Suspense. And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William N. Robeson.
In these uncertain and changing times, it is reassuring to know that some things can be counted on, such as death, taxation, tomorrow's sunrise, and suspense.
Which is a devious way of remarking that with this broadcast, radio's outstanding theater of thrills begins its 17th year on the air.
We are proud to be one of the oldest programs in radio, and we are most keenly aware that this anniversary would not have been attained without the loyal and continuing interest of you who are listening to these words.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
And now to our story. It concerns sports cars and one of the most grueling tests of driving skill in the world, the Raleigh des Alpes, which is run every year across the mountains of France, Switzerland, and Italy.
Listen, listen then as Miss Marsha Hunt stars in The Last Kilometer, which begins in just a moment.
What makes a person a hero? That's a difficult question to answer, for heroes can come from widely differing backgrounds, and there have been heroes in our armed forces who performed their acts of heroism in non-combat situations.
To recognize these achievements and to do honor to our brave men, the Navy has authorized the awarding of the Navy and Marine Corps Medal.
This decoration is given to anyone serving in the U.S. Navy, Marine Corps, or Naval Reserve, who distinguishes himself or herself by heroism not involving actual conflict with an enemy.
Authorized in August of 1942, the Navy and Marine Corps Medal is one of our country's newer major decorations and applies to activities after December 6, 1941.
It is comparable to the Army Soldiers Medal and is given in tribute to distinguished devotion Navy and Marine Corps personnel bring to their tour of duty.
The Navy and Marine Corps Medal stands as a symbol of recognition from a grateful nation.
And now, The Last Kilometer starring Marsha Hunt, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
The party was nice, the champagne was lovely, Rene's family was sweet, but something was wrong.
There was a mysterious, well, curiosity in the way people would look at me and then look away, especially his younger sister, Marie.
I began to wonder if my lipstick was on crooked or my slip was showing.
Marie?
Oui, Mademoiselle?
What's wrong with me? Do I look all right?
Ah, but Mademoiselle, you are beautiful.
No, I'm not, and that's not what I mean. It's just the way all of Rene's friends stare at me.
Or perhaps it's the resemblance.
What resemblance?
But of course it's only imagination. You are Suzanne, the American girl my brother is going to marry.
Marie, do you think I can make him happy?
I hope so, Suzanne.
It frightens me a little. After all, I will be his second wife, and...
And yes?
Tell me about her.
About Claudette?
Yes. Did she make him happy?
Oh yes, Suzanne. Always they were laughing, even when they would lose.
Lose?
The races and the rallies. She was his, comment diton, his navigateur in the rallies.
Was she a good navigator?
Oh Marie, they almost always won. Until she died four years ago, she has not entered a rally since then.
Until now?
Now?
The rally days out. He's taking me as his navigator.
Oh no.
Why no? I can read a map.
Suzanne, have you ever ridden in a rally?
No, but...
Then don't, don't, please don't go on this one.
Why not?
Suzanne, je te prie, don't ride with my father in this rally. It's perhaps a later one.
But please, not the rally days out.
But why not? I'm not afraid.
Not afraid of what, my chérie?
Riding with you in the rally days out.
Then why should you be?
Marie's been trying to talk me out of it.
Oh? Little sisters should be seen and not heard.
Come darling, let me take you on a tour of the château of my ancestors.
Perhaps we can discover a ghost or two that will really scare you.
What was Marie saying about the rally days out?
Nothing, except she begged me not to go.
She begged you? And of what else did you speak?
I asked her about your first wife.
And what did my little sister say about the Claudette?
Only that you were very much in love.
How did she die, Renée?
In an accident.
Eh bien, now, this is my room since I was a little boy.
What sort of an accident did Claudette die in, Renée?
Suzanne, I do not care to discuss it.
Do you still love her?
She's dead. I love you.
Now I shall show you the gardens.
I say, Renée!
Eh? Oh, Johnny!
This idiot of a disgrace trying to tell me that Madero won the Class D trophy at Sebring in 54.
