Chapter IX: Confessions of a Columbus (4)

Detective Jonathan H. O'Flaherty and I had a rather warm argument upon this point, and I must say that in the end I had to admit that there was a good deal to be said in favour of the utter want of liberty to which Americans have to submit.

"For instance," said my guide, "to-morrow is a public holiday. At daybreak I guess we'll be afther locking up every thief, vagabond, and persons suspected of being varmint of this description in this great city, and it's free lodgings they'll have till the holiday's played out. In that way crime is avoided, and the truth of the saying proved that 'prevention is better than cure.'"

"But there is an unpleasant feeling that this autocratic power may lead to mistakes. In England the police must have a warrant," I said.

"Guess, stranger, if we waited for a warrant the varmint'd vanish, and there'd be the divil to pay. No, sir, I reckon we Amurricans don't wait for anything--we just take the law into our own hands right away. A short time ago I was sitting enjoying some singing in one of the saloons in the Bowery here, and right through in front of me sat two foreigners with the most perfect false whiskers on that I ever clapped eyes on. That was enough for me. I went outside, sent one of my men for assistance, and then sent in a theatrical lady's card to one of the gentlemen. The bait was taken, and he came out. We arrested him straight away, and made him send in for his friend, who came out, and we nailed him as well. Turned out afterwards that they had come to kill one of the actresses--love affair, revenge, and all that sort of thing. In your country guess you'd have arrested them after the murder; we had them before. There was no harm done, but they got a fine of a few dollars."

He put his hand suddenly upon mine as he said this. For a second I thought that he imagined _my_ whiskers were false, and that this was only a plant to lock me up! It was evident my nerves were becoming unstrung, and as soon as we were in the street my good-humoured and excellent guide told me that in another five minutes we would begin our voyage of discovery. We passed through the Chinese quarter, down Mott Street, and I could not but feel a pang of sympathy for these aliens, looked upon by the Americans as vermin. It is a strange war, this between John Chinaman and Sambo for the vassalage of the States; but in poor England, the asylum of the alien, all nationalities have an equal chance, and the nigger, the Chinaman, the Jew, and the German can walk arm in arm, whether in the squalid streets of Spitalfields or the aristocratic precincts of Pall Mall.

But there is a war going on in London between two races of different colour, undisturbed and unseen, for the gory scenes of warfare are enacted in the bowels of the earth. It is to the death, and has been going on for years, the combatants being the red cockroach and the blackbeetle. Both came to our shores in ships from distant lands. The blackbeetles were first, and had possession of underground London, but the cockroaches followed, disputed the right of territory, and thus the war began. The latest reports from the seat of war assert that the cockroaches are victorious all along the line as far as Regent's Park.

But this is digression. I merely made use of the cockroach simile because it occurred to me as I traversed the Italian quarter and gazed upon its denizens, an occasional accidental rub against one of whom made me shudder. Innocent they may be, but they don't look it, and when I was taken up a court--a horrible, dark, dank _cul-de-sac_--and shown the identical spot which a few weeks beforehand had been the scene of a murder, I made a sketch in the quickest time on record, keeping one eye on the ghastly place and the other on a window where a ragged blind was pulled quickly and nervously back, and a white face peered suddenly out and as suddenly retreated.

I did the same, pulling my detective friend after me.

It is said that one-half the world does not know how the other half lives, but not the ninety-ninth part knows how it dies. In the vicinity of Mulberry Bend I was shown a house in which another bloody deed had recently been perpetrated--another cockroach killed. The blood was as fresh and visible as that of Rizzio in Holyrood Palace, but this excited no curiosity among the passers-by--crimes are more plentiful than mulberries here.

Paradise Park, The Bowery, New York, is a very high-sounding address. It is one that any European might imagine as a retreat of aristocratic refinement and sylvan beauty; there is nothing in the name to suggest the Seven Dials of London in its old days; and yet the place is its counterpart, the only difference being that the Five Points, as it is called, is two degrees worse than the Seven Dials that's, all!

