Now, the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California presents... Suspense! Tonight, Roma wines bring you the distinguished actor, Mr. Ronald Coleman, in one of the great suspense stories of our time, August Heat. Suspense is presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines. That's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines. Those excellent 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. Before we bring you Ronald Coleman and our suspense play, here's a brief message from Elsa Maxwell, famed for her great charm as a hostess. When food looks appetizing, it almost always lives up to expectations. When even so simple a main dish as a steaming fragrant bowl of spaghetti or beans is surrounded by bright green salads, golden rolls or muffins, and brilliant Roma California burgundy, the food is more enjoyable, more delightful. And for a summery touch of the outdoors, a vase of flowers, perfect color complement to the deep rich beauty of Roma Burgundy. You'll enjoy the fruity, robust taste. The tart piquancy of distinguished Roma Burgundy served cool. Truly a masterpiece of fine winemaking. Like all Roma wines, Roma Burgundy is unburyingly good, always high in quality of bouquet, color and taste. The happy reward of selected grapes brought slowly to perfection, gently pressed, then carefully guided to flavor fullness for the ancient skill of Roma's noted wineries in California's choicest vineyards. Yet all this goodness is yours for only pennies a glass. Remember, more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wine. R-O-M-A, Roma wines. Yes, right now a glass full would be very pleasant, as Roma wines bring you a remarkable tale of suspense. And with August Heat, W.F. Harvey's matchless narrative of premonition and the brooding terror of Twilight and the Unseen, and with the performance of Ronald Coleman, Roma wines hope indeed to keep you in suspense. The Unseen Fenniston Road, Clampham, August 20, 1945. I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life. And while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible. Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Wyverncroft. You must remember that in order to have the full implication of my story. James Clarence Wyverncroft. I'm 40 years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's illness. By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black and white work to satisfy my necessary wants. My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that there is no one in particular to whom I address this manuscript. Only you, who might by chance read it some day. For because of the peculiar circumstance about which you will soon hear, I have the strong premonition that I shall never live to tell anyone about it. I breakfasted this morning at nine at the usual time. It was no different from any other morning. And after glancing through the morning paper, I lighted my pipe, and I proceeded to let my mind wander, in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, the door and window were open, I breakfasted this morning at nine at the usual time. It was no different from any other morning. And after glancing through the morning paper, I lighted my pipe, and I proceeded to let my mind wander, in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, the door and window were open, was oppressively hot, and I just made up my mind to let my mind wander, in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, the door and window were open, was oppressively hot, and I just made up my mind to let my mind wander, and I just made up my mind to let my mind wander, when I was suddenly shaken, a feeling swept over me such as I'd never experienced before. I attempted to rise to my feet, but somehow it seemed as though I had suddenly been fastened to my chair. My hand went out in an effort to brace myself. And then, before I knew what I was doing, my pencil was in my hand, and I began to draw. It was as though someone had taken my hand and was moving it across the paper, swiftly, in bold strokes. And then, I seemed to take over. My hand, under its own power, began to draw. I soon forgot the oppressive heat. Everything was forgotten in this frantic feeling that the sketch must be finished as soon as possible. I had no idea how long I'd worked until I heard the clock of St. Jude's in the distance. It was four o'clock, and I had started just after breakfast. Now, for the first time since I'd begun, I actually seemed to see what I had been sketching. I was surprised. The final result was, I felt sure, the best thing I'd ever done. It showed a criminal in the dark immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat, enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin. It creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean-shaven, or perhaps I should say, a few days before he must have been clean-shaven, and he was almost bald. He stood there before the judge, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse. There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh. And then, and then I saw that the sketch wasn't complete, for the man's other hand seemed to be clutching an instrument of some kind, a weapon, but it hadn't been completed. I had made this sketch, and yet I had no recollection of what I'd intended the man to carry in his other hand. I took up my pencil again, and I attempted to fill in the fuzzy outline, but it was useless. It was as though my fingers had suddenly turned to lead. I sat down, and I felt the moisture slowly forming on my forehead. And once again, I was conscious of the oppressive heat. Then I knew that there would be no finishing of the sketch, at any rate not for the moment, so I rolled it up, and without quite knowing why, I put it in my pocket. In spite of my peculiar inspiration, I was filled with a rare sense of happiness, which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives. I believed that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street, and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road. At the bottom of the hill were the men who were at work on the new tram line. From there onwards, I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went, through parks, along crowded streets, always conscious of the awful heat that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement in a suffocating wave. And I remember, too, the hollow sound of my footsteps as I moved along. After walking aimlessly, I somehow knew that there was a goal, something to which I was drawn. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured clouds that hung low over the western sky. I've really no idea how far I walked when a small boy roused me from my abstraction. You've got the time, mister. Twenty minutes to seven. Thanks. All enough for you, sir? Yes. When he left me, I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth. There were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium, and great numbers of bees droned over them. I stood looking down at them for a moment, and then, for some reason, I looked up. Over the entrance to the place, there was a board with the inscription Charles Atkinson, Monumental Mason, worker in English and Italian marbles. From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows and the cold sound of steel meeting stone. A sudden impulse made me enter, and I went in in the direction of the noise. There was a man sitting with his back towards me. He was busy at work on a slab of curiously-painted marble. Then, without turning, his hammer stopped in midair as he was about to bring it down on his chisel. He held his position a moment before turning, but I knew that he was aware of my presence, and when he turned, I saw his face. It was, although I'd never seen him before, it was the face of the man I had been drawing. Yes, it was the face of the man whose sketch was in my pocket. He sat there on his lowest tool, huge in elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, not speaking. Then he took a red-soaked handkerchief and he mopped his brow. Although this face that looked up at me was the same as my sketch, the expression was absolutely different. Suddenly the puzzled expression left his face, and he smiled as if we were old friends, and he walked over and he took my hand. Good day, sir. Good day. I am sorry to intrude. Not at all. Everything is so hot and glary outside. This is like an oasis in the wilderness. I don't know about an oasis, but it certainly is hot. Take a seat, sir. He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down. Very hot. That's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of. In a way it is. The surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there's a big flaw at the back. Oh, I don't expect you'd notice it. Oh, I shouldn't think so. I could never really do a good job at a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this. Wouldn't mind a blasted heat. Wait until the winter comes. Winter? There's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone. A gravestone, you see. Oh, I see. Then what's this one for? You'd hardly believe if I was to tell you, but it's for exhibition. It's the truth. Artists have exhibitions, so do grocers and butchers. Oh, we have them too. All the latest little things in Edstowns, you know. He went on to talk of marbles, which sort of marble best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work. Then of his garden and some new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute, he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head. This heat. This heat's bad. A man's not responsible for what he does in this heat. I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny in all of this, the feeling that I'd experienced it all before. The oppressive heat, the fragrance of the stucks in the air, the conversation about the marble, the flowers, everything as though I had experienced it before. And yet I knew that I'd never ever been in this section of town before. I tried to persuade myself that at least I'd seen him before. That his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory. But I knew that I was practicing little more than a plausible piece of self-deception. As I sat there quietly watching him, he looked up at me and he said... There! What do you think of that? He said it with an air of evident pride, of a job well done. I could sense that he was experiencing the same feeling I had experienced when I'd finished my sketch. Then he got up with a sigh of relief. Hot! Hot, ain't it? I was seated in such a position that I was unable to see his work. And for some reason, I didn't move. Suddenly, he began to read what he'd carved on the tombstone. He spoke deliberately and with a flat voice. In the midst of life, we are in death. Born January 18, 1905. I looked up at the start. This man had read my exact birthday. He passed away very suddenly on August 20, 1945. That's today. We usually use the present date on these exhibition staves. Do you... Do you usually put a name on them too? Yes, yes. Sacred to the memory of James Clarence Wythencroft. Cold shudders swept over me, and I sat there in silence. The sound of birds and crickets seemed loud in my ears as we stood there, looking at each other, saying nothing. Then he mopped his brow again. Hot! Hot! I was finally able to speak. Where... where did you see that name? Oh, I didn't see it anywhere. I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine. Huh? That's your name? You're James Clarence... Wythencroft. Yes. Well... Whew! And the dates? I can only answer for the birth date. It's correct. Oh! That's a rum, girl. I made a sketch this morning... of you. Of me? But you've never seen me before. No. Oh. Oh. I took my sketch from my pocket and I showed it to him. As he looked, the expression on his face altered, until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn. And it was only the other day before that I told Moriah there were no such things as ghosts. Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant. Then I spoke to him. You... you probably heard my name someplace. Yes. You must have seen me somewhere and forgotten it. Yes. Yes. Were you at Clacton on sea last July? No. No. I've never been to Clacton in my life. Oh. And we were silent for some time again. And we stood there looking at one another and at the two dates on the gravestone. And the birth, one was right, and the other was today. Well, come inside and have some supper. His wife was a strange little woman who was pallid with the look of those who lived their lives indoors. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist, and he informed her that I was staying to supper. I spoke, making some comment that I hoped I wouldn't be an intrusion, and she looked up at me and she said, You have a pleasing voice, Mr. Withencroft, and you're welcome in my home. I'm sorry Charles has not brought you here before. Very little was said during the meal, and after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she walked over to her cupboard, and she took down a thin black book, and as she handed it to me, she spoke. Would you read aloud, Mr. Withencroft? Puzzled, I looked down at the book which she'd opened and placed before me. It was a very tiny book, The Prophet, it was called, by an author run known to me with a strange Eastern name, Carlyle Gibran, and my eyes fell across the page, and suddenly I was reading aloud as she'd asked me to. Then Nalmitra spoke, saying, We would ask now of death, and he said, You would know the secret of death, but how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life, for life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond. Unlike seeds dreaming beneath the snow, your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd, when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honor. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling. For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance. When I looked up, Mr. Atkinson had gone, but his wife stood before me, and as she took the book, she spoke. Thank you. Then I went outside, and I found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone and smoking. He looked up at me. Hot, hot. Man's not responsible for what he might do in this heat. She never'd asked anyone to read aloud before. And then we talked about the sketch again. He looked at it. Likeness is me, all right. On trial. You must excuse my asking, but do you know anything you've done for which you could be put on trial? No, I've done nothing. Not yet. He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and he began to water the flowers. Twice a day, regular, in the hot weather. And then he'd sometimes get the better of the delicate ones, and ferns. Good Lord, they could never stand it. Where do you live? I told him my address. It would take an hour's quick walk to get back home. And he stopped watering, and he faced me squarely. It's like this. We look at the matter straight. If you both go back home tonight, you'd take your chance of accidents. A carp may turn over you. It's always banana skins and orange peels. They say nothing of falling ladders. He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh. The best thing we can do is for you to stay here till 12 o'clock. Then it'll be tomorrow, do you see? Yes. We'll go upstairs and smoke. It may be cooler inside. And to my surprise, I agreed. We are sitting in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while. And as I look at my sketch before me, I suddenly see the fuzzy outline of what the man in the picture holds in his hands. But while I had not been able to sketch it before, I am able to do so now. It is a chisel. And it is stained with dark liquid. The sketch is completed now. The air seems charged with thunder. And I hear it in the distance. It is ominous, but it carries the hope of rain. Perhaps this damnable heat will be broken soon, and the day will soon be over. It is close to twelve. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked. And Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel. There. It is twelve. The day is over. And I shall be going home. But the heat, the heat is tifling. This heat is enough to send a man mad. And so closes August Heat, in which Roma wines have brought you Ronald Coleman as star of tonight's study in Suspense. Suspense is produced, edited, and directed by William Spear. Music for August Heat was composed by Lucian Morrowick and conducted by Lutte Gluskin. Dennis Hoy appeared as Atkinson. This is Truman Bradley with a word for Roma Wines, the sponsor of Suspense. And so closes August Heat, in which Roma wines have brought you Ronald Coleman as star of tonight's study in Suspense. Suspense is produced, edited, and directed by William Spear. Music for August Heat was composed by Lucian Morrowick and conducted by Lutte Gluskin. Dennis Hoy appeared as Atkinson. This is Truman Bradley with a word for Roma Wines, the sponsor of Suspense. America's famed authority on hospitality, Elson Maxwell, recently made this suggestion for gracious entertainment. Your friends will respect your good taste when you serve delightful Roma California Toque, enjoyable at any time, with coffee or dessert, with nuts and fruit. I suggest serving Roma Toque cool. A most timely suggestion for Miss Maxwell. You'll find flame-bright Roma Toque velvety smooth, moderately sweet, light, yet delightfully rich in color, and you'll find Roma wines always delicious of unvarying fine quality and goodness. June is the month of weddings, and the most distinguished way to pay the June bride is by serving Roma California Champagne. Its gold and sparkle and delicious delightful dryness tell you that here is a truly fine champagne, Roma Champagne. Next time you plan for a special occasion, add this sparkling touch of perfection, good Roma Champagne. Next Thursday you will hear John Payne and Frank McHugh as stars of Suspense. presented by Roma Wines, R-O-M-A, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
