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EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE & SEVENTY:
On Thursday 18th of October 1945, the bloodied body of veteran taxi-driver Frank Everitt was found wedged on the bridge in a hole at the pump house on Lambeth Bridge, which he could hardly fit into. At first, it seemed like he was either stuck or sleeping, but was this just a crude attempt to conceal a corpse, or a meticulously planned execution?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a yellow symbol of a bin in the south by the words 'Lambeth'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF PART ONE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Lambeth Bridge, SW1; four streets west of the Campanile where Maggie Davey and her daughters plunged to their deaths, three streets south of Sir Michael O’Dwyer’s assassination, and two roads east of the last days of the dodgy flannel-dodger - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated downstream of tourist traps like Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, Lambeth Bridge is a more peaceful way to cross the River Thames, as there’s no attention seeking turds posing for selfies with their lips pouting like a constipated duck, no hot dog carts selling mashed-up horse anuses for a quid, and no dayglo rickshaws full of squealing hen-do’s high on Lambrini and dreaming of cock. It’s a convenient cut-through from north London to south for any vehicle not wanting to get snarled up. Opened in 1932, being 828 feet long, Lambeth Bridge is a five-span steel arch complete with a three-lane road, a dual walkway and it still has its original gas lamps and parapets. With no obstructions or hiding place on any part of the bridge, it’s an unlikely spot to dump a dead body… but someone did. On Thursday 18th of October 1945, the bloodied body of veteran taxi-driver Frank Everitt was found wedged on the bridge in a hole he could hardly fit into. At first, it seemed like he was either stuck or sleeping, but was this just a crude attempt to conceal a corpse, or a meticulously planned execution? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 269: The ‘Taxi Driver’ Murders – Part One. Frank was an unusual victim for a very unusual crime. Born 1889 in Bedingham, a small rural village south of Norwich in the county of Norfolk, Frank Everitt was the eldest son of Alfred & Selina, a working-class family for whom hard-work was their bread and butter. Swiftly growing to be a strong and sturdy lad – 5 foot 11 inches tall, 150lbs or 13 ½ stone - aged 13, he left school and trained to be a horseman in the tough and rugged wilds of his father’s farm. Described as reliable and honest, being solidly built and slightly stern, Frank wasn’t the kind of man to be pushed around. Burdened by accusatory eyes and a flattened nose (as if it’d been broken in a fight) although an intimidating presence, he would defend his family and friends with his last breath. Upon his death, a police report stated “he was an honest man of a strong character who had no enemies”. A big part of Frank’s life was his family. Married on 23rd of November 1913 to Lilian Baldwin, they had three children – Mabel, Arthur and Joan – and although the horrors of the First World War took him away from his home for months on end being a gunner in the Grenadier Guards, he was always seen as a solid earner for his family, giving them a good life, even if his sacrifice meant he’d live in squalor. Frank loved his wife, he always had, and he always would. In 1920, the pain of losing 7-year-old Mabel ultimately led to them separating, and although distant, as a man of honour, he remained faithful and devoted to his wife and children, and continued to provide them with a good life until his dying day. Medically discharged from the Army owing to Phlebitis (an inflammation which caused blood clots in his lower legs), as a no-nonsense disciplinarian, on 8th of February 1915, he joined the Metropolitan Police in Wood Green and later at Harrow Road in West London. Rising to the rank of Sergeant, as a strict but fair by-the-book officer who loved his job, he was described by his superiors as ‘exemplary’. Being a beat copper, he knew the streets, the criminals, their ways and their faces. It was said ‘he had a good nose for sniffing out bad men’, his copper’s hunch was rarely wrong and unlike some corrupt officers who took a bribe to turn a blind eye to a crime, he wasn’t afraid to dob a pal in, if needs be. On 20th of October 1931, aged 42, seeking work which was less punishing on his aching legs, Sergeant Frank Everitt was discharged from the police on a modest pension, but keen to keep his family living in a nice little bungalow at Longthorpe in Gloucestershire, Frank began a career as a taxi-driver. It was an honest job from which he would earn the nickname of ‘The Duke’. As he had been as a copper, as a cabdriver, Frank was punctual and officious. Described by his bosses as “one of the firm’s best employees with a consistent record of milage and takings per duty”, he may not have been the most popular driver, but he was always reliable, a man of routine with no surprises. In 1937, he joined the London General Taxicab Company at 1-3 Brixton Road, and on most nights drove the same dark blue Austin saloon, registration place CLT138. Wearing an affordable and slightly worn plain brown suit, a shirt and tie, a flat cap, and on his coat, he had pinned his cabbie’s badge (number 36749) as was the rules, and each day left at 