the innocence of father brown-第10节

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sent。　　Look　here！〃　（pointing　to　the　black　bulk　of　the　mysterious　corpse）　〃you　never　saw　that　man　in　your　lives。　　Did　you　ever　see　this　man？〃　　　　　He　rapidly　rolled　away　the　bald；　yellow　head　of　the　unknown；　and　put　in　its　place　the　white…maned　head　beside　it。　　And　there；　complete；　unified；　unmistakable；　lay　Julius　K。　Brayne。　　　　　〃The　murderer；〃　went　on　Brown　quietly；　〃hacked　off　his　enemy's　head　and　flung　the　sword　far　over　the　wall。　　But　he　was　too　clever　to　fling　the　sword　only。　　He　flung　the　head　over　the　wall　also。　Then　he　had　only　to　clap　on　another　head　to　the　corpse；　and　（as　he　insisted　on　a　private　inquest）　you　all　imagined　a　totally　new　man。〃　　　　　〃Clap　on　another　head！〃　said　O'Brien　staring。　　〃What　other　head？　　Heads　don't　grow　on　garden　bushes；　do　they？〃　　　　　〃No；〃　said　Father　Brown　huskily；　and　looking　at　his　boots；　〃there　is　only　one　place　where　they　grow。　　They　grow　in　the　basket　of　the　guillotine；　beside　which　the　chief　of　police；　Aristide　Valentin；　was　standing　not　an　hour　before　the　murder。　　Oh；　my　friends；　hear　me　a　minute　more　before　you　tear　me　in　pieces。　Valentin　is　an　honest　man；　if　being　mad　for　an　arguable　cause　is　honesty。　　But　did　you　never　see　in　that　cold；　grey　eye　of　his　that　he　is　mad！　　He　would　do　anything；　anything；　to　break　what　he　calls　the　superstition　of　the　Cross。　　He　has　fought　for　it　and　starved　for　it；　and　now　he　has　murdered　for　it。　　Brayne's　crazy　millions　had　hitherto　been　scattered　among　so　many　sects　that　they　did　little　to　alter　the　balance　of　things。　　But　Valentin　heard　a　whisper　that　Brayne；　like　so　many　scatter…brained　sceptics；　was　drifting　to　us；　and　that　was　quite　a　different　thing。　　Brayne　would　pour　supplies　into　the　impoverished　and　pugnacious　Church　of　France；　he　would　support　six　Nationalist　newspapers　like　The　Guillotine。　　The　battle　was　already　balanced　on　a　point；　and　the　fanatic　took　flame　at　the　risk。　　He　resolved　to　destroy　the　millionaire；　and　he　did　it　as　one　would　expect　the　greatest　of　detectives　to　commit　his　only　crime。　　He　abstracted　the　severed　head　of　Becker　on　some　criminological　excuse；　and　took　it　home　in　his　official　box。　　He　had　that　last　argument　with　Brayne；　that　Lord　Galloway　did　not　hear　the　end　of；　that　failing；　he　led　him　out　into　the　sealed　garden；　talked　about　swordsmanship；　used　twigs　and　a　sabre　for　illustration；　and〃　　　　　Ivan　of　the　Scar　sprang　up。　　〃You　lunatic；〃　he　yelled；　〃you'll　go　to　my　master　now；　if　I　take　you　by〃　　　　　〃Why；　I　was　going　there；〃　said　Brown　heavily；　〃I　must　ask　him　to　confess；　and　all　that。〃　　　　　Driving　the　unhappy　Brown　before　them　like　a　hostage　or　sacrifice；　they　rushed　together　into　the　sudden　stillness　of　Valentin's　study。　　　　　The　great　detective　sat　at　his　desk　apparently　too　occupied　to　hear　their　turbulent　entrance。　　They　paused　a　moment；　and　then　something　in　the　look　of　that　upright　and　elegant　back　made　the　doctor　run　forward　suddenly。　　A　touch　and　a　glance　showed　him　that　there　was　a　small　box　of　pills　at　Valentin's　elbow；　and　that　Valentin　was　dead　in　his　chair；　and　on　the　blind　face　of　the　suicide　was　more　than　the　pride　of　Cato。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The　Queer　Feet

