Tonight, Suspense brings you an all-star cast of Hollywood's finest radio players in the
premiere of a remarkable story by Ray Bradbury called Rebushinska.
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And now, Shenley brings you Radio's outstanding theater of thrill, Suspense.
Presented by Roma Wines.
That's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines of Fresno, California, for your everyday enjoyment.
Tonight, starring Joseph Kearns, Laurene Tuttle, Wally Mayer, and Armina Feige and
Rebushinsky, a Suspense play produced, edited, and directed for Shenley by William Spear.
Mr. Ockham had a look about him in depth as he had had in life.
A general appearance which might prompt one to say, there's a man who will one day be
stabbed or shot or booted in the head.
And although Mr. Ockham had not met his end in any of the aforementioned ways, he had
been strangled.
And he was dead.
Dead on the floor of a theater cellar.
Yes, Mr. Ockham was deceased.
And nobody seemed to care.
Nobody but Detective Lieutenant Krovich, who had been sent down to have a look around.
On a table he saw a small polished bronze box with certain words on the lid which read,
Ria Buczynska, property of John Fabian, world's greatest ventriloquist.
Krovich looked from the box to the three figures standing stiffly before him.
They were John Fabian, ventriloquist, Alice, his wife, and Bernard Douglas, Fabian's press
agent.
And as Krovich lit his cigar, it happened.
Let me out.
Let me out.
Four people looked with startled eyes at the box on the table.
Then Fabian, the ventriloquist, stepped forward and spoke earnestly.
No, Ria.
This is serious business, darling.
You stay where you are.
Please, don't, John.
You should be kind to me now after what happened.
If you don't mind, Fabian, we'll have the dummy act at another time.
Now let's get this matter clear.
Each of you testify that you don't know who this dead Mr. Akamiz, yet he told the stage
manager tonight that he knew Mr. Fabian and wanted to see him about something important.
Let me out.
Oh, stop it, Fabian.
Pay no attention to her, Lieutenant.
Her?
You mean you.
What is this?
Get together, you two.
Never be together again.
Never again, I'll keep the night.
Give me the key to the box, Fabian.
Thank you.
Kravitz stood motionless, just looking down, seeing Ria Bushinska lying in her box and
not believing what he saw.
He thought, there were nights in life when you dreamed, and this is what you dreamed.
There were women you saw in life, far down the street, walking, fragile, far away, unattainable,
and this tiny figure was one of them.
There were voices that you heard singing high in a dark church loft, voices that made the
candle flame shudder and dance to every cadence, and this was one of those voices.
On a summer afternoon, you watched a spider gracefully spinning its cloudy web, and now
that web was Ria Bushinska's evening dress, here and now.
You had heard of honesty and intelligence and frankness and unafraidness all your life,
and now it looked straight up at you, fearlessly, shining from a puppet's eye.
She was so beautiful, your throat closed, and you were sad because you knew that she
was only a puppet.
John Fabian tenderly picked up Ria Bushinska.
Oh, isn't she beautiful?
She's carved from the finest wood Ria Bushinska is.
She's appeared in London, Paris, Rome, New York.
Everyone in the world knows her and loves her.
Many people question Ria Bushinska's authenticity.
They think she's really alive, that she's a midget.
People just cannot believe she's constructed of wood.
John Fabian's wife, Alice, stood glaring at her husband with a look of pure hatred, but
he was aware of no one but the lifelike figure he held in his arms, and speaking to him,
it said...
Please don't go on about me, John.
Alice doesn't like it.
Alice has never liked anything about you, Ria.
Shh, don't.
Not here and not now, John.
Tell me, Lieutenant, how did it all happen?
I mean about poor Mr. Ockham.
What is this?
You'd best return to your box, Ria Bushinska.
But I don't want to.
I have as much right to listen and talk.
I'm as much a part of this murder as Alice.
Or Mr. Douglassy.
Don't drag me into this, you little witch.
And the manner in which he replied made it obvious that Ria Bushinska was more than an
illusion to him, for he reacted to her as to a real person.
It's just that I want the truth to be told.
And if I'm locked in my brun's casket, there will be no truth.
But John Fabian is a consummate liar, and I must watch him.
That's right, isn't it, John?
