 Beginning next Sunday, February 24th, the time period now featuring Whitehall 1212 will be occupied by Hollywood Star Playhouse, which will be followed immediately by Whitehall 1212. 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 baffling cases. These are the true stories, the unvarnished facts, 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 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. Here is the story of Scotland Yard file 133123. This is Chief Superintendent John Davidson of Scotland Yard. Good afternoon. The Black Museum contains articles which have figured to a greater or less degree in several thousands of cases. A great many of them involving the crime of murder. Case number 133123 occurred, believe it or not, a few years before my time here at the Yard. The year 1910, 42 years ago. However, it is still remembered as one of the most unusual cases in the Yards history. And I think you will shortly discover why. In fact, despite the disguise names you yourself may recall the case if you're old enough. I show you now two of the exhibits remaining from this notable case. First, the top of an ordinary suit of cotton pajamas. These stains are blab. You will agree with me that occasionally the Black Museum does live up to its reputation as a chamber of horrors. Now the other is a curiously altered suit of men's clothing of the period. It also figured prominently in case 133123. You'll hear about this case in the words of Inspector James Waters, who led the investigation of the year 1910. The man who put me on to it was a wretched busybody and I didn't like him very well. I sat scribbling aimless words on a block of yellow paper as he talked. I fully realize it's none of my business, Inspector Waters, but I feel it my duty as a British subject, sir. Go on, please. In my opinion, he's murdered her. Oh, come now. Bear with me, Inspector. I am listening, sir. First of all, reflect that they have been on bad terms for a long time. So you said. So he had plenty of, what do you call it, motive? Motive, yes. So you see? I'm afraid I don't, sir. Eh? I mean, what you have is the information the man has given you. That his wife was visiting relatives in America. In Los Angeles. Los Angeles, he says. And that his wife died there and was buried in Los Angeles. That is true. Well? I believe he murdered her and hid the body. But, my dear sir, there's no evidence that he... Pardon me, sir, there is. What? Well, first, the evidence that he requested her friends, including myself, to send no cards, no floral offerings, whatever, to imbibed memory of his wife. Well, that... Is, I think you will agree, a little strange. Yes, but... And Secundo, the fact that I've lately returned from America myself. And? I interrupted my business trip, sir, at Los Angeles to call upon her mother and offer my condolences. Well, go on, please. I was informed by her mother, sir, that the woman had not been in Los Angeles for more than four years. I called on the widower at his house in Camden Town, number 39, Hilldrop Crescent, a battered tin sign bearing his name was tacked under the door, Dr. Edward Walton Harvey. The door was opened by a remarkably pretty young woman whose name it appeared was Miss Elaine LeBaron. She was Dr. Harvey's secretary. She led me up the stairs from the entire ground floor, apparently used as a combination of lumber room and a strange place for coals. She opened the door, smiled at me, and I ended alone. Good afternoon, my friend. I doubted seriously that I should ever be Dr. Edward Walton Harvey's friend, but I bowed politely. Come in, sir. Sir, that was better. I entered. What can I do for you, my friend? May I sit down, sir? By all means, sir. What seems to be your trouble, sir? This is not a professional call, Dr. Harvey. I'm Inspector James Waters of New Scotland Yard. Happy to meet you, Inspector. What can I do for you? I've called in connection with the death of your wife, sir. Oh? May I ask you a few questions? Certainly, sir. I, uh... I must admit, though, that I... I find that subject rather a painful one. I can understand that, sir. Yes. Quite painful, sir. You were, of course, on quite good terms with the late Mrs. Harvey. Yes, of course I was. Frankly, sir. No. I'm afraid I don't quite understand that, Mr. Dr. Harvey. You are a doctor, sir. Oh, yes. I got my degree from a college in the States. You're an American. Born there. I've lived here for quite a while, though. But, uh... Let's get back to our muttons, as the French say. I speak French like a native. The last few years have been very difficult ones for me, Inspector. Is that it, Inspector? Yes, Doctor. How have the last few years been difficult, if I may ask? My wife was a wonderful woman. But she was in the theatrical profession. A singer. I'm afraid