MASTER DETECTIVES OF SCOTLAND YARD.

Otago Witness, Issue 3961, 11 February 1930, Page 8

MASTER DETECTIVES OF SCOTLAND YARD.

By

GEORGE DILNOT.

Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.)

11.—BILLY GOUGH AND THE BENT POKER. There is an engaging and deluding air of simplicity about Billy Gough. There are so many things that he professes to know nothing about. You might talk with him for hours and set any man down as a liar who told you that Gough had been one of the most formidable detectives of Bow Street and Scotland Yard. Put him in a strange place and the confidence men would line up with shame in their minds at taking advantage of his artlessness. It is not a pose either. He knows there are crooks in the world because he has spent his life lighting them, but he prefers to believe that the majority of the ■world is honest. I remember that he once asked me I ■with grave innocence what a “ sucker ” was. And give him a chance and a I quiet hour and you will hear—not stories of mystery and crime but tales of a wonderful wife whom he married just as he was starting his career, and who he thinks is still more wonderful at this day. This is the man who arrested the shrewdest crook lawyer in London, the man who played a big part in running down that gang of racing swindlers who used Goudie, a Bank of Liverpool clerk, as a dupe. This young fellow stole £lOO,OOO from the bank by forgery and lost it all by betting on “ dead ’uns ” carefully selected for him by the gang. All he got for years of penal servitude was a nice box of cigars. I think that in his early days Billy Gough must have owed much success to that deceptive manner of his. The “heads” underestimated him. The old hands stopped that long ago. Although Billy Gough has left Scotland Y'ard, memories of him are still fresh. Curiously enough of the hundreds he has arrested I do not believe there is one who harbours a grudge against him. Certainly he had a friendly feeling toward some of them which did not in the least prevent him from sending them to jail on occasion with promptitude and despatch. But he did it like a gentleman. He was always prepared to do some little favour —it might be the gift of a cigar to a prisoner on his way to penal servitude, it might be a systematic visit to a convicted crook’s family to give a message. To more than one man on his release from prison he has extended a hand that made all the difference. Billy Gough must be getting on for fit) now. He is still as straight as a lance, and has the face and physique of a man of 40. And beneath that mask of natural urbanity there still lurks that habit of thinking in a straight line which served him so well when he was a divisional inspector at Bow Street, and later a chief detective inspector at Scotland Y'ard. It was this habit that enabled him to run down the murderer of Captain Tighe when all apparent clues had burst like bubbles at the first touch.

Captain Tighe was an elderly army officer who lived in a big house—Winkfield Lodge—overlooking Wimbledon Common, one of the finest open spaces on the fringe of London. The old captain was troubled with asthma, and for that reason he slept in a remote room of the house so that his fits of coughing should not disturb his wife or the other occupants. On a November morning in 1917 a maid with an early cup of tea knocked at his door. There was no answer, but that was not unusual. She quietly pushed open the door with the intention of pulling up the blinds. At her first glimpse inside the room the cup crashed from her hands. Her master, fully dressed, was lying unconscious and dying on the floor, his head in a pool of blood.

The girl raised the alarm. Medical help and the police were telephoned for, but the captain was too desperately hurt for any efforts to avail. He died without recovering consciousness. There was no need to look far for the rough details of the crime. A heavy poker, stained with blood and bent with the terrific force of the blows, was found in the bedroom. Tighe had been sitting in a chair by his fire when he had been attacked from behind with this implement. The method of the murder was plain. The motive was not so obvious. The local detectives were puzzled. There was no one known to have any grudge against Tighe, no person against whom suspicion could be levelled who would derive any benefit from his death. That left the theory of burglars. This was supported by the discovery of heelmarks in the garden outside the study window, which was partly open. There was a fingerprint on one of the panes, but the experts found it too blurred to be of any value. Plaster casts were taken of the heelmarks, although the most cursory inspection made it obvious that not one of them was cleancut enough to be of any use for purpose of identity. Nor could the detectives feel certain that the murder was the work of burglars. There were few of the ordinary signs of robbery about the house. Nothing of value was missing. Only after a great deal of trouble was it revealed that two gunmetal watches

