 And now, tonight's presentation from radio's outstanding theatre of thrills... Suspense. Tonight, the story of a man who lost his shoes, and when you're suspected of murder and you've got to run for your life, and the temperature is in the 90s, why then you're correct in saying it's too hot to live. What? We don't sell tickets on this street. That was empty. I didn't think anybody had mine. We're slowing down for a crossing. I don't want to find you when I come back. Where are we? Half mile from Marcus Junction. Thanks. Forget the thanks. Just beat it before somebody inquisitive starts asking questions. Yeah, don't they always? He rolls by slowly and the crossing bell warns that death is here. I don't recognize it though. I walk towards Marcus Junction. Towards death. The sun is 11 o'clock high and starting to pucker the tar road. I'm heading in. Sweat is beginning to streak through the old suntan uniform and my shoes are sucking tar every time I lift them. The sole of one boot busts loose and starts flapping against the road. That's bad. A drifter needs a good pair of shoes and I'm on the drift. Marcus Junction is no different than any thousand others like it. About a mile square of small buildings all pasted together. I walk a couple of blocks without finding a shoemaker. The town is almost empty this Saturday morning and then a door opens ahead of me and a big man steps out. Really big, both ways. Big high and big wide. He's wearing steel rimmed glasses screwed up tight above the pug nose of his round face and six full inches of hat brim circle of pink flesh like a halo. Good morning, son. My name's Benjamin. Benjamin Martin. Good morning, Mr. Martin. Could you tell me... Benjamin, son. Call me Benjamin. That's the handle that shakes this pump. What's yours, boy? Jeff Casey. Jeffrey or Jefferson? Jefferson. Jefferson. That's a good name. Now, don't think I'm changing the subject but where could I get this fixed, Benjamin? Well, pretty socks. They are at that. But who will take care of this shoe? Yeah. I'm going down to Stacey's for a coke. Shoe fixer's right next door. Come along, Jefferson. As we turn, I see his left side. Gun holstered high up on his hip and the gold star with the word sheriff glinting in the sunlight. Still wearing your old army clothes. Hey, those duds wear like iron. They just throw them away when they start to rust. Now, uniforms wear forever. At least you've seen their last war. Well, what were you in, boy? Air Corps. Captain. Pretty uniform, sweet pay, and lots of respect. Hey, you miss it, Jefferson? Maybe I do. What are you looking for now? I'm not looking for anything. Just living, more or less. Man, how to find more to do this life than that? It's all the same to me. I could die today and it wouldn't make any difference to me or anyone else. You've got a bad taste in your mouth, but you'll spit it out someday. Yeah, I like this weather. If it gets any warmer, it'll be almost too hot to live. In a manner of speaking, you understand. Yeah, I understand. Well, here's a shoe repair. I'll be next door. Leave your shoes and waddle in on them pretty socks here. I'll buy you a drink. Coke or coffee. The shoemaker tells me that my shoes will take a couple of hours so I start next door to join Benjamin. I don't know, maybe I'm feeling pretty good, but I pull an old schoolboy trick of mine. I take off my socks, roll them up, and throw them on a counter with my shoes. Then I walk outside to feel a cool shaded cement and roll up through the bottom of my bare feet. Through the store window next door, I see the four people in the restaurant. Benjamin weighs for me to come in. Inside the entrance, a blond old sliver of a man who's showing about three inches of wrist and shin bone below the edges of his clothes. The squat moonface grill man has his Popeyes focused intently on the argument. His flabby hands, purple-red from too much hot, soapy water and frying grease make fluttering passes at a fly. I go in, brushing past the argument, walk over to Benjamin and sit on the next stool. Hi, Jefferson. Hi, Benjamin, came for the coffee. In a minute, Rachel's about finished. The girl plays rough. Well, that's just Rachel's way, Jefferson. I see you leaned the bare feet. What's your friend having, Buster? Benjamin, Rachel. Benjamin. Maybe smart to tack nicknames on people, but my folks figured me for a Benjamin and I like it that way. Sure, Buster. What'll it be, soldier? A black coffee, lady. And don't let the uniform throw you. I'm no soldier anymore. The Hollywood line of her mouth twists up into a lopsided kind of inviting grin as she turns to get the coffee. I watch the dark shadows that follow the rippling lines of her uniform when she moves. Rachel is quite a woman. All women. Coffee barefoot. Like you, soldier. Hey, your friend's real pretty, Buster. Yeah, you think everybody's pretty. Oh, but he's a doll. You be around long, soldier? Long enough to get my shoes fixed, Rachel. Rachel. That name doesn't go with you. It's a name. Too bad you're moving on so soon. New faces are scarce around here. Especially one like yours. Well... I got some law to enforce. Will I see