 This is Orson Welles, speaking from London. There is a warehouse of souvenirs, where ordinary objects, a briar-root pipe, a dingy white glove, a lump of twisted ceiling wax, all have a history of murder. This length of sash cord is quite commonplace. You might see something like this in any window frame. Harmless-looking bit of rope, it seems so. Frayed at one end, cut all cleanly at the other. Just the right length to hook around a man's neck and twist. The sash cord can be seen in the black museum. The station department of the London police. We bring you the dramatic stories of the crimes recorded by the objects in Scotland Yards. Octavia Kenmore, actress-manager, was concluding her acting. The alley of that theatre was like any other, a corridor of darkness between the street and the stage door. One September evening, a man came running out of the shadows, startling the doorkeeper who sat dosing in his chair. Mr Carter, what's the trouble, sir? You'll find out soon enough. St. John Carter here, Mercury Theatre. Send an ambulance quickly. There's been an accident. One of our stagehands, he's lying unconscious in the alley. Hurry, please. Yes. One of the cast, Mr Carter. Who is he? Tell me. It's Buckland. I can't bring him round. I try. If Buckland, oh, Miss Kenmore, will be terribly distressed, stage carpenter with her for 20 years. I dare say she will. Hadn't we better go and lift him in, sir? Perhaps something could be done. No, no. It's better not to move him till the doctor comes. It may be serious. We wouldn't want to injure him, you know. A man found dead or dying. A phone call. Then the waiting. Over the crumpled figures stood old Tom Snellon, doorkeeper, and St. John Carter. Leading man. Waiting. Waiting until an ambulance drew up at an intern came to the other side, Jeff Buckland. Which one of you called us? I did. You said the man was unconscious. I looked to be. I'm no physician. This man's dead. Shot through the heart. You'd have done much better to have called the police. Police arrived and actors coming into the evening performance were questioned. The star of the play in the theatre earliest was her customers left undisturbed. The constable at the door admitted a young plain clothesman. Inspector Mitchell. Yes, Jordan? One of the men found this, sir. Hidden under some rubbish in the alley. 32 caliber. Thank you. Oh, Mr. Ellis. Attention now focused on David Ellis, stage manager in Miss Kenmore's troupe. Ever seen this pistol, Mr. Ellis? Well, yes. It's the one we use in the play. I keep it in my desk. Oh, the usual license for it. What sort of ammunition do you have? For blank cartridges, of course. 32 blanks. It's not loaded with blanks now. Bullets. And one chamber has been fired. I must warn you, Ellis. Anything you say, henceforth, will be written down and may be used as evidence. What? You mean you're arresting Dave? But you can't. He never hurt anyone. Who are you, young lady? Miss Kenmore's secretary. My wife, Inspector. Please, Lucy. But this is... when, Inspector, you don't understand. Jeff was our friend. He's been... well, like a father to both of us. And while you stand here wasting time, the real murder is getting farther away. That won't do, Lucy. I take it there's been some trouble. Please, sir, state your business and then leave. I can't have my theatre disrupted 15 minutes before curtain time. Oh, Miss Kenmore! Now, Lucy, control yourself. Will someone be good enough to tell me what has happened? Certainly, Miss Kenmore. I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary to disturb you just at present. But one of your stage hands, Mr. Buckland, was found this evening outside... Octavia Kenmore. Distinguished actress manager. Darling of the provinces. Equally adept at comedy or tragedy. Of course, I'm gravely shocked. Poor Mr. Buckland. A good and faithful servant, Inspector. But it is preposterous of you to suspect, Mr. Ellis. My stage manager's never killed people. In any case, I can't spare him. We ring up in 10 minutes exactly. I'm extremely sorry, Miss Kenmore, but Ellis is a material witness. He must come to the station house for further questioning. It was his pistol that... It was my pistol. I own all the props used in my play. The license is in his name. Legally, he is the owner. Then I demand that you release him in my personal red cognizance. I'd like to do that, ma'am, but unfortunately your entire company is under surveillance. And is only permitted to perform tonight. Ellis, you must come with me. Very well. Go with them, David. Lucy and I will be down to see you. And the Inspector, as soon as we possibly can. Thank you, Miss Kenmore. The police left the theatre, except for certain constables on duty at the door. And in her dressing room, Octavia Kenmore made ready. Lucy, my child. Ah, me. How weak a thing the heart of a woman is. Don't be downcast. How can I help it, Miss Kenmore? With David in prison. Nonsense. He's only detained for questioning. He isn't charged with any crime. I'm thinking of Geoffrey Buckland, an excellent good man. And the best stage carpenter there was in England. Was he married? His family's in Manchester. I'll have to telephone them immediately after the performance. What? You really mean