This is Orson Welles speaking from London. The Black Museum, it's a repository of death. Here in the grimy stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. Where everyday objects, a phonograph record, a postcard, a color photograph, a simple statuette, all are touched by murder. Here's two scribbled notes, bits of paper with three words crawled across them. Slogan known around the world, a slogan you recognize, words created in the kind of lonely, found men far from home, men at war, have enjoyed through all of history. What's it mean, Inspector? It would be nice to know, Sergeant. I suspect that if we did know, we'd have the answer to this nasty business. Well, this killer, sir, it's possible he's an American. That phrase was, Americans are all through the war. Kilroy was here. Kilroy was here. And he's still here. 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. Well, here we are in the Black Museum, Scotland Yard's Museum of Murder. Here's a typewriter. Your secretary uses one, perhaps your son or daughter write their school essays on a machine like this. This one is used to write a letter. That letter brought a woman to an address and death to the author of that letter. I hear the notes. Scrawled online, papers such as children use, children who are just learning to write, and a photograph showing the same three words scratched on a wooden surface. Three times three was a number in witchcraft in ancient times. Three times three words were written. This wasn't witchcraft. Merely murder. Began for Inspector Liggett and Sergeant Porter in the usual manner. A telephone rang in the inspector's office at the yard. Inspector Liggett here. Sergeant Garth, 11th District Metropolitan Police, sir. We're at the Royal Roost, sir, private supper club, 15 Mali Court. The proprietor, Matt Bolton, has been shot and killed, Inspector. Very well, we'll be right along. Well, sir, Matt Bolton has finally departed this earth border. In the expected manner? In the expected manner. You wouldn't know Matt Bolton. Ninety-nine chances out of a hundred you never heard of him. But enough people had heard of him. To net Matt Bolton a neat six-figure income from various protective associations and entertainment enterprises such as the Royal Roost, one of those small private supper clubs, manages to keep its license by operating just within the law. The club was easy to find. In place of a neon sign there was a police constable at the door. Looks like it's this way, I think. Coffee in here, Inspector? It always is in these places. Apparently a good many people prefer to amuse themselves breathing a combination of tobacco and poor liquor fumes. Rather good fresh air. Quite a costume on those girls. The roosters in the Royal Rooster. Get it, Sergeant? I've never seen a rooster with so little on besides tail feathers. Yeah, and I know I. Look, we'd better get to work, Sergeant. The two policemen crossed the nightclub, skirted the dance floor, and quietly passed through the door when the other bandstands to their left. Another door stood open revealing a cubicle complete with mirror lights, another girlish rooster, a man, and a body. A body full length on the floor. The girl was saying. Look, we simply can't send the chorus out once more. Do I get to do my act or don't I? I'm Inspector Liggett, Sergeant. The young lady may do her act. I doubt if she'll try to go outside the club in that costume. Well, thank you, Inspector. First this man said he thought the show ought to go on so the customers wouldn't be disturbed, and then he held me here. Oh, look, that's my cue. I'll be back. Don't worry, I'm not going anyplace. You're so right about that, Inspector. There was a way around that girl, sir. Found the body. Didn't turn her hair. Signatures. Find the weapon, Sergeant? No, sir, not in here. Porter, check the exits. Very good, sir. We've done that, sir. Only two, the way you came in the back door, a fire exit. No one in the kitchen saw or heard anything. We haven't touched the body. Waiting for you in the medical examiner, sir. Very good. All right. Turn out his pockets, Porter. Yes, sir. Here's something, Inspector, tucked in his breast pocket. Oh, quite the touch. I take it you didn't see this, Goss. No, sir, we left the body strictly as it was. Odd. Almost a signature. A note. Kilroy was here. For a moment, memories of other days crowded into the tiny dressing room. A phrase which had meant chuckles once seemed incongruous in that atmosphere of violent death. And then Mabel was back with boyfriend. May I inquire who your escort is, Miss Martin? Larry King meets Scotland Yard. Gentlemen, how do you do? Is this your usual practice, Mr. King? You