 This is Orson Welles, speaking from London. The Black Museum. Here, in a grim stone structure on the Thames, a Charles of Scotland Yard, there's a warehouse of homicide, where everyday objects are simple glass, a piece of rope, a woman's handkerchief. All, all are touched by murder. You take this, this iron bar, it's a familiar object. The handle of a jack. If you want a car, you have a jack handle. Maybe you've used it, but never, never I trust like this. Gracie, quick, give me the jack handle. Here, let me go. What do you want? You'll find that jack handle in the Black Museum, under this well-dusted glass. The key clues of Scotland Yard has taken part for almost 100 years. The small white box is from Edinburgh. His death was too important at Lover. This tiny pistol, working order, a derringer, it's called, the killer wore it up his sleeve. One morning at 8 o'clock in the British tradition, the trap was sprung, the killer walked on thin air. The executioner received the customer at 10 pounds. Now, here's something more familiar, a jack handle. It's intriguing. Once, according to the casebook, yes, that's the story, a day which began decently enough when London lived in the Blackout. And many American men found their after-dark amusement in tiny hole-in-the-wall cafes. There you go. Away. The round small tables crowded together, not much like the stuffy and the blackout curtains, the double blackout door, don't help the ventilation much. The girl singing is pretty in a tawdry sort of way, provocative in the manner of a cheap pin-up. But the two young men in the American uniforms don't seem to mind. How's about it, Tom? Not bad for a dive? Not too bad. Five will get you tenets out of bounds. Yeah, not yet, son. Just open. MPs haven't cased the joint yet. Oh, good deal. I don't know worry about, kid. Well, who's worried? What can they do, six months in the stockade maybe? That's OK with me. Apparently, at least one of these gentlemen is over the hill. Now, their interest has shifted quite naturally, of course. You think she has to sing for a living? That can't be much of a living. She's not too bad. Maybe she dates. You wouldn't know what to do about it if she does. Says who? That says me. What were you a state side, anyway? A Barson's son or a school teacher? I worked in a bank. So what? I got along. I did all right. Maybe. Could be. I get it. Still, water runs deep and all that stuff. Oh, look, Teddy. What you don't know won't hurt you, see? That applied to Gracie? Gracie? You mean the babe? Well, who else? Grace Harwell, the London thrush. Who don't sing half as good as she looks. You know her? I met her a couple of times. You want to knock down? Well, why not? Now? Well, sure. Gracie, let's see your speed, son. You've got a ring side seat. Well, pity. The yank who thought he'd take so-ho single-handed. Sit down, Gracie. What do you have? My regular. Who's your friend? Oh, meet Private Tom Bennett, Gracie Harwell. Hi. Hello, soldier. Let me get you a drink, Gracie. Faster that way. Hey, what about your ring side seat? I'll be back in time. That fast, you can't work. Well, this is a new approach. Good. Now, look, all I need to win is a date with you, see? For tomorrow night. Well, how about it? After the show? You want furlough? Maybe. Maybe not. I'll be in town tomorrow night. Got a car with petrol? No, but I will have. You said it like you meant it. I will have a car and gas. When and where? Well, I'm not saying for sure, but be outside at 1 o'clock in the morning. You may win your bet. That was the beginning. Next evening, next morning, rather, Tom is at the appointed place, complete with jeep and fuel. Hi, Gracie. Hello, soldier. Come on, climb aboard. Where'd you get it? Let's say I borrowed it. Shall we go? Why not? A boy, a girl, a jeep blackout without benefit of chariot planes and bombs. A time to relax, to make an impression on the girl. The former bank clerk made his play to the girl who sang club dates on the seamy side of London. It's too bad. No moon tonight. A moon means bombers. At this point, that's not too bad. Oh, that's silly. Oh, look, bombers mean there's a war on it. There's no war. I wouldn't be here. What's good about that, being here? I could itemize. One, I met you. Let's leave it at that. You start early. That's the stage. Don't waste time. You didn't waste time borrowing the jeep. What's one jeep, more or less? I worked in the carpool. I know my way around. You must. You went back to get the car. What are you getting at, sister? The car. It's out without a pass. So are you. A smart girl. I know my way around. You just held the jeep. I know a fellow give you a good price. No, I need it. What for? Business. What kind of... Look out! Gee, thanks. Oh. There's no place for a bike this time, and I know the girl on it. What kind of business? Oh, I have a small problem. Being out without a pass, I don't get paid. Oh. Money's necessary, even in war time. I had my ways back in LA. Los Angeles to you. But I need a car. You got it, Gracie? Now, if you'd like a small demonstration, we can begin. You know, a man boasts to a girl and decides to make good the boast. This very modern variation on that theme consisted of stomping the jeep, the side of the road, cutting the engine, waiting. Half amused, half interested. The girl sat quietly as the soldier climbed out of the car and stationed