The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale
the other, who after gazing abstractedly at the print laid it down
without comment.
It was Ossipon who spoke first—still resentful.
“The fragments of only _one_ man, you note. Ergo: blew _himself_ up.
That spoils your day off for you—don’t it? Were you expecting that sort
of move? I hadn’t the slightest idea—not the ghost of a notion of
anything of the sort being planned to come off here—in this country.
Under the present circumstances it’s nothing short of criminal.”
The little man lifted his thin black eyebrows with dispassionate scorn.
“Criminal! What is that? What _is_ crime? What can be the meaning of
such an assertion?”
“How am I to express myself? One must use the current words,” said
Ossipon impatiently. “The meaning of this assertion is that this
business may affect our position very adversely in this country. Isn’t
that crime enough for you? I am convinced you have been giving away some
of your stuff lately.”
Ossipon stared hard. The other, without flinching, lowered and raised
his head slowly.
“You have!” burst out the editor of the F. P. leaflets in an intense
whisper. “No! And are you really handing it over at large like this,
for the asking, to the first fool that comes along?”
“Just so! The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and
ink, and I don’t fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put
an end to it, whatever you may think. Yes, I would give the stuff with
both hands to every man, woman, or fool that likes to come along. I know
what you are thinking about. But I am not taking my cue from the Red
Committee. I would see you all hounded out of here, or arrested—or
beheaded for that matter—without turning a hair. What happens to us as
individuals is not of the least consequence.”
He spoke carelessly, without heat, almost without feeling, and Ossipon,
secretly much affected, tried to copy this detachment.
“If the police here knew their business they would shoot you full of
holes with revolvers, or else try to sand-bag you from behind in broad
daylight.”
The little man seemed already to have considered that point of view in
his dispassionate self-confident manner.
“Yes,” he assented with the utmost readiness. “But for that they would
have to face their own institutions. Do you see? That requires uncommon
grit. Grit of a special kind.”
Ossipon blinked.
“I fancy that’s exactly what would happen to you if you were to set up
your laboratory in the States. They don’t stand on ceremony with their
institutions there.”
“I am not likely to go and see. Otherwise your remark is just,” admitted
the other. “They have more character over there, and their character is
essentially anarchistic. Fertile ground for us, the States—very good
ground. The great Republic has the root of the destructive matter in
her. The collective temperament is lawless. Excellent. They may shoot
us down, but—”
“You are too transcendental for me,” growled Ossipon, with moody concern.
“Logical,” protested the other. “There are several kinds of logic. This
is the enlightened kind. America is all right. It is this country that
is dangerous, with her idealistic conception of legality. The social
spirit of this people is wrapped up in scrupulous prejudices, and that is
fatal to our work. You talk of England being our only refuge! So much
the worse. Capua! What do we want with refuges? Here you talk, print,
plot, and do nothing. I daresay it’s very convenient for such Karl
Yundts.”
He shrugged his shoulders slightly, then added with the same leisurely
assurance: “To break up the superstition and worship of legality should
be our aim. Nothing would please me more than to see Inspector Heat and
his likes take to shooting us down in broad daylight with the approval of
the public. Half our battle would be won then; the disintegration of the
old morality would have set in in its very temple. That is what you
ought to aim at. But you revolutionists will never understand that. You
plan the future, you lose yourselves in reveries of economical systems
derived from what is; whereas what’s wanted is a clean sweep and a clear
start for a new conception of life. That sort of future will take care
of itself if you will only make room for it. Therefore I would shovel my
stuff in heaps at the corners of the streets if I had enough for that;
and as I haven’t, I do my best by perfecting a really dependable
detonator.”
Ossipon, who had been mentally swimming in deep waters, seized upon the
last word as if it were a saving plank.
“Yes. Your detonators. I shouldn’t wonder if it weren’t one of your
detonators that made a clean sweep of the man in the park.”
A shade of vexation darkened the determined sallow face confronting
Ossipon.
“My difficulty consists precisely in experimenting practically with the
various kinds. They must be tried after all. Besides—”
Ossipon interrupted.
“Who could that fellow be? I assure you that we in London had no
knowledge—Couldn’t you describe the person you gave the stuff to?”
The other turned his spectacles upon Ossipon like a pair of searchlights.
“Describe him,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t think there can be the
slightest objection now. I will describe him to you in one word—Verloc.”
Ossipon, whom curiosity had lifted a few inches off his seat, dropped
back, as if hit in the face.
“Verloc! Impossible.”
The self-possessed little man nodded slightly once.
“Yes. He’s the person. You can’t say that in this case I was giving my
stuff to the first fool that came along. He was a prominent member of
the group as far as I understand.”
“Yes,” said Ossipon. “Prominent. No, not exactly. He was the centre
for general intelligence, and usually received comrades coming over here.
