Now, Auto Light and its 60,000 dealers and service stations present...
Suspense!
Tonight, Auto Light brings you Gregory Peck in Michael Vanning's Murder Through the Looking
Glass, a suspense play produced and directed by Anton M. Lieder.
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And now, Auto Light presents Gregory Peck in a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
The sound was a dull, monotonous roar in my ears and I listened, wondering if it were
real or part of a dream.
Suddenly, I was awake and I knew that I was riding on a train.
But where?
I didn't remember getting on a train.
I opened my eyes and saw that I was in the lounge car.
There was only darkness through the window.
A man sat across from me reading.
There was a bridge game down the aisle, a porter serving drinks.
Everything nice and normal, except that I had no idea how I got on the train or why
I was there.
I tried to think of a reason for being there, but I couldn't.
These spells of forgetfulness have been coming on more often lately.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, listened to the rhythm of the train.
A melody began to fit itself to the rhythm.
I couldn't remember ever having heard such a song, but somehow I seemed to know the words.
Down in the valley, valley so low, late in the evening, hear that train blow, hear that
train blow.
I beg your pardon, sir, but your singing is disturbing the other passengers.
I'm sorry.
You understand, sir, it's the other passengers.
I kind of liked your singing myself.
Your singing didn't disturb me either, young man.
In fact, it was a rather pretty melody.
What was the name of it?
Why, it's, uh, I...
You know, it's silly, but I don't know.
I can't even remember the tune now.
That's the way it is with songs.
I've had the same thing happen to me.
So what train is this?
Why, it's New York Express to Philadelphia.
It ought to be there any minute, too.
You must have been on some party if it lasted all day.
What time is it?
Seven o'clock.
P.M., that is.
Yes, sir.
Must have been pretty drunk out where you were.
I think he said something else after that, but I wasn't listening then.
I noticed that I was wearing a brown topcoat.
It wasn't mine.
Maybe I'd accidentally exchanged coats with someone.
If I couldn't remember it, it must have been that kind of a party.
If so, I felt for my wallet.
It was there.
I opened it to see if I had any money left, and my eye was caught by the driver's license
made out to John Blake.
In another pocket of the wallet, there were engraved cards reading John Blake Insurance.
I wasn't John Blake.
I was Jeffrey Bruno, a writer.
I couldn't even drive a car.
I didn't know anything about insurance.
I'd never heard of a John Blake, but here was his identification in my wallet.
What's the matter, young fellow?
Are you ill?
A man across from me said something, but I didn't hear what it was.
I looked through the other pockets.
There was a bank book showing that John Blake had a bank balance of $647.55.
My balance had never been higher than 15 bucks.
There was a letter, a bill for shirts, addressed to John Blake at an address I'd never heard
of before.
There was a moment there, a few crazy seconds, when I wondered if I really was John Blake.
No, I couldn't be.
I knew I was Jeffrey Bruno, who lived at a two-room apartment in Greenwich Village and
wrote mystery stories for a living.
I knew who I was.
Broad speech, please.
Well, here we are.
Or are you going on downtown?
Well, I, uh...
See, I could get a train back to New York here, couldn't I?
Sure, right across from the other platform.
That must have been some party.
I had to get back to New York and straighten out this business about John Blake's coat
and identification.
He, whoever he was, might even be thinking I'd stolen them.
Besides, I wanted to find out where I'd been the night before and all day and why I'd awakened
on a train to Philadelphia.
And then, just as I got up from the seat, I glanced out of the window.
The newsboy was holding up a newspaper.
Across the top was the big headline.
Kill her, Blake!
Escape!
Blake!
And just below it, there was a picture of... me.
Rolling down my hat and turning up my coat collar, I managed to get on a New York train
without anyone recognizing me.
Then, fortunately, no one pays any attention to anyone else on New York subways.
Two blocks from my apartment house, I stopped at the corner stand to buy a newspaper.
Oh, there you are, Mr. Bruno.
Haven't seen you around for a couple days.
Yeah, I've been busy.
Hey, you know, I saw your picture somewhere today.
You got a story in one of the magazines, maybe?
No, no, well, good...
Wait a minute, I'll remember where I saw your picture.
I never forget a picture...
Yeah, I've got to go now.
You can tell me about it tomorrow.
I had to get away before he remembered.
I looked down and saw my picture on his papers.
At home, there were a lot of letters in my box.
