Suspense!
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And now, Schenley brings you radio's outstanding theater of thrill, Suspense! Presented by
Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, for your everyday enjoyment. And now, Roma Wines
of Fresno, California, bring you Mr. Edmund O'Brien in the Argyle album, a suspense play
produced, edited, and directed for Schenley by William Spears. Back when I got my first
job on the Herald, Alan Pearce was a star reporter. A little later, he went to Washington
and became top dog of all syndicated political columnists. Pearce could tell you what the
president said when he didn't like his breakfast and who was getting paid off for what, by
whom, and how much. He was a national big shot, so naturally, he's coming back to the hometown
last January, got local front page. Especially since the first thing happens, he checks into
the Belden General Hospital from a heart attack he had on the train, right as it pulled into
the station. Quite an entrance in time. Well, maybe you remember. Just when 22 million anxious
readers were waiting for his promised expose of the contents of the Argyle album, the thing
he'd been building up in his columns for about two weeks before, T-Pot Dome was going to
be a church club misunderstanding compared to this. Naturally, all the boys hung around
the ante room of this hospital suite during visiting hours, but nobody from the press
cracked at order to sick rooms for the first three days. Then, on the fourth morning, Van
Selben, the doctor, came smiling out into the ante room.
Good morning, General Man. General Man. Mr. Pearce would have willingly seen you all
the first day. Of course, as his medical advisor, I couldn't permit anything of the sort. However,
today I'll allow you to see him one at a time. I suggest that you gentlemen draw straws or
something for turn. Oh, that is except the man from the Herald. Mr. Pearce asked expressly
to see him first. Hey, the Herald man? That's me. Is the Herald representative here? Over
here, Doctor. Do you want to come in now? Right with you, Doctor. Hey, Pinkley, come
in. Harry? Listen, Dr. Van Selben, this is Mr. Melvin Pinker, the Herald's best and,
believe me, quietest photographer. Now, he's very good for patients. I wonder if... I'm
afraid not, Mr. Mitchell. Okay, Doctor. Okay. Stand by, Pinkley. Right. No, sir, let this
gentleman in. I'll be on the fifth floor. Very well. Hello there. How are you, sir? You're
Harry Mitchell, aren't you? That's right, he's disappeared. Come on, I'll make it out.
All right, Al. So you're young Mitchell. How time flies. I spoke to the old man on the phone.
I said send your next Alan Pearce over, and he sent you. Do you consider that a compliment?
Compliment, brother. I'm going to hit him for a nice fat raise. Well, Harry, have you got
your questions all written down like a good reporter should? Oh, no, I don't work that
way, sir. Neither do I. I suppose you want to know what the Argyle album is? Hey, you're
not really going to tell me. Look, crank me up a little bit, will you? Yeah, sure, sure.
Harry, Harry, it's got to a point where I think I ought to share it with somebody. Preferably,
like myself, who thinks like me. And I'm going to ask you not to use this unless I'm not
in a position to. Okay, okay, it's a deal. Well, you know what an album is. This one
is quite a fancy looking one. Tooled, white leather bound, and a flaming crimson double
headed eagle crest etched on the cover. It's an impressive item. Maybe, say maybe you better
take it easy, Mr. Pierce. You were going to call me Al. Okay, okay, Al, but honest, maybe
a better. I'm all right, I'm all right. I'm a little dizzy. Want the doctor? No, no, no,
just a drink. A drink of water, please. He laid back on his pillow, breathing terribly.
There was a thermos on the bed stand that turned out empty. I grabbed a glass and ran
into the bathroom, filled it from the tap. I'll be right there, Al. Mr. Pierce. Al.
Oh. I stood there for a while feeling awfully bad, thinking awfully hard. Finally figured
an idea. Hey, Harry. Hey, Harry, come on, what's going on? Here I am, General. Is he
going to pose? Yeah, yeah, he's going to pose. Come on in here. What's going on? Piggy.
Piggy, look at him. He's dead. Passed out while we were talking. This is heartbeat. It's
big, it's a scoop. I don't want those other tin horns out there cutting in. What are you
going to do? I'm going out and phone. You stay here and don't let anybody in through
that door. You're not letting me along with them. An old hound like you, are you kidding?
