 Tonight, Wall Star Radio cast, headed by Norman Lloyd and Mark Humboldt, in fury and sound. A suspense play produced, edited and directed by William Spear. You helped murder Kingsley Roachler. You, sitting there by your radio, you were guilty. Your contribution to the crime was unintentional, but it was murder, nevertheless. Because you fed his ego until it destroyed him. You all remember the name, Kingsley Roachler. He was famous for his radio plays. They were on the air once a week for years. He was a small, ugly man who affected a beard. During the last few months of his life, I was closer to Kingsley Roachler than any other man. I knew every twist of his warped intelligence, for I assisted him in producing his radio broadcasts. It was I who stood in the center of the radio studio and relayed Mr. Roachler's instructions to the actors, the musicians and sound technicians. Roachler would sit in the glass and closed control booth. His harsh voice, picked up by the rehearsal microphone and amplified to the proportion of our guards, would thunder at the cast in the studio, lashing them away. No, no, no, no, no, no! Let's take it again! I'm not up for page seven. This is the final time Roachler will explain what he wants. He asks the extras for tender ad-libs, not the circus moxamus. Roachler would also like to remind the sound effects man for the seventh time, he might add, that he wishes the rain effect to sneak in after the music bridge. Now crash in! And with the maestro, please explain to his musicians that canness of all means softly. Now, unless it interferes with anyone's more important plans, may Roachler proceed with his rehearsal. Ad-libs, please, then music, then rain, then, dear Diary! Goodbye! Send me a part from journey, my friend! Dear Diary, how can I tell you what my heart cannot say? It's raining now as though the heavens too are crying, and he's been gone again. How many years are there in a day of loneliness? Passes in many places and under many conditions, but he is forced to yield top honors to the radio artists of California. How can this girl perform these sensitive thoughts against your noise and indifference? How can these fragile dreams achieve by knights of creative sweat? Compete with your gum-chewing, chair-creaking, walking, talking, thick-skinned detachment. How can this magic move? I'm sorry, King, it was my fault. I tried to adjust the music stand and give the cues at the same time. The assistant producer, Mr. Fowler, honorably confesses. Roachler has employed him for three years. His principal function is to relay my signals to you. He watches Roachler carefully, and when Roachler moves his arm thus, he moves his similarly to you. In its highest sense, he is an extension of Roachler's arm. All right, we'll break for dinner now, and anybody, including Mr. Fowler, who feels that Roachler's work, which seems to interest a mere 14 million listeners, is too dull to warrant his or her entire attention, can be paid off now, thank you. That was the pattern of my life. For three years, I was Fowler the Stooge, a carbon copy of a self-styled genius. No one could have much respect for me, at least of all myself or my wife. How did my performance sound, Charlie? All right, I guess. You guess? Well, it seemed a little corny to me. It doesn't seem corny to King, but of course, he only gets 2,000 a week for running the show. Well, if Roachler thinks you're the greatest actress in the world, just stick to his judgment, and everything will be peaceful. In the five years I've been married to you, I've seen every facet in your fine art of being disagreeable. But I must say jealousy is a new wrinkle. Fine, let it go at that. Oh, no, no, I wouldn't think of depriving you of some fuel to feed it. Would it make you more jealous to know that I'm having dinner with Kingsley to discuss my performance? See you later, dear. Aren't you going out to eat, Charlie? No, thanks, Van. I've got to mark up these scripts. Why, you can't live without eating. Here, I'll split a sandwich with you. Thanks. I've sort of given up food since I've been working for Roachler. Boy, you got it tough. He's even got you and your wife living with him out there, hasn't he? Yeah. Hey, did you notice how I fixed him on the rain effect? Rain effect? How? Well, after he bawled me out for the fifth time about the effect being too loud, I just let one bridge go by, and I didn't even put the needle down on the record. He yelled it was still too loud. That sounds impossible. No, I watched a lot of these boy wonders. He's got the occupational