 Yes, Roma Wines taste better. Better because only Roma selects from the world's greatest wine reserves for your pleasure. And now, Roma Wines, R-O-M-A. Roma Wines present... Suspense! Tonight Roma Wines bring you Mr. Hume Cronin in Make Mad the Guilty, a suspense play produced, edited and directed for Roma Wines by William Spear. Suspense! Radio's outstanding theatre of thrills. It's presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines. Those better tasting California wines enjoyed by more Americans than any other wine in the world. And tonight, Roma has great news for you. Big money-saving news that will let you serve Roma wine more often, without increasing your budget for friendly entertaining for delightful everyday dining. Now, Roma Wines bring you Hume Cronin, in a remarkable tale of... Suspense! Yes, my dear. Well, have you found anything? I'm looking, my dear. On the theatrical page, I suppose. Of course, my dear. Looking. You've been doing that kind of looking for six months. Give me that paper. Bet I'll find your job in about six minutes. Yes, my dear. It is true that theatrical season, particularly in San Francisco, particularly for Shakespearean actors, was inclined to be sluggish. And it is true that I had never had the great leading roles. Hamlet, Othello, Lear. Although my success in supporting parts amongst amateur groups had been little short of dazzling. It is also true that these successes were of some fifteen seasons past. Still, the talent of your true artist is not to be thwarted or denied. But this was a matter which I had never properly succeeded in demonstrating to my wife, Elizabeth. Until at last, per force, I was persuaded that the poor creature's life was dominated by only the most mercenary considerations. They sit, little man. You were washed up as an actor before you started. You've just been looking in the wrong part of this paper. A man's desist. Have I not, in deference to your penurious concern, found you a border? Young Longstreet? Him. A sublime specimen of lusty manhood. Don't try to change the subject. Yes, my dear. Oh, hey, here's something. Listen to this. Yes, my dear. A man with personality, poise, presence, to appear before the public, must be able to dress and act the part of impeccable good taste. What do you think of that? Why? Sounds most promising. That little man, the job is practically yours. What is the nature of the position? Floorwalker at Burdock's department store. Floorwalker? My dear. That's impossible. But listen. I'm through supporting you as of today, understand? Yes, my dear. And you'll take the job and like it. Yes, my dear. With deep misgivings, I accepted the position. Nevertheless, I carried my role with dignity, undismayed by the tittering clerks who found in my wing collar a curious novelty. Months passed. Uncomplainingly, I bore the yoke of my disgrace, but the strain of long hours began to tax my strength. One day, I was feeling particularly unwell. I left the store early and picked up my car in the parking lot. My only thought was to reach the haven of our modest residents on the opposite side of San Francisco Bay, even driving was an effort. I was faint by the time I reached the checking station on the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. Hi, Mr. Mathews. Hey, you're early today. Hey, what's the matter? You look cut... It's my head again. Probably my grain. Oh, here's your change. You know, you ought to take better care of yourself, Mr. Mathews. Now, I'll file with you. Yes, I'll. I'll be all right. Die is to say, Mr. Mathews. Tell me, say, if you... As I drove slowly across the great high span of the bridge and on through the Marin County Hills, I knew by some sixth sense, perhaps, that this would be the day. The discovery. Elizabeth, my wife, and our border young Longstreet, a broad-shouldered athletic nitwit, a swimming beach idol. I was returning early, you understand, and unexpectedly. Cautiously, I avoided the flagstone walk. On the soft lawn, my footsteps were noiseless. Quietly, I crossed the porch. I drew open the door. Short enough, suitcases packed for flight stood ready on the floor. Oh, Mr. Mathews. Oh, shame. Oh, despair. Oh, nuts. Don't look so shocked. What did you expect? This is my burden of grief. My cross to bear. Oh, shame. Where is thy blush? Come down off your high horse, Bert. You wanted to get rid of me, didn't you? Well, I'm leaving. If you don't like it, you know what you can do. In silence, I have suffered