Suspense! Tonight's suspense brings you as star Mr. Henry Morgan. Each week you hear
Mr. Morgan as prime comedian on his own radio show. Tonight he appears in a role different
from any he's ever played before. But first, we'd like to remind you that wherever entertaining
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Wine Company, Livermore, California. And now, Chenle brings you radio's outstanding theater
of thrills, Suspense. Presented by Roma Wines, that's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines of Fresno, California.
And starring Henry Morgan in Dream Song, a suspense play produced, edited, and directed
for Chenle by William Spear. The apartment was one and a half rooms, about enough space
to turn around, sleep, and eat in. But it was enough for a bachelor like me, and I felt
lucky. I'd had to move out of my last place in sort of a hurry. You know how you get pushed
around nowadays. And I had no real right expecting anything even halfway decent to turn up for
me so soon. I went about installing myself, which merely means bringing in my old studio
couch, an old chair, about three trillion books, a couple of Matisse prints, and my
typewriter. And I was all set in a day or two and ready to get down to real work on
the book. One evening, I came in after a good dinner and sat down to finish off a sequence.
It wasn't writing easy. I felt that I was getting off on a tangent. I was going a million
miles away from what I wanted to say, and it annoyed me. It was then that I heard it
for the first time. It was coming from the next apartment, and coupled with my bad writing,
it was very annoying. I tried to ignore it, but that couldn't be done. I got up and walked
around the room a few times. That didn't help any. So I sat down and tried to write again.
But I was tough, and the right words came like water from a closed faucet. And then
the music stopped. It was suddenly very peaceful. I felt my mind settle down. I started once
more. There it was going along pretty well now. I was thinking clearly that phrases were
right, the mood was good, the dialogue, and the things started up again. I yanked the
paper out of the machine and tossed it into the wastebasket. I was through for the night.
Few nights later, after spending the entire day reading, which is so much more delightful
than writing, I decided it was about time to sit down and start pounding it out. It
was a beautiful night. It took a lot of willpower to tear myself away from the window. I smoked
a couple of cigarettes, decided I'd start work after them, then smoked a few more and
listened to the night noises of the city. After that, I searched my pockets for some
more cigarettes, but I didn't have any. So I took a deep breath, reluctantly turned my
back on the city and sat down at my work table. There was a story in the paper that I wanted
to keep because it was sort of like the situation I was writing about, and I was cutting it
out. Then, almost as though it was time, that canned music started up. Well, that settled
my work for the night again, I thought. That fool in the next apartment, or whoever he
or she might be, was probably planning to serenade himself for hours on end. And yet,
strangely enough, I half hoped that the music would go on. It was a very lovely evening,
and I was looking for the slightest excuse to lounge around. I just started thinking
of going for a walk when the music stopped. In the stillness that followed, I could hear
steps, then a door opening and closing, then a long, long silence. Then I was back at my
typewriter and everything was fine. The words were coming right from my brain to my fingers,
and as I wrote, I could see the next line and the next, and then while I was working,
I became conscious of the next door footsteps, and it disturbed me. I sat up, stretched,
yawned, looked at my watch. One o'clock in the morning. I hadn't realized it was that
late.
Yes? Who is it?
It's me, Mr. Kenyon, the janitor. Please open the door.
What's wrong? You always cover out at one in the morning.
Excuse me, please, Mr. Kenyon.
Are you Charles Kenyon?
Of course. What is it?
He's from the police station, Mr. Kenyon.
Here you are. I'm Sam Fields from this precinct. Can I come in?
Come right in.
What's this all about?
Apartment 4D, Mr. Rhodes.
Why don't you shut that? Kenyon, you've been home all night?
Yes, I have.
What have you been doing here all night?
Mr. Kenyon's a writer.
Look, are you going to keep your trap shut? Go ahead, Kenyon.
Well, I'm a writer, and I've been working all evening. That's about all.
You didn't hear no noise, no commotion?
No. What's happened?
The man in Apartment 4D has been killed, murdered.
The floor is all covered with blood.
