 This is your FBI. This is your FBI. An official broadcast from the files of the Federal Bureau of Investigation presented as a public service by the Equitable Life Assurance Society of the United States. To your FBI you look for National Security under the Equitable Society for Financial Security. These two great institutions are dedicated to the protection of you, your home and your country. Tonight, the story of a crime against the people. Misery chiseling. On one of the lower rungs of the criminal scale is the breed known as the Misery Chiseler. To find in dignified terms, he is one who preys on the misfortunes of another for profit. In language more becoming him, he is a parasite who exists on human sorrow, heartache and misery. The war with its backwash of heartaches here at home has given the Misery Chiseler a rich field in which to work. Through the cooperation of the victims, however, the FBI has already bagged scores of these despicable criminals and is continuously warring against them. But a Misery Chiseler is not too easily caught because he has robbed his victim and disappeared before the victim realizes or even suspects that he or she has been robbed. The story of tonight's case begins in San Francisco in the modest little home of Mrs. Henry Miller, a widow whose son was reported missing in action some time ago. But just now, from a man introducing himself as Colonel Addison Bramley of British Army Intelligence, Mrs. Miller has heard good news. You don't know how I've prayed, Colonel Bramley, that this might be true. I understand. That my son was alive, and you were prisoner of the Japanese. Yes, it is much better to know that than nothing at all. I know. Well, I hear, Madam, I must be dashing along now. Oh, must you leave right away, Colonel Bramley? Yes, I must. I have so little time, sorry to say. Oh. I'm en route to Washington on a special mission in connection with the work of the Underground, the Indochina, you say. Oh, of course. Well, you'll never know how deeply grateful I am to you. Not at all, Madam. One is never too busy to perform an errand of mercy. Let us both, rather, be grateful to your good pastor, Reverend Morley, for bringing us together. Oh, he's been so kind, trying to get some muse for me. It was just luck, you know. Really? Somewhere en route from Burma, I mislaid the slip of paper with your son's name. But thank heavens I did recall that you're both members of the hillside church here. So I made him... Oh, family. Uh, yes. I hate to bother you, but could you get a letter to my son through the Underground? I believe so, yes. I'd be so grateful. Uh, I have a suggestion. Yes? With a little money, Mrs. Miller, your son could purchase special favors and comforts from the Japanese guards. They're very susceptible to petty bribery. Could you get that to him, too? Well, we have managed from time to time to transmit sums of money from parents to their sons. Oh, that'd be wonderful. I have much, but... Well, I have $500 in my savings account. Could you get that to my son? Certainly. And I can assure you, Madam, that such a son would improve your boy's circumstances and measure. Then I'll go to the bank the first thing in the morning. Oh, but that'd be too late for you. No, no, not at all. My plane for Washington doesn't leave until 11 a.m. I could meet you in the lobby of my hotel just before going to the area. Thank you, Colonel Braver. My dear Madam, it's been a pleasure. You can understand, Mrs. Miller's readiness to give this perfect stranger $500. Outweighing her normal caution was her anxiety for her son. And Colonel Bramley, so-called, his important bearing and credible story and the fact that he had contacted her through her pastor, these things were enough to allay any suspicion. And no doubt her disillusionment would have been delayed for a long time. And not something occurred a few days later, which brought her to the San Francisco office of the FBI. And what caused you to suspect this, Colonel Bramley, Mrs. Miller? This message, Mr. Hartley, from the War Department. Oh, I see. There's been a mistake. My son was not missing. He was wounded, and they're sending him home. That's fine. I'll not tell him anything about it, of course. But we're mighty glad that you told us. A neighbor of mine said that I should. You've done exactly right. These things are embarrassing to the victims, I know. But unless they report the cases, we don't know that they exist. I only hope I haven't come too late. You've given us an excellent description of the man, and we'll go to work at once. You have to say anything to my pastor. He'd feel so badly about it. You'll be as anxious for us to catch this man as you and we are, I'm sure. Of course. And he might have a helpful clue. We'll tell a type of description to Washington headquarters at once. During the next few hours, every hotel, every airline, railroad, and bus ticket office in San Francisco was checked by FBI agents. But no trace of any Colonel Bramley or anyone fitting Mrs. Miller's general description of it. Later that evening, a teletype message is coming into the FBI office, as Special Agent Hartley enters. What's coming in, John? An answer from Washington. They say no information on Colonel Bramley or anyone fitting general description in personal files. Tried to get fingerprints. Well, I did just that, and I got them. You did? Where? I think our Colonel Bramley made a mistake calling on Mrs. Miller's pastor. What do you mean? The pastor had Bramley sign his guest book. Huh? Look, Bramley signed on the right-hand page and had to press down