How do you do? Do you enjoy talking? I do. I like to talk and discuss and argue for hours and hours on end. Perhaps I talk too much, all right, perhaps I do. It's a very common thought. But mind you, I always get the other fellow answer, so long as he's brief and to the point. Not having transgressed any of the criminal laws, as far as I know, I've got a wave of it so far. But if I were a criminal, ah-ha, now that would be a very different cup of tea, or a pair of shoes, or kettle of fish, whichever similar you prefer. Criminals have to be very, very careful not to go on too long. After studying many cases, I've come to the conclusion that criminals seldom help and more often harm themselves by saying more than they need to. Therefore, to all would-be criminals, my advice is keep your trap shut. In proof of which, I'm going to tell you the story of a man whose life was in the balance. You'll hear which way it dipped by speaking just three words too many. Only three words. And I know people who use thousands and thousands of words too many and they're not even arrested. I expect you know a lot of the same kind. But in the case of Frederick Stewart, the man in question, three words made the difference between freedom and... Let us go back a few years to one evening in February. Our scene is London, Pembridge Square, Bay's water to be exact. And there's our man, Frederick Stewart, strolling casually round the square. The only reason you give him a second glance is because he's such a very small man, only three-quarters of an inch over five feet. He doesn't look like a criminal, does he? But he is. And just out of jail for housebreaking. He usually holds down a job as a bookish clerk, but this doesn't tide him over the winter month when there's very little horse racing. Right now, Frederick Stewart is broke, very broke, and he has recently decided to carry a gun. That's rather unusual to a British criminal because the penalties are very severe. Of course, he never plans to use the gun. He's just to help him bluff his way out of trouble, if trouble comes along. He's too small to be much good in a fight. Watch him as he goes over to that house. He's ringing the doorbell. He looks over towards the far end of the square, rings the doorbell again. Nothing suspicious in that, is there? No. He rings the doorbell again. The system character, this Frederick Stewart. Between you and me, he's hoping nobody answers. Oh dear, he's out of luck. Somebody's opened the door. An elderly woman. Yes, what is it? Isn't the chauffeur about? Chauffeur? Oh, we've no chauffeur here. Oh, sorry. Must be in a long address. The pest, I know him. What's he look like? Oh, never mind. Sorry to have bothered you. I'll see him when he gets back to the garage. Oh, which one's that? The Levaric garage. Goodbye. Oh, goodbye? Well, that's funny. I've never heard of that one. Can't be around here. The Levaric garage. Three little words. The Levaric garage. And it turned out three words too many. They put a rope around Frederick Stewart's neck. Keep your eye on him. He's going on up the square. Looks back. Yes, the old lady's gone in and closed the door. He gives that same quick look around as before. Nothing's hurt him. Nothing would give him away. Just a glance to see that nobody has particularly got his eye on him. And there he goes into that block of flats. You know what his game is now, don't you? It's obvious. Scott and Gyard call what Stewart is doing, sounding the drum. He rings the doorbell. If he's answered, he'll ask for some imaginary person. And being told that nobody of that name lives there, he'll say something about being given the wrong address, apologize, and gone his way. What he's looking for is a house or a flat where no amount of knocking or ringing brings an answer. He can be pretty sure then the place is empty so he breaks in. That is exactly what he's doing to one of those flats at this very moment. He's sounded the drum. Everything seems to be all right from his point of view. He gets no response. And he's picked an easy flat to break into. The door has a glass panel set in the top half. A quick jab with the butt of his gun. He reaches through, carefully avoiding the ragged edges of the broken glass, turns the latch. Is it bolted or on the chain? No, it opens easily enough. He's inside. Now he puts the door on the chain. That will hold long enough to let him get out the back way if he's interrupted. Now he should go to the back door and see that it's unlocked. He should, but he doesn't. Just this once he's forgotten, unluckily. Unluckily because Mr. Webb, the owner of the flat, is on his way back. With him are his 18 year old son Clifford and a friend Mr. Frank Sweeney. They walk up the few stairs leading to the flat and as they reach the landing Mr. Sweeney notices something strange. Hey, someone has been making a little mess of your stairs, Webb. What is it? Where? Here, Dad, look. It's a broken glass. Well, I'm blessed. It's from the glass panel in the door. See, it's broken. Now how did that happen? Your mother must have come home before us. That's why the whole light's on. The door slammed when she came in and the glass cracked and fell out. I wish you'd have that beastly frosted stuff taken out. It's so old fashioned. And dangerous too. Now think about it. Here, Frank, hold this parcel a minute while I unlock. That's funny. She's