5:30pm, and returned to the garage from 2:30am to 3am. As was his job, he shuttled all manner of strangers with parcels and suitcases across the dark-lit city, and still having a copper’s nose for crime, anything suspicious, he fed back to his pals in the police. Being an ex-cop with no criminal record, Frank was the epitome of honest. He didn’t drive more than he needed, especially during wartime when tyres and fuel were rationed. And his taximeter, which logged how many trips and paid or unpaid miles he had done each shift - as indicated by the meter’s flag being down and the ‘for hire’ light off when he had a customer – his record was said to be accurate. But some said that ‘The Duke’ lived a life beyond his modest means. Every two weeks, he headed off to his bungalow in the country which he referred to as ‘my estate’, but was this bragging? It was said he earned more than the other drivers and often took his estranged wife on holiday twice a year. It was only after his death that the tabloid press and those who claimed to know him suggested that his larger-than-average income was supplemented by ‘means other than being a humble cabdriver’. Having kept his connections in Harrow Road and Wood Green, it was said he was an informer and a private detective who tipped off the police to criminal activities in the West End. On 22nd of October 1945, four days after his death, The Daily Herald reported “police are searching for his black notebook which could smash the case wide open… it is thought to contain details of a Soho gang and the stuff they dealt in… in it, he had a secret list of names”, which he marked down with a blue mottled pencil. Some also suggested he was earning a dishonest income by tipping off the criminals, playing both sides of the law, and reaping the profits from a lorry full of contraband whiskey which was destined for West End nightclubs, where Frank was known to frequent, as well as drop customers from and to. And yet, there was nothing in the police files suggesting his income came from corruption; he didn’t drink, he didn’t gamble, he didn’t wear flashy clothes, the only jewellery he owned was an eight-sided silver watch which his wife gave to him but it no-longer worked, and he lived in a cheap little bedsit at 81 Babington Road in Streatham. He worked hard and almost everything he earned went to his wife. But was ‘The Duke’ an honest ex-copper, a corrupt cabbie, and did someone want him dead? Wednesday 17th of October 1945 was a day like any other for 56-year-old Frank Everitt. He washed, he shaved, he popped on a fresh shirt, and having eaten a meat stew in a café, at 5:30pm, he picked up his usual dark blue Austin saloon at the London General Taxicab Company. In his pockets was an old brown Morocco-leather wallet, his black notebook, his blue pencil, a tobacco pouch, his pipe made of cherry wood, and two packs of ‘Punch’ matches – everything was cheap but practical. As always, his shift was predictable, as across the next 9-hours, he’d ferry a slew of strangers – whether soldiers, sadists, partygoers or pimps - from high-end clubs to seedy S & M sex dungeons, from cafes for a pre-booze buttie to dodgy pubs flogging off counterfeit whiskey under the counter. He wasn’t a serving policeman anymore, so it wasn’t his job to arrest anyone, just to drive and to be discrete. Like all cabbies, his movements were logged by his taximeter and witnessed by his passengers. We know that at 12:17am, he picked up two well-dressed men by Big Ben and dropped them at Marble Arch. At 12:45am, he drove an American soldier to Hans Crescent at the back of Harrods. And at 1:15am, he picked up a woman on Walworth Road in Elephant & Castle. All were identified and had alibis for the night, and his taximeter corroborated the times and the distances he had travelled. It was an unremarkable night, with no incidents, no accidents, and no unscheduled trips or stops. At 2:15am, nearing the end of his shift, Frank was parked outside of the Milroy Club on Stratton Street in Mayfair. As a member’s club and casino, a line of cabs waited outside as its wealthy clients paid well and gave good tips. Said to be in good spirits, at 2:30am, he was here to pick up his regular passenger (an unnamed waitress) who he would drive back to the garage near to where she lived. He would then head home, and after a good sleep, he’d catch the morning train to see his wife in Gloucestershire. And although he had assured his friend “I’ll see you back at the garage at 3am”, he did neither. Moments later, the taxi had vanished, and so had Frank. Chief Inspector Chapman who headed up the investigation later described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, as for the next three and a half hours, Frank and his cab had disappeared. Nobody saw them, nobody heard them, and nobody hired them, he didn’t go home, or anywhere else. At 6:30am, four and a half miles west in Notting Hill, his taxi was found in St Helen’s Gardens, a place he had no reason to be. As a bomb-damaged cul-de-sac with no streetlights and no occupied homes as it was being demolished, it was dark, isolated and chosen so the crime itself could never be seen. The engine was off, the handbrake was up, and the keys were still in the ignition. It didn’t make sense that someone would steal a nearly new Austin saloon taxi, only to then dump it just a few hours later. The car hadn’t been crashed, in fact, it was in perfect working order. The only damage was the interior light whose leads were torn away possibly to disguise