Suspense.
And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills,
the master of mystery and adventure,
William M. Robeson.
It is a principle of law that a man cannot be charged, convicted,
and sentenced twice for the same crime.
But there is no law in the books that says a man cannot murder his wife
over and over again in his fantasy.
The law of the world is the law of the world.
For a man of sufficient imagination,
repetitive oxoricide can indeed become a pleasant way
of bringing time to a stop,
as Vincent Price accomplishes it in present tense.
A tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Through the dim pane, the cold, dark land wheels away,
and the hills beyond below the stars are black and sharp,
dead hills, dark sky.
Cold steel below my feet, cold as the face of the officer at my side,
cold as the cuffs which link my arm to his,
which join us on this journey to the prison where I die.
Want a cigarette?
No.
Go on, take one.
No, I don't smoke cigarettes.
Okay.
Has this happened to you before?
What?
Being handcuffed to a murderer.
Has it happened to you before?
Sure, plenty of times.
To an axe murderer?
Yep.
You're not the special brother.
Lots of guys axe their wives.
Lots of them.
I could have escaped after I killed her, but I didn't.
Now it's too late.
Late, late.
Never too late, never too late, too late, too late.
Escape, escape.
If the train were to be wrecked, if the detective were to be killed,
late, late.
The sweet escape, the light escape, the crash escape.
Oh, no.
No.
Oh, no.
Oh, the darkness.
Where am I?
The cars must have gone down the gully.
No light.
And those people in pain.
This thing fastened my wrist.
We must have gone halfway through the glass door.
Keep back, keep back from his blood.
I don't seem to be hurt.
No broken bones.
Escape.
Now the key in his pocket, in his bloody pocket and...
The cuffs are off.
His gun and the wallet.
His face.
His face is gone.
His own mother wouldn't know him.
I'm free.
Fire, fuel oil.
I must get away.
Now my ring onto his finger and that completes it.
Bus number 63 from Bakersfield now arriving.
Please claim your luggage at the curb.
Bus number 14 from San Diego now arriving.
Taxi, mister.
Yes, yes.
Where to?
Up Beverly Glen above Sunset.
I'll show you where.
That's it.
Hey, read about a big train wreck.
Yes.
Understand almost a hundred were killed.
My home.
It looks so small, so shabby.
No one took care of it during the trial.
No one cared. No one. No one cares now.
But that's good. I like that.
I'll be alone and I won't let the neighbors see me and I'll sleep and...
figure out where I go next.
The lights are on.
Someone is there.
Ain't it slick, huh?
The whole thing went so slick.
You'll always be the brains for both of us, won't you honey, huh?
Always.
No, no it can't be. She's dead.
I know she's dead. I killed her.
Want another bottle of beer, honey, huh?
Yeah, sure.
Is it cold?
You bet it's cold, honey.
But I'm not.
You said a mouthful there.
That husband of mine was never able to make me feel like this.
Well, it takes a man, baby.
All he would do was sit around and write those poems all the time.
We framed her so good that he even thought he killed you.
What was that? I heard a noise.
Mice.
You're funny, you know that? Real funny.
Open the kitchen door so quietly and walk softly.
Here on the wall by the stove, the cleaver.
Honest, I hear something.
You're nervous.
Here, relax just a little bit more.
I see them now. It is she.
How did they do it?
How did they trick me into imagining the murder?
I am innocent.
Sweet Meats, that's what you are. Sweet Meats.
Love your man.
The pig in his dirty undershirt, soft, weak, white neck, fat on his arms.
Pig!
Grip the cleaver and walk like a feather.
He shall be the first.
Soft, white neck.
Honestly, I hear something.
What's the matter, Sweet Meats?
You killed him!
Yes, and now you.
No!
I was innocent and I thought myself guilty.
And now I am truly guilty.
Never in my life have I felt so innocent.
Like a dream, like a nightmare, the confession, the conviction, the sentence.
And now once more, dark night, cold steel, the sound of wheels.
Just as I lived it before.
Why, even the cold face of the silent officer at my side.
Hard, cold face, so much like that other face.
Want a cigarette?
No.
Go on, take one.
No, I don't use them.
Okay.
Has this happened to you before?
What?
Being handcuffed to a murderer. Has it happened to you before?
