The Secret Agent A Simple Tale

This is an annotated version of the book1.contains an updated biography of the author at the end of the book for a better understanding of the text.2.This book has been checked and corrected for spelling errorsMr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge ofhis brother-in-law. It could be done, because there was very littlebusiness at any time, and practically none at all before the evening. MrVerloc cared but little about his ostensible business. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law.The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimybrick houses which existed in large quantities before the era ofreconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remainedclosed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls;nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellowpaper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy blackfigures; a few numbers of ancient French comic publications hung across astring as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titleshinting at impropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscurenewspapers, badly printed, with titles like _The Torch_, _TheGong_-rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were alwaysturned low, either for economy's sake or for the sake of the customers.These customers were either very young men, who hung about the window fora time before slipping in suddenly; or men of a more mature age, butlooking generally as if they were not in funds. Some of that last kindhad the collars of their overcoats turned right up to their moustaches, and traces of mud on the bottom of their nether garments, which had theappearance of being much worn and not very valuable. And the legs insidethem did not, as a general rule, seem of much account either. With theirhands plunged deep in the side pockets of their coats, they dodged insideways, one shoulder first, as if afraid to start the bell going.The bell, hung on the door by means of a curved ribbon of steel, wasdifficult to circumvent. It was hopelessly cracked; but of an evening, at the slightest provocation, it clattered behind the customer withimpudent virulence.It clattered; and at that signal, through the dusty glass door behind thepainted deal counter, Mr Verloc would issue hastily from the parlour atthe back. His eyes were naturally heavy; he had an air of havingwallowed, fully dressed, all day on an unmade bed. Another man wouldhave felt such an appearance a distinct disadvantage. In a commercialtransaction of the retail order much depends on the seller's engaging andamiable aspect. But Mr Verloc knew his business, and remainedundisturbed by any sort of æsthetic doubt about his appearance. With afirm, steady-eyed impudence, which seemed to hold back the threat of someabominable menace, he would proceed to sell over the counter some objectlooking obviously and scandalously not worth the money which passed inthe transaction: a small cardboard box with apparently nothing inside, for instance, or one of those carefully closed yellow flimsy envelopes, or a soiled volume in paper covers with a promising title. Now and thenit happened that one of the faded, yellow dancing girls would get sold toan amateur, as though she had been alive and young.Sometimes it was Mrs Verloc who would appear at the call of the crackedbell. Winnie Verloc was a young woman with a full bust, in a tightbodice, and with broad hips. Her hair was very tidy. Steady-eyed likeher husband, she preserved an air of unfathomable indifference behind therampart of the counter.