 This is Orson Well speaking from London, the Black Museum of Depository of the Repertory of Mulquyland. Here in a grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scott and Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. For everyday objects, a briefcase, a medicine bottle, a carpeted rule. All are touched by murder. This old-fashioned trunk is a familiar object, brass-bound, well-made in its previous generation kind of way. Perhaps you have one like it in the attic of the storeroom. Perhaps you've traveled with it at one time, even checked in at the luggage room. I'll do this one a little, I suppose. There you are, sir. Your receipt. We'll watch over your trunk, sir. Has anybody about? Yes, I'm sure he will. Now, today, that trunk can be found 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 Scottland Yard's Gallery of Death, the Black Museum. Scottland Yard's Mausoleum of Murder. That's a particularly well-lit, involved in stealing the civilian shadows, but ghosts like shadows. The vast majority of the people who use the articles exhibited here are ghosts by the verdict of 12 of their fellow countrymen, and sentenced by his majesty's judges in the assistance of the execution. Here, near lies death, all along the walls, on the tables, even on the floor. Each article feels encrusted with horror, wept in the memory of homicide. Some for more than a century. Here, on this shelf, a common object, a gasoline can, not a gallon, but the contents were poured over a human body and a match was lighted. Only the man who poured that horrific libation left his fingerprints on the fin. Ah, it's easily handled. It's empty now. But once upon a time, oh yes, this is the tale. For our intents and purposes, it begins in Charing Cross Station in London, where the porter will notice someone drop a bit of paper in the hurrying crowd. Here, David, try to drop this or try to catch him. No luck. Too bad. He meant to throw this away, though. You'd have had nothing from him for your trouble. How do you mean he meant to throw it away? Well, crumbly to a little ball, isn't it? Or crinkle like it is. Yeah, that's true enough. Here, but look at your timestamp. Check that trunk in with you ten minutes ago. See? Yeah, you're right about that. Ten minutes ago. If the paper had been dropped in a waste can, if the obliging porter hadn't seen it fall, if there'd been no time stamped on it. What are you doing in cases like this, mate? Well, just wait a bit and then notify the police. Oh, wow, wow. Wait a bit. Yes, wait a bit. See? Just to be certain that the fellow will throw the receipt away meant to do it. And a cautious fellow. That tech room attendant. Now, for three days, I wanted to ask you about the trunk. He didn't call the local police station. No, not he. He placed his call to Scotland Yard. Inspector Walsh dropped by to have a look at the trunk. It is heavy, isn't it? Of course, it might be just books. There any time in, Inspector. And it might be just books. Ready? Open. Just old newspapers, it looks like. Sorry to startle you. And a sexy body isn't a very pretty sight when you're not used to it. Another dramatic incident in the life of Harry Lyme unfolds this Thursday evening at 9.30 on KUOW. Orson Welles stars as the adventurous rogue Harry Lyme in each exciting episode of the series. For suspense and drama, join us Thursday evenings at 9.30 for the lives of Harry Lyme. The trunk was removed to Scotland Yard. Contents once human were turned over to the Yard pathologists. The remainder of the contents were left in the possession of Inspector Walsh. We're in for it, Sergeant. Again. Body unidentified. Trunk unidentified. Owner unidentified. Well, at least we have a few items to start with this time, sir. Yes, of course. Some old newspapers, torn, stained and so on. An old smock, stained in the same way, some scraps of clothing. And the trunk. Well, where do we begin, sir? Save the papers, have the clothing laundered after these stains have been analyzed, then check the laundry marks. On the trunk itself, write up a description of it. Then start the local police into every secondhand dealer and luggage shop and pawn shop in London. Someone, somewhere, may remember it. After all, it is a trifle loud, you know. And it had to be brought to the station. Circulate the description through all the means of transportation. Taxicabs, buses, vans, units, sergeants. Routine. They've been through all this before. Routine. Started a few scraps of clothing, some poor human flesh, a brass bound trunk. Cast the nets. See what it catches. Throw out the line. See where they lead. One line led to a secondhand dealer in Brixton. I remembered it as soon as I saw the write-up, Inspector. Picked it up in an odd lot some time ago. Good of you to cut in, sir. You're certainly