believed firmly that to know too much was not good for the
department, the judicious holding back of knowledge was as far as
his loyalty dared to go for the good of the service. If the
Assistant Commissioner wanted to mismanage this affair nothing, of
course, could prevent him. But, on his own part, he now saw no
reason for a display of alacrity. So he answered concisely:
“It’s a shop, sir.”
The Assistant Commissioner, with his eyes lowered on the rag of
blue cloth, waited for more information. As that did not come he
proceeded to obtain it by a series of questions propounded with
gentle patience. Thus he acquired an idea of the nature of Mr
Verloc’s commerce, of his personal appearance, and heard at last
his name. In a pause the Assistant Commissioner raised his eyes,
and discovered some animation on the Chief Inspector’s face. They
looked at each other in silence.
“Of course,” said the latter, “the department has no record of that
man.”
“Did any of my predecessors have any knowledge of what you have
told me now?” asked the Assistant Commissioner, putting his elbows
on the table and raising his joined hands before his face, as if
about to offer prayer, only that his eyes had not a pious
expression.
“No, sir; certainly not. What would have been the object? That
sort of man could never be produced publicly to any good purpose.
It was sufficient for me to know who he was, and to make use of him
in a way that could be used publicly.”
“And do you think that sort of private knowledge consistent with
the official position you occupy?”
“Perfectly, sir. I think it’s quite proper. I will take the
liberty to tell you, sir, that it makes me what I am – and I am
looked upon as a man who knows his work. It’s a private affair of
my own. A personal friend of mine in the French police gave me the
hint that the fellow was an Embassy spy. Private friendship,
private information, private use of it – that’s how I look upon
it.”
The Assistant Commissioner after remarking to himself that the
mental state of the renowned Chief Inspector seemed to affect the
outline of his lower jaw, as if the lively sense of his high
professional distinction had been located in that part of his
anatomy, dismissed the point for the moment with a calm “I see.”
Then leaning his cheek on his joined hands:
“Well then – speaking privately if you like – how long have you
been in private touch with this Embassy spy?”
To this inquiry the private answer of the Chief Inspector, so
private that it was never shaped into audible words, was:
“Long before you were even thought of for your place here.”
The so-to-speak public utterance was much more precise.
“I saw him for the first time in my life a little more than seven
years ago, when two Imperial Highnesses and the Imperial Chancellor
were on a visit here. I was put in charge of all the arrangements
for looking after them. Baron Stott-Wartenheim was Ambassador
then. He was a very nervous old gentleman. One evening, three
days before the Guildhall Banquet, he sent word that he wanted to
see me for a moment. I was downstairs, and the carriages were at
the door to take the Imperial Highnesses and the Chancellor to the
opera. I went up at once. I found the Baron walking up and down
his bedroom in a pitiable state of distress, squeezing his hands
together. He assured me he had the fullest confidence in our
police and in my abilities, but he had there a man just come over
from Paris whose information could be trusted simplicity. He
wanted me to hear what that man had to say. He took me at once
into a dressing-room next door, where I saw a big fellow in a heavy
overcoat sitting all alone on a chair, and holding his hat and
stick in one hand. The Baron said to him in French `Speak, my
friend.’ The light in that room was not very good. I talked with