MASTER MAN-HUNTERS

Otago Witness, Issue 3954, 24 December 1929, Page 8

MASTER MAN-HUNTERS

By

JOSEPH GOLLOMB.

VII.—THE BOY TERROR OF PARIS.

It takes only 15 short minutes to fly from England across the. Channel to France. But to the criminal Hying before the hunting pack of Scotland Yard those ,15 minutes must bring a vivid change. It must be something like the difference between being hunted by plodding, ■unremitting. sure-scented bloodhounds ®n the one hand and on the other hand

being potted at by marksmen who shoot •without seeing their quarry, but take aim by brilliant calculation. Nine times out of ten the shot may go wide. But the tenth goes through the heart.

Part of the difference between Scotland Yard and the police of Paris is due to temperamental differences between the two most unlike neighbours in the world, the English and the French. And partly the difference in the hunting tactics of the two detective systems is due to the differences in the game they hunt. It is one thing to figure by triangulation where an approaching, but as yet invisible warship will be at a given moment and by calculation shoot at it; and it is quite another thing to try the same thing with a darting, swerving, dizzily twisting airplane equipped with dynamite darts and piloted by a daredevil afire with recklessness and imagination.

It is not for nothing, therefore, that in modern fiction the greatest detective is an Englishman and the most brilliant criminals are French. It is only natural that Scotland Yard the greatest criminal hunting organisation in the world, should inspire the creation of Sherlock Holmes; and that French writers, from Le Blanc, Gaboriau, Eugene Sue and Dumas to Victor Hugo should have been inspired by the vivid imagination and daring of the French criminal. And it is these qualities that make up the problem for the Paris police.

To bring this out clearly, let us consider Tete d’Or, a golden-headed, twelve-year-old Paris pickpocket. It is worth while going into the youngster’s early life somewhat, partly for the good story it makes, partly to illustrate what the police of Paris have to contend with.

The father of Tete d’Or was Duchesne, a pickpocket, who followed or rather travelled with a French circus. Here he met and loved a pretty and vivacious circus rider, Vivienne Lechamp. Both were mere youngsters, took life merrily, had not much sense of responsibility, and were but little sobered by the coming of their child, the little villain of this story. His hair of spun gold and his angelic expression gave little Pierre Duchesne his nickname, wherever he went, through life. A wiry, sharp-witted, heartless little devil he grew up in the travelling circus and absorbed its qualities as a monkey absorbed tricks. He was always smaller and younger looking than his age, which made his exceptional intelligence and keenness all the more startling.

He learned all about animals and their tricks, and copied unconsciously the furtiveness and swiftness of the great cats in the cages. He even learned to tease them and snatch his little hand a fraction of an inch from tlie outlash of steel claws.

From this he progressed to teasing the circus hands, who were helpless against the fleet-footed midget who shot through mazes of circus wagons and tangles of rope as smoothly as a fish glides through water. He would dive between the legs of an infuriated tent striker and bound off like a rubber ball.

He could make leaps almost like the trapeze performers. He could writhe out of a strong man’s fingers like an eel. And so clever ■were his escapes that it was hard to bear him grudges—which

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.)

gave the youngster all the more confidence in his wits and in his heels. His mother, who took her responsibility as a parent more lightly than a child takes its emotion toward a doll, had good times with her Tete d’Or. Her own hair of gold was the source of most of the fun. She would throw it over her face and the youngster could see nothing but a screen of hair. At first it frightened him; then it get him interested. He, too, wanted to hide

his face with his hair and, so to speak, disappear in a twinkling. As he had inherited his golden, shaggy head from his mother, it was not hard for her to teach the youngster the trick which he used a few years later in Paris to such good effect—for himself. Or she would dress her hair in any number of ways, each so different and producing such startling changes that there seemed to be a different person with each change. This, too, Tete d’Or learned to do with his own hair; and later used it on a baffled public in Paris streets.

His father also liked to play with the youngster. One day he tossed up and down a golden 20-franc piece until Tete d’Or, whose sharp green eyes always lit up greedily at the sight of money, clamoured for it. Duchesne handed it over without a fuss, to the boy’s surprise, he rather expecting a licking instead.

“ Put it into your pocket,” his father said with a sly smile, ” or somebody will take it away from you.” Tete d’Or shoved the gold coin deep into the pocket of his smock, a crafty grin on his angelic countenance.

