Produced by Judith Boss
THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN
By G. K. Chesterton
Contents
The Blue Cross The Secret Garden The Queer Feet The Flying Stars The Invisible Man The Honour of Israel Gow The Wrong Shape The Sins of Prince Saradine The Hammer of God The Eye of Apollo The Sign of the Broken Sword The Three Tools of Death
The Blue Cross
Between the silver ribbon of morning and the green glittering ribbon ofsea, the boat touched Harwich and let loose a swarm of folk like flies,among whom the man we must follow was by no means conspicuous--norwished to be. There was nothing notable about him, except a slightcontrast between the holiday gaiety of his clothes and the officialgravity of his face. His clothes included a slight, pale grey jacket,a white waistcoat, and a silver straw hat with a grey-blue ribbon. Hislean face was dark by contrast, and ended in a curt black beard thatlooked Spanish and suggested an Elizabethan ruff. He was smoking acigarette with the seriousness of an idler. There was nothing about himto indicate the fact that the grey jacket covered a loaded revolver,that the white waistcoat covered a police card, or that the straw hatcovered one of the most powerful intellects in Europe. For this wasValentin himself, the head of the Paris police and the most famousinvestigator of the world; and he was coming from Brussels to London tomake the greatest arrest of the century.
Flambeau was in England. The police of three countries had tracked thegreat criminal at last from Ghent to Brussels, from Brussels to the Hookof Holland; and it was conjectured that he would take some advantage ofthe unfamiliarity and confusion of the Eucharistic Congress, thentaking place in London. Probably he would travel as some minor clerkor secretary connected with it; but, of course, Valentin could not becertain; nobody could be certain about Flambeau.
It is many years now since this colossus of crime suddenly ceasedkeeping the world in a turmoil; and when he ceased, as they said afterthe death of Roland, there was a great quiet upon the earth. But inhis best days (I mean, of course, his worst) Flambeau was a figure asstatuesque and international as the Kaiser. Almost every morning thedaily paper announced that he had escaped the consequences of oneextraordinary crime by committing another. He was a Gascon of giganticstature and bodily daring; and the wildest tales were told of hisoutbursts of athletic humour; how he turned the juge d'instructionupside down and stood him on his head, "to clear his mind"; how he randown the Rue de Rivoli with a policeman under each arm. It is due to himto say that his fantastic physical strength was generally employed insuch bloodless though undignified scenes; his real crimes were chieflythose of ingenious and wholesale robbery. But each of his thefts wasalmost a new sin, and would make a story by itself. It was he who ranthe great Tyrolean Dairy Company in London, with no dairies, no cows, nocarts, no milk, but with some thousand subscribers. These he served bythe simple operation of moving the little milk cans outside people'sdoors to the doors of his own customers. It was he who had kept up anunaccountable and close correspondence with a young lady whose wholeletter-bag was intercepted, by the extraordinary trick of photographinghis messages infinitesimally small upon the slides of a microscope. Asweeping simplicity, however, marked many of his experiments. It is saidthat he once repainted all the numbers in a street in the dead of nightmerely to divert one traveller into a trap. It is quite certain thathe invented a portable pillar-box, which he put up at corners in quietsuburbs on the chance of strangers dropping postal orders into it.Lastly, he was known to be a startling acrobat; despite his huge figure,he could leap like a grasshopper and melt into the tree-tops like amonkey. Hence the great Valentin, when he set out to find Flambeau, wasperfectly aware that his adventures would not end when he had found him.
But how was he to find him? On this the great Valentin's ideas werestill in process of settlement.
There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise,could not cover, and that was his singular height. If Valentin's quickeye had caught a tall apple-woman, a tall grenadier, or even a tolerablytall duchess, he might have arrested them on the spot. But all along histrain there was nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more thana cat could be a disguised giraffe. About the people on the boat he hadalready satisfied himself; and the people picked up at Harwich or onthe journey limited themselves with certainty to six. There was a shortrailway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly shortmarket gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widowlady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholicpriest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the lastcase, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was somuch the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dullas a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he hadseveral brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting.The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their localstagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like molesdisinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France, andcould have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, andthis one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabbyumbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to knowwhich was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with amoon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to becareful, because he had something made of real silver "with blue stones"in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatnesswith saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till thepriest arrived (somehow) at Tottenham with all his parcels, and cameback for his umbrella. When he did the last, Valentin even had the goodnature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everybodyabout it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open forsomeone else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male orfemale, who was well up to six feet; for Flambeau was four inches aboveit.
