Suspense.
And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure,
William M. Robeson.
Everybody knows it is unwise to pick up hitchhikers.
It is especially unwise if you are young and pretty and driving a very powerful foreign
sports car.
You run the risk of losing your money, your car, your life, and possibly your heart, depending
on the hitchhiker.
Listen.
Listen to Miss Barbara Whiting, starring in The Rim of Terror, a tale well calculated
to keep you in...
Suspense.
I don't know why I gave him a lift.
Even now with the terror gone like a half-remembered nightmare, I can't be sure why I stopped my
big Mercedes on that lonely road in Nevada and gave him a lift.
Maybe because he looked so bedraggled standing there, headless in the rain, by the side of
the road.
Maybe because he smiled grimly, almost with a sneer that was a challenge.
I don't know.
Anyway, I slammed on the brakes and he walked slowly up to the car.
Torkel, my big husky, stiffened on the seat beside me.
Quiet, Torkel.
So you decided I don't look like too much of a risk, huh?
Not at all.
Please get in.
You look very wet.
As a matter of fact, I am very wet.
Backseat, Torkel.
Torkel, is it?
How are you, Torkel?
Well, it's quite a dark.
I'll bet he could easily kill a man, huh?
He's really quite well behaved and he wouldn't attack without orders.
You have made yourself quite clear.
This is an impressive machine.
I love it, but I'm really not used to it yet.
I just got it last week.
You drive it very well.
Thank you, but I don't really.
Where are we now?
Well, I'd say about 25 miles east of Winamucca.
You're new to this part of the country?
Yes and no.
I've never seen that view before.
It's breathtaking.
So much different from back home.
Back home?
Vermont.
This is the first time I've ever been in the West and I love it.
The scenery is so...
Yeah, but this particular scenery doesn't appeal to me very much at the moment.
Why not?
I'd say that there's someone waiting for us down there.
Look.
I looked.
Far below on the valley floor was a fork in the road and an abandoned building.
Near it was a black speck that looked like a wagon and two smaller black specks that
moved.
Men, no doubt, though from here they looked like ants.
I'd suggest slowing down.
Not much, though.
I expect they are watching us through field glasses.
Who?
You let me out here.
What?
This cut hides us from them.
Stop the car.
Sorry, our ride together must end so soon.
Don't be afraid.
You have your dog sit on the front seat and keep him there until you are safe in Winamucca.
I don't understand.
You know what a roadblock is?
Roadblock?
Are the police after you?
Not the police of this country.
You just tell them that you haven't seen me and they'll pass you on all right.
Goodbye.
Thank you.
He turned and started climbing the seat bank at the side of the road.
He stopped halfway to the top and impatiently motions me to go on.
I slipped the car into gear, I motioned Torkel into the front seat, and started down the pass
into the desert valley.
A couple of miles further at the forks, the road was blocked by a black delivery truck.
I was almost tempted to swing around it, but the man in the plastic raincoat who held
his hand up so casually didn't look dangerous at all, so I came to a stop.
The man in a black raincoat was leaning against the truck trying to clean the mud from his
shoes.
Across the panel of the truck was a sign that read, Nevada Public Opinion Surveys, Carson
City.
I felt a little silly for feeling scared a moment before.
Howdy, miss.
We're making a traffic check.
Yes?
You mind answering a few questions?
Only take a minute.
What do you want to know?
Well, now let's see.
Where are you from?
Vermont.
Vermont?
Well, I declare, we don't get many tourists from Vermont.
You come all this way all alone?
Well, I don't suppose you'd count my dog as a passenger.
Guess not.
Although I always say a dog's a man's or a woman's best friend.
Nobody else with you?
No.
Have you given any rides to hitchhikers?
No.
Through the windshield, I saw the man in the black raincoat reach into the van.
There was a smear of yellow paint on his raincoat, and the letters on the neat sign were blurred.
It had been freshly painted, and the paint had rubbed off when he leaned against the
sign a moment ago.
Well, even if you've given somebody just a short ride, we have to put it down.
