DETECTIVE’S ADVENTURES.

Wairarapa Age, 14 March 1929, Page 7

DETECTIVE’S ADVENTURES.

i Teter The Painter.” BATTLE OF SIDNEY STR6ET. ' ELUSIVE LEADER'S ESCAPE. ‘ One morning early in January, 1911 Ithe curtain rang up on the most, amaz drama that he® ever taken place in Britain, says ex-Chief Detective In spector Brust, of Scotiland Yard, wh< veils his story m the “Sunday Chron icle" as follows:— Star fled householders in the Easi End of London awoke with the soun> of the splutter of revolver shots ii their oars. Bullets began to scroair and ricochet above the house tops Frightened crowds gathered in th< streets. Above the sound of firinc eoosld be heard sharp words of military Command. The battle of Sidney Stioe had begun. Some time before the police had jut prised a gang of anarchists and inter national cracksmen who were about t< bring off a coup at a jeweller’s shop ii Houndsditcti. One of the gang lost hi.head and opened fire on the police with an automatic pistol. Finally the gang was run to earth in Sidney Street As (the police closed in they were met ty a fusillade of /slhots. The despera doc-s barricaded themselves behind the wall of a two storeyed house prepares, to die fighting rather than be captured THOUSAND ARMED POLICE.

There was soon, a pitched battle ’ Close upon a thousand police, armed 1 with rifles and assisted by a company /of the Scots Guards in full fighting kit. began to lay siege to the fort. Biil.et.lashed the streets and machine-guns searched the battle-scarred facie of th c anarchists' stronghold. ’ Two field guns were brought up and un-limbered. Fire engines dashed to the scene. The Home Secretary, Mr. Winston Churchill, arrived to direct operations. For .several hours the narchists held the attackers at bay. All but one eventually perished in the fire that broke out in their fortress. That one was the simstiKir leader, Fiitz Svarr — better known as “Peter the Painter."

The world believed that “Peter the Painter" met his death with his companions. But by some means or other he escaped .and to-day is the Commissar for the Northern portion of Georgia in the Soviet Government. iSvarr had a cousin: in London called ■ Jacob Peters, who was often mistaken ■ for him. Even to-day there are people < who still think that Peters l wa® the real “Peter the Painter." It certainly . suited Svarr's purpose to he mistaken ’ for the other upon occasion. I first came into touch with this re- j doubtable character after the murder of the police chief, Count Smolenoff, < in the Crimea. At the request of the L Russian police a rigorous watch was kept upon certain alien elements in the i East End. ,

BEATEN BY “PETER THE PAINTER." The Russian authorities swore that Fritz Svarr had been reported. .at Sevastopol the night before the murder! A few inquiries were made in the East End and there was any amount of evidence to establish that the suspect had never left that district. But from their nature I was certain that the alibis had been- arranged, and that the man seen in various publichouses—and to whose identity perfecFy honest publicans were ready to iswear —was the cousin Jacob Peters. This conviction became a certainty when one of our own Secret Service agents reported the redoubtable Fritz—Peter I the Painter—as passing through Paris on his way home! After that I kept a very close watch. I disguised 1 myself and was known as Karl Schmidt from Hamburg. I pretended that I could not speak a word of English, and conversed all the while in German or Yiddish. I scraped acquaintance with several Russians and was duly taken along to the notorious Anarchists' club in Jubilee Street. But from the very first “Peter the Painter" was suspicious of me. One day, leaning up against the bar of a public-house, I stood talking to two men when he came up. “Well, Herr Nark," he greeted me, “What reports have you put in to day?" Instantly there wins a hush in the ••onversation. All eyes were turned to me. I tried to pass it off as a joke and laughed. But Svarr continued: “You think you are so clever, some of you! Do you think you can fool Peteifi No—nobody can. You're a damned spy!" I made ready to grab his wrist in case he should dive for his gun. He •dodged to the doorway, and stood 1 there. My one regret now is that I did not close with him at the time, no matter the risk. “COME ON—OUT OF IT." Gome on—out -of it. Two- brawny Irish barmen had me by the ears and back of the neck, and the next instant I was on the pavement outside. A crowd collected. “Peter the Painter" and his friends slipped off, and I was arrested. The constable took me to the police station—and of course th& incident ended in the police -station canteen! 'That ended the identity of Karl Schmidt for ever. iSomo weeks later 1 was on my way to the Anarchists' Club when I again came face to face with the Painter. “So your friends the police have put you on the trail again?" he observed—and passed on.