Madero? Oh, non, non, non. Il s'est trompé.
Madero wasn't even driving in Class D.
Pardon, ma chérie, I must settle an argument. I shall be right back.
I wandered into the high-ceilinged room Renée had lived in since he was a child.
And for some strange reason, I thought of a tiny apartment back in Fresno, California.
An apartment that would have fitted into this room with space to spare.
The apartment Jimmy North and I had almost taken before we quarreled and decided that we weren't in love after all.
And I thought how everything works out for the best.
If I hadn't broken with Jimmy, I would never have run away to France and met Renée and fallen in love.
Really and truly in love.
Then I saw it.
On a gilt of Louis-Carrouss commode stood my picture.
I couldn't remember giving Renée a picture.
And I couldn't remember having had this one taken.
And then I knew.
It wasn't me. It wasn't me at all.
On the bottom was written, A mon très cher Marie, Claudette.
To my dearest husband from Claudette.
It was like looking into a mirror.
The laughing face in the photograph was mine almost exactly.
My hands felt suddenly clammy and wet.
And I wondered why Marie had warned me about the Rélie des Arts.
And I wondered what kind of an accident Claudette had died in.
In a moment, we continue with the second act of...
Suspense.
Another visit with Joe and Daphne Forsythe.
Joe. Joe. Joe.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm up. I'm up.
I forget breakfast, I'll shave at work.
Joe, it's not time to go to work.
Then why did you wake me up?
You were snoring.
How about that?
You were snoring loud.
Oh, really?
I just wanted to quiet you.
I thought I was quiet.
You sounded like a buzzsaw going through a pine nut.
Pretty good, pretty good.
I wish I could be with you at 2.30 in the morning.
You can go back to sleep now.
Oh, gee, thanks.
You can get a good night's sleep too.
Our savings bonds will protect us.
Huh?
They protect us.
The money we invest is used to protect our country and its freedoms.
Why, all around us we can see the safeguards that our bonds have paid for.
How about that?
So you see, when you buy that savings bond with every paycheck,
you're really investing in a secure night's sleep.
Not in this house, I'm not.
What?
Good night, Daphne.
Good night, Joe.
And now, starring Miss Marsha Hunt, act two of The Last Kilometer.
My dark foreboding soon vanished before Renee's gay smile.
And I forgot Marie's warning in the excitement of preparing for the rally.
At last, on a bright clear morning, we were in the parks of Arnau in Marseille,
from which, one by one, a minute apart, the cars roared off
on one of Europe's most difficult tests of driving skill.
As Renee pulled his Alfa Romeo up to the starting gate,
I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen,
his dark eyes flashing with excitement.
But his mouth was a grim line, and somehow, behind the excitement,
he had a haunted secret look, which frightened me.
Ah, René Béranger, you honor us again.
It has been two, three years.
Four, mon vieux, four.
We try once more.
I go now to get our number.
The starter began walking around our car, making the safety inspection the rules required.
Suddenly, he stopped and stared at me.
Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle, vous êtes américain?
Yes.
I thought for a moment that you look like... Ah, it's no matter.
I look like his first wife?
Oui, mademoiselle, very much, very, very much.
Our number, ma chérie, 107.
It is the one I have asked for.
You will place it in the windscreen, no?
A lucky number?
Lucky? Perhaps.
Oui, tout à fait prêt.
Bien.
Dix. Neuf.
Faites attention, chérie, the count begins.
René, René, there's something I must know.
That one.
René, you must tell me.
Did you overtake Claudette on this rally?
Silence.
René, answer my question.
Partez.
Allons-y.
Silence.
Now there was no time to think, to wonder, to ask questions, or to enjoy the scenery.
The day was the roar of the motor, the screech of tires, and the map of our route, from which
I scarcely looked up as I checked off the villages we passed through, and the control
points where officials would penalise us if we were late.
The night was wind and cold and stay-awake pills and shortness of breath as we whined
across the high Alps of Switzerland toward Italy.