what had happened within. If the motive wasn’t car theft, then it must have been robbery, but with no money found, that was impossible to prove. But three things were missing; the black notebook, the blue mottled pencil, and the driver - Frank. But where was he? In the luggage platform to the left of the driver’s seat lay Frank’s handkerchief, having either fallen out as he fled the car via the wrong door, or as he was dragged out. On the backseat’s floor lay his broken pipe and his cabbie’s badge which had been ripped from his jacket which rested in a pool of blood. It was clear that, curled up on that floor, Frank had profusely bled as his pockets were emptied of cash. Only he hadn’t been injured there, as by the time he was dragged inside, he was already dead. But how did he get there, when did he die, and – more bafflingly - where was he now? Oddly, they’d already found him, but with his cabbie’s badge missing, they didn’t know it at the time. It was at 5:56am, as the first rays of dawn-light pierced the thick fog which had shrouded the city, that an unnamed woman heading to work crossed on the eastern walkway of Lambeth Bridge. To her right, against the parapet was a six-foot high, three-foot wide and two-foot-deep brick-built pump-house as used by the London fire brigade to draw water from the river during the blitz, only now it lay defunct. To the side, being big enough to fit the brigade’s hose, a 12-inch hole lay a few inches off the ground. As she passed it, she later said “I saw a set of boots sticking out”, but thinking it was a homeless man silently sleeping, she walked on, as many passersby did as the morning rush-hour began to ramp up. It wasn’t until three hours later, at 9:04am, that PC Denys was alerted to this unusual sight, and unable to get any reaction as he waggled the boots, unlocking the door to the pump house, he saw the body. Its interior was cramped as the pump engine took up most of the space. Lying beside it was a man whose face couldn’t be seen, as every inch of his pale white flesh was splashed with deep red blood. It was clear that with his pockets turned inside out, that someone had searched his body for something specific. Later speaking to his grieving wife, she said several items were missing; his cap, his pipe, his broken watch, a black notepad, a blue pencil and two packs of ‘Punch’ matches - nothing of any value. Based on his usual takings, it’s likely that roughly £9 was stolen, about £500 today, but in his waistcoat pocket there was still £1 and 30 shillings (or another £70). So was this made to look like a robbery? Stripped from his person was any form of ID; his wallet containing his driving licence and a letter from the Police Commissioner, and with a tear to his suit’s breast pocket, they suspected that he was taxi-driver, as that’s where most cabbie’s badges were hung. But why hide the identity of a robbery victim? When Dr Larkin arrived, he later said “lying on his back with blood all over face, his cause of death was hard to ascertain owing to the position of the body”, so they removed him to Southwark Mortuary. Every detail of the murder seemed to have been considered to stall the investigation, possibly to give the assailants more time to flee. But what baffled the police most was where the body was dumped. Why hide him in a pump house? Why leave his feet hanging out? And why didn’t they break down the door, instead of stuffing a 5-foot 11-inch and 13 ½ stone man wearing a full suit and thick winter coat through a 12-inch hole in the wall, which was barely big enough for his shoulders, chest, or boots. Given the effort, after a little experimentation using a similarly sized officer, detectives surmised that this could only have been accomplished by two men, not one. But why would two murderers waste so much valuable time trying to jam a big man through a small hole on a busy bridge? And how did they know about the hole, as the police would state “this isn’t the kind of place you stumble across”. It was that three-and-a-half-hour gap between 2:15am when Frank was last seen alive, and at 5:56am, when the dead man’s boots were first seen, which proved most perplexing. With his abdomen warm and rigor mortis fully established, the pathologist determined his time of death from 3am to 5am. The evidence proved that he didn’t die on Lambeth Bridge where his body was dumped, in St Helen’s Gardens where the taxi was later found, and with his blood pooling and congealing while he lay on the backseat floor and it smeared suggesting the cab was driven, they were certain he was shot elsewhere. But where was he murdered? Not a single witness had seen this ordinary looking taxi driving around the familiar streets of the West End on this dark and foggy night, and why should they? Examining the taximeter, it showed that Frank had driven 101 miles over his 9-hour shift; 63 miles were paid fares across 40 trips and 23 miles were unpaid distances (which was about average for a jobbing cabbie, 3 of which were from the garage). But 15 miles were ‘disengaged’ meaning the taximeter recorded the distance, but not the timings. This could only have been done by the driver himself, or someone who knew how a taximeter works. Detectives knew it was 7 miles from Lambeth Bridge to St Helen’s Gardens, 5 miles to Scotland Yard where they had the taxi forensically examined, and with 3 miles remaining, as he was last seen by the Milroy Club, it had to have occurred somewhere between Mayfair and Lambeth Bridge, 2 miles south. When and where