 This is Orson Welles speaking from London. Here in the glimstone structure on the Thames, which houses Scruff and Yard, is a warehouse of homicide, where everyday objects, an ink bottle, a child's raincoat, a sofa pillow, all are touched by murder. Here's an open-hand wrench. It's a familiar object. If you own an automobile, you own one of these. At least you've seen a mechanic use one. The steel shaft, about eight inches long. The shaft bulging into a curved shape like a horseshoe, which fits a bolt exactly. Simple tool, almost beautiful in its slim efficiency. Well made, isn't it, Inspector? We are familiar with these things, Doctor. They are quite common in the weapon. Yes, of course. One skull could be cracked rather efficaciously if this were brought down hard on it. Today, this open-hand wrench can be seen in the Black Museum. All 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. Here lies death. Here in Silent Rose is the ordered catalogue of the violence wreaked by man on fellow man. Here's an empty cardboard match cover. Perhaps you've talked one into your own wastebasket this very moment, but not like this. Let's hope. No, from this one, they sulfur-headed matches were ripped to start a fire. A woman died in the burning building. Later, a man died. The end of a rope, trapped by the printed advertisement on this match cover. Ah, yes, here we are. Here's the open-hand wrench. It's a common tool among mechanics, even among non-mechanical types. Bookkeepers, clerks, teachers, no time of violence or death upon it, merely a bit of shaped, patterned steel produced for use in the manufacturing repair of modern machines. Look at it in ordinary circumstances, and it'll evoke no thought of tragedy in you. Or even in the motorist who traveled an English highway one quiet spring morning. Going at a normal speed, enjoying the fresh sunlight, the new clean green of fields and rising hills, the road curved ahead, white-posed smart the edge of the embankment, the road healed slightly turning to the left. Ah, quite a view. Gee, God, it's a nasty curve. It's not awake. That fence. There's a car down there. It's only until he's back in his own car, speeding toward the nearest town, toward the nearest police station. There. There's a wreck on the curve about a mile south of here. You have anything to do with it, Mr. Oh, no, no, no, of course not. I noted the broken fence and for the car down the hill. Ah, I say there seems to be a woman in it. Look, you better come and bring help. The doctor who was also the local columnar needed little time to determine which of his functions would call for at the wreck. He's been passed hell for hours. Must have gone off the road during the night. I've notified the superintendent about the accident, doctor. Yes, well, you fellows will want to trace the car. Any identification on the body? Nothing in the woman's purse, sir. It ought to be laundry or dry cleaners, Mark. It's pretty hard to identify these days, doctor. Yes, of course. You can tell the ambulance men to take it to the hospital. Hospital, sir? Or topsy. I can't just sign the certificate, accidental death, you know, Constable? Yes, sir, very well, sir. The ambulance drove off to the local hospital. Dr. Mason followed in his own car. At the wreck, the constable saluted a newcomer. Good morning, sir. Good morning, Johnson. Sir, I'm turtle, I see. Yes, sir. This is the man who discovered the wreck, sir. Mr. Frisbee, superintendent Foster. How do you do, sir? Mr. Frisbee, yes. You, uh, left your name and address? Well, with the constable, sir. Um, if I may, I have a business appointment. Yes, you go ahead. We'll send for you if we need you for the inquiry. Oh, thank you, sir. Well, just let me know if you want me. I'll be available any time, sir. Anything extraordinary, Johnson? Nothing, sir. As far as we've seen, no fire, no, sir. I'll have a look at it. Very good, sir. Superintendent Foster poked around in the twisted metal, and point caught his attention. Johnson, any idea of which way she was traveling? Downgrade, sir. There are rather clear tar marks on the roadway, leading to the break and offensive. Downgrade. Strange. The gear shift lever is in second position. Second gear, sir? Apparently. That grade isn't that steep. Just a point. Well, a woman driver, strange road at night. She wasn't in the driver's seat, sir. Oh? Tossed over as the car fell? Can't say, sir. I'd have expected, sir, that she'd have been pinned behind the steering wheel. Yeah. You may be right about that. Well, they'll