CHAPTER XIII.

ENGLISH AND AMERICAN DETECTIVES.

English Detectives--Early Prejudices against them Lived Down--The

late Mr. Williamson--Inspector Melville--Sir C. Howard Vincent--Dr.

Anderson--Mr. Macnaughten--Mr. McWilliam and the Detectives of the

City Police--A Country Detective's Experiences--Allan Pinkerton's

first Essay in Detection--The Private Inquiry Agent and the Lengths

to which he will go.

Although the old Bow Street runner either retired from business or set

up what we should now call private inquiry offices, the new organisation

did not include any members specially devoted to the detection of crime.

The want of them caused much inconvenience, and after an existence of

fifteen years the Metropolitan Police was strengthened by the employment

of a few constables in plain clothes, charged with the particular duty

of, so to speak, secretly safeguarding the public. The plan was first

adopted by Sir James Graham, when Home Secretary, and only tentatively,

for the old distrust and suspicion of secret spies and underhand police

processes lingered. There was something unpleasant, people said, in the

idea of a disguised police: personal freedom was in danger; and the

system was therefore tried on a very small scale.[19] No more than a

round dozen were appointed at first--three inspectors and nine

sergeants, but very shortly six constables were added as "auxiliaries,"

and gradually the total became 108, though this was only a small

proportion of the total 6,000 which then made up the whole force.

The real intention and use of the "plain clothes" police was that they

should be ever on the alert, ever at the heels of wrong-doers, and ready

to follow up clues or track down criminals unperceived. They quickly

overcame the early prejudice against them, and began by their

substantial services to win popular esteem. Charles Dickens may be said

to have discovered the modern detective. His papers in _Household Words_

were a revelation to the public, and the life portraits he drew of some

of the most notable men employed in this comparatively new branch of

criminal pursuit did much to turn suspicion into admiration.

[Illustration: SIR JAMES GRAHAM, FOUNDER OF THE DETECTIVE SYSTEM.]

A few words may fitly find place here concerning some of our later

developments of this most useful and not always sufficiently appreciated

class. I should be glad to do justice to the memory of one who spent a

lifetime at Scotland Yard, and was long the very centre and heart of the

detective department--the late Mr. Williamson. Starting as a private

constable and ending as chief constable, he was, from first to last, one

of the most loyal, intelligent, and indefatigable of the many valuable

public servants who have deserved well of their fellow-citizens. Yet to

the outside world he was probably little more than a name through all

his long years of arduous and uncompromising service. Few but the

initiated recognised the redoubtable detective in this quiet,

unpretending, middle-aged man, who walked leisurely along Whitehall,

balancing a hat that was a little large for him loosely on his head, and

often with a sprig of a leaf or flower between his lips. He was by

nature very reticent; no outsider could win from him any details of the

many big things he had "put through." His talk, for choice, was about

gardening, for which he had a perfect passion; and his blooms were

famous in the neighbourhood where he spent his unofficial hours. Another

favourite diversion with him, until increasing pressure of work denied

him any leisure, was boating. He was very much at home on the Thames, a

powerful sculler, and very fond of the exercise. He never missed till

the very last a single Oxford and Cambridge boat-race, seeing it for

choice from the police steam-launch--the very best way indeed of going

to the race, but a pleasure reserved for the Home Secretary, the police

officials, and a few of their most intimate friends. The police boat is

the last to go down the course, and the first to follow the competing

eights.

One or two especially trying circumstances helped to break Williamson

down rather prematurely. He took very much to heart, as was natural, the

misconduct of his comrade detectives in the notorious de Goncourt turf

frauds. He was at that time practically the head of his branch, and some

of the blame--but, of course, none of the disgrace--was visited upon

him, as it was argued that his men had been allowed too free a hand.

This may have been the case; but he had to deal with men of uncommon

astuteness, who were the more unscrupulous because he trusted them so

implicitly, with the trust of a loyal nature, true to those above him,

and counting upon fidelity from his subordinates.

Mr. Williamson's active career was also chequered by the diabolical

nature of the crimes which kept him most busily employed. Fenianism

might have been found written on his heart, like Calais on Queen Mary's,

and, closely interwoven with it, anarchism and nihilism in all their

phases. He knew no peace when foreign potentates were the guests of our

royalties; Scotland Yard was, in fact, held responsible for the safety

of Czar and Emperor, and the police authorities depended chiefly on

Williamson, with his consummate knowledge and long experience of exotic

crime. It

[Illustration: OLD SCOTLAND YARD.]

was Williamson who was first on the scene when infernal machines had

exploded, or might be expected to explode at any moment.

To him the officer who is nowadays our chief mainstay and defence

against these outrages, Inspector Melville, owes much of his insight

into the peculiar business of the "special section," as this important

branch of criminal investigation is called. The latter not long ago

disposed very ingeniously of a case which might have led to serious

mischief. Fertility of resource with great promptitude in action are

among Mr. Melville's strongest and most valuable traits. Well, on one

occasion, during the visit to England of a foreign Sovereign,

information was received that one of his subjects residing in this

country, and by no means loyal to him, intended to do him an injury the

first time he could get near him in public. It happened that at that

moment the imperial visitor was on the point of joining in a great

procession, which had either actually started, or would start in the

course of an hour or so. The malcontent was employed as cellarman to a

wine and spirit merchant or publican with large wine vaults. There was

no time to lose, and Melville made the best of his way to the place, saw

the proprietor, and inquired for a certain brand of champagne he wished

to purchase. The master called his man and sent them down together into

the cellars. The cellarman went first with a light; at the bottom of the

staircase he unlocked the wine cellar and went in--still first.

[Illustration: INSPECTOR MELVILLE.]

"What wine is that over yonder?" asked Melville carelessly, and the man

crossed over to the far end of the vault to look before he answered.

This was all the astute officer wanted. Instantly seizing the

opportunity, he stepped back out of the cellar, closed the door promptly

and locked it. The irreconcilable cellarman was a prisoner, and was left

there perfectly safe from any temptation to carry out the fell purpose

of which he was suspected. After the procession was over he was set

free.

Most of the prominent detectives of to-day learnt their work under

Williamson--Butcher, the chief inspector, who is as fond of flowers as

was his master, and may be known by the fine rose in his buttonhole;

Littlechild, who earned his first reputation in unravelling and exposing

long-firm and assurance office frauds; Neald, the curator of the Black

Museum, a sturdy, self-reliant, solid detective officer, who, among

other great cases, worked to a successful issue the "Orrock" murder, in

which the syllable "rock" scratched upon a chisel led ultimately to

detection.

The exposure of the detectives' misdeeds in 1876 brought a superior

official to Scotland Yard, and the first head of the newly named

Criminal Investigation Department was Colonel Howard Vincent. His

appointment was a surprise to many, and his fitness for the post was not

immediately apparent. He was young, comparatively speaking, unknown,

inexperienced in police matters, with no previous record but a brief

military service, followed by a call to the Bar. But he was energetic,

painstaking, a man of order, with some power of organisation; above all,

a gentleman of high character and integrity. His reign at Scotland Yard

may not have been marked by any phenomenal feats in detection; in the

pursuit of criminals he was dependent upon his able subordinates, and it

was his rule to summon the most experienced of them to advise him in all

serious cases. In the more subtle processes of analysis and deduction,

of working from effect to cause, from vague, almost impalpable

indications to strong presumption of guilt, Howard Vincent did not

shine; nor did he always, perhaps, fully realise the value of reticence

in detective operations; but he did good work at Scotland Yard by

raising the general tone and systematising the service.

[Illustration: _Photo: H. S. Mendelssohn, Pembridge Crescent, W._

SIR HOWARD VINCENT, M.P.]

Dr. Anderson, who was chief of the Investigation Department until 1901,

when he resigned, was an ideal detective officer, with a natural bias

for the work, and endowed with gifts peculiarly useful in it. He is a

man of the quickest apprehension, with the power of close, rapid

reasoning from facts, suggestions, or even impressions. He could seize

on the essential point almost by intuition, and was marvellously ready

in finding the real clue or indicating the right trail. With all this he

was the most discreet, the most silent and reserved of public

functionaries. Someone said he was a mystery even to himself. This, to

him, inestimable quality of reticence is not unaided by a slight, but

perhaps convenient, deafness. If he is asked an embarrassing question,

he quickly puts up his hand and says the inquiry has been addressed to

his deaf ear. But I shrewdly suspect that he hears all that he wishes to

hear; little goes on around him that is not noted and understood;

without seeming to pay much attention, he is always listening and

drawing his own conclusions.

[Illustration: _Photo: H.S. Mendelssohn, Pembridge Crescent, W._

DR. ANDERSON.]

The chief of the Investigation Department has, of course, to be in close

touch with all his subordinates; from his desk he can communicate with

every branch of his department. The speaking tubes hang just behind his

chair. A little farther off is the office telephone, which brings him

into converse with Sir Edward Bradford, the Chief Commissioner, or with

colleagues and subordinates in more distant parts of the "house." He is,

and must be, an indefatigable worker, since the labours of his

department are unceasing, and often of the most anxious, even

disappointing, character.

Dr. Anderson's successor is Colonel Henry, for many years

Inspector-General of Police in Bengal, and more recently employed on

special police duty at Johannesburg. He has been chosen for the post

not alone because of his long police experience, but also because he is

an expert in matters of identification, especially in regard to the

"finger-prints" system and the Bertillon system of anthropometry. Mr.

Macnaughten, the Chief Constable, or second in command of the

Investigation Department, is essentially a man of action. A man of

presence is Mr. Macnaughten--tall, well-built, with a military air,

although his antecedents are rather those of the public school, of

Indian planter life, than of the army. His room, like his chief's, is

hung with speaking tubes, his table is deep with reports and papers, but

the walls are bright with photographs of officials, personal friends,

and of notorious criminals which Mr. Macnaughten keeps by him as a

matter of business. Some other and more gruesome pictures are always

under lock and key; photographs, for instance, of the victims of Jack

the Ripper, and of other brutal murders, taken immediately after

discovery, and reproducing with dreadful fidelity the remains of bodies

that have been mutilated almost out of human semblance. It is Mr.