“ Hub, I’d like to see anybody take it from me,” he grunted. His father mussed his son’s golden hair playfully, and gave him a friendly pat or two. Then he said:

“ Careless youngster, you've already lost that louis.”

“I did not!” exclaimed Tete d’Or indignantly. But his father smilingly held up the coin between the clever fingers which had just picked the boy’s pocket. The youngster stared, startled, outraged, fascinated. How had that miracle happened? He clamoured for the coin again; got it easily, and as easily it became again prey to his father’s deft fingers. Tete d’Or asked how his father had done the trick.

“ I ll show you,” his father said. “ But if you hope to keep the coin, you’ll have to learn how to do it yourself.” Whereupon the pickpocket took his son’s own clever fingers between his and taught him how to keep them limber, sensitive, and deft; how to slip them into a pocket unfelt and unseen; how to steal them out again with loot between them. He had him practice first on himself; then on his mother—to the huge amusement of both parents. Then he taught

him to do it on the others in the circus, but the others saw nothing in it to be amused at, though many of them admired the little fellow’s devilish skill in his new tricks. A new world opened to Tete d’Or. He used to watch with envy the children of townsfolk flock into the circus, their pockets stuffed with bonbons their parents had bought them, with small coins given them to spend, with personal treasures which boys would consider worth showing off even at a circus. Tete d’Or would regard these with envy. Now he looked at them with craft in his eyes. lie would mingle with the children in the entering crowds or when they left after the performance. That night in many a home there wont up the wail of youngsters who had lost some treasure or other from their pockets and did not in the least know' how they came to lose something they had guarded so carefully. Then, when Tete d’Or was 10 years old, came the terrible end to his life with, the circus. One night while the circus was playing in a suburb of Paris, Tete d’Or’s father came back late to the van

in which he, his wife, and child lived. He was heavy with drink. His wife and Tete d’Or, somewhat used to his coming home late and in this condition, undoubtedly slept on. Duchesne must have gone on smoking after he got into bed. For the wagon caught fire, an overturned kerosene lantern furiously fed the flames —and when it was all over Duchesne and his wife were no more. But from the burning ruins of the circus van crept a blackened little figure, as miraculously escaped from the clutches of fire as he so often t scaped from every other clutch.

The orphan was not popular enough for any one of the circus to adopt him. So the authorities were notified and a local orphan asylum sent a man to collect the youngster. I think the word collect describes it. For Tete d’Or decided that he did not want to go with the orphan asylum man. He wanted to remain with the circus. So for the next two hours he roamed all over the place—under wagons, on top of animal cages, in with the hyenas, huddled inside a box not much bigger than a satchel, and wound up by clambering up the side of the big tent and perching on top of the centre pole.

It took most of the circus hands two hours to lay their hands on him for good. He was then trussed up like a calf, feet bound, + hrown into a wagon and carried off to the orphanage. With this experience in mind the orphanage authorities kept a close watch over Tete d’Or. It was clear from the start that there would be little love lost between the orphanage and Tete d’Or. 'The other children soon began missing their pathetic little treasures, and a search of Tete d’Or’s bed revealed most of them hidden there.

Tete d’Or was given a beating by the head of the dormitory. Whereupon he reciprocated by kicking the man’s shins black and blue, slipped out of his grasp, doubled down the hall and made for liberty. He was running head down like a hutting goat and much fleeter, when his head buried itself in the waistline of a corpulent attendant. After the shock and explosion that followed Tete d’Or was locked up in a dark room on bread and water.

But in his circus existence he had never experienced walls he could not tear, break or dig through. So he pounded at the plaster until he found a spot that thudded hollow, and kicked away at this till a small hole appeared. It was all he needed.

The children of the orphanage wore in the big yard at formal drill, but their minds were agog at the new boy who was creating such a furore in the institution. Now, however, he had met his

fate, bread and water in the dreaded dark room. So agitated were they that in spite of strict orders from the dormitory head, who had battled with Tete d’Or and who was drilling them at this moment, there was a whispering in the ranks. The dormitory head had just thundered an order for silence when from the main building into the yard darted an apparition.

