 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 baffling cases. These are the truth 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 is compiled through arrangement with Percy Hoskins, the chief crime reporter of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Chief Superintendent John Davidson is the curator of the famous Black Museum of Scotland Yard. He will brief you on today's case from the official files of Scotland Yard, number 899 MR 952. Good afternoon. If you're a murderer by trade, I would suggest that there is no sure way to hasten the end of your career than to select a policeman as your victim. Now this thing is the running board of a motor car. It was concerned in the brutal death by violence of a police constable. Chief Inspector Quentin tabs it up. Scotland Yard knows more about this case than any other person. I think that's true, John. Although there were two other men who knew more about it than I. But they're not living. No, they're not. Comparatively few men survive hanging. The chief constable of Essex telephoned the CID from Romford at 9.5 on the morning of Tuesday, September the 27th, asking that officers be sent to Stapleford Abbots, a village halfway between Romford and Ongo on the London Chelmsford Road. I was first on the chief inspector's rotor, so I was assigned to the case. Accompanied by Detective Sergeant Philip Melanchthon Wise, I went to once to Stapleford Abbots, which is about four miles outside the limits of the metropolitan police area. I was shown the body of police constable William George Greenlee, who had been stationed there, and which had been found alongside the road a few miles from the village at 6.30 that morning, the 27th. The constable explained to Wise and me what had happened. We know it happened sometime after 1.30 a.m. chief inspector, because I met him at a conference point at that time. Where, constable? Near Grovehouse on the Road to Ongo, about 600 yards from where the body was found, sir. Gone. He had been shot four times, sir, twice through the head, and these other two. That's smart. Yes, sir. They shot the poor chaps square in each eye. Horrible. Aren't they drowning their own blood, sir? At least they'll hang. Bill Greenlee and I was kitsch together, sir. They'll hang. He had his pencil in his hand, sir. His notebook was lying on the road near him. He'd evidently stopped a car and was talking to them. Marks on the road? I'll show you, sir. It isn't far. I'd rather like to get out of here. Wise and I followed the constable along the road to a spot where it had been cut to a small hill. The banks on either side at the edge of the road shoulders were about six feet high. That's the place, sir. Here's where they found him, sir. Where the grass is pressed down. Little blood here. Not as much as one would expect, sir. Over there on the other side, you see there's quite a blood stain on the grass. We think he was first shot there and then he dragged himself across the road and shot his eyes out on this side. Yeah. There's a motor car here, all right? Yes, sir. We saw that. Where's my sergeant, Sergeant Wise? Down the road a bit, sir. Back there. Oh, yes. Why are you looking at, Sergeant? Come down here, sir. That car was going pretty fast. See here. Skidded off the road, isn't it? When he flagged it down, no doubt. See, it skidded through the grass on this side. Tyre marks where it stopped. I thought London wasn't. No doubt about that, sir, from the marks. Was there anything written in Constable Greenley's notebook that would give us any idea? Nothing, sir, after the notation about meeting me at Grovehouse at 1.30. Much traffic through here, Constable? Not much, sir. This chap was certainly going pretty fast. Especially on a twisty road like this one, I'd say. Many fast drivers around here? No, sir. None I know of. Stranger than probably. Except he must have known these twisty roads pretty well, sir. Which puts us right back where we started, doesn't it? No, he had a good reason for wanting to. Why'd you say why? I said either that, sir, or he had a good reason for wanting to get back to London in a great hurry. Now, why would a stranger take the chance of breaking his neck by driving this kind of a road at 40 miles an hour? He was going at least that fast along here by the tire marks. And why should he murder a policeman who stopped him? What do you think, Sergeant Weiss? What we need to look for is some crook running away from something. Running back to London to hide. Pretty shrewd guess, why? I think so myself, sir. But what was he running from? I wonder if that was a stolen car he was running away with, sir. At the tiny police station back in Stapleford Abbots, I asked to have someone remove the bullets from the body of Constable Greenlee. A local surgeon volunteers to do it for us for the usual fee provided by the Home Office. After some difficulty, I was put through to Whitehall 1212 in London. I asked for Inspector Bailey. Inspector Bailey speaking. Hello, Pat. Tabs are here. Need to know something, oh boy. Got any reports of a car stolen last night in this part of the country? Oh, Stapleford Abbots, Essex, I'm sorry. Well, I'm at the police