 Even the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses scarf and yard, is a warehouse of homicide. Where everyday objects, a picture frame, a wicker chair, a telephone directory, all are touched by murder. A straight razor. It's a familiar object. A straight razor. Perhaps your father used one like this, minded. A straight, keen-edge bit of steel beautifully sharpened and strapped to remove a man's whiskers, or perhaps... The most efficient bit of Sheffield, isn't it, Sergeant? Yes, Inspector, for its original purpose, as well as the other. As a matter of fact, I use one exactly like it every morning. A grim sword, Sergeant. A very grim sword. Today, that razor can be seen 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. In just a moment, you will hear the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. Yes, funny stories. Ridiculous that this should be here. Perhaps not. A dying man turned down a page. That's one of a set of seven. They used to come in wooden cases, you remember? The seven straight keen blades marked one for each day of the week. And this one, while it was used by a good-looking fellow of about 40, who had a way with the ladies. And no matter where, at home, in a parlor, or even in a handsome cab. You know, you are the sweetest little thing. I don't think it is proper you should talk to me like this, Mr. Wilson. After all, you are my employer. People, darling, my name is Larry. And what if you are my barbie in my establishment? If you're only to say yes, you shall be my wife. Mr. Wilson. Larry. Oh, you can't mean that. And they're like you. Finally, he did want the likes of her. To all appearances, Larry Wilson had fallen head over heels in love with Mabel Dill. Now, listen to Larry for a moment. Mabel little one. You've got to marry me. I can't see you waiting on the customers drawing hay, working with me every day. I can't and not have you for my wife. An interesting accent, huh? Intriguing. Certainly to a susceptible young woman, that voice and that touch of accent was attractive. And one has been a sheltered girl in 1896, as Mabel was. Father, there's a letter from Mabel. Is there now? I should think it about time our daughter wrote to us. Oh, my goodness. Something wrong? Oh, yes and no. Ridiculous. I can no think be wrong, yes and no. Mabel's wanted to be married and to her employer. What? Oh, there it is in the letter and a note from him, too, telling her how much he loves her. Hmm. Won't worry well if he means it. How do we know? Oh, perhaps it would be best if we went to find out. Excellent, mother. Write to Mabel at once. Tell her she's to do nothing, absolutely nothing, until she's had the chance to talk with us. Simple people, the Dills, and eager to protect their daughter's future. So off they went, bag and baggage to the statue tavern. A pub, in fact, owned by Larry Wilson, where Mabel was tending bar. My word. It's a party, isn't it? Looks like a wedding party to me. Oh, must be there's a bride somewhere. Oh, there she is. It's Mabel. Yeah, now, Michael. What's the meaning of this? Oh, dad. Oh, dad. So happy your mother got here today. Oh, Mabel, Larry. Oh, didn't you get my letter? I hope there's no letter. Come along and meet my Larry. You'll be as happy with him as I will. Not much the Dills could do about it was there, Mr. and Mrs. Larry Wilson, proprietors of the statue public houses, the pub, and happy over it, too, both of them. Of course, things do happen sometimes in the most well-ordered homes. There we are, Mrs. Wilson. I'm sure you'll be all right. Oh, Doctor. I'm so sick. I can't keep anything in my stomach. Oh, oh, Doctor. She is so ill, Doctor Grant. What is it, do you think? Probably something she ate. This tonic will fix her up. The Welsh rabbit. That's what it was. Tasted a bit funny to me. I didn't finish it, remember, Mabel? Oh, I like rabbits, though. It's certainly right, I suppose, for being so greedy. Well, you've learned your lesson, little lady. From now on, more care. Fill the prescription, Wilson, and I'll look in on it again this evening. Right, Doctor. Mind now? Less indulgence. An upset stomach was all I think serious, except Mabel just didn't seem to get better. Mother, they all came to visit and decided to stay. I'm staying on, Larry. You've got your pub to tend to. I'll tend to, Mabel. Mother, dear, there's nothing to be alarmed about. I'm staying, and I'm asking Dr. Marshall to look at Mabel. Who's he? My family doctor. Known Mabel for 10 years. Are you suggesting, Mother, that I'm not providing properly for my wife or giving her the best of care? I'm not suggesting anything, Larry, except that you have to worry about so many things, and I have nothing to do but take care of my daughter. I cannot allow it. A man's first duty is to his wife. More, I'm properly