Krakatit/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI
To find Thomas . . . as if that were a simple matter! Prokop again made a general examination of the whole flat; he rooted in all the cupboards and drawers, finding old bills, love letters, photographs and other relics of Thomas’s youth, but nothing which was likely to help him with his quest. Well, it was natural enough that a person who had brought down so much on himself would have to disappear very definitely!
He again cross-questioned the caretaker’s wife; he certainly learnt all sorts of stories, but nothing which put him on Thomas’s trail. He tried to find out from the caretaker from where Thomas had sent the money from abroad. He had to listen to a whole sermon from an ungracious and rather unpleasant old man, who had suffered from every possible sort of catarrh and who enlarged upon the depravity of the young men of to-day. At the price of superhuman patience Prokop finally learnt that the money in question was not sent by Mr. Thomas but by an agent of the Dresdner Bank “Auf Befehl des Herrn Thomas.” He dashed off to the solicitor who had a claim prepared against the delinquent. The solicitor withdrew to an unnecessary extent into his professional secrecy; but when Prokop stupidly blurted out that he had some money to give to Thomas, the solicitor became more alive and demanded that he should hand it over to him. It cost Prokop a good deal of trouble to get away.
This taught him not to search for Thomas among people who had any sort of commercial connection with him.
At the next corner he stopped; what now? There remained only Carson. An unknown quantity who knew something and wanted something. Good. Carson then. Prokop found in his pocket the letter which he had forgotten to post and ran off to a letter-box.
But once there his hand dropped. Carson, Carson—yes, but he . . . what he wants is hardly a trifle. Devil take it, that fellow knew something about Krakatit and had got something up his sleeve—God knows what. Why was he looking for him? Evidently Thomas didn’t know everything, or he didn’t want to sell everything, or he laid down impossible conditions, and he, Prokop, like an ass, had to sell himself more cheaply. It must be something like that; but (and here Prokop for the first time grew terrified at the extent to which he was involved) what could he do with Krakatit when he got it? To begin with he must know very well what the substance is for, how it is handled, etc. Krakatit, my friend, is not snuff or a sleeping-powder for children. And in the second place, in the second place it was . . . too strong a tobacco for this world. Just imagine what could be done with it . . . let us say in a war. Prokop began to get frightened of the whole business. What devil was bringing that cursed Carson here? On all accounts he must stop, cost what it may
Prokop clutched at his head so markedly that passers-by stopped to look at him. For he remembered that up there in his laboratory shed in Hybsmonka he had left nearly four ounces of Krakatit! That is to say enough to blow off the earth I don’t know what,—the whole district! He became frozen with horror and ran for a tram. What did not hang upon these few minutes! He went through hell before the tram took him across the river; then he climbed the street as fast as he possibly could and finally reached the shed. It was locked up and Prokop vainly hunted in his pockets for something resembling a key; then, taking advantage of the twilight like a burglar, he broke open the window, pulled back the bolts and crawled home through the window.
He only needed to strike a match to see that the place had been plundered in the most methodical way possible. Certainly the bedding and a few sticks of furniture remained; but all the flasks, test-tubes, crushers, mortars, dishes and apparatus, spatulas and balances, all his primitive chemical kitchen, everything which had contained material upon which he had experimented, anything on which there might be left the slightest sediment or trace of any chemical, had disappeared. There was missing also the Porcelain box containing Krakatit. He pulled out a drawer of the table; all his papers and notes, every scrap of paper on which he had scribbled, the smallest relic of twelve years of experimental work, all had gone. Finally, even the spots and splashes had been scraped off the floor, and his overall, that ancient, ragged covering, positively encrusted with chemicals, had also been taken away. He found himself nearly crying.
Until late in the night he remained sitting on his soldier’s palliasse and blankly stared at his looted work-room. At moments he consoled himself by thinking that he would remember everything that he had made a note of in the course of twelve years; but when he tried to repeat some experiment in his head he found, in spite of his most desperate efforts, that it was impossible; then he gnawed his mutilated fingers and groaned.
