Suspense.
This is the man in black.
Here again to introduce Columbia's program, Suspense.
Our stars this evening are three.
In the order of their appearance they are Walter Hempton, one of the theater's proudest
names for two generations, and Susan Hayworth and Lee Bowman, two of Hollywood's brightest
younger stars.
The story called The Dead Sleep Lightly by John Dixon Carr 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 are calculated to intrigue you, to stir your nerves, to offer
you a precarious situation, and then withhold the solution until the last possible moment.
And so with The Dead Sleep Lightly, and with the performances of Walter Hempton, Susan
Hayworth, and Lee Bowman, we again hope to keep you in Suspense.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Meadowvale Cemetery, not far from New York.
Meadowvale Cemetery, on a dim gray morning in early April when rain forms a mist across
leafless trees and white gravestones.
You see over there the group of silk-hatted gentlemen, each with his protecting umbrella,
gathered around an open grave.
You see the clay soil freshly dug.
You can hear perhaps the creaking of the porch as the coffin is lowered into its everlasting
house, and the droning voice of the surgeon.
I am the resurrection and the life, best of lords.
He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.
Live?
Quiet, Mr. Templeton, please.
What's wrong with old Templeton?
Please, sir, remember where you are.
She's not alive, I tell you.
She's not alive.
It might seem a long distance, that, from the Cosmopolite club in Gramercy Park on the
following evening, when that same well-fed man, as hard and unemotional as a diamond
pin in his tie, hurries up a step into the club, then.
What a farce.
Yes, Mr. Templeton?
Tell me, is Mr. Wilmot in the club, do you know?
Yes, sir.
Don't you see him?
See him where?
In the lounge over there, sir, sitting by the fire.
Yes, yes, of course, sir.
I'm a little upset.
You're a good fellow, Henry.
I won't forget you.
Thank you, sir.
Excuse me, sir, but aren't you going to take off your hat and overcoat?
Never mind my hat and coat.
Just tell me one other thing.
When I came into the club, was there anybody following me?
Following you, Mr. Templeton?
Yes, a woman.
A woman with a long skirt and a heavy black veil.
But aren't many women who wear that kind of dress nowadays, sir?
Look out into the street.
Do you see anybody?
No, sir.
There's just...
What's that?
Oh, that's only the old street musician, sir.
He doesn't mean any harm.
I won't have that tune played, you hear?
I'm used to getting my orders abated, and I'm going to have this one abated.
Here's some money.
Go out and tell him to go away.
Yes, sir, if you insist, but...
Do as you're told and don't ask questions.
Anybody else want to talk?
I'm going to go.
Anybody wants me?
I shall be with Mr. Wilmot.
Very good, sir.
Good evening, Wilmot.
Mind if I sit down for a minute?
Not at all.
Pull up a chair.
Want some coffee?
No, thanks.
I'll get down to brass tacks right away.
Yes, you always do.
I've noticed that.
Well, I'm a pretty self-sufficient kind of a fellow, Wilmot.
I made a name for myself, even if I do say it myself.
But well, the fact is, I need advice.
A successful publisher asking advice from one of his own authors.
That's something new, isn't it?
Now look here, Wilmot, I'm serious.
All right, all right, I take it back.
What's on your mind?
Well, you've studied what we'll call the supernatural, haven't you?
I've lectured and written books about it, yes.
And did you ever meet a ghost?
No, I can't say I ever did.
Have you?
It might only be my own imagination.
Yes, that's what scares me.
You get on in years, and your artery's hardened, and you don't take enough exercise, and you
think something ought to be done about your waistline, but you never bother.
You see, Wilmot, I went to a funeral yesterday.
You did?
Whose funeral was it?
The person who died has nothing to do with this.
It was old Simpson of Harley & Sons.
We thought it was only decent to make up a party and go to the funeral.
I took my secretary along, a girl named Molly Carroll.
