... ... How do you do? I seem to remember a song that was very popular some years ago called, I'm a Dreamer, Aren't We All? It might well have been dedicated to the subject of this week's Case Book History. There was a dreamer, if you like. Unfortunately, he couldn't distinguish between dreams and facts. He was a man who felt he deserved money, fame, and power, deserved them without the tiresome necessity of having to work and plan and save. As a child he dreamed that as a man he would be rich and talked about. As a man he dreamed that he was rich, and he certainly got himself talked about. For this he was prepared to do anything, or anybody. A pretty loathsome character, you'd say. Well, see what you think. The place where we'll find him is a club, at least it's called a club, one of the hundreds, possibly thousands of its kind all over London, where you go down a few steps and up a few steps into a room with a bar. You pay a guinea a year for membership and they don't have any waiting list. And you don't have to be sponsored. In fact, all you need is a lot of money. There's always a radio and it's nearly always playing. Evening, Harry. Evening, Major Armstrong, as usual. Right, and keep your eye on the glass, you red-nosed robber. Now, now. Hello there. Oh, hello, old boy. A bit of luck, this. I was hoping to run into you. You were, were you? Harry, make that two doubles. Very good, Major. Can't we go somewhere where I can buy you a drink? Oh, don't give it a thought. Besides, I'm meeting some people here later. Your drink, sir. Oh, thanks, Harry. Here you are. Sorry I haven't had anything smaller. No, that's all right. Thank you. Oh, you seem to be doing all right to yourself these days. Now, I always did, old boy. Now, here's how. Cheers. You look like a man with a conversation on your mind. You catch on quick and we'd better grab a table. This place will start filling up in a minute or two. Harry, a couple more large ones at the table in the corner. Right along, Major. Now, that old goat Harry can't hear us. What do you call yourself these days? As it happens, I'm using the church name at the moment. All open and above board. Roy Carter. You funny, old-fashioned old thing. I know. Quaint, isn't it? And you? Jimmy Armstrong. Jimmy Armstrong. From South Africa. Good. Now, tell me, what's on your mind? That was a charming meeting between two old school friends, wasn't it? Yes, they did meet in a school, of a sort. But as I'm sure you've guessed, not the kind of an alma mater you refer to with real pride. No. Roy and Jimmy, as he calls himself, were both inmates of Boston. Perhaps you've heard of it. At any rate, it's an institution for juvenile criminals. But of course, it doesn't always work. Now and again, you get a bad hat who won't reform. Sometimes you get two. And you know what they say about birds of a feather. And when I heard you were prosperous and doing the town in a large way, I said to myself, Roy, my lad, if that's so, you can bet your boots your old friend, uh, Jimmy. Thank you. You can bet your boots he isn't treading the straight and narrow or any nonsense like that. Shows how wrong one can be, doesn't it? It all depends what you mean. Well, I hardly expected to find you a bronzed warrior all covered in medals and glory. You're disappointed? From my own point of view, yes. You see, I'm suffering from a chronic shortage of cash. It's a horrible situation for anyone to be in these days. You have my sympathy. Thank you. I don't suppose even a major's pay goes very far with the competition being what it is. A major's pay wouldn't last me a week. A couple of nights more likely. Me gods. You mean you're working the old racket and you're in the army too? How do you get the time? The dear old army is not aware of I'm, the fact I'm honoring it by wearing its uniform. You're playing it a bit steep, aren't you? I always have, haven't I? Well, they'll have to help you if they shop you. You won't get out until you're old and gray, if they're any. Which is just one of several reasons why I'll make sure they don't get me. What a lad. How do you get away with it? I'll tell you in my memoirs. Good old Nev. Oh, sorry, I mean Jimmy. Now look here. Give me your address. I'll get in touch with you. We've got a job on a day after tomorrow. A swagger-west end house with a tidy collection of jewels in it. I know, because I went to dinner there last night. Will I fit in? My dear chap, you'll fit in beautifully. The girls are locked up, but there's nothing you can't handle. In fact, it couldn't be better. You're on the road to riches. Come on, let's have another drink. Uh, thanks. I'll have to be shopping off now. Why? What's the rush? Well, you said you've got a date coming here. Oh, that's all right. Matter of fact, the dear thing doesn't know she's got a date with me yet. She thinks she's going off with another fellow who's supposed to meet us here later. But she's coming with me. Sounds