And now, tonight's presentation of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
Tonight, we bring you a transcribed story of a day in the life of a woman who awaits
an execution.
We call it, The Murderess.
So now, starring Kathy Lewis, here is tonight's Suspense play, The Murderess.
She awoke earlier that morning, earlier than she had thought she would.
Purposely, she had gone to bed later the night before, read later, then to ensure the blessed
passage of unconscious time, taken something to make her sleep, something to keep her from
the slow morning hours.
The bedside clock showed 8 a.m., but she knew it sometimes ran slow, and so she picked up
the phone.
At the tone, the time will be 8.06 and 30 seconds.
Automatically, she adjusted the clock and noted the ashtray overflowing with half-smoked
cigarette studs.
Eleven hours and 53 and a half minutes, cheat the seconds and say, eleven hours and 53 minutes,
exactly.
It would be finished then.
Then she thought calmly, as she had promised herself she would think today.
I know I can't help thinking about it.
It's silly to try and push it away, but I've got to occupy myself with every minute, every
second, then the time will pass.
There's lots of things to do, and I'm lucky.
I didn't think I'd be able to sleep at all, and I did get five hours.
I'm lucky.
She got out of bed, and knowing the morning paper would be lying outside her door, she
perversely delayed the moment when she would bring it in, instead going to the kitchen
and turning on the flame under the kettle.
It was at that moment of brushing teeth, washing face, that she saw, for the first time that
day, the face in the mirror, her own.
And she was drawn to it, leaning close over the sink, examining, searching, seeing in
an instant a bright objectivity, another face, a stranger.
Murderer.
Murderess.
You.
You, not me, but you.
Your lips are chapped.
It's always this time of year they get that way.
You're a murderess.
You killed someone.
You killed him.
I saw you.
And when the face stared back unmoved, she was afraid, and reached up to touch the face,
to feel it, and know she was herself, and not the thing in the mirror.
It was 8.30 when she sat at the kitchen table to drink her tea, and opened the morning's
newspaper.
Bailey execution tonight.
March 27th, Margaret Bailey, convicted slayer of her husband John Bailey, is scheduled to
die in the electric chair tonight at 8 o'clock.
After a lengthy trial and prudeless appeals, the attractive widow was stale according to
her attorney, H. Hillman Adams, maintaining her innocence.
No official word has been received from the governor's office, but it's felt unlikely
that a last minute reprieve will be forthcoming.
Mrs. Bailey, who shot and killed her husband four months ago, is reported to have spent
the last night in prayer.
8.
That's not a good thing to do.
I mustn't read anymore.
When I go out, I won't look at the headlines on the newsstands.
I won't listen to the news broadcasts.
Not today.
It's very silly to read that.
I wonder if I'd be praying.
I wonder what she feels.
Who is it?
Laura, ma'am.
Morning, honey.
Laura.
I forgot.
You know I forgot you were coming today.
Honey, if I had a nickel for every time I forgot, my Annie used to say to me, Laura,
if you don't have your head screwed on tight, you'd forget it and leave it somewhere sure
as an angel.
I've got some coffee on.
That would be fine.
I never did get a decent coffee.
Everything was late.
Both was late.
One of those devil in the air mornings, I guess.
Queen of sugar?
No, ma'am.
I'm on my diet again.
Here.
Thank you.
It's a truly shame.
Poor woman.
Pretty thing.
At our ladies' meeting the other night, we were talking about it.
Most of us were talking about it.
Most of us don't think that she done it.
Oh, ain't it awful, Miss Marion, when you think there's a life that's going to be no
more in a few hours.
Laura, I just said last night in Kringle.
Bless her heart.
You know, Miss Marion, I guess I'm a silly, thoughtful woman, but I look at that face
and I say, Laura, that Mrs. Bailey, she's no murderer.
Just from her face I say that.
I don't think the court agrees with you, Laura.
Court?
Somebody had to pay, and they picked her.
Because if you ask me, with these elections coming up and everything, they had to find
her guilty.
That's silly.
Oh, ma'am, I don't think it purely is.
From what I read, there's lots of chances for another woman to have done it.
The other woman.
