This is Orson Welles speaking from London. The Black Museum. A museum of death. Yes, here in the grim stone structure on the Thames which houses Scotland Yard is a warehouse of homicide where everyday objects, a fountain pen, a cuff link, a high heel shoe, all are touched by murder. Here's a scarf torn and ragged, the faded tartan, a cheap reproduction of the honourable colours of the Stuarts, red with green, blue crossings and a double over check of white and yellow. This scarf belonged to Walter Hoffman Piewski, known to the police and his friends in the underworld as the Pike. There's no doubt about this scarf being his property superintendent. He was wearing it when he was sent to Dartmoor ten years ago. Ah, the description tells us, does it? Exactly. It's all written down in the prison property book, even to the patch on it. So the Pike's our man. Right, we'll get him. And get him they did. And all because of a scarf, appropriately known in Cockney circles as a choker. The Pike applied his choker to a human throat, the throat of the driver of a post office van. The Pike pulled the choker too hard. It was instrumental in convicting him of murder. That's why it's earned its place here in the Black Museum. From the annals of the Criminal Investigation Department of the London Police, we bring you the dramatic stories of the crimes recorded by the objects in Scotland Yard's gallery of death, the Black Museum. In just a moment you will hear the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. Welles Austrian Now, the Black Museum, starring Orson Welles. Here we are in the Black Museum. Beyond these grey walls, the mighty roar of London never stops. But in here, it's quiet. Come with me under the freeze of death masks, the masks of criminals of bygone days, suspended grimly under the ceiling. Come. To our right and left rows of murder exhibits, each one carefully labelled. That cut glass scents spray, it's attractive even now. I even take its place on madam's dressing table. So we stop and read the label written under it. Perhaps it's been used to spray anesthetic over the faces of helpless women. It's a prelude to murder. No sickly aroma now, so we squeeze the bulb. Except for its grim associations, the fragile exhibit is insignificant, easily broken. But it was strong enough to hang the man who used it. There is a brass candlestick. Over there, a taper to go with it. Now, here we are. Here's what we're looking for. The faded tartan scarf. As I take it out of the showcase, I ask you to come with me back to the time when this scarf was new, 15 years ago. Walter Piewski bought it from a stall holder in one of London's famous street markets, Petticoat Lane. Yes, sir. I'll take one of the scarves, mister. Right, sir! Fine is whoosted woven! What's your claim? Campbell's, Cameron's, McDonald or McLeod? All genuine tartan today down from the islands. All right, all right. I've bought it already. You don't need to give me that stuff. I'll take this one. It's the Stuart! And better than that, you cannot do. Not half a nigger, not five bob, half a crown and cheap at the price. Thank you very much. Come and get your Scots chokers from Honest John McKay. If your necks won't go to war... While Honest John continued his honest trade, the pike went about his own particular business. It was less exhausting than John's and it was worked from a public call box. In professional circles, they called it the hospital trick. Hello? Is that Mrs. Peterson speaking? Yes, who's that? The London hospital here, Mrs. Peterson. Hospital? Why, what happened? Well, there's no need for immediate alarm, but I'm sorry to say that your husband has met with a serious accident. Oh, Bill? Is he hurt? Oh no, what's happened? He was knocked down by a bus in the Whitechapel Road about half an hour ago. A mean, crude trick. But more often than not, it worked. While the stricken woman hurried to the hospital to find the husband, who of course was not hurt at all, the pike would visit her house. With the coast clear, he would help himself to whatever he could lay his hands on and get out before the bewildered woman returned. And you notice that the pike could almost camouflage that accent he had. This gift gave him a confidence which was almost his undoing, on time when he and some friends were removing the entire contents of a house while the owners were away on holiday. What about the piano pike? Do we take that? Of course we take everything. Who'd think of moving out and leaving the piano behind, eh? You'll get us blooping, my lad, you will. Okay boys, piano next. Oh, could I get a phone? What do we do about that? Did it ring, I suppose? No. I've seen the van outside and checking up. I'd better answer it. Here, here, go easy, park. Don't worry Ed, I know my job, don't I? Oh yeah. Hello? Is that Mr Wilson? No, I'm awfully sorry, he won't be back until about seven o'clock. I'm his brother-in-law. Can I help you? Oh, if your sister's there. Oh, Julie's just gone out for half an hour, can I take a message? Yes, I think you can. I'm her brother. Who the blazes are you? Quick boys, let's get out of here. Right on. So the piano was left behind after all, but Pike got away with most of the household belongings and observed. Not only were his operations becoming bolder, but he had planned his action carefully. He even knew that Mrs Wilson's first name was Julie, but he didn't know she had a brother. That must have shaken him, because from then on he changed his tactics. The Pike entered the motor racket, a racket which was to take him in turn from Dartmoor Prison to the scaffold. But in his early days as