Suspense. And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery
and adventure, William N. Robson.
Criminologists have long seen the connection between heat, humidity, and murder. They can
tell you the exact hour, the exact summer day, when the most people are statistically
liable to flip their lids. However, in the little prairie town where our story occurs,
other factors further help foster violence. The heat, of course, but also ignorance and
boredom and a woman.
Listen, listen then as Mr. Van Hefflin stars in Too Hot to Live, which begins in just a
moment.
How long has it been since you've cleaned out your bookshelves? Maybe it's time you
took a look at the books you own. While you're cleaning and looking, you can be performing
a valuable service to your country. The United States wants books, lots of them, to send
to interested students and readers abroad. Good books are needed to combat the flood
of literature being circulated in free countries by the Russians and Chinese communists. Each
year the Russians alone publish and distribute well over 100 million volumes of all kinds,
but each volume is a messenger of mischief, full of propaganda and lies about America.
These books are sold at ridiculously low prices or given away free. You can help counteract
communist propaganda with unneeded books. Most desirable are literary classics, new
or old, up-to-date American histories and geographies. Send all books to Books from
America, Box 1960, Washington 13, D.C. That address again is Books from America, Box 1960,
Washington 13, D.C.
And now, Too Hot to Live, starring Mr. Van Heflin, a tale well calculated to keep you
in suspense.
The sun is starting to pucker the tar road leading into Marcus Junction. Sweat is beginning
to streak through my shirt. My shoes are sucking tar every time I lift them. The sole of one
boot busts loose and starts flapping against the road. That's bad. A drifter needs a good
pair of shoes and I'm on the drift. Marcus Junction, no different than a thousand others
like it. About a mile square of small buildings all pasted together. I walk a couple of blocks
without finding a shoemaker. Town's almost empty this Saturday morning, except for a
man walking my way. A big man, really big. Both ways, big high and big wide. The last
man I want to see. Pinned on a sweat-stained shirt is a big gold star with the word sheriff,
glinting in the sun.
Good morning, son. My name is Benjamin. Benjamin Maxwell. Good morning, Mr. Maxwell. Benjamin,
son. Call me Benjamin. That's the handle that shakes this pump. What's yours, boy? Jeff
Casey. That's a good name. What brings you to our town, Jeff? Oh, well, I'm just passing
through. I wonder where I could get this shoe fixed. Well, pretty socks. Yeah. But who'll
take care of the shoe? Well, I'm going down to Stacey's for a cup of coffee. The shoe
fixer's right next door. Come along, Jeff. Thank you. See, how do you like this weather?
If it gets any warmer, it'll be almost too hot to live, in a manner of speaking, do you
understand? Yeah, I understand. Well, here's the shoe repair. I'll be next door. Leave
your shoes and waddle in on them pretty socks of yours. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. The
shoemaker tells me that my shoes will take a couple of hours, so I start next door to
join Benjamin. I don't know, maybe I'm feeling pretty good, but I pull an old schoolboy trick.
I take off my socks, roll them up, and throw them on the counter with my shoes, and I walk
outside to feel the cool shaded pavement prickle up through the bottom of my bare feet. Through
the window next door, I see four people in the restaurant. Benjamin waits for me to come
in. Inside the entrance, a blonde waitress is arguing with a skinny old man in faded Levi's.
The moon-faced short-order cook is soaking in every word of the argument. Oh, Jefferson.
Oh, hi Benjamin. Well, I come for that coffee. In a minute. Rachel's about to set her piece.
Now find yourself a street corner and get it out of your system. Oh, you are bad, bad
beyond all savings. See you around, Pop. I don't hope. That girl plays rough. That's
just Rachel's way, Jefferson. I see you lean to bare feet. Yeah. Hey, what's yours good
looking? Oh, coffee, please. Black. Coffee, barefoot. Like you, handsome. Oh, your friend's
real pretty, Benjamin. You think everybody's pretty, Rachel. But he's a doll. Be around
long, handsome. I was long enough to get my shoes fixed. Oh, too bad you ain't sticking
around. You faces are scarce around here. Especially one like yours. Well, I've got
some law to enforce. Now you better help yourself, Rachel. You know it. Tell me what it's like
in the world outside, handsome. Hey Rachel, why don't you put up some more coffee? Tend
your bacon, lover. I got company. Is that your boyfriend? Lover boy there? Oh, no, that's
Kenny. He's keeping company with a hot grill. You ought to talk about me like that, Rachel.
