THE DETECTIVE, AND WHAT HE HAS DONE.
The Detective in Fiction and in Fact--Early Detection--Case of Lady
Ivy--Thomas Chandler--Mackoull, and how he was run down by a Scots
Solicitor--Vidocq: his Early Life, Police Services, and End--French
Detectives generally--Amicable Relations between French and English
Detectives.
The detective, both professional and amateur, since Edgar Allan Poe
invented Dupin, has been a prominent personage in fiction and on the
stage. He has been made the central figure of innumerable novels and
plays, the hero, the pivot on which the plot turns. Readers ever find
him a favourite, whether he is called Hawkshaw or Captain Redwood, Grice
or Stanhope, Van Vernet or Père Tabaret, Sherlock Holmes or Monsieur
Lecocq. But imagination, however fertile, cannot outdo the reality, and
it is with the detective in the flesh that I propose to deal. I propose
to take him in the different stages of his evolution--from the thief
reformed and become a thief-taker, down to the present honourable
officer, the guardian of our lives and property, the law's chief weapon
and principal vindicator.
In times past the detection of crime was left very much to chance; but
now and again shrewd agents, both public officials and private persons,
contributed to the discovery of frauds and other misdeeds. Long ago, in
France, as I have shown, there was an organised police force which often
had resort, both for good and evil, to detective methods. Here in
England the office of constable was purely local, and his duties were
rather to make arrests in clear cases of flagrant wrong-doing than to
follow up obscure and mysterious crime. The ingenious piecing together
of clues and the following up of light and baffling scents was generally
left to the lawyers and those engaged on behalf of the parties injured
or aggrieved.
THE CASE OF LADY IVY.
One of the first cases on record of a fraud on a very large scale
cleverly planned and not less cleverly detected was the claim raised by
a Lady Ivy, in 1684, to a large estate in Shadwell. It was based on
deeds purporting to be drawn more than a hundred years previously, in
the "2nd and 3rd Philip and Mary of 1555-6, under which deeds the lands
had been granted to Lady Ivy's ancestors." The case was tried before the
famous, or, more correctly, the infamous Judge Jeffreys, and the lawyers
opposed to Lady Ivy proved that the deed put forward had been forged. It
was discovered that the style and titles of the king and queen as they
appeared in the deed were not those used by the sovereigns at that
particular date. Always in the preambles of Acts of Parliament of 1555-6
Philip and Mary were styled "King and Queen of Naples, Princes of Spain
and Sicily," not, as in the deed, "King and Queen of Spain and both the
Sicilies." Again, in the deed Burgundy was put before Milan as a
dukedom; in the Acts of Parliament it was just the reverse. That style
did come in later, but the person drawing the deeds could not foretell
it, and as a fair inference it was urged that the deeds were a forgery.
Evidence was also adduced to show that Lady Ivy had forged other deeds,
and it was so held by Judge Jeffreys: "If you produce deeds made in such
a time when, say you, such titles were used, and they were not so used,
that sheweth your deeds are counterfeit and forged and not true deeds.
And there is _digitus Dei_, the finger of God in it, so that though the
design be deep laid and the contrivance skulk, yet truth and justice
will appear at one time or other."
Accordingly, my Lady Ivy lost her verdict, and an information for
forgery was laid against her, but with what result does not appear.
A LAWYER TURNED DETECTIVE.
Fifty years later a painstaking lawyer in Berkshire was able to unravel
another case of fraud, which had eluded the imperfect police of the day.
It was an artful attempt to claim restitution from a certain locality
for a highway robbery said to have been committed within its boundaries:
a robbery which had never occurred.
On the 24th March, 1747, according to his own story, one Thomas
Chandler, an attorney's clerk, was travelling on foot along the high
road between London and Reading. Having passed through Maidenhead
Thicket, and while in the neighbourhood of Hare Hatch, some thirty miles
out, he was set upon by three men, bargees, who robbed him of all he
possessed, his watch and cash, the latter amounting to £960, all in
bank-notes. After the robbery they bound him and threw him into a pit by
the side of the road. He lay there some three hours, till long after
dark, he said, being unable to obtain release from "his miserable
situation," although the road was much frequented and he heard many
carriages and people passing along. At length he got out of the pit
unaided, and, still bound hand and foot, jumped rather than walked for
half a mile uphill, calling out lustily for anyone to let him loose. The
first passer-by was a gentleman, who gave him a wide berth, then a
shepherd came and cut his bonds, and at his entreaty guided him to the
constable or tything-man of the hundred of Sunning, in the county of
Berks.
Here he set forth in writing the evil that had happened to him, with a
full and minute description of the thieves, and at the same time gave
notice that he would in due course sue the Hundred for the amount under
the statutes. All the formalities being observed, process was duly
served on the high constable of Sunning, and the people of the Hundred,
alarmed at the demand, which if insisted upon would be the "utter ruin
of many poor families," engaged a certain attorney, Edward Wise, of
Wokingham, to defend them.
Mr. Wise had all the qualities of a good detective: he was ingenious,
yet patient and painstaking, and he soon pieced together the facts he
had cleverly picked up about Chandler. Some of these seemed at the very
outset much against the claimant. That a man should tramp along the high
road with nearly £1,000 in his pockets was quite extraordinary; not less
so that he should not escape from the pit till after dark, or that his
bonds should have been no stronger than tape, a length of which was
found at the spot where he was untied. He seemed, moreover, to be little
concerned by his great loss. After he had given the written notices to
the constable, concerning which he was strangely well informed, having
all the statutes at his fingers' ends, as though studied beforehand, he
ordered a hot supper and a bowl at the Hare and Hounds in Hare Hatch,
where he kept up his carousals till late in the night. Nor was he in any
hurry to return to town and stop payment of the lost notes at the banks,
but started late and rode leisurely to London.
It was easy enough to trace him there. He had given his address in the
notices, and he was soon identified as the clerk of Mr. Hill, an
attorney in Clifford's Inn. It now appeared that Chandler, for a client
of his master, had negotiated a mortgage upon certain lands in the
neighbourhood of Devizes for £509, far more, as was proved, than their
value. An old mortgage was to be paid off in favour of the new, and
Chandler had set off on the day stated to complete the transaction,
carrying with him the £500 and the balance of £460 supposed to be his
own property, but how obtained was never known. His movements on the
previous day also were verified. He had dined with the mortgagee, when
the deed was executed and the money handed over in notes. These notes
were mostly for small sums, making up too bulky a parcel to be
comfortably carried under his gaiters (the safest place for them, as he
thought), and he had twice changed a portion, £440 at the Bank of
England for two notes, and again at "Sir Richard Hoare's shop" for three
notes, two of £100 and one of £200. With the whole of his money he then
started to walk ninety miles in twenty-four hours, for he was expected
next day at Devizes to release the mortgage.
