August Heat

ANNOUNCER: Now, the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California presents ...

(MUSIC ... THEME ... IN AND UNDER)

VOICE OF "SUSPENSE": Suspense! Tonight, Roma Wines bring you the distinguished 
actor, Mr. Ronald Colman, in one of the great suspense stories of our time, 
"August Heat."

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT ... THEN OUT)

ANNOUNCER: Suspense, is presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines. That's 
R-O-M-A, Roma Wines, those excellent California wines that can add so much 
pleasantness to the way you live, to your happiness in entertaining guests, to 
your enjoyment of everyday meals. Before we bring you Ronald Colman and our 
"Suspense" play. Here's a brief message from Elsa Maxwell, famed for her great 
charm as a hostess.

ELSA MAXWELL: When food looks appetizing, it almost always lives up to 
expectations. When even so simple a main dish as a steaming, fragrant bowl of 
spaghetti or beans is surrounded by bright green salad, golden rolls or 
muffins and brilliant Roma California Burgundy, the food is more enjoyable, 
more delightful.

ANNOUNCER: And, for a summery touch of the outdoors, a vase of flowers -- 
perfect color complement to the deep, rich beauty of Roma Burgundy. You'll 
enjoy the fruity, robust taste, the tart piquancy of distinguished Roma 
Burgundy, served cool. Truly, a masterpiece of fine wine-making. Like all Roma 
Wines, Roma Burgundy is unvaryingly good -- always high in quality of bouquet, 
color and taste; the happy reward of selected grapes, brought slowly to 
perfection, gently pressed, then carefully guided to flavor-fullness by the 
ancient skill of Roma's noted wineries in California's choicest vineyards. Yet 
all this goodness is yours for only pennies a glass. Remember, more Americans 
enjoy Roma than any other wine. R-O-M-A, Roma Wines. Yes, right now, a 
glassful would be very pleasant as Roma Wines bring you - a remarkable tale of 
suspense!

(MUSIC ... THEME ... IN AND UNDER)

VOICE OF "SUSPENSE": And, with "August Heat," W. F. Harvey's matchless 
narrative of premonition, and the brooding terror of twilight and the unseen - 
and with the performance of Ronald Colman - Roma Wines hope indeed to keep you 
in ...

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT)

VOICE OF "SUSPENSE": ... Suspense!

(MUSIC ... OUT)

(MUSIC ... FOR AN INTRODUCTION ... STATELY, LANGUID ... FADES)

SOUND: (PENCIL SCRATCHING AWAY AT PAPER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES, READS ALOUD AS HE WRITES) Phenistone Road, Clapham. 
August the 20th, 1945. I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day 
in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put 
them down on paper as clearly as possible. (FADES)

(MUSIC ... A BRIDGE ... STATELY, LANGUID ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Let me say at the outset that my name is James 
Clarence Withencroft. You must remember that in order to have the full 
implication of my story. 

James Clarence Withencroft. 

I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's illness.

By profession I am an artist. Not a very successful one, but I earn enough 
money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants.

My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that there is no one 
in particular to whom I address this manuscript. Only you, who might by chance 
read it someday. For, because of the peculiar circumstance about which you 
will soon hear, I have the strong premonition that I shall never live to tell 
anyone about it. 

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT, FILLS A PAUSE ... THEN UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I breakfasted this morning at nine, at the usual time. 
It was no different from any other morning. And after glancing through the 
morning paper, I lighted my pipe and I proceeded to let my mind wander - in 
the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.

The room, though door and window were open, was oppressively hot, and I had 
just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the 
neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when--

(MUSIC ... DARKENS ... UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) When I was suddenly shaken. A feeling swept over me 
such as I had never experienced before. I attempted to rise to my feet. But 
somehow it seemed as though - I had suddenly been fastened to my chair. My 
hand went out in an effort to brace myself. And then, before I knew what I was 
doing, my pencil was in my hand ... 

SOUND: (PENCIL SCRATCHES AT PAPER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) ... and I began to draw. It was as though someone had 
taken my hand and was moving it across the paper -- swiftly, in bold strokes. 
And then _I_ seemed to take over. My hand, under its own power, began to draw. 

