 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. Where everyday objects, a light bulb, a broken mirror, a stained blotting pad, and all are touched by murder. Here's an auto service card, issued by a garage to show that a certain motor car was oiling greased. The speedometer reading was 15,001. According to the card, his car had done 5,001 miles on the first. By the following day, he'd added another 160 miles to the speedometer reading. And he told you, Inspector, he hadn't been on any long journeys. He'd forgotten the speedometer reading on the service card. They all overlooked something. And the harmless-looking service card, which George Dalton overlooked, was instrumental in convicting him of the brutal murder of his own mother and father. That's why it earned its place here 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. The Black Museum. As beyond these stone walls, the life of London flows as ceaselessly as the muddy waters of Thames. Here, it's silent. Let us walk under the freeze of death masks. The masks of criminals who, by gone days, suspended grimly under the ceiling. That glass funnel means nothing until we stop and read the card beside it. Once this funnel was used to pour acid over the body of a woman, insignificant in itself, easily broken, but strong enough to hang a murderer. Now, here's a pair of spectacles. Over there's a powder cup. And here's what we're after, the buff-colored service card. As I open the showcase and take it between my fingers, I ask you to come with me back to 1947. We're calling at the quites of urban house of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton. Live in South London. A respectable district populated by respectable middle-class people, but the Dalton's are in trouble. The cause is their only son, George Frederick. They're discovering that George is not as other young men of his age. To his parents he is, at the age of 23, a problem child. He's not a bad boy, Fred. You know that. But he just doesn't seem to settle down. I know his trouble. Oh, don't be too harsh on him. He won't work. That's what's wrong with the young devil. Oh, Fred. Well, how many jobs has he had since he came out of the army? And even the army couldn't do anything with him. Absent without leave half a dozen times. He spent more time in detention than he did on the drill square. Here he is. Dear, he's upset again. Well, now I expect you'll turn the radio on. Oh, George, for heaven's sake, don't turn that radio on. I've got a headache. Oh, go to hell. What did you say to me? I told you to... Here, you get away from that set. Jerry, you'll put your hands on me. Go to your room. Sorry, Dad. I didn't mean it, Dad. I'll sweep up this mess and we'll have some tea, shall we? All right, young man. For your mother's sake, I'll forget it. But I'm getting straight on the telephone to my old friend Jim Spencer. He's got a jeweler shopping cap on and he meets a lot of people. Maybe he can advise me about fixing him up with a job. Jim Spencer, the jeweler, was white-haired in his 60s. He lived over his shop, which was quite prosperous. And he had just lost a young assistant who, having learned something of the trade, had to do a larger firm. So George Dalton was taken on in this place and for the first time, George seemed to be interested in his work. But perhaps that was not altogether surprising. Glass me my eye, Glass, will you, my boy? There you are. Thank you. That's a very nice pendant you're working on, Mr. Spencer. Yes, it is, isn't it? How much is it worth? I'd give a hundred guineas for it and sell it at 120. Would the owner sell? Not this one. A few hundred pounds in the safe there, just in case I get a chance to buy something like this? Now where did I put those tweezers? To Mrs. Dalton's delight, her son was still working in the shop at the end of six months. But young George was, rather less interested in the work than in the end product. And above all, he was interested in that safe. He even had a duplicate of the key made. He had a duplicate of the door key, too. Perhaps he didn't quite know what he was going to do with his keys, but in a steamy café behind the bright lights of Piccadilly, he found a friend who had ideas. If you're all sweet chum, I'd say you were sitting on a blinking gold mine. What do you mean? Yeah, come off me, George. We did 90 days' detention together in the Army, didn't we? I know you're not quite doved. I mean, all you've got to do is to get the key of the door, the key of the safe. Well, I've got those. You have. There they are. Well, for crying out loud, what are you stalling about? It's all for real job, Charlie. It's a bit of a step to take, isn't it? It's up to you, Cook. I know what I'd do. I'd sleep in about two o'clock in the