you for your go, Jefferson? I'll find you, Benjamin. Do that, boy. I'm afraid to face that heat out there. Now, you behave yourself, Rachel. Yeah, yeah, yes, well... You like playing it tough? Under it all beats a heart of gold. Tell me what it's like in the world outside, soldier. Hey, Rachel, why don't you put up some more coffee? Tandy, your bacon lover, I got company. Your boyfriend? Lover boy there? No, that's Kenny. He's keeping company with a hot grill. You ought to talk about me like that, Rachel. It's not right. Well, then don't bother me while I'm with my friends. Hey, soldier, I'm off by now. Let you and me go out to Carnival for a couple hours, huh? You let her alone. Don't go with her. You hear? Yeah, I hear, Kenny. I'd like to, Rachel, but how do I go barefoot? Oh, forgot. Got any other ideas? Yeah, matter of fact. I live upstairs over this greasy spool. Let's go up and mix ourselves something cool. While we wait for your shoes. You can't do that. It isn't nice. It don't look right. Don't it? Let's go, Rachel. Don't. You can't. I'll stop you. I go hash some potatoes, lover. My arm, soldier? No. No, Rachel. I'll get someone to tend to tend to here. I'll come right up. You doing a barbecue on your own grill. We go out and my feet scruff over the shaded pavement as we pass through the doorway on the left. I follow her up a flight of stairs and into a small box-like apartment. Living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. Be it ever so humble, this is home. Let's kick out a wall or something. The windows don't help much, but the drinks will. Why do you have to lean into the kitchen? Why not just walk in? Fresh varnish on the floor. The heat don't let it dry. It's a long reach for a long drink. It's a long day. There you go, soldier. Don't you believe in mixing anything with your liquor? Well, for the cubes will melt. Now, what do we drink to, soldier? The heat. Cool job, don't it? It burns its way down my stomach and explodes. That's good, ain't it, soldier? My pores open and the perspiration oozes down. Here, let's have another. Don't let it wear off. She's still talking, but I'm going numb. Let's drink to my passion. Heat. No food. I shouldn't be drinking. Who cares? I'm getting foggy. She's drifting closer. I don't know who kisses who first. Bitter tears. Tears of loneliness and regret. Everything is moving around like feathers in a high wind. And sometimes one drifts in through the fog. We're drinking. How many? I don't know. Breathing, sucking down scorching air. Hot, damp waves of heat, suffocating. She's close. Can smell perfume. Cheap like tin earrings. Black rolling in. Black velvet. And the shimmering heat. Wavering like plucking a taut string. Wavering. Wavering. Steady sound, sharp, smart little cracks. I tear my eyelids apart in a flash of ceiling whirls by. A purple red mass is coming toward my face and when it hits... There's a sound in the ceiling moving the other way. Frozen kind of pain is seeping through to my brain and I can make out a voice now. I get my hand up to my face and wipe my eyes. My hand comes away wet and sticky and red. Come on, wipe out the ugly purple mass comes. Awake now? Swell, I got something for you. Over there, in the corner of the kitchen. See how she's lying there? Take your hands off me. That's how I found her. You beside her and your filthy hands still tie her on her throat. What's the matter with my hands? Sticky, wet. That's varnish and blood, your blood. Is it a knife in her hand? I'll stop you. You killed her. You killed Rachel. He doesn't make any kind of sense. The bathroom door is open and I stagger towards it. Stepping on broken glass. Pain, stinging, remembering bare feet. The open shower waiting for me. I turn the handle of the cold water and half throw myself into the shock of the cold stream. I'm coming alive. I see a reaction setting in. Fright. He said I'd killed her. Hey Sheriff, Benjamin, hey Benjamin, come up here. I got a dirty killer for you. That lousy friend of yours killed Rachel. Come and get him. Kenny's shouting out the window in the other room to Benjamin. I gotta get away, gotta think. What happened, what? I get through the bathroom window, out into the glare of the sun and my feet hit the scalding car, the marquee. Scramble across it, drop to the street. A narrow alley and I'm running down it toward the fence that blocks off the far end. A garbage can near the fence and a woman putting something into it. I jump, reaching for the fence. What do you think you're doing? Let me go, let go. Pick up that garbage, you crazy. Let's go, I didn't do it. What do you mean? I saw you kick it over. I'm not gonna clean up that mess. I didn't kill her. Take your hands off me. Why would I kill Rachel? Why would you kill? All right, Jefferson. Come along and tell me why you killed Rachel. You are listening to Mr. Sam Edwards in Sam Rolf's story, Too Hot to Live. Tonight's presentation in Radio's Outstanding Theater of Thrill's Suspense. Bachelor would be completely safe was on a stag line. Usually, of course, there's no more secure terrain. But a couple of slick swindlers figure out a new wrinkle in crime