you're going on? Certainly I am. And you will do David's job tonight. Me? Run the show? Why not? You've seen David do it often enough. And work is what you need. There's no time to think. Now quickly now. Check the stage for the first scene while I repair my make-up. Go, my child. Farm and self-possessed. But her composure was nothing to that of Octavia Kenmore. She descended on the police station not many minutes later. Ah, Miss Kenmore and Mrs. Ellis. Come in, won't you? I am an inspector. Now. I expect a full explanation of what you have accomplished by imprisoning my employee these past two hours. Please sit down, ladies. There's plenty of time. Is there? I expect to leave Brighton tomorrow night, taking my stage manager with me. Is he all right, Inspector? He's not in chains or even in a dungeon, Mrs. Ellis. In fact, he's quite comfortable. Oh, thank heavens for that. If you will, both be seated. Madam. Since you insist. Thank you, Inspector. Well, have you nothing to tell us about this case? I'm waiting at the moment for our pathologist report. Court. Yes, routine police procedure. Well, the man's been shot. That was quite obvious. The bullet is important, particularly in court, to establish the actual weapon. It seemed to me the hand that fired the weapon is a more important consideration. Eventually, Miss Kenmore, and inevitably, I trust, we'd like to know more about Buckland's background, his habits. Did he drink, for example? Despite the general opinion, there are many in the theatrical profession who are not addicted to alcohol, Inspector. Mr. Buckland was a decent man. Octavia Kenmore told the truth about the murdered man, a non-drinker, except for an occasional point of bitter after the show. A devoted family man in an occupation where family relationships are often difficult to maintain. There was nothing to indicate a motive for murder. In all the years of me, I have never known him to miss a single performance. He was a crossman who could rig and handle any production, heavy or light. With him on the job, my stage managers had an easy time with it. Everyone liked him. My only fault, perhaps, was that he was too loyal to me. We're not being much help to you, are we, Inspector? Oh, yes. You've helped to fill in the picture. I've learned a lot. What have you learned? Two important things, Miss Kenmore. First, that Buckland was not a man who made enemies, all my reports bear this out, and also that he was extremely devoted to you. You think that's significant? Extremely. You keep a close reign in your company. Do you have any jealousies or quarrels that occurred? I'd know about them, yes. I'm sure of that. You're not the person to tolerate friction or even bad habits in members of your troop. Come in. Pathology report, Inspector. I knew you wanted right away. Thank you. Yes. Well, this is interesting. Why wasn't I told of this before? You know what they like in the lab, Inspector? They wanted to be sure. Absolutely sure. I see. Miss Kenmore, can you think of a reason why anyone should want to shoot a dead man? Hardly. A useless procedure. You seem so. Apparently, Buckland was dead of strangulation before he was shot. The instrument of that murder, a piece of sash cord, can be found in the black museum. Dr. Mitchell repeated it. Can you think of a reason why anyone should want to shoot a dead man? An interesting problem, is it not? The medical report is very definite. Buckland was strangled with a thin piece of rope. Because he wore a scarf about his neck, the marks weren't noticed till they brought him to the lab. He was dead before the bullet ever was fired. Inspector Mitchell then went back to the scene of the crime, the alley beside the theater, where the body of Jeffrey Buckland had been found. And with him at her own insistence went Octavia Kenmore. What are they looking for, Miss Kenmore? The thin piece of rope, of course, but they'll never find it. If the murderer had an ounce of rain, he'd have taken it with him. I don't suppose this alley ever had so much light turned onto it before. It was strange, men searching every cranny, their flashlights pointing and probing, picking up grill work balconies, iron ladders and fire escapes thick with rust. The men themselves still are wetted against the light. Oh, Miss Kenmore. Yes? You brought up in that various trade. I think it's the weapon. Our lab can tell us definitely, of course. I see. The piece of lash line. What's that? Lash line, did you say? Yes, it's the sort of rope we use backstage to lash the scenery together. Must the same as ordinary clothes line? Or sash cords, yes. Would you be able to identify it as belonging to your stage equipment? Oh, that's hard to say. Miss Kenmore, Inspector. Yes, Lucy? One of the stagehands reported to me tonight. They'd had trouble with one of the sets. The line was too short to make it fast. Could you locate that piece of scenery, Mrs. Ellis? I think so. I told him to leave it on top of the stack so that we could replace it in the morning. Well, let's go on stage then, shall we? Do you know, Miss Kenmore, as a youth, I was strongly attracted to the theatre? Well, you indeed, Inspector Mitchell. Stage door onto the platform. This is the flat, the one with the short