CATCHING A FLAT.
He had all he wanted; evidence enough as to who had been swindled, and how much, etc. The matter was all brought down to a point, and Sharp was arrested by one of Flat's friends, while Flat bore away the book to a safe place. Suffice it, that Sharp was so securely caught that he did not go home to his pleasant residence in New Jersey that day so early as usual, or not until every dollar he had swindled from his victims was secured, and in the way of getting back to their hands. This was "Catching a Flat" with a vengeance for Mr. Sharp.
But this is only an illustrative case of the best and most honorable class of the detective's work, and one of the comparatively "genteel" cases too. His field of labor is usually more thorny, and his work at times not only very perplexing, on account of the subtle characters he has to deal with, but very laborious in view of the much travelling, nights and days, which many jobs occasion. The tracking out of bank robbers, searching for the hiding-places of their stolen treasures, and various like things, will suggest the great amount of real, hard, physical labor the detective sometimes has to perform. Only he can do it. He cannot delegate his powers to any great extent. If he employs others, it is only as aids, not as substitutes. He is expected to know everything in the ways of business regular and business irregular. If he would succeed as a detective of bank robbers, especially, he must not only know all the rogues of that class, but he must understand what class of "workmen" they are; for these industrious, hard-working bank-robbers all have different ways of doing their work; possess different degrees of skill; and when the robbery of a bank is reported to a detective, his first inquiry is directed to the manner in which the "work" was done.
Some workmen of this class have very little skill of a mechanical kind. They do their work bunglingly, and never attempt very difficult jobs. Others are very skillful; are ready to undertake anything. The most skillful bank-robbers, of twenty or twenty-five years ago, would only be bunglers now. The thousand new devices for safe-locks, security of vaults, and so forth, would entirely confound them. But as genius makes progress in the arts of security, the bank-robbers keep pace. Their profession increases in dignity among themselves in proportion to the new and great difficulties which they surmount. They are of different classes, of different degrees of merit in their vocation, and the detective must know at once by their "chips" to what class belonged the scamps who robbed this or that bank; for if he did not know he would be liable to get on the wrong track, and so the scamps would gain all the time they need for putting themselves in perfect security. And the detective must know the character and relative "standing" of the members of other divisions of the "cross" classes, as they are designated in the technical phrase of the profession.
So the detective's calling is one which demands not only much cunning, but much general and accurate knowledge of human character, and not a little acquaintance with all sorts of business. He may be illiterate, as many an excellent detective is, for he has perhaps climbed up from unfortunate and poor early surroundings by force of his natural abilities, and not by any adventitious aid of the schools. If he cannot solve problems of the higher mathematics, he can unravel mysteries which would confound a Newton or a Laplace; and to keep pace with the "enlightened progress" of bank-robbers, counterfeiters, and so forth, the detective must not only be alert, but clear-headed. He must be honest, too, punctiliously so in a business sense; for he must keep within certain limits, observe certain rules of honor in his dealings with thieves and outlaws, otherwise he would often find himself lacking in one case evidence which he wants in another; or having one scoundrel in his power, could never use him as state's evidence to criminate another, his confederate, and a more dangerous person than he; for there is certainly "honor among thieves," as among other business men. There must be a certain degree of it, else business itself would die out or go into anarchy. Honor enough to preserve the integrity of his business every thief has. The detective could not afford to have less than the thief. He is a sort of prince, in the thieves' opinion. He is the only man for whom they have any real respect.
With the detective the thief usually "keeps faith," if he plights him his "word and honor as a gentleman!" (Strange words to fell from a thief's mouth, but after all a most appropriate source; for a true man has no need to indorse his yea or nay with an oath of honor.) The detective is a power among the thieves; his are the laws they obey. They fear only him. He is a necessity, then, for protecting society against the frauds, peculations, and robberies of these irregular business men. He governs the cities, and protects them, so far as controlling the rapacity of the irregular robbers is concerned. But few people resident of a city like New York, and but few strangers coming to the city, consider or ever know how continually they are under the protection of the invisible detective; invisible to them, but "seen and known of all men" in the irregular vocations of business.
The detective is ever about in public places, exercising his calling for the protection of the thousands who know him not. For example, strangers from the country visiting New York generally attend the theatres, more or less, especially if they are very puritanic at home, and some such play as the Black Crook is ruling at Niblo's, for instance. Of course the country gentlemen, whether deacons, or what not, in their respective rural districts, must see the "sensations." What else do they come to New York for, to be sure? On business? Yes, the detective who knows them all, and can tell at sight from what parts of the country they individually come, knows that they visit New York "on business;" for he sees them at the theatres, and often gets sight of them going into places where very wise people do not go, but where wisdom of a certain sort is to be obtained nevertheless; and so he knows that they come to the city only on business. But he keeps an eye out for them constantly.
They go to Niblo's, perchance, to see some spectacular play, like the "White Fawn," or the "Black Crook," to which we have referred before. They go in great crowds. They have their "Sunday clothes" on, watch chains in sight, pocket-books insecurely guarded, etc., and they sit out the hours and listen to the play, and are delighted, and go quietly out, away to their hotels, or among their friends, unconscious all the while that at the theatre they owed their security from pickpockets, and that class of skilled gentlemen, to a single, quiet man, whom they may not have deigned to cast a look upon as they passed through the vestibule into the body of the theatre; but he was there, having a care for them all. He is one of the chief men of his vocation in the land or the world. The thieves and pickpockets all know him, and respect him.
Standing near by the gateway in the railing which crosses the vestibule, is this gentleman to be seen. He is of rather more than medium height—a muscular, but not large man, has a face of regular cast of features, and a very fine intellectual brow. He is rather more than a good-looking man; a handsome man, indeed; and a gentleman of courteous manners. He is always well dressed, but never over-dressed; he exercises excellent taste in this respect. He is the only man in New York, perhaps, who could perfectly fill the place he occupies in that vestibule now as the guardian of the thousands who pass through that little gate. He seems not to be observing anything in particular; but you may hear him as you pass through the gate, perhaps, speak to some one in the crowd moving on with you; and turning about, you observe that a fine-looking gentleman has stepped aside to speak with the accomplished public guardian, Wm. George Elder (for that is his name), and the gentleman whom he has quietly called to him is an accomplished pickpocket. The detective is informing him that he must not go in now; some other night, perhaps, he may. That pickpocket has, perhaps, been long away from the city, for years, at Boston, or New Orleans, and thought the detective had forgotten him. But the detective has an excellent memory, and he never forgets his "friends," he says; and this pickpocket he had, years ago, enrolled among the best of his friends, because he had taken his advice, and left the city, with the promise never to return; and the detective gently reminds him of his promise and his "honor;" and the pickpocket, all smiles, and graciousness,—for he is a very gentleman in his line of business,—bows himself off.