discharged myself of all responsibility, except the preservation of
a voucher ruled into three divisions, of which the first was
snipped off at Folkestone, the second aboard the boat, and the
third taken at my journey's end? It seems to have been ages ago.
Calculation is useless. I will go out for a walk.
The crowds in the streets, the lights in the shops and balconies,
the elegance, variety, and beauty of their decorations, the number
of the theatres, the brilliant cafes with their windows thrown up
high and their vivacious groups at little tables on the pavement,
the light and glitter of the houses turned as it were inside out,
soon convince me that it is no dream; that I am in Paris, howsoever
I got there. I stroll down to the sparkling Palais Royal, up the
Rue de Rivoli, to the Place Vendome. As I glance into a print-shop
window, Monied Interest, my late travelling companion, comes upon
me, laughing with the highest relish of disdain. 'Here's a
people!' he says, pointing to Napoleon in the window and Napoleon
on the column. 'Only one idea all over Paris! A monomania!'
Humph! I THINK I have seen Napoleon's match? There was a statue,
when I came away, at Hyde Park Corner, and another in the City, and
a print or two in the shops.
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I walk up to the Barriere de l'Etoile, sufficiently dazed by my
flight to have a pleasant doubt of the reality of everything about
me; of the lively crowd, the overhanging trees, the performing
dogs, the hobby-horses, the beautiful perspectives of shining
lamps: the hundred and one enclosures, where the singing is, in
gleaming orchestras of azure and gold, and where a star-eyed Houri
comes round with a box for voluntary offerings. So, I pass to my
hotel, enchanted; sup, enchanted; go to bed, enchanted; pushing
back this morning (if it really were this morning) into the
remoteness of time, blessing the South-Eastern Company for
realising the Arabian Nights in these prose days, murmuring, as I
wing my idle flight into the land of dreams, 'No hurry, ladies and
gentlemen, going to Paris in eleven hours. It is so well done,
that there really is no hurry!'
THE DETECTIVE POLICE
WE are not by any means devout believers in the old Bow Street
Police. To say the truth, we think there was a vast amount of
humbug about those worthies. Apart from many of them being men of
very indifferent character, and far too much in the habit of
consorting with thieves and the like, they never lost a public
occasion of jobbing and trading in mystery and making the most of
themselves. Continually puffed besides by incompetent magistrates
anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and hand-in-glove with
the penny-a-liners of that time, they became a sort of
superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly
ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and
uncertain in their operations, they remain with some people a
superstition to the present day.
On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the
establishment of the existing Police, is so well chosen and
trained, proceeds so systematically and quietly, does its business
in such a workmanlike manner, and is always so calmly and steadily
engaged in the service of the public, that the public really do not
know enough of it, to know a tithe of its usefulness. Impressed
with this conviction, and interested in the men themselves, we
represented to the authorities at Scotland Yard, that we should be
glad, if there were no official objection, to have some talk with
the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission being given,
a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for a
social conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at The
Household Words Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In
consequence of which appointment the party 'came off,' which we are
about to describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics
as it might for obvious reasons be injurious to the public, or
our description is as exact as we can make it.
The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum
of Household Words. Anything that best suits the reader's fancy,
will best represent that magnificent chamber. We merely stipulate
for a round table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars
arranged upon it; and the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in
between that stately piece of furniture and the wall.
It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street
are hot and gritty, and the watermen and hackney-coachmen at the
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Theatre opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are
constantly setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land; and
there is a mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then,
deafening us for the moment, through the open windows.
Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced; but we do
not undertake to warrant the orthography of any of the names here
mentioned. Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector
Wield is a middle-aged man of a portly presence, with a large,
moist, knowing eye, a husky voice, and a habit of emphasising his
conversation by the aid of a corpulent fore-finger, which is
constantly in juxtaposition with his eyes or nose. Inspector
Stalker is a shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman - in appearance not at
all unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained schoolmaster, from the
Normal Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield one might have
known, perhaps, for what he is - Inspector Stalker, never.
The ceremonies of reception over, Inspectors Wield and Stalker
observe that they have brought some sergeants with them. The
sergeants are presented - five in number, Sergeant Dornton,
Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant
Straw. We have the whole Detective Force from Scotland Yard, with
one exception. They sit down in a semi-circle (the two Inspectors
at the two ends) at a little distance from the round table, facing
the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a glance, immediately
takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate sketch of the
editorial presence. The Editor feels that any gentleman in company
could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest
hesitation, twenty years hence.
The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton about fifty
years of age, with a ruddy face and a high sunburnt forehead, has
the air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army - he might have
sat to Wilkie for the Soldier in the Reading of the Will. He is
famous for steadily pursuing the inductive process, and, from small
beginnings, working on from clue to clue until he bags his man.
Sergeant Witchem, shorter and thicker-set, and marked with the
small-pox, has something of a reserved and
thoughtful air, as if he
were engaged in deep arithmetical calculations. He is renowned for
his acquaintance with the swell mob. Sergeant Mith, a smooth-faced
man with a fresh bright complexion, and a strange air of
simplicity, is a dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, a lighthaired,
well-spoken, polite person, is a prodigious hand at
pursuing private inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little
wiry Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense, would knock at a
door and ask a series of questions in any mild character you choose
to prescribe to him, from a charity-boy upwards, and seem as
innocent as an infant. They are, one and all, respectable-looking
men; of perfectly good deportment and unusual intelligence; with
nothing lounging or slinking in their manners; with an air of keen
observation and quick perception when addressed; and generally
presenting in their faces, traces more or less marked of habitually
leading lives of strong mental excitement. They have all good
eyes; and they all can, and they all do, look full at whomsoever
they speak to.