Too many for just one delivery.
When I got to the apartment, I looked at them.
Two of the letters had been postmarked in New York three days before.
It doesn't take three days for letters to be delivered locally.
Where have I been for three days?
Oh!
Uh, who's there?
Rosalie!
Oh, Rosalie, just a minute.
Hi, Jeff.
I thought I heard someone in here.
A friend of yours stopped by, but you weren't home.
He ran into me on the stairs and asked if I lived here and then wanted me to give you
a message.
Burnett was his name.
Bill, I think he said.
Oh, yeah.
Well, I'm glad you're here, Rosalie.
Stay and talk to me.
We can have some coffee or a drink.
And did you say Bill was here?
Yesterday morning.
He said something about having had a date with you the night before, but you never showed
up.
Yesterday morning?
Oh, oh, yes.
What's the matter, Jeff?
Don't you feel well?
Oh, sure.
I feel fine.
Rosalie, tell me, do I ever do anything out of the ordinary?
I mean, do I, well, have I ever seemed strange?
You mean, are you?
Well, you've always seemed very sane to me, if that's what you mean, in spite of your
vanishing acts.
My what?
The times you disappear.
You don't know?
I'm sorry.
Let me finish it for you.
You mean the days when I've awakened, thinking it was Tuesday, only to turn out to be Thursday.
You mean I'd disappear for a couple of days, go somewhere else, become somebody else.
I wouldn't have said anything, Jeff, but...
Well, then why don't I remember?
Now, I've heard of people drawing blanks because they've had too much to drink, but now maybe
it's something different.
What is, Jeff?
Well, I've told her all about it.
All I knew anyway.
At first she was frightened, but then I guess she felt sorry for me and she got over it.
Before Rosalie had always been just a beautiful, desirable girl.
I'd had drinks with her a few times in her apartment of mine, but that was all.
Not that I hadn't wanted to take her out, but she was a model and I was sure that she
led a glamorous life with rich men begging to take her out.
But now she didn't look as glamorous as she looked understanding.
I needed that.
But I was beginning to believe that the explanation of John Blake wasn't as simple as I first
thought.
I'm glad I came in, Jeff.
You need someone, and it doesn't matter whether you're John Blake or not.
Well, it matters to me.
Look, I know I'm Jeffrey Bruno and not some guy named John Blake.
I can remember my whole life living on the farm, going to school, working on a newspaper,
coming to New York.
I can remember every minute of it.
Every minute?
Oh, no.
No, not every minute.
You know, Jeff, such things can happen.
White bearded old men with eyeglasses write books about such things.
They've got a word for it.
I can't pronounce it, but it means that you can be two people at one time and not know
it.
So maybe...
I was John Blake, too.
I was a way ahead of you in thinking that.
And if you are, that's a sickness, and people can get over being sick.
Maybe you'll remember all the things John Blake did.
I already know one thing he did.
He killed someone.
I don't know who or how, but I...
John Blake murdered someone.
You brought a paper home.
Why not see?
Whatever happened, Jeff, we'll find a way to work it out.
Thanks, Rosalie.
Here it is.
His name was Rufus Carrington.
He was an old man and wealthy.
I, John Blake, worked part time for his nephew, Roger Gunn.
There's money missing from the firm, and it's believed Rufus Carrington may have found out
about it.
I see.
Roger Gunn arrived to see his uncle this morning and was told by the butler that the old man
was in the study with an unknown caller.
Roger Gunn was talking to the butler when they heard the old man cry out.
He ran to the study and found him dead.
Oh, how awful.
Your nephew saw me, the killer, escaping and recognized him.
Well, if I were John Blake, my other self didn't do things in a small way.
Oh, don't, Jeff.
I never wanted the things John Blake must have wanted.
I never wanted riches.
Never thought of going into a business like insurance.
I just can't understand this thing.
They'll understand, Jeff.
They have people who understand things like that.
Rosalie, whatever happens, will you promise me that if you don't like Jeffrey Bruno, you'll
like John Blake?
But like one of us, it doesn't matter which one it is.
I like you, whichever one of them you are.
You see, Rosalie, I'm innocent, even if John Blake isn't.
I haven't murdered anyone.
It was another part of me.
But if I try to run away, they'll find me.
They'll kill...
They'll hurt me for what John Blake did.
Where can I go?
What can I do?
You can go to the police and tell them the whole truth, because you see, they can't do
anything to you.