Macnaughten's duty, no less than his earnest desire, to be first on the

scene of any such sinister catastrophe. He is therefore more intimately

acquainted, perhaps, with the details of the most recent celebrated

crimes than anyone else at New Scotland Yard.

[Illustration: _Photo: Byrne & Co., Richmond._

SIR EDWARD BRADFORD.]

Nor can the detective officers of the City Police be passed by without

an acknowledgment of their skill and their devotion to the public

service, especially Mr. McWilliam, who has long been chief of the

department. He has repeatedly shown himself a keen, clear-headed, highly

intelligent official, and he has gained especial fame in the unravelling

of forgeries and commercial frauds. The sixth of the so-called

Whitechapel murders, that of Mitre Square, was perpetrated within the

City limits, and brought the additional energies and acumen of the City

detectives to the solution of a perplexing mystery.

[Illustration: _Photo: Maull & Fox, Piccadilly, W._

MR. MELVILLE T. MACNAUGHTEN.]

Under such chiefs as these the rank and file of our detectives labour,

assiduously utilising the qualities which really serve them

best--patience and persistence, following the hints and suggestions

given them by their leaders. The best detective is he who has that

infinite capacity for taking pains which has been defined as the true

test of genius. It is not by guesses or sensational snapshots that

crimes are unearthed, but by the slow process of routine, almost

commonplace inquiry, after the most minute and painstaking investigation

of the traces--often of the most minute character--left upon the theatre

of the deed.

[Illustration: MR. MCWILLIAM.]

People whom business or chance has brought much into contact with

detectives must have been struck with their ubiquity. All who have a

good memory for faces or the vision to penetrate disguises will have had

many opportunities of recognising them in strange places and at

unexpected times. The police officer is to be met with in railway

trains, on board steamboats, in hotels, at all places of public resort.

He may

[Illustration: NEW SCOTLAND YARD.

1. Commissioner's Room.

2. View from the River (_Photo: York & Son, Notting Hill, W._).

3. Principal Entrance.

4. The Western Façade.

]

be seen in "the rooms" at Monte Carlo, retained by "the administration"

of the casino to keep his eye on the company, or engaged on business of

his own, "shadowing" some criminal or suspect. I have given my coat and

hat to a detective at a great London reception in an historic house,

where many of the guests were titled or celebrated people, but into

which others, unbidden and extremely undesirable, had been known to

insinuate themselves in the prosecution of their nefarious trade. I have

met detectives at a wedding breakfast, at a big dinner, at balls during

the season, and I can safely assert that these "professionals," in

manners or in costume, were certainly not the least gentlemanlike of the

guests assembled.

There is no better company than a good detective, if he can only be

persuaded to talk--no easy matter, for reticence is a first rule of

conduct in the profession, and he is seldom communicative except on

perfectly safe ground. It was my good fortune once to be thrown with a

well-known member of one of those provincial forces which include many

first-rate detective practitioners. It was some years back, and I am

committing no breach of confidence in recounting some of his

experiences.

"Never let go, sir: that's the only rule. I like to keep touch of 'em

when once I've got 'em," he began, and he spoke pensively, as though his

mind were busy with the past, and he rubbed his hand thoughtfully over

his chin.

A man dressed quietly but well; his brown greatcoat not cut in the very

last fashion, perhaps, but of glossy cloth and in good style; a pearl

pin in his black silk scarf; and his boots, although thick-soled and

substantial, neatly made. His face was hard, shrewd, but not unkindly,

and there was a merry twinkle in his penetrating grey eyes, which seemed

to see through you in a single glance. Although very quiet and

unobtrusive in manner, he was evidently a man of much determination of

character; it was to be seen in his slow, distinct way of speaking, and

in the firm lines of a mouth which the clean-shaven upper lip fully

showed.

"But I've had luck, I won't deny that. There was that case of them

sharpers down in the eastern counties. It wasn't till all others had

failed that they put me on to the job. I didn't know the chap wanted,

not even by sight; and yet I was certain that he knew me. He'd been

doing the confidence trick with a young man of this town, and had

robbed him of over a hundred pounds. He made tracks out of the place--no

one knew where. He was a betting man, and I hunted for him high and low,

at all the racecourses of the country, but couldn't come upon him. We

were in London, last of all, and it was rather a joke against me at

Scotland Yard, where I had been, as usual, for help. They'd ask me if I

knew my man, and I was obliged to say 'No.' And if I thought I knew

where to find him, and I had to say 'No' to that too; and they always

laughed at me whenever I turned up. I was just about to travel

homewards, when I thought I'd try one more chance. There happened to be

a sporting paper on the coffee-room table, and I took it up. I saw two

race meetings were on for that day--Shrewsbury and Wye. I'd go for one,

but which? I shied up a shilling, and it came down Wye. So to the Wye

Races I went, with the young man who had been duped.

"The course was very crowded as we drove on. A couple with a great

lottery machine caught my eye; one was taking the money, the other

turning the handle, which ground out mostly blanks. 'Sergeant,' whispers

the young fellow to me all at once, 'that's him!' pointing to the man

who was taking the money. But how was I to take him? I got down, and

sent the trap to the other side of the tents, then stepped up to my man

and asked him plump for change for a five-pound note. He knew me

directly, and showed fight. I collared him, and moved him on towards the

trap, when the roughs raised a cry of 'Rouse, rouse!'--rescue, that is,

you know--and mobbed me. I held on--never let go, sir, as I said before,

that's the motto; but they broke two fingers of my right hand in the

shindy, and it was all I could do to force the fellow into the trap, but

I did it with my left, while I kept off the crowd with the other arm.

But I nearly lost him again on the way, all through being a soft-hearted

fool. His wife came after us, and at the station begged hard to be

allowed to go down with us. I agreed; what's more, I took the cuffs off

him, and let them talk together in the corner of the carriage. They

nearly sold me. It was in the ---- tunnel, dark as pitch, and the train

making a fine rattle, when the wife put down the window all of a sudden,

and he bolted through. I caught him by the leg, in spite of my game

fingers, but only just in time; and after that I handcuffed him to

myself--his wrist to mine.

[Illustration: "THE ROUGHS RAISED A CRY OF 'ROUSE! ROUSE!'" (p. 375).]

'Now,' says I, 'where you go, I go.' And that's the rule I've always

followed since.

"The London police have no very high opinion of country talent, but we

beat them sometimes, all the same--not that I want to say a word against

the Metropolitans. They've such opportunities, and so much knowledge.

Now there was Jim Highflyer; he'd never have been 'copped' but for a

couple of London detectives. He was a first-class workman was Highflyer,

and he once spent a long time in this town--not in his own name. While

he was here there were no end of big burglaries, and we never could get

at the rights of them. One of the worst of the lot was a plate robbery

from a jeweller's in Queen Street. A man with a sack had been tracked by

one of the constables a long way that night into the yard of a house,

and there he was lost. The house belonged to one of the town

councillors, Mr. T---- by name, a most respectable man, very free with

his money, and popular. We searched the yard next morning, and found a

lot of the plate in a dust-heap. Mr. T---- gave us every assistance. It

was quite plain how it had come there. There was no suspicion against

Mr. T----, of course; and do what we could, we couldn't pick up the man

we wanted. By-and-by the town councillor went away for a long spell; the

house was shut up--not let, as he was coming back, he said, and did once

or twice. After he left the burglaries stopped, and I'd have thought

very little more about it all if it hadn't been that I heard a man, who

had been arrested for an assault, and was in ----shire Gaol, had been

recognised by two London detectives as a notorious burglar, Jim

Highflyer. He'd got a knife upon him, and the name of the maker was a

cutler in this town; also a silver pencil-case, with the name of the

jeweller in Queen Street. I went over to the gaol, and identified the

man at once. It was the town councillor himself, Mr. T----. We searched

his house here after that, and found it crammed full of stolen goods.

You see, there it was the Metropolitans did the job. Highflyer would

have got off with a few weeks for the assault, but they knew him and all

about him. He was 'wanted' just then for several other affairs. He got

ten years, did Master Jim.

"But the neatest and about the longest job I ever was concerned in was

young Mr. Burbidge's case, and that I did in London without any help

from the London police. He was in the theatrical profession; a smart

young chap, greatly trusted by his manager, who employed him as a

confidential secretary, and allowed him to keep the accounts and all the

cash. No one checked one or counted t'other. One fine morning he went

off with a big sum. He'd been to the bank and drawn a cheque to pay the

weekly wages; but he bolted instead, leaving the treasury empty and the

whole company whistling for their 'screws.' The manager was half mad,

and he came at once to the police. The chief sent for me. 'It's a bad

business, thoroughly bad, and we must get him,' he said. 'Spare no

pains--spend what money you like, only catch him, if you can.' In jobs

of this sort, sir, time goes a long way. Burbidge had got a good start,

several hours or more; it was no use my rushing off after him in a

hurry, particularly as I did not know which way to rush. So I set myself

to think a little before I commenced work. The 'swag' stolen was large.

The thief would probably try to make tracks out of the country as soon

as he could; but which way? To Liverpool, perhaps, and by one of the

ocean steamers to the States; or to Hull, and so to Sweden and Norway;

or London, and so to France and Spain. I sent one of my men to the

railway station to make inquiries, and another to wire to the police at

the ports and to Scotland Yard to watch the Continental trains.

