This is Orson Welles speaking from London. From the Black Museum, a repository of death. Here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide, where everyday objects, a piece of carbon paper, a tin ash tray, a broken teacup, all are touched by murder. Here's a woman's powder, faded pink. We'll open the glass case and take it out. There you are, sir. Perhaps Madame would like to take it. You draw back. The lace is pitiful and torn across the puff itself as an ugly stain. Once it was dark red, but its progress through the biological laboratory has left it bleached and pitted, where small areas have been teased out and examined under the microscope. This sample belongs to blood group three. Are you sure? Quite. Group one is here as well. Blood groups one and three. That means there were two victims. Yes, the faded pink powder puff was used to gag two victims before they were brutally murdered. That's why it can be seen today 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 Yards Gallery of Death, the Black Museum. In just a moment, you will hear the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. Now, the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. Here we are in the Black Museum. Yes, beyond these stone walls, London throbs and is alive. But within these rooms, there is silence and death. It's very quiet. Come with me. Under the frieze of death masks, the masks of criminals of bygone days suspended grimly under the ceiling, we pass slowly along the rows of murder exhibits, not always frightening in themselves, but terrifying when considered in relation to their history. They are matchbox. Here's a nail file. Each exhibit marked with the names of the killer and the victim. But our objective now is the powder puff. As it lies on the palm of my hand, let's turn back the clock and meet the man who used it for a grim purpose. His name, Richard William Heisen. The time dawn on the morning of Friday, October the 18th, 1946. The place, Pentonville Prison. This is it, is it boys? Take it easy, Heisen. You've got about a couple of hours. Give me a second. Oh, thanks. You're too kind. This is 20 days we've had in here, isn't it? Yes, 20 days. You won't forget me, will you? No, we won't forget you. Before I go, you must remind me to compliment the management. The food's been excellent. I can thoroughly recommend it to future guests. I've only one complaint. What's that, Heisen? The execution shed is too close. I'm sure I could hear the hangman practicing with a sandbag last night. Nonsense. Here, have a wash. After I've finished my cigarette. All right, all right. No hurry. No hurry. Two hours to go, two hours in which to reminisce. I think I was right not to see my mother and father. They wanted to see you. That's because they remembered me as I was. Big, blonde and handsome. But they never really knew me. I nearly killed a girl when I was 16. Did you? Yes. It was at a kid's party. After playing postman's knock, we got tired of that. And I suggested we should play... The popular parlor game of murder. Somebody commits a crime in the dark and the rest of the party are supposed to discover the culprit. Young Richard Heisen entered into the spirit of the thing with zest. Jean, you come with me. All right, Dick. Let's go upstairs. What should we do? Never mind, I'll take care of it. Never mind, I'll tell you. Let's go out while nobody's looking. Come on. Here's a box room. Let's go in. No, I'd rather not. Let's hide here. In you come. No, Dick. Don't be afraid. It's only a game. I'm putting this handkerchief in your mouth. No, let me go. Now I'm squeezing your throat. Shut up. Jean! Where are you? Oh, there you are. My Dick. But Jean, what's happened? He... He's killed her. It was fortunate for young Dick Heisen the girl was not dead. But she was hurt and badly frightened. The warders in the death cell listened to Heisen's prelude to murder in silence. But perhaps their eyes betrayed their emotions. You're shocked, aren't you? Oh, give me the towel, will you? Oh, thank you so much. You make a good batman. Have you been in the services? I was in the Navy. Oh, interesting. That was the only service I was never in. I began in the Air Force. Yeah, so I believe. You better start dressing now. I enlisted as a pilot, fighter pilot. They gave me a commission, of course. Of course. Here's your tie. Oh, thank you. I had only one complaint about the Air Force. Yeah? What was that? The pay. So I volunteered to take over the mess funds. That helped. So did the uniform. You'd better put on a clean collar. I'm allowed a collar, am I? That uniform certainly pulled him in. Pulled who in? Well, who do you think? Remember the case of the Air Force girl found in the burnt-out