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Secret Agent, The

<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> The Professor had turned into a street to the left, and walked along, with his head carried rigidly erect, in a crowd whose every individual almost overtopped his stunted stature.  It was vain to pretend to himself that he was not disappointed.  But that was mere feeling; the stoicism of his thought could not be disturbed by this or any other failure.  Next time, or the time after next, a telling stroke would be delivered—something really startling—a blow fit to open the first crack in the imposing front of the great edifice of legal conceptions sheltering the atrocious injustice of society.  Of humble origin, and with an appearance really so mean as to stand in the way of his considerable natural abilities, his imagination had been fired early by the tales of men rising from the depths of poverty to positions of authority and affluence.  The extreme, almost ascetic purity of his thought, combined with an astounding ignorance of worldly conditions, had set before him a goal of power and prestige to be attained without the medium of arts, graces, tact, wealth—by sheer weight of merit alone.  On that view he considered himself entitled to undisputed success.  His father, a delicate dark enthusiast with a sloping forehead, had been an itinerant and rousing preacher of some obscure but rigid Christian sect—a man supremely confident in the privileges of his righteousness.  In the son, individualist by temperament, once the science of colleges had replaced thoroughly the faith of conventicles, this moral attitude translated itself into a frenzied puritanism of ambition.  He nursed it as something secularly holy.  To see it thwarted opened his eyes to the true nature of the world, whose morality was artificial, corrupt, and blasphemous.  The way of even the most justifiable revolutions is prepared by personal impulses disguised into creeds.  The Professor’s indignation found in itself a final cause that absolved him from the sin of turning to destruction as the agent of his ambition.  To destroy public faith in legality was the imperfect formula of his pedantic fanaticism; but the subconscious conviction that the framework of an established social order cannot be effectually shattered except by some form of collective or individual violence was precise and correct.  He was a moral agent—that was settled in his mind.  By exercising his agency with ruthless defiance he procured for himself the appearances of power and personal prestige.  That was undeniable to his vengeful bitterness.  It pacified its unrest; and in their own way the most ardent of revolutionaries are perhaps doing no more but seeking for peace in common with the rest of mankind—the peace of soothed vanity, of satisfied appetites, or perhaps of appeased conscience. Lost in the crowd, miserable and undersized, he meditated confidently on his power, keeping his hand in the left pocket of his trousers, grasping lightly the india-rubber ball, the supreme guarantee of his sinister freedom; but after a while he became disagreeably affected by the sight of the roadway thronged with vehicles and of the pavement crowded with men and women.  He was in a long, straight street, peopled by a mere fraction of an immense multitude; but all round him, on and on, even to the limits of the horizon hidden by the enormous piles of bricks, he felt the mass of mankind mighty in its numbers.  They swarmed numerous like locusts, industrious like ants, thoughtless like a natural force, pushing on blind and orderly and absorbed, impervious to sentiment, to logic, to terror too perhaps. That was the form of doubt he feared most.  Impervious to fear!  Often while walking abroad, when he happened also to come out of himself, he had such moments of dreadful and sane mistrust of mankind.  What if nothing could move them?  Such moments come to all men whose ambition aims at a direct grasp upon humanity—to artists, politicians, thinkers, reformers, or saints.  A despicable emotional state this, against which solitude fortifies a superior character; and with severe exultation the Professor thought of the refuge of his room, with its padlocked cupboard, lost in a wilderness of poor houses, the hermitage of the perfect anarchist.  In order to reach sooner the point where he could take his omnibus, he turned brusquely out of the populous street into a narrow and dusky alley paved with flagstones.  On one side the low brick houses had in their dusty windows the sightless, moribund look of incurable decay—empty shells awaiting demolition.  From the other side life had not departed wholly as yet.  Facing the only gas-lamp yawned the cavern of a second-hand furniture dealer, where, deep in the gloom of a sort of narrow avenue winding through a bizarre forest of wardrobes, with an undergrowth tangle of table legs, a tall pier-glass glimmered like a pool of water in a wood.  An unhappy, homeless couch, accompanied by two unrelated chairs, stood in the open.  