And now, Auto Light and its 60,000 dealers and service stations present...
Suspense!
Tonight, Auto Light brings you James Mason and Pamela Colino in Agatha Christie's, Where
There's a Will, a suspense play produced and directed by Anton M. Leader.
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And now, Auto Light presents James Mason and Pamela Collino in, a tale well calculated
to keep you in suspense.
And now Mr. Jepson, you really must let me make you a whiskey and soda, I have some excellent
scotch.
Never mind that Ridgeway, I've come to find out when you can raise 10,000 pounds.
I see, yes I see, well Mr. Jepson, 10,000 pounds is a great deal of money.
That's what's needed to cover your notes.
Yes, that's right.
But you know Mr. Jepson, you might just let me write you one more IOU and try again.
Your luck's run out, Ridgeway.
Well, I wasn't much of a gambler anyhow, was I?
Perhaps it's just as well I've learned my lesson.
How long, Mr. Jepson, would you say I have to raise the money?
Four weeks.
I see, four weeks.
And if I should fail to raise the money?
Hmm?
I see.
Well, you make yourself very clear, Mr. Jepson.
But then perhaps all's not lost.
Mrs. Harter, my aunt, has had the foresight to draw up a new will, making me her heir.
The money was to go to a niece, my cousin Miriam, but now a new will's been drawn up.
Aunt Mary finds me much more satisfactory than poor Miriam.
The very spirit of solicitude I am, forever inquiring about her health, about her poor
weak heart.
Four weeks.
Is that right, Mr. Jepson?
That's right, Ridgeway.
Or else.
I see.
Or else.
That's when it began.
That, plus the fortunate circumstance of the new will in my favor, decided me on my plan.
Now murder wouldn't look right.
Nobody else living in the house but Aunt Mary and I, and Elizabeth the maid.
And since I would benefit by 40,000 pounds, no, murder would not look right.
Besides, I was fond of Aunt Mary.
Well, a day or so after Mr. Jepson's visit, there occurred to me a rather whimsical idea
for a practical joke.
The first thing was to determine the degree of weakness of Aunt Mary's weak heart.
And so I arranged an appointment for her with Dr. Menell, the heart specialist in Harley
Street.
Just have a chair, Mr. Ridgeway.
Thank you, Dr. Menell.
Now, Mr. Ridgeway, as you requested, I have gone over your Aunt Mrs. Heart thoroughly.
Yes.
And there is a heart weakness.
How dreadful.
But not terribly serious, Charles, Dr. Menell says.
But my poor dear Aunt Mary.
Dear Charles.
Naturally, you're shocked, Mr. Ridgeway.
But with the least care, she'll live to be 90, I should think.
However, her mind must be kept well distracted.
Mind distracted?
Yes.
Distraction for the mind and no sudden shocks.
That's most important.
No sudden shocks.
I see.
Well, thank you, Doctor.
Not at all.
Out this way, my private exit.
No use going through the waiting room again, eh?
Well, good day, Mrs. Heart.
Good day, Doctor.
Goodbye, Doctor.
Oh, I'd say, Ridgeway.
Yes?
I minimized your aunt's condition just a bit.
Didn't want to alarm her.
You understand.
Yes, of course.
But what I said about no shocks, no frights, most important, a good fright might very well
carry her off.
I see.
Well, thank you, Doctor.
The next step was the radio.
Aunt Mary must have a radio.
But Charles, you know I don't care for new fangled things.
We've got on quite well without a wireless.
I don't see why.
We should have one now.
But don't you remember what Dr. Menell said, Aunt Mary?
The mind distracted, well distracted.
Those were his very words.
You know, I'm only thinking of your heart.
I know you are, dear Charles.
That's better, Aunt Mary.
That's more like yourself.
You are a comfort to me, Charles.
Thank you, Aunt Mary.
Now about the radio.
But really, Charles.
Now, now, now, you really ought to trust my judgment.
I'm a bit of an expert on radio, you know.
Before the war, I even had a small sender station of my own.
Some of the equipment's still in one of my boxes somewhere about.
So you see, I know.
But the waves, Charles, the electric waves, they might affect me.