complicated. It won't be. We'll see. You know, it must be nice. What nice? To be like you. I've heard a lot of rot about men who have power over women. But you're the only chap I've ever met who's really got it. Any woman, I mean. The women that afternoon when we were in Brighton. Oh, spare my blushes and have another drink. Ah, now we have it. The one thing genuine about this phony is power over women. The girls' best-names seem to have a way of falling for the worthless adventurer type. The girl he's been waiting for is coming into the club now. Let me describe her to you. She's not pretty. She's lovely. She's been an artist model and just recently she started to break into pictures. In the studio, people have their eye on her. And well, they might. Figure? Superb, of course. Clothes? Excavagantly simple and in perfect taste. Taste? Ah, we haven't got time to go into raptures. But you will gather that she's a very tasty dish. She's seen her friend and she's going towards his table. Hello, Jimmy. Where's Rex? Oh, he rang him to say he might be a bit late. You'd better have a good excuse. Marjorie, my love, let me introduce an old friend of mine. Roy Carter. Mrs. Marjorie Gardner, Roy Carter. Hello. How do you do? Yes, a bit breathtaking, isn't she? Isn't he sweet? Now, just for that, you can have a drink. What'll it be? Something tall and cold and full of gin. Oh, have a care, Hasse. That description fits the woman I love. Oh, Jimmy, you're priceless. I love you. What, already? Oh, don't be so literal. In movie studio lingo, I love you means... It's a nice day. I see. Then you're in films. Of course she is, old man. You think the movie directors are blind? Oh, stop teething, you boots. Someone get me a drink. Princess, to hear her is to obey. Harry, I want a love filter and two Scotches. I suppose you're wondering whether this charming young grass widow, Mrs. Gardner, Marjorie, that is, knows that this new circle of acquaintances she's picked up, Jimmy among them, are crooks. Well, I'm afraid she does. Oh, yes, she's going into it with her lovely eyes wide open. She's quite sure she knows how to take care of herself. But we can't warn Marjorie of this. Besides, she wouldn't take any notice. She's having too good a time and Jimmy is lazily, competently exercising that dangerous charm of his. I say, Marjorie, do you really want to spend the evening with Rex? Obviously, Jimmy, dearest. Why should I be here? I just thought I'd ask, because as a matter of fact, I had other plans. Oh, I've flattered. It's my fault Rex is late. I asked him to do something for me on his way down here. Oh, I see. I don't think you do. I wanted a chance to skip off with you myself before he arrived. I should be very angry. Are you? No. Now I suppose your friend Mr. Carter's shocked. Don't mind me. I'm shock-proof. Carry on. This is interesting. Well, Rex has kept me waiting. You wouldn't do that, would you, Jimmy? I never try and predict what I'd do. Why should I? The point is, how about it? How about what? Oh, don't stall, darling. Say the word and I leave a message for Rex to meet us at the Lamplighters Club. And then we just won't turn up. It's a bit rough on Rex, isn't it? But we can have a lot of fun. Hmm. After all, Rex did keep me waiting. And that's that. Major Jimmy Armstrong, as he calls himself, has made another conquest. What sort of picture have you formed of this man so far? Worthless? A vain imposter? No more than that. But wait. All this happened on a Thursday night. Sometime we don't know when, either that night or early the next morning. When we again pick up the trail of this man, he's at a railway station. At this time he's in Royal Air Force uniform, and he's promoted himself again. He's a group captain. No less. Watch him. He's booking a ticket to, uh, to Southampton. Yes, he's perfectly calm and hurried. Apparently he hasn't a care in the world. Gives a lavish tip and a smile to the porter carrying his suitcase, and swings onto the train. At 2 p.m. on Friday afternoon, the horribly mutilated body of Marjorie Gardner is found in a London hotel room. And Inspector Spooner of Scotland Yard is hot on the trail of... Neville George Clevely Heath, alias Major Jimmy Armstrong, alias Squad Leader Walker, alias Jimmy Dudley, known to the police. Previous charges for breaking and entering, burglary, fraud and deception, impersonating an officer. And now he's wanted for murder. Neville George Clevely Heath. That's his real name. Remember it? The case made a stir all over the world when it hit the headlines in June 1946. That's our suave, fascinating crook, Heath, one of the most brutal murderers of modern time. Heath is on the run. He knows the police will be after him. What is he thinking about while the train carries him southward, away from London, and the pitiful remains of the girl with whom he danced so lightheartedly the night before? What's going on in his mind? I can tell you. We know because he