footman then closed the door, and Mr Vladimir lighted his large
Havana with leisurely care.
When at last he got out of the house, he saw with disgust the
“confounded policeman” still standing on the pavement.
“Can he be waiting for me,” thought Mr Vladimir, looking up and
down for some signs of a hansom. He saw none. A couple of
carriages waited by the curbstone, their lamps blazing steadily,
the horses standing perfectly still, as if carved in stone, the
coachmen sitting motionless under the big fur capes, without as
much as a quiver stirring the white thongs of their big whips. Mr
Vladimir walked on, and the “confounded policeman” fell into step
at his elbow. He said nothing. At the end of the fourth stride Mr
Vladimir felt infuriated and uneasy. This could not last.
“Rotten weather,” he growled savagely.
“Mild,” said the Assistant Commissioner without passion. He
remained silent for a little while. “We’ve got hold of a man
called Verloc,” he announced casually.
Mr Vladimir did not stumble, did not stagger back, did not change
his stride. But he could not prevent himself from exclaiming:
“What?” The Assistant Commissioner did not repeat his statement.
“You know him,” he went on in the same tone.
Mr Vladimir stopped, and became guttural. “What makes you say
that?”
“I don’t. It’s Verloc who says that.”
“A lying dog of some sort,” said Mr Vladimir in somewhat Oriental
phraseology. But in his heart he was almost awed by the miraculous
cleverness of the English police. The change of his opinion on the
subject was so violent that it made him for a moment feel slightly
sick. He threw away his cigar, and moved on.
“What pleased me most in this affair,” the Assistant went on,
talking slowly, “is that it makes such an excellent starting-point
for a piece of work which I’ve felt must be taken in hand – that
is, the clearing out of this country of all the foreign political
spies, police, and that sort of – of – dogs. In my opinion they
are a ghastly nuisance; also an element of danger. But we can’t
very well seek them out individually. The only way is to make
their employment unpleasant to their employers. The thing’s
becoming indecent. And dangerous too, for us, here.”
Mr Vladimir stopped again for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“The prosecution of this Verloc will demonstrate to the public both
the danger and the indecency.”
“Nobody will believe what a man of that sort says,” said Mr
Vladimir contemptuously.
“The wealth and precision of detail will carry conviction to the
great mass of the public,” advanced the Assistant Commissioner
gently.
“So that is seriously what you mean to do.”
“We’ve got the man; we have no choice.”
“You will be only feeding up the lying spirit of these
revolutionary scoundrels,” Mr Vladimir protested. “What do you
want to make a scandal for? – from morality – or what?”
Mr Vladimir’s anxiety was obvious. The Assistant Commissioner
having ascertained in this way that there must be some truth in the
summary statements of Mr Verloc, said indifferently:
“There’s a practical side too. We have really enough to do to look
after the genuine article. You can’t say we are not effective.
But we don’t intend to let ourselves be bothered by shams under any
pretext whatever.”
Mr Vladimir’s tone became lofty.
“For my part, I can’t share your view. It is selfish. My
sentiments for my own country cannot be doubted; but I’ve always
felt that we ought to be good Europeans besides – I mean
governments and men.”
“Yes,” said the Assistant Commissioner simply. “Only you look at
Europe from its other end. But,” he went on in a good-natured
tone, “the foreign governments cannot complain of the inefficiency
of our police. Look at this outrage; a case specially difficult to
trace inasmuch as it was a sham. In less than twelve hours we have
established the identity of a man literally blown to shreds, have
found the organiser of the attempt, and have had a glimpse of the
inciter behind him. And we could have gone further; only we
stopped at the limits of our territory.”
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