Standing at these misnamed crossways, I noticed hurrying past an Italian woman bearing a load of household furniture on her back, and followed by a man--her husband, I was told--cursing her.

"They always move at night," said my guide. "The women do all the carrying, and this is in a country where woman reigns _soo_preme, too!"

Next comes a youth with a crutch.

"One of the cleverest thieves in the city. No one suspects him--guess his crippling is his fortune."

I should like to tell you of other interesting people I saw, of my perambulations through Baxter Street, the Jewish quarter, of the visits to the joss house, opium joint, grocery stores, halls of dazzling delight, and dens of iniquity I made that night. I had my sketches and notes before me to continue this chapter, when I received a New York paper. In it I discovered an illustrated article headed "In His Own Black Art," purporting to be an account of my visit to the slums with a detective. After reading it I laid down my pen and took up my scissors, I felt it impossible to disclose any more. The rest I leave to my shadower on that occasion, reproducing also some of the sketches this "faithful copper-fastened distorter of features" set down, with many thanks to him and a sincere wish that his headache is better.

"IN HIS OWN BLACK ART.

* * * * *

"Mr. Furniss writes very cleverly, it should be said. He writes
good London English, for he, like many of 'the infernally good
fellows' of Fleet Street, 'don't you know,' believes that the
vernacular is only written in its virgin purity in that city.
However, let that pass.

"But there was one thing that I couldn't consent, even as his
friend, to overlook. Mr. Furniss was determined to go 'slumming.'
He had letters to several members of the police department, but the
friends who had given these valuable credentials had evidently
selected only the captains of the highly respectable precincts. Of
course, they could not imagine that Mr. Furniss would want to visit
the joss house and opium joints of Chinatown. Nobody would, to
look at him. And yet, in his tireless study of 'American'
character, he penetrated even these mysteries.

"Everything was arranged for the tour during the night before his
departure on the _Majestic_. It was a charmingly dark night,
admirably suited for those _chiaroscuro_ effects that a
black-and-white artist is supposed to seek even in his dreams. An
experienced Central Office detective took him in hand with all the
_savoir faire_ of an Egyptian dragoman.

"HITTING THE PIPE.

"With the wisdom of an artist and the news-sense of a Park Row
hustler, Mr. Furniss lit a cigarette, and said:

"'Show me all.'

"This remark filled me with terror. Was it right to permit this
well-meaning but over-zealous friend of my country, my people and
myself to sound the depths of social degradation in the metropolis
and lard an otherwise charming book with screed and sketches
dragged from the slums? He was likely to mistake Donovan's Lane for
Harlem Lane, and Paradise Square for Maddison Square! Any man would
be liable to do so after a few days' visit to a strange city. How
many of the American birds of passage who flock to London every
summer know the distinction between Mitre and Capel Courts? One is
the scene of a ghastly Whitechapel murder; the other is the
financial center of the Eastern world!

"When, therefore, it was seen to be impossible to dissuade the
talented young caricaturist from his blue-glass view of
metropolitan society, it seemed necessary to provide for our
self-defence. One of the cleverest pen-and-ink artists in America
was engaged to accompany the party as a second detective. A flying
visit was paid to Mott Street, and the services of High Lung, a
distinguished crayon manipulator, recently arrived (by way of
Vancouver and the dark of the moon), were secured to make a
Chinese-American caricature of the charming but over-curious
Englishman.

"Everything worked to a charm. Mr. Furniss went where he intended.
He saw all. He made sketches. He visited the shrine of the great
Joss. He ate birds' nests and rice. He saw the deadly opium smoked,
and 'hit the pipe' a few minutes himself.

"The night came to an end with dawn. Headache destroyed curiosity.
Our own faithful, copper-fastened distorter of facial beauty set
down in Mr. Furniss's black art what he had seen and did know. Here
are the results, H. F. It is to be feared he has imitated your
style.

"Bon voyage, master of the quick and the lead! Draw us, if you
must; but draw not the long bow.

"J. C."