"The job I kept for myself was to find out what I could about young

Burbidge's ways. It's the only way to get a line on a man who's made off

in a hurry and left no clue. So I called at his rooms. He lived in

comfortable apartments over a tobacconist's, and was a good customer to

his landlord, to judge by the number of pipes I saw over the

mantelpiece, all of which were as well coloured as a black-and-tan. The

rooms were just as he left them--he might really have been coming back

in half-an-hour, only he didn't quite intend to, not if he knew it. The

chest of drawers was full of clothes; there were boots already polished;

brush and comb on the dressing-table. In the sitting-room the slippers

were on the hearth, books, acting-plays lying on the sofa and about the

floor, a writing-desk, but not a single scrap of paper--not a letter, or

an envelope, or even an unreceipted bill. He'd made up his mind to bolt,

and he'd removed everything which might give us the smallest notion of

which way he'd gone.

"It was just the same at the theatre. He'd had a sort of dressing-room

there, which he'd used as an office, with a desk in it, and pigeon-holes

and a nest of drawers. It was all left ship-shape enough. Files of

play-bills, of accounts receipted and not, ledgers, and all that; but

not a paper of the kind I looked for. I made a pretty close search, too.

I took every piece of furniture bit by bit, and turned over every scrap

of stuff with writing on it or without. I forced every lock, and

ransacked every hiding-place, but I got nothing anywhere for my pains.

The manager was with me all the time, and he didn't half like it, I can

tell you. No more did I, although I wouldn't for worlds show that I was

vexed. I tried to keep him up, saying it'd come all right--that patience

in these things never failed in the long run; and I got him to talk

about the young chap, to see if I could come upon his habits that way.

'Who were his friends, now?' I asked. 'He'd none in particular--not in

the company, at least, or out of it.' 'Ah! who might this be?' I said

quietly, as I drew out of the blotting-paper a photograph of a young

lady: a fair-haired little bit of a thing, with a pretty, rather modest,

face, which I felt I should know again.

"The _carte de visite_ had the photographer's name on it, and his

address, that of a good street. This was my line, of course. I made up

my mind to follow on to London at once. Then one of my men came in to

say that Burbidge had been seen taking a ticket--to London? No; only to

Shrivelsby--a long way short of it. It was some game, I felt certain. He

might have gone to London, and paid excess fare; but I wired to

Shrivelsby, and also to town. No one like him had been seen at

Shrivelsby; he hadn't got out there, that was clear. Only one person

did, and it wasn't Burbidge; at least, the person did not answer to his

description. It was only a man in a working-suit--a mechanic on the

look-out for work. Nor had he been seen at Euston; but that was a big

place, and he might easily have been missed. So I started for London at

once, taking the photograph and another of Burbidge, whom I had never

seen in my life. It is not difficult to hunt out who owns to a _carte de

visite_, particularly when the portrait's that of a theatrical. I got

upon the track of the lady fast enough, directly I went into the

photographer's place. There was a likeness of her in his album, in the

very same dress, and her name to it, Miss Jessie Junniper. I soon found

out more too. Before night I knew that she was playing at the Royal

Roscius, and that she lived in a street of little villas down

Hammersmith way. I took lodgings myself in the house just opposite, and

set up a close watch. In the morning, early, Miss Jessie came out, and I

followed her to the Underground Railway. She took a ticket for the

Temple Station. So did I, and I tracked her down to the theatre.

Rehearsal, of course. Three hours passed before she came out again. Then

a man met her at the stage door, a very old gentleman, who leant on a

stick, and seemed very humpty-backed and bent. They went down the Strand

together to Allen's, the great trunk-maker, and through the windows I

saw them buy a couple of those big trunks, baskets covered with black

leather, such as ladies take on their travels. ''Um,' thought I, 'she's

on the flit.'

"I was only just in time. Then they went down to Charing Cross Station,

and so back to Hammersmith. The old gentleman went into the house with

Miss Junniper, and stayed an hour or two, and then took his leave. Next

day Miss Junniper did not go out. The boxes arrived, and towards midday

an oldish lady--a middle-aged, poorly-dressed, shabby-genteel

lady--called and stayed several hours. But no Burbidge, and nobody at

all like him. I began to feel disappointed. The third day Miss

Junniper went out again to rehearsal; the old gentleman met her as

before, and the two drove in a cab to the City. I followed them to

Leadenhall-street, where they went into the offices of the White Star

Line. I did not go upstairs with them, and somehow I lost them when they

came out. I ought to have guessed then what I did not think of till late

that night. Of course, the old gentleman was Burbidge himself. He was an

actor, and a nipper, therefore, at disguises. He'd been play-acting all

along. He was the mechanic at Shrivelsby, the shabby-genteel old lady,

and the old man most of all. I won't tell you how I cursed myself for

not thinking of this sooner. It was almost too late when I did. My gent.

had left the villa (to which they had returned), and he did not come

back next day, nor yet the day after; and I was nearly wild with the

chance I'd lost. He'd got 'the office,' that's what I thought, and I was

up a tree. But the third day came a telegram for the young lady. I saw

the boy deliver it and go off, as though there was no answer. Then she

came out, and I followed her to the telegraph-office. I saw her write

her message and send

[Illustration: "A MAN MET HER AT THE STAGE DOOR, A VERY OLD GENTLEMAN"

(p. 380).]

it off. I'd have given pounds to read it, but I couldn't manage it; the

clerk--it's their duty--wouldn't let me. I was countered again, and I

was almost beat, and thinking of writing home to say so, when I saw Miss

Junniper's message in the compartment where she had been writing. She'd

done it with a hard pencil, which showed through. There was the address

as plain as ninepence--no mystery or circumlocution--'Burbidge, King's

Head Hotel, Kingston.' I was there the same evening, just before his

dinner. I asked if Mr. Burbidge was there. Sure enough. He wasn't a bit

afraid of being took, I suppose, so far off the line of pursuit, so he'd

stuck to his own name, and was not even disguised. He gave in without a

word. The tickets were on him, and in his bag upstairs a lot of the

cash he'd stolen; likewise a wardrobe of clothes--the old gentleman's

suit, and all the rest."

Our American cousins are, as I have said, well served by their official

detectives, but private agents do much of the business of pursuit and

detection, and of these semi-official aids to justice one firm has

gained a world-wide celebrity. Some account of the chief and first of

the Pinkertons may be introduced here.

Allan Pinkerton began life as a cooper, and was doing a thriving

business at Dundee, some thirty-eight miles north-west of Chicago, about

1847. The times were primitive; barter took the place of cash payments

in the absence of a currency. To remedy this inconvenience, a bank was

started in Milwaukee, which throve and had many branches, doing such a

good business that its notes passed everywhere, and were extensively

counterfeited. A gang of the forgers had been discovered by Allan

Pinkerton on a small island in the Fox River near Dundee. Wanting poles

and staves for his trade, he had gone to cut them in the woods, when he

came upon the embers of camp-fires, and signs that the island was

secretly frequented by tramps and others. Pinkerton informed the

sheriff, and active steps were taken by which a large confederacy of

horse thieves, "cover-men," and counterfeiters was broken up.

The trade still flourished, however, and some of the reputable citizens

of Dundee begged Allan Pinkerton to do further service to his town in

trying to check it. A suspicious stranger had just come to Dundee,

asking for "old man Crane"; this Crane was known as a "hard character,"

the associate of thieves and evil-doers, and an agent, it was thought,

for the distribution of bogus notes. The villagers generally gave him a

wide berth, and when the counterfeit money reappeared in the shape of

many forged ten-dollar bills, this "old man Crane" was credited with

being the centre of the traffic. Any friend or acquaintance of his came

equally under suspicion, and Allan Pinkerton was set to discover what he

could about this new arrival. He proved to be a hale, strong man,

advanced in years, who rode a splendid horse. Pinkerton found him

waiting at the saddler's, where some repairs were being made to his

saddle, and easily got into conversation with him. The stranger wanted

to know where "old man Crane" lived, and when informed, casually

mentioned that he often had some business with him. Pinkerton seemed to

understand, and the other suddenly asked, "Do you ever deal, any?"

"Yes, when I can get a first-rate article," promptly replied Pinkerton.

Whereupon the stranger said he had some that were "bang up," and pulled

out a bundle of notes, which he handed over for Pinkerton's inspection,

believing him to be a "square man."

The stranger proved to be one John Craig, who had long been engaged with

a nephew, Smith, at Elgin, in the fabrication of false notes. Pinkerton

said afterwards that he had never seen anything more perfect than these

spurious notes; they were exact imitations, almost without a flaw. They

were indeed so good that they even passed muster at the bank on which

they were counterfeited, and were received over the counter, and had

been paid in and out more than once without discovery. Craig, who

appears to have been a singularly confiding person, went on to tell

Pinkerton, of whom he knew nothing, that "old man Crane" had once acted

extensively for him, but was now slackening off, and that a new and more

enterprising agent was much required. Then he offered Pinkerton the job

to work the entire "western field," and said he could supply him with

from 500 to 1,000 forged bills, for which he need only pay 25 per cent.

of their face value.

Pinkerton agreed to these terms; he was to raise the necessary cash and

meet Craig by appointment in Elgin, the place of rendezvous being the

basement of the Baptist chapel. Craig said that he never carried any

large quantity of the notes about with him; it was too dangerous. His

regular place of residence, too, was near the Canadian frontier at

Fairfield, Vermont, whence he could quickly make tracks if threatened

with capture. He kept two engravers of his own constantly employed in

counterfeiting and printing; he showed Pinkerton other samples, and

seemingly gave himself quite away. After this, they parted in Dundee,

but the "trade" was soon afterwards completed in Elgin town. Pinkerton

proceeded on foot, taking with him the necessary cash provided by his

friends in Dundee. He met his new confederates at the Baptist chapel and

received the forged bills in exchange for the good money.

