 Whitehall, one-two, one-two, quickly! For the first time, Scotland Yard opens its secret files to bring you the authentic stories of some of its most baffling cases. These accurate dramatizations, which are presented exclusively by NBC, are drawn from the official files of Scotland Yard. They're true pictures of the operations of the world's most famous crime detection organization. Only the names of the participants have, for obvious reasons, been changed. The research is prepared by Percy Hoskins, chief crime reporter of the London Daily Express, and the stories for radio, which are performed by an all-British cast, are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Here are the principal participants in case number 108 MR-131. Two of these persons have been hanged for murder. Private Eric Slade, 22 of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps. I was a bomb disposal man. Gladys Brown, who wanted to be a dancer. I'm not so awfully bad-looking am I? Melanie Rodier, 20 of French War Refugee. Je suis un pauvre, ne suis pas riche. Charles Brooks, 31, taxi cab driver. It was a brand-new American flimmer, the gray one, model 1941. Inspector Stuart Wilcox of Scotland Yard. Which of those four voices sounds guilty to you? This lower ground floor corridor in which we're standing leads to Scotland Yard's black museum. Come down there with me. I'd like you to see an actual souvenir of an actual murder. This is the black museum. Oh, good afternoon, Wilcox. Good afternoon, sir. This is Chief Superintendent John Davidson, curator of the black museum. Well, how do you do? I expect you've never seen a place like this before. Look about if you like. Now, the items we have here have all served in some way in the commission of a crime. Here's the bullet from our murderer's gun. This is the linen duster in which the body of a murder victim was wrapped. This is what you came to see. The one thing remaining from our murder case, number 108MR131. That was what you wished to see, wasn't it, Wilcox? Yes, yes, please. A rather expensive silver cigarette case. Initial, somewhat tarnished today. It was once quite good looking, wasn't it, Wilcox? Yes, it was. I'll tell you how it came here to the black museum. A man died for it. Two men died for it, Wilcox. Human motives are curious. The compulsion to become a dashing hero that led a simple-minded young shop clerk to join the most dangerous service in the army. The urge to acquire a compelling and seductive personality that led a one-time housemaid into displaying herself as a striptease artist in a tawdry nightclub in wartime London. Nigel knew the other's true name, the striptease dancer Gladys Brown called herself Regina Montmorency. The absent-without-leave army private Eric Slade introduced himself to the glamour girl as Lieutenant Studs Farrell, erstwhile gangster. He took her for a ride in the huge red-painted bomb disposal squad lorry late one night in 1944. You did like my accent, Lieutenant? Sensational, I thought. Colossal. You sound just like Hollywood. What? Hollywood. I said you sound like Hollywood. No. I was in Hollywood for a little while. Oh, were you really? Over the mob, you know. I've been talking about a Hollywood contract. You have? Oh, yes, of course. But Hollywood's always after me. Oh. Such a bore. Well, I like Chicago much better. Were you in Chicago long, Studs? Now, you could bet your bottom dollar on that, sister. Oh, it must have been ever so exciting. I've got a few notches on my gun. Oh, why? I see I'm no panty-waste, my girl. Panty-waste? That's what we call a mother's boy in America. Oh, were you in America, then, Studs? Well, I lived there a great deal all over the Middle West. Chicago, Detroit, Minneapolis, Cicero, Philly, you know, it's Philadelphia. My? I was a cowboy for a while, too, in a ranch in Ohio. I've been around. Did you have a lot of moles? What say? Moles, you know, gun moles. A few? Oh, it must be wonderful to be a mole. It's dangerous. I love danger, and you get so rich. Well, I've done all right. I should like being a gun mole, really. Really? I don't think I should be a very good, very good dancer, aren't I? Oh, you are. Petey. I should think you'd miss pulling jobs. Off just pulled one. What? Well, where do you think I got this lorry? Did you steal it? I reckon I sure did, sister. That's darling. Let's pull a job together. I'll be your gun mole, and we'll... Statement by Melanie Rodier to Inspector Stuart Wilcox in a nursing home at Ealing two days later. My name is Melanie Rodier. I've been in England