And now, a tale well calculated to keep you in... Suspense. A tale of two men who are one. In just a moment, Stranger with My Face, starring Bernard Grant, and written especially for suspense by Alan Sloan. Now it's Pepsi for those who think young. So you're walking along the street, minding your own business, except for an occasional glance and an occasional pretty girl. But it isn't the occasion ever has been, ever will be, so what's the use? Sufficient unto the day is the boredom thereof, and why, oh why, oh why, doesn't something happen? So you might as well stop at the newsstand and pick up the papers, grab the usual quick one at the usual bar, text... Look out, mister, look out! Anybody got the taxi's license? Oh, oh... Give him air. Come on, give him room, he's coming too. Easy, easy, Mr. Hill, let me help you to the curb. Gee, talk about your close calls, mister. Hey, what, what happened? Where am I? Where's my hat? Now what happened? You was reaching for the papers I was handing you, the mob shoved you in, the taxi sideswiped you. If I was you, I'd go straight to the doctor and see if everything's still in the right place. But, but, but this isn't my hat. Well, believe me, mister, it's the one that come with the head you're still wearing. Fine way to start the day. Yeah, ain't it though, it's a real close... Start the day? Mister, you sure you're all right? Those are the evening papers. And you owe me 14 cents. 14? Since when? Times and trips, seven apiece like any evening paper. The times and trips, you're in the morning papers. Not in Chicago, mister. So there you are in a strange city, with a lot of strangers minding your business. And a strange sound of the police whistles. And a strange big star in the cop's uniforms. And strange names on the buses, Boulevard, Halsted, State. No, no, no, what you need is something familiar to cling to, like a shot glass of purple. So up the street you find a tavern. You sit down at its totally strange bar. And a totally strange bartender greets you with... Evening, sir. Your usual. My usual? What's that? Always a kiddie. There's scotch on the rocks, soda on the side. Your impulse is to say I hate scotch. But you don't say it. Something, now that you've discovered where you are. Chicago, something makes you want to know when you are. The newspapers will tell you. July 13th, 1961. Yes, sir, all day. Scotch or no Scotch, you make it do. You spike the warmth of the stuff clawing its way down. The taste it leaves is like old iron in your mouth. You lift a glass of soda. The bartender moves away. And a stranger in the mirror drops his glass. I'll clean that up, Mr. Morris. Bartender. Look, don't think I'm drunk, but... Do you know me? Do I know you? What do you mean, do I know you? Do you know who I am? My name. Why, sure, Mr. Morris. You're Mr. Morris, one of my regulars. Mr. Morris, one of your regulars. Well, tell me, what's my first name? Why, I've heard your friends, sir. I've heard them call you... Ah, Mr. Morris, you're joking. No, no, no, no. My first name, please. Why, they call you Chuck. I guess it must be Charles. Look, Mr. Morris, if you're not feeling well, I... Wait, wait, wait. When I sat down, you asked me if I... If I wanted the usual. And you served me... Scotch, like always. How long, as always? Why, let's see, it must be two, three years you've been coming in... nearly every day around this time, and it's always Scotch on the rock, soda on the side. Two, three years. And this is Chicago? Yes, sir. July 13th, 1961? Yes, sir, all day. Yeah, very funny. Would you like to hear something really funny? Very, very funny. Why, sure, Mr. Morris, anything for a laugh. Then laugh at this! As far as I know, this isn't Chicago, it's New York. It isn't July, 1961, it's March, 1957. Now, listen, Mr. Morris... And it's morning, it's not evening! But funniest of all, my name is Amaris. And it isn't Chuck for Charles, it's Walters. Edward Eddie Ed Walters! And this'll kill you. You will die laughing. That isn't me in the mirror. I never saw that face before in my life. Up the street is a cheap hotel. Where they don't care what name you register under. But the face in the mirror upstairs is still a stranger's. With its gray hair, heavy-rimmed eyeglasses and mustache. Impossible. Impossible. Who am I? An hour later you're on a jet for New York. And as it arches across the miles of Manhattan, things begin