not a very good one. In the States, you see, she wasn't much of a success. But over here... I trust you'll pardon me. But the standard of excellence in your music calls... do you follow me? I'm inclined to agree with you. Then she was more successful here in England. She certainly was. She didn't sing any better, but an American, you know. She made a lot of money. Some rather strange friends, I'm afraid. Bohemians, you know. Yes. Well... we got to quarreling. I think you'll find that that's no secret. Nevertheless... her death was a great shock to me. I grieve constantly for her. What are you looking at, sir? I see you still keep your late wife's clothing. Oh. Oh, you mean those furs? And the other things. Yes. These were my wife's. Yes, I gave them to Miss LeBaron, my secretary. She does leave things lying about. The young woman who showed me in. I... I have recently asked her to make her home here as my housekeeper. That's what we'd call her in the States. I saw no reason to throw away her clothes, you see. I'd have thought she'd take her clothes with her. Huh? To America. I guess she didn't expect to be gone long. How long has Miss LeBaron been living here? Was she here when your wife left? No, but she was a frequent visitor here. It was quite convenient to have my secretary handy, you see. And Miss LeBaron is a quite deserving young lady. Yes, of course. So that's the story. There's only one thing I do not understand, Doctor. What's that? I understand that the late Mrs. Harvey is not buried in Los Angeles in America. Say? And that according to her mother, Mrs. Harvey has not been in America for some four years. Well, I guess you've caught me, Inspector. My wife isn't dead. Oh? She left me. She ran away from me. Where did she go? I don't know. She just piled a few clothes in a bag and walked out. Blacked my eye first. We had a terrible quarrel. It was terrible. She called me the most awful names, and she insulted Miss LeBaron frightfully. It was dreadful. Then she rushed out of here, shouting for a cab to take her to Charing Cross. Well? That's the reason I gave out the story she'd gone to America, Inspector. That's why I gave out that she died there. How do you know she is not coming back? She'll never come back. Really, Inspector, a doctor has to have some dignity. I don't want people to know my wife has run out on me. I'm afraid you may find, though, if you don't mind my saying so, that you've been quite unwise. I didn't ask your advice, sir. I'm not giving it. If your wife returns and finds you've given away her clothing... I tell you... I know she's not coming back. The gas jet in my room at Scotland Yard went late that night. I was not currently on an assignment, so I had a good deal of time to spare, and I found myself curiously caught up with the dusty little doctor's unique formula for avoiding scandal. He'd stored up a large order of scandal for himself I thought when and if his wife should return. But he was so certain that she would not. Next morning I began certain inquiries. In the course of the next three weeks I found... Dr Harvey on two occasions had pawned Jewelry belonging to his wife. Both occasions were before the date on which his wife left him. Count that against him. Mrs Harvey had withdrawn the entire sum of money she and her husband had had in joint deposit at Barclay's bank. Count that for him. That was a clear indication of her intent to desert him. Mrs Harvey had known of the doctor's relations with Elaine Lebaron for many months prior to her leaving him. There was no record that she had objected to this situation. She had obviously tolerated it. Why should she make an issue of it at this late date? Possibly he'd lied to me. Count that against him. A cable to America to Mrs Harvey's mother at Los Angeles confirmed the fact that the missing woman had not been seen there. Dr Harvey had explained that. All that in abeyance. Dr Harvey had given a quarter's notice to his landlord at Hilldrop Crescent. That meant he intended to leave that place. Was that suspicious? Or was he merely being prudent against his wife's possible return? But he was so certain that she would not. A month before his wife left him Dr Harvey had purchased five grains of Hyacinthidrobromide from Lewis and Burrow Shop in New Oxford Street. Hyacinthidrobromide, I learned from Henry Bernard, is a drug used in institutions for the mentally ill as a sex depressant. It is also a peculiarly deadly poison, one grain being sufficient to cause death. He was so certain that she would not return. I took a four wheeler to Candon Town at once. There was no answer when I knocked on the door on number 39 Hilldrop Crescent. Dr Edward Walton Harvey was gone and with him Elaine LeBaron. I went back to my office at Scotland Yard to do two things. First, I