 This is Orson Welles, speaking from London, the Black Museum, a repository of death. The ass here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. Where everyday objects, a kitchen knife, a roller skate, a violin string, all are touched by murder. There's a 32-caliber bullet. It's a familiar object. Brass cartridge case, snob lead and nose. Not very pretty to look at. Interesting, this bullet, Sergeant. Notice the back of the cartridge case. Yes, sir, it's for a centre-fire weapon. The firing pin of the pistol must strike the centre of the cartridge. Right. But the weapon in which we found this bullet was a rimfire revolver. The firing pin could strike only the edge of the cartridge. That little fact, Sergeant, saved at least one life, I'd say. Well, today that centre-fire bullet can be seen in the Black Museum. As 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. Scotland Yard's Museum. Museum of Murder. The Allies' death. So orderly, so well-kept, row and row. A macabre record of the violence of many generations. Each object in its place, each marked, tagged, carded with name and place and date. Each object in this room enjoyed in its life one supreme moment, when the eyes of the world were upon it. And it played its silent part in a case of murder. The guy has a jeweled ring, fit for a princess, but born of a mind like the Borges. Press the jewel, so, and a tiny point licks out a fang, dripping death. Shake hands with your enemy, shortly thereafter, he dies. A bathtub. Yes, a bathtub. A white, smooth, shining in the dimness. Once a man floated face down in this tub, he slipped or he had been pushed. Was the mark on his skull caused by striking his head as he slipped, or by a blunt weapon? In any case, he drowned. Ah, I see. The 32-caliber bullet. Even here, lying so quietly, so sombrely, it's ugly. This object was made for killing. The object he never did kill. That's the story. It began on a London street. A dark sedan drove slowly into the stream of traffic. Three young men in it. One seems quite a bit younger than the other. Even so, the car continues to cruise along. You've got everything straight, Rod? Sure, sure. Do you think I'm a goon? You just want to be sure, kid. That's all. Now, what did we tell you? I'll stay in the car till you wigwag is all clear. Then I'll go in with you. Hey, there's a chance to park the old bus. Oh, kinky. Ah, watch the fenders now. Nobody to ask for your life since a town like this, eh? Sure, sure. Just kidding. That's all. What's the matter? Are you edgy? Cold as ice, that's me. Yeah. Ice is what we're going to get. All set. Let's go. Two young men leave an automobile, stroll up the street, hands in pockets, cigarettes dangling loosely from their mouths. They walk past a busy jewellery store. Pretty crowded. Maybe we ought to wait. Could be. No use taking chances. They stroll a few steps farther on. They turn, start back, quite casually. Hey, what's the kid doing? The guy's going into the store. Come on. A goon must have thought we'd make the signal. Got your gun? What else? Still down now? Here we go. What's the idea? You wigwag, didn't you? Never mind. Let's do it. Right. All right, everybody. This is a hold-up. Over against that wall. Everybody. These guns are loaded. Nobody talks, I'll give it to him. Rob, get the junk on the counters. You there. Stand still. You've got the button. Rock the car. Stop the engine. Ready, spread. Fuck me on that truck. Run for it, kid. Back way. I can't get the car out. I can't. Come on, dad. Keep moving. Stop you. Stop. Stop. You're the speed. Stop. The black sedan stayed in its place. Three young men disappeared and the teeming streets disappeared completely. A few hours later, in a quiet office in Scotland Yard, Inspector Bowers and Detective Sergeant Wood looked at what they had. Not very much of anything, have we, Sergeant? No, sir. Descriptions which could be any over 100 men and two bullets. A 45 bullet from the woodwork in the jewellery store and a 32 which killed that fellow. But no guns to go with them. If those boys were smart at all, they'd ditch the guns. Funny. You'd expect a lot more shooting, you know, something like that. They were conserving ammunition. Oh, well, I don't know. Circularize the descriptions and what there is of them. That's about all for the moment. Yes, sir. Three men, youngish, white handkerchiefs... And that was all. Now, where do you start, among 8 million people, searching for three youngish men who may be miles away by now? Well, the answer is you don't start. You wait. You have patience. And sometimes your patience is rewarded. Sometimes sooner than you expect. This is Wilson, expector. He's