The Black Museum is a repository of death. Yes, here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses scuff and yard, is a warehouse of homicide. For everyday objects, a glass ash tray, a porcelain vase, an electric fan. All are touched by murder. There's a piece of an iron chain, a familiar object. It might be a bar on a gravel driveway at my rest, or an emergency truck, a youth in towing an automobile, mid-might. In this case, it was the cause of death. Remember this, Bobbin? Hey, of course, Inspector. You knew, didn't you? We just about then closed the file on the tail-killing. Yes, you told me. It's just as well as those statutes of limitations on murder. Today, that chain can be seen in its place 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. Here we are, the Black Museum, Scotland Yard Museum of Murder, Halide. This is different, quite different from a graveyard. Tombstones mark only the mounds beneath which dust has returned to dust. These white cards with the neat black lettering designate the means of death. In every case, it's been violent. Oh, my God. Chain. Chain. Now, what do you associate with the words, with the sound? Chain. Chips and anchors, slavery, bars and prisons, maybe. Oh, hardly with a young girl of 23, seated in a hard chair in the bare office of Inspector Hal, Scotland Yard. I'm sorry to ask you to repeat that statement, Miss Tomlinson. You'll understand that I find it rather hard to believe. You feel the same way, don't you Sergeant? Oh, I do, sir. No doubt about it, I do. I would have expected you would, Inspector. In modern times, no one believed in ghosts. Did you, Miss Tomlinson? I didn't. Now I do. And you've no explanation for these phenomena? If I had, I wouldn't be here, Inspector. You must believe me. There is a ghost, and I'm frightened. You mean, Miss Tomlinson, that I'm noiseless in the night and they frighten you? Noises. And the voice. My father's voice. He won't stay out of the house. Why should he love me out when he left it to me? When we were so happy there together. Just you and your father? Mother died when I was really little. I hardly knew her. Now there's only myself. Haunted? I see. Does this ghost by any chance rattle chains? Yes. It's a horrible sound. Apparently the good Inspector has his own ideas about this ghost. In fact, after John Tomlinson left his office. Interested, Poston? In ghosts? Little sir? In good looking air, Mrs. Sargent. Oh, that's a no, sir. But it might be possible that someone else is. Or in her property. Perhaps. Well, look into it, Preston. If we don't, the odds are the young lady will be back until we do. Let me have a report in the morning. This morning was eight hours away. Sergeant Preston walked up the quiet street in the London suburb where each house stood alone in its own plot of ground. Even in the inadequate life in the street lamps, the Sergeant could see something of well-kept lawns and trim hedges. He turned into the concrete driveway, skirted two garages and attended the back gardens, finding his way to a screened back porch where a light showed briefly. You came, Sergeant. Thank you for the light. My torch. I didn't want you to try the golden heart. This way. I thought we'd wait in the upstairs sitting room. Whatever you think best, Miss. It's your ghost. Yes, isn't it? The stairs are this way. The Sergeant felt rather than saw in the darkness that it was a large house. Seemed to be several rooms on the ground floor and upstairs. They passed three closed doors before they entered the sitting room, which kindly extended the full width of the building. That's the comfortable chair. It was father's. Thank you, Miss. A drink? No, thank you. I'll smoke, if I may. Yes, of course. When does he come? Midnight? Any time after I've gone to bed. Usually around now. They waited. Nothing. Think you'll come tonight, Miss? What then? It's starting. You'll see. It's starting. Inspector will never bring you further. Do you hear me, Sergeant? Do you? How can I help you, Miss? Tony. Tony. Can you hear me? It's just that... it's not so like him. Tony, I can't rest. I can't. Not with you. Alone. Alone. In the house. Alone. It's human. It's got to be. Does it, Sergeant? Really? Does it have to be human? Have you ever been to a seance, Sergeant? Have you ever heard of the researches of Cullen Doyle and dozens of others? Now do you believe me, Sergeant? There's something, Miss. Well, who could sound like my father? Who? Who would call me Tony? I... You're right. The light is going to have to light now. He will... it won't come back until tomorrow night. I see. Only once a night. Yes. But don't you want to search the house, what do you think? Well, Sergeant, don't you? If this thing is human, there ought to be sound for you, Sergeant. Pardon her. Now, Miss, whoever... whatever it is will be gone now. Maybe tomorrow night. You report this to the inspector. Please. Yes, yes, of course. Shouldn't you go to a hotel for a while, Miss, until this is cleared up? Oh, I thought of that a week ago, Sergeant. But... well, I like my own room. And if it isn't my father, he won't harm me. He'd never do that. You're very certain of that, aren't you, young lady? Aren't you a bit confused? If you believe that, why worry? Why go to the police to the yard? Why be frightened of a fatherly ghost? Well, Miss, I shouldn't ask that. I know, I know, but I wanted someone else to hear him. But I was scared. Maybe I was imagining things. I'll be all right, Sergeant. I'll speak to him safe, in my own house. And so you send