 Suspense, and the producer of radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William M. Robson. Death is one of the dramatists' most useful tools. For death is drama, posing the ultimate question to which no man has the answer. We have used it often on suspense, mostly in its more violent aspects. Tonight we use it again, but quietly, subjectively. Tonight we present a modern morality play. But don't let that frighten you away. Our play is sufficiently immoral to satisfy the modern fashion. It has to be, because it is about a modern man. Listen, listen then, as Mr. Victor Jory stars in Death Notice, which begins in just a moment. Welcome, William Bendix. Nobody can act up to par with a nasty cold. I check my cold to stress the fast way, with faraway cold tablets. Yes, tests of four leading cold tablets proved four-way fastest acting of all. 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Not bad, not bad. Not good, huh? Well, Charlie, at your aid, you've got to expect to slow down a little. Take it easy. You forgot that other one, didn't you? What other one? Cliché, the daddy of maul. You're not as young as you once were. Well, who is? You are, Charlie, and just as difficult. Listen, Doc, if there's something to matter with me, I've got a right to know it. I can't remember how bad it hurt to be squeezed into life. That first gasp of air must have been a pretty painful experience. I don't know whether the last breath will be a welcome relief or a fine agony. You know that in between there's been plenty of pain. Not the kind wanted drugs can cure, but the pain of living. There's been pretty well balanced for the joy of living. The exact depth of agony and the exact height of ecstasy are known only to me. They can't be communicated to any other person. I've lived with them alone. As alone I came into the world and alone I will leave it. Now, what's the matter with me? You're going to die, Charlie. When? Any time. Today, tomorrow, next week. Painfully? No. There's no hope? No, not really. It's leukemia. It's advanced. That's why you've been slowing down and you'll continue to slow down until you stop. I see. Of course, I could hospitalize you, but that wouldn't stop the process. No, thanks. You won't make a terminal case out of me. I'll live it out. Well, it's your life. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Why were you trying to keep my death a secret from me? I wasn't sure how you'd react. But you'd tell my wife and she'd tell my kids and my friends and everybody would know but me. And the rest of my life, for as long as it lasts, would be one long wait. Why should the survivors suffer prematurely brave? This is my death, you know, and I insist on dying my way. And how are you going about it? By living. By living each day as though it were my last on earth. Which it very well may be. I'm doing anything tonight. I've been pretty busy, honey, but I'm free tonight. Usual. You. I'll be there. On my birthday, when I was a little kid, they called me the birthday boy. And I could do anything I wanted to all day long. But now I'm the death day boy. And surely I can call what's left of my life my own. Hello, Millie. Charlie, it's you. Apparently. I knew it would be you. When the phone rang, I said to myself, that must be Charlie. Funny, isn't it? Well, you always were a psychic, dear. Look, Millie, I have to stay downtown tonight. Oh, dear. We were supposed to play bridge with the Duffields. I'm sorry, but this came up unexpectedly. I'm Bob Elliottson from Chicago at night, and I've got to go over the new sales campaign with him. Oh, will you be late? Probably. Don't wait up for me. How many times have I done this feeling guilty, wretched, like a thief, but not now? I don't have the patience to make now. Eat, drink, and be merry for the more we die. On the next day. In a moment, we continue with the second act of suspense. The most complicated issues of our time become easier to understand as you follow world events on CBS radio. That's because CBS news features like our World News Roundup and The World Tonight broadcast the news in depth. Every morning as the World News Roundup comes your way, and most of these same stations, it puts you in direct contact with CBS news correspondent stationed where the big stories are breaking. London, Tokyo, Rome. They're all at your fingertips on our World News Roundup. Every evening the full feeling and flavor of the news are yours to experience on The World Tonight. Here are highly detailed eyewitness reports from overseas. Here carefully documented actuality reports made by the very people involved in today's big stories. Here lively interviews with people in the news, as CBS news presents The World Tonight. And now, starring Mr. Victor Jory, act two of Death Notice. I drove across town through a bright new world. It was as though I was hearing and smelling and seeing for the first time. The ballet of blinking neon signs along the boulevard, the deep ruby of the stoplight and its stately progression through tour paths to Emerald Release. Even the smell of the exhaust broken into a myriad of fascinating odors touched with the clean scent of newly fallen rain. Thus does the familiar soon to be left behind become precious and exotic to be savored lingeringly. And with this richness of sensation, the keen appetizing anticipation of the evening to come, Sandra's