There's no more electricity about it than there is about an electric light.
Radio waves aren't electric.
But Charles, I...
Well, I must say, it makes a frightful noise.
Oh, we'll have it tuned in a minute.
Here we are.
What is it?
It's Spanish, Aunt Mary.
Madrid, propaganda.
There's France.
What do you think of that?
You can tune in the whole world, the whole world.
You see, Aunt Mary, radio waves converging from all over the world on this little box.
From Madrid, Paris, New York, and beyond.
Beyond!
Who knows how far beyond?
Well, I must say, Charles, you're quite poetic about it.
Am I?
Yes.
Yes, I suppose I am.
That was the first inkling I had that my little practical joke was going to be fun.
The acting and coaxing poor dear Aunt Mary along bit by bit.
Every evening, she'd sit by the radio, listening to the news on the BBC home service and the
classical music on the third program.
Then one morning, I attached a wire into the radio while she was still in bed, ran it along
under the carpet into the small empty room of the sitting room where the radio stood,
took the hand microphone left over from my amateur sending gaze and hooked it to the
other end of the wire.
And everything was all ready.
That evening, I backed the car out of the garage and started off my regular Wednesday
evening of bridge.
But I drove only a short way, then parked behind a hedge and walked back to the house.
I let myself in the side door and went into the small room of the sitting room where Aunt
Mary sat alone listening to the radio.
It was the third program, a program of Beethoven.
I opened the door the slightest crack.
The moment had come.
And I felt my heart beating with strange emotion.
I saw in my mind's eye Aunt Mary and the dimly lit sitting room.
And I almost felt the mood she must be feeling as she sat dreamily immersed in the shifting
strains of music.
I picked up the microphone and.
Mary, can you hear me, Mary?
This is Patrick.
What?
This is Patrick, your husband speaking from the other side.
I am coming for you soon.
Will you be ready, Mary?
Patrick.
For suspense, Auto Light is bringing you James Mason and Pamela Colino in radio's outstanding
theater of thrills, Suspense.
Say, Hap, I spent Washington's birthday telling my young nephew the story of George Washington.
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But Harlow, you were telling your nephew.
Always tell the truth, I told him.
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a year in normal car use.
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I told him about the fiberglass insulation between plates that adds months to the life
of an Auto Light stay full battery.
Well, I'm sure the kid learned a lot about George Washington.
But wait, here's suspense.
And now, Auto Light brings back to our Hollywood soundstage, James Mason, who will be joined
by his wife, Pamela Colino in Where There's a Will, a tale well calculated to keep you
in.
After I'd spoken with the voice of Aunt Mary's dead husband, I waited a moment.
Then very cautiously, I looked into the sitting room.
Aunt Mary was sitting bolt upright, transfixed.
Then a sob broke from her as she looked toward the radio, which was now innocently transmitting
the BBC third program again.
I had to bite my lips to keep from laughing.
But Aunt Mary said nothing about her experience.
So I was obliged the fourth morning after that at breakfast to say casually, Oh, I say
Aunt Mary.
Yes, Charles.
I was just wondering, last evening.
Yes, Charles.
Aunt Mary, who's that funny old boy up in the spare room?
The picture, that is.
You know, the picture over the mantelpiece, the old boy with the beaver and the side whiskers.
Well, really, Charles, your tone is most disrespectful.
I'm sorry.
It's your uncle, Patrick Charles, my late husband.
Oh, I say I'm sorry.
I had no idea.
After all, I never did know him, Aunt Mary.
Very well, Charles.
You see, I wondered.
It was queer.
Queer?
What's queer?
Are you trying to say something, Charles?
Oh, no, no, no, not really.
It's nothing.
Nothing that makes any sense.
I mean, I wish you would tell me what it was that made you ask me about the picture of
your uncle.
Well, if you will have it, I fancied I saw him.
Saw him?
The man in the picture, I mean, looking out of the end window when I was coming up the
drive last night.
What?
Yeah.
And later on, I happened to drift into the spare room and there was the picture up over
the mantelpiece, the same man.
It's all quite easy to explain, really, I expect, subconscious and all that.
I must have noticed the picture before without realizing it and then just fancied the face
in the window.