He alighted at Liverpool Street, however, quite conscientiously securethat he had not missed the criminal so far. He then went to ScotlandYard to regularise his position and arrange for help in case of need; hethen lit another cigarette and went for a long stroll in the streets ofLondon. As he was walking in the streets and squares beyond Victoria, hepaused suddenly and stood. It was a quaint, quiet square, very typicalof London, full of an accidental stillness. The tall, flat houses roundlooked at once prosperous and uninhabited; the square of shrubbery inthe centre looked as deserted as a green Pacific islet. One of the foursides was much higher than the rest, like a dais; and the line of thisside was broken by one of London's admirable accidents--a restaurantthat looked as if it had strayed from Soho. It was an unreasonablyattractive object, with dwarf plants in pots and long, striped blinds oflemon yellow and white. It stood specially high above the street, and inthe usual patchwork way of London, a flight of steps from the streetran up to meet the front door almost as a fire-escape might run up toa first-floor window. Valentin stood and smoked in front of theyellow-white blinds and considered them long.
The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen. A fewclouds in heaven do come together into the staring shape of one humaneye. A tree does stand up in the landscape of a doubtful journey in theexact and elaborate shape of a note of interrogation. I have seen boththese things myself within the last few days. Nelson does die in theinstant of victory; and a man named Williams does quite accidentallymurder a man named Williamson; it sounds like a sort of infanticide.In short, there is in life an element of elfin coincidence which peoplereckoning on the prosaic may perpetu
ally miss. As it has been wellexpressed in the paradox of Poe, wisdom should reckon on the unforeseen.
Aristide Valentin was unfathomably French; and the French intelligenceis intelligence specially and solely. He was not "a thinking machine";for that is a brainless phrase of modern fatalism and materialism. Amachine only is a machine because it cannot think. But he was a thinkingman, and a plain man at the same time. All his wonderful successes, thatlooked like conjuring, had been gained by plodding logic, by clearand commonplace French thought. The French electrify the world not bystarting any paradox, they electrify it by carrying out a truism. Theycarry a truism so far--as in the French Revolution. But exactly becauseValentin understood reason, he understood the limits of reason. Only aman who knows nothing of motors talks of motoring without petrol; onlya man who knows nothing of reason talks of reasoning without strong,undisputed first principles. Here he had no strong first principles.Flambeau had been missed at Harwich; and if he was in London at all,he might be anything from a tall tramp on Wimbledon Common to a talltoast-master at the Hotel Metropole. In such a naked state of nescience,Valentin had a view and a method of his own.
In such cases he reckoned on the unforeseen. In such cases, when hecould not follow the train of the reasonable, he coldly and carefullyfollowed the train of the unreasonable. Instead of going to the rightplaces--banks, police stations, rendezvous--he systematically went tothe wrong places; knocked at every empty house, turned down every cul desac, went up every lane blocked with rubbish, went round every crescentthat led him uselessly out of the way. He defended this crazy coursequite logically. He said that if one had a clue this was the worst way;but if one had no clue at all it was the best, because there was justthe chance that any oddity that caught the eye of the pursuer might bethe same that had caught the eye of the pursued. Somewhere a man mustbegin, and it had better be just where another man might stop. Somethingabout that flight of steps up to the shop, something about the quietudeand quaintness of the restaurant, roused all the detective's rareromantic fancy and made him resolve to strike at random. He went up thesteps, and sitting down at a table by the window, asked for a cup ofblack coffee.
It was half-way through the morning, and he had not breakfasted; theslight litter of other breakfasts stood about on the table to remindhim of his hunger; and adding a poached egg to his order, he proceededmusingly to shake some white sugar into his coffee, thinking all thetime about Flambeau. He remembered how Flambeau had escaped, once by apair of nail scissors, and once by a house on fire; once by having topay for an unstamped letter, and once by getting people to look througha telescope at a comet that might destroy the world. He thought hisdetective brain as good as the criminal's, which was true. But he fullyrealised the disadvantage. "The criminal is the creative artist; thedetective only the critic," he said with a sour smile, and lifted hiscoffee cup to his lips slowly, and put it down very quickly. He had putsalt in it.
