“There are men on every police force, good men too, who believe that criminals cannot be captured without the aid of stool pigeons.
“But how one must come to hate them when he is obliged to deal with them constantly. Perhaps you think of stool pigeons as poor, weak-eyed, slinking creatures who can earn a living in no other way. If so, you are wrong. Some are rich, some are poor, some men, some women. All are alike in two particulars. All want something; for the most part protection for some form of petty vice or crime. And they all crawl. How they do crawl!
“Perhaps you don’t quite understand. It’s using the little criminal to catch the big one. Take an example. Some Greek runs a cheap gambling house. With card games and roulette wheels he entertains laborers and takes their money. He breaks the law. But he knows of a man who has robbed a bank. He is afraid of having his place raided, having his evil means of living taken away. He becomes a stool pigeon by informing on the robber. After that the detective uses him on many cases.
“But how must the detective feel who has dealings with such a man? You can’t play with snakes unless you lie down and crawl.
“Little by little, the thing gets you. To associate with stool pigeons you must do the things they do. You begin to drink. You do other things. You break the law. But the law forgives you, for you are working for it.
“Can’t you see? No matter how high your ideals were in the beginning, how lofty your aims, you step down, down, down, when you deal with stool pigeons.
“It was so with him.” He nodded his head toward the room in which the white-haired one was sleeping. “I happen to know. When I worked with him there was no finer man on any force. A college man, born to his task, enthusiastic for it from his youth; no one promised more. But his Chief believed in stool pigeons. He had a complicated, well guarded system of informers. Newton Mills was forced into this system. A man of sensitive nature and much native honor, he went down fast.”
“And you—”
“I have never used a stool pigeon in my life. I never will. Perhaps I am wrong. Crime must be punished. It’s a matter of method. I have informers, but they are all honest citizens. They tell what they know, and ask nothing in return. They are my friends. They are more than that. They are true Americans. It is the duty of every honest citizen to inform the officers of the law when he learns of any flagrant violation of the law. Perhaps if every citizen did his full duty, there would be no need of stool pigeons. Who knows? I—
“There’s the telephone,” he broke off suddenly. “Go answer it, will you?”