Aunt Mary, is something the matter?
Oh, my husband's face.
Did you see it in the end window?
Why, yes.
Why?
Only that that was Patrick's, your late uncle's dressing room, Charles.
The very absurdity of the story I made poor Aunt Mary believe was the fun, the clever
roundabout way I played my role.
The following Wednesday night, I pretended to play off, to go and play bridge again.
I concealed myself in the room off the sitting room just as before, took up the microphone
and spoke from the other world in the same sepulchral tones.
Mary, on Friday, I shall come for you.
Friday at half past nine.
At half past nine.
Do not be afraid.
There will be no pain.
Be ready, Mary.
When I came into her bedroom the next morning, Aunt Mary was speaking to Elizabeth in a most
businesslike manner.
Now here you are, Elizabeth.
I want you to take this letter I've written.
Yes, ma'am.
I wrote it last evening.
If anything should happen Friday evening, you understand me?
Yes, ma'am.
Friday evening?
But that's my night out.
So it is, and you go right ahead.
However, if anything shall have happened by the time you get back on Saturday, I want
this letter delivered to Dr. Mayham.
Yes, ma'am.
Now, the top left-hand drawer of my bureau, it's locked.
The long key with the white label.
Everything in the drawer is ready.
Ready, ma'am.
For my burial.
Oh, ma'am.
Oh, what are you saying?
I thought you was in a site better health.
Oh, ma'am.
Never mind that, Elizabeth.
Don't be maudlin'.
Oh, ma'am.
Elizabeth, did I ever tell you how much I've left you in my will?
Oh, no, ma'am.
Well, I can't seem to remember it was 50 pounds in the old will, but did I raise it
to 100?
Well, at any rate, I want you to have 100 pounds.
I'll have to look into it.
But if anything should happen before I do, then Mr. Charles will see to it.
Did I hear my name mentioned, dear Aunt Mary?
Oh, good morning, Charles.
Yes, I was just saying to Elizabeth, I don't know if I've left her 50 or 100 pounds, but
if anything should happen to me, it's to be 100 pounds.
Well, I must say, that's a gloomy thing to be thinking about.
Oh, Mr. Charles, sir, she's been carrying our most awful just now.
What's this?
That's enough, Elizabeth.
You may go now.
Yes, ma'am.
Well, now, just what in the world is all this about?
Would you tell me just what's going to happen to dear Aunt Mary?
Charles, what do you plan to be doing Friday evening?
Friday evening?
Well, as a matter of fact, the Ewing's asked me to go in and play bridge.
But if you'd rather I stayed at home...
No, no, Charles, actually, I'd prefer to be alone.
Well, just as you wish.
You know, I think I'll have Mr. Hopkinson send me the will.
I want to find out about the bequest to Elizabeth.
It's either 50 or 100 pounds.
The rest, dear Charles, of course, goes to you.
Yes, dear Aunt Mary, whatever you say.
Friday evening, I'd picked that night because I knew it was Elizabeth's night off and I
wanted to be sure there was no one about.
Friday evening, at eight o'clock, I drove away, waited for an hour to elapse, then slipped
back into the house.
I looked through the crack in the door and saw Aunt Mary sitting in the high-backed chair
beside the radio.
As I listened, the nine o'clock news ended and a program of music was about to begin.
It was a quarter past nine, 15 minutes till the appointed time for the arrival of the
dead Patrick.
This time I did not touch the microphone.
I went upstairs, opened a camphor chest of old clothes in the spare room, took a tube
of spirit gum from my pocket and bent forward intently in front of a mirror.
Sharp on the instant of half past nine, there was a fumbling at the outer door of the house
and the front door slowly opened.
And then there were slow, halting footsteps along the short hall to the sitting room where
an old woman waited.
And then the sitting room door opened.
The time has come, Mary.
Patrick, I'm ready.
My practical joke had worked to perfection.
Aunt Mary's poor old heart couldn't stand the strain of seeing her dead husband Patrick
arrive in person to carry her off into the spirit world.
I stepped over the body, which had fallen dangerously near the burning fire in the grate.
