Suspense.
And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills,
the master of mystery and adventure,
William N. Robeson.
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,
what is the rest of it?
Well, no matter.
Childish prattle can be dangerous in its pristine innocence.
So if you are about to do something you shouldn't,
we advise you not to do it around your mopets.
They can be such blabbermouths as the upcoming story demonstrates.
Listen.
Listen then as Miss Mercedes McCambridge stars in
America's Boyfriend,
which begins in exactly one minute.
Folklore isn't always something out of the past.
Each day a new legend, anecdote, joke, or colorful character
is added to our collection of Americana.
Like the story about the man who was nailing shingles on his house.
Somebody noticed that he was throwing half the nails away
and asked him why.
Because, he said,
the heads are on the wrong ends on those.
Well, you dope, said the other man,
those are for the other side of the house.
Folklore belongs to every nation's legendary past
and I guess we Americans have our share of some tall ones.
Like the one about...
But we'll have to save that one for the next time we travel your way.
See you then.
And now.
Miss Mercedes McCambridge in America's Boyfriend.
A tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
They used to call him America's Boyfriend.
His face was known everywhere.
From South Dakota to Saudi Arabia.
Those mischievous eyes, that lovable teenage grin,
the lock of blonde hair over his forehead.
Remember First Love, his most popular movie?
His freckled face was on billboards everywhere in four colors.
Dickie Keith, that bad boy who steals your heart.
That bouncing, laughing, wisecracking, all-American boy.
It's funny.
Every picture of Dickie that could be found was like that one.
The police are looking for a murderer's face that doesn't exist.
When he came into the kitchen that morning,
I didn't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him.
I was too busy to do either.
I had to fix breakfast, get the kids washed and dressed and fed
and be at work by nine.
Between putting the coffee on the perk
and getting the bobby pins out of my hair,
I kept glancing at his calypso pants and monogram T-shirt
and the tennis racket under his arm.
Maybe I said the wrong things.
I guess I've been saying the wrong things for a long time.
Coffee ready yet?
What are you dressed up as, juvenile delinquent?
Oh, I got a call from the studio yesterday.
I told you, Harry Landon wants to see me.
What's he got, amnesia?
Did he forget the last picture you made was so bad
it smelled up the theaters before it was taken out of the can?
Just black for me.
You know, maybe if you grow up you might get a job again.
Oh, wait till I see Harry today.
He brought The Sidewalk to Nowhere, terrific book about a teenage murderer.
I'll convince him I'm not too old for the lead.
How old does he think I am anyway?
Oh, please, Dickie, he's got your Social Security card.
All right, all right, so I'm 31.
Thirty-three.
Time certainly flies.
Doesn't it?
Married to me four years already, parents of a bright two-year-old boy.
And if you'd like any more vital statistics,
you've been out of work for more than three years.
This coffee tastes like formaldehyde.
I'll have it next week in a fort.
What time's your appointment?
Don't worry, I'll leave Lumpy with Mrs. Vogel for a few hours.
Be sure you wait for the laundry man first.
Okay!
Okay, you support me, you pay the bills.
If you like, I'll do the laundry myself.
I'm sorry, Dickie.
I'm all tied up and nuts.
That last check that I gave the supermarket bounced.
Our credit is down the drain.
Not at all.
No, and Lumpy, I know he's a lot of trouble for you to take care of.
No trouble.
Now the park's peppered with kids his age.
What do you do there?
Just sit around with the sand pile?
Hmm, yeah, with the other doting mothers.
Are you learning anything about child psychology?
Why?
Oh, just that Lumpy's almost two years old.
Have you noticed he's learning to talk?
Oh, he's been talking since he was 11 months, that one.
Just sounds, just separate words.
I mean, he's just put together his first sentence.
And hide time.
His first real sentence.
Funny the way he keeps repeating it.
Maybe you're right at that.
Maybe I ought to wear something more dignified.
Get Lumpy ready while I change.
Come on, Lumpy.
You can't dawdle over your breakfast this morning.
If you want to go with Daddy.
Go see pretty lady. Go see pretty lady.
Who is she, Lumpy?
Go see pretty lady.
The first time he said it was a week ago.
It hit me right between the eyes.
His first sentence.
Something to cherish to put in his scrapbook with his first tooth.
And a curl from his first haircut.
His first sentence.
Go see pretty lady.
It burned in my mind all day long.
But it burned deeper that night when Mrs. Vogel delivered Lumpy herself.
Dicky hadn't picked him up as he was supposed to.
