The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale
Inspector Heat’s appearance recalled him to the memory of his superior.
It was not the eyes nor yet the lips exactly. It was bizarre. But does
not Alfred Wallace relate in his famous book on the Malay Archipelago
how, amongst the Aru Islanders, he discovered in an old and naked savage
with a sooty skin a peculiar resemblance to a dear friend at home?
For the first time since he took up his appointment the Assistant
Commissioner felt as if he were going to do some real work for his
salary. And that was a pleasurable sensation. “I’ll turn him inside out
like an old glove,” thought the Assistant Commissioner, with his eyes
resting pensively upon Chief Inspector Heat.
“No, that was not my thought,” he began again. “There is no doubt about
you knowing your business—no doubt at all; and that’s precisely why I—”
He stopped short, and changing his tone: “What could you bring up against
Michaelis of a definite nature? I mean apart from the fact that the two
men under suspicion—you’re certain there were two of them—came last from
a railway station within three miles of the village where Michaelis is
living now.”
“This by itself is enough for us to go upon, sir, with that sort of man,”
said the Chief Inspector, with returning composure. The slight approving
movement of the Assistant Commissioner’s head went far to pacify the
resentful astonishment of the renowned officer. For Chief Inspector Heat
was a kind man, an excellent husband, a devoted father; and the public
and departmental confidence he enjoyed acting favourably upon an amiable
nature, disposed him to feel friendly towards the successive Assistant
Commissioners he had seen pass through that very room. There had been
three in his time. The first one, a soldierly, abrupt, red-faced person,
with white eyebrows and an explosive temper, could be managed with a
silken thread. He left on reaching the age limit. The second, a perfect
gentleman, knowing his own and everybody else’s place to a nicety, on
resigning to take up a higher appointment out of England got decorated
for (really) Inspector Heat’s services. To work with him had been a
pride and a pleasure. The third, a bit of a dark horse from the first,
was at the end of eighteen months something of a dark horse still to the
department. Upon the whole Chief Inspector Heat believed him to be in
the main harmless—odd-looking, but harmless. He was speaking now, and
the Chief Inspector listened with outward deference (which means nothing,
being a matter of duty) and inwardly with benevolent toleration.
“Michaelis reported himself before leaving London for the country?”
“Yes, sir. He did.”
“And what may he be doing there?” continued the Assistant Commissioner,
who was perfectly informed on that point. Fitted with painful tightness
into an old wooden arm-chair, before a worm-eaten oak table in an
upstairs room of a four-roomed cottage with a roof of moss-grown tiles,
Michaelis was writing night and day in a shaky, slanting hand that
“Autobiography of a Prisoner” which was to be like a book of Revelation
in the history of mankind. The conditions of confined space, seclusion,
and solitude in a small four-roomed cottage were favourable to his
inspiration. It was like being in prison, except that one was never
disturbed for the odious purpose of taking exercise according to the
tyrannical regulations of his old home in the penitentiary. He could not
tell whether the sun still shone on the earth or not. The perspiration
of the literary labour dropped from his brow. A delightful enthusiasm
urged him on. It was the liberation of his inner life, the letting out
of his soul into the wide world. And the zeal of his guileless vanity
(first awakened by the offer of five hundred pounds from a publisher)
seemed something predestined and holy.
“It would be, of course, most desirable to be informed exactly,” insisted
the Assistant Commissioner uncandidly.
Chief Inspector Heat, conscious of renewed irritation at this display of
scrupulousness, said that the county police had been notified from the
first of Michaelis’ arrival, and that a full report could be obtained in
a few hours. A wire to the superintendent—
Thus he spoke, rather slowly, while his mind seemed already to be
weighing the consequences. A slight knitting of the brow was the outward
sign of this. But he was interrupted by a question.
“You’ve sent that wire already?”
“No, sir,” he answered, as if surprised.
The Assistant Commissioner uncrossed his legs suddenly. The briskness of
that movement contrasted with the casual way in which he threw out a
suggestion.
“Would you think that Michaelis had anything to do with the preparation
of that bomb, for instance?”
The Chief Inspector assumed a reflective manner.
“I wouldn’t say so. There’s no necessity to say anything at present. He
associates with men who are classed as dangerous. He was made a delegate
of the Red Committee less than a year after his release on licence. A
sort of compliment, I suppose.”
And the Chief Inspector laughed a little angrily, a little scornfully.
With a man of that sort scrupulousness was a misplaced and even an
illegal sentiment. The celebrity bestowed upon Michaelis on his release
two years ago by some emotional journalists in want of special copy had
rankled ever since in his breast. It was perfectly legal to arrest that
man on the barest suspicion. It was legal and expedient on the face of
it. His two former chiefs would have seen the point at once; whereas
this one, without saying either yes or no, sat there, as if lost in a
dream. Moreover, besides being legal and expedient, the arrest of
Michaelis solved a little personal difficulty which worried Chief
Inspector Heat somewhat. This difficulty had its bearing upon his
reputation, upon his comfort, and even upon the efficient performance of
his duties. For, if Michaelis no doubt knew something about this
outrage, the Chief Inspector was fairly certain that he did not know too
much. This was just as well. He knew much less—the Chief Inspector was
positive—than certain other individuals he had in his mind, but whose
arrest seemed to him inexpedient, besides being a more complicated
matter, on account of the rules of the game. The rules of the game did
not protect so much Michaelis, who was an ex-convict. It would be stupid
not to take advantage of legal facilities, and the journalists who had
written him up with emotional gush would be ready to write him down with
emotional indignation.