It was small in stature, white with plaster and black with soot from the top of his smudged head of gold to the soles of his orphanage shoes. He was scudding like a rabbit across the yard toward the gate, which was at this time locked, its bars seven feet high. The youngster’s path lay where the dormitory head now stood staring at him, while the eyes of the children popped almost out of their heads. Straight at their tyrant plunged Tete d’Or, this time seeing ami knowing what he was doing. The dormitory head tried to seize him, but the youngster was too fast for

him ami his soiled golden head crashed into the stomach of the tyrant, knockin'’ the wind out of him and stretching him out flat, while Tete d’Or sped on to the high and locked gate. And the hysterically cheering children saw this child of the circus climb the barred seven-foot gate like one of the monkeys that he was brought up with. On top of the fence his love of theatrical effect made him stop, rise, and blow ironical kisses to the infuriated orphanage keepers who raced toward him. Then with a leap through the air he landed on the sidewalk outside lightly as a cat and was off toward Paris. It was Tete d’Or’s first scrimmage with authorities. He won it, and it gave him an appetite for more. -Also it convinced him that he preferred liberty to sheltered confinement. A fashionable carriage brought Tete d’Or to Paris without the driver's knowledge, since the youngster had somehow tucked himself away under the carriage and rode this way into the City of Light, where he was soon to shine in his own wav.

He collected his dinner that night from different food stalls in the big markets without the formality of paying. He could not have paid in the first place, since he had not a sou in his ragged pockets, ami it is doubtful if he would have paid for his meal in any event. Cheaper to take it when the owner was not looking. But money had its use, so Tete d’Or looked around for an easy way to buy his first night’s lodging if necessary. A stout market woman doing a good business in oranges drew his sharp green eyes by the frequency with which she dropped money into a wide-mouthed leather bag at her belt. Tete d’Or hovered in the distance, studying the lay of the land, the short cuts to hiding places and narrow' places between piles of market crates. Then he started on a run for the woman.

When he reached her he pretended to slip on a peel and knocked the woman off her feet. He saw to it that the mix-up of the fall was considerable. When the market woman finally disentangled herself her leather bag was torn off her and she saw’ her day’s earnings running off across the market place on two small, but fast legs.

She raised an alarm and the market, place started after Tete d’Or. But that was as far as they got. For the youngster seemed to vanish into a lot of crates, and tw’o hours of search yielded

the market people nothing but commotion of their own making. But the police were notified and a youngster with a “ head of gold ” was now, for the first time, on police rosters as “ wanted.” It was not to be the last time.

Tete d’Or worked his way through a wilderness of market crates, came out on a back street, and wandered aw’ay. In the course of an hour he found himself outside the high iron fence of tho Jardin des Plants, where there is also a zoological garden. He peered through the pickets and saw familiar formewild animals.

The zoo was closed, and the fence was high. But Tete d’Or wanted to get inside—the rest was easy. He clambered over the fence, had the zoo to himself for his visit, and selected the African ibex for the honour of playing host. His choice was due less to Tete d’Or's scientific interest than to the fact that the ibex had a warm house and plenty of straw in it. That night the ibex was troubled by the presence of a strange lodger, and, apparently knowing that his involuntary host was a gentle creature, slept undisturbed.

With the same agility he had entered the zoo. Tete d’Or left it before the attendants were up, and made a gorgeous meal in a little cafe on the market woman’s money. Then he sallied forth to conquer Paris. The marketing crowds at the outdoor stalls in Boulevard Raspail attracted his interest because of the many housewives who carried their purses accessible to Tete d’Or. The son of Duchesne, the pickpocket, trained to filch from a professional pickpocket, found housewives easy.

If they noticed him at all, it was to wish that such a nice little boy, with such pretty golden hair, had a better home than one would guess from his unkempt appearance. Certainly his demure face, grimy though it was, gave them no clue that very soon they would be missing their purses. Five modest market allowances that morning combined to give Tete d’Or a good send-off on his Paris career.

He went to a bath establishment and got rid of much of the grime of his adventures. At a clothing store he outfitted himself, paying for the larger articles, filching the smaller. Then he explored Paris and decided he liked it. He next found a motherly looking

janitress. Something I have not touched upon was the youngster's literary talent. He could lie like an artist. lie lied amply, colourfully, with a fine sense of realism; and with it went an actor’s talent for looking whatever part he was playing. Some of it he got from his circus training; much was natural endowment. He brought all of it to bear on the story he told that janitress. He was the son of a nobleman whose name he did not want to mention, lest he be forced to go back to his father’s castle. But his father was a terrible drinker and beat the little golden-haired son of his until life at home became unendurable. So he had run away. But a faithful servant was sending him money secretly and would continue to do so until the terrible father died—which would happen soon, as the old man was stricken with a rapid and fatal disease. On his death Tete d’Or would inherit the big estate and would return as master of it. In the meanwhile, couhl the kind janitress give him a corner to sleep in? He would pay for it.

