Scotland Yard Part 8

As he pa.s.ses upwards to the first cla.s.s his instructor reports as to his progress and prospects of becoming an efficient police officer. It is a tedious process, this hammering raw countrymen--for most of the candidates are from the country--into serviceable policemen. Yet it is worth it.

Very craftily a candidate is instilled with the self-reliance and confidence so necessary in a police officer. He is not bullied or badgered. The staff patiently discriminate between nervousness and stupidity. The ordeal of giving evidence for the first time, for instance, is feared by a raw countryman, and for that reason a practical object-lesson is given to the senior cla.s.ses at Peel House once a week.

Three of the instructors play the part of shopkeeper, thief, and constable. Little strain is put on the imagination of the men. They see everything for themselves, from the actual robbery to the procedure at police station and police court. In quiet, level tones Mr. Gooding gives the reason for every action taken. Then the men are called upon, one by one, to take charge of the case. Mr. Gooding explains:

"Now take hold of your prisoner. No, no, you must not use ju-jitsu except in self-defence. Take hold of your man firmly, so that he is in custody. That's it. Bring him to the station. You will let him stand by the dock and outside. In no circ.u.mstances must a person be put in the dock unless he is violent. Now I am the inspector on duty. What is this?"

Candidate: "At 2.40 this afternoon, Sir, I was on duty in the Strand, when I heard loud cries of 'Stop thief!' I saw this man running towards me, closely followed by prosecutor. I stopped him till prosecutor came up, who said (referring to official pocket-book): 'This man has stolen a gent's gold wristlet watch from my shop 1,009 Strand. I wish to charge him.' The prisoner then said: 'This is monstrous. I really must protest.' I then took him into custody and brought him here, Sir."

Mr. Gooding (suddenly): "Suppose he had been a well-dressed man and had said, 'You're a fool, constable, I am Lord So-and-So, and I shall report you to the Commissioner for this stupid insolence'?"

Candidate: "I should have still brought him to the station, Sir."

Mr. Gooding: "Why did you refer to your pocket-book for what he said?

Couldn't you remember it?"

Candidate: "Yes, Sir, but it is necessary to give the exact words as far as possible. I am not to put my own construction on what is said."

So the case goes on, with now and again a little lecture in the law of evidence or the police regulations.

"Remember, the only evidence you may give is as to the prisoner's actions, your own actions, things said by the prisoner or in the prisoner's presence--_not_ things heard. In a court you swear to speak the whole truth--all you know in favour of, as well as against, a prisoner. It matters not a jot to you whether a man is convicted or discharged. You are not to judge. Every person whom you have to take into charge must be considered as innocent, and is innocent in the eyes of the law, until proved guilty. Don't forget that."

After which the prisoner is searched, makes some remarks, and the charge sheet is signed. Then there comes another little hint--one of vast significance in view of the misapprehensions of many of the public of the police system.

"You must never take your own prisoner to the cells unless directly ordered to. A constable in reserve will see to that. A man may bear you ill-will and may a.s.sault you in the corridor or he may say that you have a.s.saulted him. If you only bring him to the station such a charge can be easily refuted."

It is in this manner that the constable is shown not only the purpose of the regulations but how easily a little thing may trip him up.

Following the charge-room procedure, the case is brought before a magistrate. Each man is warned to state exactly what took place. The evidence is the same as at the station, but, in addition, the result of the search has to be stated, and what the prisoner said on being charged.

A great trap this last. Many of the men omit it altogether, and again and again the importance it might have as bearing on the guilt or innocence of the accused is pointed out. But always the instructors are kindly, forbearing, tactful. A man blunders.

"Perhaps you feel a bit nervous," says Mr. Gooding. "Go to the other end of the room. The rest of the cla.s.s look this way. Now."

And so the candidate gets through, without the disturbing effect of twenty or thirty pairs of eyes fixed on him.

I cannot refrain from emphasising the manner in which the relations between police and public are dealt with during the training--a matter of greater importance, to my mind, than anything else taught in Peel House. A course of lectures is interspersed with lessons and drill on, among others, the following subjects:

Truthfulness, Civility, Command of temper, Inquiries by public, Complaints by public, Constable to readily give his number on request, Tact, Discretion, Forbearance, Avoidance of slang terms, Necessity of cultivating power of observation, Liberty of the subject (unnecessary interference, etc.), Offences against discipline (drunkenness, drinking on duty, etc.)

To familiarise the men with the surroundings, they are taken sometimes to a real police court while a magistrate is not sitting, and lectured on the surroundings. Everything is done with the idea of wearing away their rough edges, of smoothing the path for them when they should come to have only their own knowledge to rely on. All that takes place at Peel House is aimed to that end. There are cla.s.ses on such subjects as reading, writing, grammar, composition, the use of maps, drawing plans.

There is foot drill, Swedish drill, revolver practice, and ambulance cla.s.ses--all these in addition to an acquaintance with police law and the routine work of the force.

