Now, Auto Light and its 60,000 dealers and service stations present...
Suspense!
Tonight, Auto Light brings you Ronald Coleman in...
Noose of Coincidence, a suspense play produced and directed by Anton M. Leader.
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And now, Auto Light presents Ronald Coleman in a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
Do you know London? Do you remember Swan's Bookshop, 12 Edgemont Row?
Now that's it. It's hard to believe that such a quiet unassuming shop was the scene of unusual, even fantastic happenings.
The only thing out of the ordinary about my bookshop, although I feel it's most appropriate, is the sign, or rather symbol, hanging above the door.
An arm made of cast iron holding a loft of flaming torch.
I must confess that the sharp angle inside the elbow attracted some distinctly unbookish creatures, birds, who found the crook of the arm a splendid place for nest building.
I rather liked the birds beneath my bedroom windows, but some of my customers complained quite bitterly about their nesting over the door.
So each spring it became my wicked task to clear away the little home that was a building, and then to try in vain to make peace with the birds and my angry conscience.
Well, Mr. Swan, is it spring again?
Ah, good morning, Constable.
Have a care up there on that ladder, sir. Steady.
Oh, it's not the ladder that's making my knees shaky. It's this monstrous crime I commit every year.
But if you didn't, Mr. Swan, how would the rest of us know it was spring, eh?
Yes, a distinguished courier, Christopher Swan, calendar to the neighborhood.
Very honest, sir, be all of us.
Thank you, Constable.
Begging your pardon, Mr. Swan, but you have a customer in your shop?
I do not.
Yes, I saw him go in while I was half way down the street. He walked right under the ladder, he did, with never a care.
Brave man indeed. Thank you.
Good morning. I'm sorry I didn't see you enter. I didn't hear the bell. May I help you?
I don't need help. Your name is Christopher Swan?
Yes.
Good morning. My name is Christopher Swan.
I... Well, forgive me, I didn't quite hear.
But you did. Christopher Swan, sir. Your name, my name.
Well, how odd.
Why, people must have names. More people than names, therefore duplication. Bound to happen. My card.
Thank you. Yeah, sure enough. Christopher Swan. Mental telepathist.
Telepathist and prophet of the future.
No. Well, nevertheless, it is very odd.
Perhaps it is. In that case, you must save my card and show it to Margaret.
Margaret?
Your wife, sir.
Oh, no, I'm afraid you're mistaken. I have no wife and I've never been married.
Do you suppose I'm not aware of that?
You are? Well, then I don't see how you can...
Mr. Swan, mental telepathist and prophet of the future. The future.
Yes. Margaret. Young woman. Pretty too. Red hair.
Oh, now really. I've read a good bit about extrasensory perception, Mr. Swan, but when you speak of foretelling the future...
You don't believe a word of it. Well, I don't blame you. No one believes at first.
And later?
Mr. Swan, suppose we drop the subject. I've come here simply to buy some books.
Perhaps we may have a little talk in a short time after your marriage.
Now, if a thing like that happened to you, you'd probably laugh at it as I did.
But then, if only five days later you met a red-haired girl named Margaret,
and she was pretty, and the fresh perfume of spring began to engage in mortal combat with a bachelor in you,
then you might begin to believe that all nature conspired to fulfill the prophecy of Christopher Swan.
Of course I want to marry you, but we know so little about each other.
I think that's excellent, Margaret. It'll be an adventure. Finding out.
Oh, you'll be disappointed in me. There's nothing to find out.
I don't intend to try. I expect to be content with you as you are.
Well, Margaret?
Oh, I wish you hadn't told me about all that money you inherited.
I'd like you to believe that I'm marrying you for yourself.
Chris, will you be happy with me? Will you be content?
Happy with Margaret? Content with Margaret?
Less than three months later, anyone within earshot could have told the answer to that.
Christopher!
Margaret, I'm coming.
Christopher, this back room is a sight.
Yes, Margaret.
If only you'd do some tidying about here instead of going on as you do.
Talk, talk, talk with the customers, day in, day out. And what do you talk about? Books.
Nothing but musty old books.
But that's my business, my dear.
Well, more's the pity. Why, any man with 50,000 good English pounds in Barclays Bank
insists upon running an out-of-the-way little bookshop
instead of going out into the world and making something of himself.
Margaret, please, there are people in the shop.
People? Loafers.
Now, see here, Margaret...
Don't you dare lose that nasty temper with me.
I know you're sorry you married me, but you made a bargain.
You might as just as well be resigned.
Till death do us part, the minister said.
Till death do us part.
One day I went up to Hampstead Heath for the fair.
