 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 cases. These are the true stories. The plain, unvarnished fact, just as they occurred, re-enacted for you by an all British cast. Only the names of the participants have for obvious reasons been changed. The stories are presented for the full cooperation of Scotland Yard. Research on Whitehall 1212 is furnished through Percy Hoskins at the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Listen now to Chief Superintendent John Davidson, curator of Scotland Yard's famous Black Museum, for a briefing on Case Number 270809. Good afternoon. I hope you don't think that we are mere souvenir collectors here in the Black Museum. We do collect the stories, but we don't know what they are. We do collect articles that have figured in many of the crimes we have solved, but we have better reasons for doing so than the morbid satisfaction of gloating over them. They form a kind of criminal compendium not of how to do murder, but how murder has been done. And the items we have on our shelves here fall into several categories. The illustrations of motives, demonstrations of methods and means, and examples of the mistakes that cause the murderers arrest and punishment. Of course, we have these souvenirs from other types of cases, but the reputation of the Black Museum rests largely upon the pre-election of the human race for violence and unlawful death. If you're contemplating this oldest of crimes, bear in mind the fact that here at Scotland Yard, we have thousands of reminders of the hopelessness of it, and change your mind before the hangman says to you, stand here please, as he did to the man who owned this dark grey shirt. Yes, that's blood on it. Some of it is his. Chief Inspector Eric Lincoln solved that case. Number 270809 I'd ask him to take over. John, you're always quoting a verse from the Bible about the wicked fleeing when no man pursues. Proverbs 28th chapter, first verse. And what happens when the wicked stands still and all men pursue it? You can't pursue a man that's standing still, Eric. But when he joins the pursuit, he stumbles over the last man in the race, John. Francesca Nicholson had been missing nearly a week when Peter Syngin of a well-known London evening newspaper laid the packet of photographs on my desk. She's all particularly pretty, isn't she? She was not particularly pretty. Too tall. Five foot nine and a half. Where's eyeglasses? You tell me her eyes are blue and quite pretty, like a gazelle's have brown eyes. Quite prominent teeth. Like horses, aren't they? Well... You think she'd not be too hard to find? I should say so. Well, they haven't found her. What's her name, Nicholson? Nicholson, yes. Francesca Nicholson. Live with her mother in Kensel Rise. Had her hair done one day, put on a new dress, and off, not to return. I can read, Peter. Oh, sorry. How old is she? Twenty-six. It says there. Quite right. Been rowing with her mother? Me? The girl fool. Mother assured me that they were on the best of terms. Maybe mother was telling a whopper. Maybe mother beat her. Don't think so, sir. Neighbours are on Kensel Rise. They're pretty palsy. Boyfriends? One, the coat that discussed Giselle's eyes. What's he like? I think he bathes often enough. Two front teeth missing. No eyebrows. Dirty blonde hair. No great toe on his left foot. How do you know about his toes? He told me about them in detail. Where's he lived? Croborus, Sussex. Rises chickens down there. Lives in a sort of hut. The chickens? The chickens live in a much nicer place than he does. What's his opinion? He's sure the Mormons have got him. Mormons? That's what the silly blighter said. Mormons don't kidnap people. He suggested that, so he changed his mind. Since you might have had a nerve storm and wandered onto the Moors and perished. What Moors? Just Moors in the middle of her nerve storm. Nerve storm is the man crazy. Well, as our American cousin, I think he has a button or two missing. Seriously, though, he's frightfully upset about her disappearance. Trying to be helpful. That's where I got these photographs. How did he find out she was missing? You tell him? No, that's where she was headed for when she left home. Croborus? Croborus and the chicken farm. Why? We've been engaged for four years. Gaged to be married? Quiet. I don't know about her except what I hear. But he is genuinely in love with her. Tears as big as small hen's eggs appear every time he mentions her. Blinah? Well, what was... I mean, did she go to visit him often? Well, every few months, apparently. He was to stay with