the cabbie who called in this morning. Ah, how do you do, Wilson? Sit down. Thank you, sir. Thanks very much. Wilson may have something on the jewellery store killing, sir. Well, let's hear it, Wilson. Well, sir, I never thought about it until I've seen the papers this morning. All about the old up and that poor fellow who got himself killed yesterday. Go on, Wilson. Well, sir, I was taking me along Queensbury Road, about a block from the place where it all happened, when a fellow with a white thing round his neck hops on the running board. I thought it was odd affair, so I waved him off. Then I see him going to that big building, the Brook Building, I think it is, sir. You know, corner of Queensbury and Mason. Oh, you're certain of this, Wilson? Oh, yes, sir. Anything else? I'm not so sure of this, Inspector, but I think I saw another fellow running the building, after the one that jumped onto my cab. Oh, very good, Wilson. Well, you may have been quite helpful. Thank you very much. Thanks. Um, get your hat, Sergeant. We're going exploring. The reward of patience. And sooner than expected, but only a bare and vague beginning. This kind of investigation takes long hours and hard work. And endless, endless questions. Up and down the hallways of the large office building, in and out of business offices. Did you notice any commotion in the hall yesterday, around three o'clock? Did a man with a white scarf around his neck take your elevator around three o'clock yesterday? Did you hear any running, or anything like that, around three o'clock yesterday? On and on, upstairs, downstairs, nothing. No one noticed anything, nothing irregular, no commotion. How does that? Did the porter notice anything? Two fellows. One of them had a raincoat, I think. Both of them had white rags around their collars, sort of. Oh, you're sure of this? Oh, yes, sir. They seemed in a hurry, sort of. Where did they go? Which office you mean? That's right. Well, I wouldn't know, sir. They went up the stairs, just as I was putting some empty waste cans on the service level. Did you see the men again? No, you mention it. Yes, sir, I did. Where? On the third floor it was. I was taking my mop to the hall. One of them was sort of half sitting on the stair rail. The other fellow was looking out of the hall window that opens onto Queensbury, sir. They didn't have the white rags, sir, but they were the same fellows. Anything else? No, sir. Not that I remember. Oh, Pop Saunders might know something, Inspector. Who's this Saunders? He drives a van, sir. He's been making deliveries to this place every afternoon for years. Ah, thank you. Right, well, let's go, Saunders. Maybe Mr. Saunders does know something. We have your address. They reach the street outside, just as a large, rather decrepit truck driven by an equally decrepit elderly man pulled up to the Kurds' terminal. You, Pop Saunders? That's me. Who are you? Sergeant Wood, Mr. Cotton Yard. This is Inspector Bowers. Yes? Have I done something? No, but you may have seen something that'll help us. Yes, sir. Were you here at this time yesterday? Yes, sir. I'm always here. This time of day. Well, did you notice anyone with a white scarf go into the building? Running, perhaps? Oh, those two. Yes, sir, I did. Funny thing, they seemed in such a hurry. One had made a raincoat. They came out later. No scarves and no raincoat. Now the search is on for a raincoat. Scarves or handkerchiefs can go into pockets, not raincoats. The brook building swarms with police every nook and cranny is inspected in the cellar, in a dark corner. This must be it, Inspector. Every other raincoat in the building is accounted for. Not a mark on it. Nothing. Try ripping the lining, Sergeant. Nothing, sir, except the manufacturer's stock tag under the armpit. Not much, but a little at any rate. Check the manufacturer from there to the jobber who bought the lot in which that code was packed. From the jobber to the retailer. It's times like this, I thank heaven for rationing. At least they have to keep a record of the clothing coupons and the names of everyone who buys anything. A theme, a tenuous trail and a mountain of sales slips to go through. But nothing strikes a chord of memory. And then the sergeant thinks of something. Inspector, when they make out these records, don't they write the last names first? Yeah, you're right, they do. Oh, well, back over it again. Here, how about this, Sergeant? Mac Stanley. The other way, Stanley Mac. Remember that name, Sergeant? Stanley Mac. Not a usual name. Yes, sir, I do. Didn't he testify at a trial about two years ago? He did. The trial of Jack Georgetown. He was sent away for armed