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