The second day was like the first, excepting the names on the maps were no longer French.
And then in a little town, on Lago di Gardo, at last I slept, for three beautiful hours,
but only because René had to free a sticky valve.
But too soon, we were on the road again, we'd lost time to make up.
Cortina, Susan, when must we be in Cortina?
Cortina, Cortina, just a second.
I hear, give it to me.
There, you see it's right there.
We must make the Cortina control point at 3.06 in the morning.
That seems simple to read, no?
Yes, René, sorry.
We are almost the only car still un-penalised.
Just like before.
Like when before?
Like four years ago.
Each checkpoint, each control, we hit, poof, on schedule.
Who is we, René?
We fall behind and I try to make it up.
And never has the Grand Carniche been driven like I drove it.
And we were on the last kilometre.
Oh, mon Dieu.
Et toi? Toi et tu, fais attention là-bas!
What is it?
That Porsche, I heard he sees my lights.
No, mon pauvre, no, not so fast!
Oh, no, he does not know this road.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!
Stay here, Susan.
No, no, I'll go too.
Stay and stop the next car.
Send him back for an ambulance.
I stayed and flagged down the next speeding car.
And finally an ambulance came.
They struggled up the cliff with two sheeted forms on livers.
And René climbed back into the car.
There's the sport.
They were dead.
They were dead, weren't they?
Yes, ma chérie, they were dead.
Oh, how horrible.
It could be worse.
Worse?
That was Van Hoff and his wife.
I knew them.
They were much in love.
Then what could be worse?
If one of them died, and not the other.
Another day of twisting mountain roads, of hairpin curves,
with no guardrails between the screaming spinning car and the thousand feet it enters.
It was late evening when we roared back into France
through the dank dripping tunnel of the Col de Tenday.
And on down the tortuous descent of the Alps Maritimes,
with the fresh damp smell of the Mediterranean rising up to us.
It was midnight when we ground to a stop at a gas station at La Tour B,
on the Grand Corniche, high above Monte Carlo.
Not much further now, just a few kilometers to the finish line at Nice.
Hey, service right now!
Ah, where are these peasants?
Hey! Yes sir, yes sir. What would you like?
Petrol right now. You have coffee inside.
Ah, Mr. Beringer, it's you.
Yes, it's me, and late like before.
As usual, eh?
It is no matter. It is almost the last kilometer.
Coffee, Susan?
No, no thanks.
I need a cup.
I looked at the man I was going to marry.
He was smiling secretively.
I thought of Jimmy North back home, with his frank open face.
And I realized I didn't know this man at all.
Renée, wait, I want to talk to you.
I must have coffee.
You would not want me to sleep at the wheel, not on the last kilometer.
There is a curve there. It is called La Courbe de Mors.
You would not want me to go to sleep there.
La Courbe de Mors? The curve of death.
I shivered. Then I looked at the attendant.
He was staring at me, wide-eyed.
What is wrong, Monsieur?
Excuse me, Madame, but you look like...
I know. Like Madame Beringer. You knew her?
I saw her once.
C'est incroyable. Incredible.
You are the same.
But it must not happen again.
Happen? What?
Madame, you must go no further on this rally.
You must remain here.
But why? It's only a few kilometers to the finish.
Madame, listen.
Four years ago, this man, this Renée Beringer,
he has to stop here for petrol.
The rally des Alpes in 1954.
He has his wife with him.
She is you, like you were the same girl.
The same.
They are behind. The road is wet.
I warn them, but they go over the side on La Courbe de Mors.
He lives, but she is killed.
So that was the accident.
Oui, madame. For years, we do not see Monsieur Beringer.
Then, six weeks ago, he comes back again to La Courbe de Mors.
He parks on the road, and he looks down and he laughs.
He says he will be back, and this time he will die with his...
Six weeks ago.
It was just six weeks ago I met Renée at the casino in Nice.
Don't you see? To him, you are his Claudette again.
No. No, it's too fantastic.
What is so fantastic, my dear?
He says... he says Claudette was with you before.