I soon forgot the oppressive heat. Everything was forgotten in this frantic 
feeling that the sketch must be finished as soon as possible.

SOUND: (CLOCK CHIMES FOUR ... PENCIL STOPS)

(MUSIC ... FADES OUT)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I had no idea how long I worked until I heard the 
clock of St. Jude's in the distance. It was four o'clock. And I had started 
just after breakfast. Now, for the first time since I'd begun, I actually 
seemed to see what I had been sketching.

(MUSIC ... RETURNS AFTER CLOCK STOPS CHIMING ... UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I was surprised. The final result was, I felt sure, 
the best thing I had ever done.

It showed a criminal in the dock, immediately after the judge had pronounced 
sentence. The man was fat, enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his 
chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven - or perhaps I 
should say, a few days before, he must have been clean shaven - and he was 
almost bald. He stood there before the judge, his short, clumsy fingers 
clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his 
expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute 
collapse. There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that 
mountain of flesh.

And then - and then I saw that the sketch wasn't complete. For the man's other 
hand seemed to be clutching an instrument of some kind. A weapon, but - but it 
hadn't been completed.

I had made this sketch and yet I had no recollection of what I'd intended the 
man to carry in his other hand.

I took up my pencil again and I attempted to fill in the fuzzy outline but - 
but it was useless. It was as though my fingers had suddenly turned to lead. 

I sat down and I felt the moisture slowly forming on my forehead. And, once 
again, I was conscious of the oppressive heat.

Then I knew that there would be no finishing of the sketch. At any rate, not 
for the moment. So I rolled it up, and without quite knowing why, I put it in 
my pocket. 

In spite of my peculiar inspiration, I was filled with the rare sense of 
happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives.

(MUSIC ... FILLS A PAUSE ... THEN UNDER)

SOUND: (FOOTSTEPS)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon 
Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right 
along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men are at work on 
the new tram lines.

From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. 
Through parks, along crowded streets, always conscious of the awful heat that 
came up from the dusty asphalt pavement in a suffocating wave. 

SOUND: (FOOTSTEPS SLOW)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And I remember, too, the hollow sound of my footsteps 
as I moved along. Although walking aimlessly, I somehow knew that there was a 
goal, a something to which I was drawn.

I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured clouds 
that hung low over the western sky. I've really no idea how far I walked, when 
a small boy roused me from my abstraction.

(MUSIC ... OUT)

BOY: Do you got the time, Mister?

SOUND: (FOOTSTEPS STOP)

WITHENCROFT: Twenty minutes to seven.

BOY: Thanks. Hot enough for ya, sir?

WITHENCROFT: Yes.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) When he left me, I began to take stock of my bearings. 

I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip 
of thirsty earth. There were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium, and 
great numbers of bees droned over them. I stood looking down at them for a 
moment, and then, for some reason, I looked up.

Over the entrance to the place, there was a board with the inscription: 
"Charles Atkinson, Monumental Mason / Worker in English and Italian Marbles".

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT ... THEN FADES OUT)

ATKINSON: (WHISTLES)

SOUND: (CHISEL BANGS AGAINST MARBLE)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise 
of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.

A sudden impulse made me enter. And I went in, in the direction of the noise.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) There was a man, sitting with his back towards me. He 
was busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. 

Then, without turning, his hammer stopped in mid-air, as he was about to bring 
it down on his chisel. He held this position a moment before turning. But I 
knew that he was aware of my presence. And when he turned, I saw his face.

It was -- although I'd never seen him before -- it was the face of the man I 
had been drawing.

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT ... THEN OUT)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Yes, it was the face of the man whose sketch was in my 
pocket.

He sat there on his low stool, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from 
his scalp, not speaking. 

ATKINSON: (SIGHS)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Then he took a red silk handkerchief and he mopped his 
brow. 

ATKINSON: Whew.

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Although this face that looked up at me was the same 
as my sketch, the expression was absolutely different. Suddenly, the puzzled 
expression left his face and he smiled, as if we were old friends. And he 
walked over and he took my hand.

ATKINSON: Good day, sir.

WITHENCROFT: (PLEASANTLY) Good day. I'm sorry to intrude.

