 from the Black Museum, a repository of death, a memorial to crime. Here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Gothen Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. For everyday objects, a pocketbook, a ragdoll, a paperweight, all are touched by murder. And of the glass case, we'll open it up and for the permission of the curator, we'll take out two small objects that speak directly of violence and sudden death. In the palm of my hand, I'm holding two bullets. Each has claimed a life, an innocent life. And these twin messengers of death have a common origin, although three years passed before the first was followed on its fatal mission by the second. When the bullets were rotated, groove by groove, under a comparison microscope, points of similarity in the scoring were evident. It is established beyond doubt that the bullets were fired from the same weapon, a service in field 45, as issued to the fighting forces of Britain. But these bullets were never fired against the enemies of Britain. That is why they can be seen today in the Black Museum. In 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, Scotland Yard's Museum of Murder. Yes, beyond these stone walls, the life of London flows and edged like the muddy waters of the Thames, but here it is quiet, very quiet. Yet there's a tension in the cold air, as if unseen eyes were watching. Come with me, past row upon row of inanimate objects, each one marked with the names of the killer and the victim. Murderers caught, murderers yet to be caught. Sometimes the wheels of justice turn slowly, but more of that when we come to the glass case at the end of the gallery. Now I see the watching eyes up there just below the ceiling. There hang the death masks of criminals of bygone days. They form a grim freeze. They were collected at a time when forensic theorists believed that a composite face made up of the dominant characteristics of hundreds of criminal features would resolve into a picture of the typical criminal. But in 1913 the experts decided that the masks presented nothing different from your face and mine, the average law-abiding citizen. Ah, there, you know that face. Yes, it's Heinrich Kimmler, a German Gestapo chief. The mask was taken a few hours after he bit into a file of potassium cyanide he stood before his British captors at Luhlenberg. And now here we are at the case. Here are the two bullets. One fired in 1944 when London shook under Hitler's onslaught of B-1s. The other fired during an easy piece of 47 when anxious eyes were turning eastward. And the story of these little pieces of metal is the story of a byproduct of war. It is the story of two boys. They never lived to reach man's true estate. They died by hanging when they were 19. A path that led them to the scaffold. They found when they were age 14, evacuated to a farm in the country. The summer of 1942, all Europe lies under the heel of the invader. England is surrounded by a ring of steel and the gunners on the white cliffs through Dover look across the narrow straits upon occupied France. But on Rington farm in Cheshire, all is peaceful. Or is it? Well, what's it got under your coat? Hey, come into the barn. Close the door. You'll be bad, is there? Now, look at what I've got. The old man's gun. Does he know you've got it? Don't be so daft. Of course he don't. You'll be mad if he finds out. He might chuck us out the house. I know he's too soft. But how does it work? It's in two pieces. They're fixed together like this. Oh, all right, isn't it? Oh, it's wonderful. Lovely 12-war, this is. Hey, what you doing now? What's it look like I'm doing? I'm loading the perisher. You're not going to fire it, Joe. Not scared, are you? Failure. I know they won't. There's nobody in the house. I'm going to get turned to the afternoons. Hey, hey, what's there? I mean, a cat comes in here after mice. There it is. What have you done? Quick, grab that spade. We'll bury it outside. It's dead. Of course it is. Think, stand there with your eyes hanging out. Fix that spade. If we move quick, I'll never know. So Joseph Bell and Nicholas Green follow the path they've chosen of their own free will. 1944, springtime. The Allied forces are poised for the invasion of Europe. But in a last desperate gamble, Hitler has launched his armada of the ones. The flying bombs that were to have brought England to an ease. Had they been launched a little earlier, and had the defenses been less effective, those defenses did not number Bell and Green among their gallant company. Bell and Green back in London are looking for easy money. At 16, says Bell, a man who's got to have money. Yes, and they are 16 now. All beyond their years and already experienced in the art of making easy money. But in a small way, as yet. Look at, they've come to another V1. If the engine stopped, will we trade with it going, did you see? No. Ah, oh well, why worry, we've got to buy it sometime. We're okay. It got to the next block. It must have been pretty close to the cop station. I hope it was on top of it with all the lousy coppers inside. Yeah, let's