Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND FOUR:
This is Part Eight of Ten of The Soho Strangler. On Thursday 23rd January 1936 at 6:50pm, Red Max entered 35/36 Little Newport Street, the lodging of a petite French brunette known as ‘French Suzette’, who was the mistress of his rival, Roger Vernon. Within half an hour, there would be another killing in Soho. But was this the work of The Soho Strangler?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below. THE LOCATION As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a rum & raisin exclamation mark to the right of the words 'Leicester Square'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
At 6:50pm, Red Max rang the doorbell of 35/36 Little Newport Street, the lodging of a petite French brunette, a local prostitute unnervingly similar to the other three victims, known as ‘French Suzette’. He didn’t wear a disguise or bring a weapon as Max’s power was his stranglehold on Soho; a place so in fear, he could kill in plain sight and disappear into a busy street as no-one dared to speak his name. Unlocked by the prostitute’s terrified maid, as with ‘Fifi’, Marie and ‘Leah’, a street door led up a tight stair as his heavy boots thudded up to the soon-to-be crime scene of another killing. By the time the Police arrived, the room would be cleaned, evidence erased, witnesses silenced and a killer unseen. Only, this murder would be different… …as sensing their impending death within the tight grip of a large hairy hand, his intended victim would live. In court, they would state “Max had me by the throat, he was trying to strange me…”, as this now broken ‘crime boss’ unleashed his own brand of vengeance over something as petty as a loan of £25. In total, four women would be murdered by The Soho Strangler… only the maniac who terrorised Soho was not Max. “I fired five or six times. Max staggered away from me in the direction of the window” and barely thirty minutes later and months before Marie and Leah’s deaths, Red Max would be dead. ‘French Suzette’ (at least not that ‘French Suzette’) was unharmed. She did not pull the trigger, as she had no reason to. Many have speculated that The Soho Strangler wasn’t the work of a sadistic serial-killer or a series of copy-cat killings but a white slaver sending a message to his pimps, girls and ponces. And now – just a few streets south of the murders of Fifi, Marie & Leah – a rival crime boss was dead. But was it something he said, had done, or had seen? This strangler’s slayer was not a thuggish brute like Max who left fear and devastation in his wake, but an intelligent, unassuming and devious criminal mastermind who could make men like Max vanish. The murderer of Red Max was his bitter rival, Roger Vernon… …and there was no denying that this murder was a message. Investigators wrestled for months to unravel the mystery over who Roger Vernon was, as although he used many aliases and false identities, unlike Max, Roger was so unassuming, it was like he didn’t exist. Roger Marcel Vernon was born on the 4th January 1901 in Fontenay-sur-Bois, a pleasant suburb on the outskirts of Paris to French parents; his father was a postal official, his mother was a housewife, and coming from a good hardworking family, although he was educated and cultured, Roger wanted more. Nicknamed ‘Petite George’ owing to his stature, Roger was a thin slightly built man, barely five-foot-high in heels, who wore very expensive exquisitely tailored suits to hide the fact they were child-sized. And although – with dark slicked down hair, a flawless face and often wearing a natty little bowtie - many mistook him for a little boy dressed in his Sunday best, when in truth, he was angel-faced killer. Like a little Highland Terrier, Roger could be calm, patient, loyal and intensely smart, but burdened by a short-fuse, sharp teeth and a savage bite, very few rats ever escaped a tussle with Roger unscathed. We know little of his descent into crime, as he used the cover of running cafes to hide the truth from the authorities and his parents. In July 1920, 19-year-old Roger was bound over for theft. In April 1922, her served two years for larceny. And later for larceny with force, at Villaine Assizes in November 1924, he was sentenced to seven years hard labour and ten years banishment to the infamous Devil’s Island. Harsher than any sentence and harder than any prison, Devil’s Island was one of the most brutal penal colonies in the world. Opened in 1852, Devil’s Island was an uninhabited and isolated strip of land, ten miles off the French Guiana coast of South America. Surrounded on all sides by swirling seas - owing to the heat, the disease and the brutality of the warders - it was nicknamed the ‘dry guillotine’, as 40% of the prisoners didn’t survive their first year, and 75% would die before their sentence was complete. Their days consisted of breaking rocks, digging holes and felling trees, in a pointless exercise designed to break and humiliate them, as at night they were housed in dark dank cells; shackled to the bed, fed on a diet of rancid pork, and forbidden from speaking, reading or even sitting before nightfall. To endure such brutality requires strength and patience, and although Roger was half the weight and size of most prisoners, he lasted three years in near solitary confinement before he finally broke. Few prisoners have ever escaped Devil’s Island, but one was Roger Vernon. On 15th November 1927, having built in secret and silence a makeshift raft, stockpiled supplies and concocted an almost suicidal plan, eight convicts over cover of night, navigated the black stormy sea, ten miles west to Venezuela. As one of the most daring prison breaks ever, it caused a national embarrassment for the French, and although they unleashed a worldwide manhunt to capture him dead or alive, Roger was never caught. From Venezuela, where he met his wife-to-be, he fled to New York and in a Broadway café, he bought a French/Canadian passport under the alias of Charles Edward Lacroix, a native of Montreal, born five years before himself, and blessed with dual nationality it give him access to Canada, France and Britain. It is unknown how and when Roger Vernon alias Charles Lacroix became a white slaver, but - seeing himself not as a small-time pimp or a ponce, but as the boss - he was unafraid to get his hands dirty… …and to send a clear message to any rivals, that he was not to be messed with. On Monday 30th June 1930, Henri Bouclier, a 60-year-old Belgian known as ‘Old Martigues’ (the slang name for the French coastal town of Marseilles) left his wealthy apartment on Dorchester Street West in downtown Montreal and the epicentre of the red-light district. Described as ‘the vice czar’, Henri was a drug-dealer and international white slaver, who wore sharp suits and dripped in gold jewellery. Henri was the boss of Montreal’s criminal underworld, but losing his grip, new gangs had muscled in. Police struggled to find witnesses and the statements they made were vague, but it was said that Henri was picked up in a black car (of unknown make) by two men (of unseen description) and driven away. Missing for three days, on the afternoon of 2nd July in a remote disused industrial site called Laval-sur-le-Lac, an 11-year-old boy found his bloated bullet-riddled body, a few yards from a barely used road. Fully dressed except for his hat; his pockets were emptied, his ID was burned, his jewellery was stolen, so that now everyone could see that this once great man had nothing… because he was nothing. With no bloodstains, tyre-marks told the detectives he had been murdered elsewhere, driven to this spot, dragged off the road and dumped within view. Being easy to find but hard to identify, his killers knew that speculation would grow and once his death was reported, that the message would be clear. Examined by the police surgeon, Henri was shot while standing and at close range; with the first bullet smashing his gold teeth into pieces and embedding into his neck, and the second – whilst bent over in pain – breaking his ribs and skewing his right lung as he drowned in gasping breaths of his own blood. Police interrogated their prime suspects, Roger Vernon and Rafa (a fellow escapee from Devil’s Island) for eight hours about the murder of Montreal’s czar of vice, but with no evidence, they were released. With Henri dead, Roger assumed control of parts of his criminal empire… …and even today, the murder of Henri Bouclier remains unsolved. Across the early 1930s, Roger moved between America, Spain, Belgium, London and Paris, establishing brothels and trafficking women into sex-work, as his wife set up a front by running an honest café. The white slave trade was big business. It was said that “a new attractive young girl, preferably a virgin could trade hands for £500”, that’s £31000 today. And having added her travel fees, rent, clothes and a sham marriage, each girl would be imprisoned by a pimp’s debt, and living in a code of silence – with nothing written as paper leaves a trail - these contracts would be etched in fear, bruises and blood. Across the 1930s, Scotland Yard had struggled to smash this Soho vice ring, and to prove who the boss of each rival syndicate really was, but – often - he was so invisible, it was almost as if he didn’t exist. As a legal citizen with no criminal record in Britain, on 21st October 1931 at Holborn Registry Office, using the alias Charles Edward Lecroix, Roger Vernon married Esther Ode, a former French prostitute. And using the cover that he was a car dealer, with modest lodgings on Grafton Street, he blended in. Seen as a small businessman living a seemingly modest life, Roger kept a low-profile from the law as he ruled large swathes of the West End sex-trade with an iron fist; roughing up ‘the meat’ when they stepped out of line, their pimps who skimmed off the top, and stamping on any rival who muscled in. In 1933, Roger moved his mistress (a petite French prostitute with rose-bud lips and a brunette bob, known of ‘French Suzette’) into a two-floor lodging at 35/36 Little Newport Street, south of Soho… …where Red Max the strangler would be murdered. We’ll never know why Red Max was killed, whether he had heard, saw or knew something he shouldn’t have; whether it was simply for the small debt he owed, or what the money was really for? Fear pervades every element of the white slave trade; from prostitutes to pimps, king-pins to ponces, and even those ordinary people who perform simple tasks to aid their daily life. So, what happened inside the lodging of Suzanne Bertron that night may never be known… but this is as near as we’ll get. Marcelle Gabrielle Aubin, maid to ‘French Suzette’ would state “(Roger) said he had lent a man called Emil Allard £25 to furnish a prostitute’s flat and had not paid it back… he didn’t like the man… he was a big bully” who was known to threaten women, and to make those he disliked “pay” by violent means. Two days prior, Red Max paid Suzanne a visit in the flat, while Roger was on business in France. Scaring Suzanne and mocking Roger, what was said by Max went unrecorded, but Roger was said to be fuming. On Wednesday 22nd January, one day before, a letter was sent to Red Max, it read “Will you call at the flat tomorrow, between 6:30 and 7pm, as I have a letter to hand you personally. Signed. Suzanne”. Posted that day and received the next morning, the trap was set… but what was the motive? There were two witnesses to the murder and disposal of Red Max, but both were in fear for their lives. 45-year-old Marcelle Aubin of Paris had been Suzanne’s maid for just eight months. Not too dissimilar to Felicite Plaisant, the maid of ‘French Fifi’, she earned £1 per week, working midday to 1am except Sundays, by cleaning the flat, changing the sheets, and providing assistance if the customer got rough. In her first statement to the Police, she would deny everything, stating “(Roger) wasn’t there… there was no fight… I broke the window fixing a light… and madame only left as her mother was sick”. All of which they knew was a lie, as the evidence would prove it. Promised protection, this terrified women later admitted “I did not tell you the truth because I am frightened that someone might injure me”. The second witness was Pierre Alexandre; a driver and garage owner of 21 Sutton Street in Soho, an associate of Roger Vernon, a known ponce who Police suspected “was a flat-farmer linked to white slavery”, and who was also the landlord of 35/36 Little Newport Street where the murder took place. In his first statement, he too denied it all, stating “I don’t know Suzanne, she may be a prostitute… I have seen her with a small Frenchman (I don’t know his name)… I have not seen Red Max in months… and I was not at the flat that night”, although the maid would state otherwise. He would later admit, “I did not tell the truth as I was afraid. I helped him through fear and because he had said I had to”. But that’s the power of fear, it can make witnesses silent, and even murders seem like suicides. Thursday 23rd January was an ordinary day by all accounts. When the maid arrived, Suzanne & Roger were still in bed and then she made them breakfast. Marcelle would state “after this meal, she dressed and went out to meet men to bring back to the flat”, with the last of the sex finishing at 6:30pm. On the sideboard, in the top-floor sitting room, Marcelle saw a small pistol, a .25 Colt automatic which Roger said “I’ve had that for years. It’s travelled everywhere with me”, along with a tin of 18 bullets. At 6:50pm, having rang the doorbell, Marcelle nervously showed Max up the stairs. At Roger’s request, Suzanne hid in the second-floor bedroom, later joined by Marcelle, and in the third floor sitting room, instead of meeting Suzanne as he thought, Red Max met Roger Vernon, who was still seething. What words were exchanged between the two bitter rivals would go with them both to their graves. Whether a debt was repaid or insults were spat is unknown, as with the radio on at a volume too loud to be pleasant, it could be said that this was premeditation, as was the loaded pistol in Roger’s pocket. As a tiny man with a child-like frame, although quick-tempered and dangerous, Roger was no match for Red Max, a thuggish brute who could strangle this tiny man with one hand, and Roger knew that. Marcelle recalled “Soon after he went up, I heard quarrelling… footsteps backwards and forwards and while high words were being spoken… then I heard some shots. There were several… I heard a scuffle and then (Roger) shouted ‘Marcelle’”, as both women rushed up the stairs to his aid of the little man. “Max had me by the throat” Roger would claim “he was trying to strange me”. Only with no bruises to his neck, all he had was a cut to his lip, as this lump of a man stumbled about, bleeding profusely. Five shots were fired in total; the first penetrated both sides of his right hand as he tried to defend his face, the second and third ripped into his stomach with both bullets buried in his right leg and back, a fourth fired from the side burst through his hip and right kidney, and shot from behind as he stumbled, the fifth skewered his right shoulder and breaking three ribs as he slowly drowned in his own blood. Stubbornly still standing and trying to flee, when Marcelle & Suzanne arrived, Red Max would growl “‘oh mademoiselle, he has shot me”, as the cruel white slaver whined at his own impending demise. Pushing the lumbering lump back into the room, “when he got near the window, with his forearm, he smashed two panes of glass”. And although she would state “Suzanne and I pulled him away from the window…”, several witnesses did refuse to speak or talk to the police, but many more who had no links to drugs, crime or white slavery, openly spoke of the shots they heard and the falling glass. Stella Healey, hostess at the Office Club on the first floor heard “footsteps and shouting”. Evan Thomas a driver at Cambridge Dairies next door spoke of ‘smashing glass’. Minnie Florence, owner of