Black Museum-24-A Letter

This is Orson Welles speaking from London, back New Zealand. Here in the grim stone structure on the Thames which houses Scotland Yard is a warehouse of homicide. Where everyday objects, magazine, cigarette lighter, students lamp, paperweight, all your object handwritten, all the good bond paper, no imprint on the top merely a date, a simple single initial for the signature.

You notice the same thing about this letter that I do, sir? Rather a well-formed handwriting? More than that, this letter was written by an educated person, a very well-educated person, but for water purpose. On the day that letter could 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. Countless memories.

The objects we show. We realize that. Derry, endless ranks. Pitiful instruments. Not only guns but the simple things. Spools.

The babies pacify it. Complete with the ivory ring. This one begins innocently enough in a bank. There's a man steps to tell his window. Do we not? I have an account here. You can check the signature.

So normal, so much in the ordinary course of daily business. The cashier goes to the file, compares the signature and the check with that on file. Returns to his wicked. Everything seems to be an order, sir.

How do you wish the money? Two fives, the rest in one pound, that's very well. Very well, sir. If you'll count. The customer counts the bills. Nods that they come to the proper amount and walks away out of the bank.