Oh, sure, plenty of times.
To an axe murderer?
Yep, you're not the special brother.
Lots of guys axe their wives, lots of them.
But were you ever cuffed to an axe murderer who killed two people, two people at once?
What are you talking about?
My sin, my crime, what I did, I killed them both.
Them?
Oh, take it easy, brother.
You only killed your wife.
Just her, just one, that's all.
In a moment we continue with William and Robeson's production of Suspense.
Looking for a new lease on life?
Never mind the legal language, just tune in on the happy things that happen six times a week on the Amos and Andy Music Hall.
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Remember the fun is on the house every Monday through Friday evening and each Saturday in the daytime.
When the Amos and Andy Music Hall comes your way.
We continue with Present Tense starring Mr. Vincent Price.
A tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
It had been raining for some days now.
Beyond the barred window the leaden sky bleeds sorrow on the barren land.
The lonely land, the land beyond the prison wall.
The sky was blue when first I came here, blue, so blue.
And now it has become as the walls of my cell, of all our cells, dark, cheerless cells, these lifeless cells, these cells of men who wait to die.
That wet sky, gray sky, cheerless sky.
But it is beautiful.
I have twelve hours left of life.
Twelve hours left to live.
Beautiful sky, beautiful, beautiful.
Wet and fresh and alive.
Oh rather would I spend eternity at the bottom of a well with but one patch of that to gaze upon.
Then leave this life.
Then leave this earth.
Then leave this sky.
But leave it I must.
The guard told me no man has ever escaped San Quentin's death row.
Blocks and bars, guards and guns lie between me and the world beyond.
No escape.
Not from here.
But wouldn't it be nobler to gamble my life in bold attempt than lay it down in reckless resignation, eh?
So now to get out of this super guarded area.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, guard!
Guard!
Hey, hey, pipe down. What's wrong?
Hey, what's the matter with you?
Guard my gut, my gut.
It's killing me.
I'll call a medic.
Now, as I press, you tell me where it hurts.
Everywhere, Doc. It, oh, all over down here. The air.
Oh, don't touch that place again, no.
Call the ambulance.
This man's got appendicitis.
Oh, do something, please.
Hey, hey, what do I do? Why didn't they send somebody with you?
Well, the interns were all tied up. Shots today.
Look, he's acting kind of crazy. Let's get him over to the hospital in a hurry.
I can't drive any faster. My windshield's steamed.
So wipe it.
You got a rag?
Oh, look, here. You can use my handkerchief.
Hey, what's going on back there?
Your pal's out cold. And I've got his gun now.
So keep right on driving or the top of your head comes off.
You won't get away with this.
I will. I'm betting my life that I will.
How far back is the prison?
About, oh, 15 miles, at least, then.
Okay, pull over.
Okay, I'm taking her from here.
And you, I want your money and your clothes.
And then you can take your pal back and explain about me.
They won't find that ambulance for days, not at the bottom of that canyon.
And now I cross the border on foot and into Mexico.
A little card bought in a back room with no questions asked, and I became a tourist.
Four days' growth of beard and I became poor.
An empty suitcase with a butterfly net strapped to its outside, and I didn't have a place to go.
I was out of my woods outside and I became a source of merriment, a funny dumb gringo.
And who looks with suspicion on the funny dumb gringo tourist who is poor?
Mexico City is beautiful, but not when you're hungry.
Not when you are an American who is hungry.
Americans aren't supposed to be hungry, but what can I do?
All I know is writing, the writing of poetry.
There is one place I might sell some poems.
Parlin, his magazine, prints some English stuff.
Perhaps, well, well, why not?
I have three pesos left.
Buy some paper, a pencil, sit in the park, write and storm the bastions.
Yeah, good, very good.
Do you like them, Mr. Parlin?
Well, excuse me, Lucita?
Si, Parlin?
I have some poems here.
Let me see.
The river dappled, dreaming droopled, fester passion of my soul.
Muy bonito, muy bonito.
Yeah, yeah, just what I thought.
Oh, you are too kind.
The poet should read his own work.
Oh, well, that drips sweet droplets, passions, goblets, fates thy role.
Lucita likes your stuff.
A rare woman.
And I like what Lucita likes.
Aha.
She says we do a book of your stuff.