car in Suffolk? So you were responsible for that, were you? How did it happen? Now you're interested. Listen, boys, come on, gather round. I'll tell you about it before it's too late. Richard Heisen could never bear to be anything but the center of attraction. He could never tolerate a disinterested audience. Even in his last hours, he had to hold his listeners. But how much of the truth he told will never be known. Nevertheless, a pretty girl of 21 had been found dead in a car close to the station where he'd been, looking after the mess funds five or six years previously. And he told his warders how he had stopped her on a lonely road while she was driving his staff car. Hello there. Want a lift? Oh, that's very nice of you. I'm going into whip switch. Oh, so am I. Jump in. What's your name? Parker, sir. And your first name? Joyce, sir. I'm Richard Heisen. And you can call me Dick and Drop. I'm Richard Heisen. And you can call me Dixie. I'm Richard Heisen, and you can call me Dick and Drop. I think I've met you before. Oh, I've seen you too. At the commandant. Yes, yes, it might have been. It was. I've been thinking about you ever since, Joyce. Oh, I don't believe a word of it, Mr. Heisen. Dick, look out. Watch that bend. Oh, I'm sorry. Oh, never mind, sweetheart. I've got nerves of steel. But I'd be happier if you let me take over. Yes, perhaps it would be a good idea. Thanks. Oh, don't bother to get out. I'll get out my side. Well, I must say, it is nice to be driven for a change. Good. What are your plans after you drop the car into workshops? As a matter of fact, I'm feeling rather good today. You see, it's my birthday, and my mum sent me a very nice present this morning. Well, many happy returns. And how old are you? Twenty-one. Congratulations. She's twenty-one today. Twenty-one. What did they send you? Money. Oh, that's always the most sensible gift. Yes, it is, isn't it? I say, are we on the right road? Yeah, I think so. We're not, you know. We're right off the road now. Hey, stop. Hey, I thought you were supposed to be a good driver. So I am. Come here. No, you've made a mistake. I'm not that sort of a girl. Let me go. Yeah, you would, would you? You're mad. Where's the money? Well, here. Here, take it. Now let me go, please. Oh, no. Please let me go. I promise I won't turn. No. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah, it hurts. Hey. Ah! Ah! Ah. Get me my gun. Ah, put it in your pocket. Hey. No, no, no, give me... Get the bloody gun out of my way! Let's get out of here. Incorrect answer. Here you are in the parking lot. Give me the gun. In the crossroad. We're expecting emergency fire. health emergency fire, please. Oh! For this man. I've just called Michael. The chief of police told me he'd got a wake for a complete arrest. In the roundabout, there were no ph Senhor-Heisen who had a survival garden proposed. No, I'm sure he doesn't. Well then Difflip was him. The crime had every appearance of being an accident, and Richard Heisen went to the picture alone that night. All expenses paid. He hadn't yet left behind any vital clues, such as might be seen today in the Black Museum. In just a moment, we will continue with the Black Museum starring Orson Well. And now we continue with the Black Museum starring Orson Well. We return to number two death cell in Pantonville prison. I was cashiered from the Air Force quite soon and they found out about the Messacans, so I joined the army as Paul Colton. Yes, we know about that. I built up a new history for myself and being a pretty useful type, I got a commission. Ah, that was in the early days of the war. Yeah, I probably wouldn't have got a commission later on. They started going into too much detail. How long did you keep the army commission? About a year. I lost it in the Middle East. It was really rather amusing. I was visiting the mess of HQ when I heard the general talking about selling his car before he was posted to a new command. That gave me an idea. Excuse me, sir. Yes. My name's Colton, sir. I'm sorry to hear you're leaving the command. I wonder whether you might be thinking of disposing of that private car of yours. Do you want to buy it? Yes, sir. You better have a word with my ADC. Smellers. Yes, sir. Mr. Colton here wants to buy the car. Sort it out with him, will you? Of course, sir. And second Lieutenant Colton, alias Heisen, wrote out a cheque for 100 pounds, which was exactly 100 pounds more than he had in the bank. That cheque bounced quicker than a golf ball, but I'd sold the old man's car even quicker and spent what I got for it. So bang went commission number two. Yes, they cashiered me. I told them I thought it was rather hard on a first offender. First offender? Well, in the