 And now, another tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. Memorial Bridge, written for suspense by William N. Robleson. It is officially called the Blackstone Overpass. But to me it'll always be the Clara Adams Memorial Bridge. Intender memory of my late, unlimited and mysteriously departed wife. Clara was not smarter than I was, she was just older and richer. And she never gave me an opportunity to forget it. Is that you, Charlie? Yes, dear. What kept you? I stopped by the Overpass job. You said you'd be home early. Yeah, I know, but I wanted to check on things over there. Get ready to pour the cement for the main bridge pierce tonight. That's nice. Nice. She said it has nothing to do with the fact that you said you'd be home early. She'd been building up this head of steam all day. And when she got like this, it was nothing to do but let her run down. I'd heard it all before, so I went into my room, washed up and got into some comfortable clothes. When I finished, I joined her in the kitchen. You're a lucky man, Charlie Adams. First you marry me and my money, and that sets you in business. Then you get John Faran for a pass now. Why? You've forgotten more about the construction business than you'll ever know. Yes, you're a lucky man, Charlie. Where would you be without my money and John's brain? What are you doing in the kitchen? It's Thursday. Oh, maid's day off, huh? That's right. Nobody home but us, huh? That's right, Charlie. Just you and me in our little honeymoon cottage. Scared, lover boy? Scared, but don't be. I won't expect you to act like a husband. Why do you hate me? Hate you. Oh, I don't hate you. Hate is an emotion. I don't feel anything for you. Yeah, I know. Why? You got what you wanted, a husband, as you like to remind me, bought and paid for. Where do I pay you? Oh, shut up and hand me that spider. Spider? That iron skillet. Tonight, for sake, you're going to be fried the way I like it. Well done. Hey, it's heavy. Of course it's heavy. It's cast iron. Must weigh five or six pounds. Need two hands to manipulate it properly. Well, stop swinging it like that and put it on the stove. It's too bad you don't hate me, Clara. Because I hate you. Now, stop it, I say. It's too bad you don't feel anything for me, Clara. Now, stop it. Couldn't you feel any emotion, Clara, before you die? Not even fear? You did, Clara. I believe you did. I believe you were scared just a little bit, weren't you? One doesn't kill every day of the week. It is, for most of us, a unique once-in-a-lifetime experience. So a state of mild shock is to be expected. Shallow breath, things slightly out of focus. A strange kind of logic operating such as something unpleasant in the house. Get rid of it, stuff it into the back of the car and get it out of the house. And somehow you find yourself out of the house and driving the car down the parkway without quite knowing why you're there or where you're going. And then slowly, like in a dream, like it was happening to somebody else, you hear a siren somewhere. You look into the rear-vision mirror and you see the flashing red light and there's nothing else to do but pull over to the curb. In just a moment, we will return for the second act of suspense. Get the really light refreshment. This is where I talk, Kay. Get the really light refreshment. That's Pepsi-Cola, of course. I just wanted to say be sociable, Charlie. Of course, Kay. Be sociable. Have a Pepsi on the road or at home. It always refreshes without filling. Charlie. Pick up extra carton now. Pepsi is so delicious it goes fast. That's why you should keep plenty of Pepsi on hand. Maybe I'd better sing. Be sure to say keep Pepsi handy. Yes, Charlie. But the song says it sociably. Be sociable. Lock up today with Pepsi. Drink like refreshing Pepsi. Stay up and fair. What Kay means is, get plenty of Pepsi next time you shop. Well, yes. What's it, officer? What did I do wrong? I'm sure I wasn't speeding. No, no, you're okay. But I just noticed the lid to your trunks come unfastened. I'll fix it for you. Oh, no, no, no. Don't bother. I'll do it myself. The key probably. And there under the friendly and helpful gaze of the officer, I fought to close the trunk lid of my car. And Clara fought back. Even in death she fought me. In obstinate death, she lay in that luggage compartment and defied me to close the