five years. I lived in Moliens, Au Bois, just quite close to Amiens. My home was destroyed by the bush, but I escaped and came here. At 11 o'clock, two nights ago, I was walking down Staines Road on my way to London, very near Runnymaid. You were alone, mademoiselle? Yes, I was alone. I was carrying in my valise a large army lorry painted quite gaily in red, stubbed, and the man asked me where I was going alone so late at night. Where were you going? I said I was walking to London to catch a train at Paddington to Bristol where lives my aunt Becquerel. The man told me to get in the lorry and he would drop me off at Reading where he was going. He was an officer, and I was not afraid. It would be a great convenience. Why are you carrying money? I'm a very poor woman, monsieur. I had all the money I possessed with me. How much? Five shillings, sir. So I was not afraid of being robbed for that little money. But when I started to mount to the seat of the lorry, the girl... Girl? What girl? Was there a girl? She was seated beside the officer, sir. What did she do? She struck me on my head with an iron bar so that I did fall to the road. Huh? What then? I was stunned. And she and the officer did jump down and hit me, and they robbed me of my five shillings and beat me until I was insensible. Did you see their faces? Only a little. I would not know them again. And then? I did hear the woman say, what shall we do with the body? And I tried to cry out, but she did hit me with a fist, so I do not remember more until I find I am drowning. They threw you into the stream there. The Thames runs quite close to the road. They thought I am dead. Afraid they did. They have taken all my money and all my clothes. What is to become of me now? We'll find them somewhere. I came to England to escape my enemies. It was a matter that should have properly been handled by the county constabulary. Of course, a simple assault upon a friendless person, happily not involving murder. But there were other circumstances. First, the fact that the assault had been committed and connived that by a person in the uniform of an officer of His Majesty's forces, driving a motor vehicle which was obviously an official one. Whoever it was had attempted murder once. They might try it again. And I confess I was unable to forget what the poor little French refugee had said. I came to England to escape my enemies. Detective Sergeant Kevin Moore and I discussed it in my office. Well, if it was a red-painted lorry, sir, it could be only one thing. Bomb disposal people, of course. A little out of his territory up there and running me, sir. With a girl at 11 o'clock at night. Well, you didn't ask my opinion, sir. Well, why do you think I called you in? Well, in that case, sir, my opinion is that it was some young ex-schoolboy officer who had several dozen drops too much in some bottle club in London. And wondering about it, he saw the lorry standing somewhere and pinched it for a lark, a joyride, we used to say. Innocent amusements of the young. I think so, sir. I doubt that French girl thinks so. And neither do I. They thought they'd drown the girl for five shillings. And I furthermore think they'll try it again unless we catch them first. Well, we'll try, sir. I'll get in touch with the bomb disposal people and find out if any officer of theirs was out with one of their lorries that night. Or if one of their lorries had been stolen and one of their officers absent without leave. Yes, sir. That's a good idea. Of course it is. I'm right, which I probably am, teletype the number of the lorry and the description of the officer to all the police in this area. Yes, sir. And warn everyone who knows about this French girl's case to say nothing about it at all. Especially to the newspapers. Why is that, sir? If they find out they bungled their first try, our friends may become discouraged and abandon their promising career as criminals. We'll never catch them. Oh. It was the next day before I saw Moore again. When he came in to report what he had accomplished, I had news for him, too. I let him speak first. Well, sir, I've been in touch with the bomb disposal people. And? Oh, I've had to talk to millions of people, sir. Finally, I found the right ones to give me the reliable information. Yes? There was a lorry stolen, sir. Ha-ha! Number W14519, an American made ten wheels six by six. Good. There is no officer missing, sir. All of them in the London District are accounted for, including one who was blown up trying to unscrew a fuse from a buried blockbuster