He looked at the vessel from which the silvery powder had come; itwas certainly a sugar-basin; as unmistakably meant for sugar as achampagne-bottle for champagne. He wondered why they should keep salt init. He looked to see if there were any more orthodox vessels. Yes; therewere two salt-cellars quite full. Perhaps there was some speciality inthe condiment in the salt-cellars. He tasted it; it was sugar. Then helooked round at the restaurant with a refreshed air of interest, to seeif there were any other traces of that singular artistic taste whichputs the sugar in the salt-cellars and the salt in the sugar-basin.Except for an odd splash of some dark fluid on one of the white-paperedwalls, the whole place appeared neat, cheerful and ordinary. He rang thebell for the waiter.
When that official hurried up, fuzzy-haired and somewhat blear-eyed atthat early hour, the detective (who was not without an appreciation ofthe simpler forms of humour) asked him to taste the sugar and see ifit was up to the high reputation of the hotel. The result was that thewaiter yawned suddenly and woke up.
"Do you play this delicate joke on your customers every morning?"inquired Valentin. "Does changing the salt and sugar never pall on youas a jest?"
The waiter, when this irony grew clearer, stammeringly assured him thatthe establishment had certainly no such intention; it must be a mostcurious mistake. He picked up the sugar-basin and looked at it; hepicked up the salt-cellar and looked at that, his face growing more andmore bewildered. At last he abruptly excused himself, and hurryingaway, returned in a few seconds with the proprietor. The proprietor alsoexamined the sugar-basin and then the salt-cellar; the proprietor alsolooked bewildered.
Suddenly the waiter seemed to grow inarticulate with a rush of words.
"I zink," he stuttered eagerly, "I zink it is those two clergy-men."
"What two clergymen?"
"The two clergymen," said the waiter, "that threw soup at the wall."
"Threw soup at the wall?" repeated Valentin, feeling sure this must besome singular Italian metaphor.
"Yes, yes," said the attendant excitedly, and pointed at the dark splashon the white paper; "threw it over there on the wall."
Valentin looked his query at the proprietor, who came to his rescue withfuller reports.
"Yes, sir," he said, "it's quite true, though I don't suppose it hasanything to do with the sugar and salt. Two clergymen came in and dranksoup here very early, as soon as the shutters were taken down. They wereboth very quiet, respectable people; one of them paid the bill and wentout; the other, who seemed a slower coach altogether, was some minuteslonger getting his things together. But he went at last. Only, theinstant before he stepped into the street he deliberately picked uphis cup, which he had only half emptied, and threw the soup slap on thewall. I was in the back room myself, and so was the waiter; so I couldonly rush out in time to find the wall splashed and the shop empty. Itdon't do any particular damage, but it was confounded cheek; and I triedto catch the men in the street. They were too far off though; I onlynoticed they went round the next corner into Carstairs Street."
The detective was on his feet, hat settled and stick in hand. He hadalready decided that in the universal darkness of his mind he couldonly follow the first odd finger that pointed; and this finger was oddenough. Paying his bill and clashing the glass doors behind him, he wassoon swinging round into the other street.
It was fortunate that even in such fevered moments his eye was cool andquick. Something in a shop-front went by him like a mere flash; yethe went back to look at it. The shop was a popular greengrocer andfruiterer's, an array of goods set out in the open air and plainlyticketed with their names and prices. In the two most prominentcompartments were two heaps, of oranges and of nuts respectively. Onthe heap of nuts lay a scrap of cardboard, on which was written in bold,blue chalk, "Best tangerine oranges, two a penny." On the oranges wasthe equally clear and exact description, "Finest Brazil nuts, 4d. a lb."M. Valentin looked at these two placards and fancied he had met thishighly subtle form of humour before, and that somewhat recently. Hedrew the attention of the red-faced fruiterer, who was lookingrather sullenly up and down the street, to this inaccuracy in hisadvertisements. The fruiterer said nothing, but sharply put eachcard into its proper place. The detective, leaning elegantly on hiswalking-cane, continued to scrutinise the shop. At last he said, "Prayexcuse my apparent irrelevance, my good sir, but I should like to askyou a question in experimental psychology and the association of ideas."
The red-faced shopman regarded him with an eye of menace; but hecontinued gaily, swinging his cane, "Why," he pursued, "why are twotickets wrongly placed in a greengrocer's shop like a shovel hat thathas come to London for a holiday? Or, in case I do not make myselfclear, what is the mystical association which connects the idea of nutsmarked as oranges with the idea of two clergymen, one tall and the othershort?"
