Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (313 page)

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.