The Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California presents...
Suspense!
Tonight, Roma Wines bring you Mr. Joseph Cotton, as star of The Earth is Made of Glass, a suspense
play produced, edited and directed for Roma Wines by William Spear.
Suspense!
Radio's outstanding theater of thrills 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, to your enjoyment of everyday meals.
Yes, right now a glass full would be very pleasant, as Roma Wines bring you Mr. Joseph Cotton
in a remarkable tale of...
Suspense!
Good morning, Dr. West.
Good morning, Miss Adams.
Well, there's one bed vacant this morning.
I see that 4.36, Mr. Steele died, 4 a.m.
Yes, I was there. Coronary thrombosis.
You're not terribly concerned, Dr. West?
Why should I be especially concerned?
Well, the day nurse, Miss Rosenberg, said that you and Mr. Steele...
You girls gossip too much.
Yes, doctor.
But I understand there's no family. What am I going to do with Mr. Steele's things?
What things?
Well, his overcoat, this parcel was in it, this book.
He said it was his journal and he told Miss Rosenberg you would have it.
He said it had important scientific data and...
Well, give it here.
Yes, doctor.
Journal of Richard Thomas Steele.
Important scientific data, I'll bet.
I still can't figure out what was eating that guy.
What he had to say to me that was so darned important.
Why do people want to keep diaries?
July 26th, not a fruitful day.
The weather this morning was heavy, sticky.
Lord knows what crazy stuff he's written here.
July 26th, not a fruitful day.
The weather this morning was heavy, sticky.
I stayed indoors with the blinds drawn, spent three and a half hours arranging and cataloguing a shipment of books.
And I must say I gloated over my new volume of bacon, gold leaf, uncut, 1836, a treasure.
In the afternoon I ventured out to play chess with Eliot.
He's an uninspired player and a worse conversationalist.
I'm appalled that a man of Eliot's pretensions still wallows in 18th and 19th century thought patterns, twaddle in sentimentality.
He's totally unaware of the potentialities of modern science.
It was so apparent to me when we got into that argument over Ralph Waldo Emerson.
I was thumbing through a volume he had of Emerson's essays, a cheap reprint at that.
I was annoyed by a paragraph in the essay called compensation.
I must have snorted because Eliot fairly leaped at me.
Certainly I think there's compensation for everything.
Kid for tat, measure for measure, love for love.
Do you contend, Eliot, that no matter what a man does it comes back to him?
One way or another, yes, yes it does.
Then if I do good I get good back?
Yes, I believe that, Richard.
And if I commit a crime I'm of necessity punished?
Well, it depends what you mean by punishment.
I mean that I will suffer somehow for the evil I do.
Isn't that what Emerson says?
I want to know what you believe.
Well, I believe what he says.
Well, I'll read what he says.
Discount the poetry, old man, he used lush language.
Emerson says, commit a crime and the earth is made of glass.
Commit a crime and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground such as reveals in the woods
the tracks of every potterage and fox and squirrel and mole.
You cannot recall the spoken word.
You cannot wipe out the foot track.
You cannot draw up the ladder so as to leave no inlet or clue.
Some damning circumstance always transpires.
The laws and substance of nature, water, snow, wind, gravitation, become penalties to the thief.
Well, Eliot?
Beautiful, isn't it? You read very well.
Don't try to turn me off, Eliot. We're discussing his theory.
I don't see how there can be any argument. We know...
We know a good deal more than Emerson, you old fellow,
especially about the laws and substances of nature.
We've tested the substances, learned control over the laws, the scientific method, Eliot.
It cancels out every word your friend Emerson wrote, let's say, in compensation.
The scientific method.
I'd like to see it applied to some situations in nature, to human nature.
All right, say you commit a murder.
I'd better very well say I do.
Well, if you aren't caught by the police, and that can be managed by an intelligent man,
you still won't escape. Call it your conscience. That's what Emerson means.
But say I commit a laboratory murder.
What kind of a murder is that?
Let me put it this way. When the police catch a murderer,
they have found a connection between the murderer and his victim, motive and clues, right?
And when a murderer is caught by his conscience,
it is still because he is connected with his victim through his emotions.
I agree so far.
Well, how is a murderer caught if he is in no way connected with his victim?
Well, that's not possible.
I don't know. There could be a pure abstract murder, a murder occurring in almost a vacuum,
a murder in which the only connection between the two participants is the unadulterated act of killing.
July 28th. The weather continues warm, humidity high.
Today I roamed around my library, read a little, thought a great deal.
It's odd that I should keep referring back to my conversation with Elliot.
