Auto Light and its 98,000 dealers bring you Miss Agnes Moorhead.
In tonight's presentation of Suspense.
Tonight Auto Light presents the exciting new radio play by the originator of Suspense,
Mr. William Spear.
The story is called Death and Miss Turner, our star, the first lady of Suspense, Miss
Agnes Moorhead.
Hey, Harlow.
Howdy, Sheriff.
Arrest anyone lately?
No, but I want to check up on you because I heard you've been boasting you've got a system
that can't lose.
Why, Sheriff, of course my system can't lose.
It's the best there is, the Auto Light electrical system on my Auto Light equipped car.
My every unit and component part is related by Auto Light engineering design and manufacturing
skill to give the smoothest performance money can buy.
What system is that, Harlow?
The electrical system, Sheriff, including the Auto Light starting motor, distributor,
coil, generator, battery, spark plugs, and all the other parts of the complete Auto Light
electrical system installed as original equipment on many leading makes of our finest cars,
trucks, and tractors.
You mean you're always right with the Auto Light electrical system?
You sure are, Sheriff.
That's why it pays to insist on Auto Light original factory parts for your Auto Light
equipped car.
And remember, from bumper to tail light, you're always right with Auto Light.
And now, Auto Light presents transcribed, Diff and Miss Turner, starring Miss Agnes
Moorhead, hoping once again to keep you in suspense.
We went out for a walk this morning.
I was dead and I went out for a walk.
Miss Briggs went with me.
It was her idea.
I wouldn't have particularly thought of it.
She brought the new picture in this morning.
She took my chair and stood on it and took off one shoe and hammered the nail in the
wall and hung the picture up.
She asked me if it was hanging straight and I said, I thought so.
And she said, well, and she took off her glasses and gave me a little inquiring expression.
She always does that after she's done something for me.
She wants my approval.
So I looked at the picture hanging there and I smiled and I said, it's lovely.
Plain black frame.
Yes, you're right.
That's just the right frame for it.
I beg your pardon?
The frame.
I said it's good.
The frame?
Yes.
There are some other pictures downstairs we could have framed if you like.
That would be a lot of trouble, wouldn't it?
Not a bit.
I think I could, I could sleep some more.
There's a headache just hovering over me.
I don't want to wait until it gets me.
Of course, you'll finish your nap.
You know what might be nice though later on?
To get some air, go for a stroll in the park.
Go out today and have lunch somewhere nice like 96 Piccadilly or Claridge's.
How about it?
I'll ring up and reserve a table.
Cool.
Maybe I can borrow that red coat that's hanging up in there.
Yes.
That's fine, Rachel.
I was dead, long, long dead, and I went out for a walk.
My name is Rachel.
Yes, there can't be any doubt about that now.
And then the American meets the Englishman and says, well, how are things here, old boy?
And the Englishman says, better than next year.
I know, it's pulling a long face, like my dad always says, if I could get a steak, I couldn't
afford it anyway.
Are you getting tired, dear, sir?
You've seen enough of London for today?
Oh, no, no, I'm enjoying this so very much, as long as we don't walk too fast.
We're not, are we?
Oh, no, it's lovely.
How long have you been in London, Rachel?
You know I can't tell you that, Miss Briggs.
Yes, of course.
You're just hoping that I just might let something sort of slip accidentally, aren't you, Miss
Briggs?
Yes, I guess so.
It would be nice, wouldn't it?
No, no, it wouldn't.
Don't count on it, Miss Briggs.
It's not going to happen.
I can't risk it.
Look, there's a fine shop where I got our new picture done this morning.
The black frame you like so much.
He's framing some more for us.
Let's just go in and see how he's coming along.
Is this the new shop?
Yes, it is.
Hello there, anybody in?
Who's that?
Oh, Miss Briggs, isn't it?
How are we today?
Fine, thank you, Mr. Putney.
My friend here and I thought we'd just look in and see how a little job of work is going.
I see, I see.
