 Roma wines present, suspense. Roma wines made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. Salut, your health, senor. Roma wines toast the world. The wine for your table is Roma wine made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. The Roma wine company of Fresno, California welcomes you again to this weekly half hour of suspense. Tonight from Hollywood Roma wines bring you as stars Miss Geraldine Fitzgerald and Mr. Richard Waugh. Miss Fitzgerald and Mr. Waugh are with us to play in an unusual tale by the unusual James Thurber called A Friend to Alexander. But before we raise the curtain on tonight's tale of suspense, let's take a little journey. A journey infancy to lovely Bermuda, on the sun-drenched terrace of the Coral Beach and Tennis Club, an American guest raises a toast to the beauty of this enchanting paradise. As the glasses clink, his Bermudan host replies, I am touched by your gracious compliments and proud that these beauties are ours, but you too have much to be proud of. Like this wine, it is so superb, so perfect, we willingly assume extra expense to import it from your California, for this is your own Roma wine. Yes, it is the same Roma wines we Americans take for granted are prized luxuries in far-off lands, treasured and saved for special occasions. How lucky that you can enjoy the subtle bouquet and exquisite flavor of famed Roma wines as an inexpensive everyday delight. For, unlike wine lovers in other lands, you enjoy Roma wines without high import duties, without extra shipping costs. Actually, at only pennies a glass. No wonder that Roma wines are by far America's largest selling wines. Enjoyed in millions of homes, produced for the combination of age-old winemaking skill and modern scientific quality control that make each thrilling sip perfection. For uniformly fine wine at reasonable cost, do what millions of others do. Ask for R.O.M.A. Roma wines made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. And now with James Thurber's poignant and strange story and with the performance of Richard Worf as the man who was a friend to Alexander and of Geraldine Fitzgerald as his wife, Bess, who relates these events to us, we again hope to keep you in suspense. Harry was a laughing, happy-go-lucky fellow before he began to have those dreams. I guess he was pretty much like dozens of other men who go to work every morning, settle down in soft chairs with the newspapers after dinner, and like a weekend in the country now and then. He was fond of easy living and good times. Like everyone else, he talked of the war, rationing tires and his golf scores, until, until those nightmares began to plague him. At first, I was amused. You know, I've been dreaming about Aaron Burr every night. What for? Well, how do I know what for? Aaron Burr is a funny person to be dreaming about nowadays. I mean with all the countries in the world at war with each other. What's so funny about dreaming? Maybe you're upset. Everybody dreams, don't they? I don't know why you see Aaron Burr in your dreams. Well, I do. Where do you see him? Oh, places, Washington Square, Bowling Green on Broadway. Even here on 55th Street? No, mostly downtown. I'll be talking to a woman in a Victoria, a woman holding a white lace parasol. Oh. Then suddenly there will be Aaron Burr bowing and smiling and smelling like a carnation, and telling his stories about France and getting off his insults. Who is the woman in the Victoria? Huh? The woman. Who is she? Oh, how do I know? You know about people in dreams, don't you? They're nobody at all, or everybody. But you see Aaron Burr plainly enough, though. I mean, he isn't anybody or nobody or everybody. Oh, all right. Maybe I don't know who the woman is. Maybe it's Madame Jumelle or Mittens Willett, or a girl I went to high school with. Who is Mittens Willett? Well, she was a famous New York actress in her day, 50 years ago or so. She's buried in an old cemetery on Second Avenue. I've seen the tombstone. That's very sad. Why is it? I mean, she probably died young. Almost all women did in those days. He's a vile, cynical cad. I was standing and talking to Alexander Hamilton when Burr stepped up and slapped him in the face. When I looked at Hamilton, who do you suppose he was? I don't know. Who? My brother Walter, the one I told you about. The one who was killed by that tramp in the