lash line. You see how it works, Inspector. The rope is flipped round the iron cleats and tied off at the bottom, so the audience sees only an unbroken wall. I understand perfectly. The core of this rope matches the piece found in the alley. Rust, stains and all. What does that suggest to you, Inspector? There's little doubt in my mind, Miss Kenmore, that the person we want is a member of your own company. Yes, I've decided that to myself some time ago. A member of your company, I think, cut off this cordage to strangled Buckland and someone else familiar with these premises took the pistol from Ellis' desk. Then you don't think my husband's guilty? I haven't said that, but I must check once more who actually was here backstage between the hours of six and seven. I was here myself in my dressing room and Sneller, the doorkeeper, was on duty. He surely had... We took his statement, of course. He seemed a bit evasive now that I think of it. I won't hear a word against him. Sneller's perfectly honest. I take an oath on it. Is he? A remarkable sound sleeper all the same? What do you mean? The extraordinary thing about his story, he used to have been dozing in his chair. He didn't wake even when a pistol was fired not 30 feet away. I think perhaps I'd better go and visit him. Then I'll come... No, Miss Kenmore, not this trip. Investigations of this kind are sometimes dangerous. The theater, four flights of well-worn steps led to an attic door. What do you want? What is it? You're Mr. Sneller? I am... We're the police. My name is Mitchell, CID. Should I show you my credentials? I recognize you, sir. Come inside. John Sneller had no need to be afraid. But it was his nature to be timid. Nearly an old man who wanted to avoid trouble. Sometimes when arguments occurred, it was his habit to pretend to be asleep in his cubby hole behind the stage door. You expect me to believe that when a pistol was fired close by you, you didn't even hear it? I can't rightly say this. There's heavy traffic in the street that time of night. You know, if I did hear a noise, I must have took it for a passing car. Yes, I'll admit that's a likely explanation. Perhaps I ought to... Yes, what is it? If there's something you haven't told us, I advise you to come out with it. What had he seen and heard? A trifle. But possibly a trifle of importance. Almost enough to send a man to the gallows. I know I should have spoke of it before, sir, but, well, it was a little before seven o'clock and Mr. Buckland was inside near his toolbox talking to this flashy dress-junk fella and Mr. Shingen Carter, he was there too. Just standing by, so to speak. Could you hear what they were saying? No bookmaking in this house. That was what Buckland said. Miss Kenmore won't stand for it. She's strict about such things. Yes, sir. Everyone knows that. Miss Kenmore won't have gambling in her company. An actor would get himself discharged if she caught him betting the horses or something. What else did Buckland say? Well, he warned the fellow he'd go straight to Miss Kenmore. He said, oh, this man had been following the company all along the tour and Carter and some of the others had been betting with him. But that was all. Three of them went out together, still talking. And that was the last you saw of him alive? Yes, sir, it was. And Mr. Carter, sir, it stuck me at the time. He came back a little later. Went up to his dressing room, I guess, and then went right out again. But he seemed so cheerful and high-spirited. I thought the gentleman must have settled their differences all right. Carter didn't come back again till he found Buckland's body and called the ambulance. That's right, sir. It begins to make sense, Inspector. Gins too? Yes. But why the stage manager's gun? And why shoot a dead man? Why? I steal a gun to shoot a dead man. Hoping to find the answer to this question, the Inspector went to Brighton Jail to call on David Ellis. Look here, Inspector, why are you holding me without a shred of evidence? Won't I be permitted to travel with the company when they leave tonight? It all depends. On what? Your replies to a few questions. Ask them by what means? How much gambling goes on in the company? Not a great deal. Some of the actors' bit of futilings now and then. Actually, their salaries are so small, they can't afford to be reckless. Does Miss Kenmore know about it? Not a chance. If she did, we'd have replacements in a matter of minutes. It would follow then that an actor who wanted to keep his job will be careful that such information never reached Miss Kenmore. Well, I'd certainly say so. Is there anyone in the company who needed that job badly? But you mean badly enough to commit murder? Yes. I doubt it. Of course you never know. In troops like this one, most of the supporting cast are either on the way up or down. A dismissal might mean the end of a career. Ellis, has anyone a reason for wanting you out of the way? No. Why? Whatever for? That gun was stolen from your desk loaded with live ammunition and after the murder it was left where we'd be sure to find it and hold you responsible. I can't believe that anyone would do a thing like that. Unless... Unless? No, Inspector, there really isn't anyone. Indeed. Well, there