THE MODERN SCIENCE OF THIEF-TAKING.
If thieving be an Art (and who denies that its more subtle and delicate
branches deserve to be ranked as one of the Fine Arts?), thief-taking is
a Science. All the thief's ingenuity, all his knowledge of human nature;
all his courage; all his coolness; all his imperturbable powers of face;
all his nice discrimination in reading the countenances of other people;
all his manual and digital dexterity; all his fertility in expedients,
and promptitude in acting upon them; all his Protean cleverness of
disguise and capability of counterfeiting every sort and condition of
distress; together with a great deal more patience, and the additional
qualification, integrity, are demanded for the higher branches of
thief-taking.
If an urchin picks your pocket, or a bungling "artist" steals your watch
so that you find it out in an instant, it is easy enough for any private
in any of the seventeen divisions of London Police to obey your panting
demand to "Stop thief!" But the tricks and contrivances of those who
wheedle money out of your pocket rather than steal it; who cheat you
with your eyes open; who clear every vestige of plate out of your pantry
while your servant is on the stairs; who set up imposing warehouses, and
ease respectable firms of large parcels of goods; who steal the
acceptances of needy or dissipated young men;--for the detection and
punishment of such impostors a superior order of police is requisite.
To each division of the Force is attached two officers, who are
denominated "detectives." The staff, or head-quarters, consists of six
sergeants and two inspectors. Thus the Detective Police, of which we
hear so much, consists of only forty-two individuals, whose duty it is
to wear no uniform, and to perform the most difficult operations of
their craft. They have not only to counteract the machinations of every
sort of rascal whose only means of existence is avowed rascality, but to
clear up family mysteries, the investigation of which demands the utmost
delicacy and tact.
One instance will show the difference between a regular and a detective
policeman. Your wife discovers on retiring for the night, that her
toilette has been plundered; her drawers are void; except the ornaments
she now wears, her beauty is as unadorned as that of a quakeress: not a
thing is left; all the fond tokens you gave her when her pre-nuptial
lover, are gone; your own miniature, with its setting of gold and
brilliants; her late mother's diamonds; the bracelets "dear papa"
presented on her last birth-day; the top of every bottle in the
dressing-case brought from Paris by Uncle John, at the risk of his life,
in February 1848, are off--but the glasses remain. Every valuable is
swept away with the most discriminating villainy; for no other thing in
the chamber has been touched; not a chair has been moved; the costly
pendule on the chimney-piece still ticks; the entire apartment is as
neat and trim as when it had received the last finishing sweep of the
housemaid's duster. The entire establishment runs frantically up stairs
and down stairs; and finally congregates in my Lady's Chamber. Nobody
knows anything whatever about it; yet everybody offers a suggestion,
although they have not an idea "who ever did it." The housemaid bursts
into tears; the cook declares she thinks she is going into hysterics;
and at last you suggest sending for the Police; which is taken as a
suspicion of, and insult on the whole assembled household, and they
descend into the lower regions of the house in the sulks.
X 49 arrives. His face betrays sheepishness, combined with mystery. He
turns his bull's-eye into every corner, and upon every countenance
(including that of the cat), on the premises. He examines all the locks,
bolts, and bars, bestowing extra diligence on those which enclosed the
stolen treasures. These he declares have been "Wiolated;" by which he
means that there has been more than one "Rape of the Lock." He then
mentions about the non-disturbance of other valuables; takes you
solemnly aside, darkens his lantern, and asks if you suspect any of your
servants, in a mysterious whisper, which implies that _he_ does. He then
examines the upper bed-rooms, and in that of the female servants he
discovers the least valuable of the rings, and a cast-off silver
tooth-pick between the mattresses. You have every confidence in your
maids; but what _can_ you think? You suggest their safe custody; but
your wife intercedes, and the policeman would prefer speaking to his
inspector before he locks anybody up.
Had the whole matter remained in the hands of X 49, it is possible that
your troubles would have lasted you till now. A train of legal
proceedings--actions for defamation of character and suits for
damages--would have followed, which would have cost more than the value
of the jewels, find the entire execration of all your neighbors and
every private friend of your domestics. But, happily, the Inspector
promptly sends a plain, earnest-looking man, who announces himself as
one of the two Detectives of the X division. He settles the whole matter
in ten minutes. His examination is ended in five. As a connoisseur can
determine the painter of a picture at the first glance, or a
wine-taster the precise vintage of a sherry by the merest sip; so the
Detective at once pounces upon the authors of the work of art under
consideration, by the style of performance; if not upon the precise
executant, upon the "school" to which he belongs. Having finished the
toilette branch of the inquiry, he takes a short view of the parapet of
your house, and makes an equally cursory investigation of the
attic-window fastenings. His mind is made up, and most likely he will
address you in these words:--
"All right, Sir. This is done by one of 'The Dancing School!'"