I don't like it. I went out to the pay station in the hall and phoned in the story. Then
I found Dr. Van Selden on the fifth floor and broke the news. Between the fifth and
seventh floor, where Pierce's suite was, we picked up the chief surgeon, superintendent,
four nurses and litter bearers in attendance. We went through the anteroom where the reporters
were. The newspaper boys felt something was up. Nobody had left them in Pierce's room,
but the official hospital gang and me barged in and headed straight for the bed where the
corpse was. I got a funny feeling. Pinky wasn't in the room. Dr. Van Selden and the chief
surgeon went over to the bed and pulled back the covers and you could feel the shock go
through the whole crowd. A long steel scalpel was sticking right up in the middle of Alan
Pierce's chest. An hour later, Lieutenant Horslip Sampson, who was top man in homicide,
strutted in and took over. He got the story from us and just sat there for a while thinking,
very professional, exuding brilliance. Then his majesty rose and spoke. Dr. Van Selden?
Yes, sir. In your opinion, did your patient die from a heart attack, as our reporter friend
here claims, or from the knife wound? I really can't tell you yet. The indications are that
it might be either. You see, in either case, the heart was stopped. Yeah, yeah. The heart
usually stops in cases of death, doesn't it, Doc? The only thing is, I took his pulse before
I left the room. There was no pulse. That scalpel could just as well have been stuck
in a loaf of bread for all the damage it would have... Mitchell! Why did you leave a dead
man and report? Why did you end up at Targra here without telling the nois? I was a reporter
with a scoop. Who'd you expect me to leave here, somebody from the express? Nois, were
you outside the door the whole time? Yes, sir, with the reporters, and nobody came out except
Mr. Mitchell. The photographer went in but never came out. Take a stand in the bathroom,
Haggerty. Yes, sir. There's nobody here, chief. Marguson, close windows lock. Yes, sir. Torslip,
should bring out your Scotland yacht. Good tougher spot to be fresh. If I could only get
an angle. Must be an angle. He got up sore and started looking around himself. He walked
over to the white bed screen in the corner. It's funny, it stood there all the time, such
a natural piece of hospital equipment, you never noticed it. But even now, before he
touched it, I knew what he'd find there. I edged for the door. He started to pull aside
the screen like somebody'd look hopelessly in any unlikely spot for a lost collar button.
Then he let the screen fall. And there was Pinky, all huddled up among his photographic
equipment with a surgeon's scalpel sticking out of his neck. I yelled to the reporters
in the anteroom that they could go in now. The crowd coming out after me, met the crowd
going in, and I was in the corridor while they argued it out. I was around the corner
and in the elevator before the cops could get through. I walked right through the walled
off lobby and up to the second floor and nobody said a thing. Time was still with me. I knew
Pierce's secretary was keeping sweet two one three for him until he was supposed to get
out of the hospital. One moment. Yes. May I come in? Well I'm a friend of Mr. Pierce's,
Mitchell of the Herald. What is it Mr. Mitchell? Something I can do? Would you let me write
for your boss's desk, huh? What? Files, papers, and possessions. I'll put them back real neat.
What? There's something I have to find. Are you crazy? I was afraid that would be your
answer. What are you going to do? I'm sorry. Don't. Really? I really was. I didn't like
to hit a woman. Especially that cute. I searched the sweet top and bottom of it. Pierce had
never had the Argyle album. He took no chances keeping it around. I found his personal address
book though and figured it was no more use to him than it might be to me. Now I needed
a place where I could sit down and think. Then I remembered I was carrying a key from my
pal Joe Walsh's apartment while he was sonning himself in Florida. Now at least nobody could
figure my going there. At Walsh's place I spent about twenty minutes with Pierce's address
book. He had Washington phone numbers in it that hadn't been in public directories for
the last thirty years. There was one in this town that had a red crayon circle around it.
The query. Joe Broad. J-O-R-B-R-O-D on Worcester Street. Not the kind of neighbor that Alan
Pierce usually socialized in. I was just about deciding I'd go and see Joe Broad. Then somebody
decided to pay me a visit. I checked through the keyhole. I didn't see much. But what there
was to see was female. So I took my chances and opened the door. She stood there. About
five foot seven of the most interesting stuff I ever remember seeing. Not young mind you,
not angelic. But gorgeous and smart looking and sweet voiced. Hello there. Who are you?
May I come in? Sure, at your risk. Who are you? You may call me Marla, Miss Mitchell. And
I want the Argyle album. Just like that? No, not just like that. I could be nasty, you
know. After all, the police want you. Somehow Marla, that doesn't worry me at all. I just
don't think you make it a policy to have traffic with the police. You're an astute youngster.
I like you. I like you too, but I haven't time. I'll give you five hundred dollars for it.
