He approached, on his side, confidentially, but not too markedly so.
"Husband at home, Mrs Verloc?" he asked in an easy, full tone.
"No. He's gone out."
"I am sorry for that. I've called to get from him a little private
information."
This was the exact truth. Chief Inspector Heat had been all the way
home, and had even gone so far as to think of getting into his slippers,
since practically he was, he told himself, chucked out of that case. He
indulged in some scornful and in a few angry thoughts, and found the
occupation so unsatisfactory that he resolved to seek relief out of
doors. Nothing prevented him paying a friendly call to Mr Verloc,
casually as it were. It was in the character of a private citizen that
walking out privately he made use of his customary conveyances. Their
general direction was towards Mr Verloc's home. Chief Inspector Heat
respected his own private character so consistently that he took especial
pains to avoid all the police constables on point and patrol duty in the
vicinity of Brett Street. This precaution was much more necessary for a
man of his standing than for an obscure Assistant Commissioner. Private
Citizen Heat entered the street, manoeuvring in a way which in a member
of the criminal classes would have been stigmatised as slinking. The
piece of cloth picked up in Greenwich was in his pocket. Not that he had
the slightest intention of producing it in his private capacity. On the
contrary, he wanted to know just what Mr Verloc would be disposed to say
voluntarily. He hoped Mr Verloc's talk would be of a nature to
incriminate Michaelis. It was a conscientiously professional hope in the
main, but not without its moral value. For Chief Inspector Heat was a
servant of justice. Find--Mr Verloc from home, he felt disappointed.
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