We'll never get it off without scraping. That'll run up a bill, too.
4D. That's two flights up?
He was a pretty good guy, that Mr. Rhodeson. He gave me five for Christmas.
We're just in here checking up. I don't suppose you knew him.
No, I didn't.
He must have been killed a short time ago. The coroner's upstairs now.
The janitor here had a struggle and phoned in.
I live in 4E now. The owner chopped the basement up into three apartments.
He makes a barrel of money that way, you see.
Yes, Mr. Rhodeson was just about dead when we got there.
I'm surprised you didn't hear us go up.
I was busy writing.
He must have been.
Oh, all that blood on the floor. We'll never get it off.
By the next tenant, we'll have to paint the floor red, I tell you.
How was he killed?
He was stabbed in the back with a sharpening steel.
Yes, he was stabbed in the back.
Not a knife, the doc says. Could be maybe a shears, a scissor.
Well, we looked all around, but we couldn't find no scissor.
The murderer isn't giving us souvenirs this week.
Well, Mr. Kenyon, I guess you're okay.
We may want you to come down to headquarters for a few questions tomorrow.
If so, I'll let you know.
Yes, of course.
You can go back to your writing now.
Hey, what are you writing? Detective stories?
No, about people.
Yeah? That's who commits the murders, two people.
Although I must say some of my best friends are people.
What did you write tonight? I don't see nothing around.
I don't like to have people see it, you know, until it's finished.
You know, I got a tenant already for that apartment.
Maybe that's where the guy was knocked off so someone could get the apartment.
What about his wife?
Oh, 4D's got no wife.
Now, I know he's got a young lady, but he's a bad person.
All right, all right, all right. We ain't interested in gossip.
Come on, let's go.
Have a good day, Mr. Kenyon.
Good night.
One night, a week after that, I was lying in bed trying to sleep.
I don't know why I couldn't sleep.
I'd been working hard all day.
I was dead tired.
My legs felt heavy.
My brain, instead of feeling dull, was sharp and alert.
Quite suddenly, and for no reason, I felt waves of chills run along my spine.
I sat up in bed, reached for a cigarette.
I looked at my watch, 220, and I'd wanted to get up at 7.
I snuffed out the butt and leaned back.
Somehow, I seemed a bit more relaxed now.
I closed my eyes and felt comfortable, tired out.
And then there it was again, that music.
And I was wide awake again, intense and jumpy as a cat.
I don't know why it made me feel that way, but it did.
It went on and on.
Sometimes it would seem to be fading away, and it would be loud again,
fade away, the clouds beneath the covers and throw the pillow over my head.
That was better.
I could still hear it, but it wasn't so bad.
And it seemed to get farther and farther and farther away.
And I was so tired, exhausted by now.
I heard that sort of thump from somewhere upstairs.
But it didn't matter now.
All I cared about was sleep.
Sleep.
Just sleep.
Mr. Penya! Mr. Penya! Are you all right?
Of course I'm all right.
Just a minute, I'm still in bed.
Can't a man sleep around here without keeping...
I didn't know you were sleeping.
You always sleep this late, Kenyan.
Oh, Inspector, I didn't recognize you.
I guess I'm still a little bleary-eyed.
Come on in.
I asked if you always sleep this late.
Twelve.
I guess it is late.
No, I don't usually, but I couldn't get to sleep last night.
Last night?
Shut up.
Kenyan, do you know the guy who lives upstairs?
That was Mr. Blackwell, the lawyer.
I'm sorry, I don't. I don't know anyone around here.
I do my work, that's all I know.
Look, you asked me these questions the last time you were here.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, and I'm asking them again.
Mr. Blackwell, he's been killed.
Killed? Upstairs?
Yeah, killed, the same way.
Floor just filled with blood, just like 4D.
Well, last night I did hear something.
I didn't think it was anything then.
It was just a sound, like a table or something falling over from upstairs.
There was no table falling.
What time do you think you heard it?
A little while after I went to bed, a little after 2 a.m.