candlelit apartment filled with soft music, a superb dinner with wine and sparkling goblets, and Sandra herself warm, silk and soft. Baby, money's missed you. But Sandra had changed. I had never noticed before that her gorgeous red hair was not red all the way to the roots. Her perfume was too obvious. Under a plunging gown, she was softer than I had remembered. Too soft. How about a drink, baby? The drink didn't do anything. Neither did the next one. The candles held back the dark, held back the light, too, from the ridiculous woodwalk prints on the wall. Mercifully subdued the clashing colors of the mound of tiny satin pillows on the love seat. Why don't you get into something more comfortable, baby? Any time, the doctor had said, next week, tomorrow, tonight, if it's to be tonight, then it must not be here in the arms of this aging eager merry widow. I've got to go, Sandra. Baby, you're not going to eat me raw, huh? I'm afraid so. It's early yet. Now, you just relax, baby. Put your head on mommy's lap, like always. I'm sorry, Sandra. I've got to go. Where? What's there that isn't better here, baby? That's not the point. It's just that I've got to go. What do you think I am, a public convenience? Just snap your fingers and Sandra's right there waiting. Just pick up the phone and Sandra drops everything. What's there in it for me, Charlie, baby? Sitting around this crummy dump waiting for you? I don't know, Sandra. I don't know what there has ever been in it for you. I guess I never thought about you. You're so right. So long as you got what you wanted, that's all you cared about. Well, it's going to be different from now on. I'm getting out. The next time you're hungry or thirsty or misunderstood, don't bother calling me, because I won't be here. I won't either, Sandra. In a moment, we continue with the third act of... suspense. A word of advice for those of you who suffer from acid indigestion, heartburn, or gas. Do you know about the little white tablet in the little green pocket roll? Just waiting for the moment when you need them to bring your acid indigestion under control. Toms are the little white tablet. Toms for the tummy. Keep them handy in the pocket. Keep your tummy under Toms control. The modern Toms formula has never been surpassed for effectiveness. Always carry Toms 10 cents, three roll pack a quarter, or get the new six roll Toms pack with free metal carrier only 49 cents. And now, starring Mr. Victor Jory, act three of death notice. Had no trouble finding the champagne, but have you ever tried to buy roses in a fairly large city at 9.30 at night? It can be done, but it isn't easy. I have never noticed before how perfectly my house keys slipped into lock, how reassuring the latch sounded, how solid the door felt. Home. Beautiful word. A soft word. A strong word. Home. Not man's castle, man's sanctuary. This home of I built against the world. Here I brought my bride, here we raised our children. Here I belong. Here is his peace. Yes, Millie, it's me. You're home early. Yes, I cut it short with Bob. We could almost have gone to the Duffields after all, except I'm nearly ready for bed. I'm glad you are, Millie. Yeah, these are for you. Rose? I'm never confused. He rose it. Charlie's laden. He went up to something. And a man bring his wife roses once in a while for no reason at all. Champagne? Champagne? What on earth for? Celebrate. Celebrate what? To tell you I haven't seen you act so great in 20 years. I know. I've been too busy earning a living. Too busy to live. Now run get some glasses while I change to my robe and slippers. Yes, my lord and master. And let's have the wine and the roses in our bedroom. She sat on a slipper chair by a dressing table sipping champagne a little self-consciously. Like the roses, she'd hastily plunged into two smaller vars. She overflowed her once-trimmed body. Like the roses, she was full-blown. And like the roses, she was beautiful. The gray that spicked her hair was honest color. The lines at her eyes, at the corners of her mouth, were etched there by laughter and high good humor and courage that more than once had replaced mine. Get the bubble, Bill. As opposed to. And now I want to propose a toast to the most beautiful girl in the world. Oh, Charlie, I'm not. I never was. To me, you are. Just as beautiful as you were the first day I saw you in sophomore chemistry class. Charlie, what's the matter? Nothing. My breath just came a little short. Well, you better stop drinking that stuff and get yourself ready for bed. No. Just sit down for a moment. I'll be all right. Your face is as white as a sheet. Now, now you get to bed. Get some sleep. Get up. Get down to the office. Get home and get dinner over so you can sit staring at the TV set until it's time to get to bed and start the whole cycle all over again. Is that what life's about, Millie? Is that all we have to look forward to? Where's the best is yet to be, the poet promised? The last of life for which the first is made. What happened to it? Why does it end? In flat champagne and a pile of rose petals under an empty stock? Maybe. Champagne and roses can't make us a bride and groom again, Charlie. This isn't our wedding night, you know? The moment was gone. Millie pushed aside a champagne glass and a rose petal fell into it as she turned to the dressing table mirror and started to cream her face. The