Mr. Hill had kept a list of his notes in Chandler's handwriting, which
Chandler was anxious to recover when he got back, in order, as he said,
to stop payment of them at the banks. His real object was to alter the
numbers of three notes of Hoare's, all of which he wished to cash and
use, and he effected this by having a fresh list made out in which these
notes were given new and false numbers. Thus the notes with the real
numbers would not be stopped on presentation. He did it cleverly,
changing 102 to 112, 195 to 159, 196 to 190, variations so slight as to
pass unnoticed by Mr. Hill when the list as copied was returned to him.
These three notes were cashed and eventually traced back to Chandler.
Further, it was clearly proved that he had got those notes at Hoare's in
exchange for the £200 note, for that note presently came back to Hoare's
through a gentleman who had received it in part payment for a captain's
commission of dragoons, and it was then seen that it had been
originally received from Chandler.
While Mr. Wise was engaged in these inquiries the trial of Chandler's
case against the Hundred came on at Abingdon assizes in June, and a
verdict was given in his favour for £975, chiefly because Mr. Hill was
associated with the mortgage, and he was held a person of good repute.
But a point of law was reserved, for Chandler had omitted to give a full
description of the notes, as required by statute, when advertising his
loss.
But now Chandler disappeared. He thought the point of law would go
against him; that the mortgagee would press for the return of the £500
which he had recovered from the Hundred; that his master, Mr. Hill, had
now strong doubts of his good faith. The first of these fears was
verified; on argument of the point of law the Abingdon verdict was set
aside. There was good cause for Chandler's other fears also. News now
came of the great bulk of the other notes; they reached the bank from
Amsterdam through brokers named Solomons, who had bought them from one
"John Smith," a person answering to the description of Chandler, who in
signing the receipt "wrote his name as if it had been wrote with a
skewer." The indefatigable Mr. Wise presently found that Chandler had
been in Holland with a trader named Casson, and then unearthed Casson
himself.
All this time Mr. Hill was in indirect communication with Chandler,
writing letters to him by name "at Easton in Suffolk, to be left for him
at the Crown at Ardley, near Colchester, in Essex." Thither Mr. Wise
followed him, accompanied by the mortgagee, Mr. Winter, and the "Holland
trader," Mr. Casson, who was ready to identify Chandler. They reached
the Crown at Ardley, and actually saw a letter "stuck behind the plates
of the dresser," awaiting Chandler, who rode in once a fortnight, from a
distance, for "his mare seemed always to be very hard rid." There was
nothing known of a place called Easton; but Aston and Assington were
both suggested to the eastward, and in search of them Mr. Wise with his
friends rode through Ipswich as far as Southwold, and there found
Easton, "a place washed by the sea," where he halted, "being thus pretty
sure of going no farther eastward." But the scent was false, and
although they ran down a young man whom they proposed to arrest with the
assistance of "three
[Illustration: PUNISHMENT BY PILLORY.]
fellows from the Keys, who appeared to be smugglers, for they were
pretty much maimed and scarred," the person was clearly not Chandler.
So, finding they had been "running the wrong hare," they "trailed very
coolly all the way back to Ipswich."
Travelling homeward, they halted a night at Colchester, and called at an
inn, the Three Crowns, or the Three Cups, where Chandler had been seen a
few months before. Here, as a fact, after overrunning their game near
fourscore miles, "they got back to the very form," yet even now they
lost their hare. This inn was kept by Chandler himself, in partnership
with his brother-in-law, who naturally would not betray him, and
carefully concealed the fact that Chandler was at that very time in the
house.
After this Chandler thought Colchester "a very improper place for him to
continue long in." There were writs out against him in Essex, Suffolk,
and Norfolk, so he sold off his goods and moved to another inn at
Coventry, where he set up at the sign of the Golden Dragon under the
name of John Smith. Now, still fearing arrest, he thought to buy off
Winter, the mortgagee, by repaying him something, and sent him £130. But
Winter was bitter against him, and writs were taken out for
Warwickshire. Chandler had in some way secured the protection of Lord
Willoughby de Broke; he had also made friends with the constables of
Coventry, and it was not easy to compass his arrest. But at last he was
taken and lodged in the town gaol. Two years had been occupied in this
pertinacious pursuit, prolonged by trials, arguments, journeyings to and
fro, and Mr. Wise was greatly complimented upon his zeal and presented
with a handsome testimonial.
Chandler, who was supposed to have planned the whole affair with the
idea of becoming possessed of a considerable sum in ready money, was
found guilty of perjury, and was sentenced to be put in the pillory next
market day at Reading from twelve to one, and afterwards to be
transported for seven years.
A curious feature of the trial was the identification of Chandler as
John Smith by Casson, who told how at Amsterdam he (Chandler) had
received payment for his bills partly in silver--£150 worth of ducats
and Spanish pistoles--which broke down both his pockets, so that the
witness had to get a rice-sack and hire a wheelbarrow to convey the coin
to the Delft "scout," where it was deposited in a chest and so conveyed
to England.
HOW DENOVAN RAN DOWN MACKOULL.
Detailed reference has been made in previous pages to the Bow Street
runners, to Vickery, Lavender, Sayer, Donaldson, and Townsend, whose
exploits in capturing criminals were often remarkable. None of them did
better, however, than a certain Mr. Denovan, a Scots officer of great
intelligence and unwearied patience, who was employed by the Paisley
Union Bank of Glasgow to defend it against the extraordinary pretensions
of a man who had robbed it and yet sued it for the restoration of
property which was clearly the bank's and not his. For the first and
probably the only time known in this country, an acknowledged thief was
seen contending with people in open court for property he had stolen
from them.
[Illustration: JAMES MACKOULL.