your petty deceptions, your taunts, your gross vulgarities. But now, at long last, the worm turns. Sir, put down that gun. Hey, hold on a minute, Mr. Mathews. And my heart has turned to stone. Bert, you're ridiculous. Don't make me laugh. Ridiculous. On the contrary, my dear wife, I am, for the first time in 15 years, a man. Now, listen, Mr. Mathews. Look at him. Always the tragic actor, the great tragedian. You're positively silly with that revolver trembling in your hand. Give it to me. Keep your distance. I warn you. Now, look here, Mr. Mathews. Betty and I are going to... Don't worry, handsome. The little man won't shoot. I know him too well. Now, give me that gun. I warned you. I said, give me that gun. Oh, that you had 40,000 lives. One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. Hey! Hit him, handsome. We're on our way. Bring us two cases, handsome. Shall I hit him again, Betty? Oh, the little man won't bother us anymore. Oh, just one. For luck, huh? Oh, suit yourself. Yeah. So remember me. Bye! See you in your little man. Wait. So long, Mathews. I'll take any wooden nickels, huh? Elizabeth, wait. One more. We've got places to go. Please, Elizabeth. I... I... I am the vanquished. It is I who must go. Pride compels it. I shall go far away. Disappear. Vanish from your life forever. He's nuts. Quiet. What's this you're trying to say, Bert? You're offering to disappear? Vanish? Scram? Precisely. Put down the suitcases, handsome. The little man has something up his sleeve. Say it on a floor, worm. Remember, we haven't got all day to talk. Please, please understand, dear wife. In my disappearance. In my... Death, if you will. It used to be derived for all, sir. My life insurance policy, for instance. Twenty thousand dollars. Not an inconsiderable sum. Hey, I'd forgotten about that. Yes, but softly, dear wife, softly, let me finish. I was thinking rather of other advantages you would derive. My sudden death presumptive, of course, would give you freedom to marry your healthy milkweed. This handsome non-entity. Hey, hey, watch yourself, Mathews. I don't like that stuff. My deepest apologies, handsome. Now, Elizabeth, the subject of the insurance. Even in my far-off oblivion, I'll have need of money. I thought perhaps you would collect the money and... And what? Forward it to me. Oh, so that's it. You're not the fool I thought you were. There are mutual advantages, as I have indicated. I would have the twenty thousand dollars. A trifling reward for my sacrifice. You would have a well-furnished home and, uh, handsome. Maybe you've got something. Let me think it over. I don't get it at all. You will, handsome. You will. Elizabeth agreed, as I knew she would. She was, in fact, delighted. Longstreet gave us brief pause, but in the end my charming wife persuaded him. Due to early training in the theatre, the strategy of my demise was masterful. After three days' rehearsal with my two accomplices, I drove to the checking station of the Golden Gate Bridge. I was careful to enter the gate manned by my acquaintance. Ah, how are you feeling today, Mr. Man? I protest, sir, with emphatic emphasis. I don't get you. This toll, Levy, upon the use of a public thoroughfare by my conscience, it's unsocial immoral. A downright swindle. Hey, what's got into you? Come on, pay your fare. I know you're not magpie. Huh? Are you carrion? Who, me? Are you foul flesh or fish? Here, vulture, you're a pound of flesh. I look like the Matthews. Hey, you better see a doctor. Doctor indeed. But the fellow would remember me. I drove soley, watching in the rearview mirror, near the center of the Great Bridge, high above the forming sea. Longstreet and Elizabeth pulled in behind me. A break came in the traffic. I signal Longstreet. He pulled his car alongside mine. Quickly, I leave his car, leaving mine abandoned at the very center of the bridge. The abandoned car, the suicide note I'd left on the seat, would bear mute testimony to my tragic fate. And by my conscience, the word of the fellow at the checking station would tipped the scales. There remained but to vanish from the eyes of all who'd known me, and my desperate deed was done. Elizabeth and Longstreet drove me to Sacramento. I boarded the train for Mexico. The frail, meek little floor walker was no more. I was dead, gone, kept put. Presumptive death indeed. In truth I was reborn, and on some not too distant tomorrow I would return, and the lives of Elizabeth and Handsome would be