belonging to the dead man had gone, as had a raincoat belonging to one of the servants. This was not heavy spoil to take from the house of a well-to-do man as the price of murder. It was noted as a significant fact that the servants’ entrance to Winkfield Lodge had not, by some mischance, been locked or bolted on the night of the murder. A week of hard but fruitless investigation went by before Gough was sent down from Scotland Y’ard. I gather from what he later told me that a preliminary survey of the situation did not make him optimistic. The ordinary professional burglar—in England, at ail events —keeps away from murder. The crime, if it had been committed by some amateur marauder—perhaps a tramp who had noticed an unfastened door—presented almost insuperable difficulties. It left the possibilities so wide that the chances against tracing the murderer were immense. Even greater were the difficulties against the accumulation of proof that would be likely to satisfy a jury. By a paradox it is often harder to solve the mystery of a clumsy murder than a clever one. It is easier to diagnose the processes of mind of a clever murderer.

The fingerprint and the heelmarks having failed. Gough turned to the poker. He learned that it had been taken from the dining room grate. Apparently the robber had picked it up and carried it as a weapon while he prowled about the house. Gough from his extensive experience, knew that most criminals form habits, and set inquiries afoot to discover ii there was any recent case in which a burglar was known to have carried a household poker as a weapon. A little to his surprise he was almost immediately informed of one.

A few weeks before a burglar had broken into a house a few hundred yards distant from Winkfield Lodge. Before he had time to get to work the maroons and sirens woke the neighbourhood as German airplanes drew near to London. The robber, in a panic lest he should be discovered by the household, hastily took his departure. At the tradesman’s gate he left a poker which he had taken from the dining room. This entrance had been left unfastened.

The coincidence was too striking to be ignored. Coincidences are a vital asset to a detective. Although still without a hint as to who the man might be Gough began to feel that he had struck the glimmer of a trail. Still there was a long way to go. Every one nowadays has heard about the fingerprint system. There is a large body of people, however, who would be at a loss to explain a later development of police method, although its essential principles go back to the days of the Bow Street runners. The “M. O. ” system —short for “ modus operandi ” — depends on the fact that most people, particularly habitual criminals, are creatures of habit. There is in 99 cases out of 100 some peculiarity of method about a man who repeats crime that will give him away as the author of a previous effort. The old detectives knew this and could often indicate a criminal by a mere glance at the crime. An extreme instance was the ease of a man who would rob nothing but church offertory boxes. Each burglar, each forger, each hotel thief has some mannerism or series of mannerisms in his work by which he is liable to be betrayed. On this point of psychology Scotland Y’ard has based the “ M. O.” system. Thus the Criminal Record Office at Scotland Y’ard has a department, officially called the “ Crime Index,” which is worked as a clearing house in conjunction with all the police forces of Great Britain. This is entirely devoted to a tabulation of the manner in which crimes are committed. It was to this department that Gough now turned. There was no record of any recent case in which a poker had served as a weapon for a burglar, but there was some account of a series of trifling burglaries in the Streatham district, in which the robber had entered and escaped by means of an unfastened servants’ entrance. The coincidence was very tiny—but Gough was looking for any kind of a coincidence. To the ordinary man it might have seemed a wild and improbable hypothesis to build upon. All the same, Gough felt that it might be worth his while to probe a little closer.

There was only one clue to the identity of the Streatham burglar. It had come to the ears of Scotland Y’ard that he had managed to sell some few articles of stolen jewellery to a working jeweller in Wardour Street, Soho. This man had purchased them quite innocently—they were quite commonplace goods, of no special value—and it was only when the daily list of stolen property which is issued by the London police reached him that he reported the facts. He gave a description of his client, which was not particularly helpful, but declared that he would be able to recognise him again. Gough pored over this description. His knowledge of London crooks was extensive and peculiar, but he corresponded to no one that he remembered. He sought an interview with the jeweller and questioned him closely. There was

nothing fresh to be learned. Nor did the exhibition of a number of photographs of some of the proteges of the Yard help. The only thing that was certain was that some one had sold stolen property. Whether the man was the murderer Gough sought or not, he was unquestionably a breaker of the law. The chief detective inspector gave the jeweller his card.

“ There may be something more serious in this than a mere question of burglary,” he said. “ I want you to help me. If this fellow should come to see you again hand him over to the nearest policeman. Don’t make any mistake about it. If the constable should hesitate to arrest him give him my card and say you are acting on my instructions.”

