The number of murders that have taken place, and the very few murderers
that have been brought to justice in and about London during the last
few months, must go far towards contradicting the assertion to the
effect that the metropolis of England is ‘the safest city in the world’
to live in. And if to the list of crimes against life which have not
been, and never are likely to be, brought home to the perpetrators,
we add the innumerable thefts, burglaries, and other offences against
property which go unpunished because the criminals are never found out,
it can hardly be denied that we require a new departure in the system
of our Detective Police, for the simple reason that, as at present
constituted, the practical results of the same are very much the
reverse of satisfactory.
It has been my lot, for reasons which need not be entered into here,
to see not a little of the French detective system, and of the plans
adopted by those employed in discovering crime in Paris. The two
systems, those of the London and Parisian detective, differ most
essentially. With us, it is as if the general commanding an army in the
field was to send spies into the enemy’s camp, taking care they were
dressed and behaved themselves in such a manner that every one would
know who they were. On the other hand, the French system of detection
is based on the principle that the enemy—namely, the criminals amongst
whom they have to make their inquiries—should never be able to discover
who the spies are. Now, with some fifty or sixty detectives trained
to perfection in the art of disguising themselves, must it not be far
more easy to discover the whereabouts of crime and the identity of the
criminals, than can possibly be done under our system? Our detectives
are as well known to a Londoner of any experience, and we may presume
they are also just as well known to the criminal classes, as if they
wore uniform. Nay, in a very useful volume called _The Police Code and
Manual of the Criminal Law_, compiled by Mr Howard Vincent, it is
clearly laid down that ‘the idea that a detective to be useful in a
district must be unknown is erroneous in the great mass of cases, as he
is then unable to distinguish between honest men who would help a known
officer and others.’
It seems to me, as it must do to all who study the question, that this
is the fundamental mistake we make, and that it is for this reason our
detection of crime is so defective. We have no spies in the enemy’s
camp. Our detective officers are merely policemen in shooting-jackets
and billycock hats. The great criminal army knows who they are as well
as if they wore their blue tunics. A French detective has nothing
whatever to do with arresting criminals. He is not the sportsman who
shoots the bird, but only the dog which points out where the game is
to be found. The French agents of police, or detectives—many of whom
have been over in England on business, and are well acquainted with
our system—say that our regular police who keep order in the streets
are the best guardians of peace and order in the world, but that our
detective system is the worst and, practically, the most useless in
Europe. Nor can any one acquainted with the subject say they are wrong.
Even the most casual readers of the papers must be struck with two
facts relating to crime in London. In the first place, the vigilance
of the ordinary police is so great, that, as a rule, they lay hands
upon a very great number of criminals, and cause a vast deal of crime
to be punished. But, on the other hand, if a murderer, burglar, or
other offender against society _does_ manage to get clean away, he is
rarely if ever caught. The police—that is, of course, the detective
police—invariably ‘get a clue’ to the affair; and there the matter
seems to end. The detection of crime is evidently not an art that has
been cultivated in England.
The French detective is a man who would never be thought, by any one
who did not know him personally, to be connected with the police. In
fact, he generally does his best to hide his real occupation from
even his most intimate friends. Like our Londoner who is ‘something
in the City,’ he assumes the indefinite appellation of _un employé
du gouvernement_; but in what office he is ‘employed,’ or what his
‘employment’ may be, he refrains from stating. He is generally a quiet,
unpretending individual, who neither courts nor avoids notice. The
facility with which he assumes all kinds of disguise, and the admirable
manner in which he acts the part he assumes, must be seen in order
to be realised. As a rule, he takes some time before bringing his
inquiries to a close; but he is rarely at fault in the long-run, and
generally manages to bring down the game he is hunting.
Our English detective is the exact contrary of his French _confrère_.
He does not wear uniform, but he might just as well do so, for his
appearance and dress proclaim him to be what he is quite as plainly
as if he was clad like X142 of the force. He is a well-meaning,
intelligent fellow; but both his want of training and the system under
which he has to work quite unfit him for the detection of any crime
which is hidden in mystery. I remember, some years ago, being on a
visit at a country-house, where the jewel-case of a lady visitor was
stolen. It was quite safe when the owner had finished dressing for
dinner; but a couple of hours later her maid missed it, and gave the
alarm. Search was made—it is needless to say, in vain. The house was
full of visitors, many of whom had brought with them their own valets
and ladies’ maids, besides which there was a large staff of servants
belonging to the house itself. A telegram was despatched to Scotland
Yard the next morning; and in due time two detective officers arrived
from London. They examined the room from which the jewel-box had been
taken; questioned, and, as a natural consequence, set by the ears, all
the servants of the house, as well as those of the different visitors;
made inquiries at the neighbouring railway station about the travellers
who had left the place during the last few days; and finally, took
their departure, leaving matters exactly where they were—where they
have remained to the present day, and where they are likely to remain
for all time.
