 Whitehall 1212. For the first time in history, Scotland Yard opens its official files to bring you the true stories of some of its most important and baffling cases. Research on Whitehall 1212 is by Percy Hoskins, Chief Crime Reporter for the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. The voice you will now hear is that of Chief Superintendent John Davidson, who is in charge of Scotland Yard's famous black museum. I'm sure I don't know whether a woman's stockings come in pairs that is shaped separately for right and left foot or shoes on. And I fear I shall never know or remember if I do. However, I do know that this one was for the right leg, and I remember further that its color was described as dream dust. Why? I'm sure I don't know. It looks a sort of a light khaki to me. Now this pattern is not woven into the nylon or whatever it is that women's stockings are made on. Let's lay the stocking out flat here so you can see what it is. There. Do you recognize it? That's right. It's an impression made in greasy mud of a tire, a motor car tire. Now, the people who first saw it were quite justified in believing that the young woman who was wearing the stocking had been struck and killed by a motor car. She was struck, but the motor car didn't kill her. I'll ask Chief Inspector Patrick Boyle here to tell you all about it. Now, Mr. Boyle, if you please. About midnight on the 15th of August, 1948, leading fireman Horace Bertram Adler, Winston Fire Brigade, was driving alone on Somerset Road, Wimbledon, on his way home from the meeting of his larger Freemason. It had been raining all evening and on a particularly badly illuminated section of Somerset Road, Adler was startled to discover what appeared to be a body lying in the muddy roads ahead of him. He applied his brakes and approached it cautiously, halting his car, which was a humble saloon, about five yards away and dismounted. The body proved to be that of a well-dressed young woman. It's quite dead. A cursory examination by the light of the headlands indicated that she had been struck by a motor car. Please, when the Wimbledon station was summoned, measurements were taken of the exact position of the body and leading fireman Adler was released. It's being obvious that his car had nothing to do with the accident. If indeed it was an accident. The body was taken to the Wimbledon mortuary for further examination. I arrived at the mortuary about noon of the following day, the 16th. Still raining, I wasn't happy about the assignment. I said so to David Brown, the police surgeon. Don't tell your troubles to me, Chief Inspector. I'm supposed to be off duty today too. But yesterday was the day my relief chose to sprain an ankle playing tennis. So here I am, tennis at his age. And don't raise a row about coming in here at noon. I've been here since 8 a.m. Pity for both of us to have to be here. What else are you going to do on a day like this? Might as well work. Well, here we are working. And the other people from the yard have been here since the crack of dawn. What did they find out? Not much. So far nobody's been able to identify her. Well, it's a hit-and-run case, of course. Obviously. These are clothes. Aye. Pretty good clothes, they seem to be. Well, she was well dressed enough. Here's her purse. That's empty. Oh. Oh, there's not even a lipstick in it. I expect that's one of the reasons you're here. Eh? Well, robbery isn't usually one of the concomitants of a hit-and-run case. You think she was robbed? It's not my business to make deductions, old boy. Isn't there anything in her pockets or anything? Well, I haven't looked. Your man says there's nothing. What pockets a woman has. And nothing to identify her eyes, of course. You can see for yourself. Hmm. Don't relax. Well, your man says no. Well, there must be labels. He's calling the Selfridges now. There's a label in her panties there. Where? Over here. I doubt he'll trace it. No other labels? You said her shoes. Selfridges, too. Where are her shoes? They're there. Oh. Well, she had an account at Selfridges. And if you're lucky, we'll see what we shall see. Said Sherlock Holmes. Yes, quite. Well, it's my opinion you'll need him. These are stockings. I don't know Chief Inspector. The one she had on. Ah, muddy. What was raining last night? Looks like tire marks on this one. Well, that's what your man said. They're not from that car the fireman fellow was driving. The chapter founder. How do you know? He's driving a Humber, the report says. These tires would be too small for a Humber. You are a detective, aren't you? That's what your man said. Did he? I