McLevy (7 page)

“We’ve got all.”

“No, ‘
A WANT SPOILS PERFECTION
,”’ said I. “There’s one awanting, and without that the rest are nothing.”

“Mr C—— will scarcely think that,” said he, “You have done enough to-day, and I think you had better go to bed.”

“No, I must have
that
watch, otherwise I could sleep none.”

I then went to the desk, and taking a printed form of one of our complaints, not filled up, and not signed of course, I put it quietly in my pocket, departed, and took my way to the man
Hart’s once more. I found him in, just preparing to go to bed.

“My last visit, Hart,” said I; “I am come once more for the watch you got from the friend of Mitchell.”

“I told you before,” said he, “that I have no such watch, and never had.”

“And I tell you that I have the very best authority for knowing that you have. Now, Hart, I have known you for some time, and would rather save you than banish you, but,” pulling out
the useless bit of printed paper, “I have no discretion. There are certain people called authorities, you know, and they have long arms. Do you see that paper? Did you ever hear of such a
thing as a complaint?”

“Do you mean a warrant of apprehension?” said he.

“Just as you choose to call it,” replied I, taking out my handcuffs. “I am sorry for this duty imposed upon me, but either you or I must suffer. You must walk up to the Office,
or I must bid farewell to it.”

My man got into a pensive mood, and looked on the floor.

The conjurors on the stage do their work with little things, and they deceive the senses; but they don’t often touch the heart. I have done some things in my conjuring way with very puny
instruments. Yes, the heart is a conjurable commodity, very simple and helpless when operated upon successfully, and I was here trying to vanquish a stronger one than Mrs Donald
M’Leod’s, by the means of a bit of paper, with a few words of print on it, and a loop of leather. I have sometimes suspected that the world is juggled in a similar way, only the juggle
is not very often known. If so, I may be allowed my small devices, especially when used in the cause of what is good and lawful. I wanted only to save another man’s watch. A bit of paper not
much larger, once saved the lives of more Roman senators than my watches amounted to altogether.

The first sight of my talisman was not enough. Mr Hart was wary. He hesitated, and struggled with himself for a considerable time—not so much, I thought, for the sake of the watch, as from
fear that, after all, I would apprehend him.

“You will do
me
,” said he, “as you did the Highlander’s wife.”

“No,” replied I, “I will be on honour with you. Look,—you may make sure work,—I’ll not take the watch out of your hands till I have burned the
warrant.”

The promise caught him. He drew on his stockings again,—for he had been preparing for bed,—put on his shoes and hat, and getting a candle, lighted it.

“Wait here,” said he, and went out.

I don’t like these
leavings
, I have sometimes found no
returns
; so I followed him to the door, and dogged him to the foot of a close not far from his house. He went up
till he came to an old thatched byre, to the top of which he got by means of a heap of rubbish. When I saw the candle glimmering on the top of the house, a solitary light amidst the darkness, and
all around as still as death, I could not help thinking of the romance that hangs round the secret ways of vice. The cowkeeper, as he fed his charge, never suspected that there was a treasure over
crummie’s head; no more did the urchins, who rode on the rigging, dream of the presence of so wonderful a thing to them as a gold watch.

All safe, said I to myself, as I saw the light changing its place, and descending. Then it came down the close, and we stood face to face.

“Here it is,” said he; “but I tell you once for all, that I am as powerful a man as you, and that”—

“Stop,” said I, “no need, my good fellow; give me your candle. There,” continued I, as I applied the blank complaint to the flame, and saw it flare up and die away into a
black film, “there’s your bargain,—now mine.”

And I got the watch, and supplied the
want
.”

“Good night, my man; you will sleep sounder without the care and fear of this stolen watch than with it.”

This bit of sentiment struck him.

“Well, I believe I will,” he said, with a little thickening of the windpipe; “I’ll have nothing more to do with stolen property. I have never been happy since I got
possession of it.”

In a short time, I was before Mr Moxey again, whose letters threatened to terminate in night-work.

“Put that to the rest,” said I;
“the want is supplied
,—thirty-two and eighteen make up the fifty, I believe.”

