twenty-four hours; and he had spoken thus in his consciousness of
being the great expert of his department. He had gone even so far
as to utter words which true wisdom would have kept back. But
Chief Inspector Heat was not very wise – at least not truly so.
True wisdom, which is not certain of anything in this world of
contradictions, would have prevented him from attaining his present
position. It would have alarmed his superiors, and done away with
his chances of promotion. His promotion had been very rapid.
“There isn’t one of them, sir, that we couldn’t lay our hands on at
any time of night and day. We know what each of them is doing hour
by hour,” he had declared. And the high official had deigned to
smile. This was so obviously the right thing to say for an officer
of Chief Inspector Heat’s reputation that it was perfectly
delightful. The high official believed the declaration, which
chimed in with his idea of the fitness of things. His wisdom was
of an official kind, or else he might have reflected upon a matter
not of theory but of experience that in the close-woven stuff of
relations between conspirator and police there occur unexpected
solutions of continuity, sudden holes in space and time. A given
anarchist may be watched inch by inch and minute by minute, but a
moment always comes when somehow all sight and touch of him are
lost for a few hours, during which something (generally an
explosion) more or less deplorable does happen. But the high
official, carried away by his sense of the fitness of things, had
smiled, and now the recollection of that smile was very annoying to
Chief Inspector Heat, principal expert in anarchist procedure.
This was not the only circumstance whose recollection depressed the
usual serenity of the eminent specialist. There was another dating
back only to that very morning. The thought that when called
urgently to his Assistant Commissioner’s private room he had been
unable to conceal his astonishment was distinctly vexing. His
instinct of a successful man had taught him long ago that, as a
general rule, a reputation is built on manner as much as on
achievement. And he felt that his manner when confronted with the
telegram had not been impressive. He had opened his eyes widely,
and had exclaimed “Impossible!” exposing himself thereby to the
unanswerable retort of a finger-tip laid forcibly on the telegram
which the Assistant Commissioner, after reading it aloud, had flung
on the desk. To be crushed, as it were, under the tip of a
forefinger was an unpleasant experience. Very damaging, too!
Furthermore, Chief Inspector Heat was conscious of not having
mended matters by allowing himself to express a conviction.
“One thing I can tell you at once: none of our lot had anything to
do with this.”
He was strong in his integrity of a good detective, but he saw now
that an impenetrably attentive reserve towards this incident would
have served his reputation better. On the other hand, he admitted
to himself that it was difficult to preserve one’s reputation if
rank outsiders were going to take a hand in the business.
Outsiders are the bane of the police as of other professions. The
tone of the Assistant Commissioner’s remarks had been sour enough
to set one’s teeth on edge.
And since breakfast Chief Inspector Heat had not managed to get
anything to eat.
Starting immediately to begin his investigation on the spot, he had
swallowed a good deal of raw, unwholesome fog in the park. Then he
had walked over to the hospital; and when the investigation in
Greenwich was concluded at last he had lost his inclination for
food. Not accustomed, as the doctors are, to examine closely the
mangled remains of human beings, he had been shocked by the sight
disclosed to his view when a waterproof sheet had been lifted off a
table in a certain apartment of the hospital.
Another waterproof sheet was spread over that table in the manner
of a table-cloth, with the corners turned up over a sort of mound –
a heap of rags, scorched and bloodstained, half concealing what