(_From a Contemporary Drawing._)]
The hero of this strange episode was one James Mackoull, a hardened and,
as we should say nowadays, an "habitual" criminal. He was one of the
most extraordinary characters that have ever appeared in the annals of
crime. His was a clear case of heredity in vice, for his mother had been
a shoplifter and low-class thief, who had married, however, a
respectable tradesman; all her children--three sons and two
daughters--had turned out badly, becoming in due course notorious
offenders. One of them, John Mackoull, was well educated, and the author
of a work entitled "The Abuses of Justice," which he brought out after
his acquittal on a charge of forgery; another brother, Ben Mackoull, was
hanged for robbery in 1786.
James Mackoull began early, and at school stole from his companions. He
studied little, but soon became an expert in the science of
self-defence, and, being active and athletic, took rank in due course as
an accomplished pugilist. His first public theft was from a cat's-meat
man, whom he robbed by throwing snuff in his eyes; while the man was
blinded, he cut the bag of coppers fastened to the barrow and bolted.
Henceforth he became a professional thief, and with two noted
associates, Bill Drake and Sam Williams, did much business on a large
scale.
One of his most remarkable feats was his robbery from the person of a
rich undertaker, known as "The Old Raven," who was fond of parading
himself in St. James's Park, London, dressed out in smart clothes and
wearing conspicuously exposed a fine gold watch set with diamonds.
Mackoull knew that on most days "The Old Raven" entered the park from
Spring Gardens at 4 p.m., so he timed himself to arrive a little
earlier. He waited till the undertaker had passed him, then pushed on in
front, when he turned round suddenly, and, clutching the watch with one
hand, knocked his victim's hat over his eyes with the other. Fearing
detection for this theft, which caused considerable noise, Mackoull
thought it prudent to go to sea. He entered the Royal Navy, and served
for two years on board H.M.S. _Apollo_ as an officer's servant. His
conduct was exemplary, and he was presently transferred to H.M.S.
_Centurion_, on which ship he rose to be purser's steward. He was
discharged with a good character after nine years' service afloat, and
returned to London about 1785 with a considerable sum of money, the
accumulations of prize-money and pay.
The moment he landed he resumed his evil courses. Having rapidly wasted
his substance in the ring, in the cockpit, and at the gaming-table, he
devoted himself with great success to picking pockets. He gave himself
out as the captain of a West Indiaman, and being much improved in
appearance, having a genteel address and fluent speech, he was well
received in a certain class of society. At the end of a debauch he
generally managed to clear out the company. He was an adept in what is
known as "hocussing," and this served him well in despoiling his
companions of their purses and valuables.
It was at this time that he gained the _sobriquet_ of the "Heathen
Philosopher" among his associates. He owed it to a trick played upon a
master baker, whom he encountered at an election at Brentford. This
worthy soul affected to be learned in astronomy, and
[Illustration: Pit Ticket
THE COCKFIGHT BY HOGARTH.]
Mackoull approached him, courteously advising him to have a look at the
strange "alternating star" to be seen that night in the sky. As soon as
the baker was placed to view the phenomenon, Mackoull deftly relieved
him of his pocket-book, which he knew to be well lined. Then, as the
baker could not see the star properly and went home to use his
telescope, Mackoull promptly decamped, returning to town in a
postchaise.
Now Mackoull married a lodging-house keeper, and went into the business
of "receiving." At first he stored his stolen goods in his mother's
house, but as this became insecure he devised a receptacle in his own.
He chose for the purpose a recess where had formerly been a window, but
which had been blocked up to save the window-tax. It was on that account
called "Pitt's picture." But the hiding-place was discovered, and as
Mackoull was "wanted," he escaped to the Continent, where he frequented
the German gambling-tables and learnt the language. He visited Hamburg,
Leipsic, Rotterdam, and is said to have often played billiards with the
Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, whom he relieved of all his
superfluous cash.
Again he had to fly, but being afraid to return to London he travelled
north, and landed at Leith in 1805. Thence he went to Edinburgh, and
lodged in the Canongate, devoting himself to his old pursuits at
taverns, "calling himself a Hamburg merchant and making many friends." A
theft at the theatre was nearly fatal to him. He was caught by a police
officer in the act of picking a gentleman's pocket, and, after running
for his life, was at last overtaken. Having no assistance at hand, the
"town officer" struck him on the head with his "batoon." Mackoull fell
with a deep groan, and the officer, fearing he had killed him, made off.
As the result of this encounter Mackoull was long laid up, and he
carried the scar on his forehead to his dying day.
As time passed he grew more daring and more truculent, and it is
believed he was the author of the well-known murder of Begbie, the
porter of the British Linen Company Bank--a crime never brought home to
him, however, the murder remaining a mystery to the last. This victim,
returning from Leith carrying a large parcel of bank-notes, was stabbed
in the back at the entrance of Tweeddale's Court. Several persons were
suspected, apprehended, and discharged for want of evidence. Yet the
most active measures were taken to detect the crime. "Hue-and-cry"
bills were thrown off during the night, and despatched next morning by
the mail-coaches to all parts of the country. It was stated in this
notice that "the murder was committed with a force and dexterity more
resembling that of a foreign assassin than an inhabitant of this
country. The blow was directly to the heart, and the unfortunate man
bled to death in a few minutes." Through Mr. Denovan's investigations
many facts were obtained to implicate Mackoull, but the proof of his
guilt was still insufficient.
One of the most suspicious facts against him was that later on he was
often seen in the Belle Vue grounds, and here, in an old wall, many of
the notes stolen from the murdered porter were presently discovered.
They were those of large value, which the perpetrator of the crime would
find it difficult to pass. Reports that they had been thus found, and in
this particular wall, were in circulation some three weeks before they
were actually unearthed, and it is believed the story was purposely put
about to lead to their recovery. It is a curious fact that the
stonemason who came upon the notes in pulling down the wall resided
close to the spot where the murder had been committed. But for the good
luck that he was able to prove clearly that he was not in Edinburgh at
the time of the murder, he might have been added to the sufficiently
long list of victims of circumstantial evidence.
Mackoull at this time passed to and fro between Edinburgh and Dublin,
and was popular in both capitals, a pleasant companion, ever ready to
drink and gamble and join in any debauchery. He became very corpulent,
and it was said of him that he did not care how he was jostled in a
crowd. This was necessary as a matter of business sometimes, but one
night at the Edinburgh theatre he got into trouble. Incledon, the famous
vocalist, was singing to full houses, and Mackoull in the crowded lobby
picked a gentleman's pocket. He was caught in the act, but escaped for a
time; then was seized after a hot pursuit and searched, but with no
result, for he had dropped his booty in the race. They cast him into the
Tolbooth, but he was released for want of proof after nine months'
detention. As the story is told, the gentleman robbed was much
displeased at Mackoull's release and complained of this failure of
justice. The judge before whom the thief had been arraigned admitted
that he ought to have been hanged. "He went to the play-house to steal
and not to hear music; and he gave a strong proof of this, Mr. P., when
he preferred _your_ notes to Mr. Incledon's."