I took the poker and thrust some folds of paper that were lying in the ash into the
fire to bring up a blaze, and in the blaze burned the false beard and side whiskers.
I detached the wire, fixed into the radio, and took wire and microphone upstairs.
I undressed and replaced Uncle Patrick's old-fashioned suit of clothes in the camphor
chest in the spare room where I'd found it.
Then I dressed again and went off to play bridge at the Ewing's.
Two days later.
This is Mrs. Hart.
I mean, this was Mrs. Hart's residence.
Oh, just a moment.
It's Mr. Jepson, sir.
All right, I'll take it.
You may go, Elizabeth.
Yes, sir.
Ridgeway here.
Anything wrong?
Not yet.
I just wanted you to know that I read about it in the Daily Standard, Ridgeway.
A pity about poor dear Aunt Mary, don't you think, Mr. Jepson?
A pity?
And let me remind you, you have one week left.
I haven't forgotten.
Once the newspapers announce my inheritance of 40,000 pounds, I'll have no difficulty
borrowing.
And then I'll pay up.
Good.
Only remember this, Ridgeway.
You don't pay up and I send you to the same place you sent to your Aunt Mary.
You understand?
Or maybe it wouldn't be quite the same place, Ridgeway, now that you've got murder on your
soul.
Understand?
I understand, Mr. Jepson.
And then, that evening, Dr. Mannell came to the house.
I really did think you'd want to see this.
You say Elizabeth brought it to you?
Yes.
She said it was one of Mrs. Harter's last requests that she do so.
As a matter of fact, I do seem to remember.
Yes, and I do recall seeing her give Elizabeth some such envelope as that.
You've read the contents?
That's what's queer.
Here, suppose you have a look for yourself.
All right.
Tonight, Wednesday, at 9.15, I have distinctly heard the voice of my dead husband.
He told me that he would come for me on Friday night at 9.30.
If I should die on that day and at that hour, I should like the facts made known so as to
prove beyond question the possibility of communicating with the spirit world, Mary Harter.
What do you make of it?
I hardly know.
It's a coincidence, to say the least.
She did die at nearly that very hour, 9.30 Friday night.
But I don't understand.
In the circumstances, an autopsy is desirable, you understand, purely as a metal form.
Yes.
Yes, of course.
Why not?
Of course, everything must be done according to form.
What's the matter with you, Charles?
Have you lost your sense of humor?
Finally, five days later.
Mr. Hopkinson is here to see you, sir.
Thank you, Elizabeth.
That'll be all.
Yes, sir.
Good morning, Mr. Ridgeway.
Fightful morning.
Listen, about Mrs. Harter's, my aunt's will...
I did not quite understand your insistent messages to me, Mr. Ridgeway.
You seem to be under the impression the late Mrs. Harter's will was in our keeping.
Why, yes.
I've often heard my aunt say as much.
Oh, quite so.
It was in our keeping.
Was?
That is what I said.
Mrs. Harter wrote to us, however, asking that it be forwarded to her.
There seemed to be some haste to the matter.
At any rate, we got it out to her at once.
She would have received it on Friday, the day of her death.
I do seem to remember her making mention of it.
Something about the bequest to Elizabeth.
She wanted to check the amount.
It must be about the house somewhere then.
Elizabeth has been through Mrs. Harter's personal effects, I believe.
Yes, just a moment.
I'll call her.
Elizabeth!
Yes, Mr. Charles?
Elizabeth, come here a moment, please.
Yes, sir.
Elizabeth, when you went through Mrs. Harter's things, was her will among them?
No, sir.
You're sure, Elizabeth?
Yes, sir.
You see, I know what it looked like.
The poor mistress had it in her hand the very evening of her death when she sent me out.
You're sure of that?
Oh, yes, sir.
She pointed out that about the £50 to me, sir.
She said as she told you to give me the other £50.
Not that I mentioned it to press you, sir.
No, no, no, no, of course not.
The will was in a long blue envelope, sir.
Quite right.
The same blue envelope, Mr. Charles, sir, was lying on the radio table by her chair
the morning after, but empty, sir.
It was the envelope in which I dispatched the will to your aunt, Mr. Ridgeway.