The eyes of the tradesman stood out of his head like a snail's; hereally seemed for an instant likely to fling himself upon the stranger.At last he stammered angrily: "I don't know what you 'ave to do with it,but if you're one of their friends, you can tell 'em
from me that I'llknock their silly 'eads off, parsons or no parsons, if they upset myapples again."
"Indeed?" asked the detective, with great sympathy. "Did they upset yourapples?"
"One of 'em did," said the heated shopman; "rolled 'em all over thestreet. I'd 'ave caught the fool but for havin' to pick 'em up."
"Which way did these parsons go?" asked Valentin.
"Up that second road on the left-hand side, and then across the square,"said the other promptly.
"Thanks," replied Valentin, and vanished like a fairy. On the other sideof the second square he found a policeman, and said: "This is urgent,constable; have you seen two clergymen in shovel hats?"
The policeman began to chuckle heavily. "I 'ave, sir; and if you arstme, one of 'em was drunk. He stood in the middle of the road thatbewildered that--"
"Which way did they go?" snapped Valentin.
"They took one of them yellow buses over there," answered the man; "themthat go to Hampstead."
Valentin produced his official card and said very rapidly: "Call up twoof your men to come with me in pursuit," and crossed the road with suchcontagious energy that the ponderous policeman was moved to almost agileobedience. In a minute and a half the French detective was joined on theopposite pavement by an inspector and a man in plain clothes.
"Well, sir," began the former, with smiling importance, "and whatmay--?"
Valentin pointed suddenly with his cane. "I'll tell you on the top ofthat omnibus," he said, and was darting and dodging across the tangle ofthe traffic. When all three sank panting on the top seats of the yellowvehicle, the inspector said: "We could go four times as quick in ataxi."
"Quite true," replied their leader placidly, "if we only had an idea ofwhere we were going."
"Well, where are you going?" asked the other, staring.
Valentin smoked frowningly for a few seconds; then, removing hiscigarette, he said: "If you know what a man's doing, get in front ofhim; but if you want to guess what he's doing, keep behind him. Straywhen he strays; stop when he stops; travel as slowly as he. Then you maysee what he saw and may act as he acted. All we can do is to keep oureyes skinned for a queer thing."
"What sort of queer thing do you mean?" asked the inspector.
"Any sort of queer thing," answered Valentin, and relapsed intoobstinate silence.
The yellow omnibus crawled up the northern roads for what seemed likehours on end; the great detective would not explain further, and perhapshis assistants felt a silent and growing doubt of his errand. Perhaps,also, they felt a silent and growing desire for lunch, for the hourscrept long past the normal luncheon hour, and the long roads of theNorth London suburbs seemed to shoot out into length after length likean infernal telescope. It was one of those journeys on which a manperpetually feels that now at last he must have come to the end of theuniverse, and then finds he has only come to the beginning of TufnellPark. London died away in draggled taverns and dreary scrubs, and thenwas unaccountably born again in blazing high streets and blatant hotels.It was like passing through thirteen separate vulgar cities alljust touching each other. But though the winter twilight was alreadythreatening the road ahead of them, the Parisian detective still satsilent and watchful, eyeing the frontage of the streets that slid by oneither side. By the time they had left Camden Town behind, the policemenwere nearly asleep; at least, they gave something like a jump asValentin leapt erect, struck a hand on each man's shoulder, and shoutedto the driver to stop.
They tumbled down the steps into the road without realising why theyhad been dislodged; when they looked round for enlightenment they foundValentin triumphantly pointing his finger towards a window on the leftside of the road. It was a large window, forming part of the longfacade of a gilt and palatial public-house; it was the part reserved forrespectable dining, and labelled "Restaurant." This window, like all therest along the frontage of the hotel, was of frosted and figured glass;but in the middle of it was a big, black smash, like a star in the ice.
"Our cue at last," cried Valentin, waving his stick; "the place with thebroken window."
"What window? What cue?" asked his principal assistant. "Why, what proofis there that this has anything to do with them?"
Valentin almost broke his bamboo stick with rage.