qualified. I can take care of her far better than... Larry, I will not be put off. As for your qualifications, well, really, a barber is no doctor, even though some people permit barbers to bleed them. Are you trying to insult me and drive me away from my wife? The truth can be insulting, I suppose. However, from what Mr. Dillon and I know, your care of your first two wives didn't work out so well. What with both of them dead and buried these three years? There was no arguing with Mrs. Dillon. Her child was suffering and she intended to have her way, and she did. Dr. Marshall came in consultation with Dr. Grant. It puzzles me. It does really. You can see my position, Marshall. I've done everything the symptoms seem to call for. Nothing helps. Well, we'll see. Meanwhile, if we can get her to take some nourishment, the poor child's just wasting away. I know that... Of course, this was 1896, remember. There are no methods yet, such as a series of gastrointestinal tests or a basic metabolism test, or any other of the modern means to determine the cause of intestinal ailments. The doctors had to work by observation and an occasional chemical reaction. In the case of Mabel Dill Wilson, it was tragic indeed. Larry. He's downstairs, darling. Mother's here. I want Larry. It's Larry. I'll call him, dear. Larry! Will you leave the bar and come upstairs? Larry! Larry Wilson came upstairs and quickly, two at a time. He raced up the stairs and landed his wife's room. Is that you, Larry? Yes, sweetheart, it is. I waited for you, Larry. Mabel, darling. You took good care of her, Mother Dill. Excellent care, I must say. Your daughter, my wife, is dead. The child bride was dead, no doubt about it. The mother's tears were matched only by the husband's angry sorrow. He faced the two doctors. What did she die of, gentlemen? What? My diagnosis is exhaustion, following inflammation of the intestines. I do not know, as yet. You do not know. You do not know. Are you a doctor or aren't you? I take offense to your terms, Mr. Wilson. For your information, I have refused to approve the death certificate. What? Dr. Grant wishes to certify cause of death. I agree that his idea of inflammation of the intestines is probably correct. Then why on this? But I do not know, as yet, what caused the inflammation. When I do know, I should be glad to sign the certificate. Whatever caused the inflammation caused the death. How do you expect to determine this? By a first mortal, Mr. Wilson. I should do it myself, with Dr. Grant as a witness. I shall not... Ah, but you will permit it, Mr. Wilson. Because if you don't, I shall have to report the whole matter to the police. And the coroner. The stage is set. The actors are in their place and the drama has begun. And yet there is something missing. An item of evidence. Which was to provide the whole affair with, by far, its most horrifying aspect. It was a case of razors. Razors. Which can be seen today in the Black Museum. In just a moment, we will continue with the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. We continue with the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. Dr. Marshall's surgery. There they did what was considered necessary and made their analysis. Shortly after Dr. Marshall wrote out his report. And as a result of my analysis, it is my opinion that there is definite suspicion of our cynical poisoning. With that report and Dr. Grant's concurrence, there's nothing to be done but report the matter to the coroner. And to the police. How certain are you, Dr. Marshall, that there is a large quantity of arsenic in the body? As certain as I can be, Inspector, without being a specialist in criminal toxicology. Have you preserved the necessary items, Dr. Contents of the stomach and so on? I have. In sealed jars initialed by both Dr. Grant and myself. Very well. If you will deliver them to me, I will see to it that proper tests are made at once. In the meanwhile, it might be wise to have... In the meanwhile? Well, of course. There was only one thing to do. A certain pub owner had to be questioned. Mr. Wilson? Yes? My name's Baker, Sergeant Baker. My credentials. I see. How can I help you, Sergeant? If you come to the station with me, sir, Inspector Waters would like to have a chat with you. Larry Wilson went along unquietly. I had him wait a little while before the Inspector was ready to see him. Not long, just a little while. Inspector had a job to assign to the Sergeant first. I have a warrant, Baker. Take a squad. Go back to the statue and search it from top to bottom. Bring back anything which looks at all suspicious. Yes, sir. Quick as you can. All right, Mr. Wilson. Inspector Waters will see you now. Thank you, Sergeant. How do you do, Inspector? Sit down, Mr. Wilson. Make yourself comfortable. Two gentlemen facing each