The only human being making use of the alley besides the Professor, coming stalwart and erect from the opposite direction, checked his swinging pace suddenly. “Hallo!” he said, and stood a little on one side watchfully. The Professor had already stopped, with a ready half turn which brought his shoulders very near the other wall.  His right hand fell lightly on the back of the outcast couch, the left remained purposefully plunged deep in the trousers pocket, and the roundness of the heavy rimmed spectacles imparted an owlish character to his moody, unperturbed face. It was like a meeting in a side corridor of a mansion full of life.  The stalwart man was buttoned up in a dark overcoat, and carried an umbrella.  His hat, tilted back, uncovered a good deal of forehead, which appeared very white in the dusk.  In the dark patches of the orbits the eyeballs glimmered piercingly.  Long, drooping moustaches, the colour of ripe corn, framed with their points the square block of his shaved chin. “I am not looking for you,” he said curtly. The Professor did not stir an inch.  The blended noises of the enormous town sank down to an inarticulate low murmur.  Chief Inspector Heat of the Special Crimes Department changed his tone. “Not in a hurry to get home?” he asked, with mocking simplicity. The unwholesome-looking little moral agent of destruction exulted silently in the possession of personal prestige, keeping in check this man armed with the defensive mandate of a menaced society.  More fortunate than Caligula, who wished that the Roman Senate had only one head for the better satisfaction of his cruel lust, he beheld in that one man all the forces he had set at defiance: the force of law, property, oppression, and injustice.  He beheld all his enemies, and fearlessly confronted them all in a supreme satisfaction of his vanity.  They stood perplexed before him as if before a dreadful portent.  He gloated inwardly over the chance of this meeting affirming his superiority over all the multitude of mankind. It was in reality a chance meeting.  Chief Inspector Heat had had a disagreeably busy day since his department received the first telegram from Greenwich a little before eleven in the morning.  First of all, the fact of the outrage being attempted less than a week after he had assured a high official that no outbreak of anarchist activity was to be apprehended was sufficiently annoying.  If he ever thought himself safe in making a statement, it was then.  He had made that statement with infinite satisfaction to himself, because it was clear that the high official desired greatly to hear that very thing.  He had affirmed that nothing of the sort could even be thought of without the department being aware of it within twenty-four hours; and he had spoken thus in his consciousness of being the great expert of his department.  He had gone even so far as to utter words which true wisdom would have kept back.  But Chief Inspector Heat was not very wise—at least not truly so.  True wisdom, which is not certain of anything in this world of contradictions, would have prevented him from attaining his present position.  It would have alarmed his superiors, and done away with his chances of promotion.  His promotion had been very rapid. “There isn’t one of them, sir, that we couldn’t lay our hands on at any time of night and day.  We know what each of them is doing hour by hour,” he had declared.  And the high official had deigned to smile.  This was so obviously the right thing to say for an officer of Chief Inspector Heat’s reputation that it was perfectly delightful.  The high official believed the declaration, which chimed in with his idea of the fitness of things.  His wisdom was of an official kind, or else he might have reflected upon a matter not of theory but of experience that in the close-woven stuff of relations between conspirator and police there occur unexpected solutions of continuity, sudden holes in space and time.  A given anarchist may be watched inch by inch and minute by minute, but a moment always comes when somehow all sight and touch of him are lost for a few hours, during which something (generally an explosion) more or less deplorable does happen.  But the high official, carried away by his sense of the fitness of things, had smiled, and now the recollection of that smile was very annoying to Chief Inspector Heat, principal expert in anarchist procedure. This was not the only circumstance whose recollection depressed the usual serenity of the eminent specialist.  There was another dating back only to that very morning.  The thought that when called urgently to his Assistant Commissioner’s private room he had been unable to conceal his astonishment was distinctly vexing.  His instinct of a successful man had taught him long ago that, as a general rule, a reputation is built on manner as much as on achievement.  And he felt that his manner when confronted with the telegram had not been impressive.  He had opened his eyes widely, and had exclaimed “Impossible!” exposing himself thereby to the unanswerable retort of a finger-tip laid forcibly on the telegram which the Assistant Commissioner, after reading it aloud, had flung on the desk.  