 Whitehall, 1-2-1-2 quickly. For the first time, Scotland Yard opens its secret files to bring you the authentic true stories of some of its most baffling cases. These accurate records are drawn from the Scotland Yard file by special permission of Commissioner Sir Harold Scott. They're true in every respect, except for the names of the participants which, for obvious reasons, have been changed. The research has been done by Mr. Percy Hoskins, chief crime reporter for the London Daily Express, and the stories for radio are written and directed by Mr. Willis Cooper. Here are the principal participants in case number 201MR340. Sidney Patterson, builder. Mr. Patterson is absent, sir. Detective Inspector Edmund Whitaker of Scotland Yard. It was quite obvious why Mr. Patterson was absent. There are other participants in our case number 201MR340, but not of the same importance as Mr. Patterson. We shall run across them as we go on. We shall run across a great many interesting things as we reenact case 201MR340. And I should like to warn you, if you have the slightest trace of murder in your heart, that a murdered person's teeth are almost impossible to destroy, and that nothing is ever lost, it will certainly be found sometime, somewhere, by someone. Now, will you come with me? This is Scotland Yard's black museum. Yes? It's Inspector Whitaker, sir, with a friend. Oh, do come in, Whitaker. Thank you, sir. Come along. This is Chief Superintendent John Davidson, the curator of the black museum. Well, how do you do? I'm afraid this place is a little like Chamber of Horrors, although our exhibits taken by themselves are not so starting. But they are souvenirs of the law breakers-out, particularly of the unlovely art of murder. Now, this human bone here brought one man to the hangman's expert hands. And these dried blood stains on this cloth are from a once-loving husband's throat. And this revolver-oh, but you wanted to see the exhibits in our case 201MR340, didn't you, Whitaker? Yes, if you please, sir. Well, these are the only ones we had as a man's tooth, and this badly charred top of an ordinary office tool. That's all we have here of Case 201MR340. The rest is elsewhere. Detective Sergeant Alexander McMurphy and I, we were the murder squad next on call, were sitting peacefully chatting in my office at Scotland Yard that evening of the 16th May, waiting for our relief, who were due in less than half an hour. Oh, you're early, Ann. No such luck, Mac. Oh, hello, Boots. What's up, Boots? Investigation, sir. Why couldn't they wait another half hour? Sorry, sir. It just came in. Oh, we don't live right. Camden Town, sir. There's a fire. What? They want someone from the yard. What are we? A bleeding auxiliary fire brigade, do they think? They seem to have come across someone sitting in the middle of it, sir. What? Sitting in it? Grilled to a turn. What? Here's the address, sir. Your car's waiting. Rehasened at once, of course, to the Camden Town location, about 20 miles away. The fire was a small one. It had partially destroyed an old shed, which had been used as an office by a local builder, a Mr. Sidney Patterson. It was only a smoldering ruin when we arrived and identified ourselves to the magnificently moustached section leader in charge. We followed him into the soggy ruins of the shed. Right here, gentlemen. We wetted him down with the fire roses as soon as we saw him, but it was much too late. Hot farm? Oh, ruddy inferno. He had paints and oils stored in here. Not my idea of a way to commit suicide. Suicide? Note on the table there. What was a table? Pin to the top with a drawing pin. See? Yes. Hold up your torch here a sec, will you, section leader? Yeah. Good. Goodbye, all. No work, no money. Sidney, our Patterson. That was the poor sod's name. See the sign? I'll telephone the libato to pick up the, uh, remain, shall I, sir? Best use the two-way wireless on the car, I think. All right, sir. What's he, uh, what's he leaning against? Looks like a stool or something. That's what it is, sir, a office stool. See these buckets all around him? He must have surrounded himself with buckets of paint and whatnot, and flipped a match into one of them. You ever hear of a chap committing suicide by setting himself on fire before? No, I wouldn't want to. Is it hurt or horrible? No, don't touch him. Well, I was only trying to pull him away from the stool here. Part of him ain't burned, see? Where he's stuck to it. Don't, don't. The laboratory chap. Oh, blimey. Setting himself on fire didn't hurt him. What do you mean? He shot himself first. Do you see the bullet hole in his back where it ain't burned? What, it was against the stool? In his back? Well, was the man a contortionist? No, sir, he was a builder, sir. At the Yard's Pathological Laboratories, a relatively small, unburned