and the stag line becomes the focal point for a neat, ruthless racket. Hear the complete story of the stag line swindlers tomorrow night when CBS Radio presents the FBI in peace and war on most of these same stations. And now we bring back to our Hollywood soundstage Mr. Sam Edwards in Elliott Lewis' production of Too Hot to Live. A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. Benjamin is leading me out into the sweltering street again. The sun burns into my flesh, accusing as if to cause the murder to flow out of my open pores. And Benjamin walks beside me again, not holding me, just talking, asking questions which I can't answer. Why'd you do it, son? I didn't kill her, Benjamin. I don't remember, but I... You don't sound sure, Jefferson. Don't you know? We were drinking. I blacked out. Drunk unconscious. You could still move around. Could do what was done in that apartment. But I couldn't. Why would I want to do a thing like that? Maybe you played it too rough. Maybe she tried to stop you, cut you with a knife. Why'd you run away? I was scared. Kenny said my hands were around her throat. Blood, varnish, heat. Remember anything? Rachel, sprawling a gummy floor. I don't remember. Well, I'll have to lock you up, and then I'll go back and have a good look around. Maybe I'll find something. And if you don't... Rachel's dead, Jefferson. Wasn't premeditated, but that don't excuse it. She's still dead. They'll try to hang me. Why can't I remember what happened? What led to this? The sweats rolling down Benjamin's forehead, collecting along the top of his glasses, sliding into his eyes. They smart and snap shut. He has to stop. Try to rub the sting away. I slap at the glasses, knocking off his face and grab for his gun. His arm comes down fast, hard, chopping at my hand, numbing the arm to the shoulder, and the gun falls to the road. I run, hobbling up and down, lopsided, trying to get away from Benjamin from the burning and torn feet under me. Come back. You can't get far. I'll get you anyway. I'm running again down the burning streets, out to the end of town, to the railroad, now off the searing pavement, but jagged rocks and sharp brush tear at the numb pain that is my feet. I run till my legs slide away from under me, then crawl, dragging a body that has no feeling, a dead weight that robs my arms of their strength. And finally, steel rails glisten ahead as I lay sprawled out. Heart and lungs going crazy in my body. Something starts down in my chest, spreads up to my throat, spilling out of my mouth. I run out! An hour has passed, and the sun is moving away towards the west. No trains have passed, but it's all right. I know what I have to do now. Find Kenny, and one way or another force him to tell the truth, for he must be lying. I lick my hunger chips and wipe the dried blood off my hands and feet, comb my hair, throw away the army shirt and move back to town. Stepping gently, I make my way up the back streets to the restaurant. Pulling my pants down, load a cover as much of my bare feet as possible, I step inside. There's a stranger behind the counter. Well, howdy. Hi. Where's everybody in this town? Most are out at the carnival. Some are looking for a killer roaming around. Heard about him. Heard he was picked up a couple of miles out. They got him. Good deal. You know, Rachel worked here. Yeah, I know. Say, uh, where's Kenny? Well, he's out at the Clovis Place. He wanted to be the one to tell Rachel's folks about, uh, you know. I, uh, I guess I ought to go out there and pick him up. I don't know the place too well. How do I get there? Oh, just follow this road down. About a half mile out of town, right off, can't miss the mailbox. Thanks. Say, if you miss him, who'll I say was asking? Uh, just tell him his cousin Jim was here. Well, pleased to have met... Hey, hey, you ain't wearing shoes. You, you're the one. You're the killer. Run, run, run again. Another alley, blistering pavement, cement ripping, and the jagged rocks again. Time is running to running out. Benjamin will know where I'm going. Out to the main highway, pants pulled low and thumb up in the air. Here comes my ride. He's got to stop. Got to stop. Please. That's it. Thanks, mister. Thanks a lot. You're welcome, but I'm not going far. Uh, I'm just going out to the Clovis Farm. That's about... I know the place. Why are you going there now? I'm a cousin of Kenny's. I'm going to meet him out there. Oh, I don't place here. I'm visiting from back east. You're not wearing shoes. Yeah. That's a silly thing. I lost my shoes while waiting barefoot in a stream. It didn't help my feet any. What stream is that for? You know the one. I don't know the name of it. It's out there in the woods. Yeah. I think I know the one. This is the dirt road you want. House is over the rise. Thanks again. See ya. I limp up the rising dirt path. At the top I turn for a look at my ride. He's swinging around towards town. Benjamin will get to me, and soon. An old, two-storied farmhouse rises out of the cleared fields around me. A big gray barn stands off near the house and two old cars are sitting empty behind it. Kenny's got to come to one