Suspense. And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery
and adventure, William N. Robeson.
Death is one of the dramatist's most useful tools. For death is drama, posing the ultimate
question to which no man has the answer. We have used it often on suspense, mostly in
its more violent aspects. Tonight we use it again, but quietly, subjectively. Tonight
we present a modern morality play. But don't let that frighten you away. Our play is sufficiently
immoral to satisfy the modern fashion. It has to be, because it is about a modern man.
Listen, listen then as Mr. Victor Jorry stars in Death Notice, which begins in just a moment.
Welcome, William Bendix.
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And now, Death Notice, starring Mr. Victor Jory. A tale well calculated to keep you in
suspense.
All right, Charlie, you can put on your shirt. Well, Doc, what's the verdict? Not bad, not
bad. Not good, huh? Well, Charlie, at your age, you've got to expect to slow down a little.
Take it easy. You forgot that other one, didn't you? What other one? Cliché, the daddy of
them all. You're not as young as you once were. Well, who is? You are, Charlie, and just as
difficult.
Listen, Doc, if there's something to matter with me, I've got a right to know it. I can't
remember how bad it hurt to be squeezed into life. That first gasp of air must have been
a pretty painful experience. I don't know whether the last breath will be a welcome relief
or a final agony. But I do know that in between there's been plenty of pain. Not the kind
of wonder drugs can cure, but the pain of living. It's been pretty well balanced for
the joy of living. The exact depth of agony and the exact height of ecstasy are known
only to me. They can't be communicated to any other person. I've lived with them alone.
As alone I came into the world and alone I will leave it. Now, what's the matter with
me?
You're going to die, Charlie.
When?
Any time. Today, tomorrow, next week.
Really?
No.
There's no hope?
No, not really. It's leukemia. It's advanced. That's why you've been slowing down, and
you'll continue to slow down until you stop.
I see.
Of course, I could hospitalize you, but that wouldn't stop the process.
No, thanks. You won't make a terminal case out of me. I'll live it out.
Well, it's your life.
That's what I've been trying to tell you. So why were you trying to keep my death a
secret from me?
I wasn't sure how you'd react.
What you'd tell my wife and she'd tell my kids and my friends and everybody would know
but me. And the rest of my life, for as long as it lasts, would be one long wait. Why should
the survivors suffer prematurely bereaved? This is my death, you know, and I insist on
dying my way.
And how are you going about it?
By living. By living each day as though it were my last on earth. Which it very well
may be.
Hello.
Doing anything tonight?
Oh, Charlie. I'd missed you.
I've been pretty busy, honey, but I'm free tonight.
Oh, I'm glad. What time?
The usual.
Want anything special?
You.
I mean, for dinner.
I'm in your hand.
Oh, that's nice, baby.
I'll be ready for you.
I'll be there.
On my birthday, when I was a little kid, they called me the birthday boy. And I could do
anything I wanted to all day long. But now I'm the death day boy. And surely I can call
what's left of my life my own.
Hello, Millie.
Oh, Charlie, it's you.
Apparently.
Oh, I knew it would be you. When the phone rang, I said to myself, that must be Charlie.
Funny, isn't it?
Well, you always were psychic, dear. Look, Millie, I have to stay downtown tonight.
Oh, dear. We were supposed to play bridge with the Duffields.
I'm sorry, but this came up unexpectedly. Bob Elliott's in from Chicago tonight, and
I've got to go over the new sales campaign with him.
Oh, will you be late?
Probably. Don't wait up for me.
How many times have I done this feeling guilty, wretched, like a thief? But not now. What
difference does it make now? Beat, drink, and be merry for the morrow we die. Or the
next day, or the next.
In a moment, we continue with the second act of...
Suspense.
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The World Tonight.
Now, starring Mr. Victor Jorry, act two of Death Notice.
I drove across town to a bright new world. It was as though I was hearing and smelling
and seeing for the first time the ballet of blinking neon signs along the boulevard, the
deep ruby of the stoplight and its stately progression through torpays to emerald release.
Even the smell of the exhaust broke into a myriad of fascinating odors touched with the
clean scent of newly fallen rain. Thus does the familiar soon to be left behind become
precious and exotic to be savored lingeringly. And with this richness of sensation, the keen
appetizing anticipation of the evening to come, Sandra's candlelit apartment filled
with soft music, the superb dinner with wine and sparkling goblets, and Sandra herself,
warm, silk and soft.
Baby, Mommy's missed you.
But Sandra had changed. I had never noticed before that her gorgeous red hair was not
red all the way to the roots. Her perfume was too obvious. Under a plunging gown, she
was softer than I had remembered. Too soft.
