 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 truths 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 comes from Percy Hoskins, Chief Crime Reporter of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Here is the man in charge of Scotland Yard's famous black museum, Chief Superintendent John Davidson, to brief you on case number 504 MR-701. All the exhibits I have charged of here at the black museum are not in themselves horrible or gruesome. I admit that several of the exhibits in this case, number 504701, are so dreadful that we reserve them for the use and study of our own people, exclusively. Policemen are notoriously a strong stomach block. But this one that I brought with me is not such a one. Look at it. It's a woman's earring. The pair couldn't have cost a great deal. Handmade, I think, by some village jeweler in France many years ago. Can you make out the design? Trudley carved representation of a left hand holding a heart and what seems to be a flower. The other one of the pair was similar, I'm told, by those who've seen it, except that it was a right hand. This is the only one left of the pair. Retired Chief Superintendent Cedric Pickard is a little older today than he was then. And Cedric? I was a brand new inspector then, John. You still remember all the details of this case, though? For 35 years I've been trying to forget them, John. On the 31st of October, 1917, the Zeppelins raided London for the next or last time. By eight o'clock on the morning of November the 2nd, some 32 hours after the air raid, I received a call from e-division of the Metropolitan Police in Bow Street. I hastened there at once. They had four things to show me. One, a badly bloodstained sheet. Two, a large jute bag labelled Argentinal Aplata Cold Storage. Three, a stout cord which had been tied round the bag. Four, torn bit of pasteboard on which was scrawled and penciled the words Bloody Belgium. Most curiously misspelled. There was a civilian there, too, a squatty man with a cast and his left eye wearing a remarkably dirty cap. He stood up when I looked at him. I'm Sammy Elwood, sir. I found it. The things I mean. Oh, did you then? Sir, I work at Regent Square in Bloomsbury. Where'd you find those? In the central garden in the square, sir. Behind the railing. I seen it when I first come to work this morning, sir, but I went to have a breakfast first, sir. Good thing I did, too. And then I untied the bag when I come back. I run for a policeman right away, sir. Why? Why'd you run for a policeman? The bag, sir. It was a lady in it. The lady, rather the remains of the lady, for she was lacking a head and hands, had been taken to the mortuary. Sam the roadman obviously knew nothing about it, except what he'd discovered when he untied the bag marked cold storage. He went back to work, a faint green tinge still underlying the grime on his face and hands. I examined the evidence. The pasteboard on which was written Bloody Belgium, I hazarded, might indicate that someone who disliked Bloody Belgians had caused the death of this one. The bag I decided should go to the laboratory for examination. I looked for laundry marks on the bloodstain sheet. There was one down, down in one corner. I telephoned it into the criminal records office and started for my office at New Scotland Yard. The telephone was ringing as I came in. Yes, Inspector Picard here. The Sergeant Toland here, sir. We found out about that laundry mark, sir, the one you phoned in. Good. It belongs to a mademoiselle Albertine de Rocher. Belgium? I don't know, sir. It's over east of Regent's Park, sir. That's very good, Sergeant. I'll run over there at once. Care to come along with me? Sir. Get your hat. I'll take care of that. Accompanied by Sergeant Monte Toland, he was a much better man on the case than on a CRO telephone and they knew it. I proceeded to Munster Square and we were admitted to Mademoiselle de Rocher's two-room flat by the landlady, an old French woman with a moustache. Bed's all torn up. Sheet seems to be missing. No sheet here. Look under the bed. Three pairs of shoes. No sheets under here. What are you looking at, sir? Is that blood? They're on the pillow. Looks like it. And here, sir, on the blanket. A lot of it. I