"Proof!" he cried. "Good God! the man is looking for proof! Why, ofcourse, the chances are twenty to one that it has nothing to do withthem. But what else can we do? Don't you see we must either follow onewild possibility or else go home to bed?" He banged his way into therestaurant, followed by his companions, and they were soon seated at alate luncheon at a little table, and looked at the star of smashed glassfrom the inside. Not that it was very informative to them even then.
"Got your window broken, I see," said Valentin to the waiter as he paidthe bill.
"Yes, sir," answered the attendant, bending busily over the change, towhich Valentin silently added an enormous tip. The waiter straightenedhimself with mild but unmistakable animation.
"Ah, yes, sir," he said. "Very odd thing, that, sir."
"Indeed?" Tell us about it," said the detective with careless curiosity.
"Well, two gents in black came in," said the waiter; "two of thoseforeign parsons that are running about. They had a cheap and quietlittle lunch, and one of them paid for it and went out. The other wasjust going out to join him when I looked at my change again and foundhe'd paid me more than three times too much. 'Here,' I says to the chapwho was nearly out of the door, 'you've paid too much.' 'Oh,' he says,very cool, 'have we?' 'Yes,' I says, and picks up the bill to show him.Well, that was a knock-out."
"What do you mean?" asked his interlocutor.
"Well, I'd have sworn on seven Bibles that I'd put 4s. on that bill. Butnow I saw I'd put 14s., as plain as paint."
"Well?" cried Valentin, moving slowly, but with burning eyes, "andthen?"
"The parson at the door he says all serene, 'Sorry to confuse youraccounts, but it'll pay for the window.' 'What window?' I says. 'Theone I'm going to break,' he says, and smashed that blessed pane with hisumbrella."
All three inquirers made an exclamation; and the inspector said underhis breath, "Are we after escaped lunatics?" The waiter went on withsome relish for the ridiculous story:
"I was so knocked silly for a second, I couldn't do anything. The manmarched out of the place and joined his friend just round the corner.Then they went so quick up Bullock Street that I couldn't catch them,though I ran round the bars to do it."
"Bullock Street," said the detective, and shot up that thoroughfare asquickly as the strange couple he pursued.
Their journey now took them through bare brick ways like tunnels;streets with few lights and even with few windows; streets that seemedbuilt out of the blank backs of everything and everywhere. Dusk wasdeepening, and it was not easy even for the London policemen to guessin what exact direction they were treading. The inspector, however, waspretty certain that they would eventually strike some part of HampsteadHeath. Abruptly one bulging gas-lit window broke the blue twilight likea bull's-eye lantern; and Valentin stopped an instant before a littlegarish sweetstuff shop. After an instant's hesitation he went in; hestood amid the gaudy colours of the confectionery with entire gravityand bought thirteen chocolate cigars with a certain care. He was clearlypreparing an opening; but he did not need one.
An angular, elderly young woman in the shop had regarded his elegantappearance with a merely automatic inquiry; but when she saw the doorbehind him blocked with the blue uniform of the inspector, her eyesseemed to wake up.
"Oh," she said, "if you've come about that parcel, I've sent it offalready."
"Parcel?" repeated Valentin; and it was his turn to look inquiring.
"I mean the parcel the gentleman left--the clergyman gentleman."
"For goodness' sake," said Valentin, leaning forward with his firstreal confession of eagerness, "for Heaven's sake tell us what happenedexactly."
"Well," said the woman a little doubtfully, "the clergy
men came in abouthalf an hour ago and bought some peppermints and talked a bit, and thenwent off towards the Heath. But a second after, one of them runsback into the shop and says, 'Have I left a parcel!' Well, I lookedeverywhere and couldn't see one; so he says, 'Never mind; but if itshould turn up, please post it to this address,' and he left me theaddress and a shilling for my trouble. And sure enough, though I thoughtI'd looked everywhere, I found he'd left a brown paper parcel, so Iposted it to the place he said. I can't remember the address now; itwas somewhere in Westminster. But as the thing seemed so important, Ithought perhaps the police had come about it."
"So they have," said Valentin shortly. "Is Hampstead Heath near here?"
"Straight on for fifteen minutes," said the woman, "and you'll comeright out on the open." Valentin sprang out of the shop and began torun. The other detectives followed him at a reluctant trot.