ATKINSON: Not at all.

WITHENCROFT: Everything is so hot and glary outside. This, heh, this is like 
an oasis in the wilderness.

ATKINSON: (CHUCKLES) I don't know about an oasis, but it certainly is hot. 
Whew. Take a seat, sir!

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he 
was at work, and I sat down.

ATKINSON: Whew. Very hot.

WITHENCROFT: That's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of.

ATKINSON: In a way it is. The surface here is as fine as anything you could 
wish, but there's a big flaw at the back, though I don't expect you'd notice 
it. 

WITHENCROFT: Oh, I shouldn't think so.

ATKINSON: I could never really do a good job of a bit of marble like that. It 
would, uh, be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn't mind the blasted 
heat. But wait until the winter comes. 

WITHENCROFT: Winter?

ATKINSON: There's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in 
stone.

WITHENCROFT: Oh.

ATKINSON: A - a gravestone, you see.

WITHENCROFT: Oh, I see. 

ATKINSON: Mm.

WITHENCROFT: Then what's this one for?

ATKINSON: Heh. Oh, you'd hardly believe me if I was to tell you, but it's for 
exhibition. It's the truth. Artists have exhibitions. So do grocers and 
butchers. Well -- we have 'em, too. All the latest little things in 
headstones, you know.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) He went on to talk of marbles, which sort of marble 
best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his 
garden and some new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other 
minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head.

ATKINSON: Whew. This heat. This heat's bad. A man's not responsible for what 
he does in this heat.

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something 
unnatural, uncanny, in all of this. The feeling that I'd experienced it all 
before -- the oppressive heat, the fragrance of the stocks in the air, the 
conversation about the marble, the flowers -- everything, as though I - I had 
experienced it before. And yet I knew that I'd never, ever been in this 
section of town before. 

I tried to persuade myself that at least I'd seen HIM before. That his face, 
unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory. 
But I knew that I was practicing little more than a plausible piece of self-
deception.

As I sat there quietly, watching him, he looked up at me and he said:

(MUSIC ... OUT)

ATKINSON: (SIGHS WITH SATISFACTION) There! What do you think of that?

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) He said it with an air of evident pride, of a job well 
done. I could sense that he was experiencing the same feeling I had 
experienced when I'd finished my sketch. Then he got up with a sigh of relief.

ATKINSON: (SIGHS) Hot. Hot, ain't it?

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I was seated in such a position that I was unable to 
see his work. And, for some reason, I didn't move.

Suddenly, he began to read what he'd carved on the tombstone.

He spoke deliberately, and with a flat voice:

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

ATKINSON: (READS) "In the midst of life we are in death. Born, January 18th, 
1905."

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I looked up with a start. This man had read my exact 
birth date.

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT ... THEN UNDER)

ATKINSON: (READS) "He passed away very suddenly on August 20th, 1945."

WITHENCROFT: (AFTER A BEAT) That's today.

ATKINSON: We usually use a present date on these exhibition stones.

WITHENCROFT: (HESITANT) Do you - do you - usually put a name on them, too?

ATKINSON: Uh, yes. Yes, uh ... (READS) "Sacred to the memory of ... James 
Clarence Withencroft.

(MUSIC ... A STATELY, SOMBER ACCENT ... THEN FADES OUT)

SOUND: (BIRDS WHISTLE, CRICKETS CHIRP)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) A cold shudder swept over me - and I sat there in 
silence. The sound of birds and crickets seemed loud in my ears as we stood 
there, looking at each other, saying nothing. 

ATKINSON: Whew.

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And then he mopped his brow again.

ATKINSON: Hot. Hot!

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I was finally able to speak.

(UNEASY, TO ATKINSON) Uh, where - where did you - see that name?

ATKINSON: Hm? Oh, I didn't see it anywhere. I wanted some name, and I put down 
the first that came into me head. 

WITHENCROFT: It's a strange coincidence but - it happens to be mine.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

ATKINSON: Huh? That's - YOUR name? You're, er, James, er, Clarence, er--?

WITHENCROFT: Withencroft. Yes.

ATKINSON: Well! (WHISTLES IN SURPRISE) And, uh, the dates?

WITHENCROFT: I can only answer for the birth date. It's correct.

