 And now, a tale well-calculated to keep you in. Suspense. I've been married for seven years and once loved my wife. Loved her as no man ever loved a woman. And now, I hate her. I hate her so intensely I tremble at the sight of her. Listen now to act one of till death do us part. Starring Sam Gray, and written especially for suspense by Ben Kagan. 10 months ago, when I was ill, when I needed her desperately, my wife left me, left me without a word. Then two months later, she came back without apology, without remorse, as if nothing had happened between us. But then I needed her no longer. But she came back to stay and stay she did, despite my anger, despite my hate. Well, I'm sorry, truly I am. I'll never leave you again, I promise. Come back to me as I've come back to you. But instead of dissipating my anger, she only made it more intense. Instead of abating my hate, she only made it grow. Her sudden meekness, her vaporish appearance, they only served to irritate me. But even more exasperating was the look of gentle reproach, which always seemed to linger in her resentful, horrible life. I had a peculiar, terrifying sensation that she could anticipate by every thought, and misjudging my hate as a sign of weakness. She pitied me, pitied me, as if I needed pity, as if I couldn't live without her. Paul, why don't you eat, Paul? I'm not hungry. But you've hardly touched your dinner. Now that's hungry, I tell you. You can't go on like this, not eating, not taking care of yourself. Paul, I'm worried about you. Oh, now you're worried about me. Now when all is over between us, when it's too late. All right, Paul. I won't argue the point. Only don't be angry with me. This is really no reason to be angry. No reason to be angry. Her pretense, her shameless pretense, that nothing had happened, that she had never deserted me. For long endless hours, we sat facing each other across the room, with hardly any conversation to break the periods of dreary, oppressive silence. Mainly, I tried to bury myself in the newspaper, read a book, listen to the radio. It was useless. I knew that her eyes, her damn piercing eyes, followed every motion of my hand, the slightest movement of my body, probing, digging into my brain. Gradually, the months went by, and our relationship remained unchanged. A day, dull fear began to possess me. It grew into an annoying sense of impending disaster. Whenever she spoke, I thought the walls were closing in about me, crushing me. Whenever she looked at me, I thought the room was getting smaller, darker. And in the darkness, her eyes were riveted upon me, blazing, probing menacing. I was trapped. Hopeless they trapped. Do for the rest of my life to spend my nights in terror, my days in hate. Too late! Too late to do anything about it, too late to seek out help, to run away. Was it? If she were out of the way, if she should suddenly die, if I killed her. Oh, and the thought first occurred to me. But once there, it grew until it became an obsession which dominated every rational waking moment of my existence. I spent days deliberating the method I would use in taking her life with the least delay, the least chance of discovery. And finally, came to the logical, inevitable conclusion. Poison, I'd planned the murder with the utmost care and caution. First, I went to a doctor. I didn't use my real name. Or did I give him my right address? You can get dressed now. Yes, doctor. Mr. Bowman, how much do you smoke? Oh, only moderately, doctor. No more than a pack a day. Do you take stimulants? Stimulants? Liquor? Oh, only occasionally, doctor. You know, social drinking. Now, when did you begin getting your headaches? Oh, about 10 months ago. But really what bothers me most is my heart, that rushing sensation. Well, you have a functional murmur, Mr. Bowman. Nothing serious. As far as I can determine, there's nothing organically wrong with you. The spastic condition of your stomach, your recurring headaches and palpitations are merely manifestations of a nervous strain. Now, I can prescribe tranquilizers, of course, but frankly, I'd suggest that you... Yes? Can you take a look at the KG, doctor? Excuse me, Mr. Bowman, I'll only be a moment. Oh, that's all right, doctor. Take your time. I'm in no special area. I have been waiting for just such a moment to be alone in a doctor's office with an easy reach of blank prescriptions. The prescription pad lay on the table right at my elbow. I tore off a batch of blanks and stuck them into my pocket. The rest was relatively easy. A reference book in the library, bad handwriting, then the pharmacy. In a section of the town where I was not known and could not be identified. Good evening, sir. Good evening. I'd like to have this prescription filled. Can you do it right away? I'm rather in a hurry. Surely. If you have a seat, I'll... This prescription is for you. Naturally. Why do you ask? It calls for a 30 capsules of morphine sulfate. Was it 30? I didn't know. Yes. May I ask why the doctor prescribes such a... Well, it's a sedative, of course. Why do you stand there and question me as if there's something fishy? Not at all. I only... I'm not interested in what you did or didn't mean. If you won't fill this prescription, I'll take it elsewhere. Oh, I didn't say that, Tony. I'm sorry if I sounded so suspicious, Mr. Woman, but we must be careful, you know. The law is very strict about this. Morphine sulfate is a sedative, as you