station in Stapleford Abbots. Bring me back as soon as you can, will you please? Right. Ten minutes. Thank you. Bye. Well, what do you think, Weiss? It isn't a bad guess, sir. We'll see. By the way, I had a look at those powder stains on the face of the dead chap. Oh? Had a smell, too. They're from Blackpowder. Old-fashioned Blackpowder, not modern nitrocellulose. That'll be something else to check on if we do find anybody. If he has a gun that shoots Blackpowder cartridges. Excuse me, sir, there's a telephone call for you, sir. Who is it, consul? London, sir. You can take it on that same phone you were using, sir. Thanks. Don't go away. Chief Inspector Tabs are here. What? Just a second. Blue, Morris Cowley, four seater. TW 613-0. No, 612-0. Right, TW 612-0. Dr. Ken Elm, Haggerty, Billericki, about 2.30 a.m. Thanks, old boy. Do as much for you one day. Bye. Well, that might be our call, gentlemen. All we have to do now is find it, sir, if it is. We'll find it, Weiss. I hope so. Now look, Weiss, this car was taken from Billericki at about 2.30 a.m. What I want you to do is to get around the countryside between here and Billericki and talk to people. Yes, sir. I want you to find out if any of the people around here happened to hear a car driving at high speed, sometime between 2.30 when it was stolen and 6.30 when they found the Constable's body. Yes, sir. We'll accomplish two things, you see. A, whether that's the car we want and B, by plotting on a map when and where it was heard, it's probable destination. You see? Right, you are, sir. You see? Well, certainly, sir. You said there's not much traffic in these parts, Constable. Well, there isn't, sir. Somebody will be sure to have heard it. Well, let's get cracking, then. Yes, sir. Where will you be? I'll be back at the yard. I'm going to check up on known motor-car thieves. I'll be in touch with you. Good luck, boys. Thank you, sir. Come on, Constable. I returned to my office at Scotland Yard. Before setting in motion our machinery for checking the whereabouts of known criminals who were at Liberty, I dispatched Emmons Carlson, an expert on motor-car tires, to stay before the abbots to see if he could identify the tire prints the motor-car left on the road. He'd hardly left London when I had a telephone call from Sergeant Wise. Better and better, I thought. A little later, reports began coming into me on the known criminals who had been checked in London. Fourteen had already produced alibis. One, a smash-and-grab artist who had dabbled in motor-cars, a chap named Whitey Wogan was having difficulty proving his. The search went on. Information on the stolen Morris Cowley identification number TW6120 was given general circulation of no results. Three reports the next day from Sergeant Wise. Twenty-six more people with criminal records were checked. All had alibis. Whitey Wogan still refused to talk. Emmons Carlson reported him from Stapleford Abbots. Here it is, sir, on the chart. I made these photographs on the spot. You see? Pretty blurred, they are, sir, but you can identify them. Now, here, on the chart. Type B, one over three, two. Or one over two, three, if you like. Four parallel lines around the circumference of the tire. Diagonal lines at the edges of the tire. Short diagonals the other direction in the center. A bleak parallelogram, you might say. Can't be anything but a Dunlop Fortuner tire. Does that do us any good, Carlson? I telephoned Dr. Kendall Magarty, sir, at Billericky. The stolen car was equipped with Dunlop Fortuners. No doubt now that that was the murder car. Another report from Sergeant Wise placed the car five miles north of where the constable was murdered at 3.30 a.m., still headed south. I ticked off the reports on a map of the area. It was a circuitous route, but there was no doubt of it. The car was headed for London, but then the trail was lost. A report from Percy Young in the Ballistics Laboratory. Yes, Percy, what did you find out? You could identify the particular gun they were fired from. We got hold of it, could you, Percy? Unfortunately, I haven't got it, Percy. Unfortunately, I haven't got anything. Unfortunately, all I've got is the knowledge of the car the murderer rode in. And the fact that the car is probably somewhere in London. With the murderer, I hope. Unfortunately, I have no idea who he is. Yet. But we'll find out. You can't murder a policeman and get away with it. I'll bring you the gun sooner or later. Sergeant Wise came in. Good afternoon, sir. Hello, Wise. I've got news for you. Good. What? They found the car. They have? Why didn't they tell me? Your telephone was busy, sir. Ah. Brickston. Been there all night, apparently, they said. Sure it's the car? Blue Morris Carley 4-Cita, number TW 2160. Mm-hmm. Fingerprint people, and all of their now. Looking it over. That's where Whitey Wogan lives. Who, sir? Car thief. Won't tell us where he was the night of the murder. I'll bring him in, sir. Better. I'll go and have a look at the car first, though. Here's his address. See you later there. Right. Could be possible, I thought, as I drove over to Brickston in the police car. We'd see. They were going over the Morris Carley