Yes, yes, that was the four oils by, who was it?
Ah, Turner, that's it, Turner.
Let's see.
Ah, no, no, I'm afraid we haven't got them yet.
There they are hanging up there on the line.
They're awfully good, aren't they, Miss Briggs?
Who did you say...
I've been here before.
Make a pardon?
It was the same.
Oh, I'm afraid not.
You see...
What do you mean?
I tell you...
Well, I only just opened my shop four days ago.
Well, I'm not talking about your shop necessarily, Mr. Putney, but these.
Oh, these paintings.
I don't know.
Miss Briggs brought them in by Turner.
Turner?
That's preposterous.
JM Turner?
Why, these have nothing to do with him.
In the first place, he was watercolor, in the second place, landscape, and in the third...
Not, not JM Turner.
Another Turner.
The sign.
Ah, Turner.
Oh.
Interesting painter, this one, don't you think?
Not exactly macabre, but something shivery about it.
All four of them seem to have a...
Well, I guess you'd call it an ominous overtone.
Really?
I don't feel that particularly.
Wouldn't you call it a little nightmarey when a painter goes to this much trouble?
All this detail, painting a man, his hands, his suit, the handkerchief in his pocket,
the carnation in his buttonhole, and then leaves out his face.
In all four paintings, no face.
I see a face.
Yes.
Of course.
Well, not complete, not to fill in features, but the qualities of this man's face are
all there for me, even though they're not there for you.
I should know this man if I met him.
We must be going.
He's dead, I think.
We rode back in a taxi, Miss Briggs and I.
She had a bundle which Mr. Putney said she'd ordered or something.
I wasn't listening to them.
Every time I opened my mouth to say something, I gave them an advantage.
Every time I went out for a walk with one of them, like today, I showed things in my
expression that told them what they wanted to know.
I'd fallen into the trap when Miss Briggs had suggested that walk this morning.
I'd been weak.
I should never have gone.
I want to be dead, and I won't be brought back from it.
Oh, how did that fit you?
Yes.
What have you got there?
This?
Some stuff I ordered the other day for Mr. Putney.
Oh, what is it?
You laugh.
No, no.
Well, I know it's foolish, but as my dad says, think hard.
Never do a royal flush.
I must say, I don't know what that means.
Quite a knock-card player.
Anyway, it's something I've always wanted to have a private dabble at.
They say it relaxes the nerves.
And who knows?
I'm younger than Grandma Moses.
Paints.
You bought a box of paints.
And brushes.
This one, if you please, costs two guineas.
It's for the fine detail work, he says.
Sable.
Huh?
It's a sable brush.
And these things, you mix your colors on them.
Colors.
And then there's, whatever, this is fixative.
And well, anyway, I've gone and got a perfect smasher of a real professional kit.
Now, someone will teach me to draw a straight line.
You didn't buy this box of paints for yourself, did you, Miss Blake?
Well, whatever.
You bought them for me.
That was it, wasn't it?
I was a painter.
That's what you're waiting for me to find out.
R. Turner, the painter who does portraits of a man without a face.
It's Rachel Turner.
Is that it?
I don't remember it, but is that it?
Am I Rachel Turner?
I've...
Wait here.
I'm going to get Dr. Greig.
I looked at the door a moment after she'd gone.
Then a square of white became the only thing in the room.
I picked up a canvas board.
I drew a chair forward and popped the canvas against it.
I was doing my best not to sink.
Not to govern my actions, simply to allow whatever might happen.
My hand was tearing away the cellophane wrapper from the charcoal.
I leaned over the square of white prop there on the chair, and like plunging a dagger into
a white body, I invaded the whiteness of the canvas with a bold and perfectly symmetrical
oval in black, done with one stroke.
Charcoal fell from my hand.
Now the oil was spreading onto the palette, save a brush stabbing into the colors, blending
them to make a perfect flesh tone.
Why?
For what sake?
For the roaring in my ears like the sound of a train rushing through the night.