The street they threaded was so narrow and shut in by shadows that whenthey came out unexpectedly into the void common and vast sky they werestartled to find the evening still so light and clear. A perfect domeof peacock-green sank into gold amid the blackening trees and the darkviolet distances. The glowing green tint was just deep enough to pickout in points of crystal one or two stars. All that was left of thedaylight lay in a golden glitter across the edge of Hampstead and thatpopular hollow which is called the Vale of Health. The holiday makerswho roam this region had not wholly dispersed; a few couples satshapelessly on benches; and here and there a distant girl still shriekedin one of the swings. The glory of heaven deepened and darkened aroundthe sublime vulgarity of man; and standing on the slope and lookingacross the valley, Valentin beheld the thing which he sought.
Among the black and breaking groups in that distance was one especiallyblack which did not break--a group of two figures clerically clad.Though they seemed as small as insects, Valentin could see that one ofthem was much smaller than the other. Though the other had a student'sstoop and an inconspicuous manner, he could see that the man was wellover six feet high. He shut his teeth and went forward, whirling hisstick impatiently. By the time he had substantially diminished thedistance and magnified the two black figures as in a vast microscope,he had perceived something else; something which startled him, and yetwhich he had somehow expected. Whoever was the tall priest, there couldbe no doubt about the identity of the short one. It was his friend ofthe Harwich train, the stumpy little cure of Essex whom he had warnedabout his brown paper parcels.
Now, so far as this went, everything fitted in finally and rationallyenough. Valentin had learned by his inquiries that morning that a FatherBrown from Essex was bringing up a silver cross with sapphires, arelic of considerable value, to show some of the foreign priests at thecongress. This undoubtedly was the "silver with blue stones"; and FatherBrown undoubtedly was the little greenhorn in the train. Now therewas nothing wonderful about the fact that what Valentin had found outFlambeau had also found out; Flambeau found out everything. Also therewas nothing wonderful in the fact that when Flambeau heard of a sapphirecross he should try to steal it; that was the most natural thing in allnatural history. And most certainly there was nothing wonderful aboutthe fact that Flambeau should have it all his own way with such a sillysheep as the man with the umbrella and the parcels. He was the sort ofman whom anybody could lead on a string to the North Pole; it was notsurprising that an actor like Flambeau, dressed as another priest, couldlead him to Hampstead Heath. So far the crime seemed clear enough; andwhile the detective pitied the priest for his helplessness, he almostdespised Flambeau for condescending to so gullible a victim. But whenValentin thought of all that had happened in between, of all that hadled him to his triumph, he racked his brains for the smallest rhyme orreason in it. What had the stealing of a blue-and-silver cross from apriest from Essex to do with chucking soup at wall paper? What had itto do with calling nuts oranges, or with paying for windows first andbreaking them afterwards? He had come to the end of his chase; yetsomehow he had missed the middle of it. When he failed (which wasseldom), he had usually grasped the clue, but nevertheless missed thecriminal. Here he had grasped the criminal, but still he could not graspthe clue.
The two figures that they followed were crawling like black fliesacross the huge green contour of a hill. They were evidently sunk inconversation, and perhaps did not notice where they were going; but theywere certainly going to the wilder and more silent heights of the Heath.As their pursuers gained on them, the latter had to use the undignifiedattitudes of the deer-stalker, to crouch behind clumps of trees andeven to crawl prostrate in deep grass. By these ungainly ingenuities thehunters even came close enough to the quarry to hear the murmur of thediscussion, but no word could be distinguished except the word "reason"recurring frequently in a high and almost childish voice. Once overan abrupt dip of land and a dense tangle of thickets, the detectivesactually lost the two figures they were following. They did not find thetrail again for an agonising ten minutes, and then it led round the browof a great dome of hill overlooking an amphitheatre of rich and desolatesunset scenery. Under a tree in this commanding yet neglected spot wasan old ramshackle wooden seat. On this seat sat the two priests still inserious speech together. The gorgeous green and gold still clung tothe darkening horizon; but the dome above was turning slowly frompeacock-green to peacock-blue, and the stars detached themselves moreand more like solid jewels. Mutely motioning to his followers, Valentincontrived to creep up behind the big branching tree, and, standing therein deathly silence, heard the words of the strange priests for the firsttime.
After he had listened for a minute and a half, he was gripped by adevilish doubt. Perhaps he had dragged the two English policemen to thewastes of a nocturnal heath on an errand no saner than seeking figs onits thistles. For the two priests were talking exactly like priests,piously, with learning and leisure, about the most aerial enigmas oftheology. The little Essex priest spoke the more simply, with his roundface turned to the strengthening stars; the other talked with hishead bowed, as if he were not even worthy to look at them. But no moreinnocently clerical conversation could have been heard in any whiteItalian cloister or black Spanish cathedral.
