 This is Orson Welles, speaking from London, the Black Museum. Here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. A warehouse where an apartment lamp shade, an automobile tire, a canvas tarpaulin, an umbrella, or are touched by murder. Here's a dictionary. It's a familiar object. French into English, English into French. Every high school student knows what these books are like. Word here, phrase there. Merci, thank you, thank you. Merci. And of course, a youth common to most young men in countries not terrible. Je t'aime, je t'aime. Oh, you sound so, uh, compassionate, too. What does that mean? In the little book, one moment, je t'aime, and I love you. Well, today, the dictionary can be seen in the Black Museum. From the annals of the Criminal Investigation Department of the London Police, we bring you the dramatic stories of the crimes recorded by the objects in Scotland Yard's Gallery of Death, the Black Museum. Well, it's interesting. Here, here lies death. The people who conceived this bracelet had wished to raise a memorial of death. Here, collected under one roof, the mementos of the murder have come over a hundred years. These are dots, a feathered dot made for pleasure, for laughter and friendly tavern. This tiny metal tip was dipped in cyanide. A twist of a flick of an elbow. A dartboard in its dictionary. You want the English for French words? It is, or the French for words in English. It's here open. Nice idea. All in one book. It's great convenience. Particularly for Jules Garnache, who had a bit of trouble expressing himself to Betty Brown on the beach in southern France. One war on the sunny end. Je t'aime, je t'aime. Oh, you sound so passionate, Jules. What's that name? In the little book, one moment. Je t'aime, je t'aime, I love you. Right, Jules. And me, a married woman. And it was. Love out of the dictionary in the summer in southern France. Of course, this was in 23. 1923. That date's important simply because radio and broadcasting were just beginning. And Jules Garnache was something of an electrical engineer. In fact, he was the only man in the little French seaside town who was able to bring music out of the air. Look, Galène. Look. Oh, you seem only. Ah, the cat's whisker. Ha ha. So, so. Maintenant, mes cheries, écoutez. I can read any music in his tummy without the air now. Huh? Thank you. For you are bright, aren't you? Ha ha. I love you. I must have you now, today, parblues, always. Oh, Jules. A clever Frenchman who knew his way about with women. An English woman vacationing in France. Why was she there? Oh, Jules. If I were a better manager, it would be better to be in. Look, I'd never had the place down. I'd never come to France, and I'd never met you yet. Oh, so that was it. But all such items come to an end someday. And summer comes to an end. At least that's the correct calculation. That's the way Betty calculated. Without thinking of her, Jules. Jules? Oui, ma chérie? Aye. I have to go home. Oui. Oui. Yes. I'd come also. Oh, Jules. That's impossible. The usual sighs and protestations, of course. The brief interlude that it was a trifle saddened to let it go. After all, what a woman is crowding for it is. She went home anyway, the suffix to the binocle in, to a security of sorts, to her husband. Business hasn't been too bad while you were away, Bessie. All the rooms were left this week, and the bar trade was fine. I guess you did all right, Father Barr. The landlord's got to be a social girl. Otherwise, his customers go somewhere else. There's a different house between social and drunk. Here, have one of that. I'll take a drop now and then, but I don't get drunk. Oui. Oui. Well, another customer. Business is picking up, and on the hotel side, it's there. Ah. Oui. Oui. How can I help you, sir? I have, I'll just say, one moment, please. How do you find the word? Ah, oui. I have come to step. What do you know? A froggy. Please, where have you been, sir? May I ask how you found this? Ah, sir, I have. Well, that is... Monsieur Browne, ah, de Marveilleuse, Madame Browne, is the recommendation for your so-select hotel. Is it not so that we have met in Provence, Madame? Little Frenchman must have been mad. Mad with love. But if the little touched him ahead, in any case, he'd come just as he said, to stay. As he explained it to Al Browne. I am, how you say, an inventor. I have much great ideas. Yes, sure, Gamar, sure. But, uh, do you make any money? To make money. Eh, je ne comprends pas. Money, eh, my