Rachel?
Well, we meet at last.
That is to say we meet as people meet in a drawing room, a cocktail party perhaps, where
the hostess hasn't had the time to introduce us all around.
We find each other elbow to elbow at the punch bowl.
At this moment, you who smile to me as I hand you your glass, and I say, my name is Grice.
I'm Rachel Turner.
I'm a painter.
Oh?
The subject on which I'm dreadfully ill-informed.
I'm a psychologist myself.
Sir Bartley Grice, of Her Majesty's College of Medicine.
Evans?
Not only a painter, but a positive encyclopedist.
How could you know that?
Have we met before?
We've not met at all this way.
We don't meet, you and I, Sir Bartley, until some months in this year, 1952, when you were
my doctor.
And I am a patient who has lost her memory.
How much do you know now, Miss Turner?
You're going to be sorry.
More than that, you'll be the object all the murderous hatred my tortured soul is capable
of if you persist in bringing me back.
I shall risk that.
Many people hate me.
I save many others from being hated.
You were, you painted this just now in those fifteen minutes while Miss Briggs and I were
talking?
Yes.
It's remarkable.
It's amazing to me.
It's wonderful.
This man's face, why him?
I mean, for what reason this particular countenance?
Is he real from life?
Yes.
What's his name then?
Who is he?
I don't know.
I, I saw him only once.
Well then, why do you feel compelled to bring back this face to show to yourself again now?
Why?
It's the face of the man I murdered.
Auto Light is bringing you Miss Agnes Moorhead in Death and Miss Turner.
Tonight's presentation in radio's outstanding theater of thrills, suspense.
Say, Harlow, does my car have an auto light electrical system?
It sure does, Sheriff.
For yours is one of the many leading makes of our finest cars, trucks, and tractors equipped
with an auto light electrical system.
And auto light is the world's largest independent manufacturer of automotive electrical equipment.
What kind of chores does this system do, Harlow?
Well Sheriff, it goes to work at the flick of the ignition switch and performs every
second your engine runs.
It works too every time you turn on your radio, sound your horn, use your electric windshield
wiper or heater.
That's why it will pay you to treat the electrical system of your car to a periodic checkup at
your car dealers or authorized auto light service station.
You can find the location of your nearest authorized auto light service station in the
classified section of the telephone directory under automobile electrical service.
Or call Western Union by number and ask for operator 25.
And remember, from bumper to tail light, you're always right with auto light.
And now, auto light brings back to our Hollywood sound stage Miss Agnes Moorhead in Elliot
Lewis's production of Death and Miss Turner, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
You murdered this man whose face you've painted here?
Yes, yes I...
How did you murder him?
I don't know.
You have no recall of having actually done it.
Were you unable to tell yourself where it happened or when?
No, no I only, I'm sure that I killed him.
Miss Turner, we're going to give you something to make you sleep.
Now if you'll just roll up your sleeve Miss Briggs please.
Please, just a minute dear.
Yes, for a period of time now.
We shall need to help you sleep.
I hope it'll be a brief one.
You've wanted to sleep a great deal of recent months, haven't you?
Yes, because you were afraid of reality, of your thoughts while awake.
Well, you were always dozing off, taking a nap, staying in bed till half the day was
gone.
Now...
Now I know I'm a murderer.
So I've earned the right to be drugged into forgetting it for a few hours.
I was already dead.
I'd forgotten.
Why couldn't I have been allowed to die?
Why not have hung before while it didn't matter?
But for what?
Well for a murder you can't describe, of a man whose death in circumstances pointing to
violence we have no record.
Why no one on earth has come forward to accuse you of any crime.
How did you find me?
What was I doing?
Where was I when you found me?
You must remember what happened yourself.
Live through that horror again.
Only then will you know what is true.
In the meantime I shall help you in every way I can.
Hate me if you like.
It's better than hating yourself.
Good night, Miss Turner.
So many years to remember.
A life brought back to be my own.