army, yes. Instead of coming home, I dropped off the ship in South Africa and I joined the army there. And believe me, it wasn't long before I got myself posted to England. That meant London for me. And those certainly were the days. Don, I'd like you to meet Muriel. Donald Smithers, Muriel Gut. Oh, hello there. And what are you drinking, Muriel? Scotch and water, thanks. Yeah, tough baby, eh? Good for you. Hi, Stuart. A very large Scotch and a very little water for a pretty girl. You're quite a son of a gun. Believe me, ma'am, I've had to be. What are all those medals on your chest? Oh, distinguished service order. And this one, I know, the distinguished flying cross. Right, baby. I don't know these two. Oh, they're quite a girl. I got it flying with the Free French and that's the OBE, Order of the British Empire. My, you're a hero. You must have a drink on me. Donald Smithers, alias Paul Colton, alias Richard Hyson, had made the first vital mistake, which was to lead him to the scaffold. Needless to say, he was not entitled to any of those decorations. And he had sewn the ribbon of the OBE in the wrong place on his tunic. And although he was still a captain in the South African Air Force, he was wearing the uniform of a Lieutenant Colonel. These points were noticed by an observant officer in the Royal Air Force who passed the information on to the security police. A rapid checkup followed and Hyson was court-martialed and cashiered for the third and last time. Now he lived on women. During one short period, he was engaged to be married to no fewer than nine. And each one financed him to a greater or lesser degree. That took quite a bit of staff work keeping them apart. But there was one I quite liked, Doreen Winson. You'd better get on with your breakfast. Yes, time flies. Doreen was a honey. Somehow I never managed to get her alone for any time. Pass the salt, Fidel. Thank you. I shouldn't have bought her that powder powder. You made a mistake there, Hyson. They all do. What do you mean they? I'm unique. Remember that? The night I gave her the puff, we had a row. She wouldn't come back to the hotel with me, so I snatched back the powder puff while she was using it and walked out on her. So Doreen Winson was saved. I was pretty annoyed. I never did take to a brush off. So I hung around outside the club where I'd met Muriel Gertin and I didn't have long to wait. Muriel? Who's that? Why, Donald Smithers. Hello honey, come and have a drink. Okay, let's go up to the club. Well, I haven't any money until the morning. That's all right, I've got plenty. Have you? I don't believe it. Then look at this. A handbag opens stuffed with notes. The fate of Muriel Gertin is sealed. Look sweetheart, I'm not the type of man who takes money from a pretty girl, not even from you. If you'll come back to my hotel, we can get all we want on my bill. So back to the hotel in South Kensington, and at the last moment, Heisen stopped abruptly as if struck by a sudden idea. You have to go gently honey, I just remembered. They won't serve drinks to visitors after hours. We'll have to go in the back way where we won't be spotted. So in they went, not into the hotel where Heisen was staying, but into another one where he had stayed sometime previously. Heisen knew the geography of the place perfectly. He took his unsuspecting victim through the deserted trade entrance and up the servant's staircase to the first floor where he found an unoccupied bedroom. Okay, in you come. Thanks. Donald, are you sure this is your room? Of course, why? It looks so empty. No clothes, nothing on the dressing table. Well I'm naturally a tidy person, over come and sit down. This was an invitation to a drink. No, there are better things to do than drink. Come on, sit down. Now look here, I may be tough, but I'm not. Why you beast. There's a present for you. Out of mouth, in your mouth. Let them keep it quiet. Now my beauty, I've got you exactly where I want you. So again, those big strong hands did their dreadful work. And when it was all over, Heisen removed the improvise mouth, took her money and returned unseen to his own hotel where the chambermaid awoke him from a sound sleep at eight o'clock the following morning. Morning sir, not a very cheerful one I'm afraid. I'll pull back the curtains. It's pouring outside and nasty and cold. Now drink your tea while it's hot. And here's your newspapers. Huh? Oh, oh the papers, yes. Oh thanks, thanks very much. Not at all. Papers, now let me see. Woman found strangled in small hotel, murder in South Kensington. Police are making widespread inquiries amongst the deceased friends and acquaintances in the hope of tracking down the murderer. The staff and members of a well-known