 Now, Roma Wines, R-O-M-A, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. Roma Wines present the MGM star Robert Taylor in Suspense. Tonight, Roma Wines bring you Mr. Robert Taylor as star of The Argyle Album, a suspense play produced, edited and directed for Roma Wines by William Spear. Suspense, Suspense, Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrills is presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines, those wines that in California wines that can add so much pleasantness to the way you live, to your happiness and entertaining guests, to your enjoyment of everyday meals. Yes, right now a glass full would be as Roma Wines bring you Mr. Robert Taylor in a remarkable tale of Suspense. Back when I got my first job on the Herald, Alan Pierce was its star reporter. A little later he went to Washington and became top dog of all syndicated political columns. Pierce could tell you what the president said when he didn't like his breakfast, or what was getting paid off, or what, by whom, and how much. He was a national big shot so naturally his coming back to the hometown late January got local front page. Especially since the first thing happens he checks into the Belden General Hospital from a heart attack. Heart attack he had on the train right as it pulled into the station. Quite an entrance and time. Well, maybe you remember. Just when 22 million anxious readers were waiting for his promised expose of the contents of The Argyle Album, the thing he'd been building up in his columns for about two weeks before, Tea Pot Dome was going to be a church club misunderstanding compared to this. Naturally all the boys hung around the anti-room of his hospital suite during visiting hours, but nobody from the press cracked the door to the sick room for the first three days. Then on the fourth morning, Ben Sullivan, the doctor, came smiling out into the anti-room to us. Good morning, gentlemen. Gentlemen, gentlemen, Mr. Pierce would have willingly seen you all the first day. Of course, as his medical advisor, I couldn't permit anything of the sort. However, today I'll allow you to see him one at a time. I suggest that you gentlemen draw straws or something to tell him. Or that is, accept the man from the Herald. Mr. Pierce asked expressly to see him first. The Herald man, that's me. Is the Herald representative here? Yeah, right over here, doctor. Do you want to come in now? Right with you, doctor. Pinky, come here. Yeah, Harry. Dr. Van Selbin, this is Mr. Melvin Pinkus. The Herald's best and, believe me, the quietest photographer. He's very good for patience. I'm a great nut, Mr. Mitchell. Okay, doctor. Stand by, Pinky. Right. Thank you, gentlemen. And I'll be on the fifth floor. Say, you're Harry Mitchell, aren't you? That's right, Mr. Pierce. Just make it, Al. Right, Al. So, you're young Mitchell. Well, how time flies. I spoke to the old man on the phone. I said, send your next Alan Pierce over. And he sent you. Do you consider that a compliment? I'm gonna hit him for a nice, bad raise. Well, Harry, have you got your questions all written down like a good reporter should? No, I don't work that way. Neither do I. I suppose you want to know what the Argyle album is. Yeah, it's about it. Only it's your business, whatever it is, so I can't ask it. You're a smart boy. But I'll ask anyhow. What is the Argyle album? Good. Now, how shall I begin? You're not really gonna tell me. Harry, it's got to a point where I think I ought to share it with somebody, preferably somebody like myself, who thinks like me. But I'm going to ask you not to use this unless I'm not in a position to. It's a deal. You know what an album is. This is quite a fancy-looking one, white-toed leather bound and a flaming crimson double-headed eagle crest etched on the cover. It's an impressive item. Maybe you better take it easy, Mr. Pierce. You were gonna call me Al. Okay, Al, maybe you better just do it. No, no, I'm all right. It's, I guess I'm a little dizzy. You want the doctor? No, no, just a drink. He's back on his pillow and bringing terribly. There was a thermos on the bed stand that turned out empty. I grabbed a glass and ran it to the bathroom, filled it from the tap. I'll be right there, old boy. I called him. When there was no answer, I just about guessed what it was. I stood there for a while, feeling awfully bad, thinking awfully hard. I finally figured an idea. Hey, Pinky! Here I am, General. Is