Now, Roma Wines present...
Suspense!
Tonight, Actors Blood, written and told to us by Ben Hecht and starring Frederick March.
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 and entertaining guests.
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Yes, right now a glass full would be very pleasant.
As Roma Wines bring you...
Suspense!
This is the man in black, here for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California.
To raise the curtain on a presentation unique in these weekly half hours of suspense.
Tonight from Hollywood, Roma Wines bring you a star of the first magnitude, Mr. Frederick March.
And in person, one of America's foremost tellers of tales, Mr. Ben Hecht of Broadway and Hollywood.
Who will appear as actor and narrator in a suspense play dealing with the mysterious death.
And the twisted passions and loyalties of the world behind the footlights.
And so with Actors Blood and with the performance of Frederick March, supported by Ben Hecht.
From whom we will hear the narrative in the author's own words.
We again hope to keep you in...
Suspense!
Do you remember Maurice Tillio?
Probably not.
Only students of the theater are people old enough to have applauded the heyday of Mrs. Leslie Carter and John Drew.
And the theatrical dialogue of the Divine Sarah would be likely to remember.
During the years I knew him, I saw him in Harness but three times.
Once in revival, once at a benefit.
And the third time was the occasion of the anecdote I've set out to relate.
By that time his only claim to fame was the fact that he was the father of Marsha Tillio.
On a summer night in 1927, Marsha made a final exit worthy of the Tillio tradition.
For weeks after it happened, old Tillio went around like the ancient mariner.
Holding with his baleful eye in his mournful song whoever crossed upon his path.
But after a while he too seemed to drop out of sight in the wake of his glamorous daughter and like her was forgotten.
Then late one night as I was getting ready for bed, the bell to my apartment rang.
Ben, I come with a message from the dead.
Indeed. Well, come on in and tell me about it.
Ben, do you believe in ghosts?
I've got nothing against them.
Good. I have just come from a miserable modern dress caricature of that greatest of the Bard's plays, Macbeth.
You will scarcely credit what these upstarts have done to Shakespeare's masterpiece.
They haven't altered the text, have they?
You recall the fourth scene of the third act?
Oh yes, the scene in which Banquo's ghost appears.
Just so. In the folio edition of the play, the stage directions clearly read,
the ghost of Banquo enters and sits in Macbeth's place.
The foul production which I have just witnessed, the ghost does no such thing.
It is an empty chair to which Macbeth shrieks his guilty line,
thou canst not say I did it, never shake thy gory locks at me.
An invisible ghost, eh? That's not so illogical.
But what drama is there in it?
How can we feel Macbeth's terror if it's an empty stool at which he shouts,
Avant and quit my sight, let the earth hide thee, thy bones are mirrorless, thy blood is cold,
thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with.
The way you read those lines, sir, I have no trouble seeing this ghost.
Thank you. Now listen, I am going to produce that scene in modern dress.
It's not going to be a namby-pamby production such as the one I witnessed tonight.
I am going to give a banquet at my home,
and there is going to be a place set at the table for my daughter, Marsha.
Look, Maurice, I'm very fond of you, but...
You are wondering why, aren't you, my boy?
Like Hamlet, I am but mad north-northwest.
The empty place at the table will be purely symbolic, I assure you.
And no apparitions will appear, not to you and me at any rate.
I cannot guarantee what my daughter's murderer will see there.
Marsha's murderer will be there?
They will all be there. All who loved her, all who hated her.
And woe to the hand that shed this costly blood.
But if you know who the murderer is, why don't you tell the police?
Ah, the police?
My daughter, sir, would not have wanted so crude and sordid an epilogue to her life story.
Like a father before her and my parents before me, she had actor's blood in her veins.
She shall be avenged, my friend, but it will be no affair of handcuffs and policemen.
I'll not go whining on Marsha's behalf among the cigar butts and cuspidors in some precinct station.
No, no. Her murderer shall be unmasked at a mighty banquet on Friday next at 8.30.