After I got Lumpy to bed, I canvassed the neighborhood bars by phone.
Nothing.
Then I just sat and waited.
My insides gnawed by fear and anxiety and plain old-fashioned jealousy.
Then about ten o'clock the front door opened and there he was.
He swayed in the doorway. There was blood drying on his face.
His eyes looked stupid and beaten.
The only reason he was able to stay on his feet was the hand steadying him from behind.
The big powerful hand of Harry Landman.
Dicky took one step inside and then he pitched forward.
The table crashed to the floor with him.
I'm sorry, Jean.
Oh, Harry, what happened?
Came to my house a couple hours ago.
Lucky I wasn't alone.
Should have heard of the things he called me.
I wouldn't let my own mother-in-law talk to me that way.
Oh, but he didn't mean it, Harry. He must have been drinking.
Yeah, that's what I thought till he grabbed the poker from the fireplace and tried to kill me.
Me, who feels like a father to the boy.
He tried to kill you?
Me and my house man had to beat him right down into his shoes before he quit trying.
Oh, he must have been drunk.
Oh, he's out of his head.
I could put him away for ten years for this.
Harry, what did you tell him at the studio this morning?
The truth. Once and for all that he's washed up.
Now, if you're smart, you'll get him out of this town, take him back east where he can be himself.
Himself?
Where he can grow up, where he can get a job without his pride getting all mixed up in it.
Here in Hollywood, he can't stop being America's boyfriend.
He's turning into a full-fledged schizophrenic, a homicidal maniac.
You're afraid of him, of Dickie.
I'm telling you, he's dangerous. He tried to kill me.
That's really funny. You're afraid of this thing you created, this lovable tap-dancing monster, this horrible spirit of yours.
You're blaming me?
For years you kept him a teenager. You didn't let him grow up.
You made this stunted thing out of him because there was money in it.
He made plenty of money himself, didn't he?
And he spent it faster than he made it.
Oh, he lived the part all right. It was cute how irresponsible he was.
Look, Gene, I'm not arguing with you. I'm telling you, get him out of my hair.
Take him back east anywhere, but do it inside of 24 hours or I'm...
Oh, what?
Well, I'll bring charges against him for assault with intent to kill.
You're forgetting something, Harry. I'm only his wife. I don't have much influence with him.
24 hours.
He's got other attachments in Hollywood besides his family.
Another woman?
Yeah.
Who?
I don't know. I heard about it from somebody.
Somebody who won't talk.
Well, that's a problem I can't help you with, Gene. That's strictly your problem.
Just remember, 24 hours or I'll charge him with attempted murder.
I tried to help Dicky up, but he pushed me off.
I was on my way to the bedroom like a bulldozer, knocking over a lamp, a chair, anything in his way.
He sprawled face down on the bed and for a long time I could hear his heavy breathing.
I don't know what time it was when I fell asleep on the sofa, but in the morning, a little before seven, I looked in.
He was gone.
I left Lumpy with Mrs. Vogel, but I didn't go to work.
I went to three bars, three Turkish baths, every alleged friend he had.
By noon there was still no trace of him, so I went back to Charlie's and sat down at the end of the bar.
Charlie shuffled toward me, his eyes refusing to meet mine.
Mrs. Keaton, I'm sorry. Are you wasting your time here?
Listen, I've got to find Dicky. It's terribly important, Charlie. He couldn't just disappear into thin air.
The air in this town ain't as thin as you think.
Okay, maybe you can remember something. Somebody he's been in here with.
Oh, Charlie, please tell me. Tell me who that woman is.
You mean that the dame he was with last night?
Last night? He came back here last night?
Yeah, around two in the morning. They were just sitting together right here. That's all I know.
What did she look like, Charlie? Could you describe her?
To me, Mrs. Keaton, the dames that come in here all look as much alike as a row of bar stools.
Was she tall or short?
Kind of in between.
Well, was she a blonde or redhead or brunette? What?
I don't remember.
Oh, she had hair, didn't she?
Oh, yeah. Yeah, she had dark hair.
Well, thanks, Charlie. That's something, anyhow. At least I know she has hair. She isn't a midget.
At five o'clock, I gave up. There was only one thing to do, see Harry Landman and explain that Dickie disappeared and that there was really nothing to worry about.
Harry lived up above the strip. I climbed a steep incline, made a sharp turn that almost broke my steering gear, and there it was.
A low pink house sitting back against the hillside. There was an ugly iron dog beside the front door.