lid. Looks like you got it back too full. Yeah. Yeah, maybe I have it that. Yeah, that does it. Thanks, officer. Thanks. I'll drop back and see how the concrete works coming. Well, I'll report two pairs of the overpass bridge so far. We'll do this next one as soon as the men have had some chow. Mixers, right in position, I see. Yeah, she's all ready to go. How you doing? Good job, Jerry. If you're running the night shift, I think we'll have this job finished ahead of time. That's what I'm aiming for, boss. Oh, by the way, I tell you, there's $100 in it for you for every day you're bringing in ahead of schedule. Oh, thanks, boss. The Blackstone Overpass. It's hard to believe that a few months from now, this confusion of dirt mounds and concrete pillars will be carrying 1,000 cars an hour on an eight-lane roadway over the heads of another 1,000 or so cars an hour, going the opposite way. Listen to me philosophizing and keeping you from your supper. Go on down to the shack with the gang and get your job. Well, it's all right with you, Mr. Adams. Oh, sure it is. Run along. All right, then, I'll do that. I'm a little hungry. Sure you are. You say this pier is ready to be poured. Yes, so the mixer's in position. We'll be pouring as we eat. Would you like to wait around and watch? I might do that, Jerry. And he was gone, down the slope of dirt filled with a construction shack where the rest of the night shift was having their food. And I was alone with Clara on the Blackstone Overpass, but not quite alone. Behind me, the concrete mixer kept chunking away, turning slowly, agitating with elephantine thoroughness its huge load of pebbles and cement and sand. Tons of it. Enough of it to fill the forms of a bridge pillar 30 feet high. It was in position, Jerry had said, and all it was needed to dump its contents into the waiting form was a pull on a lever. Of course. Perfect. The perfect resting place for Clara. Here, her obstinate strength could do some good. She could hold up the Blackstone Overpass. It was a matter of seconds to unlock the trunk of the car. The construction shack was out of sight. It was dark. I was alone. I dragged a bony and stiff body of my ex-wife to the edge of the wooden forms and toppled her over the side. I yanked the lever and that was the end of Clara forever and ever. And while a form was filling and the bridge pier taking shape, it first occurred to me that the Blackstone Overpass had now become the Clara Adams Memorial Bridge. I went home to a quiet house and the first peaceful night's sleep I'd had in years. Next morning, as I took my time over coffee and toast, I planned my next move. Clara's disappearance must be established, but how? Well, the surest way of launching a piece of gossip is to confide in a friend, especially a married friend. So I took my partner, John Ferrand, to lunch and I played distraught, distant, and preoccupied through three pre-Prandial Martinians. What's the matter with you today, Charlie? Huh? You don't seem to be here. You're not with it. Is something bothering you? Oh, no, no, nothing special. Ah, come on, Charlie. Don't try to get pappy. Uh, John, can you keep a secret? Well, sure. You know me, pal. Yeah, well, I wouldn't want this to get any further. My lips are sealed. A thing like this is embarrassing to talk about. I wouldn't want it to be general knowledge. Well, fire away, pal. I'm all ears. John, I'm worried about Clara. What's the matter? Is she giving you a bad time? Oh, no, no, no. You know how it is requiring me. I am her ever-loving honey-lam, and she's my little lump of sugar. Or maybe sick. Yeah. Well, that's the way she wants it, and that's the way it's going to be. I gotta hand it to you, Charlie. You've been a model husband. And frankly, I don't see how you do it. What do you mean? Well, Clara isn't the easiest of women to get along with from what I've seen. Well, we all have our shortcomings, John. Only... Only what? You promise she won't breathe this to a soul? I already promised. All right. John, it's this. Clara's disappeared. What? Yeah, gone. Vanished into thin air. Where? I don't know. Sometime yesterday. She wasn't home when I got in last night. No, no. Not like that? No, nothing. Had you had an argument with her? No, everything was peaches and cream, she'd say. Maybe she went visiting her family. She hasn't got any family. Oh, that's right. I forgot. Well, how about her friends? What friends? The ones who warned her against marrying me. He's only after your money, Clara. Don't say I didn't warn you, Clara. Friends. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing that my wife walked out on me. How do you know she's walked out? Well, I... I don't. But that's the way they'd interpret it. Don't you think you'd better report this to the police? I just said I don't want to be a laughing stock, didn't I? Yeah, but... Report it to the police. It gets in all the papers. Yeah, yeah. Oh, well, I wouldn't worry, Charlie. She's okay. She's just going on a little trip or something. She'll be back safe from the sound sooner than you expect. You think so, John? Sure, I know so. Don't you worry. I'll try not to. It's... it's funny. I feel better just talking to you about it. Sure you do. Only, remember, John, this is just between you and me. Don't breathe a word of it. Promise, pal? I promise, pal. It was all over town, and thoroughly established that Clara had vanished some time Tuesday. John's wife had done a job well. Uh, a little too well. Yes? Mr. Adams? Yes? Lieutenant Watson, Police Department. May I come in? Why, yes, certainly, Lieutenant. Please do. Thank you. Won't you sit down? I think you'll find that chair over there comfortable. Thank you. Oh, now, uh, what can I do for you? Not from the missing persons bureau. We've got to report your wife is missing. Well, yes, in a way. What do you mean, in a way? Well, she isn't here, and I don't know where she is. Yes, I guess you could say she's missing. How long has she been missing? A little over a week. A week ago, Tuesday. How come you didn't make a report to the police? Well, I don't know. Each day that went by, I expected to hear from her. Only you didn't. That's right. Any idea where she could have gone to? If I did, I'd go find it, wouldn't I? Yeah, I guess you would. Just, uh, walked out, did she? I guess so. She didn't take a car, and she didn't take a cab. How do you know? Well, I checked the cab companies. Oh. Well, you've got to admit it looks kind of suspicious. Does it? I don't know. She's over the house. Wouldn't do me much good if I did with her. Not much. Well, be my guest. Yes! Of course, he found nothing. There was nothing to find. But this didn't stop Lieutenant Watson. Sailing to find any evidence of foul play in the house, he sought to find reason for it elsewhere. He dug into my background, and Clara's background. And he came up with an interesting theory, which happened to be the truth. Your atoms? I think you killed your wife. Indeed. Why would I do such a thing, Lieutenant? The usual motive? Money. Oh. Mm-hmm. You married her for her money. You insured her heavily. Of course, you can't collect on that until you prove she's dead. And you can't accuse me of killing her until you prove she's dead. Oh, I'm quite aware of that. Nevertheless, I'm convinced you did it. How, Lieutenant? I don't know. But don't suppose you'd tell me, huh? Spoil all your fun. You're reconstructing the crime. Yeah, that's just it. I'll have to admit to you, there's no evidence of a crime. Mrs. Adams has just vanished, that's all. So, without any evidence of a crime, why not assume that there isn't any? But people don't just vanish. Now, wife did not without help. You'd have to prove that. I know. And you can't? Frankly, no. Then may I suggest you go away and leave me alone? All right, Mr. Adams, but with me out of sight, is not out of mind. What do you mean? Murder, it is said, will out. Come on, Lieutenant, how corny can you get? We'll see, Mr. Adams. We'll see. In just a moment, we will return for the concluding act of... Suspense. Now, here are Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy. Charlie, where have you been? Well, it's a long story, Bergen. Remember, you said you wanted the car lubricated. I said I wanted a guardian maintenance lubrication. Like all Chevrolets, Pontiacs, Oldsmobile, Buick's, Cadillacs, and Chevy and GMC trucks, our car deserves the best of service. And that means guardian maintenance at our dealer service department. Yes, well, I drove our car to our dealers without an accident. Oh. Most of the way. Charlie, where's the car now? It's on Main Street between 4th and 5th. Is it closer to 4th or 5th? It's all the way from 4th to 5th. All