 Whitehall 1212! For the first time in history, Scotland Yard opens its official files to bring you the authentic true stories of some of its most baffling crimes. These are the true stories, the unvarnished facts, just as they occurred, 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 of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. This is the story of Scotland Yard file number 202124. Here is Chief Superintendent John Davidson to brief you. These two rooms constitute the famous Black Museum of Scotland Yard, in which are preserved many of the objects which were of importance in solving of crimes which have confronted us. The exhibits in here range from lethal weapons to the most innocent of hearing items. They're all classified and filed most carefully so that they'll be available for study. We find them quite useful. A blood stain that lets Scotland Yard men to the discovery of a murderer in 1930 may be of great assistance in solving a similar crime in 1952. Here, I'll show you a plain mirror. Tag 202124. A plain, guilt-trained mirror. Its frame badly tarnished. Just such a mirror as you might find hanging in a hundred cheap flats in London's west end. But with one small difference. This smud fingerprint here in the lower left-hand corner. Just there above the frame. This mirror had looked on murder. This is the murderer's fingerprint. Oh, now here is Superintendent Charles Braden of Scotland Yard. He's the man who solved this case 202124. I had the assistance, though, John, of Marjorie Ashley, remember? Why wasn't Marjorie Ashley the woman who was murdered? Yes, that fingerprint's in her blood. On a morning in February 1942, a scant two months after your Pearl Harbor, I had a telephone call from Inspector Francis Xavier Costello at West End Central Police Station. What is it, Frank, I asked? The green scarf. The name is Rachel Soskins. Where'd they find her? Windham Place Mariband. Well, what are you calling me for? Can't you handle a routine murder, Inspector? I'm sure that's regrettable, Costello, but after all, is it so unusual? The report from the mortuary by Keith Yarrow, the Home Office pathologist, confirmed the report. The woman had been brutally beaten after she had died from strangulation. At first glance, it appeared that the murderer, in an attempt at robbery, had inadvertently committed murder, but with the discovery of the beating, Jack the Ripper. Jack the Ripper flourished in the years 1888 and 1889, 53 years before. He would have been at least 75 years old. The Criminal Records Office was consulted. The names of every possible suspect were dredged up and thoroughly investigated, but to no avail, whatever. Investigation of the murdered woman, Mrs. Rachel Soskind, disclosed the fact that she had been a quiet, highly respectable person, whose husband was absent in the African campaign. There was not a single clue of any sort. On the third day, I had another telephone call from the West End Central Police Station, Specter Costello again. There's another, sir. Another what, Inspector? Another murdered woman, sir. The same type of woman? A dancer. Found her this morning. Had she been robbed? Anything new on the other case? No, sir. Well, what are you doing with his name? Could have been Jack the Ripper's calling card right enough. I visited the room myself with Inspector Costello. They've got the knife in the laboratory at the yard, sir. No fingerprints on it, I expect. Not on it, sir, I'm afraid. But they're looking. But here's his calling card, sir. Like a slaughterhouse, sir. But here? On the mirror. Yeah, he touched it, sir. The fingerprint man from the yard is sure it's not hers. Smudged a little. He says they can classify it, all right, sir? He's photographed it. They're working on it now. Well, you, uh, you say she was robbed. Took all the money, emptied her purse. Wanted to make it look like robbery. Must think we're fools. If you could have seen her, sir. Thanks. Well, here's left his prints. We'll find them. I don't think we'll find his prints in the files, sir. Why not? It didn't have fingerprints in Jack the Ripper's day, did they? Costello was right. They charted the fingerprint found on the mirror, the one you saw a moment ago, but it could not be found under any classification in our files. Forty-eight hours later, the police found the body of Margaret Newton in her flat in Gosfield Street near Tottenham Court Road. It's the same one, sir. Her purse emptied, the police turned upside down, and she, uh, slaughtered her house again, sir. Worse than the last one. Fingerprints? Yes, sir. A bottle of bath salts has been smashed. They were one of the pieces. Two sets of prints, hers and his. Who was she? No particular occupations. Ah. Singed around in various West Indian nightclubs a great deal. Mm-hmm. Nice to have met him in one of them. Who's him? Jack the Ripper, old boy. In the criminal records office at Scotland Yard, men worked long hours, sifting