himself in the shadows. Along the road came the bicycle. The girl on it pedaling swiftly her thoughts a thousand miles away. She drew alongside the parked half-hidden jeep. Okay, sister, I'll take that bike. What's the idea? I've got to get home. I want that bike, dear. I won't give it. Shut up. You want one across the mouth? No. Gracie. And she left her bag. There ought to be a lot left in it for a couple of beers. So that's the way you do it in LA. Yeah. You're all right, Tommy. Only next time, let's crack it for more than the price of a couple of beers. The next evening, but early, before the buyers close, Gracie, the pin-up said... I won't go to work tomorrow night, and I know a spot off by itself. With a jeep, we can get away fast, like you did it in LA. And they drove up to the spot, a small part-bar on a side road, and Gracie said... Let's get to it, Tommy. They've got customers. That means money in the till. But Tommy hesitated, and he said... Too many. Scared? Well, I take chances. There might even be a cop in there. Maybe later. You promised. You said I'd be the lookout while you went in and collected. Maybe later. Not now. Well, let's do something, Tom. We'll find something. You want a thrill? We'll find something. They drove away a well-lighted, well-populated purpose, not Tom's liking. He preferred the dark roads, the byways, the lone victims. But Gracie wanted her thrill. What if a thrill, baby? Well, you'll get it. Where are you headed, miss? Well, out to Kingston, if it's on your way. Yeah, it's on our way. Let's go. Seeing along the unlighted road toward Kingston. Not much conversation. There never is a hitchhiker in the car. Tom drove Gracie waited. River flowed close to the highway. Black glass, silence and the starlight. What's wrong? I think I have a flat. Oh, I didn't hear it. I said I think I have a flat. Oh. Oh, yes. It does feel off a bit. The Jeep, I mean. It felt like the left rear. Can I help? Well, if you'd get out, miss, you can leave your suitcase. The tools are under your seat. Oh, of course. What can I do? I'll leave the jack. The handle is on the floor, Gracie. Yeah, I've got it. You miss, I want your handbag. Help them someplace, but it won't be found. Okay, let's get going, Gracie. We've got places to go and things to do tonight. Tom and Gracie were amateurs at crime, like this. But they knew enough to cover their tracks. They ditched the Jeep parking at the rubbed street. They took cover during daylight. But night in the blackout with their cloak was they prowled for further victims. Take a walking. Does my lady want her limousine? I want a ride. Do you hear, Tommy boy? Ride here. Come on, we'll duck into this vestibule. Something will be along. Give me a kiss. Oh, you never have enough. Haven't kissed a babe in a doorway since LA. Mmm, good. What's that in your pocket? This. You like it? Shell in the chamber, full clip. Where'd you get it? The army store is natch. Pretty? Throw it away. Are you kidding? Do you know what they give you for carrying a pistol in this country? What's the difference? We killed that dame, didn't we? They take us, it's the chair anyway. Well, over here, it's the rope. At eight o'clock in the morning. I'm cold, Tommy. I'm cold. You're cold? Maybe you're the warmest thing in London. What's that, a car? Must be. Come on. Throw the pistol away. You want a ride, don't you? Driver, give us a lift. He's stopping for us. A blidging fellow, isn't he? Where to, yank? Your way toward Shepherd's Bush. My girl's got kind of tired of walking. This is also nice out here. I'm a taxi, you know. Drive a car with hack license. I'll have to charge you for the ride. Well, we don't mind, do we, honey? We got plenty of money. Hop in. In the back. Car with hack license. Driver James Carter. Direction East. Through the blackout. The blue shaded headlights barely glowing in the gloom. After a little distance. Driver, we changed our minds. How much would it cost me to go a little bit further? Out as far as Shepherd's Bush. Driver obliged it was his job, pick up passengers to live them through the blackout whether they wanted to go for a price. Their living of sorts. Driver Carter thought of it as a living. It's plenty deserted out here. The Jerry's did a ton of job out this way. It's near the docks, isn't it? I suppose so. It's a good place. Perfect. You think he's got any money? All right, driver, stop here. Here, sir. Another ear for the rubble. You heard me stop. You know what this is? Service pistol. You hold it, Gracie. Got it. Don't move, driver. She's got an itchy finger. You can have my wallet. Keep and cover, Gracie, while I open the front door. Give me back that gun. Hurry, Tom. All right, you driver, get out. On this side. You can have a car, too. Just leave me alone. Gracie, did you ever see the hole a 45 makes in a man? No, Tommy. Never. No, Tom! Big enough to put your fists in the back where it came out. Let's toss him in the rubble. That'll do it. Now we can ride anywhere you want to go. It doesn't take much to kill a man. You pull the trigger. The firing pin strikes the cartridge. The powder explodes. And a bit of lead tears into the man. That's all. Nothing left but a few chemicals which once were living flesh. A few rags of clothing. Toss it into the rubble. Toss to dust. The sun touches the rubble. The sun moves warmly over the cold rubble