 Suspense, and the producer of radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William N. Robeson. Fine feathers make fine birds, but on the contrary, all is not gold that glitters. Also, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. To the wisdom of these eternal verities, add another. Crime does not pay. Mix well with a great singer turned dramatic actress, and you have our suspense story, The Well-Dressed Corpse, starring Miss Margaret Whiting, which begins in exactly one minute. Do you know the social security benefits to which you will be entitled when you separate from the service and take a civilian job? Here's a tip from Social Security. Everyone who works for a living knows that illness or injury may keep them from earning a living. Today, more than nine out of ten American workers are covered by Social Security, and each one should know that if he becomes severely disabled, he and his family may be eligible for monthly Social Security disability payments. More than one million people are now receiving benefits each month under this program. For more information about Social Security disability benefits, write to Social Security, Department 15, Hollywood 28, California, and ask for a free copy of booklet 29 called, If You Become Disabled. And now, The Well-Dressed Corpse, starring Miss Margaret Whiting, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. She's lying on the couch in my office. I thought I'd just let her alone till you showed up, Captain. I was considered of your lieutenant. Here, in here. Are you sure that's her? I'm positive. Well, is she picked up in her bedroom? Hell's kitchen and alley. Somebody stole her dress and one of the boys gave her his overcoat. Yeah. What's your name? My name is Ruth Franklin. How old are you? 33. Where do you live? On Park Avenue. You go to school in this city? Graduate School Columbia University. I work for the Carrington Green Advertising Agency. My secretary's name is P.D. Wright. I'm the murderer you're looking for. Yeah. Okay. I guess you're Ruth Franklin, all right. I can hardly blame you for not recognizing me. Did you know that six weeks ago I was voted one of the ten best dressed women in America? I read something about it. I always knew that someday I would be. But when it actually happened, it was just as exciting as if it had been a total surprise. The invitation to the luncheon to meet the press came on Monday. I ran right out and bought the most elegant and expensive dress I could find. When I swept into the luncheon, everyone was looking at me, including the other nine well-dressed women. Percy Hamilton of Radcliffe Press, a little ball-headed man who moved and looked like a startled chipmunk met me as I came in. Oh, Miss Franklin. I'm so happy to see you. Right this way, please. You're a little late, you know. Percy, baby, you've confused me perhaps with a debutante. I work for a living. I'm going to put you here at Table 13 with Mr. Mason. Miss Franklin, may I present Mr. Mason? How do you do? You two are going to be luncheon partners. Well, I don't know. You, of course, couldn't be anyone else but the best-dressed Franklin. I'm not sure I like the way you said that, Mr. Mason. My tone was not meant to imply a personal indictment, Miss Franklin. In fact, it's a commendation. You play your part very well in this best-dressed racket. Racket? Oh, I always draw the most charming luncheon partners. It was undoubtedly something in your childhood. They must have made you wear buster-brown collars or velvety knickers. I wore dungarees. Now, it's just that I have the best prima facie evidence anyone ever had that this best-dressed business is a travesty on good taste and artistic judgment. Before I move to another table, Mr. Mason, I might find it interesting to hear one sentence telling me why you feel this way. I'd be happy to oblige. You see, I was picked as one of the best-dressed men. Mr. Mason, I believe I'm beginning to value your opinion. Well, that's the way it began. Little careless banter while we sized each other up. And something in our measurements had meaning, because despite speeches and cold chicken ola king and news photographers interfering with most of our conversation, we later found ourselves at the Stork Club discussing everything from Picasso to paperback novels. Sometime in the evening, he said he had to catch a plane somewhere, but he'd get in touch with me soon. The next morning, when I walked into my office, P.D. My secretary was wearing the smug smile of a girl who caught her older sister with a boy on the back porch hammock. Seeing a jet boss? The gimbal ads? How were they? I can wait. All right. Seen