Abstract murder, a laboratory murder.
I jotted down one or two theoretical points today.
It will be an amusing project in such hot weather.
July 29th. What utter nonsense to think as I have of a laboratory experiment carried out in writing on paper.
It's a contradiction in terms.
The core of the scientific method is to prove theory in life.
So let us prove the possibility of a pure murder.
It must be someone met in an emotional and material vacuum,
someone with whom I have no connection, someone whom I have no possible reason to kill.
The preparations for such a murder are of necessity, classically simple.
This afternoon I bought my equipment.
Gloves, sir? What kind of gloves?
Oh, any kind of gloves.
But what do you want them for? Driving? Gardening?
I want gloves I can use for anything.
Well, we call these utility gloves.
Yes, those will be excellent. Thank you.
What size, sir?
Any size, medium.
Well, now, these look just about...
No, no, no, I don't want to try them on. I'll take them as they are. Just wrap them up.
Yes, sir. Just as you say.
You know, I'm very fond of a genuine old-fashioned hardware store, Mr. Jeremy. Like yours?
Yes, a lot of people tell me that, Mr. Steele. Yes.
Anything special you're looking for?
I don't know. I suppose I'm just browsing.
Yes, sir.
Oh, what are those? Ice picks?
Yes, sir. And pre-war metal, too. You want one?
No, no, I have one. My, quite a selection.
Screwdrivers and... Oh, there's something I want.
Oh, a knife?
One of those.
Well, to be fair with you now, those are pretty poor knives.
Doesn't matter.
Well, just no darn good as far as I can see.
The best possible recommendation, Mr. Jeremy. I'll take it.
A meaningless knife, all-purpose gloves, knife and gloves new, factory-made,
uncontaminated by human association, smelling only of the harsh, impersonal machines which turn them out.
My first safeguards against the intrusion of emotion.
In a laboratory, this procedure would be called controls.
To complete the controls, who would it be?
I must never see his or her face.
I must never know his or her name, age, occupation, thoughts or desires.
I must come into contact with this victim as casually as though we were blown together by the wind.
There can be no selection, no volition on my part, except the elementary volition necessary to raise my arm to kill.
July 30. The exact record of what has occurred.
I must write it down now while it is fresh in my mind.
I will be absolutely precise and objective.
Very well. Tonight, at some undetermined hour after dinner,
I left my house on 74th Street with a new gloves and knife in my right-hand coat pocket.
The only external circumstance I noted was that the air was hot, heavy and still.
After all, everyone is affected equally by weather, so my consciousness of it was no limitation on my experiment.
I walked an undetermined number of blocks, taking care to observe no street signs or landmarks.
I observed only one thing, that there were many people on the street.
In fact, I became aware only vaguely that I was pushing through a rather dense crowd,
but I deafened myself completely to any specific words or conversation.
And although I imagined there was traffic passing in the street,
I successfully blotted out all sound except for a dull roar.
It seemed to me that the ominous heat had increased.
The stillness of the air was the most palpable.
Perhaps it brought me sooner to the final resolution of my plan.
But when I found my progress through the crowd blocked by what I can only describe as a human,
I raised my knife and drove it into the back with all my force.
I can't stand it! I can't!
I continued walking without haste, pausing only a fraction of a second to hear.
He's fallen! Get back! Give him air! Give him air!
To hear those few words, he's fallen. Give him air.
He needed no air, I knew that.
And thus, I heard confirm my unqualified belief
that I had taken without any possible consequence to myself a human being's life.
For suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you as star Mr. Joseph Cotton
in The Earth is Made of Glass by Sylvia Richards.
Roma Wines presentation tonight in radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, Suspense.
Between the acts of suspense, this is Truman Bradley for Roma Wines.
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R-O-M-A. Roma wines.
And now Roma wines bring back to our Hollywood soundstage
Joseph Cotton as Richard Thomas Steele in The Earth is Made of Glass.
A play well calculated to keep you in suspense.
August 1st. I was unable to write in my journal yesterday because of the excessive heat.
I suffered all day from a headache and a vibration in my ears.
I'm writing today only to have on record the final control in my experiment,
my laboratory murder.
To ensure complete ignorance of the identity of my victim,
I shall read no newspapers for a period of two or three weeks
and a whole conversation with anyone apt to be morbidly interested
in murders reported in the tabloid press.
Compensation.
Ta-tat, Mr. Emerson.
August 4th. The heat is unbearable.
All day I have felt that odd heavy vibration in my head.
Now also in my arms and body.
It is almost constant in a one, two, three rhythm.