portion of the body was carefully examined, and it was established that the bullet wound was the probable cause of death. The bullet, which was recovered, proved to be a .38 caliber of vulva bullet, which had been fired into the body from the back, entering just below the left shoulder blade, and ranging downward, presumably through the heart. Experiments by all of us demonstrated to our satisfaction that such a wound could not possibly be self-inflicted. The improbable suicide was definitely murder. I sent two detective constables to search the ruins of the shed. It had been wrote off at our request by the Camden Town Fire Brigade. You'll be looking primarily for a revolver, I told them, but fetch back anything you find that appears useful to us. Whilst they were shifting the ashes, Sergeant McMurphy sifted the affairs of Mr. Sidney Patterson. He reported to me what he had found. From the little I've been able to gather, Patterson wasn't much of a success as a builder, sir. He seems to have been a genius for getting into difficulty. What sort of difficulty? Money. Hmm, how strikingly unusual. Huh? Oh, he had one time been a ship's carton turned on one of the P&O liners, but was discharged when he was unable to account for tools to the value of eight pounds, eleven shillings. It was strongly suspected that he sold them, but the charges couldn't be proved. He served in the Royal Marine Light Infantry as a land's corporal. His record is, shall I say, dubious. How dubious? He was accused of a number of times by his shipmates of cheating, specifically at the game of crown and anchor. He was extremely unpopular in the Royal Marines, it seems, and was finally discharged. I shall have a more detailed report from his former commanding officer tomorrow. Hadn't he any friends at all? I've been able to discover only one with whom he could be said to be reasonably friendly, a man named Duncan Fraser, a rent collector in the city with whom he frequently played billions. I hope he didn't make the mistake of trying to cheat a Scotsman. I'm not so sure, sir. Duncan Fraser has been missing since the night of the fire. The hue and cry was immediately set up throughout all Britain for the missing Duncan Fraser. It's extremely difficult for a British subject to leave our tight little island without record, but the search was to no avail whatever. It apparently dropped off the earth. The constables, applied to the ash sifting at the scene of the fire, found only one thing of note. The twisted remains of an ornate red and black fountain pen which was identified by his wife, a Sydney Patterson's property. Careful examination showed that with the pen with which the farewell note had been written, and comparisons with other known samples of Patterson's handwriting demonstrated that it had been actually written by Patterson himself. Sergeant McMurphy and I were extremely glum as we discussed our progress in my office late one night. Progress, indeed. We've been progressing backwards, sir. Yeah, if we could find the revolver, it'd be quite simple to trace its owner. If the owner is Duncan Fraser, we'll still have to trace him. No luck yet. None at all, at all. You know, sir, one thing puzzles me. A great many things puzzle me, Mac. If this missing rent collector did murder Patterson, why did he first deposit half the money he'd collected in the bank, I mean? If he was going to kill someone and scram, why didn't he keep it all? He'd need it. How did he get Patterson to write his own suicide note? Had a gun on him, maybe. Well, the handwriting wallows insist there's no indication of stress or strain or emotional upset or whatever. In the handwriting. It's normal, they say. I wonder. What? Ah, I'm thinking. I have a filthy little hunch, Mac. What? What if Fraser's dead? Maybe he is. We can't find him. The teeth of that deader went destroyed. Patterson's? I'm wondering if it was Patterson's or Duncan Mac. Patterson was a, was our own crook. Could he have been playing games with us? Show me that telephone, oh boy. Good evening, Mrs. Patterson. A detective inspector, Whitaker Scotland Yard here. I wonder, Mrs. Patterson, if you could tell us the name of your late husband's dentist. Thank you very much indeed. No, Mrs. Patterson. I'm afraid there's nothing to report yet. Hit this tooth merchant in here first thing in the morning, will you, Mac? We'll meet him in the laboratory and let him look at our client's fangs. Well, what, Doctor? I never saw these teeth in my life. What? I can assure you they are not Sydney Patterson. You can swear to that, Doctor? Well, I hope you're not impugning my professional judgment, sir. Well, not at all, Doctor. It's a matter of correct legal procedure. I have ample records in my office which you may consult. Charts, impressions. Sydney Patterson had lost three