he gonna post? Yeah, he's gonna post. Come on in here. Pinky, look at him. He's dead. Huh? Passed out while we were talking. This is our beat. It's big. It's a scoop. I don't want those other tin horns out there cutting in. What are you gonna do? Go out and phone. You stay here and don't let anybody through that door. You're not letting me along with him. Don't sound like you. Are you kidding? I don't like it. I don't like it. I went out to the pay station in the hall and phoned in the story. Then I found Dr. M. Selbin on the fifth floor and broke the news. Between the fifth and the seventh floor, where Pierce the sweet was, I picked up the chief surgeon, superintendent, poor nurses and litter bearers in attendance. We went through the anti-room where the reporters were. The newspaper boy smelled something was up. Nobody let them in Pierce's room. The official hospital gang and me barged in and had a straight to the bed where the corpse was. I got a funny feeling Pinky wasn't in the room. Dr. Vance Selbin and the chief surgeon went over to the bed and pulled back the covers. You could feel the shock go through the whole crowd. A long steel scalpel was sticking right up in the middle of Alan Pierce's chest. Lieutenant Horselip Sampson, who was top man in homicide, strutted in and took over. He got the story from us and just sat there for a while, thinking very professional, exuding brilliance. His majesty spoke. Dr. Vance Selbin. Yes, sir? In your opinion, did your patient type mohawk attack as our reporter friend here claims? Or from the night one? I can't really tell you yet. Indications are that it might be other. You see, in either case, the heart was stopped. Yeah, the heart usually stops in case of death, doesn't it, Doc? The only thing is, I took his pulse before I left the room. There was no pulse. That scalpel could just as well have been stuck in a loaf of bread for all the damn he did. Mitchell, why did you leave a dead man unreported? Why don't you leave that photography here without telling the nurse? I was a reporter with a scoop. Would you expect me to leave here? Somebody from the express? Nurse, were you outside the door the whole time? Yes, sir, we're the reporters. Yes, Mr. Mitchell, the photographer went in, but he never came out. Uh, take a gant in the bathroom, Haggerty. There's nobody here, kid. Michelson, are those windows locked? Yes, sir. Locked room, case, horse lip, should bring out your Scotland Yard train. Mitchell, you're in too tough a spot to be fresh. If I could just get an angle. Must be an angle. He got up, soar, and started looking around himself. He walked over to the white bed screen in the corner. Funny, he stood there all the time, such a natural piece of hospital equipment. You never noticed it. But now, even before he touched it, I knew what he'd find there. He started to pull it aside like somebody looking hopelessly in any unlikely spot for a lost collar button. Before he had his hand on it, I was at the door. I was practically on my way out to the anti-room, and he let the screen fall over, showing paint he all huddled up among his photographic equipment, with a surgeon's scalpel sticking out of his neck. Hey! Hey! Get him! Get him! I yelled at the reporters in the anti-room that they could go in now. The crowd coming out after me met the crowd going in, and I was in the corridor while they argued it out. I was around the corner in the elevator before they got to the corridor, and I was in a borrowed ambulance before anybody could ask him questions. I walked right through the Waldorf lobby up to the second floor. Nobody said a thing. Time was still with me. I knew Pierce's secretary was keeping sweet 213 for him until he was supposed to get out of the hospital. One moment. Yes. May I come in? Well... I'm a friend of Mr. Pierce's. Mitchell the Herald. Well, what is it, Mr. Mitchell? Something I can do. Yeah, but you let me rifle your boss's desk, files, papers and possessions. I'll put them back real neat. There's something I have to find. Are you crazy? I was afraid that it'd be your answer. What are you going to do? I'm sorry. Don't! I really am. And it really was. I didn't like to hit a woman, especially that cute. I searched that sweet top and bottom, and I read the Ardell album. He took no chances keeping it around. I found his personal address book. I figured he was no more used to him, and it might be to me. Now I needed a place where