right, young man, you're going to get it now. I'm only kidding, Bergen. As a scratch spender, our dealer's GM train mechanics have already got it looking like new again. It's part of their quality appearance service. Shall I still meet you in the woodshed? You drove the car without permission. It's the woodshed. I'll see you there as soon as I phone the dealer. Well, take your time. If you're not there in 10 minutes, I'll start without you. Well, it seems like it all happened a long time ago. The Blackstone Overpass is finished now. In 50,000 cars a day stream over and under it. People have stopped asking me if I've heard from Clara. They've stopped clucking and shaking their heads when they meet me on the street. I live a quiet and serene existence as the fits a man whom tragedy has touched and who furthermore must wait another year for the big insurance payoff when his wife will be declared legally dead. A witch is not, however, to say that I live a completely anchorized life. As much red blood flows in my veins as in the next fellas and from time to time, when I encounter some lovely creatures lonely and as spirited as I, I'm not above an evening of gentile misbehavior. On such occasions, I seem compelled to include the Blackstone Overpass among the earlier gambits of the rendezvous. Are you acquainted with Blackstone Overpass, my dear? Acquaint with it? Well, I've driven over it once or twice. No, you like it? Well, yes. Would it surprise you to know that I designed and built it? You did. Mm-hmm, I did. Well, I had no idea. Care to drive over it again with me? Oh, my yes. Isn't far out of your way, really. And so I would proudly escort my lady of evening through the sweeping cloverleafs of Blackstone Overpass, extolling towards aesthetic and engineering virtues, reciting the liturgy of its statistics, the ever-mounting total of vehicles that rush through it daily. And always as I swung around the gracefully steep off ramp to the lower level, I felt a surge of pride and power as I passed by the cylindrical pillar which supported the upper level and which contained the mortal remains of my vanished wife. Sometimes I'd murmur to myself, the Claren Adams... What did you say, honey? Oh, nothing. I didn't say anything. Again, it's one of those nights, and beside me is a little lady who's a real charmer. Oh, Charlie! I just can't get over it. You're building this great big bridge all by yourself? Oh, I had a little help. It's so, so real, so very... Oh, Charlie! He's out of control! He's dumped the driver! The cars crushed against one of the cylindrical bridge supports, rammed against it head-on, and my lady and I are jammed inside, cut and hurt, and from somewhere far away there's a voice. Hang on! Just hang on! Just beyond the broken windshield where the impact had torn at the cylindrical bridge support. I look, and I know, before I look, what I'll see. There in the pebbles in the cement of the pillar, a human hand, petrified, mummified, concretized, and unmistakably a human hand connected, I know, to the rest of a body that had once been Clara Adams. Hang on! But now, it doesn't make any difference whether they do or not. We've been listening to Memorial Bridge, written for suspense by William N. Robson. In a moment the names of our players and a word about next week's story of suspense. Hi, this is Dennis James with a long-time favorite. This is the best, aren't they? And one favorite folks have relied on over the years is Kellogg's All Brands since 1919, America's favorite natural laxative cereal. Kellogg's All Brand is the safe, gentle way from irregularity caused by lack of bulk in your diet. It tastes good too, and it never gets mushy in milk. There's only one All Brand, Kellogg's All Brand. So relieve constipation the way millions do with Kellogg's All Brand. A, double L, hyphen, B-R-A-N. Yes, you're so right to stay regular with Kellogg's All Brand. Try it, okay? Okay. Third in tonight's story we're Bob Dryton as Charlie, Charlotte Manson as Clara, Ralph Bell as Foreman, Sam Gray as Foran, and Larry Haynes as the detective. Others in the cast included Lawson's Irby, Roger DeCoven, and Pat Hosley. Listen again next week when we return with Cold Canvas by Water Black. Another tale well calculated to keep you in... Suspense. The Kingston trio next, followed by latest CBS news, will travel on CBS Radio.