I have alluded to the fact that many criminals affect a particular
line of business, and show a certain style in their work which often
points unerringly to the doer when all other clues are wanting. A
glance over any record of convictions will convey a good idea of how
much reliance we are led to place upon this curious fact. One man’s
list will show a string of pocket-picking cases, or attempts in that
line, and it will be rare, indeed, to find in that record a case of
robbery with violence, housebreaking, or any crime necessitating
great daring or strength. Another shows nothing but deeds of brute
strength or bull-dog ferocity, and to find in his record of _prev.
con._ a case of delicate pocket-picking would make any one of
experience open his eyes wide indeed. The style of the work is even
a surer guide than the particular line, as the variety there is
unlimited as it is marked. This is all very well; and often I have
been complimented on my astuteness in thus making very simple and
natural deductions leading to convictions. But the pleasure ceases
to be unmixed when the criminal is as cunning as the detective, and
works upon that knowledge. To show how a detective may be deceived in
working on this—one of his surest modes of tracing a criminal—I give
the present case.
Dave Larkins was a Yorkshire thief, who had drifted northwards by
some chance and landed in Edinburgh. Street robbery was his line,
and, as he was a professional pedestrian, or racing man, he was not
caught, I should say, once in twenty cases. The list of his previous
convictions in Manchester, Liverpool, Preston, and other places
showed with unvarying monotony the same crime and the same style of
working. He would go up to some gentleman on the street and make an
excuse for addressing him, snatch at his watch, and run for it. More
often the victim was a lady with a reticule or purse in her hand, and
then no preliminary speaking was indulged in. He made the snatch,
and ran like the wind, and the whole was done so quickly that the
astounded victim seldom retained the slightest recollection of his
appearance.
Yet Dave’s appearance was striking enough. He was a wiry man of
medium height, with strongly-marked features, red hair, and a stumpy
little turned up nose, the round point of which was always red as a
cherry with bad whisky, except at those rare intervals when he was
“in training” for some foot race which it was to his advantage to win.
Then his dress had notable points. He generally wore a knitted jersey
in place of a waistcoat, and he had a grey felt hat covered with
grease spots, for which he had such a peculiar affection that he
never changed it for a new one. Under these circumstances it may be
thought that a conviction would have been easily got against Dave.
But Dave was “Yorkshire,” as I have indicated, and about as smart
and cunning in arranging an _alibi_ as any I ever met. No doubt his
racing powers helped him in that, but his native cunning did more.
There is a popular impression that a Yorkshire man will hold his
own in cunning against all the world, but I have here to record
that Dave met his match in a Scotchman who had nothing like Dave’s
reputation for smartness, and who was so stupid-looking that few
could have conceived him capable of the task. This man was known in
racing circles—for he was a pedestrian too—as Jake Mackay, but more
generally received the nickname of “The Gander.”
Why he had been so named I cannot tell—perhaps because some one
had discovered that there was nothing of the goose about him. Your
stupid-looking man, who is not stupid but supremely sharp-witted, has
an infinite advantage over those who carry a needle eye like Dave
Larkins, and have cunning printed on every line about their lips and
eyes.
The Gander was not a professional thief, though he was often in the
company of thieves. He had been in the army, and had a pension, which
he eked out by odd jobs, such as bill-posting and acting as “super.”
in the theatres. He was a thorough rascal at heart, and would have
cheated his own grandfather had opportunity served, and had there
been a shilling or two to gain by it.
These two men became acquainted at a pedestrian meeting at Glasgow,
and when Dave Larkins came to Edinburgh they became rather close
companions. The Gander had the advantage of local knowledge, and
could get at all the men who backed pedestrians, and then told them
to win or lose according to the way the money was staked. A racing
tournament was arranged about that time in which both of them were
entered for one of the shorter races, in which great speed, rather
than endurance, was called for. In that particular race they had the
result entirely in their own hands, though, if fairly put to it,
Dave Larkins, or “Yorky” as he was named, could easily have come in
first. The other men entered having no chance, these two proceeded
to arrange matters to their mutual advantage—that is, had they been
honest men, the advantage would have been mutual, for they agreed to
divide the stakes whatever the result. But in these matters there is
always a great deal more at stake than the money prize offered to the
winner. The art of betting and counterbetting would task the brain
of a mathematician to reduce its subtleties to a form intelligible
to the ordinary mind; and the supreme thought of each of the rogues,
after closing hands on the above agreement, was how he could best
benefit himself at the expense of the other. What the private
arrangements of The Gander were does not appear, except that he had
arranged to come in first, though the betting was all in favour of
Yorky; but just before they entered the dressing tent, a patron of
the sports—I will not call him a gentleman—took Yorky aside and said—
“How is this race to go? Have you any money on it to force you to
win?”