files for the names of known or suspected sex offenders. Men with criminal records which included crimes of violence. Each was painstakingly investigated. Fingerprints of all were checked with those we had found at the scenes of the last two murders. The results? Nothing. The West End of London was terrified. Women stayed in their homes after dark, behind locked doors. Hundreds of suspects were questioned. The results? Nothing. Nightlife in the West End all but ceased to exist. Two days later, Mrs. Doris Brooks, the wife of a hotel manager, was murdered in her flat not more than a mile away from the scene of the last crime. I'm ready for the loony bin, sir. We all are, Costella. No clues this time at all? None at all, sir. Treated her the same way as he did the others, but he didn't leave any clues. Any fingerprints? A fat lot of good the other fingerprints have done us anyway. Yes, sir. Well, cheer up. We'll get him eventually. He's crazy, obviously. He'll slip. Well, how many more poor women are left to be murdered before we do, sir? Well, have you any ideas, then? No more than you have, sir. What puzzles me is why he still keeps up the pretense that the motive's robbery. The man's got a diseased mind. Well, obviously. I mean, I think he's... he thinks he's fooling us, sir. He is? They've got more than 20 pounds from all his victims. Doesn't money he wants? He's a maniac. He takes their money, then? That's how he thinks he's fooling us, Costella. He's done this before. Every assault case in the last 10 years has been examined. He's not any of them. Somebody knows him. We've checked the acquaintances of all four women, sir. If we could find one person that more than one of them knew... Well... There's no such person, sir. Three days went by. Four. Five. A week. There are no more reports of violence either attempted or consummated on the persons of any more London women. Our people were still hard at work. The scene of each of the four crimes had been gone over again and again for clues. But none. None at all. Our voluminous files of crime yielded nothing. Women began to appear again on the streets of London, but were still almost as much as a man's life was worth for him to speak to an unescorted woman. The newspapers were still full of warnings. Women screamed for a policeman when a strange man lifted his hat to them. But some women are foolhardy. Such a one was Miss Paula Ingram. I heard about her from the station's superintendent of sea division in Savile Row, Arthur Austin. I hurried to Savile Row to see Miss Ingram. A slight rather pretty little woman with astonishing blonde hair. Of course, I don't know, sir. I know there's lots of soldiers walking the street, sir, looking to pick up a bit of fluff, especially if they're good looking, you know. Go on, please, Miss Ingram. Well, it was last night as I was coming out of a place in German Street. When this bloke stopped me, hello, sweetness and light, he says. And I didn't realize he was speaking to me. Oh. You didn't see his face, of course. No, sir. I didn't see his face. But I could tell he was in an RAF uniform. How? With a little cap, you know. I could see that. I could see the white on the cap. Well, going somewhere, he asks me, and I stopped off a moment to speak to him. I always tried to be nice to the forces, and he sounded so nice and so polite. Go on, please. So I stopped and we started to talk. He kept getting closer to me, but I didn't give it much attention. Why? I thought perhaps he was going to try to kiss me. They often do, you know, especially the RAF lads. And all of a sudden, I felt his hands on my neck. What did you do? It came to me in a flash. This is Jack the Ripper, I thought. And I tried to push him away, but he just got his hand around my throat, and I just screamed, Help! He let go of my neck and said, Now, don't. And I screamed again, and he turned and ran. Uh-huh. And then I thought to myself, you're making him bloody fool of yourself, and I called after him, but he was still running. And I thought, well, now maybe I haven't. And I came over here to the police station and reported it. Did I make a bloody fool of myself, sir? You didn't see his face? No, sir. But he was most pleasant-spoken, though he was rather forward. Oh, dear. Now I wonder if I did the right thing. You're still alive, aren't you? Yes. What's the matter? So is he. We kept the news of Paula Ingram and her experience out of the papers. Might be trivial, but then, then again it might not be, I said to Costello. This girl Ingram, sir. What do you think of her? London's full of girls like that, unfortunately. Soldiers call them Piccadilly Commanders. Right. That was the kind of women Jack the Ripper specialized in, wasn't it? Oh, will you stop that Jack the Ripper stuff? Well, that wasn't it. Wasn't it, sir? That's a pretty thin sort of clue, Inspector. What about the other four women that were killed? Aren't they the same