wonder. Sir, there's somebody at the door. Landlady. I can speak a sort of French, sir. Alors, madame, entrez. Alors? Come on in, the keyhole's strafty. Pardon? Come in. Ask her if she knows where Mademoiselle de Rocher is. Mademoiselle de Rocher... She is gone. She speaks English? Where's she gone to? I don't understand. Whittle. She's gone since Saturday. Saturday. She goes to see her sister in Nottingham. Nottingham. What's her sister's name? I don't understand. What's her name, sir? I don't know. She doesn't know, sir. She goes away to hide in the abbey when the bush comes in the hell-head. On the ground, in the tubes. She doesn't come back. Nottingham. Do you understand? What time does she leave? What time does she leave? Almost midnight. Saturday. She didn't come back. Nottingham. Nottingham. Ask her who might know her sister's name in Nottingham. Madame... What man, madame? A man in the picture there? It's Langlois, her sweetheart. He might know, she says. Where is he? Where is his home? 101. Langlois, Etienne Pierre, Petite Voucherie. Rue Charlotte, numéro 101. What did she say? She says his name's Langlois, and he lives at 101 Charlotte Street. I know that. What else did she say? She says he has a small butcher shop there. The butcher Langlois was not there in his combination living quarters and shop in the basement of 101 Charlotte Street when Toland and I arrived. The heavy door was strongly barred and locked. Toland spoke to an attractive French woman who seemed to be the child woman. At least she was armed with broom and pail, obviously, recently used. Pardon, mademoiselle. Monsieur Langlois, est-il ici? No, monsieur. Il est en train de livrer ses viandres. Je ne sais pas quand il sera de retour. Non, non. Vous ne pouvez pas entrer. J'ai tout enfermé quand j'ai fini de nettoyer. Quelle saleté! C'est que Langlois a égorgé un beau samedi soir. Oh, le sang était tout partout. À présent, il fait ses ventes. Je regrette, mais je ne sais pas quand il sera de retour. What she say? She says he's gone. Oui, monsieur. Who's she? Je suis Françoise Grimard. Mademoiselle Françoise Grimard. C'est moi la fiancée d'étienne Langlois. What she say? She's the sweetheart of Langlois, she says. How many sweethearts does this fellow got? Oh, I don't think we'd better ask her that, sir. Mais qu'est-ce que vous dites, voyons? What she say? She wants to know what we're talking about. Madame. Mademoiselle. You tell the tone. Dommage que je l'ai raté. Je vous remercie, mademoiselle. Come on, sir. Au revoir, mademoiselle. Ah, la bonheur, monsieur. Goodbye, mademoiselle. Mademoiselle. Oh, right. Wonder how much she knows about this affair. Said she was Langlois's sweetheart, didn't she? And that isn't all, she said, sir. Oh, I gathered that. Said Langlois had put you to coffin there Saturday night. She did? That's why she had to clean up the place. I hope she didn't clean it up too well. Why, sir? I'd like a sample of that blood. I don't understand you, sir. I want to see if it's really animal blood, my boy. I posted two detectives at the Charlotte Street location to keep a close but inconspicuous watch on the home butcher shop of Etienne Pierre Langlois to report the butcher's return. Toland and I went back to the Munster Square address where Albertine de Rocher had lived. The moustache landlady assured her she knew nothing more of the affairs of mademoiselle de Rocher. She did, however, add that Monsieur Langlois had put in an appearance there after the de Rocher woman had left. Ask her when, Toland, I said. Quelle jour, madame? Dimanche. Sunday. What did he want, madame? He had food for the cat. Mademoiselle de Rocher asked him to do so. Was he alone? Hein? A tale, sir. How long was he here? Oh, 15 minutes, peut-être. 15 minutes. I know. He fed the cat? Comment? The cat. The cat? Did he feed the cat? Eat, eat. Non. Why? That's what he was here for, wasn't it? J'ai perdu. The cat's what? Perdue, perdu. He's run away. What did he do with the cat food? Oh, he take it away with him. Why didn't he leave it here? Je ne sais pas. Was he here alone in this room all that time? Oui. Did he take anything from here when he left? The food for the cat. Is that all? Je ne sais pas. I don't know. You sure? Monsieur, if