I don't even know what it is. What is the Argyle album? Ten thousand. Without a breath,
huh? There's some junk. Ten thousand. I'm really sorry, Marla. But I wanted to know.
It's not for sale. Very well. She moved so casually and directly to the door and opened
it so quickly, I hadn't even gotten out of my chair before her two boyfriends stepped
in. The first one looked like a fat businessman, hair slightly gray, nice smile. The one who
followed him had the square, low-cut, irresistible appearance of a medium-sized tank. Mr. Winter,
Mr. Holbury, Mr. Mitchell. How do you do? He's not terribly cooperative. Oh, no. He doesn't
perform, not for love, not for money. Very stubborn. She really didn't try love, Mr.
Winter. From what I know of Marla, that's hard to believe. Hey, Marla. So you're stubborn,
Mr. Mitchell, a stubborn murderer. I'll repeat my question. What is the Argyle album? My,
my, you are a gifted actor. Never mind. Forget it, Mr. Winter. Well, isn't ten thousand
dollars enough? That's the best we can offer and still make a profit. Let's not waste time.
Oh, I am sorry, my boy. I'm very sorry. Very well, Gil. Yeah. The big guy stepped toward
me. I dug and took the table between us. Gil put to the side like it was match-fitting.
His left hand lashed out and he had the lapels of my coat and I was lifted until my shoe
tips touched the floor, helpless as a baby. It started slapping my face, front hand and
back. It kept up and up like a hot lick of the drums and the agony was unbearable. He
stopped. I waited. Like your wait between pauses of the dentist drill. Then I, I guess
I tried to move because I saw the small eyes flicker and the huge fist come swinging at
my face. I wanted to duck but couldn't. My hands were torn from in front of my face and
I came. Shocks of intolerable pain like searing flames and then the flame flickered and went
out.
For suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you Mr. Edmund O'Brien in the Argyle album. Roma
Wines presentation tonight in Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
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And now Roma Wines bring back to our Hollywood soundstage, Mr. Edmund O'Brien as reporter
Harry Mitchell in the Argyle album, a play well calculated to keep you in suspense.
I was in the bedroom of the apartment and Marla was baiting my forehead with a damp
handkerchief. I lay quiet until things cleared up a bit. That's the little, that's the boy.
Marla. Where's the album darling? Where's the album? I swear I don't know. I don't know.
I don't know. You don't want me to call him again, do you Harry? No, no, no, please,
no. In the kitchen. I'm supposed to help you wake up, not on the phone. No, no, don't.
If you haven't got it, do you know where it is? I swear, Marla, I swear, I don't even
know what it is. All I know is it's tooled white leather or something. You know. Well,
all right, here's what I know. Winter found it originally. He was in occupied Europe then.
He doesn't admit it, but I think he was the leader of a looting party after the American
raid. It was a sheaf of documents recording the transfer of large sums of money by certain
individuals, both German and Americans. Big men who wanted to make sure that they'd come
out right, no matter whose armies won. Winter knew that he'd found a fortune that day, fortune
in blackmail. What happened? He kept it in a public locker in a blackmail. Normally the
safest place in the world. He was in a town down here in Virginia, Argyle. On a minute
to one twist, he lost it. A gang of young hoodlums blew up in that section with a dynamite
stick. And it's been missing ever since until Alan Pierce started hinting about it in his
column in the international scandal that involved. So when Pierce died to say, Winter had a right
to suspect that Pierce's murderer might have the album. Naturally, the big men wanted to.
Lots of people wanted badly, including me. You? What for? Resale value. I see. That's
a decent motive. I'm a decent person. Yeah. Yeah, you are. Come here. Oh, you're nice.
You're a nice boy. You know, I can just press my thumbs here at your windpipe and you couldn't
even yell. I thought of that. You're not kidding me. That's the excuse I'll give to Winter.
You choked me and I couldn't gel. You get on the fire escape and I'll give you plenty
of time before I call. I don't figure what's in it for you. We'll see each other again.
You'll find it. Hurry. Okay, honey, you asked for it. Not too hard. It was a funny experience
choking a woman deliberately. I squeezed pretty hard, scuffing bruises at her throat to make
it look good. I got so mixed up, I didn't know what I was doing. I took her once and
kissed her very hard. I rumpled her clothes a little and mustered her hand. When she looked
pretty battered, I kissed her again and I crawled out in the fire escape and down. I
gave the cabbie the Worcester Street address from Pierce's book. It was a junkyard. Joe
Broad's junkyard. What do you want? You Mr. Broad, Joe Broad. That's my name. What do
you want? The Argyle album. How did you? I know you. You're that Mitchell guy. The police
one for the murder of Alan Pierce. If you move, I'll kill you. Say, I got you figured,
Brian. You're the fence for all the juvenile crooks around here. Some junkyard. I'm on
lots better terms with the cops than you are, Mitchell. And I'm falling in them right now.