feelings, eh, frankly. Ah, oui, beaucoup d'argent. Oh, oh, right now I wake from Canada. Much money. And, eh, what do you invent to get all this spoke-who money? The wireless. I am in the wireless very much interest. Well, Monsieur, if you can get music out of the air, maybe you can get some money out of the same place to pay what you owe us. Huh? You've been here a month now, and we haven't seen a shilling on your board bill. Board bill? Come on. There was another conversation shortly thereafter on the same subject, if not exactly on the same polite level. Look, you see, he's your friend. We've got to have some money. Oh, can I ask him for money, even if he is our friend? Yours, not mine. He doesn't take walks with me every afternoon. Al Browne, you suggest? I'm not suggesting, dearie. I'm telling you, get some money out of him or out he goes. You're supposed to be the business head in his family. All right. Ten to business here. Well, you never talked to me like this before. It was the first time for everything, you see. For the first time, Al was in the driver's seat, and he knew it. So did Betty, knew it. And one of their afternoon walks, she said as much to you. You? We must thank you. I suspect. He will do nothing, Jeanette. He's asked me... Huh? ...to get money from you. I'm telling you, that will be real nasty. Meet her as both of us. And you without a permit. Well, it's not funny. He holds the whip hand. Don't you understand? We... one moment. Oh, dear. Not that little book of gold. Please, I've got more to deliver. Ah, if you... I have it. Like an Englishman so... Ah, when he steal his wife, but not owe to him money. He had a plan. He said, do well. Never fear when I'm in a few days, beaucoup d'argent. Your life? Oui? For Betty, he said. Je t'aime, ma chérie. Do not fear. All will be well. A quiet, dull New Year's morning. Routinely and continued, minus the overtired oversleeping maid. After a while, the master came grumbling down the stairs. Betty! Betty, where are you? Ah, please. I think Mr. Dimash is done. Well, let him go to his room, then. Pardon me, ma'am. Into my shop, where you wish for me to go? Oui? Ah, no. No, I don't need that. Oh, so long as he's awake, I don't care one way or another. Where's my fault? You know I can't start a day without Miss Fault. Ah, I know, dear. The way he expects him to be, on the mental self, and no rape in a play. Oh, yes, I forgot. If I may disturb you, ma'am, see well. Oh, but, of course, the chair before the fire. Very nice. Oui? Très charmant, when it is so very cold outside. Oh, for thanks. Merci. Merci. The glass is here. Where's that tablespoon of some water? Oh, I'll get them for you. You've got to know this, dear. Jean Gramache stood in the bay window and watched the little domestic scene. Occasionally he riffled through his ever-present dictionary for a word to describe the events he was watching. Such inconsequential little event. There he came trotting back from the kitchen with a tablespoon and a pitcher of water. She put him on the table along with her salt and glass. Al measured his own dosage, poured it into the glass, then he poured in the water. Almost mockingly he raised his glasses as if in a toast with the Frenchman standing nearby. Then down the content. Oh, oh, those salts taste bitter this morning. Yeah, they are never sweet, no? Nothing sweet about them. Then why complain, dear? You had more to drink than usual last night, taste more bitter than usual. One hour later. Bitty. Bitty, Bitty, get some help. Oh, it's a cramp. Oh. Oh, I can't. And it, I can't. And it, I saw. Oh, too. Get the doctor. I will try. My English, it is not good. No, but I will try. Oh, my, my feet. My feet. Oh, they're driving me crazy. The pain, the pain, and the itching. Shortly thereafter, Alfie Brown was quite dead. And so the tragedy reached its climax. It will probably not tragedy with a certain dictionary, which as I told you can be seen today in the Black Museum. Local physician was called at once, but far too late. Alf Brown was passed help. The doctor listened gravely to the stories that he told it to him. While Jules stood by, the very picture of solicitude. Oh, he went so quick, doctor. And it's such a great thing. What was that, Mrs. Brown? Well, he cried out, but it was almost the last that he said. Is that right, Mrs. Brown? Oui, Monsieur le docteur, ça va raison. Well, let's say so. It's an interesting symptom. He cures one particular poison. Though, how this