Frank Everitt was murdered will remain a mystery forever, as with it unlikely he was killed near Lambeth Bridge - as why move his body from the driver’s seat into the back, only to dump him in the pump house – every street from Piccadilly, St James Street, The Mall, Pall Mall, St James’ Park, Birdcage Walk, Parliament Square and to Millbank are all busy and populated, even at 3am. For no known reason, before 2:30am, he left Stratton Street. It’s unlikely he picked up his killers there as no fare was recorded, and as a veteran cabbie, once the journey began, he’d have pulled down the taximeter’s flag, turning out the ‘for hire’ light on the roof, and the fare would have been logged - only the flag was up, the light’s wires were torn out, and whoever had disengaged it knew how to do it. So did they pull a gun on him and get him to drive? It’s possible, but nobody saw it. They may have had him drive to a quiet secluded spot like nearby Hyde Park and pull up, as nobody saw him kidnapped and nobody heard the shot, which could have been mistaken for a car backfiring. And with Frank’s hands on the steering wheel and his foot on the accelerator, would a trained killer really risk shooting the driver while the taxi is still in transit? This seemed the most logical solution. According to the lead investigator, Chief Inspector Chapman who described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, he concluded “this was an execution, planned carefully to the smallest detail” by two men who knew what they were doing, and they knew how to confuse the investigation. With no obvious struggle, and being an ex-copper who could handle himself, Frank’s death was swift. From the backseat, his killer pulled a .32 calibre automatic, maybe a Walther or a Luger. With the muzzle placed at an upwards angle at the nape of Frank’s neck, the shooter fired a single shot. Leaving a powder burn under his left ear, the bullet ripped through his neck, his jaw, the frontal lobe of his brain, and exited two inches above his eye, blowing off his right ear, and embedding in the cab’s roof. Slumping forward, Frank was alive but paralysed, and so horrific were his injuries that the when the pathologist first saw him in the pump house, he thought he’d been beaten to death with a hammer. Moving his body to the back, his assailants tore out the interior lights, emptied his pockets, stripped him of any ID, and having disengaged the taximeter, amidst the fog, they headed south to Lambeth Bridge, shoved his body in a hole in a disused pump house and dumped the taxi in an isolated spot. By the time the body was found, both assailants had vanished into thin air. For Chief Inspector Chapman, Superintendent Greeno & Detective Inspector Morris, most ‘execution style’ killings are professional, with the perpetrators aware of how to leave no evidence of their crime. Police searched every pawnshop for Frank’s silver watch, but never found it. Several passengers early into his shift, they struggled to find. And although several sets of fingerprints were lifted, as the cab hadn’t been valeted for at least a week, it was uncertain if any of them belonged to the two culprits. On Monday the 22nd of October 1945, 4 days after the murder, a .32 calibre German Lugar wrapped in the blue bloodstained shirt of either a British or Allied soldier was found in a pig swill bin on Kenton Street, not far from Piccadilly, as well as a pair of military issue socks, two keys and a padlock. Police questioned hundreds British and Allied deserters, especially Polish servicemen, as with the war over but their country under Russian control, too fearful to return home, many remained in the UK. But although the investigation was thorough, with no suspects, it quickly stalled. (End) A £1000 reward was offered by the Taxi Fleet Federation for any information leading to Frank’s killers, but as the tabloids sullied this mysterious case with their own theories, soon the facts were lost in the myths. One theory was that Frank was an informer helping to bring down an extortion racket, but the Police denied this. Another said his executioners were after his notebook, and although it was never found, there was no proof that he even had “a secret list of Soho gangsters”. And although the Evening Standard reported “The Duke’s cab may have been used by a blackmailing gang in the West End”, with him being an ex-policeman with a supposedly large income, there was no evidence to back this up. To many, Frank’s alleged ‘execution’ seemed like a one-off murder by a criminal gang who had killed either a cabbie, a crook or an ex-copper for an unknown reason and fled. The chance of finding them was slim, and as the days turned into weeks, it seemed as if this would be another unsolved murder. But on Thursday 1st of November 1945, exactly two weeks later, at roughly the same time of night and in an isolated and unlit location in Notting Hill barely 1 ½ miles from where the taxi was dumped, a black marketer and some say “a police informer” known as ‘Russian Robert’ was murdered. Said to be driving a taxi, his death was described as an execution, having been shot from the backseat by a Lugar. There were so many similarities that, with the suspects arrested and later convicted of murder, Chief Inspector Chapman visited them in prison. What he uncovered was a story of money, jewels, a truck full of counterfeit booze and two Polish deserters who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. They murdered for profit, but if that was the case, why