 Suspense! Tonight Suspense brings you an all-star cast of Hollywood's finest radio players in the premiere of a remarkable story by Ray Bradbury called Riebuszinska. But first, we'd like to remind you that in hotels, restaurants and homes of distinction, wherever hospitality is a gracious art, the knowing host serves C-R-E-S-T-A-V-L-A-N-C-A Cresta Blanca Cresta Blanca Yes, the famous name of Cresta Blanca is a symbol of good taste and good living, wherever discriminating people gather. And when you serve proud Cresta Blanca California wines, you pay guests the highest compliment a host can offer. So distinguish your table by pouring Cresta Blanca burgundy or Cresta Blanca sautern, yours to enjoy for gracious dining. Shanley's Cresta Blanca wine company Livermore, California. And now, Shanley brings you Radio's outstanding theater of thrill, Suspense! Presented by Roma Wines, that's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines of Fresno, California for your everyday enjoyment. Tonight starring Joseph Kearns, Lorraine Tuttle, Wally Mayer, and Armina Feige, and Ria Bushinsky, a suspense play produced, edited and directed for Shanley by William Spear. Mr. Occam had a look about him in death, as he had had in life. A general appearance which might prompt one to say, there's a man who'll one day be stabbed or shot or booted in the head. And although Mr. Occam had not met his end in any of the aforementioned ways, he had been strangled, and he was dead, dead on the floor of a theater cellar. Yes, Mr. Occam was deceased, and nobody seemed to care. Nobody but Detective Lieutenant Krovic, who'd been sent down to have a look around, on a table he saw a small polished bronze box with certain words on the lid which read, Ria Bushinsky, property of John Fabian, world's greatest ventriloquist. Krovic looked from the box to the three figures standing stiffly before him. They were John Fabian, Ventriloquist, Alice, his wife, and Bernard Douglas, Fabian's press agent. As Krovic lit his cigar, it happened. The four people looked with startled eyes at the box on the table. Then Fabian, the ventriloquist, stepped forward and spoke earnestly. No, Ria, this is serious business, darling. You stay where you are. If you don't mind, Fabian, we'll have the dummy act at another time. Now let's get this matter clear. Each of you testify that you don't know who this dead Mr. Occam is, yet he told the stage manager tonight that he knew Mr. Fabian and wanted to see him about something important. Let me out. Oh, stop it, Fabian. Pay no attention to her, Lieutenant. Sir, you mean you? What is this? Get together, you two. We'll never be together again. Give me the key to the box, Fabian. Krovic stood motionless, just looking down, seeing Ria Bushinska lying in her box and not believing what he saw. He thought, there were nights in life when you dreamed. And this is what you dreamed. There were women you saw in life, far down the street, walking, fragile, far away, unattainable. And this tiny figure was one of them. There were voices that you heard singing high in a dark church loft, voices that made the candle flame shudder and dance to every cadence. And this was one of those voices. On a summer afternoon you watched a spider gracefully spinning its cloudy web. And now that web was Ria Bushinska's evening dress. Here and now you had heard of honesty and intelligence and frankness and unafraidness all your life. And now it looked straight up at you, fearlessly shining me from a puppet's eyes. She was so beautiful your throat closed and you were sad because you knew that she was only a puppet. John Fabian tenderly picked up Ria Bushinska. Oh, isn't she beautiful? She's carved from the finest wood Ria Bushinska is. She's appeared in London, Paris, Rome, New York. Everyone in the world knows her and loves her. Many people question Ria Bushinska's authenticity. They think she's really alive, that she's a midget. People just cannot believe she's constructed of wood. John Fabian's wife Alice stood glaring at her husband with a look of pure hatred. But he was aware of no one but the life-like figure he held in his arms. And speaking to him, it said... Please don't go on about me, John. Alice doesn't like it. Alice has never liked anything about true Ria. Shh, don't. Not here enough. Hey, lieutenants, how did it all happen? I mean about poor Mr. Arkham. What is this? You'd best return to your box, Ria Bushinska. But I don't want to. I have as much right to listen and talk. I'm as much a part of this murder as Alice. Or Mr. Douglas Eve. Don't drag me into this, you little witch. And the manner in which he replied made it obvious that Ria Bushinska was more than an illusion to him. For he reacted to her as to a real person. It's just that I want the truth to be told. And if I'm locked in my brand's casket, there will be no truth. But John Fabian is a consummate liar. And I must watch him. That's right. Isn't it, John? Yes, I imagine it is. John loves me best of all the women in the world. And I love him. And try to understand his wrong way of thinking. We're wasting time. If