A Detective's Story

by E. W. N.

“Yes, many a shrewd fellow has been trapped because of some habit of expression that gave him away,” said Hal Todd, one night as we sat in his office. “Jim West is an instance of that,” he added. “Did I ever tell you about him?”

“No, never heard of him,” was the response; “give us the story,” and we settled ourselves comfortably, for a man like Hal Todd cannot be on the police force ten years and a detective twenty more without having a stock of yarns worth listening to.

“I think it was in the fall ’80. I came home one night from Chicago all fagged out. I hoped I would not have a call to leave town for at least week. Slept late next morning, and was just eating breakfast when a dispatch came from Briggs, who has a big factory up in Monroe county; said his safe had been robbed of $8000 and valuable papers; wanted me to come or send a good man at once.

“I wired him to keep particulars quiet as he could; that I’d leave on next train.

“When I got to Rochester, had half a mind to turn back, but heard such mixed up rumors of the affair I got interested; and once you get interested you forget to be sick, tired or anything else. After a little talk with Briggs, who told me I might trust the night watch implicitly, and depend upon him to anything he was capable of doing, I called upon him. His name was Watson. He was intelligent and honest-looking, but nervous after the night’s experience.

His story was this: He had the habit of walking with his hands crossed behind his back. As he was going through the packing-room on his round, peering into the shadows, which are grotesque enough in the dim light allowed to burn there all night, he was shackled and gagged in the same instant, and the next minute, in spite of kicks, he was blindfolded and tied. After that he knew nothing till released by the porter.

“Mr. West told me I’d be caught so, if I didn't quit walking that way; he said no man ought to keep habits that would get him into trouble,” was his remark, after giving me the particulars so far as he knew them.

“Who is Mr. West?’ I asked. 

He then gave me Mr. Jim's story: How he had come there from Dayton, Ohio, to be Mr. Briggs’s confidential clerk; everybody liked him, and all were ready to put on mourning when be left, a month before, to get ready to go on a prospecting trip through the West.

“I liked the lad amazing well myself,” Watson said sorrowfully; “but right's right, whatever our likings be, and since you’re to hunt this thing up, I’ll tell you what I haven't told Mr. Briggs, or even my wife. 1 didn't see the face of the fellow who clutched me last night, for he wore a black mask, but I do know Jim West used to have a way of catching his breath, or choking off a hiccough, and when that fellow tied my eyes last night went just like him; but it would nearly kill the boss if he thought it was Jim West; he set such store by him.”

“Watson secured me a good photograph of West, and we kept our suspicions to ourselves. I told Mr. Briggs not to expect to hear from me for a week at least. I went to Dayton to get some light on West’s present whereabouts. I never was in the place before, but I shall never forget a fight I had with an old gander. I don't know that pigs and geese vote out there, but I know they dispute the right of anything human to streets or sidewalks. The hotel clerk knew West, but did not know if he was in town yet. A man by name of Wilson offered to walk over with me to his boarding place on Third street and see. We stopped on our way in front of the Vallandingham House, and while he showed me the marks made by the mob in early war times, an acquaintance came up.

“Is Jim West in town?” Wilson asked.

“No, he started for St. Louis more than a week ago.”

“You don’t care to go there?”

“Yes,” I answered, indifferently. “You show me the door, and I’ll see if he left his address.”

A pleasant-faced woman came to the door, and my question ‘Is Mr. West in?’ brought out the information that had just left that morning; had been away for a week and only stopped off for a night’s rest before going to Colorado.

“Did she know where I could reach him by letter?’

“Well, he said if any mail came for him, to forward it in care of Seth Brown, Central City.”

Of course I lost no time, but hurried to the hotel for my grip, and was soon westward bound, for I wanted to see Seth Brown. 1 had never been that far west before, so I saw plenty of interesting things, but the most interesting was the autograph of Seth Brown, Cincinnati, O., on the register of the best hotel in Central City, Colorado. It is forty miles or so west of Denver, and at that time did not have three thousand people all told, but it was in a rich mining district, and puts on city airs now, I’m told.

Brown came into the office after supper, and I shadowed him from that time. It would be hard to conceive a more different face than his from the picture given me of Jim West, and the description as Watson had last seen him. Instead of heavy kinky hair and full beard he was clean shaved and wore his hair cropped short; low collar, too, made his neck look twice long as in Jim West’s picture.

Height and build were all right, however, and I never doubted any more. We go by scent in these matters, you know. The suppressed hiccough Watson spoke of was very perceptible, and was as much the result of indigestion as habit, doubtless. I talked to him a little, and found he meant to stay a day or so before prospecting any.

That night I telegraphed to Watson in the cipher agreed upon, to recall, if he could, any other habit or any pet expression which would make doubly sure I had the right man. The answer was: “When be stretches himself he grips the middle finger of his left hand with his right and raises them above his head, and he often says, ‘Fact, sir.’”

That made me act at once. If you observe closely you will find that ninety-nine people out of hundred have particular ways of expressing themselves or doing things, which betray them anywhere. You can disguise faces, but habit shows itself. Well, after the papers were made out and West arrested, we found Briggs’s papers in his trunk and some of the money.

He was crestfallen as a wet robin, but plead guilty, and served five years in the penitentiary. Briggs felt dreadfully cut up about the boy, but hardly more so than Watson. Watson told me he could have cried to see him behind the bars, but he could not help telling him a man ought not to have habits that would get him into trouble.

“Where did West go when his time was up?” I asked.

“New Mexico; editing paper there; sends me one once in a while, and even marks items in the rogues’ column.”

Todd was here called away, and we departed, each likely to observe his own and his fellows' habits more closely for the story.