To be crushed, as it were, under the tip of a forefinger was an unpleasant experience.  Very damaging, too!  Furthermore, Chief Inspector Heat was conscious of not having mended matters by allowing himself to express a conviction. “One thing I can tell you at once: none of our lot had anything to do with this.” He was strong in his integrity of a good detective, but he saw now that an impenetrably attentive reserve towards this incident would have served his reputation better.  On the other hand, he admitted to himself that it was difficult to preserve one’s reputation if rank outsiders were going to take a hand in the business.  Outsiders are the bane of the police as of other professions.  The tone of the Assistant Commissioner’s remarks had been sour enough to set one’s teeth on edge. And since breakfast Chief Inspector Heat had not managed to get anything to eat. Starting immediately to begin his investigation on the spot, he had swallowed a good deal of raw, unwholesome fog in the park.  Then he had walked over to the hospital; and when the investigation in Greenwich was concluded at last he had lost his inclination for food.  Not accustomed, as the doctors are, to examine closely the mangled remains of human beings, he had been shocked by the sight disclosed to his view when a waterproof sheet had been lifted off a table in a certain apartment of the hospital. Another waterproof sheet was spread over that table in the manner of a table-cloth, with the corners turned up over a sort of mound—a heap of rags, scorched and bloodstained, half concealing what might have been an accumulation of raw material for a cannibal feast.  It required considerable firmness of mind not to recoil before that sight.  Chief Inspector Heat, an efficient officer of his department, stood his ground, but for a whole minute he did not advance.  A local constable in uniform cast a sidelong glance, and said, with stolid simplicity: “He’s all there.  Every bit of him.  It was a job.” He had been the first man on the spot after the explosion.  He mentioned the fact again.  He had seen something like a heavy flash of lightning in the fog.  At that time he was standing at the door of the King William Street Lodge talking to the keeper.  The concussion made him tingle all over.  He ran between the trees towards the Observatory.  “As fast as my legs would carry me,” he repeated twice. Chief Inspector Heat, bending forward over the table in a gingerly and horrified manner, let him run on.  The hospital porter and another man turned down the corners of the cloth, and stepped aside.  The Chief Inspector’s eyes searched the gruesome detail of that heap of mixed things, which seemed to have been collected in shambles and rag shops. “You used a shovel,” he remarked, observing a sprinkling of small gravel, tiny brown bits of bark, and particles of splintered wood as fine as needles. “Had to in one place,” said the stolid constable.  “I sent a keeper to fetch a spade.  When he heard me scraping the ground with it he leaned his forehead against a tree, and was as sick as a dog.” The Chief Inspector, stooping guardedly over the table, fought down the unpleasant sensation in his throat.  The shattering violence of destruction which had made of that body a heap of nameless fragments affected his feelings with a sense of ruthless cruelty, though his reason told him the effect must have been as swift as a flash of lightning.  The man, whoever he was, had died instantaneously; and yet it seemed impossible to believe that a human body could have reached that state of disintegration without passing through the pangs of inconceivable agony.  No physiologist, and still less of a metaphysician, Chief Inspector Heat rose by the force of sympathy, which is a form of fear, above the vulgar conception of time.  Instantaneous!  He remembered all he had ever read in popular publications of long and terrifying dreams dreamed in the instant of waking; of the whole past life lived with frightful intensity by a drowning man as his doomed head bobs up, streaming, for the last time.  The inexplicable mysteries of conscious existence beset Chief Inspector Heat till he evolved a horrible notion that ages of atrocious pain and mental torture could be contained between two successive winks of an eye.  And meantime the Chief Inspector went on, peering at the table with a calm face and the slightly anxious attention of an indigent customer bending over what may be called the by-products of a butcher’s shop with a view to an inexpensive Sunday dinner.  All the time his trained faculties of an excellent investigator, who scorns no chance of information, followed the self-satisfied, disjointed loquacity of the constable. “A fair-haired fellow,” the last observed in a placid tone, and paused.  “The old woman who spoke to the sergeant noticed a fair-haired fellow coming out of Maze Hill Station.”  He paused.  “And he was a fair-haired fellow.  She noticed two men coming out of the station after the uptrain had gone on,” he continued slowly.  “She couldn’t tell if they were together.  She took no particular notice of the big one, but the other was a fair, slight chap, carrying a tin varnish can in one hand.”  