nightly ritual that erased every line of her identity. And then, outside, there was a sound of a car driving in and the garage door slamming shut. Oh, that must be Chuck. Coming in a little late, isn't it? Yes, I wish you'd speak to him, Charlie. I just can't do anything with him anymore. I told him not to take my car and I would have just took it anyway. I tell you, that boy is going to be the death of me. The death of you? What do you mean? Nothing. I'll talk to him. Oh, you look so tired. It can wait until morning. Nothing can wait until morning. Charlie? That you, son? Huh? Yeah, that's me. Have any idea what time it is? It's not midnight yet. Not quite. Well, I got to hit the sack. Sit down, son. I'm going to talk to you. I'm tired, Dad. I got to get some sleep. I said sit down. All right. What do you want? Mother tells me it took the car after she told you not to. Gee, Dad. Did you? Yeah. I won't have disobedience, son. Well, get me a car my own day. And I won't have rudeness. I got some rights. Rights, yes. But privileges, no. None until you earn them. Why should I go out and work for a car? Oh, the other kids' dads buy them. When I was your age, Dad. Yeah, I know. When you were my age, everything was different. You walked 10 miles to school through blizzards. You studied by the firelight and you got all A's. Well, this isn't the horse in bruggy age, Daddy. Oh, a cat's got to be with it these days. You won't have this kind of insolence. Go to your room. Sure, Pop. That's where I was headed in the first place. This rude, shambling lout was once a pink and tiny thing for a promise. My son. My only son for whom I dream so many dreams. My son whom I love. Yes, love that my father must have loved me. For children never seem to understand their parents until they become parents themselves. The bedroom was sweet and sour with dead wine and dying roses. And on the bed in the pale night light, Mildred's faceless body rose and fell in gentle rhythm. The fire flickered, crackled softly. A flame shot up in the graying embers and fell back. How long does it take a fire to die, or a man? The hearth of my home was growing cold. My home, my sanctuary, was becoming a tomb too soon. The walls closing in cold and black. Not yet, not yet. The night was friendlier. The cold, dead stars of heaven were warmer. Heaven, where now do angels dwell since man has sent metal into the sky to join the planets in their ceaseless journeying through eternity. Has God been evicted by Sputnik and Medstar and Explorer? Are the pearly gates now milestones in the missile race? I walked under the cold, silent stars, and they gave back my answer. I walked the black and empty streets slowly, slowly, ever more slowly. I walked through the night and into the dawn, and there at last in the sky before me, silhouetted against the graying east was a cross. And beneath it the open door and beyond the altar, and the warm red glow of the vote of candles. And I went in. Me, Charlie Slade, modern man. I went into the church because there was nowhere else to go. And I was tired, so very, very tired. And I sat down, and I bowed my head. And after a long time I heard a voice. Can I help you, my son? No one can help me, father. It's too late. It's never too late to confess your sins. My only sin was living. It shall be expiated by my dying. They will cancel each other out. The account will be closed. The account is never closed until the day of judgment? The faithful, perhaps. But I have no faith. You need only to know that God has not abandoned you? Perhaps not. But I abandoned God long ago. I have no right to seek Him now. His Son said, come unto me ye who are heavy laden. I am not heavy laden. I am empty of feeling, of faith. Alone I came into this world. Alone I lived in it. You've it. No man is ever alone in the sight of God. Oh, dear God, may I could believe it. Yes. Suspense. In which Victor Jory starred in Death Notice. Written, produced, and directed by William M. Robson. In a moment, the names of the supporting players and a word about next week's story of suspense. America's traffic accident rate is tragically high, and unnecessarily so. What makes the problem so difficult to deal with are emotions which so many people bring into play when they sit behind the wheel. Scientific studies show that most of our traffic accidents are caused when drivers give way to childish impulses. The driver who insists on going when the traffic light says stop is behaving like a spoiled child. Sows the fellow who thinks he's too important to obey the legal speed limit. Sows the woman who forgets to signal other drivers when she's making a turn. To be inconsiderate of others on the highway, however, is more than mere bad manners. It's tempting fate. When you get behind the wheel of your car, remember that you're an adult. Drive with patience, drive with courtesy, drive with care. Safety conscious drivers get where they're going just as fast as reckless drivers do, and more important, they arrive alive. If you plan to live to a ripe old age, act your age wherever you drive. Supporting Victor Jory in Death Notice were Lee Patrick, Brooke Byron, Peter Votrien, and Barney Phillips. Listen. Listen again next week when we return with Charles Dickens' classic story, The Signalman starring Miss Ellen Drew. Another tale well calculated to keep you in. Suspense. On CBS Radio.