When I took charge of the Criminal Investigation Department I was no
novice in matters relating to criminals and crime. In addition to
experience gained at the Bar and on the Prison Commission,
secret-service work had kept me in close touch with "Scotland Yard" for
twenty years, and during all that time I had the confidence, not only of
the chiefs, but of the principal officers of the detective force. I thus
entered on my duties with very exceptional advantages.
I was not a little surprised, therefore, to find occasion to suspect
that one of my principal subordinates was trying to impose on me as
though I were an ignoramus. For when any important crime of a certain
kind occurred, and I set myself to investigate it _a la_ Sherlock
Holmes, he used to listen to me in the way that so many people listen to
sermons in church; and when I was done he would stolidly announce that
the crime was the work of A, B, C, or D, naming some of his stock
heroes. Though a keen and shrewd police officer, the man was
unimaginative, and I thus accounted for the fact that his list was
always brief, and that the same names came up repeatedly. It was "Old
Carr," or "Wirth," or "Sausage," or "Shrimps," or "Quiet Joe," or "Red
Bob," etc., etc., one name or another being put forward according to the
kind of crime I was investigating.
It was easy to test my prosaic subordinate's statements by methods with
which I was familiar in secret-service work; and I soon found that he
was generally right. Great crimes are the work of great criminals, and
great criminals are very few. And by "great crimes" I mean, not crimes
that loom large in the public view because of their moral heinousness,
but crimes that are the work of skilled and resourceful criminals. The
problem in such cases is not to find the offender in a population of
many millions, but to pick him out from among a few definitely known
"specialists" in the particular sort of crime under investigation.
A volume might be filled with cases to illustrate my meaning; but a very
few must here suffice. It fell upon a day, for example, that a "ladder
larceny" was committed at a country house in Cheshire. It was the usual
story. While the family were at dinner, the house was entered by means
of a ladder placed against a bedroom window, all outer doors and
ground-floor windows having been fastened from outside by screws or wire
or rope; and wires were stretched across the lawn to baffle pursuit in
case the thieves were discovered. The next day the Chief Constable of
the county called on me; for, as he said, such a crime was beyond the
capacity of provincial practitioners, and he expected us to find the
delinquents among our pets at Scotland Yard. He gave me a vague
description of two strangers who had been seen near the house the day
before, and in return I gave him three photographs. Two of these were
promptly identified as the men who had come under observation. Arrest
and conviction followed, and the criminals received "a punishment suited
to their sin." One of them was "Quiet Joe"; the other, his special
"pal."
Their sentences expired about the time of my retirement from office, and
thus my official acquaintance with them came to an end. But in the
newspaper reports of a similar case the year after I left office, I
recognized my old friends. Rascals of this type are worth watching, and
the police had noticed that they were meeting at the Lambeth Free
Library, where their special study was provincial directories and books
of reference. They were tracked to a bookshop where they bought a map of
Bristol, and to other shops where they procured the plant for a "ladder
larceny." They then booked for Bristol and there took observations of
the suburban house they had fixed upon. At this stage the local
detectives, to whom of course the metropolitan officers were bound to
give the case, declared themselves and seized the criminals; and the
case was disposed of by a nine months' sentence on a minor issue.
Most people can be wise after the event, but even that sort of belated
wisdom seems lacking to the legislature and the law. If on the occasion
of their previous conviction, these men had been asked what they would
do on the termination of their sentence, they would have answered, "Why,
go back to business, of course; what else?" And at Bristol they would
have replied with equal frankness. On that occasion they openly
expressed their gratification that the officers did not wait to "catch
them fair on the job, as another long stretch would about finish
them"--a playful allusion to the fact that, as they were both in their
seventh decade, another penal servitude sentence would have seen the end
of them; whereas their return to the practice of their calling was only
deferred for a few months. Meanwhile they would live without expense,
and a paternal government would take care that the money found in their
pockets on their arrest would be restored to them on their release, to
enable them to buy more jimmies and wire and screws, so that no time
would be lost in getting to work. Such is our "punishment-of-crime"
system!
"Quiet Joe" made a good income by the practice of his profession; but he
was a thriftless fellow who spent his earnings freely, and never paid
income tax. "Old Carr" was of a different type. The man never did an
honest day's work in his life. He was a thief, a financier and trainer
of thieves, and a notorious receiver of stolen property. But though his
wealth was ill-gotten, he knew how to hoard it. Upon his last conviction
I was appointed statutory "administrator" of his estate. I soon
discovered that he owned a good deal of valuable house property. But
this I declined to deal with, and took charge only of his portable
securities for money. The value of this part of his estate may be
estimated by the fact that on his discharge he brought an action against
me for mal-administration of it, claiming L5000 damages, and submitting
detailed accounts in support of his claim. Mr. Augustine Birrell was my
leading counsel in the suit; and I may add that though the old rascal
carried his case to the Court of Appeal he did not get his L5000.
