TCDE-Team: Created page with "''When Paris Goes Sleuthing'' is an article written by Wilbur Forrest published in New-York Tribune on 21 may 1922. The article is about how Paris detectives really work, contrasting them with the theatrical image of Sherlock Holmes-style sleuths. Illustrated by J. Norman Lynd. == When Paris Goes Sleuthing == [[New-York Tribune (21 may 1922, magazine section, p...."

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Created page with "''When Paris Goes Sleuthing'' is an article written by Wilbur Forrest published in New-York Tribune on 21 may 1922. The article is about how Paris detectives really work, contrasting them with the theatrical image of Sherlock Holmes-style sleuths. Illustrated by J. Norman Lynd. == When Paris Goes Sleuthing == thumb|750px|center|[[New-York Tribune (21 may 1922, magazine section, p...."

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''When Paris Goes Sleuthing'' is an article written by [[Wilbur Forrest]] published in [[New-York Tribune]] on 21 may 1922.

The article is about how Paris detectives really work, contrasting them with the theatrical image of Sherlock Holmes-style sleuths.

Illustrated by [[J. Norman Lynd]].

== When Paris Goes Sleuthing ==
[[File:new-york-tribune-1922-05-21-mag-p4-when-paris-goes-sleuthing.jpg|thumb|750px|center|[[New-York Tribune]] (21 may 1922, magazine section, p. 4) The heavy jowled detective is a thing of the past in Paris. When his mustache came off he could do nothing but abandon the trail and let his man go. Also into the discard goes the [[Sherlock Holmes]] type of sleuth.]]

Paris.

The aggressive mannered, thick chested, heavy shod individual with a suspicious looking bulge at his right hip pocket, whose presence "telegraphs" his identity to the world wherever he operates, is a detective of the bygone past in this far-famed land of thief-catching.

The average fly cop would be relegated to the street cleaning department in the latest and most up-to-date realm of sleuthing. The thick-soled gentleman is a "has-been" as much so as the master mind who once habituated himself in the science of criminology with quick transformations and about a half dozen sets of false whiskers cached in the inner recesses of his trick-coat tails.

Modes in detectives have changed and there is no less an authority for this statement than M. Faralicq, chief of the Paris detective bureau, who sits in the grim prefecture building here and directs squads of clever and up-to-date operatives whose reputations are known and respected throughout Europe.

Interviewed on the subject, M. Faralicq announced that the movies inspired him to come to the defense of detectives and, incidentally, to destroy the illusions which the film makers seem to delight in ocularly feeding the gullible public. Ridiculous figures with heavy mustaches, thick soles and square jaws have no more chance of getting on the Paris detective pay roll, he declared, than those of the more ancient school who practice the methods of [[Sherlock Holmes]].

"One imagines," said the chief, "that the secret police are an ensemble of individuals who camouflage themselves, transfiguring their appearance in multiple fashion — counterparts of Frigoli. Often, too, our inspectors are visualized under the aspect of opulent Javerts with enormous mustaches.

"It is to-day more the principle of invisibility of detectives," he explained. "The man who sleuths must pass unseen, and to do this it is imperative not only that his appearance shall contribute to the 'physical disappearance' but also that his type must not be remarkable.

"Great intelligence is not necessary; just an ordinary intelligence suffices," he said. "We choose by preference a small or medium sized man. He must be ordinary from all points of view. His physiognomy must not express any particular sentiment or reveal any psychology. His figure must be 'confused.' His accoutrements must be ordinary.

"Look at the mass of men who pass in the street. The majority are dressed in an ordinary fashion. It is thus in an 'accoutrement ordinaire' that the inspector must exercise his career. He must excel in the art of not being seen — being invisible — and if the contrary occurs, as it sometimes does, he must not allow the man he is following to feel the sensation of being followed. He must abandon the chase."