a family named Powers. The chicken farm's a mile or two outside the town. These Powers people, they know anything about all this? They're quite mystified. They were expecting her, but she didn't show up. This boyfriend... What's his name? Ben Tufty. He came into the powers to greet her, and there she wasn't. Then he reported her missing? Not for three days. Hard to telegraph from Croborus, or hadn't the money or something. But he wrote a postcard to her mother. Quite worried. You see the postcard? There it is, right there, beside the telegraph. Oh, yeah. My own darling Francesco, where did you get to Saturday? I suppose you were detained unexpectedly, for some reason or other. What's that word? Devotedly, I think. Devotedly Norman. Doesn't seem very devoted. British understatement, old boy. Hmm. And when did he call the police? The same day? He didn't call the police himself. Oh, he didn't. It was the Powers. Mrs. Powers, who seems to be very nice, talked to a constable of the Sussex Police she knows, and he came round to the chicken farm. Didn't even do that much? Oh, he told me he was going to walk into the police station and tell them himself as soon as he'd finished feeding the chickens. I suppose he really wouldn't, Peter. Constable told me that our boy, chicken fancier, was quite annoyed when he called. He spoke quite sharply about people who stuck their long noses in his business. Aha, said the chief inspector. Well, my mustache too, when I heard that. Go on. Well, Mrs. Powers told me that Mr. Tuftier came roaring in from the chicken farm, full of reproaches for him, because she told the constable that Miss Francesco was missing. This thing's beginning to smell quite fruity, isn't it? He called Mrs. Powers certain unpleasant names. He owl-lady said like a hape. Mr. Powers heard the altercation and came up threatening to dot him one, and Norman left in a towering but ineffectual rage. He's a little bit of a chap. The fruity odor increases. He'll presently suffuse the entire room. I call him Mr. Norman Tuftier again to ask him a few civil questions. Mr. Tuftier was out. I must have inadvertently snooped a bit in his absence. I'll be hands-over. In the course of my inadvertent snooping, I found this in the cupboard. I see it. Hmm. Envelope addressed to Norman Tuftier's squire, the chicken ranch. Ha! Neocrobres, Sussex. Have a look at the return address in Chiefensburgton. Mrs. Norman Tuftier. Might be his mother or boy. He's an orphan. Smell anything now. After receiving permission from the Sussex chief constable, I went to Crowborough and Peter sinned him with me. I found a small room at the local hotel, the Pied Merlin, whilst Peter took the other one. After breakfast the next morning, the worst I ever ate in my life, he tramped out to the chicken farm. Mr. Norman Tuftier kicked at a hungry hen who was investigating the contents of a peak green biscuit near the door of the hut and walked towards us. Peter sinned and hadn't exaggerated when he spoke of Tuftier's disregard for baths. He reminded me of a crafty pig. He smiled an unpleasant, gat-toothed smile at Peter. Oh-ho! Mr. Tuftier. It's the journalist, fella. You remember me? Snooper. Ask him questions. I don't want to know no more of your ilk, Mr. What do you want now? I was interested in what you might have heard of your fuel sayer, Mr. Tuftier. Think I murdered her? Who was trying to pick up any news? Well, I haven't heard anything, Mr. No news at all? Give you a spot of news for half a crown. Done. What's the news? I killed her. Oh, did you? Killed her dead. Buried her, too. Where, Mr. Tuftier? Oh, see where the old black hand's scratching? There by the old tree stump. Ah, that's the place. Don't go all in, Betty. They're deep. Well... Tell me how you killed her, Mr. Tuftier. Get her over the edge with the axe. She didn't off-bleed. Is that her blood on your shirt, Mr. Tuftier? Who's this fella? This, Mr. Tuftier, is Chief Inspector Lincoln of Scotland Yard. Well, blimey. That's given out as good as you get. That's rich, fellas. Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard. That is funny, isn't it? You're a funny plant, a singin'. Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard. That's good. Say, who are you? Another one of those journalist chaps or what? As a matter of fact, sir, I am Chief Inspector Lincoln of Scotland Yard. Bit of all right, man. Even talks like a Scotland Yard bloke right out of the cinema. And here's my card. You're not going to arrest me, are you, sir? I... This snorkel thing, sir, me makin' a fool of myself this way. I thought you was jokin' to her. It wasn't a very good joke, Mr. Tuftier. Well, I hardly know what to say, sir. I know it was a terrible thing to say, and my poor darling Francesca missing like this. I'm surprised you can make jokes at all. I'm not ashamed of myself, Mr. Singin', and you too, Chief Inspector Lincoln, sir, makin' such jokes about my poor darling Francesca. And nobody knows if she's... if she's layin' dead in the fields or held prisoner by a band of white slavers. Oh, come, come, Tuftier. Scotland Yard, find her, Tuftier. I don't think so. Of course we will. Oh, do find my darling Chief Inspector. Go out and search the airways and the barways and bring her safe back to me, sir. Maybe she's run down by some hit-and-run driver and lost her memory. Calm yourself, Mr. Tuftier. Oh, put a sock in it. Oh, you're done, you nasty sod you. Look here. If you hold your own filthy tongue, I'll stuff it on your throat. Stop him. Stop him, Chief Inspector. He'll murder me. He'll kill me. Start, start, Peter. Sorry. Stop him, Chief Inspector. Shut up. Get back to your chicken, Tuftier. What, sir? I'll talk to you later. Without, Mr. Stingent. Come on, Peter. What, what, Chief Inspector? We'll find your Francesco all right, Tuftier. Speaking of smells, my dear Chief Inspector, what a towering stink Mrs. Norman Tuftier will raise if and when you do. You suppose that bar is open at the Pied Merlin? I hope we both need a glass of beer. Oh, preferably it, too. The bar was open and the beer, by contrast with the breakfast, was reasonably satisfactory. Peter swill down his first glass and set it down. And what do you make of that, my dear Watson and Crad Holmes? The man's cracker. That is a hatter. More beer, please, Miss. Doesn't like you, does he? Well, score one all. I don't like him. You, uh, porter-fellows ask too many questions. I think that was why he told us that fairy story. No. What do you think? About the same as you think. Oh, I think of it. I'm of two minds. Are you? One, he's either insane. Probably. Or two, he's resulting to an old device which has been used successfully by better men than Norman Tuftier's guy. Which is? Telling a half-truth in the hope that nobody will believe him. You think he killed the girl? You know what's got the nerve in? I work for a living. There's a compulsion murderer sometimes feel to talk about the murderer in a kind of elliptical fashion. Seem to enjoy seeing how far they can go without getting themselves caught. Remember that chap at Wembley who killed his mother? Remember? He was talking about things lying on the floor. Just like a dead woman, he kept saying to people. We hanged him. He reported the execution. Ah, good morning, constable. Morning, Miss St. John. Oh, yeah, there's a Scotland yard gentlemen here in the village, sir. Would you be him? This is Chief Inspector Lincoln, yes. Constable Ernest Busby in Chief Inspector. Morning, sir. Morning, constable. Have a pot of pigs in there, constable. I'm on duty, sir. I was wondering, Chief Inspector, if you'd seen Mr. Norman Tufty yet. Yes, we saw him earlier this morning. I wonder why I didn't say anything to me about seeing you, sir. Oh, do you see him this morning, too? I did that, sir. And trust he received you, Curtis? I was out that way, Chief Inspector. A matter of a dog had no license and stopped by to inquire whether Mr. Tufty had any new information about his missing, Miss Francesca. Miss feeding the chicken? No, sir, he was digging an hole. Digging a hole, eh? Well, more properly, sir, filling up an hole. One of his ends had died of the pip, sir, and he was burying. So do you think he's Stottie? Excuse me, insane, sir. Surely one bit his chickens when they died. He patted down the ground with a spade, sir, and he looked up at me and he grinned at me kind of crazy like, sir. And what did he say, constable? I made a net of his exact words, sir. Just like I buried poor darling Francesca after I cut her up in pieces on the chopping block there. Pointing to the chopping block where he chops up the chicken's head, sir. And then what, constable? Well, sir, I admit I was audified. I think you would be. Sir, if you please, I'm talking to the Chief Inspector. Forgive me. What did the man do, constable? Sir, he bursted out laughing like a ruddy jackass. Did you think he was Stottie, sir? It's a compulsion, constable. Is that actionable, sir? Unfortunately, no, constable. Couldn't be. If he keeps it out, couldn't a Chief Inspector. We'll see. Oh, I almost forgot, sir. Forgot what? Violet! I'm calling the young lady, sir. What