teeth a long time ago. I extracted the left upper canine and the adjacent in size of myself more than a year ago. You'll observe that both teeth are intact in this jaw, sir. Then you're prepared to swear that these teeth are not Sydney Patterson, sir? I most assuredly am. And that this is not Sydney Patterson's body. Since the jaw containing the teeth is attached to the remainder of the body, I'm prepared so to swear, sir. It's often impossible to grow a new head on a body. My fee will be one good day. I will indent for it at once, Doctor. Good day, sir. Now, what did I do with my head? Oh, yeah, good day. Good day, Doctor. I am sincerely glad that teeth are not inflammable, Mac. If more people knew that, there'd be fewer left to be called for corpses around here, sir. Right. Now, have you found Duncan Fraser's dentist yet? I had once caused a thorough investigation to be made throughout London and the vicinity of Perth in Scotland, where Fraser came from, to discover a dentist who had been employed professionally by him. The search was most thorough, although the combined efforts of Scotland Jard and the provincial police were not efficient, sufficient to find the person. In the meantime, we were able to lay our hands on some, or 13 or 15 persons who had known either Paterson or Fraser. Each individually viewed the grisly remains in the Scotland Jard mortuary. And the results? Ivo Young, Esquire, former employer of Duncan Fraser. Oh, it's hard to say, but I believe this to be the body of Fraser. Michael Fish, a former neighbour of Fraser. No, that ain't it. I knowed him well. Edgar Stone, brother-in-law of Paterson. I'm quite sure this is Sydney Paterson's body. And, sir, that's the fountain pen I gave him. Artificer Sergeant Rodney Smith, Royal Marine Light Infantry, a former service acquaintance of Paterson's. No, that ain't him at all. Oh, I wish it was. Bleeding stinker he was. This ain't him. Police Constable Mark Emerson, a former Billiards' companion of Fraser. It's Duncan all right. He looks awful, but then he always did. Hamish Fraser, uncle of Duncan. Oh, no. No, that isn't my nephew, Duncan. Samuel Furness, labourer, sometime employee of Sydney Paterson. Oh, now it's him. What didn't all work for him? Confusion. Confusion confounded. Six said it was Furness. Seven insisted it was Fraser. Paterson's widow herself was not sure, and she and her brother, Edgar Stone, Paterson's brother-in-law, had high words. MacMurphy and I nipped round to the goat and compasses to refresh and sustain ourselves. I was finishing my gin and bitters, and Mac was deep into his second pint of mild and bitter when the proprietor, one Dick Gillespie, came out of the saloon bar and accosted her. Oh, I say it's taken with him. I didn't know you were in here. There was a telephone call for you. Oh, was it? Sergeant Kenneth of the Yard. What do you want? Well, he said they found the dentist. Oh, what's the matter, Inspector? Your teeth hurt you? It was a dentist from Perth. The Scottish police had found him. We brought him at once to Scotland Jard, where he immediately identified the charge remains as those of Duncan Fraser. One of his molars was curiously malformed. It corresponded exactly with the one shown in a clinical photograph of Fraser's mouth the doctor had made a year ago. There was no mistaking it, he said. We returned to my office to marshal the facts that we had accumulated. The labourer, Samuel Furness, who had been so certain of his identification of the body as that of Patterson was waiting. Mac and I listened. Oh, I knew that was Mr. Patterson what burned up to a Skellington chef. Why are you so sure, Pundit? Because I was the last man to see him alive, sir. When? The afternoon of the day was burned up, sir. Go on. Well, it was like this here, you see, sir. Go on, go on. Well, I come into his office, sir, you know, to shed what was all burned up. I was after the 7 and 6 he'd owed me for two months. Oh, he was always putting me off, sir, but... Wait. Well, he always seemed to be stony, sir. Never seemed to ever shill him. He was always putting me off. Go on, go on. Did you get your money? Oh, that I did, sir. Before you could say knife, he had out his purse and he pulled out a great water notes, then he counted me out with 7 and 6, and then he handed me half a crown. And he says, here, buy yourself half a pint, Sammy. Cool, I was fair, took her back, had all Sidney given anybody anything for nothing. It seemed to have plenty of money, did he? Well, he's wallet was fair stuffed. You know, it's the first time I've ever known him to have more than friends in my life. Well, I was so took back, I tried to get up and I fell right on the apple and plum, yes. I kicked me foot against a couple of bags of cement he had under his desk and I fell right down. Did you see the bags