he take something from this flat, it is hers not mine, comprené. I don't know. Oh, si. He is her sweetheart, you say, n'est-ce pas? It is all right if he take something. I don't know, not my business. A sheet seems to be missing from the bed. C'est pas absolument. I see. Well, that's that. Seems to be, sir. Well, thank you, madam. Goodbye. Goodbye, Monsieur. Oh, I knew there was something else I wanted to ask you. Oui, Monsieur. Do you know a woman named... What's her name told? Who, sir? The woman who told us about Langlois. Oh. François Grimard. Ah. Noa? No. No, I have never heard of her. Nowhere in all London is the art of thrusting one's nose into other people's business at lower ebb than in Soho, with its enormous foreign population. Our uncooperative landlady is a conspicuous practitioner of the ancient injunction. Live and let live. As told and I approached 101 Charlotte Street half a mile away, Detective Sergeant John Mullins, one of the men I'd posted to watch the Langlois establishment, called to me. Hey, Inspector. Who is that? Oh, it's you, Mullins. Yes, sir. Been looking for you, sir. You wanted your office at the yard, and I... What's up? He's come back, sir. Langlois? Must be him, sir. He looks like a bloody butcher. He came up and locked the door of the place and went inside. He's still there? Must be. We haven't seen him come out. Third. A woman came up and knocked at the door, sir, about ten minutes ago and was admitted by him. Young? Well, not so young, Sergeant, but very handsome, I'd say. What'd she say? We couldn't hear, sir, but she's there now. At least she hasn't come out either. She's telling him all about the two policemen who were asking questions about him this morning. I'll take my oath. He was there. So was mademoiselle Francoise Grimard. They had been sharing a bottle of villainous-looking van Rouge. The kind the French soldiers call... Pinard. Pinard. That's right. They said to dissolve the teeth that were taken in quantity by an amateur. Neither Langlois nor mademoiselle Grimard were amateurs, apparently. They looked at us trifle-owlishly, however. We gratefully declined a drink. Langlois swill, Pinard. What do you want, policemen? Panger etienne. What'd she say? Be careful what you say, sir. What? That's what she said, sir. Oh. What do you want? We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Langlois. Ask him. I do not guarantee to answer. What do you say, Etienne? I say I don't take anything. Ha-ha. Mademoiselle Grimard told us that she cleaned your place out. He did not clean it well enough, I'm afraid. Oh, fiche-moi le camp. It is still dirty, Francoise. Si au moins, tu faisais plus attention quand tu es gorge, t'es bête. What did she say? She says I should be more careful when I butcher. C'est vrai, Francoise. You do your butchering in here? Oh, sometimes, monsieur. Mais écoutez-toi, Francoise. This blood on the walls here, on the floor. Animal blood, then. Form the calf I slaughtered. Would you mind if I take a small sample of it? Qu'est-ce qu'il dit? Il veut du sang. Ha, pourquoi pas? Eh, why not, monsieur? You will find it is calf's blood. Monsieur, Francoise. Bien sûr. How long must you take what you like? If you please, darling. Yes, sir. Just scrape some of those stains, and... You take this envelope. Yes, sir. And label it. Thank you. Now, if you'll open the door and hand it to Mullins, ask him to hurry it back. If you don't mind, monsieur Langlois. I don't mind. Yes, sir. He's to take it to Sidney Bellock and the laboratory and have him tested at once to see if it is animal blood. It is, monsieur. And rush me a report here at once. I'll wait. Yes, sir. Thank you, monsieur Langlois. Ah, but... Is that all you wish, monsieur? I should like to ask another question or two, if I may. Allo, monsieur? Rangaretien. Let me alone. Monsieur. Now, you are not required to answer this question, monsieur Langlois. I know that. Ask it. You, uh... knew mademoiselle Albertine Du Rocher that you don't... Albertine Du Rocher, la vache, cette sale haute. Oh, Albertine Du Rocher. Alors oui, la connaissez, moi aussi. Petite terre. Elle qui voulait m'enlever et tienne. Cette cochonne de la rue. Petite gifre, françois. Oh, elle ne reviendra plus