did they execute ‘The Duke’? The concluding part continues next week. UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF PART TWO: At about 4am, two hours before dawn, the dark blue Austin saloon skidded to a halt in the foggy gloom of St Helen’s Gardens. Inside this unlit taxi, two men sprang at speed, and fled swiftly into the night. From the driver’s seat ran a tall and skinny beanpole of a man in a bloodstained grey suit and matching felt hat, as from the backseat, still clutching a 32 calibre German Lugar pistol, dashed short and squat chap in the black uniform of a Seaman in the Polish Navy. Said to have been executed with precision, the body of Frank Everitt had been stuffed into a cramped hole on Lambeth Bridge, a few miles south. But why did two polish deserters kill ‘The Duke’? The Police didn’t think it was a robbery as they only took £9, a black notebook, a blue mottled pencil, and two new packs of ‘Punch’ matches. The Press suggested this ex-copper turned informer was executed over a “secret list of Soho gangsters”, or that they had brutally shot dead a black marketeer over a truck full of contraband whiskey as a message. Heading up the investigation, Chief Inspector Chapman described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, as within days, their detective work had hit a brick wall and stalled. Frank’s killers would never be caught, and their motives would never be known. Or so the Police thought… …as exactly two weeks later, two killers would strike again in an almost identical execution. Unlike ‘The Duke’, the second victim was a criminal to the core. ‘Russian Robert’ was the alias of Reuben Martirosoff. Born in Tbilisi in the ex-Soviet state of Georgia on 22nd of December 1905, as the eldest child to Georg & Sonja Danieloff, his true identity is unknown. Raised in a prosperous family of Armenian Jews, his upbringing was privileged, living in a palatial home, wearing handstitched clothes and dining on chef cooked meals. But amidst a violent civil war, with the peasants looting, its monarchy overthrown and replaced by an authoritarian government, aristocrats like the Danieloff’s lost everything, and fleeing for his life, aged 15 Reuben never saw his parents again. Being homeless and penniless, as he had no papers to prove his identity, between both wars Reuben drifted across Europe surviving on his wits. He was only a boy, but blessed with a sharp brain and quick tongue, he became fluent in nine languages including French, German and Arabic. As an immaculately dressed playboy with “flashing eyes and a gambler’s smile”, he blended-in like a rug by a roaring fire. But as a stateless alien, being illegal in every country he entered; to make a penny, he became a thief. As an invisible man, the only records we have that he existed are his convictions and his deportations. Under many aliases such as ‘Robert Martirosoff’, he arrived in the UK on a fake Swiss passport in 1928, but convicted of theft, in 1929 he fled to Paris and was imprisoned again. The same happened in 1930 in Berlin, and being deported in 1931, in 1932 the Germans re-arrested him, and was expelled again. Reuben was a criminal boomerang with a broad smile for whom the law was no deterrent. By the mid-1930s, he’d been expelled from England, France, Germany, Argentina and Uruguay, with convictions also in Austria and Czechoslovakia. Having been re-arrested in Paris, he was forced to join the French foreign legion, only having already broken out of prison in Buenos Aires, going AWOL wasn’t difficult. By 1936, having served 4 months hard labour for the theft of £2000 worth of jewellery in London, he couldn’t be deported as he was stateless, and later being convicted in Istanbul, Vienna, and (cheekily) back in Buenos Aires in 1937, with a cloud of war looming over Europe, he made London his home. With goods in short supply and rationing in full force, someone was bound to earn a crust out of this crisis, and that person was Reuben. Keen not to be deported back to Russia, on 30th of June 1940, he married Yetta Slotsky, a British citizen, having lived together for just two weeks. Arrested that day for theft, having served nine months in prison, he moved in with his true love – Auriel, a waitress with whom he had two children – an 8-month-old girl called Sonia, and a 5-year-old boy called Stalin – only he couldn’t marry her, as although he dodged the law like a crusty dodges baths, she was already wed. Reuben was now a British citizen, protected by the law that he flouted galore… …but how he made his money would lead to his downfall. A friend of his said “one day he’d be broke, the next, he’s carrying thousands of pounds”. His suits were expensive, his shoes handmade, and his cigarettes imported. On the surface, he ran a legitimate betting shop at 80 Brewer Street in Soho, but behind closed doors, he was a black marketeer who could get anything, and an expert jeweller who acted as a go-between among many gangs of criminals. He loved living an extravagant life, a life he felt he deserved before the Communists destroyed it all. But he was cursed. As a reckless gambler, he won big but also lost heavily. As a playboy, he had a wife, a girlfriend and mistresses dotted about the city, all of whom he kept in luxury. And yet, as a successful criminal with no allegiance to anyone but himself and his money, he was as loved as he was hated. Across 1940 to 45, as London was blitzed by Nazi bombs, the more his empire grew, the less he seemed to be arrested. He had fines for a few