 This is Orson Welles speaking from London, the 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, a piece of wash line, a medicine bottle, an electric light bulb, all are touched by murder. There's a telegram. That's a familiar object. Usually it's his happy birthday or congratulations on your wedding or will arrive 10 o'clock train. This telegram was an urgent request to die. Take this telegram, miss, please. Yes, sir. Daily star. Come at once. 430 train, Waterloo, Bournemouth Central. Something will meet. Sorry, sir. What is this? Car. Car will meet. Today, this telegram can be seen in the Black Museum. As 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. Scotland Yards' mausoleum of murder, arranged on shelves in cabinets, ranked along the floor and on the tables, death in many disguises. This oil lamp. This one was found in time. There were others before it, in other places, part of a baited trap. A house cat leaped, knocking over the lamp flames, flared. Arson. When somebody dies in such a fire, Arson becomes the murderer. There's a bit of ribbon from a Christmas package. Shining, tinseled ribbon. The gift unwrapped in pleasant anticipation was death. Ah, a telegram. Here we are. It's a slip of yellow paper, familiar type, pasted in stripes across its face, urgent, summons. One day, this wire rested in a closed handbag on a woman's lap. She was riding on a train in response to the wire. The men, sharing a seat with her, smiled and started a conversation. Going all the way to Bournemouth? No. I'm getting off at Boscombe. This train does stop at Boscombe, doesn't it? Well, I believe it does. I'm going through to Bournemouth myself, so I didn't pay particular attention. Your holidays? Well, in a way, I'm taking a day off to see some friends when I'm going back to Southampton to catch a ship for a business trip. Oh, it must be nice to have a life like that. Oh, really? Mine's very dull. Oh, well, then my guess is that, like some of the days I know, you'll find your gait in your hands. My one extravagance. Oh, yes. I've always liked a pretty hat. Just chitchats on a train speeding southward from London. The gentleman contributed no information about his business. The lady didn't give her name. She did, however, volunteer. I'm going down to Boscombe to cook for some people. That's what I do, cook. Others entered the compartment of the train at various stops and left a little later, but that was all. And as the train slowed for Boscombe. Here, let me miss, sir, that bag looks heavy. I'll get it down for you. Oh, please don't trouble, sir. Oh, this is no trouble at all. There we are. Well, it's been pleasant chatting with you. Well, good luck on your new job. And thank you, sir. And good luck on your trip. Thank you, miss. Big pardon, miss. Are you the new cook for the Eagans of Woodmere House? Yes, I am. Ah, then this way, please. Mrs. Eagans told me to watch for you. I'm their chauffeur. I have the car. It's a fair way out, you see. Oh, yes. The telegram said the car would meet me. Is it nice working for the Eagans? She put her luggage in the back of the big limousine, stepped into the front seat next to the chauffeur. The train pulled out of the Boscombe station just as the car moved away along the road. Apparently it was a fair ways out, as the chauffeur had put it. The road wound through the countryside. The land seemed to grow more and more bleak as they rode along. The sun dropped below the horizon. The young woman began to feel a little edgy. Is it much further? Seems to be getting dark. It not only seems to be getting dark, my girl, it is getting dark. You never told me if it's nice working out here. You won't have any trouble if you're nice, that is. If I'm nice. I've got the masters and mistresses ears. What I say usually goes. Anyone who's not nice to me goes. I don't understand. You've worked before, haven't you? Well, yes, of course. I have the very best of references. In most places it's the butler, isn't it? Out here it's me. I don't understand. Why have you left the road? Because, my girl, I took you out this way for reasons of my own. No. No. I came out here for a job as a court guy. Forget that. Come here. No. Don't let go of me. I know you can't. You can't help me. Not to me. It's someone else. There's no one else. It's you. Understand? Now be good. Be quiet. Farmer, cutting across the empty fields, found that they were not quite as empty as he'd supposed. Here, here. What's this? You sleep miss? I see she's dead. Or this be for the police? The farmer made it as fast as he could at the nearest telephone, and within an hour the police had arrived. There you will know. I suppose you'll repeat your story, sir. You're Inspector Gardner. Well, they told me. Yes, I'm Gardner. Scotland Yard. Go ahead. Well, I was cutting across the field. I saved a few steps, like, and I come on a line like that. I went for help. That's all, sir. You didn't touch anything? You didn't mess up the ground? Oh, no, no, sir. Nothing like that. All right. Give the constable your name and address. We'll call you if we need you. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. What do you make of it, Martin? One of those things, Inspector. Murder by person unknown. After a bit of a struggle, it looks like. Yes, ground's pretty well trampled. Any idea of the time of death? Medical examiner can't say yet, sir. My guess is sometime after 7 o'clock last night. The rain stopped around 6.30. She's not even damp, sir. Very good. I judge from the tire. If you ask, we'll get the make of tires and the size of the car easily enough. Yes, sir. You have her handbag? Yes, right here, sir. Yes. Well, she had an identity card. Ida Matthews, Stretham, London. We can check that quickly enough. Hello? It's a telegram. Daily Star. Come at once. 4.30 train, Waterloo, Bournemouth Central. Car will meet you. Expenses paid. Egon, Woodmere House, Boscombe. Yes, I've seen this sort of thing before. What are the odds, Martin? There is no Woodmere House nor any Egon hereabouts. The odds were high. The inspector was right. No Woodmere House and no Egon. But the telegram was a lead. Not an important lead, but a thread to start on. Not very many post offices in Boscombe, and you send telegrams from post offices in England. Detective Martin had an assignment. I'm sorry to bother you, but was this wire filed at this office? Not at that office. No. Nor at the next one. But the one after that. Yes. That's one of ours. May I see the original of the wire, please? Well, now. I don't know if I should... Scop a nyad, miss. My credentials. Oh. I will. That makes it proper, then. And since it was proper, Detective Martin returned to his superior with the original of the wire. Did you ever see such a trocious handwriting, Inspector? I can't say I ever have. Party can't spell either. No E in Bournemouth and expenses with a C in place of an S. Interesting. Martin, this will be a long job. Check through central post office and go at the Bournemouth area yourself. Get the originals of every wire over the past six months that have had bad handwriting and worse spelling. It's a long charge... Patience and routine. The two great strengths of the forces of law and order. And they pay off. Sometimes it takes months, sometimes only weeks this time. It was two weeks. A triumphant Detective Martin returned to Inspector Gardner. We've got two more wires, sir. Good work, Martin. Here, sir. Notice this first one. To the dandrey woman. No E in Bournemouth. C in expense and a new error. Two Fs in if. This one to the domestic agency. Someone wanted a young, pleasant nurse without an A in pleasant. And again, the E is missing in Bournemouth. The writing's identical. No question about it. Put some calls through, Martin. I wonder if the dandrey woman or the young, pleasant nurse ever came down this way. Check was an easy one. No trouble at all. The dandrey woman came down. No car. She went back. A lucky lady, that one apparently. The employment agency was a bit more careful. The agency wrote to the return address for more information. Name and address were fictitious, of course. Of course. All right, Martin. Back to the bus compost office. Jog a few memories, will you? I see, Miss. You filed this wire. I did. We get a lot of business through you overnight. I'll admit that awful handwriting. Do you remember anything about the person who gave it to you? Well, it was a man. I know that. Good. That's something. There was that. Let me think. No. No, it's all blank. Don't try too hard, Miss. It'll come back to you. Here. Let me read you the wire. Daily star, come at once. 430 train, Waterloo Bournemouth Central. And something here I can't quite make out. That's it. Car. Car will meet. I asked him the same question. He repeated the words like that. Car. Car will meet. I don't know his voice anywhere. Why? Well, it was that kind of voice. Smooth. Too soft. Since she was over me. Do you remember the man at all? No, sir. You know how it is. Don't look at all the people who come in here. But I think I'm not positive. But I think he had on a chauffeur's uniform. Patience and routine were bringing results. From nothing, except I to Matthew's body. They built their evidence to a man in a chauffeur's uniform who couldn't spell. And for the tire tracks, they knew the make of tires and the length and width. And therefore the make of the car. Within hours now, every chauffeur in the vicinity who drove a large sedan of a certain make had been called into the police station. And now, sir, on the evening of November the 11th, I was in London, sir, with my family. Now, we lost a boy in the war, Inspector. And the whole family always gets together and armists this night for that reason, sir. November the 11th, Inspector. Oh, I was off that night. I didn't have the car. Now, the young master was permitted to drive it himself that night, seeing as I was having my regular night off. Shut the old man, Mr. Dutton, and