Mackoull, retiring south after his liberation, lay low for a time, but
he made one expedition to Scotland for the purpose of passing forged
notes, when he was again arrested, but again evaded the law. Another
enterprise in Chester failed; the luck was against him for the moment.
But now, having sought out efficient confederates, he laid all his plans
for the robbery of some one or other of the great Scottish banks. He was
well equipped for the job, had secured the best men and the finest
implements.
[Illustration: THE TOLBOOTH, EDINBURGH.]
He was assisted by two confederates, French and Huffey White, the latter
a convict at the hulks, whose escape Mackoull had compassed on purpose.
They broke into the Paisley Bank at Glasgow on Sunday night, July 14,
1811, with keys carefully fitted long in advance, and soon ransacked the
safe and drawers, securing in gold and notes something like £20,000. Of
course, they left Glasgow at once, travelling full speed in a
postchaise and four, first to Edinburgh and then _viâ_ Haddington and
Newcastle southward to London. In the division of the spoil which now
took place Mackoull contrived to keep the lion's share. White was
apprehended, and to save his life a certain sum was surrendered to the
bank; but some of the money, as I have said elsewhere,[18] seems to have
stuck to the fingers of Sayer, the Bow Street officer who had negotiated
between Mackoull and the bank. Mackoull himself had retained about
£8,000.
In 1812, after a supposed visit to the West Indies, he reappeared in
London, where he was arrested for breach of faith with the bank and sent
to Glasgow for trial. He got off by a promise of further restitution,
and because the bank was unable at that time to prove his complicity in
the burglary. An agent who had handed over £1,000 on his account, was
then sued by Mackoull for acting without proper authority, and was
obliged to refund a great part of the money. Nothing could exceed his
effrontery. He traded openly as a bill broker in Scotland under the name
of James Martin; buying the bills with the stolen notes and having
sometimes as much as £2,000 on deposit in another bank. At last he was
arrested, and a number of notes and drafts were seized with him. He was
presently discharged, but the notes were impounded, and by-and-by he
began a suit to recover "his property"--the proceeds really of his theft
from the bank. His demeanour in court was most impudent. Crowds filled
the court when he gave his evidence, which he did with the utmost
effrontery, posing always as an innocent and much-injured man.
It was incumbent upon the bank to end this disgraceful parody of legal
proceedings. Either they must prove Mackoull's guilt or lose their
action--an action brought, it must be remembered, by a public depredator
against a respectable banking company for daring to retain a part of the
property of which he had robbed them. In this difficulty they appealed
to Mr. Denovan, well known as an officer and agent of the Scottish
courts, and sent him to collect evidence showing that Mackoull was
implicated in the original robbery in 1811.
Denovan left Edinburgh on January 8, 1820, meaning to follow the exact
route of the fugitives to the south. All along his road he came upon
traces of them in the "post books" or in the memory of innkeepers,
waiters, and ostlers. He passed through Dunbar, Berwick, and Belford,
pausing at Belford to hunt up a certain George Johnson who was said to
be able to identify Mackoull. Johnson had been a waiter at the Talbot
Inn, Darlington, in 1811, but was now gone--to what place his parents,
who lived in Belford, could not say. "Observing, however, that there was
a church behind the inn," writes Mr. Denovan, "a thought struck me I
might hear something in the churchyard on Sunday morning;" and he was
rewarded with the address of Thomas Johnson, a brother of George's, "a
pedlar or travelling merchant." "I immediately set forth in a postchaise
and found Thomas Johnson, who gave me news of George. He was still
alive, and was a waiter either at the Bay Horse in Leeds or somewhere in
Tadcaster, or at a small inn at Spittal-on-the-Moor, in Westmorland, but
his father-in-law, Thomas Cockburn, of York, would certainly know."
Pushing on, Denovan heard of his men at Alnwick. A barber there had
shaved them. "I was anxious to see the barber, but found he had put an
end to his existence some years ago." At Morpeth the inn at which they
had stopped was shut up. At Newcastle the posting book was lost, and
when found in the bar of the Crown and Thistle was "so mutilated as to
be useless." But at the Queen's Head, Durham, there was an entry,
"Chaise and four to Darlington, Will and Will." The second "Will" was
still alive, and remembered Mackoull as the oldest of the party, a
"stiff red-faced man," the usual description given of him. The landlady
here, Mrs. Jane Escott, remembered three men arriving in a chaise who
said they were pushing on to London with a quantity of Scottish
bank-notes. At the Talbot Inn, Darlington, where George Johnson had
lived, the scent failed till Denovan found him at another inn, the
King's Head.
His evidence was most valuable, and he willingly agreed to give it in
court at Edinburgh. He had seen the three men at Durham, the oldest, "a
stiff, stout man with a red face, seemed to take the management, and
paid the postboys their hire." He had offered a £20 Scottish note in
payment for two pints of sherry and some biscuits, but there was not
change enough in the house, and White was asked for smaller money, when
he took out his pocket-book stuffed full of bank notes, all too large,
so the first note was changed by Johnson at the Darlington bank.
Johnson was sure he would know the "stiff man" again amongst a hundred
others in any dress.
There was no further trace now till Denovan got to the White Hart,
Welwyn, where the fugitives had taken the light post-coach. At Welwyn,
too, they had sent off a portmanteau to a certain address, and this
portmanteau was afterwards recovered with the address in Mackoull's
hand. At Welwyn also Mr. Denovan heard of one Cunnington who had been a
waiter at the inn in 1811, but had left in 1813 for London, and who was
said to know something of the matter. The search for this Cunnington was
the next business, and Mr. Denovan pushed on to London hoping to find
him there. "In company with a private friend I went up and down Holborn
inquiring for him at every baker's, grocer's, or public house," but
heard nothing. The same at the coaching offices, until at last a guard
who knew Cunnington said he was in Brighton. But the man had left
Brighton, first for Horsham, then for Margate, and had then gone back to
London, where Mr. Denovan ran him down at last as a patient in the
Middlesex Hospital.