affliction of radio genius. Newspaper men get the shakes, movie producers get ulcers, bank presidents have nervous breakdowns. The killer cycle, wonder boys, get open nerves in their eardrums. What do you mean? Hearing things that aren't there? Yeah, if you hang around this racket long enough. I read somewhere once that if our hearing sensitivity was increased just 10% we'd all go nuts. Yeah, look, take my clock chime, you know the effect. Yeah, so what? Now see what happens. What's the gimmick? This, have you ever seen one? Contact mic. Yeah? Look, press this little contact mic against the side of our clock chime, like so. Now, turn up the volume on the amplifier, will you, Charlie? This one? Yeah, a little more. Interesting, huh? Now, guys like Rochler live in a world of sound. It's their bread and butter. Mr. R gets two grand a week for sitting in that glass fishbowl and just listening, weighing sounds. His ears are as stuck in trade. The nerve ends in his eardrums get more and more sensitive. When his hearing becomes as acute as this contact mic, he can't stand it. An income four men wearing white coats for a gibbering idiot. The contact mic, huh? Why do you get one of these things? I built this rig myself. See, that's the work. Yeah, pretty neat. I stood in the vacant studio, staring at that tiny black contact microphone in the palm of my hand. And a little Shakespeare flashed into my mind a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. Oh, good night, good night, my night across the latitudes and longitudes of space and time. Farewell across the hours and days, the mountain peaks and the plains between the darkness and the sun. You are with me here because love is. Heard another original by Rochler in the series, Rochler Presents. It was produced written and directed by Mr. Rochler, who also suggested the musical theme. Next week, Mr. Rochler acclaimed as the most imaginative dramatist in radio will. But let radio's foremost producer tell you about it. Kingsley Rochler. Rochler speaking. And next week, Rochler's fans will hear a vivid contrast to tonight's romantic theme. It's a drama fraught with social significance titled Farewell to Apes. It poses a subtle political problem. What would happen if an ape proclaimed himself dictator of a nation? Those who listen very attentively will recognize certain modern historical parallels. Until next week then, Rochler says, good night. And Rochler will be pleased if you return to hear another Rochler Presents. But with one of the most impressive shows of the series, in my opinion. Don't you think so, Charlie? You should know. It would have been a much more polished production if you hadn't botched up the music use. In three places, they were distinctly slavish. I told you a thousand times, Charlie, if you watch me. Save it. I'm through. Through what? I'm through being your whippin' post. You better find yourself a newer model. Charlie, I can't believe it. No, no, you didn't say it. No, I've erased it from my mind. Well, scribble it right back. I'm finished. Charlie, I bleed. I can understand when these adults, these actors, soundmen, fiddlers, mistake the tension of my sensitivity, these little moods brought on by the lashing of creative fire. But you, an artist, almost, in your own right, how can you let a little turbulence? Sorry, I kept you two waiting. What's all this glaring about? Charlie wants to quit the show. Oh, he's just tired. Don't mind him. He'll forget it in the morning. Come on, King. Let's go get some coffee. And then suddenly I had decided. There was no longer any question, any hesitation. I had tested the mechanics of the thing and it worked. The rest lay entirely within me, my own courage and patience. And above all, the slowness with which I could do the work. Slowness was all important. Slowness. I didn't hear you come in. Didn't you? Welcome home, child and a boy. I always say a husband's place is in the home. Having a good time? Kingsley was just reading me some of his script for next week. I was helping him edit it. She had some very decent ideas, Charlie. Well, I'm glad to know that. Good night. Good night. Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Good night, King. Come on, Merle. Let's get to bed. We both need some sleep. Course you know, darling. It's impossible to sleep with you. You twist and turn like a gyroscope. I saw a doctor the night he gave me some sleeping powders. Can I give you some, a glass of hot water? All right. I filled two glasses with hot water. Into one of them I dissolved a heavy dosage of the sleeping powders. Not fatal, but enough to ensure a deep sleep. When I didn't turn the faucet clear off, I let it drip just a little. Drink up. Here's two. I was pleased to see that she drank the entire glass. Then we got ready for bed, and I snapped off the light. Can't you learn to turn off a faucet? The tap leaks, it won't turn off. Oh, well. From her breathing, I thought she'd fallen asleep, but I had to be sure. Merle. There was no answer. I got up and went into the bathroom, taking with me the contact microphone I'd borrowed from Van at the studio. Carefully, I fastened this sound microscope and the water tap and adjusted the amplifier so that the sound grew in volume, slowly, very, very slow. What's the matter, King? Did you hear that noise? What noise? Well, you must have heard that dripping sound. Maybe a leaky faucet in one of the bathrooms. But it sounded almost like explosions that sound filled the whole house. I didn't hear anything. Merle's still asleep. It didn't wake her. But I heard it as loud as if. There wasn't any noise. Don't tell me what I heard and what I didn't hear. I say there was a noise. Call your own shots, but I didn't hear anything. Maybe I was dreaming. Yes, yes, sir. That must be what I was dreaming. Good night, King. Good night. Good night. What's the matter? Come here, into my room. OK, I'm coming. I suppose you've got another brainstorm for the show. All right, let's have it. Charlie, it's the same thing I had trouble with a few nights ago. You heard the noise, of course. Are you hearing noises again? Don't tell me you slept through that. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going back to bed. Don't leave. Routes let the man's picture remain here. He does? Please, Charlie. I don't mean to shout at you. I must be getting a little nervous, a little bit jumpy. Tell me, Charlie, didn't you hear a buzzing sound? Something like a mosquito? Only louder, enormously louder? You'd better switch your brand, King. You didn't hear it? Not a tinkle. Your death? No, she must have heard it. She's sleeping like a baby. But I heard it. I was standing here in this room. I'd awake it, vibrated the walls of the house. Get dressed and back the car, Charlie. I'm going to see a doctor. You think that's wise? The doctor ought to be able to do something. Sure, he'll do something. I wonder if you'll like what he does. What do you mean? I've wondered sometimes what would happen to a man if his hearing became too sensitive. If he heard too much, I don't suppose he'd ever be able to find rest or quiet. Eventually, he'd blow his top. I do have very sensitive hearing. I must have to achieve perfect sound balance on the broadcast. Sure. You're even hearing things that aren't there. I wonder how long you'd have a sponsor if the lads who pay you a salary knew the shape you're in. I'm in perfect shape. I've been working too hard. That's all I just need a little rest. I'll get the car and drive you out to the hospital. No! No. I think I'll be all right now. Go on back to bed, Charlie. Whatever you say, you're the doctor. The next night, I did a little production with traffic sounds for the benefit of the great Roachler. I sat in my room, turning the volume knob slowly, ever so slowly. Charlie! What is it, King? Would you come into my room a second? I'd like to talk to you. OK. What's on your mind? I, uh, I've got a terrific idea for next week's show, Charlie. See if it tweaks you. Shoot. There's this girl, French. She's escaped from the Nazis. And Charlie, how far are we from a main thoroughfare? Sunset Boulevard? That's about five miles down the hill, I guess. We couldn't hear traffic from that distance, could we? I couldn't. Yeah. Well, well, this girl's a painter, and she falls in love with you. You know, Charlie, I get these ideas in the middle of the night like this. I like to talk them out before I forget them. Why? Why don't you bunk in here with me for a while? Well, it seems sort of silly. Stay with me, please, Charlie. It's terribly important. Roach's La Nijo. I need you. I knew then that the breaking point was near. As I watched him at rehearsals, I could see the psychosis gradually engulfing him. No, no, no, no, no! I've told you at least 11 times, Mr. Glaskin, to mute the brass and everybody quiet. Roach's La Nijo's unquiet, complete quiet. Will you please stop your insufferable scuffling and scraping and babbling, and you'll call upon to make the required sound? Maybe he'd like to have us quit breathing. The actor who made that statement is discharged from the cast without pay. Roach's La will not tolerate