calmness of her voice.
Will you please deposit three dollars and 85 cents for the first three minutes?
When you have deposited a dollar and a half, will you wait until I have collected the money?
When you have deposited a dollar and a half, will you wait until I have collected the money?
Okay.
All right. Deposit another dollar and a half.
Will you please deposit the remaining 85 cents?
Ready with Brooklyn. Go ahead, please.
Hello?
Mrs. Adams residence.
Hello. Hello, Mother.
This is Mrs. Adams residence. Who is it you wish to speak to, please?
What? Who is this?
This is Mrs. Winnie.
Mrs. Winnie? I don't know any Mrs. Winnie. Is this Beachwood 20828?
Yes.
Where's my mother? Where's Mrs. Adams?
Mrs. Adams is not at home. She's still in the hospital.
The hospital?
Yes. Who is this calling, please? Is it a member of the family?
Well, what's she in the hospital for?
She's been prostrated for five days. Nervous breakdown.
But who is the calling?
Nervous breakdown? Well, my man mother never was nervous.
It's all taken place since the death of her oldest son, Ronald.
Death of her... death of her oldest son, Ronald?
Hey, what's this? What number is this?
This is Beachwood 20828. It's all been very sudden.
He was killed just six days ago in an automobile accident on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Your three minutes are up, sir.
Your three minutes are up, sir.
Your three minutes are up, sir.
And so...
So I'm sitting here in this deserted auto camp in Yallap, New Mexico.
I'm trying to think.
Trying to get hold of myself.
Otherwise, I am going to go crazy.
Outside, it's night.
A vast, soulless night of New Mexico.
A million stars are in the sky.
A million stars are in the sky. Ahead of me stretch a thousand miles of empty messer.
Mountains. Prairies. Desert.
Somewhere among them, he's waiting for me.
Somewhere I shall know who he is and who I am.
So ends the hitchhiker, and to Orson Welles our considerable thanks
for his playing of the title role. Mr. Welles.
Help wanted. Men, women, and children.
Nature of work, hard, monotonous, backbreaking labor.
Hours, 75 a week minimum.
Pay, few cents an hour.
Added inducement.
Two meals a day, including several ounces of bad bread and a cup of thin soup.
Don't delay, apply at once.
How do you respond to a want ad like that, Mr. and Mrs. American working man and woman?
You'd laugh, wouldn't you, and throw the paper in the trash basket.
Dismiss the whole advertisement as some kind of a joke, but believe me, it's no joke.
It's a simple statement of the working conditions that exist today in Nazi Germany.
Then the conquered countries under Nazi rule.
It's also an exact statement of the working conditions that will be imposed on you
and every member of your family if the Nazis win this war.
You yourself personally can stop them from winning, as you know.
You don't have to give up your well-paid job to do it.
You didn't have to be a soldier or a sailor or an airman or a nurse or a war worker
to ensure American victory.
Uncle Sam doesn't ask plain, ordinary, hard-working citizens like you to give him anything.
All he asks, all this he does ask very seriously and very urgently,
is that you loan him 10 cents out of every dollar you make.
That's all there is to it. Lend Uncle Sam a dime to win this war,
and he'll pay you back with interest when he's won it.
The easiest, most convenient way to lend him these dimes
is to enroll in the payroll savings plan.
Just tell your boss to deduct 10 cents from every dollar he pays you
and lend it to Uncle Sam in your name.
Sign up for this simple savings plan today, and when victory comes,
you'll have war bonds in your pockets instead of Axis bonds on your wrists.
Suspense will be heard again two weeks from tonight.
Next Wednesday night, September 9th,
the Columbia Broadcasting System will present over many of these stations
at 9.30 p.m. Eastern wartime
an address by W. Averill Harriman,
the United States Land Lease Administrator in London.
Mr. Harriman, as the personal representative of the President of the United States,
will present the address to you.
Mr. Harriman, as the personal representative of the President of the United States,
attended the Moscow conferences between Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin.
Next Wednesday's broadcast will be Mr. Harriman's first public address
since his return to this country.
Suspense is produced and directed by William Speer.
John Dietz was our guest director this evening.
Tonight's radio drama was written by Lucille Fletcher.
The original score was by Bernard Herrmann.
This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.