I'm leaving for Washington tomorrow, besides I'm moving house, so there was a lot of work
to do.
Where I couldn't stand was that infernal cemetery in the rain.
We must have gone in by the wrong gate, because we were in a neglected, desolate part of the
cemetery where the rank grass grew over the grave.
You'll oblige me, Miss Carroll, if you first find out the proper directions of our places.
We've come in the wrong gate of the cemetery.
Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Templeton, I thought that this...
What you thought doesn't matter now.
This is the wrong part of the cemetery.
My shoes are absolutely ruined with wet clay.
Well, it isn't doing my own choosing stockings any good either, Mr. Templeton.
If there's been any damage to them, Miss Carroll, I'll replace them.
You never found me ungenerous, now have you?
Well, not exactly ungenerous, no.
I'll pay you the compliment, Miss Carroll, saying that you are the best secretary I ever
had.
Thank you.
Yet you want to leave me.
Yes, I want to get married.
That's what Mr. Barnes is telling me.
And who is this caravan of yours?
What does he do?
Does he make any money?
Well, Frank's a radio technician.
He's not very wealthy, I'll admit.
Wealthy?
A radio technician?
I'll bet he doesn't make as much as I pay you.
Yet you want to get married.
Well, is there anything very strange about that?
Yes, if it interferes with your career, if it...
Good Lord.
Look at that.
Look at what, Mr. Templeton?
Over there, where I'm pointing.
You mean that?
That's only an old gravestone covered with weeds and brambles.
I haven't seen that grave in years.
It looks rather neglected.
It is neglected, isn't it?
Will you go closer, please, and read the inscription?
Mr. Templeton.
Do as I tell you, please.
It says...
Let's see if I can get some of these weeds aside.
It says,
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MARY ELLEN CLEAVER,
BORN SEPTEMBER 5, 1892,
DEPARTED THIS LIFE, MARCH 25, 1919.
Thou should still be adored as this moment thou art,
Lest thy loveliness fade as it will.
If you lower that umbrella, Mr. Templeton, you'll get soaking wet.
Tentamental crash.
But she always liked it.
She always liked it?
Mary Ellen Cleaver.
Did you know her?
Very well indeed. She was my wife.
Your wife?
But I never knew you were married.
Neither did anybody else.
Where's my flask of brandy?
What have I done with it?
It's in your hip pocket, Mr. Templeton, but do you think that's very wise?
You've already had more than enough.
Whatever I do is wise, Miss Carroll.
We were married very young.
She was a nice little thing.
I was fond of her, yes.
But she couldn't have helped me.
I'm not a snob, but she wasn't in my class.
No style, you know. No manners.
No education.
Indeed.
Could I have been reduced to the friends I was making?
No.
Wouldn't have been kind to her.
She didn't even want to go to the places where I was invited.
She'd sit at home and say,
What was it like? Did you have a nice time?
What was Mrs. So-and-so wearing?
And she loved me.
I'll put that to her credit.
But...
You left her?
I thought it was the kindest thing to do, yes.
She went away.
Then I heard she'd had...
Had what?
Nothing. Doesn't matter.
Well, there was a war on.
I attended the peace conference in Europe.
Never even knew she was dead until I heard some friends had buried her.
I always promised to call her up.
She said she'd come back to me if I did.
You couldn't call her up now, Mr. Templeton, even if you wanted to.
No, I suppose not.
But I was fond of her.
I wished there was something I could do.
You could have her grave cared for.
Have some flowers put on it.
That's it. That's an idea.
She'd have liked that.
Can you take care of that for me?
I'll look after it tomorrow morning, Mr. Templeton.
But how will they ever be able to locate the grave?
There must be thousands in this cemetery.
Well, each grave has a number, you know.
Cut into the stone so you can identify it.
This is number 1212.
1212.
Sounds like a telephone number, doesn't it?
Yes, doesn't it?
Melothaeo 1212.
Poor girl. I was fond of her.