This prospect, viewed with confidence, had the attraction of a personal
triumph for Chief Inspector Heat. And deep down in his blameless bosom
of an average married citizen, almost unconscious but potent
nevertheless, the dislike of being compelled by events to meddle with the
desperate ferocity of the Professor had its say. This dislike had been
strengthened by the chance meeting in the lane. The encounter did not
leave behind with Chief Inspector Heat that satisfactory sense of
superiority the members of the police force get from the unofficial but
intimate side of their intercourse with the criminal classes, by which
the vanity of power is soothed, and the vulgar love of domination over
our fellow-creatures is flattered as worthily as it deserves.
The perfect anarchist was not recognised as a fellow-creature by Chief
Inspector Heat. He was impossible—a mad dog to be left alone. Not that
the Chief Inspector was afraid of him; on the contrary, he meant to have
him some day. But not yet; he meant to get hold of him in his own time,
properly and effectively according to the rules of the game. The present
was not the right time for attempting that feat, not the right time for
many reasons, personal and of public service. This being the strong
feeling of Inspector Heat, it appeared to him just and proper that this
affair should be shunted off its obscure and inconvenient track, leading
goodness knows where, into a quiet (and lawful) siding called Michaelis.
And he repeated, as if reconsidering the suggestion conscientiously:
“The bomb. No, I would not say that exactly. We may never find that
out. But it’s clear that he is connected with this in some way, which we
can find out without much trouble.”
His countenance had that look of grave, overbearing indifference once
well known and much dreaded by the better sort of thieves. Chief
Inspector Heat, though what is called a man, was not a smiling animal.
But his inward state was that of satisfaction at the passively receptive
attitude of the Assistant Commissioner, who murmured gently:
“And you really think that the investigation should be made in that
direction?”
“I do, sir.”
“Quite convinced?
“I am, sir. That’s the true line for us to take.”
The Assistant Commissioner withdrew the support of his hand from his
reclining head with a suddenness that, considering his languid attitude,
seemed to menace his whole person with collapse. But, on the contrary,
he sat up, extremely alert, behind the great writing-table on which his
hand had fallen with the sound of a sharp blow.
“What I want to know is what put it out of your head till now.”
“Put it out of my head,” repeated the Chief Inspector very slowly.
“Yes. Till you were called into this room—you know.”
The Chief Inspector felt as if the air between his clothing and his skin
had become unpleasantly hot. It was the sensation of an unprecedented
and incredible experience.
“Of course,” he said, exaggerating the deliberation of his utterance to
the utmost limits of possibility, “if there is a reason, of which I know
nothing, for not interfering with the convict Michaelis, perhaps it’s
just as well I didn’t start the county police after him.”
This took such a long time to say that the unflagging attention of the
Assistant Commissioner seemed a wonderful feat of endurance. His retort
came without delay.
“No reason whatever that I know of. Come, Chief Inspector, this
finessing with me is highly improper on your part—highly improper. And
it’s also unfair, you know. You shouldn’t leave me to puzzle things out
for myself like this. Really, I am surprised.”
He paused, then added smoothly: “I need scarcely tell you that this
conversation is altogether unofficial.”
These words were far from pacifying the Chief Inspector. The indignation
of a betrayed tight-rope performer was strong within him. In his pride
of a trusted servant he was affected by the assurance that the rope was
not shaken for the purpose of breaking his neck, as by an exhibition of
impudence. As if anybody were afraid! Assistant Commissioners come and
go, but a valuable Chief Inspector is not an ephemeral office phenomenon.
He was not afraid of getting a broken neck. To have his performance
spoiled was more than enough to account for the glow of honest
indignation. And as thought is no respecter of persons, the thought of
Chief Inspector Heat took a threatening and prophetic shape. “You, my
boy,” he said to himself, keeping his round and habitually roving eyes
fastened upon the Assistant Commissioner’s face—“you, my boy, you don’t
know your place, and your place won’t know you very long either, I bet.”
As if in provoking answer to that thought, something like the ghost of an
amiable smile passed on the lips of the Assistant Commissioner. His
manner was easy and business-like while he persisted in administering
another shake to the tight rope.
“Let us come now to what you have discovered on the spot, Chief
Inspector,” he said.
“A fool and his job are soon parted,” went on the train of prophetic
thought in Chief Inspector Heat’s head. But it was immediately followed
by the reflection that a higher official, even when “fired out” (this was