Mr. Blackwell divorced his wife five months ago.
She was such a nice woman.
Powerness as death took place around that time.
You didn't hear anything else, did you?
What?
I said, did you hear anything else?
Anything else?
Anything else.
That music.
But I couldn't tell him about that.
I couldn't tell it to a detective.
Or that terrible feeling I had when I heard it.
It would sound silly, crazy.
Yes, yes, did you hear anything else?
No, no, I didn't hear anything else.
I went to sleep right after that, and I didn't wake up until you rang the bell just now.
Mr. Blackwell gave me a ten for Christmas, but he never smiled.
He was a very sad man.
We've been checking up to see if everyone else is all right.
Has anyone else?
No, no, no, no, no, just this guy above you.
I guess we've got some sort of maniac operating in this area.
He tries to get me.
He's going to get a big surprise.
I've got a license to carry a gun.
I've got a good gun, too.
My son brought it to me from Germany.
When I don't go shooting the tenants just because the joke paid the rent.
Everybody pays the rent here.
Did you ever see a guy with no sense of humor?
Well, this whole thing doesn't seem particularly funny.
Don't you worry about it, Mr. Kenyon.
You've got the whole police force protecting you, so don't worry about it at all.
Well, I'll probably be seeing you.
So long.
So long.
Goodbye, Mr. Kenyon.
Oh, Mr. Torsten, will you stay a moment?
I'd like you to do something for me.
Sure, sure.
Mr. Torsten, you seem to know a good deal about everyone in the building.
I don't snoop around.
I'm the janitor.
I just see them when other people don't see them.
I know. I didn't mean it that way.
I just want to ask you a question or two.
This Mr. Blackwell who was killed, he was living alone, wasn't he?
Yeah, like I told you, he was married, but his wife moved out.
You know, it's harder to take blood off the floor than it is from the walls.
You can paint the walls, but the floor has to be scraped and sanded.
What about my neighbor to the left next door?
Oh, 2E?
Well, I don't know too much about him.
I've just seen him once.
He never bothers me.
His name is Williams.
Has he got a phonograph?
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Got lots of records for the phonograph, too.
I seen them when they put the telephone in.
That was the only time I was ever in his place.
I see.
Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Torsten.
Oh, that's a...
Well, say, thank you, Mr. Kenyon.
And if there's ever any time you ever want anything, don't be afraid to ask.
No, I...
I won't be afraid.
No, I...
I won't be afraid.
Hmm.
For Suspense,
Romo Wines are bringing you Henry Morgan in Green Song.
Romo Wines presentation tonight in Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
Suspense, Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, is presented by Romo Wines.
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And now, Romo Wines bring back to our Hollywood soundstage, Henry Morgan, starring as Charles Kenyon,
with Wally Mayer as the inspector, and Joseph Kearns as Torsten in Dream Song,
a play well calculated to keep you in suspense.
For the first time in my life, I felt genuinely afraid, because it was something you couldn't know, couldn't fight.
An innocent knock on the door, you open it, the next thing that happens is you're found in a pool of blood.
With that intolerable canned music coming from next door.
I wondered what that Williams looked like, living next door.
Why should he play that one record over and over again when he had so many Torsten's at that?
And I wondered what he sounded like.
A house phone.
Yes, Mr. Kenyon?
Give me Mr. Williams' apartment, 2E.
The music started.
That meant he was in, and I could find out what he sounds like.
There's no answer. Shall I keep ringing, sir?
Why doesn't he answer? He's there.
Maybe he knows I'm calling.
Maybe he can hear me call.
Shall I keep ringing, sir?
Why doesn't he?
Never mind, operator, never mind.
I was certain that Williams had heard me call him on the phone.
Had been, as a matter of fact, waiting for me to call.
From that day on, I left peace of mind behind.
I thought of moving, but there was no place to go.
I smoked more and more.
I sat for hours in a dark movie in the park in the public library reading room.
And still that record revolved in my ears.
If only I could get to know who this Williams was, if I could get to see him.
If I could get to observe him somehow without his observing me.