talked about it later. Almost casually, apparently without any feeling, he told his thoughts in all their brutal truth. What am I going to do? I'm really in the soup this time. Am I going to cover up? This is murder. They're sure to find the body soon. What am I going to do? Come on, come on. I've always managed to think my way out before, but this is a bad one. I'm clever enough. I can outthink them. I can get out of this too, if I can get the right answer. No, Neville Heath, you can't talk your way out of murder. Nothing you ever done before can match this. Oh yes, we know all about your back history, how you were sent to Boston for breaking into a friend's home and robbing them, how you were released during the war to serve your country, how you masqueraded as an officer both in South Africa and England, and how you were dismissed for service, how you preyed on women, made love to them, and borrowed their money. We know about the sadistic streak in your nature. It's always been there. It even showed up in your childhood. But this time, you've gone too far. No, I can get out of this mess too. See, I was drunk. Now I can't do. Uncle, I had a blackout. I didn't know what I was doing. No, no. I used that excuse too often before. They might not believe me this time. And they've got to believe me. How can I make it strong enough? How can I persuade them I was off my head at the time? Off my head. Yes. Yes, that's my defense. That's it. Out of my mind. Insane. I was insane at the time. I must have been. And I'll prove it to them. I'll do it again. No, no, you can't do that. It's horrible. Unspeakable. I'll do it. I'll find another girl. And I'll kill her too. And when they see her body, they'll know only a madman could have done it. They'll know beyond any doubt that the man who killed her is insane. By forgery, fraud, and sponging on the admiration of women, Neville Heath had always had the things he wanted. All his life he gambled against the law. Now he's facing his biggest gamble of all. His own life at his stake. To save himself from hanging for murder, he must give convincing proof of his insanity. Well, at worst, this will mean only a few years at Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic asylum. Well, naturally, after time, he'll be able to convince the authorities he'd been cured and will be given his release. He's fooled people all over the world. Of course, he'll be able to fool the doctors at Broadmoor. But he must plan carefully. Very carefully. Heath is in Broadmoor now and is registered as one of the best hotels at Group Captain Rupert Brooke. And already in a few days he's been there, he's become known as a good RAF type and a pleasant companion. Doreen Marshall, a pretty girl of 21, thinks he's fascinating. Yes, it hasn't taken long for Heath to make another conquest. Flattered by the marked intentions of this handsome young man, Doreen has been dining with Heath at his hotel. And Heath is turning on all his charms. See him there, bending confidentially towards Doreen, pleading with her to stay on just a little longer. But she isn't to be persuaded. Just one more drink, one for the road. I think I've had enough, thanks. It has been fun and I've enjoyed the evening tremendously. There's much too early to be going home. You wouldn't leave me all alone on such a lovely night. Please, I must be going. Will you have the porter call a taxi for me? Oh, no need for that. I'll take you back to your hotel myself. I'd much rather go by taxi if you don't mind. Smart girl, Doreen. Obviously she doesn't trust our smooth mannered group captain. How very wise of her. But Heath has laid his plans carefully. Time is going short and the police are likely to close in on him at any moment now. He can easily outthink this inexperienced young girl. So as they go out into the hotel lobby, Heath speaks casually to the porter. Oh, hey, Stevens. You can cancel that taxi for Miss Marshall. I'm going to make sure she gets safely home myself. Very good, sir. Oh, but I haven't changed my mind. Oh, come on, darling. The sea breeze will do us both a lot of good. Oh, very well. I'll be back in half an hour, Stevens. No, he'll be back in fifteen minutes. All right, have it your own way, darling. You know best. That Neville Heath was not back in fifteen minutes. As a matter of fact, nobody saw him come in that night. But when the porter brought up the papers at eight o'clock in the morning, Heath was in his room asleep. Sorry to have waked you, sir. I know you like your father's first thing. Yeah? Oh, it's all right, Stevens. Any interesting news this morning? Oh, just as depressing as usual, sir. Oh, that latest London murder. Have they caught the bloody yet? No, they're still looking for him, sir. Ah, nasty business that was. Hope they get him soon. Yes, sir. By the way, sir, I didn't see you come in last night. Oh, I didn't think you would be. In fact, I do good care you shouldn't. I told you