indignation of a betrayed tight-rope performer was strong within
him. In his pride of a trusted servant he was affected by the
assurance that the rope was not shaken for the purpose of breaking
his neck, as by an exhibition of impudence. As if anybody were
afraid! Assistant Commissioners come and go, but a valuable Chief
Inspector is not an ephemeral office phenomenon. He was not afraid
of getting a broken neck. To have his performance spoiled was more
than enough to account for the glow of honest indignation. And as
thought is no respecter of persons, the thought of Chief Inspector
Heat took a threatening and prophetic shape. “You, my boy,” he
said to himself, keeping his round and habitually roving eyes
fastened upon the Assistant Commissioner’s face – “you, my boy, you
don’t know your place, and your place won’t know you very long
either, I bet.”
As if in provoking answer to that thought, something like the ghost
of an amiable smile passed on the lips of the Assistant
Commissioner. His manner was easy and business-like while he
persisted in administering another shake to the tight rope.
“Let us come now to what you have discovered on the spot, Chief
Inspector,” he said.
“A fool and his job are soon parted,” went on the train of
prophetic thought in Chief Inspector Heat’s head. But it was
immediately followed by the reflection that a higher official, even
when “fired out” (this was the precise image), has still the time
as he flies through the door to launch a nasty kick at the shin-
bones of a subordinate. Without softening very much the basilisk
nature of his stare, he said impassively:
“We are coming to that part of my investigation, sir.”
“That’s right. Well, what have you brought away from it?”
The Chief Inspector, who had made up his mind to jump off the rope,
came to the ground with gloomy frankness.
“I’ve brought away an address,” he said, pulling out of his pocket
without haste a singed rag of dark blue cloth. “This belongs to
the overcoat the fellow who got himself blown to pieces was
wearing. Of course, the overcoat may not have been his, and may
even have been stolen. But that’s not at all probable if you look
at this.”
The Chief Inspector, stepping up to the table, smoothed out
carefully the rag of blue cloth. He had picked it up from the
repulsive heap in the mortuary, because a tailor’s name is found
sometimes under the collar. It is not often of much use, but still
– He only half expected to find anything useful, but certainly he
did not expect to find – not under the collar at all, but stitched
carefully on the under side of the lapel – a square piece of calico
with an address written on it in marking ink.
The Chief Inspector removed his smoothing hand.
“I carried it off with me without anybody taking notice,” he said.
“I thought it best. It can always be produced if required.”
The Assistant Commissioner, rising a little in his chair, pulled
the cloth over to his side of the table. He sat looking at it in
silence. Only the number 32 and the name of Brett Street were
written in marking ink on a piece of calico slightly larger than an
ordinary cigarette paper. He was genuinely surprised.
“Can’t understand why he should have gone about labelled like
this,” he said, looking up at Chief Inspector Heat. “It’s a most
extraordinary thing.”
“I met once in the smoking-room of a hotel an old gentleman who
went about with his name and address sewn on in all his coats in
case of an accident or sudden illness,” said the Chief Inspector.
“He professed to be eighty-four years old, but he didn’t look his
age. He told me he was also afraid of losing his memory suddenly,
like those people he has been reading of in the papers.”
A question from the Assistant Commissioner, who wanted to know what
was No. 32 Brett Street, interrupted that reminiscence abruptly.
The Chief Inspector, driven down to the ground by unfair artifices,
had elected to walk the path of unreserved openness. If he