that's been sizzling for a week in Shepherd's Bush. But there's a private missing, sir. Uh-huh. Name of, uh... Eric Slade, former shop clerk, 22 years old, wears glasses, described as a mild-mannered little man, very quiet, residents when called up, clock and well, sandy hair. He got a girl. His mates say he was terrified of girls, sir. Doesn't drink or smoke? Doesn't seem the type to commit murder or try to, at least, does he? Oh. How'd a man like that ever get into bomb disposal? Well, believe it or not, sir, he volunteered. Of course, he's been on permanent cooks police ever since. Well, I doubt he's our man, but at least we can help look for the poor little beggar. That is, if they want him back. Now I've got a bit of news for you. Oh? What's that, sir? Same man that pulled the French girl out of the Thames at running me telephone me. What's he want, sir? There's been another attempt at robbery and murder. A Thames? Another girl riding a bicycle, run down by a red-painted lorry. A lieutenant, she saw his badges quite plainly, and a red-haired girl jumped out after him. She ran away, but she did hear the girl call to the lieutenant, addressing him as Studs. Studs? Studs! Now I want you to see your bomb disposal men and ask them if they have a lieutenant named Studs... Oh, excuse me. Inspector Wilcox. Yes? Well, he's right here. One second. Be you. Oh, thank you, sir. Sergeant Moore here. Oh, yes, Sergeant Major. Oh? Where? Oh. Oh, well, thank you. Oh, by the way, do you have any officers named Studs or Studs? Studs! Studs. Yes, I'll wait. Who's that? It was the Sergeant Major I talked to, sir. Yes. Oh, none, eh? None at all? Thank you, Sergeant Major. All right, bye. What was that? I found a stolen lorry, sir, a few minutes ago. They did? And parked all night on a street in Hammersmith in the rain. Which has quite efficiently washed away all fingerprints, Studs and his lady friend and all, right back where we started. How do you mean? Well, they've tried murder twice now, sir. The third time may be the charm. The portion of case number 108 MR131 I'm about to play for you now is reconstructed from the statements made by Eric Slade and Gladys Brown at that trial at Old Bailey three weeks later. I assume it's correct and accurate because it came from their own lips as they were on trial for their lives. They were standing in a darkened doorway, they said, on Hammersmith Broadway later tonight. Have I got to walk home, then? Regina, darling, I've only got ten shillings left. Ten shillings? The big shot gangster, the tear of Chicago and all, he's only got ten shillings. Well, I'll get some more. Well, get it now, gangster. I'm going to ride home. Regina, I can't go back and ask anybody for money. I'm absent without leave. I'm a wanted man. What do you have to leave that lorry over there on the street? I've got a written in that. Somebody'd recognise the lorry. You know that. Who was the big bad gangster afraid, then? You stole that lorry. Oh, you're not afraid of girls, are you? I said, stole it. What part of bad man you are? Brave enough to rob a poor girl of her five shillings. Five shillings. But when a man comes along, oh, no, not you. Not bloody well you, my darling. Even made me smash the poor thing on the edge. You weren't man enough to... I'll throw her in the water. After I'd killed her. Don't yell at so. Oh, there's no one to hear me. I'm sorry I ever took up with you. I thought you was a man. No, Regina. Won't even step out and stick up a lousy taxi, man. Let me walk home in the rain because you've not got that... No, Regina, please. Don't come at on me now. Take your hands off me. I thought I was going to be your maul. Take your hands off me. You don't love me. Regina, I do love you. Well, then do something about it. Get me some money. If I'm going to be your maul, you've got to support me. Regina. Do you love me, studs, darling? Regina, you know I love you. Look. What? Here comes a taxi cab. Stop him. No, I don't want to do anything like that. Don't shout at him. He'll have lots of money. No, I don't think... Haven't we... Do you love me? Regina. Do you or don't you? Of course I do. You know that. Taxi! Don't! Regina, don't! Stop! Here, taxi! I don't want to. Now you've got to. Come on in afterwards. Oh, taxi! Yes, ma'am. Yes, sir. Stats. Are you... I mean... Driver, we wish to go to the top of King Street. Come on, stat. Wait a minute, lady. What's the matter? This isn't a taxi. What? I mean it's a private hire car. Oh, that's all right. Well, I don't know, lady. It costs a great