Drug Smuggling and Taking in India and Burma

by Roy K. Anderson

Of all those who threaten the smuggler with arrest and loss, the informer is the one he fears most, and accordingly regards with bitter hatred as his greatest foe.

Without information, the hands of the executive are tied; without informers, they would be wholly ineffective; and except for a chance seizure now and then, there would be little for them to do. As things are, the organization of a detective department is so linked up with informers and information that one finds it difficult to conceive of its existing with these eliminated. Detectives of the Sherlock Holmes type exist only in fiction, and although it goes without saying that powers of observation above the ordinary, and an intimate knowledge of men are indispensable in a detective, it is equally indispensable that a detective, as things are, must rely upon information if he wishes successfully to solve any problem of crime.

In writing about informers, I deal mainly with the professional blackguards who make a regular living out of giving information. I do not include those who, to work off a grudge, or who, having seen a crime committed, lodge information in the proper quarter.—I do not look upon these as informers. The first is a mean-minded person; the second, one who has a very proper conception of his duty towards society. But the man I deal with is essentially a blackguard, and a very despicable blackguard at that. He has only one object in view when he gives information, and that object is money. He is not burdened with notions of his duty as a citizen. If there was no money to be made out of giving information, he would be the last to go a step out of his way to give any; but he recognizes his value as an important factor in detection, places a price on it, and is paid generously.

I have often been asked by magistrates whether my informers were respectable men. I have felt no hesitation in answering the question emphatically in the negative, and I have no doubt I often set them wondering. But one has only to give the matter a moment’s consideration to see how diametrically opposed to all one’s notions of fair-play and honour must be the nature and calling of an informer. He must for a time pose as the friend and confidant of his victim, and then turn traitor; and he must bribe, coerce, and wheedle from their allegiance scores of subordinates who would otherwise serve their masters with unswerving loyalty. He is the tempter in excelsis; he is unscrupulous in the extreme; he is utterly bad. But for all this, he is, as I have already said, a very necessary link in the chain of detection, and we may, like the pharisee, take comfort in the thought that we are not as other men are—even as these informers! The “unco gude” would find a monotonous sameness in their existence if there were none to set-off their unco gudeness!

Nowhere is the need for sharp-witted informers so keenly felt as in departments whose duty it is to prevent smuggling, and it may be taken for granted that the greater the blackguard the fellow is, the more useful he will be, and the more useful an informer is to the executive, the greater danger he goes in of losing his life (because the smuggler does not hesitate as to the means he employs in removing obstacles from his path). The authorities have therefore to consider these things when they come to pay the informer. The legislature also protects him by providing that no officer shall be compelled in a law court to disclose the name of his informer. That advantage is duly taken of this provision there need be no doubt. The officer who gives up the name of his informer has little further information to expect, as the informer very naturally values his life, and will give no information to an indiscreet and injudicious officer.

That the authorities are often imposed upon by informers is a matter of course. There are lots of men in this world who would like to pay off an old score against another, and an easy way to do this is to lodge an information against him. A search of the premises occupied by the suspect results, and although nothing may be found, the attention of the neighbourhood is attracted, and for some time the search is a topic of conversation, which is by no means pleasant for the man whose house is searched. The disgrace attending such an occurrence is intensified if the householder happens to be a man who is respected as upright and honest. Severe punishment is provided by the law for givers of false information, but such cases are happily not numerous.

To take action against an informer for giving false information usually results in deterring genuine informers from giving genuine information; for there are factors which operate against the success of the genuine informer. For instance, the object searched for may be removed just before the search is made, or even during the search, and a blank is drawn. To prosecute the informer for giving false information in such circumstances would be manifestly unjust. If he were prosecuted, other informers would not run the risk of giving information and work would come to a standstill. Where, then, is the line to run? This is a question which confronts the executive with ever-increasing perplexity. It seems to be better to disregard the stray cases of false informing, than to jeopardise the entire preventive department’s being. A certain officer, suspecting that a search had been made on false information, issued an order, ex cathedra, that all informations should be verified before search was made. As the only way in which information can be verified is by making a search, it is not clear to what extent this order was conceived in a spirit of bumptiousness, and how much of it in ignorance.

“Planting,” or the fabrication of false evidence, is a favourite and much practised trick of the informer. By means best known to himself he introduces something incriminating into the house of a person against whom he has a spite, and lays an information. A search is made, the stuff is found, and very often an innocent man is fined or sent to jail. Against this there seems to be no remedy, except the employment of well-known, reliable informers, and also a sort of intuition which develops with experience in officers themselves.

In olden days, when coastguards did not exist, Cornwall was a hot-bed of smuggling, and the temper of the Cornishmen towards informers can be gauged by the following story which has much in it that is apropos:—

The Rev. R. S. Hawker, of the parish of Morwenstowe, relates how on one occasion a predecessor of his presided, as the custom was, at a parish feast, in cassock and bands, and presented, with his white hair and venerable countenance, quite an apostolic aspect and mien. On a sudden, a busy whisper among the farmers at the lower end of the table attracted his notice, interspersed as it was with sundry nods and glances towards himself. At last one bolder than the rest addressed him, and said that they had a great wish to ask his reverence a question, if he would kindly grant them a reply; it was on a religious subject that they had dispute, he said. The bland old gentleman assured them of his readiness to yield them any information in his power, but what was the point in dispute? “Why, sir, we wish to be informed if there are not sins which God Almighty will never forgive?” Surprised, and somewhat shocked, he told them that he trusted there were no transgressions common to themselves, but if repented of and abjured, they might clearly hope to be forgiven. But with natural curiosity, he inquired what sorts of iniquities they contemplated as too vile for pardon. “Why, sir,” replied the spokesman, “we thought that if a man should find out where run-goods was deposited, and should inform the Gauger, that such a villain was too bad for mercy!”