minor offences, but no detective ever nailed him. A friend said, “it was because he used anonymous taxi-drivers to courier his contraband goods across the city”, and although another said “I think he was an informer for the police” - which of course they denied - as an illegal alien who lived by his own rules, why wouldn’t he accept a copper’s coin to rat out his rivals? But was this why Reuben Martirosoff alias ‘Russian Robert’ was murdered? Was he a police informer who fed titbits to an ex-Sergeant called Frank Everitt? On Wednesday 31st of October 1945, 12 days after ‘The Duke’s murder, Rueben was at Jerry’s Club at 7 Archer Street in Soho, when he got a call from his girlfriend. She said “a Polish naval officer wants to meet you at Edgware Road tube at 11:30pm”, and although cryptic, he understood it and acted on it. Heading home to Earls Court, said to be “a bit drunk”, at 11:05pm he collected his car - a maroon Opel four-seater saloon, registration plate DXR388 – and he sped towards the destination. Why he did so is unknown, but his girlfriend said he always had on him; a gold watch, a signet ring with the initial ‘R’, his bookmaker’s book, and two wallets with at least “£400 to £800” (roughly £22000 to £44000 today). As arranged, at 11:30pm, Rueben picked up two Polish men at Edgware Road tube. In the passenger’s seat sat the tall skinny beanpole of a man in a freshly cleaned grey suit and a matching felt hat, and in the back, sat the short squat chap in the black uniform and cap of a Leading Seaman in the Polish Navy. At the Quebec Club in Marble Arch, Rueben bought them several drinks, as seen by the club’s owners, and their conversation and mood was said to be friendly and calm. They stayed till 12:30am, then left. But who were they, and had they already planned to ‘execute’ him? The tall man was Marian Grondkowski. Born in Cobryn, Poland on 29th of April 1913, like his father, Marian had a practical brain and trained as an architectural engineer, but as the Nazis spread across Europe like a plague, he was enlisted in the Army. With Poland destroyed and its people enslaved or imprisoned, being shipped to England, he became a Sergeant Major in the Special Sabotage Company. Like Churchill’s Special Operations Executive, the SSC trained soldiers in the art of dastardly cunning, where their true weapon was in the planning, having been taught to cheat, steal, destroy and kill, to disrupt the enemy’s plans and to evade capture without being seen or leaving any hint of their crime. Part of his battalion was Henryk Malinowski. Born in Warsaw, although he was short and squat with a walk like a moody bulldog, having never had a career or much of an education, when the Nazis stormed through his city, Henryk was imprisoned in Stalag 12G, a concentration camp in Luxembourg. But as a tough little bruiser, as well as a private in Special Sabotage Company, he broke out and fled to England. Marian & Henryk were trained in weapons, deception, theft and espionage. Described as bright and loyal, the Army gave them the tools, but what they hated was the Army. Having punched his senior officer, Marian was briefly imprisoned, and despising their regiment, the war and any authority - said to be selfish and undisciplined when drunk – separately in and March and June 1945, they went AWOL. Like Rueben, they lived by their wits as criminals in this war-torn city, but what they lacked was his charm and sophistication. As an educated, cultured, ex-Russian aristocrat who spoke nine languages, he could seamlessly blend in among the city’s elite and royally rinse them dry. But these two were half-cut squaddies who could steal a car, pick a pocket, or give a guy a good kicking. But that’s it. So, while Reuben was living the high life, hobnobbing at the Ritz and smoking Havana cigars, they were living in a filthy squat on Elgin Crescent making fake handbags, and they were so short on cash that in the days prior, they had sold their radio, their sewing machine, their beds and even their mattresses. They had nothing. As the saying goes, “they hadn’t a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out of”. On the day of Frank’s murder, Marian & Henryk had planned an armed robbery of engineering firm at 21 Athlone House in Kentish Town. Having staked out their target, these experts in sabotage knew that the boss paid the staff’s wages every Wednesday and carried at least £250 (or £13000 today). It was to be a simple smash and grab on an unarmed civilian… but having got plastered on vodka, and with them both suffering the after-effects of a course of treatment for Venereal Disease, the second Henryk pulled out his Lugar and shouted ‘hands up’, an apprentice snatched the gun and pushed Marian on top of him like a scene from the Keystone Cops, and they ran off, minus at least one pistol. That evening, hours before Frank’s killing, still woozy after their injections for VD, they pecked at a cheap meal at a Czech Restaurant on Edgware Road, and stated they could remember very little else. But was this the truth or a useful alibi, as who could prove otherwise? Having investigated Frank Everitt’s ‘supposed execution’, on the surface, it’s easy to see why the Chief Inspector said it was “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”. But as half of success is luck, if had he seen their previous crimes and their bumbling ineptitude, he’d have taken his words back. This became the calling card of these two clumsy clods, as on the afternoon before Reuben’s murder, Marian and another