young lady, constable? Violet. Come in, please, Violet. Who's this? Come on in, Violet. Now, these gentlemen won't hurt you. Gentlemen, this is Miss Violet Ditkert. He was employed as a kennelmaid by Colonel James Seymour, who raises Bedlington Terriers on the place next to Mr. Teftes. Morning to you, gentlemen. Morning. Violet is a bit of information. I thought you might like to hear firsthand, Chief Inspector. Well, Miss Ditkert? Speak up, Violet. Do. I've seen her, sir. Who, Miss Ditkert? Speak up, Violet. Well, they're Miss Francesca, sir. Miss Francesca Nicholson? When did you see her, Miss Ditkert? Yesterday, sir. Tell the Chief Inspector how it was, Violet. Well, sir, I was walking up the line to the kennels, and Miss Francesca comes early in the long road, and I'll talk to Mr. Tuffy's form. And I see her, and she's seen me. And she said, Hello, Violet. And I said, Hello, Miss Francesca. And she said, Have you seen Mr. Tuffy? And I said, No. And she said, Oh, there he is. Hello, darling. And I started to hurry faster. And I said, Goodbye, Miss Francesca. And when I'd come to the end of the line, she was walking along with him. What time is that Saturday, Miss Ditkert? About half after two Saturday, sir. That's all she knows, sir, she told me. Huge caramel and a little suitcase, sir. And a tashikis? Oh, one of those little suitcases, sir, like a doll-baby suitcase. Can I go now, Constable, please? Yeah, unless you wish to ask any more questions, Chief Inspector. No, you may go, Mr. Ditkert. The doggies will be crying for their lunch, sir. Oh, by all means, let's not keep them from their lunch, Mr. Ditkert. No, sir. They get pigs' liver and skimmed milk. Thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir. Is she telling the truth, you think, Constable? Violet did get down now out of tell-a-lie, sir. She says she saw Miss Nicholson. She's seen it. What are you thinking so hard about, Peter? I'm wondering whose blood that is on Tufte's shirt. Sir, there's a gentleman out here to see the other gentleman, sir. Who, me? No, sir, the other gentleman, he said. Me? Yes, you, sir. The gentleman in the checkered jacket, he said, sir. Who is he, Violet? It's Mr. Tufte, sir. Oh. Go ahead. See what he wants now, Peter. He's coming, sir. Does Tufte know that Violet saw...? No, sir. I met her after I talked to him. She won't say anything, will she? To him, I mean. No, sir. I don't think so. She's rather shy, being with dogs all the time. Besides, if she does, she knows I'll warm her bottom with a bird twig. Eh? She's my niece, sir. What do you think, Councilor? About all this? Yes. Well, the nasty little beggar digs a very neat hole in the ground, sir. I shouldn't wonder if he's had practice. Here's Mr. Er... What's his name, sir? St. John. He's a reporter. Oh. Well... What's he want? Miss, another bill, please. Yes, sir. Another pint, sir. Quite simple and quite to be expected, Chief Inspector. Oh, what? He wanted to know... Oh, thank you, Miss. Here, sir. Be it, sir. In fact, he often gives my half-crown back if I tell him that what that Scotland yard man was up to... Oh? What he was going to do. What did you tell him? I told him that you were coming out this afternoon with a gang of navvies and dig up his whole bloody farm, Chief Inspector. I did not at once follow out the suggestion of Peter St. John, although I'd already made up my mind to find out whether Norman Tufty had been burying dead chickens or a dead woman. I wanted another talk with a man. I sent Constable Busby to bring him to the local police station where I could talk in an atmosphere more calculated to impress a man of Norman Tufty's type. He had that down opposite me smelling of chickens. Don't you ever change your clothes, Tufty? I ask curiously. Haven't any clothes to change, Chief Inspector? I'd like to check a little more on what you've told us, if you don't mind. I don't mind. All right. When did you last see Miss Francesca Nicholson? Five months ago. Where? At my farm. You were engaged to be married. Right. You intended to marry her? Of course. She believed that, didn't she? She did. What did you do when she didn't show up on the Saturday when she was supposed to arrive? Well, I stayed around my farm and worked, then came into town and waited for her. I have found a witness who saw Miss Nicholson on that day. I found a witness who saw Miss Nicholson on that day. I don't believe it. And who saw her with you? I don't believe that either. You're trying to... Trying to what, Mr. Tufty? Yes? Excuse me, sir. Yes, yes, Constable Busby. I've got