robbery, first offence, light sentence. Pal Georgetown ought to be out by now. All right, let's get his dossier over here, Sergeant, and then invite him in for a talk. It may be interesting if nothing else. Well, today that centrefire bullet can be seen in the Black Museum. It was a long chance. One man buys a raincoat. This man happens to be a witness at another man's trial. The defendant is sent to prison for armed robbery. Under circumstances similar to the case under investigation, the inspector in charge sends for the convicted man's dossier and fines. Well, so Jack Georgetown was released from prison six days before the Queensbury killing. Well, let's have the young man into the yard, shall we, Sergeant? You'll be able to find him easily enough, I think. If not, we can suspect the flight because of guilt, can't we? Send a pickup order out for him. Jack Georgetown was found. Found quite easily in London. Look, you have nothing on me, Inspector, and you know it. Maybe, maybe not. Show, um, Mr. Georgetown the garment. Here it is, Georgetown. Do you recognise it? There's a million raincoats like that. Yeah, but not bought by Stanley Mack. Oh. Oh, that coat. You know it? Yeah. Yeah, I didn't have nothing against the rain last week when I got out, so Stan gave me the coat. Oh, where did you lose it? I didn't lose it. I never lost nothing, except a little time recently. Yeah, we know about that. I'll figure you did. Keep a civil tongue in your head, Georgetown, understand? Okay. Okay, I said. Right, now, since you didn't lose this raincoat, how is it that we found it? I, uh, I loaned it to a fella. How should I know what he did with it? Oh, who had it? I don't remember. Now, you receive a raincoat as a gift against the rain. Within a matter of days, you'll loan it to someone, but you don't remember to whom. That's right. I don't remember. You try, Sergeant. Yes, sir. Speak up, man. Who had that coat? I don't remember. Well, maybe I can refresh your memory. Your coat's hooked up with a murder. Now, who had it? I don't remember. I don't remember. That was the refrain. I don't remember. How could they make him remember? Finally they let him go. There was nothing to hold him on. Inspector Bowers said... I want a tale on him, Sergeant. 24 hours a day. We'll pick up his friends one by one and see where he leads us. One of those friends was a boy named Rodney Hamilton. Let me alone. I never did nothing. How old are you, Hamilton? 17, and you've got no right. We happen to know that you've been away to a reform school, Hamilton. You were caught snatching ladies' purses two years ago. So what? I did me time. You don't keep very good company, son. Georgetown has been out of prison about a week. Well, we like each other. I'll pick me home, friends. Where were you a day before yesterday? About 2.30 in the afternoon. Home. In bed. Oh, sleeping late, huh? I was sick. Had a fever. We can check that, you know. Go ahead, check it. I was at home in bed. All afternoon, all morning and all night. I was sick. Yes, we know you said that before. Now, look here. Well, it didn't do any good. The boy was obviously afraid. But whether of the police or the many knew it was impossible to tell. Still, the patience of Scotland Yard was rewarded once again. A report came in from detectives assigned to follow both Georgetown and Hamilton. That they'd been present at a party in a bar, given by a third young man named Matty Canvass. Doss her on Canvass, Inspector. Ah, thank you. So, nice lad. Stole a car when he was 11. Convicted assault with intent to rob. Convicted jewel robbery. Convicted armed robbery and assault. Nice little trio. Our three friends, aren't they, Sergeant? No, not exactly. Do you want Canvass brought in, sir? Yes. Do that. Oh, and, uh, Sergeant, bring the other two along. But keep them separated. Don't let any one of them know that we have the other two. Nothing highly dramatic. Nearly routine. Scotland Yard routine. Recognizable as standard, practiced by any policeman in any large city. Bring them in for questioning. But it always helps to have a few facts. Facts on which to base the questions. Who this in mind, and knowing their underworld, Detective Bowers and Sergeant Wood repaired to that certain bar where Matty Canvass held parties for his friends. Nothing much here. Well, there may be. Keep your ears open. Well, another pint of ale, please. Very right, you are, sir. Oh, and now, Larry, let me wait on the door. Sit yourself, Miguel. Sit yourself. Oh, well. Down the hatch, fine. Frequent the bar. Wait. Keep your ears open. You hear they picked up Matty. Yeah. And the other two. Rod two? That kid? Well, I for one ain't