The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale
old departmental hand. He would accuse me of perverting its morality and
attacking its efficiency. He would define it bitterly as protection
extended to the criminal class of revolutionists. It would mean just
that to him.”
“Yes. But what do you mean?”
“I mean to say, first, that there’s but poor comfort in being able to
declare that any given act of violence—damaging property or destroying
life—is not the work of anarchism at all, but of something else
altogether—some species of authorised scoundrelism. This, I fancy, is
much more frequent than we suppose. Next, it’s obvious that the
existence of these people in the pay of foreign governments destroys in a
measure the efficiency of our supervision. A spy of that sort can afford
to be more reckless than the most reckless of conspirators. His
occupation is free from all restraint. He’s without as much faith as is
necessary for complete negation, and without that much law as is implied
in lawlessness. Thirdly, the existence of these spies amongst the
revolutionary groups, which we are reproached for harbouring here, does
away with all certitude. You have received a reassuring statement from
Chief Inspector Heat some time ago. It was by no means groundless—and
yet this episode happens. I call it an episode, because this affair, I
make bold to say, is episodic; it is no part of any general scheme,
however wild. The very peculiarities which surprise and perplex Chief
Inspector Heat establish its character in my eyes. I am keeping clear of
details, Sir Ethelred.”
The Personage on the hearthrug had been listening with profound
attention.
“Just so. Be as concise as you can.”
The Assistant Commissioner intimated by an earnest deferential gesture
that he was anxious to be concise.
“There is a peculiar stupidity and feebleness in the conduct of this
affair which gives me excellent hopes of getting behind it and finding
there something else than an individual freak of fanaticism. For it is a
planned thing, undoubtedly. The actual perpetrator seems to have been
led by the hand to the spot, and then abandoned hurriedly to his own
devices. The inference is that he was imported from abroad for the
purpose of committing this outrage. At the same time one is forced to
the conclusion that he did not know enough English to ask his way, unless
one were to accept the fantastic theory that he was a deaf mute. I
wonder now—But this is idle. He has destroyed himself by an accident,
obviously. Not an extraordinary accident. But an extraordinary little
fact remains: the address on his clothing discovered by the merest
accident, too. It is an incredible little fact, so incredible that the
explanation which will account for it is bound to touch the bottom of
this affair. Instead of instructing Heat to go on with this case, my
intention is to seek this explanation personally—by myself, I mean—where
it may be picked up. That is in a certain shop in Brett Street, and on
the lips of a certain secret agent once upon a time the confidential and
trusted spy of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim, Ambassador of a Great
Power to the Court of St James.”
The Assistant Commissioner paused, then added: “Those fellows are a
perfect pest.” In order to raise his drooping glance to the speaker’s
face, the Personage on the hearthrug had gradually tilted his head
farther back, which gave him an aspect of extraordinary haughtiness.
“Why not leave it to Heat?”
“Because he is an old departmental hand. They have their own morality.
My line of inquiry would appear to him an awful perversion of duty. For
him the plain duty is to fasten the guilt upon as many prominent
anarchists as he can on some slight indications he had picked up in the
course of his investigation on the spot; whereas I, he would say, am bent
upon vindicating their innocence. I am trying to be as lucid as I can in
presenting this obscure matter to you without details.”
“He would, would he?” muttered the proud head of Sir Ethelred from its
lofty elevation.
“I am afraid so—with an indignation and disgust of which you or I can
have no idea. He’s an excellent servant. We must not put an undue
strain on his loyalty. That’s always a mistake. Besides, I want a free
hand—a freer hand than it would be perhaps advisable to give Chief
Inspector Heat. I haven’t the slightest wish to spare this man Verloc.
He will, I imagine, be extremely startled to find his connection with
this affair, whatever it may be, brought home to him so quickly.
Frightening him will not be very difficult. But our true objective lies
behind him somewhere. I want your authority to give him such assurances
of personal safety as I may think proper.”
“Certainly,” said the Personage on the hearthrug. “Find out as much as
you can; find it out in your own way.”
“I must set about it without loss of time, this very evening,” said the
Assistant Commissioner.
Sir Ethelred shifted one hand under his coat tails, and tilting back his
head, looked at him steadily.
“We’ll have a late sitting to-night,” he said. “Come to the House with
your discoveries if we are not gone home. I’ll warn Toodles to look out
for you. He’ll take you into my room.”
The numerous family and the wide connections of the youthful-looking
Private Secretary cherished for him the hope of an austere and exalted
destiny. Meantime the social sphere he adorned in his hours of idleness
chose to pet him under the above nickname. And Sir Ethelred, hearing it
on the lips of his wife and girls every day (mostly at breakfast-time),
had conferred upon it the dignity of unsmiling adoption.
The Assistant Commissioner was surprised and gratified extremely.
“I shall certainly bring my discoveries to the House on the chance of you
having the time to—”
“I won’t have the time,” interrupted the great Personage. “But I will
see you. I haven’t the time now—And you are going yourself?”
“Yes, Sir Ethelred. I think it the best way.”