Curtain time, my friend. I'll see you there.
Yes, yes, I'll be there.
With Ben Hecht in person as the narrator of his own story and with Frederick Marsha's star,
you have heard the prologue to Actors' Blood, tonight's tale of suspense.
And now, in this brief intermission, let us picture a scene beneath a radiant Caribbean moon
at the fashionable Hotel Nacional de Cuba in Havana.
An American dinner guest has just raised his glass in a toast to Havana,
its traditions, its beauty, the superb dinner and wine.
His Cuban host replies, true, the traditions, the scenery, and the food you enjoy, they are Cuban.
But the wine of which you speak so highly, that is of your country.
It is the famed Roma wine made in your own California.
Yes, it may surprise you that California produces Roma wines of such uniformly superb quality
that they are imported by many foreign countries.
But millions of Americans do know and enjoy the excellence of Roma wines daily with meals and when entertaining.
These millions have made Roma, America's largest selling wines.
They know too that Roma wines are amazingly inexpensive,
only pennies a glass for wines of such distinguished character.
That's because here in America you pay no high import duty, no expensive shipping charges for Roma,
wines that combine age-old winemaking skill with modern testing and quality control.
So ask for R.O.M.A. Roma wines made in California for enjoyment throughout the world.
And now it is with pleasure that we bring back to our sound stage
Mr. Ben Hecht, narrator and author of Actors Blood, starring Frederick March.
Tonight's tale of Suspense.
It rained on that Friday night, thunder rolled in the sky,
and the streets were full of that picnic-like confusion which storm brings to the city.
Waiting under the hotel awning for a taxi,
I turned over in my mind the strange invitation that had brought me out into this wild and stormy night.
I was rather thrilled at the prospect of old Tillio's dinner,
for his intention was plain, to assemble a company of suspects in the murder of his daughter, Marsha,
and he was obviously going to climax the evening by some formal accusation of guilt.
I knew pretty well who the suspects were, and I suppose I was one of them.
Alfred O'Shea would be there, of course.
Alfred O'Shea.
The man who had written Marsha Tillio's first successful play and their last.
Broadway had its own private joke about the title of the last.
It was called Forgotten Lady.
It was after the final curtain of the last performance of Forgotten Lady that Alfred O'Shea chose to tell her.
Marsha told the story at the time as a joke on herself.
Hello, Marsha.
Oh, why, darling, you waited for me in my dressing room.
Like old times, I'm touched, really touched.
Look, sweetheart, you're off stage now, so cut the burn heart. You know why I'm here.
I do.
All right, I'll say it again. I'll say it for the last time.
I want a divorce. I want to marry Irina Kratznov.
I want to marry Irina Kratznov. Oh, it's such a bad line. And from such a great playwright.
No, dear Alfred, not for her. It would be too belittling a successor.
Can't you see, darling, after all we've been to each other, it's...
Why, it's like Pygmalion wanting to trade in his beautiful galatea for a wooden Indian.
And it's no dice, huh?
No dice, Alfred. No divorce. Not as long as I live.
Now be a darling and help me out of this dress.
Okay, Marsha, you've just made your own bargain.
You can come out from behind that screen now, father.
How did you know I was there?
You're asthma, darling. I'm glad you're here. Even if you are a perfectly fiendish old eavesdropper.
Here, you can unhook me since that swine refused to...
I warned you against marrying that jack-o'-n-apes of a playwright, Marsha.
Oh, father, you're saying I told you so. What I really wanted was to weep on your shoulder.
Ouch!
I'm sorry, sorry. Look here, Marsha, what are you going to do about this career of yours?
Now, darling, please don't go into that old routine about my being the last scion of the royal family of the American theater.
I'm nothing but a combination of your name and a playwright who specializes in shallow, brittle female leads that enable me to get applause by simply acting myself.
Marsha, Marsha, I won't allow you to speak this way about yourself. You're a great artist.