Allan Pinkerton, in telling this story, frankly admits that he was

sorely tempted to take up the nefarious traffic. He had in his hand a

thousand ten-dollar notes, representing a couple of thousand

pounds--spurious money, no doubt, but so admirably counterfeited that

they were almost as good as gold. He would have no difficulty in

passing them, and with this capital he might lay the foundation of his

fortune. Pinkerton put aside the evil thought, but he never forgot how

nearly he had yielded, and always sympathised with those who had been

seduced into crime.

[Illustration: CRAIG UNDERGOING SEARCH (p. 385).]

Pinkerton now lent all his energies to securing the arrest of Craig.

Appointing to meet him again, he offered to buy him out and take over

his whole business. If Craig would only give him time to raise the

necessary funds, he would carry on the concern on large lines. Craig had

no objection, and promised to furnish Pinkerton with a full

stock-in-trade. Another appointment was made for a few days later in a

Chicago hotel, and now Pinkerton arranged for Craig's capture. A warrant

and the services of a couple of officers were obtained. Craig came, and

the pair entered into business at once. Craig was ready with four

thousand bills and would deliver them within an hour; but Pinkerton

objected, and would not hand over the cash without seeing the bills.

Craig resented this, and, becoming distrustful, broke up the conference,

but on going out he told Pinkerton he would think the matter over and

see him by-and-by.

Craig did in fact return, but when Pinkerton asked him if he meant to

complete the bargain, he denied all knowledge of it, and, indeed, of

Pinkerton. Nothing was to be gained by delay, and the officers at once

arrested Craig, who was taken to a room in the hotel and searched. But

not a dollar in counterfeit money was found upon him, and when taken

before the magistrate he was released on bail. He appears to have used

his money freely in obtaining bail, and soon bolted, gladly forfeiting

his recognisances rather than "face the music." His disappearance

cleared the neighbourhood of counterfeiters for some years.

It can hardly be said that Allan Pinkerton showed any marvellous acumen

in this detection. But it was a first attempt, and it was soon followed

by more startling adventures.

A special product of modern times is the private inquiry agent, so much

employed nowadays, whose ingenuity, patient pertinacity, and

determination to succeed have been usefully engaged in unravelling

intricate problems, verging upon, if not actually included within, the

realm of crime. I knew one who was employed by a famous firm of

solicitors in a very delicate operation, which he terminated

successfully, but in a way to show that he did not stick at trifles in

securing his end. It was the sequel to a divorce case. The decree nisi

had been granted, and against the wife, who had been refused the custody

of the one child born of the marriage. The husband was anxious to secure

possession of the child, but the wife, like so many more of her sex, was

much too sharp to be forestalled. She had a friend waiting at the court

who, directly the decree was pronounced, started off in a hansom to the

lady's residence, where the child was, laid hands on it, and brought it

down to Victoria Station just in time for the night mail to the

Continent, by which lady and child travelled together to the south of

France. A detective was at once despatched in pursuit by the husband's

lawyer, and his orders were at all costs to recover possession of the

child. He soon got upon the lady's track. She had not gone further than

Monte Carlo. The detective found it impossible to kidnap the child, so

he managed to make friends with the mother, gradually grew very

intimate, paid her devoted attention, and eventually married her. When

he was her husband he had no difficulty in completing his commission,

and--possibly with the lady's full consent--he soon sent the child home.

I never heard how his marriage--all in the way of business!--turned out.

Another story is, perhaps, more dramatic. A married man of considerable

property, strictly entailed, died childless in India. The estates went

to the next-of-kin, but he, just as he was entering into their

enjoyment, was startled by a telegram from his relative's widow,

preparing him for the birth of a posthumous child. He at once consulted

his lawyer, who, after warning him that much time and money would

probably be spent in the process, promised to expose the fraud, if fraud

there was, or, at any rate, prove that it was a _bonâ-fide_ affair.

A year passed, and yet the next-of-kin had heard nothing of the case. At

last he went to his lawyers and insisted upon knowing how it stood. He

was told that the matter was now ripe; the lady had arrived with her

infant son. She was actually at that moment at a private hotel in the

West End.

"Go and call on her, and insist upon seeing the child. If there's any

difficulty about it, go out on the landing and call out 'Bartlett!' A

man will come down and explain everything."

The lady did not produce the child when asked; she said it was out in

the park with the nurse, and tried all sorts of excuses, so Bartlett was

summoned.

"I want to see the child," said the next-of-kin.

"This lady's? She has no child. I have been with her now for six months,

and she has asked me repeatedly to get her one--anywhere, in Cairo, at

the Foundling in Malta, here in London."

"Who are you, then?" both inquired, astonished beyond measure.

And "Bartlett," having completed his mission, quietly informed the lady,

whom he had been watching, and the next-of-kin, who was really his

employer, that he was the detective engaged to unravel the case.

With such men as this on the side of law and justice, long-continued

fraud, however astutely prepared, becomes almost impossible. The private

inquiry agent is generally equal to any emergency.

PART IV.

CAPTAINS OF CRIME.

CHAPTER XIV.

SOME FAMOUS SWINDLERS.

Recurrence of Criminal Types--Heredity and Congenital Instinct--The

Jukes and Other Families of Criminals--John Hatfield--Anthelme

Collet's Amazing Career of Fraud--The Story of Pierre Cognard:

Count Pontis de St. Hélène: Recognised by an Old Convict Comrade:

Sent to the Galleys for Life--Major Semple: His many Vicissitudes

in Foreign Armies: Thief and Begging-Letter Writer: Transported to

Botany Bay.

The regular recurrence of certain crimes and the reappearance of

particular types of criminals have been often remarked by those who deal

with judicial records; the fact is established by general experience,

and is capable of abundant proof. It is to be explained in part by

heredity. The child follows the father, and on a stronger influence than

that of mere imitativeness; and these transmitted tendencies to crime

can be illustrated by many well-authenticated cases, where whole

families have been criminals generation after generation. There is the

famous, or infamous, family of the Jukes, a prolific race of criminals,

starting from a vagabond father and five of his disreputable daughters.

The Jukes descendants in less than a hundred years numbered twelve

hundred individuals, all of them more or less evincing the criminal

taint. These facts have been brought out by the patient investigation of

Mr. Dugdale, an American scientist. An old case is recorded of a

Yorkshire family, the Dunhills, the head of which, Snowdon Dunhill,

spread terror through the East Riding as the chief of a band of

burglars. This Snowdon Dunhill was convicted in 1813 of robbing a

granary, and sentenced to seven years' transportation. He returned from

the Antipodes to earn a second sentence of exile, and his son was at the

same time sentenced to transportation. One of his sisters, Rose Dunhill,

was twice imprisoned for larceny; another, Sarah, had been repeatedly

convicted of picking pockets, and was finally sent across the water for

seven years. It may be incidentally stated, as showing the contamination

of evil, that nearly all who came into association with the Dunhills

felt the baneful influence of the family. Dunhill's wife was

transported; so were Rose Dunhill's two husbands and Sarah's three.

In 1821 a wide district of Northern France known as that of Santerre,

between Peronne and Montdidier, was the scene of numerous and repeated

crimes. There was no mystery about their perpetrators; the thieves and

their victims lived side by side, yet the latter only spoke of them with

bated breath, and shrank from denouncing them to the police. At last the

authorities interposed and arrested the malefactors, who were tried and

disposed of in due course of law. It was found that they were all of one

family, which had started originally in one village and ramified

gradually into neighbouring districts. Eleven years later, in 1832, a

second generation had come to manhood, and these true sons of their

fathers perpetrated exactly the same offences. Yet again, in 1852, a

fresh wave of depredation passed over the district, and again the same

families were responsible for the crimes. The last manifestation was

perhaps the worst of all. Thefts, arson, and murder had been of repeated

occurrence, but no arrests were made until a knife found in the

possession of a villager was identified as one of a lot stolen from a

travelling cheap-Jack. The man who had it was a Hugot. Through him

others were implicated, a Villet and a Lemaire. These three names,

Hugot, Villet, and Lemaire, were full of sinister significance in the

neighbourhood, and recalled a long series of dark deeds, perpetrated by

the ancestors of these very criminals.

Lombroso has collected a number of cases showing how the criminal

tendency has reappeared in successive generations. Dumollard, the

wholesale murderer of women, was the son of a murderer; Patetot, another

murderer, was the grandson and great-grandson of a criminal. There was a

family named Nathan, of which, on one particular day, there were

fourteen members in the same gaol. These Nathans were a band of thieves

entirely made up

[Illustration: A MEMBER OF THE THIEF CASTE AT TRICHINOPOLY. (_Drawn from

Life by G. Gold._)]

of relations--parents and children, brothers and cousins. It has been

observed that the most notorious Italian brigands regularly inherited

the business from their parents; we shall see presently how the Coles

and Youngers of the Western States of America were all closely related;

many of the most desperate members of the Neapolitan Camorra were

brothers. There is a village in the south of Italy which has been a nest

and focus of criminals for centuries. The natives are mostly related to

each other by intermarriage, and all seem bound by tradition to prey

upon their fellows. Again, in the Madras Presidency, at Trichinopoly, a

whole caste of thieves existed, one and all vowed to various kinds of

crime; and the practice of crime by certain Indian tribes generation

after generation is well known to Indian police officers.

That the criminal virus is widely disseminated is proved by its

unfailing reappearance in all times and places. Crimes of the same sort

have been and are being continually committed, with no greater

difference than is due to surroundings, opportunities, individual

idiosyncrasies, the changing circumstances that accompany the varying

conditions of life. I propose to show now from a number of selected

cases how thieves, swindlers, depredators, murderers, and all kinds and

classes of criminals who make mankind their prey, have been reproduced

again and again. Both men and women have been found acting under the

same baleful impulse, showing greater or less ingenuity, but working on

the same lines. The sharper follows out his long career of successful

fraud and imposture century after century. Such men as Hatfield, Collet,

Coster, Sheridan, Benson, Shinburn, Allmeyer, are the seemingly

inevitable recurrence of one and the same type. Jenny Diver and the

German Princess have had their later manifestations in Mrs. Gordon

Baillie, La "Comtesse," Sandor, and Bertha Heyman. Cain has innumerable

descendants; nothing stops the murderer when the savage instinct is in

the ascendant; he feels no remorse when the deed is done. I shall

presently give a short account of one or two of those miscreants who

might otherwise escape classification, and whose very names are

synonymous with great crimes--Troppmann, Bichel, Dumollard, De

Tourville, and Peace. But this section may very well begin with some

account of a few famous swindlers.