The kind-hearted and at the same time shrewdly calculating janitress believed the story and gave him a little room off her own cubbyhole of a home. Here she made him at ease and tended him as a mother. He told her he wanted to go to school and was duly enrolled. But he s]>ent his “ school ” hours exploring minutely the shopping quarter around the Samaritaine, a big department store near the Seine. This he chose as his hunting ground for some time.

Next he bought a coat of a secondhand clothing dealer, deliberately chosen because it was too big for him. It covered him almost from head to heels and hung in wide and ample folds about his person. He then borrowed sewing material from his landlady—for another tenant he told her. But in secret he went to work on that huge overcoat converting it to his purposes.

He cut slits in the side pockets through which his hands could glide outside his garment, when he looked as

though they were buried deep in his own pockets. He also made many and ample sized inside pockets.

Then he " went to school.’’ In and out of the shopping crowd around the Samaritaine he jostled and pushed, to the indignant protests of women and mon whose pockets he explored when he seemed to be merely huddled in his great coat. But when they saw his angelic face ami apparently poverty-stricken garb, they forgave him. But later they cursed whatever thief it was that [licked their pockets, as they soon found them to be. Complaints began to pour into police ears. Finally a detective was assigned to look out for the pickpocket. He was a typical detective from the big headquarters on Quai des Orfevres, overlooking the beautiful Seine—dark, with a small moustache and black curly hair, a vivacious sparkle in his brown eyes, gestures in his talk, and plenty of both—temperamental, compared with the equable-tempered men of Scotland Yard be worked more easily on his own book than as part of a team. Therein he was truly Latin, and different from the Scotland Yard man. w hose instinct and talent are for team work.

The French Hie, as the Parisians rather disrespectfully nickname him, is more a creature of imagination than the detective of any other country. He dramatises his problems in his mind, looks for some equally dramatic way of solving them, and does everything but patiently plod in his work. Instead of putting in much time trying to get a description of the pickpocket, he was sent out to find, M. Dubois, as we shall call him, dressed himself up as a prosperous provincial, in Paris out for a good time. Then, visiting the cafes in the neighbourhood of the Samaritaine, he spent a good deal of time at the little tables outside, where all the world in Paris sips its coffee and other liquid refreshment when the weather is fair.

He paid the waiters often, showing as he did so a wallet well stuffed with bills. Then he sauntered through the shopping crowds and found many an occasion to take out his wallet, as though in search of addresses written down. Carelessly he would replace the wallet in an outside pocket. But each time he did so, he secretly attached the wallet to a bit of string fastened to the inside of his pocket. Suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd he felt a tug at his pocket. He glanced down and saw a fish had bolted the bait. Swiftly he reached for the collar of an overcoat much too big for the youngster, whose face he could not see because of a screen of golden hair, which completely hid the features.

But the string attached to the detective’s wallet led straight into the inside of the little boy's coat. Not for long, for suddenly the link snapped, the little boy became a writhing fury, and broke from the detective's grasp. In and

out of the crowd the youngster burrowed like a rabbit, the detective close at his heels.

Dubois' hand was only a few inches from the youngster’s loose overcoat when the latter deliberately upset an elderly woman, and the detective, to avoid stepping on her. had to stop for an instant. ’That was sufficient.

Down the mouth of an alley darted Tete d’Or. He knew every inch of that alley and its other exit on the next street, for he had studied it beforehand.

Even a.i he ran into it. he stripped his large overcoat, rolled it into a ball, threw it into a cellar window he had so arranged that it would close immediately the coat was inside; and was down the other alley by the time the detective entered the first.

Without stopping. Tete d’Or took out a comb and whipped his hair back over his head. A second later he was out on the next street. When the detective came out on a breathless run a few seconds later, he saw no long-coated youngster scudding away.

