A Detective's Story

One morning, while I was in the Tombs police court a tall, fine looking woman of about thirty-five was brought in, charged with shoplifting. She was dressed in what was evidently the remains of better days, and her appearance, on the whole, was not unprepossessing. She seemed in no wise embarrassed by the position in which she was placed. She answered in a clear, unfaltering voice all the questions that were asked her, giving her name as Alice Brown, and her residence No. – East Fifteenth street. 

“She’s an old offender,” said Detective B., who happened to be standing by my side, “and she’s sure to be sent up.” 

“You know her?” I inquired. 

“Oh, yes. She was at one time a ‘kleptomaniac.’ It’s queer, isn’t it, that what is shoplifting in the case of a poor woman becomes ‘kleptomania’ when the criminal is a millionaire’s wife? I know dozens of these ‘kleptomaniacs,’ and they are nearly all women. I’ll tell you a little story about one of these the first chance I get.” 

Two or three days later I met B. again, and reminded him of his promise. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, “I remember. The story is not a very remarkable one, but it has the merit of being true; and, as it illustrates a phase of New York society which is usually kept shady, it may interest you.” 

“One morning, some years ago, Mrs. Clifford, the wife of old Darrell Clifford the… Read More