P.-C. Lee: Complete Series (ALL 24 Detective Stories in One Volume). Edgar Wallace

the only genuine police persecution I’ve ever heard about was when Sam Golder an’ Harry Trent — two of our young constables — caught Soapy. Soapy was a famous fit-faker — used to fall down suddenly in a crowded street foamin’ at the mouth, an’ when a sympathetic crowd brought him round an’ had subscribed enough money to send him home in a cab, he used to stagger away to another crowded street an’ go through the same performance. We called him Soapy for obvious reasons.

      “One night Sam an’ young Harry, bein’ on plain clothes duty, made it up to follow Soapy. First of all they went to a chemist’s an’ got a quart bottle of stuff made up. I don’t know what the stuff was, but it smelt like bad onions.

      “They came upon Soapy at Notting Hill Gate in the midst of one of the most elegant fits he ever had. Everybody offerin’ advice such as ‘Give the man air’ an’ ‘Bring some brandy’, when Harry elbowed his way into the crowd an’ said he was a medical man. Him an’ Sam forced open Soapy’s mouth.

      “‘Brandy!’ moaned Soapy.

      “‘Have some of this, old feller,’ says Sam, an’ poured about half a pint down Soapy’s throat.

      “For half a second he didn’t get the taste, then he jumped up with a yell an’ ran like the wind.

      “They follered him till he had another fit, an’ the same thing happened all over again.

      “The third time, the moment Soapy heard their voices he got up.

      “‘It’s a fair cop,’ he said. ‘Don’t give me any more of that stuff. I’d sooner do a month.’

      “You can’t get it out of your head quick enough that the police persecute people without reason. Persecution is better than prosecution any day of the week, an’ it’s better to nag a man a little than to put him into prison an’ his wife into the workhouse.

      “There are lots of folk who think the police welcome an opportunity of runnin’ a man, but the truth of it is that for every arrest that is made there are a dozen ‘chances’ given.

      “One night when I was on point duty at the corner of Westbourne Grove a man came up to me. I knew him by sight — a slinkin’, sly chap, whose name was Hamming, but who was better known as Ginger.

      “‘Evenin’, Mr. Lee,’ he said. ‘Do you want a good cop?’

      “I looks at him. ‘Are you thinkin’ of givin’ yourself up?’ I said.

      “He shuffled uncomfortably. ‘You must have your joke, Mr. Lee,’ he grinned, ‘but this is a real thing; it’s a bloke with a “brief” who ain’t reported.’

      “‘What’s his name?’

      “‘What do I get for givin’ information?’ he asked cunnin’ly.

      “‘A thick ear, if you’re ever found out,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

      “Well, he wouldn’t tell me, but kept hagglin’ an’ bargainin’ as to what he’d get, an’ though he didn’t know it, all the time I was questionin’ him I was getting some idea of who the chap was an’ whereabouts he lived.

      “Of course, it wasn’t my duty to go into the matter; I should have sent him straight to the station to see the inspector, but I was curious to know who the poor devil was he was tryin’ to send back to Portland, an’ by an’ by it came out. It was a decent quiet man who’d got five years for falsifyin’ accounts, an’ who had been released on ticket of leave more than a year before. Men on ‘brief’ have got to report to the nearest station periodically givin’ their changes of address, an’ the penalty for not reportin’ is that they generally are sent back to prison to complete their sentences.

      “Sometimes they don’t report because they’ve got a job an’ are afraid that if the story of their imprisonment comes to the ears of their new masters they will he thrown out of employment.

      “My duty as an officer was to report what Ginger had told me, but sometimes a policeman uses his discretion, an’ after I’d told the informer to see me next night I went along to the Burkley Head, which is on my beat, an’ passed the word to Nick Moss, who was inside, that I wanted to see him.

      “Nick is what I call a ‘straight thief’. He wouldn’t sell a man to save his life, an’ all the information the police have ever got out of Nick wouldn’t have convicted a man of vagrancy.

      “‘Go round to that little carpenter feller that lives in Ogshott Street,’ said I. ‘He’s out on a “brief”. Tell him on the quiet that if he doesn’t want a laggin’ he’d better nip round to the station an’ report his change of address.’

      “Nick nodded an’ went.

      “From what I’ve heard, the little carpenter reported, an’ got a good talkin’ to from the inspector an’ there was an end of it so far as he was concerned, for the police knew he was tryin’ to go straight an’ took no steps to worry him.

      “But it wasn’t the end with Ginger, who was terribly disappointed at losin’ some blood money.

      “He blamed me, you can he sure, an’ soon after that he started gettin’ up a little surprise party for my special benefit. It was winter time, an’ a cold, wretched winter was, so when one mornin’ about two o’clock Ginger came out of his house — it was on my beat — an’ asked me civilly whether I’d like a cup of tea, I didn’t think twice about it, bein’ perished with cold, but said ‘Yes.’

      “‘Would you come inside, Mr. Lee?’ he said civilly.

      “‘I’ll have it outside. You’re early this morning, Ginger.’

      “‘Yes, Mr. Lee,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the promise of a job at Covent Garden Market, so I’m doin’ the bright-an’-early act. Won’t you come in?’

      “I was tempted, I’ll admit. It was terribly cold, an’ the prospect of a cup of tea…. But I said ‘No’ an’ Ginger went inside. By an’ by he came back with a steamin’ cup an’ very good tea it was, as it ought to have been, seein’ that it was probably stolen from some warehouse or other.

      “I tasted it carefully, to see if he was up to any hanky-panky, but it was all right, an’ I finished the cup.

      “I had hardly handed it to him when the inspector on duty came round the corner, accompanied by the sergeant.

      “‘What’s this, Lee?’ said the inspector.

      “‘Takin’ a cup of tea, sir,’ I replied.

      “‘Me an’ the constable have been havin’ a quiet talk in front of my fire,’ said Ginger. ‘Don’t be hard on him, sir, he hasn’t been in my house more than an hour.’

      “‘Is this true?’ asked the inspector.

      “‘No, sir,’ I said. I knew I could prove I’d met the constable on the next beat not ten minutes ago, but I was curious to hear what lie Ginger would tell next.

      “If you expect that he told a plausible tale or that it was in any way ingenious, you’ll be disappointed. Ginger was a very average type of a low down thief, an’ his yarn was as bald as a baby’s head.

      “The inspector told me afterwards that he’d received an anonymous letter saying that P.C. Lee was in the habit of going into Ginger’s house to loaf in the middle of the night, an’ that was why he’d paid his surprise visit.

      “This incident wouldn’t be of any interest but for the events which followed.

      “At four o’clock that mornin’ Detective Sergeant Fallow came up to me.

      “‘I want you to walk as far as Portobello Road — I’m going to “pull in” Jewey Isaacs,’ he told me.

      “Jewey Isaacs lives in a street off the road, an’ is well known to us