When M. Faralicq was asked if the illusion that detectives sometimes in special circumstances did not resort to special subterfuge, such as New York detectives often do, he replied:

"These are nothing but tricks inspired by circumstances which detectives must sometimes encounter. But the ostentatiousness or camouflage which I have spoken of is a process of public imagination into our affairs here. Those who have tried it on their own initiative have not been congratulated for their work. I will give you an example in which one of our own inspectors, who thought he was doing his duty, procured a false mustache and glued it under his nose:

"One day this camouflaged inspector was following an individual who boarded a street car. Eventually the man who was being followed decided to get off the car. Naturally our inspector followed, but, in alighting, he slipped and his false mustache came off. Our inspector had nothing to do but abandon the trail and let his man go."

M. Faralicq indicated that the detective was not congratulated when he confessed the story of his fickle mustache at headquarters.

"The simplest thing," said the chief, "is to use nothing but the indispensable in sleuthing. It is also better for the detective to remain in his own district, as, for example, if he is operating in a poor section of the city and his 'subject' moves to a chic quarter, it is best to transfer the trail to a chicly dressed detective who fits in with the 'crowd' in the new quarter."

"How do your detectives operate in a murder case?" the chief detective of Paris was asked. He replied:

"Once the crime is discovered the Commissariat of Police in the district in question is the first notified. We are in turn immediately advised. The body must be left where it was discovered and the gendarmes must do nothing. The orders are strict in this regard. The first obligation is to proceed with the identification of the victim. This is the duty of the technical police and the doctor.

"I then go to the scene accompanied by my 'assistant' and my secretary. The others are there. The doctor gives his impressions and photographs are taken after the examination of the body. The eye scientifically registers all that which aids justice. The chemists also play a role in the preliminary investigation; examination of the hair, the blood and finger prints — all of these things figure importantly.

"When all this is done every one leaves except the gendarmes and the detectives of the special brigade, who are ordered to remain on the spot and investigate the place from top to bottom. This duty is not only one of the most important but one in which the law often acquires mute testimony of an extraordinary character. It is in the most minute examination that the proof is often found. And here is a surprising example," continued the chief inspector of Paris detectives, now warmed to his subject:

"An old woman — a curio dealer — was assassinated in a wretched, unsanitary hole that she called her home. A revolver bullet had penetrated her head from side to side. The scene of the crime was extraordinary. The first find was an old revolver with a single cartridge in the chamber. The first idea was that of suicide. The position of the body and the wound, however, indicated otherwise. She had been shot from outside, through a window.

"This was important, but the gendarmes and detectives who remained all afternoon on the spot found a paper at the bottom of a flower pot. This paper was an admission of a debt. The motive was therefore established. A study of the signature on the paper led the search to a squalid suburb of Paris. The detectives picked up the trail of an individual who lived in a furnished room. He was eventually arrested and proved to be the son of an old lover of the curio woman. He confessed the signature on the paper and the crime.

"Another case will prove the utility of research at the scene of the crime," said the modern [[Sherlock Holmes]], of Paris, now ready to talk indefinitely on his pet subject. One was ready to recall something coming like Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue" or "The Case of Marie Roget":

"We learned of the death of an old merchant of the Rue Sedaine who had his head broken by a blow with a bottle. Detectives combed the room in which the murder was committed and found little other than a small hand mirror shaped like a crescent. The inspector who found the mirror searched for a month, using the mirror as the base for a further clew. Eventually he discovered a woman who was interested in the glass because she had one something like it. She explained that it was given her by a friend. The detective had little difficulty in getting the name of the friend. It proved to be a man who lived in Levallois-Perret, a suburb of Paris. He was shadowed and eventually arrested. He had made the mistake of leaving a clew behind him in the room of the murder."

The day is gone, affirmed M. Faralicq, when the feats of deduction of a Vidocq or a Rossignol may be duplicated. The game of "detecting" does not call for superior intelligence on the part of men who play it. With the multiple scientific means which exist today — telephones, wireless, automobiles and fast transportation — the lot of the malefactor is increasingly hard.

"An ordinary intelligence suffices to make a good detective," said the chief of Paris detectives. "All that is essential is the method and a knowledge of the career. With that one can put his hand on the collar of the worst and most redoubtable crook."

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