to come back. Accepted there's something missing. Somewhere, something you almost don't want to remember. Try as you may. Let's see, let's see, let's see. Let's take it from the top. That morning you left your apartment. Morning, Mr. Walters. Nice day for Don Rain, huh? Morning, Frank. Going on a little trip, huh, sir? How'd you know? I seen the bags, that's all. Oh. Well, look, Frank. Yes, sir? If anybody calls this morning, don't let them disturb Mrs. Walters. She isn't feeling so well. Right. And if anybody asks about me, well, frankly, I'm sneaking off to Florida to play golf and fish, you know. Shut up. But if anybody asks, I'm out of town on a business trip. You don't know where I am or when I'm coming back, right? Sure thing. Hey, gee, thanks, Mr. Walters. With that kind of dough, I've never even seen you in my life. So far all clear. Camp to Grand Central Station, all clear. Train to Chicago, heading ultimately for... heading for... Los Angeles? Portland? Vegas? No, no, that you can't recall. Or for the life of you, why you left. After seven years. Seven years with the wrong woman. And her men. And her bottles. And her yakity yakity yakity yak. But still, you can't really remember much beyond arriving in Chicago and walking down a dark street. Wait, wait, it's all coming back now. Mr. Yes? You got a cigarette? Ah, well, sure. Here, help yourself. Thanks. Match? Oh, yes, yes, yes. Oh, wait a minute. Here, here's my lighter. Thanks a million. Yes. Nice lighter. Yes. Expensive. Look, if you don't mind... I'll take the satchels, too. Boy, this is an outrage. Nah, just a stickup. Don't make waves. Put them up and keep them up. How in the night over that night in Chicago it comes back, his hard expert hands going over you. Finding your wallet, finding your watch, taking every last penny, taking your train tickets, cleaning you up, holding the gun on you while he stopped for your bags, and then... I don't like you, mister. Turn around. Please, I'm a stranger here in town. I don't know a soul here. Ah, shut up. That must have been when it began. A slugging in the dark. And an awakening to find you had nothing to remember yourself by. When a stranger found you in his parking lot come morning. Are you all right? I think so. Oh, no. Oh, my head. Let's have a look. You're lucky you're alive, man. You've been mugged pretty good. Look, I tell you what. My office is next door. Suppose you come in and get cleaned. No, no, no. I... I was going someplace. But I can't remember. All right. If it isn't too much trouble. Nonsense. You do the same for me. You'll feel better with some coffee and a shave. Come on. On your feet, fella. Oh, by the way, my name is Shaw. Clippard Shaw. I'm in real estate. Well, I'm... I'm... My name is Morris. Charles Morris. Oh. Oh, I get it. Morris for that building across the street. Charles for the station. Well, it doesn't matter, fella. I'll still stake you to a breakfast. No, no, no. You don't understand. I don't know my name. I don't know where I am. Or who I am. Or anything. I just don't remember. Anything. And that, as the jet winds into its glide path for Idlewild, is all you can piece together about how you became Chuck for Charles Morris. How he made a new life. Who helped. What he did. All gone. And as useless to you now as yesterday's newspaper. What you want is to find out the state of the life of the man you really are, Ed Walters. The state of the life and the state of the wife of. Home. Where the times and the trips start the day are morning papers. Uh, should you phone first? No, no. She's probably not home yet. No, not this morning. Four years ago. Better, better just walk in on her. Surprise, Helen. Surprise. Taxi! Same lobby. New elevators. Automated. buttons to press. You press 14. Three. What did you read once about amnesia? Five. Nature's healing way of helping the mind forget. Seven. Forget something the mind recoils from remembering. Eight. Seven. Eight. Forget something the mind recoils from remembering. Nine. A knock on the head is only the trigger to forgetting. Eleven. What did you want to forget? Fourteen. Blade cold. Just the truth. You've been sick. You've been away. But you're better now. Buy guns and all that. When you start, Helen, and when she opens the door, smile, smile. She used to like your smile. Now, 14C. Why didn't you think of flowers, stupid? Yes? I'm sorry. I was expecting someone