other in a quiet office. It might be a business deal. It might be a matter of life and death. Mr. Wilson, as you may know, we are in the position of having to investigate certain details of your wife's unfortunate and untimely death. I understand that, Inspector. Do you have any reason to suspect foul play? Of course not. Mabel was the sweetest, nicest, most gentle... And quite poor, wasn't she? I really couldn't say. I didn't check up on that. I was in love. Yes, yes, of course. In any case, she had no will and left no estate... Exactly. Unlike your first wife, whom you married while you were still a barber, with whose estate you bought a tavern. You're very thorough, Inspector. What you tell me is quite true. Certainly very thorough. Very thorough indeed. Inspector knows a lot about you, Larry Wilson. Your second wife, Mr. Wilson, she also left you some money. You moved over to the statue tavern after her death, didn't you? Yes, that's right. Couldn't abide the old place with bell passed on. You are sentimental, Mr. Wilson. He left the trade of barber after the other one. What was her name? Daisy was her name. Yes, I did leave the trade. May I ask when you came to this country, Mr. Wilson? In 1888. Why? Oh, routine check. We found a record of your past 14, 1890, for a trip to America. You came back within a year, and, of course, it had been noted that you were not born in the British Isles. That's right. And then your name is not Wilson, is it? I wasn't born Wilson. My father's name in the old country was Wilmets. I anglicized it. That's an interesting idea, Mr. Wilson. There was more, much more, two hours of it. When I about finished, the inspector had a detailed life history of Mr. Larry Wilson. Of course, there were a few open areas. 1889? Do you know, inspector, I have practically no memory of that year. I was learning my trade then, I guess. No time for the kind of events which make memories. And then there was 1891. I had to re-establish myself after I came back from the States. It took some time. It was in 92 I married Daisy. And stayed married to her until she died in 94. And then married Beville, who passed along in 95. And now it's 96. Well, we found one thing. Oh, excuse me. I didn't know you were still here, Mr. Wilson. That's perfectly all right, Sergeant. I was just about to go. What have you there, Sergeant? But those are mine. Yes, they are. I dare say the Sergeant found them in your bathroom. He's been busy with a search warrant, you see. Yes, I begin to see a lot of things, including the reasons behind my being kept here. Is my mother in law in on this? On the contrary, she knows nothing yet. Where did you find those reasons, Sergeant? Hidden, sir. Hidden in the bin on top of the spare bedroom closet, sir. Thank you, Sergeant. Very well expected. Are you on your way, Sergeant? Will you escort Mr. Wilson to his room? Of course. What's the idea? Are you arresting me? Not at all, Mr. Wilson. Not yet at any rate. We're detaining you temporarily on suspicion, sir. Suspicion of what? I'll let you know in 24 hours, Mr. Wilson. That's the limit the law allows. After that, of course, I shall have to prepare charges of some sort. But by then, the toxicologist will have reported. Won't he, Sergeant? The inspector was puzzled. Here was a possible case involving poison, and the suspect had hidden his razors, where only an unreasonably thorough search might turn them up. It didn't fit. The inspector filed a fact in the back of his mind. Turned to other things. The toxicologist's report is in, Sergeant. The girl was poisoned all right, but not with arsenic. Her body was full of antimony. We'd better charge Wilson or he'll be out of our clutches before we know it. So, they entered a charge against Larry Wilson. Larry Wilson, you are under arrest on a charge of willful murder. I must warn you, anything you say may... And then they proceeded to do a little more digging, both figuratively and literally. I want an exhumation order, Sergeant, for the bodies of the first and second Mrs. Wilson's. Of course they found it there, too. The laboratory reports, sir. Both the women were poisoned with antimony. They're calling Dr. Grant. Dr. Grant, you attended all three of Mr. Wilson's wives, did you not? Yes, I did. And you made out the death certificates in the first two instances. I did. And in both cases, you stated that the cause of death was exhaustion, following severe reaching brought on by intensive inflammation of the intestines. I did. But you didn't consider these facts at all suspicious. Why should I have? I've seen many such cases. Fatal cases? No, not fatal. However, with the symptoms in all the cases so remarkably alike, they were alike, weren't they? Definitely, almost definitely. Now that you mention it, Inspector, the whole thing does seem a