Sure, sure. One of your kids brought you a nice white leather book with a two-headed
eagle on it. Maybe you stretched and gave him two bits for it. Then you found out you
had something too big for a little guy. You knew it was worth it, but your stomach wasn't
tough enough for big-time black men. So you figured a way to be right and still make dough.
Sell it to Alan Pierce. What of it? Selling's no crime. I'm really guessing but good, huh?
You invested the price of a couple of photo stats and a train ticket to Washington. You
got to Pierce and sold him the photo stats. And then you told him he'd have to come here
for the rest, huh? Nothing to keep me from killing you right now. No, no, I guess there
isn't. Sure not. You're a fugitive, aren't you? Escape killer, you wouldn't touch me.
Wait, don't! Don't you even say thanks when your life is saved? Thanks. And nice shot.
Don't mention it. You wonder how I knew you were here. Yeah, you watched me take the cab
from the window and got the number. I know that one now. Oh, you're bright as well as
nice. Maybe we can play this game together now that we have the album. Huh? Have we?
Well, it can't be far. In the desk drawer, the filing... I think we both saw Broad move
at the same time. The gun at the edge of his fingers was somehow in his hands again. It
waved weakly between Marla and me. It was like watching a slow motion movie. Marla didn't
waste time. I saw the sweet little body jump at the impact, but his gun kept waving. And
it went off. Marla sighed and fell down at my feet. She smiled at me once. That's all.
I walked through three cops in the hall of the police station getting no more reaction
than an art of greeting and into Horst Lipsamson's office. Thanks for the phone call, Mitchell,
but you gave us a bum steer. What's your angle? Bum steer. I saw the shooting. We found a
woman. Very dead indeed, but there was no man. Your bra? He didn't look alive when I saw
him last. Well, he wasn't dead. I'm only telling you. What do you expect us to do with you?
Well, book me on suspicion of murder. The murderer who, may I ask? Alan Pearce, naturally.
You want to confess? It's not bargain day today, Lieutenant. Oh, it was just an angle.
Look, did the autopsy on Pearce come through? I was wondering why you gave yourself up.
Yeah, he died a heart failure like you claimed, but only because he was so loaded with dope,
even a normal heart would give up. Dope? You mean poison? Same thing. Too much medicine.
And Dr. Van Selben, the one who dosed him, has disappeared, took a powder. You're not
even running up a suspect now, Mitchell. Heart failure. Heart failure. But then why the scalpel?
Whoever stuck that scalpel into Pearce wanted to create suspicious circumstances around
the death so they'd be sure they'd be in our... Hey, that's an angle. Yeah. Yeah, but how
about Pinky? And how did the murderer get in and out of the room? How? Look, Mitchell,
you want to be held? No. Then stop asking questions I can't answer. Go on, beat it.
I still wanted to break it. I found myself nursing a deep belief that there must be equal
justice for the murders of a man I loved, another I respected, and a woman I... I admired.
Well, there was only one place I could figure out where to start. I picked my way through
Jawbrad's junkyard. Shapes of skeleton cars stood out dark in the moonlight. At the far
end of the yard was a lighted shack. I went up to it, almost to the door. Somebody pushed
me from behind. My own body knocked the door open. Get in there. Broad was propped into
a chair, facing me, his eyes wide. Winter stood beside him, and Gil walked up from behind
me alongside. Oh. Come in, Mitchell. Thanks. Well, Mr. Mitchell, this is a proper ending.
Another demonstration of the ascendancy of will. Is he alive? Who? O'Brod here? No,
not now. He was very weak and had no resistance, but we learned what we needed. He had the
album quite cleverly hidden. But we have it now. Well, here. You want to see it? Thanks.