leave things as they are. The insurance people usually want to see these wrecks. Open end wrench, sir. Probably from the air scuntable. I was going to say the toolbox, sir. The toolbox was locked. No other tools around. Well, bring it along to the station house. No sense leaving it out here to rust. And usual routine. Place the registration of the car. Locate the owner or the next of kin. And check if it was the woman's car. Another auto accident. Another careless or sleepy driver. The usual telegrams were sent. The usual telephone calls were made. The same afternoon, Constable Johnston reported to a superintendent. Here's Johnston. Papers on the accident, sir. Yeah, yeah. I see. Owner, Martin Beach. Avan Mules London. Has he been notified? Yes, sir. He's on his way down. The woman was his wife, sir. Must have been a shock. I took the call, sir. He kept saying he couldn't understand what she was doing all the way out here. Well, we'll deal gently with him. Dr. Mason reported yet? No, sir. Nothing on the autopsies yet. Taking him a long time? Well, let's see. Get me Dr. Mason, please. At the hospital. Did you make certain on the tire tracks, Johnston? We did, sir. They matched perfectly. The car was coming down, sir, on the side of the road away from the fence. It seems to have swerved suddenly, just above the curve, and made rather a beeline for the edge. Are you suggesting she went over purposefully, Johnston? No, sir. It seemed like a point, sir. Most cars at least tried to follow the road, sir. I notice you keep referring to the car, and not to the woman. She wasn't in the driver's seat, sir, when we found her. Stickler for detail, aren't you, Gunstable? Get in. Ah, you're both here, Johnston. I just put a call to you, doctor. Yes. Yes, thank you. Yes, he's just arrived. Well, what did you find, doctor? You asked, yes, as if you knew. Just a deduction. You don't usually take this long time on these jobs. I didn't expect to, until I found alcohol in her stomach. Oh, drunken driver. Oh, I wouldn't know about that. In any case, she wasn't driving when the car went through that fence. Johnston has been suggesting that rather stubbornly. He couldn't be more right faster. Why not? The dead don't drive. Hello? Anything else? Quite a bit. In the first place, death was not caused by the accident. She was dead well before the car went over. You told us that? You know how? Stangulation. Choked. Probably unconscious at the time. Well, what do you base that conclusion on? Four bruises. Hey, the neck. I just heard, so I thought the accident. Well, the dead don't drive, and they don't bruise, Constable. Those marks were made while she was still alive. I see. Definitely murder, doctor. Definitely. I'd like to see the body. Come along, Constable. Three men enter the morgue at the small country hospital. Three grim faces betray no emotion as they view the woman's body. The doctor says, You'll notice the marks, the strangest thumbs made there. The obvious bruise is here. Just below her hairline, on her forehead. Superintendent of police says, I see. Interesting the shape of that bruise. Almost like a small horseshoe. Differently, the Constable clears his throat, inquiring grants from his superintendent. The young officer says, We might try for actual size, sir. That kind of mark could have been made by that open-end wrench. And today, that open-end wrench has to be seen in the black museum. The doctor placed the bulged end of the tool against the woman's forehead. The three men stood there silently a moment. The Constable spoke. No question about it, sir. Not as far as I can see. Johnson, when this beach fellow arrives, say nothing about any of this. And I shall want a trunk called placed immediately. I want to speak with Inspector Hall at Scotland Yard. The ponderous, inevitable joggernaut that is, police work began to move. Gain momentum. A fast car brought Inspector Hall and Sergeant Williams from the yard before train connections permitted the arrival of Martin Beach. The inspector listened intently as Superintendent Foster outlined the details. Then, finally, no fuss, no newspaper headlines. Detectives were dispatched to run a check. Shortly thereafter, a grief-stricken husband arrived at the station house in the company of Dr. Mason. There's no question about my identification, Superintendent. Dr. Mason will bear me out. I knew her the moment that that is... Doctor, yes, it's Mrs. Beach. I can't understand it. I simply can't. She was a good driver better than I. How did it happen that