"Good Heavens!" exclaims your plundered partner. "Impossible, why _our_
children go to Monsieur Pettitoes, of No. 81, and I assure you he is a
highly respectable professor. As to his pupils, I--"
The Detective smiles and interrupts. "Dancers," he tells her, "is a name
given to the sort of burglar by whom she had been robbed; and every
branch of the thieving profession is divided into gangs, which are
termed 'Schools.' From No. 82 to the end of the street the houses are
unfinished. The thief made his way to the top of one of these, and
crawled to your garrett"--
"But we are forty houses distant, and why did he not favor one of my
neighbors with his visit?" you ask.
"Either their uppermost stories are not so practicable, or the ladies
have not such valuable jewels."
"But how do they know that?"
"By watching and inquiry. This affair may have been in action for more
than a month. Your house has been watched; your habits ascertained; they
have found out when you dine--how long you remain in the dining-room. A
day is selected; while you are busy dining, and your servants busy
waiting on you, the thing is done. Previously, many journeys have been
made over the roofs, to find out the best means of entering your house.
The attic is chosen; the robber gets in, and creeps noiselessly, or
'dances' into the place to be robbed."
"Is there _any_ chance of recovering our property?" you ask anxiously,
seeing the whole matter at a glance.
"I hope so. I have sent some brother officers to watch the Fences'
houses."
"Fences?"
"Fences," explains the Detective, in reply to your innocent wife's
inquiry, "are purchasers of stolen goods. Your jewels will be forced out
of their settings, and the gold melted."
The lady tries, ineffectually, to suppress a slight scream.
"We shall see, if, at this unusual hour of the night, there is any
bustle in or near any of these places; if any smoke is coming out of any
one of their furnaces, where the melting takes place. _I_ shall go and
seek out the precise 'garretter'--that's another name these plunderers
give themselves--whom I suspect. By his trying to 'sell' your domestics
by placing the ring and toothpick in their bed, I think I know the man.
It is just in his style."
The next morning, you find all these suppositions verified. The
Detective calls, and obliges you at breakfast--after a sleepless
night--with a complete list of the stolen articles, and produces some of
them for identification. In three months, your wife gets nearly every
article back; her damsels' innocence is fully established; and the thief
is taken from his "school" to spend a long holiday in a penal colony.
This is a mere common-place transaction, compared with the achievements
of the staff of the little army of Detective policemen at head-quarters.
Sometimes they are called upon to investigate robberies; so executed,
that no human ingenuity appears to ordinary observers capable of finding
the thief. He leaves not a trail or a trace. Every clue seems cut off;
but the experience of a Detective guides him into tracks quite invisible
to other eyes. Not long since, a trunk was rifled at a fashionable
hotel. The theft was so managed, that no suspicion could rest on any
one. The Detective sergeant who had been sent for, fairly owned, after
making a minute examination of the case, that he could afford no hope of
elucidating the mystery. As he was leaving the bed-room, however, in
which the plundered portmanteau stood, he picked up an ordinary
shirt-button from the carpet. He silently compared it with those on the
shirts in the trunk. It did not match them. He said nothing, but hung
about the hotel for the rest of the day. Had he been narrowly watched,
he would have been set down for an eccentric critic of linen. He was
looking out for a shirt-front or wristband without a button. His search
was long and patient; but at length it was rewarded. One of the inmates
of the house showed a deficiency in his dress, which no one but a
Detective would have noticed. He looked as narrowly as he dared at the
pattern of the remaining fasteners. It corresponded with that of the
little tell-tale he had picked up. He went deeper into the subject, got
a trace of some of the stolen property, ascertained a connexion between
it and the suspected person, confronted him with the owner of the trunk,
and finally succeeded in convicting him of the theft.--At another
hotel-robbery, the blade of a knife, broken in the lock of a
portmanteau, formed the clue. The Detective employed in that case was
for some time indefatigable in seeking out knives with broken blades. At
length he found one belonging to an under-waiter, who proved to have
been the thief.
The swell-mob--the London branch of which is said to consist of from one
hundred and fifty to two hundred members--demand the greatest amount of
vigilance to detect. They hold the first place in the "profession."