what? The picture of you and Roy Mason. Mason? I hardly spoke a word to the man. Hardly a word, huh? You know, that's a Stork Club ashtray in that picture. How did you converse? Smoke signals with your cigarettes? P.D., you're very close to being fired. Let me read you what Winchell says. The most handsome twosome in town last night were Ruth Franklin, the best dressed huckster, and Roy Mason. P.D., what do you know about him? I'll save you the embarrassment of asking me to get a file on him. I've already done it. Here you are, boss. The life and loves of Roy Mason, assembled by P.D. Wright, girl Boswell. All right. Tell it. He's a foreign correspondent, distinguished. He's written two books on world politics, The Long Road of Destruction and the Cunning Asiatic Crisis. I've ordered both of them so you can talk his language. He's a Yale graduate, skull and bones, 38, unmarried. Just call me quick. Thank you and goodbye. I'll just leave these things here so you can drool over them. Have fun. P.D. Yes, boss, ma'am. You've had your fun. Now, hands off. I'm going to marry him. I read those clippings through from beginning to end, and when I went home that night, I took both of Roy Mason's books with me. The following night, he called me. Then it was practically every evening and cocktails and weekends and intimate little dinners, fireplaces and books, and talk, talk, talk into the dawn. I knew and I let the papers know that Ruth Franklin had finally found a man who came up to her requirements. I had him hooked. Now it was time to reel him in. Waiter, two more of the same, please. Roy. I have some news I know you'll be interested in. You are going to run for president. No, no, nothing as small as that. I'm going to get married. You're going to get what? Married. Oh, to whom? A man named Roy Mason. I see. Does he know anything about it? Well, I've kept it a secret from him until I was sure. Now my mind's made up. Just like that, huh? Uh-huh. Pleased? But say, flattered and very, very sorry. Why? To have to decline the invitation. You see, Ruth, I'm already engaged. Why didn't you tell me? You didn't ask me. Who is it? Her name is Elizabeth Granger, a socialite from Long Island. You may know her. No, and I have no desire to. Ruth, what made you think we were going to be married? I guess I believe my own press notices. Every columnist in town has been ringing wedding bells for us. I never pay attention to columnists. Well, I do, and so do a lot of other people. And what a Roman holiday they're going to make out of this. Oh, boy, I can just see it. What best-dressed woman was left waiting at the church by what best-dressed man? I'll phone them tomorrow and tell them to lay off. And make a bigger fool out of me? What do you think I am? A doorman? An old shoe that you can just... Ruth, please lower your voice. People are looking. Oh, let them look. A scene in a cocktail lounge makes good reading, and, oh, we always make the papers, don't we, lover? Keep your voice down. Why don't you go to Inner Mongolia somewhere and write another book? Anywhere where I'll never have to see you again. The second act of suspense continues in one minute. This is Johnny Baker with Communism on the Spot. In the Soviet Union, the Communist Party keeps the Red Army in check in various ways. It limits the authority of commanding officers by placing full-time party members in charge of political affairs. It also does its best to keep military men out of high party positions. In this way, a top commander can be dismissed if he grows too powerful. This was strikingly demonstrated in the case of Marshal Zhukov. Three months after becoming a Presidium member in 1957, he was demoted and relieved of his army command. To further ensure its control, the party also assigns to army units members of the secret police who report directly to their police superiors rather than their commanding officers. And now, we continue with act two of the well-dressed corpse starring Miss Margaret Whiting, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. Oh, leave it to me. I did a grand job. I made my exit like the second lead in a straw hat playhouse. The next day, I didn't go to the office and I didn't read the papers. I knew what would be in them. I felt sick and soiled and used. The phone rang all day long, but I didn't answer it until late in the afternoon. Hello? Me? Oh. Trying to get you all day. What for? To tell you that we're friends, you and I. I hate like the devil to think that you really meant it when you said you never wanted to see me again. I sent you a letter last night, but I'd rather tell you what I wrote in person. Now look, Roy. No, let me go on, let