I was in the park when I thought of it.
I could see our windows from the park.
I hurried home.
I searched in the drawer for my one war souvenir, my German liberated binoculars.
Powerful 8x50 Zeiss field glasses.
There they were, still dusty.
I wiped them with my shirt.
Went back downstairs to survey the terrain.
I hurried over to the park, my heart beating like a trip hammer.
Leaned against the body of an old auto.
Trying to look at ease.
I looked up at Williams' window.
The Venetian blinds were raised.
I looked around.
No one in sight.
Quickly I unslung my binoculars, held them up to my eyes.
What was I focused on?
That wasn't Williams' window, that was mine.
There was a window to the left.
Should be just about there.
There it was.
The window, just a few yards from it.
Having fun buddy?
No, no officer I...
See anything good?
Look officer I...
Yeah, yeah, I know.
You're trying to spot planes.
Yeah, trying to spot planes.
Why don't you try spotting them from the roof?
Well I never spotted anything from the roof.
Look wise guy, I'll give you a tip.
I'm easy going.
But when headquarters gets on my tail, I gotta play rough.
Now, somebody puts in a complaint, and I catch you causing trouble.
I'll run you in.
You understand?
Well I...
Well so far there's been no complaint.
Now let's just leave it that way, huh?
Let's just be it now before I change my mind.
For two days after that, the thought of that cop catching me with a binoculars made me tremble.
I found my hand shaking when I lit a cigarette.
Couldn't eat.
I knew that I must find some way to reassure myself about Williams or I'd lose my mind.
One morning, after I'd spent a sleepless night listening and watching,
the music went on.
My plan was to wait till the music stopped.
Possibly then Williams would go out.
And as soon as he left, I'd slip out and follow him.
I waited while that music ground out.
That metallic sediment squeezed out through a loudspeaker.
Nine o'clock.
Nine thirty.
Ten o'clock.
Ten thirty.
My head started to go round and round like the record under the needle.
Eleven o'clock.
The music still kept on and on and on.
Suddenly I sat up quickly.
Looked at my watch.
Three o'clock.
I was sleeping, but the record, it was still...
Mr. Williams?
Oh, Mr. Williams.
Torsten.
Mr. Kenyon.
Mr. Kenyon.
Torsten.
Torsten.
He always talks about blood.
Mr. Kenyon, did you say something?
Don't you come in here!
Don't come in here!
Mr. Kenyon, what's the matter?
You keep away from me!
Keep away?
All right, all right.
Only, I was just going to tell you, don't use the incinerator for a while.
We're cleaning it out for the next couple of hours.
And, uh, incinerator?
Yeah.
Oh.
Well, why tell me?
How do we tell everybody?
We don't keep it no secret.
Mr. Williams, too?
He pays his rent.
Only he's not home.
I just knocked, didn't I?
Yeah, but you came in here with a key.
Why?
Because I heard you yell like a bull.
I thought maybe something was wrong.
Maybe... maybe something is wrong with Mr. Williams.
Why don't you open his door?
Look, Mr. Kenyon, I don't go around opening people's doors
for the fun of it.
I got a job to keep.
I got the reputation to think of.
If you think a super's job is easy, you got it all wrong.
I didn't mean it that way.
Well, okay.
Only, please, don't use the incinerator, huh?
Why did Williams' record stop just before Torsten knocked?
Why didn't he answer Torsten's call?
He wanted privacy.
Privacy to play his record.
Every day for the next week, that music played at the strangest hours.
It became a personal message to me.
I was next.
Get ready, Kenyon.
You're next to have the floor of your apartment scraped,
the walls done over.
Many times I thought of calling the police,
but what could that do?
No one would believe me just because of a record.
No one would believe me without some proof.
That was it.
Proof, something that would stand up in court before a judge, before a jury.
Yeah, but before I could get that, he might creep into this room.
Slowly, quietly, while I was asleep, while I was in that bed,
helpless as a child.
Hour after hour, I walked the streets trying to think, to reason my way out.