a cat meat stall “heard a commotion, some bangs and a window came out into the street”. Sophia Levey who ran tobacco kiosk right outside, stated she had been showered with broken glass and “heard a bang up above me coming from the flat. It sounded like an explosion, glass fell into the street, a crowd gathered and looked up…”, with passer-by Alan Kehoe confirming “the sound came from the top floor, the lower pane of the left window was broken. I looked up and immediately the light was extinguished. After the light went out, the whole house was in darkness”. Their statements would prove pivotal… …but oddly, not a single person had called the Police. In the bathroom on the second floor, as blood and stomach bile pooled about his crumpled legs, Max pleaded “take me to the hospital”, as this terrifying monster - who had subjected thousands of girls to an unspeakable horror being repeatedly raped by drunken men - begged “I am going to die, give me some water”. But as he struggled to breathe, gasping “air, air”, Roger simply barked at him, “shut up”. With bullet wounds to his stomach and kidney, the pain would have been agonising at it took him half an hour to die, as slowly, this once feared Soho crime boss bled dry, slumped at the base of a toilet. Red Max the Strangler had been murdered… …but with enough money and power, even a big man can be made to vanish. (Phone) “Pierre? It’s Roger. Come round at once. Very important. Bring a car”. Backing up his black Chrysler 66, a four-seater saloon to the street-door at 11:20pm, Pierre saw the body and went white, both in shock and in fear. With the street still trickling with curious faces, but no police, they waited till 3:30am, when the club had shut and street-lamps went out, plunging the whole area into darkness. Throughout the night, “Suzanne & I washed away the bloodstains”, Marcelle would later confess; they washed the walls, scrubbed the carpets, and erased any trace of Max from every surface. When Roger came in, he said ‘there’s a spot there and there’. He wasn’t happy until every spot of blood had gone”. Into the fire, anything Max had on him when he died was burned; his letters, his ID, his passport, his tie, his collar and even his trilby hat. His money was nicked and his jewellery was stripped, so that – when found - everyone could see that this once great man had nothing… because he was nothing. The window was repaired, the curtains were burned, the pistol was dumped, and the spent cartridges were slung down a drain, so that by the morning, even a passing policeman would be none the wiser. At 4am, with a foggy frost having descended on this cobblestoned street, amidst the gloom, a 16 stone lump wrapped in a blanket was dragged down the stairs and bundled into the back of Pierre’s car. Ordered by Roger to “go to the country”, this makeshift hearse headed 25 miles north to St Alban’s. Sneaking down unlit lanes through impenetrable fog, Pierre later said “after wandering for while, we went down a little turning and Roger said ‘here is a good place’”. Pulling up quietly, and dragging the body by its feet across the hard frosty grass - so his once-fine suit was ragged and torn like a penniless pauper - like rubbish, he was dumped between a hedge on a barely-used road in an isolate spot. It wasn’t hidden, that was the point. Roger wanted the body to be found; bereft of life and stripped of wealth, as the speculation grew, once Red Max’s death was reported, the message would be clear… …just as it was with Henri Bouclier. By the morning - as a passer-by found a bloodied bullet-riddled body - Roger & Suzanne boarded a boat-train to Paris, assured that the flat was clean, evidence was destroyed, and witnesses silenced. The murder of Red Max could have gone unsolved, as many other murders had. But as much as a king-pin has the power to make a mere minion too terrified to talk and to erase them if they do, there is nothing more intimidating than a police detective, who can arrest you, deport you and convict you. With the body identified that day as Meier Kassel alias Red Max, although the press made spurious claims over the dead man’s identity based on hearsay, the Police investigated the crime using the most logical methods known; an autopsy confirmed his fingerprints, with no criminal record they liaised with the French police, in his list of known associates was Roger Vernon who was missing, as was his mistress, a convicted prostitute known as ‘French Suzette’ who lived at 35/36 Little Newport Street. When questioned, local witnesses spoke of shouting, glass smashing and gun shots. Inside, although the flat was spotless, fingerprints were found, as well as a few tiny blood spots. A witness at the King’s Head pub next door had seen and heard Red Max struggling to breathe in the bathroom. And speaking to neighbours, they were able to trace two terrified witnesses who demanded protection to speak – a prostitute’s maid called Marcelle Aubin, and the flat’s landlord, Pierre Alexandre, owner of an oddly clean black Chrysler 66, and - although he initially denied it – it was seen outside of the flat that night. On Saturday 1st February, nine days later, at a hotel in Porte St Denis in Paris, the Surate charged Charles Lecroix & Marguerite Ferrero, alias Roger Vernon and Suzanne Bertron with wilful murder. With both suspects French, the inquest began on Monday 3rd February at Paris Assizes in France. The evidence against Roger Vernon was solid, only one key witness who had seen everything was missing. As may have happened with ‘French Fifi’ and the white slavers it is said she helped convict, before the trial, a petite French brunette and a prostitute’s maid called Marcelle Aubin was found dead. Investigated thoroughly, an autopsy would confirm it wasn’t murder or a suicide, but that this healthy 45-year-old “had succumbed to a mysterious illness” - the exact cause of which was unknown. (End) In court, the tiny ‘crime boss’ in his natty bow-tie pooed evidence, dismissed lawyers and tried to tie to the court up in knots by denying he was Roger Vernon, or that the murder of a rival had taken place. Turning against his mistress and hanging her out to dry, as he shouted ‘Liar’ every time she condemned him, Roger spat “I swear that I did not know Max Kassel and that I had nothing to do with his death”. Roger Vernon was a big time criminal and a feared gangster, and although tough and devious, calm and controlling and a man who wrought fear upon a city, the prosecution knew how to get him. Nine days into the trial, they pulled out their trump card – not evidence, not a new witness – but his beloved 74-year-old father who scolded his son like the little boy he was, shouting “you unhappy boy. You grind our name into the mud. You must tell the truth”. And with that, Roger Vernon, the international drug dealer and infamous white slaver who ruled large swathes of Soho, fell to his knees and sobbed. On the 29th April 1937, at Seine Assizes in Paris, Suzanne Bertron was acquitted. Pierre Alexandre gave his damning evidence and then fled the country, fearing his own life. And found guilty of wilful murder, 36-year-old Roger Marcel Vernon was sentenced to 10 years hard labour and banished for 20 years. It could be said that Roger Vernon was a likely suspect to be The Soho Strangler, but he was never suspected, as before the brutal murders of Marie Cotton and ‘Dutch Leah’, he was already in prison. With three women dead, the killings stopped, the panic over and the press having ceased writing silly stories about a serial-strangler in Soho slaying similar looking women with links to the sex-trade, with their focus on the looming war in Europe, the excitement had died down and the case was forgotten. Only, with a fourth and final woman still to kill, The Soho Strangler was hunting a prostitute… …a petite French brunette, who was also known as ‘French Suzette’. Part Nine of Ten of The Soho Strangler continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #203: The Soho Strangler - Part Seven - 'Red Max the Strangler'22/3/2023
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THREE:
This is Part Seven of Ten of The Soho Strangler. With three women dead, no witnesses to their murders and no clues to their killer’s identity, although the Police still insisted that this was not the work of a serial-killer but three different murders with remarkable similarities, the press had a suspect… a ‘Soho crime boss’ who was a known strangler, who had the money and power to corrupt an investigation. His nickname was Red Max, but he also went by the alias… of Mr Cohen.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below THE LOCATION As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a rum & raisin exclamation mark (!) above the words 'Leicester Square'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: “Dear Boss. I keep on hearing the police have caught me, but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. Good Luck. Yours truly. Jack the Ripper”. The infamous ‘Dear Boss’ letter - which gave Whitechapel’s infamous spree-killer a name - is largely thought to be a hoax, concocted by two journalists at The Star newspaper, to keep a dying story alive. As with the Soho Strangler - by mangling the facts so a mere man now morphed into a monster – their meddling had distracted the public, the rest of the press and even the police from finding the culprit. In truth, neither killer left any clues to their identity; with no fingerprints, no witnesses and baffled police suggesting a smattering of suspects (possibly) as convenient scapegoats - with the inquests of ‘French Fifi’, Marie Cotton and ‘Dutch Leah’ concluding they were ‘murdered by persons unknown’ - the cases were closed, the killer went silent, and - with no news to report – a restless press moved on. But who was The Soho Strangler? A man, a myth or a monster? A bohemian, a gay or a Jew? And with a taste for petite French brunettes, was a fourth victim in his sights? The Police thought he was a man, possibly a punter with a past of violence against women, where-as the Press had alluded to a suspect. Described as ‘a gangster’, ‘ a ponce’, ‘a vice king’, ‘a dope peddler’, ‘a white slaver’, and said to be ‘the most feared man in the London underworld’, they never gave a name to this ‘crime boss’; but as a criminal who could kill at will, exuded an aura of fear and had the power to corrupt (making the Police look away and the Press pose a cunning distraction to the public), he was a real strangler in Soho… …who was invisible, because those who knew the truth were too afraid to speak. As a man, a myth and a monster, ‘Max le Roquin’ - also known by those who daren’t speak his name as ‘Max the Red’, ‘Red Max’ and ‘Russian Max’ - went by many aliases, some we know, most we don’t, as he assumed new names and identities to disguise his crimes; with his extensive criminal record listing him as Kemfesti, Kassenborg, Kassel, Emil Allard, Max Allard, and known locally as ‘Mr Cohen’. Using a multitude of aliases and forged documents in multiple countries, his true history is a mystery. Born on either the 3rd or 5th of December 1879, Meier Kassel known as ‘Max’ was one of at least two sons to Herrmann or Hyman & Mina Kassel, Russian Jews living in Riga, now the capital city of Latvia. His past went unspoken by his sister Fanny and his brother George, and his nephew Alfred would state when questioned “I do not know where he came from, or his age… he told me he was a jeweller”. Being barely five foot five but weighing in at a hefty 16 stone, Max was physically imposing, and as the police report declared “he had enormous strength and was greatly feared by those who knew him”. With piercing brown eyes and fair red hair, Max the Ginger as he was also known exuded a real charm when he wanted to, but with his face and body a patchwork of past wounds - a broken nose, lost teeth and his left cheek and neck slashed in a knife fight – there was no denying that Max was dangerous. Barking in a gruff menacing growl, those who openly spoke against him, stated he was “a violent bully”, “offensive and arrogant” and a “quick-tempered selfish thug”; who attacked the meek with impunity, who stalked the streets unreproached, who stole what he said was his, and – being fast with a ligature or his fists – he’d spit mocking barbs, laughing as his terrified victim was strangled into submission. No-one knows when or why he left Riga, but in 1901 – as a well-dressed respectable Jewish boy with an honest trade - 20-year-old Max was running a bootmaker’s in the Paris suburb of Rue Pigalle. It was a decent business which made a little money, paid its bills and drew no attention from the authorities. But that was the point; as using an alias, this little shoe-shop was a front to hide his real income - sex. Rue Pigalle was Paris’ red-light district – the French Soho or Whitechapel – where cruel men like Max pimped out barely pubescent girls, selling their virginity to seedy strangers for a fee they’d never see. Whether he sold her is unknown, but one girl pimped in Pigalle would be known in Soho as French Fifi. But with pimping being precarious, having been arrested on several charges of larceny, dope-dealing, running a brothel, living off immoral earnings and the assault of ‘his girls’ as he called them (known in the trade as ‘the meat’), in October 1903, under the alias of Kemfesti, Max was deported from France. For any honest individual, this banishment would be crippling… …but by adopting a new alias, Max simply started again. From 1905, he ran a café in the Belgian city of Antwerp as a front to his ever-expanding strangle-hold on the white slave trade, until 1914 when he was prosecuted (but ultimately dismissed owing to a lack of evidence) and was expelled for ‘inciting minors into debauchery’. Max did not care about the ‘meat’ he sold, even though with the age of consent being just 13, some of his girls were only children. Fuelled by money, power and arrogance, Max travelled where he pleased and having established a network of brothels in Buenos Aires, Antwerp, Paris, Montreal and London, shipping a fresh slew of pretty young girls to distant cities, as to English punters even French girls have a taste of the exotic. Exported like cattle to a strange new land; a wonderful dream would be dangled before every girl, she would be hastily married to make deportation impossible, stripped of her passport and sold into the sex trade. Isolated, threatened, beaten and living in fear, they would be indebted for life to their pimps and ponces, serving a never-ending procession drunk and violent men, until – as unloved middle-aged spinsters with debts, criminal records and addictions – they were physically and mentally spent. By 1914, Max was shipping girls between almost every continent including Australia, having acquired a French/Canadian passport under the alias of Emil Allard, with his cover as a West End jeweller. As with many elements of criminality, it is said (but unprovable) that Max ran ‘The Iron Gang’, a feared group of pimps, extorters, heroin dealers and white slavers in Soho, until 1925 when all were charged with running a ‘bogus marriage scheme’ for the purpose of prostitution. With one witness described as a ‘prostitute’ and ‘an informer’, four men were deported, but Max was not convicted or charged. In 1933, three years before the murders, Max Kassel alias Emil Allard, a well-dressed man - in a sharp suit, a Trilby hat, gold rings and cufflinks, who carried a magnifying-glass as he sold jewellery bought from Debenhams - had moved into very modest 1st floor flat at 37 James Street in Marylebone, where he lived alone with his white highland terrier. He was so anonymous; it was almost as if he didn’t exist. With his wealth hidden, his identity unknown and his businesses seemingly legit, when the police were hunting Leah’s killer - “a man with a history of violence against women and prostitutes” - one of the reasons Red Max didn’t appear on their list was that he didn’t have a criminal conviction in England. As