of cement? Well, they was under the desk, sir. Did you see them? Well, I, oh, well, no, sir, I didn't. But I know I kicked- Thank you, Furness. Patterson had plenty of money in his wallet for the first time. We found that there was absolutely no identification of the ruins of the burned shed that any cement had ever been stored there. We'll find him. I said that nothing is ever lost. No thing, no person. I will admit, however, that it is sometimes extremely difficult to find a missing thing or a missing person, especially when the objects of the search have few distinguishing characteristics. Sydney Patterson was such a man. Description of Sydney Patterson, broadcast by Scotland Yard. Seven stone four, medium brown hair and strangling moustache same color, which he may have shaved off. Eyes blue. When last seen was dressed in gray tweed, single-breasted suit, white shirt, dark red tie. How many men answering that description do you see in a day? We had reports from every corner of the United Kingdom. Two slightly-adult gentlemen, neither of whom resemble Patterson in the slightest, marched, one at Torquay and one at Flanvar in Wales in debris stations, announcing themselves as the wanted man. Each was promptly committed. Lodging housekeepers by the hundred were interviewed. The manhunt dragged on for eight days before we had our first glimmer of success. Um, let, uh, let Mac Murphy tell it. He was there. There was a largeen house in Regent's Park, a very obscure one which smelt of Brussels sprouts. The proprietor was in the hospital having another baby and, or husband, a very harassed man was in charge. Yes, he said. They had had a larger who seemed to answer to the broadcast description. Had had, I said. Uh, well, he ain't here any more, I mean. What became of him? Well, he opted. He opted the very day that the pipe had come out with the description. Where? I don't know. He just sent us his telegram. Brother Ill must leave. We'll get in touch later. Roger's, eh? At the name he gave? Right here it is in the register book. Here, Sidney Rogers, see? Sidney, eh? That his own writing? Yes, yes. I'd like to have that page, if you please. Oh, I'll return it. You're sure it's his handwriting? Oh, I, I've seen him. I've seen him write it. May I have the page? Well, good. Well, my old lady likes to keep things neat and tidy. Well, I'll return it as soon as we've checked it against a sample of his handwriting. Now, uh, when did he come here? Uh, 60th of May, it says right here. And when did he leave? Well, the day is, his description first come out in the pipe. He leave his luggage? Oh, he hadn't any luggage. He was here all the time without even, without even changing his shirt. That room of his, oh, fair pigish. Must be. Well, we're rid of him and he's paid up to the end of the week. Anyway, so we don't lose nothing here. You, you suppose it, it was him? It'll be in the papers. Comparisons of samples of Patterson's handwriting with the signature of Sidney Rogers showed them to be identical. Peterson's full name was Sidney Roger Patterson. The telegram had been sent from South End. We turned our attention to that muddy little place. He was not to be found, although our search was scrupulous and thorough. We put a postal stop on all letters addressed to his former home, expecting that sooner or later he'd attempt to write to his wife. Thus, all letters addressed to that house would be held out and delivered to us first. We would open and read them, reseal and allow them to return to the house. No letters appeared. We waited. Time was on our side and the searchers at South End plotted along, making no apparent progress. And then, after a week had passed, the post office people sent us a letter. It was addressed to his brother-in-law, Edgar Stone, who had a room there. Letter addressed to Edgar Stone. Dear Edgar, just align to you in the hope that I shall be able to take care of you. I'm sorry. Just align to you in the hope that I shall be able to see a friend before I end it all. Would you come to see me at South End someday, please? Take the 1035 train. It arrives at South End at 12.8. Come out of the station, walk straight across the road and down Whitegate Road on the left side. I shall see you coming. If you come, then short and a comb. Best of luck. Mine is gone, if farmer. Well, so. I withdrew the detective from the area mentioned in the letter, which was resealed and delivered to Edgar Stone. I didn't want for long Mr. Farmer Patterson. The next day, Edgar Stone came to see me. He sat down nervously. What can I do for you, sir? Stone, I asked. What letter, Inspector? Yes. It's from... Are you going to South End on Sunday, Mr. Stone? Huh? Stone had a strong sense of justice. Strengthened perhaps by the shabby way Patterson had treated his sister for so many years. He