If　you　meet　a　member　of　that　select　club；　〃The　Twelve　True　Fishermen；〃　entering　the　Vernon　Hotel　for　the　annual　club　dinner；　you　will　observe；　as　he　takes　off　his　overcoat；　that　his　evening　coat　is　green　and　not　black。　　If　（supposing　that　you　have　the　star…defying　audacity　to　address　such　a　being）　you　ask　him　why；　he　will　probably　answer　that　he　does　it　to　avoid　being　mistaken　for　a　waiter。　　You　will　then　retire　crushed。　　But　you　will　leave　behind　you　a　mystery　as　yet　unsolved　and　a　tale　worth　telling。　　　　　If　（to　pursue　the　same　vein　of　improbable　conjecture）　you　were　to　meet　a　mild；　hard…working　little　priest；　named　Father　Brown；　and　were　to　ask　him　what　he　thought　was　the　most　singular　luck　of　his　life；　he　would　probably　reply　that　upon　the　whole　his　best　stroke　was　at　the　Vernon　Hotel；　where　he　had　averted　a　crime　and；　perhaps；　saved　a　soul；　merely　by　listening　to　a　few　footsteps　in　a　passage。　　He　is　perhaps　a　little　proud　of　this　wild　and　wonderful　guess　of　his；　and　it　is　possible　that　he　might　refer　to　it。　　But　since　it　is　immeasurably　unlikely　that　you　will　ever　rise　high　enough　in　the　social　world　to　find　〃The　Twelve　True　Fishermen；〃　or　that　you　will　ever　sink　low　enough　among　slums　and　criminals　to　find　Father　Brown；　I　fear　you　will　never　hear　the　story　at　all　unless　you　hear　it　from　me。　　　　　The　Vernon　Hotel　at　which　The　Twelve　True　Fishermen　held　their　annual　dinners　was　an　institution　such　as　can　only　exist　in　an　oligarchical　society　which　has　almost　gone　mad　on　good　manners。　It　was　that　topsy…turvy　productan　〃exclusive〃　commercial　enterprise。　　That　is；　it　was　a　thing　which　paid　not　by　attracting　people；　but　actually　by　turning　people　away。　　In　the　heart　of　a　plutocracy　tradesmen　become　cunning　enough　to　be　more　fastidious　than　their　customers。　　They　positively　create　difficulties　so　that　their　wealthy　and　weary　clients　may　spend　money　and　diplomacy　in　overcoming　them。　　If　there　were　a　fashionable　hotel　in　London　which　no　man　could　enter　who　was　under　six　foot；　society　would　meekly　make　up　parties　of　six…foot　men　to　dine　in　it。　　If　there　were　an　expensive　restaurant　which　by　a　mere　caprice　of　its　proprietor　was　only　open　on　Thursday　afternoon；　it　would　be　crowded　on　Thursday　afternoon。　　The　Vernon　Hotel　stood；　as　if　by　accident；　in　the　corner　of　a　square　in　Belgravia。　　It　was　a　small　hotel；　and　a　very　inconvenient　one。　　But　its　very　inconveniences　were　considered　as　walls　protecting　a　particular　class。　　One　inconvenience；　in　particular；　was　held　to　be　of　vital　importance：　the　fact　that　practically　only　twenty…four　people　could　dine　in　the　place　at　once。　　The　only　big　dinner　table　was　the　celebrated　terrace　table；　which　stood　open　to　the　air　on　a　sort　of　veranda　overlooking　one　of　the　most　exquisite　old　gardens　in　London。　　Thus　it　happened　that　even　the　twenty…four　seats　at　this　table　could　only　be　enjoyed　in　warm　weather；　and　this　making　the　enjoyment　yet　more　difficult　made　it　yet　more　desired。　　