Kensington club are being questioned this morning. They are are they? Then the chances are that the swine who split on me to the South African War Department is going to open his mouth again. He'll remember I was with her. I must get out of London quick. It so happened that Heisen's panic was needless. The RAF officer was posted now and he didn't come forward. Neither did the man who had introduced Tyson to his victim, but the scientists at Scotland Yard were becoming interested in traces of pink wool which they found in the dead woman's mouth. There's no doubt we've got particles of face powder on this fragment, so the murderer must have gagged her with a powder puff of all things, but our own powder puff which is white was still in her handbag. That means the puff which was used by the murderer was taken away by him. The fibres are quite new. There's no dust on them and the powder hasn't had time to get into the material. Well, there's a thread of lace here too. We better let the superintendent know right away. Superintendent Brandreuth of Scotland Yard was then faced with the tremendous task of trying to trace an unknown man who might have bought a pink powder puff with lace trimmings. The information and the request for assistance was published in newspapers throughout the country and Heisen read about it in the seaside town of Eastbourne. For the first time in his life, Richard Heisen panicked. In a split second, he saw the net closing in. He reasoned that Doreen Wimson, the girl he'd brought the powder puff for, would very soon tell the police. If he was caught, he must plead insanity. To establish insanity, he must commit another murder and this time there must be no motive. So that night, in a deserted street on the outskirts of the town, he waited for an unknown victim. It was dark. The few houses were scattered well back from the road. For nearly an hour, nothing stirred while murder waited to strike in the shadows. Go back, little girl, go back, go back. No, she must come on. He's waiting with those big strong hands, tense and ready. The powder puff becomes a gag for the second time. The deed is done. I might have got away with a lot if Doreen Wimson hadn't remembered the powder puff. She identified it, didn't she? Yes, I knew she'd get me. The chaplain's here, Heisen. Tell him to go to Blazes. I'll be waiting for him. Got another cigarette? No, thanks. I was picked up by the police the next day. Even then, I nearly convinced them that they'd got the wrong man. They held me from three in the afternoon until two the next morning before I told them I was Richard Heisen and proud of it. But still, they couldn't really prove I'd killed the two women until they had my coat pocket examined in the laboratory. Then they found traces of face powder and little shreds from the puff in it. Tough, wasn't it, Padre? Why, what are you looking so mournful about? I'm the one to worry. So the hangman's here at last. Yes, Heisen, it's nearly over. Well, if nobody's going to say anything, I will. Come on, boys, get the straps on and let's get going. And so Richard Heisen is led to his appointed place on the trap doors of the scaffold. A white bag is slipped over his head. The rope lodges under his chin. chaplain intones the service of the dead, the trap door is open and Heisen goes fluttering down into the dark cavity below. Justice has been achieved. And all because of the faded pink powder puff which can be seen now in the Black Museum. Arson Welles will be back with you in just a moment. Now here in person is Arson Welles. Heisen loved the limelight and he was nothing if not bold. He did serve in the Army and the Air Force, but his decorations and his tales of gallantry and action were all lies. He lived on lies, forever hoping that they would never catch up with him. But one by one they did. And with them came the evidence. From the bad check he gave to the general in the Middle East, to the pink powder puff he gave to the one girl he admired in London. He hoped, of course, that the world would believe him to be insane. That would have spared him the final horror of the scaffold. And he might have been alive today in the grim fastnesses of Broadmoor, the criminal asylum. Was he mad? Well, you've heard the story. So another chapter of murder is closed and the little pink powder puff faded now, has its place in criminal history. And now until we meet next time in the same place, I tell you another story about the Black Museum. I remain as always obediently yours. The Black Museum, starring Arson Welles, is presented by arrangement with Metro Goldwyn-Mare Radio Attraction, with original music composed and conducted by Sydney Torch, produced by Harry Allen Towers. Thank you.