The first he heard was the tail of one of Father Brown's sentences,which ended: "... what they really meant in the Middle Ages by theheavens being incorruptible."
The taller priest nodded his bowed head and said:
"Ah, yes, these modern infidels appeal to their reason; but who canlook at those millions of worlds and not feel that there may well bewonderful universes above us where reason is utterly unreasonable?"
"No," said the other priest; "reason is always reasonable, even in thelast limbo, in the lost borderland of things. I know that people chargethe Church with lowering reason, but it is just the other way. Aloneon earth, the Church makes reason really supreme. Alone on earth, theChurch affirms that God himself is bound by reason."
The other priest raised his austere face to the spangled sky and said:
"Yet who knows if in that infinite universe--?"
"Only infinite physically," said the little priest, turning sharplyin his seat, "not infinite in the sense of escaping from the laws oftruth."
Valentin behind his tree was tearing his fingernails with silent fury.He seemed almost to hear the sniggers of the English detectives whomhe had brought so far on a fantastic guess only to listen to themetaphysical gossip of two mild old parsons. In his impatience he lostthe equally elaborate answer of the tall cleric, and when he listenedagain it was again Father Brown who was speaking:
"Reason and justice grip the remotest and the loneliest star. Lookat those stars. Don't they look as if they were single diamonds andsapphires? Well, you can imagine any mad botany or geology you please.Think of forests of adamant with leaves of brilliants. Think the moonis a blue moon, a single elephantine sapphire. But don't fancy that allthat frantic astronomy would make the smallest difference to the reasonand justice of conduct. On plains of opal, under cliffs cut out ofpearl, you would still find a notice-
board, 'Thou shalt not steal.'"
Valentin was just in the act of rising from his rigid and crouchingattitude and creeping away as softly as might be, felled by the onegreat folly of his life. But something in the very silence of the tallpriest made him stop until the latter spoke. When at last he did speak,he said simply, his head bowed and his hands on his knees:
"Well, I think that other worlds may perhaps rise higher than ourreason. The mystery of heaven is unfathomable, and I for one can onlybow my head."
Then, with brow yet bent and without changing by the faintest shade hisattitude or voice, he added:
"Just hand over that sapphire cross of yours, will you? We're all alonehere, and I could pull you to pieces like a straw doll."
The utterly unaltered voice and attitude added a strange violence tothat shocking change of speech. But the guarder of the relic only seemedto turn his head by the smallest section of the compass. He seemed stillto have a somewhat foolish face turned to the stars. Perhaps he had notunderstood. Or, perhaps, he had understood and sat rigid with terror.
"Yes," said the tall priest, in the same low voice and in the same stillposture, "yes, I am Flambeau."
Then, after a pause, he said:
"Come, will you give me that cross?"
"No," said the other, and the monosyllable had an odd sound.
Flambeau suddenly flung off all his pontifical pretensions. The greatrobber leaned back in his seat and laughed low but long.
"No," he cried, "you won't give it me, you proud prelate. You won't giveit me, you little celibate simpleton. Shall I tell you why you won'tgive it me? Because I've got it already in my own breast-pocket."
The small man from Essex turned what seemed to be a dazed face in thedusk, and said, with the timid eagerness of "The Private Secretary":
"Are--are you sure?"
Flambeau yelled with delight.
"Really, you're as good as a three-act farce," he cried. "Yes, youturnip, I am quite sure. I had the sense to make a duplicate of theright parcel, and now, my friend, you've got the duplicate and I've gotthe jewels. An old dodge, Father Brown--a very old dodge."
"Yes," said Father Brown, and passed his hand through his hair with thesame strange vagueness of manner. "Yes, I've heard of it before."
The colossus of crime leaned over to the little rustic priest with asort of sudden interest.
"You have heard of it?" he asked. "Where have you heard of it?"
"Well, I mustn't tell you his name, of course," said the little mansimply. "He was a penitent, you know. He had lived prosperously forabout twenty years entirely on duplicate brown paper parcels. And so,you see, when I began to suspect you, I thought of this poor chap's wayof doing it at once."