Cunnington was quite as important a witness as Johnson. He declared he
should know Mackoull among a thousand. He had seen the three men
counting over notes at the White Hart; Mackoull did not seem to be a
proper companion for the two; he took the lead, and was the only one who
used pen, ink, and paper. Cunnington expressed his willingness to go to
Edinburgh if his health permitted.
Since Denovan's arrival in London he had received but little assistance
at Bow Street. The runners were irritated at the unorthodox way in which
the case had been managed. Sayer, who had been concerned in the
restitution, flatly refused to have anything to do with the business, or
to go to Edinburgh to give evidence. This was presently explained by
another runner, the famous Townsend, who hinted that Sayer's hands were
not clean, and that he was on very friendly terms with Mackoull's wife,
a lady of questionable character, who was living in comfort on some of
her husband's ill-gotten gains. Indeed, Sayer's conduct had caused a
serious quarrel between him and his colleagues, Lavender, Vickery, and
Harry Adkins, because he had deceived and forestalled them. Denovan was,
however, on intimate terms with Lavender, and succeeded in persuading
him to assist, and through him he came upon the portmanteau sent from
Welwyn, which had been seized at the time of Huffey White's arrest.
Huffey had been taken in the house of one Scoltop, a blacksmith in the
Tottenham Court Road, the portmanteau and a box of skeleton keys being
also seized. Both were now found in a back closet in the office at Bow
Street, "under a singular collection of rubbish, and were actually
covered by Williams's bloody jacket, and the maul and ripping iron with
which the man Williamson had been murdered in Ratcliff Highway." The
portmanteau contained many papers and notes damaging to Mackoull, and in
the box were housebreaking implements, punches, files, and various
"dubs" and "skrews," as well as two handkerchiefs of fawn colour, with a
broad border, such as the three thieves often wore when in their
lodgings in Glasgow immediately before the robbery.
How Mr. Denovan found and won over Scoltop is a chief feather in his
cap. His success astonished even the oldest officers in Bow Street.
Scoltop was the friend and associate of burglars, and constantly engaged
in manufacturing implements for them. He had long been a friend of
Mackoull's and had made tools for him, among them those used for the
robbing of the Paisley Union Bank, a _coup_ prepared long beforehand, as
we have seen. The first set of keys supplied had been tried on the bank
locks and found useless, so that Scoltop had furnished others and sent
them down by mail. These also were ineffective, as the bank had "simple
old-fashioned locks," and Mackoull came back from Glasgow, bringing with
him "a wooden model of the key hole and pike of the locks," which
enabled Scoltop to complete his job easily. "I wonder," said Scoltop to
Mr. Denovan, "that the bank could have trusted so much money under such
very simple things." Scoltop would not allow any of this evidence to be
set down in writing, but he agreed to go down to Edinburgh and give it
in court, and to swear also to receiving the portmanteau addressed in
the handwriting of Mackoull.
But Denovan's greatest triumph was with Mrs. Mackoull. She kept a house
furnished in an elegant manner, but was not a very reputable person.
"She was extremely shy at first, and as if by chance, but to show that
she was prepared for anything, she lifted up one of the cushions on her
settee, displaying a pair of horse pistols that lay below," on which he
produced a double-barrelled pistol and a card bearing the address
"Public Office, Bow Street." Then she gave him her hand and said, "We
understand each other." But still she was very reticent, acting, as Mr.
Denovan was firmly convinced, under the advice of the not incorruptible
Sayer. She was afraid she would be called upon to make a restitution of
that part of the booty that had gone her way. Denovan strongly suspected
that she had received a large sum from her husband and had refused to
give it back to him--"the real cause of their misunderstanding," which
was, indeed, so serious that he had no great difficulty in persuading
her also to give evidence at Edinburgh.
[Illustration: "ON WHICH HE PRODUCED A DOUBLE-BARRELLED PISTOL AND A
CARD" (p. 346).]
Such was the result of an inquiry that scarcely occupied a month. It was
so complete that the celebrated Lord Cockburn, who was at that time
counsel for the Bank, declared "nothing could exceed Denovan's skill,
and that the investigation had the great merit of being amply sustained
by evidence in all its important parts." When the trial of the cause
came on in February, and Denovan appeared in court with all the
principal witnesses, Johnson, Cunnington, Scoltop, and Mrs. Mackoull,
the defendant--it was only a civil suit--was unable to conceal his
emotion, and fainted away. This was, practically, the throwing up of the
sponge. Soon afterwards he was indicted for the robbery of the bank, and
on conviction sentenced to death. He was greatly cast down at first, but
soon recovered his spirits, and while awaiting execution received a
number of visitors in the condemned cell. Among them was his wife, who
provided him with the means of purchasing every luxury. She also applied
for and obtained a reprieve for him. But though he might escape the
gallows, he could not evade death. Within a couple of months of his
sentence he fell into imbecility, his hitherto jet-black hair grew
white, and his physical faculties failed him. Before the year was ended
he had gone to his account.
VIDOCQ.
The first regular organisation of detective police may be said to have
been created by Vidocq, the famous French thief, who, having turned his
own coat, found his best assistants in other converted criminals.
Vidocq's personal reminiscences have been read all the world over, and
need hardly be recounted here. It was at the end of a long career of
crime, of warfare with justice, in which he had been perpetually
worsted, that he elected to go over to the other side. He would cease to
be the hare, and would, if permitted, in future hunt with the hounds. So
he offered his services to the authorities, who at first bluntly refused
them. M. Henri, the functionary at the head of the criminal department
of the Prefecture, sent him about his business without even asking his
name.
This was in 1809, during the ministry of Fouché. Vidocq, rebuffed,
joined a band of coiners, who betrayed him to the police, and he was
arrested, nearly naked, on the roof as he was trying to escape. He was
taken before M. Henri, whom he reminded of his application and renewed
his offers, which were now accepted, but coldly and distrustfully. The
only condition he had made was that he should not be relegated to the
galleys, but held in any
[Illustration: VIDOCQ, THE CELEBRATED FRENCH DETECTIVE.