morning. Here, here, Charlie, would you come with me? Do you want to make it a business proposition? Oh, yeah. Yes, I do. Look, if we broke into... Just quiet. Pay the bill. Let's get out of here. Okay, okay. Here, where do we go? Okay, slashers got brains. You put your right. Come on, I'll introduce you. So, George Dalton started his professional career. Yeah, you know this guy well to you, Charlie? Oh, sorry. We did 90 days together, didn't we, George? Yes, that's right. Okay. And you want to join us to you, George? I want Charlie to come in on this job with me. That's the idea. The idea's okay. And we need a jewelry expert and a gang. Forget this, pal. I'm the boss. And what I say goes, do this job, you and Charlie, and take 50% of the profits. The risk goes into the organization. Understand? Do you agree to the terms? Yes. Yes, I agree. Then that's fixed. Shake on it. This clinches it. And remember, there's no funny business in this outfit. I suppose you know why the boys call me Slash. I think so. George, not that I'd use it on you, but I thought I'd mention it in passing. George is okay, I've told you. Of course he's okay, and I'll fix up a car for you tomorrow night. A car? Yes, it's all part of the service. You're busting into the Spencer shop tomorrow night. So you've got all day tomorrow to fix the burglar alarms. And those burglar alarms took quite a bit of fixing. But by closing time, George Dalton had traced and snipped the wires. Putting on his coat, he wished his employer a beautiful good night, and at 11 o'clock, Mr. Spencer turned out his light in the bedroom upstairs and climbed into bed. Three hours later, a stolen car turned quietly into the deserted street. And stopped. Mr. Kleiner George, you got the keys? Okay, then we go. Where's the safe? Over here. Your man's upstairs, isn't he? Yes, it'll be all full if he wakes up and comes down. You got that safe open yet? A little bit stiff. Here, Charles. Shine the torch this way. Come on, what's it? Jumping, Jake. What the blazes are you doing? I'm sorry, I knocked a tray over. The clock made me jump. Here, let's get out quick. Open that safe, you stupid swamp. It's jammed, Charles. Come on, let me have a go. You sure this is the right key? Of course I'm sure. Here, look, Spencer will be awake now. Pull the door. Look out, look out, the old man's coming. Here he is. Get him. Get back. Grab what you can and run for it. Okay, I've got two trays of wings and some notes. Come on, get out. The jeweler was found lying in a pool of blood. Ten minutes later, the neighbor who found him called the police immediately. But needless to say there were no signs of the thieves and they had left no clothes. Mrs. Dolton stated that her son had been at home and bare on the night of the robbery. The best of her knowledge, she was telling the truth. But two days later, her son visited his unfortunate employer and handed in his notice. Spencer, I just couldn't go on drawing me wages while the shop's closed and you're here in hospital. You're a good boy, George. I only wish you knew enough about the business to carry it on for me. But I thought it wiser to put the stock away in the bank in case those rascals came back. I only wish I could get my hands on them, Doug. Don't you, swine? Luckily, they didn't get away with anything worthwhile. What do you mean? I thought that you... What did you think, George? I thought I'd cleaned you out. No, I'm too old a bird to leave valuables in the shop safe at night. I take them all upstairs to a real safe. I only leave the pay stuff down below. Didn't I ever tell you? No, you never told me. How much the old gentleman suspected we don't know. If he did have any suspicions, he never had them. But the slasher was not too easy. George Dutton, the expert in jewelry. Come here, George. I want to speak to you. What's the trouble, Slash? I'll tell you what's the trouble. You're a dirty double-crossing perisher. You think you can unload junk on me, do you? You knew these rings were duff? I didn't know. After working in the shop for six months, you didn't know where the real stuff was? Give me that. Two trays of duff and a fire in notes. You can't get away with it. Where's the rest? There isn't any more. Okay, I warned you. Here it comes. The slash of the razor across Dalton's left cheek unlocked the gates of an unquenchable hatred. With a flash of six inches of sharp steel, he became a killer and he knew that the slasher must die. He would evolve the perfect murder with no clues, such as the service card which can be seen today among the exhibits in the Black Museum and the killer with blood still streaming from his cheek. He smiles at the slasher and for the first time in his life that individual is surprised. Taken off his guard. I suppose I asked