We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very
temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest
amateur reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob.
Inspector Wield immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves
his right hand, and says, 'Regarding the swell mob, sir, I can't do
better than call upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why?
I'll tell you. Sergeant Witchem is better acquainted with the
swell mob than any officer in London.'
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Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we
turn to Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-chosen
language, goes into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole of
his brother officers are closely interested in attending to what he
says, and observing its effect. Presently they begin to strike in,
one or two together, when an opportunity offers, and the
conversation becomes general. But these brother officers only come
in to the assistance of each other - not to the contradiction - and
a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From the swell
mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences, publichouse
dancers, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out
'gonophing,' and other 'schools.' It is observable throughout
these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always
exact and statistical, and that when any question of figures
arises, everybody as by one consent pauses, and looks to him.
When we have exhausted the various schools of Art - during which
discussion the whole body have remained profoundly attentive,
except when some unusual noise at the Theatre over the way has
induced some gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the window in
that direction, behind his next neighbour's back - we burrow for
information on such points as the following. Whether there really
are any highway robberies in London, or whether some circumstances
not convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved party, usually
precede the robberies complained of, under that head, which quite
change their character? Certainly the latter, almost always.
Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are
necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion ever
becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be
cautious how he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or
deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in a place of
public amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an officer knows a
thief - supposing them, beforehand, strangers to each other -
because each recognises in the other, under all disguise, an
inattention to what is going on, and a purpose that is not the
purpose of being entertained? Yes. That's the way exactly.
Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged
experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, or
penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd.
Lying is their habit and their trade; and they would rather lie -
even if they hadn't an interest in it, and didn't want to make
themselves agreeable - than tell the truth.
From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated
and horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within
the last fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery
of almost all of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the
murderers, are here, down to the very last instance. One of our
guests gave chase to and boarded the emigrant ship, in which the
murderess last hanged in London was supposed to have embarked. We
learn from him that his errand was not announced to the passengers,
who may have no idea of it to this hour. That he went below, with
the captain, lamp in hand - it being dark, and the whole steerage
abed and sea-sick - and engaged the Mrs. Manning who WAS on board,
in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small
pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the
light. Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he
quietly re-embarked in the Government steamer along-side, and
steamed home again with the intelligence.
When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a
considerable time in the discussion, two or three leave their
chairs, whisper Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seat. Sergeant
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Witchem, leaning forward a little, and placing a hand on each of
his legs, then modestly speaks as follows:
'My brother-officers wish me to relate a little account of my
taking Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn't to tell what he has done
himself; but still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as
nobody but myself can tell it, I'll do it in the best way I can, if
it should meet your approval.'
We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we
all compose ourselves to listen with great interest and attention.
'Tally-ho Thompson,' says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting
his lips with his brandy-and-water, 'Tally-ho Thompson was a famous
horse-stealer, couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with
a pal that occasionally worked with him, gammoned a countryman out
of a good round sum of money, under pretence of getting him a
situation - the regular old dodge - and was afterwards in the "Hue
and Cry" for a horse - a horse that he stole down in Hertfordshire.
I had to look after Thompson, and I applied myself, of course, in
the first instance, to discovering where he was. Now, Thompson's
wife lived, along with a little daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that
Thompson was somewhere in the country, I watched the house -
especially at post-time in the morning - thinking Thompson was
pretty likely to write to her. Sure enough, one morning the
postman comes up, and delivers a le
tter at Mrs. Thompson's door.
Little girl opens the door, and takes it in. We're not always sure
of postmen, though the people at the post-offices are always very
obliging. A postman may help us, or he may not, - just as it
happens. However, I go across the road, and I say to the postman,
after he has left the letter, "Good morning! how are you?" "How
are YOU!" says he. "You've just delivered a letter for Mrs.
Thompson." "Yes, I have." "You didn't happen to remark what the
post-mark was, perhaps?" "No," says he, "I didn't." "Come," says
I, "I'll be plain with you. I'm in a small way of business, and I
have given Thompson credit, and I can't afford to lose what he owes
me. I know he's got money, and I know he's in the country, and if
you could tell me what the post-mark was, I should be very much
obliged to you, and you'd do a service to a tradesman in a small
way of business that can't afford a loss." "Well," he said, "I do
assure you that I did not observe what the post-mark was; all I
know is, that there was money in the letter - I should say a
sovereign." This was enough for me, because of course I knew that
Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable she'd write to
Thompson, by return of post, to acknowledge the receipt. So I said
"Thankee" to the postman, and I kept on the watch. In the
afternoon I saw the little girl come out. Of course I followed
her. She went into a stationer's shop, and I needn't say to you
that I looked in at the window. She bought some writing-paper and
envelopes, and a pen. I think to myself, "That'll do!" - watch her
home again - and don't go away, you may be sure, knowing that Mrs.
Thompson was writing her letter to Tally-ho, and that the letter
would be posted presently. In about an hour or so, out came the
little girl again, with the letter in her hand. I went up, and
said something to the child, whatever it might have been; but I
couldn't see the direction of the letter, because she held it with
the seal upwards. However, I observed that on the back of the
letter there was what we call a kiss - a drop of wax by the side of
the seal - and again, you understand, that was enough for me. I
saw her post the letter, waited till she was gone, then went into
the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he came out, I told
him, "Now, I'm an Officer in the Detective Force; there's a letter