cemetery. Harry, I never could get that story straight. Well, I've told you about a dozen times that the tramp came up to him when his back was turned. But what was he doing in the cemetery? That's not the point. He was killed. That's what's important. I loved him very much. I don't understand what anyone... What's the use of telling you? Every time I tell, start mentioning it, you ask the same question. I understand now, dear. When you looked at Hamilton, he was your brother Walter. Yes. Harry, maybe we ought to go to the country for more weekends. Weekends? Yes, maybe we don't... Oh, I'm going to bed. For a time that evening, I worried about Harry. Not about his dream. Why shouldn't he dream? But I wondered about his health. He looked so... So unlike himself. I was glad when he went to bed. A good night's sleep was just what he needed, I thought. Sleep. How could I know? The next morning, we were quietly eating our grapefruit when Harry flung down his spoon. I wish you'd go back to France and stay there. Him and his la-la. Who, dear? Oh, you mean Aaron Byrd. Did you dream about him again? Yes, and he said la-la to me. Why should he say la-la? Look, I was at the tavern and we were drinking ale. I said something funny. I don't remember what it was. Something amusing about what Ben Franklin had said to Washington once. It was one of those things, you know? No, I don't. Have some more coffee, dear. No, I don't want any more coffee. I made this remark and everyone laughed. Everyone but Byrd, that is. He sort of sniffed and then he said la-la. Well, why not? I mean, is there anything wrong about him saying la-la? Well, it's the way he said it. He was sneering at me. They all noticed it. Who noticed it? The others, all of them and Hamilton. I was there with Hamilton. It was swell until Byrd came in, Aaron Byrd. I don't see why you dream about him all the time. Don't you think you ought to take some aluminum? I'm not sick. I know what I'm dreaming. I just thought, well, it's always Byrd and that seems odd. Why? Why shouldn't I dream about Byrd if I want to? But you don't want to. No, but I can't help it. Everywhere I go with Alexander, sooner or later, Byrd shows up and he makes those nasty remarks. Last night he elbowed Alexander out of his way. He did it deliberately. Alexander? Hamilton. Oh, Alexander Hamilton. Yes, goodness knows I'm familiar enough with him by this time to call him by his first name. You know, we might go to the Old Rovers in this weekend. You like it there. Hamilton has become not only my brother Walter, but practically every other guy I've ever liked. Don't you like the Old Rovers in anymore? Isn't it natural that Hamilton should represent my brother and guys I like? Well, that's natural, isn't it? Yes. I suppose it is. Then why are you looking at me like that? You know, dear. I wish you'd go and see Dr. Fox. But I don't want to go and see Dr. Fox. I want Aaron Byrd to stop sneering at me. And my clothes. He looks at me and his lip curls up and he says, La, la, Mr. Andrews, what odd taste you have. I wish you'd go and see Dr. Fox. I'm going to the zoo and feed popcorn to the rhinoceros. That makes things seem right. For a little while anyway. I thought he'd forgotten all about that ancient pistol duel because for two days after that, he lost his haggard, tired look and actually seemed cheerful. But one night, about five in the morning, he came into my room in pajamas and bare feet. His hair disheveled and his eyes wild. He got him! He got him! LaRotta got him! Alexander fired in the air and smiled at him. Just like Walter must have smiled. Like Walter? Oh, yes, dear. Your brother Walter, who was killed in the cemetery. This was at Weehawken in New Jersey. What? Your brother? Alexander and Burr, their duel. Hamilton had a white rough around his neck. Burr was in black tights, French clothes. Alexander lifted his pistol and fired in the air and he smiled at Burr. And then that fiend from hell took deliberate aim. He took so long. He meant to take his time above it. I saw him grin. Then he pointed his pistol at Alexander and fired. He killed him in cold blood. A foul scum. Don't. Don't. Here, darling. Take some of these pills. No, I don't want any. Oh, take it. You'll feel better. No, I don't want any. I'll tell you. Here. Swallow. Please, dear, swallow. All right. There. That's better. Cad. A