I'd fool you some night and get in without that eagle eye of yours spotting me. I'd like to know how you did it, sir. I locked the front door myself at eleven thirty. I'll tell you sometime, perhaps. But not just yet. I might want to use that same method of entry again. Well, judging from your shoes, sir, last night you spent some time walking on the beach. What's that? Your shoes, sir. See, there's a ridge of sand right around them. Eh? No offence, mint, I'm sure. Oh, no, that's all right. Take them along and have them cleaned for me. That's a good job. Yes, sir. Cool customer, isn't he? And in the same unflustered manner, he later answered the hotel manager's worried questions. The lady guest who was missing from one of the other hotels in Bournemouth, could it be the same young lady who had dined here with Captain Brooke the previous evening? Perhaps you'd be kind enough to telephone the police? Heath privately decided that the police come for him. They did, in short order. An urgent message from Detective George Souter of the Bournemouth police came for Heath. Hello? Detective Souter speaking. Is that you, Souter? Yes. Well, this is Group Captain Brooke here. I understand from the hotel manager that you want to talk to me. I'm on the seafront. Come down and see me. Well, as you seem to be on holiday, I suggest you come up and see me. Where am I? At the police station? Yes, naturally. Well, I suppose I have to, if I can find the beastly post. I'll be around this afternoon. And so began the battle of wits between the police and Heath. Is Heath clever enough to get away with it? So you can see we're concerned about Miss Marshall's disappearance. Well, when she left after dinner, we walked along to the beach and chatted a while. Her hotel was close by and she said she'd gone alone from there, so I said goodbye and left her. Had you arranged another meeting with her? No, as a matter of fact, I hadn't, as there was a possibility of her returning to London within the next few days. I see. And she was dressed in evening clothes, you say? Yes. You're a very charming young girl. I should be distressed to hear that anything serious had happened to her. Quite. Excuse me a moment, please. Detective Souter speaking. Hello, Souter. This is Souter in London. I've been challenged in the Marjorie Gardner Marina. Oh, yes. We're on the lookout for a fellow called Neville Heath. Could he certainly do the job? I personally think he's on the south coast, might even be in our neighborhood. Yes, that's a distinct possibility. You've got a copy of his picture that we circulated to all stations across? Yes. Not a very good one, but it'll have to do. I think it's entirely adequate. This group captain brought you round about this morning. I'm wondering if there could be any connection... I couldn't agree with you more. You know his present whereabouts? Most certainly. And it couldn't be better. What? Good heavens, man. Don't tell me you're about to be caught in the station. We're bosom friends at the moment. You mean he's actually in the room with you? Yes, just as close as two peas in a pod. Well, we haven't got on to our conversation, have we? Oh, no. No chance of that. Can you hold him there? I haven't got a charge of any kind. It'll stick. Well, think fast. Keep him talking. Take him out of T. Do anything. I mean, hold on to that man until I get the ball from London. I'm leaving at once. Right, you are. My apologies, sir. Oh, that's all right. I know they keep you police pretty busy with one thing and another. I've been amusing myself looking at this picture here on your wall. Which one? Oh, yes. Neville Heath. Bad lot. Wanted for murder. It's an odd thing, you know. He rather resembles you. Yes, that's just what I was thinking myself. You wouldn't be Neville Heath, would you? Definitely not. I must admit we seem to look pretty much alike. I say, you'd better give me a sign pass or something to prove I'm not the man you're after. Otherwise, I might find it a bit embarrassing. Well, that sounds like a good idea. First, let's have some proof of your own identity. Well, I haven't any of my papers on me, but I can certainly tell you about myself. And to begin with, I'm stationed at Fulton Airdrome in Leicester. I was flying down and got stranded by bad weather. Now a really difficult part of detective Souter's task begins. Heath knows he must not appear too anxious to get away. Souter plays on this. Heath, an abnormal ecotist, loves nothing better than to talk about himself. Souter plays on this too. For a solid hour, the two of them sit on the garden wall outside the police station, chatting about their war experiences. Then Heath rises to go. Souter stops him. It's tea time. He suggests Heath join him inside for tea. Who says the British habit of tea in the afternoon reduces? Another hour goes by. Again Heath makes a move. Again Souter stops him, playing for time. Always playing for those few extra minutes that