The Personage had tilted his head so far back that, in order to keep the
Assistant Commissioner under his observation, he had to nearly close his
eyes.
“H’m. Ha! And how do you propose—Will you assume a disguise?”
“Hardly a disguise! I’ll change my clothes, of course.”
“Of course,” repeated the great man, with a sort of absent-minded
loftiness. He turned his big head slowly, and over his shoulder gave a
haughty oblique stare to the ponderous marble timepiece with the sly,
feeble tick. The gilt hands had taken the opportunity to steal through
no less than five and twenty minutes behind his back.
The Assistant Commissioner, who could not see them, grew a little nervous
in the interval. But the great man presented to him a calm and
undismayed face.
“Very well,” he said, and paused, as if in deliberate contempt of the
official clock. “But what first put you in motion in this direction?”
“I have been always of opinion,” began the Assistant Commissioner.
“Ah. Yes! Opinion. That’s of course. But the immediate motive?”
“What shall I say, Sir Ethelred? A new man’s antagonism to old methods.
A desire to know something at first hand. Some impatience. It’s my old
work, but the harness is different. It has been chafing me a little in
one or two tender places.”
“I hope you’ll get on over there,” said the great man kindly, extending
his hand, soft to the touch, but broad and powerful like the hand of a
glorified farmer. The Assistant Commissioner shook it, and withdrew.
In the outer room Toodles, who had been waiting perched on the edge of a
table, advanced to meet him, subduing his natural buoyancy.
“Well? Satisfactory?” he asked, with airy importance.
“Perfectly. You’ve earned my undying gratitude,” answered the Assistant
Commissioner, whose long face looked wooden in contrast with the peculiar
character of the other’s gravity, which seemed perpetually ready to break
into ripples and chuckles.
“That’s all right. But seriously, you can’t imagine how irritated he is
by the attacks on his Bill for the Nationalisation of Fisheries. They
call it the beginning of social revolution. Of course, it is a
revolutionary measure. But these fellows have no decency. The personal
attacks—”
“I read the papers,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner.
“Odious? Eh? And you have no notion what a mass of work he has got to
get through every day. He does it all himself. Seems unable to trust
anyone with these Fisheries.”
“And yet he’s given a whole half hour to the consideration of my very
small sprat,” interjected the Assistant Commissioner.
“Small! Is it? I’m glad to hear that. But it’s a pity you didn’t keep
away, then. This fight takes it out of him frightfully. The man’s
getting exhausted. I feel it by the way he leans on my arm as we walk
over. And, I say, is he safe in the streets? Mullins has been marching
his men up here this afternoon. There’s a constable stuck by every
lamp-post, and every second person we meet between this and Palace Yard
is an obvious ‘tec.’ It will get on his nerves presently. I say, these
foreign scoundrels aren’t likely to throw something at him—are they? It
would be a national calamity. The country can’t spare him.”
“Not to mention yourself. He leans on your arm,” suggested the Assistant
Commissioner soberly. “You would both go.”
“It would be an easy way for a young man to go down into history? Not so
many British Ministers have been assassinated as to make it a minor
incident. But seriously now—”
“I am afraid that if you want to go down into history you’ll have to do
something for it. Seriously, there’s no danger whatever for both of you
but from overwork.”
The sympathetic Toodles welcomed this opening for a chuckle.
“The Fisheries won’t kill me. I am used to late hours,” he declared,
with ingenuous levity. But, feeling an instant compunction, he began to
assume an air of statesman-like moodiness, as one draws on a glove. “His
massive intellect will stand any amount of work. It’s his nerves that I
am afraid of. The reactionary gang, with that abusive brute Cheeseman at
their head, insult him every night.”
“If he will insist on beginning a revolution!” murmured the Assistant
Commissioner.
“The time has come, and he is the only man great enough for the work,”
protested the revolutionary Toodles, flaring up under the calm,
speculative gaze of the Assistant Commissioner. Somewhere in a corridor
a distant bell tinkled urgently, and with devoted vigilance the young man
pricked up his ears at the sound. “He’s ready to go now,” he exclaimed
in a whisper, snatched up his hat, and vanished from the room.
The Assistant Commissioner went out by another door in a less elastic
manner. Again he crossed the wide thoroughfare, walked along a narrow
street, and re-entered hastily his own departmental buildings. He kept
up this accelerated pace to the door of his private room. Before he had
closed it fairly his eyes sought his desk. He stood still for a moment,
then walked up, looked all round on the floor, sat down in his chair,
rang a bell, and waited.
“Chief Inspector Heat gone yet?”
“Yes, sir. Went away half-an-hour ago.”
He nodded. “That will do.” And sitting still, with his hat pushed off
his forehead, he thought that it was just like Heat’s confounded cheek to
carry off quietly the only piece of material evidence. But he thought
this without animosity. Old and valued servants will take liberties.
The piece of overcoat with the address sewn on was certainly not a thing
to leave about. Dismissing from his mind this manifestation of Chief
Inspector Heat’s mistrust, he wrote and despatched a note to his wife,
charging her to make his apologies to Michaelis’ great lady, with whom
they were engaged to dine that evening.