a motor thief, there was still a trace of strange humour about his work. The padlock car was a case in point. Who's that? Okay, Eddie, it's only me. You wouldn't go reaching for a gun when Pike walks in, on you? Oh, I'm sorry, Pike gets me nervous. Well, relax. Now listen to me, I've got a job for you. No, no, I'm laying off for a bit. Okay, but who pays the rent? Oh, I'm only going in for the small stuff. Well, this is a small job I'm offering you. What is it, busting into the Bank of England, eh? No, no, it's a simple matter of knocking off a nice new motor. Ah, well what's the dope? It's this way. The car belongs to a fellow named Lambert who lives at 14 Grey's Dark Crescent. He can't get it into the garage beside the house on account of it being too big. Why didn't the mug measure it before he bought it? Well, that's not our concern. He locks the car up at night and I've obtained a duplicate set of keys. Oh, nice work, nice work. Yeah. Yeah, what do you want me in on the job for? You can do it yourself. Oh, there is a little complication. Oh, I thought there would be. This fellow Lambert is like a mother with a child over this car. He fixes it to a lamp post every night with two big padlocks and a double chain. And he doesn't put a nappy on it. Oh, what do we do? Take the lamp post as well as the car? And before I tell you, are you in with me? All right, Pike, I'm in. Then listen to what I tell you. In the early hours of the following morning, the Pike and his assistant went along to Grey's Dark Crescent and there, sure enough, chained to the lamp post outside number 14 was a fine new motor car. Its cellulose and chromium were glinting invitingly under the lamplight. It's a special day. We can clean up 450 on this and all we've got to do is to remove the back wheel which is chained to the lamp post. We put on the spare and went away. Okay, Pike, let's get cracking. The offending wheel was removed from the axle and left still chained to the lamp post. And by the light of the helpful rays from above, the spare wheel was bolted on, the tools were replaced in the boot and the two men climbed into the car. I hope that ignition key of yours works, Pike. Of course it works. I tried it out last night. Oh, good for you. And here we go. I told you it was going to be easy, didn't I Ed? It's money for old rope. You're a good at your work, Pike. Just let me know when you need any more help. I'm your man. Walter Piepski pulled his tartan scarf snugly around his throat and agreed that he would certainly keep his assistant in mind. The car itself was taken to a garage where its numbers and appearance were carefully changed and in due course found its way by devious routes back to the open market. The Pike of course had to split the profits which hurt him. So on his next job, he decided to work alone. And it was the next job which put him on the long, long walk which was to finish on the scaffold. Now what's the number of that gouge? Here it is. I've got it. This works, Pike my lad. You're in the money. But it all depends on how good I can sound on the phone. I'll copy my father's voice, twist his soul. Here we go. Green's Boudos. Good evening. Hello? Brins? Yes sir, can I help you? My name is Maurice Bleu of 17 Granford Court. Oh yes sir, I know. The big block of flats in Collerton Drive. That's right. I am staying here with a friend, Major General Lewis. Oh yes sir. He tells me that you have a new Rolls Coupe in your showroom. Yes sir, indeed we have. Yes, well I'm anxious to take such a car back to the continent with me but time is pressing. Are you at 17 Granford Court now sir? Yes, if someone could bring round the car I should like to see it. Right, I'll be with you in a quarter of an hour sir. Are you sure that is not too much trouble? No trouble at all sir. Thank you very much for ringing. Thank you, I should be waiting for you. Fifteen minutes later the car drove up to the block of flats. The driver salesman got out and went inside. Entering the lift he went up to the third floor and knocked on the door of number 17. Needless to say the occupier had never heard of either Maurice Blouette or Major General Lewis. But while the questions and explanations sorted themselves out, Walter Piepski was already driving the luxury car toward the garage where practiced hands were waiting to completely change its identity. First, what the Pike did not know was that he had provided the police with a vital clue that was to lead him first to prison and then by reason of the tartan scarf to the gallows. But the scarf was yet to earn its place of course among these strange exhibits here in the Black Museum. In just a moment we will continue with the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. And now we continue with the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. We return to Walter Piepski, known as the Pike, elated at the success of his confidence car trick. He made a handsome profit on the rolls and despite the fact that the police subsequently traced it, they never traced the theft back to the Pike, not until he tried the same operation again. Certainly he changed the district but as is so often the case with a regular criminal, he develops regular habits and the routine served up to the local garage was almost exactly as before. I'm staying with Sir Leslie and he tells me you've got that straight eight in the showroom. I'm most anxious to take a car back to the continent with me but time is pressing and you see... Are you delighted to bring the car out? Are you right away sir? Is that convenient? If you're sure that it's not too much trouble... No trouble at