“You are refined, James,” said he; and perhaps he would not have said it if he had known the story of the old complaint, which for the time I kept to myself. Self-love has its
weaknesses. If I had told my device, I might have gratified my vanity; but my trick would have become common property, and thereby lost its charm.

After my day’s work, I went home, and was soon asleep.

I acquired a little honour in this matter, although I considered it was not much more than apprentice-work.

I had no objection, however, that my brother bluecoats of the bonny toun should see that M’Levy had not lost the keenness of his scent for such secreted articles as those stolen watches;
and this shows that we have our little drops of enjoyment amidst our cares and anxieties, ay, and dangers, and, thank God, happiness is a comparative affair. The word “danger” suggests
a few words. I have often been asked, “M’Levy, were you never hurt?” My answer being no,—“M’Levy, was you ever afraid?” My answer the same, though I have
been amidst glittering knives before now, ay, and fiery eyes, brighter than the knives; but I early saw that a bold front is the best baton. A detective is done the moment his eye quivers or his
arm falters. If firm, there is no risk, or if any, it is from the cowards. A brave thief has something like an understanding of the relation he bears to the laws and its officers. He has a part to
play, and he plays it with something so much like the honour of the Honeycombs at cards or dice, that it would surprise you. These latter, to be sure, are only sliders too, and the end of their
descent is often deeper than that of their humble brethren of the pea and thimble.

I have only to add, that my men were forthwith brought to trial. The real pith of my histories is to me the
end
; yes all their
charm
to me lies in the tail, although others,
and you may readily guess who they are, may think that the the
sting
lies there. I would not, however, give the fact that Clerk got his seven years, and Mitchell his eighteen months as a
resetter, for all the
eclat
accorded to any ingenuity I had displayed in bringing about these happy consummations.

❖

O
ne night in 1832, I was at the station in Adam Street, at that time a very disreputable part of the town—it is better now—in
consequence of the many bad houses and whisky-shops in the vicinity. There were often rows there, chiefly occasioned by the students, many of whom lodged in the neighbouring streets, so that when
our men were called upon it was generally to quell a quarrel, or carry off some poor degraded wretch of a woman for some drunken violence or pocket-picking. On the occasion to which I now allude
the call upon us was different. The time was late,—past twelve, and the streets were being resigned to the street-walkers and collegians. All of a sudden a shrill scream of a woman’s
voice reached my ear, and, running out, I heard a cry that a man of the name of M’—ie, who lived in Adam Street, had been robbed, or attempted to be robbed, on his own stair. Then there
was a shout, and a pointing by two or three people,—“They are down to the Pleasance.” On such an occasion it has always been my habit not to take up any time by questions for an
account of external appearances, because the answers are tedious, and there is more to be gained by time in a rush in the proper direction, trusting to what I may all “criminal
indications”, than by ascertaining what kind of a coat or hat a man wore, or the length of his nose, or height of body, and so forth. So I noted the index, and took to my toe-points as fast
as I could run, down in the direction indicated, but as lightly as I could, for fear of my tread being carried in the silence of the night on to the ears of the runaways. I may mention, too, that I
stopped several sympathisers, who were inclined to join, but who, I knew, would only scare, and do no good.

I had the pursuit, if such it may be termed, all to myself, but was immediately “called up” by one of those rock-ahead incidents which are so tantalising to our class,—no other
than two roads, each holding out its recommendations to me, the one that the robbers would certainly take to the deep haunts of the Old Town, where the fox-burrows are so inviting and the
difficulty of unearthing not easily surmounted; and the other, that they would seek the outskirts, and so get down to the valley between the Pleasance and Arthur Seat, where they might skulk in the
deep darkness of the night, and so escape. A minute or two would turn the scale, and I must decide even almost as I ran. I have often quivered in this dilemma, and seldom been wrong in my choice;
yet I can’t account for one out of ten of these instantaneous decisions. I really believe I have often been swayed by some very trivial incident, perhaps the shuffle of a foot, perhaps a gust
of wind not heard as such, but simply as something working upon the ear. The barking of a dog has resolved me, the shutting of a door, or even a greater silence in one direction than
another,—nay, to be very plain, and perhaps weak, I have sometimes thought I was led by a superior hand, so directly have I been taken to my quarry. It was so now. It was just as likely the
fellows would go north to the Old Town, or south to the Gibbet Toll,—no gibbet now to scare them. I turned to the left down the Pleasance; even as I ran, and about halfway between my turn and
Mr Ritchie’s brewery, I met one of our men on his beat, coming south, pacing as quietly as if no robbery could have been suspected in his well-watched quarter.