The man lived in crime and by crime; and old though he was (he was born
in 1828), and "rolling in wealth," he at once "resumed the practice of
his profession." He was arrested abroad this year during a trip taken to
dispose of some stolen notes, the proceeds of a Liverpool crime, and his
evil life came to an end in a foreign prison.
When I refused to deal with Carr's house property I allowed him to
nominate a friend to take charge of it, and he nominated a brother
professional, a man of the same kidney as himself, known in police
circles as "Sausage." A couple of years later, however, I learned from
the tenants that the agent had disappeared, and that their cheques for
rent had been returned to them. I knew what that meant, and at once
instituted inquiries to find the man, first in the metropolis and then
throughout the provinces; but my inquiries were fruitless. I learned,
however, that, when last at Scotland Yard, the man had said with
emphasis that "he would never again do anything at home." This was in
answer to a warning and an appeal; a warning that he would get no mercy
if again brought to justice, and an appeal to change his ways, as he had
made his pile and could afford to live in luxurious idleness. With this
clue to guide me, I soon learned that the man's insatiable zest for
crime had led him to cross the Channel in hope of finding a safer sphere
of work, and that he was serving a sentence in a French prison.
No words, surely, can be needed to point the moral of cases such as
these. The criminals who keep society in a state of siege are as strong
as they are clever. If the risk of a few years' penal servitude on
conviction gave place to the certainty of final loss of liberty, these
professionals would put up with the tedium of an honest life. Lombroso
theories have no application to such men. Benson, of the famous "Benson
and Kerr frauds," was the son of an English clergyman. He was a man of
real ability, of rare charms of manner and address, and an accomplished
linguist. Upon the occasion of one of Madame Patti's visits to America
he ingratiated himself with the customs officers at New York, and thus
got on board the liner before the arrival of the "Reception Committee."
He was of course a stranger to the great singer, but she was naturally
charmed by his appearance and bearing, and the perfection of his
Italian, and she had no reason to doubt that he had been commissioned
for the part he played so acceptably. And when the Reception Committee
arrived they assumed that he was a friend of Madame Patti's. Upon his
arm it was, therefore, that she leaned when disembarking. All this was
done with a view to carry out a huge fraud, the detection of which
eventually brought him to ruin. The man was capable of filling any
position; but the life of adventure and ease which a criminal career
provided had a fascination for him.
Facts like these failed to convince Dr. Max Nordau when he called upon
me years ago. At his last visit I put his "type" theory to a test. I had
two photographs so covered that nothing showed but the face, and telling
him that the one was an eminent public man and the other a notorious
criminal, I challenged him to say which was the "type." He shirked my
challenge. For as a matter of fact the criminal's face looked more
benevolent than the other, and it was certainly as "strong." The one was
Raymond _alias_ Wirth--the most eminent of the criminal fraternity of my
time--and the other was Archbishop Temple. Need I add that my story is
intended to discredit--not His Grace of Canterbury, but--the Lombroso
"type" theory.
Raymond, like Benson, had a respectable parentage. In early manhood he
was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for a big crime committed
in New York. But he escaped and came to England. His schemes were
Napoleonic. His most famous _coup_ was a great diamond robbery. His
cupidity was excited by the accounts of the Kimberley mines. He sailed
for South Africa, visited the mines, accompanied a convoy of diamonds to
the coast, and investigated the whole problem on the spot. Dick Turpin
would have recruited a body of bushrangers and seized one of the
convoys. But the methods of the sportsmanlike criminal of our day are
very different. The arrival of the diamonds at the coast was timed to
catch the mail steamer for England; and if a convoy were accidentally
delayed _en route_, the treasure had to lie in the post office till the
next mail left. Raymond's plan of campaign was soon settled. He was a
man who could make his way in any company, and he had no difficulty in
obtaining wax impressions of the postmaster's keys. The postmaster,
indeed, was one of a group of admiring friends whom he entertained at
dinner the evening before he sailed for England.
Some months later he returned to South Africa under a clever disguise
and an assumed name, and made his way up country to a place at which the
diamond convoys had to cross a river ferry on their way to the coast.
Unshipping the chain of the ferry, he let the boat drift down stream,
and the next convoy missed the mail steamer. L90,000 worth of diamonds
had to be deposited in the strong room of the post office; and those
diamonds ultimately reached England in Raymond's possession. He
afterward boasted that he sold them to their lawful owners in Hatton
Garden.
If I had ever possessed L90,000 worth of anything, the government would
have had to find someone else to look after Fenians and burglars. But
Raymond loved his work for its own sake; and though he lived in luxury
and style, he kept to it to the last, organizing and financing many an
important crime.
A friend of mine who has a large medical practice in one of the London
suburbs told me once of an extraordinary patient of his. The man was a
_Dives_ and lived sumptuously, but he was extremely hypochondriacal.