a ‘crime boss’ in Soho, Max had the ability to be powerful and yet invisible. In 1937, after The Soho Strangler had seemingly gone silent, the United Press reported: “Mad the Red, a big shot in the white slave trade and dope gang… in Europe, Africa and North & South America specialised in bringing foreign women to Britain though ‘fixed’ marriages… the women were set-up in West End apartments, while Max Kassel and his mob made a handsome rake-off from their girl’s earnings together with protection money to keep their territory free from molestation by rival gangs”. With most white slavers making £3000 a year (£250,000 today), the vastness of Max’s empire cannot be counted, but – as later stated in the News of the World – his influence was one of intimidation, violence and fear , “as among Paris gangsters and their women… Red Max was a name of terror…”. Max had power, money, influence and control. As the ‘crime boss’ of Soho’s sex-trade, he chose who rose and fell, or who won and lost, with each man’s life and death – literally – in the palm of his hands. It was said, “every man in Soho feared the wrath of Red Max”… …and as for the women? To him, they meant nothing. By May 1936, three petite brunettes of similar circumstances were strangled in their Soho flats by an unseen assailant. The Police would state “there is nothing to show that there is a connection between any of these cases, despite the most exhaustive enquiries, no evidence was found upon which even suspicion could be attached to any known person, and it is unlikely that the crimes will ever be solved”. In the hunt for the killer, the Police searched far and wide… …and yet, not once in any of the murder files does Red Max appear as a suspect. Three streets south-east of Lexington Street where Jeanne-Marie Cotton once lived, two streets south of Old Compton Street and Archer Street where ‘French Fifi’ and ‘Dutch Leah’ plied their trade, and over Shaftesbury Avenue in an area now called ‘Chinatown’, lived a sex-worker called ‘French Suzette’. Her tragic story is not dissimilar to those you have already heard. Born in Paris, on an unspecified date in 1910, Susanne Baudoin came from very little and sought (what was said to be) a better life in England. As a pretty young brunette with a girl-like frame, a dark bob and rose-bub lips, sex-work was an obvious choice for an unskilled woman who lured in lustful men. In 1924, at the tender aged of just 14, Susanne married Emil Bertron, a violin maker, and together they had a daughter called Lucette. Little is known of their married life, but already working as a prostitute, it was said that Susanne had “abandoned them”, fleeing to England and leaving her husband and child. Like many ‘pieces of meat’ shipped into Soho’s red-light district, on 18th March 1933, Suzanne married John Naylor, a man she had never met before, and having been paid £2 for his time, after a few months of ‘married life’, they later split, leaving Mrs Naylor with a passport and immunity from deportation. French Suzette had many convictions for prostitution, but unlike the others, she lived in relative luxury. Many prostitutes were flat farmed, as with the law decreeing that a brothel consisted of “two or more prostitutes living or working in a single dwelling”, the solution was simple; a series of flats subdivided into smaller lodgings by a partition, with a bed and a hot-plate installed to add an heir of respectability. Just like ‘French Fifi’s flat on Archer Street, although who actually owned that flat will never be known. In contrast, 35-36 Little Newport Street was a spacious four-storey maisonette covering two floors, which was furnished with art-work, soft furnishings, an electric massager and a portable gramophone. Always dressed in fine furs, expensive cosmetics and Parisienne perfumes, although she still had sex with men for money, her clients were exclusive, her prices were higher and her life was easier than most, being the mistress of Roger Vernon - an infamous white slaver and now a bitter rival of Red Max. Susanne Baudoin alias ‘French Suzette’ was a petite brunette, who lived and worked as a prostitute, in a 2nd floor lodging above a shop which was accessed only via a street-door - the similarities are stark. Barely two streets south and just two months after the killing of Soho prostitute ‘French Fifi’, it was here on Thursday 23rd January 1936, that another strangling took place. Only, just like ‘Dutch Leah’s… …this murder would be different. What’s most baffling about the Soho Strangler killings is the lack of motive. Every murder has a motive; whether robbery or revenge, pride or politics, insanity or mistaken identity, bloodlust or sexual urges. These murders had none of that; each death was silent and swift, each crime-scene untouched and clean, and each corpse (in two cases) were mistaken for something innocent, with Leah’s either being personal or - having not used a stocking - the flat iron only became essential to silence her. He didn’t post letters to the police, he didn’t take souvenirs and he didn’t daub taunts on a wall written in blood. These three crimes could have been a coincidence, a cock-up, or controlled by someone with power. On the night of Sunday 3rd November 1935, ‘French Fifi’ willingly invited her assailant into her Archer Street flat and it’s likely she made him a cup of tea and maybe a plate of eggs. In the bedroom, no sex nor assault took place, but - in an action described by her friends as “odd” - she calmly removed only her left stocking, in which she kept her money, which went missing. But did he take it, or was he owed it? And having cleared her debt, did this man who felt he owned her, close her account with her death? A few weeks before her murder, her neighbour Millicent Warren heard Fifi “argue and struggle with a foreign man in her flat… “ who Fifi later said “got hold of my throat”. Who this man was is unknown, but being a prostitute – and therefore “untrustworthy” - Millie’s account was not investigated further. It may seem strange for a murder to be mistaken with a suicide, by such experienced detectives, a doctor and a pathologist… but it was. At the crime scene, they found no fingerprints to pinpoint to a suspect (but maybe he wore gloves?), no witnesses were spotted (but possibly they were too scared to speak?), by her bed were letters suggesting a suicidal depression (or maybe the scene was staged?), and with her autopsy taking three weeks to come to the conclusion of “murder, based on probability”, were these professionals simply trying to get to the truth without jumping to a hasty decision, or was the delay deliberate? The Daily Herald would later state “for the police to allow such a time to elapse between the body’s discovery and the cause of death being announced is almost without parallel”. What we do know of the culprit is that – having rendered her semi-conscious and shattered her dental plate in a single punch – that he was a big man, strong and violent, who could charm and control her. On Thursday 16th April 1936, the body of 43-year-old French national Jeanne-Marie Cotton was found strangled in her flat. Again, with no fingerprints, clues or witnesses, the Police collared a gay lodger who had soiled a mattress, but with the evidence purely circumstantial, James Hall was dismissed. The investigation described ‘Marie Cotton’ as “a woman of good character and there is no evidence to suggest that she had at any time been a prostitute”. And yet, she had possible links to the sex-trade; her lodger (Dorothy Neri) was prostitute, she married briefly to an Englishman which sealed her British citizenship, she lived on a known thoroughfare occupied by sex-workers, her boyfriend Carlo reputedly paid for her sex and – it was said by just days before her death –he had accused her of having ‘a ponce’. Marie Cotton spoke only to her closest friends about her fear of ‘The Jew’, an unidentified man who had “helped her out in the past”, who was “reclaiming his debt”, whose surname she had only said once, possibly by mistake, and whose impending arrival had left her shaking with fear. On Tuesday 14th April 1936, just two days before her death, she had left a note by her door which read ‘Mr Cohen. Shall not be long. Gone to Marlborough Street. J Lanza’ - this was handed in to the Police as evidence. That night, the mysterious Mr Cohen failed to show up. With scant information, the Police stated that “finding him was an impossible task”. And although Mr Cohen was mentioned at the inquest, Red Max was not. Oddly, it was amidst the police’s own papers, that ‘Mr Cohen’ was listed as a known alias for Red Max. And yet he wasn’t considered a suspect in Marie Cotton’s murder? But why? On Saturday 9th May 1936, a few streets from both murders, ‘Dutch Leah’ a 24-year-old prostitute was found strangled and bludgeoned to death in her own bed. Again, there were no fingerprints, suspects or clues. She wasn’t French, but being a small brunette, maybe some of these details are coincidental? The links between Leah and Max are scant as you would expect. When questioned, Ruby Walker stated “I don’t know that Leah has been to France, or if someone had come from France to murder her. I knew ‘Fifi’ but I did not know Max. I have never seen ‘French Fifi’ and Leah Hinds together”. Even though they were both two pleasant prostitutes who had lived and worked streets apart for six years. The links are tenuous; it’s likely that Leah was flat farmed, as her landlord had offered her another flat having first threatened to evict her owing to ‘debts’; it’s possible that being a British prostitute Leah was killed for selling sex on a patch run by French ponces like Max, we know Leah was married briefly using aliases to Robert Smith, and - in an odd connection - they held their wedding reception at 5 Old Compton Street, the home of a “French ponce” as the police file states “which Red Max did frequent”. And yet, if Max was the last man seen with Leah and whose description – “aged 25-30, slim to medium build, fresh complexion, brown hair, long black coat and no hat” - was fed to every police force in the country and led the course of the investigation, why doesn’t it match Max? Who was aged 55, well-built, scarred complexion, with a mop of fair-reddish hair and dressed in an expensive three-piece suit. Was this accurate, a mistake, or as a deception concocted by a corrupt police force, funded by a Soho crime boss and aided by the press who added their own ‘monstrous’ flourishes, was the aim to ensure that these murders would never be solved, and that The Soho Strangler would never be caught? With three Soho prostitutes strangled, no suspects charged and each case closed, a killer still roamed free. And although the Press had gone silent, another petite French brunette would be murdered… …and she was known as ‘French Suzette’. 1935 and 1936 saw the swift decline of Max’s once great empire. With Maltese gangs like the Messina Brothers and the Vassallo Gang muscling into the French-run sex-trade, 55 year old Max was far from the man he once was. Money was tight, ‘Mr Cohen’ was cracking down on debtors, and one week before the murder, Max had his finger sliced in a knife-fight in a Berwick Street café over a few quid. In Britain, Max had always maintained his duality (that of a seemingly legitimate West End jeweller to hide his illicit gains) which kept him free from police suspicion and even helped him evade deportation when (everyone but him in) the ‘Iron Gang’ was convicted back in 1925. He had no criminal record in this country, which made him invisible, but following the arrest of an associate for the possession of a firearm, Max was “put under surveillance”, and (said to be “a police informer” in London and Paris) that Max had handed over his associates to save his own skin. Again, it could be a coincidence, but… …The Daily Herald would state “(French Fifi) was believed to have given evidence which recently led to a sensational court case”. Her real name nor none of her aliases appear as a witness in the reporting of that case. But then again, with this trial beginning on the 21st November 1935… …’Fifi’ had been murdered just two weeks before. On Thursday 23rd January 1936 at about 6pm, Max left his modest flat at 37 James Street. With times hard and his pride dented, even his nephew would state “he did not appear to have much money”. In Soho, once he ruled the roost but being overweight, old and alone, his glory days had long since gone. To compound his shame, to raise his volcanic blood pressure and to cause his thick hairy fists to clench whenever this debt was mentioned, 18 months earlier, he was forced to go cap-in-hand to get a loan of £25 (£1300 today) from a white slaver who ruled large swathes of Soho’s sex-trade. This man was a French pimp called Roger Vernon, and now he ran this local ‘meat’ market, not Max. With the debt being called in, Max unable to pay and Roger spreading word that this so-called king pin hadn’t got two halfpennies to rub together – having strolled through Soho, past the murderous haunts of The Soho Strangler - at 6:50pm, he rang the doorbell of 35/36 Little Newport Street; an elegant little lodging beyond a street-door, occupied by one of Roger’s prostitutes, who was also his mistress… …a small petite brunette called ‘French Suzette’. (Out) With menace and (possibly) murder on his mind, Max didn’t draw any attention as he waited for the door to open. He didn’t wear a disguise – just a grey suit, a dark overcoat, a shirt and a tie – but then he didn’t need to. As the black street-door opened, Max removed his hat, his face clearly visible to those in this busy market street, as he knew no-one who valued their life would dare speak his name. Even on a street full of traders, he could appear and vanish, like a gust of wind floating on a breeze. In his pockets, he didn’t carry a weapon – no gun, knife nor ligature - as being a well-built brute who was handy with his fists, he could easily crush a man’s neck with two hands and a woman’s with one. Opened by Marcella, the prostitute’s maid, as Max asked “Is Madame in?”, this trembling help led him up the narrow stairs, past the closed club and to the private room above to meet with ‘French Suzette’. The Soho Strangler would murder four women in total, although his motive would remain a mystery. But was Red Max this maniac? Did a corrupt Police force hide his crimes? Did an eager press distract the public with its lies? Did this ‘crime boss’ order the murders of ‘French Fifi’, Marie Cotton and ‘Dutch Leah’ to usurp any rivals and erase any informers? Or was this as simple as a once-great white-slaver, who had fallen on hard times and was recouping his debts or exacting revenge, no matter how petty? Given enough power, money and control, surely it would take a criminal king-pin – someone like Max - to make a murder look like a suicide, to vanish any witness, to erase any evidence, to lead the police to collar a series of scapegoats, and to ensure that none of these murders ever went to criminal trial? ‘Red Max’ alias ‘Mr Cohen’ is the most likely suspect to be The Soho Strangler… and yet he wasn’t. Only this wasn’t corruption, a deception or incompetence by the Police, and we know that as a fact, as before the Marie Cotton and ‘Dutch Leah’ were even murdered… ‘Red Max’ was already dead. Part Eight of Ten of The Soho Strangler continues next week. 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Back of The Palace Theatre, where Leah picked up her punters
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWO:
This is Part Six of Ten of The Soho Strangler. By May 1936, three women had been strangled, by an unknown assailant, in their own homes in Soho. With the Police investigation drawing to a familiar terrifying conclusion, that – with no witnesses or suspects – once again, the murder of a Soho prostitute will go unsolved. With no suspect to pin the murder on, the press conjure up a name – The Soho Strangler, and a myth is born. But did this help or hinder the investigation?