the same trunk you sold. Yes, sir. Funny about that label, though. Oh? Yes, sir. That's a fresh label. The one I saw, and it was old. Dirty. Ah. F. Mattsons and Lenards. Let's see now. There's your old label underneath the new one. Same address, sir. Yes. But the old one was spelled correctly. Lenards. L-E-O-N-A-R-D-E-S. The new one is Lenards. L-E-N-A-R-D-E-S. No O. Hence the reason the fellow who bought it didn't live in St. Lenards. He'd know how to spade if he lived there. No, that's probably correct. Remember what he looked like? The fellow who bought it? Usky, rather. Well-dressed. Very blondish. Straw hair, blue eyes. Almost white eyebrows. I noticed particularly his eyebrows. I knew a girl once with eyebrows like that. Very whiteish. Interesting. Yes, interesting. Description of a man. But the man who killed a woman in the trunk? That was one of many questions. Among them, of course, who was the woman in the trunk? We've traced the laundry marks on the clothing inspector. Family named Hilton in Sheppard's bush. Mrs. Hilton came to Scotland Yard. We're very sorry to have to ask you to do this, Mrs. Hilton. But you may be able to help us. So this is one of more of you, Inspector? Yes, more antiseptic than anything else. We'll make this as easy as possible. She's in here. All right. Yes, I knew her. All right, Sergeant. Her name is Wilde Brady. She works for me as a cook, temporarily. Came to a woman's point in the agency. I can give you the address. The net was working. The lines were developing. Police routine, the scarf and yard, thoroughness was beginning to pay off. The woman's name was not Brady. The address the employment agency gave me, she was known as Burnside. She's been missing since March the 4th. More muddy waters? Or another link? A woman of an alias missing, but unreported inexorably. The wheels grind on, turning up, among other matters, a cooperative cab driver. You're positive this was the trunk? I'm positive, Governor. Where did you get the car? In Ravenswood Row, it was. That line of old houses, they've made offices out of. From the road at Charing Cross Station, it was. Do you remember the man himself? He had his hat pulled down sawdough, but he was a husky one. I remember thinking he had to be to get that trunk as far as his sidewalk on his own, and his air, what I could see of it, was lightish. Well, I hope I've been a help inspector. If I do remember anything more. No, yes, it was a help. So was the bus conductor, who remembered letting a husky blond man board his bus with his trunk light and empty at the time, in Brixton, in the second hand dealers. And piece by piece, jigsaw puzzle was filling in. Patience, sergeant. We know who the dead woman was. We have a description of a man with a trunk. We've traced the trunk from Brixton to Ravenswood Row, and from there to Charing Cross. Now, a hush-to-hush inquiry in Ravenswood. Be thorough, sergeant. Very thorough. And, of course, the good sergeant King was very thorough. A clock on the first floor of number 12, inspector, noticed the trunk in the hallway on the 5th of March. It was gone on the 6th. The day the trunk was checked at the station. Yes, sir. Now, at number 12, there's three floors. A suite of offices on each floor. The second floor is closed up. No name on the door. Third floor has been occupied for some time. I have the name of the rental agent, inspector. Yes, inspector. And number 12 is our building. We managed it from the stake, that is. Here now, I... Yes. Number 12, Ravenswood Row. The less see is F. Lawrence Maxwell, business factoring. The red tab on the car, that means pays by mail regularly. Then you've never seen Mr. Maxwell? No. One of our outside men showed him the premises. Would you be interested in his home address? Yes, I would. According to our records, he lives at 210 Maryvale, East, in Camberwell. At last, a shadowy figure begins to emerge into the light. F. Lawrence Maxwell, 210 Maryvale, East, in Camberwell. At that address, inspector Walsh asks... Here's Mr. Maxwell at home. And the landlady answered... Mr. Maxwell? Oh, I'm sorry, sir. He moved out and left no forward in address. That was the evening of March the 6th. I remember it as paintless, sir, because he paid the whole month and didn't ask for a refund. A blank. The end of the line. Not a trace. But, don't forget, that brass-bound trunk is today one of the star exhibits in the Black Museum. Each Sunday afternoon at four, K.O.W. brings drama back to radio with Theatre of the Air. Each week, the nap so painstakingly woven the lines so carefully cast all all led to nothing. A trunk, a dismembered body, a dozen people all trying to help nothing. Is this going to be one of the mementos in the Black Museum, not case unsolved? Inspector Walsh waited. F. Lawrence Maxwell was