The　existing　owner　of　the　hotel　was　a　Jew　named　Lever；　and　he　made　nearly　a　million　out　of　it；　by　making　it　difficult　to　get　into。　　Of　course　he　combined　with　this　limitation　in　the　scope　of　his　enterprise　the　most　careful　polish　in　its　performance。　　The　wines　and　cooking　were　really　as　good　as　any　in　Europe；　and　the　demeanour　of　the　attendants　exactly　mirrored　the　fixed　mood　of　the　English　upper　class。　　The　proprietor　knew　all　his　waiters　like　the　fingers　on　his　hand；　there　were　only　fifteen　of　them　all　told。　　It　was　much　easier　to　become　a　Member　of　Parliament　than　to　become　a　waiter　in　that　hotel。　　Each　waiter　was　trained　in　terrible　silence　and　smoothness；　as　if　he　were　a　gentleman's　servant。　　And；　indeed；　there　was　generally　at　least　one　waiter　to　every　gentleman　who　dined。　　　　　The　club　of　The　Twelve　True　Fishermen　would　not　have　consented　to　dine　anywhere　but　in　such　a　place；　for　it　insisted　on　a　luxurious　privacy；　and　would　have　been　quite　upset　by　the　mere　thought　that　any　other　club　was　even　dining　in　the　same　building。　On　the　occasion　of　their　annual　dinner　the　Fishermen　were　in　the　habit　of　exposing　all　their　treasures；　as　if　they　were　in　a　private　house；　especially　the　celebrated　set　of　fish　knives　and　forks　which　were；　as　it　were；　the　insignia　of　the　society；　each　being　exquisitely　wrought　in　silver　in　the　form　of　a　fish；　and　each　loaded　at　the　hilt　with　one　large　pearl。　　These　were　always　laid　out　for　the　fish　course；　and　the　fish　course　was　always　the　most　magnificent　in　that　magnificent　repast。　　The　society　had　a　vast　number　of　ceremonies　and　observances；　but　it　had　no　history　and　no　object；　that　was　where　it　was　so　very　aristocratic。　　You　did　not　have　to　be　anything　in　order　to　be　one　of　the　Twelve　Fishers；　unless　you　were　already　a　certain　sort　of　person；　you　never　even　heard　of　them。　　It　had　been　in　existence　twelve　years。　Its　president　was　Mr。　Audley。　　Its　vice…president　was　the　Duke　of　Chester。　　　　　If　I　have　in　any　degree　conveyed　the　atmosphere　of　this　appalling　hotel；　the　reader　may　feel　a　natural　wonder　as　to　how　I　came　to　know　anything　about　it；　and　may　even　speculate　as　to　how　so　ordinary　a　person　as　my　friend　Father　Brown　came　to　find　himself　in　that　golden　galley。　　As　far　as　that　is　concerned；　my　story　is　simple；　or　even　vulgar。　　There　is　in　the　world　a　very　aged　rioter　and　demagogue　who　breaks　into　the　most　refined　retreats　with　the　dreadful　information　that　all　men　are　brothers；　and　wherever　this　leveller　went　on　his　pale　horse　it　was　Father　Brown's　trade　to　follow。　　One　of　the　waiters；　an　Italian；　had　been　struck　down　with　a　paralytic　stroke　that　afternoon；　and　his　Jewish　employer；　marvelling　mildly　at　such　superstitions；　had　consented　to　send　for　the　nearest　Popish　priest。　　With　what　the　waiter　confessed　to　Father　Brown　we　are　not　concerned；　for　the　excellent　reason　that　that　cleric　kept　it　to　himself；　but　apparently　it　involved　him　in　writing　out　a　note　or　statement　for　the　conveying　of　some　message　or　the　righting　of　some　wrong。　　Father　Brown；　therefore；　with　a　meek　impudence　which　he　would　have　shown　equally　in　Buckingham　Palace；　asked　to　be　provided　with　a　room　and　writing　materials。　Mr。　Lever　was　torn　in　tw