is, though. No matter how clumsily he may have gone about it, I can't help feeling that our murderer has tried to pin his crime on you. For the moment, I'm going to let him think he's succeeded. How do you do that? By keeping you locked safely up here in jail. A short time later, Inspector Mitchell was admitted to Miss Kenmore's suite at the Shorefront Hotel. Any progress to report, Inspector? Not much, I'm afraid. Have you been to see David? I have. I left him in the best of health. Well, why are you holding him? David didn't kill anyone. You know that as well as I do. I'm afraid I don't know it. I admit many murderers in my time, Mrs. Ellis. Most of them look quite as innocent as your husband. Besides, I have a hunch he could be somewhat more cooperative. In what way? Tell me, is there anything you know of that your husband might be concealing for some well-mistaken idea of gallantry? Something perhaps concerning you? I... no, I hardly think so. I seem to remember a melodramatic little scene I accidentally walked in on. I hope that was nothing. Just because Singe and Carter made some advances to him and David resented it... Oh. That may be more important than you think, Mrs. Ellis. In fact, it may be the piece of information I... Inspector Mitchell thought that he kneeled the killer at last. But it takes evidence to bring a man to court. Then Miss Kenmore made a helpful suggestion. You said you were a devotee of the theatre, Inspector Mitchell. I am indeed, ma'am. Did you, by any chance, see me as Lady Teasel? I did. A most marvellous performance. Then you'll recall, of course, the third act. I have something of that sort. A crucial moment at a famous play when standing behind a screen, the lady overheard a villain's treachery exposed. Such a dramatic device might be used effectively offstage, as well as on. At the theatre, before the matinee, the acting out began. May I see you a minute? Of course, Lucy, my dear. Not given up hope for Dave, I trust. No, not at all. That's the proper spirit. Still, I understand we're leaving Brighton without you. Please, I'd rather not discuss it. Perhaps in his absence, you won't mind so much my paying you little attentions. Like the old days, eh? The engine Miss Kenmore is waiting. She wants to see you at once. Really? The great Miss Kenmore? That sounds ominous. It is. She's breathing fire and brimstone. Oh, gee. And it so happens I come from a long line of fire eaters. Lead the way, my girl. Octavia Kenmore was seated at her make-up table. Behind her, the tiny dressing room was crowded with trunks and props and costumes. In an alcove, hardly noticed, there stood a screen. Here he is, Miss Kenmore. So I can see, yes. Hello, what's the long face about? Nothing to do with me, I'm sure. You've been placing bets on the races, Mr. Carter. Therefore I'm compelled to dispense with your services. Here's your check and return fare to London. Your understudy will replace you with the matinee. See here, you can't do this. I have a contract. Just check covers the terms of your contract. Miss Kenmore, whoever told you this was lying. A man in danger of his life, seldom lies. If Ellis made this accusation... No, David. Your friend. Your fleshily dressed friend who admits to bookmaking. And may shortly admit to murder. Oh, so Morganous squealed, has he? If that's the word, yes. I gather he's ready to implicate you. He'll try, that kind always does. He did the killing, he can't drag me into it. I'm afraid you're already implicated quite seriously, Mr. Carter, and by your own words and actions. Oh, well, Inspector Mitchell, isn't it? What sort of game is this? A glorious game of play-acting. Congratulations, Miss Kenmore. A very successful little play-let. You haven't got anything you can prove. Hmm, no use bluffing. You took the pistol, didn't you? From Ellis' desk and shot Buckland with it. I didn't kill him. He was dead before. You are under arrest, Mr. Carter, and charged with willful murder. It wasn't me, I tell you. Morgan choked him with that bit of rope when Buckland threatened him with a police. Morgan had no license on a previous record, too. It would have been jailed for him. He did it, and after that... Yes, you thought quickly. You tried to take advantage of the situation to frame Ellis and kill his wife. No, Carter, you may not have killed anyone, but you are an accessory after the fact, and you did put a bullet through a man's heart. A delicate question for the jury to decide, but I predict you'll pay the penalty. Come along now, and come quietly. Un-ticketed. Lies in a glass case in the black museum. People of the theatre can be and most often are fiercely loyal to one another. Octavia Kenmore was such a person. An actress manager accepted responsibility not only for her company's professional welfare, but for their personal happiness, as well. St. John Carter was an exception to the rule. But then his career had an exceptional ending. Taking his final bow, as he did on a platform, 13 steps high at 8 o'clock one winter evening. Well, the murder weapon is on exhibit for Altworth Meyer in the famous room at Scotland Yard. And now, until we meet here again for another story from the black museum, I remain as always obediently yours.