ATKINSON: Oh. That's a rum go.

WITHENCROFT: I made a sketch this morning. Of you.

ATKINSON: Of - of me? But you've never seen me before.

WITHENCROFT: No.

ATKINSON: Oh... Oh.

SOUND: (SKETCH UNROLLED)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I took my sketch from my pocket and I showed it to 
him. As he looked, the expression on his face altered until it became more and 
more like that of the man I had drawn.

(MUSIC ... OUT)

ATKINSON: And it was only the other day before that I told Maria there were no 
such things as ghosts!

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he 
meant. Then I spoke to him:

(TO ATKINSON) You - oh, you probably heard my name someplace.

ATKINSON: Yes. And you must have seen me somewhere and then have forgotten it! 

WITHENCROFT: Yes, yes.

ATKINSON: Were you at, er, uh, Clacton-on-Sea, um, last, er, July?

WITHENCROFT: No. No, I've never been to Clacton in my life. 

ATKINSON: Oh.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And we were silent for some time again. And we stood 
there looking at one another, and at the two dates on the gravestone, and the 
birth one was right. And the other was - today.

ATKINSON: Well ... come inside and have some supper.

(MUSIC ... A BRIEF BRIDGE ... FADES WITH THE SOUND OF THE CHURCH BELL)

SOUND: (CLOCK CHIMES TEN TIMES UNDER THE FOLLOWING:)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) His wife was a strange little woman, who was pallid, 
with the look of those who live their lives indoors. Her husband introduced me 
as a friend of his who was an artist. And he informed her that I was staying 
for supper. I spoke, making some comment that I hoped I wouldn't be an 
intrusion. And she looked up at me and she said:

MRS. ATKINSON: You have a pleasing voice, Mr. Withencroft. And you're welcome 
in my home. I'm sorry Charles has not brought you here before.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Very little was said during the meal. And, after the 
sardines and watercress had been removed, she walked over to a cupboard and 
she took down a thin black book. And, as she handed it to me, she spoke:

(MUSIC ... OUT)

MRS. ATKINSON: Would you read aloud, Mr. Withencroft?

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Puzzled, I - I looked down at the book which she'd 
opened and placed before me. It was a very tiny book. "The Prophet," it was 
called, by an author, unknown to me, with a strange Eastern name -- Khalil 
Gibran. And my eyes fell across the page, and suddenly, I was reading -- 
aloud, as she'd asked me to.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (READS) Then Almitra spoke, saying, "We would ask now of Death." 

And he said: You would know the secret of death. 

But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? 

The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the 
mystery of light. 

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the 
body of life. 

For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. 

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the 
beyond; 

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. 

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. 

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before 
the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. 

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark 
of the king? 

Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? 

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? 

And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless 
tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? 

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. 

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. 

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance. 

(MUSIC ... RISES GRANDLY ... A BRIDGE ... THEN UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) When I looked up, Mr. Atkinson had gone. But his wife 
stood before me and as she took the book, she spoke:

(MUSIC ... OUT)

MRS. ATKINSON: (DEEPLY, KNOWINGLY) Thank you.

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Then I went outside, and I found Atkinson sitting on 
the gravestone and smoking. He looked up at me.

ATKINSON: Whew. Hot. Hot. Whew. Man's not responsible for what he might do in 
this heat. Hmm. She never asked anyone to read aloud before.

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And then we talked about the sketch again. He looked 
at it.

ATKINSON: Likeness is me, all right. On trial. 

WITHENCROFT: Er, you - you must excuse my asking but - uh, do you know of 
anything you've done for which you could be put on trial?

ATKINSON: No. I've done nothing. Hmph! (WITH A CHUCKLE) Not yet.

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and he began 
to water the flowers. 

SOUND: (PICKS UP WATERING CAN, WATERS FLOWERS)

ATKINSON: Twice a day regular in the hot weather, and then the heat sometimes 
gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never 
stand it. Where do you live?

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I told him my address. It would take an hour's quick 
walk to get back home. And he stopped watering and he faced me, squarely:

SOUND: (SETS DOWN WATERING CAN)

ATKINSON: It's like this. We'll look at the matter straight. If you go back 
home to-night, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you. 
There's always banana skins and orange peels, to say nothing of falling 
ladders.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness 
that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.