forfeit. Suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you Hume Cronin in Make Mad the Guilty. Roma Wines' presentation tonight in Radio's Outstanding Theater Thrill's Suspense. In the acts of suspense, this is Truman Bradley for Roma Wines. There's a big reason why more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wines. It's because Roma gives you an extra pleasure dividend, in fuller bouquet, richer body, and better taste. And Roma gives you still another extra dividend. Now you can buy Roma wine at Handsome Savings. Now you can enjoy the delicious taste luxury of your favorite Roma Wines and get extra change from a single dollar bill. Yes, you can now save up to 20% on finer tasting Roma Wines. Take advantage of these big Roma savings by Roma by the case. Enjoy delicious Roma wine more often with meals or when you entertain and save money on every bottle. Ask for Roma, R-O-M-A, Roma Wines for extra good taste and extra cash savings. And now Roma Wines bring back to our Hollywood soundstage Hume Cronin in Make Mad the Guilty, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. Yes, the frail and meek little floor walker was no more. In Mexico, a new man wore my shoes. I became a man of purpose and daring. Through the art of makeup and disguise, I gave myself a villainous and frightful appearance, corresponding to my new character. I returned boldly to San Francisco with no fear of recognition. Thus was I privileged to read in the local papers of my own suicide and later of my wife's marriage to Young Long Street. Weeks passed. I learned Elizabeth had received the insurance money. I was well aware, of course, that she had no intention of giving me any part of it. The moment of final settlement had arrived. Late at night, as befits one returning from the grave, I rang the bell at the cottage I once called home. It is I, your lately-deceased husband. Word, you handsome! May the dead enter with the quick? Permit me to force my entry. Handsome! On my word, you're frightened. Well, that's ridiculous makeup you have on. Why do you have to go around like a scarecrow frightening people? Hey, what goes on here? Ah, handsome. In night, shirt and armed with a kitchen knife and heroic figure, to be sure. Matthews! Gosh, your face! The face of Lazarus, risen from the dead, transformed by the chemistry of death. Don't be funny, Bert. What do you want? The insurance money. $20,000. Are you surprised? Oh, you had no to come back, Matthews. A bargain is a bargain. Here's all the money I have in the house. Take it. Now, will you go? Repeat, a bargain is a bargain. Oh, stay in there, stupid. What are you waiting for? What do you want me to do, Benny? You shall I... The knife gleams in the hand of the shirt-tail killer. Hit him, handsome! Now, Matthews, I mean I... Ah, you've observed this automatic in my hand. Also, observe as I remove the safety catch. I see your face grows pale. Now, wait a minute, Bert. What do you want? Dear me, hadn't I made that clear? I thought I had. I want my $20,000. Now, listen, Matthews, take it easy. We only collected it yesterday. Precisely. Hence my timely arrival this evening. Well? Bert, I can't give it to you. Tonight, I mean, I haven't got it. You forget, my dear, that I have lived with you in apparent cannubial bliss for nearly 15 years. I know your habits all too well. I would venture to say that not only have you the money in cash, but that I know where you've hidden it. Oh, no, no. I know she didn't do that. No? And what is this? Oh, yes, this. Why? I could have told you that she wasn't to be trusted. Dear me, you have so much to learn, handsome. And so little time for that. No. No, Matthews, wait. Bert! Bert, you've killed him. Not our idea, wife. I, as you remember, have no existence. I am dead. But you... Bert! Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Would I could stay to see you explain this whole thing to the police when it be moral? Perhaps you see it now, eh? Perhaps now you fully understand the sweep and majesty and genius of it. Or you must know I had planned it. Yes, planned it every step of the way from the day I introduced Elizabeth to Longstreet until the poor wretch was found hovering over his corpse. Had ever a man played in conceived so magnificent a role, and in no tawdry theater for the make-believe, but in the vast arena of life itself, it was like one thing lacking, that one ingredient so essential to the full savoring by the artist of his creative genius. An audience. And