The constable ceased. “Know the woman?” muttered the Chief Inspector, with his eyes fixed on the table, and a vague notion in his mind of an inquest to be held presently upon a person likely to remain for ever unknown. “Yes.  She’s housekeeper to a retired publican, and attends the chapel in Park Place sometimes,” the constable uttered weightily, and paused, with another oblique glance at the table. Then suddenly: “Well, here he is—all of him I could see.  Fair.  Slight—slight enough.  Look at that foot there.  I picked up the legs first, one after another.  He was that scattered you didn’t know where to begin.” The constable paused; the least flicker of an innocent self-laudatory smile invested his round face with an infantile expression. “Stumbled,” he announced positively.  “I stumbled once myself, and pitched on my head too, while running up.  Them roots do stick out all about the place.  Stumbled against the root of a tree and fell, and that thing he was carrying must have gone off right under his chest, I expect.” The echo of the words “Person unknown” repeating itself in his inner consciousness bothered the Chief Inspector considerably.  He would have liked to trace this affair back to its mysterious origin for his own information.  He was professionally curious.  Before the public he would have liked to vindicate the efficiency of his department by establishing the identity of that man.  He was a loyal servant.  That, however, appeared impossible.  The first term of the problem was unreadable—lacked all suggestion but that of atrocious cruelty. Overcoming his physical repugnance, Chief Inspector Heat stretched out his hand without conviction for the salving of his conscience, and took up the least soiled of the rags.  It was a narrow strip of velvet with a larger triangular piece of dark blue cloth hanging from it.  He held it up to his eyes; and the police constable spoke. “Velvet collar.  Funny the old woman should have noticed the velvet collar.  Dark blue overcoat with a velvet collar, she has told us.  He was the chap she saw, and no mistake.  And here he is all complete, velvet collar and all.  I don’t think I missed a single piece as big as a postage stamp.” At this point the trained faculties of the Chief Inspector ceased to hear the voice of the constable.  He moved to one of the windows for better light.  His face, averted from the room, expressed a startled intense interest while he examined closely the triangular piece of broad-cloth.  By a sudden jerk he detached it, and only after stuffing it into his pocket turned round to the room, and flung the velvet collar back on the table— “Cover up,” he directed the attendants curtly, without another look, and, saluted by the constable, carried off his spoil hastily. A convenient train whirled him up to town, alone and pondering deeply, in a third-class compartment.  That singed piece of cloth was incredibly valuable, and he could not defend himself from astonishment at the casual manner it had come into his possession.  It was as if Fate had thrust that clue into his hands.  And after the manner of the average man, whose ambition is to command events, he began to mistrust such a gratuitous and accidental success—just because it seemed forced upon him.  The practical value of success depends not a little on the way you look at it.  But Fate looks at nothing.  It has no discretion.  He no longer considered it eminently desirable all round to establish publicly the identity of the man who had blown himself up that morning with such horrible completeness.  But he was not certain of the view his department would take.  A department is to those it employs a complex personality with ideas and even fads of its own.  It depends on the loyal devotion of its servants, and the devoted loyalty of trusted servants is associated with a certain amount of affectionate contempt, which keeps it sweet, as it were.  By a benevolent provision of Nature no man is a hero to his valet, or else the heroes would have to brush their own clothes.  Likewise no department appears perfectly wise to the intimacy of its workers.  A department does not know so much as some of its servants.  Being a dispassionate organism, it can never be perfectly informed.  It would not be good for its efficiency to know too much.  Chief Inspector Heat got out of the train in a state of thoughtfulness entirely untainted with disloyalty, but not quite free of that jealous mistrust which so often springs on the ground of perfect devotion, whether to women or to institutions. It was in this mental disposition, physically very empty, but still nauseated by what he had seen, that he had come upon the Professor.  Under these conditions which make for irascibility in a sound, normal man, this meeting was specially unwelcome to Chief Inspector Heat.  He had not been thinking of the Professor; he had not been thinking of any individual anarchist at all.  The complexion of that case had somehow forced upon him the general idea of the absurdity of things human, which in the abstract is sufficiently annoying to an unphilosophical temperament, and in concrete instances becomes exasperating beyond endurance.  