for that. She's out of here. You're not pretty. I've got your brand on me now. I've got to be one of you. What do you mean? You're a man of action. I like that even if it hurts. Give me another chance. I'll do better next time. I never knew they made them so yellow. Get out. You stink. I've got a date here with a smasher here she comes. Henry, is that you? I never knew your name was Henry. Hello, what's happened? She's had an accident. Just going. Are you hurt bad? No, she's nothing much. She's no friend of mine, Brenda. Come on, let's go. Good night, Henry. Good night, Brenda. I'm going to say some more of you. That's right, Dalton. You've made your choice. You're going to start with a girl that will hurt him. Follow them. You're going to let me in, aren't you, Tut? No, I'm tight. What's the matter with you tonight? I don't know what you did to that. Oh, for Pete's sake, you're not still beefing about him. I know what you did and I'm no prude, but I don't like racers and you know it. Good night. That's the way you want it. See you tomorrow. It's me. What do you want? Have you got something I can put on this cut? You followed us? Why? I don't know, I need help. He comes back, he'll kill you. He'll come in quick. I don't know why I'm doing this. I must be crazy. He'll come into the kitchen. I'll bathe that cut. Well, I'd better go. If the cops saw you in this mess, they'd take you for questioning. Here, hold your face over the water. Okay. What's your name? George. Henry says you double-crossed him. I didn't. It would be so easy to squeeze that pretty throat of yours, Brenda. But you're too lovely. You're there. Keep still while I put some plaster on. It's lucky the cut isn't deep. Huh? How do you feel? Oh, I'm fine, thanks. I... I suppose I'd better go now. I don't understand you, George. You know, you're different from the others. What others? I suppose you know what sort of girl I am. I don't care what sort of girl you are, but... I... I sure like it. You're decent. Perhaps you should go. I'll do just whatever you say. Oh, you just shirt and coat or all covered in blood. I can't turn you out like that. You'd better spend the night now. I'll get you some clean clothes in the morning. Brenda, I never felt like this about... about anyone before. I... I don't know what to say. I mean... I don't either. Well, I'll put the kettle on and we'll have a nice cup of tea. Much a part of London's life is bucking in palace in the houses of Parliament. Brenda made tea. The next morning she went out and bought her new lover the clothes he needed. He put on the clothes she bought him and went home. He knew quite well what he was going to do and that night he borrowed his father's car at nine o'clock he drove to the bomb site where he knew the slasher would be waiting for Brenda. And in his pocket he had a short length of lead piping. As he approached his objective he saw a movement in the shadows. Who's the slasher? Well, if it isn't the jewel expert. Yeah, you come in the money? Hi, Slash. How you doing? Well, what's your idea? Not looking for trouble, are you? What do you think? Get back you dog! Now that squares out a cut. I'll put you under the rug in the back of the car and I'll take you for a little ride. I was to a deserted bridge over a railway. Dalton lifted his victim onto the parapet. Then he paused. Just before you go, I wonder how much you've got in your pocket. Anybody coming? Oh, good. Oh, yes. Quite a few notes here. Thank you, Slash. Thank you very much. Goodbye. Quite gentle. Dalton eased the unconscious man over the edge. After that it was easy. Brenda, like the old jeweler, may have had her suspicions, but she kept them to herself. Dalton had money. Ticking nearly a hundred pounds from the Slash's pocket before pushing me to the path of the oncoming train. That hundred pounds lasted just two weeks. Two glorious weeks. The happy couple celebrated those weeks in the famous seaside resort of Brighton. Then, on the morning of January 1st, 1948, with funds running low, George Dalton took his father's car into the Carduck's service station to be oiled and greased. Now, why did he do that? Superintendent Brandruth of Scotland Yard, has the answer. There is no doubt that Dalton had already decided to drive to his parents' home and asked for money. He had insufficient funds with which to pay his hotel bill, and it was essential for him to receive help from his father. His father was always particular about the regular servicing of his car, and the son doubtless had this carried out in order to produce it as a SOP for his father's Roth. And the speedometer reading was 15,001, duly recorded on the service card. So, George Dalton drove the 50-yard miles to his home on offers to be his fatal journey. He was hampered by