even that I had foreseen. I had my audience ready-made. Elizabeth. Elizabeth should be my audience, her prantic protestations of innocence, her unbelieved cries and lamentations that the ingenuity of my plot can drink in the very breath of light to me. By a slight alteration of my appearance I was able to attend her trial like a spectator at my own play. I could not have directed the performers better myself. And then this remarkable woman with the murder weapon still figuratively reeking in her hand has the temerity to tell this court and this jury that the crime was committed by a former husband who conveniently rose from the dead and then disappeared once more into limbo. Now, now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, she is guilty, and the state asks that you find her guilty with full knowledge and consent to the penalty with which that guilt entails. The penalty of death. Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict? We have. I'll find you the defendant, Elizabeth Longstreet. Guilty or not guilty? Guilty! Dispatch this wire, please. All right. This is Elizabeth Longstreet, death row. Oh. You can deliver it. Can you not? Oh, sure. Sure. You have a rendezvous with death. From the depth of experience can assure you he is by no means an unfriendly companion. Unfriendly? Oh, unfriendly companion. Dark belt sympathy, courage, courage. 39 words. See, that'll be 78 cents out of the dollar. Thank you. Really is sad when you come to think of it. I guess you were a friend of hers, huh? No, in a sense, to be sure. Yes, in a sense. Oh, wait a minute. You didn't sign it. Just sign it, little man. The next day, I eagerly scanned the papers for the outburst that this sensational communication must certainly cause. But there was nothing. So I sent a letter, something a little more direct. I scanned the press and you. But still no sign. No single word to tell me how she had received it. What was it? A conspiracy of silence? I was like a player performing to a cold and empty house. Clearly some stronger medicine was needed. Yes, sir? Ah, lilies. The symbol of purity and death. They are lovely, aren't they? Fresh cut this morning, too. Sweet poetry of flowers. A most delicate yet firm reminder of my unwavering concern. Do you wish to make a purchase, sir? Or, decidedly. Give me all you have. I wish them sent by special messenger. The season is propitious. Yes, sir. Where, uh, to, sir? To Mrs. Elizabeth Longstreet. To Hatchipay Prison. To the death house. Mrs. Elizabeth. And would you mind writing a card as you can see my right hand has suffered a slight injury? Very well, sir. What do you wish me to write? Er, just say, from the little man who wasn't there. And sign it, bird. My own name, you see. That surely would bring results. But no, nothing. Once again, nothing. I saw it now. She was playing with me, deliberately playing with me, concealing my communications from her jailors. And my time was running out. The execution was within the week. But I would move her. I'd move her in such wise as she would drown the stage with tears and cleave the general ear with hoarded speech. Make mad the guilty. Okay, next. Er, it's my understanding that the state law requires the presence of witnesses to a prison execution. I therefore request that... Okay, who do you want to see go? Mrs. Elizabeth Longstreet. Let me see, that's Friday morning. What's your name? Bertram Mason. Let me see some identification. Driver license, anything you got? Identification? Yeah, yeah, anything, anything at all. Well, you see, I'm sorry, but we've got to know who we invite to these parties some other time. Hold on, sir, I demand... I said some other time, now beat it, you hear me? She was slipping from my grasp, don't you see? The curtain was already beginning to descend. And still, there was no audience to hear my curtain lies. That night I paced the streets in a torment of indecision. Then as dawn was breaking, I realized what I must do, a drastic, desperate measure. But I must take it. The execution was the following morning and at the earliest moment, I presented myself at the prison gate. Yeah, what did I do for you? It's imperative, absolutely imperative that I be present at the execution of Elizabeth Longstreet. I'm sorry, Mr.... Now, wait, you don't understand. Can't be done. Oh, if you was a relative saying you... That's it. That's what I'm trying to tell you I am. I am related. Yeah? Well, that might be different. How are you related