caused notices to be sent to every police station in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales with the descriptions of Harvey and Elaine LeBaron raising the hue and cry from the North Sea to Land's End for them. Second, I obtained the necessary warrants and sent a squad of men to Hilldrop Crescent armed with pickaxes, shovels and other equipment with instructions to search the place most thoroughly. Surely, I said. I joined them. Men were in the garden, digging. Others were turning over every article of furniture in the rooms and tapping the walls. I stayed in the untidy lumber room cum coal cellar on the ground floor. We've got all the coal shoveled away, sir. Let's see. Bring pickaxes and take up that floor. Get cracking. All right. The garden was in ruins. The tourist bystanders had appeared to give gratuitous advice to the sweating detective constables. I watched anxiously as one worker drove the point of a pickaxe through a water main. The landlord stood by and swore softly to himself. Nothing happened. I wondered if I had not been a trifle precipitant. Still, one can't take chances. Inspector Waters! That came from inside the house. I sprinted back from the garden. Sir, hands up, sir. Yes, it looks like a bit of a man's shirt, sir. Yes. No. More like a woman's dress. I think this floor's been taken up before. Must have been else. How did that get down there? Tell you what I think it is, sir. I think it's a pajama jacket. See, broad stripes, gaudy lines. Go ahead, dig some more. Carefully now, carefully. Oh, Morgan, just run upstairs and see if the chaps up there have run across anything that matches this piece of whatever it is. Yes, sir. This is wrapped around something. Use your hands, not the shovel. Yes, sir. Steady. Yes, sir. Something here all right, sir? Oh, well, what is it? What do you want? Or did they find something upstairs? Let's have it. Here, let's compare this down there. Here, catch. Got it. Matches all right, sir. Tell you it was a pajama jacket, sir. These are pajama trousers. Matches it perfect. Oh, go on, dig it out. Dig it out, dig it out. Pull that stuff off it. Don't blame me, Blight. What is it? Looks like a side of beef, sir. Blimey is an eye. The trunk of what appeared to be a human body wrapped up in the jacket of what was apparently Harvey's pajamas. It had been efficiently, professionally dissected. It was impossible even to determine whether the body was that of a male or a female. It was removed to the Pathological Laboratory for examination by Henry Bernard. Back again in my own office, I received the first report on the search for Harvey and Miss LeBaron. The press men had discovered our activities at Hilldrop Crescent, and most of the evening papers carried articles about the missing doctor and his secretary. An excited gentleman with a hoarse voice and the green baller hat burst into my office. He smacked the desk vigorously with a copy of the Express. I knew it, sir. I knew it. I told him at the theater as soon as ever I saw the newspaper. One day there'll be a murder in that family, I said. Madame Rene was a great artist, sir, and I mourn her. My dear sir, who on earth is Madame Rene? She was the wife of this scene, sir. The late Mrs. Harvey. Ah, lest. I knew her well. They said you had some information for us, sir. My name is Ponson B. Tiggs, sir. D. I. W. G. E. S. The same as the actor, Doug D. Tiggs. Although I have no relation with his, I am a dramatic turner, sir. I have appeared with Madame Rene at the Metropolitan, Hope and Empire, and many of the other music halls in London, as well as the Hippodrome of Manchester, and in most of the principal cities of the provinces. I am not a... The information, sir, if you please. What information, sir? Oh, yes. Oh, yes, yes. I have heard. I have heard that Viper say many and many a time, sir. What Viper? The unspeakable Harley. Dr. Harvey? Oh, Harvey indeed, yes. You are correct. I have heard him say many times that he has always been enamored of the Belgian coast as a holiday place. Oh, very interesting, I'm sure. Well, thank you, Mr.... Diggs. At the real point of my visit, sir, only yesterday morning, perhaps even as you and your men approached Hildop Crescent, I saw this fiend. Where? In Victoria Station, sir. Oh, no, no, no, but bear it, bear with me, I beg you. The boat train for Folkestone leaves from Victoria Station. Folkestone? The port. The port for Antwerp, my dear sir. Information at once was transmitted to the Belgian police. It was a mystery to us how they could have left England, but this was too good a lead to be ignored. Later in the day, information reached us from the police at Folkestone that a man answering to the description of Harvey had been seen by a railway porter and again by a news vendor who recognized