At the beginning of his career Chief Inspector Heat had been concerned with the more energetic forms of thieving.  He had gained his spurs in that sphere, and naturally enough had kept for it, after his promotion to another department, a feeling not very far removed from affection.  Thieving was not a sheer absurdity.  It was a form of human industry, perverse indeed, but still an industry exercised in an industrious world; it was work undertaken for the same reason as the work in potteries, in coal mines, in fields, in tool-grinding shops.  It was labour, whose practical difference from the other forms of labour consisted in the nature of its risk, which did not lie in ankylosis, or lead poisoning, or fire-damp, or gritty dust, but in what may be briefly defined in its own special phraseology as “Seven years hard.”  Chief Inspector Heat was, of course, not insensible to the gravity of moral differences.  But neither were the thieves he had been looking after.  They submitted to the severe sanctions of a morality familiar to Chief Inspector Heat with a certain resignation. They were his fellow-citizens gone wrong because of imperfect education, Chief Inspector Heat believed; but allowing for that difference, he could understand the mind of a burglar, because, as a matter of fact, the mind and the instincts of a burglar are of the same kind as the mind and the instincts of a police officer.  Both recognise the same conventions, and have a working knowledge of each other’s methods and of the routine of their respective trades.  They understand each other, which is advantageous to both, and establishes a sort of amenity in their relations.  Products of the same machine, one classed as useful and the other as noxious, they take the machine for granted in different ways, but with a seriousness essentially the same.  The mind of Chief Inspector Heat was inaccessible to ideas of revolt.  But his thieves were not rebels.  His bodily vigour, his cool inflexible manner, his courage and his fairness, had secured for him much respect and some adulation in the sphere of his early successes.  He had felt himself revered and admired.  And Chief Inspector Heat, arrested within six paces of the anarchist nick-named the Professor, gave a thought of regret to the world of thieves—sane, without morbid ideals, working by routine, respectful of constituted authorities, free from all taint of hate and despair. After paying this tribute to what is normal in the constitution of society (for the idea of thieving appeared to his instinct as normal as the idea of property), Chief Inspector Heat felt very angry with himself for having stopped, for having spoken, for having taken that way at all on the ground of it being a short cut from the station to the headquarters.  And he spoke again in his big authoritative voice, which, being moderated, had a threatening character. “You are not wanted, I tell you,” he repeated. The anarchist did not stir.  An inward laugh of derision uncovered not only his teeth but his gums as well, shook him all over, without the slightest sound.  Chief Inspector Heat was led to add, against his better judgment: “Not yet.  When I want you I will know where to find you.” Those were perfectly proper words, within the tradition and suitable to his character of a police officer addressing one of his special flock.  But the reception they got departed from tradition and propriety.  It was outrageous.  The stunted, weakly figure before him spoke at last. “I’ve no doubt the papers would give you an obituary notice then.  You know best what that would be worth to you.  I should think you can imagine easily the sort of stuff that would be printed.  But you may be exposed to the unpleasantness of being buried together with me, though I suppose your friends would make an effort to sort us out as much as possible.” With all his healthy contempt for the spirit dictating such speeches, the atrocious allusiveness of the words had its effect on Chief Inspector Heat.  He had too much insight, and too much exact information as well, to dismiss them as rot.  The dusk of this narrow lane took on a sinister tint from the dark, frail little figure, its back to the wall, and speaking with a weak, self-confident voice.  To the vigorous, tenacious vitality of the Chief Inspector, the physical wretchedness of that being, so obviously not fit to live, was ominous; for it seemed to him that if he had the misfortune to be such a miserable object he would not have cared how soon he died.  Life had such a strong hold upon him that a fresh wave of nausea broke out in slight perspiration upon his brow.  The murmur of town life, the subdued rumble of wheels in the two invisible streets to the right and left, came through the curve of the sordid lane to his ears with a precious familiarity and an appealing sweetness.  He was human.  But Chief Inspector Heat was also a man, and he could not let such words pass. “All this is good to frighten children with,” he said.  “I’ll have you yet.” It was very well said, without scorn, with an almost austere quietness. “Doubtless,” was the answer; “but there’s no time like the present, believe me.  For a man of real convictions this is a fine opportunity of self-sacrifice.  You may not find another so favourable, so humane.  There isn’t even a cat near us, and these condemned old houses would make a good heap of bricks where you stand.  You’ll never get me at so little cost to life and property, which you are paid to protect.” “You don’t know who you’re speaking to,” said Chief Inspector Heat firmly.  “If I were to lay my hands on you now I would be no better than yourself.” “Ah!  The game!’ “You may be sure our side will win in the end.  It may yet be necessary to make people believe that some of you ought to be shot at sight like mad dogs.  Then that will be the game.  But I’ll be damned if I know what yours is.  I don’t believe you know yourselves.  You’ll never get anything by it.” “Meantime it’s you who get something from it—so far.  And you get it easily, too.  I won’t speak of your salary, but haven’t you made your name simply by not understanding what we are after?” “What are you after, then?” asked Chief Inspector Heat, with scornful haste, like a man in a hurry who perceives he is wasting his time. The perfect anarchist answered by a smile which did not part his thin colourless lips; and the celebrated Chief Inspector felt a sense of superiority which induced him to raise a warning finger. “Give it up—whatever it is,” he said in an admonishing tone, but not so kindly as if he were condescending to give good advice to a cracksman of repute.  “Give it up.  You’ll find we are too many for you.” The fixed smile on the Professor’s lips wavered, as if the mocking spirit within had lost its assurance.  Chief Inspector Heat went on: “Don’t you believe me eh?  Well, you’ve only got to look about you.  We are.  And anyway, you’re not doing it well.  You’re always making a mess of it.  Why, if the thieves didn’t know their work better they would starve.” The hint of an invincible multitude behind that man’s back roused a sombre indignation in the breast of the Professor.  He smiled no longer his enigmatic and mocking smile.  The resisting power of numbers, the unattackable stolidity of a great multitude, was the haunting fear of his sinister loneliness.  His lips trembled for some time before he managed to say in a strangled voice: “I am doing my work better than you’re doing yours.” “That’ll do now,” interrupted Chief Inspector Heat hurriedly; and the Professor laughed right out this time.  While still laughing he moved on; but he did not laugh long.  It was a sad-faced, miserable little man who emerged from the narrow passage into the bustle of the broad thoroughfare.  He walked with the nerveless gait of a tramp going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a sinister detachment from the aspects of sky and earth.  Chief Inspector Heat, on the other hand, after watching him for a while, stepped out with the purposeful briskness of a man disregarding indeed the inclemencies of the weather, but conscious of having an authorised mission on this earth and the moral support of his kind.  All the inhabitants of the immense town, the population of the whole country, and even the teeming millions struggling upon the planet, were with him—down to the very thieves and mendicants.  Yes, the thieves themselves were sure to be with him in his present work.  The consciousness of universal support in his general activity heartened him to grapple with the particular problem. The problem immediately before the Chief Inspector was that of managing the Assistant Commissioner of his department, his immediate superior.  This is the perennial problem of trusty and loyal servants; anarchism gave it its particular complexion, but nothing more.  Truth to say, Chief Inspector Heat thought but little of anarchism.  He did not attach undue importance to it, and could never bring himself to consider it seriously.  It had more the character of disorderly conduct; disorderly without the human excuse of drunkenness, which at any rate implies good feeling and an amiable leaning towards festivity.  As criminals, anarchists were distinctly no class—no class at all.  And recalling the Professor, Chief Inspector Heat, without checking his swinging pace, muttered through his teeth: “Lunatic.” Catching thieves was another matter altogether.  It had that quality of seriousness belonging to every form of open sport where the best man wins under perfectly comprehensible rules.  There were no rules for dealing with anarchists.  And that was distasteful to the Chief Inspector.  It was all foolishness, but that foolishness excited the public mind, affected persons in high places, and touched upon international relations.  A hard, merciless contempt settled rigidly on the Chief Inspector’s face as he walked on.  His mind ran over all the anarchists of his flock.  Not one of them had half the spunk of this or that burglar he had known.  Not half—not one-tenth. At headquarters the Chief Inspector was admitted at once to the Assistant Commissioner’s private room.  