the left-hand page with his left fingers while he signed, reverent morally so endured. Well, he certainly left some fingerprints. Yes. They were going to send these specimens off to Washington right away. Ironically enough, while his fingerprints and handwriting are speeding across the continent, Colonel Bramley a few hundred miles away in Salt Lake City is just complimenting his young hostess on an excellent dinner. On this occasion, however, he has demoted himself to a major. A major Romney Richards. My dear madam, that was a most delightful meal. Well, it was very simple, really, Major Richards. Oh, come now. I haven't dined so well in quite a spill. A bit of rhyme, what? And pure flattery, and you know it. Oh, nonsense. I'm quite shamelessly a phallogastric, an ardent epicurean, and I declare I envy your good husband such an excellent cook. Well, Major, this was all too little in return for what you're going to do for him. I must repeat, nonsense. But I don't know how I can ever thank you enough for either of us. Just thank your good pastor, my dear, for bringing us together. And you may rest assured that through my agents in Russia, working with a manchurian underground, the money will reach and bring relief to your dear husband. Another day, another city, and another victim, and still free to pursue his lonesome profession. But in San Francisco he had left a trace, and in both cities he had left a pattern of operation. Therefore, although unaware of it, his race against time had begun. For the moment the advantage was his because the FBI had not yet established his identity. But an hour later, as he boarded a bus out of Salt Lake City to continue his misery-chisling trek eastward, the teletype brought a report to the FBI San Francisco office. Got something for you, Harley. What is it? Report from Washington. Can you identify those prints? Good. It says, Bramley Fingerprints identified with Swindler whose description tallies with description furnished by Mrs. Miller. Here, let me see. Here you are. Your man is Thomas Edward Bradley, born Chicago, Illinois, 40 years old, 5 feet 11, and with 75 pounds, served New York prison term forgery, paroled on request of chaplain when Bradley served as secretary. That explains the minister angle in his operations. Exactly. I'll get it. Hello? Yes? Salt Lake office calling. Hello? Yes, Harley speaking. Oh, hello, Jaeger. What? Yes? Yes? That's enough for me. Teletype will report to Washington. Goodbye. What's up? Mr. Bradley pulled a job in Salt Lake City last night. I'm going there in the next plane. We momentarily close the Federal Bureau of Investigation file on Thomas Bradley, Misery Chisler. We will reopen this file in just a moment. In the office of President Thomas I. Parkinson of the Equitable Life Assurance Society of the United States is a folder filled with letters that come straight from the heart of America. These letters were written by the fathers and mothers and wives of equitable society members who have died while serving with the armed forces of the United States. Since the Equitable is truly a society in which all policy holders belong to one big family, we would like to share the inspiration of these letters with all our members. Here, for example, is one from a father who has given us permission to read it on this program. He writes, Dear Mr. Parkinson, your kind letter of sympathy made us feel more like living and carrying on. As from the way it was written, I know the words came direct from your heart. It's very easy to see how a society like yours could achieve so much. It couldn't be otherwise. Your consoling letter would make our son proud to know that he belonged to a society like yours. The principles for which he fought and gave his life make us proud to be the parents of a son like him. While he was called upon to make the supreme sacrifice, we know now that he did not give his life in vain. Letters like these keep us continually conscious of our responsibility to members of the Equitable Society and to all America. Now back to the file on Thomas Bradley, Misery Chisler. Unfortunately, a Misery Chisler rarely always leaves a large number of victims in his wake. But the more promptly the victims report their cases, the shorter it becomes the criminal's trail. Mrs. Miller in San Francisco did not report her case for three days, although she was not to blame for that. But this gave the criminal, Thomas Edward Bradley, a three-day start. The FBI lost another day establishing his identity. And a four-day start in an area as broad as America is quite a handicap in pursuing a criminal who must keep on the move. The FBI now had Bradley's description and his pattern of operation. And all FBI field officers throughout the country had been alerted. His race against the FBI and time had begun in earnest, and already he had lost ground. The report of the fresh case in Salt Lake City had cut Bradley's lead from four days to 36 hours. At this moment, Special Agent Hartley bent on picking up Bradley's trail, has landed in a passenger plane on Salt Lake City's airport. Hartley! Oh, hello, Jager. Not much use in you stopping off here. What's the story? When Washington alerted us this afternoon, we contacted all ministers. Yes? One of them reported a Major Richards. He had sent him to a Mrs. Warner. Her story is in this report here. What about Bradley? We checked, and he left on a bus at 9.30 last night for Denver. It was loose in Denver by now, I guess. Yes, we got the information too late to have him picked up at the Denver terminal. But the Denver office is working