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.Murder of Leah Hines at Old Compton Street, Soho, on 9 May, 1936
https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257749
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (Morse). By the time Divisional Detective Inspector Burt arrived at 66 Old Compton Street, constables were holding back a gaggle of eager gorpers, as reporters feverishly quoted any old pleb who said they had seen or heard something sinister, as some snuck into the Swiss Hotel opposite, to try and spy the corpse through the second-floor window. Six months earlier, a dead Soho prostitute barely filled a few lines, but now the murders were front page news, in many local, national and – by the next day – even the international papers, as – once again – Soho became infamous as a den of sex, drugs and death. This crime-scene was eerily reminiscent, but as with the others, it was assessed methodically. Again, there were no signs of a prior break-in; as both sash-windows were shut, the neighbouring flats were inaccessible (with the only tenants being two floors below who had slept soundly until the arrival of the Police), and the doors to the flat and the street had been locked by whoever had taken her key. Inside, the room was dimly lit as the sunlight pierced the partially open curtains, but again, with the gas lights set to ‘on’ and the shilling expired, only in death was the room plunged into near darkness. This bed-sitting room was small; comprising of a wardrobe and a dresser which hadn’t been ransacked, a settee on which the victim’s coats still lay, under the bed sat three half-full untouched suitcases as the tenants had just moved in, and on the mantlepiece an open handbag gave the illusion of a robbery. Leah’s body lay diagonally across the bed, having prepared herself for sex with a punter. “She was wearing shoes, with her stockings neatly rolled down to the ankles… and her (blue spotted dress) rucked-up to her waist”, as she lay with her legs widely spread. “Under the wardrobe, a pair of lady’s knickers were found, they were wet and dirty”, although who removed them and when is uncertain. As before, with no evidence of natural death nor obvious sexual assault – although the cotton wool balls inside her vagina were “soiled and foul smelling” – no recent sexual intercourse had taken place. Either trusting her assailant or never sensing any threat, “she had died in the position her injuries were inflicted”, as her body had barely moved during the assault, and there were no defensive wounds. Her injuries showed a logical order, as if inflicted by someone who could kill with both speed and silence. “A large bruise to the left lower jaw” may have rendered her semi-conscious, “abrasions to the neck and a fractured larynx suggested that the throat had been gripped by an assailant’s hand”, but – as if he lacked the strength to finish it – again, he grabbed a ligature. Not a stocking, but a black electrical flex wound around her neck, looped and held, as he slowly throttled her, staring at her terrified eyes. Barely breathing and with her left pupil blown, phlegm and vomit in the airway confirmed she was still alive when he strangled her, although – a mystery remains – why he didn’t knot it, to ensure her death. Was this a mistake, a new technique, had he developed a sadistic streak, or was her death personal? Either way, this murder would be different. Lying on a pink bedsheet – as if to hide from himself the horror he would unleash - “it was pulled over her head, covering her face…” and with her nose and mouth peeping through a rip, he grabbed a one-kilo flat iron from the dresser, raised it high, and brought it down hard upon her face and her head. “The skull was broken into depressed fragments, the fractures extended to the base of the skull and into the roofs of the ocular orbits… and the exposed brain matter was deeply lacerate and pulped…”. With blood in her airway, she was still alive as her head was caved in; pear-drop shaped blood-spatter had spread across the walls, floor, ceiling and door; and the mattress was so saturated, “blood had penetrated through the bed… which had oozed through the bedclothes and onto the suitcases below”. Constance May Hind, alias ‘Dutch Leah’ had died between 12:30pm and 3am. With no witnesses, no clues to her killer’s identity, the electrical flex of no known origin or owner, and fingerprints found which matched Leah, Stanley, the landlord, the last tenants and innumerable unidentified clients, Dr Charles Burney and Sir Bernard Spilsbury unanimously confirmed that Leah had been murdered. But by who? Several suspects were ruled out of the investigation; Robert Smith, Leah’s husband who hadn’t seen her since she had left him was seen by several witnesses in the seaside town of Margate. Her mother, Kathleen, a known fraudster stayed the whole night at a friend’s house on Percy Street. Gordon Bodley her wayward father was tracked down but wasn’t in London that week. And her ex-lovers and known ponces– Jim Rich, William ‘Billy’ Sullivan and George Day – were all in prison at the time of the murder. The last sightings of Leah heralded a few likely suspects: Leah Cohen saw her 10:50pm on Old Compton Street and stated “she was scared of a man, he was jealous as she was living with someone else”, but when investigated, this turned out to be ‘Billy’ Sullivan. Ruby Walker stated “at 11:30pm, I met Leah at the corner of Old Compton Street … a Greek came up and tried to ‘get off’ with her...”, she rejected him as they had previously had a dispute over money. But being local, he was identified and ruled out. At 12:30am, Emilio Plantino, hall porter at The London Casino on Old Compton Street, who had known Leah for six years “soliciting at the rear of Palace Theatre”, saw Leah “proceeding on the south side of the street with a man – “30 years old, 5 foot 7 inches tall, fair complexion, brown brushed back hair, slim build, in a dark raincoat and no hat”. Confirmed by Nellie Few, a friend of six years, she saw Leah enter 66 Old Compton Street with a man, and her description is close to Emilio’s – “aged about 25, 5 foot 5 inches, medium build, fresh complexion, brown hair, clean shaven, long black coat and no hat”. Described as reliable witnesses, both Nellie & Emilio were shown photos of known ‘persons of interest’ by the Police, including any potential suspects, “but they failed to identify the person they had seen”. For the detectives, “whoever is responsible for the murder undoubtably accompanied the prostitute to her room ostensibly for the purpose of sexual intercourse. This theory is supported by the position of the body… it is also reasonable to assume that robbery was the motive as her handbag was found open and no money in the room… it is also very improbable that she would have consented to have prepared herself for sexual intercourse without first receiving payment” – which was a logical theory. “…careful consideration has been given to the possibility of the murder being one of revenge on the part of a ‘ponce’, but if such were the case, one would expect to find evidence of a row and disorder”. Assuming the assailant would have prior convictions: the Police Commissioner requested all local and county divisions investigate anyone with a history of violence against women and/or prostitutes, who also resembled the suspect. With 103 men later questioned; all had alibis, some weren’t in London, many were in prison, and – when visually compared – most of the men “did not match the suspect”. But which suspect? Stanley King was the most logical suspect – a jealous boyfriend with a tenuous alibi, and timings which could not be categorically verified by others - but with the evidence against him being circumstantial, the Police report states: “…the deceased was last seen alive entering 66 Old Compton Street with the man who, in all probability, was responsible for her death… it is possible that she met a further man, but despite exhaustive enquiries of those known to frequent the area, no one saw her after this time”. Once again, a Soho prostitute had been strangled in her own bed by an unseen assailant, and having questioned hundreds of witnesses and suspects, for a third time, the investigation had hit a brick wall. The Police report concludes: “it is most unfortunate that we have to admit defeat in our investigation into this case, following so quickly on from the undetected murders of Josephine Martin and Jeanne Marie Cousins. There is nothing to show, however that there is a connection between any of these cases, despite the most exhaustive enquiries, no evidence could be found upon which even suspicion could be attached to any known person, and it is unlikely that these crimes will ever be solved”. On Tuesday 9th June 1936, coinciding with the delayed inquest of Jeanne-Marie Cotton, the death of Constance May Hind was concluded at Westminster Coroner’s Court. With witnesses called, evidence examined, and suspects questioned – although Leah’s mother and uncle openly blamed her boyfriend – nothing concrete could prove that Stanley King had anything to do with her murder of ‘Dutch Leah’. Concluded that same day, the Coroner, Mr Ingleby Oddie would state of both women’s deaths: “there is no doubt that she has been murdered by person or persons unknown”, as he had with ‘French Fifi’. Again, another murder had gone unsolved. With the inquest concluded and the case closed, no further details would furnish the newspapers front-pages, as the Press feverishly tried to piece together the clues as to which ‘lone killer’ had strangled three women in a spree across Soho’s red-light district. The murders of ‘Fifi’. Marie and ‘Leah’ would easily have been forgotten… …but with the killer described by the coroner as “a homicidal maniac” (as if recalling the terrifying days of Jack the Ripper) that was all that was needed to fan the flames of conspiracy, suspicion and panic. The Daily Mirror went with “Soho is scared… a fourth woman strangled in a Soho flat”, which was untrue, and it left the Police trying to quell the public’s fears. The Sunday Pictorial headlined with “Dutch Leah feared murder… she always prophesied she would not die a natural death”, and although this did not appear in any statement, it ran rampant as a fact. The Mirror ran with “maniac’s three Soho women victims… girl’s friends fear to talk…stating ‘it may be our turn next’”, even though not a single sex workers questioned spoke of ‘being afraid’. And some articles, such as in EveryWeek, even created their own facts, as if the case wasn’t salacious enough – stating of Dutch Leah “the woman’s tongue was badly mutilated…” - it hadn’t been touched but they went on - “this deliberate mutilation is a serious warning to Soho – ‘this woman talked too much. Take heed, lest you get the same dose’”. It was all lies… but if you print it, it becomes fact, and the more you repeat it, it becomes proof. Throughout, the press repeatedly made reference to ‘a strangler in Soho’, ‘a strangler gang’ and even ‘Soho’s serial strangler’, but it wasn’t until the 23rd May 1936, two weeks after Leah’s death, that – in connection to a fourth alleged strangling of a Soho prostitute called Dorothy Raphael, for whom no police or incident record exists – The Evening Dispatch would first use the words – The Soho Strangler. Like the unknown maniac who once stalked Whitechapel, Soho’s very own killer was given a name. But by mythologising a man, and making him into a monster… …again, the victims would be forgotten. Everybody loves a villain and Jack the Ripper is possibly the most infamous. Almost 140 years since his killing spree, Jack has morphed from a mere man with either mental health issues