else. Maybe you've got the wrong apartment. This is 14C. No, no, no. It's all right. Some friends of mine used to live here. I've been away. I realize it sounds silly, but instead of phoning first, I wanted to surprise them. I'm sorry to have embarrassed you. We all do silly things. Maybe I can help you. Well, I don't see how. Well, the superintendent readdresses the mail when people move. Maybe they left a forwarding address. I'll call it. She leaves the door open. You can see the familiar hall, the jog that leads into the living room. And suddenly, suddenly you want to get away. Why? You don't know. You can't remember. You don't want to remember. But it's too late. Well, I think I can help you. Well, you're really very kind. I hate to trouble you. Oh, heaven's no trouble. The way people move around in this town, it's a wonder anybody finds anybody and tear things down. Only last week I had them... The address, please. I'm sorry. It's 695 East 53rd Street. East 53rd. Mr. and Mrs. Porter. Was that the name? Porter. Yes. Thank you so much. Thanks for nothing. Porter. Walter's Mrs. Edward Jay. No, no, no, no, no. Wait a minute. She could have moved out after you left. Sure. Why keep up that big place by yourself? Yes, she moved. And the Pointers took the apartment. Dead end. What now? Downtown to the office to pick up right where you left off? What for the same old grind? Cook up the deals, swing the deals, foul up the deals, and worse... Walk around wondering when you're going to run into her with another man. The way you... The way... Wait a minute. Porter. Porter. No, no, no. Must be a new one. And maybe she married him. Why, sure. Sure, that's it. She's married again. Grab your hat, Mrs. Porter. Here comes Charlie. No. Ed. I'm getting mixed up again. 695 East. Ooh, coming up in the world, by golly. Remodeled brownstone and all that. $75,000 worth of decorating on a $25,000 frame. I wonder what he does, this Porter. Well, you'll find out. Yes? Mrs. Porter? Yes? I, uh... I wonder if you can help me. I was given your name and address by the superintendent of the apartment house you used to live in. Just a moment. May I ask who you are? Do you have any identification? Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me. Here's my card. Charles Morris, real estate. Chicago? What's this all about? It's a legal matter, Mrs. Porter. You see, my firm represents an estate in Chicago. Very complicated holding. Chicago, Washington, New York. I see. Well, to make a long story short, we can't seem to locate the Walters. Mrs. Walters, to be specific, who lived in your apartment. 14C before you. I still don't understand. You see, Mrs. Walters is one of the people whose signature my firm needs to clear up the estate, uh, New York-wise. Oh. Well, how can I help you? Anything you might tell me about them. Do you know by any chance where they went after they moved out of 14C? Of course not. All we were given to understand by the real estate agent was some kind of trouble between them. Oh, trouble? Well, would you know... No, just trouble. If you really want to find out, go to the police. Well, I don't know. I'd hate to do that. Yes, I'll bet you would. The nerve of you coming here like this. I think I know what the trouble was between the Walters. Men like you ought to be put away. Dead end. One avenue left open, friends, the bets, the markers, the parents. They might know, they might help. But then again, they might not. Who would know? Who would know? Who would help? Something happened back there in 57, back there in 14C. Who would know? I should think you'd go to the police. Maybe she had something there. The real estate story is your best card. Yes, sir? Missing persons? Like on the door. Can I help you, sir? Well, I hope so. You see, it's rather complicated. Aren't they all? Sit down, sit down. My name is Charles Morris. I'm from Chicago. Here's my card. Real estate? Yes, sir. My firm is involved in an estate problem, but some of the titles of the individual parcels aren't clear. Now, there's a Mrs. Edward Walters. Walters, right. Middle initial J. Listed as one of the title holders of a problem parcel. We just can't seem to find it. No, I've checked the former addresses, friends. Can't look here. Just dropped out of sight. Happens every day. So I thought it might simplify matters before engaging a private investigator if I came to you. All right, let's throw a