Yorky, having already arranged to lose, modestly hinted that, for a
substantial consideration, he would be willing to come in second.
“Second? whew! then who’d be first?” said the patron, not looking
greatly pleased with the proposal. “The Gander would walk off with
the stakes. He’d be sure to come in first. Could you not let Birrel
get to the front?”
“It might be managed,” said Yorky, with a significant wink.
“Then manage it;” and the price of the “management” was thrust into
his hand in bank notes, and the matter settled.
Yorky counted the money, and ran up in his mind all that The Gander
had on the race, and decided that the old soldier would promptly
refuse to lose the race in favour of Birrel. The money was not enough
to stand halving, so Yorky decided to keep it all, and also to
“pot” a little more by the new turn things had taken. He therefore
passed the word to a boon companion to put all his spare money on
Birrel, and then took his place among the competitors dressing for
the race. The start was made, and, as all had expected, Yorky and
The Gander gradually drew together, and then moved out to the front.
Birrel at the last round was a very bad third, while the other
runners were nowhere, and evidently only remaining on the track in
the faint hope of some unforeseen accident taking place to give one
of them the chance of a place. They had not long to wait. Yorky,
running at his swiftest, and apparently in splendid form, about
three yards in front of The Gander, instead of slackening his speed
as he had arranged, suddenly reeled and fell to the ground right in
front of his companion. The result may be guessed. The Gander was
on the obstruction before he knew, and sprawling in a half-stunned
condition a yard in front of Yorky’s body, while Birrel, amid a yell
from the spectators, drew up and shot ahead. The yell roused The
Gander, and he feebly scrambled to his feet, and made a desperate
effort for the first place, but all in vain, for Birrel touched the
tape before him, and he was second in everything but swearing. To the
surprise of all, Yorky did not rise to his feet, and remained to all
appearance insensible for five minutes after he had been tenderly
carried to the dressing tent. Of course there was a protest of the
most vigorous description to the referee by The Gander, who not only
found that he had laid his money the wrong way, and disappointed
numerous friends who had followed his advice, but was not even to
have the meagre satisfaction of sharing the first prize. But under
the impression that Yorky had simply over-exerted himself, and
fainted on the course, the referee, who possibly had money on the
result, refused to listen to the appeal, and Birrel got the prize.
The Gander denounced Yorky with great vehemence, but was met with the
most solemn protestations of innocence. He then put on his clothes
and left the tent in a bad temper, but in leaving the grounds was
accorded a “reception” which did not tend to soothe his feelings. A
dozen or so of his friends, who had received his private “tip” as to
the way the race was to go, gathered round the supposed traitor, and,
before the police could interfere, had him beaten almost to a jelly.
The poor Gander was removed in a cab to the Infirmary to have his
wounds dressed, while the elated and successful Yorky went to enjoy
himself with his ill-gotten gains.
When the two met again, The Gander appeared to have recovered his
temper, and listened to Yorky’s explanations of the mishap on the
course as pleasantly as if he believed them, which was very far from
being the case. Then Yorky so far unbent as to spend some of his
money in drinks for The Gander, and was foolish enough to believe
that he had cheated the stupid-looking Scotchman very nicely, and
that he would hear no more of the matter.
The races had taken place during the New Year holidays, and while the
pantomimes were running at the theatres. In one of these The Gander
was engaged as a “super.,” and it was known to him that the treasurer
was in the habit of leaving the theatre for his home, at the foot of
Broughton Street, late every night, carrying under his arm or in his
hand a tin box resembling a cash-box. This box contained nothing but
metal checks, which the treasurer counted at his home. All the money
drawn at the doors remained in possession of the manager. Had Yorky
not been an unusually cunning man it is probable that The Gander
would have manipulated him direct, but as it was, he was forced
to confide in another. A loafing acquaintance of Yorky’s seemed a
suitable tool, and he was engaged and primed accordingly. Bob Slogger
had himself an old grudge against Yorky, so, on the whole, perhaps a
better choice could not have been made.
The opportunity came when Bob and Yorky were drinking together one
afternoon, when the former incidentally remarked that they were doing
immense business at the theatre, and making piles of money. Yorky
only grunted in reply. It seemed hard that any one but him should be
making money, and he did not like the subject.
“I got it out of The Gander that the treasurer can hardly carry the
money home some nights,” continued Slogger, repeating his lesson. “He
lives at the foot of Broughton, and carries it there in a tin box
every night about half-past eleven. I could do with that boxful of
silver on a Saturday night.”