I could sit down and think. Then I remembered I was carrying a key from my pal Joe Walsh's apartment while he was sending himself somewhere in Florida. At least nobody could figure my going there. At Walsh's place I spent about 20 minutes with Pierce's address book. He had Washington phone numbers in it that hadn't been in public directors for the last 30 years. But there was one in this town that had a red crayon circle around it. It was a query. Jor Broad, J-O-R-C, capital-B-R-O-D on Worcester Street. Not the kind of neighborhood that Alan Pierce used to socialize in. I was just about deciding I'd go see this Jor Broad, and somebody decided to pay me a visit. I checked through the keyhole. Didn't see much, but what there was to see was females. So I took my chances and opened the door. She stood there about five foot seven of the most interesting stuff I ever remember seeing. Not young, mind you, nor angelic, but gorgeous and smart-looking and sweet-boist. Hello there. Who are you? May I come in? Yeah, sure. It's your risk. Who are you? You may call me Marla, Mr. Mitchell, and I want the Argyle album. Just like that? No, not just like that. I could be nasty, you know. After all, the police want you. Marla, that doesn't worry me at all. I just don't think you make it a policy to have traffic with the police. And a stupid youngster. I like you. I like you too, but I haven't time. I'll give you $500 for it. I don't even know what it is. What is the Argyle album? Ten thousand. Without a breath, that's some jump. Ten thousand? I'm really sorry, Marla. That's what I wanted to know. It's not for sale. Well? She moves her casually and directly to the door and opens it so quickly that I hadn't even got out of my chair before her two boyfriend stepped in. The first one looked like a round face, pleasant businessman, hair slightly gray, nice smile. The one who followed him had the square, low-cut, irresistible appearance of a medium-sized tank. Mr. Winter and Mr. Hovery. Mr. Mitchell. How do you do? Mr. Mitchell. He's not terribly cooperative. Oh, no. He doesn't perform not for love, nor for money. Very stubborn. Well, she really didn't try to love Mr. Winter. From what I know of Marla, that's hard to believe, eh, Marla? So, so you're stubborn, Mr. Mitchell. A stubborn murderer. I'll repeat my question. What is the Argyle album? You are a gifted actor. Never mind. Forget it, Mr. Winter. Isn't ten thousand dollars enough? That's the best we can offer and still make a profit. That's not waste time. Have it your way, son. Gill! The big guy stepped toward me. I ducked and tripped the table tennis. Gill pushed it aside like it was my treat. His left hand lashed out and he had the lapels in my coat and I was lifting until only my shoe tips touched the floor. I was helpless as a baby. He started slapping my face front-hand and back. He kept up and up like a flick on the drums and the action was unbearable. He stopped. I waited like the wait between pauses at the dentist's drill, multiplied by a million. I must have moved suddenly because I saw the small eyes flicker and a huge fist come swinging in my face. I wanted to duck, but I couldn't. My hands were torn from in front of my face and it came shocks of incollable pain like searing flames. Then the flames flickered and went out. For suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you a star, Mr. Robert Taylor, in the Argyle album by Cyril Endfield. Roma Wines' presentation tonight in Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrills. Suspense. Between the acts of suspense, this is Truman Bradley for Roma Wines. Happy days ahead. The gay, festive season when guests call and hospitality is the order of the day. And what better order for your guests than Roma California Sherry? Yes, serving delicious Roma Sherry is a gracious American custom. As an appetizer, Roma Sherry is the perfect first call for dinner. And because gold and amber, Roma Sherry is a mellow wine with tempting fragrance, natural sweetness and nut-like taste, it's a delightful treat any time. If you prefer a dry Sherry, Roma California pale dry Sherry is made especially to suit your taste. For smart hospitality, get both Roma Sherries and give your guests their choice. Like all Roma Wines, Roma Sherry is a true wine, unvaryingly good always. And Roma's new low prices save you as much as one-fourth. Incest on Roma, R-O-M-A, Roma Wines for uniformly fine quality at low