you think you'll interfere with my investigation, Fabian... Lieutenant, I am helpless. But she's in your throat. No. She is in my heart, which is much deeper. Sometimes I'm powerless. Sometimes she is only herself, nothing of me at all. Sometimes she tells me what to do and I must do it. She watches over me, reprimands me as honest where I am dishonest. Ethical where I am wicked as old sin. She lives her life, I live mine. She's raised a wall in my head between herself and me and she lives there. Ignoring me if I try to make her say improper things, but co-operating if I suggest the correct words and pantomime. So if you intend going on, I'm afraid Rhea must be present. So locking her up will do no good. But Dan Kovic sat quietly for a few moments. Then he seemed to make a decision. All right, all right. Let us stay. Maybe, maybe before the night's over, I'll be tired enough to ask even a ventriloquist's dummy questions. For Suspense, Roma Wines are bringing you Rhea Bushinska. Roma Wines' presentation tonight in Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrill's Suspense. Suspense, Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrill's is presented by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines selected from the world's greatest reserves of fine wines. Some hosts have a way of making you feel completely welcome whenever you drop in for a visit. Theirs is the kind of hospitality that says, come in and make yourself at home. Well, such is the hospitality of millions of Americans who always keep Roma California wines on hand. For Roma Wines lend sparkle and companionship to any occasion. And there's a Roma wine to please every taste. For friendly entertaining, serve nut-like golden amber Roma sherry, rich red Roma port, or mellow flame-bride Roma muscatel. You'll find that these better tasting Roma Wines add warmth and charm to any get-together. Brighten those restful stay-at-home evenings with your family. Tomorrow, solve your problem of what to serve when friends drop in. With Roma Wines, that's R-O-M-A. Roma Wines, America's largest selling wines. And now Roma Wines bring back to our Hollywood soundstage, or mine-a-fi gay as narrator, Joseph Kerns as Fabian, the ventriloquist, and Wally Mayer as Detective Krovich, in Ria Buschinska, a play well calculated to keep you in suspense. Once more, Mr. Douglas, do you recognize the dead man? No. He looks somewhat familiar, an actor type, I believe. One of you three is lying. From the condition of Occam's shoes, his worn clothing, he needed money. Are you in love with Mrs. Fabian? Why, I... Really, Lieutenant? I've been watching you, your actions. My actions? Yes, yes, the way you look at Ria Buschinska's box, the way you hold your breath when she appears, not your fingers when she talks, the way you stare at her. If you think for one moment that I'm jealous of a little piece of wood... Aren't you? No, I'm not jealous of her. You needn't tell him, Alice. Let her. They all stare at the figurine, even Fabian, the ventriloquist, as if her cry had come from an alien throat. Alice? I... I married John seven years ago. He said he loved me. I loved him and I loved Ria Buschinska, too, at first anyway. But then I began to see that he really paid more attention to her than he did to me. I began to feel hatred, not for Ria Buschinska because it wasn't her fault, but I felt a terrible hatred for John because I knew it was all his fault, his cleverness, his sadistic temperament. Each jealousy on my part was a tribute to the perfection of his art. She came out of him like a woman out of a dark god. But I don't hate Ria. She's lovely, sweet and honest. Everything that John isn't. Tell about Mr. Douglas. When I got no understanding, no love from John, I turned to Mr. Douglas. The dead man was a blackmailer. He came to the theatre tonight to see a husband about you. You killed him to prevent that interview. I didn't kill him. Douglas might have and not told you. Why kill a man? John knew all about it? I did indeed. The next day, Lieutenant Krovic was back. Yes, come in. Fabian, I have something here which might interest you. With a tight grin in his face, Lieutenant Krovic held out the photograph of a woman. Fabian stared at the shiny picture before him, and then he fell back in his chair. He shut his eyes as if with great ache in his head. Krovic turned the picture over carefully and began to read from the typewritten data on the back. Name Ilya Riemansk. Weight 100 pounds, blue eyes, black hair, oval face. Born 1914, New York City. Disappeared 1934. Believed a victim of amnesia. Of Russian-Slav heritage. Oh, no. You know, Fabian, it was pretty silly to go through the files for a picture of a ventriloquist tummy. They all laughed at headquarters. And yet... Yet here she is. Ria Buchinska. Not paper mache, not wood, not a puppet. But a woman who once lived and moved about and disappeared. Take it from there, Fabian. Lieutenant, there's nothing to it. I saw her picture long ago. I liked her looks and copied my puppet after her. Nothing to it, eh? Listen, Fabian, this morning I went through a stack