You sound just like one of those scandal magazines, Laura.
Laura.
Well, if you ask me right now, someone is sitting laughing to herself right this minute,
and she knows what she's done, and the good Lord will take care of her all right.
You see, you'd better start vacuuming as soon as you've finished your coffee, Laura.
I'm going to get dressed.
She knew it had been a mistake to sit down with Laura.
She'd wanted to make small talk.
The friendly, non-important things that passed the time were listening to Laura's pseudo-intellectual
philosophies which the cleaning woman so proudly expounded, and yet showing under the surface
almost profound wisdom.
She might even have talked to Laura about herself, of unhappiness, fear, relieving the
pressing weight without disclosing the secret.
But now, Laura was alien.
Laura suspected something that she knew.
It was ten o'clock, and there were ten more hours, until eight.
I'll get it, Laura.
Hello.
Hello, dear.
Hello, Mother.
How are you?
Fine.
Can I wake you up?
No, no, I've been up since eight.
Oh, is Laura there?
Yes.
Do you want to talk to her?
No, no, just tell her I'm expecting her on Monday.
I wasn't sure whether it would be Monday or Tuesday, but I decided Monday.
All right.
Are you all right here?
Yes, I'm fine.
You've got one of those headaches again.
I wish you'd go to the doctor about it.
It worried me so much.
I'm fine, Mother.
Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?
No, thanks.
Thanks, Mother.
I've got a date.
Oh?
It's nobody you know, Mother.
Well, that's all right, dear.
I thought you might like to watch TV.
There's a very good show at eight o'clock.
Jackie, maybe you could bring a date for dinner.
I'm sorry, Mother.
And we could watch the show at eight, and then you could go on to wherever you're going.
I told you, Mother, I can't.
Look, I've got to go now.
I'll talk to you soon.
Tomorrow.
All right, dear.
Goodbye.
Mrs. Barington, can you help me?
I want to move the cabinet, ma'am.
It hasn't been cleaned behind there since Noah.
Oh, all right.
You just take the corner, honey.
Don't strain yourself.
Just kind of lean.
I'll do the pushing.
Now.
Just a whiff of more.
There.
Oh, my, my, honey.
If you've been missing any bills and things, that's where they are.
Oh, whee.
I declare.
I'll take them, Laura.
Well, here you are.
Oh, what a nice-looking gentleman.
Give it to me.
I'm going to take it.
I'm going to take it.
I'm going to take it.
I'm going to take it.
Give it to me.
It's a picture of him.
I thought I'd lost it.
I thought it was lost.
She saw it.
His picture was in the papers.
She'll remember.
She'll think about it.
And she'll remember.
It's a picture of a cousin of mine.
I never liked him.
He was a black sheep.
You know what I mean.
I'm going to take it.
You know what I mean.
It caused a lot of trouble, Laura.
I'd almost forgotten all about him.
I'm sorry I was rude.
It just brought back very unpleasant memories.
Oh, why, sure.
That's all right.
I understand.
I had an uncle like that once.
All he looked at was hell.
But he didn't know.
That cousin of yours sure reminds me of somebody.
Somebody I've seen and I know.
Now, who could that be?
Hello.
This is Marvin Miller.
We'll return to our program in a moment.
But first, here's something to think about.
The United States of America is young among the nations of the world.
But it has proven the value of its way of life.
Perhaps the most important words in our national heritage are the first three words of the Constitution.
We, the people.
The people are in power.
Not an individual or a party or a group of individuals.
But the people as a whole.
The communists have corrupted this word people.
Just as they have made the words peace and freedom and liberty seem meaningless.
Ask the citizen in one of the communist people's republics just how much he has to say about how his government is run.
With us, the word means exactly what it says.
It means everybody, no exceptions.
And as citizens, we recognize our two responsibilities.
First, to know what our rights are.
And second, to defend those rights.
And now we bring back to our Hollywood soundstage, Miss Kathy Lewis.
Starring in tonight's production, The Murderous.
A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
It was new.
She had listened to the sounds of Laura vacuuming, kitchen harmonies, clinking of china, ring of silver.
She bathed and dressed automatically, slowly, always listening, waiting for a pause in Laura's clean ritual.