“Met two fellows in a skulk or a run?”

“No one; but before I crossed the foot of Drummond Street, I thought I heard the sound of quick feet, but it stopped in an instant, and I then thought I might have been
mistaken.”

“Then stand you there as steady as a post, but not as deaf. Keep your feet steady, and your ears open.”

I had got just a sniff, and it is not often I have needed more. They had, no doubt, gone that way, and, on observing the officer, had gone into a burrow. I stood for an instant,—no
common-stairs here, no closes, no
cul-de-sac
, no hole even for the shrinking body of a robber. The first glance brought me near my wit’s end, but not altogether. I have always been
led on by small glimpses of Hope’s lamp till I got nearer and nearer her temple, and never yet gave up till all was dark. I stepped to the other side of the street, where there are some bad
houses. No door open, every window shut, and no light within that could be observed. I could walk with the lightest of feet, and proceeded noiselessly along the narrow pavement till I came to
Drummond Street, where there is the recess in which the well stands. I had no hope from that recess because it is comparatively open, and, dark as the night was, they could scarcely have skulked
there without the man on the beat seeing them. Yet I was satisfied also that they could not have gone up by Drummond Street. I may mention that I could hear when almost every other person could
discover nothing but silence; nay, this quickness of the hearing sense has often been a pain to me, for the tirl of a mouse has often put me off my rest when I stood in great need of it. I require
to say nothing of my other poor senses here; they were not needed, for there was nothing to be seen except below the straggling lamps, in the pale light of one of which I saw my man standing
sentry, but nothing more.

Expecting nothing from the recess, I crossed to the angle, rather disappointed, and was rather meditative than listening, foiled than hopeful, when my ear was arrested by one or two deep
breathings,—scared robbers are great breathers, especially after a tussle with a victim. I could almost tell the kind of play of lungs; it speaks fear, for there is an attempt to repress the
sound, and yet nature here cannot be overcome. On the instant I felt sure of my prey, yet I tested my evidence even deliberately. There was more than one play of lungs at work—I could trace
two,—and all their efforts, for they had seen the man pass, and had probably heard our conversation, were not able to overcome the proof that was rushing out of their noses, (as if this organ
could give out evidence as well as take it in,) not their mouths,—fear shuts the latter, if wonder should open it,—to reach my ear, just as if some great power adopted this mode of
showing man that there is a speaking silence that betrays the breakers of God’s laws. Now certain I hastened over to the man on the beat, and, whispering to him to go to the station for
another man, took my watch again. I knew I had them in my power, because if they took themselves to flight, I could beat them at that trick; so I cooled myself down to patience, and kept my place
without moving an inch, quite contented so long as I heard the still half-suppressed respirations.

In a few minutes my men were up, coming rather roughly for such fine work. I took each by the coat-neck,—

“Steady, and not a whisper! They are round the corner,—batons ready, and a rush.”

By a combined movement, we all wheeled round the angle, and before another breath could force itself, we had the two chevaliers in our hands,—even as they were standing, bolt upright
against the gable of the house that forms one side of the recess. Like all the rest of their craft they were quite innocent, only their oaths—for they were a pair of desperate thimblers, whom
I knew at once—might have been sufficient to have modified the effects of their protestations. They were, indeed, dangerous men. They had nearly throttled M’—ie, and in revenge
for getting nothing off him had threatened to murder him. My next object was to get them identified by the people who had raised the cry, for if they had dispersed we might have been—with
nothing on them belonging to the man—in want of evidence, though not in want of a justification, of our capture of two well-known personages. Fortunately, when we got to the station some of
the women were there who identified them on the instant, whereupon they became, as sometimes the very worst of them do, “gentle lambs”, and were led very quietly to their destination in
the High Street. Remitted to the Sheriff, their doom was fourteen years.