The figures and landscapes and people which belonged to me when nothing had been mine
the day before.
It was all there up until my birthday.
What happened on the 16th of April?
I remember the night before, it was the last thing I remembered until the waking here in
the hospital on the first day of May.
I was standing in the lobby of the hotel just having got off that rickety elevator and my
bag was packed.
It was there at my feet and the porter came around from behind his booth and handed me
an envelope.
After that nothing.
Black.
White.
Piano.
Tune.
Train.
Teach.
Barista.
Lawyer.
Pallet.
Paint.
Porter.
Ticket.
Train.
Snow white.
I beg your pardon.
Snow white.
She has that long train at the boys' cabin.
Oh yes, yes, quite right.
Blood.
Bread.
Train.
A thought.
Miss Turner, have you noticed anything about your response to this word?
Which word?
The word train.
Oh.
I've put it to you three times and each time you for some reason avoided connoting what
one should expect to be the most commonplace definition.
You haven't answered with smoke or wheels or what a station or underground.
Have you any idea why you should be unwilling to recognize the word train as a high-speed
conveyance traveling on wheels on rails?
I don't have any idea.
Book.
Dealer.
Yorkshire.
Train.
Wreck.
Thank you, Miss Turner.
I think that will do us for the day.
Miss Briggs took me back to my room.
I was in a fever.
I could hardly walk straight.
She kept dabbing at my forehead with her handkerchief, but it didn't do any good.
I could see her lips moving, probably asking me if I was all right and could she help me,
but I couldn't hear her.
There was another horrifying, terrible sound filling my ears.
I held my hands over them, trying to shut it out, but it only grew louder.
In my room, Miss Briggs tried to push me toward the bed.
I could see her lips screaming, you must lie down, but I pressed her out of the way and
lunged for the canvas board.
My hands and arms were numb as though they were floating out of my control, except that
they ached agonizingly.
There were flashes before my eyes, pounding waves that threw my head back and forth as
though I were being battered in some apocalyptic storm.
Came a sightful shrieking, torn from the throat of a damned stolen torment, and I fell forward
on the ground and something fell with me.
And I saw the picture I'd painted, and the voice that was shrieking was my own.
I can't, I can't.
Lie down.
Yes, lie down.
Lie down.
This is it, isn't it?
Oh, yes.
All right, roll up that sleeve.
Yes, now Rachel.
Who did that picture?
Delirious, like a mad woman.
Yes, yes, yes, quiet.
Now Miss Turner.
Are you kidding me?
You're like me, Miss Diamond.
You sting me.
No, the mixture's a little bit different this time, Miss Turner, but it will stop hurting
in just a moment.
There, all ready.
Oh, yes, it won't be long.
This picture you've just done.
Is it good?
I think it's extraordinarily good.
Are you sleeping?
Sleeping, but awake.
Asleep, but not asleep.
Can you describe this picture to me as though I hadn't seen it?
A man sitting in a railway compartment looking out of the window of a train, opposite him
with her back to us is a woman.
It's as though we were the woman whose attention is on this man.
As though we were this woman?
Yes.
Don't you mean that you are this woman, Miss Turner?
Yes, yes, I am.
What day is it now?
My birthday.
April 16th, past April.
Yes, yes, as David said today.
I'm aboard the Flying Scotsman Express.
I'm on my way to Edinburgh to paint the moors.
I'm in the first class compartment.
Alone, I'm relaxed and happy.
I feel the urge to paint something right here as the train goes speeding along.
And what do you paint?
A man, that is the embodiment of a man, his posture, his clothes.
But for some reason, I can't paint his face.
I know his face, but I find it impossible to transfer it to the canvas.
I make four separate versions of him, but each time my brush remains poisonly there,
refusing to invade the oval of white where the face should be.
At Manchester, I get out to stretch my legs, walking up and down the station platform.
And when I resume my compartment, I find that I have a fellow traveler sharing it with me.
He's turned away as I enter.