He found him, pen in hand, bent over a great table bestrewn with papers, as if worshipping an enormous double inkstand of bronze and crystal.  Speaking tubes resembling snakes were tied by the heads to the back of the Assistant Commissioner’s wooden arm-chair, and their gaping mouths seemed ready to bite his elbows.  And in this attitude he raised only his eyes, whose lids were darker than his face and very much creased.  The reports had come in: every anarchist had been exactly accounted for. After saying this he lowered his eyes, signed rapidly two single sheets of paper, and only then laid down his pen, and sat well back, directing an inquiring gaze at his renowned subordinate.  The Chief Inspector stood it well, deferential but inscrutable. “I daresay you were right,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “in telling me at first that the London anarchists had nothing to do with this.  I quite appreciate the excellent watch kept on them by your men.  On the other hand, this, for the public, does not amount to more than a confession of ignorance.” The Assistant Commissioner’s delivery was leisurely, as it were cautious.  His thought seemed to rest poised on a word before passing to another, as though words had been the stepping-stones for his intellect picking its way across the waters of error.  “Unless you have brought something useful from Greenwich,” he added. The Chief Inspector began at once the account of his investigation in a clear matter-of-fact manner.  His superior turning his chair a little, and crossing his thin legs, leaned sideways on his elbow, with one hand shading his eyes.  His listening attitude had a sort of angular and sorrowful grace.  Gleams as of highly burnished silver played on the sides of his ebony black head when he inclined it slowly at the end. Chief Inspector Heat waited with the appearance of turning over in his mind all he had just said, but, as a matter of fact, considering the advisability of saying something more.  The Assistant Commissioner cut his hesitation short. “You believe there were two men?” he asked, without uncovering his eyes. The Chief Inspector thought it more than probable.  In his opinion, the two men had parted from each other within a hundred yards from the Observatory walls.  He explained also how the other man could have got out of the park speedily without being observed.  The fog, though not very dense, was in his favour.  He seemed to have escorted the other to the spot, and then to have left him there to do the job single-handed.  Taking the time those two were seen coming out of Maze Hill Station by the old woman, and the time when the explosion was heard, the Chief Inspector thought that the other man might have been actually at the Greenwich Park Station, ready to catch the next train up, at the moment his comrade was destroying himself so thoroughly. “Very thoroughly—eh?” murmured the Assistant Commissioner from under the shadow of his hand. The Chief Inspector in a few vigorous words described the aspect of the remains.  “The coroner’s jury will have a treat,” he added grimly. The Assistant Commissioner uncovered his eyes. “We shall have nothing to tell them,” he remarked languidly. He looked up, and for a time watched the markedly non-committal attitude of his Chief Inspector.  His nature was one that is not easily accessible to illusions.  He knew that a department is at the mercy of its subordinate officers, who have their own conceptions of loyalty.  His career had begun in a tropical colony.  He had liked his work there.  It was police work.  He had been very successful in tracking and breaking up certain nefarious secret societies amongst the natives.  Then he took his long leave, and got married rather impulsively.  It was a good match from a worldly point of view, but his wife formed an unfavourable opinion of the colonial climate on hearsay evidence.  On the other hand, she had influential connections.  It was an excellent match.  But he did not like the work he had to do now.  He felt himself dependent on too many subordinates and too many masters.  The near presence of that strange emotional phenomenon called public opinion weighed upon his spirits, and alarmed him by its irrational nature.  No doubt that from ignorance he exaggerated to himself its power for good and evil—especially for evil; and the rough east winds of the English spring (which agreed with his wife) augmented his general mistrust of men’s motives and of the efficiency of their organisation.  The futility of office work especially appalled him on those days so trying to his sensitive liver. He got up, unfolding himself to his full height, and with a heaviness of step remarkable in so slender a man, moved across the room to the window.  The panes streamed with rain, and the short street he looked down into lay wet and empty, as if swept clear suddenly by a great flood.  It was a very trying day, choked in raw fog to begin with, and now drowned in cold rain.  The flickering, blurred flames of gas-lamps seemed to be dissolving in a watery atmosphere.  