 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 museum of everyday objects, cigarette boxes, appointment books, a hat rack, all are touched by murder. Here's a brick that coarse-grained, rough-edged familiar. Perhaps your own home is built of bricks, exactly like this one. In this case, however, no home was built by such a brick. Rather, a home was destroyed by it, destroyed forever. It's still such a normal-looking object, Inspector. Is it really? With that broken corner? With the stains still on its edges? I suppose you're right, sir. If there's one thing that can upset normalcy, it's spilt blood. And today, that blood-stained brick-pat can be seen. Here in the Black Museum. Canals 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 of Murder. Here lies death upon these tables within these cabinets. The files of death labeled with day and date and name of victim. Here's a hat rack. It's hard to find such a commonplace object here, perhaps, but observe. Here were the wood curves from base to shaft, three brownish stains. Blood dripped here from a weapon concealed within the lining of an overcoat. Three stains. Which placed a murderer at the scene of crime. Broken alibi. That's another story. Here's our brick-pat. Of such bricks are garden walls built. Later, the ivy or some such creeping vine grows over them, hiding the sharp edges, softening the four square contours. This brick, too, was meant for such bucolic purposes. But as it happened, things didn't work out that way. We might say it all began when young Anne Friskian composed an advertisement and told her much older husband, James, about it. So you're placing an advertisement, wanted boy, about 18. Reference is handyman work. Some such thing? Exactly, dear. Oh, very good. Only don't get him get too close to Alma. It might not be good for her. A simple domestic scene. Wife cooperating with husband of the other way around, if you prefer. Some small mention of the husband's cousin who stays with him. That's all. The advertisement appears in the usual help-wanted columns. Several young men apply. One is Dick Terry. Yes, ma'am, I've had some experience during the summer at my uncle's place in Dorset. And the money's all right? Oh, quite generous, ma'am. What would be the room over the garage and all? Well, your references seem quite good. And a good school report, too. The boy settled into his job and worked out well. The gravel driveway was soon in good condition. The lawns were well mowed. The bricks were ordered for the repair job on the garden wall. Yes, the bricks were ordered. And in the household, all was well and quite normal. One more hand, ladies. If you wish, James. Aren't you satisfied with beating us again, dear? I suppose I should be. But it must be somewhat dull for you, and night after night with just Alma and me. In the household, we've said all was well and quite normal. Undercurrents? If you look for them, perhaps otherwise, a retired, well-to-do gentleman in a suburban London home, living quite happily with his lovely young wife and his cousin Alma. Still, one never knows. Does one. Good morning, Dick. Oh, hello. Oh, the work is coming well, isn't it? Yes. Lovely day, isn't it? Nothing quite like the springs we get here, is there? It's awfully quiet there. Yes, I suppose it is. For someone your age. Begging you pardon, Mum, it don't seem to me like he would be giving up just yet. Oh, thank you, Dick. It's nice of you to say so. Um, aren't you getting those bricks a trifle on evening, Dick? Oh, that's on purpose, Mum. It's a trick I learned from my uncle. He gives the creepers and vines and such a better hold. Oh, it's clever. You do know your work, don't you? I hope so, Mum. If a person likes to do his work, we're his appreciated. Well, you are. No fear about that. And just to prove it, come up to the house later. We'll see about finding you a nice cold drink. On a warm day like this, a cold drink... No, after all, it's quite natural, isn't it? You do as much for your help, wouldn't you? No one would think anything of it. No one did in the Friskin household either until these trips for the long-cooled drinks became somewhat habitual, at which point Alma spoke to Anne. Do you really think you're doing the proper thing, Anne? Of course, it's none of my business, I suppose, but... What are you driving at? That boy. He's an excellent worker. People will talk. About what, Prey? Oh, nothing. But people will talk about nothing, you know. And if James should hear from the wrong person... But please be explicit, Alma. I don't happen to have a devious mind. It's quite simple. James is past middle age. You're young, vital. The