me go on. A man rarely meets a woman like you. I was lucky, real lucky. Ruth, you can send me away all together if you want to, but I'd miss you for the rest of my life. That's the truth. But you're going to marry this... Ruth, I want to talk with you calmly, decently, honestly. I want you for a friend. I'm mixing a couple of drinks in my apartment around five to nine. I hope you'll be there to share them with me. What a colossal ego this man had. Yet he was offering me the opportunity to settle matter my way. I took it. Oh, you came. Thanks, Ruth. Let me take a coat. No, it's a little chilly. I think I'll keep it on. All right. Drink? Very dry martini and a little soft music. The records on the turntable and the martini's already mixed. I knew you wouldn't pass up a mason's special. You were rather certain your pretty speech on the phone would work, weren't you? I meant it. I'm glad you're here, Ruth. All of that highly lacquered veneer you show your public is all right for them. But for me, I'll take you the way I know you. Tell me more. Underneath $40,000 a year behind that best-dressed wardrobe. You're quite a gal. Quite an ornament to wear on your sleeve. Oh. Until you're tired of it. No, you don't understand. Don't touch me. Ruth! Yes, it's a gun, Roy. For heaven's sake, Ruth! Ah! Ruth! Stop this! Put down that gun. Ah! Ruth! Ruth, get a doctor. We'll say it was an accident. Stay away from me. Phone a doctor. Ah! Oh, no! It wasn't supposed to be this way at all. Ah! Ruth! Ruth. I wrote you. I stood there looking down at him. He tried to talk again, but he couldn't say a word. And then all of a sudden he was dead. I hadn't planned what I was going to do after I killed him, so I just sat down and finished my martini and looked at him lying there on the floor, and then I was aware of someone pounding. There's someone there! There's somebody! Oh, hello, miss. I live in the apartment next door, and I thought I heard gunshots in here. You did. Over there. Well, I better phone the police. Where's the phone? On the desk. Hello, operator. Give me the police. Yes, I said the police. Right away. There's been a shoot. I just walked out. No one tried to stop me. I got a taxi back to my own apartment, changed, threw some things into a bag, gathered up my jewelry and what money I had. I registered under another name at a small hotel on the west side. I knew I had to get out of the country, but before I left, there was someone I had to see. Elizabeth Granger. The woman he preferred to me. Three of... suspense follows in one minute. This is Johnny Baker with Communism on the Spot. A few words now on the position of the family under communism. In Soviet society, the family has been reduced to a kind of machine for producing workers. Soviet leaders have deprived families of the right to educate their children and have minimized the influence of family life by drawing women into the labor force. The institution of the family is looked on as part of the machinery for producing what are designated as obedient, disciplined communists. To accomplish this, the role of the parents has been taken over by the schools, by youth organizations, and by the establishment of boarding schools. The final aim of the party is evidently the education of all children away from the family. And now we continue with act three of the well-dressed corpse, starring Miss Margaret Whiting, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. The next night there was a rosary for Roy at the Edgeflower Mortuary. I waited across the street. I wanted to see her walk in. I wanted to see how well she could take it. But Elizabeth Granger didn't appear at his rosary. The next morning, wearing dark glasses and a veil, I went to his funeral, but she didn't. Hello, Petey. Don't you know the police are looking all over town for you? Petey, who is Elizabeth Granger? Where does she live? Oh, bad. She isn't in the phone book. She wasn't at his funeral. There are no pictures of her in the papers. You know these things. Tell me, please. I can't help you. Nobody can help you now. You're a walking dead woman. Petey, listen to me. I don't want to listen to you. I'm afraid to. I don't want to end up like you someday. Well-fed, well-dressed, successful, but dead. I came here for your help, not your opinions. Everything you ever said in your life was a lie. I did your legwork, looked up things for you, verified them, checked them. And just to satisfy my curiosity, I checked about you, too. You didn't go to any graduate school at Columbia. You were born and brought up in Hell's Kitchen. And you went as far as PS432. You hated everything you had and word. You tried to wipe it