 This is Orson Welles, speaking from London, a black museum. Here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. A warehouse where everyday objects, or phonograph record, a desk pad, a flashlight, or a touch by murder. There's a leather bag. What's a familiar object a doctor carries a bag like this, or a bank messenger, a payroll clerk, neat, compact, light? Not the kind of thing to carry the weight of death. You know, Sergeant, I like to think of all our cases as wrapped up neatly in a bag, like this. One package. I know what you mean, Inspector. This case now. It should have been open and shut. Like that. Today that leather bag can be seen 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. In just a moment you will hear the black museum starring Orson Welles. Orson Welles. It's a mausoleum of murder. It's by now a familiar place, at least to me. The vaulted ceiling with its sinister shadows, the stone floor, the endless shelves, the wooden cabinets. All familiar. All dedicated to the memory of murder. Stories though carefully identified by the plain white labels. Repelling though fascinating. The means to murder. Arranged on exhibition. It's a symbol. Created with skill for the rhythm of dancing, the sound of revelry. One fingerprint on this spun brass and from it, the web was spun which brought a killer to his just and proper end. A revolver designed for death. Have you ever heard of Russian roulette or death by chance? There was no chance in the game where this revolver was used. The victim was picked. The murder was deliberate. Ah, a leather bag. Part of a puzzle. A jigsaw puzzle involving life and death and greed which is never quite completed. A puzzle which began in the railroad yard at Amos and the coal district around Newcastle. You'll get used to this way of doing dins after a bit, Jimmy. I like the work, Bill. The admin. Only I keep wondering where the trains come from and where they're going. You'll get over that, my boy, when you're coupled and uncoupled as many cars as I have. It'll be just routine. Train comes into the yard, it's like this one. Climb aboard, check the carriages in each compartment like we're doing now. They break it up, reassemble, have it on its way again. Here, now. What's all this? Looks like paint to me. Somebody spilled something on the carpet. Lift what it is under the seat here. Ain't that pretty? Ever look, Jimmy. It's a man. Dead. I've seen enough deadens in the war to know about that. This is where the priest, Murd, took four enough. His hat's here. Don't touch anything. This is for the place, like I said. The elderly yard's been left his helper on guard and found his way up near his core box. Shortly after, uniform constables took over and within minutes, Inspector Hunt and Sergeant Lewis were on the spot. Walker Inspector goes Inspector, and the man's hat. Name Warren King on the band. Any other identification? Ask to the premises of the banister colliery. Word for the mine company. And a return to get to Newcastle. Yes, he won't be needing that with five bullet holes in his head. Well, nothing else here, but we'd better broadcast the information we have on him. Someone on a train may have seen him. We'd someone else. The steady, inexorable routine of the police. Notify the employer of the next of kin. Advise the newspapers and the BBC. Request information. On the 9 o'clock news broadcast, Inspector, then I have a bit of information which may be of value. Oh, what is it, Miss Rowley? I saw King with another man in the station at Newcastle yesterday morning. You're certain it was Warren King? I've known him for years. Not well, but well enough to have seen him socially occasionally. I saw him with his little leather bag, just as we went through the gate for the Allmuth fray. Leather bag? Oh, yes. Friday is payday at the banister mine. King with pale old clark. He always drew the cash to pay off the men and took it down to Allmuth himself. Oh, and the man with him. Did you get a good look? No one I knew. But I did have a good look at him. Brown suit, blondish hair, quite well built. I should judge you as about 35 years old, weighs about 380 pounds. You've got that description taken down, Sergeant? Yes, sir. Good. We'll have an old station alarm on him and broadcast the description. It can't hurt at this stage of the game. Mr. Rowley, would you... Another step in the routine, another broadcast description, wanted for questioning concerning the shooting on the Newcastle Allmuth local. Now, of course, the rumors came in. I saw him. On a bus it was. The exact description, even the brown suit. And he looked guilty, if you ask me. In a pub it was on High Street. Talking to the bartender. Flashing a roll the size of your fist. I'd know him again in a minute. We're sitting across from you on the train, right in the same compartment. Me in the same compartment, that close to a murderer. Of course, none of them had the right