it, sir. Thank you. You can get started then. Right, sir. Hey, Busby, did you tell Chief Inspector you'd seen her that day? What, me? It wasn't Constable Busby who saw you, Tufty. Go on, Constable. I want to know what happened. Yes, sir. I know your police tricks. I interrupted you, Tufty. What was it you were accusing me of when Constable Busby? You said I was trying something. Now, what am I trying to do to you? You're trying to make me talk. In my poor, benighted fashion, that is exactly what I'm trying to do, Tufty. It's quite legal, I assure you. I won't talk. I didn't do nothing. You've told two separate people that you murdered Miss Nicholson and buried her body. I was having a joke with you. Oh, wasn't that a joke and rather poor taste of it? I see you're still wearing that bloodstain shirt. It's my blood. I cut myself, killing chickens. You seem to have bled a lot. Some of it, it's chicken blood. Well, I'm sure you wouldn't object to allowing our laboratories to examine a shirt, would you? Would you? You're trying to frame me up. You've been reading crime novels. American crime novels. I'd like to tell you something, Tufty. Constable Busby came in here to tell me that he has obtained a search warrant. What for? You dig up your farm. Well, they won't find anything. I wonder. They won't. They'll be there in a few minutes. But I tell you, they won't find anything. Well, they'll try. If they have to dig up every inch of your farm, beginning at that place where you said you were burying the chicken this morning and progressing on to where you told Mr. Singin and me, the body was very Tufty. Listen. I don't hear any. What do you think they'll find? The body of Francesca Nicholson. Well, I didn't kill her. Who did? I love Francesca. Do you also love your wife? How do you know about her? You shouldn't let letters lie about. Yes. I love my wife. And is that what? Who is it? I even I, I don't think she's the king. What do you want, Peter? I want to show Mr. Tufty something. What? Something I found in a hole, Chief Inspector. Look, Mr. Tufty. What is that? After I get the dirt brushed off, you'll see that it's a Natasha case. Where did you get it? Where did you get it? It was in a shallow grave, Mr. Tufty. Where you said you were burying a chicken this morning. Oh, it's all quite legal, Chief Inspector. I was there with my spade poised when they brought the search warrant. And I came back here on a motor bicycle, which I rented. Very fast, Mr. Tufty. That was all I had. Uh-huh. You heard me coming. Just take a look at the name on this Natasha case. Francesca. Listen to me. Listen to me, Mr. Tufty. I arrest you on suspicion of murder. It'll take much more than suspicion, Mr. Chief Inspector, to hang me. Oh, don't worry about that, old boy. Constable Busby was digging up her left leg, and I had to hurry away. On suspicion of murder of Francesca Nicholson, I warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. Don't be glad to take it down, Tufty. I use a typewriter quite well. Speak up, old boy. When the Natasha case that had belonged to Francesca Nicholson was unlocked and opened, it contained one article, an unfinished dress for a baby. That was why Norman Tufty murdered her. He already had a wife, and he said of the trial that she had hanged herself at the farm when he told her he couldn't marry her. And the baby would have to be born without a name. It was easy to disprove that. The corpse's neck was not broken. But Norman Tufty's was, most thoroughly, at once with prison five weeks later, on a cold and foggy morning. Appearing today on Whitehall 1212, were Harvey Hayes, Horace Brayham, Lester Fletcher, Morris Dallymour, Gordon Stern, and Patricia Cortley. Whitehall 1212 is written and directed by Willis Cooper. If your home is dry, there's no silt on the living room floor. You can be truly grateful. But you have neighbors who are much less fortunate. The victims of devastating floods appeal to you for help. Their immediate need is for food, water, for clothing, and medicine. There's another need which remains long after the flood waters recede. There's the business of rebuilding, repairing, refurnishing. These jobs will take money, a lot of money, and that's why your neighbors appeal to you. Through your contribution to the Red Cross, you'll be able to do the job that has to be done. Look around your living room. Has it been spared the flood's effects? While you're still grateful, give to your less fortunate neighbors whose living rooms are covered with silt. The Red Cross. This is NBC, The National Broadcasting Company.