HATFIELD.

One of the earliest swindlers in modern records was John Hatfield, a

youth of low origin, who was yet so gifted by nature, had such mother

wit and such a persuasive tongue, that he succeeded in passing himself

off as a man of rank and fortune without detection or punishment for a

long series of years. He was born of poor parents in Cheshire, in 1769,

and on reaching manhood became the commercial traveller of a

linen-draper, working the north of England. On one of his rounds he met

with a young lady, a distant connection of the ducal house of Rutland,

who had a small fortune of her own, and, using his honeyed tongue,

[Illustration: _Photo: W. H. Grove, Brompton Road, S.W._

CONVICTS AT WORK IN THE DARTMOOR QUARRIES.]

he succeeded in inducing her to marry him. The happy pair proceeded to

London, where they lived on their capital, the wife's dowry, some

£1,500, which was quickly squandered in extravagance and riotous living.

It was impossible to keep this up, and Hatfield again retired to the

country, where he presently deserted his wife, leaving her with her

children in complete destitution. He made his way once more to London,

and, boasting much of his relationship with the Manners family, got

credit from confiding tradesmen, until the bubble burst, when he was

sent to a debtors' prison. About this time his wife died in great

penury. Hatfield soon afterwards, by a series of artful

misrepresentations, obtained money from the Duke of Rutland, who secured

his release.

[Illustration: JOHN HATFIELD.

(_From a Contemporary Engraving._)]

In 1735 the Duke was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Hatfield,

hoping to find fresh openings for exercising his ingenuity, determined

to follow him to Dublin. Here he gave the landlord of a good hotel a

plausible excuse for his arriving without servants, carriages, or

horses, and for some time lived very pleasantly, being treated with much

deference as a relative of the Viceroy. At the end of the month the

landlord presented his bill, and was referred to Hatfield's agent, who,

strangely enough, was "out of town." When the bill was again presented,

Hatfield gave the address of a gentleman living in the castle; this

gentleman, however, declined to be answerable, whereupon Hatfield was

served with a writ, and conveyed at once to the Marshalsea, in Dublin.

He was there able to win the commiseration of the gaoler and his wife by

the old story of his high connections, and by his deep anxiety that his

Excellency should hear of his temporary embarrassments. By means of

these lies he was lodged in most comfortable quarters, and was treated

with every respect; and upon his making further application to the Duke

of Rutland, his Grace again weakly agreed to pay his debts, on the

condition that he left Ireland immediately.

Hatfield, on his return to England, visited Scarborough and renewed his

fraudulent operations, but he was discovered and thrown into prison,

where he remained for eight and a half years. At the end of that time he

was released through the intervention of a Miss Nation, a Devonshire

lady, who paid his debts for him, and afterwards gave him her hand in

marriage. He now posed as a reformed character, and lived an honest life

for just three years, during which period he became partner in a firm at

Tiverton. Then he offered himself as parliamentary candidate for

Queenborough, but his past misdeeds had been too notorious, and the

constituency would not elect him. Balked in his attempt, he straightway

left his home and family, and once more disappeared.

In 1802 he came to the surface under the assumed name of Colonel the

Hon. Alexander Augustus Hope, brother to Lord Hopetoun, and member for

Linlithgow. Hatfield was staying in the Lake district, at the Queen's

Hotel, Keswick, and near here, at Buttermere, he met a village beauty,

Mary Robinson, whose parents owned an hotel on the shores of the lake.

He was not long in winning her affections. But the double-faced

scoundrel at this moment was paying attention to another young lady, the

rich ward

[Illustration: "MARY OF BUTTERMERE."

(_Drawn from Life by J. Gillray._)]

of an Irish gentleman, Mr. Murphy, who, with his family, was resident in

the same hotel. This suit prospered. Hatfield's proposal was accepted,

and communications were opened with Lord Hopetoun. The villain allowed

none of the letters to reach their destination. The day was even fixed

for the marriage. At the last moment the bridegroom did not appear, but

Mr. Murphy received a letter from him at Buttermere, under his name of

Colonel Hope, asking him to cash a cheque or draft which he enclosed,

drawn on a Liverpool banker. The money was obtained, and sent to

Buttermere, but Colonel Hope continued to be missing, until the news

arrived that he had run off with Mary Robinson. It never transpired why

he preferred this sweet girl, whose charms were afterwards sung by

Wordsworth, to his other well-dowered _partie_. Some do him the credit

of saying that he really loved Mary Robinson; others that, already

fearing detection and exposure, he thought it wise to disappear.

Exposure was, indeed, close at hand. Mr. Murphy wrote direct to Lord

Hopetoun, and soon heard that the supposed Colonel Hope was an impostor.

The draft on the Liverpool bankers also proved to be a forgery, and many

letters fraudulently franked by Hatfield as an M.P. were brought up

against him. After his marriage with Mary Robinson he had gone to

Scotland, but had cut short his wedding trip to return to Buttermere,

where he was arrested on several charges. Hatfield dexterously made his

escape from the constable who took him, and was long lost sight of. At

last, after many wanderings, he was captured in the neighbourhood of

Swansea, and sent to the gaol of Brecon. He tried to pass off as one

Tudor Henry, but was easily identified, and on his removal to Carlisle

was tried for his life. Sentence of death was passed upon him, and he

suffered on the 3rd of September, 1803. "Notwithstanding his various and

complicated enormities," says a contemporary chronicle, "his untimely

end excited considerable commiseration. His manners were extremely

polished and insinuating, and he was possessed of qualities which might

have rendered him an ornament to society."

COLLET.

Anthelme Collet stands out in the long list of swindlers as one of the

most insinuating and accomplished scoundrels that ever took to criminal

ways. A number of curious stories have survived of his ingenuity, his

daring, and his long, almost unbroken, success. He is a product of the

French revolutionary epoch, and found his account in the general

dislocation of society that prevailed in France and her subject

countries in the commencement of the last century.

Collet's parents lived in the department of the Aisne, where he was born

in 1785. From his childhood up he was noted as a consummate liar and

cunning thief, and to cure him of his evil propensities he was sent to

an uncle in Italy, a priest, who kept him by his side for three years,

but made nothing of him. Young Collet then returned to France, and

entered the military school at Fontainebleau, from which he graduated as

_sous-lieutenant_, and passed on to a regiment in garrison at Brescia.

Here he soon made friends with the monks of a neighbouring Capuchin

monastery, and, preferring their society to that of his comrades, became

the subject of constant gibes. Exasperated by this, and chafing at the

restraints of military discipline, he resolved to desert. A wound

received in a duel strengthened him in this determination. He was sent

for cure to a hospital, that of San Giacomo, in Naples, and there met a

Dominican monk, chaplain of the order, who persuaded him to take the

cowl. Collet also earned the gratitude of a sick mate, a major in the

French army, whom he seems to have nursed, but who was so seriously

wounded that he did not recover. At his death the Major left Collet all

his possessions--3,000 francs in money, a gold watch, and two very

valuable rings.

[Illustration: Anthelme Collet

(_From a Contemporary Engraving._)]

Collet, in due course, entered as a novice with the brothers of St.

Pierre, and was soon so high in the good graces of his companions that

the Prior appointed him _quêteur_, the brother selected to seek alms and

subscriptions for his convent. The young man's greed could not resist

the handling of money; he quickly succumbed to temptation,

misappropriated the funds he collected, and returned to the convent from

his first mission several thousand francs short in his accounts. Fearing

detection, he made up his mind to disappear. One day, talking with his

friend the syndic of the town, he succeeded in securing a number of

passports signed in blank. Then he went to the Prior, and informed him

that he had come into a large fortune, but had hesitated to claim it as

he was a deserter from his regiment. If the Prior would protect him he

would now do so, and on this he was permitted to go to Naples, armed

with introductions to a bank, and other credentials from the convent.

At Naples, Collet's first act was to obtain 22,000 francs from the

bankers by false pretences, and, being in funds, he threw off his

monkish garb, assumed that of a high-born gentleman, and, filling up one

of his passports in the name of the Marquis de Dada, started _viâ_ Capua

for Rome. _En route_ he again changed his identity, having become

possessed of the papers of one Tolosan, a sea captain, and native of

Lyons, who had been wrecked on the Italian coast. Some say that Collet

had picked up Tolosan's pocket-book, others that he had stolen it. In

any case, he called himself by that name on arrival at Rome, and as a

Lyonnais sought the protection of a venerable French priest also from

Lyons, who was acquainted with the Tolosan family, and through whom he

was presented to Cardinal Archbishop Fesch, the uncle of the Emperor

Napoleon.

He now became an inmate of the Cardinal's palace, and was introduced by

his patron everywhere, even to the Pope. Under such good auspices he

soon began to prey upon his new friends, before whom he put the many

schemes that filled his inventive mind, and from most of whom he

extracted considerable sums. He persuaded a rich merchant clothier to

endorse a bill for 60,000 francs; he borrowed another sum of 30,000

francs from the Cardinal Archbishop's bankers; he bought jewellery on

credit to the value of 60,000 francs from one tradesman and defrauded

many others; even the Cardinal's personal servants were laid under

contribution. A more daring theft was a number of blank appointments to

the priesthood which he abstracted from the Cardinal's bureau, and with

them a bull to create a bishop _in partibus_. Then he decamped from

Rome.