That she was killed on this road.
How much, old man?
You must not go, I beg you.
How much? How much for petrol?
2,900 francs.
Well...
There you go. Keep the difference.
Now, let's go.
No, Renée. I'm not going any further.
What are you saying?
To have come so far and missed the finish?
No, Renée. No, you know the route well.
Now, you can drive the rest of the way yourself.
That is enough. Quite enough.
You will ride with me to the end.
No, Renée. No. Please. Please.
Stop that sniveling. Get down to business.
How much further?
How many kilometers from La Courbe to Nice?
What time must we cross the finish line?
The map was a blur.
Then it came sharply into focus and I saw something I hadn't noticed before.
There was no time written on the map for the finish.
And the red crayon stopped short of Nice.
Stopped just one kilometer from La Courbe.
The last kilometer.
La Courbe to Nice.
How far?
I ask how far?
It looks like 18 kilometers.
Merci. Merci, Claudette.
In a moment, we continue with the third act of...
Suspense.
We have together ample capacity in freedom to defend freedom.
This is NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.
NATO nations contribute to the further development of peaceful and friendly international relations...
by strengthening their free institutions, by bringing about a better understanding of the principles upon which these institutions are founded...
and by promoting conditions of stability and well-being.
The United States of America is a part of NATO.
You should be aware of and alert to the objectives and programs of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.
And now, starring Miss Marsha Hunt, act three of The Last Kilometer.
Oh, Prima, please.
It is like before, no?
The rain and the darkness.
Oh, remember, remember this curve here, this monster?
Oh.
Renée, Renée, how can I remember? I wasn't here.
And there, there it is at last, Claudette.
There is the grandfather of them all, the Coupe de Morgue.
Remember, ma chérie? Remember, Claudette?
Renée, I'm not Claudette. I'm Susan. Susan, Renée, Susan.
What? What? Susan.
Susan.
Susan. Susan, forgive me.
The old man from the gas station found me, a hundred yards from the car, wandering in a daze.
Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, our God is with you. You are safe.
Where is he? Is he?
He lives, mademoiselle, but I think not long.
You must not go there. Please.
He was lying among the rocks by the overturned car.
He was bleeding from the mouth.
His eyes were glazed, but when he saw me, he smiled.
Claudette.
I looked down at the man I had loved.
Then I kneeled beside him.
Oui, Renée?
Bonjour.
Ah, Claudette.
Bonjour, Renée.
Eh, adieu.
Mademoiselle, there is nothing more you can do here.
Permit me to take you back to the village.
Thank you.
Is there a phone, a telephone there?
Oh, oui, Mademoiselle.
You wish to make a call?
Yes, yes, please.
An overseas call to Fresno, California.
["Fresno, California"]
Suspense.
In which Marsha Hunt starred in William N. Robeson's
production of The Last Kilometer by Michael Frost.
In just a moment, the names of the supporting players
and a word about next week's story of suspense.
If someone were to accuse you of being a firebug,
you'd probably be pretty indignant.
But the fact is, you may be a firebug
unless you're unusually careful.
For example, how often do you ride along the highway
in your car and thoughtlessly toss a lighted cigarette butt
out the window?
Most of the time, it may not do any damage,
but you're taking the chance because a gust of wind
may carry that butt into a clump of dry grass
and start a disastrous brush or forest fire.
So from now on, please use the ashtray inside the car.
Of course, when you're out in the woods
for a walk or a picnic, be especially careful with fire.
Break all matches in two before throwing them away.
Make sure that ashes from all smokes, cigarettes, cigars,
and pipes are all the way out before you leave them.
The same goes for campfires, which should be drowned
and stirred not once but twice.
Don't run the risk of losing acres of forest land
so valuable for timber, water, and soil conservation
and for recreation areas.
Be careful with fire.
Supporting Marsha Hunt in the last kilometer
were Anne Hunter, John Danaer, and Ben Wright.
Listen.
Listen again next week when we return with another tale
well calculated to keep you in suspense.
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