It's for the statistical average.
I'm sorry, but I've lost too much time already.
I can't answer any more of your questions.
Let's quit stalling, Mr. Smith.
The man in the black raincoat was beside the car now, peering in over the interviewer's
shoulder.
Somebody's been sitting in the seat next to Curlyhead there.
You can see where the seat's wet.
Ma'am, you can see for yourself you've had somebody sitting in that seat not very long
ago.
My dog.
Your dog's dry as a bone, ma'am.
I'll search the trunk compartment.
Maybe she's got him hidden there.
Get her keys, will you?
Take your hand off the steering wheel.
Now, ma'am, just give me the keys.
Tarkle?
I had no idea the Mercedes had such power.
It leaped forward.
As I swung it around, clipping the front bumper of the delivery truck, skidding across the
wet road, throwing a sheet of liquid mud over the two men.
Through the rearview mirror, I could see them running up the road after me, then stop and
give up.
I shifted into fourth and headed back up the mountain at 80 miles an hour.
And then as I rocked the curb, there he was again, my passenger, laboriously clambering
down the bank at the side of the road.
He waved to me when he heard the car.
And again, I don't know why I stopped.
Maybe it was because he was limping now.
Maybe because his figure looked so tiny and alone and all that vastness.
Maybe it was because I remembered the cruel blue eyes of the red-haired interviewer behind
his thick glasses.
Anyway, again I stopped.
Backseat, Tarkle.
Get in.
I'm driving back to the main highway.
I can take you into town that way.
I wouldn't have held you only.
I twisted my ankle up there.
I'm sorry.
What happened?
Lose your nerve?
I'm afraid I did.
After they saw the damp mark your suit had made and the man reached for the ignition
key, I guess I lost my nerve.
Where was the third man?
There wasn't one.
Well, he must have been hiding.
Was one of them red-headed with glasses?
Yes.
The other one called him Mr. Smith.
What's this all about?
Who are they?
Who are you?
Well, I suppose I owe you some kind of an explanation.
My driver's license and army discharge say that I am Peter Whittlesey of Elko, Nevada,
but they are very excellent forgeries.
Forgeries?
Well, yeah.
You see, I am...
Oh, right, I was a spy.
What?
Yeah.
I landed in San Francisco three days ago in the crew of a little Greek freighter.
Mr. Smith met me.
And his assignment was to get me from my ship to my new job.
Where?
Los Alamos, New Mexico?
Naturally.
I docked him last night.
Why are you stopping?
Get out.
Oh, how far can I walk on this foot?
Please, just get out.
When you picked me up, I was on my way to the police to give myself up.
It's my only way to get away from them.
You must believe me.
It sounds like a bad movie.
Now get out.
Well, what about that bullet hole?
What bullet hole?
In the windshield.
Oh, I didn't see it before.
Who?
My friend Mr. Smith, of course.
I suppose I didn't hear the gun over the sound of the motor.
Do you believe me now?
Maybe I do.
You see, when you have been sent on a mission into a country by the left arm, you are not
supposed to change your mind and go over to the other side.
They don't like it.
The left arm?
What's that, a fifth column?
Well, I suppose you could call it that.
How come you speak English so well if you're a foreigner sent here by the left arm?
Foreigner?
I was born right here in Nevada, and this is the only way I could get back home.
Now please, don't make me get out.
Take me to the nearest police station, will you?
Please?
I suppose it was my New England conscience, or maybe just plain old curiosity.
Or maybe, well, he was attractive.
From the twisting downgrade into Winnemucca, I learned his story.
How he'd been born in Nevada of Central European immigrant parents.
How he'd been taken back to their homeland when he was a little boy.
And after the war, had been educated by the new regime as an undercover agent.
How he had passed every test and resisted every temptation his teachers offered in his
one desire to return home to America.
And believe me, America is home.
I was born here.
I want to live here, work here, and to die here.
Do you think the police will believe you?
I don't know.
Do you?
I want to, but it's a pretty wild story.