cost. Remember, more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wine. And now Roma Wines bring back to our Hollywood soundstage, Robert Taylor as reporter Harry Mitchell in the Argyle album, a play well-calculated to keep you in suspense. Now, wake up, poor boy. That's right. I was in the bedroom to the apartment. Marla was beating me for it with a damp handkerchief. That's right. I lay quiet and tell things cleared up a bit. That's it. Rest a little, that's the boy. Marla. Where's the album, darling? Where's the album? I swear, I don't know. I don't know. You don't want me to call him again, do you? No, no, no, no, please. They're both in the kitchen. I'm supposed to help you wake up and then call. No, I just don't. If you haven't got it, do you know where it is? I swear, Marla, I don't even know what it is. All I know is it's two white leather or something. You don't? You don't? All right. Here's what I know. Winter found it originally. He was in occupied Europe then. He doesn't admit it, but I think he was the leader of a looting party after an American raid. It was a sheaf of documents recording the transfer of large sums of money by certain individuals, both German and American. Big men who wanted to make sure that they'd come out right no matter whose armies won. Winter knew that he found a fortune that day, a fortune in blackmail. What happened? He kept it in a public locker in a bus station. Normally the safest place in the world. It was in a town down here in Virginia, Argyle. On a million to one twist, he lost it. A gang of young hoodlums blew open that section with a dynamite stick. And it's been missing ever since until Alan Pierce started hinting about it in his column and the international scandal it involved. So when Pierce died, you see, Winter had a right to suspect that Pierce's murderer might have the album. Naturally the big men wanted to. Lots of people wanted badly, including me. You? What for? Resale value. Let's see, that's a decent motive. I'm a decent person. Yeah, you are. Come here. You're nice. You're a nice boy. You know, I could just press my thumbs here at your windpipe and you couldn't even yell. You don't think I'd have given you a chance like this if I really cared? You're not kidding me. That's the excuse I'll give to Winter, that you choked me and I couldn't yell. You go down the fire escape. I'll give you plenty of time before I call him. I don't figure. What's in it for you? We'll see each other again, won't we? You'll find it. Hurry up. Okay honey, you'll ask for it. Not too hard. It was a funny experience choking a woman deliberately. I squeezed pretty hard, scuffing bruises at her throat to make it look good. I got some mixed up. I didn't know what I was doing. I took her once and kissed her very hard. I ripped her clothes a little and mustered hair and when she looked pretty bad, I kissed her again and crawled out on the fire escape and down. I gave the cabbie the Worcester Street address from Pierce's book. It was a junkyard. George Brod's junkyard. Who you want? Are you Mr. Brod? George Brod? That's my name. What you want? The Argyle album. What? How did you? Oh, I know you. You are that Mitchell guy the police want for the murder of Ellen Pierce. If you move, I'll kill you. I got you figured, Brod. You're the fence for all the juvenile crooks around here. Some junkyard. You're on a lot's better terms with the cops than you are, Mitchell, and I'm folding them right now. Sure, sure. One of your kids brought you a nice white leather book with a two-headed eagle on it. Maybe you stretched and gave him two bits for it. Then you found you had something too big for a little guy. You knew it was worth dough, but your stomach wasn't tough enough for big-time black males, so you figured a way to be a right guy and still make dough. Sell it to Ellen Pierce. Selling us no crime. I'm really guessing, but good, huh? No. You invested the price of a couple of photo stats and a train ticket to Washington. You got to Pierce and sold him the photo stats and told him you'd have to come here for the rest. There's nothing to keep me from killing you right now. I guess not. Sure not. You're a fugitive, aren't you? An escaped killer. They wouldn't touch me. Wait a minute, don't... Don't you even say thanks when your life is saved? Thanks, nice shot. Don't mention it. Do you wonder how I knew you were here? You watched me take the cab in the wind and got the