a fog on the way, and when he eventually turned into his own street, the fog was very thick. Stopped the car outside his parents' house, went inside, and got down to business. I'm sorry, Father, but I've got to have the money quick. Well, who the blazers do you think you're talking to? You take my car for a weekend, you keep it for a fortnight. Well, I've had it, sir. I don't care if you've had it rebuilt. You'll never drive it again. You didn't nearly got under the police and reported it stolen by you. And now you have the infernal impudence to demand 50 pounds just like that. If I don't have it, I'll go to prison. The hotel won't wait. Then you'll have to go to prison. You'd have gone there a long time ago. It might have brought you to your senses. You're my own son, but I'm disgusted with you. Go on, get out. You can't send me away, can't I? There's the door now. Now go on, get out. Oh, no, you don't! Your mother, mother! Give me that money, will you? You're mad! You're choking me. What have you done? He's dead. Dalton, apparently unimpressed by the enormity of his crime, left the murdered couple lying where they had fallen while he searched the house for money. He found just over 30 pounds of his parents' savings. He drove the car into the garage, put his victims in the back and covered them once again with a traveling rug. Then, as he cleaned the house and locked up after himself, there's darkness fill. He drove to the nearest bridge, over a railway. It was the same method as before. While it was over, the murderer drove back to his lover and brightened. But when he arrived, she had grim news for him. George, tell me you didn't do it. What? Well, what are you talking about? Your mom and dad. Ah, you're mad. You don't know what you're saying. Come into the other room quickly. Brenda, what do you know about my mother and father? Now, tell me. So you did do it? No. Oh, no, you did it. Oh, why? How could you? Brenda. Don't touch me. Mr. Dalton, is it? Yeah. What do you want? I'm solid to have to tell you that your mother and father were found dead an hour ago. I didn't do it. What exactly do you mean by that? Ha, ha, how dreadful. I don't believe it. You know how they died? Of course I don't. How could I? Well, that's what I was wondering. Could you give me an account of your movements today? Yeah. I spent the day here with my fiance. You haven't used the car outside. I'll be driving to New Haven. That's eight and three-quarter miles. Seventeen and a half there and back. You haven't been anywhere else? No. The car's been here all the time? Yes. According to the garage people, you had the car serviced this morning. Yeah? The speedometer reading then, according to the service card, was fifteen thousand and one. You've put on over a hundred miles since then. I've just checked the clock and my wear. They're gone. I've been withered all day. Oh, George, what's the good of you lying? The speedometer's in order. That can't lie. I'm afraid that in the circumstances, it's my duty to charge you with the murder of... Stop him! Let me go! So George Dalton was arrested and charged with the murder of his parents, within an hour of their bodies being discovered on a railway line fifty miles away. In due course, he was convicted. And at eight o'clock on a cold misty morning, he mounted the steps of the scaffold. And he told you, Inspector, he hadn't been on a long journey. He'd forgotten the speedometer reading on the service card. They all overlooked something. And that is why the service card has earned its place. Here in the Black Museum. Orson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. You may be wondering how George Dalton was traced so quickly. When his parents' bodies were discovered, the police immediately went to the Dalton residence, expecting to find the son. Both the son and the car were, of course, missing. It was the work of a few minutes to trace the maker number of the vehicle, and the general alert was put out all over the country. Police officers visited garages in the Telltale service card, localized the search to the Brighton area where Dalton's name was recognized in the hotel. The girlfriend was questioned while George Dalton was already being tailed by a police car into the hotel forecourt. At this stage, of course, there was no evidence against him, but the police allowed him to get into the hotel before questioning him. So they proved the theory that by giving a criminal just enough rope, he'll surely hang himself. Which is what Dalton did, with the aid of the buff-colored service card, which has earned its honored place here in the Black Museum. Now until we meet next time in the same place, and I'll tell you another story about the Black Museum. I don't think there's always obedient to you.