household will come by to have the slightest idea. Poison? But, doctor, it was his thoughts. Although it did complain, that they tasted more bitter than usual. Anything else, Mrs. Brown? Ah, nothing else. Oh, what so upset. Itching feeds bitter taste, great pain but of course we won't be able to know for certain till there's been a post mortem. I can't sign the certificate under these circumstances. I have to notify the coroner and the police. Now, I think our next precaution is for you to give me the bottle, the spoon and the glass into my charge. Where are they? Well, I don't quite... Do you remember? Je ne sais pas, Madame, je ne comprends pas. Oh, come, Mrs. Brown. Now, pull yourself together. You want to catch the party, or poison your husband, don't you? Perhaps there was a better question than Dr. West could realize. It was pure rhetoric at that moment, as far as he was concerned. Of course, the widow wanted to catch the murderer still took a bit of concentrated prodding of Betty's memory until she said... I know now, Doctor. I put them in the drawer of the kitchen table when I left for after for a moment for veteran tea and soda. I thought it might help. They found the bottle and the glass and the spoon and the kitchen table drawer. The doctor looked at them closely. Someone's washed these. Apparently, they're still traces of water in the bottle and the glass. Mrs. Brown, I'm going to the police at once. And Dr. West could went to the local police. The local police went to Scarven Yard. Betty Brown went to Jules Gamache. You did it, too. I don't know how, but you did it. Me? Ma chérie. Ma foi impossible. You did. You killed Alfie. And you stayed right there once and died. Betty, you are most... How is it? Ah, we... you are most hysterical. You know I do not kill your Alfie. You must know this. And now, I feel it in my bones. You killed him. Go away, Jules. Go... Sadly, as if overwhelmed by the unpredictability of women, Jules Gamache packed his things and left the binoculars in. But he didn't go far. Just to the next village and the next inn, there he waited and watched. Waited to hear from his beloved, now widowed, his Betty. Waited for development in case which the coroner's jury had labeled death at the hands of person or persons unknown. The developments were not long in coming. My name is West, Mrs. Brown, Inspector West, Scotland Yard. My credentials. Yes, sir. I have a few questions, particularly concerning the disposal of the poison. I'll try to answer them, Inspector. Do you know who washed out the bottle and glass? No, I'm afraid I don't. I left them in the kitchen. We're also upset by poor Alfie's suffering. We will rather hysterical, I'm afraid. I understand. No idea on that. I see. Now tell me, Mrs. Brown, have you ever used any kind of weed killer in the garden of this inn? No, sir. Not that I know of. Have you ever used any kind of weed killer in the garden of this inn? No, sir. We've never been troubled by such. Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill your husband, Mrs. Brown? No, I haven't. Thank you very much, Mrs. Brown. The inspector left the front of the house, so to speak, and visited below stairs. He had a nice talk with a cook over a cup of tea. Mrs. Davies, did you wash out the souls bottle? No, I've got enough work, and that was New Year's Day. The maid didn't come in. I had to clean up, too. Pity, not much of a New Year in this house. Did you notice the bottle at all? Well, I remember saying to Mrs. Brown that there wasn't much more than a tablespoon left in it, and perhaps she better order another bottle in case Mr. Brown was getting mad if he had none. Now this is important, Mrs. Davies. Can you place anyone, anyone at all, in this kitchen between the time Mrs. Brown bought the bottle in here and the time Dr. Westcott's will get away? No one but the Frenchman, sir. Mr. Cames? I've seen to remember, sir, I wouldn't want to get him in no trouble unless he deserved it, but he did come in here and jabber at me, and then he used his little book. Little book? He's got a dictionary. Looks up the French and finds the English. Right comical he is sometimes. And I see. Then he looked in his dictionary. And he said, bottle. He said something else. I didn't pay much attention. I just pointed at the kitchen drawer. Did he take the bottle out of the drawer? I wouldn't know, sir. For all I know, he just wanted to be sure it was in a safe place. I heard him open and close the drawer. That