kind? Well, well, sir. Could be a clue, couldn't it? All the same class of women. Same way Jack the Ripper. How are we going to find this Jack the Ripper? How do we know whether he's the right one? How do we... Excuse me. Superintendent Barrett in here? Oh, yes, Superintendent Austin. Oh, is that so? Well, that's quite encouraging. He's on the way. Good. We'll wait. I expect... Oh, here he is now, I think. Open the door, will you, Mr. Costello? Yes, sir. Thank you. Yes, I think it is one of your men. Right. Costello's got it. Thank you. This is most awfully good of you, old man. Yes, that's it. Thank you. I'll tell you what luck we have. Goodbye. What is it, a gas mask? Yes, sir. Superintendent Austin at Waller Street. Let's have it. It was found in a doorway on German Street. Shortly after noon, Austin says. Let's see. Uh-huh. L-A-C, Frederick Gordon, R-A-F, number... number 7071... 756. Well, let's see what we shall see, eh, Costello? German Street. Not two doors away from where our Miss Ingram had her encounter with the Amherst Airman. Come in the phone, will you, Costello? Yes, sir. Give me the Air Ministry, please. Here, you take this. Ask them where a leading Air craftsman, Frederick Gordon, is stationed, will you? I'll let you take a look at this thing. Yes, sir. Think that's him, sir? We'll see. Huh, what's this? Hello? Inspector Costello Scotland Yard here. I wonder, can you tell me where to find L-A-C Gordon? Frederick Gordon. Number 7071256. Quite. I'll wait. What have you found, sir? Look. In the gas mask bag. Yes? Regent's Park, special cadet wing there. Thank you. She said he was a cadet, sir. I think you'd better go see him. Yes. What did you find of the case, sir? It does... There's a woman's comb and a lipstick, Mark D.B. Look like part of an R-A-F cadet's kit. While Inspector Costello set out for Regent's Park, where the special R-A-F cadet wing was quartered, preparing for their commissions, I took the things I'd found in the gas mask case down to the property room. May I see the effects of these women, Mrs. Rachel Susskin, Mrs. Marjorie Ashley, Margaret Newton, Mrs. Doris Brooks? Jack the Ripper murder, sir. If you insist on calling them that. Yes, I call them right here. Right here all together, sir. Well, let's see them. Here's the first one, sir. Rachel Susskin. Nothing in it, but her identity card, sir. Well, let's see another. Marjorie Ashley. That all? Just a handbag, sir. Uh-huh. What is it? This comb. Simon has the other things in it. Where did you get it, sir? The R-A-F had it. Matches, doesn't it? Yes, sir. Let's see the others. Margaret Newton. Empty. Next. Doris Brooks. Right. What is it, sir? Was there a lipstick in this? No, sir. Then this one was hers. Must be, sir. Yeah, initials on it. DB Doris Brooks. Yeah, just like the silver pencil. And the comb. And Nile Farm. Sterling. All the same initials, DB. Not bad, not bad. Oh, excuse me, sir. Well, that's all I wanted. Property room. No. Oh, oh, yes, sir. Superintendent Branson. The call is for you, sir. Who is it? Who is it, please? Inspector Costello, sir. Oh, good. Thank you. Barreton here. Hello, Costello. Yes? Well? Where did he go? Does he know? Yes, sir. Back in my office, I just completed a telephone call when my door was flung open. Costello entered with a man in Royal Air Force Blue. Come on in. Ah, you did find him, Costello. No, sir. This is Warren Officer Gibbons. He's from Gordon's Cadet Wing at Regent's Park, sir. Sir, I don't believe you're wrong about Gordon. Why, Mr. Gibbons? One of the most popular cadets in the entire Wing, sir. Well, what does that prove? Oh, I don't believe Gordon's capable of the things... What's he like, Mr. Gibbons? He's a fine chap, sir. I admit he does chuck his weight about a little, but most of the chaps call him the Count because he's so... Well, he's a gentleman, sir. May I ask, Mr. Gibbons, what did you do in civilian life? I was sales representative for the Peerless Barcicle Company of Ealing, sir. Ah, I see. Warren Officer Gibbons has brought Gordon's fingerprints with him, as you've intended. Fingerprints? We require fingerprints to be taken on all men posted to the Wing, sir. A new regulation... Very praiseworthy, I'm sure. May I see them? By all means, sir. Thank you. Costello, will you ask Ernest Whiting to bring up those fingerprints we have so he can compare them? I'll take these down, sir. If Mr. Gibbons doesn't mind. Oh, not at all, sir. Good. All right, then, Inspector. All right. You told Inspector Costello Gordon was going to see a lady friend, sir. Yes, sir. Did he mention her name? No, sir. Why is he so popular there at Regent's Park? Well, sir, he's very pleasant. He has lots of money, and he spends it quite freely. Ah. And the men, they like him a great deal, sir. I dare say. Would you, of course, recognise Gordon? Oh, yes, of course, sir. We may ask you to do so. All right, sir. Is he here? I think he will be eventually. All right, sir. Thank