insubordination. King, you can't let Lewis go. You have to have him for the operating room scene. Your mind shows it won't size directly. No one, the artist or performer, is indispensable. We can replace any one, and any one. What's the matter, sir? Mr. Planned, take him home. Out to my house. Now, don't worry about the show, King. I'll take over. I've got to hand it to you, Charlie. You didn't louse up the broadcast as much as I thought you would. Thanks. How is he? Resting in his room. Oh, it's been a rough day. How about a sleeping powder just to make sure we get our rest? The usual? No, I don't think so. I've been waking up a little bit foggy. You will take the usual sleeping powder tonight. It's very important to me. Charlie, I don't understand you when you act this way. You will drink the usual sleeping powder. I forced her to take the sleeping powder. I had to make sure she was thoroughly drugged. For tonight, Merle was to be part of the plan. When she was deep in sleep, I carefully slipped the contact microphone underneath her body so that the metal lay within a few inches of her heart. Please, make it stop. I'm here, King. I'm right beside you. Make what stop? That's Robin. You hear it. It's your heart beats and grieving. You must hear it. Your imagination's working overtime. I can stand it. Charlie, make it stop, Charlie. What can I do? I've got to get away from it. I've got to have quiet peace. I can't stand it any longer. Make it stop, Charlie. I watched him stagger out of the bedroom. Down the stairs to his study. I heard a drawer pulled open. Roachley. From here on, Fowler produces. Nothing, darling. I can hear noise in the room. Like drum beats. I'll turn it off, dear, so you won't hear it any longer. I stepped to the amplifier to shut off the heartbeats from the contact microphone. I flipped the switch, but the sound continued. It kept on going. I turned the switch again and again. Still, I heard the heartbeats louder than before. Thank you, dear. That's better. What do you mean, that's better? It's still going on. I beat the sides of the amplifier. Still, the heartbeats continued. I tore the wires from the connections. I smashed the contact microphone. With a bookend, I've got a amplifier box. Still, the heartbeats went on. Merle's heartbeats. Charlie, Charlie, what's wrong with you? You know what's wrong. You can hear it. I can't hear anything. You're lying. Oh, Charlie, wait a minute. You're acting crazy. I'm not crazy. I know what's going on. You have another contact microphone hidden somewhere. You're trying to work the same thing on me. Charlie. All the time, you were pretending to be asleep. You planned all this, didn't you? I know. Well, I am not a roadster. You can't drive me crazy with noises. Charlie, wait a minute. Now there isn't any noise. Charlie, stay away from me. Stay away! No, no, no! Of course, the so-called forces of justice never overtook me. Fowler was too clever for them. I now enjoy a position in the radio profession very much like that of Mr. Roachler before his death. Would you care to come into my control room with me while I rehearse my orchestra and my actors? Already cast? Fowler will now begin his rehearsal. Fowler insists on absolute attention to his directions. Maestro, how many times must Fowler demand that you artists stop whispering during dramatic scenes? Fowler cannot tolerate this indifference to the very verge of the moment. Mr. Fowler, if you don't stop this shouting, the doctor will lock you up in that little room again. You know that all this noise is very disturbing to the other patients. This is William Spear. Spear wants you to know that he hopes you have enjoyed tonight's little expose of backstage radio. I want to thank all our cast, Norman Lloyd, Mark Humboldt, Mr. Lorraine Tuttle, Clifton Cromwell, and thanks as always to Lud Glaskin, our conductor, Lucian Morrowick for his score, Burns Sorry for Sound Effects, and Ted Denton, our engineer. I should like you to know, of course, that tonight's story was all in the spirit of fun and was completely fictional. There are no such characters among us producers as Kingsley Roachler and any resemblance to actual persons, et cetera, et cetera. So Spear says good night. Oh, and you? Me? Yes, sir. The suspense is produced, edited, and directed by William Spear. I want a great deal more importance there. Those are the most vital words in the show. Yes, Mr. Spear. Next Thursday, same time, Joan Loring will be your star of... Suspense. Radio's Outstanding Theater of Thrill. This is the Armed Forces Radio Service.