Every now and then an urgent summons would bring the doctor to the
house, to find the patient in bed, though with nothing whatever the
matter with him. But the man always insisted on having a prescription,
which was promptly sent to the chemist. My friend's last summons had
been exceptionally urgent; and on his entering the room with unusual
abruptness, the man sprang up in bed and covered him with a revolver! I
might have relieved his curiosity by explaining that this eccentric
patient was a prince among criminals. Raymond knew that his movements
were matter of interest to the police; and if he had reason to fear
that he had been seen in dangerous company, he bolted home and "shammed
sick." And the doctor's evidence, confirmed by the chemist's books,
would prove that he was ill in bed till after the hour at which the
police supposed they had seen him miles away.
Raymond it was who stole the famous Gainsborough picture for which Mr.
Agnew had recently paid the record price of L10,000. I may here say that
the owner acted very well in this matter. Though the picture was offered
him more than once on tempting terms he refused to treat for it, save
with the sanction of the police. And it was not until I intimated to him
that he might deal with the thieves that he took steps for its recovery.
The story of another crime will explain my action in this case. The
Channel gang of thieves mentioned on a previous page sometimes went for
larger game than purses and pocket-books. They occasionally robbed the
treasure chest of the mail steamer when a parcel of valuable securities
was passing from London to Paris. Tidings reached me that they were
planning a _coup_ of this kind upon a certain night, and I ascertained
by inquiry that a city insurance company meant to send a large
consignment of bonds to Paris on the night in question. How the thieves
got the information is a mystery; their organization must have been
admirable. But Scotland Yard was a match for them. I sent officers to
Dover and Calais to deal with the case, and the men were arrested on
landing at Calais. But they were taken empty-handed. A capricious order
of the railway company's marine superintendent at Dover had changed the
steamer that night an hour before the time of sailing; and while upon
the thieves was found a key for the treasure chest of the advertised
boat, they had none for the boat in which they had actually crossed.
But, _mirabile dictu_, during the passage they had managed to get a wax
impression of it! We also got hold of a cloak-room ticket for a
portmanteau which was found to contain some L2000 worth of coupons
stolen by the gang on a former trip. The men included in the "bag" were
"Shrimps," "Red Bob," and an old sinner named Powell. But the criminal
law is skilfully framed in the interest of criminals, and it was
impossible to make a case against them. I succeeded, however, by dint of
urgent appeals to the French authorities, in having them kept in gaol
for three months.
And now for the point of my story. Powell had left a blank cheque with
his "wife," to be used in case he came to grief; and on his return to
England he found she had been false to him. She had drawn out all his
money, and gone off with another man; and the poor old rascal died of
want in the streets of Southampton.[G] He it was who was Raymond's
accomplice in stealing Mr. Agnew's picture, and with his death all hope
of a prosecution came to an end.
If my purpose here were to amuse, I might fill many a page with
narratives of this kind. But my object is to expose the error and folly
of our present system of dealing with crime. When a criminal court
claims to anticipate the judgment of the Great Assize in the case of a
hooligan convicted of some vulgar act of violence, the silliness and
profanity of the claim may pass unnoticed. But when the
"punishment-of-crime" system is applied to criminals of the type here
described, the imbecility of it must be apparent to all. With such men
crime is "the business of their lives." They delight in it. Their zest
for it never flags, even in old age. What leads men like Raymond or Carr
to risk a sentence of penal servitude is not a sense of want--that is a
forgotten memory. Nor is it even a craving for filthy lucre. The
controlling impulse is _a love of sport_, for every great criminal is a
thorough sportsman. And in the case of a man who is free from the
weakness of having a conscience, it is not easy to estimate the
fascination of a life of crime. Fancy the long-sustained excitement of
planning and executing crimes like Raymond's. In comparison with such
sport, hunting wild game is work for savages; salmon-fishing and
grouse-shooting, for lunatics and idiots!
The theft of the Gold Cup at Ascot illustrates what I am saying here.
The thieves arrived in motor cars; they were, we are told, "of
gentlemanly appearance, and immaculately dressed," and they paid their
way into the grand stand. The list of criminals of that type is a short
one; and no one need suppose that such men would risk penal servitude
for the paltry sum the cup would fetch. A crime involving far less risk
would bring them ten times as much booty. For no winner of the cup ever
derived more pleasure from the possession of it than the thieves must
have experienced as they drove to London with the treasure under the
seat of their motor car. For it was not the lust of filthy lucre, but
the love of sport that incited them to the venture. There are hundreds
of our undergraduates who would eagerly emulate the feat, were they not
deterred by its dangers. And a rule of three sum may explain my proposal
to put an end to such crimes. Let the consequences to the professional
criminal be made equal to what imprisonment would mean to a "Varsity"
man, and the thing is done.