Oh?
So here's an advance.
Too much.
Take it.
When the book?
Thirty days.
Write.
I'll get them.
Your name is?
Smith.
No, good.
Too dull.
So true.
I'll make a new one.
Please do.
And so?
Good day, and I'll be back.
In thirty days.
With the poems.
America, miles below, the bleak brown mountains, the desert yellow and red, my own mystic land.
My advance money went for new clothing and a round-trip plane ticket to Los Angeles and my new lease on life.
In a small file under the eaves of the little house in Beverly Glen there are poems.
More than a thousand of them.
Poems which no one has ever seen.
Poems written in the evenings after work on Sundays.
And now with the beard and the hat and the glasses no one will recognize me.
A cane.
Yes, I ought to carry a cane to get the poems.
Does someone live there in the house?
Has someone bought it?
No matter.
Get the poems and then get back to Mexico City.
Someone is living here.
Wonder who?
The hedge is trimmed and my hammock.
Somebody has put a new canvas cover on it.
Fred, get the door.
Get it yourself, baby, I'm saving.
Oh, all right.
Yes?
Oh no, no, it can't be.
Well, what do you want?
It's Mary, but I, I, I thought I, I killed her.
Who is it, baby?
What is it, mister, what do you want here?
Are, are you the lady of the house?
Huh?
Who's out of the door?
Some creep with a beard.
Yes, I'm the lady of the house, but I don't want to buy nothing.
Well, what is it, Santa, what do you want?
Are you the man of the house?
Yeah, I'm the man of the house.
Now, sweet miss.
I'll say.
So, what have I?
Well, I'm making a survey.
I'd like to ask a few questions.
May I come in?
I don't know.
I'll let him, what's the difference?
Thank you.
Well, first your name.
My name?
Yes, please.
French need.
Where's he going?
Mister, what do you want in my kitchen?
The cleaver, Mary, don't you know me?
Mary?
Hey, who are you, mister?
Look close, Mary.
Oh!
The cleaver.
Put it down.
You know me?
Yeah.
Know the man you tricked into San Quentin?
No, don't.
Put down that.
You killed him.
Yes.
And now you...
No!
Confession, conviction, sentence, transportation, and...
again, again the death house as before.
But when I came here, they promised I could keep the beard.
They promised I could keep the beard.
And it's gone.
Gone? I can't remember when.
What's that?
Who's coming?
Ready.
Ready?
It's time to go, my son.
Time to go?
You've refused my help up to now.
But perhaps you'd like to walk with me.
Rather beside you, Padre, than beside one of these mercenaries.
My... my legs.
The muscles quiver.
Not with fear, no.
But with the desire to feel themselves moving, straining, acting, while yet there is time.
I am not afraid, but this body...
I hate the thought of it being killed by these men.
My beautiful body. Soon it will be dead cold.
Rotting dead.
It will rot.
No.
No, they must not do this to me.
You must be brave, my son.
My body?
Years I spent with the great corporeal master.
The yogi.
Learning my bodily purpose, my bodily care.
The use of willpower to control my body.
The yogi.
My teacher.
Yes. Yes, I shall use yoga.
Suspend my breathing and become invulnerable to their gas.
Suspend my body functions to the point of death and fool their doctor.
Of course. Oh, yes.
The greatest escape of them all.
And this time I must succeed.
All right, here we are.
The room is so small.
Somehow I had imagined it would be larger.
And here is the chair.
All right, now you can sit down.
Yes, straps, hood, and over there, the glass.
Small pain with the dark faces seen dimly through the witnesses.
The whole room is like some strange sort of time machine.
Machine for launching a man into another dimension.
And so true.
I'd best begin to prepare myself.
There we are.
Relax. Must relax.
It won't be easy.
Have you any last words, my son?
Yes. Yes, one request.
Do not allow my beautiful body to be dissected or embalmed.
But on the third day after my death cremate it.
That will be arranged as you desire.
Thank you.
And God be with you, my son.
Remember what Jesus Christ said to the two criminals.
In this day shalt thou be with me in heaven.
I'll slow it a little while I pull the hood down.
There.
Now, when you hear the pellets drop into the acid, don't try any tricks.
Just breathe deeply, see? The fumes don't hurt, you see?