Please, Mr. Templeton, come along.
And please, no more, Brandy.
You've got a funeral to attend.
And then, Wilmot, the night came.
And the horror. What horror?
Take it easy, man.
There's nothing to worry about.
You were sitting here in the Cosmopolites Club.
Yes, but I wasn't sitting in the club last night.
I was on my way home.
And why should that scare you?
I don't know, but it did.
I'd been jumping all day.
That infernal number kept running through my head.
Melothaeo 1212.
Have you ever seen my house?
Yes, it's that big sham Gothic place on Riverside Drive, isn't it?
Yes, big and dark and drafty like a mausoleum.
I told you I was moving house to an apartment downtown.
But there were some papers there.
I had to get out of the safe in the library to take with me to washing tomorrow.
I knew the servants would be gone, of course.
But I hoped Mrs. Bloom, that's my housekeeper, would still be there.
Then, when I went up the park, about 6.30...
Melothaeo 1212.
Mr. Templeton, this is a surprise.
Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Bloom.
I think you mislaid my key.
The other day I got a swan I had it on my key ring this morning.
It's no trouble, Mr. Templeton.
Only, I hope you're not planning to spend the night here.
No, I'm going to a hotel.
Why do you ask?
Because they've disconnected everything except the electricity and taken away most of the furniture.
They haven't touched anything in the library.
No, sir. I told them you said to leave that.
But it does seem a pity in a way.
What seems a pity?
I can't make up a lovely home like this after all these years.
Home? This big, ugly picture gallery?
It's been a home to me, sir.
I've treated you generously, haven't I?
Yes, sir. I'm sorry.
I've got several hours' work to do, Mrs. Bloom.
The whole safe's full of papers to sort over.
I'm going to the library and...
What's that you're hiding behind your back?
I'm not hiding anything, sir.
All the same, what is it?
It's only a music box, sir.
I found it in the attic when the moving men were here.
If I hadn't known there were...
well, no ladies in your life,
I'd have said it belonged to one of them.
I love to hear them, sir.
May I?
Mrs. Bloom! Yes, sir.
If you don't want me to smash that music box, turn it off!
Yes, sir. I'm sure I'd never...
I'm going to the library.
If you can find any sandwiches and coffee, bring them.
Yes, sir.
Excuse me.
Same old library.
Same old claw-footed desk.
There's the Venetian mirror she bought for you.
Look at yourself in the mirror, Templeton.
Admit you can't face it.
Admit you can't work here tonight.
Admit you've got to have lights and music and...
That's it. Go out for dinner.
Telephone Wilmot.
They've left the phone.
Oh, yes, good. Here it is.
I'm going to the library.
Oh, yes, good. Here it is.
Hello? Hello?
Yes, sir. Number, please.
I, uh...
Number, please.
I want, uh...
Meadowvale 1212.
Wait, what the devil's name am I saying?
Change that, I want...
Hello, my darling. I knew you'd call me when you needed me.
Who is that speaking? Who are you?
It's Mary Ellen, dear.
Don't you recognize my voice?
No, you're not Mary Ellen.
This is sick. Mary Ellen is dead.
Yes, it is. But the dead sleep lightly.
And they can be lonely, too.
And now that you do need me...
I don't need you. I don't need anybody.
I'm coming back to join you, dear.
It's not easy, but...
I'll be there by the time the clock strikes seven.
I'll wear a veil, because I don't look very pretty.
I won't have this. I won't listen to you.
I won't...
Goodbye, my dear.
Remember, when the clock strikes seven,
when the clock strikes seven...
Mrs. Bloom, Mrs. Bloom!
Mr. Templeton, what on earth is the matter?
Who's been playing tricks on me?
Tricks, sir. I don't understand.
Who spoke to me on this phone?
But, sir, nobody could have spoken to you on that phone.
Nobody could have? What are you talking about?
That phone's disconnected, sir.
Disconnected? Yes, sir.