over the dead. The night watches start home. The fire wardens weary but relieved after a quiet night. They make a shortcut toward their breakfasts. A few hours sleep. Margie, there. What's that? Body, seems like. This area was cleared out months ago. He's fresh, that one. A little look, shall we? They had their look. It wasn't pleasant. Shot through the chest. Stay here. I'll find a call box. The fire warden placed his call. He rang straight through to Scotland Yard. A short while later, the man picked up the telephone on his desk inside the Greystone building on the Thames. Inspector Mason here. Sergeant Davis, sir. Go ahead, Sergeant. The body found in the East End is a shot to death. Large caliber from the size of the wound. Probably a service pistol. Identified as yet? The identity papers are still on him, sir. James Carter, taxi driver, private car registration, tank number RD745. The car? No sign of it, sir. Tire marks in the road to the thoroughly bombed area, sir, very little traffic. Another one. Very well. Send out the usual teletype. Description of the car, you know. Check for relations, friends of the deceased. That's all we can do for now. A teletype to all police stations. The constables memorize the details where they go on patrol. Lotters is a big, sprawling city. The blackout isn't any help. That's all for now. Wheels have begun to turn. Routine inexorable, never ending. Another telephone call. A standby will be along shortly. A sharp-eyed council on the blackout, the parked car. Routine inexorable, inevitable. Cut your engines, sergeant. This will do it. Yes, sir. Usual routine. If there's an attempt to drive out, turn on your headlights. The driver will be blinded. Very good, sir. Gray. Constable Gray. Yes, sir. Inspector Mason, CID. Anything yet? Not yet. There's a pinhole in the blackout curtain. Second-story window of the house behind the car. There was a light up there. Nothing now. It went out a moment ago, sir. Take purse behind the car, Gray. I'll cost anyone who approaches it. The area's covered. There'll be no escape. Yes, sir. The constables' footsteps fade and stop silence. Darkness, the trap is set. They wait. No movement, no sound. Not even the glow of a cigarette. Just darker shadows in the darkness and the depths of the little muse. Our door opens and closes. Footsteps briefly. Two pairs of footsteps. A car door opens. That constable Gray calls out. Don't start the engine there. It's my duty to inform you that you're under arrest. You'll be charged with murder. And I warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. You can't prove anything. Run the rule on it, Constable. Yes, sir. Serve his pistol. Feel good enough. Take them along. All right, you two. Don't touch me. The tawdry little pinup from the seamy side of London. He made me do it. He hit me, showed me his pistol. He made me do it. One of the robberies, the cheap, shilling-sized robberies. Yes, I took that girl's purse. I went through the driver's wallet before we left his body, but he made me do it. You've got to believe me. He made me do it. This hysterical witness is men who spoke with a calm certainty of truth. I was the ballistics expert. We have compared it with test bullets fired from the pistol found on the accused. The rifling marks bullet was fired from that pistol. It's a desertion by the United States Army. Form a bank clerk. He played his role defiantly. I tell you, she's framing me. This whole deal was her idea. You should have seen the bank. She got what she watched what was going on. Now she's trying to pass the buck to me. And with customary thoroughness, Scotland Yard turned up a surprise witness. Yes, those are the two. She gave him the jack handle and he hit me with it. They threw me in the river. The lorry driver found me. I'd know them anywhere. He made me go along. He made me. I'll prove it. I'll show you where we left the jeep. The jack handle's still in it. Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict? We have, my lord. Let the prisoners face the jury. What is your verdict? We find both defendants guilty of murder and add a recommendation of mercy for the female prisoner. Yes, juries behave somewhat strangely at times. This one was impressed with a plea of compulsion. But not quite enough, it seems, to acquit Grace Harwell. Thus it came about in due course that the judge pronounced the sentence. Thomas Bennett, you have been found guilty of murder. The sentence of the court is that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And then may the lord have mercy on your soul. Grace Harwell, the judge pronounced the same terrible sentence. But the jury's recommendation for mercy led the home secretary to commute this to penal servitude for life. A lifetime for Grace Harwell to remember. He made me go along. He made me go along. Jack Handel, it lies today in the Black Museum. So much for the story of Grace and Tom. Tom's life ended on the scaffold. The life of Grace Harwell continues in the drab monotony of Holloway Prison. The service pistol, of course, and the Jack Handel remain in their places. They're special places of honor. Honor shelf in that curious room which is known in Scotland Yard as the Black Museum. And now, until next time, till we meet again in the same place. And I tell you another story of the Black Museum. I remain as always obediently yours.