Oh.
You've taken your place in the great tradition of the stage beside the immortal figures of Rachelle, Siddons, Bernhardt and Mojesta.
Marsha, let O'Shea go. He was never worthy of you. Play Juliet next season.
Show them you don't need a fashionable playwright and tailor-made parts to succeed. Show them you have actor's blood.
Actor's blood? Actor's blood? I'm sick of hearing about it.
Just because you and Mother thought it was cute to stick me out there behind the footlights at the age of five because you never had any real life.
You didn't see any reason why your daughter should have. I'm supposed to have actor's blood.
All right, all right, all right. I'm only thinking of you, Marsha. Only of you. But that O'Shea is a hot-headed Irishman.
He came very near to threatening your life when you refused to do as he asked.
Good. I wish he would kill me. I'm sick of the whole rotten business.
Yes, O'Shea was a suspect. He would be at old Tillio's dinner. He would be seated across the table from the empty chair.
And would he see a Banquo's ghost of Marsha Tillio? But O'Shea would be in a goodly company of suspects.
Fritz Von Klauber would be there for sure. Fritz Von Klauber.
Not a man I should have liked to have as an enemy that, abnormally sensitive to insult,
Von Klauber was possessed also of an impenetrable Prussian stupidity.
His first American production was a play called Jubilee for Spring and Marsha Tillio starred in it.
It was the most sensational flop of the Broadway season.
After the first night performance in the 21 Club, Marsha held her own private autopsy on Von Klauber's dead turkey.
You see, darlings, Mr. Von Klauber, my esteemed producer, loves his turkey farm so much, he sometimes forgets he's on Broadway.
Terrific, Marsha. How about that for my column?
Sure, Walter. Anything at all. It's all yours.
Marsha, Marsha. Shh, shh. Von Klauber. He's over there at the next table. He's heard every word.
Let him hear. He's going to hear from me in the morning anyway when I start looking for a new producer.
Go ahead, my sweet Marsha. Go ahead. Rag me in public. I could kill you for this. Do you hear me? I could kill you.
You could, darling. Well, if my beloved husband doesn't do me in as he keeps threatening to do, perhaps I'll ask you to oblige.
I may yet be spared the nuisance of doing the job myself.
Marsha, I forbid you to talk like this.
Sorry, Father. Must be the actor's blood cropping up again.
Yes, Von Klauber would surely be present to Tilliou's ghostly dinner.
As I got into the taxi and gave the driver Tilliou's address, my mind was still turning upon the terrible question, who killed Marsha Tilliou?
Third on my list of suspects was a character named Maury Stein.
Maury Stein. A one-time racing tout and small-time gangster, Maury turned his brilliant if slightly frightening talent to flesh peddling.
That is to say, he was a theatrical agent. Marsha did two shows under his management. Both of them flops. It wasn't her fault.
There was no belittlement of the name Tilliou. It was still an electric sign, but growing ghostly, slipping still aglow into the side streets of fame.
Maury Stein was Marsha Tilliou's last substitute for love.
Maury, will you stop staring at that door?
Let's get out of here.
Oh, relax. This is a charming room. I like it here.
Look, chick, I said let's get out of here. Understand?
Perfectly. I understand that Mrs. Maury Stein may come walking in that door. Perhaps she'll put two and two together about us.
That'd make you sad, wouldn't it? Because you've signed over all your unscrupulously earned money to your good wife.
Oh, just in case questions should be asked, you know. And if she gets any ideas, she may cut you off without a dime and then we're...
Shut up!
You know, I've half a mind...
Did you hear what I said? Shut up!
Give her so much as to pick up your coat, we're gone.
Maury, you are a worm. A despicable, slimy little worm.
Sister, nobody talks to Maury Stein like that and gets away with it, see? Nobody.
There was to be one more opening night in Marcia Tilliou's career.
And ironically enough, the three men she had caused to fear most of all her enemies were doing the honors.