the sergeant on his way, the sergeant who ought to have searched the house. You take him down the back stairs and out the back door, Joan. You go upstairs, alone, to your own room, start to undress. Talk to yourself. Give yourself courage. Stop it, Gillian Toppett. Stop it here. There's nothing to be afraid of. You're not going crazy. John! John! John! John! John! Joan! Joan! Yes, Dad? Yes? Go away, Joan. Go away before I have to hurt you. I don't want to. If I have to hurt you, leave the house. Go away, quickly! Joan, don't let me get you. Run! Run! Yes, run. Run, Joan, run. Menacing as thou. Run, Joan. Out into the black hallway down the front stairs. Run! Help! Somebody help me! Miss Robinson, I waited about, Miss. Thought he might come back, heard you scream. Now, see here, Miss, you're going straight to the hospital, and I'm going straight to the inspector. I don't like the looks of it, not a bit. Who would like the looks of it? If you didn't believe in ghosts, of course, Inspector Hall didn't believe in ghosts. Standing beside Joan in a room at the hospital, he was quite explicit. It's a mighty corporeal ghost, Miss. How do you know, Inspector? Your twisted ankle. That was no accident. A stair tread was sewn through. Why am I? Ghosts have difficulty with cross-cut saws. Miss Robinson, do you have any next of kin, that is, anyone who might benefit if anything happened to you? Oh, only with certain cousins. Wait a minute, I haven't seen them in years. They live in London? Why, no. There was Larry Talke. He was in Manchester. I had a note after father died. And Jerry Hennessy, he lives in Norwich. Yes, of course, Ruth Carstairs. Father spoke of her. She's a schoolteacher, the oldest, a school in Bristol. But that's impossible, Inspector. None of them... None of them would want you out of the way. No, of course not. I see. Then how do you account for this, Miss Robinson, Sergeant? Here, sir. Here it is. That's weird. In the cellar of your house, under some bralette bags, right near the furnace, Miss Robinson. The furnace with its tin ducts to the register in the room above. Many youngsters used these echoing ducts to imitate a ghost or to overhear what was going on in another room. As I said before, Miss Robinson, this is a mighty corporeal ghost. He saw through stairs. He used his hot air ducts to amplify his voice. He carried his own sound lips. I don't like it any more than Sergeant Pritzon does, Miss. I don't like it at all. Today, that same chain can be seen in the museum. The piece of iron chain. The hot air ducts carry away through only a few pulses, but almost plants a motive. Inspector, I have no illusions of what goes into another thing, Sergeant Thompson. All right, Pritzon, let's get to work. Where's the cotton? Where's the will out of the way, Sergeant Mungy? The girl was wrong about her coat. She can be wrong about her curtains. Get the wires out, Pritzon, and I want an unobtrusive guard on the house, 24 hours a day. You've got the names of those people she mentioned? Simple. Routine. Teletype messages. Advise earliest convenience. The advice came so conveniently early that Inspector Howe, who sat at his desk with the three that see our paper before him, marked to Sergeant Preston. It's unbelievable, Sergeant. Carrying a coat at my foot, or three dead a few days each other, or three trials unsolved, help July 6th, Hennessy July 8th, Carstairs July 12th. Arjun, under no circumstances is that girl to be permitted to leave the hospital. That's an order. She's safe there. How long, Inspector? Until I get back. Back, sir? Don't look blank, Pritzon. Just look at these telegraph replies. I'm making a cook's tour of these three cities, Manchester, Norwich, and Bristol. Obviously, I need facts. There seem to be quite a few facts in Manchester, Norwich, and Bristol. England is a very lively place, a place of fast. In Manchester. I understand, but the TELC case was in your hands. Aye, that's correct, sir. How far, yet? No motive. Just this man, TELC, walking home alone on a July night, toward 11, a dark street, a carving knife in his back. That's all. A night train to Norwich. Another police headquarter, another detective. Anxious to cooperate. Here it is, Inspector. All we have on the Hennessy case. Tell me about it, Pritzon. Hit and run, driver. I checked the scene myself. Hennessy was hit on the sidewalk, looked as if some drunk had driven right up on the walk and crushed the man against the building wall. And so a pattern emerges. Two men die, quite unexpectedly, but in this case no clues, no indication that there was purpose or motive, except that a third man died quite naturally in London, and his daughter was the victim of the fight. And all those involved were related to each other as a pattern images. Continue to investigate. All right, Alvin. What have you on the car, Daniel? I thought you said the police were a service, retired? Quite as usual. I do think so, sir. They have a little life, too. I'm fortunate to have one. I've got a stick in the bottle. I know it, Kenneth. Yes, nothing. Anything else? The bits on the bottle? No. Please put them where I need them. The bottle I've been missing, have they? Landlady said she had a visitor the day before, but do you believe, former Stuart Wettel, think... Mind if I go and get that landlady? The name is Ross. Help yourself. Quite a talker, that woman. Got a way... It was a semi-detached villa with a vacancy sign on the door. Mrs. Ross was indeed quite a talker. Inspector Howell let her talk. At least 15 years. A