How about a drink, baby?
The drink didn't do anything. Neither did the next one. The candles held back the dark,
held back the light, too, from the ridiculous mood war prints on the wall. Mercifully subdued
the clashing colors of the mound of tiny satin pillows in the love seat.
Why don't you get into something more comfortable, baby?
Any time, the doctor had said. Next week, tomorrow, tonight. If it's to be tonight,
then I must not be here on the arms of this aging, eager merry widow. I've got to go,
Sandra.
Baby, you're not going to eat, you are.
I'm afraid so.
You've just started. Now you just relax, baby. Put your head on Mommy's lap, like always.
I'm sorry, Sandra. I've got to go.
Where?
Home.
What's there that isn't better here, baby?
That's not the point. It's just that I've got to go.
What do you think I am, a public convenience? Just snap your fingers and Sandra's right
there waiting. Just pick up the phone and Sandra drops everything. What's there in it
for me, Charlie baby, sitting around this crummy dump waiting for you?
I don't know, Sandra. I don't know what there has ever been in it for you. I guess I never
thought about you.
You're so right. So long as you got what you wanted, that's all you cared about. Well,
it's going to be different from now on. I'm getting out. The next time you're hungry or
thirsty or misunderstood, don't bother calling me, because I won't be here.
I won't either, Sandra.
In a moment, we continue with the third act of suspense. A word of advice for those of
you who suffer from acid indigestion, heartburn or gas.
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bring relief quicker than you'd ever guess. Best for any kind of acid distress. Keep them
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The modern Tums formula has never been surpassed for effectiveness. Always carry Tums, ten
cents. Free roll pack, a quarter. Or get the new six-roll Tums pack with free metal carrier,
only 49 cents. And now, starring Mr. Victor Jorry, act three of Death Notice.
I had no trouble finding the champagne. But have you ever tried to buy roses in a fairly
large city at 9.30 at night? It can be done, but it isn't easy. I had never noticed before
how perfectly my house key slipped into the lock, how reassuring the latch sounded, how
solid the door felt. Home. Beautiful word. A soft word. A strong word. Home. Not man's
castle, man's sanctuary. This home I built against the world. Here I brought my bride,
here we raised our children, here I belong. Here is his piece.
Is that you, Charlie? Yes, Millie, it's me.
Well, you're home early. Yes, I cut it short with Bob.
We could almost have gone to the Duffields after all, except I'm nearly ready for bed.
I'm glad you are, Millie. Here, these are for you.
What roses? American Beauty roses? What Charlie's lady? Been up to something? Can't a man bring
his wife roses once in a while for no reason at all? And champagne? Champagne? What on
earth for? To celebrate.
To celebrate what? Nothing. Just celebrate.
I haven't seen you act so crazy in 20 years. I know. I've been too busy earning a living.
Too busy to live. Now run and get some glasses while I change to my robe and slippers. Yes,
my lord and master. And let's have the wine and the roses in our bedroom.
She sat on a slipper chair by her dressing table, sipping champagne a little self-consciously.
Like the roses, she had hastily plunged into two smaller vases. She overflowed her once
trimmed body. Like the roses, she was full-blown. And like the roses, she was beautiful. The
gray that spiked her hair was honest color. The lines that her eyes at the corners of her
mouth were etched there by laughter and high good humor and courage that more than once
had replaced mine.
Bubble, tickle.
I suppose to. And now I want to propose a toast to the most beautiful girl in the world.
Charlie, I'm not. I never was.
To me you are. Just as beautiful as you were the first day I saw you in sophomore chemistry
class.
Charlie, what's the matter?
Nothing. My breath just came a little short.
You better stop drinking that stuff and get yourself ready for bed.
No, I'll just sit down for a moment. I'll be all right.
Your face is as white as a sheet. Now you get to bed.
Get to bed, get some sleep, get up, get down to the office, get home and get dinner over
so you can sit staring at the TV set until it's time to get to bed and start the whole
cycle all over again. Is that what life's about, Millie? Is that all we have to look
forward to? Where's the best as yet to be, the poet promised? The last of life for what's
the first is made. What happened to it? Why does it end? In flat champagne and a pile
of rose petals under an empty stock?
Maybe. Champagne and roses can't make us a bride and groom again, Charlie. This isn't
our wedding night, you know.
The moment was gone. Millie pushed aside a champagne glass and a rose petal fell into
it as she turned to the dressing table mirror and started to cream her face, the nightly
ritual that erased every line of her identity. And then outside there was the sound of a
car driving in and the garage door slamming shut.
Oh, that must be Chuck.