He saw no one who in the least resembled him. Looking wistfully into a toy-shop window was a frankfaced, nicely dressed schoolboy in black knicker suit, his blonde hair demurely brushed back, and on his head the little cap which French students wear. ” Did you see a boy in a long overcoat run out of this alley?” the detective gasped. " Yes. monsieur," the little boy replied respectfully. ”He ran down to the embankment.”

The detective hustled down to the Seine, while the demure little boy waited about for some time. Then he sidled back into the alley and some minutes later came out carrying a package done up in newspaper. It was Tete d’Or's overcoat, the trick pockets inside full of the day's booty.

In the privacy of his home Tete d'Or examined interestedly the wallet which had nearly cost him his liberty. It had been fastened with a string to a stranger's pocket, apparently soon after Tete d’Or had seen it as unattached as any other wallet.

For the boy had been watching Dubois before he picked his pocket—as Dubois had hoped the unknown pickpocket would do. The string made Tete dOr think. Either the man was very shrewd for a provincial; or he was a detective. He decided on the more cautious conclusion. It was that he did not want to run the risk of arrest.

More agreeable was it to have someone else run the risk, while Tete d’Or reaped the benefits of pocket picking. So he studied the sharp-witted little ragamuffins in a tough section of the city, made friends with five of them, led them in games and petty thieving from apple carts and proved himself a natural leader.

Then he hinted of a way he knew whereby they could get much more than by rifling apple carts, with less risk of getting a whipping. When they showed themselves interested he took them to a vacant lot and showed them what clever fingers could do in strangers’ pockets. All the lioys were interested, which was a tribute to Tete d’Or’s shrewdness in reading character; and all but one proved apt pupils. Tete d’Or then organised the band. He assigned districts for each boy wherein to operate; showed them how to study the lay of the land}

how to make garments like his own greatcoat; how to dodge and twist; bow to watch outside the police stations and detective bureaux and learn who the detectives were; and to acquire other useful knowledge.

1 hen he proposed a compact to them, lie, as leader of the band, would plan everything and get half the takings as his share. The compact was sealed when each boy pricked his finger with a pin and mingling it with the blood of

others, smeared a mystic symbol on his breast. Tete d’Or did not let his followers risk their new careers on full-grown problems at first. He had them begin as he had done—with their own family. From this he had them pick the pockets of children when school was out; then servants at the street fairs. It was only when his lieutenants showed themselves better than their victims, that he let them go on to bigger game. Meanwhile, Detective Dubois who for understandable reasons did not re-

port to his superiors the loss of his wallet, combed the city in vain for the youngster in the long overcoat. He hunted alone, which is characteristic of the Paris detective. He devised many another clever bait for the pickpocket he was hunting; shot at him, so to say, without seeing him. Nine times his shot went wide; and the tenth had not yet found its mark.

Then a perfect epidemic of juvenile pickpockets broke out. Reports from all over the city came of boys who

snatched purses, dodged down alleys and were never seen again. Dubois’ compared it with his own experience. Ha, either the same boy or confederates of his! A band, perhaps!” he said to himself. ‘‘That would make it easier to handle!” He still had faith in his device of a string attached to a wallet, wherewith to catch his fish. But this time he added a fishhook; or rather, several of them. Also he had reason to suspect that his identity was known to the gang he was fishing for. So he engaged the co-operation of a friend of his, a pretty actress, who wore a striking looking coat of mannish pattern with pockets on the outside. 'The coat was specially made for the purpose. Mlle. Suzannee mingled with shoppers in every part of the city where the pickpockets were reported and dropped her purse into one of the outside pockets every time she used it. which was often and conspicuously. Finally, one morning in the thick of a crowd on the avenue de I'Opera she ielt a tug at her coat and a sharp outcry. She looked down and saw a boy's hand in her outside pocket. He was a dark-faccd little ragamuffin, his eyes blazing with pain and fright, his hand till in her pocket. “ Please, mademoiselle, my hand —got -.•aught— ’’ lie stammered. “In my pocket How strange! Come ;nd we’ll see about it.” The youngster moved off with her, wincing with each step that they took. His hand, still in her pocket, seemed the cause of his ’pain. In a drug store stood Dubois waiting for his fish. When the woman entered with the youngster a doctor had to extricate the boy's hand from the nest of fishhooks which bad been so fastened inside the pocket that a hand could easily get into it, but had five steel barbs to contend with in getting out—unless one knew the fishhooks were there. “Well, little devilfish, shall we go to the chief of police?” asked Dubois, “or

shall we go to where you meet your fellow [lickpockets? ”

The youngster's loyalty was not equal to the test, and he consented to betray fete d'Or. That night when the goldenheaded leader of the band got home he saw nothing wrong in his room, until from behind the curtain issued Dubois and grabbed him by the golden hair, which he knew would not come off.