Mr. Ridgeway, was there a fire in the Great on Friday evening?
Yes, of course.
I see.
What are you driving at, Hopkinson?
I'm afraid, Mr. Ridgeway, only one conclusion is possible.
Your aunt sent for her will in order to destroy it.
What?
I'm sorry, Mr. Ridgeway.
But why?
Why?
You, uh, you had no disagreement with your aunt, Mr. Ridgeway?
Not at all.
We were on the most affectionate terms right up to the end.
Of course, quite.
Mr. Ridgeway, you will understand.
Under the circumstances, we were obliged to investigate.
Investigate?
What do you mean?
It happens that there is a former will of Mrs. Harter still extant.
By it, Mrs. Harter leaves everything to her niece, to your cousin, Miriam.
To Miriam?
Yes, but...
As for the more recent will sent by me before her death to Mrs. Harter, it must have been
burned in the Great.
Burned?
The will was burned.
Mr. Charles, can I get you something?
No, no, I'll be all right.
You may go on, Elizabeth.
Yes.
I'll run along too, Mr. Ridgeway, if there is nothing further.
No, I'll, um, I'll telephone.
Quite.
Yet there would seem to be little use for that.
We've notified your cousin, Miriam, of her inheritance.
As a matter of fact, I'm surprised you didn't know all this yourself.
You see, we sent word round to the press yesterday.
Well, um, good day, Mr. Ridgeway.
Good day.
I remembered some folds of paper that I thrust into the fire to make it blaze up and burn
the false beard and side whiskers with which I'd frightened an old lady to death.
And then I remembered something falling.
A paper.
A will.
From an old woman's fingers as she stood frozen in terror too near the fire.
I saw the fire again consuming something.
Consuming the will.
Oh, my cleverness.
Your maid said you went in, but I thought she was lying.
I don't like liars, Ridgeway.
Mr. Jepson.
I read the papers.
I read who's going to inherit your aunt's money.
I don't like liars.
But I did think I was going to inherit or, or, or why would I have killed her?
You killed her?
Of course.
Oh, so you did kill her.
How many times do you want me to say it?
I believe that'll do.
All right, Inspector, that's what I wanted you to hear.
Come in.
What?
Bring in the maid, too.
That was very clever of you, Mr. Jepson.
I must confess, I had my doubts.
Now, Mr. Ridgeway, you'd better come along.
But I was only joking.
Young woman.
Yes, sir?
You heard Mr. Ridgeway say he killed his aunt?
I did, sir, but he must have been joking.
He was...
Never mind.
That's enough.
By the way, Mr. Ridgeway, you'll be interested to know, and I'm sure that we check with
Dr. Menell on the autopsy.
According to his report, your aunt's heart was so weak, she could not have lived another
month.
What... what are you laughing at?
That's your joke, old man.
Oh, your joke.
Yes.
It's just funny, isn't it?
Very funny.
Thank you, James Mason and Pamela Colino for a splendid performance.
Now, Harlow Wilcox.
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Now here again is James Mason and wife Pamela Colino.
I hope you both enjoyed being on suspense tonight and especially you, Mrs. Mason, even
though the part of Elizabeth was small.
Oh yes, it was a lot of fun.
You see, James and I learned a long time ago that it's not how loud the part is, but how
much fun you have playing it.
Besides, next time Tony Leader has promised to find a script for me in which James can
play a butler or a cat or something.
How about that, Mrs. Mason?
I'm looking forward to it.
And we're looking forward to, to next week when Joan Fontaine will star in The Lovebirds,
another gripping study in suspense.
James Mason and Pamela Colino have just completed the book, The Cats in Our Lives.
Tonight's suspense play was adapted from the Agatha Christie story by William Fifield.
Music was composed by Lucien Morrowek and conducted by Lud Gluskin.
The entire production was under the direction of Anton M. Leader.
Now here is great news.
Beginning March 1st, Suspense on Television may be seen in many areas of the country,
Tuesdays at 9.30 p.m. Eastern Time.
You can buy auto light electrical parts, auto light resistor spark plugs, auto light staple
batteries at your neighborhood auto light dealer.
Switch to auto light.
Good night.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.