to her? I am her husband. Her husband? Oh, I don't try to get funny, mister. But just so happen, she murdered her husband. No, no, not him. Her former husband. The man whose name was mentioned so often at the trial. They thought I was dead, but I'm not. I am Brett Matthews. Oh, a crackpot. I save it for a soapbox, brother. Now wait, I can prove it. She will recognize me. Sure, sure, I know. Now run along. I implore you. I beg you, call the warden. Tell him that there's a man here. Not now, she won't recognize you. What do you mean? I mean, that's it. It's all over, finished. Oh, no, no. Not dead. That's right, brother. He's dead. Suddenly my life was empty. And all my plans of triumph were as ashes in my mouth. Hers had been the triumph, not mine. Hers, the tragic spectacle. Hers, the hour upon the stage. Now in truth was I really dead. For who now would applaud my artistry? Who would believe my tale or even recognize my face? Only tragedy and death gain recognition. And therein was my answer. Therein at last would I breach the portals of undying fame, leaving behind me a manuscript setting forth the facts in full detail. I would actually die. The first man in history to die and come to life and die again since Lazarus. I searched the streets until I found a car with the keys and the ignition lock. I stole it. I drove to the Golden Gate Bridge. For I would not only die twice, I would die twice in the same place and the same way. I drove past the gateman and on. Hey, hey, wait! On the very highest part of the parapet. I would stand while horrified onlookers gazed helplessly. Then as eager hands reached out to save my life, I would leap. I was dimly conscious of the siren behind me, but paid no heed. I drove faster, faster to my splendid doom. Suddenly, I heard a shot then another. I was out of control, swerving, lurching, swerving like a crazy king. I lost consciousness. And then next I knew what I was doing. I had crawled from the wreckage and was staggering towards the end of the bridge. And I was being pursued. Even now, at this late hour, some monstrous fate seemed bent on foreting my design. Stop! Stop! Stop, stop, we're short. No, no, they would not stop me. I would not be thwarted. I staggered on. Searing pain in my shoulder. I fell. I struggled my feet again. The railing was almost within my grasp. Another shot, that wending, tearing agony up the bullet through my chest. I was on my knees again. And I must, I must. I clawed at the steel railing painfully, painfully lifting myself up for a moment. I balanced, swayed. Olivia. Her voice is coming to me from a long way off, like voices of the dead. Stand back, stand back, stand back. Same license number. I wonder why he ran. Tough, and he looks like such a honest little guy. Please. Please, is there no one to believe me? Just one. The looliest of men, the tiniest of lisping children. Just one. Before this stage is dark. Before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Before I die. Suspense. Presented by Roma Wines. R-O-M-A, Roma. America's favorite wines. This is Truman Bradley inviting you to try Roma Wines. To learn for yourself why more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wine. It's because only Roma selects from the world's greatest reserves of fine wines to bring you better tasting wines. And now you and your friends can enjoy delightful Roma Wines more often because Roma prices have been reduced as much as 20%. So make a note tonight to stock up on Roma Wines tomorrow. Take advantage of Roma's new low prices to enjoy more of Roma's premium quality. Ask for Roma. R-O-M-A. The greatest name in wine and your best buy in good taste. This is Hume Cronin. It's been a great pleasure appearing for you on suspense. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. And I know you'd like to hear about next week's suspense show when Roma Wines will bring you June Havoc in the story of a girl whose fatal resemblance to a famous movie star leads to murder. I'll see you soon. I hope. Thank you. Good night. Hume Cronin appeared by arrangement with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer producers of Living in a Big Way starring Jean Kelly and Marie McDonald. Tonight's suspense play was by Irving Moore and Robert Richards from an original story by Robert Rosson. Next Thursday, same time, you will hear Miss June Havoc as Star of Suspense produced and directed by William Spear for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California.