mean escorting Miss Martin home? That's correct. You are good friends? We're engaged. I see. Miss Martin, before you leave us to get dressed, during your employment here, have you ever had any trouble with Mr. Bolton? Do you mean, did he make advances? Yes. Naturally. I see. Mr. King, did you know about these advances? I did. Did you ever have any trouble with Mr. Bolton? Nothing to speak of? Of course, it never is anything to speak of. You served here in the recent war. I did. Eighth Army, all the way from Tobruk to Northern Italy. Does the expression, Killroy was here, mean anything to you? The Americans, Fifth Army, they used it. I've seen it many times. Very well. Leave your addresses, both of you, with Sergeant Garth here. And don't leave the city. We may need you. That's all for now. Now the routine begins. Inspector Liggett and Sergeant Porter return to the yard. The orders go out. Have them run a complete check on Bolton's pals. They'll all have alibis, but run the check anyway. That was a start. Now the patient waiting, putting together the few facts available. It's the hardest part of police work anywhere. So, Porter, no prints on that note except yours and mine. Correct, Inspector. What have you got on King and the girl? She's, well, remarkably respectable. Nothing remarkable, Sergeant. What about him? He's a lawyer in the city, rather successful, good reputation. Ever cross Bolton's path in his work? Nope. He's a copyright lawyer, deals with writers mostly. Nothing there then. Take patience, lots of it. Check and recheck, wait for information. Wait for the telephone to ring. Inspector Liggett here. Detective Ashton, sir. 23rd district. Go ahead, Ashton. At 14 and a half Haven Mews, sir. We've been watching the place, sir. That King fellow lives there. Yes, I know. The superintendent's wife has been found, sir, on the cellar steps, strangled. We found the note in her apron pocket. Kilroy was here, it says. Wait for the telephone to ring, and when it does ring, another death, another note, no solution. Nearly complication piled on complication. A short while later in the basement apartment of the newly widowed janitor. You found her yourself, Mr. Evans? Yes, sir. Lying there, she was on the cellar steps. I was going down to look at the oil burner. I see. Now, your wife have any enemies, Mr. Evans? No, sir, no. Where would the likes of us come in having enemies? Quarrel some a little, you might say, but what woman isn't? Oh, she quarreled with you. With me mostly. Not that I could blame her. It's hard work, a place like this, you know. Once in a while with a tenant, the children in 4B, for instance, they write on the walls. So my wife argues with the mother. The nice young man in 6G lets the bathtub run over. 5G complains. My wife scolds Mr. King. I see, yes. Now, is Mr. King at home now? I believe so, sir. All right, thank you. We'll do our best to find whoever killed your wife, Mr. Evans. Oh, thank you, sir. She had a temper, I know, but she never did no real harm. Up in the self-service elevator on the sixth floor. Find 6G and ring the bell. Have it open, not by Larry King, but by Mabel Martin. Far more fully dressed than the last time the inspector saw her. Well, Miss Martin, collected the insurance yet? Cut it out, Inspector. I don't have to stand for that sort of thing. In fact, I could ask you for a warrant before I let you in here. But you won't, will you, Mr. King? Ask your questions. They're about Mrs. Evans. Larry, please. Don't worry, darling. Ask your questions, Inspector. You quarreled with Mrs. Evans. I did. I wanted my bathtub fixed. The drain was backing up. She told me to go to fix it myself, that's all. You're sure that was all? Murder seems to have a way of happening in your vicinity, King. Is that an accusation? What's all this to do with Matt Bolton? I don't know. But there is a link. Quite a clear link, Miss Martin. You see, on Mrs. Evans we found a bit of paper, and on it was scrawled, Kilroy was here. Any ideas on that, ex-soldier, now Solicitor King? Solicitor King had nothing to say. His puzzlement, his lack of knowledge seemed honest enough. Inspector Liggett drew no conclusions. He waited. The routine continued. The reports came in. The Martin girl has a new job. Same type of club. I've seen the act, Inspector. Same songs, more clothes. Nothing on Bolton's cronies. Every one of them has an alibi. King seems to follow a set routine, Inspector. To the office, back home, dinner, and calls for the girl. Even eats his lunch at the same time, every day in the same restaurant. Nothing much to go on there, just a time of waiting. A week passed. The telephone rang once again. Inspector