go into this cave and see what we can find. That was London in 1944. A shattering explosion brings death and destruction. But it's just around the block. We're okay here. Life goes on. We're used to it. Eh, take the table where the soldier is, Nick. Right. You mind if we sit down, soldier? No, no, carry on. Yeah, what can I get you? Beans on toast and a cup of tea. Plenty of sugar. Same for me. Huh, plenty of sugar. You'll be lucky. And make it snappy. Oh, I've all the chook. Not bad, eh? Ah, listen to me, partner. Women's out in this team, get it? Oh, I don't understand you at times, Joe. Don't you ever look at a girl? Not unless I can get something out of her. Change the subject. Okay. You got a lot on your soldier? I know, sure. Talk. But thank yourself? Oh, thanks very much. Happened to know where that last bomb went off. Around the corner somewhere? Maybe it wasn't too bad for the poor devil to stop it. Rotten things and buzz bombs. Yes. Hard on the women and children. Oh, don't talk about it. I just lost my wife and nipper. She was 22. The boy was 18 months. I told her to keep away from London, but she come back. You know what it is, living with strangers? She wanted to be home. Now there isn't any home. Just a crater. Oh, I'm sorry about that. When did that happen? Last week. That's why I'm here. Got a compassionate posting to clear things up. Was that your bike I saw outside? Yeah. On the door now. It's a war office. Dispatch rider, eh? Yeah. Is that why they give you the pistol? Yeah. M-Fuel 45. I only wish I could have a crack of the young with it. And my time will come. I'll ask to go back to the unit in the 11th Armored. Totes. Thanks, beautiful. Who's seen your home tonight? What do you take me for, a cradle snatcher? From bringing the beans. I told you to cut it out. Oh, shut up. You've got it. You've got it. Mind your own business. Now take that back. What do you mean by talking to the soldier like that after he's lost his wife and kid? Eh? Go on. Apologize. Ah, of course. I'm sorry. Ah, damn, buddy. Forget it. I've got other things to think about. Yes, yes. Of course, chef. Yeah. You know what I say? What do I do with my gloves? I don't know. Oh. Oh, it's all right. It's all right. They're down here on the floor. I can get them. I've got my teeters. Yeah. Where are the blazers here going, Joe, fellas? No, no, no. I've got them down here. Oh, the gloves. Yeah. Here, I say. I've got the time on you, soldier. Uh, yeah. It's, uh, up past nine. Up past nine? Are you sure? Yeah, I sent my watch for Big Ben when I come past about an hour ago. It's going all right. Yeah, we've got to get moving. Why? Why? Because we promise to go round the purses and sit with these kids until his wife gets back from fire duty. He leaves the house at 9.30. She won't be back for an hour. Oh, so the kids will be all alone, will they? Yeah. Oh, that's rough. Yeah, look, we'll have to skip the beans on toast. Be a pal and give this to the waitress. Tell her what's happening, will you? Yeah, right. I'm glad you're doing a good job. I'll explain. Yeah, yeah. Well, thanks. Come on, empty-head. Let's go. Joe, what's all this? Who's Percy? Run, Nick. I've got that false pistol. Holy smoke. You see how it all works out. The soldier, Lance Corporal Busby, had loosened his belt. The holster with a pistol in it was resting on a chair under the table beside him. It was only a matter of seconds for Bell to remove the pistol from the holster. There was no land he had running from the gun to the Lance Corporal's shoulder. If there had been, two innocent lives might have been saved. That pistol was to fire the two bullets that may be seen today in the Black Museum. Frightened that the soldier would discover the loss of the pistol quickly and raise the alarm, why did Bell steal the weapon? Why, two years before, had he taken a farmer's shotgun to kill? Now, as his running feet carry him through the darkened streets of London with the roar of exploding and flying bombs always in the next block, he doesn't know what he's going to do. He doesn't know that very soon he is going to kill, not a cat this time, but a man. Well, we've got the way. That was a good story about Percy and their kids, Joe. You've got some imagination, you have. I decided to get the pistol before we sat down. Even if it meant following that bloke outside and crushing it. What are you going to do with it? Well, what do you think? Don't you feel good knowing I've got it? Yeah, it might come in handy. Yeah, the engine of the Bones Bombs Cup. Blimey, it's coming this way. Come in here, you boys. No, no, don't take your hands off me. No, no, no, don't be silly. Come in. There, let me go. Do you hear? Nonsense boy. All right, you've asked for it. Joe! Bell fired at the precise moment when the bomb exploded. This time the explosion wasn't quite in that next block. The warden was an air raid warden named Thompson, who had tried to drag Joseph Bell into a shelter. The warden fell dead with a bullet in his heart and a piece of shrapnel in his chest. The shrapnel alone would not have been