And sometimes it is a sound as well as a vibration,
like the distant sound of the sea.
I must consult a doctor.
Last night I was kept awake by the throbbing in my head
and toward morning I was subjected to a new agony.
Very softly at first, but louder.
And louder like voices heard in delirium,
my head became filled with an almost hysterical babbling.
A passionata.
For an instant have the voices stopped or even paused.
And they seem to keep time with the reverberation of my heart.
A passionata.
August 8th. I have no need to consult a doctor.
Now I know the nature of my illness.
Last night I turned to music trying to drive the unspeakable
upper off of my brain.
When I put the records on the machine, the Frank Violin Sonata,
and settled back to hear the first flowing melody of the violin,
something happened.
The music swelled and changed and became the passionata.
Beethoven's passionata.
Oh, but that's fine. That's fine.
That's fine. That's fine. That's fine.
Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant.
Then I knew I turned off the music.
The deadly cycle began once more and the sound and voices
of the fiends rose to a dreadful climax.
Passionata.
In spite of every precaution, my murder had not taken place in a vacuum.
My shield had been penetrated by those fragments of sound and speech
echoing in my ears. Speech about a concert.
Yes, I remembered how.
I read that Schnabel was to play an all Beethoven concert
in Carnegie Hall on July 30th.
And the clanging of bells, that was a trolley going by on 7th Avenue.
And I'd also heard and identified the roll and crash of summer thunder.
That was the sound which preceded and punctuated a woman's scream.
I can't stand it. I can't. He's falling. Get back.
Give him a ear.
What's the matter?
Well, it may be possible to drive all this away in time,
but the other thing which sets the rhythm for the rest,
the pulsing sound I hear,
when I drove that knife home into a human being's heart,
the vital rhythm of the heart,
the mighty leap and contraction of the heart's muscle on the blade of the knife
was transmitted back to me through my hand and remains indelibly recorded
in the beat of my own blood.
August 11th. While I am still able to reason,
I must discover where I erred and act swiftly to correct my error.
There is no turning back. The death I caused is a fact.
I cannot banish it by wishing.
For each day I remember something more.
Today, the color of his hair.
Photographed between the black collar of his coat and his gray hat, I saw it.
Clipped, silky reddish.
And I had an insatiable desire to turn the head to see his face.
There is one course left to me.
I will reverse my plan. I will learn.
I will learn in every possible detail the person whom I killed.
Learn to know him. Construct a total portrait.
Then I will attempt to discard this portrait in its entirety.
I beg your pardon, Miss. I...
Where are the newspaper files?
I'll have to get them for you. What dates did you want to see?
The week of July 30th.
Which paper?
The times. I'll start with that.
Just a moment.
I want them for the whole week.
Yes, well, here are all the copies for July, bound.
And these loose ones are August so far.
Thank you.
They must not be taken out of the reading room.
The reading room is to your right. Do you need them long?
It may take me some time. I don't know. I'm doing some rather intensive research.
Return them to the desk when you're through.
I opened the bound volume near the end and immediately saw his picture, page one, center.
The photograph was blurred, but without reading a word, I recognized him because he matched his hair.
I mean, his face went with the back of his head, the one who I had seen.
The hair growing to a slight widow's peak, eyes widely spaced, gray or very light blue, mouth wide, young and strong.
Then I read the words above the picture. Young man slain in crowd.
That was all I read because at a moment, someone spoke to me.
Pardon me. When you're finished with that volume, may I look at it?
It was impossible. It couldn't be.
Standing at my shoulder, smiling. Young, apparently as alive as I, but it was.
He was there. He, my victim.
The face in the paper and his face were the same. I swear they were the same.
I'm sorry to bother you. The girl at the desk said you had the July volume at the time.
Yes, I was.
I'm sorry. Did I startle you?
Your picture, I... I'm looking at your picture.
My picture? What do you mean, in the paper?
I don't see any picture.
He's dead. I know he's dead.
I felt his heart leap like a fish on the point of my knife and quiver and die.
I saw him fall. I must believe that he is truly dead.
And the dead can either walk or speak.
But today on Fifth Avenue...
Hello. What?
What's wrong? Are you ill? No. No, no, no, I'm all right.
You look like you were about to faint. You're still green. Are you sure that you're all right?
Because I live right near here. If you want to lie down...
No, no, no, please.
Well, it's up to you. I can't make you come.
But I don't like to see anyone suffer needlessly.
August 20th. He doesn't like to see anyone suffer.
Yet because of him, there is not one day, one hour when I am free from despair and fear.
Yes, I accept him now. The dead do walk and talk. At least one dead man does.