His thefts and frauds were soon discovered, and the papal police put

upon his track. He had left Rome on an ecclesiastical mission, and in

company with other priests, one of whom was informed of his real

character and requested to secure him. But Collet, having some

suspicion, forestalled him by making off before he could be arrested.

The place to which he fled was Mondovi, where he set up as a young man

of fashion, and was soon a centre of the pleasure-loving, with whom he

spent his money freely. His next idea was to organise amateur

theatricals, and he forthwith constituted himself the wardrobe-keeper

of the company. A number of fine costumes were ordered, among them the

robes of a bishop and other ecclesiastical garments, the uniforms of a

French general officer and of French diplomatists, with all the

accessories, ribbons, medals, decorations, feathers, and gold lace. On

the night preceding the first dress rehearsal he again decamped,

carrying off most of the "properties" and clothes.

Now he assumed the garb of a Neapolitan priest who was flying into

Switzerland from French oppression. He fabricated the necessary papers

and was fully accepted by the Bishop of Sion, who appointed him to a

cure of souls in a parish close by. Here he discharged all the clerical

functions, confessing, marrying, baptizing, burying the dead, teaching

youth, visiting the sick, consoling the poor and needy. He also started

a scheme for restoring the parish church, and collected 30,000 francs

for the good work, promising to make up from his own purse any balance

required. The building was set on foot, an architect was engaged, and

many purchases were made by the false _curé_, who was, of course,

treasurer of the fund. Collet finished up by paying a visit to a

neighbouring town, where he bought religious pictures, candelabra, and

church plate, all on credit, and despatched them to his parish. But he

proceeded himself with the building money to Strasburg, driving post.

Using many different disguises, and playing many parts, he travelled

from Strasburg into Germany, and then by a circuitous route through the

Tyrol into Italy, making for Turin, where he forged a bill of exchange

for 10,000 francs, and got the money. But the fraud was detected, and he

had to fly, this time towards Nice. Now he filled in the bull appointing

to a bishopric, and created himself Bishop of Monardan, by name Dominic

Pasqualini. This gained him a cordial welcome from the Bishop of Nice,

who invited him to his summer palace, where all the clergy were

assembled to be presented to him. His Eminence wished the sham bishop to

examine his deacons, but Collet avoided the danger by saying there could

be no need; he was sure that his brother of Nice had not ordained

"ignorant asses." Yet the other was not to be entirely put off, and at

his earnest request Collet put on his episcopal robes, stolen from the

amateurs of Mondovi, and ordained thirty deacons, after which he

preached a sermon--one of Bourdaloue's, which he had by heart.

The _rôle_ of bishop was a little too dangerous, so Collet abandoned the

violet apron and went on to Paris as a private person. On arrival he

came across the friend who had helped him to his first appointment in

the army, and being well provided with funds, he renewed his

acquaintance by giving him a sumptuous dinner. Through this friend's

good offices he was reappointed to the army, this time to the 47th of

the line, in garrison at Brest, and Collet started for the west to join

his regiment. But he does not seem to have got further than L'Orient.

He, however, perpetrated a number of robberies by the way, and now

resolved to break ground in an entirely new and distant quarter.

Bringing his inventiveness to bear, he fabricated papers appointing

himself inspector-general and general administrator of the army of

Catalonia; his new name and title being Charles Alexander, Count of

Borromeo.

He took the road to Fréjus, on the Riviera, not the most direct to

Catalonia, and was everywhere received with great honour on presenting

his credentials. Thence, with an imposing escort, he passed on to

Draguignan, and appeared in full uniform, covered with decorations,

before the astonished war commissaries, explaining that he had the

Emperor's express commands to undertake an inquiry into their accounts.

At the same time he appointed a staff, aides-de-camp, secretaries, and

attendants, and soon had a suite of some twenty people. Amongst the

papers he had forged was one which empowered him to draw upon the

military chest for the equipment of his army of Catalonia. At Marseilles

he had made use of this to secure 130,000 francs, and at Nismes he laid

hands on 300,000 more. Whenever he arrived in a garrison he reviewed the

troops, and conducted himself as a grand personage.

At Montpelier his luck turned. He had begun well; a crowd of suppliants

fell at his feet, including the prefect, to whom Collet promised his

influence and a strong recommendation for the Grand Cross of the Legion

of Honour. But at this moment the bubble burst. The prefecture was

suddenly surrounded by the gendarmes, a police officer entered the

salle-à-manger and arrested Collet as he sat at table with the prefect

and his staff. No fault could well be found with those whom Collet had

duped, but the swindler himself was in fear of being instantly shot. He

was, however, kept in confinement awaiting superior orders.

One day the prefect, still chafing at the trick played upon him,

[Illustration: ARREST OF COLLET (p. 398).]

told his guests at dinner that he would allow them to see this bold and

unscrupulous person, whose name was on every tongue. He accordingly sent

for Collet, who was brought from the prison to the prefecture escorted

by the gendarmes. While waiting to be exhibited he was lodged in the

serving-room, next the dining-room. Here he found, to his surprise and

delight, a full suit of white, the costume of a _marmiton_, a cook's

assistant. He quickly assumed the disguise, and taking up the nearest

dish, walked out between the sentries on guard, passed into the

dining-room, through it, and out of the prefecture. He was soon missed,

and a great hue and cry was raised through the country, but Collet all

the time had found a hiding-place close by the house.

When the alarm had ceased, he slipped away, and leaving Montpelier, made

his way to Toulouse, where he cashed another forged bill of exchange,

now for 5,000 francs. With the funds obtained he travelled northward,

but was followed from Toulouse, for the forgery was quickly discovered.

When arrested they carried him to Grenoble, and there he was tried for

the forgery. His sentence was to five years' _travaux forcés_, and

exposure in the pillory (_carcan_). Before long he was recognised at

Grenoble by one of those whom he had nominated to his staff at Fréjus,

and being tried again he was now sent to the Bagne of Brest. Collet

passed five years in this prison, and somehow contrived to live more or

less comfortably as a galley slave. He was always in funds, but how he

obtained them, or where he kept them, was a profound mystery to the very

last. With the money thus at his disposal he purchased extra food, he

bought the assistance of his fellows to relieve him of the severer

toils, and no doubt bribed his keepers. He became so fat and

round-faced, and generally so benignant and smiling, that he was

nicknamed by his comrades of the chain "Monsieur l'évêque." Numberless

attempts were made to discover the sources of his wealth; he was

supposed to have secreted a store of precious stones, but, although he

was watched and frequently searched, they were never found. He was

free-handed, too, with his money, gave freely to other convicts, and was

much esteemed by them. It is told of one who committed a murder in the

prison that, when permitted to address his comrades before execution,

after acknowledging their general kindness to himself, he added, "I wish

especially to thank Monsieur Collet." He did not live to return to

liberty, and died, only a few days before the end of his term, consumed

with despair at ending his days at the Bagne, but carrying with him the

secret of his wealth. Nine louis d'or only were found, in the collar of

his waistcoat; what had become of the rest no one could tell. He never

had money in the hands of the prison paymaster, he was never found in

the possession of more money than he was entitled to receive as prison

earnings, and yet, when he wanted it to gratify any expensive taste, to

buy white shirts, snuff, books, wine, or toothsome food, the gold flowed

from his hand as if by legerdemain.

COGNARD.

Hardly less remarkable than Collet's adventures are those of Cognard, an

ex-convict, who, in the topsy-turvy times of the First Empire, came to

be colonel of a regiment, wearing many decorations and having a good

record of service in the field.

Pierre Cognard, when serving a sentence of fourteen years in the Bagne

of Brest, made his escape, and passed into Spain, where he joined an

irregular corps under the guerilla leader Nina, and gained the cross of

Alcantara. While in garrison in one of the towns of Catalonia, he made

the acquaintance of a person who had been a servant to Count Pontis de

Ste. Hélène, recently deceased. This servant had, by some means or

other, laid hands upon the Count's titles of nobility, and he now handed

them over to Cognard, who adopted the name and title without question.

Despite his antecedents, he appears to have displayed great strictness

in dealing with public money, and on one occasion denounced two French

officers whom he caught in malpractices. They turned on him, and accused

him of complicity. General Wimpfen ordered all to be arrested, but

Cognard resisted, and was only taken by force. He was relegated to a

military prison in the island of Majorca, from which he escaped with a

party of prisoners, who, having seized a Spanish brig in the harbour,

sailed in it to Algiers. There they sold their prize, and Cognard

crossed into Spain, which the French were occupying. The pretended Comte

was appointed to Soult's staff, took part in the later operations in the

Pyrenees, and was in command of a flying column at the battle of

Toulouse. After the abdication of Napoleon, he disappeared from sight,

but he was with the Emperor at Waterloo, where he acquitted himself

well.

At the Restoration Cognard passed himself off as a grandee of Spain, who

had served Napoleon under pressure. Having demanded an audience of the

king, Louis XVIII., he seems to have had no difficulty in persuading

Louis that he was what he pretended; he was well received at Court, and

treated with distinction. During the Hundred Days Cognard accompanied

the king to Ghent, and made himself conspicuous everywhere as a member

of the Court. On the second Restoration he was nominated

lieutenant-colonel of the 72nd regiment, and formed part of the garrison

of Paris. He was now seemingly at the height of prosperity, but his

downfall was near at hand.

[Illustration: THE PLACE VENDÔME.]

There was a review one day in the Place Vendôme, and Cognard was present

at the head of his regiment. In the crowd of bystanders was a recently

liberated convict, named Darius, who had been at Brest with Cognard. The

ex-convict was struck by Cognard's likeness to an old comrade, and

asked the colonel's name. He was told it was the Count Pontis de Ste.