But it is true, every word of it.
I know it is.
I feel it is.
Thank you.
And now, tell me a little bit about you, poor little rich girl.
Don't let this beautiful car fool you.
I came into a little money a while ago, and well, it's the only extravagance I've ever
indulged in in my life.
Well, I must say, when you decide to be extravagant, you don't do it by halves.
Ah, there.
There's the city hall.
The police station must be there.
You can drop me here on the corner, and you won't waste any time getting through town.
You know, I don't even know your name, so thank you.
Elizabeth Whitehill.
I shall never forget it.
Nor your face.
You're forgetting your coat.
Oh, thank you.
My real name is Alex Peck.
Well, I hope I shall see you again someday.
Until then, do wish me luck.
I do, Alex.
Yeah.
Goodbye, and thanks.
He turned and was gone, limping across the courthouse square, and I suddenly felt very
much alone.
I wanted to call after him, but of course I didn't.
No, I slipped the mercenaries into gear and followed the main highway out of town.
Ahead of me lay Seattle and Charles, good, safe Charles who wanted to marry me.
My little adventure was over, and I was glad.
I kept telling myself I was glad while I munched on a sandwich in a roadside stand on the outskirts
of town.
I kept telling myself that I'd gotten off easy, but I kept thinking of those pale, vicious
blue eyes of Mr. Smith and the way Alex had slumped and fatigued like a very tired little
boy.
The sandwich lost its taste.
I left it uneaten and started west once more for Highway 45 and the straight road across
Idaho and Oregon for Seattle.
And then a few miles further, Torkle nudged my arm.
I glanced at him and slowed down.
He had a wallet in his mouth.
Alex's wallet.
It must have dropped out of his coat as he left the car.
He'd need it.
It was part of the proof of his story.
Without it, he might be delayed too long in that little police station in Winnemucca.
But that really wasn't my problem.
Let him worry about it.
If I went back now, I would be involved forever and ever with this strange, dark young man
whose tired face swam before my eyes.
I swung into a side road, whipped into reverse and straightened out on the road back to Winnemucca.
There was no time to lose.
I let the car out.
80, 90.
I didn't know it had such speed.
100, 105 on one straight stretch.
And then down to a cautious 55 as I entered the town limits until I pulled up before the
police station.
Stay, Torkle.
Ma'am?
Are you the officer in charge here?
I'm Sergeant Helding.
I'm looking for Mr. Alexander Peck.
I drove him here not more than half an hour ago.
Mr. Peck left his papers in my car.
I thought he might want them, so I brought them back.
He's gone, ma'am.
Gone?
Ma'am, you don't know how lucky you were.
That fellow was a lunatic.
Lunatic?
Sure.
His name is Peter Whittlesey from ALCO.
Now you're in a fruitcake.
He escaped from the Carson City Asylum last night.
They came for him in a wagon.
A black panel truck?
That's right.
Had Carson City State Asylum painted on the panel.
And fresh paint.
Pardon, ma'am?
Oh, you've made a dreadful mistake.
That's the same truck that stopped me back at Indian Forks.
It must be.
You're one of the most stupid, incompetent ignoramuses that ever sent a man to be tortured.
Yes, and perhaps murdered.
Now, ma'am, ma'am's a mighty hard word.
And I mean every one of them.
Now, ma'am, let's not have any sass out of you.
You're too nice a gal to go around picking up strangers.
Just run along now, ma'am.
We're pretty busy here.
But you don't understand.
Understand?
You're wasting our time.
Good day, ma'am.
Oh.
Just a minute, miss.
What?
That's your car over there, that imported hot rod?
Yes.
Do you have any idea how fast you were going when you passed the airport?
Why, I...
I'll tell you.
I was doing 90 on my motorcycle and you walked right away from me.
I've got a good mind to throw the book at you.
In just a moment, we will continue with Suspense.
On Sunday, December 16th, CBS Radio will recapitulate the news stories that impressed you most during
1956 on a special broadcast called The Big News of 56.
In order to do so, we need your help.