all sir, I'll be with you in ten minutes. Oh that is most kind, thank you, excellent. But you wouldn't think it was so excellent from your point of view if you knew what was happening at the garage, Pike. Hello, give me the police. Is that Scotland Yard? Yes, information room. Listen, my name is Slater. I run a garage, Carlsbrook Street, North One. Yes sir. A few weeks ago the local police warned me about a car thief who worked a telephone trick, asking salesmen to take cars round to fake addresses for inspection. He just sprung you, has he Mr. Slater? Yes, it might be him or it might be genuine, but he asked me to take a car round to 21 Goldstone Court, Canemar Street. On the advice of Scotland Yard, Mr. Slater took the car to Goldstone Court. To make it easier for the thief, he left the doors unlocked and went into the building. When he was safely inside, the Pike left his telephone box and walked smartly over to the waiting motor. There were just two things he didn't know. First, an ignition wire had been snipped, and second, he was being watched. She'll never start until that broken wire is mended, Pike. You're wasting your time. You're going to waste a lot more time too. Seven years to be exact. Hello sir. You're having a bit of startling trouble. Oh, hello officer. Yes, I don't know what's happened here. I'm used to this sort of thing, so is the other constable here. Oh, there's two of you. There's a lot more at the end of the road. Suppose you hop out of there and let us see whether we can't get the car going for us. Sure, I can manage. All the same, you might let us have a go for you. Okay. That's the idea. Are you the owner of this car? Hold him George. He's got a knuckle there sir. Let me go you squab. No you don't. Oh, I've got it. Put the brakes on him, quick. You all right, 71? How is he? Looks as if he's George Brokered, Inspector. Right, take this man to the station. What's his name? Why, talking. Very well. I'm charging you with grievous bodily harm and resisting arrest for the attempted theft of this vehicle. There may be further charges. There were further charges, including the theft of the big rolls. Walter Piefsky, alias The Pike, had played the same game once too often in a search of his flat in the East End, produced more evidence of his varied career and crime. The police had been waiting for him to make his first mistake. This time he'd done it. At the Old Bailey, he pleaded guilty to over a hundred crimes, and there were hundreds more with which he was never charged. He was sent to prison for seven years, and immediately on his reception his personal belongings were entered in the property book. And he was wearing the tartan scarf, which later was to hang in. Still be had. Gray, seven and a half. Collar, sixteen, brown. One scarf, red background, green and blue stripes, white and yellow overchecked. A can's two-it. How do you know that, Piefsky? The fellow I bought it from in Petticoat Lane, tell me. Take his word for it. Oh, there's a small tear five inches from one corner. Been roughly patched. Better put that down. Don't worry, boys. I won't accuse you of doing anything. Don't you worry. I'll be retired by then. One pair leather gloves, size eight. One pair black socks, ten, brown shoes. The tartan scarf had been duly entered, and little did the retiring prison officer dream that his hastily scribbled details were to be subsequently brought up as key evidence in a murder trial. But Piefsky signed the list of his personal property, and for the next seven years he was a guest of His Majesty's government in the most famous prison in England, Dartmoor. But in 1946, justice had run its course. The pike was given back his personal property, which included the tartan scarf, of course, all duly signed for. And so he was released upon a battle-scarred London. Time passed, and he added to his lawful wages by meager pickings from the black market. And more time passed, until one day the inspiration came to him like a bolt from the blue. He mulled it over in his mind. He carried out the research, and not until the plants were cut and dried did he put Ed Javison in the picture. This is going to be the clean-up, Eddie. Yeah, what is it, Pike? We're going to stick up a post office van, see? A post office van? I've been standing in for a chap selling papers right outside a big post office in the West End. Every night I watch the mail bags coming out and going into the vans around six o'clock. And the other night I hired a car and followed one. It cut through Braston News, Sir Park Lane. Did you say you hired a car? Yes, what about it? Ah, ah, never mind, go on. Well, I had it out three nights and I found the vans don't change their route. It's the Muse every time. Cuts off a bit of traffic, you see. Ah, yeah, yeah, yeah, go on, go on. Now, the Muse are very dark. Badly bombed and no residents that I could see. Yeah, I'll get it, yeah. All we have to do is get a fast car and wait there until the last van comes through. Yeah, how many are there? Only two. We draw our car out on the path of the second one as if we were going to back into the gannard, see? Yeah. The van stops. Yeah. We fix the two men in it, fill up our car from the back and bring the stuff back here to sort. To sort? Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Oh, I like that. Ha ha ha ha. Yes, yes. Here we can bring it through the back way. When do we do it? Well, I think our most profitable haul will be tonight, Friday. Well, what about a car? Ah, you can leave that to me. And Walter Piefsky ran true to form. He wanted a fast car in a hurry. He applied the methods he knew. He worked the telephone trick on a young and trusting motor salesman who duly delivered a shining, high-powered limousine to a block of flats. As he disappeared into the entrance full of expectation, the Pike drove off rapidly to Braston Mews where his partner was waiting for him. The timing was perfect. As the car stopped, the first post office van was already approaching. Here. Keep your head down, Ed. Here it comes. The second one won't be more than a minute or so behind. We must turn the car broadside onto it. How did you get this, Barrett? I'll tell you later. It's hand-picked, see. Ha ha. I'll leave them in the back for the luggage. There we are. Nothing can get by now. What happens if something tries to get through before the van arrives? We make way for it. It can come back another night if necessary. Here, watch this. It's the van. We're going to be all right. I know nobody about it. Couldn't be better. Now, get out. Keep your chin tucked into your scarf like me. I know. Pretend to be pushing the car. What's that, a conk-town? I'm afraid so. Could you have us a push? Sorry, it mustn't leave the van. Well, look, in that case, one of you'd like to earn yourselves ten bob, eh? If you could ring this number for us when you get to your own destination, it's my garage. I'd log on and send a breakdown for you, eh? That's the idea. I don't mind doing that for you. I'll do it for nothing. Oh, thanks, Sam. You're very kind. If you've got a pencil, I'll jot down my name. It's rather a difficult one. Here you are. Here's a pencil. Help! Dirty thieves! It's got the both of them. Look, we'll start getting the bags out quick. No, you don't. I'll set you up, you sniveling idiot. I'm choking. This scarf's choking me. Here, quick with the bags, Ed. Oh, no, you don't, Sam. What's going... you're sweating for... Start getting the stuff in the car. Okay. I think that's about as much as we can take. Oh, what's happened to the driver? Don't worry about him. Get moving. Here, look at his tongue, his eyes. You've killed him. Stop talking. Get on with the job. There's a car coming. They've got us in their headlights. It's the cops. Well, let's get out of here. Old Trav on the corner. Keep going, they're after us. Oh, watch the traffic lights. They're red. Something's coming. Oh, I thought we'd had him. Oh, the police car's owed up money on the car. But get away. We're going to make it. Put them in! Slow up, we can't keep running! Red Jarvison died in that crash. So mutilated that his body could not be identified. By some miracle, the pike escaped and staggered away into the shadows. The police were on the run. The pike escaped and staggered away into the shadows. But his tartan scarf was still round the throat of his victim, lying in the mues. Now let Superintendent Brandreuth take up the story of the hunt. Well, the hunt was soon over. In fact, as soon as the car was reported stolen, I had a call from one of my inspectors. I thought you'd like to see this. What is it, Harrison? A stolen car. Well? Well, I've checked with criminal records. There was something familiar about the method. Calling up a garage and getting the salesman to deliver the car to a block of flats. Now here's the list of men who practiced that. Now these two are inside at present. This one's going straight. Well, he's out of London anyway. That leaves this one, Walter Piewski. Yes, sir. The pike. No way to find him? He's sharing a place with a man named Jarvison in the East End. Right. Bring him in. Yes, sir. But before the pike was picked up for questioning about the car, his scarf was... ...was immediately recognised as the one which we believe Piewski had stolen. In theory, the evidence against him was already piling up. If he was the car thief, he was probably the murderer as well. But I needed that extra piece of evidence. I called for everything that was known about him, including the list of his personal property which he had signed in prison. It was a shot in the dark, but it yielded results. There's no doubt about the scarf being his property, Superintendent, even to the patch on it. Within 24 hours, the pike was caught. Still dazed by the car crash, he offered no resistance. In due course, he was convicted of the murder of William Price, the driver of the post office van. And at 8 o'clock, one cold morning in February, he was hanged. All because of this tartan scarf, which has earned its place today in the Black Museum. Arson Wells will be back with you in just a moment. Now here in person is Arson Wells. Under English law, there are no degrees of murder, and the death sentence has to be pronounced on a man or woman convicted of the crime. Recommendations to mercy by the jury are always carefully considered. But in the case of Walter H. Piepski, no such recommendation was made. The evidence against him was unshakable, and on the eve of his execution, he reproached himself bitterly, not for the death of his victim, or even his unfortunate partner. But for two other reasons. The supreme crime of murder had brought him no profit, and as his last hour approached, he became increasingly angry at his own forgetfulness. Ah yes, they usually overlook something. And that's why the faded piece of tartan has earned its place here among the other exhibits in the Black Museum. Now until we meet again in the same place for another story about the Black Museum, I remain as always obediently yours. The Black Museum, starring Arson Wells, is presented by arrangement with Metro-Goldwyn-Mare Radio Attractions. With original music composed and conducted by Sydney Torch, produced by Harry Allen Towers. The Black Museum