agreed at once to assist us. We sat in my office and planned it, Mac and Stone and I. You're taking the shirt, of course, Stone, I said. Yes, sir. What a man who's going to end it all will be on me. He'll be recognised if he goes out to buy one, I expect. He's got plenty of money. We know that. If the banks had been opened that afternoon, he'd have any. He wouldn't have any. Why? Fraser would have deposited his afternoon's collection. Same as he did his morgue. The banks had been opened. Fraser'd still be alive. Shouldn't it be up to some other mystery? Yes. Well, let's get organised, shall we? First, we'll need a good man on this Whitegate Road to see Patterson don't get frightened and do a bunk. You'd better do that, Mac. Well, uh... I've seen too many cinemas, I'm afraid. I don't like false beard. Wait. You play the fiddle, don't you, Mac? What? You could be a street fiddler, couldn't you? Well, I could. That's what you'll be. Complete with tin cup and pathetic look, very touching and very unsuspicious. And I'll have half of what you take in. A man with a fiddle. Simple enough, oh boy. Just play God Save the King. You stand at attention till I get there. We planned it as carefully as we could. This was to be the definitive last act. Stone and I put the same train to South End. But when he got off with me, I stayed inside the station. Far down the street, I could see Sergeant Mac Murphy in an ancient green suit of clothes soaring industriously away on his fiddle. There were a few pedestrians on the street. Church services were just over. There's Whitehead Road and said to Stone, come back at once. The up train is due in a few minutes. Good luck. I wish I didn't have to do this, Inspector, but... Just remember what he's done, Stone. It's the only reason I'm doing it, sir. Good luck. Sydney was my friend once. He turned and crossed the road. Walked slowly down Whitehead Road. I watched him from the station window. He approached Mac Murphy, paused a second. I chuckled as Mac Murphy held out his tin cup and Stone dropped a coin into it. Far away, I could hear his fiddle. I went to the door of the station, stepped outside as he turned the far corner. There is such a thing as trusting a man, but... I waited. The distant street fiddler shambled around the corner, which Stone had turned. I fidgeted. A couple passed on their way home from the church. I waited. A small boy ran past with a hockey stick. I waited. And at last, I saw Mac Murphy in his green suit come slowly round the corner toward me. In a moment, Stone reappeared. He glanced at Mac as he passed, and I thought I saw him nod. I started toward him, sourcing quite casually. We passed without recognition. Mac had halted again and was playing. I stopped alongside him. How much have you made, Mac? I asked. It's a lot of shillings. Good. What happened? Oh, it's all right. Anybody who sees us will think I'm asking you how you fell to this lower state. First house round the corner. There was a cardboard sign in the window. Sydney was printed on it. Door opened. He went in. That's all I saw. Good. I'll nip round to the back. You walk on around in front and play. We'll see what happens. I don't... I can't play, God save the king. I went round to the rear of the second house, which was marked J Huntington. I tried the rear door. It was unlocked. I opened it cautiously and stepped inside. It was empty, apparently. I stepped down the narrow hall. Is that you, Mr. Huntington? I walked toward the voice. Mr. Huntington, is that you? I walked to the door on the left. Mr. Huntington. Mr. Huntington. He stood there in the frosty little room. A pathetic figure with his neatly combed hair holding a clean white shirt in his hand an embarrassed little smile on his face. Oh, I thought you were Mr. Huntington. I'm Inspector Whitaker of Scotland Yard, Mr. Patterson. Oh, yes. I knew you'd found me eventually. I just wanted to put on a clean shirt before I... before... I detain you on suspicion of being involved in the murder of Duncan Fraser. Poor Duncan. And I warn you that anything you may say will be taken down in writing and used against you. There. I've only one thing to say, sir. I did murder Duncan. This is the revolver I shot him with. Give it here. The one you couldn't find, sir. Give it here. It wasn't lost, sir. Give it here. Oh, no, sir. Patterson! No, Sidney. Nothing is ever lost. I'm afraid. You have just heard the story of case number 201 MR340 from the official files of Scotland Yard. All of the facts related are true with the single exception of the names of the participants, which for obvious reasons have been changed. The research was prepared by Mr. Percy Hoskins of the London Daily Express and the story for radio was written and directed by Mr. Willis Cooper. Next, listen for Tales of the Texas Rangers on NBC.