man. One person had a real lead, though. A woman friend of Warren King's. I'd seen Warren occasionally. Nothing important, just metonic. But he did take me out. And I came to know some of his friends. Maybe you have their names, please, Miss. As far as I know them. Fred, oh, there was one. Yes, seems you've been in to see us. Oh. Then there was Larry Jones and Joe Evans. He is the important one. Why, especially? Because he fits the description perfectly. Snappy dresser. Played the ponies too, I think. Oh, did he? Yes, he offered to put down a pound or two for me occasionally. Then you have his address? Yes, I have. It's over what into when? Sergeant Lewis drove over to the address mentioned for one, Joseph Evans. It was a polite inquiry. Is there a Joseph Evans lives here? Well, yes, sir. Second floor, front. You can go up. He's at home. The sergeant climbed the stairs. All the usual questions came to mind. Was this another wild goose chase? How will this Evans behave? Need I expect trouble? The sergeant knocked on the door of the second floor, front. Yes? Mr. Evans? That's right. I'm Sergeant Lewis, CID. I'm a credential. Oh. Come in, Sergeant. I must say I've been expecting someone from your division who sit down. Thank you. Now, what can I do for you? It's about Warren King, isn't it? As a matter of fact, it is. It's rather a shock reading about him in the paper than all the wireless broadcasts. You see, I was on that same train. Spoke with him on the platform, as a matter of fact. Run into him as we both thought. Rather disarming, fellow, this Evans. Eager to discuss the whole case, but none too helpful, however. As Sergeant Lewis reported. The man fetched the description with broadcast inspector. He states, here, he put it down in writing. We talked briefly, Warren and I. Then he went on to the first car while I stayed at the rear of the train. I was on my way to see Campbell of Blue Colliery. But I was into my paper so deeply. I'm a racing fan, and it was Grand National Day that I rode past Dunnington, my station, and didn't quite realize it until the train latched at the curve outside of Morpeth. I got off at Morpeth and paid the extra fare. Does that check? Yes, sir. The ticket inspector that Morpeth remembers him. What about Campbell? This meant the colliery. I haven't been able to get him yet. He was in the shaft all morning. Well, it might be just as well as charging if you took the train down there and saw Mr. Campbell personally. One never knows what there is to be... The Blue Colliery was no different than any other local coal mine in the area. Same black tipple, same cage, same coal dust. Mr. Campbell was the engineer in charge. What's that place, you see? The CID Newcastle, sir. We are meeting in clarity concerning a duel with Evans. I know the man. What about him? Did he have business with you this past Friday? Not with the North. He says he was on his way down here this evening. He never got here the way you were expecting him. Where such visits are part of his regular schedule. I was not expecting the man. He's a free agent. He comes and goes without hindrance. I have no control over his doing. Thank you, Mr. Campbell. Was this a discrepancy in Evans' story? After all, he hadn't said that Campbell was expecting him. If you don't mind, Mr. Evans, Inspector Hunt would like to ask you a few more questions at headquarters. Evans was quite eager to cooperate. He went along with the sergeants while he was at headquarters. Mr. Evans is quite probably furious by now. Held at the station, waiting for you, Inspector. No doubt. The place doesn't heal very much, does it? Just the pawn ticket so far. Not unusual for a racing fan to have such things in his flat. No, rather run of the mill. We'll check them, though. One of the constable says you want me. You run this building? Run it and own it. I see. Would you mind telling us whether Mr. Evans was regular with his rent? No. He is now. He paid the three months he owed me last Saturday. And a man carrying a missing pair was killed on Friday. Or did Joseph Evans make his killing on the Grand National? This would come out eventually, the Inspector believed. For the present, the question of legal identification was paramount. There will be nine men in the room, Mr. Ronit. All of the same description, approximately, is the man you told us you saw with Mr. King on Friday. We'll ask you to pick out that man if he's present. Well, do my best, Inspector. Well, Mr. Ronit? So what about from the left? That's the man I saw with Warren King. That's the man we are holding. One question, sir. Did you see him enter the same car as Mr. King? No, sir. I looked away for a moment. When I glanced that way again, they both disappeared. I assumed they were right, and I tried them together. Thank you, Mr. Ronit. The identification parade had yielded some result. Yet, all the time, the answer to the riddle lay in the plain leather traveling