got it on the chain. Doesn't usually do that. Kitty, get us in there, will you? Oh, here she comes. I can see her shadow through the glass. It's not. That's a man. He must have broken in. Chip, run for the police. Quick. Right. You'll find one down on 4th and fellow road. I know. Frank, go with the quick. If you can't find a copper there, try the other corner. What about you? I'm going into the flat to get that man. How? Same way he did. Reach through the glass. There, that's got it. Better let me come in with you. Do what I say like a good chap and don't bother about me. He's only a little fellow. I could handle three years' size before breakfast. So, Mr. Sweeney, much against his will, follows Cliff down the road. Meanwhile, Stuart should have had plenty of time to get out by the back door. What's stopping him? Remember? He didn't check that back door. It's locked. And the key isn't in the lock. Webb's in the flat now. He's coming nearer and nearer. This is what Stuart's always feared. Webb weighs almost twice as much as Stuart and he's very strong. He's seen him. All right, men ahead. The game's up. Get away from that door. Stop, or I'll blow your head off. Oh, got a gun, eh? I'll use it if you come any closer. You wouldn't dare. They're not going to nab me, not again. I'm going to give you the beating of your life. No, no! Get back! I've killed him. The fool. The bloomy fool. Why'd he have to come at me like that, fool? I didn't want to kill him. I didn't want to. I must get out of here. I've heard what he's done. Stuart rushes out of the flat in the grip of panic. Two thoughts only are in his mind. To get away from the scene of his crime and to get rid of the gun. He's not one of your cool master criminals, this frightened little man. He runs, runs as though the devil was after him, and in his flight, things the gun over the wall into a garden as he passes, and hurries into the darkness of a London night. Mr. Webb never regained consciousness. He'd been shot just above the left eye, and although he was rushed to hospital, he died the next morning. Murder had been committed. Chief Inspector Horble of Scotland Yard was put in charge of the case. He and his staff went to the scene of the crime and made a careful, detailed investigation. Horble questioned young Trippard Webb. Then the only thing the thief got away with is that gold bracelet. That's all, Inspector. There's nothing else missing apart from that stuff he'd packed ready in the suitcase. Yeah, I'm afraid we shall have to bother that pro temp for evidence. All right. It's, uh, it's one of Dad's. You say when you, your father, and Mr. Sweeney arrived here, the light was on in the corridor, and you saw the shadow of the man. Yes, but not very distinctly. Can you tell me anything about him? For instance, was he tall or short? Come to think of it, he must have been short because I thought at first it was my mother, and she'd got home ahead of us. Ah, that checks with Mr. Sweeney's story. Oh? Yeah, he made a statement. Yeah, wait a moment, I've got it here. Mr. Webb was looking through the crack of the door. He said to me, he's only a little fellow I could tackle free like him before breakfast. So you see, his independent evidence establishes the fact that the thief was a small man. Can I have a word with you, Inspector? Yes, Simon, what is it? The photographer's a Spanish, sir. We've had a good look around, but we haven't found any M.O. What do you mean, M.O.? Modus operandi, Latin meaning method of operation. Most professional criminals have a habit, a characteristic of their work, which gives them away. Their way of handling a gemmy or picking a lock, call it a trademark if you like. So what Sergeant Simon means is that there's no evidence here that checks up with any of our records. That's going to make it a bit more difficult. Possibly, but there are several other ways we can start to work to catch him. We know he's a professional. The way he went to work makes that obvious. Oh, Simon? Yes, sir? See if anyone was sounding the drum in this neighborhood yesterday afternoon. Yes, sir. Digby? Yes, sir? Why not if anybody saw a small man, a stranger to the neighborhood, coming out of these flats about the time of the murder? Right away, sir. Clarkson? Yes, sir? Get back to headquarters and go through the files for records of housebreakers. Maybe anyone from any part of the country. Broadcast this description. I want a small man, professional criminal, suspected of carrying a gun. Anything else? Yes, an expert shot, sir. Oh? We only found one cartridge. Mr. Webb must have been a moving target. And yet the murderer only fired once and got him right in the head. Then give me that cartridge case. Hmm,.32 caliber automatic. And the only one found? The only one, sir. Good. Then when you go through the records, keep an eye open for someone who's either been a soldier or known to be a good shot. A sharp shoot with a fair or a music hall or something like that. I understand. For two days, Scotland Yard worked ceaselessly on the three leads outlined by Chief Inspector Horville, first to find if anybody had been sounding the drum in the neighborhood or that about. It didn't take him long to find the old lady who'd answered the door when Stuart made his first try in Pembridge Square. Yes. Now that you've come to mention it, there was a man came to the door. Yesterday, late