number. I know that one now. You're bright as well as nice. Maybe we can play this game together now that we have the album. Have we? But it can't be far in the desk drawer or the filing cabinet. I think we both saw Brod move at the same time. The gun at the edge of his fingers was somehow in his hands again. It wavered weakly between Marla and me. It was like watching a slow-motion movie. Marla didn't waste time. I... I saw the sweet little body jump as the slug tore into it, this gun kept waving and it went off. Marla sighed and fell down at my feet. She smiled at me once. That's all. I walked through three cops in the halls of the police station getting no more reaction than a nod of greeting and entered Horslip Samson's office. Thanks for the phone call, Mitchell, but you gave us a bump steer. What's your angle? Bump steer? I saw the shooting. We found the woman very dead indeed, but there was no man. Sure, Brod. He didn't look alive when I saw him last. Well, it wasn't there. I'm only telling you what I saw. Now what do you expect us to do with you? Well, look beyond suspicion of murder. The murder of whom, might I ask? Alan Pearce, naturally. Hey, do you want to confess? It's not bargain day-to-day, Lieutenant. Well, it's just an angle. Say, did the autopsy on Pearce come through? I was wondering why you gave yourself up. Yeah, he died of heart failure like you claimed, only because he was so loaded with dope even a normal heart would give out. Dope? You mean poison? Same thing, too much medicine. But Selbin, the one who dosed him, has disappeared. Took a powder. You're not even runner up for suspect now, Mitchell. Hey, maybe the one who stuck the scalpel into Pearce just wanted to create suspicious circumstances around the death just to be sure there'd be an autopsy. That's an angle. How about Pinky? And how did the murderer get in and out of the room? Well, that's an angle. Hey, look, Mitchell, do you want to be held? No, I don't. Stop asking questions I can't answer. Go and beat it. I still wanted to crack it. I found myself nursing a deep belief that there must be equal justice for the murderers of a man I loved, another I respected, and a woman I admired. There was only one place I could figure where to start. I picked my way through George Rodd's junkyard. The shapes of skeleton cars stood out dark in the moonlight. The far end of the yard is a lighted shack. I went up to it almost to the door. Somebody pushed from behind and my own body knocked the door open. Rodd was propped up in a chair facing me, his eyes wide. Winters stood beside him and Gil walked up from behind me alongside. Get in there! Come in, Mitchell. Thanks. Well, Mr. Mitchell, this is a proper ending. Another demonstration of the ascendancy of Will. Is he alive? Oh. Oh, oh, Rodd here? No, not now. He was very weak and had no resistance, but we learned what we needed. He had the album, quite cleverly hidden, but we have it now. Here, want to see it? Thanks. Say, who hired Dr. Van Selbin to kill Pierce? A very powerful and very wealthy individual, most concerned with retrieving the album, Mr. Mitchell. But you didn't want it to be heartfelt. You wanted to force an autopsy. That's why you stuck the scalpel into the corpse. That's rather clever of you, Mr. Mitchell. In the hospital, you were dressed as an attendant, right? You got behind that bed screen sometime early in the day, probably early in the morning before Pierce woke up, right? You were willing to wait a long time for what you wanted? It was very tiresome. You hoped to find out from Pierce where he had hidden the album. You found out instead that Pierce didn't have it, but you knew that Pierce was going to die anyhow from the overdose, so you decided to put the doctor in a compromising position with a scalpel forcing the autopsy. There's only one conceivable reason for you to replace yourself in a hazardous position just for the sake of compromising the doctor. And what may I ask? Can that conceivable reason be? You are the powerful and wealthy individual who got Dr. Van Selbin to do Pierce's murder. That you're no more Mr. Winter than I am. Well... The original Mr. Winter who smuggled the album out of Europe, you eliminated when he first tried to blackmail you and your fellow thieves. By that line of reasoning, I was able to do a little research in the files of my reporter's memory. And in spite of the fact that you have no mustache and that there