ici, celle-là. François, c'est toi. Oh, essaye. Elle reviendra plus jamais ici. François, c'est toi. Ah! Ferme ta gueule. Eh, oui. Il la connaissait. Moi aussi. C'est toi, François. Elle nous traquera plus jamais, celle-là. I take if the lady did know her. She certainly did, sir. What did she say? Well... Albertine Du Rocher. Ah, now, excuse me, monsieur. I think it is better you go from here. Monsieur Langlo, I have several more questions. I would like... I'm sorry, monsieur. I will not answer them. Well, you don't have to, of course. I'm sure that you will see that the matter of mademoiselle Albertine Du Rocher is a very painful one for mademoiselle Guillemard and myself. François. Oh, alors. Oh, Albertine Du Rocher. No, monsieur. I have answered enough. Another British law, too, monsieur. You may not enter my dwelling without a warrant if I wish you not to. Nor must I answer questions unless I so choose. You have no warrant. I choose not to answer any more of your questions. I ask you to go away from my house. The door, monsieur. A thwarted policeman is a sorry sight. We shambled down Charlotte Street in the general direction of Scotland Yard and the small measure of self-respect we detained in our retreat to its sheltering walls was quickly stripped from us by Sergeant Mullins, who met us on the stairway to my office. I was just told he was out to find you, sir. Yes, Sergeant. That sample of blood you sent me back with, sir. Yes? The laboratory says it's animal blood, sir, not human at all. Toland and I went home. But a night of even trouble sleep helps. I found obtaining a search warrant not too difficult, and I'm with it. Toland, Mullins and I returned to Charlotte Street. Langlois greeted us with a tolerant smile, I think you'd call it, if you were a novelist. It was the blood of an animal. Was it not Inspector? Yes, yes, it was, monsieur Langlois. Oh, you see. I did not lie to you, Nespain. I have brought a search warrant. Nespain. Is there any other room or building on these premises which you use for slaughtering? May as well tell me, we shall find it anyway. There is a small shed. Out this door, monsieur. But I have not used it for many months. Out this door, monsieur. Go ahead, Mullins. You know what you're looking for. Right, sir. Is there a basement here? It is used for storage. We'll have a look at it later. Toland. Yes, sir. Have a good look around the other rooms, first Toland. Yes, sir. Monsieur, I assure you... Oh, on to the second floor, Toland. Just run round to Munster Square, will you? Is that not where the mademoiselle de Rocher lived, monsieur? Just run round there, will you, and see what Tom Bennett's found out. Yes, sir. If his report isn't ready, wait for it. And come back here at once. Right, sir. May I ask, monsieur? There's a pathologist over there with some portable laboratory equipment, monsieur. Monsieur Nicole Hemp? He's over there looking at some blood stains. Now, if you don't mind, I'll start in this room. Is this an abattoir, too, monsieur? It is my kitchen. It was our most dingy kitchen. Our most filthy kitchen. I inspected it carefully. Reezy saucepans, well-scrubbed butcher's knives, moldy pales of rubbish, stinking half-empty tins of decayed food, and under the ancient sink a pile of stained linen. The third item I picked up was a blood-stained towel. Animal blood, too, I asked Langois. He didn't reply. Something fell out of the folds of the towel onto the floor. I picked it up. What's this, I asked? It is an earring. It belongs to Françoise, to mademoiselle Grimaire. An earring, I said. And dropped it into my pocket. Was Oscar about that? I will give it to her, monsieur. Thank you. I'll just ask her to identify it when she comes in. Where is she, by the way? Oh, is she? I don't know. We'll find out. Did you say this is animal blood on this towel, monsieur? From the carp, which I slaughtered. How did an earring ever get me here? She lost it. Saturday night? While you slaughtered me, the animal? Monsieur... Who is that? Me, sir, Sergeant Mullins. Oh, come in, Mullins. Did you find anything? These bags, sir. Jute bags. What's it say on them? You read it, Langlois? Argentine La Plata, called Storre. I have dozens of them. Curious. The same kind of sack the body was