or a maniacal bent, to a monster of a God-like status; who “outwitted the police with his cunning”, who “had a surgeon’s skill”, who as a moral guardian “cleaned up the city of disease-raddled whores”, who “was possibly a genius painter”, and he evaded capture as he had “friends in high places”, as high up as The Queen. It makes for a fascinating tale, but – lacking any credible evidence - it’s most probably bollocks. The truth is Jack the Ripper attacked lone, hungry, vulnerable women in the dark and then he fled. In short, he was a coward. But no-one buys books about cowards, and it’s harder to worship a weakling. The same is true of most serial-killers; we know their names, but rarely their victims. Disregarded as mere props for his pleasure, or pieces of meat to be hacked to bits, the way we make a monster more palatable to a moral eye is by dismissing the victims till all that remains is their name, age and injuries. It’s impossible to destroy the memory a ‘pretty little girl’, but it’s easy to eviscerate a ‘fallen women. Examine any newspaper about the murder of Constance May Hind and the same formula is repeated; the first paragraph is an overview of the crime, the subtext of the second paragraph is why it was acceptable that she was murdered, and the third paragraph and beyond is the mythology of the killer. As their only source of information - not all of which was true - the public were informed not to mourn her passing, as her murder was clearly preceded by her own life choices and moral transgressions. Leah was an outsider of her own making, as (along with Fifi and Marie) she was described as ‘living a bohemian lifestyle’, with never an example to prove this, just that she was living among ‘undesirables’. Next-up to be critiqued was her name, her many aliases – like Leah Smith, Leah Heinz, Constance May Hind and May Constance Smith, to name a few – most which were legitimate but whiffed of criminality with the repeated use of her street-name of ‘Dutch Leah’ to remind us that she was a prostitute. Often the headlines heralded her as a “young pretty brunette”, as if it was her fault that her looks led a killer to take her life, and yet, had she been fat, old and ugly, he probably wouldn’t have bothered? As with ‘Fifi’ and Marie, many articles reference that they French, but also ‘Russian’ and ‘Jewish’, with it all written in bold capital letters to play-upon this post-World War One xenophobia even further, and - even though she was English born and bred – many state “Leah Hinds is of German extraction”. And as if her brutal murder was destined owing to who she loved, the newspapers never failed to state that she was a ‘morally loose woman’, who was ‘married’, ‘separated’ and ‘lived with men’, with her own mother’s lack of knowledge proving a boon, as she’d state: “I never saw her marriage certificate”. Never once did they mention her tough upbringing, only her dubious life and her criminal record. So, when “this dead girl” was “found on a bed”, with her body described as being “partially clothed”, “in a state of undress” and in “just her underwear”, the fault was not laid at her killer, but at her. Basically, the prostitute known as ‘Dutch Leah’ was someone we should never mourn. In the eyes of the readers, she died cruelly because of the world she inhabited, Soho; a sinister place of foreigners, a seedy cesspit of vice, a plague of undesirables and a den of ‘the criminal underworld’. As with Whitechapel in the 1880s, Soho in the 1930s reflected our socio-political anxieties, and The Soho Strangler embodied the publics fears. By 1936, still reeling from the First World War – with Hitler violating of the Treaty of Versailles by remilitarizing the Rhineland, Mussolini invading Abyssinia, and Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy forming the Rome-Berlin Axis - a Second World War was being mooted. With talk of Communists, Fascists, Nazis and swarms of ‘aliens’ upon our shores, just as Jack the Ripper was a villain who embodied their fears, The Soho Strangler reflected ours, as society blamed the usual band of ‘undesirables’, such as foreigners, gays, Jews, bohemians, the insane and the disabled. In all likelihood, The Soho Strangler was merely a man. But afraid that this man was one of ‘us’… …the press made him a monster, who was one of ‘them’. The Police’s prime suspect in the murder of ‘Dutch Leah’ was the man seen with her, by Emilio Plantino & Nellie Few. Their combined statements describe him as “aged 25-30, 5 foot 5 to 7 inches high, slim to medium build, fresh complexion, clean shaven, brown brushed back hair, long black coat or raincoat and no hat”. That could be her killer, the problem is that it matches the average male in the 1930s. As descriptions go, it’s ordinary and unremarkable. But when readers slather over a blood-spattered story about a ‘homicidal maniac’, they don’t want the killer to be just a man… they want a monster. It took the tinkering of hundreds of tiny details to transform The Soho Strangler from a possible punter “last seen walking along Old Compton Street with Leah”, to become a predatory serial-killer of Soho’s sex-workers who “baffled Scotland Yard” and “strikes with an insane but deadly cunning”. To many, the changes were barely noticeable. The Liverpool Echo wrote “he is believed to be an artist or a foreigner” – this is unknown, but it fits with the idea that a bohemian would kill his own kind. And more bizarrely, The Daily Herald stated “he was ‘coloured’ or ‘Greek’ – which neither witness said. Within the day, other newspapers had adapted the same description - as issued by the Police - with a few subtle changes to make this man more monstrous; suddenly he had “long hair”, “a thin face”, “a dark grey cap” (probably to hide the devilish hunger in his blood-red eyes), and with “hair in the nape of neck”, as he “walks with a slouch”, this deformed beast would stalk Soho with an “ape-like gait”. It took almost no time to make him real but also fictional, one of ‘them’ but not one of ‘us’. This was emphasised even further as with the killer prowling known “haunts” - as the press called them - like he was a ghoul as opposed to a guy. And stating: “police were searching all lodging houses and second-class boarding houses”, it was clear that the killer could never be middle or upper-class, but scum. With it being thrilling to label him as “insane” and “a maniac” who unleashed “a ferocious attack”, he could simply have been a drunken punter who had a history of assaulting women and prostitutes, yet had never served time as it was hardly regarded as a much of a crime. But what’s thrilling about that? And with the constant repetition of how he “vanished” rather than “fled”, how he “disappeared” rather than “ran away like a coward” and how he “evaded capture” rather than “walked into a busy street which was full of strangers minding their own business”, even his movements became mythic. Keen to play-up a recurring theme which had embedded into the local and national press in the years before The Soho Strangler killings, The Sunday Dispatch and The Daily Independent exclaimed that the case would be cracked as “detectives are convinced that there is a ‘crime king’ in Soho, who knows all the secrets and all the culprits”. With all three murders – ‘French Fifi’, Marie Cotton and ‘Dutch Leah’ linked without question – it was said that “all three women had connections to the white slave trade”. It all began, they would state, with Josephine Martin known as ‘French Fifi’, “found dead in her Archer Street flat… strangled with one of her silk stockings… she was said to have acted at various times as an agent for white slavers and for peddlers of ‘coke’”, with the Sunday Pictorial confirming to its eager readership, hungry for new ‘facts and ever more thrilling stories “...it is believed by Scotland Yard to be a vendetta which has already claimed three victims in a reign of terror” against Soho’s underworld. On 12th May, the Evening Dispatch used the headline “Soho Strangler gang?”, implying an extortion racket in the West End, where women were forced into marriages of convenience, and shipped in and out of London or Paris, to work as prostitutes to pay off an impossible bill to their pimps and ponces. On 23rd May 1936, ‘The Soho Strangler’ was first used in print… and the name stuck. (Out) With no evidence to link any of the murders to a criminal gang, a lone killer, or even that their most likely suspects, the murders of ‘French Fifi’, Marie Cotton and ‘Dutch Leah’ were reluctantly closed. As the national and international press drooled over three unsolved murders, an incompetent police force, a city suburb in terror and a killer with a very quotable nickname – just like the media sensation fifty years earlier which was Jack the Ripper - they bade for more blood and - with it - more murders. But with an odd eery silence descending over Soho – although they still spoke of “panic grips Soho”, “another girl dead”, and most bizarrely “Soho Strangler caught” – as the killings stopped, so did the reader’s attention, and with the press looking elsewhere for news, The Soho Strangler was forgotten. They didn’t even bother to wrap it up with a conclusion as to a possible suspect, they just stopped. On 13th September 1936, EveryWeek posted a full-page article syndicated across the world which read “The Soho Strangler who baffled Scotland Yard”. It filled the space, but by the next day, it was being used as chip paper. In the late 1940s, the press dangled the same carrot about ‘The Soho Strangler’ striking once again, as four more prostitutes were murdered, all within streets of each other – ‘Ginger Rae’, ‘Russian Dora’ , ‘Margaret Cook’ and ‘Black Rita’ – but this time, the public didn’t bite. The case may never be solved, as with the police having exhausted every avenue of investigation and the press having manipulated the sightings of the suspect - to such an extent that every witness after its publication gave a similarly false story, including Stanley King – the mythologising of the monster and the demonising of his victims has turned three murders into nothing but a gory story the sake of our entertainment. More than eighty years on, the truth about The Soho Strangler is lost forever. And yet, the press did leave us a very real suspect... …a Jew, known only as ‘Mr Cohen’. Part Seven of The Soho Strangler continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. 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EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND ONE:
This is Part Five of Ten of The Soho Strangler. May 1936. Three weeks after and two street south of the murder of Marie Cotton, and just two streets east of French Fifi, ‘Dutch Leah’ a third sex-worker would be found strangled in her Soho flat, on the second floor of 66 Old Compton Street. Again, there were no obvious signs of break-in, robbery or sexual assault. Again, the only entry point was a locked street door off a busy street. And again, the killer left no fingerprints, no clues to his identity and witnesses to the murder. It’s as if this maniac had attacked and vanished into thin air. With two women slaughtered in similar circumstances just streets apart, again, the police had a prime suspect, a man known to the victim who had a method and a motive. But with two murders still unsolved and with no suspects, had they caught a killer, or another scapegoat for their incompetence? With a panic rumbling across Soho, as women wondered how safe they were in their own beds, as much as the police refused to believe it, their last option was one too terrifying to consider… …that a serial-killer stalked these very streets, who the press would dub - The Soho Strangler.