she was out alone? We live at a quiet life. Even Moose is in the suburb of London, really. She'd often take the car for a drive. I'd go to sleep. I had to get up early. I'd go to sleep in the city. She said she wanted some fresh air last night. I didn't miss her until I woke this morning. I can't understand it. Why, could you be so... A simple story, quite commonplace, quite honest. One question seemed to puzzle a husband more than it disturbed him. Liquor? Whiskey, you mean? No, an occasional drink at a friend's place. That was all. Why? Are you suggesting Louise was a drunken driver? No, they were suggesting nothing, merely asking a routine question. Yes, they would release the body shortly. We had no relations, no one. We had only each other. I shall have to notify our friends. Yes, the police agreed sympathetically, and Superintendent Foster and Dr. Mason escorted him to his London train. Meanwhile, on the Middlebury Road. Your name, Carey? Yes, sir. My name's William, CID. My identification. Yes, Sergeant? Something go wrong? You heard of the accident down the hill? Yes, of course. How late do you keep this petrol station open? 12, one o'clock, depends on your traffic. And last night? I closed up about one. Locked the tanks and... Any customers around that time? Well, there was a dark sedan, man or woman. You got a good look at the woman? He was driving, bought five gathers. She was asleep at the front seat. Any sign of whiskey? Well, he had a breath on him, Sergeant. Seemed it an hour or two. Now, look, this photo mean anything to you? Yes, it looks a little... Sergeant, tell it tonight that the light's bad. Is she sleeping there in the picture? No. She's dead. They call it backtracking. They try to trace the car along the road it traveled. The gas station's first. In this case, where whiskey was present, the taverns and the inns were checked as well. You're the landlord here? Yes, sir. My wife said you're the police. Yes. They're trying to trace the men and the woman. Does picture mean anything to you? Yes, sir. She was here last night till closing time. Had a bit too much, I'm afraid, sir. No. Alone? No, sir. No, with a shortish veller. Dark, quiet, in a nervous sort of way. I remember, because, well, he wanted to buy a bottle, but I'd never spare. I rather thought what was driving and all, they'd already had enough. That evening, Sergeant Williams gave the inspector his own reports from that of the men assigned to the railroad portion of the inquiry. They routed the conductor out of his bed. He remembers the fellow all right, bought his ticket on the train. Complete stranger, shortish and dark. Yes, she was with a man all right. Seems to me we'd better break the news to Beach. Hmm, it won't be pleasant. It wasn't pleasant. Martin Beach took it quietly, but it would all be a shock. Louise, with another man, Inspector, you can't be serious. I'm afraid I am. Your wife's picture has been tentatively identified by a petrol station owner, by an innkeeper on the Middlebury Road. They'll be taken out of the hospital to check tomorrow. And she was with the man. No, it's not possible. No one could have been that secretive. Why? We just lived for each other. Well, it's an old story to us, Mr. Beach. You're a busy man. Your wife was alone a good deal. How? You told us yourself. She used the car, alone, and quite often at night. If I could get my hands on him, what fools we mortal to be? We want him to, Mr. Beach. Now, will you help us? Of course, anything. Anything at all. Then maybe search your wife's affix? Of course, Inspector. Search the whole house. They were quite thorough, of course, and very quickly they were successful. I found these in the stocking box at the rear of the Bureau drawer, Inspector. I see. Let it. Mr. Beach, do you know of Fred Hennessy? No. May I see the letters? Right. Well, I... I think you'd rather not. And we'll be checking them for fingerprints, of course. They're all addressed to your wife. The last one makes the arrangements for the meeting place with the car. Is there... is there a return address, Inspector? There is. Good luck, Inspector. Inspector and Sergeant Williams had luck. However, it was not exactly. Good luck. Fred Hennessy? No. There's no Hennessy living here. Well, now perhaps they use another name, a shortish darkfellow with a flare for letter writing. No. Haven't there any shortish men staying here in months? Well, there is 346. Greenville Street, isn't it? Well, there's nowhere else, Inspector. Once more, I don't have any letter writers