The man came here this afternoon and took that little mother box off the wall
and rolled all the wires up
and put everything on the desk there.
Said he'd be back tomorrow to take it away.
Mrs. Bloom, that's impossible.
Look for yourself, sir.
You're standing in the middle of the room holding that phone
and the wires don't lead anywhere.
Sir, that's true.
So you couldn't very well have talked to anybody
on the phone that wasn't connected?
Now could you? I tell you, I got the operator.
I heard it ring. I talked to...
to someone else.
Oh? And what did that person say?
She said
she'd be here to visit me
when...
Mr. Templeton wants the map.
The phone is disconnected.
And so, Wilmot,
that's what happened last night.
The phone was disconnected. It was Mary Ellen's voice.
There's no doubt about that.
Am I out of my mind or what?
Before I say anything about that, my friend...
Well?
Let's hear the end of your story.
What did happen when the clock struck seven?
I don't know.
You don't know? No, I lost my head.
Ran out of that house as though the devil were after me.
Maybe he was.
And since then? I spent the night at the hotel.
Today, I've walked past that house
fifty times, a hundred times,
trying to muster up enough nerve
to go in.
I couldn't do it, but I've got to go in there.
Why?
It's those papers I've got to take to Washington.
Send somebody else to get them.
I can't do that, Wilmot. It's confidential information
for the government.
I've thought of everything.
I've even bought a revolver, see?
For the love of heaven, man, put that gun away.
You want the other club members to think you have gone insane?
Then I thought of you.
You know all the tricks of fake spiritualists.
You've written about it, lectured about it.
Which reminds me, by the way,
that I'm lecturing before the Acropolis Club
in about twenty minutes. You've got to break that engagement, Wilmot.
Why?
Because you're going with me to my house, tonight, now.
That's impossible, old man. Now sit quietly and listen to me.
I'll go with you willingly, tomorrow morning.
That's too late. I'm taking an early play to Washington.
Well, then, wait until I can get away from the lecture.
Say, uh, around midnight.
I'll tell you what I'll do.
I'll take a taxi and join you as soon as I can.
That won't do.
I've got to know.
I've got to know the answer now. Do you understand?
Aren't you being a little unreasonable about this?
Unreasonable or not, I usually get my own way, and I need to have it now.
Well, then, I'm afraid you'll have to go to the house alone.
Besides, you know, Wilmot,
you worry me.
You sit there puffing at that pipe
and looking at me out of those queer eyes of yours
like a young Satan.
I've often wondered
what you were really thinking about.
Since you flatter my intelligence so much,
I was wondering
whether you'd been quite frank with me.
How?
About your late wife, Mary Ellen Kleber.
What about her?
Well, after she left you,
something happened that, uh,
you don't like to talk about.
Was there by any chance, uh, a child,
a son, for instance, or...
Did you say a son?
Yes. I don't know what you're talking about.
Well, then, let's agree
not to understand each other, shall we?
Now, are you coming with me or aren't you?
I tell you, man, I'll get there as soon as I can.
All I can think about
is the wet red clay in that cemetery
and the dismal grave
and the rain
and what her face might look like
if she raised the veil
and...
What am I going to see in that house?
Though the clocks chime,
the hours dwindle,
and the traffic roar of the city
sinks to a low growl behind twinkling lights,
it is midnight.
When a taxi moves along a certain street
towards a certain house
out of a bygone age,
lightless, black against the stars,
surrounded by iron railings
and with a path bordered by fir trees
leading to the front door,
look, too, with the face of Mr. Patrick Wilmot
when that taxi draws near.
When that taxi draws near.
All right, driver,
this is the place.
I'll be in a way, sir.
No, you needn't wait.
Keep the change.
Thank you, sir. Good night.
So the front gate is open.
And he did go in.
I beg your pardon.
I didn't mean to bump into you.
I'm sorry.
Sir Wilmot.
Wilmot.
Yes, please.