boy is undeniably attractive with that flaming hair and all. And he is up here at the house quite a good deal. And you're suggesting? Of course not. I am merely pointing out to you how it can look to the neighbors. Frankly, I don't care. Please don't bring the subject up again, Alma. I refuse to discuss it with you. Alma did not bring up the subject again, not with Anne. However, she waited for an opportunity and then... James. Yes, Alma? I... I want to talk to you. Aren't we rather formal today? Closed doors and all that sort of thing? I'm not speaking behind anyone's back. I've already taken this up with Anne. Oh? What's the trouble? It's that boy, Dick Terry. Dick? Alma, don't tell me he's been making advances. That's not funny, James. Oh. Sorry. What then? Anne is letting him spend too much time at the house. His place is in the garden and the garage. People will talk. Aren't you doing a bit of talking yourself, Alma? I'm doing my duty as I see it. Then you've mistaken your duty. I'm fully capable of protecting my honor, as you doubt this would call it. And I'll thank you, Alma, not to bring this up again. Although doubtless, you have the best intentions in the world. Very well, James. But if anything does occur, you'll thank me for warning you. Yes, Alma waited her opportunity and spoke to James. That worthy and decent gentleman dismissed the incident from his mind. That should have been the end of it, unfortunately. However, the whole matter was reopened and in quite a different quarter. Good morning, Dick. Morning, ma'am. Oh. The hedge does look nice. Thank you, ma'am. Is anything wrong, Dick? In fact, I'm giving notice. Why, Dick? But why? I'm giving notice. But what's wrong? Have I done something? Or is it about your money? Because if so, I'll speak to Mr. Friskine at once. Don't bother, ma'am. I'm leaving. I'll call it wanderlust. Call it anything you like. Dick... Dick, look at me. Oh, do stop clipping that hedge and look at me. Yes, ma'am? I insist on knowing what's wrong. I thought you were happy here. I know I've been happy to have you here. I'd rather not... All right, ma'am, but you asked for it. I asked for what? It's you, ma'am. I'm crazy seeing you day in and day out and having you nice to me, just nice to me and thinking of you with him and me not having the ghost of a chance. I can't stand it, ma'am. That's all. You'll have to let me go. Poor Dick. You've held this inside you all this time. Yes. Oh, Dick, I'm so sorry. So terribly sorry. Flash-firing dry grass on a warm summer morning, perhaps in any case, the boy stayed on his job and nothing further was said at the household. Everything was routine, quite normal. Even the bridge games in the evening, three-handed bridge, of course. July moved on into August. Hot, muggy August nights. Well, I'm going up to bed. Coming in? Uh, oh, uh, not just yet, dear. I think I'll read a while. It may be cooler in the library. Good night, dear. Good night, then. Good night, Alma. Good night. A hot, muggy August night. No moon. Barely a breath of air. James tossed restlessly, sleeplessly. And that you and coming to bed, dear. Go, go, go! Well, today that brick-bat can be seen here in the Black Museum. It was Anne's screams which brought Alma and then some of the neighbors. James was not dead, but nearly so. The doctor, Dr. Kinder, was his name, examined his patient and proceeded quite efficiently via the telephone. That's right. The ambulance at once with oxygen equipment. I want the operating theatre ready and each of those nurses and my assistant. Friskin has a badly fractured skull and with his heart condition he has about one chance at 100 to live. All right. I'll wait for the ambulance. Now, the police. Police? Well, there it is. A man is attacked, half murdered in his bed with a heavy instrument of some kind as you've questioned my calling the police. Oh, if only I'd gone upstairs with him. If only I'd gone upstairs. If you had. Operator, ring through to the police, please. Hurry. I would have walked in like that to find him there in the blood. Oh, this boy is breathing that awful gasp. This is Dr. Kinder. Let me speak to the superintendent, please. Dick, where's Dick? Dick? Yes. Where's Dick? No one had missed the boy until Anne thought of him with all the excitement or the horror. No one had realized he was missing. Dr. Kinder finished talking to the superintendent of police and turned back to the two women. The superintendent is sending an inspector wealth. Very good man, he says. CID. CID? Criminal Investigation Division. Did I hear you mention someone named Dick? Yes, Dick Terry. He's the, uh, the hired man. Well, more