He ain't very nice. Then don't bother me while I'm with my friends. Hey, handsome, I'm off
about now. Let's you and me go out to the carnival for a couple of hours. You're ready
alone. Don't you go with her, you hear? Yeah, I heard. Well, I'd like to, Rachel, but how
do I go barefoot? Oh, forgot. You got any other ideas? Yeah, matter of fact, I, um,
I live upstairs over this greasy spoon. Let's go up and mix ourselves something cool while
we wait for your shoes. You can't do that. It ain't nice. It don't look right. Don't
let it. Let's go, Rachel. No, you can't. I'll stop you. I'll come up there after you. You
do and I'll barbecue you on your own grill. In a moment, we continue with the second act
of suspense. One, two. It's a one, two victory for Rambler in the mobile gas economy run
in compact car class A. A Rambler American and a Rambler six finished first and second.
Both Ramblers led all other cars in the mobile gas economy run. Rambler's incredible records,
25.29 and 22.96 miles per gallon with automatic transmission. A brilliant victory in the toughest,
longest mobile gas economy run of all. 1,898 rugged miles from Los Angeles to Kansas City
across deserts, up mountains through congested city traffic. Already the holder of the all-time
post-war records for the mobile gas economy run, Rambler proves once again that it is
indeed America's leader in gas economy. Of course, Rambler with standard or overdrive
transmission has even greater fuel economy. You save more on upkeep, on insurance, on
depreciation because Rambler has highest resale value of all low-price cars. Go Rambler, the
proved economy king at Rambler Dealers. And now, starring Mr. Van Heflin, act too well,
too hot to live.
They're ever so humble. This is home.
Yeah, it's a little small, isn't it? Let's kick out a wall or something.
The windows don't help much, but the drink's well.
Hey, why do you have to lean into the kitchen? Why don't you just walk in?
Fresh varnish on the floor. The heat don't let it dry. Long reach for long drink.
Well, it's a long day. Here you go, handsome.
Don't you believe in mixing anything with your drinks?
Well, for, the cubes will melt. What do we drink to, handsome?
The heat. The heat. Cools you off, doesn't it?
It burns its way down and explodes in my stomach. My pores open and the perspiration oozes out.
It goes down fast. And then another and another.
I'm going numb. The heat, no food. The thing's moving around and around.
Slow and then faster and faster. And then the black rolls in. Soft, hot blackness.
And I pass out.
All right, all right. Come on. Now, part of it. I've got something to show you.
Dave, let me alone. Over there, in the corner of the kitchen.
Hey, take your hands off me. See her? That's how I found her.
You beside her and your filthy hands still tied around her throat.
You killed her. You killed Rachel.
It doesn't make any kind of sense. The bathroom door is open. I stagger toward it, stepping on broken glass.
Pain, stinging. I'm remembering bare feet. The open shower waiting for me.
I turn the hand-walled cold water and half throw myself into the shock of the stream.
I'm coming out of it. I'm coming too.
What did he... He said I'd killed her.
Hey Sheriff, Benjamin. Hey Benjamin, come up here. I got a dirty killer for you.
Kenny shot her down to the window at the Benjamin. I got to get away.
I get to think. What happened? What?
I get through the bathroom window. My feet hit the ceiling.
I get through the bathroom window. My feet hit the scalding tar on the shed roof.
I scramble across it, drop to the street, narrow alley, and I'm running down.
I turn the corner and run right into Benjamin.
Alright, Jefferson. Why'd you do it, son?
I didn't kill her, Benjamin. I don't remember, but I know...
You don't sound sure, Jefferson. Don't you know?