in. Well, let's keep them, Mullins. Now, who's that? Oh, here you are, sir. Then it says the stains are animal blood, sir. He's certain. I wonder how animal blood got in Mademoiselle de Roche's room. Monsieur, I must speak to you. Very well. Tell her you and Mullins go down to the cellar and see what you can find. Got a torch? Yes, sir. Go along. Now, monsieur... Wait, monsieur, there's nothing down there. Get along. Monsieur, I confess... Go on. I did not kill her. Oh. I went to feed the cat. I found her dead in her room. She had been attacked. Oh. Blood. I'm reliably informed that that is animal blood, monsieur. I was frightened. The concierge, the Langlois, she knew I was there. I might be accused of murder. It is possible. I brought the body back here. That blood out there in the kitchen. That is human blood. Her blood. I put her in the sack. I did not kill her. I did not tell you. In the night, I got my horse in trap and... I drove to Eden Square with the body and... What did you do with the hands? And the head. We found the head, sir. Oh, no. It's in a cast downstairs, sir, with the hands. Can't identify it, sir, but... There's an earring in one ear. The other's been torn out. If we can find it... Who's that now? Come in. Good morning, mademoiselle Grimard. What's going on here? And you? We put you at the door yesterday. And you have an answer, if you want to... Mademoiselle, do you recognize the earring? Oh, it's her. It's the one hanging on the torch. What did she say? She says it's the one that got caught in the towel, sir. Oh, it's the same as the one... the one down in the cellar, sir. We found it. They discovered her head. They found the head. Oh, it's her. She is the one. Mademoiselle! It's the one hanging on the torch. Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Dolan, don't you understand it? Huh? Etienne Langlois, I arrest you on a charge of willful murder. I arrest you for the willful murder of Albertine de Roche. I warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. You may have also been dismissed for all it was made on a bidon. Dolan, both of you. At the trial at Old Bailey, it was proved that Albertine de Roche, instead of going to the air raid shelter when the alarm was given, had instead gone to the home of her lover, Langlois, who was entertaining Francois Grima. A quarrel ensued and the de Roche woman was struck on the head and killed. We found the murder weapon a cleaver owned by Langlois. The only fingerprints on it were those of Francois Grima. Langlois had gone to the dead woman's flat in Munster Square the next night with a container of animal blood in an attempt to make good his hastily conceived story. Then realizing it must do better than that, he resorted to the practice of his profession. His handwriting matched the bloody Belgium written on the paste board with a body. It was a joke, he said, to foil people. It didn't. Etienne Langlois and Francois Grima were hanged at Wandsworth Prison in May 1918. You have heard another in the series Whitehall 1212, compiled from the official files of Scotland Yard. Research is from Percy Hoskins of the London Daily Express. Whitehall 1212 will not be heard next Sunday giving way to a special broadcast of the Masters Open Golf Tournament from Augusta, Georgia. But we shall return to you at this time two weeks from today. Among those heard in this reenactment of a celebrated case were Horace Brayham, Harvey Hayes, Lester Fletcher, Evan Thomas, John Deerth, Patricia Courtley, and Elizabeth Eustis. The stories for radio on Whitehall 1212 are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Three chimes mean good times on NBC. This evening, The Big Show stars Judy Canova, Fred Allen, Jan Murray, Vivian Blaine, Portland Hoffa, Johnny Johnston, and your glamorous hostess, Tallulah Bankhead, with Meredith Wilson directing The Big Show Orchestra and Chorus. Then later this evening, Theatre Guild on the Air, co-stars Lily Palmer and Rex Harrison. Then tomorrow afternoon and every weekday afternoon be sure to hear the new dramatic series, The Doctor's Wife. It is morning, noon, and night for the best in radio entertainment. Stay tuned to NBC. Remember tonight, Theatre Guild stars Rex Harrison and Lily Palmer on NBC.