 Now, the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California presents... Suspense. Tonight, Roma Wines bring you the distinguished actor, Mr. Ronald Coleman, in one of the great suspense stories of our time, August Heat. Suspense is presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines. Those excellent California wines that can add so much pleasantness to the way you live. To your happiness and entertaining guests, to your enjoyment of everyday meals. Before we bring you Ronald Coleman and our suspense play, here's a brief message from Elsa Maxwell, famed for her great charm as a hostess. When food looks appetizing, it almost always lives up to expectations. When even so simple a main dish as a steaming fragrant bowl of spaghetti or beans, is surrounded by bright green salads, golden rolls or muffins and brilliant Roma California burgundy, the food is more enjoyable, more delightful. And for a summery touch of the outdoors, a vase of flowers. Perfect color complement to the deep, rich beauty of Roma Burgundy. You'll enjoy the fruity, robust taste. The tart pecancy of distinguished Roma Burgundy served cool. Truly, a masterpiece of fine winemaking. All Roma wines, Roma Burgundy is unburyingly good. Always high in quality of bouquet, color and taste. The happy reward of selected grapes brought slowly to perfection, gently pressed, then carefully guided to flavor fullness by the ancient skill of Roma's noted wineries in California's choicest vineyards. Yet all this goodness is yours for only pennies a glass. Remember, more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wine. R-O-M-A, Roma wines. Yes, right now a glass full would be very pleasant, as Roma wines bring you a remarkable tale of suspense. And with August heat, W.F. Harvey's matchless narrative of premonition and the brooding terror of twilight and the unseen, and with the performance of Ronald Coleman, Roma wines hope indeed to keep you in suspense. Fenniston Road, Clapham, August the 20th, 1945. I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life. And while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible. Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft. You must remember that in order to have the full implication of my story. James Clarence Withencroft. I am 40 years old in perfect health, never having known a day's illness. By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black and white work to satisfy my necessary wants. My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that there is no one in particular to whom I address this manuscript, only you, who might by chance read it someday. Therefore, because of the peculiar circumstance about which you will soon hear, I have the strong premonition that I shall never live to tell anyone about it. I breakfasted this morning at nine, at usual time. It was no different from any other morning. And after glancing through the morning paper, I lighted my pipe, and I proceeded to let my mind wander, in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, though door and window were open, was oppressively hot. And I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighborhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when, when I was suddenly shaken, a feeling swept over me such as I had never experienced before. I attempted to rise to my feet, but somehow it seemed as though I had suddenly been fastened to my chair, my hand went out in an effort to brace myself. And then, before I knew what I was doing, my pencil was in my hand, and I began to draw. It was as though someone had taken my hand and was moving it across the paper, swiftly, in bold strokes. And then, I seemed to take over. My hand, under its own power, began to draw. I soon forgot the oppressive heat. Everything was forgotten in this frantic feeling that the sketch must be finished as soon as possible. My dear, how long I've worked until I heard the clock of St. Jude's in the distance. It was four o'clock, and I had started just after breakfast. Now, for the first time since I'd begun, I actually seemed to see what I had been sketching. I was surprised. The final result was I felt sure the best thing I'd ever done. It showed a criminal in the dark immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat, enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin. It creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean-shaven, or perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean-shaven, and he was almost bald. He stood there before the judge, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter absolute collapse. There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh. And then... And then I saw that the sketch wasn't complete, for the man's other hand seemed to be clutching an instrument of some kind, a weapon, but it hadn't been completed. I had made this sketch, and yet I had no recollection of what I'd intended the man to carry in his other hand. I took off my pencil again, and I attempted to fill in the fuzzy outline, but it was useless. It was as though my fingers had suddenly turned to lead. I sat down, and I felt the moisture slowly forming on my forehead. And once again, I was conscious of the oppressive heat. Then I knew that there would be no finishing of the sketch, at any rate not for the moment, so I rolled it up, and without quite knowing why, I put it in my pocket. In spite of my peculiar inspiration, I was filled with a rare sense of happiness, which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives. I believed that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street, and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road, at the bottom of the hill where the men are at work on the new tram lines. From there onwards, I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went, through parks along crowded streets, always conscious of the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement in a suffocating wave, through the hollow sound of my footsteps as I moved along. Although walking aimlessly, I somehow knew that there was a goal, as something to which I was drawn. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-colored clouds that hung low over the western sky. I have really no idea how far I walked when a small boy roused me from my abstraction. Twenty minutes to seven. Yes. When he left me, I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth. There were flowers, purple stocked and scarlet geranium, and great numbers of bees droned over them. I stood looking down at them for a moment, and then, for some reason, I looked up. Over the entrance to the place, there was a board with the inscription Charles Atkinson, monumental mason, worker in English and Italian marbles. From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, a noise of hammer blows and a cold sound of steel meeting stone. A certain impulse made me enter, in the direction of the noise. There was a man sitting with his back towards me. He was busy at work on a slab of curiously-banned marble. Then, without turning, his hammer stopped in mid-air, as he was about to bring it down on his chisel. He held this position a moment before turning, but I knew that he was aware of my presence, and when he turned, I saw his face. It was, although I'd never seen him before, it was the face of the man I had been drawing. Yes, it was the face of the man whose sketch was in my pocket. He sat there on his low stool, huge in elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, not speaking. Then he took a red silk handkerchief, and he mucked his brow. Although this face that looked up at me was the same as my sketch, the expression was absolutely different. Suddenly, the puzzled expression left his face, and he smiled as if we were old friends, and he walked over and he took my hand. Good day, sir. Good day. I am sorry to intrude. Not at all. Everything is so hot and glary outside. This is like an oasis in the wilderness. I don't know about an oasis, but it certainly is hot. Take a seat, sir. He pointed to the end of the gravestone which he was at work, and I sat down. Very hot. It's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of. I know where it is. The surface here is as fine as anything you could wish. But there's a big floor at the back. Oh, I don't expect you'd notice it. Oh, I shouldn't think so. I could never really do a good job at a bit of marvel like that. It would be all right in the summer like this. It wouldn't mind a blasted heat. But wait until the winter comes. Winter? There's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone. Oh. A gravestone, you see. Oh, I see. Then what's this one for? You'd hardly believe if I was to tell you, but it's for exhibition. It's the truth. Artists have exhibitions, so do grocers and butchers. Oh. We have them too. All the latest little things in ed stones, you know. He went on to talk of marbles, which sort of marble best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work. Then of his garden and some new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute, he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head. This heat. This heat's bad. A man's not responsible for what he does. This heat. I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny in all of this, the feeling that I'd experienced it all before. The oppressive heat, the fragrance of the stocks and the air, the conversation about the marble, the flowers, everything as though I had experienced it before. And yet I knew that I'd never ever been in this section of town before. I tried to persuade myself that at least I'd seen him before. That his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory. But I knew that I was practicing little more than a plausible piece of self-deception. As I sat there quietly, watching him, he looked up at me and he said, Ah, there, what do you think of that? He said it with an air of evident pride, of a job well done. I could sense that he was experiencing the same feeling I had experienced when I had finished my sketch. Then he got up with a sigh of relief. Ah, hot. Hot in it. I receded in such a position that I was unable to see his work. And for some reason I didn't move. Suddenly, he began to read what he'd carved on the tombstone. He spoke deliberately and with a flat voice. In the midst of life, we are in death. Born January 18, 1905. I looked up at the start. This man had read my exact birth date. He passed away very suddenly on August 20, 1945. That's today. We usually use the present date on these exhibition stones. Do you... Do you usually put a name on them, too? Yes, yes. Sacred to the memory of... jails, claddens, withencroft. Old shudders swept over me and I sat there in silence. The sound of birds and critics seemed loud in my ears as we stood there, looking at each other. Saying nothing. And then he mucked his brow again. I was finally able to speak. Well, where did you see that name? Oh, I didn't see it anywhere. I wanted some name and I put down the first that came into my head. It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine. What? Your name? You're James Clarence Withencroft. Yes. Well, and the dates? I can only answer for the birth date. It's correct. Oh, that's a rum, girl. I made a sketch this morning of you. Of me? But you've never seen me before. No. Oh. Oh. I took my sketch from my pocket and I showed it to him. As he looked, with the expression on his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn. And it was only the other day before that I told Mariah there were no such things as ghosts. Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant. Then I spoke to him. You probably heard my name someplace. Yes. You must have seen me somewhere and forgotten it. Yes. Were you at Clacton on the last July? No. No, I've never been to Clacton in my life. Then we were silent for some time again and we stood there looking at one another and at the two dates on the gravestone and the birth one was ripe and it was today. Well, come inside and have some supper. His wife was a strange little woman who was pallid with the look of those who lived their lives indoors. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist and he informed her that I was staying to supper. I spoke, making some comment that I hoped I wouldn't be an intrusion but she looked up at me and she said, You have a pleasing voice, Mr. Withencroft and you're welcome in my home. I'm sorry Charles has not brought you here before. Very little was said during the meal and after the sardines and watercress had been removed she walked over to her cupboard and she took down a thin black book and as she handed it to me she spoke. Would you read aloud, Mr. Withencroft? Puzzled I. I looked down at the book which she'd opened and placed before me. It was a very tiny book. The prophet it was called by an author unknown to me with a strange eastern name Carlisle Gibran and my eyes fell across the page and suddenly I was reading aloud as she'd asked me to. Then Almitra spoke saying, We would ask now of death and he said, You would know the secret of death but how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose nightbound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death open your heart wide unto the body of life for life and death are one even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond unlike seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is with the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honor. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling for what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing and when you have reached the mountaintop then you shall begin to climb and when the earth shall claim your limbs then shall you truly dance. When I looked up Mr. Atkinson had gone but his wife stood before me as she took the book she spoke. Thank you. Then I went outside and I found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone and smoking. He looked up at me. Man's not responsible for what he might do in this heat. She never asked anyone to read aloud before. And then we talked about the sketch again. He looked at it. Likeness is in me all right. What trial? You must excuse my asking but do you know of anything you've done for which you could be put on trial? No, I've done nothing. Not yet. He got up, fetched a can from the porch and he began to water the flowers. Twice a day regular in the hot weather and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones Good Lord, they could never stand it. Where do you live? I told him my address. It would take an hour's quick walk to get back home and he stopped watering and he faced me squarely. It's like this. We look at the matter straight. If a boat go back home tonight you'd take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you. There's always banana skins and orange peels to say nothing of falling ladders. He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh. The best thing we can do is for you to stay here till 12 o'clock. Then it'll be tomorrow, do you see? Yes. We'll go upstairs and smoke. It may be cooler inside. And to my surprise, I agree. We are sitting in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oil stone smoking one of my cigars the while. And as I look at my sketch before me I suddenly see the fuzzy outline of what the man in the picture holds in his hands. For while I had not been able to sketch it before I am able to do so now. It is a chisel and it is stained with dark liquid. The sketch is completed now. The air seems charged with thunder and I hear it in the distance. It is ominous but... but it carries the hope of rain and perhaps this damnable heat will be broken soon and the day will soon be over. It is close to 12. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked and Atkinson who seems a handyman with his tools is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel it is 12. The day is over and I shall be going home but the heat the heat is titling. This heat is enough to send a man mad. This August heat in which Roma Wines have brought you Ronald Coleman as star of tonight's study in Suspense. Suspense is produced, edited and directed by William Spear. Music for August heat was composed by Lucian Morrowick and conducted by Lud Glusson. Dennis Hoy appeared as Atkinson. This is Truman Bradley with the word the sponsor of Suspense. America's famed authority on hospitality, Elsa Maxwell recently made this suggestion for gracious entertainment. Your friends will respect your good taste when you serve delightful Roma California Touquet. Enjoyable at any time with coffee or dessert with nuts and fruit. I suggest serving Roma Touquet cool. A most timely suggestion from Miss Maxwell. You'll find flame bright with a velvety smooth. Moderately sweet, light yet delightfully rich in color and you'll find Roma Wines always delicious of unvarying fine quality and goodness. June is the month of weddings and the most distinguished way to fate the June bride is by serving Roma California Champagne. It's gold and sparkle and delicious delightful dryness. Tell you that here is a truly Roma Champagne. Next time you plan for a special occasion add this sparkling touch of perfection Good Roma Champagne. Next Thursday you will hear John Payne and Frank McHugh as stars of Suspense Presented by Roma Wines R-O-M-A Made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is CBS the Columbia Broadcasting System.