Suspense.
This is the man in black, here again to introduce Columbia's program, Suspense.
The distinguished star this evening is that delightful gentleman, Mr. Roland Young, playing
as author of detective novels who invented his best plot when his life was at stake.
With Mr. Young to play his long-suffering secretary is Miss Peggy Conklin.
A story by John Dixon Carr in a somewhat lighter mood than is our habit and called The Customer's
Like Murder is tonight's tale of Suspense.
If you've been with us on these Tuesday nights, you will know that Suspense is compounded
of mystery and suspicion and dangerous adventure.
In this series, our tales calculated to intrigue you, to stir your nerves, to offer you a precarious
situation and then withhold the solution until a last possible moment.
And so with The Customer's Like Murder and the performance of Roland Young, we again
hope to keep you in Suspense.
On a hot summer night in a village on the east coast of England, a famous writer of
detective stories is dictating to his secretary,
You have all heard of Mr. Gerald Hoxton, celebrated author of Murder on the Wolfhound, Aconite
at the Admiralty, Who Shot the Prime Minister, and other thrillers which have held us past
the midnight hour.
You have followed the exploits of Pendleton King, diplomat detective.
Gerald Hoxton lives quietly at Deel with his friend Dr. Roberts nearby in case he should
need medical knowledge and his pretty, if somewhat perc, Canadian secretary, Miss Patricia
Phillips.
Gerald Hoxton would be a happy man, even in wartime, if he were not.
You got all that, Mr. Lipps?
Yes, Mr. Hoxton.
Good.
New paragraph.
Yes, Mr. Hoxton.
As the head of the great banqueting table, comma, the Lord Chief Justice staggered to
his feet, full stop.
His face was a ghastly whitish color and his eyes had become grouchy.
Is he drunk, Mr. Hoxton?
No, Mr. Lipps, the Lord Chief Justice is not drunk.
Sounds pretty cock-eyed to me.
For your information, Mr. Lipps, the Lord Chief Justice has just been poisoned with
curare because he discovered the identity of the master criminal.
Is that clear?
Yes, Mr. Hoxton, but I wish you wouldn't do it.
Do what?
Well, in the last four books, Mr. Hoxton, you have shot the Prime Minister, killed the
Lord Chancellor with an axe, poisoned the Home Secretary, and blown up the first Lord
of the Admiralty.
Why don't you stop picking on the poor government and murder somebody else for a change?
The Lord Chancellor, Mr. Lipps, was not murdered with an axe.
No, Mr. Hoxton?
Definitely no.
He was beamed with a great seal and found dead on the Wolf Axe.
And there's another thing, Mr. Lipps, whether you talk like this because of a dense vacuum
in what we will charitably call your mind.
Really, Mr. Hoxton?
Or whether you are really making out what you might define as pot cracks, I don't know.
But I don't want any more of it, do you hear?
Just as you please, Mr. Hoxton.
Aye, aye.
Oh, Lord, where was I?
His face was a ghastly whitish color, and his eyes had become glassy.
Sounds like me.
All right.
A single choking cry escaped his lips, comma, and his body crumpled to the floor, full stop.
New paragraph.
With one such stride, Pendleton King had reached the fallen man.
He can't have done that, Mr. Hoxton.
Who can't have done what?
Pendleton King.
What about him?
Well, on the last page, you had him sitting at the foot of the table.
So he can't get there in one stride unless you want him to sail across the room like
a kangaroo.
There are times, Mr. Lipps, when I should like to poison you with curare and dance on
your grave.
I was only trying to help.
All right.
Change it.
Strike it out.
With hardly a second delay.
How's that?
Comma.
Pendleton King had reached the fallen man.
Full stop.
New paragraph.
Quote.
I feared it, comma.
Quote.
He muttered.
Full stop.
Quote.
Note the rigidity of the muscles.
Exclamation point.
Note the characteristic odor of your curare, which...
That won't do, Mr. Hoxton.
Why not?
Curare hasn't got any odor.
Now there, Mr. Lipps, you've really gone too far.
But I can't help that.
It's true.
If you will permit the small vanity, I am noted for the correctness of my medical knowledge.
Who is murdering the Lord Chief Justice, you or I?
You are.
But you might murder him properly.
Curare hasn't got any odor.
I say it has.
And I say it hasn't.
Listen, Miss Phillips.
I propose to settle this rather childish dispute by going next door and asking Dr. Roberts.
Will that convince you?
Curare hasn't got any odor.
In any way, the Lord Chief Justice wouldn't be mixed up in any such silliness as this.
Silliness, eh?
Yes, I said silliness.
Read your evening paper.
The Lord Chief Justice is sentencing some American gangster who got involved in a robbery over
here.
That's the sort of thing he really does.
You're very fond of these gangster reports, aren't you?
Yes, I am, because they're real.
Real.
Far.
Don't you say far to me.
Merely remarking, Miss Phillips, with your usual ingenuity, you side-track the argument.
I am going to see Dr. Roberts.
That's not necessary, of course.
My own knowledge of poisons is as great as that of any doctor.
Dr. Far.
And finally, kindly don't say far to me.
I won't say either.
When I return, Miss Phillips, I hope to find you in a better frame of mind.
Please observe that I, at least, have been able to keep my temper.
Excuse me.
All right.
Go on.
See if I care.
Oh, excuse me, but...
Good evening, Mr. Hawkstone.
Good evening, Mrs. Roberts.
May I come in?
Of course.
Mind the blackout curtains.
Isn't it hot and stuffy tonight?
Rather close, yes.
Is the doctor in?
I'm afraid he isn't, Mr. Hawkstone, but I expect him back any minute.
Oh.
Out on a call?
No, I'm almost certain he isn't, because that's his medicine case and stethoscope there
on the table.
I think he's just gone up the road to get some tobacco.
Do you mind if I wait?
Not at all.
But, I'm afraid I'll have to wait a little longer.
I'll be back in a minute.