his regular train. Drove him home, put the car away and locked it up. Did you have your own key to the garage? No, sir. I was turning it into the big house after I put the car away. That's what I did that night, sir. And after that, Mitchell? I went into Bournemouth on the bus, sir. Had a bite and went to the cinema. You should remember all that very well. It was over a month ago. The case when investigating happened. Oh, I've got a great memory. Well, how is it on spelling? I wouldn't know. I never tested it. Let's test it right now. Take this bad and pencil and write the words. I asked you. Now, I know you're smart. And we shouldn't have let the newspapers publish those wires. Not one of these chaps spells those words wrong. And their handwriting doesn't match. Nothing. Yes, it's too bad, Inspector, to draw a blank when it looks so good for a bit. That's about it, Martin, for once we've drawn a blank completely. But that was not to be the end. Fate was to play a hand. And one of the strongest cards in that hand turned out to be the telegram. Oh, yes, this same telegram that can be seen today in the Black Museum. Carson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. And now we continue with the Black Museum starring Austin Wells. They'd drawn a blank, but carefully built up points which should have led to a vicious killer led nowhere. The pitiful and tragic story of Ida Matthews seemed headed directly for the unsolved file at Scotland Yard. How do we account for what happened next? Chance, stupidity, the intelligence to capitalize on a tiny fact. It really doesn't matter. What does matter is that one morning at the post office in Boscombe. How many stamps for this package, Miss? I'll just put it on the scale. Uh, I'll take care now. It's marked fragile, you can see that. I'll see it. There'll be one and three. Right, you are. Thank you, Miss. Jimmy, quick, please, where's he going? Same arms. The fellow in the chauffeur's suit. Where's he going? Get to the window. I can't leave the cage, quick. Easy. Yeah, he's getting in a little car. Big gracer down. Get the number. Whatever, four. Get it. Wait, LK9054. What do you want it for? Ex-husband knows you am Alem and he ain't. Don't be ridiculous. That's the man who sent the telegram. The one the coppers were so interested in. I'd know his voice anywhere. Yeah, you take over. Okay. I'm going to telephone that nasty detective. The young man might have taken that package. The girl might have forgotten the voice. Neither of these things happened. And a new lead was developed for the yard. Mitchell drives that car, Inspector. John Mitchell. Owner is Dutton. We had Mitchell Lee in his writing. Doesn't match in his spelling's five. Well, the girl swears he's the man. Martin, can you picture a British jury hanging a man because a girl remembered his voice? No, such things aren't happening. But the points were added to the Ida Matthews file and held, waiting their use. Patience and more patience. Patience and more results. Inspector Gardner speaking. This is Sidney Harris. I'm told so that I want to give my information to you. It's on the Matthews case, sir. You see, I rode down to Boscombe on the train with her. Sidney Harris received a warm welcome at Scotland Yard. Sit down, Mr. Harris. Thank you. If I may ask, what took you so long? I was out of the country in Spectroy. I returned just yesterday. Oh, go on, Mr. Harris. Well, you see, my business takes me abroad quite a bit. I had the opportunity to spend a night with some friends of mine in Bournemouth before I sailed the next day. That's how it happened, that I was on the train. The Matthews woman was in my compartment. We talked a bit, commented on our hero just passing the time. I'd never have thought of it again, I suppose, if my ship had sailed on time, but it didn't. The steward brought aboard some late papers, which came out while we were still at Southampton. I saw them after we'd been at sea for a few hours. There was this woman on the train. There was this woman's picture and the story. I understand. And now, Mr. Harris, what information do you have which may be of help to us? The luggage rack on the car, Inspector. It was a large gray sedan. How did you happen to notice it? I watched across to the station platform. I saw a man meter in a chauffeur's uniform. I watched her enter this car. Now, it happens in Spectra, but I design auto bodies. The luggage rack attracted my attention. It doesn't belong to that make of car. It's been special, if it is. You're a very observant man, Mr. Harris, for which our deepest appreciation? At one point, Mr. Harris, among these ladies' hats on the desk, which one would you say was Miss Matthews? Or this one, sir. That, Mr. Harris, is the hat we found beside Ida Matthews' body. At last, someone to establish that Ida Matthews had been met by a chauffeur at the Boscom station. Which chauffeur? Yes, that's the car, the gray one. LK9054. That's the luggage rack I was talking