Sorry, Wrong Number Page #7

I remember one day in particular.

It was about a year later.

I had an idea that I thought...

I hoped might help the situation.

It's the first steps on your left.

Shall I open...

- I have the key right here.

- Very good, sir.

- This way, Leona.

- Don't you think it's about time...

you let me in on this

jolly little secret?

- Let me show you first.

- Just a minute.

If it's another apartment,

I don't want it.

But you haven't even seen it.

It's really something.

It has terraces all the way around,

a 45-foot living room, a bar.

I've told you a thousand times,

we don't need an apartment.

It isn't an apartment

I'm looking for, Leona.

What I want is a home...

a home of our own.

We just can't go on living

with your father forever.

I don't see why not.

There's plenty of room,

it's comfortable. I like it.

Besides, who's going to pay

for this little thing?

- Well, I hope eventually I will.

- Eventually.

In the meantime it's my money. I'm

the one who's going to pay for it.

You're so naive. You're like

a little boy with a box of candy.

I can't just throw my money away

on everything you happen to see.

- There's a limit.

- Sure there's a limit.

I'm supposed to follow you around

like a pet dog tied to a chain.

I'm supposed to like whatever

crumbs you want to throw me.

- Don't be ridiculous.

- You've got me sewed up 16 ways...

for three meals a day

and pocket money.

That's all you married me for...

my money.

- I should've known it.

- Stop it, Leona.

Let's not go to pieces.

Please, will you listen to me?

You hate me. You're bored with me.

All you want to do is get away.

Okay, I'm bored... bored stiff.

Who wouldn't be...

with that neat little routine

you've got cooked up for me?

What do I do but

keep running back and forth...

between that rotten office

and that stuffy house of yours?

What do I have? Nothing.

Nothing of my own.

Not even the studs on my shirt

nor the matches in my pocket.

How can you say this to me?

Remember? You told me once

I'd love this kind of life.

Do you wanna know something? I do

love it now more than you'll ever know.

I wanna be my own boss,

profiting by every bit of it.

Not just a stooge on the outside

looking in. Get it?

- Get me some water, quick.

- It isn't I wanna be without you.

I could love you still,

if only you'd try to understand.

I feel ill.

I came to know her better,

of course, after a while.

I held my temper in better

about everything.

But even so, no matter

how hard I tried...

her attacks increased in violence

and became more and more frequent.

Sometimes it was just some

little thing that'd set her off.

And then, I guess

it was about a year ago...

she just seemed to give up hope

of ever getting well...

and took to her bed

more or less permanently.

When we left for New York,

Dr. Vernet in Chicago...

told me she didn't have

much of a chance.

Since then it's been more

and more like a nightmare.

I don't know exactly how

to tell you this, Mr. Stevenson.

It will probably be

quite a shock to you.

But if you wanna know

the truth about your wife.

There's nothing wrong

organically with her heart.

It's sound as a bell.

I've examined her thoroughly.

Your evidence confirms what

I thought all along.

- That is?

- Her condition is mostly mental.

She's what we call

a cardiac neurotic.

Her attacks don't spring

from any physical weaknesses.

They're brought on by her emotions,

her temper and her frustrations.

The whole thing is probably

quite unconscious on her part.

The pattern was laid out

by her father.

The mother died

of heart failure.

He was always so sure

the child was affected to.

Subconsciously, she learned to deceive

him... simulate a false condition.

Marriage continued the process.

I'm sorry.

It must have caught.

I hope I didn't

break anything.

That's all right.

The number plate snapped off.

That's all.

Of course, I'm not saying

that your wife isn't a sick woman.

Mentally she's very sick

and her attacks are real enough.

They give her acute distress,

even pain.

Given proper psychiatric treatment,

she may snap out of it entirely.

Live on for years and years.

Thank you very much, Mr. Stevenson.

You've been most helpful.

I'll call Mrs. Stevenson tomorrow.

There's a psychiatrist she should see.

Just a minute.

I wish you could wait a few more

days, Doctor. Could you?

- I'd like to think this over.

- Think it over?

Well, yes, you see,

she's so easily upset...

I think maybe I ought to prepare

her... get her used to the idea.

Well, naturally

it will be quite a shock.

Perhaps a few days more or less

won't matter very much.

Maybe you can write a letter. Might

make it easier for her to take...

and it would give me

more time to talk to her.

Well, it's an extremely

delicate matter, Mr. Stevenson.

But if you think you can manage it,

let's try it that way.

Give me a ring in a couple of days.

I'll write a letter to your wife.

Thanks, Doctor.

Thank you very much for everything.

That's just the way I left it

with him, not two weeks ago.

I simply don't understand because

I wrote you as we planned on...

let me see now...

a week ago last Friday.

I'll call you back

later tonight.

Now just try to

lie back and relax.

I believe I prescribed a sedative

for you, didn't I?

Well, then just double the dose.

Hello?

Hello, Mrs. Stevenson.

Hello?

Liars, liars, liars!

Liars, liars, liars!

- Hello?

- Mrs. Stevenson?

This is Mr. Evans.

Has Mr. Stevenson come in yet?

No, he hasn't.

He won't be back till Sunday.

Will you please, please, Mr. Evans,

tell me what this is all about?

Why are you calling him

every five minutes? Who are you?

I've already told you,

Mrs. Stevenson.

My name is Evans...

Waldo Evans.

I'm very sorry

if I've annoyed you...

but there are certain

names and addresses...

that are important... very important

for Mr. Stevenson to know.

So, if you'll be good enough

to take the following message...

What are you talking about?

I can't take any messages now!

If you'll please tell Mr. Stevenson

the house at 20 Dunstan Terrace...

has been burned down.

I burned it down.

Also please tell

Mr. Stevenson...

that I do not believe

it was Mr. Morano...

the name is spelled

M-O-R-A-N-O...

who betrayed us

to the police...

as Mr. Morano has

already been arrested.

So there's no necessity

for the money now.

- Morano? Who's Morano?

- Thirdly...

will you please tell Mr. Stevenson

that I escaped...

and I'm now

at the Manhattan address.

However, I do not expect

to be here after midnight.

If he wishes to find me,

he may call the number...

Bowery 2-1000.

I believe that's all. If you'll be

so good as to read it back to me.

Read it back to you?

Are you insane?

Don't you realize

I'm a terribly sick woman?

I'm very sorry for you,

Mrs. Stevenson.

Perhaps it would be

better to tell you...

before the true facts

are garbled...

by the police.

It happened on the second Monday

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