Yes, I imagine it is.
John loves me best of all the women in the world.
And I love him, and try to understand this wrong way of thinking.
We're wasting time.
If you think you'll interfere with my investigation, Fabian.
Lieutenant, I am helpless.
But she's in your throat.
No.
She is in my heart, which is much deeper.
Sometimes I'm powerless.
Sometimes she is only herself.
Nothing of me at all.
Sometimes she tells me what to do, and I must do it.
She watches over me, reprimands me as honest where I am dishonest, ethical where I am wicked
as old sin.
She lives her life, I live mine.
She's raised a wall in my head between herself and me, and she lives there, ignoring me if
I try to make her say improper things, but cooperating if I suggest the correct words
and pantomime.
So if you intend going on, I'm afraid Rhea must be present.
No, locking her up will do no good.
Lieutenant Krovich sat quietly for a few moments.
Then he seemed to make a decision.
All right, all right.
Let her stay.
Maybe before the night's over, I'll be tired enough to ask even a ventriloquist's dummy
questions.
For suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you Rhea Buczynska, Roma Wines' presentation
tonight in Radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, Suspense.
Suspense, Radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, is presented by Roma Wines.
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And now Roma Wines bring back to our Hollywood sound stage our minofige as narrator Joseph
Kearns as Fabian the ventriloquist and Wally Mayer as Detective Krovich in Rea Bushinska,
a play well calculated to keep you in suspense.
Once more, Mr. Douglas, do you recognize the dead man?
No.
He looks somewhat familiar, an actor type, I believe.
One of you three is lying.
From the condition of Alcom's shoes, his worn clothing, he needed money.
Are you in love with Mrs. Fabian?
Why, I...
Really, Lieutenant?
I've been watching you.
Your actions.
My actions?
Yes, yes, the way you look at Rea Bushinska's box, the way you hold your breath when she
appears, the way you knock your fingers when she talks, the way you stare at her.
If you think for one moment that I'm jealous of a little piece of wood...
Aren't you?
No, I'm not jealous of her.
You needn't tell him, Alice.
Let her.
They all stared at the figurine, even Fabian the ventriloquist, as if her cry had come from
an alien throat.
Alice, tell them.
I married John seven years ago.
He said he loved me.
I loved him and I loved Rea Bushinska too, at first anyway.
But then I began to see that he really paid more attention to her than he did to me.
I began to feel hatred.
Not for Rea Bushinska because it wasn't her fault, but I felt a terrible hatred for John
because I knew it was all his fault.
His cleverness, his sadistic temperament.
Each jealousy on my part was a tribute to the perfection of his art.
She came out of him like a woman out of a dark god.
But I don't hate Rea.
She's lovely, sweet and honest.
Something that John isn't.
Tell about Mr. Douglas.
When I got no understanding, no love from John, I turned to Mr. Douglas.
Aha.
The dead man was a blackmailer.
He came to the theater tonight to see a husband about you.
You killed him to prevent that interview.
I didn't kill him.
Douglas might have and not told you.
Why kill a man?
John knew all about it.
I did indeed.
The next day, Lieutenant Krovich was back.
Yes, come in.
Fabian, I have something here which might interest you.
With a tight grin on his face, Lieutenant Krovich held out the photograph of a woman.
Fabian stared at the shiny picture before him and then he fell back in his chair.
He shut his eyes as if with great ache in his head.
Krovich turned the picture over carefully and began to read from the typewritten dot
on the back.
Name, Ilya Riemansk.
Weight 100 pounds, blue eyes, black hair, oval face.
Born 1914, New York City.
Disappeared 1934.
Believed a victim of amnesia of Russian Slav heritage.
Oh no.
You know, Fabian, it was pretty silly to go through the files for a picture of a ventriloquist
dummy.
They all laughed at headquarters.
And yet, yet here she is, Ria Buchinska.
Not paper mache, not wood, not a puppet.
But a woman who once lived and moved about and disappeared.
Take it from there, Fabian.
Lieutenant, there's nothing to it.
I saw her picture long ago.
I backed her looks and copied my puppet after her.
Nothing to it, huh?
Listen, Fabian, this morning I went through a stack of billboard magazines that high.