Liggett here. Detective Ashton, sir. We've another one for you. What? Yes, sir. A butcher this time. Name of Andrews. Two blocks from the apartment house where King lives. Head bashed in with his own mallet. Scratched on the chopping block with one of his own knives. The same old message, sir. Kilroy was here. Kilroy was here. Kilroy was here. Familiar words with a smile in their words to remember fondly. Three times they appear. On a butcher's block. On scraps of paper. And every other day, they can be seen in the Black Museum. A third killing, and signed exactly the same way. Kilroy was here. More, this murder had taken place within a few blocks of 14 and a half Haven Mews where Larry King lived. The same young man who was the secret fiance of the singer and whose dressing room the first body had been found. The same young man who lived in the house where the janitor's wife had been strangled. Inspector Liggett lost no time reaching the scene of the latest crime. Yes, sir. Well, I am... Ashton. Yes, sir. Anything fresh? Just the things I reported, sir. There's the mallet, the weapon. The message was scratched with this knife. Any prints? The laboratory crew are trying to raise some. Nothing yet. Very well. Who's the woman? The widow. Mrs. Andrews, I really dislike bothering you with questions at this time, but you understand that speed may be the essence now. Yes, yes, of course, Inspector. I understand that it was you who found your husband. Yes. I stopped here to get some money for a dress. It'll have to be a black one now. Did you always come to him for that kind of money? Well, Jim had his ways. He was considerably older than I am. He seemed just strong when we first married. Well, later he was... Well, it changed to domineering. I understand, but now look, just a few more questions, please. Does the phrase on the chopping block mean anything to you? Kowroy was here? No. No, it's... Well, it's just a... Well, I think I heard it on the radio once or twice. From the way you described your husband, I'd say he was rather, well, positive, it is a picture. A mild way of putting it. Positive. Domineering, a man who broke no argument. As the questions went on, the picture became more clear of a large, almost brutish man who covered his deficiencies with bluster and bullying. Finally. Just one more point, Mrs. Andrews. Did your husband ever argue with his customers? I mean, did he make any enemies among them? Well, some. Only over little things. Can you give me a specific instance? Well, last week. Yes, it was last week. A nice young man said Jim was overcharging him. They had words. The man, his name is Larry King, from the apartment house on Haven Mews. He swore he'd never buy hair again. I see. Have I, uh... have I helped, Inspector? You may have. Just a little time will tell, I suspect. Just a little time. A little time. Within the hour, Larry King was in custody, taken in charge for 24 hours on suspicion of complicity. His fingerprints revealed... Nothing. His answers to the barrage of questions revealed... Nothing. Wearily, the inspector and Sergeant Porter returned to the office to face unrelated facts and a no-progress report. Wearily, the inspector picked up the receiver of his office intercom. Yes, Sergeant? You have a caller, sir. Who is it? Miss Mabel Martin, sir. She insists on speaking with you. Miss Martin was ushered in seated in front of the desk. I, uh... I've got something to tell you, Inspector. Please do. Well, Larry didn't kill anybody. Didn't he? No. I did. Steady, Sergeant. Please take down Miss Martin's statement. Now, I must warn you, Miss Martin, anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. Yes, sir. I understand. Now the floodgates opened. I killed all three of them and left the notes to make it look as though Larry did it. So simple, so obvious. Matt Bolton threatened me. He said if I didn't come back to him, he'd change his insurance policies and tell Larry about us. Well, I... I shot him. It was a.22 that Larry had given me. One death accounted for. The policeman listened gravely. Mrs. Evans was always snooping. She threatened to tell Larry about Matt and me. I did it in the cellar, behind the coal pile. I... I strangled her. Quite logical. The inspector waited. Andrews, the butcher, I... I used to shop there for Larry. Andrews made some advances. He... he reached for me and... and I grabbed a meat cleaver and... then I... I scratched the note on the wood. But that's the story, Inspector. Yes. Tell me, how much do you weigh, Miss Martin? About 107 pounds. Why, what's that got to do with it? Sergeant Porter, what was the caliber of the bullet found in Matt Bolton? .38 