Oh, not so much to see the fair as to get away from Margaret.
I watched the children on the carousels and the pearlies from Lambeth Road
and the girls in white smocks selling jellied apples.
And then, suddenly, there he was again.
Well, sink me, it's my friend, the doubter.
How'd you do, Mr Swan?
Quite well, thank you.
My question, Mr Swan, was purely rhetorical.
I'm thoroughly aware that you are not doing well at all.
Wrong again, Mr Swan.
How can you say again?
You did marry a red-haired woman named Margaret, didn't you?
You really believe in your powers.
Candidly, I don't.
The only thing thus far proven is that there are remarkable coincidences.
My dear Mr Swan, how the thing happened is quite unimportant.
All we must remember is my prediction that it would happen.
I didn't say how.
Could you have done that too?
With a little more concentration, why not?
For instance, let me tell you about your wife.
Your wife, Mr Swan, is a shrew and will become more of a shrew each day.
Now, please, I don't think I care to hear about it.
No, don't go, Mr Swan, please, not while I'm concentrating.
Now, let me see.
Christopher Swan, born one day...
I can't quite make that out.
In March 1908, both placed the manor house, lower orchard,
Bellingdon near Chasm-Barks.
1940, removed to London, acquire bookshop.
Father and mother killed in blitz.
It's a pity, Mr Swan.
You, however, inherit £50,000, right?
Yes, every bit of it, but would it be impertinent
to point out that you had access to this information in several publications?
Not one bit impertinent, Mr Swan, but tell me,
in which publication could I have learned that on the 9th of November,
this year, you will be hanged by the neck until dead?
I... I beg your pardon?
Don't look so taken aback, my friend.
The gift of prophecy, nothing more, ability to foresee the future.
You... you charlatan, do you seriously expect me to believe...
That you'll be hanged?
Yes, I don't expect you to believe it, Mr Swan,
any more than you believed my first prophecy about your marriage.
But you will be hanged, Mr Swan, pity, really a pity,
on the morning of November 9th, hanged by the neck, until you are dead.
MUSIC
For suspense, Auto Light is bringing you Ronald Coleman
in Radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, Suspense.
MUSIC
Hey there, Harlow, heard you played Truth or Consequences at a big Hollywood party.
Sure, they asked me to tell the truth and naturally I did.
I said, friends, those Auto Light resistor spark plugs always give a star performance.
Smoother idling, better performance on leaner gas mixtures,
and actually save gas, why, they're bigger box office than a movie star.
Hollywood stood for that?
Well, I had to tell the truth.
Wide gap Auto Light resistor spark plugs are the spark plugs of today and the future.
Yep, I said, more men go for Auto Light resistor spark plugs than for glamorous movie stars.
So switch from old narrow gap plugs to...
Yeah, they must have loved you.
There I was telling the truth and I had to take the consequences too.
Oh, you did?
Yeah, they threw me into the swimming pool.
Well, it's duck, Harlow, suspense is on.
MUSIC
And now, Auto Light brings back to our Hollywood sound stage,
Ronald Coleman as Christopher Swan in Noose of Coincidence.
A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
MUSIC
BELL RINGS
Good morning, Mr. Swan.
And a good morning to you, Constable.
Well, I hope it's better than the night I had.
Oh, fair and horrible, that's what it was.
Oh, Mr. Swan, do you have any books that talk about spirits?
Oh, yes, sir, some very fine ones.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Then there's the American psychologist William James.
It's an odd coincidence, that's the man I'm reading now.
There you are, William James, the will to believe.
Oh, it ain't the believing that bothers me.
It's the will to leave it in the bottle.
The bottle?
Spirits, Mr. Swan.
Oh, last night.
Oh, I beg your pardon, Constable.
You know, my mind is so set upon a certain...
Well, let's see now.
Ah, spirits, spirituous, here we are.
Spiritus frumenti.
Christopher!
Oh, heavens.
When will you ever clean this filthy back room?
I'll be there in half a moment, Margaret.
Not in half a moment, now.
Oh, she does have a voice that carries, don't she, Mr. Swan?
I suppose you just browse along that shelf, Constable,
and help yourself to whatever you like.
Look at this place, look at it.
Nothing but old books.
Dickens, Thackeray, Victor Hugo.
Filthy nonsense, filthy nonsense.
These are rare editions, Margaret.
Please don't handle them like that.
I'll handle them as they deserve.
I'll tear them or burn them or fling them about.
No, Margaret, Margaret, how dare you?
It happens that I love this shop and the things in it.
You'd like to die here.
What?
You said so in your sleep last night.
I wish I were dead.
That's what I heard you say.
