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. Ten 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. Paul, 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 why every thought in misjudging my hate is 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. I'm not 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. There's 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. Namely, 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 vague, 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, hopelessly trapped. Doomed 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. But was it? If she were out of the way, if she should suddenly die, if I killed her? I don't know when 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 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? 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 ten 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? One of the leads isn't working. All right. 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 had been waiting for just such a moment to be alone in a doctor's office within easy reach of blank prescriptions. The prescription pad lay on the table right at my elbow. I tore off a batch of blanks and stuffed them into my pocket. The rest was relatively easy. A reference book in the library, bad handwriting, then the pharmacy, and 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'll have a seat, I'll... This prescription is for you. Naturally. Why do you ask? It calls for 30 capsules of morphine sulfate. Was it 30? I didn't know. Yes. May I ask why the doctor prescribes such a... Why 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 mean... Well, 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. I'm sorry if I sounded suspicious into the woman, but we must be careful, you know. The law is very strict about this. Morphine sulfate is a sedative, as you say, but it 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, I don't blame you in the least. I'm sorry I've lost my temper. You're only doing your job. Exactly. I'm glad you understand, Mr. Bowman. 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 it, Mr. Bowman? Yes. I'll wait. At last I had it. Now, during the course of the evening, perhaps while she was in the kitchen, all I had to do was slip the poison into her food. Maybe even 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. Purcell. How are you feeling? Oh, fine, fine. Thank you. That's good. Glad to hear it. I'm glad you're feeling okay, Mr. Purcell. 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'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, but you see, I've got 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. Purcell. I know how these things are. I could feel the pulsations of my heart in every fiber of my body as I climbed the three flights of stairs to our apartment on the top floor. 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's 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 ten 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 drink your wine? I will. Well, drink it now. I will, Paul. 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. Oh, dear. 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, Paul, really. Will you do it, I say? Will you drink that wine? All right, Paul. You really want me to. There's no reason to be angry. There. Are you satisfied? I was more than 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. Ten, fifteen 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, monotonous, regular, undisturbed. I couldn't sleep. There was a dull ringing in my ears. Why? Why hadn't the poison worked? Suddenly my, my flesh began to creep. I was paralyzed for fear. In her sleep, she had clutched my arm, clutched it with all her might. Both her hands locked together, her fingers pressing 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 meeting the janitor. Perhaps he did suspect something. Perhaps he would attempt to stop me, call the police. I couldn't take that chance. But as I approached the building, there he was. How are you feeling this evening, Mr. Griselle? Oh, fine. Fine. That's good. Sure is 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. Fool. His sudden concern over me made me furious. He was not only a fool, he was absolutely mad, mad and cunning. But I was calm, 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. No numbness in the fingers? No. No shortness of breath? No. Not even sleepy tired? No, Paul. No. I've told you a hundred times. Why do you ask? What do you want to know? It can't be. It is impossible. Where, where have I failed? The following night, 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 stricken sulfate, arsenic trioxide, opium and fowler 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. You're sick, 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? What have 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. It had to work. I was determined that it shouldn't. Good evening, Mr. Bersall. 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. The police were after me. There could be 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, would you do as I say, would you? Paul, you're hurting me. She drank it. The eighth, the last, the largest dose. She drained the glass and smiled in her usual furtive manner and remains alive. I feel fine. I don't understand, Paul. Why do you keep asking me all the time? And always after I finished drinking my wine. My head was pounding. I couldn't control my thoughts. Perhaps I'd been deluding myself all along. Perhaps it wasn't poison at all that I'd been feeding her. Perhaps the drugists, all the drugists had suspected my motive and 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. In 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. 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. No, no, I won't let her live. It's still not too late. If I can just crawl to the kitchen, the axe behind the stove, one well aimed blow. I took a great deal of pain and effort, but at last I had it. I passed. It was heavy, sharp. Slowly, trying not to breathe, I crept 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 axe and brought it crashing down upon her head. The blade 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. At long last, 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, tense and unscathed. As I lay there dying, her eyes, her resentful, horrible eyes were probing, searching, reproaching. I'm sorry for you, Paul. Very sorry. But perhaps it's better this way. If you must know, this is what I really wanted you to do all along. I planned it this way from the beginning. You know that now, don't you, Paul? You know that now, don't you? That's it, officer. Up ahead. Parkman 3-D. Okay. No answer. He's home. I know he's home. I've been out front all the time. You got your passkey? Yeah, I think so. Yeah, yeah, here it is. Okay, open up. Is that Purcell? Yeah, yeah, that's him. I guess we got here too late. I was afraid he was up to something like that. You think it was poison? Can't tell until the medical examiner gets here. He's been raiding every drugstore in town. Poor Mr. Purcell. He was such a nice man. Up until about ten months ago, then he went off his rocker. Why do you think he did it? You got any ideas? On account of his wife, I guess. They were the most devoted couple you ever saw. Crazy about each other. Like they'd just met. Where is she? His wife, I mean. We'll have to question her. His wife? Oh, she's dead. She died ten 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. Wasn't 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. Suspense. 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 Zarrato Jr., music supervision by Ethel Huber. Featured in tonight's story were Elaine Ross, Jim Bowles, Karl Frank, Herb Duncan, Bill Lipton, and Barbara Kassar. Listen again next week when we return with The Imposters, written by Peter Fernandez. Another tale well calculated to keep you in... Suspense.