caliber, sir. Thank you. And did you notice a coal pile in the cellar at 14 and a half Havenmuse? It's an oil burner, sir. Quite modern. Thank you. And the... the weapon in the Andrews' case? A mallet, sir. Not a cleaver. A mallet. And, Sergeant, can you picture a young woman of 107 pounds knocking out and killing a man of Andrews' size? Not very well, sir. Of course, it's obvious her heart and her courage are as large as she is, if not larger. But... All right, have your fun. I've made a fool of myself, but... but Larry didn't kill anyone. I know that. I know it. You can't do this to him. Look, look, look. I wouldn't worry, Miss Martin, if I were you. In fact, if I were you, I'd hurry out to the front of the building. Mr. King is about to be released, and I think you'll want to meet him there, won't you? Oh, Inspector. Oh, Sergeant, I... Oh, forgive me, please. How about it, Porter? Care to have a girl like that to marry? Yes, sir. For more reasons than one. Where are we now, sir? Oh, and, Porter, I'd say we were just about where we were when we first heard of the Andrews' killing. Put on your thinking, Cap Sergeant. This is quite a problem. They sat there in silence. Their minds sifted fact after fact. And once they'd been through the meagre supply of facts on hand, they started over again. At one point, the inspector said half to himself. There's something we're overlooking. Probably quite a simple point. It usually is, but... He was quite right. In fact, the inspector was quite appalled, so appalled. He spoke in what amounted to a whisper. Sergeant. Hand me that telephone directory, please. What? Oh, yes, sir. Can I help you, sir? No, no, no, no, no, thank you. Look, just get your hat, Sergeant. Get my hat? Yes, we're going back to 14 1⁄2 Haven Meuse. That's kings of that. Yes, and according to the director, it is also the residence of one Joseph Kilroy, one of the seven Kilroys listed in the London telephone directory. Doesn't take long from Scotland Yard to Haven Meuse, not when you're travelled by police car with a siren going. It doesn't take long to race upstairs to a third-floor apartment. Ring the doorbell. Come in, gentlemen. I heard your arrival in the street. What took you so long, gentlemen? Oh, really, now. Mr. Kilroy, I must warn you, anything you say... Oh, that's all right. I understand. Don't mind in the least. Well, I'll be watching, Sergeant. I am, sir. Frankly... Inspector Liggett. Oh, yes, thank you. Frankly, Inspector, I'm rather annoyed with you. Here I go to all the trouble of killing a man so that nice young fellow in 6G could marry that cute little baggy she's going with, and you arrest him instead of me. I see. I'm sorry about that, too. So you killed Bolton? Saw him one night treating the girl really nastily in front of his house. If I may ask, why the woman? Oh, she was a nagger. Really annoying. And after I killed one, it struck me I couldn't be hanging more than once, so I might as well do old Evans, too. Thoughtful of you, Mr. Kilroy. That butcher was a private matter, though. He kicked a dog once. I saw him. Didn't treat his wife any better. No kids. Figured he'd leave her his money. So I got him with his own mallet. Quite simple, you see. And you signed your name to each one? Of course. Good deeds are scarce in this world. Thought I ought to get proper credit each time. Now, if you'll excuse me... Sergeant! Good work, Sergeant. He's strong, sir. Stronger than he looks. Cases like this usually are. Well, we'll need the ambulance. Not the wagon this time, and use the telephoned rector, Sergeant. I find them quite useful books. When I remember to use them. Who would have thought it, sir? How many of our murderers are considerate enough to sign their killings, sir? Murderers don't sign their work, do they? Unless, of course, their sense of humor is as twisted as their evaluation of human life. This killer did autograph his killings. And today, those notes can be seen in the usual place for such things in the Black Museum. Joe Kilroy was insane, of course, by every normal standard. Insane enough certainly to sign his name to three murders. And by every normal standard, the gentlemen of Scotland Yard acted correctly within the rules of their profession in tracing every possible motivation, every possible suspect before they came to the obvious solution. After all, it is logical that when men spend their lives dealing with the deliberately obscured, they can actually fail to notice the openly obvious. Now the notes remain in their usual place in Scotland Yard in the Black Museum. Until we meet again in this same place for another story about the Black Museum, I remain as always obediently yours.