Dubois was not taking chances by now. So he handcuffed Tete d'Or, and tied bis feet with some rope he found in the room. Tete d'Or threw himself to the floor apparently in a hysterical rage. But he fell with his feet near a jog in the wall, which presented an edge of rough cement.

Dubois meanwhile examined the boy’s room. Here he found evidence of a welldefined taste in reading, for he had quite a library in his room. He had collected it from the little bokstalls that line the left bank of the Seine; and undoubtedly had done his shopping hi the same way

he got his money. The books all dealt with the exploits of Cartouche, Mandrin, and other famous French criminals. Dubois looked down on his prisoner as he examined his library. “There's no use of your wriggling so hard, little worm! ” he said. “You're caught! ” Then he went to the door to open it and carry Tete d’Or out. But at that moment Tete d’Or went out of the window. For his “ wriggling,” which Dubois said would do him no good, consisted of chafing his rope-tied feet against the rough cement jog in the wall until the rope was worn through. So astounded was Dubois to sec the youngster dive head first through the window without bothering to open it, that for some moments he remained gaping. When he finally dashed to the broken window he saw little but night. The window was on the ground floor. Tete d'Or knew every inch of his courtyard, and was even then scuttling down dark streets, his handcuffed hands exposing him to capture every moment. But he managed to reach a “ fence ” he knew, a receiver of stolen goods, who sawed oft' the steel links. For a week Tete d'Or remained at liberty. But the

Baine youngster, who preferred his own liberty to Tete d’Or’s, again betrayed him. This time Dubois landed him in a cell. He was tried in court and found guilty. The judge, knowing how a year seems an interminable period to youth, tried to impress the gravity of the sentence he was passing. “ I shall have you confined for a year ” he began. The green-eyed little prisoner spoke up with a sneer. “Huh, a year is only 12 months!” Then his little ratlike eyes darted about the room. He had been using them to some purpose for the past half hour. “ But,” he added, “ even 12 months is too long! ” The prisoner's dock had a little balustrade about it. Springing to it before the attendant could seize him Tete d’Or launched off from it as a trapeze performer from a springboard, and leaped to the- judge’s desk; from there to the floor; tore open the door and was out of it three inches in front of the attendants. The door slammed in their faces. Ihe court was in a wild uproar. The little rascal was fleeing down the corridors and steps, dodging dizzily in and out of rooms. One of them was full of papers and documents piled everywhere. On a desk stood a kerosene reading lamp. Snatching this up Tete d’Or shrieked: “ Stand out of the wav or I’ll throw it! ” The captors made a dash at him, the lamp crashed to a pile of papers, the kerosene spilled, the flames caught. It was amid this scene of men trying to stamp out fire and at the same time capture him, that Tete d’Or made his involuntary bow from the hitherto ample stage he had held.

The year of confinement was also a year of instruction to Tete d’Or. He picked up knowledge of crime as fast as he had learned circus tricks. He became a promising disciple of the heroes he loved to read, the Cartouches of to-day. At the end of his year of confinement he was sent to a reformatory. It did not take him one week before he made his first leap for freedom. It was his last. He had measured his chances of landing on a narrow ledge pne storey below the window from which he leaped. But he was out of practice and his foot missed its mark by B-quarter inch—enough to break his neck. Which was probably what the Government would have done for him eventually with its specially constructed machine used for capital punishment in France. Tete d’Or was only 12 years old. In his precocity he was, of course, Tete d’Or. But in his daring, dash, and imagination he was a true Frenchman of the criminal classes. That is why in any account of the French police, the story is usually one principally concerning the exploits of the criminal, who sets the pace, plays the tune and leads the dance for the police to follow. But in Paris, police have to deal with fellow-countrymen of kindred endowments. So that if the French criminal sets the tune, sooner or later he ha« to pay the fiddler. And the whole makes French police records a rich and fascinating library.