Their cleverness consists in evading the law; the most expert are seldom
taken. One "swell," named Mo. Clark, had an iniquitous career of a
quarter of a century, and never was captured during that time. He died a
"prosperous gentleman" at Boulogne, whither he had retired to live on
his "savings," which he had invested in house property. An old hand
named White lived unharmed to the age of eighty; but he had not been
prudent, and existed on the contributions of the "mob," till his old
acquaintances were taken away, either by transportation or death, and
the new race did not recognize his claims to their bounty. Hence he died
in a workhouse. The average run of liberty which one of this class
counts upon is four years.
The gains of some of the swell mob are great. They can always command
capital to execute any especial scheme. Their traveling expenses are
large; for their harvests are great public occasions, whether in town or
country. As an example of their profits, the exploits of four of them at
the Liverpool Cattle Show some seven years ago, may be mentioned. The
London Detective Police did not attend, but one of them waylaid the
rogues at the Euston Station. After an attendance of four days, the
gentleman he was looking for appeared, handsomely attired, the occupants
of first-class carriages. The Detective, in the quietest manner
possible, stopped their luggage; they entreated him to treat them like
"gentlemen." He did so, and took them into a private room, where, they
were so good as to offer him fifty pounds to let them go. He declined,
and over-hauled their booty; it consisted of several gold pins, watches,
(some of great value,) chains and rings, silver snuff-boxes, and
bank-notes of the value of one hundred pounds! Eventually, however, as
owners could not be found for some of the property, and some others
would not prosecute, they escaped with a light punishment.
In order to counteract the plans of the swell mob, two of the sergeants
of the Detective Police make it their business to know every one of them
personally. The consequence is, that the appearance of either of these
officers upon any scene of operations is a bar to anything or anybody
being "done". This is an excellent characteristic of the Detectives, for
they thus become as well a Preventive Police. We will give an
illustration:--
You are at the Oxford commemoration. As you descend the broad stairs of
the Roebuck to dine, you overtake on the landing a gentleman of foreign
aspect and elegant attire. The variegated pattern of his vest, the jetty
gloss of his boots, and the exceeding whiteness of his gloves--one of
which he crushes in his somewhat delicate hand--convince you that he is
going to the grand ball, to be given that evening at Merton. The glance
he gives you while passing, is sharp, but comprehensive; and if his eye
does rest upon any one part of your person and its accessories more than
another, it is upon the gold watch which you have just taken out to see
if dinner be "due." As you step aside to make room for him, he
acknowledges the courtesy with "Par-r-r-don," in the richest Parisian
_gros parle_, and a smile so full of intelligence and courtesy, that you
hope he speaks English, for you set him down as an agreeable fellow,
and mentally determine that if he dines in the Coffee-room, you will
make his acquaintance.
On the mat at the stair-foot there stands a man. A plain, honest-looking
fellow, with nothing formidable in his appearance, or dreadful in his
countenance; but the effect his apparition takes on your friend in
perspective, is remarkable. The poor little fellow raises himself on his
toes, as if he had been suddenly overbalanced by a bullet; his cheek
pales, and his lip quivers, as he endeavors ineffectually to suppress
the word "_coquin!_" He knows it is too late to turn back (he evidently
would, if he could), for the man's eye is upon him. There is no help for
it, and he speaks first; but in a whisper. He takes the new comer aside,
and all you can overhear is spoken by the latter, who says he insists on
Monsieur withdrawing his "School" by the seven o'clock train.
You imagine him to be some poor wretch of a school-master in
difficulties; captured, alas, by a bailiff. They leave the inn together,
perhaps for a sponging house. So acute is your pity, that you think of
rushing after them, and offering bail. You are, however, very hungry,
and, at this moment, the waiter announces that dinner is on table.
In the opposite box there are covers for four, but only three convives.
They seem quiet men--not gentleman, decidedly, but well enough behaved.
"What has become of Monsieur?" asks one. None of them can divine.
"Shall we wait any longer for him?"
"Oh, no--Waiter--Dinner!"
By their manner, you imagine that the style of the Roebuck is a "cut
above them." They have not been much used to plate. The silver forks are
so curiously heavy, that one of the guests, in a dallying sort of way,
balances a prong across his fingers, while the chasing of the castors
engages the attention of a second. This is all done while they talk.
When the fish is brought, the third casts a careless glance or two at
the dish cover, and when the waiter has gone for the sauce, he taps it
with his nails, and says enquiringly to his friend across the table
"Silver?"