bag. It's that same bag which you can see today in the Black Museum. In just a moment, we will continue with the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. Much to go on as yet, motive, opportunity, knowledge of the contents of the leather bag and an identification. Nevertheless, the police felt that they had to take action. We are holding you, Evan, as you'll be formally arranged in the morning and charged with willful murder. Evan seems shocked, but made the best of a bad job. I understand, Inspector, but I didn't kill him. That's the truth of it. I didn't kill him. In the meanwhile, some miles from Newcastle, a routine inspection was taking place at the bottom of the shaft of the banister mine. Oh, way, oh, this sudden interest in number three. It hasn't been worked in years. Oh, these timbers seem sound enough. Companies expecting to open up here again. Oh, that's the defense effort and so on. The show run does seem all right. Let's get along. All right. Please give me the creeps. Hello? What's this? Shine the lamp over this way a moment, Marty. There you are. Oh, what's this done here? Looks like a pay master's bag, don't it? Let's have a look inside. Nothing in it but a few carpets. I don't think him would do best to report this to the front office. What would old King get in himself done in the morning? Yes, you would do best to report this to the front office, gentlemen. You had no business opening that bag in the first place. The front office will turn the bag over to the police. Inspector Hunt and Sergeant Lewis will take it from there. Chances are it is King's bag. It won't be too difficult to get it identified. It's a long way from office to number three shaft of banister. Yes, I was thinking exactly that. What train did Evans say he took back to Newcastle? The 1150T. Well, it's mathematics and conjecture now, Sergeant. Did Evans have time to get to that shaft and back to Morpeth before 1152? I have the timetable and the whole map. Sir, I'll figure it. Good. Sergeant, how do you feel about the trial? None easy, sir. You, sir? Well, frankly, I feel a lot better if we had the gun and could tie it to Evans. Too many loose ends in this one, Sergeant. Uncomfortable. Joseph Evans was none too comfortable himself, nor was his defending counsel. They had the usual conferences in the lawyer's room with the prison where Evans was held pending the trial. All right, man. You've admitted you spoke with King on the station platform. What then? Well, he went on about his business, said something about the forward part of the train being closer to his exit gate at Oldmouth. I went to the rear for the same reason. The exit is at the rear at Stannington. But you didn't get off at Stannington. I told the police I missed the station. I was studying the racing form for the Grand National. I had a bet to make. Did you? I did. And I won. Worst luck? Then that's how you paid your back rent. Exactly. And not even a book is dubbed to prove it. The one scambling has paid off in the reverse. You win and you're in trouble. Can you find your bookie? No. He's disappeared. No trace. It's flimsy. But it would clean up part of what the Crown would claim was the motive. Look here, can't you possibly remember anyone who was in your compartment with you? I wish I could. I was in first, sat at the window facing forward, lost myself in the paper. I noticed no one. Too bad no one noticed you. You haven't even the description? Nothing. Everyone was noticing me, not the other way around. King must have ridden a loan with his murderer. No one seems to know anything about him or his trip, except that he was killed between Newcastle and Oldmouth. You worked for Culinary 2, didn't you? That's right. Then you knew that the wages are paid every second Friday. Of course. That's going to be hard to beat. It's not good. Your Mr. Campbell says he had no idea you were coming down. I was. That's the truth. You've been there to see him before? Several times. Always on Fridays? If that was so, it would help. I would like to say that. I can't. Campbell wouldn't bear me out. Oh, well. We'll keep at it. Looks like our only hope is someone who remembers seeing you in that last car. As I say, we'll keep at it. It was a strange case. Everyone, prosecution as well as defense, seemed to be groping in the dark, making use of intangibles. People were observant. People were blind. People volunteered information other stayed away, or didn't realize they were part of the evidence. The Crown billed a fairly strong, circumstantial case. I was prisoned when I divide. There is no question he was on that train that Friday morning. He could have made it to the number three shaft, tossed the bag down, and made the 1152 at Mockpeth. I tried it myself one morning. I managed it walking. The next day, I tried it from Stunnington. It was impossible from there. You each other, Mr. King, Mr. Evans. We all went on dates together three or four times. I can't imagine the meeting and not riding together on the same train. I was certainly having money trouble. I did no rent from him for three months. And all at once, he paid his due in a month in advance, the Saturday after this year murder. Evans was there. The timing seemed to fit the evidence. The two men were friendly. Evans had plenty of motive for a payroll robbery. He took the stand in his own defense. Then the truth, as you know it, and remember your underost, Mr. Evans, is that you did not ride with the deceased and you did not either rob or kill him. That is the exact truth, sir. Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Evans, you stated under direct examination that you worked for Blue Colored. Yes, sir. Then you know to the customs to take the payroll monies from the business offices of the mines at Newcastle to the mines themselves. Well, that has been the custom for many years. I did it myself, for a time, some years back. But I always drew the cash from the bank at Mockpeth to avoid carrying the cash all that distance. But it still was the custom in most cases to bring the money from Newcastle and you knew about it. It was not my custom. You knew it was that of others? I never thought about it. I submit, sir, that when you saw the leather bag the deceased was carrying, you realized its contents at once. I never thought about that either. I had my mind on other things. On your financial problem? Among other things. Would you hope to recoup by the Grand National Horse Race? Well, one always hopes. Isn't it possible your reason for going to see Mr. Campbell was to borrow money from him? No. What then? You must have had some good reason for this trip. Well, it was in the line of business. Will you state what line of business? It was about some wages he was paying. On that Friday, I did not know if he paid on that Friday or the next one. You were at the mine the week before? I was. Were the men paid that day? I don't know. I don't remember. Mr. Evans, are you familiar with firearms? One time I was a guard. I carried a revolver in those days. Where is that revolver now? I don't know. Did you lose it? Or sell it? Or throw it away? I gave it back to the company with my uniform when I became an inside worker. Does the company own those firearms? Yes. You know where they're stored? Yes, I do. I ask you, Mr. Evans, did you take one of those revolvers with you on that Friday morning with intent to kill? Use it against Mr. King, clean it, and return it to its place before anyone noticed it was missing? No, of course not. Why should I? Can't you think of any good reason, Mr. Evans? No, of course not. I can think of several. Your financial problems, your intent to kill, even perhaps jealousy over Mr. King's attention to your mutual lady friend. That is not so. There was nothing. My bullets were pumped into Mr. King's head. One would have been sufficient. This suggests the additional motive of revenge. Well, Mr. Evans, I didn't kill him. I didn't. You can't make me say I did. I didn't do it. I didn't kill him. I didn't. Joseph Evans was not a good witness under cross-examination. He admitted nothing. But the impression that he knew many things which were left unsaid was vivid even in the stenographic record of the trial. The jury retired after three days of listening to the evidence. Two and a half hours later they returned. Joseph Evans rose in the prisoner's box and faced them. The clerk asked had they reached a verdict. We have? What was their verdict? To find the prisoner guilty. No. I am innocent. I spoke the truth. I never touched him. I didn't do it. Who spoke the truth? The foreman of the jury? Or Evans? The only witness could never speak. And that witness, the leather bag, can be found today as I've told you in the Black Museum. Orson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. And is Orson Wells. As the inspector said at the beginning of this tale, this case should have been open and shut. It was not. Still, Evans was found guilty by 12 men in the jury box. And he paid for the murder of Warren King at 8 o'clock one morning in Newcastle Prison. Despite the missing witnesses on both sides. The people who shared the compartment of that last car of the fatal train. The people Evans claimed could have cleared him. The people who may have seen him. The death compartment, several cars forward. The people who might have placed him at the actual scene of the crime. And despite that missing silent witness. The death weapon itself. And now, Joe, we meet next time in this same place. And I tell you another story about the Black Museum. And I mean as always, obediently yours. Museum starring Orson Wells is presented by arrangement with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer radio attractions. The program is written by Aura Mariam with original music composed and conducted by Sidney Torch. Produced by Harry Allen Towers.