in the case? Yes. All ministers there alerted? Yes. And all railroad and bus offices are being watched. Good. Thanks, Jager. I'm heading to Denver. Special Agent Hartley arrived in Denver about 4 a.m. The FBI agents there had uncovered no trace of Bradley. But he had to be somewhere in the city. Hotels and rooming houses were checked. No Bradley. And by that afternoon, no minister had reported any contact with him. But Bradley was at work that afternoon, just the same. What a glorious drive this is, Mrs. Currie. I'm never tired of eternal asking. I dare say you couldn't. If it weren't for this deeply war and the work I must do, I should love to tarry in the midst of this scenic splendor for a season myself. You must come back someday. You may be sure I shall. But for now I'm afraid we must be turning back toward the city. Oh. Colonel Ashley. Yes. How soon will the money reach my son? The underground in occupied China is doing a splendid job, Mrs. Currie. Your son should receive the money within a fortnight. The criminal who lives by his wits is smart enough to alter his pattern of operation occasionally. That's why no minister in Denver had been contacted by Bradley. With the aid of newspaper files he had contacted a next of kin directly. That's why also Bradley was not apprehended leaving Denver. It was two days later when the FBI uncovered the fact that Bradley had boarded an eastbound bus two stations out of Denver and had reached his destination by now, Cleveland. But five hours later, by plane special agent Hartley arrived in Cleveland too. It is shortly afternoon and Hartley is just entering the FBI office. Hello, Phil. Oh, come in, Hartley. We've been expecting you. What's been happening? The town's pretty well covered, but no lead on Bradley yet. You read his report? Yes. I hope he goes back to the minister pattern here. The ministers have all been alerted, but no report from any yet. How about the newspaper list of next of kin for the boys missing in action? Three men are working on it, but Bradley may go to work before all next of kin are alerted. Yes. You figure he worked that way in Denver? Well, he didn't contact any ministers, and the newspaper files are open to anybody. So Bradley went down the list of missing in action, picked out a victim, and went to work? I'm sure of it. Well, we've covered everything. We'll just have to wait for development. Yes, but I sure hope they develop as fast. It is now 7 p.m., and nothing is developed for the FBI. But at this moment, in the Cleveland suburb, a Mrs. Paul Everett's front doorbell rings. Mrs. Everett? Yes? I'm Major Radcliffe, British Army Intelligence. Oh, yes, Reverend Matthews' housekeeper phoned that you were coming over. Well, won't you come in? Thank you. Thank you. Mrs. Everett, I have news for you. Oh? About your husband. About my... About Paul... Your husband, Mrs. Everett, is alive. Oh, God. And I've come to ask you... Reverend Matthews' housekeeper sent Bradley to Mrs. Everett's house. But why wasn't the FBI notified? While Bradley goes to work on his prospective victim, the minutes, the hours, dragged by in the FBI office. Well, Phil, it doesn't look like things are going to develop. No. Bradley is going into action here. We should have heard by now. I know. I'll get it. Robert speaking. This is Reverend Matthews. Yes, Reverend? I was out all afternoon and neglected to tell my housekeeper about your warning. Yes. I have just returned and she tells me she directed a major Radcliffe to Mrs. Paul Everett's house. Yes. He's probably still there. What's the address? Uh, 1625... Lenway Boulevard. Lenway Boulevard. Thank you very much, Reverend. One of the minutes, Phil? Yes. Here's a name and address. Mrs. Paul Everett. I think Bradley's there. Good. I'll get a cab. You phone the woman and tell her to hold Bradley. Right. Yes. I'm Special Agent Hartley, FBI. Oh, yes. I've been expecting you. Is the major still here? No, I'm sorry. He left just a few minutes before your office called. Another miss, but this time by a margin of only a few minutes. This meant Bradley was still in Cleveland. If he tried to register at a hotel or a trench and rooming house, clerks were keeping a sharp lookout for a man of his description with a British accent. If he tried to leave the city, airline bus and railroad ticket offices were alerted by the FBI, all waiting for Bradley to make a move. Four hours passed and no report. Then Special Agent Hartley began a personal round of travel offices. It was 1 a.m. when he reached an airline ticket office. He scanned the brief list of passengers, booked on the flights, then questioned the girl on duty. Dr. Phillip Gibson. Remember him? Yes, he said he was a surgeon here. I've looked in the telephone directory and there's no Dr. Phillip Gibson listed. There's no? No. How old a man was he? Oh, around 40. British accent? I don't remember. Notice anything particular about him? Well, no, but he did make a mistake. He asked the space to Newark, New Jersey, and we don't stop there anymore. Newark, eh? Yes, I gave him space to New York and asked him how to take the tube to Newark. When did his flight leave? Oh, it's reached New York by now. Yeah, use your phone. Right here, of course. Thanks. Would you book me on the next flight in New York, Miss? Uh, yes, sir. That will be about now or for now. Hello? Phil? Hartley. Contact the Newark office right away to set the stage for Bradley and have them alert ministers and all next of kin on the next plane to New York. Hartley arrived at the Newark office at the FBI about 6 a.m. By noon the stage