He's occupied with closing the window as it has begun to rain outside.
As I seat myself opposite him, he turns to face me directly.
He's a man.
It's his face which is missing from the portraits that lie on the chair beside me.
How do you do?
I, I...
How do you do?
Pardon. Do you feel not well?
Forgive me for staring at you. I didn't... I mean looking at you in this way.
It is all right. Fine.
I'm a painter, you see.
A painter? Yes, good. Can I see?
Well, this is the impossible part. Here, you see these pictures?
Hmm? Ah, yes. Very interesting.
I mean, not to know who it is, his face.
Oh, but I do know. I didn't feel I could do the face before, but now I can.
Oh, sure. Why?
Because it's your face.
My face?
What for, my face?
Yes, yes I know it's clear, but...
I mean, you are going to put my face in there?
Yes.
Well, all right. All right. Go ahead.
You mean, now?
Sure.
What do I do? I mean, am I all right to sit here like this?
Yes, yes. Just that way, please. If you tilt your head just a little more.
This is all right? Yes.
You're in the shadow, though. If there was only a little more light.
Good arc. I have it. Would it be too much trouble if we changed places?
There's good light here where I'm sitting.
Pardon? If we change places, I'll sit over there and you...
Oh, uh, change places. Sure.
I sit down where he is in, and he places himself exactly where I've been sitting a moment before.
For a moment he looks at me, smiling.
And then, it's happening. There was a grinding, cracking sound.
Most of the steam of the door is still smiling to pie.
And then an inferno of splintering wooden glass and rending steel came screaming at him.
And the car sent into his place and got him blanking his head.
I killed him. He stayed in places with me.
It was I who was meant to die. It was my life. My life.
I killed him. I killed him.
He killed my dad.
I killed him. I killed him.
I...
No. You didn't kill him. You know that now.
You remember. You come back from the edge of reason.
I'm going home. Sailing at midnight. It'll be midwinter.
The snow on that Connecticut bridge.
Those leafless elves in their rolling, purple shadows.
They gave me a farewell tea this afternoon and I even had a cocktail.
The hostess was much too busy to introduce us all around,
but a very nice gentleman came up to me and introduced himself.
My name is Grice. I'm a psychologist.
I am Rachel Turner. I'm a painter.
Music
Suspense. Presented by Auto Light. Tonight's star, Miss Agnes Moorhead.
This is Harlow Wilcox speaking for Auto Light,
world's largest independent manufacturer of automotive electrical equipment.
Auto Light is proud to serve the greatest names in the industry.
They are members of the Auto Light family,
as well as are the 98,000 Auto Light distributors and dealers in the United States
and thousands more in Canada and throughout the world.
Our family also includes the nearly 30,000 men and women in 28 great Auto Light plants from coast to coast
and Auto Light plants in many foreign countries,
as well as the 18,000 people who have invested a portion of their savings in Auto Light.
Every Auto Light product is backed by constant research
and precision built to the highest standards of quality and performance.
So remember, from bumper to tail light, you're always right with Auto Light.
Music
Next week, a story based on fact and taken from your morning newspaper.
The exciting report of one man's efforts to prevent a national tragedy.
The story is called, Man Alive. Our star will be Mr. Paul Douglas.
That's next week on Suspense.
Suspense is transcribed and directed by Elliot Lewis
with music composed by Lucian Morawick and conducted by Ludd Luskin.
Death and Miss Turner was written for Suspense by William Spear.
In tonight's story, Jeanette Nolan was heard as Miss Briggs,
Joseph Kearns as Dr. Grice, Paul Fries as the man on the train,
and Charles Davis as the shopkeeper.
Magnus Moorhead may currently be seen touring in Don Juan in Hell by George Bernard Shaw.
You can buy Auto Light electrical parts, Auto Light staple batteries,
and Auto Light resistor, all standard type spark plugs, at your neighborhood Auto Light dealers.
Switch to Auto Light. Good night.
Music
This is the CBS Radio Network.