“Ah! Saturday night? is there most in it then?” observed Yorky,
suddenly rousing into deep interest.
“Of course there is;” and Slogger at once gave the reasons, and
repeated all that The Gander had said regarding the appearance of
the treasurer, his hour of going home, and the dark and deserted
appearance of the streets at that lonely locality. Yorky snapped at
the bait, but did not abandon his usual caution. He said nothing to
his informant of his intentions, and much of The Gander’s after
proceedings had to be founded on mere acute inferences. The spot to
be chosen for the attack he guessed at by one of Yorky’s questions,
and the night most likely to be selected for the attempt was
Saturday, for, of course, when the robbery was to be done, it might
as well be for a big sum as a little one. He made sure of this last
point, however, by trying hard to get Yorky to engage to meet him
that night after business, but failed, as Yorky gruffly indicated
that he was engaged.
So far all had succeeded to The Gander’s satisfaction. It only
remained for him to give the finishing stroke. He got a sheet of
note-paper, of a kind used in the theatre, and penned the following
note to me:—
“If M^cGovan will watch at the west end of Barony Street between
eleven and twelve o’clock on Saturday night, he will see a gent
attacked and robbed by a desperate thief who can run like Deerfoot.
The gent always carries a tin box, and, as it’s supposed to be full
of money, it’s the box that will be grabbed at. There had better be
more than one at the catching, or he’s sure to get off.”
There was no signature, and at first I was inclined to believe the
thing a hoax, or worse—a plot to draw me away from some spot where I
was likely to be more useful, but in the end I decided to act on the
advice.
I had no idea that the gent described was the worthy treasurer of the
theatre, and I suppose The Gander had purposely remained silent on
that point lest I should warn the gentleman threatened, and so spoil
the little plot.
I was down at Barony Street before eleven o’clock. I took the west
end, and planted M^cSweeny under shelter at the east. It was a dark
night, and scarcely any one passed me at my lonely lurking-place. I
was so suspicious of a hoax that I was positively surprised when a
gentleman appeared at the other end of the street carrying the tin
box in his hand, and whistling away as cheerily as if there were no
such thing as street robbers in existence. He had scarcely appeared
in sight when another man turned the corner walking rapidly in his
wake, and looking hastily round to make sure that they were alone in
the short street.
The distance between the two rapidly diminished, and then, looking
anxiously along behind them, I had the satisfaction of seeing
M^cSweeny’s head cautiously appear from his hiding-place at the other
end of the street. I had scarcely noted the fact when the footpad was
on his victim, making a dash from behind at the treasurer, tripping
him up, and at the same moment wrenching the tin box from his grasp.
None but an expert thief could have done the thing so swiftly. The
moment the box was in his possession the thief caught sight of me
making a dash towards him, and turned and flew towards the end of
the street by which he had entered. He flew so fast that his feet
seemed scarcely to touch the ground. M^cSweeny had emerged from his
hiding-place at the first outcry, and appeared directly in front of
the flying man with his great, strong arms extended for a bear’s
hug; but the flying man, unable to check his pace, yet unwilling to
be taken, merely raised the tin box of tokens and dashed it full in
M^cSweeny’s face, flattening my chum’s little nose with his face, and
laying him on his back on the snowy pavement as neatly as if he had
been tugged back by the hair. I paid no attention to M^cSweeny, but
flew on in the wake of the thief; but when I turned the corner of the
street into Broughton he had vanished, I knew not in what direction.
I turned back, after a run up the brae, and found M^cSweeny sitting
up on the pavement and tenderly feeling the place where his nose had
been.
“Oh, you thickhead!” was my only remark, as I passed on to speak to
the robbed man.
“Thick, is it?” he dolefully returned. “Faix, it’s a great deal
thinner than it was a minit ago.”
“And you let him off, money and all,” I added, in deep disgust.
“Begorra, if you’d felt the weight of the money, like me, you’d wish
it far enough away,” he returned, busy with his handkerchief; “a
steam hammer’s nothing to it.”
“I am happy to say that there was no money in the box,” said the
robbed man, who was little the worse of his fall. “Nothing but a
number of metal tokens used as checks at the theatre.”
“Tokens?” groaned M^cSweeny, clenching his fists. “I’d like to give
him some more.”
A few words of explanation followed, which considerably relieved
my concern over the loss of the thief; and then the robbed man
accompanied us to the Central to report the case, and get a look at
the handwriting of the note sent us in warning. He readily recognised
the note-paper as of a kind used in the theatre, but could make
nothing of the handwriting. However, the fact that the warning had
come from some one employed in the theatre was a clue of a kind, and
with the promise to give us every help in following it out, he took
leave.