fatal. And by the strange way of things, the murderers were unharmed. Quick, we've got to get away. This is nothing to do with me. You shot him. You're just as much in it as I am, and you know it. Come on, before the ambulance gets here. Oh, I'm scared. Don't worry, they can't hang you at 16. Now save the breath and keep going. Keep going, boys. You're going to keep going and keep going until you've used the second bullet. Then you'll stop forever. I've got my slow down. Okay, okay. But I wish you wouldn't get in a panic. You almost get me worried, too. Oh, you worried, Joe? What about? More of the stiff back there. Him? I'm not worried about him. They'll think he was killed by the bomb. There was blood all over him. Ah, cool off, Nick. You're a man now and there's a war on. You're too young to know that air raid victims still have a death certificate. The doctor is going to find that bullet in Thompson's heart just as the next one is going to be found. Joe, I'm going home. It's early yet. I know, but I'm still going home. I've had it for tonight. Ah, okay. Here, you won't say a word to anybody, will you? Well, what do you think I have? Bombing? Ah, you'll do, Nick. Just you keep your mouth shut. Now, we'll be all right. See you tomorrow. Sleep well. Green slept far from well. If we can believe what he said later, he never slept well for the rest of his life. But what about that home he was talking about? What sort of parents did he got? His father died and the blow was fine. When he went home, he went home to his mother. Oh, it's you. I thought it was the warden come to tell me I was showing a light. What's the matter with you? Where have you been to? I've been out with Joe. Huh. You've been up to something, haven't you? Stop asking damn full questions or I'll break your neck. Go and put the kettle on. I'm as dry as a bone. Now you see, Nicholas Green, coward and murderer, was the master in his mother's house. And what about his partner in crime? Joseph Bell had no parents. They were killed in the Blitz in 1940. He had an uncle who pledged himself guardian to the boy, but uncle preferred blondes rather patty blondes. So now into the final phase, 1947. The hot war is over. The cold war is only just beginning. There's work for everybody in London, but not the sort of work which appeals to Bell and Green. They're still together and they're 19 years of age. Old enough to be hanged. I've had enough of this dance. Let's get out. Okay. All right, that's better. Now sit down. What's on your mind, Joe? We're gonna do a proper job. Well, we've been doing all right, haven't we? Ah, working the races, little black market deals, skipping up the back stairs in hotels to knock off a brush and comb set on electric razor. That's small time. Well, what's the griff this time? I'll tell ya. As a warehouse, just off the commercial road, it's in Derby Street. Caravino's. You know it? Well, then listen. Caravino's in Derby Street. We're almost at the end of the path now, boys. Caravino's warehouse is packed with furs. All nice and snug and cold storage. They're beautiful furs with a lot of money. Quite a temptation to the criminal who thinks he can get away with some of them. But can he get away? What about the caretaker? He's the only one we've got to worry about, Nick. But I've been watching the place and every night, regularist clockwork at half past nine, he slips out of the side door and trots around to the pub. Which one? The King's Ed. He collects a quart of beer and takes it back to the warehouse in a bottle. I suppose that's not the option to pass the rest of the evening. It may be, but he ain't going to drink it tonight. We've got him when he gets back with a bottle, is that it? Yeah. And we don't cost him until he's opened the side door. We wait, he lets us in like. That's the idea. Then when we've cost him, we pull him inside, close the door and help ourselves. How do we get the stuff away, Joe? It's a good job you've got me to do the thinking for you. Do you know Cork Street? Yeah. It leads out of Derby Street. But there's a greengrocer shop. Every evening, the owner parks his van outside and leaves it there until he goes to Coffin Garden Market in the morning. Well, I've given the van to once over, and he has the care that fits the ignition. You've got it all worked out, Joe. But what do we do with the first one? We've got him. Ah, fix that, too. I've got a fence who specializes in first and he's not known, see? That sounds fine. It is fine. Now, come on. We'll pick up the van to start with. Yes, Phil had thought of everything. Or rather, almost everything. It was trial's play picking up the van. The owner was in the habit of retiring early in order to be up to catch the morning market. Finally slept peacefully in a room over the back of the sharp bell and green, pushed the van 50 yards down the street. It was all done very quietly. The time was 9.29. OK. In we get. I'll drive. Aren't you going down Derby Street, Joe? No, not yet. I'm taking you to the King's Ed. Oh, we can't go in there. We're not going in. We're going to drive