Please write us and let us know which of the year's developments had the biggest impact
on you.
Write to Big News of 56, Care of CBS News, 485 Madison Avenue, New York, 22, New York.
Do let us know as soon as possible so CBS News can know what you want to hear on the
recreation of The Big News of 56 on Sunday, December 16th.
And now, we continue with Miss Barbara Whiting in The Rim of Terror, a tale well calculated
to keep you in suspense.
He was tall and capable looking, this state trooper.
He had a kind face even if he was threatening to throw the book at me.
So I told him the whole story, every bit of it, and he seemed to believe me.
All right, all right.
Look, that van can't go much faster than 50, 55.
My bike can do close to 100.
Now, we didn't run into the van coming into town from the north, so I guess it's traveling
along the highway, South Torino, or maybe to California.
I can catch it and stop it, sure.
So what?
How do I know the guy isn't a lunatic and the van isn't on the level?
I've got to have identification.
Why don't I follow you?
Yeah, yeah.
If you can identify them as the men who stopped you and tried to shoot you, I got a case.
I'll make them wish they'd never been born.
Come on, let's go.
Once outside the city limits, the motorcycle leaped forward.
I held the car at 60 until the officer was a half a mile ahead of me.
Then I accelerated to keep the distance constant.
The decometer crept up to 4,500, 5,000, 6,000 revolutions per minute.
The cars we passed were silent blurs, respectfully pulling to one side at the scream of the
motorcycle siren.
Then, the engine started to rev.
I was in the middle of the road.
I was driving.
Then, down the shimmering surface of the road, miles ahead of us, appeared a lurching black
speck.
It was the van.
The trooper waved his arm for me to slow down and swung alongside the truck.
It was like watching a jerky movie from a great distance.
Suddenly the motorcycle swerved away and the trooper was firing his gun.
The van lurched into the ditch.
The motorcycle slid across the road, throwing the officer onto the pavement.
The man in the black raincoat stepped down from the van and walked toward the fallen
trooper, stopped and fired his gun.
And then the trooper raised his arm and fired.
The man in the black coat fell forward, caught his balance, and then slumped to the ground
like a puppet with a broken string.
I slipped into gear and drove up to the truck.
The man in the black raincoat was lying on his back, staring sightlessly at the sky,
a little red hole in this forehead.
The trooper was sprawled out on the shoulder of the road, a trickle of blood from his chest
soaking into the sand.
Another man was slumped against the wheel of the van.
They were all dead.
And neither of the two men from the truck was Mr. Smith.
Neither had pinkish red hair.
Mr. Smith wasn't there.
Mr. Smith still lived to avenge and pursue.
But somebody else in this silent scene of death was alive.
Somebody inside the truck was scratching at the bolted door.
I opened the back doors of the van.
There he was.
There, strapped in a straightjacket, was Alex.
It wasn't until I'd untied him and had him safely out of the truck that I became faint.
It's all over.
This part at least.
There's no reason to shiver and shake.
I can't stop.
It's shock.
Now, let's pick up the pieces.
How did you get here?
I found your wallet.
Go on, make yourself talk.
You dropped it to my car.
I thought you'd needed it at the police station.
Ah, are you well enough to drive that machine of yours?
I...
I think so.
Where?
That depends on what happened to Mr. Smith.
Where is he?
I haven't the slightest idea, but he is looking for us.
You can be sure of that.
We have got to get away from here.
All right.
I'm ready.
Come on.
Wait a minute.
What happened to you?
What do you mean?
That red stain on your jacket.
Is it blood?
Oh, no, I don't think so.
Ah, the cans of paint in the back of the truck.
When you untied me, you must have spilled them.
Take it off.
Why?
You want people to ask questions.
Come on.
Get in, start the motor, and give me that jacket.
What are you going to do?
Ditch it.
There's a car coming.
Now, come on, let's go.
Good.
It's in a dip about a couple of miles back.
They didn't see us.
My mother knit that jacket for me.
Good.
Then you know where you can have it replaced.