Mr. Wilmot.
My name is so great to see you.
And a good friend.
I'm sorry.
Mr. Wilmot,
I'm sorry.
What are you doing here?
to go with him to this house.
Evidently, I wasn't the only person he applied to.
Shall we go in?
Yes, but the whole house is dark.
Suppose he isn't there.
He's there, all right.
You don't know men like Bert Templeton.
But I...
I'll push the gate wider.
Now, straight up the walk to the front door.
I've got a flashlight.
What are we going to find?
Something rather unpleasant, I'd better warn you.
How do you know?
I have my ways of knowing, Miss Carroll.
Oh, look.
What is it?
That French window to the left of the front door.
Yeah.
It's partly open.
Well, there's nothing in that, necessarily.
Templeton said he'd lost his key.
He might have had to open a window.
That's true, but...
So you see it too, do you?
See what?
There's a footprint across the sill of that French window.
A footprint made in wet clay.
Like...like the clay of the cemetery.
So I should imagine.
Will you go in first or shall I?
Into that dark room, I will not.
Well, then stay here, please, until I get some lights on.
No, wait.
I'll go.
Let me take your arm.
All right, be careful now.
Hmm, I thought so.
This room is the library.
And there are more footprints of somebody
or something walking in.
They lead...
Who's there?
It's only me, sir, Mrs. Bloom, the housekeeper.
Then what's the idea of standing in a dark room
in the middle of the night with what sounds like...
It's only a music box, sir.
I left it behind along with some other things
and came back to get them.
I've got my own key.
I thought I heard a noise in here.
But why aren't there any lights?
The electricity's cut off, sir.
It was cut off today.
I see.
Now, if Templeton is here or was here,
he's not had some kind of light.
If I turn this flashlight on the desk, maybe...
Ah!
Be quiet, Miss Carroll!
What is it, sir?
I'm as blind as a bat without my glasses.
It's Mr. Templeton.
He's lying on the floor beside the desk.
Oh, he isn't...
No, he isn't dead.
His face is the color of putty.
I think he's had some kind of stroke.
We'd better not take any chances.
Mrs. Bloom?
Yes, sir?
Get outside to the nearest telephone
and call for an ambulance.
Telements an emergency case.
You're Mr. Wilmot, aren't you?
But... but what's happened to him?
Ask a dead woman.
I beg your pardon.
Never mind. Hurry!
Of course I'll hurry, Mr. Wilmot.
What are we going to do?
Let's have a look around.
Templeton seems to have been working at his papers
by the light of a couple of candles,
which somebody's blown out.
We'll relight them.
There's the desk.
There's all the papers.
Scattered round him.
Mr. Wilmot, please!
What happened to him?
I'll tell you.
As he sat there in the dim light of two candles,
a ghostly figure appeared at that French window.
It wore a long, old-fashioned skirt
and a heavy black veil to hide the face.
It walked toward Templeton,
tracking graveyard clay.
It stretched its arms to him like this.
Keep away from me, please!
Templeton couldn't stand it.
He collapsed.
And now, before the old housekeeper returns,
did you care to hear how the whole trick was worth?
Trick?
What trick?
Have you heard about the ghost voice
that talked on a disconnected telephone?
Oh, yes.
Yes, he said something about it this morning,
but I thought he wasn't himself.
He wasn't, but he heard it.
Remember Mrs. Bloom's story about the telephone man?
Yes.
They don't send a man round to yank the whole apparatus off
the wall, put it on the desk, and say
he'll be back for it next day.
This man from the telephone company was an imposter.
The man from the telephone company was an imposter?
Exactly.
Oh, look, he's moving his hand.
He's trying to open his eyes.
Isn't there anything we can do for him?
No, there's nothing we can do until the doctor arrives.
In the meantime, listen to me.
All right.
What did this imposter do?
He took away the real phone and substituted a spirit
telephone.
You don't know what a spirit telephone is?