out. Tell me what you know about Elizabeth Granger. I'll tell you this much. You're not going to have the pleasure of watching her suffer along with you. And I'll tell you how I know. Because Roy Mason wrote you a letter. I read it, because I never thought I'd see you again. Would you like to know what's in it? Yes. It makes you look ten times as foolish as you do now. He said that there was no such person as Elizabeth Granger. You're lying. He just invented her. Just invented her to get away from you. You're lying. There has to be an Elizabeth Granger. Here's the letter. Look for yourself. It's true. Every word of it. There was no Elizabeth Granger. Roy just didn't want me and he had to find some excuse. I walked to the door wondering what to do. Where to go? One more thing, boss. Ten seconds after you're out of that door, I'm going to call the police. I ran out of the office, out of the building down Madison Avenue. I wanted to lose myself. But where? How? I walked and I walked and I walked and I tried to understand. I tried to understand why I killed Roy. And everything that came into my mind revolted me. Oh, I needed a drink. A dozen drinks. A hundred drinks. Are you sure you're in the right place, lady? Just give me a double bourbon. Scotch, triple. I don't care. Well, I'm okay. You're old enough. Hurry up. Here's my money. Hey, Eddie, here. Get a load of the doll. What would any dame dress like that come in here for? Slumman. What, are you stupid or something? They like to come over to Hell's Kitchen. Well, men are men, looking for thrills. Yeah. What do you think she came in here for? Thought it was 21 or something? Ah, talk, talk, talk. I'll show you how to handle a doll like that. By your drink, ma'am. No, get away from me. No, you don't really mean that. Tony, the drinks on me. Why don't we have it in the booth over there? We can talk, huh? Get away from me. Who do you think you are? All right, Eddie, no sale. Who does she think she is? She's got no right in here unless she wants to be sociable. She's a bum and you know it, Tony. Eddie, can't you see this is a lady and I go for a walk? Lady? Since when we got ladies in here? You filthy... Hey, hey, wait a minute. She's a little bum, you... Hey, Eddie, you know who she is? Her picture was in a paper this morning. She killed somebody. It would only be a matter of seconds until I called the police so I ran. I saw a police car crossing the avenue, so I ran the other way. Two blocks away, there was another police car at the intersection. I ducked into an alley and tripped and fell headlong into the dirty foul snow. I don't know how long I was out, but when I came to somebody was pulling my mink coat off me. Come on, dearie, come on, cooperate. What are you doing? We don't need this coat where you're going. Leave my coat alone. That's all right, dearie. All right, come on, now the dress. The dress. Ruby, help me get it off her. You can't take my dress off me. I can use a fancy dress like that and you can't wear it on me. Jail. Don't, please. All right, here we are. Pops, crab or shoes, Ruby, let's go. My dress. They took my dress and my coat. Okay, see where you are, lady. You let them do it. Why did you let them do it? We'll get them. Come on, lady, lift up your head. I want to take a look at you. Oh, don't hurt me, please. I'm somebody. That's what I thought, Ruth Franklin. I'm somebody. I'm somebody. I'm one of the ten best dressed women in the world. Suspense, in which Miss Margaret Whiting starred in William and Robeson's production of The Well-Dressed Corpse, written by E. Jack Newman and John Michael Hayes. In a moment, the word about next week's story of suspense. This is Johnny Baker with Communism on the Spot. When you talk about the government in a democracy, you have in mind the elected representatives who rule in the people's name. This isn't the case in the Soviet Union. True, the Soviet government exercises formal authority, and the parliament supposedly represents the citizens. But in practice, the all-powerful Communist Party wheels the actual power. It alone governs the Soviet people. For the Communist Party, in effect, is a state within a state with permanent control over the so-called government. It governs dictatorially in the fullest sense of the word. As a result, you have in the USSR government by the party for the party. Listen. Listen again next week when we return with one of radio's great classic plays, Sorry Wrong Number, starring Miss Agnes Moorhead. A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. Suspense has been brought to you through the worldwide facilities of the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.