Cooperate with us, make it easy on yourself, kid.
Know what I mean?
So dark here under the hood.
Now the last breath as the yogi taught me.
And the lungs hold it.
Body, limb, all muscles, tendons, joints.
Relax all. Slow the bloodstream. Lock the breath.
Hold, hold.
Slow, slow, hold.
Suspend all bodily functions. Hold.
Fix the eye in. Suspended animation gently.
Fix the mind on time.
Easy on the head.
Time, ease the beating of my heart.
Time is a picture on the screen of my mind.
Slower, slower.
My perception is slower.
The time seems to spin by now.
Go slow my heart.
Ventilators go on, clearing the air of the poisonous fumes.
Now the doctor will come with his stethoscope.
I will my limbs to stiffness, my flesh to coldness.
It's clear, doctor. You can go in now.
Well, let's see now.
Respiration has ceased. Heart has stopped.
By the authority vested in me by the state of California,
I pronounce this man dead.
I will myself to consciousness in six hours' time.
Where am I?
It's dark here and cold. So cold.
I must get up and see.
Oh, the prison morgue.
It worked.
But I'm cold. I'm so cold.
What's this on my toe? Tag?
It's too dark to read it, but I know what it says.
It has my name, prison number, time of execution.
Yes.
Now to look around.
Because the next step must be played just right.
This should be it.
A coffin crate ready for shipping.
And cadaver being returned to a sentimental family.
Well, that ought to be just right.
And with him on my slab, my tag on his toe,
and the most perfect escape of all time underway,
here we go.
I will my body to return from its state of suspended animation
and to come immediately out of trance
when next this coffin shall be opened.
Hello, old man.
Funeral parlor.
Poor fellow.
Must have a bad heart.
I'm sorry.
Poor fellow.
Must have a bad heart.
Let's see.
No, it's going.
Let's hope he's out for a while.
This must be the workroom, light hanging over the work table,
and there a locker.
With a suit.
Fine.
And here in the desk might there not be some sort of...
Yes, here.
A petty cash box.
He apparently doesn't believe in banks.
And now that Lazarus has returned from the dead,
this newspaper dateline,
I was executed four days ago,
and now I find myself resurrected in Indianapolis, Indiana.
Los Angeles, California.
This is Los Angeles.
You can clean your baggage in the station or on the platform.
I've returned to my home.
A beautiful time to return home.
My old hammock is there.
My flowers, my yard.
The house is empty.
The lawyer said he'd had it cleaned up.
My books, my pictures.
Here, my old pipe.
I haven't smoked it in years.
Mary didn't like it.
But now she's gone.
I don't hate her anymore.
Tobacco's still fairly fresh.
Fill the pipe.
There's that detective story I never got to finish.
Now I'll have time.
Now I'll have lots of time.
Time to smoke and read and write and rest.
Ah, the sun's almost down.
Twilight.
Wonderful time to get outside.
Cool, sweet air.
Wonder what kind of birds those are.
My hammock.
Oh, so nice.
Light the pipe.
And relax.
Wish I could remember what page I was on.
But no matter.
I can begin again.
I've got all the time in the world, the rest of my life.
The birds.
The sun is slipping out of sight.
Death of the sun.
How red the sky.
How soft those clouds.
So lovely. So lovely.
What's that?
Birds playing in the fish pond.
Look at them happy birds.
They're pissing.
Oh, the man next door is turning on his lawn sprinkling system.
Lie here and smell the cool air.
Evening coming on.
The sky grows darker.
Lie in the gathering twilight.
Death of the day.
Birth of the night.
Sweet softness of the summer night coming.
Soon the stars.
Oh, it's lovely.
Heavenly. Just like heaven.
Lie and swing.
To and fro.
Heavenly.
By the authority vested in me by the state of California,
I pronounce this man dead.
Suspense.
In which Mr. Vincent Price starred in William and Robeson's production of Present Tense by James Poe.
Listen. Listen again next week when we return with Raymond Burr in the Peralta Map.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Supporting Mr. Price in Present Tense were Ellen Morgan, Peg LaCentra, Jack Crouchon, Dawes Butler, Joe DeSantis, Charles Rodolak, and Sam Pearce.
Original score composed and conducted by Amarigo Marino.
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