As they progress they are taken to the Black Museum at Scotland Yard, where they are given a practical demonstration of the kind of tools criminals use--from scientific and complicated oxygen and acetylene apparatus, used to break into safes, to the simple but efficacious walking-stick to which may be attached a bird-limed piece of wood for lifting coins off a shelf behind a shop or public-house counter.

So for eight weeks the candidate is taught the manner of work he will have to perform. He is given every opportunity to prove himself capable, but at any time he may be courteously told that he is not fitted for the work; 15 or 20 per cent. of the candidates are rejected for one reason or another before their term is over.

But, thorough as the training is, no constable is considered fully qualified when he is drafted from Peel House to a division. Tuition, both theoretical and practical, still goes on while he is a unit in the station. He goes out with an older man to see how things are done, to learn his "beat" or "patrol." There is a cla.s.s-room at the big police stations where his education is carried on. For a period too, he must attend an L.C.C. evening school. And at last he becomes a unit ranked efficient in the critical and criticised blue-coated army of which he is a member.[3]

FOOTNOTE:

[3] Peel House during the war has been temporarily converted into a club for overseas soldiers.

CHAPTER X.

IN A POLICE STATION.

Ten o'clock at night, and the West End.

In a back street a lonely blue lamp twinkled, a symbol of law and order placed high above the door of the police station. The street itself was appallingly quiet and gloomy. Yet a few hundred yards away the radiantly lighted main thoroughfares seethed with thousands of London's pleasure seekers, and an incessant stream of cabs and motor cars flowed to and from restaurants and theatres.

Here were men and women in search of pleasure and excitement, and other men and women on the alert for opportunities of roguery that might present themselves amid the stir of gaiety. There were the "sad, gay girls" sitting in the night cafes and strolling the streets.

Pickpockets, beggars, and blackmailers were mingled with the crowds. A little later and unwise diners would begin to come unsteadily into the streets.

The West End, as the police know, is always pregnant with possibilities.

And things usually happen after the time I have sketched. A fight, a robbery, even a murder is always a contingency.

There is a cla.s.s of men and women who frequent the neighbourhood among whom pa.s.sions run high. From a police point of view, it is a difficult place to handle--a district even more difficult than the East End, for here the iron hand must be concealed in the velvet glove. Every officer, from constable to inspector, must be possessed of infinite tact and firmness. Every man on patrol, point, or beat has usually at least one delicate decision to make in a night.

Yet the lonely blue lamp s.h.i.+nes serenely, and serenely the constable on reserve duty at the door stands at ease. Within, under the shaded electric lights, men are at work as quietly and methodically as though they did not hold the responsibility for the safety of one of the richest quarters of the richest city in the world in their hands for eight hours at least. During that time, as a rule, it is the busiest police station in London.

For all that it has special problems to deal with, this station is typical in procedure, discipline, and other essentials to nearly two hundred others scattered over London. There can be no uniformity in the cla.s.ses with which the Metropolitan Police has to deal.

For the convenience of visitors and inquirers, a couple of waiting rooms are provided, a first and second cla.s.s, so that the respectable citizen does not find himself in the unpleasant company of a "tough," who may be a pickpocket come to enquire about a friend's welfare, or a not too cleanly ticket-of-leave man.

Near by is the inspector's room, a lofty, well-lighted chamber furnished with high desks, tables, and a variety of official books and papers.

Everyone is quietly busy here, for there are always reports and records to be made of everything that occurs, of callers, complaints, lost property, inquirers, charges, particulars of persons reported for summonses.

Clerks in police officers' uniform bustle to and fro. In an adjoining room there are telegraphists and telephone operators receiving and dispatching messages.

There are two telephones--one attached to the ordinary public system, the other to the private system of the Metropolitan Police. The telegraphs are a couple of tape machines--one for receiving, the other for dispatching. Every message is automatically recorded.

A small, quiet room, one side occupied by a couch, and all sorts of medical and surgical appliances at hand--this is the divisional surgeon's room. He lives close by and can be on the spot in three minutes, if necessary, but on busy nights he is at the station.

On the first and second floors are the offices of the superintendent (for this is the chief station of the division) and the C.I.D. The detective force is a strong one, composed of men, specially picked--men of good appearance and address, who have never-ending work in the district.

Below the ground floor there are open pillared halls with asphalted floors where the men a.s.semble for parade, and, before they are marched off under the command of their section-sergeants, have orders and information read to them. There is a drying-room through which a current of hot air continually pa.s.ses, where an officer may place his sodden clothes after a wet day or night in the street, and a room where the instruction of young constables is continued under the supervision of a sergeant after they have been drafted from Peel House.

The personnel of the station is interesting. Apart from the superintendent and the chief-inspector, who are in control of the whole division, it is in charge of a sub-divisional inspector, with a dozen or more other inspectors under him and over three hundred sergeants and constables.

The bulk of the men are single--it is an expensive district for married men to find quarters in--and live, not at the station itself, but at a couple of section-houses some little distance away. There they have cubicles, where they sleep, big reception rooms, sitting-rooms, dining-rooms, a canteen, and all the comforts of a club.