about. But what about the handwriting and the spelling? Ask the license bureau for Mitchell's application for the driver's license. I want to see the handwriting on it. Within a day, the application lay on the inspector's desk, beside it were the originals of the wires with the misspelled words. Well, Martin? Not much doubt about it, is there, Inspector? The experts will testify for us, Martin, but time's at its fine. Get your hat. We're going to pick up Mitchell. Well, Martin, what kept you up? I saw his room, sir, and spoke with Mr. Dutton. Mitchell must have got the wind up. He's gone. But I found this in his room. A key? Duplicate key to the garage. Mitchell had access to the car at any time he wanted to use it. And Mr. Dutton tells me he was on the verge of calling us when I walked in. Mitchell is paying the expenses of his little trip with forged checks. That does it, Martin. Let's get back to the office. Now the vast interlocking network of police authorities and police communications went into action. All across and up and down England, the teletypes carried the message. Mr. All stations, general alarm for one John Mitchell. Age about 42, five feet eight inches tall. Weight about 165 pounds. Hair brown, eyes blue. Distinctive, smooth, low pitched voice. Wanted for forgery and murder. The word was out. Somewhere in England, a policeman would recognize John Mitchell. And a policeman did. Inspector Gardner speaking. This is Superintendent Cowan and Reddy, Inspector. We have this John Mitchell for you. Pick him up when he tried to get a job together as he has a mechanic. John Mitchell was brought back to Boscombe. But the job wasn't done even yet. After all, when the charges murdered the plea of not guilty, his mandatory, there must be a trial and there must be attorneys for the defense. A man is to be presumed innocent and to prove unguilty. Therefore, the case had to be airtight, foolproof. No loopholes for a smart defense gunsman. Now then, Miss, when you walk into this room, there'll be a dozen men there with their becks turned toward you. You'll walk in backwards yourself. So there'll be no chance of your seeing even the becks of their heads. Sort of blindfold test, sir. Yes, without benefit of blindfold. Are you ready now? Well, it's ready as I'll ever be. Let's go. Go ahead. These men have been briefed, Martin. Yes, sir. They know what to do. They're to read the words on the cards I've given them. Very well. You can begin. All right. You. Car. Car will meet. Next. Car. Car will meet. Next. Car. Car will meet. Next, please. Car. Car will meet. And the next. Car. Car will meet. That's him. That's the voice. I'd know it anywhere. They were ready now. They felt to give the crown its chance to avenge the untimely and brutal death of one of its subjects. The prosecutor was confident. The defense was bold. Time and again, despite the experts, despite the weight of evidence, the defense managed to throw what seemed a reasonable doubt on the guilt of John Mitchell. The climactic moment came when Mitchell himself was on the witness stand. The prosecutor faced the prisoner. Mr. Mitchell, we're about to go back to school. We shall have a spelling lesson. I'm ready. Off the way. Will you spell if? I-f. If. We shall be more difficult as we go along. Will it be good enough to spell expense? A-X-P-E-N-S-E. Very good. Mr. Mitchell, you've learned your lesson well. And now then, please spell Bournemouth. B-O-U-R-N-E-M-O-U-T-H. Well, well, fine, just fine. And, um, pleasant, Mr. Mitchell. How do you spell pleasant? P-L-E-S-E-N-T. I see. Pleasant, uh, just like a present. That's right. But it isn't right, Mr. Mitchell. Pleasant is spelled with an A, but you didn't spell it with an A today, nor did you spell it with an A when you wrote the telegram asking for a pleasant young nurse. And what was your plan, Mr. Mitchell? Did you want to murder a nurse the way you murdered Ida Matthews? In that terrible moment as he stood in the dark at the Old Bailey, the mind of John Mitchell may have turned to that other moment when all unsuspecting he wrote out that fateful telegram. The self-same telegram that can be seen today in the Black Museum. It might be said that John Mitchell was hanged by a missing letter A in the word pleasant. Be that as it may, circumstances caught up with this gentleman one morning at eight o'clock, and he passed from this world because of a set of coincidences which fitted together in the minds of alert detectives in Scotland Yard. If Mitchell had known how to spell correctly, if Harris had not been a keen-eyed designer of automobiles, if Harris had not taken his trip when he did, if Marge, the post office clerk, had not been struck by Mitchell's voice, but it's no matter now. Now the telegram has to be found in its customary place in Scotland Yard in the Black Museum. And now, until we meet next time in the same place, I tell you another story about the Black Museum. I remain, as always, obediently yours.