(_From the Engraving by Mlle. Coignet._)]
Parisian prison the authorities might choose. So he was committed to La
Force, and the entry appears on the registry of that prison that he was
nominally sentenced to eight years in chains; it was part of his compact
that he should associate freely with other prisoners and secretly inform
the police of all that was going on. He betrayed a number of his
unsuspecting companions, and seems to have been very proud of his
treacherous achievements. No prisoner had the slightest suspicion that
he was a police spy, nor had any of the officials, except the
gate-keeper. In this way he earned the gratitude of the authorities, who
thought he might be more useful at large. In order to give a plausible
explanation of his release, it was arranged that he should be sent from
the prison of La Force to Bicêtre and permitted to escape by the way.
Vidocq has given his own account of his escape: "I was fetched from La
Force and taken off with the most rigorous precaution, handcuffed, and
lodged in the prison van; but I was let out on the road." The report of
this daring escape, as it was supposed, was the talk of all Paris, and
the cause of great rejoicing in criminal circles, where Vidocq's health
was drunk with many wishes for his continued good fortune.
Vidocq made excellent use of his freedom. He entered freely into all the
low haunts of the city, and was received with absolute confidence by
every miscreant abroad. Through him, although he kept carefully in the
background, innumerable arrests were made; one of the most important was
that of the head of a gang of robbers named Guenvive, whose acquaintance
he made at a _cabaret_, where they exchanged some curious confidences.
Guenvive was very anxious to put him on his guard against "that villain
Vidocq," who had turned traitor to his old friends. But Guenvive assured
Vidocq that he knew him intimately and there was nothing to be feared
while he was by. Together they went to attack Vidocq, each carrying
handkerchiefs loaded with two-sous pieces, and watched for him at his
front door. For obvious reasons Vidocq did not come out, but his ready
concurrence in the scheme made him Guenvive's most intimate friend. The
robber was willing to enrol Vidocq in his band, and proposed that he
should join in a grand affair in the Rue Cassette. Vidocq agreed, but
took no part in the actual robbery on the pretence that he could not
safely be out in the streets, as he had no papers. When the party,
having successfully accomplished their _coup_, carried their plunder
home to Guenvive's quarters, they were surprised by a visit of the
police, during which Vidocq, who was present, concealed himself under
the bed. The end of this business was the conviction of the robbers and
their condemnation to _travaux forcés_, but they appear to have
succeeded in discovering how and by whom they had been betrayed.
Vidocq brought about another important arrest in the person of Fossard,
a notorious criminal, who was to become yet more famous by his
celebrated theft of medals from the Bibliothèque Royale. Fossard was a
man of athletic proportions and desperately brave; he had escaped from
the Bagne of Brest and was supposed to be prepared to go any lengths
rather than return there; he was always armed to the teeth, and swore he
would blow out the brains of anyone who attempted to take him. He lived
somewhere near the Rue Poissonnière; the neighbourhood was known, but
not the house or the floor; the windows were said to have yellow silk
blinds, but many other windows had the same; another indication was that
Fossard's servant was a little humpbacked woman, who also worked as a
milliner. Vidocq found the hunchback, but not her master, who had moved
into another residence over a wineshop at the corner of the Rue Duphot
and the Rue St. Honoré. He at once assumed the disguise of a
charcoal-seller, and verified the lodging, but waited for an opportunity
to take the criminal. Although he was armed and no coward, he realised
that the only safe way to secure Fossard would be in his bed.
[Illustration: THE BICÊTRE IN 1710.
(_After Gueroult._)]
Vidocq now took the tavern-keeper into his confidence, warned him that
he had under his roof a very dangerous robber, and that this lodger was
only waiting a favourable chance to rob his till. The first night that
the receipts had been good the ruffian would certainly lay hands upon
the money. The tavern-keeper was only too glad to accept the assistance
of the police, and promised to admit them whenever required. One night,
when Fossard had returned home early and gone to bed, Vidocq and his
comrades were let in during the small hours, and the following trick was
arranged. The tavern-keeper had with him a little nephew, a child of
ten, precocious and ready to earn an honest penny. Vidocq easily taught
him a little tale. The child was to go upstairs to Fossard's door in the
early morning, and ask Fossard's wife for some eau-de-cologne, saying
his aunt was unwell. The child played his part well; he went up, closely
followed by the police in stockinged feet; he knocked, gave his message,
the door was opened to him, and in rushed the officers, who secured
Fossard before he was well awake.
In these later days of the First Empire the police, as we have seen,
were more actively engaged in political espionage than in the detection
of crime, and Paris was very much at the mercy of criminals. There were
whole quarters given up to malefactors--places, particularly beyond the
Barrier, which offered a safe retreat to convicts, thieves, the whole
fraternity of crime, into which no police-officer was bold enough to
enter. Vidocq volunteered to clear out at least one of them, a tavern
kept by a certain Desnoyez, always a very favourite and crowded resort.
Accompanied by a couple of police officers and eight gendarmes, he
started off to execute a job for which his superiors declared that he
needed a battalion at least. But on reaching the tavern he walked
straight into the salon, where a Barrier ball was in progress, stopped
the music, and coolly looked around. Loud cries were raised of "Turn him
out!" but Vidocq remained imperturbable, and exhibiting his warrant,
ordered the place to be cleared. His firm aspect imposed upon even the
most threatening, and the whole company filed out one by one past
Vidocq, who stationed himself at the door. Whenever he recognised any
man as a person wanted or a dangerous criminal, he marked his back
adroitly with a piece of white chalk as a sign that he should be made
prisoner outside. This was effected by the gendarmes, who handcuffed
each in turn, and added him to a long chain of
[Illustration: VIDOCQ STOPS THE MUSIC (p. 352).]
prisoners, who were eventually conducted in triumph to the Prefecture.
Vidocq's successes gained him a very distinct reputation in Paris; he
had undoubtedly diminished crime--at least he had reduced the number of
notorious criminals who openly defied justice; it was decided,
therefore, to give him larger powers, and in 1817 he was authorised to
establish a regular body of detectives, the first "Brigade de Sûreté,"
which was composed of a certain number of agents devoted entirely to the
detection of crime. They were no more than four in number at first, but
the brigade was successively increased to six, twelve, twenty, and at
last to twenty-eight. In the very first year, between January and
December, 1817, Vidocq had only twelve assistants; yet among them they
effected 772 arrests, many of them of the most important character.
