 The Columbia network takes pleasure in bringing you suspense, suspense. Columbia's parade of outstanding thrillers, produced and directed by William Spear, and scored by Bernard Herman. The notable melodramas from stage and screen, fiction and radio, presented each week to bring you to the edge of your chair to keep you in suspense. Good evening. This is Orson Welles. I'm very happy I am to be back in the United States and back on the Columbia network, even for so short a visit as this one. Back with old friends like Johnny Deets, who was tonight's director and Bernard Herman. The Mercury Theatre presented tonight's radio play for the first time last year. We came right out then and hailed it as a classic of the medium. Nobody argued the point. A lot of people asked us to do it again, so it's gratifying to get the chance now. And to find a favorite of ours in this distinguished anthology of spook shows. Personally, I've never met anybody who didn't like a good ghost story. But I know a lot of people who think there are a lot of people who don't like a good ghost story. For the benefit of these, at least, I go on record at the outset of this evening's entertainment with a sober assurance that although blood may be curdled on this program, none will be spilt. There's no shooting, knifing, throttling, axing or poisoning here. No clanking chains, no cobwebs, no bony and or hairy hands appearing from secret panels or better yet bedroom curtains. If it's any part of that dear old phosphorescent foolishness that people who don't like ghost stories don't like, then again, I promise you, we haven't got it, not tonight. What we do have is a thriller. It's half as good as we think it is. You can call it a shocker. It's already been called a real Orson Well story. Now, frankly, I don't know what this means. I've been on the air directing and acting in my own shows for quite a while now and I don't suppose I've done more than half a dozen thrillers in all that time. Honestly, I don't think even that many, but it seems I do have a reputation for the uncanny. Quite possibly. A little escapade of mine involving a couple of planets which shall be nameless is responsible. It doesn't really matter. Don't think I disapprove of thrillers. I don't. A story doesn't have to appeal to the heart. It can also appeal to the spine. Sometimes you want your heart to be warmed and sometimes you want your spine to tingle. The tingling, it's to be hoped, will be quite audible as you listen tonight to the hitchhiker. That's the name of our story, the hitchhiker. I'm in an auto camp on Route 66 just west of Gallup, New Mexico. If I tell it, perhaps it'll help me. Keep me from going, going crazy. I've got to tell this quickly. I'm not crazy now. I feel perfectly well except that I'm running a slight temperature. My name is Ronald Adams. I'm 36 years of age, unmarried, tall, dark with a black mustache. I drive a 1940 Buick license number 6Y175189. I was born in Brooklyn. All this I know. I know that I'm at this moment perfectly sane. That it's not me who's gone mad. It's something else. Something utterly beyond my control. I'd love to speak quickly at any minute the link may break. This may be the last thing I ever tell on earth. The last night I ever see the stars. Six days ago I left Brooklyn to drive to California. Goodbye, son. Good luck to you, my boy. Goodbye, mother. Give me a kiss, and I'll go. I'll come out with you to the car. Oh, no, it's raining. Stay here at the door. Hey, what's this? Tears? I thought you'd promised me you wouldn't cry. I know, dear. I'm sorry. But I do hate to see you. I'll be back. It'll only be on the course three months. It isn't that. It's just the trip. Ronald, I wish you weren't driving. Oh, mother. There you go again. People do it every day. I know, but you'll be careful, won't you? Promise me you'll be extra careful. Don't fall asleep or drive fast or pick up any strangers on the road. Oh, gosh. I think I was still 17, dear. And why? I mean, as soon as you get to Hollywood, won't you, son? Of course I will. Don't you worry. There's nothing going to happen. There's eight days of perfectly simple driving on smooth, decent, civilized roads. A hot dog or a hamburger stand every ten months. I was in fine spirits. Drive ahead of me, even the loneliness seemed like a lark. I reckoned without him. Crossing Brooklyn Bridge that morning in the rain. I saw a man leaning against the cables. He seemed to be waiting for a lift. There were spots of fresh rain on his shoulders. He was carrying a cheap overnight bag in one hand. He was thin, nondescript, with a cap pulled down over his eyes. I would have forgotten him completely, except that just an hour later, while crossing the Pulaski Skyway over the Jersey Flats, I saw him again. At least, he looked