are several other slight physical changes that could easily be adjusted, you have an amazing resemblance to the very powerful, very wealthy Mr. Gerald K. Avery. What's that? A theory. But isn't this indulgence in violence a strange occupation for a man like Gerald Avery? Not at all, Mr. Avery. A man doesn't become an international power by going to Sunday school every week. You decided nobody could do your dirty work for you better than yourself. I suppose you felt you needed help so you got a professional adventurer like Marla to work with you on the grounds that you yourself were an adventurer, a blackmailer. Same goes for Gil here. And Pinky. Of course it doesn't bother you that you killed a nice guy with a nice family. To you he was only in the way. You stuck the scalpel into Pierce's corpse to save yourself some more trouble. The trouble of paying off Dr. Van Selden. He'll probably show up floating. You dragged Pinky behind the screen and you got behind with him and hid. Then when all the doctors and the tenants broke into the room and rushed around Pierce's bed, you stepped out casually from behind the screen and mingled with the crowd. You were dressed for the part. As a reporter, Mr. Mitchell, would you describe that exploit as daring or brilliant? No, Mr. Ravery, I'd use the word selfish, traitorous, foul. Your morality sickens me. No, Mitchell. There's only one more thing you didn't count on. Gil here. Gil has nothing to do with this. Keep your mouth shut. I'll do nothing of the sword. I'll tell... Let him talk. I'll kill you fools. Let go of my arm. Let him talk. Thanks, Gil. And just keep hold of his arm, will you? Talk. Okay. As I was saying, Mr. Ravery, you forgot that Marla and Gil have been playing along with you because they figured you were their kind. There's a certain honor among little crooks, but not among you big-timers, Mr. Ravery. Now you have the album, the album that couldn't hurt anybody but yourself. Who's the blackmail? Where's the payoff? Gil's wondering what's going to protect his interests, aren't you, Gil? He knows now what's happened to Dr. Van Selbin. You see, he figured you for an honest crook, not a big-timer. You're not listening to him, Gil. He's only playing for time, only trying to save his own miserable skin. I'll pay you off, Gil. I'll pay you more than you ever dreamed. Oh, you really are Gerald K. Avery, huh? Don't be an idiot, Gil. You cooperate with me, you know. That was a bad mistake for Mr. Gerald K. Avery. You see, he figured his gun was bigger than Gil. He moved fast, but not quite fast enough. The lead that hit Gil on the shoulder but didn't even seem to phase him. I understand he broke Avery's arm. That's when Avery screamed. The next blow broke Avery's neck. It was an awful lot of excitement because horse-lift shadows caught up with the proceedings just about this time and the details aren't too clear. All I know is that it had been a big day and I was awfully tired. I went home, climbed into bed, put my head on a nice pillow made of tooled white leather and slept a long, long time. Suspense. Snoring Robert Taylor in the Argyle album. Presented by Roma Wines, R-O-M-A. Made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. 11 more shopping days to Christmas. No shopping worry for those who plan to give fine Roma Wines this year. Roma Wines are easy to buy, always welcome. And gifts of Roma Wine can be as impressive as you wish. One bottle, several or a case in colorful wrappings. Says famed hostess Elsa Maxwell, gifts of Roma Wines are always in perfect good taste. Flatter your friends, save time and money with gifts of Roma, California Saterna or Burgundy. Delicate pale gold Roma Saterna, red robust Roma Burgundy make meals more flavorful, more friendly. All Roma Wines are true wines from selected grapes, unhurriedly guided to taste perfection, then bottled at the wineries in California. Now, Roma's increased sales make possible new low prices. No wonder more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wine. Incest on Roma, R-O-M-A. Roma Wines for good living, good giving this Christmas. Robert Taylor appeared by courtesy of Metro Goldwyn-Mayer, produces of They Were Expendable. Next Thursday, same time, Roma Wines will bring you Keenan Wynn and Hume Cronin as stars of Suspense, Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrill. Produced by Williams Spear for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.