"Began to suspect me?" repeated the outlaw with increased intensity."Did you really have the gumption to suspect me just because I broughtyou up to this bare part of the heath?"
"No, no," said Brown with an air of apology. "You see, I suspected youwhen we first met. It's that little bulge up the sleeve where you peoplehave the spiked bracelet."
"How in Tartarus," cried Flambeau, "did you ever hear of the spikedbracelet?"
"Oh, one's little flock, you know!" said Father Brown, arching hiseyebrows rather blankly. "When I was a curate in Hartlepool, there werethree of them with spiked bracelets. So, as I suspected you from thefirst, don't you see, I made sure that the cross should go safe, anyhow.I'm afraid I watched you, you know. So at last I saw you change theparcels. Then, don't you see, I changed them back again. And then I leftthe right one behind."
"Left it behind?" repeated Flambeau, and for the first time there wasanother note in his voice beside his triumph.
"Well, it was like this," said the little priest, speaking in the sameunaffected way. "I went back to that sweet-shop and asked if I'd left aparcel, and gave them a particular address if it turned up. Well, I knewI hadn't; but when I went away again I did. So, instead of running afterme with that valuable parcel, they have sent it flying to a friend ofmine in Westminster." Then he added rather sadly: "I learnt that, too,from a poor fellow in Hartlepool. He used to do it with handbags hestole at railway stations, but he's in a monastery now. Oh, one gets toknow, you know," he added, rubbing his head again with the same sort ofdesperate apology. "We can't help being priests. People come and tell usthese things."
Flambeau tore a brown-paper parcel out of his inner pocket and rent itin pieces. There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it. Hesprang to his feet with a gigantic gesture, and cried:
"I don't believe you. I don't believe a bumpkin like you could manageall that. I believe you've still got the stuff on you, and if you don'tgive it up--why, we're all alone, and I'll take it by force!"
"No," said Father Brown simply, and stood up also, "you won't take itby force. First, because I really haven't still got it. And, second,because we are not alone."
Flambeau stopped in his stride forward.
"Behind that tree," said Father Brown, pointing, "are two strongpolicemen and the greatest detective alive. How did they come here, doyou ask? Why, I brought them, of course! How did I do it? Why, I'll tellyou if you like! Lord bless you, we have to know twenty such thingswhen we work among the criminal classes! Well, I wasn't sure you werea thief, and it would never do to make a scandal against one of ourown clergy. So I just tested you to see if anything would make you showyourself. A man generally makes a small scene if he finds salt in hiscoffee; if he doesn't, he has some reason for keeping quiet. I changedthe salt and sugar, and you kept quiet. A man generally objects ifhis bill is three times too big. If he pays it, he has some motive forpassing unnoticed. I altered your bill, and you paid it."
The world seemed waiting for Flambeau to leap like a tiger. But he washeld back as by a spell; he was stunned with the utmost curiosity.
"Well," went on Father Brown, with lumbering lucidity, "as you wouldn'tleave any tracks for the police, of course somebody had to. At everyplace we went to, I took care to do something that would get us talkedabout for the rest of the day. I didn't do much harm--a splashed wall,spilt apples, a broken window; but I saved the cross, as the cross willalways be saved. It is at Westminster by now. I rather wonder you didn'tstop it with the Donkey's Whistle."
"With the what?" asked Flambeau.
"I'm glad you've never heard of it," said the priest, making a face."It's a foul thing. I'm sure you're too good a man for a Whistler. Icouldn't have countered it even with the Spots myself; I'm not strongenough in the legs."
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked the other.
"Well, I did think you'd know the Spots," said Father Brown, agreeablysurprised. "Oh, you can't have gone so very wrong yet!"
"How in blazes do you know all these horrors?" cried Flambeau.
The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of his clericalopponent.
"Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose," he said. "Has it neverstruck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men's real sinsis not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil? But, as a matter offact, another part of my trade, too, made me sure you weren't a priest."
"What?" asked the thief, almost gaping.
"You attacked reason," said Father Brown. "It's bad theology."
And even as he turned away to collect his property, the three policemencame out from under the twilight trees. Flambeau was an artist and asportsman. He stepped back and swept Valentin a great bow.
"Do not bow to me, mon ami," said Valentin with silver clearness. "Letus both bow to our master."
And they both stood an instant uncovered while the little Essex priestblinked about for his umbrella.