Where are you headed?
We'll drive straight through to Seattle.
Seattle?
Too far.
No, no, listen.
My friend in Seattle, Charles Matthews, he'll know what to do.
He has connections, even in Washington.
He may not be too willing to help me.
Under the circumstances, I could hardly blame him.
Charles is bigger than that.
I wonder.
Two hours later, we were 120 miles near Seattle, and filling the gas tank at a lonely motor
court, set in a clump of scraggly pine.
Here's the thirsty bus you got there, ma'am.
Took almost 20 gallons.
Yes, it was nearly empty.
That'll be 528.
Will you cash a traveler's check?
Sure will.
All right, just a...
Alex.
What?
My traveler's checks.
They were pinned inside my jacket.
The jacket you threw away.
We'll have to go back.
Do you have any idea what that piece of road will be like now?
Half the population of Wintermarket driving out to see where that gun battle occurred.
But Alex, that's all the money I have in the world.
You can't stop payment on them.
You can get your money back.
I'm not going to pay you back.
I'm going to pay you back.
I'm not going to pay you back.
We can make it with half a dollar to spare.
Here you are, young man.
Thank you. Come again.
How are we going to get to Seattle on 50 cents?
At the moment, I haven't the slightest idea.
This tank full of gasoline won't take us half the way.
You could phone your boyfriend, collect, tell him we are strapped,
and ask him to wire you some money, huh?
I couldn't ask Charles for money.
Why not?
You wouldn't understand.
If you don't want to ask him for money, don't.
I'll figure out something.
Like robbing a bank?
Maybe.
With your training, that shouldn't be too difficult.
Perhaps.
Oh, I'm sorry. That was unkind of me.
Why do you suppose we're bickering like this?
I haven't the slightest idea.
Haven't you?
No.
Neither have I.
Payette, Idaho was the first big town.
It was dark when we got there.
Alex told me to pull up in front of the hotel.
You can get a room and a hot bath while you're putting in your call to Charles.
I can't get a room for 50 cents.
Look across the street. That's what I've been waiting for.
What?
A pawn shop. My watch should be good for a few dollars.
It's Swiss. International currency, you know.
Swiss watches.
Now beat it. Get a bath. I'll take Torkle with me,
and call you in your room in half an hour.
Come on, Torkle.
The hotel clerk showed me to a room on the second floor.
It wasn't a very quiet room.
On the corner beneath my window,
the people of Payette were celebrating Old Timers Day.
They'd set up a kangaroo court
and were trying their fellow townsmen who would fail to cooperate
by refusing to raise beards and wear pioneer clothes.
But I couldn't waste time watching the fun.
I had to get through to Charles.
I placed the call and started the bath water running
when there was a knock on the door.
Who is it?
There are your towels, ma'am.
As I unbolted the door, I happened to glance into the bathroom.
There on the rack above the tub,
fluffy and white were my towels.
I tried to push the door shut, but it was too late.
Mr. Smith shouldered into the room.
I started to shout for help, but the sound never came.
He hit me in the pit of the stomach with his fist,
and I fell across the bed, gasping for breath
as the phone started to ring.
I couldn't move. I couldn't make a sound.
I lay there with the wind knocked out of me,
watching Mr. Smith as he picked up the receiver.
Hello? How much delay?
For just a minute, I'll ask my wife.
She says to cancel the call. We'll try later. Thank you.
Now, young lady, no monkey business.
You try to yell and I'll cut off your wind for good.
You two, you and Peck, have caused me a deal of trouble.
You shouldn't have done that.
How did you find it?
The left arm never fails. Where's Peck?
I don't know.
I'll wait for him here. He's sure to return for you.
I had to get to Alex. I had to warn him.
The bathroom door was open. Smith was holding my arm.
For a moment, he relaxed his grip.
I swung away from him and threw myself into the bathroom,
pulling the door shut and locking it.
I expected him to shoot through the door,
and I ran to the window, ready to jump.
But it wasn't necessary. There was a rickety fire escape.