You're not responsible for what you did as John Blake.
Yeah.
Maybe you're right.
There's no point in running.
I know I have no right to ask it, but would you go with me, Rosalie?
Of course I will, Jeff.
It's like being haunted, knowing that somewhere inside of me there's another man, never knowing
when I'll be him.
Say, what if...
What if I turn into John Blake before we even get to the police?
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Suspense.
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Through the Looking Glass.
A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
Rosalie was right.
I thought about it as we walked down the stairs.
They'd know what to do with a case like mine.
They'd know that Jeffrey Bruno wasn't responsible for what John Blake did.
Of course, they'd lock me up for my own good and then they'd leave me in there.
What's the matter, Jeff?
Wait, wait, Rosalie.
You're right.
I mustn't run away.
But first, I've got to find out about the other me, about John Blake.
All I know is that he murdered someone.
I have to know other things about him, what he was really like.
I understand, Jeff, but you mustn't do anything foolish.
I have to know about my other life, what books I read, what kind of girls I like.
You can see that's important, can't you?
Of course.
Jeff, I just thought of something.
I know a man, a psychiatrist.
Maybe if I called him, you could see him tonight.
He'd understand.
Maybe he could tell you what to do.
Will you talk to him?
I'll do anything.
It'll help me to understand what I was like when I was John Blake and why I was like that.
I'll go in the drug store here and call him.
I'm sure he'll see you and we'll do whatever he says.
Now, Mr. Bruno, you say there have been many times when you haven't remembered what happened
for days.
Oh, not many.
A few times.
It only happened after I'd been drinking and I thought that's all it was until this.
I see.
It's a very interesting case.
What is it, doctor?
I've done some reading on psychiatry and it sounds, is it split personality?
Schizophrenia?
Yes, it's very possible.
For instance, subconsciously you might have had a desire for things which consciously
you'd convinced yourself were bad.
That desire became so great that you created John Blake so you could satisfy it without
compromising Jeffrey Bruno.
Wouldn't I be partly aware of wanting those things?
Isn't it possible that I'm not John Blake, that all of this is something else?
I'll let you answer that yourself, Mr. Bruno.
How can I?
If I could answer it, I wouldn't be here.
Mr. Bruno, do you honestly believe that there is a real person named John Blake, a person
who looks exactly like you, a person whose coat and identification came accidentally
into your possession?
No, I guess I don't.
But there must be another explanation.
The alternative would be to believe that someone is framing you.
Do you believe that someone drugged you several times or there'd be days you couldn't account
for?
That someone forged the papers of John Blake and planted them on you?
Can you believe that someone planned to commit this murder months ago, rented an apartment
in the name of John Blake, filled it with clothing in your size, put your photograph
in the apartment?
No, but...
According to the newspaper story, the nephew of the murder victim was the only man to identify
your picture.
Therefore, he would have to have been the one to frame you.
Well, this would imply that this Roger Gunn knew you and you knew him.
Do you?
No, I don't remember.
Then can you believe that he was able to drug you to know your clothes size, to get a photograph
of you?
I guess not.
Besides, if he framed you, that implies he is the murderer.
But that can't be, because according to the butler, the nephew was with him at the time
the murder took place.
You see, Mr. Bruno?
I see.
What can I do, Doctor?
Well, if this were not a murder case, the answer would be a simple one.
I'd undertake to treat you.
But as it is, I'm afraid I must suggest that you go to the police.
Yeah, I suppose you're right.
I'm sorry I wasn't able to help you, young man, if you'd only come to me sooner.
Jeff, can you help him, Doctor?
Under the circumstances, it's too late for me to do anything directly.
I've advised Mr. Bruno to go to the police.
Come on, Jeff.
I'll go with you.
All right.
Well, thank you, Doctor.
Oh, not at all.
Sorry, I can't do more.
Good night.
I'm sorry, Jeff, but they'll have to believe you.
They can't make you suffer for what John Blake did.
And then, when you're well...
When I'm well?
What?
We'll see.
Rosalie, there's one more thing I want to do before I go to the police.
I want to see the apartment where I lived when I was John Blake.
I still don't know what I was like when I was being here.
Maybe if I can only see how I lived, it'll give me a clue.
There it is, Jeff, right across the street.
The lobby looks empty.
Now, let's see.
The address on the letter is apartment 203.