As a comparison with the foregoing, I may mention a case of a very
similar kind which I once witnessed in Paris. A friend of mine, living
with his wife, daughter, and a male and female servant _au second_
of a large old-fashioned house, found one morning that all his plate
had been stolen. It was quite safe when the family went to bed the
previous night; but in the morning it had vanished. He communicated
with the police; and an elderly gentleman, who looked like the manager
or one of the head-clerks of a bank, was sent to the house. Neither the
_concierge_ nor any one else had the slightest idea who the individual
was. He came ostensibly to see my friend on some business, and only
told _him_ what this business really was. He came again the next day
and the following four or five days, making his visits purposely when
my friend and all his family were out, so as to have an excuse, whilst
awaiting their return, of talking to the servants, or of wasting a
quarter of an hour in the _concierge’s_ den. He managed to ingratiate
himself with this latter individual; and in the course of the next few
weeks, during which time he still paid occasional visits, ostensibly
to my friend, became quite intimate with the servant. It ended in the
_concierge_ being arrested one fine day on a charge of having stolen
the plate. This was brought about partly by something the detective had
seen in the _concierge’s_ room, but chiefly on account of what he had
heard at a place where a number of the agents or brokers for stolen
goods used to congregate for business, and to which the detective went
in the character of a thief. The crime was thus discovered, and the
thief was duly punished.
I mention these two cases, out of not a few with which I am acquainted,
as illustrating in some measure the very different systems on which
the detectives of England and France do their work. In the latter
country, as in every other country in Europe, London is regarded by the
dangerous classes as the happy hunting-ground of thieves and rogues
of all kinds. I am fully aware that many Englishmen would regard the
French detective mode of working as underhand and mean, and object to
what they would term any underhand work of the kind. But surely when
a question of such magnitude as the detection of crime is mooted,
the authorities ought not to be guided by what is merely a matter of
sentiment. Murderers, burglars, thieves, swindlers, and all other
evil-doers, do not hesitate to use the most effectual means at their
command in order to insure success to themselves. Why, then, should
we do so? Crime of every kind is getting daily more and more clever
and scientific in its working; why should we not avail ourselves of
every possible advantage which the perpetrators of crime can command?
One thing is very certain, that unless we take a new departure in the
manner we attempt to detect crime, the dangerous classes will very soon
have everything their own way. As a French police agent once told me,
every crime that is undiscovered serves as an incentive for a dozen
more of the same kind.
With respect to the very strong dislike which some persons have to
anything in the shape of a secret police—or rather to disguised
agents of the police acting as spies in the camp of the dangerous
classes—it ought not to be forgotten that the same prejudice existed
half a century ago against the ‘new police,’ or the ‘Peelers’ as they
were called, being substituted for the watchmen or ‘Charlies’ of our
grandfathers’ days. If the authorities are wise enough to constitute
and maintain a really efficient system of secret police agents in the
place of what we now call ‘plain-clothes officers,’ the result will
be much the same as was the substitution of a regular metropolitan
police in place of the old watchmen. But if this greatly called-for
change is delayed much longer, we shall see the criminal classes
gaining in strength every year, until it will become as difficult to
get the mastery over them as is the case in some of the Western States
in America. A secret police, or rather, a number of secret agents of
the police, organised on the French system, is what we must institute
ere long, and the sooner it is taken in hand the better. Those who
require their services do not hesitate to employ ‘Private Inquiry
Offices’ and other similar establishments; why should the government
decline to entertain the idea of such an agency as is here advocated?
If any man of influence and authority in the land could be present at a
‘business’ meeting of English, French, and a few German thieves in some
of the lowest haunts of ‘Foreign London,’ an efficient system of secret
detective police would very soon become established in what has been
foolishly called ‘the safest city in the world.’
In England, we have a curious but very erroneous idea that if a
policeman wears a suit of plain clothes instead of his regular uniform,
he is fully able to find out all about any crime that has ever been
committed. A greater mistake was never made. Not only to the ‘dangerous
classes,’ but to almost every Londoner who is anything of an observer
regarding his fellow-men, ‘plain-clothes’ officers, as our detectives
are called, are actually as well known as if they wore the helmet,
blue tunic, and black leather waist-belt of the regular policeman. It
is quite otherwise in France. A French detective, as we have remarked
before, has nothing whatever to do with serving summonses or warrants.
He never arrests a criminal, but he points out to the regular police
where criminals are to be found. It is only on very rare occasions that
he even appears as witness against a prisoner; and when he does so, he
assumes for the future a dress and general appearance quite unlike what
he has hitherto borne. A French detective who cannot disguise himself
in such a manner that his oldest friend would not be able to recognise
him, is not deemed worth his salary. He takes the greatest professional
pride in this art. In a word, the French detectives are the spies sent
by the army of law and order to find out all about the enemy that is
constantly waging war against life and property. In England, we have
no similar set of men, and what are the consequences? Why, that unless
a murderer, burglar, or other offender is either taken red-handed, or
leaves behind him some very plain marks as to who he is or where he is
to be found, crime with us is, as a rule, undetected. Sooner or later,
notwithstanding our national prejudices against all that is secret and
underhand, we must adopt a system for the detection of crime on the
plan that is found to work so well in France; and the sooner we do so
the better, unless we want to make England in general, and London in
particular, more than even it is now the happy hunting-ground of all
the scoundrels in Europe. All Frenchmen who have visited our country
say that our _ordinary_ police is the very best in the world; that the
manner in which they preserve order in the streets is above praise;
and they are right. Nor can a word be said against the character, the
integrity, or the intentions also of our detectives. But the system on
which they are trained is essentially bad. They are the wrong men in
the wrong place—the square pegs in the round holes.