trifle to coincidental, doesn't it? It was a matter of routine. Three women dared of the same poison. Three women all married of the same man, all treated by the same elderly doctor. They didn't seem to be much more necessary to be done, except to trace the poison to the thrice bereaved husband. The police canvassed all the drug stores, the chemist shops in the neighborhood, where Larry Wilson had owned his barbershop and his taverns. What can I do for you, sir? Good morning. My name is Baker, my credential. I see. C-I-D. We'd like to know if you've ever had a customer name of Wilson, Larry Wilson, one-time barber and tavern keeper. Oh, that Wilson, yes, of course, used to buy the supplies here. Did he? What, for instance? All brushes and comb, soaps as he needed them, and so on. Did he ever buy any strong antiseptics? Not that I remember. Any poison for hair dye or such? I think, yes, I think he once bought some tartarometics. Yes, I'm sure of that. I remember now. He told me he was experimenting with a new type of dandruff remover. He had the idea that, uh, antimony might work very well. Dandruff remover? Or a wife remover? This was up to a jury to decide. There was small doubt what a jury would decide when the chemist showed Sergeant Baker the poison book. I'm certain. Yes, here it is. Day and date, a mount. July the 5th, 1894. Tartarometic. Signed L. Wilson. Hmm, it's almost two years now. Have a pretty fair memory, haven't I, Sergeant? They had him. Bit by bit, piece by piece, the story was filled in. The saga of this man with a fascinating little accent, and the women he'd married. Daisy Alastair, five years older than Wilson, owner of a small dress shop, with 350 pounds saved painstakingly over the years. Belle Davis, owner of a flower shop, with 275 pounds to her credit in the merchant's back. And, of course, little Mabel Dill, who had nothing but sweetness and a share of good looks. Three wives. Three deaths. The poison. But still the inspector was puzzled. And you said for me, Inspector? Yes. Sergeant, where did those raises you found fit into this pattern? The man was a barber, wasn't he? You do mean Wilson, don't you? Yes, yes. But why did he hide them? Says he was afraid somebody would cut him. Oh, and since there were no children. Sergeant, I may have hit on an angle. I sent over to criminal records for this file. Look at it. Hmm, I see, sir. The description of this man fits Wilson perfectly. Of course, this man was seen only once. But it's the identical coloring, height, weight, even a brief sound of his voice. It proves nothing, sir. I know, but there's more. The cases in this file began in 88. Wilson came to Whitechapel in 88. The cases stopped in 90 when Wilson went to America. But in that year, it's noted here, there were three identical cases in New Jersey. They stopped in 91 when Wilson came back here. As Dr. Grant would say, it's too remarkable a coincidence, Inspector. Would you, Sergeant, in this room and having seen this record and knowing about those razors, has it that Larry Wilson is Jack the Ripper? It has it, sir. I couldn't prove it. Neither could I, but I'm convinced all the same. Perhaps he... Ah, well, we've got him on other matters. We can hang him only once in any case. I'd handle that razor with cash. It's mighty sharp. The most efficient bit of Sheffield, isn't it, Sergeant? Yes, Inspector, for its original purpose, as well as the other. Matter of fact, I use one exact to like it every morning. A grim thought, Sergeant. A very grim thought. We shall never know the full story. But most people would agree with the Inspector. There was more than a reasonable chance that justice had finally caught up with Jack the Ripper. Certainly, that case of razors deserves its place of honor. In the Black Museum. Orson Welles will be back with you in just a moment. One person is Orson Welles. They were sure that they never proved it. Larry Wilson was hanged for the death of poor little Mabel Dill, legally and technically, and for the deaths of his other two wives as well. There's no question. The jury deliberated exactly ten minutes. But the additional fact remains that never again, from the date of Wilson's arrest, was there a murder in the technique of Jack the Ripper. Not in London. Not in America. His terrible signature never appeared again on the body of any murdered woman. In the case of razors remains in its customary place. In Scotland unit. And now, until we meet next time, until we meet in the same place, and I tell you another story about the Black Museum. Our remain is always obediently yours. Museum starring Orson Welles is presented by arrangement with Metro-Goldwyn-Mare radio attractions. The program is written by Aura Mariam with original music composed and conducted by Sidney Torch. Produced by Harry Allen Towers.