 This is Orson Welles, speaking from London. The structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of souvenirs. Where everyday objects, a broom, a vase, a lampshade, all are touched by murder. Thames, bro, good leather, expensive make, but the dark stain near the heel, wasn't put there by the manufacturer. The Thames shoe, sir. Left foot. What do you make of this stain? Looks to me like blood. Today, that shoe 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 Yards' Gallery of Death. The Black Museum. Museum of Murder. Here lies death, violent, unexpected death. Here, in the objects that line the shelves and fill the room are the stories of murder. Here's a birthday card to Margaret with love. A present went with a card, of course. The present was death. This glass. A man was drinking from it when he died, most unnaturally. The glass fell from his hands. After a jump forward instinctively to catch it, he caught it and left a fingerprint to send it to the gallows. Ah, here we are. Here's the Thames shoe. A left foot shoe. The darkest stain near the heel inside and out couldn't be disguised with polish. But there was no stain on it that morning of May the 20th, 1930, when the two men, one wearing this particular shoe, walked along the platform at Newcastle Station. There's a few minutes before train time, as they made their way along the platform. I tell you, John, my firm regard me most highly. I'm sure they do, my dear chap. It's not that I care to boast, but their attitude speaks for itself. In what way? Well, as you know, they allow me to travel with a colliery wages each Friday from the bank in Newcastle to our office at Oldman. That's a very responsible task. Come, my friend, admit the truth. What truth, John? Well, they really don't deny you to travel unescorted with so much money in that black leather bag. Oh, yes, they do. But there's no guard cuddling me pushing someone else on the train to watch you? None whatsoever. You see, they place great trust in me. Well, they do indeed. Mark my words, I'm in line for a colliery manager ship one day. And you deserve it, my dear chap. Sure, should it be a fine reward for 20 years' work? Oh, good morning, Collins. Good morning, Bernie. Fine, chap. He's a clerk with a neighbouring colliery. It seems to be empty. Splendid. We can have a good talk during the hour journey to Oldman's. Now, well, come on, sit down and make yourself at home. And smilingly took their places in the empty railway carriage. It was quite a change for Mr. Bennett to have someone to talk to on his usually lonely courier service. More often than not, he was alone with his small black bag. For it was not his habit to trust strangers when carrying a large sum of money. But this chap seemed a decent sort. And, John, you simply must come on to dinner and meet the wife. That would be very nice, old chap. That's good. Well, shall we say, Friday night? Delighted. Yes, a very decent sort. Bennett didn't take easily to people, but this chap seemed to be his kind. Don't he met him in Newcastle a week ago, but he'd warmed him at once and then awaited with few people. And so the train sped along the north-eastern line. Heaton, Stannington, Morpheus. Small station stops along the line. At Morpheus, the train took up water. A few people got out to stretch their legs. Some passed through the barrier and gave up their tickets. Among them was a man in a gray overcoat. Tickets, please. Tickets, please. Wait, huh? Yeah, I won't say, sir. Your tickets for Olmuth. Oh, yes, sir. I've changed my mind. I'm getting off here. Thank you. Very good, sir. Tickets, please. Four minutes later, the train left Morpheus and went on its way to Olmuth. There, the passengers alighted. The journey was over. The porter then proceeded to clean the train as was usual. But in one of the empty carriages, he made a gruesome discovery. Hey, what's this? Blood on the floor? A stream of blood running from under the seat. He bent down to look and found the carriage not so empty as he'd imagined. Help, please. Somebody's been murdered. A step after the local police had been arrested and brought to the scene of the crime was to send for Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard. Oh, Inspector Kelly. Glad to renew your acquaintance. Aye, sir. Oh, thank you, Sergeant. That'll be all. Yes, sir. Sit down, sit down. Well, in answer to your question, I'm worried. You said worried. About the murder, sir? Yes. They all come to the chief constable of the county. The railways telling me that no one will travel by train unless the killer's caught. I see that point. Yeah, but that's only one of them. And then there's the colliery, insisting that we find the murderer of their employee and the... the man's wife, of course. Yes, I know. Well, you can hand all that sort of thing over to me now. And I can't say I'm sorry. First of all, sir, would you supply me with some preliminary facts? How much do you know about the murdered man? The chief constable explained it all to the London detective. The dead man's