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
Murder of Leah Hines at Old Compton Street, Soho, on 9 May, 1936 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257749
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (News vendor) “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Soho Strangler baffles Scotland Yard”. Three things made the Whitechapel Murders a media sensation overnight; two murders back-to-back, an ensuing panic and a letter which gave this mysterious blood-soaked slayer a name, ‘Jack the Ripper’. Dubbed the Soho Murders, with a third woman found strangled, Soho had become a byword for terror with his victims so globally famous only their nicknames were needed - ‘Fifi’, ‘Marie’ and now ‘Leah’. Syndicated worldwide on 13th September 1936, EveryWeek was one of many articles that fuelled the flames of panic and mystery. It read; “Like Jack the Ripper, this shadowy slayer of the girls of London’s dim by-ways strikes with an insane but deadly cunning, leaving no clues for the famous man-catchers. From the winter of 1887 to the summer of 1889, Jack the Ripper committed a series of baffling crimes. (Of those who fell prey to him) all were women… and of a dubious class, just as have been the ones who fell into the clutches of the Soho Strangler. Jack the Ripper threw such a shiver of fear over Whitechapel that women were afraid to go out at night. The same is true today of women in Soho”. With no witnesses, no clues and no concrete evidence to convict separate suspects to these identical murders - let alone a serial-strangler who stalked Soho’s seedy streets - this mystery would spawn a myth and with a third murder fuelling a panic, the press would give him a name – The Soho Strangler. Unlike the others, the murder of ‘Dutch Leah’ would mark a shift in the killer’s motive… …but by making this man into a monster, once again, the victim would be forgotten. With all three women being short slightly portly brunettes prone to sickness and depression - although Leah wasn’t French, or even Dutch as her street-name would suggest, but English – one thing would connect them all, as owing to the hardship of their upbringing, they were all desperate to be loved. Leah’s life was a fractured chaotic mess. When asked, her own mother could not remember the date of her only child’s birth, just that she was born in 1912, at East Ham Infirmary in East London. Like so many women, Constance May Hind (as her birth certificate states) had many names for many legitimate and illegitimate reasons; with three different spellings of her surname, a married name and combined with several first-names – ‘Constance’, ‘May’ and ‘Leah’ – she had eight known aliases. Lacking any role-model, her early life was devoid of stability or love, as Leah was bounced like a bag of dirt; between her mother Kathleen, an alcoholic fraudster who spent much of her upbringing behind bars; her father, Gordon Bodley, a miner who was neither there at her birth nor beyond; and – when not being raised by her exasperated grandmother, Sarah Ann, who “could do nothing for her” – Leah was placed into care, far from her home of London; first at St Faith’s House of Mercy, a convent at Lostwithiel in Cornwall, and later at The Devon House of Mercy, a children’s home in Bovey Tracey. Aged 14, being legally entitled to flee the state’s care, this broken girl from a fractured family left with no money, no plan, and – unsurprisingly - her mother would state “she was unable to ever live alone”. Between 1926 and 1930, her late teenage years, there is a gap in her past. Some say she had trained as a typist and then became a waitress, but with ‘Leah Heinz’ receiving the first of eight convictions for soliciting aged 18, by the time of her death, she had been a Soho prostitute for at least six years. Her adult life was no better, as every aspect of her existence was brief and transient; she sold sex, she drank, she accrued debts, then she fled; she met a man, she fell in love, it ended and she moved on. Like ‘French Fifi’ – who it is unknown if she ever knew, as her name was never mentioned in the case file of her murder - ‘Dutch Leah’ as she was called (a moniker giving this Londoner an air of the exotic) was well-known and well liked among her fellow sex-workers, being chatty, pleasant and supportive. As a creature of habit, she worked from 9pm to 2am, she picked-up punters behind the Palace Theatre (south of Old Compton Street, on the corner of Romilly Street and Greek Street) and she kept close ties to her trusted associates; Leah Cohen, Ruby Walker and Lily Joyce, the last people to see her alive. Like many prostitutes; her clients were either faceless strangers or nameless regulars, her arrests were as common as the violence she endured (none of which led to a conviction), she charged a flat rate, she rarely haggled over a fee, she had no issues with getting naked, and - as many men refused to use the thick rubber condoms, as supplied by Sydney Bloom – they could pay for unprotected sex, as their semen would be soaked up by the thick wads of cotton wool she regularly inserted into her vagina. In the Police report, she is described “as a common… low type of prostitute”. There was nothing about her which stood out; being just a small, plain and unremarkable woman struggling to get by in a life which had dealt her a dirty hand. In short, she was no more likely to be murdered than anyone else… …just like ‘Fifi’ and ‘Marie’. Leah’s mother would state “she always lived with some man. I don’t mean that she lived with a man who kept her, but with a ponce… there were innumerable men she lived with at one time or another”. Like many aspects of her life, her lack of steady lover may seem scandalous to 1930’s morals - but living in an era when a single woman was seen as sinful and penalised to the point where it was better to live with a man whether she loved him or not, like Marie Cotton - her happiness was not considered. Leah liked the creative types, many who were low earners and relied on her ‘immoral earnings’ to live. In 1930, around the time of her first conviction, she lived on Whitfield Street in Fitzrovia with Jim Rich, a black music-hall artiste who performed in the West End as well as touring the UK. By all accounts, they got on well and never quarrelled, but after two years, owing to obvious reasons, the couple split. In 1931, Leah met Robert Thomas Smith at a dance on Newport Street, they dated for a year and lived together in Wood Green, Harringay and Euston, with him always believing that she was a waitress. By the end of the year, they had a child, “I think it was a boy”, her mother would state, but unwilling or unable to care for him “he was adopted but I don’t know by whom. I believe this is Robert’s child”. On 29th June 1933, Robert Thomas Smith & Constance May Hind married at the Strand Registry Office, under the aliases of Robert Thomas Armstrong and May Constance Hind. With their wedding reception held at Victor’s Café at 5 Old Compton Street, he would always maintain “I don’t know for whom she was working”. But by August 1934, after just one year’s marriage, while he was in St Pancras hospital with an ulcerated throat, ”she wrote and told me she was leaving with no reason. When I came out, I made no attempt to find her” and having moved to Margate “I have not heard from her since”. Her love-life was chaotic, so it’s impossible to pin down who she was with and when in her last months alive. In December 1935, she lived with an Italian known only as Alf above Gee’s Fish Shop at 65 High Street in Bloomsbury. By January 1936, she lived with a Frenchman using the alias of George Day at 40 Greek Street in Soho. And by February 1936, she lived on New Compton Street with William ‘Billy’ Sullivan, until his arrest that month for theft and assault. But then, all of her lovers had convictions. Following her murder, the Police wouldn’t seek a serial-strangler whose sadistic spree had slain another sex-worker, or a sensational monster whose name made worldwide headlines, as – once again – their suspect was the most obvious one, like one of her criminal lovers who leeched off her earnings. The Police’s key witness and suspect was her last lover… …a part-time magician called Stanley King. Stanley Gordon King was born on the 29th July 1912 in Aldershot. With his father having died when he was just a toddler, he supported his mother as a miner, but in 1931, aged 19, he came to London to work as a hall boy, a footman, a waiter, an MC at Mac’s Dance Hall and finally as a street magician. Under the stage name of ‘Rex Gordon’, 24-year-old Stanley performed from mid-afternoon to late into the night, on every tourist street or seedy night-spot, always struggling to earn enough to pay his way. Being small and unimposing, he was an unlikely suspect to strangle his lover with his bare hands. But as Leah wasn’t overpowered with brute force, her ‘ligature strangulation’ was more likely from a man with nimble fingers, a swift slight-of-hand and an encyclopaedic knowledge of ropes, binds and knots. Dressed in black, a colour on which blood is hard to see, taken into evidence from the crime scene was his ‘Magic Bag’ – a conjurer’s kit which contained everything needed to pull off the ultimate deception; like cloths, ropes and lock-picks. Interviewed about the murder weapon found in his own flat, Stanley would state “some months ago, I had about 3 ½ yards of electrical flex… it was reddish brown. I last saw it nine weeks ago. The piece of wire shown to me is not my property. I have never seen it before”. Like the others, Stanley had criminal convictions, but they were only slight. Under the aliases of Arthur King and Archibald King, in February 1935 he was charged (but found not guilty) of stealing a car, and in June 1935, he pleaded guilty to insulting behaviour and breach of the peace by fighting in the street. On the surface, Stanley hardly seemed like a maniac, the kind of crazed killer who would unleash such horrific levels of violence against Leah, and yet – if they were connected – make the murders of Fifi and Marie look like an accident and a suicide? But then again; everybody has secrets, everyone tells lies, everyone has limits, and maybe the reason her crime-scene looked so similar, and yet different… …was that Leah’s murder was personal? On an unspecified date in April 1936, in The Caprice Club at 59 Old Compton Street, Stanley met Leah. Within the week, they had moved in together, but their affair was born out of love as much as lies. He would state “she said her parents were German… she said her name was Leah Heinz”, and hiding the fact that she was still married and had a child, her biggest lie was how she earned her money. Stanley would state "the money I earn is sufficient for myself", but as she paid the lion’s share of the rent, it made sense to hide that fact from the Police, as it was illegal to live off her immoral earnings. On 24th April 1936, they moved into two rooms on the first floor of 1 Little Pultney Street, just off Old Compton Street, an area riddled with prostitutes, pimps and brothels. After three days, she told him the truth: “she said she was going out and meeting men. I said ‘you are not bringing men here are you’ she said ‘yes’. I said ‘I will leave you unless you get another place for us to live’… she promised me that she would not bring any more men to the place whilst we were there and I continued to live with her”. Whether Stanley was oblivious, an idiot or a liar is unknown, as there was no denying what Leah did for work; she had prior convictions for soliciting, everyone on the street knew she was a prostitute, she worked 9pm to 2am, her handbag was full of condoms, she picked up men just one street away and brought them back to their flat, where (often) Stanley would find their coats or hats left behind. And yet, whether this was an alibi or ignorance, he also claimed that Leah had the only key to the door and that if he wanted access to his own flat between her ‘working hours’ of 9pm and 2am, he had to wait for her to throw the key down from the window, or sit in a café until she was back in the flat. If that seems implausible… …that’s because it probably is. On Monday 4th May 1936, five days before her murder, Leah & Stanley moved to a new lodging at 66 Old Compton Street; a few doors down from their old flat, deeper into the heart of Soho’s sex trade and rented off a landlord who knew she was a prostitute and had tried to evict her for non-payment. 66 Old Compton Street was unnervingly similar to 3-4 Archer Street and 47 Lexington Street. Set on a bustling street which thronged day and night to the cacophony of life, amid the hum of pubs and clubs, market stalls and small trades, gambling dens and secret brothels, off Shaftesbury Avenue or Charing Cross Road, a stranger could easily enter this street, unseen and unheard, and then vanish. As a very similar flat-fronted four-storey building, it was yet another almost perfect murder location. With a provisions shop called Fratelli on the ground floor, open from 9am to 6pm, the lodgings above were only accessible by a street-door, often left unlocked and open until the trades people had left. Described as dilapidated, its smattering of tenants kept to themselves and rarely saw one another. In the basement lived a bookmaker and a variety artiste who were rarely in before midnight, on the first floor Shaw the seamstress was usually gone by early evening, the third floor was unoccupied, and on the second floor lived its newest tenants – Stanley, a magician, and Leah, a supposed ‘waitress’. For a prostitute, the dark unlit stairs gave her slew of faceless punters the privacy to sneak in, get sex and then vanish like a gust of wind amidst an oblivious crowd. It was discrete, but it was also a place where tears fell unseen, cries were swallowed whole, and a scream of death would be lost amidst life. Their room was small and basic; a double bed, a dresser, a wardrobe, the lights lit by a gas meter, and several odd and sods left behind by a lazy landlord, including one of the weapons used to murder her. Barely a week later, Leah would become the third victim of The Soho Strangler… …but what made this murder so different was that where-as with ‘Fifi’ and Marie their lives had been taken by a calm and patient killer, with Leah he had lost his cool and had lashed out in raw anger. Just like the others, Leah’s final days and hours alive are unremarkable. Sunday 3rd May, Leah met Kathleen, her mother for the last time: “she told me she was living with a conjurer… he was kind to her. She seemed happy and did not complain of being afraid of any person”. Of those who knew Leah well, although open with her feelings, she never made any reference to being harassed, bullied or blackmailed; she was recently assaulted by a punter (but no more than usual); we don’t know if she had a pimp, if Stanley was her ponce or if her landlord was a ‘flat-farmer’ (part of a criminal gang who rented rooms to sex-workers at inflated prices and took a cut of her earnings); and she never spoke of white slavers, dope peddlers, sinister stalkers or a violent Jew called Mr Cohen. She was small, but having worked the sex trade for more than six years, she could handle herself well. Monday 4th May, Stanley & Leah moved their belongings into 66 Old Compton Street, including his ‘Magic Bag’. Knowing her past, Stanley would later claim he had implored: “will you promise not to bring anyone here”, meaning men, “she said yes”. As usual, they ate dinner together, “I left her about 11pm. She said she was going home… I arrived home at 3:30am and found her dressed and waiting”. Tuesday 5th May, “that evening I was at Chez Bobbie’s Club until 1:15am. (Back home) she was waiting up for me, and I asked if she would give me the key to the street door. She said ‘I need the key, if you want one you must have one cut’. I became suspicious and thought she was bringing men to the room. I said to her about my suspicions but told her I was going to leave and get a place of my own. She cried and said, ‘I don’t want you to leave’…”, they made up “I stayed with her until 3pm (the next day)”. Wednesday 6th May, Stanley arrived home a few hours earlier than usual, although it is unknown if this was due to business being light or his need to catch her out. With supposedly no key, “I arrived at 12:30am, I whistled up, she threw the keys out of the window. I let myself in and found her (waiting)“. Of course, the only witnesses who can confirm this are Stanley and Leah, one of whom is dead. Thursday 7th May, having ate a late supper, “I left her at 11pm by Tottenham Court Road police station. I expected her to go home”. Having left Chez Bobbie’s at 3:30am, “I arrived home at 3:45am and whistled up as usual. I received no reply, and after walking round, I returned to the address at 4am, and I noticed she was looking out of the window in Old Compton Street. She was fully dressed, wearing her hat. I said to her ‘where have you been till this time?’, she replied ‘are you trying to catch me?’”