And the lofty pretensions of a mankind oppressed by the miserable indignities of the weather appeared as a colossal and hopeless vanity deserving of scorn, wonder, and compassion. “Horrible, horrible!” thought the Assistant Commissioner to himself, with his face near the window-pane.  “We have been having this sort of thing now for ten days; no, a fortnight—a fortnight.”  He ceased to think completely for a time.  That utter stillness of his brain lasted about three seconds.  Then he said perfunctorily: “You have set inquiries on foot for tracing that other man up and down the line?” He had no doubt that everything needful had been done.  Chief Inspector Heat knew, of course, thoroughly the business of man-hunting.  And these were the routine steps, too, that would be taken as a matter of course by the merest beginner.  A few inquiries amongst the ticket collectors and the porters of the two small railway stations would give additional details as to the appearance of the two men; the inspection of the collected tickets would show at once where they came from that morning.  It was elementary, and could not have been neglected.  Accordingly the Chief Inspector answered that all this had been done directly the old woman had come forward with her deposition.  And he mentioned the name of a station.  “That’s where they came from, sir,” he went on.  “The porter who took the tickets at Maze Hill remembers two chaps answering to the description passing the barrier.  They seemed to him two respectable working men of a superior sort—sign painters or house decorators.  The big man got out of a third-class compartment backward, with a bright tin can in his hand.  On the platform he gave it to carry to the fair young fellow who followed him.  All this agrees exactly with what the old woman told the police sergeant in Greenwich.” The Assistant Commissioner, still with his face turned to the window, expressed his doubt as to these two men having had anything to do with the outrage.  All this theory rested upon the utterances of an old charwoman who had been nearly knocked down by a man in a hurry.  Not a very substantial authority indeed, unless on the ground of sudden inspiration, which was hardly tenable. “Frankly now, could she have been really inspired?” he queried, with grave irony, keeping his back to the room, as if entranced by the contemplation of the town’s colossal forms half lost in the night.  He did not even look round when he heard the mutter of the word “Providential” from the principal subordinate of his department, whose name, printed sometimes in the papers, was familiar to the great public as that of one of its zealous and hard-working protectors.  Chief Inspector Heat raised his voice a little. “Strips and bits of bright tin were quite visible to me,” he said.  “That’s a pretty good corroboration.” “And these men came from that little country station,” the Assistant Commissioner mused aloud, wondering.  He was told that such was the name on two tickets out of three given up out of that train at Maze Hill.  The third person who got out was a hawker from Gravesend well known to the porters.  The Chief Inspector imparted that information in a tone of finality with some ill humour, as loyal servants will do in the consciousness of their fidelity and with the sense of the value of their loyal exertions.  And still the Assistant Commissioner did not turn away from the darkness outside, as vast as a sea. “Two foreign anarchists coming from that place,” he said, apparently to the window-pane.  “It’s rather unaccountable.”’ “Yes, sir.  But it would be still more unaccountable if that Michaelis weren’t staying in a cottage in the neighbourhood.” At the sound of that name, falling unexpectedly into this annoying affair, the Assistant Commissioner dismissed brusquely the vague remembrance of his daily whist party at his club.  It was the most comforting habit of his life, in a mainly successful display of his skill without the assistance of any subordinate.  He entered his club to play from five to seven, before going home to dinner, forgetting for those two hours whatever was distasteful in his life, as though the game were a beneficent drug for allaying the pangs of moral discontent.  His partners were the gloomily humorous editor of a celebrated magazine; a silent, elderly barrister with malicious little eyes; and a highly martial, simple-minded old Colonel with nervous brown hands.  They were his club acquaintances merely.  He never met them elsewhere except at the card-table.  But they all seemed to approach the game in the spirit of co-sufferers, as if it were indeed a drug against the secret ills of existence; and every day as the sun declined over the countless roofs of the town, a mellow, pleasurable impatience, resembling the impulse of a sure and profound friendship, lightened his professional labours.  And now this pleasurable sensation went out of him with something resembling a physical shock, and was replaced by a special kind of interest in his work of social protection—an improper sort of interest, which may be defined best as a sudden and alert mistrust of the weapon in his hand. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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