This was a simple matter of precaution. In fact, Gough scarcely expected the man to come back, especially if by any chance he was responsible for the murder. The thing was, however, a remote contingency, and Billy Gough was not the man to overlook possibilities, even if they were remote. In this instance a very long shot came off. The wanted man did not come back. But a day or two later the jeweller, passing along Wardour street, paused with casual professional interest to inspect the display in the window of a trade rival. His eye wandered to the interior of the shop, and he at once became alertly interested. For there he beheld in consultation with the proprietor no less a person than the young gentleman Gough had urged him to detain at any cost.

He slipped quietly into the shop and managed to get the proprietor aside without attracting the notice of the suspect to himself. Strangely enough, the other jeweller was reluctant to take any action. He may have thought the thing a mare’s nest, he may have felt some diffidence in being mixed up in legal proceedings, or it may have been that he thought his brother jeweller unnecessarily officious. Whatever reason was in his mind, he bluntly refused to do anything. The other was in a quandary. To go away to call an officer would be to afford the suspect a chance of escape. So he waited outside the shop, and when his man at last emerged he followed closely in his wake, keeping an eye open for a policeman. Now in the West End of London policemen are usually as thick as the proverbial leaves in Vallamorosa. By a perverse freak of Providence none were to be met with that day until they reached Piccadilly Circus. With Gough’s card in his hand the jeweller gave a hasty explanation to one of the men on traffic duty. The policeman wasted no time. Leaving the tangle of cars and buses to sort itself out, he crossed the road and laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of the suspect.

“ Half a moment, my lad,” he said. “ I want you to come to the station with me.”

The other tried to wrest himself free. “What for? ' 5 he demanded aggrievedlv. “ You’ll know all about it in time,” retorted the constable, locking a hand about the prisoner’s wrist. “ Come along.”

Gough’s card and the story of the jeweller afforded the police at Vine street ample justification for holding the man on suspicion of being concerned in the Streatham burglaries. He gave his name as Gray and at first refused any account of himself. A ’phone call to Scotland Y’ard brought Gough in a hurry to Vine street, and he had a talk with the prisoner, who had no idea at the time that the tall ingenuous chief inspector suspected him of murder. But he was incautious enough to give his address—it was a single room, rented at a few shillings a week—and that place Gough soon examined thoroughly and scientifically. The search had not proceeded far before Gough became satisfied that his long shot had come pretty close to the middle of the target. Under the bed was a tin trunk, among its contents being a pair of khaki trousers. In one of the pockets was found a gunmetal watch bearing on the dial the name “ Angelus.” It Was one of those which had been stolen from Winkfield Lodge. Further search revealed another oxidised wateh and the stolen raincoat.

All this was good. If Gough had been a detective out of a book he would have finished here. Being an experienced police officer lie knew that much more was necessary. The possession of these stolen articles alone would not be sufficient to bring about a conviction. Somehow the crime had to be brought still closer home. No living soul had seen the murderer at or about the time the murder was committed, so that there was no hope of bringing evidence to show that he had been in the vicinity of Winkfield Lodge at the time. Gray was aaked to give a recital of his movements on that night, but he was not to be drawn. He kept his mouth tightly shnt. As anything in the nature of third degree questioning is jealously prohibited in England Gough let him alone for the time and concentrated on finding out

something of his antecedents. Meanwhile he burned his boats and had the prisoner charged with murder. The history of a man once in custody can seldom remain a mystery long. With the machinery of Scotland Yard at his disposal Gough found it simple to discover the leading facts of the accused man’s career. He was of French birth, and had been brought to England when he was three years old. His real name was Victor de Stamir. From childhood he had been an unregenerate rascal. He was still a schoolboy under 14 when he was first charged with theft. He got away with that, but a year later he embarked on a burglary and was sent to a reformatory for three years. On his release his people gave him an opportunity to run straight. He was a congenital rogue, however, and he soon tired of the monotony of honesty. Since he could not escape the vigilance of his parents while he remained at home, he determined to run away. For some years trace of him was lost. Then news reached his home that he had been sentenced to a term of penal servitude for certain nefarious operations in Australia. Ultimately he came back to England in an attempt to re-enact the role of the prodigal son. His father, however, was disinclined to kill the fatted calf. Young de Stamir was given to understand that he could expect nothing more from his family.