of them. I'll wait. Time still running out and away from me. Little shimmering waves of heat rise off the ten hoods of the cars. Here he comes. Now or never. Quieter! I'll break your back! I want the truth, Kenny. The truth if I have to kill you for it. I didn't kill Rachel. You did. I didn't. You killed her. You were crazy jealous. No! You came to check up, you found us drunk and you got wild. I didn't. I can prove it. Prove it? There wasn't three minutes between the time I left the restaurant and the time I called Benjamin. Not enough time to get up there, kill her and bring you around. I can prove it. That's all the time. You did it. You have cut hands from her knife. Those hands were still around her throat when I came in. You killed Rachel. I was lying about the three minutes that gloating smirk on his face tells me that I had killed her. The horror of this afternoon had been for nothing. I'd tried to save my life. Instead I'd proven myself guilty to tide the rope finally and for all time around my neck. Shoot him. Don't just stand there. Shoot. He's the man who killed your daughter. He stands there watching the gaunt sliver of a man with shins and freshly scarred wrists exposed below the edges of his clothing. Double barrel shotgun is cradled in his arms but he just looks at me. A wildfire striking out of the black pupils of his eyes. Shoot him. He killed your daughter. He killed Rachel. So you're her father. I thought it was a nickname. She was no daughter of mine. She was born to me and I named her Rachel from the Bible. But she was the daughter of Satan. I'm sorry, Mr. Clovis. Rachel is dead. She turned away from me but within me the voice was strong. I followed her begging reading to her from the book to the place where she lived where she worked but she turned me away with curses. I'm sorry. I was drunk. Crazy. In that apartment the stench of drink like an evil cloud. Lying there, drunk with a devil's fever. You... Shut up, you crazy old fool. She took a knife to drive me out. These scars on my wrist. Vile words attacked me and it came to me like a voice from on high. I knew what I must do. You killed her. It wasn't me. It was you. I thought you couldn't keep your mouth shut. You knew he did it, Kenny. You tried to make me believe that I'd been the one. Why? You. You and Tramps like you. Always keeping her from me. Coming along every time. I couldn't know this, Kenny. You didn't care. You laughed at me, made Rachel laugh at me. I passed the old man when I went up. I knew as soon as I walked into the room. And you tried to blame it on me. Why not? It wasn't a crazy old go-to killer. It was you and men like you. She would have married me. But you and your kind came along. I hate you. You did kill her. And you'll die for it. Give me the gun, old man. Oh, no, Kenny. Not now. Turn around, soldier. Turn around and see it when it happens. Whatever your gun, Kenneth. No. No! I'll go home now. The sun is moving down low in the skies and a cool light breeze has come up from somewhere. I'm leaning back on the front seat besides Benjamin. Breathing deeply, evenly. Feeling the goodness of just living seep through. In the back seat, old man Clovis sits staring ahead. Not even aware of the blanket-wrapped body of Kenny lying on the floor at his feet. The bigger the run, I could have saved your feet a lot of wear. I knew you weren't a murderer, son. You knew? Sure, I went back to the apartment. The old story's there in the varnish on the kitchen floor. No marks of bare feet around the body, but lots of hobnail boot prints. You cut your hand on broken glass in the living room. You bled. And his eye was running. Yes. For a man who don't care whether he lives or dies, you sure got lots of jackrabbit in your legs. What a day! It's been quite a day, Benjamin. Sure has been a scorcher, ain't it? Glad to see the sun going down. You know, on a day like this it's almost too hot to live. Don't say that, Benjamin. It never gets that hot. Suspense in which Sam Edwards was starred in Too Hot to Live Next week the story of a woman who had a strange visitor a man who wanted to spend a day with her just waiting until her husband got home from work so that he could kill him. It's called The Tip. That's next week on Suspense. Suspense is produced and directed by Elliot Lewis with music composed by Lucian Morrowick and directed by Lud Glaskin. Too Hot to Live was written for suspense by Sam Rolf. In tonight's story, Sam Edwards was heard as Jefferson and Paul Freese as Benjamin. Featured on the cast were Mary Jane Croft, Lee Millar, Junius Matthews, Charles Calvert, Herb Butterfield and Gene Wood. And remember, next week, Carly Abrams play The Tip. The tragic story of an unidentified boy hit by a car after hitching a ride on a bull tomorrow night on CBS Radio's 21st Precinct. Police of the 21st Precinct track down the boy's identity through his sweater marked Red Tigers. Before they're through, even case-hardened cops have to swallow hard to keep back tears. Don't miss 21st Precinct tomorrow night on most of these same stations. He really clicks against criminals crime photographer on the CBS Radio Network.