said they'd be something like an Austin 7 or a Morris Minor. One of those wee cars. I'd agree. What are you looking for now? See if there are marks on an address. In a hit-and-run case, we usually paint marks from a car or if a lamp hit her, there might be splinters of glass that could be identified by the laboratory people. There aren't. Eh? I said there aren't. You don't mind if I go with the dress carefully, do you? Quite all right with me. But you'll not find anything. How do you know? The first place your man admitted he couldn't find anything. I think the laboratory can. I doubt they can. Why not? Because she wasn't killed by being struck by a car. Well, now, she was found in the road. Her tire marks on the stocking, she... I suspect those marks are accidental. I doubt that. She was murdered elsewhere and brought here to Wimbledon dead. Shall I give you my Sherlock Holmes hat? Come over here and have a look. Well? Well, look at her inspector, chief inspector. Those marks on her face were made when her head struck the roadway. No, chief inspector. Or by the car when it struck her. No. Look at the right arm here. Those look like bruises made by fingers. I rather think they are. Oh. Now, lift her other arm. Easy. You see? Oh, there where it's dried on her body. What's this? There, chief inspector. In the second intercostal space, if you'll observe carefully, you'll note that an edged instrument has been introduced, which has severed one or both of the superior intercostal arteries. Which means, I take it, that she was stabbed to death. This message for general circulation. Information required. Any person having knowledge of the name and movements, July the 14th or 15th, the following female person is urgently requested to notify Chief Inspector Patrick Bowles, CID, Newscrotten Yard, W1, at once. The woman's age? About 30. Reddish hair? Brown eyes? Height about 5 foot 2 inches. Weight 103 pounds. Last seen wearing the following clothing. Black dress. White blouse. What do you call that stuff her blouse has made of? Nylon jersey, sir. White nylon jersey blouse. Red artificial flower. Rhododendron. Cerise Rhododendron. Cerise? Mm-hmm. Cerise artificial Rhododendron on left shoulder of blouse. Large white openwork hat. Lace gloves. A crew. All right. A crew lace gloves. Transparent. Platform shoes. What do you call that color? Oyster, sir. Good bolting. Stockings, A crew? Dream dust, sir. Dream dust? Dream dust, sir. All right. Dream dust, then. And carrying a large, purplish handbag. Thank you, sir. Sickleman, I mean. All right. But down sickleman. I only hope people understand what we're talking about. Women will, sir. There's only one thing, sir. What's that, missus? Is she really wearing an outfit like that? With red hair. And, uh, green cami-nickers. Thank you, pardon, sir. Cami-nickers haven't been worn in England since before I was born. Oh. And a lingerie of pistachio, sir. Good lord, no. Well, write it down, write it down. I must have been mistaken. The first day of the 17th of July that my description of the dead woman's remarkable clothing was received by all stations in the Metropolitan District for all policemen to chuckle at me. The first day it was published in the London Daily Newspapers. I had a visitor. Good afternoon, sir. I should like to speak to a chief inspector, Patrick Bull, if you please, sir. I'm Chief Inspector Bull, madam. Oh, how do you do, sir? I come about the adverts. Advert? The one in the express, sir. The one about the ladies' clothing. Oh, yes, yes, indeed, yes, indeed. I've seen it, sir. I've saw it. Oh, you did? And you recognize those clothes? That I did, sir. Quite fashionable, aren't they? What's she done, sir? Is she on the gem now? I'm sure I don't know whether she's a shoplifter or not, madam. And where did you learn that term? Now, look here, mister. Don't think to put your great fat earrings on my shoulder. I come here to give you some information you was asking for. And might I explain that you ain't got nothing on me. Nothing at all, kind, sir. Well, I'm sure I beg your pardon, madam. Granted. I was asking a civil question. What she wanted for all. So far as we know, madam, she's not wanted for anything, I assure you. Would you just as least not call me, madam. My name is Miss Elderbrand or Tense Elderbrand, if you must know. I sell newspapers on the corner of Inner Park Road and Parkside Wimbledon, sir. That's I effin' to see this advert of yours. And thinking there might be a bit of spit-ash in it. There's no reward offered, and Miss Elderbrand... Well, in that case, I may as well be back to my work. I am