War had broken out time, and, in common with hundreds of . thousands of other young fellows de Stamir was roped into the British Army. As military slang has it, he proved one of the King’s. bad bargains. The discipline of a soldier’s life irked him and he found the rough and ready manner in which some of his habits were corrected painful. So when an opportunity came he quietly resorted to civilian clothes and burglarious employment. His name was posted as that of a deserter in the I’oliee Gazette. He engaged a room in the name of Gray, and with consummate impudence told his landlady that he was on the staff of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Army police. Thus he avoided awkward questions as to his absence from the fighting forces, and provided himself with a first-class excuse for strange comings and goings at all hours. For the time he thoroimhlv enjoyed himself. He fancied himself as a lady-killer, and there were certain girls to whom he was a hero. There was also another girl of a different type—an innocent young woman of good family whom he imposed upon sufficiently to gain her consent to their engagement. Gough was familiar enough with men of the type of de Stamir—criminals who are not far removed from petty sneak thieves, and whose practice is to piek up what they can at likely looking and unguarded suburban houses. The status of de Stamir was shown by the fact that he di<l not even know of a proper “ fence ” with whom to dispose of his loot. The detective was not surprised to pick up the trail of a series of burglaries of this small sort which could fairly be attributed to the prisoner. Indeed, in. the fortnight which had elapsed between the murder and his capture he had had the impudence or the folly to take part in five fresh robberies. If it had been a mere question of proving the man a thief, the thing would have been easy. But though a man is a mean little crook, he may still be innocent of murder. As I have said the articles discovered in de Stamir’s room would not alone suffice to convict him. Gough had one card left to play. There were plenty of indications of the sort of man de Stamir was. He was supremely vain of his own cleverness—a kind of sentimental Tommy of crime. The detective resolved to play on his vanity. He formed a subtle plan, which had been used both consciously and unconsciously be detectives before. He ordered that an attitude of ex-

treme indifference should be adopted by those who came in contact with the prisoner. Periodically de Stamir was taken between Brixton Prison and

Wimbledon for the preliminary police court proceedings. His escort was carefully picked and given instructions. Then de Stamir was tickled to find that instead of being conveyed to and fro in the ordinary “ Black Maria,” he was treated to the luxury of a cab. Thus he was put on tete-a-tete terms with his escort. A man of de Stamir’s temperament, who has been in a lonely cell for a period is, in such circumstances, disposed to conversation. All de Stamir’s efforts in this direction, however, were met with a grunt and a yarn. Tills detached attitude was more than the other could stand. Here he was, accused of a serious murder and no one seemed to get excited about him. He began to talk of the proceedings. “ Of course I was there,” he declared. “ But I didn’t hit the old man. The chap who was with me did that.” The police officer languidly shrugged his shoulders. “ Better not talk about it,” he warned. “ If you say anything I may have to use it as evidence.” The other sat up. “ I didn’t murder him,” he declared. “ If you want to know I’ll tell you.” “ Just as you say,” agreed his companion, bored beyond endurance. “ Only if I were you I’d wait till we get back to the prison and then write it down.” Now all of this was strictly legal and correct. No one might question de Stamir. But he was entirely entitled to volunteer information even if it hanged him—as it did. Gough was informed of the success of his ruse, and at the prison he sat while de Stamir concocted and wrote a story which he imagined would enable him to evade the consequences of the major charge. The effect of this state-

ment was that he and another deserter had planned the burglary at Winkfield Lodge, but that it was the other mail who had picked up the poker and committed the murder. So out of his own mouth it was shown that he was present at the commission of the crime. Now he was a little bit hazy on his law. Even if an accomplice had killed the old man de Stamir was equally guilty of murder in a legal sense. But Gough, of course, took steps to test the statement. It crumbled to bits at once. There was no other man. The murder had been the work of one person. It was, as the lawyers say, an open and shut case which came to trial at the Old Bailey. The prisoner went into the witness box and made a pitiable exhibition when cross-examined on the material Gough had supplied. The jury did not even retire to consider a verdict, and de Stamir was duly hanged in February, 1918.

“ The thing was a long shot.” agreed Billy Gough to me a few days ago, “but the fellow really hanged himself. If he hadn't talked ” . He paused. “By the way, did I ever tell you how Mrs Gough won a gold medal for cookery?”