The other shakes his head, and intimates a hint that it is _only_
plated. The waiter brings the cold punch, and the party begin to enjoy
themselves. They do not drink much, but they mix their drinks rather
injudiciously. They take sherry upon cold punch, and champagne upon
that, dashing in a little port and bottled stout between. They are
getting merry, not to say jolly, but not at all inebriated. The amateur
of silver dish-covers has told a capital story, and his friends are
revelling in the heartiest of laughs, when an apparition appears at the
end of the table. You never saw such a change as his presence causes,
when he places his knuckles on the edge of the table and looks at the
diners _seriatim_; the courtiers of the sleeping beauty suddenly struck
somniferous were nothing to this change. As if by magic, the loud laugh
is turned to silent consternation. You now, most impressively,
understand the meaning of the term "dumbfoundered." The mysterious
stranger makes some enquiry about "any cash?"
The answer is "Plenty."
"All square with the landlord, then?" asks the same inflexible voice
as--to my astonishment--that which put the French man to the torture.
"To a penny," the reply.
"_Quite_ square?" continues the querist, taking with his busy eye a
rapid inventory of the plate.
"S' help me----"
"Hush!" interrupts the dinner spoiler, holding up his hand in a
cautionary manner. "Have you done anything to-day?"
"Not a thing."
Then there is some more in a low tone; but you again distinguish the
word "school," and "seven o'clock train." They are too old to be the
Frenchman's pupils; perhaps they are his assistants. Surely they are not
all the victims of the same _capias_ and the same officer!
By this time the landlord, looking very nervous, arrives with his bill:
then comes the head waiter, who clears the table; carefully counting the
forks. The reckoning is paid, and the trio steal out of the room with
the man of mystery behind them,--like sheep driven to the shambles.
You follow to the Railway station, and there you see the Frenchman, who
complains bitterly of being "sold for noting" by his enemy. The other
three utter a confirmative groan. In spite of the evident omnipotence of
their persevering follower, your curiosity impels you to address him.
You take a turn on the platform together, and he explains the whole
mystery. "The fact is," he begins, "I am Sergeant Witchem, of the
Detective police."
"And your four victims are?"--
"Members of a crack school of swell-mobsmen."
"What do you mean by 'school?'"
"Gang. There is a variety of gangs--that is to say, of men who 'work'
together, who play into one another's hands. These gentlemen hold the
first rank, both for skill and enterprise, and had they been allowed to
remain would have brought back a considerable booty. Their chief is the
Frenchman."
"Why do they obey your orders so passively?"
"Because they are sure that if I were to take them into custody, which I
could do, knowing what they are, and present them before a magistrate,
they would all be committed to prison for a month, as rogues and
vagabonds."
"They prefer then to have lost no inconsiderable capital in dress and
dinner, to being laid up in jail."
"Exactly so."
The bell rings, and all five go off into the same carriage to London.
This is a circumstance that actually occurred; and a similar one
happened when the Queen went to Dublin. The mere appearance of one the
Detective officers before a "school" which had transported itself in the
Royal train, spoilt their speculation; for they all found it more
advantageous to return to England in the same steamer with the officer,
than to remain with the certainty of being put in prison for fourteen or
twenty-eight days as rogues and vagabonds.
So thoroughly well acquainted with these men are the Detective officers
we speak of, that they frequently tell what they have been about by the
expression of their eyes and their general manner. This process is aptly
termed "reckoning them up." Some days ago, two skilful officers, whose
personal acquaintance with the swell mob is complete, were walking along
the Strand on other business, when they saw two of the best dressed and
best mannered of the gang enter a jeweller's shop. They waited till they
came out, and, on scrutinising them, were convinced, by a certain
conscious look which they betrayed, that they had stolen something. They
followed them, and in a few minutes something was passed from one to the
other. The officers were convinced, challenged them with the theft, and
succeeded in eventually convicting them of stealing two gold
eye-glasses, and several jeweled rings. "The eye," said our informant,
"is the great detector. We can tell in a crowd what a swell-mobsman is
about by the expression of his eye."
It is supposed that the number of persons who make a trade of thieving
in London is not more than six thousand; of these, nearly two hundred
are first-class thieves or swell-mobsmen, six hundred "macemen," and
trade swindlers, bill-swindlers, dog-stealers, &c.; About forty
burglars, "dancers," "garretteers," and other adepts with the
skeleton-keys. The rest are pickpockets, "gonophs--" mostly young
thieves who sneak into areas, and rob tills--and other pilferers.
To detect and circumvent this fraternity, is the science of
thief-taking. Here, it is, however, impossible to give even an imperfect
notion of the high amount of skill, intelligence, and knowledge,
concentrated in the character of a clever Detective Policeman. We shall
therefore finish the sketch in another part.