rotten-sleekin Cad. He grinned just as he fired. And Alexander clutched himself at the stomach. And then he shook his head. And he tried to walk forward. And then he fell with his mouth open. As though he wanted to say something. And Burr stood there, grinning. Finally got him to see Dr. Fox. And he said Harry was fine, heart perfect, everything. But Aaron Burr did not leave my husband to sweeter or more peaceful dreams. Harry said nothing about it for several mornings. But I could tell he was still being tortured by these ghosts. He brooded over his breakfast. He didn't answer me when I spoke to him. What was that? Only my butter knife, dear. Oh. Harry, are you still dreaming about that man? I wish I hadn't told you about it. Forget it, will you? I can't forget it with you going on this way. Can't you forget? I mentioned it. What does he do now? He goes around bragging. Bragging that he did it with his eyes closed. He says he didn't even look. Didn't look when? When he killed Alexander in the duel. Well, what does... He claims that he can hit the ace of spade at 30 paces, blindfolded. Furthermore, since you asked what he does now, he jostles me at parties now. I think you should stay out of this, Harry. It wasn't any business of yours anywhere, and it happened so long ago. I'm not getting into anything. It's getting into me. Can't you see that? I see that we've got to get you away from here. Maybe if you slept someplace else for a few nights, you wouldn't dream about him anymore. I don't know. Oh, let's go to the country tomorrow. We'll stay at Lime Rock Lord. Bess, why can't we visit the Crowley's? They live in the country. All right, fine. Bob has a pistol. We could do a little target shooting. What do you want a pistol for? Plenty of open space. I'd think you'd want to get away from shooting. Yes. Yes, sure, dear, sure. Sure. The vacation seemed a success at first. When we arrived at the Crowley's house in the cab, I thought I'd left my suitcase at the railroad station. Harry laughed his old normal laugh for the first time in many days as he found the bag and handed it to me. And then he leaned over and kissed me. Good old Connecticut. Oh, Harry, this is wonderful. We'll have a grand time. Yes, sir. Here they come. Oh, good old Bob. You might be telling that rabbit joke. Hello, Madison. I'll take you back, Miss Anderson. Oh, thanks, Madison. Good to see you. Thank you, sir. Hello, there. Well, Bob, how's the old country squad? Fine, fine. How've you been? Never better, boys. Good to be here. Hello, Alice. Well, you too. I'm glad you've come. It gets kind of dull out here in the hinterlands. Well, Harry and I'll fix that. Wait until you get one of our extra special cold martinis in there. You'll feel ship-shaped there. You still know how to mix them, huh? Better than ever. Get lots of practice these long country wins. Seeing Harry's face relaxed and smiling over his cocktail glass, when I went to bed that night, I felt that at last that nasty old business of the dream was over, and I was happy. But when I awoke the next morning, when I awoke, I saw my husband lying rigid on his back staring at the ceiling. One Henry Andrews architect. What's the matter, dear? Nothing. Oh, why don't you go back to sleep, Harry? It's only eight o'clock, and this is the country. One Henry Andrews an architect. What are you talking about? That's what he calls me. Calls you? Who? One Henry Andrews an architect. He keeps saying it in his nasty, sneering little voice. One Henry Andrews! Harry, Harry! Please don't yell. It'll wake the whole house. It's early. People want to sleep. I'm beneath him. I'm just nobody. I'm a man in a gray suit. Be on your good behavior, my good man. He says I shall have one of my lackeys give you a taste of the riding crop. Why should he say that to you? You ask me why? He wasn't such a great man, was he? I mean, didn't he try to sell Louisiana to the French or something behind Washington's back? He was a traitor. Then why worry what he says? He was a scoundrel, but he had a very brilliant mind. I was in hopes that he weren't going to dream about him anymore. I thought if we came up here that... It's him or me. I can't stand this forever. Neither can I. As I had expected, Harry spent most of the afternoon with Bob shooting at targets. At first they just aimed at the paper squares. It all seemed to be good natured