will bring it nearer to the moment when Inspector Spooner, when he's coming from London, will arrive. Heath and the detective, talking, talking, talking. Tell me, Brooke, what sort of plane were you flying when you were strapped in the German staff cars? Both, I guess. They were armed with rockets. Heath, that's a bad slip. You are forgetting that detective Souter was with the 11th Armored Division and knows the thinger to himself. And he knows the planes you were flying were not fitted with rockets. Listen, he's testing you again. Oh, you were in the cab rank? Yes, that's right. I was for a while. Then I went on to other things. That's torn it. Heath, as a group captain, certainly ought to know that bow fighters were not used in what was called a cab rank. That is, planes kept standing by ready for calls from Armored Division and needing support. Souter knows this, and he's now convinced beyond the last shred of doubt that the man he's dealing with is Neb Heath. The scarf around Heath's neck has just slipped off, and as he picks it up, he sees the detective watching him intently. How do you get those scratches on your neck, group captain Brooke? No, that's nothing, just an irritation. Son, where are those? They look to me like the marks left by a girl's fingernails, marks left by a girl struggling to free herself from a man like you. It isn't true. You're Neb Heath. Come on, you might as well admit it. I am not, I'm Rupert Brooke. I've told you so. That Souter piles on the pressure now, causes bluff, rips his story to pieces, and again identifies him. He sees that Heath has hypnotized himself with his orgy of lying, and Heath cracks. Oh, right, bluff you. Yes, I am Neville Heath, and much good may do you. Music In his statement to the police, Heath denied having killed Marjorie Gardner, and insisted that as far as he knew, Doreen Marshall was still alive. But in the pockets of his sports jacket were found three vital pieces of evidence. A single pearl, later proved to be one from the necklace Doreen Marshall was wearing the night Heath murdered her. The return half of a first-class train ticket between London and Bournemouth later proved to belong to Doreen Marshall. The third item, a ticket for a suitcase left at the railway luggage office at Bournemouth. This case contained the whip Heath had used in his savage killing of Marjorie Gardner. Later, much more evidence was found that definitely linked Neville Heath with both murders. Heath was charged with the murder of Marjorie Gardner and sent to Brixton prison. It was several days later before the corpse of poor little Doreen Marshall was found hidden away in a lonely gully near the beach at Bournemouth. The police, hardened by experience to ghastly sights, had to turn their heads away from the terrible injuries to the body, injuries which could only have been inflicted by, oh, not a madman, but a devil. Would you think it strange when I tell you that Heath's friends rallied to his assistance? Oh, yes, he still had friends left who believed him human. They thought he was a schizophrenic, a jackel-and-hide personality only half responsible for his acts. During his trial at the Old Bailey, Heath's legal advisors admitted he had killed both Marjorie Gardner and Doreen Marshall. The devil is a jury. In admitting that, does it not prove this man is not an ordinary sadist, an ordinary dishonest man, but mad as a hatter, absolutely insane, a maniac? Can he have been anything else? Was he? Let me tell you what happened when Heath saw in a newspaper a reconstruction of the way he was supposed to have got back into his hotel room that night after his secondary voting murder. This isn't how it happened. I want my lawyers called here, and I'll tell them how I really did get back. That ladder was on the left-hand side of the window, not on the right. I insist on seeing my lawyers immediately. Oh, do you, Neville Heath? What for? Aren't you forgetting you're a schizophrenic? Aren't you forgetting this whole affair was a complete blackout to you? How could you possibly remember which side the ladder was on? Or is it all still a very clear picture in your mind? A jury of his fellow men answered for him, guilty. So Neville George Sleevely Heath paid for his crimes, and on the morning of Wednesday the 16th of October was hanged at Fentonville Prison. A grim tale of a twisted life, and a man of many gifts who couldn't use them. And even grimmer is this footnote, but I think it has its bit of humor, too. A foreign journalist, tough, hardened by years of crime reporting, paid a visit to Scotland Yard's Black Museum. He asked to see the photographs of Heath's victims. Somewhat dubiously, the inspector unlocked the drawer and produced the pictures. The journalist took one look, shuddered, and collapsed against the nearest showcase. There was a loud clatter of broken glass. The hard-boiled journalist had fainted. And the released register inside stink got the