I went to the door and I pushed the bell, and somehow I knew that the man who answered the door didn't belong in that house.
Yes?
I'm Mrs. Keith. I must see Mr. Landman right away.
You want to see Mr. Landman?
I didn't wait. I brushed right past him into a dim hall and I stopped it.
Whatever it was that had been holding me together all day snapped.
I closed my eyes to shut myself in darkness, but the thing I saw was still there, as if painted on the inside of my eyelids.
It was Harry Landman, faced on on the floor with a knife sticking out of his back.
In just a moment, we continue with...
Suspense.
Do you know the Social Security benefits to which you will be entitled when you separate from the service and take a civilian job?
Here's a tip from Social Security.
1940. An important year in the security of American families.
It was in 1940 that the first Social Security checks began to find their way into the mailboxes of the nation.
That was the year that retired people and their families, and the families of working people who had died,
began to get payments from the government insurance program to partly take the place of earnings that were no longer coming into their homes.
Social Security has done much through the years to relieve the grinding worry of old people,
to keep widows and their children together living as families beneath the family roof.
Just recently, within the last five years, Social Security has helped to relieve the financial plight of the disabled.
Find out about Social Security, what you can expect from it for your security and the security of your loved ones.
Go to Social Security, Department 15, Hollywood 28, California, and ask how it will work in your case.
They'll be glad to give you the information and to send you a free booklet, a booklet that tells the Social Security story.
And now, we continue with the second act of America's Boyfriend, starring Miss Mercedes McCambridge.
A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
It was a beautiful knife. It had a carved pearl handle about four inches long.
It seemed to grow bigger as I stared at it, until it crowded everything else out of my mind, until it floated there, huge, in my nightmare.
Then a small gray-haired man touched my elbow, and the knife got smaller like a punctured balloon, and I knew it wasn't a nightmare.
It was a knife sticking out of Harry Landman's back.
I'd never seen a corpse before, not even a dead grandmother. I thought I was going to be sick.
I was helped gently into a chair. The room was hot and stuffy with cigarette smoke.
Three other men were busy there, working as calmly and thoroughly over details as bookkeepers in an office.
We've been looking for you, Mrs. Keith.
For me?
My name is Carlson, homicide.
Actually, we're looking for your husband. We thought you might be able to tell us something.
Oh, he didn't do it.
Any idea where he is?
Well, he couldn't commit murder. He couldn't. He's not the kind who could do a terrible thing like that.
After 20 years' experience, Mrs. Keith, I know what kind of people commit murders.
What kind?
Murderers.
But you're wrong about Dickie. You don't know Dickie Keith the way I do.
I know quite a few things already. I know that he threatened to kill Mr. Landman. I know he even attempted to.
But he didn't mean it.
It looks like he did.
Oh, you don't understand. He was out of work. He was trying to cope with all the responsibilities of a family.
He was always trying to cover up for a feeling of insecurity.
If you don't mind, let's leave Freud out of this, huh? I'm no psychiatrist. I'm a cop. My job is to put together the facts.
There's more than facts. There's the truth.
The truth is he's disappeared. Now, why?
Well, maybe... maybe to look for a job.
He wasn't looking for a job early this morning.
Early this morning?
When Harry Landman was killed.
Well, there's a... there is somebody who knows where Dickie was then.
Who's that?
It's a woman. And you've got to find her.
What's her name?
I don't know.
Can you give us any information about her? Description?
She has dark hair and she's meeting him height.
Well, go on.
That's all I know.
Mrs. Keith, that description fits about half the women in this town.
But there must be some way that you could trace her.
Don't count on it, Mrs. Keith. That knife's been identified by Mr. Landman's secretary.
Well, you recognize it, don't you? Landman brought it back from Hawaii a few years ago. Gave it to your husband for his birthday.
Listen, I know how she can be traced. I know how she can be traced. That woman who can prove that Dickie's innocent.
Mrs. Keith.
No, there's somebody who has seen her, who knows her. And if Lumpy sees her again, he'll recognize her.
Okay, okay. Just tell me who Lumpy is and I'll go have a talk with him.
No, you can't.
Why not?
Because he can't talk. I mean, he's a two-year-old. It's my child.
Oh, now look, Mrs. Keith.
No, you've got to listen to me. Since I got a job, Dickie's been taking care of him.
Well, don't you see, he was meeting her somewhere, but he had Lumpy along.
And she made quite an impression. The pretty lady. That's what Lumpy calls her.
His first sentence, he's just learning to talk. That's the first time he put a kind of sentence together.