say, but you can also act as a poison if used excessively. Oh, I didn't know that. Oh, yes. Some people would go to any lengths to get hold of some poison. Oh, I see. Well, and I don't blame you in the least. I'm sorry I lost my temper. You're only doing your job. Exactly. I'm glad you understand, Mr. Woman. Oh, I do. I understand perfectly. A man in your position has a great responsibility, not only to himself, but more importantly to the general public. That's right. That's right. I'll fill this for you right away. You wanted to wait for it, as I remember, Mr. Woman? Yes. I will. At last I have it. Now, during the course of the evening, perhaps while she was in the kitchen, all I had to do was lift the poison into her food. Maybe not a wine. We always drank wine with dinner, and then she drank it, drank it to the last drop, and I would be free. Free and not afraid anymore. That same evening, as I was approaching the home, I ran into the janitor. He was a decent sort of old man, except for one failing. He talked too much. As usual, he inquired about my health. Good evening, Mr. Versailles. How are you feeling? Oh, fine. Fine. Thank you. That's good. Glad to hear it. I'm glad you're feeling okay, Mr. Versailles. If you ever need anything, just let me know. Yes, I will. I will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go up. I can't stay here all night. You know, I have other things to do besides... I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, but see, I'm not myself today. My wife... What about your wife? She's very ill. Is she? Yes. That's why I'm in a hurry. She needs me. Oh, sure. I understand, Mr. Sell. I know how these things are. I could feel the pulsations of my heart and every fiber of my body if I climbed the three flights of stairs to our apartment on the top floor. And I could feel and hear nothing else when I saw her standing there. Hello, Paul. I've been waiting for you. You have? Why? Well, dinner will be ready soon, and, you know what? I've prepared your favorite dish, chicken cacciatore. Oh, thank you. Thank you, my dear. That was very thoughtful of you. You won't forget the wine, will you? Wine? No, of course not. We always drink wine with dinner. She hadn't forgotten the wine. Now I had to act quickly, carefully. The poison was in my pocket. As soon as she stepped out of the room, I pulled out the brown bottle, unscrewed the top, emptied the capsules, and poured the contents into her glass. The entire process took no more than 10 seconds. I stirred the wine thoroughly to make sure all the capsules had dissolved and then sat down and ate my dinner. Will you have some more pie, dear? No, no. I've had enough. Why don't you, uh, drink your wine? I will. Well, drink it now. I will, Paula. I've never seen you so concerned over me. Not in a long time, not since I went away. Well, stop talking and drink your wine. It tastes sort of bitter. Oh, nonsense. It's only your imagination. Now stop acting silly. Drink it! But I don't want any more, Paula, really. Will you do it, I say? Will you drink that wine? Oh, very well. You can really want me to. There's no reason to be angry. There. Are you satisfied? At last. At last, a few more moments, and she'd be dead. But those moments came and went, and nothing happened. She continued talking in the same melancholy, solicitous tone. It was enough to drive a man insane. 10, 15 minutes. They seemed longer than a year, and nothing happened. The poison didn't work. All night, as she lay by my side, I listened to her breathing, and not in this regular, undisturbed, I couldn't sleep. There was a dull ringing in my ears. Why? Why hadn't the poison worked? Suddenly, my flesh began to creep. I was paralyzed with fear. In her sleep, she had clutched my arm, and touched it with all her might. Both her hands locked together, her fingers crossing into my flesh. Try as I might, I couldn't break her grip. And for the remainder of the night, I had to remain thus chained to a creature I both feared and loathed. I deliberately came home later than usual the following evening, hoping to avoid beating the janitor. Perhaps he did suspect something. Perhaps he would attempt to stop me calling the police. I couldn't take that chance. But as I approved the billy, there he was. How are you feeling this evening, Mr. Grissel? Oh, fine. Fine. That's good. Serious terrible weather. I'd be careful on a day like this. If I was you, I'd take me a hot bath and go right to bed. I'll do that. His sudden concern over me made me furious. He was not only a fool, he was absolutely mad, mad and cunning. Determined not to be trapped. I dismissed him as quickly as I could. Once upstairs, I followed the identical procedure of the previous evening. Again, she drank the poison. And again, the poison did not work. Paul, you're hurting me. What are you doing? I must know. Are you sure you feel nothing? Yes. Should I? No weakness, no dizziness, no numbness in the fingers, no shortness of breath, not even sleepy tired? No, Paul. I filled her glass with poison. And the next night, I gave her still more. I gave her doses large enough to kill a hundred people. I experimented with different, more deadly poisons. Mixing stricting sulfate, arsenine trioxide, opium, and follower solution in tremendous quantities. She drank dose after dose. I followed her around the room, watching for the tiniest symptoms. The results were always negative. The poison