Years passed and I was guarding a British statesman nt Geneva. After the Conference two men came out of the great hall of the Assembly. One wais Litvinoff, whom I had known years before as Finkelstein. I had heard that with him was the dreaded vicepresident of the Cheka—the most dreaded man in Russia to-day. I had heard sg much about this sinister individual that I had often thought, as a matter of curiosity, I would like to see him. And now I did so. He followed Litvinoff out of the hall, and stepped smarty toward the luxurious limousine waiting at the steps. I beheld—“ Peter the Painter." 1 gasped! Fritz Svarr," somtimes alias Jacob Peters, presser of second-hand clothes in the East End of London, criminal, murderer, spy, and international revolutionary—and now arbiter of life and death over hundreds of millions of people! Ho saw me, just lifted his eyebrows a second, then smiled: “Hello, Karl Schmidt!" ho laughed as he gave me a slap on the shoulder and passed on £.o hi® ear without another glance.

I That was not by any means the only | encounter I had with Russian, nevolunonaries. In the days before the iwar scarcely a week passed but the! .Special Branch had an S.O.S. from the) I dreaded organisation. “The Third j Section,” as the Russian Secret Police] wins called, advising us that some desperado was on hi<s way to England. ; Sometimes a wholly false and perfect‘ly dreadful catalogue of crimes would .be tacked on to a men.% record with a view to earning him disfavour with the British police. In time this habit of the Russian 1 Secret Police defeated itself, for nobody attached the slightest importance .to what they isaiid. Russian political agents, however, were continually stirring up trouble for us in various quartt ers. With very few exceptions the Russian refugees in this country before the war behaved themselves. There were many Russians in England .'jin those days who were refugees and '* yet fairly wealthy. Many of these p would attend the monthly meetings of p the Anarchists’ Club, and there mix j with the veritable scum of the earth! I I remember one night down in that , part, we heard that there was likely . 'to be trouble. Frantic reports had arrived from the Third Section that pracQ tically every rapscallion in Europe was to foregather in London upon a ‘'' certain date. I believe the Tsar hemself was in a panic. He had planned < journey to Vienna to visit the old f Emperor Franz Josef, and was ■ ly on the way when he/heard about ■ ( the great London meeting of anarchists. He had his special train turned ‘ back, and scuttled off to Tsarskoe Selo, (Where he hid himself behind a forest of bayonets until the trouble should be reported.

j Though Third Section, information iwas greatly discounted, -one had. of course, to take precautions, and so when this much-discussed meeting took place the building was pretty well surrounded witn police, while others were waiting in case trouble should arise. One sinister thing about this meeting was that for the only time in my life I saw Colonel Kharoff, one of the chiefs Oif the Secret Police of Russia, surrounded by a veritable bodyguard, enter the Ritz Hotel. This looked ominous. Special officers were detached to watch the colonel. 1 knew for a fact that if he ventured town into the East End he would cor-, lainly come back a cornse.

The meeting was duly held, and had not been long in session until there was an uproar. I rushed in, with other police, and saw a man struggling with a number of others who were holdingi him. He was trying to reach a little bearded man who stood /rolling cigarette in fingers which trembled. We immediately gripped the struggling man, but two men. on each side I of him said: ’ “It is not him—they attacked! him!" “Lie! Lie’ " yelled half the meeting. “They are spies! Spies. Down with the spie®! One of the men who had attempted to defend the struggling man turned to me. “You are- a police officer?" ho

[asked. I replied, in the .affirmative. “Get us out," he whispered. “I will explain outside. For God's sake arrest me. Qu.ckly. My life is in danger." I ordered the arrest of te four men, and also the small man rolling hi® sigtorette. At that there was a howl of execration from all over the hall. “We will defend him with our lives," shouted an excitable woman, “Down with the police!" “Bilence! Listen to me!" The voice of the venerable Prince Kropotkin was heard all over the hall, and silence followed. “We have nothing to> fear! he said. “Our comrade is perfectly (safe with the British police. There are those of us here who will vouch for him." So without further ado the five prisoners were marched off to the police station. The man who had requested to be arrested told me on the way that he was Captain Marten of the Propajensky Regiment, loaned to the Third Section. He had visited the meeting on instructioin, been recognised tnd nearly lynched. The little man, 1 e said, was the most dangerous revolutionary of all. The captain had followed the little man half over Efirope and. America. I pointed out that as a secret service officer he was taking a great liberty to attend political meetings in this country, where his presence might lead to a breach of the peace. However, he and his associates were released ana escorted to the West End in cabs. The little man was Lenin! Lenin, future Dictator of Russia, stood calmly in the police station while Prince (Kropotokin, in his quiet a/cccnts. .vouched for him as a good citizen and (a harmless refugee. After the Prince. General Mandorff, a rich refugee, ; from Hampstead, spoke for him, then Baron Kendng, another perfectly re- • rpectable and rich refugee, spoke. I/enin was released, but not before he had paid a glowing compliment to ' i.he efficiency end humanity of our 1 police.