check into it. Sam. Another cop at a typewriter swings around. Sam, give me a search on Walters, Mrs. Edward J. What's her first name? Oh, that would be Helen. Try Mrs. Edward J., then try Helen. You take the wanteds, I'll take the missing. What's that, Sergeant? Sometimes a missing person is wanted for some crime somewhere, so we file them both in here. Oh, I see. But I doubt... Well, you never can tell. Never hurts to make sure. I'm going to take a minute to double-check. Vajkowski, Wald, Wallace, Walsh, Walton, Walter...Walter? Walters, with an S. Walters. Nope. Nobody here by that name, Mr... Morris. Yeah. Nothing under Walters with an S. Sorry. Let me see what Sam's got under the water. Oh, that's all right, Sergeant. I suppose I'll just have to... Hold your horses. We might have something here. Well, I'm a little pressed for time. I said hold on a minute, Mr. Well, all right. You sit there with two New York cops minding your business, and you want to run? The way the sergeant said, hold on a minute, that was no request, that was a... a command. What a fool thing to do. What a fool place to come to. What if...what if Helen had done something wrong and you had to pay for it now? They're looking at you. The sergeant and the other cop. The younger cop's coming toward you. Passing you. Going to the door. He's stopping. You want to turn, but... Mr. Morris. Yes? We find a card here. Yes? Walters is the name. With an S? With an S, yeah. Mrs. Edward Walters? No, sir. Mr. Oh, well, that's a step in the right direction. I'll look him up. You don't understand, Mr. Morris. This is a wanted. Let me read it to you. Well, I don't think that's necessary. You see, we're not interested in Mr. Walters at all. We are. It says here Walters, Edward J., age 38. How old are you, Mr. Morris? 35? Height, 5'11", hair, black, weight. Well, I don't have to go through the whole thing. There's a picture. No mustache, no glasses, no crude cut, but even so... It says something else on the card. You don't know what it says on the card? One word. One word, Mr. Walters. All right. I'm Walters. But I've had amnesia. I really was Charles Morris for four years. I just wanted to find my wife. I can't remember anything. What does it say on the card? You had amnesia? That's a weird story. How can you make him believe you? I'm not a doctor. I'm a doctor. How can you make him believe you? Or Sam, the other cop standing with his back to the door. You turn, and you are looking straight into a police positive, 38. And it is looking straight at you, and it is not wobbling. But everything else is... is getting wobbly. It's hazy. Strange. Forget-ish. Your head. What's happening? You'll never find your wife, Mr. Walters. It says here you're wanted for murder. Hers. Now come along quiet, Mr. Walters. That's best. Sam, mind the storm. Now I know. What do you know? Well, I was trying to forget. I killed her. Yeah. That's what it says here. Where? On the card. Dad, you better not forget. On the card. Dad, you better not talk. Anything you say, Mr. Walters. Walters? Come on. Let's go down the hall. You called me Walters. Walters. Morris. Have it your way. But who is Walters? My name is Morris. Sure it is. Put the collar on him, Sam. Let the head shrinkers figure this one out. Look. My card. I'm Chuck Morris, Chicago. Where? What city is this? What do you want with me? Why do you call me Walters? What do you want with me? My name is Morris. Morris. Morris. Morris. Suspense. You've been listening to Stranger with My Face starring Bernard Grant and written especially for suspense by Alan Sloan. In a moment the names of our players and a word about next week's story of suspense. Boy, am I glad this day's over. My athlete's foot is killing me. Itches and stings. Hey, try NP-27. Really worked for me. NP-27 treatment roots out athlete's foot, penetrates below skin surface where other remedies can't reach even into toenails. NP-27 liquid stops it, relieves pain, promotes healthy tissue. NP-27 powder guards against new infection. NP-27 treatment roots out athlete's foot or your druggist will refund your money. Suspense is produced and directed by Bruno Zorotto Jr. Listen again next week when we return with You Can Die Laughing written by Robert Arthur. Another tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. First word and speed, the last word and accuracy expanded CBS News on the CBS Radio Network.