More useful than important. Man of no ideas. Years ago he used to speak
at meetings—in France, I believe. Not very well, though. He was trusted
by such men as Latorre, Moser and all that old lot. The only talent he
showed really was his ability to elude the attentions of the police
somehow. Here, for instance, he did not seem to be looked after very
closely. He was regularly married, you know. I suppose it’s with her
money that he started that shop. Seemed to make it pay, too.”
Ossipon paused abruptly, muttered to himself “I wonder what that woman
will do now?” and fell into thought.
The other waited with ostentatious indifference. His parentage was
obscure, and he was generally known only by his nickname of Professor.
His title to that designation consisted in his having been once assistant
demonstrator in chemistry at some technical institute. He quarrelled
with the authorities upon a question of unfair treatment. Afterwards he
obtained a post in the laboratory of a manufactory of dyes. There too he
had been treated with revolting injustice. His struggles, his
privations, his hard work to raise himself in the social scale, had
filled him with such an exalted conviction of his merits that it was
extremely difficult for the world to treat him with justice—the standard
of that notion depending so much upon the patience of the individual.
The Professor had genius, but lacked the great social virtue of
resignation.
“Intellectually a nonentity,” Ossipon pronounced aloud, abandoning
suddenly the inward contemplation of Mrs Verloc’s bereaved person and
business. “Quite an ordinary personality. You are wrong in not keeping
more in touch with the comrades, Professor,” he added in a reproving
tone. “Did he say anything to you—give you some idea of his intentions?
I hadn’t seen him for a month. It seems impossible that he should be
gone.”
“He told me it was going to be a demonstration against a building,” said
the Professor. “I had to know that much to prepare the missile. I
pointed out to him that I had hardly a sufficient quantity for a
completely destructive result, but he pressed me very earnestly to do my
best. As he wanted something that could be carried openly in the hand, I
proposed to make use of an old one-gallon copal varnish can I happened to
have by me. He was pleased at the idea. It gave me some trouble,
because I had to cut out the bottom first and solder it on again
afterwards. When prepared for use, the can enclosed a wide-mouthed,
well-corked jar of thick glass packed around with some wet clay and
containing sixteen ounces of X2 green powder. The detonator was
connected with the screw top of the can. It was ingenious—a combination
of time and shock. I explained the system to him. It was a thin tube of
tin enclosing a—”
Ossipon’s attention had wandered.
“What do you think has happened?” he interrupted.
“Can’t tell. Screwed the top on tight, which would make the connection,
and then forgot the time. It was set for twenty minutes. On the other
hand, the time contact being made, a sharp shock would bring about the
explosion at once. He either ran the time too close, or simply let the
thing fall. The contact was made all right—that’s clear to me at any
rate. The system’s worked perfectly. And yet you would think that a
common fool in a hurry would be much more likely to forget to make the
contact altogether. I was worrying myself about that sort of failure
mostly. But there are more kinds of fools than one can guard against.
You can’t expect a detonator to be absolutely fool-proof.”
He beckoned to a waiter. Ossipon sat rigid, with the abstracted gaze of
mental travail. After the man had gone away with the money he roused
himself, with an air of profound dissatisfaction.
“It’s extremely unpleasant for me,” he mused. “Karl has been in bed with
bronchitis for a week. There’s an even chance that he will never get up
again. Michaelis’s luxuriating in the country somewhere. A fashionable
publisher has offered him five hundred pounds for a book. It will be a
ghastly failure. He has lost the habit of consecutive thinking in
prison, you know.”
The Professor on his feet, now buttoning his coat, looked about him with
perfect indifference.
“What are you going to do?” asked Ossipon wearily. He dreaded the blame
of the Central Red Committee, a body which had no permanent place of
abode, and of whose membership he was not exactly informed. If this
affair eventuated in the stoppage of the modest subsidy allotted to the
publication of the F. P. pamphlets, then indeed he would have to regret
Verloc’s inexplicable folly.
“Solidarity with the extremest form of action is one thing, and silly
recklessness is another,” he said, with a sort of moody brutality. “I
don’t know what came to Verloc. There’s some mystery there. However,
he’s gone. You may take it as you like, but under the circumstances the
only policy for the militant revolutionary group is to disclaim all
connection with this damned freak of yours. How to make the disclaimer
convincing enough is what bothers me.”
The little man on his feet, buttoned up and ready to go, was no taller
than the seated Ossipon. He levelled his spectacles at the latter’s face
point-blank.
“You might ask the police for a testimonial of good conduct. They know
where every one of you slept last night. Perhaps if you asked them they
would consent to publish some sort of official statement.”
“No doubt they are aware well enough that we had nothing to do with
this,” mumbled Ossipon bitterly. “What they will say is another thing.”
He remained thoughtful, disregarding the short, owlish, shabby figure
standing by his side. “I must lay hands on Michaelis at once, and get
him to speak from his heart at one of our gatherings. The public has a
sort of sentimental regard for that fellow. His name is known. And I am
in touch with a few reporters on the big dailies. What he would say