name was Wallace Bennett, a meek and faithful little man. For the past 20 years, he'd worked with the leading colliery in the district. For the past five years, he'd been their paymaster, traveling with his cash bag to pay the miners' wages each week in Almouth. Well, there it is, inspector. He took the train as usual this Friday, but he arrived at Almouth dead. And the bag in which he carried this money, sir? It was missing. The inspector wanted to find out first about that missing bag. Most of all, how much money it contains. He went to the colliery manager. Now, sir, I'd like to have your help in connection with the murder of Bennett. Well, anything I can do to help her, you can count on me. Well, first, I'd like to find out how much the bag he was carrying with him contained. Well, the person who can answer that question is Miss Robertson in our accounts department. Well, Miss Robertson, I expect you have a record of the amount that Mr. Bennett drew from the bank on the morning of his death. Oh, yes, inspector. I have a note of it here. The amount is exactly 400 pounds, 8 shillings and 4 pots. And how was the money made up? In various denominations, inspector, you see, it was required for paying the men at the colliery, but the greater part in pound notes. And, inspector, I thought that you'd be making inquiries, so I was in touch with the bank this morning. Yes. And it was paid out in used notes, and the bank has no trace of the numbers. Oh, bad luck. Well, thank you, Miss Robertson. You saved me a disappointment on the wasted visit. Now there were other things, other people to see. Among them, the doctor. Yes, inspector. I was called in by the local police when the body was discovered. And what did you determine as the cause of death, doctor? There were four bullets in the body, one of which entered the left lung of the heart. Yes. The other two were lodged in the brain. A killer took no chances. None at all. A scour was also fractured by a heavy blow, such as might be made by the butt of a revolver. I see. Oh, thank you, doctor. The motive was clear enough. Robbery. Somewhere was a bag and 400 pounds. And there also was a murderer, but where? Who was it? Morton found it hard those first few days, there was a body, a missing cash bag, and four bullets, that was all. The bullets were duly tested and traced. Nickel cap bullets, sir, unusual style, fired from a .32 revolver. Any hope of tracing that gun, Morton? Well, we're working on it now, sir. The train was started to search. No sign of the gun, but I'm having a very thorough search made along the railway track to see if we can uncover anything there. Good. I should think it likely that the killer might have thrown the gun out of the window. Well, let me know as soon as you're in the report, would you? Inspector Morton. What's that? You found the gun. All right, send it along as quickly as possible and we'll have it examined by the experts. Yes, sir. It's the murder weapon, all right. I've compared it with the bullets and they were fired from this same revolver. I suppose there's no means of identification on the revolver. The number removed and all the usual precautions. Oh, no, sir. The number can be distinguished. Watch more. I've made inquiries and we've traced the owner. Good. Sounds a little too simple, though. Where is the owner? Well, he's a foreign gentleman, say. Living here in Newcastle. They are getting hold of him now. Oh, Mr. Rossini, I want you to identify the revolver. According to the gun license, it's one that belongs to you. Ah, let me see. Yes, that's my revolver, all right. Oh, I can't tell you how grateful I am to you, Inspector, for getting it back. Oh, my wife will be pleased. I never expect you to see the game. You mean it was stolen? Yes, over three months ago. You can tell us back. Oh, she was so upset for annunciate. You see, my house was burgled and this was missing, among other things. I reported it to the local police. I see. Just one other question, Mr. Rossini. Can you give me some indication of your movements during the last seven days? Oh, that's very simple, Inspector. I only arrived home this morning on a business trip from the continent. You see, I've been in Paris for the last fortnight, but please don't let my wife know that. If you want any witnesses, that's very easy. I've been working in the Paris office of my company all the time. Don't be suspicious on me, will you? All right, Mr. Rossini, just as a matter of routine, we'll check your statement, but I don't think we'll need to see you again. Dead ends. Wherever they looked, dead ends. With the inquest pending, it looked as if a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown would be certain. And yet that was not to be. A twist of fate, a new chance witness was to revive the investigation, set it back on the trail which led to the murderer and the bloodstained shoe, that same tan shoe, which can be seen today in the Black Museum. Then on the third day, the morning after the funeral, he was a short, dark-haired man whose