I crawled through and ran down the shaky stairs,
dropped six feet to the mud and ran around the corner of the building
toward the old-timer's kangaroo court on the corner.
And there was Smith coming toward me through the crowd.
He reached his hand out to me.
I whirled around and showedered my way through the crowd
to the table where the announcer was sitting in his microphone.
Mr. Tatum just goes to show you don't raise a bid, you pay a fine.
What's that fine, Judge?
Five dollars, suspended for the president of the bank.
Well, Mr. Tatum, I tried to be easy on you,
but the jury of your peers...
Please, please help me.
Oh, hello there, miss.
Give me your microphone.
No, not just a minute, miss. You can't interrupt the proceedings.
Please, please. It's a matter of life or death.
Alex, Alex, stay where you are.
They bombed me.
Again, Smith came for me.
He and the big man with the beard.
And then a tawny streak tore through the crowd.
Tarko.
He had heard my voice.
He ripped the big man's leg.
He jumped for Smith's place.
But before he reached it, the man with the beard pulled out a revolver.
What's going on here?
What is that?
Tarko lay there quiet.
Mad dog! Mad dog!
I tried to bend over him, but I knew it was no use.
He was dead.
And Smith had me now, holding me.
I told her that dog was sick.
Your dog?
Yes.
To see her, you'd think my wife cared more for the dog than she did for me.
I told her a dozen times that dog was sick.
Let me go. I'm not your wife.
Listen to me, please.
You people, this man is a spy, a monster.
He's trying to kill me.
Now listen to her. Go on, folks. Listen to her.
Listen to a drunk, dead drunk.
Such a thing to say about your own husband.
Now I declare, now I'm going to take you on home to the ranch and put you to bed.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Now wait a minute there. Just a minute.
Why?
Maybe you don't know, but I'm the county veterinarian.
And you can't leave that dog dead in the street.
According to law, we got to make an examination of any dog dead or alive, suspected of rabies.
Now you get that dog in the police wagon.
But my wife.
I don't care about your wife. She wasn't bit.
You say you own that dog?
Well, your friend here was bitten the leg and you were scratched on the arm.
Now you get that dog in the wagon and you follow him.
Now look here.
Now you look here. That's the law. Now get.
Or do you want a little help from the rest of these good citizens?
Smith loosened his grip.
I turned and edged through the crowd which was moving in on him and the bearded drunk.
I got to the fringe, to the open street, and ran toward the car.
And there, coming toward me was Alex, coming from the pawn shop.
Alex alive. Oh, limping for the life.
Alex. Alex, oh, my dear.
Get in the car, quick.
Torkel. They killed Torkel.
Get in. You tell me about it later. You've got to get away from here.
Smith said he was a mad dog. They're holding him.
They said he'd have to have a rabies test because he was bitten.
Good. We'll call the FBI from the next town.
I've got enough for the watch to buy gas to get us to Seattle.
Did you reach Charles?
No. Smith got into the room. He hit me.
You tell me about it later. Now slow down. Here's the highway signs.
San Francisco left. Ah, there we are.
Seattle right turn.
Hey, I said right.
You said San Francisco left. Yes, but...
We're not going to Seattle.
What about Charles?
Who's Charles?
But I've only got $20 for the watch.
I think I can get a little more for the car in San Francisco.
Hey.
Go to sleep, darling. You must be worn out.
I don't know why I gave him a lift that day, but I'm awfully glad I did.
Suspense. In which Miss Barbara Whiting starred in The Rim of Terror, adapted for radio's outstanding theater of thrills by William N. Robeson from the novel by Hildegard Tilehead.
Listen. Listen again next week when we return with another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Ben Wright supported Miss Whiting as Alex.
Others in the cast included Joe DeSantis, Byron Cain, Junious Matthews, Tony Barrett, and Bill James.
The original musical score was composed and conducted by Lynn Murray.
Sound patterns by Ray Kemper and Gus Baez.
Suspense is produced in Hollywood under the direction of William N. Robeson.
Suspense.