deal more to ride a private hire car than a plane taxi cab. Am I... He has the money. Haven't you, dear? How much? 10 shillings. To the top of King Street? Shouldn't cost me more than one and six, you robber. Stats, dear. This is a private hire car, sir. I can charge what I like, you know. I won't pay it. Darling, I want to ride home. You heard what the lady said, mister. It's a filthy night, sir. And there ain't many taxi cabs about. The fare will be tensioned. Come on, darling. We can afford it. We'll have lots of money later, you know. Come on. Coming, sir. Of course he's coming. Get in, stunt. Top of King Street, sir. We'll tell you where to stop. We're waiting till we're almost there. What say, miss? I was talking to my boyfriend. Oh, sorry. I say, you must make lots of money in this business. We do all right, miss. Hear that? Mm-hmm. I've got it. But I... Very bad night, ain't it? It is for you. Pardon? I said yes. I hope you don't mind too much about that 10 shillings fare, sir. A man's got to make a living, ain't he? Oh, what's so funny, miss? Oh, um, we've got a better way of making money than you have. Haven't we, studs? Yes, we have. We're gangsters. What? Gangsters. We're gangsters. I shouldn't laugh, buddy. He was a gangster in Chicago. Oh, look here now. Give your eye on the road, Mac. Hey, look here, mate. I'm not in the mood for your practical jokes. This isn't a joke. Stop poking at me. The revolver he's poking in your neck, buddy. What? A pistol. What do you want? All your money. I'll give you my money. Of course you will. Stop the car. All right. I'll give you my money. Keep. Give your hands out of your pockets. What are you going to do? Shut up. All right, Virginia. Move to one side. What are you going to do? Dad, you don't have to. You shut up. Get to one side. Now, look here, friend. I'll show you how I deal with rats. Now, say your friend is a rat. No, no, no. He's serious, and he'll turn us in after. No, no. Two. Message from J Division Metropolitan Police to Inspector Stuart Wilcox the following morning. Yes, sir. The body of the unfortunate victim lay in the mortuary for three days without identification. Although it was obviously a murder, we had no single clue to go upon. We were not idle. A detail from Scotland Yard had been hurried out to the place where the body was found, immediately upon receipt of the message from J Division. With great difficulty, they had succeeded in making a plaster cast of the faint tire marks, and the laboratory was able to establish with some accuracy the fact that the tires were identical with those on the Model 1941 Plymouth. Beyond that, there was nothing. Until a Mrs. Charles Brooks of Hammersmith identified the body as that of her missing husband, a private hire car driver. I spoke to Kevin Moore about it. Something extremely suspicious keeps occurring in this thing, Kevin. You know, I lay here throughout the time. I'm thinking about the same thing, sir. Hammersmith? Right, sir. We found a lorry parked in a Hammersmith street first. And the dead taxi driver lived in Hammersmith. And the place they found the body was at the junction of Kings Road in Hammersmith Broadway. You suppose our man Studs lived in Hammersmith? Or perhaps his girlfriend. You think it was them, sir? I don't know, Kevin. But when we get a series of coincidences like this... Well, it's the only symptom of a lead we have. Let's follow it through. Now, you suppose they've got that car? Oh, it'll be easy enough to find, sir. We've got the number and description of it from the man's wife. Mm-hmm. Here it is. Ray Plymouth Saloon 1941 Model. License number, GKP 401. About 2,300 miles on the speedometer. I'd be an awful fool to drive it about town. I have an idea. He is a fool. Come in. I'm from the detail that was searching the pawn shop, sir. Oh, oh, oh. Do come in. Did you find anything? Yes, sir. Yes. Cigarette case. Pawned at a shop in Soho, sir. It's Brooks, all right. See his initials inside here? C-E-B. Christmas, 1939. That's on the list, Mrs. Brooks gave us, sir. Right. Did you find out who pawned it? Yes, sir. A young man in the uniform of the IOC. Officer? Private, sir. Name? Private S. Pavel, sir. That's a new one, sir. I know something. What? That's our studs. How do you know? Look, sir, I read a book once. Well, it was an American book, sir, and it was written by a man named Farrell. This man's not an American. No, sir, but maybe he read the same book and remembered. Let's try this all over again, old chap. Sir, the name of the book, which was all about Chicago in America, was Studs... Studs something or other. Anyway, he was a very tough young man. Maybe our man's read the same book well now. Sir, this is a typical Chicago-style affair, isn't it? And you were talking of coincidences? Our man Studs is a murderer, all right. You see. Well, then, I'll tell you what you do, Kevin. What, sir? You go find Mr. Studs Farrell, the amateur Chicago gangster for me, will you? Well, I'll try, sir, but he's not an amateur any longer. He's turned professional. Wireless communication between Scotland Yard's 999 room and a patrol car two nights later. 