wonderful woman inspector, sir. So many of our students come to see her, even after she retired. The kind of teacher you don't find nowadays. I know exactly what you mean, ma'am. And she was so happy that day. What with her cousin being here the day before and all. Her cousin, Mrs. Ross? Yes, I remember it clearly. She called. She was going out for a bit of cake for tea, now that her cousin Michael Stroud had come to see her. A new name. Another cousin. One Michael Stroud, careful now, Inspector. Careful. You don't happen to know where he was from now, do you, ma'am? Oh, from London. I have the address. Found an envelope in the waste paper basket while I was clearing out the poor thing's room. Did you tell this to the police? No, sir. They were so busy with their bustle and dusting everything from fingerprint states. Yes, yes, yes, of course. Now, Mrs. Ross, may I have that address, please? That is, if you still have it... A teletype message travels much faster than a train from Bristol to London by the time the inspector reached his office. Sergeant Preston was waiting with the answer. We've been there, sir. A Michael Stroud had a flat at the address, but he's moved and left no forwarding address. Oh, well. When did he move out? July 13, sir. The day after the Costier's woman died. When Macquarie is escaping, what do you do? Or at least you can, to at close to the gaps in the situation, try to develop motive and opportunity. The inspector permitted Joan Thomas to leave the hospital and to proceed in his company to the office of the solicitor. Now, sit down, Joan. And to Inspector. Thank you, Mr. Thomas. Thank you. I, uh, I gather something is amiss. Mr. Thomas, we have reason to believe that three people have died because of Miss Tomlinson's inheritance and that her own life is in danger. That's unbelievable, sir. It usually is. However, the three who were dead are all, uh, were all second cousins of Miss Tomlinson, her next of kin. What we are here to find out is, does the will under which she inherits her property state to whom that property divides in the event of her death? Not exactly. That is, if she dies in tested, the property under the law will pass to her next of kin in equal shares, of course. Mr. Thomas, with all her second cousin dead, a third cousin will be next in line, correct? Oh, absolutely. Of course, sir. I know of no such relatives, sir. Unfortunately, sir, we do. His name is Michael Stroud. His whereabouts at present are unknown. Motive, present, very definitely present. Opportunity, obvious, and seized at least three times in Manchester, large, and Bristol. After the next move, we can outline the plan. Mr. Thomas, are you still believing ghosts? I believe not, sir. Will the affraids take must alone? I see. I'm treated to death. Absolutely. You are? We'll give you... How may I begin? Joan left the hospital, returned to her house, to the memories, to the now silent ducts, to the still chiming clock. The first night was uneventful. The next night, as others followed, bit by bit, Joan slipped back into her normal everyday routine, a girl in her home with a servant during the day alone at night. The ghost, the three deaths in three cities, the inspector began to take on aspects of a dream. Reality was coming home after an evening in the city, going upstairs, listening for the little clock. Preparing for sleep, indulging in a little habit of talking to herself. There's nothing to worry about. Really nothing. He's gone away. Out of the country, maybe. Oh, forget Michael Stroud, Joan, forget the whole thing. What's that? How are you, Joan? Feeling well? And safe? Get out. Whoever you are. That won't work, tell me. You know I'm your cousin, Michael. Come to call. I never saw you before. In my life? I know, dear. And now that you have seen me, what else is there to live for? You couldn't get away with it. Oh, yes I could. I can. I will. You'll be a lovely suicide, dear. Carbon monoxide from the register from the furnace. Or maybe, yes, maybe they'll call it accidental death. Inspector, I'll assign you. You never will. I doubt it. He wasn't around to seize me tonight, was he? And I'm very good at hiding. More. I never tie me to cousin Larry or cousin Jerry or cousins. They will. They have. They have a fingerprint. Ah, then now that's their worry, not mine. Now sit down. In that chair. I will. Sit down. I have it planned perfectly, Joan. You'll sit down. I'll tie you in that chair, shut the windows, the door, turn on the heat. You'll be gagged, too. I forgot to mention that. You'll die. No. I'll come back, put you on the bed. No. You can't make me. I said sit down and shut up. Take him in charge, Sergeant. We have enough. We're killing the bait, Sergeant. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. For getting his gun away, sir. Nicely handled, Sergeant. You all right, Miss Tomlinson? Yes, sir. I think so. He is a very corporeal ghost. Isn't he, Inspector? Definitely. And I believe his corporeal fingerprints will match those in the handle of a very corporeal knife in Manchester. A steering wheel in Norwich, a bottle in Bristol, and a certain chain in the possession of Scotland Yard. The case was clear. The defense was helpless. The case was closed at the traditional time one morning in the usual manner. Michael Stroud at the hands of the Crown became, forever, an incorporeal ghost. The chain remained in its usual place in Scotland Yard. And now until we meet next time, I tell you another story of the Black Museum. And as always, obedience to your honor.