Hélène, a distinguished officer, much appreciated at the Court. Darius

was not satisfied, still holding to the idea that he had seen this face

at Brest. So when the parade broke up he followed the pretended count to

his house, and then asked if he might speak to him. After some

parleying, he was admitted to the presence of Cognard, whom he at once

addressed with the familiarity of an old friend. "Of course you know

me," said Darius. "I am glad to find you so well off. Do not think I

wish to harm you, but you are rich and I am needy. Pay me properly, and

I will leave you alone." Cognard indignantly repudiated the

acquaintance, and sent his visitor to the right-about. Darius was

furious, and would not let the matter rest there. He went straight to

the Ministry of the Interior, who sent him on to the War Office, where

he was received by General Despinois. "What proof can you give me,"

asked the War Minister, "of this extraordinary statement?" "Only

confront us," replied Darius, "and see what happens." Cognard was

forthwith summoned by an aide-de-camp, and promptly appeared at

headquarters. General Despinois treated him with scant ceremony,

charging him at once as an impostor. "But this can go on no longer,"

said the general. "You cannot humbug me or the Government; we know that

you are Cognard, the escaped convict." Cognard kept his countenance, and

merely asked to be allowed to fetch his credentials and other papers

from home. The general made no difficulty, but would not suffer Cognard

to go alone, and before he started he called in Darius.

Cognard was unable to control a slight movement of surprise, which did

not escape the quick eye of General Despinois. But now a fierce war of

words ensued between the pretended count and the other convict, to end

which Despinois sent Cognard, accompanied by an officer of gendarmes, to

fetch his papers. On the way Cognard inveighed against the lies that

were being told against him, and had no difficulty in gaining the

sympathy of his escort. Arrived at home, Cognard called for wine, and

begged the officer to help himself, while he passed into an adjoining

room to change his clothes. The other agreed readily enough, and

Cognard, finding his brother, who acted as his servant, close by,

changed into livery, and in a striped waistcoat, with an apron round his

waist, and a feather brush in his hand, quietly walked down the back

staircase and straight out of the house. The gendarmes who were on

sentry below did not attempt to interfere with this man-servant, and the

escape was not discovered until the officer above grew tired of waiting.

Now he knocked at the door of the next room, and peremptorily ordered

the count to come out. There was, of course, no Cognard to come out, and

the officer returned to the War Office without his prisoner.

Cognard now reverted to his old ways. He found a hiding-place with a

comrade, and remained there a couple of days, when he left for Toulouse.

The records do not say what he did in the provinces, but within a

fortnight he was back in Paris, and having joined himself to other

thieves, he made a nearly successful attempt to rob the bank at Poissy.

Laying a sum of two thousand francs in gold upon the counter, he asked

for a bill on Toulouse, and adroitly seized the key of the safe.

Cognard's demeanour did not please the cashier, and the bill was

refused. Then Cognard brusquely repocketed his money, and, still keeping

the key, made off. He was followed by cries of "Stop, thief!" but he got

away with all his comrades but one. This was the man with whom he

lodged, and the police, having obliged him to lead them to his domicile,

forced an entrance into Cognard's room, where they found a whole armoury

of weapons, a number of disguises, wigs, false whiskers and moustachios.

It was generally believed that these were to be worn in a grand attack

about to be made upon the _diligence_ from Toulouse. Cognard remained at

large for some little time, but a close watch was set upon his

movements, and he was eventually arrested by Vidocq, although he stoutly

defended himself, and wounded one of the police-officers with his

pistol. When brought to trial he was in due course condemned, and

sentenced to _travaux forcés_ for life.

MAJOR SEMPLE.

Among our own compatriots Major Semple, _alias_ Lisle, has been handed

down as a champion swindler in his time, and he was certainly convicted

of frauds and thefts often enough to entitle him to a foremost place in

criminal records. But he could not have been wholly bad, for his

offences may be largely traced to ill

[Illustration: "HE WAS FOLLOWED BY CRIES OF 'STOP, THIEF!'" (p. 404).]

luck. The man was wanting in perseverance, steadiness, moral sense; he

succeeded in nothing, stuck to nothing long, and in the end became a

frank _vaurien_, a low-class adventurer, put to all sorts of shifts to

live. In his early days he had served with the colours, not without

distinction; had borne a commission and taken part in the American War

of Independence, in which he was wounded and made prisoner. When, after

his release, he was retired on a pension, he married a lady of good

family with some means. What afterwards befell him we do not know, but

he was a widower, or separated, when he became associated with Miss

Chudleigh, afterwards famous as the Duchess of Kingston, in her

expedition to St. Petersburg, where she set up a brandy distillery. It

was probably through her good offices that he was introduced to Prince

Potemkin, through whom he was appointed captain in a Russian regiment,

with which he made several campaigns. He was on the high road to rank

and honour; but in 1784 his roving disposition, and a certain discontent

at his prolonged exile, led him to resign his place and return to

England, where he was soon without resources, and lapsed into crime.

The first offence with which he was charged was the theft of a

postchaise which he hired and appropriated. His defence was that he had

only committed a breach of contract, but, as he had sold the article, it

was called felony, and he was convicted of a crime. His sentence was

seven years' transportation; but at this time he still had friends, and

some influential personages obtained a commutation of his punishment.

After a short stay in the hulks at Woolwich, awaiting transfer to Botany

Bay, he was pardoned on condition that he left the country forthwith.

This took him again to France, just then in the throes of the

Revolution, and he became actively concerned with Pétion, Roland, and

others in the events of that epoch. He was present at the king's trial,

but was soon afterwards denounced to the Committee of Public Safety as a

spy, and with difficulty escaped the guillotine. Once more this soldier

of fortune returned to his old profession, and joined the allied armies

now operating on the frontier against the French republic. He was

engaged in several important actions, and always distinguished himself

in the field.

Yet within a year or two the waters had again closed over him. He left

the Austrian army in a hurry, having been placed under arrest at

Augsburg; why, exactly, we do not know, presumably for some shady

conduct, the consequences of which he must have evaded, for he got back

to London, and was soon in serious trouble. He must have fallen into

great destitution, or he would not have been taken into custody for so

sorry an offence as obtaining a shirt and a few yards of calico on false

pretences. In the "Reminiscences" of Henry Angelo about this date (1795)

a side-light is thrown upon him and the petty devices he practised to

get a meal. He had become a confirmed cadger, and had introduced himself

to Angelo on the pretence of learning to fence. "Semple always stuck

close to us," writes Angelo, "took care to follow us home to our door,

and, walking in, stopped till dinner was placed on the table, when I

said, 'Captain' (no assumed major then), 'will you take your dinner with

us?' Though he always pretended to have an engagement, he obligingly put

it off, and did us the honour to stop. In the evening, if we were going

to Vauxhall, or elsewhere, he was sure to make one, and would have made

our house his lodging if I had not told him that all our beds were

engaged except my father's, and that room was always kept locked in his

absence. Our sponging companion continued these intrusions for about

three months, when suddenly he disappeared without paying for his

instruction or anything else. To write of his various swindling cheats,

so well known, would be needless."

The calico fraud ended in another sentence of transportation for seven

years, and again interest was made to spare him the penalty, but this

time without avail. He was shipped off, but on the voyage out escaped

convict life for a time. He was concerned with some of his felon

comrades in a mutiny on board the convict ship, and the authorities, to

be well rid of them, sent them, twenty-eight in number, adrift in the

Pacific in an open boat. They reached South America in safety, and,

passing themselves off as a shipwrecked crew, were well received by the

Spaniards. Semple was put forward as the leader, and described as a

Dutch officer of rank, thus gaining courteous treatment. He must have

been assisted to return to Europe, for he is next met with at Lisbon,

where his real character and condition came out, and he was arrested at

the request of the British Minister, who had him conveyed to Gibraltar.

He was still seemingly a free agent on the Rock, and misused his liberty

to enter into some mutinous conspiracy afoot in the garrison, for which

he was arrested and sent off to Tangier. Next year an order was issued

to capture and send him home to England, whence he was passed on a

second time to the Antipodes.

Semple survived to return again to England and to his old ways. For some

time he made a precarious living as a begging-letter writer, and the

same diarist, Angelo, preserves two specimens of Semple's

correspondence. One letter, however, is an impudent attempt to take

Angelo to task for daring first to cut him, then to expose him to the

ridicule of others. "This is not the sort of conduct I expect," said

Semple, "from a man bred in the first societies, and to which, however

innocent you think it, I cannot, must not submit.... Do not, I request

you, again expose yourself...." The outrage and the protest were both

forgotten when, nine years later, he wrote to Angelo, pleading that the

"sad urgency" of his situation "cannot be described. I am at this hour

without a fire (in February) and without a shirt.... Let me pray you to

accord me a little assistance, a few shillings." Angelo records that he

"sent the poor devil a crown in answer to his letter, which was most

probably a tissue of falsehoods designed to create sympathy."

[Illustration: "THE PRINCE OF SWINDLERS" (MAJOR SEMPLE).

(_From a Contemporary Engraving._)]

CHAPTER XV.

SWINDLERS OF MORE MODERN TYPE.

Richard Coster--Sheridan, the American Bank Thief--Jack Canter--The

Frenchman Allmayer, a typical Nineteenth Century

Swindler--Paraf--The Tammany Frauds--Burton _alias_ Count von

Havard--Dr. Vivian, a bogus Millionaire Bridegroom--Mock Clergymen:

Dr. Berrington; Dr. Keatinge--Harry Benson, a Prince of Swindlers:

The Scotland Yard Detectives suborned: Benson's Adventures after

his Release: Commits Suicide in the Tombs Prison--Max Shinburn and

his Feats.

It might be inferred from the previous chapter that mankind has been

easily duped in the past, and that a great superstructure of fraud has

often been raised upon a rather narrow basis. The swindler to-day

certainly works on larger, bolder lines; he is aided by the greater

complexity of modern life, he has more openings, and his operations are

of a wider, more varied, more interesting description, as will now be

seen.

RICHARD COSTER.