Say, who hired Dr. Van Selvin to kill Pierce? A very powerful and very wealthy individual,
most concerned with retrieving the album, Mr. Mitchell. But you didn't want it to be
heart failure. You wanted to force an autopsy. That's why you stuck the scalpel into the
corpse. That's rather clever of you, Mr. Mitchell. And in the hospital, you were dressed as an
attendant, right? You got behind that bed screen sometime earlier in the day, probably
early in the morning, before Pierce woke up, right? You were willing to wait a long time
for what you wanted. It was very tough. You hoped to find out from Pierce where he had
hidden the album. You found out instead that Pierce didn't have it. But you knew that Pierce
was going to die anyhow from the overdose. Oh, you decided to frame the doctor with the
scalpel, forcing the autopsy. You know, there's only one conceivable reason for you to have
taken all those chances. And what may I ask can that conceivable reason be? That you are
the powerful and wealthy individual who got Dr. Van Selvin to do Pierce's murder. Really?
That you are no more Mr. Winter than I am. Yeah, the original Mr. Winter, who smuggled
the album out of Europe, you eliminated when he first tried to blackmail you and your fellow
thieves. Seizures. By that line of reasoning, I was able to do a little research in the
files of my reporter's memory. And in spite of the fact that you have no mustache and there
are several other slightly physical changes that could be easily adjusted, you have an
amazing resemblance to the very powerful, very wealthy Mr. Gerald K. Avery.
Theory, merely theory. But isn't this indulgence and violence a strange occupation for a man
like Gerald Avery? Not at all, Mr. Avery. A man doesn't become
an international power by going to Sunday school every week. You decided nobody could
do your dirty work better than yourself. As well as you felt you needed help, so you got
a professional adventurer like Marla to work with you on the grounds that you yourself were
an adventurer blackmailer. The same goes for Gil here.
Your time's run over, Mitchell. And Pinky, yeah. Pinky, of course it doesn't
bother you that you killed a nice guy with a nice family. To you, he was only in the
way. You stuck the scalpel into Pierce's corpse to save yourself some more trouble. The trouble
of paying off Dr. Van Selvin. He'll probably show up floating. You dragged Pinky behind
the screen and you got behind with him and hid. And when all the doctors in attendance
broke into the room and rushed around Pierce's bed, you stepped out casually from behind
the screen and mingled with the crowd. You were dressed for the part.
As a reporter, Mr. Mitchell, would you describe that exploit as daring or brilliant?
No. No, Mr. Avery. I'd use the words selfish, traitorous, foul.
Oh, your morality sickens me. There's one more thing you didn't count
on, Gil. Gil here. Gil has nothing to do with it.
Oh, yes he has. You keep your mouth shut.
I'll do nothing of the sort. Let him talk.
Gil, let go of my arm. Let him talk.
Thanks. Thanks, Gil. And just keep hold of that arm.
Let him talk. Okay. As I was saying, Mr. Avery, you forgot
that Marla and Gil have been playing along with you because they figured you were their
kind. There is a certain honor among little crooks, but not among you big timers, Mr.
Avery. Now you have the album, the album that couldn't hurt anybody but yourself. Who's
the blackmail? Where's the payoff? Gil's wondering what's going to protect his interests. He
knows now what happened to Dr. Van Selvin. He knows. You see, he figured you were an
honest crook, not a big timer. He's only playing for time. He's not only trying to save his
own miserable skin. I'll pay you off, Gil. I'll pay you more than you've ever dreamed.
You really are, Gerald Avery. Don't be an idiot, Gil. Now you cooperate with me and I...
Gil! That was a bad mistake of Mr. Gerald K. Avery. You see, he figured his gun was bigger
than Gil. He moved fast, but not quite fast enough. The lead hit Gil in the shoulder, but
that didn't even faze him. I understand he broke Avery's arm. That's when Avery screamed.
The next blow broke Avery's neck. Well, there was an awful lot of excitement because horse-lip
shadows caught up with the proceedings just about this time, and the details aren't too
clear. All I know is, oh, that it has been a big day. I was awfully tired. I went home,
climbed in bed, and slept a long, long time, with my head on a nice pillow made of tulle
and white leather. Suspense, presented by Roma. That's R-O-M-A, better tasting Roma wines,
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Then Roma master ventners with ancient skills and America's largest winemaking resources
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or friendly hospitality, serve delicious Roma wine. You'll find all Roma wines delightful,
inexpensive, and always better tasting. That's why more Americans enjoy Roma wines. That's
R-O-M-A, Roma wines than any other wines in the world. Edmund O'Brien appeared to the
courtesy of Universal International Pictures, now releasing Something in the Wind starring
Deanna Durbin. Tonight's Suspense play was by Cyril Enfield. Next Thursday, same time,
you will hear Michael O'Shea, a star of Suspense, produced and directed by William Spear for
the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
Thank you.