We were drinking. I blacked out.
You were drunk, unconscious. You could still move around. You could have done what was done in that apartment.
No, no, but I couldn't. Why would I want to do that?
Well, maybe you played too rough. Maybe she tried to stop you, cut you with a knife.
Why'd you run away?
Well, I was scared. Kenny said that my hands were around her throat.
I'll have to lock you up. I'll go back and have a good look around.
Maybe I'll find something.
And if you don't...
Rachel's dead, Jefferson. Somebody killed her.
You try to hang me. Why can't I remember what happened, what led to this?
Sweats rolling down Benjamin's forehead, collecting along the top of his glasses, sliding into his eyes.
They smart and snap shut. I slap at his glasses, knock him off his face, and grab for his gun.
His arm comes down fast, hard, chomping at my hand, numbing my arm, and the gun halts to the road.
I run, hopping up and down, up-side-it.
Jefferson! Come back here! You can't get far! Jefferson! You'll never get away from me!
In a moment, we continue with the third act of...
Suspense.
The sociable looks smart.
He thought to date with Pepsi.
Drink like a man.
He's a man.
He thought to date with Pepsi. Drink like refreshing Pepsi.
Stay young and fair and debonair. Be sociable. Have a Pepsi.
When friends drop in, let your hospitality show you're sociable in a modern manner.
Pepsi, you know, is the favorite of the smart and young at heart.
The sociable looks smart.
He thought to date with Pepsi.
Drink like refreshing Pepsi.
Stay young and fair and debonair. Be sociable. Have a Pepsi.
Have you tried a Pepsi lately?
And now, starring Mr. Van Heflin, act three of Too Hot to Live.
I'm running again down the burning street.
Out to the end of town, toward the railroad, I run till my legs slide away from under me.
And then crawl, dragging a body that has no feeling.
A dead weight that robs my arms of their strength.
Finely steel rails glisten ahead and I lay sprawled out.
Heart and lungs going crazy in my body.
I can't go any farther.
The sun is moving away toward the west now.
And I come to, feeling a little better.
I know what I have to do now.
Find Kenny in one way or another. Force him to tell the truth.
Because he must be lying.
I start back to town.
Stepping gently, I make my way through the alley to the restaurant.
There's a stranger behind the counter.
Well, howdy.
Hi. Where's everybody?
Well, most of them are out the carnival. Some are looking for a killer roaming around.
Oh, yeah, I heard about him. I heard he was picked up a couple of miles out.
Good deal. You know, Rachel worked here.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
Say, where's Kenny?
Oh, he's out at Clovis' place. Wanted to be the one to tell Rachel's father about, you know.
Oh, yeah, sure. I ought to go out there and pick him up.
Say, I don't know that place too well. How do I get there?
You just follow the road down about half a mile out of town.
Find a dirt cutoff. Can't miss the mailbox.
Thanks.
Say, if you miss him, who will I say is asking?
Well, just tell him that his cousin Jim was here.
Yeah, well, pleased to have met you.
Hey, you ain't wearing shoes. You're the one. You're the killer.
Run, run, run again. Another alley. Blistering, painless, cement, ripping, beat.
Time is running, too. Running out. Benjamin know where I'm going.
Out on the main highway.
Beyond the town now. Another quarter mile.
Another hundred yards.
At last, the mailbox that says Clovis.
And the dirt cutoff.
An old two-story farmhouse rises out of the field around me.
A big gray barn stands off near the house.
Two old cars are sitting empty behind it.
And he's got to come out to one of them.
Now wait.
Time is still running out.
And away from me, little shimmering waves of heat rise off the tinted roofs of the cars.
Here he comes. At last.
Quiet or I'll break your back.
I want the truth, Kenny. The truth if I have to kill you for it.
Get off of me.
I didn't kill Rachel and you know it.
You did.
I didn't. I didn't.
You killed her, you crazy jealous.
Yes, yes, you came to check.
You came to check and you found us drunk and you got wild. You killed her.
I didn't. I can prove it.