Suddenly he was awakened by the rattling of a key. It was fully light, and as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world a man came into the room and made towards the table. He sat down with his hat still on, muttering and scratching at the zinc on the table. Prokop cried out from the palliasse: “What do you want here, man?”
Extraordinarily surprised, the man turned around and looked at Prokop without a word.
“What do you want here?” repeated Prokop excitedly. The man said nothing; to crown everything he put on his spectacles and gazed at Prokop with enormous interest.
Prokop ground his teeth, for there was prepared within him a fearful insult. But at this point the man glowed with the most human feeling, sprang out of the chair and suddenly looked as if he were joyfully wagging his tail. “Carson,” he said rapidly introducing himself, and added in German: “God, I am glad that you have come back! You undoubtedly read my announcement?”
“I did,” answered Prokop in his stiff and ponderous German. “And what do you want here?”
“You,” said his guest completely delighted. “Do you know that I’ve been chasing you for six weeks? All the newspapers, all the detective institutes,—ha, ha, my dear sir, what do you say to that? Herr Gott, I am glad! How are you? Well?”
“Why have you stolen my things?” said Prokop gloomily.
“What do you mean, please?”
“Why have you stolen my things?”
“But, Mister Engineer,” said the cheerful little man, not in the least put out, “what are you saying? Stolen! Carson! That’s good, aha!”
“Stolen,” repeated Prokop meaningly.
“Tut, tut, tut,” protested Mr. Carson. “It’s all carefully stored. I arranged everything in order. My dear sir, how could you possibly leave it lying about like that? Anybody might have stolen it from you—what? Of course they could, my dear sir. They could have stolen it, sold it, made it public, eh? That goes without saying. They could have done that. But I’ve stored it for you, do you understand? Honestly, I have. That’s why I have been looking for you. You shall have everything back. Everything. That is,” he added with some hesitation and something steely flashed under his shiny spectacles, “that is . . . if you will be reasonable. But we shall come to an understanding, eh?” He added quickly: “You must become qualified. A wonderful career. Atomic explosions, disintegration of elements. Magnificent! Science, before everything science! We shall come to an understanding, eh? Honestly, you shall have everything back. So.”
Prokop was silent, overpowered by this avalanche of words, while Mr. Carson waved his arms and circulated about the laboratory inordinately delighted. “I’ve preserved everything, everything,” he said exuberantly. “Every fragment from the floor. Sorted out, stored away, ticketed, sealed. Aha! I could have gone off with everything, eh? But I’m honourable, my dear sir. I shall return everything. We must come to an understanding. You trust. Carson. A Dane by birth, formerly a lecturer in Copenhagen. And I’ve also studied theology. What does Schiller say? Dem Einen ist sie—ist sie—I’ve forgotten, but it’s something to do with science; amusing, eh? But don’t thank me. Later. So.”
Prokop had had no idea of thanking him, but Mr. Carson glowed like a self-righteous benefactor. “In your place,” he said enthusiastically, “in your place I should get”
“Where is Thomas now?” Prokop interrupted him.
Mr. Carson gave him a searching look. “Well.” he said through his teeth after consideration, “we know about him. Oh, yes,” he said quickly, “you should provide yourself . . . provide yourself with the largest laboratory in the world. The very best instruments. The World’s Institute of Destructive Chemistry. You are right, a university chair is a stupidity. They only repeat old facts, eh? A waste of time. Institute a laboratory in the American style. An enormous laboratory, a brigade of assistants, everything that you want. And you mustn’t worry about money. Where do you déjeuner? I should so much like you to be my guest.”
“What do you really want?” Prokop burst out.
Then Mr. Carson sat down on the palliasse next to him, took him extraordinarily warmly by the hand and said suddenly in quite a different voice: “Keep cool. You can make millions and millions.”