. He would later state she had been to the Caprice Club, a place he had forbidden her to return to: “She said ‘I have been out of somebody’s way for a couple of hours’… she went to the drawer of the dressing table and took out a Seaman’s Discharge Book…”. The seaman was never identified, his discharge book was never found, and according to Stanley, Leah never stated why it was there, and they went to bed. Friday 8th May was Leah’s last day alive. Stanley would state “I woke up at 11am and noticed a blue raincoat on top of the wardrobe. I asked her about it, she said ‘it’s always been there’. I knew this was wrong, I told her so. She said ‘Oh, well, the man that was here last night, it belongs to him and the book’, I said ‘he must have been in a hurry’”. “It was three o’clock when I left the room”, Stanley would state “I asked her if she wanted me to meet her (for supper)”, as they usually did, “she said ‘no, I’ll see you tonight’ and – according to him – “she asked me to be home definitely at 2am”. Although whether he kept that promise, we shall never know. But in Stanley’s own words “that was the last time I saw her alive”. That night there were several reliable sightings of Leah - a local sex worker who was well known-and well-liked – in and around the usual places she picked up punters, as seen by her closest friends. Leah Cohen, a fellow prostitute and her old flatmate, saw her 10:50pm on Old Compton Street. “She was alone. When I left, she was dressed in a small dark hat, a fawn coat and a blue spotted frock”. At 11:30pm, Ruby Walker saw her “at the corner Charing Cross Road… talking to ‘Ginger Joan’… she said “I haven’t been off tonight”, meaning she hadn’t had a punter, “and there is no money coming in”. The last confirmed sightings of Leah were at 12:30am; the first was by Emilio Plantino, a hall porter at The London Casino, who saw Leah walking east on the south-side of Old Compton Street with a man, and – just minutes later – Nellie Few, a local prostitute who had known Leah for six years, saw her enter the street-door of 66 Old Compton Street with a man matching that description: “about 25, 5 foot 5 inches, medium build, fresh complexion, brown hair, clean shaven, long black coat and no hat”. With no-one left in the building, except the sleeping lodgers three floors below… …what happened next was only witnessed by Leah and her killer. Stanley’s sightings are less accurate and cannot be verified by others. When questioned by the Police, he would state: “I went to Chez Bobbie’s”, one street east on Charing Cross Road, “and I stayed there until 3:30am”. Even though, according to him, Leah “had asked me to be home definitely at 2am”. At 4am, “with the street-door locked. I whistled up, but got no reply”. Later stating, “I went to Jack’s snack bar on Charing Cross Road where I had a cup of coffee”, although the owner could not confirm this, “I walked around till just before 5am”. Ringing the bell, which was unheard by any other lodger, “I again returned to the address at about 6am, but again, no reply”. Seemingly unconcerned, “I went to café in Bloomsbury”, although one was open opposite, and at 6:30am, he told a labourer called James Adams of his issue, and – after a little breakfast – this convenient witness agreed to help him. At 8:45am, with the provisions shop on the ground-floor opening up, Stanley got a second witness, Mr Fratelli to unlock the street door, and hearing Leah’s puppy whining, James broke down the door. Discovering her body, Stanley ran to the junction of Great Windmill Street and Shaftesbury Avenue, and reported to PC Davidson “Oh constable, will you come along, I think my girl has been murdered”. With his ‘Magic Bag’ back at the lodging, Stanley King was said to be visibly shaken and upset. (Out) The crime scene was unnervingly similar to the two previous killings by The Soho Strangler. With the street-door in perfect working order and the lock to the flat untampered with, except for the obvious damage, there was no sign of a break-in. Inside, there was no state of disorder; the drawers were not ransacked, and except for her black handbag – left open on the mantlepiece – with only two pennies and a small envelope for rubber sheaths, a robbery could neither be proved nor disproved. Leah hadn’t feared her killer, as lying obliquely on the bed, “with her stockings neatly rolled down to the ankles… her knickers removed… her legs widely parted… and her cotton dress pulled up to the waist leaving the pubis exposed… she had prepared herself for the purpose of sexual intercourse…”. Only, once again, there were no signs of any sexual assault, as her undressing was of her own volition. About her neck, again, the killer had fashioned a found item as “a piece of black flex was tied around her neck”. Only, it wasn’t this strangulation which would take her life - as with the scene described as ‘the work of a maniac’, his usual calmness cast aside, and having grasped a second deadlier weapon - he had unleashed an unparalleled fit of violence and anger upon her, as if Leah’s death was personal. With Dr Charles Burney and Home Office Pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury jointly confirming that she had died between 12am and 4am, they both took a anonymous opinion – “this was a murder”. The Police’s prime suspect was Stanley King, a man with a method, a motive and a tenuous alibi. But was he her killer, or – with two strikingly similar unsolved murders, across neighbouring street, over a few months, and with a third heading that way – once again, had the Police collared a very convenient scapegoat, rather than face the unthinkable, that The Soho Strangler was stalking their streets? Part Six of Ten of The Soho Strangler continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
65 Margaret Street in Fitzrovia, formerly Denard Manufacturing
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED:
This is Part Four of Ten of The Soho Strangler. By the morning of Friday 17th April 1936, word had spread around Soho that 43-year-old Jeanne-Marie Cotton had been murdered; strangled in her own flat, using her own scarf, with no suspects or motive. It seemed like a random unprovoked attack on a defenceless woman for no reason. It was a case which would have been forgotten, until it was connected to an unnervingly similar murder two streets south and five months earlier upon another French brunette in her early forties. Was this a coincidence?
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The location is marked with a black exclamation mark (!) above the words 'Golden Square'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
Murder of Jeanne Marie Cousins at Lexington Street, Soho, on 16 April, 1936 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257748
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: The morning of Friday 17th April 1936 was deathly still, as a damp fog hung. Drenched in sober silence, a small crowd bowed their heads, as down the staircase and through the street-door of 47 Lexington Street, two men in mournful suits carried a black wooden coffin into the back of a black waiting van. Like a rabid virus, word had quickly spread across Soho that Jeanne-Marie Cotton had been murdered; strangled in her own flat, with her own scarf, in a motiveless attack by an unknown killer. And although some of the crowd said a prayer for this quiet little lady, others only came to giggle and gorp, as keen to gossip to their pals - until more details were released - their half-baked theories would be ceaseless. Fuelling the fire, that day Marie’s murder was headline news in many national papers. Hastily recycling any salacious titbits (whether fact or false) to get the scoop, many like the Daily Mail and the Leicester Evening Mail both went with ‘Beautiful woman murdered in Soho’ – as its faster and cheaper to copy and paste from a press release, rather than to dispatch a reporter to ‘do their job’ – and having already connected a few of the dots – the Nottingham Evening Post went with ‘Second Beauty Slain in London’. The story of ‘French Fifi’ was as dead and buried as her body, but now they had a reason to remember her; ‘New Flat Riddle for Scotland Yard’, ‘Is there a link with stocking crime?’, ‘Both victims strangled and French’. Overnight, the unremarkable deaths of two forgotten women had gained notoriety, but only because their murders had sex, death, mystery, and a faceless killer who stalked in the shadows. Focused on speed rather than accuracy, the press bastardised the facts; ‘fingerprints of killer found at murder’, only they actually belonged to the first PC on the scene; ‘Police took away a bloodstained door’, which was wrong as the pool of blood about her nose hadn’t splashed nor spread; and ‘£14 found in cupboard’, which was false as according to Carlo “nothing was missing”, not even a penny. The very next day, the Evening Standard quoted Superintendent Walter Hambrook as stating: “this case cannot be associated with the ordinary class or murder”, which – in the minds of the newspapers and its readers - put the deaths of Marie Cotton and ‘French Fifi’ upon a pedestal, above any other. The problem was… he never said those words, as many details published in the press were twists on truths or all-out lies. But if you print it, it becomes fact, and the more you repeat it, it becomes proof. The death of ‘Marie Cotton’ would have been as unremarkable as it was forgotten… …and yet, as the gossip brewed, a myth about ‘a strangler in Soho’ began to stir. As the word ‘murder’ rippled with unstoppable speed about the West End, as often happens, theories as to the culprit spread and the usual bigoted band of society’s villains were blamed; like gays, Jews, foreigners, bohemians, the insane and the disabled - choosing to believe it was ‘them’ and never ‘us’. Every witness had a theory as to who had done it, but like the crime-scene, the police were methodical. Although Josephine Pouliquen would state “I feel certain she was murdered by Mr Lanza, he is a brute and often kicked Madame Cotton… as did Remo”. Carlo Lanza was seen by many reliable independent witnesses at work during the hours she died. As was Remo, his son, who found her body. As well as Dintis her lover, who Dorothy described as “a dangerous man”, his movements were accounted for. Last seen alive by her lodger, Dorothy Neri - who was having sex in her room, a few feet away, with her ‘Jewish’ boyfriend Braham Alban when Marie was murdered – neither were suspected as culprits. And as her ex-husband was dead and the mysterious ‘Mr Cohen’ could not be proven to even exist, the Police toyed with other theories, such as a chance encounter, a secret in her past, a failed burglary, or that – living on the same floor as a Soho prostitute – that her death was a case of mistaken identity. All were examined but dismissed, as the Police had a prime suspect… …someone who had a method, a motive, and a reason to kill. It’s hard to pin down who he was as he riddled his life with so many lies. To some he said he was from Yorkshire, but to others, that he was from Norfolk. He said he was an orphan, only his mum was still alive, and his dad had only just died. And although many called him ‘Jimmy’, ‘Graham’ and ‘Peter Graham’ – three aliases he was known to use to hide his crimes - his real name was James Allen Hall. Born in 1907 in Shelton, a parish 12 miles south of Norwich, his father was an Inn keeper, his mother was a housewife, he had one older sister called Dora, and – to keep the coffers coming in – a lodger. Branded as ‘unruly’ and ‘selfish’, what sparked his aggression is unknown, as although educated, he would stumble into petty thievery to fund a lifestyle of drink, fashion and sexual experimentation. On an unknown date in the late 1920s, James married May, making her Mrs May Janet Hall. How they met and why they wed is a mystery, as with misery pervading their home - for reasons of his own - he only married her to hide the truth, and drinking heavily, he often assaulted her. In 1931, May applied for a divorce, but before her solicitors could issue him with the papers, he had already fled to London. Being ‘on the run’, James worked as assistant clerk to his father at the Southgate Burial Board in North London, processing monies for the plots and gravestones of the recently bereaved. In early 1933, his father died, and by the May, he had fraudulently cashed two cheques totalling £59 (or £4500 today). As was his habit when things got hot, before he could he arrested, he fled leaving his widowed mother to fend for herself. He hunkered down in lodging houses, he hid under aliases, he racked-up debts and being booted out for misbehaviour, lewd acts and drunkenness, he always left a trail of destruction. Drink, sex, violence, and money – four words which were hardly the calling card of The Soho Strangler; a killer so calm and controlled that he never left a single witness or piece of evidence as to his identity. But then again, maybe as a fledgling killer finding his feet… …his lack of capture was as much down to luck, as it was to his cunning. In the spring of 1935, James worked as a clerk at Denard Manufacturing, a gown manufacturer at 65 Margaret Street in nearby Fitzrovia. On 3rd October 1935, having interviewed twenty applicants for an intern role – all being young slim boys - he hired 18-year-old Donald Ross, the one he fancied most. Donald would state “I wasn’t corrupted until I met Hall”, but as homosexuality was still illegal, maybe he was defending himself, protecting his reputation or laying the blame on the police’s key suspect. Having dated for three weeks – with trips to the cinema, drinks at known gay pubs and playing billiards – they