Prove it?
There wasn't three minutes between the time I left the restaurant and the time I called Benjamin.
Not enough time to get up there, kill her, and bring you around.
Three minutes.
I can prove it.
That's all the time you did it.
Your hands were still around her throat when I came in.
You killed Rachel.
And there it is.
He isn't lying about the three minutes.
That gloating smirk on his face tells me that.
I had killed her.
The horror of this afternoon had been for nothing.
Kill him.
Don't just stand there shooting.
He's the man who killed your daughter.
He stands there watching, the skinny old man in faded Levi's.
A double barrel shotgun's cradled in his arm, but he just looks at me.
A wildfire striking out of the black pupils of his eyes.
Shoot him. He killed your daughter.
She was no daughter of mine.
He killed Rachel.
Your father. I thought that was some kind of a nickname of hers.
You know, when she was calling you pop.
She was born to me and I named her Rachel from the Bible.
But she was the daughter of Satan.
I'm sorry, Mr. Coles.
Shoot him. Because of him Rachel is dead.
She turned away from me.
But within me the voice was strong.
I followed her, begging in the place where she lived.
I'm sorry. I was drunk. I was crazy.
That apartment.
The stench of drink like an evil cloud.
You lying there drunk with the devil's fever.
You were there?
Shut up, you old fool.
And it came to me like a voice from on high.
I knew what I must do.
You killed her. It wasn't me. It was you.
No, you didn't. You couldn't keep your mouth shut.
You knew he did it. Can you try to make me believe that I've been the one? Why?
You. You want tramps like you always keeping them from me.
You didn't care. You laughed at me. Made Rachel laugh at me.
I passed the old man when I went up.
I knew as soon as I walked into the room.
And you tried to blame this on me.
Why not?
It wasn't that old man who killed her. You killed her.
And you died for it.
Give me the gun.
Oh no, Kelly. Not now.
Turn around, mister. Turn around and see it when it happens.
Drop your gun, Kenneth.
No. No.
Get up, Jefferson. We'll go home now.
I never heard I'd be so glad to see you, Benjamin.
If you hadn't been so eager to run, I could have saved your feet a lot of wear.
I knew you weren't a murderer, son.
You knew?
I went back to the apartment.
The whole story is there in the varnish on the kitchen floor.
No bare feet around the body, but lots of hobnailed boot prints.
You cut your hand on broken glass in the living room.
That's what made it bleed.
And I was running.
Well, you can stop running now, son.
Why don't you stay here in town with us? There's lots for you to do.
Thanks.
Well, it's been quite a day, Benjamin.
Sure has been a scorcher.
Glad to see the sun going down.
On a day like this, it's almost too hot to live.
Oh, no, don't say that, Benjamin. It never gets that hot.
Suspense, in which Van Heflin starred in William M. Robeson's production of Too Hot to Live, written by Sam Roth.
In a moment, the names of our supporting players and a word about next week's story of suspense.
The station to which you're listening right now is an affiliate of the CBS Radio Network.
That fact makes several important differences.
Take the matter of news.
Over this station, you hear frequent reports gathered by the foremost broadcast news organization, CBS News.
Reports supplemented by the thoughtful commentary of such distinguished CBS newsmen as Edward R. Murrow, Lowell Thomas, and Eric Severide.
In addition, of course, this station provides you with late local news so that you may hear and keep up with what's happening in your own community.
You hear top dramatic programs, comedy, variety, and music to fit every mood.
In addition, this station provides you with further listening entertainment courtesy of your favorite local broadcast personalities, plus the cream of today's crop of top songs.
Well-balanced, highly listenable broadcast fare can come to you only through teamwork.
The kind of teamwork made possible by the combined resources of CBS Radio and this station.
Supporting Van Heflin in Too Hot to Live were Doris Singleton, Barry Kroger, Charles Seal, Barney Phillips, and Norm Alden.
Listen again next week.
When we return with Mr. Jim Backus starring in See How He Runs, another tale well calculated to keep you in.
Suspense.
Music.