prepared to offer... I found I'll take it. Thank you. Well... Now perhaps you'll tell me who this young woman with the extraordinary clothes is. I don't know who she is, I'm sure. What? Now, now, sir. I don't know what her name is. But I see her quite often near my corner, and I've seen her the day before yesterday. The 15th, just like it says in the advert. Having knowledge of the name. I don't have any idea of the name. And movements, I can describe them to you as of 10th, 30th or Monday, July the 15th as ever was. And I was talking to her for four, five minutes just before it started to rain. And to that I'll take my oath. Go on, please, Miss. Elderbrand, all 10th Elderbrands, sir. Um, what did you talk about? Lord, love you, sir. I couldn't get them out open. She'd done all the talking. What did you talk about? About money, sir. Money? And men, or a man, I mean. What was his name? She didn't say, sir. But he was trying to borrow some money from her, she was saying. Said she wouldn't find her, giving money to a man. Not her, she said. Not her wooden droppings, to which I agreed. Yeah. She showed me her handbag. Oh, that gorgeous cycleman, one of the adverts, sir. And... Yes. She must have had 50 pounds in it, sir, as well as about a pound and a half of odd money. A half pair of goggles at it. I hadn't seen that much ready money since my aunt died. She had two insurance policies. Can you tell me more about this young woman, please? Well, then it started to rain, and she said, Oh, bother. But the man came up. What man? The man that wanted to borrow the money, I expect. So she says, Good night, Miss Elderbrand, and I opened the van and they came away together. What's this about a van, please? Oh. Well, it was a little van. It looked like it had been, I don't know, Morris Minor or Nostas 7, with a van body built onto it. And it was green. I could see it was green. And did you see the man? No, sir. I couldn't see him. You're sure it was the woman described in the advertisement? Lord, love you, sir. I'll see you at least once a week. And I couldn't forget them clothes, could I, with that red air. Well, thank you very much, Miss Elderbrand. You've been of great assistance. I'm sorry you don't know her name. No, sir, I don't. I hope you get her, sir. I never liked her looks. What did you say she's done? She's dead, madam. Oh. Lord, love and death are poor things. Who killed her? Which was precisely what I wanted to know, I reflected morosely as Miss Hortense Hildebrand waddled out the door of my office, smothing up tears. Well, anyway, I had our unknown victim located a short time before she met her death in the neighborhood of where she was murdered. But the green van. It sounded like the title of a song I remember from my youth. My Diane loves the green van. Yeah, seriously now, there must be at least 10,000 green vans in London. Then the door was pushed open again and Miss Hildebrand was back. I remember something else, Inspector. Oh, I'm what this time, Miss Hildebrand? About the van, though. What about it? It had a shoe on it. A what? A great shoe. Like you're wearing your feet, painted on the side. Well... So all you have to do, sir, is find the green van with a shoe on it, look inside and they'll be a murderer, sir. That's all. What would you think that a shoe painted on the side of a delivery van would indicate to you? That's right. Someone who deals in footwear or repairs it or... In the telephone directories of Greater London there are 276 pages devoted to the practitioners of the profession of St. Crispin. The number of shoe shops, bootmakers, cobblers, cord-wainers, and dealers in leather findings is astronomical, and amongst all of them there are probably three who operate a small green delivery van with a shoe painted on its side. I contemplate a suicide. But I found myself seated in a bombed-out cellar that had formerly housed a famous pub, along with John Davidson, the Black Museum man and David Brown, the police surgeon from Wimbledon. I drank beer, Brown imbibed ginger beer. John Davidson, not to be outdone, drank both. Shandigart, my friends, is pure nectar and ambrosia. You can have it, sir. I'll take my beer better. And my ginger beer unadulterated by it. You boys have no imagination. My imagination staggers at the thought of interrogating every person in London remotely connected with boots and shoes. And seeing what color are your vans, sir, to each of them? Somebody will say green. By the time we get to them, you'll probably have a painted artist. Have you started looking for the owner yet, Patrick? This morning, sir. No results, of course. I've heard of none. How many of these people will you have to see? About 40 billion, roughly. Seriously? Well, I reckon actually about 10,000. Perhaps 11. Wouldn't you think so, David? 