ATKINSON: The best thing we can do is for you to stay here till twelve 
o'clock. Then it'll be tomorrow, d'y'see? 

WITHENCROFT: Yes.

ATKINSON: We'll go upstairs and smoke. May be cooler inside.

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And, to my surprise, I agreed.

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT ... A BRIDGE ... THEN OUT)

SOUND: (TOOLS SHARPENED)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) We are sitting in a long, low room beneath the eaves. 
Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is - is busy sharpening some 
tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And as I look at my sketch before me, I suddenly see 
the fuzzy outline of what the man in the picture holds in his hand. For, while 
I had not been able to sketch it before, I am able to do so now.

It is - a chisel.

(MUSIC ... FADES OUT)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And it is stained - with dark liquid.

SOUND: (DISTANT THUNDER ROLLS OMINOUSLY)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) Ah, the sketch - is completed now.

The air seems charged with thunder. 

And I hear it - in the distance.

It is ominous but - but it carries the hope of rain. 

(MUSIC ... IN AND UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) And perhaps this damnable heat will - will be broken 
soon. And the day will soon be over. It is close to twelve.

SOUND: (THUNDER SUBSIDES ... CHISEL SHARPENED ... GROWS LOUDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) I am writing this at a - at a shaky table before the 
open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who - who seems a handy man 
with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge 
on his - chisel.

(MUSIC ... OUT)

SOUND: (CLOCK STARTS TO CHIME TWELVE ... CHISEL SHARPENED STEADILY ... UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) There. It is twelve. 

The day is over. 

And I shall be going home.

But the heat! The heat - is stifling.

ATKINSON: (SIGHS, GROANS, GRUNTS)

SOUND: (CLOCK CONTINUES TO CHIME ... ATKINSON STOPS SHARPENING, RISES, 
FOOTSTEPS ... UNDER)

WITHENCROFT: (NARRATES) This heat - is enough to - send a man mad. 

ATKINSON: (GRUNTS)

(MUSIC ... SOMBER ... TO COMMIT MURDER BY ... BLENDS WITH CLOCK CHIMES ... 
BUILDS TO A CONCLUSION ... THEN OUT)

VOICE OF "SUSPENSE": And so closes "August Heat," in which Roma Wines have 
brought you Ronald Colman as star of tonight's study in ...

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT)

VOICE OF "SUSPENSE": Suspense! "Suspense" is produced, edited and directed by 
William Spier. Music for "August Heat" was composed by Lucien Moraweck and 
conducted by Lud Gluskin. Dennis Hoey appeared as Atkinson. 

ANNOUNCER: This is Truman Bradley with a word for Roma Wines, the sponsor of 
"Suspense." America's famed authority on hospitality, Elsa Maxwell, recently 
made this suggestion for gracious entertainment.

ELSA MAXWELL: Your friends will respect your good taste when you serve 
delightful Roma California Tokay, enjoyable at any time. With coffee or 
dessert, with nuts and fruit. I suggest serving Roma Tokay cool.

ANNOUNCER: A most timely suggestion from Miss Maxwell. You'll find flame-
bright Roma Tokay velvety smooth, moderately sweet, light yet delightfully 
rich in color. And you'll find Roma Wines always delicious, of unvarying fine 
quality and goodness. 

June is the month of weddings and the most distinguished way to fete the June 
bride is by serving Roma California Champagne. It's golden sparkle and 
delicious, delightful dryness tell you that here is a truly fine champagne -- 
Roma Champagne. Next time you plan for a special occasion, add this sparkling 
touch of perfection -- good Roma Champagne.

VOICE OF "SUSPENSE": Next Thursday, you will hear John Payne and Frank McHugh 
as stars of ...

(MUSIC ... AN ACCENT)

VOICE OF "SUSPENSE": Suspense! 

(MUSIC ... OUT)

ANNOUNCER: Presented by Roma Wines. R-O-M-A. Made in California for Enjoyment 
Throughout the World.

(MUSIC ... THEME)

ANNOUNCER 2: This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.

_________________________________
Originally broadcast: 31 May 1945

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