sorry. Here's a place of bad name. I mean, kids are out with guns in their pockets. Not bright. Canvass ain't bright, that's for sure. It should still get bunked out of 5,000 quids where the stuff gets mad. Works the kid like that. They're rod. Oh, well, so it goes, I will say. Oh, not a couple of pints, please, miss. Oh, yeah, sure. Do you know a lad named Canvass? Me? I don't know nobody. How about a kid named Hamilton? You think I'll keep track of everybody who comes in here? Yeah, that would be difficult. I, um, thought I heard you mention Mr. Canvass by name. So did my friend here. Then you thought wrong. We don't encourage conversation with the elder. No, I don't suppose you do. Um, care to have a drink on us? I'm not certain that I drinks with cops, mister. The inspector and the sergeant have fill up the buyer. They check descriptions of the men seen at hold ups and robberies prior by some months to the tragedy in Queensborough Street. In one case, a description tallied with Matty Canvass. Mr. Canvass has invited out of his cell and into the inspector's office. All right, Canvass, you've been identified on the Davis job. You'll do a good long stretch for that. You may as well tell us what you know about the Queensbury shooting. I don't know nothing. Turn King's evidence, Canvass, and you'll get off easily. Otherwise, it's a hanging matter. You can't pin that one on me. I was miles away. I can prove it. Well, I suppose I told you the kid's been talking his head off. Rod? Talk? Not in your life. He's too scared somebody will cut his liver out. All right, Canvass, if that's the way you want it, take him back, Sergeant. We'll give him plenty of time to think. No luck with Georgetown either, but the kid has a chance he'd break. Just a chance. Inspector took it. Look, boy, your pals are saying that you held a gun that killed a fellow in the Queensbury holdup. I never had a gun. Maybe they're framing you, lad. After all, you're pretty young, 17. You won't hang. They will. So naturally, they say it was you. I didn't. I never touched a gun. Canvass says you did. That you had the 32 all the time. I never did. They can't say it. They can't. But they do. Both of them told me. Looks to us like they got together to put the job on you. Well, why shouldn't they? They might have to die. There were only two guns. Stay at them. You've got to believe that. You've got to. We don't have to believe anything except evidence. If you had the guns, if I told you where they were, I said it. I didn't mean to talk. I did. I did. Keep talking, lad. It's the only way to save your neck. My neck? If you held that gun and pulled that trigger. All right. We threw the guns away. Both of them. The .45 Medi-Ed and the .32 Jacket. We threw them in the river from the, from the key at the Lancashire Wharf. If you can find them, you'll see. Maybe they'll be fingerprints. You've got to find them guns. You've got to. The .45 fired the bullet we found in the woodwork. The .32 killed the man in the street. And it's funny. Half the cartridges in the .32 were rimfire. The other half was centerfire. Those didn't go off. If they had, chances are there'd have been a lot more murder. And today, if you're interested, you can find that centerfire bullet in a place of honor in the Black Museum. Orson Welles will be back with you in just a moment. It's an accepted fact in police work that 80% of the occupants of our prison either would talk there or talk themselves there. In this case, it was patient police routine, plus the talking of young Rod Hamilton, which put Rod behind bars for the rest of his life and brought Georgetown and Canvas to the 13 steps and the rope one morning at eight o'clock. There's a post script of this story. The use of a gun by an English criminal is rare. Nor in England do the police go armed in their normal course of duty. The Hamilton case was one of the more obvious symptoms of a post war disease of violence. The death of Georgetown and Canvas was not about its effect on this disease. For days, weeks, and even months after their execution, pistols, guns, knives, many of them perhaps innocent wartime souvenirs, others of more dubious origin, were found by the police on rubbish heaps, disused gardens on the mud banks of the River Thames. The criminal world of London had come to terms with their traditional enemies at Scotland Yard, and perhaps after all, the innocent man had not died in vain. The bullet that killed him, the Centifier bullet, remains in its customary place in the Black Museum. And now, until we meet next time in the same place, I'll tell you another story about the Black Museum. Our main is always obediently yours.