like the same person. He was standing now with one thumb pointing west. I couldn't figure out how he'd got there, but I thought probably one of those fast trucks had picked him up, beat me to the Skyway and let him off. I didn't stop for him. Then late that night, I saw him again. I saw the new Pennsylvania turnpike between Harrisburg and Pittsburgh. It's 265 miles long with a very high speed limit. I was just slowing down for one of the tunnels. When I saw him, standing under an arc light by the side of the road, I'd seen quite distinctly the bag, the cap. Even the spots of fresh rain scattered over his shoulders. He hallowed at me this time. I stepped on the gas like a shot on its lonely countries with the Alleghenies and I had no intention of stopping. Besides the coincidences or whatever it was, neither the Willys stopped at the next gas station. Fill her up. Certainly, sir. Check your oil, sir. No, thanks. Yes. It hasn't been raining here recently, has it? Not a drop of rain all the way. Oh. I suppose that doesn't don your business any harm. Oh, people drive through here all kinds of weather. Mostly business, you know. The car's out on the turnpike this season of the year. I suppose not. What about hitchhikers? Hitchhikers here? What's the matter? Don't you ever see any? Not much. If we did it, it'd be a sight for sore eyes. Bull who started out to hitch rides on this road. Look at it. You've never seen anybody? No. Maybe they get the lift before the turnpike starts. I mean, you know, just before the tow house. But then it'd be a mighty long ride. Most cars wouldn't want to pick up a guy for that long a ride. And you know, this is pretty lonesome country here. Mountains and woods. You ain't seen anybody like that, have you? No. No, not at all. It's just a technical question. Well, that'll be just $1.49 with the tax. The thing gradually passed through my mind a sheer coincidence. I had a good night's sleep in Pittsburgh. I didn't think about the man all next day until... Just outside of Zanesville, Ohio, I saw him again. It's a bright, sunshiny afternoon. The peaceful Ohio fields. Brown with the autumn stubble. A dreaming in the golden light. I was driving slowly, drinking it in when the road suddenly ended in a detour in front of the barrier. He was standing. Let me explain about his appearance before I go on. I repeat, there was nothing sinister about him. He was as drab as a mud-fenced or was his attitude menacing. He merely stood there, waiting, almost drooping a little, a cheap overnight bag in his hand. He looked as though he'd been waiting there for hours. And he looked up. He hailed me. He started to walk forward. Not just now, sorry. Going to California? No, not today. The other way, going to New York, sorry. I can't the thought of picking him up, of having him sit beside me with somehow unbearable. At the same time, I felt more than ever unspeakably alone. He was the town's ticked off one by one. The light changed. I knew now that I was going to see him again. And though I dreaded the sight, I caught myself searching the side of the road, waiting for him to appear. All sandwiches and pop here, don't you? Yeah, we go in the daytime. I know, and I was wondering if you could possibly have a cup of coffee, black coffee. No, not this time of night, mister. Don't shut the door, please. Just a minute ago, there was a man standing here, right beside the stand, a suspicious looking man. I don't mean to disturb it. You see, I was driving along, to look and there he was. How's he doing? Well, nothing. You've been taking a nip. That's what you've been doing. Now line your way. I went into the car again and drove on slowly. It's getting to hate the car. If I could have found a place to stop her, I'd have to rest a little. I was in the Ozark mountains of Missouri now. Few resort places there were closed, only an occasional log cabin, seemingly deserted. That's all that broke the monotony of the wild wooded landscape. I had seen him at that roadside stand. I knew I'd see him again, maybe at the next turn of the road. I knew that when I saw him next, I would run him down. I didn't see him until late next afternoon. Stopped the car to sleepy little junction just across the border in Oklahoma to let a train pass by when he appeared across the tracks, leaning against a telephone pole, a perfectly airless, dry day. The red clay of Oklahoma was baking under the southwestern sun. Yet there were spots of fresh rain on his shoulders. I couldn't stand that. Without thinking blindly, I started the car across the tracks. He didn't even look up at me. He was staring at the ground. I stepped on the gas car during the hill sharply toward him. I could hear the train in the distance now, and I didn't care then. Something went wrong with the car. The train was