began dating. Staying at James’ lodging at The Trafalgar at 37 Craven Terrace, “I agreed (to stay) and slept with him in one bed… he did not attempt to interfere with me”, Donald would state. But with the landlady objecting to two men sharing a bed, James went in search of a new lodging. On 15th November 1935, James spotted an advert in a newsagent’s window: ‘single room, £1 7s a week plus room cleaned and sheets washed, J Lanza, 47 Lexington Street’. It was affordable, discrete and – with Soho having a long-history of tolerance towards homosexuals – this could be their little love-nest. Moving in the next day, this small front room was furnished with a dresser, a table, a bucket as a toilet (with the feted stinking waste tipped into the communal cesspit out back each day), and a thick double mattress with fresh bedsheets every two weeks. It was comfortable. And although they had to a share a bathroom, Donald would state “we did not get food in the house” as they had no access to kitchen. According to those who were there, James Hall the lodger got on well with Jeanne-Marie Cotton the landlady; she was quiet and didn‘t bother them, he paid on time and rarely spoke to her. Donald would state “I never heard him have any quarrels with her, nor did I ever hear him threaten her in any way”. As a moral woman who didn’t like his immoral ways, in private to Dorothy she would openly call them ‘Nancy boys’, just as in private to Donald, he would lambast her as ‘the bitch on Lexington Street’. It was no secret that they weren’t on friendly terms, but that was hardly a solid motive to murder her. As suspects go - compared to Carlo her violent partner, Dintis her absconding lover, or the mysterious ‘Mr Cohen’, a man so threatening that he made her physically shake – James Hall hardly fits the bill. He could be The Soho Strangler given that he lived near or with each victim – although others did too; given that he had a history of violence against woman – but only against his wife; and given that he used aliases and short-term lodgings – and yet, who wouldn’t if they were on the run for cheque fraud? If he was The Soho Strangler; maybe these murders were merely failed robberies, maybe he did them in a drunken haze, maybe he had a split personality, maybe they weren’t sexually assaulted as James was gay, or maybe, it’s just a coincidence that both victims were small mid-forties French brunettes? James was the most unlikely suspect in the search for The Soho Strangler; as he wasn’t punter, a pimp, a ponce, a white slaver, a gang member, a foreigner, a stranger, or (the press’s chief suspect) a Jew. And yet, the Police hadn’t got it wrong… …they weren’t searching for a serial strangler stalking Soho’s sex-workers - as no-one even knew that one existed - they were simply seeking the most likely suspect in the murder of Jeanne-Marie Cotton… ….and that was James Allen Hall. James was a despicable man; a violent drunk, a selfish thug, and the kind of callous thief who had no qualms about stealing funeral funds from bereaved widows, and - as the police would suspect – an arrogant man who could take the life of innocent person over something entirely pointless and trivial. Barely any of which made it into the press, as being gay – an outcast who was blamed for corrupting society – his real crime was his sexuality, as every detail of his life was tagged with the words; ‘lewd’, ‘depraved’, ‘sick’ and ‘disgusting’. Although if we were to ask French Fifi or Marie Cotton what deeds their staunchly heterosexual partners or punters did to them, I’m sure ‘foul’ would be a fine word. Sadly, this was a reflection of the era, as the police investigation also focussed heavily on James’ sexual activities, even though The Soho Strangler killings – of both Fifi and Marie – had no sexual motive. When 18-year-old Donald Ross was interviewed about his relationship with 28-year-old James Hall, the Police flagged buggery, masturbation and added “there is abundant evidence to prove that Hall is a sodomite”. Implying that he was coerced, Donald would state “after going to Lexington Street with Hall, he had an unnatural connection with me on several occasions and used a tube of Vaseline”. A few days after they had moved in, James invited a kilted solider back to the room. Donald would state “I saw them both in bed. Hall said to me ‘I have brought a lady home tonight for a treat’…”, the kilted soldier was naked. “I saw Hall and the solider holding and rubbing each other’s persons. Hall asked me to get in bed, but I refused”, later “I got into bed with them. Hall caught hold of my person and rubbed it. After this, I went to sleep. This was the first time that Hall had been indecent to me”. With their sexual exploration becoming ever regular, “on subsequent nights, Hall masturbated me and himself… and he had an unnatural connection with me up my back passage about half a dozen times”. At first, Marie let their passions slide, as the sounds of man-on-man sex permeated the partition wall. But unhappy with their noises, she asked them to stop or she would ask them to leave, and they did. “I never heard them argue”, Donald would state. But as these ‘foul sex acts’ and ‘sadistic orgies’ - as the press would describe them - began again, tensions arose between the landlady and the lodger. It may not seem likely that James was The Soho Strangler, but regarded as ‘a deviant’, it took no leap for society to assume that any ‘gay sadist’ had an appetite for ‘strangulation’… even of a women. So, putting The Soho Strangler aside for a second, was James Hall a killer… …or as Marie’s murder had no other suspects, Fifi’s had gone unsolved, and with the press’ readers feverishly baying for ‘blood’, had the Police simply bagged themselves a very convenient scapegoat? The dispute between landlady and lodger occurred over a rather minor matter of morals and hygiene. A few days before 30th January 1936, while Marie was cleaning James’ room (as per their agreement), she spotted “stains on the bed linen caused by excreta, semen and Vaseline”, owing to gay anal sex. Not wanting to cause any fuss, she left a note. Donald would state: “Mrs Lanza spoke to me about this matter. (She) was not upset with me, and as far as I know, she was not unpleasant with Mr Hall”. Dates vary, but on Saturday 8th February, James quit the lodging. And as a very literal ‘dirty protest’ against his landlady’s intolerance – her nose wrinkling in disgust each time he called his boy ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ - James took the half-full bucket of pee and plop, and tipped it over the fresh sheets. Returning hours later, Marie was hit by the stench of rotting shit and the feverish buzzing of flies, as several litres of steaming human waste soaked the sheets, the mattress and the floorboards below. Angry and disgusted, finding both men lodging at Winnie MacDonald’s house in Oakley Square, Marie showed Winnie, Donald’s sister, the festering mattress dumped by the cesspit. She didn’t want a fight or to take this any further, what she wanted was £2 and 10s as her rightful compensation for damages. Confronted by Winnie, with James refusing to pay Marie a penny, Winnie took charge; she booted him out of her house, she ordered her little brother Donald back to Edinburgh (which he was “more than happy to do”), and – to help Marie get the money she was owed - she gave her James’ work address. Aided by her new lodger, Dorothy Neri, on Tuesday 17th March 1936 at 6pm, Marie ascended the stairs to the third floor of 65 Margaret Street in Fitzrovia, where James worked at Denard Manufacturing. As the office was shut, she slipped a note under the door, which he later said “annoyed him”. Hoping to resolve it amicably and eventually face-to-face, they communicated by letter. But as James had no intention of paying, treating her request with disdain, it had a become a game of cat and mouse. Thursday 19th March, James wrote “Dear Madam. I am sorry that I was not able to call, but business made this impossible. As regards this evening I have already made my plans… perhaps you could call me tomorrow night at 6pm, when I shall be in, but to call before that time will be of no use as I shall be out on business. Hoping this will be convenient. Yours faithfully. J Hall”. She called, but he was out. Saturday 21st March, “Dear Madam. If you let me know the amount, I will see what I can do in the next few days. I enclose an envelope for your reply, as it is useless to keep calling. As soon as I hear from you, I will give the matter my immediate attention. Yours faithfully. J Hall”. She did, only he didn’t. Sunday 22nd March, Marie replied “Dear Mr Hall… owing to your own arrangements, I have lost two evenings work. I shall not waste more time over this matter…” and having already threatened to “take it further”, on Thursday 26th March, she wrote “Dear Mr Hall. Seeing you have not kept to your word, will you kindly call and see me as soon as you can… if not I shall take it to court. Mrs J Lanza”. For anyone else, a soiled mattress would amount to a minor misdemeanor and a paltry fine. But as he was on the run from one set of solicitors seeking to issue him a divorce petition for ‘violent conduct’ and a second set for the criminal charge of embezzlement, any court action risked his imminent arrest. Unwisely having chosen to pay her nothing, on Thursday 9th April - the same day that Marie was shaken by the fear of the mysterious Jew who hunted her, known only as ‘Mr Cohen’ – Marie & Dorothy handed in an application for the summons of James Hall at Great Marlborough Street Police Court. With the legal wheels now in motion, on Friday 10th, Saturday 11th and Tuesday 14th April, just two days before her death, Marie & Dorothy visited his work. Again, as he was out (or possibly hiding), they made anyone who was passing aware of his ‘filthy habits’ and ’bed debts’, ruining his reputation. “She asked my advice”, said Sydney Cohen, a ladies’ tailor on the same floor, “I told her to go to the police”, which she did. As not only was the soiling of a mattress a criminal act, so was homosexual sex. Thursday 16th April 1936 was Marie Cotton’s last day alive. From 7am onwards, she was seen by several witnesses having an unremarkable day, with her last seen at 5:15pm, when Dorothy took a bath, and left Marie washing and cleaning in her unlocked kitchen. From 9am to 5pm, James would state he was at work, half a mile north-west on Margaret Street and a ten-minute walk from Lexington Street. Her time of death was between 5:30 and 7:30pm, but no-one saw him on Lexington Street at all that night, and yet, he was never more than a few streets away. At 6:40pm, Leonard Theyes met James at the Angel & Crown pub on Warwick Street in St James, and from that point onwards, he was seen at several pubs, until he returned to his lodging at The Trafalgar. Those who drank with him said, he seemed his normal self; not upset, dishevelled, fearful or anxious. In truth, there was nothing suspicious about James’ actions on the day of the murder… …and yet, the following day smacks of a man living in fear. The morning of Friday 17th April 1936 was deathly still. As a damp fog hung low and an excitable crowd hung their heads in silence, a small black coffin was mournfully carried into the back of a black van. At about the same time, James opened the doors of Denard Manufacturing before anyone was even in, and wrote himself four cheques, in the name of his employer, totalling £13 14s and 6d (£1100 today). With the cheques cashed, James fled, his employer was alerted, CID issued a description, posters were put up seeking a ‘ruddy-faced 28-year-old wanted for fraud’ and – having found Leonard Theyes in his list of ‘known associates’, as James had written to him whilst serving in Wandsworth Prison – on the 24th April, James was tracked down to The Sutherland Public House on Vigo Street, and was arrested. But did he flee because of the court summonses, or because he was guilty of murder? On 29th June 1936, James Allen Hall was tried at The Old Bailey. Found guilty, he was sentenced to 12-months hard-labour… for six counts of embezzlement. Delayed for three months, the inquest into the death of Jeanne-Marie Cotton was resumed on 9th June 1936 at Westminster Coroner’s Court. With her cause of death certified as ‘ligature strangulation’ Dr John Taylor, the pathologist stated “strangulation could not have been self-inflicted”. with police divisional surgeon Dr Charles Burney confirming “there was no suggestion of her having been hanged”. Police had identified “two indentations on the side of the bed and cigarette ash which pointed strongly to someone having entered the flat who knew her”. But with no fingerprints, no witnesses, no clues and no confession by the Police’s prime suspect – although Superintendent Walter Hambrook would state “Hall gave a most unfavourable impression in the mind of the jury. Nothing, however, is capable of proof against anybody so far as murder is concerned and the crime is a complete mystery”. The Coroner, Mr Ingleby Oddie would conclude “the only person against whom it may be said she had a grievance, and who may be said to have had a grievance against her is Hall. His grievance against her is not a very serious one, and hers against him is not a very grave one … that provides a very inadequate motive”. And with the evidence slim and circumstantial, the inquest was closed, James was dismissed, and the death of Jeanne Marie-Cotton was listed as “murder by persons or persons unknown”. No longer deemed a viable suspect, James Allen Hall was returned to Wandsworth Prison to complete his sentence for fraud, and he was later arrested for another offence ‘indecency… on a man’. (Out). With two women murdered, over five months across a few streets, in similar circumstances and with no clear motive or suspects, the Police were at a loss and many accused them of grasping at straws. With no answers to the question ‘how safe are we?’, a panic began to spread, as the sinister idea of a serial killer stalking Soho’s streets had been planted in the eye of the public, the press and its readers. In its day, Jack the Ripper was not an instant sensation, as some of his early victims were dismissed as merely unremarkable events or one-off incidents of fallen women, many of whom would be forgotten. And yet, all it took was ‘a panic’, ‘another murder’ and a ‘name’ for the pieces to be put together. Three streets east and three weeks after the murder of Marie Cotton, The Soho Strangler would strike again; this time, another prostitute in Soho, strangled to death by an unseen stranger, in her own bed. But whereas, although the deaths of Fifi & Marie were initially mistaken for a suicide and an accident owing to how serene the crime-scene seemed, this next attack could not be confused with anything but a horrifying murder, as the walls, floor and door was saturated and dripping in his victim’s blood. Had the killer lost his usual cool and composure, had his mania given him a taste for blood, or with the press having almost ignored his two previous murders, did this serial-killer crave a public‘s attention? By May 1936, only one man was on the people’s lips… …and his name was ’The Soho Strangler’. Part Five of Ten of The Soho Strangler continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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