A pause that might indicate that she had remembered.
Remembered whose face it was in the photograph.
If she does remember and she comes to me, what will I say? Do.
And fastening the pearl necklace, hands momentarily frozen behind her neck, the sounds in the kitchen had stopped.
The clasp of the necklace was secured.
But all of the plans so carefully made to ease the passage of this terrible day were gone.
She knew she could never recapture them.
She thought.
But after tonight, it will be better.
And tomorrow and next week and next month, better.
It's only the waiting for tonight. That's all.
What about Laura?
The photograph.
Supposing she did remember him from newspaper pictures.
Supposing she knows and doesn't say anything to me, waits until I go out, then calls the police.
Be careful now, honey. It's slick over there.
Laura, I'm going out for a while. Get my hair washed. If anyone calls, tell them I'll be home by two or two thirty.
Yes, ma'am.
There's some cold cuts if you want some for lunch.
Oh, I'll be fine.
Just a cup of soup, that's all.
She put on her hat and coat and left the apartment, closing the door with unnecessary force.
At the elevator door, she stopped and waited for a few moments.
It's silly. She doesn't know anything, suspect anything.
Besides, she didn't have a chance to look at the picture for more than a second or two.
We believe her.
Lots of people resemble other people.
Unless, unless the police do suspect somebody else and they know it wasn't his wife.
But if the newspaper stories were just a trick trying to make me think that she was going to die tonight, knowing she's innocent.
Yes, I know. Yes.
Yes. Yes.
Well, I saw with my own eyes.
Yes.
Well, I'm just telling you what I know.
That's right.
Laura.
Mrs. Marion, I didn't hear you.
Who are you talking to, Laura?
My sister, my sister Mary.
No, baby, it's Mrs. Marion. I'll talk to you later.
Yes.
Goodbye.
Oh, you sure did scare the lights out of me, honey.
I'm sorry.
I forgot something.
And with the lie fresh on her lips, she went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, suddenly feeling pale and cold.
It was 12.15 on the bedroom clock.
She had called the hairdresser and canceled the appointment.
She knew that she couldn't leave the apartment, not at least until after Laura had gone.
And that wouldn't be until 4.30.
Laura had been calling the police.
She was convinced of that.
But I don't think they believed her.
Still, they might begin to wonder. They might investigate.
She was lying on the bed, arms folded behind her head, aware that her shoes were still on, sharp heels, endangering the lacy counterpane.
Not caring.
Hearing the sounds of Laura's humming and an occasional groan as she stooped to her work.
Even if they did come, they'd never find the picture.
They couldn't prove anything. I'd deny it.
But what would I have to deny?
I mustn't do that.
Then they would suspect.
I wish I could sleep.
This isn't the way it was supposed to be today.
I think I'll make some coffee.
Hello?
Alice?
No.
What number do you want?
Batting 35769.
You have the right number, but there's no one living here by that name.
I'm sorry.
You all right, honey?
Yes.
Well, you want me to make you a bite of something to eat?
I'm just going to make some coffee.
Well, maybe you'd feel more chipper if you...
You want me to answer?
I will.
Hello?
Alice?
Oh, I'm sorry. I guess it's still the wrong number.
Honey, you're real pale.
Why don't you take off your shoes and take a lie down?
Somebody trying to frighten me. That's the second time he called.
Now, you take yourself a nap. That'll fix you.
No, I don't want to.
Oh, but honey, you're all wrought up.
You got something troubling you, Miss Marion?
You want to tell me?
Why do you say that?
There's nothing wrong with me.
Was it seeing that cousin of yours, the one in the picture?
Now, you can tell Laura.
It was an old gentleman friend, not your cousin, wasn't it?
And seeing him upset you, didn't he?
I could tell.
Oh, well, I'll make you a cup of coffee.
Now, you lay down for a spell, and when I come back, you can talk it all out, honey.
Make you feel better.
You'd better get back to your work, Laura.
I'm going out now.
Honey, I'm worried about you. I wish you wouldn't go.
She didn't turn around, didn't answer the maid, pausing only for an instant to take up her pocketbook and coat.