Coming in a little late, isn't he?
Yes, I wish you'd speak to him, Charlie. I just can't do anything with him anymore.
I told him not to take my car tonight, but he just took it anyway. I tell you, that boy
is going to be the death of me.
The death of you?
What do you mean?
Nothing. I'll talk to him.
Oh, you look so tired. It can wait until morning.
Nothing can wait until morning.
Charlie?
That you, son?
Huh? Yeah, that's me.
Have any idea what time it is?
It's not midnight yet.
Not quite.
Well, I gotta hit the sack.
Sit down, son. I'm going to talk to you.
I'm tired, Dad. I gotta get some sleep.
I said sit down.
All right. What do you want?
Mother tells me you took the car after she told you not to.
Gee, Dad.
Did you?
Yeah.
I won't have disobedience, son.
Well, get me a car my own.
And I won't have rudeness.
I got some rights.
Rights, yes. But privileges, no. None until you earn them.
Why should I go out and work for a car?
All the other kids' dads buy them.
When I was your age...
Yeah, I know. When you were my age, everything was different.
You walked ten miles to school through blizzards.
You studied by the firelight and you got all A's.
Well, this isn't the horse and bruggy age, Daddy-o.
The cat's gotta be with it these days.
I won't have this kind of insolence.
Go to your room.
Sure, Pop. That's where I was headed in the first place.
This rude, shambling lout was once a pink and tiny thing full of promise.
My son. My only son for whom I dreamed so many dreams.
My son whom I loathed.
Yes, loathed as my father must have loathed me.
For children never seem to understand their parents until they become parents themselves.
The bedroom was sweet and sour with dead wine and dying roses.
And on the bed in the pale nightlight, Mildred's faceless body rose and fell in gentle rhythm.
The fire flickered, crackled softly.
A flame shot up in the graying embers and fell back.
How long does it take a fire to die?
Or a man?
The hearth of my home was growing cold.
My home, my sanctuary was becoming a tomb too soon.
The walls closing in, cold and black.
Not yet.
Not yet.
The night was friendlier.
The cold dead stars of heaven were warmer.
Heaven?
Where now do angels dwell since man has sent metal into the sky to join the planets in
their ceaseless journeying through eternity?
Has God been evicted by Sputnik and Mechtar and Explorer?
Are the pearly gates now milestones in the missile race?
I walked under the cold, silent stars and they gave back no answer.
I walked the black and empty streets slowly, slowly, ever more slowly.
I walked through the night and into the dawn and there at last in the sky before me, silhouetted
against the graying east, was a cross and beneath it the open door and beyond the altar
and the warm red glow of the vote of candles.
And I went in.
Me, Charlie Slade, modern man.
I went into the church because there was nowhere else to go.
And I was tired, so very, very tired.
And I sat down and I bowed my head.
And after all a long time I heard a voice.
Can I help you, my son?
No one can help me, Father.
It's too late.
It's never too late to confess your sins.
My only sin was living.
It shall be expiated by my dying.
We will cancel each other out.
The account will be closed.
The account is never closed until the day of judgment.
Well, the faithful perhaps, but I have no faith.
You need only to know that God has not abandoned you.
Perhaps not, but I abandoned God long ago.
I have no right to seek him now.
My son said, come unto me, ye who are heavy laden.
I am not heavy laden.
I am empty of feeling, of hope, of faith.
Alone I came into this world.
Alone I lived in it.
And alone I leave it.
No man is ever alone in the sight of God.
Oh dear God, this only I could believe.
This only I could believe.
Suspense, in which Victor Jory starred in Death Notice, written, produced, and directed by
William N. Robeson.
In a moment, the names of the supporting players and a word about next week's story of suspense.
The
problem is to
are caused when drivers give way to childish impulses.
The driver who insists on going when the traffic light says stop
is behaving like a spoiled child.
So is the fellow who thinks he's too important
to obey the legal speed limit.
So is the woman who forgets to signal other drivers
when she's making a turn.
To be inconsiderate of others on the highway, however,
is more than mere bad manners.
It's tempting fate.
When you get behind the wheel of your car,
remember that you're an adult.
Drive with patience, drive with courtesy, drive with care.
Safety conscious drivers get where they're going
just as fast as reckless drivers do.
And more important, they arrive alive.
If you plan to live to a ripe old age,
act your age wherever you drive.
Supporting Victor Jory and Death Notice were
Lee Patrick, Brooke Byron, Peter Votrian, and Barney Phillips.
Listen. Listen again next week.
When we return with Charles Dickens' classic story,
The Signalman, starring Miss Ellen Drew.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
...suspense.
On CBS Radio.