of billboard magazines that high. In the year 1934, I found an interesting article concerning an act playing the smaller circuits known as Fabian and Sweet William. Sweet William was a little male dummy. As usual in such acts, there was a girl assistant. Ilya Riemansk. Look at that picture. The resemblance between the real woman on one hand and Ria Buchinska the puppet on the other is startling. She was my assistant, but that was all. I simply used her as a model. It all starts and ends with Ria Buchinska. Why should you love a puppet so intensely? Because you love the original woman intensely. All right, all right. In 1934 I was built as Fabian and Sweet William. Sweet William was a small, bald-nosed little boy dummy I carved years ago. I was playing Los Angles when this girl, Ilya Riemansk appeared at the stage door one night. She wanted a job. I remember it was autumn. John Fabian remembered Ilya Riemansk in the half-flight of the stage alley. He remembered how startled he was at her fresh beauty, her eagerness, the way the rain when it came down through the narrow alley caught in her dark hair and touched her feverish cheeks. She became his assistant, worked in the act, and in four short months, he who had always denied and scoffed at love became hopelessly lost with this woman. Then there were arguments, and things much more than arguments, things done and said that were violent and unfair. He wanted her to marry him. She never quite accepted. He went into hysterical rages at her once he destroyed her wardrobe. That much she had taken, but it was somewhat different on that last night when he shouted at her, taken hold of her and slapped her brutally three times across the face. Ilya Riemansk vanished that night. Vanished. The police questioned me. There was talk of murder, but she was gone with no trace. A record of her was sent to all the larger cities. That was the end of it for the police. But not for me. The knowledge of her going was too much. She might be dead or just run away, but I knew I needed her. One night I returned home more depressed than usual. I collapsed on a chair, and before I knew it, I found myself speaking to sweet William in the totally dark room. William, William, this is all over and done. I can't go on. You can get her back if you want. No, I can't. No, I can never get her back. Yes, yes, you can. Think. Think of a way to get her back. Come on. You can do it. Put me away. Start all over. Start all over. Yes. Begin carving. Exactly. And slowly and lovingly. Carving. Make a little arching nostrils just so. And cut her black thin eyebrows round and high. And make her cheeks in small duplicate hollows. No, it's monstrous. I can never do it. Yes, yes, you could. Yes, you could. And the voice faded away like a water ripple in a dark cave. Blackness rushed over Fabian. His head fell forward. He whimpered. And sweet William sighed. And then they both lay silent and solemnly unconscious. The next morning John Fabian purchased the best grained piece of wood he could buy. But when he reached home, despair seized him. How could he fashion his warm ilia from this cold wood? How could he shape this dumb block of dead substance into anything faintly approximating her glowing light? Go on. Go on. It was sweet William who egged him on. You can do it. And for twenty weeks he worked. He carved her hands into things as natural and beautiful as shells lying in the sun. And sweet William lay dust cloaked in his box, from time to time feebly cloaking some sarcasm, some criticism, some hint, some help. But he was dying. Soon to be untouched in inanimate wood. As weeks passed and Fabian moulded and scraped and polished the new wood, sweet William lay longer and longer in stricken silence. And one day, as Fabian held the puppet in his hand, sweet William seemed to look at him a moment with puzzled eyes. And then there was a death rattle in his throat. And sweet William was gone. And now, as Fabian carved, a fluttering, an attempting of speech in his throat began echoing, re-echoing the sounds of ilia reamansk. At the year's ending he was thinned and without money. But by then he had searched his stream of consciousness, experimented and given the doll all the gracious mannerisms and shy gestures of the real woman. And then, at last, he held ilia reamansk in his arms again. They were together. He could talk to her and she could reply. And the first thing he made the little creature say was, I love you, John Fabian. Oh, Rhea. I see. And your wife? Alice, she was another of my assistants. She did her work well. She loved me. I see. What about the dead man, Arkham? I'd never seen him before until you showed me his body in a cellar. That's not true. Fabian's cheeks drained white and the bones jotted out tensely. The puppets spoke, looking straight at Krovich. John received the first blackmail letter a month ago. It said simply, Rhea Bushinska, born 1914, died 1934. Born again in 1930. Fabian seemed paralyzed, unable to answer. He had a trapped, helpless, insane expression. His lips trembled. He searched the room as if seeking some way out where