12, I should think at least. How many are there in the Metropolitan Police? Not enough. I just finished reading Sir Harold Scott's report. How many? 15,647, including 67 pensioners and 122 auxiliaries. That many? Well, that was last December 31st. I should say we gained a few since then. That includes Chief Superintendent, Superintendent, Police Sergeant, Chief Inspectors, Inspectors, All sorts of persons who couldn't be expected to go around knocking on doors and asking questions. Signals, laboratory technicians, Motor car and motorcycle drivers. Well, say only half of the 415,000 are affected to you. 8,000. Hmm. At that rate, if my guess is correct, about the number of people to be called on. Each one would have only about a call and a half to make. Oh, that's not such a tremendous job. Especially when you're sitting here drinking ginger beer. Well, don't you feel better, Patrick? Isn't quite as simple as that, sir. Nor as hopeless as you thought, is it? Well, sir, I must admit. But what if that wasn't the Shoemaker's van? Set your mind at ease about that, Chief Inspector. What do you mean by that? When you telephone me about the shoe business idea, I popped down around the corner and borrowed a Shoemaker's knife from the cobbler. And? I tried it on the wound. Oh, did you? It just fits. So I'd rather suspect that our killer used a Shoemaker's knife, too. As a cobbler or a green delivery van? Have another shandy gap, sir. How's your advertisement going, Patrick? Only the one reply, sir. Miss Orton Sildebrand. And she doesn't do so well on names, sir. No, she didn't know the girl's name or the name on the Shoemaker's green van. Too bad you can't find the girl's name. Might save us a lot of trouble and effort. How? Some of her friends might have an idea who the man is. The man with the Shoemaker's knife. You know, those clothes of hers. Oh, a woman dressed like that could escape and notice wherever she went. Fantastic. I could tell you how clothes like that might escape a great deal of attention. How so, sir? If they were worn with other women wear clothes of the same general appearance. Where would that be, sir? No, no, no. Let me make myself clear. I'm not an expert on the kind of clothes worn by... By whom, sir? Music hall performers. A music hall performer. Of course. Neither of John Davidson's ideas was as easy to work out as they first appeared. I could be permitted. I think I should have to say that there's many a slip of tricks to my dear and the relic of a crime hung on the wall of the Black Museum. But John was right, as I must admit he usually is. Took many days of hard work to ask about the green van of all the names listed in the telephone directory. I would have been inclined to give up and start afresh, but Miss Ortenzilder van knew what she had seen and was quite vocal about it. I know what I saw, Governor. I saw the red-edged girl with the heart of this erudia dendring climbing into the little green van. And drive away, she said. And drive away, but I don't know her names, sir. On the 26th day of our quest, after 3,165 firms had told investigating policemen that they either had no green delivery van or had one of the wrong size and general description, I received a telephone call from a constable who would be making enquiries in Putney. Is that you, Inspector Paul, sir? Yes, it's Paul here. It's Constable Bela here. Who? It's really him. Yes. Yes. What, sir? Yes. Putney? Yes. You mean the dead woman? Yes. How would he know who killed her? He... What did he say? He said he didn't know, sir. Well, bring him in here. Yes. Why? Look here, Constable. Ask the gentleman where he was on the night she was murdered, the 15th of last month. Don't alarm him. Oh, now where he was? What? How do you know? He was... Thank you, Constable. I'm afraid we don't live right, I thought. That door which had opened such a little way closed with a dealt thug. And Constable Bela and all the others went on with their questionings about the green van with the shoe painted on its side. The 22nd day passed. The 23rd. 24th. At 4 p.m. on the 25th day, Mr. Fox was announced. He came in and sat down. Sidney Fox, Chief Inspector of the Fox Shoe Repairers Tottenham Court Road. I'm your man. I think you'd better explain, Mr. Fox. I have a green delivery van. Oh? It's a modest minor chassis. It has a large shoe painted on its side panel. So? I could show it to you. Well, I'd like to see it. Where is