 Whitehall 1212. For the first time in history, Scotland Yard opens its official files to bring you the authentic stories of some of its most celebrated cases. These are the truth reenacted for you by an all British cast. Only the names of the participants have for obvious reasons been changed. The stories are presented with a full cooperation of Scotland Yard. Research on Whitehall 1212 is prepared by Percy Hoskins, chief crime reporter for the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. This is the story of Scotland Yard file number 140 MR 519. And here to brief you is chief superintendent John Davidson. Good afternoon. This is the famous black museum of Scotland Yard. These two rooms on the lower ground floor of the main building are the repository of, shall I say, mementos of some of our most famous cases, both solved and unsolved. We keep here as exemplars of the practical art of murder and other crimes, a great many weapons. A not inconsiderable stock of disguises, a large number of miscellaneous objects, more or less directly concerned with the commission of specific crimes. Death miles of a few notable criminals such as the late Heinrich Himmler and a great many bullets, some of them with the stain of death still designable. And more than a few genuinely gruesome objects, portions of human skeletons, things in alcohol filled glass jars. Every object in here has an unhappy association. And most of them have aided us in solving other puzzling crimes. For the criminal mind is curiously imitated. Now, this case number 140 MR 519 happened 30 years ago. You may have heard about it. It created a great sensation in the United States. Now, here is the one item that remains. A knife. It was once very sharp. But the blood has rusted the blade. Oh, good afternoon, David. Good afternoon, sir. Now, this is the man who knows more about Case 140 MR 519 than anyone else up here. May I introduce Chief Inspector David Appriese of the CID? There was another man who knew a great deal about this case, sir. But he's not with us anymore. Who was that, David? The Hangman, sir. Mrs. Hildegard Amory was one of the most fascinating women I've ever known. Her husband, Peter James Appleston Amory, was 32 years old. But everyone who knew the couple thought he was at least 10 years older than his wife. Although, in point of fact, he was only four years her senior. For what we know of him, he was dull, moody, and not a very good husband. Except that in the accepted sense of the word, he was faithful to her. It's a pity that he had no other recorded virtues. On the night of the 3rd of October, 1922, he was murdered. This is all I had from Detective Sergeant Max Fisher of the Ilford Police Station who reported it to me. Kensington Gardens, Elford, sir. Ten minutes before 12 midnight, sir, last night, stabbed to death by a person or a person's unknown, sir. Mr. John Thomason and Ms. Elizabeth Poole of 7B Oxford Crescent, Elford met Mrs. Amory as she was running down the street screaming. A doctor was fetched and pronounced the man dead. Go on, please, Sergeant. Mrs. Amory remarked to police constable Douglas Gregg that she supposed that she would probably be blamed for the husband's death. She'll be at the Ilford Police Station, sir, this morning. I proceeded first to the mortuary and Horse Ferry Road to view the body. He had been stabbed untidily three times in the neck. The man of the mortuary said one slash had severed the carotid artery, causing death. No weapon, Sergeant Fisher, said had been found. I went to Ilford for a talk with Mrs. Amory. She's in there, Sergeant. Well, thank you. Do I go in with you, Chief Inspector? I wish you would, yes, please. Yes, Sergeant Fisher. I have Chief Inspector Apparice of Scotland Yard with me, Jones. May we come in? Mrs. Amory, let them come in. Thank you. We'll be all right, Jones. Yes, Sergeant. Come in, sir. Mrs. Amory, this is Chief Inspector Apparice. I don't know what more I can tell you, Chief Inspector. I am sorry to be under the necessity of asking you any further questions, Mrs. Amory, but you understand. Yes, of course. If we might sit down. Oh, please do. You did not see the assailant, you said? No. Peter had gone... Your husband? Yes. My husband had gone ahead of me a few steps to unlock the door. All I remember was a kind of black shadow rising up beside the steps, hearing Peter cry out. The other man said nothing? Nothing at all. He just turned and ran away down the street. And you? I'm afraid I was so frozen I didn't do anything for a second. Peter was coughing and crying out. I think I screamed and ran away. Uh-huh. You didn't touch your husband? I put my hand up to him and the blood... I was so... I don't know. I think I ran for help. I know I was screaming and those people heard me and called out and I... You thought your husband was dead? I knew he was hurt badly. You didn't tell us before about seeing the man who attacked your husband, Mrs. Amory. Oh, I thought I did. No, you didn't, Mrs. Amory. Sorry. I'm going to ask you a question, Mrs. Amory, which you need not answer. I'm sure I have nothing to conceal from you, Chief Inspector. Of course. Why did you remark that they will blame me for this? Or what's that effect? Did I say that? I think that's a good report, Madam. I don't remember saying that. Why should you say such a thing? Why? If I said it... I was very much agitated. You must understand. Of course. I suppose I must have been thinking that no one else has seen the... The murderer, ma'am. Yes, the... Sergeant Fisher. Yes? I'll be back at once, Chief Inspector. Right. Had your husband any enemies that you know of, Mrs. Amory? I've been trying to think. Can you think of any other motive? Robbery, perhaps. Or would you think that a robber would have run away without attempting to attack? I don't know. Could I... could I ask you to tell me in your own words exactly what happened, as near as you can remember? Peter and I had gone to the criterion. We were in rather a gay mood when we came home. Peter said to me, I'll run ahead and unlock... That is a very dark street. Usually it's quite bright. But last night, the street lamps... something apparently had happened to them. I'm sorry. I saw a couple saw him. Saw who? The murderer. Oh, good. Saw him quite plainly, they said. Did they recognize him? I mean, they're not going to be able to identify him, are they? Catch her, Fisher. She's going to pay... Be'erboom, satsapienti. If I remember my schoolboy, Latin, a word to the wise is sufficient. I'm not at all certain of the degree of wisdom, if any, that I possess, but we had the word right enough. Recognize. Why should they recognize the man? Had Mrs. Amory recognized him? Why should she be so concerned about his being recognized? She returned to her home. Fisher and I quietly began asking questions of the people who knew her. The next-door neighbor answered me. It's a dreadful thing, sir. The poor woman's fair out of her mind. How long have you known the Amory, sir? Six months. Uh-huh. Had she any friends other than her husband, could you say? Well, sir, the passin', I should say. Mrs. Amory keeps the pastry shoppin'. Well, I liked her very much. I'm the dustman, sir. I saw her almost every day on me rounds. What about her husband? I say nothing but good of the dead, sir. Although my private opinion is it served him bloody well right. Why? Well, sir, many the night I've heard him shouting at the lady something terrible, sir. What about? I never listened to details, sir. I have a great admiration for the poor thing. She's very attractive, sir. Do you know anyone else who is of the same opinion? Everybody, sir, except him, who'll rest his nasty soul. Inquiry of the passin' brought more praises of little Mrs. Amory. A most attractive, lively, pleasant young housewife with the exact words. I talk to her employers, a firm of wholesale milleners in all the Skate Street. I've known Mrs. Amory for a great many years, sir. She's been in our ploy since the third year of the war. Well, what are her duties with you? She's a chief bookkeeper and manageress, sir. You know anything about her friends? Everybody in this establishment can lay claim to that title, sir. She is universally beloved. We do not make inquiries into the private life of our people, sir. Of course. But do you know any of her friends, apart from her colleagues in this office? I have seen her lunching once or twice with a young man. I assume to be a young of relative, sir. But I naturally made no inquiries. Well, thank you very much, sir. Great. Welcome, I'm sure, sir. And I should like to ask you one more question, sir. As you will. Why do you think this young man is a relative? I do not believe I am breaking a confidence. Mrs. Amory has several times received letters from him, posted at various points of call of the Peninsula and Orient Steamship Company. I have seen the envelopes. Well, how does that prove that he's a relation of hers? I have seen the name on the letters, sir. Oh, oh. You looked at the letters. Inadvertently, sir. And the name was? Westlake. The same as Mrs. Amory's maiden name, sir. I haven't known. Oh, well, thank you very much indeed, sir. Good day. I didn't tell the male milliner that Mrs. Amory's maiden name had been nothing at all like Westlake. As a matter of fact, it was Baldurston. I saw the Mrs. O'Malley the dustman had spoken of from within two hours after I learned the results of Chief Inspector Aperish's interview with the milliner. Oh, yes, sir. I know Mrs. Amory very well indeed. And her husband? I knew him. Sad affair. I didn't like him, sir. You know a man named Westlake, Mrs. O'Malley? Of course. You do? He was a paying barter for a few weeks at the Amory's. How long ago? About 18 months ago. He left and went to see, Mrs. Amory said. I don't want you to get the idea, sir, of Mrs. Amory's the type who takes in borders indiscriminately. She's a genuine lady, sir. Of course. Amory threw him out after a few weeks. Oh, why? Oh, some tot. The bot is being too thick with poor dear Mrs. Amory. Such tot. What takes the brother of a girl who attended school with Mrs. Amory? But Amory was a swine. You know where this Westlake is now? No one's heard of him from that day till this. Not Mrs. Amory even? The young man was nearly the brother of a former schoolmate. I told you. Why should she know anything about his private affairs indeed? I agree with you, Mrs. O'Malley. Why, indeed. That was the fourth day after Peter O'Mary's death. Sergeant Fisher and I struck what bookkeepers were fond of calling a trial balance. Eight? Peter O'Mary was stabbed to death. With a knife? Practically. Every sailor carries a sheath knife. Westlake was a sailor? He had been thrown out of the O'Mary home. He was also accused by the husband of too great familiarity with the wife. It could be a motive. Mrs. Amory was quite concerned about the possibility of the murderer having been recognized. Perhaps she did recognize him. Would she be shielding him? Why, is the younger brother of a schoolmate of hers? Would she be shielding the murderer of her husband? Is he the murderer? Let's ask him. Let's find him first. I had very little trouble finding William Westlake. A telephone call to the officers of the P&O Steamship Company found him for me. Yes, they said they had a steward of that name. 20 years old, they said. Had been with the P&O for about 18 months. That corresponded with Mrs. O'Malley's recollection of the date of his departure from the Amory's house. What ship? The SS Moray, they said. Where was the Moray, please? It had docked at Tilbury on the 23rd of September after a voyage to the Mediterranean. At least Westlake had been close at hand when Amory had been murdered 10 days later. The Moray was still at Tilbury. I paid the ship a visit there. A young sailor loitering at the gang where he greeted me. Where you going, mate? Is this the Moray? Unless they change her name this morning. What do you want? Looking for a man named Westlake. What do you want him for? I don't want to talk to him. What about? I'm afraid it's none of your business, mate. Ain't it? My name's Westlake. Oh, is it? William Westlake? Right, what's yours? My name's Fisher. Never heard of him. Detective Sergeant Fisher of the CID. What do you want? Detective Sergeant Fisher of the CI Bloody D. Did you ever hear of a man named Peter Amory? I didn't do anything to him. I didn't ask you that, Westlake. I might have known him. Well, then you won't mind answering some questions, will you? About him? Why? He's dead. Who killed him? I don't know. What do I know about it? It's what we want to find out, Westlake. Well, ask me. Well, you'll have to come to Scotland Yard with me. What if I won't? Better. What will you do if I won't come? Take you? Come along. There's nobody looking. I've got to smash you on the head and drop you in the water. See those constables down there on the pier head? Where? I shouldn't try while they're watching us. Oh. Well, I suppose I'll have to come along with you. But you've got nothing on me. Good enough. Get your sheath knife and come on. What? I've got no sheath knife. I haven't had a sheath knife for forever so long, mister. I haven't got a sheath knife. I lost it. I lost it, I said. Well, come along then. I'll try and find your knife for you. I had invited Mrs. Hildegard Amory, the bereaved widow, to come to my office at New Scotland Yard from Ilford to consult about some new evidence that had been discovered, I said. She arrived at 11 o'clock quite composed with no outward signs of nervousness. I said she was one of the most fascinating women I've ever seen. Blue silk frock, a most fetching hat from the establishment of an employer. Hardly suitable for a recent widow, I remember thinking idly. Great purple blue eyes. The most charming smile as she greeted me. You must tell me the news at once, Chief Inspector. What has happened? A few facts that I think you should know, Mrs. Amory. Have they identified the man they saw running away? The people who saw the man. A little too anxious, Mrs. Amory, I thought. I said they had not identified anyone yet. Do you think they can? Identify him, I mean. I'm not at all certain that they can, Mrs. Amory. The street light was out, you know. Oh, I do hope you find him. Did I detect a suggestion? Just a suggestion of triumph in that? We'll see, I said. I haven't a slightest idea who... It was so dark, though. I'm afraid he'll never be identified. I wish you had seen him. We could hold an identification parade. Your telephone, Chief Inspector. Oh, oh, it's ringing, isn't it? Chief Inspector, I'll raise him. I've got him, sir. Oh, oh, good, good, old man. Is she there, sir? Oh, quiet, quiet, quiet. Is your door open, sir? Forget it, old boy. I'll take care of it, sir. Thank you, that will be excellent. I'll bring him. Thanks very much indeed, old boy. Goodbye. Oh, my dear Mrs. Amory, the light from the windows directly in your eyes. I'm so sorry. Please take this other chair. It faces the other way. Oh, it's quite all right, Chief Inspector. Oh, please sit here. It'll be much more comfortable. Well, if you must be so thoughtful, Chief Inspector. Please. Thank you very much. You see, you're much more comfortable. The light's much better this way. I think there's someone at your daughter. Oh, really? Who is that? Who is it? The man you wanted to see, sir. Here we go, William. What? I found you. So you're the one that wanted to see me in the whole yard? No. No. Wait a minute. You're mad. No, no, no. Take him away, Victor. No, no, please. I'll kill her too. What can I do? Why didn't you do it? Why didn't you do it? I didn't want you to do it. You make me happy. You make me happy. You make me happy. Really think you owe us an explanation, Mrs. Amory? This is what she said. I did not know William with Blake at all. When his sister asked me if he might come and stay with us, I remember him only as a small boy from Norwood. And I met him on a holiday with his sister. As a small boy, he was remarkably charming. When he came to live with us, he was still charming. One day while my husband was away on a short business trip, William told me he was falling in love with me. This is what he said. Of course I was in love with her. In a kid's kind of a way. Old Amory caught us one afternoon kissing in the parlour. He kicked me out. It was an awful row. I said I'd get even. Well, he's dead now, and I'm still alive. She said... I had nothing to do with it. It was his own idea to murder Peter Amory. And he said... Ask her about those letters, Detective Sergeant. I'm a detective. My job is to catch criminals, not to make pronouncements about the state of their minds. Neither is it my job to pass judgement upon anyone. Ask her about the letters, Westlake said to Sergeant Fisher. We did ask her. The letters? I thought he destroyed them. Westlake laughed when we told him much had said. Them letters all hang, Mr. Detective. Westlake had been charged with murder and duly warned. The judge's rules in England are almost unbelievably strict regarding what may be said to a prisoner once he had been officially charged. But the boastful ones often say more than they intend to. Neither Fisher nor I made any comment. You can't ever prove that I killed Old Amory, gents. You know, nobody saw him get killed. Why, even them people that said they saw me couldn't possibly identify me. Could they? I'm sure I don't know, Westlake. Oh, I know they can't. Nobody can. And even if somebody could identify me, which they can't, they'll never hang me. You've been warned, Westlake. So I have, haven't I? Anything I might say might be used in evidence. But she thought I burned them letters or tore them up or something. I didn't, gents. Now, what will you do for me if I show you where them letters are? Nothing. We can promise you nothing, Westlake. Don't you want to hang somebody? Come on, Fisher. Don't you want them? Don't you want them? A little hanger, I tell you. Little hanger. Don't you want me to give you those letters? Come back. Come back, you. She put me up to it. I should prove she put me up to it, I tell you. She might be doing it. She taught me into it. She's the guilty one. I just stabbed the man. The filthy, filthy brute. She thought he was in love with her. She knows better now. Come along. Where are we going? To find those letters. We found them in his locker on the morayer. Wrapped in an old newspaper under a pile of dirty clothes. 56 of them. And under them a bloodstained sheath knife. The one that you saw in the black museum. The letters were incredible. She admitted in court of the trial that she had written them. Would you like to hear what she had written? Here are typical excerpts from the record of the trial. You said it was enough for an elephant. Perhaps it was, but you don't allow for the taste, making only a small quantity to be taken. Now, your letter tells me about the bitter taste again. Oh, darling, I do feel so down and unhappy. Wouldn't the stuff make small pills coated together with soap and dipped in licorice powder like beechens? I'll try again while you're away. And another. I tried the broken glass three times, but the third time he found a piece of it. So I've given it up till you come home. Stop! In court of the trial, she was asked why she had written such dangerous letters to Westlake at various points of call. I can still hear her reply. Nobody knows what kind of letters he was writing me. I destroyed them all. He did not destroy mine. And she was asked, do you incite this man to murder your husband? Her voice was very low when she replied. It was the first man that ever loved me. I was afraid he might meet another woman on one of his voyages. He would love better than me. I could not lose him. I am no moralist. I'm a detective. But it is curious to know that among the effects left in their home at Ilford was a trashy novel by an English author published some 10 years before the tragedy occurred. Before Westlake had ever come to live there, while he was still a small boy and she a schoolgirl. Some of the passages in her letters are almost exact duplicates of passages in that book. I don't know. Hildegard Amory and William Westlake were found guilty of willful murder at Old Bailey in June 1923. I don't believe she even heard the verdict. Her mind was failing even then. Westlake went to the gallows bravely. She was carried to the execution shed completely unconscious by warders, and the trap was sprung without her ever regaining consciousness. The hangman is a sinister figure, but even he was sickened. It was the first time in English history that a hangman resigned his job. I don't know. You have heard another in the series Whitehall 1212, compiled from the official files of Scotland Yard. Research is prepared by Percy Hoskins of the London Daily Express. The stories were radio written and directed by Willis Cooper. Three times mean good times on NBC.