somewhere, somewhere. And living people rarely have ever moved through life without a trace. You gentlemen came all the way from Canberra, right? We went through a red light or two on essay. Didn't we, Sergeant? We did, Dad, sir. This letter you tell a friend about, ma'am. Right here, Inspector. Kept it careful. Always try to help the authorities when I can. Yes, sir. Ah. In the post office. No, do we open it, sir? I think we do. Oh, dear. Nothing but a notice on delivered telegram. Yes, too. Maxwell, red dog in Hammersmith. Honey, sending a telegram to himself in Hammersmith. Oh, that wouldn't be to himself. It would be to his wife. Mr. Maxwell told me once, she has a position in Hammersmith. A wife. Well, farewell. Was she still in Hammersmith with the red dog in? She was. So was F. Florence Maxwell. I'd be glad to help in any way I can, Inspector. Any further details of your movements on March the 6th? Ah, to the best of your recollection, any? No, I'm sorry. I may have left out a detail or two, if it was a sudden decision. I mean to give up the office. The business fell off to the point where an office was a needless expense. As I rented on a month-to-month basis, well, I just gave it up. I do remember noticing the old trunk in the hallway, though. Quite a museum piece with all the brass trimmings, as I remember it. No, most co-operative gentlemen. Most helpful is F. Florence Maxwell. He even saw the trunk in the hallway. But on the inspector's next line of questioning, Mr. Maxwell was not quite so helpful. No, I'm sorry, Inspector. I've never known a woman named Burnside in my life, nor Brady, for that matter. Any other name? Beginning with B, perhaps? Let me see. No, nearly one. You've been very helpful, Mr. Maxwell. Nothing like the truth to prove innocence, is there? Well, that in mind. I wonder if you'll stretch your co-operation a bit further. Anything I can do. We have two witnesses who saw the man with the trunk closely enough to attempt identification. Both of them described a man of your coloring. I wonder if you'd let him have a look at you. Well, I'd rather not be identified by mistake, Inspector. I understand that. Isn't it usual to have several men of similar appearance present? I mean, I've seen such things in the cinema. Of course. In view of your willingness to assist us, we'll be glad to oblige you on that score. Decent of the inspector, don't you think? Decent of Maxwell, too. They worked well together. And within a few hours, Maxwell stood in a line of five men, all of them approximately his build and blondness. Maxwell was second from the left. The taxi driver entered the room. Now none too certain, Inspector. My man had his hat pulled down. If it were any of these, I'd say he was the middle one, sir. Then the second handyman handed the room. I... I wouldn't want to make trouble for the wrong man, Inspector. Of course not. Now look him over carefully now. I'd say yes. The fellow on the extreme right. Thank you. I hope you've taken you from your business this time of day. And thank you, gentlemen. Will you want me for anything else, Inspector? Thank you, no, Mr. Maxwell, not for the present. Another blank. Nothing. No one to place their Florence Maxwell anywhere near their trunk or its contents beyond the casual contact he himself admitted. Mr. Maxwell went back to Hammersmith. Inspector Walsh went back to work. I want that trunk cleaned up thoroughly now. Peace those torn newspapers together. Have the smock their head was wrapped in, give them to the laboratory for every possible test. There's got to be something somewhere. Nothing out of the ordinary in the newspapers, Inspector. But the physical tests of the laboratory report that under ultraviolet light, the smock shows lettering that was printed on the material but washed out with constant laundering. And that lettering, Sergeant, red dog in Hammersmith. Now, Sergeant, all we have to do is to connect that Brady Burnside woman with number 12 Ravenswood Road Second Floor. Let's go, Sergeant. I've had a search warrant ready for a week. Now they went to work on 12 Ravenswood Road Second Floor. The most. Board by board, the flooring was taken up, the old-fashioned tin ceilings taken down, the desks and chairs were taken apart, paneling was removed, plaster walls sounded, samples of dust were analyzed, powerful vacuum cleaners sucked every bit of lift from the approach during workings. And it was all over. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Unless this hairpin is something, sir. Oh, that could be anyone's. There's nothing. Is there an ass tray around here anywhere, Sergeant? Yes, under the desk, sir. There's a white bar here. Metal one, metal one doesn't smother. Yes, I remember that. Oh, well. Give me a tweezers, Sergeant. Yes, sir. You were found something there. Interesting. Maxwell doesn't smoke, so we find an unused match caught in the corner of his waist pocket with a red-brown stain on one end of it. Yes, of course, it was blood. They're the same type as the victims. But the factory lanes, as the Inspector put it, a clever defense council can make a hash of the case. Millions of people right in London have this blood type, and we still haven't established any contact whatsoever between Maxwell and the woman. A jigsaw puzzle. All of it saved the key piece. Inspector Walsh made a decision the next morning quite early. It was terribly early, sir. Oh, you, Sergeant. Yes, sir. There's been developments. We need you at the yard. Developments? What kind? Sorry, sir, I've not been told. Now, if you'll get dressed and come along, sir, I have a car waiting. It's early, I know, sir, but can we go and keep regular hours at the yard? They don't keep hours, but they kept Maxwell waiting in the night and the room outside Inspector Walsh's office. For an hour and a half, Maxwell cooled his heels while detectives passed him by, went into and came out of the Inspector's office. At long last, Sergeant King came to the door. All right, Mr. Maxwell, the Inspector will see you now. At about time, I see. Ah, good morning, Mr. Maxwell. Sorry to have kept you waiting after rousing yourself early. All right, Sergeant, you can leave us together. Yes, sir. Sit down, Mr. Maxwell. Yes, so without further ado, about all this, you said you were through with me. We were, but there's been development. New clues, all that sort of thing. Well, we thought you'd be interested. Oh, excuse me a moment, won't you? Yes? Bring through. Yes, sir, I'll be right up. At once, sir. Superintendent Bivens wants to see Mr. Maxwell. But... I won't be long. Don't try to get out through that window. The view is good, but there's a 60-foot drop the river. Be back in a bit. I must say, Inspector, this is all out of it. Time ticked away, marked by the clock on the office wall. And F. Florence Maxwell was alone. Alone with a thousand unanswered questions. And his own fears. He's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Walking up and down, back and forth like some kind of caged beast. He can't know anything. He couldn't get me identified. Have they tied me to Louise? How could they? I destroyed every one of her letters. I never looked to her. She thought she had me. She got what was coming to her. Right in the office. She dared to come to the office. Did they find anything in the office? In the office? Mr. Maxwell, yes. They found a hairpin and a matchstick with blood on it. But you don't know that, do you? You haven't been told. What could they find in the office? When I took it to pieces, I did it in the trunk. They can't have anything. There must be something. There's got to be the Inspector and Scotland Yard holding me here. I deny it, but it's all bad. Very bad. I've been here for the clock. Yes, almost a half hour. I'll have a story. That's it. I'll have a story. I'll be ready for it. I'll have a story. Now you've done it, Mr. Maxwell. So you'll have a story, will you? You better be good, Mr. Maxwell. You'd better be good. Well, Mr. Maxwell, I'm back. Inspector. Yes? I want to tell you, sir... I've been holding back. I knew Mrs. Burnside. I see. You knew her? Yes, quite well. How? Doesn't matter. She tried to blackmail me, you see. She came to my office. When I refused to pay her one shilling, she flew at me. I hit her, and, well, she fell. Where did you hit her? The left side of her face. She fell and struck her head. When I bent over her, she was dead. So I left her there. I came back. It must have been crazy expecting a dead woman to get up and walk. I was scared, you see. I walked the trunk. Well, you know the rest. Very well, Mr. Maxwell. You're taken in charge for murder. Murder? I must warn you anything you say may be taken down in writing and used as evidence. It was an accident! Not murder! Sorry, Mr. Maxwell. But the medical evidence belies your story. Mrs. Burnside died of strangulation. You didn't hit her. You choked her to death. Well, that winds up the case of Mr. Maxwell. But if you're interested, you'll still find the brass down trunk. In the place of our nerve. In the black museum. Hurston Wells will be back with you in just a moment. In the end, it was just routine, wasn't it? Mathematical, hard-working routine based on experience and plus just the touch of imagination a good policeman must always have. The trap was sprung in Wadsworth Prison in the story and a three weeks later, the usual manner of the customary time. 8 o'clock in the morning of the customary payment to the hangman. The trunk remains in its customary place within Scotland Yard. The black museum. And I... I remain as always, immediately yours.