coming closer. I could hear its bell ringing and a cry of its whistle. Still, he stood there. And now I know that he was beckoning me. Beckoning me to my death. I was frustrated in that time. I started working at last. I managed to back up. And the train passed. He was gone. I was all alone in the hot, dry afternoon. After that, I knew I had to do something. I didn't know who this man was, or what he wanted of me. I only knew that from now on, I mustn't let myself alone on the road for one minute. Oh, where do you want to go? Amarillo Tech. I'll drive you there. Gee. You mind if I take off my shoes? My dogs are killing me. Go right ahead. Gee, what a break this is. They hitchhike much? Sure. Only at the top sometimes and need great open spaces to get the break. I should think it would be, though. I'll bet you get a good pickup in a fast car. If you did, you could get places faster than say another person in another car, couldn't you? I don't get you. Well, take me, for instance. Suppose I'm driving across the country, say at a nice, steady clip, about 45 miles an hour. Couldn't a girl like you just standing beside the road waiting for a list beat me to town or any town, provided she got picked up every time in a car doing from 65 to 70 miles an hour? I don't know. What difference does it make? Oh, no difference. It's just a crazy idea I had sitting here in the car. Imagine spending your time in a swell car thinking of things like that. What would you do instead? What would I do? If I was a good-looking fellow like yourself? Why, I just enjoy myself every minute of the time. I'd sit back and relax. If I saw a good-looking girl along the side of the road... Hey, look out! Hey, who? A man standing beside the barbed wire fence. I didn't see anybody. There was nothing but a bunch of cows and the wire fence. What did you think he was doing? Trying to run into the barbed wire fence? There's a thin gray man with an overnight bag in his hand. I was trying to run him down. Run him down? Kill him? Say you didn't see him back there? You sure? I didn't see a soul. As far as action... Watch for him the next time. Keep watching. Keep your eyes peeled on the road. He'll turn up again. Maybe any minute. There! Look there! This door will work. I'm getting out of here. Did you see him that time? No, I didn't see him that time. And personally, Mr. I don't expect never to see him. All I want to do is go on living. I don't see how I will very long driving with you. I'm sorry. I didn't... I don't know what came over me. Please don't go. So if you'll excuse me... You can't go. Listen, how would you like to go to California? I'll grab you to California. See, and pink elephants all the way? No thanks. Uh-uh, thanks. Just the same. Listen, please. Just one minute, please. You know what I think you need, big boy? Not a girlfriend. Just a good dose of sleep. Please. There. I got it now. No, you can't go. Please. I was a monster. A few minutes later, I saw a passing truck picker up. I knew then that I was... utterly alone. In the heart of the great Texas prairies, there wasn't a car on the road after the truck went by. I tried to figure out what to do to get hold of myself. I could find a place to rest or even if I could sleep right here in the car for a few hours along the side of the road. I was getting my winter overcoat out of the back seat to use as a blanket when I saw him coming toward me. Merging from the herd of moving steer. Hello? Maybe I should have spoken to him then. I fought it out then and there. For now, he began to be everywhere. Wherever I stopped, even for a moment, for gas, for oil, for a... drink of pop, a cup of coffee, sandwich, he was there. I saw him standing outside the auto camp in Amarillo that night when I dared to slow down. I was sitting near the drinking fountain with a little camping spot just inside the border of New Mexico. He was waiting for me outside the Navajo Reservation where I stopped to check my tires. I saw him in the Albuquerque when I bought 20 gallons of gas. I was... I was afraid to stop now. I began to drive faster and faster. I was pure landscape now. A great, arid, messa country of New Mexico. I drove through it with the indifference of a fly crawling over the face of the moon. Now he didn't even wait for me to stop. Unless I drove at 85 miles an hour over those endless roads he waited for me at every other mile. I'd see his figure, shadowless, flitting before me, still in that same attitude over the cold, lifeless ground, flitting over dried-up rivers, over broken stones cast up by old glacial upheavals, flitting in that pure and cloudless air. I was beside myself when I finally reached Gallup, New Mexico this morning. There's an auto can't hear. Cold almost deserted this time of year. I went inside and asked if there