O'Shea had written it, Van Klauber was the producer, and Maury Stein had put up the money.
I arrived backstage at the Broadhurst at 8.20 to find the three of them in hysterics.
Ten minutes to curtain time and no Marcia.
I found old Tilliou sitting in her dressing room, nursing his sprained ankle and very upset.
Ben, Ben, I'm worried. For the first time, I'm really worried about Marcia.
What's the matter?
I don't know. We've been calling her hotel since six o'clock. She refuses to answer the phone.
Ben, go over there. You're the only one she'll listen to.
No Tilliou has ever missed a performance and Marcia of all people must not be the first.
It's those villains out there who've done this.
Spreading insidious poison like Iago, tearing at her heart with their fangs until she's afraid to go on.
Go, Ben, try to reason with her.
Okay, Pop, I'll do my best to bring her back.
I trotted the three blocks to Marcia's hotel. The clerk at the desk met me with a dead pan.
Well, Mr. Heck, Miss Tilliou hasn't come down yet. No key in her box.
I took the elevator up. I turned left and walked down the corridor. I knocked on the door. No answer.
Tried to knock. Door opened. And then it all added up.
Yes, it added up to a gaudy room in shambles. Mirror smashed. Perfume bottles shattered.
The portrait of Marcia is pureed, cut to ribbons.
And finally it added up to Marcia herself. Cold and white and terribly beautiful.
Lying there on the bed with three round bullet holes and a neat triangle just over the heart.
There was no mistaking it. Marcia Tilliou was dead. Murdered.
That was the sum total of the addition I was doing in my head as I rode in a taxi the twenty blocks from my hotel to old Tilliou's house on West 84th Street.
Maybe I added it up wrong, but I felt sure I hadn't.
I was even more certain when I saw old Tilliou standing there at the head of the table to greet the guests he had assembled in the promise of revealing the identity of Marcia's murderer.
Promptly at 8.30 he made his entrance. He had brought a stranger into the room with him.
Thank you. Thank you all of you for waiting so patiently. I trust you found your mutual company not too tiresome.
I should like to introduce my guest of honor.
May I present Mr. Carl Schuttler of the district attorney's office.
Now if you will all be seated the place cards are plainly marked. Please, please do not disarrange them.
Thank you, Alfred.
I see one short. And who may I ask is that empty place for? Bunkwell's ghost?
That, my dear Mr. Van Globber, is for a beloved guest known to all of you.
Beloved guest, huh? Well, let's see now.
Well, well, hey, listen to this. This seat has indeed been reserved for one known to all of us.
Who is it?
It's been reserved for Marcia Tilliou.
Oh, please, I'd like to change my place.
Come on, sit down, will you? Marcia will never... she was too sensible to play ghost.
I am an old actor. With the audience seated and the curtain up, I find it hard to wait.
Art is long, but time is fleeting, and there is one who bids me speak. Love, hear thou.
How desolate the heart is ever calling, ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling, then as now.
You are wondering if I really believe my daughter Marcia is present in this galaxy of her friends.
It may be the wandering wits of an old man, but I see her sitting there, tragic and beautiful,
about her the sound of rain and of sweet bells jangling out of tune.
Forgive me. You have not come here tonight to hear a doting father spread his miseries before you,
but for a stern of business, which from your courtesy or attentiveness I feel sure you have guessed.
Mr. Schuttler asked me to tell him this matter privately, but I refused, for you are all her friends, her honorable friends,
and I wanted you present. Who killed my daughter? Who took her life?
There, there's the question. I have the answer. Yes, Mr. Schuttler, the murderer is here.
He sits here among us now at my table. Shall I lock the door now, Mr. Tillew? Yes, yes, lock the door.
Lock it tight. Leave no chance for escape. It's too late now. No power in heaven or earth can save him.
All right, Mr. Tillew, the door's locked. My friends, is this not like a play?
Your face is waiting for the name, the name of Iscariot the Judas. That's it, that's it.