Fifteen of their captives were murderers, a hundred and eight were
burglars, five were addicted to robbery with violence, and there were
some two hundred and fifty thieves of other descriptions. Such good work
soon gained Vidocq detractors, and the old, official, clean-handed
police, not unnaturally jealous, charged him with actually preparing
crime in order that he might detect it. The police authorities were
privately informed by these other employees that Vidocq abused his
position disgracefully, and carried on widespread depredation on his own
account. In reply they were told that they could not be very skilful, or
they would have caught him in the act. Having failed to implicate Vidocq
himself, they fell upon his assistants, most of them ex-thieves, who
they declared now carried on their old trade with impunity. Vidocq soon
heard of these accusations, and, to give a practical denial of the
charge, ordered all his people invariably to wear gloves. To appear
without them, he declared, would be visited with instant dismissal. The
significance of this regulation lay in the fact that a pocket can only
be picked by a bare hand.
Certainly Vidocq and his men were neither idle nor expensive to
maintain; their hours of duty were often eighteen out of the
twenty-four; sometimes they were employed for days together without a
break. The chief himself was incessantly active; no one could say how he
lived or when he slept. Whenever he was wanted he was found dressed and
ready, with a clean-shaven face like an actor, so that he might assume
any disguise--wigs, whiskers, or moustaches of any length or colour;
sometimes, it is said that he changed his costume ten times a day. He
was a man of extraordinarily vigorous physique, strong and squarely
built, with very broad shoulders; he had fair hair, which early turned
grey, a large thick nose, blue eyes, and a constant smile on his lips.
He always appeared well-dressed, except when in disguise, and was
followed everywhere he went, but at a slight distance, by a cabriolet,
driven by a servant on whom he could rely. He always went armed with
pistols and a long knife or dagger. His worst points were his
boastfulness and his insupportable conceit.
M. Canler, afterwards chief of the detective police, tells an amusing
story in his Memoirs of how Vidocq was fooled by one of his precious
assistants. In choosing between candidates, the old thief sought the
boldest and most impudent. One day a man he did not know, Jacquin,
offered himself, and Vidocq, to try him, sent him to buy a couple of
fowls in the market. Jacquin presently brought back the fowls and also
the ten francs Vidocq had given him to pay for them. He was asked how he
had managed. It was simple enough. He had gone into the market carrying
a heavy hod on his shoulder, and, when he had bargained for the fowls,
he asked the market woman to place them for him on the top of the stones
on the hod. While she obliged him, he picked her pocket of the ten
francs he had paid her. Jacquin acted the whole affair before Vidocq,
whom he treated just as he had treated the owner of the fowls. When the
_séance_ was over, he had robbed Vidocq of his gold watch and chain.
After ten years of active work Vidocq resigned his post. He was at cross
purposes, it was said, with his superiors; M. Delavau, the new prefect,
had no sympathy with him, and was so much under priestly influence as to
abhor Vidocq, who perhaps foresaw that he had better withdraw before he
was dismissed. But the real reason was that he had feathered his nest
well, and was in possession of sufficient capital to start an industrial
enterprise--the manufacture of paper boxes. To this he presently added a
_bureau de renseignements_, the forerunner of our modern private inquiry
office, for which, from his abundant and varied experience, he was
peculiarly well fitted. He soon possessed a wide _clientèle_, and had as
many as 8,000 cases registered in his office. At the same time his brain
was busy with practical inventions, such as a burglar-proof door and a
safety paper--one that could not be imitated and used for false
documents.
His private inquiry business prospered greatly, but got him into serious
trouble. There seems to have been no reason to charge him with
dishonesty, yet he was arrested for fraud and "abuse of confidence" in
some two hundred instances; he was mixed up in some shady transactions,
among them money-lending and bill-discounting. He was also accused of
tampering with certain employees in the War Office, and his papers were
seized by the police. Some idea of the extent of his business may be
gathered from the description of his offices, which were extensive,
sumptuously furnished, and organised into first, second, and third
divisions, like a great department of State, each served by a large
staff of clerks. A little groom in livery, with buttons bearing Vidocq's
monogram, ushered the visitor into his private cabinet, where the great
"Intermediary," as he called himself, sat at his desk, surrounded by
fine pictures (for one of which, it was said, he had refused £2,800) and
many other signs of luxury and good taste.
Nothing came of this arrest, which Vidocq took quite as a joke, although
he was detained in the Conciergerie for three months and his business
suffered. Yet, afterwards, the police would not leave him alone. Old
animosities had never disappeared, and they were revived when Vidocq
occasionally turned his hand to his old work and caught someone whom the
regular police could not find. He had started a sort of "trade
protection society," by which, on payment of a small annual fee, any
shopkeeper or business man could obtain particulars concerning the
solvency of new clients. The number of subscribers soon exceeded 8,000,
and Vidocq, in one of his published reports, fixed the amount he had
saved his customers at several thousands of pounds. A fresh storm burst
over him when he unmasked and procured the arrest of a long-firm
swindler, before the police knew anything of the case.
Once more he was arrested, in 1842; his papers were impounded, there
were rumours of tremendous disclosures, family scandals, crimes
suppressed--all manner of villainies. No doubt he had made himself the
"intermediary" in matters not quite savoury, but the worst things
against him were an unauthorised arrest and a traffic in decorations
very much on the Grévy-Wilson lines of later days. The prejudice against
him must have been strong, and the case
[Illustration: THE CONCIERGERIE, PALACE OF JUSTICE, PARIS.]
ended in a sentence of eight years' imprisonment, which was, however,
reversed on appeal. He was much impoverished by his lawsuits, and one of
his last proceedings was to appear before a London audience dressed,
first as a French convict in chains, then in the various disguises he
had used in following up malefactors. Although his lecture was in
French, he seems to have attracted large audiences at the Cosmorama. Sir
Francis Burdett was a great patron and supporter of Vidocq, and was in
the habit, whenever he visited Paris, of inviting the old thief-taker
to dine with him at the Trois Frères Restaurant in the Palais Royal.
Vidocq died in penury in 1857 at a very advanced age.
Vidocq's mantle, after his resignation of his official post, fell upon
one of his own young men, for the fallacious idea still held that to
discover thieves it was necessary to have been a thief. The choice fell
upon one Coco-Latour, who had been a robber of the housebreaking class,
and was much esteemed for his enterprise in that particular branch of
crime. He now took over Vidocq's offices and staff, with much the same
results. Arrests were constantly made, numbers of depredators were
brought to justice, but again and again in court there were some
discreditable scenes; fierce recriminations between the dock and the
witness-box, little to choose between the accused criminal and the man
who had captured him. Public feeling was revolted by these exhibitions,
and at last the authorities resolved to abolish the system. M. Gisquet,
who was prefect of police, broke up Coco-Latour's band of ex-brigands
and ordered that in future the work should be done by persons of
unblemished character. Any who had been once convicted were declared
ineligible. New and respectable offices were installed under the wing of
the Prefecture, replacing the old dens in low streets which had been no
better than thieves' haunts infested by the worst characters.