it? It's in James' garage on Charlotte Street, just off Tottenham Court Road. We don't use it anymore. I should think you wouldn't. Oh, it isn't bad. It isn't what you think. Oh? No, sir. We haven't used it since Lionel left us. And who's Lionel? Lionel was our delivery man. And where is Lionel? Well, he told Harry he thought he'd go to Spain. Who's Harry? My partner, my brother. I wish you'd be more frank with me, Mr. Fox. Why is this Lionel going to Spain? Did he leave your employer at his own accord, or did you discharge him? Well, I'll tell you, Inspector. Lionel stole, let us say, embezzled some of money from a considerable sum. I see. I finally set a certain date for him to return the money he had taken, or be turned over to the police. What was that date? The 15th of July. I see. He did not return it. Well, he didn't even come back to the shop. Harry told me Lionel had assured him he'd have the money that night. He knew where he could get it. He didn't say where? No. How weren't your brothers seeing him if you hadn't, Mr. Fox? We always allowed Lionel to keep the van at night. He and Harry both live in Houston, and he always drove Harry home at night and back to the shop mornings. Where did he keep it? He kept the van in his own garage. Is this Lionel married? Yeah, it had been, well, the next day... 16th? Yes. Harry drove him alone from Houston. I said, where's Lionel? Where was he? He did a bunk, Harry said. Oh. Harry said about six in the morning, Lionel came to his house and waited him. He said he was sorry. He got some money, but it wasn't enough. He told Harry he was leaving. Going to Spain, he said. Couldn't stand the disgrace and all that. He said the car, the van was in his garage. Here are the keys. Bang over. He's off. And what did Harry do? He went over to Lionel's garage. There was the van all freshly washed and... Washed. Harry drove it in. He's kept it in our own garage ever since. If Harry wants a ride on it, he can buy one. And where was this Lionel going to get the money to repair you, Mr. Fox? The money he didn't get, so he washed the car so carefully and went away to Spain. From his wife, I suppose, his former wife. He saw her quite often. Oh. Daughter of a rich theatre, I mean, Plutney. What was her name? Colfax, I think. Come along, Mr. Fox. Let's go and have a look at your green van. And so we found the green van. It had been carefully washed. Not carefully enough, though. There were blood stains on the cab, and David Brown proved they were the same blood type as that of the murdered woman. And hidden under the seat cushion was the late Sheila Colfax's smooth leather wallet with 70 pounds in it. Not enough to give to Sidney and Harry Fox. There was a bloody fingerprint on the leather. It wasn't hers. And out in Lionel's garage where the car had been, the good constable Beeler found a knife, a shoemaker's knife. Just like the one David Brown had tried on Sheila Colfax's body, the blood on it was her blood type, too. Oh, yes. And we found Lionel. He was hiding in the garage with a great tin of biscuits, a round of cheese, and a jug he refilled daily from the tap, he told us. The first thing we did was check his fingerprints with the one on the leather wallet. They matched, of course. So we arrested him. And when he shaved off his guilty accumulation of beard, he was brought to trial. Took the jury 15 minutes to bring in a verdict of guilty. And he just hanged the ones of us before the first prost. And a curious thing. Upon our thorough examination being made of the body of Sheila Colfax, we discovered that she had been in the last stages of cancer at the time of her death. She would have died of that dread disease in less than four months. Perhaps she did have reason for wearing those fantastic clothes. Paired on Whitehall 1212 today, Horace Brayham as Inspector Bull, others in the order of their appearance were Harvey Hayes, Pat O'Malley, Bula Garrick, Lester Fletcher, and Guy Spall. This is Lionel Rico speaking. Whitehall 1212 is written and directed by Willis Cooper. Every 20 seconds through the year, a fire breaks out in the United States. These fires kill 11,000 persons each year, disfigure for life, or severely burn thousands more, and destroy $7 million worth of property. Protect your homes from fire by following these simple rules. Don't smoke in bed or throw away lighted cigarettes. Clean out closets, basements, and attics. Any place where old newspapers, magazines, and inflammable materials are liable to accumulate. Remember, don't gamble with fire. The odds are against you. Follow the campaign of the next president on NBC.