In the year 1934 I found an interesting article concerning an act playing the smaller circuits
known as Fabian and Sweet William.
Sweet William was a little male dummy.
As usual in such acts, there was a girl assistant, Ilya Riamansk.
Look at that picture.
The resemblance between the real woman on one hand and Ria Buchinska, the puppet on
the other, is startling.
She was my assistant.
But that was all.
I simply used her as a model.
It all starts and ends with Ria Buchinska.
Why should you love a puppet so intensely?
Because you love the original woman intensely.
All right, all right.
In 1934 I was billed as Fabian and Sweet William.
Sweet William was a small, bulb-nosed little boy dummy I carved years ago.
I was playing Los Angeles when this girl, Ilya Riamansk, appeared at the stage door
one night.
She wanted a job.
I remember, it was autumn.
John Fabian remembered Ilya Riamansk in the half-light of the stage alley.
He remembered how startled he was at her fresh beauty, her eagerness, the way the rain when
it came down through the narrow alley caught in her dark hair and touched her feverish
cheeks.
She became his assistant, worked in the act, and in four short months he who had always
denied and scoffed at love became hopelessly lost with this woman.
Then there were arguments and things much more than arguments, things done and said
that were violent and unfair.
He wanted her to marry him.
She never quite accepted.
He went into hysterical rages at her once he destroyed her wardrobe.
Not much she had taken, but it was somewhat different on that last night when he had shouted
at her, taken hold of her, and slapped her brutally three times across the face.
And Ilya Riamansk vanished that night, vanished.
The police questioned me.
There was talk of murder, but she was gone with no trace.
A record of her was sent to all the larger cities.
That was the end of it for the police, but not for me.
The knowledge of her going was too much.
She might be dead or just run away, but wherever she was I knew I needed her.
One night I returned home more depressed than usual.
I collapsed on a chair, and before I knew it I found myself speaking to sweet William
in the totally dark room.
William, William.
Oh, this is all over and done.
I can't go on.
Coward, you can get her back if you want.
No, I can't.
No, I can never get her back.
Yes, yes you can.
Think.
Think of a way to get her back.
Think of a way.
Come on.
You can do it.
Put me away.
Start all over.
Start all over?
Yes.
Begin carving.
Exactly.
And slowly and lovingly carving.
Make the little arching nostrils just so.
And cut her black thin eyebrows round and high.
And make her cheeks in small duplicate hollows and...
No, it's monstrous.
I can never do it.
Yes, yes you could.
Yes, you could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
You could.
And the voice faded away like a water ripple in a dark cave.
Blackness rushed over Fabian.
His head fell forward.
He whimpered.
And sweet William sighed.
And then they both lay silent and solemnly unconscious.
The next morning John Fabian purchased the best grain piece of wood he could buy.
But when he reached home, despair seized him.
How could he fashion his warm ear from this cold wood?
How could he shape this dumb block of dead substance into anything faintly approximating her glowing life?
Go on, go on.
It was sweet William who egged him on.
You can do it.
And for twenty weeks he worked.
He carved her hands into things as natural and beautiful as shells lying in the sun.
And sweet William lay dust cloaked in his box.
From time to time, feebly corking some sarcasm, some criticism, some hint, some help.
But he was dying, soon to be untouched inanimate wood.
As weeks passed and Fabian molded and scraped and polished the new wood, sweet William lay longer and longer in stricken silence.
Then one day, as Fabian held the puppet in his hand, sweet William seemed to look at him a moment with puzzled eyes.
And then there was a death rattle in his throat.
And sweet William was gone.
And now as Fabian carved, a fluttering, an attempting of speech in his throat began echoing, re-echoing the sounds of Ilya Riamansk.
At the air's ending he was thinned and without money.
But by then he had searched his stream of consciousness, experimented and given to the Tao all the gracious mannerisms and shy gestures of the real woman.
And then at last he held Ilya Riamansk in his arms again.
They were together. He could talk to her and she could reply.
And the first thing he made the little creature say was, I love you John Fabian.
Oh Riam.
I see. And your wife?
Alice. She was another of my assistants. She did her work well. She loved me. I don't know why I married her.
I see. What about the dead man, Archimald?
I'd never seen him before until you showed me his body in the cellar.