and in fun. After a while, Harry stood with his back to the dead tree trunk on which the targets were nailed. Then he walked 30 paces ahead in a stiff-legged manner and his face was set in stern lines. His revolver was at arm's length above his head and he turned suddenly and fired. Bob dropped to the ground, scared. What's the big idea, Harry? But Harry didn't answer. He started to walk back to that dead tree trunk again. Oh, I get it. Then with his back to the target, he began marking off the 30 paces. Bob called to him. I think they kept their arms hanging straight down. I don't think they stuck them up in the air. But my husband continued to count off. At the 30th step, he lowered his arm, wheeled about suddenly and fired from his hip. Hey, what are you doing? Two of the shots missed the target the last while. Hey! Watch out! Like a mechanical man or someone in a trance, Harry began to walk back to the tree again without a word. His lips tight, his eyes bright, his breathing coming fast. Ah, it's my turn, Bob! But Harry about-faced and stalked on. This time when he fired, his eyes were closed. Poor Bob didn't know what to make of this strange behavior. Good heavens, man. Give me that gun, will you? Without a protest, Harry let him take it. For the first time, he spoke. I need a lot more practice, I guess. Well, not with me standing around. Come on, let's get back to the house and shake up a drink. I got the jumps. I need a lot more practice. I guess I must have slept soundly that night because I didn't hear him leave the room. He must have crawled out of bed, dressed silently and crept out of the room. The sun was just coming up and the light was hard and the air was cold. Then I heard the shots. Come on, a dressing down and round downstairs. The crowded were in the hall. Harry, all right? He sounds like it. Where is he? What's he doing? Well, it sounds as though he's out behind the studio shooting. Oh, Alan. Oh, take it easy, Beth. Bob will go out and get him. Well, maybe he had a nightmare or walked in his sleep. No, he never walks in his sleep. He's awake, all right. Well, let's go down and get some coffee. He'll need some. Oh, I need some, too. What the dickens the matter with him anyway? Oh, I don't know. I'm so sorry. You go get him, Bob. Is your service mad up alive or dead? Bob, stop it. Well, okay, I'll do my best. Harry, what's the matter with you? What? What the dickens you're doing out here in this freezing air? Well, your pants and your shirt and your shoes on. I'll get him one of these nights. What do you... I'll get him one of these nights. By this time, I was really frightened. When we returned to the city, Harry was the picture of gloom, our first night back. I looked at him as he lay on the shade lounge in my bedroom in his blue dressing gown, smoking a cigarette. He was haggard and tired, and he kept biting his lower lip. I mixed the scotch and water nightcap for him. No, no, no, no, thanks. No liquor. I need a steady hand. Look, watch my hand. Does it tremble? Is it steady? Yes, very. That's good. That's very good. You need a steady hand, you know. For what, dear? Oh, things, things. Harry, will you sleep in my room tonight? No. You'll keep shaking me all night to keep me awake. You're afraid to let me meet him. Are you still on that? Why do you think everybody's better than I am? I can out-shoot him the best day he ever had. Of course, dear. In the waistcoat, right next to the middle button. He has three big pearl buttons on his waistcoat. Came from France. Why don't you dream about it somebody else? Anybody else, please. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like to have me dream about somebody who wouldn't hurt a fly. Somebody like that because you knew I'd never get in the duel with him. A duel? You're dreaming of a duel now? Ever since Hamilton died, Burr knows I hate him. It's nearly over now. Harry. It's him or me. I'll get him, Burrata. But, Harry. I know I'll get him. I have a modern pistol. He has to use an old-fashioned single-shot muzzleloader. Is that quite fair? Fair? What do I care whether it's fair or not? Was it fair the way he shot Alexander? Was it? Don't be mad with me, Harry. I'm sorry, darling. I'm very unhappy. I'm sorry, darling. And I'm worried sick. Oh, I'm sorry, darling. Don't cry. Please don't cry. You'd upset me when you cry. And you mustn't be upset. I mustn't be upset. I mustn't be upset. I must be very calm and rested. My hand must be steady tonight, especially tonight. I'm so worried, Harry. Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be all right. I'll be fine. My hand is like a rock. Later, when I kissed him good night, I knew it was really goodbye. He didn't say anything and neither did I. It's just that he seemed so far away in another world. And each moment, I felt that he was becoming more and more remote. Something told me he wasn't coming back. I couldn't sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, I went to Harry's room. He was sleeping peacefully. I sat down in his chair and watched over him for a long while. Then finally, I must have fallen asleep. A beautiful morning. It was about five in the morning when I awoke. Harry was talking in his sleep. Yes. Doctor? Could have you come, doctor? Yes. Often misty at this hour. Harry? Are they loaded? Splendid. Yes, I'm perfectly ready. Is... Is Mr. Burr? He is. Good. Shall we proceed? No. No. I do not care to make any statement. Wake up. Very well. Harry? I understand it perfectly. Ten paces. Turn and fire at the dropping of the handkerchief. Yes. Ten paces. Harry? Harry? Thank you for acting as my second, Mr. J. It's, of course, extremely good of you. Very well. I'm quite ready. One, two, three, four... Harry! Harry, please! Five, seven, eight, nine, ten. Harry, dear, Dr. Fox was puzzled when he examined Harry. It was extraordinary. His heart was as sound as a dollar when I saw him the other day. It seemed to be fine, Dr. Fox. I can't understand it. Hot. Well, his heart stopped as if he'd been shot. Shot? Yes, of course, with no gunshot. Yes, then, Roger. Shot? Oh, no, you'll have to calm yourself. You can't help him now. I should have known it would happen. I kept staring at Harry's right hand. The three fingers next to the index finger were closed stiffly on the palm as if gripping the handle of a pistol. The taut thumb was doing its part to hold that invisible handle tightly and unwaveringly. But it was the index finger which held my eye the longest. I looked carefully to make sure that I was right. Yes. Yes, it was so. That index finger was curved inward slightly as if it were about to press the trigger of a pistol. So there had been a duel after all. Perhaps there was no gunshot wound, but Harry had been shot as surely as he was dead. Dr. Fox saw me staring and spoke to me. What are you looking at, Mrs. Andrews? Harry never even fired a shot. Aaron Burr killed him the way he killed Hamilton. What are you talking about? Aaron Burr shot him through the heart. I knew he would. Yes, but there's no evidence. I knew he would! Then Dr. Fox put an arm around me. He looked at me gently and a bit frightened. The way I used to look at Harry when he told me about his dreams. He led me to his assistant and whispered something. He thought I didn't hear him, but I did. She's crazy. Stark, raving, crazy. I let the assistant take me away. Maybe he thought I was crazy too. But now, I knew. Aaron Burr got Harry. Just as he had killed Hamilton in that old quarrel long ago. I knew he would. So closes a friend to Alexander, starring Geraldine Fitzgerald and Richard Worf. The James Thurber story which was tonight's tale of... Suspense. Suspense is produced and directed by William Spear. It is a significant fact that when lovers of truly fine food gather in many a far corner of the world, there you may well find Roma wines lending their subtle magic to the greater enjoyment of living. They furnish a gracious prelude to any meal. A flavor complementing delight during the meal and even at dessert time too. For truly, the exquisite flavor of Roma California wines used in cooking and also served with the food can make even the simplest everyday meal the simplest entertaining, a special occasion treat. Discover for yourself how much far-famed Roma wines can add to your meals and delight your friends when you entertain. Remember, Roma wines are almost unbelievably inexpensive for wines of such distinguished character. Only pennies are glassful. Ask for R-O-M-A, Roma wines, America's largest selling wines, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. Next Thursday, same time you will hear Lucille Ball in... Suspense. Presented by Roma wines, R-O-M-A, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.