him from his photograph and a newspaper. Elaine LeBaron had not been seen. I visited Henry Bernard, the pathologist in his laboratory. No, Inspector Waters. I'm still unable to determine the sex of the body you found. A fellow who did it was a very good technician. The nearest shell of a body. Looks like a doctor's work. Certainly someone with a considerable knowledge of anatomy. Very workman-like. No identification, possibly. No, we shall see. I will say that identification will be most difficult, but I have only just started. Yes. I did discover one thing which I hope will be of help. What's that, sir? I found 2.7 grains of hyacinth hydrobromide in the remains. Message from the Belgian police at Antwerp. Industriously searching city for trace of fugitives, but no results as yet. Have placed special attention to all transatlantic steamships? Sailing from this port? And hope to report progress in course of hours? Rely on us. I hadn't thought of that. Certainly they go further away from Antwerp. Harvey was an American after all. If he could escape to America, we might never find him. I must stop up that hole. Many ships at sea are already equipped with the wireless telegraph, I remembered, and in stanto, cause messages to be flashed out to all. To all of them, with special reference to ships sailing from Antwerp, wanting them to be on the alert for Harvey and Lebaron. Another message came from Antwerp. Your doctor Harvey, seen and positively identified by former patient of his now living in Antwerp. Girl was not with him. Sending you further details. I spoke with Henry Bernard again. I'm coming along, I'm coming along, Waters. Found the evidence of the poison, and I shall identify her for you. Find out for me whether the woman never had an appendectomy. Oh, what, sir? An appendicitis operation that left a scar on her belly. I found out, she had. I told Bernard, who grunted. Nothing more from Antwerp. Where was the girl, I thought? Had Harvey murdered her too? Roofly, I thought we don't even know for certain that he murdered his wife. What we wanted was Harvey. Experience of Captain Horatio Sowerby, R-N-V-R, master of the steamship Cleverhouse, Antwerp for Halifax, Nova Scotia. As we moved down the river's gelt to the sea on the start of our voyage, I stood on the bridge with the pilot. Few passengers were on deck. It being a very dismal day. However, as I glanced down at the bows, I observed two men standing on the main deck at the forepeak. My attention was directed at them by the fact that they seemed to be holding hands. I was astonished to observe that the young one places arm about the other in a most affectionate fashion. I'll have a little talk with those two, I said to myself. They walked back to their cabin, arm in arm, as I watched them, unobserved. Message from the Antwerp police. Unable to discover any trace other than the one reported of fugitives Harvey and LeBaron, cannot find any indication they may have sailed for America. Shall we continue our search? I'll talk again with Henry Bernard. I'll tell you when I find out waters. See this fragment of skin? Yes. If I can prove to a jury that that is an appendicitis scar and not a fold in the skin caused after death, we should pretty well have identified her. Can you do it, sir? I don't know. Continuing the experience of Captain Horatio Sowerby. I made it a point to speak to those two. I had discovered holding hands. Pleased to meet you, Captain, sir. This young man is my boy. I'm taking him on a sea voyage for his health. Very delicate. Your son, sir? Eh? Oh, yes. You don't look like your father, young man. Don't try to talk, son. That's a very bad case of laryngitis, Captain. Very painful, dangerous for him to try to talk. I see. You're a doctor, sir. Me? Oh, no. Well, I hope you enjoy your trip. And you, young sir, I hope it'll do you a lot of good. Thank you, Captain, for both of us, sir. I think we'd better go to our cabin now, hadn't we, sir? There's something queer about that. I thought as they walked away, not hand in hand this time. The wind blew the boy's coat away from his body. That's when I saw his trousers. The back of them had been ripped down the seam and fastened together again under the coat with safety pins to make them wider. Extraordinary, I said to myself, I turned away to go to my cabin. The boy had left his hat on the table. I picked it up. The sweatband had been soft with paper to make it much smaller than its actual size. Then I recalled a boy's startingly crude haircut as if it'd been done by an amateur. I said to myself, that boy is a woman. When I got back to my cabin, there was the wireless message from Scotland Yard. I was sitting at my desk again, seriously considering going to Antwerp myself. After all I'd seen both Harvey and the girl, I