past and pull up. Then we keep an eye open behind and spot the caretaker when he comes out. And when he comes out? Yeah. What's the time now? I'll pass nine. I'll pass nine. What's up with you? Seen a ghost? Yeah, I think I have. This is not the first time your zero hour happened at the half past nine, is it, Nicholas Green? Remember that cafe three years ago when your partner stole the pistol he's carrying now inside his coat? Ten minutes later, a man was killed. Remember? It's funny, that's what it is. Do I hold him in funny? Shut up! Put yourself together! If you haven't got the nerve to see this through, tell me now and get out. I'll do it myself. I'm sorry, Joe. I'm OK. I started thinking, that's all. Leave that thinking to me. Here's the pub. I can see the door to the bathroom, the driving mirror. And here he comes. Dead on time as per usual. A caretaker from the warehouse disappears into the bar. The watchers don't have long to wait. He comes out with his bottle of beer and trudges back through the shadows towards his lonely post. He turns into Derby Street and approaches the tall dark building of Caravinos. So alive by day, so very silent by night. Oh, don't say I'll shut myself out. Ah, good easy key. Excuse me. Excuse me, Chum. I want to get to Tower Bridge. Oh, that's easy. Straight to the intern lift. Lift again and you come into Wobby and I Street. Yeah, I'm a stranger around here, but look, I've got a map. If you could point it out to me. Well, you'll find it all right. Good night. No, you don't! Get back! I'll drag him in and open the gate to the yard. Now, drive the van in quick, OK? The van's working according to plan, isn't it, boys? You've thought of everything, almost everything. You wouldn't know about that little electric contact you break as you open the door to the cold room where the mink furs is stored. You wouldn't know that it causes an alarm call to be piped through to the information room in Scotland Yard. And you wouldn't know that even before you would get that first load of furs down to the van, then that is closing in. A police car is on the patrol and the commercial road less than two minutes away. It receives the message which marks the end of your short path. Hello, 9G. Hello, 9G. Intruders believe to have entered Cattavino's fur warehouse near the street. Over. 9G answering. Message understood. Proceeding immediately. Please. I shouldn't think so. I've had 22 years in the force and I never had the luck to get on to a real job here. You should worry, Tony boy. You're retiring next month. Think of that mace little pension you're going to get. You're going to sit back and grow more prize lupins for the rest of your life. But PC, Tom Wallace was never to draw his pension and he was never to grow any more prize lupins. This was the first real job he'd waited 22 years for. He'd always known what he would do. He'd approach quietly, turn off the car engine before he got to the scene of the incident and tread lightly. He'd make sure his brother officers followed his example. He wasn't going to fall down on his first real job and somehow he knew this was it. Quiet, quiet. Is the door locked? Yes. But look down there. Oh, blood. Try the gate. It's open. Now we'll go back to the car and signal for reinforcement. Pete, George and me is going in. Nick, check that load out to the van. I'll go back for some more. Okay, Joe. Make it quick. The sooner we're away, the better I'll like it. All right, son. The game's up. Let me go. Ah, there's the creepers on you. How many more up there? Find a hatch. Don't worry, we will. Come on, George. I can see a light through the door. Give me a few cannon offs. I've got a gun. Drop it, you young fool. Any moment, Joe. Drop it. Joe survived his 20-foot fall. Police constable Tom Wallace was dead. The bullet that was removed from his brain was placed beside the bullet that had killed the warden three years earlier. It is established beyond doubt that the bullets were fired from the same weapon. And today they can both be seen side by side in the Black Museum. Orson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. Bell and Green were tried and convicted of the murder of constable Tom Wallace. The second charge of murder was never preferred, but warden Thompson was avenged when the two men found the end of the path they had followed by their own free will. It finished on the gallows at eight o'clock on a gray misty morning. The wassum would say that Green should not have died. He didn't fire the shot that killed the policemen. But was he indeed the weaker member of the grim partnership? The reconstruction of events you have heard was based on his confessions. But the fact remains. Green knew Bell had a loaded pistol and neither he nor his companion could out with the machinery of Scotland Yard. So another chapter of murder was closed and the bullet that killed Thompson lies beside the bullet that killed Wallace in the Black Museum. And now until we meet next time in the same place and I tell you another story about the Black Museum, I remain as always obediently yours.