here. Every one of my men's roomers, except one, works at the car factory. They're a tough crowd, Inspector, but they're nice enough to me. I take good care of them, I do. And the one who doesn't build automobiles? I don't even constably is. And a big disappointment. Still, the machinery ground on. The reports came in to the small bear office at the behind. Here we are. Fingerprint reports, Inspector. Now, the prints on the letters match those they found on the gear shift lever in the wrecked car. The ridge patterns conform to the smudges on the wrench, too, sir. The conclusion is obvious. At the very least, it placed the maker of those fingerprints in contact in the motor car with the motor weapon. It looks so, as if he pulled off the road, did the job, then started the car downgrade and jumped. Eh, it's probably. The unlocked door on the driver's side would indicate that. For what about those prints I told to try and get? We have them, sir. Listed them neatly. I was saving that for the last, sir. You see? They match. Probably was clever. All murder's usual in amateurs' crime isn't it, Sergeant? What about the men to identify him? They'll be in London in the morning, sir. To Sergeant Williams, the case seemed complete. The Inspector was still somewhat cautious. It will stick, sir. In any court. I'll feel better if we have the motive, Sergeant. I like a complete case. Identifications have been upset before. And even fingerprints. Given a good motive, we'll hang the gentlemen. In fact, we may be able to see he hung himself with his own cleverness. Inspector Hall here. Hmm? I see. Very good, Davis. No. No, just keep your eye on the place. Williams will now be along directly. Get your head, Sergeant. Very good, sir. Our quarrel's gone and calling him a lady. And so are we. The police car stared silently through the London streets out to a pleasant suburb. He dropped to the curb near a small house detached from its neighbors, surrounded by a hedge and trees. A man stepped out of the shadow and spoke softly to the Inspector. He remained at the car as the Inspector and the Sergeant walked to the front door of the house and rang the bell. Yes? Miss Jeffrey? Miss Dorothy Jeffrey? My name is Hall. It's the ID. My identification. May we come in? Right here. By now. Thank you. What can I do for you? Well, as a matter of fact, Miss Jeffrey, we stopped by to see your caller. A Mr. Marchin Beach, I believe? Inspector. Well, this is a pleasure to see you all the way out here. Is it, Mr. Beach? Of course. You know why they heard, don't you? You want me to come by? Wait a minute. What's going on here? Don't you know, Miss Jeffrey? I know the ID. Inspector's dust. Don't drop in or come by. Martin, have you been up to something? Stay out of this, Dorothy. I'm not stay out of it. If we're to be married, I'd be right to know. We stopped by to tell Mr. Beach about his wife. Wife? You never mentioned a wife, Martin. You're not arresting me, Inspector. I was home and asleep when she was killed. I'm not going to let you know now. So, as a conductor of the train, you talk back to London for Middlebury. I say, you're not taking me in. You're not! You're not! Hey, Inspector, there are French doors into the garden. Your house is well-covered from back, Miss Jeffrey. You won't get far. That's his warning. He'll stop running now. This is not the expected way to break an engagement to be married. Yes, I understand, Miss. First, you all get over it. This manner of ending a relationship is far less permanent than the one your fiancee used to gain his freedom from his wife. You know, Miss, the chances are quite good. They've got a way with it. If you hadn't written some fake love letters and forgotten behind a certain open-end wrench... And today, the open-end wrench can be seen in its special place in the Black Museum. Carson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. It's an old garage, of course. It may have worked many times. Commit a murder, rack an automobile to cover its traces. It might have worked this time. If Martin Beach had known that dead bodies do not bruise... If he'd been really clever and had succeeded in burning the car and the body. If... If... If he'd been really clever, his cleverness failed him. Failed him at 8 o'clock one morning in Dartmoor Prison. As for Dorothy Jaffrey, she disappeared when she had come into the great Anna Mimedy, which is London. And so until next time, do we meet in the same place for another story about the Black Museum. I remain as always obediently yours.