I don't know what's come over you, Christopher.
Moody all the time.
Sulking, sulking, sulking.
Pity you feel so sorry for yourself.
Margaret, please, Constable Smithers can hear every word.
Let him. Let everybody hear.
I've nothing to hide.
I never dream about suicide.
I made a mistake when I married you, but I'm trying to make the best of it.
Pity you can't do the same.
Pity you feel there's only one way out.
Yes, a pity.
Pity.
The quiet was gone.
The gentle, thoughtful quiet.
A bookshop should be a peaceful place.
I didn't remember dreaming about suicide, but I suppose I had such dreams.
A man wants peace, even if it's only the peace of the grave.
Oh, good morning.
Good morning.
I wonder if you have St. Moore by D.H. Lawrence.
I believe published by Heinemann.
Yes, Heinemann does publish, Lawrence.
But I'm afraid we don't have...
If you would just step over here.
There's been quite a demand for Lawrence lately.
And with books in short supply...
I know.
Let me see.
St. Moore, St. Moore, St...
One copy of Sons and Lovers.
One Gypsy.
No, no, I'm afraid we're out.
May I order it for you?
No, I really prefer to look for it.
It's a good excuse to go tramping about, prowling through bookshops.
Do you like bookshops?
Oh, yes.
I'm glad.
Why?
Nothing, I simply am glad.
I'm sorry not to have had your book.
I'll find it. Thank you so much.
You might try the Ken Bookshop near Victoria Station.
Thank you, I will.
Oh, another idea.
Suppose you leave your name and telephone number.
Then I'd be able to ring you up if you should happen to come in.
Would you be good enough to do that?
My name is Anne Stevens.
Mrs. Anne Stevens?
No, Miss Anne Stevens.
Bayswater 3210.
Christopher!
Miss Anne Stevens had red hair too.
But not simply orange red like Margaret's.
Her hair was like burnished copper, all warm and bright, down to her shoulders.
And when she walked in the sunlight, it seemed to be splashed with gold.
And I thought to myself, it's probably fragrant and soft to touch.
It was only a few days later, I met her again in crowded Hyde Park.
Oh, I'm sorry.
Why, Miss Stevens.
I am sorry.
Well, no, I'm not really. I mean...
Hello.
Did I hurt you?
Of course not. It's Mr. Swan, isn't it?
Yes. You have a remarkable memory for faces.
No more than you. You remembered me.
Oh, but that's different. I've thought about you.
Did you? How nice.
Trying to find a copy of Saint-Maur. You know, you remember, that's what you wanted.
Oh, I'm so sorry. I did find a copy that same day at the Ken Bookshop, thanks to your advice.
Oh.
It's a lovely work.
I haven't read it.
Really? Oh, Mr. Swan, let me give it to you.
That is so you could read it. I'll bring it to your shop.
Suppose you bring it to me here. Right here, to this very spot.
Good. Tomorrow, same time.
Tomorrow, same time. And I'll bring something I want you to read.
There were many tomorrows, but never enough of them.
We talked and walked and spent wonderful hours together.
And so many of them were utterly silent because it wasn't necessary to talk.
Because when you know someone deeply in your heart and...
a red-haired woman, so that charlatan with my name could look into the future.
But there were two red-haired women and I'd met the wrong one first.
He came to the shop again late in the autumn.
Well, good morning, Mr. Swan. Still alive, I see.
Still alive.
Yes, naturally. Until November 9th, that was my prediction, Mr. Swan.
Pity, pity.
What is it you want of me, please? Why do you try to impress me?
I don't believe a word you say. You must know that...
The prophet who gazes into the future, Mr. Swan, knows many things.
Bitter things. And he knows more than anything else
how we struggle against that which is ordained and which we cannot change.
Ah, rot!
If you say so. Have you a bit of paper, please?
Just a bit of paper, whatever's about.
What do you mean, to write on? To wrap something?
To write a curious phrase that's been running through my mind.
Oh, there, that tablet, that will do. Thank you, Mr. Swan.
Here, here.
Now, here, here. I'm writing down a bit from a book.
You're a bookman. Perhaps you can tell me what book it's from.
Yeah.
And there. Wasn't like a man at all to her.
There we are. Just read it aloud, please.
She could not believe it was actually happening.
When she was dancing in the afternoon at cladrages
or in the evening at the Carlton, sliding about with some slovenian man
who wasn't like a man at all to her.
Where, Mr. Swan?
I recognise it. What about it?
It's from a novel by D.H. Lawrence, a novel called Saint-Maur.
It appears somewhere in the first third of the book.
How curious. I seem to see it written on the flyleaf for the book.
