Black Museum-51-The Wool Jacket

This is Orson Welles, speaking from London, from a black museum, a museum of death. Yes, here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. A warehouse where everyday objects, a paperweight of broken wine bottle, a shaded lamp, all, are touched by murder.

He'd take this jacket. Wollan handed it a baby's garment, dusted with age. And only half completed. Sleeves are missing inspector, and it still has to be stitched up. Yes. Looks rather pathetic, doesn't it, Sergeant?

It does, sir. Yes? Better put it back in your teshy case. Probably be needing it before long. Today, that jacket, sleeveless and unstitched, can be seen 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 Scotland Yard's Gallery of Death,

the Black Museum. In just a moment you will hear the Black Museum starring Orson Welles, Black Museum starring Orson Welles. In the Black Museum, Scotland Yards Museum of Murder, Here lies death, dressed in its Sunday best.

Here, for example, is a nail fire, was once used by a manicurist to trim the dainty fingernails of a beautiful woman, later used by an insane killer. Here's a length of cord, weighted with lead, at either end, harmless enough to look at, but lethal in its effect as a weapon of murder.

Ah, here we are, here's the jacket, mottled and dusty, somewhat inconspicuous in its place on the shelf, a tragic relic of passion and violence. I'm going to take you back quite a few years to a warm Sunday morning in June of the year 1921.