The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad

The other smiled faintly.

“Let them come and try it on, and you will see,” he said. “They

know me, but I know also every one of them. They won’t come near

me – not they.”

His thin livid lips snapped together firmly. Ossipon began to

argue.

“But they could send someone – rig a plant on you. Don’t you see?

Get the stuff from you in that way, and then arrest you with the

proof in their hands.”

“Proof of what? Dealing in explosives without a licence perhaps.”

This was meant for a contemptuous jeer, though the expression of

the thin, sickly face remained unchanged, and the utterance was

negligent. “I don’t think there’s one of them anxious to make that

arrest. I don’t think they could get one of them to apply for a

warrant. I mean one of the best. Not one.”

“Why?” Ossipon asked.

“Because they know very well I take care never to part with the

last handful of my wares. I’ve it always by me.” He touched the

breast of his coat lightly. “In a thick glass flask,” he added.

“So I have been told,” said Ossipon, with a shade of wonder in his

voice. “But I didn’t know if – ”

“They know,” interrupted the little man crisply, leaning against

the straight chair back, which rose higher than his fragile head.

“I shall never be arrested. The game isn’t good enough for any

policeman of them all. To deal with a man like me you require

sheer, naked, inglorious heroism.” Again his lips closed with a

self-confident snap. Ossipon repressed a movement of impatience.

“Or recklessness – or simply ignorance,” he retorted. “They’ve

only to get somebody for the job who does not know you carry enough

stuff in your pocket to blow yourself and everything within sixty

yards of you to pieces.”

“I never affirmed I could not be eliminated,” rejoined the other.

“But that wouldn’t be an arrest. Moreover, it’s not so easy as it

looks.”

“Bah!” Ossipon contradicted. “Don’t be too sure of that. What’s

to prevent half-a-dozen of them jumping upon you from behind in the

street? With your arms pinned to your sides you could do nothing –

could you?”

“Yes; I could. I am seldom out in the streets after dark,” said

the little man impassively, “and never very late. I walk always

with my right hand closed round the india-rubber ball which I have

in my trouser pocket. The pressing of this ball actuates a

detonator inside the flask I carry in my pocket. It’s the

principle of the pneumatic instantaneous shutter for a camera lens.

The tube leads up – ”

With a swift disclosing gesture he gave Ossipon a glimpse of an

india-rubber tube, resembling a slender brown worm, issuing from

the armhole of his waistcoat and plunging into the inner breast

pocket of his jacket. His clothes, of a nondescript brown mixture,

were threadbare and marked with stains, dusty in the folds, with

ragged button-holes. “The detonator is partly mechanical, partly

chemical,” he explained, with casual condescension.

“It is instantaneous, of course?” murmured Ossipon, with a slight

shudder.

“Far from it,” confessed the other, with a reluctance which seemed

to twist his mouth dolorously. “A full twenty seconds must elapse

from the moment I press the ball till the explosion takes place.”

“Phew!” whistled Ossipon, completely appalled. “Twenty seconds!

Horrors! You mean to say that you could face that? I should go

crazy – ”

“Wouldn’t matter if you did. Of course, it’s the weak point of

this special system, which is only for my own use. The worst is

that the manner of exploding is always the weak point with us. I

am trying to invent a detonator that would adjust itself to all

conditions of action, and even to unexpected changes of conditions.

A variable and yet perfectly precise mechanism. A really

intelligent detonator.”

“Twenty seconds,” muttered Ossipon again. “Ough! And then – ”

With a slight turn of the head the glitter of the spectacles seemed

to gauge the size of the beer saloon in the basement of the

renowned Silenus Restaurant.

“Nobody in this room could hope to escape,” was the verdict of that

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