Polish deserter called Jozef Howak-Halioz had planned to burgle the home of a Greek waiter and part-time jewel thief called Charlie at 19 Hillmorton Road in Holloway. Jozef said “as Charlie worked till midnight, it woulda been easy”, but with Marian still sick owing to more injections to cure his weeping winkle, “they set about doing a job in Caledonian Road, but that too was a bust”. They were as hapless as they were hopeless, but being broke, they had nothing to lose. What they also lacked was discretion. Jozef said “on Tuesday 30th October about 4pm, the three of us walked down Marble Arch. I heard Henryk mention ‘Russian Robert’. He said ‘I will tell him I have some business with him. Then when he comes, we will shoot him and take his wallets too”. He had only known Reuben for barely a month, so he said “it wasn’t anything personal, it was just about money”. In court, Marian & Henryk bickered like squabbling schoolgirls, blaming each other, claiming they liked Reuben, and admitting they were there, but denying that they were the one who fired the fatal shot. So, what we know is based on the evidence and the facts they blathered out to save their own skins. Having left the Quebec Club at 12:30am, Reuben drove them in his maroon Opel saloon to Kensington Park Road, as spotted by a constable at 1:20am. Henryk said “I had a truck full of contraband whiskey being delivered”. For some reason it didn’t happen. Reuben was supposed to receive a cut, but did they kill him to get a bigger slice, did he renege on the deal, or had he blabbed his rivals to an informer? The detectives never found the truck, or the whiskey, or any proof that any of it even existed. Roughly 10 minutes later, Reuben’s car drove into Chepstow Place, Bayswater, not far from St Helen’s Gardens. Outside, this residential street was dark and thick, as a dense fog slowed the car to a crawl. Inside, with the interior light on, it was clear that the mood was sour, but with no arguing, it was silent. Reuben was driving, and although both denied being the shooter, Marian was in the front passenger’s seat, and Henryk was in the back, with their last 32 calibre Lugar hidden in a holster inside his jacket. Given Reuben’s seating position, his lack of defensive wounds and Marian’s witness statement, it was as Henryk seethed that the shot rang out. (BANG) Marian said “I saw a flash”, as with the gun’s muzzle etching a circle of acrid powder under Reuben’s left ear at the nap of the neck (as it had with Frank), it smashed his jaw, skewered his cerebellum, and exited via his right eye later found in the footwell. Slumping forward, a smashed steaming slice of Reuben’s skull lay on the dashboard, the hole in his head still smoking, as spattered across the windscreen lay the gooey dripping fragments of his brain. As before, the bullet had embedded in the roof, but the evidence left behind wasn’t their biggest issue. Being a hot-tempered thug, Henryk was too furious to wait for the car to stop, and as the blinded and paralysed body of a barely alive Reuben slumped forwards, his foot slammed into the accelerator, his torso swung the steering wheel right, and although Marian’s hands and feet scrambled to save them, the car careened into the kerb, bounced off an iron bollard, a brick wall and crashed outside 12 Chepstow Place. As an occupied street, dogs barked and curtains twitched as its residents roused. Mistaking the shot for ‘a car’s exhaust backfiring’ and a crash owing to drunks, no-one got involved, but the killers had to act fast. Marian wanted no part of this, but with Reuben slowly dying, he was already in too deep. Smashing the interior light with the butt of his gun, in the foggy darkness, Henryk & Marian moved the body into the backseat and, like vultures over a carcass, proceeded to strip it of anything valuable; a gold watch, a signet ring, and two wallets, which Reuben’s girlfriend claimed contained as much as £800 (£44000 today), but they disputed this saying “in it was six £1 notes and 10 shillings”, about £60. Not being the brightest, they missed £20 he had in his pocket, and not knowing the difference between shit or Shinola, they took his handkerchiefs, his last cigarette, and his notebook and pen which had the names of those who owned him sums of money, but being too thick to realise it, they binned it. Keen to make a getaway, these highly trained experts in deception, theft and sabotage hopped in the car to sprit it away, and – to evade capture and subvert the investigation through their devious cunning - dump it in a remote part of town, doctor the evidence and the shove the body somewhere baffling. Having overthought the evidence, the police (aided by a ravenous press on the hunt for scandal) would assume it was an execution, rather than it simply being a feeble robbery by two hopeless halfwits who were still half-cut from a night drinking contraband whiskey, and VD injections for their drippy dicks. But having crashed the car and jarred something loose, as the bugger wouldn’t start, they propped the corpse upright, covered him in a rug, popped his hat over the remains of his shattered head, and like a 1940s remake of Weekend at Bernie’s, they made it look like he was taking a nap, and they fled. As they say, planning is everything, but luck is half the battle. When Frank was murdered, luck was on the killer’s side, but when these two tried to rob Reuben, the luck they encountered was mostly bad. Only their bad luck would continue long after the murder. As the saying goes “there