That's not true. Don't lie John Fabian.
Fabian's cheeks drained white and the bones jotted out tensely. The puppet spoke looking straight at Krovich.
John received the first blackmail letter a month ago.
It said simply, Ria Bushinska born 1914, died 1934, born again in 1930.
Fabian seemed paralyzed, unable to answer. He had a trapped, helpless, insane expression.
His lips trembled. He searched the room as if seeking some way out for a frustration and a truth did not wait to bar his way.
How come you threaten to expose me to the world?
Go on.
I wanted my love for Ilya kept to myself. What sort of a love would it be in the future if people really guessed the significance of my carving this figurine that talked and moved?
People would laugh or be disgusted. Perverted, criminal mind they'd shout. Ugly, horrible, revolting.
And how could I play my love scenes with Ria anymore? When they knew.
Not when with every word I uttered someone in the audience would nudge someone else in a whisper.
She lived once, you know, but disappeared. They say he killed her. They say he loved her.
How much did Arkham want?
A thousand dollars to start with. And more later.
And so you killed him.
No, I didn't kill Arkham, Lieutenant. I paid him one thousand dollars.
We found no money on him.
Nevertheless, I paid him. Alice and Douglas must have heard our conversation. They've wanted to be rid of me for years now. I'm not blind.
Alice saw a way of ridding herself of me and getting some money too. Why, she's nothing but a-
Just a moment. There's something I wish to say. And yet I can't say it.
Skovich turned. He saw John Fabian's eyes widen in his head, as if a terrible conflict were raging, fighting within.
His throat convulsed again and again, and lines cut deep as cheeks, and the hollows of his face sank in.
I... I was in the room when Mr. Arkham came.
No, Noria.
I lay in my bunk, and I listened, and I heard, and I know-
No, no-
Mr. Arkham threatened to destroy me, tear me up, bury me into ashes, if John didn't pay him a thousand dollars.
Alice... then suddenly-
There came a falling sound. Mr. Arkham's head must have struck the floor.
I heard Mr. Fabian cry out, swearing and sobbing all in one.
I heard a hissing, gasping, choking, horrible sound.
You heard nothing. You're deaf and dumb and blind and lifeless. You heard nothing. Your ears are calm.
But they hear. And then the hissing, the hissing, choking sound stopped.
I heard John drag Mr. Arkham to the door, open it, and take Mr. Arkham down the stairs, under the theater,
toward the old dressing room that hadn't been used in years.
Down! Down they come to the barn!
It was a scene so incongruous, so impossible, so completely beyond the veil of sanity and reason that Corbett's recoil even be watched.
If ever in the time of the world the forces that manipulate man struggled one side against the other, this was the time.
The shocked, pallid face of John Fabian wrenching, the horrible protrusion of the eyes, the clenching of the teeth at the center,
then relaxing again, the subtle move of the throat, and the high, sad and...
...crusative voice of Rio Bucinsca leaping from her tiny, shining lips.
Fabian must have known what was happening, and yet he did not know.
I'm not made to live this way. There is nothing for us now, anyway, because the world will know of us.
Even when you killed him when I lay in my bronze box last night, I realized, we both realized that these were our last hours.
Because while I've accepted your weaknesses and lies, I can't exist in murder.
It couldn't have gone on. No one can live side by side with such knowledge.
Fabian took her in his arms and held her high into the warm sunlight.
She looked down at him with her clear, honest way of seeing him. There were angry, helpless tears in his eyes.
His hands shook, and in shaking made her tremble too, her mouth closed and open, silent, gaping and shutting again and again with no words.
Fabian began to sob. He closed his fingers unbelievably around his own throat, his eyes numbed.
He looked like a man trying to remember something beautiful, her voice, how it sounded, how to make it sound again, how to make her take back all she had said that was the truth.
No, she's gone. She's gone, and I can't find her. I try, but I can't find her.
She's run off behind the dark wall, and so deep down and far away in the night, I'll never be able to find her again. Yes, she's gone.
Raya Boshinska slipped bonelessly from his limp hand, folded over and glided noiselessly down to lie upon the cold, dirty floor, her eyes closed, her mouth gently sealed.
Fabian didn't even look at her as Krovich led him away.
Suspense!
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This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
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