THE DETECTIVE.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XXXII, Issue 909, 25 October 1910, Page 4

THE DETECTIVE.

IN FICTION AND IN FACT

We have an abundance of detectives in latter-day fiction. All of them are alike in this, that they are amateurs practising the science and art of detection for their own amusement or distraction. If one remembers aright,, there is not in the range of presentday detective fiction a solitary policeman who is shown in an heroic light. There are plenty, of course, who are used as foils to show the transcendent acumen of the amateur.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is one of the greatest sinners in this respect, and upon his shoulders must be put at least some ot the blame ior the derision with which Scotland Yard is often regarded. The officers of the Criminal Investigation Department are invariably depicted as blundering, incompetent dolts; they always get hold of the wrong end of the slick, and only Sherlock Holmes saves them from complete disaster. There is Lestrade, for instance. “A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dust coat and leather leggings which he wore in delerence to his rustic surroundings, 1 had no difficulty in recognising Destrade, ol Scotland Yard.” Deslrade, of course, never does anything right, and the impression the reader retains after any of his appearances is that Scotland Yard is very poorly furnished with brains.

Jones is another representative of the official detective. “He is not a had fellow,” says Sherlock Holmes indulgently to Dr. Watson, “though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster il he gels his claws upon anyone.” Instances might be multiplied, not oulv from this author, but from others less widely read. And as the majority of us are apt to take our opinions rather from the sweetmeats of fiction than from the hard fare of facts, it is not at all wonderful that the man from Scotland Yard should be matter for mirth.

What is the real detective like ? Probably Dickens drew a truer picture of him as he existed in the days of the Bow Street runners when he presented Mr Inspector Bucket in the pages of “Bleak House.” Bucket the patient, persevering, affable, alert, imperturbable, and sagacious Bucket — is not a man of immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation like the other detectives of fiction. He makes no pretension of superhuman inducive reasoning. He is a plodder. Time and place cannot bind Mr Bucket. Like man in the abstract, he is here today and gone to-morrow —but very unlike man indeed, he is here again the next day.” And by his own dogged methods, in which ratiocinative fireworks are conspicuous by their absence, he solves the mystery of the murder of Mr Tulkiughoru.

The man who tracks criminals to-day is certainly more nearly related to Mr Bucket than to Lestrade or Jones, and on the other hand he is a cousin, as many times removed as you like, from Sherlock Holmes. He works largely by rule of thumb, and in a rather narrow groove. He is circumscribed by many official rules and regulations—necessary, no doubt, but somewhat hampering to the free exercise of soaring ability, assuming that it is present. It is as if you tied a rope to an aeroplane and then expected it to rise. It would be unjust to say that originality and enterprise are frowned upon at headquarters, but they are not deliberately encouraged. It is indeed highly likely that if a genius arose from the ranks and practised the methods which are familiar to the readers ot detective fiction he would speedily find himself in a position to embark upon the private inquiry business, for which Scotland Yard furnishes

so many recruits. London Chronicle.