Then she left the house.
For an hour, she walked in the city, aimless, not thinking, not seeing.
And it wasn't until she noticed a cruising patrol car that things drew back into focus.
Perhaps they're looking for me.
They found out.
They know.
I should have done something.
What?
Killed her?
Killed Laura?
Oh, I should...
Oh, like crazy, crazy, thinking things like that.
It's three o'clock.
Three.
Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Five hours. I'll go to a movie.
They wouldn't find me in there. They wouldn't think of looking there.
It'll pass the time.
She went into the first movie theater she saw, not looking at the marquee.
Made her admission, almost ran inside, then sank into the worn shiny seat and leaned back in semi-darkness and watched the flickering light on the screen before her, without seeing or caring about its content.
It was five o'clock when the second feature began playing.
For ten minutes she watched, now seeing and hearing because the fantasy had momentarily taken her out of herself.
Not seven, you jerk, eight. Look, I got 34 apples, right?
Right.
You take 30 from me, right?
Right.
But you're a good guy.
Max, he says I'm a good guy.
You give me back three. Yeah, I get seven now.
You got eight. Four and four is eight.
Oh, you ain't got no brains. It's arithmetic. Seven.
Eight. Seven. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Eight? Eight? Eight? Eight? Eight. Eight. Eight. Eight. Eight.
Eight. Eight. Eight. Eight. Eight.
He said, eight.
You heard him.
I heard him.
Eight it is.
Is he dead? Did you kill him?
You think I want to go to the chair?
She went out and didn't notice the side glances that she had ran down the street, her sobs catching in her throat, tears streaking her cheeks.
I killed him. He was bad. He should have been killed.
But they wouldn't understand. I wish it was tomorrow. Tomorrow.
I wish I was asleep. That I wouldn't wake up.
No. Then I'd be dead. She'll be dead at eight o'clock.
She'll be...
Oh, excuse me.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, officer.
You all right, ma'am?
Yes. Yes, I'm all right.
You sick?
Why? I don't look sick, do I? I'm fine.
You don't want to go wandering out on the street like that. You could get hurt.
Yes, I'm sorry. I'm late. Excuse me.
Sure.
The patrolman looked after her, puzzled, caught the eye of a bystander, shrugged, exchanged an understanding grin and continued his beat.
It was six o'clock when she turned into a quiet cocktail lounge on a side street, needing the drink now to forget to blot out the last two hours of waiting.
She couldn't go home. She knew they'd be waiting for her there.
Not be seen again on the street until it was dark, until after eight o'clock.
And she sat in the shadowed booth, drinking slowly, then faster and faster, hoping for the dulling of sensibilities.
I'm not drunk. And I want to be.
Well, alone. Alone?
Alone? Yes.
Can I, uh, buy you a drink?
A drink?
Oh, it's kind of lonesome sitting here, isn't it?
Oh, waitress.
She drank with him, and he was faceless, nobody. She didn't even care that he sat close to her in the booth, urging her...
How about another drink, honey?
Slyly, insinuating. He said things that she didn't hear. It passed the time.
What's the time?
Oh, it's early.
No, no, no. What time is it?
You got a date? Break it.
I think I'm drunk now.
That's okay. Who is it? We're having fun, are we?
What's the time?
Well, it's, uh, it's seven. What do you care? Hey, how would you like to go now?
What are you giving me?
I killed somebody, and I've got to go.
You're not feeling any pain, honey. Come on, let's have one for the road.
Goodbye.
Outside, it was dusk. She stood swaying for a moment, and the sidewalk tipped under her. She walked slowly, carefully.
In an hour, she'll be dead. In an hour.
I wonder how long it takes to die. I think I know how she must feel now.
Except she won't have to feel anymore. And I'll have to go on like this. Like today. Every day.
She stopped on the corner.
Arrow, beep beep. Arrow, beep beep. Bailey Giller dies tonight. Beep beep.
Paper lady?
No. I don't think so. Is, is there a police station anywhere near here?
Five blocks down, on your right.
Thank you.
It was quarter past seven when she went into the police station and said to the sergeant.
I want to give myself up.
I killed John Bailey.