Yesterday, I sat huddled in the chair all day.
The music didn't play at all.
About seven o'clock, I went out for something to eat.
In the evening paper, there was an item that could be the basis for a good short story.
When I got back, I started to clip it out.
Then I got my nerves again.
I locked the door.
I went to both the windows.
I locked one window.
Then I went to the other one.
Wait a minute.
This window was the window with the fire escape.
Whose window was that on the other side of the fire escape?
It was his window.
William's window.
I stared at it as though I were hypnotized.
The light was on.
That man, he was home.
Maybe I could crawl out on the platform peeking through the window.
Maybe I could get a look at him.
As I was thinking these thoughts, the music sounded.
And I started to sweat.
Cold, icy sweat.
I started to close the window, but I caught myself.
And I pushed it back open.
With the palms of my hands wet, I climbed up on the window ledge.
And I crawled out on the fire escape.
And I made my way along the iron bars as silently as I could.
The window was just in front of me.
And I felt my throat go dry.
I leaned my head over to try and look in.
I swallowed hard and tried to keep my body concealed.
The Venetian blinds were drawn all the way, but they were slanted in such a way that permitted me to see inside.
I craned my head forward and looked.
It was dark inside, but I could make out the living room.
And the photograph, large cabinet machine, there was a couch.
And there, there was a man.
It seemed as though he was dancing, swaying to the music.
They kept getting louder.
And he kept coming towards me.
Nearer, and nearer.
He must have seen me.
And I couldn't move.
And he kept coming nearer, moving in the shadows.
Nearer, nearer.
Nearer?
When I came out of it, I was in my own apartment, lying on my own couch.
And Inspector Fields was there, and a lot of other people.
He'll be okay now.
Did you get him?
Yeah, they got him. They think.
They think? Don't they know?
It was Williams. I saw him in his room. He was coming at me.
He was going to kill me. I was going to be next.
He was coming at me there in the dark.
Take it easy, King. Take it easy.
That wasn't Williams. That was me.
Oh.
Listen, Inspector.
There's something I haven't told you.
Something I heard.
The other two times.
Yeah, I thought it would sound crazy, but I heard music.
A song. An old song. An old record.
What was it?
It was I'll See You In My Dreams.
Heard it again tonight in Williams' room. He was playing.
I guess you heard it tonight, all right.
And I heard it the other two times, too.
The same way. Same song.
Maybe you heard it, and maybe you just thought you heard it.
How much do you remember?
Do you remember coming at me with those scissors?
Scissors?
In Kenyon, we found your other apartment.
The one you moved out of a month ago.
The other apartment?
And we found your wife.
I don't have a wife.
No, but you did.
And that song you were talking about, it was on the phonograph.
And your wife, she was dead.
MUSIC
They made me talk to a doctor today.
He said,
Hearing that song that way, I sort of remember Alice.
She was playing a record, and I was clipping something out of...
I don't know what to believe.
Because I thought the song was real, and the woman, the dead woman,
I thought that was a dream.
Just a bad dream.
They wouldn't hang a man for a dream, would they?
MUSIC
Suspense.
Dream Song, starring Henry Morgan, presented by Roma Wines.
That's R-O-M-A.
Roma Wines, America's largest selling wines.
This is Truman Bradley to tell you why Roma Wines are America's favorite wines.
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These better tasting Roma wines are placed with other mellow Roma wines
to a wait-later selection for your enjoyment from the world's greatest reserves of fine wines.
This weekend, treat your friends to the better taste of a fine Roma California wine,
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Discover for yourself why Roma wines, that's R-O-M-A,
Roma wines are enjoyed by more Americans than any other wines.
Tonight's Suspense play was by George Bellac and Ben Kerner.
Henry Morgan will soon be seen in his first starring picture,
the Screenplay Enterprise production, So This Is New York,
and may be heard every Wednesday night on another network for Evershop Chic.
Be sure to listen next Thursday, same time to Suspense,
produced and directed by William Spear for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California.
This is CBS for Columbia Broadcasting System.