McLevy

by James McLevy

  In the third storey of the huge tenement, as you go into the right, there was a section of this little world, occupied by a young, stout, and fair hizzy, called Mary Wood, about twenty years of age. She was well known, not only in the Happy Land itself, but in Princes Street, where she was often seen walking as demurely under her fashionable bonnet as any of the young ladies from the houses in the New Town. Her section was very limited, consisting only of a small room, containing a bed, a table, a chair or two, a looking-glass of course, and a trunk for her fineries, not forgetting “the red saucer”. Immediately off this room was a closet, with no means of light, excepting one or two auger-bored holes, intended for gratifying any one taking up his station there by a look of what was going on in the room. These two apartments formed the castle of this enchantress, and the scene of a plot—not uncommon then—entered into by Mary and two strong ruffians of the names of George Renny and James Stevenson. The conspiracy was not so complicated as it was bold, dastardly, and cruel. Mary was to go out in her most seductive dress, and endeavour to entice in any gentleman likely to have a gold watch and money on him, and when she had succeeded in this, the two bullies, as they have been called, who, on a signal of her approach, had previously betaken themselves to the closet, were, when they considered all matters ripe, to rush out, seize the victim, and rob him.

  This conspiracy, I had reason to suspect, had been carried on for some time with considerable success, and without our being applied to by the sufferers, many of whom were anxious to conceal their imprudence, and consented rather to lose their watches than expose their character. One night, the 9th of August 1849, our damsel was trying her fortune in Princes Street, while Renny and Stevenson were waiting, ready for their work when the time came. About twelve o’clock, she fascinated a likely “cully”, or “colley”, as the Scotch women say, with perhaps more humour than they wot of—a gentleman of the name of W——n, from London, who, little knowing the character of the “happy land” to which he was destined, agreed to accompany her home. In a short time she had him all safe. Mistress of her trade, she was all blandishments to the happy Englishman, who, after all deductions for the squalor of her dwelling, could probably not have picked up a woman better qualified to please; but no sooner had he made preparations for departing, than the gentlemen of the dark closet rushed out upon him, laid him on his back, took from him a gold watch and chain, with fifteen sovereigns, and everything they could rifle; but, most unkind cut of all, the enchantress Mary helped them in their work of robbery, pulling off his fingers two valuable rings, which, a little before, she was praising to him with much admiration. I afterwards ascertained that the struggle was a desperate one, no doubt owing to the value of the property inflaming the one party, and nerving the other.

  When allowed to depart, Mr W——n, much injured, and greatly alarmed, rushed down-stairs, almost breaking his neck in the descent, and went direct to the Police-office, where he gave a rapid account of the transaction, as well as a description of the parties. The case was one for me, and, about one o’clock, I was roused out of my sleep to catch these robbers. I recollect I was much wearied that day, and was in no humour for a midnight hunt, exhausted, as I had been, by late hours. I was, not withstanding, dressed in a moment. I went first to see the gentleman, who seemed inclined to lose more time by a description. I told him it was of no use, for that I knew the men perfectly. I had, indeed, seen them in company with Mary, who was familiar to me, and knew that they were her special retainers. The difficulty was to know where to find them, and get hold of the money, but I had confidence enough to tell Mr W——n that, if he would remain for a time in the office, I would bring the robbers to him. As for Mary, she had been taken up about the time I was called, but she had no money on her—the whole having been carried off by the robbers.

  My task was arduous enough, for, although I knew their haunts, the places were not few, and would likely be avoided. I tried many without success, and was beginning to repent of my promise to Mr W——n, when I bethought me of a lodging-house at the West Port, occupied by a man of the name of Goodall. Thither I went. It was now about four in the morning, and having rapped, I was answered from behind the door by Goodall.

  “Did two men come to your house this morning to lodge?” was my question.

  “Yes,” replied he, as he opened the door, probably knowing my voice.

  “Well, I think they will be the men I want.”