of a boy than a man. He has a room over the garage. And he isn't in the house? He hasn't been here? No. The neighbors came, but not Dick. Perhaps I'd better fetch him. No, stay here. The police will find him. The police will find him. They did find him, but in his room over the garage. Where was he, Sergeant? In the etiquette inspector, hiding in a corner. All right, son, speak up. Why? I, I, I got scared. That's it scared. What of? I heard Anne, uh, Mrs. Friskin screaming and I ran over from the garage and when I got up to the room where the lights were on, Miss Galpin was carrying on and Mrs. Friskin was just standing there screaming and he, he was on the bed and I, I just ran. You didn't offer to help. Why not? I couldn't think. Nothing. Why? I, I guess I didn't want to be blamed for doing it. Who would blame you? Oh, somebody, anybody. Did you do it? No, I never touched him. Never. All right, Sergeant, hold him in the kitchen. All right, sir. I'll talk to the Galpin woman now. What is she, a companion or something? A cousin of the victim, sir. Lives here. All right, send her in. Alma Galpin knew nothing except the discovery of her cousin in the bedroom. But the inspector was curious. The hired boy says he was scared. Have you any idea of mine? Well, he's been making sheep's eyes at my cousin's wife. Oh? People were talking. He's a good-looking boy. She's so much younger than poor James. You know how an ignorant mind works sometimes. The inspector knew. Also, he was a considerate man. He implied as much to Anne Friskin. I know you've had a terrible shock tonight, Mrs. Friskin. But I have to ask you a few questions. Of course, Inspector. I'll try to answer. Did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who might want him out of the way? Oh, no. No one. Everyone like James. Even the boy? Dick Terry? Dick? Oh, no. No, you don't think that Dick... I don't know yet. But we'll have to hold him, Mrs. Friskin. He seems to have something of a motive. At least there seems to have been some talk. They held Dick Terry on an open charge pending developments at the hospital. There, James Friskin hung on the fringe of death, barely breathing, completely unconscious. At the house, Alma faced Anne. The police. What do they know? I don't understand. They're holding the boy. They're not even looking for the weapon. Meanwhile, whoever did it could be miles away. Then you don't think Dick did it? It's too bad, of course not. Why would he? Even... Even... You never gave him any encouragement, did you? Alma. Did you? You're hysterical. I know exactly what I'm saying. And I don't believe that boy raised a finger against James. Then why did he hide? Wouldn't you, in his position? The police? Arrest? The most obvious person? That's all they know. Someone ought to teach them their business, obviously they don't. There are those who would like to teach the police their business. Quite a few people would. Alma Galpin set out to try. And it was with that idea in mind that she appeared in Inspector Ralph's office at the local station house. Well, Miss Galpin, sit down, won't you? Thank you. What can I do for you? How far have you gotten this case, Inspector? We're still holding the boy. The only charge at the moment is assault. If your cousin dies, well, that'll be another matter. Then you've done nothing. For the moment. I see. I brought you this. No. Why don't you open it? As you wish. I see. A brick bed. With stains on it. Don't you want to have it checked for fingerprints? Rough surfaces like this don't hold prints. Why? It's the weapons. Oh, how do you know? I found it. It was in the little pile of leftover bricks at the foot of the garden. James... James was going to ask the boy to build a bargain for Q Pitt with four. I see. How do you know so surely this is the weapon? That's blood on it, isn't it? It might be. Aren't you going to have it tested? Probably. Miss Galpin, do you realize that this brick might be the piece of evidence to hang that boy? It might be. It might hang someone else, too. Is this a charge, Miss Galpin? Who stands to gain most? Who would have her freedom? Who would get James' money? Have you thought of that, Inspector? Who wanted the brick wall repaired? Who spent altogether too much time in the garden? Have you given any thought to these questions, Inspector? Perhaps the Inspector had. Others had, that was certain. And, certainly, with one sentence, Dr. Kinder changed the entire complexion of the case. I'm sorry to have to tell you, Mrs. Friskin, but your husband passed away about ten minutes ago without ever regaining consciousness. Now, it was murder. And Anne Friskin, the