Black Museum-40-A Shilling

This is Orson Wells speaking from London the black museum Here in the green stone structure of the Thames which houses Scotland Yard is a warehouse of homicide Where everyday objects are flower parts or coffee cup a curtain rod all?

Are touched by murder Here's a shilling This is a familiar object, a shilling, a coin of the realm. So much silver, alloyed with harder metals, for purposes of wear, milled edged, engraved with the face of a British sovereign.

Very familiar object indeed. So lucky piece, all right, Inspector. Lucky for you, Barb. That's just what I mean, then. Shilling don't buy much these days. But this one bought plenty. All the black museums starring awesome well.

Track Museum, Scotland Yard's Museum of Murder. Here's a small radio made for entertainment, for obtaining all the sounds that reach out through the ether, the area, think for joy for pleasure.

But note the little wires protruding here connected to the switch that turned this little sound box on. The man turned that knob, as was his habit. The little extra wires conducted color into an explosive.

The man died. Later, he was followed to death by his murderer. Oh yes, here we are. Here's the shillie, subject of our story. Some tarnish, still, gleaming silver. Without a doubt, it passed through many hands, proposed in pockets and purses.

And then one day, a telephone rings. So many things are heralded by that sound. This one rings in an office in the yard. Too many interrupt a desultry conversation. One of them picks up the instrument.

Inspector Graves, are this for you, Inspector. Thank you, Sergeant. Inspector listens briefly, acknowledges the message, hangs up the telephone. Well, well, well. Croubles are not yet. Nothing interesting but of information. Remember, Jerry Barth? Dart, more, isn't he?