Clear your throat. It's a vicious worm. Look about you. Who knows? The villain may be right beside you.
Who knows but that you may be his next victim. Mr. Tillew. I keep my promise, Mr. Schuttler.
I have the proof, Solomon, enough to send the murderer from this table to the gallows.
The one who killed Marsha is looking at me now. Ah, the blood on his hands, the terror in his eyes.
I'll tell you his name. His name is...
Let me go, let me go. He's killing me. Everybody say where you are. Not now, not now.
The knife, the knife. Oh my God, oh my God. Tillew, where are you? He's killing me. He's killing...
A dagger handled, protruded from old Tillew's crimson shirt front. His eyes were closed.
We carried him into the next room and waited outside while the doctor worked over him.
Mr. Heck? I'm Ben Heck, doctor. Will you come in, please? He's asking for you.
Doctor, is he... The knife pierced the heart. He hasn't much longer.
Ben, is that you, Ben? Yes, it's me. Who did it? Lean over so I can see your face.
There, satisfied? Something fell out of my pocket. Wait, wait. What is that?
It's a letter. I must have stuck it in the pocket of this suit the last time I wore it.
What's in that letter, Ben? I don't know. I haven't even opened it.
That's Marsha's handwriting. A letter from the dead. Open it, Ben. Read it to me.
Look, you mustn't excite yourself. When was that letter mailed?
It's a postmarked attempt. It must have been a day before she...
Read the letter, Ben. All right. What does it say, Ben? Read it.
Well, it says, um, Dear Ben, this is to remind you of the opening at the Broadhurst tonight.
I hope you will be there because I sincerely believe that this is one of the greatest roles I have ever played
and I'm so anxious to make good in it because of Father's faith in me.
She cared. She really cared. What I thought.
Sure she did. She'd have been proud of your performance in there this evening, too, Pop. You were great.
Thank you, Ben. Thank you.
Doctor! Doctor!
Yes, Father?
Oh. Well, that's that. He was quite an actor in his day, wasn't he?
Yes. Quite an actor.
How is he? How is he doing? What did he say? Did he say anything?
He's dead. I've got a letter here that will explain everything. It's a pity I didn't find it sooner.
I haven't had this dinner suit on since the night of Marsha's opening.
It fell out of my pocket when I leaned over the bed in there.
It was written by Marsha Tillio the day she died.
It says, Ben, I'm bored, tired, hurt, sick, full of nasty things. I'd stay a while longer,
but death seems easier and simpler than life. What are a few pills more or less to one who has swallowed so much?
Take care of Father. He liked you the best for the last time, Marsha.
Suicide. It's a suicide note.
But what about the bullets?
Can't you guess? The old man worshipped her. She was his star.
But stars don't commit suicide. Only failures do that.
So he fired three bullets into her dead body, slashed the painting,
and wrecked the place to make it look like a crime of passion.
He must have been mad as a hatter.
He was sane. I think he really saw her as murdered by all of us,
her so-called friends who had let her down when she needed the most.
Do you realize that that old barnstormer was playing his death scene from the moment he came into this room tonight?
He'd rehearsed it in his bedroom for days, sharpening away at Macbeth's old toadstabber.
He had his lines down pat. He staged his elaborate scene this evening and killed himself
in such a way that we'd all be raked over the coals, not only for Marsha's murder, but for his own as well.
Well, it was a lovely piece of old-fashioned miming, but as fruitless a drama as I ever had the misfortune to witness.
You're right, O'Shea. The plot was full of holes.
We could have helped him a lot with the construction, but it was a great glass night.
And so closes Actor's Blood, written and narrated by Ben Hecht and starring Frederick March.
Tonight's study in Suspense. Suspense is produced and directed by William Spear.
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Next Thursday, same time, you will hear Mr. Brian Donleavy, a star of Suspense.
Presented by Roma Wines, R.O.M.A. made in California for enjoyment throughout the world.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.