CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A couple of weeks later, Comrade Ossipon joined The Professor for a beer at a local pub. He had before him a copy of a newspaper that was ten days old.

"Why are you looking so sad?" asked The Professor, "You haven't lost one of your many girlfriends, have you?"

Ossipon said nothing. Although he did not show it to the ugly little man across from him, there was an article in the paper that upset him. From the article he had learned that a mysterious woman, wearing all black, had boarded the evening boat going abroad. Several people approached her to ask if she was feeling well, for her face was terribly white and, at one point, she had lain down across several seats as if dead tired. The captain of the boat decided that she needed to see a doctor immediately and sent for the police to come and take her to the nearest hospital. However, when they finally came, she was no longer there. The only thing to show that she had been there was her wedding ring. It was found on the seat where she had been lying. On the inside of the ring was written the date, June 24th, 1879. A little while later, one of the boat workers found the body of the same woman floating in the water of the English Channel.

Ever since he had read that article, Ossipon could not feel good about himself. He began to drink a great deal, and he could no longer look at women, his favorite victims. The news of Mrs Verloc's suicide was slowly driving him crazy.

"Look at you!" said The Professor. "You're lucky you've got so much money and you can't even enjoy it. You make me sick!"

"Will you take the money?" he asked The Professor.

The ugly little man laughed to himself and then said, "I'll tell you what. There are a few materials that I need for some of my bomb projects. I'll make a list of what I need and you just get the stuff for me. How's that?"

Ossipon did not answer, but simply put his head in his hands. They then paid the bill and walked out into the filthy streets of London, one of them full of pain and guilt, the other full of hatred.

The Professor, with the bomb placed neatly inside of his coat, turned down a dark, narrow street and headed toward his home. He seemed nothing more than a strange, little, ugly man to the people who passed him along the way. But he was, of course, much more than that. He was death walking among the people.

(end of section)