name was Collins. He asked to see the inspector in charge of the case. Come in here, Mr. Collins. We can talk without interruption. Thank you, Inspector. Now, what was it you wished to see me about? Well, about minutes. Uh, about his murder. Yes. I met him on Newcastle Station that morning before he boarded the train. You saw him then? Was he carrying his cash bag? Yes, he was. I've seen Bennett travel down to Allmouth every Friday for years, but this morning I particularly noticed him because... Why? Because he usually traveled alone. Wasn't he alone last Friday? No, he had someone with him. I saw them get into the same compartment. For the first time, Bennett's train companion entered the case. Inspector Morton wanted to know more. A lot more. Was the man a friend of Bennett's? Did he, Collins, know him? No, uh... I didn't know the man, Inspector. He was a stranger to me. And it's unlikely he'd be a close friend of Bennett. I think so. Of course, his wife, I mean, Witte would be the one to tell you about that. I'll check with her. Now, Mr. Collins, you've been very helpful, but can you help her a little more? Yes, how, Inspector? Can you give me a description of this man? Well, uh... I noticed he was shortish about my height. That's 5'7". Yes. Anything else? He was fair, small moustache. Good. And his clothes? He was wearing a gray overcoat, a gray soft felt hat and a dark gray suit. At least, uh... I could see his dark gray trousers. A red tie, I think. Oh, yes, and tan-broke shoes. You're very observant, Mr. Collins. Did you buy any chance to notice when he left the train? Yes, at Moorpeth. You're sure of that? I got out to stretch my legs when the train took up water there. I saw him go through the barry and give up his ticket. I saw a witness and a lead at last. It happens that way. A person remembers some incident, some unusual detail and the trail begins. Mrs. Bennett? Yes? I'm from the police. I'm sorry to trouble you at a time like this, but, uh, Inspector Morton, I'd like you to answer a few questions. I'll do it. Thank you, Mrs. Bennett. Now, uh, your husband left home carrying the black bag contained in the money? Yes. I was always worried about that bag. Yes. And do you recall on this particular morning whether your husband was planning to meet a friend or anybody in particular? Well, if he... if he was, he never mentioned it to me. He always traveled by himself as far as I know. Ah. Well, amongst your husband's acquaintances, is there any man you can recollect shortish, five foot seven? Fair hair, small moustache? Hmm. No. No, I can't think of anybody like that. He definitely wasn't a close friend of my husband's of that, I'm sure. Inspector Morton hurried to Morton to interview the ticket collector. Hey, a man in a grey overcoat. Last Friday, you said, sir. Yes, no short, fair man, dark grey suit, with a small moustache. Do you remember him? Oh, I do remember him. He had a ticket to all of us. But he gave it up here? Yes, he said he changed his mind or something. Did you notice that he was carrying a small black bag? I couldn't say what it was, really. He had it inside his coat. Covered up. It looked bulky. Inside his coat? Thank you. Thank you very much. A casual question had brought an encouraging, unexpected answer. The man who had left the train at Morton was concealing something bulky beneath his overcoat. The black cash bag was missing and this man had travelled in the same train, according to a witness, in the very same compartment. All he had to do now was find him. The thought was not too comforting. Find one man who might be anywhere in England, one man who had left almost no trace behind him. And then fate. Strange, incredible fate intervened. Or was it fate? Perhaps it was stupidity or the unconscious urge to brag that lies hidden in every murderer. Anyway, it happened that same week at a hotel bar in London. Come on, have another, George. No, no, thanks, matey. I've got to be going. Come on, and pay. Rich, you've already paid for three. What's that matter? I've got money. Look. Limey. One pound notes. Hundreds of them. Until you're rich. Come on, have another. Two men drinking in a bar, two casual acquaintances. It might never have happened, but it did happen. And when one of them is mind-filled with misgivings and doubts, went to the police the next morning, Scotland Yard was speedily informed. Now, let's hear the story. Your name's Blakey, is it? That's right, sir. I'm a bus driver. This fellow I was drinking with, he used to work for our company once. Do you know him well? Well, no, hardly at all. I met him in the pub last night, and he kept on buying me drinks. He brought out this great fistful of money. How much money, would you say? Oh, two or three hundred, quit, I should think. Well, it may be I misjudged him, sir, but, well, I heard about the murder in Newcastle and the money being pinched. Who did the right thing, Blakey? Don't worry about that. What's the man's name? Linkman. John Linkman, I think it is. Do you know where he lives? No, I've not