  “But you’re too soon,” said Goodall, with a kind of laugh.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s only four, and they told me they were not to be wakened till five.”

  “That’s a pity,” said I; “but they will excuse you, and as for me, why they set me up at one, so I’m quits with them there. Show me into their room.”

  I then beckoned the constable I had with me; and, preceded by Goodall, we were led to the side of the bed where lay the very men. I held Goodall’s candle over their faces, and saw the effect I produced upon them—not that I augured from their surprise and dismay that they had done this deed, for I knew I was a terror to them at any time, but that I liked to enjoy my advantage.

  “Get up,” said I, “and go with me;” so sure of my men, that I did not even put them to the question.

  And then broke in Goodall again with his humour—

  “Ye see, ye’re not to blame me, my lads. It’s only four, but Mr M’Levy says you were the cause of wakening him at one.”

  These men, who, four hours before, were throttling an innocent gentleman, were now dumb and docile; nay, they were simple,—for Renny, when getting out of bed, let slip—

  “You’ll not find either the watch or the sovereigns on me, anyhow.”

  Stevenson looked daggers at his friend.

  “Why, man,” said I, “Renny has done no more than I have made others do, by simply holding my peace; and he has done you no harm either by his mistake, for I can prove that you and Mary Wood robbed the gentleman four hours ago in the Happy Land.”

  “D—n the Happy Land,” cried Stevenson, still enraged at his friend. “I never found any happiness in it, nor money either.”

  “D—n the Happy Land!” said Goodall, again wishing to be witty. “Lord save us! that’s a terrible oath against a place we are all doing our best to get to. The very children sing, ‘Come to you happy land,’ and you curse it.”

  I could scarcely keep from laughing, even in the midst of my impatience, at the keeper of this famous resort for all moral waifs thus reproving, by his mirth, his children,—so many of whom came from that Happy Land. Of course he had reason to bless it, and did it in his own way of humour—a habit of his.

  “Quick,” said I, as the putting on of the clothes proceeded slowly. “Mr W——n is waiting for you.”

  Worst shock yet, for such men are great moral cowards; and to confront the gentleman they treated so cruelly was so complete a turn, within so short a time, that my words stunned them.

  In a quarter of an hour after they were standing before Mr W——n.

  “Are these your men?” said I.

  “Ah, I know them too well,” said the gentleman. “And I wish I had never seen them; for I am a stranger here,—all my money is gone, and I know not what to do.”

  “We have none of your money,” replied Stevenson growlingly.

  No doubt secreted somewhere. I forgot to say I searched them at Goodall’s.

  “And it is gone, then?” said Mr W——n, despondingly.

  “No,” said I; “not all. The money may not be recovered easily, but I will get the watch.”

  “Well, I shall live in hope,” said Mr W——n, as he went away, leaving his address.

  They were now locked up, and the next question for me was how to get the property.

  On the following and subsequent days every effort was made. There had been no pledging or selling to the brokers, and I was at fault; but I had succeeded in so many cases where there appeared no hope, that I persevered. As a last resour
ce, I had a young fellow confined for a short time along with the prisoners, who I knew was on terms of intimacy with them. All thieves and robbers “split” when in trouble; confidences are the weakness of criminal natures; yet, perhaps, I would not have got this information if he had not expected I would favour him. He told me that the two men, after having committed the robbery, flew along St Mary’s Wynd and never stopped till they got to the Dumbiedykes;—that there they placed the watch, sovereigns, and rings into a hole of the old dyke, where they made a secret mark, only known to themselves.

  I was now as much at fault as ever. The men remained obdurate, and they alone knew the secret. I would, however, try the old dyke; and while I was busy peering into the crevices, who should come up to me but one of the park-keepers?

  “I think,” said he, “I know what you are looking for. You’re Mr M’Levy?”

  “Yes,” said I. “I am searching for a stolen watch and sovereigns; can you help me to the place?”