Meantime, Yorky had gone with his plunder no farther than a lighted
stair at the foot of Broughton Street, which had stood conveniently
open when he dashed round the corner of Barony Street. There he
quickly wrenched off the lid, plunged his hand into the box to empty
big handfuls of silver and gold into his pockets, and found instead
only lead. The fact that he was alone draws a veil over the scene
which followed. I have no doubt that his words flowed rapidly over
his immediate disappointment, and his disgust may be inferred from
the fact that he left the box and tokens entire in a corner of the
stair. But a deeper rage was to come. Yorky remembered that the first
information had come from The Gander, and the fact that we had been
in waiting for him, and dummies or tokens substituted for the money
the treasurer had been said to carry, seemed to the quick-witted
Yorky to point to a plot to trap him. If he could bring that plot
home to The Gander he resolved to put a knife in him. I have stated,
however, that Nature had favoured The Gander with a look of dense
stupidity, and, though Yorky took the first opportunity of seeking
his society, and suspiciously sounding him on the subject, he made
nothing of it. Bob Slogger he could not get at, for he was already in
our hands for a separate offence.
The suspicious manner and queer questions of Yorky alarmed The Gander
quite as much as the failure of his plot disappointed him.
“If I don’t have him laid by the heels soon he’ll shove a knife into
me,” was his acute thought, which shows how sharp-witted folks can
read each other through every fence of face and words.
I took Yorky on the Monday, and we kept him for a day or two on
suspicion, but, as the street had been dark and we had but a
momentary glimpse of him, he had to be let off for want of evidence.
Meantime, The Gander’s wits had been at work on a plot which, I must
confess, was quite worthy of the object.
When Yorky was set at liberty he was greeted by The Gander, who, with
many demonstrations of satisfaction, and to celebrate the occasion,
proposed that they should adjourn to Yorky’s den in the Canongate and
there consume a bottle of brandy at The Gander’s expense. No proposal
could have been more welcome. Yorky had a weakness for drink at
all times, but when some one else paid for that drink it was to him
perfect nectar. They had the garret all to themselves, as Yorky’s
wife, in anticipation of a long sentence on her husband, had fled
to her native clime. The drinking began, and from the first Yorky
managed to appropriate the lion’s share. He was not easily affected
by drink, but his ideas were getting a little cloudy by the time the
brandy was finished, and readily assented to The Gander’s proposal
to go for more. Into this second supply The Gander poured a strong
dose of laudanum, and, as Yorky swallowed the whole, he was soon
insensible. The Gander and he were of about a height and build, but,
of course, in appearance and features they were not at all alike. As
soon as it was quite certain that Yorky had succumbed, his amiable
friend stripped him and tumbled him into bed. He then exchanged his
own shabby and paste-spotted clothing for Yorky’s trousers, jersey,
and pilot jacket. Then, taking from his own pocket a short-haired red
wig which he had got from some of the theatricals, he drew it over
his scalp, and then with a little rouge did up the point of his nose
to resemble the fiery organ of the slumbering thief. Having fastened
about his throat the red cotton handkerchief used by Yorky as a
scarf, and topped the whole with the greasy and battered grey felt
hat, The Gander softly left the den, locking the door after him and
taking the key with him. It was between three and four o’clock in the
afternoon, but not nearly dark. The Gander got down to Leith Street
in his strange disguise, and when near the foot, at that part where
Low Calton branches off towards Leith Wynd, he stopped a suitable
gentleman and asked the time by the clock. Quite unsuspicious in the
broad daylight, the gentleman took out his watch, and in a moment it
had changed hands. The grasp had been made at it with such force by
The Gander, that the gold Albert attached to the watch was snapped,
and half of it left dangling at the owner’s button-hole.
The moment the grasp was made, The Gander ran like the wind, and got
clear away by Low Calton and the Back Canongate, and never halted
till he landed breathless but triumphant at the bedside of the
sleeping Yorky. His first business was to resume his own clothing,
clean the paint from his nose, and take the wig from his head. Then
he took the watch, with the fragment of gold chain still attached,
and thrust it as far as his arm could reach in under the mattress
on which lay the virtuous form of the sleeping Yorky. This done,
he pocketed the red wig, laid Yorky’s clothes at the bedside beside
his muddy boots, in some confusion, as if they had been taken off
somewhat hurriedly, and then left the house, with the pleasing
consciousness of having done all he could to help Fate to do the
right thing to a great rascal.