No, of course not.
It's an old device used by fake mediums.
You see a telephone without wires standing on a desk,
like that one.
You pick up the receiver and talk to the dead.
Of course, you never really talk into the phone at all.
But if you don't talk into the phone, then?
Sixth, underneath the desk is a tiny microphone
with hidden wires leading to another room in the same house.
That microphone picks up every word
you think you were saying to the phone.
Is that clear?
I think so.
Well, the dummy telephone is really a low power
radio receiving set.
Somebody in another room can talk back to you
after hearing what you say on the wired microphone.
Then Mr. Templeton?
If Templeton hadn't rung meadow veil 1212,
then rest assured that same number would have rung him.
Well, then the scheme couldn't fail either way.
But you see, there's one thing in this matter
I haven't got quite clear even yet.
And what's that?
Tell me, Miss Carroll, just why did you work this whole trick?
Why did you try to scare your father to death?
My father?
Templeton is your father, isn't he?
That might be rather difficult to prove, Mr. Wilmoth.
By George, I admire you.
Thanks very much.
I'm flattered.
Expressionless as ever.
Eyes as hard and cold and blue and handsome as, well,
make your own comparisons.
But I knew you were guilty, of course,
when I heard your fiancee was a radio techie.
You can leave Frank out of this.
Oh, you have scruples.
Have I touched you?
Nothing can touch me, not since my mother died.
Your fiancee installed a ghost mechanism
and took it away today.
He probably thought it was only a joke.
He did.
I swear he did.
The rest of it was plain enough.
Who led Templeton to the wrong gate in the cemetery
past that woman's grave?
You did.
Who was the only one who could have stolen the key to this house
off that key ring he took to the office?
You were.
You needed that key to come and go as you liked
and impersonate the two voices on the phone.
Is there any need to go on with this?
He killed her, you know.
What do you mean, Templeton killed your mother?
Oh, not with a knife or a bullet or poison.
All he did was break her heart.
And that's no offense in law.
Yeah, steady now.
Well, I've done what I wanted to do.
I've torn his whole rotten life to pieces.
And there he is gasping for breath on the floor.
And I'm glad.
I'm glad I'm glad.
Oh, God, forgive me.
He is my father.
Does he know you're his daughter?
No.
Oh, of course not.
When I went to work for him as a secretary,
he hadn't even seen me since I was a child.
But I got near him.
I worked for years to get near him.
No.
I wish I hadn't.
Now, look here, you've got to pull yourself together.
Why?
Who cares?
The ambulance coming and maybe the police.
What do I care?
Tell the police what you like.
My dear girl, you don't think I will tell them anything.
I'm merely an onlooker, an amateur
Satan who doesn't believe in ghost voices.
What's that?
Templeton, his eyes are open.
He's trying to get up.
It's as though he could see something that we can't.
What's that he's got in his hand?
It's a revolver.
He had one at the club.
He's putting it against his chest.
I'll stop him.
Look out.
Oh.
He did love her after all.
And now he's tried to join her.
Oh, don't let him die.
It's all right, Molly.
You grabbed a gun just in time.
If he doesn't die, I'll make it up to him.
I swear I'll make it up to him.
I tell you now, he's not going to die.
But.
Mary Ellen.
But what?
Mary Ellen.
I was just wondering, is there a ghost in this room tonight?
And so closes The Dead Sleep Lightly, starring Walter Hemsden,
Susan Hayward, and Lee Bowman.
Tonight's tale of suspense.
This is your narrator, the man in black,
who conveys to you Columbia's invitation
to spend this half hour in suspense with us again next Tuesday.
As Hayward appeared through the courtesy of Paramount Pictures,
and Mr. Bowman appeared through the courtesy of Metro
Golden Mayor Studios.
William Spear, the producer, John Deet, the director,
Bernard Herman, the composer, conductor,
and John Dixon Carr, the author, collaborated on tonight's suspense.
This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.