Go see pretty lady. That's what he says whenever he knows that Dickie's taking him out.
Well, if he sees the pretty lady again, he can identify her.
Don't you see, we could take Lumpy to the park where Dickie took him every single morning.
And we could start from there. It's a chance. Maybe one in a thousand, but it's worth trying.
Mrs. Keith, this beats anything I ever heard in 20 years on homicide.
Every case we get crazy information. We get tips from psychopaths, confessions from cranks.
But this beats the whole...
Alright, I'll find her myself. I will, I'll find her myself.
Know where we're going, Lumpy? To see the pretty lady.
What, Daddy?
No, no, no, just us.
Go see pretty lady.
Uh-huh. Now, which way, Lumpy? Which way do we go?
Go see pretty lady.
For a moment, feeling the warm early morning sun and hearing the sane normal voices of children in the park,
I decided I was out of my mind. It was crazy to think I could find her that way,
dragging Lumpy into it using a two-year-old to track her down.
And he seemed to forget all about it, attracted by the more immediate joys of the sandpile.
A couple of hours went by, and then Lumpy came trotting over to me with his one sentence.
Go see pretty lady.
That was it. The pretty lady didn't come to the park. Lumpy and his father visited her.
But where? Maybe in the neighborhood. It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.
Dickie might be a crazy mixed-up kid and a faithless husband, but one thing I knew for sure, he was not a murderer.
How about this street, Lumpy?
Go see pretty lady.
On this street, Lumpy? This the street where pretty lady lives?
I turned up cross streets, I circled blocks, I drove on until Lumpy began to get restless and lose interest.
How about this street, Lumpy?
Darling, when we get to the pretty lady, do you know what we're going to have? Chocolate ice cream and marshmallow cookies and toys?
Hey, lady!
I slammed my foot down on the brake. The way Lumpy bounced off the seat, the way his eyes got wide with expectation.
I knew that I was in luck. He pulled me like a puppy on a leash.
He pointed to a house across the street, an old house. The downstairs was used as an interior decorator studio.
Hey, lady! We were just getting out of the car when I swung Lumpy around and slammed the door.
The woman coming out of the house was a pretty lady, all right.
A very pretty lady of medium height with dark hair.
As soon as I left Lumpy with Mrs. Vogel, I hurried back. The sign downstairs read, Maurice Byrne, fine interiors.
I went in. A tall man with a blunt nose came toward me. The deep, regular waves in his yellow hair must have taken plenty of time and attention.
And he had an off-balance smile like a man with something stuck in his teeth.
Good afternoon.
I'm looking for the woman who lives upstairs. I don't remember her name.
Upstairs?
Yes.
There are three apartments upstairs.
Three?
One is occupied by Joe Courtney, an electrician. He threw his wife out a few months ago. I don't think she's back yet.
What about the other two?
Well, there's Farley McClain and his wife.
Is she an attractive woman?
The last time I saw Mrs. McClain, she had an ugly gash running the length of her throat and up one side of her face as if someone had slashed her with an axe.
With an axe?
There are a couple of old hams who get an occasional bit part in pictures. They're always practicing makeup. Don't go near them at night.
No, no. The woman I'm looking for, she has dark hair.
Oh? A beautiful woman with an expensive look?
You know her?
Not yet. She's new here. She still ignores me, which should give you an idea of how discriminating she is.
I wonder if you could tell me her name and where I could get in touch with her, right now?
I'm afraid not. How do I know you're not serving summons or maybe a bill collector?
Oh, no, no, no. It's nothing like that. This is something very personal, but it's terribly important.
Really, I must find her for her own good, as well as for somebody else's, somebody that she can help. And if I don't find her, the police will.
Her name is Alice Evans. She's a model at Maison Chic, the exclusive dressmaker.
The saleswomen were a little startled when I walked past them toward the dressing room.
The way my hair was blown, I looked like a neglected sheepdog.
She glanced up at me from a long mirrored table, where she was putting the finishing touches on her street makeup.
Yes?
I'm, uh, I'm Dickie's wife.
Congratulations. Who is he?
Oh, please, please. I know everything. And you're the only person who can save him.
Save him from what?
I know. You don't want to get mixed up in this, but Dickie's facing a murder charge, and you've got to tell the police that he was with you when Harry Landman was killed.
What is this, a gag? You've got me mixed up with a couple of other women.
Please, I'm only thinking of Dickie.
I don't know your husband. I never laid eyes on him.
If you care anything about him...