was set. Ministers alerted. Next of kin of boys missing in action alerted. Everything was in readiness. The afternoon hour was dragged by. Nothing happened. Six o'clock. Maybe there was a Dr. Phillip Gibson after all. Maybe Bradley hadn't dropped his English accent, changed his name and manner. Seven o'clock. Seven thirty. At eight o'clock, Mrs. George Wiley, a resident of Newark, was entertaining a guest in her living room. Some more tea, Colonel Barton? No, thank you. It was delicious. But, uh, I can't name the blend for the life of me. Gracious. I wouldn't know either. To me, tea is tea, except in the Chinese restaurant. A jolly good crypt. Well, Mrs. Wiley, I'm afraid I really must be dashing off. You'll be late for your dinner engagement. But it's been such a pleasure talking with you. Thank you. And I find it difficult to leave your charming company, but I have urgent marriage to take care of in New York this evening. Of course. And you may rest assured that as soon as I cast your check, the money will be on its way to your brother. The Korean underground has not failed yet. I can't thank you enough, Colonel. Just thank Providence for making it possible for me to be of service to you. Good night, Mrs. Wiley. Good night, Colonel. Oh, just a minute, please. Uh, uh, uh... I beg your pardon? You should. For making me chase you all the way from San Francisco. What the devil are you talking about, sir? And just who are you? I'm a special agent of the FBI. The FBI? That's right. I'd like to ask you some questions. Look here, young man. Do you know to whom you're speaking? Yes, I do, Mr. Bradley. Bradley? Yes. Thomas Edward Bradley. Bad Czech artist. Forger, Swindler. Misery Chiseler. Hidden. Wanted for impersonating an officer of a country with whom the United States is at peace. Kid, man, is that true? It is. Then I trust the FBI will exhibit proper regard for this country's international relations and take such an utter scoundrel out of circulation. And so, thanks to the cooperation of the citizens on whom he prayed, the FBI was able to chalk up another victory in its war on the Misery Chiseler. Bradley's final capture was made possible in this case when Mrs. George Wiley, who had been alerted, took long enough at making a pot of tea to also telephone the FBI. Scores of Bradley's kind have been arrested, but not all. Their arrest depends on your help, and you can make their miserable racket unprofitable by dealing only through government agencies and through reputable public service organizations in seeking information concerning loved ones in the service reported missing. Also, by checking first with the FBI before dealing with any individual, professing to have special knowledge about the missing person. Remember, the FBI belongs to you. It operates for your protection. You'll hear about the disposition of this case in just a minute. Do you know what would happen if every single piece of farm machinery in America wore out tomorrow? Well, among other things, it would mean that war production would come to a dead stop. People now living in cities would have to hurry back to the farm. Actually, to get in the weak crop alone without the aid of mechanical equipment would require the services of every able-bodied person in America plus millions of foreign workers. So will you join the equitable society in a salute to an indispensable industry, a salute to the men and women who manufacture and the dealers who service farm equipment, who have built the huge backlog of tractors, binders, and combines that have sold and harvested our record wartime crops. For many years, funds of the Equitable Life Assurance Society of the United States have been invested in this industry, which has done an incredible job of war production and at the same time has manufactured the parts necessary to keep farm equipment from wearing out. Today, although thousands of young farmers have exchanged their overalls for Uncle Sam's uniforms, America is still well-fed thanks to the farm equipment industry. In wartime, equitable society dollars are fighting dollars. And at all times, they are security dollars for you, your home, and your country. Thomas Bradley, charged with impersonating an accredited official of a country with which the United States is at peace, was sentenced to a long term in a federal penitentiary. The incidents used in tonight's broadcasts are taken from the files of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. However, all names used are fictitious, and any similarity thereof to the names of persons living or dead is accidental. Programs in this series of particular interests to service men and women are broadcast overseas through the worldwide facilities of the Armed Forces Radio Service. Tonight, the music was under the direction of Van Cleave, the author was Frank Ferry, and your narrator was Frank Lovejoy. This is Your FBI is a Jerry Devine production. Now, this is Carl Frank speaking for the Equitable Life Assurance Society of the United States and inviting you to tune in again next week at this same time for This Is Your FBI. August 1st is Air Force Day, a day for Air-Minded America to look backward at her achievements on the battleground of the sky and forward to the promise of peace, the shadow of her wings over the world forecast. On August 1st, your Army Air Forces will have completed their 38th year of pioneer service in the taming of a new frontier. Sword for victory and shield for peace, your Army Air Forces rule the sky, salute them on August 1st, Air Force Day. This is the American Broadcasting Company.