He said, wait, now I seem to see something beneath it.
Oh, this is absurd.
In the same feminine hand, a delightful hand, the words,
you see, I love you, Anne. Is that correct, Mr. Swan?
Get out of here.
That book seems to be under the papers in the left-hand bottom drawer of your desk.
Mr. Swan, how can you be so indiscreet?
Get out.
Suppose Margaret should find it. Trouble, Mr. Swan, trouble.
What did this mean? How could he know what Anne had written in that book?
Was she in league with him? She couldn't be. Not Anne.
And yet, I had fallen in love with her, a red-haired woman, as he had prophesied.
The answer came soon enough.
Christopher, Constable Smithers is in the shop.
Is he browsing, buying or chatting?
He wants a copy of a book called St. More.
Constable Smithers wishes to read St. More.
By D.H. Lawrence.
To begin with, I don't believe he ever heard of it.
Second, we haven't had a copy for ages.
You should take more pains with your inventory, Christopher.
There's a copy right there in the bottom left-hand drawer of your desk.
No, there's not.
I say there is. And we'll have to sell it second-hand.
Some lovesick girl's written something on the flyleaf.
You know Constable Smithers doesn't want that book, Margaret.
Of course he doesn't.
I didn't think so. And there's no copy of St. More in the desk.
There we differ.
Well, look for yourself.
Thank you. I will.
And what do you call this?
Oh, but it's impossible.
Impossible, is it?
Didn't I find it here myself this morning and didn't I read the inscription?
You put it there yourself.
Oh, now I know you've gone mad. I only suspected it before.
Yesterday, the book was in that drawer when Swan predicted that you'd find it there.
But I took it out and hid it upstairs in my bedroom.
You returned it to the drawer to make his prediction come true.
I didn't sleep well that night. It was the night of November the 8th.
Many things had become clear.
Margaret knew this fellow Swan had known him before I met her.
Between them, they'd arranged his prophecies, the marriage, then the business of the book.
This duplicity, this plot against me was relieved only by one thing.
Anne was not in league with Swan and she did love me.
I remember thinking as I drifted into sleep that if I could survive the next 24 hours,
I would be safe and could free myself for Anne.
When I awoke, I found my hands tied to a bedpost with a silk scarf
and Margaret standing at the window that's above the entrance to the shop.
Then there was a Swan, stood on a chair with the clothes covered.
He was twisting a large hook into the top of the door frame.
Good morning, my boy. It's the 9th of November.
Oh, your prophecy.
Christopher Swan hanged by the neck until dead.
Well, you might show some fright, at least some surprise.
I'm too filled with loathing for you both.
So you're going to... to murder me.
Oh, that's a wonderful idea. No, no, no, you're going to commit suicide. Pity.
Don't talk to him, Kit. Get it done with.
Oh, yes, Maggie, sure. Maggie's my sister, Mr. Swan.
I knew there was some relationship between you.
You have the same tricks of expression.
You use the word pity so often.
There's not much pity in either of you, is there?
There is a little, Mr. Swan, but it's not stronger than 50,000 pounds.
There we are.
Do you think that hook will hold, Mr. Swan?
I'll tell you the point. You don't really intend to murder me.
What is it you want?
Maggie, he thinks we're only pretending.
Hurry, will you? It's almost time.
Oh, poor Maggie. I hope her share of your fortune will console her.
Will it console you, Maggie?
Oh, shut up.
Maggie's having a touch of nerves.
Isn't that silly, Mr. Swan? There's no danger to us in this.
So many of your customers have heard you threaten to commit suicide.
I doubt if one ever did.
Oh, they think they did, Mr. Swan. That's all that matters.
Do you realize how many times Maggie has shouted that information from the back of the shop?
Constable Smithers heard it.
Nevertheless, he knows me better than to believe that I...
Oh, does he? Shall I tell you what Constable Smithers will say to the coroner?
He'll say, yelled he would dough himself in some day, yelled it all the time from the day they was married.
And there he swung, sir, with his face all black, his eyes bugged out.
Stop it! You're too fond of talking. You'll get us into trouble.
Absurd.
Margaret, you... you actually married me with this day in mind?
Of course I did.
And you're really going to... to kill me?
That's the plan.
I'm sorry there isn't enough of a drop to do the thing quickly, old man. You'll be struggling for quite a bit.
Yes, I know you'll both enjoy watching me.
Not Maggie. Maggie's watching for the constable to turn the corner on his rounds.
Then she's going to scuttle down the stairs while I do the job, lock the door from the inside,
slip through the trap door in the cupboard and away like St. Nicholas over the rooftops.