young widow, came to the station house to see Dick Telly in his cell. In here, ma'am, you have ten minutes. Yes. Thank you. I'll be back in ten minutes. Oh, Dick. I didn't do it here. I'm stuck for it, but I didn't do it. Oh, Dick, you don't think for one minute I believe you did do it? How should I know what you believe? Well, you know me better than that. I want to help you. I know you better. Do I? Do I know any more about you than you know about me? Oh, Dick, don't talk like that. Please. Please let me help you. I'll get you a lawyer. I have money now. I'll take care of you. Sure, sure. You've got money now. You've got it all now, and I've got a murder charge. Anything you may say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence against you. After what you've done in the garden. Oh, forget it. Maybe that never happened. Maybe I was really crazy. Maybe you figured more than I meant. Well, what's the difference? He's dead, and you've got everything. You keep saying that. I've got everything. Well, haven't you? Isn't it what you wanted? You think... you think I did it? Oh, do I? All I know is I didn't, but I'm stuck in this rotten jail. I won't peach on you if that's what you're worried about. Not unless my own neck can't be saved any other way. Oh, maybe you did. Maybe you didn't. Not a very present scene. Not a very present circumstance. The young woman, the boy, sadly tender phrases of a summer morning shattered between them. However, in the offices and the floor above Dick Terry's cell, Inspector Ralph and Sergeant Hopkins were more interested in facts than in phrases. So, pathology reports it's Friskens' blood type on that brick. It's the weapon, all right. But who used it? The boy had a crush on the wife. Badly enough to kill for her. No, I doubt it. There aren't any elevers, sir. She went to bed as usual. No one saw her anywhere that night. The Galpin woman says she went to bed. The widow says she read for a while, went upstairs and found her husband. Could all three of them be in it together, sir? How do you figure that, Sergeant? Well, Mrs. Fiskens could have promised Galpin money. And Mrs. Fiskens would have had the boy. They might have planned to have the boy actually do it. Come in. I'm sorry, Inspector. Not at all, Mrs. Fiskens. Come in. Sit down. I believe you know Sergeant Hopkins. Yes, I have very little to say. It might be easier standing. As you wish, ma'am. I just saw Dick downstairs. Too bad about him. He seemed a nice lad. Inspector, this is not the easiest thing for a woman. I understand. Do you have an alibi for the boy? And yourself? Yes. Yes, I do. Inspector was an understanding gentleman. He offered no comment. He merely recorded a fact and let Anne Friskens leave his office with her own thoughts for company. Later that same day he arrived with Sergeant Hopkins in tow at the Friskens house. Ladies, we've done some further checking and investigation. I'm surprised you have the situation. I see. Thank you for that, at least. We're letting the boy go. He's in the clear. I knew that all along. I told you so. Yes, you did. I remember. The day you brought me the brick bat. Where did you find it? In the pile at the foot of the garden. I see that you know, Mrs. Friskens. There is no pile of bricks at the garden. It happens to be in the rear yard, near the back door, close to the foot of the back stairs. The stairs which reach the second floor quite close to the door of your room, Miss Galpin. Now, Sergeant, if you'll stay quite close to Miss Galpin and take down what she has to say. Taken down and maybe used as evidence. Yes, the usual warning. Well, Miss Galpin, why did you kill your cousin, Miss Galpin? She had everything. Even the boy with his sheep's eyes. I had nothing. I thought, if I got rid of James, who was too dull to care, she'd be blamed. After her, I'm next of kin. I'd have everything. I saw the little pile of bricks. I meant to put them in the garden later. Now, brick is heavy. It... Today, the brick bat can be seen here. In the black museum. Orson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. They put Alma Galpin safely away, where she could harm neither others nor herself. Dick Terry left that pleasant suburb of London and dropped into the anonymity one can find only in a great city. Anne Friskin sold the house and went far from London to start over, perhaps, but to carry with her always the memory of tragedy on a hot muggy night. And the memory of a mistake made through loneliness and mistaken kindness. Now, until we meet next time, in the same place, I'll tell another story about the black museum. I remain as always obediently yours.