our frustration and our truth did not wait to bar his way. Arkham threatened to expose me to the world. Go on. I wanted my love for Ilya kept to myself. What sort of a love would it be in the future if people really guessed the significance of my carving this figurine that talked and moved? People would laugh or be disgusted, perverted, criminal mind they'd shout, ugly, horrible, revolting. And how could I play my love scenes with Rhea anymore when they knew not when with every word I uttered someone in the audience would nudge someone else in a whisper. She lived once, you know, but disappeared. They say he killed her. They say he loved her. How much did Arkham want? $1,000 to start with. And more later. And so you killed him? No, I didn't kill Arkham, Lieutenant. I paid him $1,000. We found no money on him? Nevertheless, I paid him. Alice and Douglas must have heard our conversation. They've wanted to be rid of me for years now. I'm not blind. Alice saw a way of ridding herself of me and getting some money, too. Why, she's nothing but a... Just a moment. There's something I wish to say. And yet I can't say it. Krovich turned. He saw John Fabian's eyes widen in his head as if a terrible conflict were raging, fighting within. His throat convulsed again and again and lines cut deep his cheeks and the hollows of his face sank in. I was in the room when Mr Arkham came. No, no, Ria. Lurs. Then suddenly... His head must have struck the floor. Heard Mr Fabian cry out. You heard nothing. You're deaf and dumb and blind and lifeless. You heard nothing. Your ears are carved. But... Drag Mr Arkham to the door. Take Mr Arkham down the stairs. Toward the old dressing room that hadn't been used in years. It was a scene so incongruous, so impossible, so completely beyond the veil of sanity and reason that Krovich recoiled even as he watched. If ever in the time of the world the forces that manipulate man struggled one side against the other, this was the time. The shocked, pallid face of John Fabian wrenching, the horrible protrusion of the eyes, the clenching of the teeth as a sensor, then relaxing again, the subtle move of the throat and the high, sad and... accusative voice of Ria Bochinska leaping from her tiny, shining lips. Fabian must have known what was happening, and yet he did not know... There is nothing for us now because the world will know of us. Even when you killed him and I lay in my bronze box last night, I realized... we both realized that these were our last hours. Because while I've accepted your weaknesses and lies, I can't exist in murder. It couldn't have gone on. No one can live side by side with such knowledge. Fabian took her in his arms and held her high into the warm sunlight. She looked down at him with her clear, honest way of seeing him. There were angry, helpless tears in his eyes. His hands shook, and in shaking made her tremble, too. Her mouth closed and open, silent, gaping and shutting again and again with no words. Fabian began to sob. He closed his fingers unbelievingly around his own throat. His eyes numbed. He looked like a man trying to remember something beautiful. Her voice, how it sounded, how to make it sound again. How to make her take back all she had said that was the truth. She's gone. She's gone. And I can't find her. I try, but I can't find her. She's run off behind the dark wall and so deep down and far away in the night, I'll never be able to find her again. She's gone. Ria Buschinska slipped bonelessly from his limp hand, folded over and glided noiselessly down to lie upon the cold, dirty floor. Her eyes closed. Her mouth gently sealed. Fabian didn't even look at her as Krovic led him away. Suspense! And so closes Ria Buschinska starring Armada Pagai as narrator, Joseph Kerns as Fabian, Wally Mayer as Krovic and Lorine Tuttle as Ria. Tonight's study in suspense presented by Roma Wines that's R-O-M-A Roma Wines, America's largest selling wines. Yes, more Americans do enjoy Roma Wines than any other wines. And this is Truman Bradley to tell you why. It's because Roma Wines taste better. You see, Roma selects and presses only the choicest California grapes. Then with ancient skills and unmatched winemaking resources, Roma Master Vettner's guide this luscious grape treasure to tempting perfection. These finer Roma Wines are placed with other mellow Roma Wines to await later selection for your enjoyment from the world's greatest reserves of fine wines. This weekend, give your family and friends a surprise. Serve delicious Roma California sherry. Roma sherry is a glorious golden amber wine, soft and mellow on the tongue with a delightful nut-like taste that's a perfect invitation to dining pleasure. And remember to insist on Roma. That's R-O-M-A. Roma sherry. Because more Americans enjoy Roma Wines than any other wines. Tonight's Suspense Radio play was by Meldinelli from a short story by Ray Bradbury. Be sure to listen next Thursday same time to Suspense. Produced and directed by William Spear for the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California. This is CBS The Columbia Broadcasting System.