 In the event of any important news developments, the sponsor will interrupt this program. Roma wines present... Suspense! Roma wines made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. Salute! 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 a star, Miss Geraldine Fitzgerald and Mr. Richard Worf. Miss Fitzgerald and Mr. Worf 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 in fancy 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 by the combination of age-old wine-making 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 greens. I guess he was pretty much like dozens of other men who go to work every morning, settle down in soft chairs with their 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? How do I know what for? Aaron Burr's 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. Well, everybody dreams, don't they? I don't see why you'd see Aaron Burr in your dreams. Well, I do. Where do you see him? Oh, places. Washington Square, Bowling Green are 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. And suddenly, there will be Aaron Burr bowing and smiling and smelling like a carnation, telling his stories about France and getting off his insults. Who is the woman in the Victoria? What? The woman. Who is she? Well, how do I know? You know about people in dreams. 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. You are all right. I don't know who the woman is. Maybe it's Madame Jamel Mitten's Willet or a girl I knew in high school. Who's Mitten's Willet? 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 it was? I don't know. Who? My brother, Walter. The one I told you about. The one who was killed by the tramp in the cemetery. Harry, I never could get that story straight. Well, I've told it to you a dozen times. The tramp came up to him when his back was turned. But what was he doing in a cemetery? That's not the point. He was killed. That's what's important. And I loved him very much. I don't understand what any... What's the use of telling you? Every time I mention it, you start asking the same questions. 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 you... 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 he'd go back to France and stay there, him and his la-la. Who, dear? You mean Aaron Burr. Did you dream about him again? Yes, and he said la-la to me. Why should he say la-la? I was in a tavern. We were drinking ale, and I said something funny. I don't remember what it was. Something amusing about what Ben Franklin had said to Washington. It was one of those things, you know. Oh, I don't. Have... Have some more coffee, dear. I don't want any more coffee. I made this remark, and everyone laughed. Everyone but Burr, that is. He sort of sniffed, and he said la-la. Well, why not? I mean, is there anything wrong about him saying la-la? But it was the way he said it. He was sneering at me. They all noticed it. Who, dear? Who noticed it? The others, all of them. And Hamilton. I was there with Hamilton. It was swell. Until Burr came in, Aaron Burr. I don't see why you dream about him all the time. Don't you think you ought to take some luminol? I'm not sick, I tell you. I know what I'm dreaming. I just thought, well, it's always Burr, and that seems odd. Why? Why shouldn't I dream about Burr 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 Burr 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 now 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 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? That's natural, isn't it? Yes. I suppose it is. And why are you looking at me like that? You know, dear, I wish you'd go and see Dr. Fox. I don't want to see Dr. Fox. I want Aaron Burr to stop sneering at me. In my clothes, he looks at me in his lip curls up and he says, lala, 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 and pajamas and bare feet. His hair disheveled and his eyes wild. He got him! He got him! The rudder 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 a cemetery. This was in Weehawken in New Jersey. What, your brother? No, no, Hamilton and Burr, that 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 then he smiled at Burr. And then that fiend from hell took deliberate aim. He took so long. He meant to take his time about it. I saw him grin. Then he pointed the pistol at Alexander and he fired. He killed him in cold blood, the false gun. Don't, darling. Don't. Here, dear. Take some of these pills. No, I... I don't want any. Oh, take it. You'll feel better. No, I don't want any. I'll tell you. Here, here. Swallow. Please, dear. Swallow. All right. That's better. A cad. A rotten, sneaking cad. He grinned just as he fired. And Alexander clutched himself at the stomach. And then he shook his head and tried to walk forward. And then he fell with his mouth open as though he wanted to say something. But Burr just stood there grinning. He was better after that, but I kept urging him to see Dr. Fox. At first he refused, but later he decided to humor me. He was humoring me by this time. And Dr. Fox, too. How you been feeling, Doc? Well, Mr. Andrews, my pulse has been as... That's what seems to be the trouble. Nothing. There's nothing wrong with me. He has nightmares. You look a little underweight. Perhaps you're diet. I'm not underweight. Overweight, maybe, but not underweight. Mm-hmm. Uh, getting enough exercise? Same as usual. He's worried about something. He always has this same dream. Uh-huh. A dream, eh? What kind of a dream? Just a plain old dream. Uh-huh. No, it isn't. It's about his brother, Walter, who was killed in a cemetery by a tramp. Only, only it isn't really about him. Very few people are actually killed in cemeteries. It's an interesting coincidence, if I may say so. You mean you know somebody who was killed in a cemetery, too? No, I meant your brother being killed in a cemetery. You know, dead in a cemetery. Sort of. Do you follow me? No. I think you should go and see Dr. Fox, Dr. Fox. You... Interesting. Very interesting. I wonder if you'd mind stepping into the next room, Mr. Andrews. I want to give you a thorough examination. Right in here, sir. Well, I hope you're satisfied. You heard what he said. Yes. It's nothing the matter with me. I'm glad your heart is so fine. He said so, you know. He said your heart's fine. Sure, it's fine. My heart's fine. Everything's fine. And do you know what? Do you know what I was thinking? No, what? I was just thinking that now that Alexander Hamilton is dead, you won't see any more of Aaron Burr. Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's right. But I was wrong. Aaron Burr did not leave my husband for sweeter or more peaceful dreams. Harry said nothing about it for several mornings, but I could tell he was still being tortured by those ghosts. He brooded over his breakfast. He didn't answer me when I spoke to him. What was that? Only my butter knife. 