In the long list of remarkable swindlers this man, who was perhaps the

most accomplished, and long the most successful of all, seldom finds

place. He first attracted notice in Bristol as a general agent and bill

discounter on a large scale, but nothing very positive is known as to

his antecedents except that at one time he drove a carrier's cart

between Oxford and London. He appears to have been industrious and

saving, so that he secured sufficient funds to start as a costermonger

with a horse and cart of his own. He presently established himself in

London, where he acquired a very large acquaintance among people who

were afterwards of immense use to him--horse copers, thieves, coiners,

and swindlers of all sorts. He was next heard of at Bristol, where,

however, his business did not prosper and his reputation was bad. Within

the year he was committed to prison on a charge of obtaining goods by

false pretences. Immediately after his release he again started, under

the name of Coster and Co., but moved back shortly to London.

Here his movements were erratic, and no doubt unavowable. He changed his

quarters continually, as well as his way of life. At one time he kept an

eating-house, at another he was an outside broker, again he was clerk to

a provision merchant. Soon afterwards he was the principal partner in

the firm of Coates and Smith, and also of Smith and Martin, general

merchants, acting apparently as financial agents. After two or three

years he blossomed out on a still larger scale in two places, as Young

and Co., in Little Winchester Street, and as Casey and Coster, near

Upper Thames Street. During these many changes and chances he did not

entirely escape the attentions of the law. In 1825 he was indicted, with

a confederate, Frederick Wilson, for a conspiracy to defraud. At the

following sessions he was charged with obtaining bills of exchange under

false pretences. Coster escaped conviction by paying on the bills which

he was supposed to have illegally obtained.

During these operations he attracted the notice of the Society for the

Suppression of Swindling, which had its eye constantly upon him, and

published his names and _aliases_ and innumerable addresses. It would be

tedious to catalogue them all: Hatton Garden, Queen's Arms Yard,

Parliament Street, under the name of Davies and Co., feather-bed

manufacturers; as Wright and Co., of Little Winchester Street, engaged

in the glove trade, and so on. The secretary to the Society for the

Protection of Trade reported in a circular that "Young, Richards and

Co., of Upper Thames Street; Young and Co., of Little Winchester Street;

Brown and Co., of the same address, are firms belonging to Richard

Coster, so often noticed."

At last, having tried all kinds of business--broker, bullion dealer,

coral dealer--he came out finally as a moneylender on a large scale in

New Street, Bishopsgate, whence he issued circulars headed

"Accommodation" in large type, and supported by the emblems of

Freemasonry, into which honourable craft he had entered under a feigned

name. The circular was addressed to "merchants, manufacturers, farmers,

graziers, tradesmen, and persons of respectability," at home or abroad,

and offered to accept and endorse any bills at any dates, and for any

amounts, or they might draw bills on any responsible houses in London

which should be regularly accepted from them when presented, provided

they enclosed a commission of eightpence in the pound when sending

advice of having drawn them. If they could not take up the bills when

due, they need only apply afresh (enclosing a fresh commission), when

the bills would be renewed, or fresh bills sent which they could

discount, and so pay the first set, and continue the same until their

own property or produce turned to advantage, and such temporary

accommodation was no longer required. "By this mode money to any amount

may be raised, according to the circumstances and situation of the

borrower, at about seven per cent. He must be a bad merchant," went on

this circular, "who cannot always make from 15 to 20 per cent. of money.

Some persons for want of knowing this system of raising money are

obliged to sacrifice their property by locking it up in mortgages for

one half its value, and spend the other half in paying solicitors'

enormous bills and expenses of mortgage deeds." All expenses were to be

borne by the borrower--postage, bill stamps, and the commission of

eightpence in the pound--and must be transmitted before the bills could

be accepted. References were also required, but the "strictest secrecy

and delicacy" would be observed in using them. The borrower might send

money or goods at any time to redeem bills, and the advertiser was ready

always to prove his own respectability.

Coster was long able to carry on his trade with great plausibility. He

succeeded mainly by reason of the number and variety of the firms of

which he was the sole proprietor. His was, indeed, one of the earliest

instances of "Long Firm frauds." When a transaction was to be carried

through by Young and Co. of Little Winchester Street, Brown and Co. of

Cushion Court answered all inquiries, declaring Young and Co. to be

persons of the highest credit. And this system he multiplied almost

indefinitely. The bills of exchange were freely accepted, the goods were

delivered when ordered without hesitation. Thus Coster secured a

consignment of the entire stock of a German wine-grower who was selling

off; on another occasion he got a large quantity of Dublin stout into

his hands; on a third a cargo of valuable timber. In none of these cases

did he pay out one single shilling as purchase money. The innumerable

aliases under which he carried on his transactions, and the care he took

never to appear in person, saved him from all danger of arrest. He was

represented by his agents, all of them creatures of his own, whom he had

bound to himself by some strong tie. They dared not call their souls

their own, and carried out his instructions implicitly, acting now as

principal, now as agent, just as he required. They were mostly decayed

tradesmen and persons in straitened circumstances, whom he "sweated" and

paid starvation wages--salaries of from ten to twenty shillings per

week. One man only he trusted as his right hand, Smith, whose name so

frequently figured in the firms he invented, and who was eventually

involved in his downfall.

[Illustration: BOTANY BAY IN 1825.

(_From an Aquatint by L. Lycett._)]

Coster's frauds became known to Alderman Sir Peter Laurie, who set

himself to unmask and convict him. It might have been more difficult had

not the villain added forgery to his lesser swindles. He began to

circulate bogus banknotes, and in February, 1833, sent to Honiton an

order for lace, enclosing three ten-pound notes in payment, all of which

were forged. Clark, the lacemaker, discovered the fraud, and forwarded

the notes to the solicitors of the Bank of England. A plan was laid for

the transmission of fictitious parcels to the address given by Coster,

"W. Jackson, at the Four Swans, Bishopsgate Street," and when Smith,

the assistant, applied for them he was arrested. Coster's complicity was

next ascertained, and he was secured. The letter ordering the lace

proved to be in his handwriting, but the strongest evidence against the

prisoner was that of two of his former instruments, who gladly turned

upon him. Coster was transported for life, Smith for a shorter term.

WALTER SHERIDAN.

One of the most successful of modern criminal adventurers was the

American, Walter Sheridan, who was said to be the originator of the

great Bank of England forgeries for which the Bidwells were afterwards

punished. Some say that he was the moving spirit in the whole business,

but whether he did more than plan the affair may be doubted, and his

name was never mixed up with it. An eminent police officer of New York,

Mr. George W. Walling, states in his Reminiscences that Sheridan became

disgusted with the way in which the job was worked, and declined to be

further associated with such unsatisfactory partners. It is possible

that, had he been allowed to carry out "the job" in his own way, it

might have been accomplished without detection, to the more serious

discomfiture of the Bank.

[Illustration: WALTER SHERIDAN.]

Sheridan is a typical modern criminal, having great natural gifts,

unerring instinct in divining profitable operations, uncommon quickness

and astuteness in planning details and executing them. No one has better

utilised to his own advantage the numberless chances offered by the

intricate machinery of modern trade and finance. He began in the lower

lines of fraud. Full of an adventurous spirit, he ran away from his

home, a small farm in Ohio, when only a boy, resolved to seek fortune by

any means in the busy centres of life. St. Louis was his first point:

here he at once fell into bad company, and became associated with

desperadoes, especially those engaged in the confidence trick. In 1858,

when just twenty, he was caught and tried for horse-stealing, but just

before sentence escaped to Chicago, where he became the pupil of a

certain Joe Moran, a noted hotel thief, with whom he worked the hotels

around very profitably for two or three years. At last, however, he was

arrested and "did time."

On his release, Moran being dead, Sheridan took up a higher line of

business and became a "bank sneak," the clever thief who robs banks by

bounce or stratagem. In this business he was greatly aided by a fine

presence and an insinuating address. He was the life and soul of the

gang he joined, the brains and leader of his associates, and his

successes in this direction were many. With two confederates he robbed

the First National Bank of Springfield, Illinois, obtaining some 35,000

dollars from the vaults. Next he secured 50,000 dollars from a fire

insurance company; again, 37,000 dollars from the Mechanics' Bank of

Scranton. A very few years of this made him a rich man, and by 1867 he

was supposed to be worth some £15,000 or £20,000. He had gone latterly

into partnership with the notorious George Williams, commonly called

"English George," a well-known depredator and bank thief. About this

time he participated in the plunder of the Maryland Fire Insurance

Company of Baltimore, and fingered a large part of the 75,000 dollars

taken, in money and negotiable bonds, not one cent of which was ever

recovered. One of his neatest thefts was relieving Judge Blatchford, of

New York, of a wallet containing 75,000 dollars' worth of bonds.

Misfortune overtook him at last, and he failed in his attempt to rob the

First National Bank of Cleveland, Ohio, in 1870. One of his confederates

had laid hands on 32,000 dollars, but was caught in the act of carrying

off the packages of notes, and Sheridan was arrested as an accomplice.

He was very virtuously indignant at this shameful imputation, and his

bail was accordingly accepted for 7,000 dollars, which he at once

sacrificed and fled. But now the famous Pinkerton detectives were put

upon his track. Allan Pinkerton, who was assisted by his son William,

soon ascertained that Sheridan owned a prosperous hotel at Hudson,

Michigan, in which State he also possessed much landed property. The

Pinkertons took up their quarters at this hotel, which was under the

management of Sheridan's brother-in-law. Chiefly anxious, while

cautiously prosecuting inquiries, to secure a photograph of the man so

much wanted--for nothing of the kind was as yet in the hands of the

police authorities--young Pinkerton stuck at nothing to obtain this

valuable clue, and having ascertained where the family rooms were

located in the hotel, he broke in and captured an excellent likeness of

Sheridan, which was speedily copied and distributed among the various

Pinkerton agencies in the United States and beyond the Atlantic.