just did not work. This constant frustration of my plan began to undermine my health. My nerves were completely shattered. I had several dizzy spells that week and a sharp stabbing pain in the region of my heart frequently left me weak and helpless. It was on the seventh day that I had a slight stroke. It happened suddenly as I was watching her drink the seventh glass of poison. Fifty grains and still survive. Oh, Paul, darling, you must have fainted. No, don't pull your hands away, please. Let me massage them. No, I'm all right. Leave me alone. The sixth, Paul. I told you you should see a doctor. No, no, no. Let me up. I'll help you. Give me your arm. No, no. I can manage all by myself. You must do something. I've never seen you looking like this. I'll be all right. Don't, don't you touch me. Why do you hate me so? What have I ever done to you? Ever done to me. As if you didn't know. As if you didn't know. The next day, I walked with difficulty. My prescription blanks were all used up, but I was comforted by one thought. Upstairs in my trunk, I had hidden the largest, most lethal dose of all to work. I was determined that it should. Good evening, Mr. Bercel. I thought you'd never come home. I've been waiting for you for over an hour. Why? I have a message for you. Message? The police were here looking for you. Police? Yeah, they wanted to question you. For the only one reason, my prescription blanks had been traced. This then was to be my last chance, my last opportunity to finish what I had started. Drink your wine, drink it, I say. But it's bitter, Paul. I don't know why it should be, but all week the wine has tasted bitter. It's only your imagination, drink it. Finish it. I can't, Paul. I simply can't. I've had enough, please. For the last time, what you'll do is I say, will you? We drank it. The eighth, the last, the largest dose. She drained the glass and smiled in her usual, perverted manner and remained alive. I feel fine. I don't understand, Paul. Why do you keep asking me all the time and always after I've finished drinking my wine? I had this problem. I couldn't control my thoughts. Perhaps I've been deluding myself all along. Perhaps it wasn't poison at all that I've been feeding her. Perhaps the drug is, all but drug is, had suspected my motive. We substituted some harmless ingredients and then notified the police. They'd all question me closely about the prescriptions. I would explain it. All those drugs were harmless. That would be the only logical explanation. I was determined to find out. I had to know. My fury and desperation, I did not stop to consider the consequences. I poured five grains into a glass and then swallowed the contents. For a while I felt no symptoms and I had a mixed sensation of disappointment and relief. But suddenly, my throat was tight and spastic. I was bathed in cold sweat. My vision was blurred. I knew that I was dying. The irony of the situation nearly drove me insane. She whom I had attempted to kill was still alive and I was going to die. The ax behind the stove won't well a blow. There's a great deal of pain and effort, but it's light and sharp. Trying not to breathe, I crumpled behind her, closer, closer, until I came within striking distance. Now I would even the score. I would die in peace knowing that she too was dead. I lifted the ax and brought it crashing down upon her head. I buried itself on the floor and the impact sent the dishes rattling. And then a dull, ghastly silence. I was too weak to rise. She's dead, I thought. As long as she's dead. My relief was momentary. As I opened my eyes for the last time, I saw her standing over me. Her face distorted. Her body rigid, intense and unscathed. As I lay there, dying, her eyes, her resentful, horrible eyes, were probing, searching, were probing. 3-D. Okay, no answer. He's home, I know he's home. I've been out front all the time. You got your pass, King? Yeah, I think so. Yeah, yeah, here it is. Okay, open up. Is that Vercel? Yeah, yeah, that's him. I guess we got here too late. I was afraid he was up something like that. You think it was poison? Can't tell till the medical examiner gets here. He's been raiding every drugstore in town. Poor Mr. Vercel, he was such a nice man. Up until about 10 months ago, then he went off as rocker. Why, they did it. You got any ideas? Account of his wife, I guess. They were the most devoted couple you ever saw. Crazy about each other. Like they just met. Where is she? His wife, I mean. We'll have to question her. His wife? Oh, she's dead. She died 10 months ago from childbirth. Both she and the kid. And you know something? From that day on, he was never the same. Kept blaming himself. Kept imagining things. Kept imagining she was still alive. He was badly all right. What, enough poison in the last week to kill an army? Poor fella. I guess he wanted to be with her pretty bad. You know, people are going to call this suicide. But me, I'd call it sort of a reunion. You've been listening to Till Death Do Us Parts, starring Sam Gray and written especially for suspense by Ben Kagan. Suspense is produced and directed by Bruno Zirato Jr., music supervision by Ethel Huber. Featured in tonight's story were Elaine Ross, Jim Bowles, Carl Frank, Herb Duncan, Bill Lipton, and Barbara Cassar. Listen again next week when we return with The Imposters, written by Peter Fernandez. Another tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.