  “I can, at least, help you to the watch,” said he, as he held out the glittering object, with its gold chain and seals. “I found it here,” he continued, going a few steps along. “The rainy night must have washed away the earth from the top of the dyke, for I found it nearly exposed in a hole not deep enough to escape observation.”

  And so the watch was recovered, but no more. The sovereigns were never found, and are likely in that dyke to this day, for all the three prisoners were shortly after transported for seven years.

  The Wrong Shop

  ❖

  It is only a state of civilisation that can produce so strange a relation as that between detectives and robbers. In any other condition of society it is inconceivable, for love is almost always mutual, and hatred reciprocal in rude states; and it is not very easy to conceive a condition where one party follows and seeks from a spirit of well-wishing, and another curses and flies from a spirit of hatred. If there is any one we wish to see more than another, it is a robber; and if there is any creature out of the place of four letters a robber wishes to be away from, it is an officer of the law. It may seem strange enough if I should be able to give a case where this was reversed, in a manner which has sometimes forced from me a laugh.

  In 1847, a house in Minto Street, and another in Claremont Crescent, were broken into, and robbed of a vast number of portable articles of great value. The families had left the houses to go to the country; and the robbers, being aware that there was nobody to disturb them, had gone about their selection of articles with much artistic deliberation and skill, taking only those things which could be melted, such as silver utensils, or altered or dyed, such as silk dresses, shawls, and the like. We got intimation first of the Minto Street affair, for it was some time before it came to be known even to the proprietor that the house in Claremont Street had been disturbed. Having got my commission, I very soon came to the conclusion that, for a time at least, there could be no discovery by tracing the articles; and just as soon to another, that the whole were secreted, probably in a mass, in some of the lodging-houses resorted to by the gang—for that there was a gang I had no manner of doubt—nor was I at a loss about some of the component parts of the crew,—at least I knew that one or two well-known housebreakers had been seen in the city, and their affinities are almost a matter of course with us.

  There was ingenuity, therefore, required in this affair beyond the mere care in dogging some of the artists to their dormitories, and this I soon accomplished by tracing Jane Walker, one of their callets, to the house of one Sim at the West Port. Other bits of intelligence contributed to the conclusion, that Sim’s house was the sleeping place of some of them, and the rendezvous of the whole pack. As I have already said, I have always had a craving for a full haul when I put out my net, and take my seat in the cobble to see the wily tribe get into the meshes. So on this occasion I made my arrangements with this view.

  At a late hour one night I took with me several constables and proceeded to Sim’s house. I arranged my men in such a way that egress was scarcely possible, while some one would be ready to help me inside in the event of an emergency; for it is no indifferent affair to go bang in upon an entire gang of desperate burglars, especially when there are women among them—a remark which requires merely this explanation, that the women egg up the men to resistance, and the men have often a desire to show off their prowess before their dulcineas.

  Having presented myself at Sim’s door, I heard a shout of merriment, indicative of a goodly company; and I confess the sound, though rough and brutal, was rather pleasant to me, for it satisfied me they were all there, and, moreover, off their guard, through the seduction of their tender dalliances. I am often fine in my self-introductions, but here I found my cue in bluntness. I opened the door with a sudden click of the sneck, and stood before as motley a crew of ruffians and viragoes as I ever remember to have seen. Nor was the effect all on one side. If I was amazed at seeing such a collection of celebrities, they were not less astonished at seeing me. Laughter did not need to hold her sides, nor Mockery to twist her chaps into mows, nor even Inebriety to flare up into a rage. All was quiet in an instant, with every eye fixed upon me as Sim himself, James M’Culloch, John Anderson, Hector M’Sally, James Stewart, Agnes Hunter, Sarah Jack, Christian Anderson, and Jane Walker, had been all too well accustomed to such blandishments as mine, to be thrown off their guard beyond the instant of the working of the first charm. They simply took me for a devil, who might seize their bodies for punishment, but could not insist upon their pledges to be his for ever. In short, they knew the extent of my power, as well as their necessities to resist it, but only if resistance could be successful.

