Traced and Tracked; Or, Memoirs of a City DetectiveM'Govan, James
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Traced and Tracked; Or, Memoirs of a City Detective
M'Govan, James
Detective and mystery stories; Edinburgh (Scotland) -- Fiction
“I’d rather not say,” was the tardy answer.
“Very well; work at anything?”
“Yes; I’m a joiner.” He appeared to regret the admission, for he bit
his lip the moment he had said it.
“Apprentice or journeyman?”
“Apprentice. I’ll be out with my time next year.”
“Maybe you will,” I significantly answered; “meantime you’d better
come with me and see what the Fiscal has to say to it.”
He objected most strongly to have his wrist fastened to mine, but the
jeweller happened just then to address me by name, and my prisoner
collapsed and submitted to the degradation. We had no great distance
to go, but the road seemed long enough to him, for, though anything
but an honest-looking fellow, I guessed rightly that it was his
first experience of the handcuffs. At the Office he took refuge in
silence, or tried to screen himself with absolute falsehood. He gave
a false name; would give no address; denied that he had a mother
living; would not say for whom he worked; and altogether emitted
as stupid a declaration as any one could well have done. I believe
he meant well—he meant to screen himself from further trouble; to
save his friends from disgrace along with him; and to keep the
knowledge of the scrape into which he had fallen from his employer
and acquaintances generally; but then every liar has exactly the same
excuse.
It was simply a little more work for me, and as the task was
gradually accomplished, the facts revealed seemed to point to his
guilt with no uncertain finger.
The discovery of his identity was made simply enough by his mother
coming to the Office next morning to report her son missing. He
had been absent all night, and had not returned to his work on the
previous afternoon, and she was greatly distressed and concerned for
his safety. It was the mention of the trade he followed, and the name
and address of his employer, which first gave me the idea that we
had the missing son; and when she was shown our prisoner he did not
appear at all grateful for the boon, but swore at her in a manner in
which no mother should be addressed, and which would have put many a
professional criminal to the blush.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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