Wasn't there anything in the letter?
It was a bill.
It seems that I'm not only an embezzler and a murderer, but I didn't even pay John Blake's
bills.
Please, Jeff, don't joke about it.
All right, Rosalie, no joking.
I don't think it's very funny either.
Now, if I were John Blake, I ought to have a key to my own apartment.
This must be it.
I don't remember ever seeing it before, but the number 203 is stamped on it.
Well, Rosalie...
I'll stay here and warn you if the police come.
Good luck, Jeff.
The lobby was empty.
I got on the self-service elevator and I rode up to the second floor.
It too was deserted and I walked to the door of John... of my apartment.
I hesitated, wondering if maybe there were a policeman inside.
Well, I...
I had to take the chance.
A key worked and I stepped inside.
The place seemed empty.
I turned on the light.
It was a small apartment, inexpensive, perfectly correct and dull.
There were hunting prints on the wall.
There were two suits in the wardrobe.
My size all right, even though I couldn't remember buying them.
There were even monogrammed handkerchiefs.
It was unreal.
Yet I had to believe all these things belonged to me, that there had been times when I liked
wearing them.
My head was spinning by now and I leaned up against the wall.
I don't know how long I stood there, unaware of anything except the pain inside.
Gradually, I...
I was aware that somebody was knocking on a door, but it was several seconds before I
located it.
It was...
It was at my door.
The police?
Oh no, Rosalie said she'd warned me.
It was the police.
I wasn't ready to give myself up yet.
I ran to the window.
There was a fire escape outside.
I raised the window and looked out.
I couldn't see anyone.
I could take a chance that there wasn't a cop at the bottom of the fire escape.
I could climb out and close the window.
As I started to break in, I ran down the fire escape.
I jumped to the ground and looked around the corner.
There was one man sitting in the police car.
I turned and ran the other way.
I must have run two blocks before I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned and it...
It was Rosalie.
Oh Jeff.
You said you'd warned me.
What happened?
But I did, Jeff.
I rang the buzzer twice while they were getting out of the car.
When I saw you getting away, I thought you'd heard.
You must have heard it.
You rang twice?
The bell must be out of order, just like John Blake.
I didn't hear it.
I almost didn't hear them knocking.
I'm sorry, Rosalie.
I just...
I don't know.
It doesn't matter, Jeff.
I was so frightened.
No, you mustn't be.
I promise I won't do anything to involve you or hurt you.
I wasn't thinking of myself.
You can't go on like this, Jeff.
You've got to go in, give yourself a chance to get well.
I know.
You know, upstairs there for a minute, I thought of running away, of going to some little town
and changing my name, but that's no good either.
That wouldn't get rid of John Blake.
Then?
I've got an idea.
Just one more try.
Another hour won't make any difference to the police.
All right, Jeff.
Where are we going?
Not we, Rosalie.
I'm not going to involve you in this anymore.
I was John Blake.
I did the things John Blake did, and I have to see it through to the finish.
At least tell me where you're going.
It'll be better if you don't know.
Oh, please, Jeff.
No, this is the way it has to be.
Then if it turns out worse than we think, you can just remember that for a few hours
you were friendly to someone who needed it.
If I come through this, if I get well, then...
Yes, Jeff?
Well, as you said, Rosalie, we'll see.
I put her in a cab and gave the driver the address in the village.
Then I went to the place where I was afraid to go.
Yet it was the one place I had to go.
Yes, sir?
Well, don't... aren't you Mr. Carrington's butler?
Yes, sir.
Clark is the name, sir.
I've been... I was in Mr. Carrington's service for 40 years.
But why do you ask?
Well, don't you recognize me?
I... I don't believe so, sir.
Of course, there were so many of you here today from the newspapers.
But I was here even earlier.
I'm John Blake.
Oh.
Then you're the gentleman who murdered Mr. Carrington, according to the newspapers.
Why do you say according to the newspapers?
I don't believe you killed Mr. Carrington, sir.
You don't?
Why not?
Why, he didn't even know you, sir.
Well, maybe he only got acquainted with me this morning when I came to kill him.
If he had made an appointment with you, sir, I would have known.
But didn't you let me in to see him?
Oh, no, sir.
He answered the door himself when his visitor arrived.
I see.
Is Mr. Carrington's nephew here?
Mr. Gunn?
Yes, sir.
But he left word not to be disturbed.