the faintest idea about that. But you'll find him most nights down at the Roundhead Arms, sir. In the bar there. The Roundhead Arms, a small pub on a London side street. A long way from the scene of the murder. But here, that same evening, went Inspector Morton. What'll it be for you, sir? I'll order them in a minute, Miss. Thanks. I'm waiting for a friend. OK. You might happen to know him. He's one of your regular customers. John Linkman. John Linkman? Oh, yes, I know him. Funny thing, I came in here last Friday to have a drink with him and seemed to miss him. Oh, that's no wonder you should have asked me. Johnny was away. He was away about a week. Oh, that explains it. Yes, some business trip, he said. Must have done all right, too, because he's pretty flat now. Nice to hear of an old friend doing so well. There he is now, just coming in. Hello, Johnny Love. Hello, Ruby. Find a bitter. Better make it, too. You've got a friend waiting for you. Oh, never mind the drinks, Miss. John Linkman? Yes, who are you? Inspector Morton from Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard? What do you want with me? One or two questions I want to ask you. Outside. With a firm grip on his quarry's arm, Morton left the hotel bar. Outside, a car was waiting. Morton and Linkman were drived. In here, Mr. Linkman. Dear Inspector, you must be out of your mind. What's the meaning of this treatment? Where were you last Friday, Mr. Linkman? Minding my own business. Well, come, sir, that attitude's only wasting our time. Well, I was on a business trip, if you must know. Where? In the Newcastle District. I'm a salesman. What firms did you deal with there? And what firm do you represent? I'm a private trade. I saw no firms while I was there. None? No, my trip was a failure. Then where did you get the very large sum of money you've been carrying with you lately? Money? What money? I think you know to what I'm referring. May I see the contents of your pocket? Certainly not. Then you'll force me to go through the formality of a search warrant. Oh, all right. Here. A pen. Yes. Some silver. And this. One pound notes. And a guess? About 300 of them. Linkman was held in custody, meanwhile Morton and the sergeant went to search his home. I'm sorry, ma'am, but we have a search warrant. Shall I start on the bedroom, sir? Yes, sergeant. What has my husband done? Why are you here? We're just making a preliminary investigation, ma'am. There's no cause for alarm yet. They searched the bedroom, the cramped lounge room with its fading wallpaper, the bathroom, the kitchen, pursued and harassed by a distraught Mrs. Linkman. Then, in the second bedroom... What has he done, Inspector? You've got to tell me. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can tell you yet, Mrs. Linkman. What is it? Awful. Awful? I've got something, Inspector. A tan shoe, sir. Left foot. What do you make of this stain? It looks to me like blood. We'll take it back with us and have it tested. In the laboratory at Scotland Yard, they found out it was blood. The bank in Newcastle identified the notes. In a police line up Collins identified Linkman as the man who had shared a compartment with Bennett that fatal Friday morning. And then the game was up. Well, Mr. Linkman, have you anything to say? This is all a ridiculous mistake. I can explain everything. Oh, yes. You must have found it in my flat. It's one of my shoes. Can you explain the stain? Yes, just by the toe cap. Somebody seems to have been trying to cover it with shoe polish, not very successfully, I'm afraid. Come along, Mr. Linkman. Can you explain that? I've never noticed the stain before. It's probably some oil or something. No, Mr. Linkman, it's not oil. I have the laboratory report here. It's a blood stain. All right, you know everything, don't you? Not everything, Mr. Linkman, but enough. Would you like to make a statement now? Very well. I'm glad it's over. Glad I can tell somebody the truth at last. Confronted with all this and the evidence of the stain on the shoe he'd vainly tried to cover up with shoe polish, Linkman confessed to his crime. And today that same shoe can be seen occupying a place in the Black Museum. Orson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. The trial was held at Newcastle with an eminent counsel retained to defend the prisoner. But inevitably, the sordid details of the crime emerged. Linkman being out of a job and needing money a chance to make the acquaintance of Wallace Bennett in Newcastle, learning his new friend carried large sums of money by train every Friday, Linkman carefully planned his crime. But he learned much to his eternal sorrows that care must be preserved both before and after murder. A moment's lapse, a few drinks and it meant the thirteen steps and the rope one morning not long afterwards. As the Lord Justice said in sentencing the prisoner the scales of justice are now balanced. Come on till we meet next time in the same place and I tell you another story about the Black Museum. I remain as always obediently yours.