The Detective Police Page #4

"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

								

handcuffs, Thompson cries, “No!  None of that!  I won’t stand them!
I’ll go along with you quiet, but I won’t bear none of that!”  “Tally-ho
Thompson,” I said, “I’m willing to behave as a man to you, if you are
willing to behave as a man to me.  Give me your word that you’ll come
peaceably along, and I don’t want to handcuff you.”  “I will,” says
Thompson, “but I’ll have a glass of brandy first.”  “I don’t care if I’ve
another,” said I.  “We’ll have two more, Missis,” said the friends, “and
confound you, Constable, you’ll give your man a drop, won’t you?”  I was
agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I took
Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to London that
night.  He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a defect in the
evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to the skies, and says
I’m one of the best of men.’

This story coming to a termination amidst general applause, Inspector
Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his host, and thus
delivers himself:

‘It wasn’t a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of forging
the Sou’-Western Railway debentures—it was only t’other day—because the
reason why?  I’ll tell you.

‘I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over yonder
there,’—indicating any region on the Surrey side of the river—‘where he
bought second-hand carriages; so after I’d tried in vain to get hold of
him by other means, I wrote him a letter in an assumed name, saying that
I’d got a horse and shay to dispose of, and would drive down next day
that he might view the lot, and make an offer—very reasonable it was, I
said—a reg’lar bargain.  Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine
that’s in the livery and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day,
a precious smart turn-out it was—quite a slap-up thing!  Down we drove,
accordingly, with a friend (who’s not in the Force himself); and leaving
my friend in the shay near a public-house, to take care of the horse, we
went to the factory, which was some little way off.  In the factory,
there was a number of strong fellows at work, and after reckoning ’em up,
it was clear to me that it wouldn’t do to try it on there.  They were too
many for us.  We must get our man out of doors.  “Mr. Fikey at home?”
“No, he ain’t.”  “Expected home soon?”  “Why, no, not soon.”  “Ah!  Is
his brother here?”  “I’m his brother.”  “Oh! well, this is an
ill-conwenience, this is.  I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I’d got
a little turn-out to dispose of, and I’ve took the trouble to bring the
turn-out down a’ purpose, and now he ain’t in the way.”  “No, he ain’t in
the way.  You couldn’t make it convenient to call again, could you?”
“Why, no, I couldn’t.  I want to sell; that’s the fact; and I can’t put
it off.  Could you find him anywheres?”  At first he said No, he
couldn’t, and then he wasn’t sure about it, and then he’d go and try.  So
at last he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft, and presently
down comes my man himself in his shirt-sleeves.

‘“Well,” he says, “this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of yours.”
“Yes,” I says, “it is rayther a pressing matter, and you’ll find it a
bargain—dirt cheap.”  “I ain’t in partickler want of a bargain just now,”
he says, “but where is it?”  “Why,” I says, “the turn-out’s just outside.
Come and look at it.”  He hasn’t any suspicions, and away we go.  And the
first thing that happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who
knows no more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along
the road to show his paces.  You never saw such a game in your life!

‘When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a standstill again,
Fikey walks round and round it as grave as a judge—me too.  “There, sir!”
I says.  “There’s a neat thing!”  “It ain’t a bad style of thing,” he
says.  “I believe you,” says I.  “And there’s a horse!”—for I saw him
looking at it.  “Rising eight!” I says, rubbing his fore-legs.  (Bless
you, there ain’t a man in the world knows less of horses than I do, but
I’d heard my friend at the Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I
says, as knowing as possible, “Rising eight.”)  “Rising eight, is he?”
says he.  “Rising eight,” says I.  “Well,” he says, “what do you want for
it?”  “Why, the first and last figure for the whole concern is
five-and-twenty pound!”  “That’s very cheap!” he says, looking at me.
“Ain’t it?” I says.  “I told you it was a bargain!  Now, without any
higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to sell, and that’s my
price.  Further, I’ll make it easy to you, and take half the money down,
and you can do a bit of stiff {415} for the balance.”

“Well,” he says again, “that’s very cheap.”  “I believe you,” says I;
“get in and try it, and you’ll buy it.  Come! take a trial!”

‘Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to show
him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the public-house window
to identify him.  But the clerk was bothered, and didn’t know whether it
was him, or wasn’t—because the reason why?  I’ll tell you,—on account of
his having shaved his whiskers.  “It’s a clever little horse,” he says,
“and trots well; and the shay runs light.”  “Not a doubt about it,” I
says.  “And now, Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without
wasting any more of your time.  The fact is, I’m Inspector Wield, and
you’re my prisoner.”  “You don’t mean that?” he says.  “I do, indeed.”
“Then burn my body,” says Fikey, “if this ain’t too bad!”

‘Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise.  “I hope
you’ll let me have my coat?” he says.  “By all means.”  “Well, then,
let’s drive to the factory.”  “Why, not exactly that, I think,” said I;
“I’ve been there, once before, to-day.  Suppose we send for it.”  He saw
it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, and we drove him up to
London, comfortable.’

This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general
proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with
the strange air of simplicity, to tell the ‘Butcher’s Story.’

The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with the strange air of
simplicity, began with a rustic smile, and in a soft, wheedling tone of
voice, to relate the Butcher’s Story, thus:

‘It’s just about six years ago, now, since information was given at
Scotland Yard of there being extensive robberies of lawns and silks going
on, at some wholesale houses in the City.  Directions were given for the
business being looked into; and Straw, and Fendall, and me, we were all
in it.’

‘When you received your instructions,’ said we, ‘you went away, and held
a sort of Cabinet Council together!’

The smooth-faced officer coaxingly replied, ‘Ye-es.  Just so.  We turned
it over among ourselves a good deal.  It appeared, when we went into it,
that the goods were sold by the receivers extraordinarily cheap—much
cheaper than they could have been if they had been honestly come by.  The
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