should be able to recognise them if I saw them again. Then the door opened and a constable brought in the wireless message. Inspector James Waters, Scotland Yard. Believe your man Harvey and the woman LeBaron to be passengers on my vessel bound for Halifax. Woman disguised as boy. Please, wireless, additional information to aid identification. Sowerby, Master, SS Coverhouse. They've got a way. To add to my woes, Henry Bernard came cheerfully into my office. I've got it, Waters. What? That's definitely an appendicitis scar. Too late now. What's the matter, old boy? You're sick? I'm dead. I thought you'd be delighted. I can prove that it's a scar all right. We can demonstrate to a jury that I can't be anybody else but Mrs Harvey. And with that hyacinth I found in the body... It's no good. There'll be an American a few days and then who can tell where they'll go? We've been had. Not necessarily. How do you mean? When did they leave? The day before yesterday. You're on the telephone here, aren't you? What good does that do? What ship are they on? Claver House for Halifax. Where are you going? Listen. Are you there? Hello, hello. Are you there? I say. This is Henry Bernard here. I'll listen to me carefully. I want you to find out for me at once whether there's any ship sailing for Halifax that will arrive there before a ship called the... What's the name? Claver House. A ship called the Claver House just sailed from Antwerp, gets there. Do you understand? There was one. That afternoon, the steamship Mojiana due in Halifax 40 hours before the Claver House barring acts of God, I got aboard somehow leaving messages to be sent to Captain Sourby and asking him to wireless me on the Mojiana. I'm not a good sailor. It was a bad time of the year for the North Atlantic. And Captain Sourby's wireless was working quite well. Waters, this is Mojiana. As Harvey Moustache. Sourby, master, this is Claver House. I said no. Waters, this is Mojiana. What color is Ellen LeBarre's hair? Sourby, master, this is Claver House. Blonde, I said. Waters, this is Mojiana. They are seasick. Sourby, master, this is Claver House. So am I seasick, I said. Waters, this is Mojiana. You will pass out the seven bells tonight. They are still unsuspicious. And practically certain they are the ones you want. Sourby, master, this is Claver House. Practically certain, I said. But there I was two mornings later in Halifax. The news had leaked out. Perhaps I should not have said that. But the news had leaked out. Perhaps I should not have said that. Practically everyone in the world except the man and woman in the Claver House had heard of it. The press men were in Halifax some 40 strong. As the Claver House dropped anchor at quarantine, we all crowded aboard the pilot boat. I went over to the Claver House in a rowing boat with the pilot. Captain Sourby met me at the Jacobs Ladder. Sir, in that cabin, Inspector. Where? Come along, please. A few curious passengers stared at me. As I followed him to the cabin door. This one. Are you Stuart? It's Captain Sourby, sir. Just a minute, please. Well, we made it after all, didn't... That isn't them. I... I recognize you, Inspector Waters. Oh, stop it, darling. We didn't make it after all. I don't know. I don't know how you got here, Inspector, but I'm ready, I guess, eh? You... You won't have to take her, will you? Edward Walton Harvey and Elaine LeBaron, I arrest you both for the willful murder of Cora Harvey. I warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. Come, gentlemen, while the lady changes her clothes. Harvey had grown a heavy moustache and had changed so much in the few days of flight that it was difficult to recognize him, which had given me that awful moment when I first saw them. Elaine LeBaron was never brought to trial, there being scant evidence that she had played any part in the murder other than that of the other woman. Harvey was tried at Old Bailey, and after a bitter battle opposing medical men, which was won by the brilliant testimony of Henry Bernard, he was found guilty and was hanged. Scant six months after he had committed the crime. You have heard another in the series Whitehall 1212, compiled from the official files of Scotland Yard. Research on Whitehall 1212 is compiled by Percy Hoskins of the London Daily Express, and the stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Beginning next Sunday, the 24th of February, Whitehall 1212 will be heard over most of these stations one half hour later, because another great program, Hollywood Star Playhouse, will be heard in the time period we now occupy. Remember, listen next week to Hollywood Star Playhouse and Whitehall 1212. For correct time and station, check your local newspaper. Thank you. This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.