Then she'll say to him, Constable, there's something wrong. There's something wrong.
There he is, Kitt, at the corner. Oh, he stopped to talk.
Oh. Are you ready, Mr. Swan? Because here you go.
Don't come at me with that noose. I can still kick. I can shout.
Oh, the walls are thick, my friend. That's why you bought this house. They were built to endure.
I told you to chloroform him.
Ah, don't be stupid. Chloroform leaves traces.
You wanted him conscious so he could know how clever you are, always acting.
You and your silly November nights.
Oh, will you stop yammering? The constable must be halfway down the street.
He's still at the corner.
Better wait. Better wait till he comes this way, Margaret.
They'll say you had time to do it. If he finds me cold...
Oh, thank you, Christopher. That's excellent advice.
He's not really pleased, Margaret. Look at him. He wants you to be caught.
Christopher, I'm disappointed. What childish tactics.
Is it, Swan? Is it? Look at him, Margaret. That struck home. It struck home.
I think I'll have to close your mouth, my friend.
Not while I can kick.
Maggie, throw yourself across his legs.
Don't give in, Margaret. Remember, you face the constable. He gets away over the rooftops.
Maggie, are you in a trance? Throw yourself across his legs.
No.
Maggie, I can't get at him.
I don't care. I don't like it.
It's too late to think about that. Where's the constable?
You won't help me here. Get back to that window.
No. He's right.
Bravo, Margaret.
I'm the one who has to go down to Smithers and establish an alibi.
Yes.
I'm the one who'll have to answer all their questions.
That's right.
And where will you be? Where will you be safe? Who knows about you?
Yes, and when they hang you for murdering me, he'll inherit the loot. He'll get it all.
Don't close your trap.
No. I haven't any protection. You hold all the cards.
Of course he does.
Maggie, you're going to ruin everything. Don't you trust your own flesh and blood?
No.
Get back to your post.
Let go of me.
Back to the window. I'll kill you both.
That's it, Margaret.
Don't push me.
Fight him. Fight him.
Don't push me. I can push too.
I can push.
Oh, Kit. Kit. Oh.
It's queer goings on, sir. You being bound to the bed of a bed of
this, and him breaking through the window and then hanging from the sign. You'll have
to answer some questions, Mrs. Swan.
Hanging from the sign?
I killed him. I killed him.
Yes, and I saw it happen. Saw him smash through the window and come tumbling down and catch
his Adam's apple right in the very crook of the elbow where the sparrows build a nest
every spring. Right in the very crook. And there he swung, caught fast, Mr. Swan. It
was horrible, sir. His face black and his eyes bugged out.
Stop it. Oh, stop it.
Another prophecy come true.
What's that, Mr. Swan?
I think he could foretell the future. I believe he could. November the 9th. Christopher Swan
hanged by the neck until dead. Only he had the wrong Christopher Swan.
Thank you, Ronald Coleman, for a splendid performance.
Oh, Mr. Coleman, would you listen to a sound effect with us for a moment?
Why, certainly, Mr. Wilcox.
Okay, boys. Mr. Coleman, would you say that sounds like Jack Benny's Maxwell?
Yes, I'd say there's a great similarity.
Well, just listen to what Jack Benny's old Maxwell might sound like if it had new autolight
resistor spark plugs in the complete autolight ignition system.
Mr. Wilcox, if I had a set of those autolight spark plugs around the house, sooner or later
Benny would borrow them. And then perhaps we'd be spared that awful racket.
Well, we'll see what we can do, Mr. Coleman. Friends, autolight resistor spark plugs are
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Now here again is Mr. Ronald Coleman.
It's always an interesting and pleasant experience to appear on suspense, and especially when
I can work with such a fine company of actors. Next week, we're all in for a special treat
when radio's outstanding theater of thrills presents Edmund Gwen in a story called Murder
in Black and White, another gripping study in suspense.
Tonight's play was written by William Fiefield and adapted for suspense by Herb Meadow. Music
was composed by Lucian Morrowek and conducted by Lud Bluskin. The entire production was
under the direction of Anton M. Leeder. In the coming week, suspense will present such
stars as Betty Grable, Mickey Rooney, Bob Hope, and many others. Make it a point to listen
each Thursday to Suspense, Radio's Outstanding, Theater of Thrills. Next Thursday, same time,
here, Edmund Gwen in Murder in Black and White.
You can buy autolight resistor spark plugs, autolight staple batteries, autolight electrical
parts at your neighborhood autolight dealers. Switch to autolight. Good night.
Here's great news. Suspense on television may be seen in many parts of the country every
Tuesday night. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.