While this was being done, the robbed man had made his way to the
Central Office to report his loss. He had got a full view of the
robber’s face and dress—or at least imagined he had—and went over the
details with such minuteness and fidelity that I turned to some one
and said in surprise—
“Surely it can’t be Yorky at his old games already, and he was only
let out this morning? It’s just his style.”
I then went over one or two of Yorky’s peculiar features, to all of
which the gentleman so eagerly responded in the affirmative that I
thought it could do no harm at least to look for Yorky, with a view
to bringing him face to face with the victim. I should have found
him at once if I had gone to his den, but that was the very last
place I thought he would go near when in danger of being taken. I
therefore went over all his haunts, but in vain. No one had seen him,
and several told me of the flight of his wife, which gave me the
idea that Yorky, finding himself “on the rocks,” and deserted, had
committed the robbery with great audacity, and then left the city for
good with the proceeds in the wake of his partner. It was quite late
at night when I thought of his garret in the Canongate. I believe it
was M^cSweeny’s suggestion that I should go there—at least he always
insists that it was, and possibly he is right, for the way in which
Yorky had grinned at his damaged face had made my chum certain that
the hands which inflicted the injuries were before him, and M^cSweeny
was now eager for revenge.
There was no answer but snores to our knock, so we opened the door
and entered.
“How sound the divil sleeps,” said M^cSweeny, with a sceptical grin,
as he struck a light. “Sure a fox himself couldn’t do it better.”
Yorky refused to wake with a word, and even when violently shaken
by both of us only half opened his eyes, and uttered some sleepy
imprecations. At length, getting impatient, M^cSweeny lifted a dish
containing water and emptied it over Yorky’s face, which startled him
into a wakefulness and some vigorous protests.
“What do you want now?” he growled at last, when he was able to
recognise us.
“I want to know where you were at half-past three o’clock to-day?”
was my significant reply. “On with your things and trudge. You’ve got
drunk too soon—you’ve overdone it. Man, see, there’s the slush off
your boots all over the floor.”
“I haven’t been across the door since morning,” he solemnly
protested, on which M^cSweeny somewhat savagely remarked that “we
believed him every word.”
While M^cSweeny was helping him to put on his clothes, and replying
to his protests, I made a search through the room, and finally drew
out from under the mattress the stolen watch and fragment of gold
chain.
Yorky stared as it was held up before his eyes, and became very sober
indeed.
“I never saw that in my life before; somebody must have put it
there,” he cried, with the most vigorous swearing, all of which we
listened to with great merriment and marked derision.
“I thought we should sober you before long,” I said to him, as I
fastened his wrist to my own. “We’ll see what the owner of the watch
says to it.”
The owner of the watch had a great deal to say, all of which
astonished Yorky beyond description. The watch and fragment of
chain he identified at a glance, and Yorky as well. He swore most
positively that Yorky was the man who attacked him—he had had too
good a view of the rascal’s features and dress to have a moment’s
doubt on the matter. Yorky, as he listened to it, was a picture to
behold. He scratched his head in the most solemn manner imaginable,
and muttered to himself—
“I _was_ very tight, but I never yet did anything in drink that I
couldn’t remember when sober. I can’t make it out at all; but I know
I’m as innocent as a lamb.”
A grin ran round the room as he uttered the words, and, after a word
with the superintendent, the “lamb” was led off to the cells. He was
next day remitted to the High Court of Justiciary. I strongly advised
him to plead guilty, but the wilful man would have his own way, and
took the opposite course.
Then the Fiscal pointed out that Yorky had been often convicted of
the same crime, and produced a list of these, and demanded the
heaviest penalty. The judge promptly responded to the appeal by
sentencing Yorky to fourteen years’ penal servitude. As he was being
removed, a voice among the audience behind exclaimed—
“Ah, Yorky, what a time it’ll be before you can make me lose another
race!”
The voice came from The Gander. So elated was that worthy over the
success of his scheme that he took to boasting of the feat, and
giving details to his companions, and thus the story eventually
reached my ears. Shortly after, when taking The Gander for helping
himself to a bank-note out of a coat pocket in one of the actors’
dressing-rooms, I twitted him about depriving the sporting world of
such a treasure as Yorky. He denied the whole, but with a twinkle of
superlative cunning and delight in his eyes.
“I never before believed it possible to overreach a Yorkshire man,” I
suggestively remarked.
“A Yorkshire man?” cried The Gander, with great contempt; “if he’d
been twenty Yorkshire men rolled into one, I could have done him.”