ON THE TRAIL.
Primarily, the great function of the police is to prevent crime;
secondly, when it has happened, to bring the offender to justice. How do
they work? Not by relying on spasmodic flashes of inspiration, like the
detective of fiction, but by hard, painstaking work, and, of course,
organisation.
Crime is divided into two classes--the habitual and the casual. Every
habitual criminal is known. Numbers vary, but the latest available
figures show that there are 957 habitual criminals in London, of whom
706 are thieves and 161 receivers. Now, each of these thieves has a
distinctive method. A crime occurs. It is reported to the local police
station, and a detective is sent to the scene. Perhaps he is able to say
off-hand: "This job was done by so-and-so." Then, having fixed his man,
he sets to work to accumulate evidence. Scotland Yard is reported to,
and thence word is sent to every police station to keep a look-out for
Brown, or Jones, or Smith--that is, if he has left his usual haunts.
Every detective--strange as it may seem--makes it a point to keep on
good terms with thieves. It is his business. Sooner or later the man
"wanted" is discovered, unless he is exceptionally astute.
There are, of course, a hundred ways of finding the author of the
crime. The good detective chooses the simplest. Subtle analysis is all
very well, but it is apt to lead to blind alleys. Imagine a case such as
occurs every day:
A burglary has been committed and reported to the police. The first
steps are automatic. The divisional detective-inspector in control of
the district sets his staff to work. Men get descriptions of the stolen
property, and within an hour the private telegraph and telephone wires
have carried them to every police station in London. The great printing
machine of Scotland Yard reels off "Informations" four times a day, and
in the next edition the story of the crime is told, and each of the 650
detectives in London, as well as the 20,000 uniformed police, have it
impressed upon their minds.
Swift, unobtrusive little green motor cars carry "Pawnbrokers' Lists" to
every police station to be distributed by hand. The _Police Gazette_
goes out twice a week to the whole police forces of the British Empire.
Every honest market in which the booty can be disposed of is closed. If
the thief has been unwary enough to leave a finger-print it is
photographed, and should he be an old hand the records at Scotland Yard
show his identity in less than half an hour.
All this is a matter of routine. It is "up to" the detectives still to
find their man. Should there be nothing tangible to act upon the
detectives--who know intimately the criminals in their district, and
many out of it--will try a method of elimination. "This," they will say
in effect, "is probably the work of one of half a dozen men. Let us see
who could have done it, and then we shall have something to go on. A.
and B. are in prison; C. we know to be in Newcastle, and D. was at
Southampton. Either E. or F. is the man."
The personal factor enters into the work here. A detective is expected
to be on friendly terms with professional criminals, although he must
not be too friendly. The principle can be illustrated by an anecdote of
Mr. Froest, the famous detective.
Once or twice he had arrested a notorious American crook who was
carrying on operations in this country, and whom I will call Smith. In
one of his occasional spells of liberty, Smith, who was a reputed
murderer in his own country, met Froest. "Say, chief," he drawled after
a little conversation, "I'd just hate to hurt a man like you. I always
carry a gun, and there are times when I'm a bit too handy with it. If
ever you've got to take me _never do it after six in the evening_. I'm a
bit lively then."
It is the business of a detective to know thieves. Without an
acquaintance with their habits of thought and their social customs, he
may be lost. The "informant" plays a great part in practical detective
work, and the informant, it follows, is often a thief himself. Of the
manner in which he is used, I shall have more to say later.
So it is among the friends (and enemies) of E. and F., that the
detectives set to work. It is a task that calls for tact. E., we will
suppose, is at home, and all his movements about the time of the crime
are checked and counter-checked. F. has vanished from his usual haunts.
This is a circumstance suspicious in itself, but rendered more so by
the fact that his wife is uncommonly flush of money.
Often it is harder to connect together legal evidence of guilt than to
catch a criminal. The most positive moral certainty is not sufficient to
convict a man, and English detectives may not avail themselves of
methods in use abroad to bring home a crime to the right person.
Perhaps a detective pays a visit to F.'s wife. With the remembrance of
many kindly acts performed by the police during her husband's
involuntary absences, she is torn between a stubborn loyalty to him and
her wish to be civil to her visitor. He is sympathetic--cynics may not
believe that the sympathy is often genuine--but he has his duty to do.
He does not expect her consciously to betray her husband, but his eyes
are busy while he puts artless questions. An incautious word, the
evasion of a question may give him the hint he seeks, or, on the other
hand, she may be too alert and his mission may be fruitless.
Meanwhile a description and photograph of F. have been circulated by
what may be called the publicity department of Scotland Yard. It may be
even given to the newspapers, for your modern detective realises the
advantage of deft use of the Press.
Remember, F. is a known criminal, and even in so vast a place as London
no man who is known can hide himself indefinitely. A striking personal
instance may be cited. The writer, in the course of an aimless walk
through obscure streets, accompanied by a well-known detective, was
greeted by no fewer than eight officers. I believe there is no instance
on record of a definite person being "wanted" where the police have
failed to find him. He may have escaped arrest for lack of evidence,
but he has been found.
The wide-flung net will, sooner or later, enmesh F. He may be seen and
recognised or, what is more likely, he will be betrayed by one of his
associates. It does not follow that he will at once be arrested and
charged. He may be merely "detained," which means that the police have
him in custody for not more than twenty-four hours, at the end of which
time he must either be brought before a magistrate or set at liberty. He
must not be questioned, but he is given to understand why he is held,
and may, if he likes, volunteer a statement.