is no honour among thieves”, so when detectives were questioning Polish deserters in connection with the murder of Frank Everitt, with ‘Russian Robert’s murder plastered all over the papers and a death sentence being mooted, Jozef was more than willing to rat out his rivals. Under a shady ruse, on Saturday 3rd of November, three days later, as a Police informer himself, Jozef led detectives to Marian’s hideout at 17 Mansfield Road. Finding Reuben’s wallet and lighter in his flat, Marian was arrested for murder, and keen to lay the blame on Henryk, he dobbed him in as well. At his lodging at 42 Belgrave Road, Police found a wealth of irrefutable evidence, including Henryk’s Naval uniform and Marian’s grey suit, both bloodstained, Reuben’s other wallet, his signet ring, a black notebook, a blue mottled pencil, two packs of ‘Punch’ matches, a magazine containing six 32 calibre bullets, and a Lugar automatic pistol which was still spattered with blood which matched Reuben’s. The Met’s gun expert tested it, and confirmed “it is in good condition, and did not go off accidentally”. It was 6:30am, an hour after dawn as a few faint cracks of light pierced the gloom of Chepstow Road, that Reuben’s body was found. As with Frank, many people had passed him thinking he was sleeping, but seeing the damage to the car, it was then that PC George Larkins of F division decided to check. “I thought the car was abandoned. Inside I saw a man, fully dressed, lying in the back seat. I spoke but got no response. I felt his pulse, but got nothing. I removed his hat, and saw his face covered in blood”. Their subterfuge was weak, as even to a beat bobby “it was obvious he’d been shot in the head”, as cold sticky blood pooled about the seats, flies buzzed feverishly, bits of brain speckled the windscreen, and with a bullet hole in the roof, coins on the floor, as well as the smell of cordite - this was a murder. The Met Police’s Scientific Unit scoured the car, matching the bullet to the gun, and eventually finding two sets of fingerprints amidst the sea of red ooze, Superintendent Cherill of Scotland Yard’s infamous print bureau confirmed “these are the same prints”, which matched those of Marian & Henryk. It was a cut and dried case of robbery and murder, and although investigated by a different division, Chief Inspector Chapman whose own detection of Frank Everitt’s supposed ‘execution ‘had stalled, he’d spotted too many similarities for both cases to be a coincidence. Occurring just two weeks apart, their wounds, weapons and positions were the same, both men were possibly killed while driving, both had a broken inside light, an attempt at a robbery, the bodies were searched in the backseat, evidence was tampered with, and they were then dumped and disguised like they were sleeping giving the killers time to flee. Both crimes required two men with experience, and both victims lead possibly mysterious lives; with one being a criminal, and one an ex-copper. With no witnesses or fingerprints found at Frank’s murder, the evidence was circumstantial, and with Frank’s notebook - of supposedly “a list of Soho gangsters” involved in the sale of contraband whiskey – never being found, when they were searched, Marian had two packs of ‘Punch’ matches (like Frank used to us) and a blue mottled pencil (last seen in his notebook). Even the detectives admitted “the evidence was slim”. But who had killed Frank, was it both of them, neither, or was this just a coincidence? (End) Tried at the Old Bailey in Court One on the Tuesday 12th of February 1946, as Frank’s killing didn’t pass the evidential test, both men pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the robbery and murder of Reuben Martirosoff. Having turned on each other, they admitted being there when Reuben was shot, but both denied they fired the fatal shot. But it was all academic. Summing up, Justice Croom-Johnston stated “the evidence indicates these two men were on a common purpose - getting money unlawfully and by violence of a man who was killed, and with this deemed as joint venture, I find you both responsible of his murder”. On Wednesday 13th of February, after 70 minutes of deliberation, Henryk & Marian were found guilty of Reuben’s murder and sentenced to death. They appealed their conviction, but this was rejected. Interviewed prior to their trial, although Marian said that on the night of Frank’s murder they were in Ilford, and Henryk said “I did not kill The Duke”, Chief Inspector Chapman visited them in Wandsworth Prison on the eve of their execution. “I hoped that faced with few hours to live, they would make a confession”. Hanged at 9am, both men went to their graves taking the truth about the murder. Who killed Frank and why will remain a secret forever, and although mysteries often remain a mystery, it’s unlikely that Frank was corrupt or an informer. Said to be a loyal and loving husband and father, he earned more than most to provide for his family, having worked hard every day and lived in squalor. Wrongly described as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, his supposed ‘execution’ was simply a robbery by two desperate men who (that day) had luck on their side, and the only reason he was targeted wasn’t revenge or a hired hit, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. 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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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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