The Detective Police Page #2

"The Detective Police" is not a book by Charles Dickens, but rather a reference to elements of his work that feature detective characters and crime-solving themes. Dickens often explored social issues and the criminal justice system in his novels, using detective figures to highlight the struggles of the underprivileged and critique societal injustices. Works like "Oliver Twist" and "Bleak House" embody these themes. If you are looking for a specific work, please clarify, and I'd be glad to provide a description!

• Short story

								

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 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 letter 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 with a kiss been posted here just
now, for a man that I’m in search of; and what I have to ask of you, is,
that you will let me look at the direction of that letter.”  He was very
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