If any of the stolen property is found on him the matter at once becomes
straightforward, and if he is believed to have hidden or disposed of it
to any particular person search warrants are procured to bring it to
light.
Another instance of the methods employed by the C.I.D. to establish
identity may be recalled. Two Americans in Frankfort tried to rob a man
of L30,000. One was arrested, and the other got away. The C.I.D. was
asked if it could make any suggestions to the Frankfort police.
Very courteously, Scotland Yard said in effect: "Yes. If the man left in
a hurry, he probably left something behind. Go to his hotel and see."
Frankfort did so, found some luggage in the cloakroom, and among them
shirts with the name of a London maker. A Scotland Yard detective went
to the address, and found the name of a certain American "crook" as
having his shirts made to measure there.
When the man, all unconscious that his connection with the robbery was
known, stepped out of the train at Charing Cross Station a few hours
later he was arrested.
Individual initiative is encouraged in every officer. Luck, too, often
aids justice. Some years ago it was learnt that an absconding bank
cashier would probably try to leave England by a certain liner.
A detective, whom we will call Smith, went armed with a description of
the man to effect an arrest. When he got on board he scrutinised the
passengers closely. Only one man resembled the description. Smith drew
him aside.
"I have reason to believe your name is X.," he said. "I am a police
officer, and I hold a warrant for your arrest."
Highly indignant, the man denied that he was the person described. His
indignation was obviously not assumed, and there were minor
discrepancies between his appearance and the description.
Smith shrugged his shoulders.
"Very well. If you are not X., and can prove it, you have nothing to
fear. In that case I presume you will have no objection to my looking
through your luggage."
X. paled, stuttered, fumed, and protested that he would never consent to
such an outrage.
No conduct could have been more calculated to make the officer
determined. He searched the luggage. In a small handbag he discovered,
hidden away, a mass of notes and gold. Triumphantly, he conducted his
prisoner ashore and had him locked up in the nearest police station.
Then he telephoned to his superior officer, "I've got X."
"No, you haven't," came the startling reply. "We've got him here. He was
arrested at King's Cross half an hour ago."
Utterly bewildered, Smith told of his capture and the compromising gold
and notes.
There was five minutes' silence.
Then the voice at the other end of the telephone said quietly: "Oh,
that's all right. The man you've got is Y., a rate collector, who made a
run from Glasgow a day or two ago."
That was the luck of the service.
Two of the cases in which Mr. Froest was concerned may be recalled, as
illustrating how appearances may sometimes lead to wrong conclusions.
In one, an unknown man was found head down in a water-butt outside a
country bungalow. There was an ugly bruise on his forehead, and the
provincial police who were investigating the case made up their minds
that there had been foul play.
They asked for help from Scotland Yard, and Mr. Froest was sent down. He
looked over the scene, and his eyes twinkled.
"This is not a case of murder," he said. "That man was a tramp. He hurt
his head in climbing through the fence--he was probably going to break
into the house--and went to bathe it in the water-butt. As he put his
head down he slipped and fell in."
One of the listeners heard this explanation with a sceptical grin.
"That couldn't be so," he protested, and, going near the water-butt,
lowered his head to demonstrate the impossibility of such an accident.
The next instant there was a smothered scream and a mighty splash. A
pair of feet waved wildly in the air. As the sceptic was pulled out of
the barrel he extended his hand to Mr. Froest with a sad smile.
"I believe you are right," he said.
In the second instance the crews of two Cardiff tramps had joined in an
effort to "paint the town red" at Bilbao, the Spanish port.
They returned to the quayside with their pockets stuffed full of
biscuits, which they ate as they rolled along. At the quay they were
able to clamber down into the boats, except one fireman, who was almost
completely "under the weather." So a mate of the other boat fastened a
rope round his chest and lowered him to his companions.
Then the mate returned to his own ship. In the morning he was arrested
for murder. The fireman had been dead when taken aboard, and his
appearance showed that he died of strangulation. It was suggested that
the mate had, instead of putting the rope under his arms, put it round
his neck, and drawn him up and down, in and out of the water.
A conviction followed the trial, but, luckily, friends of the convicted
man asked Scotland Yard to make an independent investigation. Mr. Froest
went to Cardiff, where the crews of the two vessels concerned had then
arrived. The more he went into the case the deeper became his conviction
that a miscarriage of justice had occurred. He went back to Scotland
Yard.
"I don't believe the fireman was murdered," he said. "He was eating a
biscuit, and a piece probably stuck in his throat and choked him. As to
his being wet through, it was raining hard at the time."
The Spanish authorities were informed of this theory, and the body of
the "murdered" man was exhumed. Still in the throat was the biscuit
which had choked him.
There was, too, the case of an old woman murdered at Slough. Chief
Detective-Inspector Bower, now head of the Port of London Authority
police, ultimately arrested a man against whom there was nothing but
suspicion, as apart from legal proof. And on the suspect was found a
slip of crumpled paper in which coins had apparently been wrapped. The
marks of the milling were plainly discernible. Mr. Bower wrapped
twenty-one sovereigns--the amount of the money stolen from the
victim--in another piece of paper. The marks corresponded, and it was
mainly on that evidence that the prisoner was convicted.