with a fine-toothed comb as I arrived. He hadn't found much according to the sergeant in charge. Nothing very much, sir. Let's see that list, actually. Ah. Drops of what appears to be blood on right-hand running board, sir. You've collected them? All right, sir. Laboratories got them already, sir. It's a grass and dobs of clay on the edge of the same running board. We'll want that to compare with clay from the spot where the constable was murdered, sergeant. See to it, that great. Oh, yes. Between the cushions of the front seat, this revolver cartridge, sir. What kind is it? Obsolete type, sir. For a Webley 38. But the issue of this kind of black powder cartridge was discontinued in 1913, sir. I'm quite an expert on firearms, sir. Good. That's just the kind we were looking for, sergeant. I'm very happy, sir. At all? What about fingerprints? Not a sign of one so far, sir. I'm still looking, sir. But so far, clean as a cold streamless boot, sir. I know my dubby, miss. My name's Miss Winnie Clapts, Eddle, mister. And I'm here because I come with a sergeant, so don't give me none of your back chatter or dot you one over the ear all like a Dunham. Oh, don't. Don't open your fly trap to the cops, whitey deer. What's going on here? Excuse me, Chief Inspector. Oh, it's you, Sergeant Whitey. Excuse me, sir. This is Whitey Wolding. Don't say a word, Whitey. I'm the barmaid at the Saracen Z Public House, and I'll thank you for none of your back chatter nor the mister. Now, look here. She insists on coming along, sir, when I picked up Morgan here. Well, I'll do the talking, too. Perhaps you can tell us, young woman, why your sweetheart is in possession of all those newspaper cuttings referring to this murder case. Be still, Whitey Duck. He's in possession of these air-blinking newspaper cuttings because he wants to find out what it is you coppers his badgering him for. The poor lamb. And the bloodstained bandages I found in your room, Morgan. Don't blush, Whitey, dear. It happens to anyone. What are you talking about? Old yet temper Whitey love. I'll tell you why they're there, and I'll tell you why my poor little Whitey don't want to tell you where he was while this murder was going on. It's because I hit him over the noggin with a Guinness bottle when he refused to kiss me in public. And it took two constables to drag us to the police station. That's why. It's true, Morgan. Of course it's true. And you can prove it, they're looking at the police charge sheet for that last night when we was both in the clink for disturbing the peace. He never murdered no one, mister. He's just plain embarrassed. It was true. Our only suspect had been nursing a broken crown in jail which his 13-stones sweetheart had inflicted on him. We were at a dead end. The evidence had run out. Here was the murder car. Here was the victim's blood. The forensic laboratory established that the stains were of the same blood type as Constable Greenley's. We had a cartridge which we were certain was from the murder gun. Scotland Yard had traced everything but the murderer himself. The coroner's inquest on the body of Constable William George Greenley returned a verdict of death at the hands of person or persons unknown. He was buried with full police honours and the bugler sounded the last post at his funeral because he had once been a soldier. The home office began paying his wife a pension. We kept on. We questioned more than 1,500 persons who might conceivably have committed the murder. Our man was not among them. He was still at large. No policeman ever forgets the murder of another policeman. The months went on and Wise and I were assigned to other cases. One day, almost a year later, Wise came into my office. Hello, Wise. Hello, Chief Inspector. What's up? You ever had a hunch? I never had a good one. Yes. You have had though. I have one now. Forget it. What's it about, Wise? Well, I was reading in the police cassette about a case. A very unimportant case in Sheffield the other day. It was quite interesting. Don't be so bloody mysterious, ma'am. What was it? A lorry driver had some trouble with a reckless driver. The driver shot down a side street and disappeared. What? I said it was a hunch, sir. Go ahead. I've already got this report to get out. Well, this lorry driver noted down the number of the car. Well, what? It was a stolen car. Thinking about that poor blighter that was murdered, the Essex Constable. I haven't forgotten how somebody shot that poor chap's eyes out, Chief Inspector. Neither have I, sir. What? Well, they picked up the driver of the stolen car and this chap told him who he bought the stolen car from. Who? Got it from a garage man in London here named Frederick Guy Sears. Sears? Name means nothing to me. It didn't to me at first. But out of habit, I expect. I looked him up a little. He has a record. He's been sent down twice. Have the Sheffield please picked him up? No, they can't find him. What's your hunch? Well, he's a car thief, apparently. He was in the Royal Engineers and... Well, that's no crime, so was I. Yes, but you didn't steal a .38 Webley rover, old boy. Did he? So I hear, Chief Inspector, that boy in Essex was shot with a .38 