Inevitably. If I venture out of my house, he finds me.
Today I started down the subway steps at 53rd Street after I'd looked to make sure he wasn't anywhere nearby.
But I'd gone only three or four steps and I felt my arm jostle and my turn...
Pardon. Oh. Oh, you again.
I'll bet you think I'm haunting you.
Jesus, what do you want? Look, I don't want anything. Let's just call it fate or something.
Why don't you let me alone?
I'd begun to think that maybe we were both to be spared this.
So, so, so had I.
If I were superstitious, I'd say we had some unfinished business.
Please, will you tell me something? Will you answer one question?
Do... do you believe in compensation?
You'll have to explain what you mean.
If someone does evil, if I have done evil, must I get evil back?
Well, say it again.
Do you believe in good for good, evil for evil? Look, look, what about killing?
Well, there's all sorts of killing.
But senseless killing. Killing with no reason. What is the compensation for that?
You've asked a pretty complicated question of a pretty simple man.
The only thing that comes to my mind right off is what it says in the Bible.
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
That's what you believe?
Why, yes, I believe that. Is that any help to you?
Yes. Oh, yes. Anything you say would help.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, like a man,
the price asked by the only one who can ask it.
What will you have, quoth God.
Pay for it in ten days, and you'll have a good life.
I believe that.
What will you have, quoth God. Pay for it and take it.
Well, I'll pay.
For I've learned that no event between two human beings can happen in a vacuum.
We're all enmeshed bound together through our blood in a pulsing net.
And if one of us does violence to another, he does violence to himself.
Very well.
This price I am glad to pay.
There is no other way.
Hello. Are you awake, Mr. Steele?
Where am I?
You're in Washington Hill Hospital. How do you feel?
I'm not well, but I have to die.
I don't want to keep you from me.
I have to. Did I bleed much?
Bleed?
From the knife.
You had a heart attack, Mr. Steele.
No, I tell you here. I stabbed myself here.
Where is the doctor?
Lie down, Mr. Steele. The doctor will be here in a minute.
I have to make him understand. I promised to die.
You promised? Here's the doctor now.
Yes, but I...
You.
Of course, you.
Well, Mr. Steele...
I tried to tell her.
I tried to tell her that I have to die.
Call another doctor for this patient nurse.
But doctor...
You tell her. The earth is made of glass.
That if I don't die, you'll always find me.
I know that.
But tell her. Tell her the evil thing I have done,
so she'll let me die.
Dr. West has told me.
Emerson said it.
I carry a malignity in me.
When I die, I make square the eternal account.
Make square the eternal account.
Well, Miss Adams, that's all there is.
The journal of Richard Thomas Steele.
Doctor, I don't remember reading of that murder.
Do you?
No. No, I don't.
Who was the man he met?
Who was it he thought he'd killed?
It was me.
You, Dr. West?
Just as he described it.
First in the library, and then the drug store,
near my home, on buses, in the park.
I couldn't imagine what was bothering him.
But who did he kill? Really?
I don't know.
But I have an idea.
Where's the package you found in his coat?
Right here. Shall I open it?
Yes, go on.
You see?
The gloves. And the knife.
And they've never been used.
Then he never killed anyone.
No. Richard Steele never drove a knife into a living back.
But in his way, he killed. In his mind, he killed.
I guess old Emerson would say even for that kind of crime,
there's compensation.
Commit a crime?
And the earth is made of glass.
Roma wines have brought you Joseph Cotton,
as star of The Earth is Made of Glass.
Tonight's study in...
Suspense.
This is Truman Bradley for Roma Wines,
the sponsor of Suspense.
These days, says Miss Elsa Maxwell, world famous hostess,
more and more people serve only one dish for dinner,
with a salad and probably a sweet.
That's why I'm sure so many more people serve Roma wines,
because Roma wines add so much to a simple meal.
With a savory pot roast, for example,
I recommend glasses of good Roma California Burgundy,
served cool.
Now that's a good suggestion from Elsa Maxwell,
for Roma Burgundy is a handsome wine with a good warm heart.
Try it and discover how happily its tart piquancy goes with meats.
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you'll make better cocktails with Roma's full flavored Bermuth,
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yet surprisingly low priced.
Try Roma Bermuth soon, won't you?
We would like to thank Joseph Cotton for appearing in the place of Clifton Webb,
whose illness prevented his being with us this evening.
Joseph Cotton appeared through the courtesy of David O. Selznick,
producer of Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound.
Next Thursday, you will hear George Murphy in...
Suspense, radio's outstanding theatre of thrills.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.