was a telephone. I had the feeling that if only I could speak to someone familiar, someone I loved, I could pull myself together. Your call, please. Long distance. Long distance, certainly. This is long distance. I'd like to put it in a call to my home in Brooklyn, New York. I'm Ronald Adams. The number is Beechwood 20828. Certainly I will try to get it for you. Albuquerque, New York for Gallup. Gallup, New Mexico calling Beechwood 20828. I'd read somewhere that love could banish demons. It's the middle of the morning. I knew Mother would be home. I pictured her tall and white-haired and her crisp house dress, going about her tasks. It'd be enough, I thought, just to hear the even calmness of her voice. Will you please deposit $3.85 for the first three minutes? When you have deposited a dollar and a half, will you wait until I have collected the money? I deposit another dollar and a half. Please deposit the remaining $0.85. Hey, with Brooklyn, go ahead, please. Hello? Hello, Mother? Who's this? Mrs. Winnie. I don't know any Mrs. Winnie. Is this Beechwood 20828? Where's my mother? Where's Mrs. Adams? Mrs. Adams is not at home. She's still in the hospital. The hospital? Yes. Who has this calling, please? Is it a member of the family? What's she in the hospital for? Prostrated for five days. Nervous breakdown. But who is that calling? Nervous breakdown? Well, my mother never was nervous. It's all taken place since the death of her oldest son, Ronald. Death of her... death of her oldest son, Ronald. Hey, what's this? What number is this? This is Beechwood 20828. It's all been very sudden. He was killed just six days ago by an automobile accident on the Brooklyn Bridge. Your three minutes are up, sir. Your three minutes are up, sir. Your three minutes are up, sir. And so, so I'm sitting here in this deserted auto camp in Yalap, New Mexico. I'm trying to think... trying to get hold of myself. Otherwise, I... I'm going to go crazy. Outside it's night. The vast, soulless night of New Mexico. A million stars are in the sky. Ahead of me stretch a thousand miles of empty messa. Mountains. Prayers. Desert. Somewhere among them. He's waiting for me. Somewhere I shall know who he is and who I am. Mr. Hitchhiker and to Orson Wells are considerable thanks for his playing of the title role. Mr. Wells. Help wanted. Men, women and children. Nature of work, hard, monotonous, backbreaking labor. Hour 75 a week minimum. Pay a few cents an hour. Added inducement. Two meals a day including several ounces of bad bread and a cup of thin soup. Don't delay, apply at once. How'd you respond to a want ad like that, Mr. and Mrs. American working man and woman? You'd laugh wouldn't you and throw the paper in the trash basket. Dismiss the whole advertisement of some kind of a joke. But believe me, it's no joke. It's a simple statement of the working conditions that exist today in Nazi Germany. Then the conquered countries under Nazi rule. It's also an exact statement of the working conditions that will be imposed on you and every member of your family if the Nazis win this war. You yourself personally can stop them from winning, as you know. You don't have to give up your well-paid job to do it. You needn't have to be a soldier, a sailor, an airman, or a nurse or a war worker to ensure American victory. Uncle Sam doesn't ask plain ordinary hard-working citizens like you to give him anything. All he asks, all he does ask very seriously and very urgently is that you loan him ten cents out of every dollar you make. That's all there is to it. Lend Uncle Sam a dime to win this war and he'll pay you back with interest when he's won it. The easiest, most convenient way to lend him these dimes is to enroll in the payroll savings plan. Just tell your boss to deduct ten cents from every dollar he pays you and lend it to Uncle Sam in your name. Sign up for this simple savings plan today and when victory comes, you'll have war bonds in your pockets instead of Axis bonds on your wrists. Suspense will be heard again two weeks from tonight. Next Wednesday night, September 9th, the Columbia Broadcasting System will present over many of these stations at 9.30 p.m. Eastern wartime an address by W. Aberall Harriman, the United States' land lease administrator in London. Mr. Harriman, as the personal representative of the President of the United States, attended the Moscow Conferences in Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin. Next Wednesday's broadcast will be Mr. Harriman's first public address since his return to this country. Suspense is produced and directed by William Spear. John Deets was our guest director this evening. Tonight's radio drama was written by Lucille Fletcher. The original score was by Bernard Herman. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.