caliber Webley. We still have those bullets they took out of his head? Mm-hmm. Then they could tell us if they came from that gun. If we find the gun? Let's go and look for it. Well, I don't know. That doctor's case of instruments that was in the Morris Collier, they were never found either. That's right. They might be at his garage, too. Hasn't anybody been in that garage looking for him? No, I know the sergeant who was there. He didn't look around very carefully. I think I could get a warrant of search. You said the man was missing. I know where he is. Where? Dartmoor? Britain? No. A friend of his is being released after a three-year term. He went up to welcome him out of prison. Coming back to London? Today. You seem awfully anxious to find this fellow, why? I hate a cop killer, Chief Inspector. Don't you? Get your search warrant. The garage was closed, of course, but we got inside all right. I doubt anyone saw us. It was a relatively empty place. One big concrete-floored room and the desk in one corner behind a wooden railing. A few tool shelves along one wall. Filing cabinets or two alongside the desk. We walked across the floor first. Not much of an office. Let's have a look in the desk drawers. Right. Empty. This one's empty, too. This, too. Try more. Doesn't he keep anything here? Pretty careful, man. Nothing incriminating for anybody to find. You must keep some papers here or something. What's in here, I wonder? Cabinet. Open it. It's locked. Open it. There's a pinch bar here on the wall. That ought to do. Anything interesting? Arm clock. Wrenches. What's he want to hide this stuff for? Well, it locks up, I guess. Doesn't trust his friends. Suppose so. Look. Look here. What is it? One of those gadgets a doctor puts in his ears and listens to your heart with. Stethoscope. What else? Oh, I dropped it. What is it? Just two or three of them. Looked like that's what they are. These are doctor's instruments. What was that doctor's name, the one that owned the car? Canon Hagerty. You've got a good memory. Oh, not so good. It's stamped right here on the handle of this lantern or whatever it is. Well, indeed. Now all we have to do is find that webby revolver and somebody's going to hang. Well, this cabinet's empty. Wonder about those toolshelves. I have to look, I expect. Hope he doesn't walk in on us before we... Speak of the devil, old boy. What? Somebody's coming. There's only this one door. Get on that side. I'll take this one. Right, sir. See anybody? Big husky chap coming. Alone? Seems to be. What do you want me to do, sir? Pick up that spanner there and tap him gently on the sconce that he leaves on me. Right, sir. If you have to hit him, be careful. We'll want to save him for the hangman, you know. If he's the right one. If he isn't healed, doodle the right one comes along. Hey, guys, here's... Who's that family, you? I'm Chief Inspector Tabs of the Scotland Yard, and I arrest you on... Look out, he's got a revolver. Look out! Are you hurt, sir? That one did it. Is he out cold? Doesn't seem to be, sir. Right. Well, in that case, I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Constable William George Green. If I warn you of anything you say, we'll be taking down a writing. Maybe using evidence. We've got the gunwise. That's what we're looking for. A Webly 30 at revolver. And unless I'm much mistaken, these are old-fashioned black powder cartridges. Come along with us, Mr. Sears, as a man that wants to see you. He was the man. He in an accomplice whom we found easily from the direction Sears gave us had murdered Constable Greenley. You wonder at the brutality of shooting out his eyes. Sears told us why. I heard the picture, the last thing a man sees before he dies stays right on his eyeballs. I was the last thing he seen. But he didn't have any eyeballs left when I got done with him. Sears and his accomplice were tried at Old Bailey a year and a month after they'd committed the murder. They were both hanged. One at Pentendill and one at Wandsworth. Same day. Heard today on Whitehall 1212 were Harvey Hayes, Horace Bram, Lester Fletcher, Guy Spall, Winston Ross, Peter Forester, Maurice Gosfield and Bula Garrick. Whitehall 1212 is written and directed by Willis Cooper. If you were offered odds of four to 50, you'd think they were pretty poor, wouldn't you? Well, then just imagine how hopeless a person suffering from cerebral palsy must feel. His chances of getting any kind of treatment are exactly that. Four out of 50. Well, you say to yourself, why? Why is that? Because it takes money to train the needed specialists to build and equip the necessary treatment centers to solve the mysteries of this baffling condition. Although many of the 550,000 sufferers from cerebral palsy are virtually helpless, their cause isn't helpless. No, that's where you come in. They can be helped by accurate diagnosis, by accurate treatment and loving care. Make it possible for them to become productive citizens. They have the will, you can help provide the way. Enlist today in this fight. Send your contributions to United Cerebral Palsy in care of your local Postmaster. Forget them, not. This is NBC, the National Broadcasting Company.