Me? Why did you pick on me? Of all the women in this town, why me?
If you don't go to the police, I will, and I'll tell them everything.
I tell you, I don't know your husband. I never saw him. I never spoke a word to him.
I understand how you feel, but...
You do. Then be a good girl and go away.
Listen, if you don't want to get involved, your name might be kept out of it. I'm sure that the police would cooperate.
Just tell me, where were you and Dickie that night?
You're raving mad.
If I could find somebody else who saw me there, you won't be dragged into this at all.
I'm getting out of here.
No, not until you tell me what happened.
Oh, dear.
My head's raw. I remembered the lovely crystal bottle in her hand, and then a couple of saleswomen were helping me to my feet.
I was reeking of cologne and spattered with broken glass, and Alice Evans was gone.
She was obviously panic-struck, and I had to press this advantage, so I hurried back to her house.
The hall was dark, and I struck a match to look at the names on the mailboxes, and then I felt...
...the gun in my back.
Why don't you leave me alone?
You were with Dickie that night, and you can't help him.
I don't know your husband, but you know plenty about me, don't you?
You know enough to come looking for me here.
Where else would I look? You live here.
I live in a pink house in the hills with an iron dog at the front door.
But that's... that's Harry Landman's.
You!
The door seemed closer as if it moved.
The door from the hall to Maurice Byrne, fine interiors.
It was crazy and desperate and clumsy the way I knocked the gun aside and got through the door.
Hurry! Oh, hurry! Get the police. She killed him.
Don't be silly, Mrs. Keith.
She's the first one the police checked and double-checked.
They know she was in Las Vegas that night.
Lock the door, Alice.
You said there was nothing to worry about.
There isn't.
Why did she come here looking for me?
I'm not sure. I can't figure out what she knows.
You said there wouldn't be any suspicion. You had a made-to-order fall guy, a perfect dupe.
Fall guy? Dickie?
You're a clever woman, Mrs. Keith.
I don't know how you managed to trace Alice here, but it was clever...
in a suicidal way.
You... I've seen you somewhere long ago.
Of course. In one of Dickie's early pictures.
He came walking by here with Lumpy a few months ago.
First time I saw him in years.
And I know why he kept coming back.
He was lonely.
He needed somebody sympathetic to talk to.
About how he hated Landman.
How Landman had given him a dirty deal.
And one day he brought in that beautiful pearl-handled knife.
Here.
Wanted to know if it was worth $50, if I could use it in some decorating scheme.
Then you killed Landman. It was you.
$50. Such ingratitude.
A knife that Harry Landman gave him as a birthday present.
Do you know how much that knife was worth to Alice and me?
$200 grand. Left by her late, unlimented husband.
And who would believe Dickie?
Of course it wasn't as decorative as, say, this silver candlestick.
Oh, no.
I'm sorry you traced her here.
No.
Sometimes the less people know, the smarter they are.
No! No! No!
I saw the blood trickle down the sand and onto the candlestick.
And the next thing I knew, the police were looking down at me over the edge of a dark, deep well.
Only it wasn't a well. It was an elegant sofa at Maurice Byrne, fine interiors.
All right. Now, take it easy, Mrs. Keith.
When you feel better, I guess you and your husband can go home together.
Dickie?
Everything's okay, Jean. I even picked up Lumpy on the way here.
How did you... I mean, where...
I was running away from everything.
When I heard the police were looking for me, I came back.
You know, funny thing, we had a man following you, Mrs. Keith, since you left Lammon's house.
Thought you might lead us to your husband. Instead...
See, pretty lady!
Where? Where, Lumpy?
See, pretty lady!
Where?
Oh, no.
No, it can't be.
That's the only pretty lady Lumpy ever saw around here, Jean.
That portrait on the wall?
It was going to be a surprise.
A painter Byrne knows did it from a photograph of you.
Me?
It was going to be your birthday present.
Me? The pretty lady I was looking for?
Yeah, they had set me back 50 bucks.
I sold that pearl-handled knife to Byrne to get the 50 dollars to pay for it.
Suspense.
In which Miss Mercedes McCambridge starred in America's Boyfriend, written by Sidney Ranthal.
Listen.
Listen again next week, when we return with The Twist is Murder, starring Raymond Burr.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Supporting Miss McCambridge in America's Boyfriend were Norma Jean Nilsen, Joan Banks, Dick Krenna, Jack Crouchon, Byron Cain, and Alan Reed.
Suspense.
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Suspense has been brought to you through the worldwide facilities of the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.
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