afternoon it was. Can you remember what he looked like? I didn't pay much attention. You know how it is. But he was a little man. Think you'd recognize him again if you saw him? Oh, no. I only remember him because of something he said. What was that? He said he came from the Warwick Garage, and there's no Warwick Garage in these parts, as I should know. Lived here for 20 years, I have. Not much of a description, but confirmation of the fact that the man Scotland Yard is looking for is a little fellow. That's a help to Sergeant Clarkson at headquarters who's coming through the records of known housebreakers and checking on their movements. But it was Sergeant Digby who found the first piece of material evidence. Music You remember, Inspector Horville had detailed Sergeant Digby to find if anybody answering their general description of the murderer had been seen leaving the block of flats. Come in. Good morning, Inspector. Oh, it's you, Digby. Good morning. What have you got there? I think it's the guy that did the job, sir. Oh, good for you. I found a man who was going past that block of flats with his girlfriend just about the time of the murder. He doesn't live in the neighborhood, and that's why it took me a bit of time to chase him up. No, I understand. Go on. Well, the man he saw was a little fellow in a devil of a hurry. He bumped into this fellow's girlfriend as he went past. The fellow turned and shouted after him to look where he was going, and he saw him toss something into one of the gardens up the square. Couldn't be sure which one. And it was a gun, eh? That's right, sir. I found it at the garden number 21. Oh, nice work, Digby. Give me the fingerprint, boys. Oh, I doubt if they'll find anything. Hello. Look at this. There's a cartridge jammed in the breech. This means we've got to change our minds about the man we're looking for. The murder weapon had been recovered. The gun that Stuart flung away as he rushed from the scene of the crime. A cartridge has been found jammed in the breech, and Chief Inspector Hovel says he has to change his mind about the man he's looking for. Why? One bullet killed Mr. Webb. The point is, Digby, that up to now we've been searching the records for a man who has a cracked shot. Now we can forget that. Yes, I see what you mean, sir. It was just luck. He got his man a first bang. Exactly. All we know now, he may have intended emptying the whole magazine into Webb, but the gun jammed. The inspector called for Sergeant Clarkson, who had been going through the record files and told him of this new development. Oh, that's what it amounts to, Clarkson. We've got the idea that the man we want is a dead shot. Now, how many suspects have we who fit into the picture? Four, sir. Tony Lesser, Warren Haste, James Cole, and Frederick Stewart, alias Frederick Robinson. Right. Give me the papers on Cole and Stewart. Here you are, sir. Now, you take Lesser and Haste. Here's the report on the case, up to date. We'll go over them together, line by line. Very good, sir. Now, it doesn't matter how trivial the connection, if you find anything, tell me. For the best part of an hour, the inspector and Clarkson checked and cross-checked every aspect of the case with the known characteristics of the four suspects. Then, once again, luck turns against Frederick Stewart. Here's something, Clarkson. Listen to this. Yes, sir? It's in Stewart's pile. Near his relatives, uncle and aunt, living on Warwick Road. Does that ring a bell? Warwick Road? Remember when the old lady asked what garage he came from? The fellow said Warwick Garage, didn't he? Right joke, sir. That's right, sir. It's a pretty standard connection when you come to think of it. Maybe the connection was slender, but Horval's reasoning was sound. Why, when a man is suddenly put to it to invent an excuse, as this man obviously was when the old lady asked him where he came from, why should he automatically think of a garage that did not exist? Why did the name Warwick leap into his mind? He might have had it ready in case of accident. He might. On the other hand, he might not. But let's rejoin the murder squad. He's the smallest of the lot. Height? Five foot and three quarters of an inch. Here. Ordinary house breaker. Ah yes, he was jailed for trying to burgle the country hall in Westminster. He was chosen the night when there were a couple of officers secreted on the premises. Very bad luck. They chased him round the passages, four and a half miles off him. Found him in the basement in the boiler room. Nice warm spot. Not as warm as the spot he'll finish up in if he had anything to do with this web murder. I think that for the moment we'll concentrate on Mr. Frederick Stewart. Now let's see if we can pick him up. But it was not as easy as that. They pound his landlady? No, he's left. Well, to tell you the truth, I'll throw him out. Why? As he paid his rent, that's why. Where's he gone? I don't know. And what's more, I don't care. They tried his relations? Pity? Yes, he's my nephew. More of a pity. In trouble, is he? What, again? How should I know where he is? He never comes near me. And a good job, too. They found a bookmaker who'd employed him. Yes, I used him for a couple of seasons as my clerk. Well, in fact, he's made a slight difference of opinion about ten quid, and I told him what to do with himself. Why'd you show his nose around here