was all. Then he went out. Did he have a chance to put it back? Lots of chances. How was that busy running in and out? That's too bad. Oh, excellent tea, Mr. Cames. The inspector was never a man to accept loose ends. He ran all his leads to earth. This is the approach which brought him finally to where Jules Gommache was staying. Do you accuse me, inspector? Merely asking routine questions, Mr. Gommache. Did you have any reason to dislike or resent Mr. Graham? None. No, but of course not. Have you ever had any strictening in your possession? No, but for what? Where should I? I can't say, sir. I can only try to fill in the blank spaces. Someone, you see, gave Mr. Brown the opportunity to poison himself. That kind of gift is murder, Mr. Gommache. Natural more. I'm afraid I must ask you to remain in England, sir, until the case is closed. But for me, this will be a pleasure. I assure you, inspector, I wish to see vengeance on this murderer. I loved Mr. Brown almost as a brother. It's a smooth blank wall for Scotland Yard to face and search for some crack somewhere. The interest in the case emered down. Nothing was happening. Then the newspapers picked up a lead. Something so fantastic, the men assigned to watch the Binnickle Inn in its neighborhood hardly believed their own ears. It seems that Jules Gommache began to write letters. And to the police. There is one suspect who had not been questioned. A man long subject to Alfred Brown's whims and tempers. The pot washer at the inn, known to me only as George. I point the finger of suspicion. Observe, gentlemen of Scotland Yard, the comings and goings of Mr. Arthur Brookfield solicitor to Madame Brown. This man is in and out of her residence at all hours. Certainly not all of this can be on business. Was jealousy entering the picture now? The letters aroused a good deal of attention once they leaked to the newspapers as such things have a way of doing. Jules Gommache was quite pleased when the reporters swarmed about him. The photographers took his picture. Many times and many poses. This was fame at last for an impoverished inventor living on his wits. Coming, sir. You asked to see me on the Brown case. Yes, sir. My name is Scott. Sir, I'm the owner of a chemist shop in Wilking. Not too far from the binnacle inn, is it? Just far enough to miss some of the news. But this morning I saw this newspaper. Ah, yes, yes, our French friend. Do you know him? He was a customer of mine a few weeks back, just before Christmas. Go on, Mr. Scott. He asked for... What excuse did he give? Something about experiments in the wireless. He kept consulting a small English French dictionary to express himself. The wireless, yes. That's the new excuse. Although, why they should think the wireless operations entail the use of poisons is beyond me. Did you sell him any? I did. I made him sign the poison book. The name he used was Hatch. Mr. Scott, do you think you can identify this man among a dozen others? Well, Mr. Scott? That's he, sir. The short fellow with the bright black eyes. Thank you, Mr. Monsieur le chemiste. Bonjour, c'est un plaisir. How do you say, one moment, please? It is a pleasure that we meet again. I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of willful murder. I must warn you that anything you may say... Well, that's the story. And today, the dictionary which played its part in that story can be found in its place in the black museum. Orson Welles will be back with you in just a moment. Truly a strange, impassioned little man. He's half crazy, half sane. You wonder about him. And you know the add to the dilemma of his personality? Here's one last point. While Jules was awaiting execution, he wrote another letter to Inspector West stating that shortly after the death of Al Brown, he, Jules, saw a woman. Whether the woman was the cork or his beloved Betty, he didn't know. They creed something behind some loose bricks in a garden wall at the Benical Inn. Of course, the police investigated. They found two small jugs, one with crystalline stricken in it and the other with a solution of the same poison. And our question is, did Jules Gamache put those jugs there himself or did one of the women? That's a latter. Why did Gamache wait until just before his death to reveal this? Or did some odd form of gallantry? And now until next time, till we meet in the same place. And I tell you another story about the black museum. I remain as always, obediently yours. This is WDCBFM Glenn Allen.