From 1832, when this salutary change took effect, until the present day
the French detective has won well-deserved credit as an honourable,
faithful public servant, generally with natural aptitude, trained and
developed by advice and example. "A man does not become a detective by
chance; he must be born to it"; he must have the instinct, the _flair_,
the natural taste for the business--qualities which carry him on to
success through many disheartening disappointments and seeming defeats.
The best traditions of the Paris Prefecture have been worthily
maintained by such men as Canler, Claude, Macé, Goron, and Cochefert.
Their services have been conspicuous, their methods good, and they are
backed by useful, if arbitrary, powers, such as the right to detain and
interrogate suspected persons, which our police, under the jealous eye
of the law, have never possessed. This might seem to give the French
police the advantage as regards results, yet it is the fact that, with
all their limitations, the English police can compare favourably with
that of our French neighbours, and, as has been said, if we have at
times to reproach our servants with failure, there are also many
undetected crimes, cases "classed," or put by as hopeless, in France.
[Illustration: PALACE OF JUSTICE AND PREFECTURE OF POLICE, PARIS.]
A few stories may be inserted here illustrating the more prominent
traits of the French detectives, their patience, courage promptitude,
and ingenuity. No pains are too great to take; a clue is followed up at
all costs and all hazards. The French detective is equal to any labours,
any hardships, any emergency, any dangers. The words "two pounds of
butter," written on a scrap of paper found on the theatre of a great
crime, led Canler and his officers to visit every butterman's shop in
Paris, till at last the man who had sold and the criminal who had bought
the butter were found. In the same way a knife picked up was shown to
every cutler until it was identified and the purchaser traced. A
murdered man had been seen in company with another the day before the
crime; the latter was described to the police, who got on his track
within twenty-four hours, checked the employment of his time, and found
the tailor who had sold him his clothes; within another day his lodging
was known, on the fourth he was arrested and the crime brought home to
him. Two men on the watch for a criminal held on three days and nights
out of doors, in December, almost without food, and, to justify their
presence in the high road, pretended to be navvies working at repairs.
Four detectives, in pursuit of five murderers, divided the business
among them: one played the flute at a hall often visited by their men,
another sold pencils in the street, a third worked in brickfields
frequented by their quarry, a fourth kept the men wanted constantly in
view.
[Illustration: FRENCH DETECTIVES PLAYING THE PART OF NAVVIES.]
Another detective disguised himself as a floor polisher, simply to get
on friendly terms with a man of the same calling, who was an assassin.
The disguises assumed are various and surprising, and this may be taken
as fact in spite of statements to the contrary. A detective has been
seen in a blue blouse distributing leaflets in the street, and has been
recognised (by a friend) in correct evening dress at a diplomatic
reception. There was once attached to the Prefecture a regular wardrobe
of all sorts of costumes, and a dressing-room as in a theatre, with wigs
and all facilities for "making up." This is now left to the individual
himself, but not the less does he disguise. So sedulous are these
detectives in playing assumed parts, that it is told of two who were
employed in a high-class case, one as master, the other as valet, that
after the job was done, the master had so identified himself with his
part as to check his comrade afterwards for his familiarity in
addressing him!
[Illustration: IN THE RUE CAPRON BRANCH OF THE MONT DE PIETÉ]
French detectives often show great tact and promptitude. One of them one
day recognised a face without being able to put a name to it, and
followed his man into a 'bus. "Don't arrest me here," said the other.
"I'll come with you quietly when we leave the omnibus." It proved to be
a prisoner who had escaped that very morning from the _dépôt_ of the
Prefecture, and whom the police officer had only seen for a moment in
the passage. Perpetual suspicion becomes second nature with the
detective; he has to be constantly on the alert, his imagination active;
he must readily invent tricks and dodges when the occasion demands.
There is a positive order that an arrest must be made quietly, if
possible unobserved, and not in any café, theatre, or public place. This
obliges him to have recourse to artifice to entrap his prey.
Fortunately, most criminals are simplicity itself, and readily give
themselves away. It is enough to send a message for the man wanted, and
he will appear at the wineshop round the corner, bringing, say, his
tools to do some imaginary job. But courage is also a quality constantly
shown. It was a French detective who shared the cell with the infamous
Troppmann, and got him to confess the crime when off his guard. The
murderer would certainly have tried to destroy his companion on the
slightest suspicion of his real character.
It is satisfactory to know that very amicable relations exist between
London and Paris detectives, and that they are at all times willing to
assist each other. I have heard that the French greatly admire the
completeness of our Metropolitan Police machinery, its extensive
ramifications, the "informations" or budget of facts and police
circumstances issued four times daily from Scotland Yard, and the
facility with which news is circulated and action started in all--even
in the most remote--parts. Our people have made many famous captures for
the French: François, to wit, and other anarchists; Arton, the Panama
scapegoat, and many more. Not long ago the French police were deeply
anxious to know the exact whereabouts of a certain individual, and sent
over his photograph and description by a trusted agent for distribution
among our police divisions. It so happened--a little aided by good
fortune, perhaps--that the French agent was enabled to put his hand on
the man he wanted the very first afternoon of the search. Maxime du Camp
tells a story of a visit paid to the head of the French police by three
Englishmen, two of them jewellers, the third a London detective, who
were in hot pursuit of an employee who had "looted" the jewellers' shop.
Directly they had told their story the French official quietly said, "I
know all about it; wait one moment." A message was sent downstairs to
the prison cells below, and the thief in person was brought up. Then the
jewel boxes with their contents were produced, and one of the jewellers,
overcome with joy, fainted away on the spot. The affair seemed
miraculous, and yet it was perfectly simple. Information had reached the
French police that a young Englishman, but just arrived in Paris, and
staying at one of the best hotels, had pawned five pieces of valuable
jewellery at the Mont de Piété, the great public pawnshop, and out of
curiosity they paid him a domiciliary visit. He was found in his room
surrounded with portmanteaux crammed full of gems, and was detained
pending inquiry.
[Illustration: JEWELLERY DÉPÔT, MONT DE PIÉTÉ.]