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 that I mentioned it? What does he do now? He goes around 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 that duel. Well, what's that got to... He claims that he can hit the ace of spades at 30 paces blindfolded. Furthermore, since you've asked what he does, 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 that... 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 the Lime Rock Lodge. Bess, why can't we visit the Crowleys? They live in the country. All right, fine. Bob is 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. 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. Oh, we'll have a grand time. Yes, darling. Here they come. Oh, good old Bob. Remind me of telling the rabbits. Hello, Madison. Take her back to the stand. Thanks, Madison. It's good to see you. Well, hello there. Well, Bob, how's the old country squire? Fine. How've you been? Never better. Boy, it's good to be here. Hello, Alice. Well, you too. I'm glad you've come. Gets kind of dull here in the hinterlands. Well, Harry, and I'll fix that. Wait until you get one of our extra special cold martinis into you. You'll feel ship shit. You still know how to mix them, huh? Better than ever. Get lots of practice these long country works. It was grand 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, an architect. Oh, what's the matter, dear? Nothing. Why don't you tell me what's the matter, dear? Nothing. 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 little sneering voice. One Henry Andrews! Harry, Harry, please don't yell. You'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 or I shall have one of my lackeys give you a taste of the writing 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 trader. Then why worry what he says? He was a scoundrel but had a very brilliant mind. I was in hopes you weren't going to dream about him anymore. I thought if we came up here... It's him or me and 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 nature 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 when 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. What are you trying... Hey there! Watch out, Harry! Two of the shots missed the tree, but the last one hit it. 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. Look, it's my turn! But Harry aboutfaced 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! You'll need 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 job. 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 shot. I threw on a dressing-gun and ran downstairs. The Crowley's were in the hall. Good heavens. Hey, Harry, all right? Sounds like it. Where is he? What's he doing? It sounds as though he's out behind the studio shooting. Oh, Alice! Take it easy, Bess. Bob will go out and get him. 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. Well, I'll need some, too. What the dickens the matter with him anyway? I don't know. I'm so sorry. You go get him, Bob. That's your service, Madam. Alive or dead. Now, Bob, you stop it. Okay, I'll do that. What's the matter with you? What? What the dickens you're doing out here in this freezing air? What? I'll get him one of these nights. I'll get him one of these nights. 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 shea's 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 a Scotch and water nightcap for him. No. No thanks. No liquor. I need a steady hand. 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? Oh, things. Harry, will you sleep in my room tonight? No. You 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? 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 somebody else? Anybody else, please. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like me to dream about somebody who wouldn't hurt a fly. Somebody like that because you'd know I'd never get into a duel with them. A duel? You're dreaming of a duel now? Ever since Hamilton died. Wer knows that I hate him. It's nearly over now. Harry. It's him or me. And I'll get the runner. But, Harry... I know I'll get him. I have a modern pistol. He has to use an old-fashioned single-shot muzzle loader. Is that quite fair? Fair? What do I care if it's fair or not? Was it fair the way he shot Alexander? Was it? Don't be mad with me, Harry. Oh, I'm sorry, doc. I'm very unhappy. I'm sorry, doc. And I'm worried sick. Oh, I'm sorry. Don't cry. Please don't cry. It upsets me when you cry. And 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. 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. 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. Ah, yes. The doctor? Good of you to come, doctor. Yes. Yes, it's often misty at this hour. Harry. Are they loaded? Splendid. Harry, wake up. Yes. I'm perfectly ready. Is Mr. Burr? He is. Good. Shall we proceed? Harry. No. No, I do not care to make a statement. Very well. Yes, I understand perfectly. Wake up. Ten paces. Turn and fire at the dropping of a handkerchief. Yes. Ten paces. Harry. Harry. Thank you for acting as my second Mr. J. Harry. Of course. It's extremely good of you. Very well then. I'm quite ready. Wake. Two. Four. Harry. Five. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Dr. Fox was puzzled when he examined Harry. Extraordinary. His heart was as sound as a dollar when I saw him the other day. He seemed to be fine, Dr. Fox. I can't understand it. What? Why is heart stopped as if he'd been shot? Shot? Yeah. Of course there are no gunshot wounds. Shot? Now, Mr. J. That's it. Shot. You can't help yourself. You can't help him now. I should have known it would happen, 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. The 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, Ms. 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. 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 just as he had killed Hamilton in that old quarrel long ago. I knew he would! Closes, a friend to Alexander, starring Geraldine Fitzgerald and Richard Worf. The James Thurber story which was tonight's tale of suspense. The 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. This is Geraldine Fitzgerald. Mr. Worf and I have always been fascinated by Mr. Thurber's a friend to Alexander and it was certainly a very great pleasure tonight to play its protagonists under the distinguished banner of suspense. Mr. Spear tells me that next week Lucille Ball will be your star in the story of an adventurous New York subway ride and a girl who finds herself unwillingly richer by $10,000. He refuses to tell me more about it so I will be kept in suspense as you will until next week. One more word. The invasion is on. You're not fighting shoulder to shoulder with the men who are pushing back the enemy but you can and must participate. Back the attack. Buy war bonds. Buy more than before. Geraldine Fitzgerald will soon be seen in 20th Century Fox's Wilson. Richard Worf appeared through courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, producers of White Cliffs of Dover. Next Monday, 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.