  I had stopt their merriment;—but just allow me, as I stand for a moment before them, to say, it is no merriment that these strange beings enjoy: their hearts have no part in their laughter, which is a mere dry shaking of the lungs, and better named as a cackle, or sometimes a vociferation. It is almost always the result of a personal gibe; for there is no real friendship to restrain them, and their art is a deadly fly that kills at the first leap. They seem to find some relief from the tearing devil within, by tearing their brother devils without; and though it is done under the semblance of fun, it is as cruel and wicked as they can make it, But then the very cruelty in the personality gets applause; the laugh rings, and every one has his turn to be quizzed and gibed—the bearing of which, again, is a kind of stern virtue among them. It is all a heart-burning, with a flickering ebullition over the surface; and the effort seems to be to produce Pain, and yet to make it pass as a kind of pleasure. I know them well; and could, at a distance, distinguish between the merriment of people with sound hearts, and that of these artificial beings, as well as I could do were I among them, and knew the two sets of characters.

  A moment sufficed for my introduction.

  “There are some things that have gone amissing,” said I, “and I want to know whether any of them are here.”

  “Nothing,” said Sim; but the manner of his “nothing” showed me it was a misnomer for “something.”

  “No harm in seeing. I don’t charge any of you, but I may just say that you are as safe in your seats there, as you could be if you had wings and used them. I have friends at the door, so—quiet. Sim, I want to speak with you in the other room. Get a candle.”

  All authority lies in bearing. The man obeyed like a machine, got his dip lighted, and followed me into the small room, (there were only two in the house,) when I took the light from him, with the intention of looking into hidden places, but there was strangely enough no necessity for searching. There before me stood a huge trunk or box, more like a coal bunker or ship’s locker than a chest, and sufficient to have held within its capacious sides a jeweller’s stock. Knocking my foot against it, and finding it heavy with contents,

  “Why,” said I, “how comes this to be here?”

  “All right,” replied the man; “nothing of yours there.”

  “Let me see,” said I. “Get me
the key.”

  “The key is with the proprietor,” said he, coolly. “Why you know, sir, it’s an emigrant’s box that there, and he has merely left it with me till the ship sails, when he will return for it—all right.”

  “And there’s nothing in it belonging to these gentry in the kitchen?”

  “Not a handkerchief.”

  “Well,” said I, “as I don’t wish this trunk to emigrate before I know what’s inside, I will break it open.”

  And going into the kitchen, I seized a big salamander, standing by the fire, and without saying a word to the no doubt wondering company, who were working hard to look easy, I returned to the room. Up to this kind of work, I managed, by getting a lever point for my poker, to send the top of the box in splinters in a very few minutes, but with a crash which, like the laughter of my friends in the kitchen, had more sound than music in it. And lo! there was a sight—a veritable curiosity box—a bazaar in miniature; in short, as I afterwards ascertained, all the valuables abstracted not only from the house in Minto Street, but from that in Claremont Crescent, had been brought together, as if by the hand of Prospero’s little friend, for my gratification, and yet with no bidding from me.

  I had taken a large liberty, and I must take a larger to justify the first. I had provided myself with some of Mrs M’G—r’s marks—the lady in Minto Street—so I straightway began to turn out the fine poplins and silks, which overlaid the jewellery at the bottom, till I could find a handkerchief or some article bearing a name, and that I very soon did, in a damask towel, bearing “M’G. 6.”

  I was now relieved from all fears of a misused freedom.

  “All right,” said I.

  And going to the door, I called on my men. There was here a little mismanagement. They were not so close as they should have been, and M’Sally and Stewart, the real burglars, getting desperate, jostled the first officer, and pushing him up against the wall, escaped; nor were the other men sufficiently on the alert to be able to intercept them, so that they got themselves reserved, as it were, for a fate which is the real burden of my story.