He did, did he?
Well, did Mr. Carrington have a gun?
Yes, sir.
Would you trust me with it if it might help catch the murderer?
I guarantee it'll catch him.
Won't you step in?
Thank you.
I was very fond of Mr. Carrington, sir.
He kept the gun here in the hall near the door.
Oh, here it is, sir.
I'm an old man myself, and perhaps I'm foolish to even...
Don't you worry, just take me to see Mr. Gunn.
Oh, but I can't do that, sir.
Clark!
Pardon me, sir.
Yes, Mr. Gunn?
Who are you talking to, Clark?
Is that the attorney?
No, sir, it's a young man.
Wait a minute, I know that voice.
I'm sorry, Clark.
Who the devil?
You.
Yes, me, Mr. Gunn, or should I say Dr. Gunn?
Clark, leave the room.
Yes, sir.
Well, this is all a terrible mistake.
You bet it is.
And I want to hear why the nephew of the man I'm supposed to have murdered is also the
psychiatrist who convinced me I was crazy in order to surrender to the police.
Don't move.
Don't point that gun at me, please.
I'm expecting a phone call from the attorney about the will.
And then I'm sure we can straighten this thing out.
I'll give you money.
We'll straighten it out now, without money.
You killed your uncle, didn't you?
No, I was with Clark.
He can tell you.
Don't answer that.
Clark will answer it then, on the extension.
And he knows I'm here.
Then let Clark answer it.
But I'm going to get the truth out of you before you have a chance to talk to anyone.
Hi.
I meant you no harm.
Not much.
You just wanted me to take your seat in the electric chair.
You told me the whole thing when you were posing as the psychiatrist, didn't you?
You told me the truth, making me think it couldn't have been like that.
The only thing you didn't tell me was about the person who killed your uncle and helped
frame me.
I beg your pardon, sir, but it's an urgent call.
Don't move, Gunn.
If it's so urgent, I'll take it for you.
Yes?
Roger.
I'm calling you from our usual place.
He hasn't gone to the police yet.
Roger, are you there?
I, uh, yes.
I, uh, I can't talk now.
The attorney's here.
Wait, Roger.
I think he's on his way over there.
Be careful.
All right.
You don't sound right.
Are you getting frightened again?
After all we've done so far, you've got to keep your nerve up.
I'm coming over, Roger.
Good.
I'll be there in five minutes.
Stall him when he arrives.
Goodbye, Roger.
Goodbye, Rosalie.
Clark.
Yes, sir?
You were right before.
Mr. Carrington opened the door this morning for a beautiful young lady after a date had
been made by Mr. Roger Gunn here.
I, I told him she was blackmailing me and I, I wanted him to see her because he'd had
experience handling that sort of thing.
But I, I swear Rosalie didn't tell me she was going to kill...
Never mind.
Clark, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I didn't tell me she was going to kill...
Never mind.
Clark, call the police.
Tell them by the time they arrive, the murderer of Mr. Carrington will be here waiting for
them.
Thank you, Gregory Peck, for a great suspense show.
Say, Greg, while out driving one Sunday afternoon recently, I heard you on the family hour of
stars.
Busman's holiday.
Yes.
And I was thinking then how you always give a splendid performance, just like a stay full
battery.
A battery I'm being compared to now.
Well, not just a battery, Greg, but auto light stay full batteries.
They're as tops in their field as you are in yours.
Well, then you can just call me Stay Full Peck from now on.
Tell me more.
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And now here again is Mr. Gregory Peck.
Well, as usual, it's been great fun to do a suspense play.
It's one of the programs that every actor in Hollywood most enjoys to appear on and
to listen to.
For instance, I wouldn't miss next week's show when Pat O'Brien stars in a really outstanding
story, Dead Ernest, another gripping study in suspense.
Gregory Peck can currently be seen starring in the 20th Century Fox production, Yellow
Sky.
Tonight's suspense story was by Michael Venning, whose books have also been written under the
more familiar name of Craig Rice.
The adaptation for radio was by Ken Crossan.
Music was composed by Lucian Morrowek and conducted by Lud Bluskin.
The entire production was under the direction of Anton M. Leder.
Next Thursday, same time, here Pat O'Brien in Dead Ernest.
You can buy auto light electrical parts, auto light resistor spark plugs, auto light staple
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Good night.
We have the highest standard of living in the world.
Safeguard the American way.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.