INFORMERS AND INFORMATION.
Of all those who threaten the smuggler with arrest and loss, the informer
is the one he fears most, and accordingly regards with bitter hatred as
his greatest foe.
Without information, the hands of the executive are tied; without
informers, they would be wholly ineffective; and except for a chance
seizure now and then, there would be little for them to do. As things
are, the organization of a detective department is so linked up with
informers and information that one finds it difficult to conceive of
its existing with these eliminated. Detectives of the Sherlock Holmes
type exist only in fiction, and although it goes without saying that
powers of observation above the ordinary, and an intimate knowledge of
men are indispensable in a detective, it is equally indispensable that
a detective, as things are, must rely upon information if he wishes
successfully to solve any problem of crime.
In writing about informers, I deal mainly with the professional
blackguards who make a regular living out of giving information. I do not
include those who, to work off a grudge, or who, having seen a crime
committed, lodge information in the proper quarter.—I do not look upon
these as _informers_. The first is a mean-minded person; the second, one
who has a very proper conception of his duty towards society. But the man
I deal with is essentially a blackguard, and a very despicable blackguard
at that. He has only one object in view when he gives information, and
that object is money. He is not burdened with notions of his duty as a
citizen. If there was no money to be made out of giving information,
he would be the last to go a step out of his way to give any; but he
recognizes his value as an important factor in detection, places a price
on it, and is paid generously.
I have often been asked by magistrates whether my informers were
respectable men. I have felt no hesitation in answering the question
emphatically in the negative, and I have no doubt I often set them
wondering. But one has only to give the matter a moment’s consideration
to see how diametrically opposed to all one’s notions of fair-play and
honour must be the nature and calling of an informer. He must for a time
pose as the friend and confidant of his victim, and then turn traitor;
and he must bribe, coerce, and wheedle from their allegiance scores of
subordinates who would otherwise serve their masters with unswerving
loyalty. He is the tempter _in excelsis_; he is unscrupulous in the
extreme; he is utterly bad. But for all this, he is, as I have already
said, a very necessary link in the chain of detection, and we may, like
the pharisee, take comfort in the thought that we are not as other men
are—even as these informers! The “_unco gude_” would find a monotonous
sameness in their existence if there were none to set-off their unco
gudeness!
Nowhere is the need for sharp-witted informers so keenly felt as in
departments whose duty it is to prevent smuggling, and it may be taken
for granted that the greater the blackguard the fellow is, the more
useful he will be, and the more useful an informer is to the executive,
the greater danger he goes in of losing his life (because the smuggler
does not hesitate as to the means he employs in removing obstacles from
his path). The authorities have therefore to consider these things when
they come to pay the informer. The legislature also protects him by
providing that no officer shall be compelled in a law court to disclose
the name of his informer. That advantage is duly taken of this provision
there need be no doubt. The officer who gives up the name of his informer
has little further information to expect, as the informer very naturally
values his life, and will give no information to an indiscreet and
injudicious officer.
That the authorities are often imposed upon by informers is a matter of
course. There are lots of men in this world who would like to pay off
an old score against another, and an easy way to do this is to lodge
an information against him. A search of the premises occupied by the
suspect results, and although nothing may be found, the attention of the
neighbourhood is attracted, and for some time the search is a topic of
conversation, which is by no means pleasant for the man whose house is
searched. The disgrace attending such an occurrence is intensified if the
householder happens to be a man who is respected as upright and honest.
Severe punishment is provided by the law for givers of false information,
but such cases are happily not numerous.
To take action against an informer for giving false information usually
results in deterring genuine informers from giving genuine information;
for there are factors which operate against the success of the genuine
informer. For instance, the object searched for may be removed just
before the search is made, or even during the search, and a blank is
drawn. To prosecute the informer for giving false information in such
circumstances would be manifestly unjust. If he were prosecuted, other
informers would not run the risk of giving information and work would
come to a standstill. Where, then, is the line to run? This is a question
which confronts the executive with ever-increasing perplexity. It seems
to be better to disregard the stray cases of false informing, than to
jeopardise the entire preventive department’s being. A certain officer,
suspecting that a search had been made on false information, issued an
order, _ex cathedra_, that all informations should be verified before
search was made. As the only way in which information can be verified
is by making a search, it is not clear to what extent this order was
conceived in a spirit of bumptiousness, and how much of it in ignorance.
“Planting,” or the fabrication of false evidence, is a favourite and
much practised trick of the informer. By means best known to himself he
introduces something incriminating into the house of a person against
whom he has a spite, and lays an information. A search is made, the
stuff is found, and very often an innocent man is fined or sent to
jail. Against this there seems to be no remedy, except the employment
of well-known, reliable informers, and also a sort of intuition which
develops with experience in officers themselves.
In olden days, when coastguards did not exist, Cornwall was a hot-bed
of smuggling, and the temper of the Cornishmen towards informers can be
gauged by the following story which has much in it that is apropos:—
The Rev. R. S. Hawker, of the parish of Morwenstowe, relates how on one
occasion a predecessor of his presided, as the custom was, at a parish
feast, in cassock and bands, and presented, with his white hair and
venerable countenance, quite an apostolic aspect and mien. On a sudden,
a busy whisper among the farmers at the lower end of the table attracted
his notice, interspersed as it was with sundry nods and glances towards
himself. At last one bolder than the rest addressed him, and said that
they had a great wish to ask his reverence a question, if he would kindly
grant them a reply; it was on a religious subject that they had dispute,
he said. The bland old gentleman assured them of his readiness to yield
them any information in his power, but what was the point in dispute?
“Why, sir, we wish to be informed if there are not sins which God
Almighty will never forgive?” Surprised, and somewhat shocked, he told
them that he trusted there were no transgressions common to themselves,
but if repented of and abjured, they might clearly hope to be forgiven.
But with natural curiosity, he inquired what sorts of iniquities they
contemplated as too vile for pardon. “Why, sir,” replied the spokesman,
“we thought that if a man should find out where run-goods was deposited,
and should inform the Gauger, that such a villain was too bad for mercy!”