again? They found a friend. What do you think, what do you think I am? A narc? If you want him, find yourself. Besides, just because I was a friend of his once doesn't mean I am now. And so it goes, setback after setback. But still the patient men at Scotland Yard keep on working. Suddenly there came an unexpected development. Did you know that Scotland Yard has its own daily newspaper, the Police Gazette? Each night it goes out by road, rail, and air to its very limited but select readers all over Great Britain. This isn't a paper that is danced through and thrown away. Every line is read and reread. One of its most popular columns is headed, Property Believed Stolen. In this column had appeared a very full description of a gold bracelet set with diamonds missing from the Webb household. The contents of this column are passed on by the local police to all jewelers and pawnbrokers in their area. Some time later, in Inspector Horro's office, an urgent teleprinter from the Lanxley County Police, sir. They've traced the Webb bracelet. Yes, a broken pawnbroker reported it. Well, could he describe the fellow who put it in? Yes, sir. 25 to 30, 5 foot 10 at least, scar on left cheek. Ah, that's certainly not Stuart. But it could be Tony Lesser. Send out an all-station message to bring him in. Finding Tony Lesser was no trouble at all. He wasn't even hiding. It so happened that he had nothing on his conscience except the bracelet. Where did you get it, Tony? Oh, I found it. Ah, you found it. Well, all I can tell you is that somebody who handled that particular bracelet was going for the eight o'clock walk one cold morning. No, it all right. Oh, that's different. Well, I thought you'd think so. Did Stuart give it to me? Nice prize, too. Where did you find Stuart? Our usual place. Where's that? Dog track. Thank you, Tony. So, Scotland Yard has learned that Stuart likes to go to the dog races. How slender, true, you might think. Oh, no. That's one of the secrets of Scotland Yard. They know a man may break any or all of the Ten Commandments, but break his habit of life he will not. If he's a lover of nightlife, it's in the dance halls and nightclubs that you'll find him. The scholar will be found in the libraries and bookstores. To find Frederick Stuart, Scotland Yard goes to the dance. First, South End. No luck. Next, White City. No luck. Wembley. No luck. Haringey. No luck. Days later, back to South End. This is no good. We're wasting our time. Yes. We'd better get back to London. Might be worthwhile having one more look in the bar at the Crown Hotel. See if it's the place where most of the dog experts hang out. Be honest. Do you really think it's worth it, or are you just thirsty? Well, might as well kill two birds with one stone while we're passing. Come on. Suits me. In we go. Oh, I'm so sorry. Sorry, I spilled your drink. Oh, that's quite all right. My fault. Oh, no, no. I was standing in the way of a door. Forget it. Well, have another one of me. Hi, this is him. Your Stuart. I don't know what you're talking about. Robinson's my name. That's right. Stuart Alias Robinson. I have to ask you to come with us. I've been expecting this. Chief Inspector Horwell wants to have a little chat with you. So Stuart, unlucky again, was driven back to London for his little chat with the inspector. Of course, he had a story all cooked up. He admitted that he'd been in the flat at Bember's Square and made a statement regarding what he called the accident. I had the gun in me hand. I was working on the back door trying to get out. I knew he was coming up behind me, but I didn't know he was so close. I got a wallop on the back of me head. As I fell, I heard a bang. I must have been knocked out. When I came to, I was on the stairs outside the flat. I don't know how I got there. I didn't even see who hit me. I scrambled up and ran downstairs out of the house. That was his story. But after hearing the medical testimony and all the other evidence presented by Scotland Yard, the jury decided that Stuart's version did not tally with the facts. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. There's an interesting footnote to this story. By the time Stuart was condemned, the English Derby was only three weeks off. He asked his jailers for a copy of Rath's Guide to the Turf and all the spotting papers so that he could study form. But a few days later, the governor of the prison came to his cell. I have to inform you that the date has been fixed. Yes, sir. When, sir? June 6th. But that's Derby Day. Can't we give me one more day? I'm afraid not. And so the day and the moment arrived. Some hours later, after Stuart had paid the supreme penalty, Chief Inspector Horwell and Digby, who happened to be in his office at the time, heard the results of the Derby. Well, I'm blessed. You're the coincidence, Digby. What is it, sir? In fact, the last words that Frederick Stuart said as he took him along the passage was, have a few shillings on Felfstead today. Had it one? Indeed it did, but 33 to 1. And that is the end of Frederick Stuart, the man who almost escaped, a man who was hanged by three words too many, be waric garage, those fatal words that gave Inspector Horwell the truth to his identity. You may think that Stuart was caught because he was especially unlucky. Let me assure you that is not so. Any criminal who is against Scotland Yard is unlucky.
