Krakatit

purely private letters, tender or dreadfully scrawled, and over these again Prokop hesitated in burning shame. But what on earth else was he to do? He was suffocating with embarrassment but he boldly opened the remaining envelopes. “Darling, I remember,” “a further meeting,”⁠—and so on. A certain Anna Chvalova stated with the most touching orthographical mistakes that Jenicek had died “of an erruption.” Somebody else intimated that “he knew something that might interest the police but that he would be willing to discuss the question,” and that Mr. Thomas “certainly knew the price of his discretion”; there followed an allusion to “that house in Bret Street where Mr. Thomas knew whom to speak to if the affair was to be kept secret.” Then something about some business or other, the sale of some bills, signed “your Rosie.” The same Rosie stated that her husband had gone away. The same handwriting as in No. 1, a letter from a watering-place, nothing but bovine sentimentality, the unbridled passion of a fat and mature blonde, sweetened all over with ahs! reproofs, and lofty sentiments, apart from “sweetheart” and “ducky” and other abominations. Prokop positively felt bilious. A German letter, signed “G.,” a deal in foreign currency, “sell these papers, I await your reply, P.S. Achtung, K. aus Hambourg eingetroffen.” The same “G.”; a hasty and offended letter, the frigid use of the second person plural. “Send back that ten thousand, sonst wird K. dahinter kommen.” H’m. Prokop was deeply ashamed at having to penetrate into the malodorous obscurity of these disreputable affairs, but it was no good stopping now. Finally four letters signed M.; tearful, bitter and miserable, from which emerged the passionate history of some blind, airless, servile love. There were passionate demands, crawlings in the dust, desperate incriminations, frightful offerings of the writer’s self and more terrible self-torture; references to the children, the husband, the offer of a further loan, obscure allusions and the all too clear wretchedness of a woman at the mercy of passion. So this was her sister! To Prokop it was as if he saw before him the cruel and mocking lips, the taunting eyes, the aristocratic, proud, self-confident head of Thomas; he would have liked to smash it with his fist. But it was of no use; the miserable love of this woman told him nothing about⁠ ⁠… about this other one, who was for him so far without a name and whom he must seek out.

Nothing was left but to find Thomas.

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 today. 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 passersby 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