3J23, over. MG2W, this is the wanted Plymouth saloon car licensed number GKP... 3J23, this is MG2W. Keep car under surveillance. Follow it if it leaves. Maintaining communication with me at all times. Send Constable to nearest road intersection to guide other cars being dispatched now to scene. Notify your square Constable guide is stationed up once. Over. 3J23 to MG2W. Honest start. Over and out. A Scotland Yard patrol car with Sergeant Kevin Moore picked me up at my home in less than ten minutes. We proceeded at a good rate of speed to the Fulham district where a Constable hopped on the running board and directed us quietly to the scene. We ran without light, stopping at the mouth of the Quildus Ark where the grey Plymouth was parked. We blocked the exit of the dead end with our car and waited. It was very quiet. Half an hour later, Kevin Moore spoke. Oh. Oh, I'm going to get down and stretch my legs. I'm gone. Careful though, don't make any noise. Don't go down and have a look at the car. Be quiet. All right, sir. Moore did not return for several minutes. I called softly to him. Kevin. Are you all right? We waited. I was dying for smoke. Better not smoke though. I hear him. Coming out of that house there on the right, I think. Yes, sir. Hope they don't see Kevin. Getting in the car. Can't get past us, sir. I'm going down there. All right, sir. Turn your spotlight on them as soon as I call out. Yes, sir. Most certainly, yes. I'll have to ask you to keep your hands away from your pockets, sir. Look here. All right. You'll most certainly be forced to break your jaw, sir. Turn on your light. Children, sir. Hold it, hold it there. We're Scotland Yard men. Good, sir. What's your name, Lieutenant? My name is... My name is Lieutenant Studs Farrell, the bomb disposal. Don't tell him. Well, sir, I'm Detective Sergeant Moore of Scotland Yard. I must detain you on the suspicion of being involved in the murder of childhood. It was him. I didn't do it. It was him. Madam, we must detain you on the same charge. I warn you both that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. You haven't got anything on me. I take it, sir, that you have not read the third and last volume of the Studs' Lonigun books then? No. What's that one, Kevin? It's called Judgment Day, sir. At their trial at Old Bailey a few weeks later, Eric Slade and Gladys Brown fought bitterly over who had been the most guilty. The jury decided. Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict? We are. Do you find the prisoner Gladys Brown, alias Regina Montmorency, guilty or not guilty of murder? Guilty. You find the prisoner Eric Slade, alias Studs Farrell, guilty or not guilty of murder? Guilty. You find both prisoners guilty of murder? And that is the verdict of you all? That is the verdict of the song. Prisoners at the bar, you severally stand convicted of murder. Have you or either of you anything to say why the court should not give you judgment of death according to law? And the judge, Gladys Brown and Eric Slade, you have been found guilty after a long and patient trial by a jury of your fellow men of a most brutal murder. I entirely agree with the verdict at which they have arrived. There is only one sentence which the law of this country has asked me to pass upon you and upon each of you. The sentence of this court upon you and upon each of you is that you will be taken to an awful prison and then to a place of execution. That you will be there, each of you, hanged by the name of God, and that your bodies, respectively, be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been found before your execution. And may the Lord have mercy upon yourselves. Amen. You have heard the story of case number 108 MR-131 from the files of Scotland Yard. Only the names have been changed for obvious reasons. Research has been prepared by Percy Hoskins, chief crime reporter of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Three chimes mean good times on NBC.