you. Yes, sir. You may need to go with us to identify him. Do you know where he is, sir? I think I know where to find him. Ma, you Scotland Yard people, you're marvellous. Not always, Mr. Gibbons, I'm afraid. Excuse me. Yes, yes. Superintendent Browerton here. I'm calling for Superintendent Austin, sir. Good. Any news? Yes, sir. The what? Oh, yes. Yes, the place on German Street where she... That's it, sir. Well, he came in only a minute ago. He said there was a wrath man from where she lives. Miss Ingram? Paula Ingram, sir. Did he tell him? Unfortunately, yes, sir. How long ago was that? You have men at the place where she lives? Well, I can remedy that. I have a man here who can identify him. Be there as soon as I can. Now where the devil's Costello? Costello! Ernest Whiting says they're the same, sir. Eh? The fingerprint, sir. He says he'll swear that they're the same as the ones that we have. Oh, I still think there's some mistake, sir. There isn't. If Ernest Whiting says they're the same, they're the same. He knows more about fingerprints. Come on, Mr. Gibbons. Where are we going, sir? After Jack the Ripper. Come on, quickly. But I say... Here's your cat, Mr. Gibbons. We need you. Maffick didn't hamper us very much. We were in one of the cars of the flying squad, and nothing seems to bother them. Pedestrians scuttle for the pavement as we skidded around corners and our way to the house off German Street, which Paula Ingram had given us as her address. Now, of course you followed me. I had ordered policemen to that address as soon as I'd heard that Gordon was on his way to see a lady friend. Somehow or other, he'd obtained her name. I was certain that eventually he'd find the address and I proposed to find him. If possible, before he'd attacked Paula Ingram. It was a long way there. Our car drew up at last a few doors away from the house. Have you seen him yet? There have been several RAF men along the street, sir. Come on, Costello. Come on, Mr. Gibbons. Oh, sir. Come on. Up the stairs. Hurry. There's been here. What? Do you think that... Shh! It's her perfume. No, sir. It's the kind he always wears. Where is it? It's Channel's Russia leather. I don't think it knows it anywhere. We're always spoofing him about it. Come on! At that door! Come on! Do you recognise him, Gibbons? Of course I do! He's cadet Friedrich Gordon! You, you copper snark! Frederick Gordon, I charge you with a willful murder of Marjorie Ashley. Take your filthy hands off me. And I warn you that anything you say will be taken down a writing and may be used in evidence. Don't touch me. Are you all right, Miss Ingram? Search him, Costello. Hold your arms up, Gordon. Get away from me. Hold your arms up, please. What's this? I know what that is. It's the carving knife. The cook our sergeant told me had been stolen by somebody. That's the king's property. I shouldn't worry about it, Mr. Gibbons. Cadet Gordon isn't going to use it. Bring him along, Inspector. At his trial, Gordon was asked why he committed these four savage murders. He smiled. He was an extraordinarily attractive young man and he did have a winning smile. He was asked again, why? It's really quite simple. When I was posted to the special wing, I realized that these young men, my fellow cadets, were young men of the best families, used to much better things than I was. I wouldn't be patronized by them. I was good as they. But I needed money. I realized, of course, that an officer of the Royal Air Force, which I was soon to be, wouldn't stoop to stealing from his comrades. Oh, I have stolen before, sir. But not since I became a cadet. I felt I must have money, however. Why? One must keep up one's standards, my dear man. But I decided to acquire money. There were many women with full purses. Women the world would never miss. I hid upon the scheme. I would rid the world of a few quite undesirable people and I'd have their money. Nobody'd ever suspect they were destroyed for their money over Jack the Rippercule. You'd be too sure the murderer was Jack come back to Earth and you'd never notice their money, too, was gone. I think that was rather clever. They'd be looking around for human themes never even glance at the handsome R.A. at cadet. I've been told so many times that I'm quite attractive to women. I did very well, thank you. My only regret is that I didn't kill you, Miss Ingram. She had a good bit of money. You'd still be looking